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The warehouse still burns when Clark lands.
Smoke curls through shattered windows, the metal ribs of the structure glowing orange, and the smell, blood, scorched concrete, and something like ozone hits him before anything else. He doesn’t even realize he’s called “Batman?” until his voice echoes back at him, brittle.
He hears it again, faint. A heartbeat. Too slow.
Clark is moving before the thought forms.
He finds him half-buried under a collapsed beam, cape torn, cowl split down one side like a cracked shell. Bruce tries to sit up when Clark reaches him, because of course he does, because he would rather die than look vulnerable in front of anyone.
His gauntlet slips in his own blood.
“Don’t,” Clark says, sharper than he intends. He lifts the beam like it’s nothing, tosses it aside, and kneels in the debris. “You’re hurt.”
“Nothing new,” Bruce rasps.
There’s a smear of blood across his jaw where the cowl has split. Clark’s stomach drops.
“You should have called me,” Clark whispers.
Bruce huffs a wet, humorless laugh. “Thought you were busy. Saving the rest of the planet.”
“Bruce—”
He freezes. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He hadn’t meant to use the name.
Bruce’s eyes flick up, sharp despite the pain. “Clark.”
One word. A wound opening.
The world seems to tilt around them. The fire crackles somewhere behind.
“How long?” Bruce asks, voice thin.
“Since the first week,” Clark admits, because lies feel obscene when Bruce is bleeding in front of him. “Since Gotham. I heard your heartbeat through the modulator. And you—it was you. I’ve always known.”
Bruce tries to look away, but the pain makes him fold in on himself. Clark catches him, one arm behind his shoulders, lowering him gently.
“You should’ve said something,” Bruce mutters.
“You would have pushed me away.”
Bruce almost smiles. “I pushed you away anyway.”
Clark swallows the ache in his throat. “Let me help.”
Bruce’s eyes flutter, exhaustion pulling at him. “I don’t… want you to see me like this.”
“I’ve already seen you like this,” Clark murmurs. “And I stayed.”
The words stop Bruce cold.
For a moment, neither of them moves. Clark listens—two heartbeats: his steady, Bruce’s wavering like a candle.
“I’m taking you to the Fortress,” Clark says. “You’re losing too much blood.”
Bruce doesn’t argue, which scares Clark more than anything. He shifts, carefully lifting Bruce into his arms. Bruce’s fingers curl weakly into the emblem on Clark’s chest.
Clark looks down, meeting those tired blue eyes.
“I’m not leaving you,” he says quietly. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you’ll let me.”
Bruce exhales, a shaky sound that’s almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
“Figures,” he murmurs, voice fraying, “the one time I can’t run from you…”
“You don’t have to run,” Clark whispers.
There is a beat of silence. Then Bruce’s grip tightens, just enough to feel.
“…Okay.”
It’s barely a word. But to Clark, it feels like the earth is finally settling under his feet.
He holds Bruce a little closer as he lifts off, carrying him into the night sky, toward safety, toward healing, toward whatever fragile truth they’ve finally stopped hiding from each other.
And somewhere between the city lights and the stars, Bruce’s heartbeat steadies. Just enough. Because he knows he’s not falling alone anymore.
The Fortress is quiet in the way hospitals never are, no footsteps, no fluorescent buzz, only the soft hum of alien technology and the wind howling outside across crystallized ice.
Clark lays Bruce on the med-bed as if he might break from being touched. In some ways, he already has.
Bruce’s breaths stutter. His suit is torn open across the ribs, dark with dried and fresh blood. His lip is split. There’s a tremor in his hands that has nothing to do with the cold.
Clark hovers at his side. Afraid to go, afraid to stay, equally afraid to touch.
“Clark,” Bruce says finally, voice raw. “You have to—just do whatever you have to do.”
“It’ll hurt,” Clark warns.
Bruce gives him a look that almost makes Clark laugh and cry at the same time. “I’m not new to pain.”
“That’s what scares me,” Clark murmurs.
But he does it. He starts with the gauntlets, unclasping the blood-slick metal. Then the chest piece, dented from impact. Bruce hisses when Clark lifts the edge of it.
“Sorry,” Clark whispers.
Bruce exhales. “You always apologize too much.”
“And you never apologize enough.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches. It’s the closest they get to a truce.
Clark removes the armour piece by piece. When it’s finally gone, Bruce shivers, not from cold, but from the strange vulnerability of being bare-chested under Superman’s gaze. The bruises are mottled black-blue-violet, streaked like shadows under Bruce’s skin. Clark feels each one like it was dealt to him.
“You should have called,” Clark says quietly.
Bruce doesn’t answer at first. His eyes drift, unfocused. Clark thinks he’s fading, until Bruce speaks, barely audible.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
“What wasn’t?”
Bruce swallows. “Us.”
The word hits Clark harder than any blow ever has.
“I thought if you knew,” Bruce continues, “if you saw me… you’d realize I’m not the partner you think I am. That I break too easily next to you.”
Clark’s hands still. “You think I’m here because I think you’re invincible?”
Bruce closes his eyes. “Don’t make this harder.”
“It’s already hard,” Clark whispers. “Watching you bleed is always harder than anything you could say.”
Bruce turns his face away, jaw tight. He doesn’t want Clark to see the emotion gathering there—so Clark pretends he doesn’t, and keeps working, tenderness folded into every movement.
When he runs the regeneration scanner over Bruce’s ribs, Bruce’s fingers curl into the blanket until the knuckles go white. Clark gently takes Bruce’s hand before he can think better of it.
Bruce stiffen, Doesn’t pull away.
“Hey,” Clark says softly, “breathe with me.”
They do. Slow. Then slower. Bruce’s eyes open, just a crack.
“…You’re not supposed to hold my hand.”
“You’re not supposed to be dying in my arms,” Clark replies, voice breaking. “But here we are.”
Bruce actually laughs, quiet, pained, real. “Fair point.”
The scanner hums, sealing tissue, closing deep wounds. Bruce grits his teeth but doesn’t let go of Clark’s hand.
When it’s over, Clark brushes a shaking thumb over Bruce’s knuckles. “You scared me.”
Bruce looks at him, really looks at him.
“I scare you?” His voice is so small Clark has to lean in to hear it.
“You terrify me,” Clark murmurs. “Because I can’t lose you. Not like this. Not like anything.”
Bruce’s breath hitches.
Then, quietly, almost ashamed, he asks, “How long have you felt like that?”
Clark meets his eyes without flinching. “Since before I knew your name.”
Bruce swallows hard. His heartbeat jumps, quick, startled, unsteady. Clark feels it under his palm.
“You knew who I was,” Bruce says, “and you still…?”
“Loved you?” Clark finishes for him. “Yeah.”
Bruce’s eyes widen—briefly, sharply—then soften in a way Clark has only seen once or twice in a lifetime.
“You shouldn’t,” Bruce whispers, as if it’s a warning.
“I do,” Clark says simply, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
A long silence unfolds between them, thick, trembling, full of all the things they never said.
Bruce finally shifts, just enough to lean into Clark’s touch. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, dazed.
“You’re freezing.”
“Hm.” Bruce blinks slowly. “Not anymore.”
Clark’s chest tightens. He slides a hand to Bruce’s jaw, cupping it gently, thumb brushing the edge of the cracked cowl that still clings to one side.
“I’m taking this off,” Clark whispers. “Only if you’re ready.”
Bruce doesn’t move for three heartbeats.
Then, softly, “Okay.”
Clark lifts the broken cowl. Bruce’s face emerges—bruised, exhausted, vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone see.
Clark leans forward and presses his forehead gently, carefully, against Bruce’s.
Bruce’s breath catches.
“Why?” Bruce asks, voice barely there. “Why stay?”
Clark answers with the one truth that has never wavered.
“Because I found you,” he whispers. “And I’m not letting you go.”
Bruce exhales shakily, and his hand comes up, hesitant, trembling, to rest lightly against the back of Clark’s neck.
“Clark…” he breathes, as if he has never spoken the name before. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” Clark says. “I’m right here.”
And he stays like that—holding Bruce, grounding him, letting the Fortress hum around them, until Bruce’s heartbeat steadies, slow and safe under Clark’s touch
Bruce wakes slowly.
The first thing he registers is warmth. Not the Fortress’ artificial climate or a medical blanket, but something solid and steady at his back. A weight draped over his waist. A breath against the back of his neck.
Clark.
Bruce’s heartbeat flares before he can help it.
“Are you awake?” Clark murmurs, voice soft from sleep.
Bruce squeezes his eyes shut. “No.”
Clark laughs quietly. The sound vibrates against Bruce’s spine. “Then who am I talking to?”
Bruce sighs, already defeated. “…I was hoping you’d think you were dreaming.”
“I don’t dream like this,” Clark says, voice dipping, honest. “Not with you this close.”
Bruce swallows. His throat feels too tight.
Clark shifts behind him—not pulling away, just adjusting. He’s careful, as if Bruce might shatter under his hands. Bruce hates how much he appreciates it.
“You should be resting,” Bruce mutters.
“I am resting,” Clark says. “This is… actually really nice.”
Bruce huffs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” Clark says, “but you’re alive. That’s all I care about.”
Something in Bruce flinches.
Clark notices immediately. “Hey—what’s wrong?”
Bruce hesitates. Then: “…I’m not used to being cared about.”
Clark’s arm tightens around him instinctively, protective. “I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why I’m not going anywhere.”
Bruce feels the words like a bruise pressed too gently to bear.
After a long silence, he forces out, “Clark… about last night—”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Clark says. But his voice is too fast. Too careful. Bruce realizes, Clark thinks Bruce is about to take it all back.
“No,” Bruce says, turning slowly in Clark’s arms. His ribs ache but he doesn’t stop. He needs Clark to see him. “I do.”
Clark looks terrified. Actually terrified. Like Bruce holds his heart in his scarred hands.
Bruce exhales shakily. “I owe you an apology.”
Clark blinks. “…For what?”
“For not telling you who I was. For pushing you away. For assuming you’d walk if you saw the worst parts of me.”
Clark’s eyes soften in a way that makes Bruce want to hide under the blankets forever.
“I wasn’t angry,” Clark says quietly. “Just scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing you,” Clark corrects. “I can handle the world ending, Bruce. I can’t handle you bleeding out in my arms and thinking you don’t matter to me.”
Bruce’s breath stutters. His chest aches in a different way now.
“Clark—” Bruce starts.
And Clark breaks.
All at once, like a dam giving way.
“I thought I was too late,” Clark whispers, eyes glistening. “When I found you under that beam—Bruce, I—” His voice cracks. “I thought you were already gone.”
Bruce’s heart lurches.
Clark looks away, blinking hard. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—I didn’t mean to fall apart on you like this—”
Bruce grabs his hand before the sentence finishes.
Clark stills.
“Clark.” Bruce’s voice is low but steady. “Look at me.”
Clark does. Those blue eyes are wet and raw and open.
Bruce brings Clark’s hand to his chest, pressing it over his heartbeat. “You didn’t lose me.”
Clark lets out a trembling breath. “I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
Clark’s thumb brushes unconsciously against Bruce’s skin. “I love you,” he whispers before he can stop himself. There’s a flash of horror on his face, like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
Bruce freezes.
Then, quietly, truthfully, surprisingly gently, he answers:
“I know.”
Clark’s eyes widen. “You… know?”
“I’ve known,” Bruce murmurs. “And I’m not running anymore.”
Something in Clark breaks beautifully.
He leans forward, forehead resting against Bruce’s. “Can I…?”
Bruce knows the question. And he answers with a soft, exhausted, “Yes.”
Clark kisses him, careful, reverent, more like a vow than anything physical. Bruce’s hand slides up to Clark’s jaw, fingers trembling slightly.
When they part, Bruce is breathless. “You shouldn’t kiss injured people.”
Clark smiles against his lips. “You kissed back.”
Bruce looks away. “I was emotional.”
“Want to be emotional again?” Clark teases.
Bruce swats his shoulder. Clark doesn’t even pretend it hurts.
They settle again, facing each other now. Clark studies him for a long moment.
“What happens now?” Clark asks, voice quiet.
Bruce considers. For once, he doesn’t try to overthink it.
“Now?” he says. “We try.”
Clark’s breath catches. “You’re sure?”
Bruce nods. “I spent my whole life pushing people away. It didn’t make me safer… just alone.” His fingers curl in the fabric of Clark’s shirt. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
Clark looks like Bruce just handed him the sun.
“Then you’re not,” Clark whispers. “Not ever again.”
Bruce pulls the blanket up over them both, pressing in closer to Clark’s warmth.
Clark holds him like he’s something irreplaceable.
And when morning light filters through the crystalline walls of the Fortress, it finds them tangled together—two men who have carried the world on their backs learning, finally, how to let someone else hold them too.
For two days, Bruce heals in the Fortress.
Clark fusses. Constantly. Irritatingly. Endearingly.
Bruce pretends to be annoyed.
Clark pretends to believe him.
Neither of them is convincing.