Work Text:
It was eerily familiar when Clark met Tim Drake for the first time.
The kid was sitting on a kitchen stool, just how Jason was that first day. This time, though, Alfred was in the room.
"Master Clark," he nodded. "This young man expressed a need to meet with you and Master Bruce."
"Does Bruce know that?" Clark asked, looking around at the obvious lack of him in the room.
"He is on his way now."
He hummed. "What's your name, kiddo?"
The boy looked up at him with wide, eager eyes. Clark couldn't place the color—not quite blue, not quite green.
"Tim," he said, nervous fingers drumming on the counter.
"And you want to talk to my husband and me?"
"Yes. It's important."
Clark and Alfred locked eyes.
"I won't say I'm not a little nervous. Is everything alright, Tim?"
"Everything is fine," his fingers hadn't stopped their tapping, and now his knee was bouncing with it. Not very convincing. "It's nothing bad."
"Well, alright," the man gestured to the living room. "Do you want to sit on the couch, while we wait? I can get you a snack. Fruit, maybe?"
"No, thanks. I'm sure Mr. Wayne will be here soon."
And he was right. Clark could hear the garage door opening, Bruce's egregious 1963 Corvette pulling in. Within minutes, he walked in the house. If he was shocked by the pre-teen sitting there, he didn't show it.
"Well, hello," he nodded his head. "Who's this, darling?"
Alfred left the room silently. Clark and Tim looked at each other, and Clark motioned for the boy to introduce himself.
"Timothy Jackson Drake," he stood up and stuck his small hand out to Bruce.
"Bruce Wayne," he said, shaking the boy's hand, though he needed no introduction. "What's the business, Timothy?"
"I know things about your family," Tim blurted awkwardly.
"Many people do, unfortunately," Bruce chuckled.
"No," he shook his head. "Things other people don't know. Secrets."
It was Clark and Bruce's turn to lock eyes.
"Go on, then."
"Your son, Richard Grayson, was Batman's first Robin. He goes by Nightwing, now. Jason Todd, your second son, was the second Robin. You're Batman," he looked from Bruce to Clark. "And you're Superman."
Much to Clark's surprise, Bruce laughed out loud. Right in Tim's face. "You're funny, kid. What did you actually want to talk about?"
"I'm serious," Tim frowned. "And I'm your next Robin."
"Sweetheart, we're just a little confused what's making you say this," Clark sat next to the boy, and Bruce finally met his husband's eyes. There was a glint of fear in them.
"You guys don't have to lie to me. It's no use," he pulled something out of his pocket. A flash drive. "I've been following you for months. None of you noticed—that only shows I have the skills and dedication to be Robin."
When neither Bruce nor Clark spoke, Tim continued.
"Batman has gotten too aggressive. He beats people up worse than he should, now. I know it's because Jason is gone. You need to have a Robin to keep you in check."
"What do you want, Tim? Money?" Bruce scowled.
"No!" Tim scoffed in annoyance. "I want to be your next Robin! I will be your next Robin!"
"Fat chance," Bruce said petulantly. "And I'm telling your parents. Jack and Janet Drake, right?"
"Please don't, sir," Tim looked up at Bruce. "They can't know about this. Please."
The boy's desperate tone caught both the men off guard.
"Alright. Then, leave."
"Bruce!" Clark scolded. This attitude was unlike him, even for all his grumpiness lately. "Tim, I'm sorry. We just really miss our Jason. How about we pick this back up in a few days, after we've all had some time to think?"
"Okay, Mr. Clark," he practically deflated, those wide eyes staring back up at Clark in surrender.
It was then, ironically enough, that Clark could finally remember the name for the shade of the boy's eyes: robin's-egg blue.
It took Bruce a while to come around to the idea. A month, to be exact. And it had resulted in Clark and Bruce's biggest fight to date:
"There's no way, Kent," he had said. The use of his last name made the man seem cold. "I am not letting this inexperienced child become a crime-fighting vigilante! And, frankly, I'm shocked that you want him to."
"Oh, that's rich," Clark didn't recognize his own voice. "You had no problem with the concept the past two times you did it."
"That was before our son died, Clark!" It was like all the air in the room had been sucked out. Clark took a deep breath, noticing the regret on Bruce's face. "I didn't-"
"I know, honey," he made his way over, embracing his partner. "I know. But, I also know that Tim is right. You've gotten too cruel lately. Give the kid a chance."
"But-"
"Just a chance. You can train him until you think he's ready, but I think he'll surprise you. That boy has a way about him," Clark laughed, and Bruce's teary eyes looked deep into him. "He figured out our identities, B. Who else has done that, ever?"
Bruce sighed, and Clark knew he had won.
"If he doesn't do well in training, I'm done with it," Bruce's lips set into a firm line. Clark nodded in agreement, cupping Bruce's cheek and rubbing it with his thumb.
They both knew that wouldn't happen.
Training Tim was tough on Bruce.
After a year and a half, Clark thought Bruce would never let the kid out with him. When he voiced this concern, Bruce had just said, "Almost."
It took another six months before Bruce deemed Tim "ready." The boy was ecstatic. On their first night of patrol, he came home—yes, Clark already thought of Tim returning to Wayne Manor as "coming home"—even more excited than he had left. He was practically bouncing off the walls, recounting the night to Dick with a huge smile. Bruce, though visibly less excited, had clapped Tim on the shoulder and managed a "Proud of you, Timmy."
Given his current state, that practically meant "I love you, son."
Clark and Dick had looked at each other, both close to tears.
As the boy continued to grow into the title of Robin, he naturally looked to all of them for guidance. He was met with no-nonsense advice from Bruce and affection from Clark and Dick—where Bruce was emotionally distant with him, Clark and Dick showed him the love he needed. He was still a growing boy, after all.
They could tell it broke Bruce, a little bit, to speak to a Robin again. To have to deal with an eager child helping serve justice in the messed-up city of Gotham. It was just something he'd have to get used to, though, because Clark and Dick were never letting Tim go.
Tim is creepily similar to Bruce. It's something they've all noticed, but refrain from commenting on as to not damage the sensitive relationship.
A year into Tim being Robin, Clark and Dick developed a "Debrief Time" after family dinner on Sundays—carried out when Bruce and Tim went to the Batcave to do their nightly detective work or training. Debrief Time was practically just an excuse for Dick to talk to his Pops about life (not that he needs an excuse, Clark has made very clear), but they did dive into deeper topics often:
How Bruce can't look at Tim for too long when he's in the Robin suit. How Dick wakes up at night, sometimes, and sees Jason reading on his couch. How Clark can't talk about Jason without sobbing. How they all feel like they failed him. How he was so young. How it's not right, it's not fair, that someone so young could die like that. Could die at all.
Dick realizes, now, that they mostly talk about Jason. It's like there's an eternal lump in all their throats, waiting for someone to say something about him so it can get choked back down and released with a stream of hot tears. Debrief Time turns into bona fide Cuddle Time almost every time. Once the worst of it is over, the shaking of shoulders calmed, Dick tucks his head under Clark's, resting on his collarbone, and they hold each other tight. Father and son. Father and sun, as his Pops had always loved to call him. Sunshine. It didn't seem like anything shined much for Dick, these days.
They all knew it wasn't fair to Tim, how they couldn't fully incorporate him into the family yet because of their haunting grief. It felt like the sting was eased by the fact that the kid's parents were alive and still held custody of him, but they could tell he'd rather be living at the Manor. With them. It hurt.
But, it was getting easier.
Bruce and Tim's similarities were perhaps most pronounced in the way they went about their work: deliberate and tough physical training, but even more rigorous mental training. This approach was something Dick and Jason had lacked, both valuing the physicality of a fight more than the "boring" detective work.
Weirdly enough, though, what got Clark most emotional was the fact that they liked listening to the same music. Tim had come to them as a young boy whose only reprieve from his lack of parental involvement was plugging in his headphones (and stalking Batman, of course).
Once Clark was trusted enough to see his iPod, Tim showed him the library full of British pop-rock. He had started laughing.
"What?" Tim had frowned, twelve years old and insecure.
"Nothing, Timmy, it's wonderful," he smiled, ruffling the boy's hair. "Just go show Bruce."
And he did. From then on, it was as though a switch had flipped inside Bruce. Whether he finally realized the magnitude of what he was doing—training a boy to be a vigilante—or just understood he was practically raising a mini Bruce, Clark didn't know. But, whatever it was, he got more involved.
Tim started spending more time at the Manor outside of patrol hours. His parents didn't notice. He called Clark 'Pops,' but only called Bruce 'B.' The lack of a 'Dad' title was not lost on Clark, though he could tell it was bound to appear soon enough. That boy practically worshipped Bruce, and Batman along with it.
Clark was thinking about this fact and smiling to himself as he made the two of them a lunch platter of cut-up sandwiches, fruits, and vegetables.
It was one of those afternoons where Bruce and Tim got so caught up in work that they forgot about meals.
Carefully balancing the plate in his hands alongside two cups of tea, he slowly made his way down to the Batcave. Oh, how he had missed this part of parenthood.
Then, he heard it. Oasis's "Live Forever" playing softly in the background, Bruce humming along and Tim mouthing the words. Clark couldn't help himself. He sped to grab the camera, recording them for a minute or so before calling out:
"Where are my two favorite detectives?"
Two exasperated heads turned his way, though both with smiles.
"Over here, weirdo," Tim stuck his tongue out as he noticed the camera. Clark put it down, for now.
"I brought you some food. Even Gotham's favorite vigilantes need to eat their vegetables," he set the platter between them, kissing Bruce's cheek and Tim's temple.
"Thank you," Tim grinned, smile crooked in that cute way of his.
"Thanks, Clark," Bruce spoke lowly, his hand gently covering Clark's own.
"Mhm," he hummed, clasping his lover's hand. "Don't stay down here all day, alright?"
"O-kay, Pops," Tim all but rolled his eyes, and Clark huffed a laugh beside them.
"Just for that attitude, let me see a big smile with your veggies," he let go of Bruce's hand, reaching for the camera again.
Tim protested, though good-naturedly. He still posed next to Bruce, whose lips were in a flat line. His eyes were smiling, though. Clark could tell.
"Now, shoo," Bruce waved a hand at him, hiding his laugh behind a grunt.
"Oh, I see how it is. No goodbye kisses for you," he teased, punctuating his statement by pressing his lips to Tim's hair.
As he began to retreat back upstairs, Clark looked back one last time. Tim had already resumed talking about something related to the case, hands swinging around in passion, while Bruce listened. For the first time, Clark saw Bruce's face with a calm, resting smile looking at Tim—the way he always looked at their other sons.
Clark smiled to himself, and walked up the stairs. Bruce was opening his heart again.