Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | PG-13 | 4/18
Title: Lost Years - Part 4
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 3,208 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Now that their last hope has been extinguished, Clark and Bruce begin to face life on this lonely world. They get off to a rocky start, even as they grow closer.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: This fic has decided to grow to at least 10 parts. Which means it won't make it into the WFGE E-Book. Dammit.
Index Post
Part 4
Clark can't really blame him, but after three more days, watching Bruce scrawling more ideas on the broad slate is becoming painful, just another reminder that they failed. That he failed. The frustration written into his partner's features seems like a permanent accusation, even if the Kryptonian knows Bruce doesn't blame him. It just... hurts, knowing they were so close to getting off this planet, so close to going home.
Slicing a fruit resembling a cross between an apple and a cherry to add to their lunch, he tries not to listen to the other man's muttering about propulsion and altitude and magnetic fields and, of all things, steam. He's just not sure he can take much more of it, knowing with every cell in his body that there is no other way off the planet, now. Knowing that their fate now depends on the infinitesimal chance that someone, somewhere might have received his signal during his long flight into space three weeks before.
Thanks to the goddamn orange sun, though, he can still hear every word of Bruce's tirade perfectly. Can still hear the beating of his companion's heart. Can still hear a bird chirping half a world away. Heck, he can still see everything as far away as the horizon, can still make out stellar nebulae a hundred light years away. He can still run at almost full speed and lift a few tons without breaking a sweat. Even his heat vision seems mostly unaffected. If anything, his abilities are more like they were when he was a teenager, around fifteen. Strong enough to know he had something good going on. Fast. Nigh invulnerable. Too bad he knows he could be more.
“You've been slicing that apple thing for ten minutes, Clark,” comes Bruce's voice from over his shoulder, warm hand on his back.
His gut twists and he swallows hard, letting his eyes fall closed. “Sorry,” he breathes, desperate to... he doesn't know what. His focus lingers on the feeling of his friend's fingers through his uniform shirt, instead.
“What the hell for?”
“For...” He sighs heavily, feeling deflated. “For everything.”
“Stop it.” Bruce's tone is suddenly hard and angry. “None of this is your fault. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I... I know. Still...” he shakes his head.
The warm hand moves to grab his arm and spin him around, and he finds himself staring into Bruce's wolfish eyes, their blue cold and burning all at once. Feeling suddenly exposed beneath the gaze, he wants to shrink away from him, to hide and never show his face again. “You did everything you could, Clark. So knock it the hell off. I've been over every scenario I can think of. Hell, I even considered steam to-”
“I know,” he says without thinking.
Contradictory eyes narrow at him. “Anyway, I've looked at every option, and all that's left is to try to get a message out to either the League or the Lanterns the old fashioned way. Since we don't have any way to produce an electronic signal, and lasers are out, the only feasible option is light. I figure we can salvage some of the ship's metal to use as mirrors, and start with Morse Code using simple reflection of sunlight. We'll have to rig up some kind of system to automate its operation, but there's no reason we can't build a small mill further upstream to power it.”
Blinking at his companion, Clark finally says, “I should never have told J'onn to activate the teleporter. I'm sorry.” It's the first time either of them has mentioned the incident that brought them to the planet in the first place, and Clark feels the weight of the statement hanging in the air between them as Bruce just stares at him. No longer able to stifle it, he lets out a half-choked sob, his chest clenching in regret. If only he hadn't insisted that the system could handle the interference from that Apokoliptan nightmare machine Darkseid had sent, they might have ended up where they were meant to be, fighting in the middle of the battle, back to back, taking out the armies sent against the Earth. They might have even gone back to the Watchtower that night, tended their wounds and laughed about how stupid Darkseid was.
They might have gone home.
After what seems to Clark to be the longest glare his partner has ever given him, Bruce grabs both of his arms. “You couldn't have known, Clark. There's no way. Just. Forget about it.” His voice finally softens, “We're here now. We'll do whatever we can to try to let the League know where we are, and we're going to keep hoping that they picked up the signal from your communicator, but in the mean time, we're going to make the best of it, all right?”
Gulping to try to stop another sob, Clark nods, then bows his head. “Okay.”
“Good.” Letting out a sigh, Bruce leans his forehead against Clark's. “Good.”
* * * * *
Bruce just can't stand listening to his companion shiver anymore. At first it almost seemed cute, Superman, the hero, sacrificing his own warmth in favor of the Bat's well-being, but after more than an hour of intermittently feeling Clark's little tremors through the bedding, he's grown beyond annoyed and well into deeply concerned territory.
Clark shouldn't be this cold.
Noble bastard.
Slipping closer to his partner's back, Bruce tosses the thick layers of cover - which, really, was more than enough for both of them - over him, letting the heat he's built up beneath them warm the other man. “Shhh...” he tries to soothe him, rubbing Clark's arm with a hand to try to help the process along. “Try to get some sleep.”
“Sorry...” comes the Kryptonian's sleepy reply.
“What did I tell you about apologizing? Don't.” With the last word he squeezes Clark's bicep. Tightly.
Clark manages a weak nod, and tries to snuggle more comfortably beneath the covers, Bruce still holding onto him.
For a long moment, Bruce still doesn't let go. Instead he watches his companion in the little bit of moonlight peeking in through the end of the hut. Watches his breath swirling in the air above them. Watches his chest rising and falling beneath the not-quite-deer skins with the deep, even breath of sleep.
“I missed having you here when you were gone,” he confesses breathlessly, sure Clark can't hear him. “Hated not knowing if you would be here when I woke up. I...” His gut twists with the weight of it all. He never meant to get so... attached to his companion. “I don't care if we have to stay here for years, Clark. Just don't leave me alone again.”
Feeling like a total fool, he buries his face into the covers, slipping his arm beneath Clark's and around his waist, pulling him close to wait for the gradual encroaching of sleep.
Just when he's losing himself to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, the finally warm body next to him shifts, and a hand comes up to stroke his hair.
The broken voice is less than a whisper. “I won't. I promise.”
* * * * *
“Bruce, a cave is just not practical!” Clark insists, stalking around the subterranean space the Bat discovered only a few miles from the beach, torch in hand casting a narrow ring of light around him. “There's no natural light source, no fresh water down here anymore, no-”
“That never stopped me before!”
“You had resources before. You were a billionaire before. Here, now, this just won't work!”
“It makes sense, Clark!” Bruce finally spits back. “It's temperature constant, we don't have to build walls or a roof, and there is an underground stream about half a mile from here if you'd just look!”
“I can't, dammit!” The anguish in his voice is apparent. “And I can't live in a cave!!”
The truth hits Bruce like a freight train.
No matter how much he misses his own Cave, they'll just have to start building a house tomorrow. Clark needs what light he can get.
* * * * *
The work proceeds slower than Bruce would like. A day to draw up the plans - in which they argue, again - and finally decide on a simple log house to start. A day to cut the timber. A day to begin fitting the logs together. It's the most agonizing project he thinks he's ever undertaken.
Sitting at the edge of the porch that's already taking shape around the partially erected walls of the one-room house, he looks out toward the setting sun, its deep maroon-orange casting the forest into an almost black shade. If it weren't for the utter absurdity of it, he might think it was pretty.
But he can't afford the luxury of appreciating a single view this world has to offer. At least... not yet.
The relatively flat hill they chose to build on still seems too exposed for his liking, as if begging to be struck by lightning. From here, they can gaze out over the forest to the not-too-distant beach, with more hills at their backs for a little bit of protection. The wide stream passes only a few hundred feet from the clearing, giving them access to fresh water, and a good drainage system to boot.
Though they still have to build an outhouse, to use until they can work out a system for a septic tank, of course. Yet another project requiring the recycling of the derelict ship Clark finally dragged up from the beach the night before.
Honestly, Bruce can't stand to look at it, and he wouldn't have blamed Clark if the Kryptonian had decided to trash it, just to get the reminder of their lost hope out of their sight. But here it is, sitting in the midst of the clearing, just below the partially built house on the hill.
Some of the paneling will go toward constructing a roof. Some will become kitchen utensils and a primitive wood-burning cook stove. Some a lightning rod. There might even be a bathtub in there, maybe a sink. Maybe even pipes and a toilet. And... God, a tank for a water heater.
The thought is at least somewhat humanizing, and Bruce clings to it, drawing his knees up to his chest.
Of course, there are a lot of other things that would help toward that effort.
Clothes, for one. Wearing his uniform for the twenty-sixth day in a row is making him feel so... dirty - despite having washed it in the stream - that he's already considering making a weaving loom, if only they can find some sort of fibers to work with. This planet must have some kind of sheep, anyway. For now, though, there are still the not-quite-deer skins. They'll do for bedding until they can find something softer, and make do for winter coats in the mean time, too. Heck, if the Native Americans could make do, so can they.
The constant planning is not much to keep him going, but for now, it'll do.
* * * * *
“Hold it steady!” Bruce snaps at Clark as they lay the last panel in place for the roof. “I can't nail it down with it sliding everywhere!”
“Hey, it's not my fault the wind kicked up. I can't exactly control the weather,” the Kryptonian pouts back, eying the Bat perched high up on the sloping roof, the ladder beneath his own feet wobbling with another gust as the dark clouds of an approaching storm block out the sun.
“So? You're still perfectly capable of holding it still. Don't give me that- What?” he stops and questions at Clark's sudden faraway look.
“Bru-”
KACRACKBOOM!!!
The sky and everything around them is lit in an instant with white hot fire, roaring from the heavens straight through-
“Clark!!!” Bruce shouts, his voice lost against the ringing in his ears from the unexpected strike as he watches his companion's limp form sway and fall from the ladder. He can't move, he can't do anything but stare at the empty space his companion's left behind. It's every nightmare he's suffered since being stranded come to life, the realization of every fear, that he might be left alone here, that Clark might leave him. Breaking himself from his paralysis, he shouts again, “Clark!! Dammit!!”
He doesn't know how he gets down, but he's at Clark's side in a heartbeat, pulling the unconscious man into his lap even as he smells ozone and the acrid scent of charred flesh rising from his body, cradling his head in his arms, stroking dark hair away from a pale face. “Clark,” he chokes, shaking him and rocking him. “Clark!! Wake up!! Wake up, dammit!!”
The blinding panic tears him in half with terror. He can't think straight, doesn't know what to do. Clark isn't waking up. He doesn't seem to be breathing. He...
“Clark!!” he shakes him a little harder, and-
A choked cough rattles loose from Clark's chest, and he sucks in a heavy breath, his eyes popping wide open and his whole body spasming for a moment before he reaches aimlessly for Bruce, hands clutching gray fabric over tense, coiled muscle.
Bruce's heart clenches and skips, relief washing over him in a cascade. “Clark. Clark...” he breathes, repeating the other man's name over and over, rocking him more gently.
“Br... Bruce...” Clark finally manages to croak, his voice small and raspy. “Wh-wha-”
“Shhh... Just... we'll get you inside in a second, okay?” Bruce shudders, unable to stop the trembling in his shoulders, his arms, his hands. Shakily, he smooths Clark's hair back again, pulling his Kryptonian closer to him and squeezing his eyes shut against the shocked tears he's too afraid to shed. “Shhh...”
* * * * *
It takes quite an effort, but together they manage to get Clark inside and laid out on one of the two cots they built the day before, his body sinking into the stretched not-quite-deer skin serving as a hammock, of sorts. The taller man groans with pain when Bruce sits next to him and begins looking over his injuries. A patch of burned skin on his left temple, purple, black, cracked, and bleeding. Pink burn marks branching over his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his uniform shirt.
Bruce helps Clark pull the shirt over his head, revealing an entire road map of burns, the path leading down towards his right hip, and the Kryptonian can hear the Bat's heart pounding just that much harder at the sight, even over the wailing rush of his own pulse in his ears. He wonders how bad it must really be for Bruce to be this upset, as a hitched breath is added when Bruce turns to pull off Clark's boots, the rubber sole of the right one still smoking and partially melted beneath the toe.
“Hold still,” Bruce quietly commands, his voice seeming softer than Clark has heard in a while. “You don't want to do any more damage to yourself than the lightning already did.”
“Okay,” Clark breathes in agreement, before pain shoots up his leg, following the lightning's path in reverse from the exit point in his toes. “Gaahh!!”
Bruce hisses through gritted teeth as he discards the smoldering boot, then peels off what's left of Clark's sock. The injury beneath isn't pretty. “Dammit.” He rubs his temple for a moment, regarding the burned, peeling, and bleeding skin of Clark's big toe. “Where's Alfred when you need him?” he grumbles lowly, irritated and just... pissed off.
“My guess is, back on Earth,” Clark chuckles mirthlessly in a vain attempt at humor, trying to ignore the agony of his leg and foot, and suddenly fixated on the look of extreme concentration on Bruce's face. His heart pounding anxiously, he props himself up on his elbows. “Bruce?” he prompts when the Bat doesn't respond.
When Bruce finally looks at him, his eyes are all fire. “Just what the hell would I have done if you-?” But he can't finish the sentence, not daring to say it. He can't even think it, the looping memory of seeing Clark struck and dropping like a rock seared into his retinas. “If you... I... Dammit, Clark,” he growls.
Shrugging off the screaming agony in everything from his temple to his foot, the Kryptonian pushes himself to sit up fully, not knowing whether the tightness in his chest is injury from the strike or something else entirely. All he knows is he can't stand the choked anguish in Bruce's voice, can't stand the wild fear in his eyes, the grief written all over his face. “Bruce,” he breathes, reaching forward and grabbing handfuls of his partner's uniform shirt. Pulling the other man close, he whispers, “I promised you I wouldn't leave you again. I meant it.”
With that, it's all over, and neither man even knows what's happening until their mouths are crashing together, all lips and tongues and teeth and need and pain. The kiss is feral, base, with hearts pounding and hands pawing for whatever purchase they can find, shirt, skin, hair, it doesn't matter, as long as they're touching each other, holding each other as tight as they can. Clark's body still screeches with injury, but he doesn't care. All he wants is Bruce, to let him know it'll be all right, that everything will be fine, that he's fine. He wants to hold him and soothe away the fear and despair, and he wants Bruce to do the same for him, because he knows that despite all their efforts, they're not going home. Not now, maybe not ever.
And Bruce can't stand the way his heart is aching, the way he wants to feel all of Clark, make sure his companion is all right, is safe, is alive. He wants to taste him and caress him and soothe his injuries and make him understand that none of this is his fault, and... and they shouldn't be doing this. He knows they shouldn't, but he can't stop, can't rein in the need for Clark to show him his fears are unfounded.
After a long, frantic moment, the kiss finally slows, hands release their tight grips, fingers sliding down along arms and sides, and a sense of awareness settles over them. Bruce breaks away first, pulling back tentatively. “Wha-what the hell are we doing?” he grinds out in a near-whisper.
“I... don't know. I...” But Clark can't seem to stamp down the desire to be in Bruce's arms. He doesn't want the moment to end, doesn't want to let Bruce go.
The Bat disentangles himself and stands abruptly, scrubbing his hand through his already disheveled hair, another sort of fear suddenly gripping him by the throat. “You... try to get some rest... I'll see if I have anything to put on your burns, and... I'll go finish nailing down the last roof panel.”
In another second he's out the door, leaving Clark feeling more alone than he has since they came to this damned place. Alone. Empty. Hollow. When he closes his eyes and sinks back into the cot, tears spill down his cheeks.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 3,208 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Now that their last hope has been extinguished, Clark and Bruce begin to face life on this lonely world. They get off to a rocky start, even as they grow closer.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: This fic has decided to grow to at least 10 parts. Which means it won't make it into the WFGE E-Book. Dammit.
Index Post
Part 4
Clark can't really blame him, but after three more days, watching Bruce scrawling more ideas on the broad slate is becoming painful, just another reminder that they failed. That he failed. The frustration written into his partner's features seems like a permanent accusation, even if the Kryptonian knows Bruce doesn't blame him. It just... hurts, knowing they were so close to getting off this planet, so close to going home.
Slicing a fruit resembling a cross between an apple and a cherry to add to their lunch, he tries not to listen to the other man's muttering about propulsion and altitude and magnetic fields and, of all things, steam. He's just not sure he can take much more of it, knowing with every cell in his body that there is no other way off the planet, now. Knowing that their fate now depends on the infinitesimal chance that someone, somewhere might have received his signal during his long flight into space three weeks before.
Thanks to the goddamn orange sun, though, he can still hear every word of Bruce's tirade perfectly. Can still hear the beating of his companion's heart. Can still hear a bird chirping half a world away. Heck, he can still see everything as far away as the horizon, can still make out stellar nebulae a hundred light years away. He can still run at almost full speed and lift a few tons without breaking a sweat. Even his heat vision seems mostly unaffected. If anything, his abilities are more like they were when he was a teenager, around fifteen. Strong enough to know he had something good going on. Fast. Nigh invulnerable. Too bad he knows he could be more.
“You've been slicing that apple thing for ten minutes, Clark,” comes Bruce's voice from over his shoulder, warm hand on his back.
His gut twists and he swallows hard, letting his eyes fall closed. “Sorry,” he breathes, desperate to... he doesn't know what. His focus lingers on the feeling of his friend's fingers through his uniform shirt, instead.
“What the hell for?”
“For...” He sighs heavily, feeling deflated. “For everything.”
“Stop it.” Bruce's tone is suddenly hard and angry. “None of this is your fault. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I... I know. Still...” he shakes his head.
The warm hand moves to grab his arm and spin him around, and he finds himself staring into Bruce's wolfish eyes, their blue cold and burning all at once. Feeling suddenly exposed beneath the gaze, he wants to shrink away from him, to hide and never show his face again. “You did everything you could, Clark. So knock it the hell off. I've been over every scenario I can think of. Hell, I even considered steam to-”
“I know,” he says without thinking.
Contradictory eyes narrow at him. “Anyway, I've looked at every option, and all that's left is to try to get a message out to either the League or the Lanterns the old fashioned way. Since we don't have any way to produce an electronic signal, and lasers are out, the only feasible option is light. I figure we can salvage some of the ship's metal to use as mirrors, and start with Morse Code using simple reflection of sunlight. We'll have to rig up some kind of system to automate its operation, but there's no reason we can't build a small mill further upstream to power it.”
Blinking at his companion, Clark finally says, “I should never have told J'onn to activate the teleporter. I'm sorry.” It's the first time either of them has mentioned the incident that brought them to the planet in the first place, and Clark feels the weight of the statement hanging in the air between them as Bruce just stares at him. No longer able to stifle it, he lets out a half-choked sob, his chest clenching in regret. If only he hadn't insisted that the system could handle the interference from that Apokoliptan nightmare machine Darkseid had sent, they might have ended up where they were meant to be, fighting in the middle of the battle, back to back, taking out the armies sent against the Earth. They might have even gone back to the Watchtower that night, tended their wounds and laughed about how stupid Darkseid was.
They might have gone home.
After what seems to Clark to be the longest glare his partner has ever given him, Bruce grabs both of his arms. “You couldn't have known, Clark. There's no way. Just. Forget about it.” His voice finally softens, “We're here now. We'll do whatever we can to try to let the League know where we are, and we're going to keep hoping that they picked up the signal from your communicator, but in the mean time, we're going to make the best of it, all right?”
Gulping to try to stop another sob, Clark nods, then bows his head. “Okay.”
“Good.” Letting out a sigh, Bruce leans his forehead against Clark's. “Good.”
* * * * *
Bruce just can't stand listening to his companion shiver anymore. At first it almost seemed cute, Superman, the hero, sacrificing his own warmth in favor of the Bat's well-being, but after more than an hour of intermittently feeling Clark's little tremors through the bedding, he's grown beyond annoyed and well into deeply concerned territory.
Clark shouldn't be this cold.
Noble bastard.
Slipping closer to his partner's back, Bruce tosses the thick layers of cover - which, really, was more than enough for both of them - over him, letting the heat he's built up beneath them warm the other man. “Shhh...” he tries to soothe him, rubbing Clark's arm with a hand to try to help the process along. “Try to get some sleep.”
“Sorry...” comes the Kryptonian's sleepy reply.
“What did I tell you about apologizing? Don't.” With the last word he squeezes Clark's bicep. Tightly.
Clark manages a weak nod, and tries to snuggle more comfortably beneath the covers, Bruce still holding onto him.
For a long moment, Bruce still doesn't let go. Instead he watches his companion in the little bit of moonlight peeking in through the end of the hut. Watches his breath swirling in the air above them. Watches his chest rising and falling beneath the not-quite-deer skins with the deep, even breath of sleep.
“I missed having you here when you were gone,” he confesses breathlessly, sure Clark can't hear him. “Hated not knowing if you would be here when I woke up. I...” His gut twists with the weight of it all. He never meant to get so... attached to his companion. “I don't care if we have to stay here for years, Clark. Just don't leave me alone again.”
Feeling like a total fool, he buries his face into the covers, slipping his arm beneath Clark's and around his waist, pulling him close to wait for the gradual encroaching of sleep.
Just when he's losing himself to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, the finally warm body next to him shifts, and a hand comes up to stroke his hair.
The broken voice is less than a whisper. “I won't. I promise.”
* * * * *
“Bruce, a cave is just not practical!” Clark insists, stalking around the subterranean space the Bat discovered only a few miles from the beach, torch in hand casting a narrow ring of light around him. “There's no natural light source, no fresh water down here anymore, no-”
“That never stopped me before!”
“You had resources before. You were a billionaire before. Here, now, this just won't work!”
“It makes sense, Clark!” Bruce finally spits back. “It's temperature constant, we don't have to build walls or a roof, and there is an underground stream about half a mile from here if you'd just look!”
“I can't, dammit!” The anguish in his voice is apparent. “And I can't live in a cave!!”
The truth hits Bruce like a freight train.
No matter how much he misses his own Cave, they'll just have to start building a house tomorrow. Clark needs what light he can get.
* * * * *
The work proceeds slower than Bruce would like. A day to draw up the plans - in which they argue, again - and finally decide on a simple log house to start. A day to cut the timber. A day to begin fitting the logs together. It's the most agonizing project he thinks he's ever undertaken.
Sitting at the edge of the porch that's already taking shape around the partially erected walls of the one-room house, he looks out toward the setting sun, its deep maroon-orange casting the forest into an almost black shade. If it weren't for the utter absurdity of it, he might think it was pretty.
But he can't afford the luxury of appreciating a single view this world has to offer. At least... not yet.
The relatively flat hill they chose to build on still seems too exposed for his liking, as if begging to be struck by lightning. From here, they can gaze out over the forest to the not-too-distant beach, with more hills at their backs for a little bit of protection. The wide stream passes only a few hundred feet from the clearing, giving them access to fresh water, and a good drainage system to boot.
Though they still have to build an outhouse, to use until they can work out a system for a septic tank, of course. Yet another project requiring the recycling of the derelict ship Clark finally dragged up from the beach the night before.
Honestly, Bruce can't stand to look at it, and he wouldn't have blamed Clark if the Kryptonian had decided to trash it, just to get the reminder of their lost hope out of their sight. But here it is, sitting in the midst of the clearing, just below the partially built house on the hill.
Some of the paneling will go toward constructing a roof. Some will become kitchen utensils and a primitive wood-burning cook stove. Some a lightning rod. There might even be a bathtub in there, maybe a sink. Maybe even pipes and a toilet. And... God, a tank for a water heater.
The thought is at least somewhat humanizing, and Bruce clings to it, drawing his knees up to his chest.
Of course, there are a lot of other things that would help toward that effort.
Clothes, for one. Wearing his uniform for the twenty-sixth day in a row is making him feel so... dirty - despite having washed it in the stream - that he's already considering making a weaving loom, if only they can find some sort of fibers to work with. This planet must have some kind of sheep, anyway. For now, though, there are still the not-quite-deer skins. They'll do for bedding until they can find something softer, and make do for winter coats in the mean time, too. Heck, if the Native Americans could make do, so can they.
The constant planning is not much to keep him going, but for now, it'll do.
* * * * *
“Hold it steady!” Bruce snaps at Clark as they lay the last panel in place for the roof. “I can't nail it down with it sliding everywhere!”
“Hey, it's not my fault the wind kicked up. I can't exactly control the weather,” the Kryptonian pouts back, eying the Bat perched high up on the sloping roof, the ladder beneath his own feet wobbling with another gust as the dark clouds of an approaching storm block out the sun.
“So? You're still perfectly capable of holding it still. Don't give me that- What?” he stops and questions at Clark's sudden faraway look.
“Bru-”
KACRACKBOOM!!!
The sky and everything around them is lit in an instant with white hot fire, roaring from the heavens straight through-
“Clark!!!” Bruce shouts, his voice lost against the ringing in his ears from the unexpected strike as he watches his companion's limp form sway and fall from the ladder. He can't move, he can't do anything but stare at the empty space his companion's left behind. It's every nightmare he's suffered since being stranded come to life, the realization of every fear, that he might be left alone here, that Clark might leave him. Breaking himself from his paralysis, he shouts again, “Clark!! Dammit!!”
He doesn't know how he gets down, but he's at Clark's side in a heartbeat, pulling the unconscious man into his lap even as he smells ozone and the acrid scent of charred flesh rising from his body, cradling his head in his arms, stroking dark hair away from a pale face. “Clark,” he chokes, shaking him and rocking him. “Clark!! Wake up!! Wake up, dammit!!”
The blinding panic tears him in half with terror. He can't think straight, doesn't know what to do. Clark isn't waking up. He doesn't seem to be breathing. He...
“Clark!!” he shakes him a little harder, and-
A choked cough rattles loose from Clark's chest, and he sucks in a heavy breath, his eyes popping wide open and his whole body spasming for a moment before he reaches aimlessly for Bruce, hands clutching gray fabric over tense, coiled muscle.
Bruce's heart clenches and skips, relief washing over him in a cascade. “Clark. Clark...” he breathes, repeating the other man's name over and over, rocking him more gently.
“Br... Bruce...” Clark finally manages to croak, his voice small and raspy. “Wh-wha-”
“Shhh... Just... we'll get you inside in a second, okay?” Bruce shudders, unable to stop the trembling in his shoulders, his arms, his hands. Shakily, he smooths Clark's hair back again, pulling his Kryptonian closer to him and squeezing his eyes shut against the shocked tears he's too afraid to shed. “Shhh...”
* * * * *
It takes quite an effort, but together they manage to get Clark inside and laid out on one of the two cots they built the day before, his body sinking into the stretched not-quite-deer skin serving as a hammock, of sorts. The taller man groans with pain when Bruce sits next to him and begins looking over his injuries. A patch of burned skin on his left temple, purple, black, cracked, and bleeding. Pink burn marks branching over his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his uniform shirt.
Bruce helps Clark pull the shirt over his head, revealing an entire road map of burns, the path leading down towards his right hip, and the Kryptonian can hear the Bat's heart pounding just that much harder at the sight, even over the wailing rush of his own pulse in his ears. He wonders how bad it must really be for Bruce to be this upset, as a hitched breath is added when Bruce turns to pull off Clark's boots, the rubber sole of the right one still smoking and partially melted beneath the toe.
“Hold still,” Bruce quietly commands, his voice seeming softer than Clark has heard in a while. “You don't want to do any more damage to yourself than the lightning already did.”
“Okay,” Clark breathes in agreement, before pain shoots up his leg, following the lightning's path in reverse from the exit point in his toes. “Gaahh!!”
Bruce hisses through gritted teeth as he discards the smoldering boot, then peels off what's left of Clark's sock. The injury beneath isn't pretty. “Dammit.” He rubs his temple for a moment, regarding the burned, peeling, and bleeding skin of Clark's big toe. “Where's Alfred when you need him?” he grumbles lowly, irritated and just... pissed off.
“My guess is, back on Earth,” Clark chuckles mirthlessly in a vain attempt at humor, trying to ignore the agony of his leg and foot, and suddenly fixated on the look of extreme concentration on Bruce's face. His heart pounding anxiously, he props himself up on his elbows. “Bruce?” he prompts when the Bat doesn't respond.
When Bruce finally looks at him, his eyes are all fire. “Just what the hell would I have done if you-?” But he can't finish the sentence, not daring to say it. He can't even think it, the looping memory of seeing Clark struck and dropping like a rock seared into his retinas. “If you... I... Dammit, Clark,” he growls.
Shrugging off the screaming agony in everything from his temple to his foot, the Kryptonian pushes himself to sit up fully, not knowing whether the tightness in his chest is injury from the strike or something else entirely. All he knows is he can't stand the choked anguish in Bruce's voice, can't stand the wild fear in his eyes, the grief written all over his face. “Bruce,” he breathes, reaching forward and grabbing handfuls of his partner's uniform shirt. Pulling the other man close, he whispers, “I promised you I wouldn't leave you again. I meant it.”
With that, it's all over, and neither man even knows what's happening until their mouths are crashing together, all lips and tongues and teeth and need and pain. The kiss is feral, base, with hearts pounding and hands pawing for whatever purchase they can find, shirt, skin, hair, it doesn't matter, as long as they're touching each other, holding each other as tight as they can. Clark's body still screeches with injury, but he doesn't care. All he wants is Bruce, to let him know it'll be all right, that everything will be fine, that he's fine. He wants to hold him and soothe away the fear and despair, and he wants Bruce to do the same for him, because he knows that despite all their efforts, they're not going home. Not now, maybe not ever.
And Bruce can't stand the way his heart is aching, the way he wants to feel all of Clark, make sure his companion is all right, is safe, is alive. He wants to taste him and caress him and soothe his injuries and make him understand that none of this is his fault, and... and they shouldn't be doing this. He knows they shouldn't, but he can't stop, can't rein in the need for Clark to show him his fears are unfounded.
After a long, frantic moment, the kiss finally slows, hands release their tight grips, fingers sliding down along arms and sides, and a sense of awareness settles over them. Bruce breaks away first, pulling back tentatively. “Wha-what the hell are we doing?” he grinds out in a near-whisper.
“I... don't know. I...” But Clark can't seem to stamp down the desire to be in Bruce's arms. He doesn't want the moment to end, doesn't want to let Bruce go.
The Bat disentangles himself and stands abruptly, scrubbing his hand through his already disheveled hair, another sort of fear suddenly gripping him by the throat. “You... try to get some rest... I'll see if I have anything to put on your burns, and... I'll go finish nailing down the last roof panel.”
In another second he's out the door, leaving Clark feeling more alone than he has since they came to this damned place. Alone. Empty. Hollow. When he closes his eyes and sinks back into the cot, tears spill down his cheeks.
* * * * *