Chapter Text
The entire mission was just bad—one of those cursed ones where nothing went right. First, their comms cut out on route, leading half the team to the wrong planet. Then Hal, the only one who had been to the planet before and therefore the leader, was an hour late. Clark was privately glad Batman wasn’t with them—he would’ve blown a gasket. At the same time, if Batman had been with them, the entire mission probably would’ve gone a lot smoother.
Then the vegetation turned out to be sentient and attacked their group. Clark, who didn’t want to destroy the planet’s ecosystem, was doing his best to subdue the plants without killing them. At one point, while wrestling vines, he got plunged into a lake and tied the vicious limbs together until they were forced to let him resurface.
One particularly vicious flower spewed a foul-smelling pollen directly in his face, which he simply ignored and continued to restrain until Hal could get them evacuated from the forest. Then he forgot where Diana’s invisible jet was, forcing them to fly above the forest for clear ground. The stench of the flower’s pollen made Clark’s head ache, and it followed him while they concluded the rest of the mission.
By the time they located Diana’s jet and were finally heading back to the Watchtower, everyone was pissed, scratched, and smelly. Hal didn’t make one sarcastic comment the entire flight.
Clark was always sensitive to smells. It was the hardest sense to reign in—he could usually block out most extra noises, but he couldn’t ignore a smell. Whatever pollen that flower spat at him was stuffy and sweet like bad trash. It wasn’t the worst smell in the world, but there was a point of achy pressure building in his head.
He powered through for the rest of the mission, nodding through the debrief at the Watchtower, just wanting to go home. Everyone was tired so the meeting was mercifully short—just when Diana dismissed them, Clark’s phone buzzed.
His heart lifted when he realized it was from Bruce.
Come over?
Despite the aching pain in his temples, he couldn’t help the giddy grin that spread across his face.
Of course.
——
Clark was at the Manor in the blink of an eye, his eagerness overriding the throbbing in his skull. He sought out the familiar thrum of Bruce’s heartbeat, finding him down in the Batcave typing away at the computer. He was wearing the suit without the cowl, clearly having just gotten back from patrol.
“Hey.” He said softly, breathing in the cold, scentless air of the cave. It helped his head a little.
“Hey.” Bruce murmured, not looking away from the screen. “How was the mission?”
Clark winced. “It…could’ve gone better.”
“Hn. I told you letting Hal lead was a bad idea.”
“He’s one of the founding members,” Clark defended, albeit weakly. “He needs leadership experience, not more of his one-man-show disasters.”
“Hn.” Bruce grunted again. When Clark said nothing more, he paused typing to look at him from the corner of his eye. “You’re quiet today.”
Clark grimaced, rubbing his temples. “I…got hit by some weird pollen. The smell…my head hurts.”
Bruce hummed, well aware of Clark’s smell sensitivity. He had adjusted accordingly when he first found out—diluting and wearing less of his cologne, switching scents to ones that didn’t bother Clark as much.
Clark was fiddling with the hem of his cape, his eyes big and round and begging for attention. Bruce knew exactly what he wanted.
“Can I—?” He asked, sticking out his bottom lip. Bruce sighed.
“Yes.”
Clark was already moving towards him. Bruce’s lips twitched in amusement as his lap was suddenly full of clingy Kryptonian. Clark straddled his legs and buried his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the soft, comforting smell of Bruce.
His cologne had worn off, leaving behind a light metallic scent that mingled with the gentle curl of his shampoo and the day’s sweat. Clark loved it—it was neutral enough that it didn’t bother him, but still tinged with a sharp darkness that made it unmistakably Bruce.
His headache immediately started to ease and his shoulders slowly began to unwind as Bruce turned back to typing on the computer.
“How are the kids?” Clark mumbled, wanting to hear how Bruce’s voice rumbled in his chest.
“Good.” He replied quietly. “Dick checked in a few days ago. He and Kori are on Tamaran celebrating their anniversary. He’s been sending pictures of aliens to the group chat and calling it “Extraterrestrial Bingo”. Jason adopted a cat he dug out of a dumpster. It took Alfred and Damian two weeks to convince him to take it in for its vaccines. He has named it…Crowbar.”
Clark tried to stop the snort that came out of him.
“It’s not funny.” Bruce grunted. “He keeps sending texts that say “I’m being attacked by a crowbar again” with a photo of the cat clawing his face.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“He’s doing it on purpose.”
“Of course he is. It’s Jason.”
That earned him another disgruntled “hn”.
“What else?”
“Tim and Kon are going to a prom Tim’s college is hosting.” Bruce said. “They’ve been arguing over clothing. Kon wants to wear his leather jacket and Tim thinks it’ll look stupid with a tuxedo.”
“Good luck with that. Kon and that jacket are like velcro.”
“Tim is not opposed to malicious forms of manipulation.” Bruce said. Clark detected a note of pride. “I’m confident he’ll get his way.”
“What about Damian? He just started those med courses this week, didn’t he?”
“Mm hm.” Bruce hummed. “He’s debating whether to go into trauma or veterinary. He finds the idea of scaring stubborn patients into doing necessary procedures and scaring ignorant pet owners into caring for their animals equally tempting.”
“Either one is good.” Clark mumbled. “I’m glad he chose to retire the mantle.”
“Yes.” He could hear the smile in Bruce’s voice. There was something like pride and relief mingled in there too. “He was worried I would disapprove.”
Clark lifted his head to stare at him. “Seriously?”
“He was shocked when I nearly started crying.” Bruce huffed a laugh. “He asked if I was drugged.”
“So he’s skipping high school?”
“I won’t let him.” Bruce said. “It’s important that he have those experiences. But I’m allowing him to take night classes at Gotham State. He’ll be able to cut two years from college with the credits and get into med school early.”
Clark’s heart softened as the eagerness in Bruce’s tone, a subtle note nearly undetectable in his steady, quiet voice. Anyone who accused Bruce of indoctrinating children into an unending war knew absolutely nothing about him. Every young vigilante he’d taken under his wing had demanded the mask, fueled by revenge or a desire to prove themselves. Bruce had begged each of them to just live a normal life, tried bribing them with money to do anything except run across rooftops and beat up criminals in their free time.
He remembered the night Damian retired from Robin. Bruce called Clark hours later, his voice thick with emotion, having clearly been crying alone. At first, he was sure someone had died, only to hear Bruce choke out,
“Dami’s going to med school, Clark. My son’s going to be a doctor. He’s going to be safe. He’s going to live.”
That, at his core, was all he ever wanted for his children. To live. To make their lives more than the mask, the mission. To become more than he could ever be.
Bruce would never admit it, but Clark could see it. He was good. He was gentle and good in his center, no matter the darkness that shrouded it like a fog. He would never see it in himself, but it was moments like those that Clark saw it more clearly than anyone.
He lifted a hand, gentling cradling Bruce’s cheek, turning his face to him.
“You’re a good man, Bruce Wayne.” He said softly, reverently, earnestly. “And a good father.”
Bruce swallowed harshly, looking momentarily lost in Clark’s steady gaze. He could track the moment the bitter guilt possessed him, passing like a shadow in his stormy gray eyes.
“Is your head feeling better?” Bruce murmured, rather than acknowledge the words Clark had spoken.
“Mm. A bit.” He replied, returning his face to the crook of Bruce’s neck. Sometimes it was better not to push him.
“Are you sleeping here tonight?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
——
A week later, and Clark finally relented to the fact that something was wrong. He’d been feeling sluggish ever since the off-world mission, like he was a step behind. At first, he wrote it off as a lack of sunlight. A rare bout of cloudy days passed over Metropolis, and Clark just assumed it was because there was less sun than usual to power him.
But even after the clouds passed and he spent time in the yellow rays, he still felt off.
On the eighth day, he woke up with an aching body. Every muscle felt sore, so much so that he hunched over when he stood up. His head throbbed—differently than it did when he was overwhelmed by smells—more like there were cotton balls stuffed up his sinuses.
On the ninth, Clark knew there was something wrong. He coughed so violently it made his apartment rattle. And, while saving people from a burning building, Clark sneezed hard enough to knocked over the unstable structure. Thankfully, no one else had been inside, but that finally got him to relent and call Bruce.
“Clark?”
“Bruce,” he groaned. “something’s wrong.”
——
“Are you sure? I’ve been knocking things over and I don’t want to break anything expensive—“
“It’s safer that you stay here and recover.” Bruce said firmly, tucking Clark into one of the guest beds. “The Manor is isolated and far from metropolitan areas. There’s less risk of your symptoms affecting civilians.”
“But you must have heirlooms! Family memories! Stuff I might break just blowing my nose.”
Bruce leveled him with a flat look. “In all the years you’ve known me, have I ever been materialistic?”
Clark fiddled with the hem of the very expensive silk sheets he was wrapped in. “No.”
“There is no particular object I really care about.” Bruce told him, fussing with his pillows. “And I’m sure Alfred will store away anything he finds important. The only thing you need to worry about is resting. I need to run some tests to figure out what’s affecting you.”
“I don’t know what it could’ve been.” Clark said helplessly. “I’m immune to diseases—I haven’t gotten sick since I was four!”
“You were off world a week ago.” Bruce reminded him. “And you mentioned you got hit with a pollen.”
“Yeah.” Clark said, frowning. “But it was just the smell that bothered me. I was fine the next morning.”
“That doesn’t mean the pollen couldn’t ruminate in your body and cause more issues.” Bruce said, already pulling out a swab and test tube. “It’s foreign properties might affect your Kryptonian biology. Tilt your head back.”
“You’re going to shove that up my nose!”
“Yeah.” Bruce said like it was obvious. “For testing.”
“This sucks.” Clark said, letting his head fall back onto the headboard with a dull thunk. He tried not to pull a face as Bruce swabbed far up his nose, but it was tickling too much.
“ACHOO!” The silk sheets and curtains flew into the air. The force of the blast sent Bruce’s hair flying out of his face, despite Clark trying to muffle it in the crook of his arm.
Looking vaguely disgusted, Bruce sealed the swab in the test tube before pulling disinfectant wipes out of nowhere and washing his arms and face.
“Sorry.” Clark said miserably, slumping back onto the pillows.
“I should probably wear a hazmat suit when visiting.” He said, mostly to himself.
“What? Why?” Clark blurted.
“If this is a bacteria or virus powerful enough to give the Man of Steel a head cold,” Bruce said with raised eyebrows. “it might kill a normal man like me.”
“But,” Clark pouted, “I wanna hold you.”
“Not while you’re a biohazard.”
“But I’m sick!” He whined.
“Tough.” Bruce replied simply, already getting up to leave. “I’ll informed Alfred and the boys as well.”
Clark stared at the ceiling miserably. “I don’t like being sick.” He decided.
Bruce huffed a laugh. “Welcome to the rest of humanity, Clark.” And closed the door behind him.
——
Clark didn’t need to sleep. He liked to—it often made him feel more refreshed and energized—but he didn’t require it. He didn’t get sleep deprivation or fatigue. He’d never even yawned. He only ever needed it if he came out the bad end of a fight and needed to heal. Even then, a few minutes of rest, paired with some yellow sun, was more than enough.
But whatever this sickness was? It knocked Clark out cold. He didn’t even realized he fell asleep until he was startled awake by a presence in his room.
Standing at the foot of his bed was a figure clad in a black suit, covered head to toe, a rebreather attached at the mouth. It would have terrified him if he didn’t recognize the heartbeat.
“Hey, Tim.”
“Bruce said you were sick?”
“Yeah.”
“With what? Kryptonians can’t get sick.”
“Well,” Clark shrugged. “‘Guess I am. Don’t know what it is.”
Tim flipped up the external visor on the suit, revealing his face behind a clear pane of plastic. “I’ve had to turn the perimeter defenses on Kon to keep him away. If its’ contagious, I don’t want him to get sick before prom.”
“I’m sorry, Tim. I don’t want to cause any trouble between you two—“
“Relax, Clark.” Tim rolled his eyes. “He can live without me for a few days. He’s just bored and stubborn. Bad combo. Anyway, I’m helping Bruce research the pollen you snorted.”
“I didn’t snort it.” He sighed. “It was the flower’s fault.”
“Uh huh.” Tim smirked. “Bruce asked me to assess your cognitive awareness. You seem lucid and responsive.”
“I am.”
“Any headaches?”
“It feels like a stuffiness in my head.” Clark pointed between his eyebrows. “Right here.”
Tim nodded. “And if I asked you the date?”
“Um. October 12th.”
“Good. How about other symptoms?”
“Sneezing,” Clark said, pinching his nose as it started to tingle threateningly. “my body started aching a few days ago, then the coughing.”
“And sleeping.” Tim added. “You don’t sleep.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I can if I want to, but I haven’t had to until now.”
“And your symptoms,” Tim continued. “they’re amplified?”
“Uh, yeah.” Clark said guiltily. “I, uh, sneezed down a building.”
Tim grinned. “Cool! Don’t tell Jason, he’ll start trying to get you to do sneeze demolitions. Although,” he added thoughtfully. “it could be useful…”
“It’s not.” Clark cut in quickly, before Tim could get any ideas. Jason was obvious with his love for chaos but Tim…he had a way of keeping his anarchistic ideas quiet. The last thing he needed was to be the reason Kon “accidentally” sneezed down buildings with minimalistic architecture (or, as Tim says, the “death of artistry”).
“Alright,” Tim said lightly. “I’ll let Bruce know. Thanks, Clark. Oh, and Alfred’s bringing up some soup in a minute.”
That made him perk up. Alfred’s soup was wonderful—just as good as Ma’s. The two had become best friends since he and Bruce got together and they often swapped recipes. So sometimes Alfred served something of Martha Kent’s making and it never failed to make Clark a little emotional.
He just liked seeing his life and Bruce’s blending together. Bruce called him a sap. Clark carried the title with pride.
Tim’s presence was soon replaced by Alfred, who was also wearing a hazmat suit. He looked vaguely annoyed by this attire, giving Clark the impression Bruce had insisted upon the precaution.
“Here you are, Master Clark.” Alfred said, wheeling in an entire cart stuffed with supplies.
“Oh jeez, Alfred.” He mumbled, embarrassed. “You didn’t need to go through all this.”
“Nonsense.” Alfred replied firmly, leaving no room for argument. Clark spied tissue boxes, cough drops, cold medicines, a samovar tea set, and a large silver serving bowl undoubtedly filled with soup. He watched awkwardly as Alfred set up the samovar and ladled him a bowl of soup on a tray, all the while his midwestern manners practically screamed at him to make himself useful. But when he opened his mouth to offer, Alfred quelled him with a sharp look.
“There is green tea in here,” he told him, gesturing to the samovar. “It’s good for the immune system, even if you are Kryptonian. If you want more, take a third of a cup from the kettle at the top, and fill the rest with water from the tap down here. There is a jar of honey and another of lemon slices. Use both. I shall leave the rest of the soup with you if you would like some more. Don’t worry about the sheets—once you recover, I’m sure Master Bruce will insist on burning them with the other biohazards just to be safe. There are cold medicines and drops here—I doubt they will work on an extraterrestrial illness, but there’s no harm in trying. If you need anything at all, Master Clark, I must insist that you tell me. I won’t tolerate any selfless silence if you are suffering.” Alfred gave him a pointed look.
Clark—properly chastised because he definitely would have done just that—nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Alfred. Truly.”
“Of course, Master Clark. And there is a disposal bin by the nightstand for the tissues. Eat up, and get some rest.”
He set the tray of food on Clark’s lap and promptly left.
Clark eagerly sampled the soup, recognizing Ma’s chicken and dumpling recipe immediately, and smiled.