for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

[stands_for_hope]

[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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[knightbynight]

Everything stopped when Superman vanished - including Bruce's heart.

Everyone was convinced they'd just seen Superman die - except Bruce who, when his heart resumed beating, was convinced that he was going to kill him. Clark was not dead. Clark could not be dead. Bruce had seen the future. He had seen a future far beyond his own lifetime and he knew that Clark was not dead.

Maybe it was just denial. That was certainly what the assumption of others was. There might be something to that, but he wasn't going to be budged. They planned a funeral, he locked himself into his cave and looked for answers as to where Clark had gone - no body, he held onto that, hard - and a way to reverse it. He snarled and snapped and refused to be diverted.

He ate rarely, and slept more rarely. He was a terror in Gotham, when he went out, and wasn't much better to any of the people who tried to 'talk sense' into him, and convince him to go to a funeral for someone he knew damned well wasn't dead (or refused to accept was dead?). He was angry, he was obsessed, he was pushing his body to the limits and way, way beyond them.

He was Batman at his worst, at his least human and most dangerous - but he wasn't going to give up.

[stands_for_hope]

Post-apocalyptic wastelands sucked. Clark was glad that his happened to have a few cars that'd gotten zapped there along with him since he'd been able to scrounge for supplies and even, thank goodness, jimmy rig into reliable transportation as he tried to find the Watchtower outpost that his communicator was pinging on. Because he was alive. And that meant he had to get back.

That meant that when some strange pink beasts attacked him, he fought them off with a goddamn pipe because he wasn't going to leave Bruce alone if he could damn well help it. It meant that he used every bit of knowledge he could reach in his own brain, that he strapped parts of his cape to his feet. That he fought and drove and made his way across the wasteland with the kind of ferocity that most people wouldn't assume was inside of either Clark Kent or Superman.

When he discovered what had happened, when he finally got to the ruined Watchtower and met up with Vandal Savage, when they fought through giant mutant bugs and got the time machine working and he leaped through... the world seemed unfamiliar and strange, but the one thing that he focused on, focused on immediately, was Bruce's heartbeat.

And he could have sang with how happy he was that he could hear it. Hear it at all. That in the time that he'd been away, the weeks, that Bruce's heart was still beating. Later, when he was no longer amazed and overwhelmed and so happy that his heart was bursting with the fact that he was back, that Bruce was alive, that he'd made it there, he'd scold himself for even thinking that Bruce wouldn't be there, or that the rest of the League couldn't take care of itself.

As it was, he was almost in tears as he flew through the air (flight! being able to flight again!) towards that heartbeat... and towards the utter mess that was Metropolis. Thankfully, the hairtrigger reflexes that his time in the wasteland had given him didn't fail him then and when the missile came from a well-hidden Deadshot on one of the roofs aimed at Bruce of all people, it was simplicity itself to catch it.

...in another world, where Batman and Superman had not gotten their shit together and dealt with the elephant in the room, Clark had handled Deadshot with the calm of a Superman who, while still settling back to the world he knew, was still Superman. In this world, the missile was snatched out of the air, tossed up to explode harmlessly, and Deadshot was firmly backhanded out before getting lifted to the ground and wrapped in a fallen streetlamp.

Then, breathing only a little heavily, he made his way to the Justice League. To Bruce. He might have long hair, a bushy beard, dressed like a savage and wielding a questionably forged 'sword' with a wrapped cloth handle... but he was unmistakably Superman. Clark.

Even if he was shaking a little.

[knightbynight]

Bruce knew exactly who he was the moment he appeared. He knew it on a level beyond intellect or even visual recognition (not that anything could disguise Clark's eyes from Bruce) or power set. He knew.

The surge of emotion he felt - relief, joy, vindication, worry - was profound. It wasn't visible. He stood there while everyone else reacted outwardly to their hero and friend's return from the dead, like a statue. The only motion that came from him was the wind whipping his cape around him.

He watched for a long moment, silent and darkly intent, then he spun on his heel and he left. Two steps at a walk, another two that found the rhythm and then he broke into a fast, light, run that ate ground, until he was far enough away to swing up into the rooftops with the predatory grace and athleticism that defined Batman.

No. He wasn't hanging around for a public reunion.

What followed that initial rush of emotion at seeing Clark alive and in one piece, if clearly worse for wear was anger.

He'd never been anywhere near as close to angry at Clark. He was furious. Enraged. He was going home. Earth could greet its Prodigal Son without the Dark Knight.

[stands_for_hope]

Watching Bruce walk away, run away...

He'd thought his chest had caved in from the pain while he was out in the wasteland. Somehow, it was that much worse when he was there with his friends and collegues, when he was being patted and hugged.

How much did he want to go after him? How much? There wasn't words for it, not any he knew. But if he wanted to be able to go after him, if he wanted to have even a chance at healing things between them, he had to take care of business first. And that meant, no matter how much he hated it, that he had to collect the members of the Justice League who were still here, who would talk to him, and take out Vandal Savage's plan.

Thankfully, having all the information about it meant that the whole thing went off almost flawlessly. More thankfully, it meant that Clark could leave the rest of the League to deal with the loose ends so he could head to Wayne Manor.

He didn't stop to shave or rest. Instead, he presented himself at the entrance to the Batcave and waited. Bruce would know he was there. Bruce could see him. Bruce could possibly even hear him over the communicator. He certainly hadn't taken it off or turned it off.

Bruce would let him in when he wanted to. And until then, he'd wait.

[knightbynight]

He had not missed that he had left the Justice League and Clark to save the world without him. He monitored from the cave. He left his communicator open. He stayed suited up. If something desperate happened he would know about it and go, but he was a dead silent presence. He only shut the open line down when it was over.

He knew Clark would come. He knew that the same way he had known Clark wasn't dead.

The cowl was sitting on a workbench by then, but that was all that he'd removed. From throat to fingertips and toes, he was still encased entirely in black. He was still armored. He was still wearing the cape.

He didn't ignore Clark. He didn't pretend not to see him. He walked to the entrance of the cave and stopped there, staring Clark directly in the eyes. He didn't say a word for several long seconds, just looked at Clark. Then he took a deliberate step back and to the side and inclined his head toward the cave. He didn't unclench his teeth to speak.

As far as invitations went, it was a shitty one.

But it was an invitation.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark would have taken worse. Instead, he stepped inside and kept his hands at his sides, his fingers clenched tight against his legs to keep him from reaching out, from wrapping his arms around Bruce and never letting go. He wanted to. He wanted it so bad he was shaking.

Instead, he just started walking into the cave.

[knightbynight]

Bruce kept walking until they were far enough into the cave to grab a rolling chair from one of his workstations, and pushed it toward Clark.

Have a seat, Clark.

He stayed facing Clark, kept watching him while he slowly unfastened his gauntlets and set them aside, one at a time.

He wanted to touch Clark. He wanted to reassure Clark. He wanted to reassure himself. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to punch Clark square in the face and break his own hand in the process.

He opened his mouth to speak, or began to and realized that. Nope, not yet. Not if he wasn't going to start screaming. At Clark and just in general. So he went to work on taking his gloves off.

Give him just another second, Clark.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark caught the chair easily enough, though only Bruce would see the extra bit of a twitch at the movement. He hadn't returned unaffected from his time in the wasteland.

All the same, he said nothing as he walked around the chair and took a seat. He didn't do his usual comfortable sprawl. Neither did he sit pulled in tight. He just sat, clearly somewhat tired, the yellow sun still in the midst of refreshing his stores after... well, quite some under a red sun.

He saw Bruce about to speak, saw the pure rage in his eyes, and saw his mouth close. And he didn't say anything.

[knightbynight]

Bruce knew that Clark wasn't unaffected. He knew that Clark needed time in the sun, to shower and shave and maybe even sleep. He knew Clark needed to be reassured. Hell, he knew that he could use food, a shower, and some sleep, though nowhere nearly as badly as Clark.

He knew that he was making this worse for Clark and that wasn't really what he wanted. He knew his reaction was irrational. He was emotional, and dammit in the aftermath of all that fear of course he was angry. It was what he did. That didn't mean it was reasonable.

So he took his time in getting his gloves off, folding them together and setting them beside the gauntlets and cowl, kept his eyes off Clark and focused on keeping his breathing very, very even. It was controlled. It was so, so controlled.

"If you ever put yourself in the line of real danger to save me again, you had better hope you actually die." It was quiet, it was calm, it made his point.

[stands_for_hope]

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."

[knightbynight]

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."

[stands_for_hope]

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."

[knightbynight]

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."

[stands_for_hope]

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.

[knightbynight]

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."

[stands_for_hope]

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.

[knightbynight]

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.

[stands_for_hope]

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.

[knightbynight]

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.

[stands_for_hope]

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?"

[knightbynight]

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."

[stands_for_hope]

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."

[knightbynight]

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?"

[stands_for_hope]

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.

[knightbynight]

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."