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Alfred analyzes Bruce’s injured arm with a small frown on his face. Superman, to his credit, is silent behind him, standing with his hands crossed behind his back. His expression, pinched lips and furrowed eyebrows, would almost be comical if not for how annoying this is for Bruce.
Clark is an anxious, guilty mess, and Bruce is… himself.
Alfred, kneeling in front of Bruce who is sitting on a plush chair, shuffles around to grab antiseptic from his kit, hands harboring a small tremble in show of his old age.
“Is there anything I can do?” Clark asks, shifting his weight, eyes darting from Bruce’s arm to the back of Alfred’s head.
The butler eyes the tear in his ward’s skin, one he had to be careful with because armor was embedded into flesh. It was a delicate removal, one that required anesthetic; it was a silent procedure. Bruce, lost in thought, glances down at his arm, the ripped skin a rare show of Clark’s strength. This was a… failed attempt at training Superman in hand-to-hand combat.
“Perhaps,” Alfred responds in lieu of Bruce’s silence, pointedly ignoring his hiss when he pours antiseptic over his wound. The numbing must have worn off. “You could tell me what happened.”
It’s quiet, and Alfred expects this from his ward, but from Clark? He glances up at Bruce only to see him looking straight ahead, face stony. A turn toward Clark reveals his averted gaze, guilt practically oozing from him.
“Master Clark, if you may tell me how this happened?”
The butler watches him open his mouth, only for Bruce to clear his throat, both men’s attention snapping onto him.
“He got handsy,” Bruce says, enunciating each word slowly. Alfred’s eyebrows raise a fraction, surprise breaking his outward stoicism.
“Pardon?”
“He was…” Bruce flexes his fingers, blood seeping from his arm, and Alfred is quick to cover it with the blood-soaked rag he brought with him. “Handsy.”
A dramatic demonstration from his ward, but an explanation nonetheless. He keeps his hand over the rag, applying pressure.
Clark’s face is red, lips pursed, and eyes wide. Bruce can feel his own annoyance bleed into humor, a toxic combination that only works to fuel his pettiness. Clark did this. Clark can handle him, then.
“He took me by the arm,” Bruce explains, eyes sparkling when Clark’s shoulders seem to shrink inward.
Alfred is concerned with this revelation, and unbeknownst to the other two, he is intrigued. He takes a penlight from his kit, squeezing Bruce’s arm and sighing at the soaked cloth in his hand. A quick shine to the others eyes disproves his suspicion: Bruce does not appear concussed. Seeing as the only medicine he took is ibuprofen, he’s messing with Clark.
“Is this a domestic dispute?” Alfred sets the penlight aside, reaching for a fresh batch of gauze to replace the rag.
“Yes,” Bruce says, at the same time Clark exclaims, “No!”
A quieter, mumbled “no” escapes the Super’s lips, hands falling to his sides. His red cape sags sadly behind him, not unlike a dog with a tucked tail.
Bruce is smug, and Alfred has the faint image pressed into the back of his eyes of a mini Bruce Wayne playing with his food, a buttery lobster in his hands as the shark—him—hunts it down with one missing tooth. It was cuter then but strangely similar to now that he feels vaguely nostalgic. He swiftly replaces the rag with gauze, catching sight of his now bloodied hand. That won’t do.
“Master Clark, if you can hold his wound steady with light pressure. I must wash my hands.”
Clark perks up much to Bruce’s displeasure and excitement. Alfred catches the straightening of Bruce’s shoulders, the draw to attention that unfamiliarity brings out of him, but a look at his face contradicts with what Alfred knows. His lips hold a subtle smirk, eyes relaxed in what the butler presumes is anticipation.
Alfred might have to bring Bruce to the hospital. This domestic dispute his ward confirmed may mean something more, and for a second too long, the butler hesitates to move his hand, sitting as still as a statue.
“Do I just..?” Superman interrupts his thoughts, causing him to carefully slide his hand away for Clark to immediately take over.
Standing makes his back and legs twinge in pain, but despite it, he keeps a straight face, stepping aside with the grace of a much younger man. Clark takes his place, standing hunched over as he stares down at irritated, hidden skin.
Bruce reaches over to press his gloved palm over Clark’s hand. “You need to press down harder, otherwise the blood won’t clot as quick,” he informs, voice kind.
Hmm, Alfred can’t help but think, reluctantly exiting the room. Bruce watches his departure, skin warming up through the glove where he’s making contact. Clark drops to the floor in front of him.
“You run hot,” Bruce notes with an analytical edge in his tone. It shows itself with a slight tilt of his head, his gaze dropping to their hands.
Clark has been observing him, and whether or not Bruce knows it, he can tell a lot about the man. As much as the Bat prefers assets over fanboys, he doesn’t ever seem to mind Superman’s attention. Now, he supposes, their partnership has paid off. Batman isn’t chewing him out, kicking him out, or threatening him. Bruce Wayne is pushing his hand into his wounded arm with nothing but a wince, telling him what he already knows because he wants to know more.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, unable to help the words from falling out. “I-“
“I know. You’ve said it enough.”
He bites his tongue, x-raying the other’s arm for the hundredth time this evening.
“You’ve done that enough, too. Maybe if you push harder, you’ll see something worth worrying about.”
Immediately, Clark’s hold turns light, as if he’s scared of injuring him further. “I don’t want to hurt you, Bruce.”
Bruce pushes his hand back down, leveling out his breathing lest he groan in discomfort. Distantly, he’s aware he should’ve taken more for the pain, but something in the back of his mind also tells him he can’t miss this.
He suspects it’s his paranoid nature, with a super-powered alien and all in his house.
“You never have,” Bruce says with certainty. “This is necessary, or else I’ll bleed to death.”
A little lie that Clark takes seriously, and Bruce almost regrets it when the newfound grip of gauze lights his arm up in fiery pain.
“It’s a mild injury,” he adds, mouth moving for his own distraction. “It’ll scar, but it’s not fatal.”
“Gosh, Bruce. This is.. I’m—“
“An idiot.”
“—sorry.”
Clark looks up at him, shoulders relaxing at what he sees written in Bruce’s expression. Sheepishly, a grin works at his face, mirrored in the smirk on the Gothamite’s lips.
“I can staple it myself once it stops bleeding,” Bruce says, sliding his hand off his.
“How?”
Bruce reaches for the stapler in Alfred’s kit, the container a mess beside him. It’s black with a Bat logo. “This.”
“Really? I use one of those at work.”
“You can laser it shut, but you would burn my skin,” Bruce suggests, setting the stapler aside. It’s a little mean, but he can’t bring himself to feel that bad.
In response, Clark winces, smile dropping, and Bruce almost misses it— almost. He doesn’t feel bad.
“Well?” he prompts, gut curling uncomfortably at Clark’s displeasure. He doesn’t blame him— he couldn’t. Not when he knows he’s had his own mistakes in training.
“You have a sick sense of humor,” Clark complains halfheartedly, thumb rubbing the edges of uncovered, inflamed skin. It’s so gentle that it doesn’t hurt. “I can staple your skin shut.”
Bruce exhales loudly, a relieved snort escaping him, and it’s a laugh the other couldn’t ignore for the life of him. The reporter rolls his eyes, setting his free hand on Bruce’s kevlar-covered knee. It’s warm there, too, through thick armor. It should be impossible to feel, but Superman is extraordinary in his own right. There is a buzz of excitement in his chest, and it’s as invading as it is welcome— focus, Batman.
“It’s not like stapling papers, Clark,” Bruce says, shoving down his bubbling emotions and turning serious. “You won’t get paid for this.”
“Take it as an apology,” Clark responds with a shake of his head, clearly uncaring of the other’s protest.
“You must love your job,” Bruce mutters, eyes wandering to the corner of the room.
“Seriously? That was an insult?” Disbelief laces his features, gaze snapping to the Gothamite’s face. “I don’t get paid just for stapling papers— you know I have a real job, right? Try it sometime.”
“Hnn.”
Clark’s thumb stops its soothing caresses, his other hand leaving his knee to pick up the stapler. He gives it a small shake, eyeing the branded machinery.
“This is literally what I have on my desk.”
“I’m never on your desk,” Bruce retorts, his free hand guiding Clark’s off of his wound. Soaked gauze falls silently onto his lap. The bleeding has stopped, but it left behind a nasty sight, and the smell of copper is so pungent, he’s almost nauseous.
“It’d make a good scene.”
Bruce stills, heart giving an odd lurch, and he can feel the tips of his ears warming up. Clark’s eyes meet his, and the Bat can only raise an eyebrow, leveling him with a flat look. Clark averts his gaze, focusing on hovering the stapler over his wound. Bruce lets go of his hand almost as an afterthought. Surprisingly, he’s at a loss for words.
“Is this really not like stapling papers?” Clark assesses the injury, uncertainty tainting his confidence. At least he’s not stewing in his guilt anymore… Bruce isn’t sure what to make of the little upward tilt of his mouth.
“No,” Bruce responds, unable to tease him further.
He licks his lips, mouth dry, and decides to guide him himself. With his gloved, unharmed hand, he adjusts the Kryptonian’s grip, bringing his hand down to close the wound. He grinds his teeth, tensing at the first press of metal into flesh, nerves alighting with a raging pain.
In quick succession, he guides Clark’s hand down the jagged skin, stopping after 10 clicks. Sweat beads at his forehead, nausea faintly present in his stomach, and the stench of blood doesn’t make it any better. He takes the stapler from Clark, disentangling their hands to toss it aside. With a deep exhale, he sags into his seat.
“That felt like eleven twenty-five an hour,” Clark speaks aloud, unmoving from his position on the floor. He’s eyeing Bruce’s wound, fingertips brushing against hurt skin.
As much as the Super tries to quell it, he can’t help the reoccurring guilt at the sight of his injury. He can hear Bruce swallow as his fingers trail down to his uncovered palm, sweat cooling against his skin. He eyes the glint of metal through red flesh.
Two fingertips enclosed by leather push up beneath his chin, and he easily follows the movement, peering up at Bruce. His cheeks are flushed, skin sweaty and face accompanied by a pained grimace.
“I’m worth at least a couple hundred an hour.” Bruce pats his cheek.
He drops his hand, but the reporter catches it in his own, squeezing it with just enough pressure to hold him in place.
“Bruce Wayne‘s too expensive to be getting hurt.”
Straight black strands fall onto Bruce’s forehead, a downward tilt of his head dislodging his slicked-back hair. Clark follows the action, loosening his grip. Shame stews in his gut, and the regret is present on his face, etched into skin, and expressed by a quick squeeze of his fingers.
In the corner near the door, Bruce makes out the silhouette of his butler, and without thinking, he slides his hand out of Clark’s. Oddly enough, he almost feels… embarrassed. He grunts, scowling at Clark, and ignores the lack of warmth in his hand.
“Do this again, and I’ll buy the Planet and dock it from your paycheck,” Bruce weakly threatens, nudging Clark’s knee with his boot-clad foot. He works on tidying up Alfred’s kit beside him, trying not to jostle his arm too much.
Without taking offense, Clark shakes his head, standing up from the floor. He adjusts his cape over his shoulder, stepping aside when Alfred takes over Bruce’s erratic cleanup.
“Don’t aggravate your injury.” Alfred pushes his hand away, shutting the kit with a loud click. It’s a mess, one that he’ll clean without interfering hands.
“Maybe you should take a day off.” Clark crosses his arms, assuming a self-assured stance only Superman could have.
Bruce sighs. The edges of exhaustion creep at him, but instead of feeling hollow, he feels like a dormant bomb— unready for detonation, but prepared for fire.
“Right.” He’s not amused, especially not with the side-eye Alfred is giving him.
“I mean it, Bruce. You can’t even turn your wrist.”
Both Alfred and Bruce look down, and Clark is right. He can’t.
“Right.”
“I will prepare dinner for two, then,” Alfred states, standing tall. He crosses his wrists behind his back.
Observing this situation rendered him intrigued, and even questioning.
Bruce may have traveled the world to train as Batman, but before that, a little boy at home mastered the art of self-defense. This mistake wasn’t solely produced by Superman— Bruce was distracted.
There’s a tired tug of a grin at his lips, softened eyes peering directly at Clark, and it’s with a startling realization that Alfred also notices his lack of refusal at taking a break. He turns, walking out of the room with measured steps, and with his little bit of privacy, he lets himself hope for his ward’s future.