FIC--One Day
Monday, 7:08 am
There is a tiny scraping noise as Alfred removes the chrome kettle from the burner, flipping the dial from boiling to low. Two stories up and five rooms to the south Clark's eyes open. Coffee in twelve minutes or less-just long enough for a shower. He floats out of bed, careful not to wake Bruce-he knows by now that regardless of how exhausted the man is when he finally slides between the sheets, if Clark so much as shifts in his sleep, Bruce will be up with batarang in hand in less than a second.
Damp and dressed, Clark walks down the stairs, trying and failing to slip on his shoes at the same time. He pauses on the second floor in front of the door with the antique "Reserved Parking for Haley's Circus Members" sign posted on it (utilizing a superior, acid-free putty-the look of horror on Alfred's face when he caught Dick about to pound nails into the antique oak had been-interesting). Twisting the rather sticky knob he crosses the room and looks down at the boy tangled up in the sheets.
Dick's face is buried in his pillows and he is twisted into a position that makes Clark's spine ache in sympathy. He runs a hand through the boy's black curls tugging lightly. "Hey, kiddo. Rise and shine."
"Mmph."
Clark sighs and sits on the bed next to him, rubbing Dick's back. "C'mon, it's time to get up. Do you really want me to let Alfred wake you-or Bruce?"
Dick snorts, turning his face out of the pillow. "'e sleeps later 'n me."
Clark laughs softly. They sit like that in for a moment, silent but for the smoothing of Clark's hand over Dick's blue flannel clad back and the birds outside Dick's window.
They’ll move in a minute or two.
7:42 AM
Clark puts a finger to his lips. Dick is grinning, eyes lit up in mischief. Motioning for Dick to hold on, he picks up the boy and flies with him to hover near the ceiling.
The first time Clark saw him thirty feet up over cold marble, scampering along by finding handholds in the carved stone wall, he nearly had a heart attack. He’d flown up, grabbed Dick around the waist, and proceeded with a blistering rant that was straight out of Martha ‘have you lost your ever-lovin' mind?!’ Kent’s own mouth.
One melodramatic fight and a week of increasingly dangerous stunts from Dick late, they had reached a compromise. Clark would trust Dick to have the skill and judgement to handle the acrobatic feats that made his hair turn grey, and Dick would refrain from pulling them when neither Clark nor Bruce was there to play spotter.
Now, they float high enough to brush against the ceiling tiles and watch as a very sleepy billionaire trudges down the hall following the scent of coffee.
Dick twists in his arms, and grins up at him. Now?
Clark grins back. Now.
Less than a second later Clark has opened his arms and disappeared, as Dick pushes off the ceiling with a bloodcurdling shriek.
Bruce’s head snaps back, eyes going from nearly closed to anime-wide. “Wha-Dick!” He just manages to brace himself as sixty pounds of boy acrobat collides with his chest.
His back hits the indigo carpet at the same time as Clark’s feet. Dick cackles from his position atop the stunned man as Clark strolls over. “What exactly,” Bruce asks, obviously frustrated, “did I do to deserve this at,” he checks his watch, “seven forty-four in the morning?”
Ooh, bad form, Batman. Never imply your own guilt. Clark can see Bruce’s overtired brain registering this as well. Too late now.
“You stayed out too late!” Dick pronounces.
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “And how exactly might you know that?” his tone promising all kinds of dark happenings for boys who stay up past their curfew.
“Clark told me,” Dick responds blithely.
Clark winces. He hasn’t yet decided whether the boy is completely oblivious or far better at manipulating the two of them than either have given him credit for. Bruce glares at him. “Well, you did,” Clark points out.
Bruce huffs. “There was a-“
“Breakfast, gentlemen, has been ready and waiting for quite some time,” Alfred chooses that moment to call. His timing is, as always, impeccable. Dick jumps off of Bruce and bounds down the hall.
Clark reaches a hand down to Bruce and is treated to a look that makes his skin go all over gooseflesh. Oh yes, he’ll be paying for that later.
Reaching the small, informal dining room (the other is ‘freaky’ in Dick’s words), they all sit, as Alfred moves into the room with the tray.
“I assume by the lack of obvious injuries that the shriek I heard earlier was not, in fact, someone being murdered in the hall?”
“No, no murders-yet,” Bruce mutters, picking up the paper and burying himself in the Local section.
“How very reassuring.” Alfred moves about, setting down covered dishes, and filling cups.
Bruce grunts.
Clark is frequently amused at how Bruce, who regardless of all the training he inflicts on himself still finds the hours between six and twelve in the morning something to be endured only with copious amounts of coffee, somehow managed to end up with three confirmed morning people.
Clark and Dick have a mock-fight over the syrup. Bruce watches while pretending to read his paper. Alfred pours the tea no one will drink.
11:14 AM
Clark sits at his desk in the middle of the Planet, blithely ignoring the chaos around him as he finishes proofing Lois's most recent article-Bruce would say he should make her do her own work, but then Bruce doesn't have to deal with her on a daily basis. He's busy inserting commas where necessary so that her readers won't expire mid-paragraph when the phone rings. "Daily Planet, Kent speaking."
"I haven't forgotten this morning, you know." Bruce's voice is Batman's low gravel, and Clark forces down a shiver.
"This morning? What about it?"
"You know damn well what. So should I tell you what you're going to do to make it up to me, or can I trust you to be-creative?"
Clark swivels away from Marcia at the desk next to him, head down, and keeps his voice low. "I don't know, Bruce. Why don't you share your idea, and I'll let you know if I've got anything better in mind?"
He can almost see the smug curl of Bruce's lips over the phone, his voice almost a purr. "It starts with you naked in our bedroom with those scarves I-borrowed-from Zatanna."
Clark mentally snorts. Collecting data on potential dangers his ass. He only wishes he could have seen Zatanna's face when her 100% silk, magically reinforced scarves vanished. Still, this is not the moment to be chiding Bruce about respecting other's property. "I'm listening. Then what?"
"Then-"
"Smallville! Quit having phone sex with your boyfriend and get me my damn article!"
Clark drops his head onto his hand as Lois's voice crashes over him like a wave in the Arctic Ocean.
Bruce is, as usual, caught somewhere between annoyance, amusement, and (though he'd never admit it) jealousy. "Never mind. Apparently you're busy."
"Bruce-"
"See you tonight. Smallville." And then there's nothing but the click of the reciever in his ear.
Clark sighs, and hangs up.
5:41 PM
It still bothers Clark that he can't be there for Dick as much as Bruce can. He tries to stay for breakfast, and to make it home by dinner each night, but he really only manages it two days out of three. So he tries to make the days he is there count for every minute. This is why he's sitting in the rec room (the only room in the house furnished with Kent hand-me-downs and decorated in plaid-and as such, the only room in the house that Alfred refuses to clean), with a laptop he hasn't looked at for the past twenty minutes open in front of him, playing Go Fish and listening to Dick talk about school instead of working on his new Intergang story.
"Yeah, Mike can be a real jerk. Got any octopuses?"
"Octopi. Nope, go fish. Got any catfish?"
Dick scrunches up his nose. "Why isn't it catfishes? Or catfi?"
"English is just funny that way. And don't think I haven't noticed you're not answering," Clark teases.
Dick sticks out his tongue, and reluctantly hands one over. Bruce chuckles. He's watching from the sofa; Dick and Clark banned him from playing any games what-so-ever unless he'd swear to turn off Batman for the games duration. So far he hasn't managed it, and as such he's relegated to referee. "Try asking for squid," he advises.
Dick grins in delight and takes the three squid cards as Clark protests that Bruce isn't allowed to help either of them.
Four minutes later, Dick has an array of cartoon sea-creatures and Clark is disgraced with nothing more than a set of catfish and another of clams. After that the game degenerates to flicking cards at Bruce with just a touch of superspeed while Dick cackles and does handstands on the furniture.
Clark finally gives up after Bruce retaliates by throwing one of the lead-lined cards with every bit as much accuracy as a Batarang right into the slots in his keyboard, frying his computer.
"So what were you telling me about Susannah?" he asks Dick, watching as the boy tugs off his jacket and stands.
"Oh, yeah, she was kinda sad today, 'cause there's going to be a new baby in her house, and she thinks her parents and brother'll be too busy for her." He pauses, and looks at Clark and Bruce. "She's wrong, isn't she? If you guys adopted some other kid, you wouldn't forget about me, right?"
"No." Bruce's answer is even quicker than Clark's, "Never, Dick."
"Oh, okay. I didn't think so." He is all smiles again, momentary doubt assailed. "I'll tell her that, too."
Clark is less reassured-does the boy still doubt them?-but asks, "So, her mother is pregnant?"
“No, it's her brother.” Dick kicked off his shoes, and started doing cartwheels across the carpet.
“Oh,” Clark says vaguely, then the sentence registers. “Wait, her brother?”
“Yup.” Dick flips over the coffee table and lands in front of Clark, grinning.
“Are you sure she said it was her brother?” Clark asks cautiously. “I mean, boys can’t have babies.”
Dick shrugs, clambering over Clark, spilling papers as he goes. “That’s what she said. She also said that he picked up some old necklace when they were traveling in Greece.”
Bruce looks up from his book at this. “Old necklace? Do you know what it looked like?”
Dick shakes his head, curls tumbling over his forehead. He’s attempting to do-Clark isn’t quite sure what but it involves some precarious maneuvering on the the sofa’s arm. Clark reaches out a hand to steady him and gets a reproachful look for his trouble. “Well, ancient artifacts aside, you know that it’s only girls who have babies, right?”
Dick shrugs, and somehow manages to keep his balance despite that. “Duh. But only when they get older.”
“That’s right,” Clark said firmly, and mentally added and if you’re Jonathan and Martha Kent’s grandchild, it’ll involve a wedding first.
"So which one of you is going to give me the sex talk when I get older?"
Clark straightens abruptly. "What do you know about-about that?" he asks, alarmed.
Dick smirks, not unlike Bruce is doing from across the coffe table. "Please. I'm nine-and-a-half. Of *course* I know about *sex*."
Clark realizes his mouth is open. "How? I didn't know about sex at when I was your age."
"You lived in Smallville," Bruce intersperses dryly. “That you don’t still believe you were brought by the stork is only because your parents had to admit you were dropped off by a spaceship instead."
"Hmph."
Dick giggles, and does a handstand on the back of the sofa.
8:17 PM
Clark drops down into the cave. Despite knowing he's not late (it's still before Bruce goes out on patrol), he didn't risk his life (any more than usual), and he didn't interfere with Gotham's crime (much), he has a definite sense of foreboding. Walking into the main cavern, he sees Dick spinning in the Bat-swivel chair at the computer, and Bruce standing to the side, checking the fit of his gauntlets.
Dick sees him and waves dizzily. Then Bruce looks up. "Superman. Busy night?"
Clark watches him warily. "Not-especially."
"We've had some fun ourselves."
Clark stares. "... fun?"
Bruce smiles slowly, and Clark automatically tenses. Smiles like that mean very good things in the bedroom-and very bad things out of it. "Yes. We've been working on-costume design."
Clark is growing more and more confused. Granted, when he wants to be, the man is as clear as Gotham's mud, but he doesn't usually leave Clark feeling like he's fencing with a rubber foil in maple syrup, blindfolded. "Costume design?"
Dick jumps off the chair. "I did! I designed it totally! Didn't I, Bruce?" he appeals to the other man.
Bruce has that same eerie smile on. "Yes Dick, you did design it. Totally. Dick," and hearing this tone, every nerve in Clark's body lights up screaming 'danger!', "why don't you show Clark your design?"
"Okay!" Dick shuffles through files and electronics lying on the stainless steel counter before pulling out a large pad of paper and running over to Clark with it in hand. "See?"
It's quite a good drawing for a nine-year-old in that Clark can see there's an appropriate number of limbs in the right places, and despite a wobbly head on a tremendously long neck, it bears a fair resemblance to a human being.
It's the actual costume that he's having trouble deciphering.
"It's-it's very nice Dick. Um. I like-the cape?"
Dick beams. "Yea, it's more like yours than Bruce's but it's got a collar."
It does. The *near-flourescent* yellow cape has what Clark assumes is a Peter Pan collar, and he's not sure if that isn't the weirdest part. Then Clark notices the lack of any other colors besides the blinding red, yellow, and green, and feels a surge of hope. "You, um... where are the markers you used, Dick?"
"On the desk," Dick responds blithely. Clark glances over-and worst luck, finds Bruce has a splurged in this regard as well. Dick has a professional artists set of what must be five or six dozen markers. Damn. The colors are intentional, then.
Bruce still has that smile on his face. "See Dick, I told you he'd like it." It's as much an eyesore as his own, goes unsaid but Clark can hear it perfectly well. He narrows his eyes at Bruce, who looks back blandly.
"Has Alfred seen your costume yet, Dick?"
The boy shakes his head and perks up at the thought of another person to inflict his art upon. "Nope, I'll go show it to him!" He leaves the cave at a swift trot, as Bruce leans back in the chair and gazes smugly at Clark.
Clark casts about for something neutral to say before finally giving in to the inevitable. "... pixie boots?" he asks weakly.
Bruce smirks. "And hot pants. With sequins."
Clark blinks, and shudders. He'd thought the swirly scribbles indicated polka dots. Apparently, it could get worse. "He'll be a moving target in that."
Bruce's expression grows even more pointed. "You don't say."
"Hey, I'm invulnerable!" Clark protests. He pauses and then hesitantly asks, "What did you tell him about it?"
Bruce smirks some more. "I said he most definitely got his fashion sense from his mother."
By the time Clark has worked out the insult in that, Dick is back in the cave, his presence preventing Clark from giving his lover the smack upside the head he deserves. In truth, he's too happy to hear Bruce refer to themselves as parents for the first time to fuss over being called the mom.
9:33 PM
Clark gave mental thanks to his Kryptonian ancestors once again, as he toted sixty-plus pounds of sleeping boy up the stairs. He didn't know what arcane bit of science enabled the boy to double his weight when passed out, but he didn't much care-he was to busy being grateful for not having human muscles.
Laying the boy down on his bed and pulling the covers up around his shoulders, he sat down on the bed, and stared down at the boy who had so vastly changed his life. Prior to adopting Dick, they were partners, lovers, even friends, but not a family. Now...
Now Clark wakes up every day and gives breathes a sigh of thankfulness that he let Bruce talk him into adopting a nine-year-old orphaned circus acrobat. That his reservations about handing Bruce a child who was essentially himself, fifteen years ago, didn't overcome Bruce's determination, and Clark's own affection for the boy.
Perhaps the most surprising aspect of it all was how quickly Dick took to Bruce.
Dick went to Clark for hugs and laughter, but he went to Bruce for help and praise-that the man shelled it out sparingly and with great reluctance only increasing his determination.
After Clark had revealed his other identity to Dick, the boy had nearly fainted with delight, and spent the next several days following Clark’s every move, as though waiting for a halo to appear; when he was in costume as Superman, Dick still looked at him with worshipful eyes. He loved flying more than anything else and held onto his Superman pajamas even if he had too much dignity to wear them anymore.
But it was Bruce he emulated; Bruce had given him a cause after his parents murder, a reason to keep trying. It was clear who he wanted to be like when he grew up-and Clark wasn’t jealous of that.
Most of the time.
Any residual envy was largely beaten down by watching the two of them. Wholly apart from being very touching, it was damn amusing to watch a boy who’s voice hadn’t yet broke attempt to sound gruff and menacing. To watch Bruce’s befuddlement and exasperation at having gained a very small shadow who watched and imitated him constantly, entirely ruining his ‘Dark Knight of Vengeance’ schtick.
The first time Clark saw it, Bruce had spent a good two hours brooding in the cave in front of the monitors, watching as Two-Face shot the officer in the neck and escaped in his car. Clark had spent the better part of that time attempting to drag Bruce out of his self-inflicted misery.
Giving up in exasperation, Clark turned away from Bruce and caught sight of the small figure across the Cave hunched down and scowling. “Dick? Is something wrong?”
Dick straightened up at and started to smile automatically, before quashing it. Slumping back down, he sighed and growled, “I’m fine.”
Concern growing in him, Clark prompted, “You don’t look as though you’re fine.”
Dick hunched further and ignored him, shooting a glance Bruce as he did.
Clark eyed him in bewilderment. “Is… did Bruce do something?”
Dick shook his head, still refusing to look up, fixing his eyes on the homework in front of him.
“Is-is it because he’s being-“ such an asshole, Clark finished mentally, “so quiet and…stubborn? Because that has nothing to do with you, he’s just… well…” Clark couldn’t believe he was making excuses for Bruce now. Indignance pushed out puzzlement. “And I’ll make him stop. It’s about time he quit brooding and-“
“No!”
Clark’s mouth snapped shut. “…what?”
Dick was sitting up now, anxiety written all over his small face. “He’s Batman. That’s what he’s supposed to do. Right? So you should leave him.” As though suddenly becoming aware of himself, he slumped back down and furrowed his brow, glaring at his book. Dick shot a quick glance at Bruce, then leaned backward and crossed his arms over his chest.
Just as Bruce was sitting.
The penny dropped. Clark’s mouth twitched. Walking back over to Bruce, he leaned down said, “Check out your fan club, oh Master of the Night.”
Bruce glared at him in bleary-eyed confusion, then saw Dick. Hunched shoulders, clenched jaw, furrowed brow, crossed arms… As they watched, Dick sent another covert look their way, then scrunched down a bit further.
Bruce's mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. Clark heroically bit back to urge to break down in hysterical laughter, and made a promise to himself to find the Cave’s surveillance and save this moment for potential blackmail.
“What’s that Bruce? You’re ready to go upstairs? Maybe play Monopoly, like I suggested?” Clark said loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dick perk up, and look at Bruce.
Bruce swallowed. “I… suppose that would be… acceptable.”
3:21 AM
Clark opens his eyes as light spills in from the hall. He can see Dick's small form hunched in the doorway. A nightmare, then. "Hey," he calls out, voice rough with sleep, and stretches out a hand to Dick.
The boy hesitates. Even after four months, Dick is still just beginning to trust that he, they want him there. "I... is Bruce... will he mind?"
Clark shakes his head. "Of course not. Come here." The second is said with a subtle hint of command under the reassuring tone-Superman's voice. Dick relaxes slightly and crosses the room, crawling up onto the bed and under the covers Clark has lifted open. He lays down a few feet away from Clark, who promptly pulls him in close enough to hug. He strokes the small back, waiting for Dick to speak.
"I. I had a bad dream."
Clark nods, and keeps stroking. He's learned by now that while it's quicker and easier on both of them to drag it out of Dick, it doesn't help the boy in the long run. He can wait for Dick.
"It was, uh. There was this awful g-um monster, slime monster, and he killed a lot of people cause he wasn't-I mean, he had, uh magical powers and it was so awful and I couldn't stop him."
Clark blinks. Well, that was-not what he was expecting. "Um. Well, that's-that's," and enlightenment hits. "Dick. Did you watch that horror movie that I told you not to?"
Dick shifts guiltily. "Umm. Kinda?"
"Kinda meaning... yes?" Clark keeps his voice stern.
"I only watched the first part!" Dick protests.
"And that was enough to give you nightmares," Clark scolds. "I-we don't tell you not to do something without good reason. And you know you have to obey."
"But if I can't even watch murders on tv, how am I supposed to deal with the real thing as Robin?" Dick bursts out, genuinely upset.
Clark swallows hard. Now is not the time for a discussion on how, if he had his own way, Dick wouldn't be putting on a cape until he was at least 18-if ever. "So that was why you were watching the movie?"
Dick nods glumly. "Yeah. I thought I could build up an imutiny to it."
"Immunity," Clark absently corrects him. He's still getting the feeling that Dick is lying about something to him. "Is that the only reason you watched it?"
Dick eyes him as much as he can in the dim light, and then confesses, "Well. There were really cool motorcycles too."
Clark swallows a laugh. Bruce, though he'll never admit it, built the Batmobile as much for fun as for work, and it appears the love for high-powered engines is contagious. Dick's obsession has resulted in a massive collection of models, books, pictures, and even diagrams of the “coolest” motorcycles he (and Clark and Bruce and Alfred) can find.
Clark already knows that Dick will be begging for lessons just as soon as his legs are long enough for his feet to touch the pedals, and has given up any hope of getting him into a safer vehicle.
Like a tank.
At this point he'll settle for just getting him to wear a helmet.
"Right. No tv for a week."
"Aww, Clark!" Dick protests.
"No. You break the rules, kiddo, you deal with the consequences." Clark keeps stroking his back as Dick pouts. After some time has passed, he asks quietly, "Are you feeling better now?"
"Mm-hm," Dick mumbles. "I was just worried that the demon-guy would break in and hurt everyone."
Clark raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "What, even though you live with Batman and Superman? Not to mention Alfred."
Dick giggles. "Yeah, Alfred would totally kick his butt."
Clark rolls his eyes. The boy lives with a superpowered alien, and a man who terrifies the worst psychotics of Gotham (and occasionally Clark himself), and yet it's the butler who's 'scary'. "I think Bruce and I might be able to help too," he says dryly. "We're superheroes, you know."
Dick smiles sleepily. "And I'm gonna be one too, right?"
"Sure thing."
"Cool. I'm gonna save lots of people. Not let them get hurt any more..." Dick's voice trails off. Clark presses a kiss to his hairline, and wraps himself more securely around the boy.
Bruce finds them that way several hours later, slipping into the room with the night's fresh bruises.