Work Text:
The last thing Bruce remembered was the blinding sunlight and Clark's sky-blue eyes. Then came darkness—not the familiar comforting night but an uncomfortable, thick, sharp one. Bruce lost consciousness.
...
Today should have been a date for Clark. He had planned his day almost to the hour. Bruce would pick him up from work, they’d drive to Clark’s small apartment, eat noodles from their favorite Asian restaurant nearby, settle in front of a movie where at least one of them would inevitably fall asleep while the other carried them off to bed and snuggled close to their warm body. It sounded perfect, especially considering how long it had been since they'd seen each other, separated not by distance (Clark could cover that in minutes) but by duty and responsibility.
But sometimes even superheroes don’t catch a break.
Before Bruce reached Metropolis, Diana called both of them urgently asking them to come to base immediately.
Of course. Of course today is when Earth needs its heroes again.
With nothing else to do, he drove there. And within three hours or so, the League was already engaged in another battle with alien creatures. Why aliens kept coming to Earth despite knowing about the failures of their predecessors remained a mystery to Clark. These particular ones also had some fancy weaponry, making them harder (though not impossible) to defeat—he was Superman after all.
But that's not what mattered most. Amongst all members of the League, those on assignment and those stationed back at Base, Bruce was the only human. An incredibly strong human, yes, but still fragile enough that Clark often forgot just how delicate he truly was. So when his supersensitive hearing picked up the loud crack of Bruce’s spine, his heart dropped into his boots.
He quickly finished off his enemy and flew straight over to Batman, who lay sprawled like a ragdoll. Kneeling before him, Clark sighed in relief upon hearing Bruce’s heartbeat. Good. At least that much. Clearly trying to focus, Bruce looked dazed, and Clark suspected that besides whatever injuries he sustained, he might have suffered a concussion as well. Reaching out, he gently stroked Bruce’s dust-and-blood-stained cheek.
“Everything will be okay, Bruce,” Clark glanced briefly toward Diana and Barry finishing off the remaining aliens, “We won. You'll be fine.”
Wayne blinked slowly then closed his eyes. He didn’t hear what Clark said, but he smiled faintly before slipping away.
...
Supermen doesn't cry. He is hero and can't allow themselves such foolish human weakness. But carrying Bruce in his arms, battered and broken, painfully pale, he felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He told Bruce everything would be alright, though he didn't know if that were true. Not being a doctor, he couldn't say exactly how fast bones would heal or whether Bruce would walk again. Yet looking into Bruce's eyes, he wanted to say something ridiculous and implausible simply to offer solace. Suddenly, Clark understood why Bruce had smiled. Not because he believed but because he knew better. He was a genius, of course he did.
Clark didn’t take Bruce to the hospital. Wayne wouldn’t want strangers seeing him, let alone in this condition. All Clark could do was bring him home and hope among Bruce’s doctors there were people he trusted.
...
The lake house, which Clark privately referred to as an aquarium due to its panoramic windows, greeted him with silence. Three days had passed, and tonight Alfred phoned to inform him that Bruce had regained consciousness. Needless to say, Kent raced to Gotham faster than ever possible. However, he hesitated outside the bedroom door where Bruce lay under medical supervision. There was fear holding him back, afraid to enter or even knock. Guilt weighed heavily on him. For failing to protect, save, arrive in time. What good were his powers if he couldn’t safeguard the person dearest to him?
Yet not entering would cause greater guilt. After all, how could he stay away when his beloved lay gravely injured?
In the end, Clark pushed open the door and entered. Looking at Bruce, lying perfectly still on his back, Kent thought he must be sleeping. If not for the dark penetrating gaze staring right through him, he'd think otherwise. Bruce looked... pitiful. A bandage wrapped around his head, a bruise beneath his right eye, split lip, blood drying on it. He probably felt worse inside.
Slowly, as if scared to startle him, Clark approached the bed and sat beside it. The little chair groaned slightly under his weight yet held firm. Sadness washed over him as he gazed at Bruce. There was so much he wanted to say, could say, but he knew none of it would console Bruce. His love stared back with pained eyes, silent, leaving Clark dying inside. So he took Bruce’s hand in his own, leaning closer, pressing as if it might somehow save him. Sniffing softly, he caressed the swollen knuckles, unsure what to say next.
“I’m sorry…” he managed to choke out, fighting back the flood of tears.
Clark felt Bruce’s other hand touch his hair and raised his gaze to meet his lover’s.
“It’ll be okay,” whispered Bruce, “the doctor says I’ll recover.”
Now Bruce was calming Clark, far more effectively than Clark himself ever could.
...
Two weeks later, Bruce transformed from severely wounded man unable to move into an annoyance in the butt (while still very much hurt). Today, for instance, Clark walked into the bedroom to find Bruce propped up against pillows with a laptop balanced precariously on his knees. Despite his lingering concussion, Bruce was clearly working.
"I see your concussion doesn't bother you anymore," Clark grumbled disapprovingly, crossing his arms.
Bruce regarded him without any sign of remorse.
"Criminals won't arrest themselves. Now I'm tracking them remotely and sending coordinates to Gordon. Very convenient."
Clark knew Bruce missed being Batman. Missed running across rooftops, thrilling battles, puzzling riddles, adrenaline rushes. Clark knew, but couldn't allow him to overexert himself. He worried terribly about Bruce, perhaps even more than Bruce himself did.
Approaching Bruce, Clark snatched the laptop away.
"Hey!" exclaimed Bruce indignantly, sounding every bit like a child whose toy had been taken away, "I was nearly done!"
Clark offered a gentle smile and planted a soft kiss on Bruce's forehead.
"Rest please. Don't strain yourself. I'll handle your criminals."
Leaving behind a world-weary, Superman-hating Bruce, Clark departed.
...
Sometimes things got really bad for Bruce. His back throbbed unbearably, causing him to cling tightly to Clark, hiding bitter tears in his shirt, hoping they wouldn't be noticed.
"I feel useless," he murmured in the dim light of the bedroom, occasionally whimpering quietly from pain, "Can't lie here knowing somewhere people need my help."
Clark tenderly stroked Bruce's tousled hair at the nape of his neck. Seeing Bruce so devastated tore at his insides. But there wasn't anything he could do except remain present lest Bruce wallow in misery.
"Want me to patrol Gotham tonight instead?"
Instantly Bruce grabbed onto Clark's shoulders and shook his head violently.
"No! Stay..."
It sounded desperate, and Clark never could refuse.
Pressing a feather-light kiss to Bruce's lips, he laid down once more.
"Fine. I'll stay here."
...
Time went by. Bruce’s recovery progressed excellently; his back barely hurt now, Bruce seemed cheerful again, and the doctor made optimistic predictions for the future. Though rehabilitation awaited him, Clark was confident Bruce would manage it swiftly. Soon, Bruce would walk again.
On his way to Wayne Manor today, Clark stopped by a bakery and bought croissants for Bruce, delaying him slightly. Entering the bedroom in high spirits, he nearly dropped the pastry bag when he saw Bruce standing by the window, clutching the glass pane for support. Setting aside the croissants on the bed, Clark hurried over to Bruce, steadying him around the waist.
"Thank you," Bruce smirked, "Almost forgot how."
"Bruce..." Clark stared dumbfounded at Wayne, "...you're standing."
Bruce rolled his eyes, smiling nonetheless.
"You’re observant."
Clark studied him thoroughly before pulling him closer, careful not to harm him further.
"God, I'm so happy for you, you can’t imagine. I've been so worried that…"
Clark trailed off. Saying it aloud seemed pointless, given everything turned out fine.
"Thanks," Bruce suddenly spoke up several moments later.
"For what?"
"Being here."
"How could I not be?" asked Clark.
Bruce merely shook his head.
"You're an idiot, Clark."
"So are you," Clark replied, nearly laughing.
They were two idiots. But they survived.
Soon Bruce would walk again. Return to protecting the city, taking unnecessary risks. But Clark would always be there to help him stand back up.
There wasn’t anything more he could ask for.