Batnesia

by Qui

Summary:

In which Bruce forgets a few key facts, and Clark has to go along with it.

Or, the Bruce-Has-Amnesia Fic we've all been wishing for.

Notes:

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 蝙蝠失忆记 by white_lemon

Chapter 1: In Which He Forgets Himself

Notes:

I know I'm not the only one who saw this highly-inspiring tumblr post:
https://solomonara.tumblr.com/post/186153186749/graaaaceeliz-dont-ask-me-idk-anything
And anyway, here is my contribution to it/take on it:

It was the beeping that he heard first, quiet and atonal, repeating, steady and endless, like a heartbeat. A heart...monitor? Whose?

The soft scuff of a foot, a gentle sigh, the rustle of papers. Someone was there. The...patient? But why would they be on a monitor if they could walk? He was the one laying in bed, unmoving. Ohhh, they are the doctor. I am the patient.

A sudden gust of wind, and with it the scents of cut grass and sunshine, a memory of cotton and plaid. Farmboy?

"How is he?" A deep, soothing voice asked, and a weight settled down beside him on the bed.

"About the same," was the reply, this voice reminding him of healing and reliance , despite a mildly caustic tone. "You know he'll pull through anything out of sheer stubbornness, but I'll feel a lot better when he wakes up."

Him? Me? He heard the heart monitor speed up a little, and pushed away the fog that lay on his muscles and other senses. I'm awake , he thought, but the words were too heavy to make it out of the fog.

"Hey, B, you coming back to us?" A hand stroked the hair back from his forehead.

He managed to twitch his lips ever-so-slightly in reply, and then with inhuman effort pried his eyelids open.

The darkness parted slowly to reveal an incredibly handsome man leaning over him, concern etched on every line of his chiseled jaw. At the sight of his opening eyes, the man smiled brightly like the sun, like he had never seen anything so wonderful. "Welcome back."

Every movement made the next one easier, so he managed a sloppy smile at the man, and tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasp.

"Oh, water!" The Adonis said, picking up a cup of ice chips from...somewhere and sliding a cool piece between his lips.

The moisture allowed him to finally form a word, and it was a very faint, "Who…?"

The handsome man frowned at him, and he really wanted that smile back. "Clark," the man said, placing one hand on his chest.

That was nice to know, but not what he'd meant. He licked his lips to try again, but there was the sound of hurried feet outside the door, and then it swung open. Another man entered, this one elderly, thin, dressed formally. His hair was white, he had a thin mustache, and he triggered some memories of trust, safe, protected, guiding, family…

"Father?" he asked, softly. 

The elderly man's eyebrows almost got lost in his hair. "Oh dear," he said, exchanging glances with the Most Handsome Man.

The doctor cleared her throat. "He seems a bit confused, Alfred, maybe it would be best if you just--"

There were more sounds of hurried feet coming their way, this time several pairs, rushing fast, and accompanied by at least two voices playing keep-away with words too fast for him to grasp.

The doctor waved her hand at the door. "--could prevent that ."

The elderly man--Alfred--departed, and there were more words from behind the closed door, but they went too fast, and the voices hovered too close to memory, and he decided they could be dealt with later.

Mustering his strength, he tried again, "Who...I?"

The doctor nodded slowly. "Memory loss, not unexpected. It should come back on it's own in a bit. First, why don't you tell us what you do remember?"

"There was…" laughing, clinking glasses, too much talking, terrible band "...party." Chaos, dark balcony, go up. "Stairs." Faster, the light, hurry, the light, something lost, something breaking . "The light...falling."

"That's...not incorrect." The doctor glanced down at her clipboard. "You've got something like a pretty bad concussion, which has apparently come with some temporary amnesia. Can you recall your name yet?"

He went to shake his head, but the movement shot pain through his skull and he stopped abruptly, his eyes falling on the handsome man waiting patiently at his bedside. The man triggered memories of close, companion, trust, strong, comfortable, shared, love , and also one from just a few minutes ago, where he called him, "B--B--b--" he stammered over the letter, and then the sound, his tongue tripping until it fell on what came next. "B--b--Bru...ce." Vain. No. Rain? No. "Wayne."

The doctor smiled. "Very good," she said. "And I'm Doctor Leslie Thompkins, nice to re-meet you, Mr Wayne. Now," she continued, "it's important that you don't strain your memories too hard; most of them will come back on their own, although a few may be gone forever, especially the ones surrounding the accident. The best thing to do is rest in bed and at home for as long as possible. Not that you ever listen to me." She turned to the other man--Clark? "Do your best to make sure he's not swinging from rooftops for at least a week, please. I'll let the rest of the pack know, too. For whatever good that'll do."

She left, and Clark offered Bruce more ice chips. Bruce accepted them, and wanted to talk more, to remember more, but instead found himself drifting away again into quiet dark clouds.

 

--

 

When next he woke up, it was night, though the darkness was pushed back by a gentle yellow lamp in a corner of the room. That handsome man didn't seem to be anywhere, but someone else sat beside him, typing quietly on a laptop. This young man had blue eyes, and black hair. Seeing him reminded Bruce of flying, colors, brightness, family, joy, son, "Dick?" Bruce whispered quietly, reaching a hand out to him.

"B! You're awake!" Dick said, putting the laptop aside to grab Bruce's hand. "How are you feeling?"

Bruce considered for a moment. His headache had receded, and nothing else seemed to be damaged. "Okay. Thirsty."

Dick helped him to a few slivers of ice, which reminded Bruce of the handsome man from yest...the last time he'd awoken.

"Where...boyfriend?" he asked, trying to remember the man's name.

"Boyfriend?" Dick repeated, glancing around the room as if looking for someone else.

"K--C--" Bruce said, brain offering both a Ka- sound and a Cl- sound for the start of the name. "C--c--"

"Clark?"

Bruce's head drifted down in what might have been a nod.

"He's not…" Dick paused for a moment, then cleared his throat, smiled a bit. "He's not here. We've been taking turns sitting with you, and right now it's mine. He'll be back later."

Bruce closed his eyes to think about that. He didn't drift off, or maybe he did, because when he opened his eyes again, Dick was still there, but he had his laptop out again, typing away. "Working on?" Bruce asked.

Dick's reaction was slower this time, glancing up from his laptop as he kept typing. "Just mission files from the south river drug ring bust."

"Ohhh," Bruce said, eyes drifting shut again. "Police stuff."

"It's not police--" Dick's words fell off a cliff, but Bruce was drifting away again, not sure if he heard Dick saying, "Oh no," or what it could mean if he had.

 

--

 

Mostly when Bruce woke, it was K-Kent?-- Was that his name? Claud? Cl--Cal--Calvin?--Bruce's utterly stunningly handsome boyfriend who was there, but Dick and Alfred also spent time at his bedside. They asked him lots of questions about crime in Gotham and newsworthy current events, but Bruce couldn’t figure out why. They were probably trying to plumb the depths of his amnesia, but wouldn’t asking personal questions be more to the point with that, rather than about news stories Bruce may or may not have read?

And then, the next time he woke, a different black-haired young man was sitting there, with a cup of coffee held precariously in the crook of his arm, and one earbud in, doing something on his phone. He brought with him a memory string of son, discovered, proud, heir, best, save . "Tim," Bruce said, "Wayne."

"Enterprises?" Tim asked, only half-glancing up, as though he'd already known Bruce was awake. "WE is fine, stocks are--"

"No," Bruce interrupted. " Tim Wayne." He couldn't remember why, but he knew it was important Tim hear that.

Tim's jaw dropped, and he stared at Bruce, then shook his head. "Oh, you mean the adoption. Yeah, that happened."

"No, you're--"

Bruce was interrupted by a commotion at the door.

"--I will see him!" Declared an angry boy, pushing the door open hard enough that it hit the doorstop with a bang. "I don't know why you think I--Oh, hello, Father." The boy visibly calmed. "I'm glad to see you are awake. Do you remember who I am?"

Bruce dug through his memories, and received, stubborn, tempestuous, son, daring, uncontrolled, can't protect . "My youngest," Bruce said. "Robin."

"There," Robin's chin tipped up smugly. "I don't see how you can say he doesn't remember that--"

Dick, who was hovering behind Robin, cleared his throat. "Bruce, what's your youngest son's name?"

Bruce frowned; hadn't he just said? "Robin."

"Bruce," Tim said, drawing attention back to himself. "Can you name all your sons, please?"

"Richard," Bruce looked at him. "Timothy," Tim nodded, looking relieved. He looked at Robin again--was that not what he called him? But his memories didn't offer another option. "Robin." Robin looked distressed at that.

But Tim had said all his sons, and there was another, wasn't there? One that came with memories of anguish, mourning, failed, failed, failed, gone . Breath hitching, Bruce whispered, "Jason," and felt tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"Hey, hey," Dick said, practically jumping over Robin to get to Bruce’s beside and take his hand. "It's okay, Jason's back, he's okay. He'll--he'll be by later, you'll see."

"You have distressed Father, Drake," Robin said.

Bruce was distressed, but he couldn't let that slide. "Wayne," he said, trying to clear some of the tears from his throat.

"Not Drake, Robin ," Tim said, in the tone of someone totalling scores to find they are winning.

Robin's face grew stormy, and he opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Alfred swept into the room, and sent all three boys tumbling away.

Bruce had remembered that Alfred was father figure, and not father, but he still couldn't feel properly embarrassed about the slip-up. It was important Alfred knew how much he meant to him.

Chapter 2: In Which Clark's Role Is Set

Summary:

"Clark is going to be Batman while Bruce recovers." 

Jason grinned. "Fuck yeah he is."

Clark still looked unconvinced. "But Bruce won't like--"

"And why would your boyfriend object to you helping out while he recovers?" Jason's grin just grew bigger.

"My...what?" Clark repeated, stunned. "What."

Notes:

Thank you for all the kudos and comments!

"What do you mean, he doesn't remember being Batman?! " Jason asked, folding his arms and glaring at his brothers. "What else does he have to remember?" 

"Be nice, Jay," Dick said, frowning at him. They were trying to update him in preparation for a re-meeting with Bruce, but Jason was...still Jason. "Doctor Thompkins says it'll come back with time."

"And that we're not to remind him," Tim added. "Or it'll strain his brain too much, possibly damage it."

Jason scoffed. "So he'll be ten percent less of a genius, that it?"

"I doubt it would work, anyway," Damian said, turning his nose up. "They've used my name in front of him no less than four times, and he still thinks I'm Robin."

"You'd at least think it would be me," Dick muttered. Something was digging into his back, and he squirmed in his chair to try and displace it. 

"You are Robin," Jason said.

"It's not my name, Todd ," Damian snapped.

Dick pulled a TV remote from under his seat cushion, with a triumphant "Ah-ha!" and pointed it at the flatscreen on the wall, hoping the sudden addition of more noise would head off the pending fight.

The TV opened on the news, showing live footage of a Superman battle.

"Wait," Tim said, "If he's there, who's sitting with--"

There was a faint cough from the door, and Dick looked over to see, "Bruce! Should you be up?"

Bruce frowned at him for a moment. "Where's ...my boyfriend?" he asked, slowly, because everything he said was slowly lately. 

"Clark?" Dick asked. Clark's name seemed to be stuck in Bruce's mental limbo along with Damian's.

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "Clark."

Jason caught Dick's eye, and mouthed, Boyfriend?! gleefully.

Dick shook his head at Jason. Bruce was healing, confused, and amnesiatic, it wasn't really the time to drive that train off a cliff. They'd give him hell about it once he had his memories back, though, that was for damn sure.

"Where's Clark?" Bruce repeated.

All four boys turned their heads to the screen, which still showed Superman battling a giant green gelatinous cube in the parking lot of a big box store.

"He's...shopping," Tim said.

"Yeah, he's gonna need new boots now," Jason said, as one of Superman's feet sank into the cube, and the Man of Steel couldn't seem to pull it free.

"But he just left," Bruce said, then he noticed who had spoken, gasped, " Jason! " and ran over to embrace his second son, mumbling things about death and terror and forgiveness and love. 

Jason hesitantly returned the embrace. "It's okay, Old Man, I'm here now, I'm okay." He turned a confused and slightly alarmed look on Dick.

Dick gave him an open-handed shrug as a response. He didn't really know what to do with the current incarnation of Bruce, either. It seemed that being Batman had repressed all Bruce's emotions, and forgetting about being Batman had brought them all to the surface again. But pretty much any of the Batkids could have diagnosed and predicted that. They just didn't know how to live with it.

When Bruce settled and started to shift away, Jason patted him gently on the back. "Let's get you back in bed, B," he said, starting to guide their father to the door. 

"I will accompany you," Damian said, standing up quickly. "To make sure Todd cares for you properly."

"Relax, brat," Jason said, though he allowed Damian to proceed him out the door. "I know what I'm doing. Now Bruce, how did you and Clark meet?"

Bruce's "I don't remember," drifted back through the doorway, and then they were too far to make out the rest of the conversation.

Dick facepalmed. "I should have just assumed that would happen."

"Does Clark know?" Tim asked.

"I don't think so," Dick said. "I haven't told him, and he hasn't mentioned it--and he would have, right? 'Hey, do you kids know why your dad thinks we're dating?'"

"Leslie said it could be weeks before he remembers, and Batman has already been gone for five days," Tim said, pulling out a tablet, and tapping a finger on the back of it as he thought.

"I know what you're asking, but I can't," Dick said. "I've told you I have to be back in Bludhaven tonight, that's non-negotiable." He had a bust and a stakeout in his regular job, plus whatever he had to deal with as Nightwing. He'd already been in Gotham too long. "Maybe Jason--"

"Jason," Tim repeated, his tone speaking volumes, and Dick had to concede he had a point. "You could just come in on the weekends, and--"

"No," Dick said. "I really can't this time, Timmy. And anyway, Batman has disappeared for weeks before, it's not--"

"Not after something like this! They'll think he--"

"Hey, guys," Clark interrupted from the doorway, rubbing a smudge of green slime off his cheek. "What are you talking about?"

Dick looked at Clark. Looked at his broad shoulders, and his strong chin, and the muscles his muscles had. Tim looked, too. Then they looked at each other. "It could work," Tim said.

"He's done it before," Dick pointed out.

"Done what?" Clark asked, glancing between them warily, and backing up so very slightly.

"We were just discussing how you could stand in for Batman until he recovers," Dick said.

"But I'm Superman," Clark said.

"Yeah, but you don't need to sleep," Tim said. "And there's no one else."

Clark started to point at Dick, but Dick shook his head. "The 'Haven needs me."

"Batman insists on no metas in Gotham."

"Not that no metas bullshit again," Jason said, coming back into the room. "Bats and his stupid micromanaging rules. Oh, hey, Clark."

"See? Even Jason agrees," Tim said.

"Don't drag me into this, Replacement," Jason said, then paused a moment and reviewed what he'd heard of the conversation. "Wait, what is this?"

"Clark is going to be Batman while Bruce recovers." 

Jason grinned. "Fuck yeah he is."

Clark still looked unconvinced. "But Bruce won't like--"

"And why would your boyfriend object to you helping out while he recovers?" Jason's grin just grew bigger.

"My...what?" Clark repeated, stunned. "What."

"Bruce thinks you two are dating," Jason said, and Dick didn't think he'd ever seen Jason quite so thrilled with anything . "And since Dr Thompkins says we're not to correct him until the memories come back on their own, what's a good boyfriend supposed to do?"

That hadn't been exactly what Leslie said, but while part of Dick objected to this on principle, there were other, louder, parts of him that thought it was about damn time, that this was going to be hilarious , and also that if it got Superman to stand in as Batman… Dick was all for this. "You'll have to be around a lot, anyway," Dick said. "So B doesn't think you're breaking up with him." Of course the one who would have to deal with this the most was Damian, and-- "Now that that's settled, I had better head back. Comm me if you need anything." 

Dick made it all the way to his bike before he got the buzz for Tim's text that just read, Coward . And a minute later another that said, I made Jason tell him.  

 

--

 

Once Clark got over his initial shock at the situation, he realized that Bruce thinking they were dating explained a lot of things. Small things, mostly, looks and reactions, a few stray comments, things that Clark had brushed off or tossed up to Bruce's memory problems. Sort of like the way he couldn't remember Clark's name. Or Damian's, for that matter.

Still, he wasn't sure he liked the deception, even if it was technically Bruce deceiving himself, and Clark merely going along with it. Even if, on some level, Clark wanted it to be true.

Bruce mumbled something and rolled over, slowly blinking his eyes open to look at Clark. A smile--a dopey smile, if Clark dared use such a description with Batman's visage--spread across his face. "Hey," he said, and Clark wondered why he hadn't realized Bruce thought they were dating sooner.

"Where'd you go, K-c--Cl--Ka…" Bruce paused, and his focus turned inwards as he tried to remember.

Dr Thompkins had said to let the memories come back to Bruce on his own, but this was such a minor thing, and if they were dating, there was no way Clark was heartless enough to make Bruce keep stumbling over his name like this. "You can call me Kal, if that helps," Clark said. "It's...a nickname, of sorts."

"Kal," Bruce repeated. "Kal-El!" And then before Clark could get excited, "No. Clark... Kent. Clark Kal Kent." He frowned as if the words didn't taste right to him.

"Just give your memories time," Clark said, trying to temper his own patience, too.

Bruce sighed, and swam through the blankets until he was in a sitting position. "When do I get to move back into our room?" he asked.

Our room , Clark's mind echoed. "Uh...I believe we're waiting for Alfred's permission."

"And what is he waiting for?" Bruce grumbled. "I feel fine, even if there are a few memories missing."

Clark didn't think Alfred knew what he was waiting for, either; the novelty of Bruce staying in a sick bed when instructed to meant no one quite knew how to give him permission to get out of it. Which, for now, was acting in Clark's favor, because of that whole our room issue, if nothing else. "You'll have to ask Alfred later, I suppose," Clark said, wondering if he could explain that they were dating, but not living together. But no, this was going to be complicated enough as is.

"Tell me how we got together?" Bruce asked quietly.

Why did I let them talk me into this. "Uh-uh," Clark said, waving a finger at him. "You have to let the memories come back on their own. I'm not allowed to give you any you can't find on your own."

Bruce looked so dejected, disappointed, disconcerted and disheveled that-- sweet Rao's light-- Clark would have capitulated and told him, if there had been a story to tell. Clark reached out for Bruce's hand, slowly, because it still felt like he shouldn't, like Batman would return at any moment and snatch his hand back, yell at Clark for even daring to try. "Why don't you tell me what you do remember, and we'll see if it can trigger a few more memories."

Bruce gave a wan smile, but his thoughts turned inwards for a moment. "I remember how we met," he said at last. "It was at a Luthor Corp function, back when Lex was trying to get me to drop huge amounts of venture capital on some project he didn't want to be associated with."

Clark remembered it, too, and it was the first public meeting between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, but it was far from the first time they had met by just about any other definition.

"You'd been reporting on Luthor Corp, and I knew you'd know why Lex wanted this thing backed, but didn't want to officially back it, so I pulled you aside and…" Bruce blushed furiously, although Clark wasn't really sure why; the conversation had been a bit antagonistic, since they'd been inclined to fight more back then, but aside from a couple of cutting remarks, it had barely been memorable.

Bruce cleared his throat. "By the end of that conversation, I knew I wanted you, that you had the potential to be everything to me. But you led me on a merry chase, and ...and then--" Bruce fought with his memories. "And then I can't remember anything else."

A merry chase? Clark wondered if that was what they'd been doing for the last few years. It wasn't how he would have defined their relationship, but he had read a few romance novels over the years, and he supposed that if you recontextualized everything, and assumed that Bruce had been trying to ...to...no, Clark still couldn't see it. They were friends, and if Bruce wanted something more, he would have said.

Even if Clark hadn't.

"Hey," Clark said. "It's okay, you have a lot of memories to find, but none of them will be lost forever."

"Doctor Thompkins said some of them might be," Bruce pointed out.

"She said maybe a few of them from right around the time of the accident, just a few that were stored in short-term, not all your long-term memories of your whole life. Don't worry." But it had been a few days since Bruce had awoken, and he still had some pretty significant gaps in his long-term memories, especially pertaining to Batman. Clark wondered when they would really start to worry.

Notes:

Yes, Clark, no worries, I'm sure everything will be Juuuuusssst Fiiiine.

Chapter 3: In Which They Are Not Polyester

Summary:

"They're just shirts, Alfred." That was Kal's voice.
"Mister Kent, those are not just shirts, they are a crime against nature."
"I didn't even bring most of the plaid."
"It is not the cloth, Mister Kent, but the cut."

Bruce walked slowly through the hall toward where he thought he remembered his room was. Slowly because he couldn't seem to remember how to move any faster, and because every knickknack and painting he passed triggered a string of feelings and memories that he needed to pull on, trying to unravel the tangled knot that had become his mind.

There were the vases lining the hall, which reminded him of joy, fast, guilt, fake with memories of Dick tumbling into them, and Alfred replacing them with middling-quality fakes after the third one Dick broke. And the empty spaces between them that triggered a mess of negative feelings Bruce couldn't even name--those were from when Tim and Robin were fighting all the time, and broke so many vases even Alfred had decided to leave the pedestals empty. There were the family portraits of ancestors that Bruce's father used to tell him history about, and that his mother used to make up fantastical stories about. There were recessed alcoves for the windows that Bruce had always wanted to detour Clark into and steal kisses in the public-private space, like the time he--he--

That was strange. He remembered wanting to do it, but there didn't seem to be any memories of them doing it. Which didn't make any sense if he and Clark had been together for as long as they had.

Well, Bruce would have to fix that, first chance he got.

Just before the last turn to his room, Bruce heard voices.

"They're just shirts, Alfred." That was Kal's voice.

"Mister Kent, those are not just shirts, they are a crime against nature."

"I didn't even bring most of the plaid."

"It is not the cloth, Mister Kent, but the cut ."

"Alfred, you know better than most that I need to--Bruce!" Clark said, perhaps too loud.

Bruce had a brief impression that Clark was holding an armload of ...laundry? And then there was a sudden breeze that made him blink, and when he opened his eyes, Kal's arms were empty.

"Is something wrong?" Bruce asked, because it had almost sounded like these two were arguing.

"No," Clark said too quickly. 

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but didn't contradict him. "It is good to see you up, Master Bruce. If you and your paramour don't need anything, I believe I will go and start on dinner."

There was an odd tone to Alfred's voice, but Bruce couldn't figure out why. Did he...did he disapprove of Bruce's relationship with Kal? Alfred had always been in favor of Bruce finding some romantic stability, though, so why--maybe it wasn't that, and had to do with whatever he and Clark were fighting about. That was probably it. 

Alfred strode off down the hall, and Bruce entered the bedroom.

It wasn't quite how Bruce remembered it, although he couldn't quite put his finger on why or how. It could simply have been that Clark was tidier when Bruce was also living in the room, because there were cheap shirts and plaid flannels strewn about everywhere, almost like someone had thrown them into the room from the door with some force.

Kal followed him into the room, and started mumbling apologies as he gathered the shirts and tossed them on the floor of the closet instead.

Bruce winced because that was no way to treat clothing, even if it was terrible ugly clothing. But at least this explained Alfred's attitude, and the argument he and Clark had been having.

Case closed, Bruce watched quietly as Kal picked up the last few stray pieces of clothing off the floor and hid them away. And really, the view wasn't half-bad. Bruce's affectionate smile slowly morphed into a grin, and he perched himself on the edge of the bed as Clark finished. "Come here," he said, leaning back enticingly.

Kal managed to get the closet door shut despite the valiant efforts of some rebellious sleeves, and turned around. Bruce was expecting an immediate and enthusiastic response to his obvious invitation, but instead he got a double-take, and Clark backing into the closet door with a thud.

"What?" Bruce asked, sitting back up. 

"Um," Kal said, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing furiously. "Your head is--"

Bruce stood up, and started slowly closing the distance between them. "My head feels fine. I've been in a sick bed for almost a week, Kal."

Clark looked more like a deer in the headlights the closer Bruce got to him. "Y--yeah, but Dr. Thompkins said you weren't supposed to engage in vigorous activity for...for...yet." Kal swallowed hard, and the closet door rattled slightly as he tried to back further into it.

"Dr. Thompkins said I shouldn't swing from rooftops for at least a week," Bruce clarified. "She didn't mention anything about making out with my boyfriend." He was close enough now to touch, and reached out slowly to do just that.

But Clark was suddenly on the other side of the room. "Oh look at the time," he said. "I told Lois I'd call her right now, and she gets really upset if I'm late." And then he was gone.

Bruce's hand dropped to his side, and he wondered what had just happened. Had Kal...didn't he...want Bruce? It had been eight days, including the ones Bruce had been unconscious for, and he was certainly ready to spend some quality time with Kal. But Kal...well, maybe he had needed to call Lois. Exactly 2:19 on a Sunday was a strange time to promise a phone call, but from the little Bruce could remember of her, Lois was rather demanding. That's probably all it was.

Probably.

 

--

 

If Clark had been hoping for a bit of sympathy, Lois was the wrong choice.

"It's not funny." Clark was aiming for authoritative, but he may have hit more in the petulant zone. Not that either would have made a difference to Lois' laughter.

"Oh my god, Smallville," Lois gasped. "Only you could possibly end up in these situations, I swear." She tried to pull herself together, but let out a couple more tiny giggles. "Sorry, sorry, you were about to tell me what happened after your pretend billionaire boyfriend caught you trying to sneak your polyester shirts past his butler."

"They're cotton!" Clark defended, but it just set Lois off laughing again. "Anyway," Clark continued, over her laughter, "there isn't much more to it than that. I followed him into the bedroom, an--"

Lois gave a very dramatic gasp and fell so silent that he thought the call might have dropped, or she might have died of a sudden heart attack or something.

"Lois…?"

"The bedroom ," Lois whispered very dramatically. "Was there only one bed?"

Clark groaned. "This isn't a romance novel, Lois."

"Fine, fine, Clark," she flipped into investigative reporter mode, and really, Clark didn't know how he'd ever thought he could keep up with her, even for a moment. "So. You followed the man you’ve had a super-crush on into the bedroom, and then…?"

Clark sighed in annoyance. "Then he tried to...to--to do couple-y stuff, so I said I had to call you and ran away."

"And by 'couple-y stuff' you mean...hold hands and argue about who left their shoes in the middle of the floor again?"

"Can you let the shoe thing go ? It was one time ."

"No," Lois said. "I much prefer to just throw it out there and watch you stumble on them."

That was poetic, if not exactly fair, so Clark held his peace.

"Fine," Lois said, when the silence started to turn stale. "So Bruce started to intiate sexy-times with his super-hot super-boyfriend after being stuck in a sick-bed for a week, but then said boyfriend mumbled something about calling his ex and literally ran away."

"It doesn't sound great when you put it that way." Clark hadn't yet found a way to put it that did sound great, but something about Lois' tone made it sound especially...stupid.

"You're pretending to be his boyfriend--from Bruce's perspective, you are his boyfriend, the two of you are sharing a room ," Lois pointed out. "Bruce Wayne isn't notorious for his celibacy, and you are ridiculously, impossibly attractive--under the polyester, of course. What did you think was going to happen?"

"I didn't get a chance to think about it," Clark defended, running his hands through his hair, and an elbow into a spiderweb. "The boys didn't give me much of a choice."

"You're Superman," Lois said. "You always get a choice."

"Have you met the Wayne family?" Clark asked. "If they have their eye on a common goal, there's no power on Earth or off it that can stop them."

Lois laughed. "Does your boyfriend's family have you wrapped around their little fingers already? Adorable."

"Lois," Clark scuffed, mildly offended because there might be some truth there. 

"Clark," she mimicked his tone. "The fact is that you just agreed to pretend to be Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy's, live-in boyfriend, and Bruce will be assuming certain ...benefits, and if this is the cover story, you'll have to provide those, because I can't always drop everything to laugh at you."

"But what if he doesn't actually want those benefits?" The attic floor creaked with his pacing.

"I'm pretty sure if he's initiating them, he wants them, Smallville."

"Yeah, but that's--he's practically Brucie now, full time, with no memory of Batman. What if he gets his memories back and tries to kill me . Do you know how much kryptonite he has?" Clark was nearly yelling in his panic.

Clark could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Look. If there's one thing we've always known about Batman, it's that he represses feelings like no one's business. It's possible that he's been hiding his own massive crush on you, smashing it down in the face of his Mission, and forgetting about being Batman, forgetting that Mission, forgetting that he can't have anything nice or normal or soft, maybe forgetting all that is just letting him finally get in touch with his own goddamn emotions, and this is the only chance you'll ever get to show him that a relationship between the two of you could work. Or maybe it's not, but whatever it is, you'll have to make your own damn decisions about what you're going to do about it, Smallville." She paused for a moment. "You can Venmo me the standard emotional labor fee for this conversation, but I gotta run. Bye." She hung up.

Clark stared at his phone for a moment, then sat down on an old trunk that creaked alarmingly with his weight. Lois was right, but that was the only thing about this situation that was.

He wished he could at least count on the Batkids for support once Bruce got his memories back, but they were all a bit too chaotic neutral when it came to things like this. 

Clark tried to imagine the conversation:

Bruce: I lost my memories, and you did what.

Clark: You initiated everything, I had to go along with it for the cover!

Bruce: And that cover involved us having sex on every available surface how many times?

Clark: (definitely not squeaking) Yes? I thought you--you thought you--

Damian: Here is the kryptonite, Father, so you may take your revenge; castration might not be sufficient, but should be considered.

Clark: Wait! Wait! You were the one who thought we were together!

Bruce: *glowers* You went along with it!

Clark: It was the boys! They insisted I go along with it.

Bruce: Is this true?

Tim: *points at Jason*

Jason: Nah, I just rolled with it; Dickie's the one who came up with it.

Dick: Bruce concluded that on his own, I just didn't want to break his brain when it was so fragile. And anyway, Clark made his own decisions on how far to take it. I thought it would be more of an aster than dis.

Bruce: *transforms into a black shadow of vengeance with green-glowing weapons of death.*

Clark: *is ded*

Notes:

To be fair, it's not much of an aster rn, not for Clark, anyway.

Kinda like that test with the kids and the marshmallows and the waiting, but with Clark and sex and def no reward for waiting.

Chapter 4: In Which No One Was There

Summary:

"Do you know why this was under my pillow?" Bruce asked, holding up the batarang.
Tim took it delicately from him and inspected it. "I'd guess either you don't trust the new security system, or things aren't going as smoothly with Clark as they seem."

Bruce lay on the bed attempting to nap. He'd wanted some quality time with Kal, but since that apparently wasn't in the cards, and he couldn't remember any other hobbies, he figured a nap might help. But, while his brain was exhausted, his body was restless, and he wasn't having any luck.

He rolled over and jammed a hand under his pillow, then pulled it back quickly when his fingers hit something sharp. Sitting up, he looked under the pillow, and found a...well. It was black, made of metal, with all the edges sharpened, and there were a lot of edges, because it was shaped vaguely like a bat, of all things. No wait , that wasn't so strange, not in Gotham. This was a batarang, Batman's choice for ranged weapon. But, what is it doing in my bed? Bruce wondered.

Giving up on the nap, Bruce took the batarang and headed for more populated parts of the manor.

Or what he thought would be more populated parts. He found no one in the first few places he checked, and was close enough to the kitchen to smell dinner cooking when he finally passed Robin going the opposite way down the hall.

At first his youngest son just nodded absently to him as they passed, but then he whipped around. "What is that you're holding, Father?" Robin asked, with what sounded like tempered excitement in his voice.

"Oh," Bruce said, looking at the batarang, and then holding it up. "I think it's a batarang, but I found it under my pillow. Any idea what it might have been doing there?"

Robin's eyebrows rose. "Perhaps it was there because you are Batman."

Bruce frowned down at the batarang and mentally rifled through his memories. "No, I think I would remember if I were--" he paused. "Oh. That was a joke. I must have forgotten your deadpan humor. Bruce Wayne, Batman. Hilarious."

"Father, I would never--"

"--Tease you while you're recovering from a serious head injury," Tim finished, appearing suddenly and silently behind Bruce. "Certainly not in such a way that might cause permanent damage." His voice was ripe with censure. 

Robin crossed his arms across his chest and glared at Tim with the sort of look that invented the phrase 'If looks could kill.'

Bruce couldn't remember why his youngest two sons didn't like each other, but he hadn't forgotten that it was true, so he tried to distract Tim before they could start fighting. Tim liked puzzles and mysteries, didn't he? "Do you know why this was under my pillow?" Bruce asked, holding up the batarang.

Tim took it delicately from him and inspected it. "I'd guess either you don't trust the new security system, or things aren't going as smoothly with Clark as they seem."

Bruce was pretty sure that was meant as a joke as well, but he also wondered if there was some truth to it. After all, Kal had all but run away when Bruce tried to kiss him, and he hadn't returned, even though it had been hours . Hours and hours. Or at least--Bruce checked his watch--fifty-eight minutes. That was way more than enough time for a phone call to Lois.

Bruce opened his mouth to ask if anyone knew where his boyfriend was, but before the words could exit, Clark appeared in the doorway to the dining room. 

"Oh, hey, B, boys. Alfred says dinner is almost ready, and that we should gather at the table, if it is convenient to us."

Tim and Robin nearly fought each other to get through the doorway, but Bruce lingered, looking at Kal. 

Clark raised an eyebrow at him, so Bruce raised his own back, higher, and waited silently.

Kal folded first. "Look," he said, shoulders sagging. "I'm sorry about before."

"You ran away ," Bruce pointed out, one eyebrow remaining up in disbelief.

"I--I did," Clark admitted, hanging his head. "It wasn't my finest moment. But, look. You're recovering from a serious head injury. Some of your memories are missing, and we've been warned that they could remain gone if we...jostle you mentally in the wrong way. I'm just afraid that it'll happen if I jostle you physically, too. And I don't--I could never forgive myself if I cause permanent damage. And--" he cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. "--and I don't know how memory loss figures into rules about informed consent, so I'm just--"

"--being extra cautious," Bruce nodded. "That's one of the things I love about you, you know. That you work so hard not to let your…" Bruce rubbed his forehead as he tried to remember the right word, the right concept, but had to settle, "...your privilege let you take advantage of others. But we're already in a relationship; we're in love. You can certainly take some advantage of me, and I won't hold it against you."

Clark chewed on his lip as he considered what Bruce had said. "Maybe some, but I'm still worried about the jostling."

"I have my whole life to have sex with you," Bruce said, and Kal blushed brighter than the sun, "I can wait until you're comfortable that I'm over my injury. But if you don't get over here and kiss me gently right now, so help me, I will, I will…" Bruce trailed off as he tried to remember an appropriate threat; he'd known one when he started the sentence, but now it was gone again.

Clark swallowed audibly. "I can--I can do gentle," he said, and then crossed the narrow hall to pull Bruce into his arms, and--yes, gently --kiss him. It was brief, and honestly rather awkward, but when Kal tried to pull away, Bruce growled and dragged him back, deepening the kiss until it made him feel like he could be anyone, do anything, remember anything. But before those memories could properly fall into his mind, Robin reappeared at the door, clearing his throat.

"Father, Alfred is waiting for you and the--Mr Kent." He sounded angry, but maybe he just always sounded like that? There was a lot Bruce couldn't remember about his youngest, far more than about any of his other children. 

Speaking of, "Is your sister still in Hong Kong?" Bruce asked as he followed Robin into the dining room, towing Clark behind him by the hand.

"Cassandra Cain is still in Hong Kong, yes," Robin replied.

"Are her studies going well?" Bruce asked, then noticed another hole in his memories. "What is she studying, again?"

 

--

 

"We need to address the theory that Father's memory loss is not natural, Drake," Damian said marching into the 'cave, where Drake was typing up a report after dinner. "He was unable to recognize a batarang ." Damian added, affronted at the very idea.

Drake's fingers stilled on the keyboard. "Leslie says it's because he separates his two lives so carefully, that he represses his memories of Batman when he's Bruce, and the memory loss just turned that up to eleven."

"Doctor Leslie Thompkins runs a free clinic for impoverished families and drug-riddled runaways," Damian pointed out. Imagine trusting her as the only source on their father's mental health. She was very competent when it came to stitching up knife wounds, but she was no expert on brain injuries.

Drake was still staring at the monitor, but his eyes were unfocused, and his mind far away.

Damian reached out to slap him back to reality, but Drake caught his hand before it could connect. "You're not wrong, though, but if it was just the concussion, I don't know who else to consult."

"Perhaps it was not just a concussion," Damian said, yanking his wrist away from Drake.

"What else could have happened?" Drake asked. He put his hands back on the keyboard, and tapped his fingers as he thought, even though he wasn't entering any information, just making that quiet clicking sound. "You were the one who saw what happened, and you didn't mention anything beyond the fall. You said nothing else happened."

"I said no one was there," Damian clarified, and it was true. Penguin had crashed the party he and Father were attending, so they had changed quickly and followed him up the sweeping staircase to the mezzanine. There had been a camera flash--those had been going off all night at the "influencer" party where even the band was selected more for matching hipster jackets than actual talent--but for some reason this particular flash caused Batman to misstep and fall into the stair rail, which snapped beneath his weight and sent him tumbling to the floor below.

Not thinking for a moment that Batman couldn't save himself from a fifteen-foot drop, Robin had finished running up the stairs, and found no one there at all. No Penguin, no henchmen, no victims, no painting, and no sign of where they had gone. More irritated than anything, Robin had returned to the ground floor, only to experience the most acute terror of his young life when he saw Batman sprawled there, unmoving. He'd called for backup, but his heart hadn't started beating again until he saw the rise and fall of Bruce's chest. "Even the band had departed by the time you arrived."

Drake's fingers stopped tapping on the keys. "How many people did you say were at the party?" he asked.

Damian frowned and wracked his memory. "It was well attended; perhaps slightly over two hundred guests? Plus the band and catering, so around two-hundred-and-fifty people."

"And Penguin usually has at least a dozen henchmen with him."

Damian nodded, "He had ten, but only four went upstairs with him. The rest remained to chase the guests away."

"Which is odd, since Penguin usually robs the guests, but--"

"--it also isn't unpresidented, especially if he only wanted the painting from the gallery," Damian finished for him. 

"Right," Drake agreed, spinning his computer chair to face Damian. "So there were well over two hundred people, who were being chased off by six henchmen with guns. You and Bruce rush to change, which takes--"

"Only ninety-four seconds," Damian said, "We'd been tipped off beforehand, and were partially in gear already."

"So, fancy party, Penguin and company, less than two minutes for you two to slip away and finish changing; Penguin was already up the stairs by the time you came back?"

"He was on the top steps when we returned, and it took us nearly two minutes to reach the stairs through the fleeing guests."

"And Bruce fell from the top, which would have been less than five minutes after Penguin arrived, and only two minutes since Penguin reached the mezzanine. And you were after him within a third minute."

"Are you going somewhere, or just repeating what I've said?" Damian asked.

Drake gave him an irritated look and spun his chair back to the keyboard, tapping the keys again, but this time entering information. He called up the file on the Insta-Party and the security feed of Penguin lifting the painting. It was a terrible angle, covering the whole upstairs gallery, with the piece Penguin stole in the lower corner, almost out of sight. The sound was off, but Damian could practically hear Penguin's rant from the way he waved his arms and paced as his four henchmen worked to get the painting off the wall.

It must have been really well secured, because it was taking them forever to steal it. Drake was staring at Damian instead of the monitor. "What are you staring at, Impostor?" Damian finally snapped. "All I see are utterly incompetent thugs. It's taken them nearly five minutes to--to--" He trailed to a stop when he realized the reason for Drake’s stare; the filmed thugs had taken well over the three minutes he and Drake had just calculated they had, and there was no sign of Robin, no hint that Penguin was unduly hurried to secure his gains. The henchmen in the video finally got hold of the painting at the 5:55 mark, and the group left the gallery. There was still no sign of Robin for another solid thirty seconds, when he appeared in the doorway, took a quick look around, and ran back out.

"Why did you not bring this to attention before, Drake? Are you so incomp--"

Drake interrupted "There's no footage of the stairs or the ground floor, so the only way I had to assess the timeline was from your report, and people have a hard time remembering exact times."

Damian took a deep breath. "Perhaps you do, but I--"

"Was trained by only the finest clocks in the land, yeah, yeah, we know," Drake waved that off. "Instead of getting all prickly, we need to figure out what happened in those extra five minutes."

"Tt.” Damian folded his arms. He wanted to point out that his memories were infallible, that there had been no extra five minutes, but the video of the fumbling henchmen had begun again, befouling the timeline Damian remembered. Drake had started mumbling to himself and trying to drink coffee from the disgusting--and thankfully empty--mugs littering the desk, so Damian left him to it and headed over to the meditation area.

The memories were locked away from him, sure, but he'd still lived those five minutes, he should be able to access them if he just focused correctly.

He lit the candle, settled onto the stone floor, whispered his mantra, and turned his thoughts inwards.

Notes:

*wrinkles nose* eeeewwww, is that...is that PLOT I smell? yuck. Who dragged that in here?

Chapter 5: In Which Bruce Draws a Conclusion

Summary:

"Tim."

Tim's coffee went flying and he nearly jumped out of his seat. "Dammit, B," Tim said, grabbing a rag (intentionally left by Alfred for this or related purposes) and mopping at the spill, "I thought you forgot how to do that." It wasn't fair that Bruce could forget being the night, but not forget how to move like the night. "What the hell are you doing up, anyway?"

Notes:

Thank you for all the kudos and comments and love! And everyone stay safe out there; neither Batman nor Superman can save you from CORVID-19!

Two days later, Tim was working late. Or early? Late because it was after normal business hours, early because he wanted to finish this Wayne Enterprises report before he went out on patrol. There is so much fucking busy work involved in being CEO, no one would believe it . It didn't help that he was still trying to prove himself to the board. The board who barely believed Tim was in charge and Bruce wasn't, who still asked for Bruce at almost every meeting, and who still treated Tim like some sort of unpaid intern.

Tim took a sip of the coffee in his non-typing hand. It was cold, and he grimaced. Alfred wouldn't bring him another cup this late, and taking a break to make his own, or even just to heat up this one would mean he didn't have enough time to finish. He'd just...oh, those numbers needed to go on the blue graph, not the--

"Tim."

Tim's coffee went flying and he nearly jumped out of his seat. "Dammit, B," Tim said, grabbing a rag (intentionally left by Alfred for this or related purposes) and mopping at the spill, "I thought you forgot how to do that." It wasn't fair that Bruce could forget being the night, but not forget how to move like the night. "What the hell are you doing up, anyway?"

"I couldn't sleep," Bruce said.

Tim glanced at the mantel clock: half past midnight. "Figures," he muttered.

"Do I have any hobbies?" Bruce asked. 

"Hobbies?" Tim repeated, wondering if beating up criminals, being the world's greatest detective, and generally being a pain in the commissioner's ass would count as one hobby or three. He also wondered if saying it would have any perceivable effect on Bruce's memories, or if he'd just think it was another joke.

"I know no one will let me go back to work at Wayne Enterprises so soon, but I'm…" he hesitated, "...bored."

"Do you remember anything about what's going on at WE?" Tim asked, because he didn't know why they wouldn't let Bruce back there if he could remember things about it; they'd found pretty definitely that he couldn't remember being Batman, what could he recall about being CEO of Wayne Enterprises? 

Bruce proceeded to give Tim a succinct and true summary of everything occurring at WE up until the last week, including personal details about other board members that Tim hadn't known, and a few potential problems Tim hadn't run into yet.

How can he remember this so clearly, but not recall his own ...secondary life? Tim made a mental note about this aspect of Bruce's memory loss. They still didn't quite know who to contact about it (was it magic? Telepathy? Drugs? Nanobots?). More information would only help narrow the list down. 

"What are you working on so late?" Bruce asked, pulling Tim from his thoughts.

"Just going over the quarterlies, and trying to figure out how to regraph some of the data so the board can see the trends I'm worried about. Nothing major, but we stand to lose a lot of capital if Mr Hilmer won't let his department pivot."

Bruce frowned. "Marketing?"

"Yes, god, and he's still buying ads in magazines. Dying magazines for old people ." Tim rubbed his face, and tried his coffee again. It was still cold.

Bruce made one of his trade-marked grunts. "I feel like I should resent that, but then again, I also know what you mean." He pulled over a chair and settled in at the desk next to Tim. "Show me what you've done so far."

Tim ended up skipping patrol that night, but he didn't mind; the time spent with Bruce was well worth it. And he was now so well-prepared for the board meeting that afternoon they might even believe what he told them.

The next morning, Tim had a sleek black briefcase in one hand, and a fresh travel mug of coffee in his other, ready as possible for this board meeting, if running a little late. Alfred had gone to bring the car around, and Tim was mentally outlining what he'd say when he nearly ran into Bruce who was hovering near the front door, dressed neatly in a sharp suit, a sedate tie around his neck.

"Bruce," Tim started, then paused as he ran through their most-likely conversations in his head. "Fine, come on." It wasn't swinging from the rooftops, the board kept whining about wanting to see him, and it would keep Bruce from going out of his mind with boredom. And besides, while Tim could win the argument, it would take too long, and he was already late.

Bruce smiled a small and slightly smug smile as he followed Tim out to the car.

 

—

 

“That was fun,” Bruce said, after the meeting.

“You nearly made them wet themselves,” Tim replied, double-checking that the door was securely shut to his—to their?—office.

The board hadn’t known to make of an awake and alert Bruce Wayne who not only didn’t complain about the length of the meeting, but actively made it last longer by asking informed questions, paying attention to what the women had to say, and backing up everything Tim suggested.

“How do I normally act in meetings?” Bruce asked, sitting down on Tim’s couch and putting his feet up on Tim’s coffee table.

“Well,” Tim said slowly, as he considered Brucie Wayne and his usual tactics of steamrolling over everyone and demanding they do whatever he said while hiding the fact that it was all well-grounded business ideas under the appearance of being a lucky idiot. He decided to go with a different truth. “You haven’t been to very many meetings since you installed me as CEO.”

“Oh.” Bruce’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose that makes sense. But what did I do with all that free time?”

"You…" Tim hesitated, then decided to test the theory. For science. "You were Batman."

Bruce frowned. "Was that a running joke in our family? Because Robin said something similar, but I can't figure out how it's funny."

"I guess you wouldn't," Tim said, glad he hadn’t broken Bruce, but also disappointed. “Regardless, you’ve always found ways to occupy yourself.”

“Like Kal?” Bruce perked up a bit.

Not touching that one. “I’m sure you’ll remember the rest of it soon,” Tim said. “In the meantime, can you check and handle these for me?” Tim had a project manager’s meeting in another hour, and he needed to prepare, and distracting Bruce from asking weird questions about his arguably-imaginary boyfriend was paramount if he wanted to be ready. Besides, Bruce knew what to do with them, and it would take one more thing off Tim’s plate.

 

--

 

Bruce walked down one of the main streets in Gotham, heading to a nearby restaurant to pick up his and Tim's dinner because they'd worked right past Alfred's increasingly passive-aggressive texts about making it back to the manor in time to eat with Robin and Kal.

It was strange, Bruce thought, that he'd given up Wayne Enterprises to Tim. Not because Tim was bad at being a CEO--he was really good, possibly better than Bruce ever was or would be--but because Bruce enjoyed the work. And even more than that, Bruce just enjoyed working . If he'd given up the one job that was also the only job he'd ever had what the hell did Bruce do with his spare time . 

He could remember working on his motorcycles and cars, and he was pretty sure he could remember working out in a gym--probably a home gym, although Bruce wasn't sure where it was in the manor, and didn't want to reveal that particular lack of memory, since, based on how ripped he was, he'd probably spent absurd amounts of time there.

Maybe he could just follow Kal around closely for a few days; his muscles were like iron , surely he made use of whatever workout equipment Bruce kept around.

And maybe the gym was the answer to what Bruce did with all his spare time. He could be one of those crazy exercise-obsessed people who were addicted to working out or whatever. It seemed rather silly, but everyone seemed to imply Bruce had changed a lot with his memory loss, so perhaps--

The sound of a car horn snapped Bruce out of his thoughts. They hadn't been honking at him, but now that Bruce was looking around, he realized he had no idea where he was.

Or no, that wasn't true, he still knew exactly where he was (the corner of Twen and Hookem, near the vacuum-repair shop that sold guns out of the back...and how did he know that?), but he was a little fuzzy on how he'd gotten there, or rather why he'd come here, since it was a rather obvious left turn back off Main to get to the restaurant, and an obscure right down a dark alley to end up here. Actually several turns, and he might have absentmindedly jumped over a fence.

Bruce glanced up at the rooftops to orient himself to the quickest route back to his intended destination.

This wasn't a great neighborhood, but Bruce wasn't too scared about being robbed; it was Gotham, and all he had was some cash, so he would just give that over, no worries. He'd even left his phone behind at WE, although that hadn't been intentional. There was always still some chance of violence, but the sorts of Gotham criminals that worked in this neighborhood all stopped well short of actual murder.

That and there should be at least three Bats out on patrol right now, probably even in this neighborhood, since it was Wedsne--

"Hey, Rich Man."

Bruce whirled around to see who had spoken. It was a rather lanky man with a rather patchy beard, and a crow bar that he was slapping into his hand. Bruce didn't like the crow bar at all , but he couldn't remember why, and the feeling didn't taste like fear.

"You're gonna give us all you've got," said a different voice behind him, and Bruce realized he'd wandered into yet another dark alley.

Have I not lived in Gotham all my life? Bruce chastised himself as he took a defensive stance, the man in front of him wasn't going to be much of a threat, even with the crowbar, and the man behind him sounded barely out of high school. Bruce could take them, Bruce was...Bruce was...being robbed in a dark alley in the wrong neighborhood, and he didn't know a damn thing about physical combat, what the fuck even was a defensive stance? Bruce's arms dropped to his sides. "Yeah, alright," he said, reaching for a pocket.

His wallet wasn't in that one, so he reached for another. That one had a pocket knife and his keys, but no wallet. The next pocket had three pens, five different styles of paperclips, and a pair of pliers. Bruce started patting pockets more frantically, straight-up rubbing his hands over his jacket and slacks looking for the damn wallet, but he couldn't find it.

"Having troubles?" The man with the crowbar sneered.

"I don't seem to have my wallet, Gentlemen," Bruce said, which made the man behind him laugh in a really horrible manner.

"Oh, we're not gentle," he said, and Bruce heard the scuff of shoe on sidewalk as he started to come closer. "Or, at least, we're not gonna be with you if you don't find something to give us."

Bruce half-turned to face him, and then retreated until his back was against the wall and he was facing both attackers. "I really don't have anything," he said. "I left my phone at the office, and I guess my wallet is with it." The attackers made some more nasty sounds that Bruce had to identify as laughs, and advanced a few more steps. "My shoes are probably the most expensive thing I have right now, do you want them?"

"Your shoes?" The younger one wheezed, "What the fuck kind of theives do you think we are?"

Bruce's mind didn't remember having a death wish, but his mouth must have, because it said, "The kind to walk a mile in my shoes?"

One of Bruce's attackers made an inarticulate sound, but Bruce didn't see which one because a dark shadow suddenly dropped down between them, cape snapping in a wind of his own making.

The attackers immediately shouted, "Aw fuck, the Bat," and retreated.

The man--the Bat?--turned around to see who he had saved, and as the pointed ears of his cowl came into view, Bruce felt such an overwhelming string of emotions-- want, mine, possess, respect, save, safe, protector, jealous, known --and memories that he nearly collapsed there on the sidewalk.

But a pair of strong arms caught him, and for a moment he thought it was Clark, but then he realized how absurd that was.

"Careful, Bruce," the Batman said, just holding him for a moment, and it all felt very familiar.

Bruce grabbed at his balance and righted himself, then turned to meet the opaque lenses of the Batman's cowl. "How do you know who I am?"

Batman's lips twitched, but too fast for Bruce to read the microexpression on the half-face in the dark alleyway. "Figure it out," he finally growled, raised a grappling gun, shot a line to the nearest rooftop and was gone.

Although, that was strange, Bruce thought as he stared after Gotham's Batman. Shouldn't he have waited for the hook to take hold before he swung off on it? But then again, Bruce Wayne didn't know anything about grappling off buildings, so Bruce shrugged and wended his way back through Gotham's streets to the dinner he was supposed to have picked up twenty minutes ago.

That whole interaction had been strange, though, right from the moment his mouth had spouted that bravado nonsense--or no, even before that, when Bruce had been flanked and cornered by two theives with weapons and intent to harm, and Bruce hadn't felt even the least bit of fear. It was like he'd known he was in no danger, like he'd known someone would come and rescue him.

And that wasn't normal--he didn't think. Vigilantes were a dime a dozen in Gotham, but even being locally famous didn't guarantee one would be there to rescue your stupid ass from being robbed. So why had Bruce been acting like it did? And, more than that, why had Batman known who he was--or no, that was probably the whole 'locally famous' thing--but the mysterious Dark Knight had called him 'Bruce,' not 'Mr Wayne,' and he'd held Bruce like he knew him, not like he'd just caught a swooning stranger. He'd held Bruce almost like he hadn't wanted to let him go.

Bruce entered out of the last alley into the lights of Main Street again, and joined the sparse evening crowds there.

Bruce hadn't been afraid, and Batman had known him. And then there was Bruce's emotional reactions to seeing Batman. He reimagined that first moment to try and get some of the feelings back for analysis. Nothing was as intense this time (which was good because he was crossing a street against the light), but there were still too many emotions to really name what he felt. He'd felt safety and protection, want and possession, awe, jealousy, guilt? , and a certain level of smugness related to familiarity. Bruce reorganized the feelings. He knew Batman, felt safe around him, believed he had some sort of claim to him, was pleased that he was so close to someone so amazing, and was guilty because...because...oh.

Oh no.

Clark didn't deserve that.

And no wonder he'd been so hesitant to--

"Bruce!" Tim pelted down the block and pulled to a stop in front of him. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Tim?" Bruce asked, confused.

"You've been gone almost an hour ," Tim said, gesticulating. "The restaurant called to ask if I was actually coming to get the food, and then I realized you didn't have your phone, and I came to look for you, but--" he waved a hand at Bruce. "I almost called in a search party, god."

"Oh," Bruce said. They were right in front of the restaurant, but it was much later than Bruce had thought. "I...got lost."

Tim facepalmed. "Only you, Bruce. Only you." He pulled out a phone and typed something in. "Let's grab our cold dinner and head home. Alfred's bringing the car around."

Notes:

Carp. No one told me this was a cheating fic. *unfollows*

Chapter 6: In Which ...Batman?

Summary:

"Oh my God." Tim flailed his arms in the air. "It'll take more than a rumor about crushing live grenades in his bare hands to ruin Batman's reputation!"

Notes:

A bit shorter this time, but I like the drama of the mini-cliff-hanger.

"And there's the second bidder," Tim--Red Robin--said, lowering his camera. He folded it in an impossible way and tucked it into an invisible pocket. "Now's the time if we want to catch them at it."

"Remember Tuskin is mine ," Red Hood growled over the comms.

"Remember the rule is no killing," Damian replied in the same way, swinging from his secondary vantage point to join Clark and Red Robin on the rooftop.

"You're currently the only one on my hit list," Hood snapped back.

Red Robin ignored them, pulling out a glass-cutting tool and scoring the skylight that would be their entrance in a moment.

Deciding to follow his lead and prep, Clark--should he think of himself as Batman? He wasn't sure it was even possible--scanned the building with his x-ray vision. "There are two in the--" Clark started.

"No meta powers, Alien, " Damian cut him off immediately.

"But I've seen him--"

"Heat-vision lenses," Tim grunted as he pulled the sheet of glass out of the frame. "Setting eighteen on your cowl. Let's go." 

Eighteen, Clark repeated in wonder as the two Robins set their grappling hooks and got in position to rappel down. How did Bruce ever keep track of all this . Clark's memory was pretty good, but--

"Your grapple," Robin snapped at him. "I don't know why you three thought this would be a good idea." That was directed at his brothers, not at Erstwhile Batman.

Clark quickly readied his grappling hook, and took position next to the other two.

Robin gave a disgusted sigh. "You must secure the anchoring end as well as attaching it to your belt."

"It--"

"He's right, that beam is rusted through and wouldn't support a fly, let alone Batman's weight," Red Robin said.

"But I'm--"

" Authenticity ," Robin said. "And no meta powers."

"I don't think the criminals will be double-checking to see if the beam I anchored my grappling hook to was sturdy enough to hold my weight," Clark said, but he adjusted its placement anyway.

"Do not underestimate Gotham's criminals." Robin turned up his nose as he said it. "Father would--"

"If you three idiots are quite finished, I've been expecting some backup," Hood's voice came over the comms just before the sound of gunfire started below.

Alarmed at the gunfire, Clark slipped into Superman mode and was about to fly down, when Robin snarled wordlessly at him, and he remembered that he was Batman right now. And also that Robin had tucked some kryptonite into his belt in a very obvious manner before they went out that evening.

They dropped down, the grappling lines slower and more inefficient than Clark wanted, knowing that Red Hood was down there being shot at. How does Bruce do this with his children , Clark wondered, and not for the first time. The amount of trust and confidence Bruce placed in these boys was--

A stray bullet bounced off Clark's bicep, and he glanced around guiltily, but the others were too involved in their own battles to notice, thank Rao. 

Someone rushed at Clark with a sort of giant knife in his hand, and Clark found himself fully engaged in the battle. 

And don't tell Damian, but he was using his superspeed. Just, you know, subtly .

The problem was that while Superman had trained both with and against Batman, he'd never actually trained as Batman, and Bruce was not entirely wrong when he pointed out that Clark didn't have enough proper hand-to-hand combat experience. That meant Clark was slower than normal at figuring out how to counter the thugs' moves, and to help keep up the illusion that he wasn't just as clumsy and inept as they were, he sped up until he was basically slow dancing with them, pretending to act out Bruce-like poses and moves as he did so. It was a terrible analogy, but it was working. And it had the added benefit of allowing him to better pull his punches to human force levels.

Clark discovered another benefit when he heard one of the thugs hiding behind a stack of old boxes mutter something about a grenade. Then there was the quiet ting of a metal pin being pulled, and Clark could see the hand grenade flying through the air, on course to land directly in front of Red Hood--and within blast-radius of Robin.

Panic shot through Clark as he slow-sped over the distance, put out a hand to catch it, realized that he was about to catch a live grenade , and slammed his other hand down on top, trapping the explosion inside the cup of his hands.

The light and sound were still deafening in the enclosed space of the old building, though, and someone--perhaps the grenade's thrower--shouted, " He caught a fucking grenade! " and someone else yelled to leave, and in short order only heroes and unconscious thugs remained. Well, and the guy Hood was dragging around, who was presumably Tuskin, and who was also still struggling halfheartedly. Clark wasn't sure if Hood had noticed. 

"Holy shit that was fucking amazing!" Hood said, throwing his free hand in the air in celebration.

Red Robin dropped down from the rafters above. "Glad to see that the new gauntlet material worked as expected. How are your hands?"

Clark was confused and started to answer truthfully, but then a chill ran down his spine as he caught the glare from Robin who was perched on top of some old crates, face in shadow, hand reaching towards his belt.

Clark cleared his throat, and dropped his voice into a deep Batman-like rumble. "Scorched," he held up his hands briefly, letting the remains of the grenade and the ruined metal of his gauntlets rain down onto the floor. "We will have to increase the parameters further."

"So fucking awesome," Hood repeated.

The four of them worked together to zip-tie any of the criminals left at the scene--which included the seller, but only one of the bidders. Hood said something about an errand, and disappeared with Tuskin to a destination Clark was sure he didn't want to know, and the rest of them headed back to the Batcave.

They'd all taken their bikes, which was good, because Clark wasn't sure he would have been able to drive safely after Damian literally eviscerated him with that kryptonite shard. Of course, driving safely was what got him banned from driving the Batmobile, but he didn't think driving while bleeding out was the method that would endear him to Bruce’s youngest. Although, since it would have been Damian who stabbed him, perhaps…

“I cannot believe you would act so foolishly with Father’s reputation on the line,” Damian snapped the second Clark parked his motorcycle. “Batman would never—“

“Lay off, Damian,” Red Robin said, pulling his helmet off as he dismounted his own bike. "Hood would be dead, and you'd at least have been maimed if Clark hadn't caught that grenade."

"But Father--"

"Bruce would have seen the grenade in the man's pocket as he rappled down and dropped right on his head, incapacitating him from the first moment. Or Bruce wouldn't have been distracted by a giant shiny knife and trying to believably not let it cut into his under-armored Batsuit so he would have had more time to disarm everyone. Or maybe he would have dropped a smoke bomb so the man couldn't have thrown it safely. Or maybe he would have sacrificed himself by jumping on top of the damn thing; we don't know, and Bruce wasn't there ."

Clark had taken off his cowl, but he was a bit scared to put it down and draw attention to himself after Tim's outburst.

Damian had no such compunctions and drew himself up to his full--if you could call it that--height. "I accept that you and Grayson and Todd felt that enlisting the alien would be the best solution to Father's problem, but I don't think that he is up to it. The persona of Batman is very specific, carefully built as Father's life's work, and I don't think he is doing it justice."

"Oh my God." Tim flailed his arms in the air. "It'll take more than a rumor about crushing live grenades in his bare hands to ruin Batman's reputation!"

"The terrible fighting style might have an effect, too!" Damian yelled, yanking off his domino mask and tossing it on the floor.

So they had noticed.

"That's why we've only been letting him fight the stupid thugs," Tim retorted. "The ones who can't tell the difference between a punch and a jab."

It wasn't a great feeling, to learn that Bruce's kids had the same opinion about his fighting abilities as their father.

"And what about when we can't avoid it? Do we trip a thug as a witness, and then explain to him that Batman has just forgotten how to fight? You might as well tell them that he's forgotten everything right now, save us some time!"

Clark wondered where Alfred was, and stretched an ear to listen through the house. He was pretty sure he could keep these two from killing each other, but knowing he had some backup, or at least a witness, would be a help.

"You know as well as I that Br--"

"Oh!" Clark said, and it wasn't loud, but it must have been surprised because it caught both Robins' attention. Suddenly under scrutiny, Clark went to push his glasses up his nose, and then remembered he wasn't wearing them and awkwardly dropped his hand. "Does the piano code for the door work if you're just playing the piano?"

Tim frowned in confusion. "Why do you--" then his eyes widened slowly in horror, and that was answer enough. Clark was out of the Batsuit, in a weird decorative house robe, and halfway up the secret passage before Tim's facepalm even landed.

He was just in time, too, with the secret door opening silently--and thankfully unnoticed--just as Clark reached it. 

Notes:

Batman's reputation will never be the same; Clark is ruining EVERYTHING.

Chapter 7: In Which Bruce Tries to Fix Things

Summary:

"Not--not even fully remembered it, I guess, but I remembered parts of it, and I think we should talk about it."

"Talk about what, exactly?" Clark asked.

"You know, the whole Batman thing," Bruce said

Notes:

I guess I didn't actually look up how the piano entrance to the cave works, but I've been assuming it's behind or to the side of a person sitting at the piano, and also that it's quiet. If it's something more like a cliche fireplace secret door where the whole hearth flips around, then...oops?

Bruce was lost in the music, and the ways his fingers danced over the keys. He wasn't an amazing pianist by any measure, but he had a couple of quality songs memorized, and it was nice to find another part of his memories intact.

"I didn't know you could play," Clark said from behind him.

Bruce startled, only a little, but it was enough to miss a note and lose his place. He sighed and took his fingers off the keys. "I'm not very good, but I did used to take lessons." His mother had been so delighted to hear him play, back when he was a child, but he hadn't had the heart to keep up with lessons after her passing.

"Better than I could do," Clark replied. "But isn't three in the morning an odd time to be playing?"

"Well," Bruce spun around on his piano bench, "I couldn't sleep, and my boyfriend wasn't in bed, so I went looking for him. I found this piano instead. Thought maybe it was my missing hobby." He gave the piano a disappointed look. "But I'm not any better at it than I remember being, so I guess not."

"You'll remember it in time," Clark said, stepping a little closer, and Bruce leaned forward to rest his head on Clark's chest. Kal slowly, hesitantly, lifted his hands up and started running his fingers through Bruce's hair. "You'll remember everything in time." He sounded almost sad about that.

Bruce sighed and nuzzled in closer, which caused the robe Kal was wearing to slip open enough to reveal a lack of shirt underneath. 

And Bruce was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to run his tongue over that heated skin, to push that robe the rest of the way off, and slip his hands down below the waist of the shiny black briefs he could just see the edge of, to make Kal moan and pant and fall apart.

But, as much as Bruce hated to admit it, Kal might have been right about memory loss altering informed consent, that he might have been right to be reluctant and hesitant about their relationship, since things were not quite as rosy as Bruce had thought he'd remembered them being.

"I need," Bruce began, but then realized he was still leaning on Kal and pulled back, clearing his throat. Kal's hands fell back to his sides. "I need to tell you that--that I've remembered something."

"Oh?" Clark said, and shifted back a step.

"Not--not even fully remembered it, I guess, but I remembered parts of it, and I think we should talk about it."

"Talk about what, exactly?" Clark asked.

"You know, the whole Batman thing," Bruce said, waving a hand around. Now that the moment had arrived, Bruce suddenly didn't want to say it aloud, to make it real--again. He wondered if it had been this hard to tell Clark the first time, or if he hadn't needed to. If Clark had found out on his own and confronted him, angry and betrayed.

"The whole...Batman thing?" Kal repeated, cautiously, like he was treading on thin ice.

Maybe Bruce hadn't told him, and Kal hadn't figured it out? Maybe Bruce had been too chickenshit to say, and Kal had only known something was going on, but not brought it up yet. "I'd been having an affair with him?" Bruce hadn't meant it to be a question.

Clark's mouth fell open, and he stared at Bruce so long, Bruce started to squirm. Then Clark blinked and shook himself slightly. "You'd been...what."

"I guess I hadn't told you," Bruce said, vastly disappointed in his past self; of all the flaws he remembered, cowardice wasn't one of them. "But you knew something was going on; that's why you've been so distant."

"I haven't--"

But Bruce continued over him. "The other night, when I got lost getting dinner from the office, I never told anyone, but I ended up down a dark alley and threatened by some thugs. Batman dropped in to save me, and that's when I remembered everything. Well, remembered enough to realize what had been going on." Bruce sighed and hid his face in his hands. "I'm sorry I hurt you, I don't know why past me would do such a thing, I don't--" he took a deep breath and let it wobble out of his lungs, holding back tears by sheer force of will.

"Oh no," Clark said, and dropped down onto the piano bench beside Bruce, "It's not what you think, you haven't remembered everything yet. You haven't remembered anything."

"But I remember the shape of his dick!" Bruce yelled, pulling away from Clark. He didn't deserve sympathy. Clark looked stunned and alarmed and like he wished he was anywhere else. "I didn't at first, but he seemed so familiar, and he knew me, and I knew him, and then I remembered all these...things. I know what he likes, how he--"

Clark was shaking his head. "Maybe you do remember all of that, but I can absolutely assure you that you've never been lovers with the Batman, and that you've never, ever , cheated on me."

"But he knew me! And I knew him!" Bruce protested. Clark's reassurances went a long way towards calming him, but it didn't change the fact that his original conclusion was the only logical one.

"He did, but you're Bruce Wayne , and who funds nearly all of Batman's gadgets?"

"The…" Bruce hesitated, looking through his memories. It took him a moment, but then he found a few images of speeches, a television appearance, a defensive fight at a board meeting. "It's me, isn't it? Wayne Enterprises, I mean."

Clark nodded. "And with Batman as your biggest non-returning expenditure, it's pretty obvious that you must be pretty close to the man himself."

"Hm." Bruce fell silent, thinking. He still remembered Batman's...physique, remembered seeing him naked except for the cowl, but...he looked at Clark again. Maybe they'd been playing? It was a pretty common costume, really, but Clark's build would make a much better Superman, and Bruce would more logically be Batman since he was from Gotham. Maybe that’s how it ended up being the family’s running joke. "Did I know Batman's secret identity?" he asked at last.

Kal was silent for a long time. "I think that's for you to remember on your own, but I will point out that it's unlikely you'd throw that much money at a man you didn't know and trust."

"I must have a crush on him, at least," Bruce said, thinking of the batarang under his pillow.

"You've never said," Kal said. "Now, let's get you back into bed."

Bruce was fully aware of the simple attempt to distract him and change the subject, but the chance of Kal helping him get back in bed...yes, please, and the distraction worked very well.

Notes:

Clark: Talk about...?
Bruce: How I know what Batman looks wearing only the cowl
Clark: ABORT ABORT ABORT

We all know Bruce has studied himself in the mirror wearing just the cowl, don't @ me.

Chapter 8: In Which The Phone Is Answered

Summary:

Tim wondered if he should mention the other contract he'd found with the one about mental incapacitation. This one was titled 'Cases Where Physical Intimacy is Required to Prevent Death or Serious Dibilitation,' and after detailing that it was a pre-agreement for a Poison Ivy (or similar) caused fuck-or-die situation, there was a list of names.

Notes:

I love the first little bit of this! The rest is alright.

The landline rang as Bruce was walking past it. He stopped, and looked around, but there was no one else in sight, so when it rang again, he answered it. "Wayne speaking." Was that how he answered the phone? It sounded familiar, but maybe that was how he answered his work phone, and he had a different--

"Ah, Mr Wayne, I'm glad I've caught you," the voice on the other end said. It sounded barely familiar, and reminded Bruce of school, chastising, not again . "This is Principal Hobbes from Gotham Academy, I'm calling because your son, Damian, fell asleep in class again today, for the third..."

Bruce frowned, letting the principal's words fall around him. I have a son named Damian ? Had he forgotten about one of his own children? Dick was Richard John Grayson, and Jason was Jason Peter Todd, and Tim was Timothy Jackson Drake, and Robin was Robin. And Cassandra Cain was his daughter. And then Stephanie Brown and Barbra Gordan were around all the time, but they weren't exactly his children, nor were they sons, for that matter. The only child he had at Gotham Academy was Robin, and he--

"Mr Wayne?" Principal Hobbs asked, into what Bruce belatedly realized was an abnormally long silence.

"Sorry," Bruce said, "Who were we talking about?"

"Your son, Damian," the principal repeated, sounding exasperated. "He's been falling asleep in class again?"

" Do I have a son named Damian?" Bruce was genuinely worried he'd forgotten someone important.

An affronted gasp came from the other end of the line. "Mr Wayne, I can assure you that pretending your--"

Bruce opened his mouth to interrupt and start explaining about the amnesia, but that's when Alfred cleared his throat and held out a hand for the phone. "I think you had better speak with Alfred," Bruce told the principal, and handed over the receiver.

"Yes, Mr Hobbs," Alfred said after a moment, "but I'm afraid Master Bruce has had a rather serious head injury recently, resulting in a temporary state of amnesia. Everything is being taken care of, and he has not forgotten his youngest son--" that last was said with a stern look at Bruce "--but Young Master Damian's schedule has been thrown off due to worry and general disruption. We hadn't realized it was quite so bad, but now that we've been informed, appropriate steps will be taken." There was another long pause. "Yes, well, I remember having similar conversations with your predecessor about his father, who, I might add, had no excuse," that was also said with a rather pointed glance at Bruce. "Of course, thank you, Mr Hobbs, and have a lovely evening." Alfred hung up and raised an eyebrow at Bruce.

"Who is Damian?" Bruce asked, burning with the need to hear the answer. "Do I have a son younger than Robin?"

Alfred sighed. "Robin is Damian, Master Bruce."

"But Robin is Robin," Bruce said, shaking his head.

Alfred just sighed even more deeply. "You can't call him that in public." He turned back towards the kitchen.

"Why not?" Bruce asked, following.

"Why not, indeed?" Alfred muttered.

"I'm serious, Alfred, why can't I call my son by his name?"

"It's not--Master Bruce, this is Gotham," Alfred said, returning to the vegetables he'd been chopping.

"Yes?"

"And if I tell you that Robin was in the Gotham Gazette, who am I referring to?"

That was easy, "Batman's sidek--oh." Past Bruce had realized that his high-profile, rich son would be in danger if anyone thought Robin Wayne was Batman's Robin , so he'd given him a different name to use in public. But Robin wasn't so old that Batman hadn't had a sidekick when he was born, and if Past Bruce had known it was a problem now, Farther Past Bruce would have known it would be a problem then. But perhaps it had been because of Bruce's fascination with the vigilante? He might have wanted a Robin of his own for some reason. Past Bruce had made some questionable choices.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to get on with making dinner; we are expecting guests this evening."

"I could help," Bruce offered, discarding his worries about his son's name.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said firmly, "I know that you are looking for your missing hobby, but I can assure you that cooking was not it, and that you are not even allowed to use the coffee machine without supervision."

Bruce's shoulders slumped, and Alfred took pity. "Perhaps you should try the library, you've always complained you wished to have more time for reading."

If he always wanted more reading time, that wasn't Bruce's hobby, either, but he left for the library anyway, figuring it should at least be a distraction until dinner.

 

--

 

"We've even flat-out mentioned that he's Batman," Tim said, as J'onn and Dinah listened attentively. "He thinks it's a joke."

"And after he ran into me--as Batman--the other night, he decided he was having an affair with Batman ," Clark added.

Oliver snorted and glanced pointedly around the Batcave. "That's one way to put it."

"Not helping, Ollie," Dinah said. She turned back towards Tim. "You've mentioned that this seems to stem from a concussion?"

Tim nodded. "We know he had a concussion, and we know concussions can cause memory damage, so yes, we just sat around for a week waiting for his memories to return. And then another week figuring out who to call, which led us here." Dinah because she might be able to help if this was natural, and J'onn because he should be able to tell if it was not. And Oliver because it was rude to invite only one-half of a couple.

"What, exactly, has he forgotten?" Dinah asked. "Does he remember everyone else's secret identities? Or that he knows Superman?"

"He calls Damian Robin, but he's convinced that's Damian's name, and not his secret identity. Otherwise, he barely recognized a batarang, and as far as we can tell, he only remembers Batman, The Justice League, and everything else as if he'd learned it from the news."

Clark nodded in agreement. "It even took him a minute to remember that it's his company that funds Batman. And he thinks we met for the first time at a Luthor function."

"So he's forgotten everything related to Batman and himself, and he's readapting his memories to explain Batman-related things in non-Batman ways," J'onn said. "It does sound concerning."

"I do think you'll need J'onn's help here more than mine," Dinah said.

"Well," Tim said, "he also keeps emoting all over everyone."

"Emoting," Oliver repeated with a faint grimace for the word.

"We don't know how to deal with an emoting Bruce," Tim continued with a brief glare at Oliver. "He's...involved, and caring, and I think he'd freak out if he knew Damian is fighting crime at his age--I think he'd freak out if he learns any of us are fighting crime--except maybe Dick, since his day job is a cop, I guess."

"Not to mention he now thinks he's in love with me," Clark added.

"That's not new," J'onn said, almost to himself, and everyone turned to stare at him. He cleared his throat. "Sometimes suppressing thoughts just makes them louder. It is good that you have finally learned, even if the circumstances are less than ideal."

Clark looked stunned.

"Anyway," Tim said, pulling the conversation back on topic. "We're hoping you might be able to help us with the emotions, even if it's J'onn who helps with his memories." They were also hoping that only these two would be needed to identify the problem and sort it out; Zatanna was unreachable, and Tim didn't know any other magic users well enough to beg a favor. And if it was nano-bots or otherwise science-related, then...Clark thought maybe the Fortress would be able to help, but they'd have to get Bruce there for that, and not even Tim had been able to come up with a good reason for Superman to whisk Bruce away to his secret lair. So they were really hoping these two would be able to clarify and hopefully repair whatever was wrong.

"Speaking of looking into Bruce's memories, are you certain he'll be comfortable with me invading his privacy like that?"

Clark was still stunned into immobility, so Tim went ahead and pulled the piece of paper from his hand and showed it to J'onn. "Bruce is the King of Overprepared, so we have this signed affidavit pre-agreeing to let you look into his mind and memories if he cannot verbalize permission, and if doing so is important to his physical health, mental health, or the continuation of the Mission." There was a list of people allowed, with J'onn at the top, all the obvious choices in the middle, and Constantine at the bottom, his name crossed out then rewritten with a little note that read, 'only if no other options are available.'

"This does look to be in order," J'onn said, handing the paper back, "but unless we want to explain who I am and what I'm going to do to him, I will need your help in guiding the conversation to certain topics that will bring the problem areas to the forefront of his thoughts."

J'onn outlined a few things, although it was a pretty simple list, centered mostly around Batman and the accident itself.

Dinah started to ask a question, but just then the alarm went off for dinner. It was designed so the only way to turn it off was a switch in the kitchen, so Tim gestured everyone up the stairs.

They trooped out of the secret entrance into the study, and entered the hall from there--only to run into a very confused Bruce.

"But--But I was just in there," Bruce said, eyes growing as more people exited the study. "The room was empty."

Oliver laughed heartily and clapped him on the back. "Brucie! How have you been?"

"Ollie?" Bruce asked, still confused, but successfully distracted. "I haven't see you in...in…" he frowned.

"Three weeks?" Oliver prompted. "At the--oh." Tim realized he was referring to either a battle or a JL meeting.

Bruce was just shaking his head. "No, longer than that, but I can't remember when…"

"It's fine, Brucie," Oliver said, "Your son's told me all about your memory problems, so never mind. Now, I heard there was dinner?" He swept Bruce along the hall, and the others followed, Tim kicking himself in the head for the misstep. Bruce still had his analytical mind, and if they kept making mistakes like that one, he'd figure out he was Batman without ever remembering.

Or maybe it wasn't a mistake, and they wanted him to re-learn? Tim didn't even know what the goal was by now. But hopefully their guests this evening would help sort that out.

Dick had picked up Damian on the way in from Bludhaven, and they were waiting when the others arrived. Bruce looked around. "Should we wait for Jason?" he asked.

"Not this time, Old Man," Jason himself answered, striding in the door. "Though it wouldn't be the first time you all ate without me." He glared equally at the whole family.

"If you're going to be over an hour late, we're going to eat without you, yes," Tim said as they all went to find their seats.

"So you say, Repl--Timmy, but you'd started when I was only five minutes late, if that." Jason sprawled himself across his chair.

"That's enough, Jason," Bruce said. "Let's have some--where's Clark?"

Tim glanced around, noticing for the first time that Clark hadn't followed them out of the cave. He raised an eyebrow at J'onn, who shook his head ever so slightly, meaning it wasn't hero-related. "I guess he didn't hear the dinner gong," Tim said. "I'll go get him."

Bruce half-rose from his seat. "Where is he? I can--"

"No, no, sit, sit," Tim said quickly. "If you go, neither of you will make it back before dessert." Tim felt kind of gross for the insinuation, but Bruce dropped back into his chair blushing, and Jason guffawed like it was real.

Clark was still in the cave, but now he was sitting on the desk chair, back to the computer and slumped with his head in his hands. 

"Clark?" Tim asked as he approached.

"Sorry, I just needed a moment," Clark said, straightening up in his seat.

"I'm not very good at emotional support," Tim mentioned, just in case Clark was planning to emote all over him, too.

"Oh, no, no," Clark replied, "Lois tells me I need to do my own damn emotional labor. It's just that I hadn't realized...the extent of it."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Bruce has been hanging on you for weeks, and you didn't think he liked you?"

"I thought it was just confusion and amnesia and, I don't know, Brucie coming a bit too far to the front. I didn't think it was--" Clark flailed a hand "--was based in truth. I thought he barely tolerated me, normally." 

"That does sound like Bruce," Tim said. And it did; Batman was a big fan of the need-to-know-basis principle, and apparently controlling information about who is going to kill whom was only the top of a slippery slope that ended somewhere around failing to show the people around you how much you cared for them. Or even that you cared.

Tim wondered if he should mention the other contract he'd found with the one about mental incapacitation. This one was titled 'Cases Where Physical Intimacy is Required to Prevent Death or Serious Dibilitation,' and after detailing that it was a pre-agreement for a Poison Ivy (or similar) caused fuck-or-die situation, there was a list of names. Superman was written at the top, and then directly beneath it (as if anyone who'd have access to the contract wouldn't already know they were the same person) was written Clark Kent. And that was it, just two names, and both for the same person. But there was space for more names, and the form wasn't signed. 

Tim didn't know why it wasn't completed. Tim didn't want to know why it wasn't completed, but without Bruce's signature, it would probably just confuse Clark, and lead to even more emoting. So instead, Tim said, "Now come on, they are holding dinner for us."

And Clark followed Tim dutifully this time, all the way up to the dining room and into their seats at the table.

Notes:

Given the number of mind-control situations that crop up in comics, I don't know why more superheroes don't have pre-signed YOU MAY MESS IN MY HEAD IF I ACTUALLY FUCKING NEED IT documents. It seems an obvious solution to not having your friends angst for three issues about if you'll forgive them for saving your life and/or sanity.

Chapter 9: In Which They Have Dinner

Summary:

Bruce cleared his throat and said, "So. Darian."

Jason swallowed something wrong and started coughing. Tim absent-mindely patted him on the back, and everyone else stared at Bruce.

"Do you mean...Damian?" Dick finally asked, slowly.

Notes:

A little late, but it needed some help. Still not my favorite chapter, but there's some clever bits.

Once Tim and Kal were seated at the table, there was a weird moment of heavy silence, almost like maybe his family was ...praying? before the meal, but Bruce searched his memories, and he couldn't find anything like that, and it didn't end with an 'amen,' but rather with Jason snorting, "You would, Dickiebird," as Alfred started setting out the food.

Conversation didn't follow until Bruce cleared his throat and said, "So. Darian."

Jason swallowed something wrong and started coughing. Tim absent-mindely patted him on the back, and everyone else stared at Bruce.

"Do you mean...Damian?" Dick finally asked, slowly.

Dammit, he thought he'd remembered correctly. "Yes. Damian. Your principal called today. He says you've been falling asleep in class."

"Oh no, Little D," Dick moaned, hanging his head. 

Clark looked guilty.

"I'm sorry, Father," Robin said, straightening his back. "I have been…" he cleared his throat, "Ah...quite distraught over seeing you fall. But I won't let it affect my grades or overall attendance."

"Bruce, I--" Clark started, but Bruce waved him to silence.

"I'm not worried about your grades, Robin, I'm worried about you . If you need more time off to--to process or if you need to see a shrink--or even if you just need to talk, please come to me. It can't be easy seeing your father fall and nearly come to his end, and even if I'm okay, you were terrified. Please just let me know how I can help you."

Robin looked stunned, and Tim seemed to be giving a 'what did I tell you' look to Dinah.

The whole table was silent for a moment, and then Robin nodded. "Thank you, Father, I will remember to seek your assistance when I need it."

That didn't feel like Robin was actually agreeing to let Bruce help him, but it did feel like all Bruce was going to get. 

"The rest of you, too," Bruce said, looking around the table at his children. "If you need anything, or just to talk. We've all lost someone close to us, and living through another close call like this… I'm sorry I've put you through so much."

Dick's eyes got watery. "Bruce," he started, but Jason interrupted.

"Don't go soft on us, Old Man."

Bruce was confused. "Am I not...soft, usually?" maybe Past Bruce was an asshole? But really, what was he doing to these children that they wouldn't even bring their fears to him like Dick used to? Maybe there were better parents out there in the world, but Bruce wasn't that terrible...was he?

Bruce could have sworn he heard someone mutter, "Soft like a rock," but he couldn't tell who it was.

"The boys know you love and respect them," Kal said. "But you aren't always good at...expressing that."

"So I chose all of you wonderful, talented, amazing young people to be my children, to guide and care for, and--and--raise, and then I, what, just grunt at you when you do something incredible?"

The boys all nodded. "That's about the size of it, yeah," Jason said.

Bruce stared back at them in horror. "I'm a fucking asshole." Bruce felt his throat closing on emotion. "I swear, boys, I'll do better, I'll--"

"Aargh," Tim cut him off. "Please, I can't handle this much emoting and self-introspection."

"And you have guests," Oliver said, although he sounded like he was amused at the family squabble.

"Don't listen to Drake, Father," Robin said. "He simply doesn't want you involved enough to limit his coffee consumption again."

Bruce looked thoughtfully at Tim. How much coffee was his third son drinking on a daily basis? Alfred cleared the cups and mugs before they could accumulate, but--

"So. Police work has been interesting lately," Dick said, clearly trying to change the subject. "The police and the criminals are both after Nightwing, but while I'm pretty sure we know what the criminals are going to do if they catch him, I don't think the department has decided if they’ll going to give him a medal or lock him up if they ever manage to get him."

He sounded amused, but hearing there were two separate groups after Nightwing just made Bruce’s heart race—what was it with him and superheroes? Although this was worry mixed with admiration . Far more straight forward than his feelings towards Batman. "Will he be okay?"

"Nightwing?" Dick asked, then huffed in amusement. "He can take care of himself."

"Is that so, Dickie?" Jason said. "I heard he had an assist from Red Hood the other day."

“He had an assist,” Dick said, “he didn’t need an assist.”

“No, Dickface, yo—Nigh—“ Jason seemed to be choking on his words in a literal sense, but no one else appeared concerned, and after a moment his lips stopped twitching, and he turned a dark glare on John, who had been sitting quietly the whole time. 

Before Bruce could analyze that further, Dinah spoke.

"Everyone needs help sometimes," she said. "Even Green Arrow had half the Justice League in Star City just last month."

That sounded like it was world-ending, or at least news-worthy, but Bruce couldn't remember hearing anything about it. He felt like he could remember everything, but then there were strange gaps like this one that he came across, where it seemed like he should remember, but ...couldn't. "Did the Daily Planet cover that?" Bruce asked Clark, hoping to trigger a memory of an article.

Clark shook his head. "Not directly. We got some stuff from the Associated Press for it, but nothing produced in house. Superman wasn't there anyway, just, uh, Martian Manhunter, Green Arrow, Flash, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, and, um…" he paused and frowned. "Was that it?"

"Nah," Ollie said, "That Gotham guy was there, too, whatsisname...dresses in black? You guys know who I mean."

Everyone was staring at Oliver incredulously, until Bruce slowly said, "Bat...man?"

"Yes!" Oliver said. "That's the one, he was there, too. Although I don't know how much help he was. I don't even know why they let him on the team, he's not super at all."

“I’m rich,” Bruce said, startling everyone, including himself. Why the hell had he said that? Why had that slight made him so defensive? Did these friends know Wayne Enterprises supported Batman? “I mean, he’s rich? He has to be, right? With all those gadgets? And aren’t there other human heroes?”

“Yes,” Robin said, glaring at Oliver. “Like Green Arrow.”

Ollie guffawed. "I’ve heard he’s rich, too.”

"Oh!" Jason said, interrupting, "Maybe Batman is super; word on the street is he caught a live grenade with his bare hands!" He sounded thrilled.

“It’s just a rumor,” Robin said, turning his glare onto Clark. Bruce’s youngest did an awful lot of glaring, even for a preteen.

"Batman probably just had enhanced gloves," Clark said, looking uncomfortable.

Gloves? Bruce wondered. Batman's were kevlar, but of a scale-mail sort to allow for movement; you couldn't get a material strong enough to contain a grenade and still have the--the...Bruce stared at his hand, flexing his fingers into and out of a fist, then looked up to see Dick watching him.

"Are you okay, B?" he asked. "I don't mean physically," he clarified when Bruce started to answer. "I guess we know now that Dami isn't sleeping, but what about you? Do you need to see a psychologist?"

Bruce frowned. "I'm fine there, too. Maybe because I don't remember the fall--or that evening, but aside from a nagging feeling that I've forgotten something, I'm fine."

John spoke up for the first time that evening. "Do you think you can't remember that evening because of physical trauma or mental?"

"Physical," Bruce said. "Dr. Thompkins said it was unlikely I would regain memories of the exact event due to my concussion."

"What do you remember of that evening?" Dinah asked. "Feelings may be leaking through from your subconscious where specific memories are not, affecting you in ways you haven't realized yet."

Bruce shook his head. "Not much. Chaos, running up the stairs, a flash of light, the railing snapping, the start of a fall. That's it."

"What about from before the accident?"

Bruce waved his hand. "A few impressions of the party; being there with Robin; the band had these horrible matching paisley jackets that made them look like grandmother's couch, and they played about as well as a couch, too. The h'orderves looked fantastic, but weren't all that impressive in flavor."

Ollie nodded. "That does sound like the Insta' parties I've been to. Everything picture-perfect, but nearly fake underneath."

“Do you remember Penguin crashing in?” Clark asked. 

“Penguin?” Bruce studied his memories. "I remember a calm party devolving into chaos, but I don't remember why."

“What about Batman, and, er…” Tim glanced briefly at Robin, “Robin dropping in to save the day?”

As if Bruce could possibly confuse Robin for Robin. "Did they come? I don't recall anything about that."

"You had already fallen, Father," Robin said. 

"Oh!" Bruce said, "but I did run into Batman the other night."

Dick and Jason both gave startled little laughs like it was ironic, and Robin started glaring at Clark again, who in turn studied his food. Tim looked like it wasn't news, which did make sense, since Tim knew everything because he was--he was--when Bruce wasn't--Tim was--he--ran Wayne Enterprises.

"Bruce?" Dinah prompted, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Batman just saved me from some thugs, that's all," Bruce said.

"Father," Robin said, turning his glare on Bruce. "In the future, I would like to be informed of any such encounters immediately."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at his son's tone, which was demanding and entitled.

Robin cleared his throat. "It would help with my," he hesitated and almost grimaced, "emotional state."

Bruce's heart melted; maybe his youngest didn't know how to express himself well, but it was clear he still felt deeply. "Of course, Robin, of course I'll warn you if I come close to danger again."

"Thank you, Father," Robin said, nodding graciously. "It is nice to know that someone will keep me informed." And there went his blood-chilling glare at Kal again. 

"Hey now," Bruce said, "Clark only knew because I told him. It's not like it was his information to share." Robin's attitude towards Kal in general was pretty terrible, but Bruce couldn't remember enough to say if it was because of the accident, or if this was a normal situation for them--kids of single parents often reacted negatively when their parent started dating again. The others didn't seem to have a problem with the situation, but they were older. 

Bruce studied Robin and Clark while the conversation swirled away from him. There were gaps in his memories about both of them--there were gaps about everyone at the table--but they must have some common ground between them, right? He couldn't remember too much, but they were both clearly very fit--it was almost an alarming look on Robin--couldn't they bond over workouts or whatever? Actually, Bruce glanced around the table, all his friends and family were ridiculously well muscled. Was he--and his whole family into MMA or something?

"What gym are you at these days, Ollie?" Bruce asked into a lull in the conversation--he didn't see Oliver that often, so asking him probably wouldn't reveal that Bruce had no idea what gym he himself was at.

"Oh, um, still Star Central," Oliver said. "They have the best archery range in the city, so unless I want to buy my own gym," he shrugged.

"Do I remember you do archery?" Bruce asked, tipping his head thoughtfully. That did sound familiar. "What about you, Dinah?"

"Same, but for different reasons," Dinah said. 

The conversation hovered, and Bruce tried to telepathically convince one of his boys to offer up where they went, or one of the guests to ask, so he wouldn't have to reveal this particular missing memory.

"Where do you boys work out?" John finally asked, though his tone was weird in a way Bruce couldn't put a finger on.

"Precinct gym in Bludhaven," Dick answered too quickly.

"That shithole down on Seventh," Jason said, and Bruce knew of it, although why he would workout in such a crappy place when Bruce's money would get him into the finest places he didn't know.

Tim just raised an eyebrow. "I use the home gym here, just like Damian does. Just like you do, Bruce."

And that both was and was not the answer Bruce was looking for.

 

--

 

After dessert, Oliver Queen successfully pulled Bruce away to play Billiards, and Damian led the others to the library's annex, which was a parlor holding some of the new books, as well as enough chairs for everyone in the group. It had the added benefit of being the last place his father would think to look for them.

Drake fiddled with one of his tablets as they entered the room, then propped it up on a side table, where it displayed live footage of Father and Queen playing pool, their voices tiny whispers through the room.

Damian settled into one of the wingback chairs, and started to ask the Martian and Dinah Lance what they had learned, but the Kryptonian beat him to it.

"What did you learn?" Kent asked, looking at Lance, which was absurd because they should be asking the telepath first.

"He's remarkably well-adjusted now," Lance said. "Showing affection, speaking of his emotions, sharing information before it's of life-or-death urgency. It's almost as though he went to years of therapy instead of just smashing people in the face whenever he has a feeling."

"Hey now," Todd said, "Smashing people in the face is our therapy."

"Have you considered seeing a therapist about that?" Lance didn't miss a beat. 

"Ha ha," Todd replied.

"How much non-Batman-related things does Bruce remember?" Lance asked. "Does he remember how his parents died?"

"Yes," Damian said; one of the times he'd been sitting by Father's sick-bed, the man had apologized at length for nearly dying while Damian was watching. He'd assumed at the time that it was the pain killers making Father soppy, and it was the only time he'd been happy to see Drake show up for his shift. "In detail."

"Curious," Lance said, tipping her head as she thought.

"Anyway," Richard said, "What about you, J'onn? What did you learn?"

"It's definitely a psychic block," the Martian said. "But it's one that Bruce put up himself."

"Father would never!" Damian jumped in to defend. "Saving Gotham is too important to him, he would never abandon the mission in such a manner."

"Damian," Richard said placatingly. "Let's hear J'onn out."

"Thank you, Dick," J'onn said, "Bruce put up the psychic block in his own mind, but it was in response to something else. I can't quite tell what it is, but his current...incarnation felt like a thin protective layer between his true self, and something terrible."

Todd snorted. "Like his true self isn't something terrible already."

"Perhaps, but this is something designed to destroy Batman."

"...to destroy the mind of Batman!" thin laughter followed the pronouncement. "He won't get out of this one, will he, Teekl? We'll just throw him back, and he'll be nothing but a vegetable in pointy ears!"

The memory hit Damian out of the blue, nothing but sounds wrapped in light. "It's a bomb," he whispered to himself. But he was in a room of people trained to notice things.

"You've remembered?" Drake asked.

"Some," Damian said, and explained what he could. "I believe it was Klarion, saying that he'd crafted a magical bomb to destroy Father's mind."

"But if it was to destroy Bruce's mind, why didn't it work?" the Kryptonian asked.

"It wasn't to destroy Bruce's mind," Damian said, scathing that he couldn't keep up. "It was to destroy Batman's mind. Father must have had enough of a warning to partition himself, and the spell was specific enough that it was enough."

"But he couldn't get the bomb out," Drake said, thinking. "So he's stuck thinking he's...a civilian, and if he does remember, then...then...what'll happen?" he directed the question at the Martian.

"I don't really know," J'onn said, "I suppose the bomb will go off."

"Then we will do everything we can to insure that Father does not remember he's Batman," Damian said. "What?" he demanded when everyone just stared at him. "We must protect him in this vulnerable state."

"Says the child who most tried to remind him," Todd muttered. 

Damian glared at him. "That is only because of Drake's faulty diagnosis; had I known that it was imperative we keep this secret from him, then--"

" My faulty diagnosis?" Drake said. " You were the one who didn't remember what happened until just--"

"Boys," Kent said, cutting them both off. "We're all upset, but for now we need to focus on what we can do to help him; can you ...disarm the bomb, J'onn? Can anyone?"

"I'm afraid that if I poke at it too much, I'll set it off," J'onn said. "Batman's mind is in a very fragile state right now. But it's possible that the bomb will defray on it's own; magic has a tendency to do that. Still, it might help to have Zatanna or Doctor Fate take a look; they have much more experience fighting chaos magic than I."

"Zatanna's off world," Richard said.

"Doctor Fate won't return my calls," Drake added. "Though I suppose I'll try again."

"I'll try to contact Zatanna, too," Richard added. "They should be done with their mission soon, if they aren't already on their way back. We might be able to hurry her home if we need to."

"And we'll...keep up the charade, I guess." The Kryptonian sounded more resigned than excited, although Damian wasn't exactly thrilled with the situation, either. "Any suggestions on which room to set up as a gym?"

Notes:

Eh. I wanted to show how weird the conversation would be from Bruce's perspective, where he wants to talk about anything other than superheroes, but everyone keeps awkwardly driving the conversation back there, but...that's not what happened here, now is it? Oh well. Next chapter is better.

Chapter 10: In Which Clark Is Reminded

Summary:

"Time is it?" Clark asked, not really expecting an answer. 

"Six o'clock in Metropolis and Gotham," The Flash answered, and Clark belatedly realized he was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. 

"Aw shucks," Clark said, slumping into the bed. "Dinner." He tried to rise, but his muscles were too shaky to support him, and he barely managed to sit up.

"Nope," Barry said, "Breakfast."

Notes:

Another short one, probably because the next chapter is A Lot, but possibly also because I'm not writing on the end as fast as we're catching up to it...eheh...

Clark settled the last weight bench down in the room they'd designated for the home gym they apparently now needed, thanks to Tim and his quick thinking. Clark was infinitely glad Bruce hadn't asked him where he worked out, because his physique was 100% genetic Kryptonian and 0% effort on Clark's part.

"What are you doing?" Speak of the devil, there was Bruce hovering at the doorway.

"Just...uh...finishing up, here." Clark said, glancing around what was now a small gym, and hoping that Bruce didn't realize he wasn't dressed for exercise, or sweaty, or ...exhausted? What did people look like when they were done at a gym? 

Bruce walked slowly into the room. "I could have sworn this was just a sitting room last week."

Clark cleared his throat. "The Manor can be confusing like that. Even if you've always lived here, I guess."

"I couldn't even remember if we had a home gym," Bruce said, trialing a finger along one of the chin-up bars. "Guess I should have asked you where it was."

Clark's appreciation of Tim's idea went up a notch, as did his appreciation of Alfred suggesting use of cave equipment for the house; Bruce would have noticed if everything was new and unscuffed. Just don't ask me how to use it, don't ask me how to use it, don't…

"You certainly look like you know your way around the gym," Bruce said, studying Clark in a manner Clark wanted to call hungry . 

"It's mostly genetics," Clark said, torn between running and staying.

"They're good ones," Bruce said appreciatively, and then prowled closer to Clark.

"Yours aren't half-bad, either," Clark said, not running. Bruce wanted him, and he wanted Bruce, and maybe being the less-than-inhumanely-good-guy once would be worth the consequences. 

"My head doesn't hurt any more," Bruce added, now close enough to run his hands up and down Clark's arms. "I'm sure I'm ready for some...jostling." His hands went up Clark's biceps again, and then to the back of his neck, pulling Clark down for a kiss.

Clark's hands went to Bruce's waist, and then up, boldly under his shirt, gliding across his muscular back. It felt so wonderful, all that hot skin, covering such power, such control. Clark dragged his fingers back down, hard, but gently, so gently along the skin of this human, down, down to his--

"Superman, we have a situation."

The goddamn League communicator. If he'd been able to see it, Clark would have fried it.

"We know you're on emergency-only contact, but Supergirl has been mind-controlled, and we can't subdue her without harm; she's wrecking Central City."

Clark dragged himself away from Bruce. "B, I have to go."

"Like hell you do," Bruce said, grabbing fistfuls of Clark's shirt. "Lois can wait for her goddamn phone call."

"It's not Lois," Clark said, gently trying to pry his clothes out of Bruce's hands. "It's--it's a family thing."

"Disown them," Bruce said, not letting go.

Clark gave a half-laugh, and leaned down to kiss Bruce again, then wrapped his fingers loosely, but immovably, around Bruce's wrists, stopping his movements cold. Bruce tried to tug his hands free, then pulled back from the kiss, confused when he couldn't move Clark even an inch. He tugged and pushed a bit more to no avail, then let go of Clark's clothes. Clark pushed Bruce's hands back to his sides. "I really do need to go; I'll see you tonight," he said, with one more quick kiss. And then he ran off, hearing Bruce cursing quietly as he sped to Central.

Kara's situation was a solid wake-up call as to why they--Superman and Supergirl--couldn't afford to be anything less than perfectly inhumanly good. She was screaming and smashing things as she traveled the streets of Central City, her actions erratic, but somehow less destructive than they could have been--clearly she was fighting the mind-control, keeping herself from destroying larger targets, or from killing--though just barely.

Superman flew towards her, "Supergirl!" he shouted, and she turned towards him, a metallic band with blinking lights attached to her forehead. "I can see you're fighting; you can beat this!" Standard encouragement for a mind-control situation. 

Kara just screamed again, and flew at him, punching Superman hard enough that he flew back into the side of a building. He managed to slow himself enough to only make a dent, but that punch had hurt , and it was stronger than Supergirl usually was, too.

"Get her out of the city," came Diana's voice over his communicator. "We can subdue her, but not with the civilians around."

Superman grunted assent, and then charged at his cousin. "Fight me!" he shouted, but then just swooped past her, flying up into the clouds, and then down over some fields, Supergirl close on his trail.

It wasn't an easy fight. The band controlling Kara had boosted her strength as well, and by the end of it, when she was beaten and collapsed on the ground, Clark was almost as bloody and bruised as she was. Still, he had enough strength and will left to snag the mind-control band off her head and crush it between his hands before collapsing by her side.

He woke in the Watchtower, a sunlamp shining brightly on him, and another one on Kara in the next bed over. 

"Time is it?" Clark asked, not really expecting an answer. 

"Six o'clock in Metropolis and Gotham," The Flash answered, and Clark belatedly realized he was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. 

"Aw shucks," Clark said, slumping into the bed. "Dinner." He tried to rise, but his muscles were too shaky to support him, and he barely managed to sit up.

"Nope," Barry said, "Breakfast."

"Rao," Clark said closing his eyes. "Did someone call Bruce?"

"J'onn, maybe?" The Flash said, shrugging.

"That's correct," J'onn said, appearing at the door in his natural green skin. "I pretended to be you when I did it, but I only told him that your cousin was in the hospital, and that you would need to stay longer for support. And that you didn't know when you'd be home."

"Are you trying to keep Superman a secret from Bruce?" Barry asked, curious. "Because you'll need a hell of a story to go with those bruises."

Clark took stock of himself; Flash was right, he had more than a few dark marks on his skin, and the worst of the cuts were still only partially healed. "I look like I lost a fight with a hedge trimmer." It would all heal in a few days with the sunlamps, but he didn't really have a few days. "What about Kara?"

"Worse than you," Barry supplied, "But nothing more sunlight won't fix."

If Clark took them both into space, to directly absorb sunlight, it would be a much faster process, but it would still take hours--and Clark couldn't even move enough to stand up yet. They'd be lucky to be healed in time for work on Monday. Clark groaned, and let himself fall back onto the sun bed. "Someone get me a phone."

Notes:

Poor Bruce; he was so close So. Close. to getting some.

Stupid cock-blocking world-ending battles.

Chapter 11: In Which the Planet is Endangered

Summary:

Lois groaned. "What is it, Lombard?"

"Well, since you two are the resident superhero experts, I was wondering if there was any truth to the story about Batman catching a live grenade in his hands, and surviving the experience."

"Where did you even hear such crap, Lombard?" Lois asked. 

Notes:

I wrote this one just after going through a training for active shooter situations, so...take that as a content warning if you need it, and also an explanation as to why this isn't exactly typical super-hero stuff. I mean, it works and I like it, just...it's kinda odd.

but it's late enough that my cat is trying to convince me she needs Second Dinner, so just...enjoy this.

Bruce had been quietly understanding when Clark called, though Clark could tell he wasn't too pleased with having to wait longer to see him again--Clark had said he'd go right to Metropolis for Sunday night, since he still had the apartment there.

Still had, as if this were real, and there'd been or ever would be discussion of him ending his lease and moving entirely in with Bruce.

"And your cousin's okay?" Lois asked, as he finished relating all of this to her at work, leaning on her desk as they sipped on coffees from the closest cafe to the Planet.

"Yeah, Kara's fine, though still a bit sore, I think, she really took the brunt of the fight. But it's a sunny day in Central, so she'll be okay."

"And how's living with the--um" she paused as Cat Grant walked past the cubicle aisle "--the Ws going otherwise?"

"Absurd," Clark said, sighing. "I'd forgotten how complicated dating with a secret identity is--let alone two. Not to mention that he's got one, and it's so secret he doesn't even know, can't know. And then there's the fact that we aren't actually dating." Clark shook his head. "And his kids are...a handful." 'Handful' was an endearing way to say 'headache.' Damian barely spoke to him, and Tim was patronizingly helpful when it came to Batman things, but distracted and absent with everything else. Dick was only about enough to laugh at them over the comms, and Jason...well. He was Jason, and Clark pretending to date his arguably-father wasn't going to change that.

"Oh, hey, you two are just the two I was looking for," Steve Lombard said, appearing next to their shared cubicle. 

Lois groaned. "What is it, Lombard?"

"Well, since you two are the resident superhero experts, I was wondering if there was any truth to the story about Batman catching a live grenade in his hands, and surviving the experience."

"Where did you even hear such crap, Lombard?" Lois asked. 

"Actually, my source just moved to Metropolis from Gotham, says he saw it with his own two eyes, and that's why he made the move. I just wanted to run it by you two, see if you think there's anything worth looking into there."

"I've never heard anything so stupid in my life. Batman is just a guy in a pointy-eared mask. Now get lost, Lombard." Steve got himself lost, and Lois turned back to Clark. "You did not."

"The kids were in danger!" he said. "I couldn't do nothing."

"B is gonna fl--" a sudden hush traveled across the office and cut her off, everyone craning their heads and peeking over their cubicles to see who had just entered, whispers following after. Clark turned too, just in time to see none other than Bruce Wayne walking towards him, carrying a bouquet of flowers, eyes fixed on Clark.

And Clark wanted it--not the flowers; the man bringing them, the relationship, the feelings involved, the whole of it. He wanted the reality so badly it hurt more than kryptonite ever could.

When Bruce was close enough, Clark took the flowers and swept him into a brief kiss.

The whole news room gasped in shock. Lois snorted something that might have sounded like, "fake dating my ass." 

"Hey," Clark said, smiling at Bruce, who was looking both thrilled and distracted. 

"Hey yourself," Bruce replied, "Are you--" He paused, glanced around the room at the wide staring eyes. "Did--did I just out you?"

"Just that it's you," Clark said. There'd been a brief, regrettable thing with a surprisingly gossipy man in accounting. Before that, Clark had quietly mentioned it to a few people, but after that the whole Planet knew. "And it would have come out eventually."

"Hmm," Bruce said. "Why didn't--"

"We both thought it best. After all, no one gossips like reporters." He raised his voice a bit on the last part, and some of his co-workers turned back to their work.

"I'm going to lunch, Smallville," Lois said. "Before you two lovebirds scare my appetite away." She grabbed her purse and strode off.

"It's okay that I'm here?" Bruce asked. "I haven't seen you since Saturday morning, and I just--"

"Of course it's okay." And it was, but Clark was going to get so many interview requests from this, he was embarrassed for his coworkers. That, and he'd need to come up with a complete story now, whether it was going to be on the record or not.

Rao, maybe he could just work from home for the next decade or so.

"Good," Bruce said. "How is your cousin? I told Alfred to send flowers; do you know if they arrived?"

Clark wasn't sure how that would work; did Alfred try and send flowers to the Watchtower? Or did he just send them to Kara's apartment? Alfred wasn't the sort to ignore something like that, even if Clark didn't know where they'd ended up. "That was very thoughtful, thank you, Bruce. Kara is doing well now, though it was a bit touch-and-go for awhile."

"What happened?"

Kara was mind-controlled and attacked/destroyed half of Central City, and in saving her, I got us both beaten up so bad we had to leave the planet and recharge for hours in direct sunlight. "I'd rather not talk about it right now," Clark said.

Bruce nodded. "It must have been brutal, for something so horrible to happen to someone you love."

Current-you has no idea , Clark thought. "It was rough, but we're all okay now."

"I'm glad." They let the conversation rest for a bit. Then Bruce said, "I was hoping to take you out for lunch. One possible benefit of my early retirement." There was only a hint of bitterness in his tone.

The reminder of Bruce's current state felt a bit like a kick in the chest for a bunch of reasons Clark didn't have to acknowledge right now, so he said, "I'd love lunch, but...can you wait in the lobby for a bit? I need to finish up a few things first."

Bruce agreed, stole a quick kiss, and left. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind him, every curious eye turned predatory and fixated on Clark. "Yes, okay, we are," he called into the silence before the storm of questions. "But it's new, and neither of us is going to give you an interview. Any of you," he added, seeing Cat Grant peeking around the corner. Then he grabbed his things and left to meet Bruce for their lunch.

Once he reached the lobby, Clark wrapped an arm around Bruce's shoulders, leading them towards the door. "Let's go to the--"

"Oh no," Buce said, and abruptly shoved him behind the security desk.

Clark went along with it, and crouched on the ground. "What is--"

But he didn't get any farther because that's when the man with the guns entered, shooting up at the ceiling as he cleared the doorway. "That's right, run you fake fucking reporters with your fake fucking news," he shouted, lowering the gun and aiming it at a fleeing man's back.

Clark whipped a quarter out of his pocket and flug it to knock the bullet off course and into the side of the doorway, but that wasn't going to work for the next bullet; he'd only had the one quarter. Still, the ceiling shots had sent most people in the lobby out; it was him; Bruce; two people behind the decorative pillars; and the security guard, who had ducked down inside the desk. Clark could see her reaching for her gun with his x-ray vision.

"Run you cowards, run and cry for your fake superheroes, for them to come and save you, for your aliens and your meta-humans and your fucking clones to come and wipe your asses before they wreck your city, and then you publish your fake news about how they are just misunderstood." The man paced while he ranted, not shooting, but aiming as he started walking around one of the pillars, the man on the other side too panicked and unaware to even try to save himself.

The security guard had her gun, but the angles were wrong, and Clark shouldn't let her shoot him if he could prevent it. If Bruce were himself, he'd probably have some sort of smoke bomb or lightly-exploding batarang he could throw, confuse the shooter, and let Clark grab him. But Bruce wasn't himself, and he didn't--couldn't--know about Superman right now.

That left only one thing to do.

Clark stood up. "HEY!" he shouted, waving his arms. "You want to shoot a reporter, shoot me."

"Clark! What are you doing?!" Bruce tried to tug him back down, but Clark just shook his hand off.

"What are you?" The shooter asked, but his attention turned onto Clark. "Some sort of queer SJW fucking up the fake news with your humanitarian bullshit?" He pulled the trigger, but Clark super-stepped to the side and the bullet whizzed past. He shot again, and Clark dodged again, but the shooter had taken a step forward with each shot, and by his third step, he was close to the second pillar. As soon as his fourth shot rang out, the woman who'd been behind that pillar stepped out, grabbed the top of the gun and aimed it at the floor, punching--no, stabbing at the man's face with some sort of shiv attached to her keychain.

"That...is not what I expected," Clark said, and darted forward to fully pull the gun away from the shooter, and toss it away across the floor. Bruce was just behind him, pulling the shooter's arms behind his back and holding him in a restraining hold, just as sirens outside announced the arrival of the police.

Clark pulled away the woman--Jody, the new Junior Crime Correspondent, and held her shoulders lightly as she shook with anger and adrenaline. "You got him, Jody, he's done, it's over. You've saved us."

"Oh shit," Jody said, "Oh shit." She pulled away from Clark. "Shit." She panted a moment, as police streamed in the building, and the security guard went to meet them. "That active shooter training was worth every fucking minute. Holy shit."

The police didn't want to listen to the black woman that was their security guard, and then they had a really hard time grasping that a white woman of non-standard attractiveness had saved three white men from another white man, and so Clark and Bruce ended up having to tell the story of what happened a half million times each, which took several hours. Then Clark had to repeat the whole thing again to Perry, promising to write any angle of article Perry could think up about it, so long as he'd let him leave— which should have been foregone anyway, since the police closed the whole building for the rest of the day. 

They barely made it home in time for dinner, only to find that Dick had invited himself over--which normally was great, but this time he spent the whole meal pontificating about how amazing it was that Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent had been saved by an intern!

When Jason showed up during dessert, Clark couldn't take it anymore, and quietly excused himself to go for a "walk," all the way to Kansas.

Notes:

"Hello, is this Flowers Forever? Hi, yes, do you deliver to the Watchtower?...what is that? that's the super-secret Justice League base...no, not the Hall of Justice, the Watchtower...yes. It's in outer space. It--Hello? Hello? Ugh. Not again."

Chapter 12: In Which a Pie Disappears

Summary:

He didn't even think Tim liked Clark--oh, they got on well enough, but Tim always seemed slightly disappointed or frustrated with him, the same way he did with outdated technology, or having to walk the entire length of the manor for something; Tim saw Clark as inefficient.

Notes:

We're catching up on my backlog waaaaaay too fast! Yay!

Bruce paced the Manor after everyone had left. Or maybe it shouldn't be called pacing in such a large space, he didn't know. All he knew was a vague restless boredom and an acute frustration with a boyfriend that was missing whenever Bruce wanted him.

He ran into Tim as he neared the door. "Have you seen Clark?" he asked.

Tim shook his head. "I think he went for a walk, but he had better be back soon." There was a barely veiled threat in Tim's voice.

Bruce was confused. Tim didn't need Kal, Bruce needed Kal, and so if someone was implying threats at his absence, it should be Bruce . He didn't even think Tim liked Clark--oh, they got on well enough, but Tim always seemed slightly disappointed or frustrated with him, the same way he did with outdated technology, or having to walk the entire length of the manor for something; Tim saw Clark as inefficient . But they still seemed to spend a lot of time together. "Why are you looking for him?"

"Oh, I, uh--"

"The Kr--Kent said he'd play that video game with him this evening," Robin said, appearing from the shadows.

"I didn't know Clark played video games," Bruce said, frowning; another thing he hadn't remembered about his own damn boyfriend.

"He doesn't," Robin continued with a pointed look at his brother. "Drake likes it because that way he always wins."

"Timothy is not a Drake any longer, Robin," Bruce corrected.

Robin clenched his fists. "And my name is not--"

"Hello?" Clark called from the entryway. 

"Kal!" Bruce moved around his sons, and definitely didn't run into his boyfriend's arms.

Clark clasped him with his one free arm--the other was holding a red gingham thermal-insulating bag away from both their bodies.

"Where did you go?" Bruce asked. Then he sniffed the air. "Do I smell pie?"

"Oh, um," Kal said, intelligently. He looked at the thermal bag in his hand as if he'd never seen it before.

"Is that the pie Pennyworth asked you to pick up on your walk?" Robin said, although his tone was begrudging at best.

"Yes!" Clark said brightly. "I needed to clear my head, and Alfred asked me to run an errand."

"Then why is it in your mother's thermal--"

Clark kissed him.

Tim snorted, and someone must have taken the pie because both of Kal's hands wrapped around Bruce's waist.

“This isn’t going to—mmf—you can’t just—ahh.” Bruce turned his face away, and Clark just slid his tongue down Bruce’s neck. “Clark Joseph El!” Bruce snapped, trying to push him away, and mostly not succeeding. “You cannot distract me like this. Not when you’re just a tease, anyway.” He muttered the last part, but Kal huffed a laugh against his skin and moved back. 

“It was worth a try,” Clark said, grinning unrepentantly.

Bruce folded his arms and tried to glare at him. The boys had vanished along with the pie—no surprise there—and they were alone in the front hall now. “Where did you go?”

“For a walk,” Clark said. “After everything that happened today, I just needed to clear my head a bit.”

“And the pie?”

“Alfred asked me to—“

“The nearest pie place is over an hour away on foot.”

“I took a Lyft back?”

“Is that a question?”

“No?”

Bruce sighed. “And your mother’s gingham pie insulator?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe his crush on Batman wasn’t what was driving them apart. 

Kal sighed, too. “She—no, I—you’re right, I didn’t just go for a walk. My parents are in town, after the thing with Kara, they were just supposed to be passing through, but when they heard about today’s incident at The Planet, they wanted to check on me, and I needed to see them.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that from the start?”

“The boys and I didn’t want to stress you with more people you don’t know you know. And they weren’t supposed to be here long.”

“But they are in Gotham now? Where are they staying? I’ll send Alfred to—“

“No, Bruce, that is exactly what we didn’t want to happen. They are already asleep for the night, and—“

“Then we can call them in the morning, but do not use my mental state as a reason to push your family away.” Having a few more familiar faces around might even help his memories recover faster. And maybe he could trick one of them into revealing what his hobby was. Surely the people who were almost his in-laws would know, and their Kansas openness would give him an edge. 

“I actually did mention that they could visit, but they said they just want to head back tomorrow,” Clark said. “They can only leave the farm unattended for so long.” 

Bruce didn't quite believe him, but it was a good argument. "We can invite them up next week, then."

"During the gala? Oh please don't," Kal sounded a bit desperate.

"They'd quite enjoy attending one of my events," Bruce said.

"That's why I don't want you to invite them," Clark said. "Ma would...no, please, just don't invite them."

"You don't think a Gotham Wayne Gala could use a bit of down-home Kansas civility?"

"Bruce, please."

"Hmm." He hadn't been planning to invite them, just poking fun at his boyfriend, although with the way Clark was squirming, Bruce might--but he wouldn't go around Clark's back, not for something like this, not while their relationship seemed to be so flawed over something Bruce didn't understand. Bruce gestured Clark out of the room. "Did it help you, talking to them today?" Bruce asked as they headed deeper into the Manor.

"It did," Clark answered. "They are very good at grounding me when I need it."

"I wonder if I should talk to someone, too." He'd been in the active shooter situation as well, hidden behind a desk while a white terrorist attempted to kill people. It felt like something that should be weighing heavily on him, but honestly he'd almost forgotten about it. He'd pulled Clark behind the security desk, but that had been a tactical reaction of seeking cover, rather than fear and hiding. And when Clark stood up to draw the man's fire, it had seemed like he should be scared, but he wasn't. He'd known Clark would be fine, as if he firmly believed Clark couldn't possibly be shot or killed. That was the second time he'd shown a complete lack of fear in arguably terrifying circumstances. "I'm not sure my reaction was healthy," Bruce said, and tried to explain some of what he was thinking to Clark.

"If you think it's what you need, then of course you should talk to someone," Clark said. "But remember that everyone's reaction to such situations is different; if you feel fine about it, you might very well be fine."

That seemed like a rather odd thing to say to a person who'd just been in a potential-death situation. "When my parents were killed, I was anything but fine," Bruce said.

"Maybe now you have better coping mechanisms," Clark replied. 

"Hmm." Bruce said, "That could be it, but should anyone ever be able to cope with the people they love being shot at?" He followed Clark into their bedroom.

"I don't know," Clark said. "All I know is you react how you react, and there's a lot that factors into it." Clark started listing the factors, but they sounded familiar to Bruce, so he stopped listening, instead removing his sweater, undershirt, and pants, and then sitting on the edge of the bed. 

He leaned back and watched Clark slowly fumbling open the buttons of his flannel shirt, getting his hands stuck because he'd forgotten to unbutton the sleeves, and nearly tripping when he took off his pants. It was a bit like a comedy routine combined with a strip-tease, because holy shit every inch of skin revealed--and Bruce wondered if Clark ever had or would again do an actual strip-tease for him. Or maybe the stripping without the teasing.

"Are you asexual?" Bruce asked.

"What?!" Clark spun around so fast that the t-shirt he'd been pulling out of the drawer pulled the rest of the drawer's contents out, too; a cascade of soft and colorful cotton falling at his feet.

"Are you asexual?" Bruce repeated, carefully hiding his observation of Clark's smooth, well-defined six-pack (did Clark shave his chest? That seemed beyond Clark's usual grooming routine, but he was hairless).

"I'm really not," Clark said. "Not--not that there's anything wrong with being asexual, but I'm--I'm not."

"Then why won't you fuck me? " Bruce leaned forward and dropped his voice to heighten the intensity of his question. Clark was not getting out of the conversation this time.

Clark, for his part, flushed bright red, and turned away, burying his face in the t-shirt he was still holding.

"Is it a Kr--" the word vanished from Bruce's mind and lips before it was fully formed, and he tried again "--a Kry--k--a kink thing?" that wasn't it at all, but the real question was completely gone. "Did we have to have an elaborate kink negotiation that you're hoping I'll just remember so we don't need to have it again?"

"No, Bruce." Clark turned back around. "It's nothing like that. I'm--I'm actually very vanilla."

No surprise there, but Bruce’s subconscious insisted there was something important here, something they’d needed to talk about or discuss, something that made Clark different...some way that being with Bruce was unnatural for Clark...was it biological? Or...or… Bruce made a disgusted noise, “Don’t tell me you’re straight.” Past Bruce hadn’t landed them in some sort of Gay For You situation, had he?

But Clark just snorted. “Definitely not that,” he said, pulling the soft blue shirt on over his head. He came out looking thoughtful, and then moved to sit next to Bruce on the bed. "Look, you seem to have only remembered the good parts of our relationship, which gives you the impression that it was perfect and strong, and probably eternal. But the truth is we're both just, um, just humans, and we're flawed, and so is our relationship. And I'm not talking about your Batman theory, here."

"Kal--"

"No, let me finish. We're good for each other, yeah, but you've forgotten all the hard parts, the parts where you haven't actually asked me to move in, and the parts where we fight and argue, and you call me a Boyscout and think I'm headstrong and incompetant. And the parts where I'm pretty sure you're out of my league, that you're uncommunicative and danger-seeking, that you don't think you need me, and that sometimes I don't even think you want me."

This was doing nothing to relieve Bruce's theory that Past Bruce was an asshole; to let Clark go on thinking those things, and Bruce would--but Clark put a finger over his lips before the words were even fully formed.

"You only see half of this relationship, but I can see the other half, too, and I'm worried you'll remember the rest some day, and then you'll want out, that you'll regret this weird little sojourn back to the honeymoon phase, and I--I don't want you to do that."

“How can you even imagine I’d regret loving you?” Bruce held his gaze. “I’ve wanted you from almost the moment we met, and you might say I don’t seem to need you, but I do ; I need your light, and your hope, and your heart. There is nothing about this I regret, there is not a single moment with you I can regret. You’re the best of me, and I’m sorry past-me couldn’t figure out how to say that, but you have to believe me now.”

“I can’t, though,” Clark said. “There is still so much you don’t re—“

“I remember enough! I remember everything but my fucking hobbies, which no one will explain to me, so they must not be important.”

“You remember a lot, but the gaps are bigger than you realize.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Kal sighed and turned away. “Look, when you can tell me anything, anything at all, about our relationship, then I’ll—then we can—have sex.”

“I can tell you we lo—“

“I mean the memories, not the feelings, Bruce. Tell me where we went on our first date, or how you introduced me to the kids, or when our anniversary is. What we did that first Valentine’s Day. How many times we’ve, um…” he flushed red, cleared his throat “...been intimate in your study. Anything.”

The thought of being intimate in the study was distracting for a moment...the sturdy oak desk, hands gliding on skin, the danger of being caught...but then Bruce realized that it was just a thought, with no memories to back it up. Same with the other things Clark had mentioned. Oh, Bruce knew what he wanted to have done with Kal on their first Valentine‘s Day, but did they? And where did they go on their first date? And their anniversary was--was-- Bruce frowned. "I will remember."

"I'm looking forward to when you do," Clark said, very seriously.

Bruce huffed. "Then just---kiss me, and go play video games with my middle son or whatever the hell it is you two do all night. Oh, go on; it's not like I don't realize you're missing every damn night," he added when he saw Clark's slightly startled expression.

"Sometimes I help Damian with his homework," Clark said primly.

"I'm sure Robin loves that," Bruce said. "Now." he pointed to his own lips. "Kiss."

Kal obliged, then added sweat pants and a robe to his tee-and-boxers ensemble, and left Bruce there, staring at the ceiling, wondering at the holes in his memories, seeing not just a missing time-sink and a change in behavior, but instead a gaping canyon--a whole ecosystem of gaping canyons, stretching from beneath his feet to as far as the mind's eye could see.

"Who am I?" Bruce whispered quietly to the darkness.

Notes:

"You ARE the night," the night whispered back, befuddled. "Seriously, that's like, your tag-line or something."

Chapter 13: In Which Superman Has A Job To Do

Summary:

"Supes has done wonders for Batman's rep!" Jason, of all people, jumped in to defend him. "I mean, he caught a live grenade."

(a/n: Neither Jason nor I am ever going to get over this. Nor should we. Nor should you.)

Notes:

Hey, y'all, I uh...seem to have misplaced a few weeks? Has anyone seen them? No? Okay, well...um. Sorry?

We only have about three scenes after this one that I've written (maaaaybe four, but [author story-crafting babble redacted] and so maybe not). I'm not sure what'll happen when/if we catch up. Cross fingers that it'll be good things, plz.

"You're down early," Tim said, looking up at Clark from the Batcomputer. "Aaaaannnnd looking a little...guilty?" Clark’s shoulders were slumped, and he looked like someone who’d just participated in a ‘we need to talk’ conversation. 

“I gave Bruce a lot to think about,” Clark said, which was surprisingly cagey for him, but given possible conversation topics, Tim was pretty sure Clark was protecting them from—

“Was it your super-cock?” Jason asked from the shadows. 

“Jason!” Dick snapped from his perch at the top of the climbing gym. 

“Um, more the opposite,” Clark said, and Tim wondered once again if he should show Clark the “In Case of Fuck or Death” form because they didn’t know how much longer this charade would have to go on, and Bruce was already suspicious. 

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, still looking vaguely guilty. "Where are we with contacting Zatanna?" he asked. So, okay, Clark was definitely already ruining their time-line with his attempts to save Bruce's honor or whatever he thought he was doing. Tim would have to run damage control, but he didn't know--really didn't want to know--the exact details of their relationship. And curse Superman for making Tim have to figure it out.

"Z will be here tomorrow, or possibly next week," Dick said. He shrugged off everyone's glares. "It was a bad connection, but she definitely said Tuesday."

"So maybe 'a week from next-'?" Jason said.

"No, it was definitely 'this' or 'next'--unless it was 'after,' I suppose," Dick looked thoughtful. "She's aware of the situation and on her way, that's what's important."

Or maybe Tim would make Dick stumble through giving Clark and Bruce relationship advice instead; he deserved it. "When were you going to tell us?" Tim asked. He'd had no luck contacting Doctor Fate. 

"Just now. I didn't only come because of the Planet Shooter, you know."

Jason snorted. "I did."

"My pedestrian trigonometry homework has been completed," Damian said, coming down the stairs. He wrinkled his nose at Clark's PJ-ensemble as he passed him. "Update me on the situation, Drake." There was a slightly nasty tone on the last word, since Bruce wasn’t here now to correct his use of Tim’s last name. And honestly Tim didn’t care if Damian called him Drake, since it was better than Imposter. But it was still nice to know Bruce was on his side in something, even if it was only this weird version of him. 

“Zatanna will be here within two weeks.” It was safer to give Dick a larger margin of error, and since that was the only situational update, it was on to this evening’s roster. “You’re on patrol route 7-03 with Nightwing tonight. ‘Hood, are you sticking around, or were you just here for the hilarity?”

“Depends what you’ve got for me, Replacement.”

“Steph is watching for a shipment at the docks, or else I’ve got route 18-2, with a side quest of looking for information about Penguin and where he went to ground.”

“Oooo, I’ll come with you, then,” Jason’s smile was a little alarming, but Tim was used to that. 

“What about me?” Clark asked. 

“You get to put on your blue tights and do whatever Super-stuff there is to do.”

Clark frowned. “I—“

“You need to maintain that identity as well,” Dick said. “And there’s some flooding from hurricane Elise that could use your help.”

Tim nodded in agreement. “Twitter has been abuzz with people wondering where you are.”

Clark was still frowning, but he nodded. “I’ll see all of you later then. Stay safe.” He changed and was gone in under a minute. 

The sound of Superman whooshing away had barely finished echoing off the 'cave walls when Tim found himself at the mercy of the direct stares of his brothers.

He stared back, mildly confused, but not showing it.

"What didn't you want Clark to hear?" Dick eventually prompted.

"Oh," Tim said. "Nothing; he really does need to maintain being Superman."

Damian scoffed. "And he's a terrible Batman. If Nightwing is here this evening, we are better off without his assistance."

Dick raised an eyebrow at Tim, but Damian pretty much had the size of it. Clark was a great superhero, and Tim would never say otherwise, but he was an objectively terrible Batman, and they were mostly just lucky that no one had realized the ruse yet.

"Supes has done wonders for Batman's rep!" Jason, of all people, jumped in to defend him. "I mean, he caught a live grenade ."

"That is exactly my point, Todd," Damian countered, "He is destroying the nuances of Batman, giving him powers the Rogue's Gallery will want to try out, and--"

"Batman's reputation has never been more fierce!" Jason said.

Tim wished he had the authority to tell everyone to suit up, but he'd tried that on the first evening, and...well, he wasn't going to try it again. So instead, he just walked away from his arguing brothers to get himself ready. They knew what their jobs were this evening, and would eventually get themselves around to doing them. And Hood knew Red Robin would leave without him if he wasn't ready--it wouldn't be the first time, after all.

Dick was the only one who followed Tim to the locker room, though.

Which reminded him. "Dami needs to be back after one-- one --round of patrol," Tim said, leaning close to Dick so Damian couldn't hear him. "It's a school night."

"Then why is he going out at all?" Dick asked, as if this was a revelation and not an obvious conclusion for a Monday night. Tim was glad he remembered to mention it.

"Because otherwise Robin will go out on his own, and stay out all night; Bruce can't tell him not to, Alfred can only do so much, and if Clark or I tried to state or enforce such a rule, we'd be eviscerated." Verbally, if they were very, very lucky.

"Aww, Timmy, are you worried about your little bro? I knew you cared."

"Dick," Tim said, and it might have been an insult. "I'm worried about this whole family, the whole fucking city, and the whole goddamn Justice League. Everything is starting to fall apart without Batman, and I can only patch so many holes by myself. Clark's not very useful, and you won't pitch in, Jason is Jason, Damian is too young, and I'm left trying to hold everything together. So you better be right about Z being on her way, because something is gonna give. And soon."

Tim turned away from him at the last word, and slammed open his locker, digging out his specially designed undergarments and starting to change. Dick reached out, and looked like he still wanted to say something, but Tim wasn't in the mood to hear it. And anyway, that's when Hood and Robin made it to the lockers, still bickering, although now they were going on about appropriate headgear for some reason. Tim ignored them.

There were rumors that Joker was planning an Arkham breakout, while rumors about Penguin were suspiciously hard to come by. The girls were doing a decent job of keeping the Trinity’s imports at bay, and no one had had the extra time to deal with reigning in Red Hood, so the drug trade was under control, but Riddler was out on parole, Tetch was up for a parole hearing, there was at least one race of aliens trying to take over the world, Lex Luthor was building some sort of automated package delivery system that needed to be inspected at a much closer level of detail, and Selina Kyle had RSVP’d to next week’s gala when she hadn’t even been invited . 

Bruce handled most of this by designating and delegating, but no one wanted to listen to Tim. They just wanted to blame him for not fixing it all after the fact. 

If Bruce didn’t get his memories back soon, something was gonna break. And it might be Tim. 

 

Notes:

Please note that Tim is not, in fact, in charge of the Justice League (not even in filling in Batman's position). It's just that all the other members keep forgetting that Bats is out of commission, and/or call to ask things anyway bc the Batcave has the best tech, and probably Tim (or someone) can help anyway, so they might as well get the Batpinion on it while they have whomever on the line...

And Tim realizes he can't save them himself, but he's worried that if they need THIS MUCH help they maybe can't save themselves, either, esp if Batman never returns to help them read the map to their own asses (obvs the intelligent ones never call, but there's plenty of the rest).

Chapter 14: In Which Something Stinks

Summary:

"How are things at the manor?" Nightwing asked Robin as they grappled back towards where they'd left their bikes. He wasn't sure what kind of answer Damian was going to give, but Tim seemed like he was about to buckle under the pressure.

"Father is a ghost, the alien is everywhere all the time, and the Impostor thinks he is in charge."

Notes:

Just some Batfam fluff to distract while the country burns down around us...

"How are things at the manor?" Nightwing asked Robin as they grappled back towards where they'd left their bikes. He wasn't sure what kind of answer Damian was going to give, but Tim seemed like he was about to buckle under the pressure.

"Father is a ghost, the alien is everywhere all the time, and the Impostor thinks he is in charge."

So pretty much as they always were, with the addition of Clark. "You do know that Red Robin is in charge in these sorts of situations, right?" Nightwing asked.

"Father should have left me in charge."

A furious bloodthirsty preteen in charge of a vigilante crime-fighting ring. B had made some questionable decisions over the ages, but even he wouldn't go quite that far. "Part of being a good leader is knowing when to be a good follower."

"I follow Father's orders."

"Even when they are to respect Red Robin as team leader?"

Robin made a non-committal sound, letting go of his grappling hook mid-swing to land directly on the seat of his bike.

Nightwing took a brief interim stop on the ledge of a window before flipping down onto his own bike. Maybe he was showing off a little, but hey, if you had it, flaunt it.

Robin didn't wait for Nightwing to start his bike, instead tearing off out of the alley and onto the roads--thankfully nearly empty at this time of night because Robin should really be in some sort of side-car, except even Batman had lost that battle years ago.

Still, Nightwing caught up with him fairly quickly, riding just behind his littlest brother as they cut through the shadows of a late Gotham night.

"Does B seem happy to you?" Dick asked over the comms.

"Father is an empty shell that wanders the night, looking for his lost soul."

Okay, creepy, if probably pretty accurate. "I meant with Clark."

Damian was quiet long enough that Dick thought he would just ignore the question, but then he said, "Father does seem less strained when the Alien is around."

Given the situation and the observer, that was probably the highest praise Nightwing could expect. "And you?"

"Our family does not need a Kryptonian in it."

Dick had plenty of follow-up thoughts for that, but Robin sped his bike away, breaking out of the range of the near-field radio they were using, and Dick didn't want to have a heart-to-heart over the general comms, which Damian was clearly counting on. He supposed that conversation would have to wait until tomorrow.

By the time Nightwing brought his bike to a stop in the cave, Robin was long gone, not that he'd expected otherwise. Hopefully Damian was going to bed so he wouldn't fall asleep in class the next day, but with Dami you never really knew, and Dick had forced enough issues tonight.

Nightwing ran through the maintenance checklists for both of their bikes, polished a few scuffs off of his own, logged their gear use and the wear-and-tear on their suits, wrote up the incident report for the one robbery they'd stopped, took a shower, and put on a pot of decaf coffee because Tim would make the full-caf stuff when he got back if there wasn't any to hand.

True to form, Dick heard the waterfall entrance open just as the coffee finished brewing. The sound of an engine grew closer, and was soon followed by the stench of sewers, which in turn was followed by the vision of Red Robin, covered in muck, and sitting on his bike like he was trying to touch it as little as possible.

Dick poured a cup of coffee and held it close to his nose as Tim disembarked, which almost helped with the smell.

"I just polished this damn thing," Tim said, gesturing at the bike angrily. He made a frustrated sound when a splatter of sewer-ooze flew from his hand to the bike, and started cursing Penguin, Red Hood, the sewers, Batman, Klarion, amnesia, Gotham...pretty much everything, actually.

Dick just watched quietly, slightly awed that the smell was bad enough Tim hadn't even noticed the coffee yet.

"...with the mother fucking --oh, hey, Dick," Tim said, spotting him at last. "Oh! Is that coffee?" he started to reach for Dick's cup, but more ick dripped off his hand, and he paused, the battle between coffee and cleanliness clear on his face.

"This cup is mine anyway," Dick said, taking pity. "I'll pour you one while you shower."

Dick also had time to put Tim's bike into the vehicle-wash. Nothing beat a gentle hand-polishing and wax, but there were some things better removed by machine, and whatever was covering Tim and his bike was some of it.

"Is there a new sewer monster?" Dick asked, when Tim reappeared, fresh and pink from the shower.

Tim shook his head, and dug out one of the immune-booster shots they used after contact with ...mystery fluids. "Penguin holed up down there, and he'd rigged a couple of bombs under the, uh, water." He winced as he shot the booster into his arm, and then accepted the cup of coffee Dick held out. "We didn't even manage to catch him, but 'Hood found out where he's going next, so we'll be more prepared tomorrow. Plus we'll have…" he gestured at one of the Batsuits in its case and sighed deeply, "'Batman' with us."

"How are things here, with Clark, and--everything," Dick asked cautiously, aware that before patrol Tim had nearly taken his head off about it. 

Tim sat down in the chair by the Batcomputer, and twisted in it idly, sipping his coffee. "If we didn't have the whole vigilante thing going on, I would say it was fantastic. Bruce is struggling with forgetting his second life, but otherwise he's happier than I've ever seen him, he's mentally balanced in a way I've also never seen, and, frankly, he's madly in love with Clark."

Dick leaned against the computer desk. "So at least between them, things are going well?"

"Um," Tim said, and his eyes slid away for a moment. "Actually, I'm not sure they are. I know we don't want to talk about our parent's sex-life, but I'm pretty sure they aren't having one , and that's...not helping."

Dick frowned. "You mean Bruce isn't--"

"No, Clark , Clark isn't. Clark won't."

"Oh god, you're right, Clark wouldn't." Not the paragon of honor and respect that was Superman, he would never take advantage of anyone if there was even the slightest question of ...of...advantage, and Bruce couldn't remember who he was, had fought against having feelings for years, would never have indicated that he wanted Clark under pain of death before , and now, of course Clark wouldn't be willing to do anything Bruce would hate him for later. "Didn't you show him the Fuck-or-Die contract?"

Tim perked up. "I'm actually really happy I'm not the only person to know about that, but also, no, I haven't shown him because Bruce never signed it. I'm not even sure he finished filling it in."

"Know about it, hell, B made me fill in one--didn't you have to? He was all 'happy eighteenth, fill in this form about who you'd let fuck you in case your other option is death.'"

Tim looked a little alarmed. "I think Ivy has calmed a bit lately; it's probably not on the top of his mind. Anyway, Bruce's is for a different situation than we’re in, and is not completed, so I haven't shown Clark because it'll just be more confusing."

"And hopefully Z will be here soon, so we can clear that bomb out of B's head. Which reminds me, she sent an email while I was on patrol." It had come in at exactly the highest moment of action on their route, so Dick had immediately forgotten about it. Now he wheeled Tim out of the way of the computer and logged in to read it. "She says no later than next Wednesday. They've got something else they need to do, but it's supposed to be short, and also she's explained the situation and they will try their hardest to get back as soon as possible."

"I hope that'll be soon enough," Tim said. "I'm pretty sure Clark challenged B to 'figure out' why he, um, won't participate in a full relationship. And Bruce may not be Batman right now, but he's still the World's Greatest Detective."

Notes:

part of the sticking point with the rest of this is; is Dick supposed to convince Clark to sleep with Bruce? Bruce that it's okay Clark won't sleep with him? Is he just gonna Be There for them both? Is he gonna give Bruce some false memories to say to Clark ("oh man that time I walked in on you two in the study...")? Will he accidentally set Bruce even further on the path of rediscovery and self-immolation?

And how is that talk with Damian going to go?

Anyway, there's one more scene, and then I'm stuck on all that (or on coming up with a clever way around it...), but maybe now that I'll be partially out of isolation, my muse will come out of HER isolation, too.

Chapter 15: In Which Bruce Wakes Early

Summary:

“You have friends?!” Bruce smiled encouragingly at his youngest.
“Yes, Father, I have a normal and healthy social life,” Robin said.
Tim snorted into the granola bar he was eating.
Robin spun and pointed a finger at him. “Look here, Impo—Dra—you, just because my friends exist in this reality and timeline does not mean they are unworthy.”

Notes:

Haven't quite given up, but this is the last of the ...worthy chapters. I know I keep going on about this, I guess I'm sorry? But it's not like anyone is forcing you to read these notes. And really, compared to the amount of whining I *don't* post, but still do in my heart, y'all are getting off easy.

The sun was shining in through the curtains when Bruce woke up, which meant Clark had been here at some point last night because he impulsively couldn’t leave the curtains shut when he woke up. Usually Gotham, at least, had mercy on Bruce with her cloud cover, but today even she was against him, and the sky shone blue with the sun’s watchful eye peering down. Bruce resisted the childish urge to hiss at it and pull the covers over his head.

Why--no-- how did Kal get up so disgustingly early after being up so late every night? He almost always came in after Bruce was asleep--a happenstance that itself took hours to occur--and then he got up with the cursed sun. And then he had the gall to be happy, cheerful, and optimistic for the whole day before staying up late and doing it all over again in the morning.

Clark also never seemed to have trouble falling asleep at night, though. Bruce considered that for a minute. Maybe getting up late was part of his own sleeping problem, and, if so, today was as good as any to start getting up earlier.

Bruce threw off the covers, sent another glare at the sun, and stumbled out of bed.

As he squinted around for his house robe, Bruce realized just how early it was, too. Clark hadn’t just left the curtains open, he was, in fact, still in the shower.

Bruce considered joining him, but then remembered their discussion the night before, and how Clark wouldn’t be swayed on the topic of sex. I feel like I’m in one of those relationships where they are 'waiting for marriage,' Bruce thought to himself as he dug his slippers out from under the bed. Was Clark normally like this —if he was, Bruce could start to see how he ended up running into the arms of Batman—or wanted to, maybe? Clark had said Bruce hadn’t cheated, but maybe he hadn’t realized it yet, or maybe it was just something Bruce had wanted to have happen.

Regardless, moral purity was nice and all, but Bruce had some morning wood, and the man whose job it was to help with that wouldn’t.

Bruce sighed, glared his morning state into one more metaphorical than real, and decided coffee was in order.

The hall was long and dark and cold at this time of day, and Bruce shuffled along, as if going slowly would help him hold onto his warmth.

Robin's door was open a crack, and gave Bruce a glimpse of Titus and a cat sitting and watching Robin attentively. Robin was saying, "...I know she's a cow, Titus, but she gets lonely down there by herself, and unlike you she doesn't get to go on walks, so I expect you will do your best to keep her company today."

Bruce shook his head and walked on. Would that scene even had made sense if he wasn't missing memories?

Tim's door was still shut tight, and as Bruce passed it an alarm went off and was soundly cursed out in two, no, three, no... five different languages, and counting. Bruce gave the door an impressed look and walked on.

“Good morning, Alfre—“ Bruce started as he entered the kitchen, but then realized the room was empty, there were no savory smells wafting from the stove, and definitely no coffee ready.

“How early is it?” Bruce asked the empty kitchen, and sat down in a chair. Was Alfred...still asleep? Did Alfred sleep?

Bruce sat and stared at the coffee maker. He could make coffee. It might be nice for Alfred to have someone make him coffee for a change.

But Alfred had said Bruce wasn’t allowed to use the coffee maker without supervision.

But how hard could it be?

“Oh, here you are, B!” Clark said, coming into the kitchen just then. “You’re up early.”

“It might help me sleep tonight,” Bruce said. “Do you know how to make coffee? Alfred says I’m not allowed to.”

“Oh?” Clark asked, following Bruce’s gaze. “It looks like a pretty standard model.” He walked over and inspected it. “You put the grounds in, and then you just push-”

“Oh god no, don’t!” Tim shouted as he entered the kitchen, but he was too late, and there was a metallic clang, and something clattered to the floor.

“Uh...what just-?” Clark asked, blinking stupidly.

“You broke it,” Tim snapped, walking right up to Clark and then bending down to swipe something dark up off the floor. Clark caught a glimpse of it and winced, but Bruce couldn’t make it out—unless it was a batarang, but that was absurd— and anyway, it didn’t matter to him which piece had fallen off.

“But the coffee,” Bruce protested weakly.

Tim whirled around. “Alfred makes the coffee.”

“All the coffee?” Bruce asked, thinking about the absurd number of coffee mugs that were always littered around Tim.

“All the coffee in the kitchen,” Alfred himself said, entering just then. “Master Timothy may make his own coffee in the rest of the house. So nice to see you up this early, Master Bruce.”

“Good morning, Alfred,” Bruce said. “I hope I’m not altering the routine too much by being awake.”

“Of course not, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, setting milk and a disgustingly brightly colored cereal out on the table, and then setting a pot of water on to boil.

Bruce stared at the cereal, because the only person who ever ate that stuff was— “Dick!” Bruce declared as his eldest son entered the kitchen.

“Oh, like I’ve never heard that one before,” Dick muttered, blinking blearily and rubbing his eyes. He was still in his pyjamas, and it was unclear if he sat down, or just collapsed coincidentally into a chair.

“Didn’t you go home last night?” Bruce asked.

Dick startled like he hadn't noticed Bruce yet, and stammered, “No, I went out on-on-for drinks. With, um, with Babs. And good morning to you, too, B.”

“Alfred, I will not be needing a ride home after school today beca—You are awake early, Father.”

“Good morning, Robin,” Bruce said. “Are you not coming home after school today?”

Robin started to say something, stopped, then tried again. “I have a playdate—“ his eye twitched on the word— “with Colin this afternoon.”

“You have friends?!” Bruce smiled encouragingly at his youngest.

“Yes, Father, I have a normal and healthy social life,” Robin said.

Tim snorted into the granola bar he was eating.

Robin spun and pointed a finger at him. “Look here, Impo—Dra— you , just because my friends exist in this reality and timeline does not mean they are unworthy .”

Alfred brought around a tray of coffee mugs just then, handing one to everyone except Robin, who received a tumbler of thick green liquid instead.

Both Tim and Robin accepted their drinks without breaking stride in their argument, so Bruce just sipped his coffee and watched the fireworks, while Dick made sounds of protest and tried to get them to stop.

“I used to think they’d be more mellow in the mornings,” Kal said, settling into the seat next to Bruce. 

Bruce shook his head affectionately. “Never.” He considered for a moment. “Say, do you know why they fight all the time? I know the topic is different each time, but isn’t there a root reason? I can’t remember…” he trailed off hopefully. 

But Kal just shook his head. “Sorry, that started well before my time, so I couldn’t tell you even if I could.” He tapped a finger on the table absently, and Bruce reached out to capture his hand.

Clark startled almost imperceptibly, but when he glanced at Bruce he was blushing faintly and smiling.

And then Kal's watched beeped, and he glanced at it, saying, "Ah, Alfred--"

Alfred handed him a brown paper bag before he even got the question out. "We'll see you this evening, Mister Kent."

"Thank you, Alfred," Clark said, and stood up to leave.

"Wait," Bruce said, standing up, too. He hugged Clark, and just...rested his cheek on Clark's shoulder, feeling the scratchy cloth against his morning stubble. "What time are you coming home?" Bruce ran a finger down Clark's tie. It was black, but with a pattern of gray-green alien faces, which was ironic because--because Clark wa-- was he an undocumented immigrant? No, he was just--he was from K--from Kansas? Was it an Area 51 joke?

"I'll be home as soon as I can, B," Kal said, "Unless there's an unexpected crisis I need to...uh...report on." He gave Bruce one more firm hug, and then slipped away.

Bruce shook his head as he went back to his seat. "I'm not attracted to him because of his fashion sense, right?" he asked his family at large.

Robin let out a scandalized, "Father!"

Tim started laughing so hard he snorted coffee out of his nose.

"Pretty sure it has more to do with what's under," Dick said, admiring, then when the whole family turned wide-eyed to him, he added, "Under his skin--his big heart--what the hell do you think I meant?" He snatched his coffee defensively off the table. "And so what if I've thought it," he muttered to his coffee, "unlike Tim, I'm not dating his--"

"DICK!" Tim shouted, slapping his hands on the table. "Go back to bed if you can't function properly."

"Tim, I--"

"Tim, you are seeing someone?" Bruce interrupted, not wanting to witness more fights between his sons than necessary.

"I am," Tim said slowly, sitting back down, though he was still glaring at Dick.

"Who?" Bruce asked. 

"Conner," Tim replied. "He's Clark's...um."

"His son," Robin interrupted. "Conner is Clark's son."

"Clark has a son? I don't--I don't remember him." Bruce felt like he'd been shot through the heart. Maybe he hadn't forgotten any of his own children, but shouldn't Clark's child be almost like his own? Alfred had assured him he hadn't forgotten any of his children.

"It's not like that," Tim said. "Conner lives with Clark's parents, and Clark...it's complicated, but suffice to say that their relationship is not like yours with us."

"But Clark should have told me--" Bruce broke off when he saw Tim and Dick both shaking their heads.

"You and Clark have had lots of long conversations about Conner and Clark's role in his life," Dick explained. "Either he didn't realize you'd forgotten, or he didn't want to start the discussions over from scratch when you'll remember them in a few weeks anyway."

Bruce didn't like it, but he probably had to accept it. "Are there any other family members I've forgotten?"

Both Tim and Dick turned to look at Robin, who glared back at them, but said, "Do you remember my mother, Father?"

Bruce searched his memories. "You...have a mother?" he asked. He couldn't remember a thing about her, not a name, not a face, nothing.

"Tt," Robin said. "Figures." Bruce could tell he was upset, but he didn't know what to do. Robin pushed back his chair, scraping it against the floor. "I will await my ride to school in the foyer, Alfred." And then he left.

"I--" Bruce began.

"They wouldn't be happy memories, anyway," Tim said. "And Damian knows that." 

"I'll talk to him later," Dick added. "I guess tonight when he gets back from his 'playdate.'" 

Bruce thought maybe it should be his responsibility to talk to Robin, but without those memories--and with so many in general missing about his youngest son--chances were he'd just make it worse. That didn't make him feel better about it, though.

Notes:

Before Bruce: Oh, hey, look at this new coffee maker! I know just how to upgrade it!
Before Tim: CccooooooofffffffeeEEP OH MY GOD WHY AM I BLEEDING
Damian: Tt you should know better than to trigger one of Father's traps, Drake. *Puts toast in toaster*
*toaster explodes*
Alfred: Master Bruce, why does it seem that the kitchen appliances are trying to kill your sons?
Before Bruce: *almost smiling* I upgraded some things.

Chapter 16: In Which Big Brother Nightwing Comes To The Rescue

Summary:

“Clark did say I hadn’t asked him to move in yet.” Bruce frowned as he considered that. “And that I...called him a Boy Scout, but is that even an insult?” His frown deepened.
“It depends a lot on your tone, I think,” Dick said. “And he was never actually a Boy Scout.”

Notes:

Whelp. Here's a new chapter. I finished it about ten seconds ago, so I haven't read over it, and I typed it mostly on my phone, so feel free to snicker at any spelling/grammar/auto-correct mistakes (or you could mention them so I can fix them...?). I also might need to tweak it slightly so it flows better with a few things in the next couple scenes, but if that happens I'll mention it in the author notes, which I now know everyone reads (Hi! Hello! Thank you for worrying so much about me and my story! I love you all!).

Dick was in the new upstairs exercise room running through his basic routine, because Clark had moved all the best equipment in here. He'd still have to go the cave for his more acrobatic routines, but for now he just needed the time and space to exhaust himself while he thought.

Because Dick knew he had to talk with Bruce—and Damian, when he got home—but he didn’t know what to say. Clark wasn’t wrong to hold off on the more intimate part of his “relationship” with Bruce, but if Tim was right that he’d challenged B to figure out why somehow (and Tim was usually right), then it could ruin their chances of saving Bruce’s mind. 

And, of course, Dick hadn’t realized just how things were going here. Sure it was hilarious, but somehow the real consequences just hadn’t dawned on him. That and he thought—they’d all thought—that this would only last a few days at most. Clearly after the dinner with J’onn they knew it would be more than that, but none of his brothers had mentioned how they were all struggling.

Of course, one of the curses of being used to Batman’s house rules; you don’t talk about emotion or needing help, or struggles that don’t end in life-or-death situations. 

Really, it was a wonder that Tim had mentioned it last night, but then again, this was becoming a life-or-death situation.

But now that the knowledge was out in the world, it was time for Super Brother Nightwing to Save the Batfamily! 

...Maybe Babs would have some advice on how he could do that?

Should he try to talk Clark into having sex with Bruce? Clark’s reasons weren’t wrong. 

Should he try to tell Bruce...what, exactly? That Clark was asexual? That they had been on the verge of breaking up? That Bruce was—

“Dick.”

Dick startled and lost his grip on the chin-up bar, dropping to the mat below and narrowly avoiding smashing his jaw on the bar. “Dammit, B. You know not to sneak up on a guy exercising.”

"Do I?" Bruce asked, sounding mildly bewildered.

"It's just common courtesy." Dick sighed and picked himself up off the floor. "Did you need something?"

"I was hoping we could talk," Bruce said. 

"Sure," Dick said, and walked to the sparring mats, where he took up a starting stance, and looked at Bruce expectantly.

Bruce frowned. "What are you…?"

Golly gee this new version of him is weird, Dick thought to himself. "Nothing, let's go talk on the patio." He grabbed his towel and water bottle on the way out of the gym. Bruce followed him silently.

"What'd you want to talk about?" Dick asked, dropping into one of the upholstered patio chairs.

Bruce was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “Was I cheating on Kal?” 

Dick wasn’t taking a drink of water, so he just choked on his own saliva in surprise. “What?” He finally croaked when he was able. 

Bruce was frowning at him in mild concern. “When I had my run-in with Batman the other day, I experienced all these feelings, like—“ thank god Bruce didn’t finish that thought, but cut himself off and finished with, “I don’t know what else it could be.”

Dick should win an award for the way he didn’t immediately burst out laughing—he didn’t even have a sudden “coughing fit” to cover for the urge. “You think you were cheating on Clark with Batman ?” Was there a chance Tim didn’t know? No, Tim knew everything, ergo Tim had known this bit of gossip and chosen not to tell the rest of them. 

“Yeah, I felt—“

“Have you asked Clark about this?” Dick said, raising a hand to stop Bruce and to deflect the knowledge of which feelings led the World’s Greatest Detective to conclude he’d been cheating on his dillusionary boyfriend with his own alter-ego.

“I did, he said I’d never cheat on him. But he’s so... moral it wouldn’t even cross his mind to cheat, and that may cloud his judgement of others' actions.”

That was actually a pretty fair character assessment of Clark, if nothing else. “Or maybe he’s right, and you would never. Do you think you would cheat? On someone you cared for as much as you care for Clark?”

“I would never, but all evidence points to Past Me being an asshole, and according to Kal I've forgotten how shitty our relationship really was."

“Relationships can be shit without cheating being an issue.” Dick had a few examples of his own for that one. 

Bruce sighed deeply. “What else could it be? Did we fight all the time?”

Dick considered. “Not as much as you used to,” he finally said, diplomatically.

“Then was it mostly misaligned schedules? Are we sexually incompatible? Were we—“

“I think it has more to do with communication, B,” Dick said, hurrying to interrupt. “You’re terrible at expressing yourself, especially when it comes to feelings.”

“Clark did say I hadn’t asked him to move in yet.” Bruce frowned as he considered that. “And that I...called him a Boy Scout, but is that even an insult?” His frown deepened.

“It depends a lot on your tone, I think,” Dick said. “And he was never actually a Boy Scout.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Kansas. Farm.” Dick reminded him. “Much more a 4H kid; he’ll tell you about his prize-winning goats if you ask.” Sometimes even if you didn’t ask. 

Bruce looked taken aback, and Dick wondered if he’d forgotten the goat story, or just been lucky enough to never have heard it. “If our problem is communication, specifically on my part, then why won’t Kal communicate with me now? Every time I’ve tried to talk with him, he looks faintly heartbroken, and then tells me I have to remember on my own.” Bruce was nearly growling. 

“You do have to remember on your own,” Dick gently reminded him.

“But the memories are gone ,” Bruce said. “He challenged me to remember anything from our relationship, and I—I can’t. I don’t even know what season our anniversary is in, let alone the day. I’m starting to wonder if there is anything to remember at all.” He turned away and struck a classic Bruce Brooding pose out over the garden.

Fuuuuuuuuck , was the gist of Dick’s thoughts, because if he remembered that he wasn’t in a relationship with Clark, would  that open the flood gate to remembering who he really was? “What do you mean, nothing to remember?”

“Was I really so selfish that I can’t remember our anniversary? That where we went on our first date is unimportant to me? That I take him so much for granted I can’t recall our moments of intimacy?” Bruce made a dramatic gesture. “Maybe I am one to cheat and ruin the best thing I’ve ever had.”

That wasn’t exactly the narrative Dick was expecting. “It sounds like you know what the problem is, then.”

Bruce sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I do, but I don’t know how to get Clark to listen to me about it, to believe me when I say I’ve changed, or that I love him. That I want to fix things, and that I wouldn’t regret—couldn’t possibly regret—“

“Don’t finish that thought out loud, Bruce, I am your son.”

Bruce snorted, and it might have been a laugh, and that didn’t make this conversation any less weird. “I just don’t know how to get through to him.”

“Look,” Dick said, mostly just hoping the word would give him a chance to think. “Give it another week. Clark is sup—inhu—very focused on always doing the right thing, and at this moment that’s not taking advantage of you when part of you is missing. If your memories don’t come back by, say, next Friday, then something has gone wrong, and we’ll start to fill you in on everything we know. I’ll make sure Clark does the same, promise.” Dick hoped he’d never need to fulfill that promise, but if Zatanna couldn’t help, or if Batman’s mind was destroyed and this is what remained, he might have to.

Bruce was quiet for a moment. “Okay,” He said at last. “What about my relationship with Robin?”

Notes:

Bruce: Dick, you have had sex, right?
Dick: WHAT
Bruce: were Clark and I having sex?
Dick: PLEASE DONT
Bruce: I'd like to have more sex with him
Dick: NO STOP
Bruce: Can you explain how I can have more sex with my super-hot boyfriend?
Dick: I CANNOT WHY IS THIS EVEN *sobs inconsolably*

Chapter 17: In Which There Are Feels

Summary:

Damian scoffed. "Kent was there when Father woke up from his coma, and Father impressed on him, like a confused baby bird. Maybe he thinks he--he--likes the Alien now, but it won't last."

Notes:

I was actually reading some of the Red Robin comics this weekend, and, friends, FRIENDS, I did not go nearly far enough with the Tim Drake/Wayne thing. I thought I'd hit a nice balance, but he PUNCHED DAMIAN OVER IT OMG. But then the comics consistently called him Tim Drake anyway after that, and then he did that whole bad-ass "It's Wayne when I want something, but Drake in the mirror," and aghgdhaghshshfffff I CANNOT EVEN.

Anyway, I suppose I'll go with the dynamic I already have, but for the record I feel a bit like fanfic has let me down in this instance. Perhaps I'll just have to read more for reference, and to correct for observation bias.

Dick might have run away from talking about Damian with Bruce, but he couldn’t get out of talking about Bruce with Damian, so once his littlest brother was home from school, and finished with whatever Quest he’d been on with Colin, and had had a chance to settle into the quiet between life and patrol, Dick rapped on Damian's door frame. 

The door was open, but that was probably just for Titus who was sprawled across Damian's bed, tongue lolling contentedly while Alfred the cat gave him a shoulder massage.

"I don't need to talk, Grayson," Damian said. He was sitting on the floor next to the bed with a sketch pad on his knees, drawing or writing.

"No?" Dick asked, not quite inviting himself in, but stepping forward enough to hover on the other side of the door.

"I know that Father's memories of my mother are too tied up with him being Batman; he couldn't have saved himself without forgetting her, too. It was not an intentional choice."

Dick nodded in agreement, but took another cautious step into Damian's room--because even with a dog on the bed, you couldn't assume there weren't any pressure-triggered traps with Damian. "And your name?"

"Father will remember it once Zatanna removes Klarion's mind-bomb; I am certain we can keep him from exposing me until things return to normal."

"And Tim?" Dick asked, taking another half-step into the room, and eyeing the floorboards in front of him, looking for the safe route.

"Father left him in charge," Damian said, shrugging as if it didn't matter. "But only for the interim. I will seek to prove myself further so that I may be the one in charge if a situation like this arises again."

"What about calling him Drake?" There was a safe route, but it involved a ridiculous amount of fancy footwork, and Dick didn't know how Damian managed to train Titus to avoid everything.

"Tt," Damian said, dipping his head down closer to his drawing. "Things will be back to normal soon."

"What about this thing with Clark?" Dick asked. New plan with the floor; he eyed the distance between himself and Damian. He could make it.

"Once he has his memories and his mind back, Father will come to his senses about the Alien as well."

"What if he doesn't?" Dick shifted his weight to his back foot, adjusted his stance.

Damian's head snapped up. "Father would ne--No! What are yo--?"

Damian's words were cut short by Dick's landing, which was part crash and part hug. 

"Get off of me, Grayson!" Damian tried to wriggle away, but he didn't get very far.

"I know you want to be first--and only--in Bruce's affections," Dick said, trapping his littlest brother at his side. "But he does love Clark."

Damian scoffed. "Kent was there when Father woke up from his coma, and Father impressed on him, like a confused baby bird. Maybe he thinks he--he--likes the Alien now, but it won't last."

"I don't quite know how to tell you this, Little D," Dick said, "But Bruce has been in love with Clark for years . It's the worst best kept secret in the whole Justice League." Probably the only person who hadn't known Batman was madly in love with Superman was Clark. And the opposite, of course.

"Then Father has clearly had his reasons to avoid an entanglement with the Alien, and in remembering himself, he will remember them and end things. There is no need for us to worry."

You're the only one worried , Dick thought, and his heart broke a little for his brother who just didn't want anything to change. "You might be right," Dick said. "But you could be wrong, too. Bruce isn't always logical when it comes to strong emotion, and Clark will probably fight for this, now that he knows." He squeezed Damian tighter against his side. "Either way, B has space in his heart for all of us, even with Clark in there, too."

"I don't need a trite 'so your dad is getting remarried' talk, Grayson."

"Are you sure?" Dick asked. "You still don't seem to understand that B can love you and Tim at the same time, and the scale on this is much larger."

Damian stiffened. "That has never been about shared affection ," he said, once again trying to shift away. "Father can love that impostor as much as he wants. That is about legacy , and the theft of my birthright as Father's one true son."

Ah, there it is. "So it's no problem for B to love Clark? After all, Clark's got his own legacy to leave for his children." Dick scratched his chin. "What if he and B decide to adopt another kid, I mean, B clearly has a child-hoarding problem, and Clark's always wanted to be a dad. Maybe they could steal Lex's cloning tech, and make a kid that's their combined DNA--wouldn't that be amazing; a child as smart as Batman, but as kind as Superman?"

Damian was practically vibrating with repressed emotion. "Father would never ," he snarled, finally managing to wrench himself away from Dick. Damian jumped to his feet, and planted his fists on his hips. "I am Father's bloodson, and no monster from that alien will supplant me, if Father chooses such a path, then I will have no choice but to--"

"Please note that if you harm Clark, under any circumstances, B will disown you."

"And his half-alien bastard?" Damian dropped his hands from his hips, but his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"B is protective of all his children," Dick said quietly. "He loves us, even if he normally can't figure out how to show or say it. His heart is an impenetrable fortress, but we're all inside of it. Me, Jason, Tim, you. Even Clark. Even if he does force an end to this relationship, Clark is already inside Bruce's heart, and will be always, just as you are."

"Tt." Damian turned away, but it seemed like most of the emotion had gone out of his sails. "Then why has Father been spending all his time with Drake?"

"Normally wouldn't Tim be asking you that question?" Dick asked. He reached an arm up over the bed and waved it vaguely until one of the animals obliged him with silky fur under his fingers. "Tim has always been adaptable, and he's adapted to Bruce being more useful at WE than at ...our night hobbies. You, on the other hand, have always been Batman's child more than Bruce's, and if you can't figure out how to adjust, well, then you'll have to wait until we get this sorted out to get your father back."

"Why couldn't you have been Batman while Father recovers?" Damian asked, though he turned farther away.

"Oh, Little D," Dick said, standing up and wrapping Damian in his arms again. "I have a day job, and a night job. Clark is doing well enough, even if he ate a grenade. And even if this situation is somewhat manufactured, and somewhat of a lie, Bruce is still happier and more settled with Clark than he ever has been; even you have to admit that."

Damian didn't deny it, but he turned into Dick's hug and heaved a deep sigh, and in the Book of Damian that read as agreement.

 

--

 

"Father," Robin said, appearing behind Bruce's chair. Bruce had been trying to put together a puzzle, but he was about ready to throw the thing into the fireplace; Robin's presence was a thankful distraction. 

"Robin," Bruce said, nodding at his youngest son. "I'm sorry that I can't remember your mother." He'd spent a solid hour today trying to meditate and remember her, before giving up and attempting this puzzle.

"You parted on bitter terms, and I'm sure she would choose to forget you, if given the chance."

"It wasn't a--"

"Father," Robin interrupted him. "I require your assistance with my homework."

"Oh?" Bruce asked, though he was secretly excited that his most stand-offish son was finally approaching him. He'd begun to worry that they'd been fighting before, and that he'd have to remember what about before Robin would forgive him. "I thought Clark usually helped you?"

"No," Robin said shortly. Then he relented slightly. "I may let him think he is helping me, on occasion. But now I require more immediate assistance."

Bruce narrowly avoided rubbing his hands together in glee. "What do you need help with?"

"I am required to build a model of a...building. An architectural model, to scale."

"Of a real building?"

"No, Father," Robin sounded patronizing, but Bruce didn't really blame him. "The project is for learning about scale and measurements and geometry." He shoved puzzle pieces out of the way and dropped a sheaf of papers in front of Bruce. "Architecture is not your hobby, but I was hoping that you could assist me with the technical side of building the model."

Robin pulled up a chair, and the two of them settled in with their heads over the papers, reading and discussing and spending time together.

Notes:

How *DO* you train a dog to avoid pressure plates and tripwires? Or does he get Titus in, and then set all the traps?

Oh, and, is Bruce doing a puzzle of:
A) Puppies and kittens (a poorly-judged holiday gift)
B) Dragons (it's Tim's)
C) An English castle (Alfred does puzzles sometimes)
D) Literal bats (Stephanie thought it was funny)
E) Other (write your explanation below)

Chapter 18: In Which Plan S Is Inacted

Summary:

"It's not really blackmail material," Red Hood said, frowning at the screen.

"Not everything is about blackmailing our family," Dick called over his shoulder, as he headed towards the locker room.

"Some of it is about incentivising," Red Robin finished. 

Hood rolled his eyes and turned back to polishing his helmet. “No one tries to incentivize me,” he muttered.

“Would it help?” Red Robin asked.

Notes:

*Rolls in five minutes late with Starbucks* Friends, FRIENDS, did you know that HBO MAX has Doctor Who??? And since I only have HBO because I have a dcu subscription due to my (totally) natural obsession with this fandom, clearly said obsession is entirely at fault for it's own demise (luckily temporary, don't worry, I'm not abandoning this, even if current evidence is revealing a grevious error in my previous chapter estimate).

"Robin's out," Dick said, entering the Batcave by jumping off the top of the stairs and somersaulting down to land lightly on the floor. "He said he'd stay back to keep an eye on B."

"Is that what this is?" Red Robin asked, pointing at one of the BatMonitors which showed an image of the library, where Bruce and Damian were bent forward over what looked like honest-to-god blueprints of Wayne Tower and a pile of foam core and crafting supplies.

"Aww," Dick said, smiling. "That's adorable. Tell me you're recording it."

Red Robin nodded. "And backing it up offsite, of course."

"It's not really blackmail material," Red Hood said, frowning at the screen.

"Not everything is about blackmailing our family," Dick called over his shoulder, as he headed towards the locker room.

"Some of it is about incentivising," Red Robin finished. 

Hood rolled his eyes and turned back to polishing his helmet. “No one tries to incentivize me,” he muttered.

“Would it help?” Red Robin asked. “Because I do have some adorable, if grainy, videos from that very first camera B put in the fireplace lounge.”

Clark flew in before Red Hood could answer, his hair scorched, but dripping wet. “Sorry I’m late, there was...uh...is it a forest fire if it’s a swamp burning?”

“Just get ready.” Red Robin waved him off towards the shower and turned back to checking over his plan and his back up plans.

Penguin had holed up in the Narrows, at a condemned apartment building, although it was really several buildings attached together in ways that led directly to that 'condemned' label. Penguin owned the whole thing unofficially, and had been adding to it for years, putting escape routes and back passages and secret doors to the sewers in just about everywhere. It was his last reasonable hiding place, but it was also designed to be one Penguin couldn't be trapped inside.

Or so Penguin thought.

Tim had studied maps and schematics and blueprints, and found enough bottlenecks in the surrounding area that Tim--as Tim Wayne, as Red Robin, and as part of the greater Bat Team--could block all of them off. Penguin would see them trying to corner him and flee down whichever path seemed most safe, only to find himself cornered after all, just outside his stronghold, the entire Batfamily (minus Batman, plus Bat*deepsigh*man) just behind him.

Tim outlined the plan once Nightwing was ready, and Clark had finally figured out how to tighten the belt on the old Batsuit he was wearing. The armored new ones were too carefully molded to Bruce for Clark to fit, so they just had to hope no one noticed Batman was suddenly rocking the classics. Or six inches taller, with a somewhat more chiseled jawline, and an easily recognizable set of superpowers.

"Is Oracle joining us?" Clark asked, frowning at his Bat-team-specific communicator, and not putting it in his ear.

"She'll be on standby, but we shouldn't need her assistance unless things go very sideways," Red Robin said. "Is everyone clear on duties, goals, and the overall Plan?"

"Get into the sewers, get Penguin, get out," Red Hood said. "That's all I need to know."

"I still hope you heard the rest of it," Tim said, but he gestured at their bikes anyway. He was pretty sure he'd given everyone the correct roles in this plan, and he had a few backup plans for if he hadn't.

Clark stuffed the communicator in his ear, and followed Red Robin's lead, Nightwing just behind him. Red Hood pretended to do something else just long enough for getting on his bike to seem like his own idea, and then zoomed ahead once they made it out of the cave system.

"If you ruin this by going in early..." Red Robin threatened him over the comm.

"Relax, Replacement, I'm an asshole, not an idiot," Red Hood replied, as his taillight disappeared over the next hill.

 

--

"What is this thing?" Red Hood's voice came over the comms, accompanied by the sounds only fighting in knee-deep water could make. 

"Can you give me a bit of a description, here?" Red Robin replied through gritted teeth as he knocked one of his own combatants down with his bo staff. The hallway was a bit narrow for the weapon, but he was managing.

"It looks like a porn shop had a baby with a fucking sheep made of spiders."

It said something about Gotham that that didn't quite nail it down. "Does it smell like rotten corpses, or rotten plants?"

"Fuck you, Replacement, I can't smell through this fucking helmet, and you fucking know that."

"Can you see any teeth?" That was Nightwing asking, with only a faint sizzle from an escrima stick coming through for ambiance.

"No, I can't see any fucking---AHHHHHH SO MANY FUCKING TEETH."

Red Robin smothered a snort because that scream had been at a rather high pitch. "Oh, then it's one of the--ah, I can't remember what we named them--but they were the alien invaders last week."

"That's nice and all, but how do I--oh god no teeth--" there was a series of knocks and thumps "--ugh, how do I defeat it?"

"Just hit it with your Bat-Shark Repellent," Nightwing said. "That'll knock it out for a few hours."

"My what."

"Shark repellent."

"It's standard in your Batkit," Red Robin added, kicking a knife away from the last of his downed enemies, and taking a breather for a moment. 

"You think I bring that shit? When the fuck would I need shark repellent ?"

Tim just let the silence sit on that one, until Red Hood's muttered curses grew in volume up to a single shouted, "FUUUUUCK."

Then he sighed. "Nightwing--"

"Already on my way," Nightwing replied.

Shaking his head at his brothers, Tim turned back to the hallway before him. There were more minions--human ones, or close enough--around the next corner. His pause had made them nervous, but not yet bold, so Red Robin pulled out a smoke bomb and rolled it towards them.

On the far end of that hallway, minions bloody and groaning behind him, Red suddenly realized they hadn't heard anything from Clark since they each split up to their points of entry. "Batman, report," Tim said, waiting and listening for a response and for more minions.

He didn't hear either of those things. "Batman, report," Tim repeated, reminding himself that Clark was Superman , and as such there wasn't much even Gotham could throw at him that would cause permanent damage. Or really even impermanent damage. So maybe Clark was just...embracing the moody, lonesome roll of Batman, and that was why he wasn't responding.

There was a sudden cacophony over the comms, and Tim winced in surprise, and potential sympathy as there was a heavy, meaty sound of a body hitting a wall, followed by a splash of it falling into water.

"You could have been here five minutes ago, Dickface."

"You could have carried the standard Batkit, Hoodhead."

"Really? Hoodhead?"

"There are three teeth from that thing in my arm; all I have are out-sults."

"Shut up," Red Robin said. "Batman's not reporting in."

"That's typ--oh no it's not," Dick corrected himself.

"Not like there's much that can hurt B today," Jason replied.

Tim sighed. "I'm at the base of the stairs, but I can't hear anything from up above. Should I go up, or wait?" 'Go up' would be the obvious answer under almost any other circumstances, but Jason was right that there wasn't much that could hurt the man in the Batsuit today.

"Go up," Dick replied, "There's a hole we can grapple up here to the second floor, near the east stairwell. We'll be right behind you."

Red Robin's first reaction upon cresting the stairs was a half-second of stunned shock at what he saw. His second reaction was to make sure the camera in his cowl was recording. "How did this even happen ," he asked to anybody listening, which should include both his brothers and Superman , even though he was currently tied up over a vat of brown sludge, Penguin's umbrella knife poking at a vein on his neck.

"I'm Batman," Clark said in reply, and it was almost a question.

"That doesn't mean you're the sort of idiot that gets tied up by Penguin, " Tim replied, although it was in a whisper so Penguin and his minions wouldn't hear.

Penguin had noticed him at the initial outburst, and gave a creepy giggle. "Another bird has arrived! Just in time to watch as I unmask this featherless creature." He reached for the mask.

Red Robin debated his options. He could throw a couple of smoke bombs, distract everyone until Nightwing and Red Hood arrived, and they could communially rescue Clark from...this. Or, given the absurd chain of events and mishaps that must have happened to lead "Batman" into this predicament, Red Robin could instead just skip ahead to Plan S. "Eh," he said, "That's just a decoy anyway."

"A decoy?" Penguin's hand hesitated, drew back an inch. "Decoy ducks are to draw fools in for the slaughter, not to be slaughtered themselves." His hand darted out and snatched the cowl off Clark's head.

"No, he's right," Clark said (and Tim sent up a prayer that he'd caught on to Plan S). "I'm not Batman at all."

Penguin glanced at the mask in his hand, then back at Clark, who was shaking out the mess the cowl had made of his hair, getting that one lock to rest just so . "Then who--no--I know you! You're not Batman! You're--"

"Superman," Clark agreed, and with the slightest flex of his muscles, he snapped the thick ropes Penguin had tied him up with.

The rest of the fight happened quickly--if you could even call it a fight because Gotham's Villains were many things, but Prepared For Surprise!Superman was simply not one of them. Tim settled onto a nearby chair to watch the end of it. When Nightwing and Red Hood arrived, they joined him in observation, perching and leaning on the stair rail respectively.

"Why isn't he just…" Hood waved a hand vaguely, "...picking them up and tying them up in the air or something?"

"I think he's just giving them a fighting chance--or rather a chance to fight," Tim said. 

Dick nodded in agreement. "Think how much street cred these guys will get when they say they fought Superman, and held their own for a whole ten minutes! Collectively," he added with a wince as a guy crashed into a wall and slid down.

“He’s toying with them,” Jason said, tone awed.

The minions were apparently coming to the same conclusion, hanging back warily and glancing around at each other.

“Come on,” Clark said, and beckoned them closer. “You’re doing so well.” He smiled encouragingly.

The minions shuffled back a step or two.

“Well?” Sneered Penguin, “Get this featherless impostor!”

“Enough, Blue, play time’s over,” Dick said.

“Grab Penguin and let’s go,” Red Robin added.

"Alright," Clark said. He looked at the minions. "Remember, crime doesn't pay." Then he was standing next to the BatTeam on the stairs, holding Penguin firmly. "Meet you at the rendez-vous point?"

Red Robin waved him off. "The best laid plans of bats and men," he muttered as Superman vanished through a hole in the ceiling, a trail of Penguin's squeals drifting behind him.

"Why didn't we just let him do that in the first place?" Red Hood asked, leading the way down the stairs and back to their bikes.

"We could've," Nightwing said, "but there are reasons B wants metas out of Gotham, and one is that our rouges are very adaptable. Swoop Penguin up once, and we're facing traps that only Big Blue can get us out of for months."

Hood scoffed. "At least they're dating now, Supes can drop by to save us on his lunch break." Jason hopped onto his bike and revved the engine.

"It might not last," Red Robin said, climbing more sedately onto his own bike.

Red Hood just laughed and chased the darkness into the night.

Notes:

Bat-Shark-Repellent works on most things with teeth, actually. As Red Hood would know if he'd bothered to read the label.

Chapter 19: In which Bruce Gets a Headache

Summary:

Penguin had refused to tell Clark anything.

Clark had pointed out that he didn't expect Penguin to tell him anything, since Nightwing, Red Robin, and Red Hood were on their way.

Then Penguin had told Clark everything.

Notes:

I had a shit week, so here's a shit chapter. There's a better one in the works. Hopefully that is also true of my weeks.

Penguin had refused to tell Clark anything.

Clark had pointed out that he didn't expect Penguin to tell him anything, since Nightwing, Red Robin, and Red Hood were on their way.

Then Penguin had told Clark everything.

He'd still left Penguin with Bruce's boys for fact checking or whatever (they'd promised not to hurt Penguin--well, Tim and Dick had promised not to hurt him, and then had promised that they wouldn't let Jason hurt him much), but it didn't sound like he knew more than they had already discovered.

Which wasn't surprising, since Penguin was better at executing other people's plans than making his own. Unless birds were involved, one way or another.

Shaking his head as he exited the safe house, Clark felt a faint tap on his wrist. The messages there led him to dig out his phone from one of the belt's pockets--copious storage was one of the features the Batsuit had over the Supersuit. There was a series of texts there, documenting Bruce and Damian's process of constructing a model of Wayne Tower for one of Damian's school projects. It was cute and sweet in a mundane way, but it was also disconcerting because the pictures and comments read a whole lot like one of Bruce's Mission Reports.

"Does he even realize he's doing that?" Clark muttered, selecting a few emoji to send back. "Would he even realize if he had his memories?" Clark added a line or two of apology for the delayed responses, claiming he'd forgotten to check his phone.

I figured , was the quickly-texted reply. When are you going to get home?

Home. It had a nice ring to it. I'm on my way now, Clark sent, glancing around for his bike, and realizing that it was still back at Penguin's warren--unless the kids had sent it to the Cave on autopilot. And someone would probably stab him if he just flew home in the Batsuit, even if some criminals already knew Superman was the one wearing it tonight. Not sure how long it will take me, traffic is-- Clark glanced around at the empty midnight streets, realized that was too easy to double-check, deleted the last two words, and sent his statement without justification. Bruce wouldn't appreciate the lie, anyway.

Pulling out a grapnel gun, he aimed, and started swinging across the sleeping rooftops of Gotham.

--

"Just let me see him, Alfred," Commissioner Gordon was saying as Clark--dressed as a boring human once more--walked up the front drive from the gate.

"Master Bruce is not himself these days, Commissioner," Alfred replied, holding the door only half-way open.

"I know the amnesia story you've been telling the press," Gordon countered. "But this matter is both delicate and urgent."

"Is that Clark back?" Bruce called just then, blocking more of the light from the door. 

"Not yet, Mas--"

"Oh, hello, Commissioner," Bruce said. "What brings you here so late at night?"

"It is quite late, Master Bruce, I do not believe--"

"Nonsense, Alfred, the Commissioner is a friend, even this late at night. Let him in."

Alfred stepped back, and there went any chance Clark had of preventing this meeting. And he'd gone the long way 'round especially in the hopes of doing so, too. Oh well, no help for it now. "May I come in, too, Alfred?" Clark asked, before the butler could shut the door.

"Oh, of course, Master Kent," Alfred said, perhaps too loudly, as he let Clark in as well.

"You're home!" Bruce said, lighting up when he saw Clark, and Clark thought for a moment he was about to get a kiss or swept into a hug, but then the Commissioner cleared his throat.

"And you are?"

"This is Clark Kent," Bruce said, sounding confused that Gordon didn't already know. "My boyfriend."

Clark felt all warm and fuzzy at the casual use of that term, although he knew it probably wouldn't last past the moment Bruce's memories were returned.

Gordon's eyebrows just about shot off the top of his head. "I had no idea you were seeing anyone." He muttered something about Barbra and never hearing the gossip and shook his head.

"Oh," Bruce said. "We've been dating a while, haven't we?" he directed the last at Clark.

Clark wasn't quite sure how to answer that, so he put on his most stupidly-in-love smile and said, "Longer every day."

The Commissioner cleared his throat again. "Right, well, I won't stay long, I was just bringing over a file folder that I need you to look at."

"What?" Bruce asked, frowning at the folder, and not accepting it.

"A new piece of evidence has been found for the Jackson case, and it's not being publicized, but I need--"

Bruce put up both hands in a warding gesture. "You can't give me case files! That's illegal."

"But--" Gordon said, completely confused, and the manilla folder in his hand drooping slightly. "I just need you to give it--"

"Police documents cannot leave the station! You're violating the--the--arg!" Bruce grabbed at his own head and whimpered. "Why can't I remember?"

Clark stepped physically between the other two men. "Is it a headache?" he asked, brushing one hand over Bruce's. "That's why Dr. Thomp--"

"But why would I forget an obscure legal term? How would I even know one?" Bruce nearly yelled, pulling away from Clark. "I'm going to find Alfred," he added, and stomped off.

"Trouble in paradise?" Gordon asked, having recovered his equilibrium and stoic demeanor.

"Not exactly," Clark said. "I can see that that folder gets where it needs to go." Clark held out a hand for it. "Bruce is too much himself lately to be of any use to you."

"I don't know who you are," Gordon replied, now holding his folder close. "And I'm not going to trust a man who claims to be long-time dating someone who was single three weeks ago."

"Three weeks is a long time for Bruce to date someone," Clark pointed out. "But you're right that things are not as they seem, and I can't fault you for your lack of trust. Use another method to deliver your evidence, or try again next week."

Gordon lifted his chin stubbornly. "Perhaps I will. Good night." He turned and left.

Clark added 'collect evidence from Gordon' to his endless Bat-Do list, and went to see how much damage his relationship with Bruce had just suffered.

Notes:

Bat-Do List:
-case notes
-figure out how Damian opens the kryptonite safe
-let Batcow out to graze
-let Batcow back in
-polish smudge off Batmobile
-get Tim that translation crystal I promised him
-take Jason flying, and then let him shoot at me for the lolz (his word)
-respond to Oracle's mysterious message
-check to make sure Penguin's thug's wives and children are taken care of
-get file from Commissioner Gordon
-leave a comment on my favorite SuperBats fic so the author has at least something to look forward to

Chapter 20: In Which the Rain Falls

Summary:

“Absolutely not,” Tim said in a tone oddly reminiscent of Alfred. “It’s with HR, and they still hate you.”

“Hate me?” Bruce repeated. “What did I do?”

“I‘m glad someone involved was able to forget,” Tim said as a reply

Notes:

Just a little chapter to tide us over to the next chapter, which is ...more. Anyway, it's a little slow, but also very fast there near the end.

Wednesday dawned dark and rainy, and both Tim and Bruce left the Manor for WE with extra thermoses of hot coffee, courtesy of Alfred. Tim had two, actually, one clutched in each hand, and the barely-functional expression of someone who hadn’t had any sleep the night before.

Bruce spent the morning pacing Tim’s office, chasing the feeling that he’d forgotten something important—more important than usual, that is.

Tim had started out the morning trying to give Bruce work to do, but when every task ended unfinished and with Bruce wearing the carpet thin, even he gave up, and focused on his own tasks so closely that Bruce started to feel like he had ceased to exist.

Bruce drummed his fingers on the windowsill, watching the rain scrub ineffectually at the stains of Gotham’s sins. Lightning flashed, and before the thunder could even rumble, Bruce found himself standing in front of an empty section of the wall, hand half-raised. He shook his head at himself and turned back towards the window. 

The rain was still falling, and more lightning flashed. 

“It’s a natural rain,” Tim said, the first words he’d spoken to Bruce in two hours. “That hurricane threw some stuff our way, so this is unusual, but not unnatural.”

Bruce grunted, and another flash of lightning cracked across the sky ominously.

Tim sighed and stretched his back and shoulders, muttering, “You can take the paranoia out of the man…” he shook his head. “I’ve got a lunch meeting in a few.”

Bruce turned away from the rain at that. “Can I—“

“Absolutely not,” Tim said in a tone oddly reminiscent of Alfred. “It’s with HR, and they still hate you.”

“Hate me?” Bruce repeated. “What did I do?”

“I‘m glad someone involved was able to forget,” Tim said as a reply, and gathered his coat and tablet. “You can figure out your own lunch, or go brood on the roof or something.” Then he left, and Bruce felt a chilly breeze tip-toe down his spine as he realized his middlest son had not been quite as unbothered by Bruce’s weird mood as he’d pretended.

Bruce paced the office a few more times, but he was beginning to feel like a tiger in a too-small cage, so he went to the cafeteria for some coffee, nodding at a few of the old-school employees whom he recognized. By the time he had coffee in hand, the rain had let up to a morose drizzle, and Bruce decided to take Tim’s suggestion of heading to the roof. He wasn’t sure what he’d be brooding about, but with weather like this, surely he’d think of something when he got there.

There was a little shelter, and a standing metal cabinet on the roof, which Bruce’s memories told him held something important, although he couldn’t remember what, or the combination on the lock.

So instead, Bruce went to the low wall that surrounded the roof and looked out over his city. 

Gotham looked good in the rain. It was still a horrid murder town, but the wetness turned every surface shiny, causing it to glitter in the crumbs of sunlight that were now sifting through the clouds. There was a menace to it all, sure, a blunt and cold facade that warned anyone who dared not to mess with her, but there was also a mysterious beauty held only for those who knew how to look.

His kids knew how to look, and Bruce had once known how to look, but now he couldn’t remember. Sighing, Bruce set his coffee down on the wall, and hopped up.

He’d only planned to sit with his feet dangling over the edge, but half-way through the procedure, with his legs and one hand on the wall, but his weight slightly unbalanced forward as he shifted, well, that was when a WE employee came out on the roof, took half a look at Bruce, and yelled, “NO, MR. WAYNE, DON’T DO IT!!!”

Bruce startled. He startled . And then, in a way he was sure was embarrassing, though he couldn’t quite remember why, Bruce Wayne slipped on the damp cement, lost his balance entirely, and fell off his own damn skyscraper.

“FUCK!!!” Bruce screamed, reaching for his belt, where he grabbed his belt buckle like it was going to save him. “Fuck,” he said again, though a bit quieter, since there wasn’t much else he could do except enjoy the fall at that point.

“Fuck,” he whispered a third time, with just enough time to wonder if Jason would approve of the swearing before he hit the gr—

Oh, but this wasn’t the ground. This was—

“I’ve got you, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, and— hang on.

Clark. Said.

Bruce wiggled in Superman’s arms until he could see his face, and, yup. That was definitely Clark, just without the horrid glasses. “Don’t you dare fucking Mr. Wayne me, Kal—OH MY GOD KAL-EL,” Bruce shouted at him, a door opening in his mind, and a thousand memories falling out, including the truth about that name. “Why didn’t you just fucking tell me you were Superman?” He reached out to smack his boyfriend, realized it wouldn’t do any good anyway, and tried yanking on his hair instead.

Clark grunted, but more in acknowledgement than pain.

Bruce tried to grab at the memories that were streaming past him, but most of them fell into the forgotten voids in his mind too quickly for more than a glimpse. But it explained so much . Why he’d thought Batman was Clark, why he’d felt like something huge was missing between them. Why he’d almost remembered that there was a biological problem with intimacy (Superman was an alien ; chances of sex between them being perfectly normal were improbable at best). Hell, it even explained why Clark was so hell-bent on making sure he had Bruce’s informed consent.

At least it also meant Superman had been alert and aware enough to save Bruce's life just now.

Notes:

Mmm, that's a weird and awkward note to end on.

Oh wait, shit, we're here for funny. Um.

(The next time Tim deigns to talk with Jason)
Tim: Bruce fell off the building
Jason: The...Wayne building?
Tim: The Wayne Enterprises skyscraper, yeah
Jason: No shit, really?
Tim: Clark said he yelled FUCK all the way down
Jason: Fucking nice, B! Did you get it on video? Because I'd find that very incentivizing.

Chapter 21: In Which Something Is Remembered

Summary:

“We didn’t know how it would affect your healing mi—“
“We?” Bruce interrupted.
“I.” Clark said, “I didn’t know ho—“
“We,” Bruce repeated.
“I,” Clark stated.
Bruce narrowed his eyes again. “The boys know.”

Notes:

I *think* I managed to smooth out all the emotional transitions in this chapter to a reasonable/realistic flow, but if something stands out as...not right, could y'all let me know? It's a bit of a roller coaster feels-wise, and went through more versions than most of my scenes do (generally if I have to rewrite them that much, I just cut them...)

Clark touched down on a nearby rooftop, and Bruce immediately twisted out of his arms. “You should have told me,” he said, once he’d gotten a few steps away.

Clark sighed. “Probably.”

“I already knew. You told me once before.”

“You figured it out,” Clark said.

“The pie?”

“Fresh from Kansas.”

“The active shooter?”

“I couldn’t reveal myself in civilian clothes.”

“Your cos—the Supergirl attack.” Bruce had read about it in the paper. No one had died, but it was close, and the property damage was absurdly high. Tim had assured him Wayne Enterprises and associated bodies were assisting as much as they could financially, which they were probably obligated to do since the damage was basically caused by Bruce's boyfriend . “You could have told me.” Bruce folded his arms across his chest and turned his glare up a notch. And wow, was that the Man of Steel fidgeting under Bruce’s gaze? That was satisfying.

“We didn’t know how it would affect your healing mi—“

“We?” Bruce interrupted.

“I.” Clark said, “I didn’t know ho—“

“We,” Bruce repeated.

“I,” Clark stated.

Bruce narrowed his eyes again. “The boys know.” Of course they did. Tim and Clark playing video games? Please. Robin getting help with his homework? He was practically a genius. Dick and Jason laughing their asses off at dinner after the Planet Shooter situation? because they knew there was no danger . It all made perfect sense now. “You said I figured it out on my own, and you didn’t think I’d figure it out again?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t need to tell you before, and then I couldn’t because we didn’t know how your brain would handle it, and then it just got weird and I still didn’t know how to tell you, and I also didn’t know how you’d take being lied to.” 

“Clark,” Bruce said. “You’re an idiot.”

“Only when it comes to you,” Clark said, folding his arms across his chest.

“You didn’t think I’d appreciate being lied to, so you kept lying to me.”

Bruce turned away from him and rubbed at his forehead, feeling another headache coming on, although at least this one came with memories, instead of preventing their return. Even if he couldn't quite grasp them. 

He needed to think logically about this, despite the missing pieces. He’d figured out the guy he was dating was Superman somehow, and then it either hadn’t been a big deal, or he’d managed to get over it. But their relationship was starting to fall apart—allegedly for unrelated reasons—and Clark was worried that it wouldn’t last much longer, so when Bruce forgot, Clark probably just figured it was safer to have one fewer person know his secret, especially one who might have emotional reasons for illogical revenge. Maybe Bruce could understand that.

And did he want this weird lie-not-lie to destroy their relationship? He did not. Maybe Clark was right that they were falling apart, but this didn’t have to be the straw that burned down that bridge, not unless Bruce made it so. And Bruce didn’t want to. He wanted to continue dating Clark, who was also Superman.

Clark Kent was Superman. Clark Kent, who Bruce was dating was Superman. Bruce Wayne was dating Superman . “Holy shit. I’m dating Superman,” Bruce said, trying the phrase on for size.

“Seems that way,” Clark muttered, not knowing that the storm was past for now.

“And I cheated on you!” Bruce whirled back around to face him. Because it still felt like the obvious issue, no matter how everyone assured him otherwise.

“You—Bruce, for the hundredth time, you did not cheat on me . I’m Superman; I would know .”

Okay, that was a reasonable point, unless Past-Bruce thought it would be a fun challenge to cuckold someone with superpowers. And it didn’t explain why Bruce couldn’t get Batman off his mind. But if Clark didn’t know, and Dick didn’t know, Bruce didn't know either. 

“Did we have a threesome with Batman?” He asked, as if America’s most wholesome hero would even consider such a thing. Bruce just said it to watch him turn as red as his cape.

“No! For Rao’s sake, why are you so fixated on him? ”

”You tell me,” Bruce challenged. “I can't remember.”

The Man of Steel deflated. “You were close to Batman, but not in that way.” Clark gave a little sigh, and added almost reluctantly,  “Many people think Batman is asexual, and even if he’s not, he’s much too driven by his mission to have time for a relationship.” Clark held up his hand. “Even a relationship that is just him messing around with his best friend’s boyfriend, so don’t even suggest it.”

“Well then, boyfriend , how about we go home and I’ll show you what Batman is missing out on.” Bruce slid up next to Clark and ran his hands over the Supersuit, enjoying the unfamiliar way the material slid under his fingers.

“Home and—“ Clark repeated. “What? No, B. We need to go back to WE before rumors of your fall get out of hand!”

“I’ll just call Tim and tell him you caught me,” Bruce said. “And after that, I definitely consent to have sex with Superman,” Bruce said, because that was what Clark was waiting for, wasn’t it? At least something good could come out of this debacle.

“It’s not the con—well, okay, it is the consent, consent is very important—but that’s not a detail of our relationship, Bruce.”

“How is your secret identity not part of our relationship?” Bruce stepped back from him.

“How did you figure it out the first time?”

“You wear glasses , Clark.” Bruce pointed to his own eyes for emphasis.

“How did you tell me you’d figured it out?”

“I—“ but Clark was right, Bruce couldn’t remember. He knew it now, and he remembered the fact that he’d known before, and he remembered talking with Superman casually (though not what about), and he remembered that— “You took me to the Fortress once.”

“Did I?” Superman asked. “Why? When?”

“Yes, it’s...I...I have been there.”

Superman shrugged, but Bruce could read the frustration in the gesture. “Have you? Or did I just show you pictures?”

“It definitely wasn’t photos,” Bruce said. He remembered the cold and the wind, the bite of ice as he breathed.

“What did you do there?”

“Walked...in...the...corridor,” Bruce said each word haltingly, as he tried to describe a memory that was suddenly crumbling under scrutiny.

“Was I even there?” Clark asked.

“How else would I have gotten to a fortress made of ice ?” Bruce demanded.

“Dreams? Air BnB? Wayne Holodeck technology? Bruce, this is what I keep trying to tell you. It’s not the secrets I’m keeping; it’s the ones you can’t remember.”

“Goddammit, Clark. If I need to remember something, just tell me what it is. ”

“If I tell you, you will die, ” Clark replied, and it didn’t sound like he was joking.

“Then just fucking have sex with me!” Bruce shouted back. “How many people have I had sex with? Maybe I’ve gotten a bit slower lately, but sex isn’t some magical connection between two people, it’s just some fun and a burst of pleasure, and I won’t regret having sex with you . Even if I suddenly remember that you’re too good for me, and break up with you. Or die because you tell me a secret.”

“Yeah, but—“ Clark began.

Bruce made a disgusted noise. “Forget it, just take me back to WE before Tim does something drastic.”

Notes:

Conner made an Air BnB listing for the Fortress of Solitude once when he was mad at Clark (and also one of the other Titans dared him to). Flash and Hal Jordan booked it for a weekend, but Clark figured it out before they went, and made Conner take it down.

Chapter 22: In Which Time Passes

Summary:

Bruce glanced over his shoulder to see his youngest there. "What do you need, Rrrr…" Bruce trailed off as the boy glared at him.

"Tt," Robin said. "Robin is not my name, Father."

Notes:

Whee! Time jump! Let's GET A MOVE ON, STORY.

Bruce's relationship with Clark remained rocky for the rest of the week. It was better in some ways--now Clark could just tell him he was needed somewhere as Superman, instead of inventing family activities, and that felt much more natural and honest. But it was also worse--Clark straight-up moved all of his things out of Bruce's room and into the next bedroom over, and that felt...significant, even if both nights Clark had still ended up sleeping in Bruce's bed. Inasmuch as he slept. And without anything interesting happening. Well. Nothing that interesting.

Otherwise Bruce's life remained mostly unchanged; he still couldn't remember any details of his relationship with Clark, he still couldn't remember his hobby, and he still couldn't remember Robin's other name. Far more time had passed than Dr Thompkins had suggested it would take for Bruce's memories to return, and while this didn't seem to bother any of Bruce's family, he was getting increasingly frustrated with the situation.

Bruce had found a black notebook buried in his sock drawer, with a soft leather cover and a little slot for a pen. He had no idea why he'd hidden a blank journal in his dresser, but since it was clearly his, he'd started taking notes.

Not so much notes about what he remembered as notes about where he stopped remembering, in the hopes that he could piece together what was missing from what was there.

Almost every page he'd filled so far had some variation on the sentence 'Robin's name is--' but not one of them had the name, and while Bruce couldn't remember it, he also couldn't keep asking Robin, with whom this was becoming an ever-sorer spot.

And anyway, apparently he couldn't remember long enough after asking to write Robin's name down.

So Bruce was in his study, trying to find a piece of paper--any piece of paper--with Robin's name written on it. But first he had to remember where he kept the keys to his desk, and then his mind was such a muddle that he started in the Adoption Papers folder, and went to add Tim's birthday to his book, which was when he remembered that that wasn't what he'd gone looking for, and that also Robin wasn't adopted .

Thinking he'd maybe try for a 'school records' folder, Bruce turned back to his file cabinet just as the study door whispered open.

Bruce glanced over his shoulder to see his youngest there. "What do you need, Rrrr…" Bruce trailed off as the boy glared at him.

"Tt," Robin said. "Robin is not my name, Father."

"I know, I was trying to--to--" Bruce glanced down at the file in his hands. It was labeled 'School Records: Tim Drake.'

"My name is Damian ," Robin said.

"Damian," Bruce repeated. He set the folder down and reached for a pen.

"I know this is difficult for you, and that it is not your fault you cannot remember, but the gala is tonight, and you cannot call me Robin where others might hear."

"Of course not, Robin."

Robin's expression turned pained.

"I mean--D-Da--Dan?"

" D-a-m-i-a-n ," Robin said it slowly.

"Damian," Bruce said again.

"Tt," Robin scoffed scornfully. "If you cannot remember it, Father, then call me son, or chum, or lad, or your youngest, or your blood son, but do not call me Robin ."

"I wouldn't call you my blood son, Ro--old chum." Bruce course-corrected, but received the deadly end of one of Robin's stares, anyway. And where had he learned to glare like that in the first place?

"Tt. Give me your notebook, Father," Robin held out his hand. Bruce turned it over, and watched as Robin flipped through all the pages, confidently writing one word on each of them.

He returned it and then swept out of the room dramatically, the door swinging silently closed behind him.

Bruce looked down at his notebook, and found that the name 'Damian' was written on every page, as if it were the answer to 'Robin's name is'. Which was strange, because that couldn't be right, could it?

A distant clock chimed, and Bruce glanced at his watch; it was time for him to get ready for the gala. He tucked the notebook in the crook of his arm, and meandered off to his room. 

Bruce was almost dressed when he heard a knock on the door. "You don't have to knock, Clark," he called out.

Clark opened the door and peeked around it. "I didn't want to catch you changing," he said.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You've seen it all before, and if you hadn't, you could have just looked through the wall to check."

Clark blushed. "I would never invade your privacy like that."

Bruce just shook his head. "Did you need something?"

"I was hoping to borrow a tie, actually," Clark said, coming the rest of the way into the room. "I'm pretty sure I don't have anything appropriate."

Bruce looked him up and down. "I hope you're planning to borrow a suit, too."

Clark looked down at himself. "What--" he started.

"Don't even," Bruce interrupted him. "I know now that you're a fashion disaster because it's part of hiding in plain sight, but no way would Bruce Wayne let his boyfriend go out in a crowd looking like that ."

Clark tugged on the bottom of his jacket like it would help. "I'm not sure what else I've got. Nothing of yours will fit me."

"More's the pity," Bruce muttered, thinking about a few choice styles he'd like to see Clark wear some day. "Still, you'll have something that will work." Bruce tugged his tie tight. "Let's investigate."

“No need for that, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, appearing suddenly in the doorway. He was carrying a garment bag, which he held out to Clark, and then to Bruce when Clark made no move to take it. “You had this made this past year, Master Bruce, and were waiting for the right time to gift it. May I suggest now as appropriate?”

The bag proved to contain a perfectly-fitted and flattering suit for Clark, who put it on, but looked bewildered that it should fit so well. “You’ve never taken my measurements,” Clark said, almost protesting.

“Master Bruce has a rather discerning eye,” Alfred replied, reappearing with a few more accessories.

“Yeah, but that was—“ Clark glanced at Bruce and cut off whatever he was about to say.

“I may have helped by borrowing measurements from existing garments,” Alfred added.

Once Clark was fully in the suit, Bruce inspected him from every angle, and found himself very approving of Past Bruce’s decision to have it made. Having completed his orbit of his boyfriend back at the front, Bruce stepped close and leaned in as if to kiss him—but then just snagged Clark’s glasses away instead.

“Wait—“ Clark reaches after them, but Bruce pulled them out of reach.

“Here,” Bruce said, holding out a different pair. He’d found them in a fancy black case among his accessories. The frames were a slick black plastic with square space for the lenses, rather than the brown tortoiseshell circles Clark usually wore. They were also heavier than Bruce expected, and there was a slight coloration to the lenses. Bruce figures the latter meant transition lenses, and the former was why he never wore them—though weight shouldn’t bother Superman. “Your normal pair is not invited to a Wayne gala.”

Clark just sighed in acceptance and put them on. The light caught the lenses weirdly for a second, and then Clark made a noise that almost sounded like a strangled laugh. "Thank you for these," he said, sweeping Bruce into a gentle kiss.

"They're just glasses," Bruce grumbled, turning his face to the side, even though he was completely charmed by Clark's reaction.

Notes:

Bruce's Journal, entry 1:
I found this journal in my sock drawer under the brown socks. It seems like it has a bat pressed into the leather of the cover, which is more evidence that I have some unusual interest in Batman (big fan?). I am planning to use this journal to track the missing memories that I frequently find myself having, due to the concussion I received when falling off the balcony at a party. My children and boyfriend seem to think that my lacking memories is unimportant, and that they will return in time, but doctors, and the three hours I spent searching the internet seem to imply that my memories should have returned by now. Thus I have decided to investigate my own memories, my own self. And I will record what I learn here.
So far:
-I call my youngest son Robin, but this is allegedly not his name
-I keep losing time and finding myself in my study, staring at the wall
-My boyfriend will not engage in intimacy with me...
[etc, probably for pages and pages. He'll actually need a new journal every week at this rate]

Chapter 23: In Which Clark Wears Glasses

Summary:

The glasses were not just glasses; they were a wearable Wayne Tech gadget that was equipped with as much Bat-tech as an overly-paranoid genius vigilante could stuff into them.

Notes:

Look! Everyone was right about the glasses!

Also, I...apparently haven't decided how to approach the relationship between Clark and Conner. It's based on the Young Justice cartoon, since, honestly that's my go-to, but they go from Clark being "NOOOOO" to them being brothers? and it's all off screen? and I thought I'd roll with that, but when it came time to put the ink on the page about it, I couldn't envision that shift, and rather than get writer's block over trying to sort it out, I just brushed over it quick. Just...if you're disappointed or something, IDK why I'm telling you this.

The glasses were not just glasses; they were a wearable Wayne Tech gadget that was equipped with as much Bat-tech as an overly-paranoid genius vigilante could stuff into them. Clark now had facial recognition for every guest at the gala, access to Batman's calendar and contacts list, as well as an absurd collection of details about everyone and everything that Bruce had ever come into contact with.

It was more information than Clark actually needed for being at the gala, but it was also fun and reassuring in some ways; Clark had been prepping himself to be completely overwhelmed by strangers and the need to interact with them in a non-press capacity--where he was completely new to most people, but also needed to seem like he wasn't quite that new if he was around Bruce (which he planned to be most of the evening). The glasses would help significantly with that.

And thank goodness Tim had switched all the Batman-recognition locks over to recognizing Clark's face because the lenses suddenly exploding would have been hard to explain--as would Clark appearing behind their rubble completely unscathed.

Bruce and Clark ran into Tim and Conner as they were heading towards the ballroom just before they'd need to begin greeting guests.

Clark greeted Tim with a nod, and Conner with a half-hug and a thump on the back--he got the same in return, both thumps hard enough to knock over buildings, but neither man so much as flinching.

Bruce was staring hard at them both. "Conner's your clone ," Bruce said when Clark raised an eyebrow at him. "No wonder Tim said it was complicated."

Clark frowned. "When…?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Damian said Kon was your son one morning after you'd left."

Clark couldn't repress his wince at that--and neither could Conner.

"We're more like brothers," Clark said, and that fit. 

"Like you deserve any credit for who I am," Conner said, pulling Tim close and sweeping off down the hall with him.

"It is complicated," Clark said to Bruce's rather judgemental look. And it was. He'd messed up early on, and for a while they'd barely wanted anything to do with each other, even after Clark had realized what he'd done. But they'd worked out a relationship well enough on their own terms, eventually. Mostly. "Come on." Clark put out his arm and escorted Bruce the rest of the way into the ballroom.

Only family was there at first, and Dick pulled Bruce aside to ask some questions while Tim sidled up to Clark with details about the plan for the evening.

"Jason is doing patrol," Tim said. "Along with Kate. That should keep Gotham under wraps. B thinks J has a cold, by the way. Dick's volunteered to run interference with Gordon, if he comes--he RSVP'd with Barbra, but this is Gotham, and he's the Commissioner." Tim shrugged. "Damian is going to stay mostly away from B so he doesn't get called Robin, so he'll be watching for uninvited guests--of the criminal sort, not party crashers." Tim added at Clark's frown. "I've got to talk with a select group of individuals to try and get info for some of our on-going cases. Conner will be with me, but keeping an eye and an ear out to assist Damian if needed."

Clark nodded. That was all pretty much as he'd expected.

"I mentioned that you'd be in charge of keeping an eye on Bruce--" they'd had a mission meeting this morning, but it'd been interrupted by a chain of minor events that prevented Tim's full plan being explained earlier "--but I didn't get to mention that Selena Kyle will be here. She wasn't invited, and last we’d heard she was in France, but of course neither of those facts means anything when it comes to Selena. And I don’t think she knows about the amnesia."

Clark opened his mouth to ask a whole string of follow-up questions, but before he could, Bruce reappeared as their first guests were announced, and there was no more time for questions.

The glasses helped immensely. Bruce was about fifty-fifty for remembering people, but with the glasses, Clark could step in and remind him who someone was, and then, if necessary, "remind" the person of where they'd met Clark before. Clark would have preferred honesty, of course, but the situation didn't really permit it.

Bruce was starting to touch his head more in a way that Clark was pretty sure meant he had a headache, probably from all of the new memories he was having to deal with. Clark was about to excuse them both to a dark room for a bit, to chastise Bruce about not having to suffer with a sore head, when Commissioner Gordon appeared through the crowd. 

Neither Babs nor Dick was with him, and Clark glanced around as casually as possible looking for them, but couldn't find them in the crowd, and there were too many people chattering too close for his SuperHearing to be useful.

Gordon nodded at them, and made his way over. "Good evening, Bruce," he said. "This is quite the party."

"Glad you could make it!" Bruce said, shaking the commissioner's hand. "I can't remember ever throwing a better one!" Bruce smiled proudly at his little joke, but neither Gordon nor Clark responded.

Gordon held out his hand for Clark to shake. Clark took it, realized quickly that it was more a Manly Contest than greeting, and put just a touch more pressure into the grip than the Commissioner did. He also made a show of subtly stretching out his fingers when he got his hand back--as if Gordon's grip had hurt. 

"It's good to see you again, Mark," Gordon said. "I can't say we met under the best of circumstances."

"It's Clark," Clark corrected. "And it is nice to meet you properly, Commissioner."

"Would you mind terribly if I spoke with Bruce for a moment?" Gordon asked.

Clark half-gestured at Bruce.

" Alone ," Gordon emphasized.

Clark glanced around quickly, but none of the BatFamily was around for a rescue, and he didn't really have an option other than politeness at a fancy gala. "Of course," Clark said. "I've been meaning to sample the h'orderves. I'll bring you a petit four," he added, brushing a hand over Bruce's before he left.

Notes:

Stranger: Hello, Brucie, darling! How have you been!
Bruce: *confused* Hello!
Clark: *blessing glasses* Hello, Ms Shuster! We haven't seen you since the winter ball at the Kanes'!
Ms Shuster: Oh dear, I'm afraid I can't quite place you...
Clark: Oh, it's the new glasses, they make me look like a whole new person!
Gordon: *watching from the shadows* *to himself* that man wasn't AT the winter ball! I must save my dear friend Bruce from this imposture!

Chapter 24: In Which Bruce Had Cufflinks

Summary:

“This Mark guy, where did you say you two met?” Gordon asked, watching after Clark in the crowd.

“His name is Clark,” Bruce corrected. “Clark Kent, and I’ve known him for years.”

“Yes, but where did you two meet?” Jim asked.

Notes:

I'm getting ahead in writing, so now I'm impatient to post, and the last chapter wasn't much anyway (and the next chapter is short), so have a mid-week update!

With the amount of pain Bruce was in, he didn’t appreciate Clark’s leaving him alone, even if the commissioner was an old friend. 

“What do you need to speak about, Jim?” Bruce asked, trying to push his headache down by sheer force of will.

“This Mark guy, where did you say you two met?” Gordon asked, watching after Clark in the crowd.

“His name is Clark,” Bruce corrected. “Clark Kent, and I’ve known him for years.”

“Yes, but where did you two meet?” Jim asked.

“We met at a Luthor function years and years ago.”

“You’ve been dating him for years?”

Bruce shook his head. “Look, I don’t really remember; this amnesia took a lot away from me.”

“So then what do you remember about him?” Gordon asked. “He could be anyone. Are you sure you’re even together?”

Bruce’s headache flared, and he put a hand to his temple, pressing gently. “I think I know my own boyfriend, thank you very much,” he snapped through the pain.

“I’m just worried for you, Bruce,” Gordon said. “You’re a very important and influential person in Gotham, and there are a lot of people out there who might be looking to take advantage of that if they could.”

“My boyfriend is not looking to ‘take advantage’ of me,” Bruce said, more's the pity , he added in his head, though of course that’s not the way Gordon meant it. Bruce couldn’t imagine that Superman needed or wanted to take advantage of him in the way the commissioner was worried about, though. Not that there was a way to tell Gordon that.

“Of course not,” the commissioner said soothingly, “it’s just that I’m worried your mission might go unfinished.”

Bruce shook his head. “What mission?” Did this have to do with his missing hobby? Was his hobby religion ?! That would certainly account for a personality change, but—

“Does he give you anything?”

“What?”

“To eat or drink? He said he was going to bring you a petit four, does he—“

“Do you think he’s drugging me ?” Bruce asked, disgusted, as he finally realized what the commissioner was trying to get at. Maybe Gordon didn’t know that Clark was Superman, but he needed to have a little more trust that Bruce knew what he was doing. 

“Of course—“

Bruce held up a hand to cut I’m off. “I consider you a friend, Commissioner, but I think you should walk away from this conversation now.”

Gordon took one look at his face and muttered something under his breath before turning to leave.

Bruce watched him go, hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides.

“My, my, Brucie,” a sultry voice said from behind him. “What did our darling commissioner say to get you so riled up?”

Bruce couldn’t place the voice at first, and when he turned around to see who it was, and if he'd thought his headache was a ten before, it was now probably a twenty. “S-S-se-Se,” he stammered out. She triggered a string of memories that included—included— Bruce couldn’t think over the pain.

“Mmm,” she purred, “Cat got your tongue?”

“Selena,” Clark said suddenly, appearing at Bruce’s side.

Bruce nearly collapsed with relief, and turned to bury his face in Clark’s shoulder, his soft heat and gentle scent giving Bruce a chance to breathe and catch his thoughts again.

“Mmmmmm,” she—Selena—purred again, this time with lusty approval, and Bruce could just imagine her slipping her eyes up and down Clark as she said it. “And who might you be?”

“This is Clark,” Bruce said, turning back towards her, indignation overruling his headache for a moment. “My boyfriend.” And how come no one he knew knew he and Clark were dating, anyway? Neither of them were closeted, but had Bruce been keeping their relationship secret? Why? Or—he took another look at Selena, bracing himself against Clark’s side for the flow of memories. They were more missing than not, but the ones he received all seemed to include sex. Maybe Past-Bruce had had Reasons for keeping the relationship quiet. Bruce resolved to invent time travel and go back to punch himself in the face.

“Boyfriend?” Selena asked, looking up and down Clark again. “You didn’t have a boyfriend last—“

“Bruce has amnesia,” Clark interrupted her. “He’s forgotten quite a lot of things. ”

“Oohhhh, has he?” Selena’s smile turned predatory, but lost the lustful edge. “I don’t suppose you remember what watch our commissioner was wearing, then, hmm? Or which jewels Ms Singh has on tonight?”

Bruce shook his head in confusion, his headache picking up again. 

“What about your cufflinks?”

“What about my…?” Bruce asked, glancing down to his sleeves, and finding them missing.

“Selena,” Clark said, and held out a hand.

She smirked, but dropped the cufflinks into his palm. “I guess I’ve got my evening plans sorted, then, ta, Brucie darling!”

Part of Bruce yelled that she shouldn’t be allowed to wander off on her own, but he could barely hear it over the pain in his head.

“Go lie down in the study or something,” Clark said, pressing Bruce’s cufflinks into his hand. “I’ll let the boys know you’re taking a break, and find some painkillers, okay?”

Bruce just nodded and waved him off, clutching his head as he went off in search of darkness.

Notes:

Bruce: So you keep saying I didn't sleep with Batman
Clark: oh Rao, not this again
Bruce: And I guess I can't argue with that
Clark: Finally, tha--
Bruce: But I was definitely cheating on you with Selena
CLARK: *tears at hair* NO

Chapter 25: In Which Bruce Sits in the Dark

Summary:

It was perfect. At least until Bruce's hands wandered a bit too low, and Clark made a half-amused noise and pulled away enough to look down at him. 

"I take it your headache's better?"

"Hm," Bruce said, trying to lean back into the kiss.

Notes:

Oh look! Another short chapter! But this one pulls some weight.

Bruce found one of the sitting rooms, rather than the study, but it was dark and empty, so he sat down in a chair by a cold fireplace and took slow, deep breaths, fighting through the pain. 

When Bruce heard a footstep behind him, he stood and turned, expecting Clark. But it wasn’t Clark.

“Who—“ Bruce said, staring at the gangly blond man with a miasma of cigarettes around him.

“Here you are, then,” the man said, with a noticeably English accent. “Z’s sorry she couldn’t make it, they got held up on Gazmaktch or something, but she managed to get a message to me first, sent me the cure for what ails ya, mate.”

“Z…?” Bruce repeated, still having no idea who this man was.

“And just in time, from the looks of you,” the man continued, looking Bruce up and down in such a way Bruce couldn’t tell if he was checking health or sex appeal. “You’ve got quite the curse on you, and half you put on yourself.”

Curse? Bruce's head was killing him, and his boyfriend wasn't here yet, and now this party crasher was claiming Bruce was cursed? “Who are you?” Bruce growled the whole sentence.

“Who am I? No, mate, the question is, who are you ?” With that rather dramatic line, the man reached out a hand and touched Bruce’s forehead. He spouted some nonsense, and before Bruce could respond, there was a bright flash of light, and a brighter stab of pain, strong enough to knock Bruce down to his knees.

“There you are,” the man said, “You’ll be right as rain in a moment, back to your broody dark self, Batsy.” He dusted his hands. “Now, I’ve got me a devil to catch.”

And then he was gone.

Just—gone, not he left, just he was gone .

Bruce put a hand back to his head, but realized the headache was finally fading. He sat up, blinked into the darkness. He was Bruce Wayne. He was Bruce Wayne, and he was sitting on the floor in one of his sitting rooms because he’d had a headache at a gala, which he’d been attending with—with—

“Oh here you are,” Clark said, entering the room. “On the floor,” he added, tone confused.

Bruce knew the feeling. His memories were back, but they'd all returned at once, just dumped into the soup of his mind along with the new memories--the memories of not remembering--and he needed more time and space to sort out what everything was. But he couldn't have that time because he was hosting a gala right now, and the host couldn't disappear less than two hours into an event. So Bruce had to pull only the useful memories out of the maelstrom, enough to reassemble the situation and function in it.

"How's your head?" Clark asked. He held out a hand to help Bruce up.

Some of Bruce wanted to bat the hand away, snarl at Clark, and get to his feet on his own. But he was playing a part right now, after a fashion. A part where he and Clark were ...dating? Which meant that he could accept the hand, and allow Clark to pull him to his feet without it being a Whole Thing. It meant that he could--

Bruce took Clark's hand, allowed himself to be pulled up, then used the momentum to continue forward until he crashed into Clark, smashed their lips together, wrapped his arms around Clark's back, and kissed him as he'd always wanted.

And it was everything Bruce had ever wanted it to be, hot and hot , and passionate, and Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce tight, holding him close, and Bruce reveled in it. He rubbed his hands all over that fucking impossible body, feeling the invincible muscles shift even through the cloth of Clark's suit.

It was perfect. At least until Bruce's hands wandered a bit too low, and Clark made a half-amused noise and pulled away enough to look down at him. 

"I take it your headache's better?"

"Hm," Bruce said, trying to lean back into the kiss.

"Your guests are waiting," Clark reminded him.

"Hm," Bruce said again. He didn't pull back, though, just tipped his head forward to rest on Clark's shoulder and pretended that this was real--real for both of them. That he could have support and love and comfort and an infinitely strong pair of shoulders to carry some of the weight.

Then he stepped back. Smoothed out his suit. Smoothed out Clark's suit, because apparently fashion-disaster reporters didn't know you had to do that after a passionate kiss in a dark sitting room. He tugged Clark down by his tie for one more quick kiss, and then straightened his back, collected his memories, and headed back out to the gala.

Notes:

And that's a wrap. The end; everybody go home.

 

Lol just kidding.

 

 

 

probably.

Chapter 26: In Witch Time

Summary:

Bruce didn't quite smile. "I didn't know you were a new age polka fan, Damian."

"I don't need to be a fan to know when something is being slaughtered," Damian replied, viciously enough that he almost dropped his plate.

Notes:

That wasn't the end, I'm not evil. Chaotic neutral at worst.

The music was too loud, and all the instruments were slightly out of sync with each other. When Bruce had discretely said as much to their host, she’d laughed and pointed out that the sound wouldn’t come through in the photos anyway. Bruce had tried to make a rejoinder about tiktok, but she disappeared before he got to the end of the sentence. 

“Isn’t there supposed to be a villain, Father?” Damian said, emerging from the crowd. He was holding his phone in one hand, and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres in the other—each one with only a small and disappointed bite out of it.

Bruce’s own appetizers had ended up in the trash after a similar sampling.

“Patience, Damian,” Bruce said. “We weren’t given a specific time.”

The band began mangling another cover song, and Damian gave Bruce a pointed Look. "Perhaps, Father, if their choice in music is this terrible, they deserve whatever happens."

Bruce didn't quite smile. "I didn't know you were a new age polka fan, Damian."

"I don't need to be a fan to know when something is being slaughtered," Damian replied, viciously enough that he almost dropped his plate.

"Hmm," Bruce said, to repress his laugh. "There is a--"

A commotion at the door interrupted him, and he exchanged a brief glance with his son before they both turned and started pushing through the sudden tumult towards the door they'd marked out earlier. The door led to a hallway with a convenient janitor's closet in it, and after a quick costume change, Batman and Robin appeared and ran back into the ballroom.

Penguin and his henchmen had already reached the stairway to the mezzanine. Four henchmen followed Penguin up, while the other six turned around and started waving their guns threateningly to chase people off.

"They aren't robbing the guests," Robin said. "They probably realized it wouldn't be worth their time," he added with a sniff as they passed a plastic statue of a swan that was supposed to look like it was crystal or glass or ice--Batman didn't know or care, and honestly neither did most of the guests. Not if it looked good in the backgrounds of their selfies. The press of people moving away from the stairs (and Penguin's henchmen) made for slow going, but Batman made it to the stairs a few steps ahead of Robin, and just as Penguin disappeared into one of the side galleries.

Skipping every other step, and knowing Robin was right behind him, Batman ran up, but just as he neared the top, the world vanished in a flash of light. 

Batman found himself immobile, suspended in the position of running up stairs when there were no stairs to be seen, only a faintly glowing gray mist in every direction. "Hm," Batman said, trying to move at least enough to see if Robin was behind him in this non-place.

He wasn't successful, but after a moment there was movement in the dim nothingness. The movement slunk into his perception, and then twined itself around his legs; a slightly-too-large tawny cat with black stripes and scruffy ears. "Teekl," Batman said--or rather, tried to say, because what he hadn't realized with his monosyllable before was that his mouth couldn't move either.

Still, there was no particular need to panic. Batman had been captured by the most ridiculous member of the Light; Klarion the Witch-Boy, who monologued with the worst of them, and despite allegedly being an embodiment of chaos, projected what he was going to do long before he did it. He was easy enough to confuse and talk into doing something else--well, normally he was, with Batman unable to speak, he'd be at a disadvantage on that front.

"Just as I told you, Teekl," Klarion said, walking in from beyond Batman's sight. "We've caught ourselves a Bat!"

Teekl meowed, and made an ineffective attempt to bite Batman through the armor he was wearing.

"Don't hurt your teeth, Teekl," Klarion said, almost absently. He pulled a book out of literally nowhere, and started flipping through it. "Here's the spell he wanted us to use." He stopped and started reading off the page. The wording was dense, to say the least, and Batman wasn't quite sure why Klarion was reading it to him--or to himself? Hadn't he read it when whomever had told him which spell to use? Or no, Batman couldn't imagine that the Witch-boy was one to do his homework in advance.

The description of the spell continued on, and Bruce listened intently, trying to parse what it was about. It sounded like it was intended to destroy the mind--someone's personhood; their thoughts, memories, personality, hopes, dreams, drive, familial bonds...the caster just needed the name of their target, and to go through an absurdly lengthy casting to effectively leave that person in a vegetative state. 

And then there was a three-page description about how and why the name was important, and what constituted a name, and that got Batman to wondering, Does Klarion even know my name? It seemed like a rather odd oversight on the part of whichever more competent member of the light had given Klarion the idea. But they probably figured that Batman was the way he defined himself, and Bruce Wayne was the pretend role--and according to the definition given at length in this book, they weren't entirely wrong. Except that they weren't entirely right, either.

It was a long shot. Batman knew it was a long shot, and Bruce knew it was a long shot, but it was likely the only one he'd get, and he'd need to focus quickly because the spell's description was winding down to an end.

Drawing on techniques he'd learned in places soon to be forgotten, Bruce turned his attention inwards, split his memories into two, and pushed half of them down, down, into the farthest back reaches of his mind, buried them under the rubble of half-forgotten memes, locked them up tight, and turned the key into a cipher to tell Robin; one last phrase that he need to remember just long enough to tell his son, one that would be explanation and clue and lead the boys to saving him from whatever state he was going to be left in.

Bruce barely managed to finish when the boy slammed his book closed. "Did you catch all of that, Teekl?" the boy asked, though the cat had in no wise indicated that it was listening. "We're going to destroy the mind of Batman!" He gave a thin laugh. "He won't get out of this one, will he, Teekl? We'll just throw him back, and He'll be nothing be a vegetable in pointy ears!" he laughed some more, and Bruce wondered where Batman was--but no, he couldn't wonder, he had something important to remember. Just one thing; one thing he couldn't forget to tell Robin.

The boy started chanting, and Bruce wondered if it was magic--and why was this strange boy casting it on him, but then he reminded himself that it didn't matter because he had something to tell Robin, something he had to remember to tell Robin, he had to remember…

The chanting stopped abruptly, and just as abruptly, the world began again. Bruce started to turn to look at Robin, but his feet caught on a flight of stairs he didn't remember, causing him to tumble into a railing. He tried to grab the railing and hold on, but there was a black cape that tangled in his fingers, and the railing snapped, and Bruce fell, the air rushing around him, as he tried to remember what he needed to tell Robin, tried to remember...Robin...

Notes:

First let me say that the chapter title is a stroke of BRILLIANCE, and while I didn't name the chapters in this manner to make that happen, I TOTALLY WOULD HAVE.

And then if you'd like to play a comments-game, you can speculate on what, exactly, Bruce/Batman's key phrase to Robin was going to be, because honestly I don't know. "Follow the Light, Robin"? "Witch, Light, memories"? "THEY STOLE MY MIND WHO AM I?"? I'm sure Alfred will bake some cookies for whomever figures it out....

Chapter 27: In Which Bruce Thinks

Summary:

Bruce rubbed his hands over his face. Not that he was too proud of his memories of having amnesia. "Did I really fall off a skyscraper?" He wondered aloud to himself. His own damn skyscraper, too. "Fuck," he said.

Notes:

Usually I try to avoid chapters that are entirely inner monologue, but...this was unavoidable, I guess.

Although I will say that I have recently realized that I have only myself to blame for the length of this, and I could have ended it on AT LEAST three different occasions already (probably? didn't actually count). Anyway, I hope you all appreciate that this is NOT the end, not even close, and I'm already somewhere around chapter 33 (and oh MAN ARE THESE GREAT ONES, is it bad if I'm one of my own biggest fans?)

Happy FriYAY, y'all!

Bzzt bzt. Bzzt bzt.

Bruce flailed out of sleep, heart and mind racing from his dream as much as from being awoken. He grabbed at his phone, frowning to see that it was set to accept texts from Clark no matter the hour or urgency. "The fuck was I thinking?" he grumbled, but opened the texts, now that he was awake.

The earthquake wasn't natural , Clark wrote, referring to the one that had hit Greece just after he'd followed Bruce into the bedroom after the gala, and just before Bruce fully realized it was because he'd been holding Clark's hand as they walked. We've got a good lead on who caused it and how to stop them, but I won't be home before noon at the earliest.

Bruce rubbed at his face and checked the time. Seven AM. And with no sun-driven Superman to open the blackout curtains, it was still blissfully dark. Still, he was awake now, and unlikely to fall back asleep after getting a full five hours.

Rest had helped organize his thoughts, though, sorting out what was memories from Before, and what was memories from Amnesia Bruce. Not that--Bruce rubbed his hands over his face. Not that he was too proud of his memories of having amnesia. "Did I really fall off a skyscraper? " He wondered aloud to himself. His own damn skyscraper, too. "Fuck," he said.

Although really that was the least embarrassing thing he'd said and done, all told. Forgetting Damian's name was a big one, being saved from some back alley thugs by Superman pretending to be him was another; though being saved from an active shooter by a junior reporter was close behind, even if Superman had also been saved in that instance.

Of course the biggest embarrassment was the romantic triangle he invented with himself and …himself at two of the points, and Clark Kent at the other.

Bruce dropped back onto the bed and smashed a pillow on his face, groaning in secondhand shame.

Could he get away with pretending he'd forgotten the amnesia memories when he received his other ones back? But no, it was too late for that. If he'd thought of it last night just after Constantine disappeared and made the shift back to his normal self immediately, then maybe, but he'd been too confused then, and once the kids figured out when his memories had returned--and they would--they'd know immediately that he was only pretending to have forgotten ...forgetting.

Which would be embarrassing on its own.

Besides, he was probably better off addressing some of the things that had come to light, and which would have to be avoided alongside the embarrassing stuff.

Actually, Bruce had to address some of the embarrassing stuff, too.

Like this whole situation with Clark.

Bruce should tell Clark that he'd just been confused when he woke before--Clark was so solicitous and concerned, and without memories of the Justice League, or their costumed friendship, it had only been logical to conclude that they were dating. Brucie Wayne didn't have platonic friends. 

But then Clark could just rightly point out that non-platonic feelings don't just suddenly manifest when someone has amnesia. He probably wouldn't, but he could. And he'd be right.

Because Bruce had been repressing those feelings towards Clark for literal years . Of course they'd come pouring out once he'd forgotten his extensive list of reasons not to get in a relationship with Superman. All those thoughts and ideas he'd had so often they started to feel like memories, hiding just below the surface until the line between Bruce's reality and fantasies blurred, and then they spilled out everywhere.

Hell, they were even responsible for him assuming he was sleeping with Batman, since he'd half-recognized Clark in that dark alley with the thugs. "Clark is not sexy in my Batsuit," Bruce stared firmly into the pillow, trying vainly to convince himself. That rather backfired, though, since the accompanying images had the same satisfying feelings as watching a lover wear your clothes.

Pulling the pillow off his head, Bruce sat up and stared at the covered window. He'd had some very good reasons for not getting into a relationship with Clark. He had a list. He had several lists, in fact, tackling the problem from slightly different directions. All of them analog, and locked up securely in a safe inside of a safe that not even Alfred knew about.

But no matter how safe the lists, and no matter how safe the reasons, Bruce hadn't ever been able to push the feelings aside, and now, having a better idea of what he was missing out on, he realized he never would.

Fuck, but he was like a teen at a party; knowing all the reasons not to drink, but doing it anyway . 

He licked his lips, remembering Clark's; and closed his eyes, remembering Clark undressing, Clark in Bruce's house-robe, Clark returning from a morning shower, rumpled and damp, standing in the one shaft of sunlight that broke through the clouds, and laughing as Bruce glared at him from the darkness under the covers.

"Come here," Bruce had said, and Clark had, closer and closer, until Bruce had reached out, intending to snatch Clark's towel away, but Clark had caught his hand, and followed it down when Bruce grumpily retracted it, and he'd lay on top of Bruce, and they'd made out, sloppily and happily despite a few layers of cloth between them, while the sun had traced a path along Clark's skin.

"What the fuck have you done to me?" Bruce asked the empty room, and flopped onto his back so his head hung over the edge of the bed, upside down. He didn't want to give that up. Not the kisses, not the support, not the happiness, not one single moment of it.

Well, okay, he'd give up some of the awkward ones, and all the embarrassing parts relating just to his lack of memories, but only considering his relationship with Clark, that he wanted to keep. Even the arguing he'd keep, because he and Clark had always done that, and Bruce hadn't thought it could fit into a respectful mutual relationship, but it had .

For that matter, Bruce had always figured he'd need to be the one setting all the boundaries in a relationship with a man who could literally swat him like a mosquito, and yet, this whole time, it had been Clark establishing boundaries, and those out of complete respect for Bruce--even though Amnesia-Bruce didn't appreciate the gesture, and kept pushing at Superman. 

The sheer willpower and self-control that must have taken were impressive. Bruce wasn't sure he could have done the same if their positions had been reversed--although Clark probably would have forgiven him anything once he regained his memories. And really, Bruce would have done the same, if Clark had had sex with him. Clark clearly didn't know that, though, and Batman wasn't known for his forgiving nature, so it was a solid decision to play it safe.

Not that any of that was useful right now as Bruce was trying to decide what to do. 

He could tell Clark his memories were back--just like that--and then inform him that their mock relationship was over, and then he'd never get those sunlit kisses again, and never feel those strong arms around him, all the while living with the knowledge that he broke both their hearts simply because he didn't want to take a chance. But soon enough they’d be back to a professional relationship and see each other for meetings and missions and just ...not touch each other ever again, physically or emotionally.

Or he could tell Clark he had his memories back, but that he wanted to continue their relationship, and then...and then...what? They'd see each other between cases and missions, fight over who was more ready to save the other, argue about the quantity of kryptonite Bruce had in storage, and then have the same kinds of awkward failing-relationship moments they'd been having all along, just about some green rocks, and not about Bruce maybe-cheating on Clark. At least until their relationship really did fail, and Clark left him.

Which was exactly the reasons that Bruce hadn't wanted to start a relationship with Clark in the first place. The Justice League depended heavily on them getting along--the two of them having a lovers' spat or breakup drama would be hell on heroes trying to save the world every other day. 

But Bruce hadn't figured in Clark's wanting him as well. Most of his scenarios included him seducing the Man of Steel in some way--romancing, rather. He certainly would have backed off (assuming he had tried) if Clark had been uninterested , but Bruce's calculations always began from a neutral point, and not from the assumption that Clark was already in favor of a relationship.

And if Clark was already interested in Bruce, despite knowing Bruce and all his failings, well, maybe most of Bruce's estimates about how long it would be until Clark left him were too low.

Bruce sat up and grabbed his notebook and pen off the nightstand. He started scribbling down some numbers, added some reasons, crossed a few things off. Drew a couple of diagrams, and started the axii for a bar graph when his hand slowed. 

If Clark didn't like him, Clark would still have gone along with this, he was just that pure. He certainly seemed into the kissing, but that was easy enough to fake when you were playing a role. Bruce didn't think Clark was only playing along, but maybe that was part of why he so staunchly refused to have sex with Bruce. 

"Shit," Bruce muttered, and dropped his pen into the spine of his notebook. He studied his memories of the past few weeks, but they were all flavored by Bruce's amnesia, and he couldn't quite bring himself to trust his amnesia-self to be a good judge of emotional subtleties when he thought he was sleeping with himself .

Bruce needed more interactions like the ones they'd been having recently, and he needed to have them without the amnesia clouding his judgement. But if he told Clark he had his memories back, he'd need to also tell Clark if they were continuing this relationship or not--but he couldn't, because he didn't have enough data to know if they should.

But what if he just didn't tell Clark he had his memories back. It meant not telling the boys, and not telling Alfred, of course, but they could manage a few more days. And it could only be a few more days, because eventually they'd get word from Zatanna or Constantine that Bruce's memories had been returned.

Still, if he applied himself to the problem--and he had nothing else to do without being Batman--Bruce would be able to gather the information he needed to make the correct decision about his and Clark's relationship.

Nodding to himself, Bruce picked the pen back up, and started strategizing how best to get the reactions he wanted to study from Clark.

Notes:

Scientist: *puts mouse down in maze* Okay, little Brucey-Mouse, you just need to go riiiiight down this short straight corridor to get the cheese, okay? Ready? go! Good! right straight down the hall to your super-cheesy boyfri--wait! What are you doing???!!! Where are you going?!?! There aren't even corners in this maze! Don't go over the--how--what! Get back here! *chases mouse through the lab*

Chapter 28: In Which I Forgot a Clever Title

Summary:

"Alfred's really outdone himself," Clark said, looking in wonder at their options.

"I gave Alfred the night off."

"But--" Clark started, with half a gesture at the lavish spread.

Bruce snorted. "This is catered; I gave him the night off, not the night passed out from carving carrots into flowers."

Notes:

Watching The Adventures of Lois and Clark is 100% research, and has absolutely nothing to do with trying to avoid reality by escaping to a time where things happened less, video calls were a technological marvel, casual sexism was Hi-larious, the president was worth saving, and show designers didn't have to figure out how to manage text messages. It's also entirely unrelated to reliving my childhood.

Just sayin'

Research.

It was evening before Clark made it back--early evening, but still long after the estimate of noon he'd given Bruce originally. Bruce had texted back a joke about seeing Clark at sundown instead, but then again, maybe it hadn't been a joke, because that was exactly when Clark was returning. Batman might be showing through even when he was forgotten.

Clark swooped in through his bedroom window, and changed quickly--then checked his phone and changed quickly again, because there was a text from Bruce; On the back patio, wear something nice. Clark took a super-second to overthink what that meant he should wear, and ended up in his best-fitting pair of slacks, and a button-down shirt that was neither plaid nor flannel. Bruce would have been more specific if he'd wanted something more specific.

The patio, when Clark reached it, was decked out in fairy lights, a few strings twinkling softly, but most of them glowing steady as they illuminated a small table set for two. The table had candles and flowers, and the food was laid out nearby; all of it fancy, though Clark wasn't sure he knew the name of most of the delicacies on offer. 

"What is this?" Clark asked with wonder and some humor, as he spotted Bruce leaning on the carved wooden railing that ran around the patio.

"I can't remember our first date," Bruce said, beckoning Clark closer, "So I figured we'd just have another one."

Clark's heart both swelled and shattered at that; Bruce couldn't remember because they hadn't had one , but then he just...made one. He walked over to Bruce, and then right into his personal space, boxing him in against the railing, and kissing him with all the spilled over affection in his heart. "You know this doesn't count as remembering--"

"Shhh," Bruce said, putting a finger to Clark's lips, "I know. This is about making new memories. And I'd like to keep this one." He wrapped his hand around Clark's neck, and pulled him back into more kisses, slow and fast, and sweet and hard, grounding and dizzying, until Clark wasn't sure if he was floating or standing, and Bruce finally pushed him away. He cleared his throat. "We should eat."

Clark stole one last kiss before letting Bruce out to grab his plate.

"Alfred's really outdone himself," Clark said, looking in wonder at their options.

"I gave Alfred the night off."

"But--" Clark started, with half a gesture at the lavish spread.

Bruce snorted. "This is catered; I gave him the night off , not the night passed out from carving carrots into flowers."

Clark looked again at the quantity of food. "Are the boys joining us?"

"Absolutely not," Bruce said. "There's a minimum order requirement. The boys can have whatever's left when they get back."

"Get...back?" Clark asked, tipping an ear to the manor. He couldn't hear bickering, but there were enough rooms that the boys could avoid each other for hours if they truly wanted.

"I sent them to the movies."

Oh Rao. "Together?" Clark wondered if he should slip out his phone and text the Commissioner a warning.

"Of course," Bruce said. "Jason went, too."

That wasn't as reassuring as Bruce's tone said it was. They weren't likely to agree on a movie, and if they did, Tim would probably be kicked out for working on his pho--oh. Oh thank Rao. Clark heard a series of grunts from the cave, followed by some instructional narration and accompanied by the soft click of computer keys. The boys must have pretended to accept Bruce’s offer of a movie, then slipped round the back for training and researching. No need to warn the commissioner. "I wonder what they're watching," Clark said, to keep up the illusion. He finished filling his plate and followed Bruce back to the table.

Bruce manifested a bottle of wine once they were seated. "I know the alcohol has no effect on you," he said as he poured, "but I picked one with a very interesting set of flavonoids, so I hope you'll still enjoy it."

Clark accepted his glass, and took an obedient sip. As promised, the wine was complex, and Clark took another sip, letting those flavors play out on his tongue. He didn't have the training to identify or name them, but there was a curious interplay between the sweet and the bitter that was suitably distracting.

Bruce was watching him with a raised eyebrow. "Does it satisfy your super-senses?"

Clark blushed and put his cup down. "It's more interesting than the boxed stuff Lois makes me drink."

"Boxed!" Bruce looked scandalized. "I'll have Alfred send her a few choice bottles."

"I'm not sure she drinks it for the flavor," Clark said. The boxes really only appeared when the quantity was the point.

"Hm," Bruce said, and Clark could see him plotting to send some anyway.

A silence followed that; not quite an awkward one, but not exactly a comfortable one.

"Should we be asking first date questions?" Clark asked at last.

Bruce half-smiled at him. "What does one ask Superman on a first date?"

"Superman? I'm not sure he's ever been on a first date. And if he had…” Clark considered. “Probably I’d be asked what Krypton was like; where Area 51 is; and if I’ve ever probed anyone. Maybe what color underwear they are wearing, depending how they want the night to go.”

“Oh? What—“

“Bruce. Every undergarment you own is black. And I could have guessed that even if I hadn’t seen your laundry.”

“I guess I can be a bit predictable.”

“I think of it as you being very on-brand.”

Bruce nodded. “Fair enough. But what about you as Clark? What do people ask Clark on a first date?”

That was a short and disappointing list. "Where I'm from; if Kansas really is as flat as a pancake; if I've been to Oz."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "And what do they ask if they want a second date?"

"Literally anything else; and haven't you been on a million first dates, Brucie Wayne?"

"I've made an occasional habit of buying hookups dinner beforehand, if you want to count that."

There wasn't much Clark could say to that, but they found a different topic of conversation, and chatted companionably through the meal, until the very end of the most fantastic date Clark had maybe ever been on found them sitting on a bench swing, Bruce's feet in Clark's lap. Bruce was feeding them both grapes from a tiny bunch he'd snagged on the way.

"...Which is when I realized it was the goat," Clark said. Bruce leaned over to feed Clark a grape, fingers too quick this time for even the briefest lick. "I can't believe you forgot this story," Clark added.

"Oh, I didn't," Bruce said. "I just wanted to hear you tell it again."

Clark's face made what he was sure was a smile of scientifically measurable loving stupidity, but he couldn't make it stop.

Bruce smiled back, but then his eyes slipped away and he sighed. "What are you going to do when I get my memories back?" he asked it calmly enough, but to Clark's super-ears, his heart rate shot up to near-panic levels--not the strong-and-fast of hopeful lust, but the fast-and-fast of a flight response, which was something Clark only heard from Bruce's chest when a teammate or family member was in danger.

"What do you mean?" Clark asked, trying to stall for a better understanding of such a strange reaction to such a simple question.

"If I remembered who I was, what would you do? Kiss me? Kill me? Break up with me?"

"I think you can rule out 'kill you,'" Clark said, wondering if Bruce had started to remember some of the epic battles between Superman and Batman--but no, because those should have been safely under Bruce's mind-barrier.

"But not rule out breaking up?" Bruce asked, but he shifted until he was sitting straddling Clark, instead next to him.

"That depends a lot on you." Clark hovered his hands indecisively behind Bruce for a moment before settling them on Bruce's hips. "What are you going to do when you get your memories back?"

"Depends a lot on what I remember, doesn't it?" Bruce looked right in Clark's eyes like he was gauging his reaction. "But I'll probably break up with you."

And if Bruce was gauging a reaction, he certainly got one, because no superpower from Krypton was enough to keep the heartbreak off Clark's face, even if honestly he should have anticipated that answer. "Why?" Clark asked, at least keeping his tone even.

Bruce's heartbeat finally leveled out, and he leaned forward to press his forehead into Clark's shoulder. "I'm leaving you for Batman. Even if he says he's not interested, I'm sure I can talk him around. I am Brucie Wayne, after all."

Clark buried his relieved laugh in Bruce's neck. "Maybe he can just fit in."

"Now you're the one making threesome jokes, is that it?" Bruce sat up a bit.

"Have you seen his ass?" Clark replied, tentatively letting his fingers explore said ass, since it was right there , and Bruce wouldn't object under current circumstances--probably exactly the opposite.

"Have you ?" Bruce asked.

"SuperVision," Clark reminded him.

"He lines his suit with lead, um, doesn't he?"

Clark's eyebrows went up because that wasn't common knowledge. "He lines his mask with lead, sure. And maybe the suit. But never his cape."

"And how long," Bruce said, growling down at Clark in a mildly alarming--and very Bat-esque-- manner, "have you been staring at Batman's ass through his cape ?"

Clark's hands froze as he tried to work out a safe answer. There didn't seem to be one. "It was only once or twice!" Once when he was young and arrogant and stupid, and once when he was nearly delirious after a magic attack and Bruce had just been standing there , right in Clark's line of sight, and--anyway, he still felt pretty guilty about both times. 

"Once or twice?" Bruce asked, voice full Batman, leaning over Clark and glaring at him in a way that would have been much more threatening if he wasn't literally sitting in Clark's lap with no kryptonite in reach.

"Other people's bodies are not my property to ogle, even if I can get away with it. Especially since I can get away with it." 

"Hm," Bruce said, but he kissed Clark, so he must not be too upset.

Notes:

Alfred had to be bribed with a night off to go along with Bruce's plan. Because Alfred realized Bruce had his memories back the second he opened the door just after the end of the last chapter. Because he's Alfred.

And also because Bruce hasn't accidentally mummified himself in blankets due to overthinking since he lost his memories of the Bat.

Chapter 29: In Which Tim Is Alone

Summary:

"Could you identify kryptonite if you had some?"

"It glows an unearthly green," Tim pointed out. "It's not hard to recognize."

"Yeah, but this is Gotham, and anyway, this bullet isn't glowing, just labeled 'Special K' in green ink. And it doesn't taste right."

Why the fuck was Red Hood licking the--no, forget that, he'd probably lick more stuff if questioned

Notes:

I am vaguely sorry (more in the sad sense, less in the apology sense) that I can't hear Jason's voice clearly enough to give him his own chapter/POV bit, but at least he's here at all, unlike all the poor bat-related girls (who are just eating ALL the popcorn and laughing their asses off while watching all this on the various borderline creepy "security" cameras).

Tim secured the door behind him, reset the security protocol to allow for one person inside, and finally relaxed. He pulled off his domino and rubbed at his eyes as they adjusted to his tertiary lab's computer-lit darkness. 

Patrol had been long tonight, and he'd finished close enough to this hidey hole, and close enough to dawn that he figured it would be more expedient to just spend the night here. Bruce might notice Tim wasn't there at breakfast, but there were a million reasons that could be true, and even if there weren't, Bruce would be getting his memories back soon. Tim could easily defer an answer until then.

Also, Tim's motorcycle now had a flat tire and some scorch marks, plus his suit was suffering from superficial damage. And Tim himself was sporting a new set of bruises all along his left arm, and possibly one just below his right knee; he hadn't had a chance to look at that one yet, but he'd brushed it against something while he was moving his bike, and it had made itself painfully known.

Double-checking that his webcams were off, Tim stripped out of his Red Robin costume, and down to just his specially-designed undergarments. Yup, there was a bruise on his right leg. He couldn't even remember being hit there.

Ah, the life of a Bat.

Tim got some ice and stretched out with his leg up and a keyboard in his lap. He changed the monitor settings to just the ones he wanted to use, and settled in to write his report for the night.

Patrol had been fine, slow even, until Tim thought he'd seen Teekl vanishing down an alley. Giving chase, he'd found a bunch of cats--none of them Teekl. Figuring he'd been mistaken, Tim had turned to leave, when a series of alarming growls had him looking over his shoulder, and observing the cats all turning into giant monsters, Klarion's irritating laughter echoing off the buildings on either side.

The Witch-Boy hadn't said anything useful, but Tim knew--the whole team knew, thanks to Penguin--that he was only there because he was checking up on the results of his spell.

"He knows Batman was destroyed, but that Batman is still here," Penguin had said. "He thought I might know about it, but Batman is no feathered brethren of mine."  

Penguin had also indicated that he thought Klarion was working under someone else's directions, and feeling dissatisfied about it.

Tim had a few theories about who that could be, based on what little they knew of Klarion's known associates, but he'd--

"Red Hood to Red Robin." Tim's thoughts were interrupted by his communicator.

Tim stifled a sigh and turned his end on--Jason wouldn't be trying to contact him this late if it wasn't important. "This is Red Robin, go ahead."

"Could you identify kryptonite if you had some?"

"It glows an unearthly green," Tim pointed out. "It's not hard to recognize."

"Yeah, but this is Gotham, and anyway, this bullet isn't glowing, just labeled 'Special K' in green ink. And it doesn't taste right."

Why the fuck was Red Hood licking the--no, forget that, he'd probably lick more stuff if questioned. Anyway, this bullet did not sound promising, although honestly you could write 'Special K' on anything without it meaning anything. Assuming no one knew you had Superman posing as Batman, and you were in a place less intentionally terrible than Gotham. "Better bring it in; I'm at my lab on S. Chaucer."

"I'm over by the Narrows," Red Hood protested.

"Then you better get moving before the inexplicable pre-dawn Gotham rush hour sets in," Tim replied, and then pretended he couldn't hear the ensuing curses and complaints.

Focusing again on his computer monitors, Tim lifted his fingers to start typing again, but paused as he noticed something new on his screen.

There was a little status bar at the bottom of the screen that otherwise mirrored what the BatComputer was showing. A little status bar that let Tim know who was accessing the BatComputer's mainframe or cloud at any given time. It always showed Oracle, currently Tim's icon was visible, and Nightwing's had vanished shortly after Tim had logged in. But just now, while he was talking to Red Hood, another icon had appeared. One Tim hadn't seen for weeks.

It was Batman's.

Tim hovered his cursor over the icon for more information, and learned that Bruce--or someone, but considering the security protocols involved, it was Bruce--was interacting with the BatComputer through Bruce's phone. 

Tim considered as he watched the user status feed to see what Batman was looking at. Bruce had used his phone all the time since he'd lost his memories, but there were two user profiles on it, and he'd only been accessing the Bruce Wayne one before. In order to reach this one, he'd need to remember at least three passwords and the convoluted way he needed to enter them.

It could have been muscle memory; Tim had certainly accessed his Red Robin user profile in the dark when half conscious and with one hand literally tied behind his back, and he had a similar setup.

But if that were true, why was 'Batman' reading up on all the files that had been generated since his injury? And why--Tim scrolled up to check for prior activity--why would he then have been checking files and messages every few hours since Saturday morning?

Tim folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the screen. How had Bruce regained his memories, and why the hell hadn't he told anyone?

Tim tapped his fingers on his bicep, abruptly remembered his bruises, and straightened his arms out to drum his fingers on the keyboard instead.

Bruce had remembered being Batman sometime Friday night or Saturday morning, and he'd kept quiet about it because instead of getting back to the Mission, he'd decided to take a day off and do--what? plan a stupidly romantic evening for him and Clark?

Why hadn't he just told Clark, and enjoyed the full benefits that came with leveling up their rela--oh right a relationship . Emotional idiot that he was, Bruce probably thought he needed more information before he could commit to dating Clark.

"Why are we such fucking idiots?" Tim asked the ceiling, including himself along with the whole family because even his semi-functional relationship with Connor was due more to dumb luck than anything else. Dick was the only one of them with an iota of emotional sense, and even he often seemed to have less than the national average.

"Okay," Tim said to the emptiness, just as the alert came that Jason was at the door. "Okay, he's an idiot, but we can't force him into a relationship." Even if it would be a good one. Tim set his keyboard aside and winced as he moved his leg to stand. "And assuming he's going to reach the right conclusion with more information, I'm going to let him have this secret." For now, he added silently as he started the protocols that would open the door for Jason.

Notes:

List of Things Jason Has Licked:
-This bullet
-Other bullets
-His brothers (platonically)
-The Batmobile
-Roy Harper
-Kori
-His guns
-His batarangs
-Your ass at Mario Kart

Chapter 30: In Which Damian Is Named

Summary:

"I am looking for Drake," Damian said, technically truthful, if leaving off the bit where he knew exactly where Drake was.
"Wayne?" Father raised an eyebrow.
"Wayne is my name," Damian pointed out brusquely. "It would not be expedient to call him that."

Damian did not appreciate being summoned to the Cave. The message--sent from the BatComputer, but Damian knew it was Drake--said this was important, and it had better be because it was Sunday night, and Damian's American History teacher was not sympathetic to Damian's responsibilities as Robin. Finishing his essay had made him late.

"Why such a hurry?" Damian's father asked from the shadows. Remarkable that Father could hide so, even when he wasn't Batman.

"I am looking for Drake," Damian said, technically truthful, if leaving off the bit where he knew exactly where Drake was.

"Wayne?" Father raised an eyebrow.

"Wayne is my name," Damian pointed out brusquely. "It would not be expedient to call him that."

"You could also use his first name."

Damian stiffened. Was he being tested? "I would never be so familiar with--with him ."

"It wouldn't hurt to call your brothers by their first names," Father said. "Some famil iarity is allowed with famil y."

"I am familiar with Richard."

Father raised a hand to his brow as though his memories pained him. "You have three brothers, Damian."

"Of course, Father," Damian agreed, humoring him for at least a little longer. Father would remember the true status of his family members soon enough, and Damian's place as the bloodson. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go speak with Drake."

He moved off down the hall, a deep sigh following him. Damian did not have thr--wait. How could he have missed it? Father had called him Damian . Damian's forward motion arrested, and he turned to look back, but the hall was now empty.

Father had been unable to even recall the name Damian previously, and now he used it casually in passing? He must have his memories back. But he hadn't announced that information, he'd instead found a way to tell only Damian this secret information. It made sense that Father would trust his only true son with such important knowledge, but still he must have a purpose for doing so. 

Damian turned to continue towards the cave as he thought. Father never did anything without reason, it was just up to Damian to figure out why he hadn't told Richard, Todd, or Dra--of course!

Drake had been left in charge in situations like this, but normally Father would not have the means to evaluate Drake's effectiveness as a leader. So, when Father's memories returned, he must have decided to gather evidence about the team's effectiveness in his absence.

If the situation were being handled to Father's satisfaction, he would not have said anything to Damian. And if the whole team was doing terribly, then Father would simply have revealed himself and taken his rightful place again.

But he had only told Damian , which must mean he was continuing Drake’s examination, but he needed someone more capable to make sure that Drake's plans did not ruin everything.

Damian nodded to himself as he triggered the secret passage to the Cave. He would not let Father down.

"...you licked it?" Richard's voice was raised and echoed through the Cave as Damian descended the stairs.

"It fucking helped us identify it, didn't it?" Todd snapped back.

Damian stifled a sigh; it seemed like the whole team was here. Even the alien was present, though he was still dressed as a human, and sat fiddling on an ancient laptop with his back to the others.

"Damian is here," Drake said, though he barely looked up from the BatComputer.

"Fucking finally, BatBrat. Let's explain this shit, Replacement." Todd wore his signature leather jacket, though neither his helmet nor domino were in evidence.

"I was finishing a report," Damian stated, leaving out the fact that it was for his American History class.

"So am I," the alien muttered, though he spun his chair around and put the laptop on his lap. It wasn't clear if more of his attention was on the computer or the team.

"Alright, then," Drake said, shoving his own chair back and standing dramatically. "Jason had a run-in with some thugs last night, and in going through their weapons, he found a mysterious bullet cartridge. Being unable to identify the metal--"

"Despite licking it," Richard interrupted, but everyone ignored him.

"--he brought it to me with a hunch, and I ran a number of tests to determine that it is, in fact, a kryptonite bullet." He pulled something out of a pouch on his Red Robin costume and held it out for observation. 

It just looked like an unassuming, if large, bullet, no green glow at all, but the alien looked up from his laptop, and said, "Ow," rather insistently. He looked slightly pale, too, though there were none of the green veins or other effects that usually accompanied his exposure to kryptonite.

"I could have just brought it to him ?" Todd asked, jerking a thumb at the alien, as though that were not the most obvious and simple way to identify kryptonite.

Drake ignored him, and slipped the bullet back into the pouch he'd pulled it out of. "The bullet is an alloy, obviously, but the only place that would have had the time and technology, not to mention the inclination, to create such a thing is LexCorp."

"So we figure it's Lexy pulling Klarion's strings," Todd said.

The alien dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling, groaning. "Of course it is."

"What this means," Drake said, "Is that we have to assume Lex knows the real Batman is out of commission, and that Superman is filling in for him, especially after the debacle with Penguin."

"You're the one who suggested I reveal myself," the alien said, though his tone wasn't accusative, just informative.

"Clark," Drake said, and Damian inwardly approved of his patient and patronizing tone. "You'd managed to get yourself tied up by Penguin . No one with two brain cells to rub together still thought you were Batman."

The alien looked back down at his laptop and pushed his glasses up his nose, ashamed. Good.

Richard clapped his hands together, calling attention to himself. "So. We're going out tonight, but Lex knows who he's actually up against, which means we all need to be careful, but especially you, Clark. If there are kryptonite bullets out on the streets, you're at a huge disadvantage."

"Why send the alien out at all?" Damian asked, folding his arms across his chest. "The swap has already been revealed."

Drake nodded. "We've had reports of Klarion being seen near the diamond district, and even with Clark's disadvantage we'll still need all hands on deck if we want to capture him."

"What do we have that will contain an embodiment of chaos?" Richard asked.

Drake held up something that looked like a tiny golden birdcage. "We didn't get a chance to use this last time we fought Klarion, but it's from Doctor Fate. We just need to get it to touch the Witch-Boy, and it'll trap him--at least long enough for someone from the Tower to come get him."

"There's only one?" Todd asked. 

Drake made an open-handed gesture. "This is what we have, Jason."

"Who--" Richard began.

"I will carry it," Damian spoke up. "I have the most precise aim."

Drake looked pained. "I was thinking Clark would carry it, since he's the fastest, and honestly the most likely to be targeted by Klarion, given that Luthor is behind this mess."

Damian opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Richard spoke.

"Dami can go with Clark. You can provide him with extra protection, and act as a backup in case Clark can't trap Klarion on his own, right, Little D?"

Damian nodded. Of course he could. He'd accompany the alien, and when the alien failed, he'd take over, just as his brother suggested.

Notes:

That's two down. Anyone care to speculate on how or when Dick, Jason, or Clark learn (or learned)?

Chapter 31: In Which Magic is Used

Summary:

“How did Klarion find an empty building in the diamond district, anyway?” Hood asked, as they all covered the last few blocks to their assigned positions. “This shit is prime real estate.”

It was, too; all high-end jewelry shops and stylish gold exchanges underneath offices that oozed wealth and privledge.

“Foreclosure, bankruptcy, a bitter divorce, and an epic book-cooking scandal,” Red Robin replied, awe in his voice.

“And insurance fraud,” Nightwing added. ”The son sold the movie rights last year, I heard.”

Notes:

oh here's a funny; my brain has tagged this story as "finished" and no longer considers it to be on the list of things I need to work on. And that's almost okay right now, here, in chapter 31, since I have two more written already, but it might turn out to be a biiiiiiit of an issue in about two weeks (since there should be at least three more after that). HAHAHAHAHAHA SO FUNNY BRAIN THANK YOU

The more heavily armored BatSuits were uncomfortable, especially since they weren’t made for Clark’s height, but with kryptonite bullets on the streets, the kids had insisted, and Tim had managed to adapt one to fit Clark. Almost.

Really, it was remarkable how uncomfortable a thing could get despite Clark’s invincibility. It didn’t hurt that there was an armored plate digging into Clark’s inner thigh, but there was still an armored plate digging into Clark’s sensitive areas . And it was of a material flexible enough that it just reverted to its original shape when Clark tried to adjust it.

Still, he was Superman (even dressed as Batman), and he would endure.

“Comm check. This is Red Robin.”

“Nightwing ready.”

“Batman ready.” Gosh, but it was still weird to say that.

“Robin ready.” Clark could hear him both through the comms and in person, and he sounded vaguely resentful in both places.

“Red Hood ready to fuck some shit up.”

“Hood, that’s not an appropriate response.”

“Fuck it, Replacement, we’re not an actual militia, and Bats isn’t even here.”

“It’s just to make sure your comm is working.”

“And now you fucking know it is.”

There was a pause where Red Robin’s sigh did not come through on the comms. “Let’s go.”

“How did Klarion find an empty building in the diamond district, anyway?” Hood asked, as they all covered the last few blocks to their assigned positions. “This shit is prime real estate.”

It was, too; all high-end jewelry shops and stylish gold exchanges underneath offices that oozed wealth and privledge.

“Foreclosure, bankruptcy, a bitter divorce, and an epic book-cooking scandal,” Red Robin replied, awe in his voice.

“And insurance fraud,” Nightwing added. ”The son sold the movie rights last year, I heard.”

  “I’ve been wondering if I should have WE buy the place. We could pay off everyone involved just from our slush fund.”

“Wayne Enterprises is not involved in gem markets .” Robin’s tone equated gem markets with waste removal.

“I know, but think of the traps we could set.” Clark could practically hear the hearts in Red Robin’s eyes.

“I think that would count as insurance fraud, too,” Nightwing added.

“You lack vision, that’s all. ‘Wing and I are on the roof now. Status?”

“At the back door,” Red Hood put in. “It’s not guarded, or even locked.” There was an ominous creak over the line.

“We’re at the front,” Clark added. “Also not guarded, but there is a lock.” A giant padlock with an imposing chain threaded between the door handles.

“Move over, alien. I will take care of this,” Robin said, trying to shove Clark aside and reach the lock. He’d already pulled out a set of lockpicks.

Clark looked at him, then back at the lock. It was complicated and an x-ray glance inside showed him there were several false tumblers, which meant it would probably take Robin...too long to pick it. “We’re in a bit of a hurry,” Clark said, and ripped the lock off with one hand. “And everyone already knows,” he added when Robin started to puff up in indignation. “The lock is open,” he added, in case their exchange hadn’t been clear through the comm.

“Begin entry phase,” Red Robin said.

Clark tore the chains off the door in the same way he’d ripped off the lock, while Robin glared at him, and he silently celebrated the fact that humans—even ones descended from Ra’s al Ghul—couldn’t develop laser vision. 

Unlike the back door, the front ones swung open silently, revealing only a soft gray darkness with occasional darker black shapes scattered throughout. 

“No visible enemies,” Robin said for the benefits of the others. 

“Nothing back here, either,” Hood added, his voice echoing faintly back into the mic.

“Lucky,” Nightwing grunted, thumps in the background noise accompanied by fainter ones from above.

“We’ll be a moment,” Red Robin said, his comment also accompanied by Nightwing yelling, " Watch out for the sofa!"

“What the fuck!?” suddenly came through from Red Hood. “Aww shit, he cursed a bunch of cables! They—ah, fuck.” There were some further sounds of combat, plasticy and slithering.

Robin muttered, “Amatures,” under his breath, and Clark did him the courtesy of pretending he hadn’t heard.

They walked further into the room, and Clark eyed the dark shapes in the shadows warily, but they all seemed to be just display cases. No mystic glowing, no creepy movem—-wait! What was that?

Clark took a second look at one case, just in time to see a shadow slink out from behind it and stretch lazily. “Teekl,” Clark said.

“I see the witch-cat, alien,” Robin sneered.

Teekl, for his part, licked unconcernedly at his tail, flicked an ear dismissively at the two of them, and headed towards the back of the store front.

“Follow him.” Robin suited words to action, and crossed the darkness behind the cat.

The problem with magic--one of the many problems with magic--was that you couldn't tell what it was going to be used on. If a monster shape-shifted to look like a display case, a quick x-ray peek would still reveal bone structure. If it was a robotic display-case-shaped monster, same thing; moving parts would be revealed. But if it was just an innocuous jewelry display case that someone cast a spell on as you were walking through a shadowy room in pursuit of the beloved pet of an embodiment of chaos, well. No superpower Clark possessed could anticipate that.

"Robin!" Clark darted after him—fast, but blocked by the display cases that had littered the room, and were now converging on the two of them. 

Clark smashed the first one, but two more scuttled between him and Robin. Their strategy seemed to be mostly ramming into the two of them, so Clark planted his feet and let the next two crash into him--they still appeared to be made of metal, wood, and glass, so ramming Clark did more damage to the tables than to him, but Robin wasn't so sturdy. 

For a moment he couldn't see Robin, but then there was a flash of red, and Robin hopped on top on one case. He shot another with his grapnel hook, and dragged them together. Tying them with the wire seemed like it might work, but then the two simply began to move as one.

"Robin," Clark called again, shoving display cases aside, and trying to destroy them as best he could along the way.

"I have it, alien," Robin called back, and he wrenched the cases around, using the grappling wire like reins. It seemed like it would work, but then, behind him, where Robin couldn't see, one of the cases hopped on top of another, and gathered itself for another leap forward, this one to land on top of Robin.

Clark gave a wordless yell, threw off one of the display cases, and launched himself across the room and through the one threatening Robin.

"I HAD IT," Robin yelled at him, throwing the cherry bomb in his hand anyway. Clark caught it against his chest and cupped the tiny explosion--which, yes, would have been enough to destroy the display case that had been about to jump on Robin.

Robin scoffed, and then threw a handful of other cherry bombs in succession, taking out the rest of the display cases. "You may crush these two," he added magnanimously when the ones he stood on were the last.

Clark punched them to smithereens, wondering if this level of sass from Robin was why Bruce wasn’t in a hurry to return to being Batman.

Teekl, who had either been watching them or scratching his neck on the doorframe now gave them a disdainful look, and stalked further into the back room. Robin made to follow, but Clark grabbed his arm and held him firmly in place.

"Check in," he said into the comm.

"Almost done," Nightwing grunted, chopping noises in the background.

"I'm a little tied up--" Hood began.

"Are you stealing my lines?" Nightwing said, because of course he did.

"--But I've got it," Hood finished.

"Teekl went into the back room; should we follow?" Clark asked.

"That's the room with the stairs to the basement," Red Robin said, breathing heavily. "Unless he's gone all the way through to where Hood is."

"Negative," Hood said. "No chaotic evil cats in here."

"Check out that room, but don't go into the basement without us. Nightwing and I will ‘watch’ Hood destroy the cable demon, and then we'll all join you to go down together."

Clark let go of Robin's arm, and they cautiously approached the door to the back room. It was empty of everything except a darker shadow where the entrance to the stairwell was. No furniture to be enchanted, then.

They could hear the thumps and clatters of Red Hood fighting the cables in the next room, and the footsteps of Red Robin and Nightwing coming down the stairs on the other side of the wall.

Robin took a few cautious steps into the room, then a few more confident ones, then a few that were downright arrogant.

"We need to wait for your brothers, Robin," Clark said, trailing after him.

Robin looked back at Clark over his shoulder and sneered. "Tt," he said, and darted for the doorway.

"ROBIN!" Clark yelled, but it was too late. Robin was gone.

"Big Blue?" Nightwing's voice was full of warning.

"He just ran down the stairs," Clark said, but he was halfway down them now, too.

Lights flashed. There was chanting. There was cracking and crackling and cackling. There was banging, rumbling, an ominous swoosh , and a nearly-unbearable screech.

Oh Rao, Clark thought, and sped into the room to see what disaster Robin had wrought.

Notes:

I'm sure he's fine.

Also, if anyone wants to write a story where the Wayne family does buy a building in the diamond district, and then just sets up series of really obvious traps for oblivious villains...well, I'd be here for it.

Chapter 32: In Which They Come Back Home

Summary:

Damian had missed most of the magic flying around, simply by dint of being shorter than their intended target, but he'd been hit with one spell that turned his hair bright blue, and another that stole his hearing. Dick hoped both spells had worn off in the night, the former because he didn't know how they'd explain it to Bruce, and the latter because Damian was clearly overdue for a lecture about caution, following the plan, and listening to his teammates.

Notes:

Would I leave you on a crazy cliff-hanger, and then just skip over the action to the next chapter? Why yes, yes I would.

Dick trudged down the stairs to the Batcave, wishing he'd had more time for sleep, but they'd returned late, and he needed to check on the two in the medbay. Not that either Damian or Clark was in terrible shape, but it wasn't clear how long the spells they'd been hit with would last.

Damian had missed most of the magic flying around, simply by dint of being shorter than their intended target, but he'd been hit with one spell that turned his hair bright blue, and another that stole his hearing. Dick hoped both spells had worn off in the night, the former because he didn't know how they'd explain it to Bruce, and the latter because Damian was clearly overdue for a lecture about caution, following the plan, and listening to his teammates.

Clark had also been missed by much of the magic, since he hadn't been at the targeted spot when they all went off. But the ones that had found their mark had stolen half of his superpowers--anything eye-related, his strength, his flight, and his speed--and had left him nearly unconscious. 

By the time they got Clark back to the cave, it was late enough that Jason declared he'd just stay in the manor, and even Tim had gone right up to sleep.

Dick stretched as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Once Clark and Dami had been settled, he'd followed his brothers up to bed, but now they were still asleep, and he was back down here to check on their patients.

Clark and Damian were both sitting up on their med cots. Damian had his back to the stairs, and didn't so much as twitch as Dick approached. "Good morning, Clark," Dick said, extra loud. Damian still didn't react or turn.

"Good morning, Dick," Clark said. "Damian's hearing returned about an hour ago," he added, frowning at the boy in question.

Dick could only imagine the poisonous glance Dami was giving Clark for that. "Good morning to you, too, then, Little D."

"Good morning, Richard," Damian replied, finally turning, though he crossed his arms, and exuded preteen defensive resentment.

"We could forgo the lecture, and you can write a dissertation about appropriate behavior to display when working with a team in dangerous situations, if you'd prefer."

"Will the alien also need to write one?" Damian's training was such that he didn't stick his nose in the air, but at the same time Dick could tell that he wanted to.

" Clark did not do anything wrong," Dick said. "He followed the plan, and only acted on his own in order to protect a teammate when they made rash and dangerous decisions."

"Tt." Damian turned away, and Dick saw that the blue wasn't entirely out of his hair, though it was close enough to black again that they wouldn't have to explain much to Bruce, if he even noticed.

Dick sighed, and shifted his attention to Clark. "Are your powers back?"

Clark's brow creased in concentration. "No," he said after a moment. "Or not usefully. I can feel them returning, but if they were recharging, they'd be at one percent power, maybe."

"Care to estimate how long until they return?"

Clark shook his head. "Maybe Tim and I can test them and work out a timeline this afternoon, but I might need more sun."

They both looked at the one sunlamp that had been shining on him since they returned. Dick grimaced. "We'll have to ask Alfred if there's another one here; it's raining in Gotham today."

"Figures." Clark sighed. "Is Bruce up yet, do you know?"

"He is, Mister Kent, and looking for you." Alfred appeared holding a silver tray with a teapot and some baked goods. "I told him you went to rescue a kitten from a tree." He looked at all three of them rather disdainfully.

"Thank you, Alfred." Clark stood from up from his cot and walked at a very human pace to change and go upstairs.

Dick spent the remainder of the morning checking mission files, and making sure the reports from the previous night were filled in and correctly filed. The bulk of the afternoon was spent working out in the cave, and watching Tim and Clark assess the current limits of Clark's powers.

Near dinner time, Dick realized Jason's bike and jacket were still in the cave, but he hadn't seen Jason all day. That was reason enough to go aboveground (although Alfred would occasionally remind him that he didn't need an excuse to go upstairs, Dick still often felt compelled to find one).

The search for Jason did not take all that long, since Dick could hear his and Bruce's voices from the sitting room directly next to the study.

"...Demon's right," Jason was saying, when Dick came to an eavesdropping hover just outside the partly-closed door. "You're downright creepy like this."

There was a long pause, and then Bruce said, "I don't know what you mean."

Jason replied, "Look, B, don't take this the wrong way, but you were very much an emotionally constipated asshole before." Dick winced because even this new version of Bruce probably would take that the wrong way.

And, yes, there was a faint tone of offense in Bruce's tone when he replied. "Surely I haven't changed that much. Perhaps you just never tried to reach out before."

Jason snorted. "Oh, don't put that shit on me; you were never willing to talk even this much."

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked, and he sounded more confused now, but there was still a slight strain to his tone. "I've always...I mean, I'm sure I would never have lef--"

If Bruce had had all his memories, he would have remembered how close to the surface Jason's anger was, and he wouldn't have said that because even without seeing him, Dick knew Jason was snapping his spine straight, his eyes were turning faintly green, and he was about to growl-- "Never would have left me alone to di--"

That was Dick's queue to push open the door and say, "Oh hello," way too loudly. "I was just looking for you Bruce--" he hadn't been, of course, but it was always easier to extract the less angry of these two from an argument. "--can you come with me for a minute?"

Bruce looked more angry than Dick had expected based on his recently rediscovered penchant for emotions, but he packed that expression away fast enough and nodded. "Of course, Dick, what did you--oof."

"Watch it, Old Man," Jason said when they collided, although he'd definitely walked into Bruce on purpose.

These two and their pissing contests , Dick thought, though he kept his expression blank. He'd really hoped Bruce's current state would lead to a new era between him and Jason, but perhaps Bruce's anger was too habitual, and even forgetting the reasons for that anger weren't enough to entirely discard it.

Notes:

Jason: So I hear you're not an asshole now
Bruce: Uhhhhhh...
Jason: That's hilarious, because you were very much an asshole before
Bruce: ...was I?
Jason: Yeah, you wouldn't talk to me or interact with me, and you didn't care that I died, and replaced me in like ten seconds, and never thought of me as family, and--and--*starts to tear up*
Bruce: *inside* OH NO
Dick: OH HELLO I AM HERE NOW, PLEASE DO NOT BE KILLING OF EACH OTHER

Chapter 33: In Which Dick Looses

Summary:

"An underpowered Superman is still better than nothing,” Jason argued.

"Jason," Tim said, keeping his tone under careful control. "He got himself captured by Penguin."

"Tim," Jason replied, lightly mocking, "He caught a live grenade."

Notes:

well, we're all caught up on my backlog of chapters, so there might be a delay before there's more. At least this time there's some joy to sustain us.

Tim and Clark spent the afternoon testing Clark’s powers, but all the data showed was that they were not returning at a reliable rate. The best that they could figure was that his powers were returning, and he'd probably be back to normal soon...but not today, and possibly not tomorrow.

Which was good news for the long run, but not terribly helpful for them this evening.

Tim had hoped Klarion would go to ground after the confrontation last night, but Spoiler reported seeing him and Teekl setting up in a warehouse by the docks. Tim knew it was unlikely they could surprise him--they hadn't even managed to do that last night--but knowing his location was a big boost in their favor. Which meant it would be best if they could attack again tonight.

And while there were many uses for an invulnerable Batman, there were significantly fewer uses for a half-powered Superman pretending to be Batman (when all parties already knew he was Superman, so he was only pretending to pretend to be Batman).

"He really won't be back to full power anytime soon?" Dick ran his hands through his hair. "Can we just do it without him?"

Tim had sent Clark upstairs, partly to take pity on Bruce who'd been refreshing the results page from Clark's tests every two minutes, and partly because the rest of the team needed to decide what to do with--or without--him that night.

"An underpowered Superman is still better than nothing,” Jason argued.

"Jason," Tim said, keeping his tone under careful control. "He got himself captured by Penguin ."

"Tim," Jason replied, lightly mocking, "He caught a live grenade ."

"And either way," Dick stated loudly, "Klarion knows he's Superman, so it's not much of an advantage to have him with us." His hands went through his hair again; he'd probably start hopping on tables in a moment. "Have we heard from Zatanna yet, Tim? It would be nice to have the real Batman back for this."

Tim blinked at him in surprise. Didn't Dick know yet? 

Damian made a noise that Tim would never have called a squeak of indignation where Damian could hear him. "Are we really going to continue this farce, Richard?” Damian demanded of Dick.

Dick paused mid-step towards the nearest sturdy table. “What...farce?” he asked, looking bewildered.

" ...Given the most recent data gathered, it seems that I will have to reassess my previous conclusions about how long a relationship between Clark and I would last, " Jason read from a black book. 

A black book that looked just like the journal Bruce had been scribbling notes in the past week. "Jason…" Tim said in weak protest.

Jason ignored him. " But I believe I will need at least another day's worth of data to be certain, so I will have to continue to pretend that I have forgotten everything about the Bat, which is a more difficult task than anticipated ."

Dick groaned. "Just fucking date him , you stupid idiot."

"That's your take-away?" Jason said, looking at Dick as he slapped the book closed.

“Am I supposed to be surpri— wait. Am I the last to know?” 

“Yes,” Tim said.

“Father told me himself yesterday evening,” Damian said, looking absurdly smug. 

“It doesn't count if he fucking told you,” Jason said.

“Father simply used my name in passing,” Damian corrected with a sniff. “It was up to me to interpret the clue. And thus I learned it first.”

“An interesting theory,” Tim said, “but I’ve known since very late Saturday night—or early Sunday morning, I guess, technically.”

“We really need to talk about your hoarding of gossip,” Dick told him.

Tim shrugged. “Who am I to stand in the way of true love’s data collection?”

“I learned when I stole this off the old man this afternoon,” Jason put in, tapping the journal against his leg. “But how the fuck did you learn, Replacement?”

Tim didn’t really want to give up the information, but he had to tell if he wanted to win. “Remember how I put in that tracker that shows who’s accessing the BatComputer at all times?” 

“The one you told us all you removed?” Dick said, folding his arms and frowning.

“I did remove it," Tim said. "From the main computer. I left copies on some of my satellite systems.” All of his satellite systems, actually. They might make him remove it for good now, he supposed. Or they’d try to—but Tim liked knowing he wasn’t the only one up and working in the darkest hours of the night; it made him feel less alone. “Bruce logged in on his Batman profile while I was watching and waiting for Jason to show up with the kryptonite bullet.” Tim pulled up a screenshot with a timestamp on the main monitor for his brothers to see.

Tim looked around at them, but no one looked like they were going to argue screenshot authenticity with him, so he put his hand out toward Dick. “Cough it up.”

Dick sighed, but dug in his pocket and pulled out this year’s BatKnowledge Challenge Coin. He held it out to Tim. “Take it, then.”

Tim reached, but the coin vanished before he could grab it.

“Thank you, Master Dick,” Alfred said, challenge coin in one hand, and a plate of cookies in the other. “You said Master Tim learned Sunday morning?” Alfred added at the chorus of objections. “I have known since Saturday morning.”

“It doesn’t count if he told you,” Jason repeated.

“Master Jason, there has never been a day where Master Bruce needed to tell me what state he was in. It was quite obvious from the way he was entangled in both his thoughts and his blankets when I opened the door that morning. Though I will say that I rather disagreed with the current plan of his when he told me of it.”

Tim and his brothers watched as the coin vanished into Alfred’s pocket. 

“Well, Dick, you did say you just didn’t want Oracle to end up with it this year," Tim said, morosely.

“Alfred’s not really what I meant,” Dick added sadly.

“The year’s not over yet, young sirs,” Alfred said, although that was rather optimistic of him, and even Tim couldn’t think of a situation where one of them would be able to earn the Knowledge Coin back from Alfred . At least there was a plate of cookies as solace.

“Now that we have all confirmed our knowledge of Father’s memory’s return, let us approach him about tonight’s mission,” Damian said, some of his dignity lost to the cookie crumbs on his chin.

“Are we going to ruin his chances with Clark if we do?” Dick asked, looking around.

“We might shorten his data collection,” Tim said, rolling his eyes, “but I don’t really think he needs more.”

“That old asshole’s just a fucking chicken about getting something he wants,” Jason said. “And he doesn’t deserve Clark.”

“That alien does not deserve another moment of my father’s time,” Damian said. “Let alone a relationship with him.”

“He saved your life last night, Li’l D,” Dick said.

“Tt.” Damian managed the sound, but then stuffed the rest of his cookie in his mouth so he didn’t have to properly respond.

“Shall we go get him, then?” Tim asked, dusting crumbs off his fingers.

The last of the cookies vanished as the brothers gathered themselves and headed up the stairs.

They didn’t get very far before running into Clark.

“Hey, guys, where are you going?”

Tim exchanged a horrified glance with Dick because they had forgotten about Clark . Did he know? Should they tell him?

“And are you supposed to be upstairs in costume?” Clark asked, brow furrowed as he took in their half-suited-up appearances.

Damian made a disgusted sound, at his brothers, at Clark, who knew? “We are going to speak with Father about setting the trap for Klarion tonight. We do not need you. ”

Clark’s head tipped a bit as he thought, and then his face cleared. “Oh thank Rao, because this was getting absurd, and I didn’t know if I should say something or just let him continue to pretend, or—“

“You knew?” Damian glared, although to be fair, that was basically his permanent state.

Clark shrugged. “Bruce was really good at hiding his body’s emotional responses before, and now he is again. But by the time I realized it, he—I—there just hasn’t been a good time to bring it up.”

“When did you figure it out?” Dick asked, a little too eagerly, Tim thought.

“Saturday night, during our date—or I guess that’s when I found the information, I didn’t fully realize it until later. Why do you ask?”

That was still after Alfred. 

“No reason,” Dick said, with only a little disappointment leaking through.

“So he’s pretending he thinks you’re really in a relationship, and you’re pretending he thinks you’re really in a relationship, when you both know better?” Jason tried to summarize. “I take back what I said earlier; you two absolutely fucking deserve each other.”

Clark’s lips moved as he attempted to form a response to that, but Damian didn’t wait to hear it, instead making an irritated noise and slipping past him.

Notes:

OMG HE KNEW???!?!?! Bruce was absurdly obvious and also terrible at pretending to be less of an asshole?!? WHO COULD HAVE GUESSED

Ahahahaha, actually, there's a closely parallel universe in which Clark had a message from Constantine or Zatara back on Friday night (when he went off to deal with the 'earthquake'), and thus he Knew all through their "date," but the recursive pretending was just too much for me to handle.

Oh, and if you don't know what a challenge coin is, I recommend the 99% Invisible podcast episode about them. ...although it's been awhile since I listened to that ep, so I might have mixed up a few facts. Still, I think the passing of a token of some sort makes more sense for this family/team than bets (at least in some instances).

Anyway, Babs wins basically all of them. Of course. Except for the ones Alfred wins.

Chapter 34: In Which A Deception Is Revealed

Summary:

“Party’s over, Old Man,” Jason said, breaking the silence. “You’re shit at pretending not to be Batman.”

Notes:

I'm not dead! And this story isn't dead! (it also isn't over, and every time I outline what I expect to be one chapters it turns into five or seven, so IT MAY NEVER END).

Also, I'd like to say that ONE of you ingrates could have mentioned the typo in ch 12 where I had Clark pulling a shit over his head instead of a shirt. Whatever, it's fixed now.

"Father,” Damian announced from the doorway, just as Bruce was settling in to work on some older cases on his phone—to be honest, he wasn’t very good at not being Batman. If they hadn’t made Tim remove that tracking program of his, Bruce’s ruse would have been up before it even started.

“Yes, D--Robin?” Bruce asked, trying to sound serious, but not Bat-serious. 

Damian would never do something so crass as roll his eyes, yet he managed to convey the gesture anyway. “ Father ,” he said again, more forcefully, as the other kids filed in behind him. “It is time to give up this—“ Damian cut himself off and made an encompassing yet frustrated gesture. “And get back to the mission.”

“Back to the...?” Bruce repeated, trying to play it off for the half-second before he realized his children were dressed half-way between training and patrol. “Oh.” 

Then he saw Clark hovering behind the boys, a wry expression on his face as he met Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised that his sons had figured it out on their own—he’d raised them all to gather and process information (and his journal had gone missing some time this morning). But Clark had known, too? He raised an eyebrow at Clark, who shrugged guiltily in return.

“Party’s over, Old Man,” Jason said, breaking the silence. “You’re shit at pretending not to be Batman.”

Bruce was inclined to take offense to that, but he’d been thinking the same thing just before the boys had entered. “Very well,” Bruce said, because even Batman could admit when he’d been playing a losing strategy. “Give me the sitrep,” he added, sounding very Bat-serious indeed.

Dick answered first. “We’ve learned Luthor is directing Klarion, but we lost the use of Superman as a secret weapon when we captured Penguin, and half Superman’s powers last night in a failed attempt to capture Klarion.”

“I saw the report about what happened,” Bruce said, looking at Damian, who met Bruce's gaze confidently, though his ears and his cheeks both turned faintly pink.

“We’ve got a lead on when Klarion is setting up his trap for tonight,” Tim said, “but with Lex involved, we need some sort of an edge.”

Bruce nodded. “Where is it?”

“One of the Eaykes warehouses; I have the specs—“ Tim half-gestured to towards the BatCave.

It would make the most sense to head down there for planning, and it felt like years since Bruce had seen his cave. It was probably five deep with Tim’s used coffee cups by now. “I’ll meet you down there.”

Dick led the way out of the room, followed by Tim and Damian. Jason hesitated for a moment, then pulled Bruce’s journal out and shoved it into his chest. “We’re still going to that rare books exhibit,” he said forcefully, and then went after his brothers before Bruce could respond.

That left only Bruce, and Clark.

“You didn’t have to keep pretending,” Clark said. 

“That’s not what I was doing,” Bruce said, focusing on putting his journal away, but definitely not because he was nervous about meeting Clark’s gaze.

Clark gave him an amused smile. “You mean you weren’t continuing to pretend we were in a relationship just so you could gather more information about if a relationship would work out between us?”

Bruce’s head snapped up. “Did the boys—“

“No, Bruce, I know you well enough to figure it out once I realized you’d remembered.”

Bruce frowned. “How did you figure it out? And when?” Had Constantine told him that first night? Had Clark known all through their date?

“After our date,” Clark said. “Which would have been even nicer if I’d known , by the way.”

“Hm.”

Clark shook his head affectionately. “Anyway, you asked some revealing questions, and when I was thinking about them later, the only way they made sense was if you’d remembered.”

“But you didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t,” Clark agreed, “but if you were gathering information to make an informed decision about if we could continue dating, I certainly didn’t want to ruin my own chances.” Clark knew him too well. “Did you come to a conclusion, by any chance?”

“Most of my data is from a biased observer, and cannot be trus—“

Clark interrupted him with a laugh and started moving closer. “Would you like to collect some more data?” He asked. “As a control to compare with the rest of your data?”

“What?” Bruce said.

“Bruce,” Clark said, and there was no more space between them. “I’m going to kiss you now. And then we’re going to go defeat Lex and Klarion. And after that, if you consent, we can have a long in-depth discussion of what conclusions your data has led you to. Or we could have sex. It’s up to you.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Or both.”

“If you want,” Clark said, and he reached out to rest his hand feather-light on Bruce’s shoulder, words confident, but body language still hesitant. “At the same time, if that’s your kink.” His hand slid up to Bruce's neck, and his thumb brushed along Bruce’s jaw, gently suggesting a new angle.

“Not a kink,” Bruce grumbled, but he tipped his head back, and then when Clark still hesitated, he grabbed the front of Clark’s shirt and dragged him down the rest of the way.

They’d had plenty of first kisses these weeks—chronologically first, first after Bruce had his memories back, the ‘first date’ one, the first one after both of them had realized even though they were still pretending (although Bruce didn’t know which that was)—but this one, with no pretenses, and no secrets between them, this one was objectively the best. 

Bruce forgot the world existed, lost in the intensity and the sensations. Clark pressed Bruce back against the desk he’d been standing in front of, and Bruce shifted until he was sitting on it, then leaned farther back, and Clark—

There was a knock on the door.

Actually on the doorframe, since the door was still open.

“I’m not coming in,” Dick called, pointedly loud. “Because you two have been in there alone for ten minutes, after not having sex for, like, two weeks. But if you don't mind, Lex and Klarion aren’t going to catch themselves.”

Clark sighed and shifted back reluctantly. Bruce blinked a few times to come back to Earth, and then reached out to smooth Clark’s shirt. “Later,” he promised. “Later.”

Notes:

In the BatCave
Tim: So as you can se--wait, didn't he follow us down?
Dick: No he's...wait, where's Clark?
Damian: They were right behind us
*awkward silence as Clark and Bruce continue not appearing*
Jason: *starts snickering* Way to go, Old Man!
Tim: Should we...go get them?
Dami: Tt, while you debate, I will go and--
Dick: OH NO I WILL GO HERE I AM GOING WHY DO YOU MAKE ME DO THESE THINGS I HATE THIS FAMILY WITH LOVE

Chapter 35: In Which There Are Boxes

Summary:

“Can you hear anything?” Red Robin asked Clark.

“Or smell anything?” Hood asked, a bit gleefully.

Clark almost wished he hadn’t told the team about that particular super-ability.

Notes:

If at any point "Dick" is written as "Duck" that's because sometimes I type on my iphone, and the last update CANNOT EVEN with ...swears?

“I thought you said this was an empty warehouse,” Red Hood said as stepped boldly into the gloom from the reflected city haze outside.

“I think I just said unused,” Red Robin added, following his brother more slowly. “But I suppose that does imply empty.”

Instead of empty, the warehouse was filled almost to the ceiling with boxes and crates in haphazard piles that Clark knew were in violation of OSHA. There were a few openings in the towers of boxes, leading into ever-deeper darkness. Red Hood and Red Robin stood at the edge of the shadows, and Clark itched to grab them both and pull them back out into the hazy glow of the streetlights.

“We’re on the premises,” Red Robin said into his comm. “The warehouse is full of boxes, but there are no hostiles visible.”

“Copy that,” Nightwing said over the comm. “We’re just arriving now, and scouting for an entrance.”

“Can you hear anything?” Red Robin asked Clark.

“Or smell anything?” Hood asked, a bit gleefully.

Clark almost wished he hadn’t told the team about that particular super-ability. “All I can hear is white noise,” Clark said, which wasn’t a surprise with Luthor doing the planning. He took a deep breath and concentrated. “I smell cardboard,” he said at last. “Wet cardboard. And bats—guano, that is,” he added before Hood could find it funny. “Though there won’t be that many of them, it’s just a really strong smell.”

“Guess we’ll find our baddies the old-fashioned way,” Hood said, pulling one of his guns out and checking the safety. Clark figured he was grinning behind his helmet.

Red Robin tapped one of the boxes with his bo staff, then jabbed it sharply. “They aren’t empty, and seem sturdy enough. I’m going to climb and try to get a better look at the layout.” He collapsed his staff and started up. 

“Be careful,” Clark said, finally joining the boys in the oppressive darkness. “I can’t catch you if you fall.”

“Aww, don’t worry, Replacement,” Hood said. “I got you.” He put his hands into what would have been a spotting position if he hadn’t still been holding a gun. It wasn’t very reassuring.

“These go way too high,” Red called down. “At least in some places.” He was nearly out of sight. “I can alm—uh oh.” 

The tower of boxes he was scaling started swaying, then slipping.

“Red Robin,” Clark said, tone part question and part panic. Hood put his gun away.

“The boxes aren’t sturdy enough,” Red said back. “But if I can ju—“

The boxes lost their battle with gravity, and came crashing down to the ground, narrowly missing Clark and Red Hood, who stood watching in horror as the boxes just kept falling . “Tim…” Clark whispered.

“Oh, you two,” Red Robin said with some exasperation as he flipped off the next pile of boxes over, landing neatly beside them and the pile of destruction he’d wrought. “I didn’t see much up there, but the boxes and crates are definitely laid out in a maze. They are also too full to shove aside, but too empty to climb,” he finished, kicking the nearest box. It shifted a few inches. “I’d guess any route we choose will lead us to the center of Luthor’s plan as easily as any other. Second team, what’s your status?”

—

“Second team, what’s your status?” Red Robin asked over the comm.

“We’re just making our entrance,” Nightwing replied.

Batman—who was supposed to keep himself off-comm as much as possible in case Luthor’s team was able to listen—grunted partly in acknowledgement of his eldest son’s comment, and partly because he was straining at opening the skylight they’d chosen to use.  Strength and security of skylights was one of the evolutionary adaptations architecture needed to survive in Gotham.

Finally the casing popped off, and Batman dropped through the hole onto the beams that supported the lofty ceiling. Nightwing and Robin followed silently a moment later.

Now that they were in, Batman could see what the first team meant when they’d said the space was filled with boxes. There weren’t even shelves, just stacks and towers and spires of boxes built into a labyrinth which in some places reached past the very rafters Batman stood on.

Nightwing whistled quietly. “You weren’t kidding about the boxes.”

Team One had entered through a door to the southwest, but the boxes were piled so high Batman couldn’t make out the far wall.

“Can you see a route for us?” Red Robin asked. 

“Negative,” Dick replied. 

“No way even Luthor filled this in one fucking day,” Red Hood said.

“It’s probably one of Riddler’s,” Batman said quietly to Nightwing. “There have been a couple of times that I’ve avoided his traps so thoroughly that they didn’t even get sprung.”

Nightwing relayed that information to the others.

Robin had been scanning the distant walls with a small pair of binoculars, and now he pointed to the northwest. “There is the overseer’s office.” He handed the binoculars to Nightwing. “There is a catwalk that runs the width of the building three rafters over from here,” he added, reaching for his grappling gun.

Batman put out a hand to stop him. “There isn’t enough clearance,” he said, gesturing to the crates and boxes. They couldn’t just scramble across the towers, either, not after Red Robin’s experience. “There’s another catwalk all along the north wall. The rafters intersect with it.”

“The way looks clear,” Nightwing added, handing the binoculars back to Robin. “Shouldn’t they have anticipated a roof entrance?”

Batman led the way along the dusty beam, and the others followed. “Luthor will want to separate us, and he’ll be able to do that best when we’re in the maze.”

To emphasize his point there was a distant, echoey shout from below, followed by gunshots and the faint sounds of a fight.

Notes:

Imagine the tears and heartbreak Riddler suffered when he realized that Batman has avoided his death-by-box-maze trap FOR THE THIRD TIME. He spent HOURS no--DAYS--no, WEEKS--stacking and building and diagramming the maze routes, and adding the alligators, and and and...*sad face emojis*

Chapter 36: In Which There Are Posters of Kittens

Summary:

A smell like rotten plants tickled at his nose. “And what’s that stench?”

“Is it rotten plants or rotten carcasses?” Red Robin asked.

“DOES IT HAVE ANY MOTHERFUCKING TEETH,” Red Hood said

Notes:

This was going to be two annoyingly short chapters, then I decided it could be one somewhat longer chapter. Enjoy, and have a nice holiday this week, if that's your thing.

Batman had given Clark a brief—very brief—tutorial on how to fight without superhuman strength or speed. He’d then muttered that Clark was lucky he was still invulnerable, and given him an electrified staff a bit like Red Robin’s, though it wasn’t collapsible and it was definitely longer. “Smash the other guy with this,” Batman had said before turning away to mediate Red Robin and Robin’s fifth fight of the evening.

Clark hadn’t been entirely comfortable with that piece of advice, but it turned out to be standing him in good stead. Minion in front of him? Smash with the staff. Another behind? Bzz and jab back with the electric end. “I could get used to having a weapon,” Clark said, using a broad sweep to knock another minion back. 

“Just don’t let B see you using it like that,” Red Hood said, shooting rubber bullets with one hand, and using something that might have been a billy club with his other.

“Or tell him you’d like a club instead,” Red Robin called, using his bo staff as a pivot while he kicked the feet out from under the guard he was fighting.

Hood pegged one more minion in the middle of his forehead, and then they were all down. “And stay down, assholes,” Hood said.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Clark said, leaning on his staff.

“The worst minions are always first,” Red Robin replied. “Don’t you watch movies or play video games or anything?”

Clark was about to reply, but then he heard something over the white noise. “Is that a...gurgling?” He asked, tipping his head. A smell like rotten plants tickled at his nose. “And what’s that stench?”

“Is it rotten plants or rotten carcasses?” Red Robin asked.

“DOES IT HAVE ANY MOTHERFUCKING TEETH,” Red Hood said, reaching for his belt and staring at something behind Clark’s shoulder.

Clark spun around to look, lifting his staff as he did so, ready for anything. 

Well, okay, apparently not ready for anything because he couldn’t even figure out how to describe this...minion. There were tentacles. Lots of tentacles. Tentacles with tentacles on them. Fractal tentacles. Originating from a small dark tangle of more tentacles. 

Slightly daunted, Clark nonetheless swung his staff at the thing. The smaller tentacles grabbed onto it, and started pulling it closer. Then larger, smooth tentacles squirmed out of the mass, small holes at their tips oozing an off-white liquid that they started rubbing on the staff in a manner that Clark desperately wished he could forget. “No,” he said, triggering the electric pulse down his staff. The tentacles vibrated slightly, and suddenly there were more of the smooth ones. “NO,” Clark repeated, more forcefully, trying to tug his weapon back.

Then Hood appeared at his side, a spray bottle in each hand aimed at the monster. “TAKE THIS MONSTERFUCKER,” he shouted as he sprayed.

The minion made a ululation and deflated into a lewd and horrifying clump on the ground.

“You brought your shark repellant this time!” Red Robin said, approvingly.

“I keep telling you I’m an asshole, not an idiot,” Hood grumbled, turning to face more ominous gurgling coming from the shadows.

“Cl—Su—Bat—Blue, yours is in your seven o’clock pocket,” Red Robin added, pulling out a tiny spray bottle of his own.

Clark fumbled his out and tried to figure out how best to wield it and a staff at the same time as more gurgling masses crept out of the darkness around them.

—

Batman reached out a hand to Robin to help him with the last bit of distance between the rafter and the catwalk. Robin scoffed, but accepted the hand as he lightly hopped over.

Nightwing was peering into the gray darkness that lay between them and the faint rectangle of the overseer’s office window. “I still don’t see anything to fight,” he said. He’d been on edge ever since they’d started hearing sounds of battle drifting up from below. “Do you think Lex—“ Nightwing began, but then there was a crash from the warehouse floor. 

It started small; a few boxes tumbling of the top of one of the tallest towers, just at the edge of their sight. Those boxes fell, and for a moment it seemed like that would be all, but then the towers on either side began to wobble, then to sway, and then to topple; the mountains of crates collapsing causing a domino effect that crossed over aisles, boxes tumbling and smashing and crashing down, until nearly half the maze had fallen in.

Nightwing tensed. “Oh no,” he whispered, then cleared his throat, “First team, report.”

“I’m okay,” Red Robin replied, though he sounded out of breath. “Pretty sure Blue is under all that, and I don’t know where Hood is. And there’s more of those aliens closing in on me.”

“Get to safety, Red Robin. Hood, report. Big Blue, report.” But there was only silence from the other end of the comms. Nightwing met Batman’s eyes. “We should go to them,” he said, holding his comm in the non-transmitting position.

“You may go to them,” Robin said. “Father and I wi—“

Batman shook his head to cut him off. “Negative. We will continue with our original role in the plan, and we will remain together.”

Nightwing didn’t look happy, although they’d all known going in that half the plan was assuming they’d be captured. “Hood, report. Blue, report,” he repeated into his comm. There was still no reply.

The three of them started walking down the catwalk, their footsteps echoing faintly in the large space, and all three alert for an ambush. But there were only boxes and darkness.

“I’m sure they’re fine, Little Wing,” Nightwing said after asking another hopeless time for reports. Even Red Robin had stopped responding now. “RR and Hood are the smartest people I know, and they have Big Blue with them. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“I am not concerned,” Robin said, though the way he’d been watching the boxslide as closely as he’d been watching the catwalk indicated otherwise.

“It’s not even like Lex—“

“Shh.” Batman held up a fist to interrupt him, then pointed two fingers to the overseer’s office, and back to his ear. They were close enough now to be heard. They were also close enough to hear, and Batman wanted to listen.

—

Clark hadn’t blacked out so much as his world had turned into crashing and smashing and the sensation of being pinned—though not crushed—by a hundred half-filled boxes.

“—aliens closing in on me,” Clark heard Red Robin saying faintly over the white noise Lex was pumping in to cancel out his superhearing. 

There was a pause where Clark did not hear a reply, and he realized he no longer had his comm in his ear. It must have fallen out, and, considering Clark was stuck under a literal mountain of boxes, it was probably gone forever.

“RED ROBIN!” Clark called, hoping to be heard through the cardboard that covered him, but the mass of them were very effective as sound-proofing, and his voice was muffled long before it reached Red Robin's ears.

“Great,” Clark muttered to himself, and strained for signs of Red Hood. There was the faint sounds of cursing from slightly further off than Red Robin had been, accompanied by an almost frenzied shoving of cardboard. It didn’t sound good, but at least it meant Hood was alive and well enough to try and dig himself out. 

Boys accounted for, Clark turned his attention to his own predicament. Boxes were pressing him down and into the floor, and for a moment it seemed like he wouldn’t be able to budge them without his superstrength, but then he found some leverage for his left leg, which gave him enough space to free his right arm, and in a short while, Clark was free of the boxes, and able to curl himself into a small ball in the space he’d made.

“I never actually wanted to know what it felt like to be in Minecraft,” he muttered, carefully starting to shove boxes apart so he could crawl between them. Most of them had retained enough of their volume that it wasn’t as hard as it could have been, but it was slow going, and Clark had to crawl past the crushed bodies of the tentacled aliens, their rotten stench clogging up his nose as he went. 

He kept an ear out for the boys, but there was nothing he could do except listen as Hood’s cursing became more and more frantic, and sounds of a fight erupted around Red Robin again.

Nothing he could do but keep shifting boxes, creeping his way towards his family.

—

Lex’s minions were using radios to talk with one another, which meant Batman and his half of the team could hear both sides of the conversation. It could have been a dangerous oversight, but since it was Lex they were dealing with, it was more probable that it was diabolically intentional.

“...We’ve got one captured,” said the voice over the radio.

“Roger that,” replied the minion in front of them. He was wearing a dark uniform without insignia, weapons displayed prominently at his side. “Injuries?”

“Negative,” came the reply. “Although they took out all our remaining gurgles with some sort of spray.”

“They aren’t essential to the plan. Do you have eyes on the others?”

“No—wait, yes, one of them is crawli—“ The radio cut out, and there were bright flashes of lights from far off in the mess of boxes, accompanied by the sharp snaps of gunfire. “That was not Batman,” the man sounded almost offended. “That witch-boy has apprehended him, though.”

“Should we—?” Nightwing asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Stick to the plan,” Batman replied at the same volume. They would be okay, they were always okay.

“Bring the two to the center, and send the Witch Boy to capture the third,” said a different voice over the radio—Lex’s. Just then the door to the office opened, spilling light and Lex out onto the catwalk. “And you doubted that everything would go to plan,” Lex said to the minion standing there, who had the grace to look chastised. “Come now.” Lex strode off down the stairs, the guard following him into the darkness.

That left the room empty but for the fluorescent glow of its lamps, and once the vibrations of footsteps on metal stairs faded, Batman waved to Nightwing and Robin, and together they approached the office.

“I still think we should go after them,” Nightwing said, once the door had closed behind them. 

“That’s part of Luthor’s plan,” Batman said, focusing on the contents of the office. There wasn’t much; an old metal desk with an old computer monitor on it, two wooden file cabinets missing half their drawers, a desk chair with its stuffing falling out, and a metal coatrack leaning despondently in the corner.

“Big Blue only has half his powers, and—“

“He’s still indestructible.” Batman focused on the drawers remaining in the file cabinets. The first three were empty, but the last one contained rolled papers, which he pulled out.

“That’s cold, B,” Nightwing said. “Since it sounded like it was your boyfriend that was captured.”

“This is the plan, Nightwing,” Batman growled, because it was affecting him, even if he was trying hard not to let it show.

“The plan was that they would stay together and not get captured.”

“Nightwing,” Batman said quietly, but very seriously. “The plan has changed, but I trust every—“

There was a faint click, and the CRT monitor on the desk lit up. It showed black-and-white video footage of a room, it’s walls--of course--made of boxes and crates. On one side of the room were five metal cages, spaced just out of arm’s reach of one another. Red Robin was already in one, shaking the bars and yelling, though there was no sound to go with the video. 

Nightwing looked at Batman.

“Red Robin is fine for now, he—“

Then a guard appeared, leading Clark along by a pair of handcuffs. Clark was twisting his wrists inside of them, bloody scratches visible despite the lack of color. They must have been made from Luthor’s new kryptonite alloy, since they weren’t glowing,but were clearly hurting him. At least Clark only seemed moderately distressed by them. 

Batman swallowed. “That metal’s not as strong as pure kryptonite,” he said. “He and Red will be able to come up with a plan.”

NIghtwing was still looking at him.

“Besides, Hood is still—“

There was further movement on the screen as Red Hood was led into the room, twitching and jumping at shadows. Once locked up, he curled up in the exact center of his cage and buried his helmet in his knees. 

Red Robin switched from yelling towards the door to yelling at his brother, and Clark reached for the bars of his cage, only to jerk back as if stung—more of that kryptonite alloy, no doubt.

“They will be fine as long as—“ Batman started, but then the guards walked another prisoner past the webcam, this one smaller, and with a familiar stubborn glare visible even through his mask.

“How the FUCK —“ Nightwing cut himself off, and looked around the office, trying to deny what he’d just seen. “Seriously, B, you have got to talk to that little shit about following directions and working with a team.”

Batman rubbed a hand over the half of his face not covered by his mask. Damian had probably thought he could earn Bruce’s respect by saving their team single-handedly, and he’d snuck off after they’d entered the office. “Hmm.” Batman took a second to look at the rolls of paper he was holding. They were posters of flowers and kittens. Useless. “We’ll go,” he said. “But not without a plan.”

Notes:

Here's a sneak-peek into what my story outline looks like:

*Monitor mysteriously turns on showing Clark in a cage*
Dick: we...could save him?
B: *inward* AHHHHHH YES YES YES *Outward* Clark can take care of hims—
Jason is led into the cage area, twitching a bit, but not really resisting.
B: Ok, but Jason can—
Tim is led in, very defeated-looking, but still cursing.
B: that’s probably for the best, because Tim must have a pl—
Dami is led in, glaring as is his wont.
Dick: I think we should go save them.
B: ...if you insist

Chapter 37: In Which There Are Just Too Many Cages

Summary:

“Hi, fam,” Nightwing said, spidering down from the ceiling on a grappling cable. “Feeling a bit restrained today?”

Notes:

The weirdest thing is going on, and my chapter count is GETTING LOWER/CORRECTER, and I might be almost done writing this!

But I don't know what I'll do with my life when there's no more to post, so I'm just going to start posting the next chapters one paragraph at a time. I'm sure no one will mind.

Oh! Right! And someone pointed out that I didn't explain what happened to Jason, and since I never will in-story, let me just say that Klarion messed with his warehouse and Joker-related trauma to get him captured, and also that Tim yelling at him seems to have fixed him. I don't know why, you'll have to ask the author. Who...uh...is--OVERTHERE! *flees*

Batman and Nightwing traveled along the rafters, looking for the center of the maze. It seemed like Luthor hadn’t expected them to take the high road, as it were, at this point because they could spot faint lights and clusters of minions far below.

“He’s been pretty much spot on until now,” Nightwing whispered quietly. “Why didn’t he think we’d be up here?”

Batman grunted. "Robin wouldn't have been trying to impress me, and the two of you would have entered the maze in a hurry to save your brothers." The sheer number of guards would have worn the two of them down eventually, if nothing had caused another crash to split them.

“We might not have,” Nightwing replied, but even he didn't sound too sure.

“There,” Batman said, pointing.

The center of the maze wasn’t illuminated very well, but it was the largest clear space they’d yet seen, and what faint light there was reflected off the bars of the cages. Clark stood in the exact center of his cage, rubbing his arms as if they were cold. Robin stood in the center of his as well, though he was clearly sulking (“observing” in Damian-speak). Red Robin and Red Hood were arguing loudly with each other, though Batman was too high up to make out more than the tone of their voices.

Luthor was there, too, sitting in a director’s chair and ignoring his prisoners as one of the minions gave him a report.

“Where’s Klarion?” Nightwing whispered as they crept close enough to hear. 

“Keep watching,” Luthor told his minion, who scurried off. He started to turn towards his prisoners when the witch boy appeared, stepping out of a darker shadow within the gloom.

“What are we waiting for?” Klarion said, his typical nagging whine in his voice. “Just kill them already.”

Batman’s heart almost stopped for a moment.

Then Luthor spoke, “We need live bait for this trap.” And that was reassuring in it’s own way, though apparently not to Klarion.

“You’re going to kill them anyway, and our mouse won’t know until he gets here.”

“Patience,” Luthor said. “Our last guest will be here soon.”

“You said that hours ago!” Klarion whined, spinning around in the air. “Teekl can’t wait much longer.”

“Then perhaps you can go and look for him,” Luthor said, pulling out a tablet and dismissing Klarion with body language alone. 

“‘Go and look for him,’” Klarion repeated mockingly. Luthor ignored him. Klarion kept mumbling to himself as he half-floated half-walked to the doorway, and through into the darkness.

Batman looked at Nightwing, because this was what they’d been waiting for. “Ready?” He asked.

Nightwing nodded, and pulled out his grapple to secure. Batman melted back into the shadows behind them, watching the darker shadow that was Klarion and waiting for his chance.

Once Klarion was far enough from the center and from the small pockets of light that indicated more guards, Batman dropped down on his quarry, pulling out the tiny golden cage as he went. 

Klarion must have had some warning—the near-silent sound of the grappling cable, perhaps?—because he spun out of the way at the last second.

“Didn’t I already capture you?” Klarion asked when his spin came to a stop. 

Batman just grunted as he charged again, cage held tightly in his fist.

Klarion again avoided Batman effortlessly. “You know, you’re a bit less super than the other guy,” he said, consideringly. “But I turned the real Batsy into a vegetable, so who are you?”

Batman grunted again as he lept on top of a large box. He tossed a smoke bomb, switched the visual lenses on his cowl to heat-vision, and launched himself into a flip that would have made Nightwing proud. He threw a series of batarangs as he flew through the air.

None of them hit the witch-boy.

“Now I know you’re not the real one at least,” Klarion said, still floating around. “He never would have missed. So who did they get to wear the pointy ears this time?”

“You weren’t the target,” Batman said, throwing another batarang. 

Klarion moved to avoid it, but this time the movement sent him right into one of the electrical wires that connected the batarangs Batman had just thrown, and the shock jolted him enough that he dropped out of the air. It was only a second’s distraction, but that was all Batman needed to run up and slam the golden cage into Klarion’s forehead.

“I’m the original,” he said, and watched as bands of light encircled the witch-boy, pulling him smaller and smaller until he was inside the golden cage, which was still tiny enough to shove securely into a pocket as Batman oriented himself in the darkness and started off to save his family.

—

“Hi, fam,” Nightwing said, spidering down from the ceiling on a grappling cable. “Feeling a bit restrained today?”

Clark wondered what the plan was, since there was no way Luthor had missed this entrance. Certainly none of the boys had. 

“Nightwing,” Robin snapped, at the same moment Hood shouted, “Dickface!” And really it was a wonder their enemies never figured out Nightwing’s identity given Hood’s...nicknames. Red Robin merely raised an eyebrow.

“I like you better free-range, myself,” Nightwing said. There was a faint ping of something metal landing on the floor of Clark’s cage, and he casually shifted his weight and put a foot over it, though he had no idea what Nightwing expected him to do with a lockpick. Superman only had two methods with locks; rip it open barehanded, or use x-ray vision to learn the combination, neither of which involved a pick.

“Don’t worry, little chicks, I’ll have you out in a jiffy.” Nightwing swung over to the lock on Robin’s cage and started fiddling with it, though even Clark could tell he wasn’t actually trying to pick it.

“I see you’ve finally made it,” Luthor said, gesturing magnanimously, but also to send forward a rush of guards to capture Nightwing. 

“Well, you left such an a- maze -ing invitation,” Nightwing replied, climbing back up his grappling rope before the minions could get close enough. “Of course I’d come.” He started rocking to build up speed and distance.

Once he had enough, he flipped off the rope and across the room, landing on his feet in front of Luthor, where he transmuted most of his forward motion into swinging his fist at Lex’s nose. Lex stepped casually to the side, and Nightwing’s punch missed its mark.

Nightwing didn’t get a chance to throw another one, as the minions had already changed direction, and he had to dance back defensively. More blows were exchanged, and Clark used the distraction to pick the lockpick up. He’d need to get it to Robin in the next cage over in order for it to be useful, but how? And when?

A crash drew Clark’s attention back to the fight just in time to see a tower of boxes fall on top of two minions. Dick leapt to safety from the boxes, but that put him in reach of the largest guard, who grinned and grabbed and held on , and Clark winced and looked away, unable to watch the end of the fight.

“Clear his tools, and put him in the final cage,” Luthor directed, once Nightwing had been subdued. Nightwing's grin was unrepentant enough to make Clark wonder if he'd gotten himself captured on purpose.

It still didn’t look fun or comfortable as the minions stripped Nightwing of everything useful and tossed him into the final cage—the one in the center. 

“Oh, hi, Reds,” Nightwing said as he pulled himself together and stood up. “What’s the escape plan?”

“You were the escape plan,” Red Robin said, bumping his head on the bars of his cage. His shoulders slumped in resignation. 

“Well shit,” Nightwing replied, though he still didn’t look worried or chastised or the faintest bit troubled. “This might get a bit tricky.”

“You two are the most useless little shits,” Red Hood said. He pulled an honest-to-Rao jeweler’s saw blade out of...somewhere, and started sawing on the bars of his cage. It made a terrible noise (though no useful progress), and Lex’s minions came running, whereupon ensued a great deal of yelling, cursing, and visual distraction.

“A disgrace,” Robin muttered, shaking his head, though honestly his brothers were doing a surprisingly good job of holding their own while being locked up and supposedly at Luthor’s mercy.

“Robin,” Clark said, just loud enough to catch his attention. He held up the lockpick Nightwing had given him, and raised an eyebrow.

For just a moment Robin’s eyes widened in surprise, but the emotion was quickly masked behind his usual impassivity. He gave a slight nod, then turned to kick viciously at a guard who had thought to sneak up on Nightwing from Robin’s side of the cage.

Clark took the distraction to toss the pick, watching it arc gracefully through the air to land quietly on the floor of Robin’s cage.

"Enough!" Luthor yelled, cutting through the air with his hands. The minions scampered back away from the cages, the slowest one barely missing the glob of bloody spittle Hood sent after them. Nightwing tugged at a tear in his costume, and Red Robin leaned heavily against the bars of his cage.

"What's your plan, Luthor?" Red Robin asked.

Notes:

Dick: Tim, do you have a plan?
Tim: YOU WERE MY PLAN *is lying to play into Lex’s arrogance*
Dami: you are an embarrassment to the team
Dick: Dami? Do you have a plan?
Clark: of course he does, why else would he have allowed himself to be captured?
Dami: *smug glowing*
Jason: WTF U talking about Dami didn’t get caught ON PURPOSE
Dami: *yells at Jason, carefully does not admit he doesn’t have a plan (or didn’t have a plan)* *also tries to come up with a plan**
Clark: Really? I figured your plan would involve those cherry bombs you keep in your 5 o’clock pocket, and maybe the pair of lock picks I’m obviously about to slip to you.
Dami: YES THIS WAS MY PLAN ALL ALONG. *starts to pick locks on his handcuffs*

Chapter 38: In Which Luthor Has A Plan

Summary:

"What's it to be, then?" Nightwing asked. He was now hanging upside-down from the roof of his cage, though neither Batman nor gravity knew how. "Alligator pit? Death ray? Trolly problem challenge?"

"Nothing so crass, nothing so complicated," Lex said

Notes:

We're looking at 41 chapters? maybe 42, although the last few are really making me work for it, so I'm not certain, and we might end up with a bit of a break again while I try to sort them out (sorry in advance if we do).

"This is the plan," Lex Luthor said, waving at the men in the cages.

Batman was watching him from above, partly braced on the boxes, partly on a grappling cord to avoid starting another boxslide.

"I've caught the whole team, plus a certain alien, and now, quite simply, I am going to kill you."

"A wasteful plan," Robin scoffed, from where he was sitting meditatively in the center of his cage. "My grandfather will pay quite handsomely for my return. And if you destroy Red Robin, you may need to renegotiate your alliance with him." Batman was impressed because it almost sounded like Robin was trying to save someone else in addition to himself.

"Oh no," Luthor replied. "Ra's himself stated that if you were incompetent enough to be captured, I was more than welcome to finish you both."

"What's it to be, then?" Nightwing asked. He was now hanging upside-down from the roof of his cage, though neither Batman nor gravity knew how. "Alligator pit? Death ray? Trolley problem challenge?"

"Nothing so crass, nothing so complicated," Lex said, pulling out a hefty gun and making a show of loading the bullets. 

Batman cursed silently, because he'd been counting on a more elaborate scheme, and he wasn't quite ready. He swung across to the next pile of boxes.

"I'll admit that I considered something more complex." Luthor studied the gun in his hand. "But often it is the simplest solution that is the most satisfying. And now that the original Bat is also removed from the board--" he shrugged elegantly, and aimed at Red Robin.

That was Batman's cue to hit the trigger button on his belt, which set off a localized EMP to plunge the room into darkness, followed by hissing smoke-bombs and an LED to illuminate Batman's shadow in the smokey darkness.

"I am vengeance," Batman growled, tiny microphones tossing his voice around the empty space. He tapped the trigger button again, and lights began to flash intensely. "I am the night."

"It's the Bat!" yelled one of the minions. There was some clattering and thumping as about half the guards ran back into the maze--good help was hard to find in Gotham these days. 

"Klarion!" Luthor shouted, firing at the place Batman's shadow had been. "You said he was taken care of!" Luthor's shots returned only quiet thups as they hit boxes.

"I've taken care of your witch-boy." Batman swung feet-first at Luthor. He scored a hit, and Luthor fell to the ground, firing his last bullet along Batman's trajectory. He fumbled to reload as he scrambled back to his feet.

Batman paused in the shadows. His primary objective was to rescue his family--or rather to make sure that they were able to rescue themselves--but they were well under way with doing that on their own, as Robin was already outside his cage and working on the lock of Clark's. That was encouraging because ten minutes ago, Batman would have laid money on him freeing Superman last, if at all.

Batman threw some batarangs at the guards who remained, sending them crashing into each other as they tried to face the threat.

"Get him!" Luthor fired again, nearly in Batman's direction, though the shots were more panicked than intentional. Lex Luthor was not above getting his hands dirty, but he almost never participated in the difficult parts of a fight.

Batman tossed a batarang at the gun in Luthor's hand when he went to reload again, knocking it to the floor.

Clark was free, and Robin moved to Red Robin's cage, though he simply handed off whatever tool he'd been using before turning and sauntering confidently through the strobing lights and the colliding guards to where their gear had been piled. Grabbing his katana, Robin started whaling on the nearest enemy with the blade still in its sheath. 

Classic Robin, Batman thought somewhat affectionately, and swung to knock down an enemy that was trying to creep up behind his youngest son.

Clark had perhaps recovered more of his powers because he was managing to hold his own without a weapon, and Red Robin made short work of the remaining cage doors.

Soon the room was full with the simple chaos of a fight; grunts and yells, and a few screams as the team finished subduing the enemies. 

"Where's Luthor?" Batman asked as he dropped the final guard--he'd lost track of Clark's archnemesis at some point.

"Where's Big Blue?" Nightwing asked, looking around.

"Fuck," said Red Hood.

"Robin followed them," Red Robin said, gesturing to the opening in the boxes that served as a door.

"Fuck," Red Hood said again, succintly expressing how Batman felt about the situation as well.

"Did you see their direction?"

Red Robin shook his head. "Blue was chasing him, not captured, and they turned left, but--" he gestured helplessly at the boxes all around.

"Nightwing, see if you can get us some visuals," Batman said, because Nightwing was the best at the aerial skills needed to grapple around the boxes, and because his uniform was torn enough it couldn't possibly be giving him much protection.

Nightwing nodded, and there was the hiss-clink of a grappling hook deployed.

The other three headed into the boxes on foot, taking the left Red Robin indicated, and then slowing down as they wondered which of the branching pathways a fleeing Lex would have taken.

"There are some boxes swaying up ahead," Nightwing said over the comm. "If you take the third right, and then the second left." There was a faint crash from that direction, though it was small enough to have just been one box. "I'll swing ahead to see if they need help," Nightwing added.

There was the sudden BANG of a gunshot, and Batman put on a burst of speed, because Robin was only human, and Lex's kryptonite alloy meant Clark was vulnerable, too.

Another shot did not follow.

"I can see them," Nightwing finally said. "You've just got to take one more right. Everyone's fine," He added, tone amused. He didn't elaborate beyond that, but it set Batman's mind at ease, as did hearing Robin's lecturing tones as they approached that last turn.

Clark was on the ground; that was what Batman saw first. But he was pushing himself up by his elbows and watching Robin just a bit dazedly.

Robin was perched with a knee in the small of Lex's back, restraining him, and pressing him into the grit of the warehouse floor. "...not allow you to hurt my family," Robin was saying when Batman was finally close enough to make out the words. "You are a disgrace."

Lex mumbled something and tried to move, but Robin growled and shoved him into the floor again.

"I have captured Luthor, Father," Robin said, half-glancing up when he realized he had an audience. Then he took a full glance when it sank in that his whole family was there, watching him with variously fond expressions. "What," he snapped.

"Nicely done," Nightwing said, flipping down from the shadows above and landing gracefully beside his brother.

Batman hurried to Clark's side instead. "Did he shoot you?" he asked, visually checking him.

"Yeah, but--" Clark reached up to pull the flattened bullet from a fold in his Batsuit. "Superman-piercing, but apparently not armor-piercing." He handed the metal glob to Batman and shook out his hand like it had hurt--which it probably had. Batman stashed the bullet's remains in the lead pouch on his belt for analysis later, then wrapped an arm around Clark.

Clark started using the support to stand, but Batman pulled him into his arms instead, holding him close and frantically trying to think of what to say.

Out of the corner of his eye, Batman saw Robin drop his cape over Luthor's face, which was enough to remind him that this wasn't the place. He bit back all the words that he'd been considering and moved back, helping Clark properly to his feet. 

"You do seem to be in working order," he said, mostly for Luthor's benefit.

"I would prefer you wear your own cowl from now on," Clark said, brushing his costume back into order.

Batman's back was to his boys, so he dared a faint smile. "I think I can manage that."

Red Hood made a gagging sound. "Get a room!"

"Hm," Batman said, hiding his smile and looking sternly around the room. "Let's get Luthor packed up for the commissioner."

"I will be out again in a few hours," Luthor said, trying to shake Robin's cape off his head so he could see.

"A few hours in a Gotham holding cell is an adventure," Nightwing said cheerfully.

"Let me see if my guy is available," Red Hood said, pulling out a phone. "He can make sure your stay is memorable."

"And I've heard Gotham PD fixed the paperwork problem they'd been having," Clark added. "So it no longer takes a week to process someone before they can even make a phone call."

Red Robin nodded, pulling Luthor's cell phone out of his pocket and tossing it into a corner. "I think they're down to three days now."

Robin's cape fell off Luthor's face then, revealing an instance of shock and vulnerability before Lex schooled his expression again. "I will be out as soon as you put me in," he stated again.

"Hm," Batman said, dubiously, before leading the way out of the maze.

Notes:

Luthor: *Flees into a dead end* *realizes Superman followed him* *pulls gun* I HAVE YOU NOW *evil laugh*
Clark: *stares down barrel of gun* I maybe should have thought this through better
Gun: BANG
Damian: *flips off stack of boxes and knocks Luthor to the ground* HOW DARE! THE KRYPTONIAN WAS MINE TO MAIM OR KILL

Chapter 39: In Which FINALLY

Summary:

Luthor was handed over unceremoniously to the police, and then the bats made themselves scarce before anyone noticed that there were two people wearing the cowl that evening. The boys all hopped on the batcycles and took off before Clark realized that Robin had actually hopped on Clark’s batcycle and taken off.

“Um.” Clark said, because Robin had arrived with Batman in the Batmobile.

“Get in,” Batman grunted, undeterred.

Notes:

And we finally FINALLY get to the point where we earn our M rating.

Luthor was handed over unceremoniously to the police, and then the bats made themselves scarce before anyone noticed that there were two people wearing the cowl that evening. The boys all hopped on the batcycles and took off before Clark realized that Robin had actually hopped on Clark’s batcycle and taken off.

“Um.” Clark said, because Robin had arrived with Batman in the Batmobile.

“Get in,” Batman grunted, undeterred.

The batmobile took off with them both inside, and for a while they just sat in a silence Clark couldn’t interpret. Bruce had seemed on board with everything before they’d left that evening, but if he’d had a chance for introspection—a chance to realize that being in a relationship with Clark was a distraction from The Mission, then—

Clark turned away from the light smears of Gotham passing by outside the window.

Bruce was already looking at him, though Clark couldn’t read his expression under the cowl.  “Bruce, I—“ But he didn’t get any farther because Bruce’s hand snapped out and grabbed his shirt, pulling Clark closer until their mouths crashed together.

Clark made a startled sound and tried to pull back because if Bruce was kissing him, who was driving? But Bruce just followed, shoving the steering column out of the way as he climbed into Clark’s lap.

“Autopilot,” Bruce explained when he moved back to tug off their cowls. He ruffled his hand through Clark’s hair, and then just sat there for a moment, taking in the sight and licking his lips.

“Oh,” was all Clark had the brains to say before they were kissing again. There wasn’t really enough space in the seat for two fully-grown men, even after they remembered to move it back all the way, and there wasn’t really time to do much, either, since they hadn’t started until they were half-way back. But there was enough space and time that when Bruce finally clambered back into his seat, Clark was unable to do anything other than sit, dazed and trying to remember how to breathe.

“Hm,” Bruce said, entirely too smug, as he took in Clark’s state. He pulled on his cowl, schooled his expression to appear aloof and unaffected, and hopped out of the Batmobile almost before it stopped.

Unable to compose himself at all for a few more moments, Clark figured it was fitting revenge that he didn’t tell Bruce he’d put the wrong cowl on. The differences were subtle, but Bruce trained his family to notice details, so notice them they did.

“I don’t understand why you and the Alien switched cowls,” Damian was saying as Clark finally exited the vehicle. Jason was guffawing, while Dick and Tim were exchanging highly amused looks.

Bruce—wonder of self-control that he was—simply pulled the cowl off again, and looked impassively at his sons. “Make sure you log the vehicle use, and contact Doctor Fate for a pick up,” he said, taking the tiny cage with Klarion out of his pocket and putting it on the edge of the Batdesk, next to a squishy stress-relief alien and a Batman bobble-head doll. “Also the batarangs need to be inventoried and sharpened; I can tell no one bothered to since before I was indisposed. And the maintenance requests need to be managed.” He tossed the cowl onto a work table, and started towards the locker room. “Clark, with me.”

Clark hurried after him, which set off a string of catcalls and whistles from the boys (and an imperious demand for clarification from Damian). Clark ignored all of them.

—

Clark and Bruce did not, in fact, get handsy in the Batcave locker room, for every reason. They also did not get handsy in the study, the hallway, or any of the convenient nooks they passed on the way to Bruce’s room.

Once the door to that room was closed behind them, though, it was hands everywhere, and robes tossed on the floor so skin could slide against skin.

They made it to the bed, Bruce sprawled out on his back with the half-light highlighting his muscles and softening his scars. Clark sat between Bruce’s legs, thumbs gently brushing at his hipbone, stealing a moment of calm before they dove back into the whirlwind of sex. “Do you, Bruce Wayne, in full possession of your memories and senses, freely and enthusiastically consent to have sex with me?”

Bruce groaned, and tugged at pillows until he found one free enough to smack Clark with it. “Statistical analysis shows that you are at an eighty percent chance of getting kicked out of here if you don’t start touching me .”

“Only eighty?” Clark said, but he moved his thumbs a little bit closer. 

Bruce growled and wrapped his legs around Clark for enough leverage to heave himself off the bed and knock Clark over onto his back instead. Clark laughed as he went down—still on the mattress because Bruce’s bed was nothing if not enormous.

Bruce settled on top of Clark and grabbed both their cocks in one hand, calloused skin almost too dry as he stroked everything except the tips, which leaked hot pearly drops onto Clark’s abdomen. “Are you consenting?” He growled.

“Y-y-yessss,” Clark hissed, thrusting his hips up, because it was rough and dry and perfect, but also he wanted more , and Bruce was toying with him. Which was maybe fair, considering, but—Clark groaned.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked, ceasing his rubbing, and just gripping their cocks tightly together. “Maybe we should get an empath in here just to make sure you’re in full control of your facilities.” He let go and braced himself over Clark instead, staring intensely into his eyes. “Maybe Klarion stole your memories along with your powers; quick! How long have we been dating? Tell me or I won’t fuck you.”

“Oh?” Clark asked, trying to relocate enough senses for this game. “Is it my turn to pretend I have amnesia?” He felt around on the sheets for the bottle of lube and the condoms they’d tossed there earlier. “Oh who are you, strange and handsome man? I can’t remember, so I’m just going to assume we’re dating.” He batted his eyes a few times for effect, even as he smacked the tube of lube into Bruce’s chest. 

Bruce huffed a laugh and dropped his head until his forehead tapped Clark’s chin. “Oh no, I have to run off and call my ex!” Bruce took the lube, though, and popped the lid open one-handed.

“Damn, you’re so cold, maybe I’m actually dating my own alter-ego. I can’t seem to find him anywhere, but at least I remember what he looks like naked.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bruce said, but there wasn’t any heat in it. He also didn’t give Clark any choice in the matter, since he sealed their lips together in a kiss while they shifted into positions more conducive to the activity.

“So this is the SuperCock?” Bruce asked, now significantly closer to it. He licked along Clark’s length, though, so he must not have wanted an intelligible answer. The hand prepping Clark wasn’t helping, either. “Do Kryptonians even have a prostate?” Bruce asked, pressing around a little too systematically.

“No, but—“ Clark cut off with a pleasured whimper because that spot wasn’t technically a prostate, but it definitely had All The Nerves.

“What is this, then?” Bruce asked, pressing it and rubbing it.

Clark said something in Kryptonian.

Bruce paused. “That wasn’t—that was just cursing.” He pushed on that spot again, hard and firm, and Clark’s hips arched involuntarily, a rolling thunder of pleasure coursing through him. Clark had to bite his lip hard to keep from coming, as Bruce just held his fingers there .

“Ahhhh, f-fuck me,” Clark finally managed to gasp out the English equivalent of what he’d said earlier.

The pressure let up a little. “I don’t know,” Bruce said, “I think I’ll need more data—“

“NO!” Clark wrenched himself off of Bruce’s fingers, and then using the small amount of his powers he’d gotten back so far, switched their positions again, only this time he pinned Bruce’s hands to the bed over his head. “We can explore your data kink next time .”

Having Bruce inside of him—finally, finally inside of him—was better than Clark had ever imagined; full and hot and when he got the angle just right…

“You’re amazing,” Bruce said, quiet and wondering.

Which was nice to hear, even if it meant Bruce wasn’t as wrecked by this as Clark was, so Clark paused, trembling and gasping for breath and wits, feeling the burn of effort in a way that he normally couldn’t, even though it still wasn’t enough . “Fuck,” he said, and that wasn’t nearly the sentence he’d intended, but Bruce seemed to get the idea because he pulled an arm out of Clark’s hold, ran it down his side, gripped Clark’s cock firmly.

“Now go,” Bruce whispered, and Clark went. 

“Faster,” Bruce hissed, and they finally managed to synchronize their rhythm, the back and forth building inside them and outside them and around them.

Pressure and heat and sensation from both sides meant Clark wasn’t going to last much longer—not that he’d been in line to win stamina awards at all this night—so he found a wisp of superspeed, vibrating just long enough for Bruce to gasp and curse and come, Clark tumbling over the precipice right behind him.

“Fuck,” Bruce gasped, as they lay there, utterly spent, and Clark could not agree more.

Notes:

Later, in the Batcave:
Bruce: I found out what that organ is
Clark: ...
Bruce: It’s a womb! Apparently this is an MPreg fic now.
Damian (and a number of fans): *falls off the ceiling* AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH *runs screaming*
Clark: That was mean, B.
Dami: AHHHHHHHHHHH—
Dick: *saves Dami from running off a cliff* What is going on here?
Clark: Dami learned something about Kryptonian biology he didn’t like.
Dick: What?
Bruce: Clark has a womb
Dick: *Looks between them* con...gratulations?
Jason *laughs so hard he almost falls off the cliff*
Tim: *nods knowingly* Oh, the useless vestigial one; it’s so interesting how Kryptonians are not as sexually dimorphic as we hu—what?
Bruce and Clark: *staring in horror because they just remembered Tim’s dating Connor, and there are only so many reasons he’d need to look up obscure body parts*
Bruce: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH *runs screaming*

Is this canon to this story? IDK, but it sure is funny!

Chapter 40: In Which There Is Resolution

Summary:

“Stop opening my curtains,” Bruce grumbled as he woke in a puddle of sunlight. He fumbled for a pillow and pulled it over his head.

Notes:

Penultimate chapter! There might be a delay before the epilogue. Possibly a really long one if today is really the QAnon Storm and a media blackout or whatever. *rolling eyes emoji*

“Stop opening my curtains,” Bruce grumbled as he woke in a puddle of sunlight. He fumbled for a pillow and pulled it over his head.

“It’s nearly noon, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “Master Clark,” he added.

“Morning, Alfred,” Clark said, and Bruce could feel the bed shift as he sat up. Clark made a sleepy-stretchy noise, and Bruce peeked out from under his pillow to watch that perfect golden skin ripple in the sunlight.

“Just barely, Master Clark,” Alfred replied. “I’ve left a tray for you both, though I do hope we see you two downstairs before it’s dark again.” He left, and shut the door firmly behind himself.

“Before dark?” Clark asked, glancing around the room again. “That’s a pretty broad timeframe.”

“Then we can go back to sleep,” Bruce muttered, smashing the pillow back down on his face.

“Sure,” Clark said agreeably, and he lay down on his side, stretching an arm over Bruce’s chest, a leg over his legs. “If you need sleep, you need sleep.” His hand ghosted over Bruce’s chest, brushed his nipple. “Seems a bit of a shame, though, to use all this time just for sleeping.” He slid his knee up until it was resting on the underside of Bruce’s cock, which, admittedly, was firmly in agreement with Clark.

“You could suck it,” Bruce grumbled, “No one’s stopping you.”

“Yeah?” Clark said, with a grin so bright Bruce could see it through his damn pillow. Clark's weight disappeared from Bruce’s side.

And actually it might have been—oh shit—a bit of—“ahh”—a mistake because— holy fuck —Bruce didn’t think he was really awake enough for—he whimpered. “Clark, g-give me a sec—“ Bruce stammered.

“I’ve given you years,” Clark said, but he pulled off and switched to just tracing idle patterns on Bruce’s balls with his tongue.

“That’s. not. helping.” Bruce’s voice was tight.

“Depends what your goal is, doesn’t it?” And then Clark gave up on mercy, sliding his hot, hot mouth back down Bruce’s length, and fucking vibrating with his powers, like he’d done the night before. Bruce was no more able to resist this time, and he was coming, his spend slicking the back of Superman’s throat, a realization that just made this hotter . 

“I always knew you had no mercy,” Bruce said, once speaking became an option again.

Clark laughed his best evil villain laugh, and kissed Bruce, there in the sunlight, forever.

—

Later—much later, although there was still a few hours of sunlight left—they did manage to make their way downstairs.

Clark went all the way downstairs, to run the assessments on his powers Tim had left for him in the cave, which left Bruce to face Alfred’s slightly-smug raised eyebrow alone.

“You could just say ‘I told you so,’” Bruce grumbled, accepting a mug of tea and settling in at the kitchen table to read the newspaper for a little while.

“This is a settled thing, then, Master Bruce?” Alfred was chopping vegetables to add to the stew he was making for dinner.

Bruce let the newspaper sag as he picked out his answer. “We did manage to talk some this afternoon,” he said slowly, because they had, though it was still clear—had always been clear—that they needed better communication between them, and Bruce could start there, but he didn’t know how long he could manage.

“It does seem like we both want this quite a lot, so I expect we’ll continue to find our way. For as long as it lasts,” Bruce added, thinking about the notes he’d written in his journal. Clark might be super understanding, but Bruce was kind of an asshole, and bad communication was only the first part of that.

“Oh now, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, abandoning the vegetables to look at him. “That’s not the attitude you approach problems with. Where’s your stubborn belief that there’s always a better way?”

“Dating Clark is not exactly the same as fighting Two-Face,” Bruce pointed out.

“No,” Alfred agreed. “It should be much easier. And I dare say you want it more.”

“Yes, but—“ Bruce trailed off and looked down to his abandoned paper. “Clark has to want me, too.” And sure it was true now, and sure it had clearly been true in a more superficial way for a while, but would it continue? Clark didn’t—well, no, he did know Bruce pretty well, but Clark had never had Bruce’s workaholic tendencies affecting an intimate relationship before. And even if he said he’d be okay with it, reality had a way of happening.

“My dear boy,” Alfred said, now close enough to pull Bruce’s head against his chest like he’d done when Bruce was just a boy in need of simple comfort. “Clark knows you, probably better than anyone else on Earth, and he also knows that relationships take work and compromise. And so long as you know that as well, so long as you are willing to fight for this—even if the battle is only with your own asocial habits—I think you two will be very happy, for a long, long time.”

Bruce allowed himself a moment to relax into Alfred’s hold and to believe everything his father figure said was true. Then he pulled away. “I don’t—“ 

“Alfred, have you seen my—“ Damian said, entering the kitchen. He stopped short when he caught wind of the emotions in the room. “I did not know you were here, Father.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “How was school today, Damian?”

Damian practically shivered with pleasure when Bruce said his name. “It was acceptable,” he said. “Though my history teacher insists on touting his false Westernized narrative of the Middle East’s political situation.”

Bruce nodded vague agreement. “Did you need something from Alfred? because I need to speak with you privately.” Damian always had a harder time listening when he had an audience to play for.

“Your backpack is in the blue lounge,” Alfred said, making his way back to his vegetables. “Right where you left it.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Damian said with great dignity. “Let us go and speak, then, Father.”

Bruce sighed as he led the way to his study—the one without the entrance to the Batcave. He wasn’t very good at these things, but Dick was right that Bruce needed to talk to Damian, and not just about working in a team, either.

Neither of them sat when they reached the study, though Bruce leaned back against the front of his desk as he considered his youngest son and how best to approach this.

Damian waited quietly, stiff and tense.

It was clear he was waiting for chastisement; to be told he wasn’t achieving whatever impossible standards had been set for him; that he was failing to be the perfect warrior his mother demanded he be; but also failing to be the caring family member that his father asked of him. He was hardening his heart against being told he wasn’t good enough yet again .

“Damian,” Bruce started, “I love you.”

Damian startled in shock and confusion, but then his face cleared again, and he said. “But you love the alien, too.”

“Not my point,” Bruce said. “You are one of my children—one of my wonderful, amazing children—and there is nothing you can say or do that will ever change that. Nor anything you can fail to do.”

“Yes, Father,” Damian said, in a tone which meant he didn’t really understand or believe what Bruce was saying.

“Damian.” Bruce waited until it was clear he had Dami’s full attention. “You are a part of this family. It is not something you need to earn. It is not something withheld until you prove yourself to me. It is not something taken away if you fail. It is infinite and equal for every member, even if it is expressed differently.”

“Yes, Father,” Damian said again, straightening his posture once more, though with confidence this time.

“The same is true of the team,” Bruce continued. “Every member is equally important and carries their own part, and even if those parts are not the same, it is all necessary for things to work.”

Damian’s lips thinned. “Richard has already told me being a follower is part of being a leader, Father.”

“Dick’s right, but it’s not only about following directions, Damian. It’s about respecting your teammates, and about trusting that they are working with you for a common goal. Tim needs to be able to trust that you aren’t going to run off on your own. Dick needs to trust that you’re going to be there when he turns around. I need to trust that you aren’t going to turn an absence into a power play.”

“Yes, Father,” Damian said a third time. This time he sounded chastened, and like maybe Bruce had finally gotten through to him. Like maybe he understood that he hadn't failed , even though he still needed to improve. Time would tell, of course, and probably they would have this discussion a hundred more times before Dami would feel it in his bones.

“Now,” Bruce said, because the hard part was over. “How did your math teacher like our architectural model?”

—

After dinner, Bruce headed down to the cave. Clark had recovered enough of his powers to fly off and attend some ribbon cutting ceremony as Superman, but Tim was there, sitting in front of the computer and resting his head on a hand as he viewed still images on the monitors.

“Doctor Fate came by to get Klarion,” Tim said, by way of greeting. “He thanked us graciously for our team efforts and left before I had any time to call you.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said, waving that away. “What are you working on?”

“There’s a new teenage gang at Gotham South,” Tim said, stretching. “I’m trying to figure out who the leader is, to see if we can get them to lead the whole group into the Wayne Delivers team before it settles into something permanent.” He scrubbed at his face. “They just want to help out their families, you know?”

“I do know, Tim.” Bruce rolled a second chair up to the computer and sat down next to Tim. 

“Here.” Tim tapped a few things and redesignated some of the monitors for Bruce’s use.

“Thanks, but it’s not what I’m here for.” Bruce spun Tim’s chair until they were facing each other and not the computer. 

“I’m sorry I lied about the tracking program,” Tim said, sounding almost sincere.

Bruce waved that away. Tim was gonna Tim. Apparently. “It was just an omission. And we’re all pretty terrible at respecting each other’s privacy.”

“You can say that again,” Tim muttered. “Uh, I mean, what did you want to talk about, then?”

“You’re amazing.” Bruce could get used to seeing happily stunned expressions on his children’s faces, though he was solidly aware it was his fault and should never see it after what should be everyday expressions of care and respect. “You are amazing and you are my son, and I’m sorry I’ve let Damian go on so long calling you by the wrong name. I thought if it appeared not to be a big deal, he would drop it sooner. Clearly that’s not the case, and I’m sorry I’ve let him hurt you for so long.”

Tim let out a slow breath. “It’s not so much that he calls me Drake—I still mostly call myself Tim Drake. It’s more that you’ve never been there to back me up on it. On anything . And letting the small slights slide means he thinks he can ignore my leadership and run into every possible danger.”

Bruce could remember a time when Tim was the one running into every danger. Actually, Tim still often did run into every danger, and sometimes even against specific orders to do the opposite. But now wasn’t really the time to bring that up. “I know that he’s hard to work with, and that I’ve been neglecting his teamwork training, but I’ve reprioritized that. He’s a difficult kid, and he had a tough upbringing, but he’s also smart enough not to be such a little shit. Especially to family. Thank you for doing what you could to keep him safe while I was incapacitated.”

Tim snorted. “Like you had a broken leg or something.”

“It was worse than that, and you know it,” Bruce said, letting a small, fond smile slip out. “Anyway, I’ve seen the communication logs from the Watchtower while I was gone, and I wanted to thank you for handling that as well. There is so much that would have fallen apart without you holding it together.”

“Tell me about it,” Tim said, dropping his head. “Can’t you do a mandatory crash-course in solving your own shit with the League or something?”

“I’ll repost the guidelines about when it’s an appropriate time to call the Batcave.” Bruce’s smile grew a few degrees, and he reached out to pull Tim into a hug. Their chairs kept it awkward, but Tim leaned into it and rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re my son,” Bruce said as they pulled apart.

Tim smiled shyly at him, and they both turned to focus on their respective cases. And if one or both of them had damp eyes, well, there was no one else around to see.

—

With Tim and Damian down, and Jason vanished for now, that left only Dick. Bruce found him working out in the gym they’d set up upstairs when Bruce couldn’t—shouldn’t—remember the Batcave.

“You gotta get your boytoy to move all of this equipment back down to the cave,” Dick said, when he saw Bruce lingering by the door.

“You don’t like working out in the sunlight?”

Dick glanced pointedly at the window as he finished up his current routine. It was dark outside, and the wind blew drops of rain against the pane. “I’m so used to the darkness now, I don’t like the daystar stalking me.” He ambled over to his water bottle and towel to cool down. “Will you believe me now when I say you weren’t cheating on Clark?”

Bruce supposed he deserved that. “I was sleeping with Batman, though,” Bruce pointed out calmly. “Since Clark was filling the role.”

Dick nodded like that hadn’t occurred to him before. 

“Actually just telling me he was Batman—“ Bruce suppressed a twitch at having to say it, “—probably would have saved you a lot of trouble. And me a lot of trouble.”

Dick shrugged and took a long drink of water. “He still wouldn’t have slept with you.”

“Hm,” Bruce said.

“I assume you two have sorted that out now?” Dick raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“Yes.” Bruce started, because he knew he wouldn’t have to finish, “Last night we—“

“No!” Dick dropped his water bottle in his rush to cover his ears. “You can’t say things like that to me. To anyone .”

“Hm,” Bruce said again, but this time he let the smirk show through.

“You’re such a shit,” Dick said, realizing he’d been had. “I dare you to go play that game with Jason.” But he was smiling, too. “I’m glad you’re back, B.”

“You didn’t like Emotionally Balanced Good Parent Bruce?” Bruce asked, but he stepped a little closer to his eldest son and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

Dick snorted even as he leaned into the half-hug. “I didn’t like Pretending to Forget Even Though I’ve Remembered Bruce.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “That guy’s an idiot.”

Dick jabbed him in the side, then slipped away to the small sparring mat with Bruce right behind because there were only so many feels they could handle at one time.

—

“Jason!” Bruce said in surprise when he rounded a corner and nearly ran into his second oldest. “I thought you’d left.”

“Forgot something,” Jason replied, waving vaguely.

“Hm,” Bruce said, then kicked himself. “Actually, I wanted to talk.”

“About what, Old Man?” Jason eyed him suspiciously, which was probably fair, considering the circumstances of their last talk.

“I wanted to apologize.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed even more. “For what?”

He wasn’t going to make this easy, but Bruce wasn’t one to back away from a hard situation. Except for all the times he had with Jason. “For everything.”

Jason just kept staring at him. 

Bruce sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I am shit at emotions, you know that. But after this whole debacle—“ Bruce waved a hand to indicate his amnesia and everything related to it “—I realized that it was a choice that I was making, to ignore everyone else’s feelings and my own. I can’t promise that I’m going to stop being an asshole overnight, and it’s going to take some practice, but I’m going to try.”

Jason’s frown deepened further. “So are you apologizing, or—“

“Jason,” Bruce interrupted, but without rancor. “Thank you for being here with your brothers during this time. And thank you for reaching out the other day with inviting me to the rare books exhibit. And I acknowledge that I’ve been a shitty dad to you almost from the start, and I finally have the perspective to not only understand, but to regret. And I hope that you’re still willing to forgive me, or at least to reach out so we can have some sort of relationship going forward. Because you’re still a part of this family; it’s something that doesn’t get taken away. Ever.”

“Whatever, Old Man,” Jason said, turning away. But before he did, Bruce thought he looked a little stunned, and maybe his eyes were a bit damp. “I’ll see you at the exhibit.” He stomped off down the corridor.

Bruce let out a long slow breath. It hadn’t gone as well as the conversations with his other sons, but it had gone better than any conversation he’d had with Jason in the past few years.

“You think he’ll come around?” Clark asked, drifting up the hallway behind Bruce.

“I think I’ve come around,” Bruce said, turning towards him. “Some things can’t be fixed, but that doesn’t mean they should just be thrown out.”

“You going to reduce, reuse, or recycle your relationship with Jason?”

Bruce snorted, and leaned against Clark. “Renew it, I hope.” Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce and they just stood there for a moment. “You’ll let me know when I’m being an asshole, right?” Bruce asked. “Since I apparently can’t be trusted to see that for myself.”

“I’ll keep you grounded,” Clark said, giving him a brief kiss. “Are you going out on patrol tonight?”

“I am, but I have a few hours before it,” Bruce said, pulling away, but grinning.

“Oh good,” Clark said, “Because Dick declared tonight family game night, and Tim and Damian are already fighting.”

Bruce groaned, because that wasn’t what he’d hoped was on offer. “We’d better hurry, then. Last time we had a game night—well, let’s just say there was no visible scarring.” They’d had to dispose of several games, though, due to the amount of blood—both figurative and literal—spilled over them. 

“Dick says it’s a cooperative game this time, so it should be okay.”

“It was a cooperative game last time,” Bruce said, hurrying towards the game room, and hoping they’d make it in time. Clark followed. “Why couldn’t it have been movie night?” Bruce muttered. “Most movie nights don’t end in bloodshed.”

“Most,” Clark echoed, as he trailed Bruce into the most intense situation they’d yet faced together.

Notes:

The main reason for the epilogue delay is that I’m not entirely certain what to put in it, so if you’ve got suggestions or requests, drop them below. No promises on inclusion, but I’d at least like to make sure I’ve got my finger on the pulse of what you lovely readers want.

Chapter 41: In Which We Say Good Bye

Notes:

I figure if The Adventures of Lois and Clark can do it, then so can I.

Life was good. There were battles and parties and meetings and funerals and 'hey you aren't dead after all!' celebrations. New friends were made, and old friends turned out to be enemies, and then friends again, and then enemies, and then maybe they were mind-controlled for a bit, or actually it was all a deep undercover investigation in the first place. Relics were found and restored and destroyed and repatriated. 

And that was just the next two months.

"Ithoughtyoursuitwasmoredurablethanthat," Flash said, at the end of another battle, one which left Superman's suit torn into shreds and hanging off his unmarred body.

Superman rubbed one of the slippery pieces between his fingers. "So did I," he said. "I'll have to go change."

Green Lantern snorted from where he was leaning on a wall he'd just created, very unsubtly ogling Superman. "Don't rush on my account," he said, with the faintest hint of a leer, because of course he did.

There was a faint collective intake of breath and everyone turned to look at Batman.

“What?” Batman snapped, wiping gore off his cheek.

“They think you are going to fly into a possessive jealous rage,” Superman stage-whispered.

Batman snorted, focusing on cataloguing which tools were left in his belt. “I would never be so obvious. Even if I thought Hal Jordan was a threat.” He made Hal’s name sound like an insult.

“Threat to wh—?” Hal sputtered, defensive but confused until something about the situation clicked in his head. “You two are dating ?!?!” His green wall vanished and he stumbled, eyes darting between Batman and Superman as he processed this information.

“There must not have been much Earth-News on the Water Moons of Chesouphut,” J’onn said mildly.

“Batman and Superman are dating and it's in the news ?” Hal asked.

Flash shook his head. "Their civilian identities.” He quoted some headlines, “Brucie Wayne's Secret Boyfriend! Has Mild-Mannered Reporter Clark Kent Managed to Tame Gotham Playboy Bruce Wayne? Five Things You Don't Know About the Clucie Relationship, andstillwishedyoudidn't," he ended on a mutter.

"No one made you read it," Superman pointed out.

"Actually, I was wondering--" Green Arrow began, leaping off a piece of rubble and into their conversation.

"No," Batman growled, interrupting him.

"They, ah, used Dick as their source," Superman explained. "On a day he was pissed off at B." Not that Bruce's eldest needed the excuse of being angry to make mischief. None of the kids did.

"I'm going to need the link to that article," Green Lantern said to Flash. “And the others. Are there photos?”

"Enough!" Batman said, hands cutting through the air. "Go get changed, Superman. We'll clean up here and see you at the meeting."

“You could go with him.” GL suggested as Superman flew off. “Make sure he’s okay,” he added, though he completely missed the tone of innocence he was trying for.

Superman listened in over the increasing distance for Batman’s reply, which was simply a cool, “You’re the only one who uses chocolate milk as creamer.” Vague-yet-specific enough to be a threat, except that now Hal was forewarned. Which meant he’d spend the next two weeks worrying about his coffee, and Bruce wasn’t really going to do anything to him at all. Clark chuckled fondly to himself as he sped north.

--

"I'll have my men look into it," Commissioner Gordon said, accepting a file folder from Batman without looking at it--he tried to keep eye contact when he had another question to ask, and he didn't want the Batman to vanish before getting to ask it. Sometimes Batman even deigned to stay and hear it. "I've heard Bruce Wayne has finally settled down with that reporter from Metropolis." 

"It's only been a few months," Batman growled, remembering the half-accusations Gordon had made back when he and Clark had first met.

"Right," Gordon nodded. "I thought it was fast, too. You've looked into him, then?"

Batman snorted, and let the commissioner interpret it as he would.

“Well I did. And it turns out he’s the guy that’s always writing about your teammate Superman.”

“Hmm,” Batman said, hoping Gordon would get to his point soon.

“It’s just that if Kent learned something about Superman that he’s using as leverage with your...ah...friend Bruce to—“

“No.”

“But—“

“No,” Batman repeated, more forcefully. “Kent is as disgustingly honest as Superman, who, I will add, views him as a friend. Stop investigating this.”

“But Bruce is out of—“

Batman growled. “Kent is worth a hundred Bruces. And you need to leave this alone .”

“Okay, jeeze, you sound like you’re the one in love with the guy.”

“Hm,” Batman growled again, though this time the anger was directed at himself for giving too much away. “Stay out of it.” He added, and then jumped for the shadows, wondering, as he swung home, how often they’d have to start inviting Gordon over for dinner before he finally understood who Clark was.

--

"You two are really serious?" Selena asked a few galas later. She'd been in Rhelasia until that very morning, Bruce knew, because he’d received the reports about the sabertooth skulls that ‘mysteriously’ reappeared at one of their museums.

"Selena, darling!" Brucie said draping himself drunkenly over her--and taking the moment to retrieve all the things she'd stolen so far that night. "I haven't seen you in ages ."

Selena made a face--though she'd been pretending to be drunk most of the evening, too--and shoved him off. Bruce went with the motion and collapsed into Clark, who smiled tolerantly and supported his 'stumbling drunk' boyfriend.

Bruce still mostly hated all the public appearances and parties, but his reputation as Brucie gave him the most wonderful excuses to be all over Clark in public, so sometimes they were tolerable.

"Mm-hmm," Clark agreed with Selena. "He hasn't figured out how to get rid of me yet, anyway."

"Aww, Clarkie," Bruce said, rubbing his cheek on Clark's shoulder. "I haven't even been trying."

Selena had a complicated expression on her face. "I don't know if I should ask for your registry or vomit," she said.

"Selena, please," Bruce said, with a mock-gasp and a flip of his wrist. "You would never do anything so crass as buy something off a registry."

"Well," Selena said to Clark, giving Bruce another dubious look. "I suppose you've kept him longer and better than I ever managed." She gave Clark a little nod and vanished back into the crowd.

“You could tell her,” Clark said. “About me, that is.”

Bruce snorted as he looked over the loot he’d retrieved from Selena. “That would ruin at least half the fun.” It would take him the rest of the evening to figure out how to return this stuff. Oh well, best get started.

--

"Mom! Dad!" Clark said, rushing to hug them even as they struggled out of their winter coats. "How was your flight?"

"It was fine," Martha said, handing her coat to Alfred. "Aside from the delay."

"I offered to fly you," Clark reminded her.

"Oh, it's no trouble," Jonathan said, handing off his own coat. "And we were already at the airport by the time we knew about the snow."

"Besides," Martha said with a mischievous smile. " Someone upgraded our flight to first class."

"I thought it might be easier on your knees, Martha," Bruce said, sweeping into the entrance hall. 

“Oh, Bruce,” Martha said, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “It was lovely, but much too easy to get used to.”

“My money has nothing better to do than spoil you,” Bruce said as he and Jonathon clasped arms.

“Speaking of spoiling…?” Martha smiled and looked behind Bruce to where Damian was haughty defending the stairs.

“Martha, Jonathon,” Damian said with a dignified nod when he got close. “It is good to see you both.”

“Such manners!” Martha said, but swept him into a hug anyway.

Damian stiffened, but he also cautiously brought a hand up to pat Martha’s back.

Meanwhile, Dick entered the room at the top of the stairs, yelled, “THE KENTS ARE HERE,” over his shoulder, slid down the railing, and flipped to land right in front of Jonathon. “Grandpa!” He flung his arms around Jonathon, who returned the hug just as enthusiastically. 

Jason and Tim followed Dick at a more sedate pace, but before they reached the ground level, Cas appeared behind Martha and tapped her shoulder. “Hi,” she said shyly when Martha turned in surprise.

“You have to stop doing that, dear,” Martha said, though her heart wasn’t racing nearly as fast as it had the first few times Cas had done that.

The whole party drifted into one of the sitting rooms as they continued their greetings.

“Is Conner here?” Martha asked.

He was running a quick errand for Clark, as a matter of fact, but before Clark could explain that, he appeared at the door.

“I’m here!” Conner said, dusting snow off his shoulders. He discreetly handed off the small package to Clark while simultaneously catching Tim, who literally pounced on him the moment he walked in the door. “Hey Tim.”

“So,” Jason said, "If Connor is effectively your son, but he's dating Tim, who is effectively your grandson...who gets the shovel talk?"

Dick smacked him on the back of the head. “It wasn’t funny the last three times you asked, either.”

“But I still don’t have an aaannnswer,” Jason groaned, rubbing the spot Dick had hit. 

Bruce cleared his throat from where he was standing by the fireplace. “Now that we are all here, Clark and I have something we wanted to share with you,” he held his hand out as Clark approached, and Clark took it and stood next to him. 

Clark took a deep breath. “We’ve been together for a serious amount of time now, and we feel that it’s time to show the world just how serious we are.”

“To that end,” Bruce said, pulling his own small package out of his pocket. “Clark, will you marry me?” He opened the ring box and a quiet diamond glittered inside. 

Clark smiled at him, “Only if you will marry me, Bruce,” he replied, pulling out his own ring box, and adding a second quiet glitter to the room.

Martha squealed, Cas gave a delighted squeak, Dick whooped, and Jason said, “so then is Tim and Conner’s relationsh—oof,“ he was cut off when Damian jabbed him—probably with an elbow, since he wasn’t bleeding.

“Congratulations, Father—Fathers,” Damian said very gravely.

“Master Bruce, I—“ Alfred began, but was too choked up to finish. He reached out for a hug, and then it was hugs and back patting and congratulations all around.

—

It was late evening when Clark got the call from Lois. 

“There’s something here for you,” she said, sounding annoyed, but with some undertones he couldn’t place.

“Something…there for...me?” Clark said, aware that he sounded like an idiot, but not only had he not ordered anything recently, he had no idea why something would have arrived for him at an address he’d only used for a few months—and that years ago.

“Yes,” Lois said, still annoyed, but then she relented a little. “Maybe it was meant for both of us.”

“What does th—is that a baby ?” There was a faint string of babble from the other end of the line.

“Just—come here,” Lois said. “Now. Please.”

Five minutes later Clark was standing in Lois’ living room, both of them staring at a baby wrapped snugly in a red blanket with the symbol of the house of El on it. The baby stared quietly back at them, blinking its large blue eyes innocently. 

“What?” Clark said, stunned and confused.

“There’s a letter,” Lois said, holding out the pristine white page to him. “Says he was sent for us, since we can’t have kids, I guess?”

“But—“ Clark wasn’t even sure where to begin with his questions. “We don’t—we aren’t even—Where—? How—? What—? What?”

Lois shrugged helplessly. “You now know as much as I do. Maybe your child-hoarding fiancé can investigate where your son came from.”

“My son,” Clark repeated absently, then snapped out of his confusion enough to look at her. “Isn’t he our son?”

Lois shook her head. “I have a flight in an hour, Clark, I can’t—I can’t,” she kept shaking her head as she said it. 

Now that he was looking, Clark realized he’d never seen Lois so shaken. She was still forcing herself to act cool, and was hiding it under faux irritation, though she was anything but. Which made sense because she was a bit like Bruce in that she could handle anything—so long as she could anticipate and prepare for it.

A baby appearing on her doorstep in a package addressed to her and her ex was not something anyone could reasonably be expected to anticipate.

“Okay,” Clark said. “Okay, we’ll—I’ll take him home, and Bruce and I will figure this out.” He slowly reached out and pulled her into a hug. “I’ll let you know what we learn.”

She didn’t quite relax into his hold like she did in that brief window where they’d been dating, but Clark could hear her heart settling, feel some of the tension leak out of her shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like to—to know.”

They both heaved a sigh of relief, and Clark released her. He picked up the basket with his—with the baby, tucked the letter back inside and left, walking almost three blocks before remembering he could fly.

—

“Bullshit,” Bruce said as they stood there staring at the baby in the basket. Clark had told him what he knew, and they’d read over the letter three or four times just to be sure. “Lois is playing a trick.”

Clark just kind of looked at him because there was no universe where that could possibly be true, and they both knew it.

“Not Lois, then, someone else. That fourth-dimensional asshole who messes up your life.”

Clark shook his head.

“Luthor.” 

Clark shook his head again, but this time helplessly because Luthor clearly had the technology to do this, but he didn’t know Clark was Superman, and didn’t have the heart to give his nemesis a son to raise.

“So somewhere in this universe of universes there’s a world where someone just...made a baby for you and Lois, and then, what? Sent it with a stork on a years-long journey on the assumption that you two would still be together and wanting a kid when it arrived?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said. “It seems that way, I guess.”

They fell back into silent contemplation of the basket and its contents, which cooed adorably at them and vaguely waved a hand around.

“Couldn’t they at least have sent a girl?” Bruce muttered.

“What?” Clark asked, both certain and uncertain of what he’d heard.

“What?” Bruce just looked back at him and pretended he hadn’t said it.

Their staring contest may never have ended, except that Dick arrived just then.

“Hello, fathers and assor—is that a baby ?” The baby was swept out of his basket and into Dick’s arms. “I love babies! What’s this one’s name?” He tossed it—him—in the air

“Jonathon,” Clark said.

Bruce gave him a pointed look. 

Clark shrugged. 

“Do we get to keep him?” Dick cooed to the baby, though he was probably joking.

Bruce cleared his throat. “There are things we need to check first, but probably.”

That made Dick look up. “Really? You two adopted another kid? Another boy ?”

Bruce held up the letter so he could read it.

“Oh,” Dick said. “Oh wow. So you and Lois were destined to be together, then?” He looked at Clark when he said it.

Clark scrunched up his nose. “It seems to imply that. And maybe I could see it. In a different timeline, of course,” he added hastily at Bruce’s pointed look.

“This raises so many questions,” Tim breathed, startling every adult present. Apparently he’d crept up behind them at some point. “Where did the timelines diverge? What caused the divergence? Will it try to right itself? How long ago did they send the baby that it arrived after the divergence?” He ended the last question with big eyes and a hopeful look at Bruce.

“Is the baby sent in every universe or timeline? And what happens if neither Lois nor Clark is there to receive it?” Bruce said, and the two started grinning at each other. “Is it genetically theirs, or not, and if not, whose?”

“Is it fully Kryptonian, and if so, how?!” Tim was nearly bouncing with joy.

“Whelp, we’ve lost them,” Dick said to Clark as Tim and Bruce kept listing questions and grinning ever more maniacally.  “Does Alfred know yet?”

“Not yet,” Clark said, and he and Dick started their own shared grin. “I only just got back with him.” 

“Come on!” Dick said and started walking away. Clark followed. “We’ve got to tell everyone .”

“I’ll need to run some genetic tests!” Bruce called as they left the room, and Clark waved in acknowledgement.

—

“What do you mean ‘ another brother’?” Damian asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Where is he? I will fight him for my place—“

“I thought you were over all that, Little D’,” Dick said with a sigh.

“I have accepted my place in the current roster of family, but—what is that…?”

Clark had unwrapped Jon, and held him up so the full power of his giant innocent blue eyes was turned onto Damian. “This is your new brother, Jon.”

“I—I—“ Damian stammered, clearly going through something as he attempted to resolve ‘helpless adorable creature’ with ‘new threat to inheritance’. Luckily his need to protect the helpless won out. “I will protect you with my life, I swear.” He reached out, and Clark handed over the baby. Dami held his new brother close and cooed something to him that, honestly, sounded a bit like a training regimen, but there was probably time to talk Dami out of the worst of it.

—

“Alfred!” Jason yelled. “Why is there a baby in the kitchen!?” It was lying on its tummy in a playpen, struggling to reach a toy.

Alfred appeared in the doorway. “He’s Master Clark’s new son, and Master Bruce’s as well, I suppose.”

“Okay, first, you’re going to have to explain that, and second, how come no one told me?”

“Surprise,” Cas said, nearly giving Jason a heart attack because he hadn’t realized she was there.

“Indeed,” Alfred agreed, “he’s only been here since last night, and I believe Master Clark and Master Dick both tried to contact you, but you did not respond.

“Roy hid my phone,” Jason muttered. And he hadn’t thought to check messages when Roy returned it; he’d be home shortly, and surely nothing important had happened. 

“And before you ask why no one came in person, Master Jason, let me remind you that you were quite clear about remaining undisturbed on this occasion.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, because he did remember what he’d said when he stormed out last Thursday. “But a baby . That’s...important.”

“Perhaps you will learn to check your phone messages, then,” Alfred said, pulling some eggs out of the fridge. 

Jason grumbled in agreement and stared at the baby, who had wriggled forward enough to grab the toy and put it in his mouth.

“Does Super Robin have a name?” He asked.

“Jon,” Cas said. “Hold him,” she added, answering Jason’s next unasked question.

Jason approached the playpen cautiously, and reached out. “I’m your big brother Jason,” he said, “I’m going to hold you now, and I’m going to love you forever.” He picked up the baby and curled him close to his chest. “Welcome to the family, Super Robin Jon.”

Notes:

And that's a wrap.

Nothing funny this time, just some sincere thank yous for reading! I've loved all your comments, even if I didn't reply to them, and I know that a bunch of you read this and didn't comment, but I love that you enjoyed it as well!

There probably won't be more/a sequel to this story, but I have some other superbats ideas that I may or may not ever write, since I'm going to try doing original fiction again, now that I've proven I remember how to write (I know at least one of you will be thrilled to hear that).

Anyway, it's been real, and I wish you all the very best; stay safe, stay warm, stay sane,
Qui