Candy Cigarettes (4/4)
Title: Candy Cigarettes (4/4)
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG-13 (Though I want to say R)
Word count: 15218
Warnings: Drug use, violence, disturbing imagery, and innuendo (Bats and Clowns do not make nice housepets)
Summary: Superman visits Arkham, and finds the Joker behind bars. He and the Joker have an unusual conversation about Batman.
A/N: This is my first DC fic. I really want to thank
quiet__tiger for the exhaustive beta read. (So many rounds. She is totally cool! And all those that offered their support. Hope you enjoy
It was pre-morning in Wayne Manor some three hours later.
The Joker’s attempted escape from Arkham was too stressful to put either of them in the mood to do anything but sit down and stare at the wall ‘til their frazzled nerves let them sleep.
Clark would be perfectly fine after his experience. The Joker had picked the wrong victim. He had stabbed seven people that year in Arkham, and this one would have been a fatal attack, if Batman hadn’t foiled Joker, or rather Clark hadn’t fumbled his way into the situation and was incapable of being shanked. Clark was shocked at how close Joker came to killing him if he were a person. Holes were in his cape and in his outfit, along the neck and of course the logo over his chest. He hadn't even felt it as his mind was twisted and turned by the Joker’s head games, and the crush of his lips.
Lipstick was another matter entirely. It just hurt to scrub it away anymore. It looked like he was wearing it still. Maybe his invulnerable skin was chaffing and rubbing off. Lipstick did not come off with just soap and water. But the red skin turned his stomach, at the memory of his heart racing and his eyes closing and…
He wondered if sugared dust particles had worked all the way into his tongue microscopically, as he could taste that kiss over and over again. Clark might be being stupid and melodramatic, but had the weird suspicion that Bruce would never want to kiss him again, just thinking where Clark’s mouth had been. Bruce was so protective and possessive. He wanted to crawl in a hole and die forever.
“Thanks to the Joker, I’m used goods. Oh, woe is me. Now Bruce shall call off our marriage, and shame me before Mama and the town.”
Bruce was on his couch in the media room designed in the French country style. He was watching the projection TV against the cheery yellow wainscoting, in an undignified sprawl, one leg over the couch as he watched Mel Brooks. It was undignified but somehow hot and it stretched out his muscles. Lately Bruce sprawled when he sat. He didn’t even cross his legs. As if his whole body was so exhausted he couldn’t sit up. Batman had menacing and severe posture. Clark really wondered if it meant that his injuries had caused permanent damage over the years
Bruce’s face was impassive, stern, teeth grinding at an invisible pebble. Bruce's face, frequently blank of emotions, had still always attracted Clark’s attention. He liked that hard jaw and that nose full of character and that sharply furrowed brow. He even once thought out of all his features he liked Bruce’s handsome face, the best of all. But he had been wrong about that.
Once Clark could tolerate being around Bruce or Batman for more than one minute, the things to love about him were infinite.
Clark approached cautiously. He could smell a fight in the air. He wasn’t sure that he would try to stop it either. He didn’t understand these conflicting feelings of aggression and vulnerability. It wasn’t normal for him to be so confused. He didn’t know if he should beg Bruce for forgiveness or throw him out the window. But he didn’t like the silence.
“Want to go to the bedroom and reconfirm our undying passion in the way only lovers can?” Clark muttered under his breath.
“Yeah, I’ll race you there,” Bruce said, eyes fluttering shut. He was half asleep anyway. He should have been fully asleep but something was probably bothering him. The Musical Inquisition number splashed across the screen, causing Bruce’s eyes to focus a little.
“I think this would be insensitive to Jewish people and witches,” Clark said.
"Yeah, but it’s funny," Bruce said.
That struck him as odd. Clark turned over and looked at him. "Then why aren't you laughing?"
Bruce shrugged. "Dunno. Tired."
"You know, you don't really laugh a lot,” Clark said.
“Nope. Not me.” Bruce was not in the mood to talk and had fallen into his default mode of utter compliance. In normal circumstances Clark should have used this to his advantage to do something a little raunchier in bed than normal, like giving Bruce a chance to spank him.
His judgment was poor tonight.
“But. You ARE funny.”
“I guess.” Bruce wasn’t in the mood to talk. He wasn’t going to get a thing out of him.
“I just find that ironic,” Clark said in leading tone full of accusation.
Bruce sighed. “God, I hate when you say that,” he said. “It only means you want to insult something I did. What did I do wrong now?”
“I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I’m just saying it is ironic,” Clark said
Bruce rolled his eyes at him. “Ironic, huh, Clark?” Bruce might not have superpowers, but he knew when someone was pushing his buttons. He knew a losing battle, so he tried to retreat.
Clark continued, “It’s ironic. You make jokes and jabs. You call me names, and I know you have great timing, saucy wit and material. You could go on for days and days delighting everyone in the room with stories and riddles and knock knock jokes."
“Whatever. I’m watching this.” He started channel surfing that very second. Which is hilarious to Clark because Bruce generally hates TV. And to use it as an excuse not to talk is a first in their relationship. Bruce looked at him like he was crazy before he pretended to be interested in skin cream on QVC. “So I don’t laugh?”
“You rarely laugh. I think it’s creepy,” Clark said.
"People think you’re crazy if you laugh at every little thing. I think it’s... It’s annoying. I think that is creepy.”
Clark looked at him. “I just think it’s creepy that you don’t laugh when something is funny. That is what ‘funny’ means, you laugh.”
“Maybe it’s not that funny. I don’t know.”
“Well, then don’t laugh. And don’t, like, add commentary about how you would laugh if you weren‘t weird.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “You’re the creepy one. Smiling all the time is the creepiest thing ever.”
“I don’t even smile that much,” Clark said. “And I laugh and I smile the exact amount of a normal person should smile and laugh. I even double checked.”
“Except you laugh like young Santa Claus,” Bruce said standing up.
“You have no right.” Clark said “YOU snigger like a moron, like someone letting air out a balloon.”
“I don’t snigger.”
“Like an evil little cat girl.” He put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce winced.
Clark could hold Bruce in place one handed, he had an annoying habit of doing that when Bruce was winning an argument. As if somewhere deep inside if he couldn’t make Bruce listen he could at least make him stick around. One day he would get the courage and kiss Bruce quiet, like in some bad movie, but now he didn’t want Bruce to hide in the bathroom.
“Let me go,” Bruce said. Most of their fights ended like this. Clark getting touchy and holding Bruce down. Bruce feeling uncomfortable and smacking him “Clark. I mean it.” He said still giving him one more warning
“What are you going to do kick me in the face? For holding your shoulder?”
“Why would I bother?” Bruce shouted. “”I’ll probably break a goddamn toe on your face.”
Clark let go. Bruce gave him that “Why-did-I-ever-sleep-with-this-man-in-the-first-place?” look as he rubbed his shoulder. “Too far, Clark.”
“I’m sorry. Is it bruised?” Clark looked at his shoulder.
Bruce grumbled, “No. I’m not a wuss. You touched my shoulder. But it could be if you keep holding me around like that,” Bruce snapped at him, through the pain and frustration. “I was sorry the second I did it.” The apology should be worthless as Bruce snarled that as well, but it wasn’t somehow. Classic Bruce. You couldn’t believe him if he was cold and level headed; he was most sincere when angry and unguarded.
“Don’t yell at me, stupid,” Clark’s disparaging epithets had regressed around thirty years.
“Because you…” Bruce grumbled “Creepy alien.”
“You’re creepy.” Clark said.
Clark and Bruce stopped shouting and stared at the TV, creepy and mad and not kissing and not laughing. But somehow still in love. It really stretches the imagination that people can exist like that.
After what they had been through together, he didn't understand why such a tiny thing was setting him on edge. Bruce, only sitting there and not laughing. Clark should hope he would never ever hear a laugh so cold and mad again as he had last night in that awful room, with those awful people. Clark should hope he’d never hear another witty comeback or a single variance of tone. Joker had scared the crap out of him, attacked him, tried to kill him and... then did something worse. He made him see the edges of the truth.
“I’m sorry I hit you.”
“You didn’t hit me, you tapped me. I’d be dead if you hit me. You grabbed me,” Bruce said.
Bruce hit him with a fist to his shoulder, so he would pay attention. It would take the full force of his training to hit him like that. It got Clark’s attention. "Don’t be a wuss. I'm not mad at what happened. Joker ambushed you, only instead of a bomb….” He scoffed, “Don't mope."
"I just.... I dunno." Clark thought he left relationships with women to stop talking about his inner feelings. He didn't even know what he was feeling. Why, of all things, Bruce's face was making him angry, when the Joker had tongue-humped his face in public.
“For some people, dealing with sexual harassment is harder than others. You are a textbook case. It’s a matter of social psychology. It‘s making me crazy to see you get affected by this. I don’t want to see you like this.”
“How do you think it makes me feel?” Clark said. “He would have escaped if you weren’t there. Or I would have killed him.”
Bruce continued quietly. He didn't even move his eyes from the TV. "The Joker is a villain.”
“So? He wasn‘t doing anything. I mean, he’s locked in a cage with shackles. He‘s just this deranged guy… but--”
“No, Clark. You don’t get it. He isn’t just ‘some deranged guy.’ The Joker is a nightmare. He lives to manipulate people. To make them scared, to make them weak, just for a laugh. Just because he can." He didn't look at the screen. He looked at Clark. “He…” The Batman was struggling to keep Bruce quiet. “He’s always up to something. He’s always got something in his crazy head that he is trying to do. He doesn’t have room for anything else.”
Clark wondered to himself. Maybe he was lonely, maybe he was jealous. Maybe he…
“It’s hard, because regular people always get distracted from what they want out of life by something they need in their life. A regular person isn’t supposed to only want or need one thing,” Bruce said. “A regular person has to have someone that they care about. More than just a… I mean, you know how it is…” Bruce looked like he was ashamed of something that he would never tell Clark. Something about how Batman was never going to be a regular person. That he could comprehend the level of compulsion of a serial killer. “He doesn’t care about anything, and I don’t think he ever will.”
"I used to feel sorry for him, too," Clark said. "Now, if I saw him again, I might run." Clark licked his lips again. "Psycho."
"He doesn't bother Metropolis. I'll have your back, if we see him again." Bruce may have turned to him. Bruce’s voice sounded unreasonably annoyed, and Clark still didn’t feel like looking him in the eye. Bruce commanded attention as he finally dispelled the anger from his voice. "I am not mad at you. I’m barely mad at him. It’s meaningless. You shouldn’t let it get to you.”
"You better not be mad at me." Clark half-growled, almost serious, "I didn't do anything to you. I am the one who--" He crossed his arms.
"No, you did,” he said. “What you did was not trust me. You don’t trust me to like act humane. I would never get mad at you over that," he said, channel surfing, the sound cutting in and out sharply.
“Well good.” Clark said, not willing to give up his anger, even though it was impotent.
“Good, then you can stop being pissy.”
"I'm not," Clark said. "You’re the one being pissy. You know I trust you!"
Bruce turned off the TV. "You are not the first person he sexually harassed. It’s not the end of the Goddamn world." Bruce looked at him. He said it flat out. Perhaps Bruce thought it would make Clark feel better having some kind of confidante. Maybe he had never told anyone else.
“Did he ever sexually harass you, Bruce?” Clark asked, even though the Joker had given him the answer last night. He didn’t want Bruce to go through all these feelings alone.
"He does that,” Bruce whispered. “He did it to me and he hates me more than anyone in his miserable life. He kissed me," Bruce said. "He wants to see me dead. The people at Arkham can't explain it. Maybe his mood stabilizer cocktail and cranial trauma has damaged his impulse control. Maybe he's a latent homosexual.” Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Who cares? I don’t…” Bruce worked hard to articulate his feelings. “Now he put you through it, too,” he said, “It just makes my skin crawl. He probably gave you a nickname, too. Probably said that you two were meant to be together and made all these disgusting… things. About how you just belong together, and trying to make it like he is telling the truth.”
Clark touched Bruce to try to dissipate some of his confusion and anger. It was almost touching how naïve Bruce was about the effect he had on people. Bruce let him touch him this time.
“No. No. He always lies. He lies because he thinks it’s funny to fuck with me. I hate him." Bruce hid his face. “I hate him so much.” He slammed his hand against the couch. "I don't care that he kissed you, Clark, I love you like crazy." He grasped the hand on his knee for some kind of comfort. This “I love you” was not elegant or rehearsed, it was ragged and frustrated, from the deepest place inside of his partner.
"I don't care that he kissed me, either," Clark whispered. Looking at all Bruce had been through alone all these years, Clark changed his mind; he was sure that when he crawled in a hole to die of embarrassment that Bruce could come with him. All Bruce had to do was ask to come in the hole with him, and it would be nice for someone to bring snacks.
“’Cause I know it wasn't a good kiss," Bruce said quietly as he looked out at the skyline. "He tastes like blood and make-up."
Clark began to understand why he was mad at Bruce, how he couldn’t share everything with Bruce.
Clark knew, if the Joker ever had kissed Batman, it was a good kiss. Even the kiss Joker had given him just that night had been amazing, but the source soured his iron stomach. The Joker may have been teasing Clark, but he would have kissed Bruce with the full force of his passion. Clark was so sick of his own insecurity about Bruce.
Bruce trusts him, Bruce knows him. Bruce told him a secret; Bruce would protect him if Joker came near him. Bruce proved himself a worthy partner and lover in every sense.
Bruce looked at the television again. "I don't care that he kissed you. But I am going to make him pay for what he did to you, Clark," he said. Bruce looked up at him with human fury in his eyes, even though his face was beautiful as it always was. “I’ll take care of him.”
"I could care less about anything that maniac does. If you care so little about him, why can't you tear your eyes away from him when he and I are in the same room?" Clark asked him honestly. “And why can’t you just let it go? Why can’t we just go on with our lives and be happy?”
Bruce stared at him, confused. "Well..."
Clark never in his life felt more alien than he did now. Bruce made Clark think about his time today at Arkham. For the first time he remembered his father’s words with a real awareness of the pain behind them. They are a good people of great potential. Humans were so wonderful, their keen minds and fiery spirit, the stubborn will, the quirky neurosis. Their achievement, their hearts.
Then in that cell Clark learned something else.
Maybe he learned how human nature could completely bury everything of value in the human character in the flash of passion and instinct. The desire to hurt the one who hurt you, to push pain away, to destroy your enemy.
The Joker reminded him of Bruce in that mad terrible instant.
Bruce took in a deep breath and lied to Clark, hid a part of himself. "He probably wanted to attack. You have to watch out for him. He’s tricky… You can’t take your eyes off of him.
Clark stared at the black TV screen. "Why did you stare at him like that?" Clark wasn’t sure he had the strength to let Bruce off the hook for this one.
Bruce turned around and held Clark’s hands, stared him in the eye. Clark could see disappointment and shame in his eyes, in that beautiful face, still whole thanks to the grace of God. The TV, the weary purple sky not even daring to be black any longer, and the sullen tiredness that lead them to argue was slipping away. Everything was quiet and real.
"Because the Joker is much hotter than you are, Clark."
Clark gasped.
"Sex. Incarnate." Bruce licked his lips.
And as Clark was stunned quiet over what Bruce just told him, Bruce's face lit up in a sharp smile so reluctant it looked like it hurt, and laughed the softest laughter Clark ever heard. Barely audible at first, as he laughed his shoulders shook up and down.
“You are a bitch, Bruce Wayne.” Clark could barely keep himself from crying laughing and losing control. Tears squeezed out as his face contorted.
Bruce’s face looked like it was going to explode. It was so red before the real laugh finally escaped his lips. Clark fell over laughing and they couldn’t even sit up for several minutes.
"Yeah, you were right. The kiss was good. The guy’s sex magic." Clark smiled. Bruce was laughing so hard it hurt. He held Clark tight in a hug.
"Not better than this," Bruce said. Bruce kissed him, still unable to end the laugh as he did, possibly making it less than the best kiss they ever had. He kept giggling Clark tried to deepen his kiss.
It wasn’t the kiss that made Clark feel better for once. Clark was healed by the sound of Bruce’s redemptive confused laughter. Bruce laughed at himself. It was like a balm from heaven, hearing Bruce laugh like that. The kernels of terrible truth he had seen exploded in a burst of humor. Bruce baptized himself in his soft, shy, and pained laugh. Bruce hadn’t meant anything. He had only forgotten that someone really loved him and that things could be nice in this world.
And somehow Clark knew, Bruce, bless him, would try his hardest not to forget that again.
Bruce held him. "Don't ever listen to what the Joker says... you just learn to filter out what is important. I can’t stand to see you like this."
Clark listened to Bruce’s heartbeat as they sat side by side. Bruce rested his head on his shoulder.
Clark filtered through echoing sound bites of madness, the things he heard and felt over the last few hours.
You're there or you’re not, in his bed it doesn't matter. Doesn’t matter to him.
I don’t mean to bruise him. I will never hurt him.
He must tell you he loves you every day.
Would he snap in half?
He’s gonna leave you.
He doesn’t have to…
(laughter)
I love you.
He loves me.
“I love you,” Bruce grumbled; he might as well call him a name afterwards it was so frustrated. But this declaration was unadorned and honest. It almost hurt.
"I think he told me... to take care of you." He drew Bruce in for a hug, and Bruce finally allowed himself to sleep.
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG-13 (Though I want to say R)
Word count: 15218
Warnings: Drug use, violence, disturbing imagery, and innuendo (Bats and Clowns do not make nice housepets)
Summary: Superman visits Arkham, and finds the Joker behind bars. He and the Joker have an unusual conversation about Batman.
A/N: This is my first DC fic. I really want to thank
quiet__tiger for the exhaustive beta read. (So many rounds. She is totally cool! And all those that offered their support. Hope you enjoy
It was pre-morning in Wayne Manor some three hours later.
The Joker’s attempted escape from Arkham was too stressful to put either of them in the mood to do anything but sit down and stare at the wall ‘til their frazzled nerves let them sleep.
Clark would be perfectly fine after his experience. The Joker had picked the wrong victim. He had stabbed seven people that year in Arkham, and this one would have been a fatal attack, if Batman hadn’t foiled Joker, or rather Clark hadn’t fumbled his way into the situation and was incapable of being shanked. Clark was shocked at how close Joker came to killing him if he were a person. Holes were in his cape and in his outfit, along the neck and of course the logo over his chest. He hadn't even felt it as his mind was twisted and turned by the Joker’s head games, and the crush of his lips.
Lipstick was another matter entirely. It just hurt to scrub it away anymore. It looked like he was wearing it still. Maybe his invulnerable skin was chaffing and rubbing off. Lipstick did not come off with just soap and water. But the red skin turned his stomach, at the memory of his heart racing and his eyes closing and…
He wondered if sugared dust particles had worked all the way into his tongue microscopically, as he could taste that kiss over and over again. Clark might be being stupid and melodramatic, but had the weird suspicion that Bruce would never want to kiss him again, just thinking where Clark’s mouth had been. Bruce was so protective and possessive. He wanted to crawl in a hole and die forever.
“Thanks to the Joker, I’m used goods. Oh, woe is me. Now Bruce shall call off our marriage, and shame me before Mama and the town.”
Bruce was on his couch in the media room designed in the French country style. He was watching the projection TV against the cheery yellow wainscoting, in an undignified sprawl, one leg over the couch as he watched Mel Brooks. It was undignified but somehow hot and it stretched out his muscles. Lately Bruce sprawled when he sat. He didn’t even cross his legs. As if his whole body was so exhausted he couldn’t sit up. Batman had menacing and severe posture. Clark really wondered if it meant that his injuries had caused permanent damage over the years
Bruce’s face was impassive, stern, teeth grinding at an invisible pebble. Bruce's face, frequently blank of emotions, had still always attracted Clark’s attention. He liked that hard jaw and that nose full of character and that sharply furrowed brow. He even once thought out of all his features he liked Bruce’s handsome face, the best of all. But he had been wrong about that.
Once Clark could tolerate being around Bruce or Batman for more than one minute, the things to love about him were infinite.
Clark approached cautiously. He could smell a fight in the air. He wasn’t sure that he would try to stop it either. He didn’t understand these conflicting feelings of aggression and vulnerability. It wasn’t normal for him to be so confused. He didn’t know if he should beg Bruce for forgiveness or throw him out the window. But he didn’t like the silence.
“Want to go to the bedroom and reconfirm our undying passion in the way only lovers can?” Clark muttered under his breath.
“Yeah, I’ll race you there,” Bruce said, eyes fluttering shut. He was half asleep anyway. He should have been fully asleep but something was probably bothering him. The Musical Inquisition number splashed across the screen, causing Bruce’s eyes to focus a little.
“I think this would be insensitive to Jewish people and witches,” Clark said.
"Yeah, but it’s funny," Bruce said.
That struck him as odd. Clark turned over and looked at him. "Then why aren't you laughing?"
Bruce shrugged. "Dunno. Tired."
"You know, you don't really laugh a lot,” Clark said.
“Nope. Not me.” Bruce was not in the mood to talk and had fallen into his default mode of utter compliance. In normal circumstances Clark should have used this to his advantage to do something a little raunchier in bed than normal, like giving Bruce a chance to spank him.
His judgment was poor tonight.
“But. You ARE funny.”
“I guess.” Bruce wasn’t in the mood to talk. He wasn’t going to get a thing out of him.
“I just find that ironic,” Clark said in leading tone full of accusation.
Bruce sighed. “God, I hate when you say that,” he said. “It only means you want to insult something I did. What did I do wrong now?”
“I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I’m just saying it is ironic,” Clark said
Bruce rolled his eyes at him. “Ironic, huh, Clark?” Bruce might not have superpowers, but he knew when someone was pushing his buttons. He knew a losing battle, so he tried to retreat.
Clark continued, “It’s ironic. You make jokes and jabs. You call me names, and I know you have great timing, saucy wit and material. You could go on for days and days delighting everyone in the room with stories and riddles and knock knock jokes."
“Whatever. I’m watching this.” He started channel surfing that very second. Which is hilarious to Clark because Bruce generally hates TV. And to use it as an excuse not to talk is a first in their relationship. Bruce looked at him like he was crazy before he pretended to be interested in skin cream on QVC. “So I don’t laugh?”
“You rarely laugh. I think it’s creepy,” Clark said.
"People think you’re crazy if you laugh at every little thing. I think it’s... It’s annoying. I think that is creepy.”
Clark looked at him. “I just think it’s creepy that you don’t laugh when something is funny. That is what ‘funny’ means, you laugh.”
“Maybe it’s not that funny. I don’t know.”
“Well, then don’t laugh. And don’t, like, add commentary about how you would laugh if you weren‘t weird.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “You’re the creepy one. Smiling all the time is the creepiest thing ever.”
“I don’t even smile that much,” Clark said. “And I laugh and I smile the exact amount of a normal person should smile and laugh. I even double checked.”
“Except you laugh like young Santa Claus,” Bruce said standing up.
“You have no right.” Clark said “YOU snigger like a moron, like someone letting air out a balloon.”
“I don’t snigger.”
“Like an evil little cat girl.” He put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce winced.
Clark could hold Bruce in place one handed, he had an annoying habit of doing that when Bruce was winning an argument. As if somewhere deep inside if he couldn’t make Bruce listen he could at least make him stick around. One day he would get the courage and kiss Bruce quiet, like in some bad movie, but now he didn’t want Bruce to hide in the bathroom.
“Let me go,” Bruce said. Most of their fights ended like this. Clark getting touchy and holding Bruce down. Bruce feeling uncomfortable and smacking him “Clark. I mean it.” He said still giving him one more warning
“What are you going to do kick me in the face? For holding your shoulder?”
“Why would I bother?” Bruce shouted. “”I’ll probably break a goddamn toe on your face.”
Clark let go. Bruce gave him that “Why-did-I-ever-sleep-with-this-man-in-the-first-place?” look as he rubbed his shoulder. “Too far, Clark.”
“I’m sorry. Is it bruised?” Clark looked at his shoulder.
Bruce grumbled, “No. I’m not a wuss. You touched my shoulder. But it could be if you keep holding me around like that,” Bruce snapped at him, through the pain and frustration. “I was sorry the second I did it.” The apology should be worthless as Bruce snarled that as well, but it wasn’t somehow. Classic Bruce. You couldn’t believe him if he was cold and level headed; he was most sincere when angry and unguarded.
“Don’t yell at me, stupid,” Clark’s disparaging epithets had regressed around thirty years.
“Because you…” Bruce grumbled “Creepy alien.”
“You’re creepy.” Clark said.
Clark and Bruce stopped shouting and stared at the TV, creepy and mad and not kissing and not laughing. But somehow still in love. It really stretches the imagination that people can exist like that.
After what they had been through together, he didn't understand why such a tiny thing was setting him on edge. Bruce, only sitting there and not laughing. Clark should hope he would never ever hear a laugh so cold and mad again as he had last night in that awful room, with those awful people. Clark should hope he’d never hear another witty comeback or a single variance of tone. Joker had scared the crap out of him, attacked him, tried to kill him and... then did something worse. He made him see the edges of the truth.
“I’m sorry I hit you.”
“You didn’t hit me, you tapped me. I’d be dead if you hit me. You grabbed me,” Bruce said.
Bruce hit him with a fist to his shoulder, so he would pay attention. It would take the full force of his training to hit him like that. It got Clark’s attention. "Don’t be a wuss. I'm not mad at what happened. Joker ambushed you, only instead of a bomb….” He scoffed, “Don't mope."
"I just.... I dunno." Clark thought he left relationships with women to stop talking about his inner feelings. He didn't even know what he was feeling. Why, of all things, Bruce's face was making him angry, when the Joker had tongue-humped his face in public.
“For some people, dealing with sexual harassment is harder than others. You are a textbook case. It’s a matter of social psychology. It‘s making me crazy to see you get affected by this. I don’t want to see you like this.”
“How do you think it makes me feel?” Clark said. “He would have escaped if you weren’t there. Or I would have killed him.”
Bruce continued quietly. He didn't even move his eyes from the TV. "The Joker is a villain.”
“So? He wasn‘t doing anything. I mean, he’s locked in a cage with shackles. He‘s just this deranged guy… but--”
“No, Clark. You don’t get it. He isn’t just ‘some deranged guy.’ The Joker is a nightmare. He lives to manipulate people. To make them scared, to make them weak, just for a laugh. Just because he can." He didn't look at the screen. He looked at Clark. “He…” The Batman was struggling to keep Bruce quiet. “He’s always up to something. He’s always got something in his crazy head that he is trying to do. He doesn’t have room for anything else.”
Clark wondered to himself. Maybe he was lonely, maybe he was jealous. Maybe he…
“It’s hard, because regular people always get distracted from what they want out of life by something they need in their life. A regular person isn’t supposed to only want or need one thing,” Bruce said. “A regular person has to have someone that they care about. More than just a… I mean, you know how it is…” Bruce looked like he was ashamed of something that he would never tell Clark. Something about how Batman was never going to be a regular person. That he could comprehend the level of compulsion of a serial killer. “He doesn’t care about anything, and I don’t think he ever will.”
"I used to feel sorry for him, too," Clark said. "Now, if I saw him again, I might run." Clark licked his lips again. "Psycho."
"He doesn't bother Metropolis. I'll have your back, if we see him again." Bruce may have turned to him. Bruce’s voice sounded unreasonably annoyed, and Clark still didn’t feel like looking him in the eye. Bruce commanded attention as he finally dispelled the anger from his voice. "I am not mad at you. I’m barely mad at him. It’s meaningless. You shouldn’t let it get to you.”
"You better not be mad at me." Clark half-growled, almost serious, "I didn't do anything to you. I am the one who--" He crossed his arms.
"No, you did,” he said. “What you did was not trust me. You don’t trust me to like act humane. I would never get mad at you over that," he said, channel surfing, the sound cutting in and out sharply.
“Well good.” Clark said, not willing to give up his anger, even though it was impotent.
“Good, then you can stop being pissy.”
"I'm not," Clark said. "You’re the one being pissy. You know I trust you!"
Bruce turned off the TV. "You are not the first person he sexually harassed. It’s not the end of the Goddamn world." Bruce looked at him. He said it flat out. Perhaps Bruce thought it would make Clark feel better having some kind of confidante. Maybe he had never told anyone else.
“Did he ever sexually harass you, Bruce?” Clark asked, even though the Joker had given him the answer last night. He didn’t want Bruce to go through all these feelings alone.
"He does that,” Bruce whispered. “He did it to me and he hates me more than anyone in his miserable life. He kissed me," Bruce said. "He wants to see me dead. The people at Arkham can't explain it. Maybe his mood stabilizer cocktail and cranial trauma has damaged his impulse control. Maybe he's a latent homosexual.” Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Who cares? I don’t…” Bruce worked hard to articulate his feelings. “Now he put you through it, too,” he said, “It just makes my skin crawl. He probably gave you a nickname, too. Probably said that you two were meant to be together and made all these disgusting… things. About how you just belong together, and trying to make it like he is telling the truth.”
Clark touched Bruce to try to dissipate some of his confusion and anger. It was almost touching how naïve Bruce was about the effect he had on people. Bruce let him touch him this time.
“No. No. He always lies. He lies because he thinks it’s funny to fuck with me. I hate him." Bruce hid his face. “I hate him so much.” He slammed his hand against the couch. "I don't care that he kissed you, Clark, I love you like crazy." He grasped the hand on his knee for some kind of comfort. This “I love you” was not elegant or rehearsed, it was ragged and frustrated, from the deepest place inside of his partner.
"I don't care that he kissed me, either," Clark whispered. Looking at all Bruce had been through alone all these years, Clark changed his mind; he was sure that when he crawled in a hole to die of embarrassment that Bruce could come with him. All Bruce had to do was ask to come in the hole with him, and it would be nice for someone to bring snacks.
“’Cause I know it wasn't a good kiss," Bruce said quietly as he looked out at the skyline. "He tastes like blood and make-up."
Clark began to understand why he was mad at Bruce, how he couldn’t share everything with Bruce.
Clark knew, if the Joker ever had kissed Batman, it was a good kiss. Even the kiss Joker had given him just that night had been amazing, but the source soured his iron stomach. The Joker may have been teasing Clark, but he would have kissed Bruce with the full force of his passion. Clark was so sick of his own insecurity about Bruce.
Bruce trusts him, Bruce knows him. Bruce told him a secret; Bruce would protect him if Joker came near him. Bruce proved himself a worthy partner and lover in every sense.
Bruce looked at the television again. "I don't care that he kissed you. But I am going to make him pay for what he did to you, Clark," he said. Bruce looked up at him with human fury in his eyes, even though his face was beautiful as it always was. “I’ll take care of him.”
"I could care less about anything that maniac does. If you care so little about him, why can't you tear your eyes away from him when he and I are in the same room?" Clark asked him honestly. “And why can’t you just let it go? Why can’t we just go on with our lives and be happy?”
Bruce stared at him, confused. "Well..."
Clark never in his life felt more alien than he did now. Bruce made Clark think about his time today at Arkham. For the first time he remembered his father’s words with a real awareness of the pain behind them. They are a good people of great potential. Humans were so wonderful, their keen minds and fiery spirit, the stubborn will, the quirky neurosis. Their achievement, their hearts.
Then in that cell Clark learned something else.
Maybe he learned how human nature could completely bury everything of value in the human character in the flash of passion and instinct. The desire to hurt the one who hurt you, to push pain away, to destroy your enemy.
The Joker reminded him of Bruce in that mad terrible instant.
Bruce took in a deep breath and lied to Clark, hid a part of himself. "He probably wanted to attack. You have to watch out for him. He’s tricky… You can’t take your eyes off of him.
Clark stared at the black TV screen. "Why did you stare at him like that?" Clark wasn’t sure he had the strength to let Bruce off the hook for this one.
Bruce turned around and held Clark’s hands, stared him in the eye. Clark could see disappointment and shame in his eyes, in that beautiful face, still whole thanks to the grace of God. The TV, the weary purple sky not even daring to be black any longer, and the sullen tiredness that lead them to argue was slipping away. Everything was quiet and real.
"Because the Joker is much hotter than you are, Clark."
Clark gasped.
"Sex. Incarnate." Bruce licked his lips.
And as Clark was stunned quiet over what Bruce just told him, Bruce's face lit up in a sharp smile so reluctant it looked like it hurt, and laughed the softest laughter Clark ever heard. Barely audible at first, as he laughed his shoulders shook up and down.
“You are a bitch, Bruce Wayne.” Clark could barely keep himself from crying laughing and losing control. Tears squeezed out as his face contorted.
Bruce’s face looked like it was going to explode. It was so red before the real laugh finally escaped his lips. Clark fell over laughing and they couldn’t even sit up for several minutes.
"Yeah, you were right. The kiss was good. The guy’s sex magic." Clark smiled. Bruce was laughing so hard it hurt. He held Clark tight in a hug.
"Not better than this," Bruce said. Bruce kissed him, still unable to end the laugh as he did, possibly making it less than the best kiss they ever had. He kept giggling Clark tried to deepen his kiss.
It wasn’t the kiss that made Clark feel better for once. Clark was healed by the sound of Bruce’s redemptive confused laughter. Bruce laughed at himself. It was like a balm from heaven, hearing Bruce laugh like that. The kernels of terrible truth he had seen exploded in a burst of humor. Bruce baptized himself in his soft, shy, and pained laugh. Bruce hadn’t meant anything. He had only forgotten that someone really loved him and that things could be nice in this world.
And somehow Clark knew, Bruce, bless him, would try his hardest not to forget that again.
Bruce held him. "Don't ever listen to what the Joker says... you just learn to filter out what is important. I can’t stand to see you like this."
Clark listened to Bruce’s heartbeat as they sat side by side. Bruce rested his head on his shoulder.
Clark filtered through echoing sound bites of madness, the things he heard and felt over the last few hours.
You're there or you’re not, in his bed it doesn't matter. Doesn’t matter to him.
I don’t mean to bruise him. I will never hurt him.
He must tell you he loves you every day.
Would he snap in half?
He’s gonna leave you.
He doesn’t have to…
(laughter)
I love you.
He loves me.
“I love you,” Bruce grumbled; he might as well call him a name afterwards it was so frustrated. But this declaration was unadorned and honest. It almost hurt.
"I think he told me... to take care of you." He drew Bruce in for a hug, and Bruce finally allowed himself to sleep.