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Clark had read the same page four times over. His eyes glazed the words while his mind chewed relentlessly on everything and nothing at the same time. A light rain pelted against the window of his apartment, the sound soothing but distracting and he tried to refocus on his book by flipping the page entirely. His skin pricked with restlessness, unable to relax after the day's mission. Pain ebbed in his shoulder and back from lingering kryptonite exposure and Diana’s firm words about r&r echoed in his ears every time he even glanced at his suit thrown over the chair. It had been a long day.
At some point the rain eased and Clark’s phone rang out through his living room. A light chiming indicated it was his personal number and Alfred’s voice crackled through the cheap speakers a moment later.
“Master Kent, apologies for the rather unorthodox disturbance, but might I enquire a favour?”
“Of course Alfred, anything.” said Clark, clumsily closing his book with his other hand. It was almost three in the morning and Alfred’s name flashing on his screen had sent a jolt of anxiety through him from where he sat on the couch.
“You see master Bruce is on business right now- I’m sure you’re aware,” Alfred continued.
Clark was aware. Bruce was in Metropolis closing a deal with another company. Something about investments, but it wasn’t Clark’s area to know the specifics, so he hadn’t asked. Alfred paused, contemplating the right words.
“He seemed a little off before he left, you wouldn’t check on him would you?” Alfred always did a great job of sounding utterly unimpressed or otherwise indifferent when Bruce was in trouble despite his true feelings, a simple ‘Bruce is down’ followed by his coordinates usually buzzed through the communicators. But this seemed more like a hunch from Alfred, voice sounding light yet uncharacteristically unsure. That was if Clark was to be so bold to assume he knew the butler well enough. He liked to think he did.
Clark was already tugging his suit on, he couldn’t sleep anyway.
“On my way Alfred, don’t worry.”
—
The heartbeat he had been honing in on was elevated slightly, not by much, but just enough to have faint alarm bells ringing in Clark’s ears. Whatever Bruce was doing, his baseline shouldn’t have been this high. Alfred didn’t have to tell him where he was, Clark knew where ‘Brucie Wayne’ would be if he stayed in Metropolis, and having the man's heartbeat memorised didn’t hurt.
He was outside Bruce’s penthouse suite in the next minute, listening for something when he didn't sense immediate danger besides the hamming pulse coming from beyond the door. The windows had been a no go, curtains all closed to the city below, so instead he went through reception and was lucky that his speedy entry went unnoticed by the staff.
He stood jittery and unsure how to proceed. It was somewhat unusual for Alfred to call him personally and Bruce’s reaction to that was something he hadn’t considered. He was hesitant as ever to abuse his x-ray vision because Bruce didn’t like it when he used it on him, so he instead relied on his hearing.
Clark pushed through that noise to hear the rustling of sheets followed by a low moan, drawn out and frustrated, and Clark could feel his face heating. Had he gotten the wrong idea, had Alfred? That didn't seem right and he decided that no, Alfred wouldn't call him to interrupt a booty call, it had to be something, and Clark really wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. They were friends, sure, but he doubted that Bruce wanted Clark interfering with his personal life, especially if that compromised things and he had already risked that by showing up to Wayne’s private penthouse as Superman. If the tabloids got a hold of that, he didn’t know what he would do, except maybe have to write his own article about it. He could already see Lois’ teasing grin.
Another noise then, a sneeze, and Clark could suddenly feel the heat of the fever radiating from beyond the door and he mentally kicked himself from not gathering the obvious sooner.
Bruce was sick.
He let out a breathy laugh, relieved, and knocked on the door in a rhythm he hoped was friendly, remembering it was past three in the morning. Clark heard the shuffling of bedclothes and something being knocked over, then a muffled curse before a keycard swiped over the lock.
Bruce stood in front of him maybe two minutes later and Clark grimaced and felt a twinge of guilt over getting the other man out of bed, but he was hardly going to break in.
He looked terrible in the low, uneven light of the building. Glassy eyes, pale skin tinged with red on his nose and cheeks, and blue and black under his eyes. He was wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants which had a mysterious stain on them and god, Clark had never seen Bruce Wayne look so dishevelled in his life.
“What are you doing here?” Bruce said evenly, although the rough nasally drawl gave him away. And before Clark could make his excuses, Bruce cut him off, face drooping slightly. “Alfred sent you.” He sounded almost disappointed, for reasons unclear to Clark, and it struck him that he intended to hide this from Alfred, from everyone including him, and aimed to suffer through it alone.
A sigh threatened to get past Clark’s lips, he didn't want to argue about this. Didn’t want to fly to the manor and argue with Alfred about this and explain how he didn’t help. “He was right to, Bruce. You need to lay down. Why are you up anyway?” He said instead, quelling the irritation that came up after looking at his friend again, at his hand that was still clutching a used tissue. Oh my god.
“I told him I was fine,” Bruce insisted and folded his arms over his chest, ignoring Clark’s question. “And now I’m telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
“That I’m Fine, Clark.”
Bruce turned his back and dragged himself back into the penthouse like he was wading through sand and over to the bed in the centre of the room. Clark watched him clamber onto the mattress where he pulled his laptop across his legs and began typing something. His fingers travelled lazily over the keys, stopping every few sentences and Clark eyed him with a renewed pang of something akin to pity. But not quite that, never that.
He tried again, fully let himself in, then let the door click shut behind him. The room was luxurious in a way that made Clark’s journalist pay check weep with the thought of only staying for one night. “Come on, You’re sick.” Clark said inanely. He stood at the end of the bed like a dog or a small child, eyes roaming the messy sheets that looked like someone had been electrocuted in them. “It’s just a cold.” Bruce typed something, then held the delete key with a pinched expression and tried again. “Go home Clark.”
Clark wondered how Alfred had to deal with this in the past and he honestly came to a blank. “Bruce, you should be resting. And this-” Clark gestured vaguely to the sight of Bruce working. ”-isn’t helping.” Bruce ignored him, expertly so, or maybe he had forgotten that Clark was still there judging by his expression that seemed to ebb between delirious to utterly exhausted. Clark could hear the way his lungs struggled with each breath, and decided that was enough.
Determined, he drifted over so he was sitting in front of Bruce on the bed, and the man had little reaction besides misclicking a key. Clark shifted closer and held his hand on the top of the laptop screen, Bruce’s eyes snapped up as he began to close the screen, slowly inching it down until his palm was almost flush on top of the keys.
“Clark-” Bruce warned but had moved his hands off the keyboard anyway and Clark shut the laptop with a soft click. “This is important, I have a meeting in the morning and I need to prepare. ” Bruce said, exasperated. Clark had moved the laptop to the side as he spoke. “So cancel it, you’re in no shape to even be leaving this room, and you’re Bruce Wayne.” He added lamely, because that very fact should be important enough, at least for him it was. If Clark thought Batman was hard to negotiate with, Bruce was a whole other beast. “I can’t do that, important people are relying on me. Relying on the deal. ” he said a little more fervently.
Clark considered this. “Your colleagues aren’t the space creatures we fight Bruce, they’re human, they’ll understand. ” He continued when Bruce didn’t budge, “Just push the meeting forward tomorrow by a few hours at least, and see how you feel?” He did not quite plead.
Bruce seemed to be contemplating it but gave Clark a weary look. “It’s- I…I suppose I could push it forward an hour or two.” He grumbled out.
“Ok. Ok good Bruce, I’ll um-” but he made no move to leave. A silence widened between them as Bruce struggled to breath through his nose before giving up on the ordeal.
“You don’t have to stay.” Bruce said eventually, and his nose started to run again.
“Oh come on, I don’t want to leave you like this, at least let me make you some tea. Ma always said tea fixed everything. ” Clark said sheepishly, and absentmindedly smoothed out wrinkles in the sheets. “And then go to bed. Alfred will kill me if you don’t.” He added quietly.
Bruce looked defeated, but his eyes softened. And if that meant he’d go to bed, Clark took that as a win.
“Alright.”
—
Clark reappeared from the kitchenette with a cup of some sort of sleep tea blend he found in the cupboard. Alfred had taught him the extensive fundamentals of brewing and Clark had not so subtly inquired about Bruce’s preferred method. He perched himself on the edge of the mattress and held out the mug for Bruce to take. In his other hand, he gave Bruce a couple of painkillers from the nightstand, the packet almost empty. Somehow, he looked worse from when he left him.
“Thank you.” Bruce rasped out. He looked at Clark, then at the mess of tissues around them, and at just about every square inch of the room that was covered in germs. He frowned at him, a cautious expression seeping into it.
“You can't get me sick, don’t worry.” Clark said and smiled, only slightly perturbed that Bruce had managed to forget he couldn’t get sick. Bruce sipped at the tea, maybe a bit too quickly while Clark worried the duvet between his fingers before he set the mug on the bedside locker. He almost missed but Clark caught the cup in time.
Bruce assumed his earlier position of rigidity on the bed, although his shoulders slumped a little more and his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks struggling to stay open. Clark chewed the inside of his cheek and frowned at him.
“Bruce, what are you doing?”
“Can’t sleep. Hurts too much.” Bruce said tightly like he’d already made up his mind on the ordeal.
Good lord, he must really be in the throws of it if he was actually, physically admitting defeat. Clark’s stomach did a funny thing and in the next moment, he was clambering farther into the bed. He leant on one arm that snook past Bruce’s legs to the far side of the mattress, crowding around him. To his growing concern, Bruce let him.
“What hurts?” Clark couldn’t help how quickly he said it, how light his voice got. He was hovering and he felt like his mother. “Everything.” Bruce said eventually like it was ripped out of him. He was sweating, hair damp at his forehead and breathing through his mouth.
“Hang on, I have an idea. Lie down first.” Clark said as he stared. He managed to get Bruce back into a horizontal position by gently pulling his legs down the bed. It was kind of terrifying being able to do that, and he sent a silent prayer to his future self when Bruce had recovered enough to glare daggers at him for it. He could already hear the gravelly ‘I don’t enjoy being manhandled, Clark.’
Bruce looked miserable, chest heaving with faint dots of sweat covering his brow and upper lip and he absentmindedly ran his hand up and down one arm, trembling slightly, trying to soothe the aches and pains away. He came closer to Bruce until his hip and thigh were pressed into the man's rib cage. He shuffled closer to Clark, and he was briefly amazed at the sudden contact that bordered on affection, that Bruce wanted to be close for once. He let a selfish part of himself revel in it.
“I’m going to try something.” Clark warned softly, looking down at the other man. A slight chill filled the air as Clark breathed icy breath into his hands. Small crystalline particles danced around his palms and he rubbed them together quickly so they wouldn’t be too cold. Tentatively, he laid his palm against Bruce’s forehead. He was burning, even with his heat resistance he could feel it. The other man moaned lightly, arching into the touch.
“What are you doing?” Bruce heaved out, eyes shut so tight it looked like it hurt. “You have a fever.” Clark said stupidly as if Bruce wasn’t aware, and his own face began to feel warm at the contact. “Let me just-” he applied the slightest bit of pressure and Bruce slumped into it, face and eyes relaxing. Clark took it as a sign to continue.
He cupped Bruce’s cheeks with both hands and for a second he didn’t move, transfixed on Bruce’s eyes, half-lidded and delirious looking not quite at him. He was cradling Batman’s face between his hands and he wasn’t being swatted away.
Both of his thumbs were used to press along the length of Bruce’s cheekbones in a fluid back and forth, keeping a light pressure as he repeated the motion. It was probably the most intimate thing he’d done for another person, he thought wildly as he pressed over the ridges and divots of the other man’s face. Bruce exhaled slowly making a soft noise at the back of his throat.
His fingers moved to where Bruce’s eyebrows began and applied the same pressure in circular movements. Bruce shuddered, eyes closed. The hand Bruce had tangled in his cape loosened, Clark hadn’t registered he grappled it in the first place.
“I watched this on the internet, supposed to help. I think,” he said quietly, face probably too close. Bruce hummed to himself, a kind of gross snotty sound, at the thought of Superman watching ‘sinus massage’ videos on YouTube in his free time. Bruce inhaled tentatively once, found he could breathe through his nose again and wrapped a clammy hand around Clark’s wrist, tugging his hand firmer into his face.
One hand cupped at Bruce’s nape, letting his cool palms quell the burning fever on his skin. “Keep going. Keep doing that, it’s helping.” Bruce panted below him. So he did, he held his hands over Bruce’s chest and even through the layers of fabric, Bruce shuddered and relaxed at the sensation of soothing circles. His hands found their way to Bruce’s shoulders and he worked at the tense muscles there, a pleased noise came from the back of Bruce’s throat.
Bruce’s hands were clammy in his own, he pushed his sleeve up to thumb at the undersides of his wrists and forearms and ran his hands up Bruce’s arms and gently, gently massaged small motions into his stiff limbs where Bruce had been rubbing before. He caught himself lingering, lazily sweeping his cool hands everywhere and reigned it in because he was caressing Bruce and the realisation had jarred him.
“Why’d you stop?” Bruce whispered and lazily tugged Clark’s arms back, the movements tired and sloppy. “Don’t stop. You don’t have to stop.” Bruce’s heartbeat was closer to normal now, his fever probably broke, or more likely Clark broke it for him. His eyes were shut and his breathing had evened out into a slower rhythm to signal that he was finally asleep or close to it. So Clark's hand was back in his cheek, rubbing slow circles. Up towards the bridge of his nose and back to the top of his cheekbone. Bruce sank further into the bed, satisfied again.
The cold on his hands was wearing off, had been for a while but they both ignored it. Clark was about to move and let him rest, to update Alfred and fly back to his apartment where he would still be listening, just in case. He smiled to himself, imagining Alfred’s pleased reaction to know that he was right, that his paternal instincts were still spot on.
Bruce shifted and had taken Clark’s wrist where it lingered on his warm cheek. “Stay.”
Clark blinked down at him. Bruce’s eyes were closed and he no longer had the alarming redness to his cheeks or the sweat-drenched brow. He looked half asleep and Clark wondered if he was even aware he was saying it out loud.
“Stay,” he repeated, softer, pulled at his wrist, and Clark didn’t need to be told a third time.
———
Bruce awoke from what he was sure to be a fever dream.
An arm was strung around his waist, breath even at the back of his neck. He was wildly confused for a moment but then he remembered Clark and his hands and the feeling of his fever finally, finally breaking.
Then the blessed sleep that came after he practically begged Clark to stay.
He didn’t move, pretended to be asleep but Clark knew him too well, knew the way his heart jumped involuntary when he awoke each morning, and smiled into his hair.
“Someone texted you about the meeting.” Clark mumbled behind him and then added when Bruce didn’t reply. “Sorry, I looked at your phone.”
Bruce reached for his phone instead, squinting at the daylight slicing though the gaps in the curtains. “I’m calling in sick.”
Simultaneously he felt the arms around him tighten and Clark’s unmistakable Kansas boy grin at the back of his neck.