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The thermometer beeped. 102.5 degrees. Damn, that was too high, he thought. Bruce Wayne put down the thermometer with a slight sigh. He was sick, this just proved it beyond a doubt. Bruce sniffed and tried to suppress the goopy cough that followed. He frowned at the way it hurt to swallow. There was no way Alfred would let him patrol tonight. He growled in frustration as he suddenly had to reach for yet another tissue and blew his nose. He added it to the small mountain of used tissues accumulating in the waste basket by the computer. He then sat in the chair, taking a sip of the steaming mug of peppermint tea; just because he couldn’t patrol didn’t mean he couldn’t get some work done. Two Face had escaped from Arkham again last week and was planning something. Bruce was trying to get an idea as to what that was. Just as he was about to review the security footage of Two Face’s escape, his Justice League communicator beeped— he had an incoming call.
“Hello,” Bruce answered with a sniff.
“Hey Bruce, we’re having the meeting soon… just calling to make sure you remembered,” said the too-cheerful voice of Clark Kent.
“Superman,” Bruce growled, trying to avoid coughing, “for the hundredth time, don’t use my civilian name when we’re on duty! And yes, I do recall that there is a meeting today, I was just finishing some work. Batman out.” Bruce disconnected quickly and held a hand to his forehead to try and quell the growing ache that was there. How had he forgotten about the founder’s meeting? He must be sicker than he’d thought. Bruce decided to call Alfred down with some cough syrup— he’d never make it through the sure-to-be-long meeting any other way.
Once he’d downed the unpleasant liquid, he drank a big glass of water and entered the watchtower coordinates into the transporter. He wiped his brow quickly before the beam took hold. As he materialized aboard the tower, Bruce strode into the meeting room, annoyed to see that everyone except Flash and Shayera were there already; he was usually the first one there. Now everyone’d think something was up with him— which there wasn’t, he was just a little ill. As soon as he’d sat down, Flash materialized from the hallway and Shayera stalked in a few minutes after. Superman cleared his throat, saying, “Since everyone’s here… let’s begin.”
An hour later, Bruce suppressed the urge to cough for the eighteenth time— not that he was counting. He felt a bead of sweat rolling agonizingly slow down the back of his neck. He longed for the meeting to be over, so he could rip off his cowl and take off his suit; he felt like he was in a sauna now. The damn medicine either hadn’t kicked in yet, or his fever was so high that it wasn’t having much effect. Bruce desperately hoped that his face wasn’t as beet red as it felt, but he couldn’t exactly check. As he swallowed he also suddenly wished for a large class of ice cold water to dampen the fire raging inside his body and to soothe his cotton-mouth.
As Superman droned on and on, Bruce noticed the tickling in his throat was nearing maximum capacity and he felt another bead of sweat work its way out of the suit, this time running down his forehead and down his cheek. In addition to this, he felt the tell-tale signs of an oncoming runny nose. He cursed silently in his head. Thankfully the Batman prepared for everything, including runny noses. But it would be… humiliating to pull out a tissue now. Besides, Bruce never showed weakness in front of his colleagues, so to do so now would be like lighting the batsignal: it’d only draw attention to his condition. That was something he definitely did not want to do. But the only alternative was to let his nose run down his face like a child.
With an internal sigh, Bruce quietly opened the appropriate pouch in his utility belt and withdrew a single tissue. There was practically no rustling, but he was in a room with people who had super hearing. Thankfully, Superman was either too busy prattling along about… something to notice, or he ignored it. But as Batman casually wiped his nose, the less disciplined members of the league openly stared at him— this was namely Flash. Although Diana, too, glanced his way curiously. Bruce flushed further, a combo of the fever and embarrassment at showing this weakness.
Finally, Superman wound to a halt and before anyone could detain him further, Batman bolted out the room, intent on getting out of his suit and getting a glass of water. The moment he was out of the room and down the hall a little, Bruce ripped off his cowl and sighed. His head now felt safe from the danger of being fried. But he didn’t like the way his usually impeccable hair was matted down to his head with sweat. He had to pause when a brief coughing fit hit him. He shook his head and sniffed again. On the way to the transporter, he paused, tired. Wouldn’t it just be easier to spend the night here? After all, surely the infirmary had flu medicine, and he was already here. So, Bruce made an executive decision and quickly notified Alfred from his suit’s communicator. Done with that, he began to make his way to the infirmary.
But, alas, it was not going to be easy for poor Batman. For suddenly, Flash appeared before him. As he skidded to a halt, his eyes widened. “Woah, Bats! You don’t look so good. Are you sick?” he asked. Batman tried to answer but was struck by a sudden coughing fit. To add insult to injury, his nose started running again. He sniffed. Flash’s eyes looked as big as dinner plates and before Bruce could stop him, he took off down the hall, yelling, “Bats is sick! Bats is sick!” Bruce growled, and spun on his heel, intent on getting away before Flash could cause anymore drama; Bruce hated drama.
Before he got far, however, he heard a familiar, feminine voice call his name. Superman’s then joined it. Bruce cursed softly. Great, the boy scout and the princess. Just what he needed when all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and not move for a while. He studiously ignored them, hoping they might go away. It was not to be. Superman suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his way, which forced Bruce to stop. Diana appeared at his side, eyes concerned. Clark took one look at him, and said, “Flash’s right! Bruce, you look awful.” Bruce growled and tried to squeeze between the two meddling metas. Diana grabbed his shoulder, stopping him from moving.
“Let. Me. Go,” he growled menacingly. Clark put one hand to Bruce’s forehead and yelped.
“You’re burning up! Diana, we need to get him to the infirmary,” Clark said. Bruce growled, finally reaching a boiling point.
“No!” he shouted angrily, sweat dripping down his forehead, “Damnit Clark, I may be only human, but I’m not made of glass. As you so kindly pointed out, I am sick. Thank you. But I AM NOT YOUR PET! I can take care of myself; I was headed to the infirmary before you delayed me. AS FOR YOU, DIANA… take your hand off me.” Both other members of the trinity were too shocked by Bruce’s outburst to detain him further, so he squeezed between them and marched to his destination, sniffing and coughing the whole way.
Fifteen minutes later, Bruce growled— not whimpered, he did not whimper— in defeat. There was not a single tablet of goddamned cold or flu medicine anywhere in any of the cabinets in the infirmary. He wanted to cry, and only partially out of frustration. Sure, there weren’t that many normal humans in the league, but still, there were enough humans to warrant the inclusion of cold and flu remedies in the infirmary. He poured himself a glass of water and downed it greedily before sinking slowly, exhausted, onto a bench by the sink. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. He could do one of two things: return home in defeat, or tough it out here. Bruce knew he’d miss the access to meds here, but he was so tired. Just the thought of making it to the transporter and then having to get home made him exhausted. So, he downed another glass of water and left the infirmary.
He made it to his room and didn’t even bother to turn on the light. He stepped out of his costume and left it on a heap on the floor. He stripped down to his boxers, filled another glass of water up, grabbed some tissues from the bathroom, and fell into bed. Soon enough, he began snoring.
A few hours later, he was woken by his own shivering. When he had gone to bed, he hadn’t pulled the covers on, being so hot. Well, now he was regretting that decision as he shivered from the cold. He sat up and pulled the covers around him. His eyes felt like they were melting, and his mouth literally felt like a desert. He sipped at the glass of water and tried to ignore the shivering.
Half an hour later, Bruce lay on his side, still shivering and miserable. He blinked once, and forcefully shut his eyes, moaning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so fucking miserable. He was so miserable that he didn’t notice the two intruders in his room until they were right by his side. He sat up quickly but regretted it. His head ached, and he put a hand to his temples to try and quiet the pounding there. As the sheets fell away, he shivered again. Suddenly, it felt like there were hot coals against his forehead. He jumped.
“You’re freezing!” Clark exclaimed. Diana reemerged from the bathroom with a glass of water, which she handed to Bruce. He drank greedily, not caring about the cold rivulets of water that escaped his mouth and dripped down his chest.
“Did you not take any medicine, Bruce? You should be sleeping,” Diana lectured. Bruce flopped back against his pillows, eyes closed. He said nothing for a moment. But Diana pressed, “Bruce?” He frowned, a lump in his throat.
“The infirmary didn’t have any flu meds, Diana,” he said dejectedly. She huffed. Bruce didn’t even open an eye. He simply shifted in bed, pulling up the covers and trying to get more comfortable. But Clark’s silence made him crack open an eye. The man looked… furious.
“We don’t have any flu medicine? God, no wonder you complain about us being insensitive metas, Bruce! One of the FOUNDING MEMBERS of the league is a non-meta human, and we can’t even bother to keep basic meds in stock,” he exclaimed. Bruce winced, the shouting having triggered another wave of pounding in his head. He shivered again and whimpered. God, he almost wished the flu would just kill him already, he felt that bad. Diana, who had been absent— not that he could see her with his eyes closed— suddenly appeared as a weight by his side. She held a cool cloth for his forehead and had… was that his heat pad? Yes. She plugged it in and somehow managed to get it under his back. He sighed, practically melting into the much-needed warmth. He collapsed against the pillows, finally more comfortable. Then Diana put the cool cloth on his forehead and he was amazed at how good that felt.
“Would it bother you to turn over, Bruce?” she asked, suddenly.
“Mm mm,” was all he could manage. Diana helped him flip over so his face was pressed into his pillows, the heat pad on his stomach. He felt one layer of blankets lifted and was about to protest when suddenly, a pair of soft hands began massaging his back. If possible, Bruce melted even more— he was now just a pile of Batman-shaped goo. He sighed again. Diana began using her elbows on his back and he blacked out for just a second. Clark, who had stayed silent this whole time, suddenly spoke up.
“I’m gonna get Flash to go buy some flu meds. Anything else you need? Bruce?” Bruce swam back to semi-consciousness.
He managed to grunt out, “Tissues, Gatorade, and cough drops.” Then he shut up and began to snore. Diana and Clark glanced at each other before Clark left. After a while, Diana stopped massaging Bruce’s back and moved onto his feet. She hadn’t noticed, but the snoring had stopped.
Another sigh made Diana glance up from her work. “Where’d you learn to do that?” asked Bruce sleepily.
“My mother,” Diana said, “back home, when I was training, she’d do this for me when I was sore.”
Batman grunted once, in acknowledgement, before saying, somewhat incoherently, “Feels like heaven.” Diana smiled. Bruce lapsed into silence, but didn’t start snoring, so she assumed he was semi-conscious. She moved onto his calves and felt him relax even more. After she was done there, she moved onto his shoulders. He tensed for a second, before sighing again. “You don’t know how amazing this feels,” was all he said. She flushed, suddenly.
Then, hesitantly, she took one of his hands in her own and began to rub circles in the palm. When he didn’t object, she finished on that hand and moved onto the other. After done with both hands. But she hesitated. The next step would require his permission… if he let her.
“Bruce,” she said quietly, “do you mind if I massage your temples? If your head hurts, it might help.”
“Sure,” he replied. Diana grabbed a chair and slowly put his head, with a pillow under it, onto her lap. She carefully placed her hands on the sides of his face and began gently rubbing circles. He sighed in utter contentment before hazily blinking open his eyes. Through half-lidded eyes he looked at her face. Slowly, she could see that he was losing his battle to stay awake. His eyes drooped and suddenly, they fell shut for the last time. Soon, his mouth opened and he once again began snoring. Cautiously, Diana moved his head back onto the bed and pulled the blankets up further over his body. She turned off the heat pad and removed the cloth from his forehead. She took that and the water glass into the bathroom. She filled the glass and cooled the cloth. Then she put the glass by his bed and replaced the cloth on his forehead. He didn’t even stir. Diana sat in the chair and waited for Superman.
Fifteen minutes later, Clark came in, hovering. He had a paper bag in one hand and a pack of Gatorades in the other. His eyes flicked to Bruce’s sleeping form when an extra-loud snore reached his ear. He fished out a pill bottle from the bag and whispered to Diana, “I want to let him sleep, but he needs medicine. Can you wake him?” She nodded and gently shook Bruce’s shoulder. He groaned, but didn’t open his eyes. She noticed he was hot to the touch again.
“Bruce,” she whispered, shaking him again. He whimpered, but opened his eyes blearily.
“You have to take this,” Clark said, handing Diana the pills and the water glass. Bruce nodded, sitting up. Diana handed him the pills and water and he swallowed both expertly, downing the entire glass of water too. Then he flopped back on his pillow and didn’t move.
An hour later, four of the founding members were huddled outside of Batman’s room, conversing in hushed tones. “How is he?” asked Flash— he had been the one to get the medicine for Bruce.
“Not great,” Clark sighed, “but with rest he’ll be fine. I still can’t believe we didn’t have any flu meds here! That’s so irresponsible.”
“I agree. We really must remember the needs of all our members,” J’ohn said.
“Yes,” Flash said, looking guilty. “How long does a flu last?” asked Diana. The rest of them just looked at her.
“Well…” Flash said, “I don’t get flus that last as long as a non-meta’s would, but I believe anywhere from three days to two weeks.”
“Hera!” exclaimed Wonder Woman. Superman just sighed.
Ten hours later, Batman finally opened his eyes again. He blinked, not remembering why he was on the Watchtower or the events of the previous evening. He sat up with a groan, putting a hand to his forehead. Suddenly, he felt a horrible churning in his stomach. With a shouted curse, he stumbled into the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet in time. “Huuuuurrrrgggg!” The meager contents of his stomach suddenly reappeared. He groaned.
“Bruce!” exclaimed Diana, somewhere in the other room. Bruce was suddenly hyper aware that he had nothing on but his boxers.
“Diana,” he croaked, “don’t come in— Huuuurrrrghhh!” he was interrupted as he suddenly emptied his stomach again.
“Bruce!” Diana exclaimed in horror as he heaved yet again.
When he was relatively sure he wasn’t going to vomit again, Bruce flushed, then washed his hands. Then he splashed water on his face and reached for his toothbrush. He honestly didn’t care that Diana was seeing him with less clothing on than she ever had before. Once his mouth was rinsed out, he turned to look at her. “What happened? Are you all right?” Diana asked. Bruce sighed, stumbling back to his bed.
Groaning, Bruce said, "It appears that I don’t just have the flu, but one of the stomach variety. It’s a real bitch… Sorry.” Diana merely looked concerned for him.
“Is it not fatal?” she asked. At this, Bruce barked out a laugh. “No. No, it’s not. Victims only wish it was,” he said, in self-pity.
“I’m getting Clark. Do you want anything?” she asked, standing. Bruce considered. Well, he had been planning on asking for food, but that might not be the wisest decision right now. He settled for Gatorade, which he slowly sipped. Diana departed to fetch the man on steel. The two reappeared just as Bruce felt another wave of nausea. He turned green, eyes wide, as Clark entered the room and saw him. Bruce bolted into the bathroom and hurled again. Clark sighed, coming into the small room behind him. Bruce sat leaning against the wall.
“Go away,” he moaned at his friends.
“The Batman never does anything half-assed, does he?” asked Clark. Bruce glared, wiping the vomit off his mouth with a tissue.
“Aarrrrgggghhh!” he groaned. Then he stood shakily and once again brushed out his mouth.
“Do we have any stuff for nausea?” he rasped. Clark personally knew that they did have that type of meds… because Flash got nauseous on long shuttle flights.
“One minute,” he said, flying out of the room. He returned with the requested meds.
“Take three,” he said. Bruce held out a hand and Clark handed him the pills. Bruce swallowed them with a sip of Gatorade. Then he carefully stood and maneuvered past his friends into the bedroom where he sat down on the bed and pulled the covers over himself. The two others stood awkwardly at his sides. Bruce rolled his eyes.
“Fine, you can stay. But I only have one chair,” he said. Superman looked at Diana as he sat in the chair. She swallowed, heart thumping, as she sat on the bed besides Bruce. She could feel him radiating heat from here, though it was less than last night. She brought out a thermometer and held it out to Bruce. With an annoyed growl, he stuck it in his mouth before mumbling something.
“What was that?” asked Clark. When the thermometer beeped— 100 degrees— Bruce repeated himself.
“What happened last night? I… I don’t remember much,” he admitted, eyes downcast.
“Well, after the meeting, you stormed off. Diana and I tried talking to you, but we ended up getting into a shouting match; you told us to leave you alone. Then you tried to find flu meds in the infirmary, but we didn’t have any, so you must have come back here. Diana and I came to check on you and found you practically frozen to death. Diana gave you a heat pad and a massage while I got Flash to go buy you meds… After we got them into you, you fell asleep. That’s pretty much it,” Superman summarized.
Batman looked like he had swallowed something unpleasant. “A heat pad and massage?” he asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” Clark said, “it was the only way to get you to relax while we waited for Barry to get you the meds.” Bruce just shook his head. Diana, for her part, said nothing.
The nausea meds must have begun working, because Bruce suddenly looked more relaxed. He yawned, then lay down. As he closed his eyes, he said, quietly, “Thanks for taking care of me.” Then the two other heroes heard quiet snores emanating from the dark knight. They looked at each other, happy that their usually reclusive friend was content to open up like this with them. They silently departed the room to let the Batman rest.
A few hours later, Bruce was awake again, and feeling nauseous. He took a few deep breaths, trying desperately to suppress the feeling. But, as his stomach gave a particularly vicious churn, he once again found himself crouched down in front of the toilet.
“Huurrrrggghhh! Oh, Goddamnit!” The Flash paused in Bat’s doorway when he heard this, door pushed half-way open. For once in his life, Barry didn’t have a funny quip to say. He felt truly awful for poor Bruce. The flu— let alone the stomach flu— was never fun, let alone the nasty strand Batman had picked up. So, cautiously, Barry entered Bruce’s room and knocked on the bathroom door. He was saw a disheveled Bruce Wayne in nothing but boxers kneeling in front of his toilet, eyes glassy and cheeks rosy but otherwise pale. He also received an attempted bat-glare, but under the circumstances, it didn’t intimidate him much.
“I have more meds. Do you need help up?” Flash asked awkwardly, trying to avoid staring. But he couldn’t help but notice how chiseled Batman’s body was. The man clearly took good care of himself. Bruce rose slowly from the floor and rinsed out his mouth with toothpaste and toothbrush.
“You can leave the meds on the bedside table. I want to look at the dosages before I take more so I don’t poison myself,” Bruce growled. Barry nodded, understanding; he was a forensic scientist, after all. He understood chemistry.
“Ok. If you need anything else, just call. I’ll be here in a flash,” Flash joked, easing the tension. Bruce just scowled. Flash left, shutting Bruce’s door behind him.
Bruce looked at himself in the mirror and did not like what he saw. The man in the mirror was pale as a sheet, had listless eyes, mussy hair, stubble, and looked like he had several years’ worth of dried on sweat coating his body. Though Bruce couldn’t smell anything with his plugged sinuses, he did not believe he smelled good. So, he decided to take a shower before he felt nausea again— or someone else decided to try and mother him.
The water felt amazing on his clammy body and he reveled in the feeling of shampoo cleansing his hair. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed. Then he snapped back to reality and finished up. He shut off the water and wrapped himself in a towel, grabbing the two packs of meds. He exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam and casually hung another towel over his shoulders.
Then Bruce glanced at the warning labels on both packs of meds. He cursed. “Language, Bruce.” said a voice. Bruce jumped, nearly dropping the pill bottles. Clark stood in his doorway.
“Christ, Clark,” Bruce snapped, embarrassed that he was in nothing but a towel, “do Kryptonians not know how to knock?” Clark looked slightly abashed.
“Sorry. I just wanted to check up. Why are you reading those and not taking them? I doubt they’re laced with joker toxin or anything…” he said.
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Bruce said, “to answer your question, I’m checking to see if I’m going to poison myself by taking these at the same time.”
“What? How would you do that?” Superman asked. Bruce removed the second towel from his shoulders and dried off his hair, rolling his eyes.
“Because, Clark, there are chemicals in medication that interact with your body. Certain mixtures of chemicals in a body are toxic. Too much of a chemical is also a no-no. And, unfortunately, it appears that I can’t take these meds together. So, I’m either going to have to be feverish or nauseous.”
“Oh,” Clark said quietly. Bruce sighed. “Us mortals require more maintenance than you do Clark,” he snapped. Superman tensed and Bruce felt a rare pang of regret for snapping at his friend. “Sorry,” he said, “that was… harsh. I’m just annoyed.”
“Right,” Clark said. Brue cleared his throat.
“So. are you going to let me get dressed or am I gonna have to stay in this towel?” he asked. Clark coughed in a way that seemed suspiciously close to laughter.
“Oh, right. I’ll step outside,” he said, closing the door. Bruce shook his head.
Ten minutes later, Superman knocked on the door. “Come in,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes. Clark entered and grinned at what he saw. Bruce was wrapped up in a fluffy robe and swaddled in blankets. He had a pile of pillows behind him.
“Comfy?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bruce snapped. Clark frowned. There was awkward silence.
Changing the subject, Clark asked, “Do you need a glass of water to go with your meds?” Bruce nodded. Clark filled one for him and Bruce accepted. He swallowed a few of the flu pills grimacing suddenly. His heartrate started to go up, even though his breathing deepened. He turned a slight green color. “Bruce?” Clark questioned. Bruce remained silent, eyes squeezed shut. After a moment, he let out a deep breath.
“Thought I was gonna vomit,” was all he said. Clark raised an eyebrow. So, he just meditated it away? Impressive. As if reading his thoughts, Bruce commented, “Tibetan meditation technique. Very useful.”
“Uh… yeah,” was all Superman could say. Bruce leaned against his pillows slightly. But then he sat up slowly.
“Do we have any ginger?” he asked.
“Ginger?” Clark asked.
“Yes, Clark. Ginger,” Bruce grumbled.
“One sec,” Clark said, x-raying the walls until he could see the kitchen. “Uh… I think we do. Why?” he asked, curious. Bruce stood slowly, and Clark rushed to his side. Batman glared at him and he backed off.
“Ginger is supposed to help with nausea,” the Bat said, walking out his door, clearly heading for the kitchen.
“Oh,” Superman said, flying at his friend’s side. Bruce glanced at him once and just shook his head. He didn’t say anything about his escort so Superman supposed he didn’t mind too much. They reached the kitchen and Bruce began searching for the ingredient in question. “Third cabinet to the right,” Clark supplied.
“…thanks,” Bruce said, grabbing the ginger. He washed it and grabbed a cutting board and knife. He sliced it and dumped it in a kettle. He set that to boil and grabbed a mug. But he doubled over and once again looked green. Clark hurried forward and hovered by his friend’s side. “Distract… me,” Bruce hissed.
Clark racked his brains. “Uh… Kryptonite! Do you know how much is in the world? I heard that S.T.A.R. labs just found another three-pound chunk of it in China,” Superman rambled. Batman stood up again, an eyebrow raised.
“Really? I ask you to distract me and you talk about kryptonite?” He mumbled something and went to pour the ginger-water into a mug. He grabbed a bag of tea—mint—Clark saw, and put it in the drink. Then he stirred in some honey, taking a sip.
“Hey, what smells so good?” asked Shayera, entering the kitchen. She froze when she saw Batman and Superman. “Batman? What are you still doing here?” she asked, disbelief coloring her tone as she was taking in his robe.
“I’m sick,” he said grumpily, “and I made ginger-mint tea, which is mine.”
“Ok. I’ll leave your tea alone,” Shayera said, half teasingly.
“Thanks,” Bruce said sarcastically, walking past her with a steaming mug. Clark looked back briefly at Shayera, then followed the bat out. Shayera just shook her head.
Once back in his room, Bruce sipped more of his tea, finally feeling his stomach settling down. Now that he had the flu meds in him, and had a settled stomach, he felt bored. He wanted to get some work done but knew Clark wouldn’t let him. “So… what do you want to do?” Clark asked. Bruce growled. It was worth a shot.
“I have a case I need to work on— Two Face is loose, again.” Clark shook his head.
“Absolutely not. We don’t need your stress levels going up anymore,” he said. Bruce stared at him. Clark stared back, lips pressed in a firm line. Bruce glared. “It doesn’t work as well when you’re sitting in bed, holding a mug of tea, wearing a robe,” Superman commented. Bruce cursed and Clark winced.
“Boy scout,” Bruce said, smirking. Clark just sighed. Bruce took to staring at the wall, lost in his own head.
“Mind if I get Diana?” Superman asked.
“No,” Bruce said, face carefully neutral. But Clark saw how the muscles in his jaw tightened and heard how his heartbeat sped up. Sure you ‘don’t mind,’ Bruce, he thought.
“I’ll be back with Diana. Don’t go anywhere,” he warned.
“Fine,” Bruce huffed. Clark rolled his eyes. Bruce sure could be a big baby sometimes. Clark reached the Amazon princess’s door and knocked. Diana opened, dressed in one of her long robes.
“Yes, Kal?” she asked.
“You should go visit Bruce, keep him out of trouble,” he said. Diana nodded.
“That was what I was about to do,” she said.
“Ok, good luck,” Clark said, flying away. Diana grabbed her book and walked to Batman’s room. When she got there, he was sitting up in bed, looking much better than he had the day before.
“Diana,” he greeted.
“You look better, Bruce,” she said. He nodded.
“I feel a lot better,” he said simply. Diana grabbed his heat pad and plugged it in.
“Sit up,” she ordered. Bruce developed a micro frown, but complied. Diana watched his expression as he lay back against the heat pad. Though he tried not to look it, he was more relaxed. Diana sat on the end of his bed and grabbed his feet.
“Diana,” he complained, squirming. She did not let his discomfort dissuade her. She knew this would help him relax— not to mention, if she had his feet, he couldn’t get up and cause trouble. She began massaging his feet, rubbing deep circles in his arches with her thumbs. Quietly, he sighed in relief. Diana didn’t say anything. If he didn’t want to talk, she wouldn’t make him. But Bruce said, “You know, this really isn’t necessary.” Diana shook her head.
“So? I don’t care. What’s a little pampering between friends, Bruce?” He sighed. Diana worked her way gradually up his calves, noticing a faint scar on the right one. It looked… almost like tooth marks.
“That’s from Killer Croc, if you’re wondering,” he said.
“Oh,” she replied. Then there was silence. She continued her massage up his body until she got to his lower back. “Flip over, would you?” she asked. Taking a last sip of his tea, Bruce complied, shedding his robe to make it easier for her to reach his back, which was warm from the blankets and heat pad. As she began massaging his lower back, needing it with her knuckles, he sighed, this time not an annoyed puff of air, but a sound of contentment. He fluffed up a pillow and lay his head on it. “Bruce,” she asked, “why do you let me get close to you?” She noticed the way his posture stiffened— the way his back tensed. She poked him a little, and he relaxed. She continued her massage, working her way up to his shoulders with her thumbs.
“I don’t know. I guess because I know you’re as stubborn as me and would raise hell if I didn’t give you your way,” he said teasingly, between a yawn.
“Oh,” she said, knowing he was omitting... something. But she didn’t press it. A few minutes later, he began to breathe deeply, asleep. Diana stood. Before leaving, she looked at his form once more, tucking him under the blankets. “I’ll get the truth out of you, Bruce Wayne, one way or another,” she said softly, shutting off the light and closing the door. Bruce just snored.