Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne had never intended to fall in love with Superman.

If he were being honest — and he rarely was, even with himself — he’d never intended to fall in love at all. Love was a luxury, something fragile and impossible to maintain alongside the life he lived. Gotham didn’t sleep, and neither did he. He’d built his world out of discipline and isolation, a fortress of control where no one could reach too far inside.

Then came Clark Kent.

It had started as all dangerous things do: slowly, quietly, with an undercurrent he refused to name. A simple conversation after a League mission turned into late-night strategy calls. Strategy calls turned into shared dinners under the guise of “coordination.” And coordination — somehow, impossibly — turned into something Bruce never saw coming: laughter.

Clark Kent laughed easily. At his own expense. At Bruce’s dry remarks. At the world. It was the sort of laugh that started in his chest and broke the air open, warm and disarming. It irritated Bruce at first, the way Clark refused to let the darkness of the world crush him. But then, that same warmth started to find cracks in Bruce’s walls — and before he could stop it, the sound had become something he waited for.

He still remembered the day it all changed.

Clark had shown up at the manor — as Clark, not as Superman — to drop off a folder of League intel Bruce had requested. He’d knocked. Waited, politely, even though Bruce had told him the security system could just let him in.

When Bruce opened the door, Clark had been standing there awkwardly, holding the folder and… a pie.

“It’s from my Ma,” he’d said, sheepish, cheeks pink. “She said no one trusts a man who doesn’t eat pie. I, uh, didn’t tell her who it was for. Just that it’s for someone who looks like they need it.”

Bruce had stared at him for a long, unblinking second. “You brought me pity pie.”

Clark had blinked. “I—no, not pity! Just… polite pie.”

It had been ridiculous. And somehow, perfect.

That pie — a flaky apple crumble that Alfred had later declared “surprisingly decent for a country recipe” — marked the beginning of something Bruce hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for.

The next week, Clark invited him out for coffee. The week after, he asked again. Then again. Until, finally, Bruce realized it wasn’t just coffee. It was him.

Clark Kent had been asking him out. And Bruce Wayne, somehow, had said yes.

Dinner dates had become their quiet ritual.

Sometimes they went out — discreet, expensive places with private booths and curtained corners — but Bruce found he preferred the nights they spent at Clark’s apartment.

It was a small space by Gotham standards, warm and a little cluttered, with plants on the windowsill and books stacked in uneven piles. Clark always insisted on cooking, even though Bruce offered more than once to bring something. (“You’d just order something French I can’t pronounce,” Clark had teased.)

Those evenings blurred into a kind of comfortable domesticity that Bruce hadn’t realized he missed. Clark talked while he cooked — about work, about Ma and Pa, about the latest movie he wanted Bruce to watch. He moved around the kitchen like he’d been born in it, sleeves rolled up, curls falling into his face, humming some old country song under his breath.

They watched movies, too—though “watched” was generous. More often than not, they ended up half-tangled on the couch, acting like teenagers who couldn’t believe they’d gotten away with this. Clark, surprisingly, wasn’t as innocent as Bruce had assumed; the man had confidence and experience hidden behind that farmboy grin, and Bruce—who’d had and raised four sons— thought he’d seen it all—found himself constantly caught off guard.

Clark could go from whispering something that made Bruce’s pulse stutter to ranting about a movie’s continuity error, all wide-eyed and earnest. Bruce didn’t know what to do with that. The same hands that made him see heaven were now waving midair about how “that one scene ruined the whole plot,” and Bruce just sat there, dazed, thinking that if this really was heaven, he’d gladly never leave.

They had their wild moments—nights where laughter and heat blurred together, where Clark’s apartment looked like a storm had swept through it. They were always careful, always gentle with each other in the ways that mattered. Clark’s passion was steady, focused, always making sure Bruce felt wanted, safe, known. He swore his own life had started the moment he met Bruce Wayne.

But Bruce’s patience wasn’t endless. Sometimes, in the middle of all that closeness, when Clark started talking about slowing down, about making it last, Bruce would grumble, “Forget it. We’ll worry about it later.” It was his way of trying to control what he couldn’t—his own heart, the fragility of it all.

Later, he’d wish he hadn’t said that. Later, “forget it” would echo back at him. 

Because the truth was, no matter how much distance he tried to put between them with words, his body never listened. Even when silence fell, even when he thought he could retreat into it, Clark would reach for him—and Bruce would always reach back. It was instinct. It was surrender, in its quietest form.

They were opposites even there. Clark’s love was loud, constant, overflowing — acts of service, words of affirmation, laughter shared between kisses. He showed affection the way he breathed: endlessly.

Bruce’s was quieter. Physical. Weighted in small gestures — the way his thumb stroked over Clark’s knuckles when they held hands, or how he’d hum softly in acknowledgment when Clark spoke. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. His touch carried the words he couldn’t voice.

They’d spend hours tangled together afterward — Clark sprawled half over him, head resting against Bruce’s chest, Bruce’s arm wrapped around his waist, tracing the slope of his spine. Sometimes Clark would talk, rambling about a childhood memory or a farm story. Sometimes they’d just listen to the rain against the window.

Bruce would breathe him in, the warmth, the safety, the realness of him. Clark Kent — clumsy, over-earnest, infuriatingly kind — had somehow made Bruce Wayne feel human again.

And Clark? Clark looked at him like he hung the stars themselves. There was no hiding the way his eyes softened, how every glance said I love you even when he didn’t. Bruce would catch that look and shake his head faintly, pretending to be unaffected — but his hand would find Clark’s anyway, thumb brushing over his skin in a silent confession.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t supposed to be. But it was theirs — built on warmth and quiet understanding, on the unspoken truth that Bruce had found something he thought he’d never have again.

Now, a year later, they’d settled into an impossible rhythm — a secret, fragile balance between Gotham’s shadows and Smallville’s sunlight.

Publicly, Batman and Superman were the League’s most professional pair. Stoic. Efficient. Unshakably serious.

Privately, Clark Kent texted him too often, brought him lunch at the office (“You forget to eat, B, I swear”), and once accidentally called him “babe” during a debrief in front of Diana.

Bruce pretended not to notice. Diana didn’t. The smirk she gave him said more than the silence in the air.

Clark, for his part, was hopelessly, catastrophically in love. The kind of love that made him beam when Bruce said his name. The kind that made him fly from Metropolis to Gotham after a twelve-hour shift just to drop off dinner, a press of lips to Bruce’s temple, and a shy “You look tired, sweetheart.”

Bruce would roll his eyes, but his pulse always betrayed him.

He’d told Clark, from the beginning, that this relationship was serious to him — that he wanted to take it slow. That it wasn’t a game, and it couldn’t be public. Not yet. Not with Gotham watching, not with his sons watching.

Clark had agreed, immediately. “I’d wait forever, B,” he’d said with that earnest, infuriating sincerity that made Bruce’s chest ache. “But maybe not longer than forever, because I do get impatient.”

It was absurd. It was everything Bruce never knew he wanted.

The tabloids had, of course, caught on.

Gotham Prince Bruce Wayne Spotted with Mystery Reporter in Metropolis!

Wayne Enterprises CEO Seen Smiling. Who’s Responsible for the Miracle?

Superman’s Boyfriend? Internet Thinks So.

The League knew now too. And that had been… complicated.

They were professionals about it — in the way a family of nosy coworkers could be. Hal made jokes. Barry took bets. Diana offered very serious congratulations that sounded suspiciously like amusement.

But no one quite knew how to process it: Batman and Superman, the world’s most serious men, were actually… dating.

And somehow, it worked.

But Bruce hadn’t let Clark meet the boys yet. Not because he didn’t trust him — he trusted Clark with his life — but because he knew what that meeting meant.

Dick, at seventeen, was charming but fiercely protective. Jason, fifteen and all fire and edge, would have opinions. Tim, thirteen, would probably run a full background check. And Damian — twelve, blunt, territorial, and too much like him — would take one look at Clark Kent and decide whether he was a threat or a fool.

Bruce didn’t want Clark to face all that. Not yet.

Clark, of course, was terrified. “What if they hate me?” he’d confessed once, half-laughing, half-serious, his voice softer in the dark. “I can fight alien warlords but not your twelve-year-old son.”

Bruce had chuckled, the sound low and rare. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

Clark had grinned, pressing his forehead to Bruce’s. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

What Bruce didn’t say — what he couldn’t — was that Clark Kent had already changed everything.

He’d softened edges Bruce thought were permanent. Made the world a little less gray. For the first time in years, Bruce wanted more than the mission. Wanted mornings. Wanted the quiet sound of Clark humming while making coffee. Wanted to live, not just survive.

And if Clark ever asked him for the stars, Bruce thought, he’d point to himself first.

Because Clark didn’t realize it — not yet — but he was the only light Bruce had ever really let in.

That morning, Bruce woke to an empty side of the bed and the faint smell of pancakes drifting through the manor. Alfred never made pancakes — too “undignified,” as he said — which meant only one person was responsible.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Clark was here. Again.

And if his sons decided to wake up early that morning, if they happened to find Superman in pajama pants in their kitchen flipping pancakes and humming along to the radio —

Well. Bruce supposed the secret wouldn’t stay secret much longer.

Chapter Text

The city moved beneath him like a living thing — lights pulsing, sirens echoing in the distance, Gotham’s heart beating somewhere deep in the veins of its alleyways.

Bruce crouched on the edge of a rooftop, the wind tugging faintly at his cape, watching the flicker of a streetlight below. His comm was silent — no alarms from Gordon, no League signals. Just quiet. For once.

So he tapped his earpiece. “Clark.”

There was a soft clatter, the sound of metal on ceramic, then Clark’s voice came through — warm, rich, familiar. “Hey, B! Sorry, I had the skillet going.”

Bruce could hear the faint sound of sizzling and something that might’ve been… country music in the background.

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking!” Clark said brightly. “I had some vegetables that were going bad, so I thought I’d make a stir-fry. And, uh, maybe a pie later if I don’t burn down the kitchen first.”

Bruce allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “And how’s your article?”

Clark sighed heavily, the kind that made Bruce imagine him leaning against his counter, brow furrowed under those messy curls. “Perry rejected it.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Said it was too ‘emotional.’ I mean—come on, Bruce, we’re supposed to report the truth, right? But apparently if the truth sounds a little passionate, it’s ‘editorializing.’” He huffed. “Sometimes I feel like I care more about the stories than the paper does.”

Bruce adjusted his position, scanning the empty rooftops. “Maybe you’re not passionate enough.”

There was a beat of silence — then Clark laughed, warm and startled. “Touché, B. I walked right into that one.”

“You did.”

“I swear, you’ve got that deadpan down to an art form. You ever consider teaching a class? ‘How to Sound Like You’re Judging Everyone in the Room 101.’”

“I’m sure you’d fail spectacularly.”

Clark laughed again, low and genuine, and Bruce felt something settle in his chest.

They stayed like that for a few minutes — Clark rambling about his story, about Jimmy’s latest photography disaster, about how Lois had tricked him into writing her story. Bruce listened, as he always did, speaking only when Clark paused long enough to breathe.

And then, almost shyly, Clark asked, “So… how long are you staying out tonight?”

Bruce glanced toward the skyline, the batsignal dim against the clouds. “I was going to run a few more sweeps. Why?”

“Because,” Clark said slowly, “I was thinking… maybe you could stop by for dinner? I’ve got leftovers. And pie. I promise it’s not pity pie this time.”

Bruce stopped at the edge of the rooftop, eyes tracking the street below — not because he was distracted by crime, but because he needed to think.

Dinner with Clark was always easy. Too easy. But tonight, for reasons he couldn’t name, he hesitated.

He pressed his lips together. “Actually… I was thinking of calling it a short night.”

“Oh?” Clark’s voice perked up. “Does that mean I should still set an extra plate?”

Bruce paused again, thoughtful. He could hear the sound of Clark’s knife tapping against the cutting board. The domestic noise of it — so ordinary, so distant from everything Gotham stood for — made something ache inside him.

“No,” Bruce said finally. “You should come here.”

Clark went quiet. “Here?”

“To the manor. For dinner.”

There was another beat of silence — and then a stunned, delighted laugh. “Wait—really?”

“Yes,” Bruce said simply. “I think it’s time you met the boys.”

Clark’s voice softened instantly, all that open-hearted warmth bubbling up through the speaker. “B… are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to intrude or—”

“You’re not intruding.” Bruce’s tone left no room for argument.

Clark exhaled. Bruce could almost see him smiling through the line. “Well, if you’re sure… that sounds like a great idea. I’ll, uh, I’ll bring something! Maybe some fruit — Pa sent me back with a bunch of peaches and apples from the farm. They’re really good this time of year.”

“That’s fine.”

“Actually,” Clark continued, a little too eager, “I could make a cobbler! Or just a regular pie, if Alfred doesn’t mind me invading the kitchen—”

Bruce interrupted before Clark could talk himself into a grocery list. “Tomorrow works.”

Clark chuckled softly. “You were about to say another night, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“But you changed your mind.”

“I did.”

A smile lingered in Clark’s voice. “Good. I’m glad.”

After they ended the call, Bruce stayed crouched on that rooftop a while longer, staring at the city he’d sworn to protect.

The idea of Clark — earnest, soft-spoken Clark — sitting across from his sons at the long mahogany table in the dining room felt almost absurd. The contrast was too there: Gotham’s shadows versus Kansas sunlight. The Wayne family, with all its quiet edges and unspoken love, meeting a man who wore his heart openly — in his voice, his hands, his smile.

Bruce could already imagine it.

Clark’s glasses sliding down his nose as he tried to make conversation. Dick smiling too easily to hide his amusement. Jason leaning back with that signature smirk, whispering something snarky to Tim. Tim analyzing every word Clark said, trying to piece him apart like a puzzle. And Damian — arms crossed, brow furrowed, probably already deciding whether Clark Kent was worthy of their father’s time.

They loved differently, the Waynes. They always had.

Love in the manor was quiet. Practical. Measured. Bruce told his sons he was proud of them every night — not out of ritual, but because he meant it. He hugged them when they needed it, held them when the nightmares came, listened when they spoke. But he didn’t wear his affection like Clark did.

Clark was sunlight incarnate — every word he said came out with warmth, every movement carried intention. He glowed, in a way Bruce never had.

And somehow, impossibly, he’d chosen Bruce Wayne.

Later, when Bruce finally returned home, Alfred was waiting near the stairs, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“You’re in early, sir,” he remarked. “A pleasant surprise. I was beginning to think I’d forgotten what an early evening looks like.”

Bruce removed his cowl, his voice even. “Clark’s coming by for dinner tomorrow. To meet the boys.”

Alfred blinked, pausing mid-step. Then, after a moment, a small, knowing smile. “Ah. So the day has finally come.”

Bruce raised a brow. “You sound unsurprised.”

“I’ve been expecting it for months.”

Of course he had.

“Shall I inform Master Jason?” Alfred asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Bruce said. “And… maybe start with the good news first.”

Alfred’s lips twitched. “I’ll do my best.”

That night, when Bruce lay in bed, phone resting on the nightstand, he received one last text:

Clark: hey, B — just wanted to say thanks again. i know how much it means to you, me meeting them.

and it means a lot to me too.

sleep well, okay? love you.

Bruce stared at the message for a long time before replying:

Bruce: Don’t be late.

He hesitated. Then typed again:

Bruce: I love you too.

He locked the phone, set it aside, and exhaled quietly.

Tomorrow, the worlds of Batman and Superman — of Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent — would finally meet at the same table.

And for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt something like anticipation instead of fear.

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up with the taste of metal on his tongue. Not blood, not quite — just the sour, clinging tang of something unpleasant that refused to fade. His stomach gave a faint twist the moment he sat up, a dull ache blooming under his ribs. He brushed it off. Probably just hunger.

He hadn’t eaten dinner last night — patrol had ended early, but he’d gone straight to bed. Alfred had left a tray in his room, untouched. Even the smell of it had turned his stomach. Everything lately seemed too heavy, too rich. Coffee tasted off. Water felt thick. Somehow.

He ran a hand through his hair and sat there for a moment, breathing through the discomfort before forcing himself up. The city didn’t stop for nausea. Wayne Enterprises didn’t pause for sleepless nights or strange appetites. Bruce Wayne didn’t get sick.

By the time he reached his office, the ache had dulled into something manageable. He hid behind his usual daytime armor — pressed suit, calm expression, and the kind of charm that made investors forget that Gotham’s prince preferred shadows to sunlight.

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius greeted as Bruce passed by.

Bruce nodded. “Morning.”

He spent the morning working through numbers, board memos, security updates — every monotonous detail that came with running a city empire. But halfway through reviewing a project file, a sudden wave of nausea hit him like a punch to the gut. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the desk. He swallowed hard, took a slow breath, and sat back until it passed. Stress, he told himself. That was all.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until a soft knock sounded on his office door.

“Come in.”

Clark stumbled in — and that was really the only word for it. His tie was slightly crooked, his hair a bit too fluffy, his glasses sliding down his nose. In one hand, he carried a brown paper bag and a grin that could’ve lit the whole building.

“Afternoon, B,” Clark said, closing the door quietly behind him. “Thought I’d bring you lunch. And maybe steal a few minutes of your day.”

Bruce didn’t even try to hide the way his mouth softened. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“I am. This is journalism fieldwork.” Clark set the bag on his desk. “Investigating how underfed billionaires survive their weekdays.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh — the closest he’d get to actually smiling in public. “Your dedication to the truth is admirable.”

Clark grinned, pulling up a chair beside him. He started unpacking containers — home-cooked food, still warm. “I might’ve gone overboard with the seasoning,” Clark admitted. “I was so nervous about tonight I think I accidentally doubled the spice. Sorry in advance if it’s inedible.”

Bruce glanced up from his papers, his hand brushing over Clark’s briefly. “It’ll taste good either way.”

Clark rested his chin on his hand, watching him. “You say that now, but when your eyes start watering—”

“Eat,” Bruce interrupted softly, sliding the papers aside.

Clark smiled at that. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of containers opening and quiet conversation. Clark talked about Perry rejecting yet another story — something about “needing more optimism.” Bruce listened, half-focused, his thumb idly tracing the edge of Clark’s hand whenever their fingers brushed.

Then Bruce picked up his fork.

The smell hit him first — sharp, almost sour. It shouldn’t have been unpleasant, but his stomach twisted violently. He ignored it, took a small bite. The taste was… wrong. It didn’t make sense. Clark’s cooking was always good — seasoned, balanced, comforting — but this? It felt like his tongue rebelled against it.

He set the fork down, swallowing hard. His jaw clenched. A second later, he reached for a napkin and discreetly spat the bite out. Which obviously Clark noticed, always watching Bruce’s reaction to his cooking.

Clark froze mid-sentence, eyes wide. “What— wait, is it that bad?”

Bruce wiped his mouth, shaking his head. “No. It’s not that. I just— it doesn’t taste right. Probably just me. My mouth feels— off.”

Clark’s face fell immediately. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I must’ve— I knew I shouldn’t have tried that new seasoning mix—”

“Clark,” Bruce interrupted, his voice quieter than usual. “It’s fine. Really.”

But Clark was already checking the food, sniffing at it like he was about to file a report. “No, something’s off. I swear it didn’t smell weird earlier— oh god, did I just poison my boyfriend?”

Bruce gave a faint roll of his eyes (not out of annoyance but because Clark always came back with over-the-top conclusions) and stood, napkin still in hand. “It’s not your fault. I’ll— I just need a minute.”

Clark immediately stood too, worry all over his face. “You sure? I can get water, or maybe—”

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t clearly.

Bruce made it to the bathroom before the nausea came back full force. He barely had time to brace himself before he threw up — bitter, burning, emptying what little he’d eaten. He leaned over the sink afterward, gripping the porcelain edge until the trembling in his hands stopped.

He stared at his reflection. Pale. Eyes faintly sunken. For a second, something flickered in the mirror — exhaustion, yes, but something else, something he couldn’t name.

He rinsed his mouth, straightened his tie, and forced the calm back onto his face.

By the time he returned to his office, Clark was sitting there looking completely miserable, poking at the food like it had personally betrayed him. Which to him, it had. 

Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “Don’t look so guilty.”

Clark looked up, sheepish. “I just— I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” Bruce said. “It’s me. Must’ve just been a bad morning.”

Clark exhaled in relief, though his brow stayed furrowed. “You sure? You look kind of pale.”

Bruce brushed it off, sinking back into his chair. “I’m fine, Clark. Really.”

But even as he said it, his stomach churned again. The scent of the food — even from across the desk — made his throat tighten.

He told himself it was just stress. Too much coffee. Too little sleep. The tension of balancing Batman and Bruce Wayne, the upcoming dinner with his sons, the expectations of being human when half of him existed in the dark.

Still, as he watched Clark pack up the containers with a gentle, apologetic frown, Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted — small, invisible, but irreversible.

He didn’t know it yet. But his body had already begun whispering the truth he refused to hear.

Clark had the look of someone who wanted to apologize for the next decade. His fingers fidgeted with the lid of the container before he finally stood, still looking guilty enough to be comic.

“Guess I’ll, uh, cross cooking off the list of things I’m allowed to do for you,” Clark said with a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Bruce, sitting back in his chair, let the corners of his mouth twitch faintly. “You’re not banned from the kitchen.”

“Not yet,” Clark said, grin widening a little. “Give it time. You might want to taste something that doesn’t taste like poison.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, once again. “I just threw up, Clark. It’ll all taste strange right now.”

Clark straightened immediately, concerned again. “Right, right, you need to hydrate— actually, maybe electrolytes, or I can—”

“Clark,” Bruce said, quiet but firm.

Clark blinked. “Yeah?”

Bruce stood, crossing the short distance between them and leaning in. “You talk too much.”

And before Clark could launch into another round of fretting, Bruce kissed him — slow, the kind that stole the air right from Clark’s lungs. When he pulled back, Clark’s eyes were soft and a little dazed, like he forgot what words were for.

“…Okay,” Clark murmured, grinning like an idiot. “You win that argument.”

“I always do.”

Clark chuckled, touching Bruce’s wrist, fingers brushing where his pulse beat steady. “You sure you’re okay, B?”

Bruce nodded once. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work. I’ll see you tonight.”

Clark hesitated, then smiled, pressing one last kiss against the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “Tonight,” he promised, voice warm.

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Bruce exhaled, leaning back in his chair. For a moment, the quiet settled around him — until his stomach twisted. Not sharply this time, just a dull reminder that something wasn’t right.

He straightened his tie and forced himself to focus. Wayne Enterprises didn’t wait for bad stomachs or off days.

The afternoon stretched out like static. He attended two meetings, barely spoke through one of them. Lucius mentioned something about a prototype for a new clean-energy line, and Bruce nodded in all the right places, though he caught only half of it. His mind was fuzzy. His palms were clammy. His head felt heavier than usual.

He’d lived through injuries that would’ve hospitalized most people, but this… this was different. Smaller. Stranger. An irritation that refused to settle.

At one point, a faint call from the Justice League comm pinged in his ear — Diana updating him about a scan they’d picked up near the Atlantic. He responded on autopilot, voice even. “Send the data to the Watchtower. I’ll review it tonight.”

He sounded like himself. Calm. Commanding. Collected.

He didn’t feel like himself.

Somewhere between reviewing numbers and writing a message to Lucius, he realized he’d felt off for longer than a day.

A few days at least. Maybe a week.

He leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers to his temple, tracing backward in memory. When had this started?

Kansas.

He’d gone there with Clark about a week and a half ago — a short trip to pick up some old documents Clark’s parents had kept. Bruce remembered how easy it had been: Clark laughing in his childhood kitchen, Martha insisting Bruce eat more, Jonathan pulling out old photo albums. The house smelled like bread and cinnamon, like warmth.

They’d eaten at a diner in town afterward — the kind of place with peeling paint and neon signs, where Clark was greeted by name. Bruce had smiled into his coffee, trying not to think about how different it all was from Gotham.

Maybe it was that food. Something too greasy, too sweet for his usual diet. His stomach hadn’t felt quite right since.

But that was a week ago. Surely it would’ve passed by now.

The thought lingered as he packed up his things. His head felt too warm. His shirt clung uncomfortably at the collar. Alfred would probably scold him for overworking again — and he’d be right. Bruce had pushed himself through worse, but the exhaustion in his bones felt deeper this time, like something internal refusing to quiet.

He brushed it off again. Stress. Fatigue. The approaching dinner. Meeting Clark had been simple; introducing Clark to his sons would not be.

As the elevator doors closed, Bruce caught his reflection in the mirror: pale, sharp around the eyes, hair slightly disheveled. He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to rest.

When he arrived home, the manor was quiet but alive — the faint echo of voices upstairs, the smell of something warm and familiar from the kitchen. Alfred was preparing dinner, meticulous as ever. The sound of his sons arguing faintly drifted down the hall.

Bruce stood in the entryway for a moment, breathing it in. Home.

His head ached, his stomach twisted again, but he straightened his back and kept moving. He’d handle it later.

For now, there was dinner to prepare, sons to wrangle, and the quiet thought that maybe — just maybe — Clark Kent was the one thing that made all of it feel worth staying awake for.

Chapter Text

The manor was quieter than usual when Bruce made his way down the stairs, jacket draped over one arm, the weight of the day still pressing behind his eyes. The smell of roasted herbs and something faintly buttery carried through the air—rich, heavy, and nauseating. He stopped halfway through the kitchen doorway, jaw tightening just slightly as Alfred hummed under his breath, slicing vegetables at an almost musical rhythm.

“You’re early,” Alfred remarked without turning, his tone even but laced with the kind of concern that came from decades of reading Bruce’s silences. “That can’t be good. Either you’ve run out of crime to fight or the city’s finally burned itself out.”

Bruce gave a quiet snort, leaning against the counter. “Not yet.”

Alfred turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, his sharp gaze assessing him in an instant. “You look dreadful, Master Bruce. Paler than a ghost and twice as grim. What’s the matter?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, but it came out too quickly.

Alfred’s brow arched. “You’re standing there like the smell of my cooking makes you sick.”

“It hasn’t,” Bruce muttered. “I just… might be coming down with a fever.”

“Mm.” Alfred’s mouth twitched with dry humor. “After all these years, the end of you will be a fever. Not a lunatic with a bomb, not a rooftop fall—just a common cold.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, half amused, half too tired to deny it. “Yeah. I’ll live. Been through worse.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Alfred said, returning to his cutting board, though his eyes still flicked toward Bruce every few seconds.

The air shifted when footsteps echoed in from the hall—steady, careless, with that telltale drag of boots. Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an unmistakable grin playing at his mouth.

“What’s up?” he asked. “You look like death, old man.”

Bruce gave him a look. “Just dinner tonight.”

Jason blinked. “Dinner? You mean that dinner? The one where we’re supposed to meet your boyfriend?”

Bruce sighed. “Don’t start.”

“So it’s true,” Jason said, grin spreading. “You’re really bringing Clark Kent here? Superman? The guy who probably says ‘golly gee’ unironically?”

Bruce looked away, tone steady. “It’s about time you all met him properly.”

Jason tilted his head. “Why tell me first? Shouldn’t Dick be the one to get the family memo? He’s older, you know.”

“Because Dick tends to overreact,” Bruce said simply. “And I needed to talk to you first.”

Jason raised a brow. “About what?”

Bruce hesitated, then stepped closer and rested a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Try to hold back on the adult humor tonight. You’re still a kid.”

Jason groaned. “I hardly say anything that bad.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly. “Clark’s got this… boyish thing about him. He gets flustered easy when people start teasing him.”

Jason’s grin turned sly. “You’re kidding. The Clark Kent? Man of Steel, gets shy?”

Bruce said nothing, but the faint smirk gave him away.

Jason laughed. “Unbelievable. Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, taken down by a Kansas boy scout.”

“Watch it,” Bruce warned, but his voice softened at the edges. He ruffled Jason’s hair, earning a half-hearted protest. “Go tell your brothers to come down and help with dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason brushed him off and walked out, still chuckling. “Can’t wait to see this.”

When he was gone, Bruce exhaled slowly, crossing his arms as another faint dizziness rolled through him. It was brief but heavier this time, enough to make him brace against the counter before it passed.

Alfred didn’t miss it. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Bruce said quietly. “Just need to get through tonight.”

Alfred hummed in that disbelieving way of his, sliding a tray into the oven. “And what time shall we expect Mr. Kent’s arrival?”

Bruce glanced at his watch. The hands seemed to blur for a moment before his focus returned. “Not for another hour. But knowing Clark, he’ll show up early.”

“Then I’ll see to him,” Alfred said.

Bruce’s lips curved faintly. “If he does come sooner, don’t let the boys tear into him.”

“No promises,” Alfred replied dryly, wiping his hands on a towel.

The warmth of the kitchen deepened, the rich smell of roasted food filling the air—but for Bruce, it felt heavy, wrong somehow. The nausea dulled, but the weight in his chest didn’t. Beneath the calm surface, something small and strange was stirring—a pulse just under his skin, quiet but insistent.

He ignored it.

Just another dinner, he told himself. Just another night.

But as the evening light shifted and the sound of the clock echoed through the hall, Bruce felt the faintest tremor under his ribs—something he couldn’t explain, something patient.

And it was growing.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s room was dimly lit, the faint orange of the setting sun slipping through the curtains and brushing over the furniture like a soft hand. He’d already hung his suit jacket neatly on the rack, the crisp shirt folded beside it. The quiet hum of the manor outside his door told him that dinner preparations were in full swing—voices low, a few dishes clinking, the sound of a house alive.

He stood before the mirror, unbuttoning his cuffs, and exhaled slowly. Nights like these—ones that were supposed to be normal—were always the hardest for him. No cowl. No cape. No shadows to blend into. Just Bruce Wayne, man trying to be something human for once.

He grabbed a pair of dark-wash jeans—broken in enough to be comfortable, though he preferred the way the fabric held to him rather than the looseness of sweats or shorts. The black cotton shirt he pulled on next was soft, clean, simple. It clung slightly to his chest and arms, the fabric a bit too warm against his skin. He frowned faintly at the heat that flushed up his neck, not sure if it was from the shirt or the faint feverish feeling that had followed him all day.

Still, this was fine. Normal.

He raked a hand through his hair, fixing it with minimal effort, catching his own reflection for a moment—the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. He remembered Clark’s voice, the way he’d said it: I’d love you any way, you know. You could wear a garbage bag and I’d still think you’re perfect.

It was such a Clark thing to say—so earnest, so hopelessly dorky that Bruce couldn’t even scoff properly at it. The memory pulled a small, reluctant smile from him as he stepped into his black slippers and headed downstairs.

The boys were scattered across the dining room, setting the table with Alfred’s usual precision. Damian was adjusting the silverware to perfect alignment, Tim was half-distracted by his phone until a sharp look from Alfred made him pocket it, and Jason was grumbling good-naturedly as he carried over a stack of plates. The air was warm, alive with quiet chatter and motion.

Bruce’s gaze shifted toward the kitchen—and there he stopped.

Clark was in the middle of it all.

The Kryptonian stood beside Alfred, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands dusted in flour like he’d lost a small battle with a baking mix. He was talking—probably about something entirely trivial—but his whole face was lit up in laughter. Alfred didn’t seem the least bit annoyed; in fact, he was leaning against the counter, letting Clark stir something with an amused sort of indulgence.

Clark’s voice carried easily. “—and then I told her, if you refrigerate the dough now, you’ll get better flakes! But she swore it was fine just sitting on the counter. I mean—” He gestured helplessly with his hands, scattering a small cloud of flour into the air. “—how am I supposed to let that slide?”

Alfred chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You sound like someone who’s fought far greater battles in a kitchen than in the sky.”

Clark laughed again, that open, heart-deep sound that filled the room.

Bruce leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the sight pulling another quiet smile from him. “You’re helpless,” he said.

Clark turned instantly, his expression brightening at the sound of Bruce’s voice. “Hey,” he said, wiping one flour-covered hand against his jeans before realizing it made no difference. He tried to adjust his glasses with the back of his wrist, managing only to smear flour across the frame. “I, uh—came to bother Alfred. Promised him I’d make that peach cobbler.”

Bruce’s tone softened, almost fond. “Can’t wait for it.”

Clark grinned, boyish and proud, though he looked slightly self-conscious under Bruce’s gaze. He’d changed too—dark jeans, a soft gray T-shirt, and one of his well-worn flannels layered over it, the sleeves rolled. The fabric stretched a little over his shoulders, his usual farm-boy style turned into something warm and grounded that somehow fit him perfectly.

Bruce’s eyes lingered just long enough for Clark to notice. The Kryptonian glanced down at himself, then back up with a crooked smile. “Too much for a first dinner?”

Bruce stepped forward, close enough that the soft scent of flour and sugar mixed with Clark’s warmth. He reached up and adjusted Clark’s glasses properly, brushing his thumb against his temple before leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “No,” Bruce murmured. “It’s cute.”

Clark’s cheeks went pink immediately, his mouth tugging into that dopey, genuine smile Bruce couldn’t help but love. “You look cute too,” he said, voice warm and soft. “So casual.”

“It’s just dinner,” Bruce said, deadpan but faintly amused.

Clark tilted his head, eyes crinkling. “It’s more than that to me.”

Bruce held his gaze for a beat, something quiet and unspoken between them before he nodded. “I know.” He turned toward the counter, the smell of food stronger now, and said to Alfred, “How’s everything coming along?”

“Nearly ready to serve,” Alfred replied. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever had this much help from someone who could fry a steak with his eyes.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. “I’m trying to make a good impression.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “You’re buying yourself time to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Clark said quickly, his ears turning red. “I’m just—taking this seriously.”

“Of course you are,” Bruce said, lips twitching with restrained humor.

Jason’s voice called faintly from the dining room, “Hey, is the Boy Scout done flirting or can we eat soon?”

Clark flustered, covering his face with one floury hand. Alfred didn’t even hide his chuckle. Bruce just exhaled softly, a warmth he didn’t often let himself feel curling low in his chest.

The manor, for once, didn’t feel so large or so empty.

It felt alive.

And as Clark reached for the pie tin, glancing back at him with that same ridiculous, radiant smile—Bruce could feel that little flicker of warmth bloom again, right alongside the faint, confusing heat beneath his skin.

Chapter Text

Clark's first dinner at Wayne Manor was… quiet, at first.

Too quiet.

The long oak table was set neatly, the silver gleaming under the warm chandelier light. Bruce sat at the head of the table, posture straight, expression even. To his right sat Clark — hands folded in his lap, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller in the grand room that had seen everything from formal galas to battle briefings. Across from them were Bruce’s sons: Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian, each a different kind of chaos in human form.

Clark had barely settled before he realized there’d been a short but fierce silent war over who got to sit closest to Bruce. Dick had claimed the seat beside him first — “Oldest privilege,” he said, smirking — but Jason cut in with, “Nah, move over, acrobat, some of us have better stories to tell.” Damian had glared at both of them, muttering something about favoritism under his breath, while Tim just sighed and sat near the middle like a tired diplomat.

The boys finally settled into their chairs after a quiet shuffle of plates and elbows, the air thick with something between curiosity and restrained chaos. Clark sat with his hands neatly folded beside his plate like he was waiting for permission. Bruce could practically feel his nerves pulsing through the table.

When everyone had been seated and the dishes passed around, Bruce cleared his throat slightly.

“Clark,” he started, tone even, “these are my sons.”

He gestured in turn. “Dick, the oldest.”

Dick gave his most charming grin, the one he usually used to get out of trouble. “Hi. Nice to finally meet you. I, uh, read your articles. You’re a good writer.”

Clark’s face lit with bashful gratitude. “Thank you! That—uh, that means a lot. Really. It’s nice to meet you too.”

“Jason,” Bruce continued.

Jason leaned back in his chair, fork tapping against the edge of his plate. “Yo,” he said, casual. “Didn’t think I’d meet the Clark Kent and the Superman on the same day. Two-for-one deal, huh?”

Bruce gave him a sharp look over the table, and Jason bit back the rest of whatever joke was coming. “What? I’m just saying,” he muttered under his breath, smirking. “You’re like the headline of the family dinner.”

Dick elbowed him lightly. “Be nice.”

Jason just grinned, his eyes flicking toward Clark’s flannel. “He’s trying, I see that. You got that Kansas farmer vibe down, dude.”

Clark’s hand twitched under the table, and Bruce squeezed it once—a silent “you’re fine.” Clark smiled awkwardly, tugging lightly at the sleeve of his flannel. “Oh, uh—thanks. I wasn’t sure what to wear. I was told dinner was… casual.”

“That it is,” Alfred said smoothly from the other end of the room, not missing a beat. “Though I daresay, Master Kent, you make ‘casual’ seem rather ambitious.”

Jason snorted into his drink. “Ambitious, huh? That’s one way to say overdressed.”

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

Jason sighed, head falling back dramatically. “Kidding. Totally kidding. You look fine, man.”

Bruce continued, a faint twitch of his mouth betraying his amusement. “Tim,” he said next.

Tim had already been eyeing Clark curiously, chin propped on one hand. “So… how exactly does x-ray vision work? Like, biologically? Is it your eyes that generate radiation or—”

“Tim,” Bruce interrupted mildly.

Tim blinked, realizing what he’d done. “Sorry, sorry. I just—I have questions.”

Clark laughed softly. “That’s okay. I’m not… entirely sure of the science myself sometimes. It’s like, well, I can focus and see through surfaces depending on density.”

Tim’s eyes widened, ready for a follow-up, but Bruce gave him a single look that said: later.

“And last,” Bruce said, “Damian.”

Damian, knife and fork perfectly aligned beside his plate, sat with all the seriousness of a prince forced to dine with a rival diplomat. “Kent,” he said simply, with a curt nod.

“Uh—hi,” Clark said, smiling warmly. “Nice to meet you too, Damian.”

The boy’s expression didn’t budge. “You are the alien my father speaks of?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Damian.”

“I’m only asking,” Damian said, with the smooth logic of someone who knew how far he could push. “It’s not every day we have company of… extraterrestrial descent.”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s fair. Yeah, that’s me. I promise I’m house-trained.”

Jason nearly spat out his drink at that one, laughing. Dick covered his face, shaking his head.

“See,” Jason said through a grin, “he can joke. I like him already.”

“Of course you do,” Dick said dryly. “Anyone who makes you laugh gets a gold star.”

Tim chimed in, “So Superman can do humor. Good to know. I was starting to think the cape came with a ‘serious only’ policy.”

Clark smiled a little wider at that, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Oh, no. I do jokes. Just… not very good ones.”

“An understatement,” Bruce murmured, deadpan.

Clark turned his head toward him, eyes glinting as he fought a laugh. “You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘Brood in Silence.’”

That made Dick snicker, and Jason full-on laugh until Bruce gave him that look.

When the laughter died down, Clark cleared his throat. “So—I, uh, made dessert. Peach cobbler. It’s from my mom’s recipe. I wasn’t sure what everyone liked, so… I thought I’d keep it simple.”

Tim perked up. “I like peaches.”

“I like food,” Jason said, immediately.

Dick elbowed him again. “He means we’ll love it. Thank you.”

Damian gave a thoughtful hum. “Peach is acceptable,” he said solemnly, as though issuing a verdict.

Clark grinned, shoulders relaxing another inch. “Glad to hear it. It’s not half as good as hers, but I tried my best.”

Bruce, still holding his hand under the table, murmured just loud enough for Clark to hear: “You did fine.”

Clark looked over at him, his smile softening, warmth creeping into his face even as his ears turned a little pink.

Alfred appeared then, placing the last dish down with graceful precision. “Dinner is served, gentlemen. Do try to remember your manners this time.”

Jason raised a brow. “You talkin’ to me or all of us?”

“All of you,” Alfred said without hesitation. “Though I suspect one of you will take it personally regardless.”

That earned another round of laughter from the boys as they began to eat. Clark hesitated before serving himself, glancing at Bruce, but Bruce reached across the short space and began serving Clark first—steady, deliberate movements that didn’t go unnoticed by anyone.

Tim tried to hide a smile. Dick politely pretended not to see. Jason mouthed something like wow, and Damian, after a long moment, said flatly, “You’re smitten.”

“Damian,” Bruce said again, tone warning but softer this time.

Clark, laughing awkwardly, said, “Guess I make an impression.”

“You sure do,” Jason muttered with a grin, earning another smack from Dick.

The table eventually quieted, conversation shifting back toward teasing remarks and half-formed questions about powers and Metropolis, while Bruce mostly poked at his food, thumb rubbing circles against Clark’s knuckles beneath the table—his quiet way of saying: you’re doing fine.

Clark, for all his nervousness, was holding his own.

The conversation went on, a little easier now that the ice had been broken. Clark did his best to answer every question thrown at him — even the ridiculous ones.

Tim had his tablet beside his plate, half-hidden under a napkin. “So technically,” he said between bites, “if you absorb solar energy, then theoretically your metabolism must work at a faster rate than a normal human’s, right?”

Clark nodded, trying to follow. “Uh—sort of, yeah. I don’t really get tired from food or sleep. It’s more… energy regulation? Like photosynthesis, but less green and leafy.”

Dick laughed softly. “So you’re basically a walking solar panel.”

Clark chuckled, shoulders shaking a little. “You could say that.”

Jason snorted. “Man, if I could live off sunlight, I’d never leave the beach.”

“Because you’d tan or because you’d nap?” Dick asked.

Jason pointed his fork at him. “Both.”

Damian made a quiet, unimpressed sound. “Sunbathing is for house pets.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got a cat in the house,” Jason muttered, nodding toward Bruce with a smirk.

“Jason.”

“Sorry,” Jason said quickly, though his grin said otherwise.

Clark smiled politely through it all — dorky and earnest in his attempt to keep up. “It’s alright. I, uh, do get called worse.”

Bruce sighed faintly, but there was a small curve to his mouth that wasn’t quite disapproval.

Tim leaned forward again, “Do you ever get nervous when flying? Like, not about falling — I know, that’s stupid — but, like, the height?”

Clark blinked. “Actually? Yeah. At first I did. Took me months to stop overcorrecting in the air. You’d think flying would feel natural, but it’s more like swimming — you have to learn your rhythm.”

That earned him a few thoughtful looks, and even Damian seemed mildly impressed.

But halfway through dinner, the politeness began to wear thin, replaced by quiet bursts of teasing that snuck past their best intentions.

Dick smirked. “You sure you’re Superman? ‘Cause the way you talk about it, you sound like you’re still in flying lessons.”

Jason leaned in. “Yeah, and all that ‘aw shucks’ energy? You’re like a golden retriever in human form, man.”

Clark laughed good-naturedly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve heard that before, actually.”

Bruce, hiding his smile behind his glass, murmured, “They’ve got you down to a T.”

Clark turned toward him, mock wounded. “You’re just going to let them say that?”

“I’m not letting them,” Bruce said mildly. “I’m agreeing.”

Clark shook his head, grinning despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“Comes with the cape,” Bruce replied, poking at his food with his fork.

Clark’s amusement faded into concern when he noticed Bruce hadn’t taken a proper bite all evening. “You’re not eating much,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “Everything okay?”

Bruce nodded slightly. “It’s nothing. Probably just a stomach bug. Messing with my appetite.”

Clark frowned. “You sure? You should see a doctor. It could be—”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said firmly, the kind of tone that ended most conversations.

But Jason, who had been half-listening, perked up. “Wait, so that’s why you’ve been skipping dinner the last two nights?”

Bruce glanced up, brow furrowed. “I haven’t been skipping—”

“Yeah, you have,” Jason interrupted, smirking. “And you’ve been complaining you feel hot on patrol. Oh, and those mornings you almost threw up—”

Bruce’s hand stilled. He’d forgotten about that. He’d been half-asleep both times, barely conscious enough to brush it off.

Jason leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Maybe you’re just pregnant.”

The room went still for a second before Dick groaned, “Jason.”

“What?” Jason said, grin widening. “It explains the mood swings.”

Tim snorted. Damian looked vaguely horrified. “That’s not biologically possible for him.”

Clark’s brows shot up, half choking on his drink before laughing nervously. “I, uh— I think I’d remember if that were a thing.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Eat your dinner, Jason.”

Jason held up his hands, still laughing. “Hey, I’m just saying, stomach bug sounds too boring.”

Clark, cheeks flushed from laughing, murmured, “Maybe I gave you the stomach bug.”

Bruce shot him a look. “You didn’t.”

Clark smiled sheepishly. “Still, if you start levitating by accident, I’ll take the blame.”

That earned another laugh around the table — even Damian cracked a tiny smirk before quickly schooling his face.

And Bruce — still faintly feverish, appetite gone, head spinning slightly from the heat under his skin — sat there, watching him and thinking that maybe, just maybe, the chaos wasn’t such a bad thing.

Not when it looked like this.

Chapter Text

The house had finally quieted. Dinner plates clattered faintly in the kitchen as the boys grumbled their way through cleanup — not quite under their breath, but not loud enough to risk Alfred hearing either.

Bruce had stayed at the table, leaning slightly back in his chair, elbows on the armrests as if he were too tired to move. Clark lingered beside him, eyes soft but worried, watching Bruce’s face in the golden light that flickered off the chandelier.

The faint sound of running water came from the kitchen — Jason complaining that Dick wasn’t rinsing properly, Tim trying to referee, and Damian muttering something about “inefficient cleaning methods.”

Clark turned his attention back to Bruce. He reached out, the back of his hand brushing gently against Bruce’s cheek, then his forehead. His brows knit together. “B, you’re warm,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Bruce replied, voice even. “It’s just the heat from dinner.”

Clark frowned. “You feel any worse?”

“No,” Bruce said, sitting up a little straighter as if posture could make the lie more believable. “I’m not going to die, Clark.”

Clark’s lips parted, eyes widening slightly. “I didn’t even say that,” he murmured, tone small — like Bruce had accused him of something he hadn’t said but secretly felt.

Bruce’s mouth softened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Clark had already taken both of his hands, large palms warm against Bruce’s cooler ones. Clark’s thumbs brushed lightly over the rough knuckles, worry laced through his every movement.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Clark asked, voice low and careful.

“That’s exactly why,” Bruce said, dryly. “Because you always do this. You freak out over small things.”

Clark blinked. “That’s not true.”

Bruce gave him a look — the kind that spoke without words. A slight tilt of the head, that faint arch of an eyebrow that said really?

Clark’s lips curved sheepishly. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I just love you, that’s all.”

Bruce’s expression faltered, softening into something unguarded. “I know,” he said quietly. “I love you too.”

Clark’s grin flickered into something shy, almost boyish, and he leaned in — pressing a soft, chaste kiss against Bruce’s lips. It barely lasted a second before—

“Ewwww.”

The chorus of disgusted teenage voices came from the kitchen doorway.

Bruce pulled back just as Damian wrinkled his nose, Jason smirked, and Dick tried (and failed) to hide a laugh behind his hand. Tim was the only one who looked vaguely embarrassed for them all.

“The things you see,” Bruce muttered, glancing toward them with a faint smirk. “You fight crime every night, but this is what makes you say ‘ew.’”

Jason grinned, arms crossed. “Can’t help it, old man. Some of us like to keep dinner down.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dick said, laughing. “I think it’s cute.”

“Please refrain from using that word again,” Damian deadpanned, sliding back into his seat.

Tim mumbled something about emotional repression, and Jason elbowed him.

Clark stood, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling sheepishly. “Alright, alright. How about I make it up to you all with dessert?”

“Dessert?” Jason perked up instantly. “You’re speaking my language, Smallville.”

Clark chuckled, walking toward the kitchen. “Peach cobbler,” he called over his shoulder. “Made it earlier with Alfred’s help — though, really, he did all the hard parts.”

“Did he now?” Alfred called faintly from the hall, amusement threading through his voice.

As Clark disappeared into the kitchen, the boys exchanged glances — the kind that said maybe he’s not so bad after all.

Bruce caught it. He sat there quietly, watching them — how Tim was leaning on his elbow, chatting softly to Damian; how Jason was laughing at something Dick said. The little details of domestic normalcy — something Bruce rarely allowed himself to enjoy.

Clark came back balancing a tray, a perfect golden-brown cobbler steaming softly beneath its sugary crust. He had already stacked plates and forks neatly on top, and his face lit up when the boys’ eyes widened slightly in impressed surprise.

He set everything down and began serving — carefully, like he was afraid of doing it wrong. A spoonful for Dick, a neat slice for Tim, a slightly larger one for Jason (“because I figured you’d ask”), and one for Damian, who blinked and said, “I do not eat dessert.”

Clark hesitated. “You sure? It’s fruit.”

Damian gave the smallest nod. “If it’s fruit, I’ll try it.”

Clark smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Finally, he served Bruce — a modest slice. Bruce took the plate with quiet thanks and set it in front of him.

They all dug in. The first bite brought silence — the good kind. The kind that filled the room instead of emptying it.

Jason whistled. “Okay, I’ll give it to you, farm boy. That’s good.”

Dick grinned. “He’s right. You made this from scratch?”

“From scratch,” Clark confirmed, smiling proudly.

Tim looked impressed. “It’s actually perfect. Not too sweet. You used brown sugar, right?”

Clark blinked. “How did you—?”

“I taste things,” Tim said simply, shrugging.

Damian took another forkful, still trying to hide how much he liked it. “It’s… acceptable.”

Bruce chuckled quietly, eyes on his plate.

Clark turned to him. “And you?”

Bruce swallowed his first bite slowly, then nodded once. “It’s good.”

Clark smiled, relief washing over him. “Good.”

Bruce took another forkful — and another. He hadn’t realized until then that it was the first thing that didn’t make his stomach turn. The warmth, the sweetness, the hint of cinnamon — it tasted more than good.

Clark noticed, quietly pleased, and without a word, reached across to refill Bruce’s plate.

“Another slice,” he said softly.

Bruce didn’t argue.

And for a little while, the table stayed quiet — the hum of contentment settling between them like a blanket. The boys ate, talking in low voices; Clark leaned back slightly, smiling every time one of them said something funny; and Bruce just watched it all — the soft glow of light across their faces, the laughter, the smell of peach and sugar in the air.

Chapter Text

After dessert, Bruce stood up, brushing his napkin once over his lap before setting it on the table. “All right,” he said evenly, glancing around at each of the boys. “Homework. Upstairs. It’s already getting late.”

That drew the usual chorus of groans and half-hearted protests.

“Aw, come on, D—” Jason started, but Bruce gave him a look — calm but cutting, the kind that didn’t need words.

Jason sighed loudly, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, yeah, fine.”

Dick gave a little grin and nudged him forward. Tim was already stacking his plate properly, and Damian pretended not to hear until Bruce cleared his throat, which earned another small groan.

Clark stood as they did, offering his polite, sincere smile that reached his eyes. “It was nice meeting all of you,” he said, holding out his hand.

Each one of them took it in turn. Clark was gentle about it — careful, steady, his grip always firm but never too much.

Jason smirked faintly as he let go. “Guess we’ll see you again in the morning, huh?”

Dick elbowed him immediately, half-laughing. “Ignore him. He means goodnight.”

Clark chuckled, warmth behind it. “I’ll take both.”

Bruce just watched them all for a quiet moment — Clark with his hand still faintly warm from the handshakes, the boys standing in the doorway before trudging upstairs. The whole thing left behind the sort of comfortable quiet that only ever existed in this house when the chaos had settled for the night.

Clark turned back toward the table, already rolling up his sleeves. “Let me help with the dishes.”

Alfred, who had been standing at the kitchen archway, lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Kent, you are a guest—”

Clark’s voice softened. “Then let me at least pretend to be helpful, sir.”

That earned the smallest flicker of a smile from Alfred. “…Very well, then. Thank you.”

The sound of running water, the soft clink of plates — it all blurred together, the kind of domestic sound Bruce wasn’t used to but didn’t hate. He lingered at the table for a while longer, mostly because he didn’t trust how light his head felt when he stood too fast.

He told himself it was just the long day, the stress, the sugar from the pie. His stomach had been uneasy all evening. Maybe the warmth in the room was making it worse. Whatever it was — it wasn’t worth worrying about.

He quietly made his way upstairs while Clark and Alfred spoke in low tones from the kitchen.

By the time he reached his bedroom, that uneasy twist in his stomach turned. He set his hand against the doorframe, steadying himself as his breath came shallow, and he barely made it to the bathroom before it all came back up.

The sound echoed too much in the tile room. Bruce gripped the edge of the sink, then the toilet, one hand braced on cold porcelain as he coughed and retched, the sweet taste of cobbler turning sour.

He was still catching his breath when the door swung open.

“B?” Clark’s voice — too quick, too full of panic. He’d heard it. He then was beside him in seconds, his knees hitting the tile without hesitation, his hand already on Bruce’s back. “Hey, hey—” His other hand brushed Bruce’s hair back from his forehead, thumb lingering at the temple. “Are you okay? Bruce, what’s wrong?”

Bruce coughed again, weakly waving him off. “It’s just—” he managed, his throat raw. “Just the stomach bug.”

Clark’s hand lingered against his back, rubbing slow circles. “You’re warm,” he said, worry creeping into his tone. “You’ve been acting sick for days, B. You should’ve said something.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce muttered, leaning slightly against the porcelain edge. His eyes were red from the strain, but steady.

Clark’s throat tightened, his chest heavy. He kept his hand there anyway, the other now brushing through Bruce’s hair in a gesture that almost seemed unconscious — protective.

But then Bruce’s body tensed again. He leaned forward, retching once more. Clark didn’t move his hand away. He just stayed there, murmuring something quiet and soft that didn’t even sound like words — reassurance in tone more than language.

When Bruce finally stopped, breathing unsteadily, he rested his head on the toilet rim for a moment. His hair clung faintly to his forehead, sweat damp at the roots.

Clark rubbed his thumb gently along his temple, eyes glassy. “I can’t believe I just poisoned you,” he said quietly, voice breaking at the edges.

Bruce gave the faintest groan. “You didn’t poison me.”

Clark’s jaw trembled. “I made that pie, B. You ate two slices. And now—”

“Clark,” Bruce interrupted, still hoarse. “It’s fine.”

Clark shook his head. “It’s not fine. I’m going to find the best doctors, the best specialists—someone will fix this.”

That earned him the smallest, exhausted laugh from Bruce, faint but real. “Clark. I just threw up. I’m going to be fine.”

Clark didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him — really looked — at the pallor under Bruce’s skin, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders still trembled slightly from the effort. The sight made something in him crack.

“I’m staying here tonight,” Clark said quietly, voice thick. “And tomorrow, we’re going to the doctor. Whether you like it or not.”

Bruce’s response was barely a whisper. “I can’t. I have Wayne Enterprises in the morning, and I still need to see what Diana sent earlier.”

Clark’s voice broke into something half-exasperated, half-heartbroken. “You’re going to work yourself to death one day.”

Bruce gave a tired, small smile. “Not today.”

Clark exhaled through his nose, shaky. “Then you’re going to bed. I’ll talk to the League tonight. Tomorrow, you see a doctor — and if they say you’re fine, then you go back to work. Deal?”

Bruce looked at him, eyes heavy but softened by something that looked suspiciously like fondness. His hand lifted, finding Clark’s arm and giving it a faint squeeze. “Fine,” he murmured.

Clark nodded, still rubbing Bruce’s back. He leaned forward slightly, brushing the sweat-damp hair away from Bruce’s forehead, the motion almost tender.

“You’re heating up,” Clark said softly. “I’m going to get you something else to wear.”

Bruce gave a weak nod. “All right.”

Clark rose carefully, making sure Bruce was steady before stepping out of the bathroom. The light from the hallway caught his shoulders, the faint tremor still in his breath as he looked back once before leaving.

Bruce brushed his teeth quietly, the taste of mint lingering to wash out the aftertaste of bile and too-sweet pie. He leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face to cool the faint fever that had settled under his skin. His reflection looked worn—color drained from his face, dark circles like smudges under his eyes, and his hair still damp from where Clark had brushed it back. He straightened, wiping his mouth with a towel as Clark walked back into the bathroom, holding folded clothes in one arm.

“I, uh—Alfred helped me find these,” Clark said, his voice soft, almost shy now. He placed the shirt and a pair of shorts on the counter. “He said they’d be more comfortable for the night. And he’s bringing up some tea for you—something to help your stomach.”

Bruce nodded, taking the clothes and setting them aside for a moment as he rinsed his mouth again. “He didn’t have to,” he said, though his voice came out quieter than intended. After wiping his mouth again, he picked up the clothes and changed into them. A bit slowly, he then put his jeans and other shirt into the laundry basket.

Clark smiled faintly. “He wanted to. Said he’s seen you get like this before, after you’ve… overworked yourself.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to bring up an ice pack, but I didn’t want to freeze you. So I’ll just keep the window cracked instead—get some air moving in here—”

He stopped mid-sentence when Bruce turned toward him, without a word, stepped close enough for their chests to nearly touch. Bruce’s hand hesitated before resting on Clark’s side, then around his waist. His other arm followed, slow and uncertain, until he leaned forward, resting his head against Clark’s shoulder. The warmth of Clark’s body was steady. Bruce exhaled quietly, the breath soft against Clark’s collarbone, and his fingers flexed slightly at Clark’s back—like he was testing if this was real.

Clark blinked, caught off guard for only a heartbeat before his arms came up around Bruce’s shoulders, returning the hug with gentle pressure. His hand smoothed up the back of Bruce’s neck, careful not to startle him. For a man who could break steel with his hands, his touch was impossibly careful.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmured, voice rough from exhaustion and embarrassment.

Clark leaned his head slightly to the side, resting his cheek on Bruce’s hair. “You don’t need to thank me for taking care of you,” he said softly, his voice trembling just a bit with emotion.

There was a brief pause—an unspoken understanding in the silence—and then Bruce lifted his head, just enough to meet Clark’s eyes. It was slow, tentative, the kind of movement that meant he was thinking too much about it, and then not at all. Their lips met, a quiet, hesitant kiss that barely lingered before Bruce pulled back again, faint color touching his cheeks.

Clark’s smile was warm, steady. He kept one hand on Bruce’s shoulder as he guided him out of the bathroom and toward the bed. Bruce sat down at the edge, looking up at him with that faint, tired smirk that still managed to carry all of his stubbornness.

“I don’t really need to be put to bed,” Bruce muttered.

“Too bad,” Clark said, smiling more fully now. “You’re sick. Which means you’re being taken care of, and that’s final.”

He leaned down, tugging the blankets back as Bruce sighed but gave in, moving to lie down. Clark pulled the covers over him, smoothing them down before brushing a few strands of hair off his forehead. Bruce’s skin was still warm under his fingers.

Clark bent down and pressed a kiss there. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning. And you better stay in bed.”

Bruce’s lips twitched faintly. “No promises.”

Clark kissed his cheek this time, softer, lingering for a heartbeat before he straightened and sat down beside the bed. “Then I’ll stay here,” he said. “Make sure you actually sleep.”

Bruce looked at him through half-lidded eyes, his hand slowly reaching out from under the blanket to find Clark’s. His grip was light but sure. “Tell me something,” he murmured. “Just… talk. I want to hear you.”

Clark nodded, smiling gently. He thought for a moment before starting, his thumb brushing along Bruce’s knuckles. “Alright. So… you remember that lead I told you about last week? The one that was supposed to take me across the Pacific?”

Bruce gave a low hum of acknowledgment.

“Well, it ended up leading me off course. Way off. I had to track some readings, and the next thing I knew, I was halfway to orbit.” Clark laughed softly under his breath. “That’s actually why I called you from space.”

Bruce’s eyes opened slightly, giving him a faint, incredulous look. “That shouldn’t even be possible.”

“Alien logic or something,” Clark replied with a grin. “You know how it goes.”

That earned the faintest smile from Bruce, small but real, before he let his eyes close again. Clark kept talking, letting his voice fill the room—soft and low, a steady rhythm that seemed to quiet the tension in the air.

He told Bruce about how the stars looked from the other side of the atmosphere, how quiet it was up there, how he could hear his own heartbeat more clearly than anything else. And somewhere between one word and the next, Bruce’s breathing evened out, the rise and fall of his chest slow and peaceful.

Clark glanced down and saw him asleep, his brow smooth for once, a faint pink still lingering on his cheeks.

Clark’s expression softened. He carefully placed Bruce’s hand back under the blanket, brushing the back of his fingers against it before leaning down once more. He pressed a quiet kiss to Bruce’s forehead.

“Goodnight, B,” he whispered.

Then he stood, cracked the window slightly like he’d promised, and took one last look before turning off the light. The air was cool, carrying a faint breeze that rustled the curtains—and for once, the night in Wayne Manor felt calm.

Chapter Text

The morning light slipped through the curtains in thin, golden ribbons, soft enough not to wake anyone too harshly. Bruce stirred slowly, his body heavy and warm under the weight of the blankets—and the weight of Clark’s arm around him.

He blinked a few times, taking in the quiet of the room before realizing where he was—and who was beside him. Clark’s chest rose and fell behind him, the steady rhythm of someone who actually slept through the night. Bruce could feel the faint warmth radiating from him; the kind of warmth that made the sheets comfortable, that made him hesitate to move.

Clark had promised he’d stay the night—no sneaking out, no excuses this time. He’d said it half-jokingly before Bruce drifted off, but he’d kept his word. For once, he wasn’t sneaking in or out of the manor like he had to hide; he’d been invited—had dinner, met Bruce’s sons, sat at the same table like he belonged there. It was strange, maybe too normal for either of them, but it settled something quiet in Bruce’s chest.

Still, he needed to move.

Bruce carefully lifted Clark’s arm off his waist, slow enough not to wake him. He sat up, the blanket falling to his lap as his legs swung over the edge of the bed. The motion made him dizzy for a moment, a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach that made him steady himself with both hands on his thighs.

The faint smell of tea reached him next. His eyes drifted toward the coffee table—a tray sat there, a single cup with steam that had long gone cold. Alfred’s work, no doubt. The sight made the corner of his mouth twitch faintly upward.

Behind him, there was a low sound—a shift in the sheets, the soft creak of the mattress.

“B?” Clark’s voice was groggy, still half caught in sleep. A soft yawn followed before the bed dipped again, and Clark sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “You okay?”

Bruce glanced back at him, managing a faint nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Clark didn’t look convinced. He reached out, resting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder before leaning forward, squinting as though inspecting him for proof. “You sure? You still look a little pale.”

Bruce huffed quietly. “I said I’m fine.”

But Clark was already moving. He slid off the bed, bare feet silent against the floor as he came to stand in front of Bruce. His hands—gentle but firm—found Bruce’s jaw, tilting his head up slightly as if to examine him. The gesture made Bruce’s cheeks color faintly. The warmth in the room didn’t help; his skin felt flushed, and the way Clark’s thumbs brushed along his jaw didn’t exactly steady him.

Clark’s brows furrowed. “You’re warm. We’re going to the doctor today,” he said matter-of-factly, like there was no room for argument. “Emergency if we have to.”

Bruce raised a brow, trying to hide a smile. “Clark, the things we’ve faced—you think I can’t handle a normal cold?”

Clark sighed, a touch of frustration in the sound, but his tone stayed soft. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I know you—you’ll keep working through this until it gets worse.”

Bruce gave him that look—the one that said he wasn’t entirely wrong but still refused to admit it. “And who else is going to be Batman and Bruce Wayne?”

Clark’s mouth curved into a small, lopsided smile. “Just one day,” he said quietly. “One day to get better. To be… you. Without running yourself into the ground.”

Bruce looked at him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose, resigned. “Fine.”

He pushed himself up, the dizziness fading a bit now that he was on his feet. He moved to his dresser, pulling out a clean shirt and slacks, setting them on the bed before grabbing a towel. “Just a quick shower,” he said. “I’ll feel better after.”

Clark leaned against the bedpost, watching him move about the room. His gaze softened as he took in the sight of Bruce being… domestic, for lack of a better word. No cape, no cowl, just a tired man who somehow still looked dignified in a t-shirt.

Bruce paused when he turned around—and finally noticed what Clark was wearing. One of his shirts, loose and slightly stretched over Clark’s frame, along with a pair of Wayne-logo sweatpants that barely reached his ankles. The sight pulled an amused hum out of him.

“Those look familiar,” Bruce said dryly.

Clark glanced down at himself, then back up at Bruce with an awkward, sheepish grin. “Yeah, uh—came by pretty late last night. Didn’t feel like going home for a change of clothes. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Lazy,” Bruce repeated, his tone teasing.

Clark chuckled. “Even guys like me get lazy sometimes.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I’ll take your word for it.” He picked up the towel again, turning toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower quickly. If you’re planning to keep being lazy, stay out of the way.”

Clark’s head lifted immediately, voice quick and defensive. “I’m not being lazy anymore.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused.

Clark lifted his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Hey—don’t look at me like that. I know you’re sick, I won’t do anything. I’ll just… look.”

Bruce paused at the doorway, lips twitching before he muttered, “Pervert,” under his breath as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Clark laughed quietly and followed after him a few steps, still protesting, “Hey, I’m not a pervert! I’m concerned!”

The sound of running water started up, and Bruce’s faint voice came from inside, dry and unimpressed: “Sure you are.”

Clark grinned, leaning against the doorframe with that familiar warmth in his chest—because even sick and half-dizzy, Bruce Wayne could still make him feel like this. Like home.

Chapter Text

The steam from Bruce’s shower still lingered faintly in the air, softening the chill that crept through the manor. He’d kept it short—purposefully so—because Clark had made a point before he went in.

“If I get in there, I’ll end up doing something,” Clark had said with that half-grin that made it difficult to tell if he was teasing or completely serious. “And I’m not going to do that to a sick man.”

Bruce, already tired and amused, had just rolled his eyes—playfully, almost fondly—and closed the bathroom door in his face.

Now, fresh out and toweling his hair, Bruce stood before the mirror, the fog clearing as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. He’d chosen something simple: a black button-up, grey slacks, the kind of look that still passed as professional without being as suffocatingly formal as a full suit. Anything more, and Clark would’ve immediately accused him of trying to sneak back to work.

He pulled the fabric of a black crewneck sweater over his head, the soft material settling comfortably against his skin. The morning air had a bite to it—finally cooling him after the strange feverish warmth of the last day. He felt steadier now, though his body still carried that faint post-sickness heaviness.

Across the room, Clark was changing too—into something casual, familiar. A flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, jeans, boots. It was so Clark that Bruce almost smiled. For a moment, Bruce just watched him, realizing then that Clark’s earlier excuse about not having his own clothes was probably just a white lie to justify using Bruce’s. The sight of him in one of Bruce’s shirts earlier—too fitted in the shoulders, a bit loose in the sleeves—had been amusing. But seeing him now, pulling his own flannel into place, made Bruce’s chest feel oddly lighter.

Cute. That’s what it was. Annoying, endearing, cute.

When they were both ready, Bruce reached for his phone and wallet, and Clark—ever the eager partner—moved to open the bedroom door first.

“Breakfast before we head out,” Clark said firmly, tone leaving no room for argument.

Bruce gave him a side look. “You’re making sure I don’t skip meals now?”

Clark grinned. “Exactly.”

Downstairs, the manor’s halls were filled with a low hum of morning routine—footsteps, the faint sound of chatter, the smell of toast and brewed coffee. The sun had just crept through the high windows, turning the polished wood floors a soft amber.

When they entered the dining room, the long table was already occupied.

Dick sat nearest the end, tie slightly crooked as he scrolled something on his phone between bites of eggs. Jason lounged two chairs away, leaning back with his cereal bowl in hand and his backpack carelessly dropped to the floor. Tim was quietly reading a tablet while eating a muffin, multitasking with the kind of precision only he could pull off. And at the far corner, Damian sat upright, perfectly proper as he sliced through a piece of toast with surgical precision—already halfway through his glass of juice.

“Good morning,” Bruce greeted as he walked in, his voice calm but firm enough that all four boys turned their attention up at once.

A chorus of mumbled “mornings” followed—Jason’s being the most casual, Damian’s the most formal.

Alfred stood near the sideboard, pouring another pot of coffee. “Master Bruce, good morning,” he said with a nod. “Master Kent, as well.”

Clark smiled warmly. “Good morning, Alfred.”

He hesitated for half a second, unsure where exactly to sit—like he’d just stepped into something sacred, a private rhythm of the household. Bruce motioned faintly toward the far end, opposite him, and Clark took the hint, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

“Morning,” Clark offered to the table in general, his voice easy but polite.

Dick looked up from his phone with a smirk. “Morning, Clark. Didn’t think you were a breakfast person.”

Clark chuckled. “I can be. Depends on who’s cooking.”

“Definitely not Bruce,” Jason said with a mouthful of cereal.

“That’s why Alfred exists,” Tim murmured without looking up from his tablet.

Alfred cleared his throat pointedly. “I shall take that as a compliment, Master Timothy.”

Jason grinned into his bowl. “Sure thing, Alfie.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Your table manners are atrocious.”

“Your vocabulary is too big for this early in the morning,” Jason shot back.

“Boys,” Bruce said quietly, and the word was enough to draw a beat of silence. Not tense—just the practiced stillness of sons who’d learned to listen when he spoke. “Eat. You’re going to be late for school.”

That restarted the hum of movement: forks clinking, juice being poured, Jason muttering something under his breath that made Dick snicker.

Clark, meanwhile, sat back slightly, watching the scene unfold with quiet fondness. He’d seen Bruce in the field—stern, unyielding—but here, it was different. The authority was there, yes, but softened, warmer. The chaos at the table was messy, human, alive.

“So, uh,” Jason said suddenly, eyes flicking toward Clark. “You here for breakfast now, or you move in already?”

Dick laughed, nearly choking on his coffee. “Jason—”

Clark blinked, momentarily caught off guard before smiling sheepishly. “Just breakfast,” he said.

“Sure,” Jason said, dragging the word out like he didn’t believe him. “You were here last night too.”

“Jason,” Bruce said in that low, warning tone again.

Jason raised his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just asking questions!”

Damian looked between them, unimpressed. “You act like it’s scandalous for Father to have company. Grow up.”

Dick smirked. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to call Superman ‘company.’”

Clark’s ears went pink. Bruce didn’t even look up from his coffee as he muttered, “That’s enough.”

Tim, without glancing up, added, “I mean, I think it’s kinda nice. The place feels quieter with you here.”

Clark blinked, surprised. “Quieter?”

Tim nodded slightly. “Yeah. I mean—good quiet. Like less… brooding echo in the hallways.”

Bruce shot him a flat look, and Tim just shrugged, unapologetic.

The laughter that followed—Dick’s, Jason’s, even a faint twitch of Damian’s lip—made the room feel lighter.

Bruce didn’t join in, but there was a faint curve at the corner of his mouth, the kind only those closest to him would notice.

By the time breakfast was winding down, the boys were grabbing backpacks, checking the time, and hurrying to the door. Alfred called after them, reminding Jason to take his jacket, reminding Damian to stop scowling, and ensuring Dick had his keys.

Clark stood, collecting a few stray plates to hand to Alfred, who thanked him with a knowing smile. Bruce sipped the last of his coffee, watching the brief chaos settle into quiet again.

For a moment, it was just the two of them again—him and Clark—standing in the morning light of Wayne Manor, warm and soft against the calm after the storm of sons and breakfast chatter.

Bruce met Clark’s gaze across the table. “Ready?” he asked.

Clark nodded, that easy smile finding its way back to his face. “Yeah. Let’s go see your kind of doctor.”

And as they left together, Alfred’s voice followed faintly from behind—“Do take care, Master Bruce. And do try not to overwork yourself before noon.”

Clark grinned as they stepped out the door. “Guess I’m not the only one keeping an eye on you.”

Bruce sighed, but there was the faintest hint of a smile as he said, “Apparently not.”

Chapter Text

The drive to Wayne Biotech Laboratories was quiet but not empty. The low hum of the car filled the space between them as morning light drifted through the tinted windows, painting soft lines across Bruce’s face. He had one hand resting on his phone, pressing it to his ear as he spoke to the other end of the line with the clipped precision of a man who was both the patient and the benefactor.

He said into the receiver, “Yes, I’ll be coming in today. Schedule a full check. Nothing abbreviated. Just make sure the diagnostic tech is calibrated. I’ll sign the authorization when I get there.” He paused, glancing sideways at Clark, who drove with both hands on the wheel, pretending not to listen but failing. Bruce’s mouth curved faintly as he added, “No, I’m not going alone. Just be ready when I arrive.”

When he hung up, Clark glanced at him. “So, you really called ahead like a normal person. I’m impressed.”

Bruce looked at him, eyes faintly amused. “I do own the facility. Calling ahead is more of a courtesy.”

Clark smiled, his voice light. “You’re very considerate of your employees’ schedules then.”

There was a beat of quiet before Bruce asked, “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at the Daily Planet right now?”

Clark’s eyes stayed on the road, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Called in sick. Figured if you’re not feeling great, the least I could do is keep you company.”

Bruce made a small, skeptical noise. “Perry’s going to think you’re avoiding him after being rejected for another story pitch.”

Clark laughed softly, the sound warm and unbothered. “He did sound a little bitter about it when I told him. But I think he’ll live. Besides, this seemed a little more important.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of a smile crossed his face before he turned his gaze toward the window.

Wayne Biotech Laboratories stood like a monument of steel and glass, reflecting the muted Gotham sky in its mirrored surface. The structure wasn’t ostentatious—Bruce hated that—but it was unmistakably modern. Its edges were clean, deliberate, and sharp, and the Wayne crest shimmered faintly above the entrance. It wasn’t a public building. Every inch of it was built for function and discretion.

Inside, the air was clean and cool. The corridors gleamed with polished glass, and the soft hum of machinery ran like a heartbeat through the walls. Everything seemed to move on quiet efficiency—lights responding to footsteps, automated doors sliding open with precision. Holographic displays flickered gently in the distance, tracking medical data, research models, and molecular maps.

Clark looked around as they walked, half impressed, half uneasy. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Bruce’s tone was dry but not unkind. “Would you prefer I went to a general clinic?”

“Honestly? Kinda,” Clark said, his grin widening as he followed him through another secured door. “At least then you’d have to wait like the rest of us.”

“I don’t wait,” Bruce replied without looking back.

“I’m starting to notice that,” Clark said under his breath, though his amusement didn’t fade.

The examination suite Bruce led them to was minimalistic and sterile but not cold. The walls were lined with transparent panels that displayed readings in muted colors—oxygen levels, temperature control, bio-scans waiting to activate. A sleek med-table stood in the center, made of dark alloy that shifted with the weight and posture of whoever sat on it.

Bruce entered first, the motion sensor unlocking the door before he even needed to touch it. Clark lingered near the entrance, still taking in the space.

“Do we wait for someone?” Clark asked after a moment, unsure whether to sit or stand.

Bruce sat down on the edge of the med-table, adjusting his cuffs. “No. They’ll come to us.”

Clark’s brow lifted. “You really just walk in and skip the line, huh?”

Bruce’s mouth quirked faintly. “I built the line.”

Before Clark could answer, the door slid open, and a man in a white lab coat stepped inside. He was middle-aged, calm, and clearly used to Bruce’s unorthodox ways. “Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” he greeted smoothly. “You gave us short notice.”

“I wasn’t planning on needing a checkup,” Bruce said, his voice steady and polite.

The doctor smiled lightly, glancing at Clark. “And Mr. Kent. It’s an honor.”

Clark’s posture straightened a bit. “Just here for moral support,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

“Good,” the doctor replied. “We’ll start with a full metabolic scan. Shouldn’t take long.”

He moved to the console, activating the diagnostic array with a few practiced motions. The soft hum of the machinery filled the space, and thin beams of pale light began to trace Bruce’s form—scanning, measuring, recording.

Clark watched from the chair beside him as the doctor spoke. “You’ve been running a fever, dizziness, and nausea?”

Bruce gave a small nod. “It’s mild. I just wanted to rule out anything more serious.”

Clark, arms folded, leaned forward slightly. “It wasn’t mild this morning,” he said. “He almost lost his balance when he stood up. His stomach’s been off for a couple of days. He threw up twice last night, from what I know, and he’s been running hot since last night.”

Bruce turned his head toward him, expression caught between irritation and resignation. “You could’ve let me say that.”

“You weren’t going to,” Clark replied simply, not backing down.

The doctor hid his amusement well as he continued his scan. “That’s consistent with a viral infection or a simple stomach bug,” he said, though his eyes flicked toward the readouts on the wall. “Your temperature is still elevated, but your heart rate and vitals are stable. We’ll run a deeper analysis to confirm.”

Bruce adjusted his cuff, looking unbothered. “Just confirm it’s a stomach bug. I’ll take the medication and go back to work.”

Clark glanced at him, smiling faintly. “You’re already making your own diagnosis.”

“Efficiency,” Bruce said.

“Or stubbornness,” Clark countered.

The doctor worked quietly, taking a small blood sample that was analyzed instantly by the system. Within seconds, the screen displayed layers of readouts—cellular structures, hormone levels, chemical balances. The color scheme shifted slightly, indicating irregularities.

The doctor studied it closely, not commenting yet. “You have some unusual readings here,” he said after a pause, his tone carefully neutral. “It could be a reaction to stress, or dietary. I’d like to run one more test to be sure.”

Bruce leaned back slightly. “Diet, most likely. I’ve been skipping meals.”

Clark frowned at that, but said nothing.

The doctor gave a polite nod, though his eyes lingered briefly on the display before dimming the screen. “Everything appears stable otherwise. I’ll have the full report analyzed and sent to you by noon.”

“Good,” Bruce said, standing. “I’ll review it myself.”

As the doctor left the room, Clark looked over at Bruce. “You’re really convinced it’s just a stomach bug?”

Bruce adjusted his collar with his usual precision. “That’s what the symptoms point to.”

Clark watched him for a moment, the morning light from the glass panels catching in his eyes. There was something about Bruce’s calmness that didn’t sit right—not because he doubted him, but because Clark could sense something in the air, something the machines had picked up that the doctor hadn’t said out loud.

Whatever it was, Bruce had seen it too. He just wasn’t ready to hear it yet.

And for now, neither of them said anything about it.

Chapter Text

They sat in the car, the engine quiet and the soft hum of traffic outside fading into a distant murmur. The sunlight came in weak through the tinted glass, painting Bruce’s hands in a dull gold as he tapped his fingers against his knee—once, twice, before realizing Clark still hadn’t started the car.

Bruce turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet suspicion. “Are you trying to listen for something?” he asked. His tone was half genuine curiosity, half impatience that was tempered only because Clark was the one beside him.

Clark glanced over, sheepish, his voice soft when he admitted, “Yeah… maybe.”

“They’ll get back to us by noon,” Bruce said, leaning back in his seat. “You don’t need to hover over every soundwave between now and then. I’m fine now, and I only came for your peace of mind.”

Clark gave a short laugh, low and almost embarrassed. “You call this peace of mind? It’s going to feel like forever before noon comes.”

Bruce’s lips curved just barely, the ghost of a smile. He leaned over and let his head rest against Clark’s shoulder, his voice quieting. “Then we’ll wait together until then.”

Clark’s hand found his without hesitation, their fingers fitting easily, like they’d done this a hundred times before. “Obviously,” Clark murmured, his thumb brushing the back of Bruce’s hand before he lifted it to press a light kiss there. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay. So you’re going to let me take care of you today, deal?”

Bruce gave a soft huff that wasn’t quite a laugh but close enough. “Deal,” he said, then added, almost under his breath, “Thanks.”

Clark leaned over and kissed the top of his head, slow and fond. “How about I cook for you later? Something warm—soup maybe.”

Bruce hesitated, thinking about it. He wasn’t used to slowing down, to being taken care of, but Clark’s offer came with no expectation, just quiet reassurance. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m supposed to take the day off anyway.”

Clark smiled, bright and teasing. “You act like one day away from Gotham will make the city crumble.”

Bruce turned his head, giving him that small, unreadable look he often wore when he didn’t want to admit he found Clark funny.

Clark looked back, grin softening. “You’re important to Gotham, yeah—but you come first, too. My world would end if you didn’t take care of yourself. So don’t go too hard on me for worrying.”

Bruce didn’t answer at first. He only looked out the window, his reflection softened in the glass, before quietly saying, “I’ll try.”

Clark started the car, the hum of the engine filling the silence as they left the lab’s parking lot.

Clark’s apartment in Metropolis was lived-in but clean, with warm light spilling across the hardwood floors and the faint smell of coffee and something sweet lingering from the morning.

Bruce sank into the couch as Clark disappeared into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and voice carrying easily over the counter.

“I’m going to start cooking,” Clark called out from the kitchen, his voice steady but cautious as he rummaged through the cabinets. “Something simple this time. The promised soup. You need something easy on your stomach.”

Bruce, seated on the couch, glanced toward the sound of clattering dishes. The motion of Clark moving around—the careful way he checked things twice—didn’t escape him. “You’re really going to cook again?”

Clark hesitated for a beat. “…Yeah. Why?”

Bruce leaned back, tone quiet but edged with something that could’ve been teasing—or guilt. “I thought you wouldn’t want to. Not after lunch and last night.”

There was a soft pause, the kind that made the air between them feel heavier than it should’ve. Clark sighed, the sound half a laugh, half a groan. “Don’t remind me. I'm going to cry again.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

“You looked miserable,” Clark added, voice softening, almost fond.

“I was,” Bruce admitted. Then, after a beat, “But you looked worse.”

Clark went quiet at that—then turned just enough for Bruce to catch the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess I care too much.”

Bruce didn’t answer, but the look he gave in return said everything else. The silence stretched, gentle and weighted, until the sound of a knife against the cutting board broke it again.

As Clark moved about, he talked—about small things at first, the noise of the city outside, the sunlight hitting the Daily Planet building across the street. Then, naturally, the League came up.

“They’ve been messaging me since morning,” Clark said as he stirred something on the stove. “There’s some trouble near Coast City—Hal’s handling it, but you know how he is.”

Bruce gave a small, approving hum, the kind that meant he’s fine but I’ll check later anyway. He listened quietly as Clark continued, his voice steady and familiar, filling the apartment like music.

By the time noon neared, the air smelled of simmering broth and herbs. Clark joined Bruce on the couch, setting aside two bowls before leaning back beside him. Bruce had settled halfway against him without realizing it, exhaustion creeping in despite the steady comfort of the day. Clark’s arm went around him instinctively, drawing him close so Bruce could rest more comfortably.

“You okay?” Clark asked quietly.

“Mm,” Bruce murmured, eyes half-shut. “Just tired.”

Clark smiled faintly. “Then rest. We’ll see what the lab says soon.”

They sat that way in easy quiet until Bruce’s phone buzzed sharply on the coffee table—screen lighting up against the dim of the room, breaking the soft calm that had briefly, almost mercifully, felt normal.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s phone buzzed against the coffee table, the vibration sharp in the quiet room. He sighed, the sound low and reluctant, before leaning forward and picking it up. Clark felt him shift against his side, the warmth that had settled between them breaking as Bruce pressed the phone to his ear.

“Wayne,” Bruce answered, voice rough, still heavy with the kind of fatigue that came from a morning of trying not to worry. His other hand rubbed at his temple absently, his tone softening only slightly as he said, “Yes… this is he.”

Clark watched him—watched the small change in his posture, the stillness that took over as the voice on the other side of the call began to speak. Bruce’s expression didn’t shift much at first, but Clark saw it—his shoulders tightening, his eyes focusing on nothing.

“What do you mean come in again?” Bruce’s tone sharpened, though quiet. “I thought we agreed you’d send the results over—” He paused, listening, then frowned. “No, I understand. I’ll be there shortly.” He stayed silent for a breath too long before the quiet “Okay” came, and then the soft click of him hanging up. Bruce stared at the phone for a moment, his thumb still on the screen like he hadn’t fully processed what he’d just heard.

“B?” Clark’s voice broke through quickly, tension already laced in it. “What did they say? Did something come up? Did they find something?”

Bruce blinked, lifting his eyes, calm in the way that made Clark even more uneasy. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice steady but distant. “They just want me to come in. Said it’s better if they give the results in person.”

“That doesn’t sound fine,” Clark said immediately, straightening. “B, that’s not something they say unless it’s serious.”

“It’s procedure,” Bruce insisted quietly as he stood, smoothing the front of his shirt as though that act alone could reassert control over the moment. “Sometimes they prefer to discuss results in person for privacy. Especially with my name attached to them.”

Clark followed him as he moved toward the door, his concern only sharpening with each step. “B, come on—you know that’s not what this sounds like.”

“Clark,” Bruce said, with that calm, unshakable tone that tried to end the conversation. “If it were serious, they would have said something. They would’ve told me directly.”

Clark wasn’t convinced. He grabbed his jacket off the arm of the couch, slipping it on as Bruce headed out first. “Or,” he said, voice low, almost under his breath, “they didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

The ride to Wayne Labs was quiet but heavy, the hum of the car cutting through the tension between them. Clark’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual, knuckles pale against the dark leather. The Metropolis skyline passed by in streaks of color and glass, but his eyes didn’t leave the road—not even when Bruce spoke.

“You’re tense,” Bruce said, looking over at him. His tone wasn’t accusing, just observant.

Clark exhaled sharply through his nose. “You should be tense too. Someone called you back in for results they could’ve said right then.”

“If it was serious, they’d have said so,” Bruce replied again, patient but firm. “They’re probably just being cautious.”

“Cautious?” Clark echoed, jaw tightening as he turned down a street toward the freeway. “B, you don’t tell someone to come in again just to be cautious. You do that when there’s something they need to explain—something they don’t want misunderstood.”

Bruce turned slightly in his seat, watching Clark’s reflection in the window. “You’re assuming the worst.”

Clark gave a small, dry laugh that held no humor. “I’m assuming what happens when you care about someone who keeps saying he’s fine while running himself into the ground.”

That silenced Bruce for a moment. The only sounds were the muted rush of the city outside and the steady rumble of the car beneath them.

Finally, Bruce said quietly, “I appreciate the concern, Clark. But worrying won’t change the outcome. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

Clark didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite agreement. “We’ll deal with it,” he repeated, as if saying it would make it true.

The rest of the drive was wordless, filled instead with the unspoken tension that clung to both of them—the kind that came when neither wanted to admit they were afraid of the same thing.

When they finally pulled into the parking to Wayne Labs, Clark cut the engine but didn’t move right away. His hands stayed on the wheel, jaw still tight. Bruce turned to him then, resting a hand briefly over Clark’s wrist.

“It’s going to be fine,” Bruce said, voice steady but quieter now—gentle, even.

Clark’s fingers flexed under Bruce’s touch, like he wanted to believe him but couldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmured, eyes still on the dash. “You keep saying that.”

Bruce opened his door then, the sound of it closing echoing faintly against the silence between them as Clark followed after him—both of them walking side by side toward the entrance.

Chapter Text

The hallway back to the room felt longer this time. It wasn’t just the white walls or the sterile smell that made Clark uneasy—it was the silence between him and Bruce. A silence that wasn’t cold, but heavy. They both felt it, even without saying so; something about this didn’t feel fine at all.

Clark’s boots echoed faintly on the tile as they walked. He kept glancing at Bruce beside him, watching the subtle way his breathing had changed. His heartbeat—the one Clark had been unconsciously tracking since this all started—faltered every so slightly, like a quiet stutter. Nothing visible, nothing dramatic. But enough for Clark to know that whatever this was, it wasn’t just a stomach bug. If it even was that to begin with.

Bruce walked like he always did—measured, in control—but Clark could feel the tension beneath that composure, like the quiet before a storm. And when Bruce spoke, his tone was steady, too steady. The kind of calm that wasn’t for himself but for Clark.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Bruce said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “I’m fine.”

Clark exhaled, soft but strained. “You keep saying that, but I can literally hear your heart disagreeing with you.”

That earned him a quiet huff that almost passed for a laugh. Bruce shook his head, eyes fixed forward. “You’d make a terrible poker player.”

Clark cracked a faint smile but didn’t reply. He wanted to reach out, but Bruce’s walls—even when he was sick—were built out of quiet pride and habit. And Clark respected that. Still, his hand brushed close enough that when they stepped through the doorway into the room again, Bruce didn’t pull away when Clark finally took his hand.

The air inside the room felt the same as before—dim, cool, and humming with the low buzz of the machines—but to Clark, it was different. He hated hospitals. Always had. He’d spent too many nights in them waiting, helplessly watching others recover or not recover at all.

Sitting beside Bruce now, he forced himself to breathe normally. “Hey,” he said gently, his thumb brushing over Bruce’s knuckles. “It’s probably nothing. You’re tougher than any cold.”

Bruce’s eyes shifted toward him, tired but sharp. “Either way, I know you’ll cry if it’s not.”

Clark’s laugh came out quietly, almost embarrassed. “Hey, I’m just an emotional guy.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “Yeah. You mean crybaby.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll let that slide because you’re sick.”

“Big crybaby,” Bruce added, barely above a whisper, and this time Clark couldn’t help but laugh for real—one of those small, nervous laughs that broke tension just enough.

It was a small comfort, the kind that existed only between them. For a moment, it almost felt normal again.

Then Bruce’s gaze drifted toward the door. His hand stayed in Clark’s, but his eyes lost their humor, settling back into something more pensive. Clark followed his line of sight, expecting the doctor to appear any second.

They didn’t.

Not yet.

So they waited.

Clark watched the seconds crawl by on the clock above the door, every tick feeling like it pressed against his chest. He could feel the rhythm of Bruce’s pulse through their joined hands—steady, then a little uneven, then steady again. Each change made him hold tighter, as if his grip could will Bruce’s body back into perfect rhythm.

Bruce noticed, of course. He always did. His thumb brushed once against Clark’s hand in quiet reassurance, even though he was the one sitting on the exam table, pale under the low light.

“Stop worrying,” Bruce said quietly, not looking at him. “You’ll make it worse.”

Clark sighed. “I’m not worrying.”

Bruce shot him a look.

“Okay,” Clark murmured, eyes softening. “Maybe a little.”

The silence that followed was thick, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with all the things neither of them could say—fear, hope, affection disguised as concern. The hum of the machines filled the space between their breaths.

And then, finally, they heard footsteps outside. Slow, measured. The kind that made Clark’s stomach tighten because he could tell, even from that, that the doctor had something to say.

Bruce straightened slightly. Clark didn’t let go of his hand.

Neither spoke as the handle turned and the door began to open.

The light from the hallway spilled in first, washing over the two of them—the world narrowing down to the sound of a heartbeat, steady for now.

Whatever came next, they’d face it together.

But right now, it was just the waiting.

Chapter Text

The door opened with a soft click, and the doctor who had been attending Bruce earlier stepped back into the room—clipboard in hand, a stack of printed readings tucked neatly into the chart. His expression wasn’t grave, but it wasn’t relaxed either. It was that practiced, professional unease Clark had seen too many times before—the look of someone who had news they hadn’t quite figured out how to deliver.

Clark’s hand immediately found Bruce’s again, fingers tightening around his. His chest felt tight, the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat low but uneven in his ears. “So,” Clark started, trying to keep his tone light, “it’s just a stomach bug then? Or… what’s going on?”

The doctor hesitated, eyes flicking between them. “Well, the main point is that Mr. Wayne is healthy,” he began, and Clark exhaled a bit in relief. “Everything came back excellent. With our technology, we can scan and process results quickly. We also took a standard blood panel during your check—routine.”

Bruce’s brow lifted slightly. “And?”

The doctor’s mouth twitched, uncertain. “And, well… one of those results did come back positive for something.”

Clark froze. His grip on Bruce’s hand tightened instinctively. Bruce didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, but Clark could hear the change—the way his heartbeat paused, a fraction of a second too long.

The doctor exhaled through his nose, clearly searching for the right phrasing. Finally, he stepped closer and held the chart out to them. Bruce took it with his free hand and began scanning through the data. Clark didn’t look, not at first. He was watching Bruce instead—the way his eyes narrowed, the faint twitch in his jaw as he processed what he was reading.

“B?” Clark said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

The doctor cleared his throat, straightening slightly. “We looked over the data several times. Reviewed the scans, recalibrated the sensors—everything matches.” He paused again, then finally said, “Mr. Wayne came back positive on a pregnancy test.”

Clark blinked, staring at him as though he hadn’t heard right. “…What?”

The doctor nodded, calm but measured. “It’s rare, but not unheard of. Roughly forty-two percent of the global male population carries latent secondary gene expressions that can, under certain circumstances, support gestation. However, Mr. Wayne does not belong to that subset—at least, not ordinarily.”

Bruce didn’t react outwardly, but Clark could feel his pulse spike again. The doctor moved to the computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he continued speaking.

“What we found,” he said, turning the monitor toward them, “is a temporary biological modulation. Think of it as an induced compatibility phase. Kryptonian biology is… uniquely adaptive. Its cellular radiation interacts with nearby organic systems at a genetic level. When you and Mr. Kent were...intimate, those signals began rewriting your reproductive environment. It didn’t implant anything immediately—it started a slow conversion.”

The screen flickered with glowing diagrams of cells and genetic markers, unfamiliar but mesmerizing.

“If your last unprotected...encounter was about two weeks ago,” the doctor went on, “the conception likely occurred a week later—once your body completed the reconfiguration. That delay would explain the sudden nausea, dizziness, and temperature spikes. Your system has been stabilizing under the new hormonal pattern.”

He folded his hands, letting the monitor dim. “In short, your body created a temporary placeholder for gestation. It shouldn’t exist, but it does now. It will sustain itself for the duration of the pregnancy, then regress to baseline after delivery. From what we can tell on our part.”

Bruce’s throat worked as he spoke. “So it’ll… go back?”

“Yes,” the doctor said softly. “It’ll revert to normal function. Though you may continue to lactate for a period—up to a year, depending on feeding frequency. After that, your physiology should normalize. No permanent structural change—just what your body needed to sustain this now.”

Bruce nodded once, eyes fixed on the floor. The doctor hesitated before adding, “It’s rare, Mr. Wayne. Not impossible, but extraordinary. Kryptonian biology is uncharted territory for us. But we can see that your body adapted because it recognized survival in it. It’s… remarkable, really. And entirely natural, now that it’s happened.”

He gave them a moment, then continued, his tone gentler. “You and your team have the technology to reverse this, if that’s what you choose. But if you decide to continue, everything suggests it will proceed normally. You’re healthy. Your system has already stabilized.”

Bruce finally said, voice quiet, “I just need to think.”

The doctor nodded, closing the chart. “Of course. I’ll give you both some time. If you have any questions, I’ll be nearby.”

When the door closed behind him, silence filled the room again—thick and unreal.

Bruce stared down at the chart still in his lap. The numbers blurred. He hadn’t let go of Clark’s hand at first, but eventually, he pulled free to look more closely. Clark sat still, wide-eyed, his mind spinning but his heart impossibly loud.

Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice low. “The first time we didn’t use protection… this happened.”

Clark said nothing, his hand covering his mouth for a second. He slid his glasses off, resting them on top of his curls. His eyes were glassy—too bright. Then, without meaning to, he laughed. Or maybe it was half a sob. His hand moved to his face, and Bruce realized—Clark was crying.

“Clark?”

“I just—” Clark’s voice broke into a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe it. You—us—and—” He shook his head, smiling through the tears. “B, this is—this is amazing.”

Bruce blinked at him, genuinely stunned—not by the diagnosis, but by him.

Clark’s joy was immediate, unrestrained. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Bruce before Bruce could react. “I was so worried,” he murmured, voice shaking with relief. “And it’s—this is great news. You’re okay.”

Bruce sat frozen in his arms, eyes distant.

Clark eventually pulled back, realizing his mistake. “Sorry,” he said softly, adjusting his glasses again. “I just—got ahead of myself.” He took Bruce’s hands again, searching his face. “Hey. We’ll figure this out. The doctor said it can be reversible, right? I’ll help. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Bruce stayed quiet for a long moment before speaking. “I don’t know, Clark...I just can’t be Batman like this...I can’t even be Bruce Wayne like this.”

Clark nodded, voice gentler now. “I get it. You’ve built your life around those names. But maybe it’s okay to ask yourself what you want for once. You’ve given everything to everyone else—maybe you deserve something that’s just yours.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered toward him. “It feels selfish.”

“It's not selfish,” Clark said firmly. “That’s why there’s the Justice League. That’s why you have family, and me. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Bruce looked down again. “They’ll all have to know.”

Clark smiled faintly. “They’d find out anyway. I’d probably tell them by accident.”

That earned the smallest ghost of a smirk. “I know how proud you get.”

Clark chuckled. “More now than ever. I’m—” He swallowed, his voice warming. “B, I’m going to be a dad.” He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce’s cheek. “I’m sorry my biology did this.”

Bruce exhaled, almost smiling. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. Just nausea and dizziness, among other things.”

Clark laughed under his breath. “I’ll be here every day. With Gotham, with Wayne Enterprises—everything. We’ll handle it together.” Then his eyes widened as a thought hit him. “Wait—I just met your sons.”

Bruce glanced up. “Yeah.”

“So, we have to break the news that I got their dad pregnant?”

Bruce blinked slowly. “…Right. That’s going to be a conversation.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “We can wait. Maybe until we have an ultrasound. Something concrete.”

Bruce nodded. “A little over a month or two.”

Clark smiled again, eyes bright. “I’ll go with you. We’ll get whatever you need. Nursery, crib—”

Bruce’s quiet laugh cut him off. Clark stopped mid-sentence.

“We just got the news,” Bruce said dryly. “Let’s start with the doctor’s appointments first.”

Clark grinned sheepishly. “Fair. But hey—this is my first time being a dad. Let me be excited.”

Bruce shook his head, but his smile lingered this time. “Fine.”

Clark leaned in and kissed him, gentle but sure, and for the first time since the door opened, Bruce kissed back.

The chart sat between them on the bed, unread for now—its words silent, waiting.

Chapter Text

The drive back to Wayne Manor was quiet at first, the kind of quiet that hummed around disbelief. Bruce sat in the passenger seat with the papers still in his hands, the thin sheets trembling slightly between his fingers as he read the same line again and again—pregnant. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a misread. He’d asked twice, even. And still, there it was in print, stamped and signed by his own lab’s lead physician.

The paper felt heavier than it should have. He flipped through the small stack again—lab results, scan interpretations, hormone readouts, and then the last page: prenatal care plan. His mind, still half in the world of mission reports and case files, couldn’t quite process that it was about him.

He skimmed the details again: future appointments scheduled for monitoring, hormonal checkups, scan intervals, even an optional nutritionist consult. Every line felt surreal. There were diagrams—graphs of body regulation and cellular shift markers. Ordinary in their language, extraordinary in implication. It was the kind of scientific data he could usually analyze with detached precision.

But right now, it read like something out of someone else’s file.

Clark had been silent beside him most of the drive, hands firm on the steering wheel. He was trying his best to focus on the road, though his posture betrayed it—both shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes shining, and that impossible-to-suppress smile curving his lips every few seconds.

Bruce finally looked up from the papers, realizing that the car was moving unusually slow. He blinked, then looked at Clark, who was still staring ahead like he was guiding a priceless cargo through a minefield.

“Why are you driving like that?” Bruce asked, voice flat but edged with something close to amusement. “Is there something wrong with the car?”

Clark’s eyes flicked to him, sheepish. “No, no, I just—want to be careful.”

Bruce raised a brow. “Careful? Clark, we just found out. It’s not like I’m giving birth tomorrow.”

Clark’s grin widened a little. “Still. From now on, I’m being careful.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he folded one of the papers and tucked it back into the envelope. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “You’re taking this ‘protective dad’ thing a bit early.”

Clark only smiled at that, eyes back on the road, dimples showing faintly.

“What do those papers say?” he asked after a moment. “The list thing. You’ve been staring at it since we left.”

Bruce glanced down again, flipping to the page in question. “Just a list they printed for me. I assume Wayne Labs doesn’t keep pamphlets for…this particular situation.”

Clark’s chuckle was low, warm. “Yeah, probably not.”

Bruce began to read, voice calm and clinical: “Lifestyle recommendations—take prenatal vitamins with folic acid, maintain a balanced diet, avoid alcohol, smoking, and certain medications. And, apparently, rest.” He paused there, looking pointedly at Clark. “Rest. Imagine that.”

Clark gave him a look halfway between mock offense and genuine concern. “You’re not getting out of that one. I’ll make sure you rest.”

“I’m sure you will,” Bruce said, lips twitching faintly.

Clark’s hand tightened a little on the wheel. “I mean it. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’ll probably get tired of having me around so much.”

“I’m already tired of you,” Bruce said dryly, though the tone lacked any real bite.

Clark laughed, his voice breaking slightly with the sound—he was still trying not to cry again. “You’re not funny.”

“Debatable.”

There was another pause, softer now. Bruce set the papers aside and leaned back against the seat. The manor wasn’t far now—he could see the distant tree line of the property emerging through the windshield.

He could feel Clark’s gaze flicker toward him every so often, worried and affectionate all at once.

“It’s a lot,” Bruce said finally, the first time his voice dropped from its usual steadiness. “Being Batman. Being Bruce Wayne. Now this…”

Clark’s expression softened instantly. “Hey. You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re not alone in this, Bruce. You never were.”

“I’m aware,” Bruce replied quietly.

“I’ll help,” Clark said, with that determined tenderness that only he could pull off. “With Gotham, with Wayne Enterprises, with you. Whatever you need.”

Bruce looked over at him then, eyes narrowing just a little in that familiar analytical way. “It’s the least you could do, considering this was your biology.”

Clark’s face immediately fell into guilt. “Bruce, I’m—”

“I’m kidding,” Bruce interrupted, almost smirking. “You didn’t exactly plan this.”

Clark blinked, then gave a soft, tearful laugh of relief.

“The decision’s officially been made,” Bruce added, quieter now. “I’m going through with it.”

Clark’s breath hitched. He looked over, eyes wide and glassy. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For…going to have our baby,” Clark said, voice breaking into a laugh, wet with emotion. “Obviously. I’m going to be a dad.”

Bruce couldn’t help it—his mouth curved into a small, genuine smile. He reached up and put a hand on Clark’s forehead, thumb brushing just at the curl that had fallen there. Clark exhaled shakily, trying to hold it together, smiling through his tears.

“Pull yourself together before we get home,” Bruce said, faint amusement in his tone. “Alfred will think you’ve broken something.”

Clark sniffled a laugh and nodded. “Right. Yeah.” He swiped his eyes quickly and took a deep breath, both hands steadying again on the wheel. “Sorry. Just—this is a lot."

“It is,” Bruce agreed softly.

The car rolled up the long drive to Wayne Manor, the tall iron gates swinging open with a mechanical hum. The stone exterior of the house rose ahead of them—solemn and still, just as it always had been.

Inside the car, though, it felt different. The silence wasn’t the heavy kind anymore—it was full of something warm, alive. Anticipation. Fear. Wonder.

Bruce looked down once more at the envelope in his lap, thumb brushing the edge. Pregnant. The word still didn’t seem real.

Beside him, Clark was humming quietly under his breath, unable to stop smiling as the manor loomed larger in the windshield.

And Bruce, for once, let himself lean back, eyes closing briefly as the hum of the engine and the sound of Clark’s voice filled the air.

Chapter Text

Clark parked the car with a soft sigh that sounded almost like disbelief—like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. Before Bruce even reached for the handle, Clark was already out of the driver’s seat, rushing around the hood to open the passenger door.

Bruce blinked at him, lips quirking faintly. “You know I’m perfectly capable of opening a door, right?”

Clark smiled as he helped him out anyway, steady but tender. “Yeah, but I’m not taking chances. You should know that by now.”

“I do,” Bruce said, the corner of his mouth lifting higher.

They started toward the manor, Clark’s hand naturally finding its place at the small of Bruce’s back, almost like a guide. The contact made Bruce huff a quiet laugh.

Clark looked over at him, puzzled but smiling. “What’s funny?”

“I just—” Bruce shook his head, amused. “I can’t imagine how you’ll act later on. You’re already like this and we just got the news.”

Clark chuckled softly, his voice dipping with emotion. “You can’t blame me for being happy. I’d be proud of you no matter what decision you made, but… this one—” He exhaled slowly, his words gentler now. “This one means everything to me. Thank you. For letting me in. For letting me be part of your family—our family.”

That sincerity pulled a rare, unguarded smile from Bruce. Before he could answer, Clark leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, resting his forehead against Bruce’s afterward, eyes glinting as he tried not to tear up again. Bruce chuckled quietly.

“With how expressive you are,” he said, “we’re going to have to tell Alfred soon. Maybe give it a week before telling the boys—but Alfred needs to know now.”

Clark nodded quickly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he lifted his glasses slightly as he did so. “Yeah, I want to tell the world already.”

“Maybe not the world,” Bruce replied dryly but with a small smile, “but Alfred first. The boys later. And the League… eventually.”

Clark let out a short laugh, nodding. “Right, eventually,” he echoed. Then his tone softened as he glanced at Bruce. “We’re going to have to tell them sooner rather than later, though.”

Bruce’s brow arched. “We?”

“Well,” Clark started, looking a bit sheepish but earnest, “you know how it is. Our relationship wasn’t exactly a secret. People in the League already joke about us half the time.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And when they notice you’re not out there as Batman anymore—someone’s going to ask why. And since I’m… not great at hiding things, I’ll probably end up blurting it out.”

Bruce gave him that knowing look, the one that could cut through any excuse. “So you’re saying you’ll tell them.”

Clark smiled, caught. “Eventually,” he admitted. “It’s just better they’re in the know, especially if they need to cover Gotham while you’re…” He hesitated, his voice lowering into something gentler. “…grounded.”

That earned a low, amused laugh from Bruce. “Grounded?”

“Grounded,” Clark confirmed solemnly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Until further notice. Doctor’s orders. Or—well—Clark’s orders.”

Bruce shook his head, still smiling faintly. “You do realize that I don’t take orders from you.”

“Sure,” Clark said lightly, “but you’ll listen when it’s about keeping you safe.”

They exchanged a quiet glance—soft, unspoken understanding passing between them. No arguments from Bruce, since an argument with Clark had one inevitable outcome: Bruce accepting what Clark said. Well, at most things. And with this, he did have a bit of a point. Even if Bruce was too stubborn to say so out loud.

Bruce knocked lightly. After a few moments, Alfred opened it, his expression softening immediately at the sight of them both.

“Master Wayne. Mr. Kent.” His tone carried that polite steadiness that never wavered, even when he was clearly trying to read the air around them. “Welcome back.”

They stepped inside, and Bruce asked first, “Where are the boys?”

“Still off at school, sir,” Alfred replied.

“Good,” Bruce murmured, glancing at Clark. “It’s for the best, for now.”

Alfred followed his gaze, and his brows rose slightly when he took in Clark’s face—bright, tearful, smiling so hard it seemed his dimples hurt. Then he looked back at Bruce. “I take it, then, that the news is good,” he said dryly, “judging by Mr. Kent’s expression.”

Bruce nodded, taking in a breath before speaking. “...we’re pregnant.”

Alfred’s eyes widened just slightly, his impeccable composure slipping for half a heartbeat.

Clark, glasses slipping down his nose, was quick to jump in with a teary grin. “My biology did something to him—somehow—and it caused this very happy accident! But Bruce is going through with it. So—yay! Another little Wayne running around!”

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh softly at Clark’s enthusiasm, shaking his head as if to say he’s serious about that, too.

Alfred’s lips curved warmly. “That is wonderful news, sir. Truly.”

Bruce nodded faintly. “I wanted to tell you first before Clark’s face made it obvious to everyone else.”

Alfred chuckled lightly. “A wise choice, Master Wayne. And when do you plan to tell the boys?”

“In some time,” Bruce said. “They just met Clark properly. Dropping this on them too soon would be… a lot.”

Clark agreed, his tone gentler. “Yeah, I’d rather ease in. Not rush anything. But I’ll try to be here often. Help however I can.”

“I imagine you’ll be here more than often,” Alfred replied, amused. “I rather doubt you’ll let Master Wayne out of your sight now.”

Bruce made a quiet, resigned sound of agreement.

Clark grinned. “Hey, I’m a first-time dad—well, you know…”

Bruce smirked. “Yeah, the boys.”

Then Clark suddenly perked up, turning toward Alfred with a serious tone that made both of them pause. “Right—Bruce needs to eat healthy. Actually eat, stay hydrated, take his vitamins, rest—and he’s grounded.”

“Grounded?” Alfred repeated, sounding politely baffled.

Clark nodded solemnly. “From patrolling. Nothing intense. Only Wayne Enterprises. I’ve got Gotham covered. The boys are still too young to go out alone, but I’ll handle it. I mean—my biology did this to him, the least I can do is cover for him.”

Alfred’s mouth twitched in quiet approval. “A sensible plan, Mr. Kent. And rest assured, I’ve spent much of my life managing children. I’ll see to it he follows his new… restrictions.”

Clark smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Bruce sighed softly. “At least Wayne Enterprises won’t lose its face value.”

Alfred nodded politely. “Indeed not, sir.”

A yawn escaped Bruce then—small, sudden, unguarded. Clark immediately turned toward him, concern flickering in his blue eyes. Bruce blinked, clearly trying to stifle another one, but it slipped through anyway, quiet and tired.

Alfred noticed instantly, the way he always did. “I believe that’s my cue,” he said gently, already straightening his vest. “If I may, I’ll prepare something light for later and leave you both to rest. It’s been quite the day.”

Bruce gave a faint nod, a silent thank-you that Alfred understood perfectly.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark said softly, smiling at him with genuine warmth. “For everything.”

“Of course, Mr. Kent,” Alfred replied, his tone soft but tinged with fond amusement. “And congratulations again—to you both.”

Clark’s smile grew wider, dimples deepening. “Thank you.”

Alfred gave a small bow of his head before quietly excusing himself down the hall, leaving them in the calm hush of the manor’s entryway.

Clark immediately turned toward him again, concern flickering in his blue eyes. “Tired?” he asked softly, his hand brushing against Bruce’s cheek.

“Just a little,” Bruce admitted. “At least I’m not feeling sick.”

“That’s good,” Clark said with a grin. “You should start practicing resting now.”

Bruce gave him a look. “I obviously know how to rest, but there are things that need to be done.”

Clark chuckled. “Come on, it’ll help ease you.”

“Fine,” Bruce sighed, though the faint smile stayed on his face. “Only a little. Especially since earlier I barely drifted off before being woken.”

Clark leaned closer, whispering warmly, “Thank you.”

Bruce just shook his head with a soft chuckle, following Clark deeper into the manor—into the quiet warmth of home, where for once, he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders alone.

Chapter Text

Clark padded quietly down the long hall, the polished floors of Wayne Manor creaking softly beneath his boots. The door to Bruce’s bedroom was slightly ajar, a faint sound of running water coming from inside. He pushed it open a little farther and leaned in to see Bruce in the bathroom, sleeves rolled up, brushing his teeth like a man who’d been told to “relax” under duress.

Bruce had changed into something soft — black plaid pajama bottoms and a black cotton shirt. For Bruce Wayne, that was practically sleepwear formal. It was absurdly early for this; the light outside was still bright and warm, afternoon filtering through tall windows. But Clark had insisted he get comfortable, and when one was dealing with a six-foot-four Kryptonian built like divine intervention, there wasn’t much wiggle room to argue.

Bruce rinsed his mouth and spat into the sink, reaching for a towel. When he straightened, he caught sight of Clark in the mirror — arms crossed, leaning against the counter, watching him with that look again. That look that glowed warmer than sunlight and practically blinded Bruce with how genuine it was.

Bruce knew exactly what that look meant. The news still hadn’t settled for either of them. For Clark, it sat right there on his face like the best secret in the universe that he couldn’t stop smiling about.

“I’m only laying down for a moment,” Bruce muttered, setting the towel down.

Clark stepped forward, resting a broad, warm hand on Bruce’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just a moment can turn into a few hours,” he teased.

“I can’t just sleep the rest of the day away,” Bruce said. “I have responsibilities.”

Clark smiled, easy and confident. “I’ll handle it. I’m your substitute.”

“Substitute?” Bruce repeated, almost amused.

“Yeah,” Clark said with a shrug, his grin widening. “I’ll get things in order today so you won’t have to worry about anything.”

Bruce gave him a knowing look. “Even though we just got the news?”

“Especially because of that,” Clark said, that earnestness spilling through again. “I just want to make sure I’m helping you ease into this. Into… all of it.”

Bruce chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “It’ll be too much.”

Clark raised a brow. “Bruce, I’m literally an alien. I can do it anll and not even break a sweat.”

That earned the smallest smirk from Bruce. “Then maybe you should carry the baby.”

Clark laughed. “I wish I could. Like a male seahorse situation. Would’ve made things simpler.”

Bruce’s laugh came quietly, his head leaning against Clark’s shoulder as the sound faded. “Either way,” he said softly, “we weren’t even supposed to get pregnant. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Clark’s arm slid around him, chuckling low against his hair. “You always have to sound like you’re presenting a research paper. Always so smart,” he said gently.

“If that’s me being smart,” Bruce said dryly, tilting his chin up just enough to meet Clark’s eyes, “then I hope the baby takes after me.”

Clark smiled and lifted Bruce’s chin lightly with his fingers. “You’re so mean to me.”

Bruce’s lips parted, ready to retort, but Clark leaned down before he could. The kiss was warm, slow — the kind of kiss that softened every hard edge Bruce tried to keep. Bruce returned it with a faint sigh before they moved together toward the bed.

The mattress dipped under their combined weight. Clark sat beside him, his hand still brushing over Bruce’s arm. “I’m going to head out soon,” he murmured.

Bruce’s eyes opened halfway. “Alright.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you, though,” Clark said with that mock-serious tone that made Bruce roll his eyes. “So you better be good.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Clark said softly, thumb brushing Bruce’s cheek. The way he said it made Bruce glance at him again — that same look of quiet, unguarded love. Clark’s hand lingered, fingertips tracing lightly over his jaw as if reluctant to move. Neither spoke for a long moment.

When Clark finally left, Bruce did keep his word. He stayed in bed, lying there in that black cotton shirt, the house quiet save for the ticking clock and distant sound of city birds. He dozed in and out until the faint sounds of the front door opening and voices echoed down the hall.

The boys were home.

Bruce opened his eyes just as soft footsteps padded closer. Damian appeared first, still in his school uniform, brows already furrowed as if he sensed a disturbance in the air. He stopped by the bed and sat carefully at the edge, dark eyes narrowed.

“You’re in bed,” Damian said flatly.

“I’m taking a break,” Bruce replied.

The word clearly threw the boy off balance. “A… break?” he repeated. “You don’t take breaks.”

Bruce allowed himself the smallest smirk. “I do now.”

Tim appeared next, holding a stack of folders he’d been looking over. His eyes flicked from Bruce to the bedside table, to the pajamas, to the general scene of domesticity. “Wait—are you sick? Did Clark do something? Do we need to—”

“Tim,” Bruce cut in. “I’m fine. Just resting.”

Jason arrived after, drawn in by the noise, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “Well, this is new. Dad’s in pajamas before midnight. What’s next, movie night?”

Before Bruce could answer, Dick walked in behind them, the peacemaker as always, his hand coming up to shoo them gently back a step. “Guys, give him some air. He’s probably tired.”

“Father said he’s taking a break,” Damian reported, as though the phrase itself required investigation.

Dick’s brow furrowed at that, glancing over Bruce with a mix of confusion and concern. “You sure you’re okay?”

Bruce exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a second. They were all crowding his room now—his sons, taller, older, still somehow the same kids who never listened. He opened his eyes again and found them all watching him. Tim still worried. Damian still confused. Jason amused. Dick protective.

And for a moment, Bruce almost told them. Almost let the truth slip right out—about the impossible news, about the new life just beginning. But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he smiled. A small, honest one that reached his eyes for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m fine.”

And despite everything, despite the questions and noise and chaos in his room, it was the truth — for the first time, Bruce Wayne actually was.

Chapter Text

Bruce slept deeper than he had in weeks, curled slightly on his side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. The room was dim, curtains drawn, the last traces of night still clinging to the windows. His breathing was slow, even. Peaceful.

He didn’t wake until the soft creak of the bedroom door slipped into the quiet. His brow furrowed before his eyes opened, just barely lifting his head in suspicion—

A low, soothing whisper followed. “Hey… shh, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Clark.”

Bruce let out a soft groan of recognition and dropped his head back down onto the pillow. “You woke me up,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” Clark whispered, not sorry at all, his footsteps slow and careful as he crossed the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down beside Bruce. A warm hand touched Bruce’s arm, rubbing slow, gentle lines from shoulder to elbow.

Bruce shifted a little, finding a more comfortable pocket in the sheets without fully waking. “What time…?”

“So late that it’s considered early now,” Clark said with a low chuckle.

Bruce made a soft noise of displeasure. “How did it go?”

“Don’t worry,” Clark said, still rubbing his arm. “I talked with the League. Covered for you. Said you were handling a… temporary Gotham situation.”

Bruce’s lips curled faintly. “Mm. And they believed that?”

Clark hesitated. “I think Hal’s onto me.”

That earned a sleepy laugh. “Hal always thinks he’s onto something.”

Clark smiled at the sound of it. But Bruce’s eyes opened a little more as something tugged at his memory. “Oh—right. The boys came in earlier. Thought something happened to me. I almost told them.”

Clark’s hand immediately moved up, fingers threading gently through Bruce’s hair, smoothing it back. His voice dropped to something softer, something made only for Bruce. “You’re just like me then.”

Bruce exhaled, closing his eyes again. “I didn’t want to. I wanted you to be here.”

Clark leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Bruce’s head.“Don’t say things like that,” he whispered, voice cracking at the edges. “I’m gonna start crying.”

Bruce smiled—small, genuine. “Then come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Clark murmured. “I need to finish some things before I head to the Planet. But we’re still on for lunch.”

Bruce’s hand reached out blindly, catching Clark’s wrist before he could stand. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed with exhaustion and something gentler than usual.“We’re gonna have a baby,” Bruce murmured thickly. “Might as well move in already.”

Clark froze. Absolutely froze.“…Are you serious?” he asked, voice suddenly small, scared to breathe wrong.

Bruce hummed—sleep-dazed, honest.

Clark’s breath left him in a soft rush, like his whole chest had opened up. A smile spread across his face, bright enough to soften the room. “I’ll see you at lunch,” he whispered.

“Mm.” Bruce shifted deeper under the blanket, eyes already slipping closed again.

Clark stayed another long moment, looking down at him with an overwhelmed, radiant expression—like the night hadn’t been exhausting at all, like he could stand there for hours and still not want to leave.

But he did, eventually. Quietly. And Bruce slept again.

When morning came, Bruce woke with a low groan. He sat up slowly as another wave of nausea rolled through him. He breathed through it, hand on his stomach, fighting down the unsettled feeling until it eased.

No rest today. He had work.

He dressed into his usual blazer-and-button-up ensemble, combed his hair back into place, and headed downstairs.

The boys were already at the table, mid-breakfast.

Bruce stepped into the kitchen with a general “Good morning,” as casual as he could manage.

Dick glanced up mid-bite, eyebrows lifting. “Morning. Uh—why didn’t you go out for patrol last night?”

“Yeah,” Jason added with a mouthful of toast. “You never miss patrol. Like, ever.”

Tim opened his mouth—questions already brewing— Damian straightened, ready to add his analysis—

Bruce raised a hand gently. “Apologies for interrupting, but it’s a conversation we’ll have in the future. A couple of weeks.”

Dick frowned. “Does it have to do with you being sick lately?”

Bruce nodded once. “Yes. But I’m okay. Everything is going well. It’s just… something we’ll discuss in a few weeks.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Then why was the Kryptonian seen in Gotham last night?”

Bruce didn’t miss a beat. “He’s my substitute while I’m on break.”

The table went silent.

Until there was a slight interruption as the boys decided to overlap each other's opinions on what their dad had just said — a man who never missed a patrol, ever (as Jason said) had a substitute now: his boyfriend at that. 

Bruce just listened, nodding mildly as they all threw their opinions around—mostly incredulous, partly concerned, with the underlying thread of all of them wondering what on earth could pull Bruce Wayne off patrol.

When the conversation wrapped itself in circles, Bruce stood.

“All right. Go on—finish up. Alfred’s waiting to take you all to school.”

The boys gathered their things, still whispering amongst themselves, still trying to puzzle out the mystery of their father voluntarily resting.

Bruce watched them go. Watched the door close behind them.

Then he exhaled slowly, adjusted his jacket, and prepared to head for Wayne Enterprises.

The morning nausea lingered, but he pushed through it. He always did. And somewhere in his chest — quiet, small — was the memory of Clark smiling at him like the world had finally decided to be kind.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne moved through the halls of Wayne Enterprises like he always had—measured steps, calm expression, posture sharpened into perfection by decades of discipline. Bruce Wayne, CEO. Pillar of industry. Not a single thread out of place. But he knew the truth.

Underneath the three-piece suit and the polished veneer was a hidden pressure—a secret tucked beneath his ribs, small for now but growing, pressing at him in ways he couldn’t yet predict.

And somehow… Clark made that pressure both softer and heavier all at once. Supportive in a way that dragged up every guarded instinct Bruce possessed. Beaming with reassurance that was as overwhelming as it was disarming. Hopeful. Hopeful enough for the two of them.

Bruce could still hear Clark’s voice from last night—low, tired, still smiling—We’re gonna have a baby.

He shook the memory off as the elevator dinged open. He had work to do. Meetings to attend. Reports to review. Investigations into subsidiaries, philanthropic initiatives, scheduled check-ins with R&D. He rode up and down the building for hours, moving from floor to floor with his usual efficiency.

And despite the mild fatigue buzzing at the edges of his awareness, Bruce got everything done. Of course he did. He was Batman walking among civilians. A little morning nausea wasn’t going to stop him.

What he didn’t notice—what he always failed to notice—was time.

So when a shadow suddenly blocked a sliver of light across his desk, Bruce barely looked up from the documents he was signing.

“Afternoon, sweetheart,” Clark murmured, stumbling in with that blinding, boyish grin—like he’d just flown through a sunbeam and kept the glow.

Bruce hummed. “I’m almost done,” he said, eyes still searching for the signature line.

“That’s okay. I can wait.” Clark dragged a chair over—not to the opposite side of the desk where he always sat, but right beside Bruce, close enough their shoulders nearly brushed.

Bruce’s eyes flicked sideways, barely a second—and that’s when he saw it. A bag. A big bag. Far too large for a simple lunch.

Clark caught the glance and beamed, pushing his glasses up from where they’d slid halfway down the bridge of his nose. “I asked Perry for a longer lunch,” he said. “I, uh… packed a bit of everything. To see what you can keep down. You can’t be skipping meals.”

A soft thunk marked the bag being placed on the emptier side of Bruce’s desk.

“You need nutrients,” Clark continued, opening the bag like it was a gift from heaven. “It’s not just the two of us anymore—technically it’s three.”

Bruce turned his head just enough to give him a look. The kind that was supposed to say you’re ridiculous—but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward.

Clark softened instantly, like a man seeing the sunrise. “You said I could take care of you,” he murmured.

Bruce sniffed lightly. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Funny, coming from you,” Clark shot back, nudging his knee into Bruce’s.

Bruce scoffed—a real one, quiet but undeniably amused—and returned to his papers before that smile could get any wider. He finished the last signature with his usual quick, clean stroke.

Meanwhile, Clark had begun to unpack the lunch onto the table: warm broth in a thermos, soft rice with minimal seasoning, lightly sautéed vegetables, a chilled fruit cup, a small serving of mashed potatoes, a slice of soft, fluffy cornbread and finally, carefully wrapped in wax paper—Clark’s famous apple pie.

The scent alone made Bruce pause. Just for a second.

Clark noticed, of course he did.“How do you feel today?” he asked gently, arranging everything in small, careful portions, like he didn’t want to overwhelm Bruce by even the layout.

Bruce set his pen down. “Not bad,” he said honestly. “Just the morning. Today’s been… busy.”

Clark hummed, nodding as he set the bowl of broth directly within Bruce’s reach. The gesture was soft, attentive—not hovering, but present. A touch on the shoulder followed, a warm rub meant to ground him. “Try something,” Clark said quietly. “Doesn’t matter what.”

Bruce exhaled once, steadying himself, then picked up the spoon. He took a bite of the broth first. Then a bit of rice. A piece of fruit.

Clark watched him with an expression that could only be described as unfiltered joy—eyes bright, soft smile tugging at his mouth, like every successful swallow was a personal victory for him.

And Bruce felt it. The way Clark wasn’t eating. The way he was waiting—hoping for a good reaction. Bruce looked over at him, chewing slowly.

Clark leaned a little closer—still not touching, but hovering just enough that Bruce could feel the warmth of him. He wasn’t putting on a show. He was just watching Bruce for the sake of taking care of him.

And despite the faint nausea curling at the edges of his stomach—Bruce ate. Because Clark had cooked this with intention. Thoughtfulness. Because Clark had been up before dawn. Because Clark had asked for extra time at work. Because Clark had flown across the city in his lunch break just to make sure Bruce didn’t skip a meal.

It was hard not to taste the love in that.

“You’re doing good,” Clark said softly. “The pie’s for after. It’ll taste even better as a treat.”

Bruce licked a bit of broth from his lip, glanced sideways, and answered dryly—“Lucky me, then.”

Clark laughed quietly, brushing his thumb over Bruce’s shoulder once more. And Bruce let him. Lunch had never felt so safe.

Chapter Text

Clark barely remembered landing on the Watchtower. His boots touched the metal flooring, but his mind was still in Gotham—still in that dim room where Bruce had finally fallen asleep, breathing slow and peaceful for the first time in days. Clark could still feel that weight, that warmth, that fragile, perfect smile Bruce had fallen asleep with.

His entire body hummed with it: the words they’d whispered, the future they’d stumbled into, the baby they were already reshaping their lives around.

He was so caught in it that he nearly plowed straight into Diana.

Her hands closed around his shoulders before impact, steady and gentle. Her brows rose immediately. “Kal,” she said slowly. “What happened in Gotham?”

Clark blinked hard, instinctively shoving his nonexistent glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Uh—yeah. Complicated. It’s… Gotham. There was a temporary situation. Bruce needs to stay low for a while.”

Diana’s eyes sharpened. “He’s injured?”

“No! No—nothing dramatic.” Clark waved his hands, then realized he was doing it too much and snapped them back to his sides. “Just… he’s fine. Really. He just—needs some time off-duty.”

Diana tilted her head—studying him like she could see every rapid heartbeat and every frantic thought through his skin. Before she could press further, Hal Jordan shot around the corner, sliding to a stop like he was late to his own drama.

“There you are,” Hal said, pointing at Clark like he was the problem. “So let me get this straight—Bats gets to duck out of Scarecrow cleanup duty but the rest of us have to cover double shifts? Convenient.”

Clark stiffened. He could feel the panic rise, sharp and immediate—Bruce’s privacy, Bruce’s safety, the secret swelling in his chest like joy too loud to contain. His mouth opened, and the first four syllables of We’re having a baby, Hal, shut up almost launched themselves into orbit.

He made a strangled noise instead. A half-cough, half-choke.

Hal blinked. “You good, man? You look like you swallowed a fork.”

Clark wheezed, “Fine! Totally fine, Hal.”

Hal squinted at him, leaning in, hands on hips. “Uh-huh. Sure. Because you’re acting weird. Like really weird. Weird-for-you weird. And for someone who literally glows sometimes, that’s saying something.”

Clark felt his entire face go hot.

Diana’s expression softened in that distinctly Amazonian way that meant she absolutely knew something was up but was choosing mercy.

Hal snapped his fingers suddenly. “Wait—don’t tell me. Bruce finally yelled at you for hovering too much, didn’t he? I’ve been waiting for that.”

Clark choked again. “Nope! Wrong!” he blurted, voice cracking. “Busy! I’m very busy—so busy—so many tasks—bye!” He spun so fast the air gust made Hal stumble a step back.

Hal stared after him, baffled. “What is wrong with him?”

Diana inhaled deeply, the kind of patient sigh someone gives when they’ve witnessed absolute chaos and choose peace. “Something…” she said, watching Clark all but sprint away, “…big.”

Hal perked up. “Big as in mission big? Or big as in—Clark got a personality replacement big?”

Diana simply pressed her lips together. She would not betray the secret she didn’t even know—but could already feel.

By the time Clark checked in on Bruce again hours later—just a brief visit, hovering outside the manor’s window to confirm Bruce had eaten something and wasn’t dizzy—he should’ve been exhausted. But he wasn’t.

He went home. He showered. He changed into pajamas. He lay down. He stared at the ceiling. And then Clark Kent, a man who could fall asleep during a meteor shower, realized he was too happy—too overwhelmed—to sleep at all. So he got up. And began making lunch.

The kitchen in his apartment smelled like onions and garlic before dawn even touched the sky. Clark hummed to himself as he chopped vegetables, his movements light, steady, almost floating.

His mind was everywhere.

Nurseries.

Baby books.

Cribs.

Bottles.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire, Gotham’s terror, somehow knocked up by a corn-fed reporter from Kansas.

He laughed under his breath, slicing tomatoes with perfect precision. His chest ached with joy—big, warm, impossible joy. Yes, he had worries. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t.

He worried about being accepted by Bruce’s family. He worried the boys would resent him. He worried he was barging into a life that had already been established long before he came along.

But… none of that came from fear of the baby. He was happy. More than he’d ever been. The baby wasn’t rushing anything—it was simply putting truth to what was already growing between them. He wanted to be there. He wanted to be part of Bruce’s life, of his boys’ lives. He wanted to give them everything he had.

“We’re having a baby,” he whispered to himself as he stirred the pot, unable to stop smiling. “We’re really having a baby.”

By midmorning, he was heading into the Daily Planet carrying a comically oversized insulated lunch bag—one that absolutely screamed I packed for three.

His phone buzzed the moment he stepped onto the sidewalk. Ma.

Clark almost answered with Ma, we’re having a baby, the words already climbing up his throat like they’d been waiting at the door. But he forced them back down. He wanted to tell her in person. He wanted Bruce beside him. He wanted it to be their moment.

He cleared his throat and picked up.

“Hi, honey!” Martha chirped. “We loved your article!”

“Thanks, Ma,” Clark said, nudging the Daily Planet’s heavy glass door open with his hip. His hands were full—one with the oversized lunch bag, the other trying to keep his messenger strap from sliding off. In the reflection of the lobby’s polished metal pillar, he caught sight of his own face.

He looked ridiculous. Glowing. Grinning. Like someone who knew the best secret in the world and was one wrong nudge away from shouting it across Metropolis.

“Uh—I just… didn’t sleep much,” he mumbled, heading toward the elevator bank. “So it wasn’t as good as it could’ve been.”

Martha hummed, that suspicious, motherly sound that meant she was already narrowing her eyes despite being hundreds of miles away. “Something good happen?”

Clark’s heart thumped. Good? Ma, if only you knew. Good didn’t even cover a fraction of it. He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside, juggling the lunch bag, his badge, the phone. He almost floated out again when the elevator reached the newsroom floor. He walked through the bustling aisles, weaving past desks, reporters, stacks of paper—unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face.

Before he could even form a safe answer, Jonathan’s voice cut through on speaker. “Son, you all right?”

“Yeah, Pa,” Clark said a little too fast, reaching his desk and setting the lunch bag down. “Just tired.” Then it hit him—out of nowhere, like a meteor to the brain: Is it safe for Bruce to fly if he’s pregnant?

He froze halfway into his chair.

He always carried Bruce when they traveled long-distance. Planes were slow, cars slower. Flying was efficient, easy, warm. Bruce pretended to complain, but he always held onto Clark a little tighter than necessary.

But now?

What if it jostled him? What if altitude changes were bad? What if Clark flew too fast?

His mind started spiraling so hard he forgot he was on the phone at all.

“Clark?” Martha called. “Clark? Earth to Clark?”

“Huh? Oh—sorry! Just thinking!” he sputtered, gripping the edge of his desk and trying very, very hard not to blurt we’re having a baby at full volume in the middle of the bullpen. He could feel the secret swelling in his chest like it was trying to knock itself loose.

He lasted exactly three more seconds before panic made him end the call early.

“Okaaaay love you bye!” He hung up and dropped his forehead to the desk, exhaling sharply. He absolutely could not keep this secret for long. Not when he was this happy. Not when everything in him felt like a shaken soda can right before the explosion.

Work went as usual—except it didn’t. Not by a mile.

Every coworker who passed his desk slowed down, staring at the permanent smile plastered on his face. Even Perry White squinted suspiciously at him.

When lunch break neared, Clark all but pleaded for extra time. Perry huffed about deadlines but eventually waved him off.

It was worth it the moment he saw Bruce.

Bruce looked pale, tired… but he was eating. Eating. Clark nearly teared up with relief just watching him take steady bites.

He set the lunch down, squeezed Bruce’s shoulder gently, his thumb brushing tenderly over soft wool.

Bruce looked better than yesterday. Still pale, still tired, but not ghostly. Clark could breathe again.

He unpacked everything he’d made. They split the slice of apple pie Clark had baked at dawn. Bruce ate slowly, but he ate, and Clark nearly melted in relief. He packed the empty containers back neatly.

“Okay,” Clark said, clearing his throat, “so I was reading this pregnancy dietary guide online—well, technically three guides, and one medical journal—because I wanted to figure out what foods are easiest on the stomach in the first trimester and which vitamins you might need because I know your metabolism isn’t exactly standard but—”

Bruce’s expression flattened into a perfectly deadpan, perfectly Bruce Wayne stare. “That sounds like a high school assignment.”

Clark froze mid-ramble.

Bruce raised one eyebrow, cutting straight through him like a detective who already knew the answer. “It is a high school assignment, isn’t it?”

Clark winced. “…They wouldn’t teach it if it didn’t work,” he muttered defensively, cheeks pink.

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh—tiny but warm.

Clark sank into the chair beside him, finally stilling his reach and took Bruce’s hand. His fingers wrapped around Bruce’s—warm, calloused, familiar in a way that made Clark’s chest ache.

Bruce looked back at him, eyes dark and steady. “You think about what I said last night?”

Clark’s breath caught. He reached up, adjusting his glasses with his free hand—the gesture nervous, intimate. “You were serious about that?”

“Well,” Bruce said softly, thumb brushing over Clark’s knuckles, “we’re having a baby. I was going to ask eventually. Might as well now.”

Clark didn’t let him finish. He surged forward—firm, grateful, overflowing with emotion he couldn’t contain even if he wanted to.

Bruce stilled, startled for half a second, then kissed him back—soft but certain—fingers tightening around Clark’s hand like he never planned to let go.

When Clark finally pulled away, he leaned forward and dropped his forehead onto Bruce’s shoulder. His glasses pressed awkwardly into the fabric, but he didn’t care. Not even a little. Bruce didn’t either. Bruce angled his head slightly so Clark could breathe easier.

“I can’t believe it,” Clark whispered, voice cracking under the weight of joy. He let out an ugly, overwhelmed laugh.

Bruce’s hand slid into his hair, slow and steady, fingers combing through soft curls. “You’re going to,” Bruce murmured, lips brushing Clark’s temple, “but we don't have to rush everything.”

Clark nodded against him, inhaling the gentle soap-and-warm-wool smell of Bruce. “That’s… yeah. That’s a good idea.”

But even as he said it, he knew he was already imagining everything—them in the manor, their routines blending, Bruce’s boys slowly warming to him, late nights reading baby books together, quiet mornings with a hand over Bruce’s stomach, a nursery with soft colors and sturdy furniture, their future—their baby, who had already changed everything.