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Fragile. He looked so fragile.
In the silver glow of the moon, Bruce looked feverish. The usual smooth paleness of his skin was replaced with a slight pink tint, and it was nearly impossible to miss the sheen of sweat that clung to the exposed skin of his chest. He was breathing, thank Rao, chest rising and falling with each breath, but there was a phlegmy rattle with each inhale that made Clark wince. His lips were parted, most likely because he couldn’t breathe through his nose, and he could see the dry cracks along his lip and the little spot of flaky drool clinging to the corner of his lips.
Bruce was going to kill him for being here, for seeing him in such a weak, fragile state. At least, that’s what he would say, but Clark didn’t see this as a moment of weakness. This was just Bruce’s human body being human, and in the wintertime, humans got sick.
The carpet dampened the thump of his feet as they hit the floor, but even with his quiet descent from the window, he cast a tentative look in the direction of the sleeping man. His muscles tensed as he waited for Bruce to lift his head with his usual signature scowl, but it never came. He was entirely undisturbed by his entrance.
Oh, this is bad, he thought, lip worrying between his teeth.
He’d been to Wayne Manor before, but only through the window in Bruce’s bedroom. Only when the family was asleep. And definitely only when he was asked to come to the manor.
He was not asked to be here tonight.
His worry for Bruce eclipsed the fact that he wasn’t invited to the manor tonight. He knew that the others were handling the nightly Gotham patrols, but no one would tell him why Batman hadn’t been spotted in the last couple of days. He thought Dick would be the first to break, but he’d held fast and mentioned something about “Scouts honor,” to which Clark had said, “I was a Boy Scout, Dick.”
That was why he was here. To figure out why Batman wasn’t patrolling, and why Bruce wasn’t answering his texts. The former was nearly unheard of, but the latter was much more common. He’d accepted that Bruce wasn’t much of a texter, but usually, he would show signs of life by giving his messages a thumbs up. This past week had been nothing but radio silence.
After shedding off his jacket and shoes, he took a couple of tentative steps towards the large bed before halting. This was overstepping, wasn’t it? He was definitely overstepping, and Bruce was going to be upset with him. They didn’t operate like this. Clark was told when he could and couldn’t come over, and it worked. He snuck in through the window and was gone before the sun rose.
He had almost made up his mind to turn around and leave until Bruce shifted in bed and made a low noise of pain. Clark’s gaze zeroed in on this face, observing the way his brows drew together in a tight furrow, and he tilted his head back against the pillow, exposing the column of his throat. Sweat clung to his skin, and it was obvious that he was breaking a fever. His legs moved beneath the covers, trying to kick the blankets off, and Clark knew he only had a few more minutes before Bruce was likely to wake up. He either needed to leave or continue digging his grave.
He was going to turn and leave. He really was, but his decision was made for him when Bruce called out for him. The sound of his name was riddled with sleep, which told him that he was still in the green zone away from Batman’s ire. Still, he could leave, though something in his chest tugged at the thought of leaving Bruce like this. Alfred was likely taking care of him, but he looked so miserable sprawled on his bed with sweat clinging to his hair and skin.
So Clark, like the love-struck idiot he was, silently crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Up close, Bruce looked and sounded worse. His skin was somehow both pallid and flushed, and the stubble that lined his jaw told him that he’d definitely been forced into bed rest for the week. His usual silky hair was stringy with sweat, and Clark made the mental note that he would need to help him shower in the morning. While he didn’t know much about human illnesses, he assumed that lying in a bed soaked with sweat likely wasn’t very comfortable.
“Oh, Bruce,” He murmured, lifting a hand to brush his fingers along the stubble on his cheek. “You should have called…” Bruce didn’t like showing weakness, so it made sense that he hadn’t. Why would he call Superman and say his body was revolting against him? Superman, who had never experienced the common cold.
A bowl was settled on the nightstand with a washcloth draped over the edge. Alfred had likely left it for Bruce to cool himself off with. All of the anxiety surrounding waking the sleeping Bat disintegrated, replaced by a startling urge to take care of him. So without another thought, he grabbed the cool, damp cloth and started to dab it against his forehead in gentle motions.
Bruce stirred at the touch, his legs shifting under the blankets, and he leaned into the cool cloth with a soft moan. It broke Clark’s heart to see him like this, but he didn’t have long to feel it when bleary blue eyes blinked up at him. It took a few seconds for recognition to settle in his gaze, and while Clark was expecting a scolding, what he got instead was a soft sigh followed by a, “Clark?… What are you doing here?”
He couldn’t help the soft laugh that puffed out of his nose, but he continued to dab the cloth over his face. The only time he ever really got to take care of Bruce was if he was injured and needed help getting out of his suit. It was never in any capacity that felt so raw, so he was going to enjoy it for as long as Bruce would allow it to happen.
“Well, I didn’t hear from my secret boyfriend for a week. I’m sure it doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to figure out why I’m here.” The teasing quip came naturally, as did the smile that split his face when Bruce grunted.
Timid silence settled between them at the newness of this situation. It wasn’t that their relationship lacked meaning or intimacy, quite the opposite, but what it did lack was this level of domesticity. They operated in secrecy and silence since that was what Bruce was comfortable with; however, Clark figured that his children and Alfred had already pieced together the nature of their partnership.
Bruce cleared his throat, attempting to find his words in the way Clark learned meant he was about to get as sentimental as Bruce Wayne could manage. His eyes fluttered each time the rag pressed against his feverish skin, and it was so odd to see him so vulnerable. “Thank you…For coming out here,” He began, brows pulling together in a furrow as his words got caught in his throat. “You didn’t-”
“Bruce,” He cut him off, pulling the rag from his skin to set it back in the bowl. For a brief moment, he couldn’t say anything as he peered down at his boyfriend. His very sick and pitiful-looking boyfriend. “You could have called me. I would have been here in a heartbeat to come and help you.”
Because I love you, the words lingered on his tongue, and he wanted to say them. He’s tried to say it for weeks now, but Bruce wasn’t ready. He may never be ready.
Warm fingers curled around his wrist, effectively breaking his train of thought, and when he glanced down, sleepy blues were all he could see. “Clark, I want you to…Will you…” It was endearing the way Bruce seemed to struggle with asking him to stay. Clark had slept over plenty of times before, but they were both aware these were different circumstances. He didn’t want to add to any of the embarrassment that Bruce was clearly feeling, so without another word, he stood up to slip out of his clothes. Piece by piece, he undressed until he was only clad in his boxers. He hoped that his usual warm body temperature wouldn’t disturb Bruce too much.
A soft sigh of relief slipped from between his lips as the cool silk sheets slid against his skin. Bruce’s bed was one of his favorite places to be. Not only because it meant he was with his boyfriend, but because it was one of the most comfortable beds he’d ever slept in. Carefully, he pulled Bruce’s back to his chest, arranging him in his arms until they were both finally comfortable. His palm settled against the scarred skin of his abdomen, thumb idly brushing along one of the longer, raised scars while he dragged his lips along his nape. “Sleep. In the morning, I’ll help you take a shower and change the sheets. You can’t possibly be comfortable like this.”
No response, except for the slowed thumping of Bruce’s heart. “And you’re asleep already,” He whispered with a little chuckle, nosing into his nape with fluttering lashes. Sleep wasn’t a necessity for him, but he liked to indulge in it, especially when he was with Bruce.
He couldn’t help himself as he pursed his lips and blew a tiny stream of cold air against his skin, hoping to bring him some sort of relief from the fever. Goosebumps rose to the surface of his skin, spreading from his neck and down to his shoulders, and Clark couldn’t help himself as he pressed a few more soft kisses to Bruce’s skin. “You know, you could have called me because I…I love you.” The whispered confession filled the air around him, and while he knew that he wouldn’t hear the words returned to him, it was still nice to get it off his chest. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time, Bruce.”
He should have known better than to make assumptions. Especially when it came to Bruce. The same man who could regulate his heartbeat, break out of any restraints, or appear out of nowhere like he’d stepped out of the shadows. So he should have known that just because Bruce’s heart and lungs had evened out didn’t mean he was asleep.
“I love you too.” The words were gruff and laced with sleep, and every muscle in Clark’s body tensed up. “I think I fell in love with you the moment you touched down on that rooftop from the sky those years ago.”
“Yea?” Clark mused. He knew he couldn’t hide his smile from Bruce, not when his lips were pressed against his neck. “And here I thought you hated me.”
Bruce laughed around a yawn, leaning back into Clark’s chest as he mumbled, “I never hated you, Clark, but I’m tired. We can talk more in the morning.” He must really be exhausted to actually admit he was tired, so Clark offered a hum in response and laced their fingers together. “Yeah, in the morning,” Clark repeated with a tiny smile. It was a promise, one that Clark hoped meant that this wouldn’t be a secret anymore. He wanted to tell people that he was happy, that he was in love. His thumb brushed along the back of Bruce’s knuckles while closing his eyes, tuning into his heartbeat. The gentle rhythm lulled him into a dozing state, and he couldn’t wait for what gift the sun would bring in the morning.