Chapter Text
The scent of popcorn and cotton candy hangs thick in the air, woven together with bursts of laughter and the overlapping chatter of people drifting from one attraction to the next. A clown calls out invitations to the theater, his painted smile wide and practiced. Nearby, a man in a black cape and a white mustache gestures grandly toward the haunted house, promising thrills and fear in equal measure. The triumphant shout of a boy who has just won a giant stuffed bear at the shooting gallery draws Bruce's attention, and despite himself, a faint smile touches his lips.
A scarf conceals part of his face, even though he has forgone the dark smudge around his eyes. The hoodie clings warm against his skin in the mild spring weather, but he welcomes the discomfort. It serves its purpose. It helps him fade into the crowd; just another spectator among many.
His gaze sweeps across the circus grounds with quiet precision. He notes the rhythm of movement, the patterns of the staff, the subtle signs that most people would miss. Four of Zucco's men stand out to him immediately, their presence unmistakable even without Tony Zucco himself in sight. Bruce exhales slowly and heads toward the main performance tent, his awareness never truly leaving the perimeter around him.
Everything he's uncovered so far points to Haly's Circus being extorted by Tony Zucco; a man deeply entrenched in Gotham's criminal underworld and all the rot that comes with it. The presence of Zucco's men alone would justify suspicion, but Bruce needs certainty. He always does.
The Flying Graysons take the stage, and the performance is breathtaking. Despite his vigilance, Bruce can't help but feel a flicker of awe. The family moves through the air with effortless grace, smiles bright and unforced, as if the space above the ring belongs to them; as if flight is something innate, not something borrowed. The audience seems to feel it too. A reverent silence settles as bodies twist and leap, spins executed with flawless timing. The smallest Grayson draws particular attention, grinning in his blue costume, arms spread wide like a robin gliding through open sky.
Then, the rope snaps.
The sound is sharp and final, a crack that cuts through the air and splits the moment in two. John and Mary Grayson fall. It happens too fast for the mind to catch up; a single, terrible second of free fall. There's no rhythm to it, no grace. The safety net fails them. It's not enough. It never was.
For a heartbeat, the world seems to freeze. Then silence collapses into screams. Horror ripples outward through the stands. People shout, cry, scramble to flee; faces twist in disbelief.
Bruce can focus on only one thing. The child, still clinging to his trapeze, eyes wide and empty, trying to understand why his parents are not getting up.
It feels like watching a memory unfold in slow motion. Two bloodied bodies lie motionless on a stage meant for joy and wonder. The image fractures, overlapping with another. Pearls scatter across the pavement of Crime Alley. The echoes are the same. Blood on the ground. Two lives slipping away like sand through open fingers. A child left behind; frozen in the aftermath, searching for meaning where none exists.
Bruce doesn't immediately register the tears burning at the corners of his eyes or the tremor running through his hands. He only feels the crushing weight in his chest, as if an invisible hand has seized his heart and clenched tight. Breathing becomes an effort. If he focuses through the blur, he can almost see it; his heart laid bare and trampled beneath the chaos unfolding before him.
His feet move without conscious command, carrying him against the tide of people rushing toward the exits. He pushes forward, drawn toward the ring. Circus staff swarm the stage, lowering the boy to the ground and holding him back as he struggles, desperate to reach his parents. Bruce watches as the child sobs, his cries raw and broken, echoing through the tent. A woman dressed as a witch clings to him, trying to keep him still, but grief makes him wild.
Bruce moves closer, step by step, until only a few meters separate him from the scene. He tells himself not to look at the bodies, but his gaze betrays him. His eyes lock there, and suddenly all he can see are Martha and Thomas. The bright blue costume becomes his mother's wine colored dress; the snapped rope turns into a string of fallen pearls. The blood on the floor is theirs. For a moment, the past and present blur into one unbearable truth.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to ask you to step back."
Bruce lifts his head and recognizes Pop Haley, the owner of the circus, his face pale with shock and grief.
"My name is Bruce Wayne," Bruce hears himself say, his voice distant, practiced, as if reciting lines he has spoken before. "I'm here to offer my resources in any way the circus may need. I'm deeply sorry for what's happened. My company will cover the funeral expenses and any other costs that arise--"
He stops mid sentence when he realizes the boy is looking directly at him. Tears still streak the child's face, but beneath them is something else. Curiosity. A silent question. It pulls Bruce forward, one step at a time, until he stands directly in front of him.
The boy has gone still; his large blue eyes remain fixed on Bruce, searching, aching, waiting. Bruce wonders how his own eyes look. Hollowed. Vacant. Trapped between past and present, too far gone to reach out; too far gone to do anything at all.
"Are they okay?"
The question shatters him, and all of a sudden he can't breathe. Bruce's hand rises toward the child instinctively, as if to reach for him; as if to keep him from slipping through his grasp, but then Pop Haley steps forward, wrapping his arms around the boy, breaking the moment. Bruce feels his hand begin to tremble, and he lets it drop to his side, balling into a fist, knuckles whitening beneath the strain.
"What's your name?" Bruce asks, the question barely escaping his lips.
"Richard," the boy responds, his voice small, but clear. "But they call me Dick."
Bruce watches as Pop Haley turns to lead Dick away, and for a fleeting second, the boy glances back at Bruce over his shoulder, their eyes meeting for the last time before he disappears behind the curtain.
Then the world rushes back in. Paramedics arrive, their movements brisk and efficient. The GCPD follow, questions hanging in the air. Tony Zucco's men are nowhere to be seen, but Bruce's uncertainty has become an unshakeable fact. Zucco did this. He knows it.
Commissioner Gordon is there, his expression is grim as he approaches the ring. Bruce sees the grief in Jim's face, a shared familiarity with loss that needs no words between them.
Bruce leaves. His presence as a civilian is not required now, and it serves no one to linger. He moves through the crowd, past police lines, away from the carnival grounds. He walks until the noise and lights fade into the city's background hum.
There are no more excuses left. Only work to be done.
But the thing is, Clark is waiting for him at the Manor. He promised he would be. When Bruce walks into the living room, Clark is already on his feet, crossing the distance between them in a single, silent step.
"Hey." Clark smiles and leans in to press a soft kiss to Bruce's lips. "I was starting to worry." His expression shifts, registering the tension in Bruce's body, the stiffness in his shoulders. Clark's smile fades, replaced by a look of gentle concern. He's a reporter; it's in his nature to notice details others might miss.
Clark's fingers brush against Bruce's cheek, then travel down his arm, tracing the line of his elbow until their hands meet. He gives Bruce's fingers a light squeeze. "You okay?" He asks, even though he already knows it.
Bruce doesn't answer. He can't. Words would be a betrayal of what he's seen, a reduction of a grief that belongs to someone else. He just shakes his head.
"I've got work to do. I... I need to find Tony Zucco, I--" Bruce stops, aware of the tremor in his own hands; a weakness he can't afford to show. He pulls away, turning his back to Clark, facing the window. His reflection is a stranger.
"I know," Clark says, his voice so understanding, so gentle and achingly familiar that it makes Bruce want to weep. It's not only the fact that Clark understands. It's the quiet certainty inside Bruce that Clark deserves more than a broken man, more than someone trapped in a vicious cycle, trying endlessly to keep a fractured city from bleeding itself dry. "But not now. Not today. You need to rest, baby."
The words never truly leave Clark's mouth, yet Bruce hears them all the same. He knows, deep down, that Clark is right. He's in no condition to do anything; to fix anything, to be the man Gotham needs tonight. Even without a real exchange of words, Clark knows something has happened. This understanding didn't come easily. It was built over time, paid for with arguments, with looks exchanged late at night that were tired, strained, and sometimes painfully frustrated.
The magic of a new relationship; of newly discovered and vivid love, doesn't remain untouched by reality. It changes. It matures. The love is still there, just as strong and unshakable as when it first appeared, when it slipped past Bruce's defenses and carved out a space in his life for someone else. For something he once believed he neither needed nor could afford.
These days, there are moments when Bruce feels like the same closed off man he was before Clark entered his life. And that's all right, he tells himself. Clark tells him the same. This is real life; not a fairy tale where love heals every wound and erases every ache. Pain still exists. The difference is that now there is someone there to make it hurt less, or perhaps someone willing to stand beside him and carry part of that pain.
They've been together for two years. A part of Bruce still waits for the day Clark will grow tired of him, even though every time Clark's arms wrap around him; every time his lips meet Bruce's with the same intensity as if it were the first time, Bruce finds himself thinking that maybe Clark truly is content with him as he is. Flaws, cracks, and all.
"I'm sorry I couldn't go with you," Clark breaks the silence again, his arms slipping around Bruce from behind, warm and solid.
The quiet stretches through the main hall of the Manor, where Bruce had found Clark earlier, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a cup of tea cooling in his hands. Bruce can hear Clark's steady breathing against his neck, feel it there like a constant, grounding presence. The touch is gentle, but it anchors him. It keeps him from drifting apart. It makes the weight in his chest feel a little less unbearable.
"You were busy," Bruce murmurs, his voice low, almost fragile, as he closes his eyes, even though his body remains rigid. "Aliens are a problem too. Metropolis keeps getting more of them." A moment passes, heavy and fragile, before he speaks again. "They fell from the trapeze. The ropes looked like they had been sabotaged. And deep down, I knew Zucco was planning something, Clark. I knew it. I've been investigating him for weeks. I knew Haley was being blackmailed by him. I should've acted sooner. I should've done something before it was too late."
Clark doesn't comment on the way Bruce's voice falters; on how hollow and distant it sounds, as if the words are being pulled from somewhere far away. A sob lodges in Bruce's throat, but nothing comes of it. There's no release; no tears. Even now, crying feels impossible; like a door that refuses to open no matter how hard he pushes. Maybe it would be better if he could. Maybe it'd make him feel lighter, less defeated, less like he failed everyone involved. But the tears do not come.
It was like this when his parents died. Shock, silence; a grief that settled deep in his bones without ever spilling over. And now it's happening again, watching history repeat itself through another child's eyes. Dick Grayson watched his parents die in front of him, in a moment meant to be filled with wonder and joy; a moment that should've been nothing but laughter and applause. Instead, it ended in screams, blood, and a silence that will haunt him forever. Bruce knows that silence. He knows it more than anyone.
"I know," Clark says, simply, and the quiet understanding in his voice is almost too much to bear. "This isn't your fault, Bruce. You can't blame yourself for what Zucco did. That's on him."
"I saw the boy," Bruce continues, ignoring Clark's words. "He was up there, after it happened. Just... hanging there. He was looking down. He saw everything." The image is seared into his mind, branded there like an unwanted memory. A small figure in blue, suspended in mid-air, watching the world fall apart beneath him. "He asked me... he asked me if they were okay."
Clark's arms tighten around him, a silent acknowledgment of the pain. He doesn't push Bruce to say more. He simply holds him. He lets him speak.
"They call him Dick," Bruce says, and the name feels strange on his tongue, heavy with a future he can't see. "He... I can't leave him alone, Clark. I can't let him end up in the system."
He thinks of Dick's eyes. Thinks of that silent question. The way the boy looked at him, not as a stranger, but as someone who might have an answer. As someone who might understand. He thinks of the look on Dick's face as he was led away, the terror and confusion and a deep, abiding loneliness that Bruce recognized instantly. It was the same look he must have had, standing in a dark alley with pearls scattered at his feet, waiting for a world that had already abandoned him to come back and make things right.
But the world never comes back. Not really. Not completely.
Back then, Alfred said he wouldn't leave him alone. And he never did. He wonders if there's an Alfred out there for Dick Grayson. A family member, a friend, someone who will step in and give him a home. Even so, Bruce has his answer before he has even finished the thought. He knows what happens to the children who fall through the cracks in Gotham: they get lost. They get hurt. Or worse: they become the very thing that broke them.
This reality didn't belong to Bruce. In a twisted, horrific way, Edward Nygma was right. Bruce never knew the reality of orphans in Gotham. He had Alfred. He had the Manor. He had wealth, and privilege. He had a roof over his head and food on the table. He never had to wonder where he would sleep at night or if anyone would be there when he woke up in the morning. Loneliness was a constant companion; a bitter aftertaste of grief, but it was a different kind of loneliness than the one most orphans in Gotham knew. It was a loneliness born of loss, not neglect. In a way, he was one of the lucky ones, wasn't he? He had a guardian angel in Alfred.
Clark's breath is warm against the back of Bruce's neck. "What are you thinking?" he asks softly.
"I'm thinking... I have to do something," Bruce says. "I... I'm gonna take him in."
The words hang in the air, sudden and unexpected. Bruce didn't know he was going to say them until they were out. He feels Clark still behind him, the muscles in his arms tensing for a fraction of a second before he relaxes again.
"Bruce... are you sure?" Clark asks. There's no judgment in his voice, only a concern that makes Bruce's chest ache. "That's... that's a huge step. To take in a child. Especially a child who's just been through something so... traumatic."
He turns around in Clark's arms, looking up at him, searching for something in his eyes. He only sees what he always sees: warmth, patience, and a love so unwavering it sometimes scares him.
"It's my fault," Bruce says, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "He's out there somewhere, all alone, because of me. I can't just... walk away from that, Clark. I know what it's like, what he's feeling."
For a moment, Bruce is certain Clark will push back. He expects an argument; something practical and careful, a reminder that taking in a child is nothing like adopting a cat or a dog. That Bruce, for all his resources, doesn't have what it takes to raise a child. On paper, he has everything. Money, influence, stability, enough power to bend the system until it gives him whatever he asks for.
But paper doesn't account for the truth of his life.
He lives a double existence. He carries trauma that never truly fades, fears that resurface when he least expects them, scars that ordinary people never have to learn to live with. He struggles to communicate even with the people he loves most. He knows how easily he retreats into silence, how often he hides behind control and distance. And the idea of facing a child who has just lost everything; a child who would need patience, warmth, and emotional availability, terrifies him in a way few things do.
The rational part of Bruce understands all of this with painful clarity. He knows the arguments before they are spoken. He knows every reason why this is a terrible idea. And still, it's not enough to make him let go of it.
Clark keeps watching him. Those familiar eyes stay fixed on his face, open and honest, filled with concern and a deep, steady affection that hits Bruce square in the chest. It's too much all at once. The warmth there threatens to crack him open, and Bruce turns his gaze away before Clark can see how close he is to breaking.
So, he leans in and kisses him.
It's a distraction, and they both know it. A deliberate shift; a way to derail the conversation and close the space between them. A reflex born from years of avoiding the things that hurt too much to face head on. Bruce is painfully aware that this doesn't solve anything. The doubts, the fears, the weight of responsibility will still be there once they pull apart. Just as heavy. Just as relentless.
But for a moment, it works.
Clark pulls him closer without hesitation, an arm sliding around his waist, anchoring him there. He returns the kiss fully, knowingly, as if he understands exactly why Bruce chose this instead of words. Clark kisses him as though sadness, trauma, and pain are distant concepts; things that can't touch them here. It's gentle, unhurried, affectionate. A warm press of lips that deepens just enough to make Bruce's breath hitch; a soft brush of tongue that leaves his lips damp and parted.
It gives Bruce a choice.
He can keep it innocent, safe; a brief escape before reality crashes back in. Or he can let it become something more, something heavier and more consuming. For a heartbeat, suspended in Clark's arms, he allows himself to forget everything else and simply exist in that choice. The memory of the circus is still there. Dick Grayson's face, the screams, the sight of the ropes snapping—it's all there, just beneath the surface. But the kiss is an anchor. A way to stay grounded when he feels himself drifting away.
Clark's other hand comes up to cup the back of Bruce's neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. Bruce shivers, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, letting Clark in a little more. He tastes like tea and comfort and something so uniquely Clark that it settles something restless inside him. This is what he craves when he's like this; the quiet certainty of Clark's touch, the lack of questions, the simple, unwavering presence that promises to stay even when things are difficult. Even when Bruce is difficult.
It's this, more than anything, that Bruce finds himself unable to resist. Their tongues meet, slow and exploratory, a silent conversation that bypasses words entirely. Clark's arm around his waist tightens, pulling him flush against his body, and Bruce can feel the solid warmth of him through their clothes. Bruce allows himself to sink into it, to let go of the tension in his shoulders, to unclench the fist at his side. His hand comes to rest on Clark's chest, over the steady beat of his heart--a rhythm he's come to rely on. A constant in a life defined by chaos.
His fingers find Clark's shirtfront and tighten, gripping the fabric, holding on. It's a desperate gesture, more honest than any admission of weakness could be. Clark doesn't falter. He simply kisses him deeper, pouring all the reassurance and love he possesses into that one point of contact, as if he could shield Bruce from the world with nothing but his mouth. It works. For a few precious minutes, it works.
The kiss becomes the world. The only thing that matters is the feel of Clark's lips on his, the warmth of his body, the solid presence holding him together. It's a slow burn, a building heat that threatens to consume them both. Bruce wants to get lost in it, to let it wash away the images burned into his mind, to let it erase the guilt that weighs him down.
It'd be easy if he could resume his entire existence right here, in this space, in this moment. To stay. To stay and be normal, to hold on to this feeling until it becomes all he knows, until it chases out every last ghost from the corners of his mind. For a while, that is all there is; the heat, the contact, the slow, deliberate movement of their bodies against each other, the quiet sounds of their breaths in the silence of the Manor.
When they part, they don't go far. Their foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the sliver of space between them. Clark's hands are still on him, one on his waist, the other on the nape of his neck, a grounding weight. Bruce keeps his eyes closed, focusing on the sensation, on the way Clark's thumb still strokes the skin of his neck in a slow, soothing rhythm.
"Let's take a shower," Clark murmurs against his lips, and the suggestion is so simple, so normal, that it makes Bruce's chest ache. A shower. A mundane, everyday activity. But in the context of their life, it's an act of intimacy, of care. Clark is offering him a chance to wash away the day, to be vulnerable, to be held. He's offering him a return to something real and tangible, something that isn't weighted with grief or responsibility.
Bruce, against every instinct, nods.
It's quiet in the bathroom. The only sound is the rush of water as Clark adjusts the temperature, the soft click of the glass door closing. He washes Bruce's body with a tenderness that almost breaks him. His hands are gentle, his movements careful, as if he's handling something fragile. He traces the scars on Bruce's skin, old and new, with a reverence that never fails to unsettle him. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't offer platitudes. He kisses the bruises the same way he always does; gently, thoroughly, as if he could undo the damage through sheer force of will.
And for the first time that night, the tension begins to recede. The tight knot in Bruce's chest loosens, just a little. The tremor in his hands subsides. He leans into Clark's touch, lets him support his weight, lets him take on the burden of holding them both upright.
They don't have sex or do anything even close. They simply stand under the warm spray, bodies pressed together, hands roaming, lips meeting in soft, unhurried kisses. It's about comfort, not desire. About connection, not release. About the simple, profound act of being there for each other when words fail.
Bruce falls asleep that night with Clark's arm around him, the steady rhythm of his breathing a familiar lullaby. He doesn't dream. Or if he does, he doesn't remember. For a few short hours, he's granted a reprieve from the ghosts that haunt him.
But the morning comes, as it always does.
Morning brings everything back with cruel clarity. The images from the night before surface as if they never truly faded, lingering beneath his skin. Bruce skips breakfast, fully aware that it would disappoint Clark and worry Alfred, but the very idea of food makes his stomach churn. Clark left early, heading to Star City for a few days to work on a story. He offered to commute back and forth every day; promised he could still spend the nights at the manor, but Bruce insisted it was unnecessary. He regrets that insistence now.
Without Clark, certain habits creep back in quietly. Certain ghosts grow louder. Old wounds throb with renewed insistence. The silence feels heavier, more oppressive, and Bruce is forced to acknowledge how much Clark has become a constant in his life.
It frightens him; this dependence. This vulnerability. He knows it's dangerous to anchor himself so firmly to another person, yet he can't deny the truth of it. Clark has become his lifeline, the steady presence that keeps him from sinking entirely beneath the weight of everything he carries.
*
"What can I do for you, Mr. Wayne?" Jim Gordon's voice is polite and distant, stripped of the familiarity Bruce associates with their nighttime encounters. This isn't Batman standing before a weary but resolute ally. This is Bruce Wayne, sitting across from a commissioner who's learned to keep his professional mask firmly in place.
"I attended the Flying Graysons' performance last night," Bruce says, lowering himself into the chair Jim indicates. His movements feel stiff, measured. "I witnessed the accident and I couldn't stop thinking about the boy. I wanted to ask how he's doing."
Jim exhales softly. "He's still in shock. Trying to understand what happened. Trying to make sense of losing his parents so suddenly."
There's no sense to be made of it, Bruce thinks. There never is. But the words remain trapped in his throat.
"I know that must've been difficult for you to see," Jim continues, sympathy creeping into his tone. It only tightens the pressure in Bruce's chest. "The investigation is ongoing, and I promise you I won't stop until the person responsible is held accountable."
Bruce believes him. He truly does. And yet Gotham has taught him that good intentions rarely translate into justice.
"The boy," Bruce says quietly, his voice betraying more than he intends. "What will happen to him now?"
Jim's expression shifts, weariness settling deep into the lines of his face. "He will enter the foster system until a family comes forward. Until there's somewhere for him to go."
"The chances of someone adopting a ten year old…" Bruce begins.
"Are very low," Jim finishes without hesitation, honesty cutting sharper than cruelty ever could.
Bruce's hands curl into fists in his lap, his knuckles blanching. "If it's possible," he says at last, voice steady only through sheer force of will, "I would like to see him."
Jim studies him for a long moment, considering the request. Then he nods, a slow, deliberate movement. "I can arrange for that. But I should warn you, he hasn't spoken much. To anyone."
Bruce understands all too well. The world feels too loud, too chaotic, when everything inside has gone silent. He knows there are no words that can fix this, no reassurance that will reach through the fog of shock. Sometimes the only thing you can offer is your silence.
Bruce has lots of practice with that.
The group home is a squat, brick building in one of Gotham's older neighborhoods. The paint on the window frames is peeling, and the yard is a patch of dried grass littered with forgotten toys. A woman at the door greets Bruce with a tired smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mr. Wayne," she says, her voice gentle. "It's an honor. We're all so grateful for your generosity." She leads him down a narrow hallway, the air thick with the scent of bleach and boiled vegetables. "The boy is in the common room."
He sees him before he's announced.
He's sitting alone on a worn-out sofa, clutching a small stuffed animal to his chest. His blue costume is gone, replaced by a simple gray sweatshirt and jeans that look too big for him. He stares at the television, but his eyes are unfocused. He's not really watching. He's somewhere else entirely.
"Richard, this is Bruce Wayne," the woman says, her voice soft. "He's here to see you."
The boy doesn't look up.
Bruce walks over and sinks onto the couch, careful to leave a comfortable distance between them. He doesn't speak. He just sits there, a silent presence in a room that feels too small and too quiet.
"You were at the circus," Dick says finally, his voice barely a whisper.
"I was," Bruce confirms. "You were incredible."
A faint, sad smile touches the boy's lips. "They said we could fly." He looks down at the stuffed animal in his arms, a faded elephant with one button eye missing. "They were wrong."
"Sometimes we fall," Bruce says, and the words taste like a confession. "Even when we think we're flying. That doesn't mean we can't learn to get back up."
Dick finally looks at him, and the raw pain in his eyes is a mirror to a past Bruce has spent a lifetime trying to outrun.
"When I was nine years old," Bruce begins, the story spilling out of him before he can stop it, "I went to the movies with my mom and dad. On the way home, we walked down an alley. A man was there. He had a gun." The memory is as vivid as ever, the smell of rain on pavement, the glint of the streetlight on the barrel of the gun, the sound of pearls scattering on the concrete. "He took everything from me."
"Did they..." Dick's voice cracks.
"Yes," Bruce says. "They died. And I was left alone."
The boy stares at him, a silent understanding passing between them. It's not pity. It's recognition. A shared language of loss that needs no translation.
"I'm scared," Dick whispers.
"I know," Bruce says, and he finally gives in to the impulse he's been fighting since he walked into the room. He reaches out and places a hand on the boy's shoulder. It's a small gesture, but it feels monumental. "I know how it feels to be scared. And I know how it feels to be alone. You don't have to be."
To Bruce's own surprise, Dick closes the distance between them almost instantly and throws himself into his arms. The motion is sudden and unguarded, driven by instinct rather than thought. Dick feels fragile there, all sharp angles and trembling weight, and Bruce freezes for half a second, terrified that if he returns the embrace too tightly, the boy might shatter under his hands.
Then Dick starts to shake against his chest, quiet sobs breaking free despite his obvious attempt to hold them back, and something inside Bruce shifts.
Bruce pushes his own bitterness aside. He buries his pain, the memories that never truly loosened their grip on him. He closes his eyes and forces the image of his parents lying lifeless in the alley to retreat, even if only for a moment. His eyes burn, but he refuses to name the sensation, refuses to follow it too far. This moment isn't about him.
He tightens his arms carefully, anchoring Dick without crushing him. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to fix this, or if fixing it is even possible. He finds himself wishing, fiercely, that Clark were there. Clark would know what to do. Clark would know how to speak softly and say the right thing; how to make Dick feel safe in a way that came naturally to him. Bruce feels painfully aware of his own limitations. All he has to offer is money, influence, and the bleak understanding of shared trauma. A trauma that feels, in part, like his fault. He had known something was wrong. He had been so close to stopping it. The weight of that failure presses down on him until it's almost unbearable.
The embrace holds. Dick shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. His face is blotchy and tear-streaked, his lashes clumped together as those large blue eyes search Bruce's face with an earnestness that hurts to meet.
"Why are you crying, Mr. Wayne?"
The question catches Bruce off guard. He hadn't realized how close he was to breaking, how thin the distance had become between control and collapse.
"You can call me Bruce," he says softly. His voice comes out rough, fractured, barely recognizable even to himself. "You don't need to worry about me, Dick. I'm fine."
Dick doesn't look convinced. He watches Bruce for a long moment, as if weighing his words carefully, then speaks with a quiet, simple certainty that feels far older than his years.
"I think when we're sad, it's normal to cry." His small hands are still tangled in the fabric of Bruce's jacket. "My mom said so. She said it's like rain after a long, hot day. It doesn't make the sun disappear forever. Just for a little while."
Bruce doesn't have an answer for that. He's an expert in many fields; in strategy, in forensics, in the language of violence and the science of fear. He can dismantle a bomb, hack an encrypted network, and hold his own against some of the most dangerous people on the planet. But he has no defense against this. This raw, unvarnished wisdom from a child who has just lost everything. He's left speechless, adrift in a silence that feels too large and too empty. All he can do is nod, a small, stiff motion.
For a while, they sit like that on the worn-out sofa, the television murmuring quietly in the background. Dick eventually pulls away, but not entirely. He settles back against the cushions, his shoulder just touching Bruce's arm, as if he needs to maintain the contact to feel anchored. He doesn't cry anymore.
"My house is big," Bruce says, and the words are out before he has a chance to think them through. "There's this huge garden in the back with lots of trees. Sometimes, the bats come out at night." He pauses, letting the image settle between them. "There's a library. It has three floors. And a kitchen where my butler, Alfred, makes the best hot chocolate in all of Gotham. I was wondering... how would you like to come and stay with me?"
Dick turns to look at him, his expression unreadable. Bruce can't tell if he's processing the offer, if he's scared, or if he's simply too exhausted to feel anything at all.
"For a while?" Dick asks, his voice small and tentative.
"Or as long as you'd like," Bruce clarifies, holding the boy's gaze. "It would be your home too."
Dick's eyes widen, a flicker of something uncertain but hopeful appearing in their depths. "A home?"
"Yes," Bruce says, the word feeling heavy, yet right. "A home. Our home. You, me, Alfred and..." He hesitates for a fraction of a second, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face. "And Clark. He's my... He's very important to me. He's a good man. I think you'll like him."
Dick doesn't ask who Clark is. He doesn't ask why Bruce is doing this. He just nods, a slow movement that feels like a promise. Then he leans in and rests his head against Bruce's shoulder, a silent acceptance that carries more weight than any words could.
The legal adoption process shouldn't be so easy, or so fast. Yet when influence and money are involved, very little truly stands in the way. Part of Bruce hates that knowledge, even as he feels like a hypocrite for resenting a system he's actively benefiting from.
"I'm going to live here?" Dick's eyes are impossibly wide, filled with shock, wonder, and something fragile that hovers between hope and disbelief. He presses his stuffed elephant tightly to his chest while his other hand clings to Bruce's, as if letting go might undo everything. Alfred stands near the staircase, watching with quiet attentiveness, his expression soft with unmistakable affection.
"Yes, Dick. Starting today, this is your home," Bruce hears himself say. He tightens his grip just a little, grounding them both. "And this is Alfred. He's family."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Dick," Alfred says, his smile warm and sincere. Dick mirrors it, shy but honest, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"Why do you call me 'Master'?"
Alfred lets out a gentle laugh. "It's a tradition, young sir. Now, would you like to see your new bedroom? I decorated it myself, so please tell me if there is anything you would like changed."
Bruce watches as Dick releases his hand and follows Alfred, already asking questions in a rush of curiosity and nervous excitement. Alfred answers each one with patience and ease, the kind Bruce knows he would've struggled to offer. The realization stings more than he expects.
He's not entirely sure why his chest tightens. Maybe it's the quiet proof of his own shortcomings as a guardian, or maybe it's the sudden understanding that this is his family now. That this boy, carrying grief far too heavy for his age, has become part of a small, fragile space in Bruce's life where light is allowed to exist. A place where affection takes root and loneliness loses some of its hold. The manor, once nothing more than a vast structure filled with echoes and solemn portraits, began to change. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it's becoming a home. Not perfect. Not complete. But something built carefully, piece by piece.
"Dick, this is Clark," Bruce says later that evening. He watches as Clark smiles at the boy, dimples deepening in a way that never fails to undo him.
"I'm Clark," Clark says, a little awkwardly, and Bruce feels warmth bloom in his chest, steady and reassuring.
Dick blinks, then lets out a small laugh. "Bruce told me about you," he says, tilting his head. "Are you his husband?"
The question is so innocent and direct that Bruce almost flinches.
Clark's smile turns fond as he glances at Bruce, a knowing look that softens the tension in Bruce's shoulders.
"Not legally," Clark says, his gaze lingering on Bruce before he looks back at Dick. "But I live here sometimes. And I love him very much. I hope you don't mind having me around."
"Are you ever going to hurt him? Because if you do," Dick says, puffing out his chest in a way that's both fierce and fragile, "I'll protect him."
"No," Clark says, the sincerity in his voice steady enough to quiet the doubt. "I won't ever hurt him. If I do, you have my permission to throw all my shoes in the trash."
Dick giggles, and the sound is so unexpected that Bruce feels a pang of something like bittersweet relief. The boy who wouldn't speak a few days ago now looks at Clark like a new discovery, someone worth trusting. It's easy for Clark to do this, Bruce thinks. To offer warmth and gentleness as if they're as simple and natural as breathing. For Bruce, it's still a language he's only just beginning to learn, and he's not always sure he's saying the words right.
Alfred calls them for dinner, and the meal passes with a surprising sense of ease.
When Dick is already in his pajamas, ready for bed, Bruce sits on the edge of the mattress, watching as Dick clutches his elephant.
"Do you have nightmares?" Dick asks, breaking the quiet. His small body seems to shrink into the oversized bed, making him appear even younger than he is.
Bruce hesitates. The truth is a heavy thing, but he can't bring himself to lie. "Yes."
"Me too," Dick whispers. "They're about my mom and dad. They're about the fall." He shifts, pulling the blanket up to his chin. "How do I make them stop?"
"You don't," Bruce says softly. "Not really. They get quieter, sometimes. But they don't go away completely. You just learn to carry them." He reaches out and smooths the blanket over Dick's shoulder. "But you don't have to carry them alone. If you wake up and you're scared, you can come and get me. I'll be here."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
Dick nods, his eyes already drifting shut, the exhaustion of the past few days finally catching up with him.
When he opens the door to his own bedroom, Bruce finds Clark standing by the window, looking out at the moonlit grounds.
"A lot has happened while I was in Star City," Clark says without turning around.
"I'm sorry," Bruce begins, the apology feeling inadequate. "It was impulsive and I should have talked to you."
Clark turns to face him, and there's no trace of anger or frustration in his expression. Only a deep, unwavering affection that makes Bruce's chest feel tight.
"I wasn't angry, Bruce. I was just... surprised," Clark says, crossing the room. "Besides, it's your home. Your decision."
"Our home," Bruce corrects, the words feeling both fragile and insecure. "Isn't it?"
Clark's expression softens, and he closes the remaining distance between them, his hands coming to rest on Bruce's shoulders.
"It is," Clark says, his voice quiet and certain. "Of course, it is." He leans in and kisses Bruce, a soft, lingering press of lips. "But some calls are yours to make. This was one of them." He pulls back slightly, just enough to look Bruce in the eye. "How are you doing? Really?"
Bruce wants to say he's fine. It's the answer he's given for so long it's become a reflex, a shield he hides behind.
"I don't know." He finds himself saying instead, the admission feeling raw and vulnerable. "Like I'm lost."
Clark's thumbs stroke the skin of Bruce's neck, a gentle, grounding touch. "You're not lost," he murmurs. "You're just finding your way. We both are." He glances toward the door, a faint smile touching his lips. "He seems like a good kid."
He is. He truly is.
Bruce soon learns that Dick is smart—frighteningly so, sometimes—with an analytical mind that absorbs everything around him. He's resilient in a way that both impresses and worries Bruce. He has a fierce, protective streak that reminds him of himself, and a mischievous sense of humor that reminds him of Clark.
Dick also has a lot of nightmares and wakes up screaming more nights than he doesn't. Bruce is always there to hold him, to murmur reassurances until the trembling subsides.
Some nights, Clark is there too. He sits with them on the floor of Dick's room, a steady presence in the dark, and somehow, his quiet strength makes the shadows feel a little less threatening.
Sometimes, Bruce is asleep when it happens. Other times, he's awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound of Dick's breathing, for any sign of distress. He finds himself lingering in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of the boy's chest, the peaceful expression on his face in sleep.
Sex becomes something infrequent, and when it happens, it's always too fast, as if he's afraid of being caught. He feels guilty even when they're alone in the room. The space is no longer just theirs. The sounds they make, the touches they share—none of it feels entirely private anymore.
Clark says it's alright. He says that sex is not the foundation of their relationship; that it's not what defines them, but Bruce knows it's not that simple. He feels the absence too; feels it in the quiet spaces between them, in the moments where touch stops short of becoming something more. Clark stays at the Manor while Bruce patrols, a steady presence meant to reassure him. A silent promise that everything is fine. That Bruce is not alone. If something urgent happens and Clark needs to leave as Superman, he always tells Alfred; or at the very least makes sure Bruce knows where he's going. He never disappears without a word.
The routine settles in, and with each passing day the guilt begins to gnaw at Bruce from the inside, slow and relentless, like something rotten burrowing into him. Every warm smile Clark offers, every gentle kiss pressed to his forehead; every quiet word meant to soothe him only sharpens the ache. Bruce can't stop thinking that Clark deserves more than this. More than stolen moments, more than waiting, more than loving someone who's always half gone. Bruce should be able to give more. He should be better. He was foolish to believe he could find balance; foolish to think he could carry the weight of Gotham, his own trauma, and still give himself fully to the people he loves without something breaking in the process.
It feels like they have slipped back into those early months of their relationship, when everything was built on secrets. When an invisible barrier stood between them, unspoken but ever present, and silence did most of the talking. Back when truths were carefully rationed and lies were easier than vulnerability.
At the same time, Dick grows more curious with each passing day. He asks questions about the night at the circus; about the ropes, about the man responsible. Questions Bruce never knows how to answer. With every question, Bruce feels himself slipping further out of his depth. More uncertain. More helpless. And, in a way that shames him, he feels more alone than he's felt in years.
It's a cold, ugly thought; one that festers at the back of his mind. A thought that tells him he's selfish, petty, and cruel for feeling this way.
Bruce stares at the most recent security footage of Zucco, captured three weeks ago, the image burned into his retinas. He's failed to stop him. Failed to bring him in. Failed Dick.
The sense of inefficiency coils tight in his chest, sharp and suffocating. He wants to tear the cave apart, to smash screens and shatter metal just to feel something give. A scream rises in his throat, raw and desperate, but he swallows it down. He refuses to let it escape. What remains is silence. The heavy, oppressive silence of failure, both as a man and as someone who claims to fight for justice.
"Alfred said Dick is spending the night at a classmate's house." Clark's voice cuts through the darkness, gentle but unexpected. Bruce startles slightly, only then realizing how deeply he had disappeared into his own thoughts. "It's good that he's making friends. That he's settling in."
Bruce hums in response, noncommittal, and reaches forward to close the screen in front of him before Clark can see what had been holding his attention.
"I was thinking that maybe we could…" Clark begins again. His voice trails off, hesitant now, softer. There is something careful in his tone, something almost shy, as if he's afraid of asking for too much.
Since when did Clark become afraid to ask him for anything?
Bruce turns to face him, searching for an explanation in the dim light of the cave. He finds Clark watching him with an expression that's both loving and deeply uncertain. An expression that says I miss you.
And suddenly, Bruce sees it. Sees everything he's been too blinded by guilt to notice. Sees what he's been doing to Clark. To them.
The apology is on the tip of his tongue, a desperate, clumsy thing he knows he can't form.
"I... Clark, I—" The words get tangled in his throat, refusing to come out right. He hates himself for it. Hates the way he freezes, the way he retreats into silence.
Clark's expression softens instantly, as if he understands everything Bruce is failing to say. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the back of Bruce's hand, a touch so light it barely registers.
"Bruce, it's okay," Clark murmurs, and the simple, steady conviction in his voice almost makes Bruce break. "It's okay. You don't have to apologize for anything."
"No Clark," his voice is a small, wounded thing he barely recognizes as his own. "Stop saying it's okay when it's not. I... I'm a failure." The words are heavy in the air, each one landing with the finality of a stone dropped in a well. He looks down at Clark's hand on his, the long, capable fingers resting against his own. "I'm failing. As Batman, a father, as a partner... I'm failing at everything."
"Hey. Look at me."
A gentle pressure on his chin, coaxing him to meet Clark's gaze. The warmth in Clark's eyes is unbearable, a quiet blaze that threatens to incinerate every defense Bruce has ever built.
"You're not failing," Clark says, with a certainty that feels more solid than the ground beneath them. "The process of becoming someone you've never been before is messy, Bruce. It's complicated. It doesn't have a blueprint. It's not like building a car or solving a crime. It's... life. It's learning. It's being willing to fall and get back up. You're doing it. Every single day, you're doing it. We are all humans, so sometimes we don't always make things better for each other, even when we intend to. We make mistakes. We get lost. We get scared. We get overwhelmed. But we find our way back. You always do."
"You're so much better with Dick than I am," Bruce admits, the confession leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "You know what to say. You know how to... be with him."
"You're the one who's there when he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night," Clark counters, his thumb stroking Bruce's jaw. "You're the one who sits with him in the dark and holds him until he stops shaking. You're the one who gave him a home when he had nowhere else to go. You're the one who's showing him, every single day, that it's okay to be sad and it's okay to be scared, and that he doesn't have to carry it alone. I'm just a guy who shows up and helps with homework sometimes."
"You're so much more than that," Bruce whispers, the truth of it settling over him like a shroud. "You're everything, Clark."
"So are you," Clark says, and the words are a balm, soothing the raw, ragged edges of Bruce's guilt. "You're everything to me. To him. Don't you see that?"
No, he wants to say. He doesn't see it that way; because the only things he has trained himself to believe in over the years are his failures and his defeats. He knows how to catalogue them; how to dissect them, how to turn each one into a lesson about how to be better and how not to repeat the same mistakes. At this point, Bruce is certain that Clark understands this, even if Bruce can't bring himself to say it out loud. Clark always seems to understand the things Bruce cannot voice.
Instead of trying to explain any of it, Bruce stays quiet for a few moments. He allows Clark's words to sink in; to reach a dark and aching place inside him and soften the pain there, just a little. He closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead and then his face against the solid warmth of Clark's abdomen. It feels grounding, like something real anchoring him to the present.
"You were thinking…?" Bruce murmurs into the fabric of Clark's shirt. His voice is low, almost hesitant. He closes his eyes fully when Clark's fingers begin to move through his hair, slow and gentle, not demanding anything from him.
"It's been a while since we've had some time just for us," Clark says. There's no accusation in his tone, no frustration, only an honest observation. Even so, guilt curls tight in Bruce's chest, painful and familiar. "So I thought maybe we could go out and eat something. Or we could stay here and watch a movie. Eat junk food, make popcorn, just… be together."
It's such a simple suggestion, offered with such warmth, that Bruce feels his chest constrict. Part of him wants to shrink in on himself, to collapse into a quiet corner of the world and stay there forever. The idea of going out, of facing a city that keeps moving while he feels stuck and heavy with misery, is exhausting. Even the thought of it makes something inside him twist uncomfortably.
"You can choose the movie," Clark adds gently, as if he can sense Bruce's reluctance without needing to hear it.
God, Bruce thinks, he's so selfish.
"Okay," he murmurs at last. He pulls Clark closer, wrapping his arms around Clark's waist and holding on a little tighter than necessary. "Movie and popcorn."
"Then it's a date," Clark replies, and Bruce hears the smile in his voice. There's genuine excitement there; happiness over something small and ordinary, and that somehow makes it feel even more significant.
Bruce thought he was getting better at this. Better at lifting his head and meeting reality without flinching. Better at letting go of isolation and the instinct to withdraw from the people who care about him. Lately, though, he's not so sure. He hates the insecurity that creeps back in. He hates the feeling that he is sliding backward after so much effort. But Clark doesn't push him. He doesn't ask Bruce to be lighter, brighter, or easier. He doesn't demand that Bruce match the warmth that seems to come so naturally to him. Clark accepts Bruce as he is, with all his fears, flaws, and selfish thoughts.
Later, when they're settled in the entertainment room and the massive screen fills the space with the soft glow of The Shape of Water, Bruce thinks that he's a very lucky man. He watches as Elisa Esposito brings the Amphibian Man into her home; watches her care for him and protect him despite how different he looks. It's a love that reaches beyond the physical; that defies fear, prejudice, and the narrow limits imposed by the world. When the two of them swim away together into open water, Bruce's vision blurs. Maybe it's the stress of the last few days, or the weight of the past few months, but something inside him finally gives way.
The tears come quietly, almost soundless, but Clark notices immediately. To Clark, they're probably as loud as a cry for help. There's no judgment in his reaction; no surprise, no questions that Bruce can't answer. There's only understanding, real concern, and steady arms wrapping around him, holding him close. Clark doesn't whisper empty reassurances or try to fix what can't be fixed with words. He simply stays.
Bruce needs that. He needs the space to break without being asked to explain himself. And in that moment, he understands something important. Even when he doesn't know what to say to Dick, or how to act, or how to make things better, simply being there matters. Having someone beside you, someone who stays, can be enough. Sometimes, it's everything. It's what Clark does for him. It's what he can do for Dick. It's not about knowing all the right words. It's about not running away.
"Okay?" Clark asks, his lips moving against Bruce's temple.
"Okay," Bruce replies. He pulls back, not because he wants to move away, but because he wants to look at Clark. To look at this beautiful, kind man who somehow loves him. He leans in and kisses him, a slow, deep kiss that tastes like salt and sincerity.
"Should we watch a comedy next?" Clark suggests, and Bruce nods, a genuine smile finally making its way onto his face.
When they fall into bed later that night, it's different from the coziness of their movie night. There's an undercurrent of desperation to it; a frantic energy that borders on clumsy and leaves Bruce feeling breathless and exposed. There's no patience, no slow build-up, just a headlong rush toward connection; as if they're trying to close the distance between their bodies as fast as they possibly can.
Clark fucks Bruce, hard and deep. The bed frame creaks with the force of it; the sound a stark, percussive beat that marks the rhythm of their urgency. They don't usually do it in this position. Clark likes watching Bruce's face; he says he likes seeing what he does to him, likes watching the way pleasure and emotion flicker across Bruce's features, unguarded and raw. But tonight, Clark takes him from behind, Bruce's face pressed into the pillow to muffle the sounds he can't hold back. It's messy. It's primal. It feels like something being torn open and remade in the same instant.
"Clark—God—" Bruce gasps, the words dissolving into a sharp cry when Clark hits that spot inside him, the one that makes white-hot pleasure shoot up his spine.
"Fuck Bruce, I wish you could see the way your hole is swallowing my cock," Clark groans from behind him. He grips Bruce's hips, pulling him back to meet each thrust. "You were made for me."
The words, crude and possessive, send a fresh wave of heat through Bruce's body. He arches his back, pushing against Clark, silently asking for more.
"Harder," he demands, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Please, harder."
Clark obliges. He drives into him with a force that steals Bruce's breath, that leaves him feeling possessed and utterly claimed. It's what he needs. To be taken apart, to be held down, to be fucked so thoroughly there's no room left in his head for anything else.
"Look at you," Clark murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss between Bruce's shoulder blades. His breath is hot against Bruce's skin. "So beautiful. So mine."
The words send a shudder through Bruce's body. He reaches down to wrap a hand around his own cock, stroking himself in time with Clark's thrusts. He can feel himself getting close, the familiar tightening in his balls, the building pressure at the base of his spine.
When he comes, it's with a hoarse cry, his body convulsing with the force of it. He spills over his own hand, the sticky warmth a messy, grounding proof of what just happened. Clark follows a moment later, his release a warm flood inside Bruce that leaves him feeling full and sated.
They spend the rest of the night like that; having sex like teenagers, like it's the very first time they've discovered what their bodies can do. Clark takes him slowly; fast; against the headboard; on the floor by the foot of the bed. Clark rides him with a powerful grace that leaves Bruce breathless, and then Bruce straddles him, rocking his hips until Clark's hands are fisted in the sheets, his head thrown back in ecstasy. They explore every angle, every position, every possibility, as if trying to make up for lost time.
By the time Bruce falls asleep, he's exhausted and sore in the best possible way, his body humming with a pleasant ache. He doesn't dream. Or if he does, he doesn't remember. All he knows is the solid warmth of Clark's body next to his, the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the profound sense of peace that settles over him like a soft blanket.
He wakes to sunlight slipping through the partially closed curtains, pale and gentle as it spreads across the room. Somewhere down the hallway, Dick's laughter rings out, bright and unrestrained, tangled together with Clark's deeper voice. Bruce stays where he is for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, letting the sounds wash over him as something warm settles in his chest. Eventually, he reaches for his boxers, pulls on a pair of loose sweatpants and a t-shirt, and only then gathers the resolve to leave the safety of the bed.
When he opens his bedroom door, the scene waiting for him makes him pause. Clark is running after Dick, pretending to be far slower than he truly is, arms outstretched as he lunges and deliberately misses. Dick darts away with effortless grace, jumping over low furniture, spinning around statues, and weaving between obstacles with the instinctive ease of someone who was born to move. They're playing tag, right there in the middle of the hallway.
It happens beside sculptures and framed paintings that Alfred has kept immaculate for decades; relics of a house that once felt frozen in time. The butler stands nearby, pretending to focus on something else, making no attempt to stop the chaos unfolding in his carefully preserved corridor. Bruce feels a faint smile tug at his lips. Maybe some things really do change, slowly and quietly, without anyone announcing it.
"Oh. Did we wake you up?" Dick asks, skidding to a stop as soon as he notices Bruce. His big blue eyes are fixed on him, wide and curious, full of life in a way that still surprises Bruce sometimes.
"I'll let you guess," Bruce answers softly. His voice is still rough with sleep, but there's no real irritation in it.
Clark laughs, the sound filling the hallway with an easy warmth that Bruce has come to recognize as home. "Sorry, baby. I wanted to let you sleep a little longer, but—"
"But Clark said that if I managed to get away from him, we'd go to Batburger tomorrow!" Dick cuts in excitedly, words tumbling out of him. There's no hesitation in his joy; no shadow crossing his face. For this moment, there's desire for vengeance, no grief, no Tony Zucco. There's only a promise and a game and the certainty of being cared for.
"I see," Bruce murmurs, folding his arms loosely as he watches them. "Lunch or dinner?"
"Both?" Dick tries hopefully, tilting his head as if negotiating.
A laugh slips out of Bruce before he can stop it. It feels strange, almost unfamiliar, like something he's not used often enough to fully recognize. For a fleeting second, it feels as though it belongs to someone else entirely.
But it doesn't. It belongs to him.
It belongs to Bruce Wayne, standing barefoot in the hallway of the home he built, watching the man he loves play with the son he chose. It belongs to the version of him that's still learning how to breathe, to trust, to let himself be fully vulnerable, to accept love without expecting to lose it.
Bruce thinks that it's a complicated process. It's a one step forward, two steps back process. A messy one. It doesn't have a manual; it isn't linear; it doesn't always have an end. But as Clark closes the distance between them and wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a quiet hug that's just for him, Bruce thinks that maybe that's the point. Maybe the beauty of it all is that they get to figure it out together. All four of them.
*
"Dick found the cave. He knows about Batman." Bruce says it quietly, the words spoken into the quiet of the bedroom. He's not looking at Clark. His gaze is fixed on the window, on the way the moonlight spills across the grounds of the manor, turning everything a soft, silver blue.
Clark doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just sits there on the edge of the bed, watching him, listening.
"He's a curious boy. Very good at figuring things out," Clark says, at last. His tone is measured, careful, and Bruce can feel the unspoken question hanging in the air between them: And how are you feeling about that?
"I knew it would happen eventually. I just... I wasn't prepared for it to happen so soon," Bruce admits. "I'm... thinking about training him. To release the frustration and anger inside of him."
Clark moves closer, the mattress shifting under his weight. He doesn't touch Bruce, not yet, but the space between them feels smaller, warmer.
"He's just a boy, Bruce."
"I know. Believe me, I know." Bruce finally turns to look at him, and the exhaustion is clear on his face, etched in the lines around his eyes. "But he's also a boy who lost his parents in front of him, to violence. And he's looking for answers. For justice. I can't turn my back on that. I know what's it's like. I don't want him to go through that alone. If... if maybe I had someone who understood..."
Clark's expression softens with a quiet, unwavering affection. He understands what Bruce is trying to say, even if he's struggling to form the words. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing against Bruce's arm, a touch that's both grounding and reassuring.
"I trust you to make the right choice," Clark says, and the simple, steady conviction in his voice is a balm to Bruce's frayed nerves. "And I'll be here. To support you. To support him. Whatever you decide."
Bruce lets out a slow, shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders easing, just a little. He leans into Clark's touch, seeking the comfort he knows he can always find there.
"It's a slow process. It takes time, but... it'll give him a safe space to learn how to use that anger, that grief, without letting it destroy him." Bruce is saying this as much to himself as he is to Clark. A silent promise, a vow he's making to Dick, to the memory of his own parents, to the boy he used to be.
A vow to not let Dick follow the same path of lonely, obsessive vengeance that he did.
"I just... I have this feeling," Bruce continues, his voice barely a whisper. "That this is only the beginning. That this is my legacy. Not the money. Not the company. Not even the mission. This. Him. What we're building here. With Dick. With Alfred. With you."
And in that moment, as he looks into Clark's eyes, Bruce sees not just a lover, but a partner. A confidant. A co-architect of this strange, beautiful, broken family they're creating, piece by piece, in the heart of a city that has taken so much from them both.
He leans in and kisses Clark, a slow, deep kiss that's less about passion and more about connection. A silent thank you.
"Will you stay with me?" Bruce asks, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against Clark's.
"Until you get tired of me," Clark whispers back, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
"Never," Bruce murmurs, and it feels like the truest thing he's ever said. "Never."