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Dick relaxed further against the back of the enormous couch and tucked his head under Clark’s chin. He was sprawled half on top of Clark and half on the couch anyway, mirroring the many times he’d crawled into Clark’s lap as a child, seeking out the kind of comfort that was alien in Wayne Manor. But Dick wasn’t a child any longer. He shouldn’t need this. But he did. He didn’t even want to begin to confront what that said about him.
Clark wasn’t really helping sort his dilemma. And neither was Lois. If anything, she’d been encouraging him, if the covert smiles and whispers were to be added up. The rapid clicking of keys echoed in from the dining room, where Lois was stationed, working on her latest article. She’d begun working there instead of her office on the days he and Clark ended up invading the living room, her presence nearby its own form of care. Clark had pulled all the curtains closed before curling beside him, so the only streak of afternoon sunlight streamed in from the dining room, casting a hazy, dream-like glow across the living room.
It was a right struggle to stay awake in these conditions. Not that anyone wanted him to stay awake. In fact, the entire environment was lovingly manufactured to make him lower his guard and ease up. Years of vigilante training had caused his body to rebel at this at first, his instincts cataloguing it immediately as a threat. But it had turned into a routine that they were trying to ease him into, and truth be told Dick had given in.
Clark’s hand was in his hair again, his blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp in a soft, slow rhythm. His heart thumped against Dick’s ear, soothing his nervous system. Dick’s own arm was thrown across Clark’s chest, loosely grasping his shirt like a toddler.
If this wasn’t the definition of co-regulation, Dick didn’t know what was.
Part of him was frustrated at this — at himself for needing this. This was — it was how you calmed and soothed babies. With gentle touch and co-regulation. He was a fully grown adult, nearly thirty for God’s sake. The other part of him, though, had to acknowledge that this was something he’d rarely gotten once his parents had died. He’d been starved of it — was still starving for it. The once in a blue moon occasions where Bruce would let him crawl in beside him after a particularly awful nightmare came to mind, along with similarly rare hugs from Alfred. Dick hadn’t been made for sparse touch in a house like Wayne Manor. No, he’d been born and bred communal circus folk, leaping from arm to arm, lap to lap, hug to hug.
Everything had cleared up once he’d finally realised that. It had also come as no surprise then when he looked back at 8-year-old Dick, who thought Uncle Clark gave the best hugs. He remembered crawling into Clark’s lap every time he babysat, as if trying to soak up his yearly physical touch quota in one day. It made him sad for little Dick. But then he’d come back to the present and think about big him, still pressed chest to chest with Uncle Clark and then he’d start to feel ridiculous again.
As if reading his mind, Clark made a soft shushing sound and continued stroking his hair. He would have reached in and wrenched the thoughts of ridicule from Dick’s mind if he could. This Dick knew by heart.
Part of him wished someone would ridicule him. He’d thought Jon might, the first day he’d come back home from school and walked in on Dick sprawled against Clark’s chest. Dick had braced for laughter and teenage judgment. Instead, Clark and Lois’s thirteen-year-old had simply thrown his backpack to the floor and leapt onto the couch, wedging himself against Clark’s other side without a word. As if finding Dick sprawled across his dad was as normal as finding him reading the paper.
Don’t get him wrong though, Dick was grateful. Grateful no one was ridiculing him and grateful he was getting this now, some twenty odd years too late. He was grateful for Jon and Aunt Lois. Most of all, he was grateful for Uncle Clark.
The thought echoed in Dick’s mind as he breathed in Clark’s sun-warmed cotton scent and his eyes drifted slowly shut. Clark mumbled something he couldn’t quite catch.
A soft kiss pressed to his temple.