Archive of Our Own

He finds him standing outside in the rain. Bruce approaches the little fledgling slowly, raising his right wing to form a shelter over the kid. Cold rain beats down on his head and wings, slicking his feathers down and dripping off the ends. The fledgling has his own wet wings pulled in, shivering. Bruce gives him somewhere warm to cuddle under, and he turns instinctively into the soft inner feathers. Tears stream down his little face, falling like the big raindrops in the grey sky. His light brown skin is flushed red around the eyes and nose, his brows screwed tight and painful over distraught eyes. 

Bruce shifts his wings, gathering the fledgling closer to his side, further out of the reach of the rain. Dick shuffles along with the movement, until he’s tucked completely into Bruce’s dry inner feathers. 

He looks up at Bruce, and Bruce recognizes the wretched expression on his face. “Does it get easier?” 

Bruce looks out over the grounds, the slick, cold rain drenching everything in its misery. Does it ever get easier? Isn’t that the million-dollar question. How does he tell this kid that there will be good days, there will be happy days, and there will be days when this all feels like a distant dream, but that the shadow of them will always be there, looming over them like some great darkness, ready to be called to the forefront of their memory? That the death of his parents has haunted him all his life, in ways big and small, and that even the days he doesn’t spend a single minute thinking of them, there’s still an ache in his life, an emptiness that will always be gone, no matter what shape comes to fill it. 

Dick is only five years old. He doesn’t even have all his flight feathers yet. Bruce recognizes in him the need for gentleness, for reassurance. It’s something he was lucky to have, when it happened to him. 

Bruce does the only thing he can do. He lies.

“Yes.” 

Dick’s hands curl into the bottom of his shirt. Bruce puts an arm over his shoulder, tugs him against his side, and looks up at the clouds. “Every day will not be so sad, little fledgling. You’ll feel happiness again.” 

They stand there in the rain for a long time, not saying anything. Dick starts to sag, leaning against Bruce’s leg, exhausted from all his crying. Bruce scoops him up and puts him on his hip, keeping his wings raised over them to keep off the rain. Dick cuddles against his chest, and Bruce carries him back into the house, shaking his wings off in the mudroom. He’ll have to preen them later, but Dick’s are more important right now. He was out in the rain a while before Bruce found him. The last thing the boy needs is a fever. 

Alfred is waiting for them at the door to the rest of the house, a stack of heated towels in his arms. Bruce sets Dick down, and he instinctively shakes, sending water droplets everywhere. Alfred drapes a towel over him from the front, and hands the other to Bruce, who swipes it through his hair. Their clothes are a lost cause—they’re both soaked through. Bruce unpins his shirt at the shoulders, wiggling out of it and handing it off to Alfred. His pants go next, leaving him in his boxers.

Draping the towel around his neck, Bruce takes a knee, helping Dick out of his own soaked shirt and pants. Dick wraps himself up in the towel, his wings a mess of uncombed feathers sticking out wildly. He’s been preening them all by himself ever since he arrived under Bruce’s care four months ago, and it’s obvious which spots are too hard for him to reach. He’s only let Bruce preen him once, very tentatively. Bruce understands. If he hadn’t had Alfred, he wouldn’t have let anyone touch him after his parents died either. Wings are sensitive, usually only preened by a flock member or a partner. Dick has lost his flock, and he doesn’t know who to trust.

But he’s slowly opening up to Bruce, and even Alfred. And his sullen manners have softened, revealing the hint of an unruly child underneath. Bruce has even been graced with the smallest of smiles on very good days, when the sun is shining on them out in the gardens. It’s wildly different from how Bruce reacted to his circumstances. There was no play, no smiles. Only anger, and fear. 

He sees those things in Dick, he does. The sadness, the fear, the fury. He’s been a witness of Dick’s raging fits, where he screamed and hit and cried until he wore himself out. Bruce doubts those things will go away. But he hopes that the glimmer of a joyful child that shines beneath all that will continue to grow, and not warp into the twisted husk of vengeance he became. Because he knows the death of Dick’s parents was no accident. And he knows what it will do to Dick when he finds out. 

For now, Bruce makes sure Dick gets dried off, shaking their wings out together one more time for good measure. Dick is fading fast, rubbing at his red, sleepy eyes. It’s nearly dinner time, though. 

“Come on, Little Wing,” Bruce says, ushering Dick forward with a nudge from his wing. “Dry clothes and dinner, and then you can go to bed.” 

Dick shuffles forward, half holding and half dragging his towel along with him. They reach the grand staircase, and Bruce watches Dick look up the long line of steps and then at Bruce. It's as clear as ever that he doesn’t want to walk up all those stairs, but also doesn’t want to ask Bruce to carry him.

Alfred, still following behind them, holds his hand out expectantly. Dick passes him his towel, and Bruce heaves the fledgling onto his hip again without a word. Alfred walks away, and Bruce takes off, skipping the stairs to fly straight up to the next floor’s landing, where he deposits his young ward. 

They walk together to the bedroom that is now Dick’s, and Bruce stops at the doorway as Dick wanders further into the room, pulling open his dresser drawers. He takes out a set of pajamas, and Bruce nods approvingly before turning for his own room and his own dry clothes. 

Dick isn’t in the hallway when he exits, so Bruce heads back to his room, finding him sprawled on his stomach on the bed, wings thrown about, idly playing with a doll Alfred has procured for him. Superman. Bruce would say it’s just Alfred being smart, but the kid actually has an obsession with the hero. It’s nice to see him playing, even if he is still a bit morose. 

“Hey,” Bruce says softly to get his attention.

Dick pushes up onto his knees, his blue and white striped pajamas contrasting with his light brown skin and dark feathers. He brings the doll with him, holding it close to his chest. His eyes still have that sheen of sadness in them that makes them sparkle in the warm light of his bedside lamp, and Bruce’s throat aches when he sees it. 

“Ready to eat?” 

Dick looks around his room, at the pale yellow comforter, the dresser, the Superman poster on the wall, and then nods, sliding out of the much too tall bed. He keeps the Superman doll clutched in one hand, but lets Bruce pick him up again so they can drift back down to the first floor. Soon, Bruce will be teaching Dick how to do that himself. Flight lessons. It’s something he hopes Dick will be excited for, like the martial arts training Bruce promised after the third raging fit. The boy excels at them.

He sets Dick down and they walk to the dining hall together, finding Alfred with the places already set. Rain lashes against the windows, and thunder cracks loudly over the house, a reminder of the storm outside. Dick puts his doll down on the table and climbs into his chair, and Bruce takes the spot beside him, but around the corner, with Alfred completing their little triangle around the corner from Bruce. 

They eat in silence; stew and rolls and roasted vegetables. Dick’s doll stands sentry over their dishes, Dick reaching forward to pluck at the bright red cape every few bites. 

“Superman doesn’t have wings.”

Dick is fascinated by this fact. It’s not the first time he’s brought it up. And it’s not the same kind of curiosity other winged children might have—Dick’s parents were wingless, so he knows what it’s like to be around both groups of people.

“No, he does not,” Bruce agrees.

“How does he fly?” Dick picks the doll up, zooming it through the air before putting it down again to bite into his roll.

“He’s an alien,” Bruce answers. 

Dick hums, folding one arm onto the table and laying his head against it while he eats. Bruce reaches over to move a lock of dark hair out of the way, in danger of getting dunked in the stew, and gently skims his palm over the top of Dick’s wing on the way back. Dick shifts, sitting up straight and drawing his wings in tight. 

“Sorry,” Bruce says. He shouldn’t push, but the more time he’s spent around Dick, the more he thinks Dick sometimes needs the push to ask for what he wants. He’s still finding his place here. 

Dick’s feathers fluff out, haphazard and wonky and sticking all over the place. He looks down at his food, and draws it closer to him, eating without a word.

Bruce lets it drop, and they finish their meals in silence. Alfred and Bruce clear the dishes, and Dick follows after them into the kitchen, his wings dragging along the floor. 

“Mr. Alfred?” 

“Yes, Master Richard?”

“You’re a really good cook.” 

Bruce shares a look with Alfred, whose expression says that Dick is swiftly becoming the favorite ward of the house. “Thank you.”

Bruce washes the plates, bowls, and silverware, and Alfred puts them away. Dick stays close to both of them, walking his doll along the edge of the countertops. He yawns widely when Bruce turns the sink off. Alfred ruffles his hair as he passes toward the electric kettle, leaving Bruce and Dick standing in their nearly matching pajamas, both their wings now mostly dry, if a little (a lot) rumpled. 

The two of them just look at each other. Bruce, still a little baffled with himself for taking in a child, and Dick, well. Who knows what he’s thinking. 

“Goodnight Mr. Alfred,” he says eventually, tucking his Superman under his arm and heading for the exit. Bruce follows along.

“Goodnight, Master Richard.” 

Dick goes for the stairs this time, each one slower than the last as they get to the top. Bruce puts out a wary hand to keep him from toppling backwards, and they head for Dick’s rooms. 

It was strange. To get used to having a bedtime routine. The closest thing Bruce has had to one of those in recent years is getting ready to go out on patrol every night, just to come home and collapse into bed. But now, he keeps an extra toothbrush in Dick’s bathroom, and they brush their teeth side by side. Dick still has to stand on a stool to reach the sink, but they make quite the pair. Both dark-haired, dark-winged, blue-eyed. Bruce in his blue on blue striped pajamas, Dick in his blue and white. In a way, it’s like looking in a mirror into the past, except he can see both versions of himself looking back. 

When they finish, Bruce pulls back the blankets on the bed and Dick clambers in, still holding tight to his doll. Bruce tucks him in, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Do you want a book?”

Dick shakes his head tiredly, his big eyes blinking sleepily. “No.” 

“A song?” 

Dick hesitates, playing with the cape of his Superman toy. “B?”

The nickname is a compromise. Bruce refused to let Dick call him Mr. Wayne. Dick refused to call him Bruce. B it is. It’s what the League calls him sometimes, too, so it wasn’t hard to get used to it.

“Yes, Dick?” 

Dick looks up at him, his eyes guarded. “Will you…preen my feathers?” 

Bruce feels the breath seep out of him. Here’s Dick’s fragile trust, being handed to him like a small flame in a biting wind. Dick has only allowed this once, back when he first came to the Manor. He had sobbed through the whole thing, arms curled around himself while he shook inconsolably. Bruce had had to hide his own tears in the shoulder of his shirt as he’d sorted through the rumpled feathers.

“Of course I will, Dickie. Come here.”

Bruce climbs further into the bed, resting his back along the headboard. Dick shifts to sit in front of him, his wings twitching nervously. Bruce runs gentle fingers along the tops, where a few feathers are twisted out of shape. Dick lets out a little sound, the warble of a chick in distress. Bruce waits him out, slowly and lightly combing through the rest of the primaries and secondaries. It’s a vulnerable position to be in, and if Bruce had to guess, it reminds him of how his parents used to do this for him. It’s an acute kind of pain, spiking in this moment and leaving a lasting ache.

Bruce starts to coo softly, the sound rusty in his throat. He finds the oil glands on the skin just under the base of Dick’s wings, slicking up his hands and drawing them through the feathers, setting everything right and smoothing things in the right direction. He carefully plucks the sheaths off any new feathers, setting them on the bedside table to throw away. 

Dick goes shivery and still the longer Bruce combs through his feathers, his distressed noises melting under Bruce’s coo. Soon, he’s sagging backwards in Bruce’s arms, his wings going limp and lazy. Bruce does one more pass through his feathers before letting Dick relax fully against his chest, his Superman doll askew in his loose arms. 

Dick is basically asleep, his eyes nothing but slits when he looks up at Bruce, blinking sleepily. The redness around them from his crying is nearly gone, although there’s still a light flush across his full cheeks that has Bruce worried. He wipes his hand on the comforter and puts his palm on Dick’s forehead. He feels a little warm. 

Pushing the worry out of his brow, he smooths Dick’s black hair back. “All done.” 

Dick lets out another huge yawn. “Thank you,” he mumbles. 

Bruce shifts over, getting Dick settled back on the mattress and pulling the blankets up around him. Dick cuddles his doll close, dropping off into sleep. He looks so sweet and peaceful, and Bruce really hopes he doesn’t catch a fever. 

“Goodnight, Little Wing,” he whispers, pushing back an errant curl from Dick’s forehead. 

Dick lets out a sigh in his sleep, and Bruce takes a step back, turning the bedside lamp down to low and backing out of the room, leaving the door open just a crack. 

His own rooms are just down the hallway. He wanted Dick to be close, in case he needed anything. Alfred isn’t far either. The three of them don’t occupy much space in the grand house, but it’s more than before. 

But Bruce doesn’t go to bed. He glides back downstairs, passing Alfred in the sitting room with his cup of tea. Alfred looks up from his book, the light from the fireplace flickering across his features, setting his light grey wings aglow. “Heading out?” 

“Just for a few hours,” Bruce says, moving to the cabinet that hides the entrance to the cave. “I’ll be back after midnight.”

“And should the young master wake?”

Bruce hesitates, the passageway open and his body half inside. He looks back at Alfred. “Call me.” 

Alfred nods.

With that, Bruce slips down to the cave, into the cowl, and out into the night. 

*******

“B.”

Bruce doesn’t turn, looking out into the darkness. The rain has let up, but there’s a mist rising over the water, turning the city lights into golden smudges in the fog. There’s a chill wind sweeping up through the streets, ruffling his feathers.

“Superman. I don’t remember inviting you to Gotham.” 

Superman touches down on the pinnacle beside where Bruce is crouched, his cape flowing around him in the breeze. “You’re not usually so close to the bay. Thought maybe there was something I could help out with.”

It’s funny, the way they act like they don’t keep tabs on each other. Bruce’s are just a little more covert. “Luthor giving you trouble?”

“How did you—? Never mind. I should’ve known you’d find out about that.” 

They lapse into silence, Bruce watching through his binoculars the movements on the docks below. His mind is on the time, ticking close to midnight. Alfred hasn’t buzzed his communicator, but the possibility burns a hole in his belt. He’d fly home in an instant. 

“You alright, B? You seem…tired?” The word comes out as a question, as if Clark thinks it’s not quite the right choice. 

It’s not. Bruce is actually getting more sleep than normal, cutting back his patrols to make sure he’s home for bedtime and back before morning. Distracted is more like it. Antsy. He flits from fight to fight, always impatient for one to end and the next to begin. “I’m at an optimal state of function.”

Clark chuckles. “Geez B, make yourself sound even more like a robot, why don’t you?” Then he mellows. “Are you coming to the next League meeting?”

Bruce had missed the last one, in the midst of dealing with a newly orphaned chick and the legalities of him being released into Bruce’s care. He’s also shirked off on all his League duties, optimizing his time between Gotham and Dick. But he’ll pick up the slack. “Yes.” 

Clark’s arm brushes his wing. “You know, if there’s anything you need help with…” he trails off when Bruce doesn’t immediately supply him with a problem that needs a solution. “…I’d be there.” 

Bruce tucks his binoculars away into his belt. He needs a closer look at what shipments are being brought in, and for that, he’ll have to go on the ground. “It’s a personal matter.” 

“That doesn’t change anything, for me,” Clark says. “The crates are what they say they are, by the way.” 

Bruce deflates. Another reason he doesn’t invite Clark to Gotham. He spoils the fun. “You looked.”

“Figured I’d save you the trouble.” 

Bruce doesn’t know if he expects a thanks, but he’s not getting one. He stands, mentally checking the time. He’ll do one more sweep before he heads home. 

Clark always looks somewhat strange, Bruce thinks as he regards him. He floats in the air, wingless, his red cape draped behind him. Like someone suspended in water. There’s no constant movement to maintain altitude, no subtle shift of the muscle to create turns. He just is . Flying. Bruce wonders if he ever gets tired. 

Clark drifts closer to where Bruce is standing, shaking his wings out to get ready for flight. He notices the way Clark’s eyes move over them, almost like a caress, from the crest of the muscle to the tips of the feathers. Bruce always notices this, because Clark isn’t very good at hiding it. 

He knows Clark is going to move in for the kiss. It’s been months since they…ever since Dick showed up, Bruce has pulled away. Needing to preserve himself, hide away from anything that asked more of him emotionally. He’s already shouldering the weight of Dick’s, and his own, old wounds opening anew in solidarity. Trailing Clark along felt…. 

“Kal,” Bruce says warningly, because he might know Clark’s secret identity, but Clark still doesn’t know his. And Bruce is a lot, even before the added bonus of a fledgling who’s burrowed his way into Bruce’s heart. Not that he thinks Clark would be anything less than perfect with Dick. But Dick can’t know about Batman, Superman, any of it. It’s better to keep them separate, and that means keeping Clark away. “I can’t.” 

Clark halts where he is, hovering in the air just inches away. All it would take is Bruce tipping forward a little, and their mouths would touch, innocent as anything. And Clark, to his credit, doesn’t look angry or confused or even upset. There’s understanding in his eyes, and a hint of loneliness. “Personal matter?”

Bruce nods. 

“I hope there’s a happy ending,” Clark offers. 

“Your optimism is appreciated.” 

Clark laughs again. It’s a beautiful sound, like joy thrown to the wind and scattered in the breeze. It’s like one of Dick’s rare smiles, sparking a lightness in Bruce’s chest that is so foreign, so fleeting, it almost feels scary, like he needs to fly from it. 

So he does. 

He takes to the skies, and Clark’s laugh follows him into the night.

*******

Bruce is just smoothing his fingers through his feathers when there’s a knock on his door. 

“B?” Comes a teary little voice. 

Bruce turns, back in his pajamas and almost ready for bed. He opens the door bigger than its little crack to find Dick standing outside, clutching his Superman doll and rubbing his eyes, his wings drooping. Bruce kneels down to his level, pressing his wrist to Dick’s forehead. Still warmer than he’d like. “What is it, Little Wing?” 

Dick sniffles. “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep in here?” 

Bruce looks at his massive bed. He stands, urging Dick to climb on and get snuggled in. “Of course. There’s always room for you. What was your dream about?”

Dick shakes his head, his breath hitching.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” Bruce murmurs, pulling the blankets up over their legs and lying down on his side, facing the little boy. Dick keeps his doll tucked in close, his wings loose across the mattress. His chest is heaving silently, like he’s trying to calm himself down. 

Bruce starts to whistle. He’s not much of a songbird, but he can catch a melody and draw it out into the air. Dick settles as he listens, and before long, he’s back to sleep. Bruce trails off in his song, touching Dick’s forehead one more time. Hopefully, he’ll sleep off the little fever and be all better by the morning. 

Yawning, Bruce tucks one wing protectively over Dick, and falls asleep. 

*******

The first time he hears Dick laugh is like a miracle.

They’re in the gym, where Bruce has been showing Dick different katas and ways to fight someone much bigger than himself. Dick has taken to it like a fish to water, flowing through the movements with a single-minded determination to get each one just right. And when they shift to physical fighting, yeah, Bruce is going easy on him. But Dick attacks each move with a passion that, when honed, turns to power. 

They go tumbling over each other after a leg grapple where Dick hooks his ankles around Bruce’s neck and throws his weight backwards. Bruce stumbles into it, intending to let them fall so Dick can practice what to do next, when by chance he puts his foot down wrong and they end up on the mat, Bruce on his back with Dick sitting on his chest.

And Dick laughs. He laughs bright and loud and tinkling, his hands drawn to his chest like maybe he can hold the sound in. “I got you! B, I got you!” His dark wings are up, spread and twitching with glee. 

Bruce grabs his little socked ankles lightly, and can’t help the shocked smile that spreads over his face as Dick continues to giggle and flap his wings. “You got me. Good job, Little Wing. You’re getting better.” 

Dick flops over, nearly kicking Bruce in the jaw as he sprawls on his back next to him, lying out on top of Bruce’s right wing. He sticks his legs in the air, kicking them back and forth in an imitation of fighting with exaggerated hiyah noises.  Bruce watches him do this, the echo of Dick’s laugh coursing through his heart. 

“B?” 

“Hmm?” 

Dick takes Bruce’s hand, holding it up and turning it over, inspecting the scars on his knuckles and the calluses on his palms. Bruce lets him, letting his hand be moved at Dick’s will. “Why do you know all this stuff?” 

Bruce closes his hand around Dick’s, giving him the same treatment, touching each fingertip. “Alfred taught me, the same as I’m teaching you.” 

It’s not a lie. Not completely, anyway. Alfred did teach him a lot of the basics. Bruce only refined his techniques with the masters. He presses his thumb into the center of Dick’s hand. 

Dick sits up, and Bruce lets their hands drop. “Alfred is the coolest ever.” 

Bruce chuckles and shakes him off his wing, sitting up too. “Not me?” 

Dick cocks his head to the side, raising one skeptical eyebrow, like it should be obvious, and Bruce is crazy. “Alfred makes me cookies.” 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Bruce surrenders. “The ninja grandpa is the coolest because he makes cookies.” 

Dick tackles him, crashing into Bruce’s front and knocking him back over. Bruce laughs, holding Dick under the armpits at arms length. Dick blows raspberries at him, grappling for Bruce’s hands and grabbing onto them, forcing them flat, pointed upwards. Bruce's smile mellows as Dick expertly shifts his weight, swinging his legs up into the air and balancing his palms over Bruce’s until he’s completely standing on his hands, perfectly balanced. His wings, tucked against his back, splay out in a feathery display. It’s amazing. 

Dick shifts all his weight to one hand, lifting the other out to the side. It takes a lot of strength to do that. Bruce is impressed. He doesn’t have nearly the same level of balance. 

“Will you teach me how to do that?” 

Dick’s blue eyes flick to his, his cheeks flushing red from the blood flow. “Me?” 

“Well, Alfred certainly can’t do it.” 

Dick smiles, executing a perfect roll off to land on his feet near Bruce’s head. Bruce looks at him upside down, spreading his wings wide across the mat. Hands on his hips, Dick sizes him up. “Can you do a back bend?”

“No?”

Dick sighs, shaking his head. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

*******

“I don’t think I can, B.”

Bruce puts his hand on Dick’s back, right between his wings. “Alfred is waiting at the bottom for you. You’re just going to glide, and he’ll catch you.” 

Dick’s hands clutch the banister, knuckles white. His wings are twitchy, opening and closing in jerky movements. Blue eyes are wide and frightened when he looks at Bruce. “What if I fall?” 

Bruce touches his wings lightly, coaxing them open and flat. “You’ll get up again. I believe in you, Little Wing. It’s okay to be afraid.” 

He feels Dick take a few steadying breaths, nodding. “Okay. I trust you.” 

Bruce’s chest puffs up, pride swelling inside him. Dick’s trust has been a thing slowly earned over the months, growing between them from kindling to a warm flame. Bruce guards it protectively.  “Three, two, one!”

Dick leaps off the bannister with a little scream, his wings snapping open and flat, just like they’ve been practicing. He coasts down to the first floor, where Alfred is waiting, scooping him into his arms when Dick reaches him and twirling him around. “I did it!” Dick shouts, his voice echoing through the large staircase. He turns in Alfred’s arms to look back up at Bruce. “I made it!” 

Bruce raises his arms in a cheer, pumping them up and down. “Good job, Little Wing!” 

Dick scrambles out of Alfred’s arms and towards the stairs, bounding back up them to reach Bruce’s side. He pushes his wild hair out of his face when he reaches Bruce, wings flapping lightly behind him. “Let’s go again!” 

Bruce picks him up, setting him on the banister once more. Dick doesn’t hesitate before flinging himself off, soaring down into Alfred’s arms. Bruce remembers the feeling. There’s nothing quite like it, the first flight on your own. Like the world has burst open inside your chest. Like you could go anywhere. 

Back up the stairs and down he goes, again and again and again, until he finally slumps in Alfred’s arms, laying his head on Alfred’s shoulder. Bruce clears the banister, dropping down to the main floor to stand beside them. Alfred is rubbing Dick’s back, Dick’s little wings drooping. 

“No more stairs,” Dick says. 

“No more stairs,” Bruce agrees. “Your legs tired?”

“Yeah,” Dick says with a long sigh, then wiggles until Alfred puts him down. He runs for the kitchen, where they were coloring before the impromptu flight lesson. Bruce and Alfred follow behind, and Bruce takes the barstool beside Dick, who drags his papers closer, shuffling to a fresh one and picking up a colored pencil. He leans his cheek on one hand as he starts to scribble. 

Bruce turns his attention to his own page. It’s been ages since he did anything artistic for fun. He forgot how much he used to enjoy it, even just the lazy mark-making of an amateur. Dick asked him to draw Superman, and Bruce had spent longer than he cares to admit sketching out the form of the man. 

It’s a simple portrait, from the chest up, in the suit. He’s tried to map out Clark’s features as best he can, the strong ridge of his brow, the cheerful squint of his eyes, the gentle slope of his mouth. Clark is handsome. Bruce knows that, of course, he knows that. But there’s something about reproducing it on paper that makes Bruce appreciate it more. He wishes Clark were here. 

And then he feels silly for thinking that, because he’s the reason Clark isn’t here. He glances at Dick, bent over his drawing. Clark would love him. 

“What are you making?” Bruce asks. 

Dick lifts his head, looking at his drawing consideringly, then picks it up and turns it around to show Bruce. There are three little stick figures, two bigger and one smaller. The big ones are easy to identify. One doesn’t have wings, instead sporting a red cape.

“Superman? And Batman?” 

“Yeah,” Dick nods. 

“And who’s that in the middle?” Bruce asks, pointing.

Dick looks down at it, then back up at Bruce. “That’s me. If I were a superhero, then I’d be their sidekick.” 

The little figure is dressed in red and yellow, like Dick’s costume from the circus. He hasn’t worn it since coming to the manor. It hangs in his closet, untouched. 

“What would your name be?” 

Dick smooths the paper down against the counter, tickling his fingers over the three little figures. “Robin. Like what my parents called me. Their little robin.” 

“An excellent name,” Alfred chimes in, setting down a plate of sandwiches. “Batman and Robin has a nice ring to it.” 

Bruce squints at him, but Dick pipes up loudly, “No, Superman and Robin sounds better.”

Alfred’s expression is practically gleeful. 

*******

Bruce should’ve known it was too good to last. He gets injured during a League mission, spraining his ankle hard and getting a fair few feathers ripped out by the root. It’s painful, and he bleeds a lot; his wing held out tenderly to the side. The skin stings wildly, and the surrounding feathers are slicked with dark red blood. He limps to the side of the battlefield, out of view of their enemies, to gather himself. 

Looking at his rumpled wing, Bruce’s stomach twists. He’s been able to hide plenty of injuries from Dick so far, from small to pretty significant. But he can’t hide this the way he hid his cracked ribs. Dick is observant, and besides, he’s taken to preening Bruce back clumsily, now that he’s letting Bruce preen him regularly. He’ll definitely notice a big patch of missing feathers. Not to mention, Bruce’s flight will be affected for a while until the new feathers grow in. 

“B, you alright?” 

Clark alights beside him. Bruce spares him a glance, folding his wing in towards his body even though it sends shocks of pain up the limb. “Fine. Update?” 

Clark hesitates, his gaze flicking to Bruce’s wing. “B. I can smell that you’re bleeding somewhere.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Bruce says, a low growl. 

But Clark never gives up. It’s something Bruce finds both admirable and irritating. “Just let me take a look. Please?” 

Bruce looks around. It’s dark. The enemies they’ve fought are in the main square with the others, and the two of them are here in the shadows of this building, away from the prying eyes of the public. He’s safe. With Clark, he’s safe.

He extends his wing. He knows Clark has no trouble seeing in the dark, and he sucks in a breath when he catches sight of Bruce’s wound. Clark steps forward, hands raised as if to touch. But he glances at Bruce at the last second, asking permission.

Bruce only moves his wing closer to Clark. 

Gentle hands brush against his feathers, parting a few to get to the skin beneath. Bruce knows it doesn’t look pretty. Wing wounds bleed a lot. 

Fingertips touch the skin lightly. “There’s a tear,” Clark reports, voice cautious. 

From the amount of blood he’s losing, Bruce could’ve guessed that. He grunts in acknowledgement. Clark is probably getting blood on his hands. Bruce pulls his wing back gingerly, reaching for his comm to let Alfred know he’ll be coming home injured. He’s gotta come up with a way to explain this to Dick.

“Will you be able to fly?” Clark asks, brows drawn together and tipping up in concern. 

Bruce shakes his wings out, holding back a wince when the movement pulls on the tear, and checks the wind against his flight feathers. He estimates at least a fifty percent decrease in efficiency in his right wing, probably more. They’re miles from the manor, across the Bay in Metropolis. If he tries to make the flight, there’s a high chance he’ll end up in the water. And he can’t walk, that would take hours. Bleeding like he is, he’d probably pass out, and leave a trail right to his body. 

 “I’ll take you.” 

Bruce opens his mouth to protest—

“I’m taking you. You’ve admitted yourself that you won’t be able to fly in this condition. I don’t care if I have to do the whole thing with my eyes closed, I’m taking you home.”

“I never admitted anything,” Bruce contradicts. 

Clark raises both eyebrows indignantly. “Your silence was answer enough.” 

Bruce only stares. What else can he do? He’s run through his options and exhausted them. There’s no way he’s getting home on his own. Sure, he’s got a small first aid kit in his belt, he could stitch himself up and make the trek back across the state border to Gotham. But it would take well past sunrise. And Clark would probably follow him the whole way anyhow, just to make sure Bruce didn’t collapse somewhere. 

He’ll direct Clark close to the cave, and Clark can leave him there. Simple.

Of course, nothing can ever be simple for Bruce. 

As the League is finishing up with the enemies, getting them squared away with the authorities, Bruce gets a message from Alfred. Dick is awake, and asking for Bruce. Bruce sighs, tapping his foot against the ground and catching Clark’s eye, who’s been throwing him glances. Bruce has been trying his best not to drip blood everywhere. The flow has slowed to a trickle, but the area around it is throbbing, his damaged feather follicles swelling up. He needs to treat it soon.

“Alright. We can debrief further at our next meeting,” Diana is saying, her wings folded up neatly and towering over her head. 

The group lets out various agreements, and then scatters. Clark zips to Bruce’s side, looking over his wing once more. Bruce knows the feathers are wet with blood. 

“That doesn’t look good,” Clark comments as he gestures for Bruce to throw an arm over his shoulders. 

Bruce does, grudgingly, ignoring the way his stomach swoops when Clark’s large hand comes to rest on his hip. “Stating the obvious?” 

“Subtleties are your expertise,” Clark quips back. His other hand closes gently around Bruce’s wrist, where Bruce’s arm is hooked over his shoulder. “You ready?”

Bruce has never free flown by anything but his own wings before. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to engage any, or just stay limp. So he tucks his wings in close to his back and nods. “As I’ll ever be.”

Clark bends his knees slightly, and Bruce follows, and the next moment they’re in the air, soaring over the bay. The moon glimmers on the water, painting a beautiful picture. Bruce could almost enjoy it.

But Dick is awake. Which means Alfred can’t come to the cave to treat him. And Dick will also be wondering where Bruce went. And how he got injured. Bruce can…Bruce can change, and pretend he was working out with a friend—Clark—and got injured accidentally. But that would mean revealing himself to Clark, revealing Dick to Clark, and taking one step closer to a truth he’s been trying desperately to keep concealed.  

“Where am I heading?” Clark says near his ear, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

“North,” Bruce answers, rattling off the exact coordinates to one of the cave entrances. He’s starting to feel slightly woozy from the blood loss, never a good feeling while in the air. At least he doesn’t have to hold himself up. 

Clark touches down not far from the cave entrance, and Bruce stumbles a little as he steps away, raising his wing to take another look. The feathers around the tear are red and matted with blood. Clark looks on warily, glancing around at the trees and rocky ground. “Are you sure this is the right place?” 

“Yes,” Bruce says, shaking his head against the dizziness. He just has to make a short glide across the gulch, and then he can make his way through the tunnel to the main cave. There, he can get out of his armor and clean himself up a bit before facing Dick. He glances at Clark, who’s hovering a few inches above the ground, watching Bruce with a look of concern splashed across his face. “You can go now.”

Clark bites his lip. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, B. I know wing wounds are, are pretty serious. Can I at least help patch you up?” 

Bruce stays silent, weighing his options. He needs to be quick. The tear is in a difficult spot for him to reach. Alfred is indisposed, keeping Dick busy. If he allows Clark to help, he can get to Dick faster and explain this whole thing away. He limps forward, toward the gulch. “Through there.” 

Clark breathes an audible sigh of relief, then steps up to Bruce’s side again and gets a hold of him, following Bruce’s directions to enter the hidden tunnel. He maneuvers them expertly through the jagged rocks of the cave system until they emerge in an open cavern, the sound of rushing water filling the space.

Bruce can immediately tell there’s something wrong. There’s the sound of clanking, and then a voice rising over the din of the waterfall. “Where is B!? I want my dad!” 

Bruce’s heart wrenches in his chest. That’s Dick. Dick is in the cave, somehow. Why would Alfred let him down here? No, he must’ve stumbled into the secret passage by accident and taken the elevator down. Alfred wouldn’t have purposefully let him find this place. And by the sound of things, Dick’s in one of his emotional rages. He must have had a nightmare, and when Bruce wasn’t there to soothe him, he spiraled. Bruce can practically see him running away from Alfred, looking for a place to hide, catching the latch, and falling into the doorway. Alfred probably chased him down here, trying to convince him to come back to the house.

He feels Clark stiffen where they’re pressed together as Dick’s voice echoes off the rock, screaming for Bruce. 

They rise to the main flat of the cave, where Bruce keeps all his equipment. There, Alfred is holding a writhing, shouting Dick, whose cheeks are red and wet with tears. “I want my dad!” He wails, pushing and kicking against Alfred’s hold, his wings flapping wildly. “I want B!!”

Clark sets them down, and Bruce pulls his cowl off quickly, tossing it onto one of the work tables and limping forward. He won’t make for very good cuddles still in his armor, but he can at least show Dick that he’s here. 

Alfred gives him a pitying look as he approaches, eyes flicking over his costume and then to Clark, who stays on the fringes, looking distraught in the face of a crying child. Bruce just reaches for Dick, smoothing a hand down Dick’s back between the down of his wings. “Shh, shh, Dickie. I’m here, I’m here.” 

Dick wrenches himself around, throwing himself into Bruce’s arms and hugging around Bruce’s neck. “Da-ad!” 

The word scoops a pit in his stomach. Dick has never called him that before. Bruce holds him close, one gloved hand on the back of Dick’s head. The poor fledgling is trembling, great heaving sobs wracking his body. Bruce coos lowly, trying to soothe. “You’re okay, Little Wing. Calm down now.” 

Alfred comes around to Bruce’s right, lifting his wing and inspecting the gash. Bruce holds back a wince when he touches the edges of the jagged tear. His skin feels hot and tight, inflamed. 

Dick’s fingers tangle in the soft feathers near Bruce’s spine, and he lifts his head to look Bruce in the face. His blue eyes are wet and sparkling, his face flushed from his crying. He stares hard at Bruce, his lower lip wobbling and his hair a black mess around his face. “Where were you?”

There’s no point in lying to him now. If Dick takes one look around, he’ll spot not only the cowl, but Clark as well. He’s already wiggingling uncomfortably against Bruce’s armor plates, trying to cuddle closer. “I had to help my friends,” Bruce says. 

“Bruce, we need to stitch this up,” Allfred interjects quietly. 

Bruce shifts Dick on his hip, and meets Clark’s eyes. He sees a million different things there. Shock. Hurt. Worry. Confusion. Here he is, all of him laid bare for Clark’s scrutiny. His identity. His family. His son. 

He moves toward the portion of the cave cleared off for medical attention, carrying Dick with him. Dick has the presence of mind to look around now, and he gasps when he spots Clark. Bruce takes a seat on the operating table, and is not at all surprised when Dick wiggles out of his arms and onto the floor, running over to Clark and leaping at him.

Clark catches him instinctively, picking him up. “Hello.”

“Superman!”

Bruce spreads his wing out for Alfred’s inspection. The older man has already snapped on a pair of gloves and is wetting a cotton pad with antiseptic. It burns when he dabs it against Bruce’s raw skin.

“What’s your name?” Clark asks.

“I’m Dick,” Dick supplies, then looks back and forth between Clark and Bruce. “You know my B?” Then his eyes fix on the emblem on Bruce’s chest, growing round. “Batman! I knew it!”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, feeling the prick and tug of the needle in his skin as Alfred starts stitching him up. “Did you now?” He is so out of his element with this.

Dick is staring at him, his brows screwing up again. That expression means tears. “You’re hurt,” Dick says, voice distraught. He wiggles until Clark puts him down, then crosses back over to Bruce, stopping at his left side and watching Alfred close the wound. He rests his fists on Bruce’s armored thigh, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“I’m okay, Little Wing,” Bruce says, resting his gloved hand on the back of Dick’s head. “Alfred will take care of me.”

“Your wing…” 

Bruce doesn’t want him to look. The wound is nasty, his follicles crusted with drying blood. Alfred is stitching it up neatly, but the surrounding feathers are still a mess. Dick doesn’t need to see that. Bruce pulls him closer to his side, trying to redirect his attention. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Dickie. Are you okay?” 

Dick nods, looking up at him before climbing back into Bruce’s lap and settling himself there, resting his back and wings against Bruce’s chest. Bruce puts an arm around his waist, glancing at Clark, whose drifted closer. He looks almost timid, his shoulders hunched in and his gaze wavering between Bruce and Dick. Bruce knows it must be a shock to him. He must be thinking Bruce has had a child all this time that he never mentioned. 

“How old…?” Clark trails off, looking unsure as to who he should be asking. 

“Dick is five,” Bruce supplies. “He came into my care ten months ago.” 

Clark nods, waving at Dick when he catches the chick looking at him. “Hello, Dick. I’m Clark.”

“Clark,” Dick repeats, like he’s feeling the sound out. Bruce hides a smile in Dick’s hair, anticipating what’s coming next. “That’s not a very alien name.”

Clark laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest. “No, it’s not. It's the name my parents gave me when they found me.”

“Can I be your sidekick?” Dick blurts out. 

Clark cocks his head. “What’s your superpower?”

“I don’t need a superpower. Batman doesn’t have any.” He looks over his shoulder at Bruce. “Right?”

Bruce shakes his head. “No powers here.” 

“How could I forget?” Clark says with a warm smile. “Batman is just so cool, I think he must have superpowers.”

“He’s good at being a ninja,” Dick allows. “But not very good at gymnastics. I’ve been teaching him.”

Clark raises his eyebrows. He may or may not have caught Bruce practicing his handstands once. “Will you teach me?”

Dick sighs loudly. “I guess. But only if I get to be your sidekick.”

Clark sticks out a hand for Dick to shake. Dick takes it, his palm engulfed by Clark’s. “Deal. I always wanted a partner.”

He catches Bruce’s eye, the words hanging between them. Bruce wraps his arm tighter around Dick’s middle. Bruce can almost see what he’s thinking. The words from all those months ago come back to him.

“It’s a personal matter.”

“That doesn’t change anything, for me .”

Clark knows. All Bruce’s vulnerable spots are exposed. His most closely guarded secret, aside from his identity, is Dick. But now Clark knows, and oddly, the weight of it isn’t so heavy anymore. Clark has been nothing but earnest and honest with Bruce from the very beginning of their acquaintance three years ago. Even though they initially bumped heads, there was something sizzling underneath, something neither one of them could ignore. But Bruce nipped it in the bud when Dick came into his life, his priorities shifting. 

Still, in his chest, the feeling is blossoming. 

“Done,” Alfred says, clearing away his supplies. He’s cleaned Bruce’s feathers as best he can, stitched up the wound, and disinfected the throbbing feather follicles. New ones will grow in over the next few weeks, but he’s in for a waiting game. His flight will be affected for sure. He’s never had an injury like this. He’ll have to learn to work around it. For now, he’s as good as grounded. Flying would pull at the stitches and reopen the wound. 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce says. “It’s late. We should be going to bed.” 

“Is Superman staying?” Dick asks. “Please, can he stay?”

Bruce stands, setting Dick on his feet and starting to remove his armor. “Superman can come say goodnight to you. Then I’m sure he needs to head home.” 

Clark looks like there’s nowhere else in the world he would rather be. 

Upstairs, Clark follows Bruce and Dick toward Dick’s room. Dick chatters away at Clark, and Clark responds attentively, giving Dick a show when he flies up to the second floor. Dick delights in this, fascinated by Clark’s flight. 

Bruce gets him tucked into bed, Clark lingering just behind. Dick has his Superman doll held close, and he looks at Clark consideringly for a long time. Bruce strokes his fingers through Dick’s hair, waiting for him to speak. 

“Do you ever wish you had wings?”

Clark’s deep breath moves his whole body. “Sometimes. I think they’re very beautiful.”

Dick’s wings shift across the mattress. “Do you have a flock?” 

“Kind of,” Clark answers. “I’ve got my Ma and Pa, and my friends from work. But they’re all wingless, like me.” 

Dick pulls the blankets closer to his chin. “You can join our flock then. Which is good, because B needs his wings preened, and Alfred went to bed, and I’m too tired. So you can do it.” 

Bruce’s cheeks flush slightly, but Clark just laughs quietly. “I’d be happy to.”

“Goodnight, Superman.”

“Goodnight, Dick.”

Bruce leans forward and presses a kiss to Dick’s forehead. “Goodnight, Little Wing. Thank you.” For accepting all of this in stride. 

“Goodnight, B,” Dick says with a yawn, snuggling into the pillow. “I love you.”

Bruce freezes, his heart racing. His eyes search Dick’s face, his lashes fanned over round cheeks. “I love you, too, Dickie.”

Clark exits the room, and Bruce follows, his heart pounding. He pulls the door most of the way shut and just stands there, looking unseeingly into the hallway. There’s nothing—there’s nothing quite like the love of a child. And to have it expressed so plainly, well. Bruce might as well be soaring through the stratosphere. 

A hand brushes his elbow. “You okay?” 

Bruce shakes himself out of it, looking at Clark in the light of the hallway. It’s such a juxtaposition to see him here in the Manor. He somehow looks so out of place, and like he belongs there. Or maybe Bruce’s heart has just cracked open, and he’s found there’s enough space for Clark inside.

He rushes forward, cupping Clark’s cheeks with both hands and bringing their mouths together. Clark makes a startled sound, but kisses back quickly, his hands coming to rest on the dips of Bruce’s waist. Their lips move softly against each other, a sweet caress. When Bruce pulls back, his mouth is tingling pleasantly. 

“B,” Clark says softly. “Bruce.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said Bruce’s name. It sounds like magic when he says it, thrilling all down Bruce’s spine. “Clark.”

“When you said personal matter, I never imagined a child.” 

Bruce smooths his palms down the broad plane of Clark’s chest, resting them innocently there. “I never would have imagined it either. But I wouldn’t change it. He’s my son.”

Clark’s brows are furrowed. “And you thought I wouldn’t…?”

“No, no,” Bruce says hurriedly. “I didn’t think I could…there wasn’t enough of me to give anything to you.” 

Clark’s thumbs stroke his sides through his shirt. “And now there is?”

Bruce meets his eye, blue on blue. He can feel Clark’s heart beating under his hand. His own pulse is still unsteady, crashing in his chest with the thrill of it. Clark is right here. He’s asking. Bruce can’t push him away again. “I think so.”

Clark kisses him, chaste and soft. “I missed you.” 

God,  Bruce missed him too. Missed their stolen kisses in dark corners after League business, missed the casually possessive touches between their bodies whenever they saw one another. Missed Clark’s heated gaze on him, that tantalizing promise of more that they never got around to. But Clark is here now, and he knows every secret Bruce kept close to his chest. He can have Clark in every way, as a friend, as a partner, as a lover. Bruce wants it all.

“Stay,” he says. 

“I will,” Clark promises.