A/N: 4/25/2024

*slinks in 9 years later*

*drops chapter*

*RUNS*

Uuuumm...sooooo...the majority of this was, in fact, written back in 2015. The original date on the note was 5-13-2015. The last time I touched that was 2016, then I apparently tried to finish it in 2019, and noooowww we are here! Hello! Most of you probably weren't even around when this was first published!

This is a bit of an amalgamation between my old and new styles of writing; I tried to make it smooth, but if it's obvious which parts I added...I apologize.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I would like to address that I had Superman use superhearing and X-ray vision through electronics in the first chapter! Heck yeah, that made no sense! I think I justified the hearing like "Batman's got the highest quality equipment, it should be fine," but there is no justification for X-ray vision...unless you couple it with his telescopic vision that I Googled to ensure existed. ;) Either way, please forgive baby me's error. XD It's funny now, so I'm not going to change it for posterity's sake.

Hope you enjoy!

Superman's brief meeting with Batman's new sidekick haunted him for weeks afterward—in a good way, not a weird way. The new addition to the previously one-membered club of "Team Batman" had the reporter in him screaming with curiosity; and the friend in him, too.

So when his boss began giving out the day's assignments, Clark immediately petitioned to be the reporter in charge of getting the scoop at the latest Wayne gala. A gala which just so happened to be introducing the latest member of the Wayne family to the paparazzi for the first time.

Thirty fidgety minutes later, his request was granted. And so, after another six long hours wait, Clark Kent stepped through the door of Wayne Manor, shooting Alfred a quick smile as he was carried by the meandering crowd through the front hall and into the massive ball room.

Wayne parties could always be counted on to be overly extravagant. From the gleaming crystal chandelier commanding the ceiling to the pointed toes of the society women's shoes clacking on the marble floors, the whole place just screamed billionaire. It usually made Clark a little uncomfortable (especially when he considered the tiny sandwiches and appetizers themselves cost enough to buy a barn), but at the moment, he was focused on one thing, and one thing only: Finding Bruce.

Amongst the customary chatter and swelling crowds usually accompanying this kind of event, it would have been an extremely difficult task except for two particular bits of info: 1). He had super hearing, and 2). Upon further observation, Bruce was apparently looking for him, too.

"Mr. Kent!" came a jarringly jovial voice over the hubbub of the chattering crowd. Moments later, the familiar figure of Bruce Wayne appeared before him, that brilliant, party boy grin Clark still struggled to get used to plastered on his face.

"How nice of you to come," the man greeted. "It's been awhile."

"Indeed it has, Mr. Wayne," Clark agreed, taking the man's proffered hand and giving it a firm shake. "How's that new emissions project Wayne Enterprises has been working on?"

They made small talk, drifting slowly toward the edge of the crowd, bouncing from trivial topic to topic to keep up appearances and deflect any additional interest in the sharp, prying gazes of the gossiping socialites.

When they had reached the fringes of the room, and any curious eyes upon Bruce Wayne's sudden appearance had finally wandered elsewhere, Clark deemed it time to broach the topic that had driven him here in the first place: "By the way," he began, aiming for casual, "where's this new ward of yours I've heard so much about?"

Bruce's eyebrow quirked minutely, as if to say, Smooth, Clark. "He's taking a short break," he said. "Not that I blame him. These parties can be exhausting."

The billionaire glanced at his watch. "It's about time he came back out on the floor, actually," he commented, almost to himself. "Another hour should satisfy these vultures before we can pull the 'bed time' card."

There was a short pause.

"So...can I meet him now?" Clark asked, not even trying to hide his eagerness.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Yes. Just try to behave like a civil adult. He's learning societal etiquette."

Clark nodded enthusiastically, then stopped at Bruce's harsh glare. "Of course. Right. Yes, sir." Only slightly sarcastic. He toned down his expression, inwardly wondering when this man had gotten so much control over him. Maybe after the billionaire had decided it would be a riot to own both Clark's apartment building and his workplace...

He was drawn back to the present as Bruce led him around the crowd's edges to the far corner of the room, two figures becoming visible rounding one of the back support pillars. One, Clark recognized, was Alfred, the Wayne family butler who might be the only one on the planet capable of baking chocolate chip cookies that rivaled his Ma's. (Not that he'd ever tell her that, of course. He still wanted access to said cookies.)

The second, much smaller figure, Clark identified even before he caught the flash of cerulean eyes that had been exposed under the gelled back raven hair.

Those eyes were soon aimed in their direction, lighting up at the sight of Bruce, then falling back to something more reserved—cautious, almost—upon noticing Clark. After a long moment of open staring, the boy's gaze tore away from the reporting, turning his attention with a wide smile back to his guardian as they finally reached the pair.

"Bruce!" he greeted, arms twitching at his sides as if he'd been about to give the man a hug, but thought better of it.

"Dick," Bruce acknowledged, smiling (yes, smiling; not 'my-name-is-Bruce Wayne-I-must-keep-up-my-public-image' smiling, but genuine, 'I-am-happy-in-this-moment' smiling) at the boy and briefly patting a small shoulder.

Dick's eyes wandered briefly back to Clark, glancing at his mentor questioningly.

"This is my friend, Clark Kent," Bruce introduced, taking the cue. "He's a reporter at the Daily Planet."

The boy's face immediately closed off further at the word "reporter," a tiny spark of apprehension and discomfort flashing in his eyes. He hid the expression quickly, a thin smile appearing as he reached forward to shake Clark's hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Kent," he said carefully.

"You too, Richard." Clark tried for a reassuring smile. "I won't be asking you any questions tonight," he added, hoping to remove the guarded, almost hunted look from the boy's eyes. "I just wanted to meet you."

Dick nodded unsurely, shooting a nervous glance at his guardian. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

Bruce gave Clark a look over the top of Dick's head, casually raising an eyebrow.

Having known the Dark Knight for years, Clark had become pretty fluent in Batspeak, and caught on in an instant.

"But," Clark crouched down to the child's level, "you may know me as someone else." Maintaining eye contact, he reached up and pulled the glasses from his face.

The boy blinked, brilliant blue eyes narrowing as his head cocked adorably to one side, reconsidering Clark. His eyes widened comically, jaw dropping in shock—much like their first meeting, actually. "You're...you're..."

Dick blinked again, jerking to stare up at his guardian in disbelief. "He's...he's..." He seemed incapable of finishing his sentence.

"Yes," Bruce agreed, interrupting the boy. "Mr. Kent wanted to meet you in person after our...talk."

The boy's face practically glowed, lighting up the dim area as a wide, familiar grin stretched across his face. "So. Cool," he whispered. He drew breath, and Clark inwardly braced himself for a fresh barrage of questions when Bruce dropped a firm, yet gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.

Immediately, Dick clopped his jaw closed. He smiled again, soft and shy. "Whoops. I mean, it's nice to see you again, sir."

"You too, Richard," Clark said, returning the smile.

"Dick," the boy interjected.

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"He prefers to be called Dick," Bruce explained, and Clark swore he saw a hastily straightened quirk of the Bat's lips.

"Okay, then, Dick," Clark agreed. "It'll be nice getting to know you."

If possible, the child before him brightened to the level of a mini sun, rocking on his heels and grinning so wide it looked almost painful. "You, too, sir."

There was a moment of silence, shining blue eyes fixed unblinking on Clark's face. As if the slightest bit of lost contact would result in Clark's untimely disappearance.

"Master Richard," Alfred interjected politely, just when Clark was half convinced the kid might manifest laser vision of his own. "Might I remind you that Ms. Barbara Gordon has been anticipating your presence for the last half hour?"

Dick's smile drooped into a pout, eye contact finally breaking with the reporter to pin the butler with the widest puppy dog eyes he had ever seen. "Alfred, do I have to?"

The butler appeared unfazed, merely quirking an eyebrow in the face of such raw, unadulterated adorableness. "Commissioner Gordon did bring her along specifically to meet you. She is around your age, after all."

The pout faded to a—somehow still cute and so so tiny—scowl. "But she's a girl."

"Yes, I do believe she is," Alfred said primly. "And yet the only companion you may find at this event born in the same decade as you. Of course, if you are so opposed, we can always revisit dear Mrs. Willoughby? I'm sure she would love to regale us with the exact diet that keeps her cats' hair balls the perfect, least chokable consistency."

Dick paled with each subsequent word, shaking his head even before Alfred had finished. "No no no, please, anyone but Mrs. Willoughby!"

If Clark hadn't met the butler often enough, he might have missed the light smirk under his prim moustache. "I thought as much. Now, say your adieus to Mr. Kent, and let's get through this last hour so you can go to bed, shall we?"

Dick turned towards Clark, the picture of dejected as he held out his hand. "I guess this is goodbye, sir."

"For now," Clark corrected, accepting the proffered hand—so small—and shaking it carefully. He stooped down, glancing conspiratorially over the top of his thick framed glasses. "I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot more of you sometime soon."

The boy beamed up at him, the sadness seeping out as if it had never been there in the first place. "Really?"

"Really really." Clark straightened, adjusting the front of his suitcoat. "And for the record,"—he winked—"you can call me Uncle Clark."

The resulting grin lit up the boy's whole face, his blue eyes darting from Clark, to Bruce, to Alfred, and back. "Yes, s—Uncle Clark!"

"All right, young master," Alfred said, gently steering the boy toward the center of the ballroom by his shoulders. "Quickly now, before you're up too long and turn into a pumpkin."

Dick squeaked in protest. "Wha—? Why a pumpkin?"

"Because I shouldn't think Cinderella would want to be found by a silly young man like you given you won't even grant her the courtesy of her company. At least pumpkins can become carriages so she can escape the ball properly."

"But how do pumpkins become carriages?"

The answering sally was lost in the surrounding hubbub—to everyone but Clark, of course, who bit back a laugh at Alfred's sharp, "Bibbidi bobbidi boo!"

The two remaining men watched the butler and young ward weave through the crowd until they disappeared from view behind a gaggle of rather voluminous figures.

It was only then that Clark realized that the object of—rather, excuse to—take this assignment was officially gone and he had nothing in his notebook to show for it. Oops.

As he had the thought, Bruce murmured: "I'll send a 'follow-up' email after the gala for your article."

Clark resisted the urge to smirk. Of course Bruce had already handpicked the information he wanted shared with the public. Then again, the fact he trusted Clark enough to give him a full brief rather than the few passing comments reporters usually attained from the man was touching.

Still, "I've just got one question, Bruce." He ignored his teammate's disbelieving snort. Because as thorough as the Bat could be, his briefs tended to lack the personal touch reporters preferred to pull the heartstrings of their readers. "Of all the orphans you've encountered before, why him?"

Bruce's smile vanished. He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "You know Dick was raised in a circus," he began.

Clark nodded in confirmation.

"Most of this information is already public," Bruce allowed, "So I'll be brief. His family was the best in the business. The Flying Graysons; trapeze artists with an uncanny ability to appear as if they were actually flying.

"They had a signature move where they piled all five of them—besides Dick yet, of course—onto a single trapeze with no safety net to catch them."

"Woo," Clark breathed. "Impressive."

Bruce grunted shortly in acknowledgement. "Their troupe came to perform in Gotham a few months back. Director Haly, the circus owner, refused the 'protection' of an infamous protection racketeer, Anthony Zucco." Bruce's expression hardened. "The next night, Dick's aunt, uncle, cousin, and parents fell to their deaths from a malfunction in the trapeze equipment; later discovered to be from a nearly untraceable acid on the lines."

Bruce took a slow breath, and Clark could see the barely concealed rage flickering in the man's cobalt eyes, along with something else... Sadness? Compassion? Both?

"Dick was right there," Bruce continued finally. "He had the best seat in the house to watch as his family fell to their deaths."

There was a short silence, Bruce's stormy eyes fixed on a point somewhere off to Clark's right.

Finally, Bruce said: "Our experiences were so similar, and we were almost the same age…"

"Not to mention you've got the same hair and eye color," Clark muttered.

Bruce elected to ignore him (as usual). "I had to do something."

"I understand that," Clark interjected hastily. "I'm just curious as to why so suddenly? I mean, it must have been quite a shock for him to go straight from a crowded circus tent to—"

"They put him in the Juvenile Detention Center, Clark."

Clark blinked. "Huh?" And then the words sank in. His jaw dropped. "They did not," he gasped. "What did he do wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing," Bruce confirmed. "Gotham...isn't exactly a safe place." Understatement of the century. "Both the orphanages and the foster care system are overflowing with parentless children, and they didn't have room for another. He was—is—a material witness in his own parents' murder case. They needed to put him somewhere Zucco couldn't find him, but instead of finding a proper home, Dick slipped through the cracks anyway and ended up in juvie."

Clark stared. "That's inhuman."

Bruce shrugged slightly. "That's Gotham," he said bitterly.

"You said 'nearly untraceable' acid," Clark offered.

"Untraceable," Bruce corrected. "Without a bottle of the acid itself as proof, it would have appeared that the lines had snapped of their own accord. If it wasn't for the fact Dick had seen Zucco threatening Haly, it would have looked like an unfortunate equipment malfunction. Like I said, Dick is a material witness. I think they thought the JDC would give him more protection than a normal foster home."

"But it still wasn't right," Clark said. "Not to Dick."

"Exactly."

There was another moment of silence, the general hubbub of the crowd echoing around them.

Before Clark fully processed his thought, it kind of slipped out: "Why Ro—?"

"Names," Bruce cut in, the sharp glance just a shade short of Batman.

Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Bruce, I can hear everything around us. No one's paying us any attention."

The man grunted.

Another pause, tension threading the air.

"Sorry," Clark admitted finally. "I wasn't thinking."

Bruce sighed, shoulders sagging minutely. "Clearly. That's a story for another time." He glanced sidelong at the reporter. "And in another place."

Clark shrugged, accepting the redirection. That question was only to satisfy his own curiousity, not anything that could be published in his article anyway, for obvious reasons.

Next time, he promised himself.

"Let's just say," Bruce hummed, "I see a lot of myself in him at this age. But there are also a lot of differences. Very important differences. I want to give him opportunities I never had then: The opportunity to seek justice. To be a child."

He met eyes with the reporter, stern. "Everything I've done is to protect him, Clark. That will always be my priority."

Bruce glanced at his watch, then at the guests beginning to eye the two where they'd been hiding in the back probably longer than deemed appropriate for the host of a gala. His back straightened, any trace of wariness gone as the familiar carefree, playful air of Brucie slid back into place.

"It was a pleasure as always, Mr. Kent," the billionaire boomed, shaking Clark's hand enthusiastically. As good of a dismissal as any. "Best of luck with your article."

Clark squeezed the man's hand briefly before allowing it to drop. "Of course, Mr. Wayne. I anticipate meeting with you again soon."

Bruce raised the eyebrow on the side of his face away from the crowd, a clear, We'll see about that. "Till we meet again," he allowed.

Clark watched the man ease effortlessly back into the crowd, smiling, laughing, and somehow keeping track of all of the women cooing and tittering as he presumably pressed on in the direction of his new ward.

Surreptitiously, Clark narrowed his eyes, telescoping his vision across the room until he found Dick talking animatedly with an unfamiliar red-haired girl (who, hilariously, stood at least half a head taller than the boy). The familiar figure of Commissioner Gordon stood beside them, a smile playing at his lips as he observed them talking about—cue superhearing—the similarities and differences (and so-called superiorities) between ballet and floor acrobatics.

Clark smiled, focusing back in as Bruce joined the trio, giving the Commissioner a friendly slap on the shoulder, gaze softening as he took in the animated figure of his ward beside him. Dick smiled in greeting, eagerly catching Bruce up on their conversation so far.

Clark barely caught his own grin as he realized a waiter was eyeing him with apprehension. Which was fair, given it looked like Clark was beaming off into the middle distance. He shook himself, deciding he had gained about as much as he could from this particular event. He would have to wait till he had the Bat alone and preferably in his Cave to satisfy his remaining curiosity. And maybe make a dent on Dick's questions, too.

Well. The reporter stretched, allowing a certainly indecorous yawn to escape his mouth. Time to call it a night.

Well…maybe after an Alfred cookie or two. What Ma didn't know wouldn't hurt.

A/N 2: (Yes, Dick's uncle in YJ is technically alive but paralyzed in a coma, but it's quicker to say he's dead since he never shows up anyway. ;D)

Believe it or not, this was almost 900 (and counting) words longer. But it was all Bruce and Clark just talking about Robin, no more cute Dickiebird, and they wouldn't sTOP TALKING, so I elected to cut it before I finished it given that even without that scene this is double the length of the first chapter. Could be a third chapter? Who knows XD

PLEASE let me know if you read this when it first came out/what year you read the first chapter, I am ever so curious if I can find the oldest reader here. XD