Archive of Our Own ^beta

He hated how the sun started to rise like nothing just happened. Like medics weren't just carrying out a body covered with a sheet.

Like there was no blood tainting the floor of a small grocery store that some desperate drug addict decided to rob to have money for the next dose.

It should've been easy to stop him. College kid, no gun training, terrible aim. And with no drugs in his system.

Paradoxically, it made him more dangerous than some guns for hire or professional gangsters Batman faced over the years.

Because a desperate drug addict on withdrawal is unpredictable, and you can't reason with him. 

Bruce tried. He even offered the kid three hundred bucks to have him let go of the poor cashier trembling in his hold, gun pressed hard against his temple.

The cashier wasn't much older than the robber. In his early thirties at most. He was just trying to work, he wasn't being a hero, he cooperated.

Bruce felt like his arrival made it worse. He was close when the robbery started, he heard raised voices and came to investigate.

Maybe if he stayed away, nothing would've happened, because the moment the college kid spotted Batman standing there, he panicked.

He trembled more than the cashier he took as a hostage, bloodshot eyes wide and filled with terror.

Bruce spoke calmly, unlike Batman, but more like a father. But no matter what he said, it didn't work. The kid started crying about not wanting to go to jail and not wanting to die.

The gun in his hold began to shake, and with it, the finger on the trigger. The cashier freaked out, crying as well, begging to be left alone.

Suddenly, the whole grocery store was filled with sobs from the two young men, and Batman's calm voice trying to calm them both.

And then a noise happened.

A client Bruce didn't even know was there, knocked something off the shelf in the back. A can? A box? He couldn't tell, he barely heard it through the crying and distant wail of police sirens. He did only because he trained himself to hear the quietest noise.

There was no way the other two people in the store could've heard it. The cashier didn't, but the robber did. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe he was this observant.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter, because when whatever was knocked down made the noise, the robber’s finger twitched.

There was no thought behind it, just instinct. Involuntary reaction while in the state of panic and danger.

A bang echoed in the small store, and Bruce's body jerked with it, already on the move to stop the shooter.

That was his instinct.

It wasn't necessary.

The shot spooked the robber, making the kid jump away with a surprised shout, blood spluttering the candy display at the register. He dropped the gun, dropped the now dead weight body of the cashier that died with his eyes open in terror.

Batman just stood there, watching how the reality of the situation sank in in the robber's mind. 

He collapsed onto the floor with a terrified cry, words leaving his mouth alongside sobs.

I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to.

Oh god.

The door to the store opened, two police officers with their guns raised rushed inside, shouting commands, trying to control the situation that defused itself already, in the worst way possible.

They slowly lowered their weapons, and Bruce brushed past them quietly, his cape trailing behind him heavier than usual.

Outside, he still heard the robbers crying inside the store, repeating the three sentences like a mantra.

Batman scaled the nearest building, crouching on the narrow corner, looking at the watch tower three streets down.

It was 2:06 AM. He should continue his patrol. Help whoever he still could, but he found himself unable to move.

He stayed. 

Perched still like a statue, he watched more police arrive, the investigators, then paramedics and a prosecutor. He stayed until they were done with formalities, and the body could be carried out hours later.

Seeing it was what made Bruce's own body work.

He went straight to the Cave. He didn't trust himself out there right now. Afraid that if he stayed, he would've thrown himself off the roof.

The last few weeks weren't the best for him, and tonight was the final straw. 

He arrived at the Cave and ripped the cowl right off, gasping for air. The rest of the suit followed right after, piece by piece thrown carelessly onto the ground. His hands shook too much to put the armor in its glass case, he would clean it up later. Or Alfred would, whichever would happen first.

Stripped to his underarmor, Bruce stumbled to his chair in front of the computer and collapsed onto it. 

He leaned forward, curling around his aching stomach and burying his face in his hands. His breathing was fast and shallow, and he tried every self calming technique to get it under control.

Pointless.

Because every time he was coming close, the panicked face of the cashier flashed through his mind. That horrified look in his eyes that beside fear, held something else in them. 

The tiniest flicker of hope.

Because Batman was there. And no matter how much he was considered a menace and just another danger in Gotham, Batman would help. 

He was known for beating criminals so badly they ended up in hospital, but he helped civilians as well. He saved them every night. 

From robbers, from fires, from drowning and the collapsed buildings. He saved them from every twisted villain that ever crawled out of Gotham's shadow, the same one that birthed Batman as well.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the hope in the man's eyes died with a bullet.

Tonight, three lives were lost. 

The kid was going to jail for a long while, and the cashier would never come back home again.

Bruce saw a wedding ring on his finger. Still glistening, still well taken care of. 

New.

His wife's life would never be the same after tonight, and it was Batman's fault.

Because he wasn't fast enough, observant enough.

He wasn't enough.

Never would be.

He operated as Batman for so many years, yet nothing seemed to change in Gotham. It was still as dangerous as it was. Quiet nights were always followed by ones that had him returning to the Cave bruised and bleeding, exhausted beyond imagination.

As if Gotham herself was trying to fight him for attempting to change her.

Why even bother anymore? When even the city itself was resisting him? All this effort for nothing.

People were still getting hurt, still being killed, still losing their families, no matter how much Bruce tried to prevent it.

He was failing. Every day. Even if through one night he was able to help someone, it meant nothing in the big run.

Gotham was refusing to bend to his will. If he disappeared, the city and people in it wouldn't even notice it.

Nothing he did mattered. He risked his life every night for nothing.

Bruce didn't cry. Just sat there, curled on himself, not even knowing how long. Long enough for his back to start hurting from bent down position. 

Long enough for his legs to go numb.

He ignored both, focusing on his breathing, because if he didn't, he was sure he would pass out from hyperventilating.

In and out, nothing else mattered. Just keep breathing, he kept repeating himself. That you can do. Even you can't fuck it up.

Keep breathing.

He zeroed in on the steady raise of his chest so much he almost missed the presence appearing next to him. 

It wasn't Alfred. Alfred didn't smell like sunflowers, like air after a storm and hay. 

Bruce lowered his hands from his face and tilted his head just slightly. Enough to catch the sight of red and blue on the floor next to his chair.

Clark. 

He sat cross-legged and comfortably, like he was there for a while now and not just arrived - not even slightly out of place. His cape pooled softly around him, inviting to curl under it.

He stared back at Bruce, his bright blue eyes now dull with concern. 

“I heard something going on and came to check on you,” Clark explained, his voice quiet and careful to not spook. 

The palm on his knee twitched, wanting to touch and offer comfort, but he held himself back. For now, he was just there. 

“Are you okay?” he spoke again. 

It was a polite question, but unnecessary. One look at Bruce would tell anyone that he was far from okay.

But Clark asked anyway.

Because he was a polite farm boy. Because that's just who he was. 

And because he knew Bruce needed to say it himself.

“No,” he said, and the word left him raw. He trembled, his breathing quickening again. 

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Clark responded simply, but with warmth of sincerity. "Mind if I sit here with you? Or do you want to be alone?”

Bruce stared at him, running the question through his head. He hated sympathy. He didn't deserve one right now when he failed. If Superman wanted to help someone, he should go to that poor woman that became a widow tonight because Batman fucked up.

She was the one deserving sympathy and comfort. That poor kid that just killed someone deserved it. 

Not him.

But the thought of being alone right now was terrifying. 

“I don't know,” he admitted in a whisper, afraid that speaking any louder would make him fall into pieces.

He wrapped his arms around himself.

Clark nodded. “Okay,” he whispered back, scooting just a little closer, within Bruce's reach. “I'll sit with you for a while. If you want to talk, I'll listen.”

Bruce didn't talk. He held himself and sat, fighting with his lungs to keep inhaling oxygen.

Clark stayed. 

Waited, silent - unmoving beside blinking and the slow raise and fall of his chest.

Bruce watched its movement, subconsciously following it, applying it to himself and after a while, his breathing levelled out again.

Even without talking, without touching, Clark somehow offered him comfort that Bruce would've otherwise refused. 

He shook his head with an amused huff.

The sound made Clark look at him, head tilted to the side. No judgement for the out of place reaction, just curiosity. 

The wall around Bruce started to crumble from the crack that Clark didn't put there, but he sure helped pry open. 

And not even with force.

Words fell from his lips before he could stop them. If he even wanted to stop them. 

“The patrol went wrong,” he said, feeling Clark's eyes watching him. "A civilian died.”

His friend didn't speak right away, letting the words sink in first. 

A civilian died. He failed.

“I'm sorry.” 

Clark's reply was exactly what Bruce expected. Just another typical sentence someone uses when not knowing what else to say. A safe reaction. A proper reaction.

It should've angered him. It wasn't helpful, most of the time it was just meaningless, thrown around for the sake of it because that's what's expected.

But it was Clark. And Clark was anything but fake.

His friend let out a deep breath.

“It's always awful when we can't save everyone,” he noted somberly. “But it wasn't the first for you. Why did it affect you so much?”

He didn't frame the question like he was disappointed with Bruce's reaction, expecting better of him after so many years of doing this job. 

He was just concerned.

Bruce wished he knew the answer to his friend's question.

“It's been a rough few weeks,” he settled on.

“Anything in particular?” Clark asked, his voice steady in its gentleness.

“No.” Bruce sighed, rubbing at his face. “Just my brain reminding me I'm worthless.”

It's been going for weeks, ever since a spike in crimes happening in Gotham lately. The lack of sleep he was losing because of it wasn't helping. 

He didn't remember when was the last time he had this many headaches in such a short time. Every day he woke up with one and went to sleep with one.

If he was even lucky to go to sleep. 

Or eat. 

Or drink enough.

Alfred was getting worried, and it only added to the pile of struggles he was trying to juggle by himself.

Clark's voice was quiet, but certain. “You’re not.”

“He should've lived,” Bruce replied instantly.

If only he did his job properly, the man would've lived. He would've come back home from a night shift by now, saying good morning to his wife.

Not laying in the cold mortuary.

“But he didn't,” Clark countered, and Bruce recoiled. No sugarcoating, just harsh truth. The man died. End of story. "And it's not your fault.”

“Should've been faster,” he insisted.

Should've been anything. Because what he's been wasn't enough.

“The person that killed him shouldn't have done what they did,” Clark said back. 

Bruce looked at him, glaring. 

“He was just a dumb, addicted kid," he hissed. Just another victim of Batman's incompetence. “He didn't even mean to do it." 

“What about you?" Clark questioned calmly. “Did you mean for it to happen?" 

Bruce's chest tightened, and he looked away.

Of course he didn't. He tried to save them. Both of them. He probably tried to save that addicted kid even before he reached for a gun. One of the branches of Wayne Foundation helped people with addiction. 

Maybe years ago, that kid attended a meeting they organized in high schools to spread awareness about how dangerous drugs and other addictions were.

Maybe he talked to one of the psychologists so they could help him quit. 

Even that wasn't enough.

He couldn't help as Batman, he couldn't help as Bruce Wayne.

What was he even doing?

“I want to save this city, and I couldn't even save one man,” he let himself confess to Clark. 

Because if there was someone who could understand what he was going through, it was Superman. One person carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. 

“In times like this one,” he continued, fists curling around his knees. "I wonder if it's even worth it.”

“Of course it is,” Clark assured without hesitation, turning Bruce’s chair so they faced each other. Bruce looked at him again and found his friend smiling gently.

Noticing he wasn't about to be argued with, Clark carried on.

"Even one life saved in your lifetime makes it worth it. That's one more person that will return home safely. One more family that won't have to mourn and bury their loved one prematurely.”

Clark wasn't throwing around empty words right now. He was expressing his own experience with failure, eyes locked with Bruce. 

Shine returned to them - bright and cosmic, and Bruce stared back, captured by them just as much as by Clark's voice. 

“You saved a lot of people, Bruce. Not just as Batman and not just in Gotham. You're a hero,” he said firmly, letting Bruce know arguing with him about it was pointless. 

Bruce didn't even try. He didn't want Clark to stop talking, his voice washing over Bruce in a soft glow, easing the tension in his body. 

His hands stopped shaking some time ago, resting in his lap. 

“What happened tonight can't erase that,” Clark reminded him, smiling gently. "And I know that you know that, because you're a smart cookie,” he chuckled. “It's just that this traitorous voice in your head is loud right now, but please don't listen to it. Listen to me.”

Bruce didn't say anything. He stared into Clark's pleading eyes and slowly slid from the chair to his knees, falling into his friend.

Clark caught him without hesitation, hugging him to his body, guiding Bruce's face to his neck. 

Bruce grabbed the red cape falling over Clark's back and clung to it tightly, curling into the comforting warmth of his friend's body.

He didn't cry, didn't even shake with soundless sobs. He was motionless. Silent. But when he felt Clark's lips pressing against the top of his head, he shuddered, and a little trembling sigh left his lips. 

He knew this day wasn't going to be a regular one from the moment he woke up. There was just something off, a prickling sensation crawling along his skin, a faint pressure at the front of his skull. 

If he didn't know any better, he would've thought he caught a cold. 

He figured out it was just one of those days when you feel under the weather and you can't escape it, Superman or not.

After making himself a quick breakfast, he went to work like always, choosing to fly there instead of taking public transport. Catching fresh air and some sunshine could do him so good.

In retrospect, that was the worst he could've done.

When Clark landed on the rooftop of a building two streets from Daily Planet, and changed back into his civilian clothes, the pressure in his head was stronger.

Just a bit, so he wasn't worried.

He walked the remaining distance to work and went inside the building, greeting every familiar face on the way to the office.

After a brief chat with his coworkers, Clark lost himself in his work - researching, writing, making calls. He proofread a short text for Lois and helped Jimmy choose the best shots for an article.

Two hours went by without him remembering the strange sensation, and he was convinced it passed, when he realized the bullpen was louder than usual.

He looked up from his laptop, glancing around. A newspaper office was never quiet, there were always people talking, keyboards being tapped, telephones going off, printers and scanners working.

But today it all sounded different, more intense. As if someone turned up the volume by one notch. 

Strange, but not alarming.

Clark returned to work, hyper aware of every click his laptop made whenever he pressed the key. 

Eight minutes passed when things started to get worse. And he knew it was this much because he couldn't help but count the ticking of the clock he heard on the wall above the elevator. 

Elevator that he heard moving in between the floors, always knowing exactly which one it stopped at without looking at the counter.

A dog barked, startling Clark from his work. The sound was so loud he could swear someone brought their pet to the bullpen, but a quick look around told him there was no canine in sight.

Not inside the office, because when he looked through the window, he saw someone walking their dog down on the street.

Clark shook his head. He pressed a palm to his left ear where he heard Janet from HR three floors down talking with her mother over the phone. The sound of their conversation faded away after a few seconds, and Clark could return to work.

The relief was temporary. Mockingly so.

It lasted exactly one hundred and ninety-eight ticks of the clock before it all went downhill from there.

The bullpen became a cacophony pressing from all over against Clark's brain. Every click of the mouse button was like a hit on the percussion, every paper spewed out by printers screeched like nails on the chalkboard.

People talked and talked and wouldn't stop, every word louder than the next, overriding each other to the point he couldn't distinguish them.

Clark clenched his eyes and caught the edge of his desk in a tight grip. The wood snapped under his fingers, sounding like thunder hitting right in front of him. 

He barely stopped himself from shouting from pain when the crack assaulted his ears. 

He only whimpered from pain, and even a small sound like that was deafening, making him want to stab himself in the ears. Make it stop.

Pushing the chair away, he stood up abruptly, regretting the move when the wheels rolled on the wooden floor with the volume of a jet engine.

He stumbled away from his desk, gasping from the overwhelming pain crushing in his head.

Lois looked up in concern, saying something to him, but all he heard was the skin of her face flexing as she spoke. The wet sound of saliva in her mouth, disturbed by the movement of her tongue.

Clark covered both of his ears, pressing his palms so hard against his skull he feared he was going to crush it. Everything was still too loud, still hurt, but it was muffled enough to give him a chance to reach Perry's office without throwing up on the way there.

He pushed the door open with his hip, wincing when the hinges squeaked. They never did that before.

Clark's own voice resonated in his bones when he explained to Perry he needed to go home, mumbling about migraine as an excuse. It didn't even feel like a lie.

He didn't wait for his boss to answer, he just left the office.

Ran from it.

He didn't go back for his bag, his laptop, or his phone, all three still laying on the desk. He couldn't care less about those, he needed to get out there. 

Lois and Jimmy both called after him, and even through hands covering his ears, he heard them loud and clear. Like they were in his head, his very own thoughts.

He rushed into the elevator, the floor cracking under his steps, the metal rope holding the whole thing straining from his weight. 

Panting through his teeth, the rush of air howling like a wind, Clark looked at his worried friends trying to chase after him. 

The doors to the elevator were quicker, closing in front of him with a bang.

Clark moaned, pressing his hands harder against his ears and leaning against the cool surface of the mirror on the wall.

The glass broke, scrunching right under his temple. There was no sign of the damage, but Clark heard it - cracks visible only under the microscope.

He took the elevator up, reaching the top level and stumbling out through the maintenance door that led to the roof. 

The sounds didn't get worse when he stepped outside, they were already bad, coming from all directions. Conversation, steps, cars, heartbeats.

Clark could hear the whole city living around him as one organism and as individuals all at once. Nothing was silent, nothing was quiet.

He let out a yell. From pain, from frustration - not caring who would hear, he just wanted it all to stop. 

All it did was add yet another sound to the ongoing discord.

Clark ripped the clothes off his body, the rustle of the fabric like needles sinking straight into his brain.

He shot into the sky before the last piece of clothing hit the ground, quickly gaining height, leaving Metropolis far below.

He needed to go away from it, from all its sounds and the pain it was causing. But no matter how high he flew, he could still hear everything.

Not just Metropolis, the whole planet.

He heard a couple arguing in Blüdhaven. A train passing in France. A cat in Brasilia cleaning its fur. Whales singing in the oceans. Avalanche in the Himalayas and tectonic plates shifting under the Earth's crust.

But the worst were the people.

Talking, laughing, screaming in pain.

Dying.

Husband beating his wife. Bullets hitting the flesh. A man screaming in agony when consumed by flames. A woman sobbing while being raped.

So many cries for help all around the world, and he could hear them all.

Clark started to cry, fat tears freezing on his cheeks from the cold at 40 000 feet.

Super hearing was the first power Clark learned to control. Not only because it was overwhelming and painful to hear this much all the time.

But because of that.

Because of all those people begging to be saved. If he let them reach him all the time, he would've gone mad a long time ago. The guilt would've killed him.

He had to learn how to choose his battles, who to save at any time. Because even with his speed, with his powers, there would always be someone needing Superman. There would always be someone he couldn't save. 

No one could work all the time. Not even him. He needed a break, to sleep, to eat, to relax. 

To live. 

Was it fair for him, for the victims, to pick who and when to save? No. But Clark made peace with it. If he didn't, he would've succumbed to exhaustion a long time ago.

He couldn't save everyone.

He was only human.

So no matter how much it pained him to leave people without help, he learned to tune everything off. To hear like any other human unless he wanted otherwise.

But it wasn't working now, and he was exposed to every tragedy occurring on Earth. 

He felt fifteen again, when he first experienced the true extent of human cruelty and collapsed under the weight of it, sobbing into his parents’ arms for hours, begging them for help.

Just like thousands and thousands of people were doing now.

Au secours!

Ryatuyte!

Segítség!

Hjelp!

Pomocy!

Tasukete!

Bachao!

Saklolo!

“Stooop!" he yelled back.

The voices kept crying.

Escape. 

He needed to escape. To the Fortress. There was a red sun room there. That was his only hope.

Clark flew, blindly speeding towards safety. His own cape brought more agony as it fluttered behind him violently. Not for much longer.

He was getting closer, he could feel it. He lowered his flight, coming from above the clouds, dropping fast towards the ground.

Instead of the prickling cold of the Arctic, he was met with warm air and sun of the day. 

And then he crashed.

The sound of the collision exploded right in his head. Clark fell through the wall, landing on fragments of it and on the soft carpet. The floor almost collapsed under him, dropping an inch or two, but it withstood the pressure and held him.

Weeping, he lifted himself on his hands and knees and opened his eyes, looking around. This wasn't the Fortress. This was…

“Clark?” Bruce's voice cut through the chaos of sounds ringing in his ears. 

Clark shifted his gaze towards it and saw his friend standing in the doorway with Alfred right behind him, both with shocked expressions on their faces. 

“Clark!” Bruce shouted, concerned, and Clark whimpered from the volume. His friend rushed to his side, carefully sidestepping the remains of the Manor's wall to kneel next to him. "What’s going on?”

Without waiting for an answer, he began to check Clark's body for injuries, his touch careful.

“He appears to be hurt,” Alfred pointed out, joining Bruce on Clark's other side.

“My head,” Clark rasped and looked desperately at Bruce. "Make it stop, Bruce. Please, make it stop!”

Bruce's eyes narrowed with confusion.

“Is it kryptonite?” he asked.

“Sounds,” Clark answered, voice trembling with pain. He lifted his hand and grabbed onto Bruce's wrist. "I hear everything. Please, please. Make it stop,” he begged, tears falling down his face.

“I’ll prepare the red sun room,” Alfred informed, already standing up. His steps, no matter how far they were getting away, were thundering in Clark's ears.

Sobbing, he clung to Bruce who gently lifted them both from the floor.

Clark heard the way his joints rubbed against the sockets.

“I can hear my blood, my heart. I can hear my guts working,” he panted, leaning heavily against Bruce. "I can hear so many people dying. Rao!" he cried helplessly, the calls for help as loud as ever. “Bruce, it hurts!”

“I know, big guy, I know,” Bruce whispered gently, supporting most of his weight. Together, they began to walk slowly, Clark's sobs echoing through the empty hallways.

“Make it stop,” Clark whimpered again.

Every step, every breath Bruce took next to him felt like Doomsday punching him on the head.

“I will,” Bruce promised, his voice gentler than Clark has ever heard it. "I will, Clark, don’t you worry.”

It took a long time before they finally entered the Batcave. Clark sobbed and moaned in pain, the sounds even worse down there, constantly bouncing off the cold, stone walls, every echo just as painful as the original noise.

Bats. Hum of the computers. Dripping water.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Every single one sounded like a small explosion.

Clark froze in place and doubled over, vomiting on the stairs. He heard Bruce curse silently, but to Clark, he might've as well screamed right in his ear.

He wanted to apologize for the mess, but all he could get out of himself were more sobs and pleas for help.

When they finally reached the bottom of the stairs and the open door by which Alfred waited, Clark was on the verge of collapsing, barely able to move his feet. 

“Call if you need me, sir,” Alfred told Bruce, his voice just a whisper.

Bruce only nodded at the butler before hauling Clark inside the room, into the red glow of the artificial solar lamps. 

Alfred closed the door behind them, and when it shut, it didn't sound anything special. 

All at once, the world got quiet. 

Not silent, just quiet. Clark still heard his breathing, the drag of his feet on the floor as Bruce led him to bed in the corner. 

He heard another one of his sobs as he continued crying, this time with relief. It was so quiet.

He was shaking when Bruce put him on the bed carefully and then laid next to him in the same beat, maneuvering Clark's body until his head rested on Bruce's chest. His heart thumped in a strong and steady rhythm right under Clark's ear.

Not loudly, not painfully. Just a soft, comforting sound. 

“Focus on my heartbeat, Clark,” Bruce instructed with a murmur, holding Clark close, hand threading soothingly through his hair. “Listen to nothing but my heartbeat, can you do that?”

“Yes,” he breathed out. Weak. Tired. 

“Good, listen to it,” he said again.

And Clark did, eagerly. He expected to hate every sound after the agony finally ended, wanting a complete silence, but he didn't. 

Bruce's heartbeat was the most beautiful sound in existence right now, and he lost himself in it, eyes closed.

He was exhausted, his head and ears still hurt, and his heart bled for all the people he heard dying, and all of those that were dying right now, every second.

He kept weeping for them, soaking his friend’s shirt with tears. But with Bruce's heart beating right against his ear, Clark found himself slowly calming down - his cries growing quiet, his sorrow lessening, till it became just a faint ache in his chest.

Clark didn't know why his body took him to the Manor instead of the Fortress, but he was glad he did. He didn't want to be alone right now. 

“I’m sorry about your wall,” he murmured. 

Bruce’s hand stilled for a second before resuming its gentle waves. Clark felt like purring. 

“Don’t worry about it,” his friend replied. “You can help me rebuild it later, now just rest. You look like shit.”

A chuckle-like sound escaped Clark’s throat. “Thanks.” 

Warm and safe in his friend’s embrace, sleep started to creep in on Clark.

Just before dozing off, he felt Bruce placing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. 

Clark smiled.