Chapter Text
“I told you I’m fine.” Bruce’s voice was low and steady, though every step betrayed him.
He limped toward the chair at the console, the faint scrape of his boots echoing through the cavernous silence of the Batcave. His hand brushed the desk for support before lowering himself carefully into the chair. Behind him, the massive steel door groaned as it sealed shut. Superman’s tall frame was silhouetted in the dim light of the cave monitors.
“Bruce,” Clark said, his tone carrying equal parts worry and frustration. “You’re not fine. Let me check you.” He stepped closer, his eyes catching the slight tremor in Bruce’s movements.
Bruce pulled off the cowl, tossing it onto the desk with more force than he intended. His hands trembled violently, betraying him. The black paint smeared around his eyes now streaked down his face. Dried blood clung to the corners of his mouth, the coppery scent faint but unmistakable. He ignored it, ignored Clark, and powered up the computer screens, eyes scanning desperately for the signals of his children.
Clark sighed heavily. “Bruce…”
Bruce raised one hand without looking away from the monitors, silencing him with a sharp gesture. “Clark. Stop. I said I’m fine.”
Clark rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “You’re bleeding. I can see it from here, across your stomach.”
Bruce didn’t even flinch. His gaze locked onto the screen showing Blüdhaven. “It’s nothing. You’re imagining things.” He could see Nightwing’s signal. He was safe, his apartment glowing warm in the city night. Kory was with him. That was good. Bruce pressed the comm switch, his gravelly voice entering the private server his family shared. “Everyone. Status report. Is everyone alright?”
Tim’s voice came first, quick, slightly breathless. “Yeah, B. I’ll finish my patrol in a bit and head home.”
“Good,” Bruce answered, his tone softening ever so slightly. “Tomorrow you’ve got school. Don’t forget it.” The channel went quiet. Tim didn’t reply. Bruce didn’t press.
“Damian?”
“Yes, Father,” Damian’s voice came sharp, clipped, but alive with energy. “I’m fine. I just stopped some lowlife from stealing a woman’s purse. Escorted her home myself.”
Bruce nodded, though his son couldn’t see it. “Well done. And don’t forget, you have school tomorrow as well. I expect you to go there.”
A long groan came through the line. “Tt. You’re starting this again.”
“Damian. You need to” But the line clicked before he could finish. Damian was gone. Bruce exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face.
Clark leaned against the railing, arms folded. His eyes never leave Bruce. Another voice cut through the speakers. Jason.
“Just broke up a bunch of guys trying to deal drugs on the dock.”
“Good,” Bruce said immediately. “Any injuries?”
A short laugh crackled through the comm. “No, Bruce. I’m fine.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
Jason paused. When he spoke again, there was an edge of sarcasm in his voice. “Aw. How sweet. Didn’t know you cared so much.” But beneath the joke was a different emotion that Jason wasn’t willing to say aloud.
“Did you hear from Dick?” Bruce asked, his voice dropping slightly. “His tracker shows he’s home.”
“Yeah. Pretty Boy’s celebrating his anniversary,” Jason snorted. “God knows what Kory’s teaching him right now.”
“Hey! I heard that!” Dick’s voice cut into the channel.
Jason smirked through the comm. “Well, hello, Dickie.”
“Oh, shut up,” Dick muttered, then his tone shifted, softening for Bruce. “Hey, B, we’re good. Everything’s fine. But… are you?”
Clark’s eyes sharpened at the question. He knew Bruce wouldn’t say it, that the blade had found him tonight, that blood was still seeping beneath the armor.
“ We're home now,” Bruce said, voice even, betraying nothing. “I’ve got a case tied to Arkham that needs my attention.”
“Any details you can share?” Dick pressed.
“Not yet.”
“Alright. Then… goodnight.”
“Have fun,” Jason chimed in, still lingering.
“Wait, you’re still here?” Dick asked, incredulous.
“Unfortunately.” Jason’s dry voice carried through before the line went dead.
Bruce disconnected next, the silence of the cave wrapping itself around him again. He pushed himself up from the chair, ignoring the sharp flare of pain. He moved toward the shelves, searching for files, when suddenly the world tilted. A wave of dizziness crashed over him. His knees buckled. Clark was there in an instant, faster than Bruce could fall, catching him firmly before he hit the ground. Bruce’s knees nearly buckled, his vision darkening at the edges. Clark’s hands steadied him firmly, the weight of the batsuit dragging at his failing strength.
“Alright,” Clark muttered, no longer asking permission. With practiced care, he unclasped the armor, piece by piece, until the heavy plating slipped away with a dull thud against the cave’s stone floor. Bruce swayed slightly as Clark peeled the suit off him, until only his bare chest was exposed to the cave’s chill. The air bit against his skin, goosebumps racing up his pale flesh.
“Come on,” Clark urged, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Let me put you on the couch.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes away from Clark, fixed stubbornly on the floor. “I have work to do, Clark.”
A dry laugh escaped the Kryptonian. “Do I look like I care about that right now?” Without waiting for an answer, Clark slid an arm beneath his knees and another behind his back, lifting him as though he weighed nothing.
Bruce didn’t fight him, but his eyes burned with quiet defiance as Clark lowered him onto the black leather couch tucked against the cave wall. The contrast between the sleek couch and Bruce’s pale, scarred body was stark and unsettling. The moment Clark stepped away, Bruce attempted to push himself upright but the effort was interrupted by a sudden, sharp sneeze. Then another. His shoulders shook with the force of it.
“Bless you,” Clark murmured, returning quickly with a first aid kit in one hand and a box of napkins in the other. He set them down beside the couch, his brows furrowed.
Bruce’s teeth had begun to chatter. A shiver ran through him, deep and violent, like his body was only now admitting defeat. Clark narrowed his eyes, letting his vision sharpen, piercing through skin and muscle with ease. The wound along Bruce’s abdomen glowed faintly in his sight. It wasn’t life-threatening, not deep enough to pierce anything vital. But it was messy.
Clark exhaled, relieved, though worry still tightened his face. “It’s not bad,” he said quietly, kneeling beside him. “But it’ll leave an ugly scar.” Bruce turned his head slightly, his breathing uneven. His skin was pale even on the best of days, but now he looked almost waxen, like marble under the cave lights.
Clark’s voice softened, breaking past the steel in his chest. “Babe… are you with me?” There was no answer at first. Bruce’s eyes were half-lidded, his lips pressed thin. Then, slowly, his hand lifted and found Clark’s shoulder, a weak touch but grounding.
Clark covered it with his own, squeezing gently. “Okay,” he whispered, “I’ll finish it fast. Then I’m taking you to the bathroom, alright?”
Bruce gave the faintest nod, and Clark set to work. His vision burned faintly as he focused, his hand hovering carefully over the wound. The heat of his power seared just enough to close torn vessels and knit tissue back together. Bruce, stubborn to the end, didn’t make a sound. But when another sneeze tore through him, his whole body jolted involuntarily.
Clark halted immediately, his eyes snapping up. Concern etched every line of his face. “B, are you alright?” His voice sounded more protective now. Bruce let out a slow breath and nodded again, though his body still trembled beneath the weight of exhaustion. He finished tending to the wound with careful movements, then reached for the napkins and gently began wiping away the smudged black makeup from Bruce’s eyes. The dark streaks peeled away slowly, revealing the exhaustion etched deeply into his face. He was meticulous and tender, as though every touch might break him. Then he moved to Bruce’s mouth, carefully cleaning the dried blood at the corners of his lips. He reached down and took Bruce’s hand into his own, threading their fingers together, grounding him with quiet strength while the other hand continued its work.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the faint hum of the computers and the distant drip of water echoing in the Batcave. Bruce’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, his lips parting as though he was about to speak, then finally, he did.
“Why is it freezing in here?” His voice was hoarse, almost fragile.
Clark glanced at him with concern. “It’s not. I think you caught a cold.”
Bruce’s eyes flew open, wide, startled like a child being told an unthinkable truth. “No. I’ve got too much work to do. I can’t get a cold now.” His gaze found Clark’s.
Before Clark could answer, another sneeze tore through him. Clark’s expression melted, his eyes full of love and pity all at once. He leaned closer, brushing a strand of damp hair back from Bruce’s forehead.
“It’s fine,” he said gently, his voice sounding low and steady. “ I’m going to take care of you. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll even make you soup, the kind my Ma used to make for me.”
Bruce blinked at him, confusion flickering across his features. “You… got sick?”
A faint chuckle escaped Clark. “Yeah. I think it happened twice, maybe. That’s all.”
“How?” Bruce asked, bewildered, as though the very idea of Superman falling ill bent the laws of nature.
Clark shook his head slightly, still smiling. “I don’t really remember. But look, this isn’t about me right now, okay?” Bruce’s face twisted as though he might cry, his lips trembling, his eyes glassy. The sight was almost unbearably tender. This man, who had carried Gotham on his back, was reduced for once to something human and vulnerable.
“Come on, love,” Clark whispered, finishing the last of the makeup from his face. His right hand lingered against Bruce’s cheek, stroking gently. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re going to get better fast.”
“But I haven’t been sick in such a long time,” Bruce murmured, his voice heavy with disbelief. His gaze locked with Clark’s, searching for certainty there. “I’ve got so much work to do… I can’t just stop.”
Clark nodded, his thumb brushing softly along Bruce’s jaw. He was infinitely patient, infinitely kind. “I know, baby. I know. But let me take you to our room. I’ll run the bath, get it warm for you.”
Bruce hesitated, then nodded faintly, too tired to fight. Clark slipped one arm beneath his back, the other beneath his knees, and lifted him effortlessly. Holding him close, Clark carried him in a bridal hold, ascending the stone steps out of the cave. For once, Bruce didn’t protest. His head leaned against Clark’s chest, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his lover’s heartbeat filled the silence.
Clark carried Bruce into their room, careful as always, and set him down gently. Bruce leaned his bare back against the headboard, refusing to lie fully in bed. He had a thing about only slipping under the covers clean, no matter how battered or tired he was. The cool wood against his spine grounded him, but his body still trembled faintly. Clark kissed the top of his head quickly before disappearing into the bathroom to start the bath. The sound of running water echoed faintly. Bruce closed his eyes, let out a breath and then suddenly felt something warm sliding down from his nose. At first, he thought it was just the aftertaste of blood from his earlier injury, but when he touched his upper lip, his fingers came away wet and red. A thick drop slid past his lips, then another, streaking down his chin and chest. He pressed the back of his hand to his face, blinking in irritation.
“Shit,” he whispered hoarsely, grabbing napkins from the nightstand. But when he bent forward, dizziness slammed into him like a wave. His vision blurred, his head felt too heavy, and the room tilted sideways. He ended up sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the bed frame. With slow precision, he pinched the soft part of his nose above the nostrils and tilted his head just enough to keep the blood from flooding into his throat. He breathed through his mouth, lips parting in uneven breaths.
Clark froze mid-step in the bathroom. His super-hearing caught the faint, broken curse, then the unmistakable wet sound of blood dripping, Bruce’s breathing harsher than before. In a flash, he was out of the bathroom, and the sight that greeted him stopped his heart.
“Bruce!” Clark dropped to his knees beside him, panic flickering across his features. Bruce sat slumped against the bed, napkins pressed to his nose, crimson staining his hands and chest.
“B, what’s going on?” Clark asked, voice trembling. Bruce tilted his head back slightly, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though anchoring himself against the dizziness. His voice was almost casual. “ Nothing, just a nosebleed.”
Clark’s eyes widened. He moved closer, scanning him desperately. “Can I help you? Are you dizzy? Is it from blood loss? Did the wound cause it? Bruce, talk to me.” The questions tumbled out too fast, his fear overriding logic. Bruce didn’t answer right away. He just breathed through his mouth, patient, waiting, letting the bleeding slow on its own. His chest rose and fell in controlled, steady rhythms, though the red stains continued to spread across his skin like war paint.
Clark pressed his palm gently to Bruce’s chest, listening with his other senses. His heartbeat was normal and strong. Relief washed through him, but the fear didn’t fade. His eyes darted over every line of Bruce’s body, searching for something wrong, anything. Finally, Bruce stirred, lifting one hand away from his face. His blood-stained fingers reached for Clark and rested against his knee. It was such a small gesture, but it held so much weight. It was his way of trying to reassure Clark that everything was okay.
“Babe,” Bruce murmured, voice low and soft, looking at Clark with tired eyes that still carried warmth and love. “Calm down.”
The blood wasn’t a light trickle. It was heavy, pouring for nearly two minutes, running over his hand, soaking through the napkins, smearing warm down his bare chest until he could feel the sticky trails cooling against his pale skin. He closed his eyes, waiting it out, listening to his own heartbeat thudding steadily in his ears, though the dizziness hadn’t fully eased.
Clark’s hand hovered at Bruce’s shoulder, unwilling to let go, unwilling to step away even for a second. He looked at the blood, the pale exhaustion on Bruce’s face, and his throat tightened.
“Go,” Bruce rasped softly, pinching his nose still. His voice sounded so tired. “Check the water in the bathtub. Don’t let it overflow.”
Clark shook his head almost violently. “I’m not leaving you.”
Bruce opened his eyes and gave him the faintest smile. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Just… go, before the whole place floods.” For a long moment, Clark hesitated, searching his lover’s face, reading the truth there. Finally, he nodded and stood.
“Two seconds. I’ll be right back.”
He sped into the bathroom, turned off the faucet and then grabbed a fresh towel. He ran it under the warm water, wrung it out until it was damp, and came back into the room in less than a heartbeat. Bruce’s eyes were closed now, his head tilted back, resting against the edge of the bed frame. His breathing was shallow.
“B,” Clark murmured, kneeling beside him again, holding up the towel. “I came with a towel. Can you let me look at it?”
Bruce opened his eyes reluctantly, lowering the napkins from his nose. He glanced at them, soaked through, then at his chest and his hands, streaked and smeared with crimson.
And just like that, he wasn’t in the room anymore.
The air around him thickened, cold. The walls vanished, replaced by the narrow, damp darkness of an alley. His hands were small again, trembling, sticky with blood that wasn’t his. His mother’s pearls glistened in the gutter. His father’s body sprawled unnaturally against the pavement. He could hear himself screaming, his voice echoing off the brick walls, crying for help that never came. Somewhere, he was still waiting for someone to tell him it wasn’t real, that his parents were safe. That it wasn’t forever.
Clark saw the change in him instantly. His heartbeat, steady only moments before, spiked into a frantic rhythm. His breath caught in short, shallow bursts.
“Bruce,” Clark called. “Baby, look at me.” He touched his arm, then his shoulder, then his cheek, desperate to bring him back. But Bruce didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. He was gone, lost in the alley, trapped in the memory. Clark’s panic flared. He pressed the warm towel gently against Bruce’s face, careful not to hurt him, hoping the sensation might anchor him. “It’s me, it’s Clark. You’re safe, I’m right here.” He cupped his jaw, brushing his thumb across blood-stained skin. “Come back to me, Bruce. Please.”
He shifted closer, wrapping an arm around him, pulling him against his chest. He tried everything, speaking softly in his ear, smoothing his hair back, pressing warm kisses against his temple, anything to remind him he wasn’t alone in the dark anymore.
The nosebleed slowed, then stopped completely. But Bruce was still rigid, trembling faintly, breath uneven. Clark held him tighter, rocking him slightly. “You’re not alone. You’re with me, my love. I’ve got you.” Clark didn’t know whether the PTSD episode was connected to his parents or to Jason’s death. It wouldn’t be the first time it was both.
It felt like forever before Bruce stirred. When he did, it was with a soft, shuddering breath, his body collapsing into Clark’s arms as if his bones couldn’t hold him up anymore. Tears streaked his face, silent at first, then heavier, dampening Clark’s shirt. His hands clutched at Clark’s chest, as though he had just resurfaced from drowning. Clark pressed his cheek against Bruce’s damp hair, holding him as close as he could. “That’s it,” he whispered, his own voice breaking. “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re clean.” Bruce blinked through the haze, lifting his gaze to his hands. The blood was gone, wiped clean by Clark’s steady care. His chest was no longer streaked with red, but warm and bare beneath the gentle pressure of Clark’s hands.
The sight undid him. For a moment, he just stared, breathing ragged, realization washing over him that he wasn’t in the alley anymore. He was in their room. With Clark. Alive. Safe. And as Clark kissed the corner of his damp temple, Bruce leaned into him, whispering hoarsely, “Thank you.” Clark only held him tighter, as if letting go wasn’t an option. Bruce wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, stubbornly brushing away the evidence of his breakdown. His breath was still uneven, but he sat up straighter against Clark’s chest, trying to reclaim some control. Clark stroked his hair back gently, his thumb brushing against his temple. “You don’t have to push yourself, B. If you’re too tired to shower, you can just get in bed.”
Bruce turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing in disbelief, as if Clark had just suggested he hang up the cape forever. “No,” he said firmly, his voice hoarse. “You know I hate that.”
Clark nodded immediately. “I know.” Bruce braced his hands on the floor and tried to stand. His body wavered, legs unsteady, and Clark was already there, one arm firm around his waist. Bruce opened his mouth, wanting to mutter that he could handle it, that he was fine but the words caught in his throat. They would be lies, and both of them knew it.
Instead, Bruce leaned into him for a moment, his voice quieter. “Will you… get in the bathtub with me?”
Clark’s eyes softened. He nodded without hesitation. “I was already planning to.”
Bruce didn’t answer, but the faint flicker of relief in his expression said enough. He slipped off the last of his clothing and sank carefully into the tub, letting the warm water close over his body. His shoulders relaxed almost immediately, the heat easing the ache from his muscles.
While Bruce settled into the water, Clark crossed to the dressing room. He took out fresh clothes for both of them, folding them neatly under one arm. When he returned, Bruce was waiting. He looked up at him with a softness that made Clark’s heart beat faster, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached out his damp hand, curling his fingers around Clark’s.
“Come on,” he whispered, his eyes searching Clark’s with quiet need. “I want to kiss you.”
Clark’s answering smile was tender, his heart aching with love. He set the clothes aside, stripped out of his suit, and stepped into the tub. The water rippled around them as he settled opposite Bruce, then shifted closer until their knees brushed beneath the surface. Bruce leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Clark’s, the kiss lingering with gratitude and longing. When they pulled apart, Clark cupped his jaw for a moment, then reached for the bath products.
He began to clean Bruce with slow, deliberate care, using the expensive bottles Bruce always kept lined neatly at the edge of the tub. He worked the shampoo gently into Bruce’s dark hair, fingers massaging his scalp in slow circles. Bruce closed his eyes, his breathing evening out, surrendering control in a way he rarely did.
Sometimes, as Clark rinsed the suds from his hair or smoothed shower gel over the scars of his chest, Bruce would lean over, brush his lips against Clark’s cheek, and murmur a quiet, “Thank you.” Each time, Clark’s chest tightened with affection. He would kiss his temple or squeeze his hand, answering in that firm, certain way of his. “Anything for you, my love.”
Bruce let himself sink deeper into the warmth of both the water and Clark’s presence. It wasn’t often that he allowed anyone else to lead, but with Clark, it was different. He trusted him completely, trusted him with his body, his mind, his heart. With every touch, every kiss, every whispered reassurance, Clark reminded him that he didn’t have to carry everything alone. For once, Bruce didn’t fight it. He let Clark take care of him.
The Batcave was quiet when the elevator doors slid open, but silence didn’t last long. Tim and Damian stepped out, their voices bouncing against the stone walls.
“You fight like you’ve never heard of subtlety,” Tim muttered, brushing dust off his cape.
Damian smirked. “Subtlety is for cowards. I got the job done.”
“Yeah, by breaking three windows and setting off an alarm,” Tim shot back.
“Details,” Damian said flatly, already stripping out of his gloves. He tossed them onto the workbench and walked toward the changing area. “The criminals still fled, didn’t they? That’s the important part.”
Tim rolled his eyes but followed. A few minutes later, both boys emerged in sweatpants and hoodies, hair damp from quick showers. They wandered into the manor’s kitchen, the scent of Alfred’s cooking long since faded. Damian pulled open the fridge, found a plate covered in foil, and held it up. “Cold waffles.”
“Better than nothing,” Tim said, taking one and biting in without hesitation.
Damian sat at the counter, glaring at the waffle as though it had personally wronged him. “Drake, remind me why Father insists on this school nonsense. It’s already four in the morning.”
Tim smirked, chewing. “Because kids are supposed to have an education. Even you.”
“I don’t need school to be better than all of you,” Damian said, stabbing the waffle with his fork. “And I certainly don’t need to wake up at seven-thirty to sit through lectures from idiots who think they’re smarter than me.”
“Maybe because they are smarter than you,” Tim said under his breath.
Damian narrowed his eyes. “Careful.”
Tim only grinned and leaned back in his chair. “You know, normal people are asleep right now.”
“Yeah,” Damian replied, not missing a beat, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But are we normal people, Drake?” Tim shrugged, as if to say fair point.
They ate in silence for a few moments, the only sound the clink of forks against plates. Then Damian spoke again. “I want to see Grayson this week.”
“Good luck,” Tim said, finishing his waffle. “He told me he’s busy.”
Damian rolled his eyes dramatically. “Of course he is. Probably distracted with Starfire again. He always has time for her.”
Tim smirked. “Jealous?”
Damian scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just think he could make more time for me. I am his brother.”
Tim chuckled, shaking his head. “Good luck competing with Kory.”
Damian stabbed another piece of waffle, chewing aggressively. “Tt. As if I would waste my time competing.” Tim laughed quietly and reached for another cold waffle, while Damian muttered something under his breath about priorities.
Bruce was shivering under the blankets. The warmth of the heavy duvet wasn’t enough, and every few seconds a fresh wave of chills rolled over him.
“Clark,” he murmured, voice scratchy, “turn on the heat.”
Clark was up immediately, adjusting the thermostat until the quiet hum of warm air filled the room. He came back to the bed, sitting down beside him, running a gentle hand over Bruce’s arm.
A few minutes went by before Bruce sneezed again, hard enough to make him wince. He swore under his breath, reached for a napkin on the nightstand, and blew his nose with clear annoyance. Clark was about to tease him when his ears caught the familiar voices drifting up from below.
“The boys are home,” he said quietly.
Bruce gave a weak nod. “Good. I should go down and tell them to get some sleep.”
Clark shook his head, kissing his forehead. “No. Stay here. I’ll go.” Bruce closed his eyes again, leaning into that kiss as Clark stood. Clark pressed one more hand against his shoulder, then left the room.
In the kitchen, Tim and Damian were sitting at the counter, finishing what looked like cold waffles. They both looked up when Clark stepped in.
“Hey, Sups,” Tim greeted. Damian didn’t say a word, only narrowed his eyes.
“Hey, guys,” Clark said with an easy smile.
“Did we wake you up?” Tim asked at the same time Damian shot, “Is Father in his room?”
Clark smiled, careful not to give away too much. “No, you didn’t wake us. Bruce is… trying to sleep.”
Damian tilted his head. “This early? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” Clark said, a little too fast. Both boys caught it instantly. Confusion passed over their faces.
Damian stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “What’s wrong with my father? Did you do something to him?”
“Damian…” Tim warned, but the boy ignored him.
Clark raised a calming hand. “I didn’t do anything. He just caught a cold. I was going to take some soup upstairs to him.” Damian didn’t even wait for the explanation to end. He bolted for the stairs, feet pounding up toward Bruce’s room. Tim made a half-hearted motion like he might chase him, but exhaustion won out. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Clark frowned, looking after Damian. Tim pushed away from the counter, went to the fridge, and pulled out a covered pot. “Alfred made this for me two days ago,” he explained, sliding it across the counter.
“You wanna warm it up with your X-ray vision, or use the stove?” Tim asked, already pulling down a bowl.
Clark gave him a quick glance, then looked back toward the staircase Damian had stormed up. “I’ll use the X-ray.” Tim ladled soup into the bowl, sliding it over. Clark carefully warmed it with his vision, watching steam curl up.
“I’m sorry but I didn’t have time to tell you he got a cold,” Clark said after a beat, his voice low.
Tim shrugged, his eyes heavy with fatigue but his tone genuine. “It’s okay. I’m just glad he has you.”
Clark wasn’t expecting that. His chest tightened, and he smiled softly at Tim. “Thank you,” he said. Tim gave him a small nod.
Upstairs, Damian pushed open Bruce’s door without knocking, like always. The air in the room was stiflingly warm, so much so that Damian wrinkled his nose as he stepped inside. His father lay bundled under heavy blankets, only his eyes and the top of his head visible.
“Dad, are you okay?” Damian asked, moving closer to the bed.
Bruce stirred, opening his eyes slowly. “D, how are you feeling? Are you tired?”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Tt. I asked you a question.”
Bruce gave a faint smile. “I got a cold.”
Damian frowned. “What does that mean? You never get sick.”
“I know,” Bruce admitted with a nod.
“So what happened now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“Language, young man.”
“It’s not fair. Jason swears all the time.”
“That’s his thing,” Bruce said, trying not to smile.
Damian rolled his eyes again, unimpressed. “Don’t change the subject. What’s really wrong with you?”
Bruce shifted a little under the covers. “Damian, I’m okay. Really. I’m going to eat some soup, take some medicine, and tomorrow I’ll be as good as new.”
“You better not lie to me,” Damian muttered, and Bruce caught the edge of worry in his voice. He hadn’t expected his son to be so affected by something as small as a cold.
“It’s just a cold, D. I’m fine.”
Damian hesitated, then gave a stiff nod. “Okay.”
“Good. Now go to sleep. You’ve got school in a few hours.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” Damian groaned, turning on his heel.
Bruce watched him leave, and though Damian didn’t see it, a smile softened his pale, tired face.
Clark lingered in the kitchen a bit more. He let the silence settle for a moment, then turned back to Tim, who was still at the counter, slouched with tired eyes.
“How was patrol?” Clark asked gently.
Tim gave a small shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was fine. Quiet enough. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Clark studied him a second longer. “Do you need anything? Food? Tea? More waffles?”
Tim shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, I’m good. I think I’ll just go to sleep after you leave.”
Clark hesitated, then leaned against the counter. “You want me to convince Bruce to let you guys sleep a little more? Skip school tomorrow?”
But Tim shook his head quickly, almost too quickly. “No, please. I want to make him proud.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out so bluntly, and the moment they did, he froze, like he wished he could take them back.
Clark’s expression softened. He smiled warmly at the boy. “Tim… I’m sure he will understand.”
“I know,” Tim admitted, staring down at his hands. “But I can do it. Really. I can handle it.”
Clark nodded. “I believe you.” He reached for the bowl of soup and the small bottle of pills Tim put on the counter. He balanced them in his hands, then gave Tim a look that was full of gratitude. “Thank you. I’ll take this up to him.” As he stepped toward the doorway, Clark added softly, “He’s proud of you too, you know.”
Tim sighed, a tired sound, and whispered under his breath, “Yeah, sure.”
Clark stopped. His hearing had caught it easily. He turned back, his eyes serious now. “Don’t ever say that again, Tim.” Tim blinked, caught off guard, as if he’d forgotten just how much Clark could hear.
Clark’s voice was calm. “He is very proud of you. Of all of you. He’d never lie about something like that.”
Tim’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded, quietly, letting Clark’s words sink in. For a second, the exhaustion on his face faded, replaced by something that almost looked like relief. Clark gave him one more reassuring smile, then turned and headed upstairs, the bowl of soup steaming gently in his hands.
Clark heard Bruce cough as he reached the top of the stairs. A second later came a sneeze muffled into the blanket, and instead of worrying, Clark found himself smiling. For once, Bruce wasn’t the one patching himself up alone in the dark. Tonight, Clark got to take care of him, the love of his life. Maybe, just maybe, this cold would force Bruce to finally rest. When Clark opened the bedroom door, he had to laugh. Bruce had pulled the blanket all the way up to his face, hiding everything but his eyes.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Bruce muttered, voice hoarse from coughing.
Clark set the bowl of soup down on the nightstand beside the lamp and leaned over him, eyes warm. “You look so sweet, baby.” Bruce made a face in protest, but Clark bent down and kissed his forehead. The heat under his lips made him frown.
“You’re burning up.”
Bruce shook his head stubbornly, the exact same gesture Tim had made earlier. Clark’s chest ached with affection as he realized how much all of the boys mirrored Bruce without even knowing it. They had his mannerisms, his stubbornness, even his deflections. Every one of them.
“Can you please eat a bit of this soup so you can take the pills?” Clark asked gently. Bruce sighed but pushed himself up against the pillows. He picked up the bowl and ate slowly. Clark slipped into the bathroom, dampening a towel with cool water. By the time he returned, the bowl was empty. Bruce had finished all of it.
He took the pills with a glass of water, and Clark smiled at him. “I’m so proud of you.”
Bruce gave him a flat look. “I’m not dying, Clark. It’s just a cold.” A cough caught his throat again, making him wince.
Clark shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Bruce sank back against the pillows, closing his eyes. Clark laid the cool towel across his forehead, then climbed into bed beside him. Bruce opened one eye, smirking faintly. “How am I supposed to hug you with this thing on my head?”
“Just keep it there a while. Then you can hug me all you want.” Bruce made a soft sound, somewhere between a huff and a sigh. A few minutes passed in silence, the sound of their breathing mingling. Then, unexpectedly, Bruce whispered, “Can you tell me a story?” Clark turned his head toward him. “Sure. What story?”
“Something your mother used to tell you when you were a kid.”
The request caught Clark off guard, but he nodded. He’d do anything Bruce asked, especially tonight. Bruce reached over, turned off the lamp, and closed his eyes, his breathing steadying as Clark’s voice filled the room.
Clark told the story slowly, a tale Martha Kent used to whisper to him on stormy nights in Smallville. His voice was low and soothing, painting pictures in the dark. Bruce listened quietly, his chest rising and falling, his eyes still closed. At some point, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Clark, too caught up in the memory of his mother’s words, didn’t notice. When the story ended, Clark expected Bruce to be asleep. Instead, a soft voice broke the quiet. “That was really beautiful, Clark.”
Clark immediately heard the change in his tone, the fragility of it. “B, are you okay?” He reached toward the lamp, but Bruce’s hand shot out and rested on his arm.
“Please, don’t.”
“Okay,” Clark murmured, lowering his hand again. “Do you want to cuddle?”
Bruce nodded. He pulled the towel off his forehead, shifted until his back was pressed against Clark’s chest, and tucked his head against Clark’s hand. He held Clark’s right hand tight against his chest, close to his heart. Clark kissed the curve of his neck, then his cheek, and finally brushed his lips over the tears that had slipped free. Bruce’s grip on his hand tightened.
“I’m sorry for acting like this tonight,” Bruce whispered.
“No,” Clark said instantly, wrapping his arm more firmly around him. “Don’t say that, B. I’m so glad you feel safe with me.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Clark’s hand. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Bruce’s quiet voice broke the silence.
“It’s my mother’s birthday today.”
Clark’s heart clenched. Bruce rarely spoke of his parents. Everything about the night, the nosebleed, the PTSD episode, and asking for a story all fit together now. Clark tightened his arms around him, his chest aching.
“It’s nothing, really,” Bruce added quickly, almost defensively.
“No,” Clark said softly. “No, I’m sorry. I was just… thinking.” He turned Bruce gently in his arms until they were face to face, his right hand cupping Bruce’s cheek. “Don’t ever say that again. I know how much you love your parents. I know how much your mother means to you.” Bruce stared at him, silent.
“I’m sorry for not knowing,” Clark continued, his thumb brushing over Bruce’s skin.
“I never told you,” Bruce admitted, his voice breaking slightly.
Clark leaned forward, resting his forehead against Bruce’s. “ It’s okay. Happy birthday.” Bruce closed his eyes, a few tears slipping down his cheek, and Clark kissed them away before they could fall further.
Bruce’s breathing slowed until it matched the rhythm of Clark’s heart. Whatever memory had surfaced about his mother settled over him like a quiet snowfall, and before he realized it, he drifted into sleep. Clark felt the subtle weight of him grow heavier, his body finally surrendering. He shifted just enough to slide Bruce’s head onto his chest, his own arms tightening instinctively. With gentle, endless patience, Clark combed his fingers through Bruce’s dark hair, the strands soft and slightly damp with fever-sweat.
For a long while, the bedroom was nothing but the city sounds far away. Clark pressed his lips to Bruce’s head and closed his own eyes, content to keep him safe.