Archive of Our Own

When Bruce is eleven, he gets sick.

At school, Mrs. Mosley stands at the front of the room, chalk dust clinging to her fingers as she writes out long division problems Bruce learned years ago. The numbers line up neatly on the board, careful and methodical, the way she always is. Mrs. Mosley is kind to Bruce. One of the few adults who are.

She has thick, blonde hair she twists into a loose knot at the back of her head, pieces escaping no matter how many pins she uses. Sometimes, when the light hits it just right, it reminds Bruce of his mother. Not the way she looked exactly. Mrs. Mosley doesn’t dress like her. Martha Wayne always looked right.  Martha was elegant knee-length skirts and crisp blouses that never wrinkled. She knew what worked. She knew how to exist in rooms.

Mrs. Mosley never does. Her skirts are a little too long or a little too short, her shoes sensible in a way that doesn’t match anything else she’s wearing. Once, she wore the ugliest green sweater Bruce had ever seen, and had told the class very proudly it was her favorite. Bruce decided then that he liked her.

She doesn’t think he’s a spoiled rich boy. She doesn’t soften her expectations or sharpen her voice because of his last name. When he answers correctly, she smiles at him like it means something and calls him “dear” or “sweetheart” without sounding ironic. When Bruce is difficult, and Bruce is difficult, often, she doesn’t raise her voice. She just waits.

That’s what she’s doing now, chalk paused mid-problem, giving him time to answer, as if he didn't already do this work.

Bruce’s nose itches. He rubs at it with the back of his hand, subtle enough that no one notices, or at least no one comments. He hates when people comment. The feeling doesn’t go away. It crawls instead, slipping down the back of his throat in a way that makes swallowing uncomfortable.

He shifts in his seat, straightens his spine, answers the question anyway.

By the time Mrs. Mosley erases the board and moves on, the itch has settled somewhere deeper, warm and irritating. His eyes feel heavy, like he didn’t sleep enough, though he knows he did. He tells himself it’s nothing. He’s learned that word early. Nothing. It’s useful. It makes problems smaller.

The bell rings. Chairs scrape back. The classroom fills with noise again, and Bruce gathers his things carefully, methodical even when his fingers feel a little clumsy. He doesn’t think to mention the tickle in his throat. He doesn’t think to mention anything at all.

By lunchtime, his head aches faintly, a dull pressure behind his eyes. By the end of the day, his skin feels too tight, like he’s been standing too close to a fire. He walks home with his coat buttoned all the way up, even though it isn’t cold yet, because the air feels sharp against his neck.

He still doesn’t think he’s sick.

That realization comes later. Much later.

A few days of discomfort pass, quietly enough that Bruce almost believes he imagined them, until Thursday.

He wakes before the birds do, the room still dark and cold, and immediately knows something is wrong. His body aches from head to toe, not sharply, but all at once. It’s a deep, pulsing soreness that makes it feel like every muscle has been worked too hard and left to stiffen overnight. His skin is too hot. He can feel the heat trapped beneath his pajamas, the sheets sticking faintly to his back where sweat has soaked through.

The bed feels damp and warm.

Bruce lies very still, breathing shallowly, cataloguing sensations the way he does everything else. Headache. Heat. The slow, building pressure in his chest. A cough claws its way upward, insistent and rough, and he presses his lips together, swallowing it back.

He doesn’t make a sound.

He isn’t sure why.

When his parents were alive, being sick had never been a secret. His mother would sit at the edge of his bed, cool hand wrapped around his wrist, her thumb tracing absent patterns against his skin. She smelled like soap and perfume and something warmer beneath that. Home, probably. She hugged him when he cried, patted his back when his stomach turned, whispered reassurances even when she didn’t quite know what to do.

His parents had tried. They’d been a little clueless, sure. They sometimes had medicine administered late, instructions half-forgotten, and Alfred often stepped in to smooth the edges of it all. But they’d been there. Present. Concerned. Love had been immediate, instinctive, a given.

Bruce had rarely been sick anyway. He’d always bounced back quickly. Doctors praised his immune system, called him resilient. His parents laughed about it, proud.

After his parents died, Bruce stayed well.

He didn’t catch colds. He didn’t run fevers. He didn’t miss school. He cried, yes, but not the way people expected. His tears never came loudly or often. The adults whispered about it in careful voices, glancing at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. They said words like shock and denial, like those things were temporary, things that would eventually resolve themselves.

Bruce learned early that grief was something other people monitored.

Alfred did his best. He always did. He brought thermometers and tea and always watched carefully for signs of trouble. But Alfred was his butler. No matter how kind he was, no matter how much he cared, that distance existed. Alfred had other family and other obligations. He was not Bruce’s blood, even if Bruce loved him and Alfred loved him back in his own steady way.

Bruce understood that, even at eleven.

So when his chest tightens and the cough threatens again, he stays silent. He rolls carefully onto his side, pulling the damp sheets closer around himself instead of pushing them away. He stares at the dark ceiling and waits for morning.

Nobody told him to hide it, but nobody ever had to. That’s just the way things went.

Bruce gets up anyway.

He showers quickly, because standing still makes everything worse. The hot water feels almost good at first, steam loosening the tightness in his chest, but it doesn’t last. As soon as he turns the tap off, the chill sinks in hard, crawling over his skin. He dries off with more care than usual, fingers clumsy, movements slow. His limbs feel heavy, like they don’t quite belong to him.

He dresses himself, button by button. The uniform sits wrong on his body today. It feels too stiff, the collar brushing his throat in a way that makes him want to pull at it. He resists the urge. He always does. By the time he reaches the breakfast table, he’s practiced his face into something acceptable. Alfred glances at him once, sharp-eyed as ever.

“Did you sleep well, Master Bruce?”

Bruce shakes his head slightly, polite, apologetic. “Not very.”

Alfred hums, already reaching for the teapot. No further questions. No alarm. Bruce eats what he can, which isn’t much, and keeps his hands folded neatly in his lap so Alfred won’t notice how they tremble.

Then he’s on his way to school.The noise hits him first. Lockers slamming, shoes scuffing, voices overlapping in a way that feels sharper than it should. Everything echoes. Each sound seems to land directly behind his eyes, where the ache has settled in and refuses to move.

Harvey finds him in the hallway and starts talking. He says something about a quiz, maybe, or a teacher being unfair. Bruce listens, nods in the right places, murmurs agreement when it seems appropriate. Harvey doesn’t notice anything is wrong. He never does. He gets distracted halfway through his sentence by someone calling his name and darts off without another word.

Bruce keeps walking. Before the first bell rings, he detours into the bathroom. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too white. He grips the edge of the sink and studies his reflection. His skin looks flushed, eyes a little too glassy. He straightens his tie, smooths his hair, dabs at his face with a rough paper napkin until the damp heat recedes just enough to pass. His head throbs in time with his pulse. His clothes cling to him uncomfortably, fabric brushing skin that feels over-sensitive, every touch registering too loudly. He swallows against the familiar tickle in his throat and forces himself upright.

The bell rings. Bruce throws the napkin away, squares his shoulders, and heads to class like nothing is wrong.

Because this is what you do.

He makes it until noon.

Physical education is the last thing he wants to see on his schedule, the neat block of text feeling suddenly ominous. He knows he won’t manage it even while he’s changing, fingers stiff as he pulls the uniform over his head. The fabric sticks unpleasantly to his skin, and the simple act of bending to lace his shoes leaves him momentarily breathless.

He pauses, hands braced on his knees, waiting for the world to steady.

It doesn’t, but the whistle blows anyway.

Bruce follows the rest of the class into the courtyard, sunlight spilling down in a way that feels personal. Gotham November isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s too bright and warm, the sun glaring overhead as if someone has turned a spotlight directly onto him. The concrete reflects the heat back up, trapping it against his legs, his chest, his throat.

He tells himself it’s fine. He always does.

Warm-ups come first. Stretching. He moves through the motions carefully, muscles protesting as he reaches, bends, twists. Everything hurts more than it should, a dull, spreading ache that makes his limbs feel thick and heavy. His heart beats too fast, fluttering uncomfortably in his chest. He breathes through it, slow and controlled, the way he’s learned. The first lap is manageable. He keeps his pace even, measured. His lungs burn, but that’s expected. Everyone’s lungs burn.The second lap is harder. The world seems slightly tilted, the edges of things softening in a way he doesn’t like. His vision blurs briefly, then clears. He swallows, tasting something metallic at the back of his throat, and keeps running. By the third lap, sweat is dripping down his spine, soaking the collar of his shirt. He tells himself it’s just the exercise, just the heat. He tells himself everyone feels like this. His head pounds with each step, pulse loud in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the courtyard.

The ground feels farther away than it should.

He tries to focus on the line of the fence, on the sound of his shoes against the pavement, on keeping his breathing steady. Something tightens sharply in his chest, a warning flare of pain that makes him falter. His foot catches. Or maybe it doesn’t.

Bruce doesn’t remember what happens after the third lap. There’s only a sudden, sickening lurch — the sense of falling without actually moving — and then nothing at all.

“What was going through your mind, Master Bruce?”

Alfred’s voice comes from the chair beside the bed, low and carefully even. Bruce stares at the canopy above him, at the familiar curve of dark wood, pretending that its more important than anything else currently happening. The room smells faintly of medicine and clean linen, the air cool against his overheated skin.

“Why on earth didn’t you say something?”

Bruce swallows. His throat hurts. Everything hurts, really, a deep soreness that settles into his bones and refuses to leave. He remembers pieces of the night in fragments. He remembers Alfred’s hand at his wrist, counting softly; cool cloths pressed to his forehead; being urged, gently but firmly, to drink. He remembers waking and sleeping and waking again, never quite sure how much time had passed.

Alfred sounds frustrated. Upset. That’s worse than anger.

Alfred hardly ever raises his voice, hardly ever lets emotion bleed through the careful distance he keeps between himself and the world. Even now, his tone is controlled, but something sharper edges it, something Bruce doesn’t hear often and doesn’t like hearing at all.

Bruce feels small beneath it. Ashamed.

He had known, somewhere deep down, that this would be the result if he’d said anything. Alfred would ask too many questions. He would worry, probably, and give him that disapproving stare when the answers to his questions weren’t as he wanted them to be. Bruce would have attention drawn in a way that feels heavy and uncomfortable. It’s part of why he hadn’t spoken up in the first place, even if he couldn’t have named it then.

At eleven, Bruce doesn’t have the words for what’s twisting in his chest. He doesn’t know how to explain the fear of being a problem, or the quiet hope that if he endured long enough, he might earn something — approval, maybe, or relief. He only knows the feeling of wanting to be good, and not quite knowing what that means.

He shifts restlessly, burrowing deeper beneath the blankets, pulling them up around his shoulders like a shield. The movement makes his head throb, but he welcomes the familiar discomfort. It’s easier than answering.

“I could handle it,” he says.

The words come out sharper than he intends, edged with something petulant and defensive. He hears it immediately and hates himself for it. It sounds rude. Ungrateful. Like he’s done something wrong again, even now.

Alfred goes quiet. Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the reprimand that doesn’t come. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, settling between them. Bruce curls inward, breathing shallowly, and hopes for the moment to pass.

Alfred is a military man. Bruce forgets that sometimes.

He has a discipline Bruce lacks, especially now, when everything hurts and the world feels too close. Alfred studies him for a moment longer, gaze sharp and assessing, the way it always is when something has gone wrong. Then, just briefly, his expression falters, a stutter Bruce almost misses, before the familiar mask settles back into place.

“You are young, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, measured, precise, “but you are not a toddler. You know better than anyone when you are unwell. You should have known this would happen.”

The words land heavily, even without being raised. Then, softer, as if offering a concession rather than comfort, Alfred adds, “You may come to me, Master Bruce. That is my responsibility. My job is to help.”

His job.

Bruce hates the way that word sounds in his head. Cold. Distant. Official. Why does it have to be a job? Why can’t Alfred just do it—just take care of him because he wants to, because Bruce needs him, because—

Because Bruce has no one else.

The thought settles uncomfortably in his chest. He loves Alfred. He knows that. He loves him fiercely, desperately, because Alfred is what’s left. Because loving him feels safer than admitting how alone he actually is. Bruce turns his face into the pillow, tugging the blanket higher so Alfred won’t see his eyes burning. He blinks hard anyway, but the tears slip out regardless, hot and humiliating. He presses his mouth tight, breathing through his nose, willing himself to stop.

“I thought I could handle it,” he says again, voice muffled and small.

There’s nothing else he can say. No better explanation, or words for the wanting or the fear or the hope that maybe, if he endured quietly enough, things wouldn’t get worse.

Alfred exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when he’s decided not to escalate things further. The silence stretches just long enough for Bruce to brace himself.

“That is quite all right, Master Bruce,” Alfred says at last. His tone is calmer now, gentler, as though the matter has been resolved. “You are under a great deal of strain. Anyone would misjudge themselves under such circumstances.”

Strain, although Bruce can’t think of anything worth speaking of. Mom and Dad are dead, but that was some years ago now, and most people get over it enough by then so it isn’t affecting them daily. That's what the therapist said to him at least, and what he supposed most people at school were thinking anyway. Bruce has friends, and he goes to a nice school, and Alfred makes sure he's fed and warm and safe. So, what hardship? What could Bruce ever complain about? 

He can't think of anything. But he knows, that for some reason, he still feels a pit in his stomach every day. He hasn't quite figured out why, nor does he think he ever will. 

Bruce peeks out from beneath the blanket, just enough to see Alfred’s profile. He looks composed again, settled back into the version of himself Bruce recognizes best.

“You are a very capable young man,” Alfred continues. “Independent. Strong. Those are admirable qualities. They will serve you well.” He reaches out then, smoothing the blanket at Bruce’s shoulder. It's a careful, contained gesture, more corrective than comforting. “But even capable people require assistance on occasion. That is why I am here.”

Bruce nods, because nodding is easy. Alfred takes the nod as understanding. He always does.

“You did nothing wrong,” Alfred adds, as if that settles it. “You simply waited too long. Next time, you will come to me sooner.”

Next time. Bruce swallows. His throat still hurts. His chest still feels tight. He tucks himself deeper into the covers, small and quiet, absorbing the words the way he absorbs everything else.

Capable. Independent. Strong.

He understands, even if Alfred doesn’t realize he’s taught him anything at all. If he wants help, he should ask earlier. If he asks too late, he’s a problem. If he doesn’t ask at all, no one is disappointed.

Alfred stands after a moment, satisfied, and adjusts the medicine on the bedside table so it’s within reach. “Try to rest now, Master Bruce,” he says gently. “I’ll be just outside if you require anything.” The door clicks shut behind him. Bruce lies still, listening to the house settle around him. He wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his pajamas and stares at the dim light creeping in through the curtains.

Next time, he thinks, he won’t wait too long.

Next time, he just won’t say anything at all, because he'll be strong enough to hide everything. 

“You heading home soon, Spooky?”

Hal is leaning against the control panel again. It’s a habit Bruce has learned to tolerate from Clark. An unconscious sprawl, all ease and misplaced trust, but from Hal Jordan it feels invasive.  The irritation sparks hotter than it should. December is always like this. Crime spikes were common because the holidays invite theatrics. Costumed robberies, coordinated break-ins, grandstanding villains with tinsel-themed crimes.Bruce is tired. The League spends weeks putting out fires while pretending it’s all very festive. Bruce hasn’t slept in two days, buried in cleanup from a mess Barry left behind without even realizing it needed fixing. It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.

Bruce cleans up after the League. Even when they don’t know they’ve made a mess.

He doesn’t feel like responding. He usually would, at the very least some clipped acknowledgment, something to move things along , but the words feel like too much effort. Instead, he lets out a low, noncommittal sound.

"Hnm.” It isn’t yes or no. It isn’t even a sentence. It’s closer to please get out of my space, Hal Jordan, stripped down to its barest form. Hal, unfortunately, is fluent in Bruce Wayne. Well, he thinks he is.

“Christ,” Hal says, grinning anyway. “All work and no play makes Spooky a dull boy. Ever heard of that? Real popular saying.”

Bruce doesn’t look at him. His focus stays fixed on the bright display, even as the lines blur slightly at the edges. He blinks once, hard, steadying himself.

Hal keeps talking. “I mean, I know pickings are slim,” he goes on, undeterred, “but you seriously don’t have any plans? At all? It’s almost Christmas, man.”

Something in Bruce tightens at that. The suit feels heavier than usual, plates pressing against aching muscles, the cowl snug in a way that makes his head throb. He can feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, deep and unyielding. He’s running on something stubborn and sharp, and it’s wearing thin.

“Come on, knock it off, Hal.”

Clark’s voice cuts in, soft and steady, pitched low in a way that smooths the air around it. Bruce feels it more than he hears it. Clark's voice felt like familiar and grounding, a quiet hand at the back of his neck. Clark steps closer, placing himself subtly between Hal and the console.

“Give him a break, will you?” Clark adds gently. “Barry’s been waiting for you for a while.”

Hal looks between them, eyebrow arching. Then he grins, wide and unapologetic. “Yeah, alright. Here’s to hoping I don’t see either of you until after Christmas, huh?” He points vaguely between them. “Well, be seeing you. Merry Christmas, Superman. Spooky.” He pauses, tone turning almost sincere. “Seriously, do yourself a favor and have some fun.”

Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he walks away, far too much pep in his step for someone who just finished a League shift. Bruce, although he rarely admits it, cares a great deal about the League members no matter how often some of them get on his nerves. He respects them because he knows them, and has seen how often they fight tooth and nail for the same goals Bruce is heading toward. Likely, only Clark and Diana really understand the length of his affection for them all, but Bruce thinks it's better to keep it that way. 

Still, that doesn't mean he's suddenly going to find Hal agreeable 

Bruce watches him leave, jaw tightening. He doesn’t realize he’s frowning until his face aches from it.

Clark exhales, long and heavy, the sound filling the space Hal leaves behind. “Geez,” he mutters. “He really ruffles my feathers sometimes.” He shakes his head, fond but exasperated. “Hal’s a swell guy, but he does not know when to drop it.”

He steps closer and takes the spot Hal had been occupying, leaning back against the console with easy familiarity. The hum of the Watchtower settles again, steady and low. Clark’s presence does that to him. It's like hearing it tells Bruce's body that everything is going to be just fine. 

Bruce only glances at him. Just enough to acknowledge he’s there.

“You alright, B?” Clark asks.

It’s not accusatory. Just… observant.

Bruce opens his mouth to answer and realizes, distantly, that his throat hurts. He swallows, shifts his weight, the armor tugging uncomfortably at his shoulders. The fatigue sits heavy behind his eyes, a dull pressure he’s been ignoring for hours.

“I’m fine,” he says.

The words come out rougher than he intends. Not angry, at least he hopes not, just worn thin.

Clark doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing in that way that means he’s listening to more than just the words. Bruce can feel it the scrutiny, gentle but unyielding. Clark likely notices the way Bruce’s shoulders are set too tight, the way he hasn’t quite stopped bracing for something. The faint hitch in his breathing he smooths over too quickly.

Bruce can only ever hope Clark isn’t using his powers on him, but he trusts Clark. Clark promised long ago he’d only ever use them on Bruce if necessary, and Bruce prays Clark doesnt think its necessary now. 

“Uh-huh,” Clark says finally, unconvinced but not pressing. “You look… tired.”

Bruce almost laughs. He doesn’t. “It’s December,” he says instead. “Comes with the territory.”

Clark hums, low in his throat. “Still.” He doesn’t move away from the console. Doesn’t crowd Bruce, either. He just stays, solid and warm in a way that makes Bruce acutely aware of how cold and hollow he feels inside the suit.

Bruce turns back to the display, jaw set. Clark watches him for another beat longer than necessary.

“Well. Uh—listen,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was meaning to ask you something.”

Bruce keeps typing. The cursor blinks, waiting.

“I’m heading home for Christmas soon,” Clark continues. “Ma wanted help making dinner the day before. She does a lot of prep, even though it’s just us three.” He gives a small, self-conscious smile. “She makes a lot of food. I always feel bad eating it all myself. And—” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “they really liked you, last time.”

Bruce’s hands still, and he turns his head and looks at Clark properly for the first time.

Clark is still in his suit, cape folded back, but his hair is loose, curls falling into his face. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks, the kind that suggests warmth rather than exertion. Bruce has felt that warmth all evening. Maybe the Watchtower was running a few degrees higher than usual, or maybe  it was just Clark’s presence bleeding into the space.

Bruce narrows his eyes slightly and grunts, “What about it?”

Clark shifts, clearly nervous now. “Well—Dick and Jason and, uh… everyone else isn’t coming back to Gotham for a bit.”

Bruce already knows that. He nods anyway.

“So,” Clark goes on, gaze sliding away, then back again. “I just thought—would you want to visit us?” He sits up straighter, words tumbling out faster. “Just for a little while! You know, have dinner and head back, if that’s what you want. Or—” He winces slightly. “We’d like you to stay longer. I mean. You could. If you wanted.”

Bruce doesn’t respond.

Clark rushes to fill the silence. “I mean—come over. For Christmas. If. If you want to.”

The hum of the Watchtower seems louder in the pause that follows. Bruce stares at him, expression unreadable, mind moving far too quickly. Christmas. Someone wanting him there without needing anything from him in return. His chest tightens, sharp and sudden.

“I—” Bruce starts, then stops. He turns back to the console, jaw setting. “I haven’t made plans,” he says finally. Not yes. Not no. Just a statement of fact.

Clark nods, immediately relieved not to have been rejected outright. “Yeah. That’s—yeah. I figured.” He waits.

Bruce keeps his eyes on the screen, fingers hovering uselessly above the keys. The offer lingers in the air between them, gentle and dangerous and far too close to something Bruce doesn’t know how to accept. Clark doesn’t press. He never does. But he doesn’t take it back, either.

Bruce should say no. The reasons line up easily enough. Gotham needs him. The League will need him. There are loose ends to tie off, systems to monitor, contingencies that don’t take holidays. He doesn’t belong in Smallville kitchens or warm houses or anywhere people would notice if he didn’t eat much, or slept oddly, or went quiet for long stretches.He could decline politely. Thank Clark for the invitation, cite work, apologize for the inconvenience. He’s done it a thousand times. Bruce Wayne knows how to refuse things without burning bridges.Except this isn’t Bruce Wayne being asked, or even Batman. Clark has never seen him as either of those, and he is one of the few people who don’t. Absurdly, no matter the circumstances, Bruce has always had a bad habit of seeing himself and Clark as two entities separated entirely from the suits. Suits, both of the civilian and hero variety. 

That is what they were. Bruce Wayne and Batman were secret identities. Clark Kent and Superman were as well. 

In his mind, though. He thought of them as...

Kal and B. Not really friends, but a third more important thing. 

Clark is watching him — not expectantly, exactly, but openly. Like the answer matters. That irritates him. It shouldn’t. He’s never minded being rude before. Bruce was always unyielding, and could never be forced to do something he didn’t want to do. Those hard headed traits have always been tools, not flaws. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than letting people close enough to notice the cracks.So why does he care now?

Bruce tightens his jaw, reaching for a response that won’t sound like rejection. Something neutral. Something clean. I’ll think about it. I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Before he can choose, the pressure in his chest spikes sharply. He turns away, fast, bringing his fist up to his mouth as a cough tears out of him. It feels and sounds rough, deep, and immediately painful. It scrapes through his chest like sandpaper, leaving him breathless and lightheaded. He coughs again, shorter this time, shoulders tensing as he fights to rein it in.

Heat floods his face. He keeps his head down, waiting for the world to steady. “I’m—” He clears his throat, winces when it burns. “Sorry.”

Clark is already moving.“Hey,” he says quietly, concern bleeding into his voice before he can stop it. “You okay?”

Bruce straightens too quickly, forcing his breathing into something even. “I’m fine,” he repeats, sharper this time, as if that will make it true.

Clark doesn’t look convinced.

Bruce swallows, chest tight, and finally says, “I’ll… think about it.”

The words hang there, thin and tentative. For a moment, Clark doesn’t react at all. His attention is still fixed on Bruce’s posture.He’s too busy making sure Bruce isn’t actively collapsing to register what’s been said. Then it clicks. “Oh.” Clark’s face lights up all at once, like a switch has been flipped. The concern melts into something openly delighted, soft and unguarded. He straightens abruptly, nearly bouncing on his heels.“Really?” he says, bright and hopeful. “Oh—that’s great. That’s really great.” He lets out a small, breathless laugh, clearly trying to rein it in and failing. “I mean, that’s better than what I was—well. Okay!”

He grins to himself, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe it worked.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Clark says quickly, already stepping back. “I don’t want to be a bother.” He gestures vaguely toward Bruce, then the corridor beyond. “You’ve got my number. And you know the address—if you don’t want me to pick you up, that’s totally fine. Whatever’s easiest.” His smile softens, earnest again. “I really hope you come.” He hesitates, hovering for a second longer, clearly tempted to say something else. Whatever it is, he thinks better of it. Instead, he gives a small, restrained fist pump at his side. It’s a private victory, but its somehow more embarrassing than an overt celebration.

Then he turns and walks away, footsteps light, almost buoyant, disappearing down the hall. Bruce stays where he is, watching him go. The space Clark leaves behind feels colder. A second later, the pressure in Bruce’s chest spikes again, sudden and unforgiving. He turns sharply away, bracing a hand against the console as a cough tears out of him. He bites down hard, trying to swallow the rest of it, but his lungs protest, forcing another rasping cough free. By the time it passes, he’s breathing shallowly, forehead pressed briefly to the cool metal.

The decision happens because of Alfred.

The day after Clark invites him to the Kents’ for Christmas, Bruce very nearly convinces himself it isn’t worth the time. Not because he doesn’t like them. He does, more than that, really. He’s fond of them in a way that surprises him when he thinks about it too closely. Clark is his… lets say friend. A real one. That distinction matters. It’s not often Bruce allows himself to say that about anyone.

He likes Clark’s company. He likes the quiet warmth of his parents, the way they ask questions without prying and listen without expecting anything clever in return. And Martha’s cooking — well. Bruce would be lying if he said that wasn’t a significant part of the appeal.

Still. Why go? He isn’t family. He isn’t blood. What reason would they have to want him there, beyond a sense of obligation? Kindness, extended politely and temporarily. He knows how to recognize that shape. He’s lived inside it most of his life.

The manor is dark this winter. No decorations line the bannisters. No lights in the windows. That had always been Jason and Damian’s domain. Both boys were surprisingly meticulous about it, in their own ways. Damian precise and exacting, Jason insisting on traditions he pretends not to care about. Alfred, of course, had taught them both, passing down rituals the same way he passed down recipes and rules. With everyone scattered — Titans business, personal business, Jason’s business — no one has come home. Bruce told himself he understood. He does understand. That doesn’t make the house feel any less empty.

He accepts it, in theory. The ache that follows is another matter. It settles low in his chest, dull and persistent. Maybe it’s self-punishment. Bruce coughs into his sleeve, the sound rougher than he expects, and turns back to the kettle before it can boil over. He pours himself a mug of tea, scalding hot, the steam stinging his face as he inhales too deeply. It soothes his throat for a moment. He tells himself it’s just a small bug. Nothing serious. It’ll pass in a day or two.

Alfred always did Christmas with him. It was never elaborate. Just the two of them, exchanging modest gifts, sitting by the fire with cocoa growing cold in their mugs while the house hummed softly around them. It had been that way long before Dick arrived. Most years after Dick were loud and alive, and Bruce liked it that way. The recent years had been good. Better than Bruce ever would’ve expected. The children filled the house with noise and movement and warmth, bickering over decorations, sneaking extra desserts, pretending not to care. Even Jason, who could barely stand to be in the same room with him most days, always softened around the holidays. He’d stop by, linger for a few hours, joke with the others. Bruce had learned to treasure that time quietly. They would be here, he knows, if work allowed it.

Bruce stands alone in the kitchen, tea warming his hands, and stares at the empty space where Alfred’s chair used to be. The realization comes suddenly and without mercy.

He has never done Christmas alone.

The house feels too large around him, every absence amplified by the silence. Bruce lowers himself into a chair, breath shallow, chest tight, and for the first time since Clark asked, he doesn’t try to argue his way out of it.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens Clark’s contact. The screen fills with their message history. The spoke of mostly practical things, clipped and efficient. Interspersed between them, though, are the interruptions. Small, human things that never quite fit and yet always land anyway.

Have you eaten, Bruce?

I had a wonderful lunch at work and I wanted to show you.

A photo follows: a sandwich stacked far too high, bread barely containing it.

Isn’t it a pretty sandwich?

Another message, days later.

Hey, B! Have you seen this article? Riveting stuff!

Bruce snorts softly, the sound surprising even him. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he can stop it. Clark’s enthusiasm bleeds through the screen just as easily as it does in person, earnest and unembarrassed, like it never occurred to him that anyone might not want to be included.

Bruce types a message.

Stops.

Deletes it.

The blinking cursor feels louder than it should.

Maybe it’s better not to say anything yet. No expectations, no fuss. He can just show up. Pick up a gift or two on the way ,something thoughtful,  have dinner, stay a respectable amount of time, and leave. Simple and manageable and without making Bruce stress about much. It doesn’t have to be a thing. Bruce locks the phone and sets it aside, the screen going dark. He rubs at his temples, eyes closed. He feels like shit. For a moment longer than necessary, Clark’s messages linger in his mind.  Clark offered warmth casually, without accounting or obligation.

Bruce exhales slowly. He tells himself he’ll decide later.

Days before Christmas Eve, Bruce realizes his plans are shot to shit.

The bug doesn’t go away. It should have. That’s how these things work. Every time hes gotten sick in the past decade he’ll go a day or two of discomfort, a night of poor sleep, then the body rights itself and moves on. Bruce has relied on that rhythm for most of his life. He keeps moving anyway, because stopping has never made sense to him as an option.

He goes on patrol. He handles his work at Wayne Corp. He eats when he remembers to, sleeps when exhaustion forces the issue. He follows the usual motions so closely that it almost feels convincing.

Almost.

The cough starts intruding on patrol first. It catches him mid-swing, sharp and sudden, forcing him to lock his jaw and grit through it while suspended between buildings. He lands harder than he intends more than once, boots skidding slightly on wet stone. He adjusts. Compensates. Tells himself it’s nothing. At Wayne Tower, the lights feel too bright, glaring white against the polished floors. His head throbs steadily, a dull ache that spikes whenever someone speaks too loudly or moves too quickly near him. By mid-morning, nausea coils low in his stomach, sour and insistent. He excuses himself from a meeting he could normally run in his sleep and locks himself in his office bathroom until the room stops spinning.

He washes his face with cold water and stares at his reflection until it looks passable again. Still, he keeps going. By the third night, sleep becomes fragmented and useless. He dozes sitting upright on the couch, wakes coughing, lungs burning, chest tight enough that drawing a full breath hurts. His sheets are damp by morning. He tells himself it’s just the fever breaking, even though it never quite does.

And then, on the fourth morning, he wakes the same way he did when he was eleven. Before the morning had fully come, Bruce wakes with the immediate, unmistakable knowledge that something is wrong. His body aches from head to toe. Heat radiates off him in suffocating waves, trapped beneath the blankets he kicked away at some point without remembering. His clothes cling uncomfortably to sweat-soaked skin. His chest feels tight and heavy, breathing shallow and careful by instinct rather than choice. A cough builds, deep and unavoidable this time.

Bruce rolls onto his side and presses his fist against his mouth, but it tears out of him anyway — rough, wet, and painfully deep. The sound echoes too loudly in the empty room. He coughs again, gasping faintly at the end of it, vision blurring at the edges.

For a moment, he lies there, heart racing, staring at the far wall. This is different. At eleven, he’d been small and feverish and scared, but he’d still trusted that the world would intervene if things got bad enough. Someone would notice. Someone would decide for him. Now, the manor is silent.

Bruce swallows, throat raw, chest aching with each breath. He shifts carefully, the movement making his head swim, and stares up at the ceiling as the truth settles in, slow and unwelcome. He isn’t getting better. And whatever this is, it’s already gone too far.

The next few days blur together in pieces. Bruce remembers heat first. The way it settles under his skin and refuses to leave, clinging no matter how many layers he sheds. He remembers shivering anyway, teeth chattering hard enough that his jaw aches afterward. He remembers coughing — deep, ugly coughs that leave him hunched over furniture, one hand braced, the other fisted uselessly against his chest. Patrol becomes shorter and sloppier. He cuts it off early more than once, landing hard in the cave and peeling the cowl away with shaking fingers. He tells himself it’s going to be okay. He tells himself a lot of things.

At the manor, time slips. Tea goes cold on the counter. The kettle boils dry once, shrieking until he startles hard enough to nearly drop it. He forgets to eat. When he remembers, the thought of food turns his stomach. He dozes sitting upright, wakes choking on a cough that feels like it tears something loose deep in his chest.

The house stays quiet.

Christmas lights remain dark in their boxes. Alfred’s chair stays empty. Bruce drags a blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around himself, shivering so badly his hands won’t stop trembling. At some point, he isn’t sure when, he remembers Clark.

The thought lands heavy and slow, like it has to push through fog to reach him. I should tell him. That he’s sick. That he won’t make it. That he didn’t forget, or change his mind, or decide the invitation wasn’t worth his time. He fumbles for his phone. It takes him three tries to unlock it. His vision swims, the screen too bright even at the lowest setting. Clark’s name fills the display, comforting and familiar, and Bruce exhales shakily.

Just say you can’t make it, he tells himself. Be polite. Be normal. He starts typing. Deletes it.Starts again.

The words come out wrong.

> bruce: hey

bruce: sorry i am

bruce: sick. like. bad soup lung.

bruce: not food soup. me soup.

He squints at the screen, frowning. That doesn’t look right. He tries to fix it.

> bruce: i mean lungs

bruce: sorry

bruce: cant christmas

bruce: still want to. but. floor

Bruce stares at the last word, utterly baffled as to how it got there. He vaguely considers deleting everything, then decides that would take too much effort. He presses send instead and lets the phone slip from his hand onto the couch.

Clark is brushing his teeth when Bruce’s texts come in.

He has the Top 100 Holiday Hits playing from his phone, something loud and cheerfully insistent filling the apartment, and he’s halfway through humming along when his phone buzzes against the counter. He picks it up absently with his free hand, still smiling, still relaxed, and then promptly spits toothpaste into the sink in startled confusion.

He stares at the screen.

> bruce: sick. like. bad soup lung.

bruce: not food soup. me soup.

Clark blinks once, then again, trying to parse it. “Soup… lung?” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, brow furrowing. He keeps reading, unease creeping in slowly, like a shadow stretching across the room.

> bruce: cant christmas

bruce: still want to. but. floor

Something tightens in Clark’s chest.

Bruce isn’t much of a texter on a good day, and when he does message, it’s usually clipped and precise, every word chosen deliberately. This—this is messy. Disjointed. Almost careless. Clark scrolls back through the conversation automatically, past logistics and mission updates, past the occasional bursts of enthusiasm Clark himself has sent over the months. Have you eaten, Bruce? Ma made stew again, I think she’s trying to feed the entire state. Hey, B, this article reminded me of you.

Bruce usually responds hours later, if at all, but when he does, the replies are coherent, measured. This isn’t that.

“Hey,” Clark says softly to the empty apartment, like Bruce might somehow hear him. 

The music is still playing, bright and jarring now, and Clark reaches out to turn it off, the sudden quiet ringing in his ears. He leans back against the counter, phone warm in his hand, heart beginning to beat a little too fast.

Of course he’d invited Bruce.

It hadn’t been a calculated decision. Clark hadn’t sat down and weighed pros and cons or worried about whether Bruce would accept. He’d just… wanted him there. Wanted him somewhere warm, somewhere that didn’t demand anything from him except presence. Wanted him at the table, listening to Ma talk too much and Pa ask gentle questions, wanted to see the way Bruce’s shoulders always loosened just a fraction when he realized no one expected him to perform.

Clark had told himself it was just kindness. Just making sure a friend didn’t spend the holidays alone.

But even then, he’d noticed the way he’d rehearsed the invitation beforehand, the way his pulse had jumped when Bruce hadn’t immediately said no, the way he’d carried that fragile maybe with him ever since.

Clark looks back at the screen.

Cant christmas.

Still want to.

The words sit uneasily together, like they’re fighting each other. Clark exhales and taps the call button before he can overthink it. The phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then Bruce’s voicemail picks up, crisp and impersonal. “Bruce Wayne. Leave a message.”

Clark hangs up and calls again.

Still nothing.

He paces the length of the kitchen, then the living room, phone pressed to his ear, every unanswered ring winding him tighter. Bruce is busy sometimes. Bruce disappears into work all the time. But Bruce also doesn’t leave things unfinished. He doesn’t send half-explanations and then vanish.

By the fourth call, Clark has stopped pacing. By the fifth, his stomach has dropped entirely.

He lowers the phone and stares at it, thumb hovering uncertainly over the screen. It feels wrong to listen in, wrong to intrude on Bruce’s privacy like that, and Clark has always taken that boundary seriously, even when it cost him peace of mind. He tries to reason with himself instead, to construct a version of events that doesn’t end badly. Maybe Bruce fell asleep, and he sent the texts by accident. Maybe he’s embarrassed and avoiding the conversation. But the words won’t line up into something that makes sense, and Clark can’t shake the image of Bruce alone in that enormous house, convinced that whatever’s wrong is his responsibility to handle quietly. 

“What if something’s actually wrong?” Clark murmurs. The question hangs there, unanswered. He doesn’t let it linger. Clark grabs his jacket, pulling it on as he moves, steps already carrying him toward the door. He fumbles for his boots, nearly knocks over a chair in his hurry, and has to double back at the last second to snatch his keys off the counter. His heart is pounding now, loud and insistent, a steady drumbeat of go, go, go. He pauses just long enough to flick off the lights.

The flight to Gotham is mercifully short, but it feels longer than it should, the city unfolding beneath him in dark blocks and pale veins of traffic. Clark keeps his speed careful, restrained; he’s already pushing his luck coming here like this, in civvies, without warning, and he doesn’t want to draw attention he can’t afford. When the manor finally comes into view, perched high and solitary against the winter-dark grounds, his unease sharpens into something colder.

The lights are off. The house sits in darkness, vast and hollow-looking, stripped of the quiet warmth it usually carries even when Bruce insists he’s “not home.” It looks colder than Clark remembers, emptier somehow. Clark lands at the edge of the drive and walks the rest of the way, boots crunching softly over gravel. He considers the cave entrance out of habit, then dismisses it just as quickly. He’s already taken enough risks getting here. Breaking into the Batcave would cross lines he isn’t ready to justify yet.

He steps up to the front door and knocks. Short, quick raps.  “Bruce!” he calls, voice carrying easily through the stillness. “You home, buddy?” Nothing. Clark waits, listening. Theres no response of any sort, no footsteps, no shift of weight, no distant movement. Just silence, thick and unbroken. He knocks again, harder this time. “Bruce!”

Still nothing.

The quiet presses in around him, suddenly oppressive, and Clark becomes acutely aware of how wrong this feels. Bruce doesn’t leave the manor unmonitored. He doesn’t let it sit like this, dark and inert, like a mausoleum. Even when he’s gone, there’s always something humming beneath the surface,  the faint sense of a mind still present. This place feels abandoned. “Okay,” Clark murmurs to himself, stepping back from the door. “Okay. Think.”

He runs through the options automatically. Bruce could be asleep — that happens, rarely, but it happens. He could be in the cave, deep enough that the knocking doesn’t carry. He could have stepped out unexpectedly, phone dead or forgotten somewhere inconvenient. All reasonable. All possible. None of them sit right.

Clark tries the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

He exhales slowly, breath fogging in the cold air, and presses his palm briefly against the wood of the door. His instincts are buzzing now, not loud or panicked, just insistent in a way he’s learned to trust.

Bruce wouldn’t ignore him on purpose. Right?

Clark glances once toward the drive, toward the dark stretch of grounds beyond, then back at the house. He hesitates long enough to acknowledge the line he’s about to cross.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, to the door, to Bruce, to whatever trust exists between them. “I’m coming in.” He steps back, grips the handle again, and applies just enough pressure to splinter the lock cleanly without tearing the frame apart. The door gives way with a muted crack, the sound echoing far too loudly in the empty night. Clark slips inside and pulls the door shut behind him, the manor swallowing him whole. “Bruce?” he calls again, quieter now, careful not to let the worry leak too sharply into his voice. “Hey, B. It’s me.”

The sound barely carries. Clark exhales slowly, steadying himself, and lifts off the ground just enough to move without sound. He doesn’t rush because he knows panic won’t help. He starts with the obvious places, the ones Bruce gravitates toward when he’s tired or thinking.

The study is empty. Desk immaculate, screens dark, chair pushed in as if Bruce had stood up and never come back. Bruce’s bedroom is next. Clark hesitates in the doorway for half a heartbeat — a flicker of embarrassment he doesn’t quite understand — then forces himself to look. The bed is untouched. Sheets smooth. No sign anyone’s been there at all. That makes his stomach tighten. The cave entrance is sealed and it sounds inactive. The Wayne kids’ rooms are exactly as Bruce keeps them when they’re away, like museum exhibits waiting for their occupants to return. The living room is dark and the couch empty. The kitchen is just as bad.

Clark’s pulse starts to climb.

He checks Thomas and Martha Wayne’s room next, though he isn’t sure why. Habit, maybe. The space is preserved but it's obvious nobody has been inside the room recently. Clark backs out quietly, throat tight.

Nothing. Nowhere.

“Okay,” Clark whispers, no longer bothering to hide the strain in his voice. “Okay, Bruce, this isn’t funny.”

He stops floating and plants his feet on the floor, grounding himself. Panic threatens to bloom fully now, sharp and bright and unhelpful, and he fights it down with effort. Bruce is here. He has to be. Clark can feel it,  not in any superhuman way, just in the simple, stubborn certainty that Bruce wouldn’t have gone anywhere after sending those texts. Then he hears it. So faint he almost misses it.

A small, broken sound. Just a thin, pained whimper that seems to leak out of the walls themselves.

Clark freezes. “Bruce?” he says immediately, spinning toward the sound. “B, where are—” He stops short, focus snapping inward as his vision sharpens, cutting cleanly through walls and doors and old stone.

There. A shape on a bed.

Too still. Curled in on itself, wrapped in blankets that look far too large for the body beneath them. Clark’s breath leaves him all at once, a sharp, involuntary exhale.

Alfred’s room.

“Oh,” Clark breathes, the word barely audible. “Oh, Bruce.”

He moves then — not flying, not rushing recklessly, but fast enough that the hallway blurs around him — and pushes the door open with aching care, already knowing, with a sinking certainty in his chest, that Bruce has gone to the one place in the house that still feels like safety. For a moment, he simply stands there, chest tight, taking in the space. Alfred’s bedroom is neat in that particular way that suggests it’s been kept ready for someone who isn’t coming back. The air smells faintly of old cologne and dust and something medicinal underneath it. Then Clark looks down at his boots. After a brief hesitation, he bends and slips them off, careful not to scuff the carpet. The habit feels absurdly normal, grounding in a way he desperately needs. Alfred would have appreciated it. Bruce would, too — if he were awake enough to notice.

Bruce is shivering. It’s subtle at first, more vibration than movement, like his body can’t quite decide what temperature it’s supposed to be. The blankets are pulled tight around him, hands fisted in the sheets hard enough that his knuckles show pale through the fabric. A thin, pained sound escapes him, breath hitching unevenly, and Clark’s stomach twists.

“Okay,” Clark murmurs to himself, barely audible. “Okay.”

He lets his senses reach out then, just a careful sweep, the way he checks on people in emergencies when there’s no time to ask permission. He counts breaths, too fast and too shallow. Notes the heat rolling off Bruce’s skin in waves that don’t match the violent chills wracking his frame. The heartbeat is there, strong but wrong, racing in a way that makes Clark’s jaw tighten. He grimaces. Quietly, Clark crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Bruce doesn’t wake, doesn’t even flinch, except for a soft, broken sound at the back of his throat and a tightening of his grip on the sheets, like he’s bracing against something only he can see.

Clark reaches out and carefully pulls the blankets back just enough to see Bruce’s face.

It’s worse than he expected. Bruce’s features are drawn tight with exhaustion and pain. His skin has gone sallow, grayish beneath the flush of fever, sweat dampening his hair and clinging to his temples. There are dark shadows under his eyes, the kind that speak to days without real rest, and his lips look dry, faintly cracked, parted just enough for breath to scrape in and out. Clark swallows hard. Soup lung, he thinks, not with humor now but something bitter and aching. He reaches out slowly, giving Bruce time to pull away even though he doesn’t expect him to, and brushes his thumb gently along Bruce’s jaw, careful not to startle him.

“B,” Clark says softly, voice low and steady, the way he uses it when someone is frightened or half-lost to fever. “Hey. It’s me.”

Bruce stirs faintly, a crease forming between his brows, a weak sound slipping out as if he’s trying to respond and can’t quite manage it. His fingers tighten again in the sheets, breath hitching. Clark stays right there, hand warm against Bruce’s skin, anchoring him in place. It takes a while. Long enough that Clark starts counting breaths again, tracking the uneven rise and fall of Bruce’s chest, listening to the faint, strained sounds he makes when the air doesn’t come easily. Eventually, Bruce stirs more fully, a low, uncomfortable noise slipping out of him as his breathing grows heavier, more labored.

His eyelids flutter. Bruce blinks slowly, unfocused at first, pupils struggling to adjust to the dim light. His gaze drifts, skimming the room without recognition, until it lands on Clark’s face hovering above him. Confusion clouds his expression almost immediately, brows drawing together.

Clark doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but his hand has slid into Bruce’s hair, fingers brushing through it carefully, pushing damp strands back from his forehead. His other hand cups Bruce’s cheek, thumb resting just below his eye, steady and instinctive.

Bruce shudders under the touch. “What…?” he manages, voice rough and barely there.

“Don’t talk,” Clark says quickly, softly but firmly, leaning in just a little. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to talk.” His words tumble out faster than he intends, worry threading through them. “You’re in really bad shape, B. Seriously. Gosh, if I’d have known—”

Bruce frowns, the expression small and pained, and turns his face away, tucking his chin down toward his chest. He draws the blanket up with a weak, defensive tug, hiding his mouth, his eyes. Everything but the tense line of his brow. He looks… upset. Not scared. Not confused anymore.

Ashamed.

Clark stops short, the rest of what he was going to say dissolving immediately. He withdraws his hand just enough to give Bruce space without fully pulling away, fingers hovering uncertainly over the blanket. He watches Bruce’s breathing hitch again, shoulders trembling faintly, and something in his chest twists painfully. “Ah,” Clark murmurs, understanding hitting him all at once. “Hey—no, no, I didn’t mean—” He trails off, suddenly very aware of how loud his concern must have sounded, how easily it could have turned into blame. Bruce has always carried things quietly, stubbornly, and Clark realizes too late that pointing out how bad it is might have felt like a failure being named out loud.

Clark swallows hard. “What can I do?” he asks, voice lower now, careful. “Bruce… how can I help?”

The question feels clumsy in his mouth. He’s strong. He’s fast. He’s saved people in burning buildings and pulled them from wreckage without thinking twice. But this is unfamiliar territory. He’s never taken care of a sick person before.

Bruce is curled inward beneath the blankets, shoulders hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. His breathing is audible now, rough and uneven, each inhale a little too shallow, each exhale carrying a faint, wet sound that makes Clark’s chest tighten.

“Okay,” Clark says under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. His hands curl briefly into fists at his sides before he forces them to relax. “You’ve got this, Superman. Kal-El. Clark Kent.” He swallows. “You can handle a little fever.” He turns back to Bruce and softens his voice deliberately, pitching it low and steady. “B, like it or not, you’ve got yourself a professional here, okay? I’ll get you back to your healthy self in no time. Because that’s… what… friends do.”

Bruce shifts at the sound of his voice. His eyelids lift slowly, heavy and unfocused, and he peers at Clark like he’s trying to see through water. His eyes are glassy, rimmed red, lashes clumped faintly with moisture. When he speaks, his voice is thick with congestion and fatigue, words dragging together like they have to push through molasses.

“Clark.”

“Yeah,” Clark says immediately. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Oh.” Bruce blinks again, as if this is new information. He swallows hard, throat working visibly, then makes an attempt to sit up. The movement costs him — his face pinches, a low, involuntary grunt escaping as his muscles protest.

Hemoves instinctively to help, but before he can say anything, Bruce reaches out. His hand closes weakly around Clark’s wrist, fingers warm and trembling, grip nowhere near strong enough to restrain him , but it isn’t meant to. Bruce tugs once, barely more than a request, pulling Clark closer.

“Clark,” Bruce says again, breath hitching. He squints up at him, brows drawing together in concentration. “Superman?”

Clark freezes for half a second, then nods quickly, voice gentle. “I— yeah. Yes. It’s me. I’m right here.”

Bruce exhales, long and shaky, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. His grip tightens reflexively, like he’s afraid Clark might vanish if he lets go. “Ah,” Bruce murmurs, sounding suddenly very tired. “That’s… nice.” The word comes out soft, almost relieved.His head tips forward slightly, forehead brushing against Clark’s arm, and he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, breathing unevenly, thumb rubbing weak, absent circles against Clark’s wrist like he’s grounding himself by touch alone.

Clark’s throat tightens painfully. He carefully shifts closer, sitting fully on the edge of the bed now, free hand coming up to steady Bruce’s shoulder, warm and sure. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I thought you might think so.”

Bruce sniffs miserably, the sound wet and small, and drags the back of his hand across his nose with a frustrated huff. His eyes are glossy again, unfocused but intent, fixed on Clark like he’s afraid to look away. “I wanted to go,” he says thickly. “I did. I did.” The words pile up on each other, urgent and earnest in a way Bruce never is when he’s well. “I wanted to eat Ma’s food, I swear it. I did.” He swallows hard, throat working. “Was gonna. Gonna text you, Kal. Swear I was gonna.”

Clark’s chest tightens, the relief hitting him all at once and leaving his breath a little unsteady. He lets it out slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to spook Bruce. “Yeah?” he says softly. “Yeah, I believe you.”

Bruce nods, the movement jerky and uncoordinated, like his head is heavier than he expects. “Promise.” Then the cough hits him. It comes out of nowhere,  tearing its way up from his chest and doubling him over with a sharp, involuntary sound.. Bruce turns his face away, shoulders shaking as the fit drags on, each cough rougher than the last. His breath stutters at the end of it, a faint wheeze slipping out before he can stop it.

“Easy,” Clark murmurs immediately, one hand firm at Bruce’s back, the other steadying his wrist. He waits it out, counting breaths again without meaning to.

Bruce makes an annoyed, broken sound when it finally eases, like he’s furious at his own body for betraying him. “Yesh,” he mutters hoarsely. “That.”

Clark lets out a weak, almost watery laugh, scrubbing at his own face with his free hand. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m really sorry I didn’t realize something was wrong sooner.” He shakes his head, guilt threading through his voice. “You’ve been sick since… since I invited you, huh? You were coughing back then, too.”

Bruce nods again, slower this time. Then, without thinking about it — or maybe because he can’t think clearly at all — he leans in, pressing his face against Clark’s arm. The contact is clumsy and unguarded, his cheek warm and damp through the fabric of Clark’s sleeve. “Hate being sick,” Bruce mumbles.

“Yeah,” he says gently. “Nobody likes it, really.”

“No.” Bruce shakes his head, a small, emphatic movement. His fingers tighten faintly around Clark’s wrist, like he needs to make sure he’s being understood. “No. No, I hate it.” His voice drops, rough and raw. “Hate, Kal.”

Clark stills, hand warm and steady at Bruce’s back, and lets the silence stretch just long enough to hold it. “Okay,” he says softly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to like it.” He shifts closer, careful, supportive, letting Bruce rest more fully against him. “You don’t have to handle it alone, either.”

Bruce makes a small, broken sound in response. Clark’s chest tightens. “Wanted to go, Kal,” Bruce murmurs again, voice mushy and indistinct, like his mouth can’t quite keep up with his thoughts.

“I know,” Clark says softly, thumb rubbing slow, reassuring circles against Bruce’s shoulder blade. “I know, Bruce. It’s okay.”

Bruce shifts, pressing closer without even opening his eyes, forehead resting more firmly against Clark’s arm. His breathing is heavy now, uneven, but calmer than it was a moment ago. “It’s really lonely at home,” he mutters. “Kids are gone. Alfred.” His face pinches faintly, the crease between his brows deepening. “Sucks.”

Clark closes his eyes briefly, something aching low and deep in his chest. He tightens his hold just a little, enough that Bruce won’t tip forward, enough that the contact feels intentional rather than incidental. He lets his cheek rest lightly against the top of Bruce’s head, careful not to crowd him, just… there.

“Yeah,” Clark murmurs. “I can see how it would.”

Bruce exhales, long and shaky, and doesn’t pull away. Clark stays quiet, letting Bruce drift and mumble and breathe against him, and in the stillness his thoughts start to wander whether he wants them to or not.

He thinks about how rarely Bruce lets himself be touched like this. How even casual contact usually comes with an uncomfortable tenseness on Bruces end. How this clinging feels like something Bruce has learned to suppress very thoroughly. Clark thinks about Alfred.About the way Bruce talks about him with respect and gratitude. And how there’s always something missing underneath it. An absence Clark can’t quite name. He’d assumed, maybe foolishly, that having someone like Alfred growing up had cushioned the worst of it. That Bruce had at least been held together by that kind of care. But looking at him now, as he curled in on himself, apologizing for being lonely, furious at his own weakness , Clark wonders.

Why is he like this, if he had Alfred? The answer comes quietly, unwelcome and sad. Because Alfred was responsible for him. Because love, for Bruce, always came with structure and expectation and distance. Because comfort was something you earned by being good, by being quiet, by not asking too much. 

Clark knew that Bruce loved Alfred, and Alfred loved Bruce. But somehow, maybe, something got miscommunicated along the way.

He’s suddenly, acutely aware of the way his hand fits at Bruce’s back, the way Bruce’s fingers are still curled weakly into his sleeve, like he’s afraid Clark might disappear if he lets go. A rush of warmth spreads through him. It feels protective and dangerously close to something else.

This is just care, Clark tells himself, reflexively. He’s sick. He needs help. And maybe that’s true. But Clark also knows he’d rushed across the world for less. Knows he’d invited Bruce without thinking twice because the idea of him alone on Christmas had felt… wrong. Knows that the relief he’d felt hearing Bruce say he’d wanted to come had been far too personal to dismiss as friendliness alone.

Bruce shifts again, nuzzling faintly closer, and Clark adjusts automatically, supporting him without hesitation.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to Bruce now. “I’ve got you.”

Bruce hums weakly, a sound that might be agreement, or might just be exhaustion, and finally goes still, breathing heavy and uneven but no longer panicked.

Clark stays right where he is. He doesn’t know what this is yet, between them, but he knows one thing with absolute certainty: Bruce Wayne learned how to be alone very young. And Clark isn’t going to let him be, not tonight.

Clark lets himself stay like that for a long while. He doesn’t rush it. He keeps his arm steady around Bruce’s shoulders, hand warm against his back, feeling the slow shift as Bruce’s weight settles more heavily against him. The tension bleeds out of Bruce a little at a time. His fingers loosening their grip, brow smoothing, breaths stretching longer and deeper, even if they’re still rough at the edges. Clark waits until he’s sure. Until Bruce’s breathing falls into a rhythm that doesn’t hitch with every exhale. Until the small, unconscious sounds fade away. Until the fevered cling eases into sleep. Only then does Clark move.

He eases himself out from under Bruce with painstaking care, adjusting the blankets so they don’t slip, tucking them more securely around his shoulders the way Martha always does when someone’s fallen asleep on the couch. Bruce shifts once, makes a small protesting noise, then settles again.

“I’m still here,” Clark whispers, though Bruce can’t hear him anymore.

He slips away from the bed as softly as possible, closing the door most of the way behind him so the light from the hall won’t spill in. His chest feels tight now that he’s standing again, the adrenaline finally catching up with him.

Okay. Time to be useful. Clark pads into the kitchen, sets his phone on the counter, and opens his browser. He types carefully at first, trying to stay vague, then more specifically as the symptoms line up too cleanly to ignore.

high fever cough chest pain shivering exhaustion

pneumonia symptoms how serious

when to worry adult fever cough

The results load instantly.

Clark scans them, brow furrowing. Then his eyes widen. Then widen more. “…Oh. No,” he mutters, scrolling faster. “Nope. That one sounds bad. That one also sounds bad. That one—why is everything fatal?” He backs out of one page only to click another, which immediately informs him that Bruce could be suffering from five different rare conditions, three of which Clark has never heard of and two of which apparently require immediate hospitalization or else. Clark straightens abruptly, heart leaping into his throat. “Oh my gosh,” he whispers. “Bruce—”

He forces himself to stop. Clark plants both hands on the counter and takes a slow, deliberate breath, just like his mother taught him. Panic won’t help Bruce. Panic never helps anyone. “Okay,” he says quietly to the empty room. “Okay, Clark. Deep breath. You’re not a doctor, and WebMD is… dramatic.” He closes the worst tabs and starts over, slower this time. More practical.

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This is better. Still scary, but clearer. Fever that won’t break. Painful cough. Shallow breathing. Exhaustion. Delirium. Everything lines up in a way that makes uncomfortable sense. lark exhales shakily, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Okay,” he murmurs again. “Okay. We can do this.” He drums his fingers against the counter and frowns. How the heck had Bruce Wayne managed to get sick this bad? He makes a note to scold Bruce, at least a little, once hes better. Then he decides he needs a proper plan. He makes a list in his head almost immediately. Fluids, thats a thing, right? He needs to manage Bruces fever before anything else, and maybe keeping Bruce upright so he can breathe a little better might help. He should probably monitor his temperature, and make sure he actually takes the medicine sitting unopened on the bedside table. Calling a doctor if things get worse — when things get worse, he corrects himself.

And not leaving him alone.

Clark locks his phone and glances back down the hall toward Alfred’s room, where Bruce is sleeping, small and curled in on himself in a bed that still smells faintly of someone who used to take care of him.

 He opens cabinets quietly, scanning shelves with a critical eye. There’s food here but most of it requires effort Bruce doesn’t have in him right now. Clark sets aside anything that can be warmed easily, anything soft. Broth. Crackers. Honey. He finds a box of tea tucked behind the espresso machine and exhales in relief, lining it up on the counter like it’s something precious. Water next. He fills two large glasses and leaves them by the sink, then grabs a pitcher and sets that out too, just in case. He remembers Martha’s voice without quite meaning to (keep it close so they don’t have to ask!) and positions everything within easy reach.

He pads back toward Alfred’s room and pauses, listening. Bruce is still asleep. Breathing rough, but steady enough for now. Clark lets himself relax just a fraction. Next, the bathroom. He opens the medicine cabinet properly this time, squinting at labels and expiration dates, muttering under his breath as he goes. Fever reducers. Cough suppressants. Decongestants. He checks them twice, cross-referencing with his phone, because the last thing he wants is to make things worse. He sets aside what’s safe, leaves the rest untouched. A thermometer turns up in the back of a drawer. Clark tests it against his own skin, nods, then places it on the counter with the medicine. He could probably test Bruce's temperature without the thermometer, but he doesn't want to risk not being accurate and accidentally getting Bruce killed. Blankets come next. The manor is cold, the heat clearly set lower than Bruce should’ve been dealing with in his condition. Clark adjusts the thermostat upward by a few degrees, then gathers an armful of soft throws from the living room, choosing the least heavy ones so Bruce won’t feel smothered.

He hesitates in the doorway of Alfred’s room, then steps inside again. Carefully, he drapes one blanket more securely over Bruce’s shoulders, tucking it in the way he watched his mom do a hundred times. Bruce stirs faintly, makes a small sound of protest, then relaxes again when Clark’s hand rests briefly between his shoulder blades.

“Sorry,” Clark whispers. “Just helping.”

Bruce doesn’t wake.  Clark lingers another moment, eyes tracing the lines of Bruce’s face. He smooths the hair back from Bruce’s forehead gently, then forces himself to step away before he overthinks it.  There’s one more thing. Clark grabs his jacket and keys again, scribbles a quick note on the back of an envelope — Out for supplies. Back soon. —Kal— and leaves it on the bedside table where Bruce will see it if he wakes. Just in case.

The night air bites when Clark steps outside, sharp and bracing. He breathes it in deeply, steadying himself, then takes off down the drive toward the nearest store, already running through the list in his head. More fluids. Something with electrolytes. A humidifier, if they have one. Tissues. A heating pad. 

Clark doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing yet. But he knows who he’s doing it for. When Clark gets back, the first thing he notices is the door.The front lock is still splintered just enough to be obvious, wood cracked cleanly where he forced it earlier, and guilt pricks at him immediately. He pauses, keys in hand, and grimaces.

“Sorry,” he murmurs to the empty foyer. “I’ll fix that. Promise.” He sets the bags down carefully and takes a moment to sort everything on the kitchen counter. Hes got soup containers lined up, electrolyte drinks stacked neatly, medicine checked and rechecked, a small humidifier still in its box. It looks like a plan now. Or at least the outline of one.

Clark exhales, a little steadier than before. He’s halfway through filling the humidifier when he hears a soft, distressed sound drifting down the hall. A restless shift. Fabric rustling. Bruce is waking up. Clark abandons the kitchen without hesitation and heads back toward Alfred’s room, steps light but quick. By the time he reaches the doorway, Bruce is already stirring, tossing weakly beneath the blankets, breath uneven again. His brow is furrowed, lips parted as if he’s trying to say something and can’t quite find the words.

“Hey,” Clark says gently, moving to the bedside. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Bruce’s eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy, darting briefly around the room before landing on Clark. Relief floods his expression so fast it almost hurts to see. “Kal,” Bruce says, voice hoarse and stretched, the l drawn out longer than necessary. “You’re here?”

“Yeah,” Clark answers immediately, sitting down on the edge of the bed and setting one of the bags aside. “I’m here. I just stepped out for a bit, okay? Didn’t go far.”

Bruce makes a small, unhappy sound and reaches out blindly, fingers fumbling against the blankets until Clark catches his hand. Bruce’s grip is weak but insistent, curling around Clark’s fingers like he’s afraid to let go.“Thought,” Bruce mutters, eyes slipping shut again. “Thought you left.”

“Nope,” he says softly. “Not going anywhere.”

Bruce relaxes at that, shoulders easing just a fraction, but the shivering hasn’t stopped. It comes in waves now, tremors running through him even as sweat beads along his hairline. Clark reaches for the extra blanket and drapes it over him, tucking it in more securely.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re burning up, but you’re cold too. Fever’s messing with you.”

Bruce frowns faintly, like this offends him on a personal level. “Hate it,” he mumbles.

“I know,” Clark says. He brushes his thumb gently over the back of Bruce’s hand, grounding him. “I brought some things to help.  We’re gonna take it one step at a time, okay?”

Bruce hums weakly in response, not quite agreement, not quite protest. Clark reaches for the thermometer and slips it under Bruce’s tongue with care. Bruce barely reacts, eyes half-lidded, trusting in a way that feels both tender and dangerous.

“Hold it there,” Clark says. “Just a sec.”

Bruce obeys, blinking slowly, gaze fixed on Clark’s face like it’s the only solid thing in the room. When the thermometer beeps, Clark checks it and swallows hard at the number, carefully schooling his expression before Bruce can read anything into it.

“Alright,” Clark says lightly. “Bit warm. We’ll work on that.”

Bruce shifts again, coughing softly into his shoulder, the sound deep and unpleasant. Clark moves immediately, easing him upright and bracing him against his chest so he’s not lying flat. “Sorry,” Bruce rasps automatically, even now.

“Hey,” Clark says gently, firm without being sharp. “No apologizing. You’re allowed to be sick.”

Bruce makes a faint noise that might be disbelief.

Clark reaches for a glass of water he brought with him, holding it carefully to Bruce’s lips. “Small sips,” he instructs. “Just a little.”

Bruce drinks obediently, some of it spilling down his chin when his hand shakes too much to help. Clark wipes it away without comment, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“There we go,” Clark murmurs. “Good job.” That seems to be the right thing to say.

Bruce stills almost immediately, breath catching just a little too sharply, as if the words have startled him. He blinks up at Clark, eyes unfocused but intent, searching his face with a carefulness that makes Clark’s chest ache. There’s something almost timid in the way Bruce looks at him now. Uncertain, like he’s bracing for the praise to be taken back. Clark thinks, not for the first time, that Bruce’s eyes are the prettiest shade of blue he’s ever seen. Not bright or flashy, but deep, worn-in, like something that’s survived a lot of weather.

“Yeah?” Bruce asks quietly. “Good?”The question lands heavier than it should.

“Yes, Bruce,” Clark says, deliberately gentle. “You’re always good. Always.”

Bruce’s brow furrows. He shakes his head faintly, the movement small and tired but sure. “Not true.”

Clark doesn’t argue right away. He watches Bruce instead and sees his fingers curl into the blanket, tense as if he’s expecting correction. Clark realizes, with a dull pang of understanding, that Bruce isn’t fishing for reassurance the way some people do. He’s checking. Testing. Making sure he hasn’t failed some invisible standard.It’s muscle memory. Clark thinks about how Bruce apologizes for coughing. For leaning. For needing water. For taking up space at all. He thinks about how praise, when it comes, makes Bruce go strangely still, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Like it’s something fragile that might break if he moves wrong.

Oh, Clark thinks quietly. This matters to him. More than Bruce would ever admit when he’s well. Clark adjusts his grip slightly, thumb brushing a slow, grounding line over the back of Bruce’s hand. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” he says instead. “You drank the water. You let me help. That’s… that’s really important.”

Bruce studies him again, lashes fluttering. “Didn’t mean to be… trouble,” he mutters.

Clark’s throat tightens. “Hey.” He leans in just a fraction, keeping his voice low and steady. “You’re not trouble. You’re not a problem to manage. You’re just sick.”

Bruce swallows, gaze dropping away, jaw tightening like he wants to argue but doesn’t have the strength. Clark can almost see the old lesson clicking into place. Be good, don’t ask, don’t make it worse.

Clark wonders how often Bruce must have needed to hear things like this and never did. Clark squeezes Bruce’s hand gently, anchoring him again. “You don’t have to earn this,” he adds softly. “I’m here because I want to be.”

Bruce’s eyes flick back up to him, glossy and uncertain, and for a moment he looks impossibly young. Then he exhales, a shaky little breath that sounds like relief trying to find a way out. “…Okay,” he whispers.

Clark smiles, small and warm and entirely sincere. “Yeah. Okay.” Clark doesn’t stop there. He remembers the store clerk he’d spoken to earlier. She was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who’d listened patiently as he described symptoms in halting, careful phrases, who hadn’t panicked or gasped or used words like rare or fatal. She’d nodded, asked sensible questions, handed him boxes and bottles with steady confidence.

“Looks miserable,” she’d said. “But manageable. He’s lucky he’s got someone staying with him.” Clark had clung to that sentence all the way back. Now, standing in Alfred’s kitchen, he puts it to use. He slips away only after making sure Bruce is settled. Bruce is propped upright enough to breathe comfortably, blankets tucked in just right. When Bruce’s fingers tighten in his sleeve at the movement, Clark pauses immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs, bending close so Bruce can see him. “I’m just gonna grab a couple things, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Bruce blinks, eyes glassy and unfocused, lips parting. “You… coming back?”

“Yes,” Clark says without hesitation. “I’m not leaving. Just the kitchen.”

Bruce’s brow furrows, but he nods faintly, fingers loosening their grip. Clark waits another beat to simply watch him, then slips away. In the kitchen, Clark moves fast. He heats soup, stirring so it doesn’t scorch, testing the temperature against his wrist the way his mom always did. He pours water into a clean glass, adds electrolytes, sets everything on a tray so it’s easy to carry. He turns the humidifier on low and carries it down the hall, placing it near the bed where the mist won’t blow directly on Bruce’s face.

Every few minutes, he checks back in. The just like that  and good, Bruce comes instinctually, and he doesnt have time to feel a little embarrassed about it. He probably wont until later. 

When Bruce coughs and immediately winces, Clark’s hand is there at his back, firm and reassuring. Bruce frowns faintly at that, like he wants to argue, but the effort seems to exhaust him. He settles instead, letting Clark guide him, letting himself be managed in a way he clearly isn’t used to. When Clark brings the soup, Bruce hesitates, eyes flicking up to him.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs.

“I want to,” Clark replies simply, and waits until Bruce nods before lifting the spoon. “Small bites. You tell me when to stop.”

Bruce eats slowly, obediently, and when he finishes what little he can manage, Clark smiles like it’s an accomplishment worth celebrating.

“See?” he says warmly. “You did really good.”

Bruce stills again at that, eyes searching Clark’s face, uncertain. Clark doesn’t rush to explain. He just stays. He wipes Bruce’s mouth without comment, adjusts the blankets when Bruce shivers, praises him for things so small they almost feel silly — thanks for telling me you were dizzy, good job drinking that, I’m proud of you for resting — until the words start to pile up gently, consistently, impossible to dismiss as a fluke. Bruce’s breathing eases. His shoulders drop. The constant tension in him loosens by degrees. When Bruce mutters an apology out of habit, Clark shakes his head and counters it immediately.

“Nope. None of that. This isn’t your fault.”

When Bruce winces at another cough, Clark rubs slow circles into his back and says, “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to.”

When Bruce looks at him, confused and vulnerable, Clark meets his gaze and says quietly, “You’re good, Bruce.”

Frankly, it’s doing something for Clark, too. He feels a little guilty about that, if he thinks about it too hard. Bruce being sick is awful , frightening, even, and every rasping breath still makes Clark’s chest tighten with the reflexive urge to fix it. He’s Superman. He’s supposed to prevent things like this. Letting it happen, even unknowingly, feels like a failure that sits heavy in his gut.But still. There’s something quietly, unexpectedly right about this. About sitting at Bruce’s side, about being allowed this close without earning suspicion or a sharp look in return. About being able to say something kind and have it land, instead of bouncing off armor and deflection. Clark has known Bruce for years. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him accept comfort without immediately trying to escape it. Now Bruce does things like curl closer when Clark adjusts the blankets. Like make those soft, frustrated little noises when Clark pulls away to grab water. Like relax when Clark’s hand settles between his shoulder blades.

It feels… intimate, in a way Clark hadn’t quite prepared for. He’s hugged Bruce before, technically. Once or twice, brief and awkward, usually after something terrible. This is different. This is prolonged and casual. Bruce fits against him surprisingly well, even sick and overheated and miserable, like this is a position his body understands even if his mind doesn’t.

Sure, he’s sweaty. Feverish. Kind of a mess. Clark doesn’t mind. He realizes that he sort of loves him a little — has for a while now, probably — and that this is just what that feels like when stripped of danger and posturing and rules. Care without conditions. Touch without negotiation.

And the praise. Clark hadn’t meant for it to become a thing. It started practical. But every time he tells Bruce he’s doing well, every time he praises him for resting or drinking or letting himself be helped, Bruce reacts like it’s something precious. Like it matters in a way Clark hadn’t anticipated.

And Clark… likes that.

He likes seeing Bruce’s shoulders ease when he hears it. Likes the way Bruce watches his face afterward, checking for sincerity. Likes being someone whose approval doesn’t come with strings attached, someone whose praise doesn’t need to be earned through suffering. When Clark is finally sure Bruce isn’t about to keel over he lets himself relax just a notch. Bruce is warm against him, heavy in that way only exhausted people get, eyelids fluttering but no longer fighting sleep. Clark watches him for a minute longer than necessary, counting breaths out of habit, thumb still tracing slow, grounding circles against his back.

Then, gently, he speaks. “Bruce,” Clark says softly, careful not to startle him. “It’s late.”

Bruce hums faintly, noncommittal.

“You need real sleep, okay?” Clark continues, voice low and steady. He hesitates, just barely, before finishing the thought. “Do you want me to go… let you get some rest?”

The words hang there, tentative. Bruce’s brow furrows immediately, like the idea itself is uncomfortable. He shifts, restless again, fingers tightening reflexively in Clark’s sleeve.

“No,” he says, quick and hoarse. Too quick. “Don’t.”

Clark’s heart does a small, traitorous flip.

“I mean,” Bruce adds, realizing how that sounded, trying to backtrack even through the fog. “You can— you don’t have to—”

Clark doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even pull his hand back. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to. I was just checking.”

Bruce relaxes a little at that, shoulders sinking back into the pillows. He blinks up at Clark, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, studying him with the same careful attention he’d given earlier praise, like he’s making sure this is still real.

“Stay?” Bruce asks quietly. Not demanding. Not even hopeful, really. Just asking.

Clark smiles, soft and fond, and doesn’t bother pretending this is a hardship. “Yeah,” he says immediately. “I can stay.”

Bruce exhales, a long, relieved breath that seems to empty something out of his chest. He shifts again, closer this time, nudging his forehead lightly against Clark’s arm like he’s settling in.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “That’s… good.”

Headjusts the blankets so they don’t slip, settles himself more comfortably at the edge of the bed, and lets Bruce keep hold of his sleeve. He keeps his voice low, soothing.

“You sleep,” he says. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Bruce’s fingers loosen just a bit and his breathing deepens again, slipping back into sleep with surprising ease.

Clark stays exactly where he is.