Archive of Our Own

I.

Bruce had never been fully prepared to be a parent. He was young. So young and so alone. Maybe he saw himself in Dick. That's what Alfred always says, despite his vehement denials. Even so, he took in the Grayson boy without a second thought to the logistics of raising a child. Especially one that already had parents who probably had it all figured out. Bruce could never be them, could never compare. That's what he thinks to himself every time he hears Dick quietly crying in his room. How can he help this child when he himself still hurts over the death of his parents?

He doesn't regret it. He could never regret it. Not when he knew what would have happened to Dick if he didn't take him. Alfred has never formally spoken on the subject, but it doesn't take a detective to know just how much he had to fight for custody of Bruce. The least he could do was continue that kindness.

Which leaves him here, Dick curled up on a chandelier crying his eyes out. Bruce still isn't entirely sure how he's able to get up there, but that's not his primary concern.

"Dick, why don't you come on down here bud?" He tries again, feeling entirely hopeless as Dick's only response is a hiccuping cry. He could easily climb up there and retrieve him, but Alfred advised against that. For the sake of Dick's autonomy, and for the sake of the chandelier. Coaxing Dick to come down wasn't doing anything, and Bruce flounders for what else he could possibly say to help.

So of course, that's when the doorbell rings, resounding throughout the manor. Bruce curses to himself, and Dick briefly stalls his cries. He completely forgot about the stupid interview for The Daily Planet. It's meant to be a fluff piece, something that will keep the people away from Dick. Bruce would rather die than let his son be exposed to the general public's opinion.

"Sir?" Alfred breaks him from his thoughts, indicating his head towards the door.

'Tell them they'll have to reschedule. Say anything, I don't care," he growls before looking back up at Dick. His cries have subsided somewhat, but he's still making no move to come down. He barely registers Alfred opening the door to turn down whoever is on the other side.

"You can talk to me about it, Dick. You know you can. But I'd rather your feet be on the ground in that case," he tries again, his voice not as gentle as he would like it to be. He still hasn't learned how to be soft.

"…I can't," his small voice croaks, quiet enough that Bruce barely catches it.

"You can't come down, or you can't talk to me about it?" Dick shrugs, sniffling loudly as he wipes at the messy tears staining his face.

"Both." Bruce can't help but sigh helplessly, running a hand down his face. Every time he's found Dick high up somewhere, it's the always the same. Dick clamors up there as an escape, but then can't get back down. Bruce suspects it has something to do with his parents' unfortunate fall. Just as he's debating how best to climb up there and retrieve the boy, a new voice pipes up.

"Do you need some help?" Bruce whips his head around to find Clark Kent of all people in the ugliest suit he's ever seen. Of course The Planet sent him instead of Miss. Grant like normal. As if knowing he's an incompetent guardian isn't enough, the world sent fucking Superman to bear witness to it. Bruce's sharp glare finds Alfred, who only quirks his eyebrow in response. The two have been aware of Superman's civilian identity since the hero made his first official appearance. Insurance, Bruce claimed. Intrigue, Alfred countered.

"And who might you be?" He responds sharply, keeping a professional but clearly annoyed look on his face. Clark has the wherewithal to cringe under his gaze.

"Clark Kent. I'm with The Daily Planet," he introduces hastily, holding out his hand for a shake. Bruce merely glances at it until Clark returns it to his side.

"I believe I told my butler to inform you that we will reschedule. I would appreciate it if you leave my home" His voice is clipped and icy. Bruce tries to maintain a certain image with the public, especially journalists. But he doesn't have the energy to play Brucie with his child still crying softly up in the chandelier. Clark looks like for a moment he might just do that, but his gaze flicks back up to Dick. Something protective in Bruce's chest rears to see a journalist laying eyes on his vulnerable son.

But when Bruce looks up, he sees Dick peering curiously down at Clark. There are still tears in his eyes, but his focus seems to be on something else instead. Clark waves, offering a soft smile. Dick surprises Bruce further by shyly waving back.

"Heya Dick, my name's Clark," he introduces, a slight Midwestern accent slipping into his words. Bruce growls quietly, making his stance clear that he wants Clark to shut the hell up.

"I know who you are," Dick responds, sniffling again as he shifts his position. The chandelier sways with his movements, and his whole body tenses. Clark, unsurprisingly, is watching the way the light fixture moves, no doubt prepared to fly up there if the chandelier decides to give out. Bruce nearly rolls his eyes. Big Blue can't keep his nose out of anyone's business, apparently.

"Yeah? I can't imagine you've read any of my work."

"I read the one about Superman," he announces proudly, seemingly forgetting his earlier dilemma. Bruce will never understand a child's ability to swing between moods at the drop of a hat. Clark smiles broadly, and Bruce can see the amusement twinkling in his eyes. Self-centered bastard, he thinks dryly.

"Are you a fan of Superman?" Oh, Bruce was going to throttle him. Damn the fact that Clark could kill him without any real effort. Dick only nods excitedly, and Bruce has to pretend he isn't seething under the mask of careful neutrality. A small part of him is happy Dick isn't sobbing his heart out anymore, but the larger, vicious part of him is angry that Clark managed to accomplish what Bruce has been struggling to do for the better part of a month.

"You've met him, right?" Dick asks curiously, and Bruce tears his eyes away from the Kryptonian to look up at his son. His son, who is smiling curiously. His son, who doesn't look scared anymore. Something like shame burns in his chest.

"I have," Clark confirms. "I can tell you all about it, if you want. But I think that'd be easier if you came on down here."

Dick squirms, his eyes flickering between Bruce, Clark, and the chandelier. It's so obvious how much he wants to hear about Superman, but his mind is still holding him back from climbing down. When Dick's gaze finds his, Bruce does his best to smile encouragingly. The action still feels foreign to him, but it's something he'll have to get used to. Evidently, it's enough for Dick who nods to himself before swinging his legs around the various arms. Bruce is ready to bolt the moment he sees Dick falter, his body primed just like when he stalks the streets of Gotham. Clark is in a similar position. Some of his slouch has melted away, and the Man of Steel beneath slips out as he watches Dick's every movement. It makes something in Bruce falter.

Dick manages to use the chandelier to swing himself onto the landing of the split staircase. Bruce's chest loosens as the boy barrels down the stairs before coming to a stop in front of Clark.

"He can fly, right? Did you see him flying? What kinds of stuff can Superman do?" The questions nearly blur together at the rate Dick asks them. Clark glances over to Bruce, a slight tilt of his head. Is this okay? Despite the burning want for Superman to leave his home, Bruce nods. How could he deny the one thing that's made Dick happy all day? The shame burns heavier in his chest as he watches Clark squat down to talk about his own hero persona. Bruce meets Alfred's gaze over the two. Alfred only smiles and moves to take his leave. His hand briefly lands Bruce's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Dick's gaze briefly glances over to Bruce, and he can see the question there. Bruce exhales through his nose before crafting an easy smile on his face.

"Why don't you come sit, Mr. Kent?" Clark looks up in surprise, clearly not expecting an invitation in. It's worth it to see the bright smile spreading across Dick's face. The boy jumps over to Bruce to hug his leg tightly. That tightness in his chest melts, and he combs his fingers through Dick's hair. If it makes his son happy, he can put up with the meta human intruding a little longer.

Clark ends up staying for another hour, answering every possible question Dick has. Bruce hates to admit it, but Clark maintains the distance between his two identities better than he expected. He'd been listening closely. Not just for information, but also to see if he would slip up at any point. But everything he told Dick was something any civilian of Metropolis would know, with only some minor details added from his 'interview'. Worst of all, the man does not take the chance to showboat or gloat. Everything he says is factual, not giving way for ego. It's a little infuriating.

"Thank you," Bruce says begrudgingly when he's showing Clark the door. Alfred would skin him alive if he found out Bruce didn't thank the man. Clark only smiles, that same bright grin that he's seen on Superman.

"I didn't really do anything special. Kids like super heroes, ya know?" He says, shoving his hands into his pockets. That suit really is too big for him.

"You have any kids of your own?" Bruce questions, even though he already knows the answer. He just wants some magical answer for why Clark was able to get through to Dick when he hasn't been able to.

"No, no kids," he admits shyly, fidgeting with something in his pocket. Bruce already knows it isn't a recorder, but he tenses anyway. Clark looks like he wants to say something, and Bruce lets the silence hang.

"I think what you're doing is incredible," he suddenly blurts out. It's not at all what Bruce was expecting to hear, and he's momentarily stunned as he soaks those words in. Clark looks down bashfully, kicking some imaginary rock.

"I just mean that Dick is an incredible kid. And I know he's lost a lot. That's not easy for someone so young." Clark frowns down at the ground, and Bruce recalls that Superman is originally from a planet that no longer exists. Does he remember Krypton? Does he remember his own parents? Suddenly, Bruce aches to know the answers.

"Anyway, all that is to say that I admire what you're doing for him. It can't be easy for either of you." Clark's eyes are far too knowing for Bruce's comfort as he finally looks back up. This close, it's so clear that mild-mannered Clark Kent is Superman. His sense of what's right is so obvious when he lets himself be passionate. For just a second, Bruce's heart stutters. Clark's eyes flicker before that broad grin spreads across his face again.

"I hope for your own sake that this stays between us," Bruce finally says. it's not what he wants to say, but he doesn't have the words for the weird feeling in his chest. Clark's smile doesn't falter.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce."

"Bruce," he acquiesces.

He will never admit that he was sad to see Miss. Grant for the rescheduled interview.

II.

Bruce's blood is roaring in his ears. Nothing has gone to plan, which is his worst nightmare. What was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission ended up being a lure to get him and Dick alone. Nothing about his intel gave away that Two-Face might be involved. It wasn't until he spotted the dilapidated sign of 2Wire did he realize it was too late.

Two-Face's goons surrounded them, separating the two so that each was overwhelmed by sheer man power. Dick is still so new to this, and Bruce kept pushing and pushing to get closer again. But each step forward was met with someone new blocking his way while others attacked from the back. He keeps losing Dick in the fray, who is bobbing and weaving like Bruce taught him. He barely has time to be proud before one catches him by the ankle and slams him to the ground. Watching Dick fall is just enough for a bat to slip from his notice and connect painfully with his jaw. The impact sends him stumbling back into another goon who knocks the breath from his lungs.

Bruce is shoved to his knees as several hands restrain him, twisting his arms just enough to be painful and stomping on his legs. That's when Two-Face emerges, half smile half frown on his face.

"Really, I expected so much better from you of all people," Two-Face sneers, his mangled lip twisting in distaste as he approaches Dick, who is struggling back to his feet. Bruce silently urges him to run, like he always told him to when things got out of hand. Of course, Dick doesn't listen. He even shifts his feet into a fighting stance. Bruce's chest twists painfully as Two-Face backhands his son without a second thought. Dick stumbles, barely catching himself. Bruce can see one eye swelling already.

"World's greatest detective! That's what I expect from you, Batman. And yet, you can't see a trap clear as day in front of you." There's an audible crack as Two-Face kicks Dick in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Anger roars in Bruce's veins as Dick tries to push himself up on shaky arms. But Two-Face merely stomps his foot into Dick's chest, effectively holding him down. The heel of his shoe presses harder right where it hurts the most. Bruce nearly yells when he hears the quietest whimper of pain.

"Now, I finally have little Robin right where I want him." Two-Face grins, something feral and wild as he pulls out the infamous coin from his pocket. Bruce's stomach drops just laying eyes on it.

"It doesn't seem fair to me that Batman gets a sidekick after all the injustice he's wreaked on Gotham," Two-Face says with a drawl, flipping the coin mindlessly between his fingers. "So, I suppose it's up to me to right that wrong."

Two-Face twirls the coin on his finger, digging his foot harder into Dick's chest. Bruce kicks and pulls, doing anything to be free. He's not thinking clearly. He needs to think clearly, logically. But his brain is too occupied with rage to care. That's his son.

"Will the young Robin die slowly? Or will Batman lose him in the blink of an eye?" The coin twirls in the air as Bruce watches Dick struggle to breathe. His apprentice. His boy. The coin lands back in Two-Face's hand before he flips it onto the back of his hand, savoring the anticipation before his hand uncovers the result.

"Tsk. I was hoping for the more fun option. But the decision has been made." Without any preamble, Two-Face draws a pistol, aiming straight for Dick's forehead. Bruce's heart lurches.

In an instant, chaos ensues. Something—or someone—barrels straight through the window and tackles Two-Face off of Dick. The distraction is enough for Bruce to finally pull free, landing a punch squarely on one of the goon's nose. His anger knows no bounds as he practically tears through the men that kept him from his son. He vaguely registers that Clark has apprehended Two-Face and is bent over Dick.

Fists connect with violent precision, hitting just so to cause the most amount pain. It feels just like the first days of Batman. It's too easy to fall back into that mindset, to let his anger fuel his actions. His foot connects with someone's rib cage, knowing he cracked at least two ribs. It's not enough. It isn't enough. He needs Two-Face. He needs-

A hand on his shoulder stalls Bruce's fist, raised to punch an already bruising face. He doesn't even recognize which goon this was under all the blooming injuries.

"Batman." Clark's voice is calm, careful. Bruce hates it for a second, ready to rear back from his touch and tear into the meta. But when he looks back at Clark, his anger halts. Clark's gaze is sympathetic in a way that he's not used to seeing. It conveys so much that he falters for just a second, his hand lowering back to his side. The anger still festers in his gut, wanting to be set free. The hand on his shoulder squeezes gently, as if he can see all that ugly rage.

"Robin needs you." Those three words are enough to snap the leash back on his torrent emotions. Bruce is moving past Clark to his child's side, hands hovering over the various wounds littering his tiny body. He's breathing. He's out cold from the pain, but he's breathing. There's a broken rib, maybe two. One eye is already swelling horribly, and his lip is busted. No longer the violent man, Bruce scoops his son into his arms, unwilling to let him go. The BatMobile is already on its way, screeching through the streets of Gotham.

"Thank you," he says, less begrudging than the first time. Clark was beginning to have an uncanny ability of seeing Bruce at his worst. Clark only shakes his head, his eyes lingering over Dick. Bruce wonders briefly if he's looked under the mask and knows it's the same boy he was talking about Superman with several months ago. There's a look in his eyes that reminds Bruce of the way Alfred sometimes looks at him.

"I know you have a thing about me being in Gotham, but…" He trails off, unsure if he should finish that sentence. Bruce remains silent, his eyes still on Dick's slowly rising chest.

"I heard your heart rate spike. It never does that." Bruce's head snaps up at that, watching the way Clark avoids his gaze bashfully. Your Clark Kent is showing. He almost says it too, just to catch the Kryptonian off guard the same way he just did to Bruce. He isn't sure if he should feel paranoid that Clark knows his heartbeat well enough to pick it out, or grateful that it saved Dick.

"It's good that you came," he lets himself admit out loud, even if it hurts to say. Clark's smile is far too bright for Gotham's night, and Bruce can only cringe away from it. He really needs to keep his mouth shut.

"You know I'll always come if you need me. I know you'd do the same for me." He would. Batman and Superman have teamed up enough times to create a tentative alliance. Something unspoken, but has proven to be very useful at times. He doesn't need to know that part of Bruce's motivation for assisting him is the memory of Dick excitedly talking with the reporter about Superman. It definitely does not influence the fact that he keeps constant tabs on the Kryptonian, in and out of uniform. Not that Alfred agrees with this notion.

The two don't see each other for another week. Bruce is perched on a roof, watching Gotham from above when Clark gently touches down beside him.

"Before you complain, I made sure people didn't see me when I flew over," he starts, a knowing smile on his face. Bruce merely grunts in response, his eyes still on the streets and pointedly not on Clark.

"How's he holding up?" He doesn't have to try hard to hear the concern in Clark's voice. His bleeding heart will get the better of him one day, but he won't deny him news about his boy. Not when he came at the drop of a hat to save him.

"He's complaining about being benched until he's made a full recovery," Bruce comments after a moment, finally looking over to Clark. The man grins, relief clear in the way his muscles unclench.

"So back to normal, huh?" Bruce grunts in affirmative, finally standing from his crouch. He ignores the weird feeling in his chest at the thought that Clark was worried about Dick. But why wouldn't he? He's the biggest Boy Scout Bruce has ever met. He'd rescue a cat from a tree that was trying to claw his face off. He's probably done just that. The two sit in silence for a little longer. For some reason, Bruce doesn't feel the grating irritation of having Superman in his city. It's almost peaceful. At least, as peaceful as Gotham can be. He should tell Clark to leave, but he doesn't right away.

"I have to ask," Clark starts, breaking the silence. Bruce tenses, regretting keeping his mouth shut.

"What?" He growls, already not liking Clark's tone. He barrels forward anyway.

"Why Robin? I mean, he's so young to be doing what we do. What you do. I didn't peg you as the kind of guy who puts a child's life in danger purposefully. So, why?" To give Clark credit, he isn't being accusatory in his questioning. And, as much as Bruce hates to admit it, it's touching that he's concerned in some way. The leather of his glove creaks as his hand tightens into a fist, debating if it's worth entertaining Clark.

"…He would be doing this with or without me," he finally says quietly, knowing Superman would still hear it. "Robin will always want to do this. To make a difference when he's capable to do so."

Dick will always be better than Bruce in that way. He loves Gotham City and its people. He will fight tooth and nail to his death to protect it. But where Batman is an omen that keeps criminals in check, Robin is a beacon of light in the dark nights. He is the balance that Bruce has been missing all these years.

"I let him do this with me to protect him as best as I can." Clark's facial expression doesn't change much during his explanation, but he can see something glimmering in his eyes that wasn't there before. For being an alien, Clark is just so human.

"Batman, you continue to surprise me," Clark compliments with one of those blinding grins. Does the man even know how to frown? Bruce grunts and retreats within himself again. He really needs to stop being so open around Clark. Is it some strange, Kryptonian power that makes Bruce speak his mind around the man?

"Is that mean to be an insult?" He grunts, silently enjoying how Clark squirms at the subtle accusation.

"You know it isn't," he protests, clocking the tiny quirk of Bruce's lip. Curse his body for betraying him like that. "I guess I should say instead that you maintain your reputation well."

"It's part of the job." Clark frowns, clearly not happy with Bruce's brusque response.

"Seems to me that being painfully obstinate is also part of the job." Bruce levels a glare up at Clark, but he only chuckles. This only makes his glare deepen.

"Is that all you came to say?" He mutters, crossing his arms over his chest to cover how awkward he feels being on the receiving end of Clark's teasing. Clark rolls his eyes, that stupid smile not letting up.

"Yeah, I guess it is. Tell Robin I hope he recovers soon so we can make a proper introduction." He pauses, his smile twitching into something more mischievous. "And, that he needs to listen to you."

Clark takes off after that, and Bruce spends too long watching him fly back to Metropolis.

III.

The bullet is flying towards Bruce, aiming straight for the only part of him not covered in kevlar. He's ready to move, ready to dodge. But then Clark is in front of him.

He watches as the sickly green of kryptonite buries into Clark's chest. The effect is instant. Clark drops to his knees, all of his movements halted as his veins turn a radioactive green color. Lex Luthor merely smirks, pocketing the now empty pistol. Every other bullet had missed its mark, but it was the final one that caught Superman as he stepped in front of Bruce.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I doubt he has very long before that bullet does its job." The man flicks his hand with a flourish before being ushered away by robotic bodyguards. Bruce growls, wanting to give chase, but he instead falls to Clark's side. His skin is so pale already, and when his eyes meet Bruce's, they're glossed over.

"You idiot. Your body is trying to heal around the kryptonite," Bruce growls in frustration, his fingers ghosting around the closing entry point. With a press of a button, Bruce calls the BatPlane to his location.

"Agent A, prep the med bay with supplies for Superman," he barks into his communicator, receiving an affirmative from Alfred. Bruce slings Clark's arm around his shoulder, pulling him up with some effort.

"Can you get it out?" Clark gasps in pain as his body moves. The entry point is barely visible now if not for the tear in his suit. Bruce's grip tightens for a second before he practically drags Clark out to the balcony.

"I'm going to try."

The BatPlane flies on autopilot to the cave while Bruce works to keep Clark stable. With the rudimentary medical supplies on the plane, he can see how Clark's vitals are dropping steadily. He doesn't need super hearing to hear each ragged inhale that sounds far too shallow. Clark doesn't talk much, and it's for the best that he doesn't. Bruce wouldn't be able to handle Clark trying to make him feel better.

Already, his mind is running through a thousand scenarios like this and how he can prevent it. Bruce wants to yell at Clark for not expecting kryptonite to be around when Lex Luthor is involved. He wants to shake the already trembling hero and make him understand that he can't go throwing himself in front of kryptonite bullets for the sake of someone who isn't affected by it. If Bruce was hit, it'd just be a bullet, and he can handle that. But Clark was hit, and Clark is slowly dying in Bruce's arms.

The BatPlane arrives back in the cave as fast as humanly possible. Not fast enough. Clark is nearly unconscious as Bruce hauls his body onto the gurney Alfred had set up. He's already hooking up vitals and fluids, using the special kryptonite-coated needles that Bruce had prepared. Just in case. Not all the kryptonite he hoarded was for a worst-case scenario.

"We have to cut back in to extract the bullet. His body has already closed around it, which means his muscles are rebuilding and decaying rapidly," Bruce barks out to Alfred, who is already scrubbed in and grabbing a glowing green scalpel.

"I suggest you focus on your own injuries while I take care of this," Alfred says calmly, eyeing the bruises and fractures hidden beneath the kevlar before focusing on the task at hand. Clark is no longer conscious, his bright blue eyes now an unsettling, pale color. It makes Bruce's heart stop for a moment to see the man look nearly dead, even as his heart persistently beats on. He has to turn away then, unable to scrub the lifeless image of Clark as he strips away the pieces of kevlar.

Dick comes barreling down the steps then, coming to a sudden halt as he spots Clark laying on the gurney. His faces pales instantly, and Bruce briskly walks over to him, blocking his view.

"Is he..?"

"Alfred is taking care of it," he reassures Dick, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Let's let him focus on that, okay?"

Dick nods slowly, his eyes still flicking to where his favorite hero is laying unconscious behind Bruce. Even he's struggling to not look back, but he knows he can't bear to see it. Clark is an unshakeable man, one who always gets back up after being knocked down. To see someone so powerful fall almost instantly to one wound makes Bruce feel wrong-footed. Superman is supposed to be the one hero he doesn't have to worry about, even if Clark insists on getting into more trouble than he can handle half the time. Bruce shakes his head and guides Dick back upstairs, despite his strong urge to stay.

Bruce comes back down to the cave not long after. Dick is more settled, but it's obvious how shaken he is by Clark's state. Alfred is extracting the last of the bullet pieces, using minimal amounts of kryptonite to continuously reopen the wound. When the last piece is dropped into a tray, both men work silently to scan Clark's body for any remnants. Only when the scan comes up empty does Bruce allow himself to breathe. Alfred tucks away the kryptonite pieces in a lead-lined box. He'll study them later to see how Luthor produced them, and how he can prevent them from working again.

"Master Bruce," Alfred starts with a stiff, disapproving tone. His gaze sweeps over the untreated injuries Bruce had ignored in favor of comforting his child. Bruce only grunts in response, his eyes watching the color come back to Clark's skin. Alfred only sighs before pointing at a stool with a raised eyebrow. With Clark no longer on the brink of death, Bruce cooperates and sits down. Alfred goes through each procedure with care and precision, just like he's always done. The two remain silent for the most part, until Alfred speaks up again.

"It must be terrifying to nearly lose a friend like that," he says calmly, as if he's just discussing the weather. Bruce doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to for Alfred to know every emotion swirling uncomfortably in his chest.

"His suit doesn't guard against any weapon, not even bullets. It's reckless to assume he can take any hit," Bruce finally growls out, frustration leaking into his tone. Alfred merely raises an eyebrow before standing in front of him.

"Reckless, maybe. But he is superhuman, Master Bruce. He can handle just about anything. And knowing you, you will drill into his head how imperative it is he exercise caution when kryptonite could be involved." Alfred sighs and gives Bruce's shoulder a gentle pat. He doesn't raise his eyes.

"I will prepare some food for when Master Clark wakes. I trust you'll be keeping an eye on him." Bruce narrows his eyes down at the ground, not enjoying how easily Alfred can read him.

"Thank you, Alfred," he mutters, finally raising his head. Alfred gives him an appraising look before nodding and taking his leave. Bruce's eyes slide back to Clark. Looking at him now, you wouldn't know that he nearly died 20 minutes ago. His heart is beating steadily, no longer dipping with every shaky breath. Bruce closes his eyes and focuses on the quiet beeping of his heart monitor. He understands for the first time why Clark might listen out for his heartbeat. Bruce should do something. He should don his suit again in case Clark wakes up.

He doesn't move.

The sound of movement forces Bruce's eyes back open. Clark is groaning softly, blinking his eyes open like he just woke up from a long nap. He winces against the bright lights before he finds Bruce sitting beside him. The heart rate monitor clearly displays the skip in his rhythm when he sees Bruce Wayne and not Batman. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. If Clark wasn't just on death's door, Bruce might have smiled at his surprise.

"Good to see you awake, Clark," Bruce mumbles, straightening up in his chair. Clark groans, letting his head fall back on the bed as his eyes squeeze shut.

"Do I even want to ask how long you've known?" At this, Bruce can't help the slight uptick of his lips.

"A pair of glasses really wasn't going to fool me." Clark's eyes find Bruce again, flicking quickly over the small smile Bruce drops instantly.

"Hey, it works on most people. You, however…" Clark breaks out into an amused grin. "I don't think I would have ever guessed Bruce Wayne was Gotham's protector day and night." Bruce has to breathe slowly to control the steady beat of his heart.

"I put a lot of effort into keeping my identities as separate as possible," he grunts, leaning back in his chair. Clark looks so normal, even after suffering such a life-threatening wound. His eyes are back to their brilliant blue color, and he can even see the wonder in his gaze as he looks over Bruce. Clark is really making him work at acting normal.

"Why the hell did you think it was a good idea to jump in front of a kryptonite bullet like that?" Of course Bruce has to go and ruin the moment. It's impossible not to when his mind keeps replaying the scenario over and over again. Clark moves to sit up, and Bruce's hands twitch with the want to push him back down.

"And let you take it? When I could do something about it? That bullet was going straight for your neck, Bruce," Clark argues back, keeping his voice calm and level despite the obvious irritation. Bruce's jaw ticks.

"I could have dodged it. You do realize that Luthor was counting on you taking that bullet for me," Bruce snaps. "It was a reckless move that nearly got you killed."

Clark opens his mouth to argue back, then promptly shuts it. He looks over Bruce with a calculating look, as if seeing him a new light for the first time. Bruce would prefer it if he just argues back instead of looking at him like he made some realization.

"But I didn't die, Bruce. You were able to save me." Clark reaches out to grab his shoulder in a friendly clasp. His touch shouldn't feel as natural as it does.

"And I'm sure you already have a 50 slide power point presentation prepared on why I'm a reckless idiot and how I could have avoided the situation entirely," he teases, that easy smile returning. The tension in Bruce's shoulders releases when he sees that smile.

"I will certainly be making some changes to that suit of yours if you're going to insist on putting yourself in avoidable danger," he acquiesces, crossing his arms over his chest. Clark rolls his eyes at that.

"My mom made me that suit! You aren't going to destroy all her hard work," he chastises with a laugh that makes something flutter in Bruce's chest. For once, he savors the feeling rather than locking it away.

The two are interrupted when a small set of footsteps comes flying down the steps. Dick emerges, his eyes shifting quickly to Clark. The relief is so obvious when he comes racing over.

"Clark! You're alive!" Clark smiles broadly as Dick leans up onto the side of the gurney, clearly checking him out for himself. Clark looks at Bruce with amusement as if to say You really told your kid my identity? Bruce only shrugs, his eyes moving to his son.

"Superman lives to see another day," Bruce mutters, sparing a small smile for Dick, who is hiding all the anxiety in his chest by hopping up onto the gurney.

"Well obviously," Dick says in exasperation, as if he wasn't on the verge of a panic attack not that long ago. He could give Bruce a run for his money when it comes to disguising his emotions. Clark, somehow, sees this, and ruffles Dick's hair affectionately. Bruce can't control the leap in his heart, and he pointedly ignores Clark's eyes flicking over to him.

IV.

"I had it handled!"

"Like hell you did! You were nearly catapulted off the roof!" Bruce doesn't enjoy shouting. He believes it diminishes the value of what one is saying if they feel the need to say it at a louder volume. But when Dick purposefully puts himself in danger, Bruce deserves to yell a little bit. Especially because his son won't see reason.

"You know I wouldn't have let that happen. Why can't you just trust me to do something on my own?!" Dick pushes back, standing from the bench despite his untreated wounds. Alfred only looks mildly exasperated, having been witness to the whole fight.

"Master Dick, please at least let me finish bandaging you before you go storming off," Alfred sighs, sounding more like his age. Dick, for once, ignores Alfred entirely in favor of growling under his breath like a huffy kid. Which, he technically is.

"I will let you do things on your own when you stop running off behind my back to take on threats you can't handle," Bruce rebuts with venomous intent. This only sets Dick off more, and upon reflection, Bruce knows he went too far with that comment.

"What's the point of all this training if you won't even let me fight some of Joker's goons on my own?! I had it handled until you showed up and caused them to panic!" Dick shoots back, unafraid to get in Bruce's face despite the difference in height. He's too much like Bruce in that way. It makes his frustration curl in his gut, the uglier side of the concern and worry that drove him to track down Dick in the first place.

"I told you to do a sweep of the area, not to engage. If you had just listened-"

"That's big talk coming from you!" Dick hisses, cutting off Bruce effectively. Before he can say anything back, Dick is storming out of the cave, and Bruce does not follow immediately. He sighs, running a hand down his face as the pent up anger melts into guilt and regret. As Dick gets older, he's become more prone to push and question. Alfred says it's normal behavior for someone approaching teenage years, but Bruce still hasn't adjusted.

"I am going to finish Master Dick's medical treatment. I suggest you think about what you're going to say before you come back up." It's not spoken harshly, but Bruce can feel the reprimand anyway. Alfred gathers what he needs and walks out after Dick, leaving Bruce alone. Well, not quite.

"Is now a bad time?" Bruce had felt the shift in the air when Clark flew into the cave. Turning around now, he's faced with him in the most offensive plaid shirt Bruce has ever seen. As Clark lands, Bruce rips the cowl off his face, running a hand through the mess of black hair.

"Could be better," he grumbles, moving the shed the rest of the suit. Clark glances away, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks around the cave instead.

"Is Dick okay? Physically, I mean," he inquires, keeping his tone casual. Bruce grunts, slipping on a loose t-shirt and joggers to make himself decent.

"It could have been much worse." Clark nods, finally looking back at Bruce. He offers a sympathetic smile.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure every parent struggles with the preteen years." It does not make Bruce feel better.

"He won't listen to me when he needs to. He keeps putting himself in danger pointlessly. One of these days, I'll be too late. I won't make it before something happens. Why can't he understand that?" Bruce's voice is tight with emotions that he's slowly been learning how to label. Clark had once told him he was being maternal, which earned him a punch that he only laughed at.

"Have you tried telling Dick that?" Bruce levels Clark with a murderous glare, but the man doesn't balk away like he once did. He just gives that look that says I'm serious. Since when was Bruce able to read Clark's looks so well?

"Obviously I have," Bruce growls back, busying himself with cleaning up the rest of the med bay. Clark quietly watches his movements, clearly turning a thought over in his head.

"B, you know you're my friend. But you have a terrible habit of not really saying what you want to say when it comes to feelings." Bruce nearly barks out a laugh at that. No wonder Alfred likes Clark so much, he's said something very similar all of Bruce's adult life. Instead, he crosses his arms defensively and leans back against a table.

"He's aware that every decision I make is to keep him safe. His safety has always been my number one priority since he became Robin," he grunts, meeting Clark's bright gaze. Those eyes can see way too much of him, and he's learned over the years to accept that feeling. Even welcome it, on occasion.

"Look, Bruce," Clark starts, walking closer to stand next to Bruce. "I don't know much about raising kids. But from what I've gathered, they tend to respond better when you treat them like adults." Clark raises his hands in defense when Bruce growls at him in annoyance.

"I just mean that maybe Dick wants to hear that you do trust him, but that you don't trust the rogues of Gotham. I know you plan everything with careful precision in order to avoid someone getting hurt as much as possible. And I know that you fly off the handle sometimes when someone doesn't listen to that plan," Clark points out, nudging his elbow into Bruce's side. He merely glowers at the Kryptonian. He can't even protest because he's unfortunately correct. Clark has been on the receiving end of Bruce's ire enough to know that it's just how he shows that he cares.

"Do you have anymore unsolicited wisdom to share?" Bruce mutters petulantly. Clark grins and slings his arm around his shoulders into a side hug. A gesture that would not have been welcome a few years ago.

"Ice cream also helps."

Clark heads upstairs not long after that, leaving Bruce to clean up the mess he made. He breathes out a sigh before knocking on Dick's bedroom door. There's no response, but Bruce enters anyway. Dick is sitting up on his bed, curled up in an angry ball while listening to some music turned up way too loud in his headphones. He glares at Bruce's approach, but slips off the headphones anyway as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Come to yell more?" Dick grumbles, resting his chin on his knees.

"No. I've come to apologize." Dick perks up slightly at that, but he still avoids Bruce's gaze like the plague. If this is how he is at 12, he can't imagine how he's going to be at 16.

"Dick, when it comes to being Robin, your safety and well-being are my number one priority," he starts plainly, drawing from Clark's advice. "I tell you to always listen to my plans because I want to avoid any situation where you get hurt as much as possible. You're my son, and I don't like the idea of you getting injured when I could have done something to prevent it."

Dick finally looks up then, more interested in what Bruce has to say. The tension in his body loosens somewhat as he unfolds himself from the ball he was tucked into.

"But you treat me like I'm a kid. I'm not 8 anymore, I can handle more than you think," he protests, less of the anger from before and more of the underlying hurt Bruce knew was there.

"Sometimes, it's hard for me to realize that you're growing up, Dick. I still see you as the young kid I took under my wing. I'm told that's pretty normal for most parents." Bruce sees it plenty in the way Alfred will fuss over him when completely unnecessary. It's taken him too long to realize that he's beginning to do the same for Dick.

"I trust you to be Robin. I trust you to take care of yourself first and foremost. But that's not going to stop me from worrying every time we go out there," he admits quietly, reaching out to give Dick's leg a pat. "That being said, I'm sorry that I yelled at you and didn't explain my reasoning like this instead. I'm supposed to be the adult here, and I wasn't acting like it."

Dick seems to mull over his words for a minute. Bruce gives him the space to think and formulate how he wants to respond. He's said his piece, and he can only hope it's what Dick needs to hear. Without a word, his son throws his arms around Bruce's neck in a tight hug. Bruce responds instantly, pulling Dick into his chest.

"You're alright, B," Dick murmurs into his shoulder. Bruce's heart warms to hear it, knowing those words mean so much more. The hug lasts a moment longer before Dick pulls back, looking happier than he did a minute ago. The tightness in Bruce's chest eases, knowing he hasn't pushed his son away completely.

"C'mon. I think Clark and Alfred have a little something for you downstairs." Dick looks so young again when his eyes sparkle, and he darts out of the room excitedly. Bruce follows him down to the kitchen at a more leisurely pace. He's greeted with Dick happily accepting the banana split Clark and Alfred have concocted. It's way more sugar than an 11 year old should have at this hour, but Bruce is willing to reap the consequences for just one night.

"I see you took Master Clark's advice," Alfred says quietly, sidling up next to Bruce as the pair watch Dick and Clark chat happily. Bruce grunts, but doesn't say anything else. There's a warm feeling spreading in his chest as he watches his son and his best friend talk about anything and everything. Bruce has always admired Clark's ability to connect with his son with ease. He'll never admit it out loud, but it's made figuring out this parenting ordeal a lot easier.

"Did you two have to add extra chocolate and sprinkles? Dick will be awake for hours," he shoots back, allowing himself the smallest of smiles as Dick insists on sharing some of his treat with Clark.

"Master Clark insisted upon it. Who am I to refuse?" Alfred hums before walking off the clean up the mess he and Clark left behind. Bruce watches for a little longer before taking the seat on the other side of Dick.

"B, you want some?" Dick instantly offers, holding up another spoon Alfred must have left for him. Bruce can't say he's the biggest fan of ice cream, especially one coated in more sugar than he probably eats in a month. But he isn't about to turn down the offer and possibly disappoint Dick. It's just as sugary as he imagines, but he still manages to swallow it down. Clark grins at his clear discomfort.

"Careful, Dick. You might send your dad into a sugar frenzy," he jokes, taking his own bite without so much as flinching. Bruce scrunches his nose in distaste.

"I have no idea how you can eat that with a straight face," he dead-pans. Clark's smile only grows broader.

"What can I say? I have a sweet tooth."

"I don't need you to tell me that. You add sugar to your coffee, Clark."

"That's normal!"

"It's an abomination." Clark glares at Bruce without any heat behind it. He returns his attention to Dick, who's asking him about a recent mission in Japan that involved a villain that was a little too inspired by the Godzilla movies. As the two chat, Bruce can't help the fond feeling returning with fervor. Clark glances at Bruce, smiling at him so softly, like they're in on a private joke. Bruce is too busy smiling back to notice how Dick glances between the two of them.

V.

"You're in love with him," Dick announces proudly one day, as if he's made the greatest discovery in the world. Bruce's hand stalls where he was lifting a mug of coffee to his lips. His third one that day. On top of a night-long patrol, a full day of meetings, and now a gala in a couple hours, he was running on oil-black coffee and miracles. Which is why it took him almost a full minute to process what Dick said.

"I'm sorry, what are we talking about?" He finally replies, setting his mug back on his desk. Dick's smile only widens, which usually isn't a good sign.

"You're in love with Uncle Clark," he repeats for emphasis. Now, Bruce is glad he already set his coffee down, because he's sure there would have been a mess on the floor at that statement.

"Ha ha, very funny, Dick. If this is you trying to get out of tonight's gala, you're going to be sorely disappointed," Bruce snarks back, ignoring that weird feeling in his chest at the accusation. Dick pouts, leaning over the desk into Bruce's space.

"Clark is right: you are painfully obstinate," he bemoans, swiping the mug from the desk to steal a drink. Dick's face instantly scrunches up at the taste, dropping the mug back on the desk.

"And your taste in coffee is horrible." Bruce sighs, taking the mug back to take a long drink. At this rate, he was going to need another to deal with Dick's ridiculous notions of love.

"I am not in love with Clark. I have no clue where you got the idea from, but I suggest you keep your fantasizing to yourself." Lest Clark hear it and get the wrong idea. After all, Bruce can't be in love with Clark. They're friends, sure. Best friends, even, considering everything they've been through together. But in love? That's preposterous. Bruce was willfully ignoring all the little moments where he stared too long at Clark's smile, or watched the man like he carried the sun on his shoulders. He admires Clark. A lot. But that's all it is.

"Man, and I thought I was emotionally suppressed," Dick whistles, shaking his head in disappointment. Bruce's responding glare does nothing to sway his son. Maybe he is getting too soft.

"Don't you have homework to finish before tonight?" Bruce dismisses, refocusing on the article he was reading. No need to mention that it's one of Clark's.

"Are you going to avoid this forever? It's so obvious that you're in love with him! Alfred! Back me up on this!" Dick exclaims as Alfred walks in with a small plate of food for Bruce. His lips give the smallest twitch of amusement as he sets the plate down.

"Master Bruce knows how he feels about Master Clark. Even if he refuses to acknowledge it." Dick laughs happily while Bruce's glare worsens. Traitor.

"Master Dick, I've laid out your suit for tonight. If you wouldn't mind, please try it on once more so I can ensure the tailor made the correct alterations." The family tailor never makes mistakes, and everyone in the room knows that. But it's a clear dismissal, and Dick salutes with a mischievous grin before waltzing out of Bruce's office. With just the two of them left, Bruce sighs and leans back into his chair.

"What is it, Alfred?" Alfred hums thoughtfully, adjusting his cuff links unnecessarily.

"You know, I've always wondered if you'd finally shed this playboy persona and settle down," he muses. Bruce scoffs, glancing down at Clark's article laid out on the desk.

"I've toned it down since adopting Dick. You know that," is his quiet rebuttal, already not liking the direction of this conversation.

"Perhaps. But I'm not talking about Bruce Wayne. I'm talking about Bruce settling down. It's only natural for one to want their ward to find someone who can take care of them when one cannot." That quiets Bruce, who looks back at Alfred. He has him pinned with a look that can read everything in Bruce's mind. It's only mildly unnerving.

"I don't settle down," he grunts back weakly, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. "Are you trying to tell me that Batman should settle down with Superman?"

"I'm saying that I'm not blind, Master Bruce. And I know you aren't either. Why do you continue to deny that you do love him?" That's the question of the year. And Bruce has so many answers for that question. The Justice League. Their working relationship. The world needs Clark. There's so many reasons that Bruce should keep that debilitating attraction locked up. But worst of all is that Clark Kent most certainly does not love him. How could he? Bruce is everything Clark is not, and despite romantic tropes in media, opposites do not attract. It just doesn't work. If Clark was in love with him, Bruce would know.

Alfred sighs again, most likely seeing all these answers dance across his expression. Walking over to the other side of the desk, he leans down and gives a surprising hug to his ward.

"You can want something for yourself, Bruce. It's okay to be a little selfish," he murmurs into his ear before pulling back, posture straightening.

"I will have your suit ready for tonight, Master Bruce." And with that, Alfred leaves Bruce in heavy silence. His heart aches with so much want for Clark that it physically hurts. He groans, pressing his face into his hands. Then, with Herculean effort, he shuts away those feelings once more. If anyone doesn't deserve Clark, it's him.

The gala is in full swing when Bruce finally makes his entrance. It's being hosted at the Gotham Natural History Museum, fundraising for the new geology wing they plan to open. The various gemstone exhibits set up in the main hall provide the grand backdrop for many of Gotham's elite. Bruce is fashionably late, as always, Dick at his side. Reporters swarm them with questions and pictures, and Bruce smirks and leans into the Brucie persona as he gives a few blanket statements to appease them. Dick is kept carefully tucked behind him, smiling and waving off personal questions like Bruce taught him.

Once the initial swarm disperses, Dick glances around the room curiously. Seemingly spotting something, he smiles widely up at Bruce.

"I'm going to hide out by the buffet," he announces before waltzing off on his own. Bruce wants to stop him, but he knows Dick will find him if he needs help. The kid is much better at handling the general public than he initially predicted.

Bruce makes his usual rounds, a glass of something always in his hands. None of the alcohol ever makes it to his lips, but no one seems to notice. They're all too focused on the fact that Bruce Wayne is talking with them and making flippant, flirty comments. It's about 30 minutes into the event that Bruce finally spots Clark entering the event. He knew The Daily Planet was sending him instead of Miss. Grant tonight. Perhaps because Bruce pulled a few strings. He was counting on using Clark as a shield from any other unsavory reporters or socialites. Clark meets his gaze from across the room, and Bruce has to physically try to keep his heartbeat steady.

Clark normally opts for frumpy, ill-fitting suits that disguise his well-defined stature. But he doesn't see that tonight. Instead, Clark was wearing one of the suits Bruce had insisted on giving him that actually fit him properly. It's the deep navy one that hugs him in just the right ways and compliments his eyes. Clark is smiling at him, and it does horrible things to Bruce's resolve. He starts making his way across the room with long, powerful strides that Bruce can't help but watch. Oh God he's so in love with this man.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm Clark Kent from The Daily Planet. I was hoping to get a statement about tonight's fundraiser," he states smoothly, using that damn smile that is only for them. It's a struggle to smirk back with that easy grace Bruce Wayne is known for.

"You can get more than a statement, handsome," he purrs, giving a cursory wave to the group he was talking with before following Clark over to the bar.

"You wore the suit," Bruce states when they're finally alone, giving Clark an appraising look. He smiles shyly, adjusting his glasses self-consciously.

"I thought maybe one time wouldn't hurt. It's a shame to have them hanging in my closet and never use them," he admits, letting his hand fall from his glasses to tug at the jacket instead. Bruce can't help from reaching out and smoothing the collar of his shirt. Clark freezes under his touch, his eyes tracing the movement with immense focus. Bruce's hand flinches away, but Clark is quick to catch his wrist.

The stand like that for a moment, icy blue gaze meeting beautiful turquoise. That's when Bruce clocks the women he was talking with earlier glancing over at them, smiling and giggling. Ah. Of course. They were being watched. He buries that ugly disappointment behind a loose smile.

"Mr. Kent, I didn't think you could clean up so nicely," he lays on thickly, slipping his hand from Clark's grasp. Something Bruce can't label flashes through his gaze before they shutter to something more neutral. He locks away the hurt just as quickly.

"Bruce," Clark starts quietly, no longer using the shy reporter voice. "You look really good."

Bruce's chest warms from the genuine compliment, then goes icy as he reminds himself that it isn't what he thinks. It's harder than he wants it to be to keep reminding himself that Clark is his friend and nothing more. He swallows, his throat suddenly very dry.

"Thank you." The two fall into a stilted silence, one that they haven't suffered in a long time. Bruce waves over the bartender to order another drink he won't touch. Clark plays with his glasses again before opening his mouth.

"Bruce," he starts again, his voice wavering slightly. The bartender has time to pour another drink for Bruce before Clark finally manages to say something other than his name.

"After all this is over, or whenever you make your early exit, do you want to get a drink?" Bruce freezes for just a second just as he grabs the glass. In the list of possible things Clark Kent could say in this moment, that was not on it. For the first time tonight, Bruce takes a sip of alcohol. The two have gotten drinks together before. Usually in some backwards bar in either of their home cities so no one will recognize Bruce Wayne with a reporter. Something about the way Clark asks is different, but that must be Bruce's imagination. He's noticed that any time Clark is around, his cognitive abilities plummet in the most ridiculous way.

So it must be just a friendly offer, a reprieve after spending an evening with Gotham's elite. He's complained to Clark before about how gross he feels after any gala or event where he has to be the ditzy Brucie Wayne in order to get people to cough up money they don't need. That's what this is. It has to be, because Clark Kent would never love Bruce Wayne.

"You know I'm otherwise occupied after this," he responds flatly, refusing to let his disappointment show. Clark's expression fractures for just a second, and it carves a hole in Bruce's already aching chest. He knows Bruce has patrol after the gala. Why would that be such a big deal?

"Right, of course. How could I forget?" Something about the way Clark says it makes Bruce flinch, just barely.

"Well, I've taken up enough of your time. Do you want the usual statement?" Clark asks, voice tight in such a way that chips away at Bruce's resolve. He forces a languid smirk onto his face.

"Please." And with that, Clark stalks away. This is for the best.

VI.

"You're stupider than I thought." Dick finds him only minutes later. Bruce had been subtly watching Clark move around the room, quickly gathering statements for his article. It's obvious he's in a hurry to leave.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Dick snaps in frustration, tugging Bruce's jacket to pull them into a small alcove away from the party. Dick looks furious, which is an interesting look for someone so young.

"Is this really important to talk about right now? I still have people I need to talk to," Bruce growls, letting some of his own frustration leak out before he schools his expression. Dick grabs his wrist and yanks him back when Bruce tries to step away.

"Why did you turn him down?" Dick growls, mimicking Bruce's irritated glare.

"You know we have patrol after this. We can get drinks another night when there isn't a gala." The look Dick gives him could rival Alfred's exasperated expression.

"You turned him down for patrol?" He hisses, looking ready to punch Bruce. "I can't believe you!"

"I don't see why this is a big deal," Bruce jeers back. "Clark knows we have patrol. It's on the calendar."

"Oh my God you are so dense. He was asking you on a date!" Bruce's argument stalls in his throat. There's no way he heard Dick right.

"And before you try and argue back, I know he was because I told him to go for it! And your refusal to acknowledge his feelings got in the way again." Dick makes a frustrated sound, throwing his hands up in the air before taking a deep breath. Bruce is stunned into silence, rewinding that conversation in his head. Clark was acting weird, but he figured it was from discomfort. After all, Clark never allows himself to go out in public with his figure on display lest someone make the connection. He figured Clark was just trying to be friendly. He figured…

He really is an idiot.

"If you're done having a crisis in there, are you going to go after him?" Dick snaps, pointing to where Clark is already leaving. This snaps Bruce back into place, his heart uncontrollably fluttering in his chest. Clark doesn't even look up. Bruce steels himself, adjusting his cuff links.

"Yes, I am."

Dick sends him off with a roll of his eyes as Bruce strides through the lobby, dodging conversation by faking inebriation and dizziness. Everyone just laughs it off as typical Bruce Wayne behavior. Meanwhile, Bruce finally unlocks all those emotions he'd been stuffing away since he realized he loves Clark Kent. All those silly fantasies of waking up next to Clark, of helping each other after a particularly rough battle, of watching movies with Dick squashed between the two of them. For once, he lets these desires fuel him as he steps into the night of Gotham.

Thankfully, Clark hasn't taken off flying by the time Bruce spots him a block down. Out of the eyes of the public, he jogs shamelessly over to the man he's been pining after for so long.

"Clark!" Clark probably knew already that Bruce was approaching, but he stops and looks back in surprise anyway.

"Bruce? I didn't think you'd be leaving already." How could Bruce miss it? The way Clark looks at him with a carefully crafted expression, most likely covering for the hurt that he caused without even meaning to. His heart lurches, and Bruce catches Clark's eyes flickering to his chest for just a second.

Now face-to-face with the man, Bruce falters. He didn't exactly plan out what to say in his hurry to stop Clark from leaving. Which is not like him at all. Something about Clark always leaves Bruce floundering, and that something is love. Sucking in a sharp breath, Bruce takes Clark's hand into his own. Clark doesn't hide his surprise and confusion.

"I'm not good at emotions. I'm not good at letting myself understand them and feel them. Which, I'm sure you already know," Bruce starts, staring down at their joined hands. Clark's palm is so smooth and warm, none of the calluses that litter Bruce's hand.

"Bruce-"

"I love you, Clark." That stuns the man into silence, and Bruce finally allows himself to look up. Clark's beautiful eyes hold too many things that Bruce is incapable of pinpointing.

"I have loved you for a very long time, even though I've tried to deny it at every turn," he admits in a gruff voice. "I can't… I don't know how to want something, someone, and let myself have it. My life has never been my own. It's always been Gotham's."

It's almost painful to admit out loud, but Clark deserves to hear it. He knows how fucked up Bruce is, how fucked up he'll always be no matter what. If Clark actually wants something with him, he deserves to know what he's getting into. Bruce swallows slowly, wetting his lips. He prepares what he wants to say next when Clark dips down and presses his lips to Bruce's.

Bruce's body stiffens on instinct at the foreign contact. Only when his brain decides to kick into gear does he kiss Clark back insistently. Their fingers thread together as Clark carefully cups his jaw to pull him closer. And when they finally break apart, Clark is grinning wildly at him, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlit night.

"It's about time you figured that out," he teases softly, his hands never leaving Bruce. Clark touching him like this feels entirely different from the friendly hugs or the occasional clasp on his shoulder. This was so much more. This was so right.

"I just said I'm not good at this," Bruce protests, but there's only a gentle affection in his tone. Clark laughs like it's the best thing he's ever heard, and Bruce wants to hear more of it.

"I know." Clark leans down again, and Bruce meets him halfway this time.