#Clark was instantly uncomfortable when Bruce's new “business partner” showed up

[camsthisky]

He knows before he’s officially gotten home- before he’s even turned the corner onto his street, really, his every sense attuned to his apartment.  Still, it isn’t until his key is in the door that he finally places the heartbeat he’s hearing- steady, strong, slightly too fast, either young enough to still be growing or upset.  Probably both.

There’s a heavy-looking backpack sitting on the floor, a dripping wet school blazer hooked onto the coat rack they have in lieu of a closet.  He finds room on the floor for his own bag, moves the blazer to a lower hook so his coat won’t get dripped on.  Then he sighs and turns to face the living room at large, and the boy on the sofa.

“Lois went out to grab some food,” the boy says.  His damp hair, so black it shines almost blue, is hanging in his eyes, and only his fingertips peek out of the sleeves of the sweatshirt he has on.  The boy is small enough that Lois could have easily lent him one of her sweaters, but instead he’s swimming in Clark’s old U of M hoodie.  He’s already small for his age, but between the sweatshirt and the tight little ball he’s tucked himself up into, he looks absolutely tiny, and so fragile Clark’s heart aches.  “She didn’t really know what to do with me,” he adds, almost abstract.  Less of a complaint, more of an observation.

“Does she know who you are?” Clark asks, coming into the room a little.  It’s a fair question- Clark himself barely knows who this boy is, for all they’ve met a half-dozen times.

“I told her my name, and she got all,” the boy twists his face, a near-perfect imitation of the face Lois makes when she hears something interesting and is trying not to let her excitement show.  “So. Probably.”

“Ah,” Clark says, because he doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Also, I gave her two hundred bucks,” the boy adds wryly.  “So you probably want to call her.  Dinner’s on me.”

“Robin,” Clark begins.

“Dick,” the boy corrects instantly.  “I’m not Robin right now.”

Clark takes a deep breath to respond to that, holds it a moment, lets it back out again in another sigh.  He moves over to the sofa and sits down carefully on the far end from Dick, for whatever good that will do.  The kid would have to leave the state to be out of Clark’s immediate reach.

“Bruce?” he asks, sparing the boy a sideways glance.  Dick turns himself so he’s facing Clark, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, still tucked up painfully tight.

“Hunting wabbits,” the kid says, and Clark looks sharply over at him, surprised at the faint humor in his tone.  He instinctively scans the boy- he knows Bruce, he knows Batman, he knows the sort of training this boy is getting- but sees no dead spots that indicate any sort of container with a lead lining.  There is, however, a scattering of warm spots up the boy’s side and on his stomach that will resolve into light bruising within a day or two, most of them the size and shape of small fists.  It’s too new to be from anything Batman-related, and Clark spends a moment or two judging the likelihood of this kid getting bullied in school.  “He’s in Edinburg,” Dick continues, oblivious.

“Edinburg,” Clark echoes.  “Business?”

“Yeah,” Dick says with a shrug.  “And Batman stuff, but he doesn’t want me knowing that.  Alfred’s gonna be busy running the comms, so this morning he told me I could hang out at a friend’s house after school.”

“And by a friend, you mean me,” Clark says in patient disbelief, and gets another shrug.  “Would there even be a point to asking how you know where I live?”

There’s a chipped mug sitting on the end table behind Dick, filled with something that smells like some flowery sort of tea.  Dick twists around and picks the mug up, cradles it carefully in both hands as he sips from it.  “You should be flattered,” he says to the mug.  “You’re his number one Batman-related emergency contact.  Not counting me and Alfred, of course.”

Clark shifts a little, braces his elbow against the back of the couch and rests his head on his fist, staring in contemplation at his young guest.  Batman is fiercely protective of Robin and won’t tolerate even the slightest whisper about the little bird, about his skills or his training or the appropriateness of his presence in the field.  It had taken three encounters for Superman to be able to so much as introduce himself to Robin, and even that was with Batman looming close over his young partner’s shoulder.  But Clark Kent has never met Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s ward, and he is rapidly realizing that the dynamic is different under these circumstances.

Still, Clark has no desire to start stepping on Bruce’s toes, especially in this area.  “Why don’t you let Alfred know where you are,” he says mildly, and it sounds like a request but it really isn’t.

Dick gives him a brief, considering look.  Then he holds his tea out in clear expectation, and when Clark automatically takes it for him, he dips one hand into the pouch pocket of the hoodie and produces a cell phone.  It has a little S-shield charm tied to its case, and Clark smirks despite himself.  The sweatshirt sleeves get pushed up enough to free the boy’s hands- his knuckles are red and raw, one or two bandaged- and he taps out a fast message.  He waits a moment, then turns the phone around and holds it out, showing the received-and-read message to Clark.  Then he tucks the phone away again and daintily plucks his tea out of Clark’s unresisting grip.  “There.  Now can I stay for dinner?”

“Might as well, since you’re paying,” Clark agrees, and glances askance at the kid.  “Two hundred dollars?”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees without meeting his gaze.  “Turns out, Bruce has like zero understanding of what money is worth.”  He drinks his tea and plucks at the sleeve of Clark’s hoodie with his free hand, rubbing the well-worn fabric between two fingers, and Clark wonders at Dick’s life before the tragedy that had deposited him on Bruce’s doorstep.  He seems almost embarrassed by the wealth Bruce throws around so casually.

The mug is almost empty, drained by Dick’s attempt to avoid further conversation.  Clark holds out his hand in offering, and when Dick passes it over, he rises and heads into the kitchen.  There is no kettle, so Clark merely rinses out the tea dredges and refills the mug with water, adds a teabag from the box on the counter, then puts it in the microwave.  Alfred would be horrified.

“So did you miss out on Edinburg because of the fight?” he asks, still in the kitchen, safety and comfort in the distance.

Dick is silent, not even breathing for a long moment- and Clark is panicking, thinking he screwed up, remembering all the uncomfortable conversations Batman has simply walked away from- but then there’s a noise, the slide of fabric on skin as Dick pulls the sleeves back down over his hands.

“He doesn’t know about this,” he says.  “It’s.”   And he stops, and swallows hard, and Clark turns to look at him.  He looks unsure of himself for the first time since Clark walked in to see him perched on the couch.  “It’s a bad one, the case.  I didn’t want to distract him.”

Ah, Clark thinks.  And there it is- he’s worried.  Worried, and useless, and trying to find something to do with himself.

The microwave dings and Clark turns back to it.  He uses the distraction to pull out his own phone and text Lois- she won’t be happy, but she’ll understand.  This doesn’t really involve her.  Then he gets the tea out of the microwave and heads back into the living room.

“Well, I don’t have a Netflix account,” he says as he offers the tea to Dick.  “But I do get the Game Show Network, and it is-” he glances at his watch, realizes he has no idea, and takes a guess, “- Jeopardy time.”

“Wheel of Fortune,” Dick corrects, but he doesn’t protest when Clark turns the TV on.  And when Clark sits down, in the center of the couch this time, it’s only a matter of seconds before the boy shifts closer.

By the time Jeopardy actually does come on Dick is tucked in against Clark’s side, not asleep yet but working on it.  And when Alfred calls much later to report mission success, Clark elects to tell Dick in the morning, and lets sleeping birds lie.

this is such a wonderful fic thank you anon :)