#magical!reader

You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.

It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.

The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”

That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did. 

He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.

You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”

And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”

Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”

But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance. 

Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.

“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while. 

Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.

Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”

Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”

His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.

“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”

Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”

You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”

And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.

For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.

And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Not every memory was bright.

Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.

Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.

And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.

You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.

You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.

The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.

“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.

It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.

It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.

Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.

You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.

And just like that, the tradition lived again.

Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.

Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.

Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.

Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.

Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.

Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly. 

Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.

The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.

Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.

And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.

You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.

Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.

There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.

Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.

So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.

By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.

Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.

You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.

Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.

Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.

Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.

No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.

And then the comms went off.

First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.

They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.

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They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.

It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.

And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?

The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared. 

The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.

When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.

Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.

The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.

It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.

The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:

“She’s gone.”

Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.

Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”

Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”

“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”

Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”

“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”

They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.

And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing.  It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.

Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.

But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.

But you never left the kids. You never could.

Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.

Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.

And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.

It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.

From then on, he was yours too.

Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed. 

Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could. 

They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.

At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.

But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.

A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.

And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.

You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile. 

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.

Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions. 

“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”

Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”

They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.

So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.

You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.

“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”

You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”

Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business. 

You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids. 

“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”

That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”

“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.

You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.

“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”

Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”

Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”

Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”

That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make more money than Bruce?”

“No one makes more money than Bruce.”

Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”

Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”

“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”

They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.

“Red,” Jason argued immediately.

“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.

“Red shows power,” Damian countered.

You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.

That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.

His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”

Chaos.

“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.

“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.

Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”

Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.

You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”

“But—” Jon started.

“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”

They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.

“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”

They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.

The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”

That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.

Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.

Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”

The silence cracked like glass.

Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”

Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”

Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”

Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.

It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.

Immediately, everyone shut up.

Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”

Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”

Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”

The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”

He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”

He hung up before anyone could stop him.

The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.

Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It had been a week since your overnight with Jackson. A week of answering texts politely, going through the motions of “dating,” and realizing, maybe a little too late, that your heart wasn’t quite ready for someone new. Not when it still ached — quietly, stubbornly — for two people you’d spent years convincing yourself were off limits.

So instead of dinner dates and follow-ups, you found yourself here: in the quiet aisles of Gotham’s largest bookstore, a reusable tote on your arm, Jason shadowing your every move while Damian walked two steps ahead like he was scouting for threats.

Jason had already stacked your bag with enough novels to last him a month — crime thrillers, a battered copy of Les Misérables, and some new releases he pretended not to care about. Damian, more restrained, waited for you to hand him the next volume of a poetry anthology you’d started curating together.

Your phone buzzed.

You pulled it out absentmindedly, smiling when you saw the names. Bruce. Clark.

Clark: We’ve been talking. How about an afternoon picnic in the Watchtower garden dome? We want to spend some time with you. Feels like it’s been a minute! Bruce: Nothing complicated. We’ll provide everything — 4:00 p.m. Clark: Not just a picnic! A special picnic. You’ll love it! Bruce: Ignore him. It’s a picnic — 4 p.m.

Your chest fluttered, though you tamped it down quickly. Of course, they meant family time. What else could it be? Everyone’s schedules had been packed. Jon with school, Damian with training, Dick swamped at Blüdhaven PD, even Conner pulled away more often now that the Titans were expanding.

A picnic sounded nice — a little chance to relax. Maybe even boost morale!

You smiled down at your phone and began typing a quick note to Diana, asking if she’d like to bring her famous Themysciran tea. The League could use a break, too.

Jason leaned over your shoulder, squinting at the screen. “What’s that about?”

“Oh, your dads are planning a picnic up in the Watchtower garden. Isn’t that sweet? They want everyone together.” You tucked the phone away with a smile. “We’ll have to bring something. Alfred’s lemon bars, maybe.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced at Damian. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. Neither said a word.

“Sounds… nice,” Jason drawled after a beat, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Damian gave the faintest sniff of agreement. “Indeed.”

And that was that.

Because if their fathers wanted to try their hand at wooing you, neither Jason nor Damian was about to stand in the way. Bruce Wayne was supposed to be a legendary charmer, after all. Clark Kent could make half the world swoon with a smile. Surely, surely, they could manage to pull this off.

Right?

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The Watchtower’s garden dome had never looked so carefully arranged. Fairy lights looped between steel beams, warm and low, softening the hard angles of alien glass. A linen blanket was spread across the grass near the central tree, a small picnic basket resting on top. It wasn’t extravagant, not by Bruce’s standards, but it was deliberate. Intentional. For once, Gotham’s brooding knight and Metropolis’ golden boy had conspired not about tactics or emergencies — but about romance.

Clark tugged on his collar. He’d actually ironed his shirt for this. “You sure this looks okay?” he asked, voice low, his hand brushing Bruce’s as they adjusted the basket’s placement.

Bruce gave him a sidelong glance, the faintest smirk at Clark Kent, the Superman, nervous as a schoolboy. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Clark huffed, leaning in closer. “Bruce, I’m trying not to float out of my skin here. I haven’t been this nervous since my first interview with Perry.”

Bruce’s smirk softened. He let his fingers linger on Clark’s wrist, steadying him. “Relax. She’s going to like it.”

Clark’s shoulders eased. His gaze softened in turn, words caught between earnest and teasing. “Good thing I’ve got you here, or I’d have strung lights around the whole station.”

“You would’ve shorted the power grid,” Bruce said dryly, but there was fondness in his tone.

Their hands brushed again as they stepped back, surveying their work. For once, both men stood side by side, nervous and hopeful in equal measure.

The sound of the transport doors hissed open.

“Wow.”

You stood at the threshold, framed by the glow of the lights, a plate in your hands. You wore that bright, easy smile that undid both of them in an instant. “You two really outdid yourselves. The garden looks beautiful.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold still. Bruce’s lips parted, something soft breaking through his usually impenetrable mask. Clark’s heart gave an audible thump in his chest, so strong Bruce almost glanced at him.

Then you turned — just slightly — to where someone else had followed behind you. “Doesn’t it look amazing? Everyone’s going to love this.”

“Everyone?” Bruce mouthed silently to Clark, panic flickering across his face.

The doors opened wider.

And in streamed the League. Diana with her thermos of golden tea, Barry carrying three paper bags of snacks, Hal with his usual smirk. The kids followed — Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian, Conner, Jon — and behind them a scattering of Titans and young heroes, each holding a plate or dish.

It was a potluck. A League potluck.

Bruce froze. Clark blinked.

You swept forward like the eye of a storm, moving from Diana to Barry to Victor, greeting each with that effortless warmth that had always been yours. When you reached Bruce and Clark again, it felt natural to slip an arm around each of them, a brief hug, a brush of contact that left them both aching.

For a moment, it was like before — when the three of you had shared affection as easily as breath, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.

You pulled back, oblivious to their dazed stares. “You two really did a wonderful job. I can’t remember the last time we all had something like this.” 

And then your gaze dropped to the blanket.

“Oh,” you laughed lightly, tilting your head. “This is a great idea! But it’s not going to fit everyone, is it?” You crouched briefly, fingertips brushing the edge of the fabric. “For three, maybe…” The words slipped out naturally, effortlessly — and then you blinked, correcting yourself without pause. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it bigger.”

“Yeah,” Clark managed, though his voice cracked.

“Wonderful,” Bruce muttered, jaw tight.

You straightened, gave each of them a warm squeeze — one arm around each, as natural as it had once been — before stepping back. “Really thoughtful of you two. I’ll move some things around to make room for all the food.” You smiled, distracted again by a call from Barry, and swept off to help arrange the food.

The silence that followed lasted exactly three seconds.

“Smooth,” Jason drawled, arms crossed. “Real smooth.”

Dick clapped Bruce on the shoulder as if consoling him. “Next time, maybe try clarifying what kind of picnic you meant.”

Conner smirked. “Honestly? This is hilarious.”

Jon looked between his dad and Bruce, wide-eyed. “Wait—was this supposed to be…?”

But the damage was done.

Bruce and Clark stood there in the glow of fairy lights meant for romance, surrounded instead by half the League, their children, and enough chaos to make Gotham look peaceful.

And you, radiant, happy, completely unaware, were at the center of it all. Dinner was chaos. Beautiful chaos, sure. Diana’s Themysciran tea steaming in cups, Barry raiding every plate in sight, Hal starting arguments just to hear his voice — but chaos nonetheless.

Bruce and Clark tried to endure it, tried to pretend this was what they had wanted. But their eyes kept straying to you: the way your laughter carried, the way you smiled at each person who spoke, the way your hand lingered briefly when you passed a plate across the table.

Clark leaned closer as you set down a plate of lemon bars, his voice pitched low and warm. “You know, I was hoping to tell you something tonight.”

You tilted your head, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Oh? That sounds ominous. Should I be bracing myself for one of your pep talks?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Not a pep talk. Just—”

Barry zipped past before he could finish, swiping two bars mid-sentence. “These are the best, seriously, marry me.”

The table erupted in laughter. Clark’s jaw tightened, but you laughed too, nudging his shoulder lightly. “See? At least someone appreciates my baking.”

Clark’s gaze lingered, softer now. “I do, I always have. More than you know.”

Jason clapped him on the back after someone had grabbed your attention. “Ouch. Beaten by the Flash. That’s rough, Big Blue.”

Bruce tried later, catching you as you poured tea. His hand brushed against yours on the teapot, the contact lingering, deliberate. His voice was low, steady — more statement than compliment. “You’ve been smiling all night.”

You blinked at him, caught between surprise and amusement. “Is that … your way of saying I should stop?”

His gaze held steady, sharp but softer than most ever saw. “No. I’m saying it’s rare. And I don’t want it to stop.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it. You looked away quickly, pouring the tea into his cup to busy your hands. “Careful, Bruce. Keep that up and people might start calling you charming.”

For the briefest second, the corner of his mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close enough that you caught it before Jon barreled in with a drawing he’d made during the meal. “Look! I drew us all together!”

You immediately knelt down, expression lighting up as you praised the picture. Bruce stepped back, the intimacy broken, but his eyes lingered, watching the way your hand rested on Jon’s shoulder, the way warmth radiated from you so easily.

From across the table, Conner smirked knowingly, lifting two fingers in the air while mouthing the phrase, “Strike two.”

Later still, as the sun slipped lower over the curve of Earth through the dome’s glass, Clark tried again. His hand hovered at the edge of the table, close enough that his knuckles brushed yours. His voice was quiet but steady, carrying more weight than usual.

“You know,” he murmured, “the stars look clearer from here. But somehow, you always outshine them.”

You blinked, warmth flooding your chest. “…That’s — Clark, that’s—”

He gave a sheepish smile, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Not a line. Just the truth.”

Your breath caught. For a heartbeat, the table’s noise faded, leaving only him and the way his fingers grazed yours.

Still staring at you, Clark lowers his voice, “Why don’t we step outside for a minute? The stars look beautiful tonight.”

You blinked, meeting his gaze. Something in his voice made your chest tighten. “I’d like that,” you said softly, already rising to join him.

But before Clark could offer his hand, Diana swept in, looping her arm through yours with radiant ease. “Excellent idea. Walk with me. There’s a new constellation I must show you.”

Your face brightened. “Perfect. I’ve been meaning to brush up on my astronomy anyway.”

Together, the two women walked away talking, but before they passed through the doors, Diana turned back and winked at both of them. 

Clark froze, words dying in his throat. He looked helplessly at Bruce, who merely pinched the bridge of his nose.

From their seats, the kids were merciless.

“Wow, Dad. Smooth.” Jon’s stage whisper carried across the table.

“Pathetic,” Damian muttered, stabbing his fork into his salad.

“Ten out of ten, would watch again,” Jason grinned, practically gleeful.

Both men took the teasing from their kids because, as you disappeared with Diana, your hand slipped briefly from Clark’s arm, brushing against his fingers. A silent thank you, perhaps. A promise that you hadn’t missed the invitation entirely.

It wasn’t everything. Lord knows both men wanted tonight to go wildly different. But it was something.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Back in the Batcave, the air was thick with unspoken tension. The glow from the computers bathed Clark and Bruce in pale light, neither looking directly at the other.

Jason, leaning against the railing with arms crossed, broke the silence first. “That was painful to watch. Like, physically painful. Secondhand embarrassment levels.”

Conner smirked. “I thought it was kind of funny. If you like trainwrecks.”

Tim pushed his glasses up, deadpan. “You two realize that was supposed to be a date, right? Not a League mixer?”

Clark ran a hand through his hair, already exasperated. “It wasn’t supposed to go like that. We had everything planned, the lights, the food—”

Jason cut him off. “Yeah, and then she turned it into a potluck. Because you didn’t actually say it was a date.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We’ll adjust. One failed attempt doesn’t mean it’s over.”

“Failed attempt?” Damian arched a brow. “Father, you didn’t just fail. You were humiliated. Thoroughly.”

Clark shot him a wounded look. “Ouch.”

“Come on, you guys, let us help you! We spend the most time with her anyway, so we would know exactly what she would like for a romantic date! It could be like family bonding!” Dick interjects, ending with a bright smile at both League Founders. 

But Bruce only straightened, his voice firm, resolute. “We don’t need interference. We’ll handle it.”

Jason groaned. “You keep saying that, but your version of ‘handling it’ is scowling in corners and watching her laugh at someone else’s jokes.”

“I don’t scowl,” Bruce muttered.

Every single child answered at once: “Yes, you do.”

Clark laughed despite himself, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. “Look, we can fix this. Next time, we’ll make it clear. Just the three of us. No confusion.”

Bruce gave a curt nod, conviction like armor. “Exactly.”

The kids exchanged glances, unconvinced. But they knew arguing now would only get them stonewalled.

So when Clark and Bruce finally ascended the cave steps to retire for the night, the kids were left in silence among the glowing monitors.

Jason was the first to speak, grinning like a devil. “They’re hopeless.”

Tim sighed. “Which means it’s up to us.”

Cass only nodded, calm and confident, as if she’d already expected this outcome.

Damian folded his arms, scowling. “Very well. If we are to endure their… incompetence, then we must take action.”

Jon piped up, hopeful. “Like… make it romantic? Movies and flowers and stuff?”

“Exactly,” Conner smirked. “We’ll run interference. If Dad and Bruce can’t get their act together, we’ll make sure she knows how much they care.”

Jason leaned back in the chair, eyes glittering with mischief and a slight smirk on his lips. “Operation: Get Our Parental Figures Together. I call shotgun.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The Batcave was finally quiet, the hum of computers left behind as Bruce and Clark ascended into the Manor. They shed the weight of their suits piece by piece—boots at the door, belts on the dresser—before falling into the rhythm of their shared evening.

Clark leaned against the bathroom counter, toothbrush in hand, watching Bruce wash his face with clinical precision. “So,” he said around a mouthful of toothpaste, “that went about as well as any outerspace mission.”

Bruce grunted, toweling off. “It wasn’t a total failure.”

Clark shot him a look in the mirror. “You mean aside from the part where she thought our romantic picnic was a League potluck?”

“Details,” Bruce muttered, but the line of his mouth betrayed a flicker of amusement. He set the towel aside, finally meeting Clark’s eyes. “We rushed it. Next time… we should try individually. You take her out, I take her out. Then we try again together.”

Clark froze mid-brush, foam threatening to drip from his grin. He spat, rinsed, and turned toward Bruce with wide-eyed delight. “That’s—that’s brilliant. Why do people call you emotionally stunted? You’re thoughtful all the time!”

Bruce raised a brow, clearly thrown by the sincerity. “Don’t get carried away.”

But Clark only beamed, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his temple. “Too late.”

Later, in bed, Gotham’s night sky filtered through the window. Clark stretched onto his back, hands folded under his head. “I think I know what I want to do — farmer’s market in Metropolis, then my rooftop garden. I’ll end it at Mel’s Diner—you know, the one with the cherry pie? She’ll love it.”

Bruce turned on his side, watching him with a faint, indulgent smirk. “Not bad.”

Clark’s grin softened, more vulnerable now. “And this time, I’ll even send her a voice memo. No way she can mistake me asking her to the market, my garden, and a pie at the diner for anything but a date.”

“Smart,” Bruce murmured, caressing his arm absent-mindedly in quiet approval. Clark enjoyed these private moments between the two of them when Bruce felt comfortable enough to show his affection freely. He meant what he said earlier. He knew how people felt about Batman and, therefore, Bruce. Clark was never confused; he just knew in his heart that Bruce was just good and was meant to be his. The same way he felt about you. 

Clark exhaled, hope bright in his chest. “This is going to work. I can feel it.”

— 

Clark stood at the edge of the bustling market, pretending to study a row of ripe peaches while his pulse drummed louder than the chatter around him. He’d chosen his outfit with more care than he wanted to admit—light fabrics in the warm Metropolis air, casual enough to look effortless but snug enough across his chest and arms to remind anyone, especially you, that he wasn’t just the bumbling reporter or the Boy Scout in blue. Vain, maybe. Desperate, definitely. He couldn’t bear the thought of letting this chance slip through his fingers again.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. You. 

Close by, the message read.

He exhaled, shoulders loosening as a smile tugged at his mouth. He’d offered to pick you up, of course, but you waved it off with practical logic—Clark lived closer to the market, after all, and there was no sense in adding extra miles. Still, the thought of you walking toward him now made his stomach flutter like he was back in high school.

He lifted his head, scanning the crowd, eager for the first glimpse. His smile faltered a bit when a familiar figure came barreling toward him.

“Dad!”

Jon. His son. Clark’s entire body froze for half a beat, lips parting in a silent oh. He loved his boy more than life itself, but…Jon was not who he’d been bracing his heart to see.

And then — just a few steps behind — he saw you.

You walked at an unhurried pace, sunlight catching on the soft, flowy fabric of her summer dress. It swayed gently around your knees in the breeze, framing you like something too ethereal to belong in a place as ordinary as a farmer’s market. Clark’s throat went dry. Stunning didn’t cover it. You looked like an angel. He wanted to ruin you. 

Jon was already hugging him, all bright energy, but Clark barely registered it—his mind reeled back to the voice memo he’d left, desperately replaying the words for where it all might’ve gone wrong.

“So…I was thinking. This weekend, just us! I’ll take you to the farmer’s market, then show you my rooftop garden—it’s something I started a couple of years ago, and now it’s blooming, and I… I thought you would like that. After that, we can grab a pie at Mel’s Diner, remember it? Their cherry pies still taste the same. I’d…like it to be a date.”

And yet, somehow, here Jon was.

Clark swallowed hard, pasting a smile onto his face as she finally reached him, dress brushing her calves and eyes sparkling in the sun.

Jon’s hug was still clinging to Clark’s waist when you finally reached them, smiling in that easy, warm way that always seemed to disarm him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you said, raising a hand to cover your eyes from the beaming Metropolis sun. “Jon heard me mention your text while we were hanging out after school yesterday, and he wanted to tag along. Honestly, I thought you’d just meant to send the message to the family chat.” You gave a little laugh, casual, like it explained everything. “You and those giant hands and tiny buttons—happens all the time, right?”

Clark’s stomach dropped, though he kept his smile in place. You thought it was an accident. 

He’d poured his nerves into that voice memo, said the word date, and you’d written it off as a misfire. His heart ached, but he shoved the feeling down deep. If having Jon here was what it took to keep you close, he’d roll with it.

“Right,” Clark said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Clumsy thumbs.”

Jon glanced up at him then, and Clark caught the flicker of sharp awareness in his son’s expression. Jon knew. Of course he did. That made the embarrassment slightly worse, knowing his son realized how this all went wrong. Again. 

The market itself was alive with color and chatter—stalls brimmed with bright produce, fresh flowers, and handmade crafts. You moved through the bustle with the kind of grace Clark could only stare at, smiling at vendors, bending to inspect fruit, your dress swaying with each step. He followed close, trying not to think too much about how easily this could feel like a date — if you’d only let it.

“Hey,” Jon piped up, tugging on your hand. “Can we check out the watermelons?”

You nodded, letting him guide you toward a stand piled high with striped green orbs. Clark started to follow, but Jon leaned back just enough to nudge his elbow hard into his father’s side and then jerk his chin toward a nearby flower stall.

Daisies, your favorite. Clark’s heart thudded.

You bent down with Jon, tapping the side of a melon with practiced precision, humming under your breath as you explained to him how to tell the ripe ones. Meanwhile, Clark slipped to the vendor, fumbling out cash for a bouquet of cheerful white daisies, a small watermelon, as well as a woven basket to cradle them.. By the time he returned, Jon was still “arguing” with you over which melon was best.

Clark cleared his throat and held out the basket. “For you,” he said, handing it over with a crooked, hopeful smile. “Thought these might brighten your place. And, uh, make carrying things a little easier.”

Your hands brushed as you took it, and you froze just for a moment, blinking down at the flowers before looking back up at him. A flush crept across your cheeks, with a slight sparkle in your eyes as you looked into his eyes. 

“That’s…Clark, that’s so thoughtful. You always have been.” Your voice was softer, more genuine than casual. You gently place a hand on Clark’s arm and slightly squeeze it, trying to relay your sincerity. “Thank you.”

He shifted closer, emboldened by the way you looked at him. Tilting his head slightly towards the fruit, he inquires, “Do you need help picking the right watermelon?”

Before you could answer, he stepped in close, the warmth of him sinking into your skin, the market’s background noise fading. He leaned forward, big hands brushing past yours as he thumped one of the melons with easy confidence.

“This one,” he murmured, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You can hear the difference. Hollow means it’s sweet. Try it so you know for the next time. Of course, I’m always willing to grab you one whenever you want.”

You hesitated, then let him guide your hand to the green-striped rind. His fingers brushed yours, warm and steady, and the thump of his knuckle against the surface resonated through your palm. You swallowed, focusing far too hard on the sound instead of the closeness of him.

“There,” Clark said, his voice pitched low, meant for you alone despite the crowd around you. “Hear it?”

“…Yeah.” Your answer came out softer than you intended, almost a whisper.

Jon, mercifully oblivious, or maybe mercilessly aware, grinned up at you both. “So we’re going with Dad’s pick, then?”

You shot him a playful look, but Clark only chuckled, scooping the melon up with ease and settling it into the basket with the daisies. He held it against his hip like it weighed nothing, casual and unbothered, though you caught the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when you glanced at the flowers again.

“Thank you,” you said finally, smiling slightly at the ease of all of this. You thought you’d never get to have this again.  “For the basket and the flowers. All of it. You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” Clark interrupted gently, his gaze locking on yours. “I love doing things for you.”

The words hung there, heavy with implication, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself feel it—the warmth, the care, the steady weight of Clark Kent’s affection wrapping around you like sunlight.

Then you cleared your throat, breaking eye contact as you glanced back at the other stalls. “We should finish shopping before Jon eats the whole market.”

Jon laughed and darted toward a vendor selling kettle corn, leaving you and Clark walking side by side through the maze of stands, your shoulders brushing more often than chance should allow.

By the time your bags were filled with odds and ends—fresh peaches, jars of honey, a loaf of bread — you realized Clark hadn’t once let you carry the heavier things. Every time you reached for the basket, he deflected with a lopsided smile and a quiet, “I’ve got it.”

And strangely, you let him. Clark straightened, still close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. 

“I’ll carry it,” he said, his tone low but steady. “So you and Jon can keep your hands free while we finish up.”

And just like that, he swung the basket into his arm like it weighed nothing at all, looking for all the world like he was built to do this — built to be beside you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime, and you stepped out into a different world. The hum of Metropolis traffic fell away, replaced by the whisper of leaves brushing against one another and the soft drone of bees drifting lazily between blossoms. Raised beds stretched across the rooftop, overflowing with life—tomatoes climbing trellises, peppers gleaming like little lanterns, vines and herbs spilling over their borders. The late afternoon light turned everything gold, as though the garden itself was glowing.

Your lips parted, wonder softening your features. “Clark…this is beautiful.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish pride flickering in his eyes. His shirt pulled tight over his shoulder as he moved, the casual fabric still managing to frame the strength underneath. “It’s just…something I started a few years back,” he said, tone almost shy. “Easier than flying home to Kansas every time I wanted fresh produce.”

Jon darted immediately toward the berry bushes, crouching low to pluck a raspberry before popping it into his mouth with a grin. Juice stained his lip. “These are awesome, Dad.”

Clark’s shoulders eased, affection spilling into his expression as he watched his son devour the garden like candy. But his gaze slid back to you almost immediately, drawn as if by instinct. You bent to run your fingers along a row of lavender, the petals trembling beneath your touch, the faint perfume clinging to your skin.

“You keep this whole place alive?” you asked, wonder threaded through your voice.

Clark tried for casual, though the heat in his chest gave him away. “It helps that I can get here quickly. And Bruce technically owns the building, so I don’t have to worry about rent.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial murmur. “He doesn’t know I planted a pear tree up here, though.”

Your laugh broke out, unguarded and bright. Clark felt it strike something tender inside him, a warmth that spread through every inch of him until he almost ached. God, he’d missed that sound.

Jon glanced up, hands and mouth already stained with berry juice. “I’m not hungry yet. Can we stay here a while before we go eat?”

You glanced toward Clark, the corner of your mouth curling. “If that’s okay with you. I don’t mind. It’s…peaceful here.”

Clark’s heart gave a hard, reckless kick. You want to stay. You’re choosing more time. He swallowed back the rush of emotion and managed, “Of course.” His grin broke free despite him, too wide and too hopeful. “Take all the time you want.”

You settled onto a low bench near the blueberry bushes, smoothing the fabric of your dress across your knees. Clark hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside you. He sat close, close enough that the heat of you bled into his skin, but his hands braced tight against his thighs, as though he didn’t trust them not to reach for you on their own.

For a while, you both watched Jon, his laughter bubbling across the rooftop as he darted from bush to bush. The quiet between you was comfortable—so much so that it startled Clark when you spoke again, softer this time.

“You’re good with him.”

Clark turned his head, struck by the tenderness in your voice.

“You always have been,” you went on, still watching Jon. “From the beginning. Even when everything was…messy, you loved him so easily. I admire that about you. You’re not afraid to lean into your emotions.”

Something sharp and sweet twisted in Clark’s chest. He wanted to tell you the truth—that he hadn’t known how to breathe after Lois, that Jon’s tiny heartbeat had terrified him, that it had been you holding him steady through it all. That you were half the reason Jon was smiling in the sun right now.

‘Slowly,’ Bruce had reminded him before the date. Clark slowly breathed out through his nose before slightly shifting closer towards you. He let his shoulder brush yours, light but deliberate. 

“I wasn’t alone,” he said quietly, his voice low and rough with meaning. “You both were there. For him and for me. You don’t know how much that mattered.”

You finally looked at him then. Really looked. The weight of your gaze nearly undid him, the air between you charged with something that felt like more than memory, more than friendship. The rooftop seemed to hush—the bees fading to a low hum, the breeze pausing mid-breath—as if waiting.

Clark’s eyes dropped, unbidden, to your mouth. The sight made something inside him ache, raw and urgent, before he forced his gaze back up, a softer smile tugging at his lips. It didn’t dim the longing. “I’m glad you stayed,” he said simply, honestly.

You exhaled slowly, the faintest crack in your composure, before you turned your face back toward Jon. “Me too.”

Silence stretched again, warm and fragile. You smoothed your hands over your skirt, restless, as if you too didn’t quite trust them not to wander. Clark noticed—he noticed everything about you, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your shoulders shifted like you carried words you weren’t ready to spill. His fingers flexed against his thigh. He wanted to reach, to take your hand, to give you something steady to hold.

Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned forward, nodding toward a low crate of berries just beside the bench. “These need rinsing before Jon eats the whole crop.” He laughed softly, though it trembled with nerves. “Want to help me?”

You seemed almost relieved at the distraction, but when your hands brushed his as you reached for the crate, neither of you pulled away. Your skin grazed his knuckles, warm and electric, and his breath caught at the contact.

Together, you carried the crate toward the small spigot in the corner of the rooftop, balancing it between you. The task was simple—tilting berries into a colander, letting the water run over them—but it felt intimate in a way neither of you had expected. You leaned close to check the stream, and Clark swore he could feel your breath on his neck.

“You missed a few,” you teased lightly, flicking a droplet of water at him.

Clark grinned, shaking his head as if you’d just done the most endearing thing in the world. 

“Guess I’ll need a second set of eyes, then. Good thing I brought you.”

The words hung heavier than he intended, weighted with a meaning neither of you named. Still, you smiled back, softer now, and handed him a handful of washed berries, your fingers lingering just a second too long in his palm.

The quiet between you shifted, no longer comfortable but thrumming, alive with something neither of you dared to step fully into.

And then Jon’s voice broke through, cheerful and oblivious. “Okay—now I’m hungry!”

The moment scattered like startled birds. You laughed under your breath, withdrawing your hand, while Clark exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself back into motion.

“Saved by the kid,” you teased.

Clark smiled, though his eyes lingered on you, on the flush at your throat and the way your smile wavered just slightly when you turned away. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low enough only you could hear. “He does that a lot.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The little bell over the door chimed as the three of you stepped into the diner, the scent of frying bacon and strong coffee wrapping around you like a blanket. It was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in fifty years—red vinyl booths, chrome stools lined up at the counter, a jukebox humming low in the corner.

Jon slid eagerly into a booth by the window, already reaching for the menu even though Clark knew he always ordered the same thing. You slid in across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and Clark took the spot beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when he shifted.

For a moment, Clark just let himself look at the scene—Jon with his elbows on the table, already grinning about pancakes, you turning your head to laugh at something he said, the late sun spilling through the glass to catch the soft strands of your hair. His chest tightened with a longing so sharp it almost hurt. This. This was what he wanted, what he’d dreamed of in every quiet, lonely moment.

“Pie’s the only thing you really need to order here,” Clark said, dragging his eyes back to the menu. “Everything else is just a warm-up.”

You smirked. “Pie as a meal? You truly are a Kansas boy.”

“Best kind of meal,” Jon piped up, chin propped in his hands. “Dad says they put something magic in the crust.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, if Superman says so…”

Clark pretended to study the menu, but his ears were burning. He wasn’t used to being flustered, but the way your voice softened when you teased him—it unraveled him in ways he couldn’t show.

The waitress came and went, orders placed—Jon with his eternal pancakes, you with a salad you promised you’d regret, and Clark with his usual burger. But he’d already made up his mind about dessert.

By the time the pie arrived—warm apple with a scoop of melting vanilla—Jon was busy drowning his pancakes in syrup. Clark slid the plate between you and nudged the fork toward your hand.

“Go on,” he said softly. “First bite’s yours.”

You arched a brow. “Trying to fatten me up?”

Clark leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough that it wrapped around you like velvet. 

“Trying to spoil you. Won’t you let me darling?”

Your breath caught. Just for a second, but he saw it. Felt it.

You cut a small bite, but before you could lift it, Clark gently plucked the fork from your fingers, scooping up a piece himself. His hand hovered just a moment, eyes locking with yours in a silent question, then he offered it to you.

The heat in your cheeks betrayed you, but you leaned forward anyway, lips parting to take the bite from the fork. The cinnamon-sweetness melted on your tongue, but it was nothing compared to the molten intensity of Clark’s gaze. His eyes followed the movement of your mouth, lingering far too long before he forced himself back.

“Good?” he asked, voice rougher than before.

You slowly swallowed. “Dangerously.”

Jon, across the table, had gone quiet. He’d seen his dad smile before—he’d seen the hero, the farmer, the man who made terrible dad jokes—but he’d never quite seen this version of him. Open, warm, lit from the inside like someone who’d just been handed the one thing he wanted most in the world.

And he saw you mirror it—your smile shy, your eyes soft in a way Jon hadn’t noticed in a long time. Something unspoken but real passed between you, thick enough to make the air around the booth feel charged.

Jon ducked his head back down toward his pancakes, hiding a small, knowing smile.

—

Clark was practically vibrating with energy as he paced at the foot of the bed, his hands carving shapes through the air as he spoke.

“— and then, after pie, I drove her back to her apartment. Just to drop her off, right? But we stood outside for almost twenty minutes just talking about gardening. She wants to try her hand at herbs, some of which she can use for rituals, and I offered to make her a space in the rooftop beds. She laughed, said she didn’t want to steal my precious tomatoes, but I told her there’s plenty of room. And the way she smiled at me, Bruce —” Clark broke off, his grin wide and boyish, “— I swear, I haven’t seen her smile like that in years.”

Bruce didn’t interrupt. He just leaned back against the headboard, bare chest lit soft in the lamplight, a rare, quiet smile tugging at his mouth as he watched Clark pace like a farm boy who’d just been handed a harvest too good to believe. Seeing Clark’s evident joy has always lightened the heavy weight that felt like it was always on his chest — the weight of Gotham, its citizens, and doing right by his family. But whenever Clark smiled, huge and unashamed, Bruce was able to forget about that. 

Finally, Clark crawled into bed, slipping beneath the covers with a rustle. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand so he could keep facing Bruce, eyes still bright. “I think it went well. Really well. Even with Jon there, though I still can’t believe that happened.”

Bruce reached out, brushing a thumb over Clark’s knuckles before letting their hands rest together on the sheets. “It went well because you made her feel seen,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters. And I’m glad, you deserve to be this happy. You deserve all the happiness.”

Clark’s chest softened at that, at the warmth in Bruce’s voice. He leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Bruce’s shoulder, unable to keep still with the warmth bubbling through him. “I just — god, I love her, Bruce. And I love you. I just… want us to get it right this time.”

Bruce’s expression flickered, open in a way it rarely was, his hand tightening briefly around Clark’s. “So do I.”

A beat passed, comfortable, before Clark’s grin returned, curiosity tugging at his tone. “So. What’s your plan?”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, a subtle hint of amusement ghosting his lips. “A gala. Stark, polished, in Gotham. She’ll get a formal invitation. No mistakes about what this is. No family potluck, or family market day misunderstandings.”

Clark sat up slightly, excitement sparking again. “You’re sending an invitation?”

“With a dress,” Bruce confirmed. “And accessories. Hand-selected.”

Clark’s eyes went wide, and then he laughed, half in disbelief, half in awe. “Wow. The big guns. We really got her now, Bruce.”

Bruce allowed himself the slightest smirk, tugging Clark down into the crook of his arm. “That’s the idea.”

Clark let his head fall against Bruce’s chest, still smiling like he couldn’t stop if he tried. For the first time in a long time, it felt like the two of them weren’t just hoping—they were building something.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bruce had been at the gala for half an hour already, waiting. The chandeliers glittered above him, the air heavy with perfume and the low hum of violins. His tuxedo was immaculate — charcoal with a subtle satin lapel, the kind of understated perfection Bruce wore like armor. He stood near the edge of the ballroom, one hand curled around a glass of champagne he hadn’t touched, eyes flicking instinctively toward the doors each time they opened, eager for a look at you.

And then you stepped through.

Conversation faltered around him, not because Gotham’s elite noticed, but because he did. 

The dress he’d chosen draped over you like it was made for no one else, soft folds of fabric catching the light, making you look less like a guest at a gala and more like something carved from myth. His chest tightened, an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath.

But before he could move toward you, two figures slipped in behind you, causing Bruce’s jaw to tense.

Dick, already flashing a grin at anyone who looked his way, and Damian — scowling like the chandeliers personally offended him.

You didn’t seem to notice, sweeping your gaze over the hall with a quiet kind of awe. It had been years since you’d attended one of these, years since you’d stood at his side in public. Now, after Clark’s sunlit rooftop and pie-sweet laughter, you were here — his guest. His date. The thought was as dizzying as it was grounding.

It felt like it took you forever to cross the room to meet him halfway in the gala. Bruce gently takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand in greeting. His mouth lingered a fraction too long, his breath warm on your skin, before he lowered your hand but didn’t release it.

“You look…” His voice was lower than usual, almost rough with restraint. His eyes swept over you slowly, reverently, before settling back on your face. “Stunning doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Heat crept into your cheeks at the weight of his words. Bruce Wayne had always been charming when he needed to be, the playboy smile perfectly rehearsed—but this wasn’t that. There was no mask in his gaze, only a sincerity so sharp it left you unsteady.

Before you could find a reply, his arm slipped naturally around your waist, guiding you into the flow of the crowd. The movement was so practiced, so seamless, it was as if no time at all had passed since the last gala you’d attended together, back when things were different. Back when you had let yourself imagine nights like this could last forever.

Your heart skipped at the familiarity of it—the way his hand pressed lightly at your back, steady and sure, reminding you how safe, how claimed you felt in his presence. You told yourself it was just Bruce being Bruce, gentlemanly, but you couldn’t ignore the warmth radiating from him, the subtle press of his palm as though he wasn’t willing to let you drift even an inch away.

“You clean up well yourself,” you finally said, your voice quieter than you meant, laced with nerves and something warmer you didn’t dare name.

He glanced sidelong at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smile that was barely there but all the more dangerous for it. “Good, then we’ll match.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but your chest tightened at the intimacy of it—how natural it felt, as though the two of you were stepping back into something you’d only ever paused, not abandoned. Before he could say anything, he was interrupted by a loud voice. 

“Bruce!”

Commissioner Gordon’s voice cut through, warm and familiar. Jim clasped his shoulder with one hand, then turned toward you with a smile that softened into something fond as he said your name softly. “May I steal her for a dance? Feels like it’s been forever since I’ve had a dance with this beautiful lady.”

For you and me both, Jim. Bruce barely managed a polite nod before you were whisked away, your laugh drifting across the polished floor as Jim spun you into the waltz.

Bruce set his untouched glass on a passing tray, pivoting sharply to where his sons had already positioned themselves like they belonged. He took a deep breath before preparing himself for this conversation.

“Explain,” he said, voice low.

Dick widened his eyes, doing his best impression of innocence as he straightened his tie. “What? We’re your family. Of course, we were invited.”

“You are family, except you were not invited. I rescinded all of your invitations, so this didn’t happen. Curious that the one event you guys are not needed, you’re suddenly available and willing to do Gala Duty.”

“Technicalities. One would think you’re paranoid, Bruce.” Dick shrugged, grinning. “Besides, don’t you want us here? Moral support? A charming distraction in case you choke? Or maybe as backup dancers, though I’m not sure Damian would be any good.”

Beside him, Damian was less subtle. His dark gaze pinned Bruce like a blade. “I’m here to make sure you don’t ruin this. And Grayson, you know I’m an incredible dancer, my mother did not lack in my training.”

Bruce’s brow arched, his voice dropping into something colder. “Go back. You guys still believe I would ruin this after I told you all Clark and I had this under control?”

“I know you would,” Damian said flatly. “Father, this is the best you could come up with? A gala?” His mouth curled in disdain. “It’s boring. Predictable. Clark gave her a garden. And pie. Do you honestly think chandeliers and small talk can compete with that?”

Bruce’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to it. “This isn’t a competition.”

Damian crossed his arms, chin tilted up defiantly. “Not between you and him, no. But it is between Jon and me to see who helps with a romantic gesture. I won’t let him win by default just because you’re unimaginative.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Damian —”

Dick smirked, cutting in smoothly. “He’s not wrong, B. Clark set the bar pretty high. You might need a little extra flair if you don’t want her leaving here thinking her night peaked with Jim Gordon’s waltz.”

Bruce shot him a withering look, but Dick just grinned wider. Damian only scowled harder, muttering, “This is unacceptable.”

And across the room, you laughed again, bright and free in Jim’s arms — and Bruce’s heart thudded once, hard, reminding him what was at stake. His sons could occasionally make sense; maybe this was one of those moments. 

Jim spun you lightly, chuckling as you moved with an ease you hadn’t realized you still had. Your heels clicked softly across the polished floor, and for a moment, it felt like stepping back into another lifetime.

Jim Gordon’s smile was warm as he swayed you into an easy, familiar rhythm. “Well now,” he said with that gruff fondness of his, “it’s good to see you back here, it’s been a while. Thought Gotham had finally scared you away.”

You chuckled softly, letting him guide you through a turn. “It has, been a while. But Gotham could never get rid of me. Where else could I find another Jim Gordon?”

Jim gave a little shake of his head, eyes crinkling. “I’ll tell you something, I’ve been to more of these galas than I can count, and I swear — Bruce never looked more himself than when you and Clark were standing beside him. Like he could actually breathe.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at that, your gaze flicking instinctively toward where Bruce lingered just off the floor, his eyes trained on you like he was the one tethered instead of the other way around.

You tried to laugh it off, but Jim’s words burrowed in deep, warming something inside you that had been starved for too long. Because the truth was, you’d missed this, missed standing at Bruce’s side while the two of you whispered biting commentary about the more outrageous outfits in the room, the silly guessing game you used to play about just how much each gown or piece of jewelry must have cost. Bruce had always indulged you with that secret humor, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips even as he stayed perfectly composed for Gotham’s elite.

Your heart gave an odd twist, almost painful in its familiarity.

As Jim spun you out and back again, you caught sight of Bruce watching, his expression unreadable to anyone else, but you could see it — oh, you could feel it: the way his jaw had tightened, the way his hand flexed at his side as though resisting the urge to reach for you. He settles for giving you a fond smile, eyes dark with intention, hinting at something else soon to come.

And God, that smile — subtle, rare, and so achingly genuine — curved his lips as he watched you, as if you were the only one in the room. You knew how few people in Gotham had ever seen Bruce Wayne smile like this, and the realization tightened something in your chest.

For a moment, the world blurred to nothing but the two of you.

It was almost laughable to think you’d spend the night gossiping with him again, like years ago, leaning in close to whisper about price tags and ridiculous fashion choices. But the thought only made you ache more. Because part of you didn’t just miss those moments, part of you craved them.

And if this was a gala that had been in years past, you knew how this night would end. 

Somewhere between stolen glances and too much champagne, you and Bruce would slip away, ducking out the back under the cover of polite goodbyes. The gala would fade behind you, and in its place would be the neon warmth of Mel’s Diner.

You could see it now: the two of you sliding into a booth, Clark already there waiting with that easy, boyish grin. A slice of cherry pie on the table between you, Bruce listening with that soft patience he reserved only for you as you animatedly recounted the outrageous stories from the night—your sharp commentary, Bruce’s dry counterpoints, and Clark’s laughter filling the gaps.

It had always been your ritual, the three of you. The glitter of Gotham first, then the grounding simplicity of Mel’s. Wealth and power traded for coffee refills and pie slices. And the thought of reclaiming that rhythm, of finding your place between them again, stirred a longing you couldn’t quite suppress.

Then, over Jim’s shoulder, you made eye contact with him again.

Bruce. He was striding across the ballroom, expression cool, tuxedo sharp, but the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable. He cut straight toward you, every line of him deliberate, his destination clear: you.

“Commissioner,” Bruce said smoothly, extending his hand without hesitation. “May I?”

Jim’s brows rose, but he only gave you a knowing grin as he placed your hand in Bruce’s. “She’s all yours, Wayne.”

You arched a brow as Bruce pulled you into his frame, his hand settling firmly at your waist. “I didn’t know you still remembered how to do this,” you teased, your voice light even as your pulse jumped. “Keeping up this well at your age? Color me impressed.”

Bruce’s mouth curved faintly, the barest hint of a smirk. “Careful. I might surprise you.”

And then he did.

With a smooth step, he guided you effortlessly into the waltz, his movements precise, commanding. He spun you beneath his arm, the world blurring for a second before he caught you again—solid, immovable, heat radiating through the fabric of your dress. His hand pressed against your back, lower than polite society would prefer, and when he dipped you, the strength in his grip stole your breath.

The tension built with every glide, every subtle brush of his chest against yours. He was all control and fluid power, and for the first time that evening, you forgot the chandeliers, the crowd, even the boys watching from the sidelines. It was just him, just you, and years' worth of emotion and affection held within each look and touch.

“Bruce …” Your voice was softer now, caught between laughter and something more profound. “You do know what you’re doing.”

His gaze locked onto yours, steady, unflinching. “I know more than you think.”

The music swelled, strings filling the room like a tide. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, your movements smooth and practiced, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of his hand guiding yours, the firm press of his palm at your back. The air between you was taut, charged, something unspoken simmering just beneath the polished surface of the waltz.

Finally, as he turned you through another spin, you caught the look in his eyes — unflinching, deliberate.

“You feel it too,” you murmured, almost without meaning to.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his gaze locked on yours. “Yes,” he said, plain and uncompromising. And then, after a beat, voice pitched low so no one else could hear, “I always have, as has Clark. I think it’d be better to be honest and direct. We’re trying to court you, Clark and I.”

Your step faltered, just slightly, but his arm steadied you before anyone could notice. Heat surged to your cheeks, a tangle of confusion and longing clawing at your chest.

“I …” Words tangled on your tongue, but before you could gather them, the thought spilled out, sharp and defensive.

“Is this because you two heard I’ve started dating again? Is this just … jealousy?”

Bruce’s steps never wavered, but his eyes burned into yours. His voice, low and certain, cut through the music like steel.

“No. Don’t diminish what we feel to something as shallow as jealousy. Please.”

You blinked at the weight of it, stunned by how firm, how real it sounded.

“I understand this is … a lot,” Bruce went on, quieter now, though no less intense. “And maybe it feels sudden. But this, us, iit isn’t reaction or impulse. It’s intention. Clark and I aren’t playing at this. We want you with us, in a partnership, a life. That hasn’t changed.”

The words hit you like a blow, your chest tight, your throat closing up around the answer you couldn’t form. So you stayed silent, letting the music fill the space, letting him guide you through the steps as your heart raced.

Bruce said nothing more, though the furrow of his brow deepened with every measure of your silence. He waited, but in that stillness, even Bruce Wayne couldn’t help but to begin to worry.

And then, a small movement caught his eye. A flash of light from the balcony doors, brief but deliberate, like a signal mirror. When he glanced over, he found Dick holding a champagne flute at just the right angle to catch the chandelier light, tossing a wink the moment Bruce’s gaze landed. Beside him, Damian stood stiff and unsmiling, but gave the faintest tilt of his chin toward the balcony doors, a silent and unmistakable instruction.

Bruce’s hand tightened at your waist, his decision firm. “Come with me,” he murmured, his tone softer now, though still commanding. “Let’s finish this conversation somewhere private.”

He guided you effortlessly through the steps of the waltz, pivoting toward the far doors without breaking rhythm. To anyone watching, it was only Bruce Wayne leading his partner into the night air for a turn beneath the stars. But you knew better, the weight in his hand paired with the urgency just beneath his carefully composed face, told you this wasn’t about appearances. 

Gotham sprawled out below, a constellation of lights glittering against the night. The cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. Without a word, Bruce slipped off his tuxedo jacket and draped it around your shoulders, his fingers lingering for  just a second longer than necessary, brushing the line of your collarbone before pulling back.

You looked at him then, really looked, and saw the man beneath the mask—the softness he rarely showed anyone. Besides his loved ones, his family. God, just thinking about it takes your breath away. The implications etched plainly across his face were a gift, you realized. Because this was Bruce Wayne. The Batman. A man who wore facades like armor, who crafted masks so carefully he became them. And yet here he was — dropping it all for you, letting you see everything he’d never said out loud.

“This feels … unreal,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “After everything, after all this time, I don’t know if I should let myself want this. If I can let myself want this.”

Bruce’s hands came up, cupping your face gently but firmly, tilting your head toward him. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, grounding, steady. His eyes searched yours, stormy but achingly sincere.

“You can,” he said, low but certain. “Want this. Want us. You’ve carried the weight of protecting everyone else for so long, but you don’t have to protect yourself from me. Or from Clark. Not anymore.”

Your breath caught, his words pressing against the parts of you that still ached, that still feared. “And what if I get hurt?” you whispered. “What if this breaks?”

His jaw tightened, but his hands remained gentle. “Then I’ll fight every day to make sure it doesn’t. We both will. I can’t promise perfection, I don’t have that in me, but I can promise you the truth. No masks, no running. Just us, if you’ll have it.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to the weight of his touch and the pull of his gaze. It was terrifying and intoxicating, like stepping off a ledge and trusting you’d be caught.

And then, softer, as though the words were for you alone, he added: “You’ve been in my life longer than anyone outside my children. You know me in ways most never will. I’m not asking for a chance to try. I’m asking for a chance to stay—to finally stop pretending I don’t feel what I feel every time I look at you.”

Your throat tightened, emotion swelling, but before you could respond, Bruce stepped forward and dipped his head lower, his forehead brushing yours for just a moment, a silent plea in the touch. He waited there to give you the chance to pull away - but you didn’t.

Then his mouth found yours, not with the hunger you’d expected but with a reverence that stole your breath. Slow, deliberate, a kiss that carried years of restraint unraveling at once.

It wasn’t the practiced charm of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire. It wasn’t Batman’s command.

It was Bruce. Honest. Unmasked. Yours.

His mouth found yours — slow at first, reverent, like he was afraid to press too hard and break the fragile thing blooming between you. But the moment your hands lifted, curling into the lapels of his shirt, everything shifted.

The kiss deepened, years of silence and restraint burning away in an instant. Bruce kissed you like a man who had loved you quietly for too long, who had dreamed of this and never let himself believe he’d have it. His hands cradled your face as though you were something precious, untouchable, and yet he couldn’t stop pulling you closer, like he’d drown if he didn’t.

And you, God, you gave in. No more hesitation, no more denying the way your chest ached every time you looked at him. You let yourself want. You let him feel it, the happiness of finally being seen, the pain of the years apart, the desire that had only sharpened with time, and the hope … the hope that this could be something incredible. Something new. Something that was yours.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, the world spinning just slightly. Bruce’s thumb brushed over your lower lip, lingering there as though memorizing the shape of your mouth. His eyes, dark but softer than you’d ever seen, held you like a promise.

“This,” he murmured, voice low and raw, “is only the beginning. I won’t let you slip away again.”

Your chest tightened, but for the first time in years, it wasn’t from fear. It was from hope.

And then —

“See? I told you they’d end up kissing!”

Your head snapped toward the balcony door, where Dick stood triumphantly, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. Behind him, Damian glowered, muttering, “You didn’t tell me, Grayson. You bet me.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, a groan rumbling in his chest as he pulled back but still kept you in his arms, jaw tightening in exasperation. You bit your lip, laughter threatening despite the heat still buzzing in your veins. You press your forehead into Bruce’s shoulder, trying your best to muffle the laughter that wanted to bubble out.

The boys froze as they realized they’d been caught, then immediately began bickering, voices overlapping.

“I wasn’t spying, I was —”

“You’re insufferable, Grayson —”

“At least I had the sense to check if they were —”

“They don’t need you checking, they need privacy —”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, but when you glanced at him, you caught it, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. He’d had his victory. Nothing, not even his sons, could take that away.

—

Bruce was still tugging at his cufflinks when he entered the bedroom, and Clark was already sprawled across their bed, propped on his elbows like a man waiting for storytime. His hair was damp from a quick shower, blue eyes bright with anticipation.

“Well?” Clark asked, unable to stop himself from grinning. “How did it go?”

Bruce said nothing at first. He set his watch on the nightstand with deliberate precision, removed his tie, and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace his shoes. Clark watched every movement like an impatient child, practically vibrating.

“You’re drawing this out on purpose,” Clark accused, voice light but a little pout tugging at his mouth.

Bruce’s lips twitched faintly. “Maybe.”

“Bruce.” Clark shifted, rolling onto his side, chin propped in his palm as his bare feet brushed Bruce’s thigh, lightly poking him. “Don’t you dare leave me hanging.”

Bruce finally looked at him — and God, those wide, guileless blue eyes nearly undid him. The great Batman, struck silent by the sheer earnestness of Clark Kent.

Instead of answering, Bruce braced one hand on the mattress and leaned forward. He kissed Clark softly, slow enough to savor. Clark stilled, startled for half a heartbeat, before melting into it, his free hand curling into Bruce’s shirt.

When Bruce pulled back, he lingered close, lips brushing against Clark’s as he murmured, “That’s how we ended our date.”

Clark’s entire body jolted, and then he let out something between a laugh and a whoop, flopping onto his back with his arms spread wide like he might burst. “Are you serious? You kissed? You kissed?”

Bruce hummed, tugging the covers back and sliding in beside him. “On the balcony. The boys interrupted, of course, but…” His voice softened, losing some of that dry edge. “It was real. She let it be real.”

Clark turned his head toward him, eyes wide with wonder. “What happened after?”

Bruce exhaled, gaze drifting toward the ceiling as he replayed it. “We stayed there for a while and talked. She admitted she needed time — space to process. She magicked herself home, but before she left…” He paused, the memory tugging at his chest. “… she thanked me. Called it an incredible date.”

Clark’s grin softened into something tender, a hand sliding across the sheets until his fingers brushed Bruce’s. “You did it.”

“We did it,” Bruce corrected quietly, lifting Clark’s hand to kiss it softly, before gently placing it on his chest. 

For a while, they lay in companionable silence, the weight of the evening settling into something warm, something steady. Bruce had just begun to relax into the pillow when both their phones buzzed at once.

They exchanged a glance before reaching for them. The glow of the screens lit the room. It was the group chat with a message from you.

You: I think we need to talk, properly. All three of us. Maybe this weekend at my place?

Another message followed quickly after.

You: And this time I promise no League members or kids invited lol

Bruce’s brows lifted as Clark’s grin stretched, almost boyish. He rolled onto his side, eyes bright and voice almost giddy as he whispered, “We’ve got a real chance, Bruce.”

And for once, Bruce didn’t argue. He just squeezed Clark’s hand ontop of his chest, a rare, unguarded smile tugging at his mouth.

It had taken years filled with stumbles, heartbreak, and healing, but now, standing on the edge of something new, both men knew in their hearts this was it. A real chance at everything they’d ever wanted. And they would do whatever it took to keep it, to cherish you.

taglist: @lovetrouble123 @h2overwatch @thecaughtsimp @maripositanoctruna @xxemmarldxx 

You’ve been cleaning for hours. The apartment was spotless already, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Wiping down the kitchen counters for the third time, straightening throw pillows no one had touched, lighting and then re-lighting candles until the air was thick with lavender. It wasn’t just about the space looking homey; it was about control, about giving your hands something to do while your heart rattled in your chest like a bird desperate to be free.

When the knock finally came, you nearly jumped out of your skin. You smoothed down your dress, exhaled, and opened the door.

Clark stood there first, broad and bright, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth and lighting his whole face. He looked devastatingly good in a soft sweater and slacks, casual but tailored just enough to frame him the way he knew it would. His eyes were practically sparkling, giddy with hope at what was to come from the day..

Beside him was Bruce, sharp as ever in a dark suit without his tie, the first couple of buttons of his dress shirt undone just enough to give you a glimpse of his chest, with the faintest curve at his lips. But it was his eyes that stopped you. They were soft, warm in a way that left your throat tight. That smile was for you and you alone, and you felt it like a weight pressing gently on your chest.

“Hi,” you managed, stepping back to let them in.

They followed you into the living room, Clark’s excitement so tangible it seemed to hum in the air, Bruce’s quieter but no less potent presence steady at his side. You gestured to the sofas, and they sat together, close enough that their shoulders brushed. You took the chair opposite, suddenly aware of the space, of the way it felt like a gulf between you.

You clasped your hands in your lap, forced a breath, and broke the silence. “So…” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “You’ve been courting me?”

Clark leaned forward almost immediately, his hands gesturing as if he could push sincerity into the air. “Yes, we have. We’ve wanted to for years, actually longer than I think either of us could admit back then.”

Bruce’s tone was lower, steadier. “Our feelings are real. Genuine. They always have been.”

Your chest tightened, the warmth of their words sparking something you’d tried so hard to bury.

Clark’s voice softened. “When we think about what we want … we always go back to that beach day. To Jon asleep between us, to the three of us on that blanket. That was…” he broke off, smiling almost wistfully, “That was everything. We were already a family, we just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”

Bruce nodded once. “And then we were sent away. It was…complicated. We knew what we wanted, but when we came home —”

“It wasn’t simple anymore,” Clark finished for him. “Earth, the kids, different cities, our lives here. We didn’t know how to make it work. Not without breaking something.”

You swallowed hard, your gaze slipping from them to the window where the city lights shimmered in the distance. A silence stretched, heavy, before you finally found your voice again, still avoiding their gaze.

“It hurt,” you admitted quietly. “Because it felt like we were on the edge of something. After so long, I thought that it was all finally going to happen. My every thought, my deepest desires, a future I didn’t think I could ever have. And then you came back, and everything felt different.” You paused again. 

Clark opened his mouth, but Bruce stilled him with a look before leaning forward, his eyes attempting to meet yours. “You thought that what had changed was that we didn’t want you.”

Quickly, you looked at him, and he saw it all. The way the words broke something open in your chest. Your shoulders curled inward, your body folding in on itself like you were trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, as you forced the truth out.

“I tried to wait. I tried to hold on to hope. But as the weeks passed and neither of you said anything, I…” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “It hurt too much to be around you all the time. And I thought you needed space. To settle in as a couple without my face lurking in the background. So I left. I needed to…to breathe again. To find a way to go back to being just your friend, after being so close to being more.”

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t let the tears fall. Not here. Not now.

“I buried myself in the missions. In my magic. In the kids — God knows I couldn’t have gotten through it without them. But I did what I had to do to survive it.”

The silence that followed was brutal, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond your window.

Clark’s expression was pained, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach across the room and hold you, but didn’t know if he was allowed. Bruce sat utterly still, jaw tight, but his eyes — dark and wounded — looked at you like you’d just torn open his chest.

The silence pressed in until it hurt. You sat perfectly still, your eyes fixed on the window, as if you could lose yourself in the blur of city lights rather than face the weight of what you’d said.

Clark broke first.

“God,” he whispered, his voice rough, choked at the edges. His hands raked back through his hair, then pressed against his mouth as though he could hold the grief in. “We did that to you.” His eyes glistened, his chest rising and falling too fast. “We made you think we didn’t want you when all I could think about was you. Every mission, every night. I would lie awake next to Bruce and wonder if you were sleeping, if you were safe, if you even knew how much I—” He cut himself off, breath hitching.

You finally turned toward him. His face was laid bare, open and desperate, and it shattered something inside you to see the strongest man you knew look so undone.

Bruce hadn’t moved, but his silence was sharp, his gaze fixed on you with such intensity you almost flinched. When he finally spoke, it was low, raw.

“He’s right. We failed you.” His hands flexed against his knees, as though restraining himself from reaching for you. “I thought — I thought I was protecting what we had by keeping quiet. That if I didn’t risk saying it out loud, I couldn’t break it. But in the process, I hurt you worse than I ever imagined.” His voice caught, and for once, Bruce Wayne faltered. “You’ve carried us through so much. You held us together when everything else was falling apart. And instead of giving you the one thing you deserved, we left you standing there alone.”

Your throat tightened, the tears threatening again. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

“Yes.” Bruce’s answer came without hesitation, and his voice cracked on it. “I know because I felt it too. Every second you were gone, I felt it. The house was quieter. The kids were restless. Clark and I…” His eyes fell shut, his jaw tightening as though the memory itself was unbearable. “We missed you. We weren’t whole without you.”

Clark leaned forward then, his voice breaking into the space between you. “We love you. Not out of jealousy. Not because you’re dating someone else. Because it’s always been you. You were there before us, with us, after us. And we’ve been fools to think we could go on without making that clear.”

You take a moment to truly look at them. Clark with his wide, pleading eyes, Bruce with his storm-dark gaze unflinching even through the guilt, and your chest ached with everything you’d tried to bury. The love was there. It had always been there.

But so was the hurt.

Your voice came out softer, trembling despite your best efforts. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you fight for me before I broke?”

Neither of them answered right away. Clark’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and Bruce dropped his gaze, the silence thick with all the years lost, all the words unsaid.

Finally, Bruce lifted his head, his eyes burning into yours with a desperation he rarely let anyone see. “We’re fighting now.”

And Clark, voice hoarse but steady, added, “We won’t stop. Not this time.”

The room went quiet again, your heart hammering in your chest, the air thick with yearning, remorse, and a love so heavy it felt like it could pull all three of you under.

Clark moved first. His chair scraped faintly against the hardwood as he stood, then lowered himself down, kneeling before you like it was the only place he belonged. His large, warm hand slipped gently into yours, his thumb brushing the back of it reverently.

His blue eyes caught yours, shining with unguarded love. “You don’t have to doubt it anymore,” he whispered. “Not one second more. You are everything I’ve ever wanted — everything we’ve ever wanted. I love you. I’ve loved you for years. And if you let me, I’ll spend every day proving it to you.”

Your throat closed up, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you tried to speak. Finally, the truth broke out, raw and trembling. “I want this. More than anything, Clark, but I won’t survive it if you break me again. I can’t.”

Clark’s hand tightened around yours, firm but gentle. “Then we won’t, I swear it.”

Bruce moved next slowly, like every step was chosen with care. He knelt beside Clark, his tall frame folding with surprising grace, until he was level with you. His hands rose to cradle your face, broad palms warm against your skin, thumbs sweeping gently across the tears you hadn’t realized had fallen. His gaze was steady, but achingly sincere.

Eyes that have seen more of you than most. That you know the type of grief you’ve faced with the death of Jason, the darkness that stays within you.. Eyes that love you more because of all the complexities you contain, not despite. 

“You won’t have to survive it alone anymore,” he said softly, firmly. “We’ll carry it. We’ll carry you. No more distance. No more silence. Only us. Forever.”

The words stole your breath.

Clark pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, slow and tender. Then another, at your palm, his lips lingering as though he was imprinting the moment into memory.

At the same time, Bruce leaned in, brushing a kiss against your damp cheek. Then the other. Each one slow, reverent, his thumbs still sweeping softly across your skin. The gentleness of it undid you completely.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning into Bruce’s touch, into Clark’s warmth. The love and the devotion radiating off them were almost unbearable. So sweet, so all-consuming, you didn’t know how you’d lived without it.

Then Bruce’s lips found yours.

The kiss was soft at first, cautious, almost trembling. A question more than a demand. But when you leaned into him, when your hand rose to rest against his jaw, he deepened it. Slow but certain, pouring years of restrained longing into the press of his mouth against yours. When he finally drew back, your lips tingled, your chest heaving with the weight of it.

And then Clark was there, leaning forward, his hand cupping yours tighter as he claimed your mouth in a kiss that was just as reverent, but thicker with passion. Deep, slow, molten with everything he’d held back, everything he wanted to give you.

When he pulled away, his forehead stayed pressed against yours in the intimate moment created. His lips curved into a smile that was equal parts tender and triumphant. His voice was husky, full of wonder.

“It was worth the wait.”

Bruce kissed you again, slower this time, like he couldn’t believe you were real beneath his hands. His lips moved with care, every touch deliberate. As though he was afraid that if he pressed too hard, you might vanish.

Clark wasn’t so cautious. He leaned in again the moment Bruce broke away, his mouth claiming yours with heat and hunger. His kiss was deep, rough with desperation, pulling a soft moan from you that made him groan in return. His free hand slid along your thigh, gripping firmly like he couldn’t bear to let you slip even an inch away.

You gasped into him, your head tilting back, only for Bruce’s lips to find the curve of your jaw, then your neck, his hands steadying you with a tenderness that stole your breath. His touch was grounding, the complete counterbalance to Clark’s intensity.

The sound of both of them — Clark’s deep, ragged breaths, Bruce’s low hums of restraint breaking apart — blurred your thoughts until all that existed was heat, hands, mouths.

And then— beep.

All three of you froze, breaths mingling, lips parted. The shrill chime of your communicator cut through the haze like cold water.

You dropped your forehead against Clark’s shoulder, exhaling a broken laugh. “We should retire. Maybe then these damn communicators will finally give us some peace.”

Both men laughed. Deep, genuine, chest-shaking laughter that rumbled against you where you leaned. Bruce pressed one last kiss to your temple, while Clark nuzzled his nose against your hair before stealing another kiss to your mouth.

“Go,” Bruce murmured, his voice rough but warm. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Clark cupped your cheek, kissing you once more, slower now, tender. “Be safe. We love you.”

Your heart swelled at the words. With one last kiss, you pulled away, the faint shimmer of your magic curling around you.

And then you were gone.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The Watchtower’s briefing room was alive with motion when you reappeared, the glow of your arrival fading against the cool metal walls.

At the table stood four familiar figures: Dick, Conner, Jason, and Cass. They straightened when they saw you, their faces brightening — not just because you were their commanding officer tonight, but because you were theirs. Their parent, their anchor.

You smiled, warmth replacing the lingering ache of the moment you’d left behind. “Guess I’m leading this one, huh?”

Dick gave a wry grin. “For now. But don’t get too comfortable. A couple more runs like this and you’ll be sitting back while I take point.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, only pride and quiet confidence. He was ready. And as much as the thought tugged at your chest, you knew it was right. Soon, Dick wouldn’t need you here on the field.

But right now? He did. They all did.

You stepped up to the table, nodding toward the mission readout glowing on the screen. “All right, team. Let’s get briefed.”

Because you could never say no to being at their side.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It was supposed to be simple. Observe, report, maybe intercept a few smugglers if things went south. But nothing about the docks that night felt simple.

The air reeked of salt, oil, and smoke, and the shadows moved wrong — too fast, too sharp. These weren’t normal men. Their movements were heavier, faster, and their strikes landed like sledgehammers. Enhanced. Augmented. And far too many of them.

You fought hard, your magic weaving through the chaos in bursts of light and binding force. Two were already down by your hand, pinned and groaning. But your limbs felt heavier with each spell, your chest tight from exertion. These weren’t fights meant to drag on; they were meant to overwhelm.

Still, you held your ground. You had to.

Your eyes flicked constantly toward the kids. Cass and Jason had fallen into their own rhythm, covering each other’s blind spots, moving with silent, precise coordination. Conner was tearing through the crates, ripping them apart with sheer strength while simultaneously scanning for hostages. Dick’s voice carried over comms, firm and calm as he ushered civilians through escape routes, clearing the way for them and law enforcement.

They were holding their own, your kids. And pride swelled in your chest even as sweat stung your eyes.

You had one of the bigger ones pinned, your magic forcing his body into an invisible bind, when Dick’s voice came sharp over the line: “Superboy’s clear with the civilians. Orphan, go with him. Keep the pressure up, we’ve almost got this.”

Relief flickered. Almost.

“Go,” Jason barked at Cass, jerking his chin toward the exit. His voice was rough, but his eyes were steady. “Make sure none of ‘em sneak out the back. We’ll finish this.”

Cass hesitated, gaze darting between him and you, but Jason gave her that look — hard, commanding, every bit his father’s son. She dipped her head once, then darted after Conner.

That left three: you, Jason, and Dick.

Your hold on the man in your spell wavered as fatigue crept in, and you ground your teeth, pushing harder. “Move, Nightwing. Take him.”

He didn’t hesitate. Dick launched forward, trading blows with the second enhanced thug, while you lifted your restrained one bodily with your magic, hurling him into Dick’s opponent. The crash shook the dock, wood splintering under the impact. Both men went down and didn’t get back up.

You exhaled hard, turning just in time to hear Jason mutter, “Shit.”

He was out of bullets. The empty click of his gun echoed in your ears as a fresh wave of thugs closed in around him. He fought like hell. Fists, blades, raw ferocity, but he was surrounded, and you could see his arms shaking from exhaustion.

“No.” Your voice cracked, the memory of another night, another failure ripping through your chest. Not again. Never again.

You surged forward, dragging what magic you had left into a brutal, desperate burst. The villain in your grasp went flying into Jason’s attackers, knocking two flat. Dick was already moving, flipping into the fray to cover Jason’s flank. Together, the three of you cut the numbers down, striking with brutal efficiency until finally — finally — the last one dropped.

The docks fell quiet but for the sound of your own ragged breathing.

“Hell yes,” Jason laughed, chest heaving. He reached out and clapped Dick’s shoulder, who was already on comms with Cass and Conner, coordinating handoff to ARGUS and GCPD.

You allowed yourself one shaky smile, stepping forward to join them. Relief was thick in your chest, sweet and dangerous.

And then the air shifted.

Your body stilled, instincts screaming. Something glinted in the corner of your eye—a jagged length of sharpened metal, glinting under the floodlights as it spun through the air. Its path was clear, straight for Jason’s chest. Time slowed.

You didn’t think. You moved.

Your magic surged outward, seizing the weapon midair and flinging it aside with a burst that rattled your teeth. Jason’s head snapped toward you, his eyes wide. You had just enough time to register Jason’s relieved grin, just enough time to feel the victory in your bones, before the air shifted behind you.

Too slow.

The strike came fast and merciless, the blade burying itself deep into your side. The impact stole the breath from your lungs, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as white-hot pain seared through you. Your knees nearly buckled, blood spilling warm across your hand as it flew instinctively to the wound.

“NO!” Jason’s scream cracked through the night, raw and guttural, the kind of sound that shredded everything in its path. He lunged toward you, gun discarded, rage twisting his features. He put himself between you and the attacker, every movement wild, brutal, desperate to make him pay.

“Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me…” Dick’s voice was sharp in your ear, his hands already catching your shoulders, keeping you upright as your legs faltered. His mask couldn’t hide the sheer panic in his eyes. “Don’t you dare go down on me now. Please.”

You tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. Every inhale rattled, shallow, your vision flickering at the edges.

“ARGUS isn’t fast enough,” Jason barked, shoving the thug to the ground with a vicious kick. He whipped his head toward Dick, eyes blazing. “She needs help, NOW!”

“I can’t leave the scene—”

“You think I give a damn about protocol?!” Jason roared, his voice breaking. He quickly approached you, kneeling at your side. His hands shook as he pressed them against your wound, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. “She saved me. I’m not losing her again. Not like this, not like last time!”

Your chest clenched at the sound of it, even through the haze of pain. Jason’s voice cracked on the words, and you knew, you knew he was seeing another night, another body, another grave.

“Boys,” Your voice came out hoarse, weak, but their frantic energy snapped quiet at the sound. You reached shakily toward Jason, brushing his arm with trembling fingers. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

But the blood on your hands told another story. Still, you tried your best to smile at them.

“Cass, Conner, get here now!” Dick’s voice tore through the comms. “We need you back here yesterday, it’s…it’s mom, she’s hit bad!”

Oh, how your heart hurts. Your boys, your children. You never wanted to be part of the reason they stayed up at night, to be part of their nightmares. And God help you,  if it meant Jason lived, you’d do it a thousand times over.

The sound of feet pounding the dock followed moments later, Cass sliding to your side with a swiftness that nearly toppled Dick out of the way. Her hands were steady, but her lips pressed tight, the sharp focus in her eyes betraying how scared she was. Conner landed hard, the dock groaning under his weight, his face pale as his gaze locked on the crimson staining your side.

“No,” Conner whispered, horror in every line of his face. His hands twitched helplessly at his sides. “Not you. Please, not you too.”

Jason’s jaw clenched so tight it shook, his own hands still pressing desperately against the wound, his chest heaving. “She saved me,” he repeated, as if saying it aloud would undo the trade. “She took the damn hit for me. Why would you do that?”

Your eyes fluttered, your strength waning, but you forced the words out, barely a whisper. “Because I won’t lose you again. I couldn’t.”

Jason’s breath hitched, his head bowing as his grip trembled harder, his forehead nearly pressing against your shoulder like he could hold you here by sheer will alone.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Dick said sharply, his voice cracking under the weight of command. “Don’t you dare. Help is coming. You’re not leaving us, not like this.”

The last thing you registered was Cass’s firm hands replacing Jason’s, her voice calm but urgent as she barked orders, while Jason and Conner hovered like thunderclouds and Dick shouted into the comms for med evac.

The world tilted. The pain swallowed you whole. And all you could think, even as darkness pulled at the edges of your vision, was please, let me get back to them.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The Watchtower corridors blurred as Bruce and Clark stormed through them, every step fueled by the frantic call they’d just received from Dick.

She’s down. It’s bad. We need you here now.

They arrived at the medbay doors breathless, despite their training and years of discipline, and were stopped cold. Diana was waiting. Her hand pressed firmly to Bruce’s chest, her gaze steady but full of sympathy. Barry hovered at her side, unusually somber.

“Wait,” Diana said softly, steel beneath her tone. “She’s still in surgery.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “How long?”

“Two hours.”

Clark swallowed hard. “Her condition?”

Diana exhaled, her eyes flicking briefly toward the closed doors behind her. “Stable, for now. The blade missed anything vital by inches, but the damage is extensive. She lost a lot of blood.”

Bruce forced himself to breathe evenly, though every word was a dagger. “What happened?”

“She threw herself in front of Jason,” Diana answered simply. “Stopped the strike. Took the second one instead. Seems like some version of Bane’s venom enhanced them, so the blade had a lot of force when going through her body and out again.”

Clark’s hand curled into a fist, trembling at his side. His voice cracked. “Of course she did.”

Diana’s gaze softened. “But listen to me, you need to breathe. Your children are inside, and they need you to be steady. She would want that.”

The words struck home. Bruce and Clark both knew she was right. They shared a glance; Clark’s wide, stricken eyes locking with Bruce’s darker, strained ones. Bruce reached out, squeezing Clark’s hand once, grounding him, grounding them both.

When Diana and Barry finally stepped aside, the two men entered together.

The room was in chaos.

Dick, Jason, Conner, and Cass looked wrecked — sweat-streaked, bloodied, their costumes torn. Tim, Damian, and Jon had already arrived, their faces pale with worry, every inch of them taut with fear. It was a disaster in the air, the kind that pressed heavily and suffocated every chest.

The moment the children saw them, they were swarmed. Jon rushed forward first, his small body burying into Clark’s chest as tears soaked his sweater. Damian followed stiffly, as though refusing to cry but unable to stay away. Tim wasn’t far behind. Clark tried — God, he tried — to wrap them all into his arms, holding them together even as his own voice cracked with whispered reassurances.

Only Jason didn’t move.

He stood back, arms crossed, jaw set tight, his expression dark in a way Bruce hadn’t seen since before. Since before the crowbar, before the grave.

Bruce crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until he stood in front of his son. For a long moment, neither spoke, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between them.

Then Jason’s voice broke, rough and strangled. “This is on me.”

Bruce’s breath caught.

Jason’s arms dropped, his fists clenched at his sides, his voice rising in anguish. “I ran out of bullets, I got sloppy, and she, she took it for me. She saved me, and now—” His voice cracked, his whole body shaking as the dam finally broke. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, I keep screwing everything up. I’m sorry I might’ve cost us her.”

Bruce didn’t let him finish. He surged forward, pulling Jason into his arms with a force that startled even him. Jason stiffened — always stiffened, always resisted — but then the sob broke out of him, raw and shattering, and for the first time in years, Jason let himself collapse into his father’s embrace.

Bruce held him tight, his hand cradling the back of his son’s head, his voice low but firm. “No. No, listen to me. This is not your fault. Do you hear me? It’s not your fault.”

Jason shook against him, choking out broken sounds that made Bruce’s chest ache.

And then Bruce realized that the others were listening.

He lifted his head, his voice steadier and louder, even though it caught in his throat. “This is the life we live, and these are the risks we all face. She knew that; she’s always known. And she still chose to fight and protect. That’s who she is.”

His gaze flicked across the room, locking on Dick. The man —  no, his son — stood with his arms wrapped around himself, tears streaking silently down his face. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on him, heavier than it should.

Bruce tightened his arm around Jason and spoke directly to his eldest. “She made her choice, Dick. Not because you failed, not because Jason failed. Because that’s what love looks like to her. She would rather take the pain herself than see it touch any of you. That’s not a weakness. That’s her strength.”

Dick broke then, the tears spilling freely. Clark reached for him, pulling him into his chest, wrapping an arm around Conner at the same time. He tried his best to hold all of them, the whole trembling mess of them, against his broad frame. “She’s going to be okay,” Clark murmured, his own voice breaking. “She has to be. We’re not losing her, not now. Not ever.”

So they waited.

Hours passed in the sterile light of the medbay. Heroes came and went. Diana, Barry, Hal, even Oliver — all offering what comfort they could, though none lingered long. The room was a revolving door of worry, quiet prayers, and restless pacing.

And still the surgery doors stayed closed.

When the doors did finally open with a hush of hydraulics, every head snapped up as the surgeon stepped into the waiting room, mask hanging loose around her neck, eyes tired but not unkind.

Clark was on his feet in an instant. “How is she?” His voice trembled despite the effort to steady it.

The surgeon’s expression softened. “She’s stable.”

The air shifted, as though the whole room exhaled at once.

“It took longer than expected,” the surgeon continued, “because her body was exhausted. She’d pushed herself beyond what most could sustain. Her energy reserves, her powers, were nearly depleted, and that made everything harder. But…” She smiled faintly, glancing around at the gathered family. “She fought. Harder than I’ve seen in a long time. People have succumbed to far less. The only reason she made it through was her will to survive, and perhaps,” her gaze warmed, “knowing she had so many waiting for her.”

Tears stung your children’s eyes, though most of them tried to blink them back.

“You can see her,” the surgeon finished. “She’ll be unconscious until tomorrow. The anesthesia was strong, and she needs rest. But she’s out of danger now.”

They didn’t have to say more. The kids bolted for the door, relief making their footsteps pound down the hall.

Clark and Bruce stayed behind, their feet rooted even as their hearts pulled forward. “Thank you,” Bruce said, his voice rough but steady, offering his hand. The surgeon clasped it firmly before moving off with Barry and Diana.

For a moment, the two men stood alone. The adrenaline had drained, leaving behind only the trembling weight of what could have been.

Clark turned to Bruce, his hands flexing at his sides. “I thought we’d lost her,” he whispered. His voice cracked on it, wide blue eyes raw and wet. “I — Bruce, I don’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

Bruce’s hand came up, resting briefly at Clark’s cheek, grounding him. “We didn’t,” he said simply. His own voice was hoarse, threaded through with emotion. “She’s still here.”

For a long beat, they just stood there, and then Clark moved first, pulling Bruce into a hug. Bruce stiffened, then gave in, his arms wrapping tightly around the man he loved. They held on until they could breathe again.

When they finally pulled apart, Bruce gave one slight nod. “Let’s go to her.”

The medbay door opened quietly.

You lay in the hospital bed, pale against the sheets, tubes and wires snaking around you. Machines hummed softly, the steady beep of your monitors filling the room. Around the bed, the kids clustered close. Jason at the foot, arms crossed but eyes glassy; Cass seated at your left, her hand near yours but not quite touching; Jon curled against Conner’s side, Damian perched stiffly in a chair with Dick standing near him, a hand on his shoulder.

But your right side, the one closest to the door, had been left empty. Waiting.

Bruce and Clark moved silently into those spaces, lowering themselves into the chairs as though afraid to disturb the air.

Clark’s hand trembled faintly as he closed his eyes, focusing on listening. The faint, steady rhythm of your heartbeat reached his ears, and relief broke over him like sunlight. “She’s here,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. “She’s still with us.”

Bruce reached for your hand. He pressed it carefully between his palms, his thumb tracing over your knuckles before lifting it to his lips. He pressed a long, reverent kiss there, his other fingertips brushing the pulse at your wrist, grounding himself in the proof that you lived.

And then, your heartbeat picked up. Just slightly, but unmistakably. The room stilled, eyes darting toward the monitors as the rhythm quickened.

Bruce froze, staring down at you. His voice was rough, thick with something he couldn’t name. “…She knows we’re here.”

For a long time, the room was quiet.

Then Tim spoke softly from the foot of the bed. “I read once that people can hear you when you’re in a coma.” His voice cracked, but he pushed on. “She’s not in a coma, but…I feel like she’d still like it. If we talked to her.”

Silence followed, then Cass was the first to start. Her voice was low, recounting the moment you shielded Jason without hesitation, how brave it was. Conner followed, sharing how you’d teased him the week before about needing to eat more than Pop-Tarts to keep up with patrol. Jon piped up with a story about the karaoke songs, his voice breaking when Damian quietly added, “She always made the pancakes better than Alfred.”

Soft laughter mingled with tears, the stories spilling out, one after another.

The night bled into morning. When the first pale rays of sunlight filtered through the medbay window, Bruce and Clark finally convinced the kids to wash up, maybe grab something to eat. None agreed to sleep, but they relented enough to step away, freshen up, and come back ready.

Because they knew the moment you opened your eyes, they wanted you to see them strong. Together.

And so the family waited. Passing blankets, trading food, whispering stories. All of them together kept vigil at your side until you woke.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You woke slowly, the world swimming into focus in pieces. The steady beep of a monitor, the faint antiseptic tang in the air, the weight of blankets tucked carefully around you. Every muscle ached, but the pain was duller now, muted.

The first thing you did was turn your head, your voice rasping with urgency. “Jason? Dick?”

Two shadows moved before you even finished. Jason surged forward from his corner, his arms crossed tight over his chest, but his eyes red-rimmed, haunted. Dick was already leaning over the bed rail, gripping your shoulder gently, his face wet with tears he hadn’t let you see until now.

“I’m fine,” Jason muttered, but the crack in his voice betrayed him.

“Are they? Cass, Conner—” You tried to push yourself up, panic spiking.

“We’re here!” Cass’s soft voice cut through the air, steady, grounding. She and Conner stepped forward, Conner’s broad shoulders tense, his hand resting lightly on Jon’s head as if anchoring them both.

And then the dam broke.

They crowded around you all at once, pressing close, their voices overlapping as they tried to reassure you. Jason’s hand found yours first, rough and trembling, even as he muttered, “I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

“No.” Your voice was firm, though weak. You turned your gaze on him, sharp even through exhaustion. “Don’t you dare. You did nothing wrong.”

“But if I—”

“Jason,” you cut in, squeezing his hand. “The only reason you’re standing here is because we all had each other’s backs. That’s what matters.”

Dick swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he whispered, “I should’ve made a different call—”

You shook your head firmly. “That’s why these missions have a senior member. To make the hard calls so you don’t have to. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.

His lips trembled, but he nodded, eyes wet as he wipes his tears before moving forward to get closer to you..

The chaos, the tears, the rush of love — it all melted into something steady in your chest. They were safe. That was more than enough.

Your eyes drifted past the tangle of your children, and suddenly, time went quiet.

Bruce and Clark sat on your right, just beyond the flurry of kids. The sight of them hit you harder than the pain. Their eyes told you everything — the fear, the agony, the helplessness they’d endured. You could read it all, and your heart broke for them.

You softened your voice, turning to the kids. “Would you grab the doctor for me? And some water, maybe another blanket?” You offered a small smile, brushing Jason’s arm when he hesitated. “Please. It’ll give me a chance to clean up before you all come back.”

They exchanged glances, but they knew what you were really asking. And one by one, they slipped out. Some faster than others, but all obedient, Jon clutching Conner’s hand, Damian muttering something about efficiency as he tugged Tim after him.

The door clicked shut.

And both men broke.

Clark was at your side in an instant, sinking to the edge of the bed, his hand covering yours as he bowed his forehead against you. His shoulders shook as he whispered, “I thought we lost you. Before we ever had the chance—” His breath hitched. “It felt like Lois all over again. And I can’t — God, I can’t lose you, too.”

You turned your hand, cradling his cheek weakly, your thumb brushing the stubble there. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

On your other side, Bruce sat stiffly, his eyes locked on your vitals. Both of his hands wrapped around yours, his thumbs stroking rhythmically over your knuckles, but you knew it was to soothe himself more than you.

“Bruce,” you called softly. His eyes flicked to yours, sharp, wet at the edges.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “But the kids needed saving. And I’d do it again.”

For a moment, his jaw clenched. Then he leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before brushing another against your forehead. His voice was rough, choked but steady. “We know. But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.”

The door opened again, and your family spilled back in, arms full. Tim with water, Damian with a folded blanket, Jon clutching a small bunch of flowers he’d insisted on grabbing from the hall. They noticed the tears on their fathers’ faces, but said nothing, simply easing back into the room with the quiet reverence of a vigil.

The doctor followed, smiling softly as she checked your vitals. “She’s stable. Healing will take time: months, not weeks. You’ll need help with mobility until the wound closes, and no magic for the first two weeks. Energy depletion this severe needs careful recovery. We were able to kickstart some of your healing with the tinctures you’ve made for emergencies like this, but you’re still a human. You need time to rest fully.”

Before you could answer, Damian’s voice cut through, sharp and confident: “That will be fine. She’ll be moving back to the Manor until she’s recovered.”

You arched a brow, a weak smile tugging at your lips. “Is that a request, or a command?”

A faint flush crept up his cheeks, though his chin tilted stubbornly. “A fact.”

Chuckles rippled through the room, even if briefly. You glanced at the doctor, shrugging lightly. “He’s right. Nothing to worry about.”

The doctor nodded, giving you more details about what you could and couldn’t do, and the kids listened with hawk-like intensity. Plans were already forming: rotations, meals, who would watch over you, and when.

And as their voices filled the room, one thought lingered in the air, unspoken but shared between every one of them — Bruce, Clark, the kids alike.

Maybe this wasn’t just recovery. Perhaps this was you finally coming home.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

After two weeks in the medbay, undergoing careful monitoring and enhanced healing sessions, they were comfortable with letting you go back home to start your healing. You were no longer in immediate danger, and they saw no reason that you couldn’t rest outside the hospital.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t help but worry about your transition into the manor. While it might have been easy and straightforward once, a lot of things have changed, and you’re worried about some growing pains.

But in all that planning and worrying, you forget what it feels like to live here.

Not just to visit, not just to sleep over for the kids’ sake, but to be here—to wake up under this roof, to find yourself folded back into the rhythm of the Manor again.

Some of it comes back easily, like muscle memory.

There’s the time Clark insists on helping you hang laundry in the gardens, his sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his hair as he moves with that easy, farm-boy efficiency. You laugh when the sheets snap against him in the breeze, and he pretends to wrestle them down, grinning, while Jon and Damian run maneuvers with Ace and Krypto just a few yards away. The sight warms you even now, the quiet tenderness threaded into every small task with him.

And then there’s the coffee. God, the coffee.

After those first restless nights back, you need it to start the day. Alfred’s pot is always perfect—rich and smooth—but gone by the time you drag yourself downstairs. Leaving it to the men is worse; Clark’s brew comes out syrupy-sweet, Bruce’s so bitter it makes your teeth ache. By the third morning, you take it into your own hands, brewing a second pot exactly the way you like it. Somehow, that becomes a ritual: you at the counter in your robe, Clark padding in barefoot to steal the first mug, Bruce trailing after to grumble about his schedule while quietly reaching for the second. It’s simple, ordinary, but it makes you feel…claimed. Lke you belong here again.

And then there are the ways they show you they want you here.

While you heal, you need your tools. Some plants, herbs, tinctures, and small pieces of your craft. You start slipping them into the Manor slowly, almost shyly. A rosemary pot in a windowsill, lavender tucked by your bed, a row of jars on a shelf in the library. You expect Bruce to frown, Clark to tease. Instead, no one says a word, except Damian, who only glances at the rosemary before watering it when he thinks you aren’t looking.

It isn’t until the second month, after a check-in at the Watchtower medbay, that you come back to find what they’ve done.

Bruce and Clark carve out space. Real space. A corner of the Batcave was cleared and carefully arranged for your plants and tools. A section of the backyard cleaned and tilled, sunlight catching on fresh soil, waiting for you to grow.

You stand there frozen, your hand pressed to your chest, because this isn’t just tolerance. This isn’t just making room.

This is proof. Tangible, undeniable evidence that they want you here. That they aren’t just asking you to heal in this house, they’re asking you to stay.

And God, it warms your heart in a way nothing else can.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The full moon hangs high, spilling silver across the Wayne Manor gardens. The air hums with quiet energy. Magic in the soil, in the leaves, in the pulse beneath your skin. It feels good, like your body is finally starting to knit itself back together, stronger than before.

You sit on a blanket spread across the grass, the cool night air brushing your face. And behind you, warm and steady, Clark is your anchor. His chest against your back, his arms circling you like he could hold the entire world together if it meant keeping you safe.

You sigh, tilting your head against him. “You know, this feels almost unfair.”

Clark’s lips brush your temple, the corner of his mouth curves into a smile. “What does?”

“You get your strength from the sun. I get mine from the moon.” Your fingers trace idle circles against his forearm, where it rests across your waist. “We’re greedy. Taking from the whole sky.”

He chuckles low in your ear, the sound warm and soft. “Or maybe the sky was always ours.”

The words leave you breathless, and for a while, you just stay there. Listening to the crickets and the rustle of the wind in the trees. Safe. Whole. Wanted.

Eventually, you twist slightly, catching his mouth in a kiss. Light at first, then deeper, more insistent as he cups your cheek, his thumb stroking reverently against your jaw. He kisses you like you’re fragile, even now, but there’s no mistaking the heat simmering underneath.

“Clark,” you murmur against his lips, “don’t hold back. Not tonight.”

He pulls back just enough to search your face, blue eyes dark with want but threaded with worry. “You’re still healing—”

“I know.” You press your forehead to his. “But I need this. Need you.”

For a moment, he hesitates. Then your pleading look breaks him. With a low groan, he shifts, his hand sliding down your body until it rests between your thighs.

The first brush of his fingers against you makes your breath hitch, your hips arching into his touch. He kisses you again, swallowing the sound as he strokes slowly and steadily, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your body tremble.

“Clark—” His name breaks from you in a gasp, your hand fisting in his shirt as he builds the rhythm, patient but relentless.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice rough. “Let me take care of you. Just this. Nothing else. Not until I’m sure you can handle me.”

Your body arches, the tension coiling tighter, pleasure sparking in waves until it overtakes you, your cry muffled against his chest. He holds you through it, his fingers coaxing every shudder, every gasp, until you finally collapse back against him, spent and trembling but safe in his arms.

Clark kisses your hair, your temple, your lips, over and over, like he can’t stop. “God, I love you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. 

You smile weakly, still dazed, cupping his face with a shaky hand. “I love you too.”

He kisses you again, slow and sweet, and when he finally pulls back, his arms tighten around you, keeping you pressed against his chest as the moonlight drapes you both in silver.

And for that night, it feels like the sky itself is blessing you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It’s weeks later when Bruce scares you late at night when the sound of the clock entrance seals the night behind him. The house is quiet, too quiet for anyone else to be awake, yet when Bruce climbs the stairs, he sees the light still burning under your door.

He hesitates. A part of him wants to retreat, to give you space. But something pulls him forward.

When he pushes the door open, he finds you perched on the edge of the bed, grimacing as you fumble with the bandages at your side. The gauze slips in your hands, your frustration mounting as you mutter under your breath.

“Let me,” he says, voice low but steady.

You look up, startled, then sigh in defeat. “…It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

Bruce shakes his head, already moving closer. “No. You don’t.”

He kneels in front of you, calloused fingers gentler than anyone would expect as he unwinds the too-tight wrap. His brows knit as he inspects the healing scar, every line of his body taut with concentration.

For a while, there’s only silence. The soft rip of gauze, the brush of his fingertips over your skin. Then, quietly, he says, “I regret it.”

Your breath catches. “Regret what?”

“Waiting.” His voice roughens, raw honesty bleeding through. “Holding back. Not telling you how I felt from the beginning.” His hands still, resting lightly at your waist, grounding himself. His eyes lift to yours, stormy and unguarded. “I wonder how much would’ve changed if I’d been brave enough then.”

Your chest aches at the nakedness in his tone.

He swallows, his jaw tight, before he forces the words out. “So I’m not holding back anymore. Not one day. Not one moment, not with you. If you’ll let me, I’ll show you every day how much you mean to me.”

Your hand rises, trembling, to cup his face. “Bruce…”

The kiss is slow at first, tentative, but it builds. Years of restraint cracking open in the space of heartbeats. His lips are firm, his hands sliding up to cradle your back as though afraid you’ll vanish.

He eases you down against the sheets, his body hovering close but careful, his mouth tracing down your jaw, your throat, pausing reverently at the scar along your side. He presses soft, lingering kisses there, murmuring against your skin, “Every part of you. Always.”

And then he goes lower.

The first brush of his mouth against you makes you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as he settles between your thighs with the same intensity he brings to everything else in his life. Patient. Focused. Dedicated.

“Bruce—” Your voice breaks, a whimper caught in your throat as he works you with precision, learning every twitch, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath. His tongue strokes, flicks, circles, each movement deliberate, each sound you make pulling him deeper into the rhythm of you.

You’re begging before you realize it, your hips arching, your words tumbling out, “Please, Bruce, don’t stop. God, you’re perfect, so perfect—”

His hands pin gently to your thighs, steadying you, coaxing you through as the pleasure crests. Seems like you’re not the only one who’s affected by praise.

His right hand moves higher, enough so his thumb can start applying slight pressure over your clit as he leans back and against your left thigh, still close enough to feel his breath against you. He moves his thumb lower, teasingly entering you, before pulling back and curling again your clit. 

“You look like a fucking angel. It’s not fair, how can you look like that, and taste like that? Won’t you come for me, angel? I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?  Gimme my reward.” 

With that, he attached back to your clit and sucks harshly as his fingers slide down, and his index finger barely enters you. Once, twice, then you lose it when he curls it just right. The climax rips through you hard, your cry muffled by the back of your hand, your body shuddering under his relentless devotion.

He doesn’t leave you adrift. His hands stroke your thighs softly, grounding you as he kisses his way back up your body, taking his time, his lips pressing against every tremor, every gasp, until he reaches your mouth again.

When he kisses you, it’s deep and unhurried, your taste still on his lips, his body pressed close, his heart wide open.

“Every day,” he whispers against your mouth, a vow as much as a promise.

And in that moment, you believe him.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The morning is bright, with warm sunlight spilling through the tall kitchen windows. Music hums from the old radio on the counter, some upbeat, familiar tune that has you singing under your breath as you move between stove and table, twirling spatulas and whisking bowls like it’s choreography.

The kids are everywhere. Jon and Damian at the counter, mock-arguing over toppings; Dick sliding across the kitchen in his socks with plates stacked high; Jason attempting to sneak bacon before Cass smacks his hand away. Even Tim is there, bleary-eyed with coffee, hiding a smile behind his mug as he watches the chaos unfold.

And you’re in the center of it all, moving through the kitchen like a conductor, laughter spilling free, your dress catching the light as you twirl once, twice, spatula raised like a baton. The kids fall into step with you easily, as if this kind of happiness has always been inevitable.

When you catch sight of Clark and Bruce in the doorway, you grin widely and stretch your hand out.

“Clark,” you call, warmth in your voice, “come on, don’t just stand there!”

Clark steps forward without hesitation, his cape swapped for a soft button-down, his smile as bright as the morning sun. He takes your hand, twirls you once, and leans down to kiss your temple before moving to ruffle Jon’s hair, pressing a kiss to Cass’s forehead, and patting Damian’s shoulder. He makes the rounds like he belongs, because he does.

And Bruce stays in the doorway, frozen in place.

The sight steals his breath. The music, the laughter, the way your smile softens when you look at Clark, the way the kids buzz around like a hive, safe and happy. The Manor feels alive in a way it hasn’t in years.

“You know,” Alfred murmurs beside him, appearing as silently as ever, “I had almost forgotten what this house sounded like.” His gaze lingers on you, on the swirl of life in the kitchen. “Laughter and joy. A family unafraid to take up space.”

Bruce swallows, his throat tight. “It’s been a long time.”

Alfred hums. “Far too long.” He rests a hand on Bruce’s arm, firm but gentle. “But now, now it feels whole. For the first time since you were ten years old, Master Bruce, the house feels complete. I’m proud of you, my boy, for allowing yourself to love again and be loved in return. It looks good on you, Master Bruce.”

Bruce can’t answer, not right away. His eyes stay locked on you as you laugh, head tipped back, Clark spinning you in the middle of the kitchen while the kids clap along to the radio. His chest aches with it. This quiet, impossible happiness he never thought he’d feel again.

And for the first time in decades, Bruce lets himself believe Alfred is right.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You stand before the tall mirror in the bedroom, sliding earrings into place. The dress Bruce bought hangs perfectly against your curves, silk catching the light. You smooth your palms down your hips, murmuring to yourself about the fit when a familiar warmth brushes your back.

Clark.

He doesn’t announce himself. Instead, he slides his hands around your waist, his reflection filling the glass behind yours. “God,” he whispers against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “Do you know how beautiful you look right now?”

A shiver runs through you as his mouth trails lower, kissing along the slope of your shoulder. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, bright and reverent. But there’s something darker behind them too, something simmering. “All those nights I dreamed of you looking just like this. All mine.”

You open your mouth to answer, but your words die when his hands slide higher, framing your breasts through the silk, his touch just shy of indecent. He kisses you again, slower this time, and murmurs, “Look at you. Look how perfect you are. I’ve been so damn patient with you.” His teeth graze your ear, his breath hot. “Do you have any idea how hard it was? Watching you heal. Knowing how badly I wanted to tear these little dresses off you and remind you who you belong to.”

Heat floods your cheeks, your thighs clenching.

He smirks against your throat at your silence, his voice dropping lower. “Do you remember what I told you? That night in the garden, when you came apart so beautifully on my fingers?”

Your body trembles. Your reflection is flushed, eyes wide, lips parted. Slowly, shakily, you nod. “You said…” You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You said I had to be ready for you.”

Clark hums, satisfied, his teeth nipping at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “That’s right. And now? You’re healed. You’re ready.” His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you back against the hard line of his body. “And I’ve been waiting, sweetheart. Waiting to ruin you properly.”

The sound of the door makes you gasp.

Bruce leans against the frame, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, his eyes dark and heavy as they sweep the scene. You, flushed in silk. Clark pressed against your back, mouthing your throat like he can’t stop.

“I leave you for ten minutes,” Bruce says, his voice low and sharp-edged, “and he’s already got his hands all over you.”

Clark smirks against your skin, lips curving against your throat. “Can you blame me?” His hands tighten at your waist possessively. “Look at her. She’s stunning.”

“Stunning doesn’t mean helpless,” Bruce counters, stepping inside, his gaze never leaving yours in the mirror. He comes up close, his hand lifting to your throat, tilting your chin until your eyes lock with his. His touch is firm but reverent, grounding you differently. “You don’t need him pawing at you like you’re going to vanish.”

You shudder under the twin intensity of their gazes, your reflection caught between them, trembling with the weight of their attention.

“Please,” Clark murmurs against your neck, voice low and rough, “just really quick, sweetheart. We’ve been so good, so patient. Let us have you.”

Bruce’s hand tightens at your chin, tilting your face to his in the mirror. His mouth brushes your ear, his tone velvet and sinful. “Say yes, angel. Let us take care of you.”

Your resolve cracks instantly. “Yes.”

That one word undoes them both.

Clark grins, greedy and boyish, his hands already sliding the silk of your dress higher. “Come on then,” he whispers, “bed. We’re not ruining this. Too pretty to tear.”

The world blurs until you’re settled on the mattress, Bruce behind you, his chest solid against your back as his hands steady you. Clark kneels between your legs, already stripping down, tossing clothes aside until only his underwear remains. He smirks when he catches your stare.

“Don’t worry,” he teases, voice thick. “Wanted to be ready for when you make a mess. It’s  okay, don’t worry about it!”

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, tongue working slow and devastating while his fingers stroke along your folds. He pushes one inside, steady, patient, curling just right until your breath stutters and your thighs tremble against Bruce’s.

You whimper, tipping your head back against Bruce’s shoulder. “I want, Bruce, I want to see him.”

Bruce hushes you, lips grazing your temple. “Patience, angel. He’s worth waiting for.”

Clark hums against you, the vibration sparking heat low in your belly. “Listen to him,” he murmurs, sliding a second finger inside, stretching you, filling you more. “You’ll thank us for it.”

Your body arches as Bruce whispers filth into your ear, his voice sharper than Clark’s reverence. “Look at him, angel. On his knees for you, desperate for your taste. And you, so wet and needy, you’re going to make him lose his mind.”

Clark groans at the words, his hips jerking against the mattress unconsciously.

Your breath breaks into a cry when Bruce’s hand slides lower, circling over your breast, his thumb brushing across your peaked nipple through the fabric. He growls into your ear, “So greedy, aren’t you? Taking Clark’s fingers like this while you sit in my lap. God, you’re perfect.”

Clark pulls back suddenly, his mouth glistening. His fingers never stop, pumping steadily as he looks up at you, eyes dark. “Gonna help him now, sweetheart? He’s been patient with you. Hasn’t said a thing about his cock, and I know he’s dying.”

Before you can answer, Bruce shifts, his hand leaving your breast to free himself. He hisses softly as he fists his cock, thick and flushed, so close your hand twitches toward it on instinct.

But Clark beats you there. He leans forward, spits directly onto the head of Bruce’s cock, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Then he guides your hand to wrap around it, his smirk wicked. “There you go. Take care of him while he keeps you steady. Fair’s fair.”

You do, clumsy at first from the sheer intensity of it all, but Bruce groans low, his restraint cracking as your hand works over him. Above you, his eyes flutter closed, jaw tight as he breathes out, “Fuck, angel…”

The sight of Bruce breaking, the sound of Clark’s filthy encouragement, the relentless stretch of Clark’s fingers—it overwhelms you. Your body trembles, the release tearing through you again as you cry out, clinging to Bruce while Clark works you through every shudder.

Your chest heaves as the tremors fade. Clark kisses your thigh, his fingers slipping free. His eyes are molten as he crawls higher, shedding his underwear, his cock heavy and flushed.

You bite your lip at the sight. Large and thicker than most men, but not impossible. Just perfect.

He strokes himself once, coating the head with your slick, but then he freezes, panic flickering in his expression. “Wait a condom—”

A laugh escapes you, breathless, as you pull him into a kiss. “Magic’s got that handled. You’re good.”

Clark groans against your lips, relief and hunger tangled together. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Then I’m not waiting another second.”

Clark grunts as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. His hands tremble where they grip your thighs. “Christ, so wet for me already. You want this, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your whole body taut with need. “Please, Clark—”

That’s all he needs. With a low, broken sound, he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching you wide until your breath catches in your throat.

“Fuck—” He drops his head to your shoulder, kissing, nipping, reverent and desperate all at once. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect around me. Taking me so well, sweetheart. So good for me.”

Your back arches against Bruce’s chest, your fingers clutching at Clark’s shoulders as he sinks deeper, deeper, until his hips are flush against yours. Both of you moan at the fullness, the stretch, the obscene rightness of it.

“Good girl,” Clark murmurs against your jaw, kissing up to your lips, swallowing the gasp that escapes you. “God, you’re such a good girl for us.”

You’re shaking, already so close to unraveling, when Bruce’s arm slides around your waist, steady and firm. His other hand presses against your lower stomach, just above your pelvis, his thumb rubbing slow circles as his palm flattens.

“Feel that, angel?” Bruce’s voice is rough velvet, low against your ear. He presses harder, and you gasp as you feel Clark, thick and deep, through the thin barrier of your body. “That’s him. That’s Clark inside you. Filling you up. Exactly where he belongs.”

The sound Clark makes is nothing short of feral. His hips twitch, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans, “Fuck, Bruce, don’t, don’t say it like that. I can’t—”

“You can,” Bruce cuts in smoothly, his mouth brushing your temple as his hand presses again, forcing another strangled moan from you. “She can take it. She wants it.”

“Please move,” you beg, every nerve alight, every muscle trembling. “Clark, please!”

Clark kisses you hard, swallowing your words, and then finally pulls back before thrusting forward again, slow at first, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. He sets a rhythm, steady and deep, the sounds of your bodies meeting obscene in the quiet room.

“Oh God—” you cry out, your moans spilling free with every thrust, beyond control now, lost to the sheer sensation.

Clark buries his face in your neck, groaning low as his pace builds. “That’s it, just like that. Fuck, you’re perfect, taking me so deep. I’ve dreamed about this, about wrecking you like this. Having you like this. God, you’re better than any dream I could have. So close, sweetheart, I know you are too, but it’s not right yet.”

He’s hitting your g-spot almost every time, but it’s not quite enough. You whimper, desperate, nails raking across his back.

And then, suddenly, he stops.

You whine, broken, trembling. “No, Clark, please don’t stop…”

Bruce hushes you, his lips at your ear. “Calm down, angel. He’s just trying to help you. Let him.”

Clark growls low, pulling out only to grip your thighs, unyielding, shifting your body until your lower half is lifted, folded tight in his arms. Your knees press toward your chest, Bruce steadying you from behind as Clark presses you into a perfect, brutal angle — a mating press.

Clark’s eyes burn as he lines himself up again. “You deserve the best, sweetheart. Every time. Let me give it to you.”

The first thrust steals your breath, slamming into that perfect spot with devastating precision. You cry out, your nails digging into Bruce’s forearm as Clark drives into you again, and again, each stroke deeper, harder, angling to hit your g-spot every single time.

“Look at her,” Bruce murmurs, his voice ragged now, his hand still pressing at your lower stomach so you can feel every inch of Clark pounding into you. “So beautiful, so desperate. She was made for this, for us.”

Clark groans, his thrusts stuttering at the words, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop. His eyes lock on yours as his voice breaks, filthy and reverent all at once: “I swear to God, sweetheart, you’re going to ruin me.”

And then there’s nothing but the sound of your cries, the slap of skin on skin, the rush of pleasure building again as Clark fucks you open like he was made for it. Like he’ll never let you go.

Clark’s pace turns erratic, hips snapping into yours harder, deeper, until your vision blurs. Your body clenches around him, desperate, and when his thumb brushes your clit, the pressure shatters.

You cry out as you come undone, shaking around him, your release dragging Clark over the edge with you. He groans your name into your shoulder, his cock pulsing deep inside as he spills into you, clutching your hips to his.

But even as your body trembles in the aftermath, Clark doesn’t pull out. Instead, he breathes raggedly into your neck, then carefully shifts you forward, rolling until you’re on hands and knees with him still buried inside you.

And Bruce, already flushed and straining, is there in front of you. His cock is heavy, flushed, his hand stroking himself once before he grips your hair instead, steady and deliberate. His other palm cradles your cheek.

His voice is rough velvet. “Is it alright if I take control for a little bit, angel?”

You nod immediately, eyes shining, and open your mouth for him.

“Good girl.”

He slides in slowly, giving you time to adjust, but once he feels your throat relax, he widens his stance, planting his feet against the mattress, and starts to move. Steady thrusts at first, then deeper, his hand firm at the back of your head, guiding you.

Clark groans low at the sight, his hips jolting as he feels you tighten around him. “Fuck, you’re getting off on this. You’re so wet, sweetheart. Taking me so deep while you’re swallowing him down.” His hand grips your hip, keeping you steady as he gives shallow thrusts, angled perfectly against that spot inside you. Each push makes you moan around Bruce, the vibrations pulling a curse from him.

“Perfect,” Bruce grits out, his thrusts quickening. “Absolutely perfect, taking us both like this, like you were made for it.” His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, his voice breaking into something almost tender. “You’re incredible, angel. Ours.”

Clark’s voice joins his, rough and hungry. “She’s amazing, so fucking amazing. I can feel her tightening every time you fuck her mouth, she’s loving it, Bruce. You’re making our girl feel good.”

It builds too fast. The angle, the pressure, the obscene chorus of their voices, your body trembles violently as another orgasm rips through you, smaller but sharper, leaving you clenching tight around Clark. The sensation drags him over again, his groan muffled against your back as he spills into you a second time, his hips pressed flush to yours.

Bruce pulls free at the last second, stroking himself with quick, harsh tugs before coming across your chest, his groans ragged, his hand still tangled in your hair.

And then, silence.

The only sounds left are harsh breathing, pounding hearts, and the rustle of sheets as Clark finally eases out of you, kissing down your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting you gently onto your side, arranging you between them. Bruce collapses beside you, still flushed, still trying to catch his breath, while Clark stretches out at your back, one arm draped across your waist—his other hand strokes slowly up your thigh, grounding, soothing.

“You did so well,” Clark whispers, pressing a kiss into your shoulder. “So good for us. Perfect.”

Bruce hums in agreement, his hand sliding into yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. “You’re everything, angel. Everything.”

Between them—warm, loved, safe—you let your eyes close, the world quieting into nothing but their voices, their touches, their steady devotion.

Clark is the first to move, though it takes him a moment. He slips out of bed with a groan and pads into the adjoining bathroom. When he comes back, he’s holding a damp cloth and the softest towel he could find.

“Stay put,” he murmurs when you start to shift. He settles back beside you and takes his time, careful and thorough as he cleans you up, dropping a kiss to your thigh when you squirm shyly. “There. Perfect again.”

Bruce is already at your other side, pressing a glass of water into your hands. “Sip.” His tone is gruff, but the hand at your back is steady, his thumb brushing small, grounding circles.

Between them, you feel, cared for. Worshipped in the quiet, domestic ways as much as in the fire of their touch.

“You did so well for us,” Clark says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple as you hand back the empty glass.

Bruce hums in agreement, leaning down to kiss your knuckles, still holding your hand tight in his. “You’re ours, angel. Always.”

You sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows as they each curl around you, your head on Bruce’s chest, Clark pressed warmly against your back. For a blissful moment, all you can hear is their breathing, their hearts. Two steady beats wrapped around your own.

And then a quiet laugh escapes you. “We really should’ve waited until after the potluck.”

Clark chuckles against your shoulder, sheepish and unrepentant.

Bruce only smirks faintly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We wanted to make sure you understood our intentions this time. No more confusion.”

That draws a laugh from you. Soft, helpless, full of affection. You tip your head back to look between them, and for the first time in years, there’s no ache behind it. Just love. Just certainty.

You can’t believe how much has shifted, how much you’ve shifted. The subtle confidence in your body, in your heart. The way your lives have always been bound together by children, by duty, now woven tighter still by choice, by love.

What began as years of near-misses had finally settled into something solid, something real. A love that felt like coming home.

a/n: ahh and that's it! I quickly gave this a once-over after adding the last part (healing act). i knew the aspect i wanted to included, but i didn't really have any interest in writing the healing act detailed or accurately, so i sped it up. all sexual acts happened toward the end of her month healing. also, don't know if it was clear, but reader left jackson after the overnight. she realized her heart wasn't in it, and didn't wanna keep pretending. pretty sure i never said that explictly.

i'll go over this and edit it for consistency one day, but for now, that's it! thank you to everyone who liked it, commented, reblogged, or messaged me about it! You all made my heart happy, and made me super excited! i have other writing plans coming out, i have a separate post for a poll so you guys can help me decide what i should write next, as i'm open to your writing suggestions!

note that i can say no if i want to for no reason needed!

anyways, love each and everyone of you, big smooches for everyone! and a cookie, your favorite flavor!

taglist: @lovetrouble123 @h2overwatch @thecaughtsimp @maripositanoctruna @xxemmarldxx @mess-is-my-aesthetic 

@sapphichotmess @Itszarinaig @socialmess-jery @stargirl-mayaa @lulasagna @veryberryjelly

@spiderstyles04 @thel0v3hashira143 @notsochillnerd @souperbat @sekidekiboombeki @h-l-m

From then on, if there was a monster in a closet, a demon in a mirror, or the veiled edge of another world blurring through the rain-soaked streets of Gotham, it was often you who was called in. Sometimes as a specialist, other times as a paramedic or a cleaner, always as someone who could mop up the sorts of metaphysical problems that even Superman rarely wanted to touch.

Your powers, rare as they were, meant that you rarely caught a breather. The League’s enemies had the annoying habit of cropping up in clusters, each new threat outpacing the previous, and there was never quite anyone else equipped with both your resilience and your sense of grim levity.

The one thing that made the constant work bearable was Bruce Wayne, who was, on paper, the last person you would have expected. The difference was that you knew Bruce from before all this. Long before the League, you’d worked with him on a handful of cases that crossed over from the supernatural into the gothic, and in those unlit hours, you’d discovered how much he relished a good mystery.

How his skepticism was not a wall but a method, how his blankest stares meant he was actually listening. There were nights, late in his cave, where the two of you would trade theories about the Court of Owls, or the nature of the Lazarus pit, or the real reason why Gotham winters never ended, your combined laughs echoing around the cave. Those nights were punctuated with coffee refills, cold takeout, and your laughs echoing around the cave. It surprised you how much you liked him.

On paper, it was like being paired with a very large, extremely well-dressed bat that sometimes fought crime. In reality, you’d come to relish it. His silences were never awkward, not even when they were stitched together in some stakeout car on the edge of the Narrows, waiting for the next supernatural to crawl out of the sewer. You’d keep yourself awake with stories, sometimes real, made up, and Bruce would listen, his body language giving away nothing except that he heard every syllable.

You never took it personally that he rarely responded. He was, in his own way, a connoisseur of secrets. He didn’t need to banter to acknowledge that someone mattered. It was enough that he’d let you in at all, even for an hour or two, into the endless hallways of his thoughts. Maybe that was why, out of everyone, you were least bothered by Bruce’s ever-present boundaries, his need to keep his life sheathed like a knife. It was what made him good at his job, and anyway, you had secrets too.

However, every now and then, you were able to get Bruce to break out of his routine, something that you knew he only did because of his comfort level with you.

“Could you believe her audacity?” You ranted, turning to look at Bruce, who was in the driver’s seat of the car.

You two were on a stakeout, waiting for the latest bad guy to come out, and the area had fallen quiet, with no signs of activity. So you had taken it upon yourself to fill the silence with a story about your rude neighbor, and while a part of you didn’t expect Bruce to react, you weren’t afraid to make it awkward with a pause.

It was silent for a minute before Bruce put down the binoculars to give you his attention, complete with a soft sigh.

“No, I can’t. People these days seem to have no manners.” He responded back, completely serious, earning him another one of your bright smiles as you launch back into telling the story.

Later on, once you finished your stories, Bruce allowed you to play music, softly, after a bit of a fight.

“This isn’t a hangout, it’s a stakeout.” He argued.

“And I’m just saying that we’re looking really weird sitting in a car without any music playing or making out. If we want to stay in this spot, one of the two has to start happening.” You then look at him with a slightly raised eyebrow, letting him know that the choice was his to make.

Bruce took a second to look at you, his gaze dropping slightly to your lips, making you smile, before he quickly worked on the car’s screen to allow your phone to sync before you could make another inappropriate comment.

As you both relaxed and enjoyed the easy atmosphere within the car, one of your favorite songs started playing, and Bruce relaxed slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye, enjoying the music. At least, until you quickly launched forward to pause the music to say, “Oh, we’ll play this song on the way back after we catch the guy that’s literally crawling out of the sewer.”

So yeah, working with Bruce had its own rhythm. There was a pattern to his hyperawareness: how he’d catalog every detail, every sound, even every strange flicker in the air when you cast a spell.

He never interrupted, but he’d often startle you by referencing an incantation or a trigger word you’d used months ago, sometimes in a completely different language, sometimes in backwards Latin that no one else in the League ever bothered to parse.

There was a mutual respect there, a willingness to defer when one of you was out of your depth, but also a silent competition to see who could decipher the problem first. Most of the time, you tied. Sometimes, in the dead of night, you’d let him win, earning a wry smile from him when he caught on.

If anything, Bruce seemed to find the supernatural almost soothing compared to the horror show of human crime. You suspected it was because magic, even at its most chaotic, at least obeyed a kind of logic. You could learn the rules, even if the rules changed arbitrarily. But people—people were a mess.

You never teased him about it, but you could always tell when a case had rattled him. His voice went softer, his posture more guarded, his questions more measured. He’d never admit it, but sometimes he needed you there to remind him that not everything was uncaring, that not every shadow held an enemy. That there were things in the world that could be fixed with a word, a gesture, a little humanity.

Most League days were a crucible of repetition: briefings, dispatches, containment, debriefing, and then the long, empty hours of maintenance. The Watchtower, despite its orbital grandeur, turned out to be little more than a police station with better windows. The corridors were always humming, the cafeteria less a gathering spot than a neutral zone where godlike beings dared to graze on various foods, and the control center, with its panoramic views of earth and nebula, did nothing to soften the workaday grind of shift rotations and system checks.

It was in that monotony that you and Bruce truly thrived; if anyone understood the elegance of repetition, it was the two mortals regularly called to the monitor deck for triple shifts.

There was a subtle choreography to your work together. You’d scan for mythic signatures, hands gliding over brass-etched scrying plates, while he’d run his encyclopedic suite of security sweeps. You’d trade observations in a shorthand language, half sarcasm, half precision. “A minor spike in the southern hemisphere,” you’d say, and he’d reply without looking up, “Already cross-referenced; it’s just Grodd. Again.”

Sometimes he’d beat you to the punch, sometimes you’d spot an anomaly before his algorithms flagged it, and the only acknowledgment was a wry quirk of the mouth or a sideways tilt of the head. But that was enough.

One weekday, the Watchtower’s main computer suite was a shrine to blue glow and the soft, ceaseless purr of fans. Your spell matrices were deployed across three terminals, light bending into fractal glyphs, while Bruce sat hunched, arms folded, in front of a waveform display tracking seismic disturbances near Gotham. He had a mug of black coffee in one hand and, as far as you could tell, had not moved except to glare at the screen with increasingly surgical focus.

You’ve been at it for three hours, the only break an interlude in which Bruce had left, presumably to swap out servers and recalibrate sensors, and you’d been left alone with your thoughts and the rising urge to do something reckless like order takeout, or worse, try to kiss him.

While things had shifted away from coworker territory, whatever you were creating with Bruce also didn’t have a name, which made it difficult to know where the two of you stood.

But none of that took away from the attraction you feel towards him. From his knowledge, focus, and dedication to his nervous habits, you were slowly but surely caring more and more for Gotham’s Dark Knight.

So was it really any surprise when lately your eyes have started to drift to his lips, or over his body during a dreadfully long meeting? You tried your best to keep your mind and eyes focused on the meeting; however, your thoughts have started to consistently drift towards the dark look and soft touches that have become more normal between you and Bruce.

Bruce returned and sat down to look over whatever new data he had, startling you out of your thoughts. You sighed, sitting in your chair, turning around to see if Bruce would say anything. Your sighs increase in heaviness and length twice more, earning a twitch from Bruce as he pretends he doesn’t hear you.

“Tsk. I can’t believe you would ignore me like that.” You say it aloud as you turn slightly away, keeping Bruce in your peripheral vision.

“Oh, were you saying something?” Bruce playfully teases you, finally looking at you, chuckling at your outraged look. He leans forward on the desk next to you, trying to get your attention as you look the other way.

Seeing your stubbornness, Bruce’s lips twitch into a small smile before he hums loud enough for you to hear. “I guess that means you must not be working hard enough if you have time to sigh so heavily.”

That blasphemous statement makes you turn around to see his smug expression at your predictability in the face of the insult.

“What? I’m just efficient at my job. And incredible at multitasking, I’ll have you know.” You tell him determinedly. “In fact, maybe you need some of my help.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach as you saw his soft, welcoming expression, which made you feel seen.

“Hmm, you’re a bit of a nuisance, huh?” Bruce inquires, leaning into your space again, enjoying your face morphing from soft to confusion, then to anger, all the while looking breathtaking with every emotion painted on your face.

“A tolerable one.” Bruce amends, his hands lightly touching yours, and immediately earns a beaming smile.

“High praise.” You respond, your other hand resting on his forearm, the warmth and rightness of the gesture not lost on either of them.

“Only for those deserving.” He said back, right before the tension was broken, ruining whatever temporary stasis you and Bruce seem to enter when around one another consistently.

Out in the Watchtower’s main habitat module, word of their not-quite-relationship had started making the rounds. Hawkgirl and Diana had money on how long it would take before one of them broke.

Diana, ever the romantic, insisted that Bruce only pretended to be immune. Shayera was convinced it would end in a spectacular, fist-through-the-wall disaster. The other Leaguers mostly kept out of it, though Barry once tried to engineer an “accidental” double-date in the Watchtower rec room, only to have Bruce ghost the evening with a single, untraceable text.

The only overtly embarrassing moment came courtesy of Shayera, who had the tact of a sledgehammer and the supernatural ability to appear at the least opportune second. It was just after a successful containment run in Central City—a minor demon outbreak, nothing that required even the B-team—and they were riding back to the Tower in a battered Javelin, the cockpit crowded with Barry, Clark, and a shipping crate of screaming, sentient fungi. You and Bruce sat side-by-side in the back, idly trading postmission notes, when Shayera, in the pilot’s seat, cut through the static with, “So are you two together, or are we all just pretending not to notice the sexual tension?”

Instant silence. Even the crate of spores seemed to hush.

You almost choked, your eyes meeting hers when she turned around, your eyes expressive enough telling her to shut up, but Bruce was preternaturally calm, as always. “That’s a question for HR, Shayera.”

You quickly turn to look at him, surprised at the public acknowledgment that something was happening between you two.

“Oh, we have one? I’m assuming they probably want a word with me,” she joked back playfully, earning snickers, effectively cutting the tension.

Clark glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wide with interest and something unnamed in his eyes. “I had no idea,” he said. “Is this…new?”

You wanted to shrink into your seat, but years of exposure to metahuman weirdness had given you a certain immunity to shame. “We’re colleagues,” you said, brightly. “Colleagues who sometimes talk about magic and crime and occasionally the tragic fate of office coffee.”

Barry, never one to miss an opening, snickered and said, “Yeah, but I saw a mini firework show and lots of heavy eye contact while we were in a meeting the other week, and I’m pretty sure that counts as foreplay.”

You kicked his seat, just hard enough to make him yelp. “You’re just upset no one here appreciates your humor.”

Clark, for his part, only smiled and said, “I think it’s great. It’s nice to see Bruce connect with someone.”

That was when you saw it: the faintest blink in Bruce’s expression, a microsecond of something vulnerable, before it was gone again under the mask of composure.

After that, the teasing only intensified. Diana found every excuse to drag you into “girls’ nights” where the subtext was always Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

J’onn never said a word, but occasionally passed you in the corridor with a look that was either deep empathy or barely suppressed mirth. Even the Tower’s maintenance crew started offering you custom caffeine blends, as if anticipating that you’d be up late with your “favorite detective.”

Still, for all its intensity, the thing between you and Bruce never felt like a distraction. If anything, it sharpened you—made you more attuned to his silences, his tells, the rare moments when he let the facade drop, if only for a heartbeat.

In the off-hours, when the Tower was mostly empty, you’d sometimes walk the perimeter together, trading stories of cases that didn’t make it to the news, or arguing about obscure magical theory versus brute-force deduction. You liked the way he’d listen, hands clasped behind his back, and how, once, he’d stopped in mid-sentence to actually laugh at one of your jokes—a real laugh, low and unguarded, not the silent snort he reserved for the rest of the world.

You never pushed for more. You both had your boundaries, and yours was not to ask for what couldn’t be given. That was your silent accord: no questions, just presence.

It was around this time that you noticed the gaps in his schedule had gotten longer. Weekly calls and meetups you guys had slowly came to a stop. It wasn’t enough to alarm anyone else, because the League operated on plausible deniability, and its members knew better than to ask when one of their own dropped off the grid. But you paid attention. The first time it happened, you assumed it was nothing—a busted rib, a side mission, maybe a rare vacation. But then it happened again, and again, and even in the midst of your own spiraling caseload, you found yourself waiting for his next check-in.

Sometimes you’d catch sight of him on the news, the flicker of his cape through Gotham’s skyline, and you’d feel a mild relief, like seeing a memory resurface. Other times, you’d ask J’onn for status updates, only to receive a polite but blank report: Batman, currently unassigned.

When he did show up for missions, the League couldn't help but notice the change in Bruce's fighting style. His already brutal efficiency had sharpened to something almost desperate—knuckles bloodied beneath kevlar gloves, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grinding through the comms. He did kindly accept the mouth guard you gifted him, sharing a small but genuine smile with you before disappearing again.

During the Metropolis mission, he'd taken down seventeen armed mercenaries in under four minutes, a new record. The moment the debrief ended, he was already striding toward the exit, cape snapping behind him like a dark flag. Diana caught your eye across the room, her expression mirroring your concern.

“Batman-” Diana began, only to be interrupted by the man.

"Gotham needs me," Bruce would mutter when questioned, his voice a gravelly whisper that left no room for follow-up.

Clark tried next with his usual approach—cornering Bruce in the monitor room with that earnest Kansas smile and a hand on his shoulder. "We're here for you," he'd said, blue eyes radiating sincerity beneath the fluorescent lights. "People who understand the weight of two identities. It’s a tough burden we share, but we don’t have to do it alone!”

Bruce had looked up from the console, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual. "If I were having problems," he'd said, gaze sliding deliberately toward you where you pretended not to be eavesdropping by the coffee machine, "I would talk to her."

Your smile had been involuntary, warming your face as Clark's brow furrowed, a slight pout forming.

Bruce had sighed, adding reluctantly, "And of course you too."

Great, Bruce thought. Now there are two suns. As he sat at the console, being blinded from the smiles coming from both of you and Clark as you guys began talking to one another about a sort of “check in with Bruce” group chat between you three.

The mystery unraveled on a rain-slicked Tuesday morning. The Gotham Gazette's front page showed Batman silhouetted against a harvest moon, his cape unfurled like massive wings against the city's amber glow. But there, barely visible in the corner of the frame, perched on a gargoyle's shoulder—a smaller figure in bright colors, balanced on the balls of his feet with an acrobat's poise.

The League's reactions ranged from disbelief to outrage. Flash had sent seventeen text messages in under a minute. Diana had called twice. Even J'onn had raised an eyebrow, which for him was equivalent to a full-blown interrogation.

But communication from Bruce remained sparse except for a single message in the group chat you shared with him and Clark: "We'd love to meet him whenever you think it's best," you'd written, followed immediately by Clark's simple ":)"

The response came at 4:17 AM—the blue light of your phone illuminating your bedroom ceiling as you checked the notification. No words, just two small heart icons beneath both messages, the digital equivalent of Bruce Wayne whispering "thank you" in the dark.

Eventually you meet Robin when Bruce brings him to the Watchtower. The boy's costume is a kaleidoscope of emerald, crimson, and canary yellow that seems to pulse with his barely-contained excitement. His domino mask can't hide the way his eyes dart everywhere at once, cataloging the alien technology, the panoramic view of Earth, the heroes gathered in a small cluster across the observation deck.

When Barry arrives, his wind-tousled hair and half-eaten protein bar suggesting he'd rushed over, he freezes mid-stride. His prepared anecdote dies on his lips as he takes in the diminutive figure standing beside Batman's imposing silhouette. The contrast is almost comical; darkness and light, stillness and motion, scowl and barely-suppressed grin.

"Uh, what's that?" Barry asks, pointing at the youngest, his finger hovering in the air between them.

"A pre-teen, Barry," Bruce responds, his cowl hiding his eyebrows but not the dry edge in his voice. "You haven't seen one before?" The words fall with perfect deadpan timing, as if child sidekicks materialized beside him every Tuesday.

The boy snickers, ducking his head toward Batman's cape, small shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

You cross the gleaming floor toward them, your footsteps echoing in the momentary silence. The boy straightens immediately, chin lifting with unmistakable pride, as his mentor clenches his jaw slightly. You look up at Bruce, then at the child, and back to Bruce, asking him a silent question.

If it wasn’t for the months spent at his side, you wouldn’t be able to tell that Bruce was actually slightly embarrassed and nervous about this meeting. You smile at Bruce, understanding reflected in your eyes as you see his almost indeterminable relaxation of his shoulders, before you give the child all of your attention.

"Well, what's your name?" you ask, noticing how he balances on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction.

"Robin!" His voice rings clear and confident, accompanied by a smile so brilliant and uninhibited it reminds you startlingly of Clark's, the kind that transforms his entire face and seems to generate its own light. Before you can help it, your own lips curve upward, caught in the gravitational pull of the young boy's infectious energy.

The next time you saw the sidekick in person, your case files were spread across the obsidian surface of the Batcave's main console, holographic crime scene projections hovering in the damp cave air. Bruce stood beside you in civilian clothes—charcoal turtleneck rolled to his elbows, dark circles shadowing his eyes—as you both dissected evidence patterns that only your uniquely synchronized minds could connect.

Dick, as you came to know him beyond the domino mask, materialized silently at your elbow, dressed in faded Gotham Academy sweats, his raven hair still damp from training. His bright eyes darted between your scattered notes, absorbing everything with the precision expected of the protege of the greatest detective. When you explained your theory about the Falcone shipments, he asked three questions so insightful that Bruce's eyebrow twitched—his equivalent of shocked approval.

Late-night ice cream became your ritual after cases closed; mint chocolate chip for you, rocky road for Dick, and a single scoop of bitter dark chocolate for Bruce, who pretended to only participate under protest. You'd sit on the mansion's east balcony, limestone cool beneath your legs, watching Gotham's distant lights shimmer like fallen stars while Dick recounted the night's victories with sweeping hand gestures.

It was one night after another successful patrol and rooftop treat, and you and Bruce sat on the roof after Dick left to go inside to get ready for bed. It’s actually been one of the few times you and Bruce have together since the introduction of Dick into your life.

You’ve both been tiptoeing around the other since neither knows what to say to the other. After all, what can you say to the person you’re interested in who has now taken in a ward and a sidekick and is essentially a single parent?

It turns out to be Bruce who breaks the silence and the tension. “I’m not sure how to approach this, but I do want to talk about…” his voice trails off, not quite sure how to describe the situation.

You raise an eyebrow, “Us? I don’t know if we were really an item to have that conversation.”

Bruce turns to make eye contact and nods. “I’d like there to be an us, is what I’m trying to say. I know it’s difficult and I’m now a guardian on top of being Bruce Wayne and Batman, but…” He looks back towards the Gotham skyline before he continues.

“There’s a part of me that wants to belong to you. A part that started caring from all the late nights and car rides. I guess I’m asking if you would like to keep exploring that with me.”

You both sit there for a minute more, just enjoying each other’s company and thinking about where to go from here. Bruce eventually turns to look at you again, immediately rolling his eyes when he sees the goofy grin you’re sporting.

“Wow, I never knew how rich people approached romance. Are you asking me to go steady with you, Bruce?” you tease him, leaning forward and grabbing his arm when he attempts to look away, flushed from embarrassment. You laugh out loud at this new side of Bruce, before you get close enough to turn his head to look at you. Your breath catches at the tender gaze he shows you, openingly and willingly showing you more of him. This beautiful, beautiful man, you think, taking a moment to enjoy his beauty.

“You never answered.” He whispered to you, determined to see the conversation through regardless of his embarrassment and your teasing.

“I’d love nothing more, Bruce. Don’t know if you know this, but I’m kinda fond of you and your kid.”

“Good, I’m sure the feelings are reciprocated,” he whispers back against your lips, before you meet for a tender kiss, where you both show your emotions and feelings, both better at showing than words.

Eventually, you part and rearrange so you’re resting your head on his shoulder, his hand coming to rest on your knees, both of you enjoying the tender moment.

When Bruce was summoned for an off-world League mission, his request came at dawn, voice gruff over the secure line: "I need someone I trust."

With the city. With Dick. was the implied message that Bruce didn’t verbalize, but knew you would understand. You agreed without hesitation, voice still rough with sleep: "I'll take ‘em. They’ll be fine with me."

That's how you found yourself behind the wheel of your weathered blue Volkswagen, morning sunlight catching in its chipped paint as you navigated Gotham's morning traffic with Dick beside you. The radio blasted some bubblegum pop anthem, bass thrumming through the dashboard as Dick drummed against the glove compartment and belted lyrics with adolescent abandon. You matched his enthusiasm with deliberately theatrical falsettos, your voice cracking on high notes as he dissolved into laughter that fogged the passenger window. When you pulled up to Gotham Academy's imposing gothic entrance, his grin was blinding against the school's somber stone facade.

A few weeks later, Dick was in the kitchen, socked feet shifting nervously against the polished hardwood as he approached Bruce at the breakfast table.

"Could we maybe have her over for dinner this Friday?"

When Bruce looked up from his newspaper with questioning eyes, Dick's words tumbled out faster: "It's just—you're both really fun, and I never get a lot of time with both of you together. Just thought it would be something fun, we don—"

Bruce's rare smile cut through the boy's rambling as he folded his paper with deliberate care. "I'll call her this afternoon."

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t catch the low-frequency hum that rippled through the manor as he returned, nor did you notice the soft thud when the cowl hit the floor at the threshold.

Through the arch into the airy kitchen, the morning sun filtered in, painting the marble countertops gold. There, Dick was doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his dark hair like pale stars. His shoulders shook in time with the snatches of jazz drifting from the old-fashioned radio. Alfred stood at the island behind him, immaculate as ever in his pressed waistcoat and tie, cradling a gleaming mixing bowl like it was a trophy microphone. And you, in a pair of soft cotton pajamas and hair tousled from sleep, wielded a spatula with playful flair, swaying your hips to the beat as though the tiled floor were a grand ballroom stage.

Finishing your little circle, you caught sight of Bruce standing silent in the hall. Your heart lifted. What seized your attention was the tall silhouette leaning against the arched doorway, arms crossed, every line around his mouth heavy with fatigue—but his eyes glittered with an unexpected warmth that brightened the room and made Bruce look years younger in a single glance. You paused for only a breath, then beamed. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on in.”

You began to dance your way toward him, arm extended in invitation. At once, Dick straightened, pumping a fist in the air. “C’mon, Bruce! Just one dance!”

Bruce’s shoulders drooped as he shook his head, voice low and gravelly. “No, I’m too tired. I just wanted to see what all the commotion was when I arrived.”

But you skirted around him, sweeping floury footprints across the floor as you gently herded him deeper into the warmth of your laughter and clinking spatulas. Dick, eyes gleaming, bounded over. “Here, try this step! And then, hit them with this one!” Dick demonstrates a simple two-step followed by a smooth spin.

Bruce arched an eyebrow, lips twitching in reluctant amusement. “Thank you, Dick, but I’m sure I haven’t forgotten any moves I know.”

Alfred allowed a single, measured chuckle, the faintest uptick of amusement in his voice. “Master Wayne, it wouldn’t kill you to oblige your family.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a half-smile as he rolled up his sleeves, pushing off from his position. “I couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.”

Alfred gave a slight, knowing shake of his head. “We both know that’s not strictly true, sir.” With a gentle tug, he steered Dick aside, freeing Bruce to approach you.

You tilted your head slightly, a soft, inviting smile gracing your lips. The morning sunlight caressed your face, accentuating the delicate curve of your cheek and the spark of anticipation in your eyes. Bruce paused, absorbing the warmth radiating from you, his usually guarded demeanor momentarily softened. With a fluid motion, he reached for your hand.

Your fingertips brushed against his, igniting a spark that traveled up your arm as he drew you into an effortless waltz across the kitchen floor. The intoxicating aroma of freshly cooked pancakes mingled with the rich scent of vanilla butter, wrapping around you like a cozy embrace. As Bruce guided you through a gentle turn, his gaze held a lightness that felt almost foreign yet exhilarating, a glimpse of joy that had been buried beneath layers of responsibility for far too long. A genuine laugh escaped your lips, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the sunlit room and framing the flutter of your pajama sleeves like a delicate dance of its own.

From the sidelines, Dick let out an exuberant whoop, his enthusiasm infectious. Even Alfred, ever the stoic figure, allowed a small, satisfied smile to break through his composed exterior. In that perfect, fleeting moment, the vast halls of Wayne Manor transformed; they were no longer filled with shadows and the weight of duty but instead resonated with a vibrant warmth, alive with laughter, love, and the golden glow of morning light shared among family.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began. It wasn't long before the table grew larger, the mahogany surface collecting more plates, more laughter, more stories.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn't ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark's DNA, and Clark himself... he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father, with those same Kryptonian-blue eyes reflecting back his own hesitation. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation, arms open and a warm smile.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, with calloused hands that crushed silverware when he wasn't paying attention, unsure of where he fit in a world that hadn't expected him. But you saw the goodness in him immediately, the way sunlight caught in his dark hair when he laughed, how carefully he held fragile things. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen, cookie crumbs dusting their pajamas.

It was the kind of night that seemed designed by a higher power for catharsis—the sky above Wayne Manor a bruised tapestry, scattered with diamonds. Conner had followed you out onto the roof without a word, padding behind with the wary grace peculiar to the newly superhuman, as if he feared the roofing might shatter under his slightest misstep.

You did not turn when he joined you; you could sense his presence, the way the roof flexed almost imperceptibly beneath the extra hundred and eighty pounds of muscle, bone, and genetic confusion. Instead, you drew your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins, and gazed out at the cold pinpricks of city light that haloed Gotham’s horizon, the glow softening the violence of the night.

If Conner had hoped for a rooftop heart-to-heart, he was silent for a long while, searching for the opening in the silence that would let him in. He sat cross-legged beside you, not quite meeting your eyes, fixing instead on the way your silhouette was haloed by the distant city’s sodium-vapor haze. Neither of you spoke for a time, letting the chill sharpen your senses, and the wind fill the spaces where words might try and fail.

You broke the silence first, your voice roughened by the autumn air—or perhaps by something older.

"Y’know, most kids assume their parents are invincible, that someone will always be there." You snorted, a soft exhalation more ache than amusement. "I grew up knowing mine were gone. Or maybe I just felt it. The records are… weird. Some say it was a car accident, others fire. There are versions with magic, curses, names that vanish when you try to trace them." You shrugged, the gesture as brittle as the frost beginning to creep along the edge of the tiles.

Conner let the words settle. He traced invisible patterns with a thumbnail, thinking of the stories he’d heard—about himself, about Superman, about the people who’d tried to define him before he’d ever spoken for himself. His voice, when it came, was smaller than he’d intended. "At least you got stories and a history," he said. "I don’t even have that. Just… rumors, whispers and guesses. Whispers about who I’m supposed to be. Clark says he’s proud, but it’s like—I can’t tell if he’s proud of me, or just… himself, for being able to handle me."

You turned, and for the first time that night, met his eyes. In those depths, you saw the familiar ache of someone built in the shape of a legacy, but not yet given permission to inhabit it.

"Yeah," you said, voice gentling. "I get that. People look at you, and they see a mask. Or a blueprint, or a curse. Sometimes it’s all of those at once. But you know what? That’s their problem. Not yours." You nudged his shoulder. "You get to decide what kind of story you want, even if you gotta build it from nothing."

He’s silent for a bit before exhaling slowly and then turning to look at you with a lopsided smile. "Suppose I start by not falling off the roof?"

You barked a laugh, wild and warm, the kind that made the gargoyles seem less menacing and the night less vast. "Step one: don’t die. Step two: pancake breakfast tomorrow, my treat."

He let the joke linger, and for a while you simply watched as the city pulsed in the distance.

So Conner effortlessly joined the breakfast schenangians. Sometimes breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket.

At first, Clark hovered at the threshold of the Wayne Manor kitchen, feeling like both an intruder and a desperately needed guest, a ghost in a manor that was determined to be haunted by joy for once. Above the island, mismatched copper pans hung askew, shining like medals from a war none of them had chosen but all had survived. The air was thick with the scent of rising yeast, melting butter, and something citrusy. In the background, a battered radio fought to outpace the chatter, the static blending into the staccato of laughter and silverware.

He watched as Conner perched at the table’s edge, hunched in borrowed pajamas; navy blue, still stiff from Alfred’s starch, a little too short at the wrists but worn with the pride of someone who’d never had anything his. Dick leaned in conspiratorially, showing Conner how to pour pancake batter into the shape of a smiley face. The two of them whispered and giggled, faces close, as if the secret to happiness lay in the precise flick of a ladle.

Clark tried not to stare, but his gaze kept coming back to that table, to Conner, the boy he barely knew how to speak to, let alone claim as his own. There was a sharp ache behind his ribs, a longing he didn’t know how to name. He’d flown through the stratosphere, punched holes in mountains, and faced down gods, but the idea that he might not be enough here, in this small domestic moment, was more terrifying than any apocalypse.

He cleared his throat and slid into the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of a blue oxford shirt, the fabric crumpled from a night spent tossing over whether to come at all. He navigated the room with the cautious gait of someone who remembered, all too well, smashing a door off its hinges the last time he’d tried to "help" in the kitchen. This was not the Fortress of Solitude or even the bustling chaos of the Daily Planet; this was a place where mistakes left behind sticky fingerprints and stories for the next morning.

You stood at the stove, apron already half-covered in flour and what looked suspiciously like a streak of raspberry jam. Your hair was tied up in a knot that defied gravity, and your hands moved with a practiced grace as you flipped golden pancakes onto a warming plate. You didn’t look up, but you must have sensed him, because you tilted your head with a sly smile and said, "If you’re going to stand there, you might as well make yourself useful."

Clark fished for a reply, then shrugged and reached for the cast-iron skillet. The old thing was heavy, almost comically so, and he handled it with ease.

He grabbed a spatula and glanced around for the package of bacon he’d brought as an olive branch, or perhaps a peace offering to the god of breakfast. He set to work, laying out the bacon in tidy rows, watching the white fat render and curl into crisp edges, the sizzle a kind of applause.

By the third round, he’d found the rhythm, and the bacon sizzled to a perfect mahogany, the smell so rich it made his stomach growl. He felt a strange surge of pride, as if mastering breakfast meats was an act of heroism equal to any he’d performed in the suit.

As he plated the bacon, he glanced at the table again. Conner had abandoned the smiley faces for something more elaborate—Batman symbols, rendered in batter with the meticulous concentration of an artist working on commission. Dick applauded each attempt with theatrical exaggeration, occasionally tossing a grape in the air and trying to catch it in his mouth. Bruce, at the far end of the table, pretended to read the newspaper but kept sneaking glances over the top, an unmistakable sparkle in his otherwise inscrutable eyes.

Clark wondered, for a moment, what it must feel like to grow up in a place like this—not just the marble floors and endless rooms, but the relentless sense of expectation, the ghosts of lost parents peering down from every oil portrait. He’d always thought of his own childhood as simple, honest, shaped by the sweep of Kansas winds and his parents’ steady hands. But even there, he’d been different; even there, he’d learned to hide parts of himself for fear of frightening the people he loved.

He looked at Conner, who now flashed him a hopeful, sidelong smile and Clark’s heart twisted in his chest.

He wanted to say, I’m proud of you. For being here, for trying. For letting me try, too. But the words caught in his throat, strangled by all the ones he’d never learned to say.

You look out the corner of your eyes before shifting to nudge Clark with your hip. “I’ve been working with you long enough to know when you have something that’s bothering you. Talk to me, Clark.”

He laughs softly before bumping you back, agreeing. You and Clark have started working closer together on public jobs, since you are both loved heroes by the public. You both are heads of a school that’s made for kids that are alien or mythical, a safe space where they can feel safe and normal.

It was a common pain point you both shared, before you both decided to make it a reality, so other kids wouldn’t have to feel less than and smaller, the way you both did when you were younger.

“I’m just worried. Am I doing the right thing? I feel like I’m juggling so many things that I’m failing everyone and failing him, and I, oh gosh, I burned the bacon.” He grumbles, tossing the smoking bacon onto a different plate before getting started on making the next round.

You’ve turned the heat down on the stove, angling your body so you can give Clark your undivided attention. You gently place a hand on his arm, squeezing so he physically knows that you’re here with him.

“Clark, you’re doing the best you can. And, fun fact, nobody actually knows what they’re doing. They’re just all trying their best.”

He lets out a small laugh, nodding his head slightly, but you could still see the worry on his face.

“Sometimes it’s about compromising and fitting things together like a puzzle. How about starting by bringing Conner to the school? Help him see what you truly love doing and how community works with others like us.”

Clark turns to look at you, and you can physically see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Yeah, you’re right. And he’ll love the school and all the kids. That’s a great idea!”

He finishes the last round of bacon before plating it to look at you with those earnest eyes of his. “Thank you, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m truly grateful to have you as a friend.”

“Aw, don’t get too sappy now, Clark. But I’m glad we’re friends too.” You tell him, both of you sharing a smile. Then something changes in Clark’s smile as his eyes shift to something behind you before smirking.

“And as your friend, you’ll tell me what’s happening with Bruce? Seems like something has changed between you two.”

You purse your lips before turning away, a private smile appearing on your face at the thought of Bruce. You knew it was risky, but you couldn’t help but turn your head to look at Bruce, something that was becoming a constant habit. He was already looking at you, the paper still raised in an attempt to look like he wasn’t, but it very clearly wasn’t at the proper height for that, meaning he was focused on your conversation between you and Clark.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about! The looks have changed, more affection! Bruce is practically making heart eyes for you. Well, as close as he can get.” Clark chimes in from behind you, making you remember that you were in the middle of being interrogated.

You and Bruce haven’t had the conversation about who was in the know for the change in your potential relationship, so you didn’t want to say something that he’d rather you not, so you stumbled trying to change the topic. At least, until Clark chimes in again.

“Alfred already told me you spent the night here last night.” He says in a smug tone.

“And in the same room,” Alfred said quietly as he walked past you both to join the chaos in the dining room.

“ALFRED!” You voice, in disbelief from this casual betrayal by him.

“Oh, you should know better, Alfred’s a terrible gossip.” Clark tells you before lifting the plate high and calling out to the table, "Bacon’s up, guys!"

He ignored your grumbles as he laid the bacon on the table. He turned back to the stove, only to find you waiting with a fresh stack of pancakes balanced precariously on a plate.

He felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a sense that maybe, just maybe, this was how you built something new out of the ruins—that you kept showing up, kept getting it wrong until one day you didn’t, until the people around you stopped feeling like strangers and started to become your family.

This time, you locked eyes with him. There was a steadiness there, a bright conviction that threatened to knock him off balance far more than any villain.

The next hour passed in a blur of syrup and conversation, the kind where the topics ranged from the mundane—Dick’s catastrophic attempts at laundry, your crusade to banish all Gotham newspapers from the breakfast table—to the quietly profound. Conner asked about the first time Clark ever flew; Clark, halting but earnest, told him about the night he finally stopped hiding, the terror and the freedom of seeing the world laid out beneath him like a secret. Dick countered with the story of his first trapeze catch, and even Bruce, after a few minutes, contributed a tale about the world’s worst scone disaster, and the way Alfred had managed to turn the remains into something that was, somehow, even more combustible.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Conner laughed so hard milk came out of his nose, and Dick nearly fell out of his chair in solidarity. Clark caught himself memorizing the sound, the way the walls seemed to absorb it, soften it, reflect it back as affirmation that this—this—was as important as any battle.

And then there was the small, subtle magic of routine. Dishes piled up, and you led the charge with a rhythm that suggested you’d been doing this for a hundred years. Clark joined in, sleeves now rolled above the elbow, determined not to drop anything or accidentally shatter the stoneware. You washed, he dried, and together you moved in the quiet, companionable silence of people who’d learned to share the weight of simple things.

When all was clean and put away, Dick and Conner had migrated to the living room, debating whether to watch cartoons or set up a makeshift obstacle course using Wayne Manor’s infamous staircases. You leaned against the counter, arms folded, and regarded Clark with a kind of wry affection.

He met your gaze, felt the urge to apologize for all the times he’d stumbled, all the ways he’d failed to be the parent Conner deserved. But what he saw in your eyes was not judgment, but patience, a willingness to let him try again, and again, and again.

He tried instead: "Thank you. For… all of this. For giving him—" he gestured to Conner, who was now engaged in a fierce debate with Dick about the relative merits of peanut butter versus Nutella on pancakes, "—something close to normal."

You snorted, a soft, amused sound. "Clark, ‘normal’ is wildly overrated. But everyone deserves a shot at it. Even you."

He laughed, surprised—he hadn’t realized how light he’d been feeling until he heard it in his own voice.

A few years later, Dick and Conner began to drift away from the manor. It was the natural order, you supposed—sidekicks inevitably pulled by the promise of their own legend, growing too large and restless to orbit anyone else’s gravity for long. It started with missed breakfasts, then longer absences, then the slow, determined accumulation of their own lives.

Dick, with his relentless need to prove he could build a family of his own, started dividing his time between the Manor and a ramshackle apartment in Blüdhaven, commuting with impossible energy and an ever-shifting collection of bruises. He came back sporadically, headstrong and too big for the hallways he’d once run through with reckless abandon, but there was a new edge to him: a grown man tethered only by loyalty and the faint, stubborn hope that he could be more than the sum of his training.

Conner, for his part, had never quite fit into the architectural geometry of Wayne Manor. He’d always seemed to exist at a slight tangent to the universe—half alien, half adolescent, wholly unsure of where he belonged. He spent more and more weekends with his team, learning the paradoxes of heroism at the feet of demigods, but sometimes he’d vanish altogether, only to return days later with a sheepish grin and an ill-explained cut on his cheek. Clark watched the withdrawals with a helpless mix of pride and dread. He wanted to hold onto the boy, anchor him to something safe and certain, but he understood that every attempt would only drive Conner further from his own shadow.

Sometimes, in the evenings, you would walk the length of the Manor, listening to the echo of vanished voices. You’d drift past the study, where Dick and Conner had once staged clandestine chess tournaments. You’d stop by the gymnasium and find scuffed mats and half-deflated practice balls, the ghosts of adolescent competition hanging thick in the air. Each trace was a reminder of what you’d been given, and what you would, inevitably, lose.

You tried to make the most of their last days together, even as the boys grew more impatient for a life unburdened by legacy. There were movie marathons, last-minute camping trips, and the stubborn ritual of Saturday morning pancakes, even when no one was hungry.

Letting go was like trying to fly through molasses. Every cell in your body resisted, every instinct screamed to hold tight. But you did it anyway, because that’s what parents were supposed to do: send their children into the world and trust they’d survive the landing. It hurt more than you ever admitted, but you tried to focus on what came next.

Jason was a thunderstorm in human form—all crackling energy and sudden bursts of noise that made the Manor's ancient walls shudder.

His first night in the manor, Bruce called you over so you could meet him now, attempting to learn from his presentation of Dick to you. When Jason first sees you in a robe, he looks at Bruce and asks him in a deadpan tone, “Really? You called for a girl? There were plenty back where you picked me up. Candy’s nice and gives me some money when she can spare it, I would have introduced you guys.”

Both you and Bruce freeze for a second as you absorb the child's implication. Bruce looks up to you and tries to apologize to or scold Jason before you beat him to it.

“Boy, you’re lucky I don’t hit kids. Going around talking like that to your elders, who do you think you are?” You reprimanded him immediately, as if Jason were one of your younger cousins.

Immediately, you saw that change in Jason’s eyes, and the way he respected you a bit more for defending yourself. He was a boy who was clearly different from Dick in his approach. But beneath that tempest lived a boy whose heart beat for Gotham's forgotten corners. You'd catch him sometimes, hunched over newspaper clippings about the Narrows, fingers tracing the outlines of crumbling tenements where he once slept.

The first time he discovered your grimoires stacked on your nightstand, his shoulders tensed like a cornered alley cat. "Magic's just fancy tricks," he'd muttered, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of wonder as your fingertips summoned dancing motes of amber light. It took weeks, but the wariness in his posture gradually softened—especially after you conjured a small flame in your palm when Bruce was being particularly stubborn about patrol routes. "Being a butthead," as Jason had eloquently put it, his laughter echoing down the mahogany hallway.

One rain-soaked Tuesday, he appeared at your door, soaked to the skin, raindrops clinging to his dark eyelashes. "There are these kids," he whispered, voice stripped of its usual bravado, "down on Eighth and Morrison." His calloused fingers pushed a crumpled wad of bills toward you—saved from his allowance as if he was scared the money would disappear. "Protection charms. Whatever you can do. They're... they're good kids."

You folded his trembling fingers back over the damp money, the scent of rain and city grime still clinging to his skin. "This is the right thing to do," you murmured, watching relief flood his face like sunrise. "Let's go see them together."

A month later, an abandoned brownstone on the edge of the Narrows glowed with subtle, iridescent wards that only the innocent could see—a beacon for children with nowhere else to turn, invisible to those who meant them harm.

Something changed between you and Jason. A new bond that was formed, unlike something you’ve known. A new level of love and affection shared between you.

You grew to learn that Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy with training or patrol debriefs, you'd drive him to the Gotham Public Library in the faded blue Volvo with cracked leather seats that smelled faintly of Alfred's pine cleaner. He'd wander the towering mahogany aisles for hours, fingertips trailing along cracked spines, losing himself between shelves stacked floor to ceiling with worlds waiting to be discovered. His voice would drop to a reverent whisper as he asked you a million breathless questions about every dog-eared cover that caught his sharp blue eyes. Afterward, you'd stop by Malone's Used Books downtown, that cramped little shop with the perpetually broken bell above the door and the orange tabby that slept on the counter. You made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted, watching his calloused fingers trace the embossed titles. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up like Gotham's skyline at dusk, and he'd hold each paperback like it was made of spun gold all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks with their musty-sweet scent, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and steaming cups of coffee from that corner shop that made the foam into little bat shapes just for him. It was a small tradition, but it was yours, carved out of chaos. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find—a fierce, quick embrace that left the scent of city air and cheap shampoo lingering on your clothes.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

One minute, there was the slam of the front door and the echoing, cocky “don’t wait up!” ricocheting off the marble, Jason’s boots hitting the steps three at a time, the tremor of his laughter trailing through the house like a flare. The next, there was nothing—just a silence seismic in its completeness, as if the very air had been punched out of the world. In the first moments, no one believed it. Grief registered as a blank, as a glitch in the universe, a cruel joke that would surely be reversed the instant someone barked, “Enough.” But the void persisted. It grew.

The night Jason died, the Manor became a mausoleum. The house, accustomed to noise and chaos, shuddered into a kind of startled paralysis, as though holding its breath. Every room pulsed with memory: Jason’s jacket flung over the dining chair, the battered textbook left splayed open on the kitchen island, the scuffed helmet that never made it back to the rack.

You did not sleep. Neither did Bruce, though he pretended otherwise. The first hours were spent in a frantic loop: phone calls, police scanners, a hundred increasingly desperate messages pinging into the void. Dick and Conner arrived within minutes of each other, pale and unsteady, their faces wholly unsuited to such a vocabulary of anguish. They stood frozen in the foyer, staring at the adults for some clue as to what the hell to do next. No one had a script for this. There was only the slow, cold creep of unreality.

Dick, who’d once sworn to never cry in front of Bruce again, started shaking the second he saw you. He collapsed into your arms like a child, nails digging crescent moons into your shoulders, his wails muffled by the fabric of your sleeve. Conner hovered at the periphery, fists balled so tight his knuckles cracked, eyes wide and rimmed with disbelief. You held them both, arms locked tight, your own tears burning but unshed. Someone had to be the dam. Someone had to keep the flood at bay, at least until the morning.

But the flood always came.

When the boys finally drifted into a fitful, medicated sleep, you tiptoed into the kitchen. The world outside was black—the kind of Gotham midnight that felt like a closing fist. You found Alfred at the counter, hands curled around a mug of tea gone cold. He barely looked up, just pushed the mug toward you, the gesture trembling with apology. “They’ll need you,” he whispered, voice stripped down to raw sinew. “Both of you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and let the silence crush you both.

Bruce had disappeared, though you knew exactly where he’d gone. You climbed the back staircase, up past the creaking third-floor landing, and followed the thread of tangible grief to Jason’s bedroom. The door was ajar, the battered desk lamp casting a cone of gold over a scatter of notebooks and model kits. Jason’s prized leather jacket was balled up on the bed, sleeves still inside out. Bruce sat on the carpet, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up, one hand braced against his forehead. His other hand clutched Jason’s old Rubik’s Cube, the stickers worn blank from years of restless fidgeting. He didn’t look up. You sat beside him, close enough for your shoulders to touch, and together you counted the seconds. There were no words. Only, eventually, the sound of your own breathing, ragged and animal, and the hollow rattle of the cube as Bruce turned it over and over and over.

At some point, you realized you were weeping. Not the dignified, cinematic tears of a stoic protagonist, but the ugly, spasmodic sobs of an animal caught in a trap. You swore you’d never do this again—not after your parents, not after Alfred’s first heart attack, not after every funeral that the universe insisted upon year after year. But here it was: the raw, unstoppable violence of loss. The thing that never got easier, no matter how practiced you became.

You cried until your throat was raw, until the muscles in your abdomen cramped with the effort, until Bruce, usually so reserved in his misery, reached over and took your hand. He squeezed it once, hard enough to bruise, and then released it, as if ashamed of needing comfort. The two of you sat there for the rest of the night, not moving, not speaking, just two broken things holding onto the last solid piece of the world.

The following morning was worse. Grief, as you rediscovered, was not linear. It didn’t abate or dull with the rising sun; it doubled back on itself, retracing every wound. Dick and Conner orbited you and Bruce with the anxious energy of satellites, desperate for a center that no longer existed. You made breakfast, or at least pretended to, the motions mechanical: eggs cracked, bread toasted, coffee poured. No one ate. The table was a crime scene, every plate a reminder of absence. Still, you forced yourself to sit, to pass the orange juice, to murmur some faint echo of normalcy.

The house was filled with mourners over the following days. Titans, Leaguers, even the odd visiting dignitary from Themyscira or Atlantis. They spoke in hushed tones and hugged too hard, as if their proximity to power or myth could somehow insulate them from the brutality of a child’s death.

Diana was the first to arrive, her presence so impossibly gentle that it undid you. She held you for long minutes, her hand pressed to the back of your head, murmuring words in a language you did not know. Later, she did the same for Bruce, who stood as still as a pillar while she wept against his chest. Clark came next, arms full of casseroles and awkward empathy, every muscle in his body straining to resist the urge to fix what could not be fixed. There was nothing for them to do but absorb the gravity of your loss, to feel it condense and harden in the marrow of their bones, and do their best to keep you and Bruce afloat.

You found solace in strange, fleeting moments. The warmth of Alfred’s hand on your shoulder as he refilled the sugar jar. The sight of Dick and Conner, curled together under a blanket, watching cartoons in a vain effort to reclaim some of their childhood normalcy. These moments punctured the gloom, letting in just enough light to remind you that the world continued, even now.

But the nights remained long. Some evenings, you’d sit with Bruce in the study and stare at the fire, both of you nursing identical tumblers of whiskey. You’d talk about nothing at all, or about everything—how the city was quieter now, how Jason would have hated the stupid floral arrangements, how every single hero in Gotham’s orbit felt like they’d failed him. Sometimes Diana would stop by, bringing a bottle of Themysciran wine and a patience that bordered on supernatural. She’d listen to Bruce’s silent recriminations, to your own looping, obsessive guilt, and somehow never flinch. “There is no right way to grieve,” she’d say, her voice a balm. “Only your way. Only together.”

And you tried. You tried to remember routines—the Saturday library trips, the cheap coffee runs, the endless parade of used paperbacks—but it felt obscene, at first, to go through the motions with one less set of hands. You forced yourself anyway, marching through the day as if defiance alone could conjure him back. Sometimes, for a heartbeat, you’d catch a glimpse of him: a flash of red in the corner of your eye, the distant echo of his boots on the stairs. You’d pause, heart hammering, but the house always reverted to silence. You’d left his room untouched, at first, but eventually you and Bruce found yourselves sitting on the floor, backs propped against the dresser, surrounded by his things. Sometimes you’d talk about him. Sometimes, it was enough just to be there, together, in the gravity of his absence.

Other nights, when the dread was too much to bear, Clark and Lois would come by with takeout and try to fill the house with small, ordinary kindnesses. They’d tell stories about Jason—about the time he tried to hotwire the Watchtower’s shuttle, or the way he’d pepper Clark with sarcastic questions about Kryptonian anatomy until Lois choked on her wine. For a few hours, the laughter didn’t feel so wrong. For a few hours, you could almost believe that your world wasn’t crumbling around you.

But it always circled back: the ache, the vacancy, the gnawing sense of what you could’ve done differently. It was a bruising, relentless thing. Some nights, you’d wake up with your hands curled into fists, nails biting your own palm, as if you could punch your way through time and drag him back. Other nights, you’d dream he was alive, that he’d simply run away, that all this was some elaborate test of faith.

Bruce, Clark, and Barry were in the study down the hall, all capable of hearing your sobs through the manor's ancient oak doors. They clutched crystal tumblers that caught the firelight like trapped stars. The leather chairs creaked beneath their weight as they sat in heavy silence, watching blue-orange flames lick at blackened logs. Bruce's calloused fingers traced the rim of his glass in slow, hypnotic circles, the repetitive motion betraying his carefully controlled exterior.

"I'm used to feeling powerless," Bruce finally said, his voice a graveled whisper. "Being human on a team with Amazons and aliens and mystics pretty much defaults to feeling powerless when we're facing gods and monsters. But that's manageable—I can devise a strategy, analyze weaknesses, and find another way to contribute. But now—"

The fire popped loudly in the grate, sending a shower of crimson sparks upward as Bruce exhaled, his breath fogging the rim of his glass. "I feel powerless because I couldn't help Jason or his mother. And now I can hear her hurting through these walls, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."

His voice rose with each word, the careful architecture of his control crumbling until he hurled his glass into the fireplace. The flames roared upward, momentarily illuminating the study in harsh light that deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and carved new lines into his face.

Clark rose from his chair, the movement fluid despite his massive frame. Bruce turned away, one trembling hand shielding his eyes, shoulders rigid beneath his sweater.

"Bruce," Clark said, his Midwestern accent softening the name into something almost tender.

When Bruce finally turned, his composure was shattered completely. He collapsed against Clark's broad chest, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Barry watched from his corner, a bitter smile twisting his lips. Unable to match Clark's comfort or Bruce's grief, he quietly closed the heavy door, shutting out the rest of the world. He gathered the glittering shards of crystal from the hearth, careful not to cut himself, before pouring fresh drinks into new glasses, the whiskey splashing softly against the crystal.

When he turned back, Bruce had composed himself, though his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. The men accepted their refreshed drinks with murmured thanks, a ring of red rimming each pair of eyes.

Barry cleared his throat, his freckled face hesitant but curious. "Wally's been laughing all week about stories Dick's told him about some kid peeping around the manor," he said gently.

Bruce stared into his fresh glass as if searching for answers in its depths. "Tim, Dick, and Alfred think it's a good idea, but I'm not sure. I don't know if I could put another child at risk like that." His knuckles whitened around the glass. "After Jason, there are no promises I can keep."

While Bruce grew rougher and more reckless, he stopped trying to kill Joker after Clark stopped him. “This isn’t who Batman is. It isn’t who you are. And it isn’t going to bring Jason back.”

But that had no effect on you. On the bad nights, your laptop screen casts an eerie blue glow across your haggard face as you scroll through ancient grimoires and forbidden texts. Your bloodshot eyes scan incantations in languages long dead, fingers trembling as you translate symbols that promise resurrection but demand terrible prices. When those paths lead nowhere, your searches turn darker. Blueprints of Arkham's security systems, the chemical composition of poisons that leave no trace, the exact pressure points on a human neck that cause instant death. The Joker's pale face haunts your browser history, his crimson smile mocking you from mugshots and security footage as you plot his end with meticulous precision.

One day, J'onn's emerald eyes widen in alarm as you pass him in the Watchtower's gleaming corridor. Your thoughts hit him like a physical blow—dark, swirling vortexes of necromantic rituals and murder plans, all centered around Jason's broken body. The Martian's normally stoic features contort with concern as he senses the dangerous precipice you're teetering on, the fragile thread of your sanity fraying with each sleepless night.

In the Watchtower’s east wing, Bruce confronts you. Clark stands beside him, his broad shoulders blocking the hallway's exit, his usually warm blue eyes now watchful and wary.

"It's not the way," Bruce tells you, his voice gentler than you've heard since the funeral, his calloused hand reaching for your shoulder. "That's not going to bring him back."

"But he's our boy, Bruce," you choke out, tears streaming down your hollow cheeks. "He killed our boy in cold blood. That monster bashed his skull in with a crowbar and laughed while doing it!" Your voice rises to a ragged scream that echoes off the Tower’s ceilings. "You're gonna tell me you wouldn't sleep better knowing he's rotting six feet under? Knowing he can never hurt Dick or Conner?" You pause,squinting your eyes slightly as your voice drops to a venomous whisper. "Or Tim?"

Bruce's face pales at the name, his jaw clenching beneath skin that suddenly seems paper-thin. "I was going to tell you. I haven't decided anything—"

"Decided?" Your bitter laugh bounces off the mahogany paneling. "What's there to decide? I don't care if he's solved every case from here to Metropolis. It's too soon for another Robin's blood on our hands."

Clark was the first to break the brittle silence that had frozen between the three of you in the hall. He softened his voice, careful as a man trying to cradle a wounded bird, but his words cut through the chill with the force of a sunrise: “You know why Bruce is thinking about bringing in another Robin,” he said quietly. “I get why it hurts. But Gotham needs hope more than it needs vengeance. That’s what Robin is—light, in a city built on shadows. Even when you want to give up on the world, someone’s got to show the kids and the regular folks that things can get better. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we get up every day and do what we do?”

He looked at you with those impossible blue eyes, and for a moment, you remembered the way Jason used to scowl whenever Superman showed up in Wayne Manor, pretending not to care but secretly thrilled to be noticed. The memory hit like a brick to the teeth, and you felt yourself buckling under the weight of it. Clark saw the shift, the infinitesimal nod you gave him, and his face broke into a soft, genuine smile. “Exactly,” he said, the word ringing between you like a prayer. “Bruce knows it, too. That’s why he listened and didn’t—"

The air snapped cold enough to hurt your lungs as you turned on Clark with a glare that could have melted steel. “Didn’t?” you questioned. “Didn’t what? Bruce listened and didn’t—" Your voice fractured, chasing its own tail in a spiral of rage as the pieces clicked in your head. You heard rumors and whispers about what had almost occurred, but you figured if there was any truth to them, you would have heard it from the source; something that clearly didn’t happen here. “You stopped him. You stopped Bruce from killing the Joker, and you didn’t tell me. Why would you do that?”

Clark’s expression, always so composed, so heartbreakingly earnest, didn’t flinch. “Because that isn’t who Batman is,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as if speaking to a tragic hero in a Greek play. “It isn’t who you are, either. Jason wouldn’t have wanted—"

You didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you dare tell me what Jason would have wanted,” you snapped. “Jason can’t want anything because he’s dead!” The hall trembled with your fury, the sound of your voice echoing through ancestral wood and stone.

Hurt people hurt people. The phrase sounded in your mind with the relentless logic of a migraine, and you clung to it as you tore into Clark, then into Bruce, and then into yourself. You accused Bruce of moving on too fast—of being so desperate to fix the wound that he’d just slap a new child-sized bandage over it and hope no one would notice the blood leaking through. Bruce countered with a violence that surprised even him, snapping that this wasn’t about you, not anymore. That you weren’t stable enough for a simple patrol, and if you couldn’t see that, maybe you needed help beyond what he could provide.

Clark tried to mediate, but the two of you were already combusting, the words coming thick and ugly, each more untranslatable than the last. It was only when Bruce physically restrained you—one arm around your shoulders, the other across your chest, pinning you against him with all his training and mass—that you realized you were screaming. That you had been, for a while.

It took all three of them—Clark, Bruce, and Barry, who appeared when he heard the raised voices—to get you into one of the tower’s “safe rooms.” The irony wasn’t lost on you, even as you clawed at the door after they locked it tight. You shrieked their names, four syllables that bled together into one endless howl. Even when your voice gave out and your fists began to ache, you kept going, because what else was there to do? Eventually, your body surrendered to exhaustion, the adrenaline leaching out of your muscles, leaving you hollow and shivering on the thin mattress bolted to the floor.

You lay with your back to the door, staring at the wall, and tried to organize the rage and sorrow into something like meaning. You couldn’t. All you could do was relive Jason’s death on a loop—every missed call, every warning sign ignored, every time you let him go out alone because you thought it would make him stronger. None of it felt fair. None of it felt survivable. You were so lost in the spiral that you didn’t notice the soft click of the door unlocking, or the whisper of socked feet on the thick carpet. You only snapped out of it when you heard Dick’s voice, gentle and steady, floating toward you from the doorway.

“Hey. I, um… I brought company.”

There was a pause, then another voice—Conner, awkwardly sincere, the way only kids raised by farmers and alien figures could be. “I was thinking maybe a sleepover?” He sounded nervous, like he thought you might throw him out, but the uncertainty just made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

You rolled over, expecting to see them standing by the door, but they’d both come all the way in. Dick perched on the edge of the bed, legs curled up beneath him, while Conner hovered at a respectful distance, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie. For a minute, nobody said anything. You tried to say “go away,” but the words caught in your throat, dissolving into a sob. Dick didn’t flinch. He just moved closer, wrapping his arms around you the way he used to do for Jason when the nightmares got bad. Conner joined in, his embrace warm and unpracticed.

The dam broke. You pulled both of them to your chest and wept until your face hurt. And the whole time, they didn’t let go. They just stayed, the three of you tangled up on the tiny mattress while the world outside the safe room spun on its axis, oblivious to your small, silent rebellion.

They didn’t talk much at first. The three of them watched the ceiling, tracing the seams of tiles and bolts, listening to the melodic drone of the various towers’ systems. After a while, Dick pulled out his phone and started scrolling, hunting for a distraction. He landed on a bootleg copy of a black-and-white movie—something old and philosophical, the kind of thing Jason used to mock but secretly devour on stormy afternoons. Dick set the phone on the pillow and balanced it so you could all see, and the flickering images pulled them in with its grainy familiarity. The plot hardly mattered. What mattered was the act of watching, together. Letting the scenes fill the silence with something gentler than pain.

Dick yawned halfway through the film, stretching until his back popped, and then gave you a sidelong glance. “You know, Jay would have hated this,” he said, grinning faintly. “He’d be heckling the screen nonstop.”

You wiped your nose and tried to smile. “He’d call the protagonist a ‘whiny little bitch’ and then quote all the best lines back at you for a week.”

Conner snorted, arms wrapped tight around his knees. “That tracks.”

The conversation drifted, as conversations do in the dark, and soon you were sharing memories—tiny, precious fragments of Jason that nobody else would ever know. Dick recalled the time they lost Jay in the Gotham Natural History Museum, only to find him thirty minutes later in the staff break room, dominating a vending machine with a lockpick and lecturing the attendant on “modern security failures.” Conner confessed that the first time he met Jason, he’d been so intimidated he’d half-expected to be punched on sight, but instead Jason had offered to show him “the real Batcave snack stash.”

“When I said I didn’t like peanuts, he bought a Costco-sized crate of Sun Chips and labeled it ‘Conner’s Only, Dick Keep Out,’” Conner said, voice cracking on the last words. “It sat in the cave for months. Nobody touched it, even after…” He trailed off, but the memory hung in the air, warm and sad.

“Jay never admitted it, but he liked having us around,” Dick said quietly. “He never wanted to be alone. None of us do.”

You turned your face into the pillow and let yourself cry, for once not apologizing for the sound or the mess. When Dick patted your shoulder, you grabbed his hand and held it there, clinging to the pressure like it might keep you tethered.

Later, when the movie had run out, and the only light came from the phone’s afterglow, Dick shifted closer, his voice low and uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I know it’s hard to even hear his name right now,” he said. “But there’s something Bruce won’t say out loud, and I think you need to hear it.”

You rolled over to face him, mascara smeared and eyes raw, daring him to go on.

“Bruce blames himself,” Dick said. “He thinks he failed Jason. He thinks that every time he puts another kid in the suit, he’s just setting them up for the same fate. That’s why he hesitated so long with Tim. That’s why he needs us—to remind him that we’re not just soldiers, we’re family. What happened to Jay wasn’t inevitable. It was a tragedy, not a destiny.”

You let the words sink in, feeling them settle into the open wound of your loss, half cauterizing and half aggravating. “I know,” you said, eventually. “I know Bruce is trying. I just… I understand why a Robin is needed. I understand it in my bones. You were the shining example, Dickie. But it’s too soon for me. Too soon to accept another one. To let Tim become Robin means to get to know him. To care for him. And I’m still grieving Jason. I’ll probably never be done with it.”

Dick nodded, his blue eyes shining in the dim light. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be done. Nobody’s asking you to be okay with it overnight.”

Conner, who had been silent for a while, cleared his throat. “It’s not about replacing him. You know that, right? Tim doesn’t even want to be Robin for himself. He wants to help fix things because he sees how broken we all are.” He gave a half-smile, the kind that tried to lift the corners of a room. “Maybe that’s what Robin really is. Someone who looks at the mess and says, ‘Yeah, I’ll still show up.’”

You all talked a little more until the edges of the conversation softened and the gravity of exhaustion pulled at your limbs. Eventually, Dick and Conner left the room, careful not to wake you as you drifted into uneasy sleep. When you awoke hours later, sunlight streamed through the curtains, stinging your eyes, but the pillow beside you was warm. A sticky note sat on the nightstand, the handwriting unmistakably Dick’s: “You’re not alone. –D.” A second note, in all caps, was next, “REMEMBER TO EAT. –C.”

You read both twice. Then you sat up and noticed the silence had changed and felt a bit more charged. You turned around and found Bruce in the chair by the door, as if he was keeping guard over you while you got some much-needed rest. He was reading a book—one of Jason’s favorites, the battered copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo”—but this version was different. Its pages bristled with colored tabs and crinkled bits of paper, as if someone had been mapping out a secret code only Jason could decipher.

Bruce didn’t look up right away, but when he did, you saw the fatigue etched into the lines around his mouth, the haunted red rims of his eyes. He set the book down, fingers resting on the open page, and spoke so softly you barely caught it.

“All these tabs,” he said, brushing a trembling hand over the rainbow of sticky notes, “represent moments that made me think of Jason. Lines he would have liked. Lines he would have thought were pretentious. Scenes I want to know what he would think about.”

He swallowed, gaze fixed on the book, and you realized his hands were shaking.

“I keep going over them,” Bruce said, voice thick, “hoping that if I do, I’ll understand what I missed. What I could have done differently. But it never adds up to anything except…” He trailed off, the words dissolving into the dust motes swirling in the sunlight.

The sight of him—your invincible, unbreakable Bruce—crumbled by grief, undid you. You crossed the room in two unsteady steps and knelt by his chair, arms wrapping around his legs, pressing your forehead into the rough tweed of his pant leg. He hesitated, just for a second, and then his hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with the same gentle care.

Bruce started crying. Not quietly, not stoically, but with the hoarse, shuddering sobs of someone who had held it together for far too long. All the rage and guilt and bone-deep sorrow spilled out in those tears, and you clung to him, desperate to anchor you both. The two of them stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the floor. You didn’t try to speak, for there was nothing left to say.

In that moment, you understood what Dick and Conner had tried to show you. They would never get to know what Jason truly thought, or what he would have become. But as long as they kept remembering—kept telling his stories, kept arguing over which lines he would have loved and which ones he’d have crossed out in disgust—some piece of him survived. Not in the suit, or the mission, or the endless war, but within all of you.

You started taking up gardening to help bring clarity to your mind and magic. You found peace doing the routine that you had with Jason by yourself. You spent more time at the school or with the children in the Narrows. You end every routine shopping with a trip to your new greenhouse at the Manor to pick a new bouquet and walk over to Jason’s grave where you read to him from the new book you purchased.

It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

a/n: yeah, i paused it here cause it was getting lengthy and there's a lot to deal with coming up with jason's return, lois death, jons birth, damian's arrival, the growing closer and the breakup, it was not gonna all fit here. so look forward to more parts!

as i said earlier, i am truly unable to leave this little world alone and have a bunch planned for the fic so i hope you're all willing to come along on this adventure with me for a second time as we fall in love and get our hearts broken a second time!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋

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