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“I’ll do anything.”
Clark watches as Bruce pulls the cowl from his head. The gesture is a weary tug, leather folding against itself before he drops it onto the console. His face is set, impassive, though the fatigue is obvious despite it. There's faint bruising beneath his eyes, a streak of eyeliner rubbed nearly away, and a small drag in his movements as if his body is two steps behind his mind. He looks exhausted, and Clark feels it like a weight pressing down on his own chest.
They’d all tried. The entire league had said something or another about Bruce’s not-so-subtle tendency to push people away, all with varying degrees of seriousness. Diana had been more firm than the rest, but J’onn, Hal, and Barry had been far more casual, leading Clark into thinking Bruce likely didn't take any of it seriously. None of them had managed to pry Bruce out of his relentless rhythm. Clark himself—who could usually coax him into at least a grudging hour of rest—had failed too.
Bruce meets his gaze without flickering. “What exactly are you referring to, Superman?” His voice is flat. Maybe its Clark’s desire to read into everything Bruce does, but he likes to think it comes from Bruce's exhaustion, not disinterest in starting a conversation with Clark.
“It’s February.”
“It is.”
Clark refuses to let the wall frustrate him. He squares his shoulders and steadies his tone. “And it’s your birthday soon. I went over a million ideas. I’ll admit, I may have…done some snooping. Asked around.” He leans closer, lowers his voice just enough to soften the words. “How is it that nobody in your entire family has ever gotten you a birthday gift before?”
He doesn’t look particularly inclined to indulge in the subject. His shoulders shift back against the chair, posture rigid even in exhaustion, and after a long exhale, he says, “Who told you that? Not that it’s an appropriate conversation to be having here, Superman, but I have dinner with my family every year. I don’t need anything else.”
Which…fine. It was the response he expected, Clark had been warned.
Dick had told him as much when Clark cornered him about it last week. He’d shrugged, but there had been a flicker of something like regret in his eyes. “Some of us tried, back when we were younger. Gifts, surprises, things we thought he might like. But in the end, spending time together was the only thing that felt…adequate.”
Clark remembers the way Dick’s mouth had tilted into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Truth is, I don’t think he likes his birthday. He never says it outright, but you can tell. After a while, none of us wanted to push. Making him uncomfortable kind of defeats the point, you know?”
The memory settles heavier now, with Bruce sitting stone-faced in front of him, so perfectly composed he might as well have been carved into the chair.
Clark knew his own meddling had caused problems before, and he wasn’t about to stage some grand, elaborate scheme for Bruce’s birthday anyway. The very idea of a surprise celebration made his skin crawl—Clark hated being caught off guard himself, and Bruce… well, Bruce would hate it even more.
It was such a cliché. What do you buy for the man who already has everything? He’d considered making something by hand, but his talents had never leaned that way. Ma had kept every lopsided clay mug and stick-figure drawing he’d made, proudly taping them to the fridge even into high school, but Bruce wasn’t Ma. And money? A card? Insignificant. Bruce might tolerate a few kind words, but Clark preferred to say them out loud—watching Bruce absorb them in real time was half the reward.
Which left him here. Empty-handed. Out of ideas. Hence, asking Bruce directly.
“Right. I mean, dinner.” Clark cleared his throat, shifting where he stood behind the chair. Bruce was bent over the console, blue light painting the edges of his jaw. “That’s nice. So… is that happening this year?”
A grunt, noncommittal. “Perhaps.” A pause, faintly strained. “The boys have been occupied. So have I.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Clark frowned, watching the tight line of Bruce’s shoulders, the pale reflection of data scrolling across his eyes. “Would you want to… I dunno. Celebrate with the League?” A beat, softer. “With me?”
Bruce’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. He turned at last, meeting Clark’s gaze head-on. “Superman. Clark, I… appreciate the effort. I simply don’t see the importance of it. It’s just another day.”
Not true. Not true at all. Clark felt the words flare hot in his chest. How could the day Bruce Wayne was born be just another day? He caught himself imagining whether the sun had shone that morning in Gotham, whether it had managed to break through February’s gloom. Likely not. But Clark thought it should have, if only once, for him. Gotham herself had bent around Bruce for decades, made room for his stubborn devotion, his bone-deep strength. He carried so much, always for others, never for himself. And now he wanted to dismiss his own existence as ordinary? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
Clark opened his mouth, ready to press harder, but Bruce’s lips quirked faintly upward, the closest thing to mischief Clark had seen from him in weeks. “Unless your mother feels up to making me her apple cake.”
Well. That wasn’t something Clark had considered. Before he could answer, Bruce reached out and gave his arm a brief pat. The gesture was light, almost dismissive, but it carried the weight of finality. “Go home. Rest. I’ll finish up here and do the same.”
Clark knew better. Bruce had said the same thing every night for the past three days, and every night, Clark had found the cave lights burning hours later. (Not that Bruce knew he had been checking in, but that didn’t really matter). Still, he didn’t press. He could let the lie stand because now, at least, he had a plan.
After a trip back to Smallville, a confusing grocery run (who knew there were so many kinds of apples?), and one disastrous attempt in his own kitchen, Clark was forced to admit he needed help. Flour dusted the counters, the floor, and his hair. Two ruined tins sat in the sink like casualties, and the charred, sagging remains of an “apple cake” slumped in the trash. No amount of gentle coaching over the phone from Ma was going to fix this in time for Bruce’s birthday.
“I don’t know the boy,” Ma had said after listening to him fuss and fret. “And while I’d usually agree, don’t you think it’s best if it comes from someone he loves, Clark?”
Clark had agreed in theory. But practically? Bruce was better off with a cake from the mother of someone he loved, rather than from the man himself, if the goal was something edible.
So, with his pride set aside, Clark found himself heading to the Manor on a day he knew Bruce would be tied up with League business, which just so happened to be the day of his birthday. Clark hadn't been able to get a hold of him the entire time, and he was briefly saddened by the fact that he was working today before indulging in a brief session of self-encouragement.
“Oh, my.” Said Alfred upon opening the door, the slight raise of his browns the only sign that Clark had truly messed something up.
Clark grimaced as Alfred studied the phone screen with severity. Clark had taken photos of the wreckage in his apartment kitchen. He wanted proof, just in case Alfred suggested he attempt another round on his own.
“Well, it certainly shows determination, Master Kent.”
“That’s one way of saying it,” Clark muttered, sliding the phone back into his pocket after one last, mournful glance at the photo. The scorched tin, the collapsing sponge, the sticky handprint of caramelized sugar smeared across his counter. It had been a battlefield, and he had lost. “Please. I really hate to ask this of you, but I’m out of ideas. If I try again, those apples are going to hate me.”
Alfred’s brow arched, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth the only sign of amusement. “It has been some time since Master Bruce allowed me to make him a cake for his birthday. To be frank, part of me fears he’ll be displeased, but…” He considered, eyes narrowing in thought before softening almost imperceptibly. “Very well. Bring in your things. If we start now, we may finish before Master Bruce returns.”
Clark didn’t cheer, though the urge almost bubbled up. Instead, he hurried inside, arms full and already fumbling through his papers. “I have her recipe,” he said, unfolding a creased sheet Ma had written in looping script. “She tried her best to explain it, but, you know… she says a lot of this is ‘measured by heart.’” He winced, offering the page. “And I don’t really know how to do that.”
Alfred accepted the paper, scanning the neat handwriting with a low hum. “Measured by heart,” he echoed, faintly wistful. “Yes. I imagine that is not a skill one acquires easily. Let’s see…” His eyes moved down the page, pausing. One brow lifted. “Half a cup of sugar and honey? Curious. I would normally reduce the sugar if honey is present. But then, I suppose this is what gives the Kent cake its charm.”
Clark leaned over his shoulder, frowning. “Is that…bad?”
“Not necessarily. It is simply not how I would do it.” Alfred tapped the margin with a finger, lips pressed thin. “And what, pray tell, does she mean by ‘a handful of flour if the apples look too wet’? A baker cannot work from such ambiguity.”
Clark offered a sheepish shrug. “I can’t really defend it. You saw my kitchen.”
“Mm.” Alfred folded the page with surgical precision, setting it on the counter. “I suppose all we can do is our best. Your mother is an excellent cook, Master Kent, and it would be a shame to do her recipes a disservice.” He gestured toward the sink with a flick of his hand. “Now, go wash your hands. And put on an apron if you wish to keep your clothes clean. I will not be laundering flour out of that.”
Clark smiled faintly, rolling up his sleeves as he crossed to the sink. It felt oddly grounding, standing here under Alfred’s instruction, like a boy back in his mother’s kitchen.
After some brief negotiation over the quantity of each ingredient (and Alfred’s firm insistence on several of his own additions because, “Master Bruce would appreciate it”), they settled into a steady rhythm. Clark measured, Alfred refined; Clark mixed, Alfred corrected.
The kitchen filled with the scrape of wooden spoons against bowls, the crisp chop of a knife on the cutting board. Now and again, Alfred’s voice cut through the hum of their work: “No, stir with the wrist, not the whole arm—unless you mean to redecorate the backsplash.” Or, “That is a chop, Master Kent, not an excavation. The apples need not suffer further indignity.”
Clark endured the criticism with the patience of a saint, though the faint crease in his brow betrayed how carefully he was trying. His hands, steady enough to weld steel beams together, fumbled clumsily with eggshells and measuring cups. Flour dusted the countertop like snow, and a smear of honey clung stubbornly to his knuckles.
And still, despite the interruptions, there was a rhythm to it. There was a slow and deliberate choreography, one that felt almost natural.
By the time they had folded the last of the apples into the batter and scraped it carefully into the waiting pan, Clark found himself asking without much thought, “Why doesn’t Bruce celebrate his birthday?”
He wasn’t really expecting an answer.
Alfred adjusted the oven rack with practiced precision before sliding the pan inside. “Most assume it has to do with the loss of his parents,” he said evenly. “And while that is certainly a contributing factor, Master Bruce has never been partial to grand celebrations of his birth. I haven’t a clue if you’ve noticed, but he is not particularly fond of galas or company events either. He attends because he is responsible, not because he enjoys them.”
“So…he doesn’t like parties.”
“No, he does not.” Alfred shut the oven door with a soft click. “His birthday in particular has always been difficult for him. Even as a child, he refused the large celebrations his mother and father tried to arrange. He far preferred to spend the day in their company, quietly. I suppose that has carried through to his children.”
Clark leaned back against the counter, considering that. “Huh. So…there’s no reason for it?”
Alfred’s hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression unreadable. “Unfortunate as it is, many things about Master Bruce do not have a reason. He is a complicated person, and always has been.”
And that… didn’t feel fair to Clark. Alfred likely knew Bruce better than anyone alive, but Clark couldn’t accept that “complicated” was all there was. Bruce wasn’t a collection of mysteries without meaning. The man was deliberate; there was intention in nearly everything he did, even when it seemed arbitrary to others.
Clark had seen it. He had memorized it.
Bruce always positioned himself between the most vulnerable person in a room and the nearest exit, even if it meant standing at an awkward angle, even if no one else noticed. His index finger twitched when he was annoyed, but Clark had tracked the difference: it wasn’t the sharp twitch of anger, but the subtle flex of impatience, as if Bruce’s mind was already three steps ahead and waiting for the world to catch up.
When he was tired, truly tired, Bruce blinked differently. Not the quick flutter of fatigue, but a single, deliberate closing of his eyes that lingered for a beat too long, as though he could steal half a second of rest from the darkness. To anyone else, it looked like nothing, but Clark had come to recognize it as a kind of survival tactic, a refusal to give in to exhaustion even as his body begged for it.
There were smaller things too, rituals that might pass as quirks but weren’t. He stirred his coffee clockwise, three exact turns before lifting the cup. He adjusted his cufflinks whenever he was about to say something uncomfortable. He had a habit of rolling his shoulder, the left one, when he was recalibrating after an injury. Each gesture, each habit, each so-called quirk: it meant something.
So no, Clark couldn’t accept that Bruce didn’t like parties or his birthday “just because.” That wasn’t Bruce. Everything about him had a reason. Even if Bruce couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say it aloud, Clark believed the reason was there.
But he had never been the person who pushed out of curiosity. He cared about Bruce, and hounding him for explanations wasn’t going to make him comfortable. So Clark set it aside. Whatever the reason was, it could wait. He’d make sure Bruce had something good on his birthday, even if it wasn’t anything grand.
When Alfred cleared the counters and wiped down the flour-dusted surface, Clark assumed that was the end of it—that they’d wait for the cake to finish baking, see it cooled, and call it a night. But then Alfred opened the cabinets again, pulling out a pan with brisk efficiency.
Clark blinked. “What are you—?”
“Making dinner, Master Kent.” Alfred’s tone brooked no argument. “You expect me to allow him to have dessert without his dinner?”
Clark smiled, rolling his sleeves higher. “Fair point. What’s on the menu?”
“Something sensible,” Alfred said, already selecting vegetables. “He will need a proper meal, not another excuse to subsist on coffee.”
And so Clark found himself chopping, stirring, and fetching under Alfred’s direction again. It was easier this time, the rhythm of teamwork settling in quicker. Clark loved the scent of the kitchen, onions and garlic and herbs he was hardly paying attention to. It all blurred into a kind of comfort Clark rarely let himself imagine here.
He was halfway through laughing at one of Alfred’s drier remarks about his knife skills when he heard the faint shift of the front door and the unmistakable tread of boots on the polished floor. Somehow, Clark hadn’t even noticed Bruce arrive, too focused on making sure he didn’t burn dinner.
Bruce looked… awful. Tired and grimy, like exhaustion had set its claws into him and refused to let go. He was out of the suit, but the clothes he’d changed into were wrinkled and stained, his shirt hanging loosely on his frame as though it hadn’t been ironed in days. His hair was damp with sweat at the temples, his eyes dark hollows under the dim kitchen light.
Clark dropped the spatula he was holding with a loud clatter. “Bruce, gosh—you look exhausted.” He reached out instinctively, steadying him as Bruce stumbled slightly into the doorway.
“Kal?” Bruce rasped, rubbing at his face. He didn’t pull away the way Clark expected, just leaned into the hand on his arm with a surprising weight. His eyes narrowed, slow to focus. “Is that Stephanie’s apron—?”
“Happy birthday, Bruce,” Clark said weakly. He tugged at the apron strings like a guilty child. “I, uh… I dunno. Might be. Alfred gave it to me.” His concern sharpened as he took in Bruce’s pallor. “What happened?”
Bruce groaned, his head falling forward until it pressed uselessly against Clark’s chest. “Tired. Fine.” His voice was muffled in Clark’s shirt. He breathed in, frowning faintly. “You smell like… cinnamon.”
“Master Bruce hasn’t slept properly for a week,” Alfred observed without looking up from the stove. His tone was dry, but edged with concern. “It is a good thing you are here, Master Kent. Do get him upstairs and cleaned up, will you?”
Bruce stirred at that, finally mustering enough will to push against Clark’s chest. “Will someone just explain what’s going on?” His voice cracked with irritation and fatigue. “I’m fine.”
Clark didn’t budge. His hand stayed steady at Bruce’s elbow, guiding without force. “You’re not fine. You can barely stand upright.” His voice was quiet, coaxing. “Come on, Bruce. Upstairs. Wash up, change into something clean. Alfred and I made dinner—it’ll still be here when you come back down.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, the shadow of his old defiance flickering across his face. “Dinner,” he repeated, skeptical. His eyes darted past Clark to the counter, where mixing bowls and cutting boards still sat in disarray, the oven humming warmly. He blinked once, slowly. “You?”
Clark winced. “Well. Alfred supervised. I… helped.”
“Helped,” Bruce said flatly, as if tasting the word.
Alfred stirred the pan with immaculate calm. “Master Kent was insistent on ensuring you had a proper birthday meal. He required… direction.”
Bruce huffed through his nose, the sound thin but unmistakably close to a laugh. “Kal. You really…” He shook his head, as though the words might materialize if he gave them long enough. They didn’t. He was too tired for deflection, too worn down to finish the thought. He tried anyway, reaching for that familiar, careless mask, but Clark caught the cracks in it. It pleased him to no end to see that his shoulders eased, even if slightly, under Clark’s steadying hand.
“Go upstairs,” Clark said again, gentler now, the edge of command stripped from his voice. “Please.”
Bruce blinked at him, slower than usual, and Clark realized with a start that he was more out of it than he’d thought. His eyes dragged toward the counter, toward the scent of cinnamon and apples hanging in the air. “You cooked for me,” he murmured, his voice catching in the middle. His nose wrinkled faintly as he sniffed. “And… baked. Apparently.” His gaze shifted back to Clark, faintly dazed, faintly suspicious. “Clark, why did…”
The question trailed, heavy with something Clark couldn’t name.
Without thinking, Clark reached up and brushed a wayward strand of hair from Bruce’s forehead. Clark was struck by how much he liked seeing Bruce here, even at his worst. “Go clean up,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here when you come back.”
For a moment, Bruce didn’t move. He just stood there, gaze lingering on Clark like he was trying to solve something too complex for his exhaustion to untangle. Then, finally, he exhaled and turned toward the stairs. Clark twitched, wanting to carry him up and bathe him himself, when Bruce tumbled slightly forward on the first step of the stairs.
By the time he came back down, cleaner, hair damp and clinging at the temples, there was already color back in his face. Alfred had set the dining table, the warm scent of roasted vegetables and herbs filling the room. Plates clinked softly as he finished arranging the meal.
“I’ll help,” Clark said quickly, stepping to Alfred’s side like an overeager apprentice.
Alfred didn’t even glance at him. He sidestepped Clark entirely, setting the final plate down with immaculate care. “You two can have dinner together,” he said, his voice gentle in a way that cut through Clark’s nerves more effectively than his usual dry tone. “I do think Master Bruce needs a night off, even if he doesn’t want to. Feed him, and get him into bed. Let me do the rest.”
Clark blinked, still caught off guard by Alfred’s tone, by the quiet trust tucked inside it. Before he could protest, Alfred had already taken him by the shoulders and guided him toward the table, as firmly as if Clark were one of the Waynes himself. Bruce, for his part, hardly resisted, and instead let himself be eased into the nearest chair, body folding like a sack of potatoes. It seemed that he had been waiting for someone else to make the decision for him.
A moment later, Clark found himself seated opposite, Alfred’s hand briefly pressing at his shoulder before withdrawing. Clark went to thank him, but he had already disappeared off into another place in the manor, wherever it was Alfred spent most of his time.
The silence that followed pressed at Clark’s ears.
Bruce sat hunched over his plate, the weight of him sloping forward as though gravity had finally won. He looked about two seconds away from planting his face into the meal Alfred had so carefully plated. Clark shifted in his chair, fingers tapping uselessly against his knee. For all his powers, he had no idea what to do here. There was no textbook on caring about Bruce Wayne without scaring him off.
“Uh,” Clark tried, his voice too loud in the stillness. He winced, lowering it. “Smells good, right?”
Bruce just stared at him. For a moment, he looked like he might be glaring, but then he blinked, slow, as if his brain had to catch up before his mouth could move. “You and Alfred cooked dinner,” he said at last. His gaze drifted toward the counter, then back to Clark. “And baked. Why?”
Clark shifted in his chair, suddenly too big for the room, words tripping over each other on their way out. “Uhm. I just… wanted to do something nice for you. For your birthday. I know everyone else is busy, and you were on a job, and you haven’t slept in days, so you probably just want to—uh—sleep for a while, but I thought… hey, you like Ma’s cooking, so why not try? Or at least, you know, attempt.” He gave a weak smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was mostly Alfred. I was moral support.”
Bruce looked at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then, against all odds, the incredulity melted into something softer. He cleared his throat, barely managing to hide the way the corners of his mouth tugged upward slightly. It was softer than Clark thought he deserved, but he would always soak up every bit of happiness Bruce allowed him to see.
“You’re so…” Bruce shook his head, a low huff of laughter breaking free. “You’re stupid, Clark. Seriously.” His voice had no bite, only tired warmth. He lowered his gaze to the food in front of him, and when he looked up again, his expression was something closer to wonder. “And thank you. Alfred never lets anyone cook with him, you know.”
Clark could die now and be happy for the rest of eternity. It was probably just exhaustion making Bruce this pliant, but still. What a combination. A smile, a laugh, and an insult that wasn’t really an insult. Angels were singing. Unicorns were bursting from fairy-tale forests. Rainbows and sunshine, everywhere. He wanted to bottle this moment and keep it forever.
“I care about you,” Clark blurted, too fast, too raw. His ears burned, but he pressed on. “A lot. So does Alfred. We—uh. We love you. So… birthday dinner.” He gestured vaguely at the table like the plates might explain it for him.
Bruce let out a sigh, but it wasn’t sharp or weary. It sounded like something loosening in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Celebrating things like this… it isn’t for me. But you must have gone through a lot of effort to do this.” A faint shadow of amusement tugged at his mouth. “I can’t even imagine the state of your kitchen at the moment.”
Clark gaped. “How did you—”
“I know you,” Bruce interrupted, shaking his head. “I knew you’d try to plan something.” His fork toyed with the edge of the plate before he finally took a bite. “But this is… nice.”
Clark leaned forward, unable to help himself. “Yeah?”
Bruce’s gaze met his, steady, and for a heartbeat, Clark swore the room was quieter, warmer for it. “Yes, Clark. It’s lovely.”