Chapter Text
There's a quiet creaking sound that always filled the empty manor after Alfred passed away. It sounded sometimes like a sigh, almost as if the old manor was mourning the loss of its most trusted aide, worried over the fact it would never see him again. Bruce had laughed a full manic belly laugh when he first thought about it, when his mind was trying to help him cope with losing his adoptive father, after all he was the last Wayne standing wasn't he? But like all things, the days bled on, the creaking continued and even worsened, but he stayed quietly stepping through the halls, hoping to give the old manor some rest. Not quite cleaning, soft scoff or filtered laughter touched the walls of that old manner, even when giving his last breath, Bruce wondered if it would collapse with grief. But he stayed in place, silent, eerie, dead.
Alfred had rarely ever called him a fool in that exasperated tone of his, but now more than ever, Bruce felt like one. Watching the cloudy Gotham sky passing by with all the smog that choked his lungs and burned his throat. He imagined a life with laughter, singing, and playing. One just like that other Bruce from world --- another world, a different one. He who had children, friends, and Alfie by his side. He had talked about it for days with his own Dad, talked the man's ear off so much Alfred had to start stuffing cookies into his mouth to get him to stop. And at some point, Bruce had. With Alfred by his side, he thought he didn't need children, a lover, or friends; he had his dad, and at that point, it was more than enough. But like all things, time came, taking away his father with a gunshot and a scream. He remembered being in a daze, running to the one man he called a best friend, to a man he had fallen in love with. Someone Alfred had warned him of falling in love with, but Bruce didn't listen, wouldn't listen. He was a fish on a hook, so tired of swimming, he was willing to die to be loved by someone other than his father.
But, he hadn't heard from Clark ever since he confessed to the man all those months ago, something about dating Lois Lane, his forever one that got away. Something he said he got over, something he promised would not break the small promise he made to Bruce. To try to learn to love him, as he did her, but that never came. A hug here, a touch there, a smile on his face so bare it made Bruce feel like a charity case begging for scraps instead of a whole meal. But then Lois wasn't away, she was here, and Clark had kept it a secret from him.
Only him.
Bruce was too dumbstruck to react, opening his mouth like a fish out of water when Clark pulled out his phone with picture after picture of dates spanning the months they had been "dating", but they hadn't been, had they? No, not at all. The hugs were distant, touches minimal, and smiles plastic, just like his credit card still held in Clark's hand. This wasn't the man Bruce fell in love with, and maybe he never was; he supposed the one he fell in love with was another Clark, in another world, so similar to this one yet so different. That Clark loved him, held him, kissed him, and even married him. Had eyes only for him, a man so perfect and kind, Bruce had been so excited to fall asleep, it even started scaring his poor Alfie. But somehow Bruce let himself believe the man in front of him was the man from his dreams, a man who loved him as much as Bruce loved him. He remembered his vision going hazy, the fighting followed by shouting, then a snap. Black plastic shards hit the floor, and with them, any love Bruce had for the Clark standing in front of him. His Clark was in another world, in a dream so far away that Bruce will never truly get to meet him, and maybe that's for the best.
He doesn't know how he got home, just that he started to cry softly and quietly into Alfred's banket. Then one he used when Bruce was so tiny he was no bigger than a beach ball, he could remember clinging to the older man every second of every day, but he wasn't small anymore, and Alfred wasn't here. And those dreams were things Bruce would never see again. With a final rattle of his throat, Bruce looked up at the peaking stars through the smog-filled clouds and wished. Like a small child, he hadn't been in years, he wished that if there was another life, like the one in his dream. He wouldn't mind living in it, even if it meant only living half of it.
There was beeping, the gentle but loud beeping that always followed a hospital visit and a trip to the ER. That was how it was supposed to go anyway, but to Bruce's utter surprise, it wasn't. It was an alarm clock. He doesn't remember how long he has been here, only that he woke up three days ago. He's in the Wayne manor's master bedroom with all its grand arches, a more than Californian king-sized bed that can fit about 12 to 13 people. (He hasn't checked, but Alfred told him.) All the drapery was so madly expensive that it made some deep part of Bruce wince; it wasn't even good-looking drapery! All mismatched animal prints custom-made into the fabrics make him want to tear them down and burn them, but then the money lost would hurt his soul even more! Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself up against the headboard, supporting his aching back with some pillows when lying against the headboard. He tried not to move too much, the weight pushing against his abdomen making him feel uncomfortable. It was a baby bump, that or a tumor; he wasn't quite sure. Well, he hadn't been if the memories of this body hadn't rushed in a few hours ago; he's lucky he hadn't lost not only his mind but possibly the children growing in his belly from the immense pain and strain.
Bruce felt ridiculous, a bit on the side of madly insane! He knew he wished for even half a life like the one in his dreams, but this.... THIS WASN'T WHAT HE MEANT! But beggars can't be choosers, as Alfred would remind him, God's above Alfred! His poor father was still dealing with him in this life after finally getting some rest in the other; he was a bit ashamed to admit he had broken down when he first saw this world's Alfred. His dad had held his broken, sobbing self with so much patience, love, and understanding that it made him want to crawl into a corner and hide there. With another groan, Bruce slammed his head lightly against the headboard, trying not to smash his skull in with the amount of force he wanted to use. The gods liked playing tricks on him. But this wasn't a trick, it was his new reality, one he had desperately wished for and wanted; he felt like an utter fool for even thinking this was a nightmare just a few days ago.
Looking down at the silk gown covering his protruding belly, he tried not to panic; this body's memories were really too fucking useless.
"Sorry, Alfie," he mumbled in response to his cursing. Closing his eyes, Bruce reached out and touched his baby bump, feeling the soft, smooth silk over his skin with slow fingers. He moved it aside to touch his belly without a barrier. Bruce started silently crying, he was so scared, so, so, so scared, he started shaking. His top teeth bit into his bottom lip, trying to stifle his growing sobs, with closed eyes, squeezing so tight it made his eyeballs hurt. His Daddy was alive, his Alfie was here alive and well. No sickly or pale fighting for his next breath, most days, he's here without a bullet wound to his head, his daddy is here, and he feels like such a useless broken child all over again. Begging for this reality to stick, he doesn't know what happened to the other Bruce. Is he dead? Alive, lurking in the shadows of his mind, ready to take over all over again when Bruce finally gets comfortable. He doesn't know, and part of him deep down doesn't want to either. The fear of knowing and getting all this taken away because of his curiosity would eat him alive more than the guilt of taking over someone else's body.
He gripped the lush blanket around him, doing everything to keep himself somewhat grounded, but the tears kept on going, and his sobs kept on ringing. He felt like a coward for hiding it all away and trying not to see how messed up this is. In all his years of being Batman, he had never allowed himself to stumble, not even when Alfred died and the media swarmed his funeral. He had always done it in private in some locked room or into his Dad's chest, but here he wasn't in his body, here he was in someone else's with the same name and face, everything except life experiences.
This Bruce Wayne was much like the Brucie persona he plays for galas and news stations... Except this version of Bruce Wayne has never learned how to treat people kindly or with compassion. He hurts just to hurt, hits just to hit, spewing venom with every breath he takes just because he knows very few people have the money, statutes, and wherewithal to get him back. In this world, Alfred took Bruce out of the spotlight at a much younger age, 13. Trying with all his might to educate this other version of himself to no avail, it was a wonder a fool like this world's Clark Kent fell in love with this version of Bruce Wayne. They dated young, got married, had a group of babies, and are now set to have another. He, Bruce, filtered memories with a fine-tooth comb, trying to keep his cries at bay. All those dreams, all the nights he slept in just to keep the Clark in his mind alive, were here, in this world, with another him who didn't even treat him right. Bruce felt disgusting just being in the same body as another him who treated his lover like nothing, his father worst then dirt and children like objects. It made him let out a sobbing, broken scream; it hurt, all over it hurt. His poor Daddy, his Alfie, why would he treat you like this?
His babies are all so cute and adorable. One's he had once wished he had just like the other Bruce in that other world were here. But he hadn't been, his babies, his poor babies. How can this man hurt him, how can he ignore and neglect them?! Bruce gripped onto a soft fabric, crying horribly into it.
"Alfie, Alfie!" he whispered, wishing his dad was here, even the other Alfred was fine, "Don't go, don't leave," he rasped through broken sobs.
He hated this Bruce, hated him so much for being so mean, ugly, and hurtful! He should have stayed happy and hopeful, not spoiled and jaded! What 26-year-old hates their own babies! What parent hates their own children? Why, why did he do this, wh-.....
The room fell into silence with gasping, stuttering breaths slithering their way out of cracked and bleeding lips. Callused large hands gently moved across sweaty, oil-stained hair, a soft lullaby playing from the man's shaking lips. Alfred hugged his son tightly against his chest, allowing himself to feel the warmth of his child after so many years. He moved Bruce's body around just enough to let Clark carefully pull apart his mate's balled up fists, blood-stained Alfred's white shirt.
"They said he was getting better," the tall alien's voice is soft with a hidden gentleness that always amazed Alfred, "Leslie should be on her way, Master Clark," he replied, just as soft, looking back down at the tear-streken face of his pale, quivering child. Pulling the thrown blanket close to cover his son, Alfred turned back to the tall man standing over his pregnant mate in fear and confusion, his scent of comfort mixing with Alfred's to hopefully help the shaking man buried in soft velvet and silk.
"The kids are asking for him," he whispered, reaching out to touch Bruce's sweaty cheek with a sad grimace, "They're scared he's going to leave again like he did the month before". His otherworldly eyes stay stuck on his mate's lovely face, with a wistful smile replacing the grimace, the children would break into this room sooner or later, he just hoped his lover had the patience to let them stay even if just for an hour even just a few minutes would be more the enough.
"A head injury is a serious matter, master Clark," Alfred replied in a somber tone, trying desperately to get the smell of his distressed, terrified son out of his system. Taking in the now sweet and calm scent of hot chocolate and ember, he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Letting out a chuckle when Master Clark also lets out a soft sigh.
"His heart also isn't doing the best, Master Clark. It might be that in this case, both have reacted to one another, worsening his state."
Alfred purred when his son started becoming restless. "Hopefully, with Lesslie's help, his hormones and injuries won't cause another bad reaction." Alfred nodded at the young man's words, almost forgetting the effect of pregnancy hormones, he chuckled tiredly. The pregnancy had been the main cause of the first outburst, then the second, but it wasn't all bad. Sometimes his son would return to how he was a couple of years ago, oh, how sweet his little baby used to be. Yes, an adult at 21, but such a sweet man, he always wondered if he had done wrong, or maybe this was his punishment for not leading his son on a more strict path like he did when he was 13 and starting to act rebellious.
Looking up at worried eyes, his voice was stopped by the sound of quiet giggles and soft whispers. Fear made its way into Alfred's chest just as much as love did. Bruce was asleep now, so it wouldn't hurt to have the children in the nest; it might even help stabilize the sleeping man in his arms. With a look at Clark Alfred gave a soft nod and, with gentle words, allowed Clark to lead the children inside.
"Is Mama okay?" A freckled face peeked over the blankets, looking at his mother's pale face, letting out a sound of distress. With panic, Clark moved to take them outside, only to hear a soft raspy chirp respond, calling the child to safety. Jason's big blue eyes lit up, reaching for his mother, only to be stopped by Alfred. Letting out another wine, the other children followed, a usual occurrence with the tiny bunch, but right now Alfred had only allowed them in with the approval of Master Clark because their mother was calm and sleeping. Who knew what reaction the sleeping man would have this time if he found the children by his side?
While Alfred stopped the children, Clark looked at his mate in surprise, and he actually responded. His lover hasn't done that since the accident with shaking hands, he reached for the children, unbridled hope ringing in his chest.
Both men worked to try and stop or grab the children, but a soft growl and desperate harsh chirp broke through the air, the omegan parent was calling his litter and was ready for a fight. The room froze, Alfred looked down in amazement, Clark clutching his chest, and the children with happy purrs and barks. Mama was calling! HE HADN'T CALLED IN AGES! With tiny hands and feet, all the children rushed to their mother's side, careful of his body and curling up around him, Mama was awake. And he called them!
Closed pale eyes opened for a brief moment, counting heads and purring when all his babies were by his side. With a contented hum to follow that quickly tapered off, Bruce was asleep with a puddle of children all around him. But both men, awake and aware, stayed stunned watching the once cold man happily reply to his chirping children.