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Thanksgiving-- The Wayne Manor, Gotham
Dick
This was a terrible idea.
I’ve never been so certain of how much I’ve fucked up than in this moment, walking up to the entrance of Wayne Manor with Midnighter’s hand woven with mine. I feel like I’ve swallowed a nest of hornets battering against my ribcage, every breath feeling just a bit too shallow to fully satisfy. What the hell was I thinking bringing M to the largest family gathering of the year? I must’ve been dreaming when I envisioned this working out well. If anything, this just means more witnesses when things crash and burn. What if they don’t like him? What if he doesn’t like them?
For fuck’s sake—I feel like I’m going to vomit.
“Uh, Dick…I’d like to keep that hand unbroken if that’s okay?”
I jolt, realizing abruptly that I’ve gradually been squeezing M’s hand tighter and tighter, my knuckles popping with the force. I loosen my grip, wincing apologetically, “Sorry.”
He bumps his shoulder into mine, chuckling, “I think you’re more nervous than I am.”
I chuckle, but it sounds weak even to me, “I’m sorry…I just don’t want them to scare you off.”
M smiles softly, raising our joined hands to kiss my knuckles casually, “Sunshine, I’ve seen things that would give Batman himself nightmares. I’m not going anywhere, alright?”
I nod and smile up at him, trying to believe him. It’s easy to forget that he’s a battle-hardened mercenary when I see him most often in civilian clothes (or in no clothes at all). But he’s right. He can handle this, and my family—they can handle it too. As for me…well, I’ll figure something out.
We approach the door together, and I can’t help but admire M as he takes the initiative and leans forward to press the doorbell. Today, he’s wearing a dressier look than he normally goes for, but of course it’s still monochromatic black. A crisp button-up rolled to his elbows, cuffed chinos, and shiny doc martens. He’s gelled his mohawk into submission, shaved his scruff to a tidy 5 o’clock shadow, and put on some type of cologne that makes me feel weak in the knees. He’s even replaced his piercings with shiny silver jewelry I can only assume is new—it just further demonstrates how much he genuinely cares about making a good impression.
I pull in a steadying breath when I hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the doorway, giving M’s hand a tight squeeze. As nervous as I am, I’m not blind. I can tell he’s anxious too, if only from the way his eyes flash down to mine and warm before they’re back on the door, intent and focused again. My lips part to tell him how proud I am of him, how glad I am to be doing this together, but the door opens before the words can escape.
It's Alfred who greets us, looking every bit the regal host when he appraises us both and smiles warmly. “Gentlemen.”
I smile, letting go of M’s hand briefly to lean forward and give Alfred a firm hug. He allows me even though he isn’t much of a hugger, his hands patting my back as he chuckles.
I feel immediately more at ease when I pull back and grin at him, “Hey Al. You look snazzy.”
He smiles—I can tell he’s trimmed and oiled his mustache just for this occasion. If my memory serves me, he’s gotten a haircut as well. It looks nice on him.
“Thank you, sir.” His coffee eyes flit to M standing patiently a couple steps back, “Master Dick, are you going to introduce me to your guest or have you already forgotten your manners?”
I flush, reaching back to grasp M’s hand in mine with a chagrined smile, “Of course. M, this is Alfred. Alfred this is M.”
Alfred smiles warmly, something like mischief glinting in his gaze when he grasps M’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Master M. I’ve heard much about you.”
M smiles, dipping his chin in deference, “Likewise. Dick speaks very highly of you—and your cooking. I’d be happy to assist if you need any help in the kitchen.”
I chuckle internally, reminding myself to hug M extra hard for going the extra mile in impressing Alfred.
Alfred’s brows arch in surprise, but I can tell he’s flattered. He steps aside, holding the door wider with a little flourish. “I’d be grateful for the assistance. Please, come in. I’ll show you to the kitchen.”
M smiles, winks at me, and pulls me along behind him as Alfred ushers us to the kitchen, already doling out instructions to us both.
Midnighter
I’m pleasantly surprised that we aren’t mobbed at the doorway when we arrive. We help Alfred in the kitchen cutting dinner rolls, tossing salads, and dicing vegetables for close to an hour. Alfred is an elderly Englishman in every way, from his tailored suit and combed silvering hair to his impeccable manners and watchful eyes. He’s like if Watson crawled out of a Sherlock book and decided to become a butler—intelligent, proper, and kind. I immediately adore him.
I suspect that Dick had us come early for this exact reason, and I feel my chest tighten with warmth as I watch him work on the other side of the table, laying napkins and cutlery with utter focus. He looks content here, like a cat left to lay in a puddle of sun. I let myself linger on him, soaking in the patterns of him as he works. He’s wearing a pair of dark slacks and a loose white poet shirt laced haphazardly. Like Mr. Darcy, but with white tennis shoes and a gold chain at his throat. Dark hair still curling from a fresh shower, skin gleaming like a bronze statue I’d love to explore, preferably with my tongue…
His posture is easy, his eyes like cool river water when he catches me watching him. He flushes, suppressing a smile, “Careful with those of eyes of yours, M. Never know who’s watching.”
I laugh, joining him on his side of the table to draw his back into my chest, my arms looping his waist familiarly. “Who says I mind an audience?”
Dick can’t help but grin when he turns his head and catches my lips for a brief kiss. “I mind. I’d prefer not to be teased to death by my brothers if we can help it.”
I sigh dramatically, “I’ll behave, I promise. But just so you know, you’re the one who chose your outfit. I can’t help it if I’m a whore for pirate types.” I step back with a smirk, risking a quick pinch to his ass as I do. He makes a delightful sound of surprise, and I laugh, darting away before he can retaliate.
I can tell by the way he stares at me in scandalized silence, his gaze narrowing on me, that he means to pay me back, be it now or later. I half expect him to chase me around the table and take a bite out of me right now, but he doesn’t get the chance before we’re interrupted.
“Grayson. Why did you not inform me you’d arrived?”
I turn to find the source of the stern voice, a bit surprised when it seems to be coming from the young teen standing in the dining room entryway. He’s clad in a turtleneck and slacks, arms crossed over his chest, brow lowered into a dark scowl. He has deep olive skin, hair dark as midnight, and eyes that are neither green nor brown. Judging by his overly serious demeanor, and the way in which Dick smiles at him, this must be Damian.
“Sorry bud. Al’s had us helping with dinner prep. Don’t you have surveillance set up anyway?”
The boy scoffs, “Of course I do, but that’s beside the point.” His gaze sweeps to me, gives me a very clinical once over, and he lifts an unimpressed brow, “Midnighter, I assume.”
I smile, extending a hand to him in greeting. “And you must be Damian.”
His eyes narrow, and he ignores my offered hand entirely, “You and Grayson are dating.”
I drop my hand, smirking, “Yes, we are.”
“And you care for him?”
He’s so deadpan when he says this, it’s hard not to say something about how adorable he is. Although he’s certainly formidable for a fourteen-year-old, he’s still just a kid and not nearly as scary as he’s trying to be.
I nod, “Yes. I care deeply for him.”
“Grayson tells me you’ve killed men before.”
“Damian!” Dick blurts out, looking both humiliated and very cute when he scowls at the boy like that.
“Well? Is it true?”
“Damian, I didn’t bring M here so you could cross-examine him.”
I gesture reassuringly when Dick’s gaze darts to me in apology. “It’s okay. It’s a fair topic.”
I meet Damian’s gaze levelly. I know his type and I know this game. It isn’t hard to see through the manufactured veneer of cool hostility, right to the center of him. Dick’s told me much about Damian—his tumultuous background, his violent tendencies, but mostly his kind heart. Damian loves Dick more than just about anyone. I can sense that even without the boy speaking. If answering pointed questions is what it takes to earn his approval, I’ll gladly do it.
“Yes. I’ve killed many people.”
“Why?”
I tilt my head, not breaking eye contact, “Justice demanded it.”
“Will you kill again?” Damian’s expression hasn’t changed, but I can tell he’s assessing me carefully.
“Yes.”
That answer seems to satisfy him—he is a child of an assassin after all—and he nods thoughtfully, glare fading. “You are firm in your convictions. I respect that.”
I smile, lifting a brow, “Any other questions while you’re interviewing me? Sorry I forgot my resume at home.”
Damian smiles, and it’s arrogant and a bit petulant when he lifts his chin and says, “No. Not yet at least.” His gaze moves to Dick, and he gives a short nod, “I will see you both at dinner.”
He turns on his heel and leaves as quickly as he arrived.
I stare after him a moment, turn to look at Dick who is watching me with cringing dread, and start to laugh. I hook a thumb at the entrance, “That has to be the most intense fourteen-year-old I’ve ever met.”
Dick shakes his head, still flushed, “I’m so sorry about him. Damian has…questionable social skills. Believe it or not, that was pretty good for him.”
“Is he always like that?”
Dick shrugs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw as he chuckles, “Kind of? He’s an acquired taste.”
I smile, following behind Dick as he wordlessly moves out of the dining room and into the hallway. I take his hand without asking, lacing our fingers together so we’re walking side by side, stitched to one another.
“Honestly? I kind of like him. He’s got spunk.”
Dick snorts, “Please don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll never shut up about it.”
We laugh together about the hazards of living with a mini-assassin as we continue down the corridor, passing about a million rooms decorated richly. I admit, this is probably the swankiest house I’ve ever been willingly allowed in to. Everything is tasteful mahogany, lemon polish, ornate candelabras, and oil paintings. Old money—the kind that lasts and lasts, generations on. I suppose that’s a side effect of Batman being the only living descendent of the Wayne family.
It's a curious juxtaposition knowing that Dick spent a large portion of his childhood in this home, growing into the person he is today. The house feels like it has history, memory perhaps, and I wonder vaguely what secrets it holds. What was it like growing up in these cavernous halls? I make a mental note to ask Dick later.
A few moments of walking later and Dick leads me into what appears to a large library. I mean library in the very literal, rich-people sense too. Floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with novels, plush couches tucked intermittently about the room, library lamps glowing from round tables, and a large fireplace on the far wall. It smells like old paper and wood polish, a strangely comforting scent, and I can tell immediately that it’s a family-favorite room when I realize it’s already occupied.
Two young men are sitting in a corner on opposing couches, deeply entrenched in some type of research. The older and larger of the two is surrounded by stacks of books, his nose buried in a volume intently. The other sits with his legs crossed, headphones perched on his head as he types rapidly on a laptop. Neither of them seems to notice our entrance, or perhaps they’re ignoring it.
Dick pulls on my hand, and I oblige, following him as he leads me over to the two men I can only assume are his other brothers. We stop a few feet from them, and Dick gestures vaguely as he introduces us. “M, this is Jason and this is Tim.”
The one named Tim looks up at his name, and this close I can see that he’s young too, probably only about seventeen. He’s sporting what seems to be the signature Wayne family look—dark hair, light eyes, and a serious expression. In his case though, he looks much more approachable, more normal, than Damian. If I saw him in public, I’d probably peg him as just another teenage emo gamer.
Tim slides his headphones down to his neck, and gives a warm smile, “Hey. Nice to finally meet you—Dick’s been talking about you nonstop.”
I shake his hand, smirking over at Dick who is blushing again, “Nice to meet you too, Tim. I hope Dick hasn’t been talking me up too much.”
Tim arches a brow, eyes already drifting back to his computer, “Oh, he has. He’s—what would Alfred call it?”
Jason chimes in from behind his book, still reading intently. “Smitten? Obsessed? Head-over-heels?”
Dick groans, glowering at them both, “You two are the worst, you know that?”
Jason smiles darkly, lifting a shoulder, “Just being honest, Dickie.”
I chuckle, bumping an elbow into Dick’s ribs and muttering to him, “Dickie? That’s adorable.”
Dick glares, but it’s much too full of warmth to be genuine, “Uh, actually it’s the worst and I’ve asked him multiple times not to call me that.”
Jason’s eyes finally lift from the book, their color a shocking sort of green, and he grins, “And I’ve opted to ignore you. Dickie.” He punctuates that last word with a wink, setting down his book and standing with an exaggerated stretch.
He turns his attention to me, giving a two-fingered salute, “Nice to put a face to a name, M. I’m Jason.”
He’s every bit as Dick has described—tall, pale, and oozing with arrogance. He has a stubborn tilt to his mouth, a fuck-you glint in his jade eyes, and a proud lift to his chin. If I were to describe him in one word, I’d probably say he’s intimidating. Well, intimidating to others. In my case, I think he reminds me very much of myself.
I smile crookedly, “Jason. Glad to meet you. Dick complains about you a lot.”
Jason smilingly feigns insult, “And to think, I’ve been nothing but an angel to him.” His eyes assess me smoothly here, never missing a beat, “Speaking of angels, you’re not one. I’ve read your file.”
I lift a brow, “Oh? And?”
Jason tilts his head, still analyzing me, one side of his mouth hitching into a smile that is both begrudging and charming. “I’m a fan of your work.”
I chuckle, feeling a bit flattered if I’m honest. I’ve done my research and Jason is an impressive vigilante in his own right. I’d never admit it to Dick, but I think Jason’s work as Redhood has been one of the most transformative things to happen to Gotham. It isn’t likely to be recognized in this lifetime, given his violent methods, but I admire the hell out of a guy who can make hard choices when needed.
“Well, consider the feeling mutual.”
Jason gives a self-satisfied smile, lifting an arrogant brow at Dick, “And here you were worried we wouldn’t get along.”
Dick’s eyes narrow as they flicker back and forth between us, “Why do I feel like introducing you two was a mistake?”
Jason scoffs, “What? Afraid that you’ve given me an ally?” He looks at me here, whispering conspiratorially to me behind a hand, “This family is full of pacifists.”
“Oh, that’s a load of horse shit.” Dick lifts his chin smugly, “Don’t let him fool you into thinking he’s too cool, M. Jason may shoot people, but he also crochets and meets for a weekly book club.”
Jason crosses his arms over his chest like he’s sniffed out a challenge, facing Dick, “What’s wrong with going to a book club?”
“Nothing—if you’re an 80-year-old at a retirement home.” Dick grins victoriously.
“Pshh, just admit that you’re jealous you haven’t read anything but Cosmopolitan since college.”
“What’s wrong with Cosmopolitan?”
I watch the two of them bicker back and forth, an ever-devolving tennis match of light insults and teasing. It’s the warm sort of arguing that happens between beloved siblings, the kind born of time, hardship, and profound respect. I admit too that it’s incredibly entertaining to see them try to out-insult one another, like watching one of those comedically-staged wrestling matches. It’s dramatic and over-the-top and fucking hilarious.
I wander around the library when the discussion stretches into a string of arguments that’s impossible to follow, perusing the books with half my attention still watching Jason and Dick. They’re looking in a book now, pointing out passages that support their position alternately. Dick notices that I’ve wandered off, mouths a “Just one minute” and returns to passionately arguing his case.
I smile lightly, feeling my chest squeeze. He’s so comfortable here, so obviously loved by these people. It’s a bit like staring into the sun—bright, but somewhat painful to witness. Bittersweet. It makes me both grateful that he has this—and reminds me that I have never had something like this.
“The two of them could go for hours if you let them.”
I jolt a bit, surprised that someone has managed to sneak up on me. I have an exceptionally good sense of when I’m being approached, so it makes sense that the only person who could do so without me noticing would be someone a bit like me. Someone like Batman.
I turn slightly, surprised to find the man himself standing a few feet down the bookshelf, turning a novel over in his hands thoughtfully. Grey eyes lift to me, the hint of a knowing smile playing at his mouth when he extends a hand to me and says mildly, “I’m Bruce, Dick’s father.”
It’s silly, really. I’ve killed dozens of men, brought governments to their knees, been tortured by the best of the best. For all intents and purposes, nothing should intimidate or impress me anymore. I’ve seen it all.
But this is Dick’s father, who just so happens to be Batman, and a lot rides on whether he likes me or not. I suddenly feel young and small and a bit starstruck, like I’m meeting David Bowie or Elton John in the flesh, and it makes an awkward, uncouth smile pull at my lips.
I shake his hand, “I’m Midnighter. M for short.”
Bruce nods, “Glad you could make it, M.” He replaces the book he was studying and gestures to a set of couches behind us, “Come, let’s talk a while. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
I nod dumbly, feeling very much the young suitor when I follow him without protest. I look over my shoulder, see Dick watching with paralyzed terror in his face, and I force myself to give him an encouraging thumbs up. He looks like he wants to come over, perhaps to rescue me from what he has warned me of—“an interrogation”—but he doesn’t move. I sense that it’s too late.
Bruce and I sit opposite one another, a comfortable span of silence stretching as Bruce crosses his legs, adjusts the cuffs of his button up, and then finally levels his gaze on me. It’s easy to recognize that he retains Batman’s gravitas even without the suit. It could be the unflinching pressure of his slate eyes, or perhaps it’s the oddly fluid grace with which he moves. Maybe it’s the way he talks—every word intentional, surprisingly soft and yet deadly.
Hell, some of it is definitely that he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Not your average kind of handsome either. He’s all abalone angles and dark hair, the faint smell of coffee and ridiculously expensive cologne, lithe limbs in a suit that is expertly tailored, and a gaze that misses nothing.
I can definitely see the appeal of Bruce Wayne.
Kind of like people are attracted to cliff diving or spelunking. It’s obvious it could kill you, and hell, it might even likely kill you. But it’s the odd danger, the strangeness, that draws you in. Sure, he’s not really my flavor, but even I can feel the odd hypnotism of his beauty.
“So, M. You and Dick are dating.”
I swallow, nodding stiffly, “Yes sir.”
Bruce’s lips twitch around a smile, and it makes him look much softer, more paternal, when he shakes his head. “Let me guess, Dick put the fear of God in you about talking to me?”
I give a stilting chuckle, “Well, he warned me, yes.”
Bruce’s eyes flick to Dick over my shoulder, softening, and he sighs, “He’s probably right to warn you. Like me, Dick has made some questionable choices when it comes to dating in the past. He loves without fear…and I’ve been hard on Dick’s partners in the past to protect him.” He looks back to me steadily, “But I sense that things are different with you.”
I shift, something like trepidation gripping at the base of my lungs, “You do?”
Bruce nods, tilting his head. He’s assessing me, weighing my value with eyes like worn amethyst. I feel very much like I’m balancing on a knife’s edge, waiting for him to cast me to either side. As much as Dick says he doesn’t care what Bruce thinks, I know he does. It would matter to him if Bruce didn’t approve of me. And it certainly matters to me too. Especially if I see things lasting a long time between Dick and I.
Which…well, I guess I do.
Bruce smiles softly, “Yes. Dick seems…happy. Really, truly happy. I think you might have something to do with that.”
I feel a breath of relief feather out of my lungs, the muscles that had begun bunching in my shoulders loosening. “I hope so.” I glance overly my shoulder, meeting Dick’s wide-eyed gaze with a smile, “I look at him and…I feel a bit like I’m dreaming. A really, really good dream. I’m not sure I deserve it, to be honest.”
Gods, that was personal. I think I surprise even myself with how heartfelt that sounds coming out, oddly emotional and throaty. I wonder vaguely if this is another side effect of close proximity to the Bat—spilling your guts unintentionally. I seem to remember Dick mentioning something about that. Either way, it’s a bit embarrassing, and certainly sends a flush racing up my cheeks.
Bruce seems unfazed by the vulnerability, nodding thoughtfully, “I’ve read your file…your work shares many similarities with mine. I know that it can be isolating for…people like us.” His eyes meet mine here, a strange band of tentative kinship stretching out like an olive branch. He smiles, something melancholy in his expression when he shrugs and says, “We all deserve to belong, M. No matter our past. It’s obvious that Dick feels deeply for you, and that you feel deeply for him. Don’t fear that—enjoy it.”
At what point this conversation became paternal, I don’t know. But I feel like a kid in the best kind of way. It makes my chest bind with something painful and pleasant at the same time, the feeling of a too-tight hug, and I nod.
“Thank you, Bruce. I appreciate that more than you know.”
He smiles, looser this time as he indicates over my shoulder with his chin, “You’ll have to tell Dick that I haven’t scared you off. He’s been glaring at me for the past five minutes.”
I chuckle, “He’s been deathly afraid that you’d hate me.”
Bruce smiles, “Well, I don’t hate you. You’ve passed with flying colors.”
We settle into comfortable conversation now, exchanging stories about Dick fondly. It feels so domestic, so oddly normal, to be sitting across from my boyfriend’s dad laughing about the many quirks, habits, and endearments surrounding Dick. I store up the memory of this conversation like treasured gold, tucking it away to revisit whenever I need to remember that Dick Grayson chose me. That I belong.
I’m so wrapped up in listening to Bruce’s story that I only vaguely notice when another man enters the library, loosening his tie. I only really take notice when I see him spot us, a wide smile breaking out on his face as he approaches us. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, features sunny, open, and kind. Glasses, grey suit, dark curly hair. Blue eyes like open ocean. I think internally that he almost looks like he could be related to Dick by blood.
I wonder who he is, trying to remember if Dick mentioned anyone else coming. It’s with this thought in my head, a list of names scrolling by, that I watch in stunned silence as it happens. The man rounds the couch, dips to kiss Bruce familiarly, and settles beside him with a heavy sigh.
I couldn’t contain the look of shock even if I wanted to. I remain frozen, awkwardly gaping at the two of them as they smile, exchange a greeting in low voices, and the man places a hand on Bruce’s knee fondly. Are they…is Bruce—my brain fizzles, shorts, and gives out completely.
They turn their attention to me, and seeing my still-frozen face, both promptly burst into laughter. I stare. Is this some sort of joke? Is this a prank? Because Dick certainly never mentioned Bruce being gay, let alone having a partner. I’m going to kill that man if he took me here and conveniently forgot to mention it.
Bruce is the first to regain his composure, shaking his head apologetically, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. I’m guessing Dick didn’t fill you in on Clark and I?”
I blink rapidly, “Uh…no. I—I didn’t know you were…”
The man named Clark grins, “Gay? Yeah, well. The JLA isn’t the best place to be queer, and it certainly doesn’t do to have two senior members publicly dating. The public scrutiny, let alone the potential for retaliation using one of us against the other, would be immense.”
Bruce nods, “It’s a liability on several fronts, so we keep the nature of our relationship private.”
I’m still processing, my brain feeling like some sort of ancient computer sputtering and whirring as it tries to catch up. If I were a cartoon, there’d be smoke coming out of my ears. Clark said senior members…does that mean that he’s in the JLA too? I squint at him, feeling immediately stupid when I notice the very obvious resemblance he shares with Superman. He even has those same winning dimples when he reaches forward to shake my hand.
No fuckin way.
“I’m Clark.” I blink at him dumbly, and my expression must be something intense as we shake hands, because he hurries to add, “I wouldn’t be too mad at Dick for keeping you in the dark. Very few people know about us, and when new people do find out, we like to be the ones to tell them.”
I shake myself, forcing the stunned stiffness from my features with a chuckle, “I’ve gotta give Dick credit. He never so much as hinted that you two were anything but platonic.”
Clark laughs, lifting a shoulder, “He’s surprisingly good at keeping secrets when given the right motivator.”
I arch a brow, “Bodily harm?”
Bruce smiles grimly, “A lifetime ban from the Netflix account.”
“Ah, that’s the Dick Grayson I know and love.” I glance over my shoulder, smirking when my eyes connect with Dick’s and he gives me a sheepish grin. Cheeky devil. I’ll make him pay for not warning me later.
I turn back to Clark and Bruce, feeling the seedlings of laughter sprouting somewhere in my chest just looking at the two of them. It’s not the fact that they’re together that makes me want to laugh, it’s the pure serendipitous happenstance of the moment. Superman and Batman. The most iconic superpowered team in modern history, revered as the pinnacle of power and masculinity. And it turns out they’re just two men in love.
They make a very handsome couple; earth and water, yin and yang, hot and cold. It’s evident in the way they move around one another—the symmetry in their posture, the casual affection, the lowered voices as they murmur to one another—that they’ve been together a long time.
They already seem to have forgotten my presence. I watch with a growing warmth in my chest as Clark combs back Bruce’s hair from his forehead, asking about his day. Bruce leans his head back into Clark’s shoulder, grey eyes soft and easy. It’s therapeutic seeing queer people thriving in any context, but most especially in our line of work. It gives me hope.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be that content in fifteen years too.
A pair of warm arms encircles my chest, and I recognize the smell of his shampoo immediately when Dick rests his chin on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “How’s it going?”
I lift a hand to brush over his knuckles absently, “Surprisingly well.”
“No death threats yet?”
I chuckle, shaking my head, “Nope. It’s all been very…normal actually.”
Dick sighs, and I feel his arms release the edge of tension they were carrying He climbs over the back of the couch nimbly and settles beside me cross-legged, leaning into my shoulder, “Good. That means he read my text messages earlier today when I threatened his life if he was mean to you.”
I laugh, slinging my arm over his shoulder to press a lingering kiss against his cheek. He smells like his favorite lotion and a bit like me too, which makes my stomach tighten in a very pleasant way.
Dick hums, “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
I feign confusion, “What could you possibly need to be forgiven for, sunshine?” I contemplate for an exaggerated moment, rubbing my chin, “Oh, that’s right. The part where you neglected to mention that your dad is dating Superman? That part? No. You are definitely not forgiven.”
He tilts his head so I can see his face, and it’s a very charming pleading expression he offers. Definitely practiced. I imagine he gets away with a lot of shit just by batting those thick eyelashes at anyone that dares reprimand him. I’m afraid even my skills are pitiably ineffective against the persuasion of such looks.
“Babe, I was under a vow of secrecy.”
I narrow my eyes at him, “Vows of secrecy are meant to be broken, most especially when I came expecting to be surrounded by ultra-straight men and it turns out you’re from a family of fruits!”
Dick laughs, “I’m sorry! It’s a good surprise though, right?”
I try to glower, but I can feel myself grinning, already giving in so easily. To no one’s surprise, I’m a sucker for big blue eyes. “I’ll concede, it was a good surprise.”
Dick grins victoriously, pressing his luck a bit when he leans in and presses his lips to mine soundly. My stomach tightens, the pleasant edge of want feathering up my spine when he lowers his voice to a shade of midnight, “Am I forgiven now?”
I snort—thank god I’ve been practicing my poker face—and arch an imperious brow, “Nice try, hot stuff. It’s gonna take a lot more than a peck to earn back my good will.” I surprise him with a sudden retaliatory kiss, the kind that definitely borders on embarrassing, feeling entirely too proud of myself when I murmur against his mouth, “But don’t worry—you can make it up to me later.”
I feel more than see him smile into me, “I guess my hands are tied then, aren’t they?”
“Not yet. But maybe later if you ask real nice.”
Dick laughs, his cheeks flushed to an intoxicating shade of ruby, even as he tries to tease me, “Are you forgetting that someone has super hearing?”
My gaze flickers to the couch opposite us, but Bruce and Clark have migrated to the corner near the others at some point and are already deep in conversation. I don’t have enough shame in me to feel embarrassed if Clark can hear me flirting; I figure it serves him right if he’s eavesdropping.
I grin wickedly, “Don’t give me more leverage, darling. You know I’ll use it.”
Dick shakes his head ruefully. It doesn’t take a computer-powered brain like mine to see that he’s lost, and he has the good grace to accept his defeat with an amused sigh, “You’re shameless.”
I laugh, “Damn right—and don’t you forget it.”
Clark
Thanksgiving is always an adventure at the Manor. If it’s not world-ending crises postponing the festivities or food poisoning rendering us all useless for 24 hours, it’s loud games of Yahtzee and new partners thrown in the mix. When Bruce and I first started dating, we’d already been friends for several years, but he was still concerned that the strange patchwork family unique to the Manor was a vulnerability that would offput me.
Of course, the exact opposite occurred.
I fell in love with this family, much in the same way I fell in love with Bruce himself. All the bits you’d think would send me running, kept me close. The loud, cursing antics of the boys, the constant presence of Alfred mothering anyone in his proximity, even the creaking bones of this too-big house. I fell in love with it so completely it became a part of me.
We’ve been together for a decade at this point. I’ve watched as the family grew from just Dick, Alfred, and Bruce to an expansive, colorful, bustling tapestry. New family members, new loves, new stories. All weaving together into a family that is as much unique as it is precious.
It’s why my chest feels tight with gratitude as Thanksgiving day begins to draw its twilight breaths. We’ve eaten to the point of discomfort, played so many games of Yahtzee and Twister I lost count how many times I lost, and watched two movies back-to-back. The hour is beginning to show in yawns, languid stretches, and groggy eyes.
We send Damian to bed first—he isn’t happy about turning in before the rest of us, but he acquiesces when Bruce wakes him from where he was drowsing on the dog bed with Titus. The boy glowers, starts to argue, and thinks better of it when Bruce arches a stern brow. He shuffles off to bed with the behemoth of a dog trailing behind him, Bruce in tow with the promise of a hug goodnight.
I rise from my seat on the couch, collecting empty popcorn bowls and glasses silently. The credits are rolling on the projector screen, but no one’s really paying attention at this point. Tim is tucked into the recliner, half asleep with his phone drooping against his chest. Jason has retired to a novel in the far corner, still very much awake, but quiet. Dick and M are curled together on the center couch beneath a blanket, murmuring quietly to one another.
Bruce reappears after I’ve cleared the dishes, gesturing vaguely, “You all should get some rest—Clark and I will get the dishes tonight.”
I smirk when his eyes meet mine briefly, making it clear that I’ve been volunteered whether I want to help with the dishes or not. If the boys have any qualms about going to bed, they don’t voice them. Tim slides from the chair, already half-comatose, and gives half-armed hugs on his way to the staircase. Jason slinks off at some point unseen. He’s not much of a hugger, especially not when there’s an audience.
Dick and M are the last to go. Dick, of course, gives both Bruce and I tight hugs and thanks us for a nice night. M offers a smiling wave from the base of the stairs, echoing the sentiment before trailing up after Dick quietly.
Bruce and I watch them go a moment, and then through some unspoken agreement, we turn and make for the kitchen. Technically, we could load the dishwasher and go to bed. That would certainly be easier, and I’ve argued the merits of it with Bruce until I’m blue in the face. But it’s habit at this point. We do our best talking when we’re working anyhow.
And tonight, I can sense that Bruce wants to talk.
We wash dishes together with practiced hands—scrub, rinse, dry, repeat—for many minutes before either of us speaks. I’m in no hurry to break the stillness of the kitchen, at this moment only populated by the sounds of running water and clinking dishes.
It’s Bruce who eventually speaks, his eyes intent as he dries off a stack of plates and loads them into the cabinet. “Dick seems…different.”
I frown, scraping repetitively at a baked-on food remnant, “Different?”
He pauses, lifts a shoulder, “Different. Calmer, more…content.”
“Ah, that kind of different.” I sigh, chest warming with nostalgia, “He’s in love.”
Bruce nods, “Yes, I think so.”
His voice sounds tight, drawn too tense to be genuine. I glance at him, catching the furrow of a thoughtful frown in his brows, “Is that a bad thing?”
Bruce shakes his head, “No, I’m happy that he’s happy. It’s just…” His hands still as he puts away the plate he was drying, expression edging towards the color of goodbye. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”
I turn off the faucet, drying my hands as I lean back against the sink, “And you think M might hurt him?”
Bruce lets out a heavy breath, abandoning the dish towel to mirror my posture of leaning against the counter. He looks every bit the worried parent, watchful and overprotective and helpless, when he looks at me with eyes like dove’s feathers.
“I think that relationships are complicated. Dick is…he’s special. You know that. He loves with an openness I often envy, but it also means it’s easier for him to get his heart broken.”
I smile sadly, “M cares a great deal for Dick. I can sense it.”
Bruce nods, eyes avoiding mine carefully, “I know. I can feel it too. And I know that Dick is an adult—I trust his judgment. He’s so much smarter than I’ve ever given him credit for. But—” His voice fizzles and dies into silence. I watch his throat work around a swallow with difficulty.
I reach over, winding our fingers together to give his hand a firm squeeze, “I know.”
Bruce sighs, surprising me when he turns and leans into my chest heavily, looping his arms around my waist. His voice is bittersweet, the edge of concern bleeding like ink against paper as he murmurs, “I just want him to be okay.”
My chest tightens in commiseration. I feel it too—the impulse to protect, to shield. Dick is the eldest of Bruce’s children, and in many ways, that makes their relationship unique. The line between parent, friend, and brother is blurry, and it makes letting go even harder. For me, Dick was a big factor in me deciding to date Bruce. I fell in love with the kid, with all the extraordinary beauty of how he saw the world, and I knew that I wanted to be there for him. I wanted to watch him grow up and change the world.
Realizing that someone might come along, steal Dick’s heart, and then promptly trample it is…frightening. It inspires the same helpless futility I imagine any parent feels watching their kid go off into the wide, scary world. Its universality doesn’t make it any easier to manage.
I inhale a deep breath, feeling immensely warmed by the familiar smell of coffee and aftershave that Bruce seems to carry around with him. He feels fragile in my arms tonight, burdened with worries that are both extraordinary and commonplace—the curse of being both a parent and a hero.
“Bruce…” I press a kiss to his hair, willing warmth and strength into the contact, “Dick is going to be okay.”
His arms tighten around my waist, “How can you be so sure?”
I hum thoughtfully, “I may not have a crystal ball or special powers to see the future, but I saw how Dick was with M tonight. There’s a maturity, a gravity, in how they were moving around each other. It feels different from the other people he’s dated. Frankly, it reminds me very much of you and I ten years ago. That gives me a lot of hope.”
Bruce remains silent, but his arms have gone soft around my waist again. I can tell he’s listening, soaking up every word to mull over carefully.
“I worry too, Bruce. You know how much I love that kid—how much he matters to all of us. I don’t want to see him hurt. But I also have confidence that Dick will be able to navigate whatever heartache comes his way, even if things didn’t work out between he and M, because he has us. His family.” I lean back, tilting his chin up with a crooked finger to catch his eyes. I smile softly, “He’s going to be okay, babe.”
He meets my gaze for a long moment, a tumult of fluid emotions swirling behind his eyes. I can tell that he wants to relax, to feel the relieved pride that’s natural when you see your kid in love and well loved, but that requires surrender. The recognition and acceptance of things that you cannot change, and Bruce is a firm believer in change.
Eventually though, Bruce releases a sigh that sounds bone-deep, his frame sagging into me as he lets go of the last vestiges of tension. He rests his cheek against my chest, eyes shuttering closed as he murmurs, “How do you do it?”
I smile, smoothing circles into his shoulder blades. “Do what?”
“Talk me down every time I’m overthinking.”
I chuckle, “Lots and lots of practice.”
Bruce smiles—I can feel it in the way his cheek moves against me, the brush of his lips twitching against my neck, “I’ll ignore the implication there, but only because I’m tired. And you smell really nice.”
I laugh in earnest now, “Is that the secret then? Just wear some fancy cologne and you’re putty in my hands?”
Bruce hums, and I feel his hands bind behind my low back to hold me firmer to him, “Must be.” He turns his lips to press a lingering kiss to the hollow of my throat, breath skimming out against my skin like ticklish dandelion seeds. We sway together, almost like we’re dancing to an unheard song.
The truth is, I don’t mind talking him down when he’s overthinking. I find it comforting to hear his thoughts, so often echoing my own, and it gives us both an opportunity to be vulnerable together. It was conversations like these that paved the way to us kissing for the first time, so many years ago.
Bruce doesn’t have to say it, but I can feel his quiet gratitude in the way his hands cradle my face when his lips wander to my mouth. I work to weave the certainty of my own gratitude—for him, for his willingness to share hard things, for our family—into my posture as we sink deeper into the kiss.
I pull back with a laugh when he’s begun working his way down my throat again, his fingers hooked in my belt loops possessively, “I say we load the rest of these dishes in the dishwasher like normal people, then head to bed. What do you say?”
Bruce sighs heavily, mouth stalling against my collarbone reluctantly, “I hate that you’re always right in the end.”
I chuckle darkly, “Liar.”
He looks up like he’s going to rebut me, but I don’t allow him. I push my height advantage when I cup his jaw and kiss him like it’s a lovely threat, letting him feel the full weight of my intent. When I pull back moments later, his eyes are hazy and languid, his lips left looking very lonely indeed. His hands are still halfway crawled under my shirt, frozen in disappointed surprise now that I’ve stopped.
Bruce blinks dumbly, at a loss for words, and I can’t help but laugh. It is not lost on me that I’m the only one who can do that, render him completely mute and malleable, and I find it just as attractive now as I did ten years ago.
Some things never change.
I grin smugly, arching a brow when I gesture to the sink, “The sooner we load, the sooner we can go to bed.”
Bruce still looks more animal than man, a hungry need flickering in his eyes when he shakes his head and tugs at my hand, “To hell with the dishes. We can finish them tomorrow.”
I know by now how futile it is to protest when Bruce has his mind set on something, most especially when that something is me. So, I don’t do anything but laugh and follow eagerly behind when he pulls me up the stairs, latches our bedroom door behind us, and throws me on the bed like I’m made of feathers.
Some things never change, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Dick
M did wonderfully. Whatever fears I had about him meeting everyone have been firmly put to rest, so much so that I actually feel a bit silly for having been so worried earlier. M has managed to successfully charm every member of my family without so much as breaking a sweat—even Damian pulled me aside and told me that he found M to be an “intelligent, capable man”. Frankly, I don’t know how he did it, but I keep feeling immense waves of gratitude and pride every time I look over at him.
It’s been an immensely long day. Good, but long. You’d think we’d both be worn to the bone, ready to fall into bed and sleep for a solid 14 hours. But the air between us feels like stifled electricity as we climb the stairs hand in hand, stealing furtive, smiling glances at one another. The consequence of spending so many consecutive hours under the scrutiny of my family, knowing that we’re being watched carefully, assessed and measured every moment, is that the second I’m certain we’re alone, I lose the will to behave myself in any sense of the word.
I make it to the top of the staircase before I pull M abruptly into me, my hands gripping his shirtfront in fistfuls as I kiss him deeply. He makes a sound of muffled surprise, frozen for a moment of uncertain stillness.
M’s eyes flick down the hallway in search of witnesses when he manages to laugh around my lips, “Not that I’m complaining, but should we—”
His voice chokes out abruptly, a breathless sigh easing from him when I press flush into him. The proximity has the desired effect of derailing whatever question he was going to ask me. M falls silent, pushing me hard into the banister, his hands gripping my hips like they’re stolen property.
We’re all over each other before we’ve even made it to my room. I thank my lucky stars that none of the others share this hallway, because I can’t seem to deny myself the pleasure of him. We stumble down the hallway with mouths hungrily devouring one another, hands sliding beneath clothes like we’ve been waiting to do this for a century. Doesn’t seem to matter that it hasn’t even been 12 hours since we last had sex. We had a lovely little tryst fresh out of the shower before we left—I didn’t even know I could bend like that—and yet…
I feel starved for him all over again.
There’s something fondly desperate in how we come together when the door to my bedroom shuts behind us and we sprawl on my childhood bed, kicking pillows out of the way as we strip rapidly. His hands feel like coming home, warm and possessive and strong, as they rove over me. It pushes things to a feverish pace, urgent and uncouth. I usually like to take my time, and gods knows that M does too, but it’s been a very long afternoon of being watched and answering questions and being on our best behavior.
We don’t last long.
We finish in a tangled, sweaty heap in the middle of the bed mere minutes later, our breath sounding raucous and heavy in the otherwise silent bedroom. I’m still riding out waves of pleasure, stars dancing around the borders of my vision, when M leans his damp forehead against mine and whispers, “Fuck that was good.”
I grin, still out of breath when I say, “I’m sorry it didn’t last longer.”
He shakes his head, teasing at my lower lip as he chuckles, “I think we were both a bit pent up.”
“You think? I about had you on the stairs.”
His face is shadowed, grainy shapes of blue and grey, but I swear his eyes darken a shade. He groans, “It’s not nice to tease me, sunshine.”
I laugh, “I’m dead serious. It would’ve been disastrous and embarrassing, but I was very close to a case of the fuck its.”
M’s voice is warm and full of mirth, “Embarrassing, yes. Disastrous…” His mouth lingers against mine softly, “Never.”
“Absolutely disastrous,” I argue, trying my best not to take his lips between my teeth when he keeps kissing me like that, “How would we have explained it when someone caught us?”
M hums, bracing himself up on one arm to gaze down at me fondly. His free hand combs through my hair, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. He arches a roguish brow, “I would’ve blamed that outfit of yours—way too much cleavage to keep my hands to myself.”
“Oh, so it would be my fault?”
He grins languidly, twisting a lock of my hair around his finger, “Entirely.”
I narrow him with a glower, although I can tell it isn’t very convincing. “You know, for liking my outfit so much, you weren’t very ginger.” I gesture to the random piles of clothes thrown off the bed haphazardly, “I’m pretty sure you ripped my shirt trying to get it off me.”
He has the decency to look a bit sheepish, his teeth gleaming in the darkness as he smiles, “I’m fairly certain I lost consciousness somewhere in there, so that makes sense.”
“I loved that shirt.”
“I’m sorry! The laces complicated things and I got frustrated.”
I smirk, “I hope you know how to sew if this is going to be a trend.”
M rolls his eyes, “I’m a vigilante, Dick, not a barbarian. Of course I know how to sew.”
I arch a sardonic brow, “Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed you might be at least part barbarian when you tore my shirt open with your teeth.”
He laughs, “Okay, that’s fair. But can I be blamed for wanting to taste? I mean, just look at you.” His eyes flash down meaningfully, and I can’t help the incriminating flush that blossoms across my feverish skin without permission.
M grins victoriously, “You loved it—don’t lie.”
I try to maintain a glowering poker face, but it’s too hard to pretend to be even playfully irritated with him. He’s right. I did love it, even if my poor shirt got ruined in the process. Small price to pay to be unwrapped like a literal candy bar by the hottest man this side of the equator.
Oh well.
I smile in defeat, arching up to kiss him deeply, “You still owe me a shirt.”
“Only if you promise to wear it somewhere I’m allowed to take it off.” M’s arms bind around my back, supporting my weight with ease. God, I feel tiny when he does that—my stomach flutters pleasantly.
“Deal.”
We sink into a comfortable quiet now, still holding one another contentedly. At some point, we roll apart and move to the bathroom to clean up and get ready for bed. M insists on tidying the bedroom as I brush my teeth and dress in the bathroom, and I let him. It gives me a very good excuse to stand in the doorway and just study him when it’s his turn to get ready. An odd mixture of nostalgia and attraction settles in my chest, heavy and warm, as I watch M go about his nightly routine in my childhood bathroom.
If you told me when I was sixteen, standing in this same bathroom worried about asking Barbara to the prom, that I’d someday be sharing it with a gorgeous, somewhat murderous man who I was rapidly falling in love with…I don’t know if I would have believed you.
Now, all I know is that things feel right. Completely and entirely as they should be.
The chaos of the day is beginning to hit me now, waves of dreary exhaustion washing over my limbs. I feel my eyelids dragging closed against my will before we even stagger to the bed and tuck ourselves beneath the thick comforter in silence. M curls around my back protectively, draping a leg over mine without even asking. He’s stayed the night so many times now, it feels like second nature to have his breath tickling the nape of my neck, his arm leaden around my midsection.
I can feel M’s nose skimming my neck when he murmurs, “This was nice. Thanksgiving with your family, I mean.”
I hum, voice sounding drowsy, “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” He’s quiet for a moment, but I can sense the uncertainty without even having to ask. I pull his arm tighter into my chest, kissing the soft underside of his wrist as I whisper, “They’re crazy about you, M.”
His breath hitches, just a moment’s hesitation that lets me know how much that matters to him. When he answers, his voice is hesitant, “You think?”
I nod, “What’s not to love? Handsome, smart, funny, kind…” I punctuate each of these words with a kiss to his knuckles, “Damian especially. He thinks you’re cool.”
M chuckles, the tension easing from his arm, “I’ve never been accused of being cool by a teenager. I’m flattered.”
I laugh around a yawn, “You should be. Damian’s the hardest to win over. You get him? You get ‘em all.”
I feel M smiling against my skin, “Don’t think you can butter up me with this conversation to get around talking about you keeping the fact that Batman is gay hidden from me. I haven’t forgotten.”
I smirk, but my eyes are closing of their own accord. My voice sounds hazy and distant when I say, “I will gladly take whatever punishment you choose…in the morning.”
M laughs, and I feel his arm tucking me tighter into his chest. I’m sure he says something, a promise that would make me turn around and kiss him senseless if I were more conscious, but I’m already slipping away into the void. I have the awareness to recognize that his voice is murmuring a goodnight into my ear, his stubble prickling my skin pleasantly, and then I fade into oblivion.