Death of a Hero

Part Six: Home

That night, Bruce slept until morning for the first time in weeks; and whether that was a result of the absurd amount of medication he'd been given the night before, or simply his body being too exhausted to continue, was beyond him. However, he continued to sleep uninterrupted until nearly half past noon before being awoken by the sound of a knock at the front door of the manor.

Bruce sat up and listened intently, trying to get a clue as to who might be at the door.

He heard the door swing open, followed by a quiet greeting from the visitor and the sound of clattering dishes. Bruce figured this may have been cause for concern, however, Alfred's jovial words that followed and the mystery man's familiar voice dismissed these worries and Bruce slowly layed back on the bed.

Still, that strange ache in his chest returned as he listened to the man's voice, so warm and rich that it nearly lulled him back to sleep.

Then there was silence.

Footsteps.

A knock at his door.

He lurched forward as the knob turned slowly and Alfred peaked his head into the bedroom.

"Master Bruce, you have a visitor."

Bruce let out a long exhale and tiredly rubbed his eyes, "I'm not taking visitors, Alfred. Tell whoever it is to call and schedule and then maybe I'll think about it." He huffed before making a labored effort to pull himself from the bed; the black satin sheets falling from around his waist as he stood, revealing the badly bruised and scarred torso beneath.

"I really must insist, sir." Alfred continued, grimacing slightly as Bruce noticeably clenched his jaw and winced upon trying to stretch.

"Tell him I'll be down in a minute, but this better be important."

Alfred nodded before retreating from the room and walking back down to the foyer. Bruce got dressed and attempted to make himself look presentable before leaving his room and heading to join the other men downstairs.

He had barely made it halfway down the manor's grand staircase before catching a glimpse at the mystery visitor and stopping dead in his tracks.

In the foyer stood a dark haired man in a blue, plaid shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, happily chatting away with Alfred.

Bruce's breath hitched and the man looked up and caught his eye before offering a small smile; the same smile Bruce had seen every time he closed his eyes for the past few months.

Clark was alive.

How could Clark be alive?

Bruce couldn't recall walking down the rest of the stairs, but suddenly he was standing no more than a few feet from Clark, his face pale and eyes wide like he'd seen a ghost; and it almost seemed like he had.

"Bruce."

He remembered the feeling of Clark's body going cold and limp in his arms; the jagged, gruesome hole that the kryptonite had carved into his chest.

Clark Kent should not be alive.

Bruce watched Superman die.

"How are you—?" Was all Bruce could manage; his voice so soft that, had Clark been human, he might have missed it.

"It was the league." Clark began.

Bruce kept his eyes glued to Clark; taking in every little detail about him; afraid that if he looked away, he might lose him again.

"It was just an idea, really." He continued, bringing a sun weathered hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, "Barry and Victor ran some tests. They wanted to tell you, but 'case it didn't work, they didn't want to get your hopes up,"

That same burning began to swell behind Bruce's eyes as the man in front of him smiled again, this time brighter than the last.

"But they did it. It's me, B. It's really me and—" Before Clark could finish, Bruce's face was buried into the kryptonian's chest.

Bruce was shaking and clinging to Clark like a lifeline; ignoring the ache in his bones as he basked in the warmth of Clark's body and the smell of sun soaked summer that lingered on his skin.

"Clark?" Bruce asked as he pulled away just far enough to look into the ocean blue eyes before him.

"Mhm?"

"I love you, too."