Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started, like most things, with a mission.

Clark had flown to Gotham to discuss a new lead he found on Lex Luthor. The man was moving heavy duty machinery across a few Metropolis warehouses, and he needed Batman’s help to track down its next movement into Bristol.

They had only been discussing several avenues of investigation before Batman cocked his head to the side, a soft tinny coming from his earpiece. It was a minute movement, imperceptible if Clark hadn’t been looking at him so intently. Which he found himself doing a lot lately. But isn’t that what a good investigative reporter should do?

“Copy.” Batman muttered, before swiveling towards the edge of the roof.

Robin, who had been gathering pebbles on the rampart and arranging them into a vaguely bat-like shape, sprung to his feet.

“What happened?” Clark asked, finding himself following Batman’s strides, pulled into his orbit like he couldn’t help it. “Can I help?”

He knew what the answer to that was. But you couldn’t blame a man for trying, especially if Clark’s pestering had graduated him from Batman’s customary growl of ‘ no metas in Gotham ’ to a begrudging grunt whenever he appeared in the city uninvited. Maybe there was always room for improvement.

“No.” Batman’s gaze was already on the streets below them.

Before Clark could pester him some more, Robin beat him to it. 

“Why not?” He pouted, stamping a small foot in the ground. “It’s been ages since we fought with Superman!”

Another interrupting tinny in Batman and Robin’s earpieces. Clark, against his better judgement, zeroed in until the smooth susurration sharpened into words.

“ You could use his help, sir. The configuration of the safehouse is practically a maze. And they’re moving fast. You may not stop the bomb in time. ”

Batman’s mouth flattened to a grim line. 

“Come on, B!” Robin jumped onto Clark’s back, hooking a skinny elbow around his neck. “He can see through the walls!”

“I could.” Clark agreed.

Batman shot him an accusatory look, like he knew he’d been eavesdropping, before muttering something under his breath. This time, Clark didn’t strain to hear.

“Fine.” He grumbled. “Just this once.”

And that was how Clark found himself in another one of Gotham’s grimy alleys, with Robin still draped over his shoulders like a secondary, squirmy cape, passing his eyes over a nondescript safehouse and prattling off the twists and turns to a nodding Batman.

“How many people?”

“Four.” Clark squinted at the figures in the building. “One’s staying behind to set up the bomb. Three making their way up.”

Batman nodded. “We need to move fast.” 

“I'll deactivate it.” Clark said.

“No.”

“What?” He shot Batman an incredulous look. “But I can see through the walls—”

“You’ve already told me how to get there—”

“—I’m indestructible .” Clark interrupted. “What if the bomb goes off? It makes no sense for you to go!”

“There’s a computer in there. A cache I have to get to.”

“I can get it.”

“No, you can’t . Your loud entrance will scare them off before you can get to the computer.” Batman was already making for the fire escape. “I’m going.”

Clark hedged a step forward. “Batman—”

Batman whirled around, cape billowing around him in inky plumes. Robin stiffened against his back, digging his chin into Clark’s shoulder— he didn’t know if it was out of intimidation or amusement, probably both. 

Clark caught the snarl of white teeth as Batman spoke.

“This is my city.” He growled. “Either you do as I say, or leave.”

There was nothing Clark could do but frown. Batman was always playing this card, only buoyed by the fact that Superman had no jurisdiction in Gotham. Not when up against Batman, anyway. He would expect Batman to extend the same courtesy if he was in Metropolis. And Clark hated to admit it, but he was powerless against the sure set of his shoulders, the challenging stance of his feet as though it was Clark he was about to fight. Powerless against the shot of thrill it sent through his spine.

Clark turned away sharply.

“ Fine .”

Batman’s lips pulled to accommodate a satisfied quirk, there and gone. He climbed the gaunt stairs of the fire escape, already checking for unlocked windows.

“Robin, you and Superman cover the exit on the roof.” He ordered. “I’ll dismantle the device before joining you.”

“But B, I wanna go with you!” Robin wiggled in protest, his foot digging into Clark’s ribs. 

“It’s a one-person job,” he said tersely. “Go with Superman.”

“Come on, Robin.” Clark hopped on his heels, jostling him. “Kicking bad guys is more fun anyway.”

Robin never took much convincing when it came to Superman. 

“Yeah!” He cheered, successfully swayed.

Batman shot him a disapproving look over his shoulder —as though it was Clark’s fault that his kid was out in Gotham in the middle of the night fighting crime— before he disappeared through an open window.

Clark flew them to the rooftop, the night air stirring welcomingly around them as Robin whooped at their ascent. He made sure to keep an eye on Batman’s route through the building, watching through permeable walls as he took the criminal down with practised ease. The bomb, which hadn’t even been planted yet, was no longer a cause for concern. A knot eased in his chest as Batman proceeded to work the computer.

It didn’t take long before he saw the outlines of the three crooks making their way to the rooftop exit.

“Here they come,” Clark called out to Robin, who spun into action just as the fire doors burst open.

It was clear that they hadn’t expected resistance. The shock of witnessing both Superman and Robin halt their tracks rendered them unmoving for a few fatal seconds, their guns still stowed in their back pockets. Robin kicked the firearms out of their fumbling grasps the moment they reached for them. Two dextrous swipes. Clark mitigated the last one with a strong wrench of his arm, knocking him out with a simple punch.

He was about to help Robin with the remaining crooks when he heard an indignant cry. One of the criminals was already out cold on the ground. The second one, perhaps fueled by panic and shame at the concept of being knocked out by a tween, lurched forward to plant a nasty right hook in Robin’s jaw.

Robin sidestepped to evade the blow, and Clark felt a burst of superspeed lighten his movements until he caught the crook’s collar in his grasp, but it was too late. The punch, thankfully, was not as devastating as it should be, but it caught the front of Robin’s mouth all the same. Clark yanked the crook back and threw him on the ground before he could do anymore damage. A swift punch, and the snarl on his unfortunate face died like a light.

When Clark turned to face Robin once more, the boy had a hand cradling his cheek. He flew to his side before he could even finish a breath.

“Oh my gosh!” Clark’s hands hovered over him in a panic. “Robin! Are you okay?”

Robin gasped, blood running down his chin. Clark’s heart stuttered for a moment, thinking the sound was wrenched from pain, but Robin simply pursed his lips and a small white ball popped out.

Not a ball. Clark squinted. A tooth .

“Thuperman!” Robin screeched gleefully, thrusting the tooth in the air. “Look! My tooth fell out!”

Clark paled. “ What ?!”

“I’m finally free!” He bounced around, hoisting the tooth up like a trophy.

Clark tried to school the bewildered look on his face with no luck. He tried to wrangle the boy, but Robin kept squirming. 

“Gosh, Robin, stay still for a second.” He planted a hand on Robin’s shoulder with a little bit of strength, not enough to hurt, grabbing one corner of his cape and blotting the blood on the boy’s chin. “Does it hurt?”

Robin shot him a gap-toothed grin. “Nope!”

His neat row of pearly whites now sported a missing piece. One of his front teeth, Clark noted. He scanned Robin’s jaw with his x-ray vision, meticulously combing over images of bone and sinew to confirm there were no further injuries. No broken-off piece of tooth was left behind in the gums, either, which Clark was afraid of due to the force of the blow. The bleeding was already slowing.

Clark let out a relieved sigh.

“Don’t worry, Thuperman! It wa’th already wiggly.” Robin squirmed again in his grip, brandishing the tooth in the air. “It’th my lath baby tooth!”

Now that things have calmed down, Clark allowed himself to feel a surge of affection at Robin’s lisp, fumbling his name. The way the missing tooth made him look even younger than he already was. Baby . Oh gosh, he’s a baby .

Clark blanched. “Batman’s gonna kill me.”

As though on cue, the fire doors clanged open again, this time parting to allow a familiar, dark figure through the roof. Batman’s cowled eyes only took two seconds to assess their surroundings —the three men, knocked out but not tied up, the way Clark was still hovering anxiously over Robin, the faint traces of blood on the boy’s chin— before he planted both hands on his hips.

“What happened?” Batman demanded.

“I’m so sorry!” Clark blurted out in a rushed breath. “There was a crook and I wasn’t paying attention and he punched Robin in the mouth and now he’s missing a tooth—”

“B!” Robin pounced on his mentor. “B, look! My lath baby tooth!”

He was already launching on an animated tirade, detailing this blow and that kick with exaggerated onomatopoeia, thrusting the bloody tooth in Batman’s face. Batman, to his credit, didn’t even flinch, though his stance was still rigid.

“Are you hurt?” He said instead.

Robin shook his head. “No!”

“I checked.” Clark affirmed.

Clark saw his posture shift, relaxing at the assurance. He caught the slight swell of pride in Batman’s chest, how he stood a little straighter despite the long night they’ve had. The way the corners of his lips twitched before flattening back to apathy. 

For a fleeting moment, Clark wondered what he looked like, under that cowl. What color his eyes were when met with that gleam of pride, whether they would crinkle when he smiled. 

“That’s good.” Batman passed a hand over Robin’s hair. There and gone. “It’s been long overdue.”

Robin bounced on the balls of his feet. “Ith the tooth fairy gonna come again tonight?”

“Of course.” Batman answered readily.

Clark’s gaze whipped back to him, a grin swallowing up his face. No way .

“The tooth fairy?” He asked.

“Yes, Superman.” Batman said flatly. Clark didn’t need x-ray vision to know that he was raising a challenging brow. “The tooth fairy.”

Robin turned to Clark. “Didn’t the tooth fairy collect your teeth?” 

Even with the domino, Clark could sense the wide eyed-innocence. Batman stared him down.

“Yes.” Clark sputtered at the threatening set of Batman’s mouth. “Yes, of course she did!”

This seemed to placate him. 

“The tooth fairy ith the beth!” Robin cheered.

He launched into a wiggle, expending his excitement with shuffling feet. Clark couldn’t help but beam. Robin, despite his devotion as Batman’s sidekick, has always been childlike. He was the crack of lightning in the dark grumble of Batman’s storm. But catching crooks on the field hasn’t exactly opened up opportunities to discuss more juvenile topics. Like the tooth fairy .

“Out of curiosity,” Clark drawled. “What do you get when the tooth fairy collects your teeth?”

“Money.” Robin said, matter-of-fact like Clark was an idiot.

“How much?”

“A thouthand dollarth!” Robin answered easily. “Duh!”

Clark tried to keep his eyes from bulging out of its sockets.

“A… thousand dollars.” He shot Batman a look. “Gotham’s tooth fairy must be rich.”

Batman averted his eyes, suddenly taking more interest in Gotham’s murky night sky. Clark suppressed a laugh. It was one thing to know that Batman —callous, uptight, broody Batman— entertained and upheld his sidekick’s childlike beliefs, it was another thing to know that he downright spoiled him. It was endearing. It was—

Clark took a step back, as though rocked by an invisible force. 

It wedged something warm and unwelcome in his chest.

“But you get more , right, Thuperman?” Robin interrupted his train of thought. “You have kryptonian teeth!”

Clark floundered for a moment, still reeling from whatever that feeling was.

“Uh, of course!” He affirmed. When he gave no follow-up, Robin blinked expectantly at him. “Um, two thousand dollars!”

“ Two !” Dick crowed, disbelieving.

Clark saw Batman frown, perhaps debating the merits of whether kryptonian teeth would indeed be worth more than a human’s. He wondered if tonight’s tooth fairy spoils would be doubled after all.

“Alright,” Batman grumbled eventually. “Our work here is done. Let’s head back.”

“Okay!” Robin said, for once not trying to stretch out the night as he padded towards the edge of the roof.

“Keep an eye out for the tooth fairy, Robin.” Clark called after him.

“You can’t do that.” Robin scrunched his nose, throwing Clark a look over his shoulder. “If you don’t thleep, the tooth fairy doethn’th come.”

Clark laughed, angling for abashed. “Of course. Silly me.”

“I’ll meet you at the batmobile.” Batman muttered. 

Robin took that as the dismissal it was. 

“Bye, Thuperman!” He chirped, before somersaulting off the roof.

Clark listened for the eventual zip of a grappling hook, the satisfying crunch of the catch, and the whoop of laughter as Robin swung away. 

Then he turned to look at Batman, a teasing grin already worming its way back onto his face, but Batman was still adamantly staring at the corner of the roof that Robin once occupied. Clark allowed the silence to hang between them for a while, enjoying the familiarity of it, the stagnance that has grown less and less intimidating the more time they spent with each other. 

It was nice that Batman would still spare a moment alone with Clark after each one of their impromptu meet-ups. Granted, sometimes Robin’s petulant whines of not wanting to be left out won over, and the boy wouldn’t return to the batmobile as instructed. But even then they caught a minute or two to themselves while Robin swung away. Short-lived as it was, when he would yell at Batman to hurry up.

But of course, after a while, Clark couldn’t help himself.

“Do you dress up in a tutu and fairy wings in case he catches you red-handed?” He teased.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Batman replied in his customary growl, but its gritty edge relented in the second half. “I’m stealthy enough not to wake him.”

Clark shook his head with a bubbling laugh.

“A thousand dollars?” He raised a brow. “Really?”

Batman shrugged. “Gotham’s tooth fairy has deep pockets.”

“I’m sure.” Clark swayed slightly, so that his shoulder brushed against kevlar. “You spoil him.”

Batman’s tone was full of innocence. “You mean the tooth fairy.”

“Right.” Clark beamed. “I assume Christmas is also a spectacle.”

“Both Santa and the tooth fairy have generous benefactors.”

“Uh huh.” Clark chuckled. Then, after a beat, “He’s lucky to have you.”

The air snapped back into silence. Clark could hear everything— from the soft crunch of gravel under his anxious feet, to the way Batman’s heart rate picked up its pace by two beats. Clark snuck a sideways glance at him, wondering if the thinning of Batman’s mouth was due to discomfort, denial, or something else entirely.

Had he said something to offend him? Was his tone too soft, too knowing? Referencing familiarity that wasn’t there? He wondered if he should take it back.

But before Clark could open his mouth, Batman scoffed.

“Don’t tell me that.” He jerked his head somewhere two blocks over, where the batmobile must be parked. “Tell him .”

Clark let out a laugh of relief.

“He knows.” His smile was lopsided and fond. “He’s a good kid.”

Batman stared at him for a moment, long enough for the smile to slip from Clark’s face, a look of worry taking over. Was there something on his face?

Batman cleared his throat, looking away. “How are things in Metropolis?”

Clark beamed, as he would any time Batman willingly brought up his stomping grounds. 

“Same old, same old,” he shrugged.

Batman grunted in response. There was an air of hesitancy, his lips parting, then closing back up, before parting again. Clark frowned. That was strange. Batman was a lot of things, but rarely was he hesitant. Was he not feeling well tonight? Maybe Clark should do a cursory scan… He’d avoid the cowl, of course, but he was sure by now that it was lead-lined anyway.

At the thought of seeing Batman’s face, that familiar heat flared again.

“I saw your interview on the Planet ,” Batman finally spoke.

Clark ignored the way his heart skipped a beat. It was a piece he did on himself, about how Superman had mitigated an attack of Toyman’s explosive trucks downtown. It wasn’t a big deal, the ambush itself was small and uncoordinated. The story didn’t even make it on the front page, with Lois’ takedown piece of a local politician claiming the deserved spotlight.

He tucked his chin against his chest, hoping it covered up the blooming redness on his face. What was Batman doing, reading a Metropolis paper? Reading articles about Superman? Did it mean anything more than what it was? Was Batman looking out for him?

But then he reminded himself that Batman was the world’s greatest detective , and maybe it was his job to be on top of the news, no matter who or what they were about. Clark was just full of himself, reading between nonexistent lines.

He recovered from his lapse with a smile. “Yeah?”

“It’s reckless.” Batman shot back.

“Reckless? I don’t think I said too much.” Clark frowned. “Maybe the quotes are a little… dramatic , but people like it when they hear from Superman himself.”

Batman cast him an odd, sidelong look. He seemed like he wanted to say something more, but he opted to shake his head. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he muttered.

Without any preamble, he whirled towards the edge of the roof, not sparing Clark a glance as he jumped into the Gotham night. The shadows swallowed him whole in a manner it did not with Robin. Where Clark could still see traces of the boy’s body as he swung, Batman was all but engulfed by the darkness. Swiftly and soundlessly, like embracing an old friend.

“Goodnight, Batman!” Clark called after him.

And he listened, once more, to that satisfying clunk , the whirr of a body catapulting midair.

As he turned to the skies, aiming for the distant Metropolis skyline, he picked up a faint rumble: Goodnight .

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, Clark found himself attending a charity gala at the infamous Wayne manor.

Rarely was he assigned a social piece, but news had been slow, which was never something he would complain about. No news meant no disasters, no catastrophes or villainous crimes. So when Cat Grant slapped the invitation on his desk with a wiggle of her brows and a promise of his name in the byline, Clark accepted.

He was standing by the refreshments table, an assortment of hors d'oeuvres fanned out in neat rows behind him, brightly colored and unpronounceable. He had a few on his plate, blindly chosen. Guests milled around him in practiced circles, enchantingly garbed in glittering gowns and crisp, million-dollar tuxes. Clark curled further into himself, feeling displaced in his grey polyester suit. It was two sizes too big, shifting around him like it didn’t know where to settle.

Somewhere in the room, Cat’s prying titters dissolved in the air alongside the buzz of other socialites, swept by the lilts of tasteful classical music. Clark picked on a shrimp tartlet until the crumbs started to fray. He had done his round of interviews, gathering enough quotes for whatever article Cat was whipping up —some gracious, some salacious, some downright unusable. There was nothing else to do other than wait by the sidelines for her to wrap up so they could share a cab back to their hotel.

His gaze meandered from the polite bustle of the ballroom to the overhead chandelier, glinting splendidly as though wrought by firelight, casting flickering fractals onto the large western windows. Framed by curved oak and rich velvet curtains, Gotham brooded beyond the Waynes’ moonlit garden. If Clark unfocused his eyes just enough for the hedges to turn permeable, his gaze would pierce through brambles and brooks, unveiling the real Gotham streets miles away. Grimy, dangerous, imperfect— a direct juxtaposition to the opulence housed within the manor.

He wondered if Batman was out patrolling tonight. He must be. Clark allowed himself to fantasize about ditching this stifling party, to fly towards the part of Gotham that he recognized. Not full of glitz and glamour, but flawed and humane in a way that drove Batman into the streets. He imagined a rendezvous on some lonely rooftop, of a modulated growl and white-lensed eyes, and was surprised to find his fingers twitching with want.

He blinked a few times, curling his fingers into a fist before shoving the tartlet into his mouth. 

“Hey mister,” a voice interrupted him mid-chew. “Can you scooch over a little bit? I can’t get to the food.”

Clark looked down, meeting the startlingly blue gaze of a grinning boy. He couldn’t be any more than thirteen years old, dressed smart yet appropriate for his age in a simple, crisp black suit. The only thing that seemed out of place was his shock of dark hair, fluffy and a little unkempt, as though having been ruffled by the hands of many fond adults throughout the night.

He seemed… familiar .

Clark glanced behind him, and found that he indeed was standing in front of an army of crostinis.

“Of course,” he said sheepishly, stepping to the side. “Sorry.”

The boy flashed him a lopsided smile as he made a grab for the finger foods, piling his plate high. Clark watched him, trying to place where the familiarity came from. It wasn’t until the boy ducked to examine a croquette, the lights carving his face in angular shadows, that Clark finally recognized him. Dick Grayson . He recalled reading the boy’s name in a dozen articles, every sentence strung with tragedy, laden with sympathy. The orphan boy Bruce Wayne took in a little over four years ago.

Clark examined him in a new light. Dick was almost unrecognizable now, growing out of his softer features in juvenile increments. In the articles, the pictures they used of Dick had been carefully tailored— either happy and beaming, in outdated pictures of the Flying Graysons, or confused and bereft, staring down at his parents’ graves. 

Now, he looked every bit the proper, high-class youth— if people didn’t look hard enough. Clark could still see traces of that circus boy in Dick’s jaunty, too-wide grin, the way his hair stuck out, refusing to be tamed even now. This was a boy raised by Bruce Wayne, alright. The billionaire, as established as he ought to be, was no stranger to his own wild escapades. Clark had always thought that despite the lack of biological relation, Dick definitely resembled a Wayne.

Dick finally finished piling his plate, picking up a crostini layered with fresh blueberry jam and torched brie, and bit into it.

Clark heard an odd click .

The boy hissed, cradling a hand over his lips as he pushed his plate onto the serving table. Clark glanced at him worryingly. Dick turned away, moving something around in his mouth, once then twice, before spitting it out into his palm.

“Aw, dangit,” he cursed under his breath.

Clark frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally okay!” He chirped, turning back around. But at the sight of Clark’s worried look, he amended with a chagrined smile, holding out a small white ball. “My tooth fell out.”

And one of his front teeth was missing.

Clark froze, overcome with deja vu. A flash of a laughing boy dressed in bright primary colors swam over his vision. What were the odds that he had witnessed two children lose a tooth in the… exact same spot? Two boys, who, now that he was paying attention, looked to be the same age, with the same dark, floppy hair, the same height… 

Clark shook his head. That can’t be right. He was losing his mind. What was he implying, that Robin was Dick Grayson? Bruce Wayne’s ward? An orphan who grew up in a circus, raised by acrobats? Who could, perceivably, somersault off of Gotham rooftops with ease, comfortable and practiced with swinging from lines and— oh… Oh .

No, that’s nonsense! Robin couldn’t lose the same tooth twice, that didn’t make any sense! If anything, this proved that they weren’t the same people! Except…

Clark squinted at the tooth that Dick was still holding in his palm, sharpening his gaze until he could see it on a microscopic level. There were no traces of blood. The surface of the tooth gleamed oddly under the chandelier light— too smooth, too even… Clark shifted his glasses. There were no components of calcium, no enamel. It was all… porcelain . And dental glue. The tooth didn’t even have a root. Just a perfect little cap. 

Clark zoomed out, bewildered. A fake tooth? He watched Dick lick at the gap in his teeth, and saw the small white point of an incoming tooth protruding from his gums, already growing.

Dick seemed oblivious to Clark’s predicament. He stowed the fake tooth in the pocket of his lapel, shrugging and going back to devouring his plate of food. 

Clark watched him closely. If Dick Grayson was Robin, surely there would be other tells, right? He could see traces of Robin’s mischievous grin mirrored in Dick’s, could perhaps connect their languid, boyish drawls. But Dick seemed greatly more subdued in this persona. Gone was Robin’s easy, swaying posture, the animation in his limbs. Dick stood practiced and firm, like a proper little gentleman.

Clark tried to recall the night of the incident, grasping at what he could possibly corroborate. But all he could remember was the fondness he felt when Robin had lisped out: Thuperman .

He cleared his throat, feigning nonchalance as he looked over at the boy.

“You’re Dick Grayson, right?” He asked. “Bruce Wayne’s ward?”

“Uh huh!” Dick said around a mouthful of food.

“I’ve been going around conducting a survey tonight.” Clark shrugged. “Just a poll I’m running for the paper.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick hummed with polite interest, though Clark could already see his sharp blue eyes wandering elsewhere.

“I’m asking people who their favorite heroes are,” he smiled. “Care to participate?”

The boy perked, chewing aggressively before opening his mouth to speak.

“Yeah!” He chirped. 

“Well go on, then.” Clark pulled out a notepad from his suit pocket, clicking on a pen. “Who’s your favorite hero?”

Dick shuffled his feet in excitement. “Thuperman!”

Clark paled, hearing the same echo of two weeks ago ringing in his ear. Thuperman . He pretended to strike a tally on the empty page, fingers trembling.

“Noted,” he said fitfully. “Thank you.”

Dick Grayson was Robin. Dick Grayson was Robin . 

Which only meant that…

Clark jerked his gaze over the crowd, combing over clustering guests, their arid laughter and frivolous attire, until his eyes settled on a stumbling, striking figure. The host of the night. Ice blue eyes. Dark hair. Clapping a heavy hand on some politician’s shoulder and leaning too close, a glass of champagne threatening to spill between his fingers.

Was Bruce Wayne… Batman ? No way. It seemed like such an outlandish thought. Surely the billionaire playboy, who seemed inept in everything he did, whose hobbies consisted of drinking and sleeping around, couldn’t be Batman. But Clark studied Bruce’s drunken sways, the too-sinuous way his limbs moved. Practiced. Almost uncanny. Like a caricature. 

And he didn’t miss, either, the firm flex of muscles rippling beneath the high-fiber wool of his suit.

“Ith he winning?” Dick piped up beside him.

Clark forced himself back into the conversation, though his eyes never left Bruce Wayne’s blundering movements.

“Is who winning?”

“Thuperman!” Dick said, impatient. “In the poll!”

Clark laughed nervously. “No, he’s not. It’s Gotham, after all.”

“Ugh.” Dick rolled his eyes. “Batman’th winning?”

In a swift series of movements, Bruce barked out a practiced laugh, lifting his face from where it was tucked amidst a circle of socialites. As though he could feel Clark’s gaze on him, his eyes made a cursory, searching arc, sweeping towards their corner of the room.

“Yeah.” Clark mumbled, before ice blue eyes locked into his. “Batman.” He echoed.

Clark looked away, but it was a second too late. He could feel Bruce’s unrelenting stare, pinning him in place. He branched out his hearing, latching onto Bruce’s heartbeat. A cool, steady rhythm, spiking once for a few beats before stabilizing. Stone cold sober, that was for sure. 

And of a cadence that eerily matched Batman’s own. 

“He’th overrated.” Dick disapproved. “Thuperman is cooler.”

Clark tried to focus on the conversation.

“But Batman saves lives even though he doesn’t have any powers.” He argued. “It’s easy enough for Superman to do it, but Batman puts in the effort.”

Dick pouted. “But thuperpowerth are cool.”

Clark laughed, though it sounded scratchy even to him. “You don’t need superpowers to be an awesome hero.”

Dick’s eyes flickered once to the lanyard around Clark’s neck, the press pass dangling over his chest. The Daily Planet .

“You’re from Metropolith,” Dick accused. “Why don’t you like Thuperman?”

“I have to write about him all the time. It gets boring.” Clark waved a hand before raising his brow. “Besides, you’re from Gotham, why don’t you like Batman?”

Dick narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re rigging the poll aren’t you?”

Clark wiggled his brows. “That wouldn’t be very journalistic of me.”

Dick harrumphed, stamping a small foot against the marble. He could hear Bruce’s heartbeat approaching, weaving through the crowd in sluggish, apologetic maneuvers.

“Batman won’t be able to—”

“What about Batman?”

Clark jumped, despite knowing exactly where the man stood behind him. He whipped around, fixing his glasses with trembling fingers, pushing it too close to his eyes. Bruce Wayne stood in front of him, leaning forward like he could barely keep himself upright. It was a reckless, arrogant stance, and Clark didn’t know how he still managed to make it look enticing. 

His smile was sharp, with an undercurrent of knowing , and Clark could only reciprocate with a watery grin.

“Mr. Wayne!” He fumbled.

“Clark Kent.” Bruce purred.

Dick jostled between them and pushed the little white cap into Bruce’s face.

“Brooth, my tooth fell out.” He said, grim.

Clark saw the way Bruce’s facade dissolved for the shortest of seconds, his smile faltering, the sharpening of his drunken leer, overlaid with concern. Bruce’s eyes shot from the tooth, to Clark, to the tooth again. A hint of panic. And then, the wash of understanding.

“I think it’s time you head to bed.” Bruce said.

Dick frowned. “But—”

“ Now , Dick.” He all but hissed.

Dick’s mouth snapped shut in a petulant pout, recognizing when Bruce’s tone meant no room for negotiation. Exactly how Robin would sulk whenever Batman used what they called the bat-voice . He started to stomp away, arms crossed in front of him, turning to stick out his tongue behind Bruce’s back.

“I saw that.” Bruce chided, even though he didn’t.

Dick huffed once again before running away. Clark almost wanted to beg him to come back.

Now that he was under Bruce’s undivided attention, that lurid stare was all the more intimidating. The facade was up once more, complete with a defining step forward, trapping Clark between the sharp lines of his suit and the refreshments table behind him.

“Mr. Kent.” Bruce said, voice low. “I believe you owe me an interview.”

“Uh—”

“In private .”

And without any preamble, Bruce had Clark’s arm in his surprisingly callous grip, dragging him away from discreet onlookers. His footsteps were purposefully clumsy, leaning too much into Clark’s space. He could smell Bruce’s cologne— softening trails of ambergris and bergamot, sweat and soap, rubbed away by the cloying, lingering fragrances of everyone he’d come across that night, mitigating his true scent. Clark, for some reason, found that upsetting.

He wasn’t paying attention to where he was being hauled. The next thing he knew, he was past the towering double doors of the ballroom, stumbling up a flight of stairs, and pushed into a room just as ornate as the one they had been in. It was a small space, maybe some sort of parlor, shrouded in darkness if not for the misty moonlight filtering past the arched windows. The door was shut with a click , and Bruce Wayne shed his fumbling persona like water off a duck’s back.

He held himself straighter now, rising to his full height. Imposing. That faux drunken haze in his eyes was gone, whetting itself into a glare. Clark staggered back when Bruce marched towards him, nearly tipping a delicate end table before he could side-step. Bruce looked like an entirely different man. Striking, assertive, devastating. And Clark wondered, for a moment, how anyone could think Bruce Wayne was harmless.

“You know ,” Bruce spat out.

Clark hesitated. “Know what?”

“Who I am.” Bruce pressed forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Who Dick is.”

He shook his head fervently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Cut the crap, Superman .” 

Clark paled. He felt the dread sink into his bones, rendering him immobile as Bruce crept closer still. They were nearly chest to chest. Clark felt his lips quiver, felt his glasses sag down the bridge of his nose. Of all the ways he thought they would finally reveal their identities to each other, he didn’t think it would be like this .

Quick, play dumb!

“Who’s Superman?” He blurted.

Not that dumb!

Bruce raised an unimpressed brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Clark let out a tinny, anxious laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Sorry, I panicked, I— Wait.” Clark felt the apologies dissolve on his tongue, nose scrunching in thought. “How did you know?”

A beat of silence. They stared at each other for a moment, sky blue into ice, before Bruce sighed. Clark saw the fight leave his body. Bruce took a step back, shoulders sagging as he rubbed his temples, turning away. The action made him tread into the light of the moon, pale features washed by even paler light. It should’ve made him look ghostly. Terrifying, even. But the sight only made Clark’s heart lurch.

Bruce muttered. “Maybe if your disguise consisted of something more than a pair of ugly glasses and some hair gel, it’d be harder to connect the dots.”

Clark looked away, raising a hand to fiddle with the stem of his glasses.

“They’re not ugly…”

Bruce turned to face him again. Something exasperated and fond passed over his sharp features. In this angle, Clark could see how exhausted he looked, the moonlight carving shadows into the planes of his face. He looked almost gaunt— not from hunger, but perhaps sleep. Stress. From running around Gotham after dark all the way into sunrise.

“Not terribly ,” Bruce conceded, though it was more placating than anything else, in that soft tone that Batman would only reserve for quiet, moonlit nights on desolate rooftops.

And it struck him, all at once, that he was finally hearing Batman’s unmodulated voice. None of that artificial growl, that forced grit. But he didn’t sound like Bruce Wayne either, airy and pitched and vacuous. No, this voice was somewhere in between. Low enough to reflect Bruce’s dangerous nature, but tempered enough to be human. How many people have heard him speak like this? That thought made Clark’s stomach flip. It made him want Bruce to keep talking.

Clark swallowed. “How long have you known?”

Bruce had the grace to pretend to think about it for a moment, his head tipping to the side.

“The first time you came to interview me,” he answered.

“Bat—” Clark stuttered. “ Bruce , that was months ago!”

“I’m the world’s greatest detective, aren’t I?” Bruce gloated, though he only sounded grim.

Clark frowned. “What gave it away?”

“I told you.” Bruce waved a hand in his general direction. “The hair and the glasses.”

He heard Bruce’s heartbeat quicken, only for a few seconds, before it regulated again. A lie .

“That’s impossible.” Clark insisted. “They’re hypno-glasses. No one’s supposed to be able to recognize me with them on.”

Bruce shrugged, though it was obvious from the way his shoulders tensed that he had not been expecting that reply. 

“Maybe they don’t work on me,” he muttered.

“ Bruce .”

He had known for months. Bruce had known for months . And in recognizing his investigative nature, Clark knew that he didn’t just sit idly by with the information. No, Bruce must’ve looked into Clark’s life, his workplace, his home, his family . And if this had been any other situation, Clark wouldn’t have minded. Because it was Batman . Hell, he would’ve told Bruce everything he wanted to know, if he had asked. He would still do it now .

And yet, Bruce was still standing here, in front of him, searching Clark’s face with those analytical eyes that he never got to see beneath the cowl. Like he was just another case he needed to solve. Despite having the upper hand, despite knowing Clark’s identity for months, Bruce was still standing there lying . 

And Clark didn’t know why, but that made his chest ache.

“You knew who I was, and you just—” Clark took a breath. “You just let me go around believing otherwise. Like an idiot .”

Bruce, to his credit, appeared stricken. “That wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

Clark didn’t know what he wanted to accuse him of. He must’ve done things like go through Clark’s social media, not that he had much. He must’ve run a background check, must’ve kept tabs on him. Must’ve done things like— Like…

Like read articles written by Clark Kent, making him think that Bruce actually cared about him.

“Is that why you brought up the Toyman article?” Clark heard himself saying, running a hand through his hair. He scoffed. “Gosh, I must’ve sounded so stupid.”

Bruce’s face dimmed. “Clark—”

“I thought it was because you cared about me,” he choked out.

“I do —”

“Do you not trust me, is that it?” He asked, hands gesticulating wildly, ignoring how pathetic he sounded. “I mean, I wouldn’t have pushed you, of course, and it doesn’t change anything, finding out that you’re Bruce Wayne , but you knew about me the entire time and you didn’t even think to—”

Clark stopped himself with a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He didn’t even know what words would follow that train of thought, where that road would lead.

When Clark dared to meet Bruce’s eyes again, he matched his gaze steadily. There was something open about his expression, as though Clark had cut through the curled lips and furrowed brows with a knife. Bruce’s eyes were rounder, softer at the edges. It almost hurt to look at.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Clark said, voice small. “If I hadn’t found out tonight, would I have never known at all?”

Bruce shook his head, minute and almost subconscious. 

“I was going to tell you,” he murmured. “Not… soon , I don’t think. I was waiting—”

He cut himself off, ducking his head. Abashed. Distantly, Clark could hear his heart rate pick up. He tried to meet Bruce’s eyes, but his hair flopped out of place, shadowing his browbone. 

“Waiting?” Clark prompted.

A moment passed before Bruce took a shuddering breath. Clark watched the way he flexed his fingers, curling them into a half-fist before relaxing, then curling them again, as though bracing for a punch. He wondered if everything was a brawl to Bruce, if each one of his actions were always a hairsbreadth away from fight or flight. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a murmur.

“I knew it was you,” he said in one exhale, “because of your laugh.”

Clark’s chest lurched. He wouldn’t have caught the words if it weren’t for his hearing. He leaned closer, ignoring the way his own heartbeats were starting to match Bruce’s staccatos.

“What?”

Bruce finally lifted his gaze enough for their eyes to meet.

“That time, when you interviewed me.” He explained, lifting his chin, shoulders squaring just enough for Clark to be reminded of capes and cowls. “You asked me a question about my role in Wayne Enterprises. I answered like a sleaze. I thought it would get you off my back, but I guess I caught you off-guard, because you laughed.”

Bruce’s gaze turned distant, his blue eyes adapting a grey tinge in the dimness of the room. The corners of his lips shaped into the barest semblance of a smile, as though he was suddenly transported into the memory.

“You laugh with your whole body.” His voice was warmer now, almost ardent. “You’re relaxed. You throw your head back. When you come back up for air, there’s that… damn curl on your forehead, bouncing back into place. The same place, every time. And you look—” his brows furrowed, “and you sound—”

Bruce looked down at his hands, as though he would find answers in the calluses there, the scars that marked paths into his palms. Clark’s whole body felt like it was on fire. With anticipation, with want . The beating of his own heart, the way it pulsed alongside Bruce’s, almost quelled all the other sounds in the universe. 

Clark almost took pity on him, almost told him that he didn’t need to keep talking if he didn’t want to. But Bruce’s voice, earnest and too tender, beat him to it.

“Bright,” he said, like a revelation. “And happy. It… affects me.”

Clark heard his own breath hitch.

“That’s only ever happened with Superman.” Bruce muttered. “So I connected the dots.”

Clark felt himself take a step forward before he could even register it. Bruce’s eyes followed his movement; he heard him hold his breath, saw his pupils dilate like a blooming ink blot. But he didn’t make an effort to get away, so Clark put one more foot after the other. He was almost close enough to touch.

“Affects you how?” Clark’s voice was hoarse.

Bruce looked at him. Imploring. “I don’t know.”

Another step. It brought them nearly chest to chest. He felt Bruce’s body heat radiating off of him in waves, was too aware of how the thrum of their bodies echoed one another’s. He raised a tentative hand, brushing a strand of hair away from Bruce’s temple. Bruce almost leaned into the touch, but their gazes never faltered. A challenge in seeing who would break first.

Clark dipped his head forward. “What were you waiting for, Bruce?”

And his hand moved further, just enough for his fingers to graze the fine leather of Bruce’s belt.

“Until I knew…” he said, breathy.

And then Bruce surged up to kiss him.

Clark caught the angle of his jaw in his palm, cradling the starting fuzz of a stubble. Their lips met the same way they fought; swift, effective, synchronous. Bruce matched his every move. When Clark snaked an arm around his waist, Bruce yanked him forward by his cheap tie; when Clark’s hand started to creep its way up his nape, Bruce tilted his head just so, slotting himself in like a jigsaw puzzle. Their bodies were flush against each other’s. Mouth, to shoulder, to hip. Clark didn’t even know they were moving until Bruce made a sound, and Clark’s hand cradled the back of his head just in time to pin him against the wall.

Bruce splayed a hand against Clark’s chest when he inevitably came up for air. Clark didn’t need something as trivial as that. What he needed was to taste the salt of Bruce’s skin, for the bitterness of other people’s fragrances to be engulfed by his own. Clark continued to pepper kisses on the corner of Bruce’s mouth, along his jaw, below his ear. Bruce groaned, a heavy hand curling itself into Clark’s hair.

“What does this mean?” He rasped.

Clark let out a rumbling laugh against the hollow of Bruce’s throat, lightly nipping. That was the Batman side of him, always thinking. 

“You tell me, world’s greatest detective ,” he drawled.

And then Bruce yanked him up by the tie again.

Clark found himself being pushed back, their positions reversed as Bruce pinned him against the wall. He parted for long enough to gingerly remove Clark’s fogged up glasses from its skewed perch, before their lips met again. Eager and hot, easier now without the obstruction, as sure as rhythm. Bruce was everywhere, a hand creeping up Clark’s side, the warm drape of his torso, a leg sliding between his thighs—

And then Clark’s ringtone went off in shrill beeps.

He groaned. “Bruce—”

“Let it ring.” Bruce murmured against his mouth.

The phone kept going, buzzing in his pocket. Clark never set a ringtone for people he didn’t care about, he thought as Bruce tugged at his hair, enough for Clark to gasp into the kiss. Whoever was calling needed him. He attempted to untangle himself from Bruce’s insistent hands, but his grip was adamant.

“ Bruce ,” Clark said between breaths. “Just a second. Give me just a second.”

Bruce grumbled, but he didn’t ease off. No, he eased down , his fevered kisses smearing against Clark’s cheek, jaw, throat. But it was enough for Clark’s trembling hands to pull out his phone, catching sight of one last ring before the call disappeared. Cat Grant . When he tapped his screen, he saw four missed messages from her, asking if Clark was ready to go back to the hotel. He bit back a sigh.

“I gotta go.” Clark said, remorseful.

Bruce grunted, mouth travelling dangerously down Clark’s collar. “No.”

“Cat’s waiting for me.” Clark’s voice wavered. “She’s finished with her interviews.” 

“So?” Bruce’s hand crept under his shirt. “Let her go home.”

“We’re supposed to split a cab. I can’t just tell her that—” Clark keened when Bruce took his skin between his teeth, “—that I’m staying over at Bruce Wayne’s manor.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Slowly, he felt Bruce’s movements still. He huffed petulantly, then drew up to meet Clark’s gaze. His eyes were still that murky grey, half-lidded with both the aftermath of making out and annoyance, now paired with reddened lips. Clark couldn’t help but grin.

“Besides,” He said, sliding a hand over Bruce’s hip, another cradling his face, “don’t you still have people you need to schmooze?”

Bruce sighed, leaning into the touch. His eyes sharpened into a glare.

“You’re coherent,” he muttered. “I don’t like that.”

“I almost wasn’t.” Clark laughed, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “There’s always next time.”

Bruce, thank god, seemed mollified by that. “Next time.”

They drew away to fix their clothes, now rumpled beyond measure. Clark tucked his dress shirt back into his pants, straightening the loose knot of his tie. When he looked over at Bruce, the man was doing the same, trying to finger-comb some sense of appropriateness into his hair. Clark chuckled, striding over to help undo some of the damage he’d caused.

“I guess we have Dick to thank for this.” Clark mused, trying to make a strand stay in place.

Bruce shook his head, effectively dislodging Clark’s attempts of hairstyling.

“A damn tooth ,” he muttered, but there was an amused incredulity underlying it. 

Clark grinned. “Could’ve been worse.”

Bruce procured Clark’s glasses out of seemingly nowhere, sliding them back onto his nosebridge. He fiddled with them until he deemed they sat just right, fingers falling from the stem to rest by Clark’s cheek. And then they looked at each other, silent for a moment, and Clark couldn’t believe that this was real.

“Do you want to—” he stammered, despite having Bruce’s tongue down his throat only moments ago, “I don’t know, meet for coffee sometime soon?”

Bruce smiled, wicked and sharp. “I’d love to.”

“Good.” He beamed as Bruce smoothed down his suit. “It’s a date.”

Epilogue. Fifteen years later.

The dinner table was loud. As always.

It’s one of those rare moments when all the boys were home, bickering over warm food and Bruce’s tired reproach. He was sitting at the head of the table, with Clark to his left and Jason to his right, the latter of whom was squabbling with Tim over something on his tablet. The bickering turned to jabs, the jabs turned to light shoves, and Clark could see that Bruce was about to tell them off when he heard a telltale click .

His attention snapped to Damian, who sat beside him munching silently on his dinner. Though now he stopped mid-chew, taking a sip of water and swishing it around his mouth before spitting out a tiny white ball.

Not a ball. Clark’s brows raised. A tooth .

Damian’s face pulled into disgust. “Father.”

“Yes, Damian?” Bruce replied distractedly, eyes still squinting at the bickering boys.

“My tooth fell out.”

Bruce looked his way, frowning in concern. Clark knew the drill. He leaned over to inspect the tooth, a hand on Damian’s backrest. The root seemed to be intact, though there was a bit of blood clinging onto it.

“Does it hurt?” Clark asked. “Here, let me see…”

Damian turned to him, opening his mouth wide. The missing tooth was a canine in the lower jaw. Clark did a thorough scan. Nothing wrong with the gums, and the bleeding was sluggish at best. It must have been loose for some time now.

Damian had been left in Bruce’s care only two years ago, ten years old and wary of everyone. Clark, at that point, had been partially living in the manor for a little over ten years, his residence split between Gotham and Metropolis. He was a part of the household, and had learned along with everyone how to cohabitate with Damian. 

Somewhere along the line, Damian had begun to be civil with him. He would even push to say that the boy tended to listen to him more than Bruce, which everyone agreed was true, but Bruce would vehemently decline.

He flashed Damian a smile, ruffling his hair. “All good, buddy.” Damian ducked.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Dick whooped from the other end of the table through a mouthful of cottage pie. “We haven’t had a tooth fairy visit in a while!”

Bruce shot him a look. “Language.”

“The tooth fairy isn’t real, Grayson.” Damian rolled his eyes.

No lisp, Clark frowned. It would’ve been adorable if he had a lisp, just like Dick did in those few months it took for his tooth to grow back completely. 

At that statement, Jason shot Damian a wary look, shaking his head vehemently. It was a known fact in the household that Dick still believed in the tooth fairy. And Santa Claus. And the Easter Bunny. And whatever holiday mascot there was. It was sacred, at least to Jason and Bruce, that they protected the sanctity of Dick’s childhood innocence.

“Oh yeah?” Dick challenged, pointing a fork at Damian. “Then who slips the money under your pillow, huh?”

“Maybe the only one in this house who can afford to throw around three thousand dollars.” Tim burbled under Jason’s headlock, cheeks squished between the crook of his brother’s arm.

Jason released him and pointed an accusatory finger, gaping, apparently forgetting his sacred mission at the mention of money. 

“ Three ?” He cried. Then the finger swung to Bruce, who ate primly as though his children weren’t forming a coup in front of his very eyes.

Dick had a similar betrayed look. “That’s not fair! The most I got was two, and that was only once !”

Clark grinned into his bite. Ah, yes. Bruce had wanted Dick to know that Kryptonian teeth weren’t any more precious than human ones, and slipped two thousand dollars under Dick’s pillow instead of just the one. Which was bogus, because throughout his life Clark only got a dollar for each of his missing teeth. 

Jason’s finger swung to Dick. “You got two ?!”

“Even tooth fairies are victims of inflation,” Bruce reasoned calmly.

“I would like compensation for my tooth fairy money deficit.” Jason declared, finger now pointed at the air. “You brats are spoiled.”

Alfred came up behind him to fill his glass of water. Talk about spoiled , Clark thought.

“Need I remind you that you were once one of the spoiled brats in question, Master Jason?” Alfred, Clark’s favorite person in the house, said virtuously.

“And still are.” Clark chimed in.

“Then where’s my three grand?” Jason crossed his arms. “I got a tooth knocked out last month. Pay up, old man.”

“She only takes baby teeth.” Bruce raised a brow. “And when did you lose a tooth? Come here, let me see…”

He was already moving out of his chair before he finished his sentence, cranking Jason’s jaw open. Jason let out a shriek, trying to clamber half-heartedly out of Bruce’s grasp. Clark suppressed a laugh as he scanned him from the other side of the table, chewing on his bite of peas. 

Tim made a victorious sound as he swiped the tablet from the table, scooching his chair farther from the two.

“Ack!” Jason gurgled. “Get your fingers out of my mouth!”

“Did you get an implant?” Bruce muttered, face analytically pinched.

“It’s his upper molar, third from the back.” Clark supplied, his nose scrunching. “How’d you get a molar knocked out?”

Dick, clearly uncaring of the current investigation, rambled on.

“Bruce isn’t the tooth fairy.” He murmured in thought, two fingers rubbing his chin. “I would’ve heard him.”

“He is .” Damian insisted.

“He’s not .”

Tim looked up from the tablet. “Well, the last time I lost a tooth, I saw Bruce—” Jason broke free from Bruce’s hold just in time to slap a hand over Tim’s mouth.

Bruce straightened and cleared his throat, schooling away his harried look at the near-miss. 

“The tooth fairy is real.” He said, nonchalant. Dick perked up. “But of course, Damian, it’s your choice whether or not you’ll put your tooth under the pillow for her to exchange.”

Damian seemed to consider this for a moment, probably scheming on all the gadgets he could afford with that kind of cash. All the while Jason released Tim with a cry, his palm bearing a set of angry teeth marks.

“Only an idiot would pass up free money.” Tim chimed as Jason shoved him.

That seemed to seal the deal, as though nothing could be worse than Tim considering him an idiot.

“Fine.” Damian spat out, haughty. “I shall do what I must.”

“I mean hey, if you don’t want the cash, I’ll take it.” Jason shrugged.

Damian shot him a glare. “Spare yourself the humiliation of begging, Todd.”

Clark lingered behind as the children, one by one, trickled back into their rooms in trailing jibes and shouts. He cleared his and Bruce’s plates, the boys having already done theirs themselves— a habit Clark had implored Bruce to implement just to teach basic manners, regardless of whether or not Alfred could do it for them. His Midwestern heart couldn’t take it.

After that, it was just him and his partner and two glasses of wine, pleasantly warm from food and family, despite how chaotic they could be. The mellow lights of the kitchen rendered Bruce’s features in sharp shadows. They’re both a little aged now, though Bruce does it finely, little sprigs of white peppering his hair in ways that make Clark’s stomach curl.

“Do you want to do it?” Bruce asked, after a sip.

“Do what?” Clark said, wholly distracted by the way the light reflected in Bruce’s irises.

He rolled his eyes, leaning over to kiss Clark on the cheek, as though he knew exactly what had preoccupied him.

“With Damian, Clark,” he said, soft and patient. “Do you want to exchange his tooth?”

“Me?” Clark blinked. “Be the tooth fairy?”

“You’d be faster.” Bruce shrugged. “I didn’t do such a good job with Tim, evidently. I must be getting old.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “He knows it’s you, Bruce.”

“It won’t hurt to keep the illusion alive.”

“The only person still in the illusion is yourself.” Clark chuckled. “And Dick, worryingly.”

“At this point, I think he’s just in on the joke.” Bruce murmured into the rim of his glass, frowning. “And remind me to wire Jason some money before he pulls out his teeth in exchange for cash.”

Clark made a mental note. He was very good at that, being Bruce’s personified to-do list.

“Do you think it should be me?” Clark worried. “What if I mess up?”

“It’s okay if it’s you.” Bruce assured, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “The only other person Damian would tolerate is Dick, and he still believes the tooth fairy glitters and is the size of a thumb.”

And so it was Clark who was thrust with the responsibility of keeping childhood magic alive. Bruce had handed him a despicable wad of cash. Three grand, as Tim had said. He floated down the corridor two inches above the ground, afraid of triggering Damian’s assassin senses. Then he waited outside the door, holding his breath as he listened for any signs of Damian’s wakefulness. It was well past midnight, so he should be asleep. 

Clark heard the slow, dozing beat of his heart, his deep even breaths, and figured that the coast was clear.

Except when he reached for the doorknob, he heard a small voice.

“I know you’re there.”

“Aw, shucks.” Clark bit his lip, and decided to bite the bullet anyway, opening the door sheepishly.

Damian was bundled up under his duvet, hair sticking out even straighter than during the day, flattened against his pillow. The drowsy set of his eyes told Clark that he was probably asleep before Clark floated down the hallway. Darn , those assassin instincts were good.

“Your footsteps were lumbering.” He disapproved.

“I was floating!” Clark said, landing back on his feet with a soft thud.

“Then it must’ve been your breathing.” Damian frowned. “I heard something .”

“It’s my first time doing this, bud.” Clark knelt by the bed, stroking back Damian’s hair.

“Yes, and it’s not my first time listening for intruders.” He let slide, closing his eyes against the contact.

Damian only allowed affection in private, as though it meant less when there were no witnesses. Clark cherished these moments, as he and the boy were rarely alone. He didn’t know how much longer Damian would allow himself to be ‘coddled’ , as minimal as this already was. Then again, Dick still jumped into Clark’s arms and asked for flying piggybacks every other day. He could only hope all the other children grew to be as comfortable with him as Dick was.

Clark sighed. “I swear it sounded like you were asleep.”

“Both Father and the League have taught me how to regulate my heart rate and breathing.”

He laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like something they would do.”

“I don’t understand the formalities of tooth exchange.” Damian yawned, the brush of Clark’s hand soothing him. “Father had said the tooth should be under my pillow, but surely if it was too far under the supposed fairy would not be able to reach it? So must I put it beside my pillow? But that is not under , so shall I just put it right at the edge?”

“You’ve really considered this.” Clark grinned. Damian only prattled on like this when he was sleepy. “I put mine right at the edge, so it’d be easier for my Ma and Pa.”

“You mean the tooth fairy.” Damian said with an unimpressed, raised brow. It achingly reminded him of Bruce.

“Of course, silly me.”

Damian yawned again. “Though I suppose with your Kryptonian senses, it’s quite impossible for them to sneak up on you.”

“Yeah, I like to pretend to sleep when they come in.” Clark smiled fondly at the memory of his parents’ tip-toes creaking the old floorboards. “I think they knew I was awake, though.”

“That is quite unfair for your Mother and Father.” Damian sympathized. 

“They insist you call them Grandma and Grandpa, you know.” Clark said, after a moment of hesitation, unsure whether Damian was sleepy enough to let it pass. “You visit them all the time.”

Not quite sleepy enough, it seemed, as he only supplied a non-committal hum.

“Why is Father not exchanging the tooth?” Damian asked.

“He thought I’d do a better job.” Clark said, voice tinged with endearment. “Between you and me, I just think he wants me to experience it at least once.”

“Neither of you do a good job.” Damian deadpanned.

“Sorry, kiddo.” Clark laughed, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Will you keep this a secret from him? I think he wants to keep the magic alive.”

“Yes, that is wise.” Damian nodded sagely. “Let Father believe in his fantasies.”

Clark exchanged the tooth swiftly, sensing that Damian was slipping more and more into sleep by the second. He placed the wad of cash beside the boy’s pillow— it wouldn’t fit under it, not comfortably. Then, before he got up, he pressed a soft, tentative kiss on Damian’s forehead, too fast for a complaint that did not come. And he got up to leave the room.

“Clark?” Damian called, voice soft with sleep. Clark stopped by the doorframe. “Next time, I shall pretend to be asleep.”

Clark paused for a moment, registering the words. Before he couldn’t help the grin pouring out of him, stretching across his face without permission. He leaned carefully against the doorknob, chest aching with warmth. This was better than a lisp. God, no one was going to believe him.

“Thanks, bud. Your senses are as good as Kryptonian, after all.” Clark wheedled gently, and it earned him a proud, drowsy half-smile. “Goodnight.”

He closed the door, and spent a moment outside Damian’s bedroom smiling like an idiot. Then he remembered that Bruce was waiting for him in bed just two corridors down, and floated to their shared bedroom for no stealthy reasons at all.

“How’d it go?” Bruce mumbled as Clark slipped under the covers.

He slung an arm around Bruce’s waist, pulling him closer. He was already warm and pliant with sleep, and didn’t mind when Clark pressed a kiss into his bare shoulder.

“Mission accomplished,” he murmured into Bruce’s hair.

Bruce scoffed disbelievingly, turning around in his arms.

“He caught you red-handed, didn’t he?” 

“Yep.” Clark admitted easily.

“Oh, well.” Bruce yawned, turning around again, shuffling back into Clark’s warmth. “Better luck next tooth.”

Comfortable, drowsy silence enveloped them. He could hear Bruce’s heartbeat start to slow, easing into slumber. But Clark was still buzzing from affection. It was the same way he felt after watching a particularly adorable cat video.

“He told me he’d pretend to be asleep next time, Bruce.” Clark whispered into the dark.

Bruce’s reply was late and lethargic. “How thoughtful of him,” he slurred, and Clark knew that he wasn’t going to remember tomorrow.

And then, it was Clark’s turn to doze off, eyes already closed as the noises of the world started to blur under the hush of sleep, only leaving room for Bruce’s deep breathing, the scent of home and clean sheets.

“Maybe next time I should call in a favor from Zatanna and get her some fairy wings…” Bruce garbled out of nowhere.

Clark hummed as he squeezed his waist, already forgetting what he said. “Goodnight to you too.”