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Bruce gets home very late. One of the troubles of the job. Well, the trouble of both jobs he holds, honestly. It’s not easy doing what he does.
Of course, getting home very late means he’s not always there to see the children off to bed. There’s five of them, from ages seventeen to three, and Alfred is perfectly capable of taking care of them when they need to go to sleep. Bruce fully expects them all to be in bed, including Alfred, when he gets home. Instead, he’s greeted by Alfred in the cave.
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t go into the house shouting or stomping your feet,” Alfred says. His voice almost sounds like he’s smiling. Bruce yanks his helmet off and runs his gloved hand through his hair to shake it free of its flat press.
“What, like I run shrieking through the house?” Bruce asks. He strips off his armor in pieces and drops it where he stands. He’s too tired to deal with it now; he’ll clean it in the morning, or Alfred will. Whoever gets to it first. “Why? Are the kids still up? It’s three in the morning.”
“Not quite,” Alfred says. He’s as irritatingly cryptic as ever. Bruce just cracks his shoulder joints and heads to the elevator into the mansion. Alfred follows, commenting on his cuts and bruises but not on his mysterious statements.
“Just to let you know,” Alfred does say, as they head towards the family room, “Mr. Kent did decide to spend the night. He thought it would be prudent, considering his position.”
“And what position would that be?” Bruce asks. Clark’s presence at Wayne Manor is pretty much consistent, at this point, and his relationship with Bruce is no secret, but, still. It is three in the morning. Bruce can be forgiven his concern about Clark’s positions.
“Behold,” Alfred says, deadpan, as he pushes open the door to the family room. Bruce sticks his head inside. The lights are dimmed, but not off. Everyone is turned towards the television, which must have been on, at some point, but no longer is. And Bruce does mean everyone; there are six sleeping bodies in this family room.
“This house is gigantic, and they’re all within ten square feet of each other,” Bruce whispers to Alfred. Dick is sprawled out on one couch, his whole lanky body draping over the edges and arms of the thing, his face smushed into a pillow. Jason’s on the floor beside him, curled up, face turned in towards the couch. Stephanie and Tim are crammed in one armchair, leaning on each other, foreheads pressed together. Clark is half-reclining in the loveseat, head tipped back against the cushions of the couch, and Damian is asleep on his chest, head tucked under his chin.
“Christ,” Bruce comments.
“Horrifyingly domestic, isn’t it?” Alfred says. “You’d almost forget any of them could wipe out the city in an instant.”
“Damian wouldn’t,” Bruce argues, but he doesn’t quite believe it. Damian has an… old soul. Bruce looks down at him, the way he’s got his ear over Clark’s heart, and his own chest aches in a way that is not unfamiliar to him, the more time he spends with Clark.
“They were watching a Disney film,” Alfred tells him, “and they all fell asleep. Mr. Kent made them hot chocolate.”
Bruce rubs at the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes and sighing. “Of course he did.” The man made an irritatingly wonderful father to Bruce’s hodgepodge of children, even though it’s not what he signed up for. Bruce tried desperately not to think about it.
“Fuck,” Jason murmurs, rolling onto his back. Dick reaches out blindly and pats at Jason’s face; Jason swats him away, but settles again, yawning. Bruce wishes he had a camera in the same moment Alfred pulls out his phone and takes a picture.
“I swear, you read minds,” Bruce comments. His voice is lower than he’s ever made it before. He doesn’t want to shatter the incredible fragility of a moment where these five aren’t at each other’s throats.
“Just yours,” Alfred replies, “and my own. I ought to frame these.”
“Jay’ll kill you,” Bruce says. “I’d love a copy.”
“Of course.” Alfred takes a photo of Clark and Damian, as well, then of Stephanie and Tim. “I’ll put them in a locket.”
“You’re an ass,” Bruce says. Alfred huffs a laugh.
“Children are our mirrors,” Alfred says back. Bruce almost coughs on a laugh. As much as he wants to preserve this scene, the way Clark’s laying will be hell for his spine in the morning, and Stephanie and Tim are gonna end up smushing each other if this goes on much longer.
“Clark,” Bruce says, lightly touching Clark’s shoulder. To Clark’s credit, his eyes snap open, but he doesn’t move, though it’s clear he almost jumped to his feet. He blinks; Christ, his eyes are blue.
“Sorry,” Clark says, stupidly.
“What for?” Bruce asks. He holds out a hand. “Get up, you’re gonna hurt yourself, old man.”
“I’m practically a baby by Kryptonian standards,” Clark argues, but he takes Bruce’s hand with one of his own. He holds Damian tight with the other, careful not to dislodge him too much as he stands. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”
“What’s mine is yours,” Bruce tries to joke, but it falls flat. It’s too intense for the moment. Clark lets it slide, because Clark’s… Clark. “Anyways. Let’s put them to bed.”
“Alright,” Clark murmurs. He goes over to Jason, God bless his brave soul, and gently rouses him. Jason just stares at him, brow furrowed, before he gets up and walks out of the room. Dick blinks tiredly, barely awake. Bruce leaves Clark to it as he picks up Tim in one arm and Stephanie in the other.
“What’s it?” Tim asks nonsensically.
“Go back to sleep,” Stephanie tells him, and Tim obeys automatically. Stephanie smiles tiredly up at Bruce and digs her face into his chest, yawning.
“Come on, up,” Clark is saying to Dick, tugging at him to get him to stand. Dick’s seventeen, long, tall, and still fitting into his body, and he almost trips over the coffee table in his quest to get out of the room. Clark keeps a hand on his shoulder to guide him to the hall and down to his room.
“I’ll put Damian in his room,” Clark tells Bruce, before vanishing down the hallway. Bruce deposits Tim in his room first, because he sleeps like a rock, then Stephanie, who waves at him before pulling her blankets over her head. By the time Bruce makes it to his bedroom, Clark’s already sprawled out on top of the covers on his bed.
“I thought you didn’t need sleep,” Bruce comments, shucking off his shirt. Clark’s barely paying him any attention.
“I don’t need it, but I like it,” Clark reminds him. They’ve had this conversation before. Bruce likes having someone he can repeat conversations with, not that he’d ever tell Clark. “Get over here.”
“Why?”
“There are lots of things I like,” Clark offers as an answer.
“But don’t need?” Bruce asks. Clark cracks open one eye to look at him.
“Don’t get cheeky with me, Wayne,” Clark says. He wraps his fingers around Bruce’s wrist and tugs, getting him to sit next to Clark’s hip on the mattress. “Of course, I need you.”
“You’re a menace,” Bruce says.
“I’m not the one running around dressed like a bat,” Clark counters. He yawns and turns his face into Bruce’s thigh. It makes Bruce want to be honest which, on its own, is terrible, but also makes him a little bit vocal.
“You’re a good man,” Bruce says. Clark squints up at him again. Clark doesn’t need to squint. He can see everything. It’s one of the millions of tiny little human things that make him who he is. It’s as infuriating as it is compelling. Bruce can’t stop seeing Clark, asleep, surrounded by his children, in his mind’s eye. It’s horrendous. He loves it.
“Thanks,” Clark finally replies. He shuts his eyes. “You, too, Bruce.”
“Mm,” Bruce offers, because he’s said more than he usually would and apparently exceeded his quota. Clark shuffles himself upwards and moves to get under the covers. “You’re wearing jeans.”
“So?”
“Jesus,” Bruce breathes. He stands and tugs Clark’s jeans off, then pulls his sweater off over his head, leaving him in his undershirt and boxer briefs. “At least pretend to sleep like a human.”
“Humans don’t sleep in jeans?”
“Not the good ones,” Bruce tells him. He pulls the blankets up over Clark and drags him up until his head is on a pillow before he climbs in beside him. Clark moves automatically, instinctually, turning Bruce onto his side and wrapping himself around him, his chest plastered to Bruce’s back.
“I love you,” Clark whispers into the back of his neck, not for the first time. He’s smaller than Bruce, shorter by a good bit, but he still manages to fill the space. Bruce doesn’t say anything back, but Clark still holds him tighter. Bruce drags one of Clark’s hands up to his mouth and presses his lips to the back of it. It’s enough.