História Love In The Dark - 2. Healing Hands

Days had passed since that quiet night in Gotham, but neither Bruce nor Clark could shake the moment they’d shared. Though they had fallen back into their separate worlds of heroism, something had changed between them—an unspoken connection that lingered in every glance, every brief word exchanged over their comms.

But now, the distance between them was closing again—this time, under far more concerning circumstances.

Clark’s apartment in Metropolis was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight, but there was a tension in the air that neither hero could ignore. Bruce sat on the edge of Clark’s sofa, his movements slow, ginger as his hand pressed against his side where deep bruising still throbbed. His suit had taken most of the damage, but not all of it, and now, out of the armor, he was forced to confront the sharp pangs of pain coursing through his body.

Clark stood nearby, his brow furrowed with worry, watching as Bruce carefully adjusted his position. It had been Clark’s idea for Bruce to come here, away from Gotham for a few days, to rest and heal. Bruce had resisted at first, as he always did, but when the pain grew too much to hide, he’d reluctantly agreed.

“You shouldn’t be moving,” Clark said softly, stepping closer to him. His voice was gentle, but there was an underlying firmness in his tone—a kind of protectiveness that Bruce had come to associate with Clark’s presence.

Bruce gave a small, tired smirk. “I’ve been through worse,” he muttered, though the way his face tightened in discomfort betrayed his words.

Clark sighed, crouching down beside him so they were eye level. His hand reached out, resting gently on Bruce’s knee, and Bruce could feel the warmth of Clark’s touch even through his clothes. “That doesn’t mean you should push yourself now,” Clark said quietly. “You need to give yourself time to heal.”

Bruce’s eyes softened just slightly as he looked at Clark. He was always so steady, so caring. It was a stark contrast to the life Bruce had lived—always alone, always pushing himself beyond his limits. But with Clark, he didn’t feel the need to hide behind his armor. Here, in this quiet space, Bruce allowed himself to be a little more vulnerable, if only for a short while.

“I’m not used to this,” Bruce admitted, his voice low, barely more than a whisper. “Letting someone take care of me.”

Clark’s hand squeezed his knee gently, his expression softening even more. “I know,” he said, his voice a warm hum in the quiet room. “But you don’t always have to carry everything on your own. Not with me.”

Bruce looked away for a moment, his gaze falling to the window where the golden light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the floor. He wasn’t used to this—to letting someone in so deeply. But being here, with Clark, something in him was starting to shift. The walls he’d built over the years, the barriers he’d maintained so carefully, were starting to crack.

Clark’s hand moved from Bruce’s knee to his side, carefully brushing aside the shirt Bruce had thrown on to replace his suit. Clark’s fingers were gentle as they brushed against the bruised skin beneath the fabric. Bruce tensed for a moment but quickly relaxed under Clark’s touch, the warmth of his hand easing the tension in Bruce’s muscles.

“You’re healing,” Clark said softly, his thumb brushing lightly over the bruise. “But it’s going to take time.”

Bruce nodded slightly, his gaze still distant. “I’m not good at waiting,” he said with a wry smile.

Clark chuckled, his breath soft against Bruce’s skin as he leaned in closer. “I’ve noticed,” he teased, though his voice remained full of warmth.

They stayed like that for a moment—Clark’s hand resting gently on Bruce’s side, Bruce’s breathing slow and even as he let himself relax under Clark’s care. The silence between them was comfortable, a kind of quiet that Bruce hadn’t known he needed until now.

After a while, Bruce shifted slightly, moving his hand to rest on top of Clark’s, his fingers curling gently around Clark’s wrist. The touch was light but intentional, a silent acknowledgment of what was happening between them—something that had been building for a long time but had only recently begun to surface.

“Thank you,” Bruce said quietly, his voice rough with unspoken emotion.

Clark looked up at him, his eyes full of that same tenderness that had been there that night on the rooftop. “You don’t have to thank me,” he replied softly. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Bruce’s eyes softened as he looked down at Clark, his fingers tightening slightly around Clark’s wrist. For a moment, they just stayed like that—locked in a quiet exchange of warmth and understanding, the world outside forgotten as they let themselves be present with each other.

Then, almost without thinking, Bruce leaned in slightly, his forehead resting gently against Clark’s. The contact was brief but intimate, and Clark’s breath hitched slightly at the closeness. It wasn’t something either of them had planned, but it felt natural—like an unspoken part of them had been waiting for this moment all along.

Clark’s hand moved from Bruce’s side to gently cup his face, his thumb brushing softly along Bruce’s cheekbone. “You’re not alone,” Clark whispered, his voice barely audible, but the weight of the words hit Bruce like a wave.

For a long time, Bruce had convinced himself that he was destined to walk this path alone—that the darkness of Gotham, the weight of his responsibilities, left no room for anything else. But here, in Clark’s apartment, with Clark’s touch grounding him, Bruce felt something stir deep within him—something that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Maybe it was okay to let someone in. Maybe it was okay to allow himself to be cared for, even just for a little while.

“I know,” Bruce finally whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. His hand moved to rest over Clark’s, holding it in place against his cheek. “I’m starting to believe that.”

Clark smiled, his eyes bright with affection as he leaned in closer, their lips almost brushing. “Good,” he whispered, his breath warm against Bruce’s skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, as the last rays of the setting sun filtered through the window, Bruce allowed himself to close the distance between them. Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss—gentle at first, but full of the unspoken connection that had been building between them for so long.

The kiss deepened slowly, their movements careful and tender, as if they were both afraid of breaking the fragile peace they had found in each other. Bruce’s hand tightened around Clark’s as he leaned into the kiss, letting himself be vulnerable in a way he hadn’t in years.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing a little more heavily, their foreheads resting together once more. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside and their steady breaths as they held onto each other.

Clark’s hand moved to brush a strand of hair away from Bruce’s face, his touch lingering as he smiled softly. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice full of warmth and reassurance.

Bruce nodded slightly, his eyes closing for a moment as he leaned into Clark’s touch. For the first time in a long time, he believed those words.

“I know,” Bruce whispered back, his voice soft but steady. “As long as you’re here.”

Clark smiled, his heart swelling at the words, and he pressed another gentle kiss to Bruce’s forehead. “Always,” he promised, and in that moment, Bruce knew he wasn’t alone anymore.

They sat together in the quiet apartment, the warmth of the setting sun fading into the evening. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bruce allowed himself to relax, to heal—not just physically, but in ways he hadn’t realized he needed.

And Clark was there with him, every step of the way.