When Clark becomes painfully aware of his strength.
Warnings: Clark harms reader (accidental), mentions of broken bones, hospitals, clark is so hard on himself.
Word Count: 2k
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It starts with laughter. It always does. Because no one can make you laugh the way Clark can, and his heart yearns for that gooey, sweet sound of your giggles that makes him weak in the knees. He can’t live without it.
They’re on the couch, she’s teasing him about something. Her toes curled and poking at his thighs, right where she knows he’s the most ticklish. He flinches as he lets out a belly laugh and a small sound that resembles a squeal. Just as she’s about to tease him for the noise, he reaches over, and scoops her up, arms wrapping around her to yank her towards him with the intent to hear that familiar squeal leave her lips.
And she does squeal: in pain. The sound of a dull, wet crack breaks through the room. The laughter dies instantly, a devastating, exasperated gasp replacing the sound, like the air has been punched from her lungs. When he loosens his arm, she’s pale.
“Hey - hey.” His voice breaks on the word, already trembling.
His hands hover over her, suspended in the air, unsure what to do with himself. “Sweatheart?”
“I’m okay,” she rushes out. Her voice is quiet and out of breath. The words are flimsy and weak, barely holding together over the raw panic in his eyes.
Clark hears the lie before she even opens her mouth.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice fraying, shaky. “Don’t say that.”
She tries to subtly adjust her hand to cradle the sharp, stabbing pain in her side that steals her breath. And when she looks at him, his face is terrifyingly pale, jaw clenched, eyes wet as they zero in on her chest.
He swats her hands away from his face - trying, futile, to block his view from what he already knows. He almost doesn’t mean to look, but instinct takes over as he uses his x-ray vision. Just a quick glance, meant to assess the damage to prepare himself.
The image hits him harder than any extraterrestrial ever could: two ribs, two clean breaks, the smallest shadow of something beneath her skin beginning to swell. The sight knocks the breath from his lungs as bile threatens to rise up his throat.
His vision snaps back to normal just as fast as he had activated it, but the image remains, burned into his brain.
“Clark,” she whispers, voice breaking as her eyes fill unwillingly with tears, “It was an accident, you didn’t mean to.”
He swallows hard as he tries to pull himself together. Every fiber of his being wants to deny it, to make it vanish, but the truth is there. And now he has to face it.
He swallows again through an attempt to clear the lump in his throat. His jaw is tight as he frantically glances around the room, as if the walls themselves could help him think of a solution. “Okay… okay.” He mutters, voice rough. “Let’s uh- Let’s get you to the hospital, okay?”
She tries to protest, but the effort steals her breath. “I can walk.”
“No!” He cut in sharply, it came out harsher than he meant. His hands hover for a moment, unsure of how to go about it. He then bends carefully, sliding one arm beneath her knees while the other cradles her back. “Not a chance, not like this. Just let me take care of you.”
She lets out a quiet sound at the movement - part gasp, part whimper - as he lifts her with astonishing care. His every move is deliberate and calculated, like he’s terrified to crush her even further.
“Clark,” she whispers, voice trembling. “You don’t have to, I’m ok.”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps moving, carrying her towards the door, each step slow and gentle but urgent. The cold air hits them as soon as they step outside, biting against the heat radiating from the sheer panic coming from Clark.
He eases her into the passenger seat, fingers ghosting over her skin in search of any pain. She flinches just slightly, and his stomach twists with guilt as he lets out an involuntary whimper. He fastens her seatbelt, then hesitates, hands hovering near her ribs like they might shatter under his gaze.
It's once Clark settles into the driver's seat that her emotions and utter pain begin to slip through the cracks. It starts with a subtle wobble to her bottom lip, a shaky, pained inhale, and Clark’s head whips towards her. Then the sobs of complete and utter agony begin to escape her. A small, pained “it hurts,” can be heard from her side of the car, it’s almost involuntary, and she immediately grabs his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Her attempt to reassure him is heartbreaking, the way she steadies him through her own pain breaks him.
Clark swallows hard, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whiten. “I… I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. That’s the moment when his own lip begins to wobble, he is so distraught, in complete and utter shock and shame of his actions. “I never… I…” His words break, voice thick as he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Every movement she makes, each shallow, shaky breath twists his guts into knots.
“It’s ok,” she murmurs softly, giving his hand yet another reassuring squeeze as she tries to coax him back from the edge of spiraling.
He glances at her once again, heart hammering in his chest. The tension radiating off of her is palpable, even as she tries to remain calm. A bump in the road makes her flinch and he jerks the wheel slightly as he tries to stifle a gasp. “I’m sorry, baby I’m so sorry! I didn’t- don’t move.”
She adjusts in her seat, laying her hand over his in an attempt to ground him. “Clark,” her voice cuts through the air of the car, the harsh sound catching his attention. “Breathe. Just drive.”
And he tries, he really does. In through his mouth, out through his nose, but every red light and pot hole feels like a test to his patience. He keeps glancing at her, listening to the ragged sound of her breath being expelled from her lungs, he hopes they haven’t been punctured. He can’t help but imagine the pain she can’t (or won’t) put into words, the damage he caused.
The hospital lights finally come into view and Clark lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the kind that made his chest ache. Relief flares in his mind, but he can’t shake the panic coiling in his chest. What are they going to say happened? “Almost- almost there,” he breathes, voice hovering somewhere between prayer and panic.
The car rolls to a stop at the emergency bay, harsh fluorescent lights flowing through the windows. And for a moment, Clark is still, like he can’t move. His hands are locked onto the steering wheel, breath shuddering in his chest like it's trying to escape.
Then he’s frantic, he’s unbuckling and scrambling out of the driver's seat. The cold air slams against his skin, but he barely feels it as he rushes to her side and opens the door with shaking hands.
“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He slides his hands under her, lifting her with precise caution, like she’s made out of glass.
She still gasps.
And his face crumples.
“Sweet girl - I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking as his eyes blur with tears.
“I know,” she mumbles, hand curling weakly into his shirt.
He carries her inside, the automatic doors slide open with a hiss and slight whoosh of air, the bright hospital lights cause Clark to cower, he feels like he’s under investigation.
The nurse behind the front desk looks up - she sees her, sees him - and is bounding out of her chair in an instant.
“What happened?” She asks, already bringing over a wheelchair for Clark to place her in.
Clark freezes.
His breath catches in his throat and he physically can’t bring himself to form words.
His arms instinctively tighten around her, the intent somewhere between protective and guilty.
She squeezes his shirt again, voice thin and shaky.
“I fell,” she whimpers. “I think I broke my ribs.”
The nurse nods as she aids Clark in placing her onto the wheelchair.
When they slide her from his arms to the chair, his hands hover, shaking, like he doesn’t know what to do without her.
He looks at his palm. The only way to describe the feeling in the pit of his stomach as he does is disgust.
The same hands that hold her at night.
The same hands that scratch soothing at her scalp and skin.
The very same hands that broke her.
His chest caves inwards at the thought.
“Sir?” The nurse says gently, bringing him out of his trance. “You can follow us, just stay out of the way.”
He nods, but his voice is nowhere to be found. He follows anyway - because he can’t not. Because leaving her alone would kill him.
They’ve taken her in for x-rays, leaving Clark to stew in his thoughts in the waiting room. When she was gone, out of earshot, Clark truly let himself go. He became a sobbing, heaving mess in the corner of the stale, eerie waiting room.
He sits down because his legs stop holding him. It’s not by choice. They just… give out. The waiting room is overstimulating. It’s too bright in there, too quiet, too sterile. It smells like antiseptic and grief.
Clark folds forward, bracing his elbows atop his knees, hands clasped as if he were praying.
But he isn’t praying. He’s begging.
Not to God.
Not to Krypton.
But to himself.
Don’t break her again. Don’t you dare break her again.
His breath splinters, short, fast, and harsh. His chest seizes like someone has tied a belt around his lungs. A sound escapes him - raw, escaping through the gaps of his clenched teeth - and he slaps a shaking hand over his mouth in an attempt to silence it.
It doesn’t work. Actually, it just makes him even more hysterical.
His shoulders begin to violently shake. Tears coming in sharp, silent bursts. The kind that hurts.
His palms stare back at him, quivering.
They were supposed to be safe hands. Gentle hands. Hands of God.
Yet all he can see is destruction.
He presses them flat against his thighs, like maybe it can stop them from doing any more damage.
He thinks of her laughter on the couch.
Her warm breath against his collarbone when she sleeps, the kind that sends goosebumps erupting over his skin.
Her fingers interlaced with his.
The way she always touches him like his strength doesn’t scare her.
And now? He’s given her a reason to be afraid.
Now all he can hear is the echo of that horrendous crack.
His stomach twists. He swallows bile. His vision only grows even blurrier.
He would rather be shot. Burned. Skinned.
He would rather be anywhere else in the universe but here.
A pair of soft footsteps approach.
At first, he didn't look up. He can’t
Not until he hears her voice - weak and hoarse. “Clark?”
His head snaps up so fast he’s sure he just gave himself whiplash.
She’s in a hospital gown, arm cradling her ribs, eyes half-lidded from painkillers. A nurse helps her walk forward, wheeling her IV along with them before stepping away to give them space.
He stands, ever so slowly, like he’s afraid a sudden movement will shatter the floor beneath his feet.
They just look at each other. Staring.
She reaches out first.
Not him.
Her.
He startles as her fingers brush against his hand, almost as if he doesn’t think he’s allowed to touch her.
So she lowers herself onto a nearby chair, grabbing his hand and placing it onto her thigh, just above her knee. She just holds it there.
Her voice cracks. Not from pain this time, but from the weight of how deeply she needs him. “Come sit with me.”
His breath breaks.
He reluctantly slinks down onto the chair beside her, still shaking, still wrecked, still absolutely terrified. And she leans her head on his shoulder as best she can.
“I’m not scared of you,” she whispers.
Clark chokes on a sob - the kind that has no sound, just a painful heave of his chest. He drops his forehead to hers.
“I am,” he whispers back.
And still, she leans in. She doesn’t let go. Not of his hand, and certainly not of him.
