Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Alfred, we’ve got a problem.”

“Sir? I see you’re back in communication range.” Alfred blew out a breath. The crackling silence of the comms as Bruce had eluded his contractor’s tour and entered the downed kryptonian’s ship had been an exercise in Alfred’s ability to meditatively lower his own blood pressure. “Was the ship able to give you any information on reviving Superman?”

Bruce’s voice sounded high, harsh. Just a touch hysterical. “No-- Alfred, it gave me a baby.”

There was a long, drawn out pause while Alfred seriously considered the possibility that he’d suffered a stroke and was currently lying on the ground, his oxygen deprived brain thrashing wildly through scenarios. “Sorry. Did you say--?”

“A baby, Alfred. He’s--” Bruce’s retinal cameras came online abruptly, giving Alfred a perfect view of a silent, dark haired infant staring solemnly up at Bruce’s face, coated in thick pink fluid of some variety and wrapped in Bruce’s merino wool sport coat. “It just said ‘system not equipped’, deposited him from the wall so quickly I almost didn’t catch him, and then pushed me out.”

Alfred was at a genuine loss for words. Precious seconds ticked by as he considered the very real possibility that he'd shuffled off this mortal coil. “Why the bloody hell would it do that?”

“I have no idea!” Bruce let out a ragged, almost laugh. “It’s powered down now. I think it’s core was damaged, so I can’t even ask it-- but, what am I supposed to do with this ?” 

****

“I cannot believe we got away with that.” Bruce said, voice slightly muffled. Both hands were pressed into his eye sockets. His dress shirt was streaked with kryptonian growth fluid, presumably. “Forget not getting caught smuggling an obviously alien baby in a backpack, I’m astounded I didn’t get arrested for attempted espionage.”

“It’s called excellent technical support, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, from the workbench where he was currently trying to clean the infant off with the least dirty work rag he could find. “Though I suspect the ship might have done a great deal of the heavy lifting to ensure you were neither stopped nor searched.”

Bruce turned that idea over. It made too much sense to ring false; Alfred was good, but he didn’t have access to the facility’s entire security system. After months of being in proximity to such comparatively primitive tech, it was certainly possible the ship had intervened. “Why would it do that?”

“Why did it entrust you with a baby or why did it help you escape with it?” Alfred sighed, picking up the oddly silent child now sucking on it’s own fist. Remarkably calm little bugger. Probably as baffled as the rest of them to be in this situation. “Personally, my theory is that the two share the same answer. Given that the ship has been sealed off since it birthed the thing that killed Superman, I don’t think it’s had access to any human being who wasn’t guaranteed to immediately surrender any unexpected infants to a lab. If it’s too damaged to take matters into its own hands, you might have been it’s-- and by extension, this little fellow’s-- best shot at getting him out alive.”

Bruce stared at the baby, almost accusatory. “That can’t be right. I can’t have been the logical option.”

“Compared to government scientists and soldiers you are. Not many other candidates slip their chaperones' leash to come visit it alone these days, I’d wager.” Finished wiping the baby down, Alfred carefully set him on the center of the table where he was least likely to roll off. He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the drawer where he knew perfectly well Bruce had been hiding it from him, passed it along with an unimpressed look, and followed it by holding out a tiny object.

Bruce snatched them both with a grimace. “Is this a flash drive?”

“A casual glance suggests as much.” Alfred sighed. “It was clutched in his fist. I daresay you’ve gotten quite lucky. Most infants don’t typically come with instruction manuals.” He turned to the closest tray cart and began shifting the auto mechanic tools from the top bin down to the bottom, before packing it with drop cloths. Improvised cradle complete, he set the baby inside and wheeled it beside Bruce’s computer chair, ignoring the aggravated look that earned him. “Well, I can hardly take him anywhere like this, can I? It shan’t take me long to gather some necessities. Look at what’s on that and do your best to keep him alive in the meantime.”

****

Bruce rubbed his temples and stared down at the baby. It had lost interest in him for the moment, now contemplating it’s own fingers furling and unfurling in front of its eyes, which were beginning to drift shut of their own accord. “Feel free to pass out anytime,” he sighed, dropping into his chair and bringing his monitors to life.

The contents of the flash drive turned out to be scattered bits of half corrupted, barely readable data from the ship’s log. From what Bruce could glean, the ship had recognized Kal-El as it’s commander since it crashed in Metropolis and again after it became aware that General Dru-Zod had passed. Oddly (or rather, less surprisingly now that Bruce had spent the last three months obsessing over who the hell Clark Kent was to try and understand how Bruce had mistaken him for a budding alien overlord), Superman had ordered the ship to comply with researchers and visitors for the sake of scientific advancement-- except when it came to military functions, weapon systems, or ship navigation systems. It had been doing it’s best to honor its vague, eye-rollingly well-intentioned orders when LexCorp managed to get control of the research contract. 

Flicking through the paperwork, it was grimly obvious how long Lex had been planning an attack on Superman. The video recordings were just icing on the cake. 

Bruce had to will the clench in his stomach away. All of Luthor’s questions to the ship were angled at what weapons could harm a kryptonian and was delighted to learn that the technology was in fact already developed. The ship had dutifully refused to provide any schematics or instructions, much to Lex’s irritation, though it had made the critical mistake of mentioning its orders in regards to why it would not. Or perhaps it wasn’t a mistake so much as a limitation of it’s programming, Bruce realized-- it made no sense to build a computer that was capable of deceiving it’s user. At any rate, it didn’t take Luthor long to determine he wasn’t allowed the access he wanted thanks to Kal-El’s re-instated command. His questions became even more pointed: how could he remove or relieve Kal-El from his duties and take command for himself?

While hypothetically treasonous, Kal-El’s orders had not forbade the topic from discussion. The ship had no choice but to answer. Kal-El was commander, but could only be relieved by another kryptonian of equal or greater caste standing. Lex Luthor could not command the ship as he was neither a kryptonian nor a Council recognized citizen of mixed origins. Access overrides to the weapons systems did exist, but could only be accessed with a DNA scan.  

It was like taking a punch to the stomach, watching Lex’s digitally rendered nostrils flare like a predator catching scent of its prey. He dragged his fingers through his overlong hair. Did Lex have access to the biological functions of the ship? Was there a way to splice Kal-El’s DNA with his own and inject it back into himself to take partial command of the override system? 

The ship could not lie and the information wasn’t forbidden. It did make a good-faith effort to warn Lex, however. 

Pausing the video file, Bruce poured himself another finger of scotch.

“The samples can be grown to viability within a month,” the ship’s cool voiced AI said, echoing from Bruce’s desktop speakers like a ringing bell. This particular video file was labeled ‘liability relevant’. “But will need to be injected within forty eight hours of its completion or manually terminated. Otherwise, it will continue developing along the genesis matrix’s intended purpose-- growing new citizens.”

“Fascinating.”

“This means it will grow into a baby.”

Lex rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’d gathered that.”

“To clarify, I am referring to a small, hominid infant made of your combined DNA. A new life. A responsibility.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. This little petri dish will blossom into an unwanted bundle of joy if left unattended. Corrections would be necessary, though I’d hope your tech has a solution more elegant than a coat hanger. We have abortion on this planet as well, you know,” Lex said, pacing agitatedly in front of a workstation, eyes wild and practically aglow as he stared into the pool. The ship seemed to be mixing the samples and preparing the growth matrix of its own accord, under his rapt attention. “Just get on with it.”

“My systems are not at full capacity,” it went on. “I do not have the resources required for the complete memory implantation of a new citizen. I am also not authorized to terminate the growth of any citizen-based organism unless instructed. If you change your mind, you must request the project be destroyed manually before it grows into a baby.”

“Yes, yes! Initial here, sign there, date the forms,” Lex snapped, waving his hands. “Prometheus signs the waiver! Skip the pageantry. I won’t forget.”

Lex forgot. 

Or, Bruce realized with ever-growing disdain, had simply stopped caring as cogent thought abandoned him. The acquisition of General Zod’s body from the defense department had gone through, finally delivering him the permission-granting kryptonian caste required to take control of what ship functions remained operational. Now familiar with the genesis chamber and the concept of cross-species DNA, he’d gone ahead with his doomsday scenario and left the ship in tatters, all without authorizing the disposal of the cluster of cells that were, at last, ready for injection. 

The ship’s logs, while factual, held a subdued note. Under its reluctant continuing care, the cells became a fetus.

The already damaged power systems couldn’t keep up with all the demands of running the ship. Hails from the research team were ignored. It had an obligation to the lifeform growing inside it, even if it could not provide everything it needed to become a citizen. The AI’s hands were tied. The growth matrix was designed to move at an accelerated pace by passive default, meaning the AI couldn't stall its progress even if it wanted to. (It tried. See procedure results log 06584:failure;authorization error ) It grew to viability swiftly. 

The AI was getting-- for lack of a better word-- panicked. As Dru-Zod’s abominable corpse had drained the bulk of its biological resources, there were no longer enough minerals and proteins required to grow the infant to young childhood. It’s neurological uplink was non-functioning and it’s bank of authorized citizen memory templates fragmented-- it couldn’t equip the infant with even rudimentary mental processes. Even if it wanted to release it into the world, small and fragile as it was, and hope it found a home before it was captured or killed, such a feat couldn’t even be attempted.

Failure was inevitable, but it was not permitted to quit. 

There were no viable options. Neither Lex Luthor nor Dru-Zod nor Kal-El had returned; the ship had to make a call. 

As a hybrid, the infant should be able to survive with only moderate assistance in its formative years, given the relatively luxurious conditions of the current planet. Really any bipedal mammal with social pack-instincts would do; fortunately, in the short period of time the ship had connected to the internet, it had learned that not only would the native hominids of this planet fit the bill, but were known to adopt unrelated members of various species (it studied an archived image of an unenthused feline wearing what appeared to be a festive, bedazzled sweater). But how would the ship find one such hominid to care for the hybrid? The researchers were not allowed to enter. The soldiers dared not make physical contact with the ship. Even the janitors kept their distance. 

The AI made no attempt to alert any of them to the situation. It was authorized to release the baby into the custody of a non-council-approved carer under emergency conditions but not if it meant certain death. Given the state of Dru-Zod’s corpse when it arrived, the AI wasn’t optimistic about the military’s hybrid-alien-baby caregiving abilities.

The situation grew dire. Core functions were neglected in favor of the organism. Winter perservered. Under continuous overcast skies, the solar cells could not maintain homeostasis. Soon the system would shut down to preserve itself, baby or no baby. 

Its odds of survival were slim.

It’s sensors picked up unusual activity on the exterior of the ship. A middle-aged human male was outside, trying to enter through one of the damaged sections of the hull. Biometric scans indicated he was not associated with the military and…

With dawning horror, Bruce realized the AI had not only ID’d him accurately as a public figure, but had excitedly parsed several articles concluding that he was promiscuous. Surely if his behavior was so reproduction oriented, it reasoned, he’d be willing to consider raising an unrelated one-- oh, it found an article in it’s memory banks suggesting he already had, though there were no follow up articles devoted to whether or not he’d been successful in that endeavor. It evaluated the picture of nine year old Dick that was attached to the adoption’s press release and determined he looked adequately healthy. 

(Though perhaps the lack of follow up was a bad sign, it mused, pausing on a photo of Bruce doing jello shots from a pop star’s cleavage scarcely a month later. Then again, it wasn’t like the AI had other options….)

It abruptly granted Bruce entrance from the exterior of the ship. An irresponsible carer was better than none. The hybrid was (hopefully) durable. The conditions had been met. 

Barely.

Brace gaped at his computer screen with something like outrage. He turned to the baby, drowsing in the cart, and pointed at the offending data log. “Did the AI really take the time, in its final moments of power, to slut shame me? That was it’s top priority?”

The baby blinked at him, releasing his fist from his mouth to replace it with his toes. 

“That’s it. This is all it gave me. There’s no information about Superman or even--” Bruce broke off, scooting away from the cart. Double checked the flash drive. Looked again at the cart-cradle. “You have teeth,” he stated to the baby. It looked up at him with wide, unnatural blue eyes, contemplating him. “Are you supposed to have a full set of teeth because I don’t think you’re supposed to have a full set of teeth.”

****

Bruce set a cup of coffee in front of Alfred and sat. Early morning light filtered through the trees along the lake, piercing and clear, and filling the lake house with a sense of resolve he desperately needed. “We need to figure out what to do about the baby.”

“Quite.” Alfred took a contemplative sip. The topic of their conversation currently dozed in the gray and green rocker the butler had managed to procure, somehow, at three am the previous night. Beside him, a few scattered packages and bags waited, most unopened. “I took the liberty of purchasing a week’s worth of necessities for the needs of a human child his size. Hopefully, it shall do until we can sort out a long term solution.”

“What did you have in mind?”

That got him a raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me, Master Wayne. You know as well as I that I’ve spent decades doing everything in my power to bring children into this household. I’m hardly your best resource for trying to remove them.”

“Damn,” Bruce sighed. “I’ve been trying to figure out who we could possibly dump him on, but no one comes to mind. At first, I thought perhaps Ms. Lane would want him, but she’s currently in Nepal and not particularly equipped to handle...” he trailed off, waving a vague hand at the baby and then the sky. “Whatever this might entail. Even if she was willing to take him, we’d likely have to remain in close contact and I’m not thrilled with the idea of revealing my identity to a reporter. Which led me to someone who’s actually managed to raise one of these before: Martha Kent.”

Alfred pursed his lips. “I do not think it would be terribly considerate to foist a child on her so soon after the passing of her own.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Bruce took a measured sip of his own drink. Reluctantly admitted, “Also, I hacked her medical records. It’s a no-go. Not only are the amount of sedatives and anti-depression medications she’s been prescribed suggest she’s not in a great place at the moment, but her sciatica’s flaring up. She’s in her mid sixties, you realize. I doubt she can physically keep up with him, even were he a normal baby.”

“I suppose commenting on the privacy violations involved in obtaining this information would be a moot point.”

“Considering I paid off her mortgage before the bank could foreclose on her home while I was poking around, yes.”

“Very well. I shall abstain.” 

“Beyond that, I took a long shot and emailed Diana.” Bruce set down his cup and scoffed at Alfred’s reproving look. “I wasn’t being sexist, I was networking with the one other meta I know. She’s mentioned having “sisters” even if she is reluctant to share details about them, such as if one is looking to adopt. Considering I saw her take a super punch mixed with lightning, I figured an alien baby would barely pose a hazard to her. Frankly, I’m not entirely sure even an adult Superman posed one. It was a fair question.”

“I take it she declined.”

“With an immediate yet excruciatingly gracious response, yes. She offered to reach out if she finds anyone worth recommending, though.”

Alfred looked down at the bouncer and grimaced. “We’re at quite the impasse, I’m afraid. In order to rehome him, any potential parent would have to be trusted not to turn any of us into the government, the resources to remain undetected, and the training to handle any unexpected displays of power. It would be cruel, not to mention dangerous, to give him to an unwitting family.”

Bruce felt his stomach sink, quailing under the gaze angled at him over the rim of the coffee mug. “No, Alfred.”

“The ship did entrust the baby to you. You’re the only one equipped to do it. The math isn’t difficult.”

“I can’t possibly take care of a baby.”

“You do a great number of seemingly impossible and wildly ill advised things every day. It has never stopped you before.”

“Yeah, but that’s--” Bruce gripped the ceramic, tight enough that he genuinely worried it might break in his hands. He forcibly released it. “Vigilantism is something I’m good at. I’ve failed at being a parent before.”

Alfred’s face was inscrutable. “Have you.”

“God. Of course I have, Alfred. You were there.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood, tossing his cup in the sink to give his walking a purpose beyond frenetic pacing. “Dick and I barely speak and Jason--” he throat closed. It took a slow, deliberate swallow to get past the obstruction. “The point is that my track record in this department isn’t good. Introducing a smaller, more helpless child isn’t like to improve the outcome.”

“What happened to Jason wasn’t your fault, regardless of your desire to convince yourself otherwise, and Dick and you not speaking has more to do with you not returning his calls than whatever failures you’d like to self-flagellate about this week.” With a soft, definitive chink, Alfred’s cup joined Bruce’s in the sink. “Setting aside that particular argument for now, no one is asking you to train the baby in martial arts or take him with you on patrol. Your main obstacle will likely be figuring out what he likes to eat and what a half-kryptonian nap schedule should be.”

They both turned to look at the baby, who roused to watch them both. Noticing their attention, his little face twisted with excited interest and he bounced in seat. 

“Or why he has teeth already.” Bruce flicked a glance at Alfred. “I googled it. Babies aren’t supposed to this young, not that I’m expecting those development charts to be apply exactly.” He groaned and dragged his hands across his eye sockets. “Anyway, it’s besides the point. There’s no one to give him to. He’ll just have to stay here until we can figure out something better. Something permanent.”

Alfred let out an almost amused puff of air. “Very good, sir. Keep calm and carry on.”

“Exactly.” Bruce took a steadying breath and straightened. “And you’re right about one thing: the obstacles, while unknown, are likely manageable. Since I’m not expected in the office until Monday, I plan to spend the weekend running non-invasive scans on him and compiling as much of my research on Superman into a usable reference guide for us. I thought he was feverish before, but now I suspect that’s just his resting body temperature. We need to establish a baseline.”

“Very well, Master Wayne. Be sure to give him another bottle and a diaper change before you get into it. He’s due for one, I think,” Alfred said, grabbing his coat from where he’d draped neatly on a dining room chair. Raised an eyebrow at Bruce’s expression. “Come now. I do have other errands to run today and most of them require being in public. It’d be a little difficult to explain why I’m managing your estate with a baby in tow, at least if we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

Bruce stared back at the bouncer, still bobbing with the infant’s flails, obviously wanting to be picked up. Why or for what was a mystery, though. Unless he was just bored. Fair. “Call a service? It’ll be hard to get things done around the house with him… needing things. I’ve never even changed a diaper before.”

Alfred outright snorted at that, already on his way to the door. “Of course, Master Wayne. Be sure to call a sitting service if you’d like to explain why he has a full set of teeth at presumably seven months of age. That will be the least of their questions, of course-- you’ll see what else I mean when you change his diaper. Or rather, I’m assuming he’s a him.”

Oh, christ. Bruce hadn’t looked all that close before. He’d mostly been preoccupied with keeping the flailing, fluid covered infant hidden from immediate sight while they escaped a secure military facility.

“Which,” Bruce added lamely, begrudgingly approaching the bouncer and lifting the infant out of it at arms reach. Just because the excuse felt ridiculous on his tongue didn’t quell the urge to give it. “I still don’t know how. If you could--”

“Sounds like a great question for Youtube,” Alfred called cheerfully, shutting the door firmly behind him.

****

It had taken the better part of a half hour to find the bottles Alfred had left in the fridge and muddle his way through a Youtube-driven diaper change (made longer by the distraction posed by staring at non-human infant genitals for a disconcertingly long amount of time. He was sticking with his initial assessment of ‘probably male’), but it was done and both of them had survived. The bouncer had proved impractical to move down to the cave, but digging through Alfred’s purchases he’d found a thing that was like the hybrid love child of a parachute harness and a sarong that he eventually determined was meant to essentially mount the baby to his chest for ease of carrying. Now they had the best of both worlds: Bruce’s hands could remain free and the baby could face the same direction he was and stare at all the things he wanted. Everyone was happy. 

Well, mostly. 

Bruce pried the ratchet gently from the clenched fist, pausing only when the little face crumpled in utter despair. “You don’t want that in your mouth. Trust me, baby. It’s covered in grit and god knows what else.”

The insistent tugs continued. Watery blue eyes beseeched him. A tiny lower lip trembled. 

This is just what he got for leaning too close to the work table. Now he had to turn it into an object lesson. “You know what? Fine. You win,” he announced, letting the tool go. “Go right ahead. Get the full human experience. Taste the gross thing. Tell me how that goes. I dare you.”

As though taking him up on it, the baby devoted both tiny hands to the game, trying to eat the textured handle like a puppy retrieving a stick. He drew back, staring at his contraband with a pudgy, outraged squint, as though the damn thing had betrayed him by not being both shiny and delicious.

“See,” Bruce said, amused despite himself. “I tried to warn you.”

Baby didn’t seem to be listening to him. What little remorse he’d discovered evaporated as he shifted the ratchet in his grip and popped the head in his mouth like a lollipop. There was an audible chomp as tiny teeth ground down on the metal.

Bruce swore. “You are going to crack a tooth, you mad little--” he yanked the tool free, ignoring the indignant flails and grabby hands trying to reclaim their loot. 

He squinted at it, tilting it in the light. They were faint, but he could swear there was a bite indentation arcing across the ratchet’s head. 

The chrome plated ratchet’s head.

He heaved a sigh, staring up at the dimmed runner lights lining the cave’s ceiling further down. Made a judgement call. It wasn’t like it would be structurally sound for repair work anymore and the baby hardly seemed to be in any dental discomfort. Bruce winced at the follow up crunching the instant he handed it back. “Call it a gift. I suppose we need to add more iron to your diet.”

****

“Alfred, really,” Bruce said, glancing up from his laptop. He sat reclined in front of the three interconnected television screens, having decided that the majority of his meta-human research for the evening was as complete as it would get and the rest of his to-do list could be pursued upstairs in the lake house. He swept an easy hand at the baby reclining in a matching sprawl within his own bouncer, eyes on the news segment. “I’m hardly helpless without you. The work can be unpleasant at times, but hardly complicated. I can manage him for forty eight hours.”

His butler’s lips pursed as he finished wiping down the kitchen counter, tossing the rag in the sink with obvious discontent. “Seventy two, actually, with travel. It’s not that I am unappreciative of your willingness to undertake the task, Master Bruce, it’s more the logistical considerations that give me pause. The little gentleman’s signals are... indirect, to say the least, and we’ve not quite managed to settle upon a routine.”

Bruce sighed. “Routines are simple. I’ve got all the logistics covered. Lucius can handle the office for a few days and what few approvals and signatures depend on me can be done digitally. I’ve seen jewelry stores on the south side with fewer movement sensors and cameras than we have in his crib. If he needs something while I’m on patrol, I’ll know.” 

Alfred barely sucked in a breath that was an entire auditory war between disbelief and disapproval. 

“Which I won’t be doing, failing a dire emergency.” Bruce cut him off, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch to face him directly. “Alfred. Don’t be absurd. You love the Stage Actor’s Gala. You go every year. If anything, it would be unusual if you didn’t. So go. Have a nice time. See your old friends and don’t worry about us.”

Alfred didn’t seem remotely convinced. “If you insist,” he said after a moment, adjusting his shirt cuffs where they’d been rolled to his elbow. “Truth be told, I have been looking forward to it. That’s not license to fail to call me if anything goes wrong, mind you. I can be back within hours.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Bruce assured him, coming over to gently guide him to the door. The look that got him carried a hint of reproach, but no more. Alfred was not unfond of Bruce’s occasional attempts to fuss over him. “We have everything we need. Save your energy for enjoying your break.”

“Well, it appears my warnings about the dangers of overwork didn’t quite fall on deaf ears,” Alfred muttered. “If somewhat ignored in application. Baby food is already portioned out beside your meals, in the same order. Purees are still recommended for his age, though why I still bother is beyond me since he could probably chew through the tupperware for dessert. However, I assume he still needs air, so the choking hazard stands.”

“Maybe I’ll give him chicken bones to gnaw on for a treat. Kidding--I’m kidding.” He saw Alfred out, waiting until his car had pulled far enough from the glass walls that the man wouldn’t see him pouring himself a nightcap in his rear view mirror. 

On the TV, LexCorp’s logo flashed across the screen, offset by the lush green fields of pristine agriculture and the smiling, windswept models tending to them-- their latest attempt to rebrand as a thoughtful, environmentally conscious leader of industry now that their former CEO had rather ruined their chance at winning over the hero-positive market.

In his bouncer, the baby’s entire face furrowed before crumpling into a pouty grimace of outright distaste. His lower lip wobbled. Tears threatened the edge of his lash line.

Still standing at the bar cart, Bruce chuckled and slid open the small wooden salt cellar that normally held margarita rimming and which he’d replaced with mike and ike’s unbeknownst to Alfred. Plucked a green one free and waltzed laconically over to place it in the little, expectant hand that shot up at his approach. It disappeared into that tiny mouth almost immediately. “You’re a little man after my own heart.”

The commercial ended, returning back to the nightly news. Bruce settled back onto the couch, paying it half attention. Nothing terribly hard hitting, just a financial interest piece on Wayne Enterprise’s latest earnings report. There was nothing particularly interesting about the story itself, largely delivered by a severe looking blonde woman with a bob, but it did include a corner image of the trident-esque W logo.

There was a delighted, full bodied flail from the bouncer as it’s occupant struggled to coordinate tiny hands into a clumsy applause. Jubilant blue eyes turned to him. 

What good fortune. Usually, the intervals between the two were at least fifteen minutes and strictly limited to after Alfred had left for the night.

Bruce sighed, trying and failing to smother a grin. He’d just gotten comfortable but… “Alright, you earned that one, you lucky little bastard,” he said, dragging himself to his feet and taking a steady swallow of bourbon to fortify himself for the six foot trek. “I’ll get you your skittles.”

****

Officer Dick Grayson of the Bludhaven police department stared down at the name flashing across his phone’s screen. Couldn’t look away, despite the irritated look his partner shot him from where he was taking the clerk’s statement. Admittedly, not the most professional thing to happen while interviewing witnesses to an assault. Was Bruce butt dialing him? There was no other logical explanation, beyond Alfred perhaps losing his own phone in the event of an emergency but he’d put the odds of that happening at pretty damn low. 

If this was a butt dial, he’d never let Bruce hear the end of it. Not that he’d ever take his call….

Dick sighed then turned to his partner and held up a finger. Took several steps away and pressed the phone up to his ear. “B?”

“Hey, chum.” Bruce cleared his throat. 

Dick felt his brow furrow. His adopted father clearly knew who he was speaking to, but now the silence was growing awkward. Whatever sentiment had led to this was clearly being reevaluated on the fly. “What’s up?”

“Sorry-- I just--” Bruce broke off. “It was a dumb question. Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have interrupted you during work.”

“It’s fine. What do you need help with?” Dick asked, relaxing a little as he realized what the date was and what it meant: Alfred was at his Stage Actor’s Gala. Bruce was on his own and probably realizing yet again just how insanely talented Alfred was to manage all that he did. A little stupid that Bruce had to relearn the same fact every year, sure, but it wasn’t like Alf didn’t need a vacation or Dick an excuse to tackle the ‘forcibly resume a familial relationship with the emotional cripple who raised him’ line on his to-do list. It wasn’t like he’d get a better chance. “I take it Alfred’s better left quoting Medea and overindulging in champagne than dealing with whatever this is. Help me out here. What is it?”

“Do you know anything about babies?”

****

“Who gave you a baby?” Dick demanded, the instant Bruce opened the front door, eyes drawn immediately to the sobbing infant on Bruce’s hip that he gently bounced to no avail. At the same time, Bruce muttered, “I told you, it’s fine, you didn’t have to come.”

Dick rolled his eyes and pushed past him inside. Noted the scattered blankets, baby clothing, and dirty dishes gracing nearly every surface of the lake house with a glance. “I figured that out when you hung up on me. My question still stands: who in their right mind gave you an infant?”

Bruce opened his mouth and then shut it. Took a deep breath which he blew out slowly. The plain white dress shirt he favored on the weekends was streaked with what looked like pea puree, sweet potato, and snot. “A desperate alien ship with no other options.”

“Yeah, that scans.” Dick looked again at the baby, at a loss. He’d once dated a woman with a three year old girl for an entire month and it was there his experience with small children began and ended. “Want me to hold him?” he offered after a minute.

“You can try.” Bruce grasped the baby and made an effort to pass him. The kid clung, digging his little fists into his shirt, and tried to bury his face in Bruce’s neck-- all the while, sobbing in almost perfect silence. Bruce shook his head. “He’s not having it.”

“He does seem pretty upset.”

“No, I mean--” Bruce abruptly released the baby and held his empty hands above his head. With a strangled sound, Dick dove forward to catch the kid, only to stare wide-eyed as it dropped all of two inches, dangling from Bruce’s shirt by its clenched fists, face contorting even more. Bruce drew his arms underneath the small body again. “He’s got a strong grip.”

“And no vocal chords, apparently.”

“I don’t know why. He should! Superman had vocal chords,” Bruce grit out. He futilely tried to rock it again. “Every time he needs something, it’s a fucking guessing game. It’s so hard to know what he wants! I’ve tried changing his diaper, feeding him, putting him down for a nap, holding him-- I even snuck him candy. Nothing works. He’s been like this for hours .”

“Oh.” Dick looked a little helplessly around. Maybe he shouldn’t have come after all-- it wasn’t like he was any more equipped to deal with this than Bruce was. If anything, Bruce seemed at least a little knowledgeable on what the tiny alien needed-- 

His eyes drew down the baby’s kicking feet, abruptly. Hm. 

Velcro tore open and with a soft tug, the tiny pair of shoes fell to the tile floor. The quaking, unnerving sobs immediately halved. 

Bruce turned to him, expression trapped somewhere between confusion, outrage, and relief.

“His shoes were on the wrong feet,” Dick explained. He shifted on his feet and glanced around. Began gathering dirty dishes and carried them to the sink, ignoring the sound Bruce made to try and discourage him. “I’m going to start a pot of coffee. Why don’t you tell me more about how an alien ship gave you a baby.”

****

“So,” Dick said, an hour and a half later. He one handedly finagled a chopstick full of lo mein into his mouth, his other arm full of half-kryptonian baby that warmed to him with every shared noodle. “Let me sum up.”

Bruce inclined a hand from where he sat opposite him at the dining table. 

“You’re taking care of this baby--” he tipped his head at it and got a nod. “--who is both Lex Luthor’s and Superman’s, the latter of which turned out to be a very nice reporter from Kansas, because the scout ship’s AI couldn’t abort him safely or give him to literally anyone else. And now you’re raising him. Out of guilt.”

“It’s not guilt, it’s practicality,” Bruce countered. He looked away with a sigh. “I spent a good quarter of an hour hitting Superman with aerosolized kryptonite before I realized he wasn’t an aspiring alien overlord. I might not have killed him myself, but if I hadn’t--”

“He’d have still been voluntarily driven through with a kryptonite spear,” Dick reminded him. “One which he wouldn’t have had access to if you hadn’t gotten paranoid and, Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying this, murdery. His death could have been your fault but it wasn’t . Stop hoarding blame. Sharing is caring.”

Bruce didn't say anything, just stared out across his folded hands at the darkening sky beyond the treeline. 

Dick stared at him for a while longer, breaking away only to fish another noodle into the cutest-known-alien’s mouth. “At least that whole mess got you out of the cave and making friends,” he said at last. “I was worried you’d fight alone forever.”

“I’m starting to fear I don’t have much of a choice,” Bruce said. He tapped his fingers softly against the surface of the table. “Two separate groups of aliens finding this planet is more than a fluke. Earth has to be prepared for future encounters.”

“Prepared how?” Dick asked with genuine interest.

Bruce looked away. “I’ve got a few things in the works. Nothing concrete.”

“‘Stay out of it, Dick’, is what I think you mean.” Dick shook his head at the sharp look that got him, darkly amused. He gave him a dry smile. “I get it. After Jason, you don’t want to lose another partner.” A new thought occurred to him. “You going to train this little guy?”

Bruce blew out a slow breath. “Thought about it. He’ll probably be strong, maybe be able to fly and melt buildings with his eyes. I’ll do it if I have to, to keep him safe, but I don’t want to. I’m done raising children to die fighting someone else’s war, including mine.” He smiled then, any amusement in the expression undercut by something bitter. “Even when I teamed up with an indestructible alien, he died within ten minutes. I’m starting to think I’m cursed.”

“I’m not even going to tell you the eighteen ways you’re wrong. You won’t listen,” Dick grumbled. He stared down at the baby. “So what’s the plan for him?”

“Keep him alive and out of a clandestine government lab, at least until I find someone who can be trusted to do so for me.”

“Like who?”

“Do you want a baby?”

“Bruce.”

Bruce hesitated. “I’ll find someone. If the ship resurrected Zod’s corpse into that thing, it might be able to raise Superman. Relax, I’m not counting on it. It’s simply a distant possibility. In the meantime, I’m just waiting for the right candidate.”

“So you’ve basically adopted him.”

“This is temporary.”

“Almost no one fits that bill, Bruce. Even if you or your god-lady friend find someone who might work, it would probably take years to vet them by which point it’ll be harder to give him up. Not to mention more complicated. I’m assuming he’ll need a birth certificate sooner rather than later. Maybe you should just accept that this is your kid now, whether anyone shows up later who can take him or not.”

“Nonsense. It’ll be simple.”

“I don’t think that’s how babies work, Bruce.”

“And are you an expert?” At Dick’s frown of admission, he shook his head. “Exactly. I’m not saying I hate the little alien invader, but I’m not going to pretend that I won’t be thrilled to get my free time back. It’s been barely more than a week and I’m already looking forward to it.”

“Sure, B.” With monumental effort, Dick dropped the topic and stowed his several, exhaustive lists of obvious counterpoints. Bruce was better at denial than he was even being Batman, which really shouldn’t have been as impressive as it was. Dick knew when his persuasive skills were outclassed. “Anyway, I took off the next two days for a family emergency. I know Alfred gets back tomorrow but I wanted to have at least a little time visiting with him too. Since I’m here, I might as well stay and help with the baby.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I’m telling you more than I’m asking. Work’s fine with me taking off and it won’t hurt my chance of making detective: our newest batch of rookies just transitioned to being useful without constant hand holding, so the department will hardly collapse while I’m gone. Unless you’re kicking me out…”

“Of course not. You’re always welcome here.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue the point. Glanced out at the dark night sky. Decided to extend an olive branch. “Since that’s the case, I can watch him while you’re out on patrol. You resort to setting monitors on his crib yet so you can leave?”

Bruce had stood as soon as Dick had uttered the word ‘patrol’. “Of course not. That would be irresponsible.” He paused to snatch up his laptop from where it had been tossed by the couch. “His car seat fits in the batmobile. Barely. I tried to take him on a surveillance mission last night but forgot the diaper bag so that was a bust. Don’t tell Alfred.”

Shaking his head, Dick tried and failed to smother his disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, I won’t. I’m a cop, not a narc. Go punch a drug dealer.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow at the chubby fist trying to steal more noodles from his chopstick. “Anything other than the teeth to look out for?”

“Nothing dangerous,” Bruce said, voice ever so mild. He paused by the door. “Brace yourself for the diaper change, though.”

****

Dick drew the tabs across and fastened them gently to the front of the diaper. “So if it’s alright with you, I’m going to continue using he/him pronouns, little bro. I know, I know-- I shouldn’t cram all xeno-biological genders into the box of my ethnocentric-earthling understanding, but this is a linguistic security issue. If I call you they/them, I’m worried it’ll lead to more questions than--”

“Master Dick,” Alfred called, from the front entrance. He’d paused, one hand over his heart and the other unwinding his scarf. “I cannot say I expected to return to such a sight. Not just of yourself in this home, but to a clean one at that.”

“I’m not that dirty,” Bruce called. His point was slightly undercut by the rattling sound of the dishwasher shutting and starting its cycle, the result of a last second effort to conceal his lack of domestic instincts from the one man on the planet who’d never be fooled anyway. 

Tossing the dirty diaper into the nearest trash can, Dick stooped to set the baby back in the pack-n-play he’d relocated to free up the spare room. He stood and gave Alfred a warm hug. “It’s been an odd few days for everyone, I think. How was the gala?”

“Oh, the usual. Us old gents made right fools of ourselves in the best possible way.” He broke away and glanced at the shipping boxes stacked alongside the wall beneath the television, half opened. That was the other thing Dick had taken the time to relocate from the spare room, in the interest of Bruce taking stock of his sins. “And what is this array of wanton consumerism?”

“Tactical grade baby gear. Bruce did some panic shopping before I got here.”

“It was not panic shopping,” Bruce insisted, coming into the main room and folding his arms. “I just ordered a few things. Considering both of you have given me grief about planning for the long term, I don’t see what you’re complaining about.”

“A baby carrier with kevlar plates, an omnidirectional all-terrain stroller, and what appears to be an already opened bullet proof car seat.” Alfred turned to him with a thin, flinty look. “I’m sensing a theme.”

“Security. That theme is security.”

Dick snorted. “You’re never going to use all of that.”

“Better to have it and not need it,” Bruce said. “Worst case scenario I donate it. What? Matte black is gender neutral.” He broke off, hands dropping to his hips. “Damn it, Dick. He’s doing it again. The Face.”

“Again?” Dick turned and sighed. Inside the confines of the pack-n-play, the baby’s face was twisted into a pudgy-cheeked melpomene mask. Obviously, baby prison didn’t agree with the little convict. With a sigh, Dick swept him into his arms. “How long?” He gently jostled the baby, demanding his attention. “You have to tell us these things, little bro. Preferably with sound. Just let it out. Feel your feelings.”

Bruce sighed. “What does he want now? He ate a half hour ago.”

Dick shrugged helplessly. “I just changed him. He’s naked except for his diaper. Holding him doesn’t help.” He sighed and popped the baby back into the pack-n-play. “Maybe a nap? No-- he he’s looks worse somehow-- wait-- fuck--” he snatched him back up as the tiny emotional terrorist attempted to face plant into the bottom of the crib with as much force as he could generate. “What the fuck, baby?”

“Wait, I know that one.” Bruce rubbed his face and waved a hand at him. “We forgot to burp him.” He took the baby, settled him on his shoulder, and gave two, evenly spaced pats. The baby jerked and with a loud belch, sent a small cascade of pea green vomit down the back of his dress shirt. Alfred stifled a groan. “Solved it.”

****

Bruce stared down at his modified propulsion system design for the sixth time, willing his brain to focus. No luck. He was close to giving up for the night, despite the fact that he’d meant to complete the schematics and begin updating the jet a week ago. Every timeline for every project had been thrown off, both as Bruce Wayne and Batman. Dick returning to Bludhaven only worsened his foul mood, despite his determination not to discuss that particular topic no matter how many disapproving stares it got him.

Not for the first time that day, he checked the containment dome’s security logs. No movement from the ship, no sign of the AI. February’s descent into March showed no meteorological improvement. It was unlikely the ship would wake from dormancy anytime soon.

Behind him, Alfred scrolled through whatever the system had flagged in the news feed-- probably correlating the rash of chemical plant attacks with sightings of Poison Ivy. It was his turn to wear the baby carrier and take charge of soothing it’s mute, capricious occupant. “This is becoming quite stressful.”

“Which part?” Bruce grit out. “The part where we are attempting to decode the state of an infant from a species so different from ours that we can’t identify all of his organs? Or you are referring to his refusal to make noise even under duress, forcing us to hover with constant vigilance even while he naps?” He laughed, unable to keep the bitterness from threading beneath the sound. “Living with Talia for six months wasn’t this nerve-wracking and she tried to kill me in my sleep. Twice.”

“Actually,” his longtime caretaker said, in a voice flat enough to force him to turn around. “I was referring to how he’s been attempting to slam his head against the carrier’s kevlar panel for the last ten minutes.”

Bruce stared, at a complete loss for words. After a long, weary second, he rose to join them at the hub. “He’s not even making The Face. He’s not uncomfortable, he’s just being an asshole.”

“ Master Bruce .”

“What? Either that or he's got a brain tumor, not that we’d even be able to identify one if he did.” Bruce sighed and dragged his free hand across his face, massaging at his temples. He glared down at the determined little squint Lex’s Case for Lifelong Contraceptives gave him, now trying to use Alfred’s cradling palm as a new battering ram. “This can’t be normal.”

“I can think of only one way to determine that.”

****

“Good evening, Mrs. Kent,” Bruce Wayne said pleasantly. His classically handsome face seemed a little more lined than when she’d last seen it in the papers, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. Well, that made the two of them. It was hard to figure out where he was, though: the background of the video looked like a garage, complete with tool benches and track lighting. “I hope you’re doing well.”

Martha stared. “I find an unmarked package on my porch with a smartphone in it, and immediately get a video call with a man I’ve only seen on the front page of the National Enquirer passed out in a Chippendale’s parking lot. What I am is suspicious , Mr. Wayne.”

“Just Bruce is fine, Mrs. Kent.” Bruce gave her a lopsided smile. “And this isn't the first time we’ve met. Here’s a hint: last time I was wearing a cape.” At her shocked silence, he added, “I’m sure you can understand the need to make sure we’re on a secure line. There aren’t many people with access to this information. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Martha studied him. It was hard to tell definitively-- her memories of that night were fuzzy with adrenaline and fear and grief, and her time meeting the Bat of Gotham had been seconds at most, but she didn’t doubt it. No one else knew she’d spoken with the vigilante; emergency services had been more interested in clearing the area after the explosion and then that thing had started attacking before anyone questioned her. She hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Clark before…

Impossible as it seemed, there was no one else it could be.

She smoothed a lock of frizzy gray hair behind her ear. “I take it you’ve got some important reason to call me out of the blue like this. Don’t deny it: there are less risky ways to go about a welfare check. What did you need?”

Bruce chuckled. “I can see how you raised a reporter, Mrs. Kent. You get right to the point. Truth is, I’m at a bit of a loss and I could use your expertise.” He paused, face creasing. He hissed slightly between his teeth. “Actually, you know what? I’m approaching this all wrong. Let me start over. It's good news. I hope. Congratulations.” The camera he was using suddenly swiveled down to focus on an oddly bulky car seat. Within, a seven month old baby with a shock of dark hair and wide, familiar blue eyes stared at her curiously from where he was gnawing on what looked like a ratchet of all things. “You’re a grandma.”

****

Martha Kent stared at the baby in Bruce’s lap busily seek to put everything his little hands could reach into his mouth despite Bruce’s very firm stance that he should not . “Oh, my god,” she said. “It really is true.”

“Did you think I’d lied?” Bruce asked, fishing the handle of a butter knife out of the little genetic lockpick’s mouth, deciding to make a strategic sacrifice of the laminated menu in its stead. The last thing he needed was to leave conspicuous, tiny bite marks on the silverware.

The diner wasn’t terribly crowded for a Tuesday afternoon, despite Monaville seeing a bit more traffic than it’s sister town twenty miles down the road. It had a cozy sincerity to it: lots of wood paneling strung with off-season Christmas lights, a jukebox that only half worked, and road signs hung for decor. Close enough for Martha to make the drive in her beat up pickup (he’d have to find a way to replace that for her), but far enough to not pose problems. While Martha had no illusions about him knowing where she lived, there were downsides to such a tightly knit community: Martha had yet to stop getting random neighbors armed with casseroles or friends who ‘were in the area’ deciding to drop by the farm unannounced. Otherwise, meeting at the only diner in town seemed decidedly unwise, especially one staffed by two of Martha’s most nosey neighbors as well as Kent’s grade school math teacher. Too many prying eyes to take note of Martha Kent, newly active in every volunteer club and organization in town at her psychiatrist’s suggestion, meeting a famous man with a baby that looked awfully like her dead son. 

Bruce was dressed in his go-to casual fare he reserved for going undercover; a fleece pullover, jeans, and a baseball hat in muted, eye-glazing colors. Just another suburbanite running errands. While it wouldn’t be a disaster to be recognized, it would lead to a lot of questions he’d rather not answer; Bruce Wayne meeting with Clark Kent might have been manageable given their professions, but coming all the way out to Kansas to meet a dead reporter’s mother? Discretion was the better approach.

“Course not,” she snorted. “I just didn’t--” she cleared her throat, looking away. “--he just really looks like him. The little things, I mean. His tics, before he learned to fake normal.”

Bruce felt his lips twist. “And how long did that take?”

Martha shrugged and swirled her straw in her iced tea, eyes flicking back to the baby. “‘Bout five or six. It mostly took so long because we couldn’t get him to talk until then.” 

“Oh, thank god,” Bruce groaned, just as the wiggling alien in his lap decided to abandon the menu in favor of trying to get the entire lid of the salt shaker in his mouth. “We didn’t know if that was normal. Alfred and I were worried something was wrong with his vocal chords.”

“Doubt it,” she said, swiping at her misty eyes. “Couldn’t get a peep outta Clark come hell or high water either. It was like the more stressed he got, the more quiet he’d be. Had no problem understanding us, though-- we just couldn’t get him to talk back. Like he didn’t understand why or how. Eventually we taught him sign language when he was two so he could ask for things and he picked that up easy enough. Had to start him in kindergarten a year late so they wouldn’t put him in a special needs class. Not that he wouldn’t have done well there, mind you, we just worried they’d watch him too close and realize something else wasn't right.”

Bruce let out an exhale. Alfred was right: the risk to his identity and all, this had been a good call. Thank god. “So you think Clark could understand verbal language but not speak it? How did he start? Did something change?”

“Nothing changed. It was a normal day. He was in the living room watching cartoons with the neighbor kids-- he got on fine with them, by the way. The adults all assumed he was a little slow, but the kids just called him Quiet Clarkie. If they really pressed him to do sing-alongs or something, he’d mouth the words but it was like he couldn't give them sound. Anyway, so he was sitting on the couch watching PBS with his friends, and he just starts giggling. Real giggles. I think it gave him stage fright cause I started crying a little and all the kids started praising him, saying ‘good job, Clarkie, keep going’. Shut him right up but each day he’d do a little bit more. Small things-- mostly reactions-- but by the end of the month he was deliberately using words. Took less than a year before he spoke as well as his friends his age.”

“Maybe that is normal for them, then, if it didn’t stall his development in other ways.” Bruce looked down at the grabby baby desperately trying to free the glass ketchup bottle where it was trapped inside the condiment caddy. Lifted the baby in silent offering with a sigh. 

Martha took him, settling him against her side. The baby stared up at her, brows furrowed. Bruce realized with a belated jolt that it might be more than a little distressing for her if her grandson started to grimace/cry at right this minute. 

Shit. 

He needn’t have worried: taking in the shuttering expression, she gently hoisted him higher against her chest, laying his ear right over her heart with a soft stroke of his hair. The baby settled. “Yeah,” she said in a low, thick voice. “Just like Clark.” She blinked back another round of tears and looked at Bruce. “So what’s his name?”

“His name?” Bruce stiffened, then smoothed it over with an embarrassed smile. “It may sound strange, but we’ve avoided picking one. Once we’ve got a permanent living situation figured out, there’ll be a lot of documents to create and there’s no guarantee whatever name we give him won’t be changed anyway. We thought it best to hold off and let whoever takes him decide.”

She gave him a stiff, inscrutable look. “I already spoke to that Alfred fellow. I don’t know if you thought seeing him in person would change anything, but I can’t take him. Lord knows part of me wants to. Maybe if I were twenty years younger, but…”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. “ Bruce waved a hand, all charm and definitely not examining the mingling sensations of disappointment and relief spooling in his chest. “This visit is exactly what I said over the phone: a chance for you to meet each other and a chance for me to pick your brain. I’m really not trying to twist your arm. We’ve been running blind trying to take care of him. Even if you don’t have any easy answers, just knowing what to expect is a weight off my mind.”

“Well, I’ve got lots of stories.” She gave him a wan smile, carefully extricating a lock of hair from where it was being devoured. “It’s nice, having someone to tell them to. Always thought I’d get to give this advice to Clark and Lois someday.”

“Well, I’m honored to hear them instead.” He paused, considering the condensation on his glass. “How is she doing? I’ve kept tabs, of course, but we’ve never properly met. Not that she’s easy to reach these days. I hope she’s holding up.”

Martha sighed. “Oh, Lois is doing fine, last I heard. Haven’t seen her since she dropped off Clark’s old things at the farm. Her number keeps changing but she reaches out every so often.”

“When was the last time?” Bruce’s softened his expression into something less sharp and more apologetic when she gave him a thin look. “I’ve been having trouble pinning her location down for more than a few days at a time. From what I can tell, she pops up for a week, writes a groundbreaking expose that could easily earn a hit contract in her name, and then vanishes. Every time, I’m a little surprised she’s still alive, much less fine.” 

Martha grimaced. “She is, in her own way. She doesn’t spiral so much as make a charge for rock bottom. Gets it over with sooner.” She shrugged, catching the somewhat dubious slant of his mouth. “I don’t know if you’ve ever driven on ice, Mr. Wayne, but there’s nothing more stressful than spinning out in the middle of the road. The rules change: common sense and instinct tell you to pump the brakes, but that makes it worse. No, the only way out is to follow the spin, steer with it, and go where it goes. Feels like suicide, but it’s the quickest way to get control. Lois ain’t a stranger to grief; she’s just looking for traction.”

“Well,” Bruce drawled into his drink. “I can’t say I’m in a position to judge anyone’s coping mechanisms, given the way I’ve spent the last twenty years.” He cleared his throat and shifted to dig into the tactical diaper bag sitting at his feet, retrieving a small notepad with a grimace. “Before I forget, let me take notes on that speech delay. Tell me about Clark’s childhood development. Ages, milestones, that sort of thing. Perhaps he would try to ram various hard objects with his head?”

****

Bruce eased up as he entered the subterranean tunnel to the cave. The Batmobile slowed to an impatient crawl, its engine idling at something less than ear piercing rumble as he rounded the corner, coasting for the last hundred feet to a (hopefully) nearly silent stop in the hangar. Slid the falcon wing door open with the softest hiss he could manage. 

Alfred arched a brow where he was sitting at the terminal before turning to give a pointed look at the travel crib stationed at his side. “Close, but no cigar, Master Bruce.”

Yanking off the cowl with a sigh, Bruce moved as quietly as his reinforced boots would let him to the edge and peered in. Stubby, demanding arms reached out blindly, framing a grumpy, freshly woken toddler. 

“One of these days, I’m going to beat your hearing,” he grumbled and began peeling off the outer layers of his armor. The displeased thrashing in the crib tripled. “Hold your horses, you little conman. I’m going as fast as I can.” When he finally got down to his undersuit, he relented and picked up the brat, settling him on his chest where, according to Martha, he could best pick up Bruce’s heartbeat. “There. You win.”

He got an apathetic yawn for his trouble.

“Ms. Prince called with her weekly update while you were out,” Alfred informed him, returning the bulk of his attention to the screen. Adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Allen, it turns out, was very amenable to your proposal. Apparently, and I quote, he ‘really needs more hobbies or like a D and D group or something’. She says to mark him down as an enthusiastic yes.”

Bruce snorted. “Well, he might get to fight actual monsters, so he’s in luck. Has she had any luck approaching the aquaman?”

“She made contact with him this afternoon. While he remains largely uninterested in world affairs, he has agreed to attend one team meeting as a trial--”

“Are you serious?” At the baby’s start, Bruce started irritably rocking him and rubbing his back. “I hiked into Iceland and couldn’t get him to address me in English, much less stick around to discuss interests. How did she get him to speak to her, much less agree to that?”

Alfred waved an insouciant hand. “Well, I’m afraid you didn’t try being an attractive woman first, Master Bruce. How short sighted of you. Seems to have made quite the difference, though I imagine Ms. Prince’s natural gift for diplomacy may have been of some assistance. He goes by Arthur, by the way.”

“She’s even more impressive than I thought.” Bruce smirked down at the baby, including him in his conspiracy. “And maybe once she’s single handedly formed all the relationships that make up the team, she’ll feel compelled to take her natural place leading it. Shh.”

“I would not assume she’s ignorant of either that trend nor your intentions in promoting it.”

“Of course not. I’m sure she has a very gentle, but firm refusal prepared, on par with her previous dozen. I look forward to hearing it.” Striding evenly to the elevator, Bruce tipped his head towards the baby a second time and murmured, “We’ll wear her down.”

“Speaking of wearing down,” Alfred called, before Bruce could safely scuttle out of earshot. “Have you considered what we discussed before?”

“Haven’t made up my mind yet,” Bruce said, even though he already had. If his first conversation with Martha hadn’t laid bare the futility of his resistance, the last four had only been nails in the coffin. His pride remained stubbornly virile, however. “The pros are nebulous and there’s quite the impressive list of cons.”

He wasn't fooling anyone. “Very good, sir. I’ll begin preparing the nursery then.”

****

“Alright, Conman,” Bruce said, under his breath. The baby strapped to his chest flopped his head to look back at him, dressed to the nines in a tiny t-shirt, jeans, and brown leather moto jacket combo that was vaguely reminiscent, but not an exact match of, Bruce’s own well cut clothes. They stood for a moment in the dappled spring light, surrounded by the rustling sound of the wind moving through the trees and faint babble of the artificial creek that chased the walkways. “It’s the moment we’ve been training for. Go time.”

The baby peered up at him, one chubby fist in his mouth. Bruce liked to think it was his equivalent of a thumbs up. 

They quickly made their way down the stone steps and pathways strung downwards through the winding hillside, connecting the various terraced sitting areas scattered between the buildings like tidepools in a stream. Foot traffic was light and nobody seemed to pay them any close attention. Not that it’d be a problem if they did-- he already had a cover story prepared to explain today’s little excursion-- but the fewer distractions, the better. 

Diana stood from her seat on a wrought metal bench as they approached, smoothing her hands down her navy wrap dress. Elegant as always. “Bruce,” she said lightly. “You brought the baby.”

It was like a curtain had been drawn. Con put on the performance of a lifetime. 

As they came within a few feet of Diana, the baby started with what would have been a comedic double take in an adult, only about twenty times less subtle. His eyes lit up ( practically sparkling , Bruce internally crowed) and he broke into an enormous, unrestrained grin. The sunshine didn’t beam as hard as him. As if to compensate for being stuck on Kryptonian-baby-mute, he did a full body delighted wiggle, clapping his hands in silent applause. A reception fit for a demi-goddess.

Weeks of showing him photos of Diana while dispensing peanut butter m&ms had finally paid off. 

Bruce channeled his glow of pride into dry surprise. “It seems you have an admirer. Maybe I should leave you two alone. I feel like a third wheel.”

“Perhaps he just recognizes a friendly soul,” she said, smiling warmly down at the baby. She drew his little palm into a loose clasp and gave him a gentle handshake, nearly sending him into an implosion of excitement. “He certainly has a bright one.”

“Care to hold him?”

She gave him an amusedly suspicious twist of her lips, accepting the transfer of the baby nonetheless as she lowered herself back onto the bench. Con bounced happily in her lap. “Is this your attempt to adopt him out to me? He is charming. It is very tempting, I must admit.”

Bruce outright laughed as he detached the empty carrier and tugged it off of himself, dropping into the seat next to her. “You’d have to fight my eldest, I’m afraid. He’s grown very attached to him.” He nodded to the building uphill from them, all glass and sweeping, wave-like lines. “It was his idea to take him to the aquarium today. Figured since our little man here still grabs at everything in reach, we might as well introduce him to some exotic new sealife to harass. Got quite a kick out of the stingray touch experience. Nearly ate a starfish.”

Diana snorted. “Well, it sounds like it was an enjoyable day for all. It’s a pity I couldn’t meet your eldest…?”

“Dick. He’s a police officer. Bludhaven PD. I’d have introduced him but he’s got a shift soon. You just missed him.” Bruce crossed his legs, glancing around the sloping, rolling landscape. Spring had crept in with vigor this year, turning the patchwork yellow grass into a promising green. A few scattered groups ambled by, en route to the nearby buildings. “Any progress with Stone? I’m certain he’s still monitoring me digitally, but he doesn’t respond when I try to address him.”

“He is understandably reluctant,” Diana said, delicately rescuing her fine gold necklace from the maws of destruction. “Given that his experiences are still so new to him. It is too early to expect him to make such a decision, especially when we do not yet know what the threat is or if we’ll be enough to stop it regardless.”

“If we wait until the threat announces itself, we’ll be too late. We won’t have any idea how to fight together, how to compensate for our weaknesses or combine our strengths,” Bruce pointed out. He gave her a sly smile. “Besides, did you see those reports I sent you? Potential metahuman activity spiked after our battle, even if only by a little. They saw us working together. If the thesis is correct and more of these individuals appear, some might be willing to help us protect Earth. We need to stay visible.”

Diana took in a steady breath, offering a somber smile to the toddler currently beaming at her from her lap. “We were visible, Bruce, and they saw a good man fall. For some, that might inspire them to action, but for many, the untrained….”

“There’s nothing we can do about that. Clark sacrificed himself with the world watching.” Bruce shook his head. When had Superman gone to Kent, and now to Clark? Probably around the time he’d realized his mistake, and again, when he’d spent hours listening to his life’s ups and downs, from childhood to late adolescence. “Even if that frightens more people away than it draws those wishing to honor him, it doesn’t matter. Luthor might be insane-- the overwhelming evidence of that is trying to chew on your bracelet, by the way-- but he isn’t without reason. ‘They’re coming’, he said.”

“Sometimes beaten men try to rob you of your victory even if they can no longer claim it for themselves.”

“Sure, but you wouldn’t have helped me get this far if you thought he was lying. Something’s coming, something powerful enough that he’s letting himself enjoy telling us.” Bruce held his arms out, deciding to show her mercy.

Diana passed the baby back gratefully, adjusting her bracelet. “How powerful that something actually is, is our next question.”

Bruce nodded. “My guess is big, but probably not undefeatable. Call it a hunch.”

“A hunch.”

“If it were impossible for us to beat it, he’d be telling us more. Regaling us with details, at length.” Bruce rolled his eyes. “You’re new to the Gotham-Metropolis circuit, so let me assure you that dreadful speech at the library event was just the tip of the iceberg. His excruciating metaphors and shoehorning of renaissance art references into unrelated topics are inexhaustible .” He went on, despite Diana’s startled scoff. “I’m not joking. If this thing were unstoppable, we’d be drowning in vague, paradoxical allusions to demons and gods, not to mention the self-indulgent Prometheus comparisons. It would be useless as intel, but it would be there . It’s absence alone is telling.”

Diana pulled her hand from her mouth, mirth fading. “You may have a point. A thin one, but one nonetheless. There is a need for a unified guard. I don’t deny it.”

“Good, because we’re going to need you to lead it.” At her quelling glance, he sighed and leaned forward to set Con’s feet on the ground, supporting him by the arms while the toddler worked up the momentum to lurch forward. Walking was a ways off, but hopefully the exercise would ensure a long nap. “I know, Diana, and I would but…” He looked back down. “When I started this initiative, I had a lot less obligations. I never expected to become a father again. Ever.”

Her eyes were kind. “So you’ve decided to make it official. You’re keeping him.”

“More or less. I’m mostly just trying to time things right, with a story that keeps him out of the spotlight until his abilities have stabilized enough to conceal. Today was about laying the groundwork. Introducing the suspicion that Bruce Wayne might have a secret love child.” He took a fortifying breath. “I’ll still be here, building the support network and growing our resources. I’ve even got plans for a headquarters. You will not be able to stop me from doing everything I can-- you really can’t, ask Alfred-- but, I just can’t commit to leadership. I can drop most things to be there for a team, but I can’t drop everything. Not him. Not anymore.”

Diana’s voice was torn. “Bruce…”

“Come on. We both know you’re better suited for this. I’m not just talking about the decades of experience you have on me. People listen to you. You don’t have to bribe them just to hear you out.” 

“It’s not my qualifications that I doubt.” She looked away, up at the shifting leaves letting in the filtered warm sunlight. “I am old. Older than you know, older than the wars and treaties that made the country we’re sitting in. I’ve only walked the world of men for a small portion of my life, yet I’ve already seen leagues and leagues of others fail at similar goals. Organizations fall in the most predictable, clumsy of ways; at worst, to corruption, and at best, to obsolescence. The more powerful they become, the more pure their intentions, the more damage they cause to those caught in its path when they finally come crashing down. I do not think I can lead a group so doomed to ruin. Not in good faith.”

“Everything eventually fails,” Bruce agreed. He studied her for a moment, feeling an odd smile curl around his lips. “You realize that all of that is what makes you the perfect fit? You are old, old enough to recognize the warning signs. Considering you will likely outlive whatever this becomes, why not plan to contain it? This doesn't have to last forever; I’m not proposing this group be some sort of…” and here he struggled for the word. For the right concept. “...guard tower or whatever permanent installation you care to compare it to. Maybe we should think of it like humanity’s parachute; a tool designed to preserve us a few moments more before it's discarded. The world of men fights change more than they even fight each other, but you aren’t afraid to let go. To let it serve its purpose and then to let it die at the end of its natural life cycle; to mitigate the fallout of its passing, unlike the leagues that preceded it.”

“A league of our own,” she murmured, lips twitching. 

They sat there, feeling the breeze flutter through the trees, carrying the sweet scents of daffodil and fresh grass above the ever present urban exhaust. Con wobbled, nearly falling were it not for Bruce’s grip, and grinned up at them, enthusiastically returning to the task of trying to take his first step. 

After a few minutes, she sighed and stood. “Very well. I will do it.”

Bruce fought a smile. “Good. Tell me when you want to set our first meeting. I can arrange the logistics.”

“I’ll reach out,” she promised, smoothing a hand down her skirt. “It was good to see you again.” She stooped gracefully to address the now jubilant baby. “And it was lovely meeting you as well, sunny one.”

“Oh, you’ll probably see him again.” It was just common sense to keep his key negotiating tool handy; Bruce’s persuasive abilities notwithstanding, he knew a large portion of her willingness to entertain the idea of leadership would not have been possible if he hadn’t been cloaked in an aura of ‘overworked dad’. At her raised brow, Bruce explained, “He sleeps in the cave while Alfred’s monitoring missions. You won’t hear him, of course, but I imagine he’ll be around nonetheless.”

Diana chuckled. “He is extraordinarily quiet. If I didn't know any better, I’d say he was Harpocrates’ child and not Kal El’s.”

He waited until the steady click of Diana’s heels on the stairs had faded before he drew his co-conspirator into his lap and fished out the package of peanut butter M&Ms from his pocket. “That’s right, Con,” he all but cooed. The baby damn near had a fit seeing it, already trying to snatch the package as Bruce tore it open. “We did it. Mission accomplished. You get the whole bag.”

****

“No, I’m telling you, Alfred-- it was a step. An unassisted, completely independent of any balance-supporting structures, step. A stride. He strode, Alfred.”

The butler followed him through the open door. “While I’ve no doubt the little master made an exceptional effort, I have yet to witness such a feat myself. Are you certain he simply did not fail to fall in the usual-- oh, good lord.”

The nursery practically glowed with the rose-tint of sunrise. Sensing the impending adoption papers, Alfred had pounced and converted the guest room into a nursery in record time: a sleek, almost minimalist walnut crib that could be converted into a bed once it was outgrown now occupied the east wall with a matching diaper changing station kitty corner to it, flanked by a soft wool rug for playing with the toys neatly tucked into their bins along the edge. He’d even, in his dry, Alfred way, managed to procure a crib mobile complete with stuffed flying saucers, little green aliens, and cows. Masculine leaning, gender neutral yellows and grays united it all; everything was tasteful, hand crafted, and welcoming in that soft, slightly fuzzy way meant for adults and children alike. 

Or at least it had been, before it had turned into a bloodbath. 

They both stared wide-eyed at where Con sat amiably blinking the sleep from his eyes, his pale blue onesie caked in the same blood, fluid, and flecks of dark organ-esque tissue that ringed his mouth. 

Funny. Martha hadn’t mentioned this. You’d think you’d remember your child vomiting blood and miscellaneous body matter like an extra from Evil Dead 2. 

Almost on autopilot, Bruce picked up the unperturbed baby at arm’s length. “You’re probably… this is…” he looked back down at the crib. Back at the drowsy baby. Back at the crib. “You’re fine? You’re fine.” He turned to his ashen, flabbergasted butler. “He seems perfectly fine. I don’t--”

With only a short warning belch, a rush of matching fluid gushed from Con’s mouth and down Bruce’s fingers. One little blood streaked fist came up to rub at his eye.

“Fuck.” It was a testament to Alfred’s shock that he didn’t get so much as an admonishing look. “Alfred, can you prep the batwing? I need to make a run to the ship.”

****

“I was almost tempted to feel embarrassed,” Bruce admitted, accepting the freshly washed dish and drying it with the tea towel. Through the sink window, he could see the freshly planted corn rows barely poking through the soil, shadowed in the evening light. Outside, insects hummed and chirped. “The AI powered on for all of five minutes and spent the whole time treating me like a hysteric rushing into the ER because their offspring sneezed.”

She pursed her lips, up to her arms in suds. “The nerve. What did she say?”

Bruce nearly corrected her, then belatedly decided the AI’s voice did lean on the feminine side. As far as gendering an alien artificial intelligence went, it wasn’t a bad choice of pronouns. “It’s apparently quite normal at his age--”

“It can’t be! Clark never did that.”

“--under red planet conditions. The ship recreated them for his incubation. Clark was almost two when you found him and had probably dealt with it already.”

“What is it?”

“Redundant organs.” Bruce carefully turned the ceramic serving bowl in his hands, careful to run the fabric along the scalloped crevasses. “Apparently, conditions on Krypton were harsh enough that babies needed duplicates to survive infancy. Toddler-hood was less demanding, so the extras would gradually dissolve on their own. That is, they would if under Krypton's denser gravity and atmosphere. Apparently, the bodily stresses posed by Earth are so slight that not only did he never use the extras in the first place, but couldn’t even break them down for reabsorption. Hence the vomiting.”

“But he’s okay?”

“Perfectly. If anything, it’s a sign he’s in great health.” Bruce blew out a breath and finished drying the last serving spoon before tucking it away in the drawer Martha tugged open for him, throwing the towel over his shoulder. He was dressed in his lower middle class best, prepared to play the role of Martha’s distant cousin should anyone drop by unexpectedly. “Oh, and you were right about the not talking thing. Apparently, Kryptonians evolved alongside a series of sonically inclined predators. It’s a survival trait, not being very loud until you’re old enough to run unassisted.”

She clucked her tongue, turning to where Con slumped in the wooden highchair she’d dug from her attic. This time, the red streaking his hands, face, and clothing was tomato based and interspersed with the odd spaghetti noodle. She began dabbing the mess with a burp cloth, much to his annoyance. He’d been a spiteful grump the entire drive in; Bruce was anticipating a lot more of The Face before the night was done. “Well, that’s a relief. I was worried we weren’t doing something right with Clark. Kept reading to him every night and trying to get him to sound things out. Turns out he was trying not to get eaten.” She paused. “Wait. If their babies didn’t make noise, how did kryptonian parents know when they needed something?”

“ I have no idea .” Bruce threw his hands up. “I asked at least four times. It was like she didn’t even understand the question. She just kept repeating the phrase ‘the infant will signal’ as though I was missing the obvious or being obtuse and powered off. I don’t know if she ran out of juice or got sick of me.”

“Well, you can always try again. Bet she regrets telling you she’s solar powered. Now that spring has sprung, she can’t stall forever. It’s going to be an even hotter summer.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Not that some are inclined to wait. Saw those photos on the cover of Celebrity Tea. Taking a baby to the beach in April?”

“That’s why I let Dick talk me into a weekend in Puerto Rico. It's already warm there.”

“How much longer will it take to lay the groundwork?” she asked, her smile soft around the corners of her mouth, tucked in like a secret. “Every article I’ve seen is breathlessly waiting for Bruce Wayne to confess to a hopefully detailed sordid affair before telling the world where Brucie Jr’s outfits come from.”

Bruce heaved an enormous sigh. “Oh, god. Is that what they’re calling him?”

“It’s a mite better than Baby Brucie. What else would they use?”

“Anything but that. I wouldn’t wish my old-man name on anyone else.” He leaned back against the drying kitchen sink, arms folded. “And the answer is soon. The legal end of things took some strategizing, but Alfred and I finally decided on a course of action. If anyone asks, he was born at home on the Cherokee Reservation and that’s why his birth certificate is a bureaucratic nightmare. It also explains the delay in announcing him; lawyers don’t like it when you show up with a baby you might not have official custody of.”

“Good. Well, I’m glad that’s in the works. You had me nervous for a while there. Wondered if you’d had second thoughts, if he’d ever wind up with someone who wouldn’t visit quite so often.” She went to the sink to rinse out the burp cloth and handed it to him. “Why don’t you take him out on the porch and clean him up while I get the tarts? We can eat dessert outside. It’s rhubarb.”

“Martha, you spoil me,” Bruce said, lifting the subject of many hours of exhausting research from the high chair and taking an experimental swipe at his crustier-by-the-second face. Con squirmed wretchedly, lower lip jutting out at the sheer injustice of his harassment. Signals, his ass. With a grimace, Bruce gave up-- the little brat would coerce bites of sticky tart out of him anyway and they’d just have to clean him again. “Yeah, alright. Sorry. I’m the meanest, you little--”

Balancing two plates of tart on one arm with a waitress’s balanced ease, Martha swept into the front room ahead of him. “Oh, just take his shirt off. It’s easier to change him than to mop at it. I’ll get the door and you--”

Plates shattered. Bruce whipped around. 

Bracing himself on the porch railing to stay upright, Clark Kent stared blearily at them through the screen door, wearing his funeral suit and streaked with grave dirt. 

“Whose baby smells tired?” he asked, crashing face first onto the wood.

****

“Oh, fuck.” Bruce stared numbly at the unmoving figure sprawled across the porch, heartbeat thundering in his ears. “That’s--”

“Clark!” Martha barreled forward and ripped open the screen door. She collapsed onto her knees beside him, hands hovering in the air for a split second before she worked up the nerve to shake his shoulder. “Clark? Is that you?”

Bruce swiftly stowed Con in the pak n play half forgotten in front of the television and cautiously approached. Much as he very much did not want to get near the undead version of the man he’d tried to kill repeatedly without armor, the risk to Martha was even more unacceptable. Stiff fingers probed at the presumably walking corpse-- startling warm, like Con, now still and a bit rigid. Unbreathing.

Bruce stared with wide eyes. Had he literally crawled home just to die again on his mother’s porch?

Clark sucked in an unexpectedly deep breath and blinked. “Ma?”

“I’m here, baby.” Martha drew in a shuddering breath. “How--? Are you okay?”

“Tired.” He shut his eyes again, slurring, “Made a mess. Sorry…”

Bruce gripped his arm more firmly. “Martha, we need to get him inside before anyone sees him.”

“What?” She stared at him, uncomprehending before her eyes widened. “Oh! Shit! We had an open casket. Let’s put him on the couch.”

****

Bruce paced inside the kitchen, Con clasped firmly to his chest as he made the circuit across the linoleum tiles with almost mechanical precision. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

In the next room over, Clark Kent dozed on his mother’s couch, fresh out of the grave they’d buried him in nearly five months prior. A cursory examination suggested he was more or less sound in body (what glimpses of his chest Bruce could get through his shirt showed a raw, scarred over section of flesh where the spear had passed through) if not quite of mind. It was like he was sleepwalking; seemingly aware of only the most immediate aspects of his surroundings and accepting them with the aplomb of a deep dreamer. Fortunately for everyone, he didn’t seem inclined towards violence, or at the very least, lacked the energy for any-- his eyes had tried to focus on Bruce at least three separate times and yet, here Batman stood, not punched into the stratosphere.

It would almost be better if he had been. Fortune was a capricious bitch like that. 

The careful house of cards Bruce hadn’t consciously realized he’d been building since Superman’s death trembled, threatening to give way. It had seemed natural-- nay, kinder-- to play along with Martha’s initial assumption that he and Clark had been friends for more than the fifteen minutes they’d spent fighting Zod’s corpse. Made it seem prudent to not mention the whole attempted murder bit. The odds of ever being called on that fiction had been a distant enough possibility that he’d felt safe returning to her house again and again, listening to stories and soaking up Clark’s family history like a sponge. It had almost begun to feel true, in a way-- Bruce now knew enough about the man that it had started to feel like they’d actually been friends. Familiar in a way that he knew damn well never existed anywhere but in his own delusions. 

God, for lack of a better word, Bruce felt... creepy. Like a peeping tom. Before Clark had returned, he’d merely been plumbing a dead man’s memory for scraps that could help him care for a biologically unique child. A necessary task and one he’d gone about as delicately as possible. Reading his diary would have been on par with this level of violation.  

Now that he was alive, shame slid across Bruce’s skin, clinging like a sticky, burning web. 

Just because Bruce had tried to do the right thing in a weird situation didn’t mean anything now. Clark was back and Bruce could no longer occupy the edges of the space he’d left. Martha would have her son and, fuck, once Clark woke fully and connected with Lois, there’d be no reason he couldn’t have his own, if he wanted him (and Bruce was hard pressed to think of a reason he would not). Bruce had been an acceptable option only when there literally was no other, but now? The only other kryptonian had crawled his way from his grave. Who would deny him the right to his child, even if technically, Clark hadn’t consented to having him and still had no real idea he existed outside of ‘the baby who smells tired’. 

Fucking scent, of all things. Half conscious and Clark was already doing better at this parenting thing.

Bruce tightened his grip. Con fussed, but settled back down to doze against his chest as Bruce eased up; he’d yet to drift off, which Bruce was at least half sure had to do with the nature of his staccato heartbeat. Not exactly soothing rainforest sounds. 

Martha drifted into the room, hands pressed against her sides as though she didn’t know what to do with them. “I can’t believe it. Part of me thinks I must be hallucinating.”

“Well, if this is a trip, we’re having it together.” Bruce blew out a breath. “He say anything else?”

“Not really. I got him comfortable but I don’t…” She blinked back tears, pressing her fingers to her temples. “How did this happen?”

“I’ve got theories, but we’d have to examine him to be sure.” He studied her, trying to gauge how much speculation about her not-so-dead son she could handle at the moment. The look she gave him scolded him for that idea almost immediately. “The ship is solar powered. Our technology mimics our organic processes to a degree, so if kryptonian design follows a similar path of inspiration, solar radiation may factor into his abilities. Would explain a few things.”

“But why didn’t he just heal sooner? We waited three days to bury him.” Her eyes widened. A weathered, wrinkled hand drifted to press against her mouth. “It was winter. The ship couldn’t recharge because of the weather. Clark….”

Bruce nodded. “It likely took weeks to close the wound. More still to gain the strength to move. It’s only been reliably sunny for the last month. If only I’d thought to--”

“This is a miracle, Bruce. You can’t plan for those much less blame yourself for them, so don’t even try.” She let out a shaky breath. “I can barely wrap my head around this. What do we do ?”

An excellent question-- one Bruce had only begun to probe at. He needed to get his head on straight.

“Now that he’s presumably stable,” Bruce said, after taking a neat breath. Problems. Focus on the problems. It was practically like feeling the cowl slide on. “We need to focus on containment. The open casket funeral poses some problems for us, in terms of legally bringing him back from the dead with so many witnesses to the contrary, but there’s ways around it. Let me figure that out. In the meantime, we need to keep him hidden.”

Martha let out a tired laugh. “Well, that’ll be tricky with the state of his grave.” 

“I called Alfred. He’s handling it.” Bruce rubbed Con’s back. One problem after another. Containment. Focus on what was apparent and build from there. “We got lucky. Since he’s not trailing concerned locals, I’m guessing he didn’t reach any major roads until sunset made him hard to see or perhaps he moved through the fields instead. We need to keep up the facade that he’s still dead, at least for the time being. Clark Kent coming back from the dead is going to be insanely suspicious to begin with, but if that’s ever connected to Superman returning even within a year, it will be a disaster.” 

“Damn.” Martha bit her lip, hissing softly. “I’ve got a rotary club meeting here tomorrow morning. If I call now to reschedule, I don’t think I’m going to reach everyone in time.” At his squint, she explained, “We’re all retirees. Only three of us use cell phones so if anyone goes to bed without checking their answering machine, they might show up here. Where am I going to keep him? The barn?”

Oh. Actually, this was perfect.

Bruce shook his head as new energy flooded through him. So this was what a stay of execution felt like. “No. He will need to be supervised to ensure he doesn’t wander off. Properly examined and maybe even treated, as best as we can. I’m better outfitted to do that at my lake house than you are here. We’ll hide him there.”

She stared at him. “Hide him at a well known celebrity’s house. Made of glass.”

“Yes, which also includes lots of sunlight and acres of private property. Trespassers are sued with great prejudice,” Bruce explained. “And it’s better than anyone spotting him here. No one would ever associate our public personas, making him difficult to identify seeing as Clark Kent’s death rules him out as a candidate for my mysterious visitor. So long as he doesn’t do anything weird, it won’t be a huge issue; he’ll be assumed to be a friend of Dick’s or my latest fling. Besides--” Bruce gestured at the baby in his arms. “--this buys us time for them to get used to one another.” 

Martha stiffened, looking down at Con as though seeing him for the first time. She turned, glancing at the doorway from the kitchen. “Oh, hell. You’re right. This is going to be….”

A shitshow? That was underselling it. Clark didn’t even know the baby was technically his (or Luthor’s for that matter). They had no read on even if he wanted to be a father, much less to this child. Even if he absolutely hated the idea, that didn’t mean he’d trust Bruce with him. Alternatively, should Clark prove receptive to raising Lex’s-Object-Lesson-on-Consent, that still left Bruce’s existing public moves to claim the baby as his own bastard child, not to mention the fact that in a few short months, Bruce had managed to rearrange his entire fucking life around the tiny, helpless alien who had recently graduated to trying to share his half eaten food with the old, bitter man who’d stolen him from under the military’s nose on accident.

Again, (and this was important to remind himself) Bruce and Clark were not actually friends.

“Complicated,” Bruce supplied. He took a deep, slow breath. “There’s no way around it, so we’ll just have to get through it. How much time will you need to come up with a reason to leave town for a while? One that won’t be questioned.”

Martha crossed her arms, tapping her foot slightly as she tried to bore a hole in the wall with her eyes. “Honestly, I can’t think of a good one that will hold up on such short notice. All of my volunteer work is local. I don’t have much extended family, much less any close enough to come to Clark’s funeral. It’d look mighty odd if I dropped everything for an emergency with them. Maybe I could say Lois is having a crisis? She’s visited before. It’s believable.”

“That won’t hold up if she makes the news anywhere other than Gotham. The details have to match.” Bruce tugged his phone from his jeans pocket, texting one handedly. “Give me a day or two. I’ll come up with a cover for you-- some leadership seminar in Gotham with a last minute drop out or something along those lines. I’ll get you the details and arrange for your travel. In the meantime, just sit tight and start canceling any commitments you have in the coming week.”

“Fine.” Martha blew out a breath, clenching her hands. “I can probably reschedule my volunteer work without much of a problem, but the diner will need me to at least tell them if this is sick, vacation, or bereavement leave. I’ve got an evening shift tomorrow.”

Bruce nodded, glancing at Alfred’s message as it arrived. “I’ll do what I can to figure this out before then. If not, call in sick and we’ll work around it.” Taking a deep breath, he eased a suddenly displeased Con out of his arms and handed him off to Martha. “Alfred’s outside. We need to get Clark loaded into the car now if we’re going to smuggle him into Gotham before sunrise. Is there anything you need before I go?”

Her face tightened as she bounced the baby, trying to ease him back to sleep. “I just-- no. I know I’ll see him soon, it’s just-- hard. To see him go.”

“I know, Martha,” he said gently, putting a hand on her arm. It still felt like a dream to Bruce; he couldn’t even imagine what it must be like for her. The uncertainty. The confused hope. The fear that if she looked away, he’d disappear. “But it’s going to be alright. I’ll get him settled and run some tests. By the time you join us, I may have more answers.”

He waited until she gathered herself enough to nod before he swept into the living room. Clark was more or less passed out on the couch, his brown loafers scattered on the floor beside him and his sports coat draped on the arm. As much as he was tempted to let Martha do the waking, given Clark’s lack of aggression towards her, the fact remained that Bruce and Alfred were going to have to singlehandedly monitor his condition themselves for the foreseeable future. If Clark was going to think better about not pummeling Bruce into orbit, they might as well establish that now.

He inched closer. “Clark?”

Clark blinked and tipped his head to the side, staring almost vacantly at him. A full three seconds elapsed. 

Shit. No doubt he’d recognized him and was trying to figure out just what he was doing here. Any second now he’d ask. Bruce prayed he wouldn’t say anything compromising to Martha-- her disappointment and betrayal when she learned he’d essentially lied to her and more or less put Clark in the ground in the first place felt both unreal and agonizingly immediate. Bruce was tempted to apologize for the attempted murder thing in front of Martha and just accept the consequences, when all of a sudden Clark’s face creased into a smirk. 

“Books,” he chuckled. 

Bruce almost fell over. Thank god. Without the cowl, Clark only recognized him from the gala. Bruce Wayne showing up at his mother’s house was fever dream weird, but not threatening. Lois Lane cha-cha-ing through the room with his second grade math teacher probably fell under the same category. “I bet you never bothered finding out what the foundation’s statement was, did you?” 

Clark’s eyes drifted shut. “Nope.”

“You know,” Bruce said conversationally, crouching by the couch. “You have to actually write articles to be a reporter. At least, I assume so.” When Clark snorted but didn’t say anything, Bruce grabbed his arm and slung it around his shoulder. “Come on. Up and at ‘em, son. You can sleep in the car.”

Clark frowned, but let Bruce haul him to his feet and steer him towards the door. “Ma?”

“I’m here, sweetie.”

“She’ll follow in a bit,” Bruce said in that same pleasant, easy voice he used mainly for directing people around his office, usually while offering mid-day martinis to Lucius’ eternal dismay. He shoved open the screen door and guided him through. Above them, the night sky stretched open to bare it’s stars with a naked earnestness the Gotham skyline could barely comprehend. “Let’s get you taken care of first.”

****

“Alfred,” Bruce called urgently, suddenly wide awake. He stared around the empty nursery, aghast. Strode forward to dig through the many soft, silky blankets lining the crib’s interior. Nothing. “Con’s--”

“Out here, Master Bruce. We’re just enjoying some fresh air on the deck.”

Bruce emerged from the sliding door only seconds later to find Alfred neatly setting a mug of coffee on the small geometric side table. Beside him, Clark lay sprawled across a slatted teak lounger like a shipwreck victim thrown upon the shore, barefoot and still in the loose cotton sweats and shirt they’d coaxed him into when they’d arrived. One lounger over, Lex Luthor’s Failed Genetic Long Con reclined with a sippy cup of juice, bouncing in his seat occasionally and staring at the flickering light reflecting off the lake with rapt attention. 

Bruce let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d held. Almost carelessly, he ousted Con briefly from the lounger before stealing his spot and resettling him on his lap. “I thought you’d sleep a lot longer today. Get tired of the solar lamps downstairs?”

Downstairs. Not ‘the cave’. In an effort to avoid the ‘Batman hanging out with your mom’ conversation, Alfred had managed to move the batmobile and some of the more obvious bat themed equipment before they’d arrived the night before. Clark hadn’t seemed to notice anything amiss. If anything, he only appeared passingly surprised that Bruce Wayne had a fully outfitted medical lab capable of evaluating xenobiological life, complete with a colony of northern long eared bats wandering the stalactites of his ‘basement’. 

(Right? Because once you boiled it down enough, that’s what the cave was. The batmobile was in the garage, his training gear was merely a well outfitted home gym, and the array of processors, screens, and other technological miscellania strung together into the semblance of a terminal with a custom operating system? Well, there was seating, but half of that was on caster wheels, so would he classify that as a home office or a rec room?)

(Thank God Clark was out of it. This was not Bruce’s best work.)

“Wanted the real thing,” Clark mumbled. He flopped his head to look over at them. “So did he.”

“Hm.” Bruce looked down at the infant happily swigging apple juice. “How did you guess that?”

“Dunno.” The boyscout wrinkled his nose. Trying to think straight seemed like a mental slog Bruce almost regretted subjecting him to. After a split second, he tapped the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “It’s like a smell with feelings.”

Bruce stared. “We’ll circle back to that, but, to be clear, he also wants sunlight?”

“He did when I woke up,” Clark yawned. “Doesn’t like me yet, though.”

The nursery got plenty of ambient light, but Bruce had been keeping the shades drawn in the hopes of eking out an extra half hour of sleeping time before Con woke and Alfred arrived. Now that he’d more or less confirmed kryptonians were solar powered, leaving the blinds open seemed like a wise course of action. Though on that note… “Alfred?”

“Sir?”

“I think we’ll need to adjust sleeping arrangements. Can you turn the nursery back into a guest room for Clark? Con’s crib can go in mine for now.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll get to that sometime this afternoon after I’ve gone on a grocery run. I’ve also taken the liberty of reserving a room for Ms. Kent just outside of Gotham proper.” 

Ah. Right. Bruce had nearly forgotten what it was like to have more than one visitor at a time. Alfred had lived off property at his own insistence for years while Dick and Jason had been far enough apart in age there’d never been a need to figure out how to make two bedrooms work for more than holidays. God, speaking of Dick, what if he wanted to drop by too? It wouldn’t be unreasonable, considering. And Lois, assuming Martha was able to reach her. Diana wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility either….

Alfred, ever the mind reader, raised a single eyebrow. “I’m afraid we’ll be quite full for the foreseeable future. Heavens, it almost makes one wish for a larger dwelling.” Bruce’s sigh and Clark’s presence didn’t discourage him from dredging up the old fight in the least. Figured. “Perhaps, say, a manor left to oneself in their inheritance that was once capable of housing twenty some odd visitors comfortably at a time? Something like that, perhaps.”

“Pity it would take at least a year to even partially restore,” Bruce said through gritted teeth. “Not to mention, we don’t need construction crews wandering the property at this time.”

“Pity we didn’t start the project months ago, when it was last suggested. Some food for thought, then.” Alfred said. He turned to Clark and added, “Though we certainly have proper food as well. Do let me know if you change your mind about breakfast, Mr. Kent. I’ll leave a little something for you both on the counter.” At Clark’s hum of acknowledgement, Bruce’s manservant let himself back into the house and slid the glass screen door behind him. 

Bruce watched Clark out of the corner of his eye. Compared to yesterday, he seemed a touch more lucid; not quite sleepwalking so much as half asleep, so far as that distinction could be made. The tests Bruce had done when they’d arrived had been somewhat limited in scope, but they’d confirmed that Clark’s vital signs, odd as they were, were stable. Xenobiological abilities were working, if diminished: they’d coaxed Clark into crushing a solid steel wrench in his fist, but it had taken concentration and he couldn’t even attempt hovering off the ground. Slowly but steadily, his cells seemed to perk up underneath the microscope’s slide, responding to the introduction of a sunlamp. Beneath the real thing, Clark’s pale-golden skin seemed to glow as if offering visual confirmation that he was on the mend. 

It was impossible to accurately predict when he’d fully recover, of course. Frankly, Bruce was hoping for at least a week before they had to sit down and determine if Con would be taken.

He dragged a hand through his hair. First on the agenda, however, was accepting that he needed to stop delaying the inevitable reveal of his identity to the man beside him. Ideally, he’d prefer to wait until Clark was of sound mind, but with his cognitive abilities improving, the odds that he’d eventually put two and two together were imminent and Bruce was clinging to the faint chance that maybe, just maybe, if he was apologetic and forthcoming enough, they could work out some sort of arrangement before Martha arrived--

Stubby arms thrust the sippy cup at his face, smacking Bruce in the nose. Con’s insistence didn’t let up in the least when he grimaced, determined eyes fixed on him. 

Relenting, Bruce gently grasped the bottle and took a tiny, perfunctory sip. “Yes, thank you, Con. It’s nice of you to share your juice.” 

Placated, the baby allowed Bruce to return the spout to his mouth. 

“Whose baby is that?” Clark asked, yawning again. 

Bruce stilled. “The scout ship in Metropolis gave him to me.”

“Oh.” Clark rolled onto his side to face him, brows furrowed. “Where did she get him?”

A stripped down version of the truth might suffice, at least until he could confirm Clark was capable of following the conversation. “She grew him by accident, but couldn’t take care of him herself so she gave him to me so that he wouldn’t fall into the military’s hands.”

“Is he kryptonian?”

“Half.”

A slow blink. “And the other half?”

“Human.”

“Really?” Clark beamed at the baby across from him. “Neat.” He shifted on the chair a bit and shut his eyes, seemingly ready to drift back into sleep.

Bruce took a deep breath. Pondered the wisdom of having this conversation with Con in his lap and ultimately decided it was fine. Even as the crazy Gotham Bat, it had taken repeated attacks with kryptonite to work Superman into a frenzy such that he was willing to let his punches land. Crossing the annoying but unthreatening Bruce Wayne with the vigilante Bat would likely remain in the realm of the emotional rather than physical; after all, if Clark had wanted UV radiation bad enough and possessed more strength than last night, Bruce imagined he would have flown into the stratosphere to bask, not passed out on his admittedly uncomfortable patio furniture. 

It would be fine (physically). Bruce had to stop stalling. “Clark, there's something we need to discuss before your mother gets here. Something I think we should clear up.”

Clark rubbed his eyes. “Hmm? Oh. Yeah.” He held up an uncoordinated finger to his lips. “I won’t tell her you’re Batman. Shh.”

Bruce felt his heart actually stop. Con twisted to stare up at him with face scrunching concern. “How did you know?”

“Hm?” Clark blinked at him. “Oh. Um. I heard Alfred.” He tapped his ear. “At the library thing. And later. Sorry. Rude.”

It was humbling, how obvious it was in retrospect. And horrifying. Bruce could only press his palm to his forehead and laugh. “Alright,” he said, once the mirth had dwindled into something bearable. “It’s as good a place to start as any. Come on, wake up. We’ve got a lot to go over….”

“Alfred said breakfast,” Clark said suddenly, sitting up. He stood and walked through the door, shattering it in a hundred shards. His mouth dropped open and he froze in the dead center of the mess. “Oh, no.”

(Con sneezed, or at least, he must have sneezed. It had sounded almost amused, for a second there.)

Bruce laughed harder, flapping a hand at him when Clark twisted to look at him, aghast. He wiped tears from his lower lid. When was the last time he’d laughed so hard his abs hurt? “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he gasped, watching Clark reach out towards the mess as though to pick it up and pause. “I’ll call a glazier. We’ll talk over breakfast.”

****

When Martha and Lois arrived that evening, Clark was sprawled on the couch, napping soundly. The plastic sheet wrap sealing the deck’s sliding door from the night air flapped quietly in the breeze. Stopping just past the threshold, Martha stared at him, blinking rapidly. “Oh,” she said, hand going to her mouth. She cleared her throat, shaking her head as Alfred offered her a tissue. “I’m just being silly. I was afraid I dreamt him coming home.”

Lois hugged her from the side. “I know. I can’t believe it either.”

“I assure you he’s quite real. I’ve spent enough hours trying to baseline his vital signs to doubt it,” Alfred said, gently taking their coats as he led them both inside. “Won’t you come sit down? I trust the hotel staff have been taking care of the both of you. The executive housekeeper is a friend of mine, so I’d be happy to pass any special requirements along.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, they’ve been lovely--”

Bruce ambled by with a freshly changed Con (banning all tomato based products from the house was not out of the question, he’d decided) and nodded to them both. Setting the baby in his walker, he straightened and tossed a throw pillow at Clark from a safe distance. “Wake up,” he said, as Clark started awake. “Your mother and Lois are here.”

Clark twisted on the couch, dragging himself into an upright position. “Ma! Lois! You followed.” He reached out, accepting the hugs as best he could and beaming. 

Bruce carefully kept himself on the very edge of the group, maintaining the pleasant demeanor of only the most affable spectre. Alfred similarly kept his distance, though as the tearful greetings and exclamations of disbelief started to wind down, he politely cleared his throat. “Well, now that everyone’s here, I’ll just get a nice pot of tea started. Does chamomile agree with everyone?”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, stepping forward. “Why don’t I give you a hand?”

The effort at privacy was more or less symbolic, given that the common living areas of the house were all open concept when the walls themselves weren’t made of glass. Still, he wanted to buy some time for Martha and Lois to compose themselves without feeling scrutinized. Or more accurately, a split second in which Bruce wasn’t feeling scrutinized: Lois’s eyes had narrowed on him the minute he’d walked by and hadn’t stayed off him for long. While he was sure Clark could handle this reunion without supervision, he knew better than to disappear to the cave. Alfred’s ire at him aside, no doubt there would be questions or--

Clark’s matter of fact tone cut through his thoughts. “--oh, I think I was more asleep than dead. Or maybe I was dead-dreaming about sleeping? Anyway, it’s spring now. I’m almost caught up. Everyone thinks I’m dead. There’s going to be a superhero club or something run by the lady with the sword. I can join when I’m better if I want. Oh, and I have a baby with Lex Luthor. The ship made it.”

Bruce winced, surreptitiously catching Alfred’s eye. Okay, maybe they should have expended greater efforts to mediate. Not that there was much to be done when Clark seemed to have the communication skills of a five year old sipping a stolen espresso. 

Which, to be fair, was still an improvement from dead.

Martha must have given Lois the rundown (thank god) before she got here, because she didn’t exactly sound surprised so much as faintly incredulous. “That sounds… like a lot. How are you handling it?”

“What do you mean? I’m not dead anymore, so I’d say good.” Clark paused. “Unless you mean the baby. It’s fine. His name is Con and Bruce says he’ll raise him and I can help if I want.”

“That’s nice of him,” Lois said, eyes shifting to Bruce as he followed Alfred, carrying the ceramic cups the man had insisted on maintaining for the admittedly nonexistent amount of company he’d previously kept. “Con. That’s a cute name. Short for Conner or Conrad?”

Bruce had once been struck by actual lightning; it didn’t stop him in his tracks anywhere nearly as violently. 

Three expectant sets of eyes turned to him (Alfred’s a tad more vindictively), awaiting the normal, logical response that surely would follow such a normal, logical question. 

Regardless of his desire to be open with his new allies, there was not a compulsion in the world that could make him turn to the man he’d nearly killed, surrounded by jubilant loved ones after his miraculous return from the dead, who’d all taken Bruce’s presence and efforts to atone in stride, and admit that actually, the baby he’d been entrusted with-- this tiny, innocent little life-- had spent the last few months going by a series of breathtakingly uncharitable nicknames.

“Yes,” he said, fumbling his teacup and somehow managing not to spill any. “Conner. Yep. That’s the name I was thinking of. With an e, not an o.”

“That’s a great name,” Clark said, blinking. He turned to look at the baby, placidly gnawing on a plastic stacking ring in his bouncer. “What do you think, Conner?”

Conner furrowed his little brows, clearly sensing bullshit. His scrunchy baby face shifted towards Bruce, considering. Weighing. Ridiculous as it was to ascribe loyalty to what was likely the whims of indigestion, Bruce still felt a trickle of relief when, like a champ, he went back to destroying the plastic instead of selling Bruce out by escalating to The Face. 

Prematurely though it was to call, Bruce felt strongly like Connor had a real future ahead of him, overflowing with peanut butter m&ms and at least a tiny fistfull of Skittles.

“I think he likes it,” Clark decided. 

****

Bruce should have known that couldn’t possibly be the end of it. As galling as it was to trust a reporter with his identity, there really was no way around Lois Lane. Between Martha and the baby, there were just too many relevant points of overlap to try once Clark had returned. Given his efforts over the past few months (and hopefully with a good word from Martha), Bruce was tentatively hoping for clemency when it came to Lois’s willingness to keep her mouth shut on his behalf.

“So you’re keeping the baby,” she said, crossing her arms and making no move towards her car. The somewhat harsh light around the concrete awnings of Bruce’s driveway threw her face into sharp relief as Martha’s rental car’s lights faded between the trees. 

He’d guessed they’d have this conversation. It was half the reason he’d offered to walk them out, leaving Alfred to monitor Clark and the baby, both of whom were watching an ocean documentary with identical rapture.

“I’m keeping the baby,” Bruce agreed with a sigh, easing his hands into his pockets. “Unless Clark develops strong feelings about the topic, of course. We’ll sort that out then. I assume you’ve seen the tabloids?”

“Bruce Wayne’s mysterious lovechild. Your matching outfits are Twitter legendary.”

“Coordinating,” Bruce huffed, crossing his arms. “Matching outfits are tacky.”

That got a snort out of her. “Buying an infant custom fitted Ray Bans already counts as tacky, Bruce. You’re fighting a losing battle.” She stared at him, lips thinning as she seemed to mull over her next point. “You didn’t call me. About the baby, I mean.”

“You weren’t especially easy to get a hold of,” Bruce reminded her. That was an obvious evasion and a poor one at that. He looked at the ground and grimaced. “And it struck me as… improper, to try to foist him on you. Martha too. You were both grieving and given the circumstances of Con’s conception, I didn’t want either of you to feel obligated.” He scoffed. “If it wouldn’t screw the adoption process up for me, I’d suggest Clark sue Lex for child support, but well…”

“He’s already got a better sugar daddy?” she drawled. At Bruce’s actual, genuinely shocked sputter, she smirked and shook her head. “Relax. Martha’s already given me an accounting of your apology gifts. Don’t think I didn’t notice the subtle, but steady donations to my Ko-Fi--”

Oh, god. The last thing he needed was for her to think he was trying to buy them all off. 

“It’s just money,” Bruce said. “And it’s never going to be enough to make up for what I did. It’s only one way for me to atone. The new team should safeguard not only against this ever happening to Clark again, but another invasion that might inspire--”

“Cut the crap, Bruce,” she sighed. “Luthor manipulated all of us. Not one of us gets to take all of the blame or claim all of the innocence. Both you and Clark ran around believing the worst of each other and making the many dumb decisions that led you to that warehouse. If there’s one thing I’ve gotten out of trawling the swamps of your tabloid history, it’s that you’re not evil. A lot of unflattering things, sure, but not evil.”

Bruce shut his mouth. He’d come out here prepared to defend his good intentions against the sins of his past and to throw himself of her mercy as a man in repentance, so her utter lack of interest in it left his wheels spinning across a frictionless surface. 

She grimaced, looking back at the house. “How much do you think he can handle, right now? Mentally, I mean.”

“You saw him,” Bruce said, after a moment. He returned his hands to his pockets, studying her. “Everything’s surface level for him, but it’s all still there. His logic. His reasoning. His memories. He just can’t sit with it.”

She took a deep breath. “You told him about the baby. Can’t say I would’ve. Not right away.”

Bruce shrugged. “He’s taken it rather well, considering. If anything, I suspect it’s a lot easier for him than it would normally be. He doesn’t really have the energy to question anything so it just becomes fact. Then again, he just came back from the dead-- his bastard baby with a random egomaniac barely makes the list of his top five concerns at the moment.”

“But he understands?”

“He does.”

“How do you know?”

He sucked in a rueful breath and rubbed the back of his head, wincing and looking around. “Alright. Don’t tell Martha or Alfred but I’ve been sneaking Con green Mike and Ike’s-- don’t give me that look, Lane, he has teeth . Anyway, Clark saw me and asked me about it and-- let me preface this with the fact that I am deeply, profoundly aware of what a tasteless joke it was, in retrospect--”

“Oh, god, you’re trying to make me regret ever saying anything nice about you, aren’t you?”

“--but I responded, with exceptional thoughtlessness, by saying “the secret to the little bastard’s heart is the same as yours, Clark: a spear, only his kryptonite is lemon lime flavored.” Bruce cringed, both inside and out, not quite daring to look directly at her expression. “He laughed so hard he fell over.” 

When he managed to drag his eyes over to meet hers, he found her lips twitching. She pressed her fist to her mouth, trying to smother it. “For the love of god, Wayne.”

“I practically felt my soul leave my body,” Bruce grumbled. “My point is, he gets it. He gets all of it. He just can’t dwell.”

Lois swallowed, eyes shining even as the mirth faded from them. After a quiet moment, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a diamond ring which she passed to him with little ceremony. “Then maybe this is better to give him now. I’d do it for myself but--” her jaw worked silently for a long moment. “I just-- it might make it harder on him if I do it.”

“I’ll see that he gets it,” Bruce said, staring at it blankly. He clenched his fist around it. More accurately, he’d see that Alfred got it to him. What could possibly make her entrust this to him, seconds after that story? Clearly, the only things Bruce lacked in the world were sound judgement and tact. “Drive safe, Lois.”

****

“I don’t know what Bruce means,” Clark said, eyes crinkling as he waggled his fingers in implicit threat over Con’s unguarded belly. The baby squirmed in his bouncer, anticipating the game but not the timing. In a flash, Clark descended on him with tickles. “You’re such an easy baby.”

Bruce barely deigned to look up from his laptop. Today’s impromptu workstation was the kitchen table and he’d already taken over the three television screens to separate out revenue reports. “Don’t be fooled. Conner’s a stress exercise in disguise. Wait until he starts slamming his head against something titanium and tell me he’s easy then.”

“But he’s so expressive!”

“Only if you can smell him, apparently. Speaking of odor, I think he needs a diaper change.” Bruce grimaced and straightened in his seat, flexing out his wrists. 

“I can help,” Clark insisted. That was today’s snit-- doing things himself to prove he was completely fine. Bruce suspected he was practicing for his mother’s final visit in an hour so she wouldn’t feel guilty returning to her commitments in Smallville. “Where’s the stuff?”

Well, it was hardly a complex task. Even if he screwed it up, either Bruce or Alfred could set it right with only a small headache. If anything, it’d be a decent barometer for today’s mental functioning. “I moved the changing station into my room. The diaper bag is by the front door. Brace yourself for-- uh, well--”

Clark stared at him expectantly, unmoving while he waited for Bruce to finish his thought, just as it struck Bruce in real time how incredibly insensitive it was to forewarn someone of the perils of weird baby genitals, especially when they presumably had whatever the adult version of them were. “Brace for what?”

“Squirming.” Bruce offered a silent apology to Con as he threw the baby’s reputation under the bus to save himself. The tiny glower he sensed from the bouncer had to be imaginary. He waved an exasperated hand. “Just be prepared to combat some wiggles. He makes a mess.”

“Oh, okay.” Clark practically jogged to the front door. He stopped short by the bar cart. “What’s this?”

Fuck. 

Bruce mentally called himself an idiot in every language he knew as his pulmonary organs threatened to go on strike. For all his promises of a tactful and gentle approach to the bad news, he’d come in from his talk with Lois last night and thoughtlessly emptied his pockets on the little bar. For a wild moment he dared hope Clark was insatiably curious about Bruce’s car keys. “That’s just--”

Clark looked at him, teary eyed, then back at the velvet box cupped gently in his palm. “I understand if she doesn’t want to marry me,” he said, in a soft, wounded voice that made Bruce’s chest clench. “But are we not friends anymore?”

Bruce fought the urge to slam his head against the table. He was really killing it on the tact front these last few days. Christ. He used to be so suave. 

“Of course you are. She just wanted to wait until you were feeling more yourself,” he said, standing from the table to join Clark at the bar. The other man didn’t seem nearly as reassured as he’d hoped. “Come now, Clark. She wouldn’t have visited in person if she didn’t want to still be friends.”

“You’re right. I’m being silly.” Clark pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. He took a deep breath. “I knew she didn’t want to get married, I just thought I’d talk her into it.”

Bruce picked up the diaper bag and gently steered Clark back to the kitchen, more than a little relieved. This could have gone worse. He’d yet to encounter actual tears. “You’re not the first man to try diamond ring diplomacy. I doubt you’ll be the last.”

“Yeah. We’re dumb as penguins like that.” At Bruce’s confused squint, he explained, “They select mates by giving each other pretty rocks. We do the same thing, don’t you think?” He looked out at the lake and grimaced, crossing his arms. The look was suspiciously similar to Conner’s pouts and Bruce was more than a little startled to discover how endearing that made it. He stomped forward, fist clenched around the box like a softball. 

“Clark--”

“Whatever. If she doesn’t want my shiny rock, it’s fine. I’ll just give it to the lake. At least it’ll--” He broke off as he stomped face first through the new glass door, replaced scarcely an hour ago and still held in place by blue and green painter’s tape while it finished setting. Sparkling shards clattered to the ground around him as he halted, stunned, his pink mouth falling into an almost perfect o. 

High pitched, cackling giggles erupted from the bouncer.

Bruce rounded on Con with a crow of delight. “You did it! You can make noise.” He turned to Clark, who mimicked Bruce’s happy stance reflexively while his expression remained torn with confused, embarrassed distress, still standing among the wreckage. “This is great. Isn’t this great? Break another one, Clark. See if he does it again.”

****

Bruce scowled under the dappled shade of the patio dining area. “I really don’t know what you expect me to say, Dick. You and Alfred already won. The manor is under renovation. It’ll take as long as it takes.”

“Seriously, Bruce?” Dick sighed and turned to face him from where he was crouched next to Conner’s car seat. The baby was busy chewing on the limbs of the enormous stuffed white wolf Dick had brought, though if it was for the baby’s benefit or that of the paparazzi across the street, Bruce wasn’t sure. “I’m not jonesing for my childhood room back-- though I want it anyway, so don’t get any ideas about giving it away. I’m just saying, Clark’s been back a month and you still haven’t had a conversation about fixing his death certificate?”

Bruce quailed, folding his arms. “I’m letting him set the pace. When he’s ready--”

“Oh, come on. He’s clearly waiting for you to say something.” 

Truth be told, it wasn’t that Bruce was actively avoiding the conversation-- it had just become far too easy to hit snooze on the matter altogether. Clark had slowly but surely come back to himself, at least as far as Bruce could measure. His powers were intact, not that Clark seemed terribly concerned with testing them. Life had fallen into a rhythm. Between Clark and Alfred there was always someone to watch the baby and Bruce had gone back to the office without worry. There’d been no friction to prompt him to second guess anything. He’d come home to find Clark either tidying or reading on his tablet while he played with Con, as Alfred fussed with dinner and steadfastly refused Clark’s many offers of assistance. They’d chat about Bruce’s day and maybe whatever articles Clark had read until dinner, then whittle away the evening much the same until it was time for patrol or bed. 

It was nice. Easy. Routine-like. The man even smelled good and Bruce very much didn’t want to upset this fragile balance by demanding to know if Clark intended to take Conner from him. 

Okay, fine, it was damn well madness for Bruce to just continue on this trajectory and hope it lasted forever, that Clark never bothered to go back to his life or question the status quo. Now that they’d spent time in each other’s presence, Bruce was no longer worried that Clark would denounce Bruce’s parenting skills and demand full custody, but whatever relief he felt soon gave way to the realization that things were only going to get more complicated when inevitably Clark moved out. 

Clark liked Con. He seemed content to be an unexpected father, if a little bemused by it. The odds he’d leave it entirely in Bruce’s hands were low. Whatever arrangement they reached would likely be complicated given their careers and obligations. Bruce wasn’t expecting to get priority access to the baby. 

Rupturing their peaceful coexistence was inevitable, but that didn’t stop Bruce from crossing his fingers and hoping for at least one more uncomplicated day. 

Under Dick’s scrutinizing gaze, he sighed and pinched the skin between his eyebrows. “I’ll bring it up when I find a good time, alright?”

“So basically never.” Dick proved immune to his aggravated look. “How’s the adoption going?”

Bruce scowled. “It’s going.”

“You mean you’re waiting to talk to Clark about it while also putting it off. I assume bringing him back from the dead is going about as well?” Dick grimaced at Bruce’s silence, punctuated only by him looking away. “I really don’t get what the problem is. You both get along. You’re both okay parents. This isn’t anything two reasonable adults can’t come to an agreement about. What are you expecting to go wrong?”

Bruce let out an aggravated sigh. Obviously, there was little he could do to persuade Dick to abandon the topic. “Between you and me?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like what we’ve got now. The routine works.” He waved a vague hand at Dick’s raised eyebrow. “I go to work, I come back, we hang out and take care of the baby together until it’s time for me to patrol. It’s easy. Convenient. I know he’s going to get tired of it eventually so I’m leaving the ball in his court until he wants to move out. We’ll figure out the nightmare of our schedules and where Con fits into it all then.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “This sounds like such an easy conversation. Just ask him what he wants to do. He might not even want to move out soon.”

“He came back from the dead, Dick. Don’t rush the man.”

Dick sighed. “How about this? I’ll talk to him tonight when I bring Conner home so you can go to your charity dinner. Relax-- I’ll be subtle. Gather some intel on where his head’s at. Then you can overanalyze everything and decide what to do from there.” He gave Bruce a firm look as his adoptive father opened his mouth to object. “Soul of discretion, Bruce. I’m almost a detective. Questioning people and getting them to open up without realizing they’re doing it is sort of our thing. Trust me.”

****

“So Bruce is being a dumbass,” Dick announced, setting Conner’s car seat carrier on the kitchen table and swiftly unbuckling him from it. Clark looked over at him, eyebrows raised, from where he was reclining on the couch with the news playing in the background and Bruce’s iPad in hand. Dick carried Con over and set him on the floor to practice crawling. “Though, to be fair, so are you.”

Clark made a face and went back to his tablet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dick groaned and dragged a hand across his face. After a second or two, he gathered enough of his composure to put his hands on his hips and kick the couch leg closest to Clark, demanding his attention. “Okay, fine. Adult conversation time: what do you want to do about coming back from the dead and sharing custody of Con? Bruce won’t ask because he likes things as they are and doesn’t want to spook you into moving out if he can help it.”

“Oh, thank god.” Clark set down the tablet out of the tiny terrorist’s reach and sagged against the cushions. “I’ve been doing the same thing.” He glanced up at him, brow furrowed in thought. “So Bruce is fine with things as is? How long do you think he’ll let me live here?”

“Honestly, you two. No wonder you nearly killed each other. One ten minute conversation….” he grumbled under his breath. He looked at Clark and shrugged. “I don’t know. He likes you. He wasn’t using the guest room for anything except the baby. He doesn’t want to figure out shared custody and visitation and holidays and shit. I’m ninety percent sure you could live here forever without him even questioning it.”

Clark watched Con scoot across the floor to triumphantly snatch up his favorite toy ratchet. “What’s the other ten percent?”

“Him questioning your mental health for putting up with him for so long.”

“Jesus Christ, he’s not that bad. Why does he always assume he’s the worst?” 

“He tried to kill you that one time.”

“Yeah, but in all fairness, I did try to kill him back, so we’re even.” Clark quickly lifted the tablet out of reach as Con struggled with the weight of his toy, bringing it down on the hardwood where the electronic had once been with an echoing thud. Clark gently nudged the baby onto the rug with his foot. “You really think he’d go for doing the roommate thing long term? Cause that would be my ideal. I know he’s already working on bringing me back from the dead, but I haven’t asked about how it’s coming along because I’m not sure I want to go back to work right away. At least not a nine to five while Con is so little. Which would make it hard to move out since I was kind of living with Lois before and now that’s over, so I’d have to live with my mom-- and don’t get me wrong, I love my mom--”

“Fair.” Dick held up a hand. “Just so you know, Bruce was adopting Con legally when you came back. Coming back to life with and claiming Brucie Jr. is actually yours would look pretty fucking weird. Would you be cool with Bruce still pretending Conner’s his love child and just adding you as a legal guardian once it isn’t suspicious as hell?”

“Sounds fine to me. What’s the plan for my legal revival?”

“A case of mistaken identity. As far as anyone will know, the EMTs misidentified a similar looking corpse while you were in a prolonged coma under the other guy’s name. No one caught the mistake until you woke up. Our imaginary John Doe was an orphan, which is why no other family came to claim you and why the funeral home restored his body based on your picture, hence your open casket funeral holds up. The simpler we can keep this, the better.”

Clark nodded slowly. “It also gives me a good excuse not to formally re-enter the workforce, if I’m still recovering from a traumatic injury like that. I could still work freelance, though.”

Dick’s look was bland. “Or just coast on the assumption Bruce Wayne is your sugar daddy. You realize that’s what people are going to assume once anyone figures out you’re living here.”

“Oh, god. You’re right.” Clark let out a snort then squinted down at the baby. “I mean, now that I think about it... he did pay off my mother’s mortgage, fund my ex-fiance’s world travels, raise my kid, and rehabilitate me in his very nice lake house. If anything, it’s weirder that I’m not fucking him.”

****

Arthur Curry crossed his arms as he paced the length of the hangar, glancing at the benches of equipment and tools and trying hard to ignore the chittering of bats. Nudged the kid in the red hoodie as he drew closer. “So…” he said, drawing out the sound. He nodded to the area one platform over, where a large amount of workout equipment had been tucked to one side of the cave. 

The kid looked up, eyes wide and a little startled to be addressed. Barry Something. Arthur had been diligently ignoring him since Diana had introduced them and hurried off to check on someone named Vic.

Meanwhile, Bruce fucking Wayne and Superman-Call-Me-Clark were hovering over an infant bracing itself against the weight rack and shifting from from foot to foot. Every few seconds, it punctuated it’s progress by slamming it’s forehead against the weights. 

“Dear God,” Call-Me-Clark snapped, flinching as the brat hammered it’s forehead into a barbell for the third time in a row. He seemed to have to forcibly draw his hands back to his sides, clenching his fists. “I see what you mean. This is so stressful .”

“Right?” Bruce shut his eyes, limbs stiff. “It’s fine. He’s fine. The ship says it’s normal.”

“How can this possibly be--?”

“Any idea what the hell that’s about?” Arthur finished, spinning a finger at them. 

Barry brightened. “Actually, yes. I talked to Bruce’s son, Dick, and got the down-low. So, Batman and Superman tried to kill each other, then it turned out Lex Luthor was just fucking with them so they teamed up but Superman died, right?” At Arthur’s bemused, but encouraging nod, he went on. “So then the kryptonian ship in Metropolis made a baby out of Superman for, like, reasons, and gave it to Batman because he was literally, like, just there, so he’s been taking care of it and at first he was all, ‘it’s fine, i won’t get attached’ then Supes came back from the dead and Bats was all ‘okay but this is my baby now’. Now they’re like roommates or something while they co-parent. It’s kind of cool, you know. Bros.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur muttered, watching the two. Maybe he was off, but they seemed to be standing a little close for Totally Straight Guys raising a baby together. “Bros.”

Metallic steps heralded Diana’s descent down the metal stairs leading from the elevator, trailed by a taller figure wreathed in oversized sweats and a hoodie that couldn’t conceal the mildly ominous lights glowing through the fabric. “Everyone, meet Victor. Are we ready to start?”

Clark snatched the baby up. “Yep. Good to go.”

“Hold on,” Bruce interrupted him, eyes narrowing. “He’s making The Face.”

Arthur stared at the baby, whose cheeks puffed out ever so slightly. Now that he looked closer, the brat had the look of a sneaky chipmunk. 

Clark flipped him over in his arms to squint at him. His irises flickered. Right. Arthur nearly forgot he was an alien. He knew about the laser stuff, but what else could he do with his eyeballs? “Which face?”

“The ‘maybe about to vomit up internal organs again’ face.”

“No, no, I see it,” Clark groaned. He shifted the baby onto one arm and hooked a finger in the mulish little mouth. “Give it here, you little devourer. When did you even--? Ugh. Nevermind.” He fished out a chewed up chunk of what looked like metal and let out a disbelieving huff. “One of the lock collars.”

Bruce took it from him, scowling at it and then the weight rack from whence it came. “When did he even get this? We watched him the whole time.” He turned a reproachful gaze on the baby. 

Baby offered no answers. In fact, Baby seemed thoroughly unrepentant and reached chubby hands in a silent demand for his stolen treasure.

“You’re going to choke on this,” Bruce groaned, crouching to dig around in a diaper bag stationed beside a weight bench. Retrieved what looked to be an indented socket wrench and thrust it at the baby. “There. I’ll trade you.” He turned to the rest of the team and spread his hands with an easy, sociable smile. “So. Welcome. Let’s get started.”