(FIC) True Colors (PG-13) (Superman/Batman)
So. I was going to post only after I had caught up with commenting around but.. given.. the backlog.. and my fine lurker instincts... it looks like that will be a long wait! so... fic! fluuuffy fic! om nom nom!
Beta by the awesome mithen and damos team! of doooom!
Title: True Colors
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Superman/Batman
Word Count: 3100+
Summary: Sleep deprived superheroes are apparently more inclined to smooching.
"Thanks, everyone," Superman said, addressing the Justice League team as he climbed down from the teleport bay. "Let's hope we have a quiet night."
Wally ran past him, headed towards the cafeteria. Clark stretched, walking towards the monitor womb to check on what he had missed since the team had departed for the deep space mission. He hadn't expected to be gone for so long, but GL had asked for assistance with a natural disaster in one of the planets of the sector, and the Justice League had responded. It was always interesting to work with the Corps; with so much structured power and so many alien operatives, they made Clark feel more rooted to Earth, a confirmation that he really belonged there. It was a comforting feeling.
He paused by the door to the monitor room. It was locked. He frowned, punching in his overriding code. The door didn't budge. What...?
"Yes?" A low voice growled in his ear.
He touched his commlink. "Batman, are you in the monitor room?"
"Yes?" Batman repeated.
"Why is the door locked?"
"I'm busy."
Clark frowned. "What do you mean, you're busy? Are you alone in there?"
An amused chuckle. Clark's frown deepened. "I am. I'm not that kind of busy," he paused, and the chuckle turned into a fuller laugh. "I mean, I'm alone. Doing monitor duty. Among other things."
Clark was unnerved. Batman sounded... not right. "Why is my override not working?"
"Hmm? It should be."
Clark punched his code again. This time it cleared, and he walked into the room, puzzled. "It didn't work just a moment ago."
He could see the security history being opened, and saw the video of himself entering the code the first time. "You got it wrong," Batman's voice came from behind a tall chair that dominated the monitor womb.
Clark saw his own image punch the wrong number, and then the image ran backwards, and then again, the wrong number, and then again backwards... "Okay, I get it. I guess I'm more tired than I thought I was..." He pulled one of the chairs closer to the monitors. "So, what's up? Fill me in."
Batman turned his chair a bit towards him, and Clark saw him for the first time. He was wearing sweat pants and a long sleeved shirt, not the Batman suit, and he was uncowled. He looked worn, his eyes red. "Shouldn't you get some rest?" Bruce said, preempting the words about to leave Clark's mouth.
"Right back at you. You look like you haven't slept in days."
" You look like you haven't slept in days and like you spent those days providing disaster relief someplace far away from proper food and running water."
Clark shrugged and pointed at him, slumped in the chair in civilian clothes. "I guess that's why the door is locked."
Bruce turned his chair back to the central computer, growling in affirmative fashion. "You should head to Metropolis, take care of yourself, and let me work."
"The faster you fill me in, the faster I'll be gone," Clark said moodily. He was tired and hungry, but there were other things to take care of and none of them was 'argue with Batman'.
"Fine. There was a flood in Bangladesh. Not as bad as the last one. It's been dealt with. A couple of minor earthquakes in Japan. An attack on Chicago by Weather Wizard," he paused as an alarm rang off and a screen popped in one of the monitors, and he started to write, seemingly forgetting about Clark.
"All taken care of?" Clark prompted him.
Bruce made a neutral noise, still typing.
Clark supposed there weren't any emergencies or Bruce would have mentioned them. He kept looking at the other man, the way his hair fell over his eyes, dark bangs hiding his eyes entirely from Clark. He felt the itch to push it back, but Bruce ran a hand through his hair just as he thought of it, without much effect. His hair fell back over his eyes.
Clark relaxed in his chair, throwing his weight back. He was too tired to get up and head to Metropolis just now, going through the teleporters and then flying to his apartment, taking a shower... changing his clothes... getting something to eat. It all seemed like too much work.
"What are you working on?" he asked, knowing he would probably not get an answer. Bruce tended to block everything out when he was busy.
"Hnn," he mumbled after a moment. "Updating."
Clark raised an eyebrow. "What, the system?"
Bruce nodded slowly.
"All of it?"
Bruce nodded again, taking a couple of more seconds to answer this time.
"Isn't it dangerous, with everything running?"
Bruce paused and looked at him from the corner of his eyes. "Well, I can't very well shut down the Watchtower, now can I?"
Clark raised an eyebrow. "So...?"
Bruce leaned back in his chair, the code window gone now. "Manual input. Waiting until there's a pause in activity in the system. Sort of..." he stretched one hand for the water bottle on the console, without reaching it. Clark handed it to him. "Planned service blackouts. Two minutes long, tops."
"And you have been doing this since we left?"
"Hrm. Yes. Terrific will take over tomorrow."
Clark looked horrified. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Bruce said, the water bottle dangling from his hand without touching the floor. "We were having twelve hour shifts, but then there was a flood in Bangladesh..." He shrugged. "I don't mind. I've been sleeping between alarms. Some of the time windows are a couple of hours long."
"That's... a week of monitor duty," Clark said with a grimace. "No wonder you sounded off in the commlink."
"What?"
"Just now, when I was trying to get in. You were laughing by yourself. You don't usually do that."
Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, the wolfish eyes regarding him warily. "Now, how would you know that? If I'm alone, then you don't know if I do it or not. And if you're listening, then I'm either laughing with you, or at you, or you're spying."
"That's your paranoia speaking."
He took a sip from the water bottle. "Eavesdropper," he said between sips, and then spilled some water on his chest. "Nooo," he said, his tone devoid of urgency.
Clark chuckled. "Batman, graceful creature of the night, ladies and gentleman."
"Shut up." He let the water dangle by his side again. "You should get some sleep."
"Yeah," Clark agreed, slumping back into his chair, one of his knees bumping into Bruce's legs. "I don't feel like going home, though. Too much effort."
Bruce hummed, swiveling in his chair, softly hitting Clark's knees over and over. "Sleep in your quarters then."
"I should eat something first. I'm starving. What do you have here?"
Bruce hit him once more before he stopped swiveling. "You can't have anything that's here. If I run out I have to suit up again to go to the cafeteria."
"Sandwiches? it smells like sandwiches. And.. cookies? Alfred's, not the cafeteria's!" Clark sat up and sniffed the air.
"Nooo," Bruce droned again, but he didn't move from his sprawl in the chair.
Clark returned to the chair with a new bottle of water, two sandwiches and a plate with cookies. "Eat something," he said, handing one sandwich to the sulking man on the chair beside him.
Bruce grimaced and handed him the sandwich back. "I'm past the point where I can eat. Everything is gross now."
"If you're not sleeping you should eat something," Clark said, unwrapping his own sandwich.
Bruce groaned, disgusted, making him laugh around a mouthful of bread, then slowly pushed himself a few feet away from Clark. He uncapped the bottle of water and took another sip, this time without spilling it.
"No coffee?" Clark asked, looking around for the ubiquitous pot.
Bruce waved the bottle of water. "Not unless strictly necessary. I'm avoiding the coffee hangover for as long as I can. Ugh," he turned back to the monitors. "Just watching you eat is making me nauseous. I hate that."
Clark took a sip of water, the sensation of void in his stomach receding. "My least favorite part is the shivering," he said. "I'm just not used to being cold."
"From sleep deprivation, you mean? I thought you didn't really need to sleep."
"I'm not a robot," Clark said between sandwich bites.
"My least favorite part," Bruce said, ignoring his protest, "is when the shivering gets vicious, and it hurts."
Clark shook his head. "I should have expected you would catalog the phases of sleep deprivation."
"It's important," Bruce said by way of explanation. Clark nodded, chewing his sandwich. Everything was potentially important with Bruce. "For example, currently I shouldn't do anything that requires fine motor skills."
"Like drinking water?"
Bruce glared, then shrugged. "I have also been known to miss doorways and run into walls." He raised his hands in a clutching gesture. "It's like someone's shaking my inner ear like a snow ball."
"I hate hearing things," Clark said. "You know, it's hard for me to figure out what is real and what isn't, so what if the auditory hallucination is actually my hearing flaring up? I end up checking the sounds out, and then I can't find the source.
"You get visual hallucinations too?"
"Not really. Well, I don't think so. But my vision can get out of control and I start seeing... things."
"Like what?"
"Usually microscopic things. Or..." He shifted, feeling a bit uncomfortable. "I can see auras. Sometimes it gets very intense when I am tired. Very colorful."
Bruce laughed. "Psychedelic vision?"
"They're not a hallucination. It's just that I can't seem to shift my vision back to normal." He thought about it for a moment. "I guess it does look a bit psychedelic."
"I didn't know you could see auras. You never mentioned it before."
He frowned. "I don't like using it on people too much. It seems too intrusive."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "More intrusive than x-rays?"
"Well, I can see life energy. But feelings can shift the flux of energy, so I can tell how someone is feeling and... Well, you know, when you pair the shifts in energy with other information, like heartbeats and respiration and..." he gestured with his hands. "It ends up giving away too much, and since it's something I can shift off instead of just tune out, I just try not to spy on people's feelings."
"Huh. That's interesting. It could be useful in a fight."
Clark shrugged.
"Or during an interrogation," Bruce added.
"I can't read thoughts," Clark said. "So generally it wouldn't tell me much more than what body language and smell does. It's just with, ah, well guarded people that it tends to give away too much."
Bruce frowned. "Are you..." He paused, looking at Clark intently. "What does mine look like?"
"Right now?"
Bruce sat up, schooling his face. His heart rate stayed calm, but the glint in his eyes gave him away. "Yes."
"Uhm, it's a bit blue, but that's fading. Orange and red, and--"
"But what does it tell you?"
"You know, Bruce, I don't think this is a very good idea. I'm tired and--"
"Come on, tell me." He smiled, but it was the smile of a hunter.
"You're not easy to read," Clark said stubbornly.
"Clark," he said, and his voice was velvet, soft and compelling on the surface, cold steel underneath. "Please, humor me."
He sighed and gave in, staring at the fluxing colors around the being of light in front of him. "You're alarmed," Clark said. "And a little afraid, maybe? Why are you afraid?" He asked, confused. "I thought you would be mad."
Bruce didn't say anything for a couple of seconds. A new shade started to flow, tentative twirls of a color Clark didn't know the name for in any Earth language. Mz'haai, the color of music crystals in Krypton.
Clark cleared his throat. "If you're trying to control your aura so it can't be read, that's... probably not the best way to mask it."
The mz'haai twirls contracted, almost disappearing inside the central source of light, and the colors of alarm shone brighter for a moment. Clark shifted back to normal vision. Bruce was eyeing him carefully, his heartbeat speeding up a little.
"See, I told you it wasn't the best of ideas."
Bruce looked away, shifting his gaze back to the monitors.
Clark felt uncomfortable, but he didn't want to leave the monitor room like that, after... not after that. He had never touched a music crystal, there weren't any in the Fortress. Those had been rare in Krypton, and only the most skilled masters of the art guild were allowed to shape them and hone them.
It was a labor of love, one that permeated the crystal with emotion. Thus the color.
Clark bit his lower lip, not looking at Bruce. The color was... he wondered if it would sing, if he touched it. Wondered if he could give it shape, stroke it and enflame it, and...
"I think it's unfair," Bruce said, his voice level.
Clark lifted his gaze to look at him. Bruce was still looking intently at the monitors. "What is?"
"That you can know for sure and I have to wonder."
A shiver went through Clark's back. Bruce turned to look at him sideways, blue eyes guarded. It wasn't even a leap of faith, Clark realized, he had seen it and still, he felt his heart beat so hard that it drowned the sounds of the Watchtower.
Mz'haai, the color of love that is worked for, love that is groomed, love that won't fade. Love that sings in jubilation in the hands of the crafter. Love like a work of art.
"I'm not sure it's much of a mystery," Clark said, feeling like everything had shifted around him. Acknowledgments that changed everything. "At the very least, you... suspected."
Bruce moved his chair closer to Clark and then leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his chin resting on his thumbs. He looked at Clark for a long time, his ragged look only making his gaze seem more intense.
It was hard to guess what was going through his mind. The stillness behind winter blue eyes made him feel nervous, like it was Bruce who could read his every emotion, see the true colors of his heart. He took a deep breath, the exhaustion forgotten.
Clark reached out, brushing back dark bangs of hair, silky and soft against his fingers. Bruce closed his eyes and leaned towards his touch. For a moment he looked terrifyingly vulnerable, like a wounded animal, but Clark knew just how dangerous that could be. Cornered, with no way to go but forward, no room for error. It was terrifying.
The alarm started beeping, startling them both. Bruce chuckled, opening his eyes, and turned to plant a kiss on the palm of Clark's hand before pulling away towards the station. Clark sat still, feeling his heart racing, his hand burning like it had been branded. Love forged in the fire of passion, tempered with time, made bright by devotion. Flawed and unique, the crystals reflecting light in each fissure, all the colors caught in light charged with emotion.
Bruce was busy with the code, his attention diverted, and this could be it, Clark realized. He could stand up and clasp his friend's shoulder and leave, and it would all stay the way it was, except he would know, and maybe Bruce would know -he had to know, he had to- and they would smile at each other at the right times, and not say a word about this until it was too late, if ever.
It would be so easy.
It would also be just impossible. He would wonder, constantly, what it would be like to touch the heart of mz'haai, if he could bind himself to it even if he was not a crafter, if Bruce would sing, his body humming the most enthralling of songs as he touched him, if his smile would change, if those eyes he knew so well would darken with warmth, with desire, with joy.
He stood up, the ghost feeling of Bruce's lips still making his palm tingle. He saw an almost imperceptible change in the set of his friend's shoulders, heard the smallest of sighs. Bruce thought he was leaving.
He stood behind the womb chair, waiting for Bruce to stop typing, knowing he could not do what he wanted until the job was done -the story of their lives. They would always have to sacrifice each other for the sake of who they were, for what they did for the others who needed them.
Knowingly and willingly, Clark waited.
Bruce stopped typing and Clark moved closer, burying a hand in dark locks and leaning down, closing the distance between them. Bruce's lips met his with a sharp intake of breath, clumsily reaching out for Clark, half trying to pull him down to his level, half trying to pull himself up. Clark pulled a step back, never breaking the kiss, helping Bruce to his feet. Their bodies met and Bruce was warm and solid, hard muscle under the thin fabrics. He pulled him closer, tipping his head back, one hand resting on the small of his back. Bruce arched against him, powerful hands clutching his neck, his hair, and Clark shivered. Bruce grew bolder by his reaction, his tongue finding Clark's, his heartbeat loud like tribal drums in Clark's ears. His own heart echoed him, a single song composed of two escalating rhythms. Bruce pulled back for breath, and Clark opened his eyes, feeling intoxicated. Bruce was ablaze with light, color like wings enfolding them. He closed his eyes again and smiled; Bruce was kissing him again, and again, and again.
Color and song entwined, each note a moan, a sigh, a brush of a hand over clothes, a pause for breathing. It was flawed and clumsy and it was better every time, each kiss a promise made and kept.
The alarm started beeping again.
They parted and Bruce threw his head back, growling with frustration. "I'm not going anywhere," Clark said.
Bruce sat down in his chair, breathing hard, and glanced at him as before he started to type. "I'm sorry."
Clark sat down too, pulling his chair closer and grabbing his bottle of water. "I'm not," he said.
"Not about that," Bruce said without looking at him, a small smile touching his lips. "Never about that."
Clark laid back on his chair, looking at him. He raised a hand, unable not to touch Bruce, not now that he could, playing with the short curls on the back of his neck. He saw his own aura, twirls of colors curling around Bruce's energy, gold for joy and emerald for delight and mz'haai for love, flawed and unique, love like a work of art.
Beta by the awesome mithen and damos team! of doooom!
Title: True Colors
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Superman/Batman
Word Count: 3100+
Summary: Sleep deprived superheroes are apparently more inclined to smooching.
"Thanks, everyone," Superman said, addressing the Justice League team as he climbed down from the teleport bay. "Let's hope we have a quiet night."
Wally ran past him, headed towards the cafeteria. Clark stretched, walking towards the monitor womb to check on what he had missed since the team had departed for the deep space mission. He hadn't expected to be gone for so long, but GL had asked for assistance with a natural disaster in one of the planets of the sector, and the Justice League had responded. It was always interesting to work with the Corps; with so much structured power and so many alien operatives, they made Clark feel more rooted to Earth, a confirmation that he really belonged there. It was a comforting feeling.
He paused by the door to the monitor room. It was locked. He frowned, punching in his overriding code. The door didn't budge. What...?
"Yes?" A low voice growled in his ear.
He touched his commlink. "Batman, are you in the monitor room?"
"Yes?" Batman repeated.
"Why is the door locked?"
"I'm busy."
Clark frowned. "What do you mean, you're busy? Are you alone in there?"
An amused chuckle. Clark's frown deepened. "I am. I'm not that kind of busy," he paused, and the chuckle turned into a fuller laugh. "I mean, I'm alone. Doing monitor duty. Among other things."
Clark was unnerved. Batman sounded... not right. "Why is my override not working?"
"Hmm? It should be."
Clark punched his code again. This time it cleared, and he walked into the room, puzzled. "It didn't work just a moment ago."
He could see the security history being opened, and saw the video of himself entering the code the first time. "You got it wrong," Batman's voice came from behind a tall chair that dominated the monitor womb.
Clark saw his own image punch the wrong number, and then the image ran backwards, and then again, the wrong number, and then again backwards... "Okay, I get it. I guess I'm more tired than I thought I was..." He pulled one of the chairs closer to the monitors. "So, what's up? Fill me in."
Batman turned his chair a bit towards him, and Clark saw him for the first time. He was wearing sweat pants and a long sleeved shirt, not the Batman suit, and he was uncowled. He looked worn, his eyes red. "Shouldn't you get some rest?" Bruce said, preempting the words about to leave Clark's mouth.
"Right back at you. You look like you haven't slept in days."
" You look like you haven't slept in days and like you spent those days providing disaster relief someplace far away from proper food and running water."
Clark shrugged and pointed at him, slumped in the chair in civilian clothes. "I guess that's why the door is locked."
Bruce turned his chair back to the central computer, growling in affirmative fashion. "You should head to Metropolis, take care of yourself, and let me work."
"The faster you fill me in, the faster I'll be gone," Clark said moodily. He was tired and hungry, but there were other things to take care of and none of them was 'argue with Batman'.
"Fine. There was a flood in Bangladesh. Not as bad as the last one. It's been dealt with. A couple of minor earthquakes in Japan. An attack on Chicago by Weather Wizard," he paused as an alarm rang off and a screen popped in one of the monitors, and he started to write, seemingly forgetting about Clark.
"All taken care of?" Clark prompted him.
Bruce made a neutral noise, still typing.
Clark supposed there weren't any emergencies or Bruce would have mentioned them. He kept looking at the other man, the way his hair fell over his eyes, dark bangs hiding his eyes entirely from Clark. He felt the itch to push it back, but Bruce ran a hand through his hair just as he thought of it, without much effect. His hair fell back over his eyes.
Clark relaxed in his chair, throwing his weight back. He was too tired to get up and head to Metropolis just now, going through the teleporters and then flying to his apartment, taking a shower... changing his clothes... getting something to eat. It all seemed like too much work.
"What are you working on?" he asked, knowing he would probably not get an answer. Bruce tended to block everything out when he was busy.
"Hnn," he mumbled after a moment. "Updating."
Clark raised an eyebrow. "What, the system?"
Bruce nodded slowly.
"All of it?"
Bruce nodded again, taking a couple of more seconds to answer this time.
"Isn't it dangerous, with everything running?"
Bruce paused and looked at him from the corner of his eyes. "Well, I can't very well shut down the Watchtower, now can I?"
Clark raised an eyebrow. "So...?"
Bruce leaned back in his chair, the code window gone now. "Manual input. Waiting until there's a pause in activity in the system. Sort of..." he stretched one hand for the water bottle on the console, without reaching it. Clark handed it to him. "Planned service blackouts. Two minutes long, tops."
"And you have been doing this since we left?"
"Hrm. Yes. Terrific will take over tomorrow."
Clark looked horrified. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Bruce said, the water bottle dangling from his hand without touching the floor. "We were having twelve hour shifts, but then there was a flood in Bangladesh..." He shrugged. "I don't mind. I've been sleeping between alarms. Some of the time windows are a couple of hours long."
"That's... a week of monitor duty," Clark said with a grimace. "No wonder you sounded off in the commlink."
"What?"
"Just now, when I was trying to get in. You were laughing by yourself. You don't usually do that."
Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, the wolfish eyes regarding him warily. "Now, how would you know that? If I'm alone, then you don't know if I do it or not. And if you're listening, then I'm either laughing with you, or at you, or you're spying."
"That's your paranoia speaking."
He took a sip from the water bottle. "Eavesdropper," he said between sips, and then spilled some water on his chest. "Nooo," he said, his tone devoid of urgency.
Clark chuckled. "Batman, graceful creature of the night, ladies and gentleman."
"Shut up." He let the water dangle by his side again. "You should get some sleep."
"Yeah," Clark agreed, slumping back into his chair, one of his knees bumping into Bruce's legs. "I don't feel like going home, though. Too much effort."
Bruce hummed, swiveling in his chair, softly hitting Clark's knees over and over. "Sleep in your quarters then."
"I should eat something first. I'm starving. What do you have here?"
Bruce hit him once more before he stopped swiveling. "You can't have anything that's here. If I run out I have to suit up again to go to the cafeteria."
"Sandwiches? it smells like sandwiches. And.. cookies? Alfred's, not the cafeteria's!" Clark sat up and sniffed the air.
"Nooo," Bruce droned again, but he didn't move from his sprawl in the chair.
Clark returned to the chair with a new bottle of water, two sandwiches and a plate with cookies. "Eat something," he said, handing one sandwich to the sulking man on the chair beside him.
Bruce grimaced and handed him the sandwich back. "I'm past the point where I can eat. Everything is gross now."
"If you're not sleeping you should eat something," Clark said, unwrapping his own sandwich.
Bruce groaned, disgusted, making him laugh around a mouthful of bread, then slowly pushed himself a few feet away from Clark. He uncapped the bottle of water and took another sip, this time without spilling it.
"No coffee?" Clark asked, looking around for the ubiquitous pot.
Bruce waved the bottle of water. "Not unless strictly necessary. I'm avoiding the coffee hangover for as long as I can. Ugh," he turned back to the monitors. "Just watching you eat is making me nauseous. I hate that."
Clark took a sip of water, the sensation of void in his stomach receding. "My least favorite part is the shivering," he said. "I'm just not used to being cold."
"From sleep deprivation, you mean? I thought you didn't really need to sleep."
"I'm not a robot," Clark said between sandwich bites.
"My least favorite part," Bruce said, ignoring his protest, "is when the shivering gets vicious, and it hurts."
Clark shook his head. "I should have expected you would catalog the phases of sleep deprivation."
"It's important," Bruce said by way of explanation. Clark nodded, chewing his sandwich. Everything was potentially important with Bruce. "For example, currently I shouldn't do anything that requires fine motor skills."
"Like drinking water?"
Bruce glared, then shrugged. "I have also been known to miss doorways and run into walls." He raised his hands in a clutching gesture. "It's like someone's shaking my inner ear like a snow ball."
"I hate hearing things," Clark said. "You know, it's hard for me to figure out what is real and what isn't, so what if the auditory hallucination is actually my hearing flaring up? I end up checking the sounds out, and then I can't find the source.
"You get visual hallucinations too?"
"Not really. Well, I don't think so. But my vision can get out of control and I start seeing... things."
"Like what?"
"Usually microscopic things. Or..." He shifted, feeling a bit uncomfortable. "I can see auras. Sometimes it gets very intense when I am tired. Very colorful."
Bruce laughed. "Psychedelic vision?"
"They're not a hallucination. It's just that I can't seem to shift my vision back to normal." He thought about it for a moment. "I guess it does look a bit psychedelic."
"I didn't know you could see auras. You never mentioned it before."
He frowned. "I don't like using it on people too much. It seems too intrusive."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "More intrusive than x-rays?"
"Well, I can see life energy. But feelings can shift the flux of energy, so I can tell how someone is feeling and... Well, you know, when you pair the shifts in energy with other information, like heartbeats and respiration and..." he gestured with his hands. "It ends up giving away too much, and since it's something I can shift off instead of just tune out, I just try not to spy on people's feelings."
"Huh. That's interesting. It could be useful in a fight."
Clark shrugged.
"Or during an interrogation," Bruce added.
"I can't read thoughts," Clark said. "So generally it wouldn't tell me much more than what body language and smell does. It's just with, ah, well guarded people that it tends to give away too much."
Bruce frowned. "Are you..." He paused, looking at Clark intently. "What does mine look like?"
"Right now?"
Bruce sat up, schooling his face. His heart rate stayed calm, but the glint in his eyes gave him away. "Yes."
"Uhm, it's a bit blue, but that's fading. Orange and red, and--"
"But what does it tell you?"
"You know, Bruce, I don't think this is a very good idea. I'm tired and--"
"Come on, tell me." He smiled, but it was the smile of a hunter.
"You're not easy to read," Clark said stubbornly.
"Clark," he said, and his voice was velvet, soft and compelling on the surface, cold steel underneath. "Please, humor me."
He sighed and gave in, staring at the fluxing colors around the being of light in front of him. "You're alarmed," Clark said. "And a little afraid, maybe? Why are you afraid?" He asked, confused. "I thought you would be mad."
Bruce didn't say anything for a couple of seconds. A new shade started to flow, tentative twirls of a color Clark didn't know the name for in any Earth language. Mz'haai, the color of music crystals in Krypton.
Clark cleared his throat. "If you're trying to control your aura so it can't be read, that's... probably not the best way to mask it."
The mz'haai twirls contracted, almost disappearing inside the central source of light, and the colors of alarm shone brighter for a moment. Clark shifted back to normal vision. Bruce was eyeing him carefully, his heartbeat speeding up a little.
"See, I told you it wasn't the best of ideas."
Bruce looked away, shifting his gaze back to the monitors.
Clark felt uncomfortable, but he didn't want to leave the monitor room like that, after... not after that. He had never touched a music crystal, there weren't any in the Fortress. Those had been rare in Krypton, and only the most skilled masters of the art guild were allowed to shape them and hone them.
It was a labor of love, one that permeated the crystal with emotion. Thus the color.
Clark bit his lower lip, not looking at Bruce. The color was... he wondered if it would sing, if he touched it. Wondered if he could give it shape, stroke it and enflame it, and...
"I think it's unfair," Bruce said, his voice level.
Clark lifted his gaze to look at him. Bruce was still looking intently at the monitors. "What is?"
"That you can know for sure and I have to wonder."
A shiver went through Clark's back. Bruce turned to look at him sideways, blue eyes guarded. It wasn't even a leap of faith, Clark realized, he had seen it and still, he felt his heart beat so hard that it drowned the sounds of the Watchtower.
Mz'haai, the color of love that is worked for, love that is groomed, love that won't fade. Love that sings in jubilation in the hands of the crafter. Love like a work of art.
"I'm not sure it's much of a mystery," Clark said, feeling like everything had shifted around him. Acknowledgments that changed everything. "At the very least, you... suspected."
Bruce moved his chair closer to Clark and then leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his chin resting on his thumbs. He looked at Clark for a long time, his ragged look only making his gaze seem more intense.
It was hard to guess what was going through his mind. The stillness behind winter blue eyes made him feel nervous, like it was Bruce who could read his every emotion, see the true colors of his heart. He took a deep breath, the exhaustion forgotten.
Clark reached out, brushing back dark bangs of hair, silky and soft against his fingers. Bruce closed his eyes and leaned towards his touch. For a moment he looked terrifyingly vulnerable, like a wounded animal, but Clark knew just how dangerous that could be. Cornered, with no way to go but forward, no room for error. It was terrifying.
The alarm started beeping, startling them both. Bruce chuckled, opening his eyes, and turned to plant a kiss on the palm of Clark's hand before pulling away towards the station. Clark sat still, feeling his heart racing, his hand burning like it had been branded. Love forged in the fire of passion, tempered with time, made bright by devotion. Flawed and unique, the crystals reflecting light in each fissure, all the colors caught in light charged with emotion.
Bruce was busy with the code, his attention diverted, and this could be it, Clark realized. He could stand up and clasp his friend's shoulder and leave, and it would all stay the way it was, except he would know, and maybe Bruce would know -he had to know, he had to- and they would smile at each other at the right times, and not say a word about this until it was too late, if ever.
It would be so easy.
It would also be just impossible. He would wonder, constantly, what it would be like to touch the heart of mz'haai, if he could bind himself to it even if he was not a crafter, if Bruce would sing, his body humming the most enthralling of songs as he touched him, if his smile would change, if those eyes he knew so well would darken with warmth, with desire, with joy.
He stood up, the ghost feeling of Bruce's lips still making his palm tingle. He saw an almost imperceptible change in the set of his friend's shoulders, heard the smallest of sighs. Bruce thought he was leaving.
He stood behind the womb chair, waiting for Bruce to stop typing, knowing he could not do what he wanted until the job was done -the story of their lives. They would always have to sacrifice each other for the sake of who they were, for what they did for the others who needed them.
Knowingly and willingly, Clark waited.
Bruce stopped typing and Clark moved closer, burying a hand in dark locks and leaning down, closing the distance between them. Bruce's lips met his with a sharp intake of breath, clumsily reaching out for Clark, half trying to pull him down to his level, half trying to pull himself up. Clark pulled a step back, never breaking the kiss, helping Bruce to his feet. Their bodies met and Bruce was warm and solid, hard muscle under the thin fabrics. He pulled him closer, tipping his head back, one hand resting on the small of his back. Bruce arched against him, powerful hands clutching his neck, his hair, and Clark shivered. Bruce grew bolder by his reaction, his tongue finding Clark's, his heartbeat loud like tribal drums in Clark's ears. His own heart echoed him, a single song composed of two escalating rhythms. Bruce pulled back for breath, and Clark opened his eyes, feeling intoxicated. Bruce was ablaze with light, color like wings enfolding them. He closed his eyes again and smiled; Bruce was kissing him again, and again, and again.
Color and song entwined, each note a moan, a sigh, a brush of a hand over clothes, a pause for breathing. It was flawed and clumsy and it was better every time, each kiss a promise made and kept.
The alarm started beeping again.
They parted and Bruce threw his head back, growling with frustration. "I'm not going anywhere," Clark said.
Bruce sat down in his chair, breathing hard, and glanced at him as before he started to type. "I'm sorry."
Clark sat down too, pulling his chair closer and grabbing his bottle of water. "I'm not," he said.
"Not about that," Bruce said without looking at him, a small smile touching his lips. "Never about that."
Clark laid back on his chair, looking at him. He raised a hand, unable not to touch Bruce, not now that he could, playing with the short curls on the back of his neck. He saw his own aura, twirls of colors curling around Bruce's energy, gold for joy and emerald for delight and mz'haai for love, flawed and unique, love like a work of art.