Archive of Our Own

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Clark keeps saying, his voice getting hoarser by the second.

“It’s-” Bruce pushes out through gritted teeth. He has to say something even if his voice sounds strangled. He has to let Clark know that it’s not his fault. Even if the words feels like knives in his throat. “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s anything but okay. Bruce is anything but okay, but he can’t say that. Clark looks like he’s the one getting his fleshed burned, like he’s the one biting down on his own tongue to keep from screaming.

Screaming wouldn’t help. It would make everything worse.

Bruce isn’t sure there is anything worse than this. Getting every single one of his scars burst open, blood flooding, bullet wounds opening up again and again, every single scar he’s accumulated over the years splitting his skin open, tearing his entire body into a bloody mess.

Screaming won’t help.

“Opening the wounds of the past,” the witch said. Bruce wasn’t aware she’d meant it literally. If he’d known… no, his actions wouldn’t have changed. He would’ve still shoved Clark out of the way. It doesn’t matter that Superman is better equipped at handling any attack thrown at him than Batman will ever be, because it’s not just Superman, it’s Clark. And Clark is just as susceptible to magic as any of the others are. More than that Clark is… Clark is everything. Bruce cannot let him get hurt. Not even if this is the price he has to pay.

The pain is so overwhelming that he can’t see, can barely breathe through the agony. He has no idea how he’s still breathing, least of all how he’s still conscious. It’s one thing to have his scars, his wounds, his entire history splitting his skin open, but to have Clark searing them all shut with his heat vision? It feels like he’s dying. A slow and agonizing death.

He must be dying. He almost wishes he was, just to get the pain to stop.

Screaming won’t help, it won’t make the pain any better.

Clark’s heat vision sears into the skin of his abdomen and Bruce can’t swallow back the howl that forces its way through his throat. It feels like he’s being torn in half, burning up as his gut is being ripped from his body. He can’t keep still, struggling against the strong arms holding him down until another pair joins them. He wants it to stop, it has to stop, he’ll die, he’s dying.

He can’t stop screaming.

He’s never been happier to welcome the sweet relief of unconsciousness, even as he feels guilt throbbing in his chest. Clark shouldn’t have to do this, shouldn’t have to see him like this.

As his eyes flutter shut, all he can see is Clark’s tear-streaked face as he calls his name, eyes never once returning to their usual, otherworldly blue. They’re burning red still, even as he sobs. There are too many wounds. He can’t stop cauterizing if he wants Bruce to live.

Everything goes black as Bruce hears Clark sob his name and endless apologies, over and over. It hurts; tears at his soul like nothing else can but he can’t help but feel grateful. At least that means Clark is here. At least that means he won’t die alone.

Clark feels like his chest is being torn open from the inside.

It’s not the screams that break him because there aren’t any; if only Bruce would scream, maybe Clark would be able to drown out the wet gasps, the sound of blood bursting through skin. The way Bruce grits his teeth even as his abdomen opens up in long gashes; the way his skin gets paler the more wounds open up.

And there are so many. It feels like an endless job; a useless solution, trying to cauterize them all, but what else can he do? He can’t watch Bruce bleed out from nearly two decades worth of wounds opening up at once. He can’t do nothing when Bruce is dying.

Clark doesn’t have scars, not a single one. The magic wouldn’t have affected him at all and yet it’s Bruce who’s lying on the ground, choking on his own blood as his skin tears itself apart over and over again. How many times has he been shot, stabbed, impaled? How many claw marks, how many bites, how many bullet wounds will Clark have to watch open up and start bleeding before this is over?

He knows he has to move. He has to get Bruce to safety, he has to get him to a doctor at the very least, but he can’t fly with him bleeding like this. He won’t. Bruce will die even if Clark flies as fast as he can with all these wounds. Clark has to stop the worst of the bleeding first. All of it. No matter how much Bruce grunts or struggles in Diana’s arms. It’s not like he has the strength to get free, but Diana’s face is contorted in a mask of horror as she watches Clark cauterize the wounds. She looks like she’s going to be sick.

She looks exactly how Clark feels. Heartbroken but determined. They have to get through this, no matter how much it tears them apart. For Bruce.

Clark thought the rasping breaths were worse than anything he could ever hear but then Bruce finally starts screaming. He’s been gritting his teeth so hard even Wally must be able to hear it several feet away where he’s speaking to Alfred. Then Clark has to stop the bleeding on his abdomen and Bruce just... let’s go. He’s throwing his head back, whacking it against the ground as he screams. It’s the sound of a wounded animal, of Bruce’s lungs burning just as much as his skin, it’s animalistic and cruel to listen to.

It cuts through Clark’s bones, his heart, his entire being. He can’t breathe but he can’t stop working; he can’t stop closing up the wounds.

Bruce is thrashing in Diana’s hold so much that Arthur has to step in and help and Clark’s heart is in pieces, falling to the bottom of his stomach as he burns Bruce’s skin. He has to stop the bleeding, he has to keep Bruce alive, but it feels like he’s killing him.

It feels like he’s killing them both.

When Bruce finally stops thrashing, when he stops moving and his eyes fall shut, when his screams die out, Clark sobs out his name, over and over. He can’t not. He knows he shouldn’t; he knows he’s not supposed to, but he can’t help it. It feels like this is the last time he’ll ever see him, and he can’t stop the tears from falling. Bruce looks so lifeless, so still. He’s breathing but Clark can’t help but wonder for how long.

He wraps Bruce in his cape as gently as he can; trusting Diana to gather the broken pieces of Bruce’s armor and get rid of them so they don’t fall in the wrong hands. Clark should’ve been more careful removing them but as soon as Bruce dropped to the ground, all reason left his mind. He should consider himself lucky that the chaos of the fight has scared all the onlookers away and nobody is here to witness his breakdown; here to see who Batman really is and how that affects Superman.

Clark isn’t grateful though, because all he can think of is getting Bruce to safety, to someone who can actually help. Stopping the bleeding isn’t a proper solution, it’s a temporary fix, a sloppy one at that. But it was all he could come up with. He’s not the one who thinks seven steps ahead of any and all possible outcomes of a fight; Bruce is.

Clark pulls Bruce’s face close as he cradles him in his arms. He’s faster than any plane, he’ll have Bruce in the cave before anyone can even think to find another way to transport him.

Bruce’s hair is sticking to his forehead, damp from sweat. Clark takes a moment to push it out of his face, to touch his cheek, make sure he’s still warm to the touch. Clark wasn’t thinking as he ripped the cowl off Bruce’s face but a small part of him is glad that he can look at Bruce’s face even if the man himself will probably be angry about it later. Because there will be a later no matter how much Clark’s heart is trying to prepare him for the worst.

 With Bruce tugged close to his chest, Clark flies as fast as he dares towards Gotham, towards Bruce’s home. Alfred will undoubtedly have made the proper arrangements already, and Clark needs to get them there. Fast.

J’onn and Hal will report back when they’ve caught the witch and Clark feels his eyes burn for an entirely different reason at the thought of getting his hands on her.

He flies to the cave, Bruce’s screams still echoing in his head even as he’s dead silent in his arms. Silent. Just silent. Not dead. He’s still breathing. Shallow, short breaths, like he can’t quite get enough air into his lungs without feeling pain. His entire body has been torn apart and put back together with burning agony, of course he can’t breathe.

Clark flies faster.

When he gets to the cave, they’re ready for him. Leslie and Alfred are standing by a gurney, determined but desperate expressions on their faces. Clark nearly breathes a sigh of relief; they’re more equipped to help than he will ever be. He places Bruce on the gurney as gently as he can and then Leslie’s wheeling him away. Clark wants to follow, wants to stay by Bruce’s side but he knows he’ll just get in the way. So he stays put.

He's surprised to find that Alfred does as well.

“Master Kent.” Alfred’s voice is quiet and calm, like it always is, but it makes Clark flinch all the same. He knows Alfred won’t yell at him, but those steely eyes still tend to see straight through Clark at the best of times. And this isn’t just Alfred letting Clark know he’s messed up; this is Bruce being hurt because of Clark.

This is Bruce lying on a gurney, unconscious, because of Clark.

“Alfred,” Clark says, voice breaking. “Alfred, I’m so-”

And then Alfred’s arms are around him and Clark freezes on the spot. Alfred has never hugged him before. He wasn’t even aware Alfred could hug people. Bruce, maybe, if there’s been a disaster bad enough but even then it’s more of a gentle touch of shoulders, not this full-on hug.

Clark doesn’t know what to do.

“Thank you,” Alfred says. “Thank you for saving my boy.”

“I didn’t-” Clark starts but Alfred tightens his arms around him to get him to stop talking.

“I saw,” he says and then steps back. His eyes are wet. “I saw what you did.”

Clark’s cheeks burn with shame and guilt. Alfred saw?

“That must’ve been quite taxing for you,” Alfred says. “I’m sorry you had to do that, but I am glad nonetheless that you did. You saved his life.”

“I-” Hurt him. Burned him. Tore him apart. Clark swallows thickly. He can’t get the words past his lips. He hangs his head.

“Master Bruce will want to survey the recording,” Alfred tells him.

Clark feels like he’s been slapped across the face. The recording. Right, the cowl. Bruce always records everything; to learn from his mistakes or to make sure his reports are accurate. An icy kind of terror sets in the pit of Clark’s stomach. Bruce will watch what he did? It’s bad enough that there’ll be permanent marks on his body as proof, but he has to sit and watch it too? Clark feels suddenly sick.

“But perhaps the cowl was damaged beyond repair and the recording lost in the process,” Alfred adds softly.

Clark lifts his head, ashamed by how grateful he feels. Bruce has every right to see that recording. It’s his body, his life. He should be allowed to know what exactly happened, even if Clark would rather fly off the face of the Earth than have him watch it.

“Oh poor boy,” Alfred says, and Clark feels like he’s breaking all over again. Why isn’t Alfred angry at him? Why is he looking at him like Clark is the one who’s been hurt? Like he’s the one lying on that operating table, fighting for his life.

Because he is fighting, Clark knows. He can hear his heartbeat, his breathing. He can hear Leslie work, hear her mutter under her breath even as he tries not to. He doesn’t want to listen to what she thinks of Clark’s handywork. Perhaps he’s done more damage than good. He stopped the worst of the bleeding but is that a good thing if it means that Leslie can’t do her work properly?

“He’s alive because of you,” Alfred says, like he can read Clark’s thoughts.  

“He was only hurt because of me,” Clark argues weakly.

“You and I both know that Master Bruce never does anything he doesn’t want to.”

“He-”

“Loves you,” Alfred interrupts, voice hard. “That boy loves you and you saved his life today, Master Kent.”

Logically Clark knows what Alfred is saying is the truth. Bruce would’ve surely bled out if he’d done nothing and yet he can’t shake the guilt coursing through his veins. What he’s done to Bruce… What Bruce will wake up and realize… it’s too much. Too much for him, too much for anyone. Clark has no idea how they’ll get past this. If they’ll be able to get past this. Bruce’s body will be littered in scars; scars Clark put there. He can never take that back, wouldn’t want to if it meant Bruce wouldn’t be alive, but Clark isn’t the one who has to look at the scars every single day (yes, he is, a treacherous voice contradicts in his head) when he looks in the mirror. How will Bruce ever be able to look at himself and not see the pure destruction Clark is capable of? It’s one thing knowing, because Batman knows everything about Superman, but being on the receiving end of Clark’s heat vision? Of all those scars? Clark has no idea how Bruce will ever look at him the same again.

He's not sure he wants him to.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forgive himself.

“Clark.”

Clark’s head snaps up. He can’t remember Alfred ever calling him by his first name before.

“If you hadn’t stopped the bleeding, he would have died.”

“I know but-”

“No buts. Your actions saved his life. He’ll see it that way too, so don’t try to punish yourself. You know how Master Bruce feels about your tendency to take the blame for anything that happens to him.”

“This time I happened to him,” Clark mutters.

“Yes,” Alfred agrees. “And thank God you did.”

Clark doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s grateful Alfred doesn’t blame him, but it doesn’t lessen the guilt he feels. They wait in silence together and Clark can’t tell if Alfred stays because he needs the company or because he knows Clark needs it more.

When Leslie emerges from the med bay a while later (two hours and thirty-three minutes), she’s drying her hands and she looks exhausted.

“He’s stable,” she says. Then she looks at Clark, a ghost of a smile on her otherwise stoic face. “You did good work.”

“I-” Clark wants to argue but a hand on his shoulder stops him. Alfred is shaking his head.

Bruce is stable. Bruce is alive. That’s all that matters.

The hand on his shoulder pushes him forward and Clark looks at Alfred. He’s smiling faintly, pushing more firmly at his shoulder. Go to him, his eyes say. Clark wants to turn and run; he’s not sure he can face Bruce yet, even if he is still unconscious. Another push has him walk into the med bay, nonetheless. He may not be ready to face him, but another part of him – a bigger part – has to see Bruce with his own eyes. Hearing his heartbeat is not the same as looking at him. It’s not enough.

Clark hates the med bay. He’s grateful it’s there and he’s been saved more than once because Bruce has this space ready to work, whether it be for his own stab wounds or to pull Kryptonite out of Clark’s back. Still, he hates it. Because this is where Bruce spends so much time, this is where he has to look at Bruce’s pale face as he lies completely still.

This is inevitably where he’ll one day have to say goodbye to Bruce.

He pushes those thoughts away as he stands beside Bruce. There’s a drop in his arm and Leslie has put an oxygen mask on him to help him breathe easier. No tubes this time at least. Clark watches his chest rise and fall for a full ten minutes before he dares a proper look at his face. It’s the only place he doesn’t have any burns, but it still feels like a punch to the gut looking at him.

He's so pale. Even more so than usual. There are dark circles under his eyes and Clark finds that he can’t remember if they’re usually this prominent. They are, but they look darker when Bruce’s face is so pale and relaxed. Not in a good way. In an unconscious way. Clark doesn’t like it.

It takes hours – it feels like years – for Bruce to wake up and even then its only for a short while. Alfred assures Clark that it’s completely normal but nothing about this is normal. Nothing about this is okay.

It takes even longer for Bruce to be moved to his own bedroom and it’s only at Alfred’s insistence that Clark is the one to carry him there. The drop is gone and he’s not wearing the oxygen mask anymore, hasn’t for a bit, but Clark still carries him while Bruce is asleep, still heavily medicated, because he’s a coward. He doesn’t know how to face Bruce, not yet.

The worst part is that Bruce won’t blame him. Clark knows Bruce will find a way to blame himself, to absolve Clark of any and all wrongdoings because that’s just how he is. It’s part of why Clark loves him so much; he’s selfless and kind, even when he shouldn’t be. Especially when he shouldn’t be.

Clark makes sure he isn’t in the room the few times Bruce wakes from his slumber the following days. He knows he’ll be out within a few minutes and only then does he dare step back into the bedroom. He’s still figuring out how he’ll ever be able to apologize for this and while he can’t bear to be apart from Bruce for long, he needs a little more time to find the right words. Before he’s ready to face what he’s done and what that means for them.

He watches as the kids stop by; he hears the quiet laughter and the many questions they all have, even though Bruce isn’t awake for more than a few minutes at a time. Even Bruce can’t go through something like this without heavy pain medication. Clark watches Alfred come and go from Bruce’s room, sometimes with bandages in hands, sometimes with a cup of tea. Every time Alfred quirks an eyebrow at him, and Clark shakes his head.

It hasn’t been a week since the incident, but it simultaneously feels like it’s been several months and only minutes since Clark carried Bruce into the cave. His dreams are haunted by Bruce’s screams, the looks on his face and all the blood. It doesn’t help that they’ve already captured the witch – she can’t turn back time; she can’t undo what she’s done. What Clark has done. Clark leaves her to the rest of the League. Even if he could tear himself from Bruce’s side, he wouldn’t trust himself within a mile of her. He has limitations just like anyone else and seeing the face of the person who’s to blame for Bruce’s condition would be pushing past those limitations.

So he stays in the manor, by Bruce’s side when he’s asleep and just outside the door when he’s awake. He knows he would be able to monitor him just as well from one of the other bedrooms or even his own apartment back in Metropolis, but it doesn’t feel right.

It makes it easier as well when he jerks awake from yet another nightmare. He only has to open his eyes to see Bruce, doesn’t have to fly anywhere and focus to be able to hear his heartbeat. It doesn’t make the nightmares any less horrific though.

Clark can barely breathe as he jolts upright. He wasn’t planning on falling asleep, but he’s exhausted. He listens, desperately, to Bruce’s steady breathing. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

But at what cost?

It’s been a week and Bruce is still barely awake two hours each day. Clark doesn’t have to look through the bandages covering Bruce’s entire body; he knows what he’ll find if he does. Not every injury is covered; even the smallest wound has been torn open, from the tiniest paper cut to the gnarliest bullet wound. It’s the smaller ones that make Clark’s heart throb, oddly enough. Because those are the ones he can see even without his powers. The red lines poking out through bandages, at the edge of Bruce’s clothes and the blanket covering him. Angry, bright and red.

Not the silver lines Clark is so used to seeing on Bruce’s body. Not the map of stories, of victories and failures Clark has spent countless hours tracing with his hands, with his lips. Not the scars that tell a story of a man fighting a battle he can never truly win; a battle he will keep fighting until he draws his last breath.

Today could’ve been that day.

But Bruce is still breathing, he’s still here. He’s alive.

Clark knows the moment Bruce wakes up, but he doesn’t move. He could probably slip out without Bruce noticing but it’s the middle of the night and Alfred’s asleep. If Bruce needs anything, Clark wants to help, even as he feels the ever-present guilt tear at his insides.

There’s the sound of sheets rustling and then a soft groan as Bruce pushes himself up onto his elbow. Clark wants to protest; he shouldn’t put any unnecessary weight on his body, not even his arm. There’s the distinct imagery of long gashes running up that particular arm that makes Clark unable to speak.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” Bruce’s voice is rough from sleep. “Stop lurking in the corner and come here.”

It’s the perfect opportunity to quip back. To say ‘I’m not the one lurking in the shadows, that’s your thing’ like Clark normally would, but the words won’t leave his mouth, won’t carry to his tongue. Instead he steps closer, dread heavy in his stomach. It’s better that they talk about it now, isn’t it? Although if Bruce gets upset, he won’t stay put, he’s too stubborn for that. Then again, if Clark truly wants to run away, there’s no way Bruce can stop him now. He looks out of breath just from sitting up. It makes Clark’s stomach turn.

“Will you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Clark asks to buy himself time.

“Like you can’t stand to look at me but are doing it anyway,” Bruce says.

“That’s-”

“Not true?” There’s a huff of laughter but it’s without humor. “Then stop looking at my shoulder, Clark.”

Clark forces himself to peel his eyes away from the bandage Bruce’s shoulder and look him in the eyes. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do and not because Bruce is frowning at him – when is he ever not frowning? – but because he looks worried. He should be angry; he should be furious. He should be scared. Instead, he looks like he’s trying to calm Clark down, when it should be the other way around.

He looks like he’s expecting Clark to start talking. That’s how it is with them; Clark’s the talker, Bruce is the listener. It’s Clark who dives headfirst into the difficult conversations while Bruce has to have time to prepare, to make arguments and make sure he knows what he wants to say. Not this time though, because Clark has no idea where to start. A week is not enough time to come up with words to excuse what he’s done. Clark doesn’t think there’s any amount of time that would be enough.

“I’ve already reached out to Zatanna,” Bruce says when it’s clear Clark won’t say a thing. “She’ll probably know something of value.”

“I know.” He’s already spoken to Alfred; he knows what’s been done and what hasn’t. He knows if anyone will know how to help it’s Zatanna. Maybe she’ll contact Constantine for them, he’s quite knowledgeable with these things. It doesn’t lessen his guilt at all.

“Both Arthur and Diana are looking into things that could help too,” Bruce offers. Like it’s his job to make Clark feel better, like Clark is the one who needs to reassurance. Like Clark is the one lying on the bed, covered in bloody bandages.

“Help you heal,” Clark argues. “But the scars-”

“Were there before,” Bruce finishes, like it’s really that simple.

“Not like this.”

“How they got there doesn’t matter, I’m used to them,” he says and tries to shrug. He can’t quite conceal the flinch and twitch of pain on his face.

“Well, I’m not!” Clark finally snaps.

“Clark-”

“I am not used to looking at you and seeing- seeing my own destruction. I’m not used to- to-” The words he’s been trying so hard to figure out all spill out at once and he can’t fit them all in his mouth at once, it feels like he’s suffocating.

“Clark,” Bruce repeats, voice softer this time.

“You’re covered in burns, Bruce,” Clark says, choking on the words, trying to breathe through the pain in his throat. “From me. I did that to you.”

“To save me,” Bruce says, and the gentleness of his voice feels like someone is twisting a knife into Clark’s gut. “You did what you could to save me.”

It’s true, Clark knows, it was the only thing he could think of – the only thing any of them could think of at the time, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t make him feel better. It doesn’t make him feel less… less like a monster.

“I don’t understand how you can ever trust me not to hurt you again,” he says instead of arguing with Bruce’s reasoning. As always it’s flawless; Bruce knows him too well to make silly arguments just to be right. But even if it’s true, it doesn’t change the fact that Bruce is hurt because of Clark. Again.

“You didn’t hurt me. You saved me.”

“Both of those can be true,” Clark says harshly. He knows his intentions were good, were pure but it doesn’t take away the fact that Bruce’s body is now covered in wounds that he put there.

“Yes,” Bruce says simply, calmly. “They can.”

It’s the way Bruce speaks, the way he looks at him, that makes Clark tear his eyes away. He feels guilty, he feels shame burn at the bottom of his stomach and to his absolute horror he also feels relieved. Relieved that Bruce still looks at him like that; like he loves him. Like he can do no wrong in this world. Despite the fact that Clark has proven that he can, time and time again.

“Clark,” Bruce calls when Clark keeps staring at the bedpost silently. “Look at me.”

It’s not like he doesn’t want to look at Bruce, but it feels like he shouldn’t. Or maybe he should; maybe he should be faced with his own failings. If that was the only thing he could see when he looks at Bruce, but it isn’t. Because no matter how much he hates himself for doing this to Bruce, he’s still here. Still breathing. And Clark knows Bruce is right, knows that it’s stupid to be this upset when Bruce is alive because of it but he can’t help it. Just like he can’t help looking at him when Bruce calls his name.

“Give me your hand, please,” Bruce says, holding his own out expectantly. Like he can’t even fathom Clark not obeying his request. He’s right, of course. “They’re just scars.”

“They’re not,” Clark says, squeezing Bruce’s hand carefully. He should sit down; it can’t be comfortable for Bruce to hold his arm up like this. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re- they’re memories,” he tries to explain. Clark doesn’t have scars of his own and he’s never wanted them for obvious reasons. But looking at Bruce over the many years they’ve known each other; with all his hard-earned muscles, his pale skin, and those silvery scars. It’s not envy, not exactly, but there’s a pride there. A pride in knowing the scars are signs that Bruce is still here, still alive. A pride in how strong he is, both inside and out. “They’re like badges of honor.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You have a story for each one. Had,” Clark corrects himself. “They’re proof that no matter what you’ve been through, you’ve come out on the other side stronger.”

“This doesn’t change that,” Bruce argues.  

“It does,” Clark insists. “It does because these aren’t- this isn’t the first time you got shot anymore,” he says as he hovers a hand over the bandage on Bruce’s shoulder. “Now it’s just- now it’s just another place I burned you.”

Bruce sighs and Clark feels it dig into his gut. He’s not explaining himself well and even a man as patient as Bruce will get upset with him. But this is important; it’s Bruce life and body they’re talking about. Clark can’t just gloss over it with a “You’re okay now, so let’s forget it”. It won’t be that easy. The only easy thing about being with Bruce is loving him; the rest is a struggle, a fight. It’s a fight Clark would gladly do every single day for the rest of his life. And that includes getting through this conversation. He doesn’t need Bruce to forgive him – he knows he’s already done that part – but he does need him to understand that this isn’t just another tiny bump in the road.

Clark feels horrible and he knows he deserves to feel like this.

“Do you remember every time you’ve been hurt?” Bruce asks, tugging on Clark’s hand to get his attention. He was lost in thought again.

“Yes,” Clark says.

“Right, eidetic memory,” Bruce sighs. There’s the ghost of a smile on his face though, like there always is when he’s reminded of something he likes particularly about Clark. “Well, do you think about it every single day?”

“Of course not.”

“Me neither,” Bruce tells him. He tugs at his hand again, asking him to come closer. There’s nowhere for Clark to go unless he wants to crawl onto the bed. Instead, he drops to his knees, so Bruce doesn’t have to hold his arm up anymore.

“Clark, they’re just scars. You haven’t erased history; you haven’t somehow broken me.”

“I know that,” Clark says, words sounding hollow even to his own ears.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he says a little slower. He knows. He could never break Bruce, nobody could.

“So would you stop looking at me like you’ve personally sentenced me to death? I’m still here.”

Clark nods but he can’t make himself look at Bruce at all now. He’s making it worse; forcing Bruce to use precious energy to comfort him when he must be in immense pain. He tries to slip his hand out of Bruce’s, but strong fingers keep him there. He knows he could easily get free but as he often does with Bruce, he feels too weak to do so. He also knows Bruce would rather break his own fingers keeping their hands interlocked than he’d let Clark go when he’s feeling like this.

It's another thing he loves about him.

“I’ve already told you countless times I prefer your marks on me to anyone else’s,” Bruce says, and Clark can hear to smirk on his face even without looking at him. Usually good-natured flirting would instantly brighten Clark’s mood, but he can’t quite manage the smile he knows Bruce is expecting.

“This isn’t a handprint on your ass, Bruce,” he says instead. “This is- this- this is torture.”

“Which I’ve been through many times before.”

“It doesn’t make it right!” Clark snaps. He tries to pull his hand away again, but Bruce tightens his fingers and Clark ends up just pulling on his arm while he rants angrily at the bedsheets. He still can’t raise his head to look at Bruce. “It doesn’t make it better. And this isn’t some kidnapping scenario, this isn’t some stranger who’s tried to get something from you. These are from me. I did this to you.”

“I wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t.”

“I know that!” Clark tries to breathe. “I know that.”

“So will you please look at me?”

Clark can’t. He can’t. There’s no way he can look at Bruce and not feel his heart break all over again. Because Bruce is hurt, he’s so, so hurt and yet he’s not angry at all. He’s just… sitting there. Patiently waiting Clark out.

“Hey,” Bruce calls softly. Clark has never been able to deny him anything for long, especially when he sounds like that. When he’s so gentle and careful with his voice. “I love you.”

That does it. The tears he’s tried so hard to keep at bay spill over his cheeks and he drops his head onto the bed as he cries. Bruce’s large hand settles on top of his hair as he waits him out. It takes a while. Clark can’t remember the last time he cried like this, like a dam has burst inside his chest and the only way to get rid of the water is to cry it out.

It helps. It eases some of the pressure. Most of all it helps that Bruce keeps petting his head, whispering sweet words as Clark cries. He’s always been good at this. Comforting others. Better than anyone gives him credit for. Bruce knows pain better than anyone else and he knows what it feels like to hurt someone you love. And Bruce knows Clark, better than anyone else ever will. He knows exactly how long to wait before he speaks again.

“This is not something that could ever make me afraid of you,” he says when Clark finally stops sobbing and looks up at him.

“How?” Clark chokes out. He can’t make himself ask all the questions swirling around in his mind. Why not? How can you have such unwavering faith in me? How can you trust me after this? Why are you looking at me like that after what I’ve done to you? How can you still love me?

“Because you look like this right now,” Bruce says as he caresses Clark’s cheek gently. It’s like he can hear all of Clark’s unspoken questions and decides to answer all of them. “Because you look like you’re the one being torn apart. Because you look at me like you’d give anything to take my pain away.”

“I do,” Clark says, voice strangled as he clutches Bruce’s hand between both of his. He feels tears prick at his eyes again. “I would.”

“I know,” Bruce says, leaving no room for doubt. He keeps caressing Clark’s cheek, waiting for whatever it is he still needs to say. Bruce always knows when Clark isn’t done speaking, it might be his secret superpower, although he’ll undoubtedly deny it until the day he dies.

“I don’t know how you’ll ever forgive me,” Clark mutters, rubbing his cheek against Bruce’s hand. He knows it’s not a question of how Bruce will ever forgive him but instead how Clark will ever forgive himself, but it doesn’t seem like the proper question to ask. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s feeling sorry for himself when Bruce is the one who’s been hurt.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Bruce says softly. “Not with you, never with you.”

“That’s stupid,” Clark argues. There are plenty of reasons not to forgive him; if not for this incident, then something in the future. Bruce is more logical than such statements.

“I know,” Bruce agrees with a smile. “But it doesn’t make it any less true. I could never be afraid of you. There’s nothing you could ever do to me that I wouldn’t willingly accept.”

“That’s insane.” And so very much like Bruce that Clark knows it to be true.

“Maybe. But that’s the thing about love, isn’t it?” Bruce cracks a real grin this time. He’s teasing again.

“That’s my line,” Clark chokes on a laugh.

“Can’t a guy steal his boyfriend’s lines every now and then?”

“Yeah,” Clark says. “You can have whatever of mine you want.”

“That’s okay,” Bruce says. “I have everything I need right here.”

He presses his lips against Clark’s knuckles in a soft kiss and Clark wants to cry all over again. How is it possible to love someone this much?

“I love you,” Clark says because he can’t not.

“I know,” Bruce says, and Clark can feel him smile against his hand. “I love you too.”

Clark isn’t sure how they manage but he somehow ends up on the bed with his head in Bruce’s lap. He’s careful not to put too much weight on his body, but Bruce doesn’t seem to mind at all. He just keeps carding his hand through Clark’s hair.

“Thank you for saving me,” he says softly.

“Always,” Clark says, because despite the pain, despite the guilt and the shame and how hard a time he’ll have later on looking at Bruce’s scars, he would do it all over again. He’d do anything as long as it means Bruce is still with him.