The next few days passed in a haze for Clark—sleeping and waking, but never staying awake for very long, even when he fought the lethargy that tried to take over his body. Dreams that seemed like reality, reality that seemed like dreams—they all ran one into the other. Through it all, two things remained: pain, deep in his bones, and Bruce, beside him. Beside him in his restless dreams, beside him when he was shivering and hurting. Bruce would be there and then Clark could relax, as much as his body would let him, find a certain kind of solace. Small moments of ease, of touch or softness or warmth—coursing over or against him, and Clark curled into the comfort, sank deeply into the brief respite that came with these moments of ritual.

He'd wake, swimming up from deep, fathomless sleep to feel warm water sluicing over his wounds, stinging a little, but not hurting, not really. Not enough to do more than make his eyelids flutter before they were too heavy to hold up, before the smooth, gently flowing feel of the warm, wet cloth cleansed his neck, his arms, his face—pushed him back toward some re-relaxed dream state. Restored him, somehow, everywhere Bruce touched. Bruce would push him up, wedging a knee under his back to lift him off of the cot, then healing heat would bathe his skin, lulling and soothing. It was followed by something soft drying away the dampness, and then he'd be lowered down again, to sleep and to mend.

Clark wasn't sure how many times it had happened, the day he was finally able to get his eyes truly open, to say something. He didn't even know what to say, blinking up at Bruce, who'd just lowered him back down and was now cleansing the wound on his leg, bent over his task. Just the top of Bruce's head was visible, hair dark and shining, and Clark tried to lift a hand to touch it. He wasn't sure why he was drawn to touch it, to run his fingers through dark, soft locks, anymore than he was sure why the idea was met with excruciating pain. His arm protested, loudly and immediately, pain shooting through from his armpit to the tips of his fingers. Clark dropped his hand, letting it fall with a heavy thud back to land on the pelt that covered him.

Bruce stopped his work and looked up at him, dark-circled eyes tired but hopeful. "Clark?" he said softly, a smile in his voice but not on his face.

"Yeah," Clark said, and his voice croaked like he'd been stranded on a desert for weeks. "Yeah, Bruce."

Bruce smiled then, just a curl at the edges of his mouth. "Good."

"Drink some water."

Clark blinked up at him, disoriented. "Where… "

Bruce lifted Clark's head and the pain was there again, driving all other thoughts out and away.

"Ow."

"I know," Bruce said. "I've cut back your pain meds."

"What? No, no drugs, Bruce."

Bruce's hand on the back of his neck was insistent. "Drink some water."

"Ow, Bruce!"

"That's louder and more coherent than you've been in days, Clark," Bruce said, eyes crinkling. "Good for you. Now drink." He tipped the metal cup and water flowed into Clark's dry, parched mouth.

It hit the back of his throat and Clark snorted, choking.

"Take it easy; drink, don't inhale." Bruce patted his good shoulder, letting his head lower down to rest on the cot. "Rest. I'll wake you again in an hour."

And Bruce did, although this time, the cup was warm when he brought it to Clark's lips, with a scent that made his stomach rumble. Bruce tipped the cup and a thin soup of some kind sluiced over Clark's tongue.

Then next time he came to, his back was propped up—Clark couldn't turn to see what it was, but obviously some kind of makeshift pillow, and Bruce was washing his shoulder. "Nice of you to join the land of the living," Bruce said with a small smile. He reached for something near the fire and then crouched beside him, again with the metal cup. "Tea," Bruce said, holding it out.

"Tea?"

"With sugar. I figured you like sugar in your tea."

"Tea," Clark said again.

"Hot beverages are good for morale, Clark," Bruce reached for Clark's right wrist, placing the cup in his hand. "Can you hold it?"

"Yeah, Bruce." He let his fingers curve around the cup, warmed metal comforting his palm. "I just don't—" Clark lifted the thing toward his mouth, and the cup shook in his grasp. "Bruce, I—"

"Shh, Clark. It's okay." Bruce wrapped his own hand around the mug and helped him lift it to his mouth.

"It's good."

Bruce helped him bring the thing down, then took it from him. "More?"

Clark rolled his eyes at himself, at his helplessness.

"It won't last forever," Bruce said, reading his mind. "You're on the mend, Clark. Just hurry it up." He raised an eyebrow, and Clark knew it was a challenge. Bruce lifted the tea to his lips, and Clark drank. "I want to get to that cave you found, and you're going to have to give me directions."

For a moment Clark wasn't sure if he was dreaming or awake and he didn't care at all. Until he moaned and realized he'd just moaned out loud, and even though it felt like heaven, he definitely was probably not—okay, he wasn't dreaming. He fought his way to surface from this euphoria: a warm, damp towel on his neck, his cheeks, patting his face. Clark sighed as he swam up from unconsciousness, basking in the feeling. Slowly he opened his eyes to see Bruce, looking at him with the barest hint of a smile. He was working up a soapy lather with a brush and a piece of soap.

"Morning," Bruce said. "How's the patient?"

"Recov—" Clark cleared his voice, hoarse with sleep. "Recovering."

"Water?"

"Yeah."

Bruce brought a cup to his lips, tipping it for him. "Drink it all."

He swallowed most of it, the dryness easing in his throat.

"More?"

"No." Clark squinted at him. He felt just a little too… warm, really. Too warm and content for lying broken in an arctic cave, and not quite in his body—separate from the pain that he could still feel just around the edges of his consciousness. "Are there drugs in there?"

"Pain meds, but not much." Bruce put the cup down and picked the soap up again.

So that explained the comforting—and completely false—sense of well-being. "No more drugs, Bruce."

"Alright, Clark." Bruce swirled the shaving brush into the soap. "I thought we could use all the help we could get for a while. You're not an easy patient, Superman."

Clark had to smile at that, as a warm glow bloomed in his chest. "I'm lucky," he said.

Bruce's right eyebrow went up. "Trust you to find the bright side of getting mauled by a tiger."

"I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for you, Bruce. You're so—" Clark's voice went a little hoarse and he stopped, blinking back the rush of feeling that was trying to overwhelm him.

"Ah," Bruce said, "that's opiates talking." He raised a lather-covered brush. "Besides, you give me a pretty good run for my money. Lift your chin," he said, fingers an inch from Clark's jaw.

It hurt, but Clark complied, anticipation curling in his body for the sensation of touch and soft soap. He lifted his face to Bruce's.

Bruce painted a line of lather along Clark's jawbone.

"I don't usually shave—"

"Wouldn't have worked," Bruce said, practical like always. The brush swept over Clark's cheek, and then Bruce's thumb was under his ear, urging him to turn slightly. He did, and Bruce repeated the soothing movement there.

"Guess it's time for me to get used to how things are n—" Clark tried to say, and suddenly, appallingly, his voice broke into a whisper on the last word. He closed his mouth with a click.

"Time to learn how the other half lives," Bruce finished for him. He scooped soap in his hand and strong, deft fingers smoothed more lather over the lower half of Clark's face. "Don't talk," he said, as he worked the soap around Clark's mouth and jaw.

Clark pressed his lips together, signaling his cooperation with his eyes.

"Not so bad, how the other half lives," Bruce said, holding up a razor. He let it rest against Clark's jaw and then pulled it up his cheek, a scraping sweep. "Not really."

Clark blinked at him, breathing and getting himself together, and then the razor was back, working toward his ear. Bruce's hand on his chin moved his head gently, coaxing it where it needed to go.

It was rhythmic and soothing, the warmth and the movement, the pull of the razor, Bruce's fingers curling against the nape of his neck as he steadied him, the scent of soap and of Bruce, the comfort of his voice, how it felt when he touched his face. Clark let his eyes fall shut again.

"How's the pain?"

Clark answered without opening his eyes, feeling the lush warm soap smoothing over his face, lulling him. "I've felt better."

"Really?"

He cracked one eye. "Not lately."

"You've been out, lately." Bruce's thumb slipped under the turn at the end of his jaw, lifting up so he could smear lather along the underside of his chin.

"How long?" he said, his own voice sounding distant, preoccupied.

"Were you out?" Bruce asked, then said, "Be still."

The razor scraped over Clark's jaw and Clark forgot the question, lulled by the repetitive, rough-smooth slide over his skin. Bruce's thumb and forefinger softly grasped his chin, tilting Clark's head for better access, and the action was repeated on the other side. It went on for long, quiet minutes, Bruce moving him where he needed, either with a gentle hold on his chin or a nudge at the base of his jaw.

Clark's mind drifted a little. "So many lights," he said, something vague but insistent creeping at the edge of his memory. "There were, weren't there?"

"Aurora Borealis." Bruce sloshed the razor in a cup of water to rinse it. "Other side, please," he said, tilting Clark's head.

"Yeah." Clark said, thinking of a cold, arctic night and being pulled along in a sled, an icy sky filled with color and lights. "Northern lights."

"First time I've seen it here was the night we came back to base camp."

"Seen it again?"

"Every night since."

"Could be important. Intense solar activity."

"I know. I'm tracking it."

"And wolves," Clark said, blinking as the memory flooded back. "Did wolves attack, or did I dream that?"

"Tried to."

"You fought them off."

"It wasn't very difficult," Bruce said. "Compared to the prehistoric cat you decided to… what do you farm people call it? Hog wrestle."

Clark snorted. "You're the one who killed it. I would've been tiger chow."

Bruce opened his mouth to respond but Clark interrupted. "And don't say I already iam/i tiger chow.

"I did an excellent job stitching you up." Hand under Clark's chin, Bruce wiped away the soapy residue and surveyed his handiwork. "And I won't have my surgical sewing skills mocked."

"Sound like Alfred there, Bruce."

Bruce's eyes went a little sad before his brows knitted together. "There's something I need to tell you," he said. "I took a risk. You should know that."

"What, making soup?"

One side of Bruce's mouth curved up in a smile. "Ha, ha," he said. "Sarcasm doesn't become you, Superman."

"Just because you want that to be your shtick."

"I gave you a blood transfusion, Clark."

Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. "You shouldn't have done that."

"I know. It was a risk to put you through—"

Clark frowned at him. "Not me, you."

"Giving blood is hardly dangerous. As for you… I felt as though it was the only option."

"I trust you, Bruce."

"It could have gone badly, Clark."

"It didn't."

"It could have."

"Are you… " Clark tried to figure out what point Bruce was trying to make. "Are you feeling guilty? Feeling guilty for saving my life?"

"I just thought you should know, Clark."

"Okay, yeah. I know. I know now." Clark said, letting his eyes drift shut again. He could listen with his eyes closed. "And thanks."

"I'm sorry I couldn't ask you first."

Clark's eyebrows knitted, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. "Next time you're unconscious, I'll make some call for you. Got any more of that soup?"

"I'll warm it up."

"Good," Clark said. "And if you want to get to work on those directions to the cave?"

"I've already sketched out some maps of the area."

Clark's lip quirked up in a small smile. "Of course you have, Bruce."

"Well," Bruce said, standing. "You've been pretty lazy the past few days. Somebody had to do something productive."

"Speaking of doing something? Soup? Maps?"

"I knew you were a difficult patient."

Clark let his eyes rest for just a moment longer, but he could still hear the smile in Bruce's voice. "I'll try to get with the program, Batman."

"You do that, Superman."