"Take care, Nightwing. Holler if you need anything"

That was, of course, unlikely to happen. Unlike his mentor, Dick was not quite stubborn enough to turn away help when it was offered -- but he was equally reluctant to seek help outside of his usual circle. Clark was honest enough, at least with himself, to admit that this trip had been something of a sop to his own Gotham-wounded ego. It was nice to have been able to make a material difference, to actually stop a crime lord instead of inadvertently creating one. But in truth, Nightwing seemed to have things as under control as a town like Bludhaven could be.

Nightwing. Clark had never told Batman that he's given Dick that name, and he was fairly certain Dick had never mentioned it either. He'd have heard about it if Bruce knew. Oh, not a direct comment; the inscrutable Bat would never directly complain about Superman interfering with his former protégé, nor even grumble about said protégé taking the name of an alien as his identity. No, there would have only been some oblique, indirect remark to let Clark know that Batman, as always, knew all.

It would be wrong to take any petty satisfaction in knowing that Batman did not, in fact, know all.

Clark suspected that same petty satisfaction was behind Dick's reasons for never telling Bruce where he'd gotten the name. They had never directly discussed it, but Clark could guess that after half of lifetime of defining himself in terms of Batman, Dick had wanted Nightwing to be completely separate from his former mentor. He probably had very few real secrets from the man, and Clark was happy to be a part of one of them.

Well, two of them.

It had happened on the same rooftop where he had told Dick the story of Nightwing, although at night it had been draped in shadow and mystery.

"This is getting to be a habit."

Superman had heard a chuckle from the shadows. He could, of course, have seen perfectly well, but he tried not to use his powers to ruin other people's surprises.

"Yeah, well," Dick's voice had replied. "I thought that all things considered, you should be the first to see." There was a change in his voice that Clark couldn't quite pin down, as if it had deepened without actually changing pitch.

A familiar figure in unfamiliar clothes had stepped forward; in the span of a second, three things struck Superman.

The first was that although Dick had only heard a brief anecdote about Nightwing, he'd managed to incorporate elements of the Kryptonian hero's costume into his own. It was different, of course: no helmet, the collar, the Robin's-egg blue that harkened back to his previous identity. But the yellow bands were unmistakable, and Clark could not for the life of him figure out where Dick might have seen them. Ah well. Probably one of those the-ways-of-the-world-are-mysterious-and-strange-and-will-drive-you-mad-if-you-

think-too-long things.

The second was how different Dick looked from their meeting on the same rooftop six weeks before. Yes, everyone looked different in costume -- as his own continued ability to pull off an obvious charade proved -- but there was more to the change than just clothes. His stance, his expression behind the mask, his entire body language was a marked contrast to the dejected boy Clark had comforted.

Which brought him to the third thing, the real thing, the immense thing. In one blinding moment, it all became clear: just why Batman had all but driven his partner away, only to bring another child into his dangerous world; just what had made that partner suddenly "unsafe," and all the subtle gradations of that word; just what it was that Bruce had seen that the rest of them had somehow missed.

Clark had always known, in a detached way, that Dick Grayson was an attractive child. It had even been something of an issue in the discussions about young sidekicks that occurred every so often in the JLA. Not that anyone suspected Batman of any impropriety (attractive young sidekicks being something of a global problem), but there was occasional concern about the wisdom of any of them dragging an attractive adolescent into contact with people of dubious scruples. Batman had, not surprisingly, withheld comment on the question, but Clark suspected that it had bothered him in ways other qualms about bringing children into the hero business had not.

Clark had also known, again in that detached way, that Dick Grayson was no longer a child. Or maybe he hadn't known it, except as an intellectual fact. It was hard, after all, to think of anyone as an adult when you mostly saw them wearing short pants and elf boots. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe when you saw a person in the exact same clothes over the years, it was easy not to see that the child you had met eleven years ago was now almost six feet tall, that the build which had been almost too muscular for a child was sleek and supple and delightfully defined on the full height of a young man.

To this day, Clark was certain that his next action had taken Dick completely by surprise. If Dick was one of the few in the business who understood that the almighty Superman was as much Kansas farmboy as Kryptonian superhero, he had a somewhat simplistic and outdated idea of what that meant. Ah, well. Not the first person to make that mistake.

And if Dick had been surprised to suddenly find his feet no longer on the ground and his mouth being all but devoured, he'd reacted with aplomb. The stiffness of shock gave way not to the passive swooning Superman usually induced, but a frenzy of activity. Strong legs wrapping around his waist, hand tangling in his hair, hand between them, and…

Clark was, at times, grateful for the stain-resistance of his costume.

He gently settled Dick back to a standing position, and they separated with as much grace as possible. Out of long habit (and in an attempt to avoid Dick's face for a few more seconds), he checked for any signs of injury, any places he'd clutched too tightly or pressed too hard. A quick scan revealed nothing except a flash of skin on Dick's arm that hadn't been there before. Clark reached out and touched the torn fabric.

Dick looked down. "Oh. Um. Wow. Wasn't expecting to have to repair this quite so soon." He smoothed the fabric back up, meticulously matching the edges as if the would remain by magic.

Clark cleared his throat. "Sorry."

"Nah, might as well get used to it. Don't have the costume budget I used to." Dick looked up with that trademark grin. His face was flushed, his breathing still not quite even. "Besides, small price to pay for having an adolescent fantasy come true."

Clark managed to turn his instinctive wince into a smile; the last thing in the world he wanted to acknowledge was Dick as an adolescent.

"So," he said, nodding at the costume. "Should I guess?"

Dick's grin widened. "Yeah, well. Maybe I should formally introduce myself." He shifted his weight a bit, again holding up the small patch of torn fabric. He held out a hand, probably the same hand that had moments ago been moving between them. "I'm Nightwing."

If the handshake had seemed a bit anti-climactic, it was a perfect meeting of equals -- and perhaps a more appropriate gesture than the one that had preceded it.

They seldom spoke of the incident, although Clark occasionally caught a glint in Dick's eye that told him a comment was being suppressed with great willpower. He sometimes suspected that Dick had filed the whole thing as some bizarre rite of passage, the final transition from child sidekick to adult hero. Dick always had been more than a little oblivious to his own charms.

And neither of them had ever told Bruce.

Clark wondered sometimes if Dick had ever been tempted to throw the incident in Bruce's face during one of their battles. In the final analysis, however, Dick was far from stupid, and he must know that Batman would see a five-minute grope with Superman as anything but proof of his maturity.

His own reasons were obvious: if there were ever a line-crossing that Batman could not forgive, this was the one. The first JLA meeting after had been … interesting. Almost immediately after their second rooftop meeting, Nightwing had rushed off to Colorado to help his teammates, and news of his transformation had quickly reached their mentors.

Batman, of course, had not commented.

One or two of them had tried to approach him about it: Diana in eternal optimism, Arthur in something that was not quite gloating but very close. When they were rebuffed not with words, but with silence, Clark had sighed inwardly, set his shoulders, and gone to the satellite's surveillance area to give it his best shot.

Bruce was sitting by one of the consoles, text flying by so rapidly that if it had been anyone else, Superman would have known no actual reading was occurring. The two men sat in silence for several minutes as Clark tried to think of a way to begin.

Look, I get it, he didn't say.

You're being an idiot, he didn't say.

By the way, he's one heck of a kisser, he most certainly didn't say.

"So. How's Gotham these days?"

Oh, yeah. Clark Kent, professional journalist, at your service.

 

Bruce at least did him the courtesy of an answer. "Quiet at the moment, as much as it ever is."

Several moments of silence, which Clark broke by clearing his throat.

"You know, it occurred to me the other day, that I'd never even considered, or wondered, but who is it that makes your costumes?"

Occurred to me when I realized I'd ripped your former sidekick's in the throes of passion... okay, probably shouldn't add that.

"Is it Alfred?" He knew, of course, that he was babbling, and yet was somehow powerless to stop. "I'm sure he'd be very good at it, man of many talents, and I suppose you really couldn't send that out to just any tailor. Although for that matter, I have wondered who makes those gadgets of yours…"

Clark trailed off. He did not need x-ray vision to tell him that, behind the mask, Bruce was staring at him like he'd been sniffing Kryptonite.

Finally, he'd stood with a deep sigh. "Look. I know it's pointless saying this, but if you ever want to actually talk to someone, you have friends here. Even if you don't talk to me," and it's probably better you don't, "you could talk to one of them."

As he left the room, he couldn't quite resist a parting shot. "He's a good man, you know. You might consider being proud of that."

Batman had never come to him to talk, or to anyone else, as far as Clark knew. Things between Batman and Nightwing -- between Bruce and Dick -- had eventually improved. They seemed to have reached a tentative peace, more so now that Dick was settled in his own city. There was no question that Dick needed that space and freedom, even if Bludhaven wasn't the choice anyone would have made for him. Watching Nightwing navigate the demands of his new city was a genuine pleasure.

In, perhaps, more ways than one.

Bruce, you really are an idiot.

The familiar skyline of Metropolis came into view, and it was only a few moments before he could discern the shouting of a familiar female voice, surrounded by the inevitable sounds of chaos and destruction. Clark almost grinned as he changed his course. It was good to be home.

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