It seemed fitting, and illustrative of their differences.

Bruce's hideaway was dark and dreary by preference. It was also underground, encased in solid rock.

Clark's, in contrast, was out in the open, hidden not by darkness at this time of the year, but by an abundance of light, reflecting off vast, flat plains of snow. Even the structure of it was reminiscent of densely compacted ice, the crystal spires' blueish sheen.

Bruce often enjoyed the intimidating nature of the Cave, how its rare guests reacted to its vast ceilings and its unknown depths. How many rooms, how many vaults, what was stored in it all, and how far down did it truly go.

In comparison to this place of Clark's however, the Cave was nothing more than a modest basement, and while he did have the privilege of knowing its coordinates, and even of being able to enter it without Clark's presence, that only granted him access to what was in effect its lobby.

And that was all he had ever seen of it.

Until today.

Today, he would finally get not only a glimpse, but what he imagined would be a rather intimate appraisal of the rest of its design and its uses. At what lay beyond its enormous atrium, beyond the statues of Lara and Jor-El, past the memorial globe of Krypton, at what and everything Clark kept hidden there.

And there was Clark, the only spark of color Bruce had seen for hours, indicating down not to the ground, where Bruce had intended on landing, but towards the fortress itself. That was how Lois referred to it, when she had worryingly told Bruce she thought Clark was spending all of his free time.

Bruce agreed.

It was a fortress, and armed like one, even had a drawbridge function of sorts, as he watched it rearrange itself, creating an opening, that eventually grew large enough to accommodate the jet.

That was different, but over and down he went, descending into that enormous atrium, turning off the engines after the landing wheels had touched solid ground, then opening up the hatch and letting his own feet touch solid ground.

Flight terminology was inherently suggestive, as Selina was fond of pointing out to him. Cockpit, joystick, he rarely gave it mind, except today, with this particular trip and its particular intentions, he could not deny the double meaning his mind ascribed to having never parked inside, and that he very much hoped Clark would be as accommodating of him, rearranging and opening himself to fit, as the fortress had for the jet.

Pertaining solely to practical matters however, the jet did cost a small fortune, and Bruce appreciated being able to shield it from both sight and the elements. That though it was designed to withstand those elements, it wouldn't have to, and because of this strange building, its spires already moving back into place, responding to some command of Clark's, neither would he.

He never was fond of using front doors. He'd long preferred dropping in from above, and as he and Clark looked to each other, from a distance, in the clear glow all around them, that lit this vast space seemingly effortlessly, Bruce wondered how it functioned, the roof having sealed itself shut once again, while also wondering how the two of them would function together here.

Bruce preferred having the home-field advantage, and by coming here, he had given that up in more ways than one. The terrain it sat on was inhospitable to human life, the material and technology surrounding him alien, and this place, even more than Metropolis or Smallville, was undoubtably Clark's and only Clark's home-field.

"Welcome," was Clark's simple greeting to him, and Bruce understood that this welcome was far more encompassing and far more personal than any he had ever extended to Bruce before.

"Show me around?"

They walked towards a wall, with no opening, and then after muttering a few words in Kryptonian, there was one, an opening that led into a narrow hallway, still bright with the same bluish light, and he wondered if all Kryptonian buildings were constructed like this, or if this was an emergency exception.

There was something peaceful about it. It was reminiscent of a museum, or perhaps a church, with its towering ceiling and columns, albeit of crystal, not stone.

The air was strikingly clean, and it was also strikingly cold. Figuratively and literally. Monotonous and harsh, with no real distinguishing features, just like the terrain outside.

Yet Clark looked at ease, dare he say, at home here. All of it making Bruce ponder, in a way he had never truly pondered before, not as a threat assessment, but out of personal curiosity. In a way he was sure the Kents had pondered, day after day and night after night, right from the moment they first laid eyes on him. In a way Clark endlessly and insatiably pondered, right from the moment he had first laid eyes on the spaceship that brought him to Earth. In a way that Bruce had somewhat entertained, but mostly tolerated from Clark up till this point, believing so much in self-determination as he did, that it wasn't so much about where Clark came from, as who he wanted to be, in a way that now seemed impossibly hypocritical, both as someone who knew his family origins, who had clearly inherited their gifts, a keen intellect and powerful frame, his father's dream for a better world, along with his fine motor skills, and his mother's clear eyed, uncompromising practicality, and her knowledge that appearance and manner can be used both to persuade and to mislead.

That clothes can make the man.

And it was their combined material fortunes that allowed him to do what he did.

Who were Lara and Jor-El? Whose statues he had respectfully acknowledged, but otherwise had always seemed too far away to reach? What was life on their planet like, whose greatest legacy, besides Superman, were the debris of its destruction?

Where had Clark come from, who by some coincidence, had ended up being gifted a name so similar to his birth one, all the right sounds, simply needing to be split apart and rearranged, just as you could almost split apart Lara's name to sound Kal, and you only needed to look back a generation on Mrs. Kent's line to find the name Clark. All the pieces, hidden and tucked away, yet even so, the mystery was never solved.

The names and sounds were fathoms, worlds apart.

And despite he and Clark wearing similar uniforms, sweeping cloaks, personal emblems emblazoned on their breasts, there were enough differences, the hidden bullet proof lining, the cowl and the gloves and the utility belt, for they too to be fathoms, worlds apart.

Yet, despite all that distance, he and Clark had become friendly, had become whatever they were to each other now. He so despised the words people called this. Boyfriends and girlfriends, partners or lovers. He equally despised the euphemisms people used with their stupendous unclarity. Dating. Going out or seeing each other.

They were sufficient for his files, but personally, he'd felt no such compunction to put words to what he had with Clark.

Only that he had come here with the desire to bridge some of that distance.

A desire he hoped that Clark, Kal, whatever name one wanted to call him, shared, and judging from the fact he had allowed Bruce to come here, was leading him down this hallway Bruce had never been down, that emerged into an area he had never been in, one warmed against the chill of the Arctic, that Bruce knew was solely for his own benefit, and that was so clearly a personal living space, he did.

It was filled with the strangest assortment of objects from all of Clark's lives – furniture and keepsakes from the farm, more hand-made quilts and decorative dish collections and a sideboard to display them in, a necklace with the El family seal he had never seen before. A photo of what looked to be his high school prom, Clark wearing an ill-fitting, dated suit, glasses comically askew, with his arm around a young woman with sandy brown hair in an equally ill fitting, dated, pastel pink dress, standing under a hokey flower arch, both of them beaming regardless. Along with a few other photos, Mr. and Mrs. Kent, clad in overalls and a flower covered housedress respectively, holding up a small boy dressed in blue between the two of them. Lois and a young man at the Daily Planet in the foreground, Lois ruffling his flame red hair affectionately, and judging by the one hanging around his neck, looking irritated to be the one in front of the camera instead of behind, and Perry White furiously approaching from behind, no doubt to tell his three stellar employees to stop messing around on company time, and get back to work.

There were also some of the Justice League. An official group portrait – he and Superman stood side by side in it – and various candid shots, most likely taken by Wally, too quick to be stopped: Shayera and John, in the midst of flirting; J'onn looking stoic as always in the medical bay; but the one that surprised him was of him, and Diana, she laughing and even he had the ghost of a smile on his face, getting a rare bite to eat in the commissary.

Clark interrupted his observations by offering, "I've prepared you a room, if you'd like to rest for awhile."

It was formal, and Bruce wanted to retort that he had not come all this way to rest, yet there was something about the way Clark said it that made him reconsider. That Clark needed that reprieve, that Bruce's presence here, in this place of his, was having unexpected consequences, and he needed a moment to compose himself.

Honestly, he felt similarly about the Manor. He had been thrown, seeing Clark that first night, standing in the great room, the room where he had spent evenings with his parents, reading by the fire, happy Christmas mornings, where they had celebrated all the birthdays the three of them had been allowed to share with each other.

He would grant Clark his interlude.

"There a shower in there?"

"There is."

"Let's see it then."

Bruce placed his bag down on the bed, after Clark showed him to the room. He'd been expecting more of the farm furniture in here, yet this was all Kryptonian. The bed an outgrowth of the floor, oval in shape. The fabrics covering it not of this Earth, yet pleasant to touch. The only decorations on the walls the patterns of the crystals.

The bathroom was more of the same.

As he went through the rather time consuming process of removing and replacing his uniform, he hoped that was all the time Clark required, because that was all the time he was going to give him.

Found Clark standing aimlessly in the center of what Bruce was calling the living room, both excited and nervous to see him, who then asked him,"Was everything alright?"

"Fine."

"Is it warm enough? I can turn up the heat." Was everything Clark was saying and doing today truly coming off as a double entendre? Even the next piece.

"Are you hungry? I have food. I can make you something."

Bruce reluctantly followed along, noting that Clark was not walking, but floating over to the kitchen. Bruce was not sure what to expect of it, but it turned out to be shockingly ordinary. Counters, cabinets, cook top. Sink and a fridge.

Bruce declined a meal, only for Clark to elaborate.

"Well, if you need anything, just feel free to come in here and-"

"-Clark." Bruce reached forward, grabbed his hand. Held it tight, in what for most would be an uncomfortably tight grip, noted how Clark's fingers spasmed at the unexpected contact, before slowly and hesitantly wrapping around his. How he slowly turned his head, so his eyes could meet Bruce's, and Bruce regretted putting the cowl back on, Clark could not see what Bruce was trying to say to him with his gaze, his eyes masked as they were,

Nevertheless, he could see Clark's, and he squeezed Clark's hand even tighter, at everything he saw there, and it was fitting, that this thing with him started in a storm, because that was how Bruce often felt when they were together, much to his chagrin, a veritable storm of emotion, so vast and complicated, so overwhelming and fragile, with so many layers he had not been able to break them apart, and that always, eventually and inevitably concentrated into one dense, primal desire, like trapped lightning in a bottle. A desire they kept avoiding and side-stepping, and he could see Clark knew all this too, was aware he was stalling, wanting to calm himself yet much to his own chagrin, not being able to accomplish that task, and most importantly, knew it was time.

Yet apparently Clark couldn't stop himself from making use of a framework, that he was still showing Bruce around. A safety net of sorts. That he was still giving Bruce a tour of this place. But he could not stop the deepening stain of red across his cheeks as he said it.

"Would you like to see my bedroom?"

Unfortunately, Bruce could no longer abide that framework. Knew that they were falling and no net was going to save them. So he ripped it apart.

"You'd be more comfortable there."

Clark's bedroom was large, larger than the guest room, and much larger than the one in his apartment. Spacious, with high jagged walls and ceilings. Could call it cavernous.

Bruce felt right at home.

The bed was a relief to see. Same oval shape, a sea shell, and the same silver sheen to its sheets as the one in the guest room. Bruce felt no immediate need to get there now that it was in sight. No need to rush, now that they were finally here, and to the best of both of their abilities, at a time and place where they would not be disturbed.

They were the only ones around for miles.

Make that hundreds of miles, in the most secure building on the planet, courtesy of its off planet origins. That was something he often wondered about with Clark. For his easy-going, personable nature, he was paradoxically, one of the most private people Bruce had ever met, and could handle, in fact outright sought levels of isolation that could and did constitute torture.

Forget about scaling mountains looking for answers and enlightenment, as Bruce himself had done once, this was a man who meditated on the dark side of the moon. That was how far away he needed to be, for the world to go quiet.

Yet by some strange series of events, here the two of them were, loners they may be, together at the top of the world, in a temporary retreat with each other, so he enjoyed the feeling of Clark's mouth on his, enjoyed the minute movements he made, ducking his head or tipping his chin one way or the other, and didn't care that Clark was still cautious, as he brought him closer, hip bones pressed together, then a leg between his, and when he had Clark's hands on his belt after that, he belatedly realized it wasn't to remove it, it was to stabilize himself, nice to see Clark try something else besides floating, and it caused him a slight chuckle, that Clark smiled in response to, lips still not far from his. Also caused Bruce to push them closer towards the bed, remove the belt himself, when he got around to it, as he said, he was in no particular rush now, letting it fall to the floor, and letting Clark figure out where to steady himself next time without it, and there was a slow attrition of clothing, in their slow stepping forward, Clark did not have as much as he did, but he allowed Clark to remove his cowl, as Clark allowed him to remove his cape, and his own cape and gloves and arm guards soon joined the discarded trail, eventually ending up bring at the edge of the bed, and here he needed to remind himself of their pace, for now he wanted to increase it but sensed he shouldn't, that Clark needed him to go slow, so he knelt down slightly, as Clark sat down, to remove his boots only to take over the task himself, indicating for Clark to offer his other foot when he did not do it himself, and there was that incredible, terrible pressure between the two of them, generating more lightning in the bottle, and he could not quite read Clark, but knew he almost desperately needed to say something, his whole body screamed it for him when his voice would or could not, his darting, averted gaze, the painfully sudden flush that took over his face, his forehead, all the way up to his ears, the forced calm to the rolled back stance of his shoulders, yet Bruce knew he had to continue, even for his own sake, he could wait no longer, as he too took on a forced calm, leaving his boots on the floor and getting on the bed, with Clark laid out beneath him, admiring the arch of his back as Bruce peeled off his family crest and the tautness of his backside, as he lowered the waistband of Clark's tights and briefs down and over it and past it, across equally taut thighs and calves, and revealing one last base layer beneath them, and just when he was about to get to work on his own layers, Clark surprised him, with a sudden change of position, and now Bruce was the one on his back, looking up into Clark's startled, almost panicked eyes, and his equally startled, almost panicked breathing, as though he had not entirely meant to do that, but could no longer remain where he was.

There was an apology in those eyes as well, that Bruce did not find necessary, only held his gaze, let Clark stay where he was for now, calm himself, even arched his own back, showed Clark how the plates of his chest armor were removed, and the guards on his thighs and calves, let him pull them off, and then pull down the waistband of the leggings beneath, and when that was done, locked his fingers in Clark's hair and pulled him down, waited until Clark relaxed against him, waited until he started putting weight down, and then slowly turned them around, back to their starting positions, Clark's head once again situated against the pillows, even though he still did not rest easy there, he pressed and twisted against and underneath him, as Bruce cautiously stayed where he was, pressing back with enough force to let Clark know he wanted him to stay where he was, but he did not possess even the minutest means at the moment, of keeping Clark somewhere he did not want to be.

Not with his belt, and the kryptonite ring within it, out of reach. The fact that he carried it was understood by Clark, but not something they discussed, and certainly not something he wanted to discuss now, that in a lead lined container feet away from them was the very same ring his greatest enemy had forged, both as an ostentatious display of his immense wealth, and as garish as it was, an effective means of combating the alien he was so convinced would be the downfall of the human race.

The same ring that Clark had eventually confiscated from him, and passed on to Bruce. Some would call it stealing, Clark called it confiscating, so his conscious could rest easier. Not that Bruce was complaining. He would without a second's thought steal all the kryptonite in Lex Luthor's possession, given the chance.

But the fact that Bruce had once thought the same thing, was also publicly known for his own ostentatious displays of his immense wealth, and that he was now in possession of the same ring, as well as a veritable treasure trove of red solar flares as another temporary means of robbing Clark of his powers, did not sit well with him.

Neither did Clark's continuing struggles against him, that Bruce had to trust were not a sign he wanted to stop, only a series of motions he needed to go through, a natural course for him, in these events, how he needed to settle into this, the altogether uncoordinated movements of his limbs, the alternating too hard then too soft grips he made on Bruce's back and shoulders to compensate, never quite finding a balance, and neither did his legs, that he could not decide whether to lay down or stand up, trying both and liking neither.

Clark was also terribly quiet, in a way that gave him an inkling of how people felt in his company. But he was quiet because often, he believed there was truly nothing that needed to be said. Clark was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, purposeful, withholding.

So when Clark did finally deign to speak, it threw Bruce, in more ways than one. By breaking the silence, by what he said, and by inadvertently, throwing Bruce the answer he was looking for, while hesitantly tugging on the waistband of Bruce's shorts for emphasis.

"Do you want to start?"

This fool. This damned fool. What was Clark not understanding? Of course Bruce wanted to start. He had been thinking of little else since he'd proposed this. When he'd planned this meeting, cleared his schedule – more accurately, had Alfred clear his schedule – and flew all the way out to this ice covered wasteland to see him. Yet he wasn't, he wasn't understanding, and hell, maybe Bruce also wasn't understanding, he'd said it himself. There was no reason Clark would be in his current location unless he wanted to. He'd done the same, cleared his schedule, left Metropolis to her own devices, as he had with Gotham. He'd bought food he didn't eat, and raised the temperature he didn't need.

They were both fools. They were both damned fools, and Bruce would gladly put a stop to it right now, as he raised himself quickly up and off the bed, furiously strode over and swung down to grab his belt, the belt hiding the damned ring, but instead went for another compartment, grabbed the contents without looking, let the cursed thing fall back to the ground and then just as furiously strode back, just as quickly got back on the bed and looked to Clark, who had sat up in the interim, indicated for him to move, so Bruce could pull back the blankets they hadn't bothered with before, and once they were both under them, he had a line of his own, tugging on the waistband of Clark's final base layer for emphasis.

"Take these off."

And Clark did, and though Bruce wanted a better look at him than this, a better look at him than he'd gotten in Clark's darkened apartment bedroom, he would be patient. He left his own shorts on, as a physical reminder for said patience, and got on his right side, just as Clark was on his right side in front of him, coated his fingers in lubricant and finally, mercifully, pressed inside, letting out a long sigh of relief as he did, in direct contrast with Clark's short and quick intake of breath. Wrapped himself around Clark more securely, the more Clark wrapped in around himself, which he did with each new addition, with each and every stretching and probing motion of Bruce's fingers, and only when he was satisfied that Clark would be able to accommodate him did he withdraw, remove his own shorts, then rip open and fumble with and stretch latex, apply even more lubricant, and once that was secure, and before he or they could have any second thoughts about this, debate, even only within themselves the rightness or wrongness, the wisdom of doing such a thing and the future, their future together, and the repercussions, he grabbed hold of the hand that Clark had extended back to him, just as he had done at his apartment when they were in this position, though that was after the act, not before, in rest, not in anticipation, but Clark brought it forward just the same, tucking their intertwined hands against his chest, where Bruce could feel the hammering of his heart and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and to put the both of them out of their respective agonies, he guided himself with his free hand and pushed in, and in the sensation of it, Clark let go of his hand, which ended up being beneficial, because Clark then, in another motion Bruce sensed he did not plan, rolled over onto his stomach, and Bruce needed that hand to steady himself as he rolled right along with him, ending up on his knees behind him, and grabbing hold of Clark's waist to steady the both of them as he pushed in further, and tried to keep that precious patience, as his own breathing increased and his own body flushed, in trying to keep still hips that wanted to move so much faster than this, but even though Clark was somewhat accommodating, even with all the lubricant smoothing things along, this was a tighter fit than he'd been anticipating, and though he wasn't sure how Clark experienced this, or even how Clark experienced anything, if his invulnerability was akin to numbness, or something else that only he could understand, he wanted this to be a good experience for them, to further their chances of doing this again, even as he painstakingly moved inch by inch, which was why when Clark spoke, Bruce was hyper aware of it, almost as though he'd known Clark was going to speak before he actually did, and was hanging on to every word he said.

"Can I go on my back?" This would have been a more awkward roll than the first without forewarning. Bruce hesitated, thinking Clark might be more comfortable where he was, but only for a moment, before he grabbed hold of Clark's right leg, got clear out of its arc and helped him.

And then there they were, Bruce still kneeling, but now with Clark's legs on either side, and it was so much more difficult to keep his patience in this position, but he should have known Clark would prefer the intimacy of this position, want it even at the cost of his own comfort, and sure enough those cerulean eyes softened, opened up, and sometimes Bruce would swear he could see the whole world, the whole galaxy, the whole universe swirling in those eyes, and his struggling and squirming finally ceased, Clark was still against the sheets, arms at rest bent at his sides, then reaching up slowly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Bruce's ear, only to then give Bruce a smile so wrenching it caused him physical pain, cracking his heart.

Then he wasn't exactly sure what happened, who moved first, or if they moved together, but Clark's leg slipped, or Bruce pulled it further afield, creating more space, a wider angle than before, and he wasn't sure if Clark bucked his hips or if Bruce pushed into him, but whatever distance that movement covered, it effected them both profoundly, eliciting a strangled scream from Clark, so at odds with how silent he had been up to this point, so at odds with his perennial calm, with Bruce calling out right along with him, in call or response, he could not say, only that it was a moan so low and fierce it could more accurately be called a growl, that was in severe danger of turning into a howl, when Clark desperately flung his arms around Bruce's shoulders, clung to him as he picked up rhythm and speed and he knew then the two of them were lost to each other, as the heat and the pressure and the tension rose in a meteoric trajectory the likes of which he had never felt before, that had Clark curl his legs around him just as desperately, and he finally was doing what he had boasted he could, supporting Clark's full weight, and when Clark's screams were no longer strangled, but full throated, that howl of his finally did come through, at having dragged that noise out of him, and at the prospect of dragging more, so unshielded and vulnerable and completely his, and to make Clark even further his, to bring this to act to culmination, he reached in between them to grab hold of him, making absolutely sure Clark came right along with him, then a penultimate, slamming kiss of everything he had and everything he felt for this excruciatingly beautiful man, and when they could hold out no longer, and the wave finally crashed over them, he, with the last of his coherence, leaned down to Clark's ear, and whispered, harsh and grating.

"Mine."

Then knew nothing after.

Bruce woke, and was momentarily unaware of where he was. A still, dark room. Quiet but not alone, Clark still and slumped over beside him, the signature curl of his hair long ago trampled by insistent hands, and as Bruce carefully rose beside him to sit up, he saw the blue tights and red briefs forgotten and crumpled on the floor, what Bruce had imagined so many times before, except he had not been imagining them on this particular floor, visible in this particular glow, an eerie blue, almost phosphorescent, the source of it being perhaps the same as it was in the rest of the rooms, but more noticeable in this dim light, coming from the floor itself, along with the walls and ceiling, enveloping and surrounding.

Bruce could not accurately say what time it was, or how long they had been there, but even if he could look outside it would do no good. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the now revealed flesh and blood man beside him, and that was enough for him to blearily open his eyes, and Bruce was amused to see them, and him almost droop back into sleep, and it struck him how he had never seen Clark so sleepy as he had these last few visits with him, from the kryptonite at the Manor, from whatever it was that had happened during that interview, he would only call it magic when he had no other choice, and now, yet this fatigue had no malicious source, it was natural, as far as one could say Clark was effected by natural things.

Still, Bruce did want to speak with him briefly, before he made use of the kitchen, so he called his name, urging him to consciousness and Clark opened his eyes more alertly, took in the situation and his companion, just as Bruce had done, then sat up himself and spoke in Kryptonian, causing the brightness in the room to shift, lighten, not by much, but Bruce's natural curiosity kicked in, would this fortress of Clark's follow any command in Kryptonian, or would it only answer to Clark, so he mimicked the word, or phrase, he was not sure which, as best as he could, and to his immediate delight, the light changed again, lightened ever so slightly, and now Clark was looking at him wide eyed.

"What do you say to dim it?" Bruce asked, after trying the brighten command once again, with the same result, and now missing that eerie glow, not quite ready for the two of them to be exposed to the immense light of the Arctic.

And he repeated after Clark once again, though this phrase was more challenging to him, he was not able to trigger a response on his first try, needing Clark to say it once again before getting his own successful reaction, and returning them to the original darkness they had awoken in and then something else came from Clark's lips, another string of Kryptonian, but it did not trigger any reaction from the walls, only from Bruce. It caused his skin to break out in goosebumps and his hair to stand on end, caused his whole awareness, his whole universe, to abruptly condense and collapse until it was only Clark, and he felt in his heart, in his soul, that he knew what Clark had said, however he was not satisfied with only that, in only the evidence of what it had done within him, he wanted, needed an English translation, so he asked for one, as steadily as he could, even as Clark pulled back, deep red flush forming and too bright blue eyes, in fear of what he had just said, and what he was about to say again.

And Clark did give him the English translation, and it was what Bruce had thought, yet Clark hid behind it, the translation, and suddenly Bruce knew what it was, that Clark had so desperately needed to say to him, what that terrible silence of his had been, what was so wrenching about that smile, and in fact, he wondered if this was not the first time Clark had even said this to him, that hidden in the last time Clark had spoken Kryptonian to him, had been this same sentiment, that Bruce had been too cowardly to ask about afterwards because he had not understood how or why any of that had happened in the first place, and he cursed himself, that somehow Clark always managed to be braver than he was, and in this, he could not blame it on invulnerability, for in this Clark was as vulnerable as anyone else, but he grabbed Clark's hand in his, and told him to say it again, in Kryptonian. And made him keep saying it, over and over again, so that Bruce could hear the subtleties, the way the vowels and consonants played off each other, even though every repetition caused Clark a fresh fracture, an ever rising fever of emotion, of woe and worry and wonder if Bruce would ever say this back, yet this phrase was challenging to him, not only personally but phonetically, and he was not able to master it on his first attempt, or his second, or even his third, parroting after Clark, trying to make the sound and the meaning coalesce and collide until finally he got it, in his gut and on his tongue, he got it, could tell Clark heard it too, the way it struck him, and it occurred to Bruce the last time Clark had had this phrase said to him in his mother tongue was in his motherland, right before its destruction, by his mother, or should he say Kal's mother, right before she placed him in a capsule and sent him into the unknown, yet just like he had, he knew Clark would need the English translation, the tongue of his adopted motherland, and he provided that too, before amending at least one previous act of cowardice, by asking the question he had not dared ask.

"Did you say this to me before? At the Manor?"

Clark's reaction to this question was complicated, it wasn't a simple yes, it wasn't a simple no. He hesitated, and then hesitated further, when Bruce asked him outright what it was he had said back then, the mysterious mass of Kryptonian, the one he highly suspected of being a prayer, at least the beginning of it, he had recognized "Rao," and there were enough cultures on Earth who saw the Sun as a God for him to make an educated guess.

But if current events and desires were foretelling, Bruce would in the near future be able to understand the rest of it too.

He'd always had a talent for languages.

And he was right, it was a prayer, and after Clark had quietly and carefully explained the significance of Telle and Lorra and Yuda, and who the beneficiary of that prayer had been, after he spoke the same phrase they had just been saying, slightly altered in context of who was being spoken to, and confirmed Bruce's fear, there was only one thing he could possibly say in response.

"Forgive me."

And it wasn't only for this, as the two of them were once again wrapped up in each other, and he could feel Clark's suppressed shuddering, the grip around Bruce's shoulders that he could barely maintain, and Bruce's fingers cut into the small of his spine, it was also in apology that no matter what he did, he somehow seemed to hurt him, that he feared he would never be able to give Clark what he deserved, that all his vast riches were not enough for someone whose definition of personal loss went far beyond what he could understand. His entire people and planet. All gone in one massively violent, fell swoop. The sole survivor, and how much torment and anguish that sterile phrase contained. Bruce's own familiarity with it had haunted him many a night.

The guilt that Bruce could not change who he was, his guardedness and his suspicions, the inner darkness that he continually walked a razor's edge with, that he kept at bay, grappled with, that he had to accept, as both his greatest curse and his greatest asset, the one that kept his mind and muscles sharp, honed his instincts and his strategies, that allowed him to see into the minds of his enemies, that allowed him to walk in darkness but not be overcome by it.

But it was also that guardedness, that razor's edge between caution and care, that made the tell-tell heart in his utility belt beat on, that had caused him to bring not any true token of affection for Clark, only a sickly green gem, in some terrible reversal of the Cinderella's glass slipper, the one that matched her and only her, Bruce came in hand with the one ring that could literally and permanently stop Clark's heart.

And it was the same guardedness, that same razor's edge between caution and care, that prevented Bruce from telling him any of this.