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Clark Kent was sitting at the kitchen table of Wayne Manor, wearing a borrowed pair of Bruce Wayne's silk pajamas.
He stopped and mentally rewound in order to savor the impossible, delirious glee of that last clause: Wearing a pair of Bruce Wayne's silk pajamas.
He couldn't possibly imagine a better start to any morning. Or a better end to any evening than last night.
The man sitting across the table from him was dressed not in silk pajamas, but in a surprisingly ratty bathrobe of navy blue chenille, the fuzzy fabric worn flat and shiny at the elbows and cuffs. When Clark had raised his eyebrows at this unglamorous item of morning-after attire, Bruce had merely said, "First Father's Day gift from Dick," cinching the belt a little defiantly. Now he sat nursing a cup of steaming coffee, his eyes bleary and smug and beautiful through the wisps of steam as he watched Clark eat a stack of fluffy pancakes provided by the silent but smiling Alfred.
"These are really good," said Clark.
"Mm-hm."
"And fresh-squeezed orange juice. Fantastic."
"Mhhm."
Apparently Bruce was even less chatty than usual in the morning. That was okay, as long as he kept watching Clark with that sleepy possessiveness. Clark returned to his pancakes, mopping up the last of the syrup--real maple syrup, of course, not that maple-flavored high-fructose corn monstrosity. Sometimes having super-sensitive taste buds was agonizing, but not this morning.
"Pennyworth!" The door to the kitchen swung open with a crash and a child of about ten burst in. His spiky dark hair was sticking up haphazardly and he was wearing a sashed black gi. "I have walked that slobbering canine and need to eat before my morning training session with my..."
His voice trailed off as he took in the fact that there was a stranger in the room. His dark eyes flicked down to the monogram on the pajamas Clark was wearing, then back up to Clark's face.
"Um, good morning," said Clark.
"Good morning, Damian," said Bruce. "This is--"
"--the alien," said Damian. "Superman. We've met."
Bruce finished his sip of coffee. "His name is 'Clark Kent.' You may call him 'Mr. Kent.' He was raised in Kansas and is psychologically no more alien than you or I."
"You can call me Clark," Clark added, but Damian's gaze was locked with his father's and neither of them paid him any attention. After a moment, the boy's eyes dropped first.
"I require privacy with my breakfast," he announced, grabbing the plate from the sideboard. "I shall be in the cave when you are ready to begin training, Father." Alfred and Bruce raised almost-identical eyebrows as he turned to go, and Damian bit his lip, then nodded curtly at Clark.
"Nice to see you again, Damian," said Clark, but the door was already swinging shut.
"I didn't know you'd met Damian," remarked Bruce, taking another sip of coffee as the door banged.
"Briefly. Dick called me in for help once while you were...gone. They seemed to get along well."
"They made a good team. Sometimes I wonder if I should have kept them together." Almost anyone else would sound regretful or self-pitying, but Bruce's voice was factual.
"A boy needs his father."
"Hh." Bruce was looking at the door. "Maybe."
"Did he mention a dog?"
A wry smile. "I bought a Great Dane. I hoped it would...help."
"We should do something together. The three of us. You know, go to a game together. Or go camping." Bruce's eyes were dubious, but Clark felt his own enthusiasm kindle. "Fishing. You know, father-son stuff. It could be fun. What?"
Bruce was looking at him with a lopsided smile on his face. "Nothing. Just...you."
Alfred cleared his throat and slipped out of the kitchen.
Bruce's mouth tasted of very good coffee.
: : :
From the Journal of Damian Wayne
--spoke to Grayson about it, but he was no help as usual. He just kept saying "It's about time" and grinning like a lunatic. He looked at me like I was crazy when I suggested mind control or some kind of mind-altering pollen and told me this had been coming for a long time. We patrolled together for a few hours, but I soon grew weary of his chuckling and muttering "Hot damn, at last" to himself, and thus came home.
I managed to get a sample of Father's blood and it does indeed seem clear of mind-altering substances. It occurs to me that Father might be cognizant of the benefits of having a being with super-strength and the ability to fly as a close ally. However, this seems a rather extreme way to go about ensuring loyalty.
Father says we are going to see some event tomorrow with the alien, something featuring griffins fighting tigers. I look forward to seeing the Kryptonian in gladiatorial combat. Considering his weakness to magic, the griffins could be interesting.
: : :
Clark playfully tugged the bill of the Gotham Griffins cap Damian was wearing, turning it around so it sat backwards on his head. "Isn't this great?" He'd decided it might be better not to go to a Gotham-Metropolis game, and since Detroit was in town that week that meant they could all cheer for Gotham equally.
Damian crossed his arms and glared at the field where the Tigers were having a mound conference. "This so-called sport has offered only the most oblique of confrontations so far. Will the teams ever come to blows?"
"They're not supposed to," drawled Bruce from his hard plastic seat. He'd offered to get them box seats, but Clark had insisted that sitting in the regular seats was part of the experience. "Think of it more like chess."
"Even in chess, pieces get eliminated from play," Damian muttered, taking a fierce bite of his hot dog.
There was a crack down on the field, and Clark jumped to his feet, whooping. "Yes! Safe!" Damian and Bruce looked up at him, their dark-blue gazes annoyed and affectionate, respectively. "Come on, you're supposed to get into it," grumbled Clark as he sat down. "It's the overall experience--the sunlight, the crowds, the food and the atmosphere."
"It is a game with no stakes," muttered Damian as the last Griffin batter struck out, to groans from the audience. "How can people such as us, for whom life and death are at stake every day, enjoy such a trivial pursuit?" He polished off another hot dog in three bites.
The first Detroit batter stepped to the plate and prepared for the pitch, and Clark jumped to hear a bellow beside him: "No batter no batter hey batter can't hit can't hit SWING batter!" As the batter indeed swung and missed, Bruce lowered the hands he'd cupped around his mouth and grinned at Clark. Clark blinked at him, and Bruce took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss while Damian was watching the next batter with his eyes narrowed.
Another crack from the field, and everyone around them leaped to their feet as the Tiger rounded the bases and headed for third. A grating slide, a puff of dust, and--"Safe?" yelled Damian. "He was out! Out! How dare you, you imbecilic cretin of an umpire?" The Griffin and the Tiger were yelling at each other, and the Tiger shoved the Gotham player viciously. "Yes! Get him!" howled Damian as the dugouts emptied and fists started to fly.
Bruce had to grab him by the hood of his sweatshirt to keep him from charging onto the field and doling out two-fisted justice himself.
: : :
From the Journal of Damian Wayne
--after that, Father taught me how to "heckle" and the experience was not quite so boring as I had feared, although I still would have preferred real griffins. Grandfather once attempted to make griffins through genetic experiments, but they did not live long after hatching. Mother scolded me when she found out I had been feeding the young ones. When it came time to cull the weakest, she informed me it was a "lesson in the dangers of attachment" and--
It is useless to dwell on my time with Mother. Instead I shall focus on proving myself to Father. Surely soon this Superman will tire of mere weak mortals and go off to play with his godling friends instead of hanging around Father making ridiculous moony eyes when he thinks I am not looking.
: : :
The still-unnamed Great Dane was lying on its back in the sun, its gangling limbs stretched in various directions. Damian sat beside it on the riverbank, glowering at the gentle ripples spreading from his line. The dog made a snoring sound deep in its throat, and Damian looked like he agreed with it.
"I learned how to catch fish with my bare hands in the League," he muttered.
"Your grandfather took you fishing?" said Clark. His own line dangled nearby. Bruce, on the other hand, had fallen asleep with his head in Clark's lap, a situation which Clark found simultaneously embarrassing and delightful.
Damian lifted his lip. "One of the required ordeals for a young assassin-in-training is to be abandoned in the wilderness. If one can find the way back to camp, one passes. One learns to fish quickly in such conditions."
Clark tried not to look appalled. "They abandoned a child in the wilderness? How old were you?"
"There are no 'children' in the League of Assassins. There are only disciples. Or the dead." He paused for a moment. "I was five." He reached out and scratched the brindled fur of the Great Dane's chest with his free hand, not seeming to notice he did it. "It took me two weeks to walk the hundred miles back." He twitched the fishing line irritably. "I fail to see the point of this exercise. It builds no stamina, hones no reflexes."
"It's not an exercise. It's a way to spend time with your father that doesn't involve breaking someone's bones or kicking someone's face."
Damian stared at him. "Why would one want to do anything else?"
"You know, to have fun."
A baffled look. "But that is fun."
There was a chuckle from Clark's lap. "I think what Clark is trying to say is that my time with you is valuable whether we're trouncing villainy or sitting around dangling strings in water and pretending we care if something bites them," Bruce said.
Clark found this defense of fishing to be lacking some enthusiasm, but Damian threw down his fishing pole as if pushed beyond all endurance. "Father!" he announced, "I am deeply disappointed in you. This alien--"
"--Mr. Kent," Bruce corrected, but Damian charged onward.
"--This alien has surely turned you soft and addled your wits! You have trimmed a full three hours from our usual patrol time this week, you allowed Drake to pursue that Riddler lead instead of us, and you--you--" He sputtered for a second, too angry to continue, "--you smiled last night on patrol! And not a cruel and intimidating smile, either!" He pointed an accusing finger at his father. "No! You were standing on a rooftop watching the city, and you smiled like a--like a fool! I will tolerate this no longer," he declared, and turned his back on them and stomped off into the underbrush. The Great Dane rolled to its feet, looking after him, then made a low wuffing noise in its chest and glanced at Bruce before loping after him.
"Good dog," murmured Bruce.
"Should we let him go off alone?" said Clark.
"It's only a couple of miles back to the Manor. He'll be fine. Give him time to cool off a bit," said Bruce. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I swear, Clark, I don't know how to get through to that kid. I'm sorry he's so rude."
"He's feeling threatened," Clark said. "You're the most important thing in his world, and you've just come back to him after he thought you were dead, and so of course he's possessive and afraid of losing you."
"Thank God he's got Dick," said Bruce.
"Are they still in touch?"
"Of course. He's probably gone to his place right now. He stops by about once a week or so." Bruce's smile was wry. "He thinks I'd disapprove, so he doesn't tell me, and if I told him I thought it was a good idea, he might stop going."
"Batman: Master of reverse psychology."
Bruce closed his eyes and stretched. "Damn straight."
"Were you really smiling? On patrol, I mean?"
Bruce relaxed mid-stretch, dropping his arms as he looked up at Clark. "I might have been. I do think about you sometimes, you know." He shook his head. "Maybe I am getting soft."
"What, you? Never--"
Clark's protest was cut off by Bruce pushing him down on the green bank and straddling him. "I can think of some ways to counteract that, though," Bruce murmured.
It didn't take long for Bruce to prove to Clark and himself that he was not at all getting soft--if anything, quite the opposite.
: : :
From the Journal of Damian Wayne
--Grayson did not laugh this time. I was relieved. I do not like it when Grayson laughs at me. I don't like it when anyone laughs at me, but I like it least when Grayson does it, I think. He poured us both a glass of lemonade and sat down at the kitchen table--although he had to shove a great deal of papers, electronics, and laundry off of it first. Grayson is kind of a slob. Pennyworth comes by and cleans once a week, but things pile up amazingly fast.
By the time I finished explaining what had happened, I will confess I was slightly agitated. Grayson looked concerned, which I thought was a good sign, but then he ruffled my hair and I knew he still wasn't taking this seriously. He told me I needed to relax because it sounded like Father was just happy.
Happy? This was my point exactly, and I told him so. Happy means trusting. Happy means vulnerable. A happy person, in my experience, is often a dead person in short order.
The sight of bills, circuit boards, and laundry mixed together on the sofa was bothersome, so I began to fold his socks. He kept trying to reassure me--he told me the alien was the most trustworthy person in the world. But I know Father, and Father has...unfortunate tastes in romantic partners. Like that thief, who would surely stab him in the back for a sparkly diamond.
Like my mother.
Grayson joined me in folding the socks. He always does it wrong and stretches the tops out. How can a man who doesn't even know how to properly fold socks know who to trust? Based on the choices he has made since I've known him, Grayson obviously is not a reliable judge of character. He trusts Drake. He trusts David Cain's daughter and that incompetent purple-clad faux-vigilante. He trusts--
Anyway, he is not a reliable judge of character at all.
I stayed a little while longer, but I knew I had to return to the Manor soon. Father wouldn't like it if he knew I was spending so much time with Grayson. I say I'm at the library, and he seems to accept that. The Kryptonian seems to be gone now and--Father is calling me, I shall finish this later.
: : :
There were fifty or so of them--gnarled zombies with sunken, glowing eyes. "This should be fun," noted Robin. He dodged out of the way as the first one swung at him. "Just to be clear: zombies aren't considered sentient life, correct?"
"They're brainless undead, powered by an external will," Batman explained.
Damian vaulted over another swiping claw. "So they're exempt from the no-killing rule?"
"Yes," grated his companion.
"Then this will definitely be fun," said Robin. Grabbing a lead pipe up from the ground, he knocked one zombie's head clean off its shoulders, then crushed another one's larynx on the backswing.
"Stay clear of their claws and teeth," Batman said. "And remember--we're here to find out who's kidnapped Doctor Fate, not to go on a zombie killing spree."
"You say tomayto," said Damian, breaking an undead kneecap with a satisfying crunch.
There were a lot of zombies, and they fought until their arms were exhausted, their legs leaden. A new wave shambled toward them--and stopped.
"Well fought, Dynamic Duo," said a deep voice as a figure stepped from the shadows.
"Felix Faust," Batman snarled as the blue-robed sorcerer smirked. "I should have known you'd be behind Dr. Fate's disappearance."
"Yes, you should have," sneered Faust. "Usually, I would find your interruption an annoyance, but tonight--well, suffice to say I have need for some fresh human blood. Rituals, you know?" He waved a withered hand. "Always requiring specialized ingredients." He gestured, and more zombies poured out of the earth, their hands reaching.
"He'll be sorry he messed with us," Robin muttered, although he looked like raising his hands was an effort.
"Nine," said Batman.
"What?" said Robin--or started to. The end of the word turned into a gasp as a red-and-blue blur whisked him out of the graveyard and into the sky.
"What are you doing?" Damian screamed at Superman. Superman was carrying him away from the graveyard; below them, illuminated by flashes of witchlight from Faust's hands, Batman was bring dragged down by a horde of zombies. Damian pummeled Superman's face and chest, shrieking in fury and slinging curses in English and Arabic. "You're leaving him to die! I thought you cared for him, and you're abandoning him! You--" he sucked in a great sobbing gasp of air, "--how dare you pretend to love him and then just abandon him?"
"Damian." Damian cursed him again, struggling in his arms as if to hurl himself back to his father. "Your father told me to keep you safe. We have a code for these situations. 'Nine' means to get everyone but himself out to safety."
"I should be with him," Damian moaned. "He's in danger and alone and I'm not there."
"I know. I know," said Superman. Damian twisted to stare at him as if he heard something in Superman's voice, something desolate under the calming words. "But apparently he felt that seeming to be captured was necessary to save Dr. Fate." He sighed. "He wanted you safe, above all else. He would never have forgiven me if I had helped him and you had gotten hurt. You're very important to him."
Damian was silent a moment. "You're vulnerable to magic. He didn't want you to risk yourself either."
"Your father..." Superman's voice trailed off; there was both laughter and pain in the silence that followed, "...your father does things like this a lot. Going off on his own. Sparing the people who--who love him any danger. Taking it all on himself. We just...we just have to trust him."
"Like he trusts you."
"Like he trusts both of us," Superman said.
: : :
From the Journal of Damian Wayne
When Father returned home, the alien Superman gave him a ridiculously big hug that swept him off his feet and told him we'd been worried about him, which was annoying. I had not been worried about him; apparently I have more faith in Father's abilities than some gaudy superheroes I could name. After Father hugged me and petted the dog, who seemed as ludicrously pleased as Superman, I explained that we needed to have a talk. I informed him that I was not at all pleased by his having lists of coded contingency plans that he shared with other superheroes and not with me. For the sake of working together smoothly as a team, it is of course of the utmost importance that I be aware of such things. He and Superman agreed that they had been remiss in leaving me out of the loop and explained the code to me. I am glad they were willing to listen to reason--old people are so often completely irrational about such things.
Father asked Superman if he wished to stay for a midnight snack. Superman gave me a funny look, like he was afraid I might complain about it, so I decided to confound his expectations and suggested he stay. He seemed appropriately confounded by this. We changed into civilian clothes and had some cocoa and sandwiches. Kent flirted abominably with Father--I mean to say, he was very clumsy and obvious about it, but Father did not seem to mind, so I held my tongue. Kent kept talking about a camping trip--it started with the three of us, but soon expanded to include Grayson and Drake as well. I informed them that if I had to share a tent with Drake I would not be responsible for what happened. They seemed to find this very amusing.
Perhaps I can find some way to intercept communications with Drake so it can be just the four of us. I would find that not entirely a repulsive experience.
Besides, there is always the chance we might run into a secret ninja training camp or something similar in the wilderness, so the weekend might not be entirely wasted.
: : :
"He's not a normal kid," Clark said to Alfred the next day. Bruce was still asleep and Clark had slipped downstairs to have a little cereal and instead found himself confronted with a rasher of maple-cured bacon, scallion goat-cheese muffins, a salmon and asparagus frittata, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. "Don't get me wrong," he said around a mouthful of muffin, "I wasn't a normal kid either. I like not-normal kids. But maybe going to mundane stuff like baseball games and fishing holes--the kind of stuff that made me feel more normal as kid--well, maybe that's not what he wants to do. Maybe we need to find some things to do that focus around his interests." Clark pondered. "Of course, his interests seem to be one, kicking bad guys in the face, two, decapitating zombies, and three, pretending he hates everyone. Might be hard to work with that."
"I am certain you will find a way," Alfred said blandly.
Clark took another sip of orange juice--how exactly had Alfred known he liked it pulp-free?--and was still contemplating the problem when the door flew open and Damian stormed in with the Great Dane at his heels.
"This is preposterous! Father will not name this beast, and I cannot train it to obey me without something to call it. Kent," he demanded, "Give this dog a name."
"My dog growing up was called Shelby," Clark said.
"That is a pedestrian name," said Damian without hesitation. "I shall call him Ace." Ace pricked up his ears at the name, leading Clark to suspect that Damian had actually been calling him that for some time already.
Damian was rummaging in a pocket. "This is for you," he said, handing a folded piece of paper to Clark.
Clark unfolded the paper to reveal a carefully-written list, complete with meticulous eraser marks and re-writing. "I shall use the Arabic words for the numbers--I assume you know Arabic?" Clark nodded. "Excellent."
The first item on the list was 1. Superman uses his super-breath to create a dust storm from which Robin can attack stealthily. Clark read the list solemnly.
"Does number six really serve any useful tactical purpose?"
Damian didn't need to check the list. "You making the tip of my bo staff burst into flame? Beyond inspiring fear and awe in the enemy?"
"Point taken," said Clark. He read the rest of the list: the last item was 9. Get Batman to safety at any cost. "I can't allow you to countermand a standing order from Batman," he informed Damian.
Damian considered this. "Acceptable," he concluded.
Ace took this moment to steal the bacon and swallow it in one gulp.
"Would you like to run through some of these this morning?" Clark asked when Damian had finished scolding the unrepentant dog.
One could never describe Damian's expression as "beaming," but the lightening in his scowl was so dramatic that it served the same purpose. "I suspect number seven will require a lot of practice--on your part, I mean," he said. "It requires very precise timing."
Clark polished off his orange juice. "Then what are we waiting for?"
: : :
When Bruce blinked open bleary eyes he heard the sound of Damian's excited voice outside the window. He opened the drapes to see his son attempting to do a double back-flip and land on a swooping Superman's outstretched hand with his eyes closed. Clark was smiling. Damian was concentrating fiercely, his small intense face focused entirely on his task. The Great Dane was running around in circles, chasing his tail.
Everyone looked quite content.
Smiling, Bruce twitched the drapes shut and went to get dressed and join his family outside.