Clark awoke, groggily and by himself, tangled in the mahogany blanket, that matched the mahogany floor, surrounded by the forest green walls, yet it all looked darker, as did the gleaming steel of the wheelchair, ominously parked in front of the window and casting a long shadow across the room, all courtesy of the weak light from the low lying sun in the western sky.

He stood and walked to the shower, leaving the wheelchair where it was, possibly foolish, but he did not linger on that decision. He turned the hot water on and stepped into the shower stall, watched steam fill the air, still in a daze, in disbelief, at his memory of what had happened in the garden. He scrubbed at his skin, as though that could erase what had happened, that the water could wash away his shame and confusion, that the action and busyness of his hands, water running over them, and them running through his hair could replace the scalding burn that had waxed in his repose, covering over however not quite erasing the emptiness that Bruce's touch had caused him, even, to his dismay, after the dizziness and the disorientation waned.

Clark closed the door to his room, making sure the latch caught shut. The hall was dark now, in the early evening hours. There was a stillness here, just as there was outside; Clark had seen enough in Kansas to know that a storm was brewing tonight.

It had not yet begun, but the air was heavy, charged. The clouds were rolling in and the sky had taken on a strange color with the setting sun. Red and gray combined, the sky Clark could no longer see, standing there in the hallway, contemplating the wisdom of what he was about to embark upon.

He ultimately decided to risk it, and he began his way down the hall, the hall he had only ever been rolled down, to the elevator. He pressed the down arrow, the only option, on this floor, and the doors opened at once.

He was the only one in need of it, no doubt it had been waiting here for him, since he was in it last, though he had no memory of that last time, and it was foolish, pig-headed of him, to be doing this, after that last incident, yet he had been too unsettled to rest in his bed or wait in his room for Alfred to come fetch him.

Clark figured the worst had already happened: Bruce having to manhandle him into the wheelchair, and then back into the bed. Then he wondered, was he any better of a patient than Bruce, or Dick? Did he truly have so little patience? It had only been days.

However he was standing here regardless, stepping inside the elevator car on surprisingly steady feet, then choosing the first floor as his destination. The doors closed, and the elevator, and he along with it, for the first time alone, started their descent.

Once the car opened its doors again, Clark headed for the kitchen.

Alfred was there, as Clark expected he would be, and stopped his dinner preparations to greet him. He was remarkably nonplussed, all things considered. More amused, than anything. At least someone could be.

"Ah, Mister Kent. I do apologize for leaving you in Master Bruce's care."

"That wasn't his fault or yours, Alfred."

"So good to see you up and about, regardless."

"Thanks. I figured I could spare you a trip."

"Most thoughtful of you… Is there anything I can get you while you are here? An appetizer?"

"If you don't mind, I'd just like to sit here for awhile."

"I wouldn't mind that at all, sir. In fact, I would rather enjoy the company."

"I used to sit with my ma in the kitchen, when weather was bad like this. My pa would joke with her: whenever it'd storm outside, she'd cook and bake up a storm inside. It gave her something else to focus on. We'd play Scrabble while things were in the oven." Clark shared, as he sat down at the table that so reminded him of hers. He'd always considered that her table, her kitchen, just as he considered this kitchen Alfred's domain.

"Sounds lovely, sir. I can't recall the last time Bruce sat with me while I prepared a meal. Probably when he was a child."

"It's difficult to imagine Bruce as a child."

"He could be rather mischievous, just as young Master Dick was, believe it or not. That is of course, until…" Alfred trailed off, at a rare loss for words, yet Clark could sympathize. How to describe what had happened. The event that had changed everything. That fated night at the theater.

Just as Clark was about to change the subject, feeling it the polite thing to do, Alfred sighed, then spoke.

"The Mask of Zorro. I'd forgotten that. The play the Wayne's saw that evening. Fitting, I suppose, though a rather gruesome foreshadowing of what was to come."

"Were you here, when it happened?"

"I was. There are many things about that night I will never forget, yet the sight that still haunts me is young Master Bruce sitting at the police station, when I went to retrieve him. I… promised to care for him, though I am sure that was little comfort at the time."

"It was a comfort, Alfred. I know it was."

"Most kind of you, sir. It is an honor, but a heavy one, to care for someone else's child."

"No one could have done it better. And Bruce returned that kindness, when he adopted Dick."

"So he did, so he did… I can only imagine how your own parents felt when they found you."

"Poor Ma and Pa. They were just minding their business one day, and then I came along. I'm amazed they even looked inside the capsule."

"Well, it's not everyday an alien vessel lands practically in one's backyard. A once in a lifetime opportunity. And a decision I am sure they did not regret."

"I'm not sure how he even managed to do it, but Pa dragged that capsule and hide it underneath the floorboards of the barn for years. I still remember the first time he showed it to me. I… it was so strange. Knowing I came from somewhere else, yet having no idea where. Pa told me he didn't know much, but he knew it was no accident. That whoever did it meant to send me here, and had gone to a lot of effort to do it."

"I can only imagine how your birth parents felt, sending you away."

"It has kept me awake many nights."

"I thank them for it, though. For sending you."

"Even though Bruce was so suspicious of me? He called me the alien for years."

"As I am sure you have come to realize, Master Bruce is suspicious of almost everyone. And as I am also sure you have come to realize, you would not be sitting here conversing with me if Master Bruce were still suspicious of you."

"So, people and things really can change, Alfred?"

"Yes, sir. They really can." he replied, as the first crack of thunder sounded outside.

Clark and Alfred ate dinner alone, as the rain started to come down, at first only a pitter-patter, then growing in noise and frequency, until the sound of rain was as thunderous as the thunder itself.

Clark did not ask where Bruce was, and Alfred did not say. Clark assumed this was probably normal, in this household, though Clark did see Alfred preparing a plate. Perhaps Bruce was in the cave, working on who knows what.

Though Alfred had offered to start and stoke another fire for the evening, Clark declined, had had his fill of food and company, and retired early. He anticipated a restless evening.

He was actually starting to feel better. He did not think he would need to stay here much longer, perhaps even tomorrow he could leave.

He resigned himself to walking the halls of the third floor, the echo of his brief conversation with Alfred about it ringing in his ears.

"Would it be alright if I took a look around?"

"Of course, sir. Everything that Master Bruce truly feels worth safekeeping is kept elsewhere."

Regardless, he stayed in his wing. There were other bedrooms, but he gravitated to a library, and a large picture window within it, rain splattering across the panes. He watched the play of light, how the lightning lit up the sky and the room, only for an instant, before returning it to the shadows.

He had skimmed the shelves. Normally, he would enjoy reading, it was his profession, to write, after all, yet, though he was walking, he knew he could not focus.

So the lights remained off and he looked outward, searching for and never finding the light of the full moon behind the clouds. The lone moon.

Krypton had four.

And then the lights turned on.

"Thought I might find you here." Again, that silky smooth baritone he rarely heard. Not the deep monotone he spoke in while on duty.

Clark turned around to face him. It appeared Bruce had just come out of a shower, his hair still damp, and a towel wrapped around his shoulders, dressed casually in a t-shirt and sweatpants, carrying a small leather bag.

"Bruce." Clark acknowledged, but after that, found himself at a loss for words, imagining Bruce as a young child, coming back here that evening, to this massive, looming space, without his parents, knowing that it was all his, and his alone, yet no one to share it with, images of the night flashing through his mind, unchecked, as though they were rapidly spinning rolls of film: the rush of the theater, the excitement of the crowd, the man in black cloak and mask, confident and in control, fighting against injustice and inequality, compared with the masked man who had met them in the alley, ski mask pulled askew over his face, panicked and desperate eyes with jittery movements, yelling demands.

One a wielding a sword with ease, the other shaking under the weight of a gun.

Bruce adopted neither of those, as weapons, though undoubtably was trained in them to terrifying precision.

He also imagined Alfred that night, driving Bruce home in the dark of night, grieving not only the Wayne's but the death of their once mischievous boy, and wondering who would take his place, yet deciding regardless, he would remain to find out, and while doing so, would try to shed some light on him and endeavor to keep him safe and warm during his agonizing rebirth.

And though that boy had grown, this house was too cavernous, too vast for any one man to inhabit, no matter how wealthy, intimidating, brilliant he was, no matter how loyal and steadfast his butler, and though there were some parts of it that were claimed, filled – Alfred's kitchen, Bruce's lair – most of its space felt as though it belonged to no one, no particular allegiance, only to the many and the long lineage of Bruce's family.

Despite this, the Bruce standing before him now was confident and in control, and Clark could tell Bruce was waiting for him to say more, to fall into their usual pattern of speaking, but Clark could still think of nothing to say, except what had happened when they had last seen each other, and though he did not want to discuss it, why he had collapsed for no obvious reason, he hesitantly went with that.

"Sorry about earlier. Is your shoulder alright?"

He could tell this was the right thing to say, that Bruce enjoyed this, could work with it, by the way his lips curled into a smile. "Believe it or not, you are not the only one capable of carrying… I'm guessing you weigh at least 225."

Clark found that, to his surprise, he could work with this too, when he replied, seemingly on auto-pilot. "That's not in your files?"

"I'm well informed, not a stalker."

"But wouldn't you want to know someone's weight in case you needed to, I don't know… tranquilize them? Non-lethal methods, and all that?"

"An educated guess would suffice."

"Or you could access their medical files."

"But Clark, that would be unethical of me."

"Shayera said I didn't weigh as much as I look."

"Hate to break it to you; that was either her pride talking or she was lying. If anything, you're heavier than you look. Which is saying something."

"Thanks, Bruce."

"Spare me. As if I'm supposed to believe you're self-conscious about your weight."

"I am when people have to carry me." Clark revealed, more frank than he himself was expecting, and Bruce stilled for a moment

"I wouldn't worry much; it rarely happens."

"Does that mean you forgive me for making you catch me?"

"No."

"Shucks."

"Is that something you actually say, or are you trying to be ironic?"

"What do you think?" Clark questioned in turn, which Bruce recognized as a callback to the garden, when Clark had asked did he truly dislike the sun.

"...You're hopeless, Clark."

"My family seal says otherwise… though Lois would agree with you." She had often poked fun at his sayings and mannerisms, and if she were privy to his current thoughts, she would undoubtedly poke fun at the phrase 'poke fun.'

"Smart woman… any chance you two will reconcile?" Bruce questioned, surprisingly personal, yet there was nothing surprising about Clark's answer. Nothing to deliberate over.

"No... as you said, she's a smart woman." Being in a relationship with Superman wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and he assumed Bruce understood the implication, when his only reply was a simple "Hm."

A particularly fierce gust of wind blew by, shaking the tops of the trees in the courtyard below, and redirecting his focus; in his mind's eye he was drawn back to times, as a boy, when the howl of the elements would keep him from sleep, and he would peek out, to see the rows and rows of corn stalks getting tossed around by the storm.

Bruce, seeming to read his thoughts, asked. "This making you nostalgic? I'm sure you saw plenty of storms like this come through Smallville."

Clark nodded, then added, "It's not the same as Gotham, but Tornado Alley can be plenty exciting."

"How often have people made that joke?"

"What joke?"

"When you tell people where you're from, and they inevitably say, 'You're not in Kansas anymore.'"

"Oh, that one. Gosh, so many times I stopped counting."

"Now you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm pretty certain everyone from Kansas has heard that joke, but it can't be helped. The Wizard of Oz is a classic. You've probably got a copy of it somewhere in here."

"Probably… though for you the implication is a little more fitting than most."

"Oh?"

"That you're far from home… What is Rao?"

The jolt that went through him hearing Bruce say that name, with no preamble or explanation, dropped into the middle of this conversation like a bomb, a name Clark was positive he had never said to him before, was visceral. He could tell Bruce's question was genuine, he truly did not know what he was asking of, did not know how sacred that name was, yet Clark actually buckled under its force. It was the first time he had heard someone else say it aloud – though he supposed he had heard it during his brief time on Krypton – but one Earth he had only heard it in the recorded voices of his parents and the histories they had sent along with him. Never from a living, breathing person, and he could not keep the astonishment off his face. He half expected Bruce to tease him, for having such a strange reaction, however he did not. Only waited, as though he already knew, even before he had seen Clark's reaction, that this was important. No casual concept, no mere utterance, and not something to be treated lightly.

"Where did you hear that?" Clark asked, knowing it was pointless to play dumb, yet stalling for time.

"From you. Earlier today. Down there." Bruce pointed his chin down to the courtyard, in what from him was a fairly direct response, letting Clark know that Bruce was truly interested. He wasn't playing games, however, Clark, and this surprised him, wasn't sure how much he wanted to reveal to Bruce about this. It wasn't a terrible secret nor a weakness, wasn't something that could necessarily be exploited against him.

It also wasn't as though Bruce knew nothing of his origins. He knew the meaning behind the sigil on his chest, had seen in the Fortress of Solitude examples of Kryptonian architecture and technology. Bruce even knew of the star he had unknowingly just asked about. Specifically knew that the source of Clark's powers, the energy that fueled them, was his unique reaction to the light of Earth's younger sun, versus the in comparison measly light Krypton's older star generated.

So why he felt the need to keep this a secret, the name, he did not know. Only that he did.

Bruce, undeterred by his silence, continued."...Since you already mentioned my files, you can be assured I already checked them and found nothing. So, care to enlighten me?"

The surprises kept coming. It was rare for Bruce to outright ask for anything, and now he had done it twice. Clark had already run through his recollections, and though it was strange to him, that he had said this aloud, it made sense that he had, given his imaginings at the time, earlier today, in the garden, that was filled with sunlight then, that they were now looking upon under the cover of darkness and drenched by the continuing downpour.

Despite his misgivings, a feeling to keep this to himself, to keep it safe, within himself, he did answer Bruce's question. But only partly. He gave the surface definition only.

"It's… the name of Krypton's star. Krypton's name for it, at least. I'm sure it's in your files as something else." The Green Lantern Corps had incredibly accurate star charts that John had shared with them. It was known to the Justice League where Krypton was, or at least, where it had been, and just how far Clark had travelled to get from there to Earth. It was given a bland but practical name, a combination of letters and numbers, and its designation as a red dwarf star.

It was difficult though, to truly hide things from Bruce. Clark could see him briefly analyzing, trying to make sense of that answer, to place it within the circumstances under which Clark said it and to understand why he had done so.

Then, Bruce sighed. "Dorothy with her ruby slippers. You and your red star."

That could have come across as another joke, however the tone Bruce spoke it in was heavy, underlined with if not compassion, then understanding, and in his brilliant way, he had correctly deduced why Clark had said it, and though Clark could not go home, neither to Kansas nor to Krypton, he mused that Bruce, despite maintaining the same residence, living in the same house he had always lived in, could no more feasibly go home either. At least, not to the home of his childhood, not to the home where his parents lived with him, where they shared meals together and greeted him when he woke in the morning and bid him goodnight when he went to sleep. He had instead carried on, created a different home, first with he and Alfred, and then with Dick, and then without Dick.

Yet despite his parents not being physically here, their presence, along with the presence of Bruce's ancestors, was overwhelming. That they surrounded and filled this place, looking after their son as best as they could, just as he was sure Dick's parents looked after theirs, that they had moved in here following their son, and he had the sudden urge to tell Bruce this, but he doubted Bruce would believe him, would instead think him a sentimental fool, except this was no mere sentiment.

He truly believed it.

He had to believe it. Or he would have been crushed by the weight of being the last of his people long ago. That they continued on, not as mere memories, not solely in the remnants they had left behind, or as a cautionary tale to others, to avoid their mistakes. That they may have changed form, but they were eternal, and that was the true reason, he had said that name, not simply referring to the star, but to the Creator it had represented to his people, and this was what he had not wanted to tell Bruce. That, in Earth's terminology, to invoke Rao was to invoke God.

Another subject he was sure held little interest for Bruce, and Clark now realized why he did not want to share this definition with him. He did not want to have to answer the question, the argument Bruce would inevitably make, invoking his preferred deities: Logic and Science and Reason.

"If there was a God, why did Krypton fall? And why would you believe in a God who would allow such a thing? You survived not because of Rao, you survived because your parents were brilliant enough to pick a destination for you, navigate a course across vast amounts of distance to get you there, and build a space vessel capable of making the journey whilst keeping you alive in the process."

That he could not handle the cutting knife that was Bruce's mind against his own fractured mind on the subject, amidst his own doubts, and what seemed especially so tonight, his unguarded heart. He could not tolerate the cruel irony this evening, that the altered pieces of his beloved home-world in the hands of an enemy were the cause of his still lingering nausea and weakness, and he looked to the real Bruce now, the one who had not actually said any of these things, however Clark once again got lost in his musings, in remembered dreams and how often things go differently than one hopes for, for how often he had hoped to spend time away from work with Bruce, aside from stolen moments, at the Tower, or his unscheduled visits to the Batcave, far and few between.

To get to know him better, to speak to him when Gotham or Metropolis or the planet, were not in imminent danger, and that this seemed to be the perfect opportunity, yet wasn't turning out that way, instead, each encounter with Bruce was turning out to be stranger than the last, and he searched for anything… normal he could say. Not banter, nothing that needed interpreting, or reading between the lines, and settled for.

"You really do have a beautiful home, Bruce."

Bruce nodded in acknowledgment, then after a moment added, "I have been blessed in many ways."

Clark could not stop his eyes widening, to be so immediately and utterly thrown into doubt, about what Bruce did and didn't believe, and Bruce apparently couldn't stop his from doing the same. "Surprised? To hear such a sentiment from me?"

It was disorienting, sent him into more disarray than it had any right to, that all too familiar as of late feeling of tumbling down, down, down, which only deepened, when Bruce spoke again, lifting up the small leather bag for emphasis.

"Let me see your chest wound."

"What?"

"To change the bandage. There is a reason I'm carrying this."

"It's really fine, Bruce, it's started to heal over..."

"You saw mine. It's only fair. Besides, I want to see for myself."

"You think I'm lying?"

"Alfred thought I was." Bruce then made his way to the couch and sat down, turning on the table light beside him, before then looking over to Clark.

"Well?"

Clark conceded, made his way over and sat down beside Bruce, in what to him felt distorted, slow motion, and wondered why his reaction was once again so drastic, so out of proportion with what was actually happening, as Bruce rummaged in the bag before pulling out a cleaning solution, ointment, and a fresh bandage, and before Bruce could prompt him, Clark removed his t-shirt, and by acting first, willing this to go smoothly, that nothing untoward or unexpected would happen, hurrying it along so it would be over quickly by undoing the bandages himself, as Bruce tilted the cleansing solution bottle over onto a cotton pad, with the practiced ease of something he'd done many times, and even that was enough, the knowing, that Bruce had done this many times, for slices and stabs, for Clark to get the sensation of spinning, only for it to abruptly stop, when he felt the swipe of the pad over his own injured skin, dared a glance at Bruce, who was thankfully occupied looking at the wound, but could not help the shiver, when the ointment was applied, that ran through him, enough for Bruce to retort.

"Someone walking over your grave?" This caused another shiver, not only at the way Bruce said it, six feet deep and gravelly, but at the implications. That Lex had almost gotten his wish. To rid this planet once and for all of him.

Clark had no response to this, and Bruce did not wait for one, simply placed another bandage on top of it, and then it was done. Clark pulled his shirt back on then stood, too restless to sit, and walked back to the window, the rain sliding down the outside pane, the steady rhythm of it, that his heart did not match, was beating out of time, and he did not know why.

It was not as though he didn't already know, know how close he had come to his own mortality, or that he did not understand that Bruce had faced his own mortality, many, many times, just as he had had to face his parent's mortality at such a young age. He did not understand why it kept effecting him so, the bruises hidden under Bruce's shirt, the scars, and he wanted this feeling to stop, this suspension, this inability to gain his bearings, which only got worse, when Bruce's reflection appeared in the window, wavering along with the water.

Clark could still smell the scent of water that clung to Bruce, from his shower, and he turned to him, only to find him looking at him in turn, lightning blue eyes, to match the continuing lightning outside, flashes in the distance, coming ever closer, just as now Bruce was stepping ever closer, and at this, Clark's vertigo reached dizzying heights, and he slumped against the window, until Bruce closed the final distance between them, and then his back was pressed against the glass, and he felt momentarily better, as though Bruce was both the cause and the solution, the poison and the antidote, to whatever this secondary ailment of his was, and there was Bruce's hand on his chest, covering the bandage, finding it easily despite the fabric of his shirt covering it, fingers splayed across it, and the skin underneath instantly reacting to the foreign body urgently whispering to him, harsh and grating, berating and lecturing, revealing so many things at once.

"This… this was too close. Do you hear me? Do you have any idea how I felt? When I heard Lex did this to you? That I wasn't there?"

Clark wanted to say that he did know. That he had seen Bruce laying still and silent in the sick bay so many, too many times, remembered in terrible detail the gray, icy pallor of his skin, his closed eyes and shallow breaths, and the crushing sense that he had failed him, that even with all his superhuman strength, he had not been able to prevent him from coming to harm, but Bruce continued his tirade, that it seemed once he started, he could not stop.

"It's not only the others, at the League, who are affected seeing you like this… I've never seen you like this. Yes, I've seen you unconscious in the sickbay, but this? The recovery? You clumsy and falling, and sometimes I swear I can still see it, that damned green glow, and the irony of it all is I was so happy, when I first found out about your weakness to kryptonite, that if I ever needed to, I could take you down, and now? I'm taking care of you from its effects in my own house, watching every time you stumble, every time you can barely put a sentence together… even now, I know you're struggling to stand. Don't get sloppy, thinking you're invulnerable. You're not... Answer me, dammit!"

Bruce emphasized this last piece by slamming his flat left palm against the window pane, landing it terribly close to Clark's right shoulder, causing him to lean further back against the window, and he could feel his shirt riding up in the back, placing his skin against the cool glass, condensation forming, and lamented that though he could distinguish between hot and cold, he could not truly feel them, not the way Bruce did, his face angrily flushed, the hand covering Clark's heart heating up as well, and Clark wondered if Bruce could ever understand, it wasn't that he was unaware he could be harmed, it was just… it was so difficult to remain grounded when his parameters were so different from anyone else's, and they were his and his alone. No one to compare notes with, no one to share his experiences; to fly in the heart of one of his home-state's infamous tornados and not be blown away, to place his feet upon the ocean floor and not be crushed underneath the weight of all that water, this planet's hottest highs, and its most frigid lows, neither and nothing in between could effect him.

He could withstand even the utterly cold, airless, blackness of space and return unharmed, and how wonderful that was, that he could defy even the laws of gravity, and yet how utterly lonely it was, to be so adrift, so unmoored, so untethered to anywhere or anything.

Or to anyone.

And perhaps it was that thought that made him do something so utterly thoughtless it bordered on the insane. That that is what made him tilt his head, and lean it forward, giving Bruce an altogether different answer than the one he'd been anticipating, when his mouth met his, and yet he could not stop himself, perhaps one of the few times he had to bend to a greater force, a higher power, for that is how little control he felt he had over his actions, that something was indeed pushing him somewhere he had not planned on going, that a tide was coming in, submerging everything he thought he knew about his relationship with Bruce and replacing it with this, the feel of his lips against his, and a scent that was his and his alone, that even the shower could not wash away, one that Clark could not describe in any other way except that it was familiar and long misplaced, suddenly found.

A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, almost simultaneous and startlingly close, gave him a fright and he pulled back, so loud in the private little world he'd been in previously, only to remember what he'd pulled away from, and his eyes began to widen and his cheeks redden, only to worsen, when Bruce spoke, but did not move away.

"Clark… If you have any other explanation besides the obvious for that, tell me now."

A dream opened, and a dream shut. It was too intentionally done to be dismissed as an accident, yet it was an accident, in the sense that it was unexpected and could most definitely be considered unfortunate, at least having an unfortunate outcome judging by the flatness of Bruce's voice, the inscrutability of his expression, and the hardness to his eyes, that Clark without knowing where he found the courage had dared to look into, perhaps hoping he would find his reason for doing what he had reflected back to him there, however he did not, only found the piercing, digging questions one always found in Bruce's eyes, and Clark very much wanted to float off and away now, into the storm that would have no effect on him, only to soak his clothes and his skin, and to his surprise his body obeyed, his feet lifting off the floor only to remain hanging, trapped where he was, as Bruce had not moved away, kept one hand flat against Clark's chest and the other along side him, caging him between the glass and himself, and Clark did not have the heart to push him away, felt as though Bruce did deserve some sort of explanation for this, he had taken him into his home, after all, except what to tell him.

He made his living writing, yet could come up with no words for this, however as the saying went, actions speak louder than words, and his body was speaking for him, to both his horror and his amazement, head tilting, pressing forward, lips meeting, once again, and there was a split second, where time compressed in on them, where Bruce was still and Clark knew for better or worse, he had, however unknowingly, done something he could never undo, and suspended, he awaited Bruce's answer, and how their roles had switched, where before it was Bruce demanding an answer from him, and now Clark felt he was pleading with Bruce for his, that he did not know where they were or how they had gotten here, only that they had and that they were here, the distorted space around them, slowing them down, and the distorted space between them, invading each other's personal space and Clark could at least admit to himself that he wanted to stay here, that he only wanted to float away if Bruce did not reciprocate, yet Bruce remained frozen as ice, as ungiving as rock, so Clark made one final move of his own, because of the small glimmer of hope brought about by the fact that Bruce had not pushed him away, that he kept him caged, was not letting him float away, by bringing his hand up and placing it along the side of Bruce's face, with an unfamiliar and altogether unpleasant fluttering to his fingers, as though they could give way at any moment, that they were not up to the task of this, did not have the strength to hold themselves there, and when Bruce still did not respond, he consoled those same fingers that they would no longer have to, as he pulled away, and braced himself for whatever was coming, prepared himself to open his eyes, except he felt himself pushed backwards, wedged more tightly between the panes of glass and the body in front of him, and fingers pushing into and spreading apart locks of his hair, then lips more solidly pushing against his own, and though he no longer had his feet on the floor, the ground beneath him gave way, a profound and seismic shift, as his arms found and wound their way around Bruce's shoulders, not holding any weight there, yet there regardless, and Bruce stepped even further forward, into the minute space that opened up between them, causing a full body shudder and then, himself to stutter into the kiss, when a hand slid down the outside of his thigh, stopping and grasping at the knee to wind that around its owner's waist.

"That's what surprises you, of all things?" Bruce muttered, yet did not wait for an answer, only moved his lips further down, to his neck, and began ministrations there, causing another jolt along with a plume of heat.

"Also, though we have established I can carry you, are you planning on floating this whole time? If you lose control, as you've been wont to do lately, it could be rather awkward."

Though he suspected Bruce already knew, that nothing about this was planned, it was difficult to formulate a response when Bruce raked his teeth across the skin he had just been kissing, causing Clark to curl in on himself, and in this case, around Bruce, while emitting a small moan, and he could feel Bruce's surprise, at the sound of it, how his whole body seemed attuned to it, to absorb it, take it in, and Clark thought he might repeat the motion, to see if he could elicit another, take that one in as well, yet he didn't. Instead Bruce pulled away and looked at him, and Clark felt his face burn even more than it already was.

"Better yet, let's just prevent that possibility and move away from the window, shall we?"

Clark nodded, hollowly, and lowered his one foot to the ground, vacantly, as though he could not quite inhabit himself, and noted that Bruce was not quick to let go of the leg wrapped around his waist, only doing so when he was apparently convinced the one on the floor would bear the weight of its owner fully.

Then they split apart, and the distance felt vast, a chasm, compared to how close they had been, and then it was vast, a chasm, as Bruce walked into the unknown, not looking back to see if Clark was following, and Clark couldn't say he was sure Bruce wanted him to, to follow him, and that intuition was proven correct, when Bruce stopped and turned around, then addressed him.

"Clark. A bit of unsolicited advice: I suggest you let me walk straight out of this room. That you return to your room, and we lay this incident to rest in here, the result of injuries and adrenaline, and we do not speak of it again."

Clark noted the phrasing of this, that it was a suggestion, not a command, and while part of him absolutely agreed with Bruce, that this was sound advice, as sound as it could be, under these circumstances, he then heard Lois' voice, of all people, egging him on: "There's a story here, Kent. You're really gonna just let it slide right past your fingers?"

He was also reminded of all the times in gym class, when he had fumbled the football, not because he was incapable, but because every time he got his hands on it, he felt the exhilarating rush, to run, to play, to move, at his own pace, not theirs, and knowing he couldn't, only to hear the usual chorus of groans from his teammates and then the coach, resigned.

"It' s a right shame, Kent. You've got the build for it, but you've got one of the worst cases of butterfingers I've ever seen…"

Always leaving him wondering, 'What if.' What if he could have played on the football team. What if he could dedicate to his day job, instead of using it as both his cover and his connection to people and some semblance of a normal life, so that he did not get so disconnected from humanity he forgot why he was protecting it in the first place, nevertheless, never being able to give it his all. Perhaps curiosity killed the cat, yet this time, he would find out for himself.

"And if I don't?"

Bruce leveled him with a look that he was sure had terrified many over the years, both in sky high board rooms and in dingy back rooms, before calmly responding. "Then you take responsibility for what happens next."

Yet Clark felt remarkably calm himself, in control, self-possessed, in stark contrast to how he had felt only moments prior, however now that all seemed so removed somehow, perhaps Bruce was wise, in placing space between them, because Clark found this distance fortifying; also, perhaps because this was the kind of conversation with Bruce that felt so familiar. This was how they so often spoke with each other, after all: questions followed by questions, testing, inquiring.

However, he could see the warning in Bruce's eyes, in the set of his jaw, and the rigid stance he took, to not forget where they had just been, how quickly things could and had spiraled out of control, and that they were not as far away from the edge as Clark thought they were, an edge that Clark seemed bewilderingly drawn to, and oblivious to the risks, just as Bruce had accused him of being, when he asked his next question.

"What happens next?"

At this, Bruce scoffed. "How you manage in your civilian life is beyond me, though humor me: what do you think happens next."

Clark could admit, having it reflected back at him, it was a difficult question to answer: together, back where they were, before Bruce pulled away, but together for how long, to what extent, though Bruce apparently could not resist adding, unusual for him.

"I'll give you a hint: it involves what we were doing previously, except with far fewer clothes."

Clark noted the ambiguity in Bruce's answer, the same ambiguity in his own musings. It confirmed what he suspected: neither of them really knew what happened next, though he knew what his next question was.

"Are you letting me chose?"

"I'm hoping that you will have the good sense to stop this." Bruce declared, yet at the same time, admitting, causing Clark to take a risk with his next inquiry.

"If you really believe that, then why don't you? Why don't you walk out that door?"

Bruce actually laughed in response, but it was a bitter thing."Isn't it obvious? Because I don't want to."

"And that's a bad thing? Even if I want the same?" Clark concluded and continued, coming out of hypotheticals and revealing something of his own.

"For so many reasons, yes, but for brevity's sake, I'll sum it up like this: Clark, at heart, you're a good person. Me? I'm really not."

This was the first thing in the conversation that Clark outright disagreed with Bruce on, and told him so. "How can you say that? You're a great person, Bruce."

Bruce appeared somewhat disgusted, as he replied, "How can you say that, and so sincerely… I think you just proved my point."

"What point, there is no point... Bruce…" Clark attempted to follow, but something about this had flustered him, that Bruce could truly say and mean such a thing, because Clark could tell he did actually mean this, as preposterous as it was, with everything Bruce had done, everything he did, all the sacrifices he had made, all the sleepless nights, keeping the people of Gotham safe, yet Bruce took the opportunity to abruptly put a close on the conversation.

"Very well, I will act as the good-hearted man you for some reason believe me to be, and do the right thing by walking away. Goodnight, Clark."

At that, Bruce turned around and started striding towards the door, taking care not to look back, but if he had, he would have found Clark standing, mouth agape, staring after him.

Clark had no doubt that Bruce would just keep on walking. That he would close the door on this, just as he literally closed the door to the library on his way out and never look back. Clark strained himself to hear Bruce's footsteps over the sound of the storm outside, they would be silent to anyone else, but Clark could make them out, as Bruce made his way down the hall, steadily growing more and more dim, the more distance Bruce put between them. However, Clark did not believe Bruce, when he said they could lay this to rest in this tomb of tomes, he felt certain this incident would continue to linger and haunt them and their every move and interaction with each other, that in fact it had not been lain to rest at all, leaving it like this was akin to leaving it left to rot in the elements, a scavenger's feast, and that failure to sanctify would harm not only them, but everyone around them, their allies at the Justice League, who needed them to be in cooperation and all the people of Earth who depended on them.

Yet, there was also the intensely personal as well, for Clark felt also if Bruce walked away now, that in a very literal way, he would be lost to Clark. Perhaps, he already had lost him, yet Bruce had left him a few scattered glimmers of hope, in that conversation, that were enough for Clark to act on, as he followed in Bruce's footsteps, walking towards the doors to the library, and pulling them open once again.

Those glimmers of hope glowed dimmer, however as Clark peered then stepped into the darkness of the hallway, following after Bruce, his feet once again lifting off the ground, his own rather macabre imitation of a ghost, yet that is how he felt, not sure whether he would be seen or not by the figure who, after he turned the corner, Clark saw standing at the elevator, and Clark could tell that Bruce was truly startled to see him, that he had not expected Clark to follow, after Clark tapped him on the shoulder.

Bruce had already pressed the button for the doors to open, and they did so, the inviting light and emptiness of the elevator car open for all to see, and without waiting for a response, Clark altered his position, going parallel to the ground, grabbing hold of Bruce's face, then leaning in for the third and perhaps final time.

The angle was strange, the weightlessness was strange, it was strange to see the light pouring forth into the hall from the elevator diminish like a rapidly setting sun, reducing to a sliver, then nothing at all, after the doors shut, with no one having gotten inside, and Clark could feel how Bruce's skin did not heat up underneath his fingers, nor did his mouth move against his, and how that lack, that refusal to reciprocate seemed to sap what strength and courage he had in reserve, and his feet touched down on the floor, and his weight followed, as he stammered out an apology, shocked at the sound of his voice, the tremble of it.

"I… I'm sorry, Bruce… I'll stop. Good... goodnight."

Now it was Clark's turn to turn and walk away, and he did so with a stride that though appearing graceful, internally was anything but, with how much effort it took to make it so, and he could not shake the notion that he was walking away from a crime scene, yet he did it all the same.

However, like Bruce, he did not look back, was solely focused now on getting back to his bedroom, however awkwardly he now occupied it. If he thought he was capable of it, he would have seriously considered walking out of the Manor entirely and returning to Metropolis, nevertheless he agreed with Bruce and Alfred's assessments. For someone whose flight was shaky only feet from solid ground, a high altitude flight wasn't advisable, however thoroughly he had embarrassed himself, however carelessly he had sent he and Bruce's relationship, both working and casually, into an irrecoverable tail spin.

He would have plenty of time to mourn and ponder that, laying in his bed, for he was positive sleep would not come easily tonight, one of the few things at the moment he was positive of, except, being caught in his own reverie, and lost in the ever-present sound of the storm battering the house and the ground, he had not heard anyone coming up behind him until it was too late, until he had a hand clamped around his wrist like a manacle, and in his surprise, he did not immediately recognize it as Bruce's, despite the size and the skin being rough and callused, from his endless hours of physical conditioning, and then had that hand dragging him forward, as the rest of Bruce appeared, without saying a single word, only forcing Clark to keep pace with him as he led the way and Clark momentarily wondered where they were going, this hall full of doors, before belatedly realizing that his original destination had not changed, only the way he was going there, and who he was going with, as Bruce wrenched open the door and then nearly slammed it shut behind them, locking it from the inside, and in a blur of a motion, Bruce's hand, so suddenly on his wrist, was suddenly gone, after having dragged it forward one last time and then having it being used as a leverage point for Bruce to throw him over his shoulder and backwards onto the much debated bed, where Clark instinctively floated down, and dazedly noted that his feet had left the ground once again, but this time, he was not the culprit, and when his eyes focused, he witnessed the later movements of Bruce removing his shirt, arms over his head, then whipping it down and away, and Clark watched in fascination and confusion, from his landing point on the center of the bed, this sudden turn of events, as it slid across the gleaming wood floor, giving himself a brief moment before meeting eyes with Bruce, who was already looking back at him, standing at the edge, the foot of bed, but not yet on it, looking furious with himself, with the situation, before saying through gritted teeth.

"Last chance, Clark. Are you sure? I'm not going to be able to stop if we go any further."

Clark could tell that unlike before, this was not Bruce's way of suggesting Clark stop this. This was one last, clear and final clarification, of what they were doing, and also Bruce's painful, so painful for him admission, that he had lost his stony composure, his overwhelming calm, that he could no longer maintain his immeasurable control and Clark in a place beyond reason felt guilty, to have hurt Bruce so, for he knew how deep a wound that was to inflict on him, almost worse than any physical one Clark could cause, yet in many ways, Clark put equal value on his own unbreakable composure, his own continuous calm, his own strict control, though to the outsider, Clark came off as more natural and easeful in his expression of those things, compared to Bruce's barely restrained aura of doom and menace, nonetheless they were similar, and though it wounded Clark to do it, he wanted to concede something to Bruce in return, so he moved himself to the foot of the bed, rose up on his knees to face him, held out his hand to him, and could only manage a single word, whispered, half-asking and half-begging:

"Please."

Blessedly, Bruce did come closer, until his knees pressed against the edge of the bed, and he did grab hold of Clark's hand, pulling him closer, then moving both of his hands to Clark's waist, bunching the material of the t-shirt he found there, then dragging it up, and when he got to Clark's shoulders he just kept going, dragging Clark's arms up along with the fabric, and though Bruce had removed his own shirt already, when he had done so, there was nothing revealing about it, despite the array of fresh bruises and faded scars now on display, and nothing vulnerable despite the exposed lines of muscle and the relative softness of bare skin. Bruce, as he so often did, reversed the usual implications and instead turned disrobing into an act of strength, not weakness.

He was not embarrassed or ashamed of his scars, nor did he appear wounded by them in any way, and in this relative calm wake, of having decided on a course of action, Bruce appeared to have regained some smoothness to his movements, however that was another of his many talents. He often went into hostile territory, under unknown conditions, and carried out his mission regardless.

However unlike Bruce, Clark did feel vulnerable, the more skin Bruce exposed, that he could see more plainly the paleness from the kryptonite but also the shivering and how he was struggling to breath, which Clark would have liked to pin on the kryptonite as well, but he felt had more to do with Bruce himself, and those lightning blue eyes of his, locked onto him, and pulling him into his orbit. Clark's own blue eyes Ma Kent had always described as deep, deep water. He could tell there was a wistfulness to this description, that they and he were somewhat of a mystery to her, and he certainly could not blame her for that.

It evoked open water and ocean currents, however Clark wondered if Bruce could read him like an open book, and that he recognized they were now in yet another stand off, one of many that had transpired between them over the years, yet a stand off where something or someone would need to give, and soon, and maybe the one who would need to give was him, except Clark's reticence here, despite all he had done to propel them to their current location, was his confession, his admission, that he was afraid to be the one to lie down first, but also felt that fatigue deep in his bones, that he could not remain upright for much longer, and that standstill only became move obvious, after Bruce divested him completely of the shirt, tossing it to the floor to join his own, and Clark's arms were free once again. However, to Clark's surprise, Bruce spoke, echoing his own last response back to him.

"Please." Yet this was somewhat misleading. The way Bruce said this word, it did not come across as the request it normally was. Clark could not accurately describe the way Bruce said this word, only that the force of it knocked him off balance and backwards, felled his knees and weakened his back, so that he was laying flat against the sheets, and even still, Bruce did not follow, though when Clark looked to see why, what could he possibly be waiting for this time, it was because Bruce was taking the opportunity to rid himself of his sweatpants as well, throwing those aside to join the rest of the clothing, and not satisfied with only that, he grabbed for the waistband of Clark's, and spared no moment in sliding them down and off his legs, and only then, after Bruce flung those away did he follow Clark onto the bed, scaling the edge of mattress, placing his knees between Clark's as Clark shifted up and along until his head found his pillow, and this time Bruce leaned down to meet him, lips pressing down, yet with more gravity than the physical motion, more pressed down into the mattress than Bruce was actually pressing, felt alarmingly overcome by him, even as he opened his mouth to him, and Bruce pressed inside there as well, bracing himself with his forearm that he placed above Clark's head.

Clark reached up carefully, tentatively, threading his fingers through Bruce's still damp hair, but instead of having them go through smoothly, the clumped-together strands poked at his fingers, and when he placed his palm over the center of Bruce's back, instead of feeling stabilized and rooted to him, Bruce proceeded to kiss him with a force and fury reminiscent of the previously mentioned tornados, the ones that had overshadowed his childhood, ripping through endless fields of corn and trailer parks and towns with equal abandon. No caution, no restraint, only pure want and need and power as Bruce grabbed under his thighs and made him wrap his legs around his waist by putting them there himself, to which Clark emitted a sound that turned his face scarlet, both at the unfamiliarity of it and this position, and only to have that blush burn hotter, go darker when, and he wasn't sure if it was he who fell down or Bruce who set him down, his thighs now resting against the tops of Bruce's, and Bruce grabbed onto his hips, moving them forward so that they met his, bone to bone, and heat to heat.

Then Bruce's palm was on his abdomen, below his navel, and Clark arched his back, as Bruce then slide it up and along the center line of his torso, yet when he get to his solar plexus, something truly strange happened, a flash of light and a deep reverberation that Clark first associated with the storm outside, not the one that was battering him within this room, the one where at every moment he felt in danger of being blown away, spun upside down and out of control, of tumbling and crashing down, yet the light did not fade, it carried on and glowed, phosphorescent and unearthly, and when Clark opened his eyes to better pinpoint its source, he was surprised, as was Bruce, to find it was coming from the point of contact between them, Bruce's open palm flat on the open space between Clark's ribs, below his bandage, and it rapidly and alarmingly felt as though they were getting magnetized and locked into place, at that point of connection, as the glow grew brighter, and then he knew it was true, that it would not be good if Bruce pulled away, yet Clark worried he would, under these bizarre circumstances, that he would try to, so he grabbed onto Bruce's wrist, to hold him in place, only for Bruce to speak.

"You don't have to do that; I feel it too. I'll stay where I am."

"...I don't suppose this has ever happened to you before, has it?" Clark asked bracingly.

"No, Clark. This has never happened to me before… Looks like magic of some sort…."

Clark could understood the implication of what Bruce was, for him, rather gently implying. That this was indeed unearthly, and he rather frantically, as the glow became brighter, the magnetic force more powerful, thought back to his records, the ones in the Arctic, if he had ever come across something about Krypton and its people and practices that could explain what was happening right now, and unfortunately, was coming up empty.

"You truly don't know?" Bruce confirmed, with, if Clark didn't know better, a touch of pity.

"No."

"You should give me access to your files."

"They can't help us now."

"...No, they can't."

The seed of it was there, but before Clark truly had time to be ashamed that he did not know, and to apologize for all the trouble he seemed to be causing lately, his injury, starting this tonight, whatever was happening now, or to be embarrassed about the abrupt change of plans and direction, this access point, and what a strange thing to call it, but that's what it felt like, where Bruce's hand was on him, surged with light and with energy, energy Clark now felt within him, and could see draining from Bruce, the way he paled and hunched over slightly, and it both felt like Bruce and something else, could tell there was a point to it, that it had a purpose, but what that was he did not know, only that the sensation was powerful but not entirely pleasant, chills and shuddering and shaking, as though something was traveling throughout all parts of him and collecting something, and he closed his eyes as the sensation suddenly became downright painful, causing him to arch his back once again under its force and he distantly felt Bruce's free hand running through his hair, saying something to him that he couldn't quite make out, and just when he thought he could no longer bear it, that he would lose consciousness, it suddenly stopped, and he sagged back down, breathing heavily and forcing his eyes open to look up at Bruce, who was no longer holding onto his solar plexus, that the magnetic attraction holding them together had depolarized, and Bruce was no longer looking at him, but was instead looking into that same palm, and in it, he held a perfectly condensed crystal of lryptonite, and for the first time in his life, it looked beautiful to Clark.

Then Bruce, quickly recovering from his initial shock, pitched it away. Clark heard it hit the far wall and land on the floor, then Bruce turned his attention back to him.

"Are you alright?"

There was something about Bruce's unmasked concern for him, and at how unmasked he himself had been in front of Bruce, that made him acutely uncomfortable, that made him feel too terribly seen, and he had the passing thought that he would need to stop giving Bruce such a hard time for his own deflections, as Clark attempted to joke, only to not get past the first stuttering syllable, then to have Bruce shush him, his concern even more obvious.

"S-s-s-"

"If you're not able, don't speak."

In lieu of speaking, yet unable to bear the silence and the questions, Clark reached up to bring Bruce down to him, and they kissed, but an altogether different way than they had been previously, no heat building, it was a lull, slow, and soothing, molding and melding, in a way that made Clark's heart ache, along with the rest of him now and when it became clear Clark was still winded, Bruce instead moved to his neck, simply waiting for Clark to gain his breath.

"Some more kryptonite to add to your collection." Clark tried again, with a head nod to the tossed aside fragment, and when Bruce raised his head, his features were darkened.

"Courtesy of Lex-Corp."

Then Clark surprised himself, yet he knew it was true, as he said, "...It's not done, you know."

"With Lex? Of course not." Bruce said, with a darkness even graver than his expression, a darkness that made Clark shudder, yet that was something he would need to deal with later.

"No… this. This isn't done. I… I have to do something for you now."

Bruce looked as though he wanted to argue with him, that that was not necessary, or that Clark was in no condition, yet something stopped him, the same thing that made Clark say what he had, that they both somehow knew it was true, and Clark reached up and around, placed his hands where it seemed they wanted to go, on Bruce's back, between his shoulder blades, and though his hands were drawn there, and wanted to stay there, it was not the same extreme magnetization, his hands only pressed lightly, yet he knew they would stay in place for as long as they needed to, and though he could not see them, he felt them heat up, and could feel the drain on his own energy, just as he had noticed the drain on Bruce's, yet in comparison to Clark's quick and ragged breathing, Bruce's breaths grew only more slow and relaxed, in fact Bruce's experience overall appeared much more pleasurable, compared to the pain of Clark's, evidenced by the fact that though Bruce rested more heavily against him, he did not collapse, and when it was finished, and his hands pulled away, Bruce looked down on him, smiling in a way Clark had never seen and suspected he may never see again – relaxed, content, shining – in a way that alone would have made Clark gasp, without the additional wonder of looking at him and seeing not only those bruises healed, but the scars as well.

Gone, without a trace.

He feared that Bruce might actually not appreciate this, that he had taken something from him he did not want to lose, which caused him to stutter, once again.

"Bruce… I… Is this okay?" Though it was not as though Clark could go back and return them, and Clark chided himself for his awkward phrasing, yet Bruce only looked down at himself, then nodded.

"It's fine. It's remarkable, really… Thank you, Clark."

There was no sarcasm in his voice, in his expression of gratitude, and he was still smiling. This was a Bruce Clark had always believed was present, but one he had never truly gotten to see, and one that he had started to doubt actually existed, and he found himself overcome once again, in awe of him and Clark's own gratitude, yet he could also feel he was fading fast, that whatever magic, as Bruce had labelled it was, it had taken a lot out of him, and that he would need to rest, to sleep.

However, he intuited there was still one more thing he needed to do. To close this, and if it was truly Kryptonian in origin, he felt it necessary to do so in Kryptonian, so he spoke aloud in that harsh nearly extinct tongue, despite knowing that Bruce could not understand nor follow along with him:

"Thank you Almighty Rao, and please hear my prayer for this man: may the Wisdom of Telle guide him, the Beauty of Lorra inspire him, the four Moons of Yuda protect him, and your light warm him, for I love him so."

And when Clark closed his eyes afterwards, he knew that despite Bruce being still awake, waiting with observations and theories and wonderings, they would not open again for some time.