Music of the Spheres ficlet: The Unseen Light
Title: The Unseen Light
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: G
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: Late at night, Bruce contemplates the Kryptonite ring Superman gave him.
Word Count: 500
Notes: A little sliver from The Music of the Spheres, a movieverse crossover series.
The cave is utterly without light. The blackness is a palpable thing, a velvet cloth over the eyes. It is a ritual he performs, now and then when Clark is asleep and he is alone. The world is extinguished, and all that remains for him is the small metal box in his hands.
It lies heavy as a heart in his palm, a weight pulling him to earth. He thinks of the glossy light trapped within it, the vitreous green glow of it. This box of baleful radiance.
Clark's gift to him.
What kind of courage does it take, he wonders, to give someone the thing that will kill you and only you in the whole universe? So intimate, so personal, a key that fits only one lock. How do you decide, from the billions of people alive, that this one, this billionaire with his fractured heart, will be the one you trust to hold your death in his finite hands?
Clark's trust is as heavy and as palpable as the lead box he cradles in his hands. He sleeps upstairs tonight, his bare limbs tangled in midnight-blue sheets, sure in the knowledge that Bruce will never abuse that trust, never feel the need to check--is this genuine? Perhaps it's a fake--never, in a moment of anger, shatter that perfect faith. He knows Bruce will not use the ring when it is not needed.
More weighty than that, a truth darker and more complete than the blackness of the cave, is that Clark knows he will use the ring if it is needed. Bruce feels his hands tremble in the darkness, the metal warm now against his skin, as if lit from within by potential pain. Clark believes in his ability to act without passion or sentiment, to have the awful clarity of judgment needed.
Does Bruce believe in himself as well? He asks himself the question as he always does, holding his box of jade death. The answer is the same, always the same: he trusts Clark to never require him to find out.
The unseen light shines on, hidden in his hands, alive only in his mind. A green glow like sunlight falling through leaves, a cool flame that transmutes fear into trust and pain into faith. He cups his hands around it as if it could warm them, but his fingers remain cold, curled around their tiny burden.
With a fluid, unerring movement, he puts the box back in its drawer and goes to the elevator. His motions are as precise and unhesitating as if he were not in total darkness. A ritual. A meditation on faith. On hope. On love.
Clark will notice his hands are cold, will take them in his own and kiss them as though they had not just been holding his death. Bruce will touch him over and over, feeling the faith like a flame beneath the skin, warming his fingers into life once more.
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: G
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: Late at night, Bruce contemplates the Kryptonite ring Superman gave him.
Word Count: 500
Notes: A little sliver from The Music of the Spheres, a movieverse crossover series.
The cave is utterly without light. The blackness is a palpable thing, a velvet cloth over the eyes. It is a ritual he performs, now and then when Clark is asleep and he is alone. The world is extinguished, and all that remains for him is the small metal box in his hands.
It lies heavy as a heart in his palm, a weight pulling him to earth. He thinks of the glossy light trapped within it, the vitreous green glow of it. This box of baleful radiance.
Clark's gift to him.
What kind of courage does it take, he wonders, to give someone the thing that will kill you and only you in the whole universe? So intimate, so personal, a key that fits only one lock. How do you decide, from the billions of people alive, that this one, this billionaire with his fractured heart, will be the one you trust to hold your death in his finite hands?
Clark's trust is as heavy and as palpable as the lead box he cradles in his hands. He sleeps upstairs tonight, his bare limbs tangled in midnight-blue sheets, sure in the knowledge that Bruce will never abuse that trust, never feel the need to check--is this genuine? Perhaps it's a fake--never, in a moment of anger, shatter that perfect faith. He knows Bruce will not use the ring when it is not needed.
More weighty than that, a truth darker and more complete than the blackness of the cave, is that Clark knows he will use the ring if it is needed. Bruce feels his hands tremble in the darkness, the metal warm now against his skin, as if lit from within by potential pain. Clark believes in his ability to act without passion or sentiment, to have the awful clarity of judgment needed.
Does Bruce believe in himself as well? He asks himself the question as he always does, holding his box of jade death. The answer is the same, always the same: he trusts Clark to never require him to find out.
The unseen light shines on, hidden in his hands, alive only in his mind. A green glow like sunlight falling through leaves, a cool flame that transmutes fear into trust and pain into faith. He cups his hands around it as if it could warm them, but his fingers remain cold, curled around their tiny burden.
With a fluid, unerring movement, he puts the box back in its drawer and goes to the elevator. His motions are as precise and unhesitating as if he were not in total darkness. A ritual. A meditation on faith. On hope. On love.
Clark will notice his hands are cold, will take them in his own and kiss them as though they had not just been holding his death. Bruce will touch him over and over, feeling the faith like a flame beneath the skin, warming his fingers into life once more.