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He has barely a foot through his door when he gets the call. His sweat is running down his back under the red and blue suit, mixing with the rain that hasn’t stopped pouring down since the start of the day. He’s so soaked his feet squish when he walks to his phone, left to charge in his tiny kitchen.
He’s tired. Exceptionally so. It has been raining for days, and the lack of sun was starting to catch up on him. He couldn’t even go to the Fortress, he was just too busy, so he actually slept in his bed for once, and didn’t just use it as a working desk or, may his Ma forgive him, a wardrobe. Not that he slept a lot there, really, given just how many times he stayed the night at Wayne Tower.
He sighs, collecting his phone and seeing the caller ID.
“Good evening, Master Clark.”
Alfred’s voice is soothing and warm as it always is, but Clark hears the smallest inflection of worry in it. It makes goosebumps immediately break on his arms.
“Good evening to you too, Alfred.” Clarks sits down, looking outside his window. He can’t see Gotham, he’s too far away from the coast, and the rain and the deep, dense fog that has been sticking to Metropolis for the last few days doesn’t help. He doesn’t feel the need to see it, though, comforted by the fact that he knows, from countless times he bridged the gap, that Bruce’s bedroom window is straight in front of his. He can be there in a blink of an eye, if needed.
“Is everything alright?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’m just relaying a message.”
Clark frowns, even though Alfred can’t see him. He and Alfred built a good relationship in the years Clark and Bruce spent as friends, and an even better one after they finally got together. So the older man isn’t reticent to ask for his help if needed, especially when Bruce is being particularly stubborn, but if he does ask, it’s never good news. In fact, it is usually a Bat-shaped tsunami of bad news.
“Master Bruce will not be able to make it tomorrow morning for your date, as he is incapacitated.”
Clark’s heartbeat spikes.
“What? What happened? Is he injured-”
“No,” Alfred snorts, just a tiny sound, amused, “Not in the slightest, just a bad cold.”
Oh.
“Is it bad enough that he couldn’t text me?” Clark says, a bit hurt. But also a bit suspicious. Clark knows that Bruce hates speaking through texting or calling, but it is weird that he asked Alfred to speak to him. Very weird.
“He might..not know of this.” Alfred sounds far from guilty. Clark can almost hear his smirk through the phone. “He just got back from his…nightly activities.” Clark snorts. “But he’s keen on finishing his duties, even though he should shower and rest.”
He’s being a stubborn mule. Alfred doesn’t say.
Clark grimaces. If Alfred is pulling the ‘I’ll tell Clark’ card, it means it’s bad.
“Should I come over?”
“Master Bruce might not be delighted about it,” Alfred sighs, aware of just how grumpy his ward is. “But I might forget the terrace window open for the night.”
“How could we survive without you, Alfred?”
“You would not.” He scoffs, amused. “See you in the morning, dear.”
Clark smiles, ending the call. Bruce is a piece of work when he’s his normal self, so he struggles to imagine how the Bat could be when he’s sick. But he’s going to discover it. Willingly, too. Darn him and his taste for sarcastic, brooding, dark-haired people who are way smarter than he is- so incredibly specific.
He showers first, scrubbing away the dirt and grime of a battle spent in the mud of a, ironically enough, corn field. He didn’t even know Metropolis had a corn field. And he certainly didn’t know that that was the favorite place for human-sized rats to cause problems, for God’s sake.
He sighs for the umpteenth time that day, grabbing the first clothes that he sees and watching his bed wistfully. He loves spending time with his boyfriend. He does. And he missed him a lot last week. But oh boy, he’s tired.
Thank God it’s a Saturday.
Grabbing his backpack, keys and glasses, he climbs out of his apartment window to the fire escape. He doesn’t even try to grab a coat, it’s raining so much that he’s going to get soaked anyway, and he zips through the humid, freezing air surrounding the city.
—
His feet touch the cement floor of Wayne Tower, and he grimaces. Wet socks are a nightmare even for superpowered aliens.
He hates the rain sometimes. It’s annoying, cold and stubborn, especially when he’s already tired from the lack of sun. But at the same time, he loves it. Particularly in the first few hours of day, when the sun is just starting to go up, sharing the sky with the moon for just a few more moments before the city and people awaken.
He might be biased, though. It reminds him of someone.
(He really needs to sleep. If any of this goes out of his mouth Bruce will make him sleep on the couch.)
—
He goes to change, quickly retrieving the spare clothes that he’s been keeping in Bruce’s room- the softest red and blue flannel pants he owns, and a ‘Ghost’ band hoodie that he might or might not have stolen from Bruce years ago– and goes straight to the elevator connected to the cave, stopping just to greet Alfred.
When the sliding doors open, he pinches the bridge of his nose.
He isn’t surprised. He really isn’t.
Clark might not feel uncomfortable, but the cave is not just cold, no, it’s closer to penguins might thrive cold, and of course Bruce is there, bent over his computer with his suit on, lacking the cowl and the heavy cape. He didn’t even wash his eyegrease off, and Clark can smell the acidic sweat of sickness clinging to his body. And he is sure there’s no need for superpowers, anyone close enough could smell it, it’s so thick.
“Oh, Bruce.” He sighs again, getting closer to the stubborn, stubborn man he loves so much. “You idiot.”
“Good to see you too.” Bruce replies, with a voice so scratchy he sounds like he is actively chewing on broken glass. Jesus.
Clark steps closer and closer, up until he can feel Bruce’s body heat through the dark suit. He doesn’t bother trying not to look worried, brushing some of Bruce’s straight hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear, gentle and soft, subtly feeling just how hot his skin is.
Bruce lets him. It took a long time for him to warm up to Clark's casual affection, but he doesn’t mind now. Rather, he seems to enjoy it, enough that Clark sees his shoulders relax a bit, his irritated eyes fluttering close in a slow, sluggish blink.
“I’m sorry.” Bruce murmurs, his blue eyes shifting to him for just a second, then returning quickly on the screen. He’s nervous, even with his face stone cold and frowning as usual. Clark has the distinctive, almost aggressive urge to wrap him with as many blankets as he can find and hug him so firmly nothing will ever hurt him again.
But, alas.
“For what?” Clark whispers softly, caressing his back. He doesn’t need his x-ray vision to know it’s probably bruised and achy, because it always is. He also knows that Bruce likes just how warm his hands are, so.
“Didn't text you. Too busy. I'm sorry.” He replies, dry and honest, his shoulders rising a bit closer to his ears.
“I forgive you.” Clark says, just as honestly. He was starting to get a bit upset about it, after pretty much five days of radio silence. He wasn’t worried that Bruce might be ignoring him, but. It’s nice to hear it.
“Now let's get to bed though, it's almost six in the morning B.”
“Need to finish this.”
Clark plasters himself on his side, laying his cheeks against the top of his head and wrapping his arms around his waist. The suit is bulky and uncomfortable under his hands, but painfully familiar.
“You can do it from the bed.” He mumbles, face smushed against his hair. Even when sweaty and dirty, they are so soft. He stops himself from rubbing his face against it like a cat. He does it sometimes, not minding Bruce's growly protests. If he really didn't like it, Clark knows he'd make him stop.
Bruce grunts. Then coughs, hissing a breath. Clark rubs his back through it, hearing the popping sounds of mucus deep in his lungs. It might be disturbing and a bit disgusting, but he is too worried to care.
“You are sick.”
“I'm sure Alfred already told you, yes.” He grunts again, a bit out of breath. He still doesn't get Clark off of him, though.
“He did. He's pretty worried, too.” Clark pouts, gently grabbing his face. He squishes his cheeks, warm from the fever, and even more gently he turns Bruce's face so that he can see his eyes properly. Again, Bruce lets him, the muscles of his shoulders turning slack under Clark’s tender touch.
He’s exhausted. He looks like he's exhausted. The bags under his eyes are so bruised that not even the eyegrease can cover them whole, his cheeks sweaty, red against his blue-ish pale skin. He has an actual fist-shaped bruise on his jaw, right under where the cowl lies. And he’s frowning, the lines of his face so deep he looks older than he is.
Clark kisses the little lines between his brows, smoothing them out. Bruce closes his blue eyes again, a sigh leaving his lips.
“You're distracting.”
Clark kisses his forehead. Then his cheek bones.
“Very distracting.”
Clark keeps kissing his face, his chin, his eyelids, the tiny wrinkles on the sides of his lips.
“Clearly not enough. You are still here.”
Bruce lifts his face, not much, barely a centimeter, but it’s enough. It’s a question. An invitation. And Clark softly grabs his chin, pulling him even closer if possible, and lays a chaste kiss in the middle of his chapped lips.
“Let’s get you out of the suit, yes?” Clark brushes his hair out of his eyes again, watching Bruce’s irises peak from under his long eyelashes, glassy and unfocused, but always so, so blue, they never fail at stealing the air from his lungs. “I bet you didn't even eat.”
“Nauseous.”
“You idiot.” Clarks sighs, kissing him again.
“You are giving me mixed signals.”
Clark grabs the back of his chair, telegraphing his movements and slowly pulling him away from the desk.
Bruce's hands weakly try to grab onto it. Shaky, the soft tremble of his pale, lithe fingers is minute enough that you must know to look for it, and Clark's senses are completely focused on him, so he’s ready to catch him if he falls or pulls away.
“Let me be clear then,” Clark turns Bruce's body in his arms so that they are face to face. Bruce's arms envelop his waist as it is second nature and his eyes focus on his face, giving Clark his full attention.
“We are getting you out of this sweaty suit,” Clark leans down, and kisses him, “Then you'll take a hot shower,” Another kiss, “Eat and get some medicine,” And another one, as Bruce's eyes look even more unfocused, “And go right to sleep.” Clark deepens the kiss, feeling Bruce's body turning almost liquid against his. “Are we clear now?”
Bruce's eyes are half open, soft thin lips gaping, red and wet, and his cheeks are even warmer than before. He exhales, almost a gasp, no words coming out. If he wasn't sick, Clark would take him straight to bed, but. Focus. You must stay focused, Clark.
“I jus’- two minutes.” Bruce slurs out, almost dead weight against him, “The report.”
“You can barely talk.”
“No need to.” He mumbles, slowly pushing off of him. Clark keeps his hands on his shoulders. He's infuriating. But Bruce wouldn't be Bruce if he wasn't. And he wouldn’t love him that much if he wasn’t.
“Let me offer you a deal then.” Clark quips, not letting him go. Bruce barely can barely stay upright, his hands on his knees and his shoulder slumped, head lolling between them as if someone cut the strings holding him up. Clark knows it’s his adrenaline starting to drop, probably triggered by his presence. Bruce always relaxed when they kissed. If he wasn’t so worried, Clark would probably smile like a ‘solar powered moron’, as Bruce likes to say.
He gets down on one knee, so that they are properly face-to-face, and whips out his best Puppy eyes, “You can come with me now, and I’ll wash your hair just how you like it,” He murmurs, watching Bruce’s pupils dilatate slowly, breath itching, “Or I can wait for you in bed, all alone, until you finish.” He pouts then, his most effective and lethal weapon.
Bruce stares into his eyes, unnatural blue into glassy azure. Then, slowly, he grimaces.
“Asshole.”
Got him.
Clark quips, smile shining as Bruce crumbles against him, pressing his face against his neck. Clark's arms quickly envelop his body like an overheated blanket, and he leaves kisses into his hair, no matter how dirty they are.
“Let's get you cleaned up, come on,” Clark smiles again, gently grabbing Bruce from the back of his knees and hoisting him up in his arms. Bruce grunts.
“Don't pout, you'll go back to being the Big Bad Bat when you feel better.”
“I can still kick your ass.” Bruce mumbles, face even more smushed into his neck. He's pretty much dead weight in Clark's arms at this point.
Clark smiles, kissing his hair again while he navigates through the hallways. He could walk to Bruce's room with his eyes closed.
“I know.”