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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"I was using you again."

Still not visible.

"You smelled good. And simple. Like.... before. I should have moved before you were... uncomfortable."

Bruce walked over to one of the work stations and picked up one of his little bat shaped throwing stars and whipped one into a wall. Yes, into the rock wall, because he was goddamned Batman.

"I was turned on," Bruce said, flatly, "and you were struggling. Inappropriate. On My end, not yours."

A moment later, it was missing from the wall. Clark was still nowhere to be seen. He couldn't quite stand to meet Bruce's eyes yet.

"I was enjoying the fact that you were turned on. And I know you're uncomfortable with that aspect of your sexuality around me. Inappropriate on my end as well."

Bruce just picked up the whole little stack of metal and started throwing them into walls, in a clock-wise circle around the room - avoiding equipment, of course.

"That isn't an aspect of my sexuality, Clark, that's a psychological flaw." Which was not to say masochism couldn't be. "And a black hole I refuse to drag you into."

And not a one of them landed.

"But you can drug yourself and play nursemaid to whatever I am right now?"

"What you are right now is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I'm drugging myself with an eye toward making you better. Not indulging and enabling you." Which was, yeah, pretty much how he read the rest of it. "It certainly isn't dragging me into your madness."

There was a swish of movement and right behind him-

"Aren't I?"

Bruce doesn't turn, at all.

"No. You aren't." Flat, but - flatly confident.

His hand slips past Bruce and offers him the bat throwing stars even as he leans down and presses a firm, biting kiss to the side of Bruce's neck.

Bruce's fingers close around the throwing stars, but then Clark's mouth is on his neck, biting. His fingers clench hard around the sharp metal and his knees come close to buckling. His breath catches and he has to use his other hand to keep his balance when he goes lightheaded.

His response would be intense, anyway, but the influence of drugs in his system is making some aspects of it even more - like the dizziness.

"You aren't."

"Right now, I want to," is murmured into the skin of Bruce's throat, his nose pressing just behind Bruce's ear. His hand reaches around to open Bruce's hand on the stars. Lets them fall to the floor.

"Come with me?"

Edited 2015-12-14 01:44 (UTC)

He doesn't think he has ever wanted anything more in his life. All it takes, all it takes, is Clark issuing him that invitation and breath against his skin and possibilities are flickering through his mind. He can even feel the ghost of those possibilities in his skin.

His breathing is too shallow and fast. His pulse sounds loud in his ears, even if it can't pick up the way it should and his entire body is aching for what Clark's offering. Desire thick in his throat and strangling him and -

"Clark."

He can even rationalize it. Think of ways it might be good for Clark, right now. Learning to control himself (does he even really want Clark to control himself - no), having someone trust him.

He's being played. He knows he's being played. That should matter to him more than it does. He's like some kind of addict with his fix in reach. He leans back, pushes back hard, trying to make Clark give him something.

"We're going to regret this."

"I told you," and his voice is soft but firm. Intent. "I have never, will never regret one moment with you."

The hand that was already past Bruce wrapped around his chest, pulled him even closer. The other ran down along Bruce's arm and entwined their fingers.

A few more nibbles, a hard nip just below the ear--

"Just a reminder. Something good. Something... simple. We know how to do this."

Bruce came close to getting his head back together before Clark nipped again. He almost got his breathing back to something normal, almost found the words to argue with Clark right away.

Then there is the sharp sting of that nip, and his fingers tighten on Clark's to a degree that a human would really hurt, and his breath hisses in through his teeth and rather than having the sense to pull away he shoves back into Clark hard.

"You don't." He has to stop, close his eyes, just breath for a moment. "You don't having the first idea what you're playing with."

He also thinks Clark is lying - knows Clark is - but he isn't going to call that out right now, because he's... trying to be nobel, but he wants badly enough that it's not just in his scent, the taste of it's literally on his skin.

Besides, Clark was right about one thing. "We know how to do this."

He can taste it, smell it... feel it in the tremors under his lips, the heat of the body against his. He's as solid as a rock, more solid than he's been since he'd returned; Bruce throws himself back and it might as well be against the wall.

"I'm not playing," and that came with something low and growling, something needful.

"Now tell me. Tell me how to make you feel good the way you want."

Bruce knows exactly what he wants. He's thought about it, dreamed about it, and fantasized about it. He doesn't have a vague idea, he has graphic, detailed, vivid images and ideas. He knows so intimately that he can all but feel it and -

And none of it has to do with feeling good, by any sane definition.

He growls in return, tense and - defensive. "I want my blood under your nails and in your teeth, Clark." Yep, defensive and he's using this as a weapon. It's true, but he's still - using it as a weapon. If he can make Clark leave, shock him into leaving, then he's prepared for it and in control of it. "I want to be black, blue, broken and taken apart. You impaling me? That thing that shocked you so much, left you so guilty you could hardly stand yourself? Had you been in your right mind, you wouldn't have been capable of it. It might almost have been enough for me." He jerked forward and away, let go of Clark's hand or tried.

"Dick wanted to see you before he left."

Edited 2015-12-14 03:18 (UTC)

He'd had the words ready, to tell him that he could have those things, the exact things he wanted to murmur into Bruce's ear as his nails sliced into Bruce's skin. He'd been ready to just... let go. Give Bruce what he wanted. Whatever it is he wanted. Finally be and do and give the other man what he needed.

And then Bruce jerked away. Let go of his hand. And the spell was broken. The moment was gone. Everything that had started to feel under control, held in his hand, slipped away.

And he was so angry, so goddamn angry, that he was shaking.

Fine. Fine. Fine. He wasn't a man anymore. He was just a broken thing to be placated, to be fixed, to be coddled and sated so he didn't destroy anything. Kill anyone. Everything he'd always feared he'd be, now he was. Useless. Useless and destructive. Literally better dead than alive. Less trouble.

His fists clenched tight, tight enough that his own nails bit into his skin. His own blood dripped down between his fingers, sluggish and unaccustomed to running outside of his body.

"I'll be... in my room. No more farce for the day."

And he was gone.

Bruce was a hyper-intelligent genius and one hell of a detective, but he completely misread Clark's response. He couldn't... make the leap, when he'd already expected most of that. Expected Clark to want nothing to do with him and to retreat, be disgusted with him, even.

Bruce regretted it, badly, but what he regretted was the wrong thing.

He regretted the honesty.

He stood in the empty cave for a bit, picked up the throwing stars from the cave floor methodically and put them back where they belonged and went upstairs, because Clark....

He couldn't find Clark. He couldn't help Clark.

Maybe Dick could.

Not him.

Dick ran into him while he'd been heading down to the cave but he backed up immediately. He could see some Shit Had Gone Down and while he was used to just letting Bruce handle it, the fact that he knew the strain that Bruce was under with the drugs and with Clark meant that that wasn't an option.

"Bruce? Bruce, what... happened? Why're you coming up? I thought you wanted me to--

"Bruce?"

Thank you, Dick, for being you and for being loyal to someone who really had never managed to do a single damned thing to earn that loyalty. For having a good heart, and the capacity for compassion and ability to show it in spite of the life you have lead and the man who raised you's emotional hang-ups. Thank you for your impeccable sense of timing and uncanny ability to read that jackass.

He stopped moving when Dick backed up, just maintaining distance.

"Clark is angry. I'd suggest you give him time to cool down, but he needs to be found if he's on planet. Track him down, take the jet. He's probably at the Fortress."

"Angry?" because that was... generally not Clark. Unless something terrible was happening, anyway. And what could Bruce do to make him angry? Clark knew Bruce, he knew the kind of shit Bruce pulled. Clark, weirdo that he was, even thought half of it was endearing, which Dick couldn't quite manage. He usually tapped out at 'sighing'.

"What the hell happened down there? Did you have a fight and kick him out or something or--" he paused, though, because he could tell that whatever it was, Bruce was devastated.

"I'll find him. Does he still have his communicator on? You can track him with that, can't you?"

"Disgusted might be a better word," Bruce conceded, almost entirely without emotion. "He finally woke up and realized I wasn't what he thought I was. He had his communicator on."

Devastated was a good word for it, though for anyone else he was - mildly blank and possibly depressed. "You shouldn't have trouble tracking him."

Oh, and also he should care: "How was your... talk with Jason?"

"That's not what happened," and the second it pops out of his mouth, Dick realizes two things: one, that what he's saying is absolutely true and two, that it's going to redirect some of the inevitable anger towards him. And honestly, he's all right with that.

"I talked to Clark after you two got together. I don't know what the hell you guys were talking about, but short of eating babies for breakfast, there's nothing you could do to convince that guy you're not the best thing since sliced bread."

And he figures he might be able to save his own bacon if he switches topics so that's where he goes. Because no matter what he says, Clark's going to have to be the one to fix that. He can only do so much for the two of them, though honestly, he's glad to do it. He's watched them both most of his life, seen how much they mean to each other. He knows how intensely they care about one another and he cannot believe, cannot believe that there was anything Bruce could do that could ruin things to that extent.

"And Jay's just fine. Worried about the both of you, not happy you're drugging yourself but join the party, we have free booze here, so what else is new?" Beat. "Did he really kick your ass in Mario Kart?"

"Fortunately, this is both on par with eating babies for breakfast, and not something you and I are going to discuss," he says, with a bit more snap in his voice.

He lets it go, though, which is honestly more a result of the sedatives than it is the result of good sense. Those sedatives are relatively near wearing off and he knows almost immediately and without having to think that no matter where Clark is or how he feels about Bruce (and it's so justified) that he'll keep using them for as long as it takes, because Clark needs... something steady and stable in the world and this is the only way Bruce will ever be able to be either.

"Booze and drugs probably shouldn't be mixed," he says, moving along, "and yes, he kicked my ass at Mario Kart. You should play with him so he can kick yours."

He follows along, pulling out his cellphone to start the tracing program for the League communicators. He can't help making a triumphant little noise as he locates Superman.

"Bruce, seriously."

He runs up to show him the screen.

"He hasn't even left the house. He's in the room across from yours."

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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