// Penny and Jack // 14
Part 14 of the Great Fandom-Consuming Crossover That Was! Click here for part 13 and all the other parts, and also for thanatophilia's journal. She writes all the good bits. Believe it.
(Also, said bits just keep on getting longer and longer. What happened to the hallowed days of 700-something word counts? *bemoans*)
♥
Kon woke up with his feet tangled in the bed-sheets, muffling quiet moans into the pillows, with Ragman leaning over him.
"Connor," Rory was whispering, shaking him gently. "C'mon, wake up, it's time."
He awoke all the way then, blinking in the darkness, with the view of Tim's neck and shoulders still spread before his eyes and an embarrassing boner tenting his borrowed slacks.
"Oh, uh, right." He sat up quickly, drawing the thin blanket around him protectively. Rory hadn't noticed, or was too kind to mention it. "Where are we going?"
"Someplace private, where I've already disabled one of Batman's security cameras." Was the hushed answer, and Rory gestured at a sack lying at his feet, the same ragged moss color as his outfit. It looked disturbingly sinister in the half-light, hinting at the uncharted worlds of magic, mysticism, and scented candles. Kon raised his eyes quickly.
"Alright, just give me a second to dress. Uh… this Sandman guy doesn't have a dress code, does he?"
"Your usual clothes will do, I think." Rory picked up the sack and slipped outside, silent as the still air. "Just hurry up. I'll be waiting down the hall." The door shut after him with a soft snick.
Kon stared at it a moment longer, unseeing. He could feel Tim's skin against the pads of his fingertips, taste Tim's sweat against his tongue, breathe him in and keep him bottled like perfume… and that was it, he really could; he felt it in his blood, in his head, because unlike most wet dreams, Tim didn't fade away, he stayed like an itch dying to be scratched, right there, at the back of his brain. He waited for the remnants of sleep to fall away, for the scent of musk and arousal to fade, but it didn't, too real and yet intangible.
It was driving him insane, and he couldn't afford that right now.
His clothes were flung over the upholstered chair stationed by the window, jeans and black t-shirt and scuffed shoes dirtying Batman's wall-to-wall carpeting. He had stayed the night in one of the guest rooms-no way was Batman letting him out of his sight now-waiting for the moment when Rory would come and drag him off to do the transportation ritual. And while he wasn't exactly sure what such a ritual entailed, he was willing to do anything to get Tim back.
He would even postpone his complete freak-out at having gotten a boner from dreaming about his best friend.
Kon pulled on his shirt, gave a last, hopeless look at the bed, and slipped out the door.
♥
He was working late hours (all hours) and long nights (every night) to find a lead again. Roxas and his benefactors remained incognito, but their names might mean something when spoken to the right ears, when discussed with the right people.
Batman always found the right people.
Alfred brought along refreshments on an hourly basis, without being told, but they remained untouched on the table. Some time later, he'd return again, and take them away; this, too, without being told.
Who are you? Where are you hiding?
Clark had come by, looking worried, abashed, dismayed, and tired around the eyes. He had asked after Kon, which was odd, considering the boy was in the mansion and easily found. Batman hadn't commented on it, though, preferring not to pry: If it was a crisis, no help could be offered, if it was between them, no help would be wanted.
Besides, there wasn't time for that.
Oracle was gone, choosing to help from afar, and Ragman would leave soon, as well. He would be left in the Cave, a ghost with a shroud of shadows, deserted as the grave with nothing but bats to keep the vigil.
How did this happen? Why did you do it?
He was the sound of footsteps coming from an empty alley. He was the dark which every villain feared.
He'd been a Nobody before the Robins, without them.
Through late hours and longer nights, Batman worked.
♥
Rory led him into a deserted chamber, equally full of impatience and fear. He kept his head bare inside the mansion, but the shadows clouded his eyes, his aquiline cheekbones, and served as well as the hood of his cape.
His face was etched with worry lines like a dusting of cobwebs, and it was echoed by the room, which exhibited an actual dusting of cobwebs so fine it made the walls appear to be etched with worry lines.
The sack was reverently laid on the ground, and its contents exposed one by one:
An old book, with pages worn so thin they looked like tattered lace.
A few indefinable occult objects, patterned with wood and feathers and ivory, smelling absolutely vile.
A small, beautifully-crafted figurine, like a tiny gas mask with a nozzle, fine and haunting with eyes of smoke and mirrors.
And-
"A sandwich?" said Kon, skeptically.
"I got hungry, okay?" Rory retorted defensively. "Alfred's creepy, and I was picking up all this stuff from my place, anyway. I'll be staying all night helping Batman not have a mental breakdown, I might as well have something to eat later on."
Kon shook his head, and tried not to think too hard about how he was putting his life into the hands of a guy who carried his food in the same bag he carried 5000-year-old mystical goat innards.
The ritual was a bit of a bore, actually, since most of it was completely incomprehensible. It involved lots of chanting, mostly in languages which even sounded long-dead, and looked a bit silly when viewed from the sidelines. Kon didn't complain, but he fidgeted with nervous energy, impatient to get back to Tim and kick Roxas' ass, preferably in that order.
He stifled a magnanimous yawn, trying not to think about mussed bed-sheets or the smell of Tim's hair insinuating itself in his brain, and when he next opened his eyes, everything was white.
He blinked, opened his mouth to ask Rory what the hell was going on, then shut it again as his surroundings cleared, like fading mist, and resolved into a proper landscape.
There was a castle in front of him, bigger than the Wayne mansion, bigger than LexCorp Enterprises, practically bristling with gargoyles and buttresses and architectural ruche of every imaginable kind. He looked up, up, saw the immaculate steps leading up to the doorway painted with star and clouds, set in towering grey walls and guarded by what looked like a gryphon, a unicorn, and a dragon.
All more than twenty feet tall, naturally.
Kon sized them up. They looked unfriendly.
This Sandman person, whoever he was, wasn't what you'd call a happy person, he decided eventually. He had a fetish for Gothic architecture, too. The landscape surrounding him was as dismal as the castle, grim and craggy and looking like something out of Sherlock Holmes and the Hound of the Baskervilles, which Tim had made him watch during an Arthur Conan Doyle TV marathon.
And if he'd correctly understood Rory's vague mumbles of explanation, this was the Sandman's realm. He had to go into the castle, confront him on his own terms, and… improvise from there on, haha.
He looked at the gatekeepers again. They seemed to glower back. Faint puffs of smoke erupted from the dragon's nostrils at regular intervals.
Kon prudently decided to forego the door.
Moments later, he alighted on a balcony, thanking his Kryptonian ancestors for gifting him with superpowers like flying and the ability to be completely awesome.
He grinned down at the guardians, who looked absolutely infuriated, then looked up, and noticed a man.
He was tall and thin, unnaturally bony like the Joker, only a lot more respectable. Well, considering he was wearing a black kimono that looked like it was on fire. He had black hair which appeared to be some legendary bird's nesting grounds, and... the face of eternity depicted in Japanese brushstrokes.
"Uh," said Kon, because even he wasn't dense enough not to recognize the Dream King when he saw him. "Hi."
The Sandman stared at him with eyes of endless black, and Kon felt the lurch, deep in the pit of his stomach, of a sudden realization. He was endless. Gods and mortals and even aliens came and went from the world, like shooting stars blazing across the sky, but here was a constant, a being exactly as abiding as everything else wasn't. And in his realm, on his veranda, Kon felt absolutely humbled.
This was not conducive to his mission. "So, um," he said, growing increasingly mortified with himself, "this is, you've, you've got a nice--" he groped for words; what do you say to the King of Dreams? "--gate."
"Hello, Conner Kent." said the Sandman, in a surprisingly mild tone of voice, considering it merely made his spine crawl. "I am surprised by your observation, as it seems to me that you had bypassed the doorway completely."
"Uh." said Kon again, a sterling anathema to witticism. "Yeah, about that, listen--"
"I commanded my guardians to let you pass, otherwise they would have snapped you out of the air and crushed your bones to powder." explained the Sandman, politely. "I think it is safe to say I had already planned on listening to you. Go on."
"It's about Tim." Kon blurted out, then swallowed. He stared at the Sandman, and felt a horrible sensation of displacement--he wasn't supposed to be here, he couldn't dream, he was dead--but the name lent him power, and he rallied. "A friend of mine, Ragman, he said you could--do things. Help me. I need to travel to another dimension, I don't know which, it's the place Tim Drake went and I need to follow him, he got kidnapped by this guy named Roxas and he's trying to find me too, I can feel it, feel him, but no-one can re-open their portal and then Ragman said you could do it, transport me, that is, and so I came here and just, please, I'll do anything." He meant every word of it. "Anything."
The Sandman gazed at him; benevolent, calculating, austere. "You remind me somewhat of my sister Delirium." he said. "But undoubtedly you are, if nothing else, sincere."
"Yes, I am." Kon clenched his jaw manfully, then paused. It didn't seem enough, somehow. "And um, thanks, I guess." he added in a mumble.
The Sandman inclined his head, either in acknowledgment or to agree that yes, Kon was indeed the world's biggest dork. His mouth twitched in a tiny smile, as if he was unfamiliar with the concept, but his eyes never ceased being dark and scary. Kon tried not to look at them while still maintaining direct eye contact, and experienced limited success.
"Tell me, Connor Kent," said the Sandman, "what does Superboy dream about?"
"Nothing much." Kon clenched his fists behind his back, out of sight. "I don't really dream anymore."
"Death and the Dreaming are not connected." said the Sandman, as if reading his mind. "My sister has her own realm, and I have mine. Rarely do our paths cross."
Yeah, Rory might have mentioned something like that, about the guy's whole family being batshit crazy and incidentally, not to mention older brothers. Kon didn't even want to know. "I guess... I don't have much to dream about. Except nightmares." Dreams of ice and death, falling back into that dark abyss, watching the whole world spiral into ruin and not being able to do a thing.
Yeah, Kon didn't sleep much anymore.
"And Tim Drake?" the Sandman cocked his head, an inquisitive marble statue. "Is he a nightmare, too?"
Oh, yeah. About that. Kon swallowed. "I, I don't... no." he admitted. "He isn't. I don't know what he is. But I need to find him."
"Very well." the Sandman seemed to approve of that answer, though Kon wasn't sure he himself did. "I shall send you to your desired location, and in return, you shall pay the expenditure."
"Yes." Kon breathed. He should have felt apprehensive, but there was nothing--only the giddy driving need to be there already, wherever 'there' was.
"I shall consider this a favor," continued his creditor gravely, "and when the time is right, I shall call upon your services. You must vow to come at my behest immediately, and serve me without compunction. Should you fail, you will come here to the Dreaming, to be my minion. You shall become a dream-creature, lost to the realm of humans, alive only as a figment of their imagination. Are these terms acceptable?"
"Yes." It wasn't an answer, it was a demand. "I swear by my life and my death and whatever else you want that I'll do all that, every single goddamn thing, and if I fail I'll do it all anyway and just," he breathed, "get me to Tim."
"Very well." The Sandman said again, unruffled. Kon felt slightly abashed.
"And thank you, Dream King. I... thank you."
"Do not thank me, Connor Kent, merely repay me in kind." said the Sandman. Then he paused, thoughtfully, and added, "And call me Morpheus."
Kon bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from grinning.
And then, suddenly, everything was white.
(Also, said bits just keep on getting longer and longer. What happened to the hallowed days of 700-something word counts? *bemoans*)
♥
Kon woke up with his feet tangled in the bed-sheets, muffling quiet moans into the pillows, with Ragman leaning over him.
"Connor," Rory was whispering, shaking him gently. "C'mon, wake up, it's time."
He awoke all the way then, blinking in the darkness, with the view of Tim's neck and shoulders still spread before his eyes and an embarrassing boner tenting his borrowed slacks.
"Oh, uh, right." He sat up quickly, drawing the thin blanket around him protectively. Rory hadn't noticed, or was too kind to mention it. "Where are we going?"
"Someplace private, where I've already disabled one of Batman's security cameras." Was the hushed answer, and Rory gestured at a sack lying at his feet, the same ragged moss color as his outfit. It looked disturbingly sinister in the half-light, hinting at the uncharted worlds of magic, mysticism, and scented candles. Kon raised his eyes quickly.
"Alright, just give me a second to dress. Uh… this Sandman guy doesn't have a dress code, does he?"
"Your usual clothes will do, I think." Rory picked up the sack and slipped outside, silent as the still air. "Just hurry up. I'll be waiting down the hall." The door shut after him with a soft snick.
Kon stared at it a moment longer, unseeing. He could feel Tim's skin against the pads of his fingertips, taste Tim's sweat against his tongue, breathe him in and keep him bottled like perfume… and that was it, he really could; he felt it in his blood, in his head, because unlike most wet dreams, Tim didn't fade away, he stayed like an itch dying to be scratched, right there, at the back of his brain. He waited for the remnants of sleep to fall away, for the scent of musk and arousal to fade, but it didn't, too real and yet intangible.
It was driving him insane, and he couldn't afford that right now.
His clothes were flung over the upholstered chair stationed by the window, jeans and black t-shirt and scuffed shoes dirtying Batman's wall-to-wall carpeting. He had stayed the night in one of the guest rooms-no way was Batman letting him out of his sight now-waiting for the moment when Rory would come and drag him off to do the transportation ritual. And while he wasn't exactly sure what such a ritual entailed, he was willing to do anything to get Tim back.
He would even postpone his complete freak-out at having gotten a boner from dreaming about his best friend.
Kon pulled on his shirt, gave a last, hopeless look at the bed, and slipped out the door.
♥
He was working late hours (all hours) and long nights (every night) to find a lead again. Roxas and his benefactors remained incognito, but their names might mean something when spoken to the right ears, when discussed with the right people.
Batman always found the right people.
Alfred brought along refreshments on an hourly basis, without being told, but they remained untouched on the table. Some time later, he'd return again, and take them away; this, too, without being told.
Who are you? Where are you hiding?
Clark had come by, looking worried, abashed, dismayed, and tired around the eyes. He had asked after Kon, which was odd, considering the boy was in the mansion and easily found. Batman hadn't commented on it, though, preferring not to pry: If it was a crisis, no help could be offered, if it was between them, no help would be wanted.
Besides, there wasn't time for that.
Oracle was gone, choosing to help from afar, and Ragman would leave soon, as well. He would be left in the Cave, a ghost with a shroud of shadows, deserted as the grave with nothing but bats to keep the vigil.
How did this happen? Why did you do it?
He was the sound of footsteps coming from an empty alley. He was the dark which every villain feared.
He'd been a Nobody before the Robins, without them.
Through late hours and longer nights, Batman worked.
♥
Rory led him into a deserted chamber, equally full of impatience and fear. He kept his head bare inside the mansion, but the shadows clouded his eyes, his aquiline cheekbones, and served as well as the hood of his cape.
His face was etched with worry lines like a dusting of cobwebs, and it was echoed by the room, which exhibited an actual dusting of cobwebs so fine it made the walls appear to be etched with worry lines.
The sack was reverently laid on the ground, and its contents exposed one by one:
An old book, with pages worn so thin they looked like tattered lace.
A few indefinable occult objects, patterned with wood and feathers and ivory, smelling absolutely vile.
A small, beautifully-crafted figurine, like a tiny gas mask with a nozzle, fine and haunting with eyes of smoke and mirrors.
And-
"A sandwich?" said Kon, skeptically.
"I got hungry, okay?" Rory retorted defensively. "Alfred's creepy, and I was picking up all this stuff from my place, anyway. I'll be staying all night helping Batman not have a mental breakdown, I might as well have something to eat later on."
Kon shook his head, and tried not to think too hard about how he was putting his life into the hands of a guy who carried his food in the same bag he carried 5000-year-old mystical goat innards.
The ritual was a bit of a bore, actually, since most of it was completely incomprehensible. It involved lots of chanting, mostly in languages which even sounded long-dead, and looked a bit silly when viewed from the sidelines. Kon didn't complain, but he fidgeted with nervous energy, impatient to get back to Tim and kick Roxas' ass, preferably in that order.
He stifled a magnanimous yawn, trying not to think about mussed bed-sheets or the smell of Tim's hair insinuating itself in his brain, and when he next opened his eyes, everything was white.
He blinked, opened his mouth to ask Rory what the hell was going on, then shut it again as his surroundings cleared, like fading mist, and resolved into a proper landscape.
There was a castle in front of him, bigger than the Wayne mansion, bigger than LexCorp Enterprises, practically bristling with gargoyles and buttresses and architectural ruche of every imaginable kind. He looked up, up, saw the immaculate steps leading up to the doorway painted with star and clouds, set in towering grey walls and guarded by what looked like a gryphon, a unicorn, and a dragon.
All more than twenty feet tall, naturally.
Kon sized them up. They looked unfriendly.
This Sandman person, whoever he was, wasn't what you'd call a happy person, he decided eventually. He had a fetish for Gothic architecture, too. The landscape surrounding him was as dismal as the castle, grim and craggy and looking like something out of Sherlock Holmes and the Hound of the Baskervilles, which Tim had made him watch during an Arthur Conan Doyle TV marathon.
And if he'd correctly understood Rory's vague mumbles of explanation, this was the Sandman's realm. He had to go into the castle, confront him on his own terms, and… improvise from there on, haha.
He looked at the gatekeepers again. They seemed to glower back. Faint puffs of smoke erupted from the dragon's nostrils at regular intervals.
Kon prudently decided to forego the door.
Moments later, he alighted on a balcony, thanking his Kryptonian ancestors for gifting him with superpowers like flying and the ability to be completely awesome.
He grinned down at the guardians, who looked absolutely infuriated, then looked up, and noticed a man.
He was tall and thin, unnaturally bony like the Joker, only a lot more respectable. Well, considering he was wearing a black kimono that looked like it was on fire. He had black hair which appeared to be some legendary bird's nesting grounds, and... the face of eternity depicted in Japanese brushstrokes.
"Uh," said Kon, because even he wasn't dense enough not to recognize the Dream King when he saw him. "Hi."
The Sandman stared at him with eyes of endless black, and Kon felt the lurch, deep in the pit of his stomach, of a sudden realization. He was endless. Gods and mortals and even aliens came and went from the world, like shooting stars blazing across the sky, but here was a constant, a being exactly as abiding as everything else wasn't. And in his realm, on his veranda, Kon felt absolutely humbled.
This was not conducive to his mission. "So, um," he said, growing increasingly mortified with himself, "this is, you've, you've got a nice--" he groped for words; what do you say to the King of Dreams? "--gate."
"Hello, Conner Kent." said the Sandman, in a surprisingly mild tone of voice, considering it merely made his spine crawl. "I am surprised by your observation, as it seems to me that you had bypassed the doorway completely."
"Uh." said Kon again, a sterling anathema to witticism. "Yeah, about that, listen--"
"I commanded my guardians to let you pass, otherwise they would have snapped you out of the air and crushed your bones to powder." explained the Sandman, politely. "I think it is safe to say I had already planned on listening to you. Go on."
"It's about Tim." Kon blurted out, then swallowed. He stared at the Sandman, and felt a horrible sensation of displacement--he wasn't supposed to be here, he couldn't dream, he was dead--but the name lent him power, and he rallied. "A friend of mine, Ragman, he said you could--do things. Help me. I need to travel to another dimension, I don't know which, it's the place Tim Drake went and I need to follow him, he got kidnapped by this guy named Roxas and he's trying to find me too, I can feel it, feel him, but no-one can re-open their portal and then Ragman said you could do it, transport me, that is, and so I came here and just, please, I'll do anything." He meant every word of it. "Anything."
The Sandman gazed at him; benevolent, calculating, austere. "You remind me somewhat of my sister Delirium." he said. "But undoubtedly you are, if nothing else, sincere."
"Yes, I am." Kon clenched his jaw manfully, then paused. It didn't seem enough, somehow. "And um, thanks, I guess." he added in a mumble.
The Sandman inclined his head, either in acknowledgment or to agree that yes, Kon was indeed the world's biggest dork. His mouth twitched in a tiny smile, as if he was unfamiliar with the concept, but his eyes never ceased being dark and scary. Kon tried not to look at them while still maintaining direct eye contact, and experienced limited success.
"Tell me, Connor Kent," said the Sandman, "what does Superboy dream about?"
"Nothing much." Kon clenched his fists behind his back, out of sight. "I don't really dream anymore."
"Death and the Dreaming are not connected." said the Sandman, as if reading his mind. "My sister has her own realm, and I have mine. Rarely do our paths cross."
Yeah, Rory might have mentioned something like that, about the guy's whole family being batshit crazy and incidentally, not to mention older brothers. Kon didn't even want to know. "I guess... I don't have much to dream about. Except nightmares." Dreams of ice and death, falling back into that dark abyss, watching the whole world spiral into ruin and not being able to do a thing.
Yeah, Kon didn't sleep much anymore.
"And Tim Drake?" the Sandman cocked his head, an inquisitive marble statue. "Is he a nightmare, too?"
Oh, yeah. About that. Kon swallowed. "I, I don't... no." he admitted. "He isn't. I don't know what he is. But I need to find him."
"Very well." the Sandman seemed to approve of that answer, though Kon wasn't sure he himself did. "I shall send you to your desired location, and in return, you shall pay the expenditure."
"Yes." Kon breathed. He should have felt apprehensive, but there was nothing--only the giddy driving need to be there already, wherever 'there' was.
"I shall consider this a favor," continued his creditor gravely, "and when the time is right, I shall call upon your services. You must vow to come at my behest immediately, and serve me without compunction. Should you fail, you will come here to the Dreaming, to be my minion. You shall become a dream-creature, lost to the realm of humans, alive only as a figment of their imagination. Are these terms acceptable?"
"Yes." It wasn't an answer, it was a demand. "I swear by my life and my death and whatever else you want that I'll do all that, every single goddamn thing, and if I fail I'll do it all anyway and just," he breathed, "get me to Tim."
"Very well." The Sandman said again, unruffled. Kon felt slightly abashed.
"And thank you, Dream King. I... thank you."
"Do not thank me, Connor Kent, merely repay me in kind." said the Sandman. Then he paused, thoughtfully, and added, "And call me Morpheus."
Kon bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from grinning.
And then, suddenly, everything was white.