[ficlet] eye of the beholder (Clark+Bruce, gen)
In Reform it altogether, Clark maintained that Bruce had assured him there were no cameras in Tim's room.
thete1 wanted that conversation.
Metropolis was rebuilt in a day. Bruce, however, refuses all of Clark's offers to do the same for Gotham. His objections center on the mystical, but they both know it's simpler than that.
It's about resources, well-invested.
Batman mutters something about how a farmer's son should know the value of hard work, sweat on the brow, aching backs. Clark forebears from noting that all that work has been performed by *other* hands. Not Bruce's.
"She's coming along," Batman says quietly, eyes on the monitors that show cranes, drills, work crews.
"I see."
"Of course you do." Batman shifts, his cape rustling along the floor. "I, however, make do with technology." He flicks a dial and the monitors switch to new angles, other neighborhoods.
"That's --" Clark starts to put his hand on Bruce's shoulder, then remembers himself. "That's Robin's street."
A flicker, Batman eyeing him more quickly than a human should be capable of, and then, simply, "Yes."
It's a nice street, quiet and residential. Most of the trees survived or were replanted. If one had to raise children in the city, Clark supposes, you could do much worse.
"You don't have --" Clark swallows as the angle shifts and Bruce zooms in on the upper floors of Tim's building. "*Bruce*."
"Is something wrong?"
"You don't have cameras in his home," Clark says as firmly as he can. "Tell me you don't."
A whisper of skin under latex, and Clark knows Bruce just arched his brow. "Would you believe me?"
Clark lets out a small, wheezing laugh as he eases himself down into the guest chair at the console. "That depends."
Bruce remains quiet, unperturbed, watching the monitors for several long moments. Finally, he says, "On what, I wonder?"
Clark looks away from the screen. "Could you change that? Go back to the park or the zoo. Let's check the zoo."
"In a moment," Batman says.
There are countless *things* in the world that Clark cannot help but gape at. He has to think of them as things, not as people or emotions, lest he go quite mad: genocide, racism, men who beat their wives and children. Big things, terrible things.
Then there are the smaller things, less important, perhaps, but no less disturbing.
"I don't have a camera in his bedroom," Batman says.
Clark drops his hands from his face. "What?"
"That was your next question."
He feels something break over his face, something warm and damp, but the cave is climate-controlled. "Bruce, no --"
Batman turns around, though his fingertips still rest on the controls. "I do not. You are welcome, of course, to check for yourself." His mouth stretches and thins in an expression Clark can't help likening to a fox. A wolf. Something snouted, with dangerous fangs. "Though I'd request that you ask Tim's permission first."
Clark stands on clumsy feet. "I --"
"Would that make you feel better?" Batman's cape moves ahead of him, darkening his path. "You could inspect the premises. His room, the shower." He's close enough now that his breath is hot on Clark's throat. "His bed?"
There are posters on the wall, an electric guitar in the corner, and, sometimes, Tim sleeps in a shirt with the S-shield.
They both know that.
Before Clark can reply, Batman turns and *glides* away.
"You're *sick* --" Clark whispers.
Batman raises his hand, fingers blunted by the gauntlet. "Speak up, would you?"
"I said, you're sick." Clark's shout rattles the bats into shivering, shrieking action. He winces, then clears his throat. "Bruce, please."
"The subject is dropped," Batman says flatly. He moves away from Clark's hand, then, fractionally, back. "It was dropped a long time ago."
"He's not Dick," Clark says.
Batman's laugh isn't a laugh, but a strained sound of saliva and air, suddenly expelled. "That much I've gathered."
"Bruce --"
He could stop Bruce from leaning forward, arrest his flight and hold him here. But that would be, Clark knows, the worst violation of all.
It's tempting, however, now more than ever.
"We should talk about --" Clark tries again, but Batman shakes his head.
"I'll see you next week."
"Sure," Clark says. "Next week."
On the flight home, he pauses three streets over from Tim's building. The boy sleeps on his stomach, pillow crushed against his face. The Robin suit is concealed at the back of his closet, spotless and unmarred. If it looks like a ghost, that's entirely in Clark's mind.
The city is regrowing below him. It's in good hands.
thete1 wanted that conversation.
Metropolis was rebuilt in a day. Bruce, however, refuses all of Clark's offers to do the same for Gotham. His objections center on the mystical, but they both know it's simpler than that.
It's about resources, well-invested.
Batman mutters something about how a farmer's son should know the value of hard work, sweat on the brow, aching backs. Clark forebears from noting that all that work has been performed by *other* hands. Not Bruce's.
"She's coming along," Batman says quietly, eyes on the monitors that show cranes, drills, work crews.
"I see."
"Of course you do." Batman shifts, his cape rustling along the floor. "I, however, make do with technology." He flicks a dial and the monitors switch to new angles, other neighborhoods.
"That's --" Clark starts to put his hand on Bruce's shoulder, then remembers himself. "That's Robin's street."
A flicker, Batman eyeing him more quickly than a human should be capable of, and then, simply, "Yes."
It's a nice street, quiet and residential. Most of the trees survived or were replanted. If one had to raise children in the city, Clark supposes, you could do much worse.
"You don't have --" Clark swallows as the angle shifts and Bruce zooms in on the upper floors of Tim's building. "*Bruce*."
"Is something wrong?"
"You don't have cameras in his home," Clark says as firmly as he can. "Tell me you don't."
A whisper of skin under latex, and Clark knows Bruce just arched his brow. "Would you believe me?"
Clark lets out a small, wheezing laugh as he eases himself down into the guest chair at the console. "That depends."
Bruce remains quiet, unperturbed, watching the monitors for several long moments. Finally, he says, "On what, I wonder?"
Clark looks away from the screen. "Could you change that? Go back to the park or the zoo. Let's check the zoo."
"In a moment," Batman says.
There are countless *things* in the world that Clark cannot help but gape at. He has to think of them as things, not as people or emotions, lest he go quite mad: genocide, racism, men who beat their wives and children. Big things, terrible things.
Then there are the smaller things, less important, perhaps, but no less disturbing.
"I don't have a camera in his bedroom," Batman says.
Clark drops his hands from his face. "What?"
"That was your next question."
He feels something break over his face, something warm and damp, but the cave is climate-controlled. "Bruce, no --"
Batman turns around, though his fingertips still rest on the controls. "I do not. You are welcome, of course, to check for yourself." His mouth stretches and thins in an expression Clark can't help likening to a fox. A wolf. Something snouted, with dangerous fangs. "Though I'd request that you ask Tim's permission first."
Clark stands on clumsy feet. "I --"
"Would that make you feel better?" Batman's cape moves ahead of him, darkening his path. "You could inspect the premises. His room, the shower." He's close enough now that his breath is hot on Clark's throat. "His bed?"
There are posters on the wall, an electric guitar in the corner, and, sometimes, Tim sleeps in a shirt with the S-shield.
They both know that.
Before Clark can reply, Batman turns and *glides* away.
"You're *sick* --" Clark whispers.
Batman raises his hand, fingers blunted by the gauntlet. "Speak up, would you?"
"I said, you're sick." Clark's shout rattles the bats into shivering, shrieking action. He winces, then clears his throat. "Bruce, please."
"The subject is dropped," Batman says flatly. He moves away from Clark's hand, then, fractionally, back. "It was dropped a long time ago."
"He's not Dick," Clark says.
Batman's laugh isn't a laugh, but a strained sound of saliva and air, suddenly expelled. "That much I've gathered."
"Bruce --"
He could stop Bruce from leaning forward, arrest his flight and hold him here. But that would be, Clark knows, the worst violation of all.
It's tempting, however, now more than ever.
"We should talk about --" Clark tries again, but Batman shakes his head.
"I'll see you next week."
"Sure," Clark says. "Next week."
On the flight home, he pauses three streets over from Tim's building. The boy sleeps on his stomach, pillow crushed against his face. The Robin suit is concealed at the back of his closet, spotless and unmarred. If it looks like a ghost, that's entirely in Clark's mind.
The city is regrowing below him. It's in good hands.