Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne had never intended to fall in love with Superman.

If he were being honest — and he rarely was, even with himself — he’d never intended to fall in love at all. Love was a luxury, something fragile and impossible to maintain alongside the life he lived. Gotham didn’t sleep, and neither did he. He’d built his world out of discipline and isolation, a fortress of control where no one could reach too far inside.

Then came Clark Kent.

It had started as all dangerous things do: slowly, quietly, with an undercurrent he refused to name. A simple conversation after a League mission turned into late-night strategy calls. Strategy calls turned into shared dinners under the guise of “coordination.” And coordination — somehow, impossibly — turned into something Bruce never saw coming: laughter.

Clark Kent laughed easily. At his own expense. At Bruce’s dry remarks. At the world. It was the sort of laugh that started in his chest and broke the air open, warm and disarming. It irritated Bruce at first, the way Clark refused to let the darkness of the world crush him. But then, that same warmth started to find cracks in Bruce’s walls — and before he could stop it, the sound had become something he waited for.

He still remembered the day it all changed.

Clark had shown up at the manor — as Clark, not as Superman — to drop off a folder of League intel Bruce had requested. He’d knocked. Waited, politely, even though Bruce had told him the security system could just let him in.

When Bruce opened the door, Clark had been standing there awkwardly, holding the folder and… a pie.

“It’s from my Ma,” he’d said, sheepish, cheeks pink. “She said no one trusts a man who doesn’t eat pie. I, uh, didn’t tell her who it was for. Just that it’s for someone who looks like they need it.”

Bruce had stared at him for a long, unblinking second. “You brought me pity pie.”

Clark had blinked. “I—no, not pity! Just… polite pie.”

It had been ridiculous. And somehow, perfect.

That pie — a flaky apple crumble that Alfred had later declared “surprisingly decent for a country recipe” — marked the beginning of something Bruce hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for.

The next week, Clark invited him out for coffee. The week after, he asked again. Then again. Until, finally, Bruce realized it wasn’t just coffee. It was him.

Clark Kent had been asking him out. And Bruce Wayne, somehow, had said yes.

Dinner dates had become their quiet ritual.

Sometimes they went out — discreet, expensive places with private booths and curtained corners — but Bruce found he preferred the nights they spent at Clark’s apartment.

It was a small space by Gotham standards, warm and a little cluttered, with plants on the windowsill and books stacked in uneven piles. Clark always insisted on cooking, even though Bruce offered more than once to bring something. (“You’d just order something French I can’t pronounce,” Clark had teased.)

Those evenings blurred into a kind of comfortable domesticity that Bruce hadn’t realized he missed. Clark talked while he cooked — about work, about Ma and Pa, about the latest movie he wanted Bruce to watch. He moved around the kitchen like he’d been born in it, sleeves rolled up, curls falling into his face, humming some old country song under his breath.

They watched movies, too—though “watched” was generous. More often than not, they ended up half-tangled on the couch, acting like teenagers who couldn’t believe they’d gotten away with this. Clark, surprisingly, wasn’t as innocent as Bruce had assumed; the man had confidence and experience hidden behind that farmboy grin, and Bruce—who’d had and raised four sons— thought he’d seen it all—found himself constantly caught off guard.

Clark could go from whispering something that made Bruce’s pulse stutter to ranting about a movie’s continuity error, all wide-eyed and earnest. Bruce didn’t know what to do with that. The same hands that made him see heaven were now waving midair about how “that one scene ruined the whole plot,” and Bruce just sat there, dazed, thinking that if this really was heaven, he’d gladly never leave.

They had their wild moments—nights where laughter and heat blurred together, where Clark’s apartment looked like a storm had swept through it. They were always careful, always gentle with each other in the ways that mattered. Clark’s passion was steady, focused, always making sure Bruce felt wanted, safe, known. He swore his own life had started the moment he met Bruce Wayne.

But Bruce’s patience wasn’t endless. Sometimes, in the middle of all that closeness, when Clark started talking about slowing down, about making it last, Bruce would grumble, “Forget it. We’ll worry about it later.” It was his way of trying to control what he couldn’t—his own heart, the fragility of it all.

Later, he’d wish he hadn’t said that. Later, “forget it” would echo back at him. 

Because the truth was, no matter how much distance he tried to put between them with words, his body never listened. Even when silence fell, even when he thought he could retreat into it, Clark would reach for him—and Bruce would always reach back. It was instinct. It was surrender, in its quietest form.

They were opposites even there. Clark’s love was loud, constant, overflowing — acts of service, words of affirmation, laughter shared between kisses. He showed affection the way he breathed: endlessly.

Bruce’s was quieter. Physical. Weighted in small gestures — the way his thumb stroked over Clark’s knuckles when they held hands, or how he’d hum softly in acknowledgment when Clark spoke. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. His touch carried the words he couldn’t voice.

They’d spend hours tangled together afterward — Clark sprawled half over him, head resting against Bruce’s chest, Bruce’s arm wrapped around his waist, tracing the slope of his spine. Sometimes Clark would talk, rambling about a childhood memory or a farm story. Sometimes they’d just listen to the rain against the window.

Bruce would breathe him in, the warmth, the safety, the realness of him. Clark Kent — clumsy, over-earnest, infuriatingly kind — had somehow made Bruce Wayne feel human again.

And Clark? Clark looked at him like he hung the stars themselves. There was no hiding the way his eyes softened, how every glance said I love you even when he didn’t. Bruce would catch that look and shake his head faintly, pretending to be unaffected — but his hand would find Clark’s anyway, thumb brushing over his skin in a silent confession.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t supposed to be. But it was theirs — built on warmth and quiet understanding, on the unspoken truth that Bruce had found something he thought he’d never have again.

Now, a year later, they’d settled into an impossible rhythm — a secret, fragile balance between Gotham’s shadows and Smallville’s sunlight.

Publicly, Batman and Superman were the League’s most professional pair. Stoic. Efficient. Unshakably serious.

Privately, Clark Kent texted him too often, brought him lunch at the office (“You forget to eat, B, I swear”), and once accidentally called him “babe” during a debrief in front of Diana.

Bruce pretended not to notice. Diana didn’t. The smirk she gave him said more than the silence in the air.

Clark, for his part, was hopelessly, catastrophically in love. The kind of love that made him beam when Bruce said his name. The kind that made him fly from Metropolis to Gotham after a twelve-hour shift just to drop off dinner, a press of lips to Bruce’s temple, and a shy “You look tired, sweetheart.”

Bruce would roll his eyes, but his pulse always betrayed him.

He’d told Clark, from the beginning, that this relationship was serious to him — that he wanted to take it slow. That it wasn’t a game, and it couldn’t be public. Not yet. Not with Gotham watching, not with his sons watching.

Clark had agreed, immediately. “I’d wait forever, B,” he’d said with that earnest, infuriating sincerity that made Bruce’s chest ache. “But maybe not longer than forever, because I do get impatient.”

It was absurd. It was everything Bruce never knew he wanted.

The tabloids had, of course, caught on.

Gotham Prince Bruce Wayne Spotted with Mystery Reporter in Metropolis!

Wayne Enterprises CEO Seen Smiling. Who’s Responsible for the Miracle?

Superman’s Boyfriend? Internet Thinks So.

The League knew now too. And that had been… complicated.

They were professionals about it — in the way a family of nosy coworkers could be. Hal made jokes. Barry took bets. Diana offered very serious congratulations that sounded suspiciously like amusement.

But no one quite knew how to process it: Batman and Superman, the world’s most serious men, were actually… dating.

And somehow, it worked.

But Bruce hadn’t let Clark meet the boys yet. Not because he didn’t trust him — he trusted Clark with his life — but because he knew what that meeting meant.

Dick, at seventeen, was charming but fiercely protective. Jason, fifteen and all fire and edge, would have opinions. Tim, thirteen, would probably run a full background check. And Damian — twelve, blunt, territorial, and too much like him — would take one look at Clark Kent and decide whether he was a threat or a fool.

Bruce didn’t want Clark to face all that. Not yet.

Clark, of course, was terrified. “What if they hate me?” he’d confessed once, half-laughing, half-serious, his voice softer in the dark. “I can fight alien warlords but not your twelve-year-old son.”

Bruce had chuckled, the sound low and rare. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

Clark had grinned, pressing his forehead to Bruce’s. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

What Bruce didn’t say — what he couldn’t — was that Clark Kent had already changed everything.

He’d softened edges Bruce thought were permanent. Made the world a little less gray. For the first time in years, Bruce wanted more than the mission. Wanted mornings. Wanted the quiet sound of Clark humming while making coffee. Wanted to live, not just survive.

And if Clark ever asked him for the stars, Bruce thought, he’d point to himself first.

Because Clark didn’t realize it — not yet — but he was the only light Bruce had ever really let in.

That morning, Bruce woke to an empty side of the bed and the faint smell of pancakes drifting through the manor. Alfred never made pancakes — too “undignified,” as he said — which meant only one person was responsible.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Clark was here. Again.

And if his sons decided to wake up early that morning, if they happened to find Superman in pajama pants in their kitchen flipping pancakes and humming along to the radio —

Well. Bruce supposed the secret wouldn’t stay secret much longer.

Chapter Text

The city moved beneath him like a living thing — lights pulsing, sirens echoing in the distance, Gotham’s heart beating somewhere deep in the veins of its alleyways.

Bruce crouched on the edge of a rooftop, the wind tugging faintly at his cape, watching the flicker of a streetlight below. His comm was silent — no alarms from Gordon, no League signals. Just quiet. For once.

So he tapped his earpiece. “Clark.”

There was a soft clatter, the sound of metal on ceramic, then Clark’s voice came through — warm, rich, familiar. “Hey, B! Sorry, I had the skillet going.”

Bruce could hear the faint sound of sizzling and something that might’ve been… country music in the background.

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking!” Clark said brightly. “I had some vegetables that were going bad, so I thought I’d make a stir-fry. And, uh, maybe a pie later if I don’t burn down the kitchen first.”

Bruce allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “And how’s your article?”

Clark sighed heavily, the kind that made Bruce imagine him leaning against his counter, brow furrowed under those messy curls. “Perry rejected it.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Said it was too ‘emotional.’ I mean—come on, Bruce, we’re supposed to report the truth, right? But apparently if the truth sounds a little passionate, it’s ‘editorializing.’” He huffed. “Sometimes I feel like I care more about the stories than the paper does.”

Bruce adjusted his position, scanning the empty rooftops. “Maybe you’re not passionate enough.”

There was a beat of silence — then Clark laughed, warm and startled. “Touché, B. I walked right into that one.”

“You did.”

“I swear, you’ve got that deadpan down to an art form. You ever consider teaching a class? ‘How to Sound Like You’re Judging Everyone in the Room 101.’”

“I’m sure you’d fail spectacularly.”

Clark laughed again, low and genuine, and Bruce felt something settle in his chest.

They stayed like that for a few minutes — Clark rambling about his story, about Jimmy’s latest photography disaster, about how Lois had tricked him into writing her story. Bruce listened, as he always did, speaking only when Clark paused long enough to breathe.

And then, almost shyly, Clark asked, “So… how long are you staying out tonight?”

Bruce glanced toward the skyline, the batsignal dim against the clouds. “I was going to run a few more sweeps. Why?”

“Because,” Clark said slowly, “I was thinking… maybe you could stop by for dinner? I’ve got leftovers. And pie. I promise it’s not pity pie this time.”

Bruce stopped at the edge of the rooftop, eyes tracking the street below — not because he was distracted by crime, but because he needed to think.

Dinner with Clark was always easy. Too easy. But tonight, for reasons he couldn’t name, he hesitated.

He pressed his lips together. “Actually… I was thinking of calling it a short night.”

“Oh?” Clark’s voice perked up. “Does that mean I should still set an extra plate?”

Bruce paused again, thoughtful. He could hear the sound of Clark’s knife tapping against the cutting board. The domestic noise of it — so ordinary, so distant from everything Gotham stood for — made something ache inside him.

“No,” Bruce said finally. “You should come here.”

Clark went quiet. “Here?”

“To the manor. For dinner.”

There was another beat of silence — and then a stunned, delighted laugh. “Wait—really?”

“Yes,” Bruce said simply. “I think it’s time you met the boys.”

Clark’s voice softened instantly, all that open-hearted warmth bubbling up through the speaker. “B… are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to intrude or—”

“You’re not intruding.” Bruce’s tone left no room for argument.

Clark exhaled. Bruce could almost see him smiling through the line. “Well, if you’re sure… that sounds like a great idea. I’ll, uh, I’ll bring something! Maybe some fruit — Pa sent me back with a bunch of peaches and apples from the farm. They’re really good this time of year.”

“That’s fine.”

“Actually,” Clark continued, a little too eager, “I could make a cobbler! Or just a regular pie, if Alfred doesn’t mind me invading the kitchen—”

Bruce interrupted before Clark could talk himself into a grocery list. “Tomorrow works.”

Clark chuckled softly. “You were about to say another night, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“But you changed your mind.”

“I did.”

A smile lingered in Clark’s voice. “Good. I’m glad.”

After they ended the call, Bruce stayed crouched on that rooftop a while longer, staring at the city he’d sworn to protect.

The idea of Clark — earnest, soft-spoken Clark — sitting across from his sons at the long mahogany table in the dining room felt almost absurd. The contrast was too there: Gotham’s shadows versus Kansas sunlight. The Wayne family, with all its quiet edges and unspoken love, meeting a man who wore his heart openly — in his voice, his hands, his smile.

Bruce could already imagine it.

Clark’s glasses sliding down his nose as he tried to make conversation. Dick smiling too easily to hide his amusement. Jason leaning back with that signature smirk, whispering something snarky to Tim. Tim analyzing every word Clark said, trying to piece him apart like a puzzle. And Damian — arms crossed, brow furrowed, probably already deciding whether Clark Kent was worthy of their father’s time.

They loved differently, the Waynes. They always had.

Love in the manor was quiet. Practical. Measured. Bruce told his sons he was proud of them every night — not out of ritual, but because he meant it. He hugged them when they needed it, held them when the nightmares came, listened when they spoke. But he didn’t wear his affection like Clark did.

Clark was sunlight incarnate — every word he said came out with warmth, every movement carried intention. He glowed, in a way Bruce never had.

And somehow, impossibly, he’d chosen Bruce Wayne.

Later, when Bruce finally returned home, Alfred was waiting near the stairs, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“You’re in early, sir,” he remarked. “A pleasant surprise. I was beginning to think I’d forgotten what an early evening looks like.”

Bruce removed his cowl, his voice even. “Clark’s coming by for dinner tomorrow. To meet the boys.”

Alfred blinked, pausing mid-step. Then, after a moment, a small, knowing smile. “Ah. So the day has finally come.”

Bruce raised a brow. “You sound unsurprised.”

“I’ve been expecting it for months.”

Of course he had.

“Shall I inform Master Jason?” Alfred asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Bruce said. “And… maybe start with the good news first.”

Alfred’s lips twitched. “I’ll do my best.”

That night, when Bruce lay in bed, phone resting on the nightstand, he received one last text:

Clark: hey, B — just wanted to say thanks again. i know how much it means to you, me meeting them.

and it means a lot to me too.

sleep well, okay? love you.

Bruce stared at the message for a long time before replying:

Bruce: Don’t be late.

He hesitated. Then typed again:

Bruce: I love you too.

He locked the phone, set it aside, and exhaled quietly.

Tomorrow, the worlds of Batman and Superman — of Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent — would finally meet at the same table.

And for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt something like anticipation instead of fear.

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up with the taste of metal on his tongue. Not blood, not quite — just the sour, clinging tang of something unpleasant that refused to fade. His stomach gave a faint twist the moment he sat up, a dull ache blooming under his ribs. He brushed it off. Probably just hunger.

He hadn’t eaten dinner last night — patrol had ended early, but he’d gone straight to bed. Alfred had left a tray in his room, untouched. Even the smell of it had turned his stomach. Everything lately seemed too heavy, too rich. Coffee tasted off. Water felt thick. Somehow.

He ran a hand through his hair and sat there for a moment, breathing through the discomfort before forcing himself up. The city didn’t stop for nausea. Wayne Enterprises didn’t pause for sleepless nights or strange appetites. Bruce Wayne didn’t get sick.

By the time he reached his office, the ache had dulled into something manageable. He hid behind his usual daytime armor — pressed suit, calm expression, and the kind of charm that made investors forget that Gotham’s prince preferred shadows to sunlight.

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius greeted as Bruce passed by.

Bruce nodded. “Morning.”

He spent the morning working through numbers, board memos, security updates — every monotonous detail that came with running a city empire. But halfway through reviewing a project file, a sudden wave of nausea hit him like a punch to the gut. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the desk. He swallowed hard, took a slow breath, and sat back until it passed. Stress, he told himself. That was all.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until a soft knock sounded on his office door.

“Come in.”

Clark stumbled in — and that was really the only word for it. His tie was slightly crooked, his hair a bit too fluffy, his glasses sliding down his nose. In one hand, he carried a brown paper bag and a grin that could’ve lit the whole building.

“Afternoon, B,” Clark said, closing the door quietly behind him. “Thought I’d bring you lunch. And maybe steal a few minutes of your day.”

Bruce didn’t even try to hide the way his mouth softened. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“I am. This is journalism fieldwork.” Clark set the bag on his desk. “Investigating how underfed billionaires survive their weekdays.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh — the closest he’d get to actually smiling in public. “Your dedication to the truth is admirable.”

Clark grinned, pulling up a chair beside him. He started unpacking containers — home-cooked food, still warm. “I might’ve gone overboard with the seasoning,” Clark admitted. “I was so nervous about tonight I think I accidentally doubled the spice. Sorry in advance if it’s inedible.”

Bruce glanced up from his papers, his hand brushing over Clark’s briefly. “It’ll taste good either way.”

Clark rested his chin on his hand, watching him. “You say that now, but when your eyes start watering—”

“Eat,” Bruce interrupted softly, sliding the papers aside.

Clark smiled at that. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of containers opening and quiet conversation. Clark talked about Perry rejecting yet another story — something about “needing more optimism.” Bruce listened, half-focused, his thumb idly tracing the edge of Clark’s hand whenever their fingers brushed.

Then Bruce picked up his fork.

The smell hit him first — sharp, almost sour. It shouldn’t have been unpleasant, but his stomach twisted violently. He ignored it, took a small bite. The taste was… wrong. It didn’t make sense. Clark’s cooking was always good — seasoned, balanced, comforting — but this? It felt like his tongue rebelled against it.

He set the fork down, swallowing hard. His jaw clenched. A second later, he reached for a napkin and discreetly spat the bite out. Which obviously Clark noticed, always watching Bruce’s reaction to his cooking.

Clark froze mid-sentence, eyes wide. “What— wait, is it that bad?”

Bruce wiped his mouth, shaking his head. “No. It’s not that. I just— it doesn’t taste right. Probably just me. My mouth feels— off.”

Clark’s face fell immediately. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I must’ve— I knew I shouldn’t have tried that new seasoning mix—”

“Clark,” Bruce interrupted, his voice quieter than usual. “It’s fine. Really.”

But Clark was already checking the food, sniffing at it like he was about to file a report. “No, something’s off. I swear it didn’t smell weird earlier— oh god, did I just poison my boyfriend?”

Bruce gave a faint roll of his eyes (not out of annoyance but because Clark always came back with over-the-top conclusions) and stood, napkin still in hand. “It’s not your fault. I’ll— I just need a minute.”

Clark immediately stood too, worry all over his face. “You sure? I can get water, or maybe—”

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t clearly.

Bruce made it to the bathroom before the nausea came back full force. He barely had time to brace himself before he threw up — bitter, burning, emptying what little he’d eaten. He leaned over the sink afterward, gripping the porcelain edge until the trembling in his hands stopped.

He stared at his reflection. Pale. Eyes faintly sunken. For a second, something flickered in the mirror — exhaustion, yes, but something else, something he couldn’t name.

He rinsed his mouth, straightened his tie, and forced the calm back onto his face.

By the time he returned to his office, Clark was sitting there looking completely miserable, poking at the food like it had personally betrayed him. Which to him, it had. 

Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “Don’t look so guilty.”

Clark looked up, sheepish. “I just— I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” Bruce said. “It’s me. Must’ve just been a bad morning.”

Clark exhaled in relief, though his brow stayed furrowed. “You sure? You look kind of pale.”

Bruce brushed it off, sinking back into his chair. “I’m fine, Clark. Really.”

But even as he said it, his stomach churned again. The scent of the food — even from across the desk — made his throat tighten.

He told himself it was just stress. Too much coffee. Too little sleep. The tension of balancing Batman and Bruce Wayne, the upcoming dinner with his sons, the expectations of being human when half of him existed in the dark.

Still, as he watched Clark pack up the containers with a gentle, apologetic frown, Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted — small, invisible, but irreversible.

He didn’t know it yet. But his body had already begun whispering the truth he refused to hear.

Clark had the look of someone who wanted to apologize for the next decade. His fingers fidgeted with the lid of the container before he finally stood, still looking guilty enough to be comic.

“Guess I’ll, uh, cross cooking off the list of things I’m allowed to do for you,” Clark said with a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Bruce, sitting back in his chair, let the corners of his mouth twitch faintly. “You’re not banned from the kitchen.”

“Not yet,” Clark said, grin widening a little. “Give it time. You might want to taste something that doesn’t taste like poison.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, once again. “I just threw up, Clark. It’ll all taste strange right now.”

Clark straightened immediately, concerned again. “Right, right, you need to hydrate— actually, maybe electrolytes, or I can—”

“Clark,” Bruce said, quiet but firm.

Clark blinked. “Yeah?”

Bruce stood, crossing the short distance between them and leaning in. “You talk too much.”

And before Clark could launch into another round of fretting, Bruce kissed him — slow, the kind that stole the air right from Clark’s lungs. When he pulled back, Clark’s eyes were soft and a little dazed, like he forgot what words were for.

“…Okay,” Clark murmured, grinning like an idiot. “You win that argument.”

“I always do.”

Clark chuckled, touching Bruce’s wrist, fingers brushing where his pulse beat steady. “You sure you’re okay, B?”

Bruce nodded once. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work. I’ll see you tonight.”

Clark hesitated, then smiled, pressing one last kiss against the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “Tonight,” he promised, voice warm.

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Bruce exhaled, leaning back in his chair. For a moment, the quiet settled around him — until his stomach twisted. Not sharply this time, just a dull reminder that something wasn’t right.

He straightened his tie and forced himself to focus. Wayne Enterprises didn’t wait for bad stomachs or off days.

The afternoon stretched out like static. He attended two meetings, barely spoke through one of them. Lucius mentioned something about a prototype for a new clean-energy line, and Bruce nodded in all the right places, though he caught only half of it. His mind was fuzzy. His palms were clammy. His head felt heavier than usual.

He’d lived through injuries that would’ve hospitalized most people, but this… this was different. Smaller. Stranger. An irritation that refused to settle.

At one point, a faint call from the Justice League comm pinged in his ear — Diana updating him about a scan they’d picked up near the Atlantic. He responded on autopilot, voice even. “Send the data to the Watchtower. I’ll review it tonight.”

He sounded like himself. Calm. Commanding. Collected.

He didn’t feel like himself.

Somewhere between reviewing numbers and writing a message to Lucius, he realized he’d felt off for longer than a day.

A few days at least. Maybe a week.

He leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers to his temple, tracing backward in memory. When had this started?

Kansas.

He’d gone there with Clark about a week and a half ago — a short trip to pick up some old documents Clark’s parents had kept. Bruce remembered how easy it had been: Clark laughing in his childhood kitchen, Martha insisting Bruce eat more, Jonathan pulling out old photo albums. The house smelled like bread and cinnamon, like warmth.

They’d eaten at a diner in town afterward — the kind of place with peeling paint and neon signs, where Clark was greeted by name. Bruce had smiled into his coffee, trying not to think about how different it all was from Gotham.

Maybe it was that food. Something too greasy, too sweet for his usual diet. His stomach hadn’t felt quite right since.

But that was a week ago. Surely it would’ve passed by now.

The thought lingered as he packed up his things. His head felt too warm. His shirt clung uncomfortably at the collar. Alfred would probably scold him for overworking again — and he’d be right. Bruce had pushed himself through worse, but the exhaustion in his bones felt deeper this time, like something internal refusing to quiet.

He brushed it off again. Stress. Fatigue. The approaching dinner. Meeting Clark had been simple; introducing Clark to his sons would not be.

As the elevator doors closed, Bruce caught his reflection in the mirror: pale, sharp around the eyes, hair slightly disheveled. He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to rest.

When he arrived home, the manor was quiet but alive — the faint echo of voices upstairs, the smell of something warm and familiar from the kitchen. Alfred was preparing dinner, meticulous as ever. The sound of his sons arguing faintly drifted down the hall.

Bruce stood in the entryway for a moment, breathing it in. Home.

His head ached, his stomach twisted again, but he straightened his back and kept moving. He’d handle it later.

For now, there was dinner to prepare, sons to wrangle, and the quiet thought that maybe — just maybe — Clark Kent was the one thing that made all of it feel worth staying awake for.

Chapter Text

The manor was quieter than usual when Bruce made his way down the stairs, jacket draped over one arm, the weight of the day still pressing behind his eyes. The smell of roasted herbs and something faintly buttery carried through the air—rich, heavy, and nauseating. He stopped halfway through the kitchen doorway, jaw tightening just slightly as Alfred hummed under his breath, slicing vegetables at an almost musical rhythm.

“You’re early,” Alfred remarked without turning, his tone even but laced with the kind of concern that came from decades of reading Bruce’s silences. “That can’t be good. Either you’ve run out of crime to fight or the city’s finally burned itself out.”

Bruce gave a quiet snort, leaning against the counter. “Not yet.”

Alfred turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, his sharp gaze assessing him in an instant. “You look dreadful, Master Bruce. Paler than a ghost and twice as grim. What’s the matter?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, but it came out too quickly.

Alfred’s brow arched. “You’re standing there like the smell of my cooking makes you sick.”

“It hasn’t,” Bruce muttered. “I just… might be coming down with a fever.”

“Mm.” Alfred’s mouth twitched with dry humor. “After all these years, the end of you will be a fever. Not a lunatic with a bomb, not a rooftop fall—just a common cold.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, half amused, half too tired to deny it. “Yeah. I’ll live. Been through worse.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Alfred said, returning to his cutting board, though his eyes still flicked toward Bruce every few seconds.

The air shifted when footsteps echoed in from the hall—steady, careless, with that telltale drag of boots. Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an unmistakable grin playing at his mouth.

“What’s up?” he asked. “You look like death, old man.”

Bruce gave him a look. “Just dinner tonight.”

Jason blinked. “Dinner? You mean that dinner? The one where we’re supposed to meet your boyfriend?”

Bruce sighed. “Don’t start.”

“So it’s true,” Jason said, grin spreading. “You’re really bringing Clark Kent here? Superman? The guy who probably says ‘golly gee’ unironically?”

Bruce looked away, tone steady. “It’s about time you all met him properly.”

Jason tilted his head. “Why tell me first? Shouldn’t Dick be the one to get the family memo? He’s older, you know.”

“Because Dick tends to overreact,” Bruce said simply. “And I needed to talk to you first.”

Jason raised a brow. “About what?”

Bruce hesitated, then stepped closer and rested a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Try to hold back on the adult humor tonight. You’re still a kid.”

Jason groaned. “I hardly say anything that bad.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly. “Clark’s got this… boyish thing about him. He gets flustered easy when people start teasing him.”

Jason’s grin turned sly. “You’re kidding. The Clark Kent? Man of Steel, gets shy?”

Bruce said nothing, but the faint smirk gave him away.

Jason laughed. “Unbelievable. Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, taken down by a Kansas boy scout.”

“Watch it,” Bruce warned, but his voice softened at the edges. He ruffled Jason’s hair, earning a half-hearted protest. “Go tell your brothers to come down and help with dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason brushed him off and walked out, still chuckling. “Can’t wait to see this.”

When he was gone, Bruce exhaled slowly, crossing his arms as another faint dizziness rolled through him. It was brief but heavier this time, enough to make him brace against the counter before it passed.

Alfred didn’t miss it. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Bruce said quietly. “Just need to get through tonight.”

Alfred hummed in that disbelieving way of his, sliding a tray into the oven. “And what time shall we expect Mr. Kent’s arrival?”

Bruce glanced at his watch. The hands seemed to blur for a moment before his focus returned. “Not for another hour. But knowing Clark, he’ll show up early.”

“Then I’ll see to him,” Alfred said.

Bruce’s lips curved faintly. “If he does come sooner, don’t let the boys tear into him.”

“No promises,” Alfred replied dryly, wiping his hands on a towel.

The warmth of the kitchen deepened, the rich smell of roasted food filling the air—but for Bruce, it felt heavy, wrong somehow. The nausea dulled, but the weight in his chest didn’t. Beneath the calm surface, something small and strange was stirring—a pulse just under his skin, quiet but insistent.

He ignored it.

Just another dinner, he told himself. Just another night.

But as the evening light shifted and the sound of the clock echoed through the hall, Bruce felt the faintest tremor under his ribs—something he couldn’t explain, something patient.

And it was growing.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s room was dimly lit, the faint orange of the setting sun slipping through the curtains and brushing over the furniture like a soft hand. He’d already hung his suit jacket neatly on the rack, the crisp shirt folded beside it. The quiet hum of the manor outside his door told him that dinner preparations were in full swing—voices low, a few dishes clinking, the sound of a house alive.

He stood before the mirror, unbuttoning his cuffs, and exhaled slowly. Nights like these—ones that were supposed to be normal—were always the hardest for him. No cowl. No cape. No shadows to blend into. Just Bruce Wayne, man trying to be something human for once.

He grabbed a pair of dark-wash jeans—broken in enough to be comfortable, though he preferred the way the fabric held to him rather than the looseness of sweats or shorts. The black cotton shirt he pulled on next was soft, clean, simple. It clung slightly to his chest and arms, the fabric a bit too warm against his skin. He frowned faintly at the heat that flushed up his neck, not sure if it was from the shirt or the faint feverish feeling that had followed him all day.

Still, this was fine. Normal.

He raked a hand through his hair, fixing it with minimal effort, catching his own reflection for a moment—the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. He remembered Clark’s voice, the way he’d said it: I’d love you any way, you know. You could wear a garbage bag and I’d still think you’re perfect.

It was such a Clark thing to say—so earnest, so hopelessly dorky that Bruce couldn’t even scoff properly at it. The memory pulled a small, reluctant smile from him as he stepped into his black slippers and headed downstairs.

The boys were scattered across the dining room, setting the table with Alfred’s usual precision. Damian was adjusting the silverware to perfect alignment, Tim was half-distracted by his phone until a sharp look from Alfred made him pocket it, and Jason was grumbling good-naturedly as he carried over a stack of plates. The air was warm, alive with quiet chatter and motion.

Bruce’s gaze shifted toward the kitchen—and there he stopped.

Clark was in the middle of it all.

The Kryptonian stood beside Alfred, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands dusted in flour like he’d lost a small battle with a baking mix. He was talking—probably about something entirely trivial—but his whole face was lit up in laughter. Alfred didn’t seem the least bit annoyed; in fact, he was leaning against the counter, letting Clark stir something with an amused sort of indulgence.

Clark’s voice carried easily. “—and then I told her, if you refrigerate the dough now, you’ll get better flakes! But she swore it was fine just sitting on the counter. I mean—” He gestured helplessly with his hands, scattering a small cloud of flour into the air. “—how am I supposed to let that slide?”

Alfred chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You sound like someone who’s fought far greater battles in a kitchen than in the sky.”

Clark laughed again, that open, heart-deep sound that filled the room.

Bruce leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the sight pulling another quiet smile from him. “You’re helpless,” he said.

Clark turned instantly, his expression brightening at the sound of Bruce’s voice. “Hey,” he said, wiping one flour-covered hand against his jeans before realizing it made no difference. He tried to adjust his glasses with the back of his wrist, managing only to smear flour across the frame. “I, uh—came to bother Alfred. Promised him I’d make that peach cobbler.”

Bruce’s tone softened, almost fond. “Can’t wait for it.”

Clark grinned, boyish and proud, though he looked slightly self-conscious under Bruce’s gaze. He’d changed too—dark jeans, a soft gray T-shirt, and one of his well-worn flannels layered over it, the sleeves rolled. The fabric stretched a little over his shoulders, his usual farm-boy style turned into something warm and grounded that somehow fit him perfectly.

Bruce’s eyes lingered just long enough for Clark to notice. The Kryptonian glanced down at himself, then back up with a crooked smile. “Too much for a first dinner?”

Bruce stepped forward, close enough that the soft scent of flour and sugar mixed with Clark’s warmth. He reached up and adjusted Clark’s glasses properly, brushing his thumb against his temple before leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “No,” Bruce murmured. “It’s cute.”

Clark’s cheeks went pink immediately, his mouth tugging into that dopey, genuine smile Bruce couldn’t help but love. “You look cute too,” he said, voice warm and soft. “So casual.”

“It’s just dinner,” Bruce said, deadpan but faintly amused.

Clark tilted his head, eyes crinkling. “It’s more than that to me.”

Bruce held his gaze for a beat, something quiet and unspoken between them before he nodded. “I know.” He turned toward the counter, the smell of food stronger now, and said to Alfred, “How’s everything coming along?”

“Nearly ready to serve,” Alfred replied. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever had this much help from someone who could fry a steak with his eyes.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. “I’m trying to make a good impression.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “You’re buying yourself time to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Clark said quickly, his ears turning red. “I’m just—taking this seriously.”

“Of course you are,” Bruce said, lips twitching with restrained humor.

Jason’s voice called faintly from the dining room, “Hey, is the Boy Scout done flirting or can we eat soon?”

Clark flustered, covering his face with one floury hand. Alfred didn’t even hide his chuckle. Bruce just exhaled softly, a warmth he didn’t often let himself feel curling low in his chest.

The manor, for once, didn’t feel so large or so empty.

It felt alive.

And as Clark reached for the pie tin, glancing back at him with that same ridiculous, radiant smile—Bruce could feel that little flicker of warmth bloom again, right alongside the faint, confusing heat beneath his skin.