Orbit

by Flutterheart

Summary:

After being struck by a mysterious ray, Bruce Wayne begins to mentally regress until he's left with the mind of an infant. With no immediate cure in sight, Clark Kent is assigned as his primary caregiver, never expecting just how deeply attached the two of them will become.

Notes:

I SWEAR i will finish the rest of my fics now, i just wanted to write a sfw fic lol enjoy!

The change had settled into Bruce Wayne's bones like a slow frost, creeping and insidious, almost unnoticeable until it wasn't. Two weeks. Fourteen days since Babyface's ridiculous laser contraption had caught him square in the chest during that botched weapons heist in Coast City. The gun had been confiscated, the villain carted off to Blackgate, and Bruce had walked away from the incident seemingly unscathed—physically whole, mentally sharp, his characteristic scowl firmly in place as he'd brushed off the League's concerned inquiries with a gruff  "I'm fine."

 

But fine had become a relative term.

 

At first, it was subtle enough that even Bruce himself tried to dismiss it. A strange floaty sensation behind his eyes, like his brain was wrapped in cotton. A heightened awareness of the scratch of his suit against his skin, the hum of the Watchtower's fluorescent lights suddenly piercing rather than background noise. He'd snapped at Dick over the comms for breathing too loudly while they were tracking a smuggling ring—breathing—and had immediately felt guilty, confused by the intensity of his own irritation. The culprit was elusive, hiding in the spaces between moments, making him question whether he was simply exhausted, burned out, stressed.

 

The League noticed, of course. How could they not? Batman was many things—brooding, intense, occasionally terrifying—but he was consistent. Reliable in his unpredictability, like a storm you could set your watch by. Now he was... off—key. Slightly out of tune. Diana had caught him staring blankly at a wall for twenty minutes during a briefing, his jaw slack, his eyes unfocused, and when she'd touched his shoulder, he'd flinched so violently he'd nearly knocked over a chair.

 

"You're certain the scans showed nothing?" Clark had asked him three days prior, hovering outside the Watchtower's east corridor, his blue eyes tracking Bruce with that horrible farm--boy concern that made Bruce want to snarl and simultaneously cling to him like a lifeline.

 

"Clean bill of health, Kent," Bruce had replied, but even to his own ears, his voice had sounded distant. "Stop hovering."

 

The cafeteria incident happened on a Tuesday.

 

Bruce had been sitting at the corner table—the one he always claimed because it faced the door and had solid walls on two sides—staring at a cup of coffee he'd poured twenty minutes ago but hadn't touched. The liquid had gone cold, forming a thin, oily film on top, and the sight of it made his stomach twist unpleasantly. He was wearing his usual black tactical gear, the fabric suddenly feeling like sandpaper against his shoulders, the tags in his shirt scratching at the back of his neck with every subtle shift of his weight.

 

Clark approached with that easy gait of his, all broad shoulders and gentle presence, setting his own tray down across from Bruce with a soft clatter of ceramic and metal. "You're still here," Clark said, not accusatory, just curious, his voice that warm baritone that usually soothed Bruce's frayed nerves. "Meeting ended two hours ago. Usually you're in Gotham by now."

 

Bruce looked up slowly, his eyelids feeling heavy, his vision taking a moment too long to focus on Clark's face. The lights in the cafeteria were so bright. Why were they always so bright? He squinted, bringing his hand up to massage his temple, and realized his fingers were trembling slightly.

 

"I..." Bruce started, then stopped. The words felt slippery in his mouth, hard to grasp. He blinked, and suddenly the sounds of the cafeteria—the clinking of silverware, Flash's laughter three tables over, the mechanical whir of the drink dispensers—crashed over him like a wave, too loud, too sharp, too much. He hunched his shoulders, pressing his palms against his ears, his breathing coming faster.

 

Clark was instantly alert, that protective instinct sharpening his gaze. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Bruce? Hey, what's wrong?"

 

Bruce dropped his hands, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else. "Weird," he mumbled, the word tasting strange.

 

"Weird how?" Clark pressed, reaching across the table but stopping just short of touching Bruce's wrist, knowing better than to initiate contact uninvited. "Talk to me. Are you in pain?"

 

"I don't know," Bruce said, and his voice sounded younger somehow, vulnerable in a way that made Clark's chest tight. "Just... weird. Fuzzy. Like my head's full of... of clouds or something."

 

"Okay," Clark said slowly, standing up and moving around the table to stand beside Bruce, casting a shadow that suddenly felt like a relief from the harsh overhead lighting. "That's not normal. You need to go to the infirmary, Bruce. Let them run more tests. Maybe there's something the initial scans missed—a neurotoxin, a delayed reaction—"

 

"No."

 

The word came out wrong. Not the clipped, commanding tone of Batman, but high--pitched, whining, distressed in a way that made Clark freeze mid--sentence. Bruce stood up suddenly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, the sound making him wince and cover his ears again.

 

"Nooo," Bruce continued, the sound stretching out, petulant and desperate, utterly unlike him. "I don't wanna! No, no, no—"

 

"Bruce—" Clark reached out, but Bruce was already moving, stumbling away from the table with none of his usual grace, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He bumped into the table edge, let out a small, wounded sound of frustration, and then he was running—actually running—toward the exit.

 

Clark stood frozen, his hand still extended, his mouth slightly open. Around them, the cafeteria had gone quiet, half a dozen heroes staring at the space where Batman had just fled like a frightened child. 

 

"What," Clark said softly, not a question but a statement of disbelief, "the hell?"

The Batcave was never truly quiet, but at 3 AM, it came close. The soft hum of the supercomputer, the drip of condensation from the cave ceiling, the distant rustle of Alfred puttering somewhere upstairs—these were the sounds Bruce had built his sanctuary around. Sounds he usually found comforting, predictable, safe.

 

Now they scraped against his nerves like a knife on bone.

 

Bruce sat hunched over his medical station, shirtless, his defined chest and abdominal muscles rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. He'd run every test he could think of—blood work, toxicology, neural imaging, cellular analysis. The results glowed on the screen in front of him, all green, all normal, all wrong because he wasn't normal, he knew he wasn't normal, couldn't be normal when he couldn't remember why he'd walked into this room five minutes after entering it.

 

He growled, a frustrated sound that turned into something dangerously close to a whimper, and slammed his palm against the keyboard. The sharp pain helped, grounded him, gave him something to focus on other than the overwhelming urge to curl into a ball and cry.

 

"Master Bruce?"

 

Alfred's voice came from the stairs, cultured and concerned, and Bruce spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hadn't heard the elderly man approach, and the surprise sent a jagged spike of panic through his chest.

 

"Don't—" Bruce started, then stopped, his mouth working silently as he struggled to form words that suddenly felt too complex, too heavy for his tongue. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm... fine. 'M fine."

 

Alfred descended the remaining steps, setting the tray he was holding aside, his expression carefully neutral, but Bruce knew him well enough to see the worry etched in the lines around his eyes. The butler approached slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal, his hands visible and empty.

 

"You do not appear fine, Master Bruce," Alfred said gently, stopping a few feet away. "You appear troubled. Your vital signs are elevated—I've been monitoring from upstairs. You're perspiring. Your hands are shaking." He paused, tilting his head. "And you appear to be struggling with your speech."

 

Bruce opened his mouth to deny it, to snap back with some witty retort about Alfred being nosy, but instead what came out was: "I just... tired. So tired, Alfie."

 

The nickname slipped out unbidden—a childhood name he hadn't used in thirty years—and Bruce felt his face flush with embarrassment even as a strange relief washed over him. Alfred didn't flinch, didn't react, just maintained that steady, comforting presence.

 

"Perhaps some tea," Alfred suggested, moving toward the tray. "Chamomile. It always soothed you when you were... when you had trouble sleeping."

 

Bruce nodded, the motion feeling loose, and wrapped his arms around himself. The air in the cave was cool, raising goosebumps on his bare skin, but his internal temperature felt erratic—flushing hot then cold then hot again.

 

Alfred returned with a steaming mug, extending it carefully. Bruce reached for it, his fingers clumsy, and wrapped them around the ceramic. It was hot—too hot—but something in his brain didn't register the danger quickly enough. He brought it to his lips, took a sip, and immediately yelped, jerking backward.

 

The mug slipped from his suddenly spasming fingers, hitting the stone floor with a sharp crack that shattered the quiet of the cave. Hot liquid splashed across Bruce's bare feet and the floor, the mug breaking into three large pieces.

 

Bruce stared at the mess, at the steam rising from the spilled tea, and his lower lip began to tremble. He felt his eyes burning, filling with hot, humiliating tears that he couldn't stop, didn't understand, hated with every fiber of his being.

 

"Oh, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly, kneeling carefully to begin collecting the shards. "Do not fret. It was an accident. I shall clean it up. No harm done."

 

"Sorry," Bruce mumbled, his voice thick, childish. "So sorry, Alfie. Didn't mean to... to break it. Was an accident."

 

"Of course it was," Alfred soothed, looking up with those kind, weathered eyes. "Perhaps you should go rest now. I'll handle this. Everything is alright."

 

But everything wasn't alright, and Bruce knew it, and the knowing made the tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks, dripping off his jaw. He sniffled loudly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand like a boy rather than a man.

 

"Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice sharpened slightly with concern. "Are you... are you crying?"

 

"No," Bruce lied, but it came out as a sob, and suddenly he couldn't be there anymore, couldn't have Alfred see him like this, weak and broken and wrong. He turned and ran—not toward the stairs, but deeper into the cave, toward the darkest corners where he kept the spare uniforms and the emergency medical supplies, somewhere he could hide, could curl up, could make the overwhelming feelings stop.

 

He heard Alfred calling after him, but the words were lost in the rush of blood in his ears, in the pounding of his heart, in the desperate, infantile need to escape, to hide, to find something—anything—that would make him feel safe again.

The escalation was gradual enough that the League kept telling themselves stories to explain it. Stress, they said. Batman had been pushing himself too hard for too long. Sleep deprivation. Psychological trauma manifesting in unusual ways. The Batman persona was cracking under the weight of decades of violence, and this was how Bruce Wayne's psyche was coping—regressing, retreating to a simpler state.

 

But rationalizations crumbled in the face of evidence.

 

It started with small things. A coffee mug—Clark's favorite one, the one with the Daily Planet logo that he kept in his locker—that went missing and turned up in the Batcave, cradled in Bruce's hands while he sat in the dark, running his thumbs over the chipped ceramic edge with a strangely absorbed fascination.

 

Then a shirt. Clark had left a spare button--down in the Watchtower changing room after a mission, planning to retrieve it later, only to find it gone. Three days later, Diana reported seeing Bruce wearing it under his tactical vest, the fabric loose and smelling faintly of Clark's aftershave, the sleeves rolled up to Bruce's elbows because they were too long for him.

 

"That's my shirt," Clark had said, standing in the doorway of the conference room where Bruce was hunched over mission files, the stolen garment clearly visible at his collar.

 

Bruce looked up, his expression blank for a moment, then defensive. "Like it," he said simply, the words clipped, toddler--direct.

 

"You can't just take people's clothes, Bruce. That's... that's not okay."

 

"Smells good," Bruce mumbled, burying his nose in the collar and inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering shut with what looked like relief. "Like... safe. Smells safe, Clark."

 

Clark had been too stunned to continue the argument, watching with dawning concern as Bruce wrapped the too--long sleeves around his hands like makeshift mittens, returning to his files with a swaying motion that looked almost like self--soothing rocking.

 

But the cape was the breaking point.

 

Clark had torn the Watchtower apart searching for it—his cape, the symbol of his identity, missing from his locker where he'd left it after a particularly muddy mission in the wetlands. He'd questioned maintenance staff, accused Hal of pranking him, filed three incident reports, all while growing increasingly desperate. The cape wasn't just useful; it was woven with Kryptonian fabric technology, nearly indestructible, irreplaceable.

 

He found it on a Thursday afternoon, walking into the League lounge looking for coffee and stopping dead in his tracks.

 

Bruce was on the couch. Not sitting—curled, tucked into the corner with his knees drawn up to his chin, completely enveloped in the red fabric of Superman's cape. He had wrapped it around himself like a cocoon, a turtle shell, burying his face in the emblem at the center where Clark's chest would usually be. His eyes were half--closed, his breathing slow and even, and he was making a soft, rhythmic humming sound.

 

"Bruce," Clark said, his voice strangled between anger and something else, something tender and frightened. "What—why do you have my cape? I've been looking everywhere for that. That's... you can't just take things that don't belong to you, especially not—why on earth did you take my cape?"

 

Bruce stirred slowly, blinking up at Clark with unfocused, sleepy eyes. He clutched the fabric tighter, pulling it against his chest possessively.

 

"Cold," Bruce said simply, his voice small, younger--sounding than ever.

 

"You're wearing full thermal gear," Clark pointed out, stepping closer, his hands on his hips. "You have your own cape. The Batman cape. That's right there." He pointed to where Bruce's utility belt sat discarded on the floor, the cape next to it in a crumpled heap.

 

Bruce looked at his own cape, then back at Clark, his brow furrowing in a childlike parody of his usual intensity. "That one's scratchy," he complained. "This one's soft. And it smells like you." He paused, then added, as if confessing something shameful, "Wanted it. Sorry, Clark. I just... wanted it."

 

Clark sighed, long and confused, the anger draining away to leave only worry. He approached carefully, kneeling beside the couch, and gently tugged at the edge of the cape. Bruce resisted for a moment, making a noise of protest, but eventually released it, his fingers opening with obvious reluctance.

 

"You're freezing," Clark observed, noticing how Bruce was actually shivering despite the warm room. He touched Bruce's forehead, feeling for fever, but the skin was clammy and cool. "Are you sick?"

 

"Don't know," Bruce admitted, letting Clark take the cape but immediately leaning forward, pressing his face against Clark's shoulder with a trust that was unprecedented, unnerving. "Everything's loud, Clark. Everything's too much. This helps. You help."

 

Clark wrapped the cape around his own shoulders, one arm coming up to steady Bruce, who seemed moments away from toppling over. "Something's really wrong with you," Clark said softly, more to himself than to Bruce. "Something more than stress. Something medical."

 

Bruce didn't answer, just pressed closer, his large frame curling impossibly small against Clark's side, seeking warmth and comfort with the single--minded desperation of a child seeking their parent in a thunderstorm.

Alfred found him at 2:17 AM, according to the antique clock on the kitchen wall. The manor was silent, dark, peaceful—and Alfred had woken instinctively, some sixth sense developed over decades of caring for broken boys, telling him that Master Bruce was in distress.

 

The kitchen light was off, but Alfred could see the shape of him in the darkness, hunched over the island counter, and he flicked on the soft under--cabinet lighting rather than the harsh overheads.

 

"Master Bruce?" Alfred called softly, approaching slowly.

 

Bruce didn't turn around. He was wearing sweatpants and nothing else, his bare feet cold on the tile floor, his shoulders hunched. In his hands, clutched against his chest, was a family--sized box of Cheerios. He was eating them dry, handful after handful, crumbs cascading down his bare chest to scatter across the floor.

 

"Master Bruce," Alfred repeated, concern sharpening his voice. He moved to stand beside the younger man, studying his face in the dim light. Bruce's eyes were glassy, unfocused, his jaw working mechanically as he chewed. "Have you eaten the food i left you today?"

 

Long silence. Bruce crunched another handful of cereal, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

 

"...Maybe," Bruce finally said, the word drawn out uncertainly. "Don't remember. Everything else feels bad, Alfie. The textures. The soup was... was slimy. The chicken was weird. The vegetables crunched wrong." He shuddered visibly. 

 

"Master Bruce," Alfred said carefully, reaching out to touch Bruce's shoulder, feeling how the muscle jumped and twitched under his palm. "You need proper nutrition. You haven't slept in how long? You're talking like a child. You need help, sir. Professional medical intervention."

 

"No doctors," Bruce said immediately, panic creeping into his voice. "No hospitals, no scans, no... no touching! No more touching, Alfred, everything hurts!" He flinched away, hugging the cereal box to his chest protectively. "Leave me alone. I'm fine. I'm handling it."

 

But he wasn't handling it. And Alfred knew it. And the knowledge sat heavy as stones in his chest as he watched the man he'd raised—the Dark Knight, the scourge of Gotham's underworld—rock back and forth in his kitchen in the dark, eating dry cereal with his hands like a toddler, unable to tolerate the feel of silverware or the texture of cooked food.

 

This was no stress response. This was something far more insidious.

 

And it was getting worse.

The incident that made denial impossible happened in the medbay.

 

Bruce had been pushing himself for nearly forty hours, tracking a meta--human trafficking ring through three different time zones, refusing backup, refusing sleep. Clark had found him in the Watchtower medical bay, sitting in a chair, ostensibly reviewing case files on a tablet, but asleep despite the uncomfortable position. His chin rested on his chest, his breathing deep and even, the tablet slipping from his lax fingers.

 

Clark caught the device before it hit the floor, setting it aside gently. He studied Bruce's face in sleep—finally relaxed, finally peaceful, the lines of stress smoothed away, making him look oddly young. Vulnerable.

 

"Alright, Bruce," Clark murmured, sliding one arm under Bruce's knees and the other behind his shoulders. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

 

He lifted easily—Bruce was heavy, dense muscle and bone, but weight meant nothing to Kryptonian strength. He'd taken perhaps three steps toward the private quarters when Bruce's eyes snapped open.

 

Clark expected the usual—annoyance, defensiveness, a demand to be put down immediately. Instead, he got panic.

 

Bruce's body went rigid, his breath catching in a sharp gasp, his eyes wide and unseeing for a moment. His hands shot out, grasping, and found purchase on Clark's sleeve. The fabric folded under the force of Bruce's grip, his knuckles white, his fingers digging in with desperate strength.

 

"No," Bruce whimpered, the sound barely audible, his entire body trembling. "No, no, no—don't put me down, don't—please, please, I can't—"

 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Clark said quickly, freezing in place, adjust his hold to pull Bruce closer against his chest. "I'm not putting you down, Bruce. I've got you. You're safe. Look at me—look at me, I've got you."

 

Bruce's grip didn't loosen. If anything, he clung harder, his face pressing against Clark's throat, his breathing rapid and shallow against Clark's skin. He was making small, distressed sounds like a frightened animal or a very young child, completely beyond coherent speech.

 

"It's okay," Clark repeated, settling onto the edge of the medical bed himself, arranging Bruce in his lap like a child, one hand coming up to stroke Bruce's sweat--damp hair. "Shh. I've got you. I'm right here."

 

Slowly, over the course of several minutes, Bruce's panic subsided. His grip loosened slightly, though his fingers remained twisted in Clark's ruined sleeve. His breathing evened out. He stayed pressed against Clark's chest, listening to the steady heartbeat, and eventually—agonizingly slowly—his eyes drifted closed again.

 

Clark stayed there for two hours, afraid to move, afraid to trigger another episode. When he finally tried to shift Bruce to a proper bed, the grip tightened again, the whimpers returned, and Clark surrendered. He sat there until Bruce woke naturally, awkward and confused, unable to remember why he was being held like an oversized baby.

 

But after that, after the pattern was established, Bruce seemed unable to stop seeking contact.

 

He leaned against Clark's shoulder during League briefings, his heavy head resting there as if it were too heavy for his neck to support. He walked close enough that his hand brushed Clark's sleeve, then started actually holding onto it while they moved through corridors—Bruce clutching the fabric like a security blanket, like a toddler holding their parent's hand. When the noise became too much, when the lights too bright, when the mission stress mounted, he would turn and press his face against Clark's chest and simply breathe, his large hands fisting in Clark's shirt, grounding himself in the warmth and steady presence.

 

The others noticed. Of course they noticed. Hal made jokes that died on his lips when he saw the genuine dependence in Bruce's behavior. Diana watched with worry lines etched deep in her forehead. Barry stopped making sudden movements around Bruce, started speaking in softer tones.

 

And Clark—Clark didn't complain. How could he, when Bruce looked at him with those lost, confused eyes, seeking comfort he couldn't articulate, reaching out with trembling hands for something steady in a world that had become overwhelming and frightening?

 

"Let me take you to the medbay," Clark said one morning, finding Bruce sitting on the floor of his quarters, having apparently failed to navigate the five steps to his bed the night before. "Full scans. Brain imaging. Something is seriously wrong, Bruce, and we need to know what."

 

Bruce had nodded, docile in a way that was more disturbing than his usual stubbornness, and allowed Clark to help him up, to walk him through the corridors, to hold his hand like a child crossing the street.

 

The scans took three hours. Comprehensive neural mapping, cellular analysis, toxicology, genetic screening. Dr. Midnight and Dr. Stone worked together, running every test they could conceive of.

 

Nothing. No injuries. No neurological damage. No toxins. No cellular degradation. Bruce Wayne was, physically and neurologically, in peak human condition.

 

"Then why is he like this?" Clark demanded, standing outside the observation window while Bruce lay on the examination table, staring blankly at the ceiling, occasionally making soft popping sounds with his mouth.

 

"I don't know," Dr. Stone admitted, his cybernetic eye whirring as he zoomed in on scan data. "There's nothing here to explain these symptoms. He's physically perfect. But behaviorally..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "He's presenting like someone with severe neurodivergent regression. Like his brain has rewired itself to a previous developmental stage."

 

Clark walked back in, offering his hand to help Bruce sit up. Bruce took it immediately, his grip tight and trusting, swinging his legs over the side of the table like a boy getting down from a high chair. He was wobbly when he stood, his balance off, and Clark had to steady him with an arm around his waist.

 

"Let's get you some food," Clark suggested, forcing his voice to stay light, gentle. "See if we can find something with the right texture, okay?"

 

"'Kay," Bruce agreed, the word slurred, childish, and Clark felt his heart crack a little more.

 

They were halfway to the cafeteria when the episode happened.

 

Flash was holding court near the entrance, telling some story at his usual rapid--fire pace, his voice carrying. Hal and Arthur were arguing heatedly near the buffet line about jurisdiction over a sunken vessel. Someone—Ollie, probably—dropped a metal tray with a tremendous clang that echoed through the high--ceilinged room.

 

Too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too many people, too many sounds, too many inputs.

 

Bruce stopped walking. Just... stopped. His hand slipped from Clark's, his arms wrapping around his own chest, his rocking motion starting again—back and forth, back and forth, his eyes wide and glassy, fixed on some middle distance.

 

"Bruce?" Clark stepped in front of him, blocking the visual stimuli, cupping Bruce's face in his hands. "Bruce, hey, look at me. What's happening?"

 

"Too loud," Bruce whispered, the words barely audible, his lower lip trembling. He looked up at Clark with eyes that were genuinely frightened, overwhelmed, tears threatening at the corners. "Clark, it's too... everything's too..."

 

Clark had heard Bruce speak through torture, through gunshot wounds, through pain that would break lesser men, and he'd never heard that tone—helpless, desperate, teetering on the edge of complete shutdown.

 

"Okay," Clark said immediately, keeping his voice soft, steady, wrapping an arm around Bruce's shoulders and guiding him away from the chaos. "Okay. We're going. Right now. I've got you."

 

Bruce let himself be led, docile and shaking, making small hurt sounds in his throat that Clark pretended not to hear.

The hallway incident was the final straw for the League's collective denial.

 

Bruce had wandered away from Clark for just a moment—to use the restroom, he thought, though he'd forgotten why he was standing in the corridor when he got there. The Watchtower's architecture suddenly seemed incomprehensible, a maze of identical corridors and doors. He knew he'd designed this place, knew every inch of it... theoretically. But his feet wouldn't move the way he wanted them to. His sense of direction was gone. He stood in the intersection of three hallways, turning slowly in circles, his hands flapping at his sides in a stimming motion he couldn't control, trying to remember which way to go.

 

Hal Jordan nearly walked into him, pulling up short with a curse. "Bruce? What the hell, man, you can't just stand in the middle of the—" He stopped, really looking. "You okay? Why are you just standing here? Briefing started five minutes ago."

 

"Right," Bruce said, nodding slowly, the motion exaggerated. "Briefing. Yes. The... the room."

 

"Yeah, the room. Where we always have briefings. You coming?"

 

Bruce looked at the doors surrounding them. Conference Room A? The strategy room? The briefing chamber? They all looked the same. His mind blanked, panic rising.

 

"Hal," Bruce said carefully, his voice shaking. "I... I don't remember. Which room? I can't... I don't remember where it is."

 

Hal's eyes widened. "You're serious? You've got to be kidding me. You designed this place, Spooky. You memorized the entire layout during construction. You used to give tours to new recruits while blindfolded to show off."

 

"I know," Bruce said, and his voice cracked, humiliatingly, tears springing to his eyes that he blinked away furiously. "I know I did. But I don't... the map in my head is gone, Hal. I can't see it. I can't remember."

 

Hal stared at him for a long moment, the mockery dying on his lips. "Okay," he said finally, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Okay. I'll walk you. Come on."

 

They arrived ten minutes late. All eyes turned to them as they entered.

 

"You're late," Diana said, though not unkindly. "Is everything alright?"

 

"Yeah, sorry," Hal said, sliding into his seat. "I was grabbing food, and then... Spooky here didn't remember where the room was. Had to walk him."

 

The room went quiet. Clark stood up slowly from his seat. "What do you mean he didn't remember?"

 

"I mean he was standing in the hallway like a lost puppy," Hal said, then immediately regretted his phrasing when he saw Bruce's face crumple slightly. "I mean... he was confused. Couldn't find his way. You know, GPS is down or whatever."

 

"Bruce designed this facility," John Stewart said slowly. "He knows every access corridor, every secret passage—"

 

"I don't," Bruce interrupted, and the room flinched at his tone—high, distressed, on the verge of tears. "I don't know! I don't remember! Stop looking at me like that, I can't remember, okay? The lines keep moving and the doors keep changing and I'm trying but I can't—"

 

He was rocking again, hands over his ears, and Clark was at his side in an instant, guiding him out as the League watched in horrified silence, their last rationalizations crumbling to dust.

The Batcave humidity hung thick and oppressive, that subterranean chill that never quite left the limestone walls, now amplified by a silence so heavy it seemed to press against the eardrums. Bruce sat on the cold stone floor in the center of the main chamber, his back curved in an uncomfortable arch, his long legs splayed out before him. He had managed, through twenty minutes of fumbling frustration that had ended in confused tears, to remove his pants. Now he wore only his underwear and the tactical top of his Batsuit, the Kevlar--reinforced fabric bunching around his ribs, the cape discarded somewhere across the cave in a heap of black silk, the cowl abandoned entirely. His bare legs were pale and muscular, shaved, scraped red in patches where he'd stumbled against sharp edges during his earlier disorientation, his feet flat against the ancient rock. He stared at his hands with the kind of wonder usually reserved for newborns discovering their own existence for the first time, turning them slowly in the dim blue computer glow, watching shadows play between his long fingers. He made soft noises—hums of confusion and fascination—as he flexed his fingers, watching the tendons shift beneath the skin, his mouth slightly open, his brow furrowed in infantile concentration.

 

Alfred Pennyworth stood in front of the two heroes, his face a thundercloud of barely suppressed fury. Unlike the butler who usually greeted disasters with dry wit and a raised eyebrow, this Alfred looked like he might actually commit violence. His hands were clasped behind his back so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl that echoed off the cave walls.

 

"Explain to me," Alfred said, each word clipped and sharp as a blade, "why he is acting like an infant who doesn't know how to speak or walk and that has just figured out he has hands?"

 

The question hung in the damp air like a challenge. Diana stood slightly behind Clark, her warrior's composure straining at the seams, her tiara glinting in the computer light. Clark held his ground, his red cape pooling around his boots, his expression carefully neutral beneath Alfred's withering stare.

 

"We don't know," Clark admitted, his voice steady despite the situation. "The League's best minds have run every test imaginable, Alfred. Neural scans, toxicology, cellular analysis. Technically, physically, he's in perfect health. There's no brain damage, no lesions, no trauma. We don't know why he's like this. The weapon Babyface used--it affected him somehow that we can't detect."

 

Alfred's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking against stone with deliberate menace, and gestured with one trembling hand toward the figure on the floor. Bruce continued his examination of his own appendages, oblivious, humming softly under his breath as he touched thumb to forefinger with intense concentration.

 

"You don't know," Alfred repeated, and the words were steeped in venom. "I sent him out with you--with the Justice League, the greatest heroes on Earth, supposedly--and he comes back like this. A broken--minded child in a man's body. And you don't know."

 

He turned fully to face them, his spine straight, his eyes flashing with a fury that decades of repressed British propriety could barely contain.

 

"You better figure it out," Alfred said, his voice rising, cracking like a whip. "You better figure it out and bring him back the way he sent him to you. Do you understand me? I want him back. The way he was. Not this... this shell. Not this confused giant sitting on my floor playing with his own fingers like he's never seen them before."

 

He paused, his chest heaving, and when he spoke again, the anger was tinged with something desperate, something frightened.

 

"And he cannot stay here," Alfred said, gesturing sharply at Bruce. "He cannot stay in Gotham. Not in this state."

 

Clark blinked, startled by the vehemence. "Alfred, why not? This is his home. If anywhere should be familiar--"

 

"Why?" Alfred interrupted, turning on him with sudden ferocity. "You ask me why?"

 

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a register that somehow carried more weight than his shouting had. His hands unclasped from behind his back and came up, gesturing helplessly, trembling with emotion.

 

"I've had my turn," Alfred said, the words clipped and harsh. "I have had my turn changing his diapers. When he cried when he was eight years old and screaming in the night for parents who would never come. I did it when he was ten and sick with fever, when he was fifteen and bleeding from training accidents. I have wiped his tears and his messes and I have raised him from a broken boy into the man you know."

 

He stopped, his throat working, his eyes glistening with furious tears he refused to shed. He turned to look at Bruce, at the six--foot--two mass of muscle sitting on the floor in nothing but a shirt, and his expression crumpled momentarily before the anger returned.

 

"I would take care of him," Alfred said, his voice rough. "Make no mistake— If there were any other option, I would do it. I would bathe him and feed him and pretend my heart wasn't breaking every moment of every day. But I am an old man, Master Kent. An old man with arthritis in his hands and a bad hip and lungs that don't work like they used to."

 

He turned back to them, his eyes blazing.

 

"I don't have the strength to pick up a six--foot toddler," Alfred said bluntly. "I cannot lift him when he collapses. I cannot carry him to bed when he forgets how to walk. I cannot hold him when he cries, and he is crying constantly, Master Kent. Constantly. Because everything frightens him now. Everything hurts his senses. Everything is too loud, too bright, too much."

 

He gestured sharply toward the back of the cave, where the shadows gathered.

 

"He has already broken things," Alfred continued, his voice shaking with the effort of control. "Irreplaceable things. He shattered the antique mirror in the east wing because his reflection 'moved wrong.' He destroyed the kitchen table trying to climb onto it because he wanted to see out the window. He is big, he is heavy. He is strong—stronger than any infant has a right to be, and he doesn't know his own strength. He doesn't understand that he can hurt himself. He tried to climb the grandfather clock yesterday and nearly brought it down on top of himself. I had to pull him out of the way, and I nearly threw out my back doing it."

 

He stopped, breathing hard, his composure fracturing at the edges.

 

"I cannot prevent him from hurting himself," Alfred said, quieter now but no less intense. "I cannot restrain him when he panics. I cannot pick him up when he falls. And he falls constantly. He walks like a newborn deer, all uncoordinated limbs and no balance. I found him in the wine cellar this morning, confused and crying, having fallen down half a flight of stairs because he forgot how to navigate them."

 

He looked at them with desperate, furious eyes.

 

"So no," Alfred said. "He cannot stay in Gotham. Not with me. Not like this. I would die trying to care for him, and then where would he be? I love that boy—more than you know, more than I have words for, but I am physically incapable of being what he needs right now. He needs someone who can lift him. Someone who can stop him from killing himself accidentally. Someone with the strength to manage... this."

 

He gestured at Bruce again, who had stopped playing with his hands and was now staring at the three of them with wide, uncomprehending eyes, his lower lip pushed out in a confused pout, looking for all the world like a two--year--old who had wandered into a philosophy lecture and couldn't understand why everyone was upset.

 

Diana stepped forward, her face a mask of empathetic pain. "Alfred, we will take him," she said softly. "We will care for him. You have my word as an Amazon—we will figure this out, and we will bring him back to you whole."

 

"He relaxes with me, He’s been clinging to me for weeks." Clark added, kneeling slowly near Bruce but not touching him yet, giving the regressed man space. "Look at him—he's calm when I'm near. We'll take him to the Watchtower. We'll keep him safe."

 

Alfred looked at them, his expression unreadable, his anger slowly banked back down into the professional mask of the dutiful servant, though his eyes remained red--rimmed and fierce.

 

"See that you do," Alfred said, his voice cold. "And you tell him that I did not abandon him. You tell him that I would have done it all again gladly if my body had not betrayed me. Tell him... tell him I am waiting."

 

Bruce chose that moment to look up at Clark, his hands coming up, fingers spread wide, showing them to him with an expression of desperate, confused pride, as if to say look what I found, look what I have.

 

It was the first time he'd acknowledged either of them since they'd arrived.

 

Clark's breath caught in his throat at the gesture, the vulnerability of it, the absolute trust in those unfocused blue eyes.

 

"Hey," Clark said softly, kneeling fully now, making himself small, non--threatening. "Hey, look at you. Those are some really pretty hands, Bruce."

 

He reached out slowly, his movements telegraphed, and when his fingers closed gently around Bruce's wrist, feeling the calluses there, the trembling that ran through the muscle, Bruce didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned forward, his center of gravity shifting dangerously, and when Clark carefully gathered him up, lifting him from the cold stone floor into his arms, Bruce melted against him immediately. His large frame, all six feet and two inches of dense muscle and bone, settled against Clark's chest like he belonged there, his face pressing instantly against the side of Clark's neck, his hands clutching at the blue fabric.

 

"C…Clark," Bruce mumbled, his voice thick and clumsy, his lips moving against Clark's throat. 

Clark's arms came up automatically, adjusting to the substantial weight, pulling Bruce close. 

 

"He's almost nonverbal now," Clark observed quietly to Diana, his voice rough with emotion. He shifted his grip, cradling Bruce against his chest, and felt the way Bruce's heart was hammering against his ribs, the way his breath was still too fast, too frightened. "And he's overwhelmed. Look at him. This place—the cave—it's too much for him. The echoes, the darkness, the sensory input. He can't regulate here."

 

"He built this place to be a fortress," Diana said, her voice thick with sadness as she watched Bruce nuzzle into Clark like a kitten seeking a sunbeam. "Now it is his prison."

 

"We need to take him to the Watchtower," Clark said, Bruce's weight settling heavily in his arms. "It's sterile there, yes, but we can control the environment. Manage the stimuli. He can't stay here—Alfred's right. It's not safe for either of them."

 

"Then it is decided," Diana said, looking toward Alfred, who had turned away, his shoulders rigid, his hand coming up to wipe at his face once before he restored his composure.

 

Clark stood, lifting Bruce easily, holding him close. Bruce made a small sound—almost a whimper, almost a hum—and pressed closer, his long legs dangling awkwardly.

The Zeta--Beam's emerald flash dissipated into the sterile receiving chamber of the Watchtower, leaving behind the faint ozone scent of quantum displacement and two figures materializing from nothing. Clark's arms tightened instinctively around the substantial weight he carried--six feet of dense muscle and bone that was currently trembling violently against his chest. Bruce had been limp and pliant back in the Batcave, his face buried in Clark's neck where he'd been breathing in the steady rhythm of the Kryptonian heartbeat, but the instantaneous matter--transmission sent his compromised nervous system into immediate revolt.

 

The scream that tore from Bruce's throat was primal, wordless, the sound of an animal caught in machinery. His body convulsed, his spine arching backward, his fingers clawing at empty air. "No, no, no, no—" The chant was high--pitched, desperate, his eyes wide and unfocused with the terror of having been disassembled and reassembled by forces his infant mind couldn't comprehend.

 

"Bruce, shh, it's over, we're here—" Clark tried, but Bruce couldn't hear him, was beyond hearing, his nervous system flooded with panic chemicals. He kicked out, his bare heel connecting with Clark's hip with bruising force, screaming wordlessly at the violation of physics.

 

Diana moved quickly, her hand on Clark's shoulder as she guided them from the receiving chamber into the adjacent quarters she'd prepared. The room was spacious—a generous fifteen by fifteen feet—but aggressively, deliberately empty. The walls were bare steel, untreated and gleaming under harsh fluorescent lighting. The floor was cold metal grating. A single narrow bed sat in one corner, bolted to the floor, covered in regulation sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter. There no decorations, nothing soft or comforting. It was a box designed for containment, a sterile void that echoed with every movement.

 

Clark stepped inside, still holding the trembling Bruce, and his stomach dropped. The room was cavernous in its emptiness, every sound bouncing off the hard surfaces. Bruce, whose thirty--year--old self had designed the Watchtower's architecture, whose tactical mind had planned every corridor, now looked around with the wide, terrified eyes of a child who had woken up in a strange, echoing place.

Clark stepped inside, still holding the now--quieted but trembling Bruce, and immediately frowned. "This is... Diana, if he's essentially a baby now, this isn't an environment for him. It's--" He gestured with his chin at the hard surfaces, the lack of color, the absence of anything soft or comforting. "It's like a cell."

 

"It has to be good enough for now," Diana said, her arms crossed, looking exhausted. "We need to figure out who is going to handle Gotham while he's unavailable. We need to notify the others. We need to research that weapon and find a cure." She turned toward the door. Diana turned toward the door, her duty calling.  "Leave him here," she instructed, her voice carrying the authority of a general. "Come with me."

 

She started to leave. Clark shifted Bruce in his arms, preparing to set him down on the bare mattress—

 

A sniffle cut through the air. Wet. Hitched. Heartbreaking.

 

They turned. Bruce's lower lip trembled visibly, his eyes swimming with tears that spilled over before he could stop them. A whimper escaped, climbing into a confused, frightened wail.

 

"Bruce?" Clark was across the room in two strides, kneeling by the bed, his hand hovering uncertainly over Bruce's trembling back. "Hey, hey, what's wrong? Don't cry, please don't cry."

 

Bruce lowered his hands. His face was crumpled, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks, his nose running, his mouth open in a silent wail that gradually found voice--a whimper that climbed in pitch, breaking into full--throated sobs. He looked around the room with wild, frightened eyes, uncomprehending, lost in a world that had changed too fast, too drastically.

 

"What is it?" Diana asked, stepping back into the room, her warrior's confidence evaporating. "Is he hurt?"

 

"I don't know," Clark said, panic threading his voice. He reached out and gently gripped Bruce's shoulders. "Bruce, what do you need? Are you hungry? Scared? Talk to me."

 

Bruce tried. His mouth worked, his brow furrowing with the effort of trying to translate overwhelming, wordless need into language his compromised brain could no longer access. "I..." he started, and the pause stretched, agonizing. His hands clawed at the bed sheets. "I don't..." He looked at Clark with eyes so full of fear it seemed he might drown in it. The tears flowed faster, his breathing hitching into dangerous hyperventilation territory.

 

"Leave him here," Diana repeated, her hand on the door panel. "He'll calm down. We have urgent matters to discuss."

 

Clark's head snapped up, his eyes flashing with sudden fury. "No."

 

"Clark—"

 

"I said no." The snap in his voice was unlike him, sharp and commanding. He adjusted his grip on Bruce, pulling the trembling man closer against his chest. "He's coming with us. I'm not leaving him here alone in this empty box to cry himself into a panic attack. He's coming with us, Diana. End of discussion."

 

The corridor outside was waking up with the shift change. Voices echoed--footsteps, laughter, the mechanical hiss of doors opening and closing. Somewhere down the hall, an alarm blared for a simulation drill, then cut off. The lights overhead flickered as technicians ran diagnostics.

 

Bruce's whole body jerked at the cacophony. He turned his face into Clark's neck, his large hands clutching desperately at the fabric, his sobs escalating into confused, frightened wailing--the crying of a baby who doesn't understand why they're uncomfortable, why the world is too loud, why everything hurts. It was formless, primal grief and sensory overload, his brain unable to filter the auditory and visual assault of the active Watchtower.

 

"Please," Clark whispered, bouncing him slightly, his super--hearing picking up the distressed flutter of Bruce's racing heart. "Please calm down, Bruce. I've got you. You're safe."

 

But Bruce couldn't stop. He cried and cried, tears soaking Clark's suit, his body convulsing with the effort of his distress, a wordless, endless keening that spoke of absolute terror and helplessness.

 

Diana stood next to them, her hand over her mouth, her eyes meeting Clark's over Bruce's shaking form. They didn't need to speak. The realization sat heavy between them like lead--this was going to be complicated. Far more complicated than they had understood.

Silas Stone moved with the precision of someone who was partly machine, his cybernetic eye whirring softly as it analyzed data streams invisible to organic vision. He stood in the medical bay of the Watchtower, facing Diana and Clark with the bearing of a man delivering a terminal prognosis--which, in a sense, he was.

 

"The weapon," Dr. Stone began, his voice neutral and professional as usual. "It was designed by Babyface as a 'humiliation ray,' according to the schematics we recovered. The theory was to regress meta--human threats back to childhood--to remove their threat by removing their development."

 

Diana stood straight, her arms crossed, her tiara glinting under the medical lights. "And this is what happened to Bruce?"

 

"Precisely," Stone said, calling up a holographic display of the laser's energy signature--a swirling vortex of colors that made normal human eyes water. "The beam hit him square in the chest, permeated his cellular structure, and rewrote his neural pathways. It's actually elegant--neuroplasticity forced into reverse. His brain is physically healthy, but it's functioning at infant age."

 

"And how do we reverse it?" Clark asked, his tone sharp. He stood near the examination table where Bruce sat, shirtless and shivering despite the warm room, staring with wide eyes at Dr. Stone.

 

"We don't," Stone said simply. "Not yet. Our analysis suggests the change is... stable. His brain has established new dendritic pathways consistent with infantile development. To reverse it would require rewriting his neural structure again, and we don't have the precision. Attempting to force it could leave him brain--dead."

 

The silence that followed was absolute, save for Bruce's soft breathing and the occasional whimper as he reached out to touch Stone's stethoscope, then recoiled at the cold temperature, confused.

 

"So you're saying," Clark said slowly, "that Batman is simply... an baby now. Mentally."

 

"Functionally, yes," Stone confirmed. "He can't be left unattended. He can't feed himself reliably, can't navigate complex spaces, can't communicate needs effectively. He has the physical body of a thirty--year old athletic male but the cognitive and emotional capacity of a toddler. He will need a full--time caretaker until we find a reversal method."

 

"How young?" Clark asked, his eyes not leaving Bruce, who had found a spot on the table interesting and was tracing it with his finger, humming softly. "Exactly how young are we talking?"

 

"My best estimate?" Stone adjusted his display, showing brain scan comparisons. "Between twelve and twenty--four months. Possibly younger in times of stress. He's non--verbal when overwhelmed, shows attachment--seeking behaviors, has lost object permanence in some instances, and displays sensory--seeking and avoidance patterns consistent with that developmental window."

 

Diana exhaled sharply. "Hera. A toddler. A giant, super--strong toddler who could bench--press a car if he had the coordination."

 

"We'll need to arrange a caregiver," Diana said, her businesslike tone returning as she tried to wrestle the situation into something manageable. "Someone strong enough to handle him physically, patient enough to deal with the... the behavioral aspects. Someone he won't accidentally injure during a tantrum."

 

Clark straightened immediately, stepping forward with his hands raised slightly, his expression earnest and pleading. "I'll do it."

 

"You can't just—" Diana started, her brow furrowing.

 

"No, listen," Clark interrupted, his voice rising with enthusiasm and something else—something fierce and possessive that surprised even him. "He relaxes with me. You've seen it. Look at him right now—he's calm because I'm here. He needs warmth, a steady heartbeat, someone he trusts implicitly. I can provide that. Plus, I'm literally the only one on the station who can physically restrain him if he has a full meltdown without risking injury to either of us. He could punch through a wall right now by accident, Diana. I can take that hit. I'm volunteering."

 

"It's not that simple," Diana said, her expression softening with regret. "The League board must approve. We can't just... hand him over to you, Clark, as much as I'd like to. There are liability concerns, protocol--"

 

"Protocol?" Clark's voice cracked. "Diana, look at him."

 

Bruce had picked up on the tension in their voices. His lower lip trembled, his eyes darting between the two of them, his confusion mounting. When Clark pointed at him, Bruce made a small, hurt sound, his face crumpling into a pout, his blue eyes wide and terrified. He looked so small then--despite the breadth of his shoulders, the definition of his abs, the length of his legs dangling off the table. He looked vulnerable in a way that made Clark's chest ache with something fierce and protective.

 

"He's terrified," Clark pressed. "And really cute—I mean, look at that pout. But scared. He needs someone he trusts implicitly. That's me."

 

"It's not that simple," Diana said, her expression softening with regret. "The League board must approve any guardian assignment. We can't just... hand him over to you, Clark, as much as I'd like to. There are liability concerns, protocols about power dynamics, questions about your ability to remain objective given your friendship with him—"

 

"Why?" Clark pressed, stepping closer to her, his blue eyes intense. "Why do we need a board? He's my best friend. He trusts me. Look at him—he's terrified right now. He needs someone he knows, not some committee--approved caretaker."

 

"I can't just hand him over to you without permission," Diana said firmly, her hand coming up to stop his advance. "So please, understand. Stop insisting. This requires a formal process." She turned and left, her boots clicking against the medical bay floor.

 

Clark sighed, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. When he looked up, Bruce was staring at him, still trembling, still lost in a lab that suddenly seemed too big, too cold, too full of scary metal things.

 

"Don't worry," Dr. Stone said quietly, his human eye kind. "They'll figure it out. And until then... he seems to like you well enough, Kent."

 

Clark moved to Bruce's side, putting a hand on his bare shoulder, feeling the muscle there jumping under the skin. "Yeah," he murmured, as Bruce leaned into his touch with a whimper. "We'll figure it out, Brucie. Promise."

The conference room had been cleared of furniture except for a single chair where Diana stood, acting as facilitator. Seven men stood in a line along the far wall, having been summoned from various duties across the League and the planet. The instructions had been specific: do not look at the subject directly unless he approaches. Do not speak to him unless he speaks first. Do not engage. Let him choose.

 

Barry Allen vibrated slightly with nervous energy, his red suit seeming to shimmer. Hal Jordan had his arms crossed, his green lantern ring glinting, his expression suggesting he'd rather be literally anywhere else. John Stewart stood at parade rest, stoic and uncomfortable. Oliver Queen kept adjusting his sleeve, looking green around the gills. Michael Carter--Booster Gold--stood with his hands behind his back, uncharacteristically serious. Ted Kord--the Blue Beetle--fidgeted with his goggles.

 

And Clark Kent stood at the end of the line in full Superman regalia—the blue suit, the red cape, the red boots, the S--shield gleaming on his chest, his hands at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs.

 

"This is absurd," Oliver Queen said, breaking the silence with a growl. "I have better things to do than stand here waiting to take care of a giant baby. I have a city to protect, a company to run, and—"

 

"Be quiet, Oliver," Diana said, not unkindly but with absolute authority. "Remember your instructions."

 

Diana stood in the center of the room, and she was not alone. Bruce was in her arms, wearing the grey sweatpants and white t--shirt, his bare feet dangling, his expression deeply unhappy. He squirmed against her grip, his hands pushing at her armor, his face scrunched in displeasure, making soft sounds of complaint.

 

"He's not pleased," Diana observed, then set him down on the cold metal floor.

 

Bruce sat there for a moment, his hand rising to his lips, fingers nibbling at the tips. He looked at the lineup of heroes with wide, uncertain eyes, then shifted uncomfortably, letting out a distressed whine as he looked back at Diana.

 

"Go on," Diana encouraged gently, her hand on his back. "Go explore. Find someone you like."

 

Bruce hesitated, visibly uncertain, then slowly, moving with the awkward, uncoordinated grace of someone whose proprioception had regressed decades, he lowered himself to his hands and knees. The sight was shocking—the Batman, the Dark Knight, the terror of Gotham's underworld, crawling across a conference room floor like an oversized toddler, his large frame moving with jerky uncertainty. His knees thumped heavily against the floor, his large hands slapping down with too much force as he navigated by touch and sight, unable to balance his adult body with the motor skills of an infant.

 

He paused in front of Hal Jordan, tilting his head with the exaggerated curiosity of a child examining a new bug. Hal's boot—a heavy combat boot with the green insignia, reinforced plating, and steel toes—seemed to fascinate him. Bruce reached out and tapped it with one finger, then gripped it with sudden, shocking strength.

 

"Hey, wait, don't—" Hal started, breaking protocol immediately.

 

Bruce ignored him, pulling backward with the full force of adult musculature channeled through toddler determination. With a yelp and a crash, Hal Jordan—Green Lantern of Sector 2814, fearless to the point of stupidity—toppled backward onto the carpet, landing hard on his tailbone. Bruce, triumphant, held the boot aloft with both hands like a trophy, examining it with intense, fascinated concentration. He turned it over, then—moving with the logic of a creature who explores the world through its mouth—brought the boot toward his lips with apparent intent to taste the leather.

 

"No, no, no!" Hal said, scrambling backward on the carpet, his hand out, panic in his voice. "Don't put that in your mouth, that's been in actual alien swamps, chemical spills!"

 

Bruce paused, the boot hovering inches from his lips. He looked at Hal, who was sitting on the floor looking disheveled and horrified, and his face scrunched into an expression of supreme disappointment. He dropped the boot with a heavy clatter and crawled away immediately, losing interest completely, his attention span that of a gnat. He left Hal to right himself amid barely suppressed snickers from Barry and Ted.

 

He approached Oliver Queen next, sitting back on his haunches, looking up at the archer. His mouth opened, and he babbled—a string of sounds that almost resembled words, ending with what sounded distinctly like "...silly face."

 

"What?" Oliver blinked, confused. "Did he just—my face isn't silly, these are regular vigilante scowls, I have a very serious—"

 

Bruce reached up before Oliver could finish his complaint, his large hands grabbing fistfuls of Oliver's green jacket. He attempted to scale the other man like a jungle gym, his adult weight immediately dragging at Oliver's center of gravity. Oliver staggered, his arms windmilling as Bruce's fingers clawed for purchase, trying to pull himself up onto Oliver's shoulders with all the grace of a baby elephant attempting ballet.

 

"Whoa, hey, too heavy, too heavy—!" Oliver gasped, nearly going down under the assault, saved only by John Stewart reaching out to steady him.

 

Bruce let go with a huff of frustration—and the sound was distinctly dismissive, almost a scoff. He made a noise of clear disappointment and crawled away immediately, moving past Oliver without a backward glance, leaving the archer looking shaken and offended.

 

Clark was clenching his jaw so hard he could hear his own teeth grinding, a surge of possessive irritation flooding his chest at the sight of Bruce touching the others, climbing on them, putting his mouth on Hal's disgusting boots. He wanted to step forward, to gather Bruce up, to keep him away from all of them—

 

Bruce crawled to Barry, stopping in front of the speedster, looking up with hopeful, wide eyes. He made grabby hands at him—opening and closing his fists in the universal gesture of up, up, pick me up.

 

Barry's face melted into a soft, sympathetic smile. "Aw, hell, you want me to pick you up, big guy? Sure, I can totally—"

 

He tried. He wrapped his arms around Bruce's torso and heaved with speedster--enhanced strength. Bruce was pure muscle, dense and heavy, and Barry's power was velocity, not lifting. He managed to get Bruce perhaps three inches off the ground—enough for Bruce's knees to clear the carpet—before his back protested and his knees buckled, and he had to set Bruce back down with an oof of effort and embarrassment.

 

"Sorry," Barry panted. "Sorry, you're... you're really heavy, man."

 

Bruce's face fell completely—the disappointment clear and heartbreaking. He let out a whine of such profound sadness that it physically hurt to hear, and turned away from Barry immediately, crawling onward, leaving the speedster looking bereft and guilty.

 

Then Bruce stopped. His head came up. His eyes—those big, blue, Batman eyes—fixed on a familiar sight at the end of the line. Red boots. Blue suit. A cape that smelled like safety.

 

Bruce's face transformed. A smile broke across his features—not the terrifying Bat--grin, but something genuine and delighted, almost cherubic. He crawled faster, nearly stumbling in his haste, his  knees thumping against the carpet, and threw his arms around Clark's legs, burying his face against the kneecaps, hugging tight with a happy babble that sounded distinctly like "Clark?"

 

Clark looked down, his heart expanding in his chest until he thought it might burst, a smile breaking across his face like sunrise over Kansas wheat fields. "Hey, Brucie," he said softly, his voice warm as honey, tender in a way he'd never dared use with adult Bruce. "Hi there, buddy."

 

Bruce made grabby hands again, insistent now, reaching up while still clinging to Clark's legs, his fingers opening and closing with urgency.

 

"Want up?" Clark asked, even as he was already bending, already hooking his arms under Bruce's arms and lifting him with effortless strength. He settled Bruce against his chest, and Bruce immediately reciprocated the hug, his long arms wrapping around Clark's neck, his face tucking into the crook of his shoulder with a contented sigh that vibrated through his entire body.

 

"This was a waste of time," Hal complained from the floor where he was still dusting off his pants, his dignity in tatters. "It was obvious who he was going to pick. He's been plastered to Kent since they got here."

 

Diana sighed, a long, surrendering exhalation of breath, looking at the way Bruce had relaxed completely in Clark's embrace, the way his thumb had found its way to his mouth to suck contentedly while his other hand played with the curl of hair at the nape of Clark's neck. She looked at the other candidates—Hal disgruntled, Ollie bewildered, Barry pouting, the others looking relieved to have been rejected.

 

"Fine," she said, her shoulders dropping. "Clark Kent. The board approves the assignment. He's yours to care for until we find a cure. Guardianship granted."

 

Clark's grin was triumphant, bordering on smug, as he adjusted his grip on Bruce, pulling him closer, bouncing him slightly. "I knew you'd pick me," he said softly to Bruce, smirking over at Barry. "I'm his favorite after all. Aren't I, Brucie? Yes, I am."

 

"Not true!" Barry protested, his arms crossed in a mock--pout. "I am! He would have picked me if I could lift him! I'm the fun one! We have similar taste in movies!"

 

"Well he didn't, did he?" Clark said, the smirk turning positively wicked as he nuzzled his face against Bruce's hair. "He picked me. Look at him, Barry. He's happy right here."

 

As if to prove the point, Bruce—forgot his thumb--sucking or perhaps seeking further stimulation—reached up with clumsy fingers and grabbed a fistful of Clark's hair near the scalp, right at the crown. He pulled. Hard. Then harder, a grip that would've brought tears to a human's eyes.

 

Clark remained unmoved. He didn't flinch, didn't gasp, his expression never changing from that besotted, protective smile. He simply adjusted his hold on Bruce, letting him pull, letting him play.

 

"Ow," Clark said mildly, just for show, his eyes never leaving Barry's.

 

Barry grimaced, rubbing his own scalp sympathetically. "On second thought, the super--strength hair--pulling thing? The casual property destruction and the crawling? He's all yours, Clark. Enjoy your giant toddler."

 

Bruce didn't care about the debate. He gave one last hard tug on Clark's hair then giggled—a soft, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him. It was a high, delighted laugh, completely unguarded, utterly unlike Batman. He released the hair to pat Clark's cheek with clumsy, heavy affection, then snuggled back into his neck, hugging him tight.

 

"Mine," Clark murmured, quiet enough that only Bruce could hear, pressing a kiss to the top of Bruce's head. "You're all mine to take care of now."

The quarter assigned to them was depressing, the beige walls, a narrow bed with regulation sheets, a bathroom and nothing else. A big window that was closed, no decorations, nothing soft or comforting.

 

Bruce sat on the floor exactly where Clark had placed him ten minutes ago, his back against the bedframe, his legs splayed. He looked bored, his lower lip pushed out in a pout, his fingers tracing patterns on the industrial carpet.

 

Clark crouched nearby, trying to meet his eyes. "Are you hungry?" he asked, keeping his voice gentle. "Do you want some food, Bruce?"

 

Bruce just looked at him, his expression unreadable, his pout deepening.

 

"Do you need to potty?" Clark tried, feeling ridiculous asking Batman if he needed the bathroom, but knowing from Dr. Stone that the biological functions were adult but the signaling was infantile--meaning he might not recognize the urge until it was urgent.

 

Bruce shook his head slowly, then harder, his face scrunching up.

 

"Then what do you need?" Clark asked, his voice rising slightly with his own helplessness. "Bruce, you have to help me understand. What do you need right now?"

 

Bruce looked around the room--the bare walls, the hard surfaces, the clinical lighting--and something in him broke. His face crumpled, tears springing immediately to his eyes, spilling over his cheeks as he let out a cry of unhappiness that seemed to come from his very soul. He was unhappy, miserable in this sterile box, and he couldn't explain why.

 

"Oh no, hey, don't cry," Clark panicked, moving to sit beside him, his hand coming up to pet Bruce's hair. "Please don't cry. Shh. It's okay."

 

But it wasn't okay. Bruce cried harder, his shoulders shaking, his hands coming up to cover his face in a gesture of utter despair.

 

Clark looked around desperately. The room had nothing. A bed, a bathroom, bare walls. It was a cell, not a home, not a nursery, not anywhere a baby should be. And Bruce was a baby now, for the foreseeable future, maybe forever, trapped in an adult body that didn't understand why it was sad.

 

"I'll fix it," Clark said suddenly, resolution hardening in his voice. He stroked Bruce's hair, petting him like a cat. "I won't leave you here like this. I'll make it better. Don't cry, okay? I'll bring things to make this room less... less lame. Okay?"

 

Bruce's crying slowed, hiccuping sobs replacing the wails. He looked at Clark with red--rimmed eyes, tears tracking down his cheeks, and nodded slightly.

 

Clark smiled, relieved. "Okay. Good. I'll be right back, I just need to—"

 

He started to stand, turning toward the door, and felt the violent tug immediately. Bruce had grabbed the edge of his cape, his grip surprisingly strong, pulling with desperate force.

 

"No," Bruce whimpered, his voice thick with tears. He looked up at Clark with those devastating blue eyes, his face a mask of abandonment terror. "Stay."

 

Clark paused, looking down at the hand clutching his cape, at the fear in Bruce's face. "So you can still talk a bit," he observed softly. "You don't want me to go?"

 

Bruce trembled, his lip wobbling. "No go," he whispered, and fresh tears spilled over. "Stay here."

 

Clark sighed, his resolve melting. He couldn't leave, not with Bruce looking at him like that, like he was the only solid thing in a dissolving world. But he couldn't hold him forever either—he needed to get supplies, food, things to make this room livable.

 

He bent and gathered Bruce up, lifting him from the floor and settling into the narrow bed, arranging Bruce in his lap. "Hey calm down," he said softly, starting to rock slightly, awkwardly at first, finding a rhythm. " I'll stay until you sleep. How's that?"

 

Bruce didn't answer, just cried softly, his face pressed to Clark's chest.

 

Clark rocked him, bouncing him slightly, trying to soothe him "Please calm down," he murmured, the rocking becoming more natural. "Come on, baby, please calm down for me."

 

He froze. The word had slipped out—baby—and he felt his face flush with heat. He hadn't meant to say that, it was too intimate, too much, and Bruce was going to—

 

Bruce had gone still.

 

Clark dared to look down. Bruce had lifted his head, his tears arrested mid—flow, his eyes wide and luminous as he stared at Clark with an expression of dawning wonder. The tears stopped, his breathing still hitching but slowing, his hands coming to rest on Clark's chest.

 

"Oh..." Clark whispered, his heart pounding. He tried again, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That's right, baby. Calm down for me."

 

Bruce made a soft sound—-a hum, almost a coo—-and slowly, deliberately, he nuzzled back into Clark's neck, snuggling close, his body going limp with trust. He liked it. He liked being called that.

 

Clark smiled, something tender and fierce breaking open in his chest. "Oh, that's so cute," he breathed, adjusting his hold to cradle Bruce more securely. "You like being called baby, don't you?"

 

Bruce made that soft sound again, affirming, pressing closer, his thumb finding its way to his mouth.

 

Clark began to rock again, more confidently now, humming under his breath, calling Bruce "baby" in soft reassurances until the heavy weight in his arms went completely slack, until the thumb sucking slowed, until Bruce's breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

 

Clark held him there for a long time, even after he was sure Bruce was deeply under, memorizing the feel of him, the trust of him, before gently laying him on the bed and slipping out to make the necessary calls.

The department store was a cacophony of choices that Clark, who had once faced down cosmic beings and interdimensional horrors, found utterly paralyzing. He stood in the baby aisle, then moved to the toy section, then back again, his hands hovering over packages without picking them up.

 

What did one buy for a six-foot toddler who could bench press a motorcycle but had the cognitive interests of a one year old?

 

He looked at the strollers, hopelessly too small. The high chairs, likewise. The baby bottles... Bruce could hold a cup, clumsily, but would he need bottles for comfort? Clark realized with a sinking feeling that he had no idea what Bruce actually needed versus what he wanted versus what would soothe him.

 

"Bats," he muttered, staring at a display of plush toys. "He likes bats. And dark things. And dinosaurs?"

 

He picked up a stuffed T-Rex, examining it. It was bright green and cheerful. Adult Bruce would have hated it. But baby Bruce?

 

Clark pulled out his phone, dialing a number he knew by heart.

 

"Master Kent," Alfred answered on the second ring, his voice carrying a weight of weary resignation. "I have already informed Master Dick and the others that Master Bruce will be... indisposed. I have also said I cannot care for him myself. If you are calling to--"

 

"No," Clark interrupted quickly. "Not that. I know you can't, Alfred. I wouldn't ask. But I need help."

 

He paused, leaning against a shelf of diapers that were definitely the wrong size.

 

"I'm at the store," Clark admitted. "Trying to get things to make him comfortable. Toys, blankets, whatever he needs. But I don't know what he liked as a child. I know what he likes now--coffee, silence, competition cars, the opera--but I have no idea what a baby Bruce would want. And he's so... he's so sad, Alfred. And confused. And I want to make it better, but I don't know how."

 

The line was silent for a long moment. When Alfred spoke again, his voice was different--softer, fragile, memory--laden.

 

"Master Bruce," Alfred began slowly, "was not an easy child. After the tragedy, he was... distant. But before he changed--he loved his stuffed animals. He had a menagerie of them. Dinosaurs were a particular favorite. But also darker things--bats, naturally. Ravens. Creatures of the night, even then."

 

Clark grabbed a cart, starting to walk, phone pressed to his ear.

 

"Sensory things," Alfred continued. "Before the... before he stopped being a child, he loved textures. Silks, satins, things that were interesting against the skin. Blocks--anything he could stack and knock down. And things for his mouth--he was always putting things in his mouth, I'm afraid that's persisted. Teething rings, safe rubber toys. Squeaky things. The noise delighted him."

 

"So stuffed animals," Clark said, grabbing a black plush bat from a shelf. "Blocks. Sensory blankets? Dark colors? Things he can chew on safely?"

 

"Precisely," Alfred said. "And Master Kent?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Master Bruce preferred to sleep with weight on him. Not suffocating, but... heavy. A pile of blankets, or an adult lying close. It soothed his nervous system. Keep him warm."

 

Clark nodded, though Alfred couldn't see it. "Thank you, Alfred. Really. I'll bring him home soon for visits. I promise."

 

"See that you do," Alfred said, his voice returning to its usual crispness, though with a tremor beneath. "And Master Kent? Thank you. For caring for him when I cannot."

 

Clark hung up, looking at the cart that was slowly filling with black and grey plush animals, with textured sensory blankets, with teething toys shaped like bats and dinosaurs, with building blocks darkly colored. He added a Superman plushie to the pile--small, soft, something that looked like Clark that Bruce could hold in the night.

 

He reached the checkout, his wallet in hand, ready to build a nest for a broken Bat.

 

The shopping trip had taken longer than expected. The stores had been crowded. He'd rushed back as fast as super--speed allowed without drawing attention, cape billowing behind him, bags clutched in each hand.

 

When he entered the quarters, Bruce was exactly where he'd left him--on his side on the narrow bed, curled into a loose fetal position, his breathing deep and even. He was asleep, truly asleep for the first time in what Clark suspected were days, his thumb planted firmly in his mouth, sucking softly in his slumber. His other hand was clutching the edge of the pillow, his face relaxed, peaceful, the lines of stress and confusion smoothed away by exhaustion.

 

Clark sighed with relief, his shoulders dropping from where they'd been hunched near his ears. He hadn't woken up. Thank god, he hadn't woken up alone in this sterile box and panicked. Clark set the bags down quietly, moving on super--soft feet to the bedside, and knelt there for a moment just watching him.

 

Bruce's thirty--year--old face, usually sharp with intensity and shadows, looked almost boyish in sleep. His thick eyelashes rested against his cheeks, his lips--parted around his thumb--looked soft, unguarded. His bare feet, large and slightly cold--looking, stuck out from the sweatpants, his toes curled slightly.

 

Clark reached out and gently touched his shoulder. "Bruce," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hey, Baby, time to wake up. Sleepyhead."

 

Bruce stirred, his brow furrowing, a whine escaping around his thumb. He blinked once, twice, his blue eyes focusing slowly on Clark's face, confusion bleeding into recognition. He didn't remove his thumb, just stared with that vulnerable, just--woken expression.

 

"Come on, Bruce," Clark said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to carefully extract the thumb from Bruce's mouth. "No putting our hands in our mouth, okay? That's yucky. Dirty germs."

 

Bruce's face crumpled immediately, a whine climbing in his throat, his hand reaching to put the thumb back, seeking the comfort he'd been denied. "Noooo," he mumbled, the word slurred, his lower lip pushing out in a trembling pout. "Want it."

 

"I know, Baby, but no," Clark said firmly but kindly, intercepting the hand and holding it gently. "I promise you don't need it. Look--look what I got for you."

 

He reached with his other hand and brought up the largest shopping bag, rustling it so the contents made soft crinkling sounds. Bruce's head turned, his attention caught despite his irritation, his eyes widening slightly with curiosity.

 

"Is that..." Bruce said slowly, his voice thick with sleep, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand--the gesture so childlike, so unguarded, that Clark felt his chest physically ache with the sweetness of it. Bruce lowered his hand and looked at Clark with red--rimmed, hopeful eyes. "...For me?"

 

Clark melted. Absolutely melted, his resolve pooling into goo at his feet. "Yes, Baby," he cooed, his voice dropping into that register he couldn't seem to control around Bruce anymore--honey--sweet and indulgent. "All for you. Yes, this is all for you."

 

He stood and hooked his hands under Bruce's arms--Easy, so easy to lift him, to handle his weight--and set him gently on the floor. Bruce's bare feet touched the cold carpet and he shifted uncomfortably, his toes curling, but he didn't complain, too focused on the bag.

 

Clark sat down on the floor directly in front of him, legs crossed, the bag between them. He pulled out the first toy, extracting it slowly, building anticipation.

 

It was a plush bat. Not a realistic one--a silly, cartoonish interpretation with jointed legs that stuck out awkwardly. It had wide, soft wings that could be wrapped around things, a mouth sewn in a silly, lopsided smile that revealed tiny white fangs and huge crystal--black eyes that caught the light and gleamed like actual gemstones. It was velvet--soft, the kind of material that begged to be touched, in a deep midnight blue so dark it was almost black.

 

Bruce gasped. The sound was sharp, delighted, his hands immediately coming up, reaching out, fingers grasping. "Oh," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Oh, pretty."

 

Clark smiled, his heart expanding. "Here," he said, holding it out. "This is your new friend. What do you think?"

 

Bruce took it with both hands, his large fingers gentle despite their size, and immediately crushed it to his chest in a hug that buried his face in the plush fabric. He smiled--a real, genuine, unfettered smile that transformed his usually grim features into something radiant. He nuzzled the bat, inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering shut with pleasure.

 

Clark watched him for a moment, the joy blooming in his chest at having gotten it right, at having provided something that actually made Bruce happy. He reached back into the bag. "I have more," he said, pulling out a crinkle blanket, a stackable ring toy, and a rubber dinosaur teether. "Lots more toys for you to play with."

 

Bruce opened his eyes and looked at the offered treasures. He looked at the bag, at the collection of items meant to soothe and stimulate him, and he shook his head firmly. He clutched his single bat plushie tighter and mumbled, "No." Then, as if to prove his point, he turned and crawled away a few feet, sitting with his back to the wall, his new plush bat clutched to his chest, rocking it slightly.

 

Clark chuckled, the sound warm and surprised. "Alright then," he said, setting the other toys aside. "We can save them for when you're bored, Baby. That's okay. You like your bat?"

 

Bruce didn't answer, just pressed his face into the plush wings, making soft, contented hums.

 

Clark stood, stretching, and looked around the room as Bruce played with his new friend on the floor. The problem remained, staring him in the face with all its depressing grey sterility. This was not a room for a baby. It was sad and grey and empty, a box that would drive any infant to despair, let alone one trapped in an adult's body with adult awareness that something was terribly wrong.

 

The space was there--the fifteen--by--fifteen expanse had potential. Clark started visualizing, pacing slowly as Bruce babbled softly to his bat on the floor.

 

A crib wouldn't work, he decided, eyeing the dimensions. Too small for a six--foot "infant," too restrictive, would take up excessive space for something that wouldn't even contain him properly. But a plush mat--a giant, soft crawling mat that could double as a sleeping area and play zone, something low to the ground so Bruce could sleep safely without rolling out, with an arch overhead bearing dangling decorations for visual stimulation. Big enough for him to sprawl.

 

A kitchenette was definitely necessary. Bruce had hated the cafeteria even as an adult--Batman disliked public eating, the vulnerability of it. Now, with sensory issues and food texture aversions, subjecting him to the Watchtower's bustling mess hall would be torture. He needed his own small fridge, a warming unit, and a place to prepare soft foods in private.

 

Shelves. Definitely shelves. Mounted high enough to be out of reach for a crawling Bruce who couldn't walk yet, who pulled himself up and inevitably toppled over. Storage for necessities, for the rapidly accumulating items Bruce would need, kept safely away from curious hands but within adult reach.

 

A toy chest. Something Bruce could access himself, learn to tidy up his things--a concept that had been drilled into him as a child, Clark suspected Alfred's doing. Something with a soft--close lid so he couldn't slam his fingers.

 

Colors. Not these depressing institutional beiges and greys. Soft but dark colors, deep reds and rich purples and blacks, accent walls in colors adult Bruce had preferred, carried through in textiles and decorations that would stimulate without overwhelming. A space that felt safe and familiar and distinctly his.

 

He'd need toiletries. The basics were here, but Bruce would need his specific shampoo--getting him to accept bathing was already difficult, it had to smell right. His toothbrush, his soap. He'd probably have to go to Wayne Manor to retrieve personal items. And clothes--more sweatpants, soft fabrics, things without tags or seams.

 

He'd need to paint the walls, install proper lighting—dimmable, warm, nothing fluorescent. 

 

He couldn't take Bruce with him to shop or select things--obviously not, the crowds, the confusion, the danger of losing him. Maybe a catalogue, showing Bruce pictures and seeing what he gravitated toward. Or taking Alfred's advice and extrapolating.

 

Clark turned to the door, resolve hardening in his chest. He would make this space worthy of caring for his Baby.

Diana shut the idea down instantly.

 

"The answer is no," she said, her arms crossed as she stood in the corridor outside the quarters. "Absolutely not. You're not renovating League property into a nursery."

 

Clark stared at her, incredulous. "Why? Diana, he's miserable in there, sleeping on a metal bed in a box. He needs--"

 

"He's thirty years old, Clark," Diana interrupted sharply. "Even if his mind is childlike, his body is that of a grown man. We are not installing mobiles and--what was it you said--a crawling mat? This is the Watchtower, not a daycare. Just take care of his basic needs until we figure out a cure. That's all that's required."

 

"He's not 'childlike,' Diana, he's a baby," Clark shot back, stepping closer, his voice rising with frustration. "He is basically a toddler now. He needs an environment appropriate for his developmental level. Safety, stimulation, comfort. That grey box is going to drive him into a depression--or worse, cause permanent psychological damage if this lasts longer than we think."

 

"You're being odd about this," Diana said, her eyes narrowing, her posture shifting into battle--ready tension. "You have been since this started. Pushy, obsessive, demanding. I don't appreciate how aggressive you're being about... redecorating."

 

"I'm not being odd, I just care," Clark snapped, his hands coming up in frustration. "I'm his caregiver. Bruce picked me. You're the one making this weird by acting like I'm asking for something unreasonable. I'm asking for the basic tools to keep him healthy and sane!"

 

"What if we find the cure tomorrow?" Diana challenged, stepping forward. "What if Doctor Stone calls in the morning and says they've reversed it? Then you've wasted League resources and turned a functional quarters into a... a playroom for no reason."

 

"That's impossible and you know it," Clark said, his jaw clenching. "Neural regression doesn't reverse overnight. Weeks. Months, maybe."

 

"It could happen," Diana insisted. "Stranger things have."

 

"Fine," Clark said, throwing his hands up. "Fine. Let's ask Doctor Stone. Right now. If he says Bruce will be like this for an extended period, and if he says that a suitable environment for an infant is medically necessary for his recovery and mental health, then we do this my way. The way Bruce needs. Because he picked me as his caregiver, Diana. Me. Not the League, not the board. He trusts me to make these decisions for him."

 

Diana stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, her jaw working. Finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine," she ground out. "We'll consult Stone. If he agrees that renovating is medically indicated, you may proceed. But I want it on record that I think this is excessive."

 

Clark nodded, already turning toward the medbay. "Let's go then."

Doctor Silas Stone was not having a pleasant afternoon. Bruce had been brought to the medical bay for a follow--up assessment, and the thirty year old man was absolutely not pleased by the visit. He sat on the examination table wearing only soft pants and a t--shirt, his bare legs kicking against the metal side, his face scrunched in a scowl of profound displeasure.

 

Every time Stone tried to check his reflexes or shine a penlight in his eyes, Bruce whined--a high, nasal sound of complaint--and turned his head away, batting at the instruments with large, clumsy hands. "No," he muttered, petulant, childish. "Go away."

 

"Bruce, please, just a moment longer," Stone tried, attempting to get a blood pressure reading.

 

"No!" Bruce whined louder, squirming backward on the table, his lower lip trembling. "Clark!"

 

"I'm here, Baby," Clark said immediately, stepping forward from where he'd been waiting with Diana. He moved to Bruce's side, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Bruce instantly calmed, leaning into the touch, his hand finding Clark's and gripping it tightly.

 

"He doesn't cooperate with anyone else," Diana observed, her expression troubled. She looked at Stone. "Doctor, how long will it take to bring him back? To reverse this?"

 

Stone sighed, setting down his instruments, his face drawn. "A long time, Princess. We tried using the ray on lab rats to test the regression timeline. The regression itself takes time to fully manifest, and reversal--if possible at all--will require even more delicate work. Probably more than a month at minimum. Conservatively, I'd estimate three."

 

"Isn't there a faster way?" Diana pressed, her hand tightening on her lasso. "Some way to accelerate--"

 

"It's delicate," Stone interrupted, his voice firm. "We cannot simply mess with Bruce Wayne's brain on a trial--and--error basis. The wrong frequency, the wrong calibration, and we could lobotomize him, or trap him in a regression spiral that goes backward indefinitely. We won't be running any reversal attempts until we're one hundred percent certain it's safe. Which means," he paused, looking between them, "before we can even remotely start testing on Bruce, we need at least two months of safety trials. Minimum."

 

"Two months?!" Diana's voice rose, shocked.

 

Clark's mouth twitched at the corner. A smirk. Two months. That was certainty. That was time enough to do things right.

 

"In the meantime," Stone continued, looking pointedly at Clark, "you must take care of him properly. Do not allow him to develop any poor behaviors or psychological accommodations that will mess with his psyche when--if--he returns to adult functionality. He needs good rest, help with everything including toileting and feeding, and you need to work on making him mobile again. Re--teach him to walk. Re--teach him proprioception. Keep his muscles from atrophying and keep him stimulated.'"

 

Clark stepped forward, his hand still holding Bruce's, feeling the way his Baby Boy was leaning against him for support. "Doctor," he asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the triumph building in his chest, "does he need a better environment than a boring grey room? Stimulation? Appropriate developmental surroundings?"

 

"Absolutely," Stone said without hesitation. "He needs proper stimulation--color, toys, books read to him, varied sensory input, things like writing and drawing. Most importantly, he needs the same care and love an infant would receive. He needs to feel safe and nurtured. If he doesn't, given Batman's history of childhood trauma, he might easily develop personality disorders, depression, or anxiety complexes that would persist even after a cure. A sterile box would be psychologically damaging to an adult mind already fighting to maintain coherence."

 

Clark turned to Diana, his expression carefully controlled though his eyes were bright. "There you have it. Medical necessity. From the doctor."

 

Diana's jaw clenched so hard Clark could see the muscle jumping. She looked at Stone, then at Bruce, who had laid his head on Clark's shoulder and was sucking his thumb again, completely content in his caregiver's embrace. She looked at the floor, then back up, her nostrils flared.

 

"Fine," she ground out, the word clipped and hostile. Her eyes met Clark's, fierce and frustrated. "You can renovate the room. Do what you think is necessary. But this comes out of your budget, Kent, not the League's general fund."

 

"Understood," Clark said, unable to keep the smile from his voice. "It'll be perfect. I promise."

 

Bruce made a soft sound against his neck, something that sounded like approval, or perhaps just contentment, and Clark held him closer, already mentally designing the perfect nest for his broken Bat.

The following morning, Clark woke with Bruce still sprawled across his chest, the older man's long limbs hanging off the narrow bed, his muscular arms draped heavily over Clark's ribs, his face buried in the crook of Clark's neck where he'd been breathing steadily for nearly ten hours. The Kryptonian had spent the night adjusting his position every twenty minutes to ensure Bruce didn't roll off, hyper--aware of every twitch and whine from the regressed vigilante, watching the way Bruce's fingers flexed and gripped at his shirt even in sleep, as if afraid he might vanish. Now, with the Watchtower's artificial dawn cycle casting a pale grey light through the viewport, Clark carefully extracted himself, earning a grumpy mumble and grasping hands from Bruce.

 

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Baby," Clark cooed, stroking the sweat--damp hair back from Bruce's forehead, marveling at how the harsh lines of Batman's face had softened in sleep, how vulnerable he looked with his mouth slightly open, his breathing deep and even. "Time to wake up, sleepyhead. We've got a big day ahead. Big day making your room pretty."

 

Bruce blinked awake slowly, his blue eyes unfocused and bleary, heavy with sleep, his lower lip pushed out in a pout that made Clark's chest ache with tenderness. He was wearing sweatpants and nothing else, the sheet having twisted around his legs during the night, leaving his muscular torso bare and vulnerable, his defined chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He looked up at Clark with confusion for a moment, blinking against the morning light, then recognition softening his features as he focused on the familiar face above him.

 

"Clark?" Bruce mumbled, his voice deep and resonant, that rich baritone unmistakable despite the sleep--heavy slur, reaching up with one large hand to touch Clark's face, his fingers warm and slightly calloused against Clark's jaw.

 

"That's right, Brucie. It's me." Clark smiled, catching Bruce's hand and pressing a kiss to the palm, feeling the strength there, the power that could shatter bone now curled gently into his own, so trusting, so open. "You ready to help me pick out colors for your room? Make it pretty?"

 

Bruce nodded slowly, not quite smiling, his expression maintaining that pouty, disgruntled look that Clark secretly adored. It was such a contrast to the usual Bat--scowl—this was petulant, childish, utterly without the usual calculating intensity, yet still undeniably the same man. Clark helped him sit up, supporting his heavy shoulders, put his sweater back on to make sure he was warm and then lifted him easily, settling Bruce onto his lap once he'd positioned himself against the wall with the tablet, Bruce's substantial weight pressing warm and solid against his chest.

 

Bruce fit perfectly against Clark's front, his back pressed to Clark's chest, his head resting on Clark's shoulder as they scrolled through the digital catalogue. Clark could smell Bruce's shampoo, the faint lingering scent of sweat and skin, the unique musk that was just Bruce. He scrolled slowly, showing Bruce swatches of deep blues, rich purples, charcoal greys, describing the textures and finishes while Bruce watched with intense, focused attention.

 

"How about this one, Baby?" Clark asked, his voice dropping into that honey--sweet register he couldn't seem to control around Bruce anymore, the tone soft and encouraging. He pointed to a midnight blue that reminded him of the Gotham sky, of the Bat--cave's deepest shadows. "This blue? Or this one? Which one makes you feel safe?"

 

Bruce stared at the screen with intense concentration, his brow furrowed, his full attention fixed on the colors, his thumb going to his mouth before Clark gently pulled it away, lacing their fingers together instead. After a long moment of consideration, as if weighing something gravely important, Bruce pointed to the darker shade with his free hand. "That one," he said softly, his voice steady but quiet. 

 

"Oh," Clark agreed, thrilled that Bruce was participating, that some part of him still knew what he liked, still had preferences despite the fog in his mind. "Good choice, Baby Boy."

 

Bruce squirmed slightly at the praise and nickname, shifting his weight on Clark's thighs, though he didn't pull away, and Clark took the opportunity to snuggle him closer, wrapping his arms tighter around that broad chest, resting his chin on Bruce's shoulder, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. Bruce made a soft noise of protest, embarrassed perhaps by the affection, wiggling again, but Clark held firm, nuzzling into his neck, pressing a gentle kiss there.

 

"You're so adorable when you're pouty," Clark murmured, delighted when Bruce's ears turned pink, a flush spreading down his neck at the compliment. "My grumpy little Bat. I'm so happy I have you all to myself."

 

"I'm not…" Bruce mumbled, but there was no heat in it, just a vague confusion, a hesitation in his words. He leaned back into Clark despite his protest, seeking the warmth, the security of the embrace.

 

They spent another twenty minutes selecting textures for blankets—Bruce gravitating toward velvet and silk, just as Alfred had predicted, his fingers lingering on the images of soft fabrics, his expression distant and thoughtful—and approving the design for the crawling mat. Clark was on the moon, floating in a haze of domestic bliss, his heart full and aching with tenderness. His Bruce, his forever crush, the man he'd spent years admiring from afar, was sitting on his lap, letting Clark hold him, letting Clark choose colors for him, trusting him completely. It was surreal and perfect, terrifying and beautiful.

 

Eventually, Clark set the tablet aside and shifted Bruce on his hip, standing up with the man's substantial weight balanced easily against his side, one arm wrapped around Bruce's waist. "Okay, Baby, I need to go do some shopping for you. Pick up the paint, some hardware for the shelves, things to make your room perfect. It'll take a couple hours. Just a little while."

 

Bruce stiffened immediately, his body going rigid in Clark's arms. His grip on Clark's shoulder tightened to bruising strength, fingers digging in, and his face transformed from pouty to devastated in an instant, his eyes widening with panic. "No," he whimpered, his lower lip trembling, his voice breaking on the single word. "No."

 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Clark cooed, bouncing him slightly as he walked toward the door, trying to soothe the sudden terror he saw in Bruce's eyes. "Baby, it's for you. I'll be back, I promise. Just a couple hours. Promise."

 

"Noooo," Bruce wailed, the sound climbing into a full cry, tears springing to his eyes immediately, spilling over his lashes and tracking down his cheeks. He clutched at Clark's suit, his big hands fisting in the fabric, pulling desperately as if he could anchor Clark in place through sheer force of will. "No go. Stay."

 

Clark's heart broke at the distress, at the sheer panic in Bruce's voice, but he knew he had to get this done. The room needed to be ready, needed to be safe and comfortable, not this sterile box. He carried the crying Bruce through the corridors toward the cafeteria, mentally cursing the timing but knowing he had no choice, whispering reassurances against Bruce's hair, feeling the wetness of tears soaking into his collar.

 

The cafeteria was nearly empty save for three figures gathered at a corner table—Hal Jordan, Barry Allen, and John Stewart. They looked up as Clark approached, Hal mid--sip of coffee, Barry holding a half--eaten donut, John gesturing emphatically about some League protocol that died on his lips when he saw the scene approaching, when he saw the Batman being carried like a child in Superman's arms.

 

Clark walked right up to their table and, with a gentle but firm motion, deposited Bruce onto the surface. Bruce was still clutching his bat plushie—the midnight blue velvet one with the silly wings—and immediately clutched it to his chest, hiccuping sobs shaking his large frame as he stared up at Clark with betrayal in his eyes, his face crumpled with misery.

 

"Why did you give him that?" John asked, eying the plush toy with visible confusion, his arms crossed over his chest.

 

"Because it helps him calm down," Clark said, his hand hovering over Bruce's hair for a moment, stroking the soft dark strands before he forced himself to step back. "It keeps him entertained, something familiar to hold onto. Look, I need you three to watch him for a couple hours. Just until I get the room set up."

 

Hal lowered his coffee cup, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. "Wait, what? Why us? Get a League aide or something."

 

"Because you're the only ones here," Clark said, his voice taking on an edge of urgency, his eyes never leaving Bruce's tear--streaked face. "I need to paint the walls, install the kitchenette, set up the lights. I can't do that while he's clinging to me, It's dangerous. He could get hurt."

 

"Absolutely not," John said immediately, his voice firm, crossing his arms, his military bearing stiffening with resistance. "I'm not watching a giant toddler. I have work to do, reports to file, patrol schedules to review—"

 

"John," Clark interrupted, his voice dropping to something dangerous, his eyes flashing with sudden intensity. "Don't talk like that about Bruce. And you're not asking, they're doing it. This isn't optional."

 

"Why would we do that?" Hal challenged, leaning back in his chair with a sneer, his green ring glinting in the fluorescent light. "It's not like he'd do it for us if the situation were reversed. Can you imagine? He'd probably just brood in a corner and tell us to deal with it ourselves."

 

Barry snorted, then affected a gravelly voice, doing a poor but enthusiastic impersonation: "I'm Batman. I am the night. I have no time for babysitting. I brood alone. I eat darkness for breakfast."

 

The three of them burst into laughter, Hal slapping the table hard enough to make the coffee cups jump, John's stoic mask cracking into an unwilling grin.

 

Clark went very still. When he spoke, his voice was low, carrying the weight of authority that made Kryptonian commands absolute, the kind of voice that stopped tanks and turned back tides. "You will watch him. Either you like it or not. And I better come back to a calm, happy toddler or you won't like the consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

 

The laughter died instantly, choked off mid--breath. Hal's smirk faded under Clark's unblinking stare. Barry shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his hands. John nodded once, tight and economic, his jaw set.

 

Clark turned back to Bruce, his expression softening like clouds parting for sunlight, melting from stern authority to tender affection in an instant. Bruce was trembling, reaching for him with both hands, his bat plush forgotten on the table, tears streaming down his face in hot, continuous tracks. "Clark," he whimpered, his voice thick with tears, reaching out with grasping fingers. "Clark."

 

"Oh, Baby," Clark breathed, pulling Bruce into a fierce embrace, cradling the back of his head, stroking the silky hair. "It's okay. It's okay. I'll be back, I promise. Promise."

 

He held Bruce until the crying subsided slightly, until Bruce was only hiccuping against his shoulder, then placed him back on the table, fixing him with a tearful but stern look. "I already took him to the bathroom, but make sure to ask him if he needs to go potty, okay? He won't tell you otherwise. He doesn't always... he doesn't always recognize the sensation until it's urgent."

 

"Why are you talking to him like that?" Hal scoffed, clearly uncomfortable with the cooing, the pet names, the obvious intimacy of their interaction. "Jesus, Kent, have some dignity. He's Batman, not a preschooler."

 

"He doesn't understand anything else right now, what part of “he’s basically a baby” can you not comprehend?" Clark snapped, his patience fraying thin, his hands still hovering protectively near Bruce. "And stop being so dense. Just... just keep him safe. Keep him calm."

 

He turned and walked away, forcing himself not to look back at the heartbroken sound that followed him—the wrenching cry of "Clark!" that echoed down the corridor, followed by a sob that sounded like it tore something in Bruce's chest.

 

The second Clark was out of sight, Bruce's composure shattered completely, like glass hitting concrete. He sat on the table, his legs dangling over the edge, completely unable to process the abandonment, the loss of that steady, warm presence. He began to cry in earnest—deep, heaving sobs that shook his broad shoulders, tears pouring down his face in hot streams, his hands covering his eyes, his bat plush clutched desperately against his chest. It was the cry of abandonment, pure and terrified and wordless, primal grief.

 

"Oh no," Barry said, panicking, standing up and then sitting back down, unsure what to do with his hands. "Oh no, what do we do? He's... he's really upset."

 

"Pick him up?" John suggested, though he made no move to do so himself, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the raw display of emotion.

 

Hal sighed and approached the table, reaching up to grip Bruce's waist with both hands, intending to lift him down. "Come on, big guy, don't cry. You're embarrassing yourself. You're Batman, remember? Tough guy?"

 

Bruce kicked him. Hard. His heel connected with Hal's stomach with enough force to send the Green Lantern flying backward, crashing into the next table over, sending chairs scattering across the floor with a tremendous clatter. Hal hit the ground with a grunt of pain, wheezing for air, curled around his stomach.

 

The cafeteria went silent. Barry and John stared at Bruce, who was still crying, his face red and wet with tears, but looking slightly startled by his own strength, his bat plush clutched tighter to his chest like a shield, his body language defensive and frightened.

 

It was indeed a nightmare, the three hours stretching into eternity. Bruce kept crying for Clark, his voice hoarse and broken, wouldn't eat the sandwich John offered, wouldn't cooperate with any attempt at comfort or conversation, wouldn't let anyone touch him, didn't let them do literally anything. He pushed Barry away when the speedster tried to pat his shoulder, rejecting John's offer of water with a violent shake of his head and a wordless cry.

 

At some point, defeated and exhausted, they just gave up. They sat nearby, watching helplessly, and let him cry it out, until eventually—mercifully—he curled over on the table, his large body folding in on itself, his head resting on his folded arms, his thumb finding its way to his mouth as he fell into an exhausted sleep, still clutching his bat plush under his cheek.

 

"Finally," Hal groaned, rubbing his chest where Bruce had kicked him, still tender even with his ring's protection. "Thank God. Is he... is he actually sucking his thumb?"

 

"We should get him a blanket or something," Barry said quietly, looking at Bruce's sleeping form with something like guilt, his expression soft with pity. "He looks uncomfortable. And cold."

 

"Fuck off," Hal grumbled, though he looked shaken. "This is weird. This is so weird."

 

Barry sighed and stood up anyway, his decision made. "I'm going to find a blanket. And a pillow. And some empathy for you jerks."

 

He returned ten minutes later with a soft fleece blanket from the supply closet and a spare pillow from the medical bay. He approached Bruce carefully, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hey buddy? Hey, Bruce? Can you lift your head for me? Just for a second?"

 

John hissed, "Are you insane? Don't wake him up! Let him sleep!"

 

But Bruce stirred anyway, lifting his head slowly, his eyes puffy and confused, red--rimmed with tears, his thumb still in his mouth. He looked at Barry with exhausted suspicion, his body tensed, ready to run or fight if needed.

 

"Just gonna slide this under," Barry murmured, gentle as handling wildfire, gently slipping the pillow beneath Bruce's head, supporting his heavy skull with one hand. Bruce allowed it, his breathing slowing, his suspicion fading into tiredness. Then Barry unfolded the blanket and draped it over Bruce's shoulders, tucking it around his large frame with careful, unthreatening motions.

 

"Better?" Barry asked softly, stepping back.

 

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. He closed his eyes again, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and was asleep within seconds, still sucking his thumb, his bat plush tucked under his cheek.

 

When Clark returned three hours later, arms laden with bags of paint, tools, and supplies, his cape slightly askew from rushing, he found exactly that scene—Bruce asleep on the cafeteria table, covered in a blanket, his thumb in his mouth, looking for all the world like an exhausted adult who had cried himself to sleep, vulnerable and small despite his size. Clark couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, equal parts amusement and relief, his heart swelling with painful affection at the sight.

 

"Really?" Clark said, setting the bags down with a soft clatter. "On the table?"

 

"Take him back," Hal said immediately, standing up, his voice rough with exhaustion and residual anger. "Take back the damn six--foot baby and never ask us to watch him again, Kent. Never again. He nearly broke my ribs, he cried for two hours straight, and he wouldn't let us touch him. It was hell."

 

Clark sighed, noting the way Hal was holding his ribs, the way Barry looked mortified at the fact that Bruce was as sleeping on the table, the way John looked simultaneously guilty and relieved to be done. He approached Bruce gently, smoothing back the hair from his forehead, his touch feather--light. "Wake up, Baby Boy," Clark cooed softly. "Time to go."

 

Bruce stirred, his eyes fluttering open. The moment he saw Clark, his face crumpled, fresh tears threatening to spill, his hands reaching up immediately, grasping. "Clark," he whispered, devastated and relieved all at once.

 

"No fingers in our mouth," Clark soothed gently, reaching to extract Bruce's thumb from his mouth as he gathered him into his arms, lifting him easily off the table with one arm under his knees and one behind his shoulders. "That's yucky."

 

Bruce whined around his empty mouth, a soft, protesting sound, but Clark held firm, picking up the blanket with his free hand, cradling Bruce against his chest. Bruce immediately slumped, boneless with exhaustion, his head dropping to Clark's shoulder, his arms wrapping around Clark's neck with desperate strength, and was asleep again before they'd even left the cafeteria, trusting completely that he wouldn't be abandoned again.

Back in the quarters, Clark sighed at his work with pride, surveying the transformation. The kitchenette had been set up in the corner—a compact unit with a small fridge, a warming station, and a sink, all bolted to the wall and reinforced, gleaming and new. The walls had been painted that deep midnight blue Bruce had selected, replacing the institutional beige with something warm and familiar, and the lights were warm, no more hospital-like sterile lighting.

 

Now he had to set up everything else. He gently set Bruce down on the floor, supporting him until he found his balance, keeping hands on his waist until Bruce was steady. "Look, Baby," Clark said, his voice bright and encouraging. "Look what your room is coming together. See the color? You picked this. You did so good picking this."

 

Bruce looked around with bleary eyes, still half--asleep, holding his bat plush to his chest like a lifeline. He nodded slowly, taking in the changes, his eyes widening slightly as he processed the blue walls, the familiar color.

 

Clark unfolded the massive crawling mat he'd commissioned from the League's fabrication department. It was enormous—black, round, made of memory foam covered in velvet--soft fabric that would cushion even a super--powered fall, luxurious and inviting. It took up nearly half of the room, a sprawling island of comfort in the center of the space. He rolled it out and fluffed it, then set up the plush arch over one side, attaching the dangling stars and bats to it, creating a little canopy of familiar shapes.

 

"Oh," Bruce breathed, his eyes widening fully now, curiosity overcoming exhaustion. He crawled over immediately, his large body moving with that jerky, uncertain grace, muscles not quite obeying commands, and slipped underneath the arch. He lay on his back on the soft mat, reaching up to bat at the stars, making them swing and dance, his face transforming with wonder. For the first time that day, he smiled—a small, genuine thing that lit up his face, transforming his usually grim features into something radiant and pretty.

 

Clark's heart clenched at the sight, his breath catching, his throat tight with emotion. Bruce playing on the mat, surrounded by stars, looking small despite his size, looking happy. It was everything Clark had wanted to give him, everything he'd hoped for.

 

Clark sighed, checking that he'd made sure everything was Bruce proofed, that all the fixtures were strong enough to resist even the strongest pull, the most frantic grab. 

 

Bruce crawled out from under the arch and over to where Clark was unpacking boxes of shelving units, his movements awkward but determined. He stopped at Clark's knees, looking up with those big blue eyes, hopeful and shy. "Help?" he said, the single word hesitant, offered like a gift.

 

"Oh, Baby, it's okay," Clark said, touched by the offer but knowing better, reaching down to stroke Bruce's hair. "I got this. You rest. You play with your stars."

 

Bruce whined, a soft, unhappy sound, and wrapped his arms around Clark's leg, resting his cheek against Clark's thigh, looking up with pleading eyes, his grip tight. "Help," he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper, desperate to be useful.

 

Clark looked down at him, at the sincerity there, at the need to contribute, and sighed, giving in to that hopeful face. "Okay, okay," he relented, bending to lift Bruce under the arms. "Here, come with me. You can help."

 

He picked Bruce up and set him on the floor near the boxes, handing him a sealed container of screws. "Here. You hold this, okay? You hold the box with screws and not touch them, okay? Sharp. They give ouchies."

 

Bruce nodded seriously, sitting cross--legged, the box held carefully in his large hands with surprising gentleness, watching with intense, focused concentration as Clark began assembling the shelving units, reading the instructions with his Super--speed. Every few minutes, Bruce would pipe up, hesitant, as if checking Clark was still there.

 

"Clark?" he would say, soft and questioning.

 

"Yes, Baby?" Clark responded, never looking away from his work, but smiling.

 

Bruce blushed a bit, looking down, and said, "Hungry," the admission of need embarrassing him, his cheeks flushing pink.

 

"Aww, Baby," Clark cooed, his heart melting at the shy admission. "Let me finish this and I'll make you something yummy."

 

Bruce nodded and waited, patient and quiet, guarding his box of screws like a sacred duty.

 

After Clark had made him a quick sandwich on the now functional kitchenette, he brought it over on a plate and gave it to him. Bruce stared at the sandwich in his hands, making no move to eat it, just turning it over, looking uncertain.

 

"Give it a good bite," Clark encouraged, kneeling beside him. "It's good. Ham and cheese."

 

Bruce looked nervous, his eyes darting from the sandwich to Clark's face and back, and tried to hand back the plate, his hand shaking slightly.

 

"What's wrong?" Clark asked, taking the plate back, concern furrowing his brow. "It's just cheese and ham.”

 

Bruce pouted, his lower lip pushing out, and shook his head, looking distressed.

 

"Is it dry?" Clark guessed, trying to understand, running through possibilities. "Should I add some mayo?"

 

Bruce nodded emphatically, his eyes lighting up with relief that Clark understood.

 

Clark fixed the sandwich, spreading a thin layer of mayonnaise, and gave it back. Bruce looked at it in his hands, turning it over, and handed it back, his face scrunching up like he might cry.

 

"Why aren't you eating?" Clark asked, baffled, his concern growing. "Talk to me, Brucie. What's wrong?"

 

Bruce hesitated, struggling to find words, his mouth opening and closing, his brow furrowed with effort. Finally, he managed, "The...the...sides," the words coming out halting, broken by shyness.

 

Clark melted, understanding washing over him. "Aww, Baby, you mean the crust? You don’t like the sides?"

 

Bruce nodded, quick and relieved, avoiding Clark's eyes, embarrassed by the need.

 

Clark took it back and removed the crust, carefully trimming the edges. "There. No crust. No more hard sides."

 

He gave Bruce back the sandwich and Bruce looked at it, then handed it back, his lower lip trembling, tears threatening again.

 

"Bruce," Clark sighed fondly, taking the plate, kneeling closer. "What's wrong now? Help me understand."

 

Bruce whimpered, unable to meet Clark's eyes, his voice barely audible. "It's... it's big," he whispered, the confession of inadequacy hurting more than any physical wound. "Too big."

 

"It's really not, Bruce," Clark assured him gently, even as he understood the problem wasn't the size but the coordination, the confidence.

 

Bruce was about to cry, his face crumpling, and Clark said quickly, "No, Baby, no. Do you want me to cut it? Into little bites?"

 

Bruce nodded, desperate, grateful, the tears receding.

 

Clark cut the sandwich into small, manageable squares and filled a glass with milk, then set them on the table and picked Bruce up, settling him on the chair. Bruce looked at the food for a second, assessing, checking Clark's face for approval, and then finally started eating, picking up the small squares with careful fingers.

 

Then Clark asked, noticing the untouched glass, "Why are you not drinking the milk? Don't you want your milk, Baby?"

 

Bruce pouted, looking at the glass with anxiety, then slowly reached for it and held it with both hands, trying to be careful. He tried drinking, tilting it, but his hands shook, his coordination failing him, and half the milk spilled down his front, soaking his white t--shirt and splashing onto the floor, dripping from his chin.

 

Bruce froze, staring at the mess, then at his wet shirt, his face transforming into absolute misery, overwhelmed by the failure. He burst into tears, the glass slipping from his hand onto the mat with a soft thud, humiliated.

 

Clark sighed, quick to soothe, understanding now. "No wonder you were anxious baby, I'm sorry, let me help."

 

He took the glass and took Bruce's shirt off, leaving him shirtless, his muscular torso bare. He wiped him down with a soft cloth and then gave him another shirt, dark and soft, cleaned the floor and stroked his hair and said, "It's okay, it's okay, no crying. I'll find a solution. No more messies."

 

He let Bruce finish eating and set him on the crawling mat, kneeling before him. "How about a nap, Baby Boy? You tired? Sleepy?"

 

Bruce shook his head, though his eyes drooped, and said, "Help?" looking toward the unfinished boxes.

 

Clark sighed and tried something—cooing, his voice going high and sweet. "Baby, you're too little. You have to sit down and play, not help with boring chores. You play with your stars."

 

Bruce frowned, deeply unhappy with this dismissal, looking betrayed. "No," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the trembling lip. "I'm big. I help."

 

"No, sweetie," Clark insisted gently, leading him to the mat and pressing the bat plush into his hands. "You stay here and play with your friend. Be good for me."

 

Bruce looked down at the bat, then at Clark, then back at the bat. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded, sitting down on the soft black surface and holding the plush to his chest, watching as Clark finished setting up the nursery, his eyes never leaving Clark's form, tracking him like a lifeline.

 

When Clark was finally finished unpacking, he brought over the black toy chest to Bruce and set it next to the mat, decorated with bat silhouettes. Bruce sat still, exactly where Clark had left him, having not moved an inch, still clutching the bat plush, watching Clark with wide, solemn eyes, uncertain about this new object.

 

"Why are you just sitting there?" Clark asked, settling down beside him on the mat, reaching out to touch his knee.

 

Bruce stared at him, confused by the question, unsure what was expected.

 

"Come to me," Clark said, patting the mat beside him. "We can look at what's inside together. See what you got."

 

Bruce shook his head, looking away, his shyness returning full force.

 

"Why not?" Clark asked gently, not pushing, just asking.

 

"No," Bruce whispered, his voice so quiet Clark barely heard it, the word choked with emotion.

 

Clark sighed and sat next to him, waiting, giving him space. "Why don't you want new toys? Don't you like presents?"

 

Bruce hesitated, struggling visibly, his hands twisting in his lap, his throat working. Finally, he managed, "I didn't... earn them," the words broken by shame, barely audible.

 

"What do you mean?" Clark asked, his chest tightening with protective sadness.

 

Bruce looked down, his face hidden by his hair, thinking hard, searching for words. After a long while, he said simply, "No help."

 

Clark frowned, realizing Bruce had internalized that he needed to earn things, even kindness, even toys. The conditioning ran deep, even now. Especially now.

 

"Bruce," Clark said firmly, taking Bruce's hand, making him look up. "You don't have to earn anything, okay? Not with me. Never with me. Plus you did help. You held the box perfectly, like a big strong boy. And you finished all your lunch like a good boy. That's helping. You were so good."

 

Bruce's eyes lit up at the praise, the validation washing over him like sunlight after years of winter. "Good?" he asked, his voice trembling with hope, needing to hear it again.

 

"Yes," Clark affirmed, pulling him into a tight hug, cradling the back of his head, feeling Bruce melt against him. "You were so good, my good boy. So strong and helpful."

 

Bruce smiled—genuinely, beautifully, his face transforming with pure joy at the simple praise, at being called good. Clark's heart exploded seeing that smile, the way Bruce lit up, starved for approval, for unconditional acceptance.

 

He hugged Bruce tight and said, "How we look into the chest now? Do you want to? See your toys?"

 

Bruce slowly nodded, tentative but hopeful, his shyness warring with curiosity.

 

Clark hooked his hands under Bruce's arms and sat him in front of the chest, staying close behind him for comfort.

 

Bruce was hesitant, his hand hovering over the latch, looking back at Clark for reassurance, waiting for permission.

 

"You don't have to bring everything out today," Clark reassured him, his voice soft as silk. "Just pick whatever you want and we can play with that, okay? Whatever looks nice to you."

 

Bruce nodded and opened the chest, and his gasp was worth everything—the delight breaking through his shyness, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the sensory toys, the dark--colored blocks, the velvet blankets, the stuffed animals. He reached in with both hands, touching everything gently, reverently, then his hand closed around a stuffed bunny—black velvet, soft as midnight.

 

Clark had bought it because he thought it was cute and, well, it was black, so why not. He was delighted Bruce actually liked it, that he'd chosen something soft and dark.

 

"Do you want something else?" Clark asked, gesturing to the chest full of treasures.

 

Bruce shook his head firmly, clutching the bunny to his chest alongside his bat, burying his face in the soft fur, needing nothing else. "No," he mumbled, muffled against the plush. "This."

 

"Alrighty, Baby," Clark said softly, closing the chest and pushing it to the side, giving them space. "Whenever you're ready, we can open this again.”

 

Bruce nodded, content, leaning back against Clark's chest, holding his new bunny in one hand and his bat in the other, surrounded by stars and soft things, finally home, finally safe to just be.

 

The afternoon light filtered through the viewport and Bruce sat at the small table, his frame hunched forward, his muscular arms folded on the surface, his fingers picking nervously at the hem of his soft grey shirt. He was vibrating slightly, a subtle tremor running through his broad shoulders, his eyes darting between the bowl of lukewarm soup and Clark's patient face. The spoon sat untouched beside the ceramic dish, the broth dotted with soft vegetables that had been cooked until they were almost mush, gentle on a sensitive stomach, but Bruce couldn't bring himself to pick up the utensil. His hands opened and closed in his lap, his knuckles white with tension, and when Clark reached toward the bowl, Bruce flinched, a small sound of distress escaping his throat.

 

"Baby," Clark said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, warm as honey. He pulled his hand back, waiting, showing Bruce he wouldn't move without consent. "You're nervous."

 

Bruce nodded, small and quick, his eyes downcast, his lower lip pushed out in a trembling pout. He was hungry—Clark could hear his stomach rumbling, could see the way his eyes kept flicking to the food—but something was stopping him, some barrier of shame or fear or both.

 

"Can I help you?" Clark asked gently, keeping his hands visible on the table, open and unthreatening. "Can I feed you, Baby? Would that be okay?"

 

The hesitation stretched between them, heavy with Bruce's internal struggle. Adult Bruce would have sneered at the offer, would have stabbed someone with the spoon before accepting such vulnerability. But this Bruce, regressed and small despite his size, wrestled with needs he couldn't meet alone. Finally, slowly, his eyes still fixed on the table, he nodded—one small movement, permission granted, dignity surrendered.

 

Clark's heart swelled with tenderness. He moved slowly, deliberately, lifting the bowl and spoon with gentle care, positioning himself at Bruce's side so they faced the same direction, so Bruce didn't feel scrutinized. The first spoonful was small, just a taste, and Clark held it up with patient steadiness. "Open for me, Brucie," he coaxed.

 

Bruce opened his mouth, his movements mechanical and uncertain, and Clark slid the spoon between his lips with infinite gentleness. Bruce made a small sound, surprised by the flavor, his eyes half-closing despite his tension. He swallowed and immediately lowered his head slightly, leaning forward for the next bite, seeking comfort even as his cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment.

 

"That's my good boy," Clark murmured, the praise soft and meant only for Bruce.

 

They continued in silence broken only by the soft clink of ceramic and Bruce's hesitant swallows. Bruce kept his eyes on his lap or on Clark's hands, never quite meeting his gaze, shyness radiating from every line of his hunched posture. But he let Clark feed him, opening his mouth when the spoon approached, accepting each portion without resistance, and when the bowl was empty—soup and soft vegetables all consumed—he let out a breath that seemed to release something tight in his chest, his shoulders dropping slightly.

 

"All done," Clark announced, setting the bowl aside, his hand coming up to stroke Bruce's hair. "You did so good, Baby. So brave for letting me help you."

 

After lunch, the plush bat and the black velvet bunny sat propped against the wall of the crawling mat, arranged side by side in a neat row that Bruce had been staring at for an hour without moving, his vigil unbroken by hunger or restlessness. He sat with his back rigid, his long legs folded beneath him in a position that would have caused cramps in a lesser man, his muscular arms folded on his lap, his defined forearms corded with tension. His blue eyes remained fixed on the two stuffed animals, unblinking in their intensity, as if he were waiting for them to make demands of him, to judge him, to require something he did not know how to give. He had not touched them beyond the initial clutching, had not arranged them or played pretend with them; he had simply guarded them, sitting in vigilant, terrified silence while the hours crawled by and the Watchtower's artificial light shifted through its cycle, his large frame frozen in place like a gargoyle made of flesh and fear.

 

Clark watched from the kitchenette where he was organizing supplies, his heart aching with every glance at that frozen posture. He had tried really hard to let Bruce set the pace, to let him adjust on his own terms, but Bruce was scared—visibly, palpably terrified of the toys, of the room, of his own existence in this diminished state. The silence had grown heavy, oppressive, filled with Bruce's shallow breathing and the occasional tremor that ran through his heavy frame. Clark couldn't let him sit there anymore, paralyzed by fear, regressing further into muteness.

 

Clark opened the toy chest with a soft creak of the hinges and pulled out the educational blocks he had bought him, red and black, letters and numbers embossed in soft relief, large enough for adult hands to feel small. He also retrieved a soft fabric ball, black with red stitching, squishy and safe. He turned back to Bruce, arranging the blocks in a semi--circle on the mat, and called out gently, his voice warm and inviting, "Bruce? Baby? Come here. Come look at these."

 

Bruce looked up, his expression wary, uncertain. He unfolded himself slowly, his joints stiff from immobility after sitting for so long and crawled over with that jerky, uncoordinated grace that looked so strange on a man of his size, his muscular body moving cautiously until he reached Clark's side. He sat back on his haunches, his thighs thick and powerful even in this childish pose, and stared at the blocks, then up at Clark, waiting, his eyes wide and questioning. He did not speak, his lips pressed together in a tight line of shyness, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

 

"These are letters," Clark explained, keeping his voice soft and encouraging, picking up the block with the 'B' embossed on it and holding it where Bruce could see. "Do you remember how to write your name, Baby? Do you?"

 

Bruce looked at the block, then at Clark, his brow furrowing with effort. He hesitated, his throat working, his large hands flexing. Finally, he managed a single word, quiet and broken, "No."

 

Clark sighed fondly, his chest tightening with tenderness. He was so little now, just a baby learning the world again, despite the strength in his hands and the breadth of his shoulders, the six feet of dense muscle crouched before him. "That's okay, Brucie. That's okay. I'll show you."

 

Clark picked up the letters one by one—B, R, U, C, E—and spelled the name out in front of them, arranging them in a neat line on the mat. "See? B--R--U--C--E. Bruce. That's you, Baby."

 

Bruce stared at the arrangement, perplexed, his head tilting slightly. He reached out clumsily, his large fingers fumbling with the wooden blocks, and tried to replicate what Clark had done, knocking over two letters in the process. He froze, looking up at Clark with panic in his eyes, afraid he had failed, his breath coming faster.

 

"Good try," Clark cooed, his voice warm as honey. "Here, let me help. Like this."

 

He guided Bruce's hands, helping him arrange the blocks in order, and then asked, "Which one is the B, Baby? Show me the B."

 

Bruce looked perplexed, his eyes scanning the blocks with desperate concentration, his hand hovering uncertainly. He set his large hand on the E instead, his touch tentative and unsure, his shoulders hunching with embarrassment.

 

"Close enough, Baby," Clark said gently, no trace of frustration in his voice. "See, it's the other one. This one."

 

He gently placed Bruce's large hand on the B, letting him feel the shape, the raised letter under his fingertips, guiding his touch until Bruce nodded in understanding. They kept going, Clark patient and steady, until Bruce could recognize each letter, pointing to them with growing confidence when Clark asked, his shyness slowly giving way to concentration, his eyes lighting up with each correct identification.

 

"Good," Clark praised, his eyes shining. "Now, can you write your name? Put them in order? You can do it."

 

Bruce stared at the blocks, focused intensely, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth in concentration, his muscular body tense with effort. Slowly, carefully, he placed each block, his movements deliberate and clumsy. He ended up spelling B--U--R--C--E, the R and U reversed, instead of Bruce.

 

Clark smiled, his expression soft and encouraging. "So close, Baby. Look close. Where's the mistake?"

 

Bruce stared at the blocks, perplexed, his face scrunching with confusion. He turned to Clark and whined, a soft, distressed sound, his lower lip trembling, his hands fluttering helplessly.

 

"Shh, shh, you can do it," Clark encouraged, stroking his hair. "Look at the letters. You can fix it, my smart boy."

 

Bruce looked at the blocks, then slowly, hesitant, switched the B and the E. He looked up at Clark for approval, his eyes hopeful, seeking validation.

 

"No, Baby," Clark said gently, shaking his head with a smile. "Think again. Look at the middle, sweetie. What's wrong there?"

 

Bruce stared at the blocks, his brow furrowed in thought, his fingers hovering over the letters. He reverted the B and E and then slowly, with trembling hands, he switched the R and the U back to their proper places. B--R--U--C--E.

 

Clark's face lit up, his grin wide and genuine, his eyes crinkling with delight. "Good boy! Yes! That's your name! My brilliant little man!"

 

Bruce lit up at the praise, his entire body seeming to glow with the validation, and he giggled—a soft, delighted sound, unguarded and genuine. He clumsily hugged Clark, his large arms wrapping around Clark's neck with too much force, his face buried in Clark's shoulder, his relief palpable in the tightness of his grip.

 

"You're so smart," Clark crooned, caressing Bruce's hair, holding him close, rocking him slightly. "So good. My good, smart boy."

 

He set the blocks aside gently and showed Bruce the soft ball, holding it up where he could see. Bruce looked at it, confused, his head tilting, his expression questioning.

 

"Watch," Clark said, spinning it on his finger like a basketball, then bouncing it from hand to hand, the soft fabric making dull thuds against his palms.

 

Bruce watched, his eyes widening with delight, a small smile playing at his lips, his curiosity engaged.

 

Clark rolled it gently across the mat to Bruce, a slow, easy roll. "Push it back, Baby. Roll it back to me."

 

Bruce reached for it, his coordination still uncertain, and managed to push it back. It wobbled, but reached Clark, who caught it and rolled it back. They kept going, back and forth, the rhythm of the game soothing, Bruce's eyes tracking the ball with intense focus, his body relaxing into the play.

 

Clark moved further back, creating distance between them, and held up his hands. "Throw it, Baby. Gently. Soft. To me."

 

Bruce picked up the ball, hesitated, then threw it with a motion that was awkward but controlled. It arced through the air and Clark caught it easily.

 

"Good!" Clark praised. "Again!"

 

They kept playing, Bruce giggling softly every time Clark caught the ball, his shyness melting away in the simple joy of the game. Clark sat back, breathing hard, smiling. "Maybe I should buy a hoop," he mused aloud. "A small one. For you. To shoot baskets."

 

Bruce tilted his head, confused, not understanding the reference, his expression puzzled.

 

Clark sighed fondly, shaking his head with a smile. "You'll see what I mean after I buy it, Baby. It's for playing. For fun."

 

Bruce nodded slowly, accepting this even without understanding, trusting Clark's word implicitly.

 

That was when the door hissed open, the sound sharp and mechanical in the quiet room.

 

Hal and Barry stepped inside, Hal's expression immediately skeptical and uncomfortable, Barry looking curious and gentle. Hal looked at the mat, the toys, the two of them playing on the floor, and groaned. "This was a bad idea," he said, his voice low. "This whole thing is—"

 

"Shut up," Barry interrupted, elbowing him hard in the ribs. "Just shut up and stop being a jerk. Look at them."

 

Clark stood up, greeting them with a nod, and Bruce immediately scrambled behind him with surprising speed for his size, his large body pressing against Clark's back, trying to make himself invisible. He grabbed fistfuls of Clark's cape and pulled it around himself, hiding completely under the red fabric, trembling against Clark's legs, his breath hot through the material.

 

"It's okay, Baby," Clark soothed, reaching back to pat Bruce's hip where he hid. "It's just our friends. Just Hal and Barry. Calm down. You're safe."

 

"I'm leaving," Hal said immediately, turning toward the door, his discomfort written across his face. "I can't—"

 

Barry grabbed him by the arm, holding him in place with surprising strength. "No. Stay. Look at what Clark did. Look at this room."

 

“You build Batman a daycare? seriously?” Hal scoffed, looking around.

 

Clark scoffed back, adjusting his cape where Bruce trembled behind him, peeking out with one suspicious eye. "It's called enrichment," he said firmly, his voice defensive but proud. "Stimulation. He needs it. It's not a daycare."

 

"Oh, you bought him toys," Barry said, looking at the blocks, the ball, the stuffed animals in the corner, his tone softening.

 

"Yeah," Clark said, his voice practical. "I mean, what else am I supposed to buy him to keep him entertained? He needs things to do, things to learn. Dr. Stone told me he needs stimulation."

 

"Maybe you should teach him how to speak again," Hal said, his arms crossed, his tone critical. "Instead of wasting time with... with playtime. He's Batman, Kent. He needs his mind back, not a ball to throw."

 

"I am teaching him," Clark snapped, his patience thin. "I taught him how to spell his name. Watch."

 

He gently pulled Bruce from behind him, guiding him to the blocks with a hand on his lower back, supporting his weight. "Show them, Baby. Show them how smart you are. You can do it."

 

Bruce trembled, looking at the two men, his eyes wide with nervousness, his lip shaking. He looked at Clark, seeking reassurance, his hand finding Clark's sleeve and gripping tight.

 

"It's okay, Baby," Clark encouraged, his voice soft and steady. "You got this. Just like we practiced."

 

Bruce slowly, hesitantly, arranging the blocks with shaking hands. He spelled B--U--R--C--E again, the same mistake as before, his reversal of the letters consistent in his confusion.

 

Hal tried not to laugh, his mouth twitching, and Barry elbowed him hard in the stomach, glaring at him with warning in his eyes, hissing "Don't you dare."

 

"Sweetheart," Clark said softly, kneeling beside him, ignoring Hal entirely. "There's a mistake. Can you fix it? Look at the letters."

 

Bruce stared at the blocks, his face scrunched in concentration, and then he seemed to see it. "Oh," he said, the sound soft and surprised, a realization dawning. He slowly switched the letters, fixing the arrangement until it spelled B--R--U--C--E correctly.

 

"That's so good," Barry said, genuine warmth in his voice, his face breaking into a smile.

 

Bruce looked at him and smiled back, small and shy, pleased by the acknowledgment from someone other than Clark.

 

"Oh," Hal said, his arms loosening slightly. "I guess that's... that's something. Good job."

 

Clark praised him, his voice booming with pride. "Such a good boy! So smart!"

 

The two visitors stared at Clark, surprised by the baby talk, the cooing tone that seemed so natural coming from Superman.

 

"Why do you keep calling him baby?" Hal asked, genuinely curious now beneath his discomfort. "He's... he's Batman. He's thirty--something. Why 'baby'?"

 

"Because he likes it," Clark said simply, standing and putting a protective arm around Bruce's shoulders. Bruce leaned into him immediately, his shyness making him seek the physical contact, his body heavy against Clark's side.

 

"How do you know he likes it?" Hal pressed.

 

"I didn't, at first," Clark admitted, his voice dropping to something more intimate. "I did it by mistake, trying to calm him down when he was crying. But then I noticed—whenever he was melting down, calling him Baby calmed him."

 

Bruce looked back and forth between them, trying to follow the conversation, his brow furrowed with confusion at the rapid exchange. He didn't understand the words, the context, why they were talking about him. He turned to Clark, his voice small and uncertain. "Clark?"

 

"Yes, Baby?" Clark turned to him immediately, giving him his full attention.

 

Bruce struggled, his mouth working, his hands fidgeting, trying to form the question. "What... mean?" he finally managed, gesturing vaguely at the conversation, at Hal and Barry, asking what they were talking about, wanting to understand, to be included in this discussion about him.

 

Clark melted, his expression softening completely. "Oh, Brucie. You want to join? You want to know what we're saying?"

 

Bruce nodded, his eyes hopeful.

 

Barry melted completely, his voice dripping with affection. "See, Hal? He's cute. He just wants to be included. He wants to know what's happening."

 

Hal sighed, seemingly defeated by the display. He crouched down, trying to make himself smaller, less threatening, and attempted a smile at Bruce. "Hey," he said, his voice awkward but trying. "Hi, Bruce. You did good with the blocks."

 

Bruce scoffed—a dismissive, derisive sound that was pure Batman even in regression—and turned away, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff, presenting his back to Hal completely, his rejection absolute and deliberate.

 

"Seriously?" Hal asked, standing up, looking baffled and slightly offended. "He holds grudges as a toddler too? I thought the kicking me thing was just panic earlier, but this... this is deliberate. He actually remembers I laughed."

 

Clark chuckled, his hand stroking Bruce's back where he stood, feeling the tension there, the rigid set of his shoulders. "He's very serious about who doesn't praise him," Clark confirmed, pride in his voice. "He knows who he likes. And he remembers who didn't take him seriously."

 

"Whatever, man," Hal muttered, shaking his head.

 

Bruce maintained his silence, his posture stony, until Clark gently guided him away. "I think he needs a bath now," Clark said to the others, his voice apologetic but firm. "Maybe you could come visit him again later on. He needs to speak to people, after all. Practice."

 

"Alright," Barry said, then looked at Bruce, at his muscular legs, the obvious strength in his frame. "Can he walk?" Barry asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "Or is he... is he just crawling?"

 

"No," Clark said, his expression troubled. "He can't walk. I'll have to figure out how to teach him. But it's not for today. Today, we rest."

 

They said their goodbyes, Hal still looking uncomfortable, Barry casting longing glances at Bruce, and then the door hissed shut, leaving Clark alone with Bruce again. The silence returned, but it was comfortable now, heavy with trust.

 

Clark walked to where Bruce had crawled back to his corner, his stuffies waiting, his large body moving with that strange mix of grace and clumsiness. He crouched down beside him, his hand resting on Bruce's large shoulder, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solidity of muscle beneath. "It's time for a bath, Baby," Clark said softly. "Time to get clean. Warm water. Bubbles. You'll like it."

 

Bruce looked up at him, curious, repeating the word with careful pronunciation, testing it. "Bath?"

 

"Yes," Clark confirmed, smiling. "Bath. Good boy. Such a smart little man."

 

Clark gently picked him up, Bruce heavy and solid in his arms, all six feet of dense muscle, and carried him to the bathroom. The tub was there, big and round, deep enough for an adult to soak properly. Clark set Bruce on the toilet lid, supporting him until he was steady, then turned to fill the tub with warm water, testing the temperature with his hand. He added a good splash of soap, swirling it with his hand until bubbles formed and rose, filling the air with the scent of lavender and something musky. He threw in a couple toys—a rubber bat, a black submarine—things that would float.

 

Then he turned back to Bruce. He knelt before him, looking up into those uncertain blue eyes, his expression gentle and patient. "I need to undress you now, Baby," Clark said slowly, carefully. "For the bath. Is that okay?"

 

Bruce paused for a long moment, processing, his eyes searching Clark's face for safety, for threat. Then, slowly, he nodded.

 

Clark undressed him with careful, unhurried movements, praising him softly with every garment removed. "Good boy. So still. So good." Bruce shivered when he was fully naked, the air of the bathroom cool against his skin, goosebumps rising on his muscular arms and defined chest, his powerful body exposed and vulnerable, every muscle etched in the fluorescent light.

 

Clark rolled up his own sleeves and lifted Bruce up, his hands under Bruce's arms, feeling the silky, soft skin of his back against his palms as he lowered him toward the water. Bruce spasmed slightly as his toe touched the water, confused and scared by the sensation, his body tensing for flight, his large frame rigid.

 

"It's okay, Baby," Clark soothed immediately, holding him steady, not letting him fall. "It's okay. Warm. Nice. Trust me."

 

He gently lowered him in, and Bruce sat in the water, the level rising to his chest, his eyes wide with wonder and confusion. Then he saw the bubbles, the toys floating around him, and he began to play, his large hands cupping the bubbles, lifting them, watching them pop, exploring the water with gentle splashes. He turned to Clark, smiling, his face transformed by the simple pleasure, the fear forgotten.

 

Clark smiled. “Good boy.”, praising his exploration, and Bruce then asked, his voice hopeful and questioning, "In?"

 

Clark raised his eyebrows, surprised. "No, Baby. This is for you. Just for you."

 

Bruce's face fell, his lower lip pushing out in a pout. He repeated the word, more insistently. "In?"

 

"No, sweetheart," Clark said gently but firmly. "I need to wash you. You're the one who's dirty, not me. I have to stay out to wash you."

 

Bruce stared at him, frustrated, his needs simple and absolute. Then, with his usual Batman strength—moving faster than Clark expected given his uncoordinated state—he grabbed Clark's shirtfront with both hands and pulled, hard.

 

Clark tumbled forward with a tremendous splash, landing in the tub fully clothed before he could even process what had happened. He sat up, sputtering, water and bubbles everywhere, his boots soaked, his cape floating like a red lily pad around him. He turned to Bruce, furious for a split second, opening his mouth to reprimand him for the dangerous stunt.

 

But Bruce was whimpering, his face crumpled, scared he had done something wrong, that Clark would be angry, that he would leave him alone in the water.

 

Clark's anger melted instantly. "No, no, no crying, Baby," he soothed, reaching out to cup Bruce's wet cheek, water dripping from his own hair. "Shh. It's okay. I'll bathe with you. That's fine. But no pushing me inside next time, alright? You ask. You use your words. You're a little monster, you know that? Getting what you want with those strong arms."

 

Bruce nodded, his whimpers subsiding, a small, triumphant smile playing at his lips seeing Clark in the water with him, exactly what he had wanted.

 

Clark sighed, shaking his head, water dripping from his hair onto his nose. "Alright, you win. But I'm taking these off. They're soaked."

 

He peeled off his soaked uniform, the fabric heavy with water, until he was as naked as Bruce, the tub slightly crowded with their combined bulk, warm water sloshing against the sides. Then he reached for the shampoo, pouring it into his palm, and began washing Bruce tenderly, massaging his scalp with firm, gentle circles, working the lather through his dark hair.

 

Bruce cooed—a soft, happy sound, his eyes fluttering shut as Clark's fingers worked against his scalp, tension melting away under the careful attention. He leaned back against Clark's chest, safe and warm in the circle of his arms, finally relaxed, finally home.

 

The bath had taken longer than expected, the warm water growing cool as Clark carefully rinsed the last of the shampoo from Bruce's thick dark hair, the suds swirling down the drain as he lifted the heavy man from the tub. Bruce shivered immediately, his large body uncoordinated and clumsy as Clark wrapped him in an oversized towel and he dried him with gentle, thorough strokes, praising him softly for being still, for being good, while Bruce stood with his head bowed, his wet hair dripping onto his chest, his body language exhausted and compliant. Dressing him was another challenge—Clark had to physically hold Bruce steady as he pulled soft cotton pants over his legs, then wrestled him into a loose shirt that wouldn't scratch his sensitive skin. 

 

Then came the toothbrush, which Bruce absolutely hated with a passion that seemed to transcend his regression. He clamped his mouth shut, turning his head away with surprising strength, making sounds of protest deep in his throat when Clark approached with the paste. 

 

"Open, Baby," Clark coaxed, his hand gentle on Bruce's jaw. "Just for a second." Bruce growled, actually growled like the bat he was named for, and Clark had to carefully pry his mouth open, quick and efficient, while Bruce squirmed and pushed at his chest with both hands. By the time it was done, Bruce was pouting, his lower lip pushed out, his eyes watery with the indignity of it all.

 

Clark guided him to the crawling mat, the black plush surface inviting in the dimmed lights. "Time to sleep, Baby," Clark said softly, kneeling beside him. "Time for bed."

 

Bruce looked up at him, hesitant, his voice small. "Night night?"

 

Clark absolutely melted, his chest tightening with painful tenderness. "Yes, Baby," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Night night."

 

But Bruce shook his head, his brow furrowing. "No," he said, the word firm despite his exhaustion.

 

"You need your sleep," Clark reasoned, his hand stroking Bruce's damp hair. "So we can learn and play more tomorrow. You need to rest that big brain of yours."

 

Bruce shook his head again, adamant, and made grabby hands at Clark—opening and closing his fists, reaching out with his large fingers, his eyes pleading. The gesture was childlike in its meaning but jarring from a man of his size and strength, his muscular arms extending, demanding comfort.

 

"Baby," Clark cooed, his heart aching. "You're too cute. Come here."

 

Bruce crawled forward immediately, his large body moving with that jerky gracelessness, and settled himself into Clark's lap, his long legs folding. Clark wrapped his arms around him and began to rock, slow and steady, his cheek pressed against Bruce's hair, breathing in the scent of clean skin and lavender soap.

 

He kissed the top of Bruce's head, feeling the warmth of his scalp beneath his lips. "It's okay, Baby," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm here. I'll sleep with you. No need to be nervous. I've got you."

 

Bruce nodded against his shoulder, his body finally relaxing, and snuggled closer, his face pressed into Clark's neck. After a few minutes of rocking, Clark gently laid him down on the mat, supporting his head until it rested on the soft surface. Bruce grunted in response, a sound of displeasure, and immediately said, "No," his hand reaching out to grab Clark's sleeve.

 

"Baby," Clark sighed, though he was smiling. "It's late. Way past a baby's bedtime. You need to rest those eyes."

 

"No," Bruce said again, and whined, the sound climbing in pitch, his exhaustion making him emotional.

 

Clark sighed, looking at the stubborn set of Bruce's jaw, the determination in his eyes despite the bags underneath them. He stood up, scanning the room, and spotted the picture book on the shelf—a collection of children's stories with bold illustrations and simple words. He brought it back, settling down on the mat again, holding it up where Bruce could see.

 

"How about a story?" he offered. "Would you like that? One story, then sleep?"

 

Bruce was curious immediately, his eyes drawn to the colorful cover. He crawled back over to Clark, his interest engaged despite his fatigue, and settled next to him, his large body pressed against Clark's side.

 

Clark gathered a bunch of pillows, making a soft pile and brought over blankets, creating a nest. He patted the space next to him, and Bruce laid down, his head resting on Clark's shoulder, looking up at Clark with expectant eyes.

 

Clark opened the book, the pages crinkling softly, and began to read. It was a story about a bunny who loved baking, who wanted to become a professional and open his own shop, who spent his days gathering ingredients for the perfect cake—flour and sugar and eggs, all measured carefully, all mixed with love. Bruce listened with rapt attention, his eyes following Clark's finger as he pointed to the words, occasionally repeating them when Clark paused, his deep voice stumbling over "sugar" and "flour," looking to Clark for approval.

 

"Good, Baby," Clark praised, stroking his hair. "So smart. Say it again."

 

They snuggled together as the story continued, the bunny facing setbacks and trying again, the scent of vanilla and success on the final page. Bruce's eyes grew heavier with each paragraph, his blinks longer, his body sinking deeper into the blankets, until by the end of the story, when the bunny finally opened his shop and served his first customer, Bruce was fully asleep, his breathing deep and even, his thumb resting against his lip but not in his mouth, peaceful at last.

The Watchtower's artificial dawn cycle painted the room in shades of grey that filtered through the viewport, casting Clark's sleeping form in half-light where he lay on the plush black mat. He had arranged himself along the edge to give Bruce maximum space, one arm still curved in the protective half-circle where it had cradled Bruce through the night. The rhythm of his breathing had evened out hours ago, deep and steady, but it was the creeping sensation of cold that woke him—not the temperature of the room, but a specific, spreading chill seeping against his hip, damp and unmistakable.

 

Clark's eyes opened slowly, his Kryptonian senses registering the moisture before his mind fully caught up. He lay still for a moment, processing the sensation beneath him, the way the velvet-soft material of the mat had grown heavy with absorption against his side. Bruce. He turned his head carefully, looking at the man sleeping beside him—sprawled on his back, one arm thrown above his head, his long legs splayed in the unselfconscious abandon of deep sleep, his chest rising and falling with even breaths. The dark blue sleep pants Clark had dressed him in clung to his hips, and there, spreading across the fabric and onto the mat beneath him, was the dark stain of an accident.

 

Clark remembered distinctly, with photographic Kryptonian memory, sitting on the edge of this same mat hours ago, Bruce heavy and warm in his lap, his voice soft as he asked, "Baby, do you need to go potty before bed?" He remembered the way Bruce had shaken his head against his shoulder, his voice muffled and certain: "No." He remembered accepting that answer, trusting that Bruce would know his own body, would feel the pressure and the urge, would communicate if the need arose.

 

Clearly, that trust had been misplaced.

 

Clark sighed, the sound barely audible, a slow exhalation of breath that didn't quite reach frustration but carried the weight of realization. He moved carefully, extracting himself from beneath the blanket and rising to his knees in one fluid motion that didn't so much as rustle the air. Bruce slept on, undisturbed, his face peaceful, his thumb resting against his lower lip but not actively sucking, his dark hair mussed against the pillow. He looked vulnerable in a way that made Clark's chest ache—the Batman, the Dark Knight, lying in a puddle of his own making like a child, completely unaware.

 

Clark reached out, his hand gentle on Bruce's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the soft fabric of his shirt. "Baby," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, rich with morning roughness. "Baby, time to wake up. C'mon, Brucie."

 

Bruce stirred, his eyelids fluttering, a small whine escaping his lips as he turned his face away from the light. His hand moved automatically, seeking his mouth, his thumb sliding between his lips with a soft wet sound as he began to suckle in his half-sleep state.

 

"Uh-uh," Clark said softly, intercepting the hand before it could settle, his fingers wrapping around Bruce's wrist with gentle firmness. "No fingers in our mouth, remember? That's yucky. Dirty."

 

Bruce's eyes opened fully then, dark and confused, his brow furrowing at the denial. He whined around his empty thumb, a sound of protest, and then he felt it—the dampness against his back, the cool wetness of his pants, the way the mat squelched slightly when he shifted. His face transformed in an instant, confusion giving way to devastation, his eyes widening with horror as he realized what had happened. He sat up abruptly, his large body moving with uncoordinated haste, his hands flying to the stain on his pants, his mouth opening and closing in silence as tears sprang immediately to his eyes.

 

"Hey, hey," Clark said quickly, moving to sit beside him, his hands coming up to cup Bruce's face, turning him away from the evidence of the accident. "No, no, don't cry. It's okay, Baby. It's okay."

 

Bruce shook his head violently, his lower lip trembling, his hands still pressed against the damp fabric as if he could hide it, could make it go away. "Sorry," he choked out, the word thick with shame, his voice breaking. "Sorry, sorry—"

 

"Shh, shh," Clark soothed, stroking his hair, his thumbs brushing away the tears that were already falling. "No sorry, Baby. No sorry. You're little, remember? This happens. It's okay. It can happen when you're little."

 

Bruce looked at him with desperate, red-rimmed eyes, searching Clark's face for judgment, for disappointment, finding only tenderness there. His breathing hitched, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back sobs. "Wrong," he managed, the word barely audible, trembling. "Did... wrong?"

 

"No," Clark said firmly, his voice gentle but absolute, cupping Bruce's jaw in both hands now, making him meet his eyes. "No, Baby. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't know. You didn't feel it, did you? You didn't know you needed to go."

 

Bruce hesitated, then shook his head slowly, his expression confused and frightened.

 

"That's okay," Clark promised, pressing a kiss to Bruce's forehead, feeling the heat of his skin there, the lingering flush of embarrassment. "That's okay. You're little. Sometimes little boys don't know until it's too late. That's why I'm here—to help. To take care of you."

 

He stood smoothly, lifting Bruce easily despite his size, one arm under his knees and one behind his back, cradling him against his chest. Bruce clung to him, his face burying itself in Clark's neck, his humiliation vibrating through his tense muscles as Clark carried him to the bathroom. The morning wash-up was quick and efficient—Clark stripping away the damp clothes with practiced movements, wiping Bruce down with a warm cloth, washing away the evidence while murmuring constant reassurances. Bruce stood under his hands, compliant but rigid, his eyes downcast, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back tears.

 

"You're okay," Clark kept saying, his voice a mantra. "You're okay, Baby. My good boy. See? All clean now."

 

He dressed Bruce in soft cotton pants and a loose shirt, and carried him to the small kitchenette where he had prepared a simple breakfast—scrambled eggs soft enough not to trigger texture aversions, toast with the crusts removed, a small glass of juice. He set Bruce on a chair, supporting his lower back until he was steady, then turned back to the mat to strip away the waterproof cover, thankful beyond words that he had invested in the plush, sealed material that protected the foam beneath. He bundled the soiled cover and the damp blanket into his arms, carrying them to the small washer, loading them with a sigh before returning to find Bruce exactly where he'd left him, staring at his food without eating, his lower lip pushed out in a pronounced pout that couldn't quite hide the trembling.

 

Clark sat across from him, reaching out to touch his hand where it rested on the table. "Eat, Baby," he encouraged softly. "You need energy. You're okay."

 

Bruce picked up his fork, his movements mechanical, and took a small bite of egg. He chewed slowly, his eyes fixed on his plate, his shoulders hunched. The silence stretched between them, heavy with Bruce's distress, until Clark reached across the table and lifted his chin gently with two fingers.

 

"Truly okay," Clark said, meeting his eyes with all the sincerity he possessed. "Don’t be sad, Baby Boy. Please? For me?"

 

Bruce's eyes filled again, swimming with tears that spilled over despite his obvious efforts to hold them back. "Sorry," he whispered again, the word broken, devastated.

 

Clark sighed, fond exasperation mixing with tenderness. He stood, moving around the table to sit beside Bruc, putting them at eye level. "No more apologizing," he said firmly but gently, his hand rubbing circles on Bruce's back. "No more. It's done. It's okay. But Baby—" he paused, waiting until Bruce met his eyes, "—next time I ask you if you need the potty, you need to tell me. Can you do that for me?"

 

Bruce's face scrunched with concentration, his lips pressing together, his brow furrowing. He struggled visibly, his throat working, his hands clenching on his lap. "But..." he started, then stopped, frustrated. He tried again, his voice strained: "But... I no need?"

 

Clark blinked, leaning closer, his hand stilling on Bruce's back. "What do you mean, Baby?"

 

Bruce's hands came up, gesturing helplessly, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for words that wouldn't come, his frustration mounting until his face flushed red. "No..." he managed, then, desperately: "Need? Potty?" He stopped, his breath hitching, pure frustration cutting off his ability to speak further.

 

Clark watched him, piecing it together, his expression softening with understanding. "Bruce," he said gently, reaching up to stroke Bruce's hair, feeling the tension there, "You didn't need the potty when I asked you? Is that it? You didn't feel like you needed to go?"

 

Bruce nodded immediately, relief flooding his features at being understood, at Clark translating his fragmented thoughts into sense.

 

Clark processed this, his mind working through the implications. "Can you tell me," he asked carefully, "When you need to go? Do you feel it? Can you tell me before it happens?"

 

Bruce looked at him, his eyes wide and uncertain, his throat working. Slowly, he shook his head, the motion barely perceptible. "No," he whispered.

 

"Why not, Baby?" Clark pressed gently, "Why can't you tell me?"

 

Bruce's hands twisted in his lap, his knuckles white with tension. "No..." he struggled, then, with visible effort: "Can't."

 

"Nervous?" Clark guessed, "Are you nervous to tell me?"

 

The nod was immediate, Bruce's eyes dropping to his lap, shame returning in waves.

 

"Okay," Clark said, pressing a kiss to Bruce's temple. "Okay, Baby. That's okay. Finish your food. I'll figure it out. We'll figure it out together."

 

Clark settled to eat his own breakfast, watching Bruce from the corner of his eye. It was then he noticed—the glass of juice, still full, completely untouched. Bruce had eaten half his eggs, a nibble of toast, but hadn't touched his drink.

 

Clark set down his fork. "Baby? You didn't touch your glass."

 

Bruce looked at the glass, then at Clark, his expression shuttering, his shoulders drawing inward.

 

"Still nervous?" Clark asked softly, realization dawning. "About yesterday? About the milk?"

 

Bruce nodded, small and miserable, his eyes fixed on the glass as if it might bite him.

 

"You want help?" Clark offered, reaching for the glass.

 

"No," Bruce said immediately, the word sharp with the huff that followed, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture. He crossed his arms over his chest, his lower lip pushing out, his eyes flashing with that stubborn streak that was pure Bruce even in regression.

 

Clark withdrew his hand, studying him. "You can't hold it," he observed gently, not unkindly. "And there's no shame in that, Baby. No shame in needing help."

 

"No," Bruce repeated, his voice firmer, petulant. "Don't wanna."

 

Clark leaned back, reading the signs—the crossed arms, the set jaw, the refusal that wasn't about the juice but about autonomy, about dignity. "You want to hold your own things," he inferred, his voice soft with understanding. "Don't you? You want to do it yourself."

 

Bruce uncrossed his arms slightly, his expression shifting to surprise that Clark understood, then nodded, his chin lifting with pride.

 

Clark melted, his smile breaking through despite himself. "Oh, my independent little man," he cooed, the words warm with affection. "My big strong boy wants to do it himself. Okay, Baby. Okay."

 

He stood, moving to the cabinet and returning with a cup that had an handle—sturdy ceramic, easy to grip. He poured a small amount of juice into it, no more than a few sips, and set it in front of Bruce. "Here, Baby. Try holding this. Both hands. Like this." He demonstrated, wrapping his fingers around the handle.

 

Bruce studied the cup, his brow furrowed in concentration. He reached out with both hands, his fingers wrapping around the handle and the cup with careful deliberation, and lifted. The cup wobbled violently, juice sloshing toward the rim, and he froze, panic flashing across his features. He tried to tilt it toward his mouth, his coordination failing, his hands shaking with effort, and the juice poured out—not into his mouth, but down his chin, his neck, soaking the front of his clean shirt in a cascade of orange liquid.

 

Bruce dropped the cup. It hit the table with a crack that didn't quite break it, rolling to the edge where Clark caught it with superspeed. Bruce sat frozen, juice dripping from his chin, soaking into his shirt, his eyes wide with horror at the failure, at the mess, at the proof that he couldn't do this simple thing.

 

Clark sighed—not with anger, but with realization, with the understanding that this wasn't just about cups or about holding things. This was deeper. This was neurology. He stood, moving to Bruce's side, and gently lifted him from the chair, carrying him to the bathroom to clean him up again, to change his shirt again, while Bruce sat rigid with humiliation, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.

 

Back in the main room, Bruce settled on the floor in front of the crawling mat, his legs crossed, his new shirt already clinging to his damp skin, his expression thunderous. "No more," he said, his voice hard, clipped, and kicked his legs against the mat, a gesture of pure frustration. "No more."

 

Clark stood over him, the rejected cup in his hand, his heart aching at the defeat in Bruce's posture. He set the cup aside and retrieved the blocks from yesterday—the dark wooden letters that Bruce had learned to arrange into his name with such pride. He sat down across from him, spreading the blocks between them. "How about we learn a new word today?" he offered, his voice bright with forced cheerfulness. "Remember how fun yesterday was? You did so good with your name. Let's try something new."

 

Bruce looked at the blocks, then at Clark, and shook his head, a hard, definitive motion. "No."

 

"Why not, Baby?" Clark asked, genuinely surprised, hurt flickering across his features. "We had so much fun yesterday. You loved it."

 

"No," Bruce repeated, his voice firmer, his eyes dropping to his lap. "Leave me alone."

 

The words landed like a slap. Clark sat back on his heels, staring at Bruce, his chest tightening with a hurt he hadn't expected. Bruce hadn't rejected him while little before—had sought him out, clung to him, demanded his presence. This pushback was new, sharp, painful in its unexpectedness. He knew Bruce was in a bad mood, knew the morning had been hard, but the verbal dismissal stung deeper than he'd anticipated.

 

Clark hesitated, torn. The rational part of him knew he should give space, should let Bruce process his frustration alone, should respect the boundary being drawn. But the pushy part of him—the part that had watched Bruce suffer, watched him struggle, watched him need help he couldn't ask for—whispered that this was different. As adults, Bruce had never told him anything real, had never let him see beneath the armor, had pushed him away with silence and shadow until Clark had learned to accept crumbs of affection. But here... here he had authority over him. Here Bruce looked at him as a parental figure, trusted him to make decisions, to keep him safe, to never leave. Here, Clark had power. Had permission to push back.

 

He leaned forward, his expression softening, his voice dropping into that honey-sweet register. "Baby," he cooed, reaching out to touch Bruce's knee, feeling the heat of his skin through the cotton. "Baby, talk to me. What's wrong? Why don't you want to play?"

 

Bruce looked at him, his eyes wary, his jaw tight. "No..." he said, struggling visibly, "...wanna."

 

"Do you actually want to be alone?" Clark pressed gently, his thumb stroking circles on Bruce's knee. "Do you want me to go away, Baby?"

 

The hesitation was telling. Bruce's eyes widened, panic flickering there beneath the sullenness, and he shook his head quickly, his hand reaching out to grasp Clark's wrist. "No," he said, and then, softer: "Sorry."

 

Clark's expression softened completely, relief washing through him. "It's okay," he said, his voice warm and forgiving. "It's okay, Baby. We say mean things when we're mad sometimes. It happens. But I'm glad you said sorry. That means a lot. And it's all forgiven—you know that, right? All forgiven."

 

Bruce's hand tightened on Clark's wrist, his eyes searching Clark's face. "Mean?" he asked, his voice small, uncertain. "I... mean?"

 

"A little," Clark admitted, not unkindly. "It hurts me when you tell me to go away, Baby. It hurts my feelings when you say that when I didn't do anything wrong. When I'm trying to help you."

 

Bruce's face crumpled, his lower lip trembling. "Sorry," he whispered again, devastated by the realization.

 

"Shh, shh," Clark soothed, moving to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. "It's okay. It's okay. I'm not going anywhere. See? I'm right here. But Baby—" he waited until Bruce met his eyes, "—if you really want me to go away, if you really need space, you should tell me nicely. Can you do that? Ask me nicely?"

 

Bruce nodded, his eyes wide and sincere, his voice barely audible: "No go."

 

"Of course I'm not going anywhere," Clark promised, pressing a kiss to Bruce's temple. "But you need to learn new things, Baby. You need to keep learning. Even when you're upset. Even when it's hard."

 

"No," Bruce said, but this time it lacked the edge, the harshness. "No now."

 

Clark melted, his resistance dissolving at the pout, at the stubborn set of Bruce's jaw that couldn't quite hide his exhaustion. "Why not now, Baby?" he asked, his voice dropping to a croon, his hand stroking Bruce's hair. "Tell me why."

 

Bruce hesitated, his mouth working, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "Sad," he finally managed, the word simple, direct, heartbreaking in its honesty.

 

"Why are you sad, Baby?" Clark asked, his heart breaking open, his arms tightening around Bruce's shoulders. "Tell me what's making you sad."

 

Bruce looked at him, his eyes swimming with tears he was trying not to shed, his hands gesturing helplessly at his chest, at the shirt that was still slightly damp from the second washing. "Cup," he said, his voice thick. "Can't... use it."

 

Clark understood then, the pieces clicking into place—the frustration, the rejection of help, the anger at failure. He was sad because he couldn't do it himself. Because his body wouldn't cooperate with his will. "Oh, Baby," Clark breathed, his hand cupping Bruce's cheek, turning him to face him. "No need to be upset. No need to be sad about that."

 

Bruce looked at him, confused, his tears spilling over despite his efforts. "Upset?" he repeated, the word unfamiliar, tasting it.

 

"It means sad," Clark explained gently, his thumb wiping away the tears. "It means you're feeling sad and frustrated. That's what upset means."

 

"Oh," Bruce said, the realization dawning. He nodded slowly, accepting the word, accepting the definition. "I'm... upset."

 

"Yes!" Clark said, beaming, his smile brilliant and proud. "Yes, Baby! Good boy! See? You learned a new word! You're so smart, my brilliant little man!"

 

Bruce trembled at the praise, his face transforming, the frustration melting into something soft and vulnerable. He leaned toward Clark, his large body moving with desperate intention, and pressed his forehead against Clark's shoulder, his hands fisting in Clark's shirt. "Uppies," he whispered, the word barely audible, childish in its request, devastating in its trust.

 

Clark's heart exploded, his arms coming up immediately to lift Bruce, to pull him into his lap, holding him close against his chest. He rocked them slightly, feeling Bruce's weight settle against him, feeling the way the tension drained from Bruce's muscles as he was held. "It's okay," Clark murmured into Bruce's hair, pressing kisses to his scalp. "It's okay, Baby. I got you. Maybe..." he paused, an idea forming, a solution presenting itself, "maybe we need a baby solution to a baby problem."

 

Bruce pulled back slightly, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes wet but curious. He looked up at Clark from his lap, his head tilted, his mouth forming the word silently before speaking it: "What?"

 

"How would you feel," Clark asked carefully, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "about a bottle?"

 

Bruce's eyes widened. He turned his head, looking toward the kitchenette where a water bottle sat on the counter, and pointed, his expression confused.

 

"No, Baby," Clark chuckled, warm and fond, shaking his head. "Not that kind. A special one. For you. It has... something you suck on. Like your thumb—" he gently pulled Bruce's thumb from where it had found its way back to his mouth, "—like this, but better. Something you can suck on all you want. And it holds your juice, or your milk, and you can hold it yourself, and it won't spill. Would you like that?"

 

Bruce's eyebrows raised, his expression shifting from confusion to interest, to something approaching pleased anticipation. He looked at Clark with those wide blue eyes, considering, imagining, and then he nodded—one sharp, decisive motion that carried all the weight of his adult certainty beneath the childlike need.

 

Clark couldn't help himself. The cute aggression overwhelmed him—the way Bruce's face lit up, the way he nodded with such serious consideration, the way he was so big and so small all at once. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Bruce's cheek, the sound loud and smacking in the quiet room, his heart overflowing with affection.

 

Bruce went still. He turned his head slowly, his eyes wide, his hand coming up to touch the spot where Clark's lips had pressed against his skin. His fingers hovered there, uncertain, and when he spoke his voice was filled with wonder and confusion: "What... that?"

 

Clark blinked, pulling back slightly. "What, Baby?"

 

Bruce pointed at his own cheek, his finger touching the spot, his eyes searching Clark's face for answers. "That. You…uhm…a lot"

 

Clark understood, his smile softening into something tender and infinite. "That's a kiss, Baby," he said, his voice warm as sunlight. "It's a kiss. It's what people do when they love each other. When they care."

 

Bruce processed this, his eyes wide, his finger still touching his cheek. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—small, shy, but genuine. "Again," he said, the word hopeful, asking.

 

Clark's chest tightened, his heart aching with the sweetness of it. "Sure, Baby," he whispered, and leaned in to press another kiss to Bruce's other cheek, lingering there, feeling the heat of Bruce's skin against his lips.

 

Bruce made a soft sound—a hum of contentment—and snuggled closer, pressing his face into Clark's neck, his arms wrapping around Clark's shoulders with desperate strength. "I like it," he murmured, the words muffled against Clark's throat, but clear enough to hear, clear enough to break Clark's heart open and rebuild it bigger.

After the emotional morning, after Bruce had fallen asleep in his arms—exhausted by the early wake-up, the accident, the failed cup, the tears—Clark settled him on the plush mat with his stuffed bat tucked under his cheek, the black velvet bunny within reach, and slipped out to find Diana.

 

He needed advice. He had been bothered by two main issues that the morning had crystallized: Bruce's desperate need to hold his own cup, to maintain autonomy, while simultaneously being physically incapable of doing so without spilling; and the thumb-sucking, which Bruce returned to constantly, especially when distressed, despite Clark's attempts to curb it. The hygiene issue was concerning—Bruce lacked the awareness to know when his hands were dirty, when he'd touched something unsanitary, when he was introducing bacteria into his mouth with every anxious suckle. He needed comfort, yes, but he needed safe comfort. He needed tools that would allow him independence without frustration, soothing without risk.

 

Clark could only think of two solutions. They were obvious, perhaps too obvious—baby solutions to baby problems. Pacifiers. Bottles.

 

It made sense, when he thought about it rationally. Bruce was, functionally, a baby. An adult baby, yes, a giant toddler, but a baby nonetheless in his needs and limitations. A bottle would allow him to hold his own nourishment, to drink without coordination failures, to have the sucking comfort he craved while maintaining dignity. A pacifier would give him the oral soothing he sought from his thumb while keeping his hands free, while ensuring he wasn't ingesting whatever he'd last touched.

 

And Bruce had let him spoon-feed once, he remembered—early on, in desperation, when Bruce had been too weak to hold anything, too overwhelmed to try. He had accepted the help, his eyes closed in shame even as he ate, clearly embarrassed by the helplessness even as his body needed it. That was the core of it, Clark realized. Bruce Wayne, adult or regressed, did not ask for help. Adult Bruce would die before admitting weakness to the League. Regressed Bruce would struggle and fail and cry rather than accept assistance he saw as shameful. The bottle and pacifier weren't just tools—they were autonomy, independence cloaked in babyishness.

 

He found Diana in the command center, reviewing mission logs, her expression tired but alert. She looked up when he entered, her eyebrows rising at his presence.

 

"Hey Clark," she greeted, setting aside her tablet. "What did you need help for?"

 

Clark moved to stand across from her, his hands clasped in front of him, his posture uncertain in a way that Superman never was. "I have problems," he admitted, his voice low so as not to carry. "Two main issues. With Bruce."

 

Diana waited, her expression patient but guarded.

 

"He can't drink on his own," Clark explained, his hands gesturing helplessly. "He wants to—he desperately wants to hold his own cup—but he can't. His coordination, his proprioception... he ends up wearing more than he drinks. But he hates when I help him. He refuses it. He gets upset, Diana. He feels ashamed."

 

He paused, taking a breath, gathering his thoughts.

 

"And the thumb-sucking," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "It's constant. He puts his hands in his mouth without thinking, without knowing where they've been. I've found him doing it after crawling on the floor, after touching his feet, after... everything. It's not hygienic. It's not safe. He needs comfort, yes, but he needs safe comfort."

 

He looked at her, his expression earnest, almost pleading. "I keep thinking about solutions, and I can only come up with two things. But they seem... extreme. I'm worried I'm overstepping."

 

Diana straightened, her posture alert, her eyes sharpening with suspicion—or perhaps concern. "What two things?"

 

"Bottles," Clark said, the word feeling strange in his mouth, vulnerable. "And pacifiers."

 

Diana froze. The expression that crossed her face was complex—shock, perhaps, or deep uncertainty, or something like alarm. She stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them, the hum of the Watchtower's systems suddenly loud in the quiet.

 

"Are you..." she started, then stopped, choosing her words carefully. "Clark, are you serious? Is that truly necessary?"

 

"Yes," Clark said immediately, his voice firm with conviction. "I believe it is. Diana, he needs these things. The bottle will let him feed himself without frustration, without spilling. The pacifier will give him the oral comfort he craves without the hygiene risk. It's practical. It's logical."

 

"Have you asked Dr. Stone about this?" Diana countered, her arms crossing over her chest. "Consult with him, get his medical opinion?"

 

"They won't let me disturb Stone over something like this," Clark said, frustration creeping into his voice. "They say it's not urgent. That he's working on the cure. That I should handle the day-to-day care without bothering the medical staff with 'parenting decisions.'"

 

Diana's jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with annoyance at the bureaucracy, but she held her ground. "Is it truly necessary?" she asked again, her voice careful, probing. "Or is this... something else, Clark?"

 

"What do you mean?" Clark asked, his hackles rising, defensive instinct kicking in.

 

"I mean," Diana said, stepping closer, her eyes searching his face with uncomfortable intensity, "are you doing this because Bruce actually needs these things? Or because you want to see him with them? Because you find him... cute, like this? Indulging in baby behavior instead of teaching him to function as an adult again?"

 

Clark felt the heat rise to his face, indignation flooding his chest. "Of course I'm teaching him things!" he said, his voice rising despite his efforts to control it. "I'm teaching him words every day! I'm working on his proprioception! I'm doing everything I can to keep him engaged, to keep him learning, to keep him from regressing further! This isn't about me liking that he's a baby—this is about him having needs that I can't meet with adult solutions! He needs comfort! He needs success! He needs to feel capable, Diana!"

 

Diana didn't flinch, her gaze steady and unrelenting. "Does He?" she asked quietly. "Or do you like that he's basically a toddler now, Clark? Be honest. With me. With yourself."

 

Clark opened his mouth to deny it, to protest, to defend himself—and stopped. The truth caught in his throat, undeniable and complicated. He closed his mouth, his shoulders dropping, his defensive posture softening into something more honest.

 

"Fine," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Fine. Yes. I find him cute. I find him... soft, and vulnerable, and open in ways he never was before. I like that he lets me hold him. I like that he seeks me out. I like that he calls me for comfort and that I can give it to him. I like that he trusts me completely, without reservation, without the walls he used to keep between us." He looked up, meeting Diana's eyes, his expression fierce despite the confession. "But that doesn't mean I'm doing this for me. I promise you, Diana, on my honor as Superman—Bruce needs these things. He needs the comfort. He needs the tools that will let him succeed instead of constantly failing at adult tasks. The pacifier and bottle aren't about me indulging some fantasy. They're about giving him autonomy and safety. They're about meeting him where he actually is, not where we wish he was."

 

Diana held his gaze for a long moment, reading the truth there, weighing his words against her suspicions. Finally, slowly, she nodded. The tension drained from her shoulders, her arms uncrossing, her expression softening into something understanding, if still wary.

 

"Fine," she said, the word carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. "Buy them for him. If you truly believe he needs them, if you promise this is for his wellbeing and not your... enjoyment... then do it. Get him what he needs."

 

Clark nodded, relief washing through him, gratitude mixing with the lingering sting of her questions. "I will," he promised. "I'll get them today."

 

He turned to leave, already planning the shopping trip, already imagining Bruce's face when he presented the solutions, when he gave him the tools to succeed.

 

"Clark," Diana called after him, her voice softening further, almost gentle.

 

He paused at the door, looking back.

 

"Be careful," she said, her eyes kind but serious. "With yourself. With him. This is a dangerous road you're walking. Make sure you can find your way back."

 

Clark nodded, acknowledging the warning, understanding the depth of her concern. Then he left, heading back to the quarters where Bruce slept, where his Baby Boy waited, unaware that solutions were coming, that comfort was on its way, that Clark was fighting for him even in the small things, even in the embarrassing things, even when it meant admitting truths he hadn't known he held.

Clark pushed through the door of the quarters with the bag heavy in his hands, the paper handles digging into his palms, and immediately froze at the sound of crying. Not the soft whimpers Bruce had made earlier that morning, but full, ragged sobs that tore through the air with desperate, heaving gasps. The bag hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten instantly, as Clark’s eyes found Bruce in the center of the plush black mat.

 

Bruce was kneeling, his large frame hunched forward with his hands pressed flat against the velvety surface, his muscular shoulders shaking violently with each sob that escaped his throat. His dark hair was mussed and sticking up at odd angles, evidence of restless tossing, and his face was red and swollen with tears that streamed down his cheeks in hot, continuous tracks. The black velvet bunny lay forgotten near his knee, abandoned in favor of clutching his own hair with trembling fingers, pulling at the strands with distress that bordered on frantic.

 

"Baby," Clark breathed, crossing the room in three quick strides, his cape billowing behind him before he dropped to his knees on the mat. "Hey, hey, I’m here."

 

Bruce’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice, those blue eyes wide and flooded with relief that punched through the panic. He made a choked sound—a hitching, broken thing—and launched himself forward with his hands and knees, crawling toward Clark with that jerky, uncoordinated urgency that still seemed impossible for a body so large and powerful. When he reached Clark, he didn’t stop; he collapsed against his chest, his arms wrapping around Clark’s neck with bruising strength, his face pressing into the junction of Clark’s throat and shoulder with desperate violence.

 

"Shh, shh," Clark soothed immediately, his arms coming up to engulf Bruce’s weight, one hand cradling the back of Bruce’s head while the other arm wrapped around his waist. He lifted Bruce easily from the mat, settling back onto his heels with Bruce sprawled in his lap, legs dangling awkwardly, chest heaving against Clark’s. "I’m here, Baby. I’m right here."

 

Bruce whimpered against his neck, his breath hot and wet against Clark’s skin, his fingers clutching fistfuls of the blue suit fabric. He made a small, broken sound—"Go… you go"—and pressed closer, as if he could merge himself into Clark’s chest and disappear from the world that had terrified him awake.

 

"I know, I know," Clark crooned softly, rocking them slightly back and forth, feeling the solid weight of Bruce in his arms, the way his muscles were rigid with tension and fear. He pressed his cheek against Bruce’s hair, inhaling the scent of sleep and lingering lavender soap from the night before. "I’m sorry, Brucie. I’m so sorry. I was just out to get you some things—some special things for you. I didn’t mean to leave you alone."

 

Bruce shook his head, his face scrunching up tighter, his grip intensifying until Clark could feel the pressure even through his invulnerable skin. "Alone," Bruce whispered, the word thick and trembling. "Alone."

 

"Never," Clark said firmly, pulling back just enough to cup Bruce’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that still flowed freely. He looked into those devastated blue eyes with all the sincerity he possessed. "Listen to me, Baby. Listen. Even if I leave, even if I have to go out, I will always come back. Always. I promise. You hear me? I promise."

 

Bruce stared at him, his breathing hitching but slowing, his lower lip trembling as he processed the words. He nodded once, small and hesitant, his eyes searching Clark’s face for truth, for safety.

 

"That’s my good boy," Clark whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to Bruce’s forehead. He shifted, preparing to set Bruce down on the mat beside him, but the moment he tried to lower him, Bruce whimpered again—a high, keening sound—and clutched tighter, his legs wrapping around Clark’s waist with desperate strength.

 

"No," Bruce mumbled, burying his face back into Clark’s neck. "No go."

 

"I’m not going anywhere," Clark assured him, stroking his back with long, firm caresses, feeling the muscles slowly begin to uncoil under his touch. He continued rocking, humming softly under his breath, until Bruce’s breathing evened out and the trembling subsided into occasional shudders. When Clark tried again to set him down, Bruce whined in protest, his fingers tangling in Clark’s hair now, resistant and frightened.

 

"Come on, Baby," Clark coaxed gently, his voice soft as silk. "Let me put you down just for a minute. I want to show you what I brought. Don’t you want to see?"

 

Bruce hesitated, his grip loosening infinitesimally, his curiosity warring with his fear. Slowly, reluctantly, he let his arms slide from Clark’s neck, his hands trailing down Clark’s chest as Clark lowered him gently onto the plush mat. Bruce sat there, his knees drawn up, his hands resting on his thighs, looking up at Clark with red-rimmed, vulnerable eyes.

 

"That’s better," Clark said softly, reaching out to stroke Bruce’s hair back from his damp forehead. "Now tell me—what’s wrong? Why were you so sad?"

 

Bruce’s lower lip trembled again, his eyes dropping to his lap. "Im…" he started, his voice barely audible, his throat working. "Im sad… you go."

 

"Aw, Baby," Clark melted, his heart aching at the simplicity of the confession, at the devastation in those two words. He reached out and pulled Bruce close again, pressing their foreheads together. "I’m sorry. I went to buy you some things—some things to make you happy—but I’m here now. See? I’m right here."

 

Bruce sniffled loudly, the sound wet and childish, and nodded, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he leaned into Clark’s touch. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes and looked up, his expression shifting to one of need, of longing. He reached out with both hands, opening and closing his fingers in the universal gesture—up, up, pick me up.

 

"Uppies?" Bruce asked softly, his voice hopeful and fragile.

 

Clark looked at him, at the tear tracks still visible on his cheeks, at the way his large hands trembled slightly as they reached for him, and something mischievous sparked in his chest. He smiled, slow and teasing, and shook his head. "No more uppies," he said, his voice light and playful. "You’re too big for uppies, Baby. Can’t carry you around all day."

 

Bruce’s face transformed instantly, his eyes widening with betrayal, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp that preceded the storm. His face crumpled, his chin trembling violently, and then he was crying again—loud, heartbroken wails that echoed off the midnight blue walls.

 

"Oh no, oh no," Clark panicked, his teasing forgotten immediately as he reached out and gathered Bruce up again, lifting him off the mat and cradling him close. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Baby, that was a bad joke, I was just teasing. I didn’t mean it. Of course I’ll pick you up. Of course I will."

 

Bruce sobbed against his shoulder, his large frame shaking with the force of his grief, his hands clutching at Clark’s cape. Clark stood up, bouncing Bruce slightly as he walked, the way one might soothe an infant, one hand rubbing firm circles on Bruce’s back. "I’ve got you," he murmured, pressing kisses to Bruce’s temple, his cheek, anywhere he could reach. "I’m sorry. I’m here. I’ve got you, Baby Boy."

 

It took several minutes of rocking, of whispered apologies and gentle kisses, before Bruce’s sobs subsided into hiccups. His grip on Clark’s suit loosened slightly, his breathing evening out against Clark’s neck. Clark tried to lower him to the mat again, but Bruce clung, his fingers twisting in the fabric, a soft whine escaping his throat.

 

"Just for a second," Clark coaxed, his voice honey-sweet. "Just so I can show you the bag. Just right here, next to me. I won’t leave."

 

Bruce hesitated, then slowly, reluctantly, released his grip. Clark set him down on the mat and retrieved the bag he’d dropped by the door, setting it in front of Bruce with a rustle of plastic. Bruce looked at it, his curiosity piqued despite his lingering distress, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he shifted forward on his knees and leaned his heavy head against Clark’s shoulder, nuzzling in, seeking to be held again.

 

"You don’t want to know what’s inside?" Clark asked softly, his hand coming up to stroke Bruce’s hair.

 

Bruce lifted his head, looked at the bag, then at Clark. His brow furrowed, his mouth working. "Clark," he said simply, the word a statement, a request, a need all wrapped in two syllables.

 

Before Clark could answer, Bruce had crawled forward, climbing awkwardly into Clark’s lap with his usual lack of grace, his knees hitting the mat hard as he settled his weight across Clark’s thighs. He curled against Clark’s chest, his arms wrapping around Clark’s neck with a sigh that seemed to release the last of his tension.

 

Clark sighed, fond and long-suffering, and set the bag aside. He wrapped his arms around Bruce’s broad back, holding him close, feeling the solid warmth of him. "Alright, alright," he murmured, beginning to rock them gently. "We’ll look at it in a minute."

 

He rested his cheek on Bruce’s head, his hands moving in slow, soothing strokes up and down Bruce’s spine. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began pressing kisses to Bruce’s head—soft, smacking sounds that filled the quiet room. Kiss on the crown, kiss on the temple, kiss on the forehead, each one accompanied by a small sound of affection.

 

"You like that?" Clark smiled down at him, his heart melting at the sound. "You’re such a baby. I didn’t expect you to be such a cuddler, Brucie. All this snuggling."

 

Bruce tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "Coo?" he repeated, the word soft and questioning, rolling around in his mouth.

 

"Cuddles," Clark corrected gently, his voice warm and patient. "Can you say cuddles?"

 

Bruce’s lips moved, his tongue pressing against his teeth, his face scrunched in concentration. "Coo," he tried, then again, "Coo coo."

 

Clark absolutely melted, his chest tightening with affection so intense it felt like pain. "That’s so cute," he breathed, his hand cupping Bruce’s cheek. "So cute, my Baby. Say it slowly. Cu-ddles. Try for me."

 

Bruce struggled, his mouth opening and closing, his hands fidgeting in his lap. He tried again, his voice strained with effort. "Coo coos," he finally managed, his expression frustrated but hopeful.

 

Clark sighed, smiling, and kissed his forehead. "Okay, okay. We can try again eventually. Can I show you the bag now?"

 

Bruce nodded, his curiosity winning out. He let Clark shift him gently, setting him down on the mat in front of him while Clark retrieved the bag. Bruce sat cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the bag with intense, focused attention.

 

Clark opened the bag and began pulling items out one by one. First, he produced a set of colorful exercise books meant for children—bright primary colors, large print, simple words and pictures. He fanned them out on the mat between them.

 

"Look, Baby," Clark said, his voice bright and encouraging. "Books. There’s a lot of fun things to learn here."

 

Bruce leaned forward, his large hand reaching out to touch the glossy cover of the nearest book. He traced the picture of a dog with one finger, his touch gentle despite his size. "Talk?" he asked, looking up at Clark with sudden, luminous hope.

 

"Yes, Baby," Clark said, his smile widening. "I’ll teach you how to talk better. We’ll learn together."

 

"Talk," Bruce repeated, the word filled with longing, his face lighting up with genuine enthusiasm that transformed his usually grim features into something radiant and eager. He looked at the books, then at Clark, his eyes shining. "Talk."

 

"You want to learn?" Clark asked, thrilled by the response.

 

Bruce nodded vigorously, a small smile breaking across his face. "Talk," he said again, delighted by the prospect.

 

Clark’s heart swelled at the sight—Bruce, enthusiastic, engaged, wanting to learn. "You’re going to do so well," Clark promised. Then, his expression shifting to something more serious, he reached back into the bag. "But there’s more, Baby. Things to help you be more comfortable."

 

He pulled out the bottle first—large, adult-sized, with a wide base and a soft silicone nipple designed for easy grip. Then the pacifier, similarly oversized, with a shield that wouldn’t cover his whole face but would fit comfortably in his adult mouth. Bruce looked at them, his expression confusion personified, his head tilting as he studied the unfamiliar objects.

 

"These," Clark said slowly, holding up the bottle, "are to help you drink on your own. So you won’t spill, and so you won’t need to suck your thumb." He held up the pacifier. " This is for when you need comfort. Instead of your fingers."

 

Bruce stared at them, his brow furrowed, his mouth slightly open. He looked up at Clark, his eyes questioning.

 

"Do you want to try them?" Clark asked, his voice gentle, non-judgmental. "They’ll make you comfortable, Baby. Safe."

 

Bruce hesitated, looking from the bottle to the pacifier, uncertainty written across his features. But then he looked at Clark, saw the encouraging smile, the patience, the love in his eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he nodded. "Try," he agreed, his voice soft.

 

Clark beamed. "Good boy." He reached back into the bag and pulled out the stickers and gemstones—Batman logos, dark gems, shapes that Bruce recognized immediately. "And these are to decorate. To personalize them. Make them yours."

 

Bruce’s eyes lit up at the sight of the Bat stickers, his hand reaching out immediately for the black and yellow insignia. He touched them with reverent fingers, a smile spreading across his face. He looked at Clark and nodded, his enthusiasm evident.

 

"Alright," Clark said, gathering the items. "I’ll give you your bottle, and then we can learn for a bit. How does that sound?"

 

Bruce nodded, still smiling at the stickers.

 

Clark stood, taking the bottle and pacifier to the small kitchenette. He ran them under hot water, sanitizing them carefully with soap, scrubbing the nipple and the shield until they gleamed. He filled the bottle with juice—apple, sweet and simple—and walked back to where Bruce sat waiting.

 

Bruce looked up at him, still uncertain, as Clark offered him the bottle. Bruce took it with both hands, his large fingers wrapping around the base, and held it in his lap. He turned it over, examining it from all angles, his expression puzzled. He looked at the nipple, then at Clark, confusion clear in his blue eyes.

 

"Clark?" Bruce asked, his voice questioning, holding the bottle up as if to ask what to do with it.

 

"You need to put the nipple in your mouth," Clark explained gently, kneeling down to be at eye level. "Like this." He mimed the action, bringing his hand to his mouth and making sucking motions.

 

Bruce frowned, his lips pushing out in a pout. "Show?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

 

"No, Baby," Clark said softly, shaking his head with a patient smile. "I can’t show you. It’s for babies, like you. I’m not a baby."

 

Bruce trembled slightly, his hands shaking around the bottle, and shook his head hard. "Dunno how," he admitted, his voice small and embarrassed, his face flushing pink.

 

Clark sighed, his heart aching. "You just put it in your mouth," he tried again. "Like this." He took the bottle back and demonstrated, bringing it to his own lips, wrapping his mouth around the nipple, and sucking gently to show how it worked.

 

Bruce watched, his eyes widening, and then he giggled—a soft, delighted sound that bubbled up from his chest. "Silly," he said, pointing at Clark, his face transforming with amusement. "Clark silly."

 

Clark pulled the bottle free and laughed, shaking his head. "Hey," he said, mock-offended, his eyes twinkling. "You did this on purpose. You just wanted to see me do it."

 

Bruce giggled again, nodding, his earlier uncertainty forgotten in his delight at Clark’s embarrassment.

 

Clark sighed, scoffing with laughter, and stood up. "Alright, you little brat. Let me clean it." He walked back to the kitchenette and ran the nipple under hot water again, cleaning it thoroughly before drying it with a clean cloth. He walked back and handed it to Bruce. "Here. Your turn."

 

Bruce took it, still smiling, and this time he brought it to his mouth without hesitation. He wrapped his lips around the nipple and began to suck, his eyes fluttering closed as the sweet juice filled his mouth. He held the bottle with both hands, drinking with contentment.

 

"Good?" Clark asked, sitting down beside him, his hand stroking Bruce’s back.

 

Bruce nodded, his eyes still closed, the bottle tilted up as he drank.

 

Three hours later, the exercise books were spread open across the mat, and the room was filled with the sound of Clark’s patient voice and Bruce’s hesitant, determined responses. They sat side by side, Clark’s arm around Bruce’s waist for support, the empty bottle set aside on the counter.

 

Bruce had learned to spell Clark’s name—C-L-A-R-K—arranging the wooden blocks with careful, trembling fingers, his tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration. He had mastered "please" and "thank you," practicing them until they flowed easier. Most importantly, he had begun using verbs properly—"I want," "I need," "I like"—instead of the fragmented speech he’d been limited to before.

 

"Clark," Bruce said now, pointing to the blocks he’d arranged, his voice steady with effort.

 

"That’s right," Clark praised, his eyes shining. "C-L-A-R-K. You got it. You’re so good, Baby. Such a smart little man."

 

Bruce smiled, his chest puffing out with pride at the compliment, his face glowing with the satisfaction of success.

 

"Now," Clark said, reaching for the pacifier where it sat on the mat, "do you want to try your pacifier?"

 

Bruce looked at it, his head tilting. "Paci?" he asked, testing the word.

 

"Yes," Clark cooed, his voice dropping to that honey-sweet register that seemed reserved only for Bruce. "Your paci. You’re so cute."

 

Bruce whined softly, embarrassed by the cooing, his face flushing, but his eyes were curious.

 

Clark picked up the pacifier and the clip attached to it. He reached forward and gently fastened the clip to the collar of Bruce’s shirt, letting the pacifier dangle against his chest. "Here," he said softly. "You try it."

 

Bruce took the pacifier in his hand and looked at it for a moment, then brought it to his mouth. He pushed it between his lips, adjusting it until it sat comfortably, and began to suck. His eyes fluttered closed, his shoulders dropping as the rhythmic motion soothed him. He looked peaceful, his thumb—usually in his mouth—resting in his lap instead.

 

"Good boy," Clark whispered, stroking Bruce’s hair.

 

It was almost lunchtime. Clark looked at the clock and then at Bruce, who was sucking contentedly on the pacifier, his eyes half-closed. "Are you hungry, Baby?" Clark asked gently.

 

Bruce nodded, pulling the pacifier out with a soft pop. "Hungry," he confirmed.

 

"Alright," Clark said, standing up. "I’ll make you something."

 

He walked toward the kitchenette, but before he’d taken three steps, he felt the familiar pressure against his leg. Bruce had crawled after him, his large body moving quickly across the floor, and now he wrapped his arms around Clark’s calf, his cheek pressed against the fabric of Clark’s pants, hugging the leg tightly.

 

Clark looked down, a smile tugging at his lips. "Oh," he said, his voice warm with affection. "What a clingy little thing you are."

 

He reached down and petted Bruce’s head, his fingers threading through the soft dark hair. Bruce snuggled closer, not letting go, his grip tightening.

 

Clark sighed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to move with Bruce attached to him like a barnacle. He bent down and scooped Bruce up, lifting him easily and setting him on the kitchen counter, sitting him there with his legs dangling. "There," he said. "You can watch."

 

He handed Bruce a spoon with a dollop of peanut butter on it to keep him occupied, and Bruce took it, the pacifier still clipped to his shirt, dangling against his chest. Bruce licked at the peanut butter contentedly while Clark moved around the small kitchen space, chopping vegetables and steaming them, mashing potatoes with butter and cream, boiling eggs until they were soft.

 

When the food was ready, Clark picked Bruce up again and carried him to the small table, setting him down in the chair. He filled the bottle with juice again and set it next to the plate, which held a serving of mashed potatoes, a sliced boiled egg, and a small pile of steamed carrots and peas.

 

Bruce looked at the food, his eyes bright, and immediately reached for the bottle. He drank from it easily now, no hesitations, no spills, his throat working as he swallowed. Clark watched him, smiling at the solution he’d found.

 

But when Bruce set the bottle down and looked at the plate, his expression changed. He ate the mashed potatoes willingly, and he ate the egg, picking at the soft white and yellow. But when his fork touched the vegetables—the carrots and peas—he pulled his hand back as if burned. He pushed the plate away slightly and crossed his arms, his lower lip pushing out in a pronounced pout.

 

"Baby," Clark said gently, pushing the plate back toward him. "You need to eat everything. Big boys eat their vegetables."

 

Bruce shook his head, his jaw set stubbornly. "No," he said, his voice firm.

 

"Don’t make me spoon feed you," Clark warned softly, though there was no real heat in it. "You’re a big boy. You need to eat."

 

Bruce whimpered, his pout trembling, but he didn’t reach for the vegetables.

 

Clark sighed, studying him. Then he had an idea. "If you eat them," he said, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "I’ll give you a reward. What do you want?"

 

Bruce’s eyes lit up immediately, his interest piqued. "Reward?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

 

"Yes, Baby. A reward. What would you like?"

 

Bruce thought hard, his brow furrowing, his hands fidgeting. Then his face cleared, and he looked at Clark with shy, hopeful eyes. "Story?" he asked softly.

 

Clark smiled, his heart melting. "Sure," he agreed. "You need an afternoon nap anyway, so I’ll read you a story. But only if you eat your veggies."

 

Bruce hesitated, looking at the vegetables with distaste, then back at Clark. He shifted in his seat, his hands twisting in his lap, his face showing his internal struggle. Finally, he looked up at Clark, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and whispered, "Clark?"

 

"Yes, Baby?"

 

Bruce paused, fidgeting, his cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. He took a breath and asked, his voice barely audible, "Help me?"

 

"With what, Baby?" Clark asked, though he thought he knew.

 

Bruce gestured toward the vegetables, his face crumpling with shame. "Veggies," he whispered.

 

Clark absolutely melted, his resistance crumbling instantly at the request. "Of course, Baby," he breathed, his voice thick with affection. "Of course I’ll help you."

 

He picked up the fork and scooped up some of the carrots, holding it out to Bruce. Bruce opened his mouth willingly, letting Clark feed him, his eyes fluttering closed as he chewed. Clark fed him bite after bite, praising him with each one.

 

"I thought you wanted to be independent," Clark teased gently, his eyes warm.

 

Bruce swallowed, his cheeks pink, and looked down at his lap. "Some… times…" he said slowly, his voice soft and hesitant, "I like it."

 

"Okay," Clark said softly, stroking his hair. "Okay. When you want me, I’ll help. You like it when I feed you, but not when I hold the cup?"

 

Bruce shook his head hard. "No cup," he said firmly.

 

Clark smiled, remembering how Bruce had accepted spoon feeding in the early days, how it seemed to calm him. He guessed Bruce associated it with safety, with being cared for. He finished feeding him the vegetables, praising him with every bite, until the plate was clean.

 

Later, after the story and the nap, Clark decided it was time for walking exercises. He cleared a space in the center of the room and set Bruce in the middle of the mat, kneeling in front of him.

 

"Would you like to walk alone?" Clark asked, his voice encouraging. "Like I do?"

 

Bruce’s eyes lit up with excitement. He nodded vigorously. "Walk," he said, his voice eager.

 

"Alright," Clark said, getting to his feet. He took Bruce’s hands and pulled him up to standing, holding him steady. "I’ll slowly let go. You try to balance."

 

Bruce stood, trembling slightly, his legs unsteady beneath him. Clark held his hands, supporting his weight, then slowly, tentatively, began to release his grip.

 

Bruce wobbled, his arms windmilling, his face scrunching with concentration. He took a step, then another, and then his legs gave out. He fell backward onto the mat with a soft thud, and immediately his face crumpled, tears springing to his eyes.

 

"Oh, Baby," Clark said, kneeling beside him instantly. "Don’t cry. It was a good try. Such a good try."

 

Bruce sobbed, shaking his head, his hands covering his face. "Upset," he choked out, the word breaking. "I’m upset."

 

"Good boy," Clark said immediately, his hand stroking Bruce’s back. "That’s a hard word, and you used it. Good job. Let’s try again. It was a good try. You’re such a good boy."

 

Bruce sniffled, looking up at him through his tears, his face uncertain. "Good?" he asked.

 

"Good boy," Clark affirmed, his voice warm and proud. "Let’s try again."

 

He helped Bruce up, and they tried again. And again. Each time Bruce fell, but each time Clark praised him, encouraged him, called him a good boy until the word seemed to soothe something in Bruce’s chest. Finally, after many attempts, Bruce took a step—one solid, wobbling step—before his legs buckled and he fell again, crying harder now, overwhelmed by the effort and the failure.

 

"Don’t cry, Baby," Clark said, gathering him up immediately, lifting him into his arms and bouncing him gently. "You took a step! That was so, so good. You’re such a good boy."

 

"Good?" Bruce asked through his sobs, his hands clutching at Clark’s shoulders.

 

"Good boy," Clark repeated, peppering kisses across Bruce’s forehead, his cheeks, the top of his head. "My good boy. You did so well."

 

Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark’s neck, and Clark held him close, bouncing him, kissing him repeatedly, praising him until the sobs subsided and Bruce was snuggling close, his face buried in Clark’s neck, exhausted but proud.

Later, the afternoon light filtered through the viewport of the modified quarters. Clark sat cross-legged on the plush black mat, his tablet balanced on his knees, the glow of the screen illuminating his face as he typed. He was working on a Daily Planet draft—an article about a charity event in Metropolis—his fingers moving quickly across the virtual keyboard. Telling Perry White that he needed extended "Superman leave" had been surprisingly easy; there were advantages to having a boss who knew your secret identity and understood emergencies.

 

Across the room, Bruce sat surrounded by crayons and a Halloween-themed coloring book that Clark had picked up during his shopping trip. He was carefully coloring a pumpkin, his tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration, the orange wax stick gripped awkwardly in his large hand. The picture was half-finished, the orange spilling slightly outside the lines in places, but Bruce seemed absorbed in his task, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he worked.

 

Clark typed for a few minutes more, the soft scratch of crayon on paper the only sound in the room, until he felt the shift in the atmosphere. He looked up to find Bruce had abandoned his coloring, crawling across the mat with slow, deliberate movements until he was sitting right next to Clark's hip. Bruce looked up at him with those big blue eyes, his expression hopeful and seeking.

 

"Clark," Bruce said softly, his voice hesitant and small.

 

Clark looked down at him, feeling the familiar warmth spread through his chest at the sight of Bruce seeking him out. "Yes, Baby?" he asked, his voice gentle, warm as honey.

 

Bruce shifted closer, his knee pressing against Clark's thigh. He hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his soft grey shirt, his lower lip pushing out in a slight pout. He looked up through his lashes, shy but determined, and asked, "Coo coos?"

 

Clark's heart absolutely exploded in his chest, a wave of tender affection washing over him so intense that he had to set the tablet aside for a moment. Bruce was asking for cuddles—in his own simplified way, using the word they'd practiced earlier, rolling it around in his mouth until it came out as "coo coos," a request for physical closeness and comfort. The fact that this man—this proud, formidable Batman—was now shyly asking to be held, using baby words because his compromised brain couldn't quite grasp the full word, was devastatingly endearing.

 

"Aw, Baby," Clark breathed, reaching out to stroke Bruce's hair. "You want coo coos?"

 

But then Clark looked at his tablet, at the half-finished article, and sighed. He was working now, trying to maintain some semblance of his civilian life amidst this new domestic reality. "I’m working now, Baby," Clark said gently, his hand stilling in Bruce's hair. "I need to finish this."

 

Bruce's brow furrowed, his confusion evident. He looked at the tablet, then back at Clark. "What?" he asked, his voice soft, the single word carrying layers of meaning—what is that, what are you doing, why won't you hold me?

 

"It’s work," Clark explained, turning the tablet slightly so Bruce could see the text. "Grown-up stuff. Everyone has to do work."

 

Bruce processed this, his lips pressing together. He looked at the tablet with new understanding, then his eyes widened with an idea. "Me?" he asked, pointing at his own chest. "Work?"

 

Clark couldn't help but smile at the notion—Bruce Wayne wanting to work, even now, his work ethic surviving the regression. "No, Baby," Clark said, shaking his head with fond amusement. "You’re a baby. No working for babies."

 

Bruce frowned deeply at this, his face scrunching into an expression of clear displeasure. His hands came up to cross over his chest and he pouted with genuine frustration. "I wanna," he said, his voice firmer, petulant.

 

"I know you do," Clark soothed, reaching out to uncross Bruce's arms and hold his hands. "But you can work by finishing your pumpkin. See?" He gestured toward the coloring book where the half-colored Halloween scene waited. "That's your work. You finish coloring that big orange pumpkin for me, okay?"

 

Bruce looked at the coloring book, then back at Clark, unappeased. He shifted closer, pressing his shoulder against Clark's arm, and his voice dropped to a whisper, vulnerable and honest. "I want Clark, please." he said, the two words carrying the weight of his need.

 

Clark melted immediately, his resolve weakening. He praised Bruce gently, "You said that so nicely, Baby. Good boy. I’ll be all yours later, I promise. Let me finish this first."

 

But Bruce wasn't satisfied with later. He was becoming pushy, his need for attention overriding his usual shyness. He shifted his weight forward, and before Clark could react, Bruce had maneuvered himself onto Clark's lap, his substantial weight settling heavily across Clark's thighs. Bruce wiggled until he was comfortable, his back pressed against Clark's chest, his legs folded to the side, effectively trapping Clark beneath him.

 

Clark smirked, looking down at the top of Bruce's head, feeling the warmth of him spread through his lap. He maintained his grip on the tablet and kept typing, making a show of ignoring Bruce completely, the way one might ignore a pushy toddler demanding attention during an important phone call.

 

Bruce waited for a moment, expecting the cuddles to commence now that he'd secured his spot, but when Clark continued typing, Bruce's lower lip trembled. He turned his head to look up at Clark, his face close to Clark's jaw, and said with clear frustration, "Clark."

 

"What is it?" Clark asked casually, not looking down from the screen, though his lips were twitching with suppressed amusement.

 

Bruce huffed, a sound of pure exasperation, and pushed his face against Clark's shoulder, trying to nudge the tablet away. He was tired; Clark could see it in the droop of his eyelids, in the way he kept rubbing his eyes with his fists.

 

"Are you tired?" Clark asked, finally looking down, his expression softening. "Cranky? Need another nap?"

 

"No," Bruce said immediately, shaking his head hard, his denial fierce even as his body betrayed him with a wide yawn he couldn't suppress.

 

"Yes, you are," Clark observed, setting the tablet aside completely now. He wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist, holding him close, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "You could help me work if my baby slept," Clark suggested. "If you took a nap, I could finish this. And then when you wake up, I’m all yours."

 

Bruce looked at him, considering, his eyes heavy. "Story?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

 

"You want a story?" Clark asked, checking the time. It was early afternoon—technically too early for the long sleep, but if it meant Bruce would actually rest...

 

"One hour," Clark bargained, holding up one finger. "Will you nap for one hour if I read you another story?"

 

Bruce nodded slowly, his eyes already closing, trusting Clark completely.

 

Clark shifted Bruce in his lap, holding him cradled against his chest with one arm while he reached for the picture book on the side table with the other. It was a new one—The Little Kitten and Her Mama—depicting a mother cat and her small kitten going through their day. Clark opened it to the first page, the illustrations bright and soft, showing a fluffy grey mother cat nuzzling her tiny kitten.

 

Bruce's eyes fluttered open, captivated by the images. He watched as Clark read about the mama kitty waking up her kitten, teaching her to bathe, to play, to eat. When they reached the page showing the mama kitty bottle-feeding her kitten warm milk, Bruce went very still. His hand came up, pointing at the illustration with a trembling finger, touching the mother cat carefully.

 

"Mama," Bruce said softly, his voice filled with wonder and recognition.

 

"That's right," Clark said, smiling. "That's mommy Kitty. She's taking care of her baby."

 

Bruce turned his head then, looking up at Clark with those wide, trusting eyes. He pointed his finger at Clark's chest, right over the S-shield, and said with complete certainty, "Mama."

 

Clark's eyebrows shot up, his mouth opening in surprise. "No, Baby," he said quickly, his face flushing slightly with embarrassed heat. "I'm not... I'm not a mama."

 

Bruce's face crumpled into a pout, his finger still pointing. "Why?" he asked, the word simple but devastating in its confusion.

 

"Because..." Clark stumbled, searching for words that would make sense to a regressed mind. "The mama is a girl. See?" He pointed back at the book. "Mommy Kitty is a girl. I'm not... I'm not a girl, Baby."

 

Bruce looked at the book, then at Clark, processing. His finger lowered slowly, and he nodded with acceptance. "Oh," he said quietly. "Kay."

 

Clark sighed, relieved and simultaneously strangely disappointed by the easy acceptance, though he couldn't say why. He closed the book and shifted Bruce, preparing to set him down for his nap. "Come on, Baby. Time to sleep."

 

He laid Bruce down on the mat, surrounding him with pillows and the soft blankets, tucking the black velvet bunny against his side. Bruce's eyes were already heavy, his thumb hovering near his mouth before he remembered the pacifier clipped to his shirt and popped it in instead.

 

Clark stroked his hair until his breathing evened out, until he was deeply asleep, and then quietly retreated back to his tablet, praying he could get at least an hour of work done before Bruce woke and demanded his full attention again.

 

The evening settled over the Watchtower like a soft blanket, the artificial lights dimming to simulate the transition from day to night. Bruce had been through his routine—dinner (mashed chicken and soft carrots, which he'd eaten more willingly this time), a warm bath (during which he'd played with the rubber bat and splashed water everywhere until Clark was as wet as he was), and time on the potty (which he'd managed with only minimal assistance, much to his pride).

 

Now Bruce sat on the plush mat, dressed in soft pajama pants and a loose t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the bath and curling at the ends. He'd been playing quietly with his blocks, stacking them and knocking them down, but now the hour was growing late. Clark moved around the space, gathering pillows and extra blankets, arranging the soft nest where Bruce would sleep.

 

"Alright, Baby," Clark said, setting the last pillow in place. "We can play more tomorrow, but it's time for bed now. Night night time."

 

Bruce looked up at him, his expression immediately shuttering into a pout. He crawled over to where Clark stood, sitting back on his haunches, his hands clasped in his lap. "Story?" he asked, his voice hopeful. "Another?"

 

Clark sighed, kneeling down to be at eye level with him. "We've read two today, Baby. We don't want to finish all your books right away, right? Then we'd have no stories left for tomorrow."

 

Bruce processed this, his lower lip trembling, but he nodded slowly in understanding, his disappointment palpable. He sat there for a moment, looking around the room as if searching for something, and then his face lit up with an idea. He blushed—actually blushed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck—and crawled toward the small table where his empty bottle sat from dinner.

 

Bruce picked it up with both hands, the plastic bottle dwarfed by his large grip, and crawled back to Clark. He held it out, his eyes downcast, his face burning with embarrassment, offering the empty bottle to Clark.

 

Clark took it, confused. "I'll wash it," he said, turning toward the kitchenette.

 

"No," Bruce said quickly, his voice sharp with urgency. He reached out and touched Clark's arm, stopping him.

 

Clark paused, looking down at Bruce, and then understanding dawned on him as he saw the blush, the shy avoidance of eye contact, the way Bruce clutched at his shirt. Clark's own face flushed, heat rising to his cheeks as he realized what Bruce was asking for. "Oh," Clark breathed, his voice soft. "You want... you want warm milk before bed?"

 

Bruce nodded, his eyes finally meeting Clark's, wide and hopeful and deeply embarrassed by his own need.

 

"Of course, Baby," Clark said gently, his heart swelling. "Let me make it for you."

 

He moved to the kitchenette, heating milk in the small pot, adding a drizzle of honey for sweetness, stirring until it was warm but not hot. He poured it into the clean bottle and walked back to Bruce, holding it out.

 

Bruce took the bottle, looked at it, the warm liquid visible through the clear plastic, and then held it back out to Clark.

 

"What now, Baby?" Clark asked, taking it back, puzzled.

 

Bruce's blush deepened, his face turning an even darker shade of pink. He fidgeted, his hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt, and finally managed to whisper, "Help me?"

 

Clark was surprised, his eyebrows rising. "I thought you didn't want help with the bottle?" he asked, confused. "You wanted to do it yourself?"

 

Bruce hesitated, his throat working, his eyes flickering toward the book shelf where The Little Kitten and Her Mama sat. He pointed at it, then back at Clark, and said softly, his voice barely audible, "Mommy kitty... helped."

 

Clark absolutely melted, his chest tightening with an emotion so intense it felt like physical pain. The reference to the story—the mother cat feeding her kitten, the comfort of being cared for, the association of Clark with that nurturing figure—it all clicked into place. Bruce wanted to be fed. He wanted to be Clark's kitten.

 

"Aw, Baby," Clark breathed, his voice thick with affection. He sat down on the mat and patted his lap. "Sure. You can be my kitten. Come here."

 

He pulled Bruce into his lap, arranging him so Bruce was curled against his chest, his head resting on Clark's shoulder, the bottle ready in Clark's hand. "But I'm not a mama," Clark reminded gently, though his voice was teasing, soft. "Okay?"

 

Bruce nodded, already relaxing into the embrace, his eyes fluttering closed in anticipation.

 

Clark positioned the bottle, and Bruce opened his mouth willingly, letting Clark guide the nipple between his lips. Bruce began to suck immediately, his hands resting in his lap, completely passive, completely trusting. The rhythmic motion of his sucking was hypnotic, the warm milk flowing as Clark held the bottle at the right angle.

 

As Clark sat there, feeding him, he couldn't help the thrill that ran through his chest—the excitement, the joy of this moment. He knew he shouldn't feel this way. He knew, intellectually, that he should be hoping for Bruce's speedy recovery, should be working toward restoring the Batman, should not be reveling in this dependency. But looking down at Bruce—his Baby Boy, so large and yet so small, muscular and yet soft in his arms, trusting him completely, wanting him specifically—he couldn't help the happiness that bubbled up in his chest.

 

Sure, perhaps he shouldn't feel this way. But Bruce was so cute like this, so cuddly and open and vulnerable in ways he'd never been as an adult. He wanted Clark. He trusted Clark. He was Clark's, completely, in this moment.

 

Clark smiled down at him, watching Bruce's eyes close, watching him drink contentedly, feeling the trusting weight in his arms. His baby.

 

Then reality intruded. Tomorrow. Dr. Stone. The checkup. It had only been a couple of days, so the progress wouldn't be harsh—they wouldn't expect miracles. Bruce had made progress, certainly, with his walking and his speech, but perhaps not enough to accelerate the timeline. Clark found himself praying, silently, fervently, that they hadn't made much progress on the cure. That Bruce would remain like this, his Baby, for just a little while longer.

 

The thought hit him like a physical blow, the guilt of it sharp and immediate. He shoved it away, burying it deep, and focused instead on the man in his arms. The warm weight. The steady sucking. The trust.

 

He pressed a kiss to Bruce's hair and continued to feed him, pushing all thoughts of tomorrow away in favor of tonight. His baby. His Brucie. Right here, right now, safe and warm.

 

The morning arrived with the Watchtower’s artificial dawn cycle, a gradual brightening of overhead lights that lacked the warmth of true sunrise but served the same biological purpose. Clark woke gradually, consciousness seeping in alongside the simulated daylight, and immediately became aware of two things: the damp chill against his hip where the blankets should have been dry, and the rigid stillness of the body pressed against his chest.

 

Bruce was awake. Clark could tell by the tension in his muscles, the way his breathing was too controlled, too careful—shallow breaths held tight in his chest as if releasing them might break something fragile. The moment Clark shifted, the moment his arm tightened around Bruce’s waist in sleepy instinct, Bruce made a small sound—a wounded, hitching breath that wasn’t quite a sob but carried the weight of one. His broad shoulders curled inward, his muscular frame attempting to fold into itself, and he pressed his face harder against Clark’s chest, hiding from the world.

 

"Baby?" Clark murmured, his voice thick with sleep, his hand moving to stroke Bruce’s hair even as he processed the wetness seeping through the fabric. "Hey. Look at me."

 

Bruce shook his head slightly, his face still buried in Clark’s shirt, his hands fisting in the material. Clark could feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating through the cloth, could sense the humiliation vibrating in his silence. When Clark gently guided Bruce’s face upward, he found blue eyes swimming with tears, the lower lip trembling, the jaw tight with the effort of holding back tears.

 

"Sorry," Bruce whispered, the word breaking on a soft exhale, his gaze dropping to Clark’s collarbone rather than meeting his eyes. "Sorry."

 

Clark sighed, the sound long and soft, carrying no trace of frustration—only tenderness, only understanding. He cupped Bruce’s jaw in his hand, his thumb stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone. "It’s okay, Baby," he cooed, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Bruce’s forehead, feeling the heat of his skin there. "It’s okay. Shh. Accidents happen when you’re little. This is normal. You’re okay."

 

Bruce’s lower lip trembled more violently, his eyes squeezing shut. "Sorry," he repeated, his voice smaller.

 

"None of that," Clark soothed, sitting up and gathering Bruce into his arms, lifting him easily from the damp blankets. Bruce clung to him, his long limbs wrapping around Clark’s torso with desperate strength, his face burying itself in the crook of Clark’s neck where he could hide. "But you went potty before bed," Clark said softly, remembering the previous evening—the gentle insistence, the whining protest, the eventual compliance as Bruce sat on the toilet, swinging his legs, looking miserable but producing results. "We made sure, didn’t we? Right before bed?"

 

Bruce hesitated against his neck, his breath hot against Clark’s skin. He pulled back slightly, his throat working, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. "Bottle," he whispered, the single word offered like a confession, his eyes downcast.

 

Clark paused, the realization clicking into place. The warm milk with honey, the way he’d cradled Bruce in his lap and fed him from the bottle until Bruce’s eyes had fluttered shut, the contented sucking sounds that had lulled him to sleep. Of course. He’d given Bruce fluids after the potty break, and Bruce’s compromised nervous system hadn’t been able to process the signals or hold it through the night.

 

"Oh, Baby," Clark breathed, his chest tightening with understanding. He cupped Bruce’s face again, forcing him to meet his eyes. "That’s okay. That’s not your fault. That’s my fault, isn’t it? I gave you that bottle too late. That’s on me, not you. You’re not bad. You’re perfect."

 

Bruce looked at him, uncertainty flickering in his gaze, his hands coming up to rest on Clark’s wrists. "Not... bad?" he asked hesitantly.

 

"Not bad at all," Clark affirmed, pressing another kiss to Bruce’s forehead. "Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm? Get you warm and dry and fed."

 

Later, after Bruce had been cleaned and dressed in soft cotton pants and a loose t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from a quick rinse, he sat on the edge of the crawling mat with his back against the wall. He looked small despite his size, his thumb hovering near his mouth before he remembered the pacifier clipped to his shirt and popped it in instead, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked. In his other hand, he clutched the black velvet bunny, his fingers buried in the soft fur, his head tilted to one side as he watched Clark work with wide, attentive eyes.

 

Clark was kneeling beneath the viewport, tools spread out around him as he mounted a small television screen to the wall. He’d realized that if Bruce was going to regain his language skills, he needed exposure to speech patterns, to words used in context, to the repetitive simplicity of children’s programming that would allow him to hear and mimic without pressure. The screen was large enough to be visible from the mat but not so large as to overwhelm, and he’d already set up the media player with educational content.

 

As Clark tightened the last screw and stepped back to admire his work, he turned to find Bruce watching him, the pacifier bobbing slightly as he sucked, his expression curious and waiting.

 

"All done," Clark announced, dusting off his hands. He walked over to Bruce and crouched down, smiling at the sight of him—a grown man sucking on a pacifier and clutching a stuffed animal with the earnestness of a child. "You want your bottle, Baby? Some juice?"

 

Bruce pulled the pacifier from his mouth with a soft pop, his lips wet and slightly swollen from the suction. He looked at Clark, his expression hopeful and shy, and said with careful pronunciation, "Yes. Please."

 

Clark’s heart melted at the manners, at the effort Bruce put into the simple phrase. He reached out to stroke Bruce’s hair. "Such a polite little man," he cooed. "Let me get it for you."

 

He moved to the kitchenette and prepared the bottle—apple juice this time—and walked back toward Bruce. But as he walked, his steps slowed, his expression darkening despite his efforts to keep it light. The visit. Dr. Stone had requested a check-in today, and the anxiety was beginning to curdle in his stomach.

 

What if they found a way to reverse it already? he thought, the panic rising. What if they’re gonna take Bruce away from me? What if Dr. Stone had figured it out? What if Bruce walked into that room and walked out Batman again? No more naps. No more crawling across the room just to sit beside him. No more "uppies." No more little hands grabbing at his cape whenever he left. The thoughts hit him like a physical blow, and he stopped walking, his hand tightening around the bottle.

 

He felt immediately, crushingly guilty. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t hope that the cure was far away. But God help him, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing this version of Bruce.

 

"Clark?"

 

The soft voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, and Clark snapped his head up to find Bruce watching him from the mat, his brow furrowed with concern. Bruce had sensed the shift in his mood, and his own anxiety was rising in response. He pushed himself up and crawled across the floor to where Clark stood frozen, reaching him and wrapping his arms around Clark’s calf, his cheek coming to rest against Clark’s thigh. He whimpered softly, the sound vibrating against Clark’s skin.

 

Clark looked down at the top of Bruce’s head and felt some of the tension drain away. He sighed, long and surrendering, and bent down to gather Bruce up. "Sorry, Baby," he cooed, carrying him back to the mat and settling them both down. "I got distracted. I’m right here."

 

He handed Bruce the bottle, and Bruce took it immediately, settling back against Clark’s chest and beginning to drink with both hands. Clark reached for the remote and turned on the television, finding the right channel—soft pastels flooding the screen, cheerful music tinkling out, animated animals beginning to dance and sing simple songs. Bruce’s eyes were drawn to the movement, fully engaged, occasionally pulling the bottle from his mouth to repeat a word or point at a shape.

The medbay was sterile and cold, all gleaming metal and harsh fluorescent lights. Bruce had clung to Clark during the entire walk, his face buried in Clark’s neck, trembling slightly. Now they sat in the examination room, Bruce perched on the edge of the medical bed with his legs dangling, the black velvet bunny clutched in one hand and the pacifier in his mouth, his eyes darting nervously between Clark, Dr. Stone, and Diana, who stood in the corner with her arms crossed and her expression unreadable—though her eyes kept narrowing at Clark.

 

"Clark," Dr. Stone said, his voice professional. "Perhaps ask him to remove the pacifier for the examination."

 

Clark nodded, turning to Bruce and stroking his hair. "Baby? Can you take the paci out for now? Just for a little bit? The doctor needs to look at you."

 

Bruce looked at Clark, then at Dr. Stone, his expression uncertain and unhappy. He hesitated, then slowly pulled it from his mouth with a disappointed grunt, his lips settling into a pout. 

 

"Thank you, Bruce," Dr. Stone said, approaching with his scanner. He ran it over Bruce’s chest, his head, checking reflexes while Bruce sat rigid and anxious. "He seems calmer than last time," Stone observed.

 

"He’s getting used to routine," Clark said, staying close.

 

Dr. Stone finished the physical exam and stepped back. "Now, Bruce, I’d like to ask you some questions. How old are you?"

 

Bruce blinked, his brow furrowing. He looked down at his hands, then back at the doctor, his mouth working silently. Finally, he shook his head slightly and said, "I... dunno."

 

Clark sighed softly, reaching out to rub Bruce’s back. "I tried explaining that he’s thirty, but the concept doesn’t seem to register."

 

Dr. Stone nodded. "And how old do you feel, Bruce?"

 

Bruce looked confused, his head tilting. He looked at Clark, then back at the doctor, and whispered, "I... dunno."

 

"That’s okay," Stone said. "What do you want right now?"

 

Bruce’s face lit up slightly, his eyes finding Clark immediately. "I want... Clark," he said. "Please."

 

"And why do you want Clark?"

 

Bruce hesitated, his hands twisting in the bunny’s fur, his expression intense with concentration. He thought very hard, and then he looked at Clark with fierce certainty. "Clark..." he said, his voice steady despite his shyness. "...mine?"

 

Diana’s glare intensified, her arms tightening across her chest.

 

Clark felt his face flush, heat rising to his cheeks as Dr. Stone chuckled softly. "Quite possessive, even in this state," the doctor observed.

 

"Aw, Brucie," Clark cooed. "Am I yours?"

 

Bruce nodded, his expression serious and shy, and said again with quiet conviction, "Mine."

 

Diana made a small sound of disapproval, but Clark didn’t look at her, too focused on Bruce.

 

"That’s very good," Dr. Stone said. "He’s articulating needs clearly. Now, Clark, mobility?"

 

"We managed a step before he fell," Clark said. "He got upset and didn’t want to try more."

 

"And cognitive function? Writing, spelling?"

 

Clark looked at Bruce. "Baby? Can you spell your name?"

 

Bruce sat up straighter, his eyes bright. "B... R... U... C... E," he enunciated carefully. He paused, then added with evident pride, "C... L... A... R... K."

 

"Excellent," Dr. Stone said. "That’s very good, Bruce."

 

He turned to Clark. "That’s good progress considering it’s only been a couple days. He looks calm and happy. Keep it going."

 

Clark sighed hesitantly. Diana stepped forward. "What’s on your mind, Clark? Is there something to add?"

 

Clark hesitated, looking at Bruce. "One... one tiny small issue," he admitted reluctantly.

 

Dr. Stone turned to him. "Yes?"

 

"He... he tends to soil himself when he sleeps," Clark said. "It’s happened twice."

 

Bruce made a distressed whine, his face crumpling, humiliation flooding his features. Clark was immediately there, cupping his cheek, stroking his hair. "Shh, shh, Baby, it’s okay. No need to be ashamed. It’s okay."

 

Bruce calmed under his touch, his breathing slowing.

 

"He trusts you implicitly," Dr. Stone noted. "That’s good."

 

"He’s clingy," Clark admitted, "but I don’t mind."

 

Diana stepped forward, her expression hardening. "What exactly do you mean by ‘soils himself,’ Clark?"

 

Clark met her eyes. "He has incidents in his sleep. He wakes up wet."

 

"How often?" Dr. Stone asked.

 

"Twice," Clark said. "Only when he sleeps."

 

Dr. Stone turned back to Bruce. "Bruce? Do you know when you need to use the bathroom?"

 

Bruce shook his head, his face burning. "No," he whispered.

 

"And if someone asks you? If Clark asks?"

 

Bruce shook his head. "No," he said, small and shy.

 

Dr. Stone turned to them. "The solution is obvious," he said.

 

Diana’s eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

 

"If it persists, put him in diapers at night," Stone said simply. "If it becomes an issue during the day, keep him in them full-time."

 

Diana’s mouth opened, scandalized. "Is that seriously necessary?"

 

Clark looked at Bruce. "I set him on the toilet before bed," he said, leaving out the bottle. "He tries. But he wakes up crying and upset, so it would probably help him be less anxious."

 

Diana stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. Finally, she exhaled sharply. "Fine. But only if he actually needs them."

 

Dr. Stone nodded, closing his tablet. "The progress is good. The visit is over."

Three days had passed since the visit to the medbay, and the pattern had established itself with merciless consistency. Each morning, Clark woke to the damp chill of soiled sheets, to Bruce’s mortified whispers of apology, to the ritual of cleaning and comforting and reassuring. The accidents had become expected, almost routine, but it was the incident on the second day—the afternoon when Bruce had been sitting on Clark’s lap, drinking from his bottle and coloring, only to suddenly go still and quiet before the warmth spread through Clark’s jeans—that had served as the breaking point. Bruce had been inconsolable afterward, weeping with such profound shame that Clark had held him for an hour, rocking and whispering promises that they would find a solution, that he wouldn’t have to feel this way, that they would fix it.

 

The diapers had arrived that morning, delivered in a discreet package to their quarters. Clark had opened them carefully, pulling out the samples he’d specially ordered—adult-sized, designed for comfort and security, but decorated with a pattern of small black bats embossed on the padding. When he’d shown them to Bruce, holding up the folded garment so the print was visible, Bruce’s eyes had widened with recognition and something like delight.

 

"Baby Bat," Clark had teased, his voice warm and honey-sweet, his finger tracing the outline of one of the printed bats. "My little Baby Bat."

 

Bruce had lit up at the nickname, his face transforming from apprehension to joy so quickly it made Clark’s chest ache. He’d reached for the diaper, touching the bat print with reverent fingers, and then he’d turned and thrown his arms around Clark’s neck with surprising force, burying his face in Clark’s shoulder. "Again," Bruce had mumbled, his voice muffled against Clark’s shirt, his body vibrating with happiness. "Again."

 

"Baby Bat," Clark had repeated, melting completely, his arms coming up to snuggle Bruce close against his chest. He’d peppered Bruce’s hair with kisses, pressing them against his scalp, his temple, the shell of his ear. "My Baby Bat. So cute. So precious."

 

They’d stayed like that for long moments, Bruce hugging him tight, before Clark had gently pulled back and suggested they try one on. Now, they sat on the plush mat, the afternoon light filtering through the viewport, and Clark was preparing to change Bruce for the first time.

 

"Okay, Baby," Clark said softly, his hands resting on Bruce’s knees. "We need to take off your pants now. Just for a little bit. So we can get you all padded up and safe."

 

Bruce nodded, his expression serious and nervous, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He watched with wide eyes as Clark reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, sliding them down over his hips and off his legs, leaving him in just his underwear and socks. Clark folded the pants neatly and set them aside, then reached for the waistband of Bruce’s underwear.

 

"Lift up just a little," Clark coaxed, his hand supporting Bruce’s hip.

 

Bruce complied, raising his hips slightly, and Clark slid the underwear down and off, setting it aside as well. Bruce was naked from the waist down now, his muscular legs pale against the black mat, and he looked suddenly vulnerable, his hands moving to cover himself self-consciously.

 

"Shh, none of that," Clark soothed, gently moving Bruce’s hands away. "I need to see what I’m doing, Baby. It’s okay."

 

He unfolded the diaper, showing Bruce the padding, the soft interior, the bat prints on the front. "See? It’s soft. It’s going to keep you dry and comfy. No more worrying, okay?"

 

Bruce nodded, but his jaw was tight with tension. Clark slid the diaper underneath him, positioning it carefully, and Bruce made a small sound—a nervous whimper—as the unfamiliar material touched his skin.

 

"Calm down, Baby," Clark murmured, his hand coming up to caress Bruce’s cheek, his thumb stroking the sharp line of his jaw. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

 

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Bruce’s cheek, lingering there, feeling the heat of Bruce’s embarrassment radiating off his skin. Bruce exhaled shakily and relaxed slightly, his hand finding Clark’s shoulder and gripping it.

 

Clark reached for the baby powder and sprinkled it gently over Bruce’s hips and lower stomach, his touch clinical but tender, making sure Bruce was protected from any chafing. Bruce shivered at the cool sensation, his toes curling against the mat.

 

"Almost done," Clark promised, his voice warm and encouraging. "You’re doing so good, Baby Bat."

 

He pulled the front of the diaper up between Bruce’s legs, fastening the tapes on either side, securing it snugly but not too tight. The garment fit surprisingly well, the bats visible on the front panel, and Clark stepped back to admire his work before reaching for Bruce’s pants.

 

"No," Bruce whined softly as Clark began to slide the pants back up over the bulk of the diaper.

 

"Yes, Baby," Clark said firmly but gently, continuing to dress him. "We need pants on. Can’t have you crawling around naked."

 

He got the pants up and fastened, then gave Bruce a playful pat on the padded rear, the sound a soft thump against the thick material. Bruce whined again, his face scrunching up, his hand moving to touch the back of his pants where the diaper bulk was now visible.

 

"All done," Clark announced, sitting back on his heels. "Now. What do you want to do first? Talk practice or walk practice?"

 

Bruce looked at him, his hand still resting on the back of his padded pants, and said without hesitation, "Talk."

 

"Talk it is," Clark agreed, reaching for the exercise book he’d been using. He settled cross-legged in front of Bruce, close enough to touch, and opened to a page with simple emotional vocabulary. "Okay, Baby. We’re going to try something simple today. I want you to tell me how you feel. Just one sentence. ‘I feel’—and then you pick a word. Okay, sad, hungry, tired. That’s how you say it. Now your turn."

 

Bruce nodded quickly, his brow furrowing with concentration. He sat up straighter, his hands resting on his knees, and opened his mouth. "I feel—"

 

But he didn’t finish. His eyes flicked away mid-word, darting toward the corner of the room where a shadow moved with the shifting light, and his mouth closed again. He shifted slightly where he sat, trying to settle, but it didn’t last. His hips moved against the mat, a restless, uncomfortable motion.

 

Clark noticed immediately, but he didn’t interrupt yet. "Try again, Baby," he said gently. "Just focus on me. Right here."

 

Bruce tried again, dragging his attention back to Clark’s face. "I feel…"

 

And stopped again. This time there was a faint exhale through his nose—a sharp, frustrated huff that wasn’t loud but carried tight, contained tension. He looked down at his hands, then away toward the wall, then back at Clark like he was trying to reset his focus by sheer force of will.

 

"Clark," Bruce said quickly, his voice strained, his hands fisting in his lap. "I can’t."

 

"I know you can," Clark replied calmly, his expression patient and soft. "But something keeps breaking your focus, doesn’t it?"

 

Bruce shook his head once, sharp and defensive. "I’m okay."

 

Clark didn’t argue that. He just watched Bruce for another moment, his eyes kind and waiting. Bruce tried again anyway, determined to prove himself. "I feel—"

 

His voice caught slightly as his attention wavered again, his eyes drifting toward the viewport where the stars were visible. He paused too long this time, stuck in the middle of the sentence like the words had slipped out of reach. His shoulders tensed, rising toward his ears, and he shifted again—sharper this time, his body moving with obvious discomfort, like sitting still had become suddenly, impossibly hard.

 

Clark leaned forward a little, his hand reaching out to rest on Bruce’s knee. "Hey," he said softly. "You don’t have to push through it. Just tell me what’s happening right now. What’s bothering you?"

 

Bruce hesitated, his throat working. "I can’t… focus," he admitted finally, quieter than before, his eyes dropping to the mat. Like it cost him something to say it out loud, to admit the failing.

 

Clark nodded once—no surprise, no judgment, just understanding. "Okay," he said. "No worries, Baby."

 

Bruce glanced up at him, unsure what that meant, his brow furrowed with confusion.

 

Clark continued, his voice still calm and warm. "Is it the exercise? Or is something bothering you? Something making it hard to stay with me?"

 

Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked frustrated now—not at Clark, but at the fact that he couldn’t organize what he was feeling into something usable, something he could articulate. "I dunno," he said finally, his voice small and defeated.

 

Clark softened slightly at that, his hand squeezing Bruce’s knee. "That’s alright," he replied. "We don’t need perfect answers. Just… honest ones."

 

Bruce exhaled, a little shaky this time, and looked away again. He tried to refocus on the exercise book, but it didn’t hold. His attention kept slipping, his body kept moving, restless and unsettled. His hand moved to the waistband of his pants, tugging at the fabric, his fingers hooking under the elastic.

 

"Bruce," Clark said gently but firmly, reaching out to still Bruce’s hand. "Don’t take your pants off, okay? We just put them on. Leave them on for me."

 

Bruce nodded, his hand dropping away, but he continued to shift uncomfortably, his hips rolling against the mat, his expression growing more distressed by the moment.

 

Clark waited a moment longer, watching Bruce’s increasing agitation, then gently closed the exercise book. "Okay," he said, setting it aside. "Let’s switch it up. Walking practice instead. How about that? Get you moving, stretch your legs."

 

He stood and reached down to help Bruce up, but Bruce was already trying to stand on his own, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He got to his feet, wobbling slightly, and immediately his hands went to his pants again, tugging at the waistband, trying to push them down.

 

"No, Baby," Clark said, stepping in and gently but firmly moving Bruce’s hands away. "No taking off your pants. Keep them on. We’re going to practice walking, remember?"

 

Bruce whined, a high, distressed sound, and shook his head hard. "Don’t wanna," he said, his voice petulant and strained. He sat back down on the mat with a soft thump, his legs splayed out, and crossed his arms over his chest, his lower lip pushed out in a pronounced pout.

 

Clark knelt down in front of him, his hand coming up to cup Bruce’s cheek, caressing the line of his jaw with his thumb. "What’s wrong?" he asked softly, his voice dripping with concern. "Tell me what’s happening. You’re so bothered, Baby. What is it?"

 

Bruce struggled, his mouth working, his hands gesturing helplessly at his lap. He looked down at his pants, then up at Clark, then back down, his frustration mounting until his face flushed pink and his eyes filled with tears. Finally, with a sharp, desperate movement, he reached down and yanked his pants down to his knees, kicking them off completely, leaving him sitting on the mat in just the diaper and his shirt. He pointed at the padded garment, his finger trembling, his face crumpled with misery.

 

Clark sighed, long and understanding, though his expression remained gentle. "Oh, Baby," he said, reaching out to stroke Bruce’s hair. "That’s there to help you. To prevent incidents, especially on me. Remember what happened yesterday? On my lap? We don’t want that to happen again, do we? This keeps you safe and dry."

 

Bruce whined again, louder this time, his hand coming down to touch the front of the diaper, patting it with obvious discomfort.

 

"What’s wrong with it?" Clark asked, kneeling closer, his hands resting on Bruce’s knees. "Tell me. Is it too tight? Does it hurt?"

 

Bruce shook his head, his lower lip trembling. "No," he whispered.

 

"Is it too small?" Clark pressed.

 

"No," Bruce said again, his voice thick with tears he was trying not to shed.

 

"Is it itchy?" Clark asked, his brow furrowing. "Does it scratch?"

 

"No," Bruce repeated, and then he was sniffling for real, his nose running, his eyes red-rimmed and swimming.

 

Clark’s heart broke at the sight. He reached out and gathered Bruce into his arms, pulling him close, but Bruce remained stiff and unhappy, still sniffling against Clark’s shoulder. Clark pulled back slightly and looked at the diaper, really looked at it, watching how it fit on Bruce’s body, how it moved when Bruce shifted.

 

"Crawl for me, Baby," Clark said suddenly, an idea forming. "Crawl to the wall and back. Let me see."

 

Bruce hesitated, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, then nodded slowly. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and began to crawl across the mat toward the wall, his movements slow and deliberate. As he moved, Clark watched intently, and he noticed it—the subtle shift of the padding, the way the material bunched and moved against Bruce’s skin, the faint but audible crinkle-crinkle-crinkle sound that accompanied every movement.

 

Bruce crawled back, his face miserable, and settled in front of Clark again, sitting back on his heels. He pointed at the diaper again, his expression pleading.

 

Clark sighed, understanding finally dawning. "Aw, Baby," he breathed, reaching out to cup Bruce’s face. "It’s because it keeps shifting, isn’t it? When you move? It crinkles and slides around and it feels weird. That’s what’s bothering you."

 

Bruce nodded emphatically, his face transforming with relief that Clark finally understood, his lower lip pushed out in a pout that was pure frustration.

 

Clark pulled him close, hugging him tight, and pressed a kiss to Bruce’s temple. "I’ll find a solution," he promised, his voice warm and certain. "I promise, Baby. I’ll make it better."

The afternoon light slanted through the viewport in pale, artificial beams, casting long shadows across the midnight-blue walls of the quarters. Bruce had finally succumbed to exhaustion after the frustrating attempt at exercises, his large frame curled into a loose ball on the plush mat, the pacifier resting against his lower lip where it had slipped from his mouth as he drifted into deeper sleep. He wore only Clark’s oversized sweater—soft grey wool that hung down to mid-thigh—and the diaper beneath, the bulk of it visible against the fabric, the bat prints peeking out where the sweater had ridden up slightly. His breathing was deep and even, his face relaxed in a way that made him look almost boyish despite his size, the Batman completely absent in the slackness of his features.

 

The door hissed open, and Diana stepped inside, her posture rigid and her expression carrying the weight of someone who had come prepared to find fault. She paused just inside the threshold, her eyes scanning the room—the toys scattered across the mat, the bottle sitting on the side table, the television paused on a colorful cartoon—and then her gaze settled on Bruce. She sighed, a long, heavy exhalation that spoke volumes of her reservations, her arms crossing over her chest as she took in the sight of the Dark Knight sleeping with a pacifier and a diaper, wearing nothing but Clark’s sweater like some oversized infant.

 

Before she could speak, before the judgment could fully form on her lips, Clark stepped forward from where he’d been organizing supplies in the kitchenette. He kept his voice low, mindful of the sleeping man on the floor, but his tone was firm and defensive.

 

"He absolutely hates the diaper," Clark said quietly, his hands gesturing helplessly toward Bruce’s sleeping form. "I know you’re looking at me like I’m enjoying this, but Diana, he hates it. He thinks it’s loud. It shifts too much when he moves—it bunches and crinkles and he can’t focus on anything because he’s constantly aware of it. It’s driving him crazy."

 

Diana’s eyebrows rose, some of the judgment draining from her expression, replaced by curiosity. She uncrossed her arms slightly, her head tilting. "Then make him wear something that holds it in place," she said simply, her voice matter-of-fact. "If the movement is the issue, restrict the movement."

 

Clark blinked, his mouth opening slightly. "Like what?" he asked, genuinely puzzled, his mind running through possibilities. "Shorts? I could put him in shorts over it?"

 

Diana shook her head immediately, her dark hair swaying. "No. The sound would still be an issue with thigh shorts, and loose ones wouldn’t hold it in place. It would just shift under the fabric instead of against his skin."

 

Clark sighed, running a hand through his hair, his brow furrowing in thought. He looked at Bruce, at the way the diaper was visible beneath the sweater, and then his eyes widened slightly with inspiration. "How about a onesie?" he asked, his voice tentative but hopeful.

 

Diana’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. "Footie baby pajamas?" she asked, her tone skeptical. "How is that going to work? Plus he’s a grown man, Clark."

 

"No, no," Clark said quickly, shaking his head, his hands moving to illustrate. "Not footie ones. I was thinking those that snap at the crotch. You know—the kind that button between the legs. Soft material, thick enough to muffle the sound a bit, but tight enough to hold the diaper in place so it doesn’t shift when he crawls or moves."

 

Diana stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, some of the tension drained from her shoulders. She looked at Bruce again, really looked at him, and then back at Clark with something almost like understanding. She softened—a subtle relaxation of her jaw, a slight uncrossing of her arms—and finally nodded. "That’s... actually practical," she admitted, her voice carrying a note of surprise. "That might actually work."

 

Clark smiled sheepishly, his cheeks flushing slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "And," he said, his voice dropping to a hopeful register, "can I maybe get him one with a bat symbol on the chest? Just... to make it feel more like him?"

 

Diana looked at him, and then a chuckle escaped her—low and genuine, breaking through her usual sternness. She shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "That would be the most Batman thing he’s done so far," she said wryly. "Go ahead, Clark. If it helps him, do it."

 

As soon as the door hissed shut behind Diana, Clark moved to Bruce’s side, kneeling down on the mat and stroking the hair back from Bruce’s forehead. "My sleepy Baby Bat," he cooed softly, his voice honey-sweet and tender. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Bruce’s temple, then another to his cheek, lingering there to feel the warmth of his skin. "So precious. My tired little baby."

 

He pulled out his tablet and settled cross-legged on the floor next to Bruce, keeping one hand resting on Bruce’s back as he scrolled through clothing websites with the other. He found the onesies immediately—adult-sized, soft cotton, snap closures at the crotch exactly as he’d described. He ordered three in black, one in deep grey, and hesitated only a moment before adding the one with the bat symbol emblazoned across the chest in yellow. It was perfect.

 

But then his scrolling continued, and he paused. Overalls. Black denim overalls with shorts instead of long pants, decorated with small bat prints along the straps. His finger hovered over the image, his heart rate increasing slightly. Then thigh-high socks—black, ribbed, soft. Then Mary Jane shoes, glossy black with small buckles, the kind that looked almost childish but were sized for adults.

 

Clark sighed, the sound long and conflicted, his thumb tracing the edge of the tablet. He knew he’d get reprimanded for this. He knew Diana would look at him with that suspicious glare again, that she’d think he was indulging in something inappropriate, that he was treating Bruce like a doll rather than a patient. But the image that formed in his mind—the Batman in cute overalls and black socks, holding his bat plushie with a pacifier in his mouth, looking up at him with those big blue eyes—was too devastatingly adorable to resist. He wanted that picture. He wanted that memory.

 

He tapped "purchase" on the overalls, the socks, and the shoes, then set the tablet aside and settled down next to Bruce, waiting for him to wake, already anticipating the struggle.

 

When the packages arrived the next morning, Bruce took one look at the contents and immediately tried to crawl away.

 

He was sitting on the mat in just his diaper and a t-shirt, having just finished breakfast, when Clark pulled out the black onesie with the bat symbol. Bruce’s eyes widened, his face scrunching into an expression of immediate rejection. He pushed himself backward, his hands and knees carrying him across the mat with surprising speed for someone so uncoordinated.

 

"No," Bruce said firmly, his voice sharp with panic, shaking his head vigorously. "No, no."

 

"Baby, wait," Clark called, moving to intercept him, gently catching Bruce by the waist and turning him around. "It’s going to help. Remember how uncomfortable you were yesterday? How the diaper kept moving? This will hold it still. It’ll be soft. I promise."

 

Bruce squirmed in his grip, his large frame surprisingly strong as he tried to wriggle free. He kicked his legs out, his bare feet pushing against the mat, and when Clark pulled out the thigh-high socks, Bruce’s eyes went wide with something like horror. He redoubled his efforts, trying to crawl away again, making distressed sounds deep in his throat.

 

Clark sighed, holding him steady, and then had an idea. He pulled Bruce close, cradling his face in his hands, and said in his most tempting, honey-sweet voice, "If you’re good for me, Baby... if you let me dress you... I’ll give you a kiss. A big one. Right here." He tapped Bruce’s cheek. "How about that?"

 

Bruce froze. He looked at Clark, his struggling pausing, his expression shifting from panic to consideration. He bit his lower lip, his eyes flicking between Clark’s face and the clothing laid out on the mat. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. "Kiss?" he asked, his voice small and hopeful.

 

"That’s right," Clark confirmed, smiling warmly. "A kiss for my good boy."

 

Bruce allowed himself to be dressed after that, though he remained tense and suspicious. Clark slid the onesie over his head, the soft black fabric stretching over Bruce’s broad shoulders and muscular chest, the bat symbol settling in the center. Then came the socks—Clark rolling them up Bruce’s calves carefully, the ribbed fabric hugging his skin up to mid-thigh. Bruce watched with wide eyes, his lip trembling slightly, but he didn’t fight.

 

"See?" Clark said, smoothing the fabric over Bruce’s hips. "It’s soft. It’s comfortable. Now move around for me, Baby. Crawl to the remote and bring it back."

 

Bruce hesitated, then pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He crawled across the mat toward the side table where the remote sat, and Clark watched intently. The onesie snapped at the crotch held the diaper firmly in place, the thick cotton muffling the crinkling sound to barely a whisper. When Bruce moved, the garment stayed put, the padding not shifting against his skin.

 

Bruce reached the remote, his hand closing around it, and he paused. He shifted his weight, testing the sensation, and his eyes widened. He crawled back to Clark, his movements quicker and more confident, his face transformed with surprised pleasure. He handed the remote to Clark with big, happy blue eyes—not quite smiling, but glowing with relief—and sat back on his heels, his hands resting on his thighs.

 

"Better?" Clark asked, though he could already see the answer in Bruce’s relaxed posture.

 

"Yes," Bruce said quickly, his voice eager. "Not... loud." He gestured at his lower body, his expression pleased.

 

"Good boy," Clark cooed, his heart swelling with affection. He leaned in and pressed the promised kiss to Bruce’s cheek, lingering there, his hand cupping Bruce’s jaw. "Such a good boy. So brave."

 

Bruce sat there, his cheeks flushed pink from the praise, his hands fidgeting in his lap. He looked at Clark through his lashes, shy and hopeful, and whispered, "Clark?"

 

"Yes, Baby Bat?" Clark asked, stroking Bruce’s hair.

 

Bruce hesitated, his throat working, his face burning with embarrassment. "Can I..." he started, then stopped, biting his lip. "Kiss you?"

 

Clark’s eyebrows rose, but he smiled widely, his expression warm and encouraging. "Of course, Baby. You can always kiss me."

 

Bruce nodded, his expression serious and determined. He leaned forward, clumsy and uncoordinated, and went straight for Clark’s lips. He pressed a soft, chaste peck against Clark’s mouth, his lips warm and slightly chapped, the kiss lingering a moment longer than Clark had expected before Bruce pulled back, his face flushed and pleased.

 

Clark froze. His eyes went wide, his face flushing a deep, furious red that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the sudden, inappropriate awareness of Bruce’s lips against his. He pulled back sharply, his hands coming up to cover his mouth, his heart hammering against his ribs.

 

"Baby," Clark said, his voice panicked and breathless. "No."

 

Bruce’s face transformed immediately—his brows furrowing, his lower lip pushing out, his eyes filling with confusion and hurt. He looked at Clark, at the rejection written across Clark’s features, and his chin began to tremble. "Wrong?" he asked, his voice small and broken, tears threatening to spill. "I... wrong?"

 

"No, Baby, no," Clark said quickly, reaching out to cup Bruce’s face, his hands trembling slightly. "No, you’re not wrong, you’re good—you’re such a good boy. But that..." He struggled to find words, his mind racing. "That kiss is for grown-ups, Baby. That’s a grown-up kiss. We don’t do those. Not... not like that."

 

Bruce stared at him, his eyes swimming with tears he was trying to blink back, his face crumpling with the fear that he had failed, that he had done something bad. He started sniffling for real, his nose running, his shoulders hunching with misery.

 

"Shh, shh, no," Clark soothed, pulling Bruce into his arms, cradling the back of his head. "You’re a good boy. You’re my perfect Baby Bat. That was my fault—I should have explained better. Cheek kisses are for us. Lip kisses are for grown-ups who are... who are special to each other in different ways. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re good."

 

Bruce nodded against his shoulder, sniffling wetly, trusting Clark implicitly even through his confusion. He let Clark hug him, let Clark rock him, his large frame trembling slightly with the aftermath of the scare. He pressed his face into Clark’s neck, seeking comfort, and Clark held him tight, stroking his hair, his own heart still racing with the memory of Bruce’s lips against his, praying Bruce couldn’t feel it.

 

The evening settled over the Watchtower with the artificial dimming of lights, simulating the transition from day to night in a way that never quite matched Gotham’s sunset but provided enough cues for Bruce’s disrupted circadian rhythm. Dinner had been a quiet affair—mashed sweet potato and soft chicken that Bruce had eaten willingly, his new onesie keeping him comfortable enough that he hadn’t fussed at the table, the diaper secure and silent beneath the fabric. But bath time had been another matter entirely.

 

Clark had filled the tub with warm water, had added the lavender bubbles, had set out the rubber bat and the soft washcloths, but the moment Bruce had dipped his toe in, he had frozen. The water had been the right temperature, the environment familiar, but something in Bruce’s compromised nervous system had rebelled against the vulnerability of being naked and wet and alone. He had started crying—soft at first, then building into genuine sobs, his large frame trembling as he clutched the edge of the tub, refusing to step in, his eyes pleading with Clark for something he couldn’t articulate.

 

It had taken Clark stripping down and climbing into the tub himself, sitting in the warm water with his arms open, to coax Bruce in. Even then, Bruce had only entered the water when Clark physically lifted him and settled him between his legs, Bruce’s back pressed against Clark’s chest, the water lapping at their shoulders. Bruce had stopped crying then, his tears subsiding into hiccups as Clark washed him with gentle hands, but he had remained tense until the very end, until Clark had wrapped him in towels and held him close, whispering promises that he was safe, that he was good, that he was loved.

 

Now, Bruce was diapered again—fresh and dry, powdered and secured—and dressed in the legless onesie, the black fabric hugging his torso, the snaps at the crotch holding everything in place. He sat on the edge of the crawling mat, his legs folded beneath him, and held out the empty bottle to Clark with both hands, his expression hopeful and seeking.

 

Clark took the bottle, his heart melting at the gesture, and knelt down in front of Bruce. "Does my Baby Bat want his bottle?" he cooed, his voice honey-sweet and warm, his hand stroking Bruce’s damp hair back from his forehead.

 

Bruce nodded quickly, his eyes bright, and said with careful precision, "Bottle and... Story?"

 

Clark smiled, his expression playful and encouraging. "And what do we say when we want something?" he prompted gently, his thumb brushing Bruce’s lower lip.

 

Bruce hesitated, his brow furrowing with concentration, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Then his face cleared and he looked up with shy hope. "Please?" he asked, the word soft and uncertain.

 

"Good boy," Clark praised, his voice booming with pride. He leaned in and pressed the pacifier into Bruce’s mouth, the soft silicone settling between his lips, and tapped Bruce’s nose playfully. "Such good manners. Go on now, get to your pillow pile. I’ll get your milk ready."

 

Bruce nodded, the pacifier bobbing slightly as he sucked, and crawled across the mat to the arrangement of pillows and blankets Clark had set up earlier—their nest, their safe space. He settled against the largest pillow, his legs splayed out and waited with the patience of a child who knew comfort was coming.

 

Clark moved to the kitchenette and prepared the bottle quickly—warm milk with a touch of honey—and grabbed one of the new picture books from the small shelf he’d installed. He returned to find Bruce exactly where he’d left him, sucking contentedly on his pacifier, his blue eyes tracking Clark’s every movement.

 

Clark sat down next to Bruce and handed him the bottle, but before he could settle in to read, Bruce pulled the pacifier from his mouth with a soft pop and said, "Clark?"

 

"Yes, Baby?" Clark asked, turning to face him, the book ready in his hands.

 

Bruce pouted, his lower lip pushing out, his expression uncertain and embarrassed. He looked at the bottle in his hands, then at the book, then back at Clark, and whispered, "Help?"

 

Clark chuckled, the sound warm and fond, shaking his head with amusement. "You want me to hold you and read to you?" he asked, his eyebrows rising. "Baby, I can’t read and feed you at the same time. Not with my hands full."

 

But then he paused, looking at Bruce’s disappointed face, and had an idea. "But," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we can do this."

 

He set the book aside and reached for Bruce, hooking his hands under Bruce’s arms and lifting him easily. Bruce made a small sound—surprised, pleased—and let himself be moved, let Clark arrange him on his lap, Bruce’s substantial weight settling across Clark’s thighs, his back pressed against Clark’s chest, his legs draped over Clark’s knees. Bruce was a big man—six feet of dense muscle and bone—but compared to Clark’s Kryptonian strength, he was small, light as a feather, and quite frankly he fit in Clark’s lap perfectly, like he had been made to sit there, like the space had been carved specifically for him.

 

Clark rested his hand on Bruce’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through the onesie, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of lavender and clean skin. "Comfy?" he asked softly.

 

Bruce nodded, snuggling closer, his head falling back against Clark’s shoulder, the bottle held loosely in his hands.

 

Clark picked up the book with his free hand and rested his chin on Bruce’s shoulder, opening to the first page. "Okay, Baby," he murmured, his voice soft and warm against Bruce’s ear. "Here we go."

 

He started reading, his voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of storytelling. The book was about a big, fluffy dog—a golden retriever with shaggy fur and a dopey smile—who found a tiny baby kitten abandoned in a box. The dog took the kitten home, cared for it, fed it, protected it from the rain and the cold. The dog was clumsy and oversized, tripping over his own paws, but he was gentle with the kitten, patient and loving. As the story progressed, the kitten grew, but it never stopped looking up to the dog, never stopped seeking him out for comfort.

 

Then came the page that made Bruce go very still in Clark’s arms. The illustration showed the kitten curled against the dog’s side, looking up at him with adoration, and the text read: "The kitten loved his big, dorky dog. He loved him so much that he gave him a special name. He called him Daddy."

 

Bruce’s eyes sparkled as he looked at the illustration, his breath catching slightly. He stared at the big fluffy dog with his protective stance and his gentle eyes, and then he looked up at Clark with such hope, such longing, that Clark’s heart skipped a beat.

 

"Big... dog," Bruce whispered, his voice soft and wondering. "Takes care... of kitty."

 

"That’s right," Clark said, smiling, though he didn’t yet understand the danger. "The doggy takes care of his baby."

 

Bruce looked at the book again, then back at Clark. He let go of the bottle with one hand, letting it rest in his lap, and pointed at Clark with a trembling finger. "Daddy?" he asked, his voice barely audible, hopeful and terrified all at once.

 

Clark froze. The word hit him like a physical blow, sending a jolt through his chest that was part joy, part panic. "What?" he asked, his voice strangled.

 

"Daddy," Bruce repeated, more certain now, his finger still pointing at Clark’s chest.

 

"Oh," Clark said, his smile strained, his mind racing. "You mean... the dog? Yes, Baby, that’s Daddy Doggie. In the story."

 

But Bruce was already shaking his head, his expression stubborn and serious. He pointed at Clark again, his finger pressing against Clark’s chest. "Daddy," he said again, his voice firm despite its softness.

 

Clark’s face flushed, heat spreading from his neck to his cheeks. He loved it—the sound of it, the implication, the trust—but he could already see Diana’s face, could already feel her fingers plucking his hair out in fury. "No, Baby," he said, his voice gentle but panicked. "I’m not... I’m not Daddy."

 

Bruce’s face crumpled into a frown, confusion and hurt warring in his eyes. "Why no?" he asked, his lower lip trembling.

 

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t actually know why. The word felt right, felt natural, felt like it fit better than anything else had. But it was wrong, wasn’t it? It was too much, too far, too inappropriate. He stumbled over his words, his hands fidgeting with the book. "That name," he said clumsily, "that name belongs to the dog in the story. I can’t... I can’t take it from him. It’s his name."

 

Bruce frowned deeper, his brow furrowing. He looked down at the book in Clark’s hands, and then he pointed at the text, his finger tracing the words. "Spot," he said, reading the dog’s actual name from the page. "Dog is... Spot."

 

Clark giggled, the sound nervous and high-pitched, his face burning. "Uh, well," he stammered, "the name only works for the story. It’s... it’s a story name."

 

"Why?" Bruce asked, his head tilting, his expression genuinely confused.

 

"Because," Clark said, his voice gaining a desperate edge, "it’s from the story. That’s why. It only works in books."

 

Bruce was not satisfied. He slumped in Clark’s lap, his shoulders dropping, his face transforming into utter disappointment. He looked away, his lower lip pushed out in a trembling pout, and then he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, "Daddy," in the most whiny, devastated tone Clark had ever heard from him.

 

Clark’s resolve crumbled at the sound. He shifted Bruce in his lap, turning him slightly so he could see his face, and asked gently, his voice soft and curious, "Why do you want to call me that, Baby? Tell me why."

 

Bruce looked at him, his eyes swimming with tears he was trying not to shed, his hands fisting in the fabric of his onesie. "I’m not baby," he said, his voice small but firm, asserting what little identity he had left. "I’m Bruce. But... but..." He hesitated, his face scrunching with the effort of explanation. "...You say it."

 

Clark blinked, processing. Then he understood—Bruce heard him saying "Baby" and "Baby Bat" and "Brucie," all these pet names, all these diminutives, and Bruce wanted to give him something back. He wanted a name for Clark that was just his, that matched the intimacy of what Clark called him.

 

Clark sighed, long and surrendering, his heart melting completely. "You really couldn’t think of any other pet name?" he asked, his voice warm and teasing, his hand stroking Bruce’s cheek.

 

Bruce thought hard, his brow furrowed, and then he offered, shy and hopeful, "Mama?"

 

Clark laughed, the sound bursting out of him, warm and genuine. He shook his head, pulling Bruce close. "Okay," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper against Bruce’s hair. "Okay, Daddy it is."

 

Bruce’s face transformed instantly, lighting up with a joy so pure it was blinding. He threw his arms around Clark’s neck with surprising force, his large frame pressing close, and said with fierce, delighted conviction, "Daddy!"

 

Clark hugged him back, his arms tight around Bruce’s waist, his face buried in Bruce’s hair. He snuggled him close, rocking slightly, his heart full to bursting. "My Baby Bat," he whispered, pressing kisses to Bruce’s temple. "My little Brucie."

 

But even as he held him, even as he reveled in the warmth and the trust, Clark sighed, the sound long and conflicted. Diana was going to kill him. She was going to absolutely murder him when she heard this. But as Bruce snuggled closer, whispering "Daddy" again against Clark’s neck, Clark found that he didn’t care. That was okay. This was worth it.

Bruce sat cross-legged in the center of the plush black mat, his posture relaxed in a way that would have been impossible for the Batman but came naturally to this regressed version of himself. He wore the full ensemble Clark had carefully dressed him in—the black denim overalls with small bat prints embroidered along the straps, the short legs ending just above his knees where the black ribbed thigh-high socks began, hugging his muscular calves snugly. Beneath the overalls, the soft black onesie with the yellow bat symbol stretched across his broad chest, the snaps at the crotch holding his diaper secure and silent beneath the layers. In his mouth, the pacifier bobbed gently as he sucked, his cheeks hollowing slightly with the rhythm, and in his hands he shook the small rattle Clark had produced from the toy chest—a black plastic bat that made a soft jingling sound when moved. He was in a good mood, still glowing from the morning’s successes: new words learned and spoken correctly, a few tentative steps taken with Clark’s hands supporting his waist, his balance wavering but present. Each small victory had been met with Clark’s effusive praise, his "good boy" and "my smart Baby Bat" ringing in Bruce’s ears like the sweetest music. Now he sat contentedly, shaking his rattle in time with some internal rhythm, while Clark moved around the small kitchenette, wiping down counters and working on fixing the slight clog in the drain.

 

The door hissed open without warning, and Hal Jordan strode in first, his green lantern ring glinting under the lights, carrying a white pastry box in his hands. Barry Allen followed close behind, his red suit replaced by casual clothes, his expression cheerful and open.

 

"Hey Clark, we thought we’d—" Barry started, his voice bright and carrying.

 

Then he froze. The pastry box in Hal’s hands nearly slipped as both men stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes locking onto Bruce sitting on the floor in his overalls and thigh-high socks, sucking on a pacifier, shaking a rattle like some oversized toddler. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, as they took in the sight—the Batman, the Dark Knight, the terror of Gotham’s underworld, sitting cross-legged in baby clothes with a paci in his mouth.

 

Clark turned from the sink, wiping his hands on a towel, and greeted them with a warm smile. "Hey guys. What’s wrong?"

 

Hal’s mouth opened and closed several times, his eyes tracking from Bruce’s socks to his overalls to the rattle in his hands. "Seeing Batman like this is kinda... weird," he finally managed, his voice carrying an edge of discomfort that made Barry wince.

 

They both stood there, staring with expressions that were trying for neutrality but landing somewhere between horrified and fascinated, and Bruce felt it immediately—the judgment, the strangeness, the way they were looking at him like he was some kind of sideshow. His shoulders tensed, his grip tightening on the rattle, and he pulled the pacifier from his mouth with a soft pop, his lower lip beginning to tremble. He felt exposed, vulnerable, wrong in their eyes, and the unease radiated off him in waves.

 

Clark sighed—a long, heavy exhalation of breath that spoke of exhaustion and protectiveness. He walked over to where Bruce sat and bent down, hooking his hands under Bruce’s arms and lifting him easily. Bruce made a small sound of surprise, his hands coming up to clutch at Clark’s shoulders, and Clark turned him slightly, holding him up like a prize, like a cat being shown to visitors, displaying him to the two men.

 

"He’s a baby now," Clark said firmly, his voice carrying that honey-sweet tone but with an underlying steel. "Stop seeing Batman. He’s Baby Bat now, alright? A baby who can’t walk properly, who can’t speak in full sentences, who needs help with everything. Just a baby. That’s all he is right now."

 

Hal tried to interrupt, his hand coming up, his mouth opening to protest—"But he’s not actually a—"

 

"No," Clark cut him off sharply, his eyes flashing. "No. He’s a baby. He gets sad when you look at him like that, because he’s a baby. A shy little boy, nothing else right now. So treat him as such." He adjusted his grip on Bruce, settling him on his hip, and Bruce immediately clung to him, his face pressed against Clark’s neck, looking out at Hal and Barry with nervous, uncertain eyes. "He likes his little outfit. He likes his paci and his rattle. So be nice and say sorry."

 

Hal and Barry looked at each other, then at Bruce—really looked at him, at the fear in his eyes, the way he was clutching Clark like a lifeline, the trembling of his lower lip. The awkwardness slowly drained from their postures, replaced by something softer, more tentative. They both mumbled apologies, forced smiles onto their faces, and something in the shift of their energy seemed to reach Bruce. He hesitated, then slowly, shyly, raised one hand and waved at them—a small, tentative gesture that seemed to break the last of the tension.

 

They both seemed to calm down after that, the initial shock fading into a kind of wary acceptance. Barry stepped forward, opening the pastry box to reveal an assortment of colorful treats—croissants and danishes and small fruit tarts. "We brought you a treat," he said, his voice gentler now, directed at Bruce.

 

Bruce’s eyes lit up immediately, the fear forgotten in the face of potential sweets. He pulled back slightly from Clark’s neck, his gaze fixed on the box, and asked with hopeful wonder, "For me?"

 

"Yeah, buddy," Barry confirmed, smiling genuinely. "For you."

 

Clark shifted Bruce on his hip, supporting his weight with one arm, and tapped Bruce’s nose playfully. "What do you say to your buddies, Brucie?"

 

Bruce smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his usually grim features into something radiant and young. He pulled the pacifier from his mouth completely and held it in one hand, his chest puffing out slightly with pride, and said clearly and happily, "Thank you!"

 

The warmth of it, the earnestness, seemed to melt whatever remaining awkwardness Hal and Barry had been holding onto. They softened visibly, their expressions shifting from discomfort to something approaching affection.

 

Clark set Bruce down on the mat, settling him back onto his knees, and ruffled his hair. "I’ll put those in the fridge for later," he said, taking the pastry box. "I need to fix the drain, so if you guys want to keep company to Bruce, I’d appreciate it."

 

Hal and Barry looked at each other, then shrugged almost simultaneously. They moved to the mat, sitting down cross-legged near Bruce, and began pulling off their boots—Hal’s heavy combat boots, Barry’s running shoes—setting them aside to be more comfortable.

 

Hal looked at Bruce, then at Barry, and whispered, "What do we even do?"

 

Barry rolled his eyes, leaning forward with an easy grin. "Well, he’s a baby. Should be easy to entertain." He turned to Bruce, his voice bright and inviting. "Hi Buddy, wanna play?"

 

Bruce nodded quickly, his enthusiasm evident. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled across the mat to where his black velvet bunny sat propped against a pillow. He picked it up with both hands, cradling it carefully, and crawled back to Barry, holding it out in offering.

 

Barry accepted the bunny with a soft "thank you," but Hal immediately leaned forward with a whine. "Hey, he wants something too."

 

Bruce turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing, and glared at Hal with an intensity that was pure Batman despite the overalls and socks. The look was sharp, cutting, filled with the residual hostility of a man who had never liked Hal Jordan even before the regression.

 

Barry laughed, the sound startled and amused. "Jeez, he really hates you."

 

"That can’t be true," Hal protested, reaching out toward Bruce. "C’mon, Bruce, be nice."

 

"No," Bruce said firmly, his voice flat and final, pulling the bunny back against his chest protectively.

 

Hal huffed, sitting back. "I’ll tell Clark you’re being mean," he threatened, his tone teasing but with an edge.

 

Bruce’s eyes widened, panic flickering across his features at the thought of Clark being disappointed in him, of being told he was bad. He hesitated, his face scrunching with internal conflict, and then he frowned deeply, let out a dramatic huff, and crawled away toward the toy chest. He dug through it for a moment, his back to them, and then emerged with a small toy car—black, sleek, clearly one of the nicer toys. He crawled back to Hal and thrust it toward him with obvious reluctance, his lower lip pushed out in a pout.

 

Barry’s eyes widened as he looked around the room, really seeing the extent of Clark’s preparations for the first time. "Oh wow, you got so much stuff," he said, then his gaze landed on a box in the corner, unopened, with robot parts visible through the plastic window. "Woah, are those robots?"

 

Bruce nodded, his interest piqued, his earlier irritation with Hal forgotten in the face of new toys.

 

"Why don’t you play with them?" Hal asked, turning the car over in his hands. "Everything is still in the box."

 

Bruce hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his overalls, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Didn’t... earn them," he whispered, the words barely audible, his gaze dropping to the mat.

 

"That’s silly," Barry said immediately, his voice warm and reassuring. "You’re good. Let’s play with the toys."

 

Bruce seemed to consider this, still hesitant, still uncertain. He looked toward the kitchen, where Clark was working, and then back at the box of robots. He opened his mouth, his voice small and questioning, "Daddy?"

 

Hal and Barry froze. The word hung in the air like a thunderclap, heavy and impossible to ignore. They turned slowly, almost mechanically, to stare at Bruce with wide, disbelieving eyes.

 

From the kitchen, Clark’s voice called back, warm and immediate. "Yes, baby?"

 

Bruce turned his head toward the sound of Clark’s voice, his expression hopeful. "Can play?"

 

"The sentence is wrong, sweetheart," Clark called back, his voice carrying the tone of gentle correction. "Try again."

 

Bruce furrowed his brow, his lips moving silently as he worked through the grammar. He thought hard, his face scrunched with concentration, and then tried again. "Can I play? Please?"

 

"Good boy," Clark praised, his voice beaming with pride. "Yes, you can play."

 

Hal and Barry turned to stare at Clark, who had emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. Hal’s mouth was hanging open slightly. "Did he just... call you—"

 

"Drop it," Clark interrupted, his voice firm but tired, his eyes warning.

 

Barry, ever the more diplomatic of the two, turned back to Bruce and asked gently, "Why do you say that? Why do you call him that?"

 

Bruce looked at him, his expression serious and simple. He pointed toward Clark, his finger steady. "Daddy," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Hal turned back to Clark, his expression scandalized. "Seriously? You told him to call you Daddy?"

 

"No!" Clark said immediately, his voice rising with defensive indignation. "He decided he wanted to do that! I told him no and he got sad, and I didn’t have a good reason to tell him no, so I just let him."

 

"But how did he hear it?" Barry asked, his head tilting in genuine curiosity.

 

"From a book," Clark explained, his shoulders dropping slightly. "A story about a dog and a kitten. He really wanted to give me a pet name."

 

Hal snorted, his smirk returning. "I bet you enjoy it, weirdo."

 

"Piss off," Clark snapped, but there was no real heat in it.

 

Bruce, who had been watching this exchange with growing anxiety, turned his attention fully on Hal. His brow furrowed, his small hands fisting at his sides, and he said with fierce, protective conviction, "Don’t... be mean."

 

Hal blinked, surprised by the sudden defense. "What?"

 

Bruce pointed at Clark, then back at Hal, his jaw set stubbornly. "Daddy is mine," he said, his voice carrying a note of possessive warning that was almost comical coming from a grown man in overalls. "Don’t be mean."

 

Barry immediately clutched his chest, his face melting into an expression of pure delight. "Aw, look at you. You’re so possessive even as a baby."

 

"This is so weird," Hal muttered, but Barry elbowed him in the ribs, and he fell silent.

 

They ended up playing with the robots together, the three of them sitting in a circle on the mat. Barry pulled out the pieces of one robot and tried to assemble it, snapping the wrong parts together, the head on backward, the arms mismatched. Bruce watched him for a long moment—thirty seconds of silent, intense observation—and then leaned over, gently took the pieces from Barry’s hands, and assembled it correctly with a few efficient movements.

 

Barry stared at the correctly assembled robot, then at Bruce. "Wow," he breathed. "So Batman’s still in there, huh? He emerged for three seconds."

 

"That’s funny," Hal chuckled, and then, with childish glee, he grabbed his own robot and made it attack Barry’s, making crashing sound effects.

 

Bruce immediately reached out and stopped Hal’s hand, his expression deeply offended. "No," he said firmly. "Friends."

 

"C’mon, Bruce," Hal wheedled, trying to pull his hand free. "Be fun."

 

"No," Bruce repeated, his voice rising slightly, taking on a whiny, stubborn edge. "Nooo."

 

"Clark!" Barry called out toward the kitchen, his voice amused. "Your baby bat is correcting us!"

 

"Good!" Clark called back, his voice warm and encouraging.

 

Hal looked between them, his expression incredulous. "Seriously? We’re calling him Clark’s baby now?"

 

"Well, he is," Barry said simply, his shoulders shrugging.

 

Hal stared at Barry. Barry stared back. Then they both looked at Bruce.

 

Bruce sat in the middle of the mat, clutching one of the robots in both hands, his overalls bunched around his knees, his socks pulled up neatly, looking deeply offended by the entire concept of robot violence. "No," he repeated firmly, his chin lifted in stubborn resolution.

 

Hal groaned dramatically, flopping backward onto the mat. "They’re robots, Bruce. The whole point is fighting."

 

Bruce frowned, his lower lip pushing out. "No."

 

Barry immediately switched sides, his hands coming up in surrender. "Actually, I think Bruce has a point."

 

"You were literally making laser noises thirty seconds ago," Hal accused, pointing a finger at him.

 

"I’ve changed as a person," Barry said solemnly.

 

Hal scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You haven’t."

 

While they argued, Bruce had been quietly arranging the robots into a neat little line, setting them up in a row on the mat, facing the same direction, like soldiers at attention or attendees at a meeting.

 

Hal watched him, his head tilting. "...What are you doing?"

 

Bruce glanced up, his expression serious. "Talk."

 

"The robots are talking?" Barry asked, his eyebrows rising.

 

Bruce nodded, his face earnest.

 

Barry gasped, the realization hitting him with dramatic force. "Oh my God, they’re having a meeting."

 

Bruce nodded again, pleased that Barry understood. "Important," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Like Daddy’s mee...tings."

 

Hal looked toward the kitchen, his voice carrying. "Clark, your kid is holding a business conference."

 

From the other room, Clark’s voice came back, warm and amused. "Sounds productive. We have one of those scheduled tomorrow."

 

Bruce looked pleased by that answer, his chest puffing out slightly, a small smile playing at his lips.

 

Hal flopped dramatically onto the mat, covering his face with his hands. "I’ve lost him."

 

"You never had him," Barry informed him, his tone matter-of-fact.

 

Bruce quietly reached into the box and pulled out another robot, this one silver and sleek. He held it out to Barry, who accepted it like he had been granted a sacred duty, his face serious and honored.

 

"Thank you, buddy," Barry said softly.

 

Bruce smiled—a small, shy thing—and then he turned his attention to Hal. A long pause followed. Hal waited, watching him. Bruce waited, his expression unreadable. Finally, Bruce sighed dramatically, the sound long and suffering, and reached into the box. He pulled out the ugliest robot available—misshapen, with one eye larger than the other, limbs mismatched, painted in clashing colors—and held it out to Hal.

 

Barry immediately burst out laughing, the sound loud and unrestrained. "Oh my God."

 

Hal looked at the robot in his hands, his expression horrified. "Why does mine look like that?"

 

Bruce shrugged, his face the picture of innocence.

 

Barry was wheezing now, clutching his stomach. "You got assigned ugly robot."

 

"This is favoritism," Hal complained, his voice rising in mock outrage.

 

Bruce hugged his own robot closer to his chest. "Mine nice."

 

"Mine is nice too!" Hal protested, holding up the ugly robot.

 

Bruce considered that for a long moment, his head tilting, his expression serious. Then, with devastating finality, he said, "No."

 

Barry nearly fell over, his laughter echoing off the walls.

 

From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of Clark laughing, the warm, genuine sound carrying through the room.

 

Hal pointed toward the kitchen, his face a mask of betrayal. "He’s encouraging this. You’re an unfit parent."

 

Clark’s voice came back, still laughing. "He’s clean, fed, and happy, so your opinion is irrelevant."

 

Bruce looked between them, his expression thoughtful. Then, after thinking very hard, his brow furrowed in concentration, he picked up the ugly robot that Hal had set aside. Hal looked hopeful, his eyes widening. Bruce carefully placed it beside his own nice robot, arranging them so they sat side by side, and said with quiet satisfaction, "...Friends."

 

Hal froze, his mouth slightly open. Barry immediately clutched his chest, his face melting. "Nope. That’s so adorable."

 

Hal’s expression softened despite himself, the mock outrage draining away to reveal something genuine and touched. "...Yeah. Okay."

 

Bruce seemed satisfied with this arrangement. He patted both robots on the head with equal affection, his large hands gentle with the plastic toys. Then he looked toward the kitchen, his face lighting up. "Daddy!"

 

"Yeah, baby?" Clark called back.

 

Bruce grinned, proud of his accomplishment. "Friends!"

 

There was a brief pause, then Clark answered, his voice warm and praising. "Good job, sweetheart. You guys want lunch? Since it’s us four, we could order out."

 

Bruce absolutely lit up at the praise, his whole body seeming to glow, his eyes shining with happiness.

 

Barry exchanged a look with Hal, raising his eyebrows in question.

 

Hal looked at Bruce, really looked at him—the man in the overalls and thigh-high socks, clutching his robot, his face open and hopeful and young. Hal reached out and ruffled Bruce’s hair, his touch gentle, and asked, "Pizza sounds good. What do you think, Bruce?"

 

Bruce nodded happily, his head bobbing vigorously, a wide smile breaking across his face.

 

Hal smiled back at him—a real smile, not forced or awkward, but genuine and warm. Barry noticed it immediately, his eyes widening slightly.

 

"You like him now?" Barry teased, his voice soft.

 

Hal looked at Bruce, at the way he was beaming at the mention of pizza, at the way he clutched his robot like a treasure, and shrugged, his smile turning sheepish. "Whatever. He’s kinda cute when he’s not trying to kill me with a glare."

 

And for the first time since they’d walked into the apartment, neither of them saw Batman. They only saw Bruce—Clark’s Baby Bat, sitting on the floor in his socks and overalls, waiting for pizza with his friends, his Daddy in the kitchen, and his robots by his side.