(FIC) Reflections of the Sun (Superman/Batman, PG-13)
I am finally done with my music prompts stories! I have this and another one that I'll post later, but I'm done! woo! I think this is about the first time I finish a prompt challenge o_O In what, 5 years? eeep!
Title: Reflections of the Sun
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Clark/Bruce, Dick, Damian, Alfred, Black Hand
Word Count: 5000+
Summary: Four time Clark didn't meet Bruce, and one he did.
References/Spoilers: For Batman 685 (for the fate of Hush), Blackest Night #3 (for Black Lantern Batman), World's Finest #4 (for the first Dick!Batman and Superman team up), Batman and Robin #9 (for Clone!Batman) and Batman and Robin #10 (for Oberon Sexton.)
For red_planet31 and the song 'Raining Again' by Moby. Beta and other amazing feats performed by mithen!! :D
Never know but nothing less
Couldn't see that I have guessed
Couldn't see, couldn't stay away
I never even stopped to dream and
That I'd see anything and
The world is coming out so cold
"We didn't know what else to do with him. And now that Bruce is... gone, we thought... well. I think we can use him to keep the pretense of Bruce being around, at least for a while." Dick turned his chair from the monitor to face Clark. Superman. The set of his shoulders and the intensity of his gaze made it clear it wasn't Clark with him down here in the cave.
"How long?" Superman said, his voice clipped. "How long have you had him locked up?"
"About a week now. He reads, mostly." The silence felt charged, almost accusing. "I mean, what else could we have done with him? We can't let Hush walk around with Bruce's face unsupervised."
"That's not Bruce's face. They look nothing alike."
Dick raised an eyebrow, looking at the most recent photos in Hush's file. Bruce's face -slightly off, yes, the thin scars of the plastic surgery giving his ruse away, and the bone structure wasn't quite the same- stared at him from the monitors. "Well, it's a close match. Once the swelling from the surgery goes down, and with some make up, he could fool a lot of people."
Superman didn't say anything, his jaw tightly set.
"You don't approve of our plan," Dick said.
"Your plan--" Superman paused, his voice wavering for a second. He breathed deep, and as he exhaled a lot of the tension seemed to leave his body. "Your plan seems workable. For a while, at least. Keeping Batman unconnected to Bruce Wayne is a good idea. It would... please him." He turned to look at Dick, his eyes finally leaving the feeds monitoring Hush in the penthouse cell.
Tommy was lying on the bed, wearing only slacks, reading a book. Aristotle, of course. Dick wanted to shake Hush sometimes, see if he could make him break from this routine that made for incredibly boring surveillance.
"I should leave."
"Would you like to join us for dinner? Alfred's making enough lasagna to feed a battalion."
"At the penthouse?"
"Yeah, we're-"
"No. I can't. I... would rather not." A tight smile. "Thank you for the offer." Clark's eyes seemed to search Dick's face for something, an elusive emotion clouding the azure alien eyes. "You take care of yourself, okay? Don't let the cowl weight you down. It can be unbearable if you let it."
"I don't plan to take it up. We still don't know what we'll do about that."
Clark nodded. "Good. He never wanted any of you to-- to become him. Dick," he said, his voice and body language shifting back into Superman's. "I'm going to leave for a while. I need to know you'll take care of yourself and your family. And... that you won't let that that man pretending to be Bruce get to you. Promise me you'll be careful."
Dick stood up and stretched a hand towards Superman, who took it in a steady shake. "I promise. You take care too, Clark, okay? We're gonna miss you around here."
Another tight smile. Dick tightened his hold on Clark's hand, wanting to offer some reassurance to his friend.
"If you need help, call me. I'll come."
"I know," Dick said, smiling. "Thank you."
Clark nodded once, his lips a thin line as he stared at the surveillance feed one last time.
Hush was asleep, his dark-dyed hair tousled against the pillow, the book forgotten by his side. Dick winced. He looked too much like Bruce, it was unnerving.
Superman left for New Krypton.
--
Nothing here but nothing less
Cold heart is stuck in this
Couldn't say the kindest words we knew
Everything I tried to say but
no one listens anyway
I had to give up everything that I knew
Black Hand smiled, enjoying an infinite stillness inside his chest where his heart used to be. He felt calm, and-- not happy. Happy was not the right word, of course, because he was dead, and the dead might feed on the emotions of others, but they didn't feel anything themselves.
To be dead was to be truly at peace.
But because this was all he had ever wanted when he was alive, it was hard not to think he was happy. A ghost-feeling, then, the way people could feel ghost limbs.
Bruce Wayne of Earth.
Rise.
The ring came to life as soon as the new Black Lantern manifested, the skull Black Hand had been carrying lovingly parting from his embrace and filling in, flesh and bones being recreated by the ring, covering the dead simulacrum with pale, ruddy skin, the smell of rot overwhelming.
Black Hand felt gripped by desire, his calm boiling in an instant, and his smile disappeared. The dead should not feel so much, he thought. Shouldn't want so much.
::Emotional tether manifested::
He stared as the heroes looked at the new Black Lantern with shock, his ring providing him with color coded information of their emotions. Mostly fear and hope, yellow and blue dominating their auras.
Violet around the edges of blue, love at the edges of their hope.
He smiled again. The living were so predictable. Always being tugged by their emotions, their inner turmoil robbing them of the clarity and peace of nothingness.
"Batman?" Kid Flash. Impulse. Whoever he was now. Children. So unruly, so out of control. But they were nowhere near as pitiable as...
"Bruce?" Superman stood there, his voice a pained whisper, side by side with Wonder Woman, their eyes wide and horrified. Fear. Hope. Rage.
Love. Violet so bright it twisted and turned inside them, burning like fire.
The two great superheroes, the Titans of Earth, reduced to this. To feeling, uncontrollably, to hoping and wishing and fearing that this one human would return to them, when it was them who would be returning to the embrace of Nekron, to the endless peace of Death.
The Black Lantern Bruce Wayne spewed more black rings at the command of Nekron, links to the darkness at the center of the universe.
Each ring a kiss of Death.
The rings flew to ones Nekron had kept from the great beyond before, to the ones that hadn't fully crossed over. A black kiss for Kid Flash, the exuberance of youth dispelled by decay.
A black kiss for Green Arrow, the passion for life extinguished at last.
Dark bloody kisses for all.
The ring reached Superman, who was still staring at the Black Lantern Bruce Wayne, his emotional state rendering his aura a chaos of color. Fear and rage Black Hand could understand. Hope he had expected.
It was the intensity of the love and the sparkles of orange -orange for avarice, the covet for what?- that baffled him.
Then, the ring took over Superman, and all the colors faded into gray, his last cry of pain lost in the stillness of death.
---
Nothing here but nothing less
Everything we both regret
Couldn't say the kindest words we knew
Cause it was winter time and
We wanted some more time and
We watched the girls try something new
Damian stood by their side, close enough to listen to their conversation, far enough to fade out of their attention. This was the first time Grayson had met Superman since he took the cape and cowl, and Damian could see how eager to please he was. He shook his head. His mentor was much too willing to share information and follow the alien's lead, even when it was clear the alien was distraught.
The tightness around his eyes, the lines around his mouth, the set of his jaw. Even as his eyes were kind and his tone was friendly, Damian could see it. A certain restraint, the concealment of pain.
Damian thought Grayson should insist on being addressed by his codename. Grayson was Batman when in uniform, Batman, not 'Dick'. It could so easily compromise them. But the alien had dropped the codename as soon as the battle has stopped, and Grayson hadn't protested.
If it wasn't because all other evidence -verbal statements, for the most part, since Damian hadn't seen much of the Kryptonian while he had been saddled with Batgirl- pointed to the opposite, Damian would venture the guess that Superman didn't like to see Grayson in the Batman uniform. But he seemed to approve of his performance, offering him congratulatory words. 'You fill the suit well, Dick. Bruce would be proud of you. I know I am.' The alien's words, not Damian's. Didn't leave much room for questioning his support.
And yet...
"Hey, it occurred to me that this was our first Superman/Batman team up," Grayson said cheerily as Superman -in a much more sensible battle suit, not his blue and red spandex- took for the skies, going back to New Krypton.
Superman's body tensed mid air, his smile tight as he waved back. "Better get used to it," he said, and Damian wasn't sure if he was telling that to Grayson or to himself. "These happen a lot."
Grayson smiled as the alien said goodbye and disappeared in the early night sky. But now Robin's curiosity was piqued, and he wondered if he ought to check the files of his father. Perhaps they would tell him more, like why the alien was so sure Damian's father had always trusted him, even when others doubted him, or why he mourned his loss in silence.
---
We didn't even stopped to see that
That It was breaking me and
the world is coming out so cold
What you want you couldn't get, you
Couldn't wait for something less, you
had to give up everything you knew
"Mind your step, sir," Alfred called back as he walked into the sealed lab. "Master Richard wishes he could be here with you, but Zsasz has him and young master Damian occupied for the night."
"It's okay, Alfred. I understand."
Alfred pulled the slab drawer and stood aside, waiting for any indications that he should leave. Normally, he would step back while his caped charges worked, lingering only to offer a sounding board to theories or fulfill any requests -as long as they were sensible requests, unlike young master Damian's cries for a sword or an armory- but he had a personal stake with the body on the slab.
If that body wasn't Bruce Wayne's -as it now appeared to be the case- that meant they had no idea of what had happened to him. It was even possible to hope that he might be alive, away from his family and his home. And the first clue as to what possible end Bruce could have had was this body on the slab, this not-Bruce, not-Batman, a rotting carcass that had stammered and screamed asking about its purpose, decrying the unfairness of its life.
"Where are the security feeds you told me about?" Clark asked, taking off his glasses. Superman breaching the Penthouse would be too dangerous, especially considering Batwoman might have it under surveillance.
"They are all loaded in the computer, sir, if you want to watch them."
Clark nodded once as he got closer to the slab and opened the body bag, the stench of the body filling the room despite the cold drawer.
"Dick did the autopsy?"
"I did, sir," Alfred said, covering his mouth with a surgical mask.
Clark shook his head, turning to Alfred. "Of course, I'm sorry. Alfred, I know this can't be easy for you, if you would like..."
When it was clear Clark wasn't going to finish his sentences, Alfred shook his head slightly. "Carry on, sir. I would rather be of assistance, if you have any questions. The results of the autopsy are right here," he said, handing Clark a board with notes.
"The scarring. I should have seen it before..."
"It was impossible to tell from the body you delivered to us, Master Kent. The burns were so extensive, we couldn't get much information from it the first time around. But after the Lazarus Pit, well. I have wondered if Master Bruce's scars would disappear in a Pit due to its healing properties, but short of questioning Ra's al Ghul, it's hard to tell."
"No scars," Clark said again, his voice soft, almost wondering. "Dental record?"
"On this body, perfect, sir. Master Bruce had-"
"Three bridges and four crowns. I remember."
"Extensive dental work, yes. No evidence of any fractures either."
Clark smiled, a sad smile. "He pushed the line a lot." He turned towards the monitors. "I want to see the feeds."
Alfred ran the videos, the screens coming to life with the scenes of the battle.
"Y do oll mi thots turn 2 smashed glass wen I try 2 think? unnh.. I give my oll an n return? mi reward? Gunshots cracking inside mi skul! Day n nite!"
Alfred looked away. He had seen the real deal, the simulacrum, walking around the penthouse, attacking him and young master Damian, spilling vitriol about the young Robin, mad and hurting like a beast. He didn't need to watch it again.
"...n I sez wot wot duz it take 2 stop the gunshots n city's bug blak voice reply... the sacrifice of a sun!"
The sounds of the feed stopped. Alfred turned towards his guest, but Clark wasn't looking at the computer anymore.
"Damian is... a strong young man."
"Very much, sir."
"He handled that pretty well."
"Master Richard has been a good influence on him, I believe."
"I'm sure. That was..." Clark paused, then turned to look back at Alfred, stepping away from the body. "That was a nightmare come to life. That wasn't Bruce."
Alfred nodded. "Any idea of what it was, sir?"
"I've looked again, and the DNA is the same. It's a perfect copy of Bruce's body, down to the molecular level. But it's not Bruce. 'The sacrifice of a sun', what do you think he meant, Alfred?"
"It seemed to refer to young master Damian at that moment."
"Yes. Well, I'm not so sure. What would it take to strip from Bruce the memories of the alley? They were the fire that drove Bruce forward."
"What started it, yes, Master Kent, but I wouldn't say it was his drive. Just, the detonation of that drive."
"Those memories -all his memories, of everything- that was the fire. The sacrifice of a sun. To get rid of the bullets he had to get rid of everything. All of his memories."
"Who did? Master Bruce?"
"No. I don't know. But... the clone is too perfect, and Bruce was missing for long before we took down Darkseid. Anything could have happened. The clone mentions others being born from jars of glass, others born dead. But this was the only body we found, and no traces of any birthing matrix or anything else."
"You suggest someone planted this body, and... what, sacrificed the memories of Master Bruce?"
Clark sighed, pushing his hair back. "I don't know. I don't know, and I wish I did, Alfred. So I could find him."
Alfred nodded, slowly. He knew by experience that the important questions didn't have easy answers.
"I should destroy the body."
"Excuse me?"
"The body. I should cremate it. You already did the autopsy, and I can tell you anything you want about it. It won't help anymore, to have it stored. And it could... become trouble. Again."
Alfred stared at the body over the slab, the greenish-gray decomposing flesh. He nodded once. "Go ahead, sir. I shall wait for you upstairs."
Alfred closed the door, leaving Clark alone to burn the remains of the shadow of his eclipsed sun.
---
Sadness like water raining down
Raining down, raining down, raining down
"Ah, morning," he said, looking at the figure standing in the middle of his studio. "How can I be of service?"
Superman uncrossed his arms, his feet touching the floor softly. His expression was calm and controlled -too controlled, Oberon noted. Supernaturally still, not even the rise and fall of breathing disturbing his frame.
"I've-- heard about you." Superman swallowed, Adam's apple moving slowly up and down. Oberon felt strangely transfixed by the movement.
"I didn't know my activities could draw attention from such as you."
"Robin contacted me. He said..."
"Yes?" Oberon prompted him, waiting with infinite patience. Time was something that didn't make much sense to him anymore. Some things had time frames, an urgency to them, but not the pursuit of knowledge. Knowledge was timeless.
"I almost didn't want to believe it. I couldn't stand another fluke." Another deep breath, a charged pause. "But he was right. Bruce."
Oberon stared at the colorful figure, his breathing almost frantic as it approached him, crossing the room in two strides, arms rising as if to hold him. Oberon stood back, a single step, and tilted his head questioningly. "A moment, please. Explain to me what Robin told you about me."
Superman stopped as if he had been struck by lightning, the nascent joy on his face shattering. "Bruce. Please." He paused, gathering himself. "Robin said... you raised his suspicions. He said you were a stranger in Gotham, but that you knew the city intimately. That you were a detective, and could hold your ground perfectly well in a fight against the League of Assassins."
"I don't understand how this is suspicious."
"You cover yourself, head to toe, a full face mask. He has never seen your eyes. They investigated you, but couldn't find anything about you. Who you are. What you do for a living. Where do you get your funding. What you look like. What's your interest in helping them."
"I see."
"Bruce. Please."
"My name is Oberon Sexton," he said, simply.
Superman took a step back, staring at him, narrowing his eyes. There was a slight muscle shift, and he was looking at him, using one of his many visions to scan him. Oberon pushed his glasses up his nose, waiting for the rude intrusion on his privacy to be over. It didn't really matter, but it was rude, to look without asking.
"Your name is Bruce Wayne," Superman said after a moment, his voice back under control, his face serious. His frown creased his brows in peculiar ways, an expression the media never showed of the superhero. "You were born the 19th of February, in Gotham's Sacred Heart, 39 years ago. You're the son of--"
"Thomas Wayne and Martha Kane. I am not Bruce Wayne."
"Bruce."
"I can't be Bruce Wayne. He lives in the Wayne Tower's penthouse with his sons and his butler. I've seen him. Actually, I've been investigating a plot to kill him." Oberon frowned as he heard a sound rise around them. The static. It was here again. He looked around the apartment, trying to pinpoint its location. Quite literally, the static had been driving him mad for... months. Years. It was hard to tell. The static seemed to be timeless, as well.
"Oberon!"
"Yes?"
"You-- are you okay?"
Oberon turned back to look at Superman, who was a lot closer again. He didn't notice him moving. The static. It was the static's fault. It was so distracting.
"Yes, of course. As I was telling you, I am not Bruce Wayne. I can understand Robin's suspicions about me, but I fail to see the connection." He pushed his glasses up again, the red tinted glasses turning every moment into a perpetual sunset.
"What's your name? Your real name."
"Oberon Sexton."
"No. Oberon Sexton doesn't exist. He doesn't have a birth certificate, not here in Gotham, not anywhere in the US. Where were you born?"
Oberon took a moment to think about it, feeling the static raise around them like waves. "Gotham."
"When? Where? In a hospital? In a clinic, in your home? Who were your parents?"
The corner. The static was coming from the corner of the studio, next to the window overlooking the theater district. He walked towards it, looking for the source of the sound. It was growing louder.
"Oberon."
"I would love to answer your questions, but I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."
"No, no you're not. Bruce. Please, look at me."
"It's here. Perhaps... under the floor. Possibly some kind of device. How can you stand it?"
"Stand what?" Superman walked to stand beside him, looking at the corner where the static was coming from. The sound diminished slightly, as if fearing their proximity.
"It's so distracting. Gives me a headache, at the best of times. Shh, you see? It quiets. It's frightened. Of you, you think?"
Oberon turned to look at the demigod in his studio, the light coming in through the windows washing them both from the chest down. Another shift around Superman's eyes, looking around his home, looking for the source of the static. Oberon smiled under the mask. Good luck with that. He had stripped the loft bare and never found anything. The static followed him everywhere, at the most unexpected of times it would start buzzing, demanding his attention.
His head hurt.
"There's nothing here," Superman said slowly. "You... hear something? See something?"
"Static. Quite loud. You don't... hear it?" Oberon felt doubt for the first time in... forever. Was the static only targeted to him? If Superman couldn't hear it... could it be magic? a curse? He had crossed paths with magicians in the past, he knew he had, though at the moment, he couldn't remember exactly when. The static was crashing like waves.
"Oberon. Take your mask off."
He turned around, stepping away from the corner of the room, trying to get away from the unbearable crescendo. He opened the windows, letting the city in. The cacophony always helped to drown the static; nothing else ever did. He couldn't leave Gotham, the city was the only thing between him and the static-born madness.
"I'm sorry, Superman. I cannot fulfill your request."
"Why not?"
"Why not? You step into my apartment, uninvited. You interrogate me about my life. Accusing me of suspicious behavior, claiming I'm someone I'm not. You ask me to give my secrets away, even when Batman and Robin could not get them against my wishes. If I wanted to be known, I would be known."
"You don't know who you are."
Oberon felt a wave of annoyance wash over him, and he growled, deep in his throat. It wasn't like him, to lose his temper like this.
Superman was smiling a thousand watt smile, his joy radiant. "You're just trying to hide how afraid you are," Superman said with a smile. It was incongruous, to accuse him of such ridiculous notions, and smile like that. "You're lost. You don't know what you're doing."
"Preposterous and highly unlikely."
"If you took off your mask, you could easily prove me wrong. I would leave."
Oberon frowned. "Hh. I would rather not. I value my privacy more than that."
"How do you eat? Or shower? You must take off the mask sometimes."
Oberon pursed his lips, deep in thought. He didn't have many memories of doing either of those things, though he was not hungry, nor did he think he was rank. The static, perhaps, had taken those moments away.
The static ate a lot of his time.
"Yes, I must, I suppose. You have better things to do than to spend your waking time watching over me, though."
"What do you look like? What color are your eyes? Your hair?"
Oberon growled again. No one talked about any super harassment when they spoke of Superman.
"I can tell you. You have black hair, and when it's long it curls around your ears, but you usually have it shorter than that. Your hairline does a widow's peak, but it's not too pronounced. Your eyes are the color of the winter sky, cold, hard and bright. Full of compassion and intelligence and courage, like a fire is burning inside you, a window to the brightest of souls."
Oberon scoffed. "Clark, don't be ridiculous."
Superman turned around, looking for something in the sparse apartment, leaving Oberon alone for a moment. Clark. Superman. He was ridiculous. He was brave, brilliant, warm and kindhearted. He had a biting sense of humor, and people usually didn't notice because he was so well behaved when he was playing his part, being a paragon of heroism and selflessness. He was passionate, giving himself completely to everything he did, everyone he loved. Clark had strong hands that were meant to build, to nurture, to create, but that were just as capable of destruction -the fire needed to raze the fields before growth could begin anew. Clark's hands were-- known, beloved, held with the surety of an unbreakable commitment. He knew each line that crossed the palms, each knuckle, the taste of the joints of each finger. He knew the taste and texture of his skin, the look of his eyes in a lazy morning, the fire that consumed him after battle.
Clark.
"Please. Take off the mask," he said, holding a mirror. Oberon stared at the mirror through the mask, through the red tinted glasses. He didn't think he owned a mirror. The static became a roar as he looked at himself. A shadow looking back at him.
"Prove me wrong, Bruce." Another smile. Oberon flinched, looking away from the mirror and the man. The world seemed to be shifting, the static blurring the edges, eating everything away. Enthropy made sound, consuming reality.
He pulled the glasses off and peeled off the mask, and stared at the man in the mirror, letting the static consume everything, destroy everything, feeling the floor give as he stepped into the void.
---
"Bruce?"
"Yes?" Bruce said softly, feeling his heart and his head pounding. His head was killing him.
"Are you back?"
"From where?"
"From wherever you were."
The man in the mirror looked haggard. He had very short cropped hair, and a week of stubble. He had bags under his eyes, he was pale. He had blue eyes and black hair. He reached to touch the mirror, tracing arching eyebrows, the line of a square jaw, the stern set of a mouth. "This is very disconcerting."
Clark laughed, and the image on the mirror shook. Clark's hands were trembling. The man in the mirror blurred, and his heart skipped a beat. He didn't want to lose the man in the mirror. He needed to- to--
"Clark." He stopped looking at the mirror and turned to look at his friend. The image of Superman -the way Oberon saw Superman- shifted, memories superimposing each other. He was strange and familiar the way celebrities were, he was familiar and beloved like the face of a best friend, a brother, a lover. Bruce closed his eyes hard at the feeling of vertigo and the fading static, the receding void.
He grabbed Clark's arm as the floor shifted, the world tumbling around him, readjusting, and then Clark's arms were around him, tight and sure, his strength and his smell familiar. Known.
"Bruce," he whispered, his voice hoarse, the sound sweet, a calming balm on his soul. "Bruce."
Bruce breathed deep, taking in the scent of Clark, the sounds of the city drifting from outside, and he held tightly to the solid frame of his partner, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
"Please be back."
"I'm... here."
"Please."
Bruce buried a hand in Clark's hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling him back. With his eyes still closed, he searched for Clark's mouth, the facile curve of his lips, fighting the vertigo with the surety of Clark's presence, leaning on his strength. Clark's lips opened to him, welcoming him with a searing kiss, the taste of home. Clark shivered in his arms, moaning as he plunged into his mouth, sucking and nipping and focusing on the feeling of a warm body, the controlled strength, hands that knew him tracing every curve and sinew of bone, remapping scars hidden by cloth. Losing himself in the pleasure of being known and loved, of being home.
He broke the kiss and took a deep breath, slowly opening his eyes to a world made of superimposed objects and images. Memories of lives he almost didn't want to remember, except he had to if they were going to find Darkseid.
"I'm sorry," Bruce said, his voice sounding strange to his ears. "For forgetting you." He looked away. Clark's gaze felt like it was staring into his soul, and he felt too raw. After everything that had happened, it was hard to tell what Clark would see inside him. He wasn't sure what he would see himself.
Clark smiled, his hands roaming over his back, his hair, touching him like it was the first time. "You remembered me before you remembered yourself. You trusted me."
He leaned close and kissed Clark lightly, letting Clark take control of the kiss -trying to soothe the desperate edge to it- before he stepped back and disentangled himself from Clark's arms. "We have work to do. A quick stop at the penthouse and then we have to start looking for Darkseid."
"He's gone, Bruce."
"Like I was gone?"
Clark's lips became a thin line, his jaw set, the shift into Superman so quick it would be disorienting if he hadn't seen it thousands of times. He leaned in and stole a kiss from the Man of Steel before he turned towards the door, letting himself shift, relaxing into the comfortable embrace of the Batman persona, feeling another part of himself realign with time, memories becoming one fluid story that kept pointing to this moment in time, and the next, and the next.
Memories becoming the foundation of the present, his present. The fire in his heart.
He took the discarded red sunglasses and put them on. "Let's go."
Title: Reflections of the Sun
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Clark/Bruce, Dick, Damian, Alfred, Black Hand
Word Count: 5000+
Summary: Four time Clark didn't meet Bruce, and one he did.
References/Spoilers: For Batman 685 (for the fate of Hush), Blackest Night #3 (for Black Lantern Batman), World's Finest #4 (for the first Dick!Batman and Superman team up), Batman and Robin #9 (for Clone!Batman) and Batman and Robin #10 (for Oberon Sexton.)
For red_planet31 and the song 'Raining Again' by Moby. Beta and other amazing feats performed by mithen!! :D
Never know but nothing less
Couldn't see that I have guessed
Couldn't see, couldn't stay away
I never even stopped to dream and
That I'd see anything and
The world is coming out so cold
"We didn't know what else to do with him. And now that Bruce is... gone, we thought... well. I think we can use him to keep the pretense of Bruce being around, at least for a while." Dick turned his chair from the monitor to face Clark. Superman. The set of his shoulders and the intensity of his gaze made it clear it wasn't Clark with him down here in the cave.
"How long?" Superman said, his voice clipped. "How long have you had him locked up?"
"About a week now. He reads, mostly." The silence felt charged, almost accusing. "I mean, what else could we have done with him? We can't let Hush walk around with Bruce's face unsupervised."
"That's not Bruce's face. They look nothing alike."
Dick raised an eyebrow, looking at the most recent photos in Hush's file. Bruce's face -slightly off, yes, the thin scars of the plastic surgery giving his ruse away, and the bone structure wasn't quite the same- stared at him from the monitors. "Well, it's a close match. Once the swelling from the surgery goes down, and with some make up, he could fool a lot of people."
Superman didn't say anything, his jaw tightly set.
"You don't approve of our plan," Dick said.
"Your plan--" Superman paused, his voice wavering for a second. He breathed deep, and as he exhaled a lot of the tension seemed to leave his body. "Your plan seems workable. For a while, at least. Keeping Batman unconnected to Bruce Wayne is a good idea. It would... please him." He turned to look at Dick, his eyes finally leaving the feeds monitoring Hush in the penthouse cell.
Tommy was lying on the bed, wearing only slacks, reading a book. Aristotle, of course. Dick wanted to shake Hush sometimes, see if he could make him break from this routine that made for incredibly boring surveillance.
"I should leave."
"Would you like to join us for dinner? Alfred's making enough lasagna to feed a battalion."
"At the penthouse?"
"Yeah, we're-"
"No. I can't. I... would rather not." A tight smile. "Thank you for the offer." Clark's eyes seemed to search Dick's face for something, an elusive emotion clouding the azure alien eyes. "You take care of yourself, okay? Don't let the cowl weight you down. It can be unbearable if you let it."
"I don't plan to take it up. We still don't know what we'll do about that."
Clark nodded. "Good. He never wanted any of you to-- to become him. Dick," he said, his voice and body language shifting back into Superman's. "I'm going to leave for a while. I need to know you'll take care of yourself and your family. And... that you won't let that that man pretending to be Bruce get to you. Promise me you'll be careful."
Dick stood up and stretched a hand towards Superman, who took it in a steady shake. "I promise. You take care too, Clark, okay? We're gonna miss you around here."
Another tight smile. Dick tightened his hold on Clark's hand, wanting to offer some reassurance to his friend.
"If you need help, call me. I'll come."
"I know," Dick said, smiling. "Thank you."
Clark nodded once, his lips a thin line as he stared at the surveillance feed one last time.
Hush was asleep, his dark-dyed hair tousled against the pillow, the book forgotten by his side. Dick winced. He looked too much like Bruce, it was unnerving.
Superman left for New Krypton.
--
Nothing here but nothing less
Cold heart is stuck in this
Couldn't say the kindest words we knew
Everything I tried to say but
no one listens anyway
I had to give up everything that I knew
Black Hand smiled, enjoying an infinite stillness inside his chest where his heart used to be. He felt calm, and-- not happy. Happy was not the right word, of course, because he was dead, and the dead might feed on the emotions of others, but they didn't feel anything themselves.
To be dead was to be truly at peace.
But because this was all he had ever wanted when he was alive, it was hard not to think he was happy. A ghost-feeling, then, the way people could feel ghost limbs.
Bruce Wayne of Earth.
Rise.
The ring came to life as soon as the new Black Lantern manifested, the skull Black Hand had been carrying lovingly parting from his embrace and filling in, flesh and bones being recreated by the ring, covering the dead simulacrum with pale, ruddy skin, the smell of rot overwhelming.
Black Hand felt gripped by desire, his calm boiling in an instant, and his smile disappeared. The dead should not feel so much, he thought. Shouldn't want so much.
::Emotional tether manifested::
He stared as the heroes looked at the new Black Lantern with shock, his ring providing him with color coded information of their emotions. Mostly fear and hope, yellow and blue dominating their auras.
Violet around the edges of blue, love at the edges of their hope.
He smiled again. The living were so predictable. Always being tugged by their emotions, their inner turmoil robbing them of the clarity and peace of nothingness.
"Batman?" Kid Flash. Impulse. Whoever he was now. Children. So unruly, so out of control. But they were nowhere near as pitiable as...
"Bruce?" Superman stood there, his voice a pained whisper, side by side with Wonder Woman, their eyes wide and horrified. Fear. Hope. Rage.
Love. Violet so bright it twisted and turned inside them, burning like fire.
The two great superheroes, the Titans of Earth, reduced to this. To feeling, uncontrollably, to hoping and wishing and fearing that this one human would return to them, when it was them who would be returning to the embrace of Nekron, to the endless peace of Death.
The Black Lantern Bruce Wayne spewed more black rings at the command of Nekron, links to the darkness at the center of the universe.
Each ring a kiss of Death.
The rings flew to ones Nekron had kept from the great beyond before, to the ones that hadn't fully crossed over. A black kiss for Kid Flash, the exuberance of youth dispelled by decay.
A black kiss for Green Arrow, the passion for life extinguished at last.
Dark bloody kisses for all.
The ring reached Superman, who was still staring at the Black Lantern Bruce Wayne, his emotional state rendering his aura a chaos of color. Fear and rage Black Hand could understand. Hope he had expected.
It was the intensity of the love and the sparkles of orange -orange for avarice, the covet for what?- that baffled him.
Then, the ring took over Superman, and all the colors faded into gray, his last cry of pain lost in the stillness of death.
---
Nothing here but nothing less
Everything we both regret
Couldn't say the kindest words we knew
Cause it was winter time and
We wanted some more time and
We watched the girls try something new
Damian stood by their side, close enough to listen to their conversation, far enough to fade out of their attention. This was the first time Grayson had met Superman since he took the cape and cowl, and Damian could see how eager to please he was. He shook his head. His mentor was much too willing to share information and follow the alien's lead, even when it was clear the alien was distraught.
The tightness around his eyes, the lines around his mouth, the set of his jaw. Even as his eyes were kind and his tone was friendly, Damian could see it. A certain restraint, the concealment of pain.
Damian thought Grayson should insist on being addressed by his codename. Grayson was Batman when in uniform, Batman, not 'Dick'. It could so easily compromise them. But the alien had dropped the codename as soon as the battle has stopped, and Grayson hadn't protested.
If it wasn't because all other evidence -verbal statements, for the most part, since Damian hadn't seen much of the Kryptonian while he had been saddled with Batgirl- pointed to the opposite, Damian would venture the guess that Superman didn't like to see Grayson in the Batman uniform. But he seemed to approve of his performance, offering him congratulatory words. 'You fill the suit well, Dick. Bruce would be proud of you. I know I am.' The alien's words, not Damian's. Didn't leave much room for questioning his support.
And yet...
"Hey, it occurred to me that this was our first Superman/Batman team up," Grayson said cheerily as Superman -in a much more sensible battle suit, not his blue and red spandex- took for the skies, going back to New Krypton.
Superman's body tensed mid air, his smile tight as he waved back. "Better get used to it," he said, and Damian wasn't sure if he was telling that to Grayson or to himself. "These happen a lot."
Grayson smiled as the alien said goodbye and disappeared in the early night sky. But now Robin's curiosity was piqued, and he wondered if he ought to check the files of his father. Perhaps they would tell him more, like why the alien was so sure Damian's father had always trusted him, even when others doubted him, or why he mourned his loss in silence.
---
We didn't even stopped to see that
That It was breaking me and
the world is coming out so cold
What you want you couldn't get, you
Couldn't wait for something less, you
had to give up everything you knew
"Mind your step, sir," Alfred called back as he walked into the sealed lab. "Master Richard wishes he could be here with you, but Zsasz has him and young master Damian occupied for the night."
"It's okay, Alfred. I understand."
Alfred pulled the slab drawer and stood aside, waiting for any indications that he should leave. Normally, he would step back while his caped charges worked, lingering only to offer a sounding board to theories or fulfill any requests -as long as they were sensible requests, unlike young master Damian's cries for a sword or an armory- but he had a personal stake with the body on the slab.
If that body wasn't Bruce Wayne's -as it now appeared to be the case- that meant they had no idea of what had happened to him. It was even possible to hope that he might be alive, away from his family and his home. And the first clue as to what possible end Bruce could have had was this body on the slab, this not-Bruce, not-Batman, a rotting carcass that had stammered and screamed asking about its purpose, decrying the unfairness of its life.
"Where are the security feeds you told me about?" Clark asked, taking off his glasses. Superman breaching the Penthouse would be too dangerous, especially considering Batwoman might have it under surveillance.
"They are all loaded in the computer, sir, if you want to watch them."
Clark nodded once as he got closer to the slab and opened the body bag, the stench of the body filling the room despite the cold drawer.
"Dick did the autopsy?"
"I did, sir," Alfred said, covering his mouth with a surgical mask.
Clark shook his head, turning to Alfred. "Of course, I'm sorry. Alfred, I know this can't be easy for you, if you would like..."
When it was clear Clark wasn't going to finish his sentences, Alfred shook his head slightly. "Carry on, sir. I would rather be of assistance, if you have any questions. The results of the autopsy are right here," he said, handing Clark a board with notes.
"The scarring. I should have seen it before..."
"It was impossible to tell from the body you delivered to us, Master Kent. The burns were so extensive, we couldn't get much information from it the first time around. But after the Lazarus Pit, well. I have wondered if Master Bruce's scars would disappear in a Pit due to its healing properties, but short of questioning Ra's al Ghul, it's hard to tell."
"No scars," Clark said again, his voice soft, almost wondering. "Dental record?"
"On this body, perfect, sir. Master Bruce had-"
"Three bridges and four crowns. I remember."
"Extensive dental work, yes. No evidence of any fractures either."
Clark smiled, a sad smile. "He pushed the line a lot." He turned towards the monitors. "I want to see the feeds."
Alfred ran the videos, the screens coming to life with the scenes of the battle.
"Y do oll mi thots turn 2 smashed glass wen I try 2 think? unnh.. I give my oll an n return? mi reward? Gunshots cracking inside mi skul! Day n nite!"
Alfred looked away. He had seen the real deal, the simulacrum, walking around the penthouse, attacking him and young master Damian, spilling vitriol about the young Robin, mad and hurting like a beast. He didn't need to watch it again.
"...n I sez wot wot duz it take 2 stop the gunshots n city's bug blak voice reply... the sacrifice of a sun!"
The sounds of the feed stopped. Alfred turned towards his guest, but Clark wasn't looking at the computer anymore.
"Damian is... a strong young man."
"Very much, sir."
"He handled that pretty well."
"Master Richard has been a good influence on him, I believe."
"I'm sure. That was..." Clark paused, then turned to look back at Alfred, stepping away from the body. "That was a nightmare come to life. That wasn't Bruce."
Alfred nodded. "Any idea of what it was, sir?"
"I've looked again, and the DNA is the same. It's a perfect copy of Bruce's body, down to the molecular level. But it's not Bruce. 'The sacrifice of a sun', what do you think he meant, Alfred?"
"It seemed to refer to young master Damian at that moment."
"Yes. Well, I'm not so sure. What would it take to strip from Bruce the memories of the alley? They were the fire that drove Bruce forward."
"What started it, yes, Master Kent, but I wouldn't say it was his drive. Just, the detonation of that drive."
"Those memories -all his memories, of everything- that was the fire. The sacrifice of a sun. To get rid of the bullets he had to get rid of everything. All of his memories."
"Who did? Master Bruce?"
"No. I don't know. But... the clone is too perfect, and Bruce was missing for long before we took down Darkseid. Anything could have happened. The clone mentions others being born from jars of glass, others born dead. But this was the only body we found, and no traces of any birthing matrix or anything else."
"You suggest someone planted this body, and... what, sacrificed the memories of Master Bruce?"
Clark sighed, pushing his hair back. "I don't know. I don't know, and I wish I did, Alfred. So I could find him."
Alfred nodded, slowly. He knew by experience that the important questions didn't have easy answers.
"I should destroy the body."
"Excuse me?"
"The body. I should cremate it. You already did the autopsy, and I can tell you anything you want about it. It won't help anymore, to have it stored. And it could... become trouble. Again."
Alfred stared at the body over the slab, the greenish-gray decomposing flesh. He nodded once. "Go ahead, sir. I shall wait for you upstairs."
Alfred closed the door, leaving Clark alone to burn the remains of the shadow of his eclipsed sun.
---
Sadness like water raining down
Raining down, raining down, raining down
"Ah, morning," he said, looking at the figure standing in the middle of his studio. "How can I be of service?"
Superman uncrossed his arms, his feet touching the floor softly. His expression was calm and controlled -too controlled, Oberon noted. Supernaturally still, not even the rise and fall of breathing disturbing his frame.
"I've-- heard about you." Superman swallowed, Adam's apple moving slowly up and down. Oberon felt strangely transfixed by the movement.
"I didn't know my activities could draw attention from such as you."
"Robin contacted me. He said..."
"Yes?" Oberon prompted him, waiting with infinite patience. Time was something that didn't make much sense to him anymore. Some things had time frames, an urgency to them, but not the pursuit of knowledge. Knowledge was timeless.
"I almost didn't want to believe it. I couldn't stand another fluke." Another deep breath, a charged pause. "But he was right. Bruce."
Oberon stared at the colorful figure, his breathing almost frantic as it approached him, crossing the room in two strides, arms rising as if to hold him. Oberon stood back, a single step, and tilted his head questioningly. "A moment, please. Explain to me what Robin told you about me."
Superman stopped as if he had been struck by lightning, the nascent joy on his face shattering. "Bruce. Please." He paused, gathering himself. "Robin said... you raised his suspicions. He said you were a stranger in Gotham, but that you knew the city intimately. That you were a detective, and could hold your ground perfectly well in a fight against the League of Assassins."
"I don't understand how this is suspicious."
"You cover yourself, head to toe, a full face mask. He has never seen your eyes. They investigated you, but couldn't find anything about you. Who you are. What you do for a living. Where do you get your funding. What you look like. What's your interest in helping them."
"I see."
"Bruce. Please."
"My name is Oberon Sexton," he said, simply.
Superman took a step back, staring at him, narrowing his eyes. There was a slight muscle shift, and he was looking at him, using one of his many visions to scan him. Oberon pushed his glasses up his nose, waiting for the rude intrusion on his privacy to be over. It didn't really matter, but it was rude, to look without asking.
"Your name is Bruce Wayne," Superman said after a moment, his voice back under control, his face serious. His frown creased his brows in peculiar ways, an expression the media never showed of the superhero. "You were born the 19th of February, in Gotham's Sacred Heart, 39 years ago. You're the son of--"
"Thomas Wayne and Martha Kane. I am not Bruce Wayne."
"Bruce."
"I can't be Bruce Wayne. He lives in the Wayne Tower's penthouse with his sons and his butler. I've seen him. Actually, I've been investigating a plot to kill him." Oberon frowned as he heard a sound rise around them. The static. It was here again. He looked around the apartment, trying to pinpoint its location. Quite literally, the static had been driving him mad for... months. Years. It was hard to tell. The static seemed to be timeless, as well.
"Oberon!"
"Yes?"
"You-- are you okay?"
Oberon turned back to look at Superman, who was a lot closer again. He didn't notice him moving. The static. It was the static's fault. It was so distracting.
"Yes, of course. As I was telling you, I am not Bruce Wayne. I can understand Robin's suspicions about me, but I fail to see the connection." He pushed his glasses up again, the red tinted glasses turning every moment into a perpetual sunset.
"What's your name? Your real name."
"Oberon Sexton."
"No. Oberon Sexton doesn't exist. He doesn't have a birth certificate, not here in Gotham, not anywhere in the US. Where were you born?"
Oberon took a moment to think about it, feeling the static raise around them like waves. "Gotham."
"When? Where? In a hospital? In a clinic, in your home? Who were your parents?"
The corner. The static was coming from the corner of the studio, next to the window overlooking the theater district. He walked towards it, looking for the source of the sound. It was growing louder.
"Oberon."
"I would love to answer your questions, but I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."
"No, no you're not. Bruce. Please, look at me."
"It's here. Perhaps... under the floor. Possibly some kind of device. How can you stand it?"
"Stand what?" Superman walked to stand beside him, looking at the corner where the static was coming from. The sound diminished slightly, as if fearing their proximity.
"It's so distracting. Gives me a headache, at the best of times. Shh, you see? It quiets. It's frightened. Of you, you think?"
Oberon turned to look at the demigod in his studio, the light coming in through the windows washing them both from the chest down. Another shift around Superman's eyes, looking around his home, looking for the source of the static. Oberon smiled under the mask. Good luck with that. He had stripped the loft bare and never found anything. The static followed him everywhere, at the most unexpected of times it would start buzzing, demanding his attention.
His head hurt.
"There's nothing here," Superman said slowly. "You... hear something? See something?"
"Static. Quite loud. You don't... hear it?" Oberon felt doubt for the first time in... forever. Was the static only targeted to him? If Superman couldn't hear it... could it be magic? a curse? He had crossed paths with magicians in the past, he knew he had, though at the moment, he couldn't remember exactly when. The static was crashing like waves.
"Oberon. Take your mask off."
He turned around, stepping away from the corner of the room, trying to get away from the unbearable crescendo. He opened the windows, letting the city in. The cacophony always helped to drown the static; nothing else ever did. He couldn't leave Gotham, the city was the only thing between him and the static-born madness.
"I'm sorry, Superman. I cannot fulfill your request."
"Why not?"
"Why not? You step into my apartment, uninvited. You interrogate me about my life. Accusing me of suspicious behavior, claiming I'm someone I'm not. You ask me to give my secrets away, even when Batman and Robin could not get them against my wishes. If I wanted to be known, I would be known."
"You don't know who you are."
Oberon felt a wave of annoyance wash over him, and he growled, deep in his throat. It wasn't like him, to lose his temper like this.
Superman was smiling a thousand watt smile, his joy radiant. "You're just trying to hide how afraid you are," Superman said with a smile. It was incongruous, to accuse him of such ridiculous notions, and smile like that. "You're lost. You don't know what you're doing."
"Preposterous and highly unlikely."
"If you took off your mask, you could easily prove me wrong. I would leave."
Oberon frowned. "Hh. I would rather not. I value my privacy more than that."
"How do you eat? Or shower? You must take off the mask sometimes."
Oberon pursed his lips, deep in thought. He didn't have many memories of doing either of those things, though he was not hungry, nor did he think he was rank. The static, perhaps, had taken those moments away.
The static ate a lot of his time.
"Yes, I must, I suppose. You have better things to do than to spend your waking time watching over me, though."
"What do you look like? What color are your eyes? Your hair?"
Oberon growled again. No one talked about any super harassment when they spoke of Superman.
"I can tell you. You have black hair, and when it's long it curls around your ears, but you usually have it shorter than that. Your hairline does a widow's peak, but it's not too pronounced. Your eyes are the color of the winter sky, cold, hard and bright. Full of compassion and intelligence and courage, like a fire is burning inside you, a window to the brightest of souls."
Oberon scoffed. "Clark, don't be ridiculous."
Superman turned around, looking for something in the sparse apartment, leaving Oberon alone for a moment. Clark. Superman. He was ridiculous. He was brave, brilliant, warm and kindhearted. He had a biting sense of humor, and people usually didn't notice because he was so well behaved when he was playing his part, being a paragon of heroism and selflessness. He was passionate, giving himself completely to everything he did, everyone he loved. Clark had strong hands that were meant to build, to nurture, to create, but that were just as capable of destruction -the fire needed to raze the fields before growth could begin anew. Clark's hands were-- known, beloved, held with the surety of an unbreakable commitment. He knew each line that crossed the palms, each knuckle, the taste of the joints of each finger. He knew the taste and texture of his skin, the look of his eyes in a lazy morning, the fire that consumed him after battle.
Clark.
"Please. Take off the mask," he said, holding a mirror. Oberon stared at the mirror through the mask, through the red tinted glasses. He didn't think he owned a mirror. The static became a roar as he looked at himself. A shadow looking back at him.
"Prove me wrong, Bruce." Another smile. Oberon flinched, looking away from the mirror and the man. The world seemed to be shifting, the static blurring the edges, eating everything away. Enthropy made sound, consuming reality.
He pulled the glasses off and peeled off the mask, and stared at the man in the mirror, letting the static consume everything, destroy everything, feeling the floor give as he stepped into the void.
---
"Bruce?"
"Yes?" Bruce said softly, feeling his heart and his head pounding. His head was killing him.
"Are you back?"
"From where?"
"From wherever you were."
The man in the mirror looked haggard. He had very short cropped hair, and a week of stubble. He had bags under his eyes, he was pale. He had blue eyes and black hair. He reached to touch the mirror, tracing arching eyebrows, the line of a square jaw, the stern set of a mouth. "This is very disconcerting."
Clark laughed, and the image on the mirror shook. Clark's hands were trembling. The man in the mirror blurred, and his heart skipped a beat. He didn't want to lose the man in the mirror. He needed to- to--
"Clark." He stopped looking at the mirror and turned to look at his friend. The image of Superman -the way Oberon saw Superman- shifted, memories superimposing each other. He was strange and familiar the way celebrities were, he was familiar and beloved like the face of a best friend, a brother, a lover. Bruce closed his eyes hard at the feeling of vertigo and the fading static, the receding void.
He grabbed Clark's arm as the floor shifted, the world tumbling around him, readjusting, and then Clark's arms were around him, tight and sure, his strength and his smell familiar. Known.
"Bruce," he whispered, his voice hoarse, the sound sweet, a calming balm on his soul. "Bruce."
Bruce breathed deep, taking in the scent of Clark, the sounds of the city drifting from outside, and he held tightly to the solid frame of his partner, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
"Please be back."
"I'm... here."
"Please."
Bruce buried a hand in Clark's hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling him back. With his eyes still closed, he searched for Clark's mouth, the facile curve of his lips, fighting the vertigo with the surety of Clark's presence, leaning on his strength. Clark's lips opened to him, welcoming him with a searing kiss, the taste of home. Clark shivered in his arms, moaning as he plunged into his mouth, sucking and nipping and focusing on the feeling of a warm body, the controlled strength, hands that knew him tracing every curve and sinew of bone, remapping scars hidden by cloth. Losing himself in the pleasure of being known and loved, of being home.
He broke the kiss and took a deep breath, slowly opening his eyes to a world made of superimposed objects and images. Memories of lives he almost didn't want to remember, except he had to if they were going to find Darkseid.
"I'm sorry," Bruce said, his voice sounding strange to his ears. "For forgetting you." He looked away. Clark's gaze felt like it was staring into his soul, and he felt too raw. After everything that had happened, it was hard to tell what Clark would see inside him. He wasn't sure what he would see himself.
Clark smiled, his hands roaming over his back, his hair, touching him like it was the first time. "You remembered me before you remembered yourself. You trusted me."
He leaned close and kissed Clark lightly, letting Clark take control of the kiss -trying to soothe the desperate edge to it- before he stepped back and disentangled himself from Clark's arms. "We have work to do. A quick stop at the penthouse and then we have to start looking for Darkseid."
"He's gone, Bruce."
"Like I was gone?"
Clark's lips became a thin line, his jaw set, the shift into Superman so quick it would be disorienting if he hadn't seen it thousands of times. He leaned in and stole a kiss from the Man of Steel before he turned towards the door, letting himself shift, relaxing into the comfortable embrace of the Batman persona, feeling another part of himself realign with time, memories becoming one fluid story that kept pointing to this moment in time, and the next, and the next.
Memories becoming the foundation of the present, his present. The fire in his heart.
He took the discarded red sunglasses and put them on. "Let's go."