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It takes a frantic five minutes for Clark Kent, mild-mannered and strategically klutzy reporter, to find a goddamn phone. He'd been cloistered with an informant, carefully uncovering the more tortuous than usual history behind the mob war brewing in the north, when the voice that he'd found himself unconsciously tuning into throughout each day abruptly started going crazy.
Clark would have just changed into his costume and zipped over to Gotham, except that the voice buzzing in his ear expressly and vehemently forbade it.
"And don't you dare come over here. He'll know, and then I'll have to leave and pitch a tent with the homeless folks on Church Street. Oh my god, why aren't you calling me yet? I thought you knew where all the phone booths were in Metropolis. Isn't it part of your job? Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I just-- Clark, where are you? He left forty minutes ago!"
The first quarter jams sideways -- Clark feels like he's all thumbs -- and in the time it takes him to wonder if he can get away with using his super-speed to catch it without anyone noticing, it falls and bounces on the dirty floor of the phone booth. The second one clinks in correctly and the dial tone fills Clark's ear, drowning out the continued litany of complaints and curses and apologies that have been filling his hearing from miles and a heartbeat away.
"Seriously, I am so sorry. I can't believe what an idiot I was. You'd think after the way he trained me-- Oh, god, finally. That's you, right? Tell me that's--"
"--you. Clark?"
"Uh." The sudden stereo effect confuses him for a second. He shifts his focus away from his super-hearing to the voice from the telephone. "Yeah. Dick, calm down."
"Where are you?"
"I'm--"
"He took the Bentley, not the other car. So he's probably not going to kill you. Or, damn, maybe he just didn't want to take the time to change. But he didn't go to-- you know, the basement either, so he can't be carrying anything, um, lethal."
"Dick! Take a deep breath."
"Where are you?" the boy -- young man -- boy -- asks again. Clark closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the payphone.
"I'm in a phone booth, ten blocks from work. You said he left forty minutes ago?" That means Bruce is probably already waiting for him.
"Yeah. I've been trying to contact you, calling all the places I thought you might be. We need to get you one of those briefcase phones. Not that I'll be able to pay for one anymore after Bruce disowns me. I'm sorry, Clark."
"It's not your fault. We knew this would happen."
"It wouldn't have happened now, if I hadn't screwed up."
Clark chastises himself for the urge to agree. It isn't Dick's fault. If anyone were responsible... He sighs. "I'll take care of it."
"I know you will, but I'm still sorry..."
"I better go."
"Yeah, he'll just get worse if you keep him waiting."
"I'll talk to you later."
"Bye. I love you."
"I-- I'll talk to you later, Dick."
Clark hangs up quickly so he won't have to think about the moment of hurt silence from the other end of the line.
***
Bruce is waiting for him, his gleaming car parked exactly in front of the door to the Daily Planet building. Clark wonders whom the man had bribed to get the spot.
Bruce himself is immaculate in his usual sleek black suit and spotless shirt. He's not wearing a tie, though, which could be a nod to the summer fashions and could also be a sign of how hastily he left the house. His arms are crossed as he leans against the driver's side door in what looks like a casual pose, but Clark knows better. For those who know to look, the Batman is present in every line of the man's body.
"Mr. Kent." His expression is mild but his tone is steel wire -- probably coiled around Clark's neck.
Clark stops a good five feet away. It takes him long moments to find something to say, and then it's only "Bru--"
"Get in."
Clark grits his teeth, both at the curt order and at the obvious ploy of waiting for Clark to speak just so he could cut him off. But he hunches his broad shoulders and climbs into the back seat of the car, Bruce holding the door for him oh-so-politely. The door slams as soon as his right heel clears the doorway. Bruce proceeds to round the car and get in from the other side.
And then it's Clark in a two hundred thousand dollar car with tinted windows, sitting tensely next to possibly the only man on this planet aside from his pa whom he cares about and halfway fears.
There is no preamble.
"You are a sick, perverted criminal."
The words strike home, even though Clark is ready for them. His answer feels weak even as he makes it: "Dick is seventeen, and he knows his own mind."
"He's a child."
"Chronological age isn't the most reliable measure of maturity. You know that better than anyone, Bruce."
"You can't justify your personal perversions based on Dick's perceived maturity. How many pedophiles excuse themselves because their victims never dared to say no?"
Clark feels his eyes burning and has to force himself to calm. When he 'sees red', it isn't just a metaphor, and despite the present conversation, Bruce is his friend. "It's not justification," he bites out. "It's fact. Have you even talked to your ward in the last few years? He's hardly the child you seem to think he is."
"You're an authority figure to him. A hero. A supposed model of behavior."
"I thought he was always our 'partner'. Our equal."
"You know very well I called him that to indulge him, but when the really heavy stuff came down--"
"He was right there beside us! That's when we needed him most! And I was never just 'indulging' him. Robin's proved his worth a thousand times over by now, or haven't you noticed?"
"Yes, he's seen murder and death and the grime of humanity, but in the end, he is a boy, even if an exemplary one. This was the last bit of innocence he had, and you took it from him."
Don't say it... Don't say it... Don't--
"Only after you took the rest."
Not even half a blink, and Bruce is lunging at him. His face is a snarling mass that Clark would bet the tabloid photographers have never seen. Batman is close to the surface -- close enough to make Bruce check himself before he can cause himself harm.
"These aren't my real weapons, you know. My body and my brain. Those are what count." So he had told Clark once, when Superman had returned a set of batarangs to him, edges a bit dulled and one of them slightly misshapen but otherwise still usable. He'd picked them off the side of a building after they'd been used to save the life of a Gotham mob leader imprudently attempting to muscle in on his Metropolis rival.
Bruce makes a choked sound before compacting himself back into his side of the car, his fists trembling. "I don't know why I expected to have a reasonable conversation with you. This is ridiculous." He unballs his fists and dusts the tops of his thighs in a gesture of decision. "I'm going to have a talk with Dick. And you" -- Bruce pointed a squared finger at him -- "you're going to stay away from him from now on. You are never going to try to see him again. Is that clear?"
Clark's prepared to say yes. Truth to tell, he'd expected this... tryst to end exactly like this. He'd been selfish all along, unable to resist having what he could until the inevitable end. He knows it's the coward's way out, but whenever the difficulties of his relationship with Dick had threatened to overwhelm him, he'd always had that safety net of 'Bruce will stop this' in the back of his mind.
Now that the moment is here, however, all he can think about is what Dick's reaction will be. Will there be anger? Most certainly. Tears? Perhaps. Accusations. Disappointment. Worse, stoic understanding. Because Dick had expected this to end as well.
"No."
"What?" Bruce is clearly caught by surprise. The man makes it his business to understand people, to analyze them for their characters, their values, their weaknesses and abilities. He had probably fully expected Clark's acquiescence, as much as Clark himself had.
"That's going to be up to him. Or the two of us."
"The two of you?" Bruce recovers quickly, going back to scathing disapproval in the blink of an eye. "You mean up to you, you megalomaniac freak."
"I meant what I said. We'll make the decision together."
"You're Superman, you moron! What teenager high on hormones wouldn't want to be with you? Twelve-year-old girls would probably give up their first-borns to sleep with you. Would you say yes to any of them, too?"
Clark feels his jaw go rigid, but he keeps his voice calm from long years of practice being... himself. "If you had talked to Dick instead of making assumptions, you would know that this isn't about..." He falters in the face of Bruce's glare, daring him to complete the sentence. So he does. "...sex."
Bruce sneers. "Are you honestly going to try and tell me that you've never touched him?"
Clark removes his glasses and rubs one hand over his face. No, Clark hasn't taken him to bed yet, but he knows what the boy -- young man -- tastes like. What he sounds like. He's experienced firsthand that while Dick is still a wonder, he is no longer a boy. "No."
Bruce nods, having expected this. Always two steps ahead of everyone else, isn't he?
"He has the responsibilities of an adult. He should be due the same respect," Clark tells him. Bruce huffs impatiently.
How many times has Dick said the same words, in various tones ranging from exasperated to resentful to wryly resigned? Clark honestly doesn't know if Dick's ever said them to Bruce's face, but the sentiment can't have been lost on the so-called 'great detective'. Bruce can't have trained himself for over a decade as a keen observer of human motives and still managed to miss seeing what was right next to him all these years.
Can he?
Looking at the man next to him, he's no longer so sure. Bruce is barely holding it together. His emotions are unusually close to the surface.
"You really didn't see this coming," Clark realizes, his indignant anger dashed away by surprise. He had thought this thing between himself and Dick was obvious. Since Dick had turned fourteen, Clark had felt like he was under a spotlight and a microscope every time he got within ten feet of the boy. "Dick has been... seeking my attentions for over two years. You never noticed?"
"Two years?!" Bruce exclaims, looking ready to have another go at breaking his hand against Clark's impervious skin.
Clark is the one who backpedals furiously. "No! I didn't-- Of course not. This is a very, very recent thing," Clark assures him quickly. "Only a few months, I swear."
Bruce-- well, 'settles' isn't quite the word. He coils back into place, ready to spring again. "Fine. What do you want me to say? Bravo for sticking it out all these years? Thanks for keeping your super-pants buttoned until the kid was at least legal?"
Clark is not quick to anger, but the hypocrisy of the situation galls him.
"For god's sake, Bruce. He's been fighting crime since he was eight. I'm sure he can figure out whom he wants to date."
"That's not at all the same thing."
"So you keep insisting. But why isn't it? Both require communication with your partner, shared understanding and strategies, forethought about consequences."
Bruce shakes his head, his mouth drawing tight in a glower of denial. "I'll disown him. He'll never be Robin again." Bruce knows where to hit hardest.
"That'll break his heart, but he'll survive. He could move in with me. It might be nice to have a partner." Clark figures that if he's in this for keeps, he had better play to win. And he knows a few things about where to take the best shots, too.
This time Bruce doesn't hold back.
Clark remembers a long time ago, when he first learned the physics of deflecting blows. He'd always felt a little bad when some small-time crook took a swing at him and ended up with broken fingers.
He turns just enough to let the blow land a glancing shot. Not enough to give Bruce full satisfaction, of course, but enough that he won't feel like an idiot windmilling through thin air.
"Feel better now?"
Bruce takes that as invitation for another try.
"Calm down. You'll hurt yourself!" He's not sure if Dick will forgive him if he lets Bruce harm himself because of them.
"Calm down?" the man rages. "You're sitting there telling me that you are fucking my teenaged son and you don't intend to stop!"
Clark is taken aback by the coarse accusation for a variety of reasons. Bruce, despite having seen all the filth of his beloved city firsthand, retains some perhaps unconscious sense of his class. He tips doormen with easy confidence and lays napkins over his lap with grace. He never seems uncomfortable in the suit and tie that still irk Clark on his more tired days. Out of uniform, and sometimes even in it, Bruce is a gentleman. It's rare to hear him swear like this, especially out of costume. The other reason...
"What?" Bruce snaps.
"I don't think I've ever heard you call him that before."
The reaction is minute. Clark doesn't think any natives of this world would have noticed the miniscule tightening of the skin around Bruce's mouth and the slightest momentary widening of his eyes. There is only anger in Bruce's tone when he growls, "Don't change the subject."
"I... understand that you're protective of him, but he doesn't need it. If you would just talk to him--"
"Don't you dare try to blame this on Dick."
"I'm not. There isn't any blame because we haven't done anything wrong." It's the first time Clark's said that out loud, and he is mildly surprised to discover that he actually believes it. "We love each other. I'm sorry about how it affects you, but we can't choose how we feel. I think he deserves to be happy. Don't you?"
"He's young. He'll get over a crush. You have no excuse--"
"What Dick has made me realize is, I deserve to be happy, too."
For a moment, Bruce looks stricken. Happiness is something they don't talk about. Satisfaction. Pride. Those are what they feel for their jobs and their respective cities. But are they allowed to be happy? Clark suspects that Bruce feels the answer is, no.
"God damn it, Clark." Bruce presses his lips together, as if damming up the words inside. "I-- trusted you."
"This isn't about you, Bruce," Clark replies, as gently as he can. "We can't choose the people we love. Don't you know by now Dick would turn himself inside out to avoid hurting you if he possible could? God, Bruce, if you only knew how deeply he loves you and respects you. You'd never feel this threatened by--"
"Stop playing armchair psychologist to me," Bruce grates out. "Don't pretend you have the first idea what goes on in my head."
"Do you even know how jealous I am of you? He complains about you all the time, but if you so much as snap your fingers--"
"I said, stop! You're the one with the problem. What is it, then? Are you flattered by his attention? He makes you feel all-powerful, is that it? As if you needed it."
"Actually, he makes me feel human. He acknowledges my powers, but he doesn't treat me like an alien."
"You are an alien." Bruce holds up his hand, backside out, in illustration. The knuckles are already swelling.
"You took that swing, knowing what would happen," Clark reminds him, refusing to feel guilty. "Have you ever known me to harm an innocent with my strength? I didn't have to dedicate my life to helping people. If Ma and Pa hadn't raised me the way they did, maybe then you could call me an alien, but the way I see it, 'Superman' is more human than the 'demon Bat' ever was."
Bruce's jawline twitches as he clenches his teeth hard. Clark thinks that if he focuses his hearing, he might be able to hear the enamel crunching. "That doesn't give you the right--"
"No. What gives me the right is that Dick loves me. And... I love him."
"How could you?" Bruce explodes. "You're practically the boy's uncle."
"Not really a boy anymore. And, he doesn't see me that way."
Bruce, ever the detective, catches the omission and zeroes in on it. "And you? How do you see him?"
"Like I said, he's not a boy anymore."
"But not yet a man."
"He certainly bears more responsibility than--"
"How do you see him, Clark?" When Clark doesn't answer immediately, Bruce leans back with a smirk, easy again now that he's grabbed hold of an advantage. "Should I tell the newspapers Superman has a thing for young boys?"
Clark knows it's just Bruce trying to get under his skin. He forces his voice into a semblance of casualness when he replies, "Maybe. Especially boys whose guardians let them prance around in underwear."
Robin's uniform isn't something they've ever explicitly talked about. The short shorts had seemed appropriate back when Dick was a child and fresh out of the circus. It's only now that Clark is looking at Robin -- Dick -- as a young man that he realizes how strange they must seem to anyone else. Truthfully, before recent events made him take a hard look at the subject, he had simply accepted the short shorts as a normal part of the Boy Wonder's costume. Batman has probably been suffering from the same blindness. Unless...
"It's Dick's prerogative to change his costume if he wishes," Bruce dismisses easily.
Unless it's simple wishful thinking.
Oh, Bruce.
Clark leans forward, wanting to reach out despite knowing the kind of reception he's bound to receive.
"You've been living in a time capsule. Did you think we would always be the way we were? We're all different now, and Dick's not a little boy anymore." He doesn't follow you with blind trust anymore. You are no longer the only important person in the world to him (although you are probably still THE most important one, even if neither of you will admit it). "He's growing up a lot faster than maybe either of us expected."
"Not too fast for your taste, I suppose," Bruce retorts, his caustic tone capable of hiding a multitude of emotions.
"Bruce--"
"I don't think there's anything left to say between us." Something about Bruce just... shuts down, his gaze becoming eerily like the white-out lenses on his alter-ego's cowl. Bruce didn't used to be so good at that. He's changed too, and maybe being forced to realize that is part of what disturbs the man.
Clark sighs. Like the man said, there's nothing left to say. Not right now, at any rate. "Will this affect our working relationship?" he asks. It's the last thing Clark wants this to be about right now, but as the list of necessary topics goes, this is something that needs to be said.
Bruce -- Batman -- shakes his head curtly. "I've always held that alliances and friendship don't have to co-exist."
That hurts, even as it is expected. Clark has always seen Bruce as one of his closest friends. He's always felt that's one reason they work so well together. So few share his secret and even fewer share both that and the life. He's loathe to give up someone who's been close to him since almost the beginning. "Bruce, we can still be friends."
"No. We can't." There's no hint of regret. Only finality.
Bruce opens his door and gets out. It's a clear indication for Clark to do the same, so he gets out on his side, being careful to close the door with only normal human force. Ma and Pa raised him not to overstay his welcome.
Bruce levels a glare at him over the roof of the car as he switches into the driver seat.
"Leave the Manor before I get back," he warns.
He doesn't so much as glance at Clark again as he starts the car into a smooth purr and drives off.
Clark watches as the car turns out of sight, using words in his head that would make Ma wash his mouth out with soap. He doesn't think he's ever met a man more infuriating than Bruce Wayne.
He dithers for only a moment. After all, he's already damned for it. Predictable or no, he might as well get the benefit of it. Clark speeds to the nearest phone booth to change. A moment later, he is in Gotham, and the moment after that, he is knocking on Dick's window.
"Clark!" Dick lets him in and then throws himself into Clark's arms. "I was so worried. How did it go?" Dick is excellent at reading emotions and body language. More importantly, he knows Clark. He pulls back almost immediately and looks up into Clark's face. "He took it really badly, didn't he?"
There's no point in minimizing the situation. "Yeah."
"Oh." Dick sits back down heavily on the edge of his bed. He puts his face in his hands. It's heartbreaking, and Clark doesn't know what to do. "Do you think we should...?"
"No!" he snaps immediately. Dick jerks his head up to gape at him. Maybe Clark's still got some residual frustration. "I don't want to," he admits more quietly.
"I don't, either. But maybe if we... wait? Let him get used to the idea for a while."
"I don't think Bruce will ever change his mind about this," Clark replies, honestly. He can see from Dick's hopeless expression that he agrees. He sits down next to his... lover, and he takes Dick's hand in his own, strong by any relative measure, but to him, so delicately human. He kisses the knuckles that always smell faintly of leather and kevlar. He puts Dick's palm against his cheek and feels the calluses that Clark never gets, even after years of working on the farm.
"I love you," he says, simply.
Not quite four months, and his heart still lurches at the way Dick's expression completely lights up at those words. No, he realizes, he can't give this up.
"Me, too."
"He told me to be gone before he got back."
"Oh. So I guess..." Dick starts to pull away, but Clark interlaces their fingers firmly.
"I'm fine where I am."
Dick smiles and leans forward to rest his forehead against Clark's shoulder. When he sits back, his demeanor has changed. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, as if in preparation for a difficult routine on the workout bars -- or a battle. His eyes are the cool depths of a leader and a hero. A man.
"You'd better get changed," is all he says.
END.