The thing of it was that Clark had never ever doubted that Bruce loved him. He wasn't sure when it happened, what exact day or hour, but once he'd realized it, he had never once doubted it. He'd never doubted the intensity of it, the sincerity, the depths or the lengths which Bruce would go for him.

What he had doubted was his ability to give Bruce the hope that that love would not hurt him, that the world wouldn't twist and rip what was there and shape it into a blade to cut him down. He'd doubted his strength to be there to make sure that even if they tried, the blade would never actually hit. Most of all, he'd doubted often that he'd be worthy of that love, that his stewardship of Bruce's heart would lead to ruin.

To hear the words meant that Bruce's hope, Bruce's need, Bruce's belief, was stronger than his fear. As far as he was concerned, there was no higher gift.

Bruce's blood in his mouth, one hand cradling the back of his head from the recoil of every thrust, the other pressed hard between them wrapped around Bruce--

That came close. Damn close.

Because he was home. Because Bruce was home. Because on top of the tight heat of Bruce's body around him and the perfect tug of Bruce's fingers in his hair, the hard press of Bruce's fingers into his flesh...

Because for the moment, there was nothing else. No one else. And there was nothing better.