Clark Kent (
stands_for_hope) wrote2015-09-29 07:42 am
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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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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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Which was why his answer was:
"Every time."
If he could save Bruce, if he could shield him from harm, if he had to make a split second decision that was him or Bruce...
"I will do it. Every time."
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He wasn't prepared for loving him to result in Clark dying. He wasn't prepared to be the reason Martha lost her son. He wasn't prepared to be the cause of the world losing Superman. He wasn't prepared to live without Clark.
He'd give up the relationship and Batman, first. They were unimportant, comparatively.
He'd argue with Clark, but even without the extra harshness and... tempered steel nature of Clark now, he knew he could no more change Clark's mind than he could change the tide.
He reached behind himself to unfasten the chest plate of his armor, looking downward so he could reach it and then pull it off.
"Go home, Clark. Call your mother. Get some sun and sleep."
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"Called her on the way over. And I'm not going anywhere, Bruce."
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"Fine. Stay here, then."
One boot thumped off, then the other. Then he stood back up and started on the various latches and catches to getting the last layer before the form fitting, smooth, black layer he wore underneath. "You're clearly going to do what you want. Turn the lights off if you decide to stop playing cave man."
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Because the fate of the world did. His world.
"And every time, I will come back to you."
He found Bruce's eyes and he would not let him look away as he spoke.
"I will always come back to you."
Because yes, he would die for Bruce. He absolutely would. When it came down to it, there were a lot of people he would die for. He would die for the human race at large. He had. But for Bruce, he would live. For Bruce, he would live a thousand years with a bite on his shoulder and a ring on his finger. For Bruce, he would face certain death, every hour of every day, and he would emerge from it. Because he would never, ever leave Bruce alone.
He'd see the heat death of the universe first.
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He noted in a distant part of his brain while Clark held his eyes that he still had grease paint around his eyes, like an inch wide half-circle of eyeliner. Mostly, he listened to Clark and waited for him to finish speaking.
"I never thought you were dead," he said, voice quiet and very, very even. "Now, let. me. go."
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The fracture behind Clark's eyes hurt Bruce physically, got him right in the chest, but he didn't let that show.
He moved away from Clark again, and gathered up the pieces of Batman to put into their cabinet. Every move he made was slow, measured, and controlled. Right up until it wasn't.
Right up until he was closing the door to the case and instead slammed it so hard that the entire thing rattled. Just that one, tiny, lapse of emotion trying to break through.
"I'm taking a shower. Come with me or don't." He'd meant to tell Clark to get the fuck off his property. He clearly didn't want to, since an invitation to shower was what had come out instead.
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When he got the invitation, it took all the restraint in him not to pick up Bruce bodily and zoom them both to the shower. Instead, he just nodded and followed along behind him like another shadow.
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Because he couldn't.
He didn't say a word as he started the water and adjusted the temperature, or while he peeled out of the thin layer of fabric left. He was black and blue - more bruised than usual, because of what Clark's absence had done to his fighting style, but he neither remembered those bruises nor cared. He was, however, watching Clark.
Because he knew Clark's condition was shit, and he intended to find out exactly how bad.
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His hands had been wrapped, revealing a number of rough clawmarks that had healed unevenly over his palm. Similar marks were all over his shoulders, his legs, one of his feet. As he tugged off the Superman suit, more injuries showed up. There were scrape scars on his knees, old healed blisters on his feet, more claw marks and even what almost certainly was a bite mark. Impact wounds were all over, scattered here or there. Everything was healed... but until he took a sunbath, his body would bear the marks of what he'd gone through.
Clark pulled off his clothes like he hardly remembered they were there before looking over at Bruce and wincing. The black and blue... dammit. What had he been doing? Throwing himself at walls?
"Dammit, Bruce. Did you forget how to dodge?"
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He didn't say a word about it, though, or in response to Clark's remark as to Bruce's own physical condition. Instead he just looked Clark pointedly up and down and internally resolved to push the issue of sun. That... seeing Clark like that hurt him far more than any amount of bruising or bleeding he'd done himself could. Really, physically, hurt.
He kept his mouth shut, though. Kept it closed until he was under water and Clark had followed him in. At least he was wealthy enough for there to be near endless hot water and more than one shower head, even in the cave. It was just more efficient.
And when he did have them both under water all he said was, "I forgot how to care enough to."
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"Bruce. Bruce. Bruce." He squeezed a little, knowing he was aggravating bruises, know it was hurting Bruce but not saying it, not squeezing... it felt like it'd hurt more. He managed the smallest, most tired smile. "No bruising my elbow."
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Or even enough discomfort to be worth noticing.
He still didn't hug Clark back. He put a hand on Clark's shoulder and gave a mild, gentle, squeeze. Then he left it resting there. That was all.
"Your... . What?"
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"Rusty with the Kryptonian already?" and he still sounded a bit rough through the joking tone. As if he wasn't used to it for the moment. He leaned in and nuzzled, just a little, like a starving man plucking the tiniest bit of food off of the plate to test his luck.
"My own. My elbow."
Silly words spoken at a silly time as the sun set on the Kent farm. A reminder of home, of happiness, of all the things that were between them, sublime and utterly ridiculous all the same.
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He wanted to be able to help Clark. He wanted to give Clark what Clark needed. He absolutely did not want to accept what Clark was trying to offer him. He wasn't even sure he was capable of it in the moment.
His hand moved from Clark's shoulder to his overly long hair and under it to rub the back of his neck gently, while the other hand moved down and traced a scar with his thumb. Just lightly. Tilted his head so Clark could hold and nuzzle at him more easily.
"There's nothing wrong with my grasp of the language." He smiled a bit, though it wasn't something he felt. "I want to get you into the sun when we're finished here."
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"I'll go in the sun."
Then his hands were moving across Bruce's skin, just... needing to touch. Needing to remind himself. Needing to make it real. The water weighed down his hair, his beard, flowed down along the crevices and for now, the scars. He was tired and he was empty and he was covered in marks but he still loved. He still had that.
"Will you kiss me?"
Soft. Tenuous. High in his range, the bottom portions choked off from, well, everything.
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He knew exactly how easily Clark recognized them for what they were, and knew that Clark didn't want them and that they didn't belong here. Clark's touch communicated that truth as clearly as if he'd spoken the words outright.
Bruce couldn't do anything about them. Couldn't have if both their lives depended on it.
He could, and did love Clark, though. Clark had more than loving, he had being loved.
Bruce didn't answer Clark with words, but instead left his hand on Clark's neck, other resting sprawled against a scar on his side, leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle and warm, almost sweet, for a moment or two, before turning just a bit more aggressive. Not quite rough, definitely not punishing, but... fierce.
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