Theme 37 "New Universe:" Reaching
Title: Reaching
Universe: Nolanverse meets Superman
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Bruce Wayne/Batman, Superman
Word Count: 608
Summary: Superman makes Bruce an offer he shouldn't refuse.
More than anything, Bruce Wayne wanted to be alone. He was still recovering from the wounds sustained the night Harvey Dent died, and off active duty, but he couldn’t stand another evening parading around as Gotham’s village idiot-billionaire. Lately the paparazzi had been merciless--some Hollywood executive was courting Christian Bale to star in a biopic called “Unfortunate Son: The Bruce Wayne Story.” When the news first broke on GCN, Alfred had hurried away to prune his roses, shears quivering in his hand from restrained laughter. Bruce had wanted to puke.
So once night fell, he’d put on the suit, and headed for Gotham’s skyline. The air atop the Kane Building was still stifling from the retained humidity of a June heat wave. Being in his god-awful suit didn’t help; sweat was unpleasantly collecting at the small of his back.
He cringed. Such thoughts sounded too much like his public persona. No wonder Hollywood wanted some overpaid pretty-boy to--
“I was starting to think you’d disappeared.”
Bruce instinctively brought a Batarang to bear, whirled, and threw it. Then came regret. The motion pulled at his injuries in exquisite agony. Not only did it hurt, but it had also been pointless.
About ten meters away, dressed spectacularly loud in blue tights and a red cape, was a man holding his Batarang, and floating in mid-air. Superman.
Nausea hit Bruce again. He’d heard of this guy: eternal optimist, alien, and media-hog--seen stopping runaway trains and rescuing folks from burning buildings in broad daylight. Now, it seemed he wanted to talk to him. Bruce let his shoulders slump. Couldn’t he be allowed to brood in peace?
“I have nothing to discuss with you,” Bruce said, and turned away.
A whoosh, and the brightly clad alien was in front of him once more. He smiled, and held out the Batarang. “Here. You must go through a lot of these.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes within his cowl, and said, “You’d risk your sterling reputation to talk to me?”
The smile faded, and Superman’s hand drooped. “There’s nothing to risk. You’re not a killer.”
“That’s not what Gotham believes.”
“It’s what I believe,” Superman said. The way he hovered in place unnerved Bruce, and as if Superman could read minds, he touched down onto the roof. “Look, you’re doing good work here. Sure, not everybody realizes that yet, but give them time. You’ve done too much to give up now.”
“I don’t intend to,” Bruce said, and took the Batarang. He replaced it at his belt, and turned to leave.
He’d taken a few steps towards the ledge when Superman said, “I could help you. One man shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
Bruce stopped. Among the city lights and the ocean beyond, he could almost see the faces of the people who’d also been his allies: Alfred, Gordon, Dent. Rachel. He closed his eyes to block out the specters, but they were still there in his mind. Two were dead. The other two he’d endangered recklessly, and that could not be excused.
But Superman was virtually invincible. Here was an individual who could not be held hostage, would not sway to a madman’s demands, and had no reason to give into panic. Superman was the ideal ally, but for some inexplicable reason, Bruce couldn’t shake his uneasiness.
He looked back at him. He didn’t know what to say.
“Think about it. I’ll be in touch,” Superman said, and in an instant, he had launched into the sky.
Bruce watched Superman vanish into a blue-and-red speck, and then, nothing. He sighed. As much as he hated admitting it, the guy had a point.
Universe: Nolanverse meets Superman
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Bruce Wayne/Batman, Superman
Word Count: 608
Summary: Superman makes Bruce an offer he shouldn't refuse.
More than anything, Bruce Wayne wanted to be alone. He was still recovering from the wounds sustained the night Harvey Dent died, and off active duty, but he couldn’t stand another evening parading around as Gotham’s village idiot-billionaire. Lately the paparazzi had been merciless--some Hollywood executive was courting Christian Bale to star in a biopic called “Unfortunate Son: The Bruce Wayne Story.” When the news first broke on GCN, Alfred had hurried away to prune his roses, shears quivering in his hand from restrained laughter. Bruce had wanted to puke.
So once night fell, he’d put on the suit, and headed for Gotham’s skyline. The air atop the Kane Building was still stifling from the retained humidity of a June heat wave. Being in his god-awful suit didn’t help; sweat was unpleasantly collecting at the small of his back.
He cringed. Such thoughts sounded too much like his public persona. No wonder Hollywood wanted some overpaid pretty-boy to--
“I was starting to think you’d disappeared.”
Bruce instinctively brought a Batarang to bear, whirled, and threw it. Then came regret. The motion pulled at his injuries in exquisite agony. Not only did it hurt, but it had also been pointless.
About ten meters away, dressed spectacularly loud in blue tights and a red cape, was a man holding his Batarang, and floating in mid-air. Superman.
Nausea hit Bruce again. He’d heard of this guy: eternal optimist, alien, and media-hog--seen stopping runaway trains and rescuing folks from burning buildings in broad daylight. Now, it seemed he wanted to talk to him. Bruce let his shoulders slump. Couldn’t he be allowed to brood in peace?
“I have nothing to discuss with you,” Bruce said, and turned away.
A whoosh, and the brightly clad alien was in front of him once more. He smiled, and held out the Batarang. “Here. You must go through a lot of these.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes within his cowl, and said, “You’d risk your sterling reputation to talk to me?”
The smile faded, and Superman’s hand drooped. “There’s nothing to risk. You’re not a killer.”
“That’s not what Gotham believes.”
“It’s what I believe,” Superman said. The way he hovered in place unnerved Bruce, and as if Superman could read minds, he touched down onto the roof. “Look, you’re doing good work here. Sure, not everybody realizes that yet, but give them time. You’ve done too much to give up now.”
“I don’t intend to,” Bruce said, and took the Batarang. He replaced it at his belt, and turned to leave.
He’d taken a few steps towards the ledge when Superman said, “I could help you. One man shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
Bruce stopped. Among the city lights and the ocean beyond, he could almost see the faces of the people who’d also been his allies: Alfred, Gordon, Dent. Rachel. He closed his eyes to block out the specters, but they were still there in his mind. Two were dead. The other two he’d endangered recklessly, and that could not be excused.
But Superman was virtually invincible. Here was an individual who could not be held hostage, would not sway to a madman’s demands, and had no reason to give into panic. Superman was the ideal ally, but for some inexplicable reason, Bruce couldn’t shake his uneasiness.
He looked back at him. He didn’t know what to say.
“Think about it. I’ll be in touch,” Superman said, and in an instant, he had launched into the sky.
Bruce watched Superman vanish into a blue-and-red speck, and then, nothing. He sighed. As much as he hated admitting it, the guy had a point.