Chapter Text
Bruce is determined to ignore it. It's not that big of a deal, and if he rises to the bait, it will only encourage Clark to repeat these little games. He can't have that. Creating a precedent like this would be unwise.
Unfortunately for Bruce, he can't quite control the annoyed huff as he reaches for his pen only for his fingers to close around nothing.
Jaw working, he looks away from the monitor—again—and spots his pen at the edge of the desk. Again . He stares at it for a moment, trying to control the irritation bubbling up in his chest, annoyingly pulled out of his focus. Finally, when he's sure he won't throw something across the room, he reaches out to pick the pen up.
It takes him a few precious seconds to find his place again, before he can sketch out another part of the map he's been drawing for the past ten hours. Something has changed in Gotham's underworld, something significant, and Bruce is certain it has to do with the city deciding to repurpose the old railway tunnels. He just has to figure out what that something is.
Setting the pen aside, Bruce clicks through another set of old building plans, comparing them to newer ones while scanning for any inconsistencies. It doesn't take him long to find something. Absentmindedly, he stretches out his hand, and—
“Clark,” growls Bruce, hands curling into fists on the desk. “I need to get this done.”
There's a soft whooshing sound behind Bruce, a breeze ruffling his hair, and then: “What you need is rest,” comments Clark cheerfully.
Whipping around in his chair, Bruce snarls, patience finally worn thin. “I know there's something going on—”
“I'm not saying there isn't,” Clark gently cuts him off. “But you haven't slept the past two nights either, and it's starting to affect you, I can tell. Just go to bed. You'll feel better, and likely work faster, too.”
“I can't,” insists Bruce, stubbornly setting his jaw. “Not before I have this figured out, and you stealing my pen won't make that go any faster. So cut it out.”
“As long as you stay awake, the pen will keep moving,” replies Clark evenly, but then his expression softens. “You're pushing yourself too hard. I just want you to take care of yourself, B. We can't lose you.”
I can't lose you, hangs unsaid between them, but it steals Bruce's breath nonetheless. They've been friends for years, but this tenderness is new.
Taking a step closer, Clark brushes his fingers over the sensitive skin below Bruce's eyes, where dark bruise-like shadows likely mar his skin. It's a brief touch, barely there before it's gone again, but Bruce's chest constricts painfully, breath catching in his throat. He wants nothing more than to follow that touch, lean into it and stay there. Which is how he knows Clark is right. His brain definitely doesn't operate at the level it ought to.
“Fine,” he says, wincing inwardly at how petulant he sounds. He gets to his feet, and embarrassingly enough, stumbles on his way to the staircase. Another unfortunate reminder that Clark has a point. Bruce grits his teeth, and heads upstairs without looking back. He doesn't need to; he knows Clark is following his every step vis-a-vis x-ray vision. When Bruce slides under the covers, eyes already falling closed, there's one more thing he needs to say: “Stay the fuck away from my pens, Clark.”
As unconsciousness claims him, he swears he hears Clark's chuckle.