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“B.”
Clark doesn’t detect so much as a hum in response, which means either his usual amplified hearing has still yet to come back online, or Bruce is deliberately ignoring him. Probably both, he reckons.
“Bruce,” he tries again, “you better not be trying to sneak off to the cave. You’re already on thin ice with Alfred.”
They both are, actually. A run-in with Luthor a few days prior had resulted in Clark being saddled with kryptonite poisoning and Bruce taking a bullet through the shoulder, the projectile slipping between the plates of his armor and shattering bone on the way in. Clark was still rather ill from the exposure, and hadn’t put up much resistance to being benched even after some time in the Fortress to bring him back from the brink under the concentrated yellow sun, but his partner…
Just then, Alfred turns the corner into the manor’s library, gently steering a disgruntled looking Bruce in front of him. “I believe I’ve found something of yours, Master Kent.”
“I was only going to work at the computer,” Bruce huffs.
“Need I remind you of your concussion as well?.”
Clark is doubtlessly on Alfred’s side here. If he could do so much as lift his head up, he would’ve fetched Bruce and carried him to bed himself.
“Mild, Alfred, mild concussion,” Bruce elaborates, as if that would grant him any leeway with his butler, but allows himself to be directed to one of the other gigantic couches in the room.
“That’s still a concussion, B,” Clark chimes in.
Bruce shoots him a look. “Not you too.”
Clark sighs, once again lamenting his radiation sickness robbing him of his usual physical fortitude, his ability to stay awake long enough to keep his partner out of trouble. “I swear, I fall asleep for two seconds…
“And you should be resting,” Alfred says plainly. “The both of you. If only to spare an old man the hassle of having to wrangle you into some attempt at recovery.”
Clark decides not to point out that he isn’t the problem patient here.
Bruce grumbles something vaguely apologetic and sits back with his eyes closed, looking grumpy and not the slightest bit relaxed, but at least resigning himself to not making Alfred’s job any harder, for the moment. Clark figures he’ll have to give him a talking to for his attitude, once he musters the energy.
“Now, then.” Alfred nods once and turns to Clark. “Master Kent, I do hope your good influence rubs off on him.”
“I don’t need a “good influence”,” Bruce calls halfheartedly after the man as he takes his leave. He cracks one eye back open to glare at Clark where he’s stretched out languidly. “Really taking “leading by example” seriously, I see. Boy Scout.”
“You should try it, it’s good for you,” Clark teases.
Bruce gestures annoyedly to his wounded shoulder. “I’ve worked through much worse than this, and you know it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not gonna.”
Gone are the days of Bruce Wayne pushing himself to the breaking point, not if Clark has anything to do with it. Over the years of working together and becoming something far beyond colleagues or friends, he’s managed to coerce the guy into lightening up a little from time to time, into taking at least a bit of a break when he’s hurt, even asking for help on a rare occasion. There’s still a lot to be done to reform him into a happier, healthier Bat (Clark still has no idea how to approach the issue of the man’s obsessively “efficient”, self-neglectful, borderline orthorexic eating habits, but, baby steps), but their current predicament lends itself out to be a good exercise in taking it easy.
It might be worth a shot, Clark hypothesizes, to appeal to his partner’s mother-henning tendencies to prompt him to at the very least stay in the room, away from his computers and cases and training equipment, and where Clark can watch over him.
“I’m a little cold,” Clark whines, trying for miserable. It isn’t far from the truth, anyway; he does feel pretty awful.
Both of Bruce’s eyes snap open this time, his brow creasing and his mouth twisting his handsome face into a frown. “Are you keeping an eye on your fever? When’s the last time you checked?”
“I dunno,” Clark mumbles pathetically. He does know. He checked his temperature about an hour ago and it was still on the high side, but not getting any worse.
“Oh, Clark.” Bruce hauls himself up off the couch, which isn’t necessarily what Clark was aiming for- his goal is to keep his injured boyfriend from moving around so much- but at least it’s keeping his fickle attentions off of the work he’s not doing. He comes to sit on Clark’s couch with him, Clark tilting his legs to the side to make room. Bruce’s good hand comes up to feel his forehead, and he hums disapprovingly.
“You’re still far too warm, darling,” Bruce rumbles, not pleased, but his voice taking on the tender edge that creeps in when he lets his guard down, a vulnerability strictly reserved for family.
Clark leans into the touch, playing it up. “Mm, that’s helping.”
Bruce chuckles. “What, my hand?”
“You.”
“Wonderful, I’m the cure for kryptonite poisoning,” Bruce deadpans. He’d probably be rolling his eyes, too, Clark knows, if not for the headache he doubtlessly has. “Alert the presses.”
Clark flashes him a delirious grin. “Consider me alerted.”
Bruce snorts and rubs the side of Clark’s face with his thumb, petting him. Then he gets that look on his face: concern, something like introspection, maybe a bit of helplessness.
“B, what is it?” Clark asks softly.
“Nothing, really,” Bruce sighs, “it’s just… unnerving. Seeing you like this. So… human.”
“Careful with all that thinking, there,” Clark tries to joke. Because it’s unnerving to him, too. His state right now is comparable to a human man with the flu or a bad cold, but that’s just it, isn’t it? He isn’t human. He doesn’t get sick, and this is an uncomfortable reminder that he’s not actually invincible. Clark suspects that’s Bruce’s exact train of thought as well. He catches Bruce’s hand to give it a light, comforting squeeze.
“How’s your shoulder?” Clark figures maybe a change of subject is in order, plus he genuinely wants to know. Not like his x-ray vision is working, and Clark doesn’t like to invade his privacy like that unless he absolutely has to anyway.
Bruce gives a one sided shrug. “I’ve had-“
“You’ve “had worse”, I know,” Clark laughs weakly. “Humor me.”
Brushing the hair back from Clark’s sweaty forehead in a gesture that’s sweet enough to keep dentists everywhere in business, Bruce half-shrugs again. “A bit sore. Stitches are holding up and nothing’s infected.”
So, in other words, anyone who isn’t Batman would be bedridden. Which, he probably should be, but Bruce insists that he doesn’t do bed rest. As it was, though, even if Clark had barely been conscious at the time himself, he definitely remembers how horrific the gunshot wound had been. It had taken all Alfred’s and Dr. Thomson’s bountiful skill to repair the shoulder, and Bruce had been sick from not only his knock to the head, but also the pain and blood loss. Seeing someone- especially a loved one- throw up is never pleasant, but witnessing Bruce Wayne in so much agony that he was violently vomiting stomach acid and his “perfectly portioned” meal prep from earlier in the evening had been something else entirely. He’s recovering remarkably well, all things considered.
“‘S good,” Clark squeaks out through a yawn that catches him by surprise. “Mm, ‘scuse me. What about your head?”
Now Bruce does roll his eyes, the motion making him grimace minutely in a way that tells Clark everything he needs to know. “Bruce, you really seem like a nap would do you good,” he tries. And really, Bruce operates on so little sleep on a daily basis that a nap would always be welcome, but especially right now, while he’s healing from his concussion and the blood loss.
“Why didn’t you ask Alfred for a blanket when he was in here if you’re cold?” Bruce deflects, glancing around the room for one. “I swear, all this house, you’d think we’d have-“
“Hm, you’ll do,” Clark says, opening up his arms in invitation.
Bruce scoffs. “Oh, what, this is all part of your grand plan to get cuddled?”
He’s endeared, though; Clark can tell. “We can both fit,” he presses. “It’ll make me feel better,” he tacks on with his best puppy-dog eyes. “So… weak, light… getting… dimmer.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Bruce chuckles.
As large as the couch Clark’s chosen as his sick bed is, they’re both men of a certain brawn, so it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, especially having to be mindful of Bruce’s injuries, but they make it work. They wind up slotted together like puzzle pieces, Clark content with his arms securely holding Bruce and Bruce pressed tight into his side, using Clark’s chest as a pillow and with one leg thrown over him possessively. Clark smiles at the way Bruce snuggles into his warmth, amplified as it is by his fever but evidently not too much for comfort.
“Better than a blanket?” Bruce rumbles amusedly into Clark’s sweater.
Clark thinks he can keep the man here for a while. “I’d say so.”