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I. Introductions
When Clark meets Dick, it’s a whirlwind of energy and limbs moving.
He isn’t exaggerating when he says everyone knows about Dick Grayson. Anything and everything is noticed when it comes to billionaire Bruce Wayne, from his newest flings to the newest sports car he bought, and his new ward is no exception.
Clark dislikes the more social aspect of the news reported on Bruce. It feels shallow to focus on the latest gossip and scandals of Gotham's most famous playboy when Bruce has various charities and organizations to improve the city.
The Wayne Foundation supports a significant number of charities in the city, with funding allocated to social services and schools, as well as initiatives for affordable housing following catastrophes, and projects that support the construction of improved libraries and hospitals.
It’s impressive how the dizzy Brucie Wayne, someone who spilled champagne on Lex Luthor during the last gala Clark attended because he was flirting with a model, has been able to accomplish all of this while running Wayne Enterprises.
Despite this, Clark doesn’t trust Bruce Wayne. Not when he’s seen first hand the evil money can hide behind; the horrors those with money can get away with, and the ways the rich don’t care for those beneath them. Not when he has to deal with Lex Luthor as Superman, powerless to prove anything as Clark Kent, the simple reporter.
These charities, or Mr. Wayne’s public persona itself, can be a deception for something worse — because someone as dense and obtuse as Gotham’s Gazette’s beloved Brucie should not be able to organize and manage all these successful projects without something else going on behind the scenes. Maybe he’s not in charge at all, but rather acting as the public spokesperson to receive all the praise and criticism. Maybe these charities are genuine, but Mr. Wayne is unaware of any sketchy deals made behind his back.
This is something Clark intends to investigate. Lois could handle the more direct questions, as she is more experienced at getting the direct truth from unsuspecting elites, while he uses his powers to overhear anything suspicious.
But Clark hasn’t been able to even get a glance at Bruce’s handsome face, much less approach the circle of people that follow him around the room.
He’s standing underneath the gallery balcony, notepad and pen in one hand, a plate of unappetizing hors d'oeuvres that prioritize appearance over enjoyment in the other. His eyes scan the room, watching as Lois plays a verbal chess game with Janet Drake before moving on to accidentally meeting Vicky Vale's eyes.
He looks away from her glare, twisting his pen between his fingers, and tries to center his hearing on Bruce’s sultry voice. Instead, what he hears is a tense whisper, a quick rush of “You lost him?” and Clark closes his eyes to focus better on the muttered words.
“He is a slippery one, Master Bruce,” replies a British voice, refined and measured in the way that is distinctively Alfred, Bruce’s only butler.
The wood above him creaks, footsteps light as weight shifts. Bruce and Alfred’s voices are not above him; instead, they are across the room, towards the windows that open to more balconies facing the front yard. He opens his eyes at the sound of muffled giggles, tilting his head to figure out whose kid sneaked their way up the stairs on the private sector of the manor.
It is here that Bruce turns, hand going through his hair in a way that screams stressed, and his eyes meet Clark’s briefly before widening when he looks up. Alfred tenses next to him, and Bruce rushes across the room at a speed-walk.
The giggles grow in intensity as Bruce gets closer, and Clark walks away from under the balcony to see what the fuss is about. He looks up and sees a young boy sitting on the rails, feet kicking at the wood panels. His hair is gelled in a way that still emphasizes the soft curls, with a navy blue suit that indicates high status as it fits him perfectly, which only comes from personalized tailoring. Nonetheless, his sneakers suggest he is not meant to be in the ballroom. He smiles like he’s a boy used to mischief, and Clark pities the parent who will need to get him down.
“Dick,” Bruce is closer now. “Do not jump off that rail!”
The boy pouts, only lighting up when people look at him, back flipping into a handstand. Dick Grayson, a child raised in the circus, known for putting on a performance whenever he is seen. But Dick is still Bruce's ward, and the latter has made it clear he does not want Dick anywhere near reporters or the upper class.
Already, Clark can overhear people’s murmurs, ugly words towards a kid whose eyes sparkle with the reflection of a clear sky rarely seen in Gotham’s cloudy environment.
Dick squints his eyes, flickering back and forth from the rails to the chandelier, and Clark puts down his belongings as he can see the child mentally calculating the distance.
Bruce rushes to his side, eyes focused above where the boy balances on one hand. “You’re not gonna make that distance, chum,” Bruce tries to reason, “and the chandeliers won’t hold your weight.”
Dick doesn't respond, flipping back to his feet. He scoots closer to where his eyes focus on their target, and Clark follows the movement in preparation. Bruce's eyes flicker to the doors on the upper floor, and Dick, who is still performing tricks as he calculates the speed needed for the jump. Clark can hear Alfred rushing up the stairs and through the hallways.
But Dick isn’t listening, and Clark knows Bruce recognizes this when his fist clenches.
Living in superspeed means Clark can track things at a slower speed, brain processing events clearly as they occur. This means Clark can hear whispers about circus freaks, untrained children, and pity projects. He can hear Dick muttering in an unfamiliar language, tongue rolling perfectly unlike his clumsy greetings in English, and the shuffle of feet outside the door, the knob creaking as it twists.
Dick shifts his weight, bends his knees, and Bruce’s heart stutters at the sight.
Everything rushes back in, Bruce shouting as Alfred opens the door, foot barely entering the balcony as Dick leaps up and away. His posture is perfect, reflecting his trained background in acrobatics, and Clark can see the determination to fly in the way his toes point out, fingers spread and prepared for someone else to grasp, muscle memory from his time as a Flying Grayson.
But Dick is still a kid, and fails to take into consideration the balcony's height and how it affects the distance to the chandelier.
He falls, eyes wide in panic, right into Clark’s arms. He holds Dick tightly against his chest, feeling his tiny chest rise up and down in stuttering breaths.
“Chum,” Bruce breathes out the word as he kneels on the ground, pulling Dick into his arms. His hand cups the back of Dick’s head, letting the kid burrow his face into his neck, curling around him in the protective hold.
Clark hears sniffles and abruptly stands behind them, fumbling like he’s searching for his items when in reality he’s shielding the two from the vulture eyes of the others around them.
“I’m sorry,” Clark overhears, and decides it's his time to leave the two alone. Bruce stands with Dick in his arms as Clark walks back to his belongings, a tiny hand clutching Bruce’s sleeves as the other lingers around the pulse point on Bruce’s neck, breath matching the older man’s example.
Bruce wipes his hand over Dick’s tears, making gentle shushing noises, understanding in his steel eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. You’re not hurt, right?” He glares at those who linger at the sight of the two, daring anyone to ridicule or approach publicly in his face. Clark avoids his eyes when Bruce spins to face the journalist.
It’s silent for a beat before Bruce clears his throat.
“Thank you.” The words are awkward and stilled, a hint of genuine appreciation in the tone. Clark looks up and sees bright blue eyes peaking at him from where Dick hides his face in Bruce’s neck. Bruce appears soft when looking at Dick, and Clark feels a warm smile on his face at the sight.
“Of course,” Clark smiles as he waves to Dick, who shyly waves back. “It happened all so fast!” He scratches the back of his neck, face heating up when Bruce’s gaze lingers on his arms.
“Is there any way I can repay you?” Bruce is already searching his pockets for his wallet.
Clark shakes his head. “No, no! I didn’t— I didn’t catch him in hopes of a favor or anything!” Clark can’t help but sound affronted at the thought Bruce would assume he’s shallow in such a way, but then he remembers the words of the crowd right before Dick jumped, remembers the invasive photos of the Waynes as Bruce took in Dick, and the cruel judgments and thoughtless words following after the Graysons’ deaths.
Clark taps his pen against his notebook, Bruce observing him with sharp eyes, blunt and piercing in a way that is rarely demonstrated in public. Clark remembers his goal for tonight and awkwardly shuffles on his feet, fighting back a guilty expression.
“Actually, there is one thing.” Bruce’s eyes narrow at his words, jaw ticking, and Clark prays for his career to stay intact after this interaction. “I’m with Daily Planet, and I was hoping for some comments about your future plans with the Wayne Foundation?”
Bruce says nothing, simply rubbing a hand up and down Dick’s back as the young boy regains his breathing, sniffles quieting as he lays his head on Bruce’s shoulder.
The young boy taps on Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce sighs. “I’ll be in touch, Mr…?”
Clark blinks in shock that Bruce is actually agreeing to his interview, before quickly raising his hand to shake. Brue’s grip is firm and strong, intimidating if it were anyone else but Clark’s hand he is shaking.
“Kent. Clark Kent.”
Bruce nods his head, the motion familiar in its simplicity. “Until next time, Mr. Kent.”
He leaves the room with Dick in his arms, Alfred following when he meets the two in the hallway, before the door closes off the public view from the private lives of the Waynes.
Clark stays silent as Lois walks up to him, watching the door in shock. “I got an interview with him,” he mumbles, voice interrupting Lois’s demands to know what occurred. Her indigo eyes widen, and Clark feels dizzy as the words hit him like a blow to the head.
“I have an interview with Bruce Wayne.”
II. Symbol of Hope
Clark is flying in the sky, heading into a discrete alleyway to change back into his work clothes, when the sound of a child crying gets his attention.
The sun is warm, and there’s a refreshing breeze hitting the bright city of Metropolis, and his cape flows around him as he floats amidst the skyscrapers, trying to pinpoint the distress calls of a child trying to find their caregiver.
People gasp as they notice him in the clear sky, bright blue and red, a symbol of reassurance and safety. They call for his name, noticing the lack of a big fight, and there’s the sound of camera shutters. Usually, Clark will smile and wave for them, sometimes flying down for a hug or handshake if he has the time. But he can’t, not with the voice getting more desperate, a cough or sniff interrupting the small voice calling for B.
His brows furrow as he tries to find more information about the area; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s had enemies take advantage of his need to help everyone. But all he hears is the footsteps of a crowd walking around the child, cars honking, and birds flying off. The city breathes and exhales with car doors slamming closed and phones ringing.
No one is helping the kid crying in front of them, too busy rushing off to work or firm in their belief that another person will stop to ask what’s wrong. He sighs, aggravated whenever the bystander effect occurs in front of his face. He likes to believe in the good of everyone, but he has his limits of patience. Batman would call him an idiot for this.
He can hear Batman’s voice in his head already as he heads to the opposite side of the city, gruff and firm as he confirms not everyone is as good as Superman likes to believe. But then his voice would get quiet, like this is a hidden truth the League definitely doesn't know about him as a hero, a philosophy which drives him forward every night in Gotham’s corrupted streets. “Everyone is capable of change. They might not help a lost child today, but tomorrow they might.”
Clark lands in front of an alley, a small nook sandwiched between a local cafe and a pizzeria. It’s dark and dirty, with boxes flung on the floor and the dumpster full of trash and rotting food. But the kid is deep in the shadows, breath quiet and body held still, afraid of drawing attention to his location.
He’s scared, and Clark tries his best to appear non-threatening. He doesn’t understand how Batman makes this task appear easy.
He crouches down in the opening of the passageway, the open sky behind him. He hopes the kid knows about his superhero persona, that the ensemble on his chest symbolizes hope, and the blue and red outfit means peace and safety. He rocks on the heel of his feet, palms open and visible where they rest on his knees.
“Hi,” he greets out with a smile, voice gentle as the kid rubs his fingers on the hem of his shirt. “I’m Superman, and I’m here to help. Are you lost?”
The kid doesn’t respond, but Clark can hear as he shifts closer. There’s another sniffle followed by a familiar face popping out. Clarks has to bite his cheek not to make a face, but he can’t help the way his eyes widen in surprise. Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s ward for about a full year now, looks at him with puffy eyes and a blotchy face.
“I’m looking for Bruce Wayne,” he croaks out. He blinks in realization and continues, voice rushing out. “He’s my guardian. I— he agreed to let me come with him today. For a meeting. We were supposed to get ice cream, but I ran ahead, and now I can’t find him!”
Clark opens his arms and keeps his voice level and reassuring. “That’s ok. I can help you find him.”
Dick shuffles closer, arm rubbing at his runny nose. “You have super hearing, right?”
Clark nods, letting Dick approach him on his own terms. He can imagine how scared he must be to lose his guardian so soon after losing his parents. He lets Dick hold onto his hand, fingers small against his palm.
“I do,” he answers, ears already listening for Bruce throughout the city. His voice is panicked as he calls for Dick, briefly uttering an “Excuse me” before pushing forward. Despite the alarmed calls for his ward, his heartbeat remains steady. It freezes Clark because why does the rhythm remind him of a certain vigilante?
A tug on his hand pulls him back to the kid beside him, azure blue eyes scanning his face, observing the twitch of his brows. “Did you find him?” Dick tugs at his hand again. “B says you can hear everything, so you have to find him.”
Pushing the strange coincidence to the back of his head, Clark squeezes the small fingers, his voice cheerful so the tension on Dick’s shoulders can fall. “Found him! You,” he pokes at Dick’s stomach, the smile on his face feeling more genuine at the ticklish giggles in response, “must be a little rascal, being so far away from Bruce.”
After getting permission, Clark lifts Dick in his arms. He flies at a slow pace, making sure Dick’s head is secure and steady against the wind currents, pointing at buildings to distract him from the heights. Not that this is needed, however, because Dick gladly looks down, pointing out people and sights with delight in his voice, bringing his hand out into a swooping motion as it goes up and down. It reminds Clark a bit of a bird flying, and once again, he can’t be surprised by how endearing this little boy is.
When he lands, he’s immediately kicked by excited feet. Dick squirms in his arms as Bruce rushes their way, his feet barely touching the ground before he’s giving the Flash for his money with how fast he runs into Bruce’s arms. He jumps into the older man’s embrace, who is kneeling on the floor and covering Dick with his body. His hands switch from smoothing his hair down to cupping his face to tugging him back in his arms, words escaping his lips about how worried he was and for Dick to never run off again.
Dick buries his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck and shoulder when he stands, arms tightening their hold. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles, shoulders trembling as he whines. “I’m sorry, I really am.”
Bruce sighs, running his hands over Dick’s hair, an act both for himself and Dick; soothing and reassuring in one. “It’s ok, it’s alright now.”
Dick hums a reassured sound. He looks up, pointing at Clark, who freezes when Bruce sizes him up. “Superman found me,” Dick explains.
Bruce mutters something about getting Dick a child leash when they get home, and Clark has to bite his tongue to refrain from laughing at the glare this produces. Bruce suggests this lightly, but Clark has a feeling Dick’s glare could fold even Batman, whom he’s learned has a soft side for kids.
“Thank you.” Bruce’s eyes are wary, and Clark can’t help but shift on the balls of his feet. He feels like he’s being examined, as if Bruce is the one with X-Ray vision instead of him, and his very character is being judged. Harshly, might he add.
It rings another bell in his head. Another behavior similar to Gotham’s caped crusader, as laughable as the idea is. Then again, no one has yet realized how clever Bruce Wayne is. Maybe it’s a Gotham thing, being paranoid jerks and weird.
Clark nods his head once. “It’s no problem!”
Bruce grunts at him, but is interrupted when Dick tugs at his sleeve. “Can we still get ice cream?” He juts his lip out, eyes glistening, and Clark watches as Bruce caves in.
He’s already turning away from Clark, who is now hovering off the ground as he observes the pair. “I already promised you, didn’t I?” Bruce replies. However, he still has to be a responsible parent. “But no movie tonight. What you did is incredibly reckless…”
Clark tunes him out. He rushes back to the air, already resigning to the fact he’s late for work. Again.
He groans. Ugh, Perry is definitely going to put him with Steve for another sports-related punishment.
III. To love is to change
Clark finds Robin on a rooftop, lying on his back as he stares at the dark sky above. There are no stars to see, with Gotham’s air so polluted their light is a faint outline in the muddy sky. One leg is bent, and the other swings over the ledge, and his hands are crossed over his stomach, squeezing and releasing with tension in his shoulders.
Clark is surprised to learn Robin is someone who holds anger and lets it fester. When he first meets the young sidekick, it is with wild energy that refuses to be still and easy smiles: the first impression of someone cheerful and easy-going. His wide grin and traffic light costume is a complete slap to the face as Batman’s cryptic form shadows him from behind, the opposite contrast bizarre to see that for once, Clark questions the reliability of his vision.
But over time, with rumors and clarification from Batman himself, it became clear Robin was born out of a need to act. Robin has the potential to do good, but also to do harm. Batman felt the need to take him in before he would do something reckless and get himself or someone else killed.
What might have started as something to distract the kid quickly transformed into a genuine partnership between the two. Batman trusts Robin’s judgment during patrols, trusts him to have his back when looking for clues, and trusts Robin to do analytical work with watchful eyes. The two move without talking; a series of hand gestures and grunts from Batman’s end is enough to either cause Robin to smile like his mentor hung the moon or scowl like the man deeply insulted him.
It’s amusing to watch the two work, through video during online meetings or in person during the rare occurrences Robin travels with Batman outside of Gotham.
Everyone always smiles whenever they see Robin training in the background, doing handstands and flips as he absently corrects a JL member on their math, or pestering Batman about when the meeting is over so they can get ice cream like promised.
Batman will huff and deadpan in a way that makes it clear he knew Robin was doing this to be annoying. But with the patience they have only seen Batman possess for kids, he will turn around and calmly remark, “The answer hasn’t changed from the last three minutes since you last asked. Keep this up, and I’ll have Agent A revoke your cookie privileges.”
Robin would stick out his tongue, wave goodbye to the screen, and skip away, Batman's cowl following before turning back to them. But he can’t act emotionless anymore, because they all see the proof of his gentle heart. Gotham's Dark Knight, personification of fear and vengeance in a city that takes and takes; partner and equal with Robin, the light to this darkness, the hope to Batman’s mission of driving change to a city everyone believes is cursed.
The same man who strikes fear into the supers who could rival gods, is a complete softie for kids, and Robin has him wrapped around his little finger and knows it too.
This is the most obvious in person, and Clark has the pleasure of confirming he's seen it happen in real time during his brief visits to the Cave. Robin hangs on Batman’s shoulders, sometimes gripping the tips of the ears, other times gesturing widely as he leans one way and the other, rambling about what he saw today or pestering for how soon they can go on patrol.
There have been a few fights, from what Batman has told him, not that Clark has personally witnessed them.
Batman admits once, when Robin stomped up the stairs right as Clark entered through the tunnel, that he doesn't have a clue what he’s doing. The blue from the screen highlighted the sharpness of his jaw, the shadows carving out the edges, white lens bearing into the empty space where nature meets man-made structures. He always appears untouchable in his turf, confident in his abilities and intelligence; it’s easy to forget how fragile Batman can be.
And Robin makes him the most vulnerable he can possibly be. The boy has so much heart, so much love and anger, Batman can’t help but cower from it. Robin scares him; the words are unspoken. Not the potential of him becoming bad, but of something happening and Batman being unable to prevent it.
It’s a feeling Clark can relate to, in the distant way one develops when they’re close to someone with kids. Forming any type of relationship with Bruce means getting close to Dick; they’re a package deal in a way, guardian and ward, father and son in all but legality.
Dick reminds Clark a lot of Robin, and it’s this similarity that Clark knows Batman’s need for control, his instinct to shelter and not guide, will backfire at some point. Robin will one day need to stretch his wings and fly, and Batman can either be the guiding hand Robin promises to return to, or he can clip Robin’s wings and watch as his partner grows to resent the same hand offering a stifling love.
Batman is silent when Clark expresses this, shoulders tense but not disagreeing. There’s a thoughtful air to him as he turns his back to Clark, and Clark leaves, confident in the knowledge that his words are something Batman will consider.
…
To his surprise and utter delight, a month later he’s in a meeting with Wonder Woman and Batman. They’re both in the Batcave, watching as black gaudlets pause their reach for the famous cowl.
Clark holds his breath when Batman finally slides it back, and he blinks as he processes the face. Clark feels like an idiot as everything slides into place. The false public persona and the similarity of habits and timings. For Rao’s light, Clark even noticed the same heartbeat, but didn’t question it further!
“I thought about your words,” Bruce watches Clark as he processes what he’s seeing. He looks to the ground, breathing in and holding it, as if he’s about to plunge into the deep sea. “I want Dick to have people there for him. People who aren’t me or working for me. I want him to have support, for whatever reason.”
There’s more to the words, more to the weight they carry. Clark can see it in the steel eyes, the dim lighting in the cave shifting the light blue into cloudy grey, and he sees it in the way Bruce taps his finger against his leg in a familiar pattern.
Clark wants to kiss him, to reassure him that this is the right thing to do, both for him and Dick. Diana beats him to any response by walking forward and placing her hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing in a way that has Bruce exhaling, his shoulders relaxing as his defenses instantly lower. Outside of Dick, Diana is the only one who can immediately cause Bruce to lower his walls. Clark is not jealous because he understands: Diana is earnest in everything she does, and Bruce knows she would never lie, not when the Lasso of Truth is her tool during combat.
“I’m glad, my friend,” her eyes twinkle with understanding. “I will honor this show of trust and swear on my life that your son will be in good hands with us.”
Bruce looks between them, eyes looking misty. He blinks the shine away and clears his throat. “Thank you.” The words are heavy in their implications about his own childhood, and it’s their weight that Clark knows Bruce would do anything for Dick.
He loves his boy so much that he is willing to accept change, even when it goes against every instinct of his.
IV. Familiar warmth
When Bruce was younger, he was a mama’s boy, something Martha would brag about whenever she could. He went to her for everything, much to her delight as she teased Thomas about the blatant favoritism over Bruce’s head.
He would cling to her hands during galas, hiding behind her legs as his dad rubbed his hair in a way that caused their company to laugh as he scowled in response. He would climb into her lap even when they had guests over, head buried in a book, but content with her arms around him as she laughed and socialized. He sat with her in the music room, sometimes playing the piano with her, but more often simply leaning onto her arm, humming along with whatever song she had stuck in her head for the week. He searched for her around the manor, a new detective book in his hands, wanting to demonstrate his detection skills with notes marking the margins, a habit he developed from hours of reading with her in the library.
He remembers walking through the long hallways at night, feet cold against the wooden floors, his pillow in his arms as he navigated around the decor with ease despite the darkness of the night. He didn’t get sick often as a kid, but when he did, he always wanted to be with his parents.
The door would creak open as he sneaked further in, clumsily climbing over his parents’ legs. He would whisper to his mom while pushing at his dad’s arms, timing which of them would wake first. It was always Martha, for she was a lighter sleeper than Thomas, who was always exhausted from his shifts at the hospital.
She would place the back of her hand to his forehead, sweaty bangs resting against her palm, and hiss softly at the temperature.
For as much as Bruce went to Martha first, she went to Thomas the same. Waking her husband, she would gently push Bruce to his expert arms. “He feels too warm,” she would whisper, Bruce blinking slowly at his parents as they maneuvered him more comfortably. “I’m going to go get the thermometer.”
Their voices would get muffled as Bruce sagged further into his dad’s arms, body shutting down with the knowledge that they would make everything feel better.
…
He still went to their room, even after their deaths. He knew he would never feel their caring embrace again, the coolness of his mom’s hands, or the rumble of his dad's voice against his ears. Their room remained empty and cold, no matter how desperately he searched for any remaining comfort.
When he became Batman, it was with the knowledge he would never get any semblance of this comfort back. But he could prevent that pain from spreading, prevent more children from becoming orphans, fated to watch the burial of their close ones as crime festered and grew in the city he will forever call home.
The arrival of Dick Grayson changed this, however. Changed everything for Bruce. Having Dick in his life made Bruce want to change, made him look inside and see that inner eight-year-old and ask the question of what he could do to prevent this same fate from happening. He made Bruce reflect on what it means to be a parent, what it means to meet every need of a child, and do more so they know how loved they are.
It is not the first time Bruce wakes to the sound of the door creaking open, yellow light streaming in from the hallway as a small shadow tiptoes closer to the bed. Zitka–the-elephant is tossed onto the bed first, sewn on ears flopping as she lands face first, trunk squished. Bruce watches with half-lidded eyes as Dick climbs onto the bed next, skin unnaturally warm and hair flat.
“B,” Dick croaks out, voice borderline whining. “B, get up! I don’t feel well.” There isn’t enough light in the hallway or from the closed blinds to see how pale he appears, but it’s Dick’s weak voice that wakes Bruce more. He initially assumed this was another night of Dick needing comfort from a nightmare.
The body next to him shifts at Dick’s voice, unconsciously responding to the sound of someone in distress even as the body lags several steps behind. Bruce ignores Clark as he grumbles out an incoherent question, more noise than actual words. Instead, he lifts his hand to Dick’s forehead, the child exhaling softly as he leans into the touch.
Bruce brushes dark hair away from a clammy forehead, reaching down to pull and adjust Dick to the middle of the bed. Dick doesn't feel as if he is having a fever, but he feels warm enough that Bruce wants to check his temperature anyway.
Bruce’s legs are already swinging out of the bed by the time Clark opens his unnatural cyan eyes, blinking at the sight of Bruce pulling the blankets open so Dick can shimmy in between them. There was a faint glow to them, noticeable in the complete darkness of the bedroom.
“Probably just a cold, chum,” Bruce explains as he pulls Zitka to small hands, trying not to coo when Dick adjusts the plushie to lie on his chest. He ruffles Dick’s hair. “I’m going to get the thermometer just in case. Do you want me to get anything else?”
“Some water is probably a good idea,” Clark brings up when Dick simply blinks at Bruce. His hands, smooth from his invulnerability, tuck the blankets closer to Dick. Bruce smiles at the sight of Clark being attentive and caring towards his son, at seeing his care and concern as Dick sniffles, looking miserable as he hugs Zitka closer.
Bruce kisses him, actions always more expressive than his words will ever be. Dick gags at the sight, playful and teasing as he kicks Bruce away. But Bruce isn’t fooled; he sees how Dick plays with Clark’s hands before leaving the room, and the knowledge that not only did he seek Bruce out while feeling ill, but feels comfortable enough to show that vulnerability with the super fills Bruce with fondness.
There’s a subtle smile on his face as he enters the kitchen, heart warm and easy, as it always is around his family. As much as Dick made Bruce want to be better, Clark challenged this desire to fruition.
When he started training to become Batman, it was with the knowledge that he would never experience this type of love again. That he was closing off his heart to warmth and comfort, that the mission would consume him until nothingness. But with Dick, then Clark, Bruce changed. Adjusted.
He became softer.
More trusting.
He became human again.
He has a son, who drives him up the wall as much as he fills Bruce with joy. And a boyfriend, who gives him the extra hope and drive to make a good difference in the world around them. The mission evolved to shape them into it.
He walks back into the room, thermometer in his hand and a glass of water in the other. Dick is leaning into Clark’s side, head on his chest, with Zitka squished between the two. Clark has his hand running up and down Dick’s side soothingly.
Bruce kisses him again in gratitude, brief but soft, before the two adjust a whining Dick into sitting for the thermometer. Bruce lies back in bed with the knowledge that tonight will not be fully restful, not with Dick having a cold and sleeping with them. He already kicks in his sleep, and is practically impossible to separate when sick, the clinginess increasing.
Bruce wouldn’t have it any other way. And based on the warmth in Clark’s eyes as he watches them both, he wouldn’t either.