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Bruce should have seen this coming.
He should have realized the place was rigged to blow before he ever set foot inside.
If he had paid more attention to his surroundings during the fight, he could have gotten them both out before it happened, but he'd been distracted. Superman had been moving sluggishly, already affected by the kryptonite in the building after he had followed Bruce in after being explicitly ordered not to. Bruce could have handled it himself. This wasn't even a Luthor-level threat; just some seemingly-disorganized group of nobodies that had somehow managed to get their hands on weapons powered by glow-y space rocks they really shouldn't have.
As it was, Bruce's focus had been compromised by keeping an eye on his ally instead of the enemy, and now Clark was going to be the one who paid for Bruce's inability to compartmentalize.
The moment that one of them managed to down Superman with a lucky shot from their kryptonite-powered weapon, Bruce was right there at his side, catching him as he staggered. Unfortunately, it was exactly the opportunity their enemies had been looking for, and they fled as soon as the heroes were distracted.
Not even thirty seconds later, the ceiling above them erupted in explosions and flames, like the gates of hell had opened from above. Floors of building began to rain down, and as Bruce quickly scanned their surroundings for cover, he was hit by something else entirely. Something that was very much not concrete and rebar.
He hated that he immediately knew what it was—who it was.
The next moments were lost in the cacophony of an entire warehouse coming down on them. His vision was obstructed by clouds of dust, his hearing nothing but a shrill ringing inside his head. By some miracle—likely one dressed in bright primary colors—they didn't get crushed by the collapse. All he could feel was the strong arms wrapped around him protectively. Bruce would count their blessings just as soon as he was able to think past the shock of having a building dropped on him.
He wasn't sure how long it took for the rubble to settle, it could have been seconds or an eternity—he was fairly certain he didn't pass out in the meantime, but not one-hundred percent. Bruce took a moment, following each twitch of muscle or flare of pain to its source, but nothing was notably debilitating or life-threatening. Considering they'd had an entire building dropped on them, he would say he was fairing decently, though judging by the splitting pain in his head gradually making itself known as the initial shock wore off, he had a mild concussion at the very least.
It took longer to orient himself than he would like in a situation such as this. He tapped at the control for his night vision lenses, and nothing happened. Blindly, he wiped at the cowl, trying to clear the dust away, but that didn't fix anything. Must have been damaged in the collapse, probably by whatever gave him a ringer. It was pitch black where they were buried, like they had suddenly been cut off from the rest of the world, trapped in a coffin of concrete and steel.
Tentatively, Bruce stretched out an arm to feel for how much space they had. Almost immediately, his gauntlet clanked against a metal beam that seemed to have pierced the floor to Bruce's right. Maybe a foot or two beyond that, his hand met concrete. Not much space, then.
Bruce tapped at his cowl again. It appeared his comms were offline, too, damaged by the explosion, or possibly they were simply buried deep enough for the signal to be blocked. Bruce reached down to his belt, activating the distress beacon he hated using. He hoped for their sake it was still functional, otherwise it could take a while for anyone to come to their aid. Putting that aside, his thoughts turned to more immediate things to worry about.
Clark had yet to make any attempt at movement, practically pinned against Bruce not unlike a steel beam himself. He was half-kneeling, half-blanketing Bruce's entire body with his own like a literal human shield. Bruce's heart sank when he realized how eerily quiet and still Clark had been as he'd run through his standard procedures. Was Clark okay?
Just as Bruce was about to speak through a mouthful of dust to check on him, Clark stirred finally, letting out a low groan that was shockingly reassuring. Bruce's heart returned approximately where it should be in his chest at the sound of Clark's voice, weary as it was.
"Sorry, B... didn't have enough time to get us out."
Bruce let out a sigh of relief that bordered on delirious. "Only you would apologize for saving someone's life."
A pained huff of a laugh came from above him. "Must be something... I picked up from you."
The more Clark spoke, the less assured Bruce felt. Clark... sounded like shit, but Bruce tried to not let the weakness in his voice worry him too much. He'd been exposed to kryptonite, and now they were cut off from any sunlight that could help heal the effects it had on him. Before his mind could begin to catastrophize, he reminded himself there were contingencies for events like these—he'd been the one to put them in place, even. The rest of the League would dig them out, distress beacon or no, and everything would be fine.
He made a mental note to look into upgrading the comms once they got out of this mess. They were essentially useless if they couldn't hold up in a situation like this.
Clark shifted slightly, testing the bubble of debris around them, how far he could move without potentially jeopardizing their concrete cocoon of safety. Fortunately, it was stable enough for Clark to roll off of Bruce's body somewhat, but there was only space for Clark to settle onto his side, and even then, they were still pressed close in the cramped space, legs tangled together in an almost intimate way.
Bruce willed himself to not think about how many places their bodies were touching. Even though Clark was weakened by the kryptonite, he was bound to still be able to pick up Bruce's heart-rate—if not with his superhearing, then just given Clark's proximity to his chest.
They laid there in silence as Bruce ran through scenarios in his mind, each one increasingly more bleak than the one before it—until he realized it wasn't silent at all. He could hear Clark breathing, something odd in and of itself given that he hardly needed to do it. It was an awful, wheezing sound, as though his lungs couldn't drag enough air in. He wasn't certain how much oxygen they had in their little pocket of rubble, if their supply was finite or if there was a crack somewhere to provide enough oxygen flow to keep them from suffocating. He kept his own breathing slow and deliberate, just in case.
The shallow wheezes punctuated the passing of time like a miserable metronome, each one sending a chill of fear down Bruce's spine. He decided to hazard asking Clark the question. "Are you okay?"
"Never better," Clark attempted to joke. Bruce knew he was avoiding the question more so than he was trying to keep the mood light.
Unfortunately, Bruce was not at all in a joking mood. "Superman."
Bruce felt Clark's sigh more than he could hear it, a weak puff of air ghosting along the exposed part of his face. "I'm fine, Batman. Don't worry about me."
"There's a good amount of evidence that would prove neither of us have a trustworthy definition of 'fine.'" Bruce pointed out wryly.
That earned him a legitimate chuckle from Clark, which would have calmed some of Bruce's worries if not for the sharp intake of breath as if the very action of laughing had caused Clark more pain. A rib injury, perhaps?
Something was definitely wrong. Clark's breathing was more ragged than Bruce would expect given that the threat of kryptonite should have been removed when the gang fled with their weapons—presuming they didn't leave any behind in their haste. It was too precious of a resource to discard so easily.
"Hey, Bruce," Clark said after a few minutes filled only with the sounds of his labored breathing. His voice was almost a whisper, like anything louder was too painful for him. Bruce didn't reprimand him for the use of his name. He couldn't imagine reprimanding Clark for anything in that moment, except perhaps, for being a self-sacrificial idiot. Besides, who was around to hear them right now? "I'd like to amend my earlier statement. I'm—I'm not fine, actually."
Every muscle in Bruce's body tensed at once. "Don't beat around the bush, Kent. What's wrong?"
"I think I'm bleeding. A little."
Alarms started blaring in Bruce's mind. "Where?"
"Left side. Something... got me in the explosion. It didn't feel... that bad at first." Despite how he downplayed it, Clark's voice was laced with pain as he spoke, each sentence coming out weaker than the one before it. "It might be... worse than I thought."
Awkwardly grasping blindly in the dark, Bruce traced the edge of Clark's shoulder down his body, following the strong line of his torso. Immediately, he knew the injury as soon as his hand landed on it just above Clark's hip, the rip of his suit and the slickness of the blood soaking the fabric was noticeable even through Bruce's glove.
Quickly, Bruce gathered what he could reach of Clark's cape and firmly pressed it to the wound. An awful, heart-stopping cry of pain ripped from Clark's throat as soon as Bruce applied pressure to try to staunch the bleeding. Bruce ached as he felt it echo in his own chest. He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to refrain from slipping into his soft, talking-to-victims voice.
"I've got you." Bruce kept his tone even, normal, shoving his own panic deep down inside himself. It wouldn't do them any good; Clark didn't need anything additional to stress him out, to raise his heart-rate and cause him to bleed out faster as they waited for help.
Clark's entire body tense up against the fresh wave of pain the pressure sent through him. Suddenly, the weight of his head dropped against Bruce's shoulder as he curled in on himself, using Bruce as an anchor. "S-sorry."
"If you keep handing out apologies like that, eventually they won't mean anything," Bruce said wryly, trying to take Clark's mind off the agony he must be in.
The puff of air against his cheek was probably the closest Clark could get to a laugh right now. "I'm making up for y-your deficit."
Relief and hope flooded his chest in equal measure at the fact that Clark was still coherent enough for jokes. He knew it was as much for his own benefit as it was Clark trying to stay awake and in the moment, fighting back against the endless torrent of pain.
Now that Bruce was aware of it, the horrible, metallic scent of blood filled their tiny space. A reminder of the precariousness of their situation.
He wished that they weren't in this situation. That Clark had listened to his orders and stayed outside while Bruce infiltrated the warehouse. Anger tried to burn in Bruce's chest, but it was drowned out by wave after wave of concern for Clark's well-being.
Bruce pulled Clark closer, trying to maneuver them into a position where it would be easier to apply steady pressure and also relieve some of the tension in Clark's body. Clark went along easily, with little need for prompting, nearly collapsing against Bruce's chest and basically all but using his body as a pillow at that point.
"Is this okay?" Bruce asked.
Clark took a deep, shuddering breath against Bruce's shoulder. "Yeah, 'sgood. I can kind of... still hear your heartbeat, this way. Lets me know you're okay."
Bruce wondered if Clark could hear the way his heart pounded harder at that. Ridiculous man, more concerned about Bruce than his own well-being, even as he lay there bleeding.
With Clark tucked so closely against him, the messed-up curls of his hair tickled Bruce's chin. Beneath the dirt and the kryptonite exposure-induced sweat, there was the faintest hint of Clark's shampoo—a light, crisp scent of apple, reminiscent of a kitchen where someone just baked a fresh pie. He tried to focus his senses on that comforting smell rather than the acrid stench of blood.
With his right hand pressed steadily against Clark's wound, Bruce carefully shifted around until his left hand became free enough to reach up and cradle Clark's head, gently weaving his fingers through the mess of curls. He tried to exude comfort through his touch, unable to provide much through his words. His hand was far more reliably steady than his voice might be at that point, anyway.
They didn't touch like this, not normally. Bruce wasn't... great at physical affection, or really any sort of display of affection, no matter how greatly he felt about someone. On the other hand, Clark was a casual toucher, a product of a bright childhood with loving family. He never passed up an opportunity to get his hand on Bruce's shoulder, and Bruce... well, he knew what those small touches could do for himself. Reassurance. Comfort. A reminder that through it all, Superman was at his side. Right now, the least Bruce could do was give even a fraction of that to his dearest friend.
Clark sighed at his touch, a wavering little thing that made Bruce's heart ache. Slowly, the shaky rise and fall of his chest from his labored breathing evened out—marking an encouraging improvement in Clark's condition. Bruce hoped that meant the bleeding had slowed or even stopped altogether. It was almost impossible to tell in the pitch black darkness.
Bruce lost track of the passage of time as they laid there, one of his hands devotedly pressed to Clark's wound and the other softly carding through his hair to distract Clark from the pain. Admittedly, it was an efficient distraction for himself, too. Something to focus on, the only thing he could really do for Clark until the League came to their rescue. It kept his mind occupied, not allowing his thoughts to wander too awful much. It wasn't appropriate to allow himself to think about the position they'd found themselves in. It was a torturous approximation of everything Bruce had ever wanted: Clark in his arms, bodies pressed close together. He'd pay almost any price to be far away from this place, both of them safe and whole, splayed out across Bruce's bed, tangled in silky sheets and each other.
Not inches away from the possibility of losing it all.
But that way laid madness. Bruce couldn't allow himself to catastrophize, either, to let his mind craft a nightmare of worst case scenarios. Clark was going to be okay. He had survived far worse things a dozen times over. It shouldn't be long before the League pulled them out. Clark was going to be okay.
Faintly, Bruce could make out sounds of shifting debris in the distance, the crumble of destroyed concrete and creaking of twisted metal as the League worked. Though they were still a distance away, the sounds came as a relief.
Gradually, the growing noise of the rescue efforts began to overshadow the shallow, pained breaths against Bruce's neck. The relief those sounds brought with them was almost enough to cast out the shadow of despair across his mind.
"Can you hear that, Clark?" Bruce felt him give a short nod against his shoulder. "Diana's probably not going to let us hear the end of this. Getting a building dropped on us by some no-name gang that couldn't even make their own weapons."
But that relief was cut short. With all of the shifting of debris above them, their precarious pocket of safety lost its stability. Something nearby broke loose and fell—thankfully, missing Bruce's leg by mere inches.
Unfortunately, the space around them was suddenly bathed in a glowing green light, throwing everything into a horrid, grotesque relief. If the color alone hadn't given Bruce enough evidence to guess what had fallen into their space, Clark's agonized gasp of pain only confirmed it.
Hurriedly, Bruce attempted to kick it away, to get it as far away from Clark as he could manage in such an enclosed space. He only managed to shove it to the edge of their concrete and steel bubble, and that wasn't going to be far enough.
What Bruce wouldn't give to return to the total darkness of a moment ago. The light from the kryptonite weapon revealed everything. He could see the serpentine, black lines of kryptonite poisoning branching its way through Clark's ashen skin. The way the usual brilliant red of his cape was stained a darker color, almost black in the sickening green light, soaked with blood where Bruce had it bunched against his wound.
The light also revealed the metal beam pierced through the floor next to them—and the way it, too, was darkened with Clark's blood, presumably having been the cause of the horrid gash along his side.
Blood which would have been Bruce's own, had Clark not thrown his body in the way and used himself to shield Bruce. The Batsuit wouldn't have stood a chance against it.
As Clark gasped against him, his body wracked with agonizing pain, Bruce let go for just a moment to free his cape from underneath himself and attempted to cover Clark with it. To put something in between him and the kryptonite just a few feet away. It wasn't like the cape could actually shield him properly, though, but perhaps it could lessen his direct exposure at least some.
When they got out of this, he should look into the potential of radioactivity-resistant materials for his cape.
At the very least, the kryptonite-powered gun taunting them with its ever-present glow in the corner answered the question of why Clark hadn't begun to recover after the initial collapse. His wound didn't seem deep enough to be truly life-threatening, but that meant nothing when it was compounded by something that could slowly kill Clark without even touching him. Even though Bruce had managed to stop Clark's bleeding, his life force still trickled out of him, slowly, excruciatingly, sapped by that godforsaken rock.
"Stay with me, Clark," Bruce all but pleaded with him, concern growing with every increasingly ragged breath Clark clawed into his lungs. "They're almost to us. Just a little longer, pal."
Clark was in too much pain to give much of a response, his voice an incoherent mumble against Bruce's neck. It was like he was trying to burrow beneath Bruce's skin just to get away from the kryptonite. Bruce wished he could put himself between Clark and that damned meteorite, protect him like he'd done for Bruce as the warehouse collapsed.
Bruce held Clark as closely as possibly, all pretenses about their friendship be damned at that point. His mouth pressed against the clammy, sweat-drenched skin of Clark's forehead as he spoke. "Listen to me, Clark. We're going to get you out of here. You're going to be okay."
He wasn't sure if he was saying it more for his own benefit or for Clark's. The only answer he received in return were the rabbit-quick and shallow wheezes that his heart tried to match in speed as worry consumed him.
"You don't get to leave me yet, Kal," Bruce whispered, his voice barely stronger than a breath against Clark's skin.
Despite everything, Clark somehow heard him. "I won't."
The next moment, his body went limp against Bruce. For a split second, Bruce's traitorous mind feared the absolute worst, but those fears were dashed by the feeble breaths still ghosting along Bruce's skin.
Bruce didn't let go of Clark, desperately cradling him against his own body, keeping count not of the seconds that ticked by, but the shallow breaths that were his only assurance that Clark was still alive in his arms.
It felt like an eternity before the first tiny crack of light began to shine through the concrete coffin around them. Bruce's heart pounded painfully against the confines of his ribcage, as if it could jump out and dig them from beneath the rubble itself.
Finally, one of the large pieces of concrete was removed, suddenly filling their tiny space with daylight, throwing everything into an awful and jarring brightness his eyes rebelled against.
A silhouette appeared against the brilliant sunlight. Wonder Woman. Without another second to lose, Bruce's brain kicked back in to proper gear.
"Superman is severely injured. He needs medical attention, stat." Bruce tried to keep his voice level, professional. He failed.
Diana nodded, her face gravely serious. "Understood."
Once the opening in the rubble was large enough to fit Clark through, Bruce extricated himself from the desperate hold he had on Clark's body. Able to move more freely now, he aided in handing him off to Diana and the other League members aiding in the rescue effort.
Usually, when sunlight washed over Clark, it was a beautiful sight, as if the sun itself existed for the sake of dancing along his skin and singing life into his veins. It was one of those moments when Bruce had come to terms with the depth of his feelings towards his friend. After a long, but successful night of working a case together, they stood side by side on a rooftop as the sun crested over the horizon. It had been the first time the sunrise had brought him a different kind of pain, one that made his heart pound in his chest and left him feeling more alive, rather than a ghost haunting the city that would one day be his own grave.
This time, the sunlight brought with it a gut-wrenching reality. As Clark's cape tumbled from its place as a makeshift gauze, the light shone its truth upon the severity of Clark's wounds. The gash ripped through his side, not terribly deep but trickling with fresh blood as the movement jarred his body. The dark crimson that stained his suit all along his torso.
Bruce looked down at his hand, drenched in Clark's blood. Red was smeared along his suit, a grotesque painting of how they had been pressed together in that cramped space.
A hand on his shoulder shook Bruce from his thoughts, he tensed, nearly wheeling around to punch the person who dared to touch him. He came face to face with Hal, covered in dust himself.
"Whoa there, Spooky. Let's get you checked out, too." His voice was gentle, and that almost pissed Bruce off more than if he'd been his usual asshole self.
Regardless, Bruce allowed himself to be guided to the Watchtower, feeling out of touch with his own body.
Clark was going to be okay. He had to be.
The intensity of the UV lamps surrounding Clark highlighted the pallor of his skin, making the lines of kryptonite poisoning hard to miss even as they gradually faded away. A few more hours, and there wouldn't be a single trace of them left behind on Clark's skin.
Bruce couldn't help but to wonder if that would be the only thing there wasn't a trace of, after all of this was said and done. The dust literally and figuratively settled.
After having his own minor injuries tended to, Bruce kept held vigil at Clark's medbay bedside long enough to have gone through several stages of emotions. Relief that the League had arrived in time to save Clark. Anger that Clark had put himself in such an easily preventable situation to begin with. Gratitude that Clark's doing so had likely saved his own life. Anger that Clark had thought him incapable of handling it himself.
Fear that once Clark awoke and fully recovered, that Bruce would have to go on with life like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't felt Clark's life slipping through his fingers as he desperately held him, trying to keep it from leaving his body. Like he hadn't had a taste of what they could be when they were pressed close together, bodies intertwined.
Eventually, Bruce found himself staring into those familiar, impossibly blue eyes, hazy and exhausted but shining with life. When Clark woke, he turned his head and his mouth curled up into a warm smile as his eyes landed on Bruce at his bedside.
Bruce's anger began to simmer beneath the surface again, fueled by how close he'd come to losing the infuriating man before him.
"Promise me," Bruce gritted out, barely keeping that fire out of his voice. "That you will never do that again."
Clark blinked at him in surprise. He sighed, then muttered under his breath, "Always right to the point with you."
He maneuvered himself on the bed, shifting around until he was seated upright enough to look Bruce directly in the eyes. His warm smile faded into something apologetic. "Sorry, B. I can't. Even if I wanted to, I can't promise you something like that."
His anger wasn't so much simmering now as it was flames licking at his chest, crawling up his neck as his skin burned with the intensity of it. "You disobeyed orders and nearly died because of it. It was reckless and unnecessary behavior."
Clark scoffed, offended by Bruce's words. It seemed he'd recovered enough to feel like arguing. "You needed back-up. My actions were entirely justified."
"There was far less danger to my life than yours."
"Just because you're not deathly allergic to kryptonite, doesn't mean those weapons couldn't have killed you, Bruce," Clark pushed back, indignation clear in his voice. "I knew the plan. I weighed the options when things started to fall apart, and I made a choice.
"A choice that I will make again, and again, if it means keeping you safe." The intensity of Clark's gaze burned with the strength of the sun. "Especially if it means there's another day you get to wake up in this world."
Bile rose in Bruce's throat at the thought of losing Clark, of one day waking up and knowing there would be a void where Clark once stood at his side. "Don't give your life for mine. That's not a fair trade."
"Well, Bruce." There was a fondness to the tilt of Clark's head, like they were having a silly disagreement about something trivial and not Clark offering his life in exchange for Bruce's. "That's not for you to decide. It's mine to give, if I deem it necessary."
Suddenly, Bruce felt like he was the one cut open by a metal beam, gutted, life slowly dripping from him. His anger and near-grief twisted and churned inside him, forcing words from his mouth he otherwise wouldn't say. "Have you considered I don't necessarily want to wake up in a world without you in it?"
The brief shock in Clark's eyes brought him some sort of sick satisfaction, but he recovered quickly, sidestepping the truth of what Bruce had said. "There are people who can take my place and carry on the work. I trust you'll keep them in line like you have me."
Furious, Bruce ripped off his cowl to truly meet Clark eye to eye. He had put it back on after receiving medical attention, a shield between him and the rest of the world, a way to keep his true emotions concealed. It was clear that would no longer do, if he wanted Clark to truly understand him.
And Bruce wanted him to. God, he wanted.
After nearly having Clark nearly ripped away from him yet again, after having him so close, he couldn't go back to how they were before. He couldn't pretend this hadn't changed things for him. He needed Clark to finally know.
"I'm sorry if that wasn't clear enough for you," he nearly spat out. "I don't want someone else at my side. I don't want to know a world without you in it. Not some idealized version of Superman—you, Clark. The man who is all of that and more."
Silence stretched between them as Clark stared at Bruce looking utterly shell-shocked. There was no taking back his words, and their friendship teetered precariously on the scales as he waited for Clark to respond. With his truth bared finally, after all these years, fear and uncertainty coursed through his veins making his heart pound painfully, like it might beat its way out of his chest and abandon him depending on Clark's answer.
Clark's gaze dipped down to his chest briefly—clearly picking up on the cacophonous change in his heart-rate. It was almost embarrassing, knowing Clark could hear how much speaking those words affected him.
Finally, Clark's eyes swept back up to meet Bruce's, and he let out a breathless little, "Oh."
And then he laughed. That light, airy chuckle Bruce heard more often from a modest Metropolis reporter than Superman himself.
"Well, yeah. Bruce, why do you think I saved you?" Clark scratched at his chin, almost shyly. "Admittedly, it wasn't very selfless of me."
Only Clark would think such a thing—Oh.
For a moment, Bruce felt as though he were looking into a mirror. His own hesitation written all over Clark's face. If he, too, could hear Clark's heartbeat, would it match his?
Bruce dragged a hand over his face, trying to gather himself. "I can't believe this. This is ridiculous—you're ridiculous."
"...That's why you love me, right?" There was a shimmer of hope in Clark's breathtakingly blue eyes, but a veil of uncertainty dulled it quickly as doubt swept in. "Sorry. Was that too much? I'm not trying to be presumptuous, but it's been—it's been years for me, Bruce, and—"
Bruce had enough of hearing Clark trying to talk himself into a downward spiral of doubt, so he reached out and grabbed him by the neck and pulled their mouths together, effectively shutting him up with a kiss. Clark's lips were surprisingly soft, his skin so warm from the energy of the lamps that it felt like kissing pure sunshine. Though... wasn't that what Clark Kent was?
Long before taking up his post at Clark's bedside, Bruce had abandoned his blood-soaked gloves, and his hand was free to feel Clark's skin against his own. Clark's pulse pounded wildly against Bruce's touch, thrumming with life—with want.
As their lips moved together, learning the shape of one another, Bruce's other hand trailed upwards, his fingers winding through Clark's soft curls. He grounded himself in the sensation as it felt like the happiness coursing through his veins was going to negate the gravity on the Watchtower and send him floating away into space.
It could have been minutes later, or it could have been hours, but Bruce finally pulled away, seeing as he kind of needed oxygen in his lungs, unlike a certain Kryptonian. As he did, Clark attempted to chase after his lips, reaching out and grabbing at his suit to drag him closer again. Bruce kept his hold on Clark's neck firm, not giving in to the temptation to kiss him again so he could look into Clark's eyes as he gave him a proper answer.
"It's been years for me, too."
And there was that absolutely breathtaking smile Bruce had feared he would never get to see again as they had laid there, under the weight of an entire building. Being this close to it was like staring directly into the sun, so full of warmth and bright enough to hurt. It could consume him, if Bruce let it, and he was so, so ready to give in and let the light that seemed to emanate from Clark envelope him.
That smile was contagious, and soon Bruce found himself returning some of that joy with one of his own. Delight danced in Clark's eyes, bright and blue and shining like the stars just beyond the windows of the Watchtower. Clark leaned in to kiss him again, and Bruce allowed it this time, letting the warmth of his affection wash over him, chasing away any shadows that lingered from earlier.
Clark learned back, pulling away just enough to look at Bruce. His eyes crinkled with fondness, and Bruce's heart responded with a little flip.
"Good. We have a head-start, then."
It turned out, Clark's laughter tasted like sunshine, too.