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Bruce held his breath as Alfred pressed his fingers lightly to his ribs, pushing firmly but not harshly against the blooming colour painting his skin. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. It had been a nasty blow. He would be fine, he always was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Alfred pressed his fingers firmer against the darkest part of the bruise, hard enough to make Bruce suck in a sharp breath and snap open his eyes to glare at him. It was on purpose, and Alfred didn’t apologise or pretend it wasn’t. It was warning to be careful, silent scolding for being reckless.
He wasn’t reckless.
He was protecting his city. That meant getting a few bumps and bruises every now and then and Alfred knew that.
Bruce supposed he should just be glad he’d slipped away after the battle alone.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Bruce snapped with a pained grunt when Alfred pushed his thumb against the bruise once more, leaning back away from his touch. “If you’re done, I have work to do.”
“Not in that condition you don’t.” The voice came sharp and from the shadows.
Bruce bit his tongue. Glared harder at Alfred. He should have known he would let him in when Bruce was too out of it to notice. Should have known the Cave would be the first place he looked when he noticed Bruce had fled the scene. The only two people in his life who could get him to lay down and rest—of course they’d team up any chance they’d get.
Alfred liked him.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be telling me what to do,” Bruce fired back as he pushed himself off the exam table and grabbed the shirt Alfred had brought down for him. “When you stop running headfirst into what, for all we knew, was a form of highly-concentrated Kryptonite gas, then maybe we can talk, but until then—” he tugged the shirt over his head, “—get out of my cave.”
“You don’t want that,” Clark told him as he crossed the cave to Bruce, lips quirked up into a faint grin. He stopped in front of Bruce and his grin dropped, his eyes scanning him in that way that made Bruce just know he was using his x-ray vision.
Bruce shifted from one foot to the other subtly. It never ceased to feel slightly invasive.
“You’ve got two fractured ribs, you’re done working tonight,” Clark said, and he said it with such conviction that Bruce almost conceded without a fight.
Almost.
“No, Clark, I’m not,” he said instead, forcibly pushing his way past Clark.
It was a testament to how much that gas had really affected him that Clark genuinely stumbled when Bruce shoved by him. It was a testament to how not fine Bruce was that his knees nearly buckled when Clark steadied himself by grabbing Bruce’s waist—hand pressing hard against the bruising on his ribs and drawing a stifled gasp from his lungs.
“Yes, Bruce, you are,” Clark retorted. He let go of Bruce, who drew in a sharp breath and forced himself to stand straight, and looked to behind him. “Alfred, could you…bring Bruce’s dinner to his bedroom?”
“Of course, sir,” Alfred, the bloody traitor, agreed easily. He ignored Bruce’s scathing look as he made his way out of the cave without another word.
The silence that settled over them after Alfred took his leave was suffocating. The look Clark fixed him with, killer. Every breath Bruce took sent sharp, stabbing pains through his side and his lungs and Clark looked ready to collapse.
They’d both seen better days.
They’d both seen worse.
Rough fingers grabbed his jaw and tilted his head back. Blue eyes searched his face, lingered on the cut on his upper lip. Clark sighed.
“We got lucky today, hm?”
“We don’t get lucky,” Bruce huffed, looking down his nose at Clark, “but yes.”
“You could have gotten yourself killed.” Clark’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip. He pulled Bruce’s face back down and shifted his hand to cup his cheek instead of his chin. “I could have as well.”
“Glad to see you’re capable of some level of self-awareness.”
“Glad to see you’re capable of some level of humour.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes at the cheeky smile on Clark’s face. “I’m serious.”
Clark’s smiled widened to a grin.
“You always are.” He cradled Bruce’s cheek, holding his gaze, and sighed. His grin faltered. “Come up with me. Rest with me, just for a bit. Your ribs won’t heal right if you don’t.”
He was a wonder. A mystery, even. Nobody [sans Alfred] could tell Bruce Wayne what to do—tell Batman what to do. Most people wouldn’t even dare. Clark, though—Superman—he dared, and more than not, he succeeded.
Bruce averted his eyes. Took a breath that hurt more than helped. “You’re a fool if you think you can keep me from working through recovery.”
“I’m a fool, then,” Clark hummed, dropping his hand from Bruce’s face. He moved to stand beside him and carefully snaked his arm around his waist, cautious of his injury. “But I’m a stubborn fool, you’ll discover.”
Bruce scoffed, letting himself be led across the cave to the exit. “I already have.”
Clark didn’t reply as they made their way to Bruce’s room. The quiet settled over them once more. Bruce appreciated it. He knew it wasn’t truly silent for Clark—it would never be so long as he had his powers from the sun. The effects of the Kryptonite gas he’d dove into in the battle—something Bruce had absolutely not forgotten about—seemed to be wearing off, as well, so there must have been some noise for him, even if close.
He wondered, being led into his room and carefully sat on his bed, if Clark could hear Alfred in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Alfred had likely planned for this. Likely had enough set out already for both of them for have dinner. He knew this would happen.
It rarely didn’t these days.
Clark was there more than not.
Bruce sucked in a sharp breath, wincing, as Clark guided him onto his back and under the duvet after tugging off his boots. There was a time when he would have protested the treatment, but now he just let it happen with minimal fight.
“I’m not helpless,” he said, for appearances more than anything.
Clark hummed and walked over to Bruce’s wardrobe, stripping from his suit as he did. He dug around for a few moments, then walked back over to the bed.
“No, I wouldn’t ever think you are.” He tugged an unfamiliar blue t-shirt over his head, and then pulled on unfamiliar grey sweats. Bruce frowned as he watched. “You’re human, though, and you’re injured—”
“When did you start moving your clothes into my room?”
Clark paused. A smug grin pulled at his lips. “I thought you were the detective, Bruce. Are you telling me you didn’t notice? I thought you knew everything that happened in Gotham—” Clark clicked his tongue and shook his head, “—you don’t even know what’s going on under your own roof…”
Bruce glared.
He’d been busy lately—so he hadn’t noticed a few extra shirts in his clothes, he had so many as it is, it wasn’t his priority to count every single one he had. Maybe it should start to be.
“Last week.” Clark carefully climbed into bed beside him. “I figured I’ve been staying over so much, I might as well have something here—you don’t…mind, do you?”
It was a shift. A change. A glaring sign, bright and flashing and foreboding, that their relationship was quickly growing more and more serious than Bruce ever let himself have. Instead of fear, though, and instead of discomfort or uncertainty or anything of the sort…he felt calm. Secure.
Content.
“I do mind, Clark,” Bruce told him, shifting and wincing when he jostled his ribs. He took a moment to compose himself, then continued, “that you’ve not given me proper notice to have room made for your belongings.”
A short, breathless laugh reached his ears, relieved, and Bruce fought back a faint smile. “You—you are…that was good, that was a good one.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bruce deadpanned, blatantly lying. He paused and looked over at Clark. His expression softened in that way that only Clark managed to bring out. “I’ll see about getting more space for your clothes.”
“Thank you.” Clark smiled, looking back at him. He raised a hand slowly and Bruce held his breath as he gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. His heart skipped—he still wasn’t used to such gentle touches…
The pain in his ribs felt distant when Clark looked at him that way and touched him so softly, spoke so quietly. The events of the day seemed to melt away in the moment. A reprieve he didn’t know he needed until he had it.
He took a deep breath, ignoring the stinging from his injury, and closed his eyes. “Alfred’s going to want to give you a physical.”
“I know.” Clark’s fingers stilled in his hair. “The effects are wearing off now. I’m feeling better. Can’t say the same for you.”
“I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse.”
“I know.”
Bruce slowly opened his eyes. “I won’t apologise.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Clark tucked a few stray hairs behind Bruce’s ear. Then, he leaned in and pressed his lips lightly—briefly—to his forehead and smiled when he pulled back. “I love you as you are.”
“I’ll remember that next time you get into it over me being ‘reckless’ in the field,” Bruce promised, vaguely threateningly.
And he would. He would remember and he would know Clark wouldn’t leave him. Clark loved him as he was. He knew little who could say the same and mean it so sincerely.
They would fight tooth and nail over their recklessness—because they both were, even if it was more dangerous for Bruce to be, some would say Clark was even more reckless due to his invulnerability—and they would fight over it and they would worry and they would fret, and it would manifest in anger.
They would fear and it would manifest in irritation.
And they would fight.
Clark wouldn’t leave him, though. Not over this. Not over anything, Bruce knew deep down.
Bruce wouldn’t either. He would think about it sometimes—think Clark would be better off without him. Think everyone would. Clark always seemed to know when those thoughts came, though, and maybe it was because those days he was extra reckless—unafraid to fight death hand to hand—but he always knew, and he always washed them away.
“You were reckless today,” Clark chuckled, bringing him back to the present and out of his head. “We both were, and we’re going to hear it from Diana in the morning.”
Bruce grimaced.
“I have two fractured ribs, I can’t—”
“You’re going to the meeting, Bruce.”
“You’re a terrible nurse,” he grumbled, wilting slightly. “I’m in severe pain.”
“Then I suppose you won’t be going on patrol tomorrow night?” Clark rose an eyebrow. Bastard. Bruce’s silence said all Clark needed to hear and he knew it. “I thought so. I don’t like that you’re going on patrol, by the way.”
Bruce didn’t answer.
“If I had it my way, it would be six weeks of bed rest and working from home,” Clark continued.
“If I had it my way, I would be in the cave right now.”
“If you had it your way, I wouldn’t even know about your fractures.”
Bruce paused. Then he nodded. He couldn’t deny it.
He would rather keep it secret than worry anyone or have them fret over him. Alfred was bad enough, pushing him to rest and take care of himself when he could be solving cases long gone cold between active missions.
A moment passed in quiet.
“Alfred’s working on dinner, sounds like about an hour left,” said Clark abruptly, “you should sleep for a bit.”
He should. Bruce could feel the exhaustion weighing down his body, pressing him into the mattress like a bag of bricks.
“Will you as well?” he asked.
Clark stared at him for a moment, thoughtful. He nodded after a few moments. “If it gets you to, yeah.”
“Okay,” Bruce sighed, “alright.”
He should have fought it more. He conceded too easily, agreed too quickly. Bruce was tired, though, and it was one of those days when he could admit he was tired without the world falling apart. They’d fought their battle, they’d won. There was no open case needing his immediate attention—no, that would be tomorrow.
Now, Bruce could rest. He could truly rest.
And so, laying on his back and mindful of his ribs, with the man who somehow never failed to break through his walls by his side, he did.