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Waking to the curious unblinking eyes of a child standing over him caused Clark to go from woozy sleepiness to full awareness in seconds.
“How did you get in?” the child asked, curiosity shifting to suspicion. The child had dark hair and eyes, a light complexion, and serious expression. He also couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old.
How did he get in? Funny story there…
Clark had followed Bruce back into his “bat” cave, to continue an argument that had started when Clark’d intervened in a fight in Gotham.
A fight that Bruce coldly informed Clark was beyond his purview and none of his business. Since blood had dripped from a deep cut across his shoulder and Clark could hear the labored breathing, thanks to his enhanced ears and not due to any propensity Bruce had for acknowledging an injury small or large, that indicated a bruised and maybe fractured rib.
And when Bruce became injured, especially in front of the other members of the League, his instinct seemed to be to hide rather than share. This habit was compounded when Clark entered the scene. He wasn’t sure why, but Bruce got tetchier with Clark than any one else.
But how was Clark supposed to simply ignore the stuttering of Bruce’s heartbeat? How could Clark be expected to turnoff how attuned he’d become to Bruce? It wasn’t Clark’s fault that his stupid powers had decided to stupidly fixate on the dark knight of Gotham.
This type of attuning happened infrequently, thank god. Clark really only paid attention to three people now: his mom, Lois, and…Bruce. He had tried to ignore the other man’s heartbeat and breathing, but failed. It was involuntary—and even if small periods of focused time resulted in silence, he’d inevitably relax or forget to concentrate and find himself matching Bruce’s breathing. From three hundred miles away.
If Clark didn’t share this small, unimportant detail of his alien physiology—well, Bruce had a perchance for overreaction and the desire for intense privacy. It only would’ve ended in drama and misunderstanding of what exactly attunement entailed.
As it was, Bruce hadn’t appreciated the assistance from his superpowered friend. The argument began after they’d left the trafficking ring tied up and waiting for the police. Bruce had accused Clark of overstepping boundaries, and Clark snapped that Bruce acted recklessly. Oh, that hadn’t been the right thing to say at all.
Bruce had slammed the door to his bat mobile shut and sped away, likely thinking the conversation to be over. But Clark hadn’t finished expressing his irritation with Bruce ignoring the help he could easily get.
When Bruce arrived back at his cave, Clark’d been standing, waiting, anger disguising his fear dancing across his face.
Oh, that’d infuriated Bruce, who hated people coming into his space without asking. They’d quarreled, yelling and digging away at every small rash or impulsive thing the other man did.
They’d also gotten closer and closer—until Clark could feel the heat of Bruce’s breath on his face, eyes drilling into him from less than a hand span away.
Then, they were kissing.
Then, clothes were being shed.
Then, they’d eventually fallen into a bed conveniently in a corner of the cave.
~*~*~
Clark had finally drifted to sleep in the early morning hours, arms circled around Bruce.
Now, he’d been awakened by a child, one of Bruce Wayne’s wards he supposed, before he even had time to figure out how to handle the situation he impetuously found himself. How he was going to handle his feelings and Bruce’s likely unfeeling ones? What would he say? How would Bruce respond? Was this a one night thing? He needed a few minutes to think!
But time was not a luxury Clark was going to get.
“I—you see—um,” Clark said in response to the child’s question. He gently untangled himself from Bruce’s arms and made sure he was covered before sitting up. “How did you get in?”
The child gave him an unimpressed look, and didn’t answer. Instead, the child went to other side of the bed where Bruce was curled with the blanket pulled to his chin. The child poked at Bruce, first on the chin and then in his cheek when that provoked no response.
“You aren’t supposed to be in the cave,” Bruce mumbled without opening his eyes.
For a moment, Clark thought Bruce was talking to him and opened his mouth to respond—
But the child said, “You didn’t check in.”
“That doesn’t mean you get a free pass to come down here. What did Alfred say?”
“Alfred didn’t see you—”
“What did he say, Tim?”
There was a definite pout in the child—Tim’s—voice. “He said you were fine. But I wanted to be sure!”
Bruce sighed, opening his eyes and shifting the blankets to ensure they covered the bulk of his nudity. He reached over and squeezed Tim’s shoulder reassuringly. “Go upstairs. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Fine,” Tim huffed, shooting another wary glare at Clark but listening and darting away.
They were alone again, and Clark felt the awkwardness of the situation deeply. He wanted to make a joke, or fill the silence with anything really, but Bruce already was moving, dressing fast and saying absolutely nothing.
Clark mimicked the actions, getting as far as his body suit. The cape must’ve been tossed further away because Clark didn’t see it. He did a closer scan with his enhanced eyesight—still no cape.
That was fine. He had plenty of capes. He could leave one for the sake of leaving an uncomfortable situation.
“I should—” he started, about to fill the void with an excuse, when the sound of banging echoed and shouts stopped him.
“We must save father!” a young voice screamed and an even smaller child than the first appeared, wielding a sword and wearing the cape that Clark hadn’t been able to find. “Yield, alien!”
“Dami, no,” another boy raced in, older and clearly having just hit a growth spurt, “don’t bother Bruce. You heard what Tim said.” He reached to grab the small child but missed when Dami dodged.
The names and faces rang a bell from an article Clark had read about the Wayne family, detailing the profiles of the boys Bruce had adopted, the youngest having shown up as a five year old on the doorsteps of the manor. Apparently blood related. Damian, Clark’s eidetic memory supplied.
He recalled all their names: Richard, Jason, Tim, and Damian. Tim had been there earlier, the littlest was Damian, and that must mean the teenager was either Jason or Richard. He was betting on the former, since Richard had turned eighteen and the kid in front of him looked like a new initiate to teenagedom.
Bruce hadn’t discussed his children with the League, separating his secret identity from his day life. Clark hadn’t thought about it before, if the kids knew what their (adoptive) dad did in the shadows of the night.
Evidence so far weighed in favor that they knew some of it, if appearing in the bat cave was any indication.
“I will protect the family and not allow father to be tricked,” Damian declared, taking a decent fighters stance in front of Clark and wielding a sword that was about the size of the child.
Bruce sighed in a way that Clark hadn’t heard before, both exasperated and amused in equal turns. He stepped forward to press the sword carefully down from the hilt. “Put the sword away. You know you aren’t allowed to take any weapons outside the practice room,” Bruce said sternly.
“I told him that,” the teenager said in irritation. “But the brat never listens.”
Damian turned, the sword thankfully lowered, but his furious expression only growing. “Don’t call me a brat, you heathen!”
“Don’t act like one then, brat.”
“You have sighted my honor!”
“The word you mean is slighted,” the teenager corrected with a snide older brother tone.
“Jason,” Bruce said, rubbing a hand to his forehead, “Damian. Enough. Put the sword back in the armament and go have breakfast. I’m sure Alfred has a cup of hot chocolate waiting for you.”
Damian appeared to struggle between staying to avenge his honor and the undeniably enticing possibility of a sweet beverage. The latter won out.
“Hmph,” Damian huffed with an impatient expression that eerily matched his father’s at times. “You luck runs longer, Todd. But I would watch your back, cretin, for luck does not last forever.”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go, Dami,” Jason herded the boy away, not before raising a telling eyebrow at his adoptive father and smirking at Clark. “Sorry, dad.”
Well, that was awkward. Not to mention that Damian still had Clark’s cape on, dragging on the floor as he left. Clark wasn’t about to point that out, because that meant Damian had retrieved the item from the ground at some point the previous night…too many implications to contemplate at the moment.
“I should go,” Clark finally got out when the kids left. “I’m sorry for intruding.”
Bruce hummed, considering Clark with unreadable eyes. He’d forgone a shirt when dressing and Clark tried to not stare at the muscle and scars. But the memory of touch and taste lingered and Clark looked, helpless.
He was sure that Bruce wanted him to leave, to let him get back to his children and privacy and training. What happened had probably been a mistake. They’d act like it never occurred, and Clark could go back to quietly pining—
“Come have breakfast,” Bruce said.
“What?”
“Breakfast.”
“Oh. Um, sure,” Clark said, wrong-footed.
“Good,” Bruce nodded and went to a small closet off to the side, grabbing a long-sleeved shirt that he casually slipped on. He turned to walk the way his sons had taken minutes ago
Clark supposed he was to follow, and trailed behind with hesitant steps.
A winding inclined path to an entry that requested a keyed code into a pad on the wall. And a retina scan. As well as a fingerprint. Then the wall seemed to shiver and reform into a door that led to a library.
“How spy noir,” Clark muttered, exiting the secret passageway.
Clark wasn’t the only one with good ears.
“It was the only room that connected naturally to the cave system from the underground passages,” said Bruce flatly, like it wasn’t really awesome that he had a secret passageway in his library.
Bruce guided them into a hallway, then around another hall, and two turns to a large kitchen. It was huge, which was expected; modern, with black steel accented with black cabinets and white marble counter tops. The materials looked expensive, but a long and narrow wooden table sat in the center of the room. The wood softened the feel, making it surprisingly homey.
The sight of four boys seated around the table also helped to exude a homey vibe.
The oldest and only kid Clark hadn’t yet seen was chattering happily to Jason, while Damian huddled protectively around a mug that likely contained hot chocolate and no longer wearing the cape, and Tim bent over a tablet, typing quickly on a touchscreen keyboard. An elderly man cooked at the stove, whistling, and serving pancakes straight to the plates of the hungry boys.
Bruce entered, and the entire room immediately broke into excited shouts.
“Finally! They’re driving me crazy.”
“I need you to sign a permission form for school.”
“Father, tell Tim that it’s my turn to use the tablet.”
“If he tries to take my things during my turn, I’m going to bite him. This is my last warning.”
“Pancakes, Master Bruce? Mister Kent?”
The competing voices overwhelmed Clark, who could only nod and get ushered to another spot at the table, where a seventh placemat appeared magically and a plate with the next, hot pancake.
Bruce took to the chaos with the mastery he showed as his alter ego. He walked to the head of the table, briefly grabbing a pen from somewhere and signing a form for Jason. “Pancakes would be great, Alfred, thank you.” He swiped a mug from in front of Tim, who looked up in annoyance. “You’ve had enough coffee, and no biting your little brother. Damian, your turn isn’t until tonight. You know that.”
Damian sulked.
Bruce turned to his eldest. “Why aren’t you at gymnastics?”
“Class got cancelled because Jeanna’s sick and they don’t think I can handle double the class size of preteens, even though I totally could,” Richard said, cheerful despite the apparent change in his day. “I’m going over there to practice my routine on the parallel bars. I added a triple salto to the last fifteen seconds and I think it’s going to be cooler than Whitenburg’s routine in the 2015 Winter Cup Finals.”
Clark had once done a fluff piece of the Planet about men’s gymnastics, so he recognized enough to be impressed by what Richard mentioned.
Jason cut in. “Are we all ignoring the elephant in the room right now?” he asked pointedly looking at Clark.
“No,” Richard glared at his brother, “we’re being polite and letting Bruce introduce him.”
“That could take a few years,” Jason shot back. Alfred looked over in what appeared to be agreement with that assessment.
“Yeah,” Tim piped up, “why are you here? I thought Bruce worked alone.”
Clark didn’t have a chance to answer.
“I think someone needs to explain to Timmy that it’s not work-related, there are things you don’t have to do alone—”
“Jay!” Richard lunged to put a hand over the boy’s mouth. “You’re being rude.”
Jason knocked the hand away, brandishing his fork threateningly. “You’re just as curious as I am. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. And this is just like dad to bring Superman to breakfast without saying anything. You don’t tell us anything important!” that accusation was flung toward Bruce.
Clark ate his pancakes. They were quite tasty.
“Boys, this is Superman,” Bruce said, calmly, sipping his coffee. Clark wondered if he would reveal his civilian identity.
“Do you prefer Superman or Clark Kent?” Tim asked, and that solved that.
Richard facepalmed. “You’re not supposed to announce you know someone’s secret identity.”
“You’re also not supposed to snoop in my files,” Bruce said.
“I wasn’t! Not about that at least,” Tim protested. “I figured it out. It didn’t take a genius.”
Clark would very much like to know how a ten year old figured out his secret identity that only about seven people knew, most having been told. He continued to eat his breakfast, however, murmuring a quiet thank you to Alfred when the man wordlessly placed another pancake on his plate.
“So what should we call you?” Tim asked.
“I’m almost becoming partial to being ‘that elephant,’” Clark said dryly. “But Clark is fine.” Tim found this acceptable and went back to being absorbed in his tablet.
“Wait, you’re that reporter?” Jason demanded. “For the Daily Planet?”
“Yes,” Clark said cautiously.
“Will you introduce me to Lois Lane?” Jason asked with a newfound reverence in his voice. “She’s the most amazing writer ever and dad refuses—he says that he doesn’t associate with the devil.”
Clark couldn’t stifle his laughter. Lois infamously hated Bruce Wayne, and the feeling was mutual.
“That woman is pure evil,” Bruce insisted.
“But her usage of the English language is magical,” Jason said dreamily.
“Yeah, I could introduce you,” Clark said, already thinking of how Lois would love to get a crack at one of the Wayne foster kids. She’d like sniffing around, even if lifestyle articles weren’t her focus, she kept insisting there was something unusual about Bruce Wayne. More than the playboy persona. Clark had kept steering her in other directions to protect Bruce’s identity, but a little fun at his expense wouldn’t be awry.
“Absolutely not,” Bruce said immediately. “That woman is not allowed in this house.”
“Oh, so you want to Romeo and Juliet us, smart move,” Jason countered.
“She’s twice your age,” Bruce told him. “There will be none of that.”
Bruce sounded like such a…dad.
“When I die from poisoning myself, you’ll be sorry,” Jason said sourly.
Bruce shrugged.
Richard laughed, turning to Clark with a conspiratorial smile. “Welcome to the madhouse.”
“Thanks, Richard,” he said.
“Call me Dick, please.”
“Yeah, ‘cos he’s a real dick,” Jason added.
“Shut it, Jay.” But the tone was good-natured.
“Tim, that’s enough screen time at the table,” Bruce said.
Tim whined in protest, clutching the device tightly in his hands. “Five more minutes?”
“No.”
Tim looked like someone kicked his dog when he put the tablet down and eyed the table blearily like noticing for the first time that there was food, then slowly forking away at said food on his plate.
The youngest watched the tablet like a hawk. But then a thought seemed to occur to Damian and he looked at Clark with increasing alarm. “Is father adopting you too?” he asked, not bothering to hide his displeasure.
Jason spurted in laughter, spewing a piece of pancake he’d had in his mouth. Dick hooted as well, while Alfred hid a grin by turning to flip more pancakes. Tim continued to poke at his plate.
“How dare you mock me!” Damian cried to the table, standing angrily, a butter knife in his hand.
Bruce neatly removed the knife a breath later. “No, Clark is an adult, and people don’t adopt adult men. He’s a…friend of mine.”
A friend is more of a connection than Clark expected Bruce to admit. And Clark would take that. Take anything, really, that Bruce was willing to give him. And how pathetic was that? He tried not to ponder the matter too deeply, afraid of what realizations were in store.
“Come on, monster,” Dick stood, grabbing Damian’s arm. “You’re coming with me to the gym and I’ll teach you to do a double somersault.”
“I am proficient in that skill,” Damian replied, his nose turning up. In a six year old, or however old the kid was now, it was adorable.
Dick raised his eyebrows. “I bet you can’t do it on the uneven bars yet. There’s a trick to it.”
“I will show you otherwise.” But the spark of interest was lit.
Dick dumped his dish and Damian’s in the sink with a jolly wave, and the oldest and youngest left.
“Peace and quiet at last,” Jason said.
Tim had quietly turned the tablet back on and didn’t respond, immersed in whatever he was doing. Bruce took the tablet this time, and placed it further away. Tim slumped, pouting.
“Is your homework done for today?” Bruce asked.
Tim gave him a ‘duh’ glare.
“School time, Timmy Tim,” Jason stood, Tim slowly following. “I was thinking I could drive us—now that I have my license, wouldn’t it be more convenient if Alfred didn’t have to do all the shepherding?” Butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth.
Bruce shook his head.
“You have to admit I’m already a better driver than Dickickle. I’ll be very careful, go under the speed limit and take the back roads. Come on,” Jason pleaded.
Bruce was unmoved by Jason’s puppy eyes. “Not until you take that advanced nighttime defensive driving course.”
“You said that about the regular defensive course, and then about the highway course, and about getting a CDL license. I’m never going to be certified enough to drive, according to you.”
“Dick took all those courses before he got a car.”
“And now he drives like a lunatic,” Jason muttered. “So they clearly didn’t do anything.”
“But a defensive lunatic,” Bruce said mildly.
Alfred walked over and placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “In any case, I need to run some errands this morning and I will drop you off. We don’t want you to be late.”
“Can I drive us there?”
“We shall see, Master Jason.”
Jason fist-pumped. “That means yes! ‘kay, bye dad, bye Clark.”
Tim made grabby hands for his tablet, which Bruce deposited into them, and the middle child left with a nod to the adults.
Now it was only Bruce and Clark left.
Clark, in all honesty, felt overwhelmed. “I had no idea you were…” he wasn’t sure the end to that sentence. That Bruce was such a dad? Actually a human being with emotional ties? And why was he allowing Clark this glimpse into his life?
“My kids are what matters,” Bruce said abruptly, looking Clark straight in the eyes.
There seemed to be a coded message there. But Clark wasn’t one for picking up the subtleties of Bruce Wayne. That man could outmaneuver a poet with twists on words and double meanings. “Yeah, I saw that. You’re amazing with them.”
“They come first,” Bruce continued. “Them and Gotham.”
“Right,” Clark agreed. He wanted to reach over and grab Bruce’s hand but he wasn’t yet sure what the other man was trying to convey. Maybe he was trying to let Clark down. “That makes sense.”
“I’m told I can be emotionless. I sometimes don’t call for weeks. And nothing that happens here will influence how I treat you during JL business.”
“Okay…?” Clark offered when Bruce looked to be waiting for some strong reaction.
Oh.
Oh.
“You want to date me,” Clark blurted, eyes widening.
Bruce’s lips flattened in the expression he often gave Clark when dumb things came out of his mouth.
Clark wouldn’t be deterred. “You’re inviting me into your life. In, like, the least vocal way possible.”
Saying nothing, Bruce curled a hand over Clark’s.
Clark broke out into a wide grin, leaned over to press a kiss on Bruce’s surprisingly soft lips. “You could’ve warned me you were going to drop me into the deep end.”
Bruce hummed in contentment, returning the kiss with tongue and nips in interest. “Wanted to see your uninfluenced reaction.”
Of course he did.
“Hope I passed,” Clark murmured low but serious.
“You’re still here,” Bruce said, like that answered anything.
Clark was about to initiate another round of making out but he heard the start of a large fire getting out of control in California. He sighed. “Duty calls,” he said wryly.
He stood, and promptly realized he was still missing a piece of his uniform.
Bruce could read his face, easily. “Your cape is probably under Damian’s bed. He likes to hide his things.”
“Wonder where he learned that from.”
A whoosh later, Clark fastened his cape and bent over to kiss a man he could already predict would drive him crazy.
“We’re having dinner at six,” Bruce called out, not rising, as Clark headed to a window.
It was like Clark’s presence was now a forgone conclusion.
And yeah, Bruce’s attitude towards dating was irritating, Clark was already seven steps behind him, but Clark more or less knew what he was getting into.
He couldn’t wait to see what was next.