Bruce is . . . restless is probably the right word, except that it completely isn't. Clark wonders briefly if the is a right word, in any terran language. There is probably a word in the dead language of the planet of his birth for it, but he doesn't particularly feel like searching for it.
The point is that Bruce is, even after all this time, not entirely sure that this is not some kind of cruel cosmic joke played out on him, and that one day he's going to come to his senses and leave. Never mind that 'coming to his senses' had involved him arriving. It's just something else about Bruce that he has learned to accept, like the way that-
Bruce is shuddering, coming down from whatever it is he feels when he lets Clark-unbend him. Not entirely, never entirely, but enough so that Clark can find one of those dark and needy places and fill it, with love and trust and love. Clark pulls him in closer, kisses the back of his neck and murmurs endearments.
This is because if he didn't, Bruce would try to run away again, try to forget the. He's never quite sure if it's a catharsis or not, but he thinks maybe it's something like an incredibly good Turkish massage, the kind that bends muscles in ways they've forgotten they can move and hurts and hurts until all the aches and pains are gone. Anyway. He's learned that he can't let Bruce go anywhere, not even in his head, until it's had time to . . . settle. Become real.
Bruce pushes somewhat uselessly against his arm.
"Stay," says Clark, and it only sounds like a request.
"I have work to do."
"It can wait."
"Clark-" and he's feeling naked and exposed in more ways than just the literal.
"It can wait," he repeats, and kisses Bruce again. And again. And moves his other arm, the one that was comfortably under Bruce's torso, to pet him. "Just stay."
Bruce makes this noise, one of his hurt little I-love-you noises, and pushes back against his chest. Hums, not precisely happily, but . . .
Possibly the word is content. Allowing himself to believe, for just this moment, that the arms around him are just this real and totally unlikely to ever disappear. Allowing himself to believe, however briefly, in the truth.
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Date: 2008-08-08 02:31 pm (UTC)The point is that Bruce is, even after all this time, not entirely sure that this is not some kind of cruel cosmic joke played out on him, and that one day he's going to come to his senses and leave. Never mind that 'coming to his senses' had involved him arriving. It's just something else about Bruce that he has learned to accept, like the way that-
Bruce is shuddering, coming down from whatever it is he feels when he lets Clark-unbend him. Not entirely, never entirely, but enough so that Clark can find one of those dark and needy places and fill it, with love and trust and love. Clark pulls him in closer, kisses the back of his neck and murmurs endearments.
This is because if he didn't, Bruce would try to run away again, try to forget the. He's never quite sure if it's a catharsis or not, but he thinks maybe it's something like an incredibly good Turkish massage, the kind that bends muscles in ways they've forgotten they can move and hurts and hurts until all the aches and pains are gone. Anyway. He's learned that he can't let Bruce go anywhere, not even in his head, until it's had time to . . . settle. Become real.
Bruce pushes somewhat uselessly against his arm.
"Stay," says Clark, and it only sounds like a request.
"I have work to do."
"It can wait."
"Clark-" and he's feeling naked and exposed in more ways than just the literal.
"It can wait," he repeats, and kisses Bruce again. And again. And moves his other arm, the one that was comfortably under Bruce's torso, to pet him. "Just stay."
Bruce makes this noise, one of his hurt little I-love-you noises, and pushes back against his chest. Hums, not precisely happily, but . . .
Possibly the word is content. Allowing himself to believe, for just this moment, that the arms around him are just this real and totally unlikely to ever disappear. Allowing himself to believe, however briefly, in the truth.