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eliemo · 2 years

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A Match Into Water

Summary: He could hold out for a few minutes. Just a few more minutes. The team would track them down and Flash would be there in seconds to pull Batman out of the water and get Superman out of his chains. Any minute now.

TW for kidnapping, drowning, poison, implied character death, watching someone die, fake death, and Lex Luthor. This one's kinda heavy gang so just be safe

The rattling of chains came to an abrupt halt, the fight leaving Clark in an instant, frozen in place as soon as the back door slid open in a blur of motion.

His heart stopped, the next heaving breath caught in his throat as Lex Luthor stepped aside to reveal what his men had gone to retrieve, a sickening glint of excitement in his eyes.

“Luthor,” he warned, wishing his voice came out stronger, anything but the rapidly weakening plea. “Don’t do this. This is between you and me. Let him go.”

He gave his restraints another tug, a bit more frantic than he’d been for the last hour, but the chains held steady, securely bolted to the ceiling. He could practically feel the Kryptonite seeping into his veins, slowly sapping him of his powers and strength, leaving him strung up and helpless.

They weren’t budging, and Clark was coming to the sickening realization that Lex had set them up like this deliberately, Superman alone on one end of the room, watching the others move across from him.

A spectator’s seat.

This had been intentional, leaving him just strong enough to keep himself upright, to stay awake and aware. Lex had known he’d refuse to give up the codes to the Watchtower, refuse to put the League and countless innocent civilians in danger.

And now he had Batman presented at the other end of the room, dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, well out of Superman’s reach.

This had all been planned. He’d captured Batman long before he’d captured Superman. Trying to bargain had only been for show, to lure Clark into a false sense of control, and Clark had fallen for it, unshakably confident in the knowledge that he would be the only one in danger, the only one hurt. He could hold out for his team, he always could.

Lex was always smarter than they gave him credit for.

“Luthor-”

“I don’t need Kryptonite to break you, Superman,” Lex said, a sickly calm to his tone. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. I need those Watchtower security codes, and we both know our friend here won’t give them up.”

He tore his gaze away as Lex jerked his chin to the struggle happening at his feet, lips curling in disgust. Clark was going to be sick.

It took four men to hold Batman down, even with his hands cuffed behind his back and his ankles tied tight together with rope. Bruce thrashed and bucked under their weight pressing him into the cold hard floor, snarling and glaring under his battered cowl, the black leather of the mask stained with dark red blood. Clark doubted it was his own.

“Hold him still,” Lex snapped, and Clark could do nothing but watch as Luthor’s metal boot collided with Bruce’s skull with an awful clunk, the Bat’s fight momentarily coming to a stop before weakly picking back up. “Don’t fight, Batman. Or I’ll fill this room with so much Kryptonite our friend here won’t be alive to see what I have planned for you.”

And just like that Bruce went perfectly still, only lifting his head just enough to meet Clark’s eyes across the room, his gaze hard and unwavering.

He wished he shared his friend’s talent for staying so perfectly composed and unreadable under pressure. Clark felt like he was being held underwater, throat tight, pressure wrapped tight around his chest.

Maybe it was just the Kryptonite eating away at his powers, slow and steady.

But Lex was rounding on him again, leaving Batman pinned to the ground with blood dribbling down his chin, and Clark took a steadying breath. He was still the Man of Steel. Even in a room laced with Kryptonite, he was still Superman. He was going to get them both out of this.

Before Clark could find his voice one of Luthor’s thugs struck at the back of Bruce’s head and another swung a boot at his ribs, the attack sudden enough that it managed to pull a pained grunt from Batman’s lips, his bared teeth stained red like a wounded animal.

“Hey!” Clark’s voice sounded small to his own ears, nowhere near his usual bravado, and the outburst got him an amused eyebrow raise from Lex. “Leave him alone! He was cooperating!”

“Hardly,” Lex sneered, but he raised a hand to signal a stop to the beating regardless. “These gentlemen I’ve hired happen to be from Gotham. Old Arkham inmates, actually. You can imagine they have a… personal vendetta against your friend here.”

“He has nothing to do with this,” Clark said, heart leaping into his throat. They hadn’t gone to remove Bruce’s cowl, either a show of good faith from Luthor or- more likely- someone had tried and quickly become acquainted with the suit’s new security system. Clark had seen that electric shock knock a grown man off his feet. “You have me, Luthor. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Let him go.”

“Call it insurance,” Lex said, pacing the distance between Bruce and Clark, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m making this very simple for you. Give me the Watchtower codes, or I’ll kill your friend.”

“Superman,” Batman barked, sharp voice ringing clear across the empty laboratory. “Don’t you dare.”

Clark turned to him, helpless, swallowing against the dread rising in his throat. He was losing his composure, falling apart at the seams, but Bruce just blinked at him, piercing blue gaze steady and cold, always enough to hold them both together.

And Clark had known Bruce long enough to hear the unspoken words in his glare. Don’t do this. Don’t give them up for me. Do not put their blood on my hands. Please.

Bruce would never forgive him for giving up. And, Clark reminded himself, he was still Batman. He always had a plan. Lex Luthor would not be what got in between Bruce and his mission.

He nodded, chest tightening at the way Bruce visibly relaxed, and turned back to Lex, fighting to keep his face impassive. Controlled and unbothered. He knew it was useless. “You know I can’t do that.”

Luthor didn’t look surprised, matching Superman’s response with equal nonchalance. “Fine. Have it your way.”

The next moment happened in a horrifying blur, Clark feeling almost disconnected from his own body as he watched everything happen around him in what felt like slow motion, distantly aware of Bruce’s eyes locked onto his, a weak tether to keep him grounded.

Lex snapped his fingers and the back door opened again, two more of Lex’s henchmen stepping into the room carrying… something in between them. It looked like a metal container, barely a few feet in length and width. The container was set down in front of Batman, the metal meeting the cement floors with a heavy thud, and Clark could see the gears turning in Bruce’s head, eyes glazing over with something he couldn’t quite get a read on.

The henchmen started moving, pacing the room for supplies under Lex’s watchful eye, and the anticipation left Clark restless, weakly pulling at his chains again.

It wasn’t until the sound of rushing water filled the room, a long green hose now hooked up to the far wall, that ice cold realization began to settle in Clark’s gut.

“Luthor,” he called, hating the uneasiness seeping into his tone so easily. “What are you doing? Luthor!”

Lex didn’t respond, but Clark had a pretty good idea of where this was going when the billionaire stepped aside, allowing his men to drape the hose over the side of the container, filling it to the brim.

Bruce, to his credit, didn’t react to the commotion around him. Not in a way that would be visible to anyone who didn’t know him, anyway. But Clark had known Batman for years now. Bruce was a heartbeat Superman could pick out in a crowd without any effort, the steady rhythm as familiar to him as his own. Clark could see the way he held himself tense, jaw clenched, something like uncertainty flickering in blue eyes.

And Clark couldn’t even move an inch closer.

The container was filled, the room still and quiet as the henchmen hurried back out of the room like they’d never been there in the first place, leaving Batman to be manhandled to his knees by the Gotham thugs, Lex taking a careful step back when Bruce bared his teeth again.

Everything moved with a synchronized precision, like this was just another experiment, something they were trained to carry out without a hint of remorse.

Like the room didn’t carry the air of watching a man being led to the gallows.

Nobody spared Clark another glance, no matter how much he struggled or how loud he screamed. It was like he wasn’t even here. Like Lex knew he wouldn’t look away. Batman kept trying to look in his direction, his glances almost frantic, but it was impossible to hold his gaze for long with the way he was being yanked around.

Luthor waited until Batman was thoroughly pinned, the men keeping him hovered over the water, before striding dangerously close, and something fierce and protective sparked to life in Clark’s chest.

“I’m sure you think you have something up your sleeve, Batman.” He reached out a hand, and Clark felt sick from something far more than just the Kryptonite chains when Lex delicately traced the ears of the cowl, fingers eventually moving to rest almost gently on the top of the mask. He didn’t miss the way Bruce twitched, unable to move away. “So I’ll reiterate. Try anything, and I flood this room with enough Kryptonite to kill Superman in seconds.”

And then, before Clark could so much as scream, Lex grabbed the back of Bruce’s neck and plunged his head underwater.

“No!”

Bruce didn’t even fight, motionless under the hands holding him down, and Clark realized that it didn’t matter whether Lex had been bluffing or not. Bruce wouldn’t take that chance, not when Clark’s life was on the line. Any escape plan was off the table.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. This was not how Bruce was going down, Clark knew him better than that. He had a backup plan, a way out, an idea forming in that brilliant head, he always did. He always did.

Where the hell was the League?

It wasn’t until Bruce started to thrash, bound hands curling into fists behind his back, that the reality began to fully settle in, panic rising to something suffocating.

There was no backup plan. There was no one coming. There was no escape. And Batman was drowning- Bruce was drowning just a few yards away, and there wasn’t a damn thing Clark could do about it.

With nothing else to do but pull thrash desperately in his restraints and fight to see through his blurry vision, Superman found himself spiraling, frantically trying to piece together a solution, an idea, anything.

How long can Batman hold his breath? Longer than a normal human, Clark was sure of that. Bruce prepared for every possible scenario, trained his body to go past its limits, pushing himself to the brink night after night.

He could hold out for a few minutes. Just a few more minutes. The team would track them down and Flash would be there in seconds to pull Batman out of the water and get Superman out of his chains.

Any minute now.

Batman’s thrashing was growing desperate, armor crashing against the side of the metal tub with his flailing, and the goons were clearly struggling to hold him down as the Bat’s body fought on instinct alone, his will for survival always his greatest weapon. They were sitting on his legs now, leaning all their weight into his back, forcing him deeper into the water.

Clark had lost his super hearing long ago, the chains sapping him of his powers one by one. He couldn’t hear Bruce’s heartbeat anymore, but he could still hear the muffled, garbled noises coming from his friend, Batman fighting for every last bit of oxygen being ripped away from him.

It couldn’t have even been three minutes before the water started to bubble, Bruce’s mouth forced open in a desperate breath for air he couldn’t have, and Clark just barely heard the choking, painful scream from underwater.

“Luthor!” Any resolve he might have had, any act of defiance or honor or pride or loyalty to anything other than the man being killed right in front of him was gone. Superman might have held on, for the greater good. But right now, all that was left was Clark Kent. “Luthor, let him go! I’ll give you anything you want, just leave him alone! Please!”

Luthor had removed his hand, stepping back to let the thugs have their way after the first few seconds, and he hadn’t once turned to watch the scene unfolding beside him, his eyes now only for Superman, a dangerous glow of triumph on his face. “You had your chance.”

“Lex please.” He didn’t care that he was begging. It didn’t matter. “You’re killing him! Luthor!”

“I did warn you, Superman.”

“Lex!”

There was an awful ringing in his ears, the world going gray and eerily silent as he pried his gaze away from Luthor and refocused on the scene in front of him.

If he made it out of this alive, no matter the outcome, Clark knew that image would be scarred in his head forever, replaying every time he shut his eyes. Bruce, roughly draped over the edge of the metal tub, head forced under the water, his desperate fight for life slowly dying down.

“Batman!” he screamed again, like it would make a difference. Like Bruce could hear him. Like Clark could still save him. “Let him go! Please. Please, just let him breathe, please! Get off of him!”

But no one was paying him any attention. The goons hadn’t glanced up once, sadistic grins never faltering as they held the Bat under, cackling excitedly amongst themselves as his struggles finally came to a stop. Lex just kept staring, smiling in the face of Superman’s desperation like he couldn’t even hear his pleads.

Bruce went limp, but still nobody moved to pull him back to the surface. One of them shoved him in further, a hand fisted in the back of his cowl, and Clark saw red.

It felt like an eternity before Batman was finally yanked out of the water, time moving in slow motion, the goons discarding his soaking wet form on the ground like a pile of trash.

Get up, Clark thought, bile rising in his throat, the world spinning dangerously out of control. Get up, Bruce. Get up. You always get up.

But Bruce didn’t get up, didn’t open his mouth to breathe, didn’t even move, and everything was still spinning.

“What did you do?” Clark demanded, but his voice sounded weak to his own ears. “What did you do?”

“Sending a message,” Lex said, uncaring, like he was talking about something as meager as the weather. Like Batman wasn’t lying still just a few paces away. Like that wasn’t Clark’s best friend unmoving and ghostly pale on the floor. “Maybe now you’ll be inclined to listen to my demands.”

“Listen to your demands,” Superman echoed, hollow. Empty. The emotions were there, anger and sorrow and grief waiting just below the surface, but something in Clark was keeping him disconnected. Reality just out of his reach. “Listen to your demands? I- that… that was my best friend, Luthor. You… I’m going to kill you!”

“Are you?” Lex asked with an infuriatingly smug raise of his eyebrow. “You should have done that earlier. It might have saved your friend’s life.”

Clark thought he heard himself yell, wordless and furious and entirely pointless, his fight against the kryptonite chains still getting him nowhere, his struggles weaker than they’d been when Bruce was still breathing.

Bruce wasn’t breathing. His chest wasn’t rising, his lips were tinged blue, parted slightly, eyes behind the mask slipped shut.

Get up, Clark thought again, more desperate by the moment. Get up. Please, Bruce. Please.

Lex was moving, wandering over to where Bruce lay, nudging the lifeless body with the toe of his boot like he was observing an animal carcass. Making sure the Bat was dead.

He sure as hell looked dead to Clark.

He’s not dead. He’s not dead, he isn’t dead. He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine.

He was The Batman. He wasn’t going to go out like this, silent and helpless at the hands of a few Gotham thugs Lex had paid to prove a point.

But he wasn’t breathing. Bruce wasn’t breathing and he’d been under so long and Clark couldn’t… he couldn’t…

He thought Lex might have been saying something. Luthor was moving towards him again, his lips moving, but for the life of him Clark couldn’t make anything out, everything suddenly far away, silent. Like he was the one being held underwater.

It proved not to matter, in the end.

The metal door flew off its hinges, slamming into the concrete with what Clark was sure would have been a deafening thud if his ears were working, a glowing green light flooding into the dingy room.

The goons were reaching for weapons, Lex was scrambling back in alarm, but Clark couldn’t bring himself to care. The cavalry was here, minutes too late. Superman only had eyes for the body on the floor, the ghostly pallor of Bruce’s lifeless face now illuminated by Green Lantern’s ring, his armor like a puddle of shadows bleeding into the soaked floor.

There was a gust of wing, a flash of color, and suddenly a red and yellow suit was standing in front of him, blocking his view.

And that… that was the last straw. Not being able to see Bruce anymore broke something in him, everything rushing back with horrible clarity all at once.

“Flash,” he croaked, meeting the younger man’s wide eyes. “Flash-”

“I gotcha,” Barry said, like they weren’t already too late. “I’m getting you down, Supes. Just hang tight.”

“Batman’s down,” Clark said, like they couldn’t see that. Like anything he did or said could make a difference. “He’s… I- I need-”

“It’s okay,” Flash said, sounding for all the world like nothing more than a terrified kid. Clark couldn’t find it in himself to be the one comforting him this time. “It’s… Jesus, where did he even get this much Kryptonite.”

Flash was already working on the cuffs, hands moving faster than Clark could possibly keep up with even when he had his powers. A part of him wanted to snap at Flash to hurry, that the Kryptonite wasn’t the issue right now. Nothing else mattered except getting to Bruce, making him breathe again.

But he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut, too scared and exhausted to waste it on something as futile as anger towards his terrified teammate.

The chains came undone without warning, falling away like something useless, and Clark dropped to the ground like a stone. Or he would have, if Barry hadn’t been back at his side in the blink of an eye, arms wrapped around him, scrambling back in an effort to keep Superman’s weight upright.

“Whoa, it’s okay,” Flash said again, breathless. “You’re okay, just breathe. We’re-”

His words, a misguided attempt just to be helpful, spurred Superman back into action despite his body’s traitorous fatigue. He twisted out of Barry’s hold, grateful that the Flash willingly let him go without a fight, stumbling across the room in blind desperation.

He had to get to Bruce. He had to.

The battle had clearly been finished quickly, everything still a blur of indistinguishable movement, Lex and his bloodthirsty goons somewhere out of Clark’s sight. It didn’t matter.

J’onn was kneeling beside Batman, making no move to help- to do anything. The Martian was just staring, expressionless, and deep down Clark knew… he knew…

He knew it was because there was nothing left to do.

But he couldn’t just give up so easily. Not on Batman. Bruce deserved better than that.

“Move!” Any authority in his voice was lost by the way it trembled, the way his legs gave out as soon as he reached his teammates and he crashed to his knees, agony shooting through his battered body. “Get out of my way. Please.”

“Superman-”

He ignored whatever J’onn had been about to say, pushing past him with all the desperation of a dying man, unsteady hands finding Bruce’s face before he could think better of it, framing his jaw.

He was so cold. His head lolled when Clark jostled him, his body completely limp, the cowl soaked through. Superman dropped his hand, yanking off Bruce’s glove and gauntlet as fast as he possibly could and pressing two fingers to his wrist.

He’d never had to take a pulse before. He’d learned, of course, Bruce had been the one to insist on making sure he knew how in case of an emergency. In case of something like this.

Clark had never thought he’d have to live through the reality of not being able to hear Bruce’s heartbeat.

But here he was, just as lost as he would be if he still had his powers. Because Bruce didn’t have a pulse.

“No.” He didn’t know who he was talking to. Maybe himself. Maybe Bruce. It still didn’t matter. “No, no no, B, no!”

He fisted his hands into the edges of Bruce’s cape, clutching at him, stomach roiling when Batman remained unresponsive. He should be pushing himself up on his elbows, scowling at Clark for getting too close, shoving Superman away with a lecture about carelessness already falling from his lips. (Lips now tinged a horrible, deathly blue.)

Because he had to be okay. He was always okay.

Superman was running on autopilot now, every survival instinct kicking into overdrive. His hands found Batman’s chest, numb hands digging into the armor, frantically starting the compressions he never would have dared to do if he was at full strength. Why hadn’t anyone bothered to do CPR yet? Why were they giving up so easily?

Why wasn’t anyone helping him?

Clark’s movements were frantic, the compressions a poor imitation of the proper rhythm, Superman slamming his crossed hands against Batman’s chest over and over again, his breaths coming faster and faster, the world drowned out by his own hyperventilating and panicked, pleading thoughts.

If he’d been at full strength, he would have left Bruce’s chest caved in, in his misguided attempt to help, all control lost to his desperation. He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t breaking a few ribs as it was.

It doesn’t matter if he’s already dead, a traitorous, grieving voice whispered in the back of his head. It doesn’t matter what’s broken as long as he opens his eyes again.

“Superman!” He knew someone was calling his name but it was all background noise, the voice indistinguishable. Nothing mattered except getting the water out of Bruce’s lungs. Nothing mattered except getting his heart to beat again. “Superman!”

Bruce’s head lolled when Clark pushed harder, face still blank and body limp, water pooling out the side of his mouth. He made no move to cough it up, to struggle for air, to move to breathe.

“Superman, you need to get off him!” There were hands on his shoulders, firm but steady, and Clark tensed when they started to gently tug him back. In the back of his mind, through the panicked haze, he could just barely register Diana’s presence, the tightness to her words, her voice in his ear. “Kal, listen to me!”

Clark’s hands were being pried from Batman’s chest, an arm around his shoulders tugging him back, and Superman saw red.

“No!” They were trying to take him away from Bruce. They were trying to tear him away, abandon Batman’s side, leave his best friend hurting and vulnerable and alone. He thrashed against the hold, fighting despite his growing weakness, giving everything he had left to get back to Bruce. “Let go of me! Let go, let me- he’s not breathing! He isn’t breathing!”

“We know,” Diana said in his ear, tone unreadable. Clark didn’t stop struggling, didn’t let his movements slow for a second. Bruce needed him. “We know. You need to let us help him.”

Nobody else was helping Bruce. Nobody was even trying. They’d just left him laying there, left to die in Lex’s warehouse, the life sucked out of him right before Clark’s eyes and nobody cared-

“J’onn!” he heard Wonder Woman bark. “Help me with him!”

No. No no no, they couldn’t… they couldn’t take him away. Bruce was dying, laying there defenseless and still (not dead, not dead he couldn’t be dead) and Clark needed to… he needed…

There was the cold touch of something against his forehead, a pinching in his neck, and suddenly the world spiraled into darkness.

There was no gradual rise to awareness, no reality slowly filtering in, no realization dawning as clarity came back to his hazy mind. It didn’t happen slow. He didn’t get a chance to brace himself for the truth to hit.

Clark woke, and he knew Bruce was dead.

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move a muscle, because he knew the second he did the grief would be unbearable. It was already settled heavy on his chest, looming over him, mocking him, waiting to strike as soon as he came back fully to the waking world.

Clark’s head still felt fuzzy, his limbs stiff and sore. He could hear the beeping and whirring of machinery, felt the familiar cot under his back, and knew he was in the Watchtower’s medical bay.

They’d brought him here after dragging Superman off Batman’s lifeless body.

His powers were back, that much he could tell, though not quite at full power. His head was sluggish, throbbing in time to his beating heart, and he hadn’t even risked opening his eyes against the light yet.

Clark could hear a second heartbeat in the room, muffled and a little disorientating, the sound nowhere near as clear as it would have been if his powers were at full capacity.

It took him another moment to register the feeling, but as the world filtered back into focus, Clark latched onto the feeling of a warm hand tangled in his own, the hold firm and grounding, waiting at his bedside for Superman to wake.

Diana, most likely. They’d… they’d both lost a close friend tonight. Neither one of them would be able to handle the weight of that grief alone.

Not when it was Bruce. Not when it had been Clark’s fault. Not when they’d been minutes too late.

He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to come back to reality, didn’t want to face that grief head on, didn’t want to let the crushing weight of mourning his best friend wash over him. He didn’t want to feel the guilt, feel the pitying stares of the team, the resenting glares of Batman’s family.

But he couldn’t hide forever.

Peeling his eyes opened felt like the strain of lifting a building from the ground (a feat he knew all too well) and a breathy wheeze escaped his lips as he forced himself to raise his head, white hot pain shooting through his skull. Clearly his powers weren’t anywhere near fully recovered. There was shuffling at his side, the hand in his own squeezing, and Clark stubbornly blinked against the blinding pain as the world came back into focus.

Only to be met with familiar, tired blue eyes.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he had the strength to shoot up as suddenly as he did, the world spinning dangerously for a moment while he gripped the cot’s flimsy sheets, struggling to balance his weight on weakened arms.

Because Bruce was at his bedside, slumped against one of the notoriously uncomfortable plastic chairs, eyes bright with concern as he straightened at Clark’s sudden movement.

He looked exhausted, face paler than usual, cheeks sunken, eyebags darker than Clark thought he’d ever seen them. He was in wrinkled civilian clothes that looked about two sizes too big, his hair was a mess, but he was alive. Bruce was awake and alive, just inches away from him, and Clark didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

Bruce cleared his throat, the sound still wet and ragged, and Clark was immediately thrown back to the warehouse, to Batman choking underwater, to his fight slowing down before dying out completely.

Clammy, cold skin against Clark’s shaking hands. No pulse. Lifeless.

He flinched back before Bruce could so much as blink, his weakened body protesting the movement, squeezing his eyes shut like he could somehow dispel whatever nightmare he was still trapped in. “No.”

“Clark-”

“No, you’re dead.” He needed to wake up. Clinging to the impossible, torturing himself with his dead friend would only hurt worse than letting go. “You-”

“I’m alright, Clark.”

“No you’re not.” His voice was far away. Fading. Like a dream. It wasn’t real. “You… your heart stopped, you weren’t breathing, I… I couldn’t…”

“Clark-”

“I couldn’t save you,” Clark whispered, small and helpless, unable to do anything but repeat it. “I couldn’t save you. There wasn’t… there wasn’t anything I could do.”

Because it was true. Bruce had been under too long, unmoving for too long, left discarded without rescue breaths for too long. Even Batman couldn’t come back from that. Even Bruce’s heart couldn’t start beating again once it stopped for good.

“Please just… please-”

“Clark.” A hand on his face, another around his wrist, and Clark went perfectly still. The touch was warm, and so achingly familiar. “Clark, it’s me. It’s me. I’m here, I’m alright. I’m alright, Clark.”

Clark shook his head, but he squeezed the dream’s hand despite every instinct screaming at him to pull away. “You… I watched you die. I watched you die.”

“I didn’t die,” Bruce corrected, like this wasn’t impossible, like this was just another argument in the meeting room. “I’m not dead, Kal. Look at me. Look at me. I’m right here next to you. Open your eyes, Clark. Look at me, please.”

And even if this was a dream, a horrible twisted nightmare to spark false hope before it all came crashing down as some sort of penance, he’d never been able to deny Bruce anything. Not when he asked like that.

He didn’t disappear right before Clark’s eyes when he finally risked a glance in the direction of Bruce’s voice. The warmth from his hand didn’t dissipate, and Superman blinked, tilting his head as he cautiously drank in the sight of his friend’s pale face.

Bruce looked right back at him, awake and breathing, blue eyes undeniably exhausted and cloudy, but still bright and aware. Alive.

“I… how did-”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, and if he wanted to convince Clark this wasn’t a dream that certainly wasn’t the way to do it. “There was no way to… they got to you before I could warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“I wasn’t dead, Clark,” Bruce said plainly, mouth twitching when Clark just stared blankly. “Dick and I worked on a failsafe a few years ago. It’s a combination of toxins, it binds and blocks sodium channels. Keeps them from entering the cells.”

“Bruce,” Clark choked, because his head was spinning, and there was no way he’d be able to keep up with this even at full strength. “Please.”

“I poisoned myself,” Bruce said slowly, and for once Clark appreciated the drawn out tone. “Tetrodotoxin. It sent my body into paralysis, essentially. It lowered my heart rate and slowed my breathing enough to make me look dead to the human eye. I put it in a capsule in my tooth when I found out Lex was coming for me. Like a cyanide pill. You would have been able to pick up my heart rate, but-”

“You poisoned yourself,” Clark breathed. “While they were torturing you.”

“They were going to kill me either way. I knew he was coming for me, and I knew that he would use my life as a bargaining chip. They already had you, all I could do was get a message to J’onn about an antidote so he’d know what to do when the League came for us.”

“You… Bruce-”

“I can hold my breath for over seven minutes,” Bruce continued, like this was fine, like Clark needed a damn mission report. “If Lex thought I was dead before that, he’d pull me out of the water, and it would give the League enough time to track our location.”

“And what if he’d left you underwater?”

“He didn’t,” Bruce said, and it might have been more convincing if the words weren’t followed by a wet, ragged cough. “And it worked. I’m fine, Clark. We got out.”

“I… B, I thought…” And suddenly none of this mattered. It didn’t matter that Bruce was alive, that all of it had been fake, that they were safe in the Watchtower infirmary, Bruce already prepared to put all of this behind him, chuck it over his shoulders like every other horror he lived through every night, trauma no human man should ever shrug off so easily.

It didn’t matter that this was Batman, that physical touch was something to be approached like disarming an active bomb, that there was every possibility he’d be shoved away so hard he’d fall right over the edge of the bed.

Clark practically threw himself forward, wrapping his arms tight around his best friend and pulling him as close as he could, holding the man who had been nothing more than a corpse just hours ago and pressing his face into his shoulder.

Bruce froze, stiff and unmoving for a terrifying heartbeat before forcing himself to relax, tension seeping from his muscles as his arms slowly moved to return the embrace, holding on just as tight.

“You’re okay,” Clark said, more to himself than anything, barely a whisper into Bruce’s shirt. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Bruce’s hand moved to cup the back of Clark’s head, trembling slightly when he ran his fingers through his hair. Something told Clark they’d both needed this. “I’m okay. I’m okay, Clark.”

There was so much more Clark wanted to say, a million emotions rushing to the surface that he so desperately wanted to let spill out, the weight of their meaning sitting heavy on his chest like they had been for months now.

But Bruce was leaning into his touch, heavy and exhausted with his breaths still far too ragged and labored, and Clark decided it could wait. Right now, he was more than happy to hold Bruce close like this, like he never planned on letting go.

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