Work Text:
Clark couldn’t do it. For hours, he had tried to write a decent page of work, but none of it was good.
His professors in college always told him not to worry about what was good or bad, but the sun was already up and he had a deadline.
He crossed out another line with his ballpoint pen. With every indent and rip in the loose leaf Clark felt like he was collapsing further and further into himself.
The words choked him. They taunted him and picked at his inability to put them on paper, to spell them correctly and string them delicately on the fine silk threads of the extraordinary prose he was known for.
With a heavy sigh, he put his pen down and stood up from his desk.
Maybe if he could get an hour of sleep, he would be ready to write.
He tried to keep his footsteps quiet, but the floor squeaked and betrayed him. His shoulders hunched like he had been caught.
Since middle school, people were intimidated by the sheer size of his body and the awkwardness he seemed to exude. So, he learned how to be quiet; he barely spoke a word unless he was spoken to or unless he was with those he trusted. And for years, he practiced how to distribute his weight and keep his footsteps silent.
Being quiet was very important to him. He didn’t particularly like noise. Airplanes, car engines, obnoxious music, crashes or even squeaky floors were insufferable.
His father didn’t like noise, either. Maybe Clark got it from him.
A wisp of relief left his lips as he put himself under the covers. His body ached as he settled; it was an ache he shouldn’t have.
A small groan perched itself in Clark’s ear and made him look to his left.
He smiled. He always did when he saw Bruce asleep, naked and sprawled over the bed sheets.
Clark was amazed by how his husband had gotten even more beautiful as he matured. His face had shed that cherubic plumpness and replaced it with slightly hollowed cheeks and pink, bow shaped lips that told Clark everything without ever having to move.
Bruce’s body filled out, and to Clark, finally looked healthy and comfortable. And when Clark looked at his husband, he could see how happy he was with his new form.
Clark leaned down and ran his fingers over Bruce’s forehead, stopping at a pale birthmark on his hairline. No one ever noticed it. But then again, no one else but Clark knew the depths of Bruce’s body.
Clark’s finger trailed between Bruce’s arched eyebrows and down his nose that was smooth down the bridge and turned up delicately at the base.
The man thanked the universe that the boys had inherited Bruce’s nose and not his.
Clark just wished that Bruce would open his eyes soon. He wanted to see the eyes that were two different colors naturally, one brown and one green.
The left eye reminded Clark of a watercolor painting. Little drops of brown scattered in the predominantly green iris, and gifted it with flecks of gold that could only be seen in the summer time.
Clark could close his eyes and see the colors dance. He could recall how good they made him feel whenever Bruce looked up at him. Those glorious eyes that had witnessed suffering, death, and abuse could somehow still lure Clark in and connect with him through body and soul.
He knew the pinpricks of sadness he’d feel when Bruce closed his eyes and left Clark to observe his lightly freckled eyelids.
Clark inhaled and welcomed the tingle in his cheeks and the static in his brain caused by Bruce’s scent.
The scent had gone through many phases, from powdery and dewey, to fresh and chalky. But recently, the gravid omega smelled of a sweet pea flower and milk from a baby blanket.
Clark pressed his nose into the crown of Bruce’s head. He buried his face into the mess of layered, honeyed curls that could’ve very well passed the omega’s ears had he let it grow out.
That soft hair, which had been a comfort to little, curious hands and big, anxious ones like his.
Bruce’s hair reflected patience; his patience — an admirable patience that came from thirty five years worth of heartbreak, loneliness, depression, understanding and triumph.
If Clark had to be honest, he’d say he was jealous. He was jealous of how easy it was for Bruce to be vulnerable. With most people. Vulnerability was something that was woefully lacking inside of Clark. His emotions never left the house, as his mother would say.
He was always too tense, too worried about keeping it together. But not with Bruce.
When it was just the two of them, Clark could relax and breakdown his wall that he thought was made of titanium, but that Bruce thought was “made of glass”, which he had voiced many times before.
You’re a sweetheart. Your wall is made of glass, Kansas. It’s still a wall, but one that’s easily broken. And that’s okay. You don’t have to fight it. Bruce had told him one summer night while they were wrapped together in an afterglow.
His first ever emotional breakdown was with Bruce at his side, holding him and kissing him as much as he needed. They cried together. A scar on Bruce’s finger held the memory from that day.
Clark used to make fun of Bruce’s hands because they were so soft and cared for. There was no trace of labor. Clark would say that the most strain Bruce had put on his hands was at the playground when he swung on the monkey bars or pushed the swings with the boys.
But Bruce’s hands had done other things. They held newborn babies, washed their heads during bath time, collected faces and stroked the cheeks of the ones he loved. They squeezed the arms of a stranger in need of comfort and brought them in for a warm hug.
His hands turned pages of books and used pencils to draw portraits and landscapes. His fingers moved seamlessly across piano keys and were used as support when the boys were taking their first steps.
These hands could also hit hard and defend if necessary. They could fight.
And they were also the hands that Clark took in his when he married Bruce and slipped an emerald green ring on his finger.
Clark took Bruce’s left hand and kissed it. It was his favorite hand.
Bruce’s fingers twitched and Clark watched as his true love fluttered his eyes open.
And like most mornings, Bruce smiled at him. A contagious smile that flashed two rows of perfect, cream colored teeth that outshined the morning sun.
Clark smiled back. It was like he fell in love again.
Falling in love again. Hmm. Clark thought.
And just like that, he got a brilliant idea.