"Well," he starts after a moment, wondering what terrible thing is waiting behind this conversation, because something is always waiting behind a blatant admission like this, "that depends. What're you going there for? What's your goal?"
"I needed to know if I'm still being possessed by the Joker or if I just have PTSD."
Bruce adjusts his positioning and pulls Clark's arms more firmly around himself, one of his own arms curling behind his shoulder, holding him in return.
"Turns out I have extreme paranoid tendencies. Who knew."
"You're not possessed by the Joker," and he doesn't sound angry about it or even frustrated. He sounds firm, as if he could see that down to the atom, he was 100% Bruce Wayne and nothing else. As if the idea wasn't ludicrous, perhaps, but not something he should worry about, so sayeth Superman.
"And yes, you do. I've noticed those. Didn't even take super-vision."
"I know," he says quietly, about not being possessed. He knew before he set out, too, because he won, but what kind of fool would he be to experience these flashbacks and not investigate? He couldn't let it sit. Or maybe he thought it would help him feel better to work through it. Whatever feeling better fucking means.
Also, he says, in some other universe, I'm suicidal.
"Every time a diagnosis is suggested I think, 'That's interesting.' I wonder if there's a name for what happens when you fill up a Bingo card, besides 'occupational hazard.'"
"Diagnosis is just a word," Clark points out, "which doesn't make it any less of a good point. But even the best words can fall short to describe the whole."
He breathes in and out for a moment before.
"Have you considered perhaps making the point of that treatment something like... feeling better? Being happier? Finding some peace?"
"I think if everyone in the League had to go to therapy monthly, we'd collectively invent a whole new volume of conditions and disorders."
There's a kind of acceptance in his voice, but something like futility, too. Is there a point to treatment, when he's never going to improve? (When he's going to end it anyway.)
He doesn't want to sound frustrated, but he probably does anyway. Bruce tucks himself closer. He is trying, he wouldn't be continuing to attend to this thing he hates, this violation of his privacy, for months on end if he wasn't trying. And he wants Clark to know that: if he cashes everything in tomorrow and he never sees him again, he tried while he was here.
It's so hard to do something and not understand it, but he's keeping up with it. Maybe like learning a martial arts form, repetition will eventually make it work. Make him understand.
He can hear the frustration. More importantly, he can hear the fatigue. And he can't help, can't help that it makes his chest feel tight and heavy and empty all at once. You can't change people; his father had taught him that. All you can do is give them the opportunity and the inspiration to change themselves. All you can do is believe in them until they do to.
He leans down and tucks his face against the crook of Bruce's neck and gives him a firm squeeze. Words aren't helping, are clearly making things worse. But there's something Bruce is trying to say, a point he's edging around, and given where they've gone, he's not sure if either of them want him to get there. And yet...
You should never have allowed this to begin whispers an unkind voice somewhere in his head. Loving Clark is a weakness that lets him use the other man as a crutch, and now he'll have made everything worse for him when he's been through so much already. You're going to hurt him, just like you've hurt everyone else. You can't stop. Everyone you come near decays, because of you.
Clark reaches up and strokes Bruce's cheek with a faint, warm sort of expression that would be a smile if there was any joy in it. Instead, there's worry and love and something that looks a lot like hope.
"You didn't see yourself last night," Clark answered, his voice soft. "Or hear yourself this morning. I know what your moods look like, Bruce. This is something else."
"Because you'd rather bleed off in a corner where no one can notice than 'bother' anyone," but his hand goes up to start massaging at the back of Bruce's neck. "Or you're so used to bleeding, you don't notice when you are. Either or."
But even though he was talking bout it, he was trying not to push. Trying, anyway.
"I'll shut up. Especially if I'm just making it worse."
Clark is quiet for a moment before leaning in to press a kiss to Bruce's forehead, and his voice is soft when he finally speaks.
"When I came here," he starts, "I... well, I thought my life was over. My marriage was over, my friends and colleagues didn't trust me anymore, and Superman..." he breathes in slowly before- "Superman was a symbol of tyranny and oppression in my head. I could hardly look at my S without thinking of that monster. I came here and figured... figured I'd make due as long as I could. Fix that world and then quietly disappear back in my own world."
He looks down at Bruce and his eyes are full of so many things.
"Then I found you. And we found... this. And I've been happy. So happy. Happier than I thought I'd ever be again. You made me believe that I'm not just some monster waiting to happen. That my love isn't a death sentence.
"So I'm sorry if I'm pushy. I'm sorry if I'm over here so often and I can't keep my hands off you and I want to kiss you literally all the time. None of it seems to say enough to cover what I feel, is all."
He looks at Clark, having listened and watched him, and his expression is unreadable. After a moment he moves off the bed and stands up-- at his bedroom door he stops and turns his head. "Don't go anywhere."
He shuts the door behind him when he leaves the room; he goes downstairs to the functional bathroom for a little while, then feeds Ace. He stares out the kitchen window for a too-long expanse of time. And then he finally walks back upstairs and into the bedroom.
"I cannot believe you." Bruce scrubs a hand over his face. "You can sit there and-- apologize. Clark I am that monster, I came here to stop myself, and you tell me you love me and give me all of this and say it's making you happy when all I'm doing is making you worry and putting you in the middle of this bullshit with the boys. I'm just some broken old man having a slow-moving nervous breakdown and I don't deserve you or anything about you. Goddamnit, Clark, don't ever apologize."
Clark watches him as he talks and he waits until he's done. Then, moving very slowly, very deliberately, he puts his hands around Bruce's raised arms and brings each hand to his lips, one at a time. Each gets kissed before he steps in closer and shakes his head.
"I'll stop apologizing," he says, seemingly contradictory, "but you're not a monster, Bruce. I meant everything I said. Every word. When I say I love you..." he breathes in slow and breathes out in a bit of a rush, "I love you. Maybe we started with that foundation from our own worlds. But you're the one I've kissed and made love to and curled up on the couch with. You're the one who gave me hope again, who filled my heart again. You're the one who let me in."
He lets go, drawing away with obvious reluctance.
"There's no deserving about it. But even if there was... you would. You always have."
Bruce listens to him and knows that what he's saying is factually correct. It's the same for him: Clark is not from his world, and there are enough differences in their lives for him to remember it keenly, but this would have never happened at home. This man is the one whose heart was so moved that he kissed him, the one who held him when he finally admitted what had happened with the Joker's disease. He's the one who's standing by him now, when he's being-- a mysterious, morose asshole.
Can he really believe that he's given Clark hope? He's not much of a liar, supplies a less cruel thought process.
"I hate that I'm like this," he says softly.
Misdirected. Insecure. Weak. He feels safe letting his guard down around Clark but god, it makes him so angry with himself that this is what he's like behind it.
He let his lips press together and they settled down into a wry little smile.
"We are who we are, Bruce. And a lot of that is what we've needed to be. "
Like he'd told Jason: this job wasn't kind. What they did, how it twisted you up and spit you out some days... and being Bruce was a much harder job than being Clark. At least, that's the way it looked to him. Bruce took on so much, took such weight on his shoulders, handed over quart after quart of his own blood, sweat, and tears as the world demanded it to keep spinning. He had his own struggles, but they seemed so insignificant when he considered all the things that Bruce did, all the balls he juggled, to try and make things better. And there was certainly a lot less thanks to be found in that cowl than in his cape.
Bruce doesn't need thanks, and after all this time, he doesn't want it. He doesn't know how to accept gratitude anymore, is uncomfortable with it most of the time. The way Clark is with him-- Bruce loves it, loves him, but sometimes he's so overwhelmed by it and maybe this is one of those times; he's desperate not to lose what they have but almost panicked in his instinct to escape being trapped. He's never been in a relationship like this - only two months but it's so intense, and so caring, and he doesn't want to hurt Clark and doesn't want him to know what he's going to do and--
"You say 'Clark, I'm going to make some coffee. Do you want any?'." He turned one hand to point out the door, "And then I follow you down, sigh at the abysmal state of your groceries, nip out to get some eggs, and make us breakfast when I get back."
He steps forward and takes Clark's face in his hands and kisses him, fierce and harder enough that surely it's nearly hurting him. He wants Clark to feel him, he wants him to remember in a week's time if everything goes to hell. I love you. I'm sorry.
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Bruce adjusts his positioning and pulls Clark's arms more firmly around himself, one of his own arms curling behind his shoulder, holding him in return.
"Turns out I have extreme paranoid tendencies. Who knew."
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"And yes, you do. I've noticed those. Didn't even take super-vision."
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Also, he says, in some other universe, I'm suicidal.
"Every time a diagnosis is suggested I think, 'That's interesting.' I wonder if there's a name for what happens when you fill up a Bingo card, besides 'occupational hazard.'"
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He breathes in and out for a moment before.
"Have you considered perhaps making the point of that treatment something like... feeling better? Being happier? Finding some peace?"
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There's a kind of acceptance in his voice, but something like futility, too. Is there a point to treatment, when he's never going to improve? (When he's going to end it anyway.)
"I wouldn't believe it."
Peace. Happiness.
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"There were quite a lot of people who didn't think you'd ever walk again. And yet..."
He turns his other hand.
"You can't say it won't work until you try it, Bruce."
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He doesn't want to sound frustrated, but he probably does anyway. Bruce tucks himself closer. He is trying, he wouldn't be continuing to attend to this thing he hates, this violation of his privacy, for months on end if he wasn't trying. And he wants Clark to know that: if he cashes everything in tomorrow and he never sees him again, he tried while he was here.
It's so hard to do something and not understand it, but he's keeping up with it. Maybe like learning a martial arts form, repetition will eventually make it work. Make him understand.
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He leans down and tucks his face against the crook of Bruce's neck and gives him a firm squeeze. Words aren't helping, are clearly making things worse. But there's something Bruce is trying to say, a point he's edging around, and given where they've gone, he's not sure if either of them want him to get there. And yet...
"What is it you're not telling me?"
A moment's pause before--
"Is it something I need to know?"
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"No."
Clark doesn't need to know.
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"Is it something that's hurting you?"
Please, Bruce. Please don't hurt yourself for me. Please. I know you've done it a hundred times, a thousand times-- not here. Not like this.
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He lifts his head and shoves him over so that Bruce is slightly on top of him, his turn to wrap his arms around Clark.
"It's not like that," he murmurs. "Don't do this to yourself every time I'm in a mood, you'll figure out how to give Kryptonians ulcers."
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"You didn't see yourself last night," Clark answered, his voice soft. "Or hear yourself this morning. I know what your moods look like, Bruce. This is something else."
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You're too much for him after all that voice says, digging at him. Of course he is.
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But even though he was talking bout it, he was trying not to push. Trying, anyway.
"I'll shut up. Especially if I'm just making it worse."
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Bruce says that quietly, turning his head against Clark's-- he wants to know how serious he is about that.
"I'm just.."
Myself.
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"When I came here," he starts, "I... well, I thought my life was over. My marriage was over, my friends and colleagues didn't trust me anymore, and Superman..." he breathes in slowly before- "Superman was a symbol of tyranny and oppression in my head. I could hardly look at my S without thinking of that monster. I came here and figured... figured I'd make due as long as I could. Fix that world and then quietly disappear back in my own world."
He looks down at Bruce and his eyes are full of so many things.
"Then I found you. And we found... this. And I've been happy. So happy. Happier than I thought I'd ever be again. You made me believe that I'm not just some monster waiting to happen. That my love isn't a death sentence.
"So I'm sorry if I'm pushy. I'm sorry if I'm over here so often and I can't keep my hands off you and I want to kiss you literally all the time. None of it seems to say enough to cover what I feel, is all."
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He looks at Clark, having listened and watched him, and his expression is unreadable. After a moment he moves off the bed and stands up-- at his bedroom door he stops and turns his head. "Don't go anywhere."
He shuts the door behind him when he leaves the room; he goes downstairs to the functional bathroom for a little while, then feeds Ace. He stares out the kitchen window for a too-long expanse of time. And then he finally walks back upstairs and into the bedroom.
"I cannot believe you." Bruce scrubs a hand over his face. "You can sit there and-- apologize. Clark I am that monster, I came here to stop myself, and you tell me you love me and give me all of this and say it's making you happy when all I'm doing is making you worry and putting you in the middle of this bullshit with the boys. I'm just some broken old man having a slow-moving nervous breakdown and I don't deserve you or anything about you. Goddamnit, Clark, don't ever apologize."
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"I'll stop apologizing," he says, seemingly contradictory, "but you're not a monster, Bruce. I meant everything I said. Every word. When I say I love you..." he breathes in slow and breathes out in a bit of a rush, "I love you. Maybe we started with that foundation from our own worlds. But you're the one I've kissed and made love to and curled up on the couch with. You're the one who gave me hope again, who filled my heart again. You're the one who let me in."
He lets go, drawing away with obvious reluctance.
"There's no deserving about it. But even if there was... you would. You always have."
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Can he really believe that he's given Clark hope? He's not much of a liar, supplies a less cruel thought process.
"I hate that I'm like this," he says softly.
Misdirected. Insecure. Weak. He feels safe letting his guard down around Clark but god, it makes him so angry with himself that this is what he's like behind it.
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"We are who we are, Bruce. And a lot of that is what we've needed to be. "
Like he'd told Jason: this job wasn't kind. What they did, how it twisted you up and spit you out some days... and being Bruce was a much harder job than being Clark. At least, that's the way it looked to him. Bruce took on so much, took such weight on his shoulders, handed over quart after quart of his own blood, sweat, and tears as the world demanded it to keep spinning. He had his own struggles, but they seemed so insignificant when he considered all the things that Bruce did, all the balls he juggled, to try and make things better. And there was certainly a lot less thanks to be found in that cowl than in his cape.
"And I'm here for all of it."
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He's so awful at this.
"How do we get out of this conversation."
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"You say 'Clark, I'm going to make some coffee. Do you want any?'." He turned one hand to point out the door, "And then I follow you down, sigh at the abysmal state of your groceries, nip out to get some eggs, and make us breakfast when I get back."
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He steps forward and takes Clark's face in his hands and kisses him, fierce and harder enough that surely it's nearly hurting him. He wants Clark to feel him, he wants him to remember in a week's time if everything goes to hell. I love you. I'm sorry.
When he breaks away he steps towards the door.
"Coffee."
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"Yes, I'd like some coffee. If you tell me whether or not you have eggs, I can go grab a few things for morning omelets."
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