Clark shakes his head, a mild inscrutable gesture, some of the urgency dissipating with it. Relaxing at the edges, mostly to show Bruce how that much is done. The edges of his thumbs trace cheekbone slopes, more tender and concerned than attempting to evoke anything other than calm.
"Me neither," he says. Admits, really. "We'll figure it out."
It still hurts a little, no matter if Bruce was just lashing out, if he meant none of it. The idea that Clark doesn't know what he's doing, that his judgment is impaired, that he has to stay out of Gotham. Bruises only, though, and it's enough to know that maybe they're not done here yet.
He takes a breath like he's gonna say more, but mostly just comes up with, "I'm sorry," again, and slips near to pull Bruce into an embrace proper, chin over shoulder.
It's a moment before Bruce begins to lose some of the tension in him, raising hands to Clark's elbows in something like a return of that hold. He still feels over-controlled, stilted, but he doesn't pulling away.
"I'm not going to turn into a nice person because you're apologizing," he points out. His breathing has evened out - forced as it is, counting heartbeats in his head, willing himself to calm down. Why the fuck can you leap off buildings and punch monsters in the face but this sends you for a loop? he berates himself, even though he knows full fucking well why. (Every so often, splintered memories of the therapist he'd been dragged kicking and screaming to as an eleven year old. Already too-smart, sounding too-adult, with a doctor looking over at him, uncanny in her observations, speaking to him like he was older, knowing that was the only way to get through. You have to deal with this. He didn't. He won't.)
"You fucked up. Do you understand. I don't need help unless I ask for it. And you can't-- be in that habit, Clark. I'm only going to deteriorate. You're going to have to let me fall."
Clark wants to hold on until Bruce does in return, at least properly, but he can recognise that the touch in return, this stillness, is a sharp difference to turned backs and twitched reactions. As Bruce speaks, he doesn't let go, a canine lean-in that's only heavy in a human kind of way, even if Bruce is probably both hyperaware enough and hyperfamiliar enough to sense the way any hold from Clark comes with practiced restraint.
"Okay," he says, finally, head still on shoulder until he finally lifts it, then. "But you have to ask for it."
As in, that has to be a thing that ever happens, says insistent tone. Not just a loophole of avoidance. He's only backed off enough for a semi-dignified speaking distance, arms looped around broad shoulders. "When you need it, you ask me."
Bruce Wayne, asking for help. Next, Superman will talk rocks into bleeding.
He doesn't respond right away. Staying where he is, letting Clark lean into him, the grip he has on the Kryptonian's arms becoming more pronounced. In fact, if he were holding a human like that, he'd probably be hurting them. There is something about it-- the fact that he can let go-- even knowing that Clark never can, that he has to be in such perfect control at all times, and now telling him Don't interfere, not even to save my life, is asking him to put more chains on that control--
Bruce lets out a breath, and tips his head in, finally leaning into him.
It feels almost ill-gotten, this acquiescence on both their parts, but Clark will take it. The alternative feels wrong, even more wrong than letting someone fall. Like letting himself fall.
But Bruce against him feels like relief, and he settles into the hold, fingers curling in a fold of fabric, breath felt against Bruce's neck. Familiar baking heat that seems to emanate from the core of him, transferred easily in the crush of their bodies together. His temple brushes against Bruce's, before he tips as if to--
Well he doesn't, actually, kiss him, and not for a lack of desiring to do so. Maybe remembering his witless pawing the night before, and deciding to welcome it rather than initiate.
"Good," he says, in the interim, fingertips finding where shirt collar ends and skin at the back of Bruce's neck begins.
Good, and some traitorous part of Bruce is so pleased for it, like he can just curl up in the warmth offered and be happy. He wants to-- he wants to so badly, with how much he loves Clark.
And that's it, that l-word. He loved Silver, and Talia, and Selina (and Harvey) and everyone just burns, falls apart, dies. Clark died. He doesn't think there'll be another chance to redo that, and should Clark be wasting it on someone like him? (But can he make himself stop? Fuck no, apparently, judging by right now.)
Bruce convinces himself to let go of Clark's elbows and shift his hold around his back, functioning a little bit more like a person instead of a very upset statue.
"The second you've had enough, you can back out," he tells him, his low voice quiet. "Promise me you won't force yourself."
So Clark is a little glad for the fact that at this angle, expressions can't be made out. Just gesture, the solid circle that Bruce's arms make around him -- and the thought that that may never have happened again feels more like the real close call, here -- and the quiet, low texture of his voice.
But it's a hell of a thing to say and he frowns at nothing, minuscule touches of his fingers and the comfortable warmth between them not back up. That feels like a lot to unpack for right now, but so long as they're setting down some boundaries, no matter how they might sound--
"I know," he says. "I promise. Bruce..."
He wants to tell Bruce it's going to be okay, but he doesn't want to give him something to disagree with. So Clark selects the kind of something he can't, and gently kisses his mouth. It's a steady moment of contact, controlled, borderline chaste if not for the intimate tangle of arms, shared body warmth and breathing.
Apologetic, "My turn. You need to get some sleep."
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no subject
"Me neither," he says. Admits, really. "We'll figure it out."
It still hurts a little, no matter if Bruce was just lashing out, if he meant none of it. The idea that Clark doesn't know what he's doing, that his judgment is impaired, that he has to stay out of Gotham. Bruises only, though, and it's enough to know that maybe they're not done here yet.
He takes a breath like he's gonna say more, but mostly just comes up with, "I'm sorry," again, and slips near to pull Bruce into an embrace proper, chin over shoulder.
no subject
"I'm not going to turn into a nice person because you're apologizing," he points out. His breathing has evened out - forced as it is, counting heartbeats in his head, willing himself to calm down. Why the fuck can you leap off buildings and punch monsters in the face but this sends you for a loop? he berates himself, even though he knows full fucking well why. (Every so often, splintered memories of the therapist he'd been dragged kicking and screaming to as an eleven year old. Already too-smart, sounding too-adult, with a doctor looking over at him, uncanny in her observations, speaking to him like he was older, knowing that was the only way to get through. You have to deal with this. He didn't. He won't.)
"You fucked up. Do you understand. I don't need help unless I ask for it. And you can't-- be in that habit, Clark. I'm only going to deteriorate. You're going to have to let me fall."
no subject
"Okay," he says, finally, head still on shoulder until he finally lifts it, then. "But you have to ask for it."
As in, that has to be a thing that ever happens, says insistent tone. Not just a loophole of avoidance. He's only backed off enough for a semi-dignified speaking distance, arms looped around broad shoulders. "When you need it, you ask me."
no subject
He doesn't respond right away. Staying where he is, letting Clark lean into him, the grip he has on the Kryptonian's arms becoming more pronounced. In fact, if he were holding a human like that, he'd probably be hurting them. There is something about it-- the fact that he can let go-- even knowing that Clark never can, that he has to be in such perfect control at all times, and now telling him Don't interfere, not even to save my life, is asking him to put more chains on that control--
Bruce lets out a breath, and tips his head in, finally leaning into him.
"...Yeah."
no subject
But Bruce against him feels like relief, and he settles into the hold, fingers curling in a fold of fabric, breath felt against Bruce's neck. Familiar baking heat that seems to emanate from the core of him, transferred easily in the crush of their bodies together. His temple brushes against Bruce's, before he tips as if to--
Well he doesn't, actually, kiss him, and not for a lack of desiring to do so. Maybe remembering his witless pawing the night before, and deciding to welcome it rather than initiate.
"Good," he says, in the interim, fingertips finding where shirt collar ends and skin at the back of Bruce's neck begins.
no subject
And that's it, that l-word. He loved Silver, and Talia, and Selina (and Harvey) and everyone just burns, falls apart, dies. Clark died. He doesn't think there'll be another chance to redo that, and should Clark be wasting it on someone like him? (But can he make himself stop? Fuck no, apparently, judging by right now.)
Bruce convinces himself to let go of Clark's elbows and shift his hold around his back, functioning a little bit more like a person instead of a very upset statue.
"The second you've had enough, you can back out," he tells him, his low voice quiet. "Promise me you won't force yourself."
no subject
So Clark is a little glad for the fact that at this angle, expressions can't be made out. Just gesture, the solid circle that Bruce's arms make around him -- and the thought that that may never have happened again feels more like the real close call, here -- and the quiet, low texture of his voice.
But it's a hell of a thing to say and he frowns at nothing, minuscule touches of his fingers and the comfortable warmth between them not back up. That feels like a lot to unpack for right now, but so long as they're setting down some boundaries, no matter how they might sound--
"I know," he says. "I promise. Bruce..."
He wants to tell Bruce it's going to be okay, but he doesn't want to give him something to disagree with. So Clark selects the kind of something he can't, and gently kisses his mouth. It's a steady moment of contact, controlled, borderline chaste if not for the intimate tangle of arms, shared body warmth and breathing.
Apologetic, "My turn. You need to get some sleep."