Chapter Text
The fight had been going badly for approximately four minutes before Batman decided to make it everyone’s problem.
This was not unusual.
Batman had a particular talent for looking at a collapsing battlefield, identifying the worst possible place to stand, and then standing there with the grim determination of a man who had already planned his own funeral and considered it tactically useful.
The Justice League was fighting a villain called Dr. Bliss, which sounded harmless right up until the woman started firing violet gas canisters that made bank guards sob about childhood pets and made three SWAT officers confess to unpaid parking tickets.
“The truth of the soul, unleashed!” Dr. Bliss shouted from atop a stolen armored truck.
“Great,” Green Lantern snapped, creating a glowing shield around a group of civilians. “A feelings villain. Those are always the worst.”
Flash skidded past him with two unconscious henchmen tucked under his arms. “Worse than the lava guy?”
“The lava guy didn’t make me talk about my fear of commitment.”
“You brought that up yourself.”
“I was under stress, Barry.”
Across the street, Superman was busy holding up the side of a crumbling building with one hand while using his heat vision to cut through the remains of a metal trap around Wonder Woman.
“Batman,” Superman called, “watch the northeast side!”
“I see it,” Batman replied.
He did, in fact, see it.
He saw the henchman on the fire escape. He saw the canister launcher. He saw the angle of the shot, the wind direction, the civilians huddled near the pharmacy entrance, and the fact that if the canister hit the pavement, the gas would flood directly into the crowd.
Batman moved before anyone else registered the danger.
A batarang sliced through the launcher strap. The henchman shouted. The canister fired wild.
Batman caught it.
For one impressive, terrible second, Superman thought he had solved the problem.
Then the canister cracked open in Batman’s gauntleted hand and exploded in his face.
“Batman!”
Violet smoke swallowed him.
He staggered back one step.
Only one.
Then he threw the canister into the sky, fired a grapnel, and yanked it upward before it could spill more gas over the civilians. Green Lantern encased it in a construct bubble a heartbeat later, trapping the remaining cloud safely above the street.
Batman took another step.
Then his knees buckled.
Superman heard his heartbeat stutter, not stop, but slow in a way that made his own chest seize with fear.
He dropped the building carefully into place, crossed the street in a blur, and caught Batman before he hit the ground.
“Bruce,” Clark said, low enough that only the comms could catch it.
Batman did not answer.
His cowl lenses were opaque. His mouth was slack. The lower half of his face looked pale beneath the soot and bruising.
Wonder Woman landed beside them, sword still in hand. “Is he breathing?”
“Yes,” Superman said quickly. “Pulse is steadying. He inhaled the gas.”
Green Lantern touched down nearby. “That stuff made a police captain tell me he secretly hates his own mustache.”
Flash appeared at Superman’s side, eyes wide. “What does it do to Batman?”
For a moment, all of them looked down at the unconscious Dark Knight.
The silence was immediate and profound.
Then Aquaman, who had been using a fire hydrant like a pressure cannon, said, “We may not survive the answer.”
Batman did not wake up during the rest of the fight.
That, more than anything, unnerved them.
Batman got concussed and kept giving orders. Batman got stabbed and called it “manageable.” Batman once fought through a broken collarbone, two cracked ribs, and a fever of 102 while insisting he was “within acceptable limits.”
Batman unconscious was wrong.
Superman carried him to the Watchtower as soon as Dr. Bliss was restrained and the gas samples were contained. He did it carefully, one arm beneath Batman’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees, cape wrapped protectively around both of them to shield him from debris and reporters.
Flash ran ahead to prep the medbay.
Wonder Woman contacted the Batcomputer.
Or tried to.
The Batcomputer immediately answered with Alfred’s voice.
“Justice League emergency channel. Pennyworth speaking.”
Diana blinked. “Alfred?”
“Princess Diana. I assume Master Bruce has done something heroic and foolish.”
Green Lantern muttered, “That is such a good summary of Batman.”
Diana’s lips twitched. “He was exposed to an emotional disinhibitor and knocked unconscious. Superman is bringing him to the Watchtower medbay.”
There was a tiny pause.
Then Alfred said, “I see.”
Flash, who had been vibrating beside the medbay doors, leaned toward the comm. “Is that bad?”
“Given Master Bruce’s usual emotional repression, Mr. Allen, I imagine it will be either medically concerning or deeply embarrassing.”
Green Lantern brightened. “So, silver lining?”
“Mr. Jordan,” Alfred said pleasantly, “if you record him, I will know.”
Hal froze.
No one asked how Alfred knew it was him.
Superman laid Batman on the medbay bed with such careful gentleness that even Arthur softened slightly watching him.
“He should be okay,” Clark said, scanning him with X-ray vision. “No skull fracture. Mild concussion. Elevated toxin markers, but his body is metabolizing it.”
“Because of course he designed his body to metabolize toxins faster,” Barry said.
“Years of exposure,” Clark said, which did not make anyone feel better.
Diana removed Batman’s gauntlets with practiced care. “Should we remove the cowl?”
Batman’s hand shot up and clamped weakly around her wrist.
Everyone startled.
His eyes were still closed.
“No,” Batman rasped.
Then he frowned.
A small, confused frown.
“Actually,” he murmured, “You all know. That’s silly.”
Batman removes his cowl.
The entire medbay went silent.
Superman leaned closer. “Bruce?”
Batman’s eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, his gaze was unfocused. His pupils were blown wide, blue barely visible behind the black of them. Then his eyes found Superman.
His expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
The hard line of his mouth softened. The tension in his jaw disappeared. He looked at Clark like Clark was the first sunrise after a long winter.
“Oh,” Bruce said quietly. “It’s you.”
Clark’s heart did something embarrassing.
“Yes,” he said gently. “It’s me. You’re on the Watchtower. You were hit with Dr. Bliss’s gas.”
Bruce blinked slowly. “Feel strange.”
“I know.”
“No filter,” Bruce said, as if clinically reporting a symptom.
Hal took one careful step backward.
Barry whispered, “Oh no.”
Bruce turned his head toward the sound.
His eyes landed on Barry.
“Barry,” Bruce said.
Barry straightened like he had been called on in class. “Yes?”
“You’re very kind.”
Barry blinked. “I— what?”
Bruce continued looking at him with devastating sincerity. “You make people feel less afraid. That is not a small thing. You arrive laughing, and people breathe easier.”
Barry’s mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Bruce looked concerned. “Are you hydrated?”
Hal made a noise that might have been a laugh dying in his throat.
Barry pointed at Bruce helplessly. “He complimented me.”
“I heard,” Clark said, trying very hard not to smile too widely.
Bruce turned to Hal.
Hal immediately raised both hands. “Nope.”
Bruce frowned. “Nope?”
“I’m not emotionally ready for whatever is about to happen.”
“You act arrogant when you’re scared,” Bruce said.
Hal’s hands dropped.
Bruce’s gaze softened. “But you’re brave. Not because you’re fearless. Because you keep choosing to stand between danger and everyone else, even when you are terrified of not being enough.”
The medbay went painfully still.
Hal stared at him.
Then he said, voice rough, “Okay, wow. That one went for the ribs.”
Bruce looked mildly alarmed. “Did I injure you?”
“No, Bats. Metaphor.”
“Oh.” Bruce paused. “You should still get your ribs checked. You favor your left side after long flights.”
Hal turned to Clark. “Make him stop being nice. It’s worse than the growling.”
Diana stepped closer, eyes bright with amusement and affection. “Bruce.”
He turned toward her.
His expression warmed immediately.
“Diana,” he said. “You’re wonderful.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“No, really wonderful.” Bruce tried to sit up. Clark gently put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down. Bruce accepted it without protest, which made every person in the room stare. “You are strong in all the ways people notice, but also in the ways they don’t. You carry grief like a queen and kindness like a sword.”
Diana’s smile softened into something almost vulnerable.
“That is very poetic for a concussion,” she said.
“I wrote it down once,” Bruce admitted.
Clark’s head snapped toward him.
Diana’s brows lifted. “You wrote that down?”
“In case I ever had to give a speech at your funeral.”
Silence.
Arthur rubbed a hand down his face. “There he is.”
Diana laughed, warm and startled. “I am choosing to accept the compliment and ignore the context.”
“That is wise,” J’onn said.
Bruce turned toward him.
J’onn stood at the foot of the bed, calm as ever, though his eyes held that quiet concern he rarely voiced aloud.
Bruce’s expression shifted again.
“J’onn,” he said softly.
“Yes, Bruce?”
“You’re lonely.”
The room went still.
J’onn did not move.
Bruce looked devastated by his own words. “I’m sorry. That was private.”
“It is all right.”
“No.” Bruce’s brows drew together. “No, it isn’t. I should invite you more. To the manor. We have tea. Alfred makes very good tea. Damian pretends not to like guests, but he does. Cass likes quiet people. You can sit with us and not talk. You shouldn’t always have to be the last of something alone.”
J’onn’s eyes closed for a brief second.
When he opened them again, there was something shining there.
“I would like that,” he said.
Bruce nodded, solemn and relieved. “Good.”
Arthur cleared his throat loudly. “I would also like tea.”
Bruce looked at him.
Arthur looked back, daring him.
“You pretend not to care,” Bruce said.
Arthur’s face fell. “Ah.”
“But you care about everything,” Bruce continued. “Too much. You just get angry because land people are exhausting.”
“They are,” Arthur said at once.
Bruce nodded. “Valid.”
Arthur pointed at him. “I like this Batman.”
“That’s Bruce,” Clark said quietly.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Bruce turned back to him.
And smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a tactical half-expression. Not the terrifying thing he did before telling someone they had exactly seven seconds to surrender.
A real smile.
Small, tired, and painfully fond.
“Clark,” Bruce said, like the name itself was warm.
Superman went very still.
“Oh boy,” Barry whispered.
Bruce reached up.
For a moment, Clark thought he was reaching for the cowl, maybe trying to reassert control.
Instead, Bruce took Clark’s hand.
The entire medbay stopped breathing.
Clark looked down at their joined hands.
Bruce’s gloved fingers curled around his with unexpected gentleness.
“You always come,” Bruce said.
Clark swallowed. “Of course I do.”
“No,” Bruce said, shaking his head slightly. “Not of course. People leave. People die. People get tired. But you always come.”
Clark’s expression crumpled a little around the edges.
“Bruce.”
“You’re the best of us,” Bruce said. “And I know you hate when I say things like that because you think it makes you responsible for being perfect, but I don’t mean perfect. I mean good. So good it makes everyone around you remember they can be better.”
Clark’s grip tightened around his hand.
Hal whispered, “I am absolutely going to cry, and I hate him for it.”
Diana whispered back, “Let it happen.”
Bruce tugged weakly at Clark’s hand.
Clark bent closer. “What is it?”
“Hug,” Bruce said.
Clark blinked.
Barry slapped both hands over his own mouth.
Clark stared. “What?”
Bruce tugged again, frowning. “Hug. Please.”
The “please” did it.
Clark looked, just for a second, like the entire sun had risen inside his chest.
Then he leaned down and wrapped his arms around Bruce carefully, mindful of the bruising, the armor, the concussion, everything fragile beneath all that black kevlar and stubbornness.
Bruce hummed.
Hummed.
Into Superman’s shoulder.
Hal made a sound like a chair scraping, despite not moving at all.
Arthur stared at the ceiling as if asking the ocean for strength.
Diana’s smile was radiant.
Barry looked like he was witnessing a religious event.
J’onn’s expression had gone very soft.
Bruce’s arms came up around Clark’s back. One hand patted clumsily between his shoulder blades.
“Big,” Bruce mumbled.
Clark made a choked sound. “Sorry?”
“Big hug. Very good. Ten out of ten.”
Barry collapsed against the wall.
“I can’t do this,” he wheezed. “I cannot handle Batman rating hugs.”
Clark, red to the tips of his ears, pulled back just enough to look at Bruce. “You need to lie still.”
Bruce frowned. “But you’re warm.”
That took Clark out entirely.
He sat on the edge of the medbay bed, still holding Bruce’s hand, while the rest of the League watched the world rearrange itself around this new and dangerous information.
Batman was affectionate.
Batman was sweet.
Batman apparently liked hugs.
Batman had just called Superman warm in front of everyone.
No one was prepared.
Naturally, Bruce made it worse.
He reached out with his free hand toward Diana.
Diana stepped closer instantly, because she was a warrior princess and no coward.
Bruce patted her forearm. “Good muscles.”
Diana laughed. “Thank you.”
“Strong,” Bruce added seriously. “Safe.”
Her expression softened again.
Then he turned toward Barry and made a vague grabby motion.
Barry looked at Clark. “Am I allowed?”
Clark looked at Bruce, who was still reaching for Barry like a sleepy cat.
“I think he wants your hand.”
Barry approached like Batman might explode.
Bruce caught his wrist and pulled him close enough to pat his hair.
Barry froze.
Hal whispered, “Oh, this is the best day of my life.”
Bruce squinted at Barry’s hair. “Soft.”
Barry’s eyes widened. “Batman thinks my hair is soft.”
“Bruce,” Clark corrected, smiling.
Barry nodded gravely. “Bruce thinks my hair is soft. That’s worse somehow.”
Bruce looked at Hal.
Hal stepped back. “No.”
Bruce’s face fell.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
Hal immediately swore under his breath and stomped forward. “Fine. But if you say anything about my emotional walls, I’m leaving.”
Bruce took his hand.
Looked at it.
Then patted it twice.
“Good ring,” Bruce said.
Hal stared.
“That’s it?”
Bruce nodded. “Good ring. Terrible coping mechanisms. But good ring.”
“There it is,” Arthur said.
Hal sighed. “Honestly, I’ll take it.”
By the time Batman’s children arrived, the Watchtower medbay had become a place of miracles and psychological devastation.
Superman was sitting beside Bruce, one hand still captive because Bruce had refused to let go.
Wonder Woman was on Bruce’s other side, allowing him to lean against her shoulder whenever he got tired of sitting upright.
Barry was perched on a stool nearby, emotionally glowing because Batman had called him “sunny.”
Hal was pretending not to be affected by the fact that Bruce had told him he was “more than the ring.”
Arthur was leaning against the wall after Bruce had informed him he had “excellent shoulders for carrying kingdoms,” which had made him gruffly say, “Obviously,” and then stare into space for five minutes.
J’onn was quietly making note of every invitation Bruce had accidentally extended, including dinner at the manor, tea with Alfred, a chess match, and something called “family movie night, but not the one where Jason makes everyone watch a crime drama and criticize the firearms.”
Then the zeta tube activated.
“Recognized,” the computer announced. “Nightwing. Red Hood. Red Robin. Robin. Signal.”
Dick Grayson stepped out first in full Nightwing gear, expression bright with concern and barely hidden curiosity.
Jason Todd followed, helmet under one arm, already grinning.
Tim Drake came next, tablet in hand, eyes scanning medical data before he had even fully stepped onto the floor.
Damian Wayne arrived with his sword and the expression of a child prepared to fight an entire space station.
Duke Thomas came last, looking between the League members and Bruce with immediate suspicion.
“Okay,” Duke said. “Why does everyone look emotionally compromised?”
Bruce lifted his head.
His whole face changed.
“My boys,” he said, with open, unmistakable delight.
Every Batkid froze.
Jason’s grin vanished.
Dick’s mouth dropped open.
Tim nearly dropped his tablet.
Damian’s eyes went wide.
Duke pointed at Bruce. “Oh, that is definitely not normal.”
Bruce tried to sit up straighter. Clark gently steadied him.
“Careful,” Clark said.
Bruce nodded solemnly. “Clark is warm.”
Jason made a strangled sound.
Dick looked at Superman.
Superman, still holding Bruce’s hand, looked both embarrassed and unwilling to move.
Dick’s expression became dangerous with joy.
“Oh my God,” Dick said. “This is amazing.”
“Richard,” Bruce said warmly.
Dick stopped dead.
Bruce reached for him.
Dick crossed the room in two seconds.
“Hi, B,” he said, voice softening despite the huge grin on his face.
Bruce took Dick’s face in both hands.
The medbay fell silent again.
Bruce looked at him like he had once looked at a child in bright colors standing under circus lights, laughing in defiance of gravity.
“My first,” Bruce said.
Dick’s smile trembled.
Bruce’s thumbs rested gently near his cheekbones. “You made the house loud again.”
Dick’s eyes shone.
Jason looked away fast.
Bruce continued, because the toxin was merciless. “I was so angry before you. So empty. And then you were there, all sharp elbows and grief and impossible hope, and you made me remember that laughter could live in the dark.”
Dick let out a wet laugh. “B.”
“I am so proud of you,” Bruce said. “You became better than me on purpose.”
Dick folded over him.
It was not a graceful hug. It was half armor, half medbay wires, half Superman moving quickly to make sure no one jostled Bruce’s concussion. But Dick hugged him hard, face pressed against Bruce’s shoulder.
Bruce hugged him back.
“Good hug,” Bruce murmured. “Flexible.”
Dick laughed into his shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”
Jason made a sharp sound.
Bruce’s head turned immediately.
“Jason,” he said.
Jason held up one hand. “Nope.”
Bruce looked wounded.
Jason’s hand dropped. “Don’t make that face.”
“I missed you,” Bruce said.
Jason went still.
The League collectively pretended not to watch while absolutely watching.
Bruce’s voice dropped, rougher now. “I miss you all the time, even when you’re standing right in front of me. I don’t know how to stop being afraid that if I blink, you’ll be gone again.”
Jason’s jaw tightened.
“Bruce,” he said, warning and pleading all at once.
“You came back angry,” Bruce said. “You had every right.”
Jason’s face flickered.
“I was angry too,” Bruce continued. “Not at you. Never at you. At the world. At myself. At every second I wasn’t there. But you came back, and you were still my son. You are still my son. Nothing you do changes that.”
Jason looked like he had been hit.
Diana lowered her eyes, giving him privacy.
Clark’s thumb moved gently over Bruce’s knuckles.
Jason swallowed hard. “You’re high as hell right now.”
“Yes,” Bruce said seriously. “But correct.”
Barry made a tiny sound and immediately pretended it was a cough.
Jason crossed the room with stiff, furious steps.
For one second, it looked like he might bolt.
Instead, he leaned down and wrapped one arm around Bruce’s shoulders.
Bruce pulled him in with surprising strength.
“My Jay,” he murmured.
Jason’s eyes squeezed shut.
“Shut up,” Jason whispered.
Bruce patted his back. “No.”
Jason laughed once, broken and reluctant. “Of course not.”
Tim was staring at the floor like if he made eye contact, he would be next.
Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne was still Batman, even with no inhibitions and a concussion.
Especially with no inhibitions and a concussion.
“Tim,” Bruce said.
Tim’s shoulders rose.
“Bruce, you should rest.”
“You saved me.”
Tim froze.
“You saved all of us,” Bruce said. “You came to me when I was lost and angry and impossible, and you refused to let me disappear inside grief.”
Tim’s grip tightened around his tablet.
Bruce looked at him with aching fondness. “You were so small. Too small to carry all that. And I let you carry too much.”
Tim’s face did something complicated.
Dick reached back blindly and took Tim’s sleeve.
Tim did not pull away.
Bruce’s voice softened further. “You are brilliant. Not because you are useful. Not because you solve problems. Not because you make yourself necessary so people won’t leave.”
Tim stopped breathing.
“You are brilliant because you are you,” Bruce said. “And I am grateful every day that you chose us.”
Tim’s eyes went red.
“I’m not crying in front of the Justice League,” he announced.
“You don’t have to,” Duke said softly.
Tim walked over and hugged Bruce anyway, stiff at first, then tighter when Bruce pressed a kiss to his hair.
Hal looked emotionally devastated.
“I hate this family,” he whispered.
“No, you don’t,” Barry whispered back.
“No, I don’t.”
Damian stood very still at the end of the bed.
He had not moved since Bruce said “my boys.”
His chin was lifted. His mouth was tight. His hands were clasped behind his back with the rigid discipline of a child trying to be a soldier because softness felt too dangerous.
Bruce looked at him.
“Damian.”
Damian swallowed. “Father.”
Bruce’s expression became unbearably gentle.
“My son,” he said.
Damian’s face cracked.
Only a little.
But everyone saw.
Bruce reached out. “Come here.”
Damian hesitated for one second too long.
Jason, still beside Bruce, looked over and said gruffly, “Go on, demon brat.”
Damian glared at him automatically, which helped.
He stepped forward.
Bruce took his hand.
Damian stared down at their joined hands as if they were a puzzle.
“You were born into blood and violence,” Bruce said quietly. “And every day you choose more than what they made you for.”
Damian’s eyes flashed. “I am not weak.”
“No,” Bruce said. “You are kind.”
Damian looked startled, almost offended.
Bruce squeezed his hand. “You think kindness is weakness because no one protected yours. But I see it. I see how gentle you are with animals. I see how carefully you watch your brothers when they are hurt. I see how much you want to be good.”
Damian’s lower lip trembled.
He looked furious about it.
Bruce smiled. “You are good, Damian.”
Damian lunged forward.
He buried his face against Bruce’s chest with such sudden force that Clark had to steady them both.
Bruce wrapped an arm around him.
“My little prince,” Bruce murmured.
Damian made a muffled sound that might have been a sob and might have been a threat.
Jason looked at Dick. “Little prince?”
Dick wiped his eyes. “We are never letting him live that down.”
Damian’s head snapped up. “I will stab you.”
Bruce patted his back. “No stabbing your brother during family bonding.”
Damian sniffed. “After?”
“Also no.”
“Tt.”
Duke had been hanging back, half-smiling, half-wary.
Bruce noticed.
Of course he did.
“Duke,” he said.
Duke blinked. “Me too?”
Bruce looked confused by the question. “Of course.”
Something in Duke’s face softened.
He stepped closer, hands tucked awkwardly into his jacket pockets.
Bruce studied him with open pride. “You are light.”
Duke laughed under his breath. “That’s a little on the nose.”
“No,” Bruce said seriously. “Not your powers. You. You came into this family and did not let the dark swallow you. You ask questions the rest of us forget to ask. You remind Gotham there is a morning shift.”
Duke’s smile wobbled.
“You make me hopeful,” Bruce said.
Duke looked down, blinking fast. “Okay. Wow.”
Bruce reached out.
Duke took his hand.
“Proud of you,” Bruce said.
Duke squeezed back. “Thanks, Bruce.”
For several minutes, the medbay was a tangle of black armor, capes, domino masks, bruised feelings, and reluctant affection.
The Justice League stood around them in varying stages of emotional ruin.
Diana looked like she had witnessed something sacred.
Barry had fully given up pretending he was not crying.
Hal was staring at the ceiling, muttering, “Nope, dry eyes, space dust, probably space dust.”
Arthur crossed his arms and said nothing, but his expression had gone unusually soft.
J’onn looked peaceful.
Clark still had Bruce’s hand.
He did not seem inclined to let go.
Then the zeta tube activated again.
“Recognized,” the computer announced. “Oracle. Batgirl. Spoiler.”
Barbara’s voice came through the comm before she appeared on the screen. “I want it known that I am only not there in person because someone has to preserve evidence.”
Bruce turned toward the screen instantly. “Barbara.”
“Oh no,” Barbara said.
Bruce smiled. “You’re brilliant.”
Barbara went silent.
Steph walked out of the zeta tube with Cass beside her, both still in partial costume.
“Did he compliment you already?” Steph demanded.
“Yes,” Barbara said faintly from the screen.
“Unfair.”
Bruce saw Cass.
His expression softened into something quiet.
“Cass,” he said.
Cass came to him without hesitation.
Bruce reached up and touched her cheek gently.
“You understand me even when I say nothing,” he said.
Cass nodded.
“I should say more,” Bruce whispered.
Cass smiled.
“Yes.”
Bruce pulled her down into a hug. Cass folded into him, careful and precise.
Steph stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. “Okay, my turn, emotional Batman. Hit me.”
Bruce looked at her.
“You are joy with fists,” he said.
Steph gasped. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“You annoy me on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“It works.”
“Yes.”
“You make the others laugh when they forget how.”
Steph’s face softened. “Yeah?”
Bruce nodded. “Gotham needs purple.”
Steph made a strangled sound and hugged him from the side, nearly knocking into Tim.
Tim squawked.
Jason laughed.
Damian complained.
Dick tried to gather everyone into a group hug.
Everyone resisted.
Dick succeeded anyway.
Superman watched Bruce disappear under his children and thought, not for the first time, that Batman was not darkness.
Not really.
He was a man who had buried his heart deep enough that people mistook the grave for emptiness.
But here, with the walls down, there it was.
A heart too large for one chest.
A heart that had adopted half of Gotham and pretended it was strategy.
A heart that loved so fiercely it became armor.
Bruce eventually emerged from the pile looking exhausted, dazed, and more peaceful than Clark had ever seen him.
Alfred’s voice came through the comm.
“I assume, from the lack of panic, that Master Bruce remains alive.”
Jason wiped at his face with the heel of his hand. “Alive, drugged, and emotionally devastating.”
“Ah,” Alfred said. “A Tuesday.”
Bruce turned toward the speaker. “Alfred.”
There was a pause.
“Yes, Master Bruce?”
“I love you,” Bruce said.
The room went still again.
Alfred’s voice, when it returned, was softer.
“And I love you, my boy.”
Bruce smiled faintly.
Then his eyes drifted shut.
Clark straightened immediately. “Bruce?”
“Sleepy,” Bruce mumbled.
“That’s allowed,” Clark said gently.
“No patrol.”
“No patrol,” Dick said at once.
Bruce opened one eye suspiciously. “You lie.”
Dick placed a hand over his heart. “I would never.”
Everyone stared at him.
Dick sighed. “Okay, I would. But not right now.”
Bruce seemed to accept that.
Clark helped ease him back against the pillows.
Before Bruce fully drifted off, he tugged once more at Clark’s hand.
Clark leaned down. “I’m here.”
Bruce’s eyes stayed closed.
“Stay?” he murmured.
Clark’s face softened completely.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
Bruce nodded, satisfied.
Then, just before sleep took him, he whispered, “Best friend.”
Clark froze.
The children froze.
The League froze.
Jason slowly turned his head toward Superman.
Dick’s grin began to spread with terrifying speed.
Tim whispered, “Oh, we are using that forever.”
Clark looked like he might float through the ceiling.
“He’s drugged,” Clark said weakly.
Bruce, eyes still closed, frowned.
“Still correct,” he mumbled.
Then he fell asleep.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Barry whispered, “This is the best day the Justice League has ever had.”
Hal nodded solemnly. “We can never tell him.”
Barbara’s voice crackled through the comm. “I have already saved the footage in seven locations.”
Bruce’s eyes opened.
Everyone stopped breathing.
Without lifting his head, without opening his eyes fully, without even seeming awake, Batman rasped, “Delete it.”
Barbara laughed. “No.”
Bruce grunted.
Then, still holding Superman’s hand and surrounded by his children, he went back to sleep.
Diana looked around the room, smiling.
“Well,” she said softly, “now we know.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Know what?”
Diana looked at Bruce Wayne, the Batman, asleep in a medbay bed with powdered bruises on his skin, a Kryptonian at his side, and a family crowded protectively around him.
“That he was never as cold as he wanted us to believe.”
Dick brushed Bruce’s hair gently away from his forehead.
“No,” he said, smiling.
“He really wasn’t.”