Chapter Text
Afterwards. Evening.
“That was quiet a selection,” Clark commented, as he sat down at the dining area.
Bruce laughed, sitting directly in front of him. “Yes, my son, Jason, was an avid reader—what does his brothers like to tease him? Oh! Jason’s a bookworm. He reads fast so I end up buying in bulk sometimes.”
Clark nodded, remembering the huge library—how vast the selection had been, that it looked like Bruce was speaking humbly right now. ‘Bulk’? Honestly, Clark had felt like he was being toured at Gotham’s public library. “You spoiled him so much then,” he joked. Well, he hoped that his patron would see it as such.
Fortunately for him, Bruce smiled. “Everyone seems to think so,” he took a glass, but instead of drinking, he stared at it in contemplation. As if lost in thoughts, he continued, “but sometimes, I fear it’s not enough.”
Clark almost spit out the water he was drinking. Not enough? Holy shit—he doesn’t know if Bruce was still joking and only said that as a way to tease him about their wealth disparity but well, looking at Bruce, Clark only saw a caring father.
In a way, Bruce reminded Clark of his own. Pa Kent sure always looked like he’d sell his own soul to offer Clark everything he needed and wanted. Pa Kent and Ma Kent didn’t come from a wealthy family. They’re just a simple couple living comfortably on a farm in Kansas. They never thought they’d be blessed with a son they longed for so long.
The smile he gave to Bruce had been genuine, echoing the adoration and love he felt as a son to a father that was just like Bruce. “You gave Jason a home, Bruce. That, itself, was already immeasurable.”
Bruce smiled back, though there’s now moist in his eyes. “I—”
Suddenly his eyes grown wide.
And Clark saw the knife before it was halfway through air—almost hitting his leg. He moved his leg (which otherwise would’ve sport a knife-shaped hole since it was superfast) and used the glass he was holding to casually hit it to divert its trajectory. It fell on the ground, clattering.
“Oopps! I’m so sorry,” a boy said kneeling down to pick up the knife and some other cutlery on the ground that Clark swore weren’t there before. The boy was glaring up at him with eyes filled with hatred that Clark’s pretty sure was unwarranted.
Unless the #SuperShit had made its way in Gotham?
Even so, that’ll be ridiculous because there’s no way that this kid knew he was Superman. Only a handful of people knew of his other identity. Predominantly, Lois.
“Uh—” he doesn’t even know where to begin.
But the little kid was already on his face, whispering, “I swore to God if you made my father cry—"
What?
“Damian!” Bruce reacted after the chaos. He stood up and went over to the other side of the table. “What happened?”
Clark gaped as he saw how instantly the kid transformed. He morphed from a snake that was ready to strike to a docile puppy that was sad just because his owner called his name with a slightly higher pitch. “I’m sorry Dad, I was clumsy.” He said in the most monotonous and insincere voice that Clark had heard in his entire life. Even Lois’ sarcastic tone wouldn’t match this kid.
But Bruce—probably because of all the fatherly love that’s overwhelming his whole being—ate the act up and he was worried naturally. “It’s okay, my sweet boy. I’m just glad you hadn’t injured yourself,” he said, looking at his youngest’s hand as if he was some delicate doll. He kept on looking at both of the boy’s hand, searching intently for any hint of blood.
Clark knew that Bruce would faint even at the hint of a drop of blood.
Through it though, the little kid—Damian, he remembered—kept on glaring at him (whenever Bruce was too distracted by his overly worried attitude to notice). If looks could kill, Clark feared he would’ve been flayed and roasted alive.
Not that this little kid could injure him. He’s the Superman.
But, honestly, it’s the thought that counts.
Suddenly, he felt a strong grip on his shoulder. He swallowed and looked back.
And saw Bruce’s tallest kid—the topic of their conversation—smiling like the devil on his shoulder. Just like the little boy, Jason was glaring at him like he’s the sole reason why there’s evil in the world.
“Surely this had all been just a misunderstanding, right?” He said through gritted teeth, like it’s taking everything out of him to be polite to their guest. The grip on his shoulder tightened.
Clark swallowed. He had to constantly remind himself that he was Superman and that he shouldn’t fear that he had to defend himself against a civilian. “Uh—yes?” Meanwhile, he’s also praying that Bruce would just step in because his sons are looking more and more like hunting dogs right now. And Clark felt like he was fresh meat tossed in their starving pack.
“You’re sure?” If possible, Jason glared harder.
Clark swallowed. “Hundred percent!”
“Where are our manners,” fortunately, though it hadn’t been Bruce who intervened, it was the butler—Alfred—who came in from the kitchen. “Master Jason, please, take your seat.”
Jason and Alfred exchanged a brief glance before Jason released his grip.
“Alfred! Oh, please call Dr. Thompkins. We have to get Damian checked,” Bruce said, still gripping his little boy gently.
“Dad please—” Damian’s protest fell on deaf ears.
Alfred sighed. “Master Bruce,” he began, setting down the steaming chicken he was preparing to serve to the table, and leaning towards his ward, “Master Damian, just as he said, only misstep on his way.”
Misstep. Yeah right, Clark thought to himself. That knife was going directly on his thigh. And if he remembers his biology class correctly, it’ll be hitting directly to one of his major arteries. The kid didn’t just slip. Clark’s pretty sure that the boy was aiming to maim him.
Which was too odd for his liking. Surely a boy as young as Damian wouldn’t know how to wield and throw a knife with such deadly precision. From Bruce’s reaction, it looked like he didn’t teach or let his kids learn something like that. Bruce doesn’t look like a father who teaches his sons how to be deadly assassins or something.
Nevertheless, the mystery remains.
Clark could chuck it out to the fact that it might have really been just an accident. But he knew what he saw (hell, he’s sure that without his metahuman ability, he would be one that Dr. Thompkins would need to see), and that is something that no child should’ve known.
His gaze remained on Damian as Alfred assured Bruce that there’s no need to call for the good doctor. “Damian was just being a good boy and helping me set the table,” Alfred continued.
Heck, even to Clark that felt like an excuse.
There’s something going on in this house. From the faint whisper he heard as soon as he steps into the Manor (that he’s pretty sure only happens when there’s a functioning gap underneath the floor), to the oddly accurate throw that Damian did.
He figured that he could investigate further when his guide was asleep. “Yes, it’s no big deal, Mr. Wayne. I’ve been around kids before—” he conveniently left out the fact that he had only been around them when he was saving them, or when he had to assure them after saving them, “—and they can be pretty clumsy,” he said, with a reassuring smile.
Alfred merely stared at him.
While Bruce looked like he was somewhat convinced but was still wary of letting the accident go.
All the while, Damian looked like Clark downright insulted him. Which confuses the heck out of him. He was always good with children! And he’s helping them assure their father that nothing odd happened, shouldn’t he be—more thankful?
Damian merely nodded and smiled, tightly, at his father. “I am well.” He said, like he was reporting to the class.
Bruce sighed. “Okay,” he nodded, as if assuring himself, “I might have—overblow this whole accident.” He laughed, trying to lighten up the mood.
Clark tried to smile and be supportive, but Bruce’s sons kept on glaring at him that it was hard to feel lightened up. “Yes, yes.” He said, for nothing better to reply. He just went back to his chair and took a seat.
“I’m so sorry again,” He saw at the corner of his eyes the two other kids appear seemingly at the back door, as if waiting for something to happen.
OH-KAY. That was all kind of weird. What the hell is with this house?
The remaining sons greeted Bruce and took their respective seats. Clark felt like he needed to clear things up, but he didn’t know where to start. Instead, he just shut up and kept on looking at each of Bruce’s sons glaring (in their strangely unique way) at him.
After Alfred served them and took a seat at the table, they ate dinner.
Bruce tried again to open up the conversation. “I do apologize for taking up the majority of our time just blabbering. I had wanted to show you more of the Manor—”
Clark swallowed. There were more?!
“—but sadly, we’ve been unable to. Tomorrow, as promised, I’ll tour you to the city. Is there a particular place you’d like to see?”
Clark could feel the others’ glaring on him, as if they were weighing up the answer that he was to give. “I—” he thought, “—well, I’d love to see the park. I heard a great thing about the Gotham’s Park right at the middle of the busy city.”
Bruce nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Oh, you’ll love it. My company bought the land and donated it to the city to build a park there,” he said, like it’s not a big deal, like he’s just buying a pack of candy and good-willingly donating it to the city proper.
Clark nodded. “What made you do so?”
Bruce hummed. “I hadn’t said this to any press before,” he said, like he was saying a big secret, “but I was persuaded by a position paper I read in collage. I forgot the author’s name, but she had just been so passionate on preserving the local forestry—which at that time, were being carelessly cleared out by corporate greed—that I promised to myself that it’ll help her cause, even for just small thing.”
“That hadn’t been just a small gesture,” Clark said, noting the fact that Bruce seemingly had a tendency to think that his philanthropic endeavors weren’t a big thing in the world, when in fact, Bruce had been the only filthy rich person in probably the whole world who was so sympathetic. “I’m sure whoever she is—she’ll be grateful for what you did to the city.”
Bruce returned his smile. “I hope so.”
Clark nodded back, a proud grin, “I know so, Mr. Wayne.”