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The manor was still as Clark guided Damian and Jonathan upstairs. The weight of the day lingered in the air, but the boys needed the comfort of home, of their beds, their father’s voice, and the warmth of a bedtime story.
Jonathan trudged sleepily into the room, rubbing his eyes. Damian, however, was tense, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His sharp blue eyes, the same shade as Bruce’s were stormy with unspoken frustration.
Clark helped Jonathan climb into bed first, tucking the blanket around him before turning to Damian. The older boy hesitated for only a second before slipping under the covers and letting himself being tucked under the blanket, though his expression remained guarded.
Clark grabbed a book from the shelf and settled between them. "How about a story?"
Jonathan gave a tired nod. "The one about the two knights?"
Damian huffed, but his silence was permission enough.
Clark smiled softly. "Alright, two knights it is."
As he read, Jonathan’s breathing slowed first, his little body relaxing as sleep overtook him. Damian held out longer, his blue eyes flickering between Clark and the ceiling, his mind clearly still racing. But eventually, the steady cadence of Clark’s voice won, and his blinks grew slower until finally, his lashes rested against his cheeks.
Clark exhaled, closing the book gently. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Jonathan’s forehead, then to Damian’s, brushing a hand through his dark hair.
"Goodnight, my sweet boys," he whispered, stepping out and quietly closing the door behind him.
Bruce Waiting at the Door.
As Clark turned, he found Bruce already there, leaning against the doorframe, waiting.
Bruce’s blue eyes met his, scanning his face as if searching for something. Then, with quiet intent, he reached out, pulling Clark into his arms.
Clark let himself be drawn in, sighing softly as Bruce’s lips met his in a slow, lingering kiss. It was warm, grounding, an unspoken promise.
When they finally pulled apart, Bruce rested his forehead against Clark’s. "Come on," he murmured. "Let’s go to bed."
Clark nodded, letting Bruce guide him down the hall, knowing that soon, he’d have to tell him everything that had happened.
Bruce and Clark entered their shared bedroom, the quiet of the night surrounding them. For a moment, Bruce allowed himself to focus solely on Clark, the warmth of his presence, the calm that only Clark could bring. They had survived so much together, but Bruce could tell tonight that something was different.
Without a word, Bruce pulled Clark close, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. The kiss deepened, a sense of peace settling over them both. Clark's hands slid up Bruce's chest, pulling him even closer, seeking comfort.
They fell back onto the bed, their bodies moving naturally as they embraced. Bruce kissed Clark's neck, his lips trailing slowly, savoring the intimacy they shared.
"You are always so amazing with the boys," Bruce whispered between kisses, his hands gently tracing circles on Clark's sides. "Damian and Jonathan are so lucky to have you."
Clark smiled faintly, his eyes softening as he leaned into Bruce's touch. But Bruce noticed the tension in his shoulders, the subtle unease that was clouding his usually relaxed demeanor.
Bruce pulled back just enough to meet Clark's gaze, his voice low but filled with concern. "Something is wrong. What happened?"
Clark hesitated, looking down for a moment before taking a deep breath. He placed his hand over Bruce's, holding it tightly. "After school today, I took Damian and Jonathan to the playground... everything seemed fine at first. Then I saw him."
Bruce's brow furrowed, his instincts immediately kicking in. "Who?"
Clark exhaled slowly. "A man. He approached them, pulled a gun... pointed it at them." He swallowed, as if the memory still lingered too heavily. "He threatened me too. Told me he would make sure I was next."
Bruce's body tensed, his heart racing. The protective father and husband within him surged to the forefront. But then his gaze fell to Clark's stomach, the gentle curve that now held their unborn child was. A cold fear swept through him.
Clark was pregnant ten weeks along and this stage was delicate. The stress from earlier was not just something to worry about; it could very well put their child at risk. Bruce felt a surge of anger, but it was quickly overwhelmed by an overwhelming sense of dread.
"Are you okay?" Bruce asked, his voice softer now, tinged with worry.
Clark nodded slowly, though the unease in his expression didn't fade. "I am fine. I got the boys out of there quickly. Nothing happened, Bruce. But..." His voice faltered. "I was scared. And I couldn't let them see it."
Bruce's brow furrowed deeply as he thought of the last time they had been in a situation like this when Clark had been pregnant with Jonathan. It had been a difficult, dangerous pregnancy. The stress Clark had endured during that time had nearly destroyed them both. Clark had been forced into a self-inflicted coma to protect himself and their son after the toll of the stress became too much. The thought of it still made Bruce's chest ache.
This time, the fear was even more raw. "Clark..." Bruce's voice broke with a quiet intensity. "I know how hard it was with Jonathan. The stress..." He paused, his hands pressing firmly against Clark's shoulders as he looked into his eyes. "You have been through so much. Please... don't shut me out."
Clark shook his head, forcing a tired smile. "I wouldn't shut you out — I - I am not trying to shut you out. I just..." He sighed, the weight of everything pressing on him. "I can't let them see me break. Not now."
Bruce's heart clenched, and he pulled Clark closer, wrapping him tightly in his arms. He kissed his forehead softly, then trailed down to his temple, whispering, "I won't let anyone hurt you, Clark. I won't let anyone hurt our family."
Clark melted into the embrace, feeling the safety that Bruce always offered. But beneath the surface, the fear remained. Bruce knew the fragility of their situation. He knew how much it took for Clark to hold it all together.
Bruce held him tighter, his thoughts already turning to what needed to be done, and what he would do to make sure no one ever threatened his family again. But for now, Bruce would simply hold Clark close, determined to keep him safe from any further harm, knowing that no matter what, they were a family. Together. And no one would take that away from them.
Bruce wasn't going as Batman on patrol tonight but would get his family Justice as Bruce Wayne.
The dimly lit diner reeked of grease, cigarettes, and desperation. The hum of conversation and the occasional clang of plates filled the air as criminals, thugs, and drifters gathered to gamble away their dirty money. At the back, a group of men sat around a battered wooden table, playing cards and tossing stacks of cash into the pot. Laughter echoed through the room, loud and unbothered.
One man, in particular, was feeling lucky tonight. A thick wad of bills sat in front of him, his fingers carelessly flipping through them. He had scored big today, and he was still riding the high of it.
"Can you believe it?" he boasted, grinning as he took a sip from his whiskey glass. "Some rich guy real fancy type just handed over his cash without a fight. Must've been some weak-ass trust fund brat."
The men around him chuckled, shaking their heads.
"You robbed some guy in a suit, huh?" one of them said, dealing another round of cards.
"Not just that, he had kids with him!" the man bragged. "Some little brats. I pulled a gun, and the guy nearly pissed himself. Handed me his money on the spot. Must've been scared for the kids. Easiest cash I ever made."
The others laughed, though one or two shifted uncomfortably. Gotham had a code, a moral code, and robbing people with kids wasn’t exactly respected, even in their world. But the man kept talking, completely unaware of the danger that had just walked through the diner doors.
The room fell silent as Bruce Wayne entered.
His presence alone was enough to make even the toughest criminals sit up straight. He moved with purpose, his usually polished appearance marred by the storm of fury burning in his eyes. He was a man known for his wealth and charm, but tonight, there was no charm. There was only ice-cold rage.
Conversations died, drinks were set down, and heads turned as Bruce crossed the room, his gaze locked onto one man.
The man at the table finally noticed the shift in the air, his smug expression fading as he looked up. His face paled when he recognized the man approaching him.
"B-Bruce Wayne?" he stammered.
Bruce didn’t answer.
Before the man could react, Bruce grabbed him by the collar and yanked him from his seat with terrifying strength. The table old, rickety, and already unsteady collapsed under the force, splitting in half as cash and poker chips scattered across the floor.
The man gasped as Bruce slammed him back against the wall with enough force to rattle the frames hanging behind him. The entire diner held its breath.
"You pulled a gun on my children," Bruce said, his voice dangerously low.
The man choked, struggling against Bruce’s iron grip. "I-I didn't know they were—"
Bruce didn’t let him finish. With a controlled but brutal motion, he slammed the man's face onto the counter, the impact reverberating through the diner. The man groaned in pain, but Bruce wasn’t done. He pressed the man’s face harder into the surface, his voice like a blade.
"You stole from my husband, his hard earned money" Bruce continued, his voice never rising, never losing its deadly edge. "You put a gun in his face. You put my sons in danger. And you thought you could just get away with it?"
The man gasped, his hands gripping at Bruce’s wrist, but it was useless. He had no leverage, no power here.
The rest of the diner sat frozen, watching with wide eyes. One of the older criminals, a man with a scar running from his brow to his cheek, leaned toward his companion.
"Idiot didn’t know who he was messing with," he muttered.
The other man swallowed hard. "Jesus. He robbed »Clark Wayne« ? And pulled a gun on his kids?" He shook his head. "No one’s getting him out of this. It is a miracle if he is still alive after this"
Bruce pressed harder, his grip unyielding. "If you ever threaten my family again, I will make sure you never walk free," he growled. "I'll strip you of everything. Your money, your connections, your freedom—it will all be gone."
The man whimpered, his earlier bravado completely shattered.
Bruce slowly leaned in, his next words just for the man to hear. "And if you ever so much as breathe in my family's direction again, you won’t have to worry about prison. Because no one will ever find you."
The man nodded frantically, unable to say anything. His eyes were wide with fear, fear that had nothing to do with the criminals around him and everything to do with the one person in the room who had the power to destroy him.
Bruce finally released him, stepping back. The man slumped to the floor, groaning, hands shaking as he wiped at his bloody nose.
Bruce turned, his gaze sweeping the diner. No one moved. No one spoke. Even the most hardened criminals knew not to test the limits of a man who had just shattered a table with a single movement.
"Don’t make me come back," Bruce said coolly before walking out.
The door shut behind him, leaving the diner in stunned silence.
The scarred man finally exhaled and shook his head. "Dumbest bastard I've ever seen," he muttered. "Didn't even realize he had a gun on »Bruce Wayne’s« family. That's worse than pissing Falcone off."
His companion nodded quickly. "Bruce might be the prince of Gotham, but you cross his family? He’s worse than anyone in the underworld."
At the broken table, the man groaned, clutching his face as blood dripped between his fingers. He knew now, far too late, that he had made a mistake.
A mistake he wouldn’t survive if he ever made again.