The Man Who Falls (8/10)
Title: The Man Who Falls (8/10)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Livewire, Alfred Pennyworth, Harleen Quinzel, Barbara Gordon, Jimmy Gordon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Dark Knight/Superman Returns crossover; a continuation of Leap of Faith.
Word Count: 3100Summary: Clark Kent arrives in Gotham after the events of The Dark Knight and adds up the facts surrounding Bruce Wayne and Batman. Unfortunately, he reaches all the wrong conclusions.
Notes: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, Prompt F8: Superman strongly disapproves of Batman's methods. Clark Kent, on the other hand, has a very obvious (and not quite so secret) crush on Bruce Wayne. What happens when Clark suddenly finds out that Bruce is also Batman?
"--You're not even listening to me! I have never been so insulted in my life!"
Superman blinked at Livewire's indignant face as he deposited her at the gate of Stryker's Penitentiary. "I'm sorry?" he said politely.
She shrugged her bound arms elaborately, rolling her eyes. "Never mind. Ten minutes of prime wisecracks and innuendo, wasted on Captain Oblivious here," she complained to the approaching guards. She shot Superman a venomous glare. "He was hardly even paying attention when he was fighting me. A girl's got her pride, you know."
"My apologies, Ms Willis. I'd be more than happy to dedicate my attention to you if you were using your powers for good rather than evil."
"Oh, you bet your blue bippy you'll dedicate your attention to me!" Livewire yelled over her shoulder as she was led away. "Next time I'll knock that smug look right off your face! As if I'm going to forget this insult--"
The doors clanged shut behind her and muffled her ranting. Superman sighed in relief, his thoughts already turning from her, back to Gotham and Bruce.
Bruce.
He had hoped a night of patrolling Metropolis would give both of them some space, but instead it had merely created a kind of infinite loop in his head of the sensations and emotions of the night before: rough stitches beneath his fingers, harsh breathing in his ear, Bruce's ferocious mouth--
The Stryker's guards were looking at him strangely and Superman realized he was rubbing his lower lip and staring blankly into space. Had he been looking smug? He suspected he mostly looked dazed. A quick apology later and he was in the air, high above Metropolis and soaring higher, to where the atmosphere thinned and the morning light became translucent azure. A god's-eye view, Lois had called it once, but he felt anything but godly right now.
You can't help me, Bruce had said to Clark Kent. But now matter how sincerely he believed that, part of him yearned to be helped. Part of him wanted to pull Clark closer even as he pushed him away. He had thrown Clark's hat at him, had shown him the door.
But he had also left Clark's notebook in the back seat of his car.
Superman let himself drop downward, let gravity pull him into terminal velocity, friction edging his cape with flame as he descended toward Gotham.
: : :
"Investigative reporter!" Batman threw his gauntlet across the penthouse; Alfred watched it skitter like a black spider along the polished tile floor. "Brilliant, hot-shot newshound, my foot!" Bruce Wayne had come back from his jaunt in the red light district a little after midnight, changed into the suit and disappeared into the night without a word to Alfred, returning only as the sun started to rise. He wrenched off a boot and let it drop with a furious thud. "All his careful investigations, all his intuitions and hunches, and then he goes and decides that I'm training to take out Batman."
Alfred gaped at him. "What?"
Bruce pulled off the cowl, wincing as it tugged at his hair. "Clark Kent, genius reporter, has decided that Batman is setting Bruce Wayne up to be a replacement for Harvey Dent in the public eye. He thinks I'm playing into his hands, trying to be some kind of vigilante hero and stand up to the Dark Knight."
"Bloody hell," Alfred said blankly.
Bruce ignored Alfred's uncharacteristic lapse and hurled the cowl across the room; it landed on a couch, blank sockets gazing reproachfully at him. "How could he get so close and muck it up so totally? I thought--for a moment there, I really thought--" His voice broke off and he busied himself with prying himself out of the armor.
Alfred picked up the pieces, trying to re-gather his aplomb and figure out where things had gone so horribly wrong.
"Of all the stupid--the stupid--" Bruce's hands slipped on a buckle and he cursed, ripping at the cloth as if struggling with an enemy. "He's supposed to be smart, and instead he was just talking nonsense, he understands nothing--" His voice was shaking as the chestpiece finally came off and thumped to the floor.
"And you want him to understand," Alfred said slowly.
Bruce gave him an eloquent glare as he shrugged into a bathrobe.
"Then for God's sake, sir, tell him," Alfred pleaded. "I believe you can trust him."
"Of course I can trust him," Bruce snarled as if Alfred had insulted him. "He might disapprove, but he'd never betray my trust."
"Then--"
"--It's too dangerous," Bruce said flatly. "Being connected to me, to Batman--it almost cost Gordon his family. It cost Rachel and Harvey everything. I won't risk his life. It's--" He faltered, staring down at the armor on the floor. "Alfred, he's too important to risk."
Alfred bent down and picked up the last pieces of leather and nomex, the war between chagrin and hope in his heart never making it to his face. "What will you do now, sir?"
"Maybe he'll just go back to Metropolis and drop it," Bruce said. He looked at Alfred's face. "But that's pretty unlikely, isn't it?"
"Exceedingly so." Alfred pulled a small blue notebook from his pocket. "Especially since I found this in your car when I was cleaning it this morning. Sloppy of you to forget it, sir," he said, handing it over. "One would almost suspect you wanted to give him a reason to come back."
Bruce flipped open the notebook, glancing at the jotted notes. "Take it up with my damn subconscious," he muttered. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in sweaty disarray. "I'm going to clean up. If he shows up while I'm in the shower, tell him to wait for me."
"What are you going to say to him?"
"What I usually do," Bruce said as he stood up and stretched, his neck popping. "I'll tell just enough of the truth to create an even more convincing lie, and he'll finally go away and leave me alone."
He nodded to himself and padded off to the bathroom, apparently convinced that he had sounded resolute rather than desolate.
: : :
Clark Kent adjusted his tie and waited in the lobby of the penthouse. The intercom buzzed and Alfred Pennyworth's filtered voice said "Master Wayne is expecting you, Mr. Kent. Please do come up."
The elevator doors opened and Clark stepped in and rose far above Gotham to Bruce Wayne's private penthouse.
"Clark," said Bruce as he stepped out. "What a pleasure to see you again." His hair was still damp, falling slightly into his eyes, and he was carrying a martini glass and wearing slacks and a silk shirt, the image of a hedonist at home. "I suppose you came for your notebook? Sorry about that."
Clark looked around the penthouse, which was airy, open, and almost totally devoid of decoration of any sort. Everything was austere steel and glass, with accents of black and white. There was almost no trace of personality in the place.
Then Bruce pressed a button on the wall and the shutters on the huge plate-glass windows slid open, and Clark realized why there was no sense of Bruce in the penthouse.
Gotham unfolded all around the apartment, every window an exquisite view of the city. Gotham itself was the penthouse's only decoration, its jewel and its completion.
"Can I get you a drink?" Bruce said, waving his glass. "It's five o'clock somewhere in the world, I always say."
"There isn't any alcohol in that drink," Clark said.
Bruce took a sip and smirked at him. "Well, we can chat over Shirley Temples then," he said. He strolled to the bar and poured ginger ale, added a splash of grenadine, and topped it with a cherry. "Cheers," he said, handing it to Clark.
"We need to talk," said Clark as he took the glass. "I need to tell you--"
"I know," said Bruce. The smile slipped from his face and he looked very serious. "I've...been thinking about last night. And not just the kissing," he added with a flash of a grin. "No, I've been thinking about what you said." He put down the drink and went to the window, gazing out at the city. "About how I'd be throwing my life away if I went after Batman. Maybe you're right. Maybe it would be a waste to fight him. You've given me a lot to think about and--"
Clark cut off his words by putting a finger to Bruce's lips. "Stop it," he said. "That's not what I came here for. And you're not the kind of man who gives up on something so easily."
There was a flash of anger in Bruce's eyes. "I don't think you understand me as well as you think you do," he said, but he kissed Clark's finger.
"This is not some casual plan you've thrown together," Clark said. "You've been working on it since Batman first showed up. You have a butler who trained in the British Secret Service. He's been helping you with the logistics, the tactics, the medical care."
"He also does windows," Bruce said against Clark's finger. "He's a regular Swiss Army knife of a butler. Priceless."
"You crash your cars regularly--but only the ones that aren't unique, that you can replace. This isn't a lark for you, this is a serious plan, and you're not going to give it up just because some random guy--" Bruce slipped his finger into his mouth and Clark lost his train of thought for a second. "Um, just because some random guy made out with you for a while."
Bruce bit his finger lightly, smiling around it. "You are most definitely not some random guy," he mumbled.
"You're right," said Clark, "But not the way you think. Bruce..."
Bruce was busy sucking on his finger; Clark reclaimed it and Bruce pulled his mouth into a pout. "Clark, I mean it. I have no intention of fighting Batman. As for the other things we did last night..." He smiled, but there was a tightness around his eyes that made him look more worried than alluring. "If you like, we can have a fun romp until your story is done. But seriously, Clark, you know perfectly well there's nothing possible in the long run. Let's just have a little fun together," he said, nuzzling Clark's ear. "I'm not...a long-run sort of guy."
"I think you are," said Clark. "And I think we can do great things together. Bruce, there's something I have to show you." He started to loosen his tie. "This is...really hard," he said. His hands were shaking.
Bruce's eyes widened into a leer. "Well, I was kind of hoping to see it, I confess, and I'd like to think it was really hard already, but I didn't think you'd be so quick to...show...me..."
His voice trailed off as Clark unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the red and blue cloth, the golden insignia.
After a long moment, he raised his eyes from Clark's chest. "Clark, where in the world did you get a Superman costume and why are you wearing it under your clothes?"
Clark pulled off his glasses and ruffled his bangs until they fell into place.
Bruce stared. "Okay, you do a very good Superman cosplay," he said, baffled. "What does this have to do with anything? Are you planning to help me raise money for Gotham by pretending to be--"
"Bruce." Clark put his arms around him and lifted them both into the air, floating toward the ceiling. "This is me. I'm--"
He broke off at the sight of Bruce's face, which had gone absolutely white and rigid. "Jesus," Bruce gasped.
"No, just Superman." Clark chuckled, but Bruce didn't even seem to hear the joke. He was staring at Clark, his face blank, his breath rapid and shallow. Clark dropped them down to the floor again. "Bruce?"
"No," Bruce said. He took a step back, away from Clark. "I can't--" He lapsed into silence with the sentence unfinished, staring at Clark as if his mind were racing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Clark said, buttoning his shirt, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure in the face of Bruce's reaction. "There...never seemed to be a good time, I guess. I should have told you sooner."
"No," said Bruce again. "I...I understand." He shook his head blankly. "Show me again."
Clark lifted himself a few feet off the floor and watched Bruce's eyes widen. "Hold on," said Clark, "Let me..." He picked up the couch and hoisted it over his head, still floating.
Bruce made a choking sound, his eyes glassy. "You're Superman," he said.
"Yes," Clark said, putting down the couch. "And don't you see, Bruce, that means I can help you. I'm not just a reporter. We can get so much done together--"
"--You have to go," Bruce said. His voice was totally affectless beyond a glint of panic. "I can't deal with this right now." He looked away from Clark for the first time to stare around the room wildly, then lunged to whack a button on the wall. "Alfred!" he called. "Alfred? Could you show Mr. Kent out, please? Now?"
"Damn it, Bruce," Clark gritted, "Don't you dare shut me out. Let me help. Just tell me--" Bruce's face was still expressionless, his head shaking slowly as if in negation. "Look, I'll make it easy for you. I'll put it in words you're used to saying. If you want me to help you, just say--" Clark dropped his voice and snarled, ""I don't need help. I don't need anyone's stinking help.' That way you don't have to stretch yourself. Okay?" Bruce was staring at his chest as though the S-symbol were glowing through the cloth. "Bruce?"
"You can't," Bruce said. "You can't just tell me that and expect me to process it and be fine. It...this changes everything. I can't--" He looked up and met Clark's eyes, but his gaze was turned inward, unseeing. "Give me twenty-four hours. I have to think." Clark started to say something, but Bruce shook his head violently. "Twenty-four hours, Clark. Don't--don't push me."
Clark had imagined a variety of reactions from Bruce, ranging from anger to exaltation, but this total blank bewilderment had never been an option. "Okay," he said gently to Bruce's white face and stunned eyes. "I have to be on Jack Ryder's show in a few hours anyway. I'll give you some space. But I'll be back tomorrow night. And Bruce--" Bruce blinked at him as if at a stranger, "I always thought that maybe I--maybe Superman--could work with Batman to keep both our cities safer. But now I know I couldn't ask for a better ally than you." He leaned forward and kissed Bruce very lightly; Bruce hardly seemed to notice. "We're not alone, Bruce," he said.
He left Bruce Wayne standing in the middle of his penthouse, staring after him.
: : :
Babs Gordon was walking home from school with her brother, hand in hand with Mr. McLarty. Mr. McLarty was one of the men Daddy had stay with them all the time now, ever since that awful night with the awful scarred man. Mr. McLarty kept Babs and Jimmy safe--he said he kept them safe from the Batman, and Babs wanted to tell him he was wrong, but Daddy said that it was a secret that Batman was a good guy, so Babs didn't tell him.
Babs was good at keeping secrets.
They were about halfway home when a car suddenly pulled up next to them. Mr. McLarty pushed Babs and Jimmy behind him, but then he relaxed. "Dr. Quinzel," he said. "What's going on?"
The woman in the driver's seat of the car was wearing a white doctor's coat. She had blond hair and wide blue eyes that looked scared and worried. "Mike," she said. "It's the Joker. He's--he's broken out of Arkham." She put a hand over her mouth suddenly, as if she was really frightened. At the motion, Babs caught a glimpse of red and black clothing beneath the white coat. "Based on his last interviews, we think he might be going after the kids."
Babs shrank back behind Mr. McLarty. Dr. Quinzel smiled at her reassuringly, but there was something tense and wrong around her eyes and Babs didn't feel any better. Jimmy reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it, and Babs squeezed back.
"Let me call the Commish and see where we should go," said McLarty.
"Get in the car and call from there, it's safer if we're moving," said Dr. Quinzel.
Mr. McLarty opened up the back door and scooted Jimmy and Babs in, then went around to the front door. He opened the door and was pulling out his cell phone when there was a sudden noise, deafening in the confines of the car. Mr. McLarty fell backwards and Babs screamed as the car jumped forward without him. The door swung wildly as the car careened off; Babs saw red splashed along the window and her scream spiraled upward as she remembered the sound from her nightmares, the sound of a gunshot. Beside her, Jimmy's face was fixed and white, his eyes wide. He grabbed Babs and they clung together as the car swerved and jolted down the street, jostling them.
"This is it, kids." It took Babs a moment to recognize Dr. Quinzel's voice, filled with triumph and trepidation. "No going back now, no way! It's do or die time for Harley Quinn!"
As the children cowered in the back seat, Dr. Quinzel started to laugh and didn't stop.
( Chapter Nine)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Livewire, Alfred Pennyworth, Harleen Quinzel, Barbara Gordon, Jimmy Gordon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Dark Knight/Superman Returns crossover; a continuation of Leap of Faith.
Word Count: 3100Summary: Clark Kent arrives in Gotham after the events of The Dark Knight and adds up the facts surrounding Bruce Wayne and Batman. Unfortunately, he reaches all the wrong conclusions.
Notes: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, Prompt F8: Superman strongly disapproves of Batman's methods. Clark Kent, on the other hand, has a very obvious (and not quite so secret) crush on Bruce Wayne. What happens when Clark suddenly finds out that Bruce is also Batman?
"--You're not even listening to me! I have never been so insulted in my life!"
Superman blinked at Livewire's indignant face as he deposited her at the gate of Stryker's Penitentiary. "I'm sorry?" he said politely.
She shrugged her bound arms elaborately, rolling her eyes. "Never mind. Ten minutes of prime wisecracks and innuendo, wasted on Captain Oblivious here," she complained to the approaching guards. She shot Superman a venomous glare. "He was hardly even paying attention when he was fighting me. A girl's got her pride, you know."
"My apologies, Ms Willis. I'd be more than happy to dedicate my attention to you if you were using your powers for good rather than evil."
"Oh, you bet your blue bippy you'll dedicate your attention to me!" Livewire yelled over her shoulder as she was led away. "Next time I'll knock that smug look right off your face! As if I'm going to forget this insult--"
The doors clanged shut behind her and muffled her ranting. Superman sighed in relief, his thoughts already turning from her, back to Gotham and Bruce.
Bruce.
He had hoped a night of patrolling Metropolis would give both of them some space, but instead it had merely created a kind of infinite loop in his head of the sensations and emotions of the night before: rough stitches beneath his fingers, harsh breathing in his ear, Bruce's ferocious mouth--
The Stryker's guards were looking at him strangely and Superman realized he was rubbing his lower lip and staring blankly into space. Had he been looking smug? He suspected he mostly looked dazed. A quick apology later and he was in the air, high above Metropolis and soaring higher, to where the atmosphere thinned and the morning light became translucent azure. A god's-eye view, Lois had called it once, but he felt anything but godly right now.
You can't help me, Bruce had said to Clark Kent. But now matter how sincerely he believed that, part of him yearned to be helped. Part of him wanted to pull Clark closer even as he pushed him away. He had thrown Clark's hat at him, had shown him the door.
But he had also left Clark's notebook in the back seat of his car.
Superman let himself drop downward, let gravity pull him into terminal velocity, friction edging his cape with flame as he descended toward Gotham.
: : :
"Investigative reporter!" Batman threw his gauntlet across the penthouse; Alfred watched it skitter like a black spider along the polished tile floor. "Brilliant, hot-shot newshound, my foot!" Bruce Wayne had come back from his jaunt in the red light district a little after midnight, changed into the suit and disappeared into the night without a word to Alfred, returning only as the sun started to rise. He wrenched off a boot and let it drop with a furious thud. "All his careful investigations, all his intuitions and hunches, and then he goes and decides that I'm training to take out Batman."
Alfred gaped at him. "What?"
Bruce pulled off the cowl, wincing as it tugged at his hair. "Clark Kent, genius reporter, has decided that Batman is setting Bruce Wayne up to be a replacement for Harvey Dent in the public eye. He thinks I'm playing into his hands, trying to be some kind of vigilante hero and stand up to the Dark Knight."
"Bloody hell," Alfred said blankly.
Bruce ignored Alfred's uncharacteristic lapse and hurled the cowl across the room; it landed on a couch, blank sockets gazing reproachfully at him. "How could he get so close and muck it up so totally? I thought--for a moment there, I really thought--" His voice broke off and he busied himself with prying himself out of the armor.
Alfred picked up the pieces, trying to re-gather his aplomb and figure out where things had gone so horribly wrong.
"Of all the stupid--the stupid--" Bruce's hands slipped on a buckle and he cursed, ripping at the cloth as if struggling with an enemy. "He's supposed to be smart, and instead he was just talking nonsense, he understands nothing--" His voice was shaking as the chestpiece finally came off and thumped to the floor.
"And you want him to understand," Alfred said slowly.
Bruce gave him an eloquent glare as he shrugged into a bathrobe.
"Then for God's sake, sir, tell him," Alfred pleaded. "I believe you can trust him."
"Of course I can trust him," Bruce snarled as if Alfred had insulted him. "He might disapprove, but he'd never betray my trust."
"Then--"
"--It's too dangerous," Bruce said flatly. "Being connected to me, to Batman--it almost cost Gordon his family. It cost Rachel and Harvey everything. I won't risk his life. It's--" He faltered, staring down at the armor on the floor. "Alfred, he's too important to risk."
Alfred bent down and picked up the last pieces of leather and nomex, the war between chagrin and hope in his heart never making it to his face. "What will you do now, sir?"
"Maybe he'll just go back to Metropolis and drop it," Bruce said. He looked at Alfred's face. "But that's pretty unlikely, isn't it?"
"Exceedingly so." Alfred pulled a small blue notebook from his pocket. "Especially since I found this in your car when I was cleaning it this morning. Sloppy of you to forget it, sir," he said, handing it over. "One would almost suspect you wanted to give him a reason to come back."
Bruce flipped open the notebook, glancing at the jotted notes. "Take it up with my damn subconscious," he muttered. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in sweaty disarray. "I'm going to clean up. If he shows up while I'm in the shower, tell him to wait for me."
"What are you going to say to him?"
"What I usually do," Bruce said as he stood up and stretched, his neck popping. "I'll tell just enough of the truth to create an even more convincing lie, and he'll finally go away and leave me alone."
He nodded to himself and padded off to the bathroom, apparently convinced that he had sounded resolute rather than desolate.
: : :
Clark Kent adjusted his tie and waited in the lobby of the penthouse. The intercom buzzed and Alfred Pennyworth's filtered voice said "Master Wayne is expecting you, Mr. Kent. Please do come up."
The elevator doors opened and Clark stepped in and rose far above Gotham to Bruce Wayne's private penthouse.
"Clark," said Bruce as he stepped out. "What a pleasure to see you again." His hair was still damp, falling slightly into his eyes, and he was carrying a martini glass and wearing slacks and a silk shirt, the image of a hedonist at home. "I suppose you came for your notebook? Sorry about that."
Clark looked around the penthouse, which was airy, open, and almost totally devoid of decoration of any sort. Everything was austere steel and glass, with accents of black and white. There was almost no trace of personality in the place.
Then Bruce pressed a button on the wall and the shutters on the huge plate-glass windows slid open, and Clark realized why there was no sense of Bruce in the penthouse.
Gotham unfolded all around the apartment, every window an exquisite view of the city. Gotham itself was the penthouse's only decoration, its jewel and its completion.
"Can I get you a drink?" Bruce said, waving his glass. "It's five o'clock somewhere in the world, I always say."
"There isn't any alcohol in that drink," Clark said.
Bruce took a sip and smirked at him. "Well, we can chat over Shirley Temples then," he said. He strolled to the bar and poured ginger ale, added a splash of grenadine, and topped it with a cherry. "Cheers," he said, handing it to Clark.
"We need to talk," said Clark as he took the glass. "I need to tell you--"
"I know," said Bruce. The smile slipped from his face and he looked very serious. "I've...been thinking about last night. And not just the kissing," he added with a flash of a grin. "No, I've been thinking about what you said." He put down the drink and went to the window, gazing out at the city. "About how I'd be throwing my life away if I went after Batman. Maybe you're right. Maybe it would be a waste to fight him. You've given me a lot to think about and--"
Clark cut off his words by putting a finger to Bruce's lips. "Stop it," he said. "That's not what I came here for. And you're not the kind of man who gives up on something so easily."
There was a flash of anger in Bruce's eyes. "I don't think you understand me as well as you think you do," he said, but he kissed Clark's finger.
"This is not some casual plan you've thrown together," Clark said. "You've been working on it since Batman first showed up. You have a butler who trained in the British Secret Service. He's been helping you with the logistics, the tactics, the medical care."
"He also does windows," Bruce said against Clark's finger. "He's a regular Swiss Army knife of a butler. Priceless."
"You crash your cars regularly--but only the ones that aren't unique, that you can replace. This isn't a lark for you, this is a serious plan, and you're not going to give it up just because some random guy--" Bruce slipped his finger into his mouth and Clark lost his train of thought for a second. "Um, just because some random guy made out with you for a while."
Bruce bit his finger lightly, smiling around it. "You are most definitely not some random guy," he mumbled.
"You're right," said Clark, "But not the way you think. Bruce..."
Bruce was busy sucking on his finger; Clark reclaimed it and Bruce pulled his mouth into a pout. "Clark, I mean it. I have no intention of fighting Batman. As for the other things we did last night..." He smiled, but there was a tightness around his eyes that made him look more worried than alluring. "If you like, we can have a fun romp until your story is done. But seriously, Clark, you know perfectly well there's nothing possible in the long run. Let's just have a little fun together," he said, nuzzling Clark's ear. "I'm not...a long-run sort of guy."
"I think you are," said Clark. "And I think we can do great things together. Bruce, there's something I have to show you." He started to loosen his tie. "This is...really hard," he said. His hands were shaking.
Bruce's eyes widened into a leer. "Well, I was kind of hoping to see it, I confess, and I'd like to think it was really hard already, but I didn't think you'd be so quick to...show...me..."
His voice trailed off as Clark unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the red and blue cloth, the golden insignia.
After a long moment, he raised his eyes from Clark's chest. "Clark, where in the world did you get a Superman costume and why are you wearing it under your clothes?"
Clark pulled off his glasses and ruffled his bangs until they fell into place.
Bruce stared. "Okay, you do a very good Superman cosplay," he said, baffled. "What does this have to do with anything? Are you planning to help me raise money for Gotham by pretending to be--"
"Bruce." Clark put his arms around him and lifted them both into the air, floating toward the ceiling. "This is me. I'm--"
He broke off at the sight of Bruce's face, which had gone absolutely white and rigid. "Jesus," Bruce gasped.
"No, just Superman." Clark chuckled, but Bruce didn't even seem to hear the joke. He was staring at Clark, his face blank, his breath rapid and shallow. Clark dropped them down to the floor again. "Bruce?"
"No," Bruce said. He took a step back, away from Clark. "I can't--" He lapsed into silence with the sentence unfinished, staring at Clark as if his mind were racing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Clark said, buttoning his shirt, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure in the face of Bruce's reaction. "There...never seemed to be a good time, I guess. I should have told you sooner."
"No," said Bruce again. "I...I understand." He shook his head blankly. "Show me again."
Clark lifted himself a few feet off the floor and watched Bruce's eyes widen. "Hold on," said Clark, "Let me..." He picked up the couch and hoisted it over his head, still floating.
Bruce made a choking sound, his eyes glassy. "You're Superman," he said.
"Yes," Clark said, putting down the couch. "And don't you see, Bruce, that means I can help you. I'm not just a reporter. We can get so much done together--"
"--You have to go," Bruce said. His voice was totally affectless beyond a glint of panic. "I can't deal with this right now." He looked away from Clark for the first time to stare around the room wildly, then lunged to whack a button on the wall. "Alfred!" he called. "Alfred? Could you show Mr. Kent out, please? Now?"
"Damn it, Bruce," Clark gritted, "Don't you dare shut me out. Let me help. Just tell me--" Bruce's face was still expressionless, his head shaking slowly as if in negation. "Look, I'll make it easy for you. I'll put it in words you're used to saying. If you want me to help you, just say--" Clark dropped his voice and snarled, ""I don't need help. I don't need anyone's stinking help.' That way you don't have to stretch yourself. Okay?" Bruce was staring at his chest as though the S-symbol were glowing through the cloth. "Bruce?"
"You can't," Bruce said. "You can't just tell me that and expect me to process it and be fine. It...this changes everything. I can't--" He looked up and met Clark's eyes, but his gaze was turned inward, unseeing. "Give me twenty-four hours. I have to think." Clark started to say something, but Bruce shook his head violently. "Twenty-four hours, Clark. Don't--don't push me."
Clark had imagined a variety of reactions from Bruce, ranging from anger to exaltation, but this total blank bewilderment had never been an option. "Okay," he said gently to Bruce's white face and stunned eyes. "I have to be on Jack Ryder's show in a few hours anyway. I'll give you some space. But I'll be back tomorrow night. And Bruce--" Bruce blinked at him as if at a stranger, "I always thought that maybe I--maybe Superman--could work with Batman to keep both our cities safer. But now I know I couldn't ask for a better ally than you." He leaned forward and kissed Bruce very lightly; Bruce hardly seemed to notice. "We're not alone, Bruce," he said.
He left Bruce Wayne standing in the middle of his penthouse, staring after him.
: : :
Babs Gordon was walking home from school with her brother, hand in hand with Mr. McLarty. Mr. McLarty was one of the men Daddy had stay with them all the time now, ever since that awful night with the awful scarred man. Mr. McLarty kept Babs and Jimmy safe--he said he kept them safe from the Batman, and Babs wanted to tell him he was wrong, but Daddy said that it was a secret that Batman was a good guy, so Babs didn't tell him.
Babs was good at keeping secrets.
They were about halfway home when a car suddenly pulled up next to them. Mr. McLarty pushed Babs and Jimmy behind him, but then he relaxed. "Dr. Quinzel," he said. "What's going on?"
The woman in the driver's seat of the car was wearing a white doctor's coat. She had blond hair and wide blue eyes that looked scared and worried. "Mike," she said. "It's the Joker. He's--he's broken out of Arkham." She put a hand over her mouth suddenly, as if she was really frightened. At the motion, Babs caught a glimpse of red and black clothing beneath the white coat. "Based on his last interviews, we think he might be going after the kids."
Babs shrank back behind Mr. McLarty. Dr. Quinzel smiled at her reassuringly, but there was something tense and wrong around her eyes and Babs didn't feel any better. Jimmy reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it, and Babs squeezed back.
"Let me call the Commish and see where we should go," said McLarty.
"Get in the car and call from there, it's safer if we're moving," said Dr. Quinzel.
Mr. McLarty opened up the back door and scooted Jimmy and Babs in, then went around to the front door. He opened the door and was pulling out his cell phone when there was a sudden noise, deafening in the confines of the car. Mr. McLarty fell backwards and Babs screamed as the car jumped forward without him. The door swung wildly as the car careened off; Babs saw red splashed along the window and her scream spiraled upward as she remembered the sound from her nightmares, the sound of a gunshot. Beside her, Jimmy's face was fixed and white, his eyes wide. He grabbed Babs and they clung together as the car swerved and jolted down the street, jostling them.
"This is it, kids." It took Babs a moment to recognize Dr. Quinzel's voice, filled with triumph and trepidation. "No going back now, no way! It's do or die time for Harley Quinn!"
As the children cowered in the back seat, Dr. Quinzel started to laugh and didn't stop.
( Chapter Nine)