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It’s lucky the mission was easy, because Bruce was so distracted he could’ve gotten his teammates killed ten times over. Rote muscle memory was enough to stop Vandal - rote muscle memory and Clark’s absolute focus, which was both terrifying and…well. It didn’t help with Bruce’s concentration. There was a time when Clark using his powers would’ve made distrust curl in Bruce’s gut, but somewhere along the way, when his work visits to the Batcave had started to become meals in the Manor and ice cream with Dick, the emotion became a bit less twisted and a bit more heated.
And then Clark had died. It had only been a few weeks, but Bruce had felt his absence like a palpable hit. Even standing here, in front of him, he didn’t quite believe the man was back.
“Thanks for holding down the fort while I was gone,” Clark says, and his smile is blindingly brilliant. Bruce feels his heart collapse in on itself.
“We were hardly going to let the world disintegrate just because Superman wasn’t there to save us,” Bruce says, instead of I couldn’t accept your death because I would have fallen to pieces and I have a kid relying on me. Instead of You’re the one person who I thought wouldn’t die. You’re supposed to be invincible. Instead of Do you want to come back to the Manor tonight?
“Watchtower debrief?” Barry asks, speeding over to Clark’s side. His eyes are still slightly wet.
“Sorry, Flash, but I’ve got a few visits to make,” Clark says, his smile somehow widening.
“WAIT!” a voice screams, so loudly that Bruce actually winces. He almost looks around before he catches himself. He knows the voice and its origin. He presses one finger to his earpiece, switching on the vocal transmitter for the emergency batline.
“Are you hurt?” he asks urgently.
“I’m fine, can I talk to Superman before he leaves, please?”
“Who are you talking to?” Flash is at Bruce’s side now, peering at him, concern in his eyes.
“Spooky’s finally cracked,” Hal jokes, but the others’ attention are focused on Bruce, who finds that he has nothing to say. He settles on his classic,
“Hmn.”
“He can talk to me,” Clark offers. Bruce meets his eyes and understands that Clark, with his superhearing, can, of course, hear everything Dick is saying. He shakes his head slightly.
“No,” Bruce says firmly. “Robin, you know not to use this line for anything but emergencies. Where is Agent A?”
“He’s upstairs! He said I could watch footage of the fight because Superman came back, even though it’s technically past bedtime. And this is an emergency,” Dick insists, and his voice has a little bit of a pout in it. Bruce has long since inoculated himself against such lackluster attempts, but Clark’s face softens. Bruce curses the other man’s superhearing. He hasn’t managed to build up defenses against Clark’s puppy eyes.
“Can he hear me?” Dick asks after Bruce takes too long to respond. “Oh my god, he can, can’t he, B? How are you, Unc-Superman? Are you feeling better now that you’re alive? You need to hug B. He's been moping around the Batca-”
Before Clark can answer (and Bruce can cave), Bruce switches off the line. He looks up and has less than a moment to prepare before he’s being enveloped.
“Doctor’s orders,” Clark whispers against his shoulder, his head dropping to meet the juncture of his neck. Bruce tries, he really does. This could be a normal hug between colleagues, a simple ‘You’re not dead, and I’m happy about that.’ But every ounce of fear and pain and guilt that has been marinating in his gut for the last two weeks comes rushing up at him, spreading through him like a slow-moving panic attack, and Clark is the only thing grounding him. Clark’s warmth, Clark’s body, Clark’s smell, Clark’s arms. He tucks his head next to Bruce’s hair, breathes in deeply, as though it’s Bruce who was lost in time. Bruce buries his head in Clark’s shoulders, both men bent absurdly to tuck themselves into someone the same size as them. Bruce can’t bring himself to care as Clark’s impeturbable strength, his solid sunshine, completely encompasses him.
Bruce can’t find any words within himself that aren’t a tumbled mess of contingency plans and confessions, and ‘Dick isn’t actually a doctor, Kal,’ which isn’t appropriate for the middle of an operation. This hug isn’t exactly appropriate either, but it is necessary. Bruce realizes that if Clark had flown away to his parents and Bruce hadn’t gotten to touch him, he wouldn’t have believed this was real. He would’ve assumed it was a dream, some Black Mercy concoction. He almost still did. But Clark was slightly sweaty, and Bruce’s ribs hurt from being thrown into a wall, and this wasn’t the perfect, easy ending of a daydream. Clark still didn’t return his feelings; he just shared his love as easily as breathing, but this was enough for Bruce. If Clark’s almost-death had taught him anything, it was that basking in the warmth of this man for the rest of his life was enough.
He hums wordlessly, and Clark finally releases him, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.
“Moping, huh?”
“I was planning,” Bruce counters, unable to stop a slight softening in his eyes that he knows Clark sees. Clark sees everything about him, and he doesn’t think it has to do with X-ray vision.
“Robin knows what it looks like when you plan.”
“Don’t you have parents to go bother?”
Clark releases Bruce suddenly, as he’d known the man would at a reminder about Ma and Pa. They were possibly the only thing that could induce Clark to leave the team at this moment. He turns to go, but before he can even start to hover, Dick’s voice returns in Bruce’s ear.
“Hey, Superman, do you think you could come over for dinner tonight?” he says, clearly going for a measured, almost disinterested tone, which makes it even more adorable in Bruce’s opinion. Unfortunately, he also knows that he disconnected the emergency line, and also this voice is coming in from his other ear. Which means-
“Who the hell is this?” Hal taps on his own comms. Bruce looks around at the others, heart sinking as understanding sets in.
“Robin, did you hack the Justice League comms to ask Superman over for dinner?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.
“Well,” Dick replies, with all the implacable logic of a ten-year-old, “You turned off the emergency batline.”
“You’re grounded,” Bruce says, finally giving in and pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s going to have a headache for days, and the rapid-fire questions he can see building on Barry’s tongue aren’t helping.
“And who is this young one?” Diana asks, clearly delighted by both the voice of a child and Bruce’s exasperation. She’s multi-faceted like that. Bruce doesn’t respond for a second, unsure whether to introduce Robin at all. His firm belief is that the fewer people who know about Dick, the safer he’ll be, but he also believes that this team functions on trust at its core, and he perhaps sometimes struggles with that. He hates doubting himself. Luckily, Clark, Bruce's saving grace in every way, apparently, swoops in.
“That’s B’s partner in crime,” he supplies, his smile inordinately fond. “Robin.”
“He’s only a kid!” Barry protests, then tilts his head. “I think. Based on, you know. His voice.”
“Is that a yes for dinner?” Dick interrupts, clearly uninterested in the Justice League’s crisis. He’s a man on a mission, which usually Bruce appreciates.
“I can’t tonight, Rob,” Clark says, while making intense eye contact with Bruce. Bruce can feel himself flush, and he thanks god most of his face is covered in a lead-lined mask.
“Oh. Rain check, then.” Dick sounds a bit dejected, now, and is trying to cover it up with professionalism bordering on glibness. Bruce wonders where he learned that from.
“If everyone thought you were dead for a couple of weeks and you suddenly came back to life, who’s the first person you’d have dinner with?” Clark continues gently, still looking at Bruce. He suddenly has no idea where this is going, but he knows that Clark will be kind to Dick’s feelings, so he doesn’t interrupt.
“Oh!” Dick’s rejoinder is relieved this time. Understanding. “B, obviously. So you’re going to Ma and Pa?”
Bruce is about to interject and remind him no real names over comms - do ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’ count as real names? - before the meaning of Dick’s reply settles in on him. They hit the rest of the League at the same time.
“This is your child?” J’onn asks, amused, but not worried.
“Holy fuck, Spooky’s a dad,” Hal whispers, as though the idea is sacriligious rather than intrinsic.
“Enough,” Bruce cuts in. “We’ve had too many realizations for one day. Superman needs to go home. We can postpone the mission debrief till our Monday meeting.”
“He’s a dad and is postponing a mission debrief and just hugged Superman…” Barry whispers back to Hal theatrically. “Maybe we’re the ones who have been sent to another universe.”
“I went forward in time, not to another universe,” Clark points out, but he’s smiling again, and he is still looking at Bruce. Bruce’s blush spreads further even as he feels his molecules settling back into their usual Bruce-shaped positions. He didn’t even realize he was so scattered until Clark returned and held him together again. Until, with a casual, off-hand remark, he’d gotten Dick to admit that he sees Bruce as something akin to a father. Until he smoothed things over with the Justice League, balancing Bruce’s gruff inability to communicate with warmth and smiles and gentle words.
“Speaking of parents,” Diana cuts in, “Superman, you should visit yours. We can come back to the question of Robin at the next meeting.”
Bruce feels his headache get measurably worse as he contemplates that meeting, but he shoots Diana a grateful look anyway. At least this gives him time to prepare.
“I’ll come over for dinner on Sunday, Robin,” Clark says, “If it’s okay with B.”
Bruce doesn’t look at Clark, but he knows Clark is still looking at him, so he gives the smallest nod of his head. There’s no point in pretending they’re not at least friendly in front of the League, not after they saw Bruce melt into his arms with barely any provocation.
“And Robin?” Bruce adds, because there’s only so much softness he can allow in front of the Justice League at one time. “You’re grounded. No hacking League comms.”
“But B,” Dick whines, “It was important! Superman, tell him!”
“Sorry, kid,” Clark winks at Bruce. It takes his breath away. “Father’s orders.”
“Ugh,” Dick says, but he still sounds fairly cheerful. Either he’s resigned himself to his fate, or he’s come up with a plan to talk Bruce out of any actual punishment, which, unfortunately, works about fifty percent of the time.
“See you Sunday,” Clark murmurs to Bruce, and then he’s gone, leaving behind him only a blur. Bruce feels sunlight in his bones and thinks, not for the first time, that his kid is going to be the death of him. It’ll be the happiest death anyone has ever known.