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To Dick’s everlasting despair, Clark has been camped outside the medbay door for what feels like forever.
Despite a lifetime of knowing the man (even if Clark hasn’t quite figured out that the new vigilante invited to join the Justice League months ago is the same one he used to take flying—mocked and real — when he was a kid, there are moments when Dick loathes Superman’s golden retriever tendencies around Batman.
This is one of those moments.
Bruce—Batman—has been sealed away in the medical wing for hours now, and Clark is standing guard like a silent sentinel in front of the door, unmoving and unrelenting.
And Dick… Well, saying they "get along" would be a generous exaggeration. But they’ve managed to work together this long, even if it’s mostly under the disapproving eyes of their so-called colleagues. That has to count for something, right?
So, yes. He’s worried. Sue him.
He has every right to be. Batman is only human, after all, and having an entire building collapse on top of you isn’t exactly a gentle massage. Dick would know.
And worries while Bruce is undergoing surgery. As competent as the Watchtower’s medical team is, Dick won’t be reassured until he sees Bruce’s heartbeat with his own two eyes.
Which brings him to his problem.
The League may have invited him in, but they invited Nightwing, the new vigilante from Blüdhaven. A blank slate. No prior experience, no attachments. Certainly no ties to one of their founding members—especially the one who treats the term "secret identity" like a sacred vow written in blood.
Which means.
That Clark will absolutely not let him through that door—not while he’s guarding one of his best friends’ most closely kept secrets.
And it’s not like Dick and Bruce meant to hide their relationship from the League. The others just… assumed. And in the beginning, their relationship wasn't in a place where they could correct them. Then, when things got better, well—it felt too late to bring it up.
Wasn’t that what Dick always wanted anyway? To be seen for his own merit, and not as Batman’s sidekick?
So he let the joke run long. Never imagined it might bite him back one day.
Joke's on him, apparently.
At this point, the only way through is literally forward.
So.
He exhales softly and melts out of the shadows, where he’s been vainly hoping Clark would wander off so he could slip inside unnoticed. His steps are quiet but purposeful as he heads straight toward the sealed medbay door.
Clark startles at his sudden appearance from the corridor, but regains composure quickly.
"Nightwing," he says, polite but firm. "I’m sorry, I can’t let you in."
Dick doesn’t respond. Just places his hand on the scanner. To Clark’s stunned silence, the screen flashes green.
Of course it does. Because Bruce, naturally, gave Dick top-level access to the Watchtower without telling anyone. Dick sighs internally.
Before he can step inside, Clark places a solid palm in the center of his chest. Dick stops himself from flipping him off—barely—only out of sheer patience and a lingering fondness for the alien who used to drop him midair to "teach him reflexes," much to Bruce’s horror.
"I can’t let you in," Clark says. "His secret identity could be—"
"Bruce Wayne."
Clark freezes. His jaw works for a second, then he glances around in panic, as if anyone else would be loitering in this isolated wing. Which, please. Dick is not an amateur.
"What?"
Dick is done. So, so done.
"Bruce. Wayne. Now let me through, Uncle Clark."
Clark blinks, the title hitting like a delayed punch. Realization creeps across his face as he mentally rewinds months of Nightwing and Batman’s smooth coordination, the timeline of Blüdhaven’s new protector's appearance, and the uncanny familiarity that should have triggered something much sooner.
"Rob—"
Dick doesn’t wait. He walks straight through the door and toward the cot where Bruce lies—out of costume, wrapped in heavy bandages, barely conscious.
He pauses, just long enough to wonder how Clark is going to explain this to the other founding members.
Not my problem, he thinks.
He is wrong.
If pressed, Oliver will deny it—but Batman being stuck in medical does a real number on the team’s morale.
Which is ironic, considering Batman’s chronic lack of support for anything not directly tied to the mission.
Still. He’s Batman. A founding member of the Justice League, an inspiration to the rookies, a trusted ally to the veterans. As aggravating as the man is, no one’s exactly celebrating the fact that their latest mission injuries will have him bedridden for the foreseeable future.
Oliver’s already in a gloomy mood about it. He tries to shake it off by making himself useful—or, well, busy—in the communal kitchen. The fully stocked pantry provides distraction, if nothing else. He rifles through the extensive jerky selection, chewing absently on a spicy one while internally grumbling about how Bruce would show his affection by quietly stocking obscure flavors of protein snacks for the team without telling anyone.
That’s just so Bruce. Consideration by way of calorie management.
He’s mid-chew when Clark slumps down in front of him.
And okay. That’s a surprise.
Sure, Clark Kent has made a career out of slouching like he’s allergic to spinal integrity. But Superman?
Superman stands tall, proud, glowing with hope and moral certainty. He’s the poster boy for Truth, Justice, and Posture. He doesn’t slink into chairs like someone who’s just lost custody of his dog.
That’s Oliver’s job. He’s the one with the edgy relatability for their human members. What’s next, they’re going to start publicly acknowledging Batman’s soft spot for kids?
The team’s morale is bad enough without Superman sulking into the kitchen like a kicked puppy.
"What’s wrong?" Oliver asks, already halfway to suiting up and punching whatever caused this.
Clark sighs. A sound so loud it might’ve echoed through the hull of the Watchtower. "Nothing," he mumbles. "Just…"
"Just?"
"Nightwing."
Oh.
Oliver has zero complaints about the League’s newest recruit. The guy’s top-tier—skilled, adaptable, and easy to work with. He slid into League dynamics like he was born for it. Everyone likes him.
If all rookies adjusted like Nightwing, Oliver would lose a lot fewer arrows to "training accidents."
"What about Nightwing?" he presses. If something’s wrong with him, that’s not good for morale either.
(And when exactly did Oliver become the team’s mom, anyway?)
Clark sighs. Audibly. Again. Oliver seriously considers flicking him in the forehead.
"He went to see Batman," Clark finally says. "In the medbay."
Oliver blinks. Then stares.
"You mean Batman Batman? Brooding, suspicious, privacy-obsessed, ‘I sleep in shadows’ Batman? That Batman?"
His first thought is that Clark’s been swapped out for some evil doppelgänger, and that maybe all of Batman’s endless contingency plans and "mandatory" drills actually serve a purpose beyond driving the team into submission.
His second thought is that Batman would be proud of that reaction.
Bastard.
What could have possibly possessed Superman to let anyone near Batman while he’s out cold, defenseless, and—most importantly—in nothing but a hospital gown?
"You sure like to live dangerously, Blue," Oliver whistles. "Bats is going to have your head on a spike when he finds out Nightwing saw him without his beloved cowl."
Clark just shrugs and reaches for the jerky defenselessly lying around on the table.
"It doesn’t matter."
Flying to the rescue of his well-deserved snack, Oliver slaps the Super’s hand away, earning himself a scowl.
Clark frowns. "Nightwing knows."
He’s actively pouting now. It’s honestly kind of adorable—until Oliver realizes he’s not pouting about the dried beef he was just denied.
"What do you mean, Nightwing knows?"
Clark gives him a look. The look.
"I mean, he knows who Batman is. Probably has for longer than any of us, come to think of it," Clark chuckles. "I mean, given what they are to each other…"
He trails off, reaching again for the meat strips, practically making heart eyes at him from the table.
This time, Oliver lets him.
What they are to each other.
Clark doesn’t mean…?
"You don’t mean…?"
Clark nods solemnly. "Yep. Exactly that. How were we all so blind? I have no idea."
He stands, casually snatching another piece of jerky while Oliver just sits there, reeling.
"Well, it’s them, after all. No wonder they managed to keep such a close relationship under wraps."
Unaware of the internal chaos he’s just triggered, Clark leaves the room.
Oliver can only stare at the door, stuck on a single, horrifying thought.
"Batman and Nightwing are married."
Well. He sighs.
Marriage is supposed to boost morale, after all.
Despite what Richard might think, Damian isn’t being rude on purpose. He’s—understandably—cautious.
He doesn’t care how long Richard has known these people or how many missions they’ve shared. This so-called Justice League let Damian's biological father sacrifice himself, even though many of them are metahumans—stronger, faster, and far more resistant than Batman ever was. Damian doesn’t blame them for the fact that he barely knew his father before he died while facing Darkseid.
He doesn’t.
He just doesn’t believe that the individuals Richard insisted on introducing him to today—because of course he had to rejoin the metas he works with whenever there’s a planet-wide threat—are fully deserving of his candor. That’s all.
The speedster’s desperate attempts at conversation do little to improve Damian’s mood—or his already low opinion of the so-called heroes Richard associates with. Especially not while Richard is off somewhere else in the Watchtower, on League business that Damian wasn’t "cleared" to follow. The audacity.
"So, let me get this straight," the intellectually challenged speedster muses, jogging in place like staying still might kill him. "The old Batman was your dad—"
"My father was not old," Damian hisses through gritted teeth.
Undeterred, the speedster barrels on. "—and now you live with the new Batman, right?"
"I fail to see the relevance of this conversation," Damian snaps, every syllable dipped in contempt.
"So he’s like… your other dad or something?" the speedster asks, his face turning an impressive shade of red that clashes spectacularly with his costume. The aesthetic, all in all, is rather pleasing.
"Richard is currently raising me, yes," Damian replies, calm and composed. "I can assure you his parenting skills are adequate—particularly given his prior experience with my siblings."
The older man’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Siblings?" he chokes.
"Well," Damian allows, "siblings is something of a grotesque exaggeration." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "But Richard insists on the designation. He’s rather fond of them, from what I understand."
The speedster is frozen, a low wheeze the only sound he can manage.
Maybe, Damian muses, he’ll be spared further abysmal conversation by a well-timed stroke. One can hope. The man is a meta—it wouldn’t even kill him.
Win-win for everyone.
Unfortunately, the metahuman regains control of his bodily functions and decides—against all logic—that the best use of them is to continue getting on Damian’s last nerve rather than leaving the room like a reasonable person.
He’s lucky Damian promised not to stab anyone during this visit to the Tower.
"Okay, okay. But are— I mean, were they, like, together together? Since you live with Nightwing, but Batman is your biological father?"
Damian stares at him.
He cannot, for the life of him, comprehend the line of thinking this man’s obviously concussed brain has chosen to pursue. Surely it’s the result of too many head injuries sustained in the field—his fighting stance is appalling, after all.
Damian conveys his incomprehension in the most polite manner he can muster: head tilted to the side, arms crossed, and a dead-eyed glare fixed squarely on the man’s face.
"It's just that— I mean, they never fought in front of any of us or anything," the speedster fumbles. "They were always so professional… Most of the time, they were so in sync it was almost unnatural, but sometimes, there was this distance between them…"
"Their relationship was always strained, from what I’ve heard," Damian replies, scowling at the implication, "but I never had any reason to doubt their affection for each other."
"Oh." This time, the older iteration of the Flash looks genuinely chastised, a flicker of regret in his expression. "I mean, we offered our condolences when Nightwing took on the mantle, but… it doesn’t seem like enough, if they…" His voice trails off, gaze going distant.
Seizing the golden opportunity of not being the focus of immediate attention, Damian puts his years of training in stealth and shadow to good use, slipping out of the room without a sound.
All in all, the conversation went surprisingly well.
Richard will be pleased.
For the record, Tim is having a blast.
"What do you mean, the Justice League thinks we're married?"
Jason, halfway to his parked bike and clearly planning to slip out of the Cave before Bruce or Dick could corral him into another mandatory health check, suddenly stops short. He straightens, all thoughts of escape forgotten.
"But— How— Since when—"
God, Tim knew he should’ve made a PowerPoint for this. It might’ve given the game away—if, or more likely when, Bruce found it—but still. What a loss.
No, seriously.
A blast.
"Apparently, it goes back to the first time Bruce got injured on a League mission after Nightwing joined them. Dick revealed he already knew Bruce’s civilian identity or something, and that gave Oliver—"
"Oliver," Bruce growls.
Tim would feel bad for Oliver Queen, but honestly, what kind of crime against deductive reasoning does it take to arrive at that conclusion?
"—the idea that you two were married," Tim finishes brightly.
Jason’s laughter echoes through the Cave, loud and unrestrained.
"Wait—how long have you known about this?"
Tim pauses, thinking. "I don’t know. Since Young Justice, I guess?"
Jason laughs even harder. Tim’s pretty sure he catches a muttered, "Well done, Replacement," between wheezes.
"But how— I mean, the Titans—" Dick starts, clearly floundering for logic.
Tim cuts off his feeble attempt at rationalization. "To be fair, most of them thought you and Bruce had some kind of lovers’ quarrel when he kicked you out."
Dick makes a strangled noise.
"Honestly," Tim shrugs, "even I had the thought before I actually met you both. So I can’t really blame them."
The sound of Jason hyperventilating drowns out everything else for a solid two minutes. Tim briefly considers checking whether his older counterpart is actually running out of air, remembers all the times Jason has tried to kill him, and decides to let karma run its course.
They do have a fully stocked medbay, after all.
Tim shifts his attention back to the two guests of honor at this particular disaster. In the corner, Dick is visibly dying of secondhand embarrassment, while the most prominent vein on Bruce’s forehead is now throbbing with barely restrained fury.
"And you let them think that?"
Tim shrugs. "It’s not like I was getting regular invites to the Watchtower back then—or ever, really."
Not that he was bitter about never being invited to the giant space station. Or about the League’s early dismissal of his first team. Or their constant, passive-aggressive commentary on Young Justice’s missions. Or anything else, honestly.
It’s not like Tim ever had a good reason to mess with the Justice League, after all.
Right?
Judging by Bruce’s somber expression, Tim’s practiced innocent smile isn’t fooling him.
Well, some battles are worth fighting—even if you lose.
Besides, Tim’s had years to prepare for this day, most notably by looping in Oracle. If Bruce really thinks the moment he has to admit all this to the League won’t be recorded for posterity—and later used as blackmail fodder—he’s sorely mistaken.
A blast.