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The night stretched its cold fingers across the kingdom of Gotham, casting a spectral glow over its shadow-choked streets. Within the towering manor perched atop the hills, silence reigned. The ever-watchful butler slumbered, and the four little bird heirs—once orphans, now warriors—nestled deep within their own sanctuaries of tangled sheets and half-remembered dreams.
But in the heart of the mansion, within the master chamber where shadows curled and whispered, the Dark Knight—Gotham’s brooding king—lay restless in his great, sprawling bed.
His form, meant to be silent and still in the arms of sleep, stirred with the weight of memory. His limbs twitched. His breath caught.
There was no peace in his slumber.
He could still feel the bite of that night’s sharp, cruel, and unforgiving air.
He could still see it.
The alley.
The pistol—gleamed beneath a flickering streetlamp like a serpent’s fang.
The mugger’s twisted scowl.
The deafening cracks of gunfire tore through time and flesh alike.
The acrid smoke curled in the air like a curse.
He could still smell…the blood.
He could still see the way their bodies fell—his mother’s pearls scattering like tiny ghosts in the dark, his father’s hand stretched toward him, protective even in death.
He could still feel the warmth of their blood soaking into his small coat as he collapsed over their still forms, his tiny hands grasping, clinging, desperate to wake them.
He could still hear his own voice—soft, broken, helpless—begging them to rise.
And the tears...they still came.
Silent. Wild. Relentless. Even now.
Even here, so many years and masks later.
Sweat clung to his brow like dew on cold stone as he writhed in his bed, the sheets and blankets near slipping to the floor—fleeing from his relentless tossing as if even they could no longer bear witness to his torment. Even the pillow beneath his head seemed close to sliding away, no match for his violent struggles against the ghost hands of memory.
He shifted endlessly, breath ragged and rapid, his jaw clenched tight with tension as his bare chest heaved, slick with sweat that glistened under the moonlight.
The silver light spilled in through the window like a mourning veil, casting its glow upon Gotham’s fallen knight—her son, her sentinel suffering.
Outside, beyond the tall windows of his chamber, the wind danced through the trees. The leaves fluttered like wings of forgotten spirits, carried by the invisible breath of the night. But among them moved something else—something more than shadow and storm.
A red cape.
Suspended in the air as if held by unseen wings, he hovered—his eyes locked on the figure thrashing within. Clark watched, motionless and solemn, his gaze stoic as steel but trembling with unspoken ache. His heart nearly fractured as he witnessed the nightmare consume his dark knight again. Like every night.
With one soundless motion, Clark descended, gliding through the open night like a celestial being. He reached the window and pushed it open wider, the frame groaning softly as the wind whispered in behind him.
Inside, Bruce continued to fight. His body arched and twisted, muscles tight with pain, blue eyes shuttered yet wide with haunted torment. He groaned low in his throat, fists tangled in the bedding as his breath came in short, sharp gasps. The moonlight washed over him, casting a silver sheen on his sweat-soaked skin—making him look like a marble statue cracking under unseen pressure.
Clark stepped inside.
His boots made no sound upon the carpeted floor as he landed, the red of his cape trailing like a silken banner behind him. He approached the bed with slow, reverent steps, his mighty form lit from behind by the moon—Kryptonian flesh sculpted like that of a god, shining like a myth in the darkened chamber.
He stood at the bedside now, gazing down at the man who once terrified criminals with a single look—now trembling, mumbling, lost in a boy’s memory.
“Mother...Father...no...come back...wake...wake up...please...” Bruce whimpered, his voice cracked, barely more than a breath. “Please...don’t...You...You can’t...leave me...”
Clark’s heart clenched.
He moved at last, reaching out a steady hand. Gently, he brushed his fingers against Bruce’s damp cheek. At the contact, Bruce flinched violently, twisting away with a broken moan. He thrashed, breath hitching as fear overtook him once more.
Clark froze, his hand suspended in place.
Then came a deep, shuddering sigh from Bruce, and his body slumped slightly, strength bleeding from him like warmth from the dead.
“Father...Mother...” he murmured again, barely audible now.
Clark’s expression softened, and with infinite care, he reached out again. This time slower. This time warmer.
His thumb stroked a tear from Bruce’s cheek.
Bruce moaned, but it was no longer the sound of fear—it was the sound of something giving way. Of the nightmare loosening its grip.
Clark sat gently on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He leaned closer, ignoring the faint twitching of Bruce’s limbs and the restless rustle of the sheets. His hand continued its soothing caress across the other man’s face.
“Bruce...” he murmured, voice low and tender. “...it is just a dream. You are safe. I am here”
Bruce panted—his breath still uneven, still quick—but there was a shift now. The panic had begun to fade, just slightly, tempered by the presence beside him. The nightmare clung, as it always did, but Clark’s touch was a light in the fog.
He leaned down, brushing a kiss against Bruce’s clammy forehead.
“I’m here, Bruce,” he whispered. “I am right here”
And then...
A sudden gasp. Bruce’s body jolted once more before slumping heavily into the bed. His chest rose and fell in a wild rhythm, lungs struggling to catch the present moment. He tossed again, weakly now, as though the war within was nearly over.
Clark leaned closer, concern etched into every noble line of his face.
“Bruce...” he whispered again.
At last, he stirred. Slowly. His eyes fluttered open, lashes damp and heavy. He blinked, dazed, breath still uneven. And then, finally, they found each other—one broken, the other divine.
And Bruce beheld the silhouette before him: a man cloaked in red and blue, framed in the moonlight like a celestial guardian, standing watch over him with an expression so achingly familiar.
A smile touched that godlike face.
And Bruce knew—he was no longer alone in the dark.
Bruce stared at the deity intruder, yet his exhausted gaze betrayed no surprise. He looked up at Clark, and slowly, he lifted his hand, hoping the man of Krypton was truly there—that he was not still trapped in the alley where death had touched him and destiny was fulfilled. His hand hovered close to Clark's face, but he halted, fearing it was just another cruel dream. Clark gently took his hand, guiding it to his cheek, and smiled as he gazed at his freed knight.
He panted heavily until he whispered, “Clark...”
“I'm here. I'm here”
Bruce's breath remained ragged as he stared at him, his body drained of energy. Clark leaned in and kissed his forehead, his hand sliding over Bruce's sweaty brow, while his other hand rested on his bare chest, feeling the hammering beats finally begin to calm. He turned away, pressing his cheek against the ruffled pillow, shutting his eyes tightly as he panted. He tried to resist lifting his hand to push Clark away, but he couldn't—for his strength was depleted, and because this was the man he loved. He lowered his hand onto the bed, still panting, as he felt Clark's warm skin and presence enveloping him in safety.
Clark rested his forehead against the side of Bruce's, gently stroking his hair. “Shh…Easy. Easy. I'm here. It's over. It's over now. You are free from it”
Both closed their eyes, breathing each other in.
“I'm here, Bruce,” he whispered. “It was just a dream. It's over. I'm right here now; you're safe”
Bruce panted, then finally let out a deep sigh. His eyes opened, and as he turned his face to meet Clark's, Clark pulled back, his smile returning as their eyes locked.
“What are you doing here?” Bruce asked stoically.
Clark continued to smile, his hand still caressing Bruce's face. Bruce didn't pull away, savoring the gentle touch and the visage of the Man of Steel.
“I wanted to see if you were alright,” he answered.
“Well...I am now,” Bruce said coldly. “So you can leave now. What you've done is called breaking and entering”
Clark smirked and leaned in, kissing him again, this time on the mouth and Bruce let him.
Their foreheads touched, and Bruce, trying not to make Clark notice, attempted to pull him closer. Clark sensed his desire and allowed it, their lips continuing to dance. Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark's neck as Clark kissed him—his cheek, then his chest—feeling the healed scars from his battles of the night. Yet Bruce remained unbreakable, his knight standing tall, having faced and survived it all.
Clark admired him so.
Bruce hoped this wasn't a dream. He hoped this was real, since opening his eyes to the sight before him had spared him from the haunted memory. This was his own angelic being, his champion from the stars of Krypton, his deity of steel, and the very embodiment of justice and majesty.
They pulled back, their eyes still locked. Clark's smile softened as he continued to caress Bruce's face and silky, coal-black hair.
“Are you alright now, Bruce?”
Bruce didn't answer. He simply stared at him, then began to stroke Clark's own ebony hair while feeling Clark's other hand gently touch his scarred chest, as if worshipping the marks of a gifted and fearless warrior. Clark traced his muscles, silently wishing he could erase the scars and the pain they represented.
“You are so beautiful...Kal-El,” Bruce's voice was low, yet soft and filled with gratitude—for he was thankful for the forms of light in his dark life.
Alfred. His sons. Dick. Jason. Tim. Damian. And this man before him.
Clark grinned, kissing Bruce's palm and holding it close. “And you are so charmingly dashing,” he said cockily.
Bruce huffed, unexpectedly turning away as he felt his cheeks flush. “You are ridiculous,” he muttered, a small smile forming.
Clark chuckled, leaning in to kiss his head, then his forehead, and finally his cheek.
Bruce met his gaze again and slowly began to sit up, ignoring his body's exhaustion. He immediately embraced Clark, who wrapped his arms around him.
“It's alright, Bruce. It's alright. I'm here,” Clark said, opening his eyes to glance at the nightstand. His face showed a frown at the picture of Bruce's father and mother, and another of him, Alfred, and his four sons. He smiled, holding Bruce close.
“We are all here. You are not alone. Never,” he vowed.
Bruce buried his face against the dark cobalt suit, feeling the silk of the crimson cape.
“You are so good to me. I don't deserve anyone. Alfred...my sons...you...yet you remain...to be with me...” His hands clenched the cape. “I don't deserve you”
“Bruce...” Clark murmured, pulling back so their foreheads touched and their deep blue eyes locked as the moon shone upon them. He caressed his cheeks and kissed his lips.
“Don't say that. Don't ever say that. You deserve everything that has happened to you. Everything. You deserve good things, and I wish I could give them all to you...all for you, my love. I'm sorry,” Clark murmured.
Bruce let out a soft chuckle, stroking Clark's cheeks with his palms, admiring the strength and passion of the man before him. “When you say things like this...it makes me feel like I can still fight. I can still...fight on...and live on”
“And you living on...makes me want to live on and fight on...being by your side,” Clark replied.
Bruce only smiled and kissed his lips again, and Clark held him close, his large hands gently stroking over his scarred yet strong form. Bruce nestled into him with a tired moan, resting his cheek against Clark’s shoulder. Clark simply smiled as he embraced him, then gently and slowly lowered him back onto the bed. He straightened the ruffled sheets with careful hands, nesting them without a single lift, then picked up the crumpled blanket and wrapped Bruce in it. He patted the blanket softly with one hand while the other stroked Bruce’s face, watching as sleep began to claim him.
“Go back to sleep, Bruce”
Bruce caught his hand and pressed it tightly to his cheek, refusing to let go—refusing to let the warmth and presence fade. “Don’t go...want you to stay…don’t leave...”
Clark leaned down and kissed his forehead in a deep, lingering pucker, keeping his gaze on him. “I’m here. I’m here”
Bruce moaned softly again, then fell into silence.
Clark stared at him for a moment longer, feeling the grip of his hand relax, loosening into calm. Once his hand was free, he crossed the room and quietly closed the window. Returning, he settled beside Bruce again, his cape now half-draped on the floor. He held him close, and Bruce instinctively turned toward him, resting his face against the noble symbol of the House of El.
Clark kept his eyes on him as the room finally fell into a quiet and peaceful hush—where just moments before, it had echoed with the haunting sounds of the Dark Knight caught in a nightmare. Now it was filled only with the soft rhythm of Bruce’s breathing.
The moonlight washed over them both, silver and still.
Clark watched him for a while longer—the rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow in his brow gradually easing into peace.
He leaned in one last time, whispering into the dark, “I will always be by your side. I will always be here”
And eventually, even the Man of Steel himself drifted into sleep.
The morning light shone over Gotham, and Alfred was the first to awaken. He allowed the boys to remain in their realm of dreams. A gentle smile touched his lips at the sight of his slumbering family. But as his gaze moved to the door of his surrogate son, he frowned thoughtfully. He knocked lightly, just to check, and when he cracked the door open a little more—he paused, frozen.
There, lying beside his master, was the figure in the dark blue suit, its fabric glinting like blue diamonds in the soft rays of the morning sun. One arm was wrapped around Bruce, whose form remained pressed closely to his.
Alfred quietly closed the door again, his expression softening into a smile. Without a word, he made his way to dress and begin breakfast—ready to welcome his surrogate grandsons and their uninvited, yet wholly worthy guest to the table.