lurking in the corner

He’s just resting his eyes. That’s all. The living room is warm and quiet, the fireplace humming softly. His book is still open on his chest, and the throw blanket Alfred left on the armrest somehow ended up over his legs.

He wakes up to weight. Small, shifting, warm weight.

Cass is curled up on one side of him, knees tucked into his hip like a cat. Tim has claimed the other end of the couch, feet in Bruce’s lap, earbuds in, head tipped back and mouth slightly open in the kind of deep sleep only caffeine withdrawal can produce.

Jason’s on the floor, back against the couch, sharing popcorn with Duke as they watch some loud, low-quality horror movie. Stephanie is lying facedown on the rug with a bowl of grapes beside her. She’s not eating them, just throwing them at Damian every few minutes. He catches each one without looking up from his book.

Dick walks in with bags from that bakery Bruce likes but never goes to himself, and says, “Hey, Dad.”

Bruce should say something. Tell them to go home. Or at least use coasters.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts slightly, careful not to wake Cass or dislodge Tim’s legs, and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

This isn’t what he thought family would look like.

It’s louder. Messier. Theres's music playing from three different speakers. Someone else smells like gun powder and cinnamon. There’s glitter on the coffee table. There’s a dent in the ceiling no one will admit to causing.

But no one’s yelling. No one’s walking away.

They’re here.

They’re staying.

And Bruce… he’s starting to believe that maybe he doesn’t have to earn this over and over again. Maybe they love him just as he is, not as he was trying to be. Maybe he doesn’t need to be perfect for them to choose him.

There’s a pause in the movie. Jason asks, "You good?”

Bruce looks around at them—all of them, here, safe, alive—and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

Superman followed the direction of Batman’s gaze. A crow had landed on the rooftop beside them, and dropped a bottlecap near Superman’s feet. “Oh! Hey Francis. Is that for me?”

“Caw,” said Francis.

“Do you have a pet crow?” Batman asked.

“No, I don’t have pets,” Superman said as he bent down to retrieve the bottlecap.

“You named it.”

“Not this specific one,” Superman explained. “I just call all the crows Francis.”

“… why.”

“Caw, caw,” said Francis with a flap of its wings.

“I don’t know. Just calling them ‘crow’ felt rude after a while. I’d name them individually but I can’t actually tell them apart. Except for Old Francis and One-Eyed Francis.” Superman tucked the bottlecap into a small pocket on the back of his pants.

“Why Francis?”

Superman shrugged. “It’s gender neutral. I don’t want to misgender them just because they’re birds.”

“Of course you don’t,” Batman sighed, looking back out at Metropolis.

“Caw,” Francis added.

“Do you keep dog treats in your utility belt?” Superman asked.

“Why would I do that.”

“… in case you meet a dog that needs to know he’s a good boy?” Superman suggested. Batman shook his head, but opened a small pouch on his belt and held out a small treat. “See, it was a yes or no question, I don’t know why everything has to be such a production with you,” Superman said as he took it. He tossed it over by the bird’s feet. “Here you are, Francis. Keep up the good work.”

“Caw, caw,” Francis said. When it realized no more treats were forthcoming, it flew away in a flutter of black wings.

“You’re unbelievable,” Batman said, shaking his head again.

Superman took his eyes off the departing crow to look back at Batman, and frowned. “You know,” he said, “it’s really weird seeing you in costume during the day.”

“Don’t start.”

“It’s like seeing your teacher at the mall.”

“Don’t think I won’t take care of Poison Ivy without your help, if I have to.”

Maybe he tries to convince his coworkers that everyone is friendly with crows in Smallville. That the farmers discovered how smart crows are and decided to make friends with them instead of chasing them off.

Maybe he tries to talk the crows into palling around with him as Superman but going their separate ways as Clark Kent.

The city had finally gone quiet, the kind of stillness only Gotham knew, when the streets exhaled after midnight, when even the criminals were too tired to stir.

Bruce padded barefoot into the living room, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He thought the house was empty, the lights dimmed, everyone asleep.

But Clark was standing in the middle of the room.

Still dressed from earlier, dark slacks, open collar, cuffs rolled neatly back. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a small remote.

Soft music drifted through the room.

Old, slow, something warm and sentimental, like it had played once on a record in a childhood memory neither of them could quite place.

Bruce paused in the doorway.

Clark looked up, his smile was gentle. Tired, but fond, he held out a hand.

"Dance with me"

Bruce raised an eyebrow "Now?"

Clark shrugged, stepping closer "You've been running on fumes for four days. The League's stable, Gotham's asleep and I haven't touched you properly in… a long time"

Bruce looked at the offered hand. He could've said no, could've walked away, but the music curled around them like a question waiting to be answered.

So he stepped forward.

Clark's hand fit against his easily, strong, warm, steady. He pulled Bruce gently in, one hand at his back, the other threading through his fingers like he never wanted to let go.

And they swayed.

No words.

Just slow movements, soft breathing. Bruce's forehead brushing Clark's cheek. Clark's thumb grazing the scar at the edge of Bruce's jaw. A shift, a turn, bare feet sliding on wood, gravity forgotten.

The music changed, but neither of them noticed.

Bruce's hand curled into Clark's shirt.

Clark pressed a kiss to Bruce's temple and murmured "you know I've imagined this a thousand times?"

Bruce didn't answer, but the way he leaned in, just a little closer, was enough.

The minutes blurred, time softened.

And in the hush of 2:17 a.m., Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent danced for the first time, no audience, no world saving. No cowl or cape.

Just a tired man being held by someone who loved him like he was fragile, even when he wasn’t.

He only finds out as he's driving down town and sees a giant billboard reading 'Wayne Enterprises. Our CEO is getting plowed by Superman. Can you say the same for yours?'

Like Jason would say with this reverence and sweet little smile to someone, making eye contact across the room to Roy, "Oh, him? That's my boyfriend." Then he would turn to the person he's talking to, smile completely gone and stony eyes. "If anyone hurts him, they will die screaming."

He sees the way Superman hovers a little too close to his father, watches his every move like a predator trying to act civilized. Clark's voice drops whenever he talks to Bruce; low and sweet like it's meant for bedroom walls, not the Watchtower.

"Something's wrong with him" Damian mutters to Tim "He looks at Father like he's a prey"

Tim's already been tracking it "He stares at Bruce's hands all the time. Once I saw him zone out for a full five minutes while Bruce reloaded a batarang"

Cass is the one who confirms it "Obsession" she signs "He watches Bruce's pulse"

Jason doesn't like it one bit "I've seen creeps in Arkham less intense, that boy scout wants to peel Bruce like a fruit and live inside him"

Dick tries to stay neutral until he finds Clark reorganizing Bruce's utility belt "for efficiency" and sniffing his cape when he thinks no one's around.

"Nope. No. I'm done pretending this is normal"

They confront Bruce about it, carefully. Damian flat out suggests a restraining order. Jason offers a kryptonite knife 'just in case'

Bruce, of course, shuts them down "He's not a threat"

"He's undressing you with his x-ray vision every time you walk into a room!" Tim snaps "Are you even aware how many times he's caught you when you didn't need to be caught?"

Bruce stays quiet.

Which is worse.

Now the kids take shifts. Shadowing patrols Clark might crash, blocking him at galas, asking inappropriate, pointed questions with fake innocence.

"Hey, Clark" Jason says, smiling like a threat "You ever think about someone so hard your heat vision goes off? Just wondering."

Clark just smiles right back "Only when Bruce wears that black tactical suit. You know which one I'm talking about!"

Dick grips the table "You did not just say that in front of his children"

Clark doesn't even blink "I'm very honest with family"

The room erupts.

And Bruce? He walks in ten minutes later, perfectly calm, and says "I hope none of you are threatening Clark again"

Because if he's letting Superman stay, there's a reason.

And that scares them more.

Especially his control.

Clark's favorite thing in the world is breaking it. Not with force, obviously never that. But with patience, worship and precision.

He notices everything: the twitch in Bruce's jaw when Clark speaks too low, the way his breathing stutters when Clark stands behind him just a little too close, the involuntary clench of his hands when Clark calls him sir in that rough voice, like he's mocking and offering at the same time.

Bruce never talks about it, never gives it attention. But he also never tells Clark to stop.

And Clark? God, he collects those moments. Quietly, he keeps them like trophies in his head. The sounds Bruce makes when he's pushed too far, the way he growls when he's frustrated but doesn't move away, the look he gives Clark when he thinks no one is watching: hungry, irritated and tempted.

Sometimes, Clark intentionally misbehaves in the field just to get Bruce's voice in his earpiece, snapping commands like a general.

Sometimes, Bruce doesn't even realize he's playing the game.

Dick is pushing himself too hard and blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault? “Hey, Chum, I hurt my leg the other day and am taking a rest day. You should keep me company.” Now, when Dick realizes he’s being unreasonable with himself, he sits on the couch and watches his dad’s favorite tv shows while reevaluating his expectations.

Jason is struggling to contain some big emotions that come out as violence? “Oh man, there sure are a lot of weeds in the garden. Alfred would appreciate some help pulling them out.” You bet your ASS Jason’s front yards/garden boxes are always manicured to perfection.

Tim won’t come out of his room and just sits at his computer all day? “Sorry, kiddo! Wi-fi’s out. The record player in the library still works and Alfred just laid out some of you favorite books and treats in there.” Now Tim reads and listens to classical music to ground himself.

Damian’s having a hard time regulating his emotions and feels like nobody understands or takes him seriously? “Alfred found a kitten in the backyard. Go hang out with it before we take it to the shelter.” Now Damian tells animals his big scary thoughts before working up to courage to tell other people.

also this reddit comment I found when looking for additional panels took me out at the knees:

Like yeah, now Bruce doesn't just risk his hands and function but also his life. But trusting Clark with his life isn't something new. He can see the way Clarks eyes twitch in fear of how close they suddenly are and he can see the red diminish even while Clark shuts them tight. Feeling the heat of Clark's gaze warming his face even through the cowl.

Dick (trying to stop everyone from making a PR mess at the gala): why don't you play something. Like Uhhh... I spy with my little eye something that is blue.

Damian: Okay. The tie of that man over there.

Dick: Yes you got it. Your turn.

Damian: I spy with my little eye something brown.

Dick: The shoes of that woman over there?

Damian: No.

Dick: The food?

Damian: No. Should I reveal it?

Dick: yeah please...

Damian: This crumb in front of you.

~ They play hyperspecific Iswmle for a while, other siblings have joined in until: ~

Tim: I don't spy with my little eye something that is black.

Dick: That's not-

Damian: Drake! What is this nonsense?

Tim: Well I don't see it and you don't see it either and it's black

Jason: The separate car we should have taken here, that would also bring us home right now?

Tim: Correct. I want to go home.

Jason: Well I don't spy with my little eye something that is red

Dick: Your bed?

A nose rub when one of them departs for a long term space mission or undercover work. A little nose rub when they both wake up in the morning next to each other, wrapped in warmth and blissful love, giggling about each other's outrageous bedhair. A rub where they don't even manage to touch each other through their laughter as they reminisce on another stunt Brucie Wayne pulled or another lame excuse Clark Kent had to give for slipping away during work hours.

A sleepy little rub when Bruce wakes up later than Clark and walks into the kitchen to see him helping Alfred plate the table for their family to eat breakfast. A tired rub when Clark enters the batcave with his suit torn and Bruce looks up from the batcomputer after 60 non stop hours of solving cases.

A relieved nuzzle when they find each other everytime, hurt but alive in the aftermath of the battle of the week, pouring devotion through their lips and everything else through that simple touch of the nose.