Work Text:
The last thing Clark expected to see when he showed up to work Wednesday morning was a small, dark-haired, scowling child sitting in his chair with his arms crossed firmly over his chest.
It near gave him a heart attack, actually—invulnerability be damned.
The last thing Clark needed was more rumours sparking around the office about his alleged affair with Billionaire Bruce Wayne, and he had a strong feeling his youngest son sitting at his desk would be no help to quelling them. Oh, no, especially not when he saw the look on Lois’ face. That look like she was about to interrogate him to hell and back.
Suddenly, the child in his chair didn’t seem all that intimidating.
Clark swallowed hard and avoided looking at Lois as he walked around his desk.
“Damian,” he said quietly, clearing his throat to get his attention. The kid looked up immediately and met his eyes with a glare. If looks could kill…well, he was Bruce’s son, alright. Clark cleared his throat again and shifted on his feet, lowering his voice even further as he continued, “what are you doing here?”
Damian, on the other hand, appeared to have no qualms about airing their business to anyone in listening distance. He stuck up his chin and huffed, “Father is on work business.”
The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss, and Clark knew in immediately he meant Bruce was out on Batman related business and had refused to take Damian with him. Clark tried to ignore the implications of what him refusing to allow Damian to join him as Robin meant about the case he was on. His eyes flicked over to Lois’ desk against his better judgement to see her sitting up straight and leaning in slightly, that look still in her eyes.
“I don’t think that quite answers my question,” Clark sighed as he looked back to Damian, still trying to keep his voice low despite the futility. “What’s that go to do with why you’re at the Planet? Do your brothers know you’re here?”
“Yes,” Damian scoffed, glancing away from Clark, and narrowed his eyes further. Oh, so he wasn’t happy with them, either. Good to know. A moment passed in silence before Damian finally deigned to continue, almost grumbling, “father believes it would be of best interest if we were to…bond.”
Clark blanched. “Bond?”
“Is your hearing failing, Kent?” Damian asked, tone surprisingly vicious for a child.
Well, for any other child. This was no ordinary child. This was a Wayne child. Clark took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair.
A little warning would have been nice. Dammit. It wasn’t like Bruce to just drop a child on him. He may not be the best at communication but…but nothing, he’d done it, not Clark needed to deal. He grimaced slightly. The gossip writers were going to eat him alive for this.
“Okay,” he breathed, dropping his hand to his side, and stared up towards the ceiling as he thought about the situation. “Okay. We can make this work. I just need to call—”
A sharp sneeze cut off Clark and he froze.
Slowly, he looked down to Damian, dread crawling into his chest and making itself a comfortable bed. For the first time since walking in, he really looked at Damian.
He was paler than usual, his eyes were faintly watery, and his nose was rosy and scrunched up with distaste. He looked…miserable. The faint flush over his face had little to do with embarrassment from sneezing in front of him, Clark assumed with a frown.
“Damian,” he began, his voice taking on a more concerned tone, “are you…?”
He trailed off as he leaned forward and gently pressed the back of his hand to Damian’s forehead. He barely managed to bite back a swear when he felt the heat radiating off of him. That was why Bruce had refused to take his son with him…
Damian batted his hand away angrily with a hiss.
A low groan slipped from Clark’s lips. He had a feeling Damian would be even less willing to cooperate sick than he usually was. And he was never willing to cooperate for Clark. He let his hand fall back to his side regardless, though, and finally turned to Lois fully.
He fixed her with his best, most desperate grin.
She met him with an unimpressed stare.
“He’s sick,” he pled, “I can’t keep him here.”
Lois rose an eyebrow but didn’t budge.
Another sneeze echoed, followed by a rough cough that Damian struggled to hide, was all it took for Clark to cave. His shoulders sagged in defeat. “I promise you, Lois, I will tell you anything you want to know if you cover for me today.”
She stared for another moment, then her eyes flicked to the side—to Damian—and back to Clark. She nodded.
“Alright,” she agreed, finally flashing him a soft smile, “Get out of here. I’ll tell Perry you had a…”
“Family emergency,” Clark admitted, a tad sheepishly. He could feel Damian’s glare on him, though, so he straightened up and cleared his throat. “Tell him I had a family emergency.”
“You got it, Smallville.” Lois gave him a quick wink before she turned to look at Damian once more, her face softening. “Feel better, kid.”
Damian scoffed and turned away. Clark bit back a smile when he saw the flush on the child’s face darkening just slightly. He didn’t comment, though. He knew it would do more bad than good to even think about teasing Damian the way he would tease the other boys.
“Come on, Damian,” he sighed, motioning for him to get up.
Clark supposed he should have been more worried when Damian did as he was told without protest. Any other time Clark tried to tell him what to do he’d make a big show of declaring that he could not order him around because he was not Father. This time, though, he just pushed off the chair and to his feet.
He made a brief mental note to call the Manor when they got back to his apartment. Bruce may be on a case, but Alfred was sure to be around. Maybe he could—
Clark’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he saw Damian blink slowly and sway on his feet as he tried to take a step forward. His breath caught and he reached out quickly to steady him, eyes wide. How had he made it to the Planet like this? He was sicker than Clark had thought…
Damian batted his hands away again and started to walk past Clark to leave. He stumbled, though, as he turned to walk around the desk, and Clark rushed to catch him in time before he hit the corner of said desk.
“Right, that’s not happening,” Clark muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He didn’t give Damian the time to bat him away this time.
He grabbed him by the waist and lifted him up with ease, settling him on his hip. Some would argue he was a bit big to be held like that, but Clark—with all his super strength—would disagree. Damian let out a noise of protest and wiggled defiantly, if not weakly, in his hold.
“Let me go!” he snapped, voice hoarse.
A few heads turned at the loud command and Clark took a deep breath to calm himself.
“No,” he said simply, “you’re too sick.”
“I am not!” Damian fought. Then, to his horror if Clark read his face right, he sneezed. Clark fixed him with an unimpressed look, but he didn’t back down.
A small snort reached Clark’s ears and he resisted the urge to look at Lois, knowing she was finding this all too amusing. It wasn’t every day you saw your best friend and co-worker fighting with an eleven-year-old, after all. He let his focus remain on the little monster in his arms, though, and changed tactics.
“I’ll put you down,” he said calmly. Damian’s eyes lit up. “But—” the glare was back, “—if you cannot walk to Lois’ desk from mine without stumbling, I’m picking you back up and carrying you to my apartment. If you can, fine. You can walk.”
Damian quieted for a moment. He stopped fighting, a considering look on his face. Then, finally, a determined glint in his eyes, he nodded. “That seems…fair.”
Poor kid really thought he could do it. Clark almost felt bad.
He walked around to the front of his desk and carefully set Damian down. He waited until he was steady on his feet, then took a short step back and motioned for him to go. Almost a full minute passed as Damian just…stood there, staring at the floor in front of himself.
Clark watched, arms crossed over his chest, with a frown.
“If you—”
“Stay back!” Damian snapped. Then, at a volume that Clark was definitely not supposed to hear, he murmured, “I can do it.”
His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides and Clark could hear the crackle in his breath with every deep inhale he took. He didn’t intervene, though. Damian had to prove himself or fail. It was the only way to get him to see he needed help.
Slowly, he took a step forward. Clark could see the flash of prideful joy flick over his face before he straightened up his posture and took another successful step. Clark had to admit, he was doing better than he thought he would.
His heart rate was slowly elevating with each small step, though, and with his Clark’s.
It was on his third step he wobbled. Clark was at his side in an instant, holding him up before he crumpled to the floor.
“I win,” he hummed as he carefully steadied Damian on his feet once more. The child glared but didn’t fight him. A deal was a deal. He knelt down and opened his arms. “Come on.”
Damian stared for a moment, then shook his head. For a moment, he feared Damian would try to go back on their arrangement, claim Clark had humiliated him in front of another [Lois still watched, a fondly amused look in her eyes], and resolve to crawl to the apartment [though, Clark would argue that is more humiliating than accepting assistance].
“I wish to ride on your back.” Clark blinked. Relief washed over him as a grin tugged at his lips. Of course. He was still a kid, after all.
Clark turned around and bent forward so he was low enough for Damian to climb on. “Alright, piggyback it is. Come on.”
Damian crawled onto his back and draped his arms around his shoulders, wriggling around for a moment to make himself comfortable before holding on tight.
“Ready?” Clark asked, glancing back at him.
“Take me to your home.”
Clark carefully stood up. He gave Lois a final nod in thanks and made his way back out the way he came, child on his back, ignoring the curious looks from any co-workers he passed on his way out. When he finally made it to the street, he couldn’t stop the smile stretching over his face at the small, childish whine that came from behind him before Damian pressed his face into his shoulder to hide from the light.
Bruce would never believe this…
***
He almost looked peaceful, Clark thought with a faint smile as he lowered Damian onto his couch with a pillow propped beneath his head. He’d fallen asleep on the way home, apparently exhausted from being sick.
It was hard sometimes to remember Damian was only a boy.
In moments like these, it was hard not to. He looked so…small. So vulnerable.
So human.
Clark sighed softly and gently brushed his dark hair back from his burning forehead. He didn’t even so much as shift at the touch… He was out like a light in a windstorm. Pulling his hand back from Damian’s burning forehead, he decided against grabbing a blanket for him. His fever was worse now than it had been when they left the Daily Planet, and he didn’t want to risk roasting the poor kid while he slept.
Instead, he walked around to his kitchen and started digging around in his cupboards for a can of soup. When he found one, just some plain chicken noodle soup, he grinned and got to cooking. It wasn’t anything Alfred could make him. It wouldn’t be anything near what Alfred could make him.
It was soup, though, and it would do the job well.
Occasionally, he glanced over to Damian, just to be sure he hadn’t woken up. Sometimes his breath would catch, or his heart would pick up or he’d start to cough and Clark would have to tamper down a spike of anxiety.
Part of him wondered if it wouldn’t just be better to take him to the hospital, with his temperature rising and cough persisting. Clark knew better than that, though. If Damian needed medical attention, Bruce would have gotten him medical attention already. He was a good dad…
Clark sighed for what had to have been the twentieth time that day and carefully filled a small bowl with the hot canned soup. He put a little spoon in the soup and grabbed a glass, filling it with water from the tap.
As if on cue, Damian groaned from where he laid on the couch.
“Father…?” Clark heard him mumble, voice hoarse and cracking.
Soup and water left on the counter, Clark was at his side in an instant. “Hey, careful. Slow…” he helped him upright, “you’re with me, remember? Kent. How do you feel?”
Damian made a displeased sound and rubbed at his eyes as he grumbled, “ill.”
“Feel like you can hold down some soup?” he asked, kneeling in front of the couch.
Damian took a moment to think. Then, he dropped his hands to his lap and nodded.
Clark murmured a small ‘good’ and pushed himself to his feet. He grabbed the soup and water carefully.
“The bowl is going to be a bit warm,” he said as he let Damian take it from his hands. He held out the water next. “Drink some water, too.”
Damian held the bowl in his lap with one hand and took the glass with his other. He downed the liquid like a man stuck in a desert and passed the glass back into Clark’s hands.
“More.”
Clark nodded and stood up. He waited to see Damian take a small spoonful of soup before walking back to the kitchen and filling the glass with more water. It was good that he still had some sense of appetite. If he wasn’t eating—Clark pushed away the thought. It was irrelevant. He was eating and drinking water.
“Careful,” he called when he heard a sharp hiss from the couch. “The soup is still hot!”
Clark didn’t quite catch Damian’s grumbled response—the words slurred and mushed together unintelligibly. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to anyway. Before he could think to ask Damian to repeat himself, the loud ring of his phone echoed through his apartment.
He turned off the sink faucet and set the glass on the counter and quickly fumbled around to grab his phone. Without checking the number, he clicked answer, put the phone to his ear, and grabbed the glass of water with his other hand.
“Hello?” he greeted, walking back to his couch with Damian’s refilled water.
A small smile tugged at his lips when he saw Damian staring at his soup, eyelids drooping sleepily and shoulders sagging. He sat down beside him and nudged his shoulder gently, holding out the glass of water with a murmured, ‘trade you.’ Damian blinked quickly and looked up. He frowned when he saw the phone at his ear but calmly traded Clark the glass of water for his bowl of soup.
“Hello?” Clark said again when he got no answer, watching Damian sip at his water with both hands tightly gripping the glass. It was pretty nice being around him when he wasn’t…threatening him or glaring.
“Clark!” Bruce’s urgent, strained voice took him by surprise from the other side of the phone. “Clark, are you there?”
He frowned. “Bruce?”
Damian tensed at his father’s name.
“Clark, I—uh—I need a favour,” Bruce choked out, sounding like he was doing everything he could to keep his composure. To anyone else, he would sound perfectly fine, but Clark had been with him long enough to pick up the small markers.
The hint of hesitance in his voice, the forced calmness, the rushed words… Something was wrong.
“What’s going on, B?” he asked, softening his voice, “Are you in trouble? Is it the case? Do you need me to call Dick?”
He tried to keep his worry out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. Damian looked like he was going to be ill as he stared into his water, and he couldn’t tell if it was because he was sick or if it was because Clark couldn’t conceal his anxiety at the subtle panic in his lover’s voice.
“What?” Bruce sounded genuinely confused. “No! No, I—case? What case?”
Now it was Clark’s turn to be confused. “The…case you’re working on?”
Damian, impossibly, paled further.
“I’m not on a case,” Bruce insisted, before quickly changing the subject, “Clark, I can’t find Damian. I hate—God—” Clark could almost see him run his hand over his face, “—I hate to ask you this, but do you think you could—”
“Wait,” Clark cut him off, his words catching up to him. “What do you mean you can’t find Damian?”
“I mean, I can’t find him, Kal!” Clark nearly choked at the real panic that slipped into his voice. The line fell silent for a moment. Bruce’s shaking breath was the only thing that told him he’d not hung up. Clark waited patiently for him to compose himself, though, and finally, he clarified, calmer, “I went to check on Dami, give him his medicine—he’s been sick—and he wasn’t in his room. I’ve checked the entire Manor, and he’s not here.”
Clark clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and counted to three in his head.
“Okay, love, slow down, alright?” he sighed, “Let me just…just to be sure—you…did not send Damian to the Daily Planet today to meet me, insisting we have time to bond while you went away on a dangerous case?”
“What? No! No, he’s sick, Clark,” Bruce snapped, “what kind of father sends his son to another city when he can barely stand?”
“I see.” Clark narrowed his eyes. Beside him, Damian looked ready to flee to another country. “Bruce, I think Damian has something he needs to say to you.”
He didn’t wait for Bruce to reply before holding out to phone to Damian, a stern look on his face. Damian had the decency to look a little guilty as he took it and put it to his ear. It made Clark waver a little.
Damian wouldn’t intentionally hurt his father.
“Father,” Damian greeted. There was a pause that Clark took to mean Bruce replying. He easily could have listened in, heard what Bruce was saying, but—no. This was a matter between Damian and Bruce. “I did not—but Father—I just wanted—!”
Damian’s mouth snapped shut, and Clark didn’t need super-hearing to know what Bruce was saying. He didn’t need super-hearing to hear the sharp, scolding, but deeply worried tone of voice he always used when one of the boys got into trouble. Damian shifted slightly on the couch next to him, looking uncomfortable.
Then, quietly, “yes, father.” A pause. “Yes, father.”
A few moments of stiff silence passed, Bruce’s voice echoing from the phone as the only silence before Damian held the phone back out to Clark.
“He wishes to speak to you,” he said.
Clark took the phone without a word and put it to his ear.
“I had no idea you didn’t know he was here,” he said before Bruce could get a word in. “he told me you were on a case and sent him to me to watch instead of leaving him with the boys so we could bond a bit. I can bring him home—”
“Thank you,” Bruce cut him off. Clark’s jaw snapped shut. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“Of course,” Clark breathed, sincere, “he’s your son, Bruce, and…well—” he shot a nervous glance to Damian, “—mine, too. Or stepson. In a few months, at least—either way, it’s…don’t even worry about it. I got him some soup, just…canned, I’m no Alfred, and he’s had two glasses of water and a nap. He’s been…good.”
Damian huffed loudly at the assessment but didn’t protest for once. Clark took it as improvement.
“You’re at the apartment?” Bruce asked.
Clark nodded before he remembered they were on the phone. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be there soon—Alfred, bring the car around!” Clark pulled the phone away from his ear a little when Bruce started calling for Alfred, scrunching his nose. He hated when Bruce yelled while they were on the phone. The line went dead abruptly, and Clark rolled his eyes at his lack of proper goodbye.
He set the phone on the couch beside him and looked at Damian, giving him his full attention.
“This was reckless, Damian,” he told him, stirring the soup in his lap absentmindedly. “Your father…you know how much he cares about you. You really scared him.”
“I do not need a lecture from you, Kent,” Damian retorted, but there was noticeably less venom in his voice than usual.
Clark sighed softly and took the half empty class of water from his hands, pushing the soup back to him in its place. Then, as he brushed his hair back to feel his temperature once more [relief flooding him when he felt it starting to ease], he smiled, unable to help himself, and teased,
“You could have just asked if you wanted to see me that bad.”
And really, he should have expected it when the glare Damian shot him was killer.