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Bruce Wayne, as many are aware, is not immune to making bad decisions. In fact, Alfred would argue he's a pro at it, especially considering he's the one who patches him up regularly. The point being, Batman, however unlikely it may seem, does acknowledge that hindsight is 20/20.
He is considerably familiar with that fact now that he has been stuck in a crappy 2015 Ford Explorer with his boyfriend, four of his children, and Alfred.
Clark, of course, is driving. Bruce cannot be trusted not to succumb to road rage. Unlike the Batmobile, the Explorer is not a tank, so he's been designated as passenger princess. Alfred originally offered to drive, but Clark's argument about being superhuman and not needing to sleep and therefore being the most efficient driver won.
Besides, Clark loved road trips. Maybe it was the Midwesterner in him, accustomed to driving long hours to see anything noteworthy with his Ma and Pa, or maybe it was the break it provided from the constant rush of superhero life. Whatever the case, it brought him an abundant amount of joy; even more so now that he could share his love of road trips with his family.
Of course, this was only possible because it was a belated birthday gift to Bruce from Clark and an anniversary present to Clark from Bruce. In all the chaos that was their lives as superheroes, it seemed like they never had time to do something domestic, like take a vacation.
It was also well known that Bruce hated vacations with a burning passion. Being away from Gotham too long made his skin itch, but Cass, Duke, Steph, Kate, and Barb had been insistent. Clark argued that getting out of the city would be good for him; he was being more obsessive than usual (although Bruce argued there was no such thing).
Kara, Conner, and Jon were keeping an eye on Metropolis for the time being. They had all but kicked Clark out of Metropolis to go on this trip. On top of that, Lois had written a pretty dramatic exposé on Luthor Corp's latest dodging of federal laws and paying off corporate whistleblowers, so he was staying quiet.
Even the other members of the Justice League offered to pitch in, allowing Clark, Bruce, and his kids some quality time together.
Nevertheless, it had taken an impressive level of convincing to get Clark and Bruce to leave their respective cities for their several-week-long road trip. The caveat to them leaving was the pledge that Clark would fly back the moment something seemed out of hand.
So far, the trip hasn't been too bad. They'd left Gotham and got on Route 70, first stopping in Pittsburgh. The drive had been nearly 7 hours because Clark refused to speed, even in the leftmost lane.
“Drive faster, Blue, the fast lane is for crime!” Jason yelled from his spot in the third row. He had been delegated to sit there because he was notorious for kicking the seat in front of him, and Alfred had seniority.
Clark paid him no mind, continuing to go 70mph, but changing back to the middle lane because he was no longer passing traffic and did not need to be in the passing lane. He explained this to Bruce once when Bruce insisted on sitting in the fast lane, which drove Clark insane to no end. “It is called a speed limit, you know.”
Jason huffed and slumped back in his seat, leaning against the luggage that was placed between him and Tim. Tim had been slumped over the past several hours, napping, having fallen asleep cradling a Wawa coffee. Jason took it out of his hands before he could spill it everywhere.
Alfred sat behind Bruce, idly sipping tea out of a thermos and reading a book. Clark was sure that if Alfred was able to fit a table, kettle, and burner in the car for his tea, he would. Damian sat next to him, fidgeting with some sort of puzzle Bruce had given him to keep busy because, apparently, sharpening his knives in the car was a “safety issue”. Dick sat on the other side of Damian and behind Clark, looking out the window at the world that passed them by.
Bruce watched in exasperation as Clark slowed down for someone getting on the highway. He huffed, “Clark, Sweetie, what are you doing?” He added a little of Brucie charm for good measure.
“Slowing down so they can get on,” His partner replied earnestly, not taking his eyes off the road. He was dressed in a patterned Hawaiian shirt that was honestly offensive to anyone who had the misfortune to lay their eyes on it. He claimed it got him in the vacation mindset.
Bruce rubbed his temples, “You do realize it’s their job to yield, right?”
“Well, yes, but it’s polite! Goodness knows the people behind us won’t make it easy for them to get on,” Clark gestured behind them as the car pulled ahead.
Dick smirked, propping his elbow on the window so he could rest his chin against his palm. “Haven’t you been living in the Northeast now for a decade and a half? How do you still drive like this?”
Bruce muttered something about stubborn midwesterners and being too polite for their own damn good. Clark, of course, ignored him with a smile despite his superhearing.
Everyone in the car seemed to be in good spirits. Clark was almost glowing with contentment, one hand on the wheel and the other in Bruce’s, resting on the console between them. Bruce’s other hand was occupied by scrolling through emails for Wayne Enterprises.
It was rare for everyone to have time to spend together like this. Clark and Bruce were often so sucked into work for the Justice League that they rarely had time for themselves, despite dating for just over a year. Dick was so busy juggling work in Blüdhaven, and Jason was. Jason. Tim had been working hard in his new position at Wayne Enterprises, and Damian either tagged along with Batman or patrolled Gotham in his absence.
Eventually, Tim woke up, evidenced by how the Bluetooth had been hijacked to play Penelope Scott. Clark didn’t seem to mind, eyes briefly flickering to the rearview mirror where he saw Tim’s face lit up by his phone screen, most likely scrolling through more music to add to the queue.
“Oh my god, someone please boot him off. I can only listen to sad teenage lesbian music for so long,” Jason groaned, shoving some of the suitcases between them towards Tim.
Tim scoffed, less offended by the description and more by the suitcases that had just been shoved on top of him. “And do what? Listen to your music? If I have to listen to any more Beastie Boys, I’m locking you out of the Batcomputer.”
“You can’t do that! B, he’s not allowed to do that, right?” Jason leaned over the seat in front of him, his seatbelt stretching as he all but stood up, head hovering near Dick’s and slightly above Damian’s.
Damian smacked him with the back of his hand, narrowing his eyes at his older brother. “Get out of my face, Todd.”
“I’ll allow it,” Bruce shrugged, still not looking up from his phone.
“What? That’s so unfair! Alfred?” Jason looked over at the older man, hoping to convince him to join his cause, but Alfred was very pointedly not looking at him.
Alfred all but rolled his eyes at their antics, “Master Jason, if I may, it’s not the choice of music that is the issue, but the consistency of it. At all hours. At jarringly high volumes.”
It was true, when Jason did grace everyone with his presence at the Manor, it was made abundantly clear he was there. The loud music was only one clue; he also raided the pantry and loved to make a mess of the Batcave, much to Tim’s chagrin.
Dick turned around in his seat to smile at Jason. “He does have a point, you do listen to your music obnoxiously loudly, Jay.” He had to duck when an empty bottle of soda was thrown at his face.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Dickface,” Jason snapped, glowering. He crossed his arms and fell back into his seat, the pinnacle of displeasure. “I’m just saying it’s better than the depressing shit that’s currently being forced upon us.”
Alfred made a disapproving noise, “Master Jason, is that really appropriate?”
“No, no, I agree with Todd,” Damian perked up, eager to be included. His hair was sticking up even more than usual from wiggling around in his seat so much. When they were on a mission, Damian was especially careful about staying still, in part due to his training prior to living with the Waynes. Out of costume, though, it was incredibly apparent that he was still a preteen and was not a fan of long car rides.
Dick ruffled his hair affectionately, slightly teasing, “Yeah, and what would you have us listen to, Little Wing?”
“Tchaikovsky, of course,” Damian said plainly, nodding his head like it was the most obvious choice. He had fostered a love of classical music one day after he found Bruce’s old records, quickly falling in love with the music stored on each vinyl. Alfred had been delighted.
Tim snorted quietly, burrowing into his red sweater and not taking his eyes off his phone. “And you wonder why you have trouble connecting to kids your age.”
Damian whipped around, half crawling over his seat and snarling, rage quickly building up behind his vibrant green eyes, “Say that again, Imposter. I dare you.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he was pushed back down into his seat, Alfred looking slightly disappointed, “There will be none of that, thank you.”
As much as the kids acted up, they were always quick to get back in order the moment Alfred gave them trouble. For a man who seldom raised his voice, he was adept at having everyone's attention when it mattered.
“Listen to Alfred, please. I don’t want any deaths until we get out of Ohio, I fucking hate this state.” Bruce said wearily, praying for an out and not realizing his poor choice of words.
The car went silent as everyone’s attention narrowed on Jason, save for Bruce’s. Finally, Jason burst out laughing, “Damn. A little soon, don’t you think, Old Man?”
“What did I— Oh. Oh my god,” The color drained from Bruce’s face as he turned around in his seat, rapidly studying Jason for any signs of distress. “I did not— That was not an appropriate thing for me to say.”
Jason gave him a lopsided grin, “You think?”
It had been a few years since Jason Todd's death and subsequent revival. The first year or so after was rough. Bruce and Jason only really started talking again about a year ago, and everyone sort of tiptoed around the topic, except Jason, who found it hilarious to bring up to make his family uncomfortable.
The car lurched as it sped forward, everyone yelping as they were yanked back by their seatbelts. “Oh my gosh, we’re out of Ohio!” Clark exclaimed, louder than he needed to, given how close they all were. He felt the tension dissipate slightly, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll be stopping just outside of Indiana for bathrooms, sound good?”
There were murmurs of affirmation from all parties.
Clark ended up taking over the radio for the rest of the leg, an eclectic mix of pop-punk and 80s music that he softly hummed along to, Bruce occasionally glancing at him fondly.
This quiet type of emotional vulnerability between them was also newer. Bruce being emotionally vulnerable at all was relatively new, spurred on by several reasons. He had watched how Clark interacted with his son and realized how desperately he wanted that with his kids.
Everything had come to a head when Damian sustained a broken rib after a nasty encounter with one of Joker’s henchmen. He neglected to tell his father about the injury for a few days, Bruce only finding out when Alfred pointed it out to him.
Alfred was very obviously furious with him, or as furious as Alfred could be while still being chillingly polite. He both loved and hated that about Alfred, how his father figure was never loudly or outwardly angry. Instead, he was cutting and snippy in his remarks, serving food slightly cold and with slightly less grace than normal.
The guilt that hit Bruce when he found out he had completely neglected something that important without even realizing it was devastating. It was the same type of guilt that hit him when Jason died.
He confronted Damian about it, asking why he hadn’t told him such a crucial piece of information. The answer he received was even more heartbreaking. Damian hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.
Something needed to give. Their current modus operandi was not sustainable, and Bruce knew that he had always sort of known that.
The other reason was that he realized how much Clark needed and deserved more emotional intimacy than Bruce was giving. That had been made abundantly clear to him on their first actual date.
And now they were here. It wasn’t perfect, it probably would never be, but he tried, and he could tell his family appreciated it. Of course, they still had a lot of work to do.
Their pit stop in Indianapolis was fairly short; there was a small incident involving Jason making the most cursed concoction of gas station soda and chips in the parking lot of a Flying J. He said it was for science, Dick said it was unholy. They agreed to disagree, as long as Jason didn't bring it into the car. It looked like Gotham’s water on a bad day.
Bruce offered to take over driving, but got about 3 miles before his road rage took over and he started driving like he was back in Gotham. He cut off someone in front of them, going 20 over as he sped down the highway, merging into the left lane without using his blinker.
“What the hell, Bruce! What, are you all out of blinker fluid?” Clark admonished, face red with embarrassment. It went against all of his mild-mannered sensibilities to be in a car driven so recklessly.
Damian looked at Dick quizzically, “I don’t recall vehicles needing something called ‘blinker fluid’.”
“Figure of speech, Little D. Clark is giving B shit because he had no reason not to use his blinker,” Dick grinned, watching the two in the front seat squabble. “This right here is why we let Alfred drive.”
Bruce rolled his eyes, the same frosted blue as Tim’s, despite not being related. It baffled Clark how similar all of his adopted kids looked to him. “Please, they knew I was getting over. Or they should’ve known, anyway.”
An addendum to the rule that all Bruce's kids look similar: it's less so in how they look, but more in how they act. The boys had the most similarities among them, green or blue eyes with black hair (and some white in Jason's case), but their body language could be nearly Identical to Bruce’s.
The way they would cross their arms when judging something, analyzing it for flaws. The way all of them, including Alfred, could walk without making a sound unintentionally. When they were stressed, they tended to take up as little room as possible. Even their nervous tics, like cracking their knuckles, could be traced back to Bruce.
There were, of course, exceptions to this as well. Dick and Jason gestured much more than their father, though Clark figured Dick picked up his showmanship at the circus and Jason took after him. Damian scowled more than his father, who preferred a simple frown. Cas was much quieter than the rest of them, conveying most of her thoughts through sign language or simple gestures, and rarely speaking.
“This right here is why people hate drivers from New Jersey. You’re proving their stereotype, Bruce. At least fall back a little bit, we don’t need to be in the trunk of the car in front of us,” Clark whined, gripping the handle on the ceiling hard enough that there were sure to be indents.
There was more arguing until Bruce eventually relinquished his hold on the driver’s seat. It was for his own good.
It was nearing dusk now, and traffic had started to pick up some. They had begun telling stories to pass the time, although some of the stories chosen were much to the disappointment of Bruce.
“Yeah, apparently a bunch of penguins blew up the Gotham zoo on Christmas and Catwoman faked her death like eight times,” Dick recounted, having read over the file once when Bruce wasn’t home.
Clark laughed, looking over at his partner with so much fondness it baffled Bruce. “You never told me about that.”
“Look, it wasn’t the worst Christmas I’ve had,” Bruce sighed, leaning back in his seat. “All things considered, it could’ve gone worse.” Alfred hummed in agreement from behind him.
Jason smirked, “Yeah, that honor goes to when Timmy put laxatives in all the food at the Christmas gala, his first Christmas with you.”
The aforementioned boy flushed in mortification, quickly jumping to defend himself, “Those galas are miserable, and all of us have done something horrible at those! Don't pretend like you didn't set the punch table on fire.”
“I was a very good kid! That was an accident, and you know it, Asshole.” Jason snarked, trying to cross one leg over the other in his usual snobby way, but struggling to do so with the lack of room. “At least I didn't backflip into fucking Lex Luthor.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, eyes still on the road. “Oh? And who do I have to thank for that?”
“I thought you didn't encourage violence, Kal,” Dick jested, cocking his head slightly. Dick was the closest to Clark out of his brothers, having grown up around Superman's presence.
Back in those days, Clark and Bruce had worked on a kryptonite smuggling case for about two years. This was a little after Dick became Robin, so Clark had been a frequent visitor around the house. Dick immediately took to him like a duck to water, and Clark found himself becoming incredibly fond of the boy.
Then he and Bruce began fighting more. And then Dick left for the Teen Titans. Clark was pulled away by Luthor’s more ambitious schemes, and Jason took up a lot of Bruce’s attention. Jason's dying and Bruce's emotional shutdown drove a wedge between them that wasn't quite mended until a little after Tim came along, not for Clark's lack of trying.
“I don't encourage violence. So, who backflipped into Lex?” Clark pressed with a knowing smile, already well aware of who the guilty party was.
Dick groaned, “I was like thirteen and I wanted to do a cool flip because B wasn't paying attention to me. I maybe wasn't looking where I was going and flipped straight into him. He was so pissed, I spilled his drink all over his shirt. It was funny watching B do damage control, though.”
“The sheer amount of sucking up to him I had to do,” Bruce seethed, disgust evident on his face. His face eventually softened, and the amusement returned, “At least it wasn't as bad as when Damian somehow got Bat-Cow upstairs and into the gala.”
Damian looked indignant, “Father, she was lonely. And how was I supposed to know that cows are unable to walk downstairs because of their odd weight distribution and knees?”
Bruce sighed like this was a frequent argument. “Damian, I know that you knew that for a fact because you had just finished your book on veterinary medicine for farm animals that Clark gave you.”
Clark brightened, “Oh, he liked it? I'm so glad!”
“Don't encourage this. The crane to get the cow out wasn't cheap.”
“You could've called me to fly her out.”
“You would've laughed the whole time,” Bruce lamented, though he had a small smile on his face.
Clark hummed in agreement, drumming his hands on the wheel, “Yeah, probably.”
The car soon lulled back into its easy quietude, the only sounds from Clark and Bruce's hushed whispers and Alfred turning a page in his book. Every sound was a soft and welcome reminder that Bruce wasn't alone. That he still had a family. That everything would be okay.
And that was certainly a perplexing thought. Clark's relentless optimism must be getting to him.