That does something to Clark, some little heartfelt twinge, and he couldn't even really articulate why, but it's to do with this, being themselves. Bruce identifying something as horrifying as heat vision that can slice a tank in half as just warm, like stepping out into a sunny day.
Some puzzle piece gets clicked into place, and that is a mirror of what Bruce has said: if Bruce was frightened of him, even the accidental parts of him, Clark couldn't do this either. He couldn't be with someone where he had to negotiate their fear, or be so different from himself so as not to induce it. It's obvious, when put in these terms, but has never been made plainer than right now. And Bruce, existing, unafraid.
He considers articulating that, but realises that, as usual, Bruce is several steps ahead of him already.
Clark's crooked smile has gentled, warmed, and he sets the donut box aside. He leans over and lets a hand and sleeved arm sink down into biting cold ice to balance himself (needlessly) with a hand at Bruce's midsection, so that he can better kiss him.
Cold fingers wrap around Clark's arm, near his elbow, just holding onto him while they kiss. No sound besides the ice shifting, like a chime. Just warm. Like sitting by the fire. Like sunlight.
Like fucking up all his diy cryotherapy after getting the shit lovingly tortured out of him.
"You're melting my bruise treatment," Bruce murmurs against the other man's mouth, though he doesn't release the tender hold on his arm. In fact he nudges even closer, so that he can press their foreheads together. Gentle and fond. I didn't think I could ever be this person is too much on top of all the other things he's said, but he feels it, and turns the thought over in his mind like a river-smoothed stone.
Soon, he'll get out, dry off, and fall asleep. For a solid 24 hours, at least. He'll be sore but rested in a way he often isn't. And whether Clark is curled next to him, or at work, or pulling a shipping barge out of a canal, he'll be able to hear his heartbeat, peaceful and steady and content.
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Some puzzle piece gets clicked into place, and that is a mirror of what Bruce has said: if Bruce was frightened of him, even the accidental parts of him, Clark couldn't do this either. He couldn't be with someone where he had to negotiate their fear, or be so different from himself so as not to induce it. It's obvious, when put in these terms, but has never been made plainer than right now. And Bruce, existing, unafraid.
He considers articulating that, but realises that, as usual, Bruce is several steps ahead of him already.
Clark's crooked smile has gentled, warmed, and he sets the donut box aside. He leans over and lets a hand and sleeved arm sink down into biting cold ice to balance himself (needlessly) with a hand at Bruce's midsection, so that he can better kiss him.
no subject
Like fucking up all his diy cryotherapy after getting the shit lovingly tortured out of him.
"You're melting my bruise treatment," Bruce murmurs against the other man's mouth, though he doesn't release the tender hold on his arm. In fact he nudges even closer, so that he can press their foreheads together. Gentle and fond. I didn't think I could ever be this person is too much on top of all the other things he's said, but he feels it, and turns the thought over in his mind like a river-smoothed stone.
Soon, he'll get out, dry off, and fall asleep. For a solid 24 hours, at least. He'll be sore but rested in a way he often isn't. And whether Clark is curled next to him, or at work, or pulling a shipping barge out of a canal, he'll be able to hear his heartbeat, peaceful and steady and content.