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Bruce Wayne sat at his computer, hiding from civilization... and Alfred. He didn't feel like explaining what had him in such a crappy mood. Superman had done it again, whoop-de-do. It was going to be all over the papers tomorrow, "Superman saves Batman!" Yes, he'd been dying, but Superman didn't need to come and ruin everything. He'd had it under control. He would have gotten out of it just like he always did. No situation was ever too tough for Batman to handle.
His anger had been stewing for too long. Bruce needed to hit something. He stood abruptly and whirled around, a Batarang in hand. There Superman hovered with his feet just above the floor. He stayed there, unflinching, and gazed at Bruce. Clark was still in uniform, the cape slightly tattered at the end. He stood directly in the sunlight, making him only a silhouette with its arms crossed.
"Go away, Clark." Bruce turned his back on him, slamming the weapon into the wood of his mahogany desk. He knew if he looked at the alien he wouldn't be able to keep his composure and stay angry. He was just too loveable. Annoying.
"No, we need to talk about this, Bruce. It's really not the end of the—"
"'It's really not the end of the world, Bruce.'" He sneered back at Clark. He was really done with this, all of it. "'It really doesn't mean anything that I just saved the world again, Bruce.' 'It's really not like I just saved Batman again, proving again that I'm superior to all of mankind.'"
"That's not fair—" Clark said hotly, touching down on the wood flooring and taking a step towards Bruce and uncrossing his arms. Bruce swung back around pointing a trembling finger at the taller man's face. He was just so angry.
"Oh, it's plenty fair. I had it under control!" Bruce shouted. He didn't need a savior. He was Batman, the vigilante who didn't need anyone! "I don't need this right now." He brushed past Clark, coming too close but intentionally not touching him. Bruce walked towards the door to his study and gripped the handle.
He turned back to face Clark, tears shining in his eyes. Clark wasn't looking at him, but instead glaring at his feet, a deep furrow between his brow.
"All I've ever done has been for you! Why can't you see that, Bruce? For two years, I've cared for and worried and loved you!" He hissed. Clark was hushed when he spoke, his anger a quiet one. He hated fighting with Bruce but it seemed it was all they ever did.
"Yeah? Where were you—" He pauses unbuttoning his vest and loosening his tie. He tugs off his shirt and looks Clark in the eyes— "when this happened to me? When I was tortured and wounded by countless people and countless gangs, where were you, Clark?"
Clark paused, not knowing what to say. What Bruce didn't know was that during those times when he was tortured, Clark had to lock himself away. He had to lock himself away because, in times like those, he lost control. Clark would kill too many innocents trying to find Bruce. He would lose himself. Bruce had no idea that each night as they slept in their bed, Clark mentally beat himself up for allowing all the bad people to wound him. He had no idea that Clark traced all of those scars, each one a promise to eradicate all of the evil and all of the impurity that caused this.
"You're insufferable!" was all he could think to say. As soon as the words left his mouth, Clark's eyes widened and he wished he could take it back.
Bruce's eyes narrowed and his frown deepened. "Well, if I'm so insufferable, why don't you just leave? Huh? If you simply can't tolerate me anymore, leave, Clark."
"Fine! I'll go," he whispered, his every word driving a stake through his heart. Clark couldn't believe the Bruce actually wanted him to leave. He rose about half a foot off the ground, watching the other man's reaction.
"And don't you dare show your alien face around here again!" Bruce shouted, gesturing wildly. Clark could feel tears well up in his eyes, his face burning hot. That's all he'd ever been. An alien, an outcast. No one wanted him around.
He turned his head, hiding his expression as he responded.
"Alright, Bruce." And before Bruce had a chance to blink, Clark was off. A couple seconds later he heard the boom of the sound barrier breaking. Bruce's lips quivered as he slid down onto the floor, trembling against the door as sobs wracked his body. They'd never fought like this before.
Bruce didn't know if Clark was really going to come back again. The thought paralyzed him.
Clark flew mindlessly, rocketing past cities and places he's been to before and his cape flying out behind him. He always ended up in Gotham. He hated the fact that he wasn't human. He yearned so desperately to be like everyone else, born on earth and susceptible to pain. Instead, he was a Kryptonian who fought bad guys daily and couldn't be harmed. He would never have a normal life.
He'd never have the type of love he wanted. He wanted to live with Bruce in the city on top of a high rise building and have the house on the farm for the vacations they would take annually. Clark wanted to wake up in bed with him and spend hours and hours tracing the scars he had won. He wanted to wake up and not have to worry about being attacked by some alien creature invading earth. He wanted to spend time building a family and tending to the farm; he wanted it all with Bruce!
He wanted so, so much of what he couldn't have. And Bruce...Bruce was the only one that he could ever imagine spending the rest of his life with. Then why was he here? That thought slowed him. Looking towards the sky, Clark could see that hours had passed, and the moon had risen over his city. Clark realized that they needed each other. And he knew what he needed to do.
He was headed home.
Bruce had waited. And waited. And waited. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 10 p.m. Bruce was getting worried and he was ready to give up. He was emotionally drained and just exhausted. Maybe this time, Clark would stay away.
"This is for the best," he thought miserably, eyes filling again. Watching the window in their shared room, Bruce changed out of his clothes for bed. He padded softly over to the closet they shared and tossed his clothes into the hamper. He walked back out and went up to the window one last time, drawing the heavy drapes back and standing there in just his boxers. He gazed up at the stars overhead and found himself making a wish, as childish as it may seem. "I wish that Clark would have come back."
He stepped back and let the drapes fall back into place. Coming around the bed, he switched off the lights on each of the bedside tables. He climbed into the silky smooth bedsheets, facing the closed door and Clark's side of the bed. An overwhelming sadness washed over him. He missed the man. He turned over to that the unbearable loneliness wouldn't be so uncomfortable. Bruce gripped his pillow and tried to ignore the coldness of the empty bed. After a while, it wasn't so bad and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, wondering if it would always be like this.
Clark landed in front of the Wayne Manor's wide front doors. He solemnly walked up the steps and before he could knock the door swung open, revealing Alfred who looked relieved.
"He's upstairs, Master Kent." Alfred murmured, moving out of the way. Clark nodded and headed up the winding staircase to where the master bedroom was. He hesitated before he gently twisted the handle, and swung the door open.
The light from the hallway cast a low light into the room, revealing a huddled form on the bed, draped in covers. Clark watched as Bruce woke with a start and stilled as he recognized that it was him in the doorway. He didn't turn around to see him though. Stepping further into the room, Clark shut the door behind him with a muted click.
He strode into the closet and took off his suit and hung it in the case next to Bruce's own. He was stalling as he ran his hands down the fabric, and he knew it. Clark didn't know what Bruce would say. He hoped he would be forgiven.
Clark headed back to the main room and stepped softly over to the bed. He lifted the covers and slid in, the bed freezing cold. He settled with his back to Bruce and waited. Bruce said nothing and didn't move a muscle. The only sound was of their breaths fading in and out. Clark flipped over and looked at the scars on the other man's back. The entry and exit wounds of bullet holes left their marks, the faded rises of flesh where knives had scored his body. Clark scooted closer to Bruce, wrapping an arm loosely around the dip of his hips. Bruce tensed and then sighed out a deep exhale. Clark tried to find words that would say everything but mean something to Bruce. He could only find two.
"I'm sorry." The silence was deafening.
Finally, Bruce moved. He flipped over and looked into Clark's eyes, then looked down. Those few moments lasted an eternity.
"Me too."