Bruce wasn't the type to slow down, especially when things got uncomfortable. He tended to just keep going. If he finished one thing, he'd find something else to distract himself with. Right now, his body's response to his current condition was unpredictable, so he was currently prohibited from Batman related activities that involved getting his hands dirty. Robin had temporarily taken on those responsibilities. So, Bruce distracted himself with being Bruce Wayne.

He went into the office early, spent more time in meetings than he had in his entire life, talked like a businessman actually interested in his own business. He spent the majority of the breaks he took in the bathroom, and no one commented on it, most likely assuming that he was severely hungover. He stayed overtime to talk to Mr. Fox, who was clearly suspicious of Bruce's sudden enthusiasm in Wayne Industries books over its toys, but said nothing as he handed them over. After work, Bruce Wayne went to fancy parties, pretended to consume copious amounts of alcohol, talked to people, maybe even accidentally seduced a couple before bailing when they wanted to get him into bed. He'd stumble home at two in the morning and ignore Robin's questioning stares as he pulled up the intel his bugs had collected. 

Diana's off handling business somewhere in the world and Clark's got appearances to keep up at the Daily Planet, so Bruce spirals. 

It was a cycle he was familiar with, but it didn't stop him from blindly walking into it every time. He goes two weeks straight before it finally hits him. His body just shuts down. Usually, he'd go about two months before a close call during an encounter with some criminal would wake him up from the trance. Though, this time his "wake-up call" is waking up in a pile of sweaty sheets. He tries to make his way towards the toilet, but he feels as if he's swimming, only managing to make it to the sink before tossing up what he's managed to consume. So, water. He rinses his mouth and turns the shower on before stumbling over to the closet with the intention of finding something to wear for work. He grabs the first suit that makes its way into his line of sight and tosses it onto the bed. He makes his way back to the bathroom, dropping his underwear somewhere on the way, and climbs into shower with the hopes that it would wash away the utter exhaustion that's begun to settle deep into his bones. 

He climbs out, grabs a towel and dries off, before sauntering back into his bedroom to get dressed. He's slipping into autopilot until he gets to the buttons of his top. The crisp button up was fitted, purchased to show off the pristine physique of a bachelor who spent all of his free time in the gym. It'd fit him perfectly the last time he'd dredged it out of the closet. Now, there was noticeable gaping between each button that settled over the curve of his stomach. 

It shouldn't be a surprise, but he still finds himself staring blankly into the mirror at the way the buttons struggled to clasp. He deftly runs his fingers over the slight mound that's now his stomach, finally stopping to take it in. It could be passed off as a little bit of bloating, an unnoticeable change, but he can't seem to tug his gaze away from the new development.

 Once he manages to snap out of it, he quickly undoes the buttons of the shirt before tossing it over to the side and heading back into the closet, grabbing for a top that sat a little looser on him. He pulls the shirt on and quickly does up the buttons before stopping in the middle of his stomach as the buttons struggle to stay in their respective button holes, revealing the tank top underneath. 

That was all it took. That was all it took to knock him out of the cycle. A fucking shirt. It's 7 AM and he's frantically wading through his closet, tossing shirt after shirt over his head, before the imminent crash happens. He collapses into the pile of shirts at the bottom of his closet, unshed tears in his eyes as he panics. None of it made any sense, he wasn't even that far along, having caught the pregnancy so early. He should have time. Why doesn't he have time?

The rational part of his brain is telling him to calm down but the emotional part of his brain, the part that seemed to be in charge lately, has him hyperventilating in a pile of rumpled button-ups. 

Honestly, Bruce expects Clark to find him. The man is so attentive, that Bruce just assumes that he's always listening in, always eavesdropping. He expects Clark to fly in through a window and suddenly be floating behind after two weeks of nothing. Or maybe Diana would come barging in and drag him out of the closet. For some reason, it never crosses his mind that Alfred, the only other person who lives with him and whose job it is to keep him alive, would be the one to stumble upon him having a mental breakdown.

He's curled up in a ball, shirts acting as bedding, and he cries over an ill-fitting garment. It's pathetic, but Alfred has definitely seen him at lower points in his life. The man's holding a tray of breakfast that he's prepared and staring down at Bruce with the look that he always has when Bruce does something incomprehensible. He saunters out of the closet, sitting the tray on the dresser, before returning to squat near the pile. 

"The bed you paid thousands of dollars for would probably be much comfier, Master Wayne." he points out, only to get a quiet sniffle in response. 

The bed was massive. Massive and empty. He'd gotten so used to most of it being taken up by Clark that it hadn't exactly felt "comfy" in weeks. 

"Hm, maybe it'd be even comfier if we changed out your sheets." His voice is all soft, like he's talking to a child, and he hums as he replaces Bruce's bedding before returning to him.

"Maybe try it, see what you think." Alfred nudges, waiting for Bruce to climb out of his pile of misery.

He lets out a quiet sigh when Bruce doesn't even look up from the shoe organizer he's been staring at for the past fifteen minutes. 

"You need proper rest," Alfred starts, reaching out to tug at Bruce's arm once he realizes that the man has no intention of moving any time soon, "and nutrients."  

Silence.

"It's okay to miss him, Bruce," It's said in a tone that Alfred hadn't used since Bruce was eight-years-old, "experiencing a normal human emotion doesn't mean you have to punish yourself."

Bruce can feel himself frown. This wasn't about Clark. It was about the fact that he was underprepared and overwhelmed.

"I've seen you prepare years in advance for things that the average human couldn't imagine. You're not going to convince me that this is over not having anything to wear to work." Alfred seemingly reads his mind as the butler gives up on tugging Bruce up and instead begins to collect the shirts from underneath him and toss them into a clothes basket. 

"Now, up. We need to make room in here for the new suits I've ordered."

By noon, Diana's standing over him, eyeing him warily. He knows that look, loathes it. It usually came right before a lecture of some kind. 

"Alfred tells me you're not eating." she informs him, quirking an eyebrow that clearly poses a question. 

He's not sure what kind of answer she's expecting, but Bruce doesn't have any. It was more than a lack of interest in food, the smell of it made him gag. In context, it made sense. Normally pregnant women lost their appetite in the first trimester. However, even with the subsequent morning sickness, he'd had some sort of appetite a couple of weeks ago. 

Of course, Diana doesn't expect an answer of any kind as she moves on to her next observation.

"Are you cold?" she asks, eyeing the two extra blankets that Bruce had hauled onto the bed. 

They're large, weighted blankets that are only partially on top of him, most of the fabric pooling on the empty spot behind him. He doesn't bother with answering that question either as he goes back to feigning sleep. He can feel her saunter around the bed and briefly lift up a corner of one of the blankets before abruptly laying it back down.

"Have you talked to him? On the phone at least?" Diana inquires, and Bruce can hear the difference in her tone.

She no longer has that stern tone that seemed to always lean toward accusing him of something. No, it sounded a bit more somber, like she suddenly felt sorry for him. He peels his eyes open, face clearly broadcasting his confusion as he peered up at her.

"Clark," she answers his unspoken question, "maybe you should call him."

What was with everyone and Clark today?

He stares up at her as if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard before clamping his eyes shut. He just wanted to sleep. How hard was that to understand?

"There's no shame in it, Bruce. You don't think he misses you?" Diana huffs.

No.

He doesn't.

If he did, he would've already called. It seems to have only occurred to Bruce that maybe the man wanted a bit of space for once. Maybe he needed a bit of room to breathe. So, no, he doesn't miss Bruce, Clark's probably just enjoying not having to worry about him. Besides, he doesn't need Clark's hovering. 

"Listen, I know you're used to just pretending to not have feelings, hurting yourself rather than facing them, but you're not only hurting you anymore." Diana sighs, scooping his phone off the nightstand and holding it out to him. 

"Something in Metropolis clearly has him busy, Diana." 

She stares at him for a long moment, multiple emotions flitting across her face before she settles on shock.

"Too busy for you?" she poses, clearly challenging him.

He stares up at her for a moment before rolling his eyes. He and Clark aren't bound by any form of relationship. He came running because he was attached to the fetus he ogled at every time Bruce had to whip out the ultrasound machine.

"Has it ever occurred to you that he hasn't called because you insist on space even when it's clearly detrimental to you?" Diana asks as she taps in the password to his phone.

He says nothing which seems to be all the answer Diana needs as he listens to his phone ring once.

"Hello? Bruce?" Clark's voice answers.

Bruce can hear the sound of Clark shuffling around before there's the sound of a bell as a door shuts behind him. 

"Bruce?"

Diana hands the phone over, sure she's proven her point as she makes her way out of the room. Though, this proves nothing. Clark may not have flown to Gotham, but that doesn't mean he wasn't only picking up because he thought Bruce was sick or something.

"Clark." Bruce responds to let him know that he's not talking to himself.

"Hey," his voice is suddenly gets a warmth to it that Bruce doesn't understand, "how are you feeling?"

He expects the question. He doesn't expect his chest to feel tight, his eyes to feel irritated, and his throat to feel like it's closing. It's very clearly a question that's meant to gauge how the baby is doing, but Bruce's sleep deprived brain clings to it like it means something. He moves away from the phone, hoping to reel in the sudden surge of emotion.

He moves the phone back to his ear, monotonously rambling off his random observations regarding the baby's growth.

"Bruce, I asked how you were doing." Clark says, clearly amused by Bruce's interpretation of the question.

He's not expecting the follow up question, but is fully prepared to mumble an "I'm fine." because that was easier than having to explain the last couple of hours let alone weeks. Even if Clark was actually curious, how does Bruce explain the fact that he's been autopilot lately? So much so, that he's lost time. He hadn't been eating, hadn't been sleeping. He'd been running himself into the ground and his final breaking point, what snapped him out of it, was a shirt. How does he explain that not two hours prior, he was trembling in his closet over a shirt?

So, he opens his mouth fully prepared to lie, only for the earlier tampered down emotion to hit him square in the teeth. His breathing gives him away, stuttering out of him as he attempts to quickly calm himself. Honestly, even if it hadn't, the tears are quick to follow anyway. It's pathetic really.

He makes a couple more attempts at pulling himself together, swiping at his face as if Clark could see him. It's a waste of time. By the time he puts the phone back up to his ear, he's openly sobbing like a fucking baby. 

He's so loud that it takes him a minute to realize that Clark's talking to him.

"Hey, hey, you're alright. It's okay. Listen to me, okay?" Clark instructs, "Pack a bag. I'll be there to get you in five." 

Clark wasn't raised by Kryptonians. He was raised by a couple of farmers from Kansas, but that doesn't seem to strip him of what's seemingly pure instinct. He's sure Bruce isn't in any sort of danger, had been keeping an ear on him just in case, but he knew he needed to get to him now. 

Clark hadn't wanted to bother him, knew he'd been feeling smothered lately, so he hadn't called. 

Now, he was standing in Bruce's bedroom watching him toss around clothes like they'd personally offended him. They aren't going anywhere fancy. Clark had it in mind that they'd head back to his place and order takeout, but Bruce seems to even second guess his "loungewear". 

Clark lets out a sigh, sauntering up behind Bruce and reaching for his arms before he throws yet another black t-shirt over his head.

"What's this about?" he asks as gently as he knows how, taking the shirt out of Bruce's hand and placing it on the bed. 

Bruce shakes his head, attempting to wriggle out of Clark's loose grasp on him, but he eventually gives up with a huff.

"Nothing fits properly." He finally concedes with another exasperated huff.

Clark knows Bruce well enough to know that he's not the type to truly care about appearances unless it hinders him in some way. However, he's also pretty sure that this isn't even about clothes. 

"Okay, well, you can borrow something of mine." Clark suggests, and isn't even remotely surprised when Bruce looks at him as if the thought gives him nightmares. 

"Just sleepwear, just for a week." He reassures Bruce who only continues his pouting. 

If this were truly about the way the clothes fit and how well they fit, he would've prepared. Bruce was always prepared, maybe even too prepared sometimes. No, this was about something else. 

Before Clark can parse what it is, there's a knock. 

"Come in." Bruce calls and Clark watches as Alfred saunters inside with two garment bags and a couple of large, fancy-looking black bags that, no doubt, contained some new, better fitting items.

"Thank you, Alfred." He says it as more of a dismissal than an actual expression of gratitude. 

Odd for a man who was so frantic about how his silk pajamas didn't button the way they used to. Alfred gives a nod before making a swift exit. 

"What is this actually about, Bruce?" He hums, rubbing at the man sides gently, and watching as Bruce's face balls up. 

Bruce whips around, eyes squinting at Clark, clearly trying to intimidate him. And maybe it would've worked before Clark died, maybe it would've worked before Bruce brought him back, maybe it would've worked before Bruce allowed Clark to see him at his most vulnerable. 

He lets out another hum, hand coming up to rest on Bruce's cheek, thumb gently brushing at the skin. Clark tilts his head and watches as all of the malice drains out of Bruce and he's left looking tired and exposed. 

"You've called me for less." 

Ah, so that was it.

Clark has to admit, he wants to laugh like a man gone mad. Bruce Wayne, who has locked himself away in a cave for months on end with no real human contact, wanted him to call. The man who'd been craving space since Clark had bumbled into his home...wanted him to call. He's an enigma, Clark knew that when he signed up but Jesus.  

"I'm sorry. I'll call next time." He reassures Bruce, who lets out a sigh before turning to properly pack his bag. 

"So, he's here?" Lois says it like she can't believe it, head whipping around as if he was just going to appear. 

"He's waiting in the car, Lo'." Clark sighs, maneuvering around her so that he can get to Perry's office. 

She's met Bruce several times before. In fact, she hadn't been impressed by him. None of the money or the charm seemed to change her mind. She thought he was an insufferable asshole. So, for the life of him, he couldn't understand why she was bouncing as if they were talking about someone new.

Clark turns in his latest assignment, informs Perry that he's going to need to take the rest of the day, and turns to leave the office. 

In all honesty, Clark had a feeling that Clark Kent's alleged relationship with Bruce Wayne was the only reason Perry put up with Clark's frequent absences. He barely even batted an eye when Clark rambled off the same story of a sickly family member, and any other employee would've gotten the boot by now. He was sure his patience was running thin and he had to grit his teeth every time he allowed Clark to leave, but someone as high profile as Bruce brought information and eyes. It was a valuable asset for a dying medium such as the newspaper.

He slips out of the Daily Planet without a hitch, only slowing down when he gets to his truck. Bruce is in the passenger's seat, head lolled to the side. Clark can feel his heart stop for a moment before his brain kicks into high gear and he's rushing over to driver's side to rip open the door. The sound must startle Bruce because he's shoots up, head whipping around as his eyes dart to find the danger. 

"Hey, I'm sorry," he calls over to a very frazzled looking Bruce, "it's just me."

He can hear the man's heart working overtime and he feels bad for scaring him, but in Clark's defense, Bruce had scared the shit out of him first. He's never seen Bruce relax in a public setting, let alone one where he was alone, so he thought maybe he'd fainted again. 

He must be exhausted. 

Clark doesn't bother with any other stops. He could go grocery shopping once Bruce was comfortable. He gets them inside of the apartment and immediately starts dialing the number of a local restaurant. It was past lunchtime and, according to Alfred, Bruce hadn't eaten anything. In fact, he hadn't been eating regularly at all. 

Clark yanks the menu off the fridge and hands it over to Bruce and watches as his tired eyes try to take in the tiny words. Clark rambles off his usual before moving the phone away to glance at Bruce, who only stares blankly in return. He orders him something simple. 

"You can change into something more comfortable." Clark informs his guest, handing over the duffel Bruce had packed.

Bruce stares at the duffel before eyeing him with a look that isn't new to Clark, but he's only seen on Bruce a couple of times. Mainly, because Bruce didn't want things very often. There were things he needed, but he never wanted things because he had the money to get whatever it is that he desired. So, Bruce has only looked at him with pleading eyes twice and that was about a month before they'd found out he was pregnant. 

However, this one was clearly in reference to the duffel bag. Clark eyes it for a moment before glancing up at Bruce. Whatever he wants clearly isn't inside of it, but it must be related somehow. 

"Bruce?" 

"Can I borrow one of your shirts?"

Clark slowly blinks, thinking maybe he's heard wrong, but Bruce glances over at Clark's open bedroom door like he's waiting. His prior tantrum was clearly not about his clothes and Clark knew that, knew he'd wear something of Clark's if he had to, but he'd never expected him to actually ask to wear something Clark owned. 

Bruce would never admit it, but Clark knew he detested the plaid shirts and work boots. The man wore well-made, tailored luxury suits to average places, he had "loungewear", he wore silk pajamas to bed...even if he didn't stay in them for long. He oozed old money and yet here he was on Clark's couch asking for one of Clark's Hanes.

Clark tries not to think too much into it as he grabs one out of a dresser drawer and hands it over, but the piece of fabric is the most ill-fitting thing Bruce has ever worn. It hits him below mid-thigh and hangs off of the man's form like a small tent. Bruce doesn't seem to mind though, as he slips his expensive looking "loungewear" pants underneath and heads back into the living room. 

Bruce manages to stay awake through half of his lunch before he's slumped over onto Clark's shoulder. Clark gently lifts him before placing him onto the bed and pulling the comforter over him. Then, he slips out of the apartment, triple-checking that the doors are locked, before taking off towards the grocery store. It's hard to shop for a diet that they're still in the process of figuring out. The ideal diet for a pregnant Kryptonian was made up of plants and animals that were long extinct and an ideal pregnant human diet may not be enough nutrients. 

That's why he had the forethought to ask the ship for a bit of help. It'd managed to convert the Kryptonian list into the closest equivalents on Earth before removing the ones that would not be advised for a human pregnancy. So, he rushed through the store, making sure to grab a case of Pedialyte, the tea that Ma insists on him buying for Bruce because "It'll help his tummy.", and a mug. God forbid Clark accidentally gave him one of  Lois' joke mugs. The rest of the basket is filled to the brim with food despite the fact that the man was only supposed to be staying for a week. 

He makes it home, checks in on Bruce, and puts the groceries away. When that's done, he starts a load of laundry before trying to figure out what he's going to cook for dinner.  He's about to settle on lasagna when his mother calls.

That's how he finds himself in Kansas, holding out his arms as his mother stacks bowl after bowl until they're up to his chin. She had this weird sixth sense for when he and Bruce were in the same vicinity and that led to him coming to collect a meal or two. 

"So, has he been feeling better?" 

It seemed like a simple enough question. Yet, he finds himself hesitating to answer. Mainly because this was his mom. She could easily tell when he was lying and just as easily tell when he was omitting details. That, and he wanted to tell her. He knew she'd be excited for them and he could finally speak freely about it to someone. Although, he was also aware that it wasn't guaranteed that everything was going to go to plan...

He was also aware that Bruce may not feel the same. 

"Yeah, he's just tired," he says off-handedly, immediately regretting it when he sees her frown.

"Has he been to see a doctor?"

Yet another fairly simple question. No, he hasn't because he was pretty sure the alien ship in Antartica would be more helpful than a human doctor currently.

"No, but the ship has been helping..."

Clark doesn't elaborate because he can practically see the cogs in his mother's head turning, see her piecing together a few things in real time. He watches as her eyes widen a little before going back to their natural state as she spins around to look at him. 

"You know, you didn't come with instructions..." she says casually, somehow pivoting this conversation to be about Clark, "there were a lot of things that doctors didn't understand, just passing it off as 'good luck'."

She turns to the stove to start heating up the kettle.

"You were always in good health, no cavities, not even a spot of acne. Then, we figured out that it wasn't just some miraculous luck. We realized that there were things about you that doctors would never be able to tell us," She glances over her shoulder, pointed look in place, "but I did notice that with every new bit of information you learned about yourself and what those things could do for others, the more confident you became."

He just stands there dumbly, trying to balance all six bowls she's given him, plus the thermos she's about to shove under his armpit.

"Point being, you'll tell me when it's the right time. You always do."