Batman loves Superman (he rlly does)

[Frivolite]

I started this story a long, long time ago, and it is currently unfinished. I reread it recently and remembered that I kind of like it and had never posted it.

Firstly, I want to warn anybody who really knows their stuff about the Batman or Superman fandoms... I don't. I watched cartoons and bad Superman TV, and that's what has smooshed around in my heart and mind to deliver this piece of h/c-y fetish fiction.

The premise I liked was that Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne have been in lurv for a while now-- I imagine them to be fairly young, maybe in their mid twenties. The important part is that Clark has just recently lost his powers; some evil villain trying to kill Superman found a way to rob him of his powers and make him into just a vulnerable mortal. The villain didn’t succeed in killing him, obviously, but he did succeed in apparently permanently de-powering him.

Clark stayed with Bruce in Gotham for a period of months while he recovered and started to acclimate to his new situation. He’s not doing badly physically, but he is feeling a mental and emotional toll. He’s snippy, he’s defensive, he’s depressed. One day, apparently out of the blue he tells Bruce that it’s time for him to go home and return to his life -- half of it, anyway.

Bruce is a little hurt and surprised-- now that Clark can’t just pop from city to city in moments and under his own steam, moving back to Metropolis will mean a definite change in their relationship, which Clark is conveniently avoiding addressing. But Bruce agrees, understanding that Clark needs to feel useful and functional again.

This story takes place the day that Clark is moving back to Metropolis. He wants to do it the "normal person" way, flying in a commercial plane, sitting in coach. Bruce is helping him move back, so he comes along for the flight. Bruce thinks Clark cray for denying himself the advantages that come with being Bruce Wayne’s boyfriend, but wants to be supportive. So here they are, in coach.

***

Bruce Wayne could not believe that he was going to be sitting in coach. Not even business class, not that it would be significantly better. He'd had to tell Alfred three times to book the damn tickets correctly. But Clark wanted to feel like a normal person, so here they were. The place smelled. Not bad, per se, not like off food or sewage, but of cheap plastic and recycled air and other people's breath. The seating was stiff and itchy, some poly-blend that would leave red irritated patches on Bruce's skin if he fell asleep against it, he knew, but he was also being closely watched by far too many passengers to be willing to carry his own pillow on board.

Considering this situation had been Clark's insistence, he didn't look much happier. He'd been looking peaky all morning, and Bruce had a sneaking suspicion that he was nervous to fly. Clark would never admit it because he thought he'd be made fun of, but honestly, Bruce thought it made plenty of sense. Clark was new to his powerless-ness, and it would be incredibly difficult to relinquish control over something like flight. Bruce understood. He didn't fucking want to be here. He wanted to fly the two of them in three-forths the time in hid private plane, but no, Clark needed to feel normal. Human. As if mortality weren't enough.

So here they are. Bruce feeling rattled and edgy from being touched by too many damn strangers, and Clark looking like he might be in need of a motion sickness bag before the motion even began.

They found their seats-- which were of course, split by the aisle.

Clark sat down in the seat to the right of the aisle with relief simply to be off of his feet, but Bruce wasn't even going to give the seat the pleasure.

"This isn't right. I'm going to go talk to somebody."

"Bruce! Please." Clark shook his head, and then turned tiredly to the woman occupying the seat beside him. She was in her forties, wore thick glasses and black earphones. She had a plastic bag with a knot of red yarn and two knitting needles sticking out of it on her lap. "Excuse me ma'am," Clark said, touching her arm gently but without being awkward or indecisive about it. The woman looked up. "My friend and I wound up with split seats. Would you mind moving to the aisle seat over there so we can sit together?"

The woman smiled at him, and Bruce was entirely sure that Clark was right, she would agree happily to this handsome polite young man and his "friend," with his hand still gently on her arm. She pulled one side of her earphones off of her ear. "Oh, I would, but my daughter is in the bathroom right now, and she's got the seat beside me."

Clark nodded politely and thanked her anyway, but Bruce could pick up on something subtly resembling panic in his eyes. The flight attendant came on over the intercom reminding everyone to secure their bags firmly in the overhead compartments, for fear that turbulence might bounce them loose.

"I'm going to talk to the flight attendants. I'm sure Alfred requested--"

"Bruce." Clark said flatly. "Why don't you ask the passenger to your left. Politely."

Bruce closed his mouth and gave Clark an expressionless look. His passenger hadn't even sat down yet.

"Whatever you do, you should step out of the aisle so that people can-- huh! Tschhhuh!" Clark gasped suddenly and his eyes squeezed shut. He brought both hands up with a sense of desperation to cover the sudden sneeze. Bruce winced. He was still absolutely stung by the embarrassment of not being able to control this new body of his-- every cough, sneeze, stubbed toe, cramp and ache made him incredibly self-conscious, sometimes defensive. After the relatively small sneeze knocked him sharply forward, he bobbed quickly back up, leaving both hands securely around his face for a good handful of seconds, reassuring himself that the strange explosion was passed. He sniffled a soft, long sniffle. He didn't entirely have the hang of it. If the situation were different Bruce would have found it quite funny, but as it was it actually made him want to hug Clark, get very close to him and make sure he knew it was alright. Especially as he noticed the previously very sweet lady in the seat beside him give him a long, uncomfortable look over her glasses and then scooched the fourth inch distance her limited seating offered her away from Clark's chair. Clark felt her reaction without looking at her, and flushed to the roots of his hair. Bruce reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the white pocket square that was stowed there, gracefully breaking up the color and texture of the suit. He offered it to Clark, who's flush reignited and he shook his head minutely. "No thank you."

Bruce shrugged and returned the handkerchief to his pocket as Clark finally lowered his hands. His nose was pink around the edges. His eyes were glassy, too. Hm.

Clark wanted nothing to do with Bruce's silk square, but he could sense the look the woman beside him was giving his suddenly tainted hands. He glanced up at Bruce.

"I'm, um. Going to go wash my hands." Clark carefully stood, making small, rocking steps to navigate himself out of the tiny aisle and into the slightly larger one that would lead him to the still tinier bathroom. He squared up to Bruce, and Bruce desperately stored away the urge to hug him. He pivoted to let him pass.

Bruce sighed and sat down in his seat.

"I need to get past you,"

Bruce looked up to see a large, reddish fellow looming over him and gesturing toward the seat to his right. "I'm 23e."

Bruce stood up, because there was no other way for the round fellow to make it past him without putting his ass in Bruce's face. The man sat down, and just as Bruce allowed himself to hope that he was a single passenger, he turned and began conversation with 23f, a slimmer tanish man of about the same age. Damn. But as Bruce's eyes strayed back to the yarn woman, whose daughter had joined her now, a plan came to mind. Bruce pivoted in his seat to be sure Clark was not on his way back yet. Nope, he was standing in line. There was a fucking line.

Bruce put a gentle, firm hand on the ruddy arm resting on the armrest beside his. The man jumped and looked at him with a startled expression, heading toward confrontational. This man was not used to being touched by other men. Bruce removed his hand, but turned his shoulders and leaned in on one hip.

"Excuse me. My name's Bruce, what's yours?"

"Terry." The man grunted. The expression on his face suggested that just because he gave his name did not mean he was okay with this interaction.

"Terry, my boyfriend and I--" Bruce made what might have been considered a mincing little spin to point over his shoulder in the direction of the men's room. "--we somehow got booked into two split seats. I'm here next to you, and he's over there across the asile in 23c. I can see that you're flying with somebody today," Bruce leaned pointedly forward and smiled at Terry's friend, who looked less uncomfortable and more amused than Terry, "But I was hoping that you might find it in your heart to take my boyfriend's seat, 23c. Unless you two were really set on being together for the flight."

Terry glanced at his friend. They were both trying very hard to take up absolutely none of each other's space, which was difficult with Terry trying so hard to position himself away from Bruce's invading posture. Terry coughed, nodded. "Uh, sure. No, we don't care if we sit together. Uh. Sure. I'll just, leave my bags and... can you--"

Bruce stood up, but Terry made no move to pass him. Bruce realized that this time, just standing up wasn't going to do it. Terry didn't want to pass that close to him. Bruce worked his way out into the aisle, and took a few separating steps away from Terry as he maneuvered his bulk into Clark's seat. Done and done.

When Clark came back from the bathroom, Bruce waved him over. "See?" He said quietly, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. Bruce half stood and then plopped himself into 23e, patting 23d's blue polyester invitingly. Clark saw Terry in the other seat. Terry, who was stubbornly reading a Dan Brown novel without lifting his eyes. Clark's face brightened a little. "Oh. That was kind of him." He turned and fished a book he was reading out of the overhead compartment, and then settled happily beside Bruce just as the fasten seatbelt sign chimed and lit.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen and thank you for choosing Metro Airlines..."

Bruce and Clark settled in as the flight attendant welcomed them with sweet, lilting routine. Bruce registered, as he turned off his laptop and pulled out a file folder full of reading he needed to do, that Clark was still sniffling. Perhaps the recycled air was bothering him.

The flight attendants came out to their individual sections of the plane to begin the safety lecture. Bruce purposefully ignored it, sitting back in his chair and starting in on a report about the University of Michigan's thyroid cancer research center, to which Wayne Enterprises had recently donated. Clark pulled out the pamphlet in the seat pocket in front of him and began to follow the safety lecture. Bruce found it difficult to repress laughter at that point.

"Are you seriously banking on an oxygen mask and an inflatable seat cushion if we go down in this thing?" he said quietly.

"Shh." Clark didn't even look over at him or smile.

When the lecture was over and the plane began to taxi toward their runway, Clark applied his attention to Bruce. "Scoff all you want, it's about all we've got going for us in this thing."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Clark. Planes are incredibly safe."

Clark's eyes livened. "Do you know how many of these things I've had to catch like pop-flies as they hurtle towards--"

Bruce interrupted him by bursting into a giggle fit. Clark coughed out a laugh, rubbed his face. He flexed his legs and took in a deep breath, let it back out again. "Okay. Sorry. I'm a bit edgy."

"You're joking." Clark gave him a flat look. "It's okay, me too. Nobody likes being herded in here like cattle. I haven't been on a commercial plane in years, and not by accident."

"You just don't like being crowded by all the riff-raff."

"Keep it down, the riff-raff will hear you."

"I'm part of the riff-raff now, you know." Clark said. His defensive posture was back. Bruce gave up. He reapplied his attention to the Michigan report as the plane picked up speed.

The back wheels had just cleared the ground when Bruce next looked up. Clark's eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back. He might have been confused for someone calmly asleep or resting his eyes, but his face was white as a sheet and there was tension in his brow and his mouth. The deep, effortful rise and fall of his chest was very pointed, and Bruce looked down to see Clark's hands clasping the armrest, white-knuckled. Bruce folded his report shut and slid it into the pocket of the seat in front of him. He sat back and curled his hand to gently run the backs of his fingers over the back of Clark's white-knuckled hand. Clark opened his eyes, looking weary and like he was fighting a wince.

"Can I hold your hand?" Bruce asked him quietly. Clark took a moment to understand him, then nodded almost imperceptibly, and his hand fumbled free of the armrest and clumsily clasped onto Bruce's, as if without one of the two Clark might drop right out of the air himself. Bruce wasn't a big fan of public displays of affection, but that was mostly because he found them not to be pragmatic. This absolutely had a purpose. He brought Clark's hand carefully to his mouth and pressed his lips there, then let the clasped hands return to rest on the armrest. Clark looked at him with gratitude and heaved out another deep breath.

"Are your ears pressurizing?" Bruce asked. He didn't want Clark to freak out about any of the small but noticeable physical manifestations of flight-- he wanted to get there ahead of him, and calmly, so that Clark knew everything was progressing as planned.

"Um," Clark frowned a little, his eyes squinting as if trying to see something far away over the heads of the passengers in front of them. "I--" Clark's voice stopped in small congested sound. He frowned openly now, and brought the wrist of his other arm up to press beneath his nose, though Bruce could see how rigid his body was, how much it wanted to keep clasping onto the seat. Clark cleared his throat and dropped his arm back. "Uh, yeah, a bit."

Now his voice sounded congested, deep. Bruce frowned. "Your sinuses bothering you too?"

Clark nodded a little, sniffling in his low, long manner that simply meant he didn't have the ingrained muscle memory for "sniffle." He had to do all that stuff consciously, and it looked adorably like problem-solving on his face. He blushed as he felt Bruce's eyes on him, assessing.

"You sure you don't want my handkerchief?"

Clark nodded the same tight nod, and set his focus far off, into the distance, sending his mind to their destination ahead of their bodies. Bruce sighed.

"Mkay." He said. But he didn't go after his reports again. He sat back and looked up at the fasten-seat-belt sign, held Clark's hand and stroked it with his thumb. They stayed that way, silent, for the next ten minutes. Bruce continued to notice Clark's amateur attempts and sniffling, the occasional cough, and once he pulled his forearm back up to his face and applied it beneath his nose with so much pressure it left his skin white for the half second it took for the blood to rush back, and Bruce was surprised to notice by contrast that Clark's face did actually still have blood in it.

The seat-belt light chimed off. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've now reached our cruising altitude. You may move freely about the cabin, but we do suggest you keep your seat-belts buckled when in your seat in order to prepare for possible turbulence. There will be a flight attendant coming down the aisles with refreshments. Thank you."

Clark let out a held breath that sank into a cough. He turned toward the aisle and coughed into the crook of his elbow. Bruce found that now that he'd broken the contact barrier between them, he found it much more difficult to repress the urges to touch Clark.

"We made it past the worst part. Now we just coast smoothly until we head back down to earth." Bruce released Clark's hand and put his on Clark's back, which had stopped shaking. Clark was still bent toward the aisle, taking his little time out to make sure his body was through throwing tricks at him for the moment. It wasn't.

"HehTSCHHuh!" Clark jerked sharply with a quick, hard sneeze into the bent elbow. Bruce saw the color rise in his neck, and two people from across the aisle turn and look at him.

"Bless you." said a woman in the row behind them.

Bruce frowned and moved the hand resting on Clark's back to rub in a circle, then rested it again. He felt Clark's back swell suddenly as he inhaled sharply for what Bruce was sure to be another hard sneeze. "Huh!--nnt."

When Clark turned back, Bruce felt his blood pressure rise. The lines on Clark's face were ones that represented pain-- the pushed down eyebrows, the tension in his nostrils and his mouth. The squeezed corners of his eyes. Bruce was used to that expression meaning that somebody had a sliver of Kryptonite on them, or that Clark was carrying around deep muscular bruises he'd told nobody about. He had to force himself calmer-- this was just the normal pain of a human who'd tried to stifle a harsh sneeze while his ears were pressurized. It was simply stupid call on Clark's part, based in his embarrassment, it didn't mean that doom was imminent.

"That--" Bruce still began too harsh. "--Clark. Holding your breath causes the pressure to mount in your ears, which would hurt normally, but since we're in a plane it might do more than just hurt, it might damage your eardrums. Don’t do that again."

"Huh, huh--nnt." This time, Clark pinched his nose closed with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and released it with a nearly silent but pained exhale afterwards, eyes crashing shut and opening pinched and dazed with pain.

Bruce took his hand off of Clark's back and reaching for the file folder again. If he was going to be obstinate for no reason.

Clark looked at him only briefly, and since Bruce wasn't looking, he didn't notice the compelling pain he knew was there. He also didn't notice the heavy embarrassment, or softness of apology.

Clark sighed and released the breath with a soft coughing fit that he ignored as he leaned forward and took the book out of the pocket in front of him. He opened it to his half-way bookmark and cleared his throat. Without looking (or caring) Bruce could tell he was breathing out of his mouth.

They kept it up for about ten minutes, neither of them able to move past the first page. Bruce couldn't stop listening to Clark's traitorous body. His breathing was a little effortful and broke into a weak cough every now and again. Even those Clark was working to stifle, keeping his lips tightly locked against the shivering of his chest and fitful puffs of breath through his throat. In order to avoid coughing at all he was clearing his throat with annoying frequency. Bruce also noticed every time he picked up his hand to pinch or rub his nose to avoid more sneezing. He'd given up on the sanitary route out of the desperate need to use his opposible thumbs to rub at the irritated prickling and burning. He was sniffling more now, and with greater aplomb-- the sniffs were less long and conscious and more sharp and reactive, probably because his nose was starting to really run. Bruce wasn't going to offer that damn handkerchief again, he was going to have to ask if he wanted it.

"huh, uh." Clark had released the book in order to violently assault his nose with the back of his right hand. He rubbed it in quick circles, but this allowed another hitching breath and Clark's eyes to go a bit distant, so Clark changed his strategy and just pressed the back of his hand hard against the cartilage of his nose, distorting the poor thing. Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Clark sniffled against his hand, and breathed carefully. Another soft, wet sniff. He waited. He took the hand away and let it hover a moment in the air, and then, satisfied for the moment with his safety, dropped it back to the armrest next to Bruce's. The plane dropped incrementally on the waves of air current, leaving it's passenger's stomachs with no anchor to anything at all for a moment. Clark's hand yanked Bruce's, in a way that made the other person in the aisle look over suddenly. Bruce was too surprised to react immediately, and by the time he had the plane's gravity had been restored and their stomachs were safely returned to rest above their pelvises. Clark blushed furiously for like the tenth time and retracted his hand before Bruce even had a chance to hold it.

"I'm sorry." Clark sputtered.

"It's okay--"

"I need to wash my hands."

"Again?"

Clark was already unbuckling his seat-belt. Bruce could only imagine the horrifying distance between their row and the back of the plane for Clark, who seemed only to find peace in feeling rooted down, but he faced it with the courage he always presented when met with horrors. Before Bruce could comment, he was cutting a quick, if unsteady path out of sight.

Bruce rolled his eyes. Why did he have to make the simplest things hard? Did he think Bruce would care that he'd come down with a cold? Why did he think everybody would hold it against him like it was his fault, when everybody was used to being uncomfortable on airplanes? Like it was any different for him. Just because it was his first time.

Bruce had a sudden, strange memory of being 13 or so and being picked up from prep school in the middle of the day. His teacher noticed he had a fever and sent him to the nurse in front of the whole class, which had caused Bruce to have an irrational, burning hatred for her until the day he left the 8th grade. The nurse hadn't been so bad-- she gave him a little cup of Tylenol and let him lie down on a cot until Alfred appeared. Bruce had only been living with Alfred for a couple of years, and they'd stayed quite business-like so far. He was a teenager who Alfred offered the papers to in the morning, for god’s sake. And when Bruce saw Alfred standing there in a sweater vest and shirtsleeves, ready to take him home and what? Take care of him? The prospect filled him with shame. He followed Alfred to the car, and went directly to his room when they got home.

"Can I bring you anything, Master Bruce?"

"No. Please leave."

It was the first time that Alfred had not done as he was told.

"You should have something nutritional to eat. I'll return with chicken noodle soup."

Bruce hid under the covers while Alfred brought the tray. There was something about being seen right now that made him want to crawl out of his skin. When he thought his room was empty, he allowed himself a sneeze under the covers.

"Bless you, Master Bruce."

Bruce remembered the feeling of blood rushing toward the skin of his face-- a feeling that Clark was becoming quite familiar with at the moment. It just felt as if he was imposing himself upon people somehow-- he wanted them out of his business, didn't want his weakness to be noticed or cared for in the foreign ways that strangers did. Bruce's parents had naturally known how to take care of their sick son. His mother knew how to make up the couch for him with cool sheets and pillows, a comforter in case of chills. His father knew how to touch and then kiss his forehead to check for fever without making him feel awkward or invaded. When they looked at him with sympathy, he remember knowing exactly what the look meant, taking it in, feeling cared for.

No one else after that, though. Everyone who followed, Alfred with his good intentions and what Bruce now recognized as ernest love was crisp and distant, and he asked for too much permission. If anyone asked Bruce's permission to take care of him, his body physically would not allow him to agree. But the lovers Bruce had before Clark were too presumptuous, to suffocating. They treated small illnesses and injuries as if life-threatening, as if Bruce were made of candy-glass and it was their job to put him back together again. It lead him to simply lie when he was sick. Tell people he was leaving town for a few days, or needed to hunker down and work. Even Clark... he wasn't comfortable enough to be taken care of by Clark unless it was a battle injury. Even then, it presented... difficulties for Bruce.

Clark was making his way back down the aisle to his seat. He looked as though he'd splashed some water on his face. Impulsively. Bruce turned to him and pressed his palm against his forehead. He pretended to frown with uncertainty. He leaned towards Clark, took his head in both of his hands gently, and tilted it down as he pressed his lips against his forehead. He let them linger there. He pulled back. Clark was looking at him with a small smile and a doe-eyed expression of complete confusion.

"You've got a fever," Bruce told him. Clark's smile faded and he looked down.

"Oh. I thought, maybe."

Bruce was surprised by how readily he admitted it. "Yep, for sure. You must be feeling terrible." Bruce didn't let it be a question, but Clark felt compelled to answer it anyway.

"No, I'm fine."

Bruce felt his irritation prickling, but suppressed it, remembering being under Alfred's assessing gaze in that big empty house. Instead of pressing the matter. He simply tried to take Clark's hand again.

"You shouldn't. Handshakes are how most viruses are passed."

"I'm not going to get sick."

"What do you mean? That is how people get sick."

"Well, it doesn't happen every time, Clark. I have a pretty strong constitution." And you don't anymore. Oops. Bruce wished he hadn't said it, but it was too late.

"I'd rather not risk it." Clark muttered, reaching for his book again. Instead of going for Clark's hand, Bruce casually rested his arm behind Clark's shoulders. Clark looked at him, surprised. Then grateful.

They stayed in that position as Clark read three more pages, yawning twice. After Clark turned the third page, he reached for the bookmark. He slid the book back into the pocket in front of him and leaned back into Bruce's arm.

"Do you think these come up?" He asked sleepily, tugging lightly at the armrest. Bruce could see he was tired and also feel the tension still in his body. He probably wouldn't be able to sleep, but he could rest a bit, and Bruce had to admit he was absolutely aching to feel the weight of him against his side.

"Let's see," Bruce ventured, pulling hard at the armrest. Sure enough, it came loose and slid up between the seats. "Our first bit of good luck."

Clark smiled and leaned in against Bruce's shoulder with a small shiver. For a pretty big guy, Bruce was shocked by how small Clark could make himself, like a cat curled into Bruce's elbow. He squeezed him briefly.

"Please alert me if I begin to drool on you."

Bruce chuckled and kissed the top of Clark's head.

When the food and beverage cart arrived, Bruce took over. "A glass of water without ice, a can of gingerale, and a glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee for me. I'd like to order off your menu as well. I'm aware of that, but I'd appreciate it if you'd make an exception in this case. Clark, can it. Yes ma'am, I understand. Would you please bring someone out who can make those kinds of decisions? Great. Tell them it's Bruce Wayne."

The poor flight attendant nearly tripped and choked trying to eat her foot. She assured Bruce that she didn't need to ask her supervisor, that she'd have a bowl of chicken soup out to them as soon as possible.

"It's not a restaurant, Bruce. Not every place is your personal--" Clark was interrupted by the irritated twitching of his cheek and a sharp intake of breath. He sat back away from their drinks as he fumbled in his pants pocket for something. "Heh--xxk!ah. snf." He didn't quite get the stiff wad of toilet paper out of his pocket and to his face in time to catch the first pained stifle. Clark shunted the pain away again and fit the toilet paper from the airplane bathroom over his nose, and pinched it there with the fingers of his right hand. "--xxah." The stifles were getting harder, and Bruce could hear them pushing through his full sinuses in a way that portended disaster. Clark screwed up his face and rubbed his nose ruthlessly, but the rough bathroom tissue against his already tender nose seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect. Clark's lungs filled with air in an involuntary gasp--"HUH!K--xxtsh! ah. snff, snf." The sniffles sounded very wet, and a bit urgent. Clark used the bathroom tissue, which held about as much moisture as dead leaves, to blot up the immediate problem area. Bruce realized with a mental jolt that Clark had probably never blown his nose in his life. Not for the first time that day, Bruce felt an incredible surge of warmth and sympathy. Clark wiped his nose, which was quickly moving from pink to red, harshly and stowed the tissues away in his other pocket.

By the time Clark had mostly recovered from the fit, a small bowl of very hot microwaved chicken soup was making its way toward them in the hands of a different flight attendant. This fellow looked like he was fresh from first class. He leaned down into their aisle and placed the soup onto Bruce's tray.

"Is there anything else we can do for you gentlemen?"

"No, we--"

"Yes, actually. Could you bring me a few of those sweet felt blankets--"

"Mister Wayne, there's no need to bother with those, we'll simply bring you one of the comforters from first class."

Bruce could feel the passenger to his left boring holes into the back of his head with a death glare, but he couldn't care less. "That would be perfect, thanks. And I know this isn't in your job description, but if there's a first aide kit back there with some aspirin in it, I'd be forever grateful."

"That won't be a problem, Mister Wayne. Is there anything else we can do?"

"A box of tissues, if you've got it?"

"Of course Mister Wayne."

The flight attendant turned purposefully to Clark, who was burning with embarrassment and trying to hide behind his wad of toilet paper. "We're terribly sorry to see you're not feeling well, Mr. Kent. If there's anything either of you need, please, don't hesitate. My name is Cartman, and I'll be checking up on you for the remainder of the flight."

"Thanks so much Cartman."

Cartman disappeared, working his way around the beverage cart after his tasks. Clark rubbed his face with his hands.

"Why do I even try to have normal outings with you." he sighed, but Bruce was pleased to see he sounded more resigned than angry.

"This is not an outing, this is flying on a plane. It's not supposed to be fun, and every step towards making yourself more comfortable is one that is deserved, no matter who you are. It's too bad that some people, whom only you insist upon calling 'normal,' by the way, do not have the means necessary to make themselves as comfortable as others, but it's like the starving children in India. In America, we are supposed to clean our plates out of respect for those with less."

"Yeah, that doesn't make any sense. And I won't always be on these awful things with you. From now on, this will be the shape of my travel."

"And

Edited August 5, 2015 by myownprivatesfc

[Vongola Undicesimo]

Aw, this was so cute! I've always kinda shipped them, and they're so perfect together. Great fic!

[Gallatea]

Soooo sweet! This made my day.

[Arty]

Yessss!!!! SuperBat!!!! I like.

[a_nonny_mouse]

Ohh, wow. I love the buildups and stifles and all the sneeze descriptions.

[Frivolite]

Vongola Undicesimo: Thank you! I've always kind of shipped them, too... I feel like there's always such tension when they're around each other, which is sort of like chemistry? Gallatea: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed. Artygirl22: Aww yiss, I like too. Thanks for reading a_nonny_mouse: Blerg, thank you!

[spirkestielgirl87]

I liked this! I've always had a thing for sick, sneezy Clark ever since I was a teenager watching Smallville (don't know if you've ever watched it, but there's this one episode that is just magical it's actually called "Sneeze".)

[aaylasecura]

Oooooh my god this is so perfect. I'm a huge superbat fan and this is great, keep 'em coming (especially with sick Bruce as well ;p

[Frivolite]

those times will be more bearable because you won't be sick and it won't be your first time, but why do you have to jump into the deep end of ordinary all at once, huh? It seems like you're punishing yourself for something."

Clark carefully pulled the top off of the soup cup in front of him, picking up his white plastic spoon. Bruce resisted wondering if that was what they were eating with in first class. Clark spooned up some hot soup, blew on it carefully. His lips were perfect, Bruce remembered. He ate the bite, allowing the heat to fill his throat and slide into his belly. He closed and opened his eyes. "I don't know how I'm going to do this without you," he said.

Bruce laughed. "Use my name."

"No, I really mean it." And suddenly Bruce could see that he really did. He was still looking at the bowl of soup, as if it represented everything comforting and necessary about having Bruce here with him.

Bruce wants to tell him that he will simply never again be asked to get on a commercial airplane, ever. If he absolutely needs to travel, Bruce will send a private plane, with a bedroom and a massage chair and a private kitchen which serves nothing but chicken noodle soup. Every armrest will come with a perfect mold of Bruce's hand to squeeze during turbulence.

"It gets easier." Bruce says, and he knows he means more than commercial air travel. Clark is moving back to Metropolis. Really moving back. It hasn't completely hit him until now.

"Yeah." Clark agrees swiftly, sniffling, and taking another spoonful of soup.

"It's okay?"

"It's absolutely the best thing I've ever tasted."

Bruce laughed. "No, it's not. But I understand the sensation."

Cartman returns with a comforter, a mini bottle of Ibuprofen, and three packets of tissues. Bruce thanks him and passes him a tip that Clark makes a conscious decision not to look at. Bruce watches with satisfaction as Clark laps up the whole bowl of soup. The heat makes his perfect mouth dark red, and in combination with his pink nose and eyes he looks incredibly vulnerable, a look that has always gotten Bruce going a bit, perhaps because it was so rare in him. Bruce moves the orange juice and the ginger ale to his folding tray, folds Clark's up. He hands Clark the blanket and lets him open it over his legs. Bruce opens the bottle of Ibuprofen and shakes out three pills. He hands them to Clark, followed by the glass of orange juice, and for once Clark is wonderfully obedient as he swallows them. He takes another sip of the orange juice, hands it back to Bruce as he turns and coughs over his shoulder and clears his throat. Clark looks sincerely sleepy now, distracted enough by feeling sick and being fussed over by Bruce and the staff that he's no longer thinking about his precarious position more than a mile above the surface of the earth. Like much of the rest of the passengers, he's accepted his role here, accepted the conceit that they may as well pretend to be on solid ground for all the good worrying will do them.

"Damn."

"Hm?"

"I forgot to ask Alester for a pillow."

"Cartman. It's okay, just stay still." Clark happily leaned up against him again, feeling warm for the first time since they'd left bed that morning. Clark was suddenly relishing this time. This pocket of limbo where no decisions needed to be made. The plane lurched down and then up again on a buffet of wind, and Clark found and squeezed Bruce's hand beneath the blanket.

"Who said that pillow was for you."

"Well I'm sure he'll be back within ten."

Bruce chuckled, mostly for Clark's benefit. He was discovering that he actually liked this feeling, taking care of another person. He had never enjoyed being cared for, but he'd never really felt the urge to try it on somebody else. He assumed it would be tedious, that it would make him feel silly and frivolous. But it didn't. Or, not now, it didn't. Not with Clark. It was actually quite satisfying to feel him relax against Bruce's shoulder now, it felt as though he'd done something important, despite all sensible evidence to the contrary.

Clark came in and out of dozing for the next hour, waking up to cough and sip at water every now and again. At the hour mark, he sat up, suddenly profoundly awake. If Bruce didn't know better he'd think he'd heard a distant cry for help. Clark was frowning uncomfortably. He shifted away from Bruce's shoulder and sat up. He worked his jaw, and Bruce understood. Sleeping on planes alway made you wake with extremely pressurized eardrums, an uncomfortable squeezing feeling on your eyes. Bruce could only imagine how unpleasant the sensation must be with entirely blocked sinuses. Clark worked his jaws again. He sniffled deeply. "Huh, huh, uh---xt! ohhh." Clark's eyes opened and he blinked through a strained frown, pain again evident on his face. Bruce picked up one of the tissue packs.

"Here. Just sneeze, stop doing that to your sinuses and your ears."

Clark gave him a look, but he opened the tissue pack. He held his breath against another sneeze in the process of accessing the tissues, stifling hard against the back of his wrist. "huh, nxxt! ahh." He pulled three tissues from the pack and held them up to his nose, cupping his hands over his mouth. He took one deep breath that hitched unevenly all the way in, then, "EhKEXTSCHHahh!" sneezed so loudly and vocally that he actually ducked down afterwards, hoping to avoid the turned heads he knew would be pointing his way. Two bless yous, one followed by giggles, were hail-maryed out into the cabin. Bruce reaffirmed his decision to never again sit in coach. And Clark was still winding up for a fourth. The last one had sounded so congested that it didn't surprise Bruce that he was continuing to sneeze. The congestion in his head had been building up under the airplane pressure while he slept for the last hour, and his sinuses were demanding attention. Bruce took out another two tissues and handed them to Clark, who took them with no energy to acknowledge or thank him as another heady build-up started in. Bruce just put a hand on his back and rubbed it in small circles, waiting patiently. "heh, EH---NXTSCHH! ahh, huh! Id---DSICHH!" To Bruce's displeasure, he was stifling again, as if the giggling bless-yous had bothered him enough to try to suppress them despite the pain it caused, but the thick, heavy sneezes forced their way out anyway, bursting through the held breath. "huh, heh, Eh! HEhETDSICHHahh!" Clark sneezed with a hard desperation that negated his embarrassment, or at least shunted it aside forcibly. "huh. Uh. huh, huh huh UH!" Clark's breath was jaggedly working its way in and out, and at the end of every vocalization Clark tried to bite down on the urge to sneeze again. "Huh. Huh. HuhXX! uhhhhh, kuhh, kuf, kuhh!" Clark groaned himself into a coughing fit. He sniffled thickly when the coughing ended, paused, and turned in his seat to face the aisle. "Huh huRSUCHHH! Uhhhurschhhhah!! Huh, hiIEDSCHHH!! Oh, snf, snf..."

Bruce didn't know if Clark would start crying or try to strangle him if he did what he was about to do, but he just couldn't not. His love just sounded too miserable. Sounded like he'd never stop, he was already heavily huffing his way towards another massive sneeze, and Bruce was fairly sure that everyone who could in the cabin was staring at him. It surely wasn't helping. Bruce put them out of his mind and scooted up close behind Clark. He reached around him and placed a hand on Clark's thigh. "Sweetheart, I know it's embarrassing, but if you try to blow your nose it'll help the sneezing stop." He said quietly in Clark's ear.

Clark didn't need to be told twice. He worked his way painfully up to his next sneeze, released it, and went straight into blowing his nose. It did cause the immediate urge to die down. Clark swivelled back into his seat so he was facing the seat in front of him again instead of the aisle. He coughed and sputtered into the tissues and picked up blowing his nose again. Bruce pulled three more tissues out of the open packet, finishing it off, and handed them to Clark, trying to take the used ones. Clark easily evaded his second endeavour and pocketed them, but he thanked Bruce in a terribly raw voice for the new bunch, and picked up right where he left off.

Bruce switched out the tissues one more time, and finally it seemed like Clark could relax. He wiped his crimson nose carefully, Bruce could see the twitching of a near sneeze as he did so, but he evaded it. Clark sat back and sank down into his seat, pulling up the blanket and trying not to be seen. Of course, at that very moment Cartman appeared.

"Is everything alright?"

Clark nodded mutely, a soft sniffle the only sound to carry the weight of his embarrassment. Cartman was at least that perceptive, and he nodded demurely and made his escape. Bruce turned and looked at him.

"We're almost there."

"I'm fine, okay." Clark said in a small voice. "I'm sorry."

"I know it's embarrassing, it's always a bit embarrassing, but it's nothing to be ashamed or sorry about."

"You can stop worrying about it."

Bruce sensed they might be approaching the threshold of Bruce's caretaking becoming more uncomfortable for Clark than helpful.

"Okay. I'm not. Come back, close your eyes for a bit."

"I shouldn't be so close to you while I'm exploding with germs."

"Hey, if I'm going to get it, I've already got it. Science."

Clark's eyes drooped. The humor wasn't helping. Bruce got the feeling that the only thing that would help now would be getting off the damn plane and onto the ground.

Bruce felt Clark's forehead again. It was actually cooler than it had been an hour ago. At least the medicine was working. Bruce guessed this was more the piling up of symptoms and the inability to get really comfortable and sleep.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the fasten seatbelt signs are once again lit, because we are about to begin our decent into Metropolis Airport. Please make certain that your tray tables are stowed and your seatbacks are in the full upright position. There will be an attendant coming through to take your trash."

"Hear that. We're almost free."

"Bruce, please. I'm fine."

Bruce chose not to highlight the fact that he sounded like, "I'b finde."

Clark stayed put but closed his eyes. Bruce dropped the armrest down between them.

[TheMaster]

Oh this story is great I've always had a bit of a soft spot for stories where Superman has to deal with not having his powers and having to experience the trappings of normal humanity.

[aaylasecura]

This is really really good. I've been dying for a superbat sickfic and yours is making me so happy. Also loving the slightly upset Clark at the end, and Bruce being happy about comforting him is adorable and very much like him.

[Arty]

Yessssss!!!!!! The best feels are superbat feels.

[Snowydays]

oh my god the spellings are perfect <33