Chapter Text
Gotham was temporarily still, but for Bruce, a battle still raged between his body and his mind. The drug’s grip had loosened, yet its absence was a gnawing emptiness — tremors, sweat, and the persistent itch of withdrawal that reminded him he had pushed too far, gone too deep.
Clark was there, as always, watching without judgment. His presence was steady, comforting, like gravity Bruce hadn’t realized he needed. He didn’t hover or lecture; he simply stayed, offering silent support and quiet gestures that grounded Bruce when his body threatened to betray him.
“Morning,” Clark said softly, stepping into the dim light, holding a small tray of water and carefully prepared food.
Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up. The veins under his forearms were fading slowly, but the dark traces remained. He flexed his fingers, testing for strength, for control, and for the ability to be steady without the drug.
Clark set down the tray, kneeling beside him. His hands hovered over Bruce’s, gentle and careful, but Bruce flinched. Not from fear, but from the memory of dependence, of losing control.
He turned slightly, meeting Clark’s eyes. Vulnerability — raw and unshielded — flickered across his face. “I just… I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
Clark smiled faintly, brushing a thumb over Bruce’s knuckles. “You don’t have to hide from me. Ever.”
For the first time in days, Bruce allowed himself to lean into that trust. He drank the water, rested his head against Clark’s shoulder, and let the tremors shake out their warning. Clark stayed, hand on his back, steadying him through the long hours of withdrawal.
They moved slowly through the next week. Bruce trained lightly, careful not to overexert, careful not to chase the phantom highs that still lingered in memory. Clark watched, guided him, sometimes holding him through the worst moments of weakness.
One night, after a particularly long patrol, Bruce lingered in the shadows of the cave, chest heaving slightly from exertion. Clark stepped up behind him, fingers brushing over the faint lines along his arms.
“You’re stronger than you know,” Clark said quietly. “Not because of the drug, not because of Crane, but because you let yourself be human.”
Bruce exhaled slowly.
Clark’s hand moved to his cheek, thumb brushing against the faint lines that still lingered from the withdrawal.
Bruce let himself rest — let himself trust, let himself be held, let himself begin to heal. The veins would fade fully with time. The tremors would stop. The craving would weaken, and eventually, vanish.
Bruce closed his eyes, leaning against Clark. And for the first time in weeks, he felt something deeper than adrenaline or obsession. He felt safe. He felt whole.
Bruce allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.
Clark caught it. His own smile mirrored the warmth in his eyes. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”