The remainder of the day went too fast. The state of Dick's face and the fact that there was no paper trail to back up how he got to Bruges made it impossible for them to leave the room; nevertheless, they found plenty to entertain themselves with. Cartoons quickly became boring, and they spent most of the afternoon and evening watching a channel that showed nothing but black and white crime films back to back, some in English, some in French. During the commercial breaks they talked procedure, motive, method, and evidence, and tried to predict what would happen next in the story. As they approached the dinner hour, they were tied, each having correctly predicted the ending of one film and having reached the same accurate conclusion simultaneously on the third.
Their evening meal was far from a solemn affair, eaten on the couch in front of the screen. Through some sequence of events that they never really managed to untangle, things devolved into a minor food fight that only ended when Bruce pinned the giggling boy to the floor. "Seriously," he intoned, the sternness of his words rendered invalid by the sloppy grin on his face. "Stop. Think about the poor housekeepers."
"Ooh…yeah, okay. I forgot about them," he agreed, suddenly looking contrite. "…What?" he inquired at the man's suddenly strange expression.
The billionaire raised a hand to the side of his head to investigate an odd sensation. "…Jesus, Dick, how did you manage to get potatoes in my ear?" he marveled.
That question sent them both back into peals of laughter. When they'd recovered and cleaned up, they resumed their movie marathon, Bruce finally managing to edge his son out with another win, followed by a tie. The child was no longer even attempting to stifle his yawns by eleven, and the billionaire was forced to admit that their day together was swiftly drawing to a close. "…You should get some sleep, kiddo," he said quietly.
"But we still have, like, five whole hours before I have to go…" was mumbled back. "I don't wanna waste it."
"It's not wasting it if you need to sleep, Dick. Besides, Alfred's going to have a cow if he gets home tomorrow afternoon and you're still in bed."
"…What time should he be there by?"
"Ahh…" he checked his phone, pulling up the email the butler had sent a few hours earlier with his itinerary. "He lands at noon, so he should be home by one thirty. If you stay up until Clark comes to get you, you'll never wake up in time."
"Well, I have been sick," he suggested. "I'll just say I'm still getting better."
"Recuperating?"
"Yeah. That," he nodded, filing away the word for later use.
"He knows you've been with me all day. Do you really think he'll buy that story?"
"…No. But I don't think he'll be mad at me for wanting to spend time with you, either." He peered up at his guardian through his eyelashes, pouting slightly. "Please?"
Bruce sighed. "…What if we both lay down, and we can talk until one of us falls asleep?" he suggested.
"Are you even tired?"
"Not really," he admitted. "But like you said, you're still catching up on energy after being sick. You really need to sleep, chum. If it helps, though, remember that I'll be home tomorrow before you go to bed. In fact, if Alfred holds dinner for a little bit we'll even get to eat together. So we'll only be apart for about twelve hours, really. And then we have all weekend together, for your birthday."
"…You're really not going to do any work next weekend?" the boy asked seriously. You say that before a lot of weekends, and then you end up working anyway. I just don't want to get my hopes up…
The mild skepticism in his voice made Bruce wince. I'm sorry. I know I'm bad about working at home, I just…I don't know. There's no excuse for it, really. But this weekend, I don't care what needs signed. It will wait. "Hey," he tipped his chin up with one finger until their eyes met. "It's your birthday weekend. I'll even shut my cell phone off, how about that?"
Dick's eyes widened. "You never shut that thing off."
"I'm going to, for your birthday weekend. If someone wants me that badly, they'll have to call the house, and then they'll still have to get through Alfred to talk to me."
He grinned happily. "Yay! What're we going to do next Sunday, if the party's Saturday?"
"Whatever you want. It's your birthday. So start thinking about it."
"I hope there's still snow then…" he said wistfully as he crawled up into the man's lap and leaned his head against his shoulder. "We could ride our snowmachines."
"Mm, maybe. We'll see if there's enough." He wondered briefly if weather control was considered villainous if you only did it so your kid could have snow on their birthday. It probably still counts, he decided grudgingly. But we never get good snow in March. It's all that wet, nasty stuff that melts in a few hours and then turns to ice on the roads. Glancing down as he prepared to instruct him not to hold his breath for snowmachining, he found that the small figure in his arms was fast asleep. Well, that was quick, he smiled. Bedtime. If you went that easily, I don't think there's much risk of you waking up on the trip into the bedroom.
Indeed, Dick didn't so much as stir or give a mumble until his guardian had tucked him tightly beneath the blankets and was crawling in beside him, content with the idea of simply lying with him for a while. "…Bruce?" he murmured without looking.
"What is it, kiddo?" he asked, propping himself up on one elbow to listen.
"…Love you."
He bit the inside of his cheek hard, then brushed a kiss across his forehead. "Sleep tight, baby," he whispered, resting one hand on his shoulder and dropping his own head back to the pillow.
But I'm not tired, was the next conscious thought the billionaire had. Confusion shook him for a moment before he realized that he was in Bruges, that someone was knocking lightly on the balcony door, and most importantly, that his son was still sleeping, safe and sound, beside him. Stop knocking, you idiot, you're going to wake him up, he cursed as he got up and moved silently to let Superman in.
"Oh. Sorry," the Kryptonian apologized as he saw the darkness in the room and the disheveled state of Bruce's hair. "…You said four thirty, though."
"I know what I said," he answered a little testily. I fell asleep without setting an alarm. Shit.
"…We could let him sleep a while longer. I don't have anywhere to be, other than watching him until you or Alfred gets home."
"Yeah. Let's do that. Come on, if we keep talking in here he's likely to wake up." An order of coffee was easy to procure in short order so early in the day, and Clark agreed to a cup once he was able to emerge from hiding in the bathroom. They spoke more or less amicably as they sipped. Midway through his second cup, Bruce set his mug down and pulled his brows together in a look of intense concentration. "…Clark."
"Yes?"
Oh, hell, how do I do this? "…I owe you an apology."
Whoa. What did they put in this coffee? "Umm…Bruce…stop. Don't say anything else."
"No," he said firmly. "I do." I was an asshole. You probably didn't deserve that, or at least that's what Alfred and Dick keep indicating. My social skills are frequently inferior to theirs, so…if they say you did nothing wrong, they're probably right.
"No, Bruce, really. If Batman apologizes to Superman for something, the world might explode."
"…Did you intend that as a joke?" he asked, thrown off slightly. He can't be serious. How would that even be monitored?
"Yeah…I guess I don't have Barry's finesse for them."
"You don't have his delivery. I'm pretty sure he practices one-liners in the mirror, then just waits for the opportune moment to use them."
"You mean you don't know that he does that? It seems like the kind of thing you'd want in a file," he glanced over at him with a twinkle in his eye.
"I don't say I'm 'pretty sure' about something without evidence."
"So you do know." He paused. "You have the strangest hobbies."
"Thank you."
It wasn't said in the sarcastic tone he'd expected, and he turned his head with a frown to look at the other man. "What?"
"Thank you. If you won't let me apologize, at least let me express some gratitude. You…you didn't do a bad job watching Dick."
"I have to admit, I felt like I was doing a terrible job."
"He's alive, he's happy, he's relatively unharmed, and I assume that my house is still standing. A bad job would have resulted in one or more of those things not being true." Swirling his coffee gently in the cup, he stared down into small vortex the motion created. "…And not even Batman can prevent all of them all the time," he added quietly, a trace of self-loathing in his voice.
"Those times aren't your fault. We do dangerous work; he does it very well, from what I've seen and heard, but he's still going to get hurt." Noticing that his friend's gaze was still riveted on his drink, he repeated himself. "Those times won't be your fault."
"Yes, Clark, they will," he argued slowly.
"How? You would do anything to keep him safe. How will it be your fault if the circumstances make it impossible for you to do that? You can only work with the information you have at the moment, Bruce, you know that. Actually, he reflected, I think you may have been the first person who ever said that to me.
"I'm the one who let him create Robin. I'm the one who lets him continue to be Robin. If he gets hurt as Robin, then it's my fault."
And there is absolutely nothing I can say to that, the Kryptonian thought. Even if there was, you wouldn't believe me. You've always been a stubborn jackass when it comes to blaming yourself for things, even when you have no guilt to bear. "I'm not going to argue with you about it, Bruce," he said after a short silence. "We've done enough of that lately. I'm kind of sick of it."
"…Yeah. Well." He stood up. "…I'll go get him ready." A hand capable of crushing bones grabbed his wrist gently as he passed. "…What?" he asked, more curious than gruff as he looked down quizzically.
"I owe you thanks, too," Superman said quietly. "For not cutting me out of his life, or yours. I'm not sure I could have blamed you if you had; all I know is that I'm glad I don't have to find out for sure."
"Clark…" he trailed off, looking away. Christ. Why do you always have to make things difficult? he snarked without ire. "…Just help me keep him safe. That's all I ask." It's all I seem to care about anymore, to be honest.
"You know I will," he swore.
"Yeah," he met his gaze for a second. "I do." Released, he disappeared into the bedroom.
Dick woke up exactly long enough to put on his jacket and give his guardian an extended goodbye hug before falling back asleep in Superman's grasp. "I'll put him straight to bed," he assured the man who trailed him out onto the balcony, eyes never leaving the shock of dark hair he could see over the hero's shoulder.
"Good. Alfred should be home in the early afternoon. Don't worry about the school, I'll call them from here and tell them he'll be out again today."
"…Do you still have my phone?"
"It's in his coat pocket."
"Oh. Okay. Clear on your side?" he asked, his voice dropping.
Bruce glanced over the balustrade at the street below. "Yes."
"See you later." In a blink, they'd gone. Bruce stared up at the stars for a long moment, then went back into the already empty-seeming room, a hint of longing already lingering about his eyes.
The boy slept until late morning, opening his eyes to find himself home and in his guardian's bed. Crud. I missed getting to fly with Uncle Clark, he pouted, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. But, his mood brightened as he read the clock, Bruce will be home in less than eight hours. And Alfred will be home before that, even. With those facts in mind, he skipped down the hall to the room the Kryptonian was always assigned. "Knock knock," he beamed, peeking around the corner at him.
"Morning, pal," he turned away from the window to find a pair of happy blue eyes regarding him. "Hungry?"
"Yup!"
"…Cereal?" he asked hopefully. Just because I didn't ruin pancakes doesn't mean I have any confidence in my ability to repeat that miracle with other foods.
"Sure." He peered around. "…It's funny. I just realized something while I was standing here."
"What's that?"
"Well, people don't really stay over here very often. Usually it's the night after a big party or something, you know, one of Bruce's 'look at me, I refuse to act my age because I'm rich' celebrations."
Clark laughed. "Okay, go on," he encouraged. Where could he possibly be heading with this?
"I mean, I've only been here for two of those, but…Alfred never shows anyone but you to this room."
"…Really?" he asked, astounded. First of all, you must be paying ridiculous amounts of attention to have even noticed that. Second…what does that mean? As he puzzled, the answer was given to him.
"It's cool. You have your own room here."
…I guess that is what it means. The idea drew a broad grin across his lips. "You're right, Dick. That is cool."
"I thought so," he shrugged. "Could you help me with breakfast? I can't reach the cereal cabinet, and Alfred doesn't like it when I climb on the counters to get to it."
"You bet, pal. Let's go."
By the time he'd breakfasted, showered, and dragged an unusually reluctant Clark outside to feed Gobblehead, it was after one. I just can't shake my feeling that there's something not right about that turkey, the Kryptonian thought as he watched the boy shuck off his jacket and boots in the foyer. I'm going to have to spend some time going back over the files we have on that mission. I don't know how one of them could have slipped through the cracks, but…I don't want to brush it off and regret it later, either.
"…Do you mind if I wait on the stairs? Alfred should be home in, like, the next twenty minutes," Dick's question interrupted his musing.
"I don't mind," he shook his head. "Would you like company?"
"Sure," he nodded eagerly.
They talked to pass the time, their conversation coming easily after the travails they'd faced over the weekend. Realizing that he hadn't purchased a birthday present for a child since becoming an adult himself and as such had no idea what kids even liked these days, Clark tried to glean something from their discussions, but met with little success. …I'll just ask Alfred, he'll know, he decided. Bruce would probably have some thoughts, too. After all, the snowmachine was his idea, and it was a hit.
A car door closed outside, and the child's head swiveled instantly to the door. "…Eep!" he squeaked, vaulting smoothly over the banister beside him. In an instant he was at the front door, his hand on the knob. Crap! he stopped himself. I can't go outside, the taxi driver might see the bruises on my face! Pouting, he took a few steps backwards and waited, bouncing impatiently.
Finally, finally, the door cracked open. Hearing a vehicle pull away down the driveway, he dashed forward and yanked it the rest of the way, confident that it was relatively safe to do so. "Alfred!" he all but squealed as the bag-laden Englishman entered.
"Here," Clark offered, coming forward and relieving the butler of his luggage. "I get the feeling you're going to have your hands full in a second. By the stairs okay?"
"Yes, Mister Kent, thank you very much." He turned, biting back a deliriously happy grin, to find his younger charge practically shaking with suppressed excitement. Oh, my, those bruises are truly dreadful, his heart sank as he took them in. And to think, they've been being treated for two days now and still look like that…Poor, precious child. "Come here, my boy," he invited. The words weren't completely out of his mouth before Dick was on him, arms wrapped around his neck.
"I missed you."
Good lord, five seconds into the house and I'm already on the verge of tears, Alfred noted silently. "I missed you as well, Master Dick," he squeezed him tightly for a second before setting him down. "…Were you good for Mister Kent?" he asked, sniffling discreetly.
"I think so. Other than the throwing up every other minute."
"That wasn't your fault," Clark threw in. I know Bruce doesn't set a very good example of how to forgive yourself, but please don't fall into the same trap that seems to have him in a death grip.
"No, I daresay not. Nor the Joker incident," the older man added. "I am very glad to hear you behaved, however. Did you come as a civilian?" he addressed the last to the Kryptonian.
"Yes. Now that I know one of you has made it back, I'll book a flight home."
"Well, your taking the time to watch the young master was very much appreciated. You are, of course, welcome to stay the night," he offered sincerely. "I believe I have some pork spareribs in the freezer that I could have thawed and ready by the time Master Wayne arrives." He knew Clark technically had no need to eat, but he had also never met a farm boy who could resist a well-cooked batch of ribs. It's the least I can do to thank him for his extraordinary efforts this weekend.
The suggestion of the main course froze his polite refusal on the tip of his tongue. "…Pork spareribs?" he asked slowly, his mouth already watering.
"I should have some quite excellent potatoes for roasting, as well."
God, when was the last time I had a good sparerib? Restaurants never quite manage to keep them juicy enough… "Ah…I will most definitely take you up on that offer. For dinner, at least; if I can get a late flight back to Metropolis, I will, though. The last thing you all need is an extra person hanging around the night everyone gets home."
"…Uncle Clark, you're being silly again," Dick informed him matter-of-factly. "You're not an 'extra person,'" he made air quotes with his fingers. "You have your own room already and everything!"
"I don't advise referring to it as such in Master Wayne's hearing, young sir," Alfred cautioned. "Even if it is the truth," both heard him add under his breath.
"I won't, but…stay, Uncle Clark? Please?" he begged, skipping up and grabbing his hand. "Please?"
"…How do you ever say no to him?" the younger man asked the Englishman plaintively.
"It takes a great deal of resolve," his lip twitched upwards. "So much, in fact, that neither Master Wayne nor myself are able to do it with much frequency. It's quite draining. Of course, it does help that most of his requests are reasonable." He let a beat pass. "You'd be no bother, Mister Kent, truly."
"Besides, you and Bruce need more time to talk now that you're friends again," Dick pointed out.
"…You've got a point there, pal," he agreed. "Okay, you win. I'll stay. Thank you for the invitation, Alfred."
"Not at all, sir. It is you who are owed the thanks." He rubbed his hands together. "Well. I've a fair bit of work to catch up on, I can see that much already. However," he allowed, "it has already been a long day, and it promises to stretch fairly late into the night. I believe I'll have a cup of tea before I begin. Would the pair of you care to join me? I have yet to hear how you escaped the Joker's clutches, Master Dick," he said as lightly as he could manage. It still takes my breath away to imagine him in the hands of that…man, he grimaced internally. And as for his escape…well. I'm sure it will be as impressive as his other escapades in the face of danger have been.
He wasn't proven wrong. When the boy informed him twenty minutes later of the form his only weapon had taken, he nearly choked on his tea. "You…" he trailed off, unable to cover up his amazement for several seconds. "Mister Kent, is this true? Don't get me wrong, young sir, I'm certain that it is, but…truthfully? You vomited on one of Gotham's foulest fiends?"
"It's true," Clark verified. "And he was…ah...right on target."
"I didn't have anything else," Dick blushed. "He was about to stab me in the face, I had to do something!"
"Of course you did," Alfred replied immediately, a shudder running down his spine as he heard what the villain had been preparing to do at the moment his victim had launched his counterassault. It's an utterly disgusting image, he wrinkled his nose mentally, but it exhibits quite the cool head under fire. "You did marvelously well. I'm very proud of your resourcefulness. And," he admitted, somewhat delighted at the thought of the man who had brought so much stress and pain to his elder charge over the years being defeated in such a crude manner, "of your aim. The Joker quite deserved what he got, and then some."
"Oh, good," the boy looked relieved. "I was super worried you'd be upset."
"Not in the least," he denied, shaking his head before he drained his cup. "Now," he said, brushing off his hands as he rose from his chair. "Who wants cookies?"