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Clark stares helplessly as Bruce -Batman- crawls to get to him, hearing the sickening crunch of the glass below him. It makes his heart clench and his stomach twist in a weird way. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the sound as best as he can, but because of his handy superhearing (sarcasm), he can't. He actually feels like he'll be ill, he feels the bile rising up because he can't handle to see Bruce like this.
Of course, Batman says nothing, he just stares and keeps crawling, not wanting to set off any weird lasers. For a bit of context, Clark had been kidnapped by some guys that wanted Superman to come to them (to force experiments on, obviously), and thought that the best way would be to get the reporter that gets most interviews, none other than Mr Clark Kent. They were planning to torture Superman and then force him to overcome experiments, but this is the real torture, seeing Bruce get hurt right in front of him and not being able to do anything because he has kryptonite embedded in the chair.
Clark, albeit the whole situation, applauds himself on his acting, as when the kidnappers had thrown him in the chair that was so clearly intended for Superman, he didn't flinch or make any indication that it hurt. But it hurt. A lot. The bile rising up feels much realer now, since he actually does feel pain and hurt and- he can't really feel anything but, honestly.
The kidnappers had set up lasers, which Bruce would normally shut down in a second, but he didn't want to accidentally hurt Clark (even if he'd heal instantly), and he was so scared. He was scared he wouldn't have gotten there in time and the kryptonite poison would've already been too much to bear, he was scared Clark would pass out and god knows he'd only be just able to carry him, he weighs like 110 kilograms!
Once he could finally stand upright, Bruce fretted over Clark like a schoolboy that had just witnessed his crush walk into a door. He kneeled by his side, untying the ropes and not even daring to look at him. Bruce Wayne, the man that was so difficult with his emotions, so closed off, was looking at Clark Kent like he was the most precious thing in the world. And Clark couldn't even see it, he was too weak to use his powers and check under the cowl. Once he was out of the chair (which the kidnappers had stupidly not rigged), he slumped onto Bruce, and it was a true miracle the other man didn't fall over. Bruce put him back in the chair, practically running around to find how to disable the lasers. Once he did, Bruce went back to Clark, only to see newer burns by his wrists. He had missed those. Fuck, his veins were looking darker already.
Bruce muttered something, probably a curse, under his breath, although Clark was starting to see blurry and not hear, so he couldn't retort a little "language!" as he always did. Bruce found himself hating that he couldn't do anything. That he hadn't done anything to help before. No reason to dwell on the past, but he couldn't stop thinking that he could've done something more, he could've-
A sharp wince from Clark brought him back to the present, watching as Clark closed his eyes as tight as they could be and lifted a trembling hand to his ears. He was weak, yes, but his powers had gone into overdrive for some reason? He could hear everything, every little sound, every cat stuck in a tree, every kid complaining, every ermine chirp. He dully recalled that they were from Eurasia, so his hearing really had been amplified.
* * *
In an hour or so, Bruce had him in the Bat Cave, patching him up. Well, not him, his hands were shaking too much for him to do so. No, it was Alfred, who was tutting quietly as he saw the wounds. "Patching him up" wasn't really the case, since the butler had just moved him to an open window, but Bruce was still pacing the floor and not even seeing the shard of glass that had torn through his suit. Alfred hadn't noticed either, it seemed.
Clark had woken up when the Sun itself had come up fully, healing him. Bruce didn't notice, he was asleep, resting his forehead on top of their clasped hands, too scared to let him go in case he stopped breathing. Bruce found he was very scared when it came to Clark Kent. And that scared him even more. Clark, when he sees Bruce, smiles and tries to talk, but all that comes out is a broken cough and a wheezy gasp. Bruce shoots up like a bullet, eyes wide open and already scrambling for a water bottle.
Clark drinks like a man who was dehydrated. Because maybe that's what Kryptonite does. Bruce hates that he doesn't know its effects exactly, but no one really knows. Even so, it claws at him and forces him to see just how much in pain Clark is. Was. It's weird and difficult and Bruce hates it.
When Clark's finally come to, he's gulped half of the water down, and is smiling at Bruce, who just scowls slightly. The cowl is gone, so he can see his face, and Clark knows he hasn't slept or eaten or done anything. He's gone through more, he's survived before. Clark knows he'll be fine, and Bruce knows the other is already worrying about him. With all the strength he can muster (emotional, obviously, since he can't believe he's actually doing this), he gently cups the side of Clarks face, opening his mouth to speak. No words except small babbles come out, not knowing what to say, how to help.
Clarks smile grows impossibly wider and brightens. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes slightly. Bruce's frown grows deeper and he knows he's a liar when he speaks, because he doesn't mean any of what he says when he has his world in his hands.
"I hate you so much."
"No you don't," Clarks voice is still raspy and a bit painful to listen to, so Bruce nudges the water bottle to his lips again. Clark grins, and his lips are chapped and Bruce wants to kiss them better. "you were worried about me."
"Yes," Bruce mutters. "I was. I am. Keep drinking."
Clarks smile drops so fast Bruce thinks he might've done something to hurt the other man, pulling back as quick as he can. Not quick enough, obviously, as Clark grabs his elbow with suprising strength. He looks at him.
"What- Bruce, what are these?" Clark asks quietly, not feeling he can make his voice louder.
Bruce looks down, following Clarks gaze.
"Oh. Scrapes, I- Neither Alfred nor I noticed they were there, we were much too busy focused on you." He knows he just admitted that he was worried, fretting over Clark like a hormonal 16-year-old, but he also knows Clark wont care.
Clark gently forces Bruce to slump in the chair he's sitting in, making his neck hit that uncomfortable corner where the back of the chair and the seat meet, grabbing his legs and propping them up. Clark sits up, not even feeling the little pain left that hadn't been healed. He takes the shards off, plucking them gently and looking them over so he won't bleed more than necessary. He takes off the trousers, not looking at Bruce as the other man pointedly stares away.
Clarks eyes are on his legs, not daring to look any lower right now. He pretends he doesn't see how Bruce winces with one particular shard, pretends his heart doesn't clench. That morning, he sleeps soundly, holding Bruce and spooning him. Bruce isn't snoring, he never does, but he doesn't protest against the hold Clark has on him (as he usually does). Clark takes that as a sign that Bruce hadn't slept at all. When Alfred comes in for morning tea, Clark quietly tells him to 'please leave he's so tired-', and Alfred does exactly that.