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Note: this is set in pre-flashpoint continuity after Bruceās return from theĀ ādead.ā It also takes into account the Braniac, New Krypton and Grounded storylines and their emotional impact on Clark.
Thirty-eight beats per minute. A familiar, comforting rhythm. A strong, healthy heart. Skin thatās reassuringly warm to the touch, jagged scars breaking up the surface. They, too, are familiar. Heād traced every single one, the ache in his chest easing when they matched his memory.
Theyāve been lying in bed for hours, Clarkās ear pressed against Bruceās chest, Bruceās fingers sifting through his hair. Saying nothing as Clarkās hands explore every ridge on Bruceās naked body, again and again and again, collecting evidence for his mind to reject.
āIs this real?ā Clark whispers into the crook of Bruceās neck, thumbing an old bullet wound on his shoulder. Are you real? He bites his lip as soon as the words escape, mouth feeling dry, wishing he could take them back. Heās not certain heās prepared to learn the truth. While heās no stranger to mind games, this one he wonāt be able to handle.
Bruceās hand stops its movement, body going tense at the question. āYes,ā he says after a short pause. His voice has only ever been this gentle on few occasions. āYes, itās real.ā
Clark has lifted tanks and moved asteroids, but nothing has ever been heavier than Bruceās body in his arms, the weight so unbearable heād feared he would collapse in the middle of the battlefield. No sound has been louder than the sudden absence of Bruceās heartbeat. Afterwards, handing the shredded Batman suit to Dick had felt like handing over his heart, as torn and mangled as the bloody kevlar.
āYou wereāā Clark starts, choking on anger and grief as he tries to finish the thought. Dead. Intense heat prickles behind his eyes and he squeezes them shut before the beams hit, scrambling to get away. Bruce, reflexes quick as ever, follows and grabs for him before Clark can make it off the bed, one hand closing around his waist while the other holds the back of his head. Terrified of his own strength, Clark immediately goes limp, allowing his weight to be pulled back down on top of Bruce. āBruce, I haveāI have to leave, itās dangerous, Iāmāā
āBreathe,ā Bruce says directly into his ear, calm and steady, like heād forgotten that Clarkās heat vision can incinerate.
āYou donāt understand,ā Clark struggles to say over the deafening sound of his pulse in his ear. He tastes bile on his tongue, panic constricting his throat. His muscles vibrate as he fights to stay still, his control disintegrating. He canāt afford to let it happen in Bruceās presence, canāt risk injuring him. āPlease, let me go, my powers, I canātāI could hurt youāā
āYou could, but you wonāt,ā says Bruce, sure and unwavering, the same voice he uses when commanding strategy. Stubborn as ever, he presses himself closer, caressing Clarkās spine. āListen to me, Clark. You can control this, youāve been doing it your whole life. Just breathe. Focus.ā
Bright images swirl in Clarkās mind. Bruceās lifeless body lying in the rubble. Paās funeral. New Krypton and the explosion that stole it away. Clark has known powerlessness before, but never more so than in the past year, as he failed those closest to him, could do nothing but watch them perish. He recalls every line on Maās face as she cried over her husbandās coffin, the grief-stricken expressions of Bruceās family upon learning of his death, Karaās anguish as they watched Krypton reduced to dust once more. He hadnāt done enough, he was too late, he couldnāt save them. His friends, his family, his planet. He failed them all. All this useless power, and he couldnāt save them.
Someone is calling his name. The haze clouding his mind makes it hard to focus, dulling his senses, and Clark canāt isolate the source; it could be in the same room or two states over. It could be a mere memory taunting him. He canāt follow the thread, and it doesnāt seem important; instead, he can only hear Dickās voice, the words he spoke to him in Ohio sharp and clear in his mind.
Youāre flailing, youāre trying to latch onto a memory of a better time, when the world was smaller and you could go home. I think youāre having an emotional breakdown. And I think you need to stop this. Right now. Before somebody gets hurt.
Clark only realizes heās screaming once his throat is raw with the effort. Violent tremors seize his body, muscles tensing with each fractured memory that resurfaces. Youāre having an emotional breakdown. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, heat searing his skin.
āKal!ā Bruceās voice, loud and urgent. His fingers are wrapped around Clarkās wrists, insistently pulling his hands off his face. Clark takes a shaky breath. Bruce cups his cheeks, thumbs brushing over each eyelid. āKal. Open your eyes.ā
āI canāt, I canātāā
āYou can,ā Bruce persists. āYou wonāt hurt me, you could never hurt me. I trust you. Open your eyes and look at me. Please.ā
Clark focuses on the sensation of Bruceās fingers on his skin, the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart. When he opens his eyes, his vision is blurry and his lashes wet. Bruceās thumbs brush away the tears from his cheeks, his handsome face coming into view. Clark takes in his features, from his intense eyes to the small scar on his chin, no hint of fear in his expression. Instead, heās looking at Clark like he knowsĀ every part of him, a vulnerable display of trust. No one else has ever looked at Clark this way.
Bruce. Itās Bruce.
The realization knocks the wind out of him, the sudden exhaustion causing him to collapse on Bruceās chest. āYouāre really here,ā he whispers against the crook of Bruceās neck.
āYes,ā says Bruce, fingers carding through Clarkās hair. He brings his other hand to cover the one Clark has over his heart, lacing their fingers. āIām here.ā