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The steady beeping of the monitor was the only sound in the otherwise silent Fortress of Solitude. Clark stood beside the medical pod, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Bruce looked peaceful—more peaceful than Clark had seen him in years. His color had returned, no longer the deathly pale it had been when Clark had first rushed him here.
The alien weapon that had impaled him had been coated in something toxic, something even Bruce’s absurd tolerance for poisons couldn’t shrug off. The Fortress had technology far beyond what the Watchtower’s medbay could provide. It had saved his life.
Still, it had been hours.
Clark could hear the AI’s words in his mind, cool and clinical: After such an extensive procedure, prolonged unconsciousness is normal, Kal-El.
That did little to soothe him. He had lost too many people before. The thought of losing Bruce—Bruce, who had almost bled out in his arms, too weak to even argue when Clark had scooped him up—made something clench painfully in his chest. He had replayed the moment a dozen times, the sickening sight of crimson pooling against Bruce’s armor, the sluggish beat of his heart beneath Clark’s hand. Even now, he found himself adjusting his grip on Bruce’s wrist every so often, just to feel the reassuring pulse beneath his fingertips.
Then, finally, there was movement.
Bruce’s brow twitched. His lips parted slightly, then smacked together as though testing their function. His breathing deepened before his eyelids fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. Clark immediately leaned closer. “Bruce?”
Bruce stared up at him for a long moment. Then, very seriously, he said:
“The pigeons know too much.”
Clark froze. “…What?”
Bruce’s gaze was unfocused, but his expression was grave. “They’ve been watching us for years.” He lifted a weak hand, attempting to gesture with some kind of purpose but mostly just waving vaguely in the air. “They’re everywhere. On the rooftops. In the parks. Pretending to be normal.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They aren’t normal.”
Clark blinked.
Then Bruce gasped, eyes wide with horror. “Oh no.”
Clark leaned in, instantly on alert. “What? What’s wrong?”
Bruce clutched weakly at Clark’s sleeve. “I forgot how to tie my shoes.”
Clark stared at him. “…Bruce, your boots don’t even have laces.”
Bruce frowned deeply, staring at the ceiling as if attempting to solve a complex mathematical equation. Then, after a long pause, he whispered, “That explains so much.”
Clark was seconds away from pressing the emergency alarm before the AI chimed in, calm and clinical: “Patient is exhibiting a normal response to anaesthesia.”
Clark exhaled sharply, relief washing over him. “This is normal?”
“Correct. Due to the patient’s extremely high resistance to chemical sedatives, a uniquely potent formula was required to ensure full unconsciousness and prevent distress during surgery. Temporary cognitive impairment is an expected side effect.”
Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “So he’s not concussed?”
“No.”
Clark sighed, shaking his head. “Right. Okay.” He turned back to Bruce, who was still frowning at the ceiling like it had personally offended him.
“…You good there, buddy?”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “The concept of Tuesdays is suspicious.”
Clark pressed his lips together. “I see.”
Bruce suddenly turned his head, staring at Clark like he’d just noticed him for the first time. His expression went slack.
“…Wow.”
Clark frowned. “Bruce?”
“You are so pretty.”
Clark blinked. “Uh.”
Bruce’s head lolled slightly to the side, gaze dragging over Clark’s face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then he smirked—or at least, attempted to, but it mostly looked sleepy. “Like, unfairly pretty. Like, if I weren’t married, I’d be in trouble.”
Clark snorted. “Bruce—”
Bruce suddenly gasped, eyes widening in horror. “Wait. Oh no.”
Clark tensed, all amusement gone. “What? What’s wrong?”
Bruce grabbed his wrist—well, more like weakly patted at it until Clark helped him latch on. “We can’t,” he said solemnly. “This. Us. It’s forbidden.”
Clark bit back a laugh. “Is it now?”
Bruce nodded, eyes serious but voice thick with grogginess. “I’m married.”
Clark pressed his lips together. “Are you?”
Bruce sighed wistfully. “Yeah. He’s so strong.” Then, in a whisper: “He carries me.”
Clark exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the grin threatening to break free. “He carries you?”
Bruce nodded, now looking a little starry-eyed. “All the time. Just picks me up like it’s nothing.” He lifted his arms feebly. “Like I’m a princess.”
Clark made a strangled noise. “A princess?”
Bruce sighed dreamily. “Yeah. And that makes him a very handsome prince.” He hummed, as if considering. “Maybe a little battle-worn. But still hot.”
Clark rested his forehead in his palm, shoulders shaking. “Bruce.”
Bruce tugged at Clark’s sleeve. “You kinda look like him.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “I do?”
Bruce nodded sagely. “Yeah. It’s dangerous.”
Clark tilted his head. “Dangerous how?”
Bruce attempted to narrow his eyes but ended up just squinting unevenly. “I might fall in love with you.”
Clark outright laughed at that, shaking his head. “Bruce.”
Bruce gasped again, gripping Clark’s sleeve. “No, no, no. I can’t.”
Clark played along. “Because of your husband?”
“Yes!” Bruce groaned dramatically, turning his face into the pillow. “He’s gonna be so mad if he finds out I flirted with you.”
Clark gave in and ran a hand down his face, still grinning. “I think he’ll live.”
Bruce peeked up at him, doubtful. “You don’t know him. He’s scary.”
Clark leaned in slightly. “Scary how?”
Bruce’s lips pressed into a line. He seemed to concentrate, then held up a wobbly finger. “Heat vision.”
Clark let out a surprised laugh. “Oh, so he’s got heat vision?”
Bruce nodded again. “Yeah. Real intense. Like—” He tried to glare, but his drugged-up expression was anything but intimidating.
Clark smirked. “Wow. He sounds impressive.”
Bruce sagged against the pillow, looking utterly exhausted from all this forbidden love talk. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He’s the best.”
Clark smiled softly. “Sounds like you really love him.”
Bruce’s face softened, his usual defenses nowhere in sight. “So much.”
Clark swallowed, his chest aching. Then Bruce suddenly gripped Clark’s wrist with the kind of urgency reserved for life-or-death situations. His glassy, unfocused eyes locked onto Clark’s, and he whispered, “I have a secret.”
Clark, still recovering from the unintentional love confession, nodded. “Alright, tell me.”
Bruce leaned closer—or at least, he tried to, but gravity had other plans. “One of my kids is adopted.”
Clark blinked. “…Bruce.”
Bruce squeezed his wrist. “They don’t know. I haven’t told them.”
Clark’s brain briefly stalled.
“…Bruce.”
Bruce nodded gravely. “I should tell them, shouldn’t I?”
Clark pressed his lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. “Bruce,” he said carefully. “Which one?”
Bruce frowned like the question was ridiculous. “What?”
Clark gestured vaguely. “Which one of your kids do you think is adopted?”
Bruce hesitated. His brows furrowed. “…Damian.”
Clark nearly fell out of his chair. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in sheer disbelief. “Bruce, he’s literally your only biological son.”
Bruce blinked. He looked so utterly shocked that Clark almost felt bad for him. Almost.
“…Oh,” Bruce said, voice small. His expression slowly crumbled. “Oh, no.”
Clark, still reeling, had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from outright howling. “Bruce,” he said, barely holding it together, “you do know that all your other kids apart from Damian are adopted, right?”
Bruce was still processing. “Wait. All of them?”
Clark nodded, now openly grinning. “Yeah, baby. All of them.”
Bruce’s mouth opened slightly. He stared into the middle distance, completely, entirely lost. “…I’m a terrible father.”
Clark reached over and patted his shoulder, eyes twinkling with amusement. “No, Bruce. You’re doing great.”
For a moment, they just sat there, the steady beep of the monitor filling the silence between them. Bruce’s breathing grew more even, the tension in his body slowly melting away as his eyes drifted shut again. Clark exhaled quietly, allowing himself to relax for the first time in hours. Bruce was going to be okay. They were going to get through this.
He stood up from his chair, stretching slightly, before leaning down again to adjust the pillow beneath Bruce’s head. “Alright, Bruce,” he said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Bruce’s forehead. “I think you should try to get some more sleep.”
Bruce nodded lazily, his eyelids heavy. He seemed to be drifting off again, his gaze unfocused as he mumbled, “Yeah... sleep sounds good.”
Clark smiled softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. You’re not alone.”
Bruce’s lips twitched, forming something that could almost pass for a smile. Then, just before his eyes fluttered closed, he whispered, “I love you, Clark.”
Clark blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He hadn’t expected that—especially after Bruce’s earlier ramblings. Bruce had been confused, sure, but it sounded like he was actually recognizing him now.
“I love you too, Bruce,” Clark said, chuckling quietly. He gave Bruce a gentle kiss on the temple, amused by how absurd this entire situation had become.
With one final sigh, Bruce’s body relaxed completely, his breathing deep and steady. Clark watched him for a moment longer, making sure his husband was truly asleep before standing up quietly.
He stepped away from the pod, his mind racing but finally starting to settle. He made his way over to the nearest console and dialed into the Batcave. The screen flickered to life, revealing Dick's face. He was still in his Nightwing costume, minus the domino mask, and Clark could hear the rest of the kids in the background, along with Alfred’s calm voice.
“Clark!” Dick greeted with a relieved smile. “How is Bruce?”
Clark gave him a reassuring grin. “He’s going to be fine, Dick. He woke up a little while ago, but he’s back to sleep now. He was a little... out of it. But everything’s going to be alright.”
Tim’s voice cut in from the background. "He really is okay, right?”
“Yeah,” Clark said, running a hand through his hair. “He was a little groggy from the anaesthesia but he’ll be fine.”
Damian’s voice came next, “Groggy? I thought Father was supposed to be immune to things like this.”
Clark chuckled softly. “Turns out even your father has his limits, Damian.”
Jason’s voice suddenly chimed in, rough and playful. “Does that mean the big guy’s finally gonna take a nap? 'Cause, frankly, that’s a win in my book.”
Cass nodded in agreement in the background.
Clark snorted. “He’s sleeping right this second.”
Dick smiled, his expression softening. “That’s a relief to hear.”
“Yeah,” Clark said, leaning in a bit closer, his smile widening mischievously. “But you won’t believe this... He let slip a huge family secret while loopy from the anaesthesia.”
“Oh, juicy!” Stephanie exclaimed, her interest piqued. “Do tell.”
Duke piped in from the background. “Let me guess… he finally confessed he’s been hoarding all the best gadgets for himself. I knew it.”
Clark smirked, voice light with amusement. “No, no. Apparently, only one of you kids is adopted... and you’ll never guess which one.”