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A kindred bond

Chapter 14

Summary:

“Is that a requirement to date you?” Clark asked, tilting his head like an inquisitive golden retriever. It was adorable, despite the situation. “You feel like you need to give something in return? If you could give me something in return, would you give us a chance? Do you want to date me?” he asked more directly.

Bruce kept his eyes fixed on the keyboard. “I can’t give you anything."

Notes:

TW: SA self-blaming. Some self-injury. Discussions of abusive relationships and rape.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

            He put on one of his old clothes. It hung loose around his waist and draped over his stomach. It clung to his arms, though, because he had resumed his workout routine, maybe a bit more intense than Alfred would have liked, but he didn’t comment, happy to see him doing something other than being hunched over the Batcomputer, his desk, or lying on the couch or bed. He still had those lazy days that drove him crazy and made him pinch himself where he knew the fabric would cover it, whether in street clothes or pyjamas, punishing himself for giving in to the weight of his body and not doing more to overcome it.

            He buttoned the coat up to his chest, despite the early hints of spring starting to warm the air. The second layer of clothing hid how poorly the chosen outfit fit him. He could have chosen one of the new ones, but the last thing Bruce needed today was to be exposed to the smell and feel of new clothes, which only reminded him how useless he felt.

            Clark was waiting for him in the living room, chatting with Alfred about something Bruce didn’t catch. His arrival ended the conversation; Clark turned to him, a small smile on his face, a gesture mirrored by Alfred, whose eyes also gleamed with a special sparkle Bruce hadn’t seen in his old friend for a while.

 

“Shall we?”

‘Are you still sure about this?’ was the real question. Bruce nodded. 

“I’m proud of you,” Alfred said as Clark walked toward him. 

He extended a hand. Bruce took it, somewhat apprehensive, but then the warmth radiating from Clark's skin soothed him. “Just so you know,” he whispered, tacitly asking permission before planting a kiss on his temple; his lips continued speaking against his skin, “So am I. Proud and happy that you want to do this with me. It means a lot.”

 

            Bruce thinned his lips, tightened his grip on Clark’s hand, his anchor, as they walked toward the car. When Clark let go to get into the driver’s seat, Bruce felt strangely cold and abandoned, even though the man was still right there with him.

 

“Are you going to drive?” he stalled. 

“Do you prefer to drive?” Clark asked, looking up at him, a rare view with those stupid five centimetres of height difference. 

Bruce saved the comment that driving with almost numb hands was a terrible idea, teasing instead, “You should’ve said so two hours ago so we’d get there on time.” 

“You’re hilarious,” Clark deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. When Bruce finally gathered the courage, he climbed into the passenger seat, buckling his seatbelt. “And for your information, I promised Alfred to bring both you and the car back in one piece. So yes, I’m driving.” 

“How long have you been saving that?” 

“I lost count after two years,” Clark confessed, putting the car in reverse.

 

            And despite everything, Bruce smiled at the familiarity of their back-and-forth.

 


 

            Clark had returned to the Fortress eight minutes later. Not that Bruce was counting. Kelex was connected to the main computer, sweeping through all the files Clark had brought from his home planet. Kryptonian letters appeared, disappeared, and scrolled upward on the screen at a dizzying speed. Bruce managed to catch a few, but none substantial enough to order the little robot to stop. It could well be because, before Clark’s return, he had been nervous about the latter’s final words, and once Clark returned, his anxiety only worsened at what he might find.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Clark sitting in the chair Bruce had refused to occupy, watching Kelex work while standing, arms crossed, his fingers pinching fruitlessly due to the stupid suit. Even so, he managed to control his breathing and heartbeat, so he didn’t stop. Clark leaned forward, one elbow on the console, chin resting on his palm. His features looked hard, painful to see, and Bruce forced himself to look at the screen, now failing to recognize even a single word, and not for lack of vocabulary.

            They stayed like that for what felt like far too long. It must have been only a minute and a half because Clark wasn’t cruel, vicious, or torturous like Bruce could be. Like he had been not half an hour before. The sound of the computer working at full capacity was the only thing filling the Fortress until Clark’s voice broke the hum.

 

“I shouldn’t have brought up your family. I’m sorry.”

Bruce took a breath in and out twice before replying, “It’s okay.” 

“It was childish and uncalled for,” Clark argued, still not looking at him, not changing his posture. Bruce did the same. “I wanted to hurt you when your intention was never that.” 

Bruce swallowed bitterly. “The truth is, I did want to,” he confessed after a long pause when he felt his throat tighten, knowing he’d rather face Clark’s anger than have another anxiety attack in front of him in less than twenty-four hours. 

Clark turned so sharply from the chair that Bruce struggled not to flinch at the sudden change in posture. Clark had stood up, staring at his profile intently, his brow furrowed, more accusatory than furious. “I knew it,” he hissed, more hurt than angry. “Why?” And now he sounded broken, and Bruce wanted to die. How many times was he going to hurt his best friend? Worse, how many times was Clark going to forgive him, give the benefit of the doubt to someone so undeserving?

“Why, Bruce,” he insisted. “Why do you always do that? What’s your main goal every time you pull stunts like this?” Bruce stayed silent, and that was gasoline to the fire that had started to flicker in his friend's gaze. He was afraid to turn and look at him fully. “Bruce,” he called through gritted teeth. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Look, you're not the first, nor will you be the last to reject me. I can live with that. If you don't want to date me, if you don't even want to try, I would never force you, and we can still be friends. Heck, that’s what I’ve been doing these past few years, but I’m not some kid for these high school games or for you to decide what’s best for me.”

Years?” Bruce repeated, the word heavy on his tongue. When Clark didn’t answer right away, he got bold enough to look at him, noticing the blush colouring his cheeks. “… How many years?” he asked.

Clark cleared his throat before speaking again. “I don’t know—”

“How can you not know—”

“I just remember when I realized, not when I fell in love.”

 

            And damn if that wasn’t the most Clark Kent thing Bruce had ever heard come out of his friend’s mouth. He might have smiled if a more pressing thought hadn’t been hammering a headache into his skull.

 

“What I did… must have hurt you three times as much, then…”

 

            Because even though Bruce wasn’t the type to put romantic love above friendship or platonic bonds, he knew well enough that under the spell of infatuation, everything intensified. The good, and the bad. What would have been a breach of trust for a friend Clark would have turned into an understanding after a while, after a talk… But for a Clark in love, who had hidden those feelings for the sake of the team, knowing how stubborn Bruce was about relationships with people from the League, what Bruce had done with the kryptonite behind his back must have felt like a stab to the chest, a twisting knife that wouldn’t stop. No wonder he’d been angrier than expected. And maybe, if not for the undeserved guilt of his kidnapping, Clark wouldn’t be speaking to him at all. He would have cut every tie binding him to the Bat and the Prince of Gotham.

            He could imagine the look of rage on the other Superman’s face when he found out he had saved what eventually ended up imprisoning him. And Bruce shuddered, a reaction that didn’t escape Clark’s enhanced gaze.

 

“I already forgave you.”

“But because you feel guilty?” Bruce couldn’t stop himself from blurting out. “If I hadn’t been kidnapped, would you still want this? To be with someone who holds the one thing that could kill you?”

Clark’s expression hardened. “I’d rather you have the kryptonite, someone who would use it only when necessary, than someone like Luthor, who only thinks about himself.” And then, more softly, he added, “And I don’t know. I’m tired of thinking about all those branches of possibilities Flash explained to us. What I know is what I’m living now, and I know that if you want it, of course, I’d want to be with you. With someone who’s great company, who’s selfless, who’s smart, capable, independent, and thoughtful. Of course, I’d fall for someone like that, and of course, it would be a dream if that person felt the same and wanted me.”

 

            Alright, he took it back, that was the most Clark Kent thing he’d ever heard his friend say. Also the most sincere and beautiful confession anyone had ever made to him. When he had fooled around with Vicki, it was something that wasn’t talked about, it just happened; with Selina, it had been passionate and sporadic encounters; Harvey had simply told him, after one of their many encounters, that he would love to be the only one, the priority. No one had ever confessed to him, nor had he ever confessed to anyone, at least not with words. He was more about actions. Which is why, after such a declaration of intent, his only response was a choked:

 

“I don’t know if I can have sex with you.”

 

            And you didn’t need a degree in emotional intelligence to read the confusion that spread across Clark’s features. His eyebrows furrowed again, his eyes narrowing as if searching for some hidden answer.

 

“Okay?” Clark said slowly. “I don’t mind, I just—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted, swallowing. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to. I don’t mind your closeness, I don’t mind you touching me if you give me a heads-up, but—”

 

            But giving himself to Clark, being vulnerable to him, while hearing the voices that drilled into his head—his voice telling him he didn’t deserve nice things, Harvey’s voice criticizing how loose he was, his captor’s voice tormenting him about having been attracted to Clark in the first place, now also mocking him for this ‘cute crush,’ as if he were a schoolboy daydreaming about his favourite celebrity instead of being swept off his feet every time Clark entered a room, lighting it up with his smile, his good nature, his golden heart, tearing down the walls Bruce had worked so hard to build, healing him unknowingly from his last toxic relationship, just by being a good friend who could always be counted on.

            He wouldn’t be able to bear hearing any of those criticisms while trying to give himself to Clark, while trying to make him feel good, to show him how grateful he was that Clark had chosen him. His mind would end up convincing him that the person above him was the other Superman, that he had never escaped, that he was being used selfishly and not because he had consented. He’d end up hurting Clark, making him feel dirty, infecting him with the filth he carried with him ever since that bastard first laid hands on him.

            Clark’s voice pulled him out of his spiral, out of the main reason why, now more than ever, he couldn’t be with Clark. He couldn’t do that to him. Clark himself had said it before, so he had to know. But ever the optimist, Clark might think this was something temporary, something that could be fixed… And who knows, maybe one day Bruce could pretend that the anxiety didn’t choke him when they were in bed together, but until then, how many times would he end up hurting Clark? More than he already had as just his friend, his secret love?

            Clark’s hand hovered over his. Bruce didn’t move, and Clark pulled it back. He dared to meet his eyes when Clark called him again, and Bruce supposed that if he was going to reject him, the least he could do was look him in the face. He tensed when he saw the sternness, the understanding in his eyes. Damn his reporter brain. Damn infatuation that made Bruce more transparent than he should ever allow himself to be.

 

“B, is this—?”

 

            Bruce inhaled, as if holding back anger. He steadied himself; he’d seen that look before, heard that breath before, when Harvey hadn’t liked his behaviour during a party, when he’d disappeared because Batman was needed, and he couldn’t be honest about it, so he had to endure the accusations. As much of a farm boy as he was, Clark had limits, and he respected himself enough to know he deserved better than someone who would flirt with strangers to get what he wanted but then wouldn’t be able to give their partner anything at home. Because of that upbringing, Clark would use a euphemism instead of crude language, but it would hurt just the same, or more.

 

“Is this why you misunderstood what I said earlier?” Clark asked, the tone alight. Bruce furrowed his brow beneath the cowl, but Clark seemed to notice it easily. “When I said I would never—what I meant was that I would never, ever force you to do anything. In bed, outside of it, in a relationship… Heck, I wouldn’t want to.”

“You’d want to be in a relationship where your partner didn’t have sex with you?”

“It's not something I prioritize when thinking about a relationship,” Clark shrugged. “Is it for you?” he asked, non-critical.

Bruce blinked. Was it? “I’m not good at expressing things with words. You’d be miserable if I couldn’t even sleep with you to make it better.”

Clark’s shoulders fell, his anger dissipating. “Bruce, when you told me about Harvey… Did he…?”

“No,” Bruce assured him. As Clark remained silent, unconvinced, Bruce emphasized, “No, Clark, he never did. I’m not an idiot…”

“That’s not what I—”

“That bastard wanted to use me as a sex toy, so I think I know when someone’s raped me,” Bruce snapped. A flash of disgust twisted Clark’s mouth, forcing Bruce to continue. “He did the opposite. He didn’t like me being... seen around. I downplay it, but I have friends, and in public, I let them hug me or hold my arm. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But sometimes I didn’t even notice; I’ve been playing the part for too long. So many nights he wouldn’t even sleep with me. He never touched me if I didn’t want him to.”

“Yeah. He punished you for having friends like a normal person, instead of locking you in a cage until he wanted to parade you around,” Clark spat, and before Bruce could argue, he added, “I bet he could go out and do whatever he wanted?”

“I didn’t care. And he didn’t cross any lines.”

“Your line was having friendships. And you didn’t care because you loved him. He convinced you that you couldn’t because you don’t love yourself. And I don’t get it.” Clark’s eyes watered, and Bruce turned away, feeling guilty. “Well, I do get it,” Clark corrected himself, and his anger returned suddenly. “I hate that he made you think you were worth nothing because he was out of your league.”

“I hate that phrase,” Bruce confessed, clinging to the one thing he didn’t mind elaborating on. “I’m not better than anyone.”

“You’re not lesser either,” Clark sighed. “B, I was mad because no one has the right to touch anyone without permission, much less go further.”

“I could’ve fought more,” Bruce admitted.

“No, you couldn’t have. And even if you could’ve and froze up, the blame is still one hundred percent his, okay?” Clark admonished him. “I don’t see you any differently.”

“I do,” Bruce confessed. He clenched his jaw, struggling to speak. “I don’t want you to be with someone who—” Who’s tainted, dirty, damaged. “And I’m difficult. I’m stubborn, selfish, moody. You’ll get tired of me. You’ll get tired even faster because I can’t even satisfy you because—”

Clark’s gaze dropped to his boots, and Bruce could almost hear the gears turning in his mind until the lightbulb finally clicked. “Is that a requirement to date you?” Clark asked, tilting his head like an inquisitive golden retriever. It was adorable, despite the situation. “You feel like you need to give something in return?”

Bruce tightened his grip on his elbow. “I— I don’t know if I can— I can try, but— But what if what happened in Beckett’s waiting room happens again, and you get mad, and I make you do something you’ll regret, like when I made Harvey so mad he hit me?”

 

            Bruce flinched when the computer beeped. Kelex, returning to the room after completing his task, declared:

 

Data not found.”

“Thanks, Kelex,” Clark forced a smile. “You can go now. You’ve been a big help.”

Bruce sighed. Once the robot left, he said, dejectedly, “We’ll have to do this again. I wasn’t focused when—”

“B,” Clark warned gently but firmly. “If you could give me something in return, would you give us a chance? Do you want to date me?” he asked more directly.

Bruce kept his eyes fixed on the keyboard. “I can’t give you anything. You hate when I buy you things.”

“It just makes me uncomfortable,” Clark corrected. “And that’s not what I mean.”

 

            Clark moved closer, his hand hovering over Bruce’s. This time, Bruce nodded. Clark’s hand fell onto his, his thumb tracing slow circles over the gloved skin.

 

“Would you be willing to go to couple’s therapy with me?”

What?”

 

            Bruce turned to look at him, this time too shocked by the request to remember his discomfort, forgetting that he had just confessed things he should’ve never said aloud, problems Clark didn’t deserve to carry.

 

“Would you try? You can say no.”

“I—Batman and Superman can’t be a couple. Too much liability.”

“Okay,” Clark nodded patiently. “What about Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce swallowed. “The press is brutal with my potential partners.”

Clark smirked. “Too bad you’d be dating a reporter who’s friends with the top gossip column writers for the best-selling papers.”

“Kal, they’re sharks.”

“I know. I’ve swum with them.”

“That’s not funny. The things they could say about you—”

“I just won’t read it,” he shrugged. “I don’t care what they say. I’d be dating you, not them.”

“The paparazzi would go nuts for the first few weeks—”

“I’ll make sure they get my good side, and we’ll have a nice scrapbook.”

Bruce ended up smiling. “You have an answer for everything?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a blind date, I’ve known you for a while. For every reason you have that this is a bad idea, I have a counterargument that reminds you we’re an unstoppable pair of friends, and we’d be even better as a couple.”

A hint of sadness shaded Bruce’s smile. “I don’t know if therapy can fix me.”

“I’m not doing it for that,” Clark assured him. He glanced at Bruce’s arm. Bruce turned to face him, allowing Clark’s hand to slide down to his arm as Bruce took Clark’s forearm, and they held hands with their free ones. “If I’m wrong and we don’t work out, I want the next person you fall in love with to deserve you.”

“Oh, you’re so betting on our relationship,” Bruce teased, arching an eyebrow with a sideways smile while his heart did somersaults.

“Excuse me, you’re the one with a list of cons,” Clark teased back innocently. He gazed at Bruce tenderly. “Is that a yes?”

“To what?”

B.”

“Yes, I want to try,” Bruce found himself saying. He tightened his grip on Clark’s arm, feeling grounded.

Clark’s smile was too big. “Good. Okay. Um—” Bruce could feel him holding back from hugging him tightly and running off to tell his mom. Such a farm boy, this man couldn’t be real. “Since Beckett’s off the table, I guess we’ll have to sit down and find a therapist you like when I inevitably pick the wrong one.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, not offended in the slightest. He hesitated. “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

“I’m only mad that that bastard ruined my confession.”

Bruce let out a soft chuckle at that unexpected answer.

“But I’ll fix it,” his friend, his boyfriend promised. For the first time in months, Bruce’s stomach flipped in a good way. “This won’t be the official story of how I asked you out.”

“Okay,” Bruce agreed.

 

            He tensed when Clark leaned in. Clark changed direction, aiming for Bruce’s forehead. Bruce nodded, and Clark’s lips pressed a chaste kiss there, filling him with a warmth that wasn’t coming from his suit.

 


 

"This chair is so uncomfortable."

"Do you want me to switch with you?"

"Then, you'll be uncomfortable."

 

            Clark gave him a look that clearly said he couldn't be serious, but somehow, it didn't make him feel stupid. He didn’t know how Clark managed that.

            The waiting room of the therapist they had chosen — that Bruce had chosen, as Clark predicted — was small. A square section painted lime green that opened into a hallway lined with doors, behind which you couldn't hear a thing. Along with them was a middle-aged woman reading one of the books from the shelves behind her, an older man fiddling with his phone, and the two of them. Seeing that the man and woman had an empty chair between them, Bruce figured they were the only couple here.

 

"Let’s switch," Clark decided, standing up.

 

            They swapped seats, not drawing attention from the other patients, for which Bruce was very grateful.

 

"Better?"

"Hm."

 

            Clark turned his attention to the stack of magazines on the small table next to him now. He grabbed one and began flipping through it. Meanwhile, Bruce clicked his tongue when he noticed his leg bouncing, trying to release some tension. He placed a hand on his knee, pressing down. He pulled it back when Clark tried to take it, as if it had burned him.

 

"Sorry," Clark whispered.

"No, I’m sorry," he apologized, sounding regretful.

 

            Clark didn’t need to be here. He was a sweetheart. He was only doing this because Bruce was messed up in the head, and not just from the kidnapping—this had started long before that. The least Bruce could do was behave and let Clark hold his hand if he wanted to, if he didn’t mind being seen with him. He rubbed his hand, preparing to make up for his mistake, when a door suddenly opened, and laughter filled the space as a therapist walked their patient to the exit. Addressing the woman by name, they both disappeared down the hallway.

            They’ll laugh at you, his inner voice assured him. They’ll laugh at you like Harvey did when he’d tell some story that embarrassed you, like your family did when you were a kid and refused to talk to guests. They’re going to laugh when they find out Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s playboy bachelor, is going around saying he’s a victim of sexual abuse.

 

“Bruce?” Clark whispered. “You okay?”

He nodded stiffly, eyes fixed on the floor tiles. He realized then he was still gripping his hand tightly and let go, seeing the red marks from where he had been rubbing his skin.

"Do you want to go in alone today?" Clark asked, ignoring the self-inflicted injury.

 

            He shook his head vigorously. He couldn’t go in alone. Clark wouldn’t laugh at him—he’d reassured him many times that he didn’t blame him for what happened. He’d even gotten furious when either the other Superman or Bruce downplayed what almost occurred. But maybe Clark wouldn’t defend him when the therapist said he’d asked for it, given the life he led. Maybe Clark would finally see reason...

 

“Do you want me to go in alone?” Clark suggested, a bit more hesitantly.

“No, I—I promised.” Stop being so selfish. You’ve wanted to be with Clark for years, and now that he’s finally letting you, you’re screwing it up with your bullshit.

 

            The air caught in his throat when another door opened, farther away this time. The therapist whose photo they’d seen online appeared, escorting his patient to the door like his colleague had. Bruce’s heartbeat thudded in his ears as the door closed and the man turned toward them with a friendly smile.

 

"Mr. Kent?"

 

            They had decided to use Clark’s name for obvious reasons. If there had to be a surprise about being Bruce Wayne’s couples’ therapist, it could wait until they were face-to-face, rather than on the phone.

 

"Whenever you’re ready," the therapist continued.

 

            Clark stood, shaking the man’s hand. They exchanged pleasantries. Bruce wanted to follow suit, but he couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything except the whirlpool in his mind, tunnelling his vision as his heart pounded against his ribcage, trying to escape.

            Fingers brushed against his arm.

            He shot up suddenly, reminiscent of that awkward first conversation he'd had with Clark in a similar setting. Thank God, this time he wasn’t armed. Yet, embarrassingly, he shouted:

 

"Don’t touch me."

 

            He swayed slightly on legs that were regaining feeling. He placed a hand against the wall, blinking as he saw three pairs of eyes staring at him in shock. Clark held his hands up, at shoulder height, signalling he meant no harm; the therapist looked him up and down, assessing him, and the older man had abandoned his battle with his phone to see what had just transpired.

            The phone. He must’ve recorded it. Bruce could already see the headlines, Bruce Wayne loses it in a therapist’s waiting room, heir to his mother’s madness. He could see the comments about his mental health, pretending to show concern or just being nasty know-it-alls. There’d be no shortage of people saying, I always knew something was off. Ex-lovers would come forward, claiming there was always something weird about him. People would be talking for weeks. Clark would just be collateral damage in his shitstorm. And it would all be his fault. His fucking fault. Because he couldn’t control himself. Because he hadn’t defended himself. Because he let it happen. Because he was a slut. Because he was disgusting.

            He bumped into someone. He slurred an insincere ‘sorry’ and kept walking blindly… When had he left the building? Where was he going? God, his face was burning, sweat was trickling down, and his chest was hurting—he was having a heart attack right here on the sidewalk, he was going to die on the street like his parents—

            The car. His car. In the distance, he vaguely heard Clark joking about how they’d parked right outside like in some movie. It felt like years had passed since he’d felt calm and almost confident about doing this.

            He patted his coat, the pockets were empty. Where the hell were the damn keys? Had he dropped them? How was he going to find them? What if they fell into a drain when he stumbled out of the building? Knowing it was useless, he tried the car door a couple of times. On the third try, it opened, and he staggered back. Someone caught him by the shoulders, preventing him from falling. His saviour stepped back quickly, and Bruce turned around to meet Clark’s apologetic gaze. The car keys in his right hand.

            Ah, right. Clark had driven them.

 

“Sorry, you were about to fall,” Clark apologized. “Are you okay? Do you want to—”

"Get this fucking thing off, I can’t breathe, damn it," Bruce interrupted, struggling with the buttons of his coat.

 

            Clark seemed to hesitate, but did as he was told. Once Bruce felt the fabric loosen around his shoulders, he awkwardly shrugged out of the coat. Clark helped, folding it over his arm like a coat rack.

 

"I’m not going to touch you," he heard Clark say. "But please sit down, you’re pale."

"I’m having a heart attack," Bruce said, clutching his chest.

"It’s a panic attack," Clark corrected, as if that were any better. "Come on, try to—"

 

            He guided Bruce, without touching him, toward the driver’s seat, where Bruce slumped down, taking deep breaths. He ran his hands over his face, his hair, finally leaving them on his neck, feeling the sweaty skin in contrast to the tremors shaking his body.

            God, he was a mess.

            He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. Just breathe. Focus on the air. Focus on filling your lungs properly.

            He let out a long exhale.

 

“Do you want some water?” Clark asked, holding a white plastic cup in Bruce’s line of sight. “Need help?”

 

            Forcing himself to move one hand, Bruce took the cup. His trembling made him spill a bit. Gently, Clark took his hand, steadied it, and helped him drink slowly.

 

“There you go. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I embarrassed you in the waiting room. On the street,” he scolded himself.

“You didn’t. Don’t be silly—The circus comes in the summer, keep walking,” Clark barked at a couple of people who slowed down to stare, maybe thinking they recognized Bruce. He turned back to Bruce once they were gone. “You didn’t, B, really. Paul says this happens all the time in the first session. Some couples don’t even come at all.”

I promised you.”

“You promised to try, and you did. Relax, we’ll try again later.”

“I should go back and pay him.”

Bruce tried to stand, but Clark stopped him. “I already did.”

“Clark.”

“He only charged us half.”

“It’s still 45 dollars.”

“I just won’t buy food this month. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, okay, love?” Clark assured him.

“I yelled at you.”

“You got scared. It’s okay. I think I rushed this. We can do it later on, alright? I can go to therapy myself and share whatever info feels right to help you.”

“You don’t need therapy. You’re not the one making a scene and then running out, making a fool of yourself and partner in public.”

“You didn’t make a scene or a fool of yourself, darling. And this is something we both have to navigate, okay?”

“I’ll pay you back.”

Bruce…”

"I’ve wasted two people’s afternoon and it cost you money. Let me—" 

"I’m not going keep a scorecard in any kind of relationship, B," Clark assured him. "Everything’s fine, I promise. Thanks for trying." 

"Don’t patronize me."

"No, I’m just being kind to you because you don’t know how to be kind to yourself." 

That shut him up fast. 

"I love you just the same, B." 

And that broke him. 

He couldn’t even keep one promise, the easiest thing he had ever been asked to do. 

"Can I hug you?" 

 

            He let himself fall, wrapping his arms around Clark’s neck, and Clark held him tight. Bruce breathed against his skin, finally feeling like the air was coming in freely. 

 

"You still have time to walk out," he said after a moment of recalibrating. 

Clark squeezed him tighter, almost afraid he’d slip away. "I told you I wasn’t going to let you go through anything alone. I stand by it." 

 

            The ‘I love you’ got stuck in his throat. He just hugged Clark back with equal strength, hoping he would understand.

Notes:

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