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They called him their “angel”. A fallen being, given to them from God. They were god-fearing people, but never hesitated to help those in need, never turned their backs on their community. They knew right from wrong.
And all throughout of his living with them, they never asked for anything more. Nothing more than… Having a child of their own.
He gasps awake, chest heaving despite the futile need to breathe like a human. He can hold his breath for 30 minutes, the longest he once did was nearly an hour, and that was only if he’d soaked himself under yellow sunlight for a few minutes.
His fingers clutch at the blanket draped over him.
The apartment is empty, dark corners looming, shadows elongated. The only saving grace is a lone lamp still lit on a desk.
“You left the light on again,” he mutters to no one—no one when the one who matters hasn't gotten back yet. Shuffling off the bed, bare feet dragging across wooden floorboards. A click and the room becomes bathed in darkness. A familiar friend.
It’s on nights like tonight that he recalls, chest aching with longing, nostalgia of flying from one city to another, country to country, continent to continent.
Sometimes, he can still feel the warmth of the sun in the Philippines. Of jumping into lava for a routine bath. He can remember the way the people—farmers—would sit under the hot sun all day, planting in the rice fields, legs submerged, backs hunched over. And during the night, the same farmers would pack and separate the grains they’d collected, hand by hand, only for a scrap to be left as payment—too small meals for a family of 6 or 7 members.
The miners in Brazil, slaved to work day and night, from adults to children as young as 7, mining diamonds for an evil company.
“Did you sleep well?”
He stays staring at the lamp, the bulb cool now, no doubt.
“I...” He blinks, in a flash he sees his mother and father, Jonathan and Martha, and the symbol of his people—labourers—torn and shifting in his grip, the weight of his whole planet, of his family in his hands; and he sees patchwork blue fabric, of a hand stitched symbol of his family, his people, of his parents; Lara and Jor-El, Martha and Jonathan Kent.
A hand comes, finger tips calloused but gentle. Large hands used to carrying weight, a body built to protect. A human with sown weapons embedded in his flesh yet remains small, delicate—hopeful.
“Kal? Clark?” Bruce looks down at him, his cowl is on the desk, his eyes still smudged with grease paint, and despite him wearing the shadows on his shoulders, he remains bright—Kal—Clark’s own sunlight now.
Bruce had called him. Whispered into the night, ‘Superman’, he stood atop, balanced on exposed beams, feet hip width apart. And had said, ‘You are the Superman they’ve been talking about—Kal.’
Gotham is entwined with forces beyond Bruce’s capabilities, yet he’d somehow managed to go against them. Had faced men larger than monsters, monsters with the face of a man—and just like the rest of the world being sucked dry under the people’s noses, Gotham was being controlled through medicine; serums in syringes, venoms in tubes.
‘No…’ Kal is a boy—a man from Krypton, who died alongside his dog, his brother, his parents. ‘My name is Clark… Clark Kent.’ The Gethsemane who gave him solace; the parents who never feared the son from god.
Clark breathes in, shudders before nuzzling in the hand cupping his face, wrapping his fingers around Bruce’s wrist. “I saw them again…”
Bruce’s eyebrows furrow, eyes glistening in unshed tears, heart stinging. A hand comes resting on the curve of his waist, pulling him closer. Clark presses them together, buries his face into Bruce’s chest, shoulders lifting with a heavy inhale.
Bruce moves his hand from Clark’s cheek to tangle his fingers through shaggy dark hair, feeling the way Clark’s scalp is a bit damp from cooling sweat. The hand on his waist moves, arm wrapping around him instead, Clark’s hand resting low on his back.
Lips press on the underside of his jaw, mouth nipping at his chin, a hand trailing lower. Bruce lets out a shaky exhale as the hand on his back rests now on his ass, gripping just enough for its weight to be felt but light enough for him to back out of.
Then the hand loosens, moves back up to rest on Bruce’s lower back, Clark leans back down, tucking his head under Bruce’s chin. “I’m sorry.”
Despite it, Bruce still cards his fingers through Clark’s hair, leans down and presses a kiss to his crown and pulls the smaller man into his arms.
“Can you help me take my suit off?”
Clark nods where he’s hidden against his clavicle, his arm squeezing him before pulling away.
Bruce turns around, suppresses the shiver of sensing Clark’s hands on his back, of unzipping him and taking the clasps off his armour, holding him by his waist as Bruce shimmies out of his bottom half of his suit, boots laid haphazardly on the floor.
With a make-up wipe, Clark takes his chin and wipes the grease paint from his face while they breathe each other’s air.
And with a hand on the small of his back, Bruce lets himself be led to the bed—the bed he shares with Clark since their meeting—lets Clark put him into a baggy hoodie and tucks them in.
Clark latches on, his arms wrapped around his waist, hands resting against his hips, back squeezed into a small chest. Breaths fan across his clothed neck, his naked legs twined with Clark’s—a thigh rested between his own.
A kiss flutters on his nape before Clark nuzzles into him. Bruce places his hands on the arms around him, feather-light and careful.
His only saving grace is Clark being too encompassed by his own memories—his own nightmares—to not question the ones plaguing Bruce tonight.
Maybe one of these nights, they’ll make love instead of sex; one of these nights, Clark will stop seeking him out when he’s thrown into the throes of his memories; one of these nights, Clark will look him in the eyes, whisper into his ear, I love you.