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"Clark."
Clark tries to shift. When that doesn't work, fear takes over, and his panicking body tries to tremble in place. He fails, and fails, and fails.
He can't breathe. The planet Earth presses in on him, and it is anything but still and silent. He hears footsteps, frantic digging in the ground above him. Below, he hears the gurgle and roar of hot magma, of earthquakes, of ancient forces fighting over who will destroy the world first. His fingertips and toes won't move. His eyes can twitch and roll in their sockets, but all that brings is more burning pain, more dirt and rocks scratching at his most sensitive places. All over, unrelenting, Clark's skin stings and itches from the insects that want to make him their home.
But Clark Kent is Superman, he knows. Soon, he will come back to life.
He should not be afraid, he thinks. The worst has already happened. He faced the only object he had to fear, let it burst through his chest and lungs and back. He remembers the acid green of that kryptonite, how it made his skin break out into hives and blisters before exploding through him, killing him. Now, somewhere in his middle, the tissue squirms its way back into place. But surely, there is a small chance that his chest will cave in as he lies here. He can tell that his casket has collapsed under the weight of burial. There is already dirt packed in his ears, his nose and throat, his lungs. This may only be the beginning. He could choke to death and come back, then bleed to death and come back, over and over until someone gets him out--
Clark's throat tightens. His ragged lips struggle to whisper it hurts into the ground.
"Hold on, Clark," he hears.
Oh, right. Someone is digging him out. Clark latches on to the other person's presence. It's a man, he realizes. He is hearing the movements of a strong, heavy man with a shovel and a racing heartbeat.
"Clark, I'm here."
There's a certain scratch to the man's voice. It's familiar.
"If you're listening...."
Yes?
"It's me, Bruce Wayne. Batman."
Clark wants to laugh. It makes so much sense. There was only one person with the right equipment, the right amount of money and intelligence to monitor Clark's grave. But the mirth doesn't last. Clark twitches in place, suddenly afraid. He can't trust what he's hearing. Clark had helped destroy something Bruce cared about. The Bat had wanted him dead. They united over a common enemy, yes, but only for a short while. Then Clark died.
He is hallucinating, he tells himself. The Bruce Wayne above him is a figment. The real man is letting him rot.
Hours pass. The voice keeps going, getting closer.
"You're going to be okay, son." The earth above Clark's head shifts as Bruce presses his hand into it. And Clark would cry, if he could, because at this point he gives in, forcing himself to believe that this is real. Clark will be okay. Bruce Wayne is here, trying to soothe him out of this godforsaken nightmare --
Wood cracks. The last of the dirt lifts away. Clark is hoisted up, his back pounded with a fist until he throws up clumps of soil. Bruce wipes the grime from Clark's face with his bare hand, rocks him like a scared little boy, steadies his own breathing so Clark can follow along.
He isn’t underground, anymore. Bruce has given him a hole, a way out, and now he’s free.
Clark inhales through his nose. He can smell morning dew.
“Hush.” Bruce croons at him. Clark looks at Bruce, bewildered and captivated by this strange tenderness, until he notices that tears are dripping from his chin.
The light of dawn finds them an hour later. Bruce props Clark against him and gently guides his face toward the sun.