Clark Kent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stands_for_hope) wrote2015-09-29 07:42 am
stands_for_hope) wrote2015-09-29 07:42 am
Entry tags:
for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...
[some time after the events here]
Superman and Batman were partners in more than a work sense. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent were an adorable (if mildly ridiculous) couple. Kal-El of Krypton and a man who defied any definition outside of the single letter 'B' made time on weekends, worked around world crises and teenage tempers, and occasionally fell into bed together when the stars aligned. Thankfully, they aligned relatively often.
Wayne Manor received a delivery of organic produce and baked goods once a week from a small, independent farm in the heartland. Lois Lane was a little less likely to agree with snide comments about the uselessness of Bruce Wayne, especially after seeing the utter madness that was Clark's desk after a few weeks. The texting habits of a certain blond teenager in Kansas rose sharply... and in parallel to that of a certain former street punk in Gotham.
Life was... well, it was good, even if it was also Life. Until it wasn't. Until everything changed.
They all had enemies, of course. But the problem with Superman's enemies was that they were coherent enough to decide to team up. And crazy enough to use the kind of weaponry that could make whole cars just vaporize into nothing.
Crazy enough to point that weapon at a somewhat-pinned Batman and a Wonder Woman who was digging him out from the rock. Crazy enough to point that weapon at Batman.
Bruce.
B.
Clark didn't even make the choice. His heart made it for him. The beam shot out of the Toyman's mechanical monstrosity and Clark flew, the pain of the beam itself nothing on the fact that he was leaving Bruce behind. That his vision of them as old men together would never happen. That he was leaving behind a world that needed him.
The guilt that, if it meant saving them, saving him, he didn't regret a thing.
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Everyone was convinced they'd just seen Superman die - except Bruce who, when his heart resumed beating, was convinced that he was going to kill him. Clark was not dead. Clark could not be dead. Bruce had seen the future. He had seen a future far beyond his own lifetime and he knew that Clark was not dead.
Maybe it was just denial. That was certainly what the assumption of others was. There might be something to that, but he wasn't going to be budged. They planned a funeral, he locked himself into his cave and looked for answers as to where Clark had gone - no body, he held onto that, hard - and a way to reverse it. He snarled and snapped and refused to be diverted.
He ate rarely, and slept more rarely. He was a terror in Gotham, when he went out, and wasn't much better to any of the people who tried to 'talk sense' into him, and convince him to go to a funeral for someone he knew damned well wasn't dead (or refused to accept was dead?). He was angry, he was obsessed, he was pushing his body to the limits and way, way beyond them.
He was Batman at his worst, at his least human and most dangerous - but he wasn't going to give up.
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That meant that when some strange pink beasts attacked him, he fought them off with a goddamn pipe because he wasn't going to leave Bruce alone if he could damn well help it. It meant that he used every bit of knowledge he could reach in his own brain, that he strapped parts of his cape to his feet. That he fought and drove and made his way across the wasteland with the kind of ferocity that most people wouldn't assume was inside of either Clark Kent or Superman.
When he discovered what had happened, when he finally got to the ruined Watchtower and met up with Vandal Savage, when they fought through giant mutant bugs and got the time machine working and he leaped through... the world seemed unfamiliar and strange, but the one thing that he focused on, focused on immediately, was Bruce's heartbeat.
And he could have sang with how happy he was that he could hear it. Hear it at all. That in the time that he'd been away, the weeks, that Bruce's heart was still beating. Later, when he was no longer amazed and overwhelmed and so happy that his heart was bursting with the fact that he was back, that Bruce was alive, that he'd made it there, he'd scold himself for even thinking that Bruce wouldn't be there, or that the rest of the League couldn't take care of itself.
As it was, he was almost in tears as he flew through the air (flight! being able to flight again!) towards that heartbeat... and towards the utter mess that was Metropolis. Thankfully, the hairtrigger reflexes that his time in the wasteland had given him didn't fail him then and when the missile came from a well-hidden Deadshot on one of the roofs aimed at Bruce of all people, it was simplicity itself to catch it.
...in another world, where Batman and Superman had not gotten their shit together and dealt with the elephant in the room, Clark had handled Deadshot with the calm of a Superman who, while still settling back to the world he knew, was still Superman. In this world, the missile was snatched out of the air, tossed up to explode harmlessly, and Deadshot was firmly backhanded out before getting lifted to the ground and wrapped in a fallen streetlamp.
Then, breathing only a little heavily, he made his way to the Justice League. To Bruce. He might have long hair, a bushy beard, dressed like a savage and wielding a questionably forged 'sword' with a wrapped cloth handle... but he was unmistakably Superman. Clark.
Even if he was shaking a little.
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The surge of emotion he felt - relief, joy, vindication, worry - was profound. It wasn't visible. He stood there while everyone else reacted outwardly to their hero and friend's return from the dead, like a statue. The only motion that came from him was the wind whipping his cape around him.
He watched for a long moment, silent and darkly intent, then he spun on his heel and he left. Two steps at a walk, another two that found the rhythm and then he broke into a fast, light, run that ate ground, until he was far enough away to swing up into the rooftops with the predatory grace and athleticism that defined Batman.
No. He wasn't hanging around for a public reunion.
What followed that initial rush of emotion at seeing Clark alive and in one piece, if clearly worse for wear was anger.
He'd never been anywhere near as close to angry at Clark. He was furious. Enraged. He was going home. Earth could greet its Prodigal Son without the Dark Knight.
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He'd thought his chest had caved in from the pain while he was out in the wasteland. Somehow, it was that much worse when he was there with his friends and collegues, when he was being patted and hugged.
How much did he want to go after him? How much? There wasn't words for it, not any he knew. But if he wanted to be able to go after him, if he wanted to have even a chance at healing things between them, he had to take care of business first. And that meant, no matter how much he hated it, that he had to collect the members of the Justice League who were still here, who would talk to him, and take out Vandal Savage's plan.
Thankfully, having all the information about it meant that the whole thing went off almost flawlessly. More thankfully, it meant that Clark could leave the rest of the League to deal with the loose ends so he could head to Wayne Manor.
He didn't stop to shave or rest. Instead, he presented himself at the entrance to the Batcave and waited. Bruce would know he was there. Bruce could see him. Bruce could possibly even hear him over the communicator. He certainly hadn't taken it off or turned it off.
Bruce would let him in when he wanted to. And until then, he'd wait.
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He knew Clark would come. He knew that the same way he had known Clark wasn't dead.
The cowl was sitting on a workbench by then, but that was all that he'd removed. From throat to fingertips and toes, he was still encased entirely in black. He was still armored. He was still wearing the cape.
He didn't ignore Clark. He didn't pretend not to see him. He walked to the entrance of the cave and stopped there, staring Clark directly in the eyes. He didn't say a word for several long seconds, just looked at Clark. Then he took a deliberate step back and to the side and inclined his head toward the cave. He didn't unclench his teeth to speak.
As far as invitations went, it was a shitty one.
But it was an invitation.
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Instead, he just started walking into the cave.
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Have a seat, Clark.
He stayed facing Clark, kept watching him while he slowly unfastened his gauntlets and set them aside, one at a time.
He wanted to touch Clark. He wanted to reassure Clark. He wanted to reassure himself. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to punch Clark square in the face and break his own hand in the process.
He opened his mouth to speak, or began to and realized that. Nope, not yet. Not if he wasn't going to start screaming. At Clark and just in general. So he went to work on taking his gloves off.
Give him just another second, Clark.
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All the same, he said nothing as he walked around the chair and took a seat. He didn't do his usual comfortable sprawl. Neither did he sit pulled in tight. He just sat, clearly somewhat tired, the yellow sun still in the midst of refreshing his stores after... well, quite some under a red sun.
He saw Bruce about to speak, saw the pure rage in his eyes, and saw his mouth close. And he didn't say anything.
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He knew that he was making this worse for Clark and that wasn't really what he wanted. He knew his reaction was irrational. He was emotional, and dammit in the aftermath of all that fear of course he was angry. It was what he did. That didn't mean it was reasonable.
So he took his time in getting his gloves off, folding them together and setting them beside the gauntlets and cowl, kept his eyes off Clark and focused on keeping his breathing very, very even. It was controlled. It was so, so controlled.
"If you ever put yourself in the line of real danger to save me again, you had better hope you actually die." It was quiet, it was calm, it made his point.
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That would be a horse tranquilizer.
It did lower his blood pressure, of course, but he'd been living with that for a few days already and while he was definitely aware that he'd altered his body, it wasn't anything he couldnt' work around. In fact it was easier to work around than having his mind constantly preoccupied with trying to keep his vital signs within a very specific range.
Still not something he loved, but if this was working -
"Is this still working for you?" he asked Clark, a few hours into his first dose taking affect.
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It made him feel mildly sick. He couldn't imagine what Bruce was feeling like. The man was a well-oiled machine; he had to be. And Clark was throwing gum in the cogs. Or, worse, making him throw gum into his own cogs. This wasn't feasible. This wasn't a good idea. He never should have agreed to this. Or to do this.
"I haven't hurt anyone," he had to admit, even though he wanted to say other things.
I don't know if I'm better or if I'm just using him as a crutch.
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"That wasn't what I was asking." And Clark damned well knew it.
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It's not an answer either, but it's an important question.
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Or that Clark was awake. he just knew.
"We slept through lunch."
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"You definitely did." Because drugged Bruce was exactly not the person who he could have a serious discussion about things with. "How're you feeling?"
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"Don't suppose we could do lunch out in the garden? Take in a little late afternoon sun?"
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That wasn't rejection Clark, really, that was just a desire to get clean and dressed and have a little time to put his head together. There was some tough stuff to try and tackle.
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Clark was glad for a bit of solitude, though he took a moment to text Dick the all clear before he took a lightning quick shower and dressed himself: jeans, a deep red shirt, and no shoes.
His glasses hadn't been pulled on since they'd come back from Metropolis and they remained on the dresser now. Then he headed for the garden. He'd sun himself a little while he waited for Bruce.
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One of the two being food. Alfred on a cart would have been a bit much.
He left the food beside Clark and sat down in the chair across from him, leaned back and reached to grab a bottle of water and twist the top off it.
He said nothing, but the bit of time and distance had been good for him. He was just still doing a bit of organizing.
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