( synopsis ) — a badly injured clark comes to you after a losing fight against the kaiju. not only does he need to be patched up, but his ego needs a little fixing to. and luckily for you, your praise does just the trick.
( warnings ) — none. suuuuuper fluffy n cute. i love sensitive crybaby puppyboy clark!
“Shit,” you whisper from where you sit on your bed, a deep frown tugging at your mouth as your teeth press down on your index knuckle. Your eyes are locked on the screen in front of you, anxiety etched into every part of your face.
The TV plays live coverage of the chaos downtown. The setting sun casts a warm hue through your window, an almost cruel contrast to what you’re watching unfold. Superman soars across the sky, moving fast and focused, his fist connecting with the kaiju’s eye and forcing a roar of pain from its throat. The blow stuns it, but only for a second.
The monster recovers quickly, lashing out with a powerful arm. Its massive claws grip Superman’s cape, yanking him out of the sky and slamming him through a high rise. You flinch as glass explodes outward, his body crumpling against the steel frame inside before disappearing into the shadow of the building’s interior.
You can’t watch anymore. Your hand reaches for the remote and shuts the screen off just as the Justice Gang steps in, finally giving Superman a chance to catch his breath.
Silence fills the room like smoke. You sit there, frozen, your hands still clutching the fabric of your blanket as your mind races through everything you just saw. You know Superman is stronger than anyone. Practically invincible. But that kind of impact would break bones on anyone. And he’s still human in some ways. He still feels pain. That has to mean something.
Before you can sink too deep into your thoughts, the sound of glass crunching in the distance makes your head snap up. The noise barely registers before your bedroom door creaks open and Clark steps through.
He looks wrecked.
There’s blood on his lip, slowly trailing down to his chin. His suit is in pieces, torn in too many places to count, revealing scrapes and bruises along his torso and arms. His eyes are red, glossy with unshed tears, and for a second he just stands there, chest heaving from exhaustion. Then he moves.
He crosses the room and collapses onto the bed on top of you without a word, his arms wrapping tight around your middle. His face presses into your chest, the heat of him soaking into your skin. You hear him sniffle before everything else goes still.
“Clark..?” you whisper, hesitant, your hand slowly lifting to rest in his hair. Your fingers begin to move without thinking, brushing gently through the tangled strands. He lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders starting to fall, the tension draining from his body with every slow movement of your hand.
“No,” he mumbles into your chest. His voice is rough, strained. “Don’t wanna talk. Just hold me.”
“I can do that,” you whisper, your fingers continuing to move gently through his hair, the quiet rhythm comforting for both of you.
You sit together like that in silence for a while. The room is dim now, lit only by the last slivers of sunlight filtering through your window. The sounds of the city outside feel distant, like they belong to another world. All you hear are the soft groans of pain Clark tries to muffle against your chest.
Eventually, your other hand lifts to tilt his face up. His cheek is warm against your palm. You press a soft kiss to his forehead, barely there but enough to make him look at you. His eyes are glassy and tired, and your heart breaks all over again.
“Let me clean you up,” you whisper. “Just some ointment. A few bandages. We’ll get you home to heal tomorrow. The sun’s already down.”
Clark nods. The motion is small, slow. Tears slip from his eyes again, rolling down his cheeks and soaking into your shirt as he whispers, “Alright… yeah.”
You help him out of what’s left of his suit, easing him into a clean pair of sweatpants. His skin is warm and bruised under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. He just sits on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, his hands moving under your shirt to rest against your sides. He keeps his touch gentle, steady, like he needs the connection to ground him.
You press the last bandage over the cut on his forehead, then place the ointment tube aside. Your hands come to his face again, thumbs resting on either cheek as you look at him closely.
“How’s the pain medicine feeling?” you ask quietly.
“Hasn’t kicked in yet,” he mutters. His tone is flat, but you can tell it’s more than the pain. It’s everything else. The failure he thinks he’s shouldering alone.
“You did a good job out there,” you murmur, brushing one of the bandages flat softly. “That was more than anyone should’ve been expected to handle.”
“I lost,” he says, barely above a whisper. His hand moves from your waist to wipe at his eyes. “I didn’t do anything good.”
“You did everything you could, Clark. That’s what matters,” you say softly, tilting his chin up again to keep his eyes on yours. “You might be a metahuman, but you’re still only one man. And you saved people. A lot of people. That thing would’ve crushed half the city if you hadn’t slowed it down. You gave others time to escape. You gave the Justice Gang time to arrive. You did that.”
He doesn’t respond right away. You can see the war behind his eyes, the stubborn pride he’s trying to hold onto, clashing with how much he wants to believe you.
“I’m really proud of you,” you whisper, and the change in him is immediate. His eyes lift to meet yours again, wider now, a new kind of emotion breaking through.
“You are?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. His pupils dilate by ten sizes at the simple fact that you’re proud. He made you proud, that’s all he’s ever wanted. “You’re proud of me? You mean that?”
“Of course I do, baby,” you reply, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. “Everyone’s proud of you. You’re Superman. The one people count on. The one kids pretend to be when they play heroes. You’re more than just strong. You give people hope. And you’re loved for it.”
“And what about you?” he asks after a second. His hands slide up your waist, pulling you closer between his legs.
“And I also love you, Clark,” you whisper with a chuckle, leaning in until your forehead rests against his.
He presses a soft kiss to your lips. There’s no urgency behind it. No need for anything more. It’s slow, full of gratitude, and when he pulls back, your hand rises to nudge his chin playfully.
