Note: this is set in pre-flashpoint continuity after Bruce’s return from the “dead.” 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 that’s reassuringly warm to the touch, jagged scars breaking up the surface. They, too, are familiar. He’d traced every single one, the ache in his chest easing when they matched his memory.
They’ve been lying in bed for hours, Clark’s ear pressed against Bruce’s chest, Bruce’s fingers sifting through his hair. Saying nothing as Clark’s hands explore every ridge on Bruce’s naked body, again and again and again, collecting evidence for his mind to reject.
“Is this real?” Clark whispers into the crook of Bruce’s 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. He’s not certain he’s prepared to learn the truth. While he’s no stranger to mind games, this one he won’t be able to handle.
Bruce’s hand stops its movement, body going tense at the question. “Yes,” he says after a short pause. His voice has only ever been this gentle on few occasions. “Yes, it’s real.”
Clark has lifted tanks and moved asteroids, but nothing has ever been heavier than Bruce’s body in his arms, the weight so unbearable he’d feared he would collapse in the middle of the battlefield. No sound has been louder than the sudden absence of Bruce’s heartbeat. Afterwards, handing the shredded Batman suit to Dick had felt like handing over his heart, as torn and mangled as the bloody kevlar.
“You were—” 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. “Bruce, I have—I have to leave, it’s dangerous, I’m—”
“Breathe,” Bruce says directly into his ear, calm and steady, like he’d forgotten that Clark’s heat vision can incinerate.
“You don’t understand,” 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 can’t afford to let it happen in Bruce’s presence, can’t risk injuring him. “Please, let me go, my powers, I can’t—I could hurt you—”
“You could, but you won’t,” says Bruce, sure and unwavering, the same voice he uses when commanding strategy. Stubborn as ever, he presses himself closer, caressing Clark’s spine. “Listen to me, Clark. You can control this, you’ve been doing it your whole life. Just breathe. Focus.”
Bright images swirl in Clark’s mind. Bruce’s lifeless body lying in the rubble. Pa’s 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 Ma’s face as she cried over her husband’s coffin, the grief-stricken expressions of Bruce’s family upon learning of his death, Kara’s anguish as they watched Krypton reduced to dust once more. He hadn’t done enough, he was too late, he couldn’t save them. His friends, his family, his planet. He failed them all. All this useless power, and he couldn’t save them.
Someone is calling his name. The haze clouding his mind makes it hard to focus, dulling his senses, and Clark can’t isolate the source; it could be in the same room or two states over. It could be a mere memory taunting him. He can’t follow the thread, and it doesn’t seem important; instead, he can only hear Dick’s voice, the words he spoke to him in Ohio sharp and clear in his mind.
You’re flailing, you’re trying to latch onto a memory of a better time, when the world was smaller and you could go home. I think you’re having an emotional breakdown. And I think you need to stop this. Right now. Before somebody gets hurt.
Clark only realizes he’s screaming once his throat is raw with the effort. Violent tremors seize his body, muscles tensing with each fractured memory that resurfaces. You’re having an emotional breakdown. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, heat searing his skin.
“Kal!” Bruce’s voice, loud and urgent. His fingers are wrapped around Clark’s wrists, insistently pulling his hands off his face. Clark takes a shaky breath. Bruce cups his cheeks, thumbs brushing over each eyelid. “Kal. Open your eyes.”
“I can’t, I can’t—”
“You can,” Bruce persists. “You won’t hurt me, you could never hurt me. I trust you. Open your eyes and look at me. Please.”
Clark focuses on the sensation of Bruce’s 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. Bruce’s 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, he’s looking at Clark like he knows every part of him, a vulnerable display of trust. No one else has ever looked at Clark this way.
Bruce. It’s Bruce.
The realization knocks the wind out of him, the sudden exhaustion causing him to collapse on Bruce’s chest. “You’re really here,” he whispers against the crook of Bruce’s neck.
“Yes,” says Bruce, fingers carding through Clark’s hair. He brings his other hand to cover the one Clark has over his heart, lacing their fingers. “I’m here.”
