Superbat with a deathly sick Bruce drabble?
fighting the urge to give this a happy ending lmao
Clark’s head hung low as he slumped in the cold, unforgiving plastic chair. He’d spent days, weeks in this same spot, staring down at the discoloured linoleum at his feet.
The hospital room was silent and hollow, save for the beeping of the rhythmic beating of the heart monitor, the soft, constant woosh of air from the nasal cannulas, and the rattling, wet wheezes that Bruce let out with each struggling breath.
Each one was a testament to his sheer stubbornness and will to live. At the same time, a sign that the fight was being lost.
Day by day, he was growing weaker. His beautiful, intelligent mind that could once outwit demi-gods and metahumans was now clouded with fever and pain. The powerful body he trained relentlessly into a perfect weapon was now frail and colourless, the muscles wasting away beneath a hospital gown. Clark could see with his own eyes, how he seemed to fade further with each breath.
He had never felt more helpless, more powerless, than in this moment. He was Superman for Rao’s sake. He could deflect bullets, redirect meteorites. He could see with X-Ray vision through people, through buildings.
He couldn’t have possibly seen this.
He wished he had. Rao, he wished he had.
But there was no cure, not for something like this.
This… silent insidious killer that had taken root in the man he loved. They had run every test, scanned for everything, but there was no cure to this… decay.
So day by day, he was forced to watch as his best friend, the love of his life, his soulmate, withered away into nothingness. He watched as the fire in Bruce’s eyes dimmed, as his muscles weakened and his wit evaded him.
The moment that Bruce was diagnosed, when the word “Terminal,” Fell from Leslie’s lips, his world had irrevocably changed forever. In that moment, he thought of all the things he could do, of what he had to do to preserve Bruce, to preserve his heart. He had a list in his mind, a desperate, insane list of options.
He knew of the Lazarus Pits, of course. He knew of their mystic ability to bring people back from the brink of death, to restore them to their youth and imbue them with terrifying strength and virility. He had seen what it did to Ra’s al Ghul, to Jason. It was a miracle.
But he also knew that Bruce would never forgive him for something like that. For stealing away his chance to live, and die, as a human. Bruce had faced the pits before and rejected them. He had chosen his mortality time and time again. To force that upon him would be the ultimate betrayal.
Even so, his fingers twitched with the urge to do something, to pick Bruce up and take him to the pits himself. The urge only grew as he listened to each shallow breath, as they rattled weakly from his chest with each passing hour.
He couldn’t help but think, as he choked out a weak sob, smothering the noise with his hand to avoid disturbing the weak man in the bed. Would it be so bad for him to hate me forever, if it only means I get to see him live?
The question went unanswered as he reached out, taking Bruce’s cold, thin hand in his own, squeezing it gently.
The hand didn't squeeze back.
