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"I do love you."
It's late evening in Gotham. Crooks and normal folk are wary altogether. As one group rushes home to avoid the nighttime, afraid of what comes out of the shadows in their crime-rampant city, the other stalks through alleyways, into warehouses, and out on the streets. They have a job to do, but they're tense, all nerves and edge, of who might be lurking behind them. Someone undetectable and dangerous, who will exact a penance. Someone who has self-appointed himself as judge and jury, but never executioner. Someone who could be a regular guy who lives down the street, or something more sinister—an entity bred from the festering disease that Gotham has been sitting atop for far too long. Most believe he is attempting to cure his city, yet many think it impossible.
The masses are undecided on who he is and if his mission is in vain, but they can all agree on one thing: he owns the night.
"Goodnight little house, and goodnight mouse…"
It's late evening in Gotham, but Batman has not yet begun his prowl. Instead, a three-year-old pup lies in his bed as Bruce Wayne reads him a bedtime story. Dick is nestled on his mother's chest, inside the comfort of two protective arms that hold a storybook, and he's never felt safer.
"Goodnight comb, goodnight brush…"
Bruce's voice is gentle, a quiet sound that makes Dick feel floaty and warm the more he listens. The rumble it emits can be felt under him from where he rests. The sensation nearly rocks him to sleep.
"Goodnight stars, goodnight air…"
He has two baby fingers in his mouth, eyes closed, and his breath grows softer and softer as Bruce keeps reading. A night light depicts yellow stars on his bedroom's ceiling—a decorative effect, really. Dick rarely had an issue with being scared at night, unlike the stories Bruce hears about other children and their adversities to the dark. He wonders if the courage was inherited or if it's because Dick knows his mother would never let anything bad happen to him.
"Goodnight to noises everywhere."
Bruce shuts Goodnight Moon and places it on the bedside table. Unmoving for several minutes, he assumes he'll hear teeny tiny snores coming from the pup soon, but something jerks Dick to attention. He swivels his head up, "You cold, Mama?"
Bruce could tell him no and to just focus on resting those sweet little eyes of his—a certain Bat needs to go on patrol after putting him to bed—but the omega loves to entertain him. "A little bit, why?"
A fire of determination lights up in his eyes, only snuffed out a bit by his sleepiness. He turns his body around to use his mother's chest as a crutch. Bruce takes his small hands in his own to stabilize the pup better as he stands up—and because, ow, that hurt. He wobbles over to the other end of his bed in his Batman footie pajamas, an arm's reach for Bruce but a mile-long trek for little Dickie, not knowing Bruce sat up alongside him to make sure he doesn't fall off. Dick picks up the throw blanket, folded neatly across the edge of the bed, and makes sure to dotingly wrap it around his mother in a way that mimics the way he's tucked into bed each night. Once he deemed it comfortable enough, the little pup lifts the blanket and wiggles under it, cuddling back onto Bruce's front, this time holding onto him like a koala would.
"All better?" he asks, something he picked up from Bruce whenever the omega tends to his ouchies and kisses them better.
Bruce smiles, something he picked up from Dick ever since he heard the newborn's first cry. "All better," he confirms, placing a kiss on Dick's forehead, "Thank you, dear."
"You're welcome!" he leans into the kiss, trying to reciprocate it on the cheek, but misses and kisses Bruce's chin instead. "Can I—May I have another story?"
And again, Bruce knows he should say no. The city needs her protector, and the sun is only getting lower in the sky. However, this night hasn't been eventful enough to warrant a bat signal so far, and Dick is looking up at him with such an adorably persuasive set of blues. "The book said goodnight to noises everywhere, sweetheart."
"But you said Gotham is never quiet?"
Bruce sighs. How could he say no to him?
So he reads another book. Dick listens to him intently, giggling whenever something silly happens and yawning periodically throughout the story. Bruce reads the words aloud, but his mind isn't all that focused on the plot; instead, he's watching Dick. He's watching his pup's every reaction to the book, every infectious laugh, and every crinkle of his eye whenever he grins. Little puppy, who's fed, bathed, and happy—who scares him terribly. A child whom he's supposed to cultivate into the best version of himself, and that thought is nerve-wracking. Batman fights the worst of his rogue gallery almost nightly, always in fast-paced and dire situations that mean life or death, yet he keeps a level head and doesn't let any panic find its way into his methods; every action is carefully thought out, even if he is only given half a second to do so.
But raising Dick? Bruce is horrified of messing it up—of failing him. Sometimes, he thinks he already has.
The picture book features a family: a mother, a father, and their little boy. Bruce doesn't notice this as he turns the book around to present the image, but Dick does. His attention deviates from the story to his mother, only to find Bruce already looking at him. Bruce covertly frets, "What's wrong?"
"Mama, do I have a daddy?"
He startles, not enough for Dick to notice, but enough to freeze for just a second. Bruce has been through this conversation countless times, a hypothetical that plays in his head almost daily. It still takes him a while to come up with an answer. He takes advantage of Dick's homeschooling, courtesy of his need to have the smartest kid in preschool.
"Do you remember when we talked about genes?"
Dick solemnly nods, "Mama said I have to wear them 'cause it's bad to go out in undies."
"Close, silly, but that's different," he puts the book to the side and holds the pup closer, readjusting their position to be a more comfortable one. "It's the reason you have blue eyes."
He visibly thinks, placing a tiny finger to his chin and furrowing his brows as he racks his brain for the definition. His face lights up when he remembers, "People has mommy genes and daddy genes."
"Where did you get your black hair and blue eyes from?"
"Mama!" Dick answers, his smile blinding in the dim room.
Bruce can't help but vigorously pepper Dick's face with kisses, causing the pup to squeal with laughter. "And your smarts, too. But I wonder," Bruce theatrically questions, "Where did you get that darling smile from?"
When Dick's laughter, a precious sound that Bruce will never tire of, eventually dies down, he returns to his original query. "Where are my daddy genes, then?"
"They're still in you. Sometimes a mother wants a pup really bad, because he knows the pup will be the most angelic little boy ever," Bruce traces down the slope of Dick's little nose to further the implication, "But when you have one pair of genes, you must have the other. That's why nice fathers donate their genes to be used."
"Like a gift!" Dick cuts in. He loves to flaunt every new word they learn together by demonstrating how he knows their meaning. Bruce thinks it's so cute how eager he is to learn—he also thinks his little pup is gonna dominate in school, and that's something Bruce will definitely be ready to show off in the future.
"Yes, exactly. The doctors mixed his genes with mine, and here you are, my gift." Bruce pinches his cheek (with love). Dick whines in complaint. Bruce gives him an apology that was obviously not heartfelt, even to a toddler.
"Did you knowed him?" His voice is quieter, subdued.
"I met with him briefly. He's a good man, and he told me he would be open to meeting you someday. Would you like that?"
Dick's tiny face is creased, but not in the way it gets around the eyes when he's happy. He seems pensive, the smallest bit upset at the idea, and his tiny hands harshly fist at the material of his mother's shirt. Bruce doesn't know what caused it, but he won't pry if it makes his baby uncomfortable.
"It's alright if you don't want to. That's entirely your choice, and it's not a choice you have to make today—or anytime soon, for that matter." He covers Dick with the smell of comfort and assurance, hoping to calm him down.
Dick shakes his head at this, as if affirming that he needs more time before making a decision, so Bruce opts to let it go. "Not right now. We have to finish the book." Dick lays his head back down on Bruce's chest, evidently done with the conversation.
"Wonderful priorities, chum," Bruce jokes, more so to himself than to Dick, and runs his hand through his hair, using his wrist to disperse the scent of motherly love all over his little pup. Bruce settles on allowing Dick to come to him when he's ready. He doesn't bring the topic up again.
Later that night, after his son had been put to bed with many kisses and 'love you's, Batman follows the scent of spoiled milk to a crying pup hiding behind a dumpster, looking to be a couple of years older than Dick. The boy told him that he had gotten separated, that he had been looking for his father when the sun set, and the dense fog that covered the moon did nothing to ease his fear of the dark.
Batman holds his hand as he leads him to a small apartment, where a distressed father sobs as he reaches out to hold what was thought to be lost.
Bruce finds it hard to let go of the boy's hand as he eyes the scene in front of him: father and son, son and father. He forces his hands to release once the man begins to thank him profusely for his service.
He ends his patrol shortly after.
"I have loved you for the first time."
Alfred is overseas visiting his daughter, Dick has thrown himself into his clingiest phase yet at seeing his grandfather leave for the first time, and Bruce has a League meeting tomorrow.
Right, the League. It came to be shortly before Dick had turned four, meaning it's still in an early, developmental phase. Batman, despite funding the League and having complete access to the Watchtower, took the longest to convince to join. The members didn't press him further when it came to his reasons behind his refusal—the reasons being that he runs one of the largest American corporations by day and runs the streets of Gotham by night, all while finding the time to run after a hyperactive child—but they raised, admittedly, good points as counterargument. The team needs a strategist, and he's the best one they could ask for. Batman isn't one to fawn over compliments; he simply agreed that his help makes a big difference in how they serve the world as a whole.
At the time, it didn't seem like the best choice. Dick had always been clingy, but it seems as if his neediness only grows with age. It's not something to truly worry about, and Bruce isn't necessarily losing sleep over it. While Dick's need to be skin-to-skin with his mother at all times just makes some things harder than they should be, League business hasn't been interfering with the aforementioned issue, so that was some solace. Until Alfred went away, and consequently, so did the only person Bruce trusted enough to babysit Dick. Joining the league still doesn't seem like the best choice, but there's no getting out of it now.
Tomorrow, he'll be sitting with the brightest and best heroes the world has got, and Bruce will be deceiving them. With a promise of just the right reward (ice cream in winter), Dick will gladly sit stationary underneath his mother's cape and not make a sound. His fellow members might be good, but not as good as him. They'll have no idea. All will be oblivious to the secret pup hanging off Batman's right leg.
All except one.
Bruce noted this as soon as he got the idea of sneaking Dick in, yet he couldn't find a way to get past this one issue. A foil to his plan—someone Bruce knows won't speak a word of what's transpiring underneath the dark cloak if he knew the reason behind it. Still, Bruce can't just trust him with this level of confidentiality, especially not when it'll be sprung on him unexpectedly.
Superman, while he cannot see through something lined with lead, can definitely hear through his cape. Dick's little heart and his tiny, fast breaths will give both of them away. And if Superman can't see through the cloak, his mind will run rampant as he tries to figure out just what Batman could possibly be hiding. It'll be a breach—of information, of privacy, of trust. Bruce cannot let Superman think that; Bruce doesn't want a confrontation.
At least, not one in front of others.
Two heartbeats stand on the roof of a skyscraper, a building too high for the prying eyes of citizens to find them. It smells of rain, and the high altitude brings cold, stinging winds. A bundled-up pup, obscured by the thermally insulated cape that falls down the vigilante's back, clutches Batman's pant leg tightly, fist shaking. Batman is unsure if it's due to excitement or nerves—Superman is Dick's second-favorite superhero, after all—but it's definitely not the cold.
"Superman," he whispers, knowing the call will not fall on deaf ears. A few moments pass, and Dick's hand grips Batman's pants tighter. Suddenly, a flash of blue and red focuses in front of them.
"Batman," he addresses, "Is something the matter? You've never called for my help." A recognizable look of caution passes across his face as he surveys the scene in front of him. Two heartbeats—one right in front of him, the other hidden.
"And still haven't," Batman corrects. He feels Dick bristle behind him as the boy hears his mother's rough growl of a voice being used seriously for the first time. It takes him a second to find the next words, "I just wanted to make you informed of a certain… matter before tomorrow."
His brows furrow in slight confusion. "This concerns the meeting?" Most of everything is run by the two of them, alongside Wonder Woman, so it makes sense for him to think such.
Batman sighs, though he understands where the wariness comes from, as he would feel the same. This conversation will drag on if they keep it strictly business, but Dick has an even stricter bedtime. "It'll be better if I just show you," he hesitates before continuing, "I trust that you take this seriously. Do not make me regret that."
Superman nods, his prior vigilance replaced with an expression of foolish earnest—big, blue eyes filled with sincerity as he silently promises not to make Batman regret what looks to be a candid moment. The cape lifts, and it changes to shock. The image of a young pup wearing the tiniest domino mask and his warmest winter coat, shyly peeking from behind Batman's leg, leaves him with one question answered, yet many more prompted.
Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, Batman explains before the other can get any fantastical ideas about kidnapped children in his head. "This is my pup. Due to unforeseen circumstances, he will be secretly joining us at our meeting tomorrow. You're the only one who would've been able to detect him, so I figured it would be better to let you know beforehand."
"You're a father?"
Batman nods, "Some would even say I'm a mother."
"You're an omega?" Superman asks, baffled. He composes himself quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's alright. I would be shocked too. I don't exactly seem like the motherly type," Batman dismisses, but his posture is rigid. He's been through this song and dance countless times before—out of costume, specifically. Reporters insisting that Bruce must be an alpha in disguise due to his build. Tabloids saying that Bruce is a beta who enjoys the attention he gets as an omega. An interview where he was told he'd be discussing the future of the children's health clinic he had recently funded, only to be hounded by questions about the true father of his pup. While the accusations that he was anything other than omegan had stopped after his quite obvious pregnancy, nosy Gothamites had one question left open: who knotted Bruce Wayne?
It filled him with disgust seeing them talk so crudely about the conception of his beloved child, and he was frustrated that no one would believe him when he told them he used a donor. He's been in the public eye his entire life, simultaneously told he’s not got the look of a good omega, yet sexualized for the novelty of being unorthodox, and belittled beyond his worth. It's never mattered before, but now he has Dick. It worries him to imagine the things the boy might find on his own when he's older: articles detailing his supposedly shameless escapades, pictures of him and an alpha innocently conversing at a gala being taken out of context, meant to erupt scandals.
Bruce wishes he had never told the media his second gender.
He doesn't seem like an omega as a civilian, and he sure as hell doesn't act like one when he's Batman. Superman's confusion is understandable, he tells himself, and he's heard the same thing before. He's accepted that no one would ever look at him and think of a mother, so why does it hurt more coming from him? Batman convinces himself it's due to not wanting to appear weak to a colleague—something sad, something to be pitied—especially one as powerful as Superman, and doesn't look deeper into it. The feeling doesn't go away.
"No, it's not that. I apologize for giving off that impression." Superman's polite yet put-together demeanor is unlike how Batman expected him to apologize, all stutters and fumbling usually. "It's just that I've always wondered how an alpha could smell as nice as you do. I suppose I have my answer," he chuckles.
What?
"You could smell me this whole time?" Underneath all of his precautions? Underneath every patch stinging the back of his neck and every synthetic scent he's doused the Bat-Suit in, Superman was able to smell him? The ambiguity was meant to make people think Batman was an alpha, effectively severing any connection between him and very publicly omegan Bruce Wayne.
Superman shrugs it off, like this one unknown ability hadn't compromised Batman's entire identity. "I thought you knew. Y'know, super senses and all."
"I was not aware it extended past your sight and hearing," he grits out.
"Taste, too!"
Batman doesn't laugh.
"Sorry," he clears his throat, "I promise I haven't been using it against you. The others are convinced you're an alpha, but I didn't want to assume. Berries and coffee seemed like an odd combination for one."
"Espresso."
"Is there a difference?"
"Of course there is."
"Hey, buddy," he brushes the other man off and instead crouches down to introduce himself to the pup in a soft, hushed tone. "I'm Superman, it's nice to meet you." Now that he knows what he's looking for, the kid's milky scent is distinguishable, yet still subtle. Like something that hasn't come to fruition yet—not matured.
He stares at Superman in wide-eyed adoration but falters as he looks to his mother for permission. Batman smiles and rests a hand on the pup's head as he thinks of how to introduce the two. "This is—Robin. He can only talk for five minutes because it's already past his bedtime," he sends a pointed look to Superman, who nods placidly, "and… he really likes Superman." His voice is less gravelly, more mellow, as he talks about his kid, and there's a fond look on his face. This is truly a side of Batman that Superman has never seen before, and he's not taking it for granted; he's soaking up every second just to admire the phenomenon taking shape in front of him. He diverts his attention from Batman as soon as the omega looks up, but he has a feeling he sensed his gaze.
Robin tells him about all the times he's seen Superman on TV, and how he has Superman toys that he loves to pretend are saving the world every day, and that Mama lets him wear his Superman pajamas when his Batman ones are dirty. It was the sweetest, cutest conversation he's ever had with Batman around.
His mother calls it, and Robin complains as expected, but easily burrows into Batman's arms when scruffed. The famed grappling hook is out, ready to shoot, when Superman opens his dumb mouth again.
"Will there be an alpha hiding under your cape at next month's meeting?"
Batman freezes. He doesn't say a word.
"Gosh, Sorry—I'm sorry. Wanted to crack a joke, but you've made it very clear they aren't your thing, it was stupid—"
"There is no alpha."
He stands on the roof for a moment longer, looking back at Superman with an unreadable expression on his face, albeit almost completely covered. Making sure his son is stable on his hip, Batman jumps off. The sound of the grappling hooks hiss is the only thing they leave behind; that and a Kyrptonian who can't help but feel something grow in his chest—something akin to pride, yet has hints of hope. A different kind of hope, not the kind he usually instills into people. A selfish, indulgent kind of hope.
Waving goodbye to an omega and a pup who can no longer see him, he listens to the sound of the grappling line getting farther and farther away. He pays intense attention to the all-too-familiar sound of a certain man's heartbeat, and the way it seemed to beat the slightest bit faster as he swung away. He tells himself it's from the adrenaline a human must get when flying so high. He ignores how it sounds sophistic in his head.
"See you tomorrow, Bats."
Superman makes sure to close off his senses before he hears something he's not supposed to. He thinks of small smiles and pups in even smaller domino masks as he flies back to Metropolis.
Batman ensures that he writes 'enhanced smell' under Superman's file when he returns to the cave. After a moment of deliberation, he notes 'good with kids' as well. He pauses at the computer, hands hovering over the keyboard, and deletes it. That's something he'll keep in his mental notes.
(Dick calls Alfred to tell him about his encounter with the Superman.)
"Although it sounds dumb."
It's early June, March has passed, and Dick turned five. It's early June, on a hot evening, and bluejays chirp outside of Bruce's office window. It's early June, school has let out, and a little pup thinks Bruce can't see him in the doorway.
Dick has been toeing around the door for almost five minutes, using the frame of it to hide his body, his frankly tiny body—he could've evaded being seen had he just positioned himself better. Instead, Bruce can see half a puppy's torso, one arm, and one leg, as a pair of hands toy with a mysterious piece of paper. His apprehension clearly ties back to the paper he's holding; yet, he still seems to want to show it to his mother.
Bruce decides to cut him some slack before he makes his son stand nervously at his door for another five minutes.
"What do you have there, Dick?" Bruce finds amusement in his little jump (he seriously thought he was hidden?).
Dick fidgets with the paper. "Um… my drawing," he answers in a quiet voice.
Bruce lights up and leans back in his chair. Another one to add to the collection. Though the fridge quickly runs out of room, Bruce keeps all of the drawings Dick gives him in a separate box, hoping to look back on them with fondness one day. "May I see it?"
After a moment of hesitation, Dick pads across the space between them, fuzzy Superman socks making little to no sound as he moves. He climbs up on Bruce's lap and fluently seats himself on one thigh; Bruce wraps an arm around him on instinct. "Before school ended," he clutches the paper in a way that hides the image, "My teacher said we have to make Father's Day cards. I drew Alfie." He presents it to his mother.
It's a crudely drawn picture of an older man with graying hair wearing a suit. He holds what appears to be a tray of tea. Anyone else seeing this paper would have blanked on what Dick had drawn, but Bruce has had years of experience with children's imaginations and the way they decide to craft. "It's wonderful, dear." Dick looks like he has more to say. "Did someone tell you otherwise?"
"Um, yes, my teacher told me oth—er—wise," he adorably sounds out the word, "She said Alfie's not my dad. I told her he's my grampa, but she said that he's not even Mama's dad." He places the drawing down on Bruce's desk.
Bruce's heart breaks into tiny pieces at his pup's frown, and he can't help but blame himself for it. He's sending a very angry email to the school first thing in the morning tomorrow, that's for sure. "I'm sorry, Dick, she shouldn't have said that to you. Alfred is the closest thing to a father I have. There is nothing wrong with you seeing him as a grand—"
"No, Mama, Alfie is my grampa. I know that, it's okay." He reassures his mother, yet the creases on his forehead suggest everything but.
"Then, tell me, why are you still upset?" Bruce frets.
Dick cuddles into his mother's shirt, playing with the material, "Do you miss your mommy and daddy?"
They've had this talk once before—of death, that is. Bruce explained to him the reason behind his parents' absence, despite their presence in the many pictures that adorn Wayne Manor. He didn't go into much detail about the circumstances of how they died, but they had a long and extensive talk on how living things will one day naturally stop living, and how his parents' lives only ended short because of a bad person who made very bad decisions in life.
He told Dick they were going to live until old age. He regretted making such a promise, later, in the cave as he was suiting up to put himself on the frontline of Gotham's worst battles. It's possible that there might come a time when he'll leave for the night and won't make it back for breakfast, won't be there to get Dick ready for school and send him off, and won't be there once he comes back to help with homework. The thought has occurred to him every time he's put on the cowl, yet he can't bring himself to stop.
If he stops, who will continue? Who will keep the city from rotting, from collapsing inside and out, from murdering and thieving? Bruce made a promise to himself that he'd protect the people of Gotham, and that includes Dick. Every night, he strives to create a better future for his son, but he can't have his son growing up orphaned like he did. He knows that.
"I miss them every day."
"Are you sad?"
"Not anymore," Bruce lies, "because I have you." Dick has brought an immeasurable amount of happiness into his life, but his heart will never not ache when he thinks of his parents.
"You smell like sad," he chirps, like a bird. A pup's attempt to soothe his mother.
"It's because I wish they could've met you," he admits. They would've loved him—Dick, personification of sunshine, his reason to get up in the morning, the face of what's good in Gotham. "…and your little sibling."
It takes a couple of seconds for the words to process through Dick's little mind, but when they do, Bruce has his arms full of a babbling and restless pup.
"A baby?" Bruce nods. "In your tummy?" Bruce huffs a laugh and nods again. "Is it a girl or boy?"
"It's too early to tell."
"I think it's a boy. What's his name?"
"I've thought of a couple, but we'll decide once we know the gender."
Dick looks down at his mother's stomach and begins talking to it—to his new sibling. Rambling about how he's going to be the best big brother ever and how he'll teach the pup everything he knows and they'll play together every day for hours at a time. It's safe to say he's excited. Bruce looks down as well, cradling the small bump with one hand as the other still holds Dick. Another sweet bundle of joy to grow his little family; Bruce couldn't be happier, and he knows Dick can smell it on him.
"No, Dick, we are not naming the pup Bat-Baby."
Dick pouts in defiance. He's totally naming the pup Bat-Baby.
"And when you bring the blankets, I cover up my face."
A streak of red blazes its way through the Watchtower, twisting and turning nearly faster than the eye can comprehend, only stopping once it gets to the middle of the common room. There stands Barry Allen holding a pup in a carrier who squeals in leftover excitement.
"How was that, kid?" Barry lets him out of the sling and places him on the floor.
Robin twirls with dizziness, unable to catch himself. Clark swoops in and picks him up before he can trip. "So cool!" he cries, clutching onto Clark as if still afraid of falling.
"Where did you two go?" Clark asks. Sensing his fear, he holds Robin in a comforting, secure grip.
"Paris," Barry takes the carrier off and runs to put it away, returning in less than a second. He flops down on one of the couches, sitting between Hal and Arthur, across from Oliver. Most of the Justice League members have shared their names and identities with one another. Most except a certain still-paranoid Bat. It makes sense that his reluctance extends to his child's identity as well, so they've gotten used to calling the pup by his nickname.
"Uncle Barry took me to the top of the eye-fall tower!"
Hal scoffs, "I could take you to Mars if Batman would let me. Then I'll be your favorite uncle, right, Rob?"
"No!" Robin giggles.
"What?" Hal cries in mock offense, making the pup laugh even more.
"And you kept the child safe, yes?" Diana directs the question to Barry from her position next to Clark.
"Safe as life," he candidly answers, "Sling was on so tight I couldn't breathe, and I made sure to check my speed."
"I wanna go again!" Robin thrashes around hard enough to cause his little domino mask to slip. Clark readjusts it for him before it moves too much out of place.
"Maybe another time, pal. Your mother sounds just about finished."
Robin pouts but acquiesces. He suddenly gasps. "Clark!" he shouts in Clark's ear, the amplification of it making the hero wince, "Can you come to my birthday party?"
"Isn't that some months away?" Clark nervously chuckles. Robin doesn't look like he's joking. He stares the puppy-dog eyes down, almost giving in, but if there's anything stronger than Robin's pleading, it's a stern refusal from Batman. "Let's ask your mom, yeah?" he tries. Robin takes it as an acceptable answer, knowing the same knowledge as Clark: nothing goes without Mama's permission.
"Hey, kid," Hal grabs his attention. The alpha leans over, hands on his knees as he gets the slightest bit closer, and he whispers, "What's your mom's name?"
"Hal!" Barry exclaims, clearly displeased.
"What?" he asks defensively, "Spooky gets to know who we are, but we can't even get a name from him?
"It is a matter of trust, Hal." Diana asserts.
"I know, trust. He trusts Clark and Diana, but no one else. Aren't we supposed to be a team?"
"I can't help but agree," Arthur chimes in, "One day, he showed up with a five-year-old child and told us he was expecting. If he offers no answers, he can't expect us not to ask questions."
"Asking his pup isn't how you go about it. If you have any grievances, air them out with him," Barry, also an omega, rebuts.
Oliver joins, "It's not like he asked for the kid's name. All we want is a little show of commitment from him."
"I think it is commitment enough that he comes in on his day off to fix our mistake—forced to bring his child along with him, no less," Diana says.
"No one asked him to come in," Hal argues
"He's pregnant. He really should be resting," Barry sighs.
"More of a reason for us to know his identity. How are we supposed to tell his family if something happens to him on a mission—he's human."
"Are you not as well, Queen?"
"Whose side are you on, Curry?"
It was then that Batman walked back into the common room. "What's the meaning of this?" he growls, but the rest of the League cannot hear him over their own arguing. None of them had even realized he walked into the room. None except Clark. Batman doesn't get a chance to assess the situation before he's led out of the room by the alpha holding his pup, and he follows, because he knows Clark is also leading Dick away from the commotion.
It's quieter now; they can hear themselves think.
"What happened in there?"
Clark glances at Dick, still in his arms, before answering, "Nothing important enough to listen to." Bruce can tell that means they'll discuss it later, just not in front of the kid.
Dick looks up at the two of them with big, blue eyes, carrying a look of concern. His scent sours, "Are they mad 'cause of me?" His little voice trembles at the thought.
Bruce goes to comfort his son, despite not being aware of the full situation, but Clark beats him to it. "No, kid, nothing like that. Sometimes friends fight, but they make up afterward. Don't you and Bruce fight?"
Dick nods, "Mama got frus—tray—ted with me this morning because I didn't eat my fruits." Bruce grumbles something about how they're good for his health.
"My ma' got like that, too. But I listened, ate all my fruits and veggies, and look how strong I got!" he accentuates this by throwing Dick up in the air and catching him.
The pup squeals with laughter, "That's not fair! You're an alien!" Clark throws him up some more.
"You'll get as strong as your mother then, then. Isn't he strong?" Clark settles him back down and fixes his domino mask again, even though no one is around to see. He passes him to Bruce.
"Mhm, Mama's so strong, that's why he's Batman!"
"Yes, that's the only reason," Bruce dryly muses.
"Mama, can Clark come to my birthday?"
Bruce squints at Clark, who rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "I don't know where he got the idea from. I told him we'd ask you."
"Hn."
"Please, Mama, please?"
"Hn."
"It would make him really happy, Bruce."
A moment of deliberation passes. He faces Dick.
"Will you eat all your fruits and vegetables with no complaints?"
"Yes!"
"Do you promise to stop jumping off of furniture when no one's watching you?"
"I promise!"
"Will you be a well-behaved little puppy if he comes?"
"When is he not?" Clark asks, "He's an angel!"
"You'd be surprised," Bruce murmurs, then stares at Dick expectantly.
"I will be the best puppy for Mama and Clark!"
"Fine, he can come. But not as Superman."
"Understood," Clark complies as Dick lets out a loud cheer.
The arguing can no longer be heard from the other room, meaning they've either made up or separated. The two heroes are not excited to act as damage control in the following days, but for now, Bruce has finished what he's been summoned to fix, and his back is killing him. He wants nothing more than to get back to the manor and off his feet.
Dick's little celebratory dance—more so a weird wiggling routine since he's still being held by his mother—causes his mask to slip off completely. Clark catches it and hands it back to Bruce, the adhesive completely rubbed away.
"You might want to invest in something a bit better. There's been a lot of close calls in the past hour alone."
Bruce sighs, "I know, but he has sensitive skin. I use a less irritating brand that's supposedly made for kids, though I think I'll start making my own adhesive. Especially since he only begged to come along because Barry promised to take him to Paris."
"The closer he gets to the League, the more he'll wear that mask."
Bruce nods gravely. The thought troubles him. He never meant to get Dick so heavily involved in his hero work, but he's wormed his way into the hearts of all his colleagues. In hindsight, Bruce should've expected this. He has the world's cutest pup—it was only a matter of time before everyone else realized it, too.
"You can't put it off forever, you know."
"I know."
"They just want to know that the trust goes both ways. It's not unreasonable, Bruce."
"I know. I think I would've told them sooner had it not been for…"
For Dick, Clark understands. "Take your time. I'll hold them off for as long as you need."
"Thank you." The words surprise both of them, as if Bruce hadn't expected to voice them aloud. "I know you've been coming to my defense a lot recently—whenever the topic is brought up."
Clark flushes a shade of pink. "Well—y'know, it's not just me. Barry and Diana, also," he splutters.
Bruce smiles. Such a rare thing it is. And by Rao, Clark can't get enough of it. "A while ago, I would've barked at you three for doing so."
"It's been lovely seeing you grow," Clark jokes with fake sentiment.
Bruce huffs a laugh, teetering on a scoff, which is the closest Clark will ever get to making him actually laugh. He takes it as a win.
"Mama, I'm hungry!"
Clark laughs, "Go home, Bruce. Rest up, you need it."
Bruce agrees. He turns away to head to the zeta tubes.
"I want chips for lunch!"
"And get him some chips!" Clark calls out.
He can't see if he made Bruce smile again. But he can hope.
"And when you crochet, I feel mesmerized and proud."
Dick's birthday party was a quaint little thing. When asked if he would like to invite any of his many friends from kindergarten, Dick had stated one thing and one thing only. "Why, when Clark is coming?"
So, the small family had settled on an equally small celebration with just one additional guest. They did not think to warn this one guest of his sole attendance. Clark rang the doorbell, and not a second later, the manor's large door weakly swung open. They were only expecting him.
"You're here! You're here!" Dick delightedly greets him. He's reaching up on his tiptoes as one hand grips the doorknob.
"I said I would come, didn't I?" Clark grins back at him.
"Master Richard," Alfred expectantly chides.
"Oh, right!" He lets go of the handle and steps back, clearing his throat as he puts on his big boy voice, "Welcome in."
Dick didn't open the door wide enough for Clark's stature, so he had to push it inward to fit through. "What a nice host," he chuckles. The kid flashes his pearly whites in response to the compliment. Taking off his coat, Clark hears Dick quietly asking if his manners were good. Alfred tells him they were wonderful, then takes the coat, and ushers him inside the Manor. The foyer was decked in streamers. A birthday banner, customized with Dick's name, hung above a high arch, accompanied by balloon bundles at each end as embellishments.
The two lead him through the surprisingly vacant manor, his wrapped gift in hand. Clark had thought a kid as social as Dick would have given out many more invitations. Dick rambles about his week, what Alfred made for breakfast, and how they all worked together to bake his cake rather than buy one. Clark is only half-listening to him. Instead, he takes in his surroundings. It's a well-known fact that Wayne Manor is expansive, but he had no idea it would feel so empty—like something is missing. Perhaps it's because it houses only three, yet the halls are desolate. The numerous bedrooms upstairs are uninhabited, and each step he takes echoes off the walls of a nearly silent manor. To think that it was only Bruce and his butler for years. Clark would've gone crazy from seclusion long ago if put in his place.
They stop at a door similar to the twenty others they've passed, yet this one is open and inviting. More blue streamers dangle above its frame, and Clark feels them brush against the top of his head as he walks through. It makes sense, the room they've chosen. It's a den that comfortably accommodates four people, yet is thoroughly decorated. The colorful adornments are a stark contrast to the old-money feel of the room—rainbows against dark mahogany. On the coffee table rests a fancy-looking cake platter that holds up a quite simple-looking cake.
"He insisted we bake it ourselves this year."
Bruce stands near the cake, looking like the angels themselves had brought him down for this occasion. He wears a well-fitted shirt, yet the buttons are struggling to cover his midriff, causing part of his lower navel to be on display. Bruce's stomach, presented unintentionally to Clark. Bruce, who is heavily pregnant.
Clark is speechless when faced with such a stunning image. Bruce looks perfect from every angle, no matter which way he faces. His hair, slicked back and probably carrying product that's worth more than Clark's entire livelihood, has a sly strand that's deviously fallen out of place to rest on his forehead. His clothing looks to be comfortable, and for that, Clark is glad, yet still carries a sense of superiority. He deduces it must be custom-made maternity clothes that seem to hug his figure devilishly. Both of Bruce's hands cradle his nine-month heavy stomach, and the dark line trailing its way up the middle stands out elegantly.
But gosh, nothing can compare to the scent Clark's been nosing at since he stepped into the room: the rich, milky scent of a pregnant omega. A heavy scent that begs for Clark to take action, to care for the man in front of him. An intoxicating scent that is dangerously easy to get addicted to—Clark can feel one forming with every deep inhale he takes, each one savoring the smell of something beautiful. Of a healthy person building a healthy pup inside of them. Clark doesn't think he's seen anyone look more beautiful in his life, and all he wants to do is ask him to sit down for some reason. He chalks it up to some primal urge inside of him that yearns to wait on Bruce's hand and foot.
He finds his words, eventually. "I think it's lovely." The cake is not bad; if anything, it's well above what most people could make at a typical home level. Though Clark figures he has Alfred to thank for that.
"We usually get one from our baker for events, but Dick wanted it to be special for you." Bruce walks around the table, revealing that he's only wearing socks—good for him, no one should make him put shoes on in his own home while nine months pregnant.
"I made it with love!" Dick tugs at his pant legs.
Clark picks him up, "I bet you did, bud!" Dick immediately rests his head on the alpha's shoulder, and it takes everything within Clark not to fawn over it. So cute!
"Can we start now?"
"What do you have planned for me?"
Arts and crafts were first. Dick and Clark sat on the floor making friendship bracelets. Clark's large hands turned out to be a hindrance, and the string slipped from his grasp multiple times. He spent most of the activity cleaning up his spilled beads. Dick, on the other hand, was skillful at the craft, only pausing his process to ask his mother to tie the ends. Clark ended up with five, while Dick only received one. Clark had apologized for his inability to make good friendship bracelets, but Dick looked at the flimsy thing with a gleam in his eyes and said he loved it.
"What do you say, Dick?" Bruce prompts.
"Thank you!" Dick crawls into Clark's lap to give him the biggest hug he could manage.
Bruce took a picture of Clark and Dick holding up their matching jewelry. Clark found it hard to look at the camera when the person holding it was unbearably captivating.
Next was coloring, which they did in Dick's room at his little play table. Clark could tell Alfred and Bruce thought it comical that his hulking figure was hunched over the short furniture. At some point, his knees began to dig deep imprints into the plush carpet under where he knelt, so Clark subtly made himself float to not ruin the kid's rug.
"What did you draw?"
"You and me on my parents' farm with Kyrpto!" He shows Dick his admittedly juvenile work of art—crayons don't give him much to work with. Dick has been raving about the dog ever since he took a trip to Ma and Pa's farm a month ago. Clark made sure to take lots of pictures of sweet, little Dick cuddling chickens and feeding cows to send to Bruce. "What about you?"
Dick turns the paper around and presents it proudly. "This is you and this is me and Mama and Alfie!" Clark nearly cries at how precious he is, adding Clark to a drawing of his family. "And we are fighting dinosaurs 'cause they are taking over Earth." A little figure in a blue shirt stands against a horde of green giraffes, holding a sword as his defense. Near him are Superman, who's flying in the air and shooting red lasers out of his eyes, and Batman, who's smiling next to Dick and throwing a Batarang. Behind them is Alfred, holding a tray of tea.
Clark lets out an exaggerated gasp, "Wow! You're a really good artist."
"I know!" he proudly giggles.
"Dick," his mother chides.
"I mean—thank you, you too," Dick sheepishly corrects himself. "What did you draw, Mama?"
Clark hadn't even realized Bruce was participating since he wasn't sitting at the table with them, but he didn't expect someone in his condition to kneel alongside him. Bruce gets up from his seat on Dick's bed, rather gracefully. "It's you, as a baby." He places the paper on the table, displaying an intricately pencil-drawn picture of the inside of a cradle, where a swaddled infant lies. It was a miracle that Clark was able to focus on the picture at all when the act of putting it down wafted Bruce's scent towards him. Curse human biology and its natural wrist glands! Clark slowly feels himself getting bewitched by the smell, especially when Bruce stands above him in such proximity.
"Silly, Mama!" Dick squawks, studying the drawing and giggling. "I'm not a baby anymore! You have the new baby."
Bruce cards his hand through Dick's hair, who leans into it. "You'll always be my baby, no matter how old you are."
"But I'm big now! I'm six," he says, surely.
Clark tries to ignore the heat rising on his face as he remains close to Bruce. "It's better to accept it now, Dick. Your mom's gonna see you as a baby even when you're old."
Dick whispers, "Like Alfie?" Alfred is not currently in the room, but Clark wouldn't put it past him to still somehow be able to hear them.
He leans in closer and mimics the pup's whisper, "Ever older." Dick gasps, glancing up at his mother with a sense of unease behind his eyes, as if he didn't know that was even possible. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him in challenge. Dick resigns to believe it.
They leave his room and head to the kitchen. Clark let out a breath of relief when Bruce had stopped hovering over him. He didn't know how much longer he could take kneeling underneath the omega. He watches Bruce put his and Clark's drawings on the fridge, one that's soon to run out of room, per Dick's request. He intently watches Bruce find spare magnets and an inch of space that he could use, one hand propped up on his stomach as the other looks at Dick's drawing in what one could only describe as awe, as much awe as someone who is literally Batman could muster. Clark's eyes end up wandering. How can he have such a cinched waist while nine months deep into the throes of pregnancy? He can't help but admire it, the definition, how it's accentuated by the made-to-fit shirt, not to mention how his pants are struggling to contain his ass—
"Clark?"
Dick, clinging to his legs, makes him jump, too deep in scandalous thought to have noticed the pup. Rao, what's wrong with him? Thinking such raunchy things about Bruce in front of his pup is despicable behavior. Ma Kent did not raise him this way! There's no excuse for it, even if he really does want to blame Bruce's scent for making him go positively crazy.
"Yes, pup?" he hurriedly responds, hoping Dick didn't notice where his attention had been. He ruffles the kid's hair and tries to face him, but Dick has attached himself quite snugly to the alpha.
Dick leans into the hand on his head, headbutting it in an attempt to get closer to Clark. "Look at my drawings!" He removes himself from the leg. Now, a tiny, insistent hand is pulling Clark along to the fridge—not very effectively. Clark strides casually as Dick uses every last bit of strength to drag him.
The face of the large fridge, one that most likely carries more food than Clark has between his own fridge, pantry, and cupboards combined, is almost completely obscured by drawings, kindergarten report cards, and family photos. It's inconsistent with the look of the rest of the manor—much less, the kitchen—yet Bruce seems proud of it. It's different, sure, but it's proof. Proof that his life has changed for the better, everlasting evidence that Dick has made a mark on him—on all of them. There are drawings of Dick and his family, of Dick and Batman, of Superman and Batman, of Superman and Dick, and some of Dick and Alfred, where the butler holds a tray of tea (is that all he thinks Alfred does?). There are report cards that highlight Dick's ability to recognize both the lowercase and uppercase alphabet, to count to twenty, and his sociability with his peers. There are photos of Dick as a baby sitting in overalls and a sunhat on a picnic blanket, of the three of them at Dick's kindergarten graduation where Clark's behind the camera, of—is that him?
In the top right corner of the freezer, underneath a drawing of Dick holding hands with the Justice League, is a printed photo that Ma took when Dick had visited the farm. It's a still of when he took the kid to the barns. Clark is holding Dick up from his underarms to pet a dairy cow. There were a multitude of pictures taken that day, ranging from Dick chasing after the chickens to him looking happy with himself as he played in the muddy pig pen; yet, Bruce chose to print this one. Clark's a journalist. He can see past facades and masks, most of the time better than others, and he can tell that there's an explanation for Bruce choosing this photo.
Upon closer inspection, he may have an idea why.
Sure, Dick gently petting a cow is undoubtedly adorable, but there were three dozen photos of him looking even cuter. He's not the only one in the frame, though, because Clark is there as well. Clark is there, wearing an ever-fond gaze as he looks not at the camera nor the cow but at Dick—as if he were his own. Is that why? Is that the reason behind Bruce's clear bias towards this picture, or is Clark reaching, searching for something when there is nothing to find? And if he is, what does that say about him?
Clark turns to Bruce, not to talk or stare as he had been doing earlier, but out of pure instinct—a compelling force that urges him to. He finds Bruce looking at him first. It feels as if time stops around them, and suddenly, Clark can't seem to find the strength to look away from those sharp, blue eyes. It was Dick who broke the silence.
"Can we fly now?"
The next activity takes them to the backyard, where Clark flies Dick around the acres and acres of land at a moderate height that Bruce deemed safe. It turns out that the real schedule had hide and seek next, but he had sprung this on Clark without Bruce and Alfred's knowledge. After some pleading from Dick and promises to keep the pup safe, Bruce relents, yet watches like a hawk from the ground. Clark puts a pin in his reflection so he can ensure Dick is having fun and, more importantly, safe. He sneaks a couple of glances towards Bruce, but he's sure they're too high up in the air for the omega to notice.
Inside, they sang Happy Birthday—a quiet song, really. Clark was the only one loud enough to be heard as Bruce sang in a signature soft tone, Dick clapping in his lap. Alfred films on a digital camera, likely to be a home movie in a box of tapes twenty years from now: Dick's Sixth Birthday. "I love you, dear. Happy birthday," he hears Bruce whisper. Dick blows his candles and refuses to tell what he wished for, needing to clasp both hands over his mouth in order to not spill his own secret.
Soon it was time to open presents. A mountain of presents has somehow appeared in the original party room since they had first left it. Alfred's doing, Clark figures. They really spoil this kid, and now Clark feels lacking with his one against what he counted as fifty. Dick rips open the wrapping with speedy and impatient hands as Alfred looms over him to help, leaving Clark to stand with Bruce at the far end of the room.
"Is there a reason why you've been eyeing me up the whole afternoon, Kent?"
Clark didn't expect the confrontation. He splutters an excuse that wouldn't have been believable even if it were at all coherent. It's lucky that Bruce ignores his words entirely.
"May I ask something of you?"
"Yeah, sure," he breathes out. It takes everything in him not to answer with 'Anything you want—anything for you.'
"Can you see him?" Bruce appears pensive as a hand unconsciously cradles his stomach.
It takes a second for the meaning to click into place. "The pup? Yes! I mean—I haven't. I thought you might not be comfortable with that. But I can, if you want!"
Bruce softens at this, a dazzling look on an already breathtaking face, and nods. Stepping closer, Clark uses his X-ray vision to take a peek into his closest friend's womb, which would sound weird if he weren't actively marveling at how he's allowed to partake in such an intimate moment. Bruce looks down at his bump as well, as if he, too, can see through skin and muscle.
"Does he look," Bruce pauses, taking in their closeness, but doesn't move away, "healthy?"
Clark can see him, the whole of him. Ten little fingers and ten little toes. A head with a mouth and a nose and eyes that are shut peacefully. A darling pup curled up in a fetal position, taking in his last moments of comfort in what is probably the safest place he could be: his mother's womb. "He looks great. You should be proud," he earnestly replies.
Bruce smiles to himself, almost bashfully, as both hands now embrace his bump. Clark knows that no one on Earth, in the galaxy, not even throughout the multiverse, could match Bruce's beauty in this moment. Content laces each word that leaves Bruce's mouth, "What a delightful process it is—life. The creation of it. I can't wait to meet him."
"You're gorgeous."
"Pardon?"
"He's gorgeous, I mean." Clark didn't mean to voice that out loud. He quickly changes the subject, "What will you name him?"
Bruce glosses over his quick cover-up—noticing it, yet too engrossed in the topic of his baby to care. "Jason. What do you think?"
What an honor it is to be involved in the name selection process with a pregnant omega, even if it's by the slightest bit. Clark can think of nothing greater—nothing that screams trust more than this. "It's wonderful. Congratulations, really."
Before Clark can ruin the moment by blurting out any more inside thoughts, Dick lets out a screech of joy. The kid looks to be halfway through the gifts, opening all the big ones first. The last large present was a baby blue kiddie bike with training wheels attached. Bruce's face falls. "That wasn't supposed to be there," he mutters.
"Mama, can you teach me tomorrow?"
Bruce winces, and Clark wants to as well. Teaching a six-year-old to ride a bike in his state? Clark thinks not. "Maybe after your brother comes, Dick—"
"I'll teach you."
"Clark."
"No, really, I want to. You'll get it down in no time, right, bud?" Dick cheers in agreement. "And you," he faces Bruce, "Should be resting after the pup is born, not running after Dick in the driveway." He moves on before Bruce can further decline. "How 'bout you open mine?" He sits with Dick on the floor, thankful to not have to kneel this time, and hands him the neatly wrapped gift. Dick rips it open with fierce excitement. Inside is a nondescript box that's taped shut. Dick hurts his fingers trying to tear the tape off, so Clark takes over for him.
He gasps once the gift is revealed. "Elephant!" A crocheted plushie is removed from the box for immediate inspection. Dick twists it around in his hands, looking at the animal from every angle, before pulling it in for a big hug, snuggling into the soft material.
"I remember you told me it's your favorite animal when you came to the farm. You got upset when you learned that people don't usually keep elephants in Kansas, so I thought you'd like this as an apology," he chuckles.
Dick climbs into Clark's lap to hug him as well, the elephant crushed between them. "Thank you, Clark!" he squeals
"Anything for you, pal," Clark replies, and he means it. He has to resist the urge to kiss him on the head, reminding himself how inappropriate it would be—Dick isn't his pup, even when the line between father and close friend of his mother begins to blur. He brings Dick closer and holds him tightly, the smell of a happy pup engrossing his senses, and the feeling of a warm kid in his arms bringing him most ultimate joy. He pulls away only when Dick does, and it takes the pup a while to decide he's had enough.
"Elephants are one of Superman's favorites, too. They're strong and wise. Heroes should never be one without the other."
"What's that mean?"
He takes a moment to gather the right words. "It means to know right from wrong. It means knowing when action is needed, but also knowing if you're the right person to do it."
Dick looks up at him with big eyes, his mouth open and eyebrows furrowed in an attempt at understanding. "I don't get it."
Clark lets out a boisterous laugh, a sound that makes Dick jump. "You will one day, I promise."
"'Kay!" The pup relaxes back into Clark's lap before remembering he has another twenty-five presents to open. Clark gets up and makes his way back to Bruce, who watched the whole ordeal from the couch.
"You made it?" he asks.
"Through the power of internet tutorials, I miraculously did. I thought I wouldn't get it done in time since super speed only made the learning process harder," Clark wearily sighs, taking a seat next to the omega.
"It's very thoughtful. Thank you," Bruce replies. Sincerity bleeds through the edges of a usually stoic voice. It's not often Clark hears this tone from the other man directed at him.
"I mean, it's nothing compared to the ones you got him—"
"No," Bruce cuts him off, "Thank you for thinking of him. Having you around makes him happy, really."
"He's already a happy kid. It's not like he's lacking when it comes to love."
"That's true," Bruce knows he's never short when it comes to telling his son how loved he is. "But having the symbol of hope in his personal life sure helps. You influence him—better than I could."
"You didn't need me for that. Give yourself some credit, Bruce, you raised him well enough on your own," Clark rebuts, getting the tiniest bit tilted. Bruce is spouting nonsense. Dick was a kind and brave pup before Clark had even met him.
Bruce stubbornly shakes his head, "You don't get it, but that's alright."
Clark wants to argue, but he's called over to help set up Dick's new toy train set. He reserves to continue this later.
He doesn't get a chance to. The sun is slowly setting, and Bruce has a job to do once the moon comes out. The party ends on a happy note, and the conversation is a moment lost to circumstance. They don't bring it up again—not for the longest time.
At bedtime, Bruce tells Dick a story of a circus elephant named Zitka. He asks Dick what he wished for earlier.
At bedtime, Dick gives his new stuffed animal a name. He tells his mother what his wish had been.
At bedtime, Clark eavesdrops on a conversation that takes place across the water. He hears the wish, and he resolutely promises to himself that he'll preserve it.
"I wish for Clark to be at all my birthdays."
And he was.
Clark, a mild Daily Planet journalist who should not conceivably have any ties to the Wayne family beyond the hours of the workday, was there—was present. A recurring aspect of Bruce and Dick's lives, a form of stability that balances the darkness of the mother and the light of the child, not necessarily a force meant to bring them together, but one that makes them whole. A perfect shoulder to lean on and an even better idol to look up to. He was at every birthday, even when Dick began inviting his friends from school to them. He was a chaperone at every school field trip when Bruce couldn't make it, despite needing to take a sick day to do so. He was at every one of Dick's gymnastics meets, always cheering the loudest in the stands whenever the pup lands a trick he's been eager to master.
He was there, and it was more than enough.
"It's hard, so I won't say it at all."
Bruce had received a call from the school's administration, asking him to come to the principal's office to pick up his sons, without providing any specifics. The drive to the school is usually thirty minutes, but Bruce knocks on the door to the principal's office fifteen minutes later, frazzled and worried out of his mind.
He sees two young boys, one eleven and one five, wearing matching blue and red sweaters over their private school uniforms, sitting in the two leather chairs across the principal's desk. Dick has one hand gripping the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder while the other holds the hand of a confused-looking Jason. His eldest sports a couple of new Band-Aids on his fists and knees, a large one spanning across his jaw and stretching to his cheek. They do not resemble the product of the falls he takes when playing and the tumbles he performs in gymnastics.
It reeks of spoiled milk, the scent of a distressed pup.
Bruce wants nothing more than to take the two of them into his arms, scent them fervently, and ask what happened, but the principal suddenly rises to shake his hand, reminding him that formalities are what most of society prioritizes. Bruce resists the need to roll his eyes. Instead, he reciprocates the handshake.
"Ah, Mr. Wayne," Principal Lee says. He's a cowardly old man, one that Batman knows can be easily swayed to look the other way for the right amount of money, and always plays centrist when it comes to the issues at his school. Bruce would hate him if the idea of paying him off didn't look so appealing right now, but he knows his children have a simple explanation for what transpired. "Thank you for meeting with me."
"Did I have a choice?" Bruce laughs off, hiding the true meaning behind his words as usual when embodying this persona.
Lee laughs with him, too dumb to realize, and continues. "You can take a seat," he motions towards the two chairs that are obviously in use.
Bruce has to fight his expression to stay calm, "No, thank you, I'd rather stand." He goes to stand behind his sons, one hand on the backs of each chair as a comforting presence above them. Lee raises an eyebrow in surprise, as if he expected Bruce to kick one of his pups off and take their spot.
"Well, I'm not sure if the secretary let you know—"
"She hasn't."
"—but your eldest here had gotten into an altercation on school grounds. You are aware of our zero-tolerance policy for fighting, yes?"
"I am," Bruce grits his teeth. He relaxes when he sees Dick and Jason tense up at the change in his scent. There's no use in appearing aggressive with the principal and scaring his pups at the same time.
"And is Richard? He hasn't been cooperating with us at all. We called his brother in to see if that'll get him to talk, but he won't. You might be looking at suspension here if he doesn't tell us what started it."
Hearing his name, Dick looks up from where his eyes have been firmly staring holes through the office's ugly, green carpet. He doesn't look at the man who addresses him, though. He looks at his mother, whose heart breaks at the sight of him. Blue eyes welling up with tears that are adamantly being held back in a desperate show of strength, and a miserable frown that pairs horribly with an already tragic expression. He lets go of Jason to grab the sides of his pants. Dick doesn't say anything; he just stares at Bruce in hopes that he'll understand, and he does.
"Suspension? That's a bit harsh for a situation you don't know much about. I'm sure he has a reason. Right, Dick?" Bruce runs a hand through Dick's hair, his nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and Dick melts. He still doesn't speak, though. Bruce crouches down between his two boys and softens his voice. "What happened, sweetheart? Tell me," he coaxes.
Dick visibly calms at the tone his mother takes with him, nuzzling his face into the hand that still holds his head and grabbing it with his own. "It was this boy from my class—"
"Did you throw the first punch, kid?" Lee berates. He shuts up quickly once Bruce throws a glare his way. Who is he to rush his pup? These circumstances clearly have Dick shaken up. No one is going to force him to talk if he doesn't want to, and if they try, then Bruce figures he'll drop the niceties by letting his lawyers and money speak for him.
"Keep going, dear."
"He was," Dick fidgets with his sleeves, "Calling you names, Mom. Mean ones."
Bruce represses the urge to sigh, afraid that Dick will take it the wrong way. He's been anticipating this, truthfully, he has, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been dreading it: the day Dick learns of the various opinions the people of Gotham have on his mother. Most are fine if not nosy, but some are awful and downright filthy. It pains Bruce to think of his name being dragged through the mud in front of his child, but it hurts him more to think of the embarrassment Dick must feel if his classmates are mocking him for who his mother is.
"Like what?"
Dick hesitates.
Bruce holds his face in his hands, "It's okay, dear, I promise I've heard worse."
That doesn't reassure Dick in the slightest. If anything, he seems more upset at that thought. "Not in front of Jay."
Jason perks up from where he was playing with the paperweights on the principal's desk. Bruce covers his ears and smiles down at him. Jason smiles back and continues playing with not a care in the world.
"How about now?"
Dick wants to find the image in front of him amusing, giving a half-hearted huff, but he still seems uneasy. "He said that me and Jay and Timmy have different dads, so that means you're a," he wavers, "You're a whore." Bruce cringes. He doesn't like that kind of language coming out of his baby's mouth, much less having it used against him in the antagonization of Dick. "I told him you're not… that. Then his friends started calling you names, too, even worse ones, so I got angry."
"Then what?"
Dick looks away, "I punched him. I'm sorry, Mom, I know it's not right! But I couldn't let them say that about you!"
Bruce shushes him, "It's alright, I understand. I'm not mad, Dick, I promise."
The pup carefully reverts his gaze towards his mother, "You're not?" The tears that he's kept at bay have bloomed. They drip down the side of his face in fat droplets.
"No, I'm not. In fact, I don't think you did anything wrong," Bruce uses his sleeve to wipe at Dick's face. He stands up to face Lee, "Don't you agree, Principal?"
Lee is stunned, not knowing how to de-escalate a situation without being paid to overlook it. "Well, I- um—"
"Then I think we're done here." Bruce herds his pups off their chairs and to the office door, holding each of their hands. "You'll get an email with the names of those implicated. I expect action to be taken." He opens the door and ushers the boys through it, then looks back over his shoulder. In a low, gravely tone that's a couple of notes away from sounding like Batman, Bruce gives his final warning. "Don't make me get involved, Lee. It won't end well for you."
In the car, Bruce mulls over what to say to Dick as he buckles Jason in his car seat. He gets in the driver's seat and turns around to find Dick staring sullenly at his lap, simply waiting for the car to move. "I'm sorry, Dick."
Dick snaps out of his trance, "It's not your fault!" he defends.
"It hurts me to think of how they treated you. I never wanted you to be put in that position."
"There will always be mean and cruel people in the world that need to be corrected, you told me that!"
"I believe I also said that you sometimes have to ignore them. You don't have to fight my battles for me, sweetheart. I don't want you to."
"Well, someone has to! You let them say that kinda stuff about you, but I won't. Isn't that the right thing, defending good people from the bad ones who wanna hurt them?"
Bruce knows he can't convince Dick otherwise. This is a primal need to protect his pack omega mixed with the product of being raised by a justice-seeking vigilante, so it's partly Bruce's fault. An urge to protect those whom his instincts deem need it and a calling to enact righteousness in the face of wrong—this is Bruce's creation. He supposes it's a natural part of growing up, after all. "And who taught you that?"
Dick snorts, "You."
Bruce can't be mad at him for that. "I love you, chum."
"I love you too," he grins. It wasn't five minutes into the drive before Jason had unbuckled himself from his car seat. Dick wrangles him back down to redo the clasps. "Mom?"
"Yes, Dick?"
"Who is my dad?"
Bruce subdues his surprise. Dick rarely broaches this subject. "His name is John Grayson, and he works for a circus."
Jason giggles, "Dickie's dad is a clown." His giggling is cut short by Dick finally getting the seatbelt on him, holding a hand against the buckle so his brother can't undo it. He revels in Jason's whines as the puppy tries to push Dick's hand away.
"An acrobat, Jay, and stop scratching your brother." Jason begrudgingly listens.
"Like me," Dick smiles to himself.
Bruce is wary of delving further into this, but he figures he'll try. "His circus sometimes comes to Gotham. We could see him in action one day, maybe even bring Clark."
A beat of silence. Bruce thinks he's pushed too far. He looks in the rear-view mirror to find Dick deep in thought. "What if he doesn't like me?"
"Oh, hon, he already does."
"He doesn't even know me," Dick scoffs.
"Not personally, no, but he told me he'll love any child that shares his blood, no matter who they are."
"Even the Joker?" Jason interrupts.
"If he has the capacity to love the Joker, then I think he'll be just fine loving you, Dick. He said that he and his wife had always wanted a child of their own."
"He's lying. He knows I'm not his kid, I'm yours."
Bruce holds back a coo, "Do you think he could lie without me knowing?" He sneaks a glance in the mirror and finds Dick sulkily shaking his head, arms crossed across his chest, and pouting. "He said if they could have a child, he'd name them Robin, and that they'd fly with him and his wife in the circus. Maybe you inherited his love of acrobatics."
"You know that's not how it works," he grumbles. His voice becomes quieter, frail. "I don't know if I'm ready for that, Mama."
"That's okay. Take all the time you need. He and I will support any decision you make, just know that."
Another beat of silence. The moment passes. Bruce can tell Dick wants to change the subject.
"Is Clark still coming over tomorrow?"
Bruce nods, "Alfred and Tim are making cookies for him right now." Jason snickers at the thought of baby Tim baking. "Would you like to help them?"
There's no answer. Bruce sees the pup's reflection in his window before he pulls into the manor's driveway. Dick's smiling to himself, thinking of all the things he could do when Clark comes to visit.
"It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place."
For years, Clark was a constant presence in their lives, his influence being passed down to each child as Bruce's family grew larger. But even Clark gets busy, and their time spent together dwindled until it became an every other weekend occurrence—if hero work didn't get in the way, that is.
However, today isn't one of their scheduled meetings. Today isn't even a weekend. Today is a random Tuesday in September. Dick is thirteen years old and has been presenting as an alpha for the past three days.
Bruce has no idea what to do.
Sure, he's read books upon books of what to do in every scenario of presentation that has ever happened on this here planet Earth, but somehow, he keeps messing it up. Every interaction with Dick ends with a fight, or a door slammed in his face, or one of his brothers being used as collateral for his anger, and again, Bruce doesn't know what to do. In all honesty, the preparation he's spent years focusing on was thrown out the window as soon as he realized he couldn't smell Dick's puppy scent anymore. He knew he wasn't going to be much help when he began hoarding Dick's old puppy clothes from the pack nest. He knew it was time to call Clark when Dick tore up the manor looking for Zitka, only to find her on his mother's bed.
"What did he say?" Bruce stands at the bottom of the stairs, where he's been anxiously waiting for Clark to resurface from an area that he himself has been forbidden from entering: Dick's room.
"I'm alright, thank you for asking—"
Bruce grabs him by the collar. "Is he alright, Kent?" he snarls, scent souring.
Clark winces and shrinks apologetically. "Yes! He is, I promise."
Bruce takes that as an answer, but doesn't back away. Instead, he leans in closer, nosing at Clark's shirt. "You smell like him—his new scent." His presentation scent, which envelops his milky one, is a mix of incense and spring, but not quite yet. Bruce takes in the smell of freshly cut grass, a hint of something woody in the background, almost spicy. By the end of this week, it'll be fully developed, fully fledged, and Bruce will officially go from having three pups to two. He lets go of Clark, not minding the alpha's flushed, hot face. It's a very emotional week for him; Bruce is allowed to act unusually. "What did he say?" he repeats.
Clark clears his throat and attempts to harden his face, but he still looks like a young alpha caught in rut—and oh, God, Bruce doesn't even want to think about that. His only current solace is that presentations rarely ever include anything of that sort. Instead, they're a mess of new feelings, instincts, and high hormone levels.
"For starters, he attacked me," Clark notices the concern etch itself deeper into Bruce's twisting face, "But it's fine! He calmed down when he saw me, and it's not like it hurt. He probably got scared when he smelled an alpha in his territory, so give him some grace."
Right, territory. Wayne Manor has become isolated from the rest of the world by virtue of Dick's presentation. He lashes out whenever someone tries to leave the premises, whether it be Alfred going to the store or his little brothers going to school. Alfred has had to order groceries to be delivered to their front door, and Bruce has had to write a note excusing the absences of his two remaining puppies—the school understands, any pup's presentation can be a scarily fickle thing and must be handled with utmost care.
"We had a talk, alpha to alpha—" Bruce rolls his eyes. "—and he doesn't want you leaving the manor."
"I already told him I've rescheduled all my meetings to be online."
"Not you, Bruce. He wants Batman to stay inside."
Bruce sighs, knowing that it would come to this. "He knows I can't do that. I took enough time off during my pregnancies—not to mention the months I spent recovering."
"Try to understand it from his position. He's restless, he's in pain, and his instincts are going haywire right now. Is it too much to want to keep his omegan mother safe?"
"Seems to me like you spent your talk calling me incapable for ten minutes. His alpha brain must be kicking in already if he thinks I'm not able to protect myself," Bruce growls.
"Don't be like that. Dick's going to be overprotective for a while, maybe even forever, but wasn't he already?" Bruce supposes that's true. Dick has had his fair share of similar moments in the past. He'd fake falling asleep at galas to give Bruce an excuse to leave when he saw an alpha get especially touchy with his mother. He'd chase off paparazzi when in public if they tried to take pictures of Bruce. One time, he broke the camera of one who was particularly keen on invading others' privacy. The punishment he received was a scolding not to touch other people's stuff, as Bruce kissed his hands in case they were hurt in the process, so perhaps his coddling fostered this protective attitude. "Once he's fully presented, he'll realize he's being senseless. Then you two can come to a compromise," Clark says placatingly.
Bruce glowers at him, a stare that Clark has seen more times than he can count when wearing his Superman suit. Although currently, it's not as intimidating as Batman's, because Clark knows what truly hides behind it—a mother who's worried beyond reason. The omega yields, holding himself in his own arms as his mental defenses fall like physical ones would do the trick. "That was wrong of me to say, you're right."
"Take a break, just for a couple of days. Let him cool down and adjust to things. I promise he'll be willing to talk it out."
"What if he doesn't?" He averts his gaze to the floor, a rare show of vulnerability from the usually stoic man. "What if he makes me choose between him and Batman?"
"He won't." Bruce doesn't believe him, but he keeps quiet anyway. Clark takes some pity on him—something he never thought he'd ever do when it came to Bruce. "It's okay to be," he searches for a word that wouldn't offend him, "…anxious. Your family's going through some change, but it's not a bad kind. He's still your pup."
Bruce knows this. He knew from the start of this search for a family that when the day of presentation came, nothing would stop him from regarding his pups as what they are: his pups. Not their scent maturing, not their behaviors changing, and certainly not even if they begin to tower over him as they grow. No matter how old they are, they'll still be babies in his eyes. To him, that's his baby upstairs who's hunched over in pain, coddled into a blanket that smells like his mother while barring Bruce from entering his room. That's his baby asking him to step down from being Batman, and Bruce doesn't know if it'll be for the remainder of this week or for the rest of their lives. He doesn't know what he'd do if it's the latter.
If he steps down, who will protect Gotham? Who will help lost pups find their way home? Who will run elaborate strategies for the League? His money can only get him so far when it comes to justice—what about the fights that Bruce Wayne can't win? Who will pick up where the other left off when the courts fail their people, and drastic measures need to be taken? Who will make the city a safer place for his pups?
"I'll stop." Bruce doesn't know how long he's promising to do so. "On one condition, he has to let me into his room."
"I think he'll abide by those terms," Clark says knowingly, like there's something he's not telling the omega. Bruce is so emotionally drained that if it doesn't endanger his kids—he knows Clark would tell him if it does—then it doesn't matter.
"And he has to tell me if he feels unwell. He didn't even say he was hurting when I came to check on him," Bruce frets.
"I'm not sure how intense it is for humans, but I can tell you it's fewer cramps than what omegas get. It's the fear that's hurting him. The effect is more emotional than physical. He's scared, too, Bruce. Let him worry about you. It'll make him feel better."
He supposes he can do that, at least. He curses himself for worrying his pup enough to hurt. What a joke of a mother he is. He nods, "Go back up there and tell him what I said. And tell him I love him."
Halfway up the flight of stairs, Clark pauses and turns around. In a second, maybe less, Bruce's mind runs through a list of horrible things that might come out of his mouth—of new issues that have arisen. Has Dick said he never wants to see him again? Did Jason sneak into the cave? Did Tim get stuck in the dryer again? His nerves are wrung taut from the situation.
"What was that about me being right, again? I don't think I heard you the first time!" Clark calls out. A quip, not news of trouble.
"Do your job and get out of my house, Kent," he answers almost instantly.
Clark laughs, a decrescendo as he makes his way down the family wing. Bruce finds himself smiling to himself at the sound. He quickly wipes it off his face when he feels a tug at his pants. Little Timmy is there, asking to be picked up. Bruce is glad he's never fit into the stereotype of a small and petite omega; otherwise, he wouldn't be able to carry all his children, regardless of their age.
"What's wrong, honey?" He takes Tim into his arms. Warm, tiny puppy in his arms. It always makes him feel better. He can feel his tension mellow out by the second as Tim plays with a thread on his mother's sweater.
"Dickie's turning into an alien. That's why Clark had to come help him."
"Dick isn't turning into an alien, Tim. Did Jason tell you that?"
"Yeah, said that's why he's acting all weird."
"It's called presentation. He's going to be an alpha. His scent will change, and he'll be upset if he can't keep you safe, but it's not anything to worry about."
Tim makes a small gasping sound, bordering on a squeak. "Is that why he keeps stealing me?" He blurts out, like he just solved a mystery.
"Stealing you?"
He nods, "When me and Jay are playing, Dickie comes and steals me. Then I have to stay with him in his room until nap time."
"What happens at nap time?"
"He starts snoring, so I sneak out and go back to Jay. Sometimes he takes Jay, but Jay doesn't like to be took-en. He only likes it when I'm stolen with him so we can play in Dickie's room together."
"Dick's been keeping you hostage in his room for the past week?"
Tim nods, almost happily. "He says it's to make sure we're safe, but Jay just tells him he's stupid 'cause nothing bad's going on."
"And where is Jason now?" Bruce asks, but he feels as if he knows the answer.
Tim grimly looks up the staircase and back at his mom. "He was stolen."
Just then, they hear the sound of little, socked feet pattering across wood. Jason comes flying down the stairs, as if he's broken out of prison. Tim lights up at the sight of his big brother and wiggles in Bruce's arms until he's put down.
Jason skids to a stop before he crashes into the pair at the bottom of the stairs. He stares at his mother with wide eyes.
"Did he fall asleep?" Tim asks. Jason shakes his head slowly, almost shell-shocked.
"Clark freed me."
He then promptly takes Tim's hands and leads him to the playroom, where they were presumably staying before this alleged transgression occurred.
Bruce makes a mental note to ask Clark if kidnapping little brothers is normal behavior.
"And I won't stay very long."
It's late June, March has passed, and Dick turned fifteen. It's late June, on a hot evening, and the faint sound of police sirens can be heard from afar. It's late June, there's a hand on his shoulder, and Dick has gagged at the sight of blood for the first time.
The hand, he realizes, is trying to lead him away from the scene. It belongs to someone in front of him—Mom, his mom, is in front of him, and he's saying something. Dick can't make out the words. Bruce is in front of him, blocking the view, but it's one that Dick won't be able to scrub away from his mind. It comes back in flashes—what had happened, not five minutes ago, flashes of something inevitable. A show, a leap, a fall, and an ending.
Blood. Dick thinks he can smell it, or maybe it's all in his head. They were sitting too far away to be able to smell it; they had to be. There's no way he's smelling it, a pungent, metallic scent mixed with the fear from the rest of the audience. There's no way he's smelling it, because that would mean he's smelling his father's blood—he's his father's blood. That's his blood soaking into the sand at Haly's circus, next to his father and his wife, and where her body lies beside him. There's no way he's smelling it. He can't be smelling it.
Dick wants to throw up.
Bruce is trying so hard to shield him away, but he's seen it already. Broken bodies on the ground, bending and twisting in ways that shouldn't be possible. He saw the slow leaking of the blood from beneath them. He heard the tightrope snap, saw it crack like a whip from the tension releasing, and held his breath as he hoped for someone—anyone—to save them.
No one came.
Dick was fifteen when Haly's circus came to Gotham. He was fifteen when he decided to finally meet his biological father after the show. He was fifteen when he fatedly decided to go without the person who was already that to him. He was fifteen when he saw John Grayson fall. He felt older when he saw death for the first time. He felt older when he saw their lifeless eyes—bones puncturing through skin and bodies bruised. He was changed when he realized the irony of being surrounded by heroes his entire life, yet no one had saved his father.
Not Bruce, not Clark, no one.
Dick was fifteen when he made a decision—something inevitable. A show, a leap, a fall, an ending, and a purpose.
"The metal vibrates underneath your fingers."
There's a fire in Dick's eyes, something anguished, something of loss, something Bruce has seen many times before. Something inevitable, he supposes, just like the death of John Grayson.
"I didn't even know him," Dick chokes out, like the words being admitted hurt him.
"You don't need to know someone to empathize with them."
This fire is something ferocious, carrying a resemblance to what Bruce has seen in the past, yet different—mutated. It's a need for justice. It's a call for action. It's what Bruce felt in himself long ago.
"It's okay to feel like this."
"No, Mom, I didn't even know him. I never tried to know him. I was too scared. He wanted to meet me, but he never got to, and that's my fault. I didn't let him."
It's been a month since Haly's Circus. It's been a month since Dick saw his father's dead body lying not-yet-cold on the ground. Since then, he's said very little, and he's locked himself in his room for the most part. His family gave him space; Bruce let him decide when he wanted to talk again.
"I know how you feel, Dick—"
"You don't! At least you had your dad. I hid from mine. And for what? To play pretend with Clark? To act like I had Superman as my father?"
Dick is shouting, but Bruce doesn't mind. They're in the cave, surrounded by the scent of distress, of grief. It smells of death—on the cusp of rot—but the effect of it. The lasting marks of it. The part that stays with Dick long after everyone has forgotten about the Graysons, but Dick won't forget. He can't forget. He won't let himself forget.
"I wanted to meet my real dad without him there. I thought it would be wrong—it felt wrong. But what if I did bring him? What if he was there, Mom?"
Dick is pleading with him, asking him to make the hurting stop and begging him to make it better. For once, there's nothing Bruce can do except let him voice his feelings, help him lift this burden off his chest. He knows that Dick is blaming himself for the Graysons' deaths, and he also knows, most certainly, that Clark would've been able to save them. Such a tragic dichotomy. Dick wanted so badly to meet his biological father in the most perfect way. He's been mulling it over for years, ever since he learned about John's existence. All those years he spent longing for something he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to have, just to have it taken away from him. A father, taken away from him, and a pseudo-father in afterthought, who would've been able to save him, who could've saved him, if Dick had only allowed him to be there.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought them up."
"It's alright. I understand." Because Bruce has a dead father, too. He knows how it feels to see your father, someone you thought was larger than life, stronger than steel, lying face down into asphalt—into sand.
"You have to find who did it," Dick demands. His voice is like stone, as if he's sobered up, as if he's come to a resolution.
"I've already started a case—"
"And you have to let me help."
There's a fire in Dick's eyes, something sharp, something of resolve, something Bruce has seen many times before. Something inevitable and evolved. It's familiar, it's similar, it's him.
"Dick…"
"Mom, please! You have to," he cries.
"You're too young."
"I'm old enough to make a decision. If you don't let me, I'll do it my own way."
And Bruce knows that it's not an empty threat. He knows it's not a threat at all, just something inevitable. His pup, who's so grown up now, who's always been the smartest in his class, who has exceptional acrobatic abilities, who has an innate desire to protect, has always been like this. It was always going to turn out like this. This is what Gotham breeds, and Bruce was well aware of that before he decided to have children. Nothing is going to stop Dick from enacting his own version of justice, and Bruce is unsure of which means he plans on using.
What Bruce does know is that he can't let it be senseless vengeance. He can't let Dick turn out to be like him, someone turned into something, someone who's allowed Gotham to take over his soul so spitefully, someone who had no choice but to create something beautiful to balance out the darkness. The creation of Batman has given rise to Richard Wayne, but Bruce cannot let the pup become his maker. Dick is better than that—better than him—and that is what Bruce's sure of.
Dick takes the silence as rejection. Tears fall down his face, tears that Bruce hasn't seen in a long time, ever since he presented as an alpha and thought himself too grown to come crying to his mother. "He's—he was my dad. Please, Mom."
Bruce could say no. Bruce could forbid him from even thinking of putting himself on the frontline of his mother's mission. Bruce could scruff him into submission and take him back up to his room. Bruce could say no, absolutely not, but Bruce was never known to deny his pups anything. Not this, he can't deny Dick this.
And so he was forced to share his beacon of light with the rest of Gotham—with the rest of the world—and what an incredible thing it was. There was a Robin, named after his late father's wishes. There was a Boy Wonder, who spread hope and inspired others to be better. There was a Dynamic Duo, Batman and Robin, zipping through midnight city skylines as a symbol of protection.
There was them. It was always them—the two of them.
And sometimes, there was a third.
"And when you play guitar, I listen to the strings buzz."
The Watchtower became a staple throughout Dick's childhood. It was one of the safest places he could ever be in. A place filled with his mother's coworkers, who watched over him when he was younger, people who had proven themselves to be almost like family, superpowered aunts and uncles who would drop everything in mere seconds to come to his aid.
And then there was Clark. Clark was different.
Clark was the first member he was ever introduced to, and the only one to ever get so close to the Wayne family. Dick chalks it up to the close bond between Clark and his mother, one that's unlike anything he and the other league members share. It's built on a type of trust that can only be earned through years of involvement in Dick's life. It's from being the only alpha figure Bruce ever allowed around Dick. An alpha who teaches him how to be an alpha himself.
Dick doesn't feel like an alpha. He's made a decision akin to his traditional role as a protector, a well-thought-out and judicious decision to make the world a safer place, but he's having doubts. He is sixteen and scared, and he thinks that's pretty un-alpha of him.
It's not that he's not afraid of dying from the dangerous line of work he's assimilated himself into, but he feels like he should be. There's some sort of childish belief lying in him that makes him think he's unkillable, that nothing will ever stop him from doing what he knows is the right thing to do. Death isn't the problem; it's expectations that rest on his shoulders, and fear is what comes of it. Clark is there for him, like he always is, in the Watchtower. He's at the safest place on Earth with the strongest man alive hugging him, but Dick is still so scared. He feels so different from the type of alpha Clark is, someone like Superman. Why can't he be as brave as Superman?
He has predecessors, he knows. There are other heroes his age, teenagers like him, who have been on the scene longer than he has. The aunts and uncles he's grown to love have now become his teammates, and sometimes they're his bosses. Even before he started, everyone joked that Robin was always meant to be the product of Batman and Superman. How can he not be scared when he's supposed to match up to them?
Dick is being asked to fill the world's largest shoes, but he still feels like a child held between his mom and d—Clark. Between his mom and Clark. Between two heroes he'll never be able to catch up to. A while ago, he thought he was grown up—that he was a few years away from being an adult, and he could already feel the effects of maturity. Now, he feels like an infant, and he knows everyone else in the league is having a hard time not seeing him as such.
But Clark is here. He's always there. Just like he was there at every one of his birthdays, just like he was there when Dick was presenting. He's who Dick goes to when he can't tell Bruce. He's who Dick runs to when he doesn't want Bruce to see him holding back tears, like right now.
"I made a mistake. Yesterday, on patrol. A bad guy got away because of me." Dick confesses tearfully as he steps back from Clark's hug. He loves Clark's hugs almost as much as he loves his mother's. Clark's hugs are always strong. They treat him like he's capable—like he's strong as well—even when he doesn't feel like it.
Clark lets out a long exhale, "I can't tell you how many times I messed up when I was your age." It's meant to be comforting, but he can't help but think that Clark had an experience different from his own. Learning how to control laser eyes and super-strength is difficult; it takes practice. Dick has been training for years, at his mother's insistence, so he would know how to defend himself in Gotham. Spending so long undergoing what the other heroes nickname 'bat training' and then messing up a simple arrest is a failure on his part. A big one. That's not the same as waking up to learn that your breath can freeze things. Dick has a lower standard, and he still can't reach it. "All you can do is learn from your mistakes."
Clark doesn't get it. "You should've seen the way he looked at me."
"It couldn't have been that bad. You know that he only yells 'cause he worries."
"That's the problem—he didn't." Bruce was… calm. Understanding. Gentle. It wasn't like the times Dick got a stern scolding whenever he used the manor's chandeliers for gymnastics practice. Bruce didn't shout at him like when he accidentally took out Jason's front tooth after they played a game of catch in the backyard. Bruce wasn't angry, and it felt worse than if he were. "He didn't yell at me. He told me that I'll get it right next time, but he didn't yell. I wanted him to yell, Clark," Dick spirals, something resembling panic. He can feel the tears he forced away earlier returning.
Clark presses his lips into a thin line, understanding adorns his face. "It felt like pity," he concludes.
"I just want to be good." He wipes at his face with green gloves that feel undeserved.
Suddenly, there are hands on his face, forcing him to look up at a Clark who's crouching in front of him with such kind eyes—eyes filled with love. "You are good," Clark says with so much sincerity that it sounds like it hurts. "You're incredibly good. I've never met a kid with as much heart as you, Dick. Please, don't cry," he practically begs. He thumbs away the tears, and Dick tries to will the unshed ones back.
"How am I supposed to be as good as you and Mom?" Dick chokes.
Clark's face softens, "You will be. Give yourself some time, and you'll be better than all of us."
Dick has no room for argument, not when he's never known Clark to lie.
A gust of air makes them both blink. Barry has joined them in the secluded room. He has a silent conversation with Clark, with questioning stares answered by minute facial expressions, upon seeing the state their cherished Robin is in. Dick knows it's a propensity among adults, but could they be any less obvious about it?
"You okay, kid?" Barry settles on asking.
He nods, a red flush to his face now apparent. One that came from embarrassment rather than crying. How humiliating it is to have a lachrymose breakdown in front of one of his heroes and get caught licking his wounds afterward by another.
"Bruce wants you in the main room. Says you gotta make it in time for your brother's piano recital." Barry casts one last wayward glance towards Dick before speeding away. He can tell it's filled with worry that comes from care, but he registers it as just another person feeling sorry for him. He's sick of it—of the pity that comes from someone older thinking he's in way over his head yet wanting to believe in him.
Clark smiles at him, and it convinces him that at least one person does. He waits for Dick to lead the way, to walk on his own accord, with a hand resting on the kid's shoulder. A large, dependable hand that makes him feel shielded, guarded, like nothing could ever get to him—not again. Dick doesn't move. "You're coming, right?" he asks instead.
"Without a doubt." There never is any with him. "Now we should get going. Bruce will have our heads for being late."
"Your head."
"Bruce will have my head for making his sweet angel late," he corrects himself. It makes Dick laugh, Clark always knows how to make him laugh, and he leaves the room upon getting the confirmation he wanted.
They go to the piano recital. He sits next to Clark. They snicker together at the serious face Jason doesn't let go of throughout the performance. They share a Superman-flavored split during the post-recital ice cream stop, even if it's the dead of winter. They try to persuade Bruce that it's healthy because there are bananas at the bottom, but he remains unconvinced. Bruce takes a picture of them with blue dessert on their noses, giggling in the cold as their noses turn red underneath. He rolls his eyes when he calls them twins, and Dick sees the truth in it. They're products of each other, he realizes. Clark hugs him extra tight before he leaves for Metropolis.
Clark came along with them. He always does. He's family—and Dick knows this as fact.
"And words are futile devices."
A knock on the door interrupts a peaceful evening at Wayne Manor. Alfred just brought a cup of coffee to Bruce, who's working in his office. Jason is reading in the library. Tim took his skateboard to the backyard. Damian has already been put to bed. Dick is—
The doorbell rings. An impatient man, Bruce thinks to himself. Alfred doesn't move to get it, Bruce does. They both know who it is. He opens the door, and a familiar scent washes over him, one that he's never been able to exactly pin, even after all these years. It's something alien, from another planet, of a biology that has developed differently from that on Earth. A scent that's strong and heady, definitely belonging to an alpha, yet it carries an undertone of sweetness. It's warm, it's inviting, and it smells nice. Bruce has spent years battling with himself over it. In the end, he's admitted that it's a tasty scent. On his best days, one might catch him saying it's delicious.
Today is not one of his best days. Bruce hasn't had many best days since Dick left. The scent of Clark is nice, and he has dreamt of allowing himself to bask in it, but right now, it's making him sick.
"Hey." Clark stands there awkwardly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he doesn't know what to do with them. Bruce doesn't grant him a greeting. "I, um, heard there was a new vigilante in Bludhaven. Goes by the name of Nightwing?"
"I wonder where he got the idea from," Bruce dryly replies.
"Yeah, that might've been my fault," Clark offers a useless confession.
The last time they saw each other was a couple of months ago, when Clark was helping with the move to Bludhaven. His mouth is open like he wants to say something, but can't get the words out. He's nervous, Bruce knows this.
A couple of months ago, they shared a kiss in a parked moving van outside Dick's new apartment, and Bruce loved it. It was brief but intense, passionate, and filled with desire that had been building up for years. More so, it felt like a reward. A reward from Clark for raising such a wonderful son, a prime example of an alpha, someone formidable and compassionate. It felt like a kiss that honored their 'co-parenting' of a child who was spreading his wings, in more ways than one.
It was beautiful, it was too real, and it can never happen again.
A couple of months ago, Bruce learned that his feelings towards Clark were reciprocated. In an attempt to deny the truth of what their relationship could be, he shut him out.
"I wanted to see you," Clark breaths out.
Bruce wanted to as well. "You can't be here."
"I know, but I just wanted to apologize. I should've never forced myself on you like that. I don't know what came over me that day, but I— it was wrong."
Bruce blanks. Could he get any more perfect? Clark seriously thinks Bruce has been ignoring him for months because he didn't want the kiss? He's so wrong that it's laughable. It was everything Bruce wanted it to be, and he wants nothing more than to pull Clark in by his stupidly ill-fitting work shirt and kiss him until he runs out of breath again—which he won't, since he's Kryptonian.
"I liked it."
"Sorry?"
"I said I liked it." Clark's eyebrows only furrow deeper. "It's not that I didn't want it. It's that I'm not the one you should be kissing."
Clark's confusion slowly turns into understanding, "Bruce, I think you have the wrong idea. Lois and I aren't dating."
It's true, they're not. Bruce, unlike what the media often portrays him as, would never kiss a taken man. He would, however, kiss a man who has an odd, wanton situation with his coworker while he himself is in the off phase of an on-and-off relationship and then regret it. Bruce forces his throat to not close up as he sneers his words out, "You want to be."
Clark seems stunned. He adjusts his glasses, "I will admit that, at one point, there was something between her and me, but we aren't together—"
"You should be." It's what they both want. It's what they both deserve. "I'm not the one for you, Kent," Bruce hisses. What's so hard to understand? There is no world, universe, or timeline conceivable where Bruce ends up with an alpha like Clark. Clark, who deserves someone to bring him up, like Lois Lane. Bruce would only hold him back. "You should be with Lois, and I with Talia."
"Bruce," Clark starts, pitying, like he's pathetic for thinking of himself in such a way. Bruce can't listen to it. Just then, he catches a whiff of something intoxicating, something aromatic. Clark is scenting him, unknowingly letting it leak out of his gland in pervasive fumes. Bruce hates himself for wanting to stay in it—to lean into it. Clark has the gall to stand there and scent him with that worried face, as if all he wants to do is comfort the omega. Obviously, their years of knowing each other proved fruitless; Bruce isn't an omega who needs comforting. He isn't a damsel in distress, he isn't an ideal wife, and, oftentimes, he questions his own parenting skills. He has no place in Clark's life, much less as his omega.
He toed the line enough as a friend. Someone like him isn't someone suitable enough to be Clark's mate, no matter how much his inner omega begs for him to be.
"We wouldn't be near one another if it weren't for Dick, not as civilians, but I couldn't be so cruel as to take you from him."
Clark looks pleasantly surprised, and, God, Bruce despises him for it. "I can still see him?" he asks, positively elated by the fact that he'll still be an active figure in Dick's life—as if Dick's his son.
Bruce wants to hit him. He wants to give Clark a piece of his mind. Dick was never his son, no matter how many times they spent the night at the farm, or how many baseball games he took him to see, or however many hours he spent teaching Dick to ride his bike before Jason was even born. But Bruce doesn't say any of this because some part of him screams that it's wrong—he's wrong. Clark was there, yet he had no obligation to be. Is that a testament to the man's moral superiority, or is it truly because Dick was like his pup, one whom he shared no blood with? Bruce knows the answer. He had known it ever since he came to the realization that Clark was never 'Uncle Clark' to Dick, when even as a kid, Dick had recognized him as something more. He doesn't let himself acknowledge it.
Bruce nods, an answer to the alpha's question. A useless answer, really. It was always going to be a yes. Clark sighs, resigned. Bruce takes it as proof that he's not worth fighting for.
"Go home, Clark."
He shuts the door in his face.
Having Clark so close made his chest ache. Having to take in his scent gave him a headache. He never wants to see that man again, but at the same time, he wants to swing open the door and jump into his arms. He doesn't trust himself to stay calm if he ever smells that scent again, one that resentfully reminds him of family, one that evokes memories filled with smiles and laughter—one that reminds him of Dick.
Clark only leads him to traces of two heartbreaks: someone who fled the nest and someone who keeps coming back.
Clark reminds him of how much he misses Dick—his robin. Ultimately, Bruce is an omega suffering the after-effects of a pup leaving. A pup who's flourishing without the help of his mother. On one, realistic hand, Bruce is beyond proud of his capabilities, but on the other hand, one that's more primal than reasonable, Bruce can't help but think that Dick never needed him. Dick is making a name for himself in Bludhaven, a city he chose to be separate from Gotham, from his family name, and from his mother, and Bruce has no choice but to accept that. He misses his pup, his bird, his baby, but he has no right to.
All the more, Clark reminds him of his inability to love, at least not in a romantic sense. Every alpha who's treated him like he's some prize to attain reminds Bruce of how he's viewed, and after being thought of so perversely for so long, Bruce is sure his concept of courtship is skewed. He's never known an alpha to be genuine, all having some sort of hidden agenda behind their words and promises, truths that Bruce has trained himself to seek out. A business dinner turns into a proposition to take Bruce back home—back to their home, not his, not where his pups are waiting at the door for him. Someone has always wanted something from him, and some don't like to stop pursuing when met with refusal. Others think him incapable, suggesting he should step down from a leading position to instead care for his children at home, assuming he can't do both; in reality, he's doing more than they know. Even nice alphas end up disrespecting him and his wishes one way or another, like his lovely Talia, who had planned to train sweet, baby Damian as an assassin with her and her father during the summertime.
Clark is, and always has been, the only good alpha that Bruce has ever met, and for that, he can't have him. He's a fraud of an omega, with his large, muscular build and cold demeanor. He's in his late thirties with four children of his own, all of whom he's birthed himself. Clark deserves an omega who looks better, who acts better—one he can build a family with from scratch. Clark doesn't deserve him; he deserves better.
Clark reminds him of what he can't have, and that, despite what they've had throughout the years, their relationship should've never even gotten close to becoming something more. Clark should be with Lois. They will never work.
"And when I sleep on your couch, I feel very safe."
When Bruce watched his father die, he saw evil for the first time. He saw the product of it seep into the concrete street beneath his parents. He was a child, but he'd never felt older when he cradled the people he once thought were larger than life, the same life draining out of their eyes. He made a promise to his city that he'd do everything in his power to stop a repeat of what happened that night—of what turned him into who he is now.
When Bruce watched Dick's face as it processed the fact that he'll never get to introduce himself to his father, he felt as if he'd failed. And he thought he failed once more when he let Dick become what he was most afraid of him becoming—himself. A justice-seeking vigilante who feels as if he's a one-man army in the war against corruption. Yet, there was a small part of him that couldn't help but be prouder of Dick, a boy who used the death of his father to further a message of hope in his city. There was a voice in his head telling him that depriving Dick of this purpose would've only done more harm than good. That voice convinced him that the creation of Robin wasn't truly a reflection of his failures, not only as a mother but also as a self-appointed guardian to a city that would never know his true impact.
That voice stayed silent when the moniker was passed down.
When Bruce held Jason's limp body in his arms, he knew he'd failed. He thought back to the night his parents died as he carried his second son's body through the rubble where a warehouse once stood. Near his feet, he found Willis Todd, the man Jason had come to see, unbreathing. Jason had run off to find his biological father, a good man who, unfortunately, went down several wrong paths as Jason grew older. A man, stricken in poverty, who needed to pay for his sick wife's medicine, turned to a life of crime—a result of the circumstances he found himself in, all of which were unknown to Bruce. Near his feet is the man he met with, shook hands with, and specifically chose. Willis's story was a tragedy, and the misfortune only bequeathed itself to his son.
Much like Dick, Jason was hesitant to meet his father, but, much like Dick, he couldn't bear to stand around and watch when someone was in danger. An innate instinct to protect those who cannot protect themselves, despite not yet presenting. He thought it was his duty as the new Robin to save Willis from the Joker's blackmail and influence.
Jason is dead, Robin is no more, and everyone is grieving in their own, isolated ways. Dick is alive, but he wishes he weren't.
He hasn't seen his mother since the funeral. They're fighting again, and Dick can't handle the strain of argument on top of their shared despair. Clark is standing in his living room, trying to convince him to come home. He's been here for a good part of an hour, and they've been going in circles around each other.
"He died looking for his father, Dick."
"I know that. God, obviously, I know that. How can I not know that?" Dick is tired of everyone reminding him of it. Hundreds of 'sincerest apologies' and 'thoughts and prayers' won't bring him back. All it does is serve as a reminder of how he wasn't there. He wasn't there for him—no one was. No one came.
"And your mother's blaming himself for it."
"Good! Maybe he should," and maybe Dick should as well. "Robin was supposed to die when I left, not when my baby brother runs away to Ethiopia, lured into a warehouse, and, fuck," he cuts himself off with a heaving breath. He doesn't know what the Joker did to Jason. He never read the autopsy report, unlike Bruce, who was obsessively engrossed with it, reading it every night in the cave. Dick couldn't stay there.
"I know you're grieving—"
"No shit! Get out of my apartment." His scent spikes in territorial ire, but Clark still emits comfort in an attempt to calm him down. Dick feels the sting of tears behind his eyes, tears of anger, tears of loss, tears of utter anguish. He does everything he can to keep them from falling. He knows Clark would rather die than laugh at him for it, but something in him would also rather die than cry in front of the older alpha.
"—But so is Bruce, son. And he's doing it while still taking care of Tim and Damian—"
"Don't call me that. Get the fuck out, Clark!" His voice breaks from the volume, his jaw clenched in pure hurt, and he's sure his neighbors will file a noise complaint come tomorrow. He can't be bothered to care—he's not sure if he's going to be here tomorrow.
"—He's refusing my help!"
"Where's my help?" he shouts. He's been broken down, but it didn't require much effort to do so. He was already on the verge of it. "Where's my help?" Sobs wrack through his body, and Dick cries a cry he thought himself incapable of doing, one he thought he had outgrown.
Clark looks devastated, which is odd since he's not the one currently bawling. "Come here, son," he holds open his arms, and, God, if that doesn't look like the best place to be nestled in right now. Second best, actually, Dick innately knows where he truly wants to be right now. He doesn't condemn Clark for the name this time. Instead, he collapses onto Clark's chest, and the alpha holds him like it's the most familiar thing in the world—because it is. Dick's sobs grow in intensity once he realizes how long it's been since he had last been held, especially by him.
He rubs reassuring circles on Dick's back and holds him like he'll never let go, not until Dick wants to. "Come home. You need each other so much more than you think." He knows it's true. He knows he's left his mother suffering in his own fugue state of grievance with a loud shout and an even louder slam of the front door. "Bruce has realized that by now. Have you?"
He has realized it. He's realized it before he even left. The only thing that would make him like himself again is the gentle embrace of his omegan mother, but he couldn't let himself ask that of him. Bruce had, objectively, suffered a loss greater than Dick had, and he's aware of it. What kind of alpha would he be if he interrupted his mother's suffering with his own childish interests of being held, of being babied, of being told, 'It's all going to be okay, Dickie'? In addition to the fact that he couldn't help but blame Bruce for Jason's passing, all he would've done is impede the delicate process of an omega mourning their pup. He couldn't burden his mother with that, no matter how badly Bruce just wanted to have his first pup in his arms.
But maybe, that's all he had to do to make Bruce feel better, as much better as one can feel in such an abject situation. Maybe all Bruce wanted was to hold all his pups, take them to the pack nest where the last remnants of a dead boy lay, and sleep with peace of mind that all his pups were under one roof, under his arms, under his protection.
Dick wants his mom; he really does. He's nearly ready to admit that.
"Can we just," Dick sucks in a breath, still sobbing, "Stay like this? Just for tonight?" Right now, he wants the comfort of someone who is almost as important to him as his mother is. He wants to rest knowing that one of his favorite people, someone practically indestructible, is watching to make sure he stays safe. He wants the naivety and carelessness he had as a child—back when he wasn't sleeping like someone had put a hit on his head. He looks up at Clark, his blue eyes carrying trust. The stance comes easily to both of them. "I'll go back in the morning, promise."
"I know you will." He wipes the tears off Dick's face. Dick leans into the touch.
Clark knew the kid needed his mom; all he had to do was get him to admit it to himself.
"It's been a long, long time since I've memorized your face."
Jason is back. Bruce's second-oldest pup, back from the dead. He doesn't know how, nor why, but all he wants is for Jason to come back to him. He knows Jason is the Red Hood, he knows that Jason is one of the active crime lords in Gotham, but he doesn't care. When Jason unmasked himself during an emotional confrontation, any aversion he had towards Red Hood was thrown out and replaced with memories of his baby's funeral—of the small child he had known years prior. Jason broke his no-kill rule, yes, but he can't force himself to be angry at him, not when he was finally able to see Jason's face all grown up, the face of a man reborn, not of a pup murdered.
They can figure things out. They can work through whatever qualms they might have with each other. They can come to compromises, so many compromises, if Jason would just come home. But he wouldn't.
Bruce is in heat—a pack heat, one where the only remedy is his family—and it's one of the worst ones he's ever had. It was spurred on by Jason's refusal to come home. He can't even look Bruce in the eye with anything less than contempt.
Consequently, it can only be cured by Jason. With every tug at their pack bond, a strained thing on the edge of snapping, the pain worsens. Bruce is delirious, and he's denying any relief from the rest of his children—from even Alfred. He knows that it won't help; he knows that's not what his omega is asking for. It'll just worry them when they see the state he's in.
What he didn't know was that they called in some assistance, figuring Bruce would be too sickly to fight it.
The door to Bruce's nest opens, light flooding the room alongside a scent of someone he's sure he should know. He wants to hiss at the intrusion to both his vision and smell, but a particularly bad cramp makes him curl into himself further. The scent slowly creeps closer, as if they don't want to scare him, as if he's prey, not knowing he's being pursued. He would know if it were one of his pups, he would smell them, and Alfred had already come in not long ago. The bed dips. Someone's in his nest, someone he doesn't know. Instincts make him lash out, striking violently towards the precise area he felt the person come from, despite the pain it brings him.
His hand is caught in something—not enough to bruise. In fact, it's rather gentle, if not firm. His vision gets less blurry the more he tries to focus on the intruder.
"Calm down. It's just me."
Bruce reels back, snatching his hand out of the grip it was being held in. Doing so hurts him, but not in the same way his heat is.
"No, no, this is wrong," he rasps out, "You're married, Clark." Bruce attempts to push him out of the nest to no avail. Curse his inhuman strength.
Clark seems sheepish, but it borders on sly. "We're working through some things right now."
"Things?"
"A couple of things."
"What things could make you get into another omega's nest during his heat?"
"Divorce, namely."
Bruce stares at him. He wants to cuss him out. He wants to shove and shove until Clark relents and lets Bruce push him away. He wants to ask him why he stubbornly stays in his life—why he thinks Bruce is worth that much. Bruce gets to do none of that because a heavy wave of cramps rushes over him. He finds himself falling into Clark's chest, unconsciously seeking out his scent. The same scent he leglessly couldn't make out due to the time spent away from the alpha. A foreign, extraterrestrial scent he once thought he could never forget its novelty.
"It wasn't because of me, was it?" Bruce would never forgive himself if he were to be the cause behind it.
Clark lays them down. Bruce allows him to. His chin rests on Bruce's head, where he's tucked the omega against him. Bruce revels in the vibrations that rumble from Clark's chest with every soft word he speaks. "No, it wasn't. We slowly realized we were a bit over our heads after we had Jon—no hard feelings. Shared custody is the current plan."
Oh, Jon. Sweet, baby Jon. Bruce remembers holding him after his birth. He remembers cooing at the small, little thing in his arms and thinking how he would be great friends with Damian. "…Can he and Dami still have play dates?" he asks, decidedly not looking up to see what he knows is an amused smile on Clark's face.
The alpha chuckles, "Of course they can." Bruce can hear the alleged smile in his voice, silently laughing at him. If he were anyone else, Clark would've been on the floor and incapacitated already. The reason he isn't is not due to his invulnerability—it's something more. Clark laughs at him and isn't met with animosity or sarcasm; Bruce simply lets it go because he knows there isn't any malice behind it. Bruce trusts him.
He forgot just how deep their bond used to run—an unofficial bond, that is. In a perfect world, their bond would've been amended a long time ago, he knows this. They don't live in a perfect world. They live in a reality where some things will always be true, even when Bruce wishes they weren't, even when Clark doesn't believe them. It's not a perfect world, yet it's one where Clark lies with Bruce until his pain lessens, where Clark knows to do his part, then leave so Bruce's children can take over.
Bruce doesn't keep track of how long they stay there, both still, save for their chests moving in unison with each breath they take. In a perfect world, they lie like this every night, safe and loved in each other's arms. In this world, Bruce pretends it's a perfect one. In this world, Clark pretends not to notice the front of his shirt wetting with tears.
"What does this mean?" Bruce croaks.
"It can mean whatever you want it to be." Clark's always so patient with him. Bruce hates him for it. He hates being treated like something Clark believes in.
"I'm with Talia."
"I don't see her here."
Bruce should be furious. It's not as if he and Talia share a mating bond, but that's still his alpha being disrespected right in front of him. He carried her child, a testament to the love they have—had? He should be furious, yet he isn't.
"I want you, Bruce." He says it as if he's repeating something that just won't stick—something that Bruce simply can't seem to get.
"No, you don't." He says it like he's made peace with the fact. He hasn't. He doesn't think he ever will.
"One day, you'll understand."
"One day, you will too."
There's no response. They're silent, now.
Bruce takes deep breaths of Clark's scent in, not knowing when the next time when he'll get to smell it next. His mind tells him there won't be a next time, but his heart aches for just one more. Either way, he chooses to savor this moment until he falls asleep. The pain is completely gone, as if it’s been kissed better by the presence of Clark in his nest, and he finally feels comfortable enough to shut his eyes in peace.
When he wakes up, Clark will be gone. He will have left behind remains of his scent, and Bruce will indulge himself in them until they disappear. His pups will take his place. Bruce will hold them close, knowing they're the only ones on earth with the capacity to love him. He'll hold them tighter each time he remembers Jason.
In the morning, Clark won't be lying next to him, but there's no need to be upset over it. Bruce is with Talia. They will never work.
"I think of you as my brother."
In the main den at Wayne Manor, there are three Wayne pups on the couch. Three males with only one alpha among them. The two youngest use their stand-in leader as a pillow—a behavior not unusual among this species. They bask in comfortable silence, yet appear to use the low volume of the television as a form of white noise. Each of them partakes in separate activities, marking a sense of individualism between the matured pups. Their mother, the pack omega, observes from the entryway, keen on not disturbing them as if it were a nature documentary.
Jason is back to living with his family, and it's taken some adjustment from most parties involved—but not for Tim and Duke. The alpha rests with a book in his hands, unmoving so as not to rouse a sleeping Duke on his shoulder. There's a blanket gingerly placed over the beta that looks like an afterthought. Bruce figures it's Jason's thought, him and his kind soul, albeit usually hidden. Tim rests his socked feet in Jason's lap as he leans against the couch's arm, scrolling through his phone and occasionally kicking Jason when he wants to show him something funny he found.
Bruce and Dick weren't granted this closeness that the younger children have. Many mistakes were made following Jason's return. They ignored each other when they shouldn't have and reached out at inconvenient times. It was all one big awkward mess of three people trying to learn how to be a family again after a tragedy had struck, but it's better now. Sometimes, there are moments when Jason retreats to one of his own places or goes non-contact for a couple of weeks with no update on his well-being, but it's better now.
Tim, on the other hand, had only known Jason as his cool older brother—not much focused on him being an angst-ridden teen—and he thought that his revival was even cooler. It's no question that he adapted the best to a new and tense dynamic between his family members, but it was furthered by Jason humoring him in any regard, similarly to how they acted prior to his death. After a fight, he would curse at Bruce, then claim he was leaving and taking Tim with him. Tim would comply with being thrown over Jason's shoulder, acting like he wasn't fifteen and fully capable of walking. The omega thought it comical, if anything.
In contrast, there was Duke, who had not known Jason before his death. Duke had been cautious at first, not wanting to seem insensitive around the rest of the pack. He's seen the way their eyes glaze over when someone mentions the second Robin, and he's noticed the chill in the room whenever Dick and Bruce's fights lead to Jason as a topic. Once he got to know Jason, though, it was all snark between them. Not in a way that screams hate and hostility, but in a way that's best described as brotherly.
Perhaps that's all Jason needed: a sense of normalcy. All the walking on eggshells that Bruce and Dick do around him only made him feel like an outsider in a family he was born into—a black sheep among his flock. Yet Bruce's caution, when mixed with omegan instincts running wild, often manifested itself in weird ways.
Like now, where he still stands in the entryway to the den, thinking his kids haven't noticed his staring. Bruce has been stuck in a peculiar, undefined state, where he's torn between wanting to coddle Jason and wanting to give him space. It just comes off as funny to everyone else.
Bruce jumps when Jason lets out a soft sigh. Tim snickers. The alpha uses the arm that isn't propping up Duke to motion for his mother to come closer. Tim moves his legs to make room for Bruce, who instantly takes the invitation and sits beside Jason to scent his young. Jason has learned that he must let Bruce preen over him at least once a day, or else the omega becomes severely upset at the distance. When he needs time away from everything, Jason leaves an item of clothing saturated with his new, changed scent; otherwise, he comes back to a Bruce who smells like burnt, too-strong coffee.
Bruce continues his ministrations for a while. Jason doesn't mind until his view of the book in his hands becomes obscured as the fretting increases. He flinches back to get away from Bruce's wrist.
"Talia told me you'd be like this, but I didn't know it'd be this intense," he grumbles.
Bruce abruptly stops. Jason raises an eyebrow at the shift in demeanor. "Talia? When did you speak with her?"
Jason is also visibly confused, "Just about every day for a year. I was with her and the league. Is old age getting to you already—" He cuts himself off when he suddenly realizes. "I never told you, did I?"
"You're not fond of speaking to me, Jay."
"I've spoken to you!"
"You've yelled at me," Bruce counters with a sickeningly sad expression on his face.
Tim kicks Jason, but not to show him something on his phone. Jason winces, but not because of the kick. "Sorry, Ma."
Bruce is pleased enough and goes back to scenting, but there's a hidden motive behind his actions. A sharp possessiveness laced with anger—they can smell it. Duke wakes up, or maybe he's been awake for a while but only decided to make it known when Bruce's scent spoiled. "What'd you do to upset B?" he asks.
"He was being an asshole again," Tim instigates.
"I wasn't!"
Bruce sits contentedly as Duke and Tim team up to provoke Jason. He's just glad they're all under one roof.
"And I would say I love you, but saying it out loud is hard."
"Clark."
One heartbeat stands on a rooftop in Gotham. The air is thick up here, and the cold would seep into Bruce's bones if it weren't for his suit. It smells like rain—like it always does in this deluged city. Tiny specks of what would be people pass him by on the streets below, all unaware of who occupies the skies above. The night is quiet, for once. It's never quiet in Gotham, but it seems she's given him some grace tonight. Still, his whisper is barely audible over the usual sounds of nightlife—cabs honking, men drunkenly making their way back home, women laughing into their phones as they sit on their fire escapes. The howling wind is the loudest sound, though, rushing past him in an eastern direction, causing his cape to cascade dramatically.
But he hears him. He always does.
One heartbeat quickly becomes two. There stands Superman, in all his bright glory, hovering above the ground that is teeming with wet, loose gravel beneath him. Of course, it's beneath him. Everything in this city is. He steps down, the sound his boots make against the rocks growing louder as he gets closer and closer. Closer, until they begin to share the same air with each breath they take. Bruce doesn't stop him. He doesn't even back away.
"I remember meeting Dick here." The alpha reminisces. Years ago, he met the boy on this very same skyscraper. It wasn't so run-down back then as it is now. Bruce thinks that's the reason he wasn't able to recognize it—he hadn't chosen this building on purpose. Perhaps, some part of him, deep down inside, really did, but he's blocked out so many of those parts of himself that he wouldn't know. Nearly two decades, that was. Two decades of them knowing each other so intimately, of laughter, of joy, of love. Bruce has always struggled with love. He's not sure he'll ever get to understand it in his lifetime.
"Talia and I have split up." Clark remains silent. "Jason was with her for a year. She never told me." Bruce loved her, and she did reciprocate that love—he knows this. They had trouble navigating it, though. They always did. She'll visit—Jason and Damian love her, they'll always love her—but what they had between them has been lost to time. "We never had the best communication, after all."
"That's your pup," Clark disputes, "No matter if he's dead or alive, young or grown, you deserved to know." He places a hand just above Bruce's hip, not suggesting or asking for anything, just to simply be there. "I wouldn't have done that to you, Bruce."
Bruce can't deny it—not when it's the unavoidable truth. Clark would never have hidden Jason from him for a year without a word about his return. Clark would've never tried to convince him to sign his youngest to a summer camp's worth of assassin training. Clark doesn't push when he knows Bruce is on a ledge, but he doesn't back down when he knows Bruce is a moment's away from taking his hand. Clark is good. He's unequivocally good. Bruce doesn't understand why he's still chasing after someone who is so entirely contrary to him.
"I know."
Love is such a complex thing. It's sweet and delicate, like the love Bruce shares with his family—the care that runs so deeply throughout their pack bonds. Love is the Eskimo kisses he gave to Dick when putting him to bed, yet it manifests itself in every argument they have. Love is the pride he felt when Jason chose to be good like his brother, and love was woven into the words he said to the boy's coffin as they lowered it into the ground. With each and every bond formed between him and his family, Bruce's love only grows. It grows until it's bursting out of his chest—until he has no conceivable way to express it. It grows with each passing second, an exponential type that will never cease to increase.
Perhaps Bruce finally understood love. In a way, he's always known it, but only of a specific kind. There's a bridge between the two, though. There's a linkage between the familial love he's so adept at and the love that's asked of him to perform in—the love that Clark deserves from him. He sees it now. He's always seen it, but he chose to close his eyes.
Love with Clark is the bouquet he got for Bruce on Mother's Day, which the omega spent months caring for diligently, intent on making it live for as long as possible. Love with Clark was his being there for every one of Dick's graduations, from kindergarten to university, and love with Bruce was his never getting in the way of the special relationship between the two. Love with Clark was the package Bruce found on his doorstep once he returned from Jason's funeral; inside it was a Wonder Woman blanket that Clark had selfishly chosen to keep after being sent away by Bruce. Love was giving back the fading scent to a grieving mother, disregarding his own woe. Love was the carefully handled box that he placed there himself, rather than mailing it.
Love is the good that was passed onto Dick—onto all of his children—not from Bruce, but from Clark.
Despite everything, Clark was there, spreading his inherent goodness into everything Bruce held dear—he's partially the reason Dick grew up to be the man he is today. He stayed throughout every hardship faced from each addition to the family, even when Bruce hadn't expected him to. He stayed, even when Bruce told him not to. Every inch of distance put between them, every door slammed in Clark's face, every life event that delayed the inevitable couldn't delay it for long. This was always meant to happen. It was always meant to be. To love Bruce is to suffer him. Hasn't Clark suffered enough?
There's a second hand. Two warm hands thumb at his hips, burning through layers of Kevlar, and they make him feel as if something's changed. A shift in brain chemistry, an interruption in the inner workings of the cosmos, the stars aligning just perfectly to get them here, the cologne Clark used this morning—something, or maybe nothing at all. It's always been like this. They've always been a taut thread, ready to snap. Bruce kept pulling and pulling until it did. Except, after they cracked and flailed only to end up on two opposing sides of a large berth, they came together again, closer.
Close. They're so close. So close to everything, to each other, to the edge, to an apex of something that was only a matter of time. They were ultimately a matter of time. Bruce thought he could elude it, but they could only get so far as a make-shift family; they couldn't get any farther once the underlying feelings for one another came out. They're so close. Clark's eyes trace every detail on his face, a hunger festering behind them. In this moment, everything changed, yet at the same time, nothing did.
There's a pregnant pause, carrying deep meaning behind it. Both are certain of what happens next.
"It's been a long road to get here," Clark says. He doesn't have to raise his voice above a whisper—not with their proximity. "Imagine all the fun we could've had if we did this ten years ago. Now, we're all old and shriveled."
"I'm in great condition," Bruce also whispers. Such immense comfort stretches between the two, banter that never gets lost in translation. Bruce had forgotten what it felt like to be in the company of one of the only people he trusted so freely, and Clark made himself an exemplary standard for just how deep that trust can run.
"You are," Clark agrees, "I've never known anyone as beautiful as you." Bruce can't hear a single lie in his voice. There are never any. His face flushes—from the weather, obviously. The exposed lower half of his face gets this way in colder temperatures, but he elects to ignore the sting most of the time. Just like he ignores Clark's knowing smile at seeing the omega's face dusted with pink.
"It'll be Dick's dream come true," Bruce ambiguously says.
"I know," Clark claims, so sure. He's so sure of everything, and it often makes Bruce irrationally upset.
"The league will say they saw it coming," Bruce counters. So petulant, like a child making a useless point in an argument they won't win.
"I know." Clark doesn't back down. He's done so enough already.
"Is Lois fine with it?"
"She is, but even if she weren't, do you think that would stop me?"
Bruce doesn't answer. "You don't want me." A phrase he's repeated out loud more times than he can count and echoed back to himself for even more.
"I do." So certain. How could he be so stupidly certain?
Bruce places both hands on the alpha's chest, ready to push away and flee as usual, no matter how fruitless it would be. "What if it doesn't end well? What if all of this build-up only leads to more heartbreak?" He can't handle another loss. It was devastating losing Dick and Jason momentarily, and it hurt him deeper than he thought it would to leave Talia. Losing Clark will kill him—he knows this, and Clark does as well.
"I'd never willingly leave you. I can promise you that."
"But you can't promise that, Clark."
"When have I ever broken a promise?"
"You know this is different. This is bigger—this is commitment."
"Haven't we committed enough?" Clark raises a hand to rest on the side of Bruce's masked face, the other still holding his hip. "Haven't I proved myself to you? Please don't think so lowly of me. I understand what we are—what we always have been—but do you?"
He does. He really, truly does, but that doesn't mean he can't think of it as a foolish, senseless endeavor. He doesn't argue; he just allows himself to lean into the hand holding up its whole world. Clark leans in closer, admiration casting a shadow of mirth across his features.
"If this goes wrong, we'll never be the same."
"It won't."
Closer. Bruce glances at Clark's lips, then his eyes, then his lips again.
"What comes next?"
"Whatever you want to."
Closer. Clark's grip on his hip grows firmer, like he's demonstrating a class act of self-restraint.
"How long have you been waiting for this?"
"Since I first saw you."
Closer. A ghost of a smile passes by Bruce's face as he toys with him.
"Then, I'll let you have it." Because he's been wanting this too. For as long as he's known the man, Bruce has wanted Clark, and there is finally nothing in the way of them getting what they want. No person, no barriers, no hurt. There is just them.
Two heartbeats—one human, one alien—kiss atop one of Gotham’s highest skyscrapers. They start slow but quickly turn it into something more passionate, backed by years of longing. Clark is still careful not to hurt him, but has no qualms about taking what he's been craving. Bruce's grip on the front of Clark's suit slips from the sway of movement, causing him to grasp at it, desperate to get closer. Clark is the same, moving the kiss deeper and deeper until Bruce is pushed back from the force of it. It's not just passion—it's carnal. It's a desire to become one. His hands are wild, not knowing what to touch after spending so long yearning for all of it. One second, they're at the small of Bruce's back, trying to make his fingertips touch around his sculpted waist. The next, they're back at his face, gingerly holding Bruce like he's the most precious thing in the world, a treasure that Clark can't let himself lose again.
The scent of care, love, and lust that has built up over a song and dance of two decades permeates the air around them. An intricate thing it is, love, but now it's something that Bruce can fathom. Two heartbeats, allowing themselves to feel love again. Two heartbeats, willing to try.
The kiss breaks after a long couple of minutes because, unfortunately, Bruce is human and needs to catch his breath, but they don't pull away any farther than they need to. Clark has the gall to also appear breathless, but Bruce supposes the alpha needs to recuperate after a hot and intense make-out session with the man of his dreams just the same.
"Is there a contingency plan for if I get mind-controlled to leave you?" he jokes. It lacks luster when he sounds so dorkily flustered.
"There is," Bruce pants. "It's a very green and pointy plan. You could say it's on my person right now."
Clark's voice doesn't lose any tenderness, "I love you." He purposefully pauses to take in Bruce's face before he continues, "You don't have to say it back, yet."
Bruce takes in his face as well. He takes in his ever-earnest smile, his kind eyes, and his slightly tussled hair from their kiss, and he lets go. He lets go of any inhibitions, any worries or reservations. He lets go because he knows Clark will catch him.
"I think I love you, too."
And Clark laughs. His signature, lively laugh that manages to break the immersion they had, a small world built around themselves for this single moment, where nothing could breach it. He kisses him again, one that's less deep yet filled with just as much emotion as the last.
"I'll take it."
He wants to be good for Clark; he wants it so badly. He wants to be a picture-perfect omega—the one that alphas come home to in the movies—but he knows he'll never live up to the normalcy he wants to have. Then again, Clark has never been normal himself. There's nothing normal about the two of them, but maybe a life of mundanity is possible. Maybe Bruce can be good too, like Clark is, like Dick and Jason are, like the rest of his family. Maybe he can be an omega fit for the world's most impeccable alpha.
It’ll never work, but they might as well try.
"But you are the life I needed all along."
It's been years since Clark and Lois divorced.
It's been a year since Bruce and Talia split up.
It's been six months since Clark and Bruce got together, and they're in a constant battle of who gets to wake up and watch the other sleep first.
Clark usually wins, as he is right now, absolutely winning as he stares at Bruce's calm, sleeping face. Bruce claims that there's an unfair disadvantage against him since the alpha's mere presence can lull him to dreamland at any point of the day if he's tired enough (which is always). He never slept so easily before they began sleeping in the same bed at night. Clark tells him it's a good thing that he's getting the rest he deserves, but Bruce calls it an annoyance that disrupts his day.
There's no annoyance here, as far as Clark can see. Instead, there are the soft lines of Bruce's face, not tense for once, just completely and utterly tranquil. Sometimes, a bad dream will come along, and Clark can tell it's affecting Bruce by the way his brows begin to furrow in his sleep. Simply rubbing the frown lines away with his thumb and releasing comforting pheromones helps the omega calm down.
He would like to lie in bed and stare at his lover's darling, sleeping face for the rest of the day—for the rest of time, please—but he can discern the scent of happy yet groggy pups downstairs, filtering through the smell of breakfast. Such a cruel world it is, making him wake up someone so angelic rather than let them catch up on some much-needed sleep.
"Love," Clark softly calls out. Bruce wakes instantly at the sound. He's always been a light sleeper. "Breakfast?"
Bruce doesn't answer—at least, not with words. His eyes are shut tightly to expel any unwanted light, and his tender, still-drowsy face smothers itself into Clark's bare chest to evade the sun even more. He nods into Clark's chest.
Clark's chuckle feels nice against him, "You're gonna have to detach yourself from me, then, my Bat."
"Hn," he grumbles, but manages to separate himself nevertheless after a few seconds of reveling in Clark's natural warmth. "If you loved me, you would carry me downstairs."
"We both know you don't want that."
He's right, but Bruce doesn't admit it. They leave the comforts of their shared bedroom, dressed to the nines in typical tired parent couture: robes, slippers, and mismatched pajama sets. Bruce was dignified enough to wear the correct sleep pants and shirt before Clark moved in, but now, everything they own is shared. He can't find it in himself to be angry at it, though. If anything, wearing Clark's clothes makes him feel smitten. A more instinctual part of his brain perks up about his omega finally being claimed.
Stepping into the dining room each morning never fails to ensure it's a good one. Long ago, the dining room was seldom used for breakfast, but as their family grew with every passing year, they had no choice but to retire breakfasts spent at the kitchen table. Especially on mornings like these, when it seems like everyone chose to stay at the manor the night prior.
Cass and Jason help Alfred bring in plates from the kitchen, silently competing on who can balance more in a single trip—Cass is winning. Steph and Damian are enlightening Duke on animal facts they learned from the nature documentary they watched last night. Steph lists things that are so entirely false with a know-it-all tone. She has a hard time keeping her face straight as Damian gets progressively irritated while Duke goads him by pretending to believe her.
They're Bruce's family, and his family inherently began with love. The love of his parents was passed down to him in the form of his desire to better his city. They had always been so small, going from three to two on that fated night, yet there was always love from Alfred as he slowly learned how to make their delicate relationship work, even if he wasn't the greatest at it at first. It first grew with Dick, who brought on Clark. Then there was Jason and Tim, and Clark was shunned. He had lost Jason, and, in a way, Dick as well. There was Steph, and Cass, and Damian, and Duke, and his family grew one by one until Bruce thought they could fill a hole in his heart he was unaware of, but the hole was never going to be repaired by them.
He understands it now. That hole wasn't meant for the love of his children to fill, no matter how much he holds for them—and he holds a lot. It was always for Clark. Clark, who added to their small family. Clark, who left when he was expected to, but never stayed too far from the phone in case he was needed. Clark, who brought Dick back to him. Clark, who taught him how to open his heart to someone who isn't family but should be, inherently.
Bruce's family has been through ups and downs, additions and subtractions, but there was always a constant. There was always Clark, and it would be wrong to say that he hasn't changed their lives—Bruce and Dick's especially.
Tim enters the room and sits down, still looking half asleep as he face plants onto the tablecloth.
"Where's Dick?" Bruce asks him. Clark trails closely behind, ready to help with bringing the food in if someone asks.
"Late patrol," Tim's voice is muffled by the fabric, "Both of us."
"Late patrol?" Bruce parrots, tone stern. Tim perks up, looking sheepish and more alert. "Didn't I tell you to come home early last night?" There's snickering elsewhere in the room, likely from the other children, who find their brothers getting in trouble amusing, as they often do.
"We got caught up on that mission I told you about," Tim defends himself, but it sounds more like whining. Dick walks in then, looking equally sluggish as he grabs his coffee mug that's been placed at the table. "Dick, tell Mom we weren't out that late!"
Dick opens his mouth to speak, but instead yawns. Bruce is about to take that as a sign that, yes, they were out late, when there's a sudden crash. Dick stands with his mouth agape and unconcerned that his favorite mug, the one with Bludhaven on it, has shattered into pieces on the floor. Bruce makes his way over in record time, faster than the man in the room with super speed, and instinctively places the back of his hand on his eldest's forehead. "You okay, puppy?"
Dick doesn't respond indignantly to the nickname. He looks even more dazed now that his mother has come closer.
"You're pregnant," he says. It's not a question, it's a statement—one he's completely certain of.
Seven pairs of eyes are now trained on the couple, silently asking for any confirmation. There's no use in hiding, not when Dick is in the room, who has spent years noticing minute scent changes around his mother whenever a new pup was on the way. Bruce sighs contentedly and nods.
A plethora of various reactions are thrown his way in quick succession, nearly none being given a chance to be answered.
"Really?" shrieks Steph, excitedly.
"Really?" questions Tim, incredulously.
"I thought you were too old for that," Jason scoffs.
"Girl or boy?" Cass prods.
"Is it Clark's?" Duke asks.
"Of course, it is, idiot," Damian replies.
A booming voice halts their barrage of questions. "A half-Kryptonian child," begins Alfred. Everyone turns to look at him where he stands at the head of the room. "Will surely be a handful. I expect you all to welcome them with only acceptance and love."
An array of heartfelt agreements is sent his way, all of them affirming that the new pup will only ever be pampered and cherished.
"And that includes mid-air diaper changes, guaranteed they learn of their flight at a young enough age."
Suddenly, the room is quiet as the children take their seats and begin eating, the sound of forks scraping against plates filling the room. Bruce huffs a laugh at the absurdity of his family. He places a hand on his stomach, atop their still-growing life, and casts a glance backwards to Clark, only to find him staring already.
"I love you," Clark says. Fondness etches its way into every wrinkle on his face. Bruce is sure his own looks the same.
There's no hesitation—not this time. There's no reluctance or apprehension; there is just love. There always has been, and there always will be, no matter where they start or end up.
"I love you, too," he replies. It's said with earnest certainty. Just as his love for his children, his love for Clark will never wane. The alpha places a hand over Bruce's, and they interlock on his stomach as Clark presses a gentle kiss against his temple.
Bruce thinks, just maybe, it’ll work after all.
"I'm trying to eat, Clark. Could you get off my mom?"
Dick has always known it would.
"I do love you."