Archive of Our Own

There are several things one might expect when opening the door on a Friday afternoon. Clark wasn't expecting company, so he was largely prepared to redirect whatever hapless delivery driver or friend of a neighbor had gotten the wrong apartment number. He opened the door with a bland smile.

Instead he was met with Bruce Wayne's dour face and a beaming young boy at hip height.

Bruce greeted him politely by saying, "Your couch has a pullout bed."

"Uh, hi. I think so, yeah. Haven't used it before, but I think–"

"The model advertises a pullout bed feature," Bruce interrupted, coming through the door.

Dick waved up at Clark. "Hi! How are you?"

"Hi, Dick. Nice to see someone with manners around here. I'm doing good, how are you?"

"I'm awesome! Bruce said I'm going to have a sleepover with you for the weekend."

"Did he now?" Clark turned to Bruce, who blinked placidly at him. On his shoulder was an enormous backpack, presumably carrying the materials of the aforementioned sleepover.

"I'm attending a meeting in Zurich to discuss a potential merger with a competitor. Dick doesn't want to go."

Before Clark could ask how that related to him, Dick cut in and said, "I wanted to go because I like Zurich and I haven't been in a long time, but Bruce said he's only going for maybe one or two days, and also he's going to be in meetings the whole time and I have to go with him because it looks weird if a ten year old is allowed to go by himself in a big city. And we won't even get to be Batman and Robin, because it would look bad if Bruce and Dick went to Zurich and then Batman and Robin appeared there the same day. Boringgg."

"Yeah, that does sound pretty boring," Clark said, attention half-focused on Bruce as he did a search of the apartment. A dozen and a half thoughts crossed his mind, each demanding to be spoken. He swallowed most of them and said, "B? Could I get a word real quick?"

Bruce lifted his fingers from where he'd been inspecting the underside of Clark's shelves, presumably looking for listening devices or other such bugs. He gave a curt nod, turned to Dick, and said, "Start unpacking, chum."

Dick amiably unzipped the backpack, pulling out a sheet, a thin blanket, and a pillow.

Clark stepped into his bedroom door and closed it. Then, upon further thought, he ushered Bruce into the ensuite bathroom. Just in case.

"What's going on?" Clark asked, dropping his voice as he shut the door, "Are you hurt?"

Bruce's eyes darted over Clark's shoulders. "I'm fine. No one's hurt yet."

"This isn't about a merger in Zurich, is it?"

"There's been some recent activity in the League of Assassins. I have reason to believe they're going to target me specifically."

Clark knew about the League of Assassins, mostly by way of what Bruce shared with him. Some kind of shadow cabal, led by a mysterious immortal man who was obsessed with Batman. There was his daughter, who Bruce had mentioned only sparingly but in the kind of way that meant there were bodies lurking behind that door Clark didn't want to see.

They were Bad News. Capital B capital N.

"Do you need backup? I can come play support, or we can call Diana, some of the other people on the JL, we could–"

"I need you here. If they're coming after me, they're going to come after Robin. He needs to be kept safe."

Clark's mouth felt abruptly dry. He attempted to swallow. "And you brought him here?"

Bruce looked Clark straight in the eye and said, "There's no one better for him than you."

Sometimes Bruce said these things, these wild declarations of trust and faith, like they were statements of fact. It made it hard to interpret. Or rather, it made it hard to see past Clark's own rose-colored bias in the interpretation.

They were colleagues, certainly. Excellent teammates, good chemistry, always able to count on each other when the chips were down in a fight. They had a healthy amount of respect for each other both in and out of costume. On good days, Clark would say they were friends. He certainly felt like Bruce was his friend. It was just hard to know if he was Bruce's friend.

Bruce was a hard man to read. He was, as many people on the JL said it, a pain in the ass. But Clark couldn't help but admire his strength, his bravery, his intellect, his compassion, everything that made him both Batman and Bruce Wayne. He carried a hard shell, but Clark knew that there were layers he could spend a lifetime looking through.

He knew, intellectually, that Bruce trusted him. He put his back to Clark far too often to not trust him.

But this was Dick. This was Robin, who Batman was fiercely protective over. This was Bruce's whole world, and he was placing it in Clark's hands because he knew this was where it would be safe.

Clark exhaled, keeping it steady. He gave Bruce a smile, projecting reassurance as best he could. He was keenly aware that he had no idea how to take care of a child, and that the stakes were about as high as it got.

"I'll take care of him, of course I will."

He'd have liked to follow that up with some kind of question, or some reciprocal statement of trust. Why me? Why not Diana, or any of the other superheroes you've trusted with your life? Why didn't you ask before bringing him over here? Why weren't you honest with Dick?

But Clark hesitated too long, and Bruce nodded curtly.

"I'll be back no later than Sunday. Unless the worst happens. The plans for that are detailed in a hard drive on the hidden side pocket on the backpack. You'll know if you need it."

Whatever that meant. Clark blinked, suddenly aware that there were many things he should probably tell Bruce if this could be their last goodbye. He opened his mouth and closed it without speaking.

They left the bathroom without another word. Bruce ducked to meet Dick's eye, who was still wrestling the sheets onto the sofa mattress. "Be good for Clark. No acrobatics unless you've checked the structural integrity of your target."

"Come on, that was one time," Dick whined with a cute little pout.

Bruce's lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Then you know better. I expect a full report on your outings. They'll be much more interesting than mine."

Dick grinned. He saluted, and then threw his arms around Bruce. The hug was rather lopsided, as Bruce only touched his fingertips to the boy's shoulders before pulling away.

He was gone without another word, without so much as a thank you or even a glance backwards to Clark.

Clark looked down at Dick and saw the bubbling excitement of a kid about to experience something new. Really, there was no other world where he didn't give up the world for this. He bent at the knee and said, "What should we do this weekend?"

Life went on as it often did, and Clark found it delightfully easy not to think about it too hard. Things established an equilibrium quickly, largely because not much changed. He saw Dick occasionally by way of his work with Bruce, and once in a blue moon he'd come by for an unexpected sleepover while Batman hunted down whatever threatened his Robin.

Clark got a new couch. Bruce didn't say anything. Dick did; he liked it.

He didn't consider the weight of Bruce's trust again until he got a call while he was out in the middle of some investigative work. His phone buzzed insistently as he waited in the Superior Court offices for a clerk to bring him back the records he was looking for.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi, glad I caught someone. Letita from Gotham Academy speaking. Is this Mister Clark Kent?"

"This is he," Clark said, peeking out around the corner to see if his clerk had returned yet. "How can I help you?"

"Well, it's a bit awkward, but we're having trouble getting ahold of Bruce Wayne. He said that he was unable to step away, but that you would be able to assist. I see you're listed here as a secondary emergency contact for Dick Grayson? Is that right?"

Well, that might have been nice to know before someone of unknown origin called about Dick.

Hesitating would look bad. "Yes, that's right. Is there something wrong, is someone hurt?"

"Dick got into a physical fight on school grounds just earlier, but no one was seriously hurt or injured. We're just taking disciplinary action, only his guardian isn't available. Is there any chance you can come down and we can review the incident?"

Clark checked his watch. Only 11:30, so not terrible for traffic. He chewed on his lip, watching the fan behind the clerk's office whir. If he took his car, it'd take more than an hour to get there. If he flew, it ran the risk of being noticed.

And where was Bruce? He cast his hearing out and located Bruce's heartbeat without much effort. Steady and normal. But unable to leave his work for Dick. That could mean anything.

Frustration rose in Clark's throat. He bit back an anxious sigh and pressed a smile into his voice. "You're in luck, actually. I was just doing some work in Gotham today. I can be there in–" Clark noticed the clerk coming around the corner, "–ten minutes. Fifteen. Is that alright?"

"That's fine. I'll see you soon, Mr. Kent."

His mind reeled as he hung up. Since when had Bruce listed him as an emergency contact? Ahead of Alfred even, or maybe they'd tried to call him too and hadn't been successful. But no, that didn't make any sense; Alfred would have rather died than miss a phone call.

Clark pressed his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. Why would Bruce have done this? Why wouldn't he ask?

Stupid question, actually. Bruce never asked. Not for permission, and definitely not for forgiveness. For whatever reason, he'd determined Clark to be the best person to take care of Dick if he wasn't there.

This wasn't even Batman business. This was just Bruce.

The clerk brought him the wrong file. He smiled and took the copies without a fuss, too frazzled to argue. He ducked into an alley, took off into the sky, and then landed in Gotham barely a minute later.

He was desperately tempted to get Bruce. A cursory flyby at Wayne Tower put him in the office. Unharmed, at least. Or rather, putting up a good show of being bored to tears by whatever meeting he was in.

The smart thing would probably be to get Bruce's attention somehow, insist that he go to Dick, and then fly back towards Metropolis before someone could notice his absence. He could call Letitia back, oh so sorry about the inconvenience but I'm actually not able to make it, I got Bruce on the line for you, maybe you should talk to Dick's actual guardian instead of his guardian's weird colleague-friend-confidant.

What did it make them if his name was listed as Dick's emergency contact? Surely that wasn't just Justice League compatriots. Even friends felt like a weird descriptor for them with this new knowledge.

Clark didn't get Bruce's attention. Instead he zipped off to Gotham Academy and ducked behind an alley to get himself cleaned up. If Bruce wasn't going to leave this meeting, and if he was going to designate Clark as a trusted adult, then he was darn well going to follow through on that.

Served Bruce right, honestly. Let him be annoyed. Clark was pretty annoyed with the whole thing too.

Annoyed might be the wrong word, but he didn't have the right word.

He walked into Gotham Academy's building looking sufficiently harried, shoulders hunched just so as he waved at the secretary. "Letitia?"

The woman in question offered him a smile. "You must be Clark Kent. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you as well."

"Are you..." Letitia looked him up and down, "a friend of Mr. Wayne's?"

Clark fought a flush. He managed a wobbly little smile and tried not to burst into flames. Good question, Letitia. He should ask Bruce the same thing. "Family friend. What happened?"

Letitia frowned. "Well, he won't say. He seems to have been provoked by one of the other boys, but he won't say what they told him except that it's too nasty to repeat. The boy who provoked him won't say anything either, except that he was just joking around. Both boys say that Dick swung first, but they ended up both throwing a couple punches before someone was able to intervene."

What a mess. Clark frowned, running through all of the worst case scenarios that a teenage boy could have told Dick that hurt so much he wouldn't repeat it. "Where is he now?"

"He's just in the next room," Letitia nodded at the open doorway. "I'll let Headmaster Harrison know that you're here and he'll let you both in as soon as he's available."

Dick had been seated on a row of chairs in front of the principal's office. He sported a split lip and an ice pack in his hand that he absentmindedly pressed to his face. His posture straightened as he noticed Clark, eyes gleaming with something he couldn't place.

If he was surprised to see Clark there, he didn't look like it. Was Dick expecting him? Did he know that Clark was his emergency contact? Did he ask for him, or did Bruce suggest him?

"Hey, Clark. They couldn't get B?"

"Apparently not," Clark said, sitting in the chair at Dick's right, "Any idea what's up?"

"He told me last night that Lucius was going to stop giving us new tech if he didn't come to the meeting today and pretend to be interested. So I guess it's that."

One would think that Bruce Wayne, master strategist, would have let his ward's emergency contact know about this in advance. Unless he had anticipated that Clark would take care of Dick in his absence, no questions asked. The thought sent a weird flutter through Clark's stomach.

He could think about that later. Clark leaned forward, gently urging Dick to lower the ice pack so he could get a closer look at his lip. "They got you good, huh kiddo?"

Dick shrugged. He glanced back at the door, then surreptitiously over his shoulder. "I let him get one in. It would look weird if I dodged it all."

Clark pressed his thumb to the boy's chin, tilting his face to see it in a better light. It was a clean split, though a thin stream of fresh blood trickled over his lip as Dick moved his mouth to speak. With a subtle glance over his own shoulder, he blew a bit of supercool air at the injury.

"Thanks," Dick said with a little grin.

"Of course. Anything else hurt?"

"I just let him get the one hit. You should see the other guy."

Clark tried not to smile. Not best practice to encourage violence. Nocturnal activities notwithstanding.

"I heard he said some pretty bad things. You want to tell me about it?"

Dick looked away, turning his gaze to the floor. He shook his head.

"I just want to help you," Clark said, amazed at how easy it was to be gentle with this boy. "I can't stand up for you in there if I don't know what's going on. And I want to know if there's bullying going on."

"It's not about me," Dick scowled.

"But there is bullying?"

A moment of silence passed. Clark waited. Finally Dick admitted, "He said some stuff about Babs."

"What did they say?"

"It was really bad, Clark. He said, uhm– he said that she was too poor to go here. That she only got in because someone felt bad for the food stamps girl."

Yikes. Cruel, even for a kid. Clark opened his mouth with a consoling response on the tip of his tongue–

"And then he said that the only way she was ever going to get on top was if she got under first."

His jaw dropped. Clark blinked, wondering for a brief moment if he imagined that. Surely kids weren't that awful. Where would a thirteen year old even hear that kind of talk?

Well, that one was obvious. The real question was why Barbara Gordon was a topic of conversation in the home.

"He said that," Clark said, dumbstruck, "You heard it from his mouth."

Dick nodded. "It was really gross. So I hit him."

Clark took a brief moment, just a single second, to close his eyes and gather himself. He had to wonder what else was going on that Dick wouldn't talk about because it was about him. He cursed Bruce for not being here to deal with his ward, and then felt bad and took it back.

He was here now. Whatever that meant, Bruce trusted him.

"Alright," Clark opened his eyes and met Dick's gaze, "Here's what we're going to do. We're going to go in there and talk to Headmaster Whatever-His-Name-Is. I'm going to handle things, and you're going to sit there like a very good boy who's never done anything wrong. Got it?"

"I'm a perfect little angel," Dick agreed, blinking beatifically.

"Great. And then, if you let me take care of it, we'll get ice cream after."

Dick blinked. "What, really?"

"This is not a reward," Clark said very seriously, nodding to make sure Dick understood, "I've just had a very long day and I want ice cream. Got it?"

Dick flicked his fingers in a little salute. "Sir, yes sir."

Clark looked at him for another long moment. He wondered if what he saw was the same thing Bruce saw, and what it meant if it was. He tousled Dick's hair and said, "You're a good kid."

So it went. Clark went in there and very politely buffaloed his way into getting a written apology for both Babs and Dick without ever putting words to what was said. He agreed to the two day suspension for Dick on the grounds of their no tolerance policy, and subsequently negotiated for the bully in question to be put on a strict watch. He smiled blankly and reminded them that Bruce Wayne was not someone who you wanted to piss off.

They got ice cream afterward. Bruce called with a curt but frantic, "He's with you?"

"He's with me." Clark watched Dick lick a scoop of his chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

"You came," Bruce said, faintly breathless.

"Yeah, of course I did."

The pause between the call couldn't have been more than a few seconds. It felt like an eternity. There were so many things Clark wanted to ask. Questions that would have taken the shape of accusations.

But he didn't say anything. He didn't ask what Bruce meant by making him an emergency contact without asking if he wanted it. He didn't ask whether Bruce really trusted him with Dick enough that he didn't have to think about it. He didn't ask why Bruce wanted it to be him that took care of Dick.

Instead he rattled off the address for the ice cream shop. Thirty minutes later and one more scoop of ice cream, Bruce arrived. Clark felt his chest squeeze to see the look he gave both of them as he stepped out of the car.

Maybe Clark was just a coward. It was a simple explanation of the facts. Somehow more desirable than any of the other possible explanations for why Clark couldn't get himself to ask Bruce what was going on.

He didn't end up having to bail Dick out from the principal's office again. But he did wind up attending more of Dick's extracurricular events than he missed. Always arriving with Bruce, riding up to the event in the passenger seat of his ridiculously expensive car, looking ridiculous in his jeans and sweater next to Bruce's expertly tailored clothes.

He went nonetheless. Dick was always ecstatic to see him. Bruce stopped telling Clark that Dick wanted him to come. He just forwarded the email with the flier for the event to him. Or he'd text a time and date, and Clark would come.

What does this mean, he wanted desperately to ask, but never did. He couldn't stand to know the answer.

He accepted the intrusion into his life with the unsettling realization that it wasn't an intrusion at all.

Clark stopped thinking about it. And then suddenly he couldn't think of anything else.

It happened during a battle with the Justice League. Not even a particularly groundbreaking battle, either. The only reason Superman needed to call in backup in the first place was because Luthor's robot army was powered by small Kryptonite cores.

Batman and Robin were first on the scene, descending from the Batplane with a flutter of their capes. Twin frowns settled on their face as he gave them a briefing, and it was only a matter of moments before each of them set to work figuring out how to permanently dismantle the robots.

What members of the League that were available arrived just a few minutes later; Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, even Green Arrow managed to arrive halfway through the battle.

Clark hated to say that a battle was ordinary, because people's lives on the line was never ordinary. But it wasn't the most fervid of Luthor's plans, and he was half-tempted to ask if he'd been getting enough sleep lately since this wasn't quite up to his usual flair. He refrained – best not to enrage the egomaniac.

Point being, the real wonder wasn't the battle itself. Rather, it was just a single moment. Arguably less than a moment.

Batman had identified the power source, located in an underground bunker of some kind that Luthor encased in lead. Superman offered to move in. But Batman replied only, "No."

Then he looked Clark dead in the eyes. His blank gaze flickered down to Robin, currently flinging batarangs at unsuspecting robots while he flipped through the air. It was barely noticeable through the white lenses of the cowl; a tiny flicker of his jaw was the only clue. It could have meant anything.

But Clark heard it loud and clear: protect him.

It wasn't like he could say no when Batman asked him to hold his Robin safe.

Clark nodded. Bruce looked at him for another second longer, and then he was off with Green Lantern towards the power source.

He didn't have time to be stunned over the interaction. He made Batman a promise, and so he kept it. He jumped down to Robin's side, staggering slightly as he approached the Kryptonite powered robots.

"All good, Blue?" Robin asked.

Superman managed a smile. "No prob, Rob. Batman's going to work. What say we give these robots something to look at while he's busy?"

Robin looked at him with an impish delight behind his own white lenses. Without another word, he leapt forward and used Superman's shoulders as a springboard. He didn't need the warning anyway. It took only a glance to see what Robin was going to do, and to brace his body accordingly.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Batman and Green Lantern to dismantle the power source. It only blew up one warehouse. Abandoned, too. Good deal.

Batman grappled back to the group at large as a behemoth of a shadow. He arrived next to Robin, looking him up and down. Then he turned to Superman and looked him up and down just the same way he'd check over Robin. Batman nodded, just once.

When had he become so good at understanding Bruce, he wondered.

More than that, really. When did they get to the point where Bruce trusted him so implicitly? He left his Robin in Clark's care without a moment's hesitation. He prevented Clark from endangering himself and managed to redirect his attention without arguing about it.

He'd known that Clark would give Dick priority over everything else. He had also known that Clark would understand what he wanted just by the twitch of his jaw and the near-imperceptible flicker of his eyes.

Bruce was right, too. Clark had understood him, and he had immediately jumped to Bruce's bidding when it came to protecting Dick.

So then what did that mean?

The thought carried him through the JL briefing up in the Watchtower. Everyone wondered what Luthor was playing at, and Clark idly pitched his opinion where the silence demanded it. But his gaze kept straying to Batman and Robin, sitting with the same ramrod posture and the exact same serious frowns.

He met eyes with Bruce and felt a pulse go through his stomach that could have been nausea. Or maybe that was just butterflies. Butterflies? That didn't make any sense.

Batman hardly ever brought Robin to Justice League battles. He was unceasingly wary of putting Dick in the path of the large-scale threats they faced. Why bring him now? Did Robin ask, and he simply said yes? Was it because Superman put out the call? Was it because Bruce knew he would protect Robin the same way Batman protected him?

The meeting adjourned eventually when it became clear that they weren't going to figure anything else out tonight. Clark stood with an unusual fatigue rattling his bones. Kryptonite was no joke.

He set off down the hallway towards his quarters when he was stopped by a familiar growl.

"Superman. What the hell is that?"

Clark turned to see Batman staring at him with folded arms. Robin was at his side as always. "What's what?"

Robin pointed at his foot. "That."

He looked down to see a shard of metal embedded in his boot. It pulsed faintly with a green glow that would have been invisible to the eye.

"Oh." Clark said eloquently. "That."

In retrospect, a piece of Kryptonite metal in his calf did a lot to explain why he was feeling so fatigued, and why nausea had dogged him throughout the meeting. Butterflies? No. Kryptonite. Definitely Kryptonite.

Clark couldn't manage more than a tired shrug in response. "It doesn't hurt much," he said consolingly.

Bruce wasn't consoled. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, allowing himself just a brief moment to gather himself. Then he stepped closer and said, "Medbay. Now."

"Honestly, B. It's not bad."

"You're an idiot. Get to the medbay. I need to examine you for injuries."

"Well you can do all that while I go shower," Clark said, intending for it to be a glib joke about how Bruce could take his paranoia for a hike. But as he said it, he suddenly imagined Bruce's dark hair wet from the shower and plastered over his forehead, leaned up against the tile or perhaps sunk to his knees as he examined the wound.

Clark swallowed. Suddenly sure that he couldn't exist in Batman and Robin's presence anymore, he turned on his heel and left without another word.

Only for both of them to follow him.

"We can go to your quarters if it's more comfortable for you," Bruce said, and the concession was so weirdly normal that Clark had to wonder when he'd gotten used to the mighty Batman bending to his comfort level.

Another rebuttal pressed on Clark's tongue, but he glanced over to see Robin looking at him with such open concern that his words died immediately.

They were just trying to help. It wasn't their fault that Clark was grappling with feelings that had no name.

He met Bruce's eyes to find concern there too. Less visible to the outside eye, but plain as day for Clark. He wondered at what point he'd crossed from being infuriated at Batman's silences to interpreting them with the ease of a fluent speaker.

Just the same, Clark didn't even have to open his mouth to admit defeat. Bruce saw it somewhere on his face and stepped closer. Clark could smell the sweat and leather on him.

"My quarters are better stocked," Bruce said, "We can go there."

What was Clark supposed to say when presented with Bruce's concerned frown, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but couldn't cross the distance between them?

He blinked and found himself in Bruce's quarters. It was spartan in its decoration, with a small offshoot room that bore the undeniable spirit of Robin in the posters and the clutter strewn about the desk.

Bruce tugged the cowl off and instructed him onto the bed with a tone that brooked no argument. Clark couldn't argue, too stunned with the reality that he'd been invited into Bruce's space without question, as if he belonged there.

He felt painfully attuned to the shape of Bruce's hands as they worked his boot off around the shard of metal. Dick hovered behind him, anxiety flickering in his eyes.

"I'm okay, Robin," he said.

Dick grinned. "Sure you are. A little Kryptonite can't keep you down."

"No, sir," Clark said with a wink.

"Be still," Bruce growled. His fingers prodded at the metal with startling gentleness. Here he was, on his knees in front of Superman. Clark had taken care of Dick, and now Bruce took care of Clark.

It really wasn't that bad. The only reason the injury hadn't already healed under the yellow sunlight was because the Kryptonite residue in the metal had weakened his flesh. If it was just Clark, he would have pulled out the metal straight out and then shot off into the sun to heal. It would have hurt, but he'd live.

Bruce seemed intent on going at it in the most methodical way possible, determined to do this right. He grabbed towels in preparation for the blood, as well as a number of surgical instruments that Clark tried not to look too hard at. "We don't know if the injury has aggravated any tissue or tendons, and being hasty could lead to further damage."

Clark understood, without needing to ask or wonder what Bruce's severity really meant, that he was worried about him. This strong, cutthroat man was worried about hurting him, and wanted to make it as painless as possible.

The thought touched something raw in Clark's chest. He turned his attention back to Dick, forcing himself to stop laughing on rote memory to his jokes.

He'd got a little smudge of dirt on his cheek somewhere during the fight. Clark licked his thumb absently and leaned over to clean the stain away.

Dick wrinkled his nose and jerked away. "I can clean myself, I'm not five," he complained. He scrubbed the back of his wrist against the smudge, smearing it magnificently.

"Sorry," Clark said, a smile settling easy on his lips.

Bruce watched them, expression impossible to unravel. When he spoke, it was unusually rough. "Robin, go shower. Get changed."

"Are you gonna shower?" Dick laid his hands on his hips. "Cause let me tell you, B. You reek."

"I don't reek," Bruce said, turning his attention back to Clark's leg.

"Clark, back me up here."

Clark felt pinned to the spot like one of those insects. He carefully avoided looking at Bruce when he said placidly, "He seems okay to me."

Dick wrinkled his nose, as if he understood everything that Clark wasn't saying. Which was strange, because Clark wasn't sure what he wasn't saying. He just knew that Bruce smelled the same way he did every time he saw him on or after patrol. Which was, he realized, an inordinate amount considering he had no real reason to be seeing him after patrol so often.

"You guys are gross," he said.

"Robin," Bruce huffed, giving him a stern glare.

"Fine, I'm going," Dick tossed his hands in the air and shuffled off to his room. He emerged a minute later with a bundle of clothes and closed the bathroom door behind him. Another minute later, the only sound in the room was the shower and Bruce's heartbeat.

"It won't be much longer," Bruce said, inspecting the metal with some strange tool, "I'm just checking to make sure that Kryptonite residue won't be trapped in your bloodstream when the wound seals."

"You know, I could just rip it out and then go spend a couple minutes under the sun lamp in the Fortress," Clark pointed out. He had no idea why he pointed it out; it wasn't as if he wanted Bruce to stop touching him.

He just– he had to know.

"There's no reason for you to be in any more pain than you have to be."

Well. That was that, then.

Dick emerged from the shower only five minutes after he'd got in. He wasted no time flopping down on Bruce's bed, starfishing across it with a contented sigh.

"We should practice using you in aerial maneuvers," Dick suggested, "It would be useful in battles like that. And it's fun."

Clark expected, on instinct, Bruce to shut that down. Nobody got near Robin without good reason. And it was potentially dangerous for Clark to be throwing Dick around like a football.

But Bruce didn't hesitate before nodding. "We can arrange a session."

Clark's tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He nodded dumbly.

Dick's chatter filled the silence, and it felt absurdly comfortable to sit on Bruce's bed and listen to his child talk about the drama in his freshman class. It didn't take long though for the space between Dick's words to grow, and for them to be interspersed with the occasional yawn.

Bruce glanced at Dick as he yawned for the third time in two minutes, but he didn't say anything. He just pressed his fingers against Clark's calf and said, "On three."

He pulled the metal out on two. Never let it be said that Bruce was soft.

Even after the metal had been pulled out, Bruce's calloused hands braced his leg as he wrapped gauze around the wound. It would heal as soon as Clark stepped outside the Watchtower and into yellow sunlight. And yet.

The room seemed to become smaller as Clark watched Bruce's hands manipulate the bandage around Clark's calf. His nimble fingers cut the gauze with expert precision. Their backdrop was the sound of Dick's even, heavy breathing. His small foot pressed into Clark's back, and he felt unnaturally attuned to both of them.

It was all too much. Mostly in the fact that it didn't feel like enough. Perhaps, just the perfect kind of silence and company that Clark wished he could trap in a bottle.

Bruce helped him to his feet, and Clark turned to see Dick asleep on the bed. For what felt like a long time, they both stood shoulder to shoulder and watched Dick. It might have felt weird, if it didn't feel like peeping the door open to check at midnight to make sure he was still asleep.

Strange, that. Clark was sure he'd never done that with Bruce before, but the feeling of watching over the boy felt familiar.

"You're free to go," Bruce finally said. Clark left with a smile before he could do something incredibly stupid, like wrap both of them up in a hug.

He wasn't blind to the role he had in Dick and Bruce's life. It was not a simple thing to be unquestionably added to the guest list of Dick's life. But it had happened so naturally that it was easy to avoid looking it in the eye.

The battle changed things. Clark found the night becoming the subject of the more-than-occasional daydream. The warm silence, the sound of Dick's voice, the feeling of Bruce's hands, the curve of Dick's cheek under his thumb, the concern in Bruce's growls.

Most of all, the way Bruce trusted him with Dick's life as if it was a given.

It was worth acknowledging, he thought. If only for Dick's sake, they should be on the same page about what they were doing here.

Yet every time Clark had a moment of opportunity, he couldn't force his mouth open. So it went untouched, and things continued as they were.

There were certain unspoken expectations about whatever arrangement this was. Chief among them being that Dick's company was either facilitated by Bruce or accompanying Bruce.

So it was a bit of a shock to open his door and see Dick Grayson on his couch.

"Oh, hey there," Clark dropped his keys in the bowl, forcing himself to keep his tone amiable, "What's up, Dick?"

Dick scoffed, a click of his tongue that spoke volumes in teenager.

Clark hummed sympathetically anyway. "You want to talk about it?"

Dick crossed his arms, a brief flash of something crossing his face before he settled his arms against his ribs. "No."

Curiosity burned in Clark's mind, but he forced himself not to push. "Well, have you eaten? I was going to make myself some dinner. You want some?"

Dick grunted again, but he peered over Clark's shoulder into the kitchen. "What are you making?"

"Not sure yet. How do you feel about chicken soup?"

A pause. "Fine, I guess."

"You want to help?"

"Yeah, whatever. Sure."

Clark had to admire the way Dick had jumped into the sullen teenager role with no holds barred. He said nothing, simply pulled some shredded chicken from the freezer and some vegetables from the fridge. He passed the vegetables to Dick for him to chop, which he did with the expert precision of a true Bat.

"Bruce is mad at me," Dick said apropos of nothing as Clark set the chicken stock to boil.

"Mad at you, huh? What'd you do this time?"

"Nothing!" Dick shouted, throwing his knife down on the cutting board with a clatter. Fierce anger knit itself between his brows and his shoulders, and Clark noticed that it was the same way Bruce wore his anger. "I didn't do anything! Bruce is just a fucking jackass!"

"Language," Clark chided absently.

Dick leveled an unimpressed stare at him. "Come on, Clark. I'm almost sixteen. I can say fuck if I want."

A playful argument sat on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn't his place to be Dick's parent. If Dick wanted to swear, then Clark couldn't stop him. He dipped his head in a conciliatory nod.

"Sorry, kiddo. What happened?"

"Nothing. Bruce just flew off the handle for no reason after patrol. All over a stupid little injury."

"What kind of injury?"

Dick rolled his eyes. He stared at the cutting board for a long minute and said, "Well, I kind of got shot a little bit. But it doesn't even hurt that bad, so–"

"I'm sorry," Clark dropped his spoon into the broth, "You got shot a little bit?"

"The armor absorbed most of the impact–"

"When did this happen?"

"Last night," Dick shrugged stiffly.

"You came all the way to Metropolis by yourself with a gunshot wound?" Clark asked, aghast. It occurred to him faintly that he shouldn't be surprised by any of what Bruce and Dick put themselves through, but it didn't hurt any less to think about.

"Ugh, I told you, it's not that bad. It didn't even break skin. Look, see?"

Dick lifted his shirt to expose a violently purple-red bruise. Probably closer to a hematoma than a bruise, actually. It spread all the way from his midriff up to the bottom of his ribs. Clark's x-ray vision kicked in before he could stop himself, and he saw the slight fracture of a broken rib, and the myriad of inflamed tissue pulsing against his skin. Every cell seemed to scream in agony.

It looked violent. It looked incredibly painful. In fact, it was a miracle that Dick was still standing.

"Oh, geez," Clark said, hands lifting as if to press to Dick's stomach and heal the injury himself. He stopped himself from touching the boy, hands fluttering in the air as he tried to figure out how to help him. On instinct he darted toward the freezer, reaching for a bag of frozen berries. He yanked a dish towel off the nearby hook.

"I'm fine, Clark, really," Dick said, an embarrassed flush rising in his ears.

"That's not fine and you know it," Clark retorted, barely managing to leash his own frustration. He couldn't stop looking at that miraculous human body and seeing something so fragile, so soft.

He grasped Dick's shoulder, stilling him as he pressed the wrapped frozen berries to his side. He watched Dick's expression carefully, looking for any indication that it was too cold. Instead, Dick's eyes went wide, softening a little around the edges in places Clark hadn't realized were tense.

"Better?" Clark asked, shifting to angle the berries to cover the hematoma more broadly.

"I–" Dick swallowed, refusing to meet Clark's eye. "Yeah, I guess. A little."

"Come here, let's get you sat down."

"I'm fine, Clark, really," Dick groaned, shoving Clark away with an eye roll. But even as he did so, his hands twitched toward the frozen berries as if he missed the feeling.

Clark sighed. "Dick, come on. I know you're hurting. I can see the rib fracture."

"There's a fracture?" Dick dipped his head, pressing his fingers gingerly at his bottom rib. He hissed in pain.

"Don't do that," Clark said, biting back another groan of frustration. "You need to go lay down."

"I'm fine, honest."

"Are you even on painkillers?"

Dick shrugged. "I took some Ibuprofen at breakfast."

This kid. Clark closed his eyes for a half-second, rallying in the face of teenaged stubbornness.

"Alright," Clark turned the burner off with a little snap, the only indication he allowed himself to give of his frustration. "Here's what's going to happen: and no arguing with me, young man. You're going to go lay down on the couch and I'm going to get you some painkillers. Then you're going to tell me what happened and whether Bruce knows you're here or if you just disappeared without a word. Got it?"

Dick blinked as if stunned by Clark's tone. He cocked his head slightly. "I'm really fine, Clark. You don't have to worry about me."

"Well, tough," Clark said, reaching into his cabinet above the fridge for his first-aid kit, "I'm worried."

That made Dick shift back and forth on his feet, a little guilty. He mumbled, "I don't want any narcotics."

"I don't have any, so no worries. How do you feel about Motrin?"

"Fine, I guess."

"Good." Clark rattled out a tablet and passed it to Dick. When he attempted to swallow it dry, Clark leveled a stern frown at him. He poured a glass of water and pressed it into Dick's hand, which was trembling ever so slightly. "Drink the whole thing, and then you can get the berries."

Dick rolled his eyes again. "You don't have any actual ice packs?"

"I don't get bruises," Clark pointed out.

That made Dick pause, looking at Clark as if seeing something for the first time. Whatever he saw, he gave a put-upon sigh and downed the full glass of water. Then he reached his hands for the berries and pressed them along his side. Again, for whatever front he was putting up, he couldn't hide the relieved shudder of his spine.

"Come lay down," Clark suggested, refraining from touching Dick. He couldn't stop himself from following him down the hallway to the couch, sinking down next to him as Dick sprawled out with a stifled groan of relief. "Better?"

Dick shrugged. "It's fine."

Better than not fine. "Alright. Start from the beginning, what happened?"

What happened was that Robin took a bullet for Batman. Ergo, he got shot.

"And, like, he just totally lost his mind when we got back to the Batcave!" Dick cried, throwing his hands up in the air and wincing when it shifted his ribs. He scowled at the ceiling. "It was completely out of nowhere. We both get injured sometimes on patrol, it's just like part of the job. Sometimes they get a good hit in. And Bruce gets mad, yeah, but he was just yelling and screaming at me about how if I did that again then I would get benched indefinitely. Which is crazy, by the way," Dick turned to Clark, pointing a finger at him as if to emphasize his argument, "because Robin is mine. He can't bench me indefinitely, I'll just go live with the Titans or something."

"Hmm, right," Clark said, patiently waiting his turn to point out what felt very obvious.

"'Robin, you can't be trusted out in the field if you're going to make reckless decisions,'" Dick said, dropping his voice to the Batman growl, "It wasn't reckless, first of all. I knew exactly what I was doing. What am I supposed to do, let Bruce get shot? Fuck, no. I'm Robin, I'm supposed to protect Batman. Besides, it's not even like I got actually shot. It's just a bruise, it'll get better."

"And a fractured rib," Clark pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Dick waved him off. "The point is, Bruce is totally overreacting. It's pissing me off, and he's been giving me the silent treatment all day. The vibe in the manor? Rancid. Disgusting. Even Alfred has been hiding from Bruce. I tried to talk to him and he blew me off, talking about how if I didn't go rest then I'd be benched until the end of the week. Again, he can't just bench me for no reason. He's so...ugh! Clark, you know him. Why is he like this?"

"If I figure it out, I'll let you know." Clark patted Dick's knee.

What a mess. And of course Dick didn't tell anyone he was leaving, so Bruce was probably worried out of his mind. In fact, he should already be busting down the door of Clark's apartment to demand that he start the search for Dick.

Strange. He'd noticed a little bit more friction between Bruce and Dick lately, but he'd chalked that up to teenage angst and growing pains. Maybe it was, but it felt deeper than that.

Not his circus, Clark reminded himself. As much as he wanted it to be his circus, and as much as he felt like it was his circus. Neither Dick nor Bruce belonged to him in any sense of the word. He was just a convenient landing place when they needed him. And apparently the mediator extraordinaire.

He took a deep breath and rallied himself. "Dick. I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to really think about it."

Dick's eyebrows raised in faint confusion. "Uh, sure?"

"Can you maybe think of a reason why Bruce Wayne might have strong feelings about watching people get shot in front of him?"

Never let it be said that Dick wasn't clever. As soon as Clark phrased it, his eyes went wide with understanding. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to say, "Oh."

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. You see a little bit now?"

Dick considered this. "Well, he could have just said something if it was that serious."

"Yeah, this is Bruce we're talking about."

"He's so stupid. Ugh."

Clark felt the urge to deny it, always aware of all the things that made Bruce such a brilliant, good man. He refrained, aware that Dick didn't want to hear it and that he already knew it anyway.

Dick looked up at the ceiling for a long minute. He said, "I didn't mean to make him angry. I just didn't want him to get hurt."

"I think maybe it's the same way for Bruce."

"He has a funny way of showing it," Dick replied, but he didn't sound angry anymore. Just sad, as if he wanted something he knew he couldn't have.

"He's Bruce," Clark said, which was really all that could be said.

"Yeah. I guess so."

Clark looked down at this boy, growing up so fast and still so young. Now that the anger had been stripped bare, he looked rather lost. Clark felt abruptly angry that Bruce allowed it to get this far. Why couldn't he just talk to his kid? Why did he leave it to Clark, but still refuse to put it to words the role that he played in their lives?

But in fairness, Clark hadn't said anything either. It wasn't like he explicitly asked to be allowed to love Dick, and to start falling in love with Bruce without brake lines. It was just one of those things.

"Hey, I'm going to go finish up dinner. Will you be okay here?"

Dick looked over at Clark. He managed a small smile. "Don't worry about me, Clark. I'll be fine."

"I know you will. Holler if you need anything, got it?"

Dick waved him off with a halfhearted gesture, and Clark obediently made his way back down the hall into the kitchen. He turned the stove fan on, providing a bit of background noise while he dialed Bruce's number.

"Hey," he said as the call clicked open, keeping his voice low, "Dick's with me."

"I know," Bruce growled, dark and angry.

Clark blinked. "You know?"

"I placed a tracker in the sole of his shoe."

Clark closed his eyes for a moment. "Bruce, that's not a normal thing parents do to their kids."

"Hm. Is there a reason you're calling me?"

"Well, I thought you might like to know where you're kid is, but I neglected to consider a rampant invasion of privacy," Clark snapped. He took a breath. "Are you okay, B?"

"Fine."

"Really? I'd be pretty shaken up if I watched Dick get shot in front of me."

There was a long beat of silence. "What do you want from me?"

"I'm just–" Clark turned the stove back on. "I'm just worried about you. It seems like you and Dick have been having more arguments lately, so I–"

"Mine and Dick's relationship is none of your business, and I'll thank you to mind your own."

There were many things Clark could have said to that, wanted to say to that. He bit them all back and changed the subject. "I'm worried about you, B. I know you've been driving yourself crazy all day, and I can't blame you. Anyone would be upset."

A long, long minute passed in silence. Bruce made a small, almost inaudible noise over the phone. "It's...possible I made things worse in the moment."

"I get it," Clark said honestly, "I'd probably have climbed the walls too."

"He's angry at me."

Clark glanced at the doorway to the living room. He peered through the wall and saw Dick staring at the ceiling, that forlorn look still etched into his face.

"Actually, I think he misses you more than anything right now."

Bruce's heartbeat spiked; Clark hadn't even realized he'd tuned into it. "Really?"

"I talked things over with him, explained why you were angry."

"And he wants to see me?"

The raw note of hope in Bruce's voice was too much to bear.

"Yeah, of course he does. He needs you."

Another pause, this one even more loaded than the last. Then Bruce said, "I'm on my way."

"He's still a little raw," Clark said, "Just be careful with him."

"I will. And Clark? Thank you."

He hung up right after, and Clark had no time to reply. He stared down into his pot of broth, something unnameable bubbling in his chest. He found himself smiling, and smothered it with his hand as if he could shove that fluttering feeling back where it came from.

It was perhaps the first time Bruce had openly acknowledged Clark's efforts.

Much as Clark would have liked to say otherwise, things didn't really get better at that.

Dick and Bruce had a productive conversation that night, but the arguments didn't end there. Dick continued to show up at Clark's apartment, sullen and angry because of some disagreement or incident that got overblown into a screaming match.

Clark helped where he could, but it didn't feel like enough. He lent a listening ear to Dick, and tried to do the same for Bruce where he could. He tried not to take sides, even as he understood why both of them were struggling under the weight of Dick's growing sense of independence.

He just wished he could do more, as if it was that simple. Like everything would be solved if he could physically sit Dick and Bruce down and force them to be honest with each other. Ha.

It wasn't like he had a claim to either of them, to be able to justify forcing the issue. He was an outside eye, and that was clear. He stayed quiet, and he refused to ask what he was supposed to be to either of them. The time for that, if there ever was one, had long since passed.

One might think that watching Bruce make questionable parenting decisions would turn someone off of falling in love, but on the contrary it only seemed to make it worse. Bruce wore the world on his shoulders, an entire city and a child and a team of superheroes and a Fortune 500 company besides. And still he carried it all forward, pressing on with the grim determination that seemed to make up Bruce's entire being.

It was awe-inspiring, and a little scary. Clark couldn't help but wonder what Bruce's breaking point was, and what would happen when he reached it.

As it happened, the breaking point happened on a random Thursday when Dick walked into his office at the Daily Planet, bearing nothing but two jackets layered over each other, a pair of boots that Clark knew were slightly too small, and his phone.

He said, "Bruce fired me."

Clark blinked. "Fired?"

Dick nodded, gaze lowered to the floor.

"How can he fire you?" Clark asked, less of a technical question and more an indictment on Bruce.

"He said, "You're fired.'"

"It's not a job."

"It is to Bruce," Dick said, and Clark finally recognized the look in his eyes as shame. Something sickly twisted in Clark's stomach, anguish and disbelief. Too early to be grief, but rapidly approaching it as he tried to get his brain to wrap around the concept of Dick being fired.

"But you're partners," he said, not sure if he was allowed to say, But he loves you.

Dick painted a grisly picture, and Clark understood the implications when he said, "His cave, his car, his rules. He pays the bills, Clark. And in his eyes, I screwed up."

Anger rapidly flushed Clark's body, a welcome reprieve from all the other gut-wrenching thoughts going through his head. How could Bruce do this to him? How could he kick out a seventeen year old boy with nothing but the clothes on his back and a phone in his pocket? How could he take Robin from under Dick's feet?

After all that about how Dick refused to allow Robin to be taken from him, but here he was anyway. Clark couldn't blame him. If his Pa told him that he couldn't call himself Superman anymore, he wasn't sure what he would do. Would being Superman feel right, knowing that the people he loved most didn't want him?

Clark opened his mouth to say something like, you could never screw up. Or maybe something much worse than that. So maybe it was for the best that Lois chose the worst time to enter, and just after that a bomber decided to hold a motorcade hostage.

He took down the guy easily, and wasn't surprised at all to find Dick helping on the scene armed with nothing but his hood pulled up to obscure his features. He'd never known Dick to stand by when people needed him, just the same way Bruce never stood by.

What a mess. What would Batman be without his Robin, the light within his darkness, the boy that Bruce always held close to his chest and protected him unquestionably with his own life?

What would Dick do without a place to stay, and without a direction for all that heroism?

He set Dick down on the rooftop, surveying him briefly for any damage.

"Where will you go?" He asked, desperate to know that Dick would be safe.

"Not sure," Dick shrugged, "I kind of wanted your perspective."

"As a fellow costumed hero?"

"As...um," Dick rubbed the back of his neck, and Clark couldn't help the way his heart leapt into his throat, "As an objective observer of humans, I guess."

Not quite what Clark had been expecting him to say, but then he wasn't sure what he expected Dick to say. Some kind of acknowledgment, maybe, something to speak whatever this dynamic was between them.

But that was probably for the best. However Dick saw him, whether it was as a friend or an uncle or a son or even just a colleague, it wasn't worth questioning now.

"As an alien, you mean," he said.

Dick shrugged sheepishly. "No offense."

"None taken," Clark said with a smile, "It's always nice to drop the facade every now and then. You know, Bruce actually asked me the same thing. Keeping me honest, probably."

The mention of Bruce made something pained cross Dick's face, there and gone in an instant. He asked, "What made you take this route?"

Clark grinned. "Why don't I show you?"

He took Dick to the Fortress and showed him the stories of Nightwing, wrapping this part of himself around what small part of Dick he could reach. He said that Nightwing was about proving his strength to his family, refusing to be constrained by their expectations and turning himself into a heroic legend by doing it.

Dick's face contorted into something that looked like anger, but might have been grief. "Did his family ever realize their mistake?"

Clark had no way of knowing where Bruce would go after this. He hated to promise things for Bruce, and he was tired to standing up for him. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," Dick said, unable to hide his disappointment.

It would be so easy to wrap Dick into his arms and never let him go. To curl his impervious body around this fragile boy and tuck him close, so that he might never know this pain again. Clark reached for his tea instead, hoping that if this wasn't home then he could at least provide some human comforts.

"You know, Dick..." Clark swallowed, unsure how to say what he wanted to tell him, meaning to say, You're better than all of us, and you don't need us to go far. Instead he finished, "I'm not looking for a partner."

If the statement was hurtful, Dick didn't show it. He gave a loose shrug and said, "That's not why I'm here. I just needed someone to talk to. Someone I respect. Someone who'll understand."

That place in Dick's life, Clark could gladly fill. It would be an honor.

Dick stared down at his tea and admitted, "I'm not sure where to go now or what to do."

"Have you thought about just being Dick Grayson, leaving all this behind?" Clark asked, knowing the answer already. He was Batman's protege after all. If he knew either of them at all, he knew that both of them would leave the job feet first.

"That seemed like the smart thing to do at first. But I dedicated my life to Robin. And I always thought–"

When Dick couldn't finish, Clark suggested gently, "You thought you'd be Batman one day?"

Dick blinked, stunned. He opened his mouth, and it was only thanks to Clark's enhanced senses that he noticed Dick's heartbeat kick up a couple notches and his eyes grow misty.

"I never told anyone that before," he said.

But Clark knew Dick. He knew how to read his tells and how to see what he needed, the same way he did for Bruce. They each spoke in their little sub-verbal language, a twitch of the jaw and a crease in the brow and a glint in the eye. Clark knew how Robin looked at Batman.

He knew that he had always wanted to be his own father when he grew up.

"Do you know why I have this place?"

Dick accepted the subject change with a little shake of his head, plastering a convincing smile on his face. "Dunno. Everyone needs a place to put their stuff, I guess. It's the SuperCave."

"That's part of it. But mostly this is so that I can have a quiet place to go where I don't have to be anyone else, where I can just exist as me. Sometimes that's all you have. Sometimes it's what you need."

He looked at Dick and asked, "Do you have a place like that?"

And, well. It wasn't that he expected Dick to say that his apartment was that place. It was just–

He couldn't lie to himself and say that he hadn't been hoping.

But the circus made sense for him. It was his first home, his first family. Of course Dick wanted to connect with them, especially at a time when he'd lost his tethers to his other family.

Clark went back to his own family and deliberated for a long while about whether he should go to Bruce. In the end, petty frustration won out and he stayed where he was. If Bruce was going to cut off his ward, then he could deal with his best friend being angry. Especially if his best friend also double as a convenient babysitter/advice guru/mediator/cheerleader for said ward. But heaven forbid he actually put words to things and admit to Clark what was going on

He didn't even want to be Dick's father, necessarily. But he felt crazy thinking about whatever unspoken dynamic lay between he and Bruce, with Dick placed as this odd buffer between them.

He opened up to Clark about his fears, but only about his fears with Dick. He gave Clark a place in his life, but only for the sake of Dick's emergencies. He invited Clark into his bedroom, but only if Dick was there to excuse it. He'd come to Clark's apartment and eat dinner with him, but only in the cover of reconciling an argument with Dick

But it had to mean something that Bruce trusted him with his life, and with Dick's life. That trust was more than hard-won with Bruce, it was near impossible to earn unless he wanted to give it to you. Yet time and again, Bruce trusted Clark's judgements, his capabilities, his relationship with Dick, and unquestionably reached for Clark.

Dick was the most precious thing in Bruce's life, and he offered that to Clark without hesitation. That meant something, surely.

Why him, if there wasn't something already in the foundations?

Clark turned it over in his head for weeks, until Dick came back knocking on his door. He carried a backpack this time, and he'd exchanged the boots for a new pair that was worn, but fit right.

Dick admitted with no small amount of embarrassment that he didn't have anywhere else to go, and so Clark swung open his door without hesitation. He flipped open his pullout couch, the same thing he'd bought after the first night Bruce brought a Dick years younger to him.

He still didn't call Bruce. But he'd been trusted with Dick, and so he'd give him this. For Dick's sake, and for Bruce's.

Perhaps it was petty to insist that Bruce come to him first. Sue him. He wanted to see if Bruce would find him without the excuse of Dick.

Turned out, Bruce did find him. But it was still with the excuse of Dick.

He fired Dick and kicked him out before he was even a legal adult, but still he had the audacity to waltz in as if he had a claim to the boy.

He came in through the window on a night when Dick was out. A click of the lock on the window, a gloved hand slipping through the crack and sliding it up, and then a massive body cramming itself through a tiny window with an unfair amount of grace.

Clark looked up from his laptop at the dinner table. He couldn't bring himself to be surprised about this intrusion, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

Bruce wasn't wearing his Batman gear, which felt odd. Did that mean he was arriving without the masks, or was he just worried about the security concerns of Batman sneaking into Clark Kent's apartment?

Impossible to say, of course. Bruce rarely was kind enough to explain his thought process, though no action was ever done without intention.

Bruce glanced down at the couch, askew with the bed unmade and Dick's belongings stacked on the end table.

"Dick has been staying with you," he said.

It wasn't a question, so Clark didn't answer. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the point.

"Why is he staying with you?" Bruce demanded.

"Because he's a functionally homeless teenager and I'm not a monster," Clark said placidly.

Bruce's face twitched. "He's not homeless. He can stay at the manor any time he wants."

"That's not how he said it. He told me that you fired him."

"He's still– I can't bring someone out in the field that I don't trust to be there."

"Really? That's the line you draw? He's tardy to a couple of fights and you fired him? I didn't realize you ran a third strike policy company as Batman."

"He's supposed to be my partner," Bruce snapped, "His loyalty is to me."

"Good lord, Bruce. Do you hear yourself?"

"I'm aware Superman is a mission of sunlight and hope, but Batman is more serious than that. A single slip up could kill people."

Bruce's audacity brought Clark to a halt for a moment, stunned by his viciousness. He stood and came to the other side of the table, anger coming to a simmer in his chest.

"Superman is not that simple, and I know you know that. You were being unreasonable with him, B."

Bruce sneered, an ugly look on his handsome face. "If you think you can just waltz in and play good cop, you've got another thing coming."

"I'm not trying to play good cop!" Clark cried, throwing his hands into the air, "I'm just trying to take care of him, since you–"

"He's my son," Bruce hissed, taking a step closer as if to cow him.

For a brief moment, Clark's vision went white.

Enough. Bruce wanted to talk about it, they could talk about it.

"He may not be my son," Clark shouted, voice rising with anger's claws digging into his ribs, "But he is mine."

Open shock crossed Bruce's face before his own anger replaced it. "You–"

"Shut up, Bruce. I've spent years playing this game. I haven't forced the issue even when it drove me crazy. I think maybe I've earned a little credit with Dick by now. I've gone to his mathlete and swim competitions, I've helped with his English homework, I've given him relationship advice, I've helped him figure out who he wants to be as a hero. And I loved it. And I did it for you," he admitted, knowing that this would be the first and only time he'd cut himself open and show Bruce his ugly innards. All cards on the table, and whatever came after this was no longer up to him.

Bruce said nothing, at a loss for words for perhaps the first time they'd known each other.

"But I didn't do all of that– I didn't love him with everything I had– just to be a convenient scapegoat when you feel like you're not up to snuff. I'm not going to pick up your messes just for you to tell me that I don't have a right to him. You got that?"

Bruce mustered himself enough to retort, "He's my ward. He's not yours to pass judgment on."

"Well, he's eighteen in six months. And then he won't be yours either."

That brought Bruce short again. He looked awfully pale.

"If you don't want Dick to cut you off, this needs to stop," Clark said, no longer angry but rather plaintive, "This is how you lose him. And I know you love him, but you always leave it up to him to figure it out when he needs you."

"Oh, and I suppose you do?" Bruce snapped, vitriol rising hot and fast, "The great Clark Kent, the perfect father. Perhaps you should have taken him in, since he would be so much happier."

"B, that's not what I'm saying."

"You can't lay claim to him when I'm the one who gave you him!" Bruce cried, stepping closer.

What was that supposed to mean?

"Whatever he had with me, I lost," Bruce continued, "He's leaving me every weekend to go be with the Titans. He doesn't care about Robin. He doesn't care about me."

And suddenly the heartbreak of a father watching his son grow up felt laid bare. A surge of loss swept over Clark, and his hands ached to take this in his hands and make it better.

"He's leaving me, but he's going towards you. Why? What does he get from you that he doesn't get from me?"

"Oh, B–"

"Save your pity, Clark. It's clear you don't think I deserve it."

"That's not what this is."

"I didn't bring him to you so that you could take him from me," Bruce said, his teeth sharp.

Clark opened his mouth, a scathing retort on his tongue. But what came out was desperate curiosity and a foolish bid for something he couldn't have. "Why did you bring him to me then?"

Bruce hesitated for a long moment. Too long.

"Come on, Bruce," Clark said, taking a step closer. There was just a scant few feet separating them. "Why me? Out of every superhero we know, why did you pick me?"

A charged moment. Bruce looked at him. He looked at Bruce. There was something that Clark didn't quite know how to read, something he wasn't sure he'd seen so plainly before.

"I brought him to you because I trusted you," Bruce said, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking it too loud would break something. "And then watching you with him– how good you are, how kind, how he laughs around you, it– I couldn't take it anymore."

"What do you mean?" Clark asked, lowering his voice just the same as Bruce.

"You love him. You'd do anything for him."

"Yeah, of course." He's yours, Clark didn't say.

"I knew if it was for him, you'd– I'd be allowed this."

The implication made something flutter in Clark's chest. He took an absent step closer, drawn endlessly by Bruce.

"This?"

"You," Bruce admitted without meeting his eyes.

The world seemed to shift on its axis, and Clark felt like he would stumble for a moment. All this time he'd wondered if he was interpreting these signals right, wondering if he was going crazy. He'd come at Bruce's beck and call for the sake of Dick, and he'd wonder if his devotion was meant more for the boy or for the father.

"I knew you didn't want this," Bruce said with no small amount of anguish, "but at least this way I could have some piece of you."

Clark couldn't take this anymore. He closed the remaining distance between them in an instant, and lifted his hand to cup the back of Bruce's head.

Kissing Bruce was everything. That was to say, it was everything he'd imagined and more. The smell of him, still lingering with leather and a faint trace of his cologne. The way he tasted, lips chapped by the wind but plush under Clark's insistence. The way Bruce inhaled, as if trying to drink in every second of the moment. The callouses of his palm and fingers as he gripped Clark's neck, holding him close with a greed that he was all too happy to indulge. His body leaned into Clark's, weight folding into him like Bruce trusted Clark to hold him up.

He brought his hands up, cradling Bruce's cheeks in his palms. He savored the rough texture of his stubble. Bruce's hands in turn gripped his shoulders tight, levering himself up slightly so they could get equal amounts of leverage.

"Bruce," he murmured, a soft exhale that spilled right into Bruce's open mouth.

Bruce made some kind of noise, and Clark was startled to realize that he now knew what it sounded like to hear Bruce sigh with pleasure.

It wasn't so much a conscious choice to back them up until Bruce hit the wall. It just sort of happened, one step after the other as Clark found that he couldn't get close enough to this man.

They kissed deeper, longer. Flashes of tongue against each, little sighs building in their throats and releasing against each other's skin and lips. Clark held the world in his hands, and he couldn't stop touching now that he knew he could.

Bruce seemed as if he couldn't bear to pull away. Each time Clark broke the kiss, Bruce gasped for air just to dive right back in. He opened his jaw and he clawed at Clark's back and he yanked them both into the wall until it became a serious concern that Clark would accidentally put them right through the drywall.

"Clark," he rasped, laced with the Batman growl. Clark's whole body tingled, spine lighting up with arousal.

"Gosh, Bruce," he pulled back, feeling dizzy even if he didn't need air to breathe.

Bruce huffed. He moved a hand from Clark's shoulder into his hair, and then down to his temple as if he couldn't help himself.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Clark asked.

"Why didn't you?"

Touché. Clark pressed hard kiss into Bruce's mouth, annoyance and frustration for time lost and time spent agonizing over nothing and time wasted.

But it wasn't wasted, not really. It brought them here, anyway. And it gave Clark this.

"I didn't think you felt the same," Bruce admitted. "It seemed impossible that you would."

"Bruce," Clark breathed, gathering Bruce's hands between his own, "How could I not be in love with you?"

That made him grimace, looking away from Clark to somewhere at the side. The pullout bed, Clark realized.

"You're so good, Clark," he murmured, "I couldn't tell you how good you are. There aren't words for it. It's not plausible that someone like me could be worthy– could be good enough–"

Clark ducked his head, angling to catch Bruce's mouth in another kiss. He let his eyes fall shut, drinking in the moment.

"You never had to be good for me," he said, still clasping Bruce's hands, "I love you as you are."

Bruce's breath hitched, nearly inaudible even to Clark. His voice was rough when he said, "Clark."

"When–" Clark tripped over his own words, gagging with the need to know how long they'd been dancing this ridiculous waltz. "When did you know?"

There was something truly miraculous about watching Bruce flush. It barely showed on his cheeks, but this close Clark felt the heat radiating off of his face. Bruce looked him with that same indiscernible look on his face, and Clark wondered if that was just lovesickness.

"I never stood a chance, watching you with Dick. I was gone from the moment you bought that ugly couch for him."

Clark gawped. "It's not ugly, it's tasteful."

"It's so ugly, you stupid, beautiful man," Bruce said, grabbing him by the t-shirt and hauling him in for a kiss. Clark was only too happy to oblige.

"It was the same for me," Clark confessed into Bruce's mouth, "Knowing that you trusted me with him, I couldn't think about anything else."

"You've been so good to him in the ways I'm not," Bruce said, and the words tasted bitter.

"He's yours, though. You understand each other in ways I can't."

"He's not better off for it."

"That's not for you to decide, I think."

"You said it yourself," Bruce said, "I'm going to lose him if things keep going like this."

"Then change things. You've never let the impossible stop you before. Why now?"

That seemed to shake something in Bruce. He blinked and stared somewhere over Clark's shoulder for a moment. Then he refocused on Clark.

"I love you," he said plainly.

Clark couldn't help the very silly smile that rose on his face. He smothered his grin with a kiss, still not over the reality that he could do this. "I love you," he said.

Bruce touched Clark's face, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone in a small, tender gesture. He smiled, small and secret.

It was just then that Dick decided to fling open the door and say, "Hey, Clark, sorry I'm back late–"

Clark turned his head from within Bruce's embrace to find Dick carrying something over his shoulder that looked much like the sketch prototypes of a Nightwing suit that he'd seen. The boy stopped in his tracks as he took in the scene before him, mouth agape and eyes darting between them.

And then he said, "Holy fuck."