Work Text:
“No,” Bruce says firmly. He’s trying his best not to wince as he puts weight on his bad foot. It’s a matter of principle. It’s nothing an icepack and one of Alfred’s cocktails won’t fix. If only he can get Clark to back off; but of course, Superman doesn’t leave anyone behind. Even if that someone wants to be left behind.
“B-” Clark shuts his mouth and starts over when Bruce glares at him. They have codenames for a reason. “Batman, come on."
“I said no.” It’s like trying to convince a wall to go for a walk. Clark isn’t budging. But neither is Bruce – and they both know which one of them is more stubborn. Although, judging from the hard set of Clark’s eyes, it’s going to be an evenly matched fight today. Bruce doesn’t have the patience for this; he’s in pain.
“Your foot is very clearly broken,” Clark says as he mirrors Bruce’s stance. He looks very Superman-y with his arms crossed over his chest. And he can put his entire weight on both his feet. The asshole.
“Don't x-ray me, it's a sprain,” Bruce grumbles as he tries to shift discreetly on his feet. Clark’s eyes zero in on his foot instantly and if it wouldn’t actually get broken from it, Bruce would’ve kicked him in the shin. Stupid invulnerability.
“Either way you shouldn't walk on it!” Clark exclaims. He instantly closes his mouth like he didn’t mean to speak so loudly, and Bruce knows him well enough to know that he didn’t. He’s frustrated and it’s not like there’s anybody who can hear him, but of course Clark feels bad. He doesn’t like yelling.
Bruce doesn’t care if he yells loud enough to alert the entire planet. Let Clark be frustrated; it doesn’t change the fact that Bruce will not give in. He’s not a child; he doesn’t need help. He’s never needed help (the kids don’t count), he has 20 years of experience doing this sort of thing. Okay, perhaps the giant alien creatures aren’t exactly an every-day thing, but he’s adapting.
“That's not up to you,” he says instead of voicing all his thoughts. There’s no reason to cause a scene and he knows Clark would catch onto the ‘no help needed’ thing instantly. God, you have one or two (or five or six) sidekicks and suddenly you’re not considered to be working alone.
“Oh, so my teammate's wellbeing isn't something I should care about?” Clark asks, sarcasm dripping from his voice. It’s not like him to be this pushy. Or well, maybe it is.
“That's-”
“I should just leave you here then,” Clark says as he throws his hands up in mock defeat. “I know your comm is busted, you can't call A- agent A for help.”
Bruce doesn't comment on yet another close call of those codenames. He knows Clark is merely worked up. Which is also why Clark is interrupting him; poor Martha Kent, all her parenting is thrown out the window the second Clark gets worked up. Bruce elegantly avoids looking too closely at the fact that 9 out of 10 times it’s his fault that Clark is upset.
“I'll figure something out,” he responds, despite Clark’s point being valid. His comm is more or less busted, Alfred won’t look for him for hours seeing as he’s out on a League mission and he’s usually safe on those. As safe as one can be when you’re battling aliens and super villains.
“You'll do no such thing,” Clark huffs. “You'll hopple to the bat mobile - which by the way is five miles away - and then try to drive home with that broken-”
“Sprained.”
“-foot, and you'll have made it even worse and yet still refuse anybody's help and you'll be in constant pain for the next several months because you're too stubborn to take the help you're being offered.” Clark ends his speech with a triumphant what-do-you-say-to-that look. He should know better by now.
“I can make it to the car,” Bruce insists. He’s starting to feel the ache all the way up to his knee which is never a good sign. He doesn’t shift his weight onto his good foot though, that would be admitting defeat.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Clark huffs. “But you’ll put extra strain on your already b- injured foot. You can’t see the damage; I can. You’ll tear a ligament and you’ll be forced to take a break from patrolling, is that really what you want?”
“Do you always take your lectures this far?” Bruce mutters, most of his stubbornness being replaced with exhaustion. Why is Clark always so worried about him? He’s a grown man, this is ridiculous.
“Only when talking to stubborn asshats,” Clark retorts.
Bruce doesn’t comment on Clark’s attempt at cursing him. It’s always weird hearing Clark curse, but mostly because he’s not very good at it. Martha must be a proud mother on this front, but it leaves Clark’s name calling with something to be desired.
“Would you rather I contact the rest of the League?” Clark asks when Bruce doesn’t respond. He points towards the nearby city, where the spoke is still rising towards the sky from their latest mission. “Have them come here when they’re done cleaning up the city?”
“You-”
“It’s not like Diana would rather actually go home and rest; it’s not like Wally has a day-time job and I’m sure they’d gladly throw everything in their hands to come help you to your car-”
“Alright, alright,” Bruce mumbles in defeat. “I get it.”
Clark obviously knows him too well. There’s no reason to trigger his already huge pile of guilt by dragging the others into this.
“Do you?” Clark asks and he looks really pissed.
“Yes,” Bruce says with a roll of his eyes. “I would like help getting to my car.”
Clark doesn’t move.
“I would like help getting to my car, please.”
“That’s better.” He’s more bark than bite and in the blink of an eye he’s stopped frowning and he’s back to being bright and smile-y. Bruce almost despises him for it – if not for the fact that Clark is everything Bruce wants to be as a person. Bright and warm and heroic. Something special, someone strong. Someone worthy.
Clark reaches a hand to grab at Bruce’s legs and Bruce jerks away. He lands on his bad foot and nearly falls over. He grabs Clark’s shoulder for support and can’t keep the pain entirely off his face. Thank God he’s still wearing the cowl; at least Clark can’t see his eyes.
“Are you okay?” Clark asks worriedly.
“Can’t you just carry me normally?” Bruce ignores his question.
“Normally?” Clark sighs. “Br- Batman. You’re a grown man, a human man. I can’t just grab your arm and fly off. Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder or can we do this my way?”
The mere thought of being seen thrown over Superman’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes has Bruce want to die of mortification. He gathers his cape and then crosses his arms over his chest again. He’s not going to actually choose out loud. Clark will have to read his body language. Clark does, obviously, because he always knows exactly what Bruce means which isn’t usually annoying (it works well on missions), but today everything Clark does is annoying. Bruce might be in more pain than he’s willing to admit.
Clark reaches for Bruce’s legs once again and since Bruce doesn’t resist this time, he swiftly lifts him up into his arms. Bruce ignores the swoop in his stomach at how easily Clark manhandles him. He’s not fourteen anymore, he shouldn’t feel giddy at having a strong guy being able to carry him. He’s also trying not to feel silly, being carried like a newlywed bride. Maybe the potato sack position would’ve been better, after all.
Clark taps his communicator and opens the link to the League. At least Bruce can still listen in, although there’s a lot of crackly on the line. He’ll live.
“I’ll make sure Batman gets to the batmobile and then I’ll come help you guys,” he says.
“Of course,” Diana’s response comes at the same time Wally’s does: “Of course, you will. Why not just leave that thing so you can keep cuddling all the way home?”
There’s a very audible slap, followed by an “Ow!” and Bruce is forever grateful for Diana’s everything. He’s also feeling slightly humiliated which isn’t a good look on a man in his forties. He harrumphs and shuffles further into Clark’s arms – just to be able to cross his arms tighter, obviously! He does not, in fact frown, despite what Clark’s stupid grin is saying. Bruce actively avoids meeting Clark’s eyes. He knows he’ll find more joy and teasing in them, and he can’t take any more of his brightness right now.
“Flash is right,” Diana says. “Take Batman home, we will take care of the rest.”
“What about the batmobile?” Clark asks. He’s already lifting off the ground.
“Can’t you just pick that up in your other hand?” Wally suggests with a laugh, which is then promptly followed by another “ow!”
“Flash will make sure it gets to the cave in one piece.”
“What?!” There’s a small pause where no doubt Diana is glaring at Wally before his voice comes through the comm again: “I’ll make sure it gets home safely.”
Bruce opens his mouth to object – Wally is not driving his car anywhere! – but Clark chooses that moment to shoot off into the sky (probably on purpose, the jerk).
“Thanks, guys!” Clark says before disconnecting.
“You can’t seriously be letting him drive my car,” Bruce shouts over the air flying past them. He’s about to move his cape up to cover the lower part of his face when Clark does it for him.
“It’s just a car, Bruce,” he says, because he can. They’re in the air, nobody can hear them past the noise of the wind. He’s taking advantage of the situation and he knows it. Bruce can’t even be mad at him.
“It’s my car,” he mutters but turns his head into Clark’s shoulder. The wind’s cold and he’s already given up most of his dignity – what’s a little more? It’s not like Clark will hold this against him either way.
***
They arrive at the cave twenty minutes later. It’s the longest it’s taken Clark to get anywhere since… ever. At least that’s what Bruce tells him. Clark says it’s because he doesn’t want Bruce to be entirely frozen by the time they got there, while Bruce argues that Clark just likes to torture him and prolonging his suffering several hundred feet in the air is Clark’s dark side rearing its ugly head.
It’s obviously about the cold, although the chance to have Bruce close is always nice. Not that Clark’s going to tell Bruce that; he likes being alive, thank you very much. It’s just that Bruce isn’t exactly touchy-feely and Clark… is. With some people. With Bruce, mostly. Having a best friend who knows everything about you has that effect on people though, it’s not just Clark being weird. He thinks.
Clark foregoes the cave floor and flies through and up the stairs, so Bruce has no excuse to sit at the computer and work instead of getting treatment for his ankle.
“The med bay’s in the cave,” Bruce mutters, because of course he knows what Clark is doing. He always does. He’s too clever for his own good – either of their own goods – sometimes. It doesn’t stop him from faux mind-reading everything else in Clark’s head. “I can bandage my own foot, Clark.”
“Well, I’m sure Alfred won’t mind doing it for you up here. Where you can rest.”
“I’m not a child,” Bruce objects but there’s no real heat to his words. He’s already given up on fighting Clark, which is a good thing, because Bruce may be the more stubborn of the two of them, but not when it comes to his own health. Clark knows how to play Bruce just as well as Bruce knows how to play Clark. Nearly a decade of friendship will do that to two guys.
“Stop acting like one then and let me go get Alfred.”
Bruce doesn’t answer which means Clark has won. It’s nice to be able to read Bruce without seeing his actual face. Speaking of…
“And take the cowl off, you’re not on a mission anymore.”
“Someone didn’t let me get changed in the cave, remember?” Bruce taunts. He’s probably thinking it’ll get him a free pass to the cave, but Clark knows better than to take that obvious bait.
“Well,” Clark says and super speeds them to Bruce’s bedroom. He dumps him (carefully) on the bed. “You can change now, here. I’ll wait.” He stands in front of the door for good measure.
“Pervert,” Bruce accuses when Clark doesn’t turn around, but he does as he’s told.
It turns out it’s a good thing Clark doesn’t turn around because Bruce nearly falls over trying to get his uniform off. He really can’t support his weight on his foot at all anymore and Clark feels awful. It’s not really his fault but he hates it when Bruce gets hurt on mission. It always leaves him feeling like he could’ve done more. Should’ve done more.
“Stop blaming yourself,” Bruce mutters as Clark helps him out of his undershirt. Of course, he picks up on Clark’s silent misery. “This isn’t on you.”
“Feels like it,” Clark says softly, looking over the many cuts and bruises on Bruce’s torso. He’s hurt so often, so much, and he still keeps going. Clark doesn’t know how he does it.
“I know.” Bruce’s voice in gentle in a way it only is when it’s just the two of them. When they’re somewhere safe and he can’t help but wanting to make Clark feel better. It’s been happening a lot more often recently. “Doesn’t make it true though.”
“Are you really comforting me when you’re the one who’s hurt?” Clark asks, trying for a smile.
“Are you really helping me take my socks off?” Bruce counters.
“Alright, okay, I’ll get Alfred,” Clark says and this time the smile is real. “Call when you need help getting down the stairs, okay?”
Bruce doesn’t answer because he doesn’t want to agree to needing help. Clark lets him have this one. He’ll notice when Bruce needs help. He’s not nearly as quiet as he thinks he is when he’s in pain. Besides, who can’t hear an old man hoppling down the stairs?
***
Alfred is in the kitchen with Tim and Jason. Clark can hear Dick’s heartbeat somewhere else in the manor and he knows Damian has art classes on Thursdays. The thought has something warm and safe settling in his stomach. Bruce’s family is safe and close by. He’s going to be just fine.
“Alfred,” Clark says with a nod of his head and Alfred sends him a small smile as he stirs something on the stove.
“Hi Clark,” Tim greets without looking up.
“Hey Tim.”
“Is it date night already?” There’s teasing tilt to his smile.
Clark laughs. “No, your- Bruce got injured today.” He always has to make sure not to call Bruce their dad, but especially Tim. It’s a touchy subject and Clark doesn’t want to cause any issues between the kids and Bruce.
“What else is new?” Comes from besides the fridge.
“Hello Jason, nice to see you,” Clark says earnestly. It’s not often that he gets to see Jason at the manor, but he clearly still feels at home here. He’s shoving a cookie into his mouth even as he speaks.
“Supes,” he says with a mock salute from his seat on the counter. He’s watching over Alfred’s cooking and Clark has never seen anyone else allowed this close when he cooks. It says something about the bond the two share.
Clark is surprised over and over again by how calm and collected Jason seems these days. He really doesn’t mind how he has taken a liking to the nickname Bruce uses for him in the field. Not all the time, obviously, this is Batman we’re talking about, but often enough that apparently Jason has heard it enough to grab onto it.
It’s better than ‘alien’ anyhow.
“Are you staying for dinner, Master Kent?” Alfred asks.
“Alfred, please, I’ve told you a million times-”
“Let it be a million times more, Master Kent,” he interrupts gently but firmly. “So. Dinner?”
“If it’s alright with Bruce-” Clark starts. He doesn’t want to step on any toes and maybe Bruce would like a quiet evening with his family. Although if Clark leaves, he’s pretty sure Bruce will just limp into the cave to do some bat-work, even if he can’t physically go on patrol.
“Of course, it’s alright with Master Bruce,” Alfred says with a small huff. It’s the closest he’ll come to rolling his eyes at anyone outside the family.
“Yeah, B would have you move in yesterday if he had his way,” Tim comments.
“Oh, uh,” Clark says because he really doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows he’s been over a lot these past few months but if he’s outstayed his welcome somehow, he wishes Bruce would’ve told him so.
“Tim,” Bruce’s voice calls from the doorway. He doesn’t look happy per se, but he’s not truly angry either. He’s dressed in sweats and a t-shirt; it’s a look Clark loves on him. It makes him looks so soft and comfortable, even with that almost-frown on his face. Also, how did he get down the stairs on his own?
“Bruce,” Clark says with a frown. “I told you to call for me.”
“And I told you I’m fine,” Bruce says with a wave of his hand. “Shouldn’t you boys be getting ready for patrol?”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the wedding?” Jason shoots back even as he hops off the counter. “Timmy wants to be a flower girl.”
“You want to be a flower girl!” Tim calls as he chases Jason out of the kitchen. He’s still a few inches too short to keep up with Jason’s 6 feet, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to tackle his big brother in the hallway.
Bruce mutters something under his breath that even Clark can’t make out (it could be “children”, although Clark can’t be sure because he’s sort of busy looking over Bruce’s ankle while he’s not being watched – it’s a sprain as Bruce said) but Alfred chuckles warmly.
“What are we going to do with them?”
“I suggest proposing,” Alfred says. Clark gets the distinct feeling that the bat boys have some on-going joke running. And that joke includes Alfred, but Alfred always knows something Clark doesn’t, so that’s nothing new.
“I need the compression bandages,” Bruce says like Alfred hasn’t just spoken. That’s how he has conversations most of the time. Ignore and continue; it works with some people but usually not Alfred. He seems to let this one go, though.
“Master Kent, would you be so kind?” Alfred asks and Clark instantly nods. He knows where they are and he’s back before Alfred has time to bring the heat down on the stove. “Perhaps you’d do me the favor of applying the bandage as well? I’m awfully late picking Master Damian up.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Clark says. He’s seen Alfred do this enough times to be able to do it himself. He thinks. “Go get Damian, I’ll take care of Bruce.”
“I don’t doubt it, Master Kent.”
Alfred leaves shortly after and despite Bruce’s protests (“I can bandage my own damn foot, Clark!”), Clark finally gets him to sit down in the living room long enough to get his ankle wrapped up properly.
“How long do you think it’ll take before Alfred stops calling me Master Kent?” Clark asks conversationally as he wraps the bandage around Bruce’s foot and then up his ankle.
“Forever, probably,” Bruce says. He quickly mellows out at Clark’s pouting face. “If it helps, he refers to you as Master Clark when you’re not here.”
“Why won’t he do that to me though?”
“Respect,” Bruce instantly says. “This is how he is, Clark. Give it a few more months and he’ll come around. It’s not like he calls me Bruce much.”
“But he does call you Master Bruce more than Master Wayne,” Clark points out.
“Not when we’re in public,” Bruce reminds him. “At home, yes. I’ve known him for quite a bit longer than you have though.”
“He likes me better,” Clark teases as he secures the end of the bandage. He gets kicked in the shoulder by Bruce’s other foot as a thank you.
“He does,” Bruce laughs, despite his actions. “Who wouldn’t?”
“You’re being too hard on yourself again,” Clark says as he sits down next to Bruce on the couch. “Even if you are right about me being fantastic.”
“I don’t think I used that word.”
“It was implied.”
“Of course, my bad,” Bruce laughs, and a quiet happiness settles in the bottom of Clark’s stomach. He loves making Bruce laugh. “Are you staying?”
“Alfred already made up a bed for me,” Clark says in lieu of answering.
“A bed?” Bruce raises an eyebrow and he’s not even trying to hide the smirk on his face.
“Fine, he made my bed.” Because somehow in the last few months Clark has stayed over a lot and Alfred feels bad that he doesn’t have a room of his own. Or just a proper place to sleep when he’s there. Clark always tells him he’s alright with a couch or just flying home, but Alfred insists. The kids usually roll their eyes and say he’s going to sneak out of his room anyway, so why bother making his bed? Clark still hasn’t quite figured out where they think he goes, although he has had to leave a few nights because of trouble in Metropolis. He is Superman, after all. “I didn’t ask him to, B.”
“I know you didn’t, he makes it every night,” Bruce says with a shrug.
“Do you think he’s trying to tell us something?” Clark asks carefully. He’s not going to over-step or push anything. He’s barely sure of his own feelings, he’s not going to put pressure on Bruce to know his.
“Who knows with Alfred?” Bruce shrugs again. “So. Tea and a movie?”
“I’ll get the blankets,” Clark says as he jumps off the couch.
Because Clark knows where those are too. In fact, Bruce has three homemade blankets from Clark’s mother and they’re on the top of the blanket pile. The kids fight over who gets to use them, but tonight both Bruce and Clark are wrapped in the soft material as they sip their tea and watch mindless movies.
Bruce falls asleep halfway through the second one; head falling to rest on Clark’s shoulder and Clark shuffles down into the couch a little further to make sure he doesn’t hurt his neck. If his shuffling brings him a little closer to Bruce too, well, nobody has to know.