aftermath

seventeen

XVII two. conclusion

"I know, for sure, that demon's not coming back," Clark whispers.

Sunlight filters in through the blinds, overlaying the figure sprawled in the silk sheets with thick strips of yellow. The air outside is crisp, after a damp night of drizzle, but the sun shines victoriously on. Bruce lies on his side, rising and falling with every breath, the blankets draped carelessly around his hips. Pools of light illuminate the exposed lines of skin, flooding every dip and curve of his chest.

"You conquered it. I just know," Clark repeats, tentatively reaching out to run a hand through the soft, black hair, marveling that this god is someone he belongs to. Someone belonging to him. "I can feel it, here"- he touches his heart -"inside."

There's no reply, just a soft rustle as Bruce shifts in bed. Clark lies rumpled, in dirty civvies, to the side, hair messed up and glasses somewhere forgotten. He only takes in the overwhelming sight of a beautiful body, a ruggedly handsome face, and the man that still makes his heart stutter like a teenage girl's, after all this time.

"I love you," he continues, "And I can't put it into words, just how much I love you."

Blue eyes flutter open. A whisper: "You don't have to."