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With a gradual yawn, Bruce scratched his belly—the grey shirt having been stretched from being worn for too long. It had been a long night, fighting Riddler and trying to solve his riddles until 6 a.m., only to realise Damian had gotten sick from the fridge room Riddler had trapped them in, and tending to him until 8 a.m.
The boy was asleep then, but Bruce couldn’t sleep after. Especially because the reason came dashing into his room, wrapping him in his arms and burying himself in his neck.
Clark said he had blurted out, coming back from visiting an alternate universe and had to come crashing into Bruce’s room to make sure the man was safe.
Bruce had asked him what it was all about, but Clark brushed it off and shifted his focus elsewhere. He lingered instead, eyes tracking Bruce’s movements, the pauses between them, the way his shoulders stayed tense even when he sat.
He steered him toward the bed without rushing, stayed close while Bruce gave in to the pull of it. Clark spoke quietly, about nothing in particular, until Bruce’s eyes finally closed.
He didn’t leave.
Clark stayed where he was, listening. When Bruce stirred, when his breathing went shallow or uneven, Clark lifted him off the floor and eased him back down again. It happened more than once.
Only when Bruce’s breathing settled, deep and unbroken, did Clark finally still.
Now, all awake and dizzy-headed, Bruce made his way toward the main room. It was around 8 p.m.
He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to sleep twelve hours, but he did groan when he woke up. The bed was, for once, too comfortable. Even his aching muscles felt better.
He raised his arms to stretch. In earshot, there was the sound of plates clanking, Dick talking animatedly about the new abandoned facility Wally and he had found in the last mission. Bruce gave a chuckle and steadied himself, entering the main room.
“I thought Alfred forbade talking about our other jobs in the manor grounds?”
The room stilled, all of them — except for Tim — staring at Bruce with wide eyes.
Damian was the first one to speak as he tilted his head to the side. “I wasn’t aware you had woken up, Father.”
Bruce nodded once and sat on one of the couches in the room, the dinner table being prepared by Alfred and Jason, with Clark helping when needed.
“I admit I have slept quite a long time.” Bruce leaned back on the couch, throwing his arm over the backrest. His eyes landed on Clark.
The man was wearing an apron, something Alfred had gifted him because he always made a mess of himself. But he looked distracted. His steps fell just short of his usual pace, his hair frizzled from being messed with too frequently, and his gaze checked on Bruce every minute he got the opportunity.
Bruce gave him a glance before turning back to the others, grabbing a newspaper and commenting, scolding any of them if he thought it suited.
The dining table was packed, almost to the point of excess. Two large turkeys sat in the middle, surrounded by bowls of salad, trays of vegetables, and baskets of freshly baked bread. Fruit filled whatever space was left. It was the kind of meal that made it clear someone had planned for abundance, not restraint.
Bruce had done exactly that. He’d spent weeks finding a day when everyone could be there, refusing to settle for “almost everyone.” Tonight was the result.
Alfred moved around the table, calm and efficient as always, setting down the last dishes. Jason hovered near the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, clearly having helped more than he would ever admit. Alfred gave him a brief look of approval; Jason pretended not to notice.
Dick was already seated, relaxed and smiling, while Stephanie immediately reached for the bread and tore off a piece without hesitation. Duke followed, taking everything in quietly. Cassandra chose a seat where she could see the whole table, attentive but at ease.
Damian inspected the food like it were being tested rather than served, then sat beside Bruce with a measured huff. Clark folded himself into a chair with an easy grin, thanking Alfred and complimenting the meal like he genuinely meant every word.
When they started eating, the room warmed. Conversation picked up, laughter broke out, and even Damian’s sharp comments didn’t dull the mood. Alfred watched them all with quiet pride.
Bruce didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Everyone was here, plates were full, and the house felt alive. For one night, that was enough.
What didn’t feel enough was the way Clark still glanced at him. His body was tense, and he looked like he would jump the moment Bruce dared to get up.
He hated seeing the man he loved so distressed.
With a sigh, Bruce stood. “Thank you, Alfred. Jason. I remembered I have some… reports… to finish.” His gaze landed on the nervous man before he excused himself to his room.
Clark’s eyes stayed on him, unblinking for a long while, because he remembered that not blinking for long periods of time was considered weird.
Quickly moving, he followed after Bruce, and he could hear Dick whisper into Cassandra’s ear:
“I was wondering when B would pull him.”
In the room, the moment Clark entered, he stared at Bruce, who was sitting on the bed, one leg crossed over the other, giving an overall seized-up look toward Clark.
His face looked natural, but Clark knew better. Bruce always calculated, always thought about the alternatives.
“You said we would talk,” Bruce said.
“Yeah.”
At Clark’s words, Bruce patted the bed next to him and leaned on his hand, nodding for Clark to start.
The Super swiftly moved in and sat cross-legged on the bed, fidgeting with his hands for a moment. “So… it’s about what I have seen in this other dimension.”
Bruce was quiet as Clark explained.
“It was me. My face, my body, my everything,” he mumbled. “Do you remember the message my parents sent me before coming to Earth?”
We love you more than heaven, our son. We love you more than land. Our beloved home is soon to be gone forever. But hope vitalises our hearts, and that hope is you, Kal-El. We have searched the universe for a home where you can do the most good and live out Krypton’s truth. That place is Earth.
Bruce had memorised it. “Yeah, I do.” He nodded once.
“Well, in that universe, there was a second half to it. My parents said—my other universe self said that the message had a second half. He said it’s what our parents asked him to do. And—no matter the consequences, he would live out Krypton’s truth.” He stared into Bruce’s expression, weighing it.
It was natural. But the slight movement of Bruce’s shoulders going up indicated that the man was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“But he didn’t help people. You were there, Tim was there. Conner still existed in the universe, even in a world where I don’t affiliate with Luthor. Jonathan was there too, but he—he looked so scared of me. Of my other universe version. I called myself Kal-El. Not Clark. I was never Clark there.”
“And the worst of it all, I couldn’t find my parents’ heartbeats. It was so quiet, and I asked him. I really asked him—”
“He killed them when he was thirteen.” Clark’s breath hitched as he tried to steady his voice.
“We fought, but you—your other universe version—wasn’t helping me defeat him. That Batman only stuck by Tim’s side, and he didn’t have your resilience. Not your hope.”
A world where Batman was subdued into a shell. That was a thought Bruce was terrified of. He cleared his throat.
“I must have had a backup plan.”
Clark stared at him as he shook his head. “He was strong enough to wield a huge crystal of kryptonite to my face, unaffected.”
Bruce nodded and looked away, seemingly calculating something.
On the other side of the snow globe, a snicker escaped his mouth, his hand tracing idle patterns on the sphere.
“A failsafe?” he asked, his gaze turning to stare at the man bound inside the Fortress, eyes defiant.