The Watchtower observation deck was quiet — the kind of quiet that came only after a long day of chaos. Stars drifted lazily past the glass dome above, the Earth glowing blue and peaceful far below. The hum of the station filled the silence, steady and low.
Two fathers sat on one of the lounge couches near the viewport.
Clark was leaning back, cape draped over his shoulder like a blanket, with tiny four-year-old Jon fast asleep in his arms. The boy’s small hand was curled into his dad’s chest emblem, his face pressed against the fabric, the faintest snore puffing against it.
Across from him, Bruce sat straight-backed, his cape pooled neatly around him, Damian perched quietly in his lap — alert, calm, and suspiciously awake for this hour. The boy was small, impossibly composed, hands folded in front of him like a mini version of his father. His head occasionally tilted toward the stars, eyes soft but sharp.
Clark sighed, smiling wearily. “You ever just… look at them and wonder how you’re supposed to do this? Keep them safe, teach them right, not mess them up?”
Bruce’s eyes didn’t move from the window. “Every day.”
Clark chuckled softly. “Parenthood’s harder than fighting Brainiac. At least Brainiac comes with a manual.” He glanced down at the sleeping boy in his arms and smiled faintly. “I just… I don’t know, sometimes I worry I’m not getting it right. Jon’s such a good kid, but I still—”
“You still wonder if you’re enough,” Bruce finished quietly.
Clark looked up, surprised. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Damian blinked slowly at the sound of his father’s voice, then leaned against Bruce’s chest, still refusing to sleep. Bruce absentmindedly brushed a hand through his son’s dark hair, a tiny, rare gesture of tenderness.
Clark smiled at the sight. “You make it look easy, you know. Raising kids. You’ve got four of them—”
“Five,” Bruce corrected without missing a beat.
Clark’s brow furrowed. “Five?”
Bruce’s lips twitched faintly. “You’re forgetting one. The loud one.”
Clark laughed quietly. “Oh, right. Jason.”
“Dick.”
Clark blinked again, glancing over. “What about him?”
Bruce looked down at Damian, who was now watching Jon sleep with faint curiosity, then back up at Clark. His voice was steady, but softer than usual — the kind of softness that only slipped through when he wasn’t thinking about it.
“You need a Richard in your life.”
Clark blinked. “A what?”
Bruce’s mouth quirked, just barely. “A Richard. Grayson.”
Clark tilted his head, confused but amused. “I’m sorry, are you saying I need a Nightwing?”
Bruce gave a faint exhale — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “I’m saying you need a younger version of yourself who somehow has endless energy, a blinding smile, and the ability to make every crisis seem survivable.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “You mean a chaos gremlin with acrobatics and emotional intelligence?”
“Exactly.”
Damian hummed quietly at that, glancing up at his father. Bruce’s gaze softened as he continued, voice low and thoughtful.
“Dick kept everyone in line before I even realised they needed it. Jason, Tim, even me.” He paused, thumb brushing over Damian’s hair absently. “He held that family together more times than I can count. The others… they followed my orders. But Dick? They followed him.”
Clark smiled, genuinely touched. “Sounds like you’re proud of him.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched again. “I am.” A pause. Then, almost begrudgingly, “Don’t tell him that.”
Clark stifled a laugh, careful not to wake Jon. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
For a long moment, they sat in quiet companionship — two exhausted heroes, two fathers just trying to figure it out.
Jon stirred, letting out a sleepy murmur. Clark shifted, brushing a hand over his son’s back until he settled again. Damian finally leaned fully against Bruce, eyes drooping, his small frame relaxing.
Bruce glanced over at Clark — two tired dads surrounded by stars.
“You’re doing fine, Clark,” he said quietly. “He’s happy. That’s what matters.”
Clark looked down at Jon again and smiled softly. “Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.