Chapter Text
The drive to Wayne Biotech Laboratories was quiet but not empty. The low hum of the car filled the space between them as morning light drifted through the tinted windows, painting soft lines across Bruce’s face. He had one hand resting on his phone, pressing it to his ear as he spoke to the other end of the line with the clipped precision of a man who was both the patient and the benefactor.
He said into the receiver, “Yes, I’ll be coming in today. Schedule a full check. Nothing abbreviated. Just make sure the diagnostic tech is calibrated. I’ll sign the authorization when I get there.” He paused, glancing sideways at Clark, who drove with both hands on the wheel, pretending not to listen but failing. Bruce’s mouth curved faintly as he added, “No, I’m not going alone. Just be ready when I arrive.”
When he hung up, Clark glanced at him. “So, you really called ahead like a normal person. I’m impressed.”
Bruce looked at him, eyes faintly amused. “I do own the facility. Calling ahead is more of a courtesy.”
Clark smiled, his voice light. “You’re very considerate of your employees’ schedules then.”
There was a beat of quiet before Bruce asked, “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at the Daily Planet right now?”
Clark’s eyes stayed on the road, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Called in sick. Figured if you’re not feeling great, the least I could do is keep you company.”
Bruce made a small, skeptical noise. “Perry’s going to think you’re avoiding him after being rejected for another story pitch.”
Clark laughed softly, the sound warm and unbothered. “He did sound a little bitter about it when I told him. But I think he’ll live. Besides, this seemed a little more important.”
Bruce didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of a smile crossed his face before he turned his gaze toward the window.
Wayne Biotech Laboratories stood like a monument of steel and glass, reflecting the muted Gotham sky in its mirrored surface. The structure wasn’t ostentatious—Bruce hated that—but it was unmistakably modern. Its edges were clean, deliberate, and sharp, and the Wayne crest shimmered faintly above the entrance. It wasn’t a public building. Every inch of it was built for function and discretion.
Inside, the air was clean and cool. The corridors gleamed with polished glass, and the soft hum of machinery ran like a heartbeat through the walls. Everything seemed to move on quiet efficiency—lights responding to footsteps, automated doors sliding open with precision. Holographic displays flickered gently in the distance, tracking medical data, research models, and molecular maps.
Clark looked around as they walked, half impressed, half uneasy. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
Bruce’s tone was dry but not unkind. “Would you prefer I went to a general clinic?”
“Honestly? Kinda,” Clark said, his grin widening as he followed him through another secured door. “At least then you’d have to wait like the rest of us.”
“I don’t wait,” Bruce replied without looking back.
“I’m starting to notice that,” Clark said under his breath, though his amusement didn’t fade.
The examination suite Bruce led them to was minimalistic and sterile but not cold. The walls were lined with transparent panels that displayed readings in muted colors—oxygen levels, temperature control, bio-scans waiting to activate. A sleek med-table stood in the center, made of dark alloy that shifted with the weight and posture of whoever sat on it.
Bruce entered first, the motion sensor unlocking the door before he even needed to touch it. Clark lingered near the entrance, still taking in the space.
“Do we wait for someone?” Clark asked after a moment, unsure whether to sit or stand.
Bruce sat down on the edge of the med-table, adjusting his cuffs. “No. They’ll come to us.”
Clark’s brow lifted. “You really just walk in and skip the line, huh?”
Bruce’s mouth quirked faintly. “I built the line.”
Before Clark could answer, the door slid open, and a man in a white lab coat stepped inside. He was middle-aged, calm, and clearly used to Bruce’s unorthodox ways. “Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” he greeted smoothly. “You gave us short notice.”
“I wasn’t planning on needing a checkup,” Bruce said, his voice steady and polite.
The doctor smiled lightly, glancing at Clark. “And Mr. Kent. It’s an honor.”
Clark’s posture straightened a bit. “Just here for moral support,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
“Good,” the doctor replied. “We’ll start with a full metabolic scan. Shouldn’t take long.”
He moved to the console, activating the diagnostic array with a few practiced motions. The soft hum of the machinery filled the space, and thin beams of pale light began to trace Bruce’s form—scanning, measuring, recording.
Clark watched from the chair beside him as the doctor spoke. “You’ve been running a fever, dizziness, and nausea?”
Bruce gave a small nod. “It’s mild. I just wanted to rule out anything more serious.”
Clark, arms folded, leaned forward slightly. “It wasn’t mild this morning,” he said. “He almost lost his balance when he stood up. His stomach’s been off for a couple of days. He threw up twice last night, from what I know, and he’s been running hot since last night.”
Bruce turned his head toward him, expression caught between irritation and resignation. “You could’ve let me say that.”
“You weren’t going to,” Clark replied simply, not backing down.
The doctor hid his amusement well as he continued his scan. “That’s consistent with a viral infection or a simple stomach bug,” he said, though his eyes flicked toward the readouts on the wall. “Your temperature is still elevated, but your heart rate and vitals are stable. We’ll run a deeper analysis to confirm.”
Bruce adjusted his cuff, looking unbothered. “Just confirm it’s a stomach bug. I’ll take the medication and go back to work.”
Clark glanced at him, smiling faintly. “You’re already making your own diagnosis.”
“Efficiency,” Bruce said.
“Or stubbornness,” Clark countered.
The doctor worked quietly, taking a small blood sample that was analyzed instantly by the system. Within seconds, the screen displayed layers of readouts—cellular structures, hormone levels, chemical balances. The color scheme shifted slightly, indicating irregularities.
The doctor studied it closely, not commenting yet. “You have some unusual readings here,” he said after a pause, his tone carefully neutral. “It could be a reaction to stress, or dietary. I’d like to run one more test to be sure.”
Bruce leaned back slightly. “Diet, most likely. I’ve been skipping meals.”
Clark frowned at that, but said nothing.
The doctor gave a polite nod, though his eyes lingered briefly on the display before dimming the screen. “Everything appears stable otherwise. I’ll have the full report analyzed and sent to you by noon.”
“Good,” Bruce said, standing. “I’ll review it myself.”
As the doctor left the room, Clark looked over at Bruce. “You’re really convinced it’s just a stomach bug?”
Bruce adjusted his collar with his usual precision. “That’s what the symptoms point to.”
Clark watched him for a moment, the morning light from the glass panels catching in his eyes. There was something about Bruce’s calmness that didn’t sit right—not because he doubted him, but because Clark could sense something in the air, something the machines had picked up that the doctor hadn’t said out loud.
Whatever it was, Bruce had seen it too. He just wasn’t ready to hear it yet.
And for now, neither of them said anything about it.