Work Text:
One thing Clark hadn't noticed until years ago, is that kryptonite ── as most things ── has a particular smell.
It makes sense, when he thinks about it, that it would. But, for the longest time, Clark had associated kryptonite with the smell of burning skin, of blood, of sweat and, at times, tears. Kryptonite, on its own, didn't need to have a smell because it made his senses focus on one thing and one thing only: pain.
Bruce Wayne irrevocably changed that for him.
To be honest, Clark is half sure Bruce didn't intend on changing his entire perspective on kryptonite with what they did. A little? Yes, for sure. He wanted Clark to be able to enjoy even things that would normally make him hurt. He wanted Clark's perspective on pain and what it can be done with it as a whole. Simple as that, really.
Bruce wanted Clark to enjoy the one thing able to take it all away from him in the blink of an eye. It was, all in all, Bruce's way of giving Clark back the power kryptonite would take from him. It was his way of giving Clark control over the one thing he was completely powerless against.
But Bruce Wayne being, well, Bruce Wayne would never want Clark to lower his guard down enough that someone would be able to strike.
If it had ever crossed Bruce's mind that Clark would completely erase from his memory the effects kryptonite has on him, and the fact that it could still get to him if in the wrong person's hand, he wouldn't allow Clark to ever step close to it.
But Bruce has too much faith in his hopeless romantic boyfriend.
And, in Clark's defense, kryptonite had been extinct for a good amount of years before Bruce admitted to having recreated it. "Contingency, you have to understand," Bruce said, straddling Clark's lap with a small kryptonite blade in his hand.
Clark did understand. He still does.
Bruce is ── and Clark says it with all the love and devotion he has for the man ── a control freak. Even if he isn't part of the situation, even if no one expects him to have control. It is in his veins. He needs to be able to predict every single outcome and have a way to control them. He needs to be sure. Even if it drives him crazy, even if it kills him.
Even back then, when he first heard about Bruce's many contingency plans for the League, when the two of them were nothing more than friends and colleagues, Clark was sure Bruce meant no harm with it. He had a way to subdue and kill each and every one of them, yes. But it was Batman they were talking about. Batman. The man that doesn't kill. The man that has watched things be taken away from him in the worst ways imaginable, and still refused to pull that trigger.
Bruce didn't do it out of malice. He didn't hold on to those plans with the sole intent of hurting them. He did it, and he still does it, out of necessity. He does it out of love, for the people, for the world. He does so he knows that, even in the darkest moments, humanity has hope.
Even back then, even when Clark hadn't realized how in love with Bruce he was, Clark knew there wasn't a better person to hold on to his weaknesses.
"I want it to be you," he had told Bruce then. Looking him dead in the eye, devotion pouring from each word ── thinking back to it, he should've noticed he was in love that night. "If it comes down to it. If I need to be stopped, sent into the Phantom Zone, killed, whatever it is… I want it to be you. Not to put the weight of it on your shoulders, Bruce. But because you are the only one I could ever trust to make things right. The only one I'm sure will be able to fight me. Defeat me. The only one that could bring good back into this world. Whatever it takes."
So, when kryptonite was pressed against his neck, he had nothing but trust in the man holding it.
And, in all honesty, there is not a thing Clark wouldn't do for Bruce. Especially when Bruce is grinding down on him, looking downright sinful. He would have gladly died that night if it was what his boyfriend intended.
After that, whenever Bruce wanted to be in charge in the bedroom also ── or simply wanted to have his way with Clark in ways his powers wouldn't allow ──, kryptonite would come into play.
Some amount of time in the lab gave Bruce the ability to add kryptonite to many objects. Including handcuffs and even a silk blindfold that truly gave Clark a run for his money.
Because of that, Clark had gotten to know kryptonite in a safe environment. One in which he wasn't actively fighting for his life, one in which kryptonite didn't hurt. It didn't take anything away from him. In fact, it gave him a great deal of pleasure.
Kryptonite was no longer something Clark feared ── even though he should. It was something he god acquainted with. He knew the shapes and forms it could take, he knew the lingering smell it left behind when broken down into nothing but particles. He even knew how if felt against his skin when not meant to cut, burn or kill.
And again, he is half sure Bruce didn't want it to get to that point.
Because if Bruce was able to recreate it down to the last cell, to make it perfect in each and every way, to make it real… Someone else could.
Clark is sure Bruce had that in mind over the years. In fact, Clark is pretty sure he's heard Bruce talking to his computer about a particular list of ingredients it should be on the look for, in case anyone ever decide to buy all of the necessary things to make kryptonite out of thin air.
But Clark couldn't freaking care less.
Honestly, his life on the damn line, he couldn't even think about it for half a second.
Because… Why would he?
Kryptonite was the one thing he feared the most in this world, the one thing that could end him, kill him. The one thing that could take him away from Bruce, the League, his friends, his family. It was the one thing that had him constantly looking over his shoulder. The one thing that made him physically human.
Once it was gone, eradicated from the damn universe, Clark could finally breath in deeply and calm himself down enough to not think about it. He was safe from the one thing that could destroy it all. The monster was gone. It was a good ending. The perfect ending.
Years later, when Bruce reintroduced kryptonite into Clark's life, it wasn't meant as weapon to hurt him. Not in the sense others had used it before.
Bruce wanted Clark to feel pain, yes. But only because it was his way of showing Clark how it felt to be human. It was his way of putting both of them in the same plane field. Not in a bad way, not in a way meant for Clark to feel like less. But as a way to show Clark that he could be more.
Bruce had created a place so safe for him, that Clark could no longer see it with malice.
Kryptonite existed in the same world as Clark again.
And Clark was happy about it.
So happy that it hurts him to recognize that familiar smell, the scent of kryptonite particles, burning its way down his lungs, as he walks through the burning building.
He is here to save people. Why is he slowing down?
Clark tries his hardest to fly towards the sound of people screaming. But he isn't able to hold himself high, and starts hovering a bit closer to the ground than he'd like. For a split second, he is able to pick up enough spreed to fly through a wall. But he falls as soon as he gets into the next room.
The entire place is empty, white tiles covering everything floor to ceiling.
And there's smoke.
But it clearly doesn't come from a burning fire. Because smoke isn't supposed to be green.
Clark coughs, trying to get the kryptonite out of his system ── out of his lungs. But everything burns. His nose aches from the smell and the fact that Clark hit the ground face first.
And he can't get up.
People are screaming, people are dying, and Clark can't move.
He tries coughing again, to the point his throat starts to hurt. But it's no use. The smoke is too thick and it is moving too fast. Each time he breathes in, a chunk of kryptonite finds its way down his nostrils and into his lungs.
He tries to get up. He starts pushing himself off the ground.
"… Bruce?" he whispers. A cry for help. A name that has not once hurt him.
Nothing happens.
Bruce doesn't open the door and ends this entire thing. He doesn't show up, Batman suit on, and scolds Clark for not realizing the fire was made out of pure kryptonite. He scolds Clark for not thinking about it before flying through the first window he saw. He scolds Clark for only now noticing that the building was clearly old, abandoned, and by Luthor Corp's side of the docks. He scolds Clark for only noticing the robotic sound behind those voices ── not until his hearing is mostly gone. He even scolds Clark for not thinking before acting, as he normally does.
Bruce doesn't show up and looks down at Clark, as he tries to breathe clean air again, arms crossed.
Bruce doesn't stand there and wait to explain his convoluted plan. One made with the goal of showing Clark he was getting too comfortable, too careless.
Because this isn't one of Bruce's plans.
This is a trap.
One that Clark flew willingly into. One that he could've avoided had he been thinking about anything other than the people he could save.
"You can't save people if you're dead yourself," Bruce had one told him, while removing kryptonite shards from Clark's torso.
"I'm fine," Clark pouted then.
"Yes, baby," Bruce said. And, after a moment: "As in… Crying baby. Big, blue, crying baby."
"Baby…" Clark tries again now. "Baby, please."
But Bruce still doesn't show up. In fact, Bruce is now somewhere in Gotham. Completely unaware of the fire happening in Metropolis. Completely unaware of the fact that Clark is in danger.
Still, Clark tries. Because that's all he can do.
"… Bruce."
If he is able to move his hand to his ear, he will find the intercom system Bruce insists he wears everywhere. "I don't have super hearing, Clark," Bruce said when giving it to him. If Clark is able to move just right, he will be able to get Bruce to listen to him. To hear his plea.
All he has to do is──
Clark didn't hear, smell, feel, or even see that someone had entered the room until there is a foot lodged in his ribcage. The kick isn't exactly strong in nature, but it hits him just at the right time to cause an immense amount of pain.
He can't breath for a second. But it all gets worse once he can.
Because Clark, desperate to breathe, fills his lungs with air all at once.
But it isn't just air, is it? It is kryptonite. And it has him coughing in no time. Trying to get it out of his system before it kills him. Before it makes him even weaker.
Clark has enough strength to lay on his back and face his attacker.
Once he noticed where he was, and once all the signs were clear to him, he half expected one of Luthor's men to show up. Any of them. Any man Clark put in jail before, anyone Clark got in trouble. Anyone with a grudge big enough to use Luthor's money and resources to see their vengeance through.
He isn't expecting ── not in any way, shape or form ── to face Lex Luthor himself.
"Louder," Lex tells him. "I can't hear you begging for your life."
Clark coughs, blood coming out of his lips, "What…"
"I think you mean how, Superman."
And, well, he honestly does.
Lex Luthor faces life in prison for crime of treason.
He remembers writing those words himself. He remembers adding the snippets of a Superman interview, in which he explains how he found Lex's secret hideout and what Lex had been planning all along. Not only was Clark there the day Lex Luthor went to prison, as Superman. But he, himself, as Clark Kent, would periodically call people to check how Lex had been behaving behind bars.
Not once did anyone mention him being able to leave. Life without parole, solitary confinement for most of it. Lex had nearly destroyed the entire planet out of spite. To prove Superman was just an alien pretending to care. To prove Superman was nothing but a facade someone put on, a game. He did it by toying with people's lives. By nearly ending an entire country. By nearly wiping out the entire human race.
Lex wasn't simply wanted in Metropolis. He wasn't even just wanted in the United States. His crimes of treason were seen, clear as day, by the entire world.
How low does one have to go to have world leader's, that would not even share a room, agreeing on something without any hesitation?
Clark is not sure. But Lex had mastered it. And he went away for it.
And there's exactly where he's supposed to be. Away.
Clark coughs once more, "How?" He gives in.
Lex chuckles, the whole thing being clearly amusing for him, "I know people," he says, simply. "People that may have agreed to put me in there. But weren't keen on me staying."
"How… Long?"
Lex pretends to check a wrist watch that isn't there, "Months? Years? Time flies by when you're hiding away, plotting revenge."
Clark tries to get up. But his arms aren't strong enough, and he falls back to the ground with full force. Hitting his head so hard he sees starts, somewhere in the florescent lights.
Lex kneels down next to him, smile on his face, "I should kill you right here, right now," he says. "It would save me a lot of trouble."
"Lex… Don't…"
"But I've gone through enough to get you here," he shakes his head. "The least I can do is have some fun with it."
One move. That's all it would take. That's all he needs to get Bruce on the line.
Brucie. Baby. Please.
Still, even if he is able to communicate with Bruce ── or anyone ──, how would Bruce get there? He doesn't fly. He isn't Barry. His car is fast enough, but has some limitations. He could take the helicopter, but Clark is pretty sure Duke and Steph broke it a few weeks back. Had Bruce fixed it? It feels like something he would do, but Clark can't be sure.
Maybe, with his final moments staring down at him, Clark could try to get in touch simply to say goodbye.
He doesn't want to die without seeing his family farm one last time. Without annoying Lois and Jimmy for a couple more hours. He doesn't want to die without seeing his children, his boys, a couple more times ── before being able to fully watch them grown even older. He doesn't want to die without asking Bruce's kids to care for him, to try and understand him and his roughness a bit more than they'd like.
But all of that, well, all of that is based on nothing but sheer want.
Saying goodbye to Bruce, telling Bruce how loved he is, how incredible he is… It's not something Clark simply doesn't want to live without doing. It is something he can't, physically, do. He is sure his body will wither away, he is going to suffer through the bitter end. But his heart won't stop beating before he is able to give it to Bruce one last time.
You are the love of my life.
He can't possibly go without promising Bruce forever once more. Without reminding Bruce he will be waiting for him on the other side. That Bruce doesn't have to rush to meet him there. He will be patiently waiting for the moment the man of his dreams finds him once more. And he will only cross the line into the world again, to find his next life, once he is sure Bruce is going with him. Once he is sure they will meet each other once again. As they have done all lifetimes before this one.
One move. That's all he needs to tell Bruce goodbye.
Lex robs him of that as well.
"Take him," Lex stands up, and moves out of Clark's line of sight.
Where? Clark wants to ask, but he isn't strong enough to do so. So, all that comes out is an incoherent sound as two of Lex's men pull him up and start to drag him away.
"Sweetheart," he breathes out, low. Unsure if the two men can hear him, or if they care enough to pay attention. "I'm sorry."
I'm sorry for being reckless when you told me time and time again I shouldn't. I'm sorry for not making it back to Gotham. I'm sorry for not keeping up all of my promises, especially the one where I say we will be married within the next year. I'm sorry for never giving you the ring I keep in my pocket. I'm sorry for never thinking a moment is perfect enough to ask you.
Most of all, Bruce, I'm sorry I don't get to say I love you one last time.
Not before I'm almost gone, anyway.
He is not sure how much time has passed, nor how far they've dragged him around. Clark is not sure where he is, what time is it. All he knows is that this place feels hot, burning hot. And breathing is even hard.
When did he close his eyes? Can he open them again?
The men throw him on the ground. And the entire thing burns.
It takes Clark a few moments ── and some burn marks on the palm of his hands, as he tries to get up ── to notice where he is. Whatever fire Lex started to get his attention, whatever thing he burned to make kryptonite smoke… This is where it all started.
Clark doesn't have to open his eyes to know he will be faced with burning flames.
He does so anyway.
Lex laughs, full on laughs behind him. Delighted to see Clark is finally facing real danger. One that is burning rapidly and approaching him quick.
"Get out of this one, Superman," he says.
Clark looks over his shoulder in time to see Lex and his men leaving the room and locking a fire proof door behind them. He is stuck there, with the green flames. He is looking his death sentence in the eye. And he has nowhere to run.
A few moments later ── he can't be sure how many, to be honest ── something else catches his eye. A light. A few feet above. A room. Right behind a glass wall. A room where Lex can sit down and watch as Clark Kent ceases to exist.
"Don't worry," Lex says to a microphone ── where did he even get this? ──, his voice echoing through the room. "I won't miss a thing."
He has no other choice. He has to find a way to leave, he has to survive this.
But how? How?
He tries to get up again. But his legs don't work properly and his hands are burning to the point he can smell his own skin melting off the meat and bones. Not to mention how here, close to the fire, the amount of oxygen is pitiful when compared to all the kryptonite flying around.
Clark can't stand. Clark can't breathe. But Clark can move his hand.
It takes him a moment or two. But he is able to press the button inside his ear. Then, it takes another second until he is able to hear some static. The line is open.
"Sweetheart?" he tries, not daring to give Lex Bruce's name on a silver platter. "I just…"
"Unless the next words out of your mouth are I just found a way out, I need you to shut up, Clark."
Even in his state, Clark has enough strength to blink a couple of times. Completely dumbfounded, "What?"
"Did they see you go for the intercom?"
Clark looks up. Lex and his men are looking at him, but don't seem to notice he's actively talking. Still, he puts his hand down once more. Letting out a small sound when the heat reaches him again. He lowers his head, looking down. Just so they won't see his lips moving.
"I don't think so," he whispers. "But──"
"Kent," Bruce says, voice stern. "Contingency."
It's all Bruce says. It's all he has to say.
Clark thinks back to Bruce's many contingency plans. To all the ways he was able to create a sense of control for himself. The ways he worked around the other members of the league not wanting him to have such things. And the ways Clark himself had willingly given in ── had offered, even.
It may sound creepy for some people, he is aware. But Clark can't deny how attractive he finds that Bruce knows every single one of his moves.
Wherever Clark goes, Bruce is aware of. Whatever he does, Bruce will somehow know.
Especially as Superman.
"You say you know my heartbeat," Bruce had once told him. "It's time for me to know yours."
Clark is still not sure what the things Bruce put all over his suit do. He is not sure how they work, and what they let Bruce know. All he knows is that Bruce keeps tabs on his every move. So, he knew deep down Bruce would find him. Dead or alive. And, to be quite honest, he never needed to know more. Because it went against the whole concept of contingency. If he knew, he could overrule it. And he didn't want to ever do that.
Here and now, hopeless and facing his own end, he wishes he had known. He wishes he was aware, moments prior, that Bruce could sense danger near him. That Bruce could come and save the day. That Bruce could──
"Luthor is dangerous," Clark tells him. "Don't──"
"No," Bruce interrupts him once more. And, before Clark can argue, he adds: "Keep your head down."
Clark doesn't have a full second to process what's being told. He hears the explosion right above him. The glass, who clearly had been made to withstand unimaginable amounts of fire, shatters all over the flames. And all over Clark.
He is sure some of the shards cut through his skin. But that seems to be the smallest of his problems at the moment.
This time, the smoke that finds its way to him is not made of kryptonite. But it doesn't help him much either. It makes the oxygen even scarcer. It makes breathing impossible. To the point Clark is sure he is suffocating, he is dying. Bruce is saving him and he is fucking dying.
He hears fighting right above him, but he is not strong enough to look.
He is not strong enough to do anything. And he feels himself zoning out. His eyes are perpetually closed. His arms aren't able to keep him steady anymore, and he falls face first to the floor. Burning his face as he keeps it pressed against it, but unable to move.
Until, he flies.
He floats.
Is this dying? Is this how it all ends? Is this how it feels?
"I need you to stay awake, Clark," Bruce whispers in his ear. Is this a dream? "I'm right here, baby. But I need you to stay awake, alright. We're getting out of here."
It must be a dream. The way he feels his body moving through the air. Quick, as if nothing could ever stop him. The way he seems to fly through the smoke as the oxygen slowly starts to fill his lungs, as the kryptonite turns smaller and smaller.
The cold wind must be part of his dream.
Dying must feel like breathing for the first time in a while. The relief. That's what it must be like. Finally letting go of whatever was holding you back. Finally taking that one last step. This is what death must feel like.
Clark would know.
Clark is dead.
And, for some reason, heaven sounds a lot like a helicopter.
"I need to fly this thing, Clark," Bruce tells him. "But you need to promise me you'll stay awake. Can you do that?"
"Bruce?" Clark asks, dumbly.
Bruce chuckles. Clark is able to feel the humming of his chest.
Oh.
Oh.
"Yes, darling," Bruce whispers. "It's me. Or did you think I'd let you go without saying goodbye?"
Clark isn't strong. Not even breathing again was able to get him back on his feet. He is not, by any means, okay. But his impulse to hold Bruce is stronger than whatever else he has going on. He wraps his arms around Bruce's neck, and he holds him.
Bruce is here. Clark is alive.
"We are going home," Bruce whispers, holding him close.
"Home…" Clark echoes.
Despite what Bruce asks him, Clark blacks out every now and again. He tries his hardest to stay awake, to keep his eyes open and his mind strong. But he can't. He is too tired, too human. And it all hurts. His body, his mind, his lungs, his damn spirit. It feels like too much. Way more than he is able to handle. So, his body gives in every now and then. Waking up whenever Bruce's voice reaches his ears.
Clark is not even sure when they reach the ground. He is not sure where the helicopter stops, how Bruce gets out of it. He can barely comprehend the arms around him until he is floating again.
Bruce is kind to him, though. He is gentle. He takes Clark inside and carefully places him on the bed. Clark can hear Bruce barking out orders as he takes off Clark's suit. And he even finds himself chuckling when his boyfriend struggles with getting one of his legs out of it.
When Clark floats again, he pouts.
"I like the bed," he tells Bruce. "Why can't I stay there?"
"Bath first," Bruce answers.
The water isn't cold per say. But it also isn't hot. Bruce is careful enough to keep in mind the burns on Clark's body, and he acts accordingly.
He bathes Clark. Without saying a word or demanding for something in return. Then, after slowly drying him with the towel, Bruce guides him back to the bed and patches him up. One bandage at a time. Slowly, but surely. Until he is satisfied with how Clark is looking.
By the time Clark is dressed and able to rest, he feels way better than he did when leaving the docks.
He can even speak.
"How did you find me?" he asks Bruce, eyes finally open as he watches his boyfriend lay down next to him. "How did you know?"
Bruce smiles, resting against the pillows to mirror Clark's position, "It's a secret, remember?"
"Since when do you keep secrets from me?"
"Since when do you fly into a building filled with kryptonite?"
Clark opens his mouth. But Bruce's arched brow is quick to get him to close again.
"I'm sorry," is all he says in the end. Because he truly is.
"You better be," Bruce smiles still. "You really thought one intercom chat would be a proper goodbye?"
"No," he shakes his head. "But it was all I had."
"Know one thing, Clark Kent," Bruce's face turns serious. "You are not escaping me that easily. I will find you."
"That's… Very hot, actually."
"Don't think flattery will take you anywhere," Bruce says, but he does lean in. "You are hurt."
"I'm alive," Clark quips.
"You are," Bruce nods. Eyes watering. "This can't change. You know that, right?"
"It won't," he promises. Another promise he is not sure he will be able to keep. But one he does anyway. "I'll stay here with you, Bruce Wayne, for as long as you'll have me."
"Don't you ever do something that stupid again," Bruce says, forehead pressed against Clark's. "Especially now that Luthor is out there. Don't you dare putting yourself at risk."
"I won't," Clark promises. "I was just… Safe. You make me feel safe to the point I forget the world isn't as… Soft… As your arms."
Bruce kisses him softly, "I better start giving you a run for your money."
"You do," Clark nods, kissing him again. "Don't worry about it."
"I do," he sighs. "You know that, right? I worry about you. I love you."
"I love you too, Bruce," Clark sighs. "I love you more than you'll ever know. And if I have to go through all of this again, if I have to nearly die a thousand times, I will. As long as you keep finding me."
"There is not a single universe, Clark Kent, in which I do not find you."