Clark heard what Bruce said, heard it. Even understood it. Because that's Bruce. It's Bruce all the way to see this as something he let happen, the result of some weakness or fault instead of the side effects of being a human being.
The thing is, though, that while Bruce is Bruce, Clark is Clark. And part of being Clark is that he reaches out to take Bruce's hand again, wrap his fingers around Bruce's fingers, give the faintest of squeezes.
He can.
He can move planets. He can create worlds. He can save cities. He can stop tsunamis. He can pull a kitten from a tree and still be taken seriously. He can look at a pair of potential criminals and send them home without a punch thrown or a bullet fired because Superman knows they can do better, knows they can find another way. He can hear the suffering of the whole world every day of his life and still believe in the basic goodness inherent in every human being enough to go out and risk his life and the lives of the people he loves to try and bring that hope to everyone else.
He can love Bruce Wayne, regardless of the world he came from. He can see that the man he loves was as much a victim as anyone else. Is as much a survivor as anyone else. Is his hero for beating himself and dragging himself kicking and screaming through that hell to the other side.
It's overwhelming. It doesn't seem real-- but at the same time, this is not a result Bruce has ever even daydreamed of. Never considered within the realm of possibility, and no hallucination would ever try and trick him this way, because it's so impossible and his brain would simply never buy it.
He could scream. How dare Clark do this to him and turn everything on its head, do something he can't process, that he's never been able to handle. Bruce is so uncomfortable with unconditional love being handed to him that he's built cornerstones of his personality around being simply ineligible for it.
Of course this is what Clark is offering him, of course it would be the impossible thing he won't hesitate, won't even consider hesitating over. Fuck you, he thinks viciously. Hate me like everyone else, you son of a bitch.
He doesn't let go of Bruce's hand, won't let go until he is blatantly, pointedly, deliberately told to. Might not even let go then, because Clark has so many rules, but if he's honest with himself, he'll bend every one of them until they break for Bruce. Just like Bruce would for him.
"We'll figure it out."
We. They're the goddamn World's Finest. There is no other superhero team in their world, in any world, to match them.
"I love you. I'm not going anywhere. And we'll figure out how to do this."
Bruce almost snaps You love someone who sounds like me, somewhere else, because it's true, but it's also stupid and petty and pointless. And he decides he doesn't want to say that, because he doesn't fucking care.
He releases a shuddered, choking breath-- nothing more than that. He was a sensitive kid, and while some of his all-consuming emotions have carried over into adulthood, the last time he's cried was after Jason. (That it's anymore, not after Jason's death, just, Jason.) His body's forgotten how, and so he doesn't. What he does do is lean into Clark, and all the tension and fight bleeds out of him. Letting him... anything. Letting him figure it out.
It's true and it's not. Because the second that Clark confirmed histories with Bruce, Clark loved him the same way. Because if he remembers those whispered words and Bruce remembered those whispered words... if he's felt Bruce die in his arms, walked with him into Crime Alley and watched him rediscover himself... if they've battled gods and monsters and demons, said the same words with, if anything, a breath or two different?
Then the difference is semantics. Because Clark loved the man who'd done those things. And this Bruce had done those things too.
And unlike the Bruce from home, the one who'd lived through that terrible alternate world with him... this one still trusted him. Believed in him. Bruce loved someone else, somewhere else too. Bruce had shared those moments with another Clark. But that other Clark hadn't kissed him. And his other Bruce hadn't trusted him enough to let him love him.
They'd done that with each other. The important pieces, the vital pieces, had happened here. And that made them no less real, made what they shared no less real, than anyone else. It made them love at first sight all over again, in a way, and there was something magical to that.
As soon as he feels Bruce lean in, feels the tension in him fade away, he settles on the floor and pulls Bruce into his arms. The man's empty at the moment, metaphorically perhaps but definitely physically. He hadn't had much and he'd retched it up pretty quickly.
Clark grabs a wash cloth and reaches up to wet it before wiping away a few specks from Bruce's mouth. Tosses it back into the sink when he's done and gets both arms around the other man. He'll just let Bruce sit, curled up against him for a few moments to settle out. He'd almost want to move them, but Bruce had chosen the bathroom (one of the most defensible spots in any home) and Clark is fine sitting there with the other man in his arms for the moment. He runs one hand through Bruce's hair, slow and even and soothing and he doesn't say anything because there's nothing that needs saying.
If he could hear all that narration, he'd probably puke again. So it's for the best that he doesn't, because he instantly wants to die all over when that wash cloth happens. Definitely more than enough vomit for one day. Wow, awesome, very smooth, Wayne. Master of seduction. Maybe he'll publish a book. How To Fuck Up Spectacularly In Every Way Imaginable And Still End Up With The Guy. Its single chapter will be advice on finding aliens with deeply warped standards.
He's not ungrateful. He's not unmoved. He is so grateful and moved he's collapsing in on himself in flippant defensiveness. It's better to stay absolutely silent, as he is nothing if not-self aware. At times.
Bruce does what he's wanted to do since he showed up in the middle of the night, and curls himself against Clark. The both of them are too well-built to have a single inch of comfortable softness, the tile sucks, and they're too tall to be on the floor of this cramped bathroom. Somehow, that's all fine.
Clark will stroke his back and kiss his hair. He'll hold him here on the bathroom floor and ignore the scent of vomit. He'll close his eyes and listen to Bruce's heart, feel it against his own skin, thump thump thump, and he won't smile, but he will feel all right, genuinely all right, truly content and safe and good in a way that only Bruce can do.
That hadn't always been the case. Once upon a time, what felt like a lifetime ago, he'd had that with Lois. And then he'd seen what a madman would do to her to hurt him. Then he'd seen what he could become when she died. The love was still there but the trust, the safety, was broken. Shattered forever. They'd separated because they loved each other, because they couldn't be what they'd been. Separated because they'd decided that if this experience healed what'd been broken, they hadn't wanted to close the door.
But if being here had done anything, it was to make him more certain.
And that sounded so terrible, sounded like Bruce was the second string, his fill in choice, a substitute when that couldn't be further from the truth. Because he'd always loved Bruce the same way he loved Lois. Always. He'd made his choice because Lois had been ready and Bruce had not, because Lois had wanted it and Bruce... had been Bruce. And he'd never thought for an instant that he'd 'chosen' between them any more than he'd choose his Kryptonian side over his human upbringing. He was both, and he loved them both.
And now, the man that he was now, would always love Lois. But that man needed Bruce. Because Bruce understood the darkness. Bruce understood fear. Bruce was capable in ways that Lois, bless her, bless her, was not. Bruce would never fall prey to the same terrible things Lois had and he needed that. He needed to know that. He didn't think Bruce knew that, couldn't imagine Bruce knew that. And he would never, ever tell him. Because he couldn't ever let Bruce think he was responsible for him. Because love wasn't about need. Love was about choice. And even though he'd needed, he could have lived happily with the two of them as friends. He could have because that relationship had always been amazing, had always been as intense and deep and tight as it was now. It would have been enough.
But Clark chose. Clark chose to love this way too. And now that he had, now that he knew what it was to love Bruce Wayne this way, to let down every defense and bare himself. Now that he knew what it was to kiss him, to sleep beside him, to hold him in his arms and stroke his hair and kiss his temple and even to wipe the vomit from his lips...
He couldn't imagine wanting anything else. Anyone else. And that was just the way it was. Come hell, come high water, come low water. Come the end of the world. He had the most... amazing man in the world with him. And that meant that everything would be fine.
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no subject
The thing is, though, that while Bruce is Bruce, Clark is Clark. And part of being Clark is that he reaches out to take Bruce's hand again, wrap his fingers around Bruce's fingers, give the faintest of squeezes.
He can.
He can move planets. He can create worlds. He can save cities. He can stop tsunamis. He can pull a kitten from a tree and still be taken seriously. He can look at a pair of potential criminals and send them home without a punch thrown or a bullet fired because Superman knows they can do better, knows they can find another way. He can hear the suffering of the whole world every day of his life and still believe in the basic goodness inherent in every human being enough to go out and risk his life and the lives of the people he loves to try and bring that hope to everyone else.
He can love Bruce Wayne, regardless of the world he came from. He can see that the man he loves was as much a victim as anyone else. Is as much a survivor as anyone else. Is his hero for beating himself and dragging himself kicking and screaming through that hell to the other side.
"I can," he says, firm. Warm. Present.
"Will you let me?"
no subject
He could scream. How dare Clark do this to him and turn everything on its head, do something he can't process, that he's never been able to handle. Bruce is so uncomfortable with unconditional love being handed to him that he's built cornerstones of his personality around being simply ineligible for it.
Of course this is what Clark is offering him, of course it would be the impossible thing he won't hesitate, won't even consider hesitating over. Fuck you, he thinks viciously. Hate me like everyone else, you son of a bitch.
He's so angry.
He wants this so damn much.
"I don't know how."
no subject
"We'll figure it out."
We. They're the goddamn World's Finest. There is no other superhero team in their world, in any world, to match them.
"I love you. I'm not going anywhere. And we'll figure out how to do this."
no subject
He releases a shuddered, choking breath-- nothing more than that. He was a sensitive kid, and while some of his all-consuming emotions have carried over into adulthood, the last time he's cried was after Jason. (That it's anymore, not after Jason's death, just, Jason.) His body's forgotten how, and so he doesn't. What he does do is lean into Clark, and all the tension and fight bleeds out of him. Letting him... anything. Letting him figure it out.
no subject
Then the difference is semantics. Because Clark loved the man who'd done those things. And this Bruce had done those things too.
And unlike the Bruce from home, the one who'd lived through that terrible alternate world with him... this one still trusted him. Believed in him. Bruce loved someone else, somewhere else too. Bruce had shared those moments with another Clark. But that other Clark hadn't kissed him. And his other Bruce hadn't trusted him enough to let him love him.
They'd done that with each other. The important pieces, the vital pieces, had happened here. And that made them no less real, made what they shared no less real, than anyone else. It made them love at first sight all over again, in a way, and there was something magical to that.
As soon as he feels Bruce lean in, feels the tension in him fade away, he settles on the floor and pulls Bruce into his arms. The man's empty at the moment, metaphorically perhaps but definitely physically. He hadn't had much and he'd retched it up pretty quickly.
Clark grabs a wash cloth and reaches up to wet it before wiping away a few specks from Bruce's mouth. Tosses it back into the sink when he's done and gets both arms around the other man. He'll just let Bruce sit, curled up against him for a few moments to settle out. He'd almost want to move them, but Bruce had chosen the bathroom (one of the most defensible spots in any home) and Clark is fine sitting there with the other man in his arms for the moment. He runs one hand through Bruce's hair, slow and even and soothing and he doesn't say anything because there's nothing that needs saying.
no subject
He's not ungrateful. He's not unmoved. He is so grateful and moved he's collapsing in on himself in flippant defensiveness. It's better to stay absolutely silent, as he is nothing if not-self aware. At times.
Bruce does what he's wanted to do since he showed up in the middle of the night, and curls himself against Clark. The both of them are too well-built to have a single inch of comfortable softness, the tile sucks, and they're too tall to be on the floor of this cramped bathroom. Somehow, that's all fine.
no subject
Clark will stroke his back and kiss his hair. He'll hold him here on the bathroom floor and ignore the scent of vomit. He'll close his eyes and listen to Bruce's heart, feel it against his own skin, thump thump thump, and he won't smile, but he will feel all right, genuinely all right, truly content and safe and good in a way that only Bruce can do.
That hadn't always been the case. Once upon a time, what felt like a lifetime ago, he'd had that with Lois. And then he'd seen what a madman would do to her to hurt him. Then he'd seen what he could become when she died. The love was still there but the trust, the safety, was broken. Shattered forever. They'd separated because they loved each other, because they couldn't be what they'd been. Separated because they'd decided that if this experience healed what'd been broken, they hadn't wanted to close the door.
But if being here had done anything, it was to make him more certain.
And that sounded so terrible, sounded like Bruce was the second string, his fill in choice, a substitute when that couldn't be further from the truth. Because he'd always loved Bruce the same way he loved Lois. Always. He'd made his choice because Lois had been ready and Bruce had not, because Lois had wanted it and Bruce... had been Bruce. And he'd never thought for an instant that he'd 'chosen' between them any more than he'd choose his Kryptonian side over his human upbringing. He was both, and he loved them both.
And now, the man that he was now, would always love Lois. But that man needed Bruce. Because Bruce understood the darkness. Bruce understood fear. Bruce was capable in ways that Lois, bless her, bless her, was not. Bruce would never fall prey to the same terrible things Lois had and he needed that. He needed to know that. He didn't think Bruce knew that, couldn't imagine Bruce knew that. And he would never, ever tell him. Because he couldn't ever let Bruce think he was responsible for him. Because love wasn't about need. Love was about choice. And even though he'd needed, he could have lived happily with the two of them as friends. He could have because that relationship had always been amazing, had always been as intense and deep and tight as it was now. It would have been enough.
But Clark chose. Clark chose to love this way too. And now that he had, now that he knew what it was to love Bruce Wayne this way, to let down every defense and bare himself. Now that he knew what it was to kiss him, to sleep beside him, to hold him in his arms and stroke his hair and kiss his temple and even to wipe the vomit from his lips...
He couldn't imagine wanting anything else. Anyone else. And that was just the way it was. Come hell, come high water, come low water. Come the end of the world. He had the most... amazing man in the world with him. And that meant that everything would be fine.