The Manor is quiet.

Too quiet for Clark’s liking.

The sky outside is slate-gray, clouds hanging low like they’re waiting to say something no one wants to hear. Rain taps faintly on the glass panes of the study, rhythmic and soft, a fitting soundtrack to the heaviness hanging in the air.

Bruce is standing by the bookshelf. He’s not reading.

Just standing.

His back to Clark.

His arms are crossed, shoulders stiff. He’s paler than usual, his breathing too shallow, too deliberate, like he’s trying to disguise how hard it is to stand. And worst of all? He hasn’t said a word all day. Not one.

Clark stands a few feet away, pretending to scan the spines of books, fingers trailing across leather bindings without actually seeing them.

He knows what Bruce is doing.

He also knows what he is doing. Which is..apparently, playing along.

But his jaw keeps clenching, and his chest keeps tightening.

Because all he really wants to do is hold Bruce.

Just hold him. Sit him down. Feel his forehead. Wrap him up in a blanket and rest him against his chest while the rain keeps falling and the world goes quiet for a while. But Bruce won’t let him. Not when he’s like this. Not when sickness makes him feel weak, vulnerable.

So Clark stays silent too.

Moving slowly around the room, pretending to look for something.