Bruce loosened his tie with a sharp tug, the knot sliding free as he rolled his shoulders out. The weight of the day was settling heavily in his old bones as he ascended the staircase toward the family wing. Before his fingers even touched the door handle, he was already sliding off his suit jacket, relishing in the thought of changing into comfortable clothes and descending into the peace and quiet of the cave to lose himself in work.Â
The moment he did push the door open, however, the atmosphere shifted. Immediately, his senses were assaulted by the metallic tang of blood. In the dim evening light filtering through his bedroom window, the shadow in the center of the room became apparent. There was only one man it could belong to, after all.
"Oh, Clark," He sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. "You're home early."
Nothing but silence greeted him.
"Clark?" He asked, flicking on the light switch.
Warm light flooded the large bedroom. But he frowned as he took in the sight of his husband before him. Dark hair was matted, and normally sun-kissed skin was coated in a fine layer of rubble dust. Any other time, he might have commented about tracking dirt into their home, but not now. Not when Clark was supposed to be in Berlin, taking care of a monsterâs rampage and helping with cleanup.Â
Not when his hands were soaked in blood, and it was dripping onto the rug beneath his feet.
When he left this morning, Bruce was convinced it would be a quick, decisive victory for the worldâs greatest hero. Now? He wasnât so sure. Not when Clark was staring blankly at the blood-covered rug at his feet, trembling minutely. With each shaky exhale, more dust fell from his shoulders.
Bruce let the jacket fall from his hand. He moved forward, closing the distance between them. âClark?â He murmured a third time, his voice low. His brows pinched as he was met with nothing. No lift of the head, no soft words, nothing.
He reached out, his movements slow and methodical as he gently took Clarkâs stained hands within his own. He gave them a soft, questioning tug in silent invitation to follow. He was thankful that, despite being lost in his own head, Clark followed easily.
He led him into the washroom, flicking on the lights. He didnât think for a second about removing his own clothes. Instead, he began the methodical process of peeling the Superman suit away from Clarkâs body. The fabric was torn in several places, stiff with dried blood and caked with grime. He was infinitely careful with its removal before turning the water on and letting it spray over both of them.
Clarkâs attention remained glued to his feet, his gaze fixed as the water tinged pink and grey from the blood and grime, swirling down the drain.
Bruce smothered a washcloth in their favourite sandalwood bodywash. He carefully worked the cloth along each of Clarkâs hands and arms, trailing it along his broad chest and down each leg. He treated him as though he were something infinitely more fragile than the man of steel, his touch gentle.
Only when he poured shampoo into his hands, and began to work it through Clarkâs hair, did the man break his silence.
âThereâŚâ He whispered, his voice a raw, broken thing, barely audible over the shower. âThere was⌠so much blood,â He choked out, blue eyes squeezing shut as if to block out the memory. Bruceâs hands hesitated for a moment, before continuing their gentle massaging. He didnât dare to say anything yet.
âI⌠I shouldâve been more careful.â He continued, voice cracking. âYou always tell me to be more careful.â A choked sob fell from his lips, and his hands flew up to cover his face, shoulders shaking.Â
Bruce frowned gently, expression softening. He rinsed out the shampoo before reaching forward to take Clarkâs hands, pulling them away from his face. The sheer, unadulterated misery on his husbandâs face was heartbreaking. He swallowed thickly, throat tight. âWhat happened out there, Clark?â He asked, voice barely a whisper.
Clarkâs lip trembled, another tear dripping down his grime-covered cheek.Â
âI didnât know that it would⌠that it would landâŚâ He gasped, hiccuping. âIt was a school. I didnât know⌠I didnât think⌠and I⌠IâŚâ He choked out before surging forward, wrapping his arms around Bruceâs waist desperately, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
Bruce blinked slowly, processing Clarkâs frantic words. His arms came up immediately to wrap around Clark in return, pressing a firm kiss to his wet hair.
He didnât dare speak. There were no words of comfort that could possibly suffice, no platitudes that could mend this.Â
There was nothing he could do, as Clark's body was wracked with gut-wrenching sobs against him, but be there.
