World's... Finest?

by MyPride

Summary:

"Okay, Mr. Detective, what about the way they interact when they are alone? And, no, don't answer to that," Clark quickly silenced him. "I don't know if you've noticed the way they look at each other when, well, they're doing homework or sitting around watching a movie or playing games. They're always looking for eye contact, looking at each other, smiling, and then pretending to look away..."
"Let's stalk them."
Clark was about to add more - and perhaps point out to Bruce that they were poking each other more than usual - when that one word hit him like a bucket of ice water. "What?" he choked on his own saliva, but Bruce blinked.
"I thought you had super-hearing?"
"No, I mean, what's wrong with you?"
"It's the most effective and quickest way I know of to find out what we want to know, and especially to see if your assumptions and doubts are well-founded."
Clark didn't know what to say; he just gasped like a fish out of water before massaging his temples. "You know, B, I'm starting to regret bringing you into this."

Bruce was working in the office in the west wing of the Manor when the rustling of the curtains drew his attention, and he did not have to turn around to learn the identity of his mystery guest.

"The door is on the other side, Clark," he just said, not taking his eyes off the monitor even as Big Blue stood in front of the desk, the floorboards creaking under his Kryptonian weight.

It was rare for Bruce to work from home, he usually tried to rush things through at the office or delegate most things to Lucius - especially good old Lucius, if he had to be honest with himself - but this time he hadn't been able to get away with it and had had to take those prototype files to his home computer, setting all the networks to closed to avoid a possible data leak and any problems; He had eaten a couple of turkey and jalapeno sandwiches that Alfred had brought, and had stopped just short of the five o'clock tea he was sipping in front of the computer, so this sudden appearance didn't seem to bother him a bit. Was there some strange force in the universe trying to keep him from concentrating and really working the way he was supposed to?

"Sorry, Bruce, I'll just take a minute of your time," Clark hinted, and Bruce grunted to himself, his lips curling against the rim of the cup.

"A minute is way too long, but I guess you won't leave until you tell me what's going on."

Clark gave one of his Kent smiles. "You know me too well." He grabbed the back of the chair and sat down in front of him, arching his back as if to lower himself a little more to the level of his friend's face. "This may sound like a strange question, but... have you noticed anything strange about your son, lately?"

"It wouldn't hurt to specify which son you're talking about."

Bruce's comment made him chuckle, though Clark finally shrugged. "I'm talking about Damian," he clarified, massaging his neck, and Bruce set his cup of tea down on the desk, staring intently into his best friend's blue eyes with an intensity that dazzled the sun.

"Not as weird as a normal 16-year-old might be," he said.

"So it's... all okay?"

"Get to the point, Clark."

Clark took a long breath through his nose and, after pulling up his glasses, stared intently at his friend. "I think our sons are hanging out," he snorted in one breath, and Bruce returned the look with a strange expression.

"They've been doing it since they were barely eleven, so I don't understand what-"

"They're dating, Bruce."

A sudden silence fell between them, broken only by the constant ticking of the clock in the room. Bruce's brain had begun to formulate a billion hypotheses, convictions that he had simply misheard and that Clark hadn't meant what he had said, but whenever he dwelt on it, Bruce always retraced his steps. He stared at Clark for a very long time, blinking and arching an eyebrow, until he finally closed his eyes and, with all the calm in the world, shook his head and reached for his cup of tea again.

"Impossible, Damian is too young to date someone."

The conviction with which he said this made Clark roll his eyes. "He and Jon are 16 and 15, Bruce."

"Let's say you're wrong, though."

"How?"

"What gave you the impression that our sons are 'romantically involved'?"

Clark opened his mouth to answer, then closed it and frowned, his left eyebrow flickering briefly as if the man was concentrating. There had been small things, spikes in Jon's heartbeat in Damian's presence that had made Clark a little suspicious, sudden flushes of blood in his cheeks, poorly held accelerated breaths, and so many other changes in Jon's daily routine that were hard to explain to Bruce. "Lately it's like he's trying to... impress Damian and--"

"So? Where's the new?" Bruce interrupted him immediately. "They're teaming up, Jon's younger, it's natural that he wants to impress and prove himself."

"Let me finish, Bruce, okay?", Clark huffed at this point, and Bruce raised his hands in surrender, encouraging him to continue with a nod of his head. Why did he get the impression that Bruce was trying to deny the evidence? "The other day, when Damian came over, I've overhear them talking, and Jon had started bragging about how good he was at knocking out a bad guy on their patrol." Clark immediately put a finger to his lips to silence Bruce, who had immediately tried to retort with who knows what logical reason. "He showed off bulging his biceps, he even kissed one, and Damian smiled at him."

"That's weird."

"See? I told you that-"

"No, I was talking about Damian smiled. It was more like a sneer, I'm sure."

Clark slapped his hand across his face. "...you keep denying the evidence."

"No offense, Clark, but that doesn't sound like behavior that irrefutably proves to me that our sons are dating in the romance department."

"Okay, and what about the fact that I caught Jon wearing Conner's jacket and he justified it by saying he had just tried it on when he got home?"

"Jonathan is in his rebellious age, and in any case it doesn't seem strange to me that he would want to change his look."

"Okay, Mr. Detective, what about the way they interact when they are alone? And, no, don't answer to that," Clark quickly silenced him. "I don't know if you've noticed the way they look at each other when, well, they're doing homework or sitting around watching a movie or playing games. They're always looking for eye contact, looking at each other, smiling, and then pretending to look away..."

"Let's stalk them."

Clark was about to add more - and perhaps point out to Bruce that they were poking each other more than usual - when that one word hit him like a bucket of ice water. "What?" he choked on his own saliva, but Bruce blinked.

"I thought you had super-hearing?"

"No, I mean, what's wrong with you?"

"It's the most effective and quickest way I know of to find out what we want to know, and especially to see if your assumptions and doubts are well-founded."

Clark didn't know what to say; he just gasped like a fish out of water before massaging his temples. "You know, B, I'm starting to regret bringing you into this," he finally exhaled, but in response Bruce closed his laptop and stood up, sidestepping his desk to reach the door with great strides.

"Too late, S. Now get your ass out of here. Operation D.E. begins."

"D.E.?"

"Doubts Elimination. I couldn't think of a better name."

Clark groaned. Maybe he should have listened to Lois, ignored whatever was going on with Jon and waited for him to talk about it, but his "mother hen" instincts had gotten the better of him and he had thought about sharing his doubts with Bruce... but it hadn't gone exactly as he'd hoped, and an hour and a half later they found themselves in downtown Gotham, both of them undercover - Bruce really did have an endless variety of outfits, wigs and masks to create his various identities, he had to be given credit for that - and heading for the place where Jon and Damian had arranged to meet. And Clark certainly did not know that because he had overheard his son's conversation, no sir. He just happened to be there on the very day that Jon had also thought of taking a little trip to Gotham, that was all. And donkeys flew, of course.

Jon was supposed to meet Damian at the arcade - "Two friends going to the arcade isn't weird or a date, Clark," Bruce had said - at exactly seven o'clock, just in time for them to cross paths unnoticed. He and Bruce had taken a seat at the table in the café across the street, pretending to be there just for a cup of coffee; Bruce had taken the opportunity to grab a piece of cake and was eating it with gusto, but Clark could clearly see the way his shoulders were stiff and his ears twitching, a symbol that he was paying attention to his surroundings and his environment. For his part, Clark was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable.

"Mhn, Bruce, sorry if I'm meddling..." he tried to stroke his fake mustache, but Bruce shot him a skeptical look from under his glasses.

"You're apologizing after you've already done that?"

"Yeah, okay, look, I still don't think this is a good idea."

"It was your idea."

"No, I wanted to share my doubts with you, not find myself spying on my son," Clark complained. "Besides, Jon could still hear my heartbeat, so he could-"

"He'll be too busy to notice you in the crowd."

"I don't think he's-"

"Hush. Your son is here."

Clark blinked; he hadn't quite heard Jon coming, but it was also true that he had indeed been distracted himself and had a bit of trouble finding him with his eyes, only seeing him after a few glances at the entrance to the arcade: Jon was wearing one of Conner's jackets again - this time an army green denim blazer with a ripped effect on the arms, similar to the jeans he usually wore - and he was just looking at the clock on his phone screen, his black converse tapping rhythmically on the sidewalk as if he were nervous about waiting; he had slicked his hair back with gel, though a few curly, unruly strands still fell over his eyes - perhaps 'cause of the speed with which he had flown to Gotham - and from time to time he moistened his lips, which still curled into a smile. Clark had never seen him like this, and if he concentrated on listening to his son's heart, he could hear it beating at a frantic pace. And did Bruce still have the nerve to keep pretending?

When Damian arrived about ten minutes later - Clark heard him say that he was late 'cause of Dick, as if to reiterate that he would have been on time if it had been up to him - they greeted each other with a simple fist-to-fist, and Jon put an arm around Damian's shoulders, chatting about more or less everything; here Clark stopped listening, but only 'cause he felt Bruce's gaze focused on him, and the skeptical expression on his face seemed palpable.

"What? Don't look at me like that," Clark replied, sipping his coffee as if nothing was wrong, but Bruce shook his head and dropped his fork into the now empty saucer.

"Can I say 'I told you so' now, or would you rather wait a little longer?"

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Exactly, Clark, nothing. It's something between friends, a social outing... just like ours."

"Ours is not 'a social outing,' it's blatantly a stakeout."

"Absolutely insignificant detail."

Clark muttered to himself, trying to catch a glimpse of the boys out of the corner of his eye, wondering why they had not yet entered the game room; instead, they had begun walking down the sidewalk toward the ice cream parlor just ahead, and Clark straightened in his chair, resisting the urge to eavesdrop. He didn't want to invade his son's privacy any more than he already had, although he did flinch for a moment when an expletive directed at Damian by Jon reached his ears just as they took a seat at the ice cream parlor table.

"Bruce, Jon called him Dami!" Clark hissed, but Bruce, who had started to drink his coffee, rolled his eyes.

"They're friends, Clark. It's normal to call each other with nicknames or diminutives."

"You wouldn't say that if you had heard the tone in which he said it."

"You're just suggesting your idea."

"What's the problem with admitting that they might actually be dating each other, Bruce?"

Bruce looked at him and opened his mouth to reply, but he shut it and remained silent for what seemed like an endless amount of time. Yes, what was the problem? The more he thought about it, the more Bruce couldn't come up with a rational answer to that question, an answer that didn't involve bringing his feelings into play, since he had never been good at expressing them. So he took a moment and finally took a long breath. "I... don't have a problem with that," he began carefully, weighing his words carefully. "But teammate relationships are complicated. What if they were really together and one day they had to break up?"

"Aren't you burning a little too many bridges right now?"

"No, listen to me." Bruce's expression was serious and tense. "I don't doubt that your son is a good boy, I've never doubted that. But Damian tends to... take things more to heart than he himself wants to admit, and I'm afraid of how he might react to such an eventuality. I know I can't keep him under a bell jar, that I have to let him have his experiences and have his disappointments, but Jon is special in ways that neither you nor I can understand, to Damian. He's suffered enough over the course of his young life, and... I don't want him to suffer any more."

Clark stared at him open-mouthed, dumbfounded. Bruce rarely talked about what he was feeling or experiencing, and he never expected him to harbor such doubt and fear within himself. "That... that's the nicest, sweetest thing you've could say, Bruce," he admitted in hinting a smile. "Although I'm sure their friendship could overcome even things like that. You don't have to worry about that."

"Of course not. Because they aren't together," Bruce insisted, and Clark deflated a bit. Bruce was certainly strong in his own beliefs.

But the more time passed, the more Clark began to believe that Bruce was right. The boys had sat down and ordered cake and ice cream - Jon had insisted on a mega double chocolate sundae with hazelnut sprinkles, caramel syrup and banana slices - but Clark hadn't noticed much going on between them, either physically or emotionally. They'd talked about school, comparing grades and joking about classwork, they'd gotten into a thick conversation about video games, and Damian had even teased Jon about his style, but it hadn't seemed like the kind of date Clark had expected. It had been a very normal date between friends, maybe even more normal than it usually was in reality, and that almost made him pause. Had he misrepresented everything? Had he really imagined things that weren't true and given a completely different meaning to behaviors that a normal teenager might have in such situations? Bruce had been there before, he had raised three boys before Damian and knew how they behaved at that age, so maybe...

"What part of 'don't eat too much chocolate' is still unclear to you?"

Damian's voice rang in his ears and Clark tried to look in the boys' direction unnoticed to see Bruce staring back at them with the newspaper open in front of him, hiding behind it; Damian had leaned over to Jon to give him a few pats on the back and hand him some tissues, while Jon did nothing but cough and massage his temples, groaning a little.

"But it was so good," Jon replied, wrinkling his nose before looking over at Damian. And there he was, Clark saw him, that lost look and that smile. "You know I can't resist chocolate ice cream."

"Considering the reaction it causes in your non-existent brain, I would just avoid eating it."

"Aw, now you're being mean, D."

"Excuse me for trying to keep you healthy, farm boy."

Jon's laughter seemed to echo down the street, but maybe it was just Clark's impression. "I like it when you worry about me."

"It's normal for me to do that, don't brag too much."

"You blushed."

"Your word against mine."

Jon smiled and Clark saw him lean into Damian's face. "You're cute when you blush," he whispered, and the shadow on Damian's face grew darker.

"Shut up... you have chocolate on your cheek."

Jon brought a hand to his face to brush it with two fingers. "Mhn? Where?"

"Here."

It was a moment before Damian's lips touched the corner of Jon's mouth. At their table across the street, Clark and Bruce fell silent before they could even say anything to each other, and had two completely different reactions: Clark's lips began to curl into a sardonic grin, the realization that he had been right making room on his face, and he looked away to give the boys some privacy, but it was the look on Bruce's face, his mouth open and his eyes wide, that made him hold back a burst of laughter.

"Can I say "I told you so" now, or would you rather wait a little longer?" Clark imitated, but Bruce had no reason to answer. He had been so blind to notice that his son, the youngest and most complicated of his sons, the one who had always tried to prove himself even when he didn't have to, had begun to experience a feeling as beautiful as being in love. The world's greatest detective, ladies and gentlemen.

Bruce grumbled to himself all the way home, Clark's laughter breaking the silence during the flight; he had figured it out before he did, had picked up the signs and put them together, while he had always tried to ignore them and pretend that nothing was going on; maybe his subconscious had figured it out, maybe he had not wanted to see it, but the fact was that reality had finally crashed in front of his eyes and he had had to chase Clark away, who had done nothing but annoy him. And he had waited and waited in the living room, pretending that he had not moved and that he had been working at the mansion all day until his son returned.

"Evening, Father."

"Damian." Bruce greeted him with a nod, his hand hovering in the air toward the bookshelf. "How did the meeting with the team go?" he asked, since his son had thoughtfully texted him that "lie" as night had begun to fall, and he was waiting to see how he would handle it.

"Mhn. They prove to be adequate company."

"Then I must assume it went well."

Unexpectedly, Damian smiled. "Better than I expected myself," he said with an odd hint of sweetness, and Bruce looked at him. He had never seen such an expression on his son's face, and as much as he still had those fears, he could not deny that he liked seeing him so relaxed.

"I'm... happy. That the team's doing well, I mean," he added as soon as he saw Damian blink, but the boy let it go and stretched.

"I guess I'll see them tomorrow too," he threw in. "I'm going to rest for now, if you don't mind. It's been a long day. Good night, Father."

Bruce nodded goodbye and wished him a good night in return, opening his book as he took a seat on the couch. This day's discovery had unsettled him a bit, the realization that his son was growing up - and starting to date his best friend's son - and would soon be leaving the nest himself was... destabilizing, though Damian still had some difficulty telling and admitting things, even hiding them as well as he would have liked given the obviousness of the feelings he had blatantly displayed during this conversation. Perhaps he was not very clever at that.

"Ah, Father?"

Bruce turned to see Damian with one hand resting on the doorframe, his gaze fixed on him. "What's up, boy?"

"The next time you and Mr. Kent try to stalk us, try to be less subtle."

Bruce groaned. He took back everything he had said: his son was definitely smarter than he let on, and he was definitely an idiot.