Chapter Text
There's an unfamiliar alpha in the lake house.
No, actually, there are two, which makes Clark even more unnerved as he approaches. He catches wind of a beta as well, one who isn't Alfred or Victor. All he knows is that Bruce has several visitors who aren't League members hanging around, and they seem agitated. Clark doesn't exactly have the right to be as worried as he is - while he's grown friendlier with Bruce and the rest of their little group over the last few months, they're still more teammates and colleagues than friends - but he's still tempted to stop in anyway. Still, he doesn't know how Bruce would receive the meddling concern of a not-quite-friend, and he doesn't want to shake the rapport that they've been slowly building since his return. Sometimes it feels like they're on the verge of something more, of an actual friendship instead of just an alliance.
Sometimes it feels like Bruce regards him with an emotion in his eyes that can't be attributed to guilt or faith.
Clark was on the way to visit the manor due to lack of anything else to do while his life as Clark Kent is still being pieced back together. He and Lois had tried to resume their relationship where it left off, but the months apart had been hard, and neither of them were the people they had been when they had parted. So after splitting with Lois despite their lingering affection for one another, he'd been staying with his ma in Smallville, doing farm work and scrolling through job listings in case he couldn't return to his position at the Planet.
Bruce had assured him that he would have his identity back soon enough, but meanwhile, Superman hadn't much to do in his downtime besides spar with Wonder Woman or occasionally bother Batman and the others in his cave. While Victor still has his own residence in Gotham, he spends much of his free time in the cave, busy tinkering with something or other. Barry visits often as well, when he isn't at work. The three of them (plus Alfred) talk science that's a bit beyond Clark's comprehension. He hadn't taken Bruce for the kind of person to allow so many guests in his space, but he gathered from Alfred that this was a development that arose after Clark's demise.
Clark was hoping to see if the manor's contractors need any assistance with their work, but the sound of elevated heartbeats and raised voices from Bruce's lake house had given him pause, and now he's hovering across the lake, debating whether to enter or not. He doesn't want to stick his nose in where he's not wanted, and neither does he want to give Bruce the impression that he thinks the only omega (and human) on the team can't take care of himself. He does worry about Bruce getting hurt, as he worries about all his comrades, but he's intimately acquainted with Batman's ability to defend himself. Still, it's difficult for Clark not to want to reach out, show he cares.
Diana and Alfred had both told Clark that over time Bruce would warm to him, after they’d gotten enough distance from Clark’s death. He’s still hopeful that they’re right, and perhaps if he continues to persist toward friendship despite Bruce’s reluctance, he’ll eventually get past some of the man’s tripled-fortified walls. He makes the decision to head to the house, toward the cluster of people standing in Bruce’s kitchen.
The first thing Clark notices is the young man standing right up in Bruce's space, his hand tangled up in Bruce's shirt collar. Even from this distance his alpha scent is strong, summery and citrus bright but colored with a deep earthiness that feels unusual. The searing flash of indignation that burns through Clark at the alpha's proximity to Bruce surprises him.
The alpha is startlingly handsome, is the second thing Clark notices. Tan skin, straight teeth, a shock of white hair at his temple among waves of black, and a fit, slim figure. It's possible Bruce went and got himself a pretty, young stag to help him through his heats — he has no shortage of offers, Clark is sure — but the collection of others milling around makes him doubtful that this is just a casual fling. The body language between them speaks to deep familiarity; Bruce looks mildly annoyed at most that the young man is glaring at his bared neck. There's no fear or submission in Bruce's scent or posture, which makes Clark feel a little better about whatever's going on in there.
"Are you telling me this isn’t a bite attempt?" Clark hears the man demand.
"Even if it is, it obviously didn't take. Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."
"B, he tried to bond you!"
Bruce looks exasperated if anything, his hands coming up to bat the alpha's hands away from his collar. "And as you can see, I'm completely fine."
"Yeah, this time. What if the next one actually succeeds?"
"Do you really think I would let some random alpha mark me without my consent?"
"I think that you'd be hard-pressed to get out of the situation without judo-flipping him through one of your ridiculous wall to wall windows or some other crazy stunt that playboy omega Bruce Wayne shouldn't be doing!"
Clark understands the point that he's trying to make, but he also can't help but be impressed that Bruce has managed for decades to charm the public with his flirtatious omega persona whilst simultaneously being 6' 4" and very obviously capable of bench-pressing a motorcycle. It's somewhat unusual for people of his dynamic to be built like a damn tank. Clark has heard the filthy fantasies that people have about Bruce; such is the unfortunate price of being Superman. They run the gamut from people who wouldn't mind letting Bruce choke them with his thighs to alphas who think they'll finally be the one to mount and mate Gotham's untamed prince. Clark tries not to think too hard about either of these things.
"Dick. Calm down," Bruce says, reaching over and running a hand through the man’s hair, pushing tousled strands aside. The motions are awkward, as if he’s forgotten how to do them, but the alpha begrudgingly allows himself to be groomed, leaning into the touch. They must be Bruce's pack, Clark realizes belatedly. Bruce is petting gently at the alpha, rubbing his wrist along his jaw and his temples, not unlike the way Clark's ma hugs him to cover him up in her pleasant beta scent whenever he's stressed.
With a fond sigh, the alpha carefully turns Bruce's arm so that it better fits against his face. "Twenty years later and you're still terrible at this."
"I’ve been out of practice.”
"And whose fault is that? No one told you to go on a one-man crusade against Superman and save the world without our help."
"You were needed in Gotham and Bludhaven. And I didn't want to risk you-"
"We know, B, but a call or two would've been nice. We’ve always been around, even if you’re too busy with your new friends to notice. We’re proud of you for that, by the way."
"For forming the Justice League?"
"No, for finally hanging out with people who aren’t Alfred or your kids. Now, all you need to do is stop hooking up with the worst alphas in Gotham…"
Bruce looks unimpressed as he lightly cuffs his son on the neck. "I’ll tell you again: I can handle finding a heat partner without your meddling, well-intentioned as it is."
"No, Dick's right. You know what they're saying about you in the news, old man," says the beta sitting on the kitchen island. He's easily as tall as Bruce is, and even more broad, using a military knife to slowly peel an apple into one long ribbon of red. His scent is heavy for a beta’s, thick and warm with cinnamon and parchment. "They all want a piece of your pie before you go and kick the bucket."
"Jason, I'm not that old yet," Bruce sighs.
"Doesn't matter, you literally almost die like once a week," Jason scoffs. "You just need one ambitious alpha asshole to sink their teeth in and steal everything from under your nose."
"You know my legal team won't let my assets fall into the hands of anyone I don't want them to. You don't need to worry about your share of the family fortune."
"We're not worried about the fucking inheritance, Bruce, we're worried that some scumbag is gonna get their knot in you and think that means you're theirs to keep!"
Dick wrinkles his nose. "Ew, Jay, did you have to put it that way?"
"I'm just saying what we're all thinking!"
The female alpha, who's been standing silently next to Jason until now, sidesteps Dick to hold out her arms, allowing Bruce to hug her briefly, his face pressed against her dark hair and her forehead tucked against his neck. Her build is slight and sleek, and her scent is the hardest to detect out of everyone in the house, as if she's actively suppressing it. Only a light hint of linen and salt water.
"We worry," she says when they separate, her fingers coming to prod at the bruise on Bruce's collarbone. The sight of it causes Clark's stomach to flip-flop unpleasantly.
"I understand, but you don’t need to. I only have a few more years of heats to get through before I won’t need any alphas at all."
"Sure, but until then, can’t you find someone decent to parade around instead of these assholes you’ve been hooking up with? Every single time you go out these days you've got these knot-for-brains dipshits trying to peacock for you in the middle of someone else's fucking party. It's ridiculous."
Clark hasn't been keeping up with entertainment news, but even he's seen the clip of two alphas squaring up in the middle of a Queen Industries benefit to prove their worth to Bruce while he sips fake champagne in the background. At the time it had given Clark a chuckle, as he could see how thoroughly checked out Bruce was during the whole brouhaha. Probably thinking about equipment upgrades or unsolved murders while people were literally fighting for his favor.
In retrospect, it's something of a wonder that nothing of the sort happened that night at Luthor's when they first met, especially since he'd had no alpha escorting him. Clark had, when they shook hands, taken clinical notice of Bruce's scent, which was subtly sweet and surprisingly muted, like cherry wood and sugar syrup. In contrast to the distinct metallic tang that surrounds Batman, it had taken Clark slightly longer to memorize, but now he can't forget it.
Since Jason isn’t approaching Bruce to be scented, Bruce walks toward him instead. He pointlessly neatens Jason’s short hair as he answers, "It’s harder to break up with a decent person than an asshole. I’ve had firsthand experience from both sides."
"Why break up at all?” his daughter asks, looking bemused.
"Yeah, would it really be such a bad thing to actually find someone you like and form a real relationship? Like we said, you’re not getting any younger."
"Thank you for the incessant reminders," Bruce says dryly. "And you all know why I can’t do that."
"Don’t make it sound so hopeless. You’ve dated people before who knew both sides of you,” Dick argues. “Talia. Selina. Not that I’d advise getting back together with either of them, but it was pretty serious for a while. You could make it work."
"Ask Wonder Woman out," Jason suggests right before he takes a huge bite of his apple. "She’s like the ideal alpha."
"She and I aren't like that."
"Superman, then," Dick says, and Clark startles at the suggestion. "He's your type. Competent, pretty, can throw you into a wall...I'm pretty sure those are your only three standards."
"Dick, please." The exhaustion in Bruce's voice is palpable, which should maybe rankle, but mostly feels appropriate. It isn't like Clark hasn't noticed Bruce's appeal, but Bruce is attractive in a distant, untouchable way. Gotham's darling, irrepressible and irresistible, but utterly out of reach to even those who get the fleeting opportunity to bed him. Clark knows now that most of that distance is carefully cultivated, not only because Bruce has devoted the greater part of himself to his beloved city, but also because it would take someone truly extraordinary to break through Bruce's defenses. He genuinely isn't sure that Bruce thinks himself capable of ever giving himself over to another person in such a way.
It's around now that Clark figures he should remove himself from the situation, given that Bruce is perfectly safe, but of course it isn't until now that Alfred notices him hovering over the water. He gestures toward the door, so Clark touches down on the doorstep to greet him.
"Master Kent," Alfred says, smiling when Clark gives him a sheepish wave. "It's good to see you."
"Hi, Alfred. I hope this isn’t a bad time. I heard voices arguing as I was passing, and I thought I should check in. I know it isn't my business, but-"
"But Master Wayne's social skills left you concerned?" Alfred chuckles as he shifts out of the way to allow Clark in. "I wouldn't fault you for thinking the worst. Come in, I've just prepared a fresh pot of tea."
"I'm just saying, it's not like your dating history doesn't already include a little light stabbing," Dick is telling Bruce when Clark enters the room with Alfred. Everyone else in the room falls quiet upon seeing him, and Clark can hear Bruce's normally steady pulse tick up just a notch. His expression doesn't shutter at the sight of Clark, not quite, but it does shift away from the quiet but evident affection that he was wearing while speaking to his children.
"Oh, shit, it's him," Jason says, breaking the silence. "Hey, Superman."
"Just Clark is fine." He figures there's no point hiding who he is from Bruce's family.
"Clark," Bruce says, the tense lines of his shoulders loosening just slightly as he walks over. "I didn't know you would be stopping by today." Alfred busies himself with pouring tea, leaving Clark to fend for himself.
"I was on my way to the manor, actually, but I had some questions for you," he fibs, deciding it best not to mention he was worried. "But if you're occupied..."
"Not at all. These are my children. Dick, Jason, and Cassandra," Bruce says, gesturing to each person in turn. "They were just about to go down to the cave."
"Us?" Cassandra asks, looking amused.
"Yes. All three of you."
Jason snorts, but he does hop off his perch. "You can't hide your other superfriends from us forever, but whatever, we'll let you have this one. Nice work with that school bus thing," he says, nodding at Clark as he walks past.
"Thank you," Clark replies as Cassandra follows after her brother. She flashes Clark a quick smile before she vanishes around the corner with Jason.
Last to leave is Dick, who comes right up for an enthusiastic handshake. There's no alpha posturing behind the motion, just a lot of energy. "It's great to finally meet you. I know you and Bruce had that dust-up a while back, but I think it's been really good for him to have you guys on his team. Especially you, I'd say, considering how much he-"
"Dick Grayson-Wayne, you're needed downstairs," Bruce interrupts, planting a hand on Dick's back to push him along.
"By whom?" Dick laughs, but he steps away from Clark. "Alright, we'll continue our conversation at dinner. Enjoy your tea." He gives Bruce a little salute and jogs away.
Bruce purses his lips and motions for Clark to sit in the kitchen with him. Alfred brings them each a cup of green tea and then excuses himself; if Clark isn't mistaken, there's a brightness to his eyes when he departs.
"Your house is quite lively today," Clark comments as he waits for some of the steam from his tea to dissipate. A habit he learned as a child to blend in.
"Nosy and obnoxious, you mean. I guarantee they're listening in on this conversation."
"They care about you. I- I'm glad I finally got the chance to meet your pack. I'd heard you had children, but-"
Most news about the Wayne children had dried up after the accident involving Bruce’s eldest son, over a decade ago. Clark realizes now that it must have been Dick they were talking about, and if his suspicions are correct, he’s the reason why Bruce has experience legally resurrecting people from the dead. There’s a lot he wants to know, but now isn’t the time.
"They've each been living on their own for quite some time now, ever since the manor burned down," Bruce explains. "Jason and Cass are in Gotham, Dick in Bludhaven."
Clark's brow furrows. "Is it alright that you're repurposing the manor for the League? Do any of them mind?"
"The hall will be large enough for all seven of us, and a handful of future members plus some guests, including my children if they'd like to visit. They're each quite happy with their own current living spaces, and it's not like any of them are young enough to remain in my nest any longer." Clark tries to picture Bruce in a nest at all, but he can only conjure up the thought of a crabby looking Batman trying to escape a den of clothes. Bruce smirks, as if he can tell what Clark is imagining. "Anyway, you didn't come here to hear about my family. What can I do for you?"
Is it out of the realm of possibility that I just want to know more about you, Clark wishes he could ask without the walls coming back up.
"Well, first of all, you need to stop buying my mother so much stuff. The house has reached its limit on objects, Bruce. Coatracks, milk frothers, crazy expensive wine, an area rug- we don't even know what to do with half these things." Ma has started giving a lot of it away as gifts.
"That isn't a question," Bruce says, before taking a measured sip of his tea.
"I wasn’t going to answer your question with a question,” Clark replies, rolling his eyes. "Second of all, I wanted to know if there’s anything I can help with at the manor. I’ve got free time on my hands, and I’d like to be of use."
"Not currently, but I can keep you apprised. They're due to begin work on the second floor soon."
"That would be great, thanks."
"Any actual questions?"
"Yeah, just the one. Are you contractually required to be kind of a dick, or do you do it for fun?"
A low laugh slips out, and Bruce taps his fingers against his teacup. "I just have a rotten personality, as my children and colleagues and Alfred have so kindly reminded me time and again."
"You can’t be that bad, for my mother to like you as much as she does."
"One of the highest badges of honor I wear," Bruce says, and from his face, Clark can tell he means it. "That reminds me, I’m hoping to have your paperwork by next month. You can drop by to pick it up, or I can bring it to Smallville. Whichever is more convenient."
"Given that I can fly, I think picking it up here would be more convenient."
Bruce soundly ignores his teasing. "Just a few more medical records to falsify, and you’ll be good to go. I’ll get you set up with a new apartment and Lois says we should be able to get you your old job at the Planet back. She…looks well. Better-adjusted."
"Good. That’s- that’s wonderful to hear." The whole team is aware of their breakup, but Clark has been trying not to let himself drag down the mood during their time together. It's been few months now. He should be trying to move on. He's always going to love Lois, but neither of them is in the right place to be together anymore. She suffered too much in losing him, and he understands her need to safeguard her heart from going through it again.
"You should go see her."
"In time," Clark says, before finally drinking some of his tea. "There's still a lot to catch up with on the farm."
He can tell Bruce doesn't believe him for a second, but he actually has the tact not to call Clark out on the lie.
"Busy or not, you don't have to hide away in the farm all day. You're free to go out, live your life. Eat lunch somewhere. Watch a movie. Just don't talk to anyone who thinks you're dead, or get yourself in any position where you would need to show some ID. No bars or wild raves."
"That really puts a damper on my social life."
A tiny smile blooms on Bruce's face. "I can't picture you ever attending a rave. Not even undercover for an article. You'd draw the exact kind of attention you're always trying to avoid."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"You should know that much by now, son. Should've seen me in my twenties," Bruce says with a wink. Clark would be lying if he said his heart didn't skip a beat. "There's a reason Gotham still considers me a party boy, no matter how many hip replacement ads Jason keeps forwarding to my inbox."
"How vicious," Clark laughs.
"I let them get away with all the wrong things when they were pups, and now they're beyond my control."
"I didn't know you were capable of admitting something like that."
"A few major events have caused me to reevaluate certain pieces of my outlook on life." Bruce's eyes are lowered toward his cup, lashes hiding them from sight. "And, speaking from experience yet again, you can take all the time you need to rebuild yourself in the aftermath, but you do eventually need to reconnect with the rest of the world, as impossible as it might seem."
Clark wonders briefly which of the tragedies in Bruce's life he's referencing right now. Perhaps all of them.
"You're not wrong, but- I'm not sure what part of my life there is to live right now. I didn't just come back, Bruce. I'm a version of myself that was never intended to exist, and I- I suppose I'm just not sure if it's as easy as slotting back into the life that I used to have. I don't think the pieces are still there to be picked up. I...might need something entirely new."
When Clark looks back at Bruce, he finds himself being studied by those shrewd brown eyes. He registers, faintly, in the back of his mind, the evenness of Bruce's pulse again. He's come to learn to rely on it as a litmus test in the field for whether things have truly gone to shit. The fact that it remains stable now gives him some peace of mind.
"Okay," Bruce says. "That's understandable. If you need me to rearrange anything to ease the transition for you, we can do that. Do you even want to return to Metropolis? Or the United States? You don't even have to take back your old identity, if you want a start with a completely blank slate."
The ease with which he accepts Clark's decision makes the prospect of a new life feel more real, more solid.
"I'd still like to be Clark Kent. It's the name my parents gave me, and I spent too many years away from it. But as for the rest- I haven't decided yet, sorry. Ma’s been pushing for me to get off the farm too; she thinks I’m stagnating there."
"Could stay in Gotham," a quiet voice says from the corner, and it’s only now that Clark notices that Cassandra has snuck back out of the cave to steal a full plate of what seems to be ham. Clark is a little embarrassed that he missed her, but he supposes he can blame the mid-life crisis he decided to just have.
"Alfred won’t be happy if you ruin your appetite," Bruce tells her, and she shrugs, taking a bite of ham. "She isn’t wrong though," he returns his attention to Clark to say. "I can easily find you a place in Gotham if you’re looking for a change in scenery. And while I’m sure your mother loves having you at home, she’s right. I don’t think you’d be happy staying in Smallville much longer than you have."
"Yeah. I just- don’t know where else to go."
"Lots of space. In this house." This time, Cassandra's eyes are boring into Bruce’s, and Clark realizes belatedly what she’s implying.
"Clark has no desire to live this close to the action, especially if you three are going to be coming in and out at all hours."
"Victor's okay."
"Victor only stays in a guest room on occasion. Which you are also welcome to do," Bruce tells Clark as an afterthought. "But you tend not to be in the cave at two in the morning when Alfred gets out the broom to shoo people to bed."
"I could start." Maybe he should. He doesn't see many people besides his mother and those he rescues, these days. Perhaps bonding with his team is the right place to begin anew.
"Please don't take offense when I tell you that I have no idea what reason you could possibly have to do that," Bruce says, amusement lacing his tone.
"Hanging out with you," Cassandra says, slipping out of sight with her ham.
"Cassie," Bruce calls after her, but she's long gone. With a shake of his head, he turns back and tells Clark, "Anyway, I'll put a hold on anything besides your ID until you decide what you'd like to do. Just let me know."
"Of course. Thank you again for everything you're doing."
There's a shadow in Bruce's eyes when he replies, "You shouldn't keep thanking someone for rectifying a mistake." Of course. Clark has long since moved past any resentment or discontent over the situation, but he suspects Bruce might take his guilt with him to the grave. All the more reason to come bother him more often, until he replaces it with a different emotion (likely annoyance).
"If I say what I want to right now, we're going to talk ourselves in circles again, so I'll just thank Alfred for the tea instead and get out of your hair," Clark says lightly, standing.
There's a stubborn set to Bruce's jaw, but he stands as well to walk Clark to the door. "I'll relay your thanks to him." In the threshold, he pauses, so Clark doesn't lift off right away, giving him a moment to work up the grudging willingness to speak. "Clark. You can certainly visit the cave if you get sick of looking at cornfields all day. But I can't guarantee what we do in there will be of any interest." It's the most awkward invitation to hangout that Clark has ever received, which is why it's kind of endearing.
"I'll hold you to it, then. Have a good evening, Bruce. Try to hold your own against your pack tonight," he says with a smile, and Bruce sighs.
"You would think that twenty-odd years in this business would emotionally prepare you for a bunch of whelps insinuating you're in need of a dye job, and yet."
"Don't do it," Clark advises. He knows he’s not the only one who finds the silver in Bruce’s hair attractive. "The hip replacement, maybe," and Bruce snorts, "but not the hair. I can promise you the masses would riot."
"And we wouldn't want to disappoint them, would we."
"Certainly not."
With a wave goodbye, Clark lifts up into the air, flying away at a leisurely pace. When he glances back across the lake, Bruce is still standing in the doorway, watching Clark depart. Heart still steady, eyes still inscrutable.
It's a fire that brings Clark to Bludhaven for the first time a few days later, though his curiosity plays no small role either. His need to understand, to examine the mechanisms beneath the face of the clock.
When he finishes putting out the flames, he flies over to the figure crouched on the rooftop watching him with interest.
"Superman," Dick Grayson says, holding his hand out again. "Nightwing. Bludhaven's favorite local vigilante. Not that we have that many to choose from!"
"Good to meet you, Nightwing," Clark says, shaking Dick's hand again.
"C'mon, I'll show you around town."
Dick does exactly that, bringing Clark racing around the city as they stop each crime along the way. An hour later, they're sitting on another rooftop, sharing a box of fries because Dick claimed that he would need the energy to answer whatever it was that Clark came to ask.
Clark feels a little ashamed to be going behind Bruce's back, but somehow he knows the conversation with Dick will be easier. "I'm sorry I don't know how to ask this more tactfully, but. You were his first Robin, weren't you?"
"Yep. The dead one," Dick says, a wry twist to his lips as he draws a line through the air between them.
"Something we have in common."
"And isn't that wild? You know, I'm a little surprised he didn't make a morbid little glass case for you too."
The thought shocks a laugh out of Clark. "I don't think the pain was even a fraction of what he felt when he lost you. We barely even knew each other. He regretted the impact that my death might have had on the world."
"I don't think that's quite right." Dick mulls it over as he nibbles on another fry. "Obviously the circumstances weren't the same, but I think your death hurt him in the same way that mine did."
Clark shakes his head, disbelieving. "But you're his son. His pack. He loved you."
Dick casts a sideways look at Clark, his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He's probably only six or seven years younger than Clark is, and it's a strange but sudden reminder that Dick has been in this business almost as long as his father has. He must have been just barely an adult when he died.
"He did. But you have to understand, for someone like B, our deaths were a personal failing on his part. An inability to save us, to keep something precious alive. An outcome that he believes he could've singlehandedly averted if he'd accounted for all the right factors."
"Which is ridiculous."
"To you and me, of course it is. That isn't to say I wasn't angry at him when I came back. He was my father, you know? Why hadn't he protected me? Why didn't he come save me when I was in so much pain? But after the anger faded, I remembered. I put myself in that position to save my little brother. I died protecting someone I loved, just like he would have done. Just like you did."
"It wasn't a mistake, and it wasn't his to make."
"Exactly," Dick says, smiling brightly, and Clark can see why they used to call him the light to Batman's darkness. "Anyway, we're past all that now, and you guys will be too, one day."
"It'd be nice to know how to move the process along a little bit." If anyone would understand how it feels to be haunted by your own ghost, it would be Dick.
"Honestly, I think time and persistence will do it. It helps to have someone on your side to stop him from closing you out. Flamebird - that's Jay - used to throw a full on fit every time Batman was guilt-tripping himself too much to just talk to me. And Batgirl would just start sitting on him. Her own version of an alpha command, because she never uses the voice."
"Couldn't you, as the pack alpha-"
"Oh, no, that's not me," Dick laughs. "C took the position after I died, and kept it even after I came back."
Clark blinks. The same had happened after his father's death; since Ma is a beta, it fell to him to lead even though they were just a pack of two. But if his father had returned...
"It's what B and Jaybird needed," Dick says, noticing the surprise in Clark's demeanor. "Even after I returned, I wasn't...quite right, for a little while. The person who helped me tried her best to stabilize me, but I needed to relearn what home felt like before I could be anything else."
"I know what that's like."
"Yeah, I can imagine. I saw the footage of that fight."
Clark winces and Dick laughs. "Not my best moment, I'll admit."
"But not your fault, either. You haven't been back as long as I have, but I can tell you that even though it gets better, it never completely goes away. I still dream about the dirt sometimes, you know?"
That’s what the extra component in Dick’s scent is, Clark realizes. Soil.
"Yeah," Clark says, his throat going a bit dry. He can still remember how absolutely still everything had been, until the world burst back into motion around him, liquid and sound and confusion battering against all his senses. Dick reaches out and pats him on the shoulder, an anchoring point.
"Having people to come home to helps," Dick offers, a question tacit in his voice.
"I have a few. Hopefully more soon," Clark says, looking down at the streets of Bludhaven.
"I'm sure you will. That's what a team is for, right?" Dick pauses to prod at his fries before meeting Clark's eyes again. "I meant it, you know. We're grateful that B has the rest of you watching his back. We've never talked about it, because he would literally rather die, I'm sure, but despite what you see in the news, he's never been the kind of omega who gets doted on or looked after. He's always the protector. Me and the others are glad that he's finally got people who can stand between him and the danger for once."
"If he would let us," Clark mutters ruefully, and Dick sighs.
"Yeah, well, you can only do your best. He was never the type to listen to alphas, anyway."
"Color me utterly unsurprised."
"Incidentally, you are an alpha. Who is single," Dick says, looking Clark up and down appraisingly. Clark has a strong suspicion he's being evaluated right now.
"I am," he responds, before frowning. "Or, well, the Kryptonian equivalent, I suppose. Our dynamics were largely obsolete given the use of birthing matrices, but effectively my biology operates similarly to how a human alpha's would."
"Interesting." Dick draws out the vowels as he contemplates Clark's face.
"Is it?" Clark asks, amused. Dick isn’t even pretending to be subtle. Bruce’s children must think his situation quite dire if they’re scoping out potential partners for him while on patrol. Unfortunately for them, Clark isn't anywhere near ready for another relationship yet. Nor would Bruce be likely to accept overtures from Clark when he can't stop giving Clark that melancholy, faraway look each time they're together.
"Very much so. Oh, there go the sirens." Dick stands, peering out in the distance at where two patrol cars are tearing down the street. "Better hop to it. But hey, if you ever want to talk to someone about everything, you know where to find me!"
"I do. Thanks, Nightwing."
"No problem. See you around," Dick says, before executing a perfect backflip off the building while still holding his fries. Clark can't help but smile as he watches Nightwing take off, almost as if in flight.
The next time the whole League is assembled is during a rousing fight against a small group of extraterrestrial invaders who sought to mine Earth for materials and slave labor. It's much less harrowing than what they went through against Steppenwolf, and no one sustains any major injuries, so Barry calls for a pizza party in celebration. J'onn is needed elsewhere in his Swanwick identity, so he bids them farewell and flies off. Clark could return to the farm as well, but he decides to make good on the promise to himself to connect more, and follows them back to the Batcave.
"Keeping Barry fed might finally be the thing that drains my bank account," Bruce comments as he watches their speedster devour another entire pie on his own. Victor looks to be running some calculations as he observes Barry eating.
"It's actually pretty impressive how he puts it all away," Clark says, laughing when Arthur passes another box over to a still hungry Barry, who thanks him profusely. Arthur is usually so busy with Atlantean affairs that it's a rare treat to have him spend time with the rest of them.
"Not going to get a slice yourself?" Diana asks as she walks over. She stands on Bruce's other side, and Clark feels weirdly cognizant of the lack of room between them.
She and I aren't like that, Bruce had told his children, but Clark can't help but notice how easily Bruce allows her into his space. Most of their touches are completely ordinary for two siblings-in-arms, so he supposes it's the casual intimacy that surprises him. He hadn't thought Bruce the kind to let someone in so quickly.
"I had two already," Clark replies, and she nods before turning to glare at Bruce.
"And you?"
"I don't like pizza?" Bruce tries, and she makes a scolding noise with her tongue.
"Lies, but I'll allow it this once. We need to watch out for him, Kal," Diana turns to tell him. "Bruce hardly eats enough to be running around Gotham for hours every night."
"That seems unsafe," Clark says, causing Bruce to scoff.
"I'm fine. With Diana and Alfred and the children all hounding me, it isn't like I could possibly keel over and die in peace, anyway."
"Good. Kal would know, too."
Bruce raises an eyebrow at this assertion, and Clark shrugs back. Just because he isn't pack (or whatever Diana is to Bruce), doesn't mean he can't keep an eye on his team.
"I'm pretty well-attuned to the vitals of everyone in this room. So, yeah, if you suddenly fell over in the field, I would know fairly quickly. Probably not fast enough to catch you, though."
"So it's better for you not to do so at all." Diana elbows Bruce gently, and he simply glowers into space in response.
"Diana, come settle a bet!" Arthur calls over, waving a muscled arm in their direction. Diana cocks her head in curiosity, but walks over after giving Bruce a little parting pat on the arm. Huh.
"I have something for you," Bruce says, pulling Clark from his thoughts. "Walk with me."
"If it's another espresso machine, I will throw it into the lake."
"You wouldn't."
"I wouldn't," Clark admits. "But I'll grumble the entire time it takes me to fly back to Smallville with it."
"Luckily for you, it isn't anything so eye-catching. Just your ID and updated records."
Bruce hands the manila folder over to Clark, who empties out the contents, scanning through them quickly. Clark Kent was hospitalized during the Doomsday attack, and a case of mistaken identity had him marked as deceased until he finally woke from his coma a few months ago.
"How kind of Wayne Enterprises to pay for my physical therapy and medical bills."
Bruce gives an airy wave of his hand. "Don't read too much into it; WE did the same for every person affected that day."
"Well, Clark Kent appreciates the generosity. And I appreciate everything you've done for me, Bruce, truly."
He takes a chance and reaches out to rest his hand at Bruce's elbow as he says this, holding eye contact to show his sincerity. Bruce doesn't move an inch, but Clark can feel that his next inhalation is a touch quicker than usual.
"It was the least I could do," he murmurs, his voice low, and for a moment, the only thing Clark can concentrate on is interpreting the indiscernible emotion hidden in those dark eyes. Before he can come to a conclusion, Bruce steps away, disrupting the moment like a pebble in a pond. Clark instinctively wants to chase after the lingering trace of body heat, but he gathers his senses and lowers his arm.
He's prevented from doing anything else that would embarrass himself by the approach of Barry and Victor, who are having a lively conversation.
"It could be like a VR thing," Barry is explaining to Victor.
"Yes, but why," is Victor’s counter, and it leaves Barry sputtering.
"Bruce, c'mon, you agree right? Wouldn't it be cooler that way?"
"Every system in the world is already accessible like that to me," Victor says.
"It would also be more work, Barry," Bruce says as he reaches out to straighten the collar of Barry's shirt. Barry looks slightly confused, but he allows it until Bruce runs his wrist against his jaw, and then they all freeze awkwardly.
"Um. You, uh."
"Sorry. That was wildly inappropriate," Bruce says, withdrawing his hand. "My children dropped by recently, and. Old habits."
"No, uh- that's- if you wanna, I don't mind! My parents are both betas, so I haven't been omega-scented since my gran died, and that was ages ago-" Barry stops babbling long enough to yank his own collar down, baring his throat. Bruce blinks at him several times, apparently still processing the entire interaction, but he eventually raises his hand to rub gently across Barry's throat and jawline. The soothing effect has Barry's jittering hands falling still at his sides. "Oh yeah, that's the stuff. Wait, did I just make it weird? I made it weird."
"Barry," Victor says patiently, and Barry manages to slow his mouth as Bruce scents the other side of his throat while looking amused.
"Victor?" Bruce asks, but he shakes his head.
"The hoodie is enough," Victor says, sticking his hands in the pockets of the WE hoodie that’s a size too large for him. Clark only realizes just now that it smells like Bruce, which means at some point they became close enough that Bruce has been lending him clothes. Marking him as pack.
The revelation is jarring until Clark thinks about its implications. Victor and Barry are the two youngest members, and both betas to boot. Bruce probably can’t help but to view them a little bit as his own pups, given their closeness in age to his children. J'onn, like all Martians, is without a dynamic, and the rest of them are all alphas, which doesn’t mean Bruce can’t scent them, but he’s much less likely to treat them as pack without his pack alpha’s agreement.
He has no idea if Cassandra has met the others, but she seemed amenable enough to Clark. He could see Bruce and Diana forming a pack bond as well, whether or not their relationship is romantic.
"What about Clark?" Barry asks, and the rest of them swivel to look at him. He stares back, guileless, and Clark has to remember that social conventions aren't his strong suit.
"I won't object," Clark says, because something about Bruce makes him want to try his luck. Test the waters, fan the flames of whatever feeling Bruce has toward him besides that awful, cloying guilt. Are they ever going to reach a place where Bruce can relax around him, like with Diana or his pups?
Bruce has let his expression smooth back to stoic neutrality, but to Clark's surprise, he does take a step closer.
"Would your mother take umbrage to having an omega outside the pack scenting her son?" he asks.
"Not if it’s you," Clark replies truthfully.
Bruce studies him for another moment before extending his hand and brushing his fingertips delicately along Clark’s temple, down to his jaw. It's the polite kind of scenting that omegas do for acquaintances and friends in need, not packmates.
He didn't use his wrist where his pheromones would be much stronger, Clark notices, but he’s fine with that. The touch is feather light, but with Clark’s senses being what they are, it’s enough for him to feel the sweet call to calmness that Bruce is radiating.
It’s funny now to Clark that Batman, scourge of criminals and brutal arbiter of justice, is hiding such care beneath the cowl, but perhaps the people he rescued always knew this about him.
"Thank you," he says when Bruce withdraws, and he gets a half-perturbed, half-irritated look in return. Clark wants to prod at him until he explains himself, but Barry interrupts before he can ask.
"Sweet, now we all match. Me and Vic are gonna go hack the STAR Labs servers if you guys wanna join."
Bruce shakes his head. "I need to clean before Alfred kicks us all out of the cave for making a mess."
"We'll tell you if we find anything interesting," Victor says as they walk toward the Batcomputer.
Bruce and Clark last through six minutes of silence while randomly rearranging things before Clark breaks it.
"Do I have to ask, or are you going to tell me?"
"Seeing as I can't actually read minds..."
"Okay," Clark says, chuckling a bit at Bruce's flat expression. "Are you trying to form a pack bond with Victor and Barry?"
A minute flinch passes through Bruce, but he quickly suppresses it. The immense amount of control he feels he needs to have at all times must be exhausting. Clark understands very well what it takes to hide so much away, but at least in his moments alone, or with Ma or Lois, he can be free. He has no idea if Bruce ever allows himself that much. If he ever feels safe enough to let go of that control.
"The two of them are effectively packless. Victor is alone, and Barry's father isn't due to be released from prison any time in the next decade. They've started to form a pack bond with one another, but I felt that I was within my rights to offer a bond that neither currently has. Cassandra has been encouraging it, but I haven't actually had the conversation with Barry yet."
"But you feed him, allow him to freely roam around your space. You're halfway there already."
"Yes."
Clark hums as he picks up a few loose schematics and stacks them neatly. "I think your chances are good. You already did an amazing thing by bringing us all together, but if you can offer even more- I don't think they'd be able to turn it down."
"We'll have to see."
"Sorry for putting you on the spot, back there. I know it's not the done thing for an alpha to ask that of an omega outside their pack."
"Don't worry about it. I've scented plenty of people before, and the League is closer to me than most of them ever were. It's something I would do for any of you, if needed." He doesn't look at Clark as he speaks, so Clark can only read his tone. It doesn't sound like a lie, so he'll take it as a victory. A miniscule sign that they might be growing closer.
"I'd do the same. If there's anything you or the others ever need, don't hesitate to ask."
Bruce nods shortly in acknowledgement, and that's that.
The first time Clark stays in one of the lake house guestrooms, he's buffeted by the light of three different sunlamps and Jason is trying to force feed him a green smoothie.
"Sorry it's not better, but with Alf out of commission, the closest thing to a nursemaid you'll get is me."
"Bruce wasn't up to the job?" Clark asks weakly as he accepts the glass. The kryptonite had really taken its toll today, and Bruce refused to let Clark leave his monitoring until he was back to full capacity. Not that Clark has anywhere to go besides home to Smallville, since he still hasn’t chosen a new place to settle down despite being officially, legally revived. If anything, he’s been spending more time around Gotham than anywhere else, what with helping out at the manor and doing some heavy lifting in the cave for the others as they muddle around on their projects.
Poor Alfred has had a nasty cold for the last two days, so Jason had taken up his role as the command center, and now apparent chef of the house. The first job, he does quite well, but Clark isn't so sure about the second.
Jason laughs. "Bruce is too busy trying to figure out how to locate every shard of kryptonite on Earth instead of talking about his feelings. It's probably better that way. If he came up here he'd start yelling about taking risks in battle, and then you'd start yelling back that it's pretty hypocritical of him to get pissed at you for doing what's necessary, and then you don't talk for a week until Alfred refuses to let you into the cave until you fix your shit. Or something like that."
"You paint a very detailed picture." Clark swallows down most of the bitter smoothie and then collapses back into bed after Jason takes the glass.
"Get some rest, Supes. You're gonna need it before your shouting match tomorrow."
"Thanks. I'll get my vocal cords ready for the big day."
"That's the spirit."
After Jason leaves the room, Clark drifts in and out of sleep as he soaks up UV rays, his strength slowly returning. He comes to a few hours later to the sight of Bruce sitting in a chair by his bed, hair falling into his eyes as he stares resolutely at Clark. Under the light of the lamp, his skin is painted golden, and Clark is filled with the inexplicable need to touch. To feel his glow.
"Jason was right," he mumbles. "Your bedside manner is frightening."
"You could have been seriously hurt today," Bruce responds curtly, clearly not in the mood for Clark’s jokes.
"Well, now you understand how I feel about you all the time."
"Clark, don’t."
"I’m serious. Sure, the appearance of kryptonite is never a great time for me, but you are much more susceptible to battle injuries at every other moment than I am. To avoid the fight we’re about to have over this, let’s agree that it sucked that I got hit but that I’m okay, everyone else is swell, and that we’re all very grateful for Dr. Wayne’s sun treatment center."
Bruce continues to glare tiredly at him for a minute before heaving out a breath and saying, "Dr. Wayne was my father."
Clark can feel the mortification like a weight in his stomach. "God, sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him up-"
"It’s alright. Just-" Bruce scrubs a hand through his hair, tousling it further. Clark thinks it’s the K-delirium that makes him want to reach over and mess it up even more. "Just think the next time about what it would do to the people who care about you to lose you again."
"Better me than them," Clark says softly, and Bruce shuts his eyes, frustration evident in his posture, his scent. Clark's instincts tell him to soothe, to reassure the aggravated omega that everything will be alright, but he ignores them in favor of the truth Bruce doesn't want to hear. "I know you understand the exact thought process I went through at the time. You know you can’t stop yourself from moving, not in the moment. Not when there's someone else's life on the line. I can’t promise I won’t do it again, but I can promise that I’ll try not to do it without help."
"That’s the best I’m going to get out of you, isn’t it?"
Clark smiles instead of answering, and reaches out a heavy arm to pat clumsily at Bruce’s knee.
"I’m going to go back to sleep now, and you should do the same. If I wake up again and find you still sitting here like some kind of bedside gargoyle, I’m flying you straight to your mattress."
"Can you even fly straight?"
"We won’t have to find out as long as you do as you’re told."
Bruce looks imperiously down at Clark, his mouth pressed into a thin line that Clark wants to see soften into a smirk, a sigh, a sign of anything but the ever-present shadow of unhappiness Bruce always wears like a mourning shroud whenever they're together. It's one of the more unpleasant aftershocks from Clark's death that he can't seem to escape, no matter what he does. If forgiveness is not enough, what else can Clark do to prove to Bruce that they need to move forward? That they could become actual friends if Bruce would stop self-flagellating long enough to let it happen?
Sometimes he drives Clark right out of his own skin, leaving him heated and wrong-footed and unsure about things he had previously considered certainties.
"I'm not commanding you," Clark appends after some lucidity returns to his mind. "I don't even think Kryptonians are capable of it. I'm just making a firm suggestion because I think your son will be very smug if we prove him right by arguing with each other for the rest of the night."
A sound that's the barest hint of a laugh slips from Bruce's mouth. "Fine, but if you feel anything out of the ordinary, call for me right away."
"Sure. Now go back to your own room before we give Jason something to gossip to his siblings about."
Bruce grimaces as he stands. "Christ, they'll be insufferable. Goodnight."
Clark doesn't close his eyes until he confirms for himself, with his weak x-ray vision, that Bruce has retired back to his bedroom. Sleep comes soon after.
In the morning, Clark wakes to the feeling of the sun's actual rays pouring over him, and it feels wondrous. The remaining aftereffects of the kryptonite exposure have faded, so he gets up to complete his morning routine with the things so generously and meticulously supplied by his host. There’s a brief moment where he considers going bare-chested, so he can soak up more sun, but it feels uncouth to strut around the lake house half-naked, so he puts on the t-shirt that was left on a chair for him. The fit is just a bit loose, and it smells faintly of cherry wood. It’s Bruce’s shirt, Clark realizes with a sharp hitch in his chest. The fabric is soft and silky against his skin and he can feel his nipples peaking and an unwarranted throb of arousal as he inhales that delectable scent again.
Nope. Not doing whatever the hell this is right now. Clark tugs the shirt back off, folding it neatly and leaving it where he found it. There ought to be something in the closet, given how prepared Alfred likes to be. He rifles through the assortment of clothing until he finds a button up that’s also a touch too large for him. But the underlying scent is cinnamon, which means it must be Jason’s. A much safer choice. He takes a minute to center himself so that he's not wafting alpha excitement everywhere when he exits the room.
As he walks he tests a few of his abilities, just to be certain he's back in action. He lifts off the ground with ease while his breath frosts the air before him, and he flicks on the x-ray vision and turns it toward the voices he hears from the kitchen.
"It’s done," Jason is saying. He’s leaning against Bruce’s back, arms folded on his father’s shoulder with his chin tucked on top as he watches the pot on the stovetop.
"It isn’t," Bruce and Alfred declare in unison.
"How many times have we reviewed this, Master Jason?"
"Not enough, apparently. But look, it's already in a ball."
"Jay, there are literally only fifteen seconds remaining. Just wait," Bruce commands as he whisks something in a bowl.
Clark arrives at the kitchen at the same moment the egg timer goes off, but he stands out of the way until after Jason has scooped all his poached eggs out of the water.
"Mornin', we’re making Eggs Benedict if you want in on this," Jason says as he plates each egg. After he places the last one, he pauses to give Clark a quizzical look. "Is that my shirt?"
"Oh, sorry, I just grabbed something out of the armoire."
"Didn't like the clothes I put out for you, huh?" Jason asks dryly, and Clark finds an answer he didn't know he was looking for. He should've known Bruce would never be so lax as to offer Clark one of his own garments.
"Must've missed them, sorry." Jason snorts, obviously unconvinced.
"Don't mind Jason," Bruce says as he comes to ladle hollandaise sauce over each egg. "He takes filling in for Alfred very seriously."
"He always does," Alfred says, smiling fondly at Jason as he passes out the plates.
"Anything I can help with?"
"No, come take a seat, Clark." Clark does so, and Bruce sets a cup of coffee down next to his meal. It's already a warm caramel color, just the way Clark likes.
"You remembered how I take it," Clark says, as he clasps his hands around the mug, enjoying the heat against his palms.
"It's hard to forget something as shocking as the sight of Superman pouring half a pint of creamer into his four-sugar coffee. Jay, you're not going to eat down in the cave again, are you?" Bruce asks, watching as his son picks up his plate.
"Nah, Alfie and I are gonna sit by the lake. Give you two some alone time for your big talk." He wiggles his eyebrows dramatically.
Clark smiles as he spears open his egg, letting the yolk run free. "I think we actually already said most of what we wanted to say last night. On that note, I'm surprised Bruce wasn't hovering over me when I woke up."
"That's because he already watched you sleep for fifteen minutes this morning until Alfred chased him off," Jason reveals, before sauntering off with Alfred.
"It was eight minutes at most," Bruce mutters, and Clark feels a sudden rush of exasperated affection for him. What a complicated, caring, and aggravatingly opaque man.
"Well, as long as it was only eight. Before you try to run all sorts of tests on me, I can tell you I feel fine, and all my powers are back."
"All of them? You're certain?"
In response, Clark sends a tiny, focused blast with his eyes and singes a corner of his English muffin. "Should be. Actually, no, hand me your knife."
"No," Bruce says, sliding it out of reach. He scowls when Clark snags it with a burst of super speed. "Alright, I get your point, quit smirking."
"If you're really still concerned, you can play doctor when we're done eating. For now, can you at least make an attempt at breakfast conversation? Tell me about your day."
Bruce looks unbelievably put-upon at the prospect of telling Clark anything about himself that doesn't involve battle tactics, but he does concede with a grumbled, "I'm going into the office today for a meeting, and then I have a gala to attend this evening." The distaste in his expression is strangely charming.
"Your favorite."
"And all of the children have already refused to accompany me. Dick claims that after ten years out of the limelight he can't just come waltzing back in. Cassandra laughed, stole a dozen smoke bombs, and left without saying goodbye. Jason told me to hire a professional escort. Do you see what I have to deal with?" He's radiating a bit of unhinged Batman energy and Clark can't say he doesn't like it. Frankly, he's just happy Bruce is feeling so talkative right now.
"No wonder your blood pressure is always so high," Clark says, and Bruce grunts around a perfectly arranged bite of Eggs Benedict.
"And I don't want Alfred leaving the house while he's sick, so I'll be driving myself, which means I can't even drink for once. I swear, if a single idiot alpha tries to start a buck fight in front of me tonight, I will not be held responsible for my actions."
"It'd sure give the crowds something new to talk about if you suplexed your suitors on the red carpet."
"Keep joking about it and I'll actually do it."
"If anyone could get away with it, it would be you."
"You overestimate the public. There are only three ways an omega can reasonably handle unwanted attention: play coy, refuse politely, or react with virtuous, virginal indignation. If I punched someone in the face it would raise too many questions. Part of the reason I haven't been linked more seriously with Batman is because no one expects an omega to be so aggressive outside a threat to their own pack." Bruce rearranges his silverware morosely, muttering under his breath, "As if Gotham isn't mine to protect."
Of course Bruce would consider himself packbonded to Gotham itself.
Bruce continues to scowl at his breakfast as he downs his first cup of black coffee, and the wild need to relieve him of some of his irritation overtakes Clark with unexpected fervor. The man spends so much of his life with either a mask or a frown on his face; Clark would like, eventually, to be one of the people who can bring out another side to him. Someone Bruce can think of as a support, a friend.
Before he can talk himself out of the offer, Clark blurts, "I can drive you, if you want. That way, you can at least numb your brain with whiskey once the dick-measuring contest begins."
Clark can tell Bruce is taken by surprise from the momentary pause in his breath, but it never shows on his face for second. "You're aiming awfully low, Kansas," he says blandly. But the disaffected expression can't hide his thin tone or souring scent. "Going just for the chauffeur position instead of an escort."
It takes Clark a moment to understand why his porcupine quills are out. Trust really isn't something that comes easily to Bruce, but Clark can't blame him if what the kids were saying about his last few alphas is true. "Should I be the one to tell Alfred you've reduced his role solely to being your driver, or would you like to?"
"Stop playing dumb, Kent."
"Sure, if you promise you'll hear me out. This isn't some oblique way of trying to get you under my control, Bruce. I wouldn't go to the trouble of tricking you into bringing me in front of a crowd to claim you." Clark can still see the hesitation in Bruce's face, so he plays a card that he knows will sting them both. "If I wanted to bend you to my will, we both know you couldn't stop me from doing so anytime I want."
The reminder causes Bruce to visibly falter. He drags a hand across his face, a new wave of guilt washing over him. "I- you're right. I apologize. I shouldn't have expected something like that from you- I don't think that you're that kind of alpha, I'm just...paranoid."
"What else is new?" Clark says with a smile, and Bruce barks out a laugh. "I understand. You've dealt with a lot of shit over the years, and you can't help but be suspicious of others' intentions. But I hope I can prove to you one day that I'm somebody you can trust. I hope you can rely on me the way I rely on you."
"I do trust you, Clark. Insofar as I can trust anybody. But the battlefield and...this," Bruce says, making a broad gesture to indicate 'polite society,' presumably, "are different beasts. I'm still not used to receiving help in this realm of my life."
The admission of trust is enough to warm Clark's chest for the rest of the day, probably.
"Fair enough. But I am offering, if you'll take me up on it. And to be honest, I hate these things as much as you do. I'll be more than happy to hang around the car, eat a street hotdog, and watch some poor suckers try to get a usable quote out of your drunk friends. You did say I should get out of the house more often."
"Yes, to do something fun, not this."
"As if you know the first thing about having fun. C'mon," Clark says as he picks up their empty plates. "You're going to be so annoyed that you went into this without a getaway driver when some baby-faced business major tries to paw at you during the speeches, dreaming about how many pups you're going to bear them."
"Your way with words disgusts me," Bruce grumbles as they clear the table. "Alright, I'll take you along. Be prepared to cut and run at any point."
"Of course, Master Wayne."
"Don't."
"Sorry," Clark laughs, delighting in the way the corner of Bruce's mouth lifts slightly in amusement. "It'll be fine. I haven't driven in a year or two, and I'm sure you'll intentionally throw champagne on someone to escape a conversation, but it'll be fine."