Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dick took a step back. Took a step forward.

“I think I’m missing something,” he said. “I mean, I could do this.”

“But you didn’t,” Bruce argued. They’d rehearsed this before, at the art museum, at other galleries, but Dick was hitting that stubborn age where it was cool to disdain things. “Art isn’t only about technique. There’s also the idea behind it, the creative concept.”

Clark leaned in past Bruce and whispered, “It’s okay, Dickie. I don’t get it either.”

“I get it,” said Dick. “And I get all that, about art. I just think it’s bad. Even the concept is bad. At least if you’re gonna get something unoriginal and boring, it might as well be some like, really breathtaking landscape or something.”

“Ugh,” Bruce huffed. “I’m not going to hang some… pastoral landscape over my bed.”

“What’s wrong with a pastoral landscape?” asked Clark, his voice challenging.

There were ten different clever retorts that danced on the tip of his tongue, but Bruce didn’t give any of them voice. He gestured to the piece in question—a huge canvas with a field of textured red paint, broken up only by slashes ripped through the canvas, revealing black underneath—and said, “Art like this has meaning.”

“Mm,” Clark hummed. “And what meaning is that?”

“It depends on the viewer. That’s what makes it good. What do you see?”

“I see a lot of red. Too much red,” said Clark. “And I like red.”

“It looks like a murder scene,” Dick concluded. “Is that enough meaning for you?”

Dick wasn’t altogether wrong, though Bruce had taken away something more abstract about the darkness and void before and after life. Not that he was about to be pretentious enough to say that. Not in front of Dick and Clark, at least. Instead he sighed and said, “Let’s find another gallery.”

“Oh, thank the sweet baby Jesus,” sighed Dick. He grabbed Clark’s hand and tugged it toward the door. “C’mon, Clark, let’s blow this popsicle stand. Maybe the next one will have actual art.”

They stepped out into the street, which teemed with people. Gothamites from all walks of life made their way up and down the avenue, going to a show, leaving a restaurant, maybe off to cut some completely illegal deal… For all its good and bad, it was alive.

“I’m pretty sure that artist is secretly a serial killer anyway,” said Dick.

“That’s not funny,” chided Bruce.

“Not joking. All those paintings were kind of creepy. Slasher blood, black fog, drowning…”

Bruce furrowed his brow. “Dick, those were just red and black and turquoise. There wasn’t anything about drowning.”

“Mmm-mmm, but yes there was,” Dick said. “You just had to look closely. The title was Committed to the Deep. That’s clearly a reference to the prayer for burial at sea.”

Dick looked up with a scrunched face, half-defiance and half-pride. Bruce bit back a smile.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bruce shook his head. “How do you know the rite for burial at sea?”

“I know lots of things,” he said cryptically. He swung Clark’s arm, using the resistance to leap forward on the sidewalk, and then added, “I’m just sayin’… It’s one thing to paint a canvas red and take a knife to it, but if you call it The Price of Disobedience, that raises some flags.”

“I’ll say,” added Clark.

“Maybe he’s not a villain,” Bruce reasoned. “He could be using the art as an outlet instead of taking out his feelings through violence. We should encourage that.”

Dick squinted up at him. “Maybe. Maybe it was a total creep-fest. Better than the first gallery’s scraps of cardboard glued together, but still.”

“I know you and Clark apparently hate art, but—”

“I don’t hate art!” Dick said. “I hate bad art.”

“Well, we left,” snapped Bruce. “There’s a gallery you might like more a few doors down. Maybe you can get through it without insulting the artist this time.”

“Maybe.”

“I read that one of the artists is apparently inspired by Robin Hood. How about that?”

“For real? And you made us go to Boring McBoringland first?” Dick huffed. “They didn’t even have chocolate-covered strawberries. I thought gallery openings were required to have chocolate-covered strawberries.”

They approached the next gallery, which was clearly advertised by a chalkboard and a crowd of people illegally drinking from their wine glasses on the sidewalk.

They stepped into the crowd, which began to swarm around them.

“Mister Wayne?”

“Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce took a deep breath and gave a smile and wave, but that didn’t stop six young women from trying to strike up a conversation with him about the art that he hadn’t even seen.

Clark, despite his hulking size, somehow managed to slip out of the crowd and into the gallery.

“What do you think of the show, Bruce?” asked one particularly striking and leggy redhead.

“I’ll let you know once I manage to get inside,” he said wryly.

She laughed, leaning on his arm as if her dainty fake laughter was enough to compromise her balance. And in those heels, maybe it would. “I think you’ll like it. Didn’t I see you at the Traviste Gallery earlier tonight?”

“You may have,” he said, eyes darting to the door. He could just barely make out Clark and Dick looking at a large piece with blue and white strokes, like a starburst.

“Did you like it?” the woman asked.

Bruce wobbled his head. “It was a little dark for my tastes.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, nodding like a highly cultured bobblehead. “Though I must say, I found The Price of Disobedience rather gripping—if not disturbing. It seemed to say something about the nothingness that surrounds us before we’re born and after we die in our postlapsarian existence.”

“Exactly!” Bruce’s enthusiasm surprised him. “I was just saying the same thing to my date.”

“Oh, you’re on a date?” She took a small step back.

Bruce shrugged one shoulder. “He went inside with my ward. I should… get to them. But maybe I’ll see you again, Miss…?”

“Hernandez. But you can call me Rita.”

“Excuse me, Rita.”

He strode forward, pushing through the crowd and into the gallery, and then slid up next to Clark with a glass of champagne that had been put into his hand at some point.

“I thought the good in dating you,” Bruce muttered, “was having a buffer from all these people.”

Clark scoffed. “Oh, is that why we’re together?”

“Added benefit.”

“You realize people aren’t even sure if we’re dating?”

“What? I’ve taken you to dinner!”

“Friends go to dinner.”

“Not where I’ve taken you. But fine.” Bruce pulled Clark’s arm around his shoulder and nestled in close to him, reaching an arm around his waist. He leaned his head on Clark’s shoulder and looked at the painting for a second before turning his head in to kiss Clark’s neck. It was mostly a performance, but it was worth it to feel Clark’s posture straighten and to see his cheeks blush deep red.

“You two are totally gross,” said Dick. “I’m right here.”

Bruce scoffed. “That was totally PG.”

Dick’s reaction was not the common one. A few people who had crowded near turned away, giving Bruce his space, but it largely had the opposite affect, bringing more around to point fingers or their phones. He could see the society pages having a field day already.

“Isn’t your new girlfriend going to be jealous?” Clark asked.

“Who?”

Clark’s eyelids lowered in disbelief. “Seriously? The woman at the door? Redhead? Rita, wasn’t it?”

Dick turned to look. “Who now?”

“Were you eavesdropping?” Bruce asked, dropping Clark’s hand and taking his usual distance again.

“I wasn’t trying. You were loud.”

“Loud.”

Clark shook his head and looked back at the painting. “Dick and I were appreciating the art,” he said, “while you were flirting. With other people.”

“Hot other people,” Dick concluded, rather unhelpfully.

Bruce was running on two hours’ sleep. He did not have the energy tonight to pamper Clark’s apparently-fragile ego. “You know I didn’t start that conversation. And if you were listening in, then you also know I told her about you and I left it.”

Clark shrugged.

“But I don’t see why you’re acting so jealous, anyway,” Bruce muttered. “It’s not like we’re exclusive.”

It was Clark’s turn to take a step back. “Excuse me? Are you… seeing other people?”

Bruce huffed under his breath. He appreciated the jealousy somewhat, if not the indignation. “Would that bother you?”

“Yes! Yes, it would!” Clark sputtered.

“He’s not,” Dick said, snagging a piece of cheese out of Clark’s hand. He popped it into his mouth and flashed a wicked grin. “He’s just fuckin’ with you.”

“Language, Dick!”

Behind Clark, a middle-aged, tall, shock-white-haired woman in a black sheath and colorful dangling jewelry came through the crowd. As she moved, she gave pointed looks at anyone still trying to capture a photo of Bruce on their phone.

Confident, alone, authoritative, with a sense of purpose and no food in hand.

Gallery owner.

Bruce turned toward Clark. “Clark, we’ll discuss this later.”

“Yeah,” said Clark. “We will.”

“Mister Wayne,” the woman said, coming around Clark’s side, “I think we met at a gala for the Museum of Art last month. I’m—”

“Celia Corner,” he supplied, shaking her hand. Notes of fig and white florals wafted from her perfume. “Yes, I remember. Good to see you again.”

“What a pleasure to have you here. Are you in the market for a new piece?”

“I am,” he answered. “I’m actually looking to acquire something for my boyfriend here.”

“What?” Clark’s bright eyes went wide.

“You liked this one, didn’t you, Clark?”

“It’s all right, Bruce. I don’t need—”

“He really likes it,” Dick said. “He said it reminds him of a supernova he saw once.”

“Of a picture of a supernova,” Clark corrected, adjusting his glasses. He didn’t correct the other half of Dick’s statement, though, and when he looked back at the painting, his posture relaxed, and he smiled.

Well, that was that. “We’ll take it.”

“You’ll take it?” Celia asked, only letting herself register a hint of surprise. Usually these transactions involved more haggling, but Bruce didn’t have the time or patience for that. And anyway, it was meant to be a gesture, not a bargain. Whatever the cost, if Clark liked it, it was worth it.

“I’ll have someone call Monday about payment and shipping,” Bruce confirmed.

“Wonderful! Please, I hope you won’t be leaving so soon, though? Take your time. I see you found the champagne, but there’s cheese and caviar and—”

“Chocolate-covered strawberries?” Dick asked.

“Yes,” said Celia, with a smile. “Those, too. What’s an opening without those? Take as many as you like, dear.”

She excused herself off to mark the piece as sold, and Dick broke into a wide grin. “See? I love art,” he said.

“I see,” said Bruce.

“I can’t believe you bought that,” said Clark. “I don’t even know if it’ll fit in my apartment! It’s gotta be fifteen feet wide!”

“I’m sure you have some wall that’s fifteen feet long.”

“Without shelving?” Clark shook his head. “No, not really.”

“Well, we’ll measure. If not, I’ll put it in my room until we can find you a bigger space. Yours can’t be the only apartment in Metropolis with rooftop access.”

Clark’s face soured. “This is ridiculous.”

“You put up with four galleries of contemporary art that you couldn’t stand,” Bruce noted. “It’s only fair you’re rewarded with something you like.”

“Um, do I get something?” Dick asked. “I put up with all of those too, and I have a much shorter attention span. You know how hard it was to stay focused at those places?”

“You didn’t stay focused,” Bruce shot back. “And you accused that last artist of being a murderer.”

“Not to his face.”

“Do you even like any of the other pieces here?”

Dick squinted and looked over at the other gallery wall. The Robin-Hood-inspired work had turned out to be a sort of mixed-media collage collection using decommissioned bills. If they even were decommissioned. It seemed questionably legal, regardless, but that was clearly the point.

Dick sighed. “No.”

“Well then. Your reward is chocolate-covered strawberries.”

“I guess I can live with that,” said Dick, slumping off to find some.

“You really shouldn’t’ve done that,” Clark mumbled.

Bruce shrugged. “I thought you liked it?”

“I do! But.” He nodded in the direction of the plaque. Which undoubtedly listed the price, not that Bruce could read it.

“It’s a bit much,” Clark whispered. “That money could go to something better.”

“Name the cause. I’ll match it.”

Clark’s face contorted, pushing his glasses high enough to cover his eyebrows. “That’s not—that’s not that point!”

“What’s the point?”

Clark hit Bruce with a hard side-eye. “I’m not with you to get expensive gifts.”

It had been a while since Bruce had gone through this conversation, but he was familiar with it nonetheless. “I’m aware. It wasn’t meant to—”

“I don’t want gifts.”

“Forget it, then. I’ll keep it.”

Clark looked at the ground and slid his hands into his pockets. “Can we just go? Everyone’s talking about us.”

“Oh.”

Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? And now he looked nearly heartbroken, slumped and downcast. It broke Bruce’s heart, and he couldn’t figure out why.

“Yeah,” Bruce said. He caught Dick’s eye from across the room and gestured for him to come. “Of course we can. Maybe we should take a break from the galleries, anyway. There’s an ice cream place less than a block away. Best soft-serve on the East Coast. ”

Dick finally popped back up. “We’re done?”

“I was thinking we’d get a treat from Gigi’s. How’s that sound for a better reward?”

Dick’s face lit up. “Oh, man! Yeah! Uncle Clark, you gotta try this place.”

Clark eased up at Dick’s enthusiasm, and the three of them left the gallery. Dick led the way, clearly proud of how familiar he’d finally become with the streets of Gotham.

“If I were an artist,” Dick said, “I’d make way cooler Robin Hood stuff than smooshing together some dollar bills,” Dick said.

“Would you now?”

“Yeah, like, imagine a really big forest scene, and then a bag, but an arrow shot into it and the canvas. But like, a real arrow? And then gold pieces all over the bottom, like in a big box or something.”

Bruce tilted his head. “Maybe you should make it.”

“Nah, I don’t really like painting. We have to do it at school.”

“You’re not going to be an artist as an adult, then?” Clark asked.

Dick laughed. “Definitely not. Maybe I’ll be a writer, though. Like you, Uncle Clark. Investigative reporter sounds pretty cool.”

Clark broke into a full, bright smile, but looked to the ground in humility. And for once, Bruce wasn’t jealous of Dick’s admiration. Journalism wasn’t a bad trade—not that Dick seemed that well-suited to sitting at a desk for hours.

Dick ran ahead and then stopped next to an alley through-way, waiting for Bruce and Clark to catch up.

“It’s this way, right?”

Bruce nodded.

They cut down the alleyway, Dick running ahead and laughing. He jumped up to hang from a fire escape, flipped himself forward, landing with a mimed bow in his hands, stretched taut. “Fwish, fwish,” he said, releasing two imaginary arrows into the distance. “Take that, Prince John!”

Bruce used the darkness as a chance to take Clark’s hand, finding some solace in the quiet privacy of the alley.

But then came the sound of gunshots, and everything was blood and scattered pearls.

“Dick, get back here!” he snapped, jumping out and plucking him from the alley. Dick looked up in confusion as Bruce shielded him from… nothing. There was nothing. Bruce was not a boy anymore. He was with Clark, and Dick, and it wasn’t that night.

There was nothing.

Except there was something. Not the gunshots of his trauma, but something nonetheless, and his invasive memories had made him miss the obvious signals of someone else’s presence. He heard the footsteps and saw the shadow-in-shadow just as Clark started to say, “Get behind me.”

Bruce didn’t, but he pushed Dick back.

“No one needs to get hurt,” came a voice. “Just hand over your wallets.”

When the man raised his gun, Bruce laughed. “You’re kidding,” he said.

Rule number one in dealing with muggers; don’t taunt them. Don’t raise their fear or aggression, or they’re more likely to attack. Too late.

“Does it look like I’m fuckin’ kiddin’?” the man asked.

“No, sir,” piped up Dick from behind Bruce. At least he’d taken Bruce’s safety lectures to heart, even if Bruce himself hadn’t. “No, it sure doesn’t. We’ll give you the money. You can put the gun down.”

Clark met his eye. “Should I—?”

“No, I’ve got it.” Bruce gave a small shake of his head.

“You’ve got what? Empty your damn pockets already, or I’ll—”

“I’ve got the money,” Bruce answered, easy and calm. “He only has three dollars to his name. I’m the one you want.”

The mugger looked between them, unconvinced.

“Look at our suits. Our shoes. You know I’m not. Just let me get my wallet out.”

Maybe Clark was the one faster than a speeding bullet, but Bruce was faster than a idiot coward of a mugger too afraid to even hold his weapon correctly. The mugger glanced down at Bruce’s polished shoes—in two easy moves, Bruce sent the gun skidding across the alleyway and forced the mugger to his knees, holding him down with one hand.

With his free hand, he pulled out his wallet, and held his drivers’ license up to the man’s face.

“It’s dark here, so I don’t know if you can read that,” he said. “But my name is Bruce Wayne. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

“Shit,” the mugger swore. “You’re the rich orphan son-of-a-bitch.”

“That’s right. And I may be a rich son-of-a-bitch who can’t even cook a meal, but I learned how to deal with scum like you a long time ago. Want to explain yourself?”

“What?”

Bruce half-crouched. “Explain yourself. What the hell would make you think it’s okay to attack a couple with a kid?”

“I… I didn’t see the kid,” he said.

“Bull-shit,” said Bruce, trying his hardest not to drop into being Batman. He was just Bruce Wayne, a pissed off rich orphan.

“I swear, man, I didn’t. I wouldn’t—I got my own kid at home. A little girl.”

“Does your little girl know you pay rent by robbing people during their nights out? If you want money, just ask.”

Clark’s hand fell heavy on Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce, let’s go,” he whispered. “We’ll call the police, let them handle it.”

Bruce shook his head. “In a minute. I want to understand.”

“Listen, I don’t gotta explain shit to you.”

“Fine,” said Clark. “I’m calling the police. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Clark pulled out his phone and stepped out of the alleyway.

Bruce did something stupid. As soon as Clark was away, he punched the mugger in the jaw and pulled Dick close, holding him by the collar.

“Apologize to him.”

“No fuckin’ way. You’re crazy, you know that? You’re fuckin’ crazy. You—I’m gonna have you pressed for battery. False imprisonment. Who you think you are, the Batman? You got no right!”

Dick squirmed under Bruce’s hold. “It’s fine, Bruce. Let’s just go.”

“APOLOGIZE.”

“Fine!” the mugger spat. “I’m fuckin’ sorry, brat. Your dad’s got issues, you know that?”

Dick’s feet kicked out, hitting the mugger square in the chest. “Apology not accepted, you jerk.” He jumped forward, sending his fists wailing at the mugger.

“Dick, no—” Bruce reached out to pull Dick away, but the scene turned to ice around him. The mugger had a second weapon, and it was an inch from Dick’s face. Bruce couldn’t reach it in time. There was no way.

“Leave him alone,” Bruce pled. “I—I have five hundred dollars in my pocket. You can have it all.”

“You’re lyin’.”

He wasn’t. His billfold always carried the necessities: four hundreds, four twenties, and four fives. Enough to tip a valet, give Dick petty cash for a street vendor, or cover two days of bed and board if he found himself in a strange city with no access to his bank accounts.

“I’m not. Take it. Take the watch too. We won’t say anything.”

The mugger looked up with fear. Bad sign. Very bad sign. He turned the gun on Bruce, who breathed a little easier at that, but… no. That wasn’t better.

Bruce pulled out the bills from his wallet and held them out. “Take it all. Take it and go.”

Suddenly, a dark figure fell from above, landing with a deafening thud behind the mugger. The mugger spun and fired, but the firing shot was muffled by a fist closing around the gun.

Batman’s fist.

Bruce smirked as the mugger let go of the gun and scrambled back, only to be clocked in the head by the pistol, which had been crumbled almost beyond recognition.

“You two okay?” asked the hero. His voice was only half-disguised, just a slight gravel under a Kansas accent.

“I had it under control,” Bruce answered.

“Maybe so. But what good is the Batman if he can’t protect a family from a mugger?”

A relieved smile broke on Bruce’s face. He never had any doubt that he was safe with Clark there, but being known was something altogether separate. So many people thought they got what Batman was all about, but they were always off the mark. But here Clark was, wearing his cowl despite hating it, posing as Batman out of respect for Bruce’s rules about superpowers in his city, squeezing the offending gun into scrap metal.

Bruce stepped forward, grabbed the edges of his cape, and pulled Clark into a kiss. His eyes closed, and, for a moment, there was nothing but the taste of champagne on Clark’s lips and the warmth of his body.

And then there was Dick’s voice, singing, “Get a roo-oom.”

Fair enough. Bruce had a mind to go home and do just that, but Alfred wasn’t picking them up for another hour. Bruce pulled away, and Clark stumbled back.

“I should. Go,” Clark said. He pulled out a grapple gun and tried to fire it, but he’d jostled it out of place and the grapple stuck.

Bruce wrapped his hand around Clark’s, aimed it properly, and pulled the trigger, sending the grapple flying up and over the rooftop.

“Thank you, Batman,” he said, as Bat-Clark pressed the other button to recall and propelled himself into the air.

“So the rumors are true,” said Dick, who’d taken a seat on top of the prone mugger’s hip. “Eminent Gotham citizen Bruce Wayne is banging the Gotham Bat.”

“Shut up, Dick,” grumbled Bruce. “And don’t say banging. It’s crude.”

“Just sayin’, that’s gotta be something for your next therapy session.”

“I’m not in therapy,” Bruce said.

“Gosh,” Dick said, with exaggerated surprise. “Fancy that.”

“Hn.”

“Just sayin’. You make me go. And I mean, Holy Freudian Complex, Batman.”

Bruce pointed to the mugger. “Is he alive?”

He had already gone through this with Dick and had little interest in rehashing his reasons, of which there were many, for not keeping regular therapy appointments.

Dick answered with an okay hand signal. “Probably have a hell of a—”

“Language.”

“—heck of a headache. But yeah. He’s fine. Cruiser will be here in two more minutes.”

“You’re listening in through your phone?”

“Nah, I texted Gordon. He made sure I had his personal number after my last kidnapping. I told him Batman saved us. He was… quite surprised. But our friend here will be able to corroborate.”

Bruce smiled again.

“Cop at our school said you should throw your wallet in their face and run away.”

Bruce’s smile faded. “Did you point out that that’s only true for knifepoint attacks?”

“I did… not…” Dick said, slowly nodding his head, “but now that you mention it, I totally should have.”

“Fucking hell, Dick,” Bruce muttered. “You should know that.”

“Language, Bruce.” A siren approached, and Dick jumped up off the mugger and huddled over by Bruce, pretending to look shaken up by the experience. “I did know that,” Dick muttered. “I just didn’t want to embarrass the cop.”

Bruce wasn’t sure whether to reward or discourage that, so he just let it go and brought himself into his own performance. He had to appear on edge, jumpy, a fresh wound of grief ripped open—not to mention a little tipsy from the wine he’d supposedly been drinking all evening.

The cops arrived shortly thereafter and hauled off the assailant after getting some preliminary facts for the report from Bruce and Dick. Finally, they made their way toward the bright street on the other side of the alley, where Clark was waiting, leaning casually against the brick wall. He was holding two soft-serve ice cream cones, wrapped with the trademark Gigi’s colors.

“I thought you two could use a treat,” he said.

“Wow, thanks, Clark!” Dick took his and immediately began spinning it as he licked around the outside, catching the swiftly-melting treat. “How’d you keep it from melting?”

Clark checked for a a clear coast and then demonstrated a bit of freeze-breath on the remaining cone.

“Never breathe on my food again,” Bruce scolded, but he took the ice cream anyway, and his voice softened as he added, “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Clark, as they started walking along the street, headed toward the busier more bustling square ahead. “How are you holding up?”

He reached out to take Bruce’s free hand, but Bruce shook it off.

“I’m fine.”

Clark tilted his head.

“I’m fine,” Bruce repeated.

“Okay,” Clark said, holding his hands up in a small surrender. “Just checking.”

That was a reasonable thing to do, wasn’t it? Bruce forced his defenses down and found the corner of his lips pulling into a hint of a smile. “We’re lucky Batman was there,” he conceded.

“I thought it was the Batman,” said Clark. “According to the style book anyway.”

Bruce shrugged. “Gotham papers dropped the definite article six months ago. I hold Robin accountable.”

Dick got his subtle revenge by swiping Bruce’s untouched ice cream.

“You should know, Clark,” said Dick, somehow already finishing his own cone, “Bruce kissed the Batman.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but Clark didn’t seem to take the joke well.

“Not my business—apparently,” Clark responded, suddenly turning his attention to the strip of Italian restaurants across the street.

God, Clark should really start listing passive-aggression as one of his superpowers.

“Really?” Bruce looked at Clark and then pointedly down at Dick, who did not need to be present for this conversation. “This can’t wait?”

“It can. I’m just—forget it.” Clark huffed out a sigh and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Clark.” Bruce folded his arms across his chest. “If you want to be exclusive, that’s fine with me. But I didn’t want to presume.”

“I thought dating was a good time to presume.”

Bruce tilted his head. Who assumed exclusivity from the start?

Farm-boys from flyover country. That was who.

“Dick, run ahead and go replace my ice cream,” Bruce ordered, handing over his credit card. “And get Clark one, too.”

Dick looked down at the card and back up at Bruce. “What if they don’t take cards?”

“Just go,” he snapped, pulling out just enough of his Batman sharpness to get to register the order as a real one. And it worked: Dick gave a curt but serious nod and scampered down to the ice cream vendor. When he was satisfied that Dick was out of hearing range, he turned back to Clark.

“Listen. I know how you feel about Lois,” he clarified, “and if she ever expressed—”

Clark waved his hands in the air. “No-o, no, no, no. You don’t make this about me. I don’t want it.”

“You… don’t?” Bruce raised his eyebrows.

“Of course I don’t! Listen, Lois…” Clark sighed. “Lois is in love with Superman—on a good day. She’d rather eat dirt than go on a date with Clark Kent. You know, my actual self. I’m not being hyperbolic, either. She’s said that. Multiple times.”

“But—”

“And she’s my colleague. It’s never happening.” Clark’s face shifted from fallen forlorn to a hard assertive. “But especially not while we’re together. If I’m in this, I’m all in. And I thought you were, too. Was I wrong?”

Clark kept his gaze fixed on Bruce. He looked over the edge of his glasses just to let his unearthly blue eyes pierce right into Bruce’s soul. It was unnerving, even if Bruce knew that telepathy was beyond Clark’s powers.

Clark’s question hung in the air. He hadn’t had an exclusive relationship since… He furrowed his brow. Since Selina. Two and a half years ago. And it had only been a few months of taking things to that level when she’d up and left him and Gotham both. With a letter. It still made him angry, even if she hadn’t written off Batman quite as harshly as Bruce.

And before Selina, it was Julie Madison, whom he’d left. Because of Batman.

Being exclusive went along with expectations about priorities and quality time. And Bruce wasn’t very good at meeting those. Exclusive relationships had the potential to be serious relationships, and he had no room in his life for that.

But Clark had gotten under his skin. He liked what they had. Clark didn’t need to be lied to or tiptoed around. He didn’t get upset when Bruce cancelled last-minute to go stop Scarecrow from releasing a new form of fear toxin. He knew nearly all of Bruce’s flaws, and somehow he still stayed. Stayed for Bruce. The actual Bruce, not the performance that Bruce put on at society functions.

And it wasn’t like he wanted to see anyone else, particularly.

Not to mention that Dick would never forgive him if he blew this thing with Clark over reserving the right to date hypothetical other people. People who were probably terrible, anyway. Though what had his life become, that he was so susceptible to the judgment of a thirteen-year-old kid?

“You weren’t wrong,” said Bruce. “I just didn’t want to make that decision for you. If exclusivity is something you want, you have it.”

“Yeah? What about your… other… people…?”

“You think I have time for other people?”

Clark laughed. “So Dick was right.”

Bruce rolled his eyes.

“What about that thief?”

As before, the jealousy was manageable. The indignation and moral posturing, not so much. Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I just mean, she’s not going to care who Bruce Wayne is dating.”

“Her name’s Selina, and I already told you there’s no one else. That should be enough.”

Dick gave an over-exaggerated cough, announcing his return. “Are we talking about our crazy cat lady friend?”

“She’s not crazy,” Bruce corrected.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Dick said, handing over a cone of chocolate to Bruce and vanilla to Clark. “I was starting to think she was all right, and then she stranded us on a deserted island and vanished off the map. Good riddance, am I right?”

“Vanished off the map?” Clark asked, eyeing Bruce.

Bruce shook his head. “Lapsed back into her old habits, I’m sure. Not in Gotham, not my business.”

Clark’s eyebrows lowered. “That’s awfully myopic of you, Bruce.”

“Is it?” Bruce looked up with a challenge. He wasn’t inclined to say anymore in public, but as far as he was concerned, tracking down a non-violent cat burglar wasn’t high priority. “Do you deal with every problem in the entire world?”

“No, but—”

“Neither do I. Now eat your damn ice cream.”

“Language,” said Dick and Clark in unison. Dick burst into laughter at that.

“Say, I saw another gallery opening on this street,” Clark noted, “when I was on my way back. Should we check it out?”

Bruce looked up from his cone, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. You’re gonna need something for your bedroom once I get an apartment big enough for that supernova piece you bought me.”

“What, in ten years?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Clark laced his fingers in Bruce’s free hand, and this time, Bruce didn’t let go.