Homesick

by clefable4tw

While recuperating at the Manor, after yet another Kryptonite induced knockout, underlying tension between Clark and Bruce builds and breaks into something neither of them was expecting, explicitly wanting, and something that neither of them are adequately prepared to face. Bruce/Clark.

36. Chapter 36

Clark sat bolt upright, breathing heavily, clutching sheets in his hands, to his chest, brow damp with sweat, eyes still flashing with visions of destruction, of a planet being torn apart, his name and photo on every magazine, newspaper, shouted across television and radio waves, talked about, picked apart, of eyes black as coal burning with fury for him. All for him.

He remembered this happening sometimes, as a child. Waking in the middle of the night, in a room no longer familiar, no longer comforting, as it was during the day. It was so dark, out in the country, and with a terror he could not place, only that he was alone, completely, utterly alone, caged and confined, except then he would scream, and Ma or Pa or both would rush in, and they would scoop him up, and they would bring him back to their bed, and they would speak softly to him, and tell him stories. They would hold his hands in their aged, weathered ones until he fell asleep, nestled safe and warm between the two of them.

Now, he was in a room that had never been familiar, even during the day. He could not say he had ever been entirely comfortable here either, instead experiencing more of an awe that he was in it at all.

He did not scream now, as he did as a child. He did not cry either, though part of him wanted to. For everything he had lost, then gained, then lost again. He was no longer alone, yet he was forsaken. Banished, because he had banished them.

Ma and Pa were not here either. They were somewhere else, he did not know where, yet he was not alone. A broad, callused hand, placed firmly and surely on the t-shirt covering his chest, pulling him back down to lay against impossibly luxurious sheets covering an impossibly luxurious mattress, holding him close after he had done so, then speaking to him reassurances that he had never expected to hear in this voice, gravelly and low, not intended to intimidate, only from being awakened from sleep.

Reminded him he made Clark a promise. A promise that he had not honestly thought he would need to fulfill, but a promise nevertheless. If he should ever find himself without his measly newspaperman's salary, or without his matchbox of an apartment, he would be accommodated.

For now, slow his breathing, close his eyes, and go to sleep.