Work Text:
“Kal El.”
It was barely there, almost a vibration in the back of Clark’s skull rather than a sound. It sent a few shivers down his spine as, without hesitation, he flew towards Gotham, ignoring the boom as he ripped through the sound barrier.
It was almost a code. Batman called him Superman, or sometimes Kal, Bruce called him Clark, or, privately, Love . Kal El, the full name, was for when B needed help. Thankfully, the flight was too quick for Clark’s brain to spin on the horrid possibilities.
The call had come from Wayne Manor, and Clark found Alfred holding open one of the french doors for him to fly through. He remembered just in time to slow his arrival so he didn’t burst any eardrums or shatter any glassware.
“Darlin’?” He said, landing on the parquet flooring of the hall.
“Here, love,” came Bruce’s voice. He sounded tired, weak, even, but Alfred had smile lines around his eyes, distinct from the lines Clark had come to recognize as worry or stress.
“I just need a break, Clark, please.”
Clark’s feet didn’t touch the ground until he found himself in one of the smaller family rooms. It had been…padded. Every corner was covered with pool noodles, styrofoam, or other such soft materials. Every breakable item was removed. And in the middle, in a pile of toddlers , was Bruce.
“Darlin’?”
“Just make sure none of them get hurt, please Clark, I just need a bathroom break, maybe a cup of coffee.” Bruce’s upper class accent, his careful diction and usual good posture were all gone. He had several mysterious stains on his t-shirt, and his sweatpants had a Bluey sticker stuck on one knee.
Clark looked at the children. All of them looked about two, and many quite similar in appearance. They were all, also, familiar.
A slightly shaggy dark haired boy was making clumsy attempts at a somersault on some pillows while a dark-eyed girl watched intently, sucking her thumb. A slightly smaller child, although about the same age, was quietly sorting cheerios into different piles by a system that Clark couldn’t figure out. Once in a while the boy held up a cheerio, examined it, and either placed it in a pile, or in his mouth. Two boys, one apple-cheeked with a darker skin tone, and the other with freckles and two adorable curls on his forehead, were making a tower with blocks and giving each other simple but firm instructions. A tiny blonde girl who looked like a painting of a cherub seemed to be playing some sort of make-believe that involved hitting Bruce with a small pillow and then scampering away, giggling gleefully. Finally, a miniature-Bruce was sleepily scribbling on a pad of paper, holding tight to a stuffed tiger.
“They’re…”
“Yes, all my little chicks. Some sort of…” Bruce waved a hand that had what appeared to be Crayola marker scribbled across it. “Magic ray gun. It got Damian, then Dick ran to help. Turns out it was contagious. Zatanna fixed the contagness. Conatagion. Contagious–ness . But they’ve been like this for twenty-four hours with at least another forty-eight to go and I can’t Clark.” Clark had seen Bruce sleep deprived, drugged, concussed, and, once, tipsy. He’d never seen bags under his eyes quite like this. Even Alfred looked mildly rumpled compared to his usual clean-pressed appearance. Clark did a quick headcount, confirming that all of Bruce’s little flock were indeed there, then carefully sat in the middle of the quiet chaos.
“They may look sweet now,” Bruce warned, slowly rising with a series of pops that made Clark wince in sympathy. “I think it means they’re…plotting something.”
“Go to the bathroom, get a snack, no coffee, darlin’, and then take a nap.”
Bruce shook his head doggedly, usually immaculate hair in total dishevelment. “Can’t, there’s too many of ‘em.”
“Honey you look like you’re about to pass out, I have super speed, I can handle a few toddlers.”
Clark watched his boyfriend blink, swaying slightly, then nod and shuffle out of the room.
A few toddlers was, in fact, seven, and Clark was well outnumbered. It had started when probably-Dick, had accidentally rolled into definitely-Duke and almost-certainly-Jasons’ tower. Both boys, predictably, had something of a melt down, Jason laying across Clark’s lap and wailing like his heart was going to break and Duke wavering between pouting and shouting at Dick, who was crying.
“Sowwy Duke, I said sowwy! ”
Jason’s limp tantrum knocked over Damian’s tiger, which had carefully been placed beside the boy. Really, everything dissolved into chaos from there. Stephanie, without Bruce to play with, began gently bopping the pillow against Clark as he was trying to break apart Damian and Jason, while Tim awkwardly patted Dick’s tear-stained cheeks, covering him in cheerio dust. Cassandra, quieter than a churchmouse, snuggled under Clark’s arm and, without warning, stole his glasses. Duke, still in tantrum mode, declared loudly that he wanted Bruce, and then the same chorus went up from all the kids. Clark managed to calm the incoming storm by picking kids up two-at-a-time and flying, just a few inches up, then down. They all took turns on the gentle ride, and Clark tried to wipe crumbs and tears from each of them as he went. Bruce’s little chicks giggled and whined to be next for the novelty of a two-foot flight in the air, so Clark did it as long as he was able.
They really were cute like this, and someone, Bruce and Alfred apparently, had managed to wrangle them all into little clothes. There was even the attempt at pigtails still in Cassandra’s hair. Regardless, super-speed or not, Clark was outmatched and frankly, relatively unfamiliar with the ins and outs of caring for two-year-olds who didn’t have superpowers, and the kids eventually lost interest in the flights.
Bruce shambled in like the walking dead as Dick and Tim were filling Clark’s curls with barbie hair clips.
“Well don’t you look pretty,” Bruce mumbled.
“You’re one to talk, are those bags under your eyes Prada, sweetheart?”
“Mmh you’re cute when you’re cranky,” Bruce whispered, giving Clark a peck, to which Stephanie shrieked in disgust and Jason giggled.
Bruce leaned against Clark on the couch, body warm and limp and freshly showered. He had on clean clothes, too, although they were the ragged sort he usually reserved for fixing up cars.
“I think we should call in the big guns,” Clark sighed as he watched Duke and Cass discover that paper could be torn into lots of little pieces and thrown all over the place.
“I am not calling the Justice League,” Bruce muttered, eyes closed.
“I meant Ma and Pa.”
Bruce opened his eyes a crack. “Do you think they could help? Wouldn’t they mind?”
“They would love this, and anyway, they raised me, they’ll at least have some tricks.” In the corner, Duke began to glow while Cass gleefully tossed pieces of paper at him. “Even just another couple of pairs of eyes would be good.
“Cwark,” Jason said, pulling at Clark’s jeans. “I needa go potty.”
Like an angel, Alfred stepped up beside Clark, seemingly appearing from thin air. “I can take Master Jason, and then it will be dinner and bath time before bed.”
Bruce hummed in agreement and rested his head for just a second against Clark’s. Clark would have taken the time to appreciate the sight of his partner letting his stubble grow out a little bit, if Tim hadn’t tripped on a loose block and stumbled, bumping his chin on a soft ottoman. Alfred led Jason away while Bruce picked Tim up, fussing over him and kissing his chin better. Clark took a picture, knowing he’d send it to Kon later, and also to keep Bruce’s fond smile for himself. Cassandra was playing with his glasses, Stephanie joining in and giggling, and Clark pretended to chase them, very carefully, around the other kids, hoping he would wear them out rather than rile them up. The other toddlers joined, Duke and Damian determined to tackle his feet and bring him down to prevent him from recapturing his glasses. Tim joined hesitantly as well as Dick, although the latter tended to hover near Bruce for affection.
Dinner, it turned out, was vegetarian chicken nuggets served in the toddler-proofed room rather than the kitchen with its sharp edges. Alfred laid out towels, his shirtsleeves rolled up uncharacteristically and at least one hair out of place. Over the course of one meal, Duke managed to appear as though he had bathed in ketchup, and Damian cried when he ran out of nuggets before he ran out of broccoli. Steph refused to eat unless she was leaning against Cassie, who insisted on sitting in Bruce’s lap alongside Dick. Jason plopped himself down in Clark’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, getting tiny, greasy fingerprints all over Clark’s jeans, and to Clark and teeny-tiny-Tim’s surprise both, insisted that Tim sit there too. So that they weren’t left out, Duke and Damian were placed in Alfred’s lap, as the butler gently went after Duke with a washcloth. It was fruitless, however, and immediately after dinner Alfred gave Clark some quick instructions and he flew away to find and fill an inflatable kiddie pool on the manor’s back deck. Clark and Bruce, who was still zombie-like but no longer swaying as much, carried all seven little squirming kids to the inflatable pool and washed them in that, mostly just succeeding in getting them damp, but at least removing the ketchup, washable marker, and general miscellaneous stains that kids managed to acquire at lightning speed.
Brushing teeth was something of a struggle. Damian took joy in nipping at Clark’s invulnerable fingers as he attempted to carefully maneuver the toothbrush inside someone else's, much tinier, mouth. Beside him, Alfred was convincing Cass not to bite the toothbrush while he brushed her teeth, and Bruce was chasing Dick around with the tube of toothpaste. It took way longer than three people brushing seven sets of teeth should ever take, and Clark was sure that not every molar had gotten fully brushed, but hopefully no baby teeth would rot in the next two days.
The only suitable place for that many kids in a manor that had, at most, one crib in storage somewhere, turned out to be the sparring mat in the batcave. They covered it in as many pillows and blankets as Clark could super-speed down there, with larger beanbags and cushions forming a sort of perimeter and a pile of stuffed animals to make things friendly. Clark built the last pseudo-wall as Alfred and Bruce tucked each kid under a blanket or two, kissing tiny foreheads and unusually chubby cheeks. There was a large spot in the middle and Alfred gestured primly, a small smile overtaking his face as Clark settled down, head and shoulders resting against a beanbag. Bruce clambered inelegantly to his side, slumping against him like a man beaten, and began to read Strega Nona to his chicks in their little nest. Alfred stayed the whole time, and Clark said nothing when he saw him snapping a few surreptitious pictures. When Bruce at last closed the book, he rolled over so his face was directly smushed into Clark’s chest, letting the book fall from his limp fingers and sighed deeply. Clark conscientiously placed the book outside the barricade, and then pulled his boyfriend into a more comfortable position, covering them both with a blanket.
“Rest well, darling,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Your job is to make sure no one suffocates and I don’t roll over on one of them,” Bruce said, muffled by Clark’s pecs.
“Understood.”
“Sleeping now,” Bruce grunted.
Alfred nodded to Clark and turned out the light, and switched on a space heater before leaving. Some low track lights illuminated the room faintly, rather like a nightlight. It was cozy, and all the kids seemed to be out, so Clark settled into something rather like meditation as his boyfriend snored against his chest.
---
Early the next morning Clark extricated himself from Bruce’s limpet-like hold and flew out to Kansas to bring his parents to the manor, Alfred taking over the sacred duty of preventing Bruce from rolling over and squashing any baby birds when he woke up. Clark did stick around long enough for a good morning kiss, even if Bruce had morning breath and was a little more than half-asleep.
It took longer to fly with his parents than by himself. Clark had to fly high enough to avoid being seen, but low enough to not freeze them, fast enough to avoid attention but slow enough that they were comfortable, and he flew them one at a time. With Bruce, he could just sort of latch on and fly away, but the Batsuit had heaters, pressure sensors, and all kinds of tech. Martha Kent had none of that, and insisted on wearing a rain bonnet to keep her hair from being all over the place. Thankfully, Conner and Jon were with Lois, and Clark had informed them of the situation but, knowing that Bruce’s kids would be embarrassed enough, sternly forbade them from coming to gawk. He didn’t think Tim would ever live it down, and Damian would probably never forgive him if Jon saw him as a toddler. Pictures, he felt, were fair game, though perhaps only to be shown in a few weeks when the embarrassment was no longer fresh. Lois had laughed at him on the phone, reminding him what a handful just Jon had been, but they decided that, at least this time, none of the toddlers had laser vision.
By the time both of his parents were safely at the manor, Alfred and Bruce were in the middle of wrangling the kids at the breakfast table. Cheerios were everywhere.
“Hello Martha,” Bruce said, standing and hugging her, then greeting Johnathan as well.
“Sit, duckling,” Martha fussed. “You look knocked off your feet, baby.” Bruce sat obediently and Clark got him a cup of coffee.
“I know you’re used to teenagers, son, but toddlers are something else entirely,” John agreed. “Who do we have here?” He leaned down to Damian, who pouted at him. “I’d recognize that face anywhere. Damian, you really do have your Pa’s genes.” Damian continued pouting, but put his arms out and Clark watched his dad’s face split into an ear-popping smile as he hefted Damian onto his hip.
“Good to see you, Alf,” Martha said, bustling to the butler’s side and patting his shoulder. “That last knitting pattern you sent me was a doozy!” She stepped up to the table and began helping him put bibs on the toddlers.
Clark cut up bananas and strawberries into toddler-safe pieces as fast as he was able, letting his parents and Alfred dish out breakfast. Bruce must have ordered sippy-cups for delivery, because there was one for each kid, Alfred’s neat handwriting labeling each with a name on the bottom.
“Eat, honey, you look thin,” Ma fussed over Bruce, and Clark stepped in.
“Mama let him be, you tell me the same thing anyway and I don’t even need to eat.” He kissed her cheek.
“Maybe if you did eat you wouldn’t look so thin either,” she said, poking at his ribs. “Gotta set an example for the kiddos, too.”
Clark and Bruce obediently ate breakfast, being interrupted frequently by various toddler shenanigans, including but not limited to Duke enjoying his banana pieces so much he began to glow a little bit, and Jason being unable to decide if he wanted to sit in Johnathan’s lap or Martha’s and bursting into tears because he couldn’t be held by two people at once. Cassandra left all her strawberries to the side of her plate and ate all of Steph’s bananas, but Steph ate all the extra strawberries so Clark and Bruce decided it was a win. More cheerios still ended up on the floor than in toddlers’ mouths, or so it seemed, but at least they had decided against trying to serve the cheerios in milk.
Five pairs of hands, including Clark’s with superspeed, turned out to be the key to wrangling seven toddlers. It allowed for shifts, more attention per child, and for Clark’s parents to spend a little more time with Bruce’s kids, who they loved as much as Clark’s own, but got to see much more rarely. Playtime, supervised in the backyard, was pretty easy, and even lunch time was okay, with only a few meltdowns about actually eating the carrot sticks Alfred provided.
Lois called again later on because Jon was worried about Damian, but Clark assured them both –and Kon, who he felt sure was listening in– that everyone was fine, just a little busy, and he’d pick them up on Monday for school just as planned. Lois quietly requested he have the boys for the weekend too so that she could go on a date and he agreed readily before saying goodbye.
“Everyone okay?” Bruce asked from where he and Dick were building a block tower while Steph picked all the blue and green blocks out and put them in a pile.
“Definitely, but you know Jon gets a little worried about his human friends sometimes.”
“Mmmh, Damian always tells me how he hates his fussing, but he’s usually nearly smiling when he says it,” Bruce agreed. “How’s Lo?”
“Got a date with Diana on Saturday, and up for another Pulitzer,” Clark said with a smile. His and Lois’ relationship after their divorce was far from conventional, but all that love didn’t just disappear, it had simply slowly transformed into more of a deep friendship than a romance, and it had taken them a while to realize it. They were possibly the world’s most amicable coparents, and while originally Diana had been respectfully hesitant about dating Clark’s ex, Clark had privately assured her that she should go for it.
“That’s good, she deserves it for that last article on the medicare plan scandal. How many people tried to kill her over that one?”
“Eight, I think, that we know of anyway.”
“Between you and Diana she’s probably the safest journalist in the country, besides maybe you.”
Clark chuckled at that, but that was about the time that Duke began to cry, big tears falling off his apple cheeks. Clark picked him up, cuddling him close and trying to figure out what was wrong.
“Are you tired, buddy? That sounds like a tired cry, do you want to nap?”
Duke nodded, hiding his little face against Clark’s shoulder.
“Can’ get the shapes right,” he whined, still crying. Clark glanced at the toy he’d been messing with, a simple shape puzzle that had apparently proven too much for Duke’s tired-out brain.
“Everyone else has sleepy eyes too,” Bruce noted. “They’ve already had lunch, so I suppose it is nap time.” Dick, who never seemed to want to be far from Bruce, indeed had the half-pouty, scrunched up face of a toddler who was worn out and minutes from melting down over it.
“We’ll put them down for a nap,” Martha said. “And you two have a little minute to yourselves, that’s important too. We can take care of them for an hour or two.”
Bruce handed Dick over to Alfred with a kiss to the top of the boy's head, stalling any tears. Duke went readily, holding onto Jonathan’s hand, and then the other kids joined in being slowly led away.
“A minute to ourselves sounds good,” Bruce said.
Clark smiled, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and kissing the arch of his eyebrow. “Got any ideas?”
“Definitely,” Bruce breathed. “You grab the weighted blanket, I’m changing into pajamas and then we’re having a nap in a bed that doesn’t make my back ache.” Clark kissed his shoulder and flew off to find the weighted blanket.