Azrael_S_M

The air around his Fortress was cold as Clark breathed it in, floating a few hundred feet above the snow. It was frigid in his lungs, barely an afterthought really as he gazed out across the white-blanketed land. It seemed to go on and on forever as his gaze remained true, looking out past the distant glaciers, past the cliffs that hung over the edges of the world.

It was quiet, peaceful. Clark had always preferred the quiet lands to the bustling cities. He loved his job at the Daily Planet, loved seeing the people he worked with, loved seeing the citizens who lived in the buildings. Their heights seemed to stretch further than he could see, as though if he were to take off, it would take him hours to reach the tops.

The quiet was enjoyable, away from the heartbeats, away from the barking dogs, the meowing cats, the laughing children, the arguing adults.

It was nice.

But being out here, in the middle of nowhere, where even his hearing couldn't reach the closest cities, Clark couldn't shake the feeling of something being wrong. It sat in his bones, heavy and weighted, and even his infinite strength seemed to stumble beneath it. His legs shook, and his head pounded, that pounding ache reminding him of the only person in the world Clark wanted to hear.

And even he was quiet.

Too quiet.

His lips thinned as he pressed them together, clenching his fist by his side as his gaze moved, crossing over the lands before him, turning his head as he went. His other hand remained pressed to his thigh, fingers splayed over the smooth fabric of his suit.

Clark took a breath, slow, controlled. The already cold air seemed to burn in his lungs, heavy as this weight in his bones. He clenched his fist tighter, pressing his nails into his palm. He took another breath, and threw his hearing out.

His eyes closed, and he couldn't stop the full-body flinch that took him, his shoulders jumping with it.

Bruce's face flashed in his mind, the words he'd shouted at his husband less than a handful of hours ago still burning on his tongue. Bruce had given nothing away as the words he'd flung at him had landed; he'd seen where every blow had hit, as obvious as the various bruises across his pale skin had been.

The lack of guilt still sat wrong within him, churning in his gut as he felt himself lower back to earth, the air in his lungs escaping, releasing between his parted lips.

Bruce's eyebrows had furrowed, twitching minutely, but it had been enough. To anyone else, Bruce might have looked annoyed, maybe bored, those bright blue eyes meeting his head on. Challenging, frightening.

Clark had stood above the man, his four inches of height on Bruce leaving his head tilted forward, talking down to him as if he were a bug before him, maybe even dog shit beneath his boot.

He'd watched as Bruce had trembled, a fracture in his wrist from the night before, recieved with Bruce had been patrolling around one of the alleys of Crime Alley. The salt jar in his hand had shifted, and Clark had seen it before it had fallen. He'd had the opportunity to grab it, and maybe he should have; maybe he would have. But something had stirred deep in his being, held beneath the weight of his boots on the hardwood flooring.

The crash of the ceramic had been loud between them, splintering as the corner hit the floor. Pieces had scattered, breaking between them. He'd heard them slide along the floor, tiny fragments skipping over the cracks between the floorboards. A larger shard, no bigger than his pinky finger, had come to a stop against the toe of his boot. He'd looked down at it, his gaze dropping to it almost languidly.

It had been a salt jar, possibly even a salt shaker. The details seemed menial now, useless to focus on when there was the bigger picture before him, a picture he seemed to be consistently missing.

He'd spoken, his mouth opening and closing around words that had no business leaving his mouth, less so being spoken towards Bruce, towards his Bruce.

Clark had watched, gaze trained on the other man. He'd stepped closer, boots heavy. The fragment had broken beneath his weight, shattering.

He'd raised his fist, slow, controlled, hand flat and open, fingers curved out towards Bruce. Maybe he'd expected the other man to take his hand; maybe he'd waited for something else. But he'd seen the way Bruce had flinched, and the anger had sparked something within him. It had lit like a fire, wild and untamed, growing and growing the longer he stared into those bright blue eyes.

"Your father must be so proud of the waste his only child turned out to be." He'd taken another step closer, crowding Bruce's space, forcing the shorter man back against the kitchen bench. "This is why your children hate you, Bruce. You remember their words to you?" He'd heard the way clothes had pressed against the marble, skin getting squeezed between rock and bone. "Tell me, Bruce. Do you wish to join your parents?"

He isn't sure what possessed him to say such words to Bruce, and Clark is even less sure as to why he seemed to be lacking in any form of regret. It should be eating him alive, guilt ripping him apart from the inside, eating at his soul and tearing at his mind. But he felt... nothing. As though the words, the horrid things he'd said, the terrible, unwarranted things he'd said had no weight to them at all.

He'd seen the look on Bruce's face, the sadness, but what had hurt the most was the resignation, as though what he'd said hadn't affected him. It should be relieving that Bruce was unaffected, that the two of them could move on and pretend nothing had happened.

But there was something else, something more behind that empty look in Bruce's eyes; there had to be. It was a quiet peace, understanding- no, that wasn't the word.

Acceptance, as though a decision had been made somewhere in the background.

A shiver made its way down Clark's spine as his booted feet touched down on the fluffy snow. He heard the crunch of ice beneath his weight, turning on his heel as he stepped towards the slowly opening doors of the Fortress.

He could make himself a coffee in his kitchenette, maybe have another try at yesterday's crossword puzzle, still sitting on the small bench top. He could head back to his apartment later in the day and get back to work on the paper that Perry wanted on his table by tomorrow at the latest. Dinner could be takeout, something simple, Chinese maybe, or perhaps Thai; he hadn't had that for a while, and-

A thump in his ears, his hearing coming back to him. Clark froze where he stood, colour draining from his face as another filled his hearing, slower, fainter. Another followed a few moments later, quieter, as if the sound was almost too difficult to be produced.

He lifted his head, whatever had been on his mind dissipating into a cloud of smoke.

"Mo...ther...?"

Clark had always fought with that stubbornness, a streak of pride that he had never quite been able to beat against Bruce. Be it over patrols through the dark Gotham streets when his husband had been too injured to stand up long enough to walk himself to the bathroom, or their quiet fights over who had to do the chores of washing up after dinner. But whichever it may be, at that moment, Clark knew he had never been more grateful for that stubborn streak. 

It left him pulling at his hair more nights than it didn't, and if the looks weren't the one thing the kids had somehow managed to replicate from their non-biological father, then it was that same stubbornness that was inherited by every Bat or Robin. 

Clark's hand wrapped tighter around Bruce's, limp fingers held gently within his own. Warmth had finally started to seep back into the smaller man, little bit by little bit, the donated blood doing wonders for his husband. 

Fifty-eight stitches. That's how many it had taken to sew him back up. Fifty-fucking-eight. Twelve in his right wrist where the cuts were the shakiest, a show of which hand Bruce preferred. Thirty-three in his right wrist, where the cuts had been deepest. And the rest of the stitches in Bruce's thigh. Rao, he hadn't even noticed there had been any cuts in his thighs. 

He hadn't seen, beneath the loose sweats, and the blood on the floor- so much blood- too much blood- he- Bruce- 

Clark took a breath, letting his eyes slip shut, his fingers tightening again around Bruce's. He needed to feel the weight of his husband's hand within his own, needed to feel his life, his pulse. Hearing it wasn't enough anymore, not after tonight. 

Two minutes, that's what the doctors had said when they had finally finished stitching up the numerous cuts - 28, Clark had made sure to count each and every one - before Bruce might have fully bled out. If he had been just two minutes late, if he hadn't decided to check, to listen, to know, he would have been in a very different spot. 

And yet, he still hadn't informed the kids. Or Alfred. Or anyone. His phone lay in the little pocket Bruce had sewn in on the side of his pantleg, a secret little pouch that didn't show, and Clark was almost sure it was dead. 

He hadn't bothered to check. He hadn't had time, between admittance, between finding a believable enough excuse as to why Superman was carrying a near-dead Bruce Wayne through the front doors to the emergency room, screaming for doctors, nurses, anyone; Clark hadn't found the time. 

But here, in the quiet moments where the only sound filling the spacious room was Bruce's breathing and the heart monitor, Clark had a moment. 

He sighed, squeezing Bruce's hand lightly once more, before slipping his hand out of his husband's limp hold. The warmth Bruce had seemed to leave the moment he pulled away, the old plastic of the uncomfortable chair creaking under his weight, mourning the loss of warmth louder than he was allowing himself to. 

He didn't deserve to mourn, not after-

He took another breath. 

The smell of antiseptic was strong in his nose, almost taking what little breaths he'd managed to gain for himself. With a glance back at Bruce, he slipped his hands into his hoodie pockets, feeling around for his phone before he remembered. 

He'd dropped Bruce off in the awaiting arms of a doctor who had looked strong, who didn't question the presence of Superman, or the picture before him. She had simply looked at him, bloodied suit and haggard breathing, his thumb pointing out the front door with a lie of an emergency on the tip of his tongue, before she had nodded. He'd turned on his heel and flown out, racing against himself to fly back to the Manor, using his speed to quickly clean the mess of rapidly cooling blood off the floor, and race into a change of clothes, moving his phone into his-

Clark fished it out of his back pocket, a tiny sound of triumph on his lips when the screen powered on when he tapped it. He turned a second time, looking back at Bruce and held his phone up between pinched fingertips. "Found it, B." 

He swallowed before he found himself waiting for an answer that likely wouldn't come, and quietly stepped out of the room.

His hands were shaking as he pulled up his list of contacts, sliding through them as he raced to read the names, hastily clicking when Dick's popped up. Clark took another breath, noting the stench of antiseptic was lighter out here in the hallway than it had been back in Bruce's room. 

He pressed the phone to his ear, hearing the dial tone ring once, twice, three, then four, before pulling it away from his ear with a frown and checking the time: 3:43 am. Dick should still be awake, and he pressed it back to his ear, hearing it ring out for a fifth time before finally, the tone picked up. 

Clark heard the click, the brief stattic on the other end, the muffled swear, and suddenly, his knees were going weak. He reached out with his other hand, grasping at the support rail that lined the walls of the hallways as his heart began pounding in his chest. What was he to say?

"Clark? It's almost four in the morning; what do you want?"

He opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue. 'Dick, your father nearly died tonight', didn't sound right; neither did 'Dick, I almost killed Bruce', and 'Dick, I was hit by a spell and I said some horrible things to Bruce, and he attempted'. 

"Richard-" It was the only word he managed to get out before his knees gave out beneath him, and he went crashing to the floor a second time that day, but instead, the cool linoleum was all that was there to greet his sorry descent. 

In a flash, Clark heard Dick sit upright, the blankets getting thrown off himself as the young man threw himself out of the bed and landed on the floor with a mighty crash. He didn't have it in him to wince, not as the sob was pulled from him, so quickly and violently his breath hitched around it, a wheeze on his tone as he tried to breathe around the quick expulsion of air. 

"What happened?" Yeah, Richard was Bruce's kid, alright. Clark smiled despite himself, his hand still holding too tightly onto the support bar, now above his head. 

"Bruce- he-" Clark choked around another sob, trying and failing to get his breathing under control as he fought to get the words out. He was Superman; he wasn't supposed to fall apart this quickly. 

And yet, despite his title, Clark was finding himself falling like a game of Jenga for a second time that night. 

He took another breath, slower, breathing through his mouth now instead, ignoring the feeling of snot building in his nose as the tears refused to stop sliding down his cheeks. "Clark, what happened to Bruce? What happened to my dad?" And Clark was finding himself falling apart all over again at the name. 

Before he trusted his voice, Clark swallowed, cringing as both saliva and mucus made their way down his throat. "Richard, he, he attemtped tonight." 

The swearing down the phone line was loud and apparent, and were he Bruce, he might have reprimanded the nearly twenty-three-year-old, but he found a smile lifting his lips at the sound. 

"What? Why?! Did he say anything? Were there letters- of god, don't tell me he wrote new letters- Clark, Clark what the fuck happened?!" Clark swallowed; this was the part he was dreading. "Clark, what happened to my dad?"

Clark sobbed again, shifting where he knelt to lean against the wall, drawing his legs tightly to himself, still unable to make himself let go of the bar. "It- there was, there was a spell? And, and it- oh Rao. It, I- I said horrible things to him, Richard, I said such cruel- and- and- vile things to him and- oh god. It's my fault, it's- it's all my-" 

Whatever he had been going to say didn't leave him; and instead, a barrage of sobs took over, leaving him wheezing and coughing on the floor where he sat. 

For a long moment, the phone line remained quiet on the other end, and after Clark finally calmed himself down enough, he noticed the emptiness on the other end. He pulled the phone away from his ear another time that night and checked, reading that the call was still connected. 

A nervous flutter made its way through him at the silence, and it left him anxious for whatever the oldest child of Bruce was going to say. 

"You caused this?" The abrupt disbelief cut through him like a knife, and Clark realised how drastically unprepared he truly was for it. Anger he could handle. Anger he knew how to deal with, but this? This was quiet, reserved feelings- disbelief? Disappointment? Shock? And Clark was sorely unprepared for any of it. 

"I- Dick- please-"

"No, Clark. You don't get to beg for anything." A pause, and somehow the silence was worse than anything else. "When I get to the hospital, I had better not see you there."

There was a click on the other end before the receiver went flat. For a moment, Clark sat there, on the cold linoleum floor tiles, the only comfort the steadily creaking and warping handrail still clenched in his fist. He swallowed, taking a breath, another, then another. He- he couldn't-. He wheezed, a shallow, hollow sound, his heart beating erratically in his chest, pounding in his skull. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears; he could hear a patient coughing down the corridor, he could hear another patient snoring, he could- he could- he couldn't breathe-

Clark keeled over with another cry, deep and warbly, his voice fracturing around the animalistic sound. If anyone were to see him like this, they would likely think someone had died, maybe a family member, maybe a parent, maybe a child. They would be half right, because Bruce had died. Bruce's heart had stopped. Bruce- he- he- 

There was a hand on the back of his neck, fingers long and cool, and Clark jumped so hard he felt the tendons in his neck strain as his head shot up. The hand didn't leave, even as another sound was pulled from him, deeper, less restrained. And then- 

"Clark? Oh, my boy." 

Alfred knelt beside him quicker than he'd seen the older man move, quicker than what should be possible for a man of that age. He froze as long arms came around him, wrapping around the back of his neck, and then there was another hand on the back of his head, pulling him down, pulling him into a hug. He hadn't noticed Alfred come in, hadn't even noticed the older man standing beside him- how long had he been there? 

"Easy, my boy. Breathe." He felt himself nod his head, eyes squeezed shut as he took a few deep, shaky breaths. How long had he been on the floor? 

A few more moments passed, or maybe it had been minutes, when Clark finally lifted his head. He had tears still on his cheeks when the hand running through the hair on the back of his head moved, sliding across to wipe at the tears on his right cheek. He sniffled, feeling all of six years old after falling off his bike a third time. Is this how kids felt with a scraped knee? Pain they couldn't name, but all they knew was that it stung? 

Alfred's hand on his cheek was cool but soft, old callouses long healed, leaving small patches of roughness spotted across his palm. Clark sniffled again, bringing his own hand up, fisting the cuff of his jumper and sliding it across his face. 

He looked up, a question he finally remembered he had to ask on the tip of his tongue. "H-"

"Zatanna let me know what was happening, Master Clark." Clark found himself nodding. "This isn't your faut, my boy." He swallowed, gaze lowering back to the floor. His lashes were sticky, wet with tears that were still falling from his eyes. His eyes felt puffy and warm. Were they red, he wondered? Swollen like a human's when they cried for long periods of time? His throat felt raw; the screaming had done that; had the spell he'd been hit by stripped away some of his power? 

"This-" 

He heard footsteps, racing ones, one person, no two- four- no- eight sets of feet, and something else, wheels? Clark lifted his head again, looking up. The kids; all of them; Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass, Steph, even Duke, and there by Dick's side was Barbara keeping pace with the others. Each was wearing a matching face of fear, concern, and some even dread. But Dick's, Richard's, he looked-

"You! I told you-!" Clark saw the fist first; then he saw the expression, he saw the anger, the fury, the hatred, and it hurt, but he knew he was deserving of that look. He leaned out of the way when the fist came close, pushing Alfred back so the older man didn't get hit by the ricochet. "-Not to come here!" 

Richard's fist missed his cheek, and Clark felt the air of the blow brush against his skin. He didn't look up, even when Alfred stood, placating to the side, either unable to intervene or partially sharing Richard's feelings. Again, Clark doesn't know which is worse. 

He doesn't stand, doesn't even shift in his spot on the floor, crowded against the wall. He can feel the ridges of his spine pressing into the drywall, and it should hurt, to have skin pinched between wall and bone. It should hurt, like it would have hurt Bruce. It should hurt, the words he spewed at his beloved husband, like how it hurt now, to be ridiculed and reduced down to less than a man; instead, the one who hurt Bruce. 

Because that's what he was: the one who hurt Bruce; the one who hurt a father of seven; the one who hurt a son; the one who hurt one who was so loved. 

Clark sniffled, another sob building in his chest even as he pushed it down, forcing it back as deep as he could manage. 

He heard a sigh somewhere above him, quiet, resigned. Footsteps, lighter, carefully placed, as though the floor might collapse beneath a shift. Maybe it should, swallow him whole and drag him down to hell, force him into an eternal punishment. 

Black boots came into view, small, dainty. Clark eyed them for a beat before he looked up, squinting in the lights of the hallway. The person shifted again before kneeling, and Clark watched as Cass sat before him, folding her legs beneath her. She was short like this, shorter than he was, shorter than most, but she came to sit at a similar height as Damian. He nearly smiled, nearly. 

Cass' hand reached out, slow, her long fingers coming to rest on the cusp of his shoulder, her palm not meeting the fabric of his hoodie. Was she afraid to touch him? Was she- were they all that disgusted with him that even a simple touch was too much? 

"Clark, this isn't your fault." His head shot up, and he regretted how quickly he'd moved when Cass jumped back, startled. Was she worried he'd hit her? No, she leaned back in, shuffling slowly further into his space. He met her gaze- she'd been crying, and why did that seem to be such a surprise? Cass lifted her other arm from her side, her hand outstretched before it balled into a fist. He didn't let her gaze go, instead lifting his own arm, an invite, quiet and voiceless. It was her choice. 

Cass crept into his hold slowly, her movements precise, decided. Her arms, shorter than his, lanky, thin, her build lean but muscular, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He made sure not to lean into her, afraid of scaring her off. He held his breath as he heard Tim do the same, Damian shuffling. His eyes slipped closed as she leaned into him, her hold tightening around his neck, his own arms coming to rest around her back. He felt her tuck her nose into his neck, pressing into him. 

She had hugged him before, years ago, after a similar situation that nearly left Bruce dead. She had been stiff then, skittish. He hadn't expected her to reciprocate his hold back then, when he'd pulled her close, keeping his touch light, never holding her too tightly, giving her the option to run if she so chose to. 

But here, now, she moved closer, her knees bumping into his thigh. He shifted, never releasing his hold of her as he stretched his legs in front of him, feeling the cramp of sore muscles with the shift, his foot long gone numb. 

She moved with him, her arms squeezing him, shuffling closer again until she was nearly perched in his lap. He stilled, however, when he heard a tiny sniffle. Being this close to her, he could feel her heartbeat in her wrists, hearing the blood pumping through her veins, a painful staccato mimicking his own. He moved his hand, letting it rest atop the back of her neck, his fingers splaying wide over her shoulder blades. 

Clark heard the shuffling of feet, the scuffing of soles on linoleum flooring, before another body, small, less hesitant, joined him on his other side. He didn't need to lift his head to see her blonde hair, her ponytail falling over his shoulder as she tucked herself against him. He lifted his arm, pulling it away from Cass to wrap it around Stephanie's. 

She was bolder than Cass was, unafraid of touch, willing to hug, high-five, slap, ruffle hair. And he was grateful for that, feeling a little less alone in the white hallways, sitting on the floor, blocking the space should any doctors or nurses need to roll a gurney through. 

It took a second, but soon the boys began piling into the impromptu pile: Tim first, nestling himself against Cass, followed by Duke, who settled beside Tim, then Damian, against Duke. After another second, Jason joined the mix, much to Clark's surprise and relief. He'd seen the weight the young man had been carrying within himself as they'd all stepped up to him, watching him with a level of anger that the young man usually reserved only for Bruce. 

Clark lifted his arms, wrapping them as far around the group as he could manage, pulling a soft squeak from Cass as she ended up squished against his side, pinned by Tim. She shifted, wriggling around, Tim pulling back enough to give her the space she so desperately needed. But she settled again quickly, sitting against the wall beside him, her arms still wrapped around his neck, her nose still pressed into his throat. 

If he hadn't known the circumstances, he might have been worried for her well-being, knowing how little the raven-haired girl hated to be pressed against people. She freaked when restrained, struggled when pinned, and hated being held against her will. But she didn't seem to mind it here, under her own will, taking what little control of the situation as she could. 

Clark looked up, seeing Barbara still sitting in her chair, but she had moved closer. He longed to stand up and move to her, to let her hold him. She met his gaze, teary-eyed as it was. She mightn't have been one of the kids, but she had been a Robin, even all those years ago. He knew that Bruce still held regret and blame for her life, holding himself accountable for actions he hadn't had any control over. 

He lifted his hand from where it rested over Stephanie's back, holding it out to her. He watched as she wheeled herself over, moving around his legs to come to rest by his side. She took his hand after another moment, her thin fingers locking between his. She was warm, a welcome reprieve from the cool floor. 

He looked to Richard then, who, despite himself, looked dreadfully lost. It cracked his chest open to see the boy he had once helped raise look so unsure of himself. He hadn't seen the expression for nearly fifteen years, not since the boy's parents had died. 

Clark sighed, swallowing. He watched the young man shuffle where he stood, lifting one foot then the other, shifting his weight. Clark wanted to reach out, to pull the young man into his arms and hold him tight, tell him that Bruce, that his father, would be okay. 

Before tonight, Clark hadn't heard Richard refer to Bruce as 'dad' in years, not since the young bird had moved out of the Manor and relocated to Blüdhaven. He remembered helping Richard move boxes: clothes, his gear mostly, a few collectibles out of his room on the top floor of the Manor. He'd tried gently convincing the boy to stay, to give Bruce a chance to explain, but they both knew the argument had been futile. It was another weight that Bruce carried; the weight of the world on his shoulders, weighed down by guilt, regrets, 'what ifs'. He knew how badly Bruce wanted to reconcile, to ask forgiveness. 

Clark had spent many a night sitting with Bruce as the man paced, even though words hadn't been shared between them; a part of Clark knew that words weren't what the other man had needed in those moments. In those moments, Bruce had looked so lost, both in his own head and in his words, unable to string sentences together, not sure how to make it right, but knowing he had to fix something he hadn't directly broken. 

It had pained him to see Bruce like that; furrowed brows, lips bitten raw, bleeding and red, cracked, hands balled into fists by his sides, legs almost shaking from how quickly the man was turning back and forth as he paced. Clark had half expected to see the floor give out beneath them, for a neat little line to be drawn, the wood worked down to the fibres under his footsteps. 

Richard moved them, and it pulled Clark from his thoughts, his head lifting that little bit further to meet the younger man's gaze as he stepped close. He didn't allow himself to smile, not as Dick stepped even closer still, not when the young man knelt by his knees, not as he watched how Dick shuffled around, coming to rest by Barbara's side. 

Dick's hand was warm when it settled on his knee, fingers splaying over the joint. He didn't reach out to hold the hand, knowing that a boundary had been placed. 

Alfred was the next to move, the older man stepping close. Clark looked up at him, meeting his gaze, noting the red eyes and the shaking shoulders. Alfred didn't say anything, but the older man did nod, a minute tip of his head, dipping his chin to him. Clark finally smiled.

🦇

The plastic chair was hard underneath his legs, his feet going numb from how long he'd been sitting in the same position. He needed to move, to stand up and stretch his legs, to get the blood pumping to his lower limbs before they shrivelled up and fell off. 

Clark groaned where he sat, shifting in his seat, lifting his hands above his head as he stretched his arms, spine and shoulders popping as he did. The perks of getting older, it seemed; even having an invulnerable body wasn't going to save him from the process of aging. His fingers tingled; the lack of movement for such a period of time had rendered his arms numb, too. 

He sat back in the chair, hearing the various creaks and groans coming from the old plastic as it complained against his weight. A sigh fell from him as he let his head fall back, his neck straining as he looked up at the ceiling, even as he kept his eyes closed. 

The others had left not long ago, Damian, Duke and Barbara opting to take the first train back to the Manor, followed shortly by Tim, Cass and Steph, the girls having decided to tag along with their second-youngest brother. Jason had been the next to leave, taking his bike back to his apartment back in Crime Alley, despite Clark's protests, asking the second-eldest to stay at the Manor for at least a few days. 

Clark isn't sure why he had been so surprised by Jason's quick shoot-down of the idea, the young man not turning back to look at him as he'd spoken over his shoulder. "You're not going to guilt me into staying at that place just to keep Bruce company." But then the young man had looked over his shoulder, throwing a smirk at him before following up with a quiet "I'll be a call away. You have my number." It hadn't been a lot, but coming from Jason, it would have been everything to Bruce. 

Alfred had left not long after Jason had, standing up from his own hard plastic chair with a groan. The older man had given one last look to Bruce, gloved hand still wrapping around Bruce's still-lax fingers. Clark had watched the older man squeeze his son's hand, thumb sliding small lines over the back of his hand. For a moment, neither had looked as old as they were, and for a moment, the scene had reminded Clark of a father soothing his restless son to sleep after a night terror. 

The illusion hadn't lasted, for neither as long as he would have liked, and neither had it remained. Alfred had seemingly remembered his place within the Wayne Family hierarchy, and Clark had had to watch as something broke in Alfred's face, something small, something familial. Clark had looked away before Alfred could notice he'd seen the shift, and once the older man had stood back up to his full height, he'd given Alfred a smile, one that hadn't quite reached his eyes; it hadn't been reciprocated.

Despite their words, all their words, Clark still couldn't quite shake the feeling that the others held him to blame. And he couldn't blame them. If he had been in their position, in Dick's or maybe even Alfred's, he didn't think he'd be so quick to forgive himself, either. 

Clark sat back up straight, wincing as his neck creaked as he shifted, before his gaze settled to the other side of the bed, to the man sitting opposite him. 

Dick had taken Alfred's spot not long after the older man had left the room, coming out from the shadowed corner he had been standing in for most of the night, to sit instead in front of the large window that took up a majority of the back wall. It overlooked the harbour, giving them all a brilliant view of the bridges that adorned the Gotham horizon line. Even the moon had come out from behind her clouded veil, the few stars in the sky twinkling in the far horizon line. 

Clark sighed again, catching the attention of Dick, who looked up at him, lifting his head from where he'd been resting his forehead on his fist. 

The younger man looked terrible, all pale-faced and red-eyed, cheeks gaunt, as though he'd aged a life in the span of a night. But hadn't he? Hadn't they all? 

Clark opened his mouth, intending to speak, the words, while failing to come to him, he felt he needed to say, at least get them out of his mind before they fell out without any thought. "Bruce, your father, he-"

"Don't." Clark's mouth closed with a faint click as his teeth slammed together. Dick looked at him, stared, really, eyes boring into him, before his eyes closed, a sigh falling from him as his head dropped. "Don't, just, don't. I don't- I can't hear whatever you have to say to me, not about him." 

They both looked up at that, gazes meeting briefly before settling on Bruce. Clark felt another sigh building in his chest. 

Bruce was pale, which, on a normal day, wasn't much of a comparison. The other man was usually pale, skin so pale one would almost think he was of Scandinavian descent, or perhaps even Russian. But this wasn't a normal day, and Bruce wasn't pale so much as he was grey. His skin almost seemed clear, with veins too obvious on his neck, and bags too deep and purple beneath his eyes. He looked sickly, deathly sickly, and it was leaving a sour taste in Clark's mouth.

His gaze lifted briefly, looking up at the boy who was less a boy than he was a man. Dick looked more sure of himself now, with his hands wrapped around Bruce's, holding his father with a grip Clark recognised all too well. 

Fear. They'd all felt it tonight, tasted it on the tips of their tongues, something so unknown, yet so universally understood between the ten of them so completely and violently that it had ripped the guts out of all of them. It had come too close tonight, far, far too close. What would have Dick said if he'd had to read the letter Bruce had left for him? Jason? Tim? Cass? Any of them? All of them? 

Would it have been anger? Sadness? Despair and desperation? 

Clark had a vague understanding of what would have been in each of those letters to each of Bruce's kids. He knew what words of pride and admiration Bruce would have written in his too-neat cursive, what love the man had for each of his children. Even Steph had a letter addressed to her, and while the envelope had been thinner than the rest, Clark hadn't been able to hold back his teary-eyed smile when he'd spotted her name written neatly in the middle of the white paper. 

It was strange to smile at such a thing. Death, be it friend, family, stranger, or enemy, wasn't something to revel in; it wasn't something to enjoy or celebrate. And yet, Clark hadn't been able to feel an odd sense of relief at seeing her name on one. 

Clark wondered sometimes if she felt like the odd one out of their stuck-together family. Having two alive, happy, and healthy parents must have been something that left her feeling excluded in a way, as though she had nothing to bond over with the rest of the kids. Sure, Damian has Talia, and he has Bruce, but even from where Clark stood, he couldn't say with full confidence that the dynamic there was happy, healthy, or sane. 

He knew that, between all of the kids and Bruce, the closest pair was Richard and Bruce. Having both lost their parents to violent crimes at such young ages, and Bruce taking the young boy in when he had only been in his early twenties, Clark wondered sometimes if they helped raise each other in a way. 

So the anger of Dick, the seething, loathing anger of the younger man sitting less than a meter away from him, Clark knew wasn't misplaced. He had nearly taken away Dick's father, the only rock Dick had while growing up, the closest thing the younger man had to a parental figure. And Clark, and he, he had nearly- he- he had-

"It's not your fault."

Clark jumped so hard at the words that he made himself dizzy as his head snapped up. He swallowed, meeting the glowering gaze of Dick. Piercing blue eyes met his, eyes he knew and recognised, ones that also belonged to another face. "I'm sorry?" 

Dick didn't look away, and Clark saw his jaw clench. He could hear his teeth grind together, the saliva bubbling under his tongue, and the resulting swallow. It made him uneasy, as if he were intruding, and if he weren't gripping Bruce's hand, Clark might have turned tail and run out of the room. 

"I said it's not your fault." Clark nodded dumbly, his brows twitching as he fought to keep his expression in check, lest he break down into another round of sobbing. "I can't keep holding you responsible. I knew he wasn't doing well; we all knew it. I mean, it's not as though you told him he should do this." 

Clark felt himself pale. 

Dick, for his scrutiny, didn't seem to notice, or if he did, decided not to say anything. But Clark didn't release the breath he was holding, not for another few seconds. He could hear a clock ticking, maybe somewhere out in the waiting room, maybe it was down in the Emergency Department; he thinks he passed one as he handed Bruce over to that doctor, but he isn't sure. 

He isn't sure about anything anymore. 

"That's-" Clark cleared his throat, swallowing after. "That's a change from a couple of hours ago." He looked away then, unable to keep holding the glare Dick was still giving him. "You looked moments away from linching me back in the hallway." He smiled, chuckling lightly, lifting his hand not currently tangled with Bruce to point his thumb over his shoulder. 

He heard Dick take a breath, his own small laugh leaving him. "Yeah, well, you probably deserved it." 

He swallowed again. "Yeah", he said instead of what he had been hoping to say, planning on telling the truth about what he had truly said to Bruce. "Probably." There was a pause in the air, stable, calm, calmer than any of them had been in the last twelve hours. "You should head home, Dick. It's nearing six in the morning." He looked up then, meeting the younger man's gaze, finding a small reprieve when he wasn't met with a glower. 

Dick nodded slowly, gaze jumping over the features of Clark's face, before he turned and looked back down at Bruce still sleeping in the bed. Clark followed not long after, giving Bruce's hand a gentle squeeze, noting out of the corner of his eye how Dick did too. 

"Will you stay with him?" Clark looked up then, hearing how suddenly small Dick sounded as he spoke, reminding him of the scared little six-year-old Bruce had introduced to him. The little six-year-old that was still clinging to Bruce's pant leg, hiding behind him, trying to make himself one with Bruce's shadow. Oh, how Clark missed that version of Dick, but he couldn't dismiss the brilliant young man Dick had turned out to be. The pride he felt for the young man, for all of the kids, likely even rivalled Bruce's. 

"Yes. I'm not going anywhere." He met Dick's gaze briefly, and he watched as a small, relieved smile crossed his features. It was hard to ignore sometimes how deeply Dick cared for Bruce. That, despite their differences, all their fights, their arguments, and sometimes their screaming matches that Clark could hear from across the world, Dick truly cared for his father. 

Dick stood then, groaning as his joints popped, likely feeling the same numbness in his feet that Clark was feeling. The chairs were uncomfortable, no matter how one sat in them. He watched as Dick leant over Bruce, used his free hand to wipe the hair that had fallen into Bruce's face away, carding gently through the black strands, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. Clark looked away then, trying to give the two the space, and he deliberately let his hearing tune out when Dick whispered something to Bruce. 

Clark looked back, however, when Dick stood back upright, and finally pulled his hand out from Bruce's limp hold. They shared a final brief smile before Dick turned and began weaving his way through the strange amalgam of hospital chairs that stood haphazardly around the hospital bed in the middle of the room. 

He didn't wave to the younger man as he passed; he didn't turn to watch either, instead listening to the squeak and pull on the door, the old hinges whinging as they were put into use. A soft click followed, marking the closure of the door, and finally, Clark let himself breathe. 

He looked to Bruce, feeling his shoulders slump as he deflated, no longer needing to pretend. His back thanked him as much as it cursed him, his own old hinges complaining as they too were put into use. 

His thumb began sliding a mindless pattern over the ridges and scars of Bruce's hand, counting then recounting each knuckle. He could feel the tendons and bones beneath his thumb, the skin as it creased with his movements, the wrinkles that were forming, the ones he tried to ignore. He squeezed Bruce's hand gently, fingertips brushing against the fabric of the bandages still wrapped around his wrists. 

The number of cuts… this wasn't a haphazard job, not what he'd liked to believe, not like he'd forced himself to believe. It was easier to pretend than it was to accept. 

"Oh, B. Why- why'd you have to go and listen to me?" His voice broke, his lips lifting upwards in a shaky smile as his eyes began burning. "You never listen to me on the field. You never listen to me when I tell you that you need to rest." He shook his head, the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks. "Why'd you have to choose now? Why couldn't you have just- why couldn't you have- you just-" 

"You did always say… that you loved me for… for my stubborness." 

His eyes widened, and his gaze focused. He blinked once, then twice, even taking a moment to lift his free hand to wipe at his eyes. "B?" 

Bruce smiled at him, weakly, a minute lift of his lips, but the sight alone drew a sob from Clark. He pressed the back of his fist to his mouth, hiding his grimace as he keened. He bent forwards, his shoulders shaking as more and more cries left him, leaning down to let his head fall to Bruce's hip. 

Bruce chuckled above him; it was weak, and he coughed halfway through, but the sound was angelic to Clark's ears. It drew another keening sob from him, his head shaking, and yet, despite himself, he laughed. 

"Oh, you, you stupid, stubborn man!" Bruce laughed harder at that, and when it pulled a coughing fit from him, loud enough that Clark heard the endtails of a wheeze, he sat up quickly, pulling his hand from Bruce's to grab the plastic water jug and cup standing on the bedside table. He poured a glass shakily, the water splashing as he moved. A few drops landed on the side of his hand, dripping down his wrist. 

He replaced the jug back on its tray before taking his spot back in his chair, lifting the cup to Bruce's lips so he could drink. Slipping his other hand behind Bruce's head, his fingers wrapped around the back of his neck as he watched Bruce take small sips of the likely room-temperature water, gaze dropping to the small river that slipped from the side of Bruce's mouth, where his lips met the plastic. Clark swallowed reflexively. 

He waited, tipping the cup as needed until Bruce had his fill, and he only managed to spill more when his husband turned his head. Clark pulled the cup away, pulling his other hand out from under Bruce's head as he went. He placed the now half-empty cup back beside the jug, hearing the water slosh in its confines. Then, he pulled the sleeve of his jumper down over the ball of his hand and used it to wipe the spilt water; it soaked through the material quickly. 

Sitting back in the hospital chair, it was Clark's turn to feel out of place now. Was he even deserving of sitting by Bruce? The man he'd- his husband who he nearly killed? He should leave, even if that meant going back on his word. Surely Dick would understand; maybe he'd even be forgiving. 

Bruce's hand landed on his where it sat on his lap, his fingers knotted together as his thumbs rubbed together. "Clark…" He looked up when his name was called, swallowing again. He expected something to be on Bruce's face, anything, really, anything but the love that waited for him. "My love, don't blame yourself. I can see… I can see you tearing yourself apart with… with guilt." Oh, Bruce, the man who could read him like he was a user manual. 

Clark smiled, eyes falling to rest on Bruce's hand. He pulled his hands apart and wrapped them both around his husband's, noting how small Bruce's hand was compared to his. Had he always been this small? 

Small, a funny concept when one thinks of the Batman. The Batman was neither trivial nor small, but Bruce Kent-Wayne, his love and his husband, was allowed to be small. 

The air around his Fortress was cold as Clark breathed it in, floating a few hundred feet above the snow. It was frigid in his lungs, barely an afterthought really as he gazed out across the white-blanketed land. It seemed to go on and on forever as his gaze remained true, looking out past the distant glaciers, past the cliffs that hung over the edges of the world.

It was quiet, peaceful. Clark had always preferred the quiet lands to the bustling cities. He loved his job at the Daily Planet, loved seeing the people he worked with, loved seeing the citizens who lived in the buildings. Their heights seemed to stretch further than he could see, as though if he were to take off, it would take him hours to reach the tops.

The quiet was enjoyable, away from the heartbeats, away from the barking dogs, the meowing cats, the laughing children, the arguing adults.

It was nice.

But being out here, in the middle of nowhere, where even his hearing couldn't reach the closest cities, Clark couldn't shake the feeling of something being wrong. It sat in his bones, heavy and weighted, and even his infinite strength seemed to stumble beneath it. His legs shook, and his head pounded, that pounding ache reminding him of the only person in the world Clark wanted to hear.

And even he was quiet.

Too quiet.

His lips thinned as he pressed them together, clenching his fist by his side as his gaze moved, crossing over the lands before him, turning his head as he went. His other hand remained pressed to his thigh, fingers splayed over the smooth fabric of his suit.

Clark took a breath, slow, controlled. The already cold air seemed to burn in his lungs, heavy as this weight in his bones. He clenched his fist tighter, pressing his nails into his palm. He took another breath, and threw his hearing out.

His eyes closed, and he couldn't stop the full-body flinch that took him, his shoulders jumping with it.

Bruce's face flashed in his mind, the words he'd shouted at his husband less than a handful of hours ago still burning on his tongue. Bruce had given nothing away as the words he'd flung at him had landed; he'd seen where every blow had hit, as obvious as the various bruises across his pale skin had been.

The lack of guilt still sat wrong within him, churning in his gut as he felt himself lower back to earth, the air in his lungs escaping, releasing between his parted lips.

Bruce's eyebrows had furrowed, twitching minutely, but it had been enough. To anyone else, Bruce might have looked annoyed, maybe bored, those bright blue eyes meeting his head on. Challenging, frightening.

Clark had stood above the man, his four inches of height on Bruce leaving his head tilted forward, talking down to him as if he were a bug before him, maybe even dog shit beneath his boot.

He'd watched as Bruce had trembled, a fracture in his wrist from the night before, recieved with Bruce had been patrolling around one of the alleys of Crime Alley. The salt jar in his hand had shifted, and Clark had seen it before it had fallen. He'd had the opportunity to grab it, and maybe he should have; maybe he would have. But something had stirred deep in his being, held beneath the weight of his boots on the hardwood flooring.

The crash of the ceramic had been loud between them, splintering as the corner hit the floor. Pieces had scattered, breaking between them. He'd heard them slide along the floor, tiny fragments skipping over the cracks between the floorboards. A larger shard, no bigger than his pinky finger, had come to a stop against the toe of his boot. He'd looked down at it, his gaze dropping to it almost languidly.

It had been a salt jar, possibly even a salt shaker. The details seemed menial now, useless to focus on when there was the bigger picture before him, a picture he seemed to be consistently missing.

He'd spoken, his mouth opening and closing around words that had no business leaving his mouth, less so being spoken towards Bruce, towards his Bruce.

Clark had watched, gaze trained on the other man. He'd stepped closer, boots heavy. The fragment had broken beneath his weight, shattering.

He'd raised his fist, slow, controlled, hand flat and open, fingers curved out towards Bruce. Maybe he'd expected the other man to take his hand; maybe he'd waited for something else. But he'd seen the way Bruce had flinched, and the anger had sparked something within him. It had lit like a fire, wild and untamed, growing and growing the longer he stared into those bright blue eyes.

"Your father must be so proud of the waste his only child turned out to be." He'd taken another step closer, crowding Bruce's space, forcing the shorter man back against the kitchen bench. "This is why your children hate you, Bruce. You remember their words to you?" He'd heard the way clothes had pressed against the marble, skin getting squeezed between rock and bone. "Tell me, Bruce. Do you wish to join your parents?"

He isn't sure what possessed him to say such words to Bruce, and Clark is even less sure as to why he seemed to be lacking in any form of regret. It should be eating him alive, guilt ripping him apart from the inside, eating at his soul and tearing at his mind. But he felt... nothing. As though the words, the horrid things he'd said, the terrible, unwarranted things he'd said had no weight to them at all.

He'd seen the look on Bruce's face, the sadness, but what had hurt the most was the resignation, as though what he'd said hadn't affected him. It should be relieving that Bruce was unaffected, that the two of them could move on and pretend nothing had happened.

But there was something else, something more behind that empty look in Bruce's eyes; there had to be. It was a quiet peace, understanding- no, that wasn't the word.

Acceptance, as though a decision had been made somewhere in the background.

A shiver made its way down Clark's spine as his booted feet touched down on the fluffy snow. He heard the crunch of ice beneath his weight, turning on his heel as he stepped towards the slowly opening doors of the Fortress.

He could make himself a coffee in his kitchenette, maybe have another try at yesterday's crossword puzzle, still sitting on the small bench top. He could head back to his apartment later in the day and get back to work on the paper that Perry wanted on his table by tomorrow at the latest. Dinner could be takeout, something simple, Chinese maybe, or perhaps Thai; he hadn't had that for a while, and-

A thump in his ears, his hearing coming back to him. Clark froze where he stood, colour draining from his face as another filled his hearing, slower, fainter. Another followed a few moments later, quieter, as if the sound was almost too difficult to be produced.

He lifted his head, whatever had been on his mind dissipating into a cloud of smoke.

"Mo...ther...?"

The air around his Fortress was cold as Clark breathed it in, floating a few hundred feet above the snow. It was frigid in his lungs, barely an afterthought really as he gazed out across the white-blanketed land. It seemed to go on and on forever as his gaze remained true, looking out past the distant glaciers, past the cliffs that hung over the edges of the world.

It was quiet, peaceful. Clark had always preferred the quiet lands to the bustling cities. He loved his job at the Daily Planet, loved seeing the people he worked with, loved seeing the citizens who lived in the buildings. Their heights seemed to stretch further than he could see, as though if he were to take off, it would take him hours to reach the tops.

The quiet was enjoyable, away from the heartbeats, away from the barking dogs, the meowing cats, the laughing children, the arguing adults.

It was nice.

But being out here, in the middle of nowhere, where even his hearing couldn't reach the closest cities, Clark couldn't shake the feeling of something being wrong. It sat in his bones, heavy and weighted, and even his infinite strength seemed to stumble beneath it. His legs shook, and his head pounded, that pounding ache reminding him of the only person in the world Clark wanted to hear.

And even he was quiet.

Too quiet.

His lips thinned as he pressed them together, clenching his fist by his side as his gaze moved, crossing over the lands before him, turning his head as he went. His other hand remained pressed to his thigh, fingers splayed over the smooth fabric of his suit.

Clark took a breath, slow, controlled. The already cold air seemed to burn in his lungs, heavy as this weight in his bones. He clenched his fist tighter, pressing his nails into his palm. He took another breath, and threw his hearing out.

His eyes closed, and he couldn't stop the full-body flinch that took him, his shoulders jumping with it.

Bruce's face flashed in his mind, the words he'd shouted at his husband less than a handful of hours ago still burning on his tongue. Bruce had given nothing away as the words he'd flung at him had landed; he'd seen where every blow had hit, as obvious as the various bruises across his pale skin had been.

The lack of guilt still sat wrong within him, churning in his gut as he felt himself lower back to earth, the air in his lungs escaping, releasing between his parted lips.

Bruce's eyebrows had furrowed, twitching minutely, but it had been enough. To anyone else, Bruce might have looked annoyed, maybe bored, those bright blue eyes meeting his head on. Challenging, frightening.

Clark had stood above the man, his four inches of height on Bruce leaving his head tilted forward, talking down to him as if he were a bug before him, maybe even dog shit beneath his boot.

He'd watched as Bruce had trembled, a fracture in his wrist from the night before, recieved with Bruce had been patrolling around one of the alleys of Crime Alley. The salt jar in his hand had shifted, and Clark had seen it before it had fallen. He'd had the opportunity to grab it, and maybe he should have; maybe he would have. But something had stirred deep in his being, held beneath the weight of his boots on the hardwood flooring.

The crash of the ceramic had been loud between them, splintering as the corner hit the floor. Pieces had scattered, breaking between them. He'd heard them slide along the floor, tiny fragments skipping over the cracks between the floorboards. A larger shard, no bigger than his pinky finger, had come to a stop against the toe of his boot. He'd looked down at it, his gaze dropping to it almost languidly.

It had been a salt jar, possibly even a salt shaker. The details seemed menial now, useless to focus on when there was the bigger picture before him, a picture he seemed to be consistently missing.

He'd spoken, his mouth opening and closing around words that had no business leaving his mouth, less so being spoken towards Bruce, towards his Bruce.

Clark had watched, gaze trained on the other man. He'd stepped closer, boots heavy. The fragment had broken beneath his weight, shattering.

He'd raised his fist, slow, controlled, hand flat and open, fingers curved out towards Bruce. Maybe he'd expected the other man to take his hand; maybe he'd waited for something else. But he'd seen the way Bruce had flinched, and the anger had sparked something within him. It had lit like a fire, wild and untamed, growing and growing the longer he stared into those bright blue eyes.

"Your father must be so proud of the waste his only child turned out to be." He'd taken another step closer, crowding Bruce's space, forcing the shorter man back against the kitchen bench. "This is why your children hate you, Bruce. You remember their words to you?" He'd heard the way clothes had pressed against the marble, skin getting squeezed between rock and bone. "Tell me, Bruce. Do you wish to join your parents?"

He isn't sure what possessed him to say such words to Bruce, and Clark is even less sure as to why he seemed to be lacking in any form of regret. It should be eating him alive, guilt ripping him apart from the inside, eating at his soul and tearing at his mind. But he felt... nothing. As though the words, the horrid things he'd said, the terrible, unwarranted things he'd said had no weight to them at all.

He'd seen the look on Bruce's face, the sadness, but what had hurt the most was the resignation, as though what he'd said hadn't affected him. It should be relieving that Bruce was unaffected, that the two of them could move on and pretend nothing had happened.

But there was something else, something more behind that empty look in Bruce's eyes; there had to be. It was a quiet peace, understanding- no, that wasn't the word.

Acceptance, as though a decision had been made somewhere in the background.

A shiver made its way down Clark's spine as his booted feet touched down on the fluffy snow. He heard the crunch of ice beneath his weight, turning on his heel as he stepped towards the slowly opening doors of the Fortress.

He could make himself a coffee in his kitchenette, maybe have another try at yesterday's crossword puzzle, still sitting on the small bench top. He could head back to his apartment later in the day and get back to work on the paper that Perry wanted on his table by tomorrow at the latest. Dinner could be takeout, something simple, Chinese maybe, or perhaps Thai; he hadn't had that for a while, and-

A thump in his ears, his hearing coming back to him. Clark froze where he stood, colour draining from his face as another filled his hearing, slower, fainter. Another followed a few moments later, quieter, as if the sound was almost too difficult to be produced.

He lifted his head, whatever had been on his mind dissipating into a cloud of smoke.

"Mo...ther...?"