stands_for_hope | for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

Clark looked back and there was something... rougher in there. Something harsher. He might not have died, but he'd spent weeks being terrified and hungry and aching for everything he knew and loved and missed and Bruce had been the frontrunner of those desires, even at the worst of times.

Which was why his answer was:

"Every time."

If he could save Bruce, if he could shield him from harm, if he had to make a split second decision that was him or Bruce...

"I will do it. Every time."

Edited 2015-09-29 15:58 (UTC)

Bruce had made peace with the fact that Clark loved him and was going to hurt like hell when he saw Bruce die. He'd given Clark, in the future, something to look forward to and a last goodbye - then set him up as best he could with someone else to love him.

He wasn't prepared for loving him to result in Clark dying. He wasn't prepared to be the reason Martha lost her son. He wasn't prepared to be the cause of the world losing Superman. He wasn't prepared to live without Clark.

He'd give up the relationship and Batman, first. They were unimportant, comparatively.

He'd argue with Clark, but even without the extra harshness and... tempered steel nature of Clark now, he knew he could no more change Clark's mind than he could change the tide.

He reached behind himself to unfasten the chest plate of his armor, looking downward so he could reach it and then pull it off.

"Go home, Clark. Call your mother. Get some sun and sleep."

Edited 2015-09-29 16:14 (UTC)

Which was when Clark stood up and walked over to Bruce, stepping firmly into his personal space.

"Called her on the way over. And I'm not going anywhere, Bruce."

Bruce didn't back up, but instead finished what he was doing and then turned to put the chest plate down with the rest and walked exactly far enough away to sit down and take his boots off. They had to come off before he could get the lower half of the suit off.

"Fine. Stay here, then."

One boot thumped off, then the other. Then he stood back up and started on the various latches and catches to getting the last layer before the form fitting, smooth, black layer he wore underneath. "You're clearly going to do what you want. Turn the lights off if you decide to stop playing cave man."

He waited until Bruce had removed all of the armor, all of the hard layers before reaching out and grabbing his arm. It wasn't a harsh hold, no squeeze to it. But it would not be moved. Bruce could pull out the kryptonite and Clark would hold on as if the fate of the world depended on it.

Because the fate of the world did. His world.

"And every time, I will come back to you."

He found Bruce's eyes and he would not let him look away as he spoke.

"I will always come back to you."

Because yes, he would die for Bruce. He absolutely would. When it came down to it, there were a lot of people he would die for. He would die for the human race at large. He had. But for Bruce, he would live. For Bruce, he would live a thousand years with a bite on his shoulder and a ring on his finger. For Bruce, he would face certain death, every hour of every day, and he would emerge from it. Because he would never, ever leave Bruce alone.

He'd see the heat death of the universe first.

If Bruce had thought he had a chance in hell of breaking that hold, he would have started fighting like a wildcat the moment Clark touched him. He knew better; there was no fighting the grip. There was tension and a deep, profound, stillness instead. Other than the even rise and fall of his chest with his breathing, he didn't move at all.

He noted in a distant part of his brain while Clark held his eyes that he still had grease paint around his eyes, like an inch wide half-circle of eyeliner. Mostly, he listened to Clark and waited for him to finish speaking.

"I never thought you were dead," he said, voice quiet and very, very even. "Now, let. me. go."

Clark almost said no. He almost said no because even that, even that rough, unappealing hold was at least contact. It was still Bruce under his fingers, through the fabric. It still made something in him finally loosen. But... he let go. Even though it cracked something just behind his eyes.

If Clark had continued to hold onto him, Bruce would have broken. Whether he would have broken into violence or not was a question even he didn't have the answer to.

The fracture behind Clark's eyes hurt Bruce physically, got him right in the chest, but he didn't let that show.

He moved away from Clark again, and gathered up the pieces of Batman to put into their cabinet. Every move he made was slow, measured, and controlled. Right up until it wasn't.

Right up until he was closing the door to the case and instead slammed it so hard that the entire thing rattled. Just that one, tiny, lapse of emotion trying to break through.

"I'm taking a shower. Come with me or don't." He'd meant to tell Clark to get the fuck off his property. He clearly didn't want to, since an invitation to shower was what had come out instead.

The rattle of the case made something sit up inside him, the first thing that had actually lit the spark there for what seemed like forever. He was running on fumes, and that, there, had done nothing short of set them alight.

When he got the invitation, it took all the restraint in him not to pick up Bruce bodily and zoom them both to the shower. Instead, he just nodded and followed along behind him like another shadow.

Bruce didn't say a word as he walked through the cave to the showers at the back. He should have gone upstairs with Clark, gotten him back to somewhere natural light could penetrate. He knew that, but he didn't do that. He didn't do that because....

Because he couldn't.

He didn't say a word as he started the water and adjusted the temperature, or while he peeled out of the thin layer of fabric left. He was black and blue - more bruised than usual, because of what Clark's absence had done to his fighting style, but he neither remembered those bruises nor cared. He was, however, watching Clark.

Because he knew Clark's condition was shit, and he intended to find out exactly how bad.

Clark stripped off with similar efficiency, putting aside his self-made weapon first before taking off the first layer of furs. Beneath was the tatters of his usual uniform; it became clear after he pushed them off that his 'boots' were merely his cape ripped in half and re-purposed. Even at that level, it was clear that Clark had not gone through unscathed.

His hands had been wrapped, revealing a number of rough clawmarks that had healed unevenly over his palm. Similar marks were all over his shoulders, his legs, one of his feet. As he tugged off the Superman suit, more injuries showed up. There were scrape scars on his knees, old healed blisters on his feet, more claw marks and even what almost certainly was a bite mark. Impact wounds were all over, scattered here or there. Everything was healed... but until he took a sunbath, his body would bear the marks of what he'd gone through.

Clark pulled off his clothes like he hardly remembered they were there before looking over at Bruce and wincing. The black and blue... dammit. What had he been doing? Throwing himself at walls?

"Dammit, Bruce. Did you forget how to dodge?"

There was a fresh flush of anger as Clark undressed and the condition of his body was revealed, but the only reflection of that was in Bruce's eyes and the way his jaw tightened.

He didn't say a word about it, though, or in response to Clark's remark as to Bruce's own physical condition. Instead he just looked Clark pointedly up and down and internally resolved to push the issue of sun. That... seeing Clark like that hurt him far more than any amount of bruising or bleeding he'd done himself could. Really, physically, hurt.

He kept his mouth shut, though. Kept it closed until he was under water and Clark had followed him in. At least he was wealthy enough for there to be near endless hot water and more than one shower head, even in the cave. It was just more efficient.

And when he did have them both under water all he said was, "I forgot how to care enough to."

Edited 2015-09-29 18:36 (UTC)

Clark didn't wait. Clark should have asked, he should have waited. He should have done a lot of things. But he couldn't. He couldn't wait and he couldn't hear no again. His heart was already broken enough from everything. He couldn't help himself from slipping his arms around Bruce and just letting his forehead rest against Bruce's head.

"Bruce. Bruce. Bruce." He squeezed a little, knowing he was aggravating bruises, know it was hurting Bruce but not saying it, not squeezing... it felt like it'd hurt more. He managed the smallest, most tired smile. "No bruising my elbow."

Bruce's skin was always covered by a patina of bruises, all in various stages of healing. That there were more and some of them were fresher now made little difference to him. It didn't impact him in a serious way, and Clark would have had to do more than hug him to cause Bruce any serious discomfort.

Or even enough discomfort to be worth noticing.

He still didn't hug Clark back. He put a hand on Clark's shoulder and gave a mild, gentle, squeeze. Then he left it resting there. That was all.

"Your... . What?"

For the first time since he'd been back, he cracked a smile and turned his head to look Bruce in the eyes.

"Rusty with the Kryptonian already?" and he still sounded a bit rough through the joking tone. As if he wasn't used to it for the moment. He leaned in and nuzzled, just a little, like a starving man plucking the tiniest bit of food off of the plate to test his luck.

"My own. My elbow."

Silly words spoken at a silly time as the sun set on the Kent farm. A reminder of home, of happiness, of all the things that were between them, sublime and utterly ridiculous all the same.

Bruce understood what Clark was doing, and why. It... broke his heart. He could read the need in what Clark was doing as clearly as he understood what Clark was trying to give him.

He wanted to be able to help Clark. He wanted to give Clark what Clark needed. He absolutely did not want to accept what Clark was trying to offer him. He wasn't even sure he was capable of it in the moment.

His hand moved from Clark's shoulder to his overly long hair and under it to rub the back of his neck gently, while the other hand moved down and traced a scar with his thumb. Just lightly. Tilted his head so Clark could hold and nuzzle at him more easily.

"There's nothing wrong with my grasp of the language." He smiled a bit, though it wasn't something he felt. "I want to get you into the sun when we're finished here."

Edited 2015-09-29 20:24 (UTC)

Clark reached up and ran his thumb along the side of Bruce's smile. He stroked against the cheek, as if willing the muscles to relax. He couldn't say 'don't', even the single word was too much. But he could try to tell Bruce in the gentlest way possible that he didn't have to smile if he didn't feel it. He was too tired for masks right now.

"I'll go in the sun."

Then his hands were moving across Bruce's skin, just... needing to touch. Needing to remind himself. Needing to make it real. The water weighed down his hair, his beard, flowed down along the crevices and for now, the scars. He was tired and he was empty and he was covered in marks but he still loved. He still had that.

"Will you kiss me?"

Soft. Tenuous. High in his range, the bottom portions choked off from, well, everything.

Edited 2015-09-29 20:28 (UTC)

Clark was too tired for masks. Bruce was still too emotional and too brittle to let his slip.

He knew exactly how easily Clark recognized them for what they were, and knew that Clark didn't want them and that they didn't belong here. Clark's touch communicated that truth as clearly as if he'd spoken the words outright.

Bruce couldn't do anything about them. Couldn't have if both their lives depended on it.

He could, and did love Clark, though. Clark had more than loving, he had being loved.

Bruce didn't answer Clark with words, but instead left his hand on Clark's neck, other resting sprawled against a scar on his side, leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle and warm, almost sweet, for a moment or two, before turning just a bit more aggressive. Not quite rough, definitely not punishing, but... fierce.

Bruce's ferocity was met with Clark's desperation, every edge rough, with lips and teeth and tongue that had spent too long under a red sun for gentleness. With too much need burning just under his skin.

This moment was the first, the most terrifying. Because in his time alone, in his traveling, this was what he'd dreamed of. He'd dreamed of bruised skin and scars, brittle rage and encompassing love. Of home. Of safety. Of Bruce.

"Tell me you're real," came out in the ebb and flow of the kiss, but it wasn't good enough. "Tell me you're real."

Tell me I'm not dying in the desert somewhere. Tell me I haven't expired under the snow. Tell me you aren't a hallucination caused by something I shouldn't have eaten but had to, because I won't survive waking to find myself alone.

There were so many things that Bruce still didn't know - about what Clark had endured and where he had been. One thing he knew, though, could read in every place their bodies touched and the taste of Clark's mouth.

He knew before Clark found his voice the first time, certainly before language changed and Bruce heard it a second.

He knew - could feel, could taste, could hear - the raw need.

That was his road map, now, when he didn't trust himself to stay together if he were simply himself. That he loved Clark and was the force that kept him moving.

He didn't flinch under the roughness, didn't turn it into anger on his end, just met it and held onto Clark. And when Clark needed evidence that Bruce was real he didn't answer. He didn't say a single word.

He twisted his fingers up into the too-long hair at Clark's neck and kissed him back just a bit harder. Hard enough to reopen a split at his own lip and fucking bleed into the kiss, without the slightest hint of reserve.

He didn't take anything from Clark, but he didn't hesitate for one instant in giving to him.

The hand in his hair dragged a moan out of him and the blood sent a full body shake through him, because he never would have imagined. He never would have thought. Words of comfort, hands on his skin... his dreams had done everything they could to convince him. He had tasted so many sweet lies. But they'd never bled for him. Bruce--

Get over that blood in your mouth thing. You're standing between yourself and a really good sex life.

Bruce's own words from what felt like a lifetime ago, delivered by a Bruce who had lived a lifetime with him. The past and the future, the future and the past, and Bruce's blood in his mouth, salt and metal, telling him he was home. Bruce's blood, telling him he was alive.

Bruce was gathered in his arms then, gathered and lifted and pressed against the stone of the wall and kissed, kissed enough to sting and hurt, kissed enough for bloodwater to drip hot down the skin and indents to darken where Clark's fingers held. His tears were hidden in the shower spray, washed away, but he knew Bruce could see them. Could feel the tremor of them in his muscles, the wetness of his eyes.

Bruce wondered if Clark was doing it on purpose. If Clark knew that the force, the pain of being kissed like that, of being bloodied and bruised by Clark's hands - was what he needed to get out of his head. If Clark remembered, even now, that conversation about touch in a Smallville hotel, when Bruce had been anything but guarded.

Or if Clark was going to come to his senses in the aftermath, see his fingerprints turning blue on Bruce's skin and be overcome with guilt.

Bruce couldn't answer that, and in the moment it mattered very little. It worked.

He grunted when he was pushed back against the wall, twisted in Clark's hands until he found the leverage he needed to wrap his legs around Clark to brace himself there. He could taste his own blood in the water, smell it rising in the steam from the shower, but that didn't come close to being as important to him as feeling every place they connected and feeling the heat and life coming back into Clark.

In knowing and believing that Clark was alive, and back with him, raw and battered and scarred but his and here. Crying. Trembling. Holding onto him. Hurting him but tearing down the walls and masks in doing so. Bringing back the memory of seeing Clark vanishing in vivid detail but imprinting himself over that memory with the force of will and personality and bright life that was still Clark.

He pulled out of the kiss only enough to breathe, and only for that when he had to. Otherwise he stayed in that kiss, snarled at the slightest suggestion Clark might pull away and bit at him, but he did all of it with emotion now, with anger and fear and relief and joy all tangled up into an indescribable mess. He didn't shake, didn't cry but he sure as hell loved and what he poured into that kiss was every bit as vital to him as the blood dripping on their skin and bruises blossoming on his.

"Just come back."

That was all. Just come back.

Clark didn't know how long they kissed. Clark's perception of time had gone straight to hell and with everything going on in his head, the overarching fear ripped away with clawing hands and harsh yanks of hair and snarling growls. Unrestrained, unused to restraint anymore, he took and Bruce bled and they kissed and scrounged and clung to one another under the spray.

He was nowhere else but here. He never wanted to be anywhere else but here.

He'd never look at a mark on Bruce that he'd made as anything less than a gift, given to him by Bruce himself and the universe at large. He'd never miss the chance to pull Bruce out of his own head, hold him close and light him up inside.

Every time. Every time.

Bruce didn't know how long they kissed, either. He didn't particularly care. What they were doing here was more than just kissing, more even than 'sex', by more conventional definitions. By less conventional and more romantic ones, it was sex, or even making love (and no, the violence and roughness didn't change that).

Bruce eventually eased and gentled, and brought Clark down with him as best he could. Turned less desperate and more affectionate, and grateful. He started to breathe properly in the kiss, and unwrapped from Clark just enough to let his feet find the tiled floor of the shower.

He still couldn't bring himself to pull away, or even 'progress' things toward any sort of end. He could feel his pulse in every inch of his skin, in every bruised fingerprint and swollen lips, feel the sting of the water against him and he simply did not want to move out of this precious, timeless, private, space with Clark.

He didn't want to share Clark with the world, just yet.

So all he did was gentle and ease and take some of his own weight and keep kissing Clark. He'd... find the will to do more, he would, but he just couldn't yet. Not until he knew Clark was completely here, and was even more sure than that, that he'd given Clark everything he possibly could.

Clark eventually settled enough to pull back from the kiss, enough to rest his forehead to Bruce's and look past the black, wet curls to find Bruce's eyes. One hand slipped away from it's spot at Bruce's hip, already dotted with bruises the size of Clark's fingertips, to brace his jaw and cheek with hands that had managed to grow calluses over his time away. Clark's eyes glowed again, alive and aware and awake and full of light. Full of simple joy.

And in that moment, under the spray in the Batcave's shower, entwined with Bruce as closely as two beings could be, Clark made a decision.

"Bruce," he said quietly, "I want something. Can I have it?"

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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