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Rationally, Bruce knows it was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s a minor miracle that it even took this long—a testament to Superman and Batman’s effectiveness as a team, to the fluid coordination they’ve fought hard to hone.
That doesn’t make it any easier to stomach, in the moment or while they’re debriefing with the rest of the League. As they sit around the table, Clark calmly discussing the mission with his perfect recall, Bruce can’t stop replaying it in his head—a raised arm in his peripheral vision, followed by a blur of red and blue and the force of Clark's body against his, shoving him out of the path of the bullet before he even heard the gun fire.
“You didn’t need to do that, Clark,” he growls once everyone else has left the meeting room. “My suit is bulletproof.”
His voice rasps in his throat, too colored by frustration to shift back to Bruce Wayne’s softer-spoken cadence.
“Yeah, but you’re not. I am. I’m fine, Bruce.”
“They could’ve been Kryptonite rounds, or…”
“Well, they weren’t.”
Clark is grinning, as if this is all just banter, the kind of teasing back-and-forth they share during downtime on a mission. He winks as he stretches, bicep flexing against the uninjured pectoral where the bullet struck.
The cooler, tactical part of Bruce’s brain knows that Clark is used to facing firearms, has likely gotten nicked or strategically taken fire more times than he's bothered to even keep track of. Before today, it was an operational variable, nothing personal or emotional. But then Clark took a bullet meant for Bruce at point-blank range, and as much as he hates it, his rational mind doesn’t stand a chance against the part of him that will forever be stuck in that alley, frozen and powerless.
Their eyes meet, and the resulting flare of anger is so sharp it hurts. Clark frowns, head cocked as his gaze darts over Bruce’s own furrowed brow.
“Are you… actually mad at me?”
It’s Clark’s tone that does it—disbelieving, flippant—mixed with his lopsided smile. Bruce turns toward the door, knowing he’ll never say what he’s thinking if he doesn’t have a clear shot at a quick exit. When he finds his voice, his words are cold, rigid, a tone he almost never uses to speak to Clark.
“If you would— think about it, Clark, you might remember why you getting shot in front of me—”
It’s clunky, what ends up tumbling from his mouth, but he can’t make himself be any more specific if he wants to keep his abnormally tenuous grip on his emotions. He doesn't even have to finish the sentence, anyway—he sees the moment it sinks in, and it's like the air leaves the room in a sudden rush.
The understanding that dawns in Clark’s eyes sickens him. Bruce hates being pitied, hates being noticed at all, really, but sympathy in particular has made his skin feel too tight ever since the night he watched his parents’ lives slip away at his feet. But he allows himself the satisfaction of watching Clark’s face fall before he storms away, fully aware he’s overreacting and running from a confrontation but too upset to stop.
Clark grants him the dignity of an unimpeded exit, at least. Bruce appreciates it, even if he’s still mad at him, because he’s certain Clark can hear the erratic drum of his heartbeat as the door slides shut between them. And the hitch in his breath when he pauses—he’s sure Clark hears that too, even though he desperately wishes he couldn’t.
Clark follows him—of course he does—but he gives Bruce a head start, buying him a few minutes of haphazard deep breathing exercises that he repeats until he hears footsteps approaching where he’s seated on the roof, gaze tipped over the edge.
“Bruce…”
The earlier bravado has left Clark’s voice, replaced by an edge of uncertainty.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You don’t—I know you don’t have to accept my apology, and I understand if you don’t. I’ll leave you alone up here, if that’s what you want, but I just—I needed to make sure I told you.”
Bruce glances up at Clark, noting the concern clouding the otherworldly blue of his eyes.
“You don’t have to leave.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Clark seems to deflate as he settles next to Bruce. Bruce closes his eyes and lets himself relax against him, warm and solid at his side.
“What exactly are you sorry for?” He can't stop himself from asking, from twisting the knife just a little to remind Clark that he can be a real pain in the ass when he feels like it.
He feels Clark's sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t take your feelings seriously. Seeing that… I understand why you were upset. I shouldn’t have brushed it off.”
It’s clear what he’s sorry for—and what he isn’t—but Bruce appreciates that he won’t pretend to regret the thing that got them into this situation in the first place. Clark isn’t going to apologize for taking the bullet, but he wouldn’t be Clark if he did.
“It was around this time of year when it happened. Maybe that’s why it… reminded me.”
He’s lying. It was around this time of year; that part’s true. But what really reminds Bruce of that night is the way he felt in the fraction of a second between the sound of the gun firing and the impact—the way he knew what had happened and what was going to happen, the body of someone he loved shielding him from danger, protection he hadn't asked for and could never repay.
Clark’s hand wraps around Bruce's, strong fingers twining them together.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Bruce doesn’t know if he’s referring to his parents, or what happened earlier tonight, or both. He appreciates it, though—appreciates that Clark doesn’t hesitate over the words, and how easy it makes him to forgive.
“I’m—I won’t go on patrol tonight, unless Gordon calls. If you want to come over—”
It’s wildly uncomfortable sometimes, to just ask for what he wants, but Bruce pushes himself to do it anyway in spite of the raw-nerve feeling it leaves behind.
Clark squeezes his hand. “I’ll be there.”
The energy between them is different tonight. Bruce flies to Clark like a magnet as soon as he steps through the balcony doors, before he can stop himself to consider how pathetic it probably looks. To his credit, Clark simply returns the embrace, the pressure of his arms grounding Bruce against the thoughts still spiraling away from him.
Bruce fists a hand in Clark’s shirt to pull him closer, intending on bringing him in for a bruising kiss. But Clark doesn’t yield—instead, he cups Bruce’s face with both hands, keeping the touch of their lips feather-light.
“Clark—”
When they spoke earlier, Bruce still had the cowl on. He's unmasked now, vulnerable, knowing that Clark can see the naked anxiety etched onto his face.
“I’m right here, baby. I’m okay,” Clark says.
It’s long past sunset, but there’s enough light from the bedside lamp for Bruce to make out the strong lines of Clark’s jaw and nose and the gold of his skin.
“I want to see it. Prove it.” He wills his fingers not to shake as he unbuttons Clark’s shirt.
It doesn’t make any sense, and Bruce knows that. Even if the bullet had left a mark, it would be long healed by now. But it's the kind of thing Clark has asked him after he's taken a particularly bruising hit, and Bruce figures it's his turn now. There's still part of his mind, loud and insistent, that can't reconcile Clark taking a bullet with him still standing here, alive and perfectly intact.
"Okay, Bruce. Okay."
Clark moves Bruce’s hands aside so he can shrug off his shirt, then grasps his wrist, guiding his palm to his chest.
“Here, see?”
The stretch of skin where the bullet hit is marked only by a smattering of chest hair. It’s whole, flawless, just like Bruce knew it would be, but he presses his fingertips in anyway and kisses Clark on the lips before he succumbs to the urge to kiss the spot on his chest instead. This time, Clark lets him push, opening up for Bruce’s tongue and the possessive bite of his teeth against his lower lip.
“I take bullets for people all the time, you know. I don’t think twice about it. But no one’s ever been this worried for me,” Clark says, voice low against Bruce’s ear.
He’s not teasing Bruce like he was earlier. Bruce isn’t sure how he can tell, but he just—does, just knows Clark’s tone and the variations in his voice as well as Clark has admitted to knowing his heartbeat. He’s being serious this time, open, with a particular kind of wonder he seems to save just for Bruce.
That feeling is a variable Bruce can’t account for, can’t quantify or plan around, which means it’s maybe something he should shut down but knows in his bones he never could. It’s the most dangerous and intoxicating part of being loved by Clark, and even Bruce with all his finely tuned detachment isn’t strong enough to deny it. He lets himself be guided onto the bed, settling on his back so Clark can cage him in with his arms.
“I need you,” Bruce murmurs, and the full weight of it is undeniable as he says it. He needs Clark on him, in him, holding him so tightly it’s impossible not to know that he’s alive, and they’re together, and they're as close to safe as they ever can be.
Clark is focused, intent like he always is, but he seems quieter than usual as they kiss. For a moment, Bruce worries he’s upset, but then Clark trails his lips up to the shell of Bruce’s ear and breathes out a quiet, broken sound.
“I was scared,” he says.
“What?”
“When I saw him point that gun at you, Bruce—" Clark buries his face against the curve of Bruce’s neck. "I was terrified.”
It makes sense, loathe as Bruce is to admit it. They matter too much to each other to pretend otherwise. Of course he was terrified, bulletproof armor or not.
Bruce sighs, flooded with the tender warmth Clark always seems to pull from him, and the last of his earlier anger falls away.
“I’m okay, Clark. You protected me."
"You're still saying it like it's a bad thing," Clark murmurs, pulling away to slide Bruce's sweatpants off.
"No, I'm not," Bruce counters inelegantly, handing Clark the bottle of lube stashed in his nightstand.
Clark pauses, hovering over Bruce with a quiet frown of consideration. His hands are pinning Bruce's wrists to the bed, iron thighs caging his hips, and Bruce's body relaxes instinctively under the restraint.
He expects Clark to push back, needle him in response, but his voice is remarkably level as he grasps Bruce's chin and leans down to brush their lips together. "I can't lose you," Clark says, pausing to lick into Bruce's mouth, slow and deliberate. "I'll argue with you about anything else under the sun, but not that."
The air leaves Bruce's lungs.
"I was scared, too," he says, breathing the words into Clark's temple.
"I know."
They’ve had sex like this before, emotions and adrenaline running high after a mission or an argument. But there’s something softer this time in the way Clark brushes Bruce’s hair off his forehead and kisses the arch of his cheekbone before he works his fingers inside, making room for himself in Bruce’s body with painstaking care. A newer level of trust, something Bruce hasn't imagined could even be possible until he feels it coursing through his veins with every inch of Clark that presses into him, each murmured endearment offered up like a gift.
It's slow, torturous, the thoroughness with which Clark fucks him. He's patient, taking his time to build the pace of his hips until Bruce realizes the bed frame is shifting underneath them, protesting against each thrust as Clark drives him into the mattress. The thing not everyone realizes—the thing Bruce holds tight against his own chest—is that Clark can be relentless when he wants to, and seeing it like this feels sacred, like it’s an apology and a confession and a show of possession all at once.
“Clark…”
Clark hums an inquisitive noise and offers an open-mouthed kiss to Bruce’s throat.
Wait, Bruce thinks. It’s the wrong time. It’s the wrong time to say something so important, when he’s emotionally compromised already. It could ruin what they have, ruin everything, ruin the walls Bruce has spent years constructing around his heart.
And yet—it’s far too late to deny it, and in a flash of nauseating awareness, he thinks it might be worse to never say it at all. His heart is racing now, thundering in his chest so fast he feels it skip a beat.
“I love you.”
The words feel unfamiliar in Bruce’s mouth, stiff and graceless from disuse—but Clark smiles, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds.
“I love you too.”
It’s not a surprise, or at least it shouldn’t be, but Bruce feels his world tilt on its axis anyway. It changes everything, and it changes nothing, and he thinks he might cry when he comes around Clark with a gasp.
“Say it again,” Bruce whispers, and Clark laughs before obliging. For a while, long enough that Bruce loses track of time, they stay like that—Clark’s body draped over his, trading gentle kisses and murmurs that he knows he’ll wish he could remember with exact clarity later. It’s perfect, he thinks, and a little ridiculous, just like they are. Things will never be the same, he reminds himself. This time, though, it feels less like a curse, and more like a promise.