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It's easier when he's moving.
When he's not, well. He's not sure what to do when he's not. His empty hands itch.
It's not that he's alone. He has his people back now, of course, his mother and Lois, even if she can't love him the way she did. He has his job back, even. And— he has new people now too, the League, people like him. People who can help him, and people to who Superman is as much a person as Clark Kent ever was.
And somehow, he has Bruce Wayne in his corner. It's an odd feeling.
They— fought. And Bruce tried to kill him, and then he died, and then Bruce fought to bring him back to life. He doesn't know what to make of that, or what he should. Is supposed to. He doesn't know what Bruce wants him to make of it, because in ways Bruce Wayne is even more inscrutable than Batman, and just-Bruce is the worst of them all.
Clark died, and then he got better. He's not sure what to make of a series of things like that.
(Bruce bought a bank. It's nothing to him, he understands that, but Clark doesn't even— and the Hall. That does mean something. He did all that and somehow it's harder now that Clark's alive.
He kind of gets that though.)
Getting the necessary details of Superman and Clark Kent both dying and then coming back to life in quick succession ironed out takes a bit. But it's done, and then—
He doesn't know what to do after that. It's uncomfortable at the Planet, and he's still too new to the League, trying to learn his place in a team that has closed ranks a little bit.
That's not to say they're not trying. They are. It would be unfair to say otherwise. But they don't fit together, ragged edges. Diana is still grieving her people. Arthur and Victor never wanted to be here. Barry is so young. Bruce doesn't play nice. They've all lost a lot.
And Clark doesn't dream of death, but dying— that features. That features a lot.
He's not the only one with nightmares; Bruce calls for him in his sleep precisely once, a strangled ugly sound. By the time Clark manages to tune into him he'd been awake and breathing normally, moving around his room. He spends maybe more time than he should thinking about the way Bruce had said it, fear and fury.
They don't talk about it, all these little imperfections. And maybe Clark's afraid to anyway, something solid in the core of him that sits uncomfortably at the idea of it. That— if he makes them think about it, they'll think twice about him.
It was hard being alone.
And it pushes, that solid thing. Like a pulse, whenever they gather. He keeps his mouth shut.
Victor's relationship to his body is a lot more complex than Clark's is, maybe simply by dint of Clark having never known anything different.
Clark very nearly wants to ask anyway. But that's too much.
There's something beautiful to working with Victor, though. Clark's still working it out. Between them—
Well, the whole League's like that, a little bit. But between Cyborg and Superman lies the whole world and all its people.
"Kal," Diana says, glancing up. Clark cocks an eyebrow. They're sitting on a roof in Metropolis, because Bruce doesn't need them right now. He's not in full regalia, has got a coat on over his cloak more for the texture than the warmth. Clark's listening far, one eye on her. "Why his colours?"
Clark carefully doesn't flinch. It's a good question. It's been months since he came back, the effects of the K are all but gone.
He's not sure. He tells her that truthfully, then, "I'm not the same. As before. And Superman shouldn't be either. So maybe I just need to— step back. Remind myself."
"Of?" Diana says, gentle.
"Why he came for me the first time," Clark says grimly. Diana's eyebrows rise, but she doesn't seem that surprised.
"How is Superman different," Diana asks, changing tact. Clark shivers at the howl of a siren.
"He's too deep," he says, trying to explain and knowing he's stumbling over it. "He shouldn't be. He shouldn't — be so central to the city. They need help, but not a saviour."
Diana purses her lips. "You know Batman also descends into the streets dressed up in a secret identity to commit acts of extreme violence," she says, and Clark laughs.
"I'm an alien," he stresses to her, a little more playful now. Softens it, "Batman is only human, no?" It's a lot more complicated than that, but that's the crux of it.
"Yes," Diana says, more tenderness to it than he expects. "He fought for you," she adds, and Clark closes his eyes. "You know that."
"Still," Clark says. He's not going to forget just because Bruce forgave him. They're still carrying that fear. And most of this is because of him. Diana puts her hand on his knee, brushes careful.
"Hey," Barry says after a debriefing once, when they're both wandering around the Hall and collide. His mouth curls up. "Wanna race?"
Yes, he does, actually. Barry smiles even wider and brighter somehow.
He's immensely grateful for Barry in ways he can't articulate. One more for the list of things he doesn't know how to say.
"Thank you for your time, Mr Wayne," Clark Kent says deliberately, tapping his pencil against his notes.
"Oh, is that all," Bruce says, airy in a way where Clark genuinely doesn't know if he's faking it. Clark rolls his eyes and takes the quiet return of the dismissal for what it is.
At least until he freezes through the sound of an explosion and turns back, wide eyed, to find Bruce already running towards it, shedding suit jacket and tie. Clark has no idea where he keeps his gear, but he strips off his own outerwear and rises to fly in anxious circles, waiting.
Diana's back in Themyscira and Victor's out of town. It's just the two of them; Barry's got school to worry about and they're not going to call him in if it doesn't get bad.
Bruce reemerges as Batman. "Report," he growls, and Clark dips low enough Bruce can hear.
"Office building, not a warehouse," he says. "I don't know if there's more bombs— lots of people in the blast zone still. Six blocks." Bruce goes quiet, and then he shakes his head.
"Go," he snaps. Clark obeys.
He's moving now, narrow focus and trying to see. Has half an ear on Bruce behind him, the swing-stick of his grappling hooks, over and over.
Turns out it's no one in particular, some low level terrorists, kidnapped a CEO. They're looking for Bruce, though, from what they're saying.
Clark hesitates before relaying this information. Bruce spreads his arms.
"They've got me," he says, grim under the cowl, and then he's gone, leaving Clark to trail behind and gather civilians away from a perimeter.
"Fuck," Bruce says over comms, a distinct double tone to it. It's the first sound through them that hasn't been the thud of flesh and gunfire. "They want you, Superman," he says lowly.
Clark stills in midair. "Meaning?" he says, bracing himself. He catches a collapsing pillar for long enough that a mother can rush her children out from under it.
"They've planted two more. And one with K."
Ah, shit.
"I didn't get to the other one," Bruce says, hurried and still working. He's running again. "But I can. Tell me where it is and get out of here. Clear the area."
"Like hell," Clark says, sweeping two more people out of the blast radius of the first bomb.
"Superman," Batman snaps.
"Sorry, B," Clark says and listens for the beeping.
"Will you just listen— "
"No time," Clark says, already winding through the concrete of the basement. When he finds it, the kryptonite is at least locked in the interior. "Twenty seconds," he reports.
"Bring it here," Bruce says, and Clark stops thinking about it at all. "Superman."
He's spent long enough thinking about trust. This is it.
Eighteen by the time he gets it to Bruce. Five once he gets it disarmed, Clark bracing himself to shield Bruce and the remnants of the building from it.
And then it's over. "Christ," Clark breathes, watching the tangled mess of metal and wire. Inside that all is a green glow, he knows. "Damnit. You're an idiot."
It finally crashes on him that he was scared, at least a little bit.
Bruce laughs low in his throat, neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne, and something loosens all the rest of the way in Clark's chest.
He was scared of the kryptonite, and the bomb, and of maybe dying again to something so stupid. It was just a bomb, but— God. But he's fine. He's fine, and the kryptonite is still hidden under enough metal that even when Bruce picks it up he barely feels the exhaustion.
"Come on," Bruce says, tired. "Before the reporters get here," and that's with a curl to his mouth that means he sees and knows the irony of it.
Clark offers him his arm, and Bruce scoffs, and they're gone.