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Clark thinks, watching Bruce Wayne gesture his arm in a wide arc that spills not a small amount of prosecco onto a politician as he talks animatedly about the caterer’s baked pear pastries, that he’s an extremely lucky person. He’s thought this a lot in his life, on and off depending on what step of the neverending cycle of his distorted self-image he’s on, but this time it has nothing to do with his ability to fly or the time he found a twenty in the lint compartment of his dryer.
An elbow bumps against his and Clark doesn’t have to look to know Dick’s sporting a winning smile identical to his dad’s in that moment. His voice is cheery in tone, low in everything else. “You couldn’t be more obvious if you tried.”
“I can definitely try,” Clark answers, looking then. He’s right about the smile. Dick can separate himself from the mantle of Robin all he wants, and it’s his right, but he’ll never stop looking like Bruce’s son. It’s more than the hair or the eyes; their mannerisms are eerie in their synchronization.
Dick tilts his head like Clark just said the most interesting thing in the world. “You can go back to staring if you also turn on the lasers.”
“I’m not maiming Bruce just because you two are fighting right now.”
He gives a loud, convincing laugh. “Okay. Then please find a way to get him out of here so I can get a scope of the room and not do it myself.”
Clark gives a bemused, Superman-appropriate grin. “I thought we were all working together.”
“Tell that to Brucie,” his voice loses some of its theater with the abrupt jerk of his chin he gives, “suddenly taking an interest in every single person I approach.” Clark watches Dick take a sip of his drink and fit the loose piece of his identity back into place, back to a casual lilt. “Y’know, if we don’t want another scene.”
Considering the last scene ended in more than one broken family heirloom, Clark does not. He huffs through his nose and resists saying something about having some sense because he knows that’s not an argument he’ll win considering Dick’s in the right.
Clark nods, doubly resisting fixing the lock of hair that fought out of the gel when Dick jerked his head, same one that always has since he was a kid and Clark could fix it without raising suspicions. He just gestures and starts toward Bruce. “I’ll talk to him. I can buy you five minutes and some change.”
“Thanks,” Dick says in his actual way before pitching louder with a punctuating wink. “You’re super, man!”
Someone laughs nearby. Clark wants to roll his eyes but he’s never not found Dick’s puns adorable and him being twenty hasn’t changed that, for some reason. He gets why his ma still pinches his cheeks when he goes for Thanksgiving.
But back to the matter at hand.
Clark would have to find a subtle way into the conversation if he were wearing glasses right now. He isn’t, however, so people just kind of do the thing where they part around him. Bruce, ever vapid, doesn’t look at Clark even when the model he’s chatting up does. He only deigns to slide his sparkling eyes over when he finishes his sentence, beaming in his direction. “Superman! What brings you over?”
It isn’t hard to put on an easy smile, even when under all that sparkle, Bruce’s gaze is sharp and analytical. They’ve established that Clark never approaches him first at a function in the cape unless it’s something important. After all, what could Superman possibly have to talk about with Bruce Wayne?
“I wanted to ask about that Kryptonian artifact you told me about earlier,” apparently.
Bruce cocks his head even as everybody gives interested Oh’s . “What, now?” He motions less explosively this time since the model’s hanging off his arm, a winning smile all around. “And leave all this lovely company?”
Clark knows there’s some truth to not wanting to leave, under everything, but he also knows that’s the phrase Bruce uses to prompt the punctual:
“Oh, Brucie ,” the model croons, stroking his suit jacket into place and making a great show of it herself considering Clark knows she’s one of Dick’s marks, “we couldn’t possibly keep you from Superman. ”
“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly,” continues Bruce, even as he sets his full glass on a tray as the waiter walks by. The exchange goes on for a full minute, back and forth, until everybody joins in and Bruce finally extracts himself with a placating wave that turns into him gesturing for Clark to follow.
Clark does, falling in step next to him to start on the familiar route up the stairs to the office. “I really am glad I’ll be able to get this to you,” Bruce chatters on. “It’s all yours, of course, just glad to get it back in the right hands. I’d appreciate a translation, though, it has this writing on the side that I’m sure isn’t too important, but you can’t exactly fault me for being curious…”
They stop at the door as he presses his thumb into the hidden keypad under the lock and steps in, waiting for Clark to go first before closing the door behind him.
The result is instantaneous. The creature that is Bruce Wayne falls away like a shucked jacket, shoulders straightening out of their nonchalant slouch as something not quite Bruce, not Batman takes his place. Any hint of the alcohol-honeyed voice is paved over by a gravelled, “What happened? What did Dick say?”
Clark’s not sure if he himself looks any different from one second to the next since he’s still in the suit, but he knows there’s no small trace of Smallville in his, “It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”
“Clark,” Bruce says warningly, and even the step forward is heavier than the jaunty pace that Clark had kept up with up the stairs.
“Nothing,” Clark responds, leaning back with both hands on the edge of Bruce’s desk. “On an unrelated note, why are you poaching all his suspects?”
Bruce scowls so unbelievably petulantly that any trace of the Bat is purged from the image. “I am not poaching his—“
“Bruce, I saw you do it,” Clark says exasperatedly.
Bruce’s savage response is, “Now who’s the eavesdropper?”
Clark gives him a flat look. Bruce flaps a hand around, “I don’t have time for this.”
Superspeed’s the only reason Clark’s able to stop him from opening the door, catching his sleeve. Bruce glares at him but doesn’t pull away. Clark lets go. “Sorry. But make time. He has a point.”
Bruce narrows his eyes, flicking between both of Clark’s until he settles on the low response of, “I don’t understand what else I can do.” He doesn’t sag so much as look more tired, looking away and running a hand back through his gelled hair in a nervous gesture he’d never admit to but Clark knows anyway. “I’m being civil. I’m giving him his space. I’m letting him run his investigation at this fundraiser even after the scene at the last one.”
“One you both caused, might I add,” Clark says gently.
“You might not,” Bruce mutters back. Clark might continue the line of thought if there isn’t something genuinely defeated there that breaks his heart clean in two. He knows how hard Bruce tries with his kids just as much as he knows that it doesn’t prevent his normal behavior from bleeding through the cracks and messing things up sometimes.
Clark touches him again, two fingers tucked under his sleeve against his wrist this time. “I don’t want to sound condescending,” he starts, “but have you tried not sabotaging his mission?”
“I’m not sabotaging his—“ Bruce sets his jaw, “He’s being too obvious. He can blow his cover all he wants as Nightwing, but he’s still learning how to be covert as Dick Grayson, and that line’s too fine to blur on the kind of mission he’s dealing with right now.”
Clark frowns as it all starts clicking into place, “I think he knows that.”
Bruce scoffs. “He can know all he wants, it’s about putting it into practice, and I just don’t think he’s ready.”
“Which has nothing to do with the fact that your last argument was because his last lack of hindsight earned him a broken arm?”
More silence. His jaw could cut through stone at this point
“Bruce,” Clark tries and continues even if Bruce still doesn’t look at him, “your decision isn’t law for him. I know it’s been hard seeing him fly the nest and everything, but you know that he’s perfectly capable.”
“I saw the footage,” he finally says and meets Clark’s eye, steady despite how Clark can hear his pulse speed up at the memory. “He was lucky it was only his arm.”
Clark puts it very nicely. “You unfortunately do not have the high ground to argue your case with how many injuries he sustains. I think I can see fractures in your bones that I didn’t even know existed anatomically.” Bruce mumbles something unintelligible. Clark flattens his entire hand onto his forearm, thumb stroking over the inside, “He has to learn for himself. You’re extending the olive branch, here, it’s bad form to try and take it back.”
“Is it,” Bruce says flatly, glancing at the door.
“Bruce.”
“I’ll stop interfering,” he concedes, sounding like every word fights its way out of his mouth. He looks back. “I won’t stop monitoring, though.”
“Neither will I,” Clark says without thinking and Bruce cocks an eyebrow. He winces and sheepishly scratches at the back of his neck for a second. “I’ve been keeping a couple of senses out for his commlink.” He channels the sheepishness into an attempt at a smile, “Bet you’re happy I accepted the invitation now, aren’t you?”
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Bruce mutters but he finally turns his hand to shake Clark’s out of his sleeve and lace their fingers together loosely. There’s a beat where he just kind of leans into Clark’s space. It balms over where it hurt to see him so lost earlier, the fact he can find comfort in him. That he trusts him enough with Dick.
A deep breath makes him rise and fall into the Wayne posture. When he leans back on his heels and turns his body toward the door, the slant of his mouth goes caddish, almost mocking. It’s impressive every single time. He still hasn’t let go of Clark’s hand. “So are you finished keeping me away from my guests, or is there anything else I could do for you?”
Clark knows they’ll probably have to talk about it more. Later, once everyone leaves, Dick among them, and Jason’s in bed, and neither of them have to be suited up. That’s later.
Now, Clark says, “Just one more thing, actually,” and loops the arm attached to their joint hands around to hug Bruce around the waist with his own arm. Despite the facade coming back on, Bruce remains in how he rolls his eyes and angles his head away, smile stays intact. Clark carefully takes his jaw and tilts his head back so he can press a kiss to his brow bone, then his cheek. Bruce huffs but makes no move to go away so Clark gets one more tucked against the corner of his eye.
“Been wanting to do that all night. This is one of my favorite suits on you.” He pulls back to nudge their temples together. “Dick’ll come back around. Just give him time. And maybe another apology.”
Bruce hums noncommittally. He turns his head slightly so their noses bump but don’t touch. If it wasn’t because of his super senses, Clark doesn’t think he’d be able to feel where Bruce murmurs a, “Thank you,” against his mouth.
“Any time,” Clark responds to pretend he’s not blushing despite himself. For a second, Bruce is looking at him like he might actually abandon the party for a bit.
Then the door starts shaking with small knocks.
“Dad? Daaad?” The voice tempers down into a bad attempt at a whisper, “I need to go into the Cave. I left my blue tie in there and I want to match with Dick.”
Clark lets go with a grin, stepping away as Bruce sighs and says back, “Yes, Jay, I’ll have Clark go down with you now.”
“Cool! I’m waiting at the clock.”
His dress shoed-feet patter away. Bruce waits a minute, slowly untangling their hands with a final fleeting kiss to the back of Clark’s, before opening the door.
They go their separate ways, but Clark still gets a glimpse of Bruce pointedly going in the opposite direction of where Dick is finally talking to the model. He lets himself smile at their backs and goes to help Jason with his tie.