Chapter Text
The shrill beeping of Bruce's heart monitor was still ringing in his ears. It hadn't been concerning, at first, to hear the rhythm grow erratic. Bruce was upset, anxious, maybe even scared. Strange as it was to associate that word with him, it made sense. Perhaps stupidly, Clark hadn't expected him to go slack. Only then did the terror sink in.
Three increasingly thorough visual scans later, and the panic had barely waned. Clark generally avoided looking at people in that level of detail, it got overwhelming quickly (the firing of neurons could be so loud), not to mention that Bruce would hate it. But, from where he stood, Clark wasn't exactly a fan of watching his best friend almost die on the regular, so they'd both just have to cope.
Alfred had reassured him, repeatedly, that it was "just vasovagal" and Bruce had "likely worn himself out". He did not often doubt Alfred Pennyworth, but this did not do much to assure him. He kept that to himself… or tried to anyways.
"Mister Kent. If Master Bruce were in immediate danger, I assure you, I would not be standing around, allowing you to scan him a fourth time." Alfred did not look away from the bag of fluids he was attaching to the IV pole.
The tips of Clark's ears burnt red. "Third." He argued before he could stop himself, some long engrained habit that he was too tired to quell. Years on the debate team would do that to you.
Alfred raised a single, critical eyebrow in his direction. It was devastating. Clark would never recover. "Fourth."
"…Fourth." He acquiesced, reluctantly. Clark sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "He took an alien energy blast to the abdomen, Alfred." He gestured toward the bed. There was a helplessness in his voice that felt antithetical to Superman. How could there not be— when his mind had the memory of Bruce crumpling playing on repeat?
Alfred did not seem impressed by Clark's eloquent counter argument. "Indeed. And yet, somehow, you are the one currently causing me concern."
Clark ducked his head, looking more like a kicked puppy than he had any right to. "Sorry."
…Then he scanned over Bruce anyway. Just one more time. Just incase. His gaze finally settled on the steady rise and fall of his chest. It helped, a bit.
***
Perhaps to no one’s surprise, Clark's conviction to leave had vanished like smoke in the wind. He wasn't particularly perturbed to see it go.
He eventually settled for a succinct message to the League:
“Remaining with B, he is stable. Please debrief without me. Reminder that mission reports should be filed by end of day tomorrow. Page me for any emergencies. —Kal”
He reread it once before hitting send, hoping it sounded more composed than he felt. The last thing the League needed was Superman sounding rattled. For a man who could juggle meteors, his capacity for stress sure seemed lacking today.
***
Clark didn't remember when he'd picked up Bruce's hand again.
He was currently typing out his mission report on his phone (the secure hidden layer that Bruce had programmed into most of the JLs'), one handed, when Bruce stirred. Instantly, he had Clark's full attention.
He blinked awake, still and quiet, pupils dialated enough that they consumed most of the blue. "Hi?" He whispered.
Clark smiled in a way he hoped was gentle.
Close mouthed because someone had once told him is canines were freakishly sharp and, well… His cape had been blood soaked wings.
"Hey, you. Feeling better?"
"Like shit."
The response took Clark so off guard he laughed outloud.
Bruce hummed, a hint of a smile on his face. "I like your laugh."
That was somehow more surprising than the curse. He shook his head in amusement. Or disbelief. Maybe both. Whatever was working its way through his system had cleanly bulldozed through Bruce's carefully kept filters.
"Don't have too shabby a laugh yourself," Clark was just a touch flustered, "Might be the nicest sound in Gotham." Maybe even the whole world. He kept that part to himself
"Hmm. Never heard me sing." Came the quiet response, but Bruce's eyes were already slipping shut.
Clark froze. What.
***
He was left torturously alone with that tidbit of information and— following a futile search for 'Bruce Wayne singing' (he's a journalist, okay, this is research. Yeah. Ahem.)— Clark wound up dozing lightly.
He woke up to a whimper and his body kickstarted into action before his mind fully caught up. Bruce's eyes were still shut, and Clark couldn't tell if he was awake or dreaming. His shoulders were trembling, and something in Clark's chest twisted at the sight.
"Hey B, hey… it's alright, you're alright." He smoothed a hand over his forehead, brushing away the strands of hair that were plastered to it.
Bruce looked far less alert when he opened his eyes this time. "C-cold."
"Oh. Right, yeah, we can fix that." Clark breathed, almost relieved. The temperature was far easier to contend with than pain.
Almost.
Bruce's breath hitched when Clark stepped away from him, heart rate spiking. He faltered mid-step.
Was it pain? The cold? Fear?
Anyone of those might have been easier to bear. Bruce met his eyes for half a second, gaze still unfocused, and then turned his face away, lashes fluttering shut in a way that would have seemed peaceful if not for the racing of his heart. Clark opened his mouth. He closed it. What could he possibly say?
There wasn't time to think. He had never been more grateful for super speed than in that moment, Superman's countless near-miss rescues be damned. He returned arms loaded with blankets and a hot water bottle in less than a minute. It was a good thing that Bruce didn't have a fever. Clark didn't think he could bear to see him shivering like that and not bundle him up.
He tucked the blankets around him, fussing in a way that made him think of none other than Bruce himself; the days of him mother henning the boys during some illness or the other. And, on one occasion, after Dick had been frozen into an icicle by Mr. Freeze.
Eventually, Clark settled back into his chair, watching Bruce carefully. The wamth seemed to help, the tension slowly draining from him, until his breathing seemed almost peaceful.
It was uncomfortable, unbearly so, to see him like this. And yet… to be trusted with something Bruce guarded so fiercely felt almost sacred.
Clark only wished the cost of that trust had been anything else.
And then he thought of all the times he'd seen him… in scorching deserts, in the literal arctic, in armor that must have been unbearable in either extreme. And never, not once, had Bruce complained.
Clark wondered if he got cold easily when he was not on alien drugs.
In the quiet room, he could not stop thinking about it. Considering Bruce’s love for layers, it seemed the evidence pointed to yes and…well it was certainly not Clark's smartest moment, now was it? How could he miss something so glaring? Guilt gnawed at him. Did Bruce dread going to the fortress? Did it hurt to be cold? Did—
A hand brushed against Clark's knee, poking out from beneath the pile of blankets. Automatically, he covered it with his own.
"You're still here."
It is not a question.
Bruce's eyes were barely open, but sharp as they fixed on him.
"Yeah B," He swallowed around the ball in his throat, "I'm still here."
Bruce's fingers twitched minutely, curling into the sweatpants Clark had changed into. He searched for something in his face. His eyelids were heavy, it looked like a battle to keep them open.
Clark sighed. "Sleep, Bruce. You're safe."
Bruce's eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, Clark thought he was already asleep. Then, barely more than a whisper—
"You'll stay?"
"I'll stay."
***
"Clark?"
He looked up from the article that he was, once again, typing one handed. Clark was flooded with relief. It was the first time Bruce had called him by his name since the alien invasion started and it was surprisingly reassuring.
He grinned, "Yep. It's good to have you back."
Bruce frowned, immediately attempting to sit up. Clark chose not to dwell on the loss of him pulling his hand away. That was silly.
Clark sighed like this was well practiced (it was.) "B. These beds move for a reason, just— hold on, hold on." He got up, grabbing the remote that was attached to the side of the bed and handing it to him.
He grunted in thanks. Clark tried to bite down his smile. He was okay.
"How long have I been out?"
"Unconscious? For 5 hours. It's been about 16 since you were hit though. You needed abdominal surgery and a blood transfusion. Vital functions are fine, and the drug seems to have mostly worked its way through. Alfred doesn't think there should be long term effects."
"Your status? The others?" Bruce's already hoarse voice cracked in a way that could not be pleasant. Bruce forged on with his interrogation. "Has the threat been neutralized?"
Clark couldn't help it. He smiled— real and relieved and exhausted. He wordlessly stood up, grabbed a water bottle from the medbay fridge, and cracked the seal.
Bruce took it with a nod, hands shaking slightly.
"Threat is neutralised, the aggresors will stand tribunal in Oa. Y’know, I never thought I'd be glad that galactic war crimes have a whole legal precedent but… at least it's not our mess to anymore.” He reflected, before focusing again, “Hostages were all freed, minimal civilian injuries broadly speaking. Oh and the girl you saved is okay, she was reunited with her parents."
Bruce's shoulders relaxed slightly.
He attempted to contort to place the bottle on the little table next to him. Bruce failed to hide the wince. Clark rolled his eyes and took it from him.
"I'm fine. Everyone is for the most part. Shayera's wing was injured but will heal, Stewart broke his wrist and didn't tell anyone for way too long, uh a jet was blown up, somehow?… that's mostly it, really. Clean up is underway, hopefully we can make sure nothing ends up on the black market. A lot of destruction and property damage but…" He shrugged, that was unfortunately routine.
Bruce let himself slump into his pillows, his most pressing concerns dealt with. "The abdominal injury?"
"Lower abdomen. Missed the major vessels by a few centimeters."
Bruce seemed, honest to god, pleased. "Lucky."
Clark snorted ruefully, "That sure is one word for it."
"How much blood did I lose?"
He hummed, considering. "Enough that we were concerned."
Bruce sighed. "That. Is not a number."
"I'm 'fraid people who throw themselves in front of alien laser beams don't get numbers. Not till they recover, anyways. Sorry." He did not sound sorry.
Bruce glared. Clark was unphased.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "What about the other 11 hours?"
Clark hesitated.
That was enough for Bruce to know something was wrong.
"You were in surgery for 3 hours. It went well! We moved you here after, since you were stable."
"And the other 8?" Bruce pressed again.
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"You were… recovering."
Bruce was now fully on guard. Clark could've kicked himself. Why did he have to go and make something perfectly normal seeming sound so suspicious??
He narrowed his eyes. "What did I do."
He said it as though it were a statement. Inevitable, like he must have done something. Clark couldn't help the sigh that escaped him. It made Bruce visibly tense. He wants to sigh harder. "Nothing. Not really."
"Clark Joseph Kent."
"Alright now, that's not fair, Brucephalus Thomas Wayne. There really was nothing! You were a little confused, that's all."
Bruce blinked. "…Brucephalus?" He frowned, "That… isn't my name."
"I know."
"Ah. Good." He paused, weighing his next words. He squinted at Clark, "Universe code?"
"Oh come on—" Clark sighed, "Earth Prime, Justice League charter, watchword Delta-Seven." He dutifully intoned.
"Counter?"
"Blue, thirty-four."
Bruce seemed mollified enough and Clark quickly took the opportunity to change the subject: "You know, his name means ox-headed."
Bruce levelled him with an unimpressed look. “Bucephalus?”
"Mhm. It seemed fitting, is all." He shrugged innocently, "Not to mention that he carried Alexander from Macedonia to India. Impossible feats and all that."
"Modern day Pakistan. And not in one go." Bruce corrected immediately. "Now, define 'confused'."
Clark almost groaned. Curse him for refusing to let anything go.
Bruce smiled wryly, "Your distraction tactics need serious work."
He feined offense, "You take that back!"
"Clark."
“Fine, fine.” He sighed, holding his palms up in surrender. “You were… a little confused? You slept for most of it though, honest, just sorta in and out." Clark assured.
Much to his displeasure, Bruce, if anything, looked all the more suspicious.
He pressed his lips together. They're pale in a way they usually are not. "I see."
And that. That was possibly the least reassuring thing he could have said. Clark knew Bruce. Well enough and for long enough that he could recognize the difference between acceptance and postponement in his voice. Bruce had filed away whatever information he had gathered for later and that was expressly more concerning than an argument would have been.
Bruce nods towards Clark's left. "I need the tablet."
Clark blinked, snapped out of his thoughts. "What?"
"…I need the tablet, please?" He tried again, sounding like he genuinely expected this to work.
Clark snorted despite himself, "No, I mean, why? You're at least mildly concussed, and thats being generous—"
"For the mission report. And to check on Gotham."
Clark stared at him like he'd grown a second head. They both knew full well that he was technically exempt from reports given the, oh y'know, life threatening injuries. "You were unconscious five minutes ago!"
“I was conscious enough to correct your geography."
Clark did not appreciate having the distraction turned back on him. He gave his best stern Superman' face. He crossed his arms. “That is not the same thing and you know it. There is no sane reason why—"
"I'm Batman."
"That's your sane reason." His voice was laced with disbelief.
"Yes?"
If Clark had any less tact, he would have face palmed. "There's no deadline on your report. It can absolutely wait 'til you've rested."
"Gotham needs—"
"Gotham is fine. Nightwing and Robin patrolled."
"…Why am I not reassured?"
"B."
"Kal."
They had a silent staring match, neither of them moving for a moment. Then, without breaking eye contact, Bruce threw off the bed sheets and began the laborious process of standing up.
"Oh for heaven's—"
A woosh of air filled the room and Clark was handing him the blasted device.
Bruce nodded once, taking it gingerly, "Thank you."
"You're welcome!" He threw his hands up in the air.
In the end, they settled into a… not exactly uncomfortable silence, but certainly one that felt more fragile than usual. Clark picked up the book Jason had brought him before he'd left for school. Bruce locked into whatever approximations of vigilantism he could conduct from a hospital bed.
Clark's attention strayed back to the bat every few minutes. Each heavier-than-usual sigh, every time he shifted on the bed, every microscopic wince. Neither of them commented.
Bruce's fingers flew across the tablet's screen—typing his report, probably, the ridiculous man— and it was a piece of normality Clark tried to cling to. He didn't do a very good job of it.
The tension never left Bruce's shoulders. He was trembling, almost imperceptibly, with both the pain and the effort of hiding it. His body protested every movement, still exhausted and far from healed.
It was distracting.
It had officially been too long since Clark turned a page. He was waiting for Bruce to snap at him for 'hovering'. He's sure that this—the anxiety radiating off him— wasn't soothing Bruce's unease, but he found he couldn't help it. The quiet helplessness of just sitting there, watching and waiting for who knows what, was eating at him.
He hates that it had been easier when Bruce was delirious. To worry about him, to openly offer comfort, to do rather than just to witness— and even then, the witnessing in and of itself. He had been allowed to.
He rebukes the thought harshly. This was Bruce. His best friend. He wouldn't trade him for anything. Bruce was entitled to his walls, loathe as Clark was to stand outside them.
It was fine.
They would be fine.
***
Bruce inhaled sharply, hand shooting to his side.
Clark looked up from the book that he hadn't really been reading. "…I'm gonna call Alfred."
"No." Bruce said firmly. "It's passing." He still hadn't looked up from the screen. His eyes were glazed over. Clark wasn't entirely sure which one of them Bruce was pretending for.
"I really wasn't asking."
Bruce gruntrd.
The fact that he wasn't arguing set a coil of dread in Clark's stomach. He sent the text. Received a reply in half a minute. God bless Alfred.
"Sharp or dull?" He asked, for lack of much else to do, although he could guess the answer.
"Sharp." Then he reconsidered. "Bit of both."
Ah. So worse than Clark had guessed. Great.
Bruce was subtly regulating his breathing. The deliberate change in rhythm nearly gave Clark a heart attack before he realised.
A beat. "Well, you're not bleeding internally."
"Hate when you do that." He said through grit teeth.
"Not when it's at a track meet. Or trampoline park. Or Dick's 12th birthday party." Clark continued to catalogue all of his organs as he spoke. This is an entirely normal thing to do.
Bruce bristled. "I'm not a child."
Clark chose not to mention the time Bruce had him check Ace over, head to toe, because of a splinter. He guessed 'dog' fell into the category of 'things Bruce was not' anyway.
"Personally, I often find myself struggling to believe the fact." Alfred, as always, managed a dramatic entrance with minimal effort. If anyone ever wondered where Batman's flair for theatrics came from, they only had to look at the butler.
He got straight to the point: "Where does it hurt?"
"It's fine."
Bruce was possibly the world's best liar. And yet, Clark heard his heart skip a beat. It was so rare an occurrence he almost laughed.
Alfred frowned, "That was not the question."
Bruce did not pout, because 'Batman does not pout'. Clark had heard this lecture before. He knew better. Still, his not-pouting was adorable. Clark was too stressed to properly appreciate that, but it registered somewhere in the back of his mind.
"Far be it from me to interfere with your longstanding commitment to keeping surgeons employed, but I imagine yours would perfer her work remain intact for at least 24 hours."
He sighed, shifting uncomfortable beneath the stare. The movement made him wince again. "My abdomen. All of it. Ache that's radiating. Sharp, here—" Bruce gestured at a part of his wound that was covered in bandages, "when I move. Shooting pain."
The epitome of efficiency, Alfred got straight to work, swiftly checking his dressings, drain, and temperature. "Scale of one to ten?"
"Six."
Clark winced. Bruce had put a gunshot wound at a four, once. He wondered what would constitute a ten. He almost instantly decided he did not want to know.
Alfred, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned. He glanced at his wristwatch. "Yes, you're about on schedule for that."
"There's a schedule??" Clark blurts, because the idea of a pain schedule is awfully morbid in his opinion.
He looked mildly amused, "Yes, Mister Kent, I've not been giving medications and changing dressings based purely on whim and fancy."
He flushed a bit. He may not need as much sleep as humans, but apparently four days of alien invasion (and the emotional rollercoaster that followed) was pushing it.
Bruce scowled. "I don't need it. I'm still fine."
"Marvellous. You may continue being fine after taking your analgesics." Alfred left no room for argument.
Bruce did not get the memo. He instinctively tried to square his shoulders, gearing up for said argument. Tried being the operative word. He dropped back against the pillows with a grunt. He swallowed. Hard. This was, apparently, not enough to make him rethink his stance on pain medication.
"It's not worth the mental impairment. I am handling it—"
"Master Bruce." Alfred interjected sharply, "I don't know what you expect your mental clarity to achieve so long as you can scarcely sit up properly." Silence. He sighed, "I daresay your body has had quite enough excitement for one day. At most, you'll only slow down your healing."
Bruce looked distinctly unconvinced. "...Noted."
Alfred rolled his eyes, muttered something about 'obstinacy', and walked over to the counter, where he started moving around medical supplies with a little more force than required.
Clark, beginning to worry that Bruce's stubbornness had won this battle, Went to give his own two cents: "B, you—"
"Fine." Bruce huffed, focusing his gaze intently on the ceiling. "If you both insist… you may proceed."
Alfred hummed in acknowledgment— he had already been halfway through drawing the medication, flicking away the air bubbles. He pushed it through the IV line with the air of someone who had won.
For half a second, once safely out of Alfred's line of sight, Bruce made a face.
Clark had to stifle a laugh, clumsily turning it into a cough. It earned them a Look. Any other time, he'd have been at least a little abashed… but the corner of Bruce's mouth twitched and that was enough.
The medication helped, and quickly. The tension Bruce held in his muscles eased within minutes— almost imperceptibly, but eased none the less. His breathing was less strained. Clark silently thanked every scientist that had ever helped make modern medicine possible.
Alfred didn't so much as comment on Bruce's stubbornness again, which was almost uncharacteristic. He set aside the empty syringe, adjusted the IV tubing, then fussed with his pillows and blankets, straightening things that seemed, to Clark's untrained eye at least, not to need straightening. Satisfied at last, he patted Bruce's knee over the covers.
"There's soup." He informed, placing things back in cabinets. Clark went to help him, Alfred brushed off the offer. "I'll bring you a little— best you eat something soon."
Bruce swallowed once. His eyes momentarily flicked to the basin on the bedside table, then returned to Alfred. "I'm… not hungry."
"Fortunately, hunger is not a prerequisite." Alfred turned to Clark, "Do not hesitate if either of you needs me." Glanced at Bruce, "Try to refrain from doing anything heroic for the next ten minutes."
***
Bruce made the mistake of moving wrong. It must have tugged something awful at his stitches and marred skin. He grunted.
“Are you—“
“Don’t.”
His voice was raw and his face scrunched up in pain and Clark suddenly wished he had punched some aliens far, far harder than he did.
He said nothing, waiting for the wave of pain to pass.
Bruce settled. He seemed like he was about to say something, and then he changed his mind. He traced the fibres of his blanket, looking at it as though it was a puzzle he was intent on solving.
Clark followed his gaze, because he had long since fallen into the habit of trying to see the world the way Bruce did. He thought about how it was probably some sort of fancy sheet, which was a shame given how often they probably get blood on them. He found himself glad anyway, that Bruce was spared the additional discomfort of scratchy sheets.
The silence was oppressive.
He broke it.
“Jason lent me a book this morning. He—“ Clark’s phone cuts him off. He frowned, glanced at the caller, turned off his ringer, and set it back down. He cleared his throat, “He’s ridiculously clever. I’m sure you know that already I just… whenever we talk, I’m reminded and—“ His phone buzzed, three times, in rapid succession.
“He’s an incredible kid.” Bruce said quietly.
Clark hummed, “Don’t think I was half as eloquent at 13.”
It buzzed again. Clark was visibly annoyed this time. Then it rings, because he's had Lois set to bypass his DnD since that time she was kidnapped. He stared at his phone like it had personally wronged him. He'd glanced at her messages already— this was not a kidnapping. It was work. And a particularly irritable Perry White.
"Answer the phone, Clark."
He faltered, looking up. "What are you the devil on my shoulder?"
Bruce simply fixed him with a steady look.
Clark sighed and answered the phone, standing to pace as he spoke. He barely got a word in edgewise for the first half of the call. "Yes I know—" A huff. "It was an emergency!" He looked up at the ceiling as though it would grant him mercy. "…A friend was hit by… a car." A pause, "Banged up pretty bad, but yes, hopefully.” He frowned. "Lo, I know, I know, it’s— Now just how many people are on the phone right now??" He winced at the volume, "Yes, yes, okay, fine… Understood."
Clark hung up with a quiet sigh. He loved his job, he really did. He loved what he did, the writing, the investigating, the way every day was a slightly different beat. He loved his coworkers— even Perry, as much as he could be a hardass, had a special place in his heart.
Presently, he was strongly weighing the pros and cons of quitting.
"You have to go." Bruce's tone was flat, matter-of-fact.
He immediately shook his head. "I could stay." Clark hesitated, "If you wanted me to."
"You will not be losing your job on my account." Bruce gave a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Besides, I have a vested interest. I technically own the company."
Clark rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the ache behind his ribs. "Works out perfectly then. You can just put me back on the payroll."
He huffed, but gave it no real consideration.
Clark tugged his chair back to its previous place by Bruce's side. "Really, B, Mr. White talks up a whole storm, but he's a softy. He'll understand. This is important."
Bruce shook his head, "Your work is important. You should go, Clark."
He was quiet for a moment. "Bruce. You almost died."
"But I didn't. I'm okay now."
"Thats not the point, I— you almost died." He repeated, like that changed something. Like it would make him understand.
Bruce, suddenly, looked far more tired than he had let himself be since he'd woken up.
"Clark, please. Go."
The room was impossibly silent.
Clark stared at him.
He wanted to argue.
He wanted to stay.
He wanted— selfishly, abhorrently— for Bruce to want him to stay.
Bruce did not look at him again.
He nodded jerkily. "Right. Yeah." Clark stood. He placed Jason's book on the bedside table as though it was something delicate. He nudged the water closer. Just incase.
"I'll check on you later." He said, he promised. He wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure.
Bruce remained stubbornly unreadable. He nodded, once.
At the doorway, he looked back. One last assurrance that he was safe and alive and here.
Bruce had picked up the tablet again, his shoulders squared. He was frowning at the black screen, as though reading something only he could see.
Clark ignored every instinct screaming at him to stay.
He left.