(FIC) Dance of the Spirits (Superman+Batman, PG)
This is my WFGE story! wohoo! Finished it this weekend and the ever awesome jij did the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine, as usual, so point and I'll correct.
Title: Dance of the Spirits
Rating: PG
Characters: Superman+Batman
Word Count: 3400+
Summary: Superman is dealing with the loss of his father, and Bruce knows there are no words that can make things better.
Prompt: F04 Angst with a (very)happy end with a prompt word :polar lights (aurora). Don't care who of the two is in angst mode as long as you don't make Bruce my-parents-were-killed-so-now-I'm-forever-angry-with-the-whole-world that growls and hisses in every second sentence
I wish this hard turned out slashier! I honestly had more romantic plans for this story, but I have to say the theme was beyond me. My own damn fault, of course, for choosing it, but I tried to do my best!
The wind picked up gusts of snow, making it seem as though he was walking through a perpetual storm, a cold ache settling in his bones. The snow melted as it touched his skin, making him even colder. It didn’t matter, since the cold could do him no harm. Right now he couldn’t deal with the sun and its brightness, with its assurance that the world keeps going, never waiting for anyone. He wouldn’t plunge into darkness or despair -it would be an insult towards the man who had raised him, to let the pain overcome him, but he still couldn’t face the sun. Everything was white around him, a shroud that hid him from the world.
He let the cold embrace of the winter take over him, giving him a break from the world, from the constant input of information that kept him from thinking about his feelings, from his sense of loss and disappointment, his guilt and pain. In the white desert, he could hide from the world but not from himself.
The wind made the snow dance around him. He grimaced, angry with himself. He could pretend there was nothing here but his feelings, that he would have no choice but to deal with them, but the snow took shapes and danced in the wind, and if he looked just a bit harder he could see the crystal glints as light refracted on each snowflake, and then he could see the snowflakes, each one made of delicate lace, their designs giving way to their molecular bonding, the tiny electrical forces that tied atoms together, and then smaller still, a whole universe of particles, interacting, pulling and repelling, blinking in and out of existence, unaware of the observer or the single snowflake they were part of.
Another half hour passed by as he stared at the snowflakes, water running down his face as they melted against his skin, the fractal universe of frozen water suddenly destroyed by the heat of the Kryptonian in the middle of the Arctic desert. Condensed water mixed with his tears, the drops crystallizing in midair as soon as they fell from his jaw.
He should have gone to space, if he needed a place to think. The snowstorm reminded him of his father.
Everything reminded him of his father, these days.
Still, space wouldn’t have been much better. Macrocosms and microcosms alike had life cycles, where things were born, matured, grew older and finally died. It was the way of the universe, not just the way of carbon-based life. Stars were born out of the elements the previous supernova left in its final explosion. They interacted, forces pulling and repelling and…
Dancing. Living. Everything was alive, in some ways. In the ways that mattered.
Eventually, everything would come to an end
He could not have stopped the death of his father anymore than he could stop a star from going supernova or a particle from decaying. What hurt was that maybe -maybe- he could have prevented it from happening this time. Like he had prevented it times before, keeping his family safe from storms and tornadoes.
He couldn’t have his father live forever, but he could have saved him this time. If he had been there, if he had listened, if he had been faster, stronger…
Better.
He had let him die. He couldn’t save one of the people he loved the most in the world, the man who had taught him how to speak, how to read, how to tie his shoelaces, milk a cow, fix a tractor, shave. The man who told him about responsibility, about honor and loyalty, about friends and family and love, about strength. The man who, with hands callused from work and tanned by the sun, had helped him assemble piece by piece the delicate moral compass that let him make the hardest of choices, let him be the man he was, do the things he did, and still be alive and human at the end of the day.
He had failed the man he owed everything to, failed him the one time he should have come through. He had failed his mother by letting them down. He had failed himself.
He heard the roar of the jet a long time before he saw it land. He didn’t want to be near anyone, didn’t want to deal with questions or well intentioned advice. Didn’t want to get condolences, awkward hugs or sorrowful looks.
He didn’t think he would get anything like that from Batman, so he stayed.
The metal creaked as the engine died down, the black sleek form of the batwing cutting the landscape like a knife before it was swallowed again. Clark turned around and stood still, his cape flapping and whirling around him. White over scarlet. White over black.
The winter could swallow it all.
“You’re a hard man to find,” Bruce said, not bothering to raise his voice over the howl of the wind, knowing Clark would pick it up anyway. He kept walking until he was two feet away from Clark, where the snow allowed for some visibility. Clark frowned as he looked at him.
“You’re going to freeze to death,” Clark said. Bruce wasn’t wearing the uniform. He had a big coat on, but he was not dressed for walking around in the Arctic desert. He was risking injury just by standing there talking to him.
“I had to track you down. Did you know that in a show of goodwill, I had never put a tracer on you?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I think that should be obvious.”
“It’s not.”
Bruce smiled, looking around. With the roar of the wind, he had to look at Clark to read his lips, and he could effectively cut him off just by looking away.
“Very bad metaphorical choice, by the way. Nothing says ‘I need help’ like a being lost in a snow storm.”
Clark took a step forward and crossed his arms, exasperated.
Bruce’s smile grew a notch. “I had to do some serious triangulations to find you. That’s time badly spent.”
“You could have left me alone, like I wanted.”
Bruce nodded, his smile softening. “I could have.” He nodded towards the batwing. “Would you like to continue this discussion somewhere warmer?” Clark’s mouth became a thin line, and Bruce shrugged. “Or we could stay here. What’s a little hypothermia between friends.”
Clark took a deep breath. A part of him knew -like he knew the sun would rise- that Bruce was playing his cards to get under his skin. He knew he was being manipulated; verbal acknowledgments of friendship -of most emotions and liaisons- were not Bruce’s forte. He could imply relationships and explore the subtlest of feelings with a knowing look, a candid smile, or the smallest of touches. But saying it -that was an all-out, no-apologies attack on Clark’s sense of loyalty.
Clark clenched his jaw, looking at the snow fall over Bruce’s dark coat. A lattice of whimsical molecular perfection falling on his hair, his reddened cheeks, his pale skin, the tiny tremors of repressed shivers. He met his eyes, still annoyed at the interruption, and exhaled, feeling a knot inside him loosen a little. “You can be such a jerk.”
With that, he grabbed him under his arms, and whisked him away, leaving the batwing behind.
---
Bruce stomped his feet and rubbed his arms, cursing under his breath. Clark had dropped him on an empty street, disappearing without saying a word, leaving him stranded in a town at the end of the world.
Well, he supposed this had been one possible outcome. He knew a brooding fit when he saw one -he had to admit it was part of his area of expertise- and he knew that one didn’t always act reasonable when feeling like that.
So, back to the drawing board. First, find out where he was, and then get beamed back to the Watchtower. Then re-triangulate Superman’s position from high speed metahuman activity and air traffic and-
Was it too much to ask that he would just stick to Metropolis?
He started walking towards one of the buildings by the street. Inside it was warm and dim, the sound of classic rock playing on the background and the soft murmur of conversation washing over him. He walked towards the bar and sat down, rubbing his gloved hands and wriggling his toes inside the boots. He asked for beer and a copy of the newspaper, and got started on finding out where exactly Clark had dropped him.
Seward, Alaska. The paper was a weekly edition. Bruce sighed. Well, it was a starting point. A remote, cold starting point, but he had triangulated Clark’s location once and he could do it again. He knew finding him wouldn’t be of much use unless he could convince Clark to talk -he could keep evading him if he wanted. Which meant it would probably be best to leave him alone until he decided to talk with someone. Not necessarily him, just someone.
If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really want to talk about Clark’s feelings about losing his father. He didn’t have much to say about it, he had no use for platitudes, no advice, nothing. Clark’s father was gone, and Clark was hurting, and stating the obvious was pretty much all he could say without sounding like a complete insensitive jackass -he wasn’t sure he would succeed at that, though- or like a patronizing jerk.
Bruce didn’t remember anyone saying anything useful or not infuriating to him on the subject when he was younger. Alfred had tried, of course, but he knew how futile a task it was, and mostly he had just kept Bruce fed and kept him company.
So. That was that.
Still, the knowledge of futility had never stopped him before. He would have to wing the ‘reaching out’ part once he got a hold of Clark.
The door opened and a gust of cold wind made Bruce shiver all over. He despised being cold, his bones felt hollow and they hurt where he had broke them, and it felt like once he got cold there was no human power that could fully warm him up again until summer.
“I always figured you didn’t drink much,” Clark said as he took a seat next to him, the Superman suit gone.
Bruce took a sip of his drink, grimacing at the bitter taste. Beer wasn’t really his thing. “No, I guess don’t.” He swiveled to face Clark, pushing the glass away. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”
Clark shrugged. “I thought you must have had a good reason to come and interrupt me.”
Bruce grinned. “Glad you see it my way.”
“Wait until this comes back to get you.”
He waved one hand. “Like it isn’t always coming back to get me? Bruce, don’t brood; Bruce, talk about your feelings; Bruce, don’t shut people out. See how you like it.”
Clark winced. “I don’t sound like that.”
“Bruce, you need to learn how to communicate better. Would it kill you to give a compliment? Do you have to be such a jerk? ” Bruce said, his voice a passable impression of Superman’s pitch.
Clark laughed, shaking his head. “Well, do you?"
“It comes naturally.” He tapped Clark’s chest with a gloved finger. “What’s your excuse?”
“You rub off on me.”
“You wish.”
The silence stretched. Bruce fought the impulse to fidget, taking off his gloves instead. “So. You came back,” he said, trying to break the awkward pause.
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s… better. Than the alternative.”
“Not coming back?”
“Yes.”
Clark smiled. “We have certainly reached a milestone in your communication skills.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine, I didn’t really plan this through.”
“You, unprepared? Blasphemy.”
“There’s -” He paused, meeting Clark’s eyes, his voice turning serious and low. “There’s nothing I could have done to prepare. No words would have ever been enough, nothing I could do to change the past. I can only trust in… the natural order of these things. Let it follow its natural course.”
Clark smile faded into nothing, and he looked away from Bruce’s gaze.
“It’s not easy. It never-” Bruce took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You can’t prepare, and it will always hurt. But you can’t blame yourself for being unprepared, for not…” He laughed lowly. “Clark, you’re getting this from the least qualified person in the world, but you can’t blame yourself for not being able to stop it.”
Clark shook his head, smiling sadly as he stared at the floor.
“No matter how much we wish we could, we can’t save everyone.”
“I should have saved him, though.” Clark looked at Bruce, azure eyes glossy with unshed tears, anger tightly leashed in his voice. “You know I could have, Bruce. I failed him; Ma knows it and I know it. He probably knew it too, in the end."
Bruce shook his head. “Your father died protecting what he loved. In the end, there’s no way he would have thought any less of you.”
“I should-“
“No” Bruce cut him off sternly. “There was nothing you could do. You can’t always protect the people you love, and I don’t want to admit it any more than you do, but you don’t hold their lives in your hands. You can fend off danger for a while, but you can’t stop mortality. I know you’re hurting, and I know that nothing I say will make you stop blaming yourself, but promise me you’ll let the guilt go. Not today or tomorrow, just… that you won’t hold on to it.”
The silence stretched, growing thicker every second. Bruce knew that Clark couldn’t promise him anything. Clichés like ‘time heals all wounds’ made him angry on principle -no one seemed to talk about the ugly scars wounds left when they didn’t heal properly, or how they can look healed on the outside and open up with the smallest of scratches, or the ones that only hurt in winter when it’s cold and you feel lonely- but to some degree, he knew only time could help Clark.
“I need some fresh air,” Clark said as he stood up. Bruce stayed back, seeing him leave. Clark stopped in front of the exit, his head low, before he turned to look at Bruce. “Are you coming?”
Bruce paid for his drink and got up, walking out of the building to join Clark outside. The sky was darkening as dusk approached, and he looked around for the other man.
Clark was gone.
He sighed and started to put on his gloves. A rush of wind was the only warning he got before strong arms circled around his chest and picked him up, the ground quickly receding as they flew away.
-------
They stood by the lake, gazing at the woods and the sky reflecting on the water. Bruce was still miffed about being unceremoniously grabbed and flown around, and hadn’t said a word since they'd arrived.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? So serene.”
Bruce grunted -an affirmative sounding grunt, at least- and kept looking ahead.
“I don’t get a lot of chances to just think, you know? To take some time to clear my mind and process things and...” He broke off, shaking his head. “There’s always something I need to do, somewhere I have to go. And lately, when I do find time, it all feels like it’s too much. Like I can’t… do anything else until I sort this out. How I could have done things differently. So it doesn’t happen again.”
“And?”
“And there are an infinite number of things I could have done differently. I could have prevented it or stopped in any number of ways. But I didn’t.”
“You didn’t know it was going to happen.”
“We never know what’s going to happen, but we plan for contingencies. I mean, that’s a big part of what we do, isn’t it? Plan ahead, so the things we fear most won’t have a chance to happen.
Bruce made a thoughtful sound, then turned to look at him. His blue eyes were dark in the evening light, and there was an uneasy openness in his expression. “Yes, well, that’s what we try to do. Emphasis on the trying, Clark, you know it doesn’t always work, and sometimes everything goes wrong anyway. I-I wish I could tell you something else.”
Clark looked away and shrugged. “There’s nothing you can say.”
“I know.” He took a deep breath and lowered himself, sitting on the hard barren ground. “It’s a matter of hindsight. Plans can be made with precision for the past, but only for the chain of events that has already happened.” He turned his head up, signaling him to sit down by his side. Clark complied, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch, hoping to share part of his body heat. “And it’s important that we do, to review our performance and make sure next time we’re better. More prepared. But those plans can only be made with precision because you have taken the uncertainty out of the events. You know what happened. Those plans are useless, in the end.” He chuckled lowly. “Mental masturbation.”
Clark laughed. “What?”
“You know. Repetitive exercises in futility, born out of a masochistic need to punish yourself with your apparent ability to do something and your subsequent failure at doing so at the right time.”
“Now this is a milestone in your communication skills.”
“That’s what Alfred calls it.”
“Right, you just do it.”
“Like a pro.”
Clark chuckled, shoving Bruce a little with his shoulder. “So. How do you stop?”
Bruce shrugged.
“That’s helpful.”
They sat in silence for a while, looking at the wind make waves in the lake. The sky was a dark blue now, and a few stars were starting to appear. “I guess... You try to focus on planning for the future, instead of planning for the past. With luck that keeps you distracted long enough to let go of it. Not the memories, but the guilt. Sometimes it goes away.”
Clark watched him, seeing the play of the evening light on his features, the contrast of pale skin and raven dark hair. The high cheekbones, the strong jaw set tightly against the shivers, the only sign betraying his discomfort. Reading Bruce’s thoughts was a nigh-impossible task, but reading his heart wasn’t quite so hard if you knew what to look for. He was strong -stronger perhaps than anyone Clark knew- but vulnerable and warm under all the armor and barriers. And that vulnerability, that chip in the shell he had worked so hard to shape, was what made him stronger. Because no matter what happened, Bruce never stopped caring. Clark felt himself smile, knowing that he was part of the chip in the armor, that he was allowed under it, into the warm, ferocious heart of the man.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to lean closer, pressing against Bruce’s side, looking for a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. Bruce shifted, throwing an arm around his back, pulling him closer. “Look,” he said, lifting his free hand towards the sky.
Clark saw the colors dance in the sky, feeling his throat constrict. Green was flecked with red, blue at the edges, the star studded sky bright with color. “The spirits are dancing,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion.
Bruce tensed next to him, and his hold on him tightened. Clark let out a laugh that felt too much like a sob, and he bit his lip for a second. “You’re dying to tell me it’s not spirits, but the solar wind and particles in the magnetosphere.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are. But you won’t.” He slid down enough to rest his head on Bruce’s shoulder, his eyes never leaving the weaving colors in the sky. He could hear the wind sing around them, the song of the world. Even in winter, life throbbed in Earth’s heart. Everything kept on, waiting for no one, singing and dancing and living and dying, only for life to start off again, more chaotic and naïve and full of promise when the sun rose again. “Tell me you won’t die.”
“Clark…”
“You’re a good liar, B. Tell me.”
“I won’t die.” He turned towards him, and pressed against Clark’s hair in what felt suspiciously like a kiss.
As warmth bloomed inside him, Clark let out a trembling sigh, watching the light of the spirits chase in the sky.
Title: Dance of the Spirits
Rating: PG
Characters: Superman+Batman
Word Count: 3400+
Summary: Superman is dealing with the loss of his father, and Bruce knows there are no words that can make things better.
Prompt: F04 Angst with a (very)happy end with a prompt word :polar lights (aurora). Don't care who of the two is in angst mode as long as you don't make Bruce my-parents-were-killed-so-now-I'm-forever-angry-with-the-whole-world that growls and hisses in every second sentence
I wish this hard turned out slashier! I honestly had more romantic plans for this story, but I have to say the theme was beyond me. My own damn fault, of course, for choosing it, but I tried to do my best!
The wind picked up gusts of snow, making it seem as though he was walking through a perpetual storm, a cold ache settling in his bones. The snow melted as it touched his skin, making him even colder. It didn’t matter, since the cold could do him no harm. Right now he couldn’t deal with the sun and its brightness, with its assurance that the world keeps going, never waiting for anyone. He wouldn’t plunge into darkness or despair -it would be an insult towards the man who had raised him, to let the pain overcome him, but he still couldn’t face the sun. Everything was white around him, a shroud that hid him from the world.
He let the cold embrace of the winter take over him, giving him a break from the world, from the constant input of information that kept him from thinking about his feelings, from his sense of loss and disappointment, his guilt and pain. In the white desert, he could hide from the world but not from himself.
The wind made the snow dance around him. He grimaced, angry with himself. He could pretend there was nothing here but his feelings, that he would have no choice but to deal with them, but the snow took shapes and danced in the wind, and if he looked just a bit harder he could see the crystal glints as light refracted on each snowflake, and then he could see the snowflakes, each one made of delicate lace, their designs giving way to their molecular bonding, the tiny electrical forces that tied atoms together, and then smaller still, a whole universe of particles, interacting, pulling and repelling, blinking in and out of existence, unaware of the observer or the single snowflake they were part of.
Another half hour passed by as he stared at the snowflakes, water running down his face as they melted against his skin, the fractal universe of frozen water suddenly destroyed by the heat of the Kryptonian in the middle of the Arctic desert. Condensed water mixed with his tears, the drops crystallizing in midair as soon as they fell from his jaw.
He should have gone to space, if he needed a place to think. The snowstorm reminded him of his father.
Everything reminded him of his father, these days.
Still, space wouldn’t have been much better. Macrocosms and microcosms alike had life cycles, where things were born, matured, grew older and finally died. It was the way of the universe, not just the way of carbon-based life. Stars were born out of the elements the previous supernova left in its final explosion. They interacted, forces pulling and repelling and…
Dancing. Living. Everything was alive, in some ways. In the ways that mattered.
Eventually, everything would come to an end
He could not have stopped the death of his father anymore than he could stop a star from going supernova or a particle from decaying. What hurt was that maybe -maybe- he could have prevented it from happening this time. Like he had prevented it times before, keeping his family safe from storms and tornadoes.
He couldn’t have his father live forever, but he could have saved him this time. If he had been there, if he had listened, if he had been faster, stronger…
Better.
He had let him die. He couldn’t save one of the people he loved the most in the world, the man who had taught him how to speak, how to read, how to tie his shoelaces, milk a cow, fix a tractor, shave. The man who told him about responsibility, about honor and loyalty, about friends and family and love, about strength. The man who, with hands callused from work and tanned by the sun, had helped him assemble piece by piece the delicate moral compass that let him make the hardest of choices, let him be the man he was, do the things he did, and still be alive and human at the end of the day.
He had failed the man he owed everything to, failed him the one time he should have come through. He had failed his mother by letting them down. He had failed himself.
He heard the roar of the jet a long time before he saw it land. He didn’t want to be near anyone, didn’t want to deal with questions or well intentioned advice. Didn’t want to get condolences, awkward hugs or sorrowful looks.
He didn’t think he would get anything like that from Batman, so he stayed.
The metal creaked as the engine died down, the black sleek form of the batwing cutting the landscape like a knife before it was swallowed again. Clark turned around and stood still, his cape flapping and whirling around him. White over scarlet. White over black.
The winter could swallow it all.
“You’re a hard man to find,” Bruce said, not bothering to raise his voice over the howl of the wind, knowing Clark would pick it up anyway. He kept walking until he was two feet away from Clark, where the snow allowed for some visibility. Clark frowned as he looked at him.
“You’re going to freeze to death,” Clark said. Bruce wasn’t wearing the uniform. He had a big coat on, but he was not dressed for walking around in the Arctic desert. He was risking injury just by standing there talking to him.
“I had to track you down. Did you know that in a show of goodwill, I had never put a tracer on you?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I think that should be obvious.”
“It’s not.”
Bruce smiled, looking around. With the roar of the wind, he had to look at Clark to read his lips, and he could effectively cut him off just by looking away.
“Very bad metaphorical choice, by the way. Nothing says ‘I need help’ like a being lost in a snow storm.”
Clark took a step forward and crossed his arms, exasperated.
Bruce’s smile grew a notch. “I had to do some serious triangulations to find you. That’s time badly spent.”
“You could have left me alone, like I wanted.”
Bruce nodded, his smile softening. “I could have.” He nodded towards the batwing. “Would you like to continue this discussion somewhere warmer?” Clark’s mouth became a thin line, and Bruce shrugged. “Or we could stay here. What’s a little hypothermia between friends.”
Clark took a deep breath. A part of him knew -like he knew the sun would rise- that Bruce was playing his cards to get under his skin. He knew he was being manipulated; verbal acknowledgments of friendship -of most emotions and liaisons- were not Bruce’s forte. He could imply relationships and explore the subtlest of feelings with a knowing look, a candid smile, or the smallest of touches. But saying it -that was an all-out, no-apologies attack on Clark’s sense of loyalty.
Clark clenched his jaw, looking at the snow fall over Bruce’s dark coat. A lattice of whimsical molecular perfection falling on his hair, his reddened cheeks, his pale skin, the tiny tremors of repressed shivers. He met his eyes, still annoyed at the interruption, and exhaled, feeling a knot inside him loosen a little. “You can be such a jerk.”
With that, he grabbed him under his arms, and whisked him away, leaving the batwing behind.
---
Bruce stomped his feet and rubbed his arms, cursing under his breath. Clark had dropped him on an empty street, disappearing without saying a word, leaving him stranded in a town at the end of the world.
Well, he supposed this had been one possible outcome. He knew a brooding fit when he saw one -he had to admit it was part of his area of expertise- and he knew that one didn’t always act reasonable when feeling like that.
So, back to the drawing board. First, find out where he was, and then get beamed back to the Watchtower. Then re-triangulate Superman’s position from high speed metahuman activity and air traffic and-
Was it too much to ask that he would just stick to Metropolis?
He started walking towards one of the buildings by the street. Inside it was warm and dim, the sound of classic rock playing on the background and the soft murmur of conversation washing over him. He walked towards the bar and sat down, rubbing his gloved hands and wriggling his toes inside the boots. He asked for beer and a copy of the newspaper, and got started on finding out where exactly Clark had dropped him.
Seward, Alaska. The paper was a weekly edition. Bruce sighed. Well, it was a starting point. A remote, cold starting point, but he had triangulated Clark’s location once and he could do it again. He knew finding him wouldn’t be of much use unless he could convince Clark to talk -he could keep evading him if he wanted. Which meant it would probably be best to leave him alone until he decided to talk with someone. Not necessarily him, just someone.
If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really want to talk about Clark’s feelings about losing his father. He didn’t have much to say about it, he had no use for platitudes, no advice, nothing. Clark’s father was gone, and Clark was hurting, and stating the obvious was pretty much all he could say without sounding like a complete insensitive jackass -he wasn’t sure he would succeed at that, though- or like a patronizing jerk.
Bruce didn’t remember anyone saying anything useful or not infuriating to him on the subject when he was younger. Alfred had tried, of course, but he knew how futile a task it was, and mostly he had just kept Bruce fed and kept him company.
So. That was that.
Still, the knowledge of futility had never stopped him before. He would have to wing the ‘reaching out’ part once he got a hold of Clark.
The door opened and a gust of cold wind made Bruce shiver all over. He despised being cold, his bones felt hollow and they hurt where he had broke them, and it felt like once he got cold there was no human power that could fully warm him up again until summer.
“I always figured you didn’t drink much,” Clark said as he took a seat next to him, the Superman suit gone.
Bruce took a sip of his drink, grimacing at the bitter taste. Beer wasn’t really his thing. “No, I guess don’t.” He swiveled to face Clark, pushing the glass away. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”
Clark shrugged. “I thought you must have had a good reason to come and interrupt me.”
Bruce grinned. “Glad you see it my way.”
“Wait until this comes back to get you.”
He waved one hand. “Like it isn’t always coming back to get me? Bruce, don’t brood; Bruce, talk about your feelings; Bruce, don’t shut people out. See how you like it.”
Clark winced. “I don’t sound like that.”
“Bruce, you need to learn how to communicate better. Would it kill you to give a compliment? Do you have to be such a jerk? ” Bruce said, his voice a passable impression of Superman’s pitch.
Clark laughed, shaking his head. “Well, do you?"
“It comes naturally.” He tapped Clark’s chest with a gloved finger. “What’s your excuse?”
“You rub off on me.”
“You wish.”
The silence stretched. Bruce fought the impulse to fidget, taking off his gloves instead. “So. You came back,” he said, trying to break the awkward pause.
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s… better. Than the alternative.”
“Not coming back?”
“Yes.”
Clark smiled. “We have certainly reached a milestone in your communication skills.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine, I didn’t really plan this through.”
“You, unprepared? Blasphemy.”
“There’s -” He paused, meeting Clark’s eyes, his voice turning serious and low. “There’s nothing I could have done to prepare. No words would have ever been enough, nothing I could do to change the past. I can only trust in… the natural order of these things. Let it follow its natural course.”
Clark smile faded into nothing, and he looked away from Bruce’s gaze.
“It’s not easy. It never-” Bruce took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You can’t prepare, and it will always hurt. But you can’t blame yourself for being unprepared, for not…” He laughed lowly. “Clark, you’re getting this from the least qualified person in the world, but you can’t blame yourself for not being able to stop it.”
Clark shook his head, smiling sadly as he stared at the floor.
“No matter how much we wish we could, we can’t save everyone.”
“I should have saved him, though.” Clark looked at Bruce, azure eyes glossy with unshed tears, anger tightly leashed in his voice. “You know I could have, Bruce. I failed him; Ma knows it and I know it. He probably knew it too, in the end."
Bruce shook his head. “Your father died protecting what he loved. In the end, there’s no way he would have thought any less of you.”
“I should-“
“No” Bruce cut him off sternly. “There was nothing you could do. You can’t always protect the people you love, and I don’t want to admit it any more than you do, but you don’t hold their lives in your hands. You can fend off danger for a while, but you can’t stop mortality. I know you’re hurting, and I know that nothing I say will make you stop blaming yourself, but promise me you’ll let the guilt go. Not today or tomorrow, just… that you won’t hold on to it.”
The silence stretched, growing thicker every second. Bruce knew that Clark couldn’t promise him anything. Clichés like ‘time heals all wounds’ made him angry on principle -no one seemed to talk about the ugly scars wounds left when they didn’t heal properly, or how they can look healed on the outside and open up with the smallest of scratches, or the ones that only hurt in winter when it’s cold and you feel lonely- but to some degree, he knew only time could help Clark.
“I need some fresh air,” Clark said as he stood up. Bruce stayed back, seeing him leave. Clark stopped in front of the exit, his head low, before he turned to look at Bruce. “Are you coming?”
Bruce paid for his drink and got up, walking out of the building to join Clark outside. The sky was darkening as dusk approached, and he looked around for the other man.
Clark was gone.
He sighed and started to put on his gloves. A rush of wind was the only warning he got before strong arms circled around his chest and picked him up, the ground quickly receding as they flew away.
-------
They stood by the lake, gazing at the woods and the sky reflecting on the water. Bruce was still miffed about being unceremoniously grabbed and flown around, and hadn’t said a word since they'd arrived.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? So serene.”
Bruce grunted -an affirmative sounding grunt, at least- and kept looking ahead.
“I don’t get a lot of chances to just think, you know? To take some time to clear my mind and process things and...” He broke off, shaking his head. “There’s always something I need to do, somewhere I have to go. And lately, when I do find time, it all feels like it’s too much. Like I can’t… do anything else until I sort this out. How I could have done things differently. So it doesn’t happen again.”
“And?”
“And there are an infinite number of things I could have done differently. I could have prevented it or stopped in any number of ways. But I didn’t.”
“You didn’t know it was going to happen.”
“We never know what’s going to happen, but we plan for contingencies. I mean, that’s a big part of what we do, isn’t it? Plan ahead, so the things we fear most won’t have a chance to happen.
Bruce made a thoughtful sound, then turned to look at him. His blue eyes were dark in the evening light, and there was an uneasy openness in his expression. “Yes, well, that’s what we try to do. Emphasis on the trying, Clark, you know it doesn’t always work, and sometimes everything goes wrong anyway. I-I wish I could tell you something else.”
Clark looked away and shrugged. “There’s nothing you can say.”
“I know.” He took a deep breath and lowered himself, sitting on the hard barren ground. “It’s a matter of hindsight. Plans can be made with precision for the past, but only for the chain of events that has already happened.” He turned his head up, signaling him to sit down by his side. Clark complied, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch, hoping to share part of his body heat. “And it’s important that we do, to review our performance and make sure next time we’re better. More prepared. But those plans can only be made with precision because you have taken the uncertainty out of the events. You know what happened. Those plans are useless, in the end.” He chuckled lowly. “Mental masturbation.”
Clark laughed. “What?”
“You know. Repetitive exercises in futility, born out of a masochistic need to punish yourself with your apparent ability to do something and your subsequent failure at doing so at the right time.”
“Now this is a milestone in your communication skills.”
“That’s what Alfred calls it.”
“Right, you just do it.”
“Like a pro.”
Clark chuckled, shoving Bruce a little with his shoulder. “So. How do you stop?”
Bruce shrugged.
“That’s helpful.”
They sat in silence for a while, looking at the wind make waves in the lake. The sky was a dark blue now, and a few stars were starting to appear. “I guess... You try to focus on planning for the future, instead of planning for the past. With luck that keeps you distracted long enough to let go of it. Not the memories, but the guilt. Sometimes it goes away.”
Clark watched him, seeing the play of the evening light on his features, the contrast of pale skin and raven dark hair. The high cheekbones, the strong jaw set tightly against the shivers, the only sign betraying his discomfort. Reading Bruce’s thoughts was a nigh-impossible task, but reading his heart wasn’t quite so hard if you knew what to look for. He was strong -stronger perhaps than anyone Clark knew- but vulnerable and warm under all the armor and barriers. And that vulnerability, that chip in the shell he had worked so hard to shape, was what made him stronger. Because no matter what happened, Bruce never stopped caring. Clark felt himself smile, knowing that he was part of the chip in the armor, that he was allowed under it, into the warm, ferocious heart of the man.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to lean closer, pressing against Bruce’s side, looking for a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. Bruce shifted, throwing an arm around his back, pulling him closer. “Look,” he said, lifting his free hand towards the sky.
Clark saw the colors dance in the sky, feeling his throat constrict. Green was flecked with red, blue at the edges, the star studded sky bright with color. “The spirits are dancing,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion.
Bruce tensed next to him, and his hold on him tightened. Clark let out a laugh that felt too much like a sob, and he bit his lip for a second. “You’re dying to tell me it’s not spirits, but the solar wind and particles in the magnetosphere.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are. But you won’t.” He slid down enough to rest his head on Bruce’s shoulder, his eyes never leaving the weaving colors in the sky. He could hear the wind sing around them, the song of the world. Even in winter, life throbbed in Earth’s heart. Everything kept on, waiting for no one, singing and dancing and living and dying, only for life to start off again, more chaotic and naïve and full of promise when the sun rose again. “Tell me you won’t die.”
“Clark…”
“You’re a good liar, B. Tell me.”
“I won’t die.” He turned towards him, and pressed against Clark’s hair in what felt suspiciously like a kiss.
As warmth bloomed inside him, Clark let out a trembling sigh, watching the light of the spirits chase in the sky.