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Bruce knows Clark is listening, but he goes out anyway. It’s the anniversary of Dick’s death, and he’s going to his grave. He didn’t care whether or not Clark would catch him. It’s been years since he visited his son.
It’s not difficult to break into his own house. Clark froze his assets and he has nothing. The house is dilapidated and he wishes he can do something about it, but he can’t. He makes his way to the sprawling, unkempt property out in the back, where his parents were buried, where Dick was buried.
When he gets to Dick’s gravemarker, he kneels and tears the vines away from it. He gives it a long stare, reading the words he put on the stone, and keeps his thoughts to himself. He’s sure Clark can hear him. His breath, his heart, the blood flowing in his veins–Clark can hear all of it.
He wipes a tear away and decides to walk over to the house. He gets in easily and breaks into his own room. There’s a white sheet over his bed. Clark must have thought that he might come back someday.
Bruce pulls the sheet off and lays down on bed. The room, like the house, is cold. He can’t light his fireplace. Someone will know that someone’s squatting in Wayne Manor. He’s not actually squatting–it’s his freaking house.
He gets up and sits at the edge of the bed, near the nightstand, and blows the dust away from a picture frame. It’s of him and Dick, when Dick was still young. A little boy. His boy is gone. Has been gone for a long time, and he still can’t accept it. He still hasn’t moved on. He probably never will.
He takes the frame from the night stand and thumbs away the dust that gathered on the glass so can see Dick’s adorable face. He can remember every good night tuck in, every school drop off, every parent-teacher conference, every birthday–everything. He’d do anything to do it all over again.
“You’re not supposed to be here,”
Bruce sighs and puts the frame back on the nightstand. “I know,” he answers.
He’s not sure what’s going to come next. Maybe, he thinks, if it’s his time to go, it’s okay. Though he still has the drive to fight for a better world, he’s tired. Maybe at some point, this fight for freedom became a suicide mission.
Light footsteps come nearer, and he can’t tear his eyes away from Dick’s photograph. He can’t stop looking at the carefree, youthful, innocent smile on little Dick’s face.
“I saw him as my own, you know,”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
“Dick was my son, too,”
He hates the way Dick’s name sounds when Clark says it. He hates the way Clark sounds like he’s invalidating his pain because he lost his own child before it even had the chance to live.
Bruce feels a gentle thumb on his cheek.
“I miss you, Bruce,”
Bruce still doesn’t look at him. “You miss her,” he says. “I’m not her, Clark,”
Of course he’d say that. Of course Clark would say that he missed him just the way he misses Lois. Lois was his wife, and no matter how many times they had clandestine meetups, no matter how many times Clark tells him that he misses him, he was an affair. And that’s all he’ll ever be.
Clark’s telling him he misses him so he’d let his guard down.
And Bruce is angry with himself because it’s working.
“I loved you, too,” Clark says. This time his voice becomes more forceful. “I loved both of you,”
“You loved her,” says Bruce. “I should never have been in the picture,”
But he loved Clark, too. He still loves him. Despite everything. He believes the Clark he loved is still in there.
Clark grabs his face and makes Bruce look him in the eye. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,”
This is it. This is Clark’s true colors right in front of him.
Clark’s brows are furrowed and his lips are turned down into a scowl. Clark’s smiles are all but a memory now.
His hand on Bruce’s jaw is too tight, but Bruce doesn’t say anything. He just wishes Clark will make it quick. He wants Clark to snap his neck so it’ll be done and over with.
But Clark doesn’t do anything.
Clark does kiss him as he slowly loosens his grip on him. And Bruce doesn’t know why he’s kissing back. Clark pushes him onto the bed and pins him down.
“No–Clark!”
Lips press down on his neck as Clark spreads his legs apart. “I loved you, Bruce,” he hears Clark whisper between kisses. He hears his clothes rip.
“NO!”
His belt’s already snapped in half and he feels cool air brush against his legs. His jeans are on the floor, ripped into pieces. Bruce tries to push Clark away but he’s like a wall of concrete on top of him.
Bruce doesn’t want this.
But he misses being held like this. He misses being held by Clark so he lets it happen. He lets it happen because he’ll never have this again. He lets it happen because he wants Clark to hold him again like nothing’s changed.
Like no one’s dead.
Like the world is free.
Like they’re happy.
Like they loved each other the way they did.
Clark breaches him with a little spit. That knocks the air out of him and he cries out but tries to keep his mouth shut.
It hurts.
Clark never did it like this before. Clark’s never been rough with him before.
Bruce hates how it hurts, but welcomes it and holds tightly onto Clark anyway.
Hates how he’s hard even though he’s bleeding.
Hates how he still loves Clark anyway.
Hates how he still believes the person Clark used to be is still in there somewhere.
Hates how he still has hope.
Hates that he’s kissing Clark.
Hates that he’s holding onto Clark’s hair.
Hates that he wishes he can still have this.
Hates that Clark does this with Diana, too.
Hates that he wraps his legs around Clark’s hips as he comes.
Hates how he melts at the words Clark says.
“I love you, Bruce,” Clark pulls away and straightens himself. “But I’ll kill you the next time I see you,”
Maybe next time, it won’t hurt as much.