Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the end, it was luck that Bruce found him. 

He was an innocent, oblivious to the violence that brought him into the world, little hand curled around a plain, beige blanket, breath huffing out between his parted lips. He was small and in the white, sterile box of a room that Luthor had him in, he seemed even smaller.

Bruce didn't need to read the thousands of files that weighted down the hard-drives of every nearby computer to be sure, even if they were being transferred to his system as he stood, stunned, in the too small room. In truth, he knew Luthor well enough to trust that the bullshit he'd written on the door was real.

C.A.D.M.U.S - EXP XIII - KNIGHT SEQUENCE

He burned the place to the ground while a virus (so vicious it would cripple even his interface) worked its way through the database, decimating anything with the word CADMUS or thirteen in it and destroying everything else.

Everything was gone by the time he finally convinced himself to take a step forward and let his hand - usually broken and bloody and split around the bone - curl under the head and chest of such a small, breakable life.

Bruce hoped with everything he was that Luthor's scientists were paranoid enough to keep everything in one place, that he wouldn't have to go searching for any leftover trace of what had occurred in that too white, too bright, too cruel place. The lab was secure - very secure - and it was off-the-books, too. It had taken Bruce a considerable amount of hacking, and a lot more planning, to find the black site he eventually managed to beat his way into. Hopefully whatever plans Luthor had, ended with his intervention.

Lex's lab was a husk when Bruce finally left, the tiny body wrapped in his cape, huddled close and snoring into his armour. He drove the Batmobile back as quickly as he could, but with enough care to not startle the baby awake with the roar of engines. 

Alfred was both bemused and highly concerned when Bruce rolled into the cave forty minutes later. 

"You seem to have acquired a baby, Master Wayne," he said, tone patient, watching his ward clamber awkwardly from the car, careful of the cargo he carried. His cowl, already discarded, meant the distraught, desperate expression on his face was visible.

"Luthor," Bruce offered, like it was enough of an explanation, throat too thick to push anything more meaningful out. In truth, he didn't know what he could say, or how he could explain to his mentor just what - just who - he had found.

The baby was quiet, still and unaffected by the journey he'd undertaken, and it was only when Bruce placed the infant down on the nearest soft surface - the training mats in the cave - that he began to fuss. It was a little chuffing sound, the beginnings of a cry, and he began clutching tighter to the blanket he'd refused to relinquish. The billionaire had wrestled himself free of his suit, dumping it where he stood, and finished pulling on sweat pants when the baby finally opened his eyes and levelled a brilliant, bright blue gaze directly at him. 

Clark's eyes.

Alfred had returned a moment later with milk in an old fashioned looking bottle. Bruce didn't need to ask to know it had once been his.

"Master Bruce," he prompted, gesturing a cradle.  

The baby was squirming a little but settled in Bruce's arms easily enough, fingers of his one hand spreading wide over the man's chest, seemingly fascinated by the chest hair now in his eye-line, the other still holding the blanket. His focus shifted immediately when the bottle came into view, a squawking sound splitting the silence of the cave and the baby flapped his hands, much to Alfred's amusement if the soft look on his face was any indication.

He suckled eagerly, the occasional drop spilling out from his lips and down his chin. Bruce wiped them away carefully with his thumb, painfully aware that the smell of smoke and leather still lingered on his skin. 

The pair stared for a few moments and just when Bruce could sense Alfred was about to ask the question no doubt burning in his mind, he answered it. 

"He's Clark's son," he offered. "Genetic experimentation. Cloning techniques," he added, seeing his guardian's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. 

The Englishman nodded after a moment, composing himself. "I suppose we should contact Mrs. Kent, or Ms. Lane then -"

"No." The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Alfred was staring, judging.

"You have nothing to feel guilty for Master Wayne -"

"He's mine." His throat was gravel and the confession hurt more than he wanted to admit, but he couldn't find it within himself to take it back.

He wanted to be selfless, to let the boy go - to let him live with a pair of women who would love him more than life itself. Who would honour him and who would tell him about his father, about a man who had soared in the clouds and saved people because it was the right thing to do, even when he didn't owe the world a thing. He should relinquish the baby to Alfred's arms, let him carry him off, into the hold of a grieving mother and let her nurture again, or to the lover of the man he helped kill. He knew Lois wanted to be a mother to Clark's children - and here and now, even with Clark gone, she could be.

He should think of what was best for the baby, so small and so new, so fragile, even with the blood of an alien in his veins. 

But he couldn't lose another son. 

"Mast-"

"Luthor used my DNA too, Alfred," he grit out, finally tearing his gaze away from his child and meeting the judgement of the man who had been his father for decades. "He's mine."

The Englishman's mouth was a round 'O', surprise lining his features. It took a few moments before the shock melted away into something softer, something like pride and grief and hope and every other unsteady emotion he was capable of feeling. "Ah, yes," he said after a moment, tone a little wobbly. "I see now. He has the Wayne jawline." 

It took three days of non-invasive tests and the baby sleeping in his arms for Bruce to be convinced the baby wasn't going anywhere. That the science wouldn't fail and his son wouldn't simply cease to be. It took another twelve hours after that for him to feel secure enough to order baby furniture. Changing tables, closets, toys, play-mats, dressers - all were promptly delivered to the lake house with urgency and, with an added handful of hundreds, discretion. 

The crib Bruce made himself. It had to be strong enough not to yield to the tantrums of a Kryptonian-Human hybrid after all.  

"They wanted to age him," Bruce greeted Alfred one afternoon as he entered the lake house, groceries in tow, two days after their home had been overtaken by nappies, rompers and enough formula to sink Stryker's Island. He was sat, watching his son, bracketed by soft blankets and stuffed toys, blink at him sleepily. He'd been fighting the urge to succumb for ten minutes or more, choosing to stare at Bruce instead. 

"Age him?"

"They were aiming for fifteen. The plan was continual growth without consciousness and then plant false memories subsequently. But, with so many previous failures, they decided to act in two stages. Birth him after gestation and then age him up at around two months." 

"But they didn't," Alfred placated. 

He huffed, a self-depreciating thing. "They could have."

"You saved him. He's safe here."

Bruce turned then. "Is he?"

JOKE'S ON YOU BATMAN. 

It was an entire week later that Alfred finally raised the notion of a name. All this time and his boy didn't have one, he'd simply been "the baby" or "baby Wayne". The thing ever remotely resembling a name written on the lab work was Thirteen - which angered Bruce and gave him a great sense of sorrow in equal measure.  

"Thomas?" the butler suggested. "After your father?"

"No," Bruce shook his head. "He should be his own person. He should feel like he's himself, not living up to shadows or ghosts of men." His eyes drifted to the case and shame overwhelmed him. He'd made so many mistakes with his sons, he didn't want to make them again with his littlest. Part of him wondered why Alfred hadn't fought harder to get the baby to Martha Kent, or even Lois. He wondered why Alfred trusted him, again, even when his track record was 0 for 3 in keeping his children safe. He wondered why Alfred had let him keep the baby away from them both, keeping them in the dark about the miracle part of their loved one that Bruce held in his arms. He wondered if Alfred would eventually demand that Martha Kent be allowed to see her grandchild and ignore the panic that would rise in him at her, at Lois, at Diana, at anyone, taking his child from him. 

"Something neutral then?" the man continued, breezing past the tension with all the skill of a mediator. "Alexander?"

"Luthor."

"Edward?"

"Riddler."

"Jonathan?"

"Scarecrow."

"Harvey?"

"Two-Face."

"You're making this extremely difficult Master Wayne."

"My apologies for having an aversion to giving my son a villain's name," he deadpanned. 

"Cornelius," Alfred offered. Bruce pulled a face and the old man scowled. "You could offer some suggestions."

"In the face of yours?" Alfred levelled him with a glare. "What about Samuel?"

"Samuel Wayne."

"Or Conner Kent," Bruce whispered, a pit in his stomach, finger stroking his son's cheek with all the nervousness of a new parent. None of his sons shared his last name: Grayson, Todd, Drake. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe the Wayne name was supposed to die with him.

A hand settled on his shoulder, heavy and determined, pressing its point home with as much force as it could muster. "He may very well be a Kent, but he is a Wayne, Master Bruce. Would you deny him his name, sir?"

A long silence followed where Alfred politely pretended he couldn't hear the hitches in his ward's breathing.

"Conner Samuel Kent-Wayne then?" He finally choked out. There was something in his throat, something that couldn't be dislodged by a cough or two - a thickness that lingered. "I suppose he would be Kon-El then. For his Kryptonian side."

"Perfect," Alfred agreed. 

And that was it. 

A few strings pulled, a forged birth certificate with no mother and BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE in the place of father, and his boy was in the world. 

And Bruce Wayne became a father of four. 

Chapter Text

Once Conner had his name, once he was a Wayne, it became real. 

Bruce still patrolled, Batman was always needed, but if he was more careful, if he made the suit armour a little thicker, a little more durable, then that was his business. And if he wired Conner's baby monitor to the speakers in the Batmobile, it was no one else's concern but his. 

When his boy began to crawl, life became baby-proofed.

Baby gates appeared in the lake house - a sight that amused Alfred no end - and the drawers and cupboards were all fixed shut. Corners were covered, sharp edges dulled and Bruce had even taken it upon himself to drill a few holes in his wall to more securely bolt his furniture in place.

His son hadn't shown any signs of being Clark's son, yet, other than his blood-work and distinct lack of bruising, scrapes or marks, but they were prepared for the day he did. Conner amused himself with keys and stuffed toys and, on occasion, a batarang that Bruce hadn't remembered to put away (that had sent his heart racing), always smiling that gummy, mindless, joyful grin that seemed to encompass his face. Conner laughed so brightly and brought tears to Alfred's eyes as he ticked off the milestones of development one after the other with the frequency and efficiency as though his boy had read a manual on 'how to grow'.

Alfred was every inch a grandfather. Solid, dependable, enduring, and Bruce's shame was overwhelmingly. Sometimes he forgot just how much his actions had cost the old man. How it wasn't just him who had lost his boys. 

He knew, in truth, that Alfred had some contact with Dick and, by extension Jason and Tim, but it was brittle and infrequent and driven entirely by the Blüdhaven police officer. It didn't help that there was an unspoken request by Dick that his conversations with Alfred remained between the two of them, excluding Bruce. The billionaire knew that his father figure didn't like keeping information about his sons from Bruce and so didn't reach out as often as he might like. It meant, therefore, that most of the information Bruce had on his sons came from sleuth work and whatever he could glean from social media. 

Dick had been promoted recently, to Detective. There had been a small, half paragraph mention in the local newspaper. Yet his son seemed conflicted with his position. Bruce didn't blame him, really. Blüdhaven was full of crime and corruption, more so than Gotham, and being a police officer in a place like that made people take a long hard look at themselves. The selfish part of him hoped he'd quit. That's he'd come home where he was safer. 

Safer, he hoped.

Tim, on the other hand, split his time between Dick's couch and his dorm room at Metropolis U. He'd enrolled in a computer sciences course and was doing well, very well, if his grades were genuine and his younger son hadn't hacked in and changed them himself (although, Bruce begrudgingly admitted, that was equally impressive). Tim could have accepted Bruce's offer to run Wayne Enterprises tech division and been more than capable. But, his son had been adamant, and most likely right too. After Jason, after Jason came back, things had gotten dark and difficult. His son needed to be a teenager, at least for a little while, rather than a Robin, and the son of the Batman. He hadn't given up his vigilante ways, although he had cut back significantly. He still stood on rooftops and protected strangers, although did so under the moniker of Red Robin. A subtle but deliberate separation from his position as Gotham's, as Batman's, Robin. 

Jason? Jason was a ghost. He had his own place for a while but seemed to spend so much time in Dick's spare bedroom that he relinquished his lease. He knew all of Bruce's tricks, and the lengths that the man would go to to check up on him, and seemed determined to outmanoeuvre all of them. 

So far it was working. 

But he knew his son was alive and, under Nightwing's watchful eye, had toned down his tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.

It was difficult to stand on the side-lines and watch. To ignore the writhing pit of snakes in his stomach that demanded he wade in and fix things. To mend the leaking pipe in their kitchen; beat down the arrogant prick of a lecturer who had decided he didn't like Tim after spotting him making out with some guy outside a club; and to scowl Jason's recklessness into submission. He made himself stop, to wait.

Alfred had never said it, but there was a sad pride in his eyes when he noticed Bruce's restraint. He was finally doing what his sons had asked of him - giving them space and time to determine who they were without him - but it was all at the cost of himself. In truth, he was sure he'd strayed over the line in the sand a couple of times. Patrol routes stretching that little bit wider until he could see Blüdhaven on the horizon; tapping into street cameras to make sure his boys got home safe after they decided drinks in a bar would be their evening's entertainment; or even something banal as topping up their accounts under the premise of the bank awarding them a "customer prize". He was sure they were aware of his spying, and his little interventions, but unlike the mistakes he'd made in the past, they didn't call him out on it. 

They gave him only silence.

It was a silence that Bruce wound around himself as a dense and impenetrable cloak - a signal to the world that Batman worked alone.

Until he didn't.

Conner was seven months, two weeks and five days old when Bruce realised his world was under attack. 

It started small, but soon even Bruce couldn't deny the day he'd feared - the day Diana did not believe would arrive - had come. So he packed up his life and went in search of heroes.

Conner came too, wrapped in blankets and content to slumber in his or Alfred's arms. 

Recruiting was difficult. They were stubborn, as set in their ways as he was, and being so open, so vulnerable, was a shard in his heart. Bruce Wayne had never had so much to protect and he feared everyone knew it. The Metas may have been his best chance at saving the planet, but he didn't trust them with his son. Conner was an innocent and had no place in a remote fishing village or in a rundown warehouse in Central City. Bruce had hoped that they would not be made aware of him, but they were losing and what better place to re-group than a cave filled with toys and satellite uplinks. 

United in the knowledge that their enemy had burned through stars and decimated planets and therefore unlikely to turn tail at the sight of their rag-tag group, they planned. Resurrection had been met with mixed reactions, but Bruce knew their fears were unfounded. If his son, born of Lex's nefarious plans and his DNA, could be as pure and as good as he was, then Clark could hold onto his soul as he was brought back through the eye of the needle. 

They'd been hip deep in strategy when Alfred appeared, nervous and hesitant, Conner fussing in his arms. 

"My apologies Master Wayne," he began, casting a look over the others, "but the young Master is decidedly unhappy today."

"It's alright Alfred," Bruce grunted, arms reaching for his son and ignoring the incredulous looks at them both. His boy squirmed and blubbered and hiccuped his way through two sub-vocal renditions of Hey Jude before he finally exhausted himself and relaxed against Bruce's chest.

"That's a baby," Barry said when silence once more ruled the cave. 

The Bat only hummed. 

"I did not know you have a baby, Bruce," Diana said, tone something surprised and something steely. 

"He is a recent addition to the family," the billionaire quipped before turning to the arched eyebrow of Arthur Curry. "My other sons live elsewhere."

"Others?" Barry spluttered. 

"Master Wayne has four sons," Alfred chimed in and, when Barry went to speak again, disturbing the baby, Bruce added a glare so filled with the threat of violence, the subject was discarded before it had even been properly whelped. It was then he saw recognition in the Flash's eyes. They'd seen the suit, after all, and even the Flash with as much self-awareness as a child knew that pushing wasn't the best course of action. 

So the League forged on. They brought a god back from the dead and Bruce, operating solely on faith, went to war with demons in a hell-scape fashioned from his own planet.

And Clark was back. 

Later, alone in the cave, with his son in his arms and the world safe, he let the gaping chasm open in his chest. It nearly swallowed him whole and it wasn't until Conner, his empathetic little boy, bat at his face, making distressed noises and babbling, that he realised he was hyperventilating.

Clark was back and Conner? -

Conner was Clark's son. 

Bruce felt the words on the tip of his tongue, felt the confession bursting free as he stood before the alien, now dressed in black. In Bruce's colours. But all he could see was Lois Lane, the ring on her finger, grinning brightly at Clark, and he knew that all that was missing from the picture-perfect apple-pie-life was a child. 

And Conner was Clark's son. 

Clark who had never hurt a child, or lost a child, nor pushed one away.

Lois who would take to motherhood as she had done to all things: impeccably.

It would be so easy for them to take him. 

So Bruce didn't say a word.

He bought a bank and saved a farm and then retreated back to Gotham, ignoring the concerned looks from Alfred that smoothed out into pity and understanding when he realised why his ward just couldn't say anything. When he realised the depth of his self-doubt, of his self-hatred.

When he finally put the pieces together and knew that even years later, Bruce still believed he wasn't worthy of being a father.

Chapter Text

His son was eight months and nine hours when he met his oldest brother.

Bruce was recovering, still, from the near invasion. From Clark's resurrection, from his own (Barry's explanation worried him more than he wanted to admit), and from a patrol he wasn't invested enough in to concentrate for. Distraction was death in his line of work and he was lucky his suit took most of the impact from the swinging crowbars that some wannabe jewellery thieves had wielded. He should have been focused, but how could he be?

(The world nearly ended (did end, for a moment), and he nearly lost all his children.

Permanently.

In a way that a Lazarus Pit, a Mother-Box and prayers couldn't fix.)  

There were bandages around his ribs, a shallow and hastily sown up knife wound on his shoulder, butterfly stitches hovering over his eyebrows and a nasty bruise marred the right side of his face, but there was yellow and pink smeared under his nails from Conner's morning excursion into finger painting and a tired smile on his lips.

His son gravitated towards the colours of a sunrise. Yellows, pinks, oranges, reds, even some pale blues - he'd thrust his hands into the little pots Alfred so painstakingly prepared - "It would not do well to allow him access to the whole bottle, Master Bruce"  - with little care and so much joy. It was Conner's innate happiness, so free of the cruelty in the world, despite how his life had begun and the blood he'd inherited, that had kept Bruce from fraying at the seams. 

He'd checked in on his sons when the dust had settled. When the Unity had been prevented and the servant of Darkseid had been returned, headless, through the gap in space his master had created. He hoped it would be enough of a deterrent, but Bruce knew megalomaniacs well and they tended to err on the side of personal confidence and belief in their own invincibility. Darkseid would come, eventually, but that was a battle for another day.

It was easy to manipulate street cameras, hack into the shift schedules of the Blüdhaven P.D. and check class attendance records at Metropolis U. His boys had been unscathed by the end of the world, thank fuck. Yet even that - even his momentary death and return and the end of the world - hadn't given him the courage to look into his sons' eyes.

Bruce supposed that his assumption his sons wouldn't reach out to him was yet another example of him projecting his own failures onto the boys.

Dick was stoic, hands shoved deep into pockets and collar turned up against the cool breeze, but Bruce could read the lines of his body enough to see concern bleeding through his frame. He wasn't sure who the concern was for, but he opened the door to his lake house with as neutral a body posture as he could, leaving enough space for Dick to come inside if he wanted to.

"You don't need to knock," he said by way of greeting ignoring the way his heart skipped. His son looked healthy. 

His eldest paused, eyes tracking over the injuries. "I heard you resurrected Superman."

Bruce hummed, not really knowing how to reply. His doorstep wasn't the place for such a conversation but the relief at having his son talk to him was too overwhelming to just usher him in. 

"I heard you saved the world," Dick continued. Bruce's eyes narrowed, contradiction coming, because it wasn't him, but Dick was already pushing past, into the house. "Alfred home?" he asked, meandering through like it hadn't been years since he traversed the space, like the sight of him in his house again wasn't doing funny things to the organ in Bruce's chest. 

"In the living room," Bruce choked out, watching as his son rounded the corner and came face to face with an elderly butler helping a toddler stand up, rewarding his efforts with a grin and a boop on the nose.

(Conner always squealed in delight at the action and so had been trying to heave himself up to stand on his two little feet at every opportunity.)

"What the fuck?" 

Alfred glanced up and his face split into a grin so sunny, it put Conner's to shame.

"Master Dick," he greeted, hands twitching and clearly wanting to embrace the oldest of Bruce's sons, but was conflicted about letting the youngest go. Bruce was there in an instant, taking the baby's free hand and dropping to his knees, letting Conner take a wobbly step and fall into his arms as his butler wrapped Dick in a warm and lingering hug. It was one they both sank into and clearly needed.

"What the fuck?" Dick repeated when they parted, tone softer somehow, but eyes unwavering from the scene before him. 

"You shouldn't swear around the baby," Bruce rebuked in an instant. The look Dick gave him was incredulous but somehow Bruce couldn't stop himself from continuing, his mouth seemingly moving without his permission. "His language processing is at repetitive sounds. I don't want his first word to be a swear word."

The police officer turned to Alfred, expression demanding an explanation. "This is Conner," the Englishman introduced softly, gently, as though worried that Dick would spook. "Your brother."

"Brother?" Dick snorted, face doing something complicated, before understanding dawned in his eyes. He rounded on Bruce with a sudden ferocity that he had learned from Batman. "You had a kid." The accusation was a cold sound that spilt out of him. "You had a kid and you didn't tell me?" Bruce hesitated, explanation on his lips, because Conner was loved (oh so loved), but he was complicated. Unfortunately, his immediate silence seemed to be enough. "You didn't even consider telling me? Jesus fuc-" Dick cut himself off. "What is wrong with you?" he hissed. "I thought -" he exhaled. "No, no I don't know what I thought. Jason was right." 

He was gone before Bruce could reach out, ignoring Alfred's pleas to wait.   

He didn't realise there were tears rolling down his cheeks until Conner was trying to bat them away, his delight replaced with distress and his own eyes becoming glossy. 

They spent the rest of the day sat in the rocking chair Alfred had bought weeks previously, watching the water ripple on the lake, Bruce murmuring his way through fairy tales, one after the other, his son transfixed on the bright pictures.

It took Jason thirty five hours to confirm Dick's story. 

Conner still slept in Bruce's room, in the depleted promethium crib he'd manufactured, within arm's distance. Alfred had made no mention of how his son should, in reality, be in his own room, in the nursery they'd so painstakingly put together, and Bruce was grateful for it.

He'd laid his son down, stepping away to brush his teeth. When he returned there was a figure looming over the crib, clad in kevlar and weapons and if it weren't for the lack of alarms and the red of it all, Bruce would have dissolved into a violent panic. 

"Jason," Bruce greeted.

"Dickie wasn't shitting me then," was his reply. 

"No," Bruce acquiesced, moving to stand at Jason's shoulder.

"Which unfortunate groupie did you manage to knock up?" he snorted, tilting his head a little to the side as though looking at Conner from a different angle would reveal his parentage. 

"I didn't." Jason's stance tensed. "Conner is a clone. Or, at least, an attempt at one."

"The fuck?" Red Hood spat, whirling on him, his voice a harsh and angry whisper. "Just when I thought your fucking vanity could get no -"

"Superman's clone," Bruce continued, ignoring the accusation and breezing over the tightness in his chest at finally letting someone else know. 

There was a long, pregnant silence.

"The fuck -?"

"Lex Luthor attempted to create a clone of Superman from DNA, but all of their tests failed - there was no viable subject. So instead of creating a direct copy of Superman, Luthor tried combining the genetic information of Superman with someone he thought would enhance the child's abilities. A donor who would make them a better soldier," Bruce intoned.

"You."

"Batman," Bruce clarified. "It was a success. They intended to age him up to fighting age, but when Luthor was arrested for Doomsday, for the death of Superman, the facility where Conner was kept was left without guidance. I found him there, alone, several months ago, and I brought him home."

"Jesus fuck," Jason replied after a moment of long, thin silence. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "So you and Superman have a kid together?"

"Genetically speaking," Bruce clarified. Conner fussed and Bruce was shifting his blanket over him before he registered his movements.

"No shared custody?" Jason sniped. 

"Superman is unaware of his genetic relation to Conner."

Another silence. "You're shitting me, right?"

"Superman was dead -"

"He's not dead anymore old man -"

"And he is in a serious, stable, heterosexual relationship. He has no lingering animosity towards me but there is no inclination to be anything further than reluctant colleagues -"

"I'm not suggesting you marry him -"

"Meaning," Bruce stressed, "that the revelation of a child who would be biologically our child would be overtly complicated for all involved, particularly for the woman who would want to be a mother to Superman's children. Conner is safer, here. Here he is well cared for, he is not passed around between half a dozen couples who wish to know him or who want to create custody arrangements, nor is there any confusion nor jealousy as to parentage. Superman does not necessarily consider me anything more than a reluctant ally, I do not want to create a complicated situation where I have to fight to see my child, or where my son is passed from crib to crib, raised by anyone who feels like they should have a say or wish to chip in."

Jason scowled, unconvinced by the argument. "He's still his kid, Bruce."

"And he's mine too," the man snapped, losing his cool, "and look what happened the last time I let my son run off to find his 'real parents'." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth but even though they curdled in the air, even though they turned his son's face bright with anger, Bruce also knew Jason had seen the real fear that lay beneath them. 

"The kid ain't me, old man."

He was gone a moment later, leaving only cooling words still too ugly to touch.

Bruce heaved in a breath and let himself brush a lock of hair out of Conner's eyes. The baby gurgled but remained undisturbed.

"Master Jason isn't wrong, sir," Alfred murmured from his place in the doorway, clearly unrepentant about eavesdropping. "Circumstances are vastly different. And, I might add, that you are Conner's father, and you always will be."

"I was Jason's father too, Alfred. And Dick's. And Tim's."

"And you still are," the English said, tone rivalling steel. 

A silence, then, in the quiet of the room, his voice barely a whisper, Bruce croaked out his deepest fear. 

"What if I ruin him?"

"You won't." The answer came immediately, without hesitation.

"How -"

"Are you making the argument that your sons are all ruined, Master Bruce?"

"Of course not," Bruce replied, aghast.

"Then how would you ruin Conner?" A hand settled on his shoulder. "Have faith in yourself Master Bruce, you are more worthy than you let yourself believe."

"How can you possibly think that?"

Alfred hummed, fingers squeezing tightly. "Because I know the person you are. I have seen you grow from a boy, terrified by the world, to a man willing to do anything to change it. Because you love far more deeply than anyone I know. Because you gave those boys a family, a home, when they needed it the most... and you let them leave you when you realised they needed that too. Most parents judge their successes on the education their children receive, the jobs they attain, the people they wed, when a true testament of parentage is the strength of their child's character. Those boys are three of the strongest, bravest, kindest, fairest people around. They have endured and suffered, yes, but at the hands of those who had no love in their hearts. We all make mistakes, but no one could ever convince me that you don't love those boys - that you didn't do everything you could for them." Alfred paused, hesitant for the first time. He risked a glance at his charge before he steeled himself and began to speak again. "When you left Gotham, to find yourself, and you returned as The Batman, I was convinced that I had failed your parents -"

"Alfred -" Bruce began but the Butler only held up his hand in reply. 

"They had entrusted me with you and even though I knew there were others who could no doubt care for you better, it was your parents' will that you stay at home. When you returned, you had changed. You were sad and angry before, but you were something else when you returned. I felt as though it was my responsibility to prevent that. You shouldn't have needed to become the Bat. I should have protected you, even from yourself." He took a breath. "But I realised something, all on my own. As much as I wish I could shoulder your pain, prevent your hurt and bear your scars, your life - the journey of your life - is not mine to deny you. Parents and guardians, we are all but guides. I could not tell you how to live, nor could I stop you living the way you wish to. I realised that the greatest gift a parent can give is unconditional love and unwavering support. We all wish, with everything we are, that our children remain safe and sheltered and protected from the world, and that no harm will ever befall them, but that is impossible. Instead, I have come to accept that the best way to protect is to teach, to be patient, to be understanding... and to offer a hug and warm cocoa for when they need it."

Bruce choked back the rising emotion in his throat. "I know I don't say it enough," he finally rasped, the words sticking to the back of his teeth. 

"I hear it," Alfred promised, "don't you worry about that." He glanced away, back to Conner. "And don't you worry about him," he paused, chuckling softly to himself, "although if he's anything like he father, he'll give you one hell of a fright playing hide and seek."

Bruce spluttered a laugh. It was wet and thick, but eased something in his chest he hadn't realised was there. "Not my fault you never checked inside the grandfather clock."

Alfred hummed, unconvinced. "I can assure you, Master Wayne, it was the last time I didn't."

"Thank you Alfred."

"You don't need to thank me."

"Yes, I do. For more than this, I know. But just - thanks."

The Englishman smiled, a quiet, gentle, kind sort of thing. It made Bruce feel five years old, wrapped in a blanket and protected from the world. "I made a promise a long time ago to a little boy who hid in clocks," he said, voice low, like it was a secret, "that I'll always be here for as long as he needs me, and I fully intend to keep it."

Chapter Text

It was thirteen days later that Bruce found Tim leaning up against the railing of the balcony, face turned into the sun, clearly waiting for him and Conner to return from their trip to the duck pond. 

The boy had been immediately enamoured with the birds as they swarmed up towards them, eager at the sight of food and the sound of a rustling bag. It had taken his son a moment or two to realise he needed to relinquish the fistfuls of rice and seeds and not eat them himself if he wanted to appease the animals. Then, after he'd worked out how to let go of the clumps of food, to drop it beside the ducks, and not on the birds' heads, which he'd decided to do with a little more accuracy and coordination than a baby should have at eight and a half months.

He'd leaned against Bruce's legs and wobbled a lot, babbling as he stuck both hands in the paper bag clenched his fingers around as much as he could, dumping more and more in the same places and screeching in amusement as half the pond's inhabitants flocked to him. Of course, that was before he rapidly grew bored with the apparently slow process of emptying the bag and instead tried to upturn it on the nearest duck instead, pouting and babbling something that sounded suspiciously close to boo when Bruce told him no.

His son had inherited his father's stubbornness it seemed. 

Tim looked good. He'd filled out a little and seemed to have grown taller too, no longer the slim little boy he'd been. He wasn't bulky, like Jason, instead he seemed to take after Dick: toned and strong - lines of muscle wrapped up in the frame of an acrobat. He seemed more confident too, Bruce could see. He'd been self-assured - any child capable of tracking the Batman had to be - but Jason's insistence at calling him 'replacement' and feeling the weight of Dick's shadow had always meant he felt he'd had to give more, just to be equal. Bruce hadn't known how to help, other than gentle praise and reassurance, but it seemed time away had done him good. His head was high, his body tall - the mark of a man unapologetic in taking up the space around him. Tim had matured beyond the child desperate for Batman's approval and Bruce couldn't have been prouder. 

Red Robin indeed. 

Tim glanced over when they were in view, but waited until they'd made their way to the foot of the stairs to speak.

"So this is the famous Conner?" he asked.

"Yes," Bruce said, nodding once. "You look good," he offered.

Tim let a little half scowl flit across his features. "It would have been nice to hear from you B," he replied, ignoring the compliment and getting straight to the point, "rather than third hand." He jerked his head in the vague direction of Blüdhaven. "Bit of a surprising text to get halfway through a presentation on App Development." He paused. "Even more surprising than finding out Dick and Jay had known for two weeks and hadn't said anything because they were waiting for you to break your silence and tell me yourself."

Bruce swallowed heavily. "I know," he hesitated. "I should have done this differently."

Tim snorted, a sound that finally drew Conner's attention. The baby tilted his head slightly, clearly curious, but made no sound or move to engage with his brother, so obviously content to stay in his place snuggled against Bruce's chest.

"Yeah, you should have," Tim continued, eyes tracking Conner's movements, before his features smoothed out and his shoulders relaxed, the fight seemingly drained from him in a moment. "But I get why you didn't." Bruce's face must have done something because Tim sighed and continued. "Jason filled me in on the whole thing and I get it. Dick and Jason, they'd think Big Blue would deserve to know and they'd push you, which you wouldn't want because of course you wouldn't. Plus, I figure that you'd already had the panic attack about Conner being a weakness for you. Me, Dick and Jay, we can protect ourselves, but the kid? He's just a big bag of squishy stuff and jellied bones," he gestured to the baby now squirming a little in Bruce's arms. "Less people in the know, the better."

A lump had lodged itself in his throat. "I didn't imagine you would endanger him -"

"Fuck, no -," Tim waved a hand stopping him instantly, "I know B, I know, but you're you. You can't switch off that part of your brain. I'm not angry at that... not anymore anyway. Part of me figured that when the kid could yell for you or, I don't know, laser eyes his way out of trouble, you'd drag us all together and make the announcement."

There was a silence.

"So," Tim said after the quiet became uncomfortable. "Can I meet him?"

"Of course," Bruce huffed, finally coming to stand beside Tim and letting Conner reach out with a hand. The baby had seen pictures, of course. Alfred had been diligent in showing Conner photographs of all his brothers, as well as Thomas and Martha Wayne and, much to Bruce's surprise, Clark and his parents - an image taken from the pages of the order of service from Clark's funeral.

"Hey kid," Tim greeted, offering a finger that Conner immediately accepted, hand grasping tightly, a little frown settling on his forehead. "Guess I'm not the baby anymore," Tim muttered. Bruce huffed a half laugh. "Dick still calls me Baby Bird when he's being particularly irritating," he offered.

"Something tells me that won't change, even with Conner."

Tim smiled. "Probably not," he confessed, eyes unwavering from the baby who was now leaning forward even further, other hand reaching to try and slap it against Tim's cheek.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Bruce asked, trying not to let his hope bleed too heavily on the words. 

He was going to say no, the Bat could see it, but Conner must have swung it for him. "Okay," he agreed, smiling.

"Alfred's making spaghetti," the billionaire added.

Alfred was, indeed, making spaghetti, but stopped immediately - first to fold Tim into a long and lingering hug, and then to admonish him for waiting on the balcony and not coming into the house. "This is still your home, Master Timothy," he rebuked, pretending not to notice the red blush crawling up the man's neck.

The meal was stilted and a little clumsy, broken up mainly by Conner's efforts to paint a Picasso on the table of his high chair.

When he wasn't batting his little hands against the table, Conner was picking up clumps of his pasta in his hands, trying to fit his food, fist included, into his mouth. The tomato sauce, smeared around his face, his bib, hands and any of his father's reachable skin, was just as fascinating as finger paint if the way he ran his hands through it was any indication. 

Tim kept letting out amused sounds at the sight of his guardian fighting to regain control over a boy who had him wrapped around his finger. Alfred distracted him by dragging him into conversations about Blüdhaven and college and how he was coping with living with Dick and Jason.

Tim only laughed. "I'm not there most of the time - school thank god - so we haven't tried to murder each other yet."

When the plates were stacked and in the sink, Bruce took it upon himself to give Conner a bath. Tim followed him in, sitting against the radiator while the billionaire obligingly played with plastic ducks and untangled the thin wisps of his youngest's hair.

"He's a good kid," Tim commented, amused. "He hasn't shown signs of -?"

"Being half extra-terrestrial?" Bruce hummed. "No, not really. Although thus far there have been no examples of injury or bruising, no matter how many times he falls down."

"Right."

"If the information I have on file, and Luthor's science, is accurate, the majority of his powers are expected to manifest at or around the beginnings of puberty," he recited. "Certain abilities, primarily those that are vision and breath related, have been theorised to correlate to particular hormonal shifts that aren't expected for several years. Strength and flight, however, are uncertainties. Tests indicate that once his cells are sufficiently saturated by the radiation generated by a main-sequence star, his abilities will manifest. Alfred and I theorise that Conner's cells may possess some ability to retain the solar energy he absorbs, like Superman, meaning any manifested powers would still be possible in environments not exposed to that particular radiation once cell saturation has been achieved." He paused. "Of course we haven't attempted, or considered, exposing him to any form of Kryptonite - although tests conducted on a sample of Superman's tissue indicated excessive necrosis and DNA degradation, a process only stopped by the removal of the Kryptonite and the immediate exposure to a large quantity of main-sequence star radiation. I can only speculate that Conner will follow similar patterns, albeit, perhaps in more restrained capacity, given his half human composition."

Bruce paused again, aware he was rambling, but finding some comfort in telling someone other than Alfred about his son. A glance at Tim told him that he was still listening. He didn't remark on Bruce having a sample of Superman's DNA, nor did he ask why he had enough Kryptonite to experiment with. Instead, he nodded his head, indicating Bruce should carry on.

"Conner does seem to be following typical patterns of social and physical development," he continued, "although we discovered quite quickly that he is lactose intolerant. We aren't sure if that is a product of my genetics or Superman's, but current thinking suggests Superman given the age in which he presented with symptoms. I know from the Kryptonian ship that they had moved away from natural births and towards a so-called 'birthing matrix'. Typically, children were gestated to a certain age before being 'born' and given to their parents. The theory stands that this age was after a typical period of weaning, thus there was no need for milk consumption. Information I was able to gather from Superman's mother indicates that his arrival on the planet occurred after this age and thus he had only ever consumed a combination of baby and solid foods as an infant. She didn't volunteer if any adverse reactions came from his consumption of formula, however we haven't considered such actions necessary given Conner's healthy progress on food thus far."

"What about Luthor?" Tim asked. 

"At Arkham, currently. I have no illusions as to the man remaining there - he's far too rich and well connected not to manifest a relatively decent escape plan - however his data and records were all destroyed when I located Conner."

"Won't he come after him? I mean even with half of Superman's powers, he'd be a hell of a solider if Lex raised him that way..."

"I was quite thorough in my destruction of the facility," Bruce confessed. "My hope is that Luthor believes Conner died in that fire and that I did not manage to locate the boy before that happened. Also, if my theories are correct, Lex had tried on twelve previous occasions to successfully create a clone of Superman. All failed. Given that Conner showed virtually no indications of Kryptonian powers or heritage other than blood-work, it is entirely plausible that Lex and his scientists believed all they had managed to achieve was successfully combine the genetic material of two men, create a viable embryo and eventually birth it as a healthy child." Bruce scoffed. "While that would no doubt be a breakthrough for reproductive science and the LGBTQ+ community, I very much doubt it would be considered an acceptable conclusion to a program designed to weaponise a child."

"You're hoping Lex will just let it go?" Tim asked, incredulous. 

"Luthor is a scientist, albeit a terrible one. He'll move on to other ideas that provide him with a better opportunity to take Superman down rather than rebuild a project from the ground up that gave him terrible results."

"And when he sees you have a child?"

"I'm a playboy and Lex knows it. Even including my nightly activities, I'm not a monk - my reputation depends upon it, after all - and Luthor is aware. It is entirely possible a socialite, with no desire to become a mother, approached me with a child that was genetically mine and I kept the baby while also paying her to keep quiet about her relationship to myself and Conner, and to go away." 

"Huh."

Bruce hummed in reply, pulling his son from the bath, wrapping him in a towel and letting the water go. Conner squirmed, pouting a little as he was dried, but settled enough to let his father dress him in a sleep-suit adorned with panda bears all wearing a large variety of hats. 

"I have to ask," Red Robin asked after a long silence. "If - when - you're going to tell Superman."

Bruce paused, gathering his youngest in his arms and inhaling deeply, the clean scent of soap and something distinctly baby Conner filling his senses. "Honestly?" he asked. "When I thought I needed to."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Conner was asking questions. Or I required some advice or assistance on managing Conner's powers. He'll want to talk to someone about how to control his strength, or the best position to fly in, and there's only so much I can offer him."

Tim narrowed his eyes. "So, when he's old enough to tell people what he wants to do - where he wants to live, you mean."

Ah, Bruce thought, that took him less time than I expected. But then again, Tim had always been observant.

"I already told Jason -"

"I know you're scared," Tim cut him off, face stern but voice soft. "But I don't think Superman's going to be too happy with you if you kept his son from him for, what, ten years because you didn't want the drama of sharing."

"I would hardly be sharing Tim," the billionaire snapped back. 

Something flickered across the younger's features. "You think he'll take Conner from you. Permanently, I mean."

"I may have resurrected Superman, Tim, but I tried to kill him first," his tone was flat. "I have no doubt that Superman will do everything he can to take Conner with him once aware of his existence, even if he and his family think I've reformed to some degree by bringing him back."

"Surely Superman wouldn't -"

"Superman will be angry. Today, tomorrow, ten years from now, it doesn't matter. He will be angry. He'll be angry at Lex for the violation of using his DNA. He'll be angry because it's my DNA his has been paired with. He'll be angry I took him and didn't tell his mother, or give Conner to his fiancée when he was dead. He'll be angry he wasn't around to look after Conner himself but he'll also be angry with himself, no doubt, because he'd look at Conner and see a clone, an experiment and Lex's handiwork, not a baby. He'd be angry at me, for thinking I could do better, or for thinking I could be a good parent. Superman knows who I am. It's a little hard to make the argument that Conner is better with me when the people you're arguing against already know you've hurt three sons after inducting them into your lifestyle. Not to mention that he's in a stable relationship with a steady income and a mother who knows how to raise a super-powered baby. I'm alone and spend my evenings punching a man dressed as a giant question mark, leaving Conner with Alfred in the cave. " Bruce heaved out a breath and rubbed soothing circles on Conner's back. "Superman will be angry. I don't blame his anger, but people don't make the best decisions when they're angry. I tried to kill him and he doesn't trust me. No matter what I say, or do, he will believe, at some level, that I have kept Conner as an insurance policy against him - my own little Kryptonian to match him. Even if he doesn't, he'll most likely want Conner to raise with his partner, at my exclusion. As soon as Superman knows, he will no doubt do everything he can to take him from me."

Tim's mouth had opened and closed several times during Bruce's explanation, no doubt to interrupt but, at its conclusion, remained silent. 

"This is going to end badly," he finally said. To his credit (and to Bruce's surprise), he made no suggestion that perhaps Clark would be right, that Conner would be better off with him, and Lois, as his primary caretakers. "But I'll say this," he added, "while I don't think he would, if Superman did try to take Conner, do you really think he'd succeed?"

That threw him. 

"What?"

"Do you really think that Superman, or anyone he tried to enlist in his argument, would succeed in taking Conner from you?" Tim asked. "I mean, I'm guessing he's got a birth certificate?"

"Of course."

"And it says Wayne?"

"It says Kent-Wayne," Bruce confessed. "I'm listed as the father, the space for mother is blank."

"Kent?" Tim asked. "That's -"

"His name? Yes."

Tim nodded slowly. "That's an olive branch I suppose," he murmured. "Anyway, the law is with you," he continued. "So Superman couldn't steal Conner and say he's his. And, you forget that he'd have to get past you, and Alfred, and me, Dick and Jay -"

"I didn't..." Bruce trailed off. 

Tim frowned. "We've had issues, sure, what family hasn't? But you're our dad, B, of course you are. And Conner is our brother, no matter how many times Jason calls him 'Baby Alien'. If anyone tries to take him, you bet we'll be here, suited up and ready to go."

The pair let out long breaths, before moving slowly forward, cautiously as though both were afraid to spook the other. It was difficult with Conner in the way, but the hug was tight enough to be reassuring. To reinforce that they were both there. That, at the end of the day, they were still family, no matter what happened. 

It was only when the boy began to huff and kick out his little feet, clearly irritated, that they separated. 

"Sorry baby," Tim said, tracing a heart on Conner's cheek. His face brightened immediately, annoyance gone. 

"Do you want to hold him?" Bruce asked. His son started before very slowly nodding. 

He was rigid as the Bat carefully shifted his youngest's weight over into his arms, but Conner's sudden joy at the realisation that he was being held by someone new melted the concern held in his muscles. The baby batted his face and squealed when Tim grinned in reply.

"Hey Conner, I'm Tim, I'm your brother," he said, lighting up as Conner giggled, delighted. "Well one of them. But I'm the best one," he added, voice soft, "no matter how much Jason will say he's the best because he stole the tires off the Batmobile, he never tracked down the Batman like I did," he continued, turning and beginning to walk out of the bathroom. "Dick, he's the oldest, he was the first Robin, but he's such a mother hen, maybe even more than Alfred," his voice faded as he walked further away, leaving Bruce rooted to the spot in the bathroom, the sight of his sons burned into his eyes. 

It must have been a few moments as Alfred poked his head around the doorframe. 

"Are you alright Master Bruce?" the butler asked. 

Bruce glanced up and shook his head, an incredulous smile itching to spread across his face. "Fine, Alfred, I think."

Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "Fine, sir?"

Bruce waved in the vague direction of Tim and Conner. "I didn't think I'd get -" he cut himself off. 

The Englishman smiled, knowing exactly what his ward was going to say. "I did," he confessed, tone brimming with certainty, before disappearing out of sight. 

Bruce let a soft smile creep onto his face and followed behind, more than happy to spend his evening watching his sons, surrounded by an army of stuffed toys, laughing together on his living room floor. 

Chapter Text

Tim was the first of his sons to cross over the threshold, moving from no communication to regular, daily texts less than a week after meeting Conner.

In truth, it gave Bruce whiplash. He went from quietly stalking his children in the hope of keeping them safe (well, as safe as he possibly could) and fed (his deposits weren't subtle, disguised as bank won competitions, and he'd trained his boys - they already knew), to hearing that Tim had gotten an A in a group project and one of the boys supposed to be working with him (who had spent the previous two weeks binge drinking and leading three girls in their dorm on) had walked out with a D.

"I didn't even think they'd give separate grades for us - group project you know," he'd snorted around his cereal, slouched carelessly over the kitchen countertop, clad in boxers and a "Metropolis U" t-shirt. "But I swear, the look on Pete's face when Sidney, Tina and I all came out with A's and he got a D, I nearly died B." Another bite, barely concealing a snort. "Apparently, the Professor 'couldn't see any contribution I can confidently attribute to Mr. Harding'." 

Dick was next. 

It came, at first, under the guise of police work. 

"There's this guy we're hunting," he said late one evening, voice too steady to be anything other than unsure. Bruce had been suiting up for patrol but hesitated at the sight of his son's name flashing up on his phone. "I could really use the Bat computer to check it out..."

"You're more than welcome to come over and look through it," Bruce had ground out. He'd waited to see his son settled in the cave before jumping into the Batmobile, leaving behind the sight of Alfred plying him with tea and Conner, snoring softly in his crib, making his oldest smile fondly. 

After four weeks, one arrest and six successful charges, Dick no longer had the excuse - particularly as it had made the local paper. It took him a few days before deciding to simply turn up, nodding once to his adoptive father and quietly muttering: "We do need to talk, but I'm not going to push."

Jason took a little longer. 

His middle son was more than aware that his other brothers had found their way back into the Bat's life but despite a clear resistance to follow, had not found another place to sleep, instead remaining in Dick's apartment. This meant that even without seeing him, Bruce received some half updates on Jason. They were little things, primarily rotating around who he was tracking or what gang he'd taken down the week prior. His sons were generous with their comments, but still the longing for Jason to properly come home remained. 

In the end it was two months after Dick finally admitted to himself that his visits to the lake-house were to reconnect, and not to trawl through his adopted father's database, that Jason finally returned to Bruce's life. 

They'd all been planning Conner's first birthday party. It was an affair that, despite involving (at that point) no more than five people, including the guest of honour himself, had somehow become quite an event. Bruce was, of course, in charge of presents; Alfred of cake - albeit with Dick's overtired caveat of "fuck me, anything but Red Velvet"; Tim had elected himself head of decorations; Dick was in charge of food selection, including finalising the plans for a barbecue on the balcony (because apparently Bruce's grill was too small); and Conner of simply not swallowing anything non-edible (Tim had nearly melted down when the baby tried to put an eraser he'd left out in his mouth).

Bruce himself had just finished a long and irritating call with the head of Lego. He didn't know placing an order for a large amount of Duplo would raise suspicion but, much to his surprise, they had called to discuss a last minute addition to his order: the newly minted, not yet released, 'Justice League' (because that was what the public had decided to call their rag-tag anti-Steppenwolf team) figurines (the safe-for-young-children versions, of course, he had been repeatedly reassured). 

Bruce wasn't sure if it was Dick or Tim's idea of a joke, but he wasn't very amused, particularly at the attendant's insistence that, yes, he wasn't to worry, both Batman and Superman would be included in the collection.

"We're more than happy to accommodate you Mister Wayne," they'd said, eager and almost desperate to please, "but as this is a rush order for a product not yet in the public domain, we have had to expedite and, well, our expedition has become a touch more costly than the prior estimation we gave to your assistant." Bruce, knowing his persona, had been more than happy to pay the extra - only the best (and the unobtainable) for his infant after all. 

He'd hung up and walked in to see Jason lounging on the couch, boots propped up on the coffee table, waving a stuffed dinosaur in Conner's face. 

Red Hood, sans kevlar and helmet and blades around his adopted father for the first time in years, had glanced up, a shit-eating grin directed squarely at Bruce and said: "Good call?"

"You?" Bruce had said back, not hiding his surprise. 

Jason only smirked before he shrugged and pulled a face. "Don't make it weird."

And that was that. 

Bruce was curious, of course, as to whether his youngest had been the only reason his other sons had returned or whether he had just facilitated an easier route home for the three of them. Either way he kept far away from any such prodding, too grateful to have them back in his life to do more than smile and nod. Alfred too, seemed over the moon at the Wayne family having somehow found their way back to each other. 

Even if it was as clumsy and drawn-out a reunion as humanly possible, book-ended with over cooked burgers and too many party streamers.

But with the return of his children came the inevitable intrusions into his parenting style. While there seemed to be a general agreement amongst them that the other party who had contributed to Conner's genetic make-up was a topic to be avoided at all costs (at least for the moment), other areas seemed to be fair game. Most prominently was their collective outrage that Conner had yet to interact with anyone, or anything, beyond the boundaries of the lake house grounds. 

It only took three weeks after the party for the comments to begin in earnest, and only days after that for words to morph into demands for action.

"He's half alien, Dick," Bruce had sighed, exasperated at yet another discussion, his hand reaching out to stop his youngest from putting his new Flash figurine into his mouth. "I thought it best to make sure he wasn't going to freeze half a block if he got upset before I took him for a stroll through Gotham."

His eldest had crossed his arms, stance unwavering and snorted. "Socialisation is important. Unless you plan on raising a poorly adjusted, super-powered super-villain who's never seen a cow." Bruce had scowled but knew he was ultimately fighting a losing battle, particularly when all three seemed to agree.

"Well, what would you suggest?" Bruce huffed. "A take-your-alien-baby-to-work day?"

Dick had scowled and after a rather quick but aggressive google search, turned back to his father, smug. "The Metropolis Zoo is having an event day next weekend. One of their black bears had a cub and they're going to let them been seen by the public in their enclosure for the first time. You don't go to Metropolis often, so they won't be expecting you -"

"There'll be press -" Bruce interrupted.

Dick scowled. "There will be far too many people cooing at the bear or wrangling their sugar-filled children to care about Bruce Wayne wandering around with a stroller."

"I don't believe in zoos," Tim had chimed in from his place on the floor building a Lego Death Star. He'd erected a pen around himself to prevent Conner from getting near the small blocks and the sight had been a source of some amusement for his brothers for nearly two days. "It's just fancy exploitation." 

"The kid needs to see animals," Jason cut over him. "We can jail break the wolves after the kid's seen them." 

"You're not setting wolves loose in Metropolis," Alfred shouted from the other room.

"Loose implies a lack of control," Jason retorted tartly. "I fully intend to release them into the woods."

"How you getting them to the woods, genius?"

"I'll ask nicely," the boy grinned. 

In short, Bruce ended up outvoted.

Alfred was coming too, if only to ensure his son didn't go through with his plan to shoot all the locks off the cages. Tim had decided that wearing a t-shirt with the words: 'a cage can never be a home' was the best attire for the trip while Jason had stated that given his status as 'dead' and the prominent white streak in his hair, a pair of sunglasses and a dark jacket was disguise enough to prevent his identification. 

"I'll just say I'm the security if any fucker asks," he'd snorted, tucking a knife into his boot and ignoring the glare sent his way from Alfred. 

"I'm telling them you're the nanny," Tim shot back just as quickly, before dancing out of the way of Jason's retaliatory punch.  

Bruce was convinced they were conspicuous, even with his baseball hat and sunglasses, and made sure his children all knew how much of a bad idea he though the trip was. Only Tim had showed any sort of empathy, muttering quietly to his father that he'd threaded an extra tracking chip through the baby's shoe laces and hacked into all the zoo's CCTV, just in case.

In the end, his reservations died the moment Conner lit up at the sight of a pair of swimming otters and immediately wanted out of his stroller. He took up an endless babbling monologue punctuated by the handful of words and sounds he knew garnered a reaction, including the distinguishable: "Dada!"  

(Bruce had positively melted when, late one evening, Alfred had pointed at him and asked Conner "who's that?", to which his son had loudly and confidently shouted "DADA" at the top of his lungs. The billionaire had let his face split open into a bigger grin than he thought possible to make and the sensation deep in his chest didn't wane no matter how many times his son called to him.)

His hands raised, outstretched and demanding, Bruce was helpless and hefted his youngest onto his hip, ignoring the snarky comment about being whipped from Jason who, despite all his mutterings, was still smug at 'Jays' being the third word Conner had said. (Although his smugness was diminished somewhat when he realised that 'no' and 'Jays' had stemmed from Jason being repeatedly and regularly told off for having his feet on the table.)  

"These are river otters," Tim informed Conner, who had leant forward in Bruce's arms and pressed his hand to the glass, content to babble at the animals. "They eat fish."

"No," the toddler replied. 

"Yeah, they also stink. Come on, I wanna see the eagles," Jason called.

"Ignore the nanny Conner," Dick interjected. "Otters are fun. Apparently they have a favourite rock."

"Jesus -"

"And," Dick pressed on, glaring at his brother, "they can use stones to break open shells."

"Tool use, great, learned that 3.3 million years ago, big woop. EAGLES."

"Who's the kid here?" Tim asked. "What's so great about the Eagles anyway?"

"Well I'm still kinda hoping they'll carry you off Replacement," Jason shot back without missing a beat. 

"Why don't we circle back to the Otters, Master Bruce," Alfred chipped in, looking as proper as always, clad in what he took for dressed down: a tweed jacket with elbow patches, blue shirt, grey tie, smart trousers and comfortable walking boots.

"Excellent idea," Bruce huffed, feeling a headache beginning behind his eyes.

The trip continued in much the same vein. His boys bickering, Conner wide-eyed with wonder at everything except, much to Bruce's amusement, the bear cub. 

"Well, he does have like, a dozen teddy bears that look exactly like that at home, doesn't he?" Jason had snorted in the face of the boy's indifference.

It was only when they found a picnic bench as far from the crowd as they could and broke for a very late lunch, his toddler taking a nap in his arms, that he let himself huff out a laugh at the normality of their little outing. Siblings squabbling with one another dominated the zoo, as did exhausted parents and patient grandparents.

They fit in seamlessly.

Until - 

"Bruce?"

Ah, shit - he knew it was too good to be true.

"Diana," Bruce smiled tightly, feeling his heart try to pick up and run out of his chest. "Clark."

His boys ceased their halfhearted argument on who would win in a fight, the Riddler or a Grizzly Bear, in an instant and turned on a sixpence, sensing something in their father's tone. It was eerie to see them switch from carefree boys to his Robins.  

"Alfred," Diana continued, smiling kindly, walking forward and enveloping the Englishman in a hug. "It's so good to see you."

"You too Ma'am," Alfred nodded, English cool winning the day, yet again. 

"These must be your boys, no?" Diana continued, looking back to Bruce, all friendly camaraderie. 

"Yes," Bruce replied, tense, shooting a look to his children in a silent warning. 

"Dick Grayson, Ma'am," his eldest said, cautious as he extended his hand. Diana shook it with a little more force than Dick was expecting. A glance at his family before: "You work with B?" he guessed. 

"I have, yes," Diana agreed, smiling. "Your father helped me, and, ah others," she shot a look at Clark, "come back to the world."

There was a long, pregnant silence.

Jason finally blinked, looked straight at Clark, then hissed: "No fucking way." He jumped to his feet, eyes casting rapidly between Clark, Diana and Bruce. "No fucking way! He's a fucking lumberjack?!" Tim clamoured to throw a hand over his brother's mouth. "Fuck off Replacement," Jason snarled, quiet but fierce, knocking the palm away. "I can have a fucking reaction if I want to."

"Language," Alfred chimed in. 

"That's Jay, he's the nanny," Dick informed Diana, forcing the joke a little. 

"I'm not the fuckin' nanny you circus bast-"

"Enough," Bruce cut his son off mid rant, hand rubbing soothing circles on Conner's back. 

While Diana seemed gleefully amused, Clark's face was a mix of shock and disbelief. Every inch of his country, Kansas self was no doubt appalled by the crass way the boys spoke to one another but he clearly knew some of the backstory of the Batman and his array of Robins and no doubt Diana had filled in the gaps. (It seemed he had very few secrets left.) It was almost funny to watch Clark reconcile all he knew about Gotham and Bruce's family with the quiet deference to parents he'd been raised with. 

"That's Tim," Dick continued, now holding his hand out to Clark, stance shifting again. It was strong, tall: it was Nightwing, staring down a potential threat, ready to go to war after he'd reached whatever judgement he was going to make. Bruce could see it...

And clearly, so could Clark.

"Nice to meet you all," Superman replied, wrong-footed but determined not to show it, before tilting his head towards Bruce. 

"Conner," Dick added shortly, "unlike the three of us, Bruce actually contributed to his genetic make-up."

"Poor kid," Jason snarked. 

"He's grown so much," Diana observed, leaning closer. 

"His physical development is in line with expected growth patterns. He is not outside the usual parameters," Bruce replied, deadpan.

Diana blinked, surprised. 

"Our B," Tim chimed in after a few seconds of silence, "forget marks on a door frame, we had charts filled with our blood work, urine samples and the progression of our muscle and bone density."

Bruce turned and glared at him. "It was necessary. How else was I supposed to monitor your protein, calcium and iron intakes effectively? I was lax with your brother and he was anaemic for weeks before the issue was noted and he began his course of iron supplements."

"I'm never living that down," Dick muttered.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce asked, turning back to the superheroes, eager to move the conversation on and holding his youngest a little closer to his chest.

"The bears," Clark answered, still a little flummoxed. "Perry has been 'easing me back in'," he explained, fingers curling around air as he spoke. "Nothing quite as easy as cute cubs and a family day out." 

"Well, you were dead," Tim hummed. "Most people take a moment after that." 

Clark's face did something complicated at that - perhaps at the boys knowing who he was, or at the implication of his death, Bruce couldn't tell. "I suppose."

It hadn't been easy to legally and socially resurrect Clark Kent from the dead without implicating a link to Superman but somehow the League - Bruce - had managed it.

Everyone knew that Clark was adopted, so Bruce had simply manufactured an unknown brother, incorrectly identified as Clark during the Doomsday crisis, to explain the startling resemblance to the buried corpse that all at the open casket funeral had seen. From there, a few faked records and a John Doe in some overrun Gotham hospital and Clark Kent woke from his coma a month after Superman's return. A few weeks later, he was well enough to be discharged. A few months of sick leave and then he was back at the Planet, welcomed back by party streamers and too much cake with talks of not running off into Gotham again unaccompanied.

It was ridiculous and something from a Hollywood film - but it had worked. 

It had worked convincingly. 

Bruce had been determined to accept the gratitude from Clark, Lois, Martha and Diana - who had appointed herself as messenger - from afar, in the hope of delaying Clark and Conner's meeting. Until then, he'd been successful. 

"I'm here for the ice cream," Diana beamed, "and lunch. Clark's buying."

"Good for you," Jason muttered, toasting a juice box. "I'm feeding Tim to the Eagles then going for a beer."

"Master Jason," Alfred hummed, tone bordering on disapproval. 

Another flicker of surprise. "Jason?" Clark asked, edging forward. "I thought -"

"You aren't the only one who's been dead before hotshot," the vigilante snorted, cutting off the sentence before he could finish it. "Resurrection's an old trick." He sniffed. "Although, I'd say you came back with more unscrambled brain than I did. Perk of having better tech I suppose."

Clark's mouth opened and closed a few times before: "How?" he squeaked out. 

"B's ex dunked me in magic water in an ancient pit controlled by her immortal, assassin father," he said nonchalant. 

"Right," Clark muttered. Diana though turned to Bruce with surprise. 

"If you knew of a way to bring Clark back, without using the box, then -?"

"Why didn't I?" Bruce finished, hesitating a little. He glanced over at his son. 

"J didn't come back right," Tim finally replied, picking at a sandwich and answering the question that no one really wanted to address. He ignored the looks. "What? You dropped a building on me and put three bullets in my chest, I'm not allowed to say you came back even more fucked up than you already were?"

"You didn't know me before I died Replacement."

"Alright," Bruce huffed. "I believe we've all had enough fun for one day."

"Quite so, Master Bruce," Alfred chimed in, casting a disapproving gaze over the middle two boys. 

"What?" Jason huffed. "I've been very well behaved."

Bruce could barely suppress a snort. "Unfortunately for us, that's actually true."

"We'll walk you out?" Diana smiled. 

Bruce desperately wanted to say no, but in truth it would have been more suspicious to refuse. 

"Sure," he grimaced, jerking his head at the boys who, fortunately, packed their things up quickly and with little squabbling, all falling in step beside Alfred who had struck up a conversation with Diana about ancient Roman vases. 

Conner shifted in his arms but settled when Bruce readjusted his grip. He caught Clark staring out the corner of his eye and met the gaze with a raised eyebrow. The alien blushed. 

"Sorry," he said. "It's just strange," he hesitated. "I couldn't imagine you as a father." 

"Why would you try?" Bruce dismissed, trying to end that particular conversation before it began.

"Well, I did my research, before Doomsday and I knew you'd had apprentices. I hadn't really considered that they weren't expendable to you." Clark blinked then, realising what he'd said. "I mean, expendable to him," he vaguely flapped his hands as though mimicking a bat, "and, you know, 'the mission'." There were the curled fingers again, minimising something that had framed Bruce's entire life. 

"My children have never been, nor will they ever be, expendable," Bruce ground out, quiet enough as not to alert his sons as to the nature of their disagreement. 

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Clark huffed, a little irritated. "I just meant that he didn't strike me as someone willing to team up, you know before Doomsday. And, you've never struck me as a father type."

"Your small talk requires more work."

"Look, Bruce," Clark said, reaching out and bringing them to a stop, "I owe you. I really owe you. Not just because you helped bring me back, but for helping my Ma too. I'll not be able to repay that. And I'm not trying to offend you. I just don't know you. We fought, then we fought together, then I died and then I came back and we saved the world. Other than that, we've had maybe three conversations? I may have misjudged you, him, but I can't apologise for basing an opinion on what I've learned up until right now. You've always seemed too 'lone wolf' to have a family, let alone to keep a -"

"Is there a problem here?" Jason cut in, body radiating tension. The boys had all turned, pausing a little way away from the exit, looking back at them and Diana seemed nervous - or perhaps disappointed, Bruce couldn't tell. 

"We're fine," Bruce said, walking away from Clark, gathering Jason up as he went and marching him back to his brothers. 

"What did he say, you look like you want to kill him... again," the vigilante hissed. Bruce only glared at him.

"Nothing of any importance," he dismissed, hand moving against his toddler's back. 

"Well it was lovely to see you again Ma'am," Alfred said, trying to break the tension and failing rather spectacularly, so instead leaning heavily in abrupt. "Feel free to visit for a cup of tea when the world isn't in jeopardy," he added.

"That's very kind of you," she smiled tightly, clearly having heard every word Clark had said. 

"Enjoy your ice cream," he added. "Mister Kent."

"Alfred," Clark replied. 

"Come along boys, Master Bruce, we better be on our way if we wish to beat the traffic," he announced and, without another word, turned on his heel and strode away.

"Nice to meet you," Dick smiled to Diana before nodding with an expressionless face in the vague direction of Clark. He shot his adopted father a look before he herded the rest of the boys away, including a still far-too-irate-for-anyone's-good Jason.

"I'll be in touch," Bruce offered, desperate to escape. Desperate to put as much distance between himself and the alien whose DNA made up the other half of his son. Diana may not have known why, but she could see his eager, near violent need to escape written in his frame. 

"It was good to see you all," she offered, an apology hidden in the words. 

Bruce nodded jerkily, then turned sharply on his heel and followed quickly behind his family. It felt too much like fleeing to be comfortable, but with his son in his arms, he realised that necessarily, running away might not have been such a bad thing - especially when the writhing pit in his stomach told him that every fear he'd had about Clark was, it seemed, exceptionally well-founded.