Rescued (SuperBat fic)

20

Clark turns the volume up on the speakers and shakes his ass gently as Beast of Burden starts to play. I stay where I am, slowly beating eggs in a glass bowl.
Clark's hands close around my shoulders.
"Not so controlled," he says quietly.
He slips a hand around my elbow, down over my forearm. He makes the whisking motion I'm making bigger and lighter. The eggs grow frothy and thin. I shrug him off.
Clark chuckles, turns around and leans back on the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"I still can't believe Alfred never baked with you."
I frown across at him and lean forward to read the recipe card. Clark drifts around me, preheating the oven and rubbing my shoulders as I pour the eggs into the rest of the mix and keep mixing everything together.
Clark sets his head on my shoulder and quietly sings, "Am I hard enough-"
"Take off your pants and I'll tell you."
He pushes at me, chuckling.
"You're so dirty."
"You like it."
He hums agreement.
I set the bowl down on the counter and watch as Clark dips a finger into the cookie dough. I feel my eyes widen as I watch him suck his finger clean.
"Oh you're just trying to get me going, aren't you, baby?"
He bites his fingertip, blushing.
He reaches across, lifts a spoon and sets about putting the dough on a tray in neat, even circles. And as he's sliding the tray into the oven, I hear a quiet thud and the rustle of newspaper.
Alfred is in the corner of the kitchen, grimacing as he mutters, "The paper, Bruce."
"Thanks Alfred."
And then it occurs to me that we're in here much earlier than usual. A glance outside at the still rising sun confirms it.
"Would you like the kitchen?" I ask.
He shakes his head and says, "No. Might I have a couple of those cookies, Bruce?"
"Absolutely."
He smiles for me and turns on his heel. I wander across and lift the paper to see the unhappy headline.

Flying Graysons Found Dead.

I turn the paper so that Clark can see it. His eyes suddenly grow dull. He blinks quickly.
"All of them?" He asks.
I skim the article.
"Oh no," I murmur.
Clark comes across and rubs my shoulders again.
"No, Clark," I mutter. "They left the kid."
"That's something at least."
"Clark, we should do something for him."
Clark nods solemnly.
"Does it say where he is?"
"PD took him in and he spent last night at the station, but he'll be going into the system."
"Bruce, what exactly do you want to do?"
I feel my clenched jaw fluttering.
"I want to beat the bastards who hurt this kid, beat them to a pulp."
"Bruce," Clark says quietly. "Bruce, you don't have to fix anything, fighting back for him doesn't solve anything."
I pace to the other side of the room and turn back to look at him.
"Clark don't tell me you don't get it."
I think back to that night. The crack of the shots echoing. Mom's pretty moss green dress stained with blood. The singed bullet-hole in dad's tuxedo shirt. The stunned and stock-still people around us. The distant sound of sirens. The blood on my hands as I sat, powerless, watching them slip away.
I feel Clark's eyes sliding over me, feel myself grow hot under them, feel my eyes start to well up.
"Can you look after the cookies?" I ask, adding. "I need to clean up, think."
He nods, chewing his bottom lip.
I tap the counter on my way out of the kitchen, drum my hands off my thighs and drag my fingertips along the walls as I wander through the bedroom and into the en-suite.
I put on the music from the movie we saw that night and drop my clothes, relax under the shower spray. I put my hands to my face, breathe out and rub my fingertips along my eyebrows. I wash my hair, lower my head to let the suds rush away, stare at my toes. I stand here until my skin starts to turn pruney, until the steam starts to escape into the bedroom. Only then do I step out.
I wrap a towel around my waist and plod out to the bed. I let myself fall down onto my back and kick my legs back against the end of the bed.
"Are you alright Bruce?"
I start up to find Alfred leaning on the doorframe.
"No, Alfred."
"Can I get you anything?"
"Call Lu-"
I stop myself.
"Call Tilda and have her cancel my day."
He nods.
"Bruce," he says quietly. "I won't tell you what to do. But don't do anything rash."
I nod and rise to my feet slowly, feeling strangely heavy and sore. I walk over to Alfred and press myself against him, set my head on his shoulder and wrap my arms around his back. He puts his arms around me and squeezes me, rubs one hand across my shoulder blades.
He pushes me back after a moment.
"Get dressed son."
He turns and wanders away. I hear him talking to Clark but I don't catch the words, just indistinct sounds.
I pull on boxers, sweats and a t-shirt. I rub my hair for a moment but then decide to leave it damp.
I go out to the kitchen and find Clark sitting at the table with his phone in his hands. The cookies are out on a cooling rack. I snag one and break it in two, extending one half toward him.
He eats slowly, and between bites he mutters, "I'll have to get off to work soon."
I nod.
"Will you be okay?"
I shake my head, glance out at the skyline and the sun behind it. I break the cookie in my hands into smaller pieces.
"That kid, Clark."
He nods and reaches across with one hand to skim his fingers across my wrist.
"I'll bring dinner tonight," he says. "Text me and tell you what you want, okay?"
I nod.
He rises and steps out. I hear the sound of the shower running. He comes back after fifteen minutes, fully dressed, and kisses my forehead before he rushes off.
I take out my phone and dial a number from memory.
"Commissioner Gordon's office."
"Sandra, it's Bruce Wayne. Could you put me through?"
"One moment."
I wait until the click, until Gordon answers, "You're predictable Bruce."
"Shut up," I snap. "What are you doing about the Graysons?"
"I have guys out right now speaking to other circus employees, trying to build a picture of who might do this and why."
"How's the kid?"
"He was in shock 'til the early hours, then finally broke down. He's in an open cell, with blankets and comfort food."
"Don't put him in the system," I blurt.
"Bruce, where am I supposed to put him?"
"I'll take him."
And then I put a hand over my mouth.
"Shit! Did I just say that?"
"Apparently you did," he answers dryly.
"I'll be down as soon as I can."
I hang up and pocket my phone. I shove my feet into some sneakers and text Liam. I find him waiting for me out the front of the building, leaning on the car.
"Where to, Bruce?"
"GPD HQ."
He nods to himself, unsurprised.
The ride is quick, traffic is surprisingly light.
Heads turn as I walk into the building. Apparently I can't get lost in the chaos of ringing phones, perps and locker-room talk.
Gordon meets me at reception and leads me through locked doors into the cells. The last cell on the left is open and the steady sound of a tin cup dinging off a wall drifts out to us.
I ask Gordon to hang back, then lean on the open cell door, look in at the young boy on the rubber mattress. His knees are pulled in close to his chest. His black hair is messy and unwashed. His right arm swings back and forth, tapping the cup on the wall.
"Hey kid."
He turns his head.
"Richard, right?"
"Dick," he mutters.
"I saw you perform a couple of weeks ago. You were incredible."
He shrugs.
When his head turns, he reminds me of puppets, the expression on his face is that wooden.
"What do you want?"
"I came to say that I was sorry to hear about the death of your parents."
He nods, his eyes low.
"Do you have any more family?"
He shakes his head.
I step into the cell and take a seat at the opposite end of the bench. I sit with one leg up and drum my fingers off the rubber.
"I lost my parents when I was around your age," I tell him. "I know this must all be scary and confusing."
He nods and finally stops tapping the cup off the wall. He fiddles with it, twists it in his hands.
"They're just gone," he whispers. "We were, they're just, it-"
He stops. He looks out into the hallway.
"I don't like it here," he mutters.
"It's not so comfortable, is it?"
I smile for him though I know he isn't looking.
"Dick, my name is Bruce. Would you like to come and stay at mine for a while? Until commissioner Gordon finds the guys who hurt your parents."
"What do I have to do?"
I feel my forehead crease.
"What do you mean?"
He finally raises his head and meets my eyes. He looks as confused as I feel.
"You mean I don't have to run errands or clean or...work?"
I chuckle though it isn't funny.
"No."
"Okay," he mutters.
"Come on then."
I hop up and offer him my hand. He scoffs for a moment, drops the tin cup and walks out ahead of me. As we pass Gordon, I ask that someone put Dick's things in the trunk of the car. Dick throws himself across the back seat and sighs happily, running his hands over the leather.
I cringe, remembering what Clark and I did after our night at the circus. But the car's been valeted at least once since.
I settle into the passenger seat and glance over my shoulder at him.
"Seatbelt."
He pushes himself upright and clicks the seatbelt into place.
He gapes at the apartment as we walk in.
Alfred, like everyone else, is unsurprised.
We put his things in the bedroom next to mine and watch him throw himself across the bed, waving his arms the way you do when you make snow angels.
"What do you want to do, kid?"
"Do you have cartoons?"
I nod.
"Come with me."
I get us set up in the living room with snacks and cartoons, let him get comfortable with his socked feet up on the coffee table.
And when my phone chimes at five, his head turns.
Clark: What do you want for dinner then?
I ask Dick. He says burgers. I high-five him.
Then I step away and call Clark.
"Hey," he sounds eager. "I'm just on my way to our regular place."
"I, um, don't," I tell him, grimacing.
"Huh? We said dinner."
"I did something today," I tell him. "And I don't know if we're ready for this, if you're ready, but me, I am."
"Bruce, what's going on?"
"The kid," I mutter. "I brought him here."
"Bruce."
"Clark, please, don't run."
He hangs up.
"Alfred!"
He appears in a moment.
"Could you order us cheeseburgers, fries and milkshakes?"
He nods and I go back to Dick, ruffling his hair for a moment as I drop back into my seat.
The kid falls asleep early, his head against my arm. I drape a blanket over him, pat his cheek and grab my laptop to do some work without leaving him.