FIC: Traveling Light
Title: Traveling Light
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Warnings: None needed.
Continuity: Continuation of Superman #710, where Clark and Bruce meet in Central Asia before becoming Superman and Batman.
Summary: In the days waiting for Vandal Savage to attack, two men play go and study each other.
Word Count: 1200
Notes: For arch_schatten 's birthday! Also more or less comes from the worlds_finest shuffle challenge, "Marrakesh Night Market."
The small white stone is smooth between Clark Kent's fingers. He places it on the board and watches the man on the other side of the table narrow his eyes and place another black stone on the battered and scratched grid. He always chooses to play black, matching the gloves he never removes. Clark always chooses to play white. The stones make patterns, encircling each other, capturing each other. After three days waiting for the battle, they know each others' strategies by heart. Three days of playing go. Three days of sharing the same sparse room--nothing but two hard cots and a table. Three nights of listening to the man from Gotham sleep, his breath light as a cat's.
Clark doesn't even know his name.
He looks down at the patterns of stones, white and black latticeworks. They never touch, yet they respond to each other. Capture and surrender. Like war, but a game.
Darkness and light.
His opponent, his partner, sweeps the stones from the board with a rattle. "You've had me beat for the last half-hour," he says wryly. "No use prolonging the inevitable."
"You're distracted," Clark says, almost apologetically.
"I am," he agrees, shaking the stones in his gloved hand. He tosses them down on the board, a cascade without strategy or form, and stares at them as if divining the future. "Let's go get some food, I need to get out of here." He stands up with a sharp, impatient motion, a caged animal needing to unsheathe its claws.
Together they walk to the street market.
: : :
The sun is low on the horizon when they reach the market, rich golden light touching the silk and canvas awnings. People hurry up and down the street, baskets in hand, as wisps of smoke redolent with broiling meat and spices waft by. The air is electric with the tension of waiting, the tautness of a coming battle. The vendors cast glances at Clark and his companion as they walk from stall to stall, looking at the heaps of oranges and pomegranates, copper jewelry laid against brocade, dried fish hanging like a silver curtain.
Clark asks for a kebab of mutton at a stall and eats it as they walk. The meat is highly spiced, sharp, dark flavors that rarely entered Martha Kent's kitchen: caraway, cardamom, turmeric. A cloud of incense from a hidden door swirls around the form of his companion, caressing him with cedar and patchouli, cloves and jasmine. He stops to buy a paper plate heaped with ema datshi, a local dish of green chili peppers and yak's cheese, known for its scorching heat, then sits down at a bench. Clark sits down next to him as he takes a large bite and casts him a look of challenging laughter.
"No spoon," Clark says to the implicit dare in those dark eyes, holding up his empty hands.
The man from Gotham responds by holding out his own heaping spoon in one gloved hand.
Clark briefly considers confessing that he has an unfair advantage in a spicy-food challenge. Instead, though, he leans forward and takes the spoonful of peppers in his mouth, slowly and deliberately, his eyes locked with his companion's. He chews and swallows as the other man takes another bite, feeling the capsaicin flood his mouth, sending pain signals to a brain that refuses to process them as pain. His mouth is full of coaxing heat, stroking along his tongue and palate, a burn of pleasure. "It's good," he says.
The other man seems to take this as bravado and holds up another spoonful. His face is flushed, the cheeks scarlet; there are beads of sweat on his upper lip and on his forehead. Clark shifts on the bench until their knees are brushing, taking the spoon into his mouth again. His lips tingle with heat. His companion withdraws the spoon very slowly, his eyes never leaving Clark's face. His own lips are half-parted, spice-reddened. The hand holding the spoon is trembling. Clark hears himself make a small sound.
The stew starts to grow cold, untouched. They're still looking at each other.
"Let's go back," Clark says.
"Yes," says his partner.
They wind through the crowded streets together, not touching each other. Their tiny room seems a million miles away, an endless journey through the hoarse cries of the vendors and the ripple of silken tapestries, a thousand years until the door closes behind them and his hands are on Clark's body and Clark's mouth is on his as if they've been thinking of nothing else all these days, all these nights.
The go board is overturned, the pieces scattered on the floor. It's urgent and desperate, a mad fumble with buttons and zippers, their ragged breaths panting between them. They end up on Clark's cot, still half-dressed, hands groping beneath clothing, kissing and biting as though it's another challenge, another dare. He's straddling Clark, something like a moan throttled deep in his throat as he moves against him. He reaches down, and when Clark feels leather wrap around his erection his hips buck and he comes immediately, his whole body nothing but need and release, and the only thing he regrets at that moment is he has no name to call out.
When his vision clears he realizes the other man is still staring at him as if at something beautiful, which is disconcerting to say the least. In part to avoid that strangely rapt gaze, Clark wriggles out from under his partner until he can lick and suck at hot skin, silken-hard in his mouth. There's a muffled, broken cry, full of surprise and something like wonder, and Clark swallows and licks as all the tension goes abruptly out of the other man's body, leaving him limp and heavy-limbed, relaxed in a way Clark has never seen him before.
The cot is far too small for both of them, but they curl up around each other, arms and legs tangled and awkward, dangling off the sides. Deep in the darkness of the night, Clark feels his partner shift to put his lips to Clark's ear. For a long moment Clark hears only his breaths, quick and light. Then a name is whispered into his ear, a single syllable.
It might not be his true name, of course. Clark can tell the man lying against him has had many names and will have many more. He has no reason to believe he's been given anything of value, no reason to cherish it as a gift.
Clark whispers his own name back, a tiny sound in the vast silence of the mountains.
: : :
When the battle is over the next day, when the village is safe, they go their separate ways. Clark travels south toward India, the man from Gotham north, deeper into the mountains.
They both carry with them only three things from their time together: a small, smooth stone (Clark's is black), a name, and a memory of heat that burned without pain.
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Warnings: None needed.
Continuity: Continuation of Superman #710, where Clark and Bruce meet in Central Asia before becoming Superman and Batman.
Summary: In the days waiting for Vandal Savage to attack, two men play go and study each other.
Word Count: 1200
Notes: For arch_schatten 's birthday! Also more or less comes from the worlds_finest shuffle challenge, "Marrakesh Night Market."
The small white stone is smooth between Clark Kent's fingers. He places it on the board and watches the man on the other side of the table narrow his eyes and place another black stone on the battered and scratched grid. He always chooses to play black, matching the gloves he never removes. Clark always chooses to play white. The stones make patterns, encircling each other, capturing each other. After three days waiting for the battle, they know each others' strategies by heart. Three days of playing go. Three days of sharing the same sparse room--nothing but two hard cots and a table. Three nights of listening to the man from Gotham sleep, his breath light as a cat's.
Clark doesn't even know his name.
He looks down at the patterns of stones, white and black latticeworks. They never touch, yet they respond to each other. Capture and surrender. Like war, but a game.
Darkness and light.
His opponent, his partner, sweeps the stones from the board with a rattle. "You've had me beat for the last half-hour," he says wryly. "No use prolonging the inevitable."
"You're distracted," Clark says, almost apologetically.
"I am," he agrees, shaking the stones in his gloved hand. He tosses them down on the board, a cascade without strategy or form, and stares at them as if divining the future. "Let's go get some food, I need to get out of here." He stands up with a sharp, impatient motion, a caged animal needing to unsheathe its claws.
Together they walk to the street market.
: : :
The sun is low on the horizon when they reach the market, rich golden light touching the silk and canvas awnings. People hurry up and down the street, baskets in hand, as wisps of smoke redolent with broiling meat and spices waft by. The air is electric with the tension of waiting, the tautness of a coming battle. The vendors cast glances at Clark and his companion as they walk from stall to stall, looking at the heaps of oranges and pomegranates, copper jewelry laid against brocade, dried fish hanging like a silver curtain.
Clark asks for a kebab of mutton at a stall and eats it as they walk. The meat is highly spiced, sharp, dark flavors that rarely entered Martha Kent's kitchen: caraway, cardamom, turmeric. A cloud of incense from a hidden door swirls around the form of his companion, caressing him with cedar and patchouli, cloves and jasmine. He stops to buy a paper plate heaped with ema datshi, a local dish of green chili peppers and yak's cheese, known for its scorching heat, then sits down at a bench. Clark sits down next to him as he takes a large bite and casts him a look of challenging laughter.
"No spoon," Clark says to the implicit dare in those dark eyes, holding up his empty hands.
The man from Gotham responds by holding out his own heaping spoon in one gloved hand.
Clark briefly considers confessing that he has an unfair advantage in a spicy-food challenge. Instead, though, he leans forward and takes the spoonful of peppers in his mouth, slowly and deliberately, his eyes locked with his companion's. He chews and swallows as the other man takes another bite, feeling the capsaicin flood his mouth, sending pain signals to a brain that refuses to process them as pain. His mouth is full of coaxing heat, stroking along his tongue and palate, a burn of pleasure. "It's good," he says.
The other man seems to take this as bravado and holds up another spoonful. His face is flushed, the cheeks scarlet; there are beads of sweat on his upper lip and on his forehead. Clark shifts on the bench until their knees are brushing, taking the spoon into his mouth again. His lips tingle with heat. His companion withdraws the spoon very slowly, his eyes never leaving Clark's face. His own lips are half-parted, spice-reddened. The hand holding the spoon is trembling. Clark hears himself make a small sound.
The stew starts to grow cold, untouched. They're still looking at each other.
"Let's go back," Clark says.
"Yes," says his partner.
They wind through the crowded streets together, not touching each other. Their tiny room seems a million miles away, an endless journey through the hoarse cries of the vendors and the ripple of silken tapestries, a thousand years until the door closes behind them and his hands are on Clark's body and Clark's mouth is on his as if they've been thinking of nothing else all these days, all these nights.
The go board is overturned, the pieces scattered on the floor. It's urgent and desperate, a mad fumble with buttons and zippers, their ragged breaths panting between them. They end up on Clark's cot, still half-dressed, hands groping beneath clothing, kissing and biting as though it's another challenge, another dare. He's straddling Clark, something like a moan throttled deep in his throat as he moves against him. He reaches down, and when Clark feels leather wrap around his erection his hips buck and he comes immediately, his whole body nothing but need and release, and the only thing he regrets at that moment is he has no name to call out.
When his vision clears he realizes the other man is still staring at him as if at something beautiful, which is disconcerting to say the least. In part to avoid that strangely rapt gaze, Clark wriggles out from under his partner until he can lick and suck at hot skin, silken-hard in his mouth. There's a muffled, broken cry, full of surprise and something like wonder, and Clark swallows and licks as all the tension goes abruptly out of the other man's body, leaving him limp and heavy-limbed, relaxed in a way Clark has never seen him before.
The cot is far too small for both of them, but they curl up around each other, arms and legs tangled and awkward, dangling off the sides. Deep in the darkness of the night, Clark feels his partner shift to put his lips to Clark's ear. For a long moment Clark hears only his breaths, quick and light. Then a name is whispered into his ear, a single syllable.
It might not be his true name, of course. Clark can tell the man lying against him has had many names and will have many more. He has no reason to believe he's been given anything of value, no reason to cherish it as a gift.
Clark whispers his own name back, a tiny sound in the vast silence of the mountains.
: : :
When the battle is over the next day, when the village is safe, they go their separate ways. Clark travels south toward India, the man from Gotham north, deeper into the mountains.
They both carry with them only three things from their time together: a small, smooth stone (Clark's is black), a name, and a memory of heat that burned without pain.