Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce drank the last of his cold coffee. It was supposed to be steaming but time seems to have run away from him. He put the mug down back onto the ring stain it belonged on, right next to the coaster Alfred had pointedly placed years ago. 

He read through the paper in front of him again, using a pen to keep track of his place. Reading through Tim’s plans for WE that the boy had made when he should have been studying. 

Bruce had been so focused on the material that when his phone vibrated against the wooden desk, he had to regulate through a flash of irritation. Even so, he directed his attention to his personal cell, frowning at the unknown number. It had been long since he had a spam call, having firewalls in place to prevent this very thing.

(He made sure hell had rained down on that specific spam company when he received a call to say there had been a car accident. Absolute anxiety had pierced through every nerve as Dick had only just learned to drive, only for his son to have been asleep in his bedroom. Of course, Dick found it funny.)

But Bruce Wayne had been on the receiving end of many unknown numbers. From paparazzi, to fans, to ransoms. So he picked up the call, keeping silent to not give anything unnecessary away. 

Shaky breathing filled his ear and Bruce’s brow deepened further. 

“…Mr Wayne?” A small whisper came through. 

Bruce jolted in his chair, having expected literally any other voice. “Jon? Yes, it’s me, what’s the matter?”

Since when did Jon Kent have a phone? Or had he borrowed one off from another person? If the boy now had access to his own cellphone then Bruce was going to have clipped words with Clark for not giving Bruce his number. 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t be too mad. At the very least Clark had made sure Jon knew Bruce’s number. 

“Mr Wayne,” Jon swallowed thickly, still in a whisper. “Mr Wayne, I messed up real bad.”

Bruce stood up, walking over to the grandfather clock as he fought to stay calm. He’s had his fair share of children calling him after mistakes. He was well versed on how to help and be the adult. No matter the case. 

“It’s going to be okay, Jon.” This was different though. Not only was Jon a super, which already made him different to Bruce’s kids, but he was also way more fragile than what Bruce was accustomed to. He took a breath in the elevator. “Tell me where you are.”

“I’m, um, I don’t know.” The child’s voice cracked. Bruce braced himself for emotions. “I was in school. And— and I heard people screaming and I didn’t think, I just went. There’s a fire. Mr Wayne, there’s a fire and people are inside and I don’t know what to do! Dad never lets me help but I thought I could do it just this once and now—”

“You can do it, Jon.” Bruce hurried to the computer, trying to figure out where Clark was and failing. His priority to helping Jon calm down had shifted. There were civilians in a burning building and whether trained or not, the boy was more than capable at that moment to help. Maybe. “How many civilians are in the building, Superboy?”

He hoped the change of name would have the desired effect, having used this tactic over and over with Robins and Batgirls. 

“Uh, um, three? I think three?” Jon’s voice shook. “I can’t do it, Mr Wayne, I tried calling Dad but he wasn’t picking up and— and I thought I could prove Dad wrong but I’m not Superman.”

“No, you’re Superboy.” Bruce said firmly. “You are Superboy and you are about to save three people from a burning building. And I’m here with you.”

Bruce typed a message straight into the Batcomputer, contacting Superman as Batman. If the Kryptonian wasn’t answering his son then chances were he wasn’t Clark Kent at that moment. 

‘Superboy is in trouble. Burning building. In Metropolis.’

So maybe it was a bit cruel to text a father that with no reassurance, but Bruce wasn’t feeling particularly nice right then. 

“Is the building stable?” Bruce asked Jon.

“Um…”

He didn’t know. Okay. 

“Do you have your cape?”

“Yes! Yeah—”

“You can fly.” Bruce knew that much. “You’re going to put your phone in your pocket, and you’re going to fly. First, you rip a strip out of that cape of yours and tie it around your mouth like a mask. You will not breathe in any smoke. You will also not step foot on any surface inside the building. You have super strength so you are going to hold onto the closest civilian and fly them out through the nearest exit. Just like you fly with Robin. Then you will do this two more times. Understood, Superboy?”

There was quiet save for the boy’s shaky breaths. 

“…yes, sir.” He whispered. 

Bruce heard rustling which he trusted was the phone being placed into a pocket. He ran a hand over his face, gritting his teeth as he hoped he hadn’t made the wrong choice. 

The boy was a hero in training, but it was evident he hadn’t done this alone before. He had his father, and if not with Clark then he often enjoyed adventures with Damian. 

Robin himself would never have much trouble in a similar situation, even though Bruce wished he had a little less confidence when it came to running into burning buildings. But Superboy was different. He was coddled, loved and cared for as a young child. Just as Damian should have been. Would have been. Had Bruce been there. 

Bruce pressed the heel of his hand into his eye before taking a breath. This was not the time to be wallowing. He listened on through the phone. Hearing a shriek from a civilian and a crash. Bruce braced himself. Willing Superman to hurry in making his way to his son. He hoped the crash was the closest exit being made. 

The phone returned to silence momentarily, Jon had brought the first civilian out, before chaos resumed again. This time Bruce heard tinny barking.

The corner of his mouth flickered up in a smile. Of course the kid counted a dog as a civilian. 

That encounter was dealt with quicker. And the last one dragged on long enough that Bruce felt his gut churning uncomfortably. Until finally the sound of screaming and coughing subsided, telling Bruce that Superboy had made it out with all three civilians. 

He relaxed minutely, leaning back against the chair he hadn’t even realised he had sat in. His heart in his ears. Absently, he scolded himself for getting so emotional. 

Bruce glanced at the message sent through the Batcomputer. It was marked ‘read’.

The rustling sounds came back as Jon’s phone was scrambled out of his pocket. Then Bruce’s ear was filled with quick, heaving breaths. 

Bruce took a long breath himself, “well done, Jon.”

A sob cracked through the phone, Bruce felt his throat tighten. 

“I want my dad,” Jon cried. 

Bruce modelled another breath, “are you still around the civilians?”

“No,” he hiccuped. “The firemen came.”

“Okay, good.” Bruce praised. “That must have been really hard but you did it, Jon.”

Jon cried again, “where’s Dad?”

“Clark is on his way,” Bruce glanced at the read text despairingly. “He’s going to be right there.”

The boy had a father. A feeling Bruce and his own children were foreign to. But this child had a parent to protect him. And Bruce was grateful. 

“O-okay,” Jon said with a sniff. “Okay. Thank you, Mr Wayne.”

Bruce felt a rush of anxiety when he realised Jon was leaving. “Stay on the line, lad.” He ordered. “I’ll stay with you until your dad comes.”

He didn’t want to leave the crying child on his own, a few feet away from a burning building and injured civilians. Firefighters present or not. 

Jon wasn’t his. No, Jon had parents and a brother of his own. 

But he was Bruce’s best friend’s boy. He was Bruce’s youngest’s best friend. And Bruce felt a tugging in his heart towards the child. A sort of loyalty that stretched out a little further than it did with the random Gothamite children he encountered as Batman. But a little less than his own sons and daughter. Either way, Bruce would still go through hell for this kid. 

Before anything else could be said, he heard Jon cry out far away through the phone, “Dad!”

A rush and a thud as the device fell. 

“Jon,” Bruce heard distantly. “Oh, Jon. Son, sweetheart, you had me worried sick. Are you hurt?”

Bruce felt himself sag down completely, face falling lax as he calmed down entirely. Despite the sounds of Jon crying from his chest, no doubt holding onto Clark with all his strength, and Clark hugging him back as much as he could risk without hurting him, Bruce was at ease. 

And went to hang up before Clark’s voice came through the device. “Batman?”

“Mr Wayne, actually.” Bruce corrected. 

“Thank you,” Clark sounded just as breathless as Bruce had felt earlier. “Thank you, Bruce. Shit, thank you.”

“Focus on your son, Superman.” Bruce said. “He might need medical. And his mother. He was scared.” 

“Thank y—”

Bruce hung up. Amused now that the moments of panic had passed. 

He was glad, relieved, that he had built enough of a rapport with Damian’s best friend that Jon felt as though Bruce was safe enough to contact. To call for help when his own father was unavailable. Not as Batman. As Bruce. 

He hoped it never came to that again. 

Bruce stood up, needing to go back to the paperwork Tim had left him. 

He made sure to save Jon’s number first. 

“The Kents have arrived, Master Bruce.” Alfred announced, entering the Cave where Bruce was practicing. “Mister Clark and his youngest. I have sat them in the West Wing’s living room. Shall I prepare two extra plates for dinner?”

“Sure,” Bruce blinked, having not expected their company. He set down his training equipment, grateful he had only just started and wasn’t sweating yet. He swapped his gym shirt for a loose top before making his way to the elevator. “Damian back from school?”

“Master Damian is in his bedroom. Shall I alert him of his friend’s presence?” Alfred asked. He reached a hand up behind Bruce’s neck to tuck in the shirt’s label. 

“Let me gauge what they want first.” Bruce suggested. It had only been a few hours since the fiasco with the burning building. Jon might not appreciate the company. 

When Bruce entered the living room, both Kents were standing. Clark’s hand resting on Jon’s shoulder. 

The boy was changed out of his Superboy uniform. He was in soft clothing. Comforting clothes, Bruce noted. A small pout on his lips and swollen reddened eyes. But otherwise he was fine. No marks on his skin, not that Bruce expected any on a half-Kryptonian. But still, it reassured Bruce more than he realised it would have to see the child with his own eyes. 

“Bruce.” Clark stepped forward and put his hand out. When Bruce reached to shake it, Clark held it tight in both hands. “Thank you. Sincerely.”

Bruce blinked at the genuineness in his friend’s face, willing for his own cheeks not to darken with red. He cleared his throat, bringing his other hand forward to pat Clark’s shoulder. “Nothing to thank me for. You helped my kids more times than I can count.”

Clark shook his head, letting his hands drop. “There was an earthquake in Istanbul and then when it settled and I got your message, a tower collapsed within itself and I just… I had to choose and I knew Jon could last a few more minutes. He’s a tough kid.” Clark looked back at his son, a weak smile plastered on his face. “Aren’t you, kiddo?”

Bruce shoved aside the regret he was now feeling for sending such a vague message. “He did good.”

“He did,” Clark turned back to Bruce. “I just wished he didn’t have to go through that. But I am so grateful for the assist. I’m glad he had you to call.”

Before Bruce could fight off the blush once more, Jon, who had been stood playing with his fingers, spoke up quietly. “Thank you for helping me, Mr Wayne.”

Clark stepped back to Jon, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder. 

“I was really, um, not— Damian is always saying how you know what to do. And, well, you’re Batman. And Batman’s pretty cool. So I thought you could help me out? And I’m really, like, thankful that you did.” Jon paused his twiddling to rush to the coffee table, picking up a clingfilmed plate to bring over to Bruce. “I made some cookies with Ma yesterday when I was at the farm. I— I hope you don’t mind they’re not fresh, Damian’s Dad, but I hope you like them. I like them! So— and, I hope you’re not like, allergic or anyt—”

Bruce knelt down onto one knee and took the plate from Jon with a small smile. He set the dish down on the carpet next to him and brought a hand to rest on Jon’s shoulder. “I am grateful for the cookies. Thank you.” Bruce squeezed his shoulder. “But you don’t have to thank me for helping you, Jon. I’m glad you knew you could call me. If you ever need anything at all, I’m here for you to call. I’ll help you just like I would help Damian. Do you understand?”

Jon gulped but nodded. 

Bruce squeezed his shoulder once more before removing his hand, picking up the plate and standing up. He gestured towards the door. “Damian is in his room. Why don’t you go find him? He’ll be happy to see you.”

Jon glanced up at Clark who nodded his permission. Without another word but an unsure smile, Jon hurried past the grownups, running towards the stairs. 

Bruce dropped the overly friendly smile and lifted a brow at Clark, taking in the mess his friend was in, obviously not having cared for himself since finding Jon. “Stay for dinner? You’ll disappoint Alfred if you don’t.”

Clark chuckled, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Don’t wanna disappoint Alfred.”

“As long as you take some for Lois, save her the cooking.” Bruce said as he led them out of the room, cookie plate in hand. 

“Yeah,” Clark relaxed even more. “Thanks, Bruce.”

🦇

Bruce scanned over the street below him, finding nothing amiss. He almost regretted not bringing Robin despite it being a school night, Gotham was so quiet it would’ve been a nice patrol before bed. 

Bruce himself was considering going back to the Cave to continue computer based research instead of wasting the night patrolling when his comm was activated. 

“Batman,” Alfred’s voice came through the static. The man sounded somewhat amused which put Bruce on edge. “Your personal line is receiving a call.”

He frowned, stepping safely into the shadows, wall against his back. All personal contacts that mattered would have known he was patrolling at the moment. Would have contacted him via his comms. “Who?”

“Superboy,” Alfred replied. “The youngest.”

Jon. 

Heart rabbitting, Bruce ran through all possible scenarios that would lead the child who should be asleep in his own bed calling him. “Patch him through.”

“Very well.”

There was a pause as the line connected, Bruce wondering the entire time where the hell Superman was. Even Lois was capable of putting up a decent fight when she wanted to. 

“Superboy.” Batman tried not to snap when he heard the line click. “What’s wrong?”

“Mr W— um, Batman, sir. You’re not busy, are you?”

The child sounded okay. But his voice was quiet, whispering as if he didn’t want to get caught. 

Bruce wasn’t a civilian right now, no. He was Batman. He could protect Jon against whichever hostage situation, alien abduction, or anything he might have found himself in. As long as the kid was still breathing, Batman could get to him. 

“Talk to me, Superboy. Where are you?” Batman ordered, keeping his own gruff voice in a clear whisper. 

He was going to throttle Superman. 

“In my room.” Jon said. Voice steady, airy if not a little nervous. “Are you busy?”

Wait. 

What?

Batman’s frown hardened. Maybe a home invasion? Or was Superboy speaking in code? Did Jon even know how to speak in code? He must do somewhat, the kid was young but he wasn’t completely naïve. 

“No, I’m not.” Batman said carefully. 

“Oh, good.” Jon’s voice sounded a bit chirpier but still in a whisper. “Only, you said I could call you if I needed anything, right?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, so, don’t get mad but I slacked off on doing my homework.”

His… homework?

“And I thought I could do it real quick, but it’s way harder than I thought. It’s math, you know? And I don’t want to wake Mom or Dad up. They’ll get mad ‘cause I’d told them I finished this earlier. And Kon’s gone with Ti— uh, Red Robin so I can’t ask him. And if I don’t get it done by tomorrow then I’ll get detention and I really don’t wanna get detention, Mr Batman.”

Batman stared at a stained spot on the roof floor in front of him. There was a flash of red and blue as a siren screamed by. Some laughter from a couple of teens somewhere afar. The air was crisp and growing colder as the night continued on. He breathed in and out. His heart had finally dropped to a normal beat. 

“…Mr Batman?”

Bruce shook his head.

“What’s the question?”

“Oh! Right, um, it’s a bit hard to describe. But its fractions. Do you know how to do those?”

Bruce bit down on the lip that twitched upward. “I can try.”

“Okay, so, I kind of get multiplying fractions. But here’s where it gets weird. The bottom number, that’s called the denominator, in case you didn’t know, they’re different in these questions. I swear I paid attention in class! But I just… I’m really bad at math.” Jon rambled. Bruce could hear a scribble of a pencil doodling in the background. 

“I can explain that to you.” Bruce said patiently. “You do the same thing as when they have the same denominator. You only need to multiply across. Tell me the numbers to the first question.”

After helping with the first two, Bruce tasked Jon with finishing the rest himself as he stood on standby, correcting him gently when he made a mistake. 

“I did it! That’s it— oop—” Jon cut his cheer off. Going back to a whisper. “I did it!” He repeated much quieter, still trying not to wake his parents up. 

“Well done,” Bruce praised. Letting his frown fade away. 

“Thanks, Mr Batman. I’m just really bad at math. I’m sorry for taking up your time!” Jon said, Bruce could hear paper being stored away. 

“You are not ‘bad’ at math.” Bruce said pointedly. “No one is bad at anything. You only need practice. You did nearly every question yourself.”

There was a pause on the line. “I did, didn’t I?” Jon realised and there was a smile in his voice. 

“Well done. Is there anything else?” 

“No, thank you, Mr Batman.”

Bruce took a breath to hide the fondness that was growing in him. “Get some sleep, Superboy. It’s late.”

“Yes, sir! Tell Robin I said hi.” Jon said and Bruce could now hear the rustle of sheets. 

“Goodnight, Superboy.”

Bruce waited for the child to cut the call first. Looking off into the horizon of Gotham. Feeling strangely at ease despite being out in the open. 

“That was adorable.”

Bruce grunted. “Enough, Oracle.”

“Oh, so you’re only nice to kiddies who need help with their math homework?” Barbara teased. 

“Patrol is finished. Get some rest.” Bruce commanded, pulling out his grapple hook to swing across the buildings towards the Batmobile, letting his cape swish behind him. 

He felt a need to go check in on his own youngest. 

The next time Jon contacted him was during an afternoon where Bruce found himself stuck in a WE board meeting. 

Feeling the buzz of a text message, Bruce pulled his phone out of his inner pocket, glancing down as a senior member ranted on about one of their policies. Bruce wasn’t paying attention. 

It was a message from Jon. No caption, just a picture. 

The image showed a fractions worksheet, the numbers familiar, messy writing covered the sheet. On the top corner, written in red pen was a full marks score displaying 20/20 next to a smiling sticker. 

Stomping down on the smile trying to peek through, Bruce typed out a message. 

‘Well done.’

🦇

‘Are you awake?’ Flashed a new text message.

He didn’t want to be. Bruce was only just on his way to bed. Fresh from a long patrol that involved him getting hit by a car, Bruce was shattered. Emotionally. Also physically. Still, he sat down heavily on his bed, dressed in only sweatpants, his bandages holding him together. 

‘Yes.’

Instantly, a call came through. Without complaint, Bruce accepted it. Ready to don on the cowl despite his bruised ribs if he had to. 

“Mr Wayne?” 

Bruce assessed the situation. It was the middle of the night. Jon’s voice was shaky. Not nervous like from the homework issue, but not near a panic attack like when he was Superboy. It didn’t mean he was completely safe. 

“Jon.” Bruce greeted, keeping his voice soft. “What’s the matter, lad?”

There was a moment of silence that brought Bruce on edge. Both times he’s spoken to Jon on the phone, the child had rambled on and on. Unable to stop himself from stumbling through too much information. It was unlike him to be quiet. 

“Jon?” Bruce pressed.

“Dad’s not home.” Jon mumbled. 

“No,” Bruce knew that much. “Your father is on Watchtower duty. I can contact him if necessary.”

Bruce heard a sniff through the phone and despite his bruised ribs, he stiffened. 

Please don’t cry. 

“Mom hasn’t been sleeping well,” Jon admitted and then hiccuped a tiny cry. “And so I don’t wanna wake her up.”

“Jon,” Bruce mustered as much feeling as he could in saying his name. He heard the effect as more quiet cries fell through the phone. 

“We had a fight before bed,” he said. “And we made up ‘cause it’s not good to go to bed upset. Ma always says so.”

Bruce wondered if he should be feeling relief from how the child was beginning to ramble once more. 

“I don’t wanna wake her up now,” Jon sniffed, “I don’t wanna make her mad.”

“Jon,” Bruce shook his head. He tried to put himself in the child’s shoes, bringing up a hand to massage his head, the painkillers Alfred insisted on taking weren’t having an effect yet. “Jon, what’s the matter?”

The boy cried a few seconds more as he struggled to catch a breath that let him speak. “My tu— stomach.” He revealed. 

Bruce’s anxiety heightened. “Your stomach hurts?”

“Uh huh,” Jon replied, sounding every bit of a child he was.  

“Okay, now.” Bruce listened to his sniffles. “Where exactly does it hurt?”

“My stomach.” He whined. 

“I know,” Bruce comforted. “High, low, left, right or middle? Is it nearer your ribs or navel?”

“Um… um… middle, I think.”

Not appendicitis, thank goodness, that was if Jon could be trusted in his assessment. 

“Alright, Jon, you need to find your mother and tell her you’re in pain.” Bruce instructed. 

“No, I can’t, Mr Wayne.” Jon whined again. “She’s not been sleeping and she’ll be mad and I made a mess on the floor.”

“You made a mess?”

“I threw up.” Jon whimpered. 

“Oh, Jon.” Bruce pinched his nose. “Jon, it sounds like you’ve caught a stomach bug or maybe food poisoning. You need medicine, lad.”

“Can’t you… can’t you tell me which one? Dami says you’re really smart at medical things.”

Bruce, in the privacy of his room, allowed himself to smile. But he still didn’t trust the ten year old to rummage through the Kent’s medical cabinet on his own. Damian? Sure. All of his kids at that age were capable but not Jon, he had little training and Bruce couldn’t live with himself if he took the wrong medicine. 

Maybe in a universe where Lois couldn’t be trusted he might have walked Jon through it. But Bruce had seen plenty of neglectful parents, and he was very grateful that Jon had none. 

“Chum, you listen to me. Your mother will be very upset when she wakes up in the morning and learns that you needed her and didn’t wake her.” Bruce reasoned. “She will not be mad at you for going to her now, I promise.”

“What if she is?” Jon asked and then moaned in pain. 

“You’re hurting, son. Your mom will not be mad.” Bruce despised this transition in age, where the full trust in a parent gets doubted by niggling thoughts and voices. 

“Okay…”

“Good,” Bruce relaxed in relief and then winced at his ribs. “Now stand up, well done.” He instructed as he heard slow movement. “Walk to the hall, go straight to your mother’s room. That’s it.” 

Jon’s voice whispered so quietly Bruce nearly didn’t catch it. “She’s really sleeping. Real deep.”

“You’re a good kid,” Bruce acknowledged. “But you need to go inside and wake her up. Tell her you’re hurting, Jon.”

Bruce listened to the hesitation. He also looked up at a sound outside his own room. Damian pushed the door open quietly. Distantly, Bruce heard Jon through the receiver. 

“Mom?”

“Jon? Baby, what’s wr—”

Bruce hung up. Knowing Jon had followed through and was now in the care of Lois. 

“Damian,” Bruce greeted his own child and gestured to the arm Damian had knocked during patrol. “How’s your shoulder?”  

His son scowled at him curiously. “Adequate.” Damian stayed back, holding the door. “Pennyworth sent me to check if you were asleep as you should be. Were you… speaking with Jon?”

“Yes,” Bruce plugged his phone into its charger, holding back a groan of pain. He needed to remember to arrange a doctor’s appointment for Lois’ sleep issues. “He needed some advice.”

Damian blinked at him before scowling harder. “Tt.” He muttered and turned around. “Goodnight, Father.”

Bruce, in all his pains and aches, laid down. Not even having the strength to lift up the covers, the knowledge that everyone in his vicinity was safe was enough to pull him to sleep. 

🦇

“I’m so sorry to just spring this on you.” Lois apologised once more. “I really owe you one, Bruce.”

“I already said it’s no problem.” Bruce reassured. “Damian loves having Jon around. He gets along great with everyone.”

“I know, I just hate to drop this on you.” Lois said again, adjusting her heavy duffle bags on her shoulder. “It’s just Ma isn’t feeling great and I trust Kon to look after himself for a few days but Kon and Jon together? Absolutely, not.”

Jon, who had been stood by her side and holding onto his own bag, smiled sheepishly. 

Lois continued. “And you already know about Clark. I didn’t know where else—”

“Lois, really, it’s fine. Having Jon is a pleasure.” Bruce interjected. “You can’t control your boss sending you across the country.”

“I’m gonna kill Perry,” she mumbled frustratingly, then loudly ranted, “if Clark wasn’t MIA playing Superman on another planet then he would’ve gotten the job. There’s no issue for him to go flying back and forth continents but no—”

“Mom,” Jon tugged on her jacket. “You’re going to miss your flight.”

Timed perfectly, Damian joined Bruce’s side, freshly changed after school. Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Right,” Lois knelt down and took Jon’s face in her hands. “I love you. Be good for Mr Wayne, okay?”

Jon blushed harshly. “Yeah, Mom. ‘ove you too.” He muttered beneath his breath. 

Lois leaned forward, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Alright. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” She stood, walking backwards to the door. “Okay, okay. Love you, baby. Don’t forget your geography assignment. And the extra reading. Help Mr Pennyworth out. Try not to use your powers. I packed extra pajam—”

“Lois,” Bruce said, reaching forward to place a hand on top of the baseball cap Jon was wearing, still holding onto Damian with the other. “He’ll be fine. I’ll keep you updated. Have a nice flight.”

“Okay,” Lois, climbed into the taxi cab that had been waiting outside. “Okay, bye Jon! Love you!”

“Bye, Mom.” He waved back at her as she drove off, watching the car disappear behind the foliage. 

Bruce felt as the boy’s body slumped into himself. Thankfully, Damian stepped forward then, also looking out at where the taxi had gone. 

“Pfft,” he scoffed, but not unkindly. “Come, Jon. There is much in our itinerary.”

“Yeah?” Jon asked, finally turning to face Damian.

Damian picked up Jon’s duffle bag. “Indeed. To my room. Titus is waiting.”

“Okay.” Jon allowed Damian to take his hand and tug him away, the boys ignoring Bruce's presence entirely. 

Bruce was happy to be forgotten, going to close and securely lock the front door. He was happy Damian had a good friend. 

Alfred approached behind him. “Shall I prepare dinner after the children are back from sneaking out, sir?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to ruin their game.”

“Very good, sir.”

Alfred Pennyworth was a godsend. Life carried on as normal for everyone with Alfred smoothly incorporating Jon’s own life into theirs. An extra plate on the table, a bag of school lunch next to Damian’s, adding extra toiletries in Damian’s ensuite, and much more. 

Bruce just stayed out of the way. Making small talk to loosen the tension in Jon’s shoulders at the dinner table. 

“Call me Bruce.”

“Okay, Mr Bruce.” 

Close enough. 

The first night had gone on with no issues. There was a bit of a back and forth in convincing the boys that Superboy could not patrol Gotham, even under adult supervision. But other than that, everything went seamlessly. 

“You know you can’t adopt that one, right?” Jason asked when he stopped by. 

Bruce grunted, ignoring him. ‘Course he knew that. 

Back from patrol, Bruce had written his reports and was ready to head on to bed. It wasn’t too late, but once again, the violent crime rate that night wasn’t too high. 

He’d been passing through the halls when he paused at Damian’s. Bruce checked in every night to the point where his son now slept through it. As long as Bruce was silent like he was right then, twisting the well oiled handle and pushing the door ajar, just wide enough to peek in. 

Damian, as predicted, slept peacefully on the side of the king bed. Body rising and falling in a way that always filled Bruce’s chest with a feeling he never tried too hard to name. 

What startled Bruce was to see Jon sitting up on his side of the bed. Knees hugged to his chest and the bottom half of his face hiding behind them. 

Concerned, Bruce pushed into the room, padding over softly. “Jon? Is everything alright?” He asked in a hushed voice. 

Watching Bruce carefully with wide eyes, Jon shook his head. 

Bruce eyed the boy, assessing him analytically. Jon didn’t appear to be in pain, and the kid was bad at hiding when he was. But he was definitely frightened. 

“Did you have a nightmare?” Bruce deduced.

Jon waited a moment before nodding once, arms tightening around his knees insecurely. 

Bruce made a sympathetic noise, cutting it off when Damian shifted. Both of them stopped, watching Damian until he relaxed. 

Once Damian settled, Bruce gestured towards the door questioningly. 

Biting his lip, Jon slipped the covers off of himself, putting his feet into the borrowed slippers beside the bed. He followed Bruce out, who grabbed a spare throw. Once the two were out, Bruce shut the door quietly. 

Jon sniffed as Bruce knelt down. The man used the throw cover, draping it around Jon’s shoulders to combat the cold stillness of the hallways. 

“Did you want to talk about it?” Bruce asked, feeling a bit out of his depth. 

The child sniffed and blue eyes welled up. 

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. 

“It was just a dream,” Bruce reassured quickly. “It’s over now, chum. You’re okay.”

Thankfully, no tears fell, but Jon’s breath did hitch. “I dreamt that… that I couldn’t save someone. ‘Cause my powers failed.”

Bruce frowned, tilting his head. “That must have felt awful.”

Jon’s lip quivered. “Mhmm.”

“Did you want me to call your mother?” Bruce asked. Honestly, he wanted to contact Clark as this topic felt more appropriate for him, but Superman was still too busy. 

Jon was quick to shake his head in distress. “No! I don’t wanna wake her. She needs to rest for this case.”

Bruce hummed, trying to keep his face soft while hiding his clenching and unclenching hand, feeling helpless. “What do your parents usually do when you have a nightmare?”

Jon shrugged a shoulder, pulling the blanket more snuggly around him as he glanced away. “Sometimes Mom will make a hot drink. Or I’ll go to sleep with them. Dad likes to talk it all out and read a story if I’m still not happy.”

Bruce nodded, filing away the information. Letting Jon sleep in his bed was out of the question, not only was it inappropriate but that space was for Bruce’s children only. However, the rest was doable. 

“I know how to make a hot chocolate. Damian loves it. Shall we go have some?” Bruce offered. 

Biting his lip, Jon nodded. Bruce didn’t scold him for it, it wasn’t his place. Instead, he led the way. 

Perhaps it was the late hour, or the fear still lingering in Jon’s chest, but it still startled Bruce to feel a smaller hand slip into his. 

He looked down, Jon had one hand grasping the soft blanket around himself, the edge dragging behind him; while the other clenched onto Bruce’s. 

Saying nothing, Bruce just squeezed the hand once as they made their way to the kitchen. 

Settling Jon down on the chair at the counter, Bruce got to work making the sugary drink. Quietly letting Jon process his thoughts in the strange environment he was forced in. Bruce knew a thing or two about nightmares. 

“Here,” Bruce set a tall glass in front of him. “Don’t feel like you have to finish it.”

Wordlessly, Jon reached for the glass with both hands, bringing it close to sip on. Considering he didn’t complain, Bruce took it as a win and cleaned up the mess he had made while preparing. 

Quietly, Jon mumbled something, pulling Bruce out of his thoughts. 

“What was that, lad?” He asked. 

Jon ducked his head down, thumbs running up and down the glass he was holding. “Dad was mad at me… in my dream. A real Superman doesn’t let people die.”

Feeling the familiar weight of grief fill his chest, Bruce came closer, sitting on a chair opposite to Jon. “Is that right?”

“A real Superman’s powers wouldn’t fail like a… like a mess-up’s.” He sniffed and lifted his arm to wipe across his face. “He said it was my fault those people died.”

“Well,” Bruce chose his words cautiously. “It’s a good thing you’re only practicing to be Superman.” He smiled softly when Jon glanced up. “You’re Superboy. You’re learning. You’re honing in on your powers and practicing their extent. You’ve only just recently gained them, Jon.”

“I guess,” Jon said sadly, moving his gaze to the half filled glass. 

“And Jon,” Bruce gained his attention back. “I have known Clark for years. Decades. He would not blame you if you made a mistake.”

Jon’s face crumbled. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Bruce insisted, thinking back to his own children. “He might guide you, he might help you see what went wrong, but your dad would never turn around and say any tragedies were your fault.” Bruce shrugged, “besides, I could tell you loads of stories where Clark messed up.”

That had Jon blinking, straightening up in interest. “Like what?”

With a nostalgic expression, Bruce told tale after tale about his older missions with Clark. Back when Dick was still newly Robin. The things the three of them got up to when they weren’t dealing with galactic threats. 

At the first sign of a yawn, Bruce finished his last story, standing up and coming around. “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

The child yawned again, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. He blinked tiredly up at Bruce, eyes swollen in sleep. 

Tampering away his smile, Bruce adjusted the blanket back around Jon and helped him down. He debated carrying the boy, but decided that if Jon was capable of walking then he should maintain boundaries. With a firm hand on the child’s shoulder, Bruce directed him back to Damian’s room.

In the dark of the room, Bruce let Jon slip back into his spot, draping the sheets over and tucking him in the same way he would have with Damian on a bad night. The boy’s eyes were already closing, lids heavy. 

“Goodnight, Jon.” Bruce whispered. 

“G’night, Unc’e Bruce.” Jon mumbled, rolling over and relaxing into the warmth. 

Bruce opened his jaw and shut it, staring down at Clark’s son. He shook his head and in the privacy of the dark allowed himself to feel the emotion tugging on his heart. 

The kid was sweet. He’d admit it. 

Coming around to the opposite side of the bed, Bruce bent down to Damian, allowing more familiarity with his own son as he ran a weighty hand through the child’s hair and laid a quick kiss on his forehead.

Shifting a little, Damian forced open a tired eye to check. Once he saw Bruce smiling down on him, Damian tutted and made himself more comfortable, burrowing deeper into the mattress. 

With more feeling than he expected to have that night, Bruce left the two children to sleep. 

🦇

Chapter Text

Clark groaned at the noise coming from his phone, turning around to bury his face into the pillow. He didn’t care what time it was. As long as it wasn’t the sound of his alarm or the League communicator, he was going back to sleep. 

It didn’t matter what he wanted though, Lois’ hand came up to lazily slap his bare arm. “Clark,” she mumbled. “Phone.”

“Ugh,” Clark reached for the device. He might not need sleep as much as a human, but as soon as he dozed off he liked to stay asleep. He squinted at the too-bright screen, holding the phone away to read the name. 

Any sleep he had felt was pulled out beneath his feet when he read Damian’s name in the caller ID. Immediately, he focused his hearing, pinpointing it to Gotham. Listening in for whatever disaster Batman had faced that had Robin calling Superman of all people for help. 

The hand returned, slapping his skin again. “Just answer the phone and ask him what’s wrong.” Lois said. 

Clark blinked. “Right.” He sat up straighter, trying to calm down as he answered the call. “Damian?”

“Kent,” Damian greeted, voice as disdainful as it always was when addressing Clark. “I require your assistance.”

“What’s wrong?” Clark was quick to ask, tugging his blanket off.

He couldn’t pinpoint any vigilante out in Gotham. He heard chatter between Spoiler and Oracle but he couldn’t hear anything that had him racing through the skies. 

“Your journalistic skills are needed.” Damian said. 

Journalistic? Had a seedy reporter offended the Wayne family once more? Had something so horrible been written that Damian, the boy who usually played rumours off with a roll of his eyes, was calling Clark for help? Clark was well aware it was all an act. Anyone with sense could see the way Damian’s shoulders would bunch up or how his ears reddened when tabloids mocked his race and heritage. Clark had no qualms over brutalising anyone with an article of his own as revenge. 

His phone pinged and he pulled it away from his ear to check. Damian had sent him an image. A handwritten essay about… about a soccer player?

“Um,” Clark brought the phone back to his ear. “What’s this about, Damian?”

“My teacher has given us an abysmal assignment. We are to write a newspaper article on a sport of our choosing. I selected the first athlete that came up on an Internet search. Is the article satisfactory?” Damian asked plainly. Voice curt and bored. 

Clark blinked into the darkness of his room. Trying to process what was happening. That Bruce’s littlest kid was ringing him at… two in the morning. To ask if he liked his article. 

Well, if there was anything Clark knew, it was how to roll with the punches. 

He opened up the image again and read through it diligently. Tampering down the amusement that was building inside of him. This kid hated him, Clark was self aware enough to know. Yet, he was still waking him up to check his homework. As if their relationship was anything beyond him being Jon’s dad. 

“It’s good.” Clark spoke into the speaker as he scanned through the article. “No spelling or grammatical errors. One thing though, I know you’re clever and like to read straight facts. But a sports news article typically has a lot of expressions. Like exclamation marks, rhetorical questions, things like that.”

“That sounds like a waste of time.” Damian sniped. “A newspaper’s purpose is to showcase information. This is showcasing information.”

“You’re right,” Clark let himself smile. “But think of it this way, most sports readers need all that to keep their short attention span on the article.”

“Hm,” Damian paused. “This is your speciality. What do you suggest?”

“Well,” Clark wondered how he ended up here. “I’m not going to rewrite your work. But let’s go sentence by sentence, see what we can make fun.”

“Ugh.”

Although Clark wanted to make it quick, considering the time and that Damian had to be up soon to go to school, they had spent a good chunk of the hour editing Damian’s article. To Clark’s amusement, Damian appeared to already know most of where he went wrong. To the point where it had Clark wondering how much of an act the boy was playing. Almost like he wrote the article this way on purpose. 

“That’s amazing, kiddo.” Clark praised. “You did a really great job here.”

“Tt,” Clark could practically hear Damian rolling his eyes. “I still believe this reads as childish.”

“Maybe,” Clark shrugged. “But you’ll get a good grade for it. You let me know, alright? Do you need anything else, champ?”

“No need, I am aware you need your rest for your civilian job.” Damian mentioned. Then quietly, with a real shy bit of emotion slipping through, Damian said, “thank you for your assistance, Kent.”

“Oh, kiddo, no pro—”

Damian cut the call, leaving Clark in silence. 

Tossing his phone on the bedside table, Clark shut his eyes and groaned, dropping back down in bed and laying an arm over his eyes. He smiled when he heard Lois chuckle sleepily next to him, the insomnia pills Bruce’s doctor had prescribed working. 

He stayed still, accommodating Lois as she snuggled closer, settling her cheek on his chest. “He’s jealous.” She cooed. 

“Sure sounds like it,” he said, just as amused as he lightly scratched his nails comfortingly over her arm. 

“Don’t tell Bruce,” she suggested. “Not yet. I don’t think Damian would appreciate it like Jon would.”

“If you’re sure,” Clark agreed thoughtfully. “Can’t be easy having a big family to share your dad with and then also having your friend tag along. Do you think we should talk to Jon to lay off a bit?”

“I like that he has someone else in his corner,” Lois said. “He trusts Bruce. I don’t want him to doubt that when he feels like he can’t come to us.”

“You’re so smart,” Clark yawned. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Sleep,” Lois chided. “You’re talking nonsense again.”

“S’not nonsense." Clark mumbled, letting himself fall asleep with the permission. 

🦇

Bruce was sitting in the Cave, reassessing Duke’s suit to consider improvements, when his phone buzzed. 

Seeing Jon’s caller ID didn’t fill Bruce with absolute dread anymore. There was still a bit of cautionary anxiety where the boy’s ’I messed up’ could apparently range from a burning building to throwing up in his bedroom. Still, Bruce rolled his chair away from the suit and answered the phone. “Hello, Jon.”

“Hi, Uncle Bruce.” Jon answered with a little cheer. Bruce bit the inside of his cheek to replace the little feeling in his chest. It wasn’t so different from when his children called him ‘dad’. “This isn’t an emergency, so if you’re doing something else then that is, like, totally cool.”

“I’m not busy.” Bruce reassured him. “What’s on your mind?”

“Um,” Jon hesitated. “Weird question, but Kon isn’t around, is he?”

Bruce raised a brow. “No.”

“Okay, cool! Have you seen ‘Big Hero 6’?”

Bruce took a breath. “No. Nor have I seen the other five.”

“Oh, that’s not— nevermind. Okay, so, Kon really likes that movie. We all watched it together, Tim liked it too although Dami wasn’t a fan of the beginning part but he really liked when— nevermind. Look, long story short, Kon’s favourite bit is these little fighting robots that are in the beginning of the movie. Well, not his favourite bit but he really likes it. And his birthday is in like two weeks and I thought that hey, I could build him a fighting machine! And then I got sat down and realised I’m really dumb when it comes to machines, not like Dami. But Damian’s got enough going on and if he knows it’s for Kon he’s not going to help, so, basically, what I’m asking is, if you’re not, like, totally busy and don’t have actual important adult things to do, then like, maybe, if you’re sure, I was wondering if… um…”

With patience Bruce had mastered decades ago when he took in Dick, Bruce had somehow retained all that information and summarised it in his head. He absently pondered over whether being half-Kryptonian meant Jon didn’t need to breathe as much. 

“I wouldn’t mind helping you build the robot, Jon.” Bruce took mercy on the boy’s nerves. 

“Really?” Jon brightened, his voice pitching in excitement. “‘Cause it’s totally cool if you’d rather not.”

At that point, the Cave entrance opened up, Damian came out and made his way down the steps. 

“I want to. Not because I think you're ‘dumb’ when it comes to machines but I would like to teach you how to build them, Jon. This would be a good opportunity for you to learn and practice.” Bruce informed him, watching Damian pause when he reached the bottom of the stairs before tutting and going over to the training equipment. 

“That’s super awesome, Uncle Bruce. Do you really think I could learn?”

“I don’t see why not. I can arrange for you to come over together with your father.” Bruce planned as he watched Damian tightly wrap bandages around his knuckles. He was doing them too tight, Bruce needed to make sure he revises how to properly keep his hands safe. 

“Okay, but no Kon, right? I want this to be a surprise.”

“I promise, he won’t hear it from me.” Bruce swore. “I have to go now, Jon. I’ll be in touch with your dad soon, okay?”

“Okay! Can I send you pictures of the ‘Big Hero 6’ robots?”

“Sure, lad.” Bruce said. “Goodbye, now.”

“Bye bye!”

Bruce hung up first this time, putting his phone down but keeping his eyes on Damian. He watched him grow frustrated with the bandages, the ties slipping from his fingers. 

“These are abysmal!” Damian snapped, tugging harshly at the bandage. 

“There’re more in storage,” Bruce informed. “Did you want me to grab some for you?”

“No, I shall do it myself.” Damian hissed, tossing the bandages down and stomping his way through the Cave. As he passed Bruce he grumbled under his breath. “You’ll be too busy anyway.”

With a frown, Bruce squinted, watching Damian rip the storage cabinet open and rummage through. “What was that?”

Damian just ignored him, shutting the door hard. 

“Damian.”

His son marched past him, jaw gritted and eyes dangerous. 

Bruce, having had enough, reached out to grasp Damian’s wrist. “Damian.”

“Hey!” Damian snapped, trying to immediately tug his hand out of Bruce’s grip roughly. “Let go!”

Bruce only pulled him closer, tilting his head at Damian. “Hey, no, what did you mean?”

Damian’s cheeks reddened and the boy snarled up at him. “Why don’t you go ask Jon!”

Sourly, Bruce felt his face fall and he went to hold Damian’s other wrist too, preventing the child from lashing out. “What’s this about, love?”

Damian growled, glaring straight at Bruce. 

This wasn’t something to be amused by, as much as Bruce wanted to be. He instead softened his expression and in an instant tugged Damian forward. The boy stumbled, tripping over his feet and crashing directly into Bruce. 

Bruce brought his arms around to keep Damian loosely against his chest. He kept his muscles relaxed. If Damian wanted out of this hold then he could manage it with no real issue, this touch was his choice. But the child wiggled around amateurly, imitating the way younger children typically struggled. 

“Shh,” Bruce hushed him, ignoring the way Damian growled in response. “Shh, it’s gonna be alright. We’ll work through this.” He swayed the child sideways rhythmically. 

With stiffness in his body and arms firmly by his sides, Damian stopped struggling. But kept his anger open on his face. Bruce assessed his expression carefully. Anger was on the surface, yes, but there was a bigger emotion underneath. 

“When you need something,” Bruce began. “Who do you go to?”

Damian scowled, “you.” He muttered. 

“And if I’m not the right person for the job?” Bruce asked, reaching down to rub at the redness on Damian’s knuckles from how tight he had been wrapping the bandages. 

In his hold, Damian kicked the ground in irritation. “Titus or Richard. Maybe Pennyworth.”

“And if not them?”

“Perhaps… the others. Brown, Todd, Cain, Thomas, Gordon.”

“Damian.”

“…and Drake.” He grumbled. 

“Look at that,” Bruce said and ran a hand over to flatten Damian’s hair. “You’ve got all these people in your corner to turn to.”

Damian bared his teeth. “Get to the point, Father.”

“How many people does Jon have who can drop everything to help him?” Bruce asked. 

Damian glanced away in thought. “Three. The alien, his mother and the clone. Perhaps Ma Kent.”

“Which makes Jon really lucky,” Bruce reasoned. “But sometimes he might need someone else. Someone he can call to help him.”

Damian’s face flickered, the emotion hiding away breaking through. The jealousy making an honest appearance. “But you are my father. Jon has one already.”

Bruce’s mouth fell. With a surge of feeling in him, he pulled Damian closer, lifting him up to settle the child on his knee. 

Damian tutted, shying away. “Father.” He whined with no real bite to it. 

“I am your father,” Bruce said firmly. “And you are my son. That’s never going to change.”

With his feet now off the ground, Damian swung them back and forth, biting his lip. “I already have to… you have enough children.”

Bruce’s chest jumped as he squashed a laugh. He reached up to pull Damian’s lip out from between his teeth. The boy knew he wasn’t supposed to hurt himself. “I do. I know. And you know I’m here for you equally as much as I am for your siblings. But Jon isn’t my kid, Damian.” Bruce promised. “He’s Clark’s son. He’s your best friend. That made him someone I was willing to protect before I even came to know him. Now he’s sort of like… a nephew of sorts. But he’s not my son.” Bruce cupped Damian’s red cheek. “You’re my son.”

Damian brought his arms up to fold them in front of himself defensively. As though shielding himself away. 

“There are tons of things I can do with you that I can’t do with Jon.” Bruce said as he brought his arms back around Damian more firmly, tugging his boy close to his chest. 

“Pfft,” Damian mocked insecurely, ducking his head. “Like what?”

Bruce allowed himself to smile in the safe company of his son. One hand came to cradle Damian’s head, sitting his chin on the child’s hair. “Well, I can’t hug him like this.” He narrated with a squeeze. “And I can’t sit him on my lap like you.” He rocked side to side as Damian relaxed into the hold. “I couldn’t patrol with him as my Robin.”

“He’d make a crappy Robin.” Damian agreed and Bruce chose not to comment. 

“I couldn’t watch documentaries for hours with him. I couldn’t teach Titus tricks with him. Or allow him into my room like I allow you. I couldn’t criticise ancient texts with him the way we do.” Bruce grinned mischievously. “I couldn’t do this,” he said and planted a kiss on Damian’s temple. The child predictably squawked and turned a bright shade of red. Bruce chuckled, returning to his earlier position. “I couldn’t love him as much as I love you. You’re my youngest, Damian.” You’re my baby. “You and Jon are very different to me.”

Damian had stayed quiet throughout the entire speech. His body relaxing more and more into Bruce’s arms. Burrowing sideways into the man’s chest, hands fiddling with the bandage roll he had taken from the storage. 

“I suppose… that sounds acceptable.” Damian said under his breath. 

Bruce just smiled tenderly, leaning into the warmth of the small child on his lap. 

“If you do think I am crossing a boundary, or getting closer to your friend than you're comfortable with, I can always back away. I can always tell him to stop.” It would break Bruce’s heart, but Jon wasn’t alone in the world. He thankfully did have a family he could rely on, he didn’t absolutely have a need for Bruce to be present in his life. 

“No,” Damian mumbled as if that was never his intention in the first place. “No, Jon can be quite dimwitted occasionally. It might be good to have you on standby.”

Bruce huffed a laugh. “If you’re sure. And hey, you know you could do the same, right? You could always give Clark a call. Dick used to back in the day.” 

“I shall keep it in mind.” Damian said. “But I have already indeed attempted to contact Kent during a time of need.”

“Oh?” Bruce asked, concerned when this was. Why wasn’t Bruce available?

“Yes, I falsified requiring homework assistance to test Kent and while he did well, there was nothing he offered that I did not already know.” Damian stated, the side of his face flat against Bruce's chest. It made Damian’s sophisticated language lose some of its impact. 

“I see,” Bruce chuckled. “Have you tried asking him about something you wouldn’t know?”

Damian tilted his head to look up with a frown. “But I know everything.”

“Maybe,” Bruce couldn’t help but lean down to lay another kiss on Damian’s forehead. He continued, ignoring the surprised blink. “But you don’t know about all the planets and galaxies Clark has visited recently.”

Damian opened his mouth, probably to retort back, when he paused. “I suppose I do not.”

“That might be something to ask on your next visit to the farm,” Bruce suggested. “Maybe you can ask him to let you help with the animals too while he tells you.”

“Oh,” Damian looked into the distance, Bruce imagined he was picturing the scene. The father was too busy focusing on the small hand that had unconsciously come up to grip Bruce’s shirt. 

Bruce felt the conversation coming to a natural end, but he didn’t want to leave Damian. “Did you want to watch a movie?”

From the way the hand in his shirt grew tighter, Bruce assumed Damian agreed with the sentiment. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” Bruce stood, carrying Damian up easily. The child, for once, did not pretend to resist. Instead, giving up all his weight as he rested against his father. “Have you seen Big Hero 1?”

“What?”