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

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for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

[some time after the events here]

Superman and Batman were partners in more than a work sense. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent were an adorable (if mildly ridiculous) couple. Kal-El of Krypton and a man who defied any definition outside of the single letter 'B' made time on weekends, worked around world crises and teenage tempers, and occasionally fell into bed together when the stars aligned. Thankfully, they aligned relatively often.

Wayne Manor received a delivery of organic produce and baked goods once a week from a small, independent farm in the heartland. Lois Lane was a little less likely to agree with snide comments about the uselessness of Bruce Wayne, especially after seeing the utter madness that was Clark's desk after a few weeks. The texting habits of a certain blond teenager in Kansas rose sharply... and in parallel to that of a certain former street punk in Gotham.

Life was... well, it was good, even if it was also Life. Until it wasn't. Until everything changed.

They all had enemies, of course. But the problem with Superman's enemies was that they were coherent enough to decide to team up. And crazy enough to use the kind of weaponry that could make whole cars just vaporize into nothing.

Crazy enough to point that weapon at a somewhat-pinned Batman and a Wonder Woman who was digging him out from the rock. Crazy enough to point that weapon at Batman.

Bruce.

B.

Clark didn't even make the choice. His heart made it for him. The beam shot out of the Toyman's mechanical monstrosity and Clark flew, the pain of the beam itself nothing on the fact that he was leaving Bruce behind. That his vision of them as old men together would never happen. That he was leaving behind a world that needed him.

The guilt that, if it meant saving them, saving him, he didn't regret a thing.

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"So maybe next time he'll think twice about punching an adult he's been told needs some space. " He moved slowly toward Clark and god he was an asshole because when it came right down to it.

Maybe Jason was right.

Maybe he was choosing Clark.

He'd never forgive himself if he'd done that but Clark. Yeah, he could move on.

"It won't happen again. From anyone. And it wasn't your fault."

Clark, however, would never forgive himself. Not if he'd done that to any innocent, but especially not if he hurt a child. And there was never a moment when he didn't think of Jason as a child, no matter how capable he was or how angry or anything.

He wasn't going to argue, though. There was clearly no winning that argument and he didn't-- he really didn't want to fight. He wanted to eat his food and curl up in his bed and more than likely worry over the idea of ever being Superman again because right now, he couldn't even imagine being unwound that far.

"I'm just glad he's all right," Clark finally said as he picked up his plate and his fork and made his way over to the bed to sit.

Bruce picked up his glass - and that wasn't meal replacement anything, it was just, apparently, water, and carried it to the bed and sat down beside Clark. Clark, meanwhile, had food Alfred had prepared and was waiting for him - which was vegetarian, hearty, and came with pie.

He did not tell Clark that while Jason was fine Jason was now questioning bruises on Bruce that hadn't been there last night and wasn't going to. He'd dealt with it and would keep dealing with it.

"So am I."

"He's a good kid," Clark said just the once before digging in. Because he didn't know what else to say. He felt--

God, he felt like a broken toy. He was supposed to be one thing, supposed to be Clark Kent, supposed to be Superman. Instead, he felt like a scared child. A scared child who could demolish a city block if he was in the right mood. Everything he'd become Superman to avoid being.

Some tiny part of him wondered if he would heal before Bruce realized he wasn't what he used to be. If he'd get better before Bruce was disappointed in the alien monster that'd come back instead of the inspiring hero who'd disappeared. Or even just the gentle reporter who loved horses and sent money back home to his mother. He didn't feel like either of those things right now.

He felt unworthy. Unworthy of this room, of Bruce's affection and care. An impostor.

So for right now, he ate somewhat mechanically and tried not to let his fear overwhelm him. He couldn't do that. Fear made him violent. He didn't want to be violent. He didn't have to be. He was somewhere safe. He was somewhere safe where he could be Clark again, Superman again.

At least, he hoped.

Bruce drank his water and let the silence be for a beat or two, before he said anything.

"He is." Then he let that hang, for just another moment. The space of a - his- heart beat. "Angry. Defensive. Mistrustful. On edge. He isn't safe. Fundamentally wounded." Sound like anyone, Clark? "He just needs... hope, I think, more than anything." He was talking about Jason, he really was. He was just talking about more than Jason, too.

He took another drink of water, a longer one, then leaned backward to set the glass on the nightstand. "He doesn't have much of a foundation for that." You do, Clark. "I wish I knew how to help him, but I don't have much foundation for it, either." That last was just about Jason, at least.

He had no idea how to help that kid.

It took him a moment looking down at his own fork to see that his hand was shaking again.

"And you think... I... can help with that?"

He didn't mean to sound so astounded at the idea. But he couldn't help it. He barely felt like he could help himself, let alone an angry kid who kind of hated him at the moment. Normally, he'd have looked at that as a challenge, something to overcome. As it was--

"Bruce, right now, I'm amazed you can even touch me. I attacked a child."

"You pinned an angry teenager who attacked you to a wall." Whatever Clark had almost done, he hadn't actually done much. "An angry teenager who had been told to give you space, and who might not be much of a threat to you but is a fully capable fighter."

As for the rest... Bruce looked at Clark's hand shaking and then back to Clark's face. "I don't know if you can or not. I don't know if he'll let anyone help him. I certainly don't expect you to. He's mine and my responsibility." HE didn't want Clark to overextend himself, at all. Or to risk and feel failure. "But he's a good kid in spite of the shit."

And Clark was a good man in spite of the shit.

Clark put the fork down and put his hands to his eyes, rubbing hard. He didn't want to cry. He really didn't want to cry, even if it felt like he was going to anyway.

HE had no reason to cry, after all. He was fine. Or he should have been fine. He should have been just fine, but he wasn't, and that was just--

That was just something he needed to fix. He had to get better. He had to get better at getting better. Anything else was, well, unacceptable. For Jason. For Bruce. For Kara and his mother and everyone else. He had responsibilities. He had people who depended on him, a world that depended on him. He had no right to be this broken, shambling, crouching thing that attacked a sad and angry child for the crime of feeling hurt.

No right.

"He was just... upset. On your behalf, on Kara's... on his own. He'd--" he swallowed "he let me in and then I went and died on him. He had every right to be upset."

"To be upset, yes. Not to be throwing punches." His voice was calm and level, but after watching Clark struggle like that he gave up on subtlety. "And you have every right to not be okay right now. Stop comparing yourself to someone who'd literally never gone to hell and punishing yourself for not measuring up."

Bruce loved the man. He wasn't reaching out and touching out of respect for Clark - not fear, just respect. But he loved him, even if he'd been every bit as furious as Jason had been. Bruce just held his shit together better.

And... loved him a whole lot more, to tell the truth.

He didn't so much chuckle as make a sad, huffing sort of noise. An almost-laugh, deep in his chest, weary and more than a little sad.

"And if I never measure up?"

"You aren't ever going to measure up, because what you're trying to measure up to doesn't exist outside your mind and never really has. You'll learn to live with it." It was blunt, but it wasn't unkind.

Bruce was, in spite of everything said about him and how he operated and even the sheer hypocrisy of what he was saying (the standards he set for himself were beyond grueling) coming from him, a strongly, deeply, innately, compassionate man.

"And I'll keep loving you. You know that."

Edited 2015-10-05 04:23 (UTC)

He sucked in a breath that felt like fire along his throat before opening his eyes and looked over at Bruce. Then, with a smile that was only a little sad, he reached over and tugged him closer for a soft kiss.

"I don't deserve you. I never did. But now, I think... I'll just be thankful."

Bruce accepted the kiss with equanimity, and then pulled back with a soft, totally inelegant snort. "No, you don't deserve me," he agreed, in a tone that implied he was using those words very differently. "Finish your food. Eat your pie. Sleep. We'll take tonight when it comes."

He had plans for his plans. He had plans now. He was smart enough to keep his mouth shut about them.

He recognized the difference and gave Bruce a warm smile for it. They always thought the other one could do better. Maybe that was just how love worked.

"Yes, dear," he said with mock fatigue. Which was kind of amazing considering how much actual fatigue he had to choose from.

Bruce took Clark's plate away when he was finished eating, and replaced it with the plate of pie and a fresh fork, then moved up to the head of the bed and sat there, knees up and leaned back against the headboard with his eyes closed.

What was he doing? Well if the unnatural evenness of his breathing and heart were anything to judge by, meditating. Or biofeedback. Or biofeedback through meditation.

Mostly, though, he was just being there.

Clark wasn't sure which kind of pie he ate, but it was delicious and finished relatively quickly. The plate was then deposited on the dresser. Once that was done, he was crawling up the bed to lean over and nudge Bruce's side. Then he settled against the other man, content for the moment to let him be as he wished.

A simple progression of actions. Simple.

"How're you doing?" he asked quietly as he let his head rest on the pillow.

It was an effective means, Bruce thought, of being there with Clark but not being an overwhelming presence. It also happened to be useful at stopping himself from having a stroke because his blood pressure had blown the top of his head off.

The encounter between Jason and Clark was not what he wanted.

It had been a long several weeks for him, too, if a less life threatening one.

When Clark nudged him he stretched out slowly and pushed himself down in the bed.

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine Clark. Would you rather be left alone to rest?"

He looked up at Bruce and his eyes were... almost clear.

"Do you need some alone time? Some time to process?"

Because Clark needed absolutely no alone time. He'd had all the alone time he could stomach for the time being.

Bruce looked mildly horrified at the thought, because he was and he didn't have a chance to catch it. "No," he answered, after a moment. "I don't want to be alone. I don't have anything to process."

Well, not really. Sort of? Nothing he needed to be alone to process.

He had to keep reminding himself that he'd never thought Clark was dead, and to convince himself to believe that Clark was back, but that was best done with Clark there, dammit.

"...I'm not sure I can handle the idea of you with a ponytail."

Clark reached up then and put his hand around Bruce's waist before he leaned over and kissed his side, mostly because it was there to kiss. He wasn't going anywhere. He didn't want to be alone.

"Then do you want to join me on a quick trip over to my apartment to get that crystal? I can't say I'm a fan of it either."

"Your trip would be faster without me." He stretched beside Clark and rubbed his hand through Clark's hair. "I'll come along, anyway. We can make it fast and grab anything else you want from there, while we're at it."

He just made a pleased and contented noise at the hands in his hair before looking over at the closet.

"I'll have to get dressed."

And he'd grab a couple of his uniforms. Because who knew when something could pop up, especially in a world where most people thought he was dead.

"So grab some clothes and put them on," Bruce said, rolling slowly out of the bed and to his feet. "I'll grab some shoes." He could go out like that. It might even suit his image, in a backward kind of way.

Uniforms should go in the cave. That would be... nice, at least for a while.

Clark nodded and headed over, stripping off the pajamas and sliding on a pair of dark brown pants that felt almost as soft before reaching in and grabbing a deep turquoise shirt from the variety available. Bright colors. There were shoes in there, but Clark was content to go without them mostly because he didn't need them and he could pick up his own while they were there.

"The food was good," Clark noted with a little smile as he buttoned his shirt. "Compliments to the chef."

Bruce needed to go to his room or the cave for shoes. Clark not putting his own left Bruce a little hesitant about managing that, but ultimately decided on his room and moved that way - once Clark was more or less dressed.

"You're making me uncomfortable by proxy, Clark. Stop."

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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