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Bruce managed to flip to his back and spread his arms to distribute the force before he hit the pavement. At least he hadn't landed on his face, he thought, when he had a board meeting the next day. Then the reports from his body caught up with him. He would not be attending that board meeting. If he didn't act quickly, he would not be attending anything ever again.
Broken ribs, the fire in his lungs told him. Internal shock. He'd need a full abdominal scan to assess organ damage. He tried to roll, but a spike of pain told him his already-fractured tibia needed stabilizing if he didn't want the bone to cut anything vital. His head swam with a probable concussion. He tasted blood.
The car was six blocks away. He'd tracked this lead solo, so no allies to draw off pursuit.
Pain in his leg meant his spinal cord was intact, so that was a positive. If that was the best he could find . . . He heard footsteps. Not even running. They knew where he'd gone down, and Black Mask was coming in for the monologue at a leisurely stalk.
He swallowed. "Kal-El. Need evac. Evac. Kal-El. Need an exit here."
He focused on his breath, his heart rate. Steady. Steady. Pain was input, input was data, data could be studied, steady breaths minimized the sensations of thoracic and abdominal trauma into a predictable pattern. Footsteps getting closer.
"Kal-El. Please."
A blur of motion. His body shifted all at once, whiting everything out with pain.
When his nervous system settled enough for sight and hearing again, an urgent ping rang in his comm, over and over. Cave, unauthorized entry to the cave, perimeter violation. As if he didn't have enough problems for one night.
"Pennyone," he croaked. Alfred would handle it, but Bruce needed updates. He needed to know.
"Is on his way." Clark's voice, firm and calm.
Bright lights. The surgical bay in the cave. Bruce wished he weren't quite so familiar with the ceiling of this room, but at least he could identify it.
His cowl cracked. Clark pulled it open with bare hands. Clark was remarkably bare in general, and had soap in his hair.
Right. He'd called. "Evac."
"You're out, Bruce. You're home. You got your exit." Clark spoke slowly and clearly, as if reassuring a child. "You're home." His eyes swept back and forth across Bruce's body. "And you're not dying right this minute, but you need to hold still, okay?"
"Okay."
"B, where are you?" Alfred said in his comm. "Report."
Clark plucked the comm from Bruce's ear and put it in his own. "Medbay, Alfred. He's alive, he'll be okay. Could you reset the alarm, please?"
"Alfred's coming." Saying it aloud helped make it real, though his lungs shrieked at the effort. "Should put on pants."
Clark glanced down at himself. "Good thought." He blurred, then reappeared in scrubs. Soap dripped down his ear from under the cap.
Bruce thought about Clark showering, and about his breathing and heart rate, and he counted the ceiling tiles of the surgical bay, starting with the one with the cracked corner shaped like a winking face.
"Bruce. Hey." Clark squeezed his hand. "Any time bombs out there? Hostages?"
Bruce marked his place at tile 15. "No. Black Mask. Gunrunning. Only trap was for me."
"Then we can take it from here. You're off-duty, Bruce. We've got it."
"Pain management first, I think," Alfred said.
"Yes." Bruce turned his empty hand palm-up to bare his veins for the IV. Clark held the other until coherence drifted away somewhere past tile 28.
Bruce rested. He took his pain meds on Alfred's schedule. He meditated in dim light for two days, away from lit screens and complex input, giving his brain time for emergency repairs. He alternated methodically between supporting his skeleton by resting on his back and easing the hematoma that covered his entire back by resting on a massage table.
Poor impulse control was a possible TBI symptom. He did his physical therapy to recommended standards and didn't push it to the point of relapse. He measured his lung capacity, his range of motion, a full battery of cognitive function tests in case there were hidden gaps. He recorded the data in his chart so Alfred could check on him without asking tedious questions. He did his best not to snap at people.
He was silently, profoundly grateful that his organs were no more than bruised, that his vertebrae and pelvic bones had no more than warning hairlines best addressed by the immobility he needed anyway. That his family could cover the city and fill the suit. That Clark hadn't been off-world.
Black Mask's crew spread the whisper all over town that the Bat could vanish from a beating and a four-story fall without a trace, when they'd heard him hit the ground. Then they spread it all over Blackgate as Bruce's bats stripped the organization to its bones. Even Sionis was arrested, though not tried.
Bruce rested. He accepted visitors. He accepted help. He took it as a discipline and obligation to accept help, like any other regimen. He gave back as much as he could, joining Barbara on data analysis once he had the stamina for it, but mostly he rested.
Clark came every day. After the first week, he seemed hesitant. Bruce took care to thank him, and to ask him for small favors, physical contact, a kiss hello. Clark brightened. He came every day.
Three weeks into recovery, Bruce could draw a full breath with bearable discomfort. He could sleep on his back without waking after four hours to flip himself over. He had a walking cast and Alfred's grudging acceptance of his right to take the stairs unescorted. He attended conference calls and answered emails. He could stay awake for more than eight continuous hours without paying for it the next day.
He had Clark knocking on his open living room door. "I come bearing gifts."
'Gifts' consisted of a bowl filled with glistening blackberries. Half a bar of dark chocolate stuck out of the bowl at a jaunty angle. Bruce reached for it, and made sure his fingers touched Clark's at the handoff. "Thank you."
He took one and popped it into his mouth. The dusting of fine hairs hadn't been washed off, and the heat of presumably Kansas sun radiated across his tongue along with a torrent of juice. He closed his eyes.
"Thank you," he repeated. "They're perfect."
Clark practically glowed at the praise. "I had some extra time. Perry actually cut us loose for the weekend. We're hoping he's not a doppelgänger."
That was as close as Clark would come to asking if Bruce had more room for him. "All weekend. Really."
"Really."
"Definitely suspicious." Bruce ate more blackberries and a fragment of chocolate. He held out a blackberry to Clark, who sucked it from his fingers. He thought about time zones. "You know, in about half an hour, there should be a spectacular sunset at my beach house in Barbados."
"Want to go see it?" Clark's attempt to sound casual was transparent but charming.
"Yeah. Give me a minute." He typed a quick list to Alfred, then blocked off his schedule for the next 26 hours. He showed Clark the map. He unplugged his laptop and pulled it in against his chest for the trip, along with the bowl of berries. "Let's go."
The rush of air and shift in inertia set off a wave of physical terror. Bruce breathed. He had to reacclimate. He focused on the laptop in his hands. He flexed his fingers and toes to stay grounded in the present. He counted seconds. He paid special attention to the landing. Warm air, late evening sun, complete absence of shock and freshly broken bones.
Clark eased him to standing on the paved path, ten meters from the beach-facing door. As he hadn't called ahead, sand completely covered the path; it ground under the sole of his house shoe. He took two good breaths of salt air, then walked to the villa and unlocked it with his handprint.
He prowled the ground floor while the house powered up, reassuring his hindbrain that they were alone. "I'll add you to the house permissions list. Deck chairs are in the sandroom by the door."
"Got it." Clark touched his back once before leaving to manage things.
When Bruce emerged from the house, two deck chairs faced the ocean, flanked by large frosted glasses with decorative swizzle sticks. Clark lounged in one, completely naked. Bruce sat down and studied his glass.
"I foraged some provisions," Clark said.
"I see that." Bruce sipped. Fresh guava and mango, pulverized with ice. He nodded. "Thank you." He accepted the bowl of berries and put one in Clark's mouth. "I suddenly feel like I'm wearing too much."
"I could help with that. If you wanted."
"Mmm." Bruce held out the arm that was not holding berries. Clark unbuttoned his shirt and maneuvered one arm free, then the other. Bruce kissed his knuckles. "You've helped with a lot lately."
"Thank you for letting me." Clark returned to his chair, but kept the shirt clutched in his hands.
"I —" Bruce was the first to admit that talking about feelings was not among his strengths. "I know it's hard for you to watch. To give me enough space. I appreciate the effort."
Clark looked down at the shirt. "You called me when it mattered. The rest . . ." He shrugged. "Whatever space you need, to keep trusting me with that, you've got it."
Too many things needed saying. Bruce didn't have the wherewithal for any of them. He touched Clark's cheek. "Could you find my sunglasses?"
Sunglasses found, they lay back to watch the atmospheric light show. The sky above was a featureless blue canvas, but cumulonimbus heaped high on the horizon, promising rain. The sun hid behind them. Bruce studiously avoided looking at its location; no matter how old he got, the action came with a memory of his father's careful lecture on which wavelengths the clouds did and did not block.
The clouds turned orange, then garish pink with violet highlights, darkening to black at the tops as the sky dimmed to deep blue with twilight. Bruce drank his handmade drink and ate his handpicked berries. He let the chocolate melt in his mouth. When Clark took his hand, he let it dangle, fingers interlaced. He drowsed in the cooling air and the emerging chirps of crepuscular wildlife.
"Bruce." Clark nudged for his attention. "Someone's coming to the house."
"Mm. Food delivery, perishables. Airing the rooms. Should be half an hour. Fifteen if they sent a team."
A pause. "Sometimes I forget what money means," Clark said.
Bruce squeezed his hand. "If you were looking forward to finding breakfast at the market, I won't stop you. The fridge stock tends to be . . . unadventurous. And it won't go to waste." He made the effort to sit up and lean out to Clark for a lingering kiss. "Money buys time. And privacy."
"Yeah." Clark nuzzled his face. "Go for a walk?" They crunched their way across the shifting ground. Clark silently pointed every time a bat was about to flutter past, mostly Molossus molossus sniping the evening insects.
Walking in sand took core strength; he should add it to his PT regimen. He did not lean on Clark for balance, nor did he admit to his relief when Clark turned them toward home, presumably because the staff visit had wrapped up. He did track sand into the house and collapse on the nearest couch with a heavy sigh.
"You want dinner?"
"In a bit. C'mere." He waited until Clark had crouched beside him to bring their heads to the same level. "What I don't want is to watch you keep bursting at the seams, trying not to make this too formal. You're right, I haven't had space. I do now." He laced his fingers through the curls at the base of Clark's scalp, closed his hand, and tugged. "I accept your service."
Clark melted to his knees with a shuddering breath. "Thank you."
Bruce kissed his forehead. "Take care of the sand, it got into my cast. Sweep the beach path. Alfred will have a care package for me at home, meds. Get that put away. Then dinner."
He relaxed into the couch and let Clark move him. Sand shaken from trouser cuffs, house shoe slipped off, Velcro released with a rip, rip, rip and change in pressure. He groaned and flexed his foot. Clark blurred to fetch lotion.
Foot and leg massage, Clark's hands careful on the delicate skin hidden by the cast. Deep tissue, working his foot through its full range of motion, every muscle and tendon given attention.
Clark's face was soft with concentration, at ease for the first time in weeks. Bruce felt himself ease in response. Formality simplified everything. No small talk or contact Bruce didn't initiate. Freedom to explore what he wanted, in their strange shared privacy. Giving Clark the freedom to stop wondering if he could be doing more or should be doing less. Clear expectations all around.
Finally, Clark kissed the arch of each foot and placed Bruce's legs on the couch with the bad shin elevated. Bruce watched him through half-closed eyes. The walk had cost him more than he'd realized. He could force himself to stay alert, but Clark would take it as a compliment if he dozed off. He drifted, trusting that the rest of his orders would be followed to the letter.
He woke to the sizzle of frying fish and a whiff of garlic. He sat up, intending to wander to the kitchen, but reality caught up with him before he put weight on his feet. He'd need his fucking cast. He glared at it. Then he glared harder at the crutches leaning against the back of the couch in easy reach. He did his foot mobility exercises instead of watching a nude man with the body of a Greek god cook dinner for him.
"I made you a mule," Clark called from the other room, then appeared beside him wearing an unlicensed Superman speedo. He set down a sweating copper mug at Bruce's elbow, along with a small plate of meds. "Dinner in ten."
Bruce reached out to grab the curve of Clark's thigh, because he could, and picked up the drink with his other hand. A blast of carbonated ginger and lime hit his tongue, with bitters and a splash of rum to counterbalance the flavor. "It's good." At a gentle push, Clark hovered decoratively back toward the kitchen.
The rest of his mobility exercises went pretty well.
They ate on the couch, with Clark snuggled against his side. Clark held the plate steady as a rock, repositioning his arm as needed, accepting the occasional bite of fish or polenta from Bruce's fingers. The fish had a good crispy sear and delicate spices; Bruce didn't share as much as he usually might. He ate. He thought about what he wanted.
"So," he said when the plate was nearly empty. He gestured at the crutches. "Those were in the care package."
"Alfred said you must have forgotten to put them on the list."
"Uh-huh." He loaded his fork with polenta. "Any other surprises in there?"
"One. I put it away for you."
Bruce could ask. Clark would tell him. Clark thought this surprise, whatever it was, was good. He knew Bruce's tastes.
Bruce finished his dinner. He appreciated his careful pyramid of tamarind balls for dessert. When the last plate had been whisked away, he looked at the man kneeling by his leg, eyes lowered, waiting for the next command.
"Bed."
He braced for the sensations of flight, breathing through it. The second time was easier. Then he lay in the master bedroom, naked, neatly arranged with pillows to let him lounge. His mobility aids already waited by the headboard, as if they had always been there.
He pivoted to hang his legs over the edge of the mattress. "No help. I need to get ready for bed."
The crutches would be faster. He swung himself into the en suite in a few long strides, then sat on the edge of the tub to brush his teeth. Even on the first, worst days, he hadn't compromised on brushing his own damn teeth twice a day. Bath and shave would wait until morning; he needed to settle further into himself before he could enjoy giving Clark that level of access.
Clark was waiting on the bed for him, knelt up, patient and still. Once Bruce had made himself comfortable, he tousled Clark's hair. "Touch."
Clark moved like a ballet. He didn't touch for himself. No rubbing up against Bruce for personal satisfaction, sexual or otherwise. He played Bruce's nervous system with fingertips, breath, the occasional pressure of body against body for contrast. Inspiring arousal was allowed, but not the point, just as the point of dinner at a four-star restaurant was not to satiate hunger.
Bruce took in the sensations, shifting in appreciation. He rolled to his side for a different canvas, then over to the other. Touch was complicated. Paradoxically, making a tasting menu of it on purpose simplified things. He did his full lung expansions, grounding himself with the pain as a contrasting flavor. When Clark's fingernails across his thigh threatened to overwhelm, he put up a hand. Clark stilled instantly.
"Good," he said. "Here." He beckoned Clark in to cuddle up. "That surprise. Is it in this room?"
"Yes." Clark grinned up at him.
"Is now the right time?"
"There's not an exact right time, but now's good." At a gesture, he hovered up and over to the closet. "Alfred sent more wardrobe options."
Bruce Wayne's vacation wardrobe did not tend toward the truly comfortable. A ratty, wash-softened sweatsuit and his actual bathrobe were among the additions to the closet, but he barely looked at them. A black case sat on the closet floor.
Bruce's chest tightened. He stared at the case. The travel suit, no armor, barely enough clearance in the case for the lightest cowl and the treads of the boots. The suit he dragged with him on every trip, no matter how short or improbable, no matter how Alfred tried to sneak it out of the luggage before he left the house. He'd left it, and he'd tried not to think about leaving it. It wasn't like he could even . . .
He had to hold it together. He could deal with unwanted emotional reactions when he wasn't making decisions for two.
"He knew you'd sleep better with it handy," Clark said, and floated to fold silently on the bed, head bowed in Bruce's reach.
Bruce grabbed a fistful of hair to stay steady. Clark had to hear the convulsive hitches of his breath and feel the shifts when he eventually wiped his face, but they could pretend. He could have the illusion of privacy. Clark was good at giving that.
He needed to ask for something. Something he truly, selfishly wanted.
Control. He wanted control, and contact, and he didn't want to deal with Clark's sympathetic face. "Hold that pose." He tugged Clark further up the bed by the hair. "This leg straight."
That gave him a good angle to throw his weight and his bad leg over Clark's back. That was almost comfortable.
He kicked in his sleep too often to risk skipping the cast. He sighed. "Put the cast on me without moving me."
A glitch, a draft, then steady pressure where the cast locked his foot in position. Clark wiggled under his weight ever so slightly. Bruce settled down on his living body pillow.
"And get the lights."
Click.
He woke at something like five; his internal clock had given up in the face of constant unscheduled naps, but he could hear stirrings of the dawn chorus. He'd sprawled to his back. Clark lay beside him, curled on his side, with their fingertips touching. They watched each other in the near-dark.
He could wait. They had all day, they could make a production of it, and in his current state of recovery he wasn't up for more than one or two orgasms a day. But his morning wood wasn't interested in any of that. It wanted a quick jerkoff he wasn't going to give it in a shower he wasn't going to take. He swallowed to clear the sleep from his throat. "Nothing fancy." He tapped the head of his erection.
He pulled a pillow under his shoulders and tried not to take for granted that he had woken up in the Caribbean with Superman waiting to give him blow jobs on demand. Clark knelt between his legs, curly hair messy with sleep, and set to work.
Bruce put a hand on Clark's neck and relaxed. Under his thumb, Clark's throat pulsed. They didn't rush. Bruce did nothing to help, because he didn't have to. The reward that lit up Clark like no other was giving him a task and then actually letting him do it. God, his mouth.
So Bruce lay there like a selfish asshole and listened to the birds while Superman sucked him off. Eventually his breath quickened and his hips rose. Clark tweaked gravity so even that took no effort; the only strain was within Bruce's own body as his legs shook and his core muscles grudgingly participated in full-body arousal.
He tightened his hand on Clark's throat, knowing he couldn't do any harm and didn't have to be careful. He put his leg over Clark's shoulder and clenched everything. He arched. His hips bucked. He settled back to the bed and accepted a salty, slightly bitter kiss.
"Mmm." He blinked at Clark. "Yeah. I should. Morning stuff." He would be more articulate after blood returned to his brain. He hobbled off to the bathroom.
When he had done the minimum care that he would not enjoy sharing, he returned to an empty bed, scruffy and unwashed, snagging his bathrobe on the way. After a minute had passed with no new information, he checked the nightstand for his phone. It lay exactly where he expected it, alongside a bottle of water and the morning meds his aching body would be grateful for. He caught up on the basic level of headlines, action reports, and emails, in that order.
Minor earthquake near Indonesia, no fatalities, Superman fished a few people out of harm's way but didn't stay to chat. Bruce smiled at the screen and kept scrolling. No major incidents in Gotham. One public relations fire at WE, but his highly competent employees had it handled. No excuses to go home early.
His hands itched to do something.
"How's coffee coming?" he asked the room.
Clark appeared with a tray and little else. "Sorry, I was testing options. Did you know you have a professional espresso machine here?"
"I did not." The tray held two mugs with pour-over funnels on top and four delicate demitasses. It smelled like roasted caffeinated heaven. Bruce reached for it and started sampling espresso. "This one," he said, "two shots, breve, with breakfast. And please tell me those are almost done."
"They are." Clark removed a funnel to present him with a mug of coal-black coffee.
Bruce took a mouth-scalding gulp. The heat spread through him. The world came into better focus. "Thank you. How long for breakfast?"
"Thirty minutes if you want market food. Or the house has all the fixings for diner breakfast in fifteen."
"Market, please, at the table, plenty of breakfast and lunch options."
"On it." Clark vanished, taking the tray with him.
Bruce buried himself in coffee and scrolling for a few minutes, then looked at his laptop. There were cases he could dig into. If he started, he wouldn't stop. Or he would stop but resent it, his mind still whirring away instead of staying present. He'd been doing so well at impersonating a considerate human being. He stared at the laptop and counted to 50. "When you have a second, Clark."
Eight seconds later, Clark appeared, dressed as a tourist with a brand new hat on his head that read "Island State of Mind". He held a greasy paper bag in one hand.
Bruce held out the laptop. "Put this somewhere I can't reach it without asking." A blip, and it was gone. "And kiss me."
Clark's kiss tasted like cinnamon sugar.
Bruce made a round of video calls instead, saying an early good morning to the people he would have seen that day if he hadn't fucked off to the Caribbean on two minutes' notice. They tried to be polite about their utter surprise at hearing from him via more than texted questions about patrol. He really needed to get better at this.
After his last call, Clark walked in at a normal pace, hair tamed and wearing the speedo. "Breakfast is served."
Bruce stuck his phone in his robe pocket and braced himself. "I'll skip the walk."
Whoosh, and he sat at a table arrayed with half the contents of the market. He surveyed his kingdom and nodded. "Social breakfast. Get comfortable. Did you get to enjoy any of that coffee?" He grabbed a ham roll and started filling his plate.
"Yeah." Clark took a fried pancake. "And bites of everything straight out of the fryers. Highly recommend trying the bakes before they get cold. Or send me for more."
They talked about work, family, and League gossip. When they'd demolished a substantial fraction of the food and finally slowed down, Bruce leaned back. "I've had enough. Whenever you're ready."
"Mm." Clark wolfed down a few more bites, then cleared the table of everything except a fruit plate. He knelt.
Bruce put a hand on his head. "Ten newspaper crosswords, different languages, respected quality, two copies each. Make the English a cryptic." He lifted his hand.
While he waited, he unstrapped his cast. His skin prickled. He flexed his toes. Might as well get started. By the time Clark got back, Bruce was halfway through his warmup stretches.
Clark laid out his finds in Bruce's line of sight. "The Independent. Hebrew, French, Arabic, Russian, Chinese, Thai, Finnish, Afrikaans, and Gujarati."
Bruce paused. "Those last two I've never even tried to learn."
"No time like the present! And Afrikaans shares a lot with Dutch."
"Practically English, then. Piece of cake. Hebrew, please. You're writing answers on your copy. If I lose track of crossing letters, I'll ask for them."
Two hours of PT later, sweat dripped from Bruce's nose onto the Finnish crossword, which was completely intractable without resorting to some source of vocabulary. Maybe he'd add a dictionary later. He finished his last set of fingertip push-ups, ignoring the complaints of his abs. It wasn't dangerous, it was just pain.
He lowered to his belly. "That's . . . three complete, two punted to later?"
"Three, counting the Finnish." Clark knelt beside him with a pen when he wasn't needed for partner exercises.
"They won't defeat me." Bruce let his lungs catch up with his body's oxygen demands. "I want a swim. Cool down. Rinse and sunscreen, please."
He relaxed into the quick but thorough scrub. Clark applied sunscreen starting with his back and his face, so it would have the most time to dry before he scoured it off with salt water. Bruce considered letting Clark teleport him straight into the water, but hot sand on bare feet seemed like an essential part of the experience. He compromised, walking himself out on crutches and then lifting his hands when they reached the tide line so Clark could fly over and tow him out to sea.
Buoyancy was a great kindness to his sore muscles. He looked up at Clark, sunkissed and perfect. "Lose the shorts and keep me company."
He swam without intention, except to work out body stress and regulate his temperature. He dove, rolled, tried different strokes. Clark paced him or treaded alongside.
Bruce was tired. He didn't have to hide it. He grabbed Clark by the shoulder. "You're a flotation device."
He crawled onto Clark's body and relaxed. The sun blazed down on his back. He tried another foray in the water, but had to admit he was out of energy until the next compulsory nap cycle. Reluctantly, he had himself flown to the couch, where he lay on a towel and tried to keep his eyes open. Clark waited beside him.
"Other than a bath," Bruce said, "which is next. Was there anything you've been hoping for?"
"A couple of things," Clark said. His chest and neck flushed darker. "I've been practicing spa treatments. Full mani-pedi, more skincare. And, I know this one is bigger. Therapeutic scar massage."
Bruce appreciated the level, factual delivery of information. He was tired, and ready for a bath. At some level, all of that was just . . . extended bath. "Lunch, nothing I can't eat with my hands. Another smoothie. Bath and shave, then you can pamper me until I pass out."
Halfway through his street-food lunch, he amended that to 'until I wake up and ask for something else.' Clark bowed his head in gratitude and put more fried chicken in reach of Bruce's hand.
The bath steamed, almost painfully hot. Bruce lay back, trusting that Clark would keep him from overheating. Sure enough, Clark immediately put an inflatable pillow under his neck and two more to keep his hands out of the water, and covered his palms and wrists with crushed ice.
"Mm." Bruce might fall asleep before his shave, under Clark's massage of his jaw and face muscles. "Read to me?"
"Sure. Newton? Hugo?"
"Newton."
After a moment, Clark spoke, low and gentle. "Proposition six, theorem five. Si corpus P revolvendo circa centrum S, describat lineam quamvis curvam APQ, tangat vero recta ZPR curvam illam in puncto quovis P . . ."
The orderly assertions of Philosophæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica echoed off the tiles, surrounding Bruce in Newton's vision of a clockwork universe. His Latin was terrible, useful only for translating mottos and riddles, but the shape was clear enough, especially the strict vocabulary of geometry. He didn't have to keep track.
He welcomed the hot towel, the lather, the scrape of a straight razor across his throat in a shave so close it stung. Clark's hands, careful and sure, rubbing goop onto his face and putting a cool compress over his eyes. He smelled lavender, chamomile, mint.
"Corollary one. Unde vicissim si vis sit ut distantia, movebitur corpus in Ellipsi centrum habente in centro virium. . ."
He roused when Clark moved the ice to his ankles, and again to his throat. Trimming and sanding his fingers, toes, and callused heels held his attention; his life depended on the condition of his hands and feet.
He let himself be hypnotized, safe in Clark's care.
He woke on his side, surrounded by a cloud-soft blanket and mellow orange light, with Clark rubbing tiny, gentle circles on his upper calf. Probably one of the bite scars. Newton was a barely audible murmur. Bruce opened his eyes and looked at Clark. Clark looked back, mouth and fingers still moving.
Bruce blinked once in tacit encouragement. Clark bowed his head and continued.
Clark's breaths were steady, his skin flushed, his motions rhythmic and unceasing, hand blurring only occasionally to page ahead on the tablet he read from. Bruce watched for a while, until he was confident in his impression, then he spoke. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but this looks like more than service."
The recitation stopped, and so did the massage, though Clark didn't lift his hands. "I. I'm sorry."
"I'm not asking you to stop. But I can't accept what you haven't offered. I need you to name it."
A long, long pause. "Worship," Clark whispered. His voice squeaked.
"Come here." Bruce held Clark's face and looked directly at his eyes, a rare reward. "I accept."
He kissed Clark's forehead and the water welling up at the corners of his closed eyelids, and pulled him in to rest his ear and cheek against Bruce's chest.
"I accept. Please continue, and you can do deep tissue now that I'm awake." He kissed the crown of Clark's head.
"Thank you." Clark knelt beside Bruce's leg with more obvious intent. His fingers pressed into old scars. His chant of lemmas and laws rose and fell, punctuated by him putting his mouth on Bruce's skin, kissing and tasting.
Bruce propped himself up on one elbow and drank water. He would not devalue Clark's feelings by arguing, but he felt profoundly insufficient as a deity.
He was obsessive, arrogant, violent, moody, defensive, permanently sleep-deprived, and, as people didn't hesitate to point out to him, incompetent at close interpersonal relationships. His temple was a hole in the ground, and the auxiliary option was a toy palace that could have been housing thirty locals, in which he couldn't even find his own coffee maker. And he was horribly, horribly fragile.
He'd been the one praying, broken in an alley.
Here Clark was, venerating each mark of his mortality individually. Rubbing an invulnerable cheekbone against the memories of gashes, burns, and bullet holes. Murmuring the sacred texts of scientific inquiry into his skin.
Bruce had accepted. He took that commitment seriously. Their game meant nothing without sincerity to anchor it. He'd just have to figure out what that meant.
"Hey," he said. Talking over Clark seemed incorrect. "I want to sit up. Fix the pillows, drinks, snacks."
A count of twenty later, he was supported comfortably, surrounded by trays of sliced fruit, vegetables, nuts, cold cuts, tiny candies, and multiple hot and cold beverage options. Clark waited beside him.
Bruce pulled him close and kissed just above his ear. "Thank you. Continue."
He caught up on hydration and grazed from the trays, sampling some of everything. He inspected his perfectly groomed fingernails and rubbed his unusually soft face. He flexed his toes. He took internal stock of his body. Clark finished traversing his calves and began working the tendons around one knee.
"You started with feet?"
Clark nodded, unceasing. He stroked a tendon slowly, gently. That particular tendon had featured a knot of scar tissue since the first year.
"Come here." Bruce selected a piece of melon scalloped like a flower. He ate it while Clark watched. Then he put a simpler piece in Clark's mouth. "I know you studied the full range of techniques. Go deeper."
Clark obeyed, rolling and pinching the tendon to break up the knot. Bruce breathed into it. A burst of endorphins, a hot pain prickling outward into the surrounding nerves.
He was not a stranger to altered states of consciousness. He could find one that applied. He matched his breaths to the rhythm of Clark's attentions. He pursued the euphoria of pain instead of tamping it down. He followed the chant.
When Clark had gotten through both knees and started on the thigh attachments, Bruce beckoned for him again, cupped his face with one hand and his hip with the other, and rested their cheeks side by side. He stayed in the sensation he had found and let it guide his voice.
"I won't have stamina for the full body scan in one day," he said. "The places that need the most therapeutic work, focus there. Focus on flow. As much contact as seems right. As much pressure as seems right." He squeezed Clark's hip. "Focus on flow. Trust . . . that whatever you do will be right." He pressed Clark's forehead to his shoulder. "And give us more room to spread out."
Clark paged through the book in what Bruce parsed as speed memorization mode. The plates blurred to the floor. Only a pot of lotion and Bruce's water bottle remained on the bed with them.
Clark placed his hands to either side of Bruce's knees and ran them up along his body all the way to the ribs. He started on a slash under the left armpit. Thrown dagger, missed the artery and the tendons, but it still pulled when Bruce raised his arm. After a couple of slow strokes, Clark picked up the skin, wobbled it from side to side, and dragged the length of it like he was squeezing toothpaste from a tube.
Bruce hooked his leg over Clark's. His rib muscles punished heavy breaths; he panted anyway. He threw his head back. Clark kissed Latin against his throat. Softer touches, smoothing everything out again.
The scars that would show, on his forearms and neck, Bruce had taken more care with. They were easier to reach, anyway. He could massage them while he focused on something else. The rest would have involved enlisting help he wasn't comfortable with in time he didn't have.
The jagged rake of claws low on his hip would be ugly no matter what, and it wouldn't have been on his list of priorities. There was no utility in Clark's adoration of it. Nevertheless, it was adored. The sensation vibrated out across Bruce's skin, ripples of cause and effect.
The bullet scar on the back of his thigh needed deep attention. Gravity was a suggestion and Bruce rolled easily to grant access. He wrapped himself around Clark's torso for more contact. They made a haphazard ball, a patchwork of eight limbs crackling with old and new fault lines. He pushed off against the bed, in the spirit of inquiry, and the ball spun slowly in the air.
The scars on his back . . . He had a lot of scars on his back for someone who insisted on facing his problems head-on. The ball adjusted, continents and oceans shifting and reforming so his supplicant could reach. It spun on, humming with the music of the spheres.
"Corollary eight. Velocitas gyrantis in sectione quavis conica est ad velocitantum gyrantis in circulo in distantia . . ."
He eventually surfaced, aching, with all of his worst scars informing him of fresh bruises and disturbance. His legs were wrapped around Clark's waist and he had pinned Clark's arms in a tight clinch, preventing further stimulus. He was kissing every plane of Clark's upturned face. They hovered a few inches above the bed.
Clark's lips moved silently. Bruce touched them with two fingers to stop him. "Thank you. Time to come down."
They stayed in contact on the bed. Bruce didn't rush putting his senses in order. He rubbed his hand across his own skin, learning himself again. He played with Clark's hair.
His body finally came back into normal focus. He had drunk a lot of water in the last indeterminate hours, and his bladder had opinions on the subject. "Time?"
"Four thirteen," Clark whispered. "Thank you."
Bruce put a hand on his head. Clark needed words here. Some kind of words. Bruce reached for the most reliable. "Perfect. You were perfect."
He spent an hour reclining on a balcony, immersed in his phone, while Clark did something for dinner that involved slow-roasting. Giving him space.
Everything felt . . . unsettled. It felt in his chest like he might cry again. He was not interested in crying again. He checked banal work emails. Eventually he put on his sweatsuit, though the ambient temperature was too warm for it, to give his body some boundaries.
No one was watching. He curled up in a ball, wedged between the arms of his chair. It hurt his ribs, but it was control. That helped.
He ran out of emails and his hour was up, but Clark wouldn't disturb him until he asked. The sun would set in an hour. Eighty minutes later, it would set in Gotham. He checked the headlines.
Riddler publicity stunt. No matter how Bruce asked them, the papers kept rewarding the rogues' bids for attention. And of course, the trending hashtags answered to no one. Nygma had everyone's eyes on him, just the way he liked it.
Bruce closed his eyes and rocked. Dick had trained for this. Dick had trained for everything. But Nygma wanted him. And he had a broken leg and a lingering concussion.
He was so fucking fragile.
It wasn't a sin to need help. It was just terrifying.
There hadn't been a choice, in the alley. There had been risk and resource assessment with a mathematically inevitable outcome. After that, though . . . He'd been knocked out of his orbit, and he had a chance to choose a new one. He could compensate by being a stubborn porcupine, stabbing everyone who cared for him, wasting everyone's time and energy, and slowing his own recovery, or he could acknowledge the fact that help, that interdependence, was inevitable, inescapable, and that he was already relying on it, every minute of every night and day.
He'd chosen, and he had to keep choosing. If he held onto the feeling long enough, maybe it would get easier.
Clark made it pretty easy.
Clark was waiting for him to get over himself and come eat. Bruce uncurled. "Hey. Is dinner ready?"
"Yes," Clark said from beside him. "Where would you like it?"
"Beach, I think. I won't need these. But I'll want the cast." He stripped off the sweatsuit and strapped his leg into place. "Let's go."
They lounged with plates on their laps. The clouds tinted to orange. Eventually, Bruce said, "Were you serious about all weekend? Or are there things at home you need to take care of?"
"I, uh. Took care of those while I was waiting for the roast."
Bruce studied the remains of his excellent dinner. "I could take another day. But I can't skip a second night on the comms. I'd go insane."
"I know."
"I could do that from here, though."
"You could."
"After a walk."
"Sounds good."
Bruce settled back, laced his fingers together with Clark's, and watched the sky catch fire.