Archive of Our Own

It was a simple task really, making coffee, and yet somehow Clark found himself entranced by the movement of Bruce’s hands as he added beans to the machine. Even the loud grinding noise and the impatient tap of Bruce’s toe on the Watchtower’s metal floor couldn’t pull Clark away from the revelation rocking him to his core.

I’m in love with Bruce, he realized, and while he should have been surprised by this particular admission, given that his past romantic and sexual encounters had been entirely limited to members of the opposite sex, it didn’t phase him in the slightest.

Somehow, after everything they’d been through together, it didn’t feel out of place, or uncalled for. Rather, the quickening of his heart rate was extraordinarily temporary, almost falling back into its regular rhythm as quickly as it had jumped. 

It was as if his mind, body, and soul were finally cognisant of something his heart had known all along.

The banquet hall was packed to the brim with Gotham’s elite, and Clark had possibly never felt more uncomfortable in his life. If anyone had asked him why he felt this way, he might have casually responded that he wasn’t a fan of crowds.

It was partially true, but could be more accurately described as a distaste for crowds surrounding Bruce Wayne . Particularly those consisting of beautiful, wealthy, and flirtatious women.

Bruce, being the charming playboy bastard he was, shook hands with every single one of them, and kept at least two, if not three of them on his arm at all times.

Once upon a time, Clark might have been jealous of Bruce, but that was no longer the case; just of every one who got to touch what he could not.

He left the gala early that night, barely scraping up a half-decent account of what the night had been for, left to work with less than five actual quotations.

He couldn’t help the tears that fell as he landed gently on his balcony.

It had been a Kryptonite bullet, encased in lead.

Genius really, when Clark took a moment to think about it. It was difficult, the searing pain in the centre of his abdomen jumbling his thoughts.

“I couldn’t see it, Bruce,” he choked. “I couldn’t...if it had…”

Batman was above him on the gurney, straddled over his knees with two hands pressed to the wound in his chest, the cowl not quite centre to his face.

Clark stared at Bruce’s hands; warm, firm, wet with blood and salty tears, desperately holding his chest together.

He had glimpsed the red in his eyes, and the dilation of his pupils that wordlessly divulged the fear Bruce was feeling. He reached up and touched his face, pressing his own bloodied hand to the bare skin beneath the cowl.

Batman; usually so stoic, and yet falling apart at the thought of losing his best friend and partner.

Clark coughed, and would have felt extraordinarily guilty for the spatter of blood on Bruce’s face if he hadn’t lost consciousness moments later.

His last thought as his own eyes closed was maybe. 

Maybe he feels it too.

Just. Maybe.

Clark held his breath, the weight of the words he had just spoken now hanging heavy between the two of them.

Bruce’s eyes were wide, undoubtedly contemplating the implications of everything that had just happened. Clark braced himself for the dismissal; the inevitable heartbreak and embarrassment that came with confessing your undying love for someone you weren’t sure loved you back.

What he hadn’t expected was a gentle touch on his arm, tender and precise, sliding down until Bruce’s hand had covered his own. Fingers gently and earnestly entwining with his own and bringing them both up carefully to rest between their chests.

He hadn’t expected the soft, yet somehow ardent press of the other’s lips, slightly chapped but entirely silken in their endeavor, pressing into his own with a genuine desire that bordered on necessity, as if either of them might burst if they waited a moment longer.

Clark had never kissed anyone like that, and felt absolutely certain, in that moment alone, that he’d never kiss another again.

In the cave, he couldn’t see the grease and grime that undoubtedly coated the entire surface of Bruce’s hands, but he could hear the occasional clink of metal and rasp of the ratchet that told him what was happening beneath the hood.

Clark had known Bruce was smart; as the League’s most prominent leader and tactical advisor, that fact was a given. He hadn’t realized the extent to which the man’s knowledge spanned, however, until they moved in together. 

He watched his partner shift fluidly between mentally daunting tasks; somehow running a company, assembling complex weaponry, and performing routine vehicle and computer maintenance easily and without complaint, all in the same day.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he took to the streets in his cape and cowl every single night.

Bruce was as hardworking as he was smart, if not more, and it never ceased to amaze Clark.

He stared down at the ring on his finger. How he had managed to earn the devotion of this incredible man, he’d never truly understand.

They kept it small, as they had mutually decided they would.

Alfred, Clark’s parents, Lois Lane, and the founding members of the JLA gathered with them in the back garden of the manor one sunny afternoon.

They had spent the morning carrying and arranging chairs, hoisting up a simplistic white tent, and arranging the flowers Alfred had so lovingly chosen for them, preparing for the moment they stood in front of those closest to them and recited vows they had written.

I’ve never met a man like you. Your strength, courage, and kindness has and will always move me. I am the best version of myself when I am next to you.

Clark’s own hands were shaking as he watched Bruce’s nimble fingers slide another band on his finger, next to the one he’d been given merely months prior. 

Bruce’s kiss, though a familiar and comforting sensation, now felt different. In front of a dozen cheering heroes, Alfred and the Kents included. 

This time, the kiss was given to him by his husband .

In the steady grasp of Bruce’s hand, Clark’s no longer shook. 

Later, as they danced together under the stars, Bruce intertwined their hands again.

“I meant every word, Clark,” he said, looking tenderly into his eyes.

Clark scoffed playfully.

“Generally, that’s the point of marriage vows.”

Bruce glared at him in a way that might have once intimidated Superman, but now was just endearing.

“Well, I’ll say it anyway. I love you, Clark Kent-Wayne, and I will love you until the end of time .”

Considering the invulnerability of Clark’s skin, it was intensely sensitive to Bruce’s touch.

Especially when his husband deliberately teased him, slowly running his hands over Clark’s muscular pectorals, down his abs and treasure trail, stopping just above his fated throbbing cock.

And when his fingers dug into Clark’s shoulders, gripping so tightly that he would surely leave bruises if that were actually possible. Scratching impenetrable flesh as Bruce begged for him to go just a little bit faster . Just a little bit harder; deeper. 

Fuck, Clark, yes...Clark...

Clark couldn’t help but notice the twist of Bruce’s hands through the fabric of the sheets, pulling desperately every time that he came hot and heavy over their naked bodies, then snaking lazily through Clark’s hair.

It made him tingle, the way that Bruce gently untangled Clark’s sweat-soaked curls as they lay enveloped in the afterglow.

No matter how many times they made love, which was, admittedly, very frequently , Bruce’s touch never felt any less extraordinary.

When Clark walked into the bathroom, Bruce was sitting on the seat of the toilet.

Rarely did he find his husband in such a daze--his ability to concentrate on the most mundane of tasks was a talent of his.

Yet here he was, not only seemingly entranced by the glass of the shower door in front of him, but also trembling like a lost child. 

In his hands was a white stick that Clark didn’t recognize. He found himself kneeling on the floor in front of his husband before Bruce’s eyes came back into focus. As they did, he shakily held the stick out to Clark, revealing to him a revelation even greater than their shared affection.

The tiny plus sign pointed to a love that neither had known they held in their hearts.

One for their unborn child.

Clark smiled broadly as he observed his husband sprawled out on the couch. At more than halfway through his pregnancy, Bruce was showing quite a bit. His baby bump was impossible to miss.

Bruce hated it; watching his muscles slowly fill out and expand to accommodate their growing child, but Clark thought that he was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen in his life. 

He loved the pair of them so much that he felt a physical ache in his chest when he thought about them. How strong their child would be. Intelligent, brave, and fiercely kind. 

The best of his father wrapped up into one tiny being.

He stepped into the room, approaching Bruce and sinking down onto the floor in front of him. Gently, he laid his hands on top of Bruce’s, cupping both them and the bump beneath it.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. He meant it.

Clark was motionless, stuck to the spot by fear and wonder as Leslie called for Bruce to lean forward and extend his arms..

A final weak grunt from his husband brought their baby into the world, straight into Bruce’s waiting hands. 

If he’d had it his way, he’d have done it almost entirely alone, and despite how much Leslie’s presence had reassured Clark, watching Bruce swiftly lift the screaming infant to his bare chest filled him with a sense of certainty that Bruce would have been able to do it.

After what he’d just witnessed, he was more certain than ever that Bruce could do anything .

“Richard,” Bruce breathed, half an hour later, wrapping their now bathed and fed baby in a thick green blanket. They hadn’t ever been officially told the sex, but both of them had known. It had been a feeling from the beginning, and they had been entirely correct.

“Richard,” Clark agreed, staring down at the product of their love. Their son.

More accurately, their miracle.

“Thank you, Bruce,” he murmured. “He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

They had very quickly and very naturally begun calling him Dickie.

Clark couldn’t really pinpoint when it had begun, but it just seemed to fit him. He was a tiny thing, really. When Bruce pressed his hand flat against Dick’s, his little fingers didn’t even come close to reaching the base of his father’s.

This was something Clark often caught Bruce doing, as if he was measuring their son’s growth by the comparison of their hands.

It was endearing.

In fact, almost everything Bruce did with Dickie was endearing. Clark could tell from the very first moment he was born that the normally stoic and borderline grumpy man he had married was completely and irrevocably smitten with the tiny baby he had birthed. 

Bruce interacted with him in ways that Clark never could have anticipated. Singing him lullabies, reading him poetry, even going as far as wearing him in a baby wrap on his chest. He’d carry him around the house, even to the cave, dancing with him when he was upset, feeding him and cooing at him every time he burped. 

Bruce kept Dick in his hands most of the time, and close to his heart always.

A particular moment that brought Clark an overwhelming amount of joy happened in the middle of the day on a Tuesday like any other.

Dick was 8 months old at the time, not quite as small as he once was, but still tiny in Bruce’s strong arms. Clark had tried to get him to sleep for over half an hour, entirely unsuccessfully.

Bruce had encouraged him; getting the baby to sleep had always been difficult for Clark, even though neither of them knew why. Eventually though, Dickie had gotten far too grumpy and sleepy to continue on the way they were, and so Clark had stepped aside for Bruce to give it a go.

He had stayed right outside in the hall, peeking through the crack to watch as Bruce rocked their baby, speaking softly to him as he moved about the room.

“Hey, chum,” he chuckled. “Go to sleep, yeah? I don’t know why you won’t go down for your Papa. He tries so hard and rocks you just like I do. You’re a bit sensitive, don’t you think? A little too particular?”

Clark was practically beaming, despite his frustration.

“Don’t tell him I told you, but I think you get all of that from me. I can be a little crazy too, Dickie, but your Papa is really good at being patient with me. He will be with you too.”

Bruce slowly lowered him into his crib, which meant that Dick was finally fast asleep. He watched Bruce’s hands moving slowly and surely, wrapping their son gently in a soft cotton blanket, then pausing to trace gentle circles on his belly, something that Bruce sometimes did to calm him down.

It was a marvel, the way that Bruce knew how to care for their baby.

Clark was the luckiest man in the world.

Time raced by, it seemed.

Clark blinked, and Dick was four years old, running around the manor laughing and screaming for Bruce to help him get ready for school. 

Bruce was not laughing and screaming. Besides the fact that he was grumpy--Dick had woken them at five-thirty in the morning, too excited to possibly sleep any longer-- Bruce was terrified to send Dick to school.

So was Clark, honestly, but as with most things related to their son, Clark forced himself to be strong so that Bruce could work through his anxiety.

Dick was old enough now, big enough, and more than smart enough. Alfred had complete confidence in his grandson, and Clark wished he could borrow some of it.

Alfred would likely end up driving Dick to school most of the time, but Bruce and Clark had both arranged with work to be able to have the first morning off. Clark strapped Dick into his car seat and they took off.

Dick was so excited he spent the whole ride kicking Bruce’s seat. Somehow, Bruce didn’t lose his patience, and still wasn’t entirely ready to leave him in the care of the kindergarten teacher.

Clark watched Bruce’s hands shake as he redid the zipper on Dick’s backpack, having stopped him to make sure everything was just right. 

If Bruce had to wipe a few tears away from his eyes as they drove away, Clark said nothing. He just reached out and held onto his hand.

A little known fact about Bruce Wayne was that, beyond his vast array of combative and technical skills, he was a talented musician. He had been given lessons as a child; his parents enjoyed attending and dragging him along to the opera, and despite his distaste for it at a young age, Bruce had grown to appreciate fine music.

Most notably, his repertoire included piano and violin, though Clark had seen him dabble in more contemporary instruments as well; a stint on Ollie’s bass, a few chords on Hal’s electric Gibson, and an awkward rendition of Fur Elise on a synthesizer they’d purchased for Dick. Batman had even borrowed Orion’s harp once, just for the chance to play something belonging to the gods.

Clark felt fortunate; often on dreary afternoons (when Alfred and Clark had strictly forbidden him from tinkering in the Batcave), Bruce would sit down at the piano and spend the afternoon running scales and playing through book after book of classical compositions. 

It was one of Clark’s favourite things to see Bruce’s hands do. He moved across the keys like he’d been born playing piano and would die doing the same. His brain processed music easily; he had tried to teach Clark and it had failed miserably.

That was okay, though. Clark was perfectly content to sit in the lounge, Alfred reading in the corner and Dick laying on the floor playing with his toys (or sometimes, practicing cartwheels and handstands, depending on the day and the peppiness of Bruce’s musical choices), listening to Bruce play.

Clark, honestly, hadn’t expected he’d ever see another white stick in Bruce’s hands.

His husband had become so entirely smitten with Dick that he wasn’t sure what would happen if they had another child, and yet here they were. 

Bruce had felt a few of the same symptoms he’d had with Dick, and just knew it was happening again. He also already had a hunch that it would be another boy, and they hadn’t even been to see Leslie yet.

Immediately, Bruce had tried to convince Clark that he didn’t need Leslie at the birth, even though he was only a few weeks along. Remembering how strange and scary the experience had been the first time, despite its wonder, Clark actively refused. 

It frustrated Bruce, but as Clark looked in on his husband in the bathroom, running his hands over the area of his abdomen that would surely expand as the baby grew, he knew what he was fighting for.

Somehow, this time around went even faster than the last, and before he knew it, Clark was sitting on a bed behind Bruce again, watching him pull their second son up to his chest.

Clark had chosen the name this time: Jason. It reminded him of his father's name, and yet wasn't so close that it'd be direct. 

Besides, immediately after he was brought into the world, it became evident that the name somehow...suited him.

He was a chaotic baby, in all the best ways, and they found very quickly that he took to Clark faster than he did to Bruce.

In every way that Dickie had relied on his Dad, Jay relied on his Pa.

That wasn't to say that Jason ignored or didn't need Bruce at all. In fact, they also quickly found that one of his favourite pastimes was sucking on Bruce's knuckle. It was strange; he wouldn't take a pacifier, but any time Bruce's hand came anywhere near his mouth, he'd open wide.

Though it concerned Alfred, his tendency to bite surely indicative of a violent side at the ripe age of three weeks old , Bruce found it endearing and allowed him to do it.

Until his teeth came in. Then, the biting was Clark's invulnerable cross to bear.

Clark found it laughable how much of a fight Dick could put up when it came to going on walks.

Clark was always charged with holding onto his hand anytime they went out in Gotham, especially because, for some reason, Bruce adored pushing a stroller.

“I feel so domestic,” he had said one day, at which Clark had bust a gut and asked where his husband had gone.

They, of course, were bombarded by paparazzi every once in a while, which made Bruce’s hands flex against the handle of the stroller. They’d put their heads down and head into some back street. Luckily Bruce knew Gotham like the back of his hand and always seemed to get them out of trouble.

Eventually they found it was easier just to walk through the grounds instead of in the city, and it became their Sunday tradition. The four of them, Bruce either pushing Jay in the stroller or carrying him in the wrap and Clark holding onto Dick’s hand, would leave at 4:30 each evening. Half an hour took them through the entire trail around the lake and brought them home just in time for supper and Bruce and Clark’s patrols. 

If Clark was lucky, Bruce would spare a hand to hold his own. Those walks were the best walks.

Bruce’s hands were tense on the desk. 

Alternating between balling into fists and flexing his fingers flat, Clark could physically feel the rage and hatred that was radiating off of his husband’s body.

“That goddamn lunatic...what a piece of...Clark, this is one of those moments when I feel like it’d be so damn easy . I could just...grapple up to his office, break the glass, grab him by the collar and throw him out. I just want to...how can I...how could he…”

Clark walked to his husband, resting his own hand on top of Bruce’s. This was one of those moments where Bruce was in between his personas; still wearing the bulk of the suit, but his handsome and semi-scruffy face exposed to the cool air of the cave. 

He was less Batman, and more ‘concerned husband and father’ at the moment.

“You can’t possibly expect to find and lock away every single piece of Kryptonite, Bruce, no matter how much I wish you could. It’s just not realistic.”

Bruce rolled his hand over, exposing his palm and interweaving his fingers with Clark’s.

“I know,” he sighed, heavily. “But now it’s not just you I have to protect, Clark. It’s them too.”

He gestured to the roof of the cave, where Clark knew their six and two year old sons were sleeping soundly a few floors up.

“Yes,” Clark returned. Tears filled his eyes. “But our secret is still a secret for a reason. Hopefully nobody knows that they’re ours. That they’re part Kryptonian. I never...I mean...I’ve made them a target, Bruce, because I'm an alien. How do I cope with that? How do we cope with knowing that we’ll never be able to find it all? As much as I can say it to you, I don’t know how to really accept it myself.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “But I do know we can try to protect them with everything that we are, even if there are assholes like Luthor who come by this shit way too often…”

Clark sighed and squeezed Bruce’s hand.

“You stopped him today. You got the entire store he’d stolen. All we can do is try to do that every time it shows up somewhere, right?”

“Right,” Bruce said. “And Clark, I want to make one thing perfectly clear.”

Another squeeze of their hands.

“If they weren’t Kryptonian, it wouldn’t be right. They wouldn’t be yours, and that’s all I could have asked for. So don’t blame yourself. I wouldn’t change a single thing about them. We’ve both made them a target, but we’re both going to show them how to fight. How to overcome.”

Merely weeks after Bruce had found the Kryptonite, he came down into the cave and threw a plastic bag containing a third white stick in front of Clark.

“Again?” Clark asked, smiling and looking up at his husband. Bruce simply nodded with a slight chuckle.

“I thought I was too old for it, to be honest.”

Clark chuckled at that, standing and enveloping him in a hug.

“We’re not old yet, B,” he said. “We’re only in our mid thirties.” Bruce grumbled into his shoulder.

“That’s old.”

Clark looked back down at the little plus sign, holding it up with a goony grin.

“Apparently no less...capable, if you know what I mean.”

Bruce smacked the test out of Clark’s hand and jokingly covered Clark’s mouth with his hand.

“You and your lame jokes, Clark. I’m going back upstairs.”

Clark watched him leave with a smile on his face. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Bruce turned around.

“It’s another boy, by the way. I feel it.”

Clark smiled fondly from the doorway of the nursery. 

Bruce, despite his very pregnant state, was sitting in the middle of the floor, completely surrounded by blankets, onesies, stuffed animals, books, diapers, supplies, and toys. His hands were moving rapidly; sorting, folding, adjusting, and readjusting...

“You’re nesting,” Clark said, smiling broadly at the way Bruce glared back at him. “It’s sweet.”

He hadn’t done it for the first two pregnancies, but now it was impossible to miss. Every room had been baby proofed, including the cave, and this was the fifth time Bruce returned to the nursery to re-catalogue everything they’d bought for the baby.

“B,” Clark said, placing the final book on the shelf and watching as Bruce tried to get up off of the floor. “Do you need some help?”

Bruce glared again.

“No.”

Clark smiled softly, then stepped over to Bruce and pulled him up by his underarms. Before Bruce could get angry with him, he steered their conversation in a new direction.

“Do you still think it’s a boy?”

Bruce nodded, immediately.

“I don’t think. I know.”

He was right, of course. Before he knew it, Bruce was pushing another baby out and Clark was, once again, completely and utterly speechless.

They’d decided on this name together, and agreed that they’d done a good job as soon as Timothy slipped into Bruce’s hands. 

“Three kids,” Clark said, staring down in awe at the tiniest of their three babies. “Three boys.”

“I know,” Bruce said. He was sweaty and tired, but Clark recognized the same elation he had seen on his husband’s face at the birth of their other sons. “Do you think that’s enough?”

“Yes,” Clark laughed. “No more getting knocked up, Bruce Wayne.”

“No more knocking me up, Clark Kent,” Bruce laughed back. “It takes two to tango.”

Clark pressed a kiss to his forehead and clasped his left hand.

“That’s fair, I suppose. It’s just that...it’s so fun to tango with you.”

They both laughed as Tim squirmed and whined with discomfort.

“Oh I know, baby,” Bruce cooed to him. “I don’t like your Pa’s corny jokes either.”

Alfred had agreed to watch the boys while Clark and Bruce returned to Smallville for the funeral.

The whole thing felt surreal to Clark; just the week before, he and Bruce had taken the boys out to the farm to see their grandparents. Jonathan had been fine, it seemed. Healthy. Happy to meet his newest grandson.

And now, Clark found himself absolutely desperately clutching Bruce’s hand as he watched them lower his father into the ground.

Martha was a wreck, even more so than Clark, to the point where Bruce insisted she come back to the manor with them just to get away for a few days. She could spend time with Dickie, Jay, and Timmy, and let Alfred do the cooking and cleaning.

With some hesitance, she took them up on their offer, and Clark thought that maybe it was just a bit easier to process Jonathan’s heart attack with her around. 

Not easy--Bruce knew better than anyone that the loss of a parent was never easy--but a little less earth-shattering. He felt a little less lonely; without his father, but surrounded by the rest of his wonderful family.

Clark held their 9 month old and watched Bruce zip up the second backpack of the day.

Two kids in school now. It was bad enough when Dickie had gone, but now Jaylad too? And Jay had qualified for early registration, which meant that on top of everything, he was only 3.

Clark wasn’t sure how Bruce was going to cope. He’d likely focus all of his attention on one of two things--baby Tim, or Gotham City.

He was relatively pleased when Bruce opted to divide his attention between the two. Still covered at work by Lucius, Bruce had enough time to spend his days and evenings with his sons and hit the city for patrol after the boys had gone to sleep. 

Even though they still had a baby son, Clark, too, was beginning to feel a little old. Especially now that his own Pa was gone, it was strange to realize how much had changed in his life in the past ten years alone.

He was happy though, in his family with Bruce.

Who knew Superman would be one to enjoy domestic bliss?

This time it was Yiruma’s Kiss the Rain that graced the keys of the manor’s grand piano.

Clark and Bruce were alone with Tim; Alfred had offered to take the older boys down to the theatre to see a movie, which meant that they were free to simply relax with their 11 month old.

Clark was holding Tim on his hip, one arm hooked under him and one holding his right hand. Tim was only making sounds at this point, babbling aimlessly at anyone who was there to listen. Both Clark and Bruce, and Alfred occasionally, would take the time to talk back to him, asking him questions about his day, showing him toys and books, and repeating everyone’s names in the hopes he’d become familiar with them. 

That was the current situation, Clark having a full, one-sided conversation with him while Bruce played on. He rocked him back and forth as he talked about how beautiful his Daddy’s music was, and how Clark hoped that one day Tim might learn to play as well as Bruce. 

Clark was mid sentence when Tim suddenly interrupted him, whining slightly, then pointing a finger at Bruce and saying “Dada.”

Bruce’s hands froze on the keys, as did Clark’s dancing. They both looked at Tim with wide eyes, unsure if they had heard correctly.

Tim whined again.

Clark bounced him a little bit up his hip, then walked him over to Bruce. Tim looked down at the piano, eyes wide with curiosity. Bruce reached up to him, and Tim stuck his arms out, silently telling Clark he wanted to go to his other parent.

When Bruce had him in his arms, he smiled at him and gently grabbed his hands.

“Hi Timmy,” he said. He wanted to look up at Clark, but couldn’t risk potentially missing it again.

“Dada,” Tim cooed, less than ten seconds later, reaching out for Bruce’s face and grabbing lightly at his earlobe. “Dada. Dada.”

Bruce grinned broadly at Clark.

“Yes, Timmy,” he said, shaking his hand. “I’m Dada!”

“Dada!” The baby repeated, then he looked back down at the piano. He reached down and pressed a single key, squealing in delight when it hummed. He erupted into a fit of giggles, leaning into Bruce’s shoulder. 

Clark smiled at them both, and his heart absolutely soared when Tim looked up and cried:

“Papa!”

“Bruce, I’m not so sure about this.”

They were standing in the cave. Clark wasn’t in his Superman outfit, having resigned to take the evening off and watch their younger sons.

While, apparently, Bruce took Dick out on patrol with him.

“I’ve been training him for months , Clark,” Bruce said. His hands were fiddling with the clasps on the back of Dick’s new costume, making sure it was secure. “You know that I wouldn’t take him out there with me if I wasn’t 100% sure that he’s ready.”

“Yeah, Pa,” Dick said, giving his father a thumbs up. “Dad says I’m ready, so I’m ready.”

Clark flashed Bruce a very thoroughly unimpressed look, then sighed and walked over to where they were standing.

He’d already repeatedly inspected the quality of Dick’s costume, and yet found himself frantically poking at his eldest’s chest and shoulders.

Bruce had, to a certain extent, allowed Dick to design his own outfit. That was why it was bright red, green, and yellow, and didn’t have sleeves. Originally, Dick had insisted it have no pants, either, but Clark had vetoed that immediately. The more flesh Dick had exposed to potential harm, the more dangerous the mission became, half-Kryptonian or not.

When Bruce had finished attaching the cape, Clark kneeled in front of Dick.

“Be careful, Dickie,” he said, tenderly rubbing his arms with shaking hands.

“I will, Papa,” Dick said, smiling broadly. Then suddenly, just to prove a point, Dick swiped Clark’s knee out from under him, sending him stumbling sideways and to the floor. “See? I can take out Superman!”

Clark couldn’t help but laugh a little at that, but the smile faded when he turned to Bruce.

“You,” he said, pointing a finger at his chest. “You keep him safe, Bruce. You’ve inspired this interest in him, and the only reason I’m letting this happen at all is that I’m terrified he’ll go out alone if I don’t. But Bruce... I’m telling you now. I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to him, and I might…”

Bruce nodded, swallowing thickly and knowing exactly what Clark meant.

“I’ll protect him, Clark, until he’s truly old enough to protect himself.”

Barely a year of patrols had passed when it happened.

Clark was soaring over Metropolis while Batman and Robin covered their usual beat. Over the noise of the traffic and the wind whipping past him, Clark heard a piercing scream.

His heart pounded violently in his chest as he turned and shot toward the noise, honing in his hearing to pinpoint their exact location.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard two heartbeats, but it was short lived. One of them picked up slightly, turned sporadic, then stopped. Moments later, he could hear a dull thud repeated in even intervals, and the whispering of numbers.

He’s giving him CPR. Dick is getting CPR. He needs CPR. 

He bent his knee, then kicked it back straight, surging forward in the sky with everything that he had. Seconds later, in what was most likely the fastest trip to Gotham he had ever made, Clark touched down on the docks. 

Dick was laying on the ground, and, as he had anticipated, he was unconscious. He dashed to his side, but apparently the final compression Bruce had applied to his chest was the last that he needed.

Dick bolted up, coughing up liquid--Clark couldn’t tell if it was water or vomit--and violently gasping for air. Clark took in his body; there were no apparent bullet wounds or anything--actually, no blood was visible. He saw immediately, however, that Dick was soaked to the bone.

It had been water then.

“It was Black Manta,” Bruce said, avoiding Clark’s gaze and rubbing gentle circles into their son’s back. Clark pressed his hands to Dick’s face, holding him tenderly. “I don’t know what the hell he was doing in Gotham, but we were tracking a load of weaponry...walking down the docks, and-”

“He grabbed my ankle,” Dick spluttered, looking up at Clark and wiping his mouth. “It really...it wasn’t Dad’s fault, Pa. I mean...I should have been paying more attention, maybe, but he popped up from the water and grabbed me before I could react at all. I didn’t even have time to hold my breath.”

Clark looked over to Bruce now, realizing that he, too, was drenched.

“Dad dove in after me. He cracked Manta’s helmet open with a batarang and brought me up.”

Bruce still wasn’t looking at Clark, focused entirely on Dick.

“You put up a good fight, Robin,” he growled, still rubbing his back. “That’s it for tonight. We’re going home and you’re taking a break from patrol for a while.”

“Forever,” Clark said, furrowing his brow. “This...Bru- ... Batman, is far too dangerous. He’s only nine.”

Dick began to protest immediately, clutching at his cape. Bruce hushed him, then finally looked at Clark.

“We will discuss this, privately, in the cave. Right now, getting Robin home is our first priority.”

A week later found Bruce walking up the steps of the Kent household, Alfred in tow. 

He took a deep breath, staring down at his hands for a moment, before raising one and knocking softly on the front door.

It was Martha who answered, but before she had the chance to say a single word, Dick and Jason came rushing through the door and launched themselves at their Dad.

Martha sighed with a small smile, and disappeared for a minute. When she returned, Clark was behind her, Tim on his hip.

Bruce ruffled Dick and Jay’s hair at the same time, then looked up at Clark. “Can we talk?”

Clark nodded and handed their toddler to Martha. She ushered the boys inside, and the two of them took off toward the barn. 

They’d barely gotten through the double doors when Clark reached down and clawed for Bruce’s hand, squeezing it in his grasp and pulling his husband toward him. They embraced tightly, and Clark let out a loud sigh.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he said, softly. “I promised I’d never leave and the first time we disagreed on something I packed up and-”

Bruce cut him off.

“Stop, Clark. You had every right to do what you did. I can’t argue with you that what happened wasn’t my fault. I encouraged him. Made the costume. Taught him how to fight. In all honesty, I thought he’d be relatively safe because… well… he’s your son .”

Clark swallowed thickly as Bruce continued.

“Reality caught up with me that night. He’s got Kryptonian in him, sure; his skin is impenetrable, and he's stronger than any normal person could ever hope to be, but he can’t do everything that you can. He can’t go without food, sleep, and oxygen for prolonged periods of time. He doesn’t fly, and thus far we’ve seen no evidence of your x-ray or heat vision, or your cold breath. In more ways than not, unfortunately, they’re like me.”

Clark shook his head.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Bruce. Every single ability of mine that manifests itself in them, means one more quality they have that society will inevitably fault them for. If I could have chosen, I’d have kept it all from them. Every single power.”

“But this means they can get hurt, Clark,” Bruce said. “And because of that...I mean, I was so blinded by the prospect of sharing this quintessential part of my life with my son that I disregarded so many precautions that I’d normally take five times over! I was careless, and naïve, and it almost cost our son his life.”

“As much as it’d be easier if we could point a finger at just one factor that contributed to that situation, it’s simply not possible, B. You neglected it? They’re my powers! I lived through the ways that they developed in me as I grew up, and thinking back? I had almost all of them when I was the same age as Dick. I wasn’t thinking straight either, sending him out there like that.”

“So it’s going to break his heart, but we have to stop letting Dick go out as Robin,” Bruce said, quietly. Clark pressed a hand to his cheek, and Bruce was surprised to see him shaking his head.

“Not permanently,” he said, sighing. “For the same reason I allowed it in the first place. If you don’t take him out as Robin, he’ll find a way to go out on his own. We’re going to train him again, and this time, I’ll actually contribute. I can work with him on his powers, see what he can and can’t do in a controlled environment. Help him learn his vulnerabilities as a half-Kryptonian, and then how to navigate around them.”

Bruce smiled softly.

“What did we expect, really?” Clark asked, sighing. “I mean....he’s the son of Batman and Superman.”

Bruce laughed and rejoined their hands. Clark squeezed and met his gaze.

“Let’s go home, Bruce.”

“Yes, Clark,” Bruce panted, his legs wrapped firmly around his husband’s waist. “Right there. Faster. I can take it.”

Clark smirked, looping his hand under Bruce’s knee and pulling him higher up on the wall, shifting the angle enough that he could more easily increase his pace, while still repeatedly hitting Bruce’s prostate. 

They were in the cave, having returned from an international mission where they’d been forced to work apart. Their first priority upon arriving home had been, of course, to check in on their sons. It wasn’t often they were away from them for more than a day at a time, so three had felt like an eternity.

Once they had been assured that all of them were safe in their beds, they’d snuck back down to the showers. They hadn’t, however, actually made it to the water.

Instead, Clark had backed Bruce into the wall of the change room and kissed him hard enough that he’d begged to be fucked right then and there.

And Clark, being the gracious, loving, and aroused husband that he was, had obliged.

Despite their discussion and mutual decision, Clark still felt queasy every time he and Bruce escorted Dick back out onto the training mat. 

It wasn’t necessarily that he was worried about his eldest, although that was true as well, but what mainly bothered him was the fact that their ten year old was routinely joined by his younger brothers.

It hadn’t even been an argument between them, really, Clark agreed with Bruce that it was necessary for Jason and Tim to learn combat as well at some point, and all the better if they began to learn before the majority of their limited Kryptonian powers developed. 

Still, walking a preschooler through how to throw punches just felt completely wrong.

Bruce was thrilled, of course, when Jason proved to be a natural combatant. He picked up on their introductory fighting choreography much faster than Dick had, and by the third time he’d graced the mat, he’d managed to flip his older brother over flat onto his back.

They learned relatively quickly that it would be most effective to sick the six year old on Clark, rather than on his siblings, especially when his strength began to manifest itself.

One particular day, likely, to prove a point, Dick specifically requested he fight Jason. He was nimble, for sure, and to his credit maintained the upper hand for the majority of the fight, but Jason eventually managed to throw him flat onto his back.

Clark was working on blocking motions with Tim when Jay reared back, about to send what likely would have been a bone crushing hit to his brother’s face. 

Instead, Clark heard a cracking noise as Jay collided with Bruce’s hand. His husband had beat him to the punch, literally, and at the cost of several of his bones.

“Dickie, take Tim upstairs please,” Clark said, pushing gently on his youngest’s back as he rushed over to Bruce. “Jason, you go too. Go tell Alfie to come down, okay? Quickly, boys.”

“Papa, is Daddy’s hand going to be okay?” Jason’s eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes watering as he looked rapidly between Clark, Bruce, and his own hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt him...I didn’t think…”

“Jaylad, listen to your Papa,” Bruce said, feigning a smile at his son. “I’ll be okay. And don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Jason nodded and took off after Dick. Clark could hear him taking very shaky breaths, and knew they’d have to talk with him.

Once Bruce’s hand was casted.

“Jesus, fuck,” Bruce growled, as soon as their sons were out of earshot. “Christ, that hurt.”

Clark laughed lightly, examining the discolouration and swelling already appearing on his hand.

“I’m sorry, B,” he said, suddenly going solemn. “But you have to admit…”

“Better my hand, than Dickie’s face? Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

Of all the things that could have taken his life, Clark and Bruce hadn’t anticipated it would be a stroke.

“You know,” Bruce said, solemnly, staring down at the rose in his hand. “In a sick way, I’m almost relieved.”

Clark wrapped his arm around Bruce’s, leaning his head against his husband’s shoulder. 

“Because it wasn’t your fault?”

“Because it wasn’t my fault.”

They stood in silence for several minutes, looking down at Alfred’s grave. 

Clark had known the tears were coming; not a single one had been shed since they’d found him four mornings before, and despite the strong front he liked to put up, Bruce wasn’t invincible.

The dam broke, and Clark’s own eyes filled with tears. He hadn’t thought he had any left, and yet they flowed freely as he pulled his sobbing husband to his chest and held him closer than he’d ever done before. 

Clark didn’t know how long they stood there, but still had clouded eyes as he watched Bruce lay the flower over the fresh dirt. 

“Good bye, old friend,” Bruce said quietly, pressing a hand against the stone overhead. “I hope that you know how much I loved you...I...I couldn’t have asked for a better father.”

Clark found Bruce in the attic, of all places, standing in the far corner of the room with a hand on Dick’s first crib.

“It’s been 12 years, Clark,” he said, as soon as he noticed his husband’s presence. “12 years since Dickie was born. Can you believe it?”

Clark shook his head and walked toward him. He laid his hand over Bruce’s and smiled gently.

“And almost 6 since Tim.”

They shared a chaste kiss, smiling softly into each other’s touch.

“Why?” Bruce asked, suddenly, pulling away from a now frowning Clark.

“Why what?”

“Why has it been so long since we’ve had a baby in the manor?”

Clark’s mouth dropped open slightly as he pondered what Bruce could possibly mean by his question. He cocked his head, closing it again.

“I want another,” Bruce said, nodding definitively. Clark’s brain was yelling at him to stop and think his answer through, but his heart and his gut told him to nod too. So he did.

He squeezed Bruce’s hand.

“Why not? I mean...our existing sons turned out pretty wonderful, I don’t see why we couldn’t try for another.”

“Maybe a girl this time,” Bruce smiled, squeezing back. “But do you...do you think we can do it without him?”

Clark looked down and swallowed thickly, thinking back to all of the times Alfred had stepped in to help them with the boys. Explaining to them what had happened was one of the hardest things they’d ever had to do, and he knew that if they did have another child, they’d be missing out on a wonderful role model.

But he also knew, somehow, that Alfred would have wanted this for them.

“We aren’t without him, Bruce,” Clark said, gently. “Alfred has done so much for this family already, his influence lives on through us, and through the boys.”

Bruce teared up, running his hand along the edge of the crib.

“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s try.”

“Leslie…?” Bruce said, his voice cracking slightly. 

The sound somehow managed to break Clark’s heart even further, which, given the news he was almost certain they were about to receive, he hadn’t thought was even possible.

“I hate to say it, but it’s just...it’s not possible anymore, Bruce, most likely due to your age. Even with Timothy, there were incredible risks attached, and that was already 5 years ago. I think that technically it might be possible, but I can’t, in good conscience, recommend that you try for another baby.”

Bruce said nothing. He stared down at his hands as Clark stared down at Bruce’s shoulder. Gently, Bruce began to rub circles into Clark’s back. 

“You’re over forty, Bruce,” Leslie continued softly. “And though you’re generally incredibly healthy, your body has been through too much over the years. Even if, by some miracle it took, chances are another pregnancy just...it wouldn’t be viable.”

Bruce nodded silently, and Clark watched his hands suddenly raise to his face as his husband keeled forward, covering his eyes and sobbing quietly. Leslie pursed her lips, meeting Clark’s gaze with fog in her own eyes. 

“We’re sorry, Leslie. It’s a bit of an emotional realization is all. We were... hopeful , that maybe... given our recent loss...”

Leslie smiled softly and nodded her head. Clark knew that throughout her time as Batman’s secondary medical advisor, she had become well acquainted with his primary one as well. Alfred’s death had been difficult for her too. 

“You can always consider adoption,” she continued, her own voice cracking a little now. “Any child, yours biologically or not, would be extremely fortunate to end up in your care.”

It took six months for Clark and Bruce to qualify, and two months more for them to find a child.

Although, as Clark stared down at the baby laying in Bruce’s arms, his blue eyes shining in bright contrast with his tan skin, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe little Damian had found them instead.

Like he’d somehow known how much they needed him.

Clark finished signing the papers, then gently took the baby from his husband’s arms so that he could do the same. Bruce’s hands were trembling slightly as he grasped the pen, so Clark reached a reassuring hand out to Bruce’s shoulder.

“We’ve got this, Daddy,” he said, smiling at Bruce and then at Damian. “Something tells me that he’s meant to be ours...I can’t explain it, but I just know.”

Bruce cracked a grin back at him and nodded in agreement. With a deep breath, he steadied his hand and signed as well.

The agent who had connected them with Damian’s mother was smiling broadly as she collected the papers.

“He’s yours, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Kent. Take him home, introduce him to your boys.”

Bruce nodded and shook her hand before reaching back for Damian so that Clark could drive. Clark wasn’t so formal. He hugged her, thanking her profusely for all of her assistance in completing their family.

He opened the back door of the SUV for Bruce, then walked around to the other side to help him buckle their new son into the car seat. He noticed that even now, only five minutes after they’d made it official, Bruce’s hands were no longer shaking.

Clark smiled broadly as he watched his husband shift into protective father mode, his movements slow and careful not to accidentally buckle in any of Damian’s clothes, and arranging and rearranging one of Dick’s old blankets on the infant’s lap.

Clark climbed into the driver’s seat, but Bruce, as he had done with all three of their boys on their first trips home from the hospital, insisted he climb into the back with the carrier.

“I’ve got to keep him safe,” Bruce scowled, as Clark looked fondly at him in the rearview mirror. 

“I know, honey,” Clark said, shifting the car into drive. He glanced back once more before pulling away, just in time to watch Bruce gently lay his hand over Damian’s tiny one and smile to himself when their new baby boy held on tight.

Clark had to hold back his laughter as he walked into the kitchen.

Bruce was sitting at the table next to Damian’s high chair, a bowl of soupy oatmeal flipped on its side in front of him. 

Their 6 month old, of course, was sitting up in his high chair, giggling joyfully with oatmeal smeared all over his bib, face, and hands.

Bruce tried to glare at Clark’s smirk, but couldn’t hold onto it, eventually erupting into chuckles himself. He held up his hands, completely covered in chunky, milky, uneaten oatmeal.

“We have the most advanced baby I’ve ever heard of,” Bruce sighed, looking at Clark and shaking his head. “He started babbling much earlier than the other boys, and sat up completely on his own at 5 months when it’s normally, on average, at least 7 or 8. He can already completely roll around, and is even beginning to purposefully grasp things…”

Clark smiled broadly at all of their baby’s talents, but he could sense a “but” in Bruce’s observations as he handed him a towel. Bruce wiped his hands with another shake of his head, then picked up the spoon and turned back to Damian.

“But he still can’t figure out how to eat a fu- I mean... silly bowl of oatmeal! Right, Dami? You won’t just eat nicely for Daddy. You always have to cover me in it!” He switched to cooing gently as he tried to coax the baby to eat. Damian only giggled and swatted at Bruce’s hand again. This time, he reacted quick enough to avoid oatmeal sling-shooting into his face. 

Clark chuckled and lowered himself next to Bruce to take the spoon. Damian watched him do it with beady and mischievous eyes. Clark shook his head at him and dipped the spoon in the bowl. 

“Here comes the Batwing!” He cooed, ignoring Bruce’s snort of derision and making engine noises with his mouth. He smiled smugly when Damian opened wide for the spoon, much to Bruce’s immense chagrin.

“Stick to flying the actual Batwing, B,” Clark laughed. “I’ll handle the one at breakfast.”

Bruce’s hands pressed gently, yet firmly into Clark’s cheeks as tears streamed from his eyes and cascaded over his husband’s fingers.

Two years had passed almost entirely uneventfully. Damian continued to grow quickly, and already at two could speak in basic, but nearly complete sentences. His vocabulary, though still very limited, was already more advanced than Dick, Jay, or Tim’s had been.

And with each day that passed, Clark felt more and more like Damian was taking after Bruce. He was independent, and when he was frustrated, tired, or wanted to be alone and couldn’t, he’d literally brood . There was something endearing and yet incredibly troubling about a small child sitting in isolation, arms crossed over his chest, and frowning grumpily to himself.

Martha had thought it was sweet, and also completely normal at his age. Two year olds apparently quite frequently mimicked their parents’ actions.

Clark had done it to her when he was young, even, toddling after her during her chores.

He’d always relied so heavily on his Mother for everything; dealing with his powers, moving away, becoming Superman, falling in love with Bruce...and especially with the kids.

It was hard for him to imagine what it would be like, continuing to raise Damian without her around. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Bruce reassured him, when Clark had said just as much. They were sitting on the edge of their bed, Clark’s one leg tucked beneath him. Bruce was sitting sideways next to him, still holding his face and looking into his eyes. “I can’t either. It’s just us now.”

Clark wiped at his eyes as the boys suddenly came into their room. Their eldest, fifteen year old Dick, was leading them, Jason and Tim not far behind. Damian was toddling behind them, not really sure what was going on.

One look at Clark’s face and Dick seemed to know what had happened. His eyes welled up with tears, and he turned to Jay. Before he could say anything though, Bruce gestured for them to come to the bed.

They climbed up onto the mattress and, as gently as possible, they explained that their Grandma had left to be with their Grandpa, and with Alfred.

Of course Dickie knew what had happened, and Clark was fairly certain Jay did too. But Tim needed more of an explanation. Damian, despite his advanced intellect, didn’t yet understand the permanence of death, but grieved with his family nonetheless.

They huddled around Clark who had shifted to the centre of the bed, holding him tightly and crying together as they talked about the best moments they’d shared with her.

Eventually Bruce sent the boys back downstairs, telling them to busy themselves with a film or some games while they talked some more. They obliged, but before Dick left, he grabbed onto Clark’s hand and looked up into his eyes.

He was struck, in that moment, by how much their eldest looked like Bruce, and almost sobbed when he spoke.

“Just because Grandma’s gone now, that doesn’t mean you and Dad are alone. If you ever need help with Dami, or anything, Pa...I’m here. We’re all here.”

Clark looked over at his husband, standing in front of the case where his costume normally hung.

It was empty, however, along with the well-worn red and green one that had passed from son to son as they grew older.

Much to Clark’s chagrin, crime fighting had become a family thing.

Each night, Batman would hit the streets with Robin by his side. Then, when Dickie turned 18, moved to Bludhaven for university, and fell in love with a woman named Kory Anders, he adopted the mantle of Nightwing and continued to patrol his own city with his girlfriend at his side. 

Jason took up Robin then, at 14, and kept on with it until he, too, had graduated high school. He went through a phase of rebellion, wanting to step away from Bruce’s shadow and do things his own way as the Red Hood. The violence was brutal at first, and Clark couldn’t help but reminisce that Alfred had been correct in identifying it in their tiny little baby, but it was temporary. The Red Hood stayed in Gotham, and Jay eventually returned to playing by Bruce’s rules.

Tim, of course, also took up the Robin mantle, but he was already almost graduated by the time he started going out on patrol. He kept it up while attending Gotham University, and even when he began a relationship with another student named Connor. When he graduated at age 22, though, he vowed he’d stop all together, which worked for awhile, but he came back eventually, making some modifications to the costume and identifying himself as Red Robin instead.

And by then, fifteen year old Damian was practically itching to don the costume.

Bruce loved working with their adopted son, but Clark noticed that the more they went out, the less energy Bruce had. They were approaching sixty by then, and after four years of working with Damian, Bruce finally decided to retire.

Dick had, initially reluctantly but eventually enthusiastically, replaced his father with his little brother at his side. They were out in the present moment, Bruce’s old suit missing along with all of Dami’s Robin gear.

Clark watched Bruce run a hand through his grey hair, then winced as he caught a glimpse of the reflection of his own hair in the case for his suit.

They were so close in age, and yet, Clark looked and felt much younger.

He’d always been afraid that he would outlive Bruce, and the older they got, the more likely it seemed.

In a sense, he was relieved. It wasn’t like he felt twenty again...he wasn’t quite as strong, as fast, or as invulnerable, and he was slowly beginning to lose his vision. The one thing he hadn’t yet began to lose, however, was his flight, but he figured it’d be next to go. 

Or maybe it never would. It wasn’t like there were any other Kryptonian lives to examine. The effects of his aging were completely unpredictable.

He didn’t care if he lost it all really. In fact, a small part of him even hoped that he would.

It was inevitable that he’d lose Bruce before he died himself, as much as that pained him, but he really hoped, really really hoped that his children would at least outlive him. They were only part Kryptonian, though, so it wasn’t a guarantee. And Damian…

He tried not to think about it, and walked over to Bruce instead, gripping his hand and pulling it to his mouth for a kiss.

Clark had retired from his heroic duties at the same time as Bruce, knowing full well that even if he had the strength to continue, it would be hard for his husband to see everyone else doing what he felt he should still be doing.

He didn’t mind, really. Retirement with Bruce was wonderful. Relaxing. Peaceful.

He only wished it could last forever.

When Bruce made to light the candles on Damian’s 25th birthday cake, Clark and Dick both noticed his trembling hand.

He tried to tuck it into his pocket, shooting Clark an intense glare. He left it alone that night, but dragged Bruce to the hospital the following day.

It was a fairly young neurologist that examined Bruce, running cognitive and neurological tests on him to confirm what both of them already suspected.

“It’s not always clear what causes it,” he had said, knocking on the clipboard in his hands and giving them a solemn look. “Sometimes it's exposure to toxins, sometimes it’s hereditary...and then sometimes, Mr. Wayne, it’s simply because of the patient’s age. As you likely know, there’s no cure, but there are a few treatments we can try to prolong your life by a few years.”

Bruce nodded, and looked over at Clark. Clark’s heart was racing, his brain trying to process what they were being told.

He’d known this day would come, but nothing could have prepared him for the helplessness he felt.

As much as he wanted to respect Bruce’s wishes, he hoped desperately that his husband would accept help from the hospital.

His shoulders sunk with relief when Bruce said:

“Let’s do it, then. Whatever you suggest.”

The medication kept Bruce’s symptoms mostly at bay for a few years, but shortly after Bruce turned 72, Dick and Kory, now married with their first grandchild, Mari, moved back into the manor to help.

Bruce struggled to walk, and though Clark still wasn’t entirely powerless, he himself was beginning to feel a little too old to be completely responsible for Bruce’s well being.

He spent every day with Bruce, though, either sitting at his bedside or helping Dick get him up and about. They’d purchased him a wheelchair that they could use to move him around more easily, and so walks in the garden became their daily routine. They’d stop and sit on Alfred’s memorial bench, and Clark would hold tightly to Bruce’s shaking hand.

Clark could tell that this situation was killing his husband. Not just the disease, but the fact that he could no longer function entirely independently.

That’s why he wasn’t surprised to find him on the floor one day, having fallen after trying to walk to the door on his own. His hands had been too weak to catch him, and he’d hit his head on the way down.

Clark, and even Dick, could no longer provide him the help he needed.

The surveillance he needed.

If Clark had thought Bruce was antsy in their own home, it was nothing compared to how he was at the hospital.

“I won’t be here for that long, anyway,” Bruce said, and Clark tried to convince himself that Bruce just wanted to go home, and hadn’t already decided he was ready to die.

Clark wasn’t ready, but he was certain he’d never be, and Bruce’s condition was only getting worse.

After his fall, the neurologist had suggested they try surgery, but Bruce had refused. Clark had tried to coax him into it, but ultimately felt that he owed it to Bruce to respect his wishes despite how much it would hurt to lose him.

And so, Bruce had been transferred to hospice care, and their lives had suddenly become nothing more than a waiting game.

Clark could only visit him so much each day, but he took advantage of every possible moment. Dick and Kory still lived at the mansion, and so he stayed with them for the most part, but from 1 until 6 every day, he was next to Bruce.

Every morning when he woke up, he feared that that day’s trip would be the last one. Every time the phone rang, he jumped and rushed to answer it, always relieved when it was Tim, or Damian, or Jason, or an old friend of theirs from their days fighting crime calling on them just to check in.

Until one day, it wasn’t. 

It was the hospice, calling at 11 in the morning to tell him that Bruce was asking for his family, and that they’d better come quickly.

Bruce wasn’t shaking anymore, which was incredibly unnerving to Clark. He walked to Bruce’s bedside immediately, crouching down and wrapping his husband’s fragile hand in his own.

Clark watched sadly as Dick came in first. He pressed a gentle kiss to Bruce’s temple and thanked him for his guidance and love. Clark left to leave Dick and Bruce alone for a moment, and Clark was certain Bruce was telling their eldest all of the ways he was so incredibly proud of him. Dick returned crying, and Clark hugged him tight. A nurse escorted him to a nearby waiting room, and it was in that moment that Clark truly realized how close they were to the end.

Jason was next, and flat out asked Clark to come in with him.

“I’m so close to falling apart, Pa,” he said, quietly. “Please be there. I need you.”

And so Clark listened and watched as Jason cried into Bruce’s chest while his Dad told him all of the amazing things he was sure to accomplish in his lifetime. Clark swallowed his own tears, somehow staying strong for his husband and children. 

Tim and Connor went in next, and when they came back out, Tim was crying and holding tightly to Con’s arm. Clark enveloped them in a hug and watched sadly as he went to join Dick and Jason. 

Damian went in last, by himself. Clark stood outside and watched them embrace, a rare display of affection between the two of them. Leslie had been right--Damian was just as much their son as any of the other boys, despite his adoption, and Bruce’s condition hit him just as hard. Damian held his tears the entire time they talked, and only nodded at Clark as he, too, made his way to the waiting room.

When all of their sons had come and gone, Clark went in and sat next to Bruce, rewrapping his hand and trying not to cry.

Bruce smiled gently.

“Clark,” he said, softly. “My love.”

Clark could hear an eerie serenity in his voice. No fear, no worry, and only a hint of sadness. Mostly relief.

“Bruce,” Clark returned, pressing a kiss to the back of Bruce’ wrinkled hand.

“Thank you, for this life,” Bruce whispered. “You’ve given me more than I ever deserved, and I wouldn’t change anything about what we built together.”

Bruce cleared his throat, and Clark’s tears finally spilled over his eyes.

“I wouldn’t either, B,” he said. “But I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“I know you’ll be okay, Clark. I’ve always believed in you, and wherever I end up going, that won’t ever change.”

He pressed his other hand to Clark’s chest.

“Besides, you’re never without me. I will always be with you. Always .”

He sighed softly as he moved his hand to wipe away Clark’s tears and let it fall to the bed.

“I love you, Clark Kent,” he said, smiling and squeezing the other hand. “More than anything, I love you.”

“I love you too, Bruce. Wherever you go...wherever you are...wait for me?” Clark cried, one hand now pressed firmly to Bruce’s cheek and the other still intertwined in his fingers. His tears fell freely then, because he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes; to take them off of his husband’s for even a second of his final moments.

“Of course, Clark,” Bruce said. “Until the end of time.”

Clark is flying again, somehow.

 The clouds around him should be dampening his skin, his hair, his suit...but they don’t. The sun is just slightly above him in the sky, and normally a flight like this would render him speechless; halt him where he’s hovering to urge him to appreciate the beauty around him.

And to a certain extent, he is.

But the most beautiful thing that he sees isn’t the sun or the clouds, or even the planet below him where their kids all, thankfully, still reside, but something in front of him. Someone in front of him, or at least, a part of them.

It looks warm, and inviting. Peaceful, and calm. It looks unlike it’s ever looked before, but it’s unmistakably his. Despite the soft glow it emits, the smoothness of the knuckles and the un-calloused palms, Clark doesn’t need to look any further to know who is reaching out for him, to draw him onward and into the great unknown.

It’s only appropriate, really. He’d spent almost his entire life loving this being fiercely, and with his whole heart. He should be the one to show Clark the way. To welcome him home, wherever that was now.

With one last look at the Earth below and a contented sigh, Clark takes Bruce’s hand.