stands_for_hope | for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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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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"Absorbant," Bruce replied, dryly.

He would like left of center Clark a bit more, and have a bit less guilt about that if he didn't know the cause of it. As it stood, he guiltily enjoyed it a bit, but was going to at least try not to actively encourage it.

Clark needed help, not enabling, but... damn there were some nice aspects of this.

Meanwhile, Bruce tried to convince his heavy limbs to cooperate (refused to let them not) to pull on the pair of pants he'd been wearing. "I'm going to go raid your closet for a shirt," he said. And no it wasn't really a question.

Edited 2015-10-04 23:01 (UTC)

Clark didn't view it as such. Luckily, he'd find that the closet was stocked in a variety of shirts, all exceptionally soft in fabric and solid in color. While there were a few to choose from, they mostly tended towards reds and blues, a couple of blacks, and one or two other colors tossed in clearly for variety's sake.

...the plaid was in the dresser where it wouldn't offend Master Bruce's sensibilities.

When Clark himself would walk out, it would be in a bathrobe he'd found on the back of the door and a towel on his head. What had taken a moment, however, was that the beard had been somewhat trimmed. The hair remained long, however.

"Need a few supplies before I can deal with this," he admitted with a little smile as he tapped the towel. Then he was going to see if he could find underwear and perhaps a pair of pajama pants in the dresser.

Bruce selected a purple shirt that would look fantastic on Clark but was also not red or blue (he wouldn't - not his colors) , and pulled it on over his head. "What kind of supplies do you need?"

"A piece of crystal. I can grab it from the fortress or my apartment soon enough. But for now, I'm just going to see if I can find a rubber band or something.

He found himself the underwear (oh, the boxers were nice too) and a pair of red flannel pajama pants that were tugged on right after. Then, and only then, did he tug the towel off and hang it over the desk chair to dry off a bit before heading for the bed.

"I feel like I should get dressed for the day and actually do something," Clark admitted as he flopped out on the bed. But he wasn't doing that. Not even remotely. He was staying on the bed.

"I'll feel bad about this soon enough. But I can't even think of what to do." He looked up at Bruce. "I don't suppose you need any help repairing anything? Any heavy lifting?"

"We can find a way to keep your hair out of your eyes later."

Bruce went to the bed and slid in beside Clark, stretched out on his side and put his hand on Clark's chest. Again, right in the very center. It was a common enough gesture for him, but today he needed to feel evidence of Clark being real and live more than usual. Today it was a need.

"I have some planned upgrades to the most recent car. You can help with that, later. I'll find something to keep you busy but that doesn't make too many demands on your time, if you need me to. I think you should take today and spend it sleeping and eating, though."

Clark needed to decompress a little and continue to physically recover. Said Bruce.

Clark might have looked up at Bruce to call out the blatant (supposed) hypocrisy, except that he knew it was different for Bruce to see him like this than for him to see Bruce roughed up. Not just for him, but for Bruce. For all that Bruce could say that most of his love was expressed in money, Clark could see quite a lot of it in the little gestures. The hand over his heart. The way caring for Clark, whether he was out of his mind on silver kryptonite or a little wobbly from a month and a half in a barren wasteland, made some things all right that normally never would be.

More 'left of center' thinking, though closer to the center than the left.

"I'll definitely take you up on eating. I'll see about the sleeping. Multiple hours in a row hasn't really been on the schedule for a bit."

But he seemed content to lay in the bed with Bruce's hand over his heart for the moment. He'd get antsy when Bruce did.

Clark was here. He was alive. He'd come back - battered and a little worse for wear, but he'd come back. He was calling the Manor home, at least for a while.

Bruce felt like he might actually unwind.

And in a minute or three he'd done enough of that to move his hand and sit up. "I'm going to get food. Stay put. I'll bring it back."

He spread his hands and let them fall to his sides in a blatant 'not going anywhere' gesture. Then they were tucked up behind his head as he let his eyes slip closed.

"Give my thanks to Alfred if you see him," was all Clark asked, "I'll pay my compliments in person later, but he should know this is... well, amazing."

Bruce made a noise of assent to let Clark know that he'd heard and would, then padded out of the room on bare feet.

He was gone for maybe, maybe five minutes before Jason was in the room. He didn't knock, at all, just walked in and lounged with deceptive casualness against the doorframe and looked at Clark.

And slowly applauded.

Clark made sure to do his level best to keep himself calm as he opened his eyes to see Jason clapping. Then, making sure to keep his movements slow and loose (don't play the predator, this isn't an enemy) he sat up in the bed and turned to put his feet on the ground.

"I get the feeling you're less pleased to see me than most people were."

The real hell of it was, Bruce had passed Jason in the hall and given him a warning. Jason had still waltzed into the room without any kind of announcement and didn't much look like he was taking any care to be slow and careful now.

He wanted to punch the guy. In the face. Hard. He'd take being hit back for that.

"I'm not?" He feigned surprise, pushed off and took a walk around the room - toward Clark but not directly. Maybe he had two brain cells functioning. "You're right. I'm not. Do you know what you did to him?"

Do you know what you did to me was in there somewhere, too.

Clark let his eyes close, his head dropping almost to his chest. He nodded, but that wasn't enough.

"I can see it. I saved his life but..." he shook his head, soft and slow. Haunted. Then, breathing in deep, he looked up at Jason.

"But I came back. And... well, I don't intend to go anywhere. Not even back to Metropolis. Not really."

He breathed in and out, focused on his old breathing exercises, and tried to shift things a little.

"How are... things... with you and Kara? If you don't mind me asking."

He'd called Kara on the way to Bruce's as well, and there'd been some understandable screaming and crying as both she and Martha had alternately yelled at him and been so happy they could hardly speak.

"Funny you should ask." No, no it wasn't. "Things with us are fine. " His hands were clenched into fists and he didn't. care. He didn't care that Clark had saved Bruce's life. He cared that Clark had chosen to go away and leave them all and that he'd nearly destroyed the tiny little group of people he cared about. "Things with her - well, I heard you called her and she's as pleased as can be to have you back."

He nodded, because yes, she was happy he was alive. And angry at him for terrifying them. And promising him that he owed her a shopping spree. And that had been so wonderful...

But he wasn't ready to go home yet. He wasn't ready to be around his mother yet. Not with how twitchy he was. She had a tendency to swoop in with affection and if he hurt her because of it--

No. Not yet.

"I'm glad to hear it," and he was proud of how even his tone was. "It seemed like... well, like you two were good for each other."

He looked up at Jason finally.

"And you? How are you doing?"

Clark was trying so hard to be disarming and it was just ramping Jason up, almost in spite of himself. He was angry and hurt and he wasn't getting anything but normal from Clark. He'd started to trust this guy and-

He threw the punch, and - just didn't even speak first.

Clark didn't move so much as suddenly, Jason was against the nearest wall with Clark's hand at his throat holding him a foot off the ground. Clark himself looked startled, wild eyed, like he hadn't expected this result and his hand was shaking just a little. Clark looked like he wanted to move, like he wanted to put Jason down, but he wasn't quite sure how his hand worked at the moment and there was just as much likelihood that the command to let go would snap the boy's neck as it would release him.

Finally, after he was sure, after he was sure his hand would obey him, his fingers released and Jason was free to drop to the ground. Clark, for his part, swept back, shaking, and curled in on himself with a noise like a wounded animal. He hadn't wanted that. He'd never wanted that. He'd never hurt one of Bruce's kids. He'd NEVER hurt one of Bruce's kids, ever. He never wanted to hurt anyone, but especially not one of Bruce's kids. Oh god. Oh god.

Jason was pretty damned comfortable at being picked up by the throat and pinned against the wall. Oh, he didn't like it, his hand came up and wrapped around Clark's wrist while Clark had him there in automatic reaction but he didn't panic. He felt, instead, some kind of sick satisfaction.

Then Clark let him down and was back across the room curled up like a kicked dog and what the hell was he supposed to do with that? Except feel guilty in spite of himself.

And then be mad about feeling guilty.

Fortunately he was spared from anything happening by Bruce coming back. Just in time to ask, "What the hell happened?"

To which Jason's response was a typical "Nothing" and slamming out of the room. Bruce stared after him, even as the door was swinging way too hard toward the slam. He put the food down and went to Clark, instead.

Clark shook his head, but didn't look up.

"Go to Jason," and it came out in a bit of a croak. God, what if he'd made a mistake. What if he'd hurt the boy? What if he'd killed--

No, no, couldn't think like that. Can't think like that. He hadn't. He hadn't. He wouldn't and he hadn't.

"Make... make sure he's all right."

He finally managed to make himself look up at Bruce.

"Please."

Bruce was not okay leaving Clark like that, but he had to trust that Clark was an adult who could handle himself.

He knew damned well Jason was neither adult or capable of handling himself also he went. But only after promising, "I'll be back."

If Clark wasn't there when he got back, the world was going to come down.

Clark would be there. He'd be there, curled into the corner as he went through a breathing exercise from his childhood and kept his hands over his eyes. Make the world small. Make the world small and swim towards his mother's heartbeat. Swim until the world made sense again.

Jason had lashed out because he was hurt. Because Bruce had been hurt. Because Kara had been hurt. Because he had been hurt. Jason had lashed out and he had responded... inappropriately. So very inappropriately. He'd responded like he was being attacked. He couldn't do that. Not when nothing short of a damn missile actually was an attack.

By the time Bruce would come back, Clark would be uncurling from his corner and pulling his hands away from his eyes as he breathed in and out, slow and steady, and straightened his spine from the feral crouch he'd been in.

It didn't take long for Bruce to figure out why Jason had lashed out at Clark. He'd wanted to his Clark himself.

That didn't make it acceptable, so while he made sure Jason was in one piece he also ripped him a new one - metaphorically. Actually ended up butting heads with him hard about it, and probably not doing Clark and Jason's relationships any favors, but that crap was not okay.

On top of it all, he'd warned Jason to use some caution and had been dismissed entirely.

To Jason, Bruce was choosing Clark.

To Bruce, Jason had been an idiot and there wasn't much excuse for that kind of lapse.

It didn't end well, but it ended with him going back to Clark.

He closed the door behind him, much more reasonably. "He's fine."

Clark just nodded and slowly, tentatively, started walking over to the food Bruce had brought. He was hungry, after all.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Bruce did not approach Clark, but gave him space to make his way to his food. "He is also an idiot who knew better. That wasn't your fault, Clark."

He turned to look at Bruce and his eyes were haunted.

"I should have let him hit me. I was going to.

"Then I almost snapped his neck."

He swallowed, looked away, and pulled the lid off of the platter of food before he spoke again.

"He can't hurt me. I can kill him in an instant. He's a kid. I'm an adult. It's my fault."

"So maybe next time he'll think twice about punching an adult he's been told needs some space. " He moved slowly toward Clark and god he was an asshole because when it came right down to it.

Maybe Jason was right.

Maybe he was choosing Clark.

He'd never forgive himself if he'd done that but Clark. Yeah, he could move on.

"It won't happen again. From anyone. And it wasn't your fault."

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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