FIC: Vaster Than Empires (1/2)
Title: Vaster Than Empires (1/2)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: A Zeta beam gone wrong strands Clark and Bruce on an alien planet in the distant past where Bruce must pretend to be Clark's pleasure slave.
Continuity: Comics, set in the (one hopes) near future when Bruce is back and the war between New Krypton and Earth is concluded. Contains random unfounded speculation. :)
Word Count: 8000
Notes: To thank kungfunurse for her kind and generous donation to Doctors Without Borders for help_haiti!
The Arctic wind was tugging at Batman's cloak, making the fabric ripple and shift like dark water. His arms were crossed and his back was to Superman as he gazed out across the ice, apparently as oblivious to the bitter cold as he was to Superman himself.
"Adam Strange said the Zeta Beam would pick us up in this location in about...fifteen minutes," said Clark.
Batman grunted.
"You...don't have to go."
Another grunt.
"I mean, Adam did specifically ask for you and I to negotiate the treaty, but we could get someone else to take your place. I'm sure you've got a lot of catching up to do from..." Clark's voice failed for a second. "From your time away."
Batman didn't even bother to respond this time.
"It's...good to see you again, by the way. Everyone missed you." I missed you, he wanted to add, but the stiffness of Bruce's back made it difficult to say. It was their first time alone together since that instant on the battlefield, in the middle of the rout of the Kryptonian army. Clark remembered the moment every night in his dreams: on his knees before the triumphant General Lane. Lane lowering the Kryptonite gun, the green light gathering at the muzzle pointed at Clark's head...
The gun exploding into harmless sparks and splinters. The bit of metal that destroyed it coming to rest at Clark's feet, his disbelieving eyes tracing the familiar angles and lines of a batarang.
He had looked up to see Bruce charging in to drop General Lane with a vicious punch to the jaw. Bruce had reached out a hand to him, to help him to his feet, and Clark had clung to it in amazement, unable to fully believe it was tangible, it was real. For a long moment they had just looked at each other, unspeaking, the battle raging on around them.
And then one of Zod's personal troops had charged at them, face contorted with fury, and Clark had moved to punch him and Bruce had fallen into place next to him, and then they were fighting side-by-side as always, as if the last horrible, empty year had never happened.
Every night Clark relived that moment, the joy of it, the way the universe had fallen back into the right patterns. Every day he carried that joy with him, close to his heart, like a secret. And despite that joy--or perhaps because of it--it was becoming rather annoying to have Batman resolutely refusing to look at him. "All right, Bruce," he said, trying not to sound too irritable, "What's the problem? Did you not want to come on this mission? Is this generalized grumpiness or have I done something specific to offend you?"
Batman whirled and stalked up to Superman. "You," he growled, pointing at him with one dark finger. "I came back from the dead, struggled through endless lifetimes of pain and suffering, clawed my way back to the present and charged off to save your life on the battlefield, and you...didn't hug me."
Clark blinked. Batman stood silent and accusing as an onyx statue, the wind lifting his cape the only motion about him. And then the corner of his mouth twitched in the barest of smiles.
Clark laughed, somewhat shakily. "You know what I've missed most about you, Bruce? Your sense of humor."
Bruce relaxed abruptly back into his crossed-arm posture. The smile was definitely tugging both sides of his mouth now, but he repeated, his voice as grim as if discussing how crime never sleeps: "You. Didn't. Hug me."
"We were, in case you didn't notice it, on a battlefield at the time, under attack by both human and Kryptonian soldiers!" That was a rationalization, Clark knew. There had been time for a brief comradely embrace. But Batman was right, he had just stood there like an idiot, shaken and overjoyed and unable to even move as he looked at his friend. Bruce Wayne, proud and beautiful and back from conquering death as he conquered everything. Everything. And now Clark was bickering with him about hugs. "Besides, you were hardly Mr. Snuggles when I came back from the dead," he pointed out, feeling foolish.
"That's different," Bruce said haughtily, lifting his chin. "Batman doesn't hug. Superman hugs. And you didn't." A pause. "You still haven't."
"All right then," Clark said, "One super-welcome-back hug coming up." He put out one hand and awkwardly pulled Batman against him in a one-armed hug. "There, I--"
Batman moved suddenly, a strange, ungainly motion that didn't have any of his usual grace, turning into the half-hearted hug and putting both of his arms around Superman, holding him close. "Clark," he said, his voice hoarse, and Clark closed his arms around Bruce in turn, the amazing reality of him, warm and strong. Clark's heart was pounding--or it might have been Bruce's, he couldn't tell, they were pressed so close now, Bruce's fingers digging into his back as if to get him even closer.
"Bruce. Bruce." His voice was shaking. "I missed you," Clark whispered against the slick black cowl, his lips touching leather, and if the cowl were off they would be against Bruce's hair, soft and dark as dreams. "Bruce, I--" The world made no sense without you, he wanted to say, started to say...
...just as the Zeta beam caught them up and took them to Rann.
: : :
They were in a large gray room, one window overlooking the turrets and spires of Rann. Batman whirled from Clark's embrace so quickly that it was like he had never been there; aside from a slightly lifted eyebrow Adam Strange betrayed no other reaction.
"No time for formalities, old friends," Strange said as they stepped off the platform. "We've received word there may be a plot to disrupt your trip, so we're going to get you to Srataan as soon as possible." He held out two bundles of cloth and gestured toward two screens, incongruously floral-patterned in a room full of alien technology. "We'll talk as you change."
Clark's clothes were a deep burgundy with gold braiding, with a golden disc engraved with what seemed to be a stylized tree that fastened a black half-cape to his shoulder. The cloth was stiff and heavy, like brocade.
"Some people on Srataan don't want their planet to open up to interstellar trade," said Strange as Clark fiddled with the metal buttons.
"I read the dossier." Batman's tone implied that Strange was insulting his intelligence. "Do you have any additional information?" Clark could hear rustling sounds from behind his screen.
"Nothing specific. I'm just annoyed that after two decades of negotiations, they've stipulated that they require neutral parties from a planet nowhere near this system to finalize the treaty."
"So you picked us because Earth is such a backwater?" asked Clark.
Strange laughed. "I picked you because Batman and Superman are two of the best negotiators I know, and together I'm sure you'll be able to convince Srataan its interests will be served by joining the Rannian League. Plus you're two of the only people I know who'd be able to process the information on Srataanian culture quickly enough."
"There are some fairly major gaps in those files," Bruce said, stepping out from behind the screen. Clark found himself gaping unashamedly. Bruce was wearing a midnight-blue tunic in a fabric that looked as silky and fine as Clark's was heavy. On the chest a five-petaled flower with a star at its heart was picked out in silver thread. Clark's eyes traveled involuntarily down tight black pants to knee-high black boots, then back up. A band of metallic cloth was looped around Bruce's neck like a choker to complete the look, and he was wearing a band of gem-spangled black silk as a mask.
Bruce's eyebrows arched and Clark looked away hurriedly.
"Srataan's isolationist history has meant we don't have a lot of information to go on," said Strange. "They've shared very little with us. They did stipulate that these would be the uniforms they expected you to wear to the negotiations."
Bruce brushed at the silver threads in his tunic. "If I understood the files correctly, I'm dressed as a member of the amri-je, a specialized cadre in the military?"
"Yes, and Kal-El has been given a traditional diplomat's outfit. They insisted you should dress like Srataanians as a sign of respect. It's also a security measure--they don't want you to stand out too much."
"Well," said Bruce, "I'll grant they do have good fashion sense." He was looking at Clark, his eyes glinting through the black silk, and Clark took a deep breath and turned to their host.
"We're ready."
Adam Strange bowed slightly and gestured toward the Zeta Beam platform. "I'm sorry for the rush, gentlemen, but we'd like to get you to Srataan as quickly as possible."
They took their places and Strange stepped behind the controls. The Zeta Beam generator hummed into life and Strange pushed the lever that would send them to Srataan.
As he did, there was a sudden commotion outside the door and a man burst through the door, dressed in a costume much like Bruce's and wielding an ugly-looking raygun. "Srataan Forever!" he screamed and aimed at them.
The beam from the gun intersected the Zeta Beam. The world vanished from around them in a nauseating wrench as Clark heard Adam Strange yelling a sentence he never heard end.
: : :
Clark staggered as the Zeta Beam released him, feeling the world spin around him. He doubled over, struggling to keep from being sick. Through his disorientation, he felt an extra spike of panic: Bruce. Had they been separated? He croaked his companion's name and was relieved to hear an answering grunt. The world seemed to be stabilizing now, and Clark felt blades of grass tickling his nose. He sneezed and the world went back to spinning again.
There were hands on his shoulders. "Easy," Bruce's voice said. "Relax. Close your eyes for a second." Clark did so and focused on Bruce's touch instead. His head hurt. His stomach hurt.
"What--" He managed to choke out.
"Something went wrong with the Zeta Beam."
Clark cracked his eyes open gingerly and the world came into gradual focus. He and Bruce were in a field of blue flowers, nodding in the wind.
The sun had a distinct reddish tinge.
"Where are we?" Clark asked, his stomach sinking.
"Not where. When." Bruce pointed and Clark turned to see a small village of clay buildings. A wagon was leaving it, drawn by an elk-like animal with leopard-dappled fur. There was no sign of technology whatsoever. "I recognize that animal from the files, it's the dominant herbivore on Srataan. This is the right planet, it's just the wrong time. The distant past, I'm guessing. Late Iron Age, based on the village. That means we're six or seven thousand years in the past."
"This can't be Srataan," said Clark, shaking his head at the reddish sky. "Suns don't go from red to yellow."
Bruce glared at the sun as if it were a personal affront. "I'd guess particulates, maybe from a volcanic explosion, shifting the spectrum temporarily. Can you..." His voice trailed off questioningly, and Clark shook his head.
"I'm having problems standing at the moment, forget flying." Bruce made a disgruntled noise. "Well, it's not my fault some lunatic decided to disrupt our Zeta Beam," Clark said, knowing he sounded childishly peeved.
"I didn't say it was," Bruce said, still frowning at the sky. He slipped something that looked like a tiny cell phone out of his pocket. "Lucky I decided not to leave this behind. Zeta Beam detector," he said to Clark's curious look. "It can predict where and when the next natural Zeta Beam will show up. If we can get there in time...probably it'll take us back to Rann."
"Rann five thousand years ago?"
"Well," Bruce said, "It would still be closer to where we want to be." The little machine made a booping sound, and Bruce made an annoyed sound in his throat. "The next estimated beam intersepction is a week from now, and quite a ways to the southeast. We'll have to figure out some means of transportation." He put the machine away and stared at the town. "Srataan would be largely a nomadic culture at this point."
Clark peered north, shading his eyes against the hazy red light. "Those mountains are probably the Dilandrahoons, which means we're in the northern part of the continent. If we can find our way to the Sondo River we can probably follow it upstream to Zuuri, which is--well, it won't be the planetary capital yet, but should be a large enough city for us to be inconspicuous while we pinpoint where the beam will come through," Clark said. "What, did you think I didn't read the same dossier you did?" he added as Bruce shot him a look.
Bruce made a neutral growling noise which probably meant "Yes, but I'm far too polite to say so." He started to move through the field of flowers, golden grasses brushing up against his tunic. "Let's get our bearings and try to find transportation." He untied his mask as he went, slipping it into a pocket. "I doubt anyone here will be reporting my secret identity back home," he noted wryly.
The village was a uniform golden-red color, soft-edged buildings made from something like adobe. Washing hung from clotheslines strung from building to building; Clark was relieved to see that the cut of their clothes was unusual but not clearly futuristic: thank goodness for military costumes keeping traditional design. Children played and tumbled in the dust of the street, most of them red-haired and darker-skinned than Clark and Bruce, though a few were closer to their coloring.
"We need to find a--" Bruce began, when a voice cut in.
"You," it said, and Clark turned with Bruce to see a hulking, broad-shouldered man with auburn hair in a uniform of olive drab. He was nearly a head taller than Clark, and gazed down on him with a look of suspicion. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" His gaze fell to the silver insignia on Bruce's chest and a complicated mix of emotions flickered across his face. "Is this one an amri?" he said to Clark.
Clark cast a quick glance at Bruce but found no help there; Bruce was listening intently, his face blank. Bruce had described his outfit as belonging to an amri-je, which must be related, so... "Yes."
"Is he yours?"
Clark felt unease start to settle in the pit of his belly; he was fairly certain elite military personnel did not belong to people. But not knowing what was going on, it seemed safest to say yes. "He's mine."
The look on the man's face settled into one of near-disgust. "By Dilandra's rosy nipples, man, where are you from? Some gods-forsaken south town like Senah?"
"Slightly...south of there, actually."
"Well, I should have guessed from your accent, I suppose." The man wrinkled his nose. "Look, you southerners can do what you like up there, but here in civilized parts we dress our amri properly." He waved a hand at Bruce's attire. "Your amri did not go through a lifetime of training and preparation just to be stuffed into something like this. Show some respect to his sacrifice and let him display his servitude as he's meant to. Honestly." He pointed at the silver ribbon around Bruce's neck. "You haven't even seen fit to give him a proper collar. What are you southerners, barbarians?"
Collar? Clark looked to Bruce for some cue, and discovered to his shock that somewhere during the man's speech everything about him had changed. The regal military-style bearing was gone, replaced by downcast eyes, hands held demurely in front of him, his entire posture submissive and deferential.
Oh Rao, thought Clark as he finally finished processing what the man had said. Oh Rao, no.
"You deserve better, don't you, Dark One?" said the uniformed man. "Imagine keeping an amri all covered up like that, it's totally against Code."
"My Master is sometimes unorthodox," said Bruce in a soft, light voice.
The man's eyebrows shot upward. "I would say so," he said, shooting a glance at Clark, "If he gives his amri freedom to speak without leave. A very lax master indeed."
Clark jerked his chin up and looked down his nose at his interrogator. "He pleased me so well last night I have given him leave to speak freely all of today."
The red-haired man shook his head, chuckling. "Unorthodox indeed. And hardly fair to the poor amri, denying him his 'sacred right to submission in all things'," he said in the tone of one quoting scripture. "Well," he went on, "I'll take you to the marketplace to get some more Code-compliant clothing."
"I'll go there soon and--"
The man drew himself up and put his hands on his hips in the way of bullying military types the galaxy over. "I say we go now, southerner."
Clark grimaced and fell in behind him.
"Morning, Captain Li," called one of the vendors across the bustling sounds of the marketplace. "Anything I can do for you?"
The red-haired man swaggered up to the stall. "We got an amri in violation of the Code, needs some more appropriate clothing."
"Oh, amri clothing and jewelry," the man said, seeming flustered. "Oh my, I don't have much of a selection. I'm just a traveling salesman."
"Surely you got something that'll suit?"
"Yes, well," the man pursed his lips. "I have a few items I was hoping to sell when I went to Zuuri next time, but maybe..." He rummaged under his table and came out with a small, elaborately, carved wooden chest. Inside was...very little, actually. Some bits of metal and fur. Clark was wondering where the clothing was when the vendor reached and and pulled out a tiny silk loincloth trimmed with black fur and bits of wrought black metal, and he realized that was the clothing.
The vendor and Captain Li looked at him expectantly, and Clark realized with a shock he had no idea of the economic system. "I...I'm afraid I have no money. There was a..." He let the sentence trail off and the vendor nodded sympathetically.
"...Got caught in one of those flash floods on the Sondo, did you, sir?"
"It was terrible," Clark murmured.
"Well," said the vendor, "what are those buttons of yours made out of?"
Clark touched one of the shining buttons. "Um, gold?"
The vendor shrugged. "Cut one off and I'll give you the outfit. I'll even throw in some sandals."
Under Captain Li's watchful eye, Clark cut one of the buttons off and handed it over. The vendor bit on it thoughtfully, frowned, and somewhat grudgingly handed over the scrap of cloth.
"He needs a proper collar, and perhaps some ankle bells," suggested Captain Li.
The vendor waved his hands in negation. "I don't carry collars, never got a license from the Temple for that. You'd have to go to a bigger town. I have a few ankle bells--"
"--That won't be necessary," said Clark, hoping from Li's wording that the bells were optional.
Both the vendor and Li looked disappointed. "Such a lovely amri deserves a more considerate master," murmured the vendor, but not so loudly that he couldn't pretend to have said nothing.
"Well," Clark said, turning to Li with his handful of cloth, "Thank you for helping me get him up to the proper Code. Now if you'll point us to an inn where he can change--"
"--What? Why not have him change here?"
"Here? In the street?" Clark resisted the urge to look at Bruce; he could tell he wouldn't get any help from that quarter right now.
"The amri exists to serve one, but to delight all," Li said, quoting again. "Why would you have such a treasure and be unwilling to flaunt him?"
Clark imagined Bruce stripping down in the street, taking off his boots and pants and heavy tunic with the hungry eyes of Captain Li on him, and felt angry heat rising inside of him. "Now, you--"
There was a gentle hand on his arm and Clark turned to see Bruce, his eyes still cast down. "Master," said Bruce, "You know I'm proud to display myself, to magnify your honor." He looked up, the merest flick of dark blue eyes that felt like a physical contact, full of meaning.
Clark crossed his arms. "Very well," he said, following Bruce's lead. "Go ahead."
Bruce slowly undid his heavy black boots, taking his time with the lacing. Then he stood and pulled the dark blue tunic over his head, followed by the white silk undertunic. By this time a small crowd had gathered and there was a murmuring as his chest and back were bared, most likely a reaction to the scars.
Clark tried to keep his face impassive as Bruce unbuckled his pants, but all he could think of was that he'd never seen Bruce naked. Oh, in the showers, in the medlab...but never like this. Never when he was allowed--expected--to just look and watch as Bruce revealed more and more skin, more tightly muscled body, all because Clark had asked him to. To magnify your honor.
Bruce was entirely nude now. His movements were neither lascivious nor hasty; he moved with the easy grace of one entirely unembarrassed by the crowd's stares, entirely uninterested in their attention. As he folded the leggings neatly, he locked eyes with Clark, a small smile on his face, and Clark's pulse did odd things. Because it wasn't a submissive smile at all, for a moment.
Not at all. It was mocking and challenging, and it made Clark's heart race faster than the sight of Bruce's sinewed legs.
Then Bruce broke the gaze and picked up his loincloth with the lazy ease of a person who had no shame in his beauty, fastening it carefully around his waist. It barely covered his genitals and made no pretense at all of privacy in the back, giving Clark--and the entire crowd that had stopped to gawk--an unimpeded view of muscular buttocks. Ignoring everyone else, Bruce bowed deeply to Clark. "Does this worthless one please you, Master?" he murmured.
Clark had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could answer. "Yes, you look satisfactory," he said.
Captain Li chuckled. "You are a difficult man to please, southerner."
Bruce looked up from the bow, his eyes huge and limpid. "Yet he is worth every effort this one can make," he breathed.
"Yes. Well." Clark couldn't stop looking at the line of Bruce's back, the delicate curve of his spine trailing downward-- "I wish to travel to the north," he said to Li, wrenching his eyes away.
"Ah, you will travel to Zuuri?"
"Yes," Clark said. It had to be more or less the right direction.
"You're in luck. There is a caravan leaving this very afternoon," said Li. "The caravan master, Fa, is staying at the Crossed Swords Inn. If you wish, I can escort you there to meet him."
"Yes, please," said Clark.
"Master..." murmured Bruce. At Clark's nod, he went on, "May I visit the Temple while you make arrangements?" He gestured toward a building with little to distinguish it from the rest except for one thing: etched above the door it had the insignia of a five-petaled flower, identical to the one on Bruce's abandoned tunic but without the star at its heart.
"Of course, dear one," said Clark. "I would never keep you from the Temple."
Bruce bowed again and turned away, but not before he met Clark's gaze one last time, his eyes full of promise.
It was not a promise of servitude.
Clark watched Bruce walk away across the square, the sway in his hips indicating he knew full well he was being watched. Then he noticed Li was watching as well, his eyes avid. "The inn?" Clark said, and Li tore his gaze away with evident reluctance.
"Of course. This way."
Fa, the caravan master, was a slim man with mutton-chop sideburns and watery blue eyes which widened at the silver threading in Bruce's discarded uniform. "I'll take you to Zuuri for the thread, and throw in a tent for you to stay in nights," he said. Clark suspected the ease of bartering meant he was getting massively fleeced, but was too happy to gain passage to complain.
"I'll be going as well," Captain Li said. "I've...taken an interest in traveling north, it seems." Clark didn't particularly like the smile on his face.
Fa looked delighted. "You know it's always a pleasure to have a member of the Guard along. So much safer," he beamed as he picked the silvery thread deftly from dark blue cloth. "We'll be leaving in a couple of hours," he said to Clark, flipping him a small copper coin. "Have a drink while you wait."
Clark had definitely gotten fleeced. But he took the money and got a mug of something that tasted like weak red wine and a scattering of brass coins in return, some of them stamped with the five-petaled flower symbol. Then he put his back to the wall and watched the patrons carefully, waiting for Bruce's return.
When he did, it was an event. He sauntered through the door and every eye in the place was immediately on him. He scanned the room until his eyes fell on Clark, and his face lit up in a smile that made Clark's wine suddenly seem stronger and sweeter. Crossing the room, he knelt before Clark on one knee, eyes cast down and hand over his heart. "Master, this one returns to the light in your eyes," he intoned.
Murmurs of appreciation went around the room; clearly Bruce had been doing his research on proper behavior. "Yes. Well. Thank you," Clark said, distracted by the realization that Bruce's eyes were smudged with something dark and slightly iridescent now, and that there was a rather dizzying scent like lilies and musk in the air between them. The crowd seemed less pleased with his graceless response, but Bruce merely moved to curl up on the floor at his knee with every evidence of delight. He ran one hand up Clark's calf--and Clark almost choked on his drink, because the caress was anything but soft and pliant. Instead, strong fingers gripped the muscles of his leg so fiercely it nearly hurt, kneading through the fabric with demanding roughness.
It felt, Clark realized, very good.
Situation under control, Bruce signed to him in the crude touch-language the JLA had devised for these situations, imprinting the message into his skin as if it were Batman's grating voice. Then he added in the more subtle, nuanced code the two of them had devised, Are you enjoying this?
Clark looked down at the nearly naked man at his feet; Bruce looked back at him with his eyes smoldering. Clark patted Bruce's head fondly, the dark curls thick under his fingers. Of course not, he signed emphatically.
I should think you'd like having me helpless and at your command, Bruce said, his fingers firm against Clark's leg and a world of hidden laughter in his touch, none of which reached his sultry, worshipful eyes. "I hope this worthless one pleases you," Bruce aloud.
You, helpless? Impossible. He could probably remove his hand from Bruce's hair, but instead he let the locks slide between his fingers as if it were something he'd been longing to do forever.
Fingers dug into his calf with bruising strength and Clark barely kept from groaning aloud in startled delight. "Oh yes," he said. "You please me...a great deal." Bruce's hands climbed ever so slightly higher, and Clark waited for his next message, but there didn't seem to be one. Well, no coded message, at least. Bruce's hands seemed to be conveying a great many messages indeed to Clark. He looked into his mug, almost afraid to meet those eyes, afraid what they might see in his own. He prayed the caravan would leave soon or there seemed to be some risk he'd end up dragging Bruce onto his lap, just to have those mocking, taunting hands where he could touch them, hold them fast...
When Fa announced the caravan was leaving, Clark leapt to his feet so hastily he almost spilled the rest of his wine.
: : :
The caravan was of covered wagons drawn by the spotted elk-like animals Clark had seen earlier. "I've got some of the best paakra on the continent," Fa bragged as he helped Clark scramble up onto his wagon and handed him a whip. "Mostly they'll follow the lead without any prompting, so don't you worry." Clark helped Bruce up onto the seat next to him, painfully aware of how some of the men and women in the caravan watched his body. Captain Li especially stood and watched, smirking, for longer than Clark felt comfortable with.
Fa gave a sharp whistle and the paakra started to lumber forward. As they fell into a convoy line, some of Fa's workers struck up a rhythm with timbrels, drums, and tambourines that seemed to be setting the pace for the animals. "We should be able to talk a little more freely now," Bruce said, his voice not carrying over the rumble of wheels and jangle of percussion.
"What did you find out at the Temple?"
"The amri are valued property, given by the Temples to men and women who have proven themselves the strongest in physical combat. Men and women alike have been known to duel over the right to own an amri. It's a highly coveted honor."
"To own another person?" spat Clark.
Bruce raised his eyebrows. "No, to be owned. To become an amri."
"An honor?" Clark felt like he might fall off the wagon with the force of his answer. "To be a slave?"
Bruce sighed and snuggled against him as the wagon jolted over a rock, looking for all the world like he was trying to coax his Master out of a bad mood. "The amri are closer to priest-prostitutes than slaves. Only the most beautiful, graceful and intelligent children are chosen for the chance to train for ten years in order to gain the privilege."
"The privilege of being owned by another human being," Clark said blankly.
"The privilege of magnifying the glory of Dilandra through holy servitude," Bruce intoned piously. He tilted his head. "Clark, do you honestly have no capacity to see how some people might revel in having their responsibilities lifted from them? The ecstasy of being beyond choice, beyond freedom, of knowing your life was cradled, always, in another person's hands?" His voice was thoughtful. "The bliss of service without question, without self-doubt..."
Clark's face felt hot. "I don't--I mean, that's awful."
Bruce shrugged, a fluid motion of bare shoulders that made Clark's mind feel fuzzy. "I'm just saying it's an understandable human tendency."
"Shouldn't we be trying to do something to stop it?"
"This is all history, Clark. At some point in Srataanian development, the amri evolved into the amri-je and became priest-warriors instead, so obviously something happened to change their status naturally. We shouldn't interfere."
Clark realized he was twiddling the whip handle in his fingers and stopped himself. "So how am I supposed to be acting toward you?"
Bruce shifted on the wooden seat, wrapping himself around Clark's arm. "Like Li said, an amri exists to serve one, but to delight all. That means I belong to you, a valuable ornament, a status symbol that you will wish to show off as much as possible. I am to dance, serve drinks, and otherwise be available for the delectation of others, who can look as much as they like but not touch." His hands tightened slightly on Clark's arm. "It's only for a week," he said like he was apologizing.
"I don't like it."
Bruce's voice was richly amused. "I'd noticed." He leaned forward and kissed Clark's cheek, an affectionate peck that seemed deeply at odds with his state of garish undress. "Buck up, champ. You'll just have to resign yourself to a week of owning my body." Clark could only make an inarticulate growling sound in response to that, and Bruce threw back his head and laughed.
After that they wiled away the remainder of the day comparing notes on the culture, debating the role of the Temple of Dilandra in Srataanian society, and sometimes just riding in silence together. The light was rich and bright across the steppes, the sky arcing above them in violet splendor, tinted by the crimson sun. Birds rose up from the grass at their approach, their shrill cries cutting over the drumbeats and bells.
Clark looked over at Bruce, currently holding forth on possible sociological models for Srataanian culture. Bruce broke off the mini-lecture at the look. "What?"
"Nothing." Clark looked away. "It's just...it's good to get to talk to you for a while. Uninterrupted. There's been no time since you...got back. And precious little before then."
"There's never really enough time." There was a weight of sadness in Bruce's voice that made Clark turn again to look at him; he was staring off across the vast plain of grass. "Not with the lives we've chosen."
Clark laughed slightly. "I had a lot of conversations with you over the last year." Bruce looked at him, puzzled. "Every night, just about. I'd come back to my bare little room on New Krypton and tell you about my day, ask what you thought of my choices." The chuckle became a full laugh. "You didn't like most of them."
"I am certain," Bruce said with some tartness, "That most of them involved you risking your life foolishly."
"Many did."
"Then no, I wouldn't have liked them." Bruce's voice was sardonic, but his mouth was tilted in a smile. "I'm glad I'm back so I can berate you for your idiotic choices in person."
"So am I." The breath caught briefly in Clark's throat. "Oh, Bruce. So am I."
Bruce met his gaze, his shadow-smudged eyes level, devoid of flirtation or coyness. "Thank you," he said. Then he grabbed Clark's arm and hissed "Look," pointing. A vast shape like a sabretooth tiger, inky black and with two whiplike tails, was slinking through the grass. The paakra snorted and stamped in a panic as they caught the scent of the predator, and there was a sharp whistling as Captain Li suddenly unshouldered a longbow and loosed a few arrows at the beast. It yowled, a deep, shuddering sound, and disappeared into the sea of grass once more.
"Now we know why it's good to have a guard along," noted Bruce.
Clark watched the way Li was preening and keeping an eye on Bruce to see if his prowess was being appreciated, and wasn't sure it was that good to have a guard along.
: : :
The caravan master called a halt for the night within sight of a wide, shallow river. "We'll ford it tomorrow," he said as his men and women scrambled about putting out bedrolls and tents.
The tent they set up for Clark was a surprisingly airy affair of some material like light silk, bare inside but for one bedroll and a hide of thick black fur to cover it. Clark yearned to go inside, to have something walling himself and Bruce off from the rest of the world, but Fa waved them over to the crackling fire where most of the caravan members were sitting cross-legged, chewing on some kind of biscuit and drinking tea.
Bruce bowed deeply to the gathering as Clark sat down and removed his sandals with the air of a person performing ritual. He moved to take over the serving of the tea. Deftly he went around the circle, pouring steaming liquid into small cups of bone.
When he reached Captain Li, the man smiled and pulled something out of his pocket: a copper chain hung with tiny bells. He shook it slightly and it jangled. "Bought you a little something, Dark One," he said.
Bruce stood still, looking at him and not moving, and Li flashed Clark a glance. "All right with you if I give it to him?"
Politeness warred with possessiveness for a moment; Clark nodded reluctantly. Li held up the anklet again. "Give me your foot," he said to Bruce.
Bruce hesitated a moment longer, then raised one foot, his knee bent like a ballerina caught in mid-pirouette. The other people around the fire murmured appreciatively as he held the pose without swaying, perfectly still. Li fastened the belled chain around his ankle, taking his time about it. "Pretty bells for a pretty amri," he murmured as he let Bruce's foot go.
Bruce pivoted on one foot and went to sit at Clark's side, his face expressionless. Clark reached out to pat his shoulder; it was rigid under his hand, unyielding.
Captain Li was smiling.
: : :
"What were you thinking?" Bruce rounded on him as soon as they entered the tent. "You let him touch me!"
Clark blinked at him. "It wasn't my place to--"
"--it damn well is your place, although it might not be for long." Bruce paced around the tent. If Clark didn't know better, he'd say the man looked anxious. "By letting him touch me, by letting him mark me with this--" He stamped the ground and the anklet jangled angrily, "--You've publicly admitted weakness. You've made it clear I'm up for grabs."
Clark scowled. "You don't belong to me. I'm not--I mean--I'd never treat you that way."
Bruce whirled on him, his dark eyes furious. "We're not on Earth, Clark. The rules are different here."
"I can't--"
"--Look, I know this is difficult for you, but you have to pretend you value me enough to actually put up a fight for me!"
Clark stared at him, seeing suddenly a strange hurt under the anger. "Bruce, I..." He reached out a hand, not quite touching him. "You know I..."
"Klaak!" The bellow nearly shook the silken walls of the tent, and Clark recognized his own name, pronounced with a Srataanian lilt. "Come out and face a challenge!"
"Ah, damn," breathed Bruce as Clark ducked out of the tent.
Li was standing in the middle of the circle of tents, legs spread in a fighting stance, a quarterstaff gripped in his hands. "Klaak," he said Clark emerged from his tent. "I challenge you for possession of your amri. Fight me now or prove yourself unworthy of his service and his body!"
There was a hand on his arm, hooking him back into the tent. Bruce's lips were at his ear. "Give me up, let me go," hissed Bruce. "I can get away later, you know I can. You don't need to fight him."
"You are not brave enough for such a beauty, Klaak!" roared Li in the circle.
Clark stared at Bruce, then pulled his arm away.
"Damn it, Clark!" Bruce whispered fiercely. "You don't have powers here! You could get hurt! I won't let you get hurt for me!" His eyes were dark with worry; Clark felt something tightening in his chest at the sight.
"I won't lose you, Bruce. Not again. Do you hear me? I will not lose you again."
He pulled away and went out to face Li.
The red-headed captain towered above Clark by at least a head; he grinned and tossed the quarterstaff at Clark, leaning down to pick up another one. "I assume you don't know the rules, Southerner," he said mockingly. "There clearly aren't enough ban-tal in your home village to even compete for the honor of an amri, to judge by your staggering incompetence. So I shall remind you there are no rules. Anything goes until one of us is unable to stand and yields." The quarterstaff twirled between them. "I look forward to treating your Dark One the way he deserves to be treated. I'll have him squirming under me this very night." He dropped into a defensive crouch, his eyes on Clark. "Perhaps I'll do it here by the fire, so all can watch me take my pleasure from him." The crowd that had gathered murmured slightly--in offense or appreciation Clark wasn't sure, and he no longer cared. Stark anger was burning in his belly; he tamped it down as best he could. Anger wouldn't help him win this fight.
Li jumped forward and Clark swung the quarterstaff up at the last second, still unsure of its heft and weight. He heard someone gasp behind him under the ringing clash of wood; it sounded almost like Bruce, but he had never heard Bruce sound so horror-stricken. He ducked, parried, ducked again, feeling the blows echoing in the bones of his arms. Li was incredibly strong, and Clark knew he was overmatched almost immediately. A combination of panic and fury galvanized him; he swung out and connected with Li's elbow, a glancing blow that nevertheless made the taller man grunt with surprise.
Then the butt of Li's quarterstaff got through his defenses and he felt it whack against his forehead.
He staggered, his head ringing, feeling blood trickling into his eyebrow. In a moment it would be in his eye and he wouldn't be able to see. Li stepped forward, staff raised for the finishing blow.
"Clark," someone groaned, their voice filled with anguish.
His own hands felt heavier than mountains, but he reached down to scoop up a handful of earth; as Li brought down the staff he threw the dirt into the other man's eyes.
Li scrabbled at his eyes, growling, and Clark brought the butt of his staff up into his groin as hard as he could.
Li made a sound like steam escaping from a kettle and collapsed very slowly, doubling in on himself. "Do you yield?" demanded Clark, shaking the quarterstaff over his prone body.
No answer but wheezes.
"Do you yield?"
The caravan master stepped forward to take away Li's quarterstaff; Li put up no protest. "I believe this match is over," he said.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Clark's vision was dark around the edges; the blood started to drip into his eye but he was too tired to wipe it away. His heart was pounding. He blinked and realized Bruce was in front of him, a cloth in his hands. The cloth was cool on his forehead; Clark hissed in pain as it touched his wound. "I beat him," he muttered thickly. He bent down and unclasped the copper anklet, hurled it into the shadows. "I'll get you a new one in Zuuri," he announced to renewed applause.
"I admit I didn't think you had it in you," Bruce said under the crowd's calls.
"You didn't think I'd fight for you?"
Bruce shook his head, not meeting his eyes. "I know you're brave; one of the bravest men I know. I knew you'd fight." His slid a hand to cup Clark's cheek and Clark leaned into it almost unconsciously. "No, I didn't think you'd be willing to fight dirty for me," he said.
"I'd do anything for you," Clark said. "Anything."
Bruce leaned forward and kissed him.
Bruce's mouth tasted like musk, like cinnamon, like Bruce. He bit gently at Clark's lower lip, and Clark found himself deepening the kiss as if he couldn't help it, his tongue exploring as Bruce inhaled sharply and explored back, strange and wonderful and perfect.
"Oh," Clark said dumbly as Bruce finally pulled away. "Oh."
"This is my Master," Bruce said loudly, kneeling to take Clark's hand and press his forehead to it. "This is the man I shall serve all my days, my strength and my consolation." His fingers tightened on Clark's. "Mine," he said, and his voice was rich and fierce and possessive.
Things got blurry for a while after that; there were small cups of steaming alcohol that Clark tried to pass up but were pressed into his hands by cheerful supporters. Fa started a chant of some sort that most people joined in on: something bawdy enough to make Clark's ears burn. And then someone was calling for the amri to do a Dance of Victory, dance for the glory of your master.
Clark blinked through the haze of wine and weariness. Bruce was standing in the firelight, the muscles of his chest cast into sharp chiaroscuro, his arms lifted. He beckoned, and the tambourines and drums started a slow, sinuous beat that seemed to reach into Clark's body, twine around his pulse.
Bruce danced.
His movements were grace itself, supple, shadow and flame embodied together. The crowd hushed, murmuring, as his bare feet stamped at the ground, his hands caressing and cutting the darkness.
His eyes never left Clark's.
Mine.
Clark's breath was short. Bruce's dance had nothing of meekness, nothing of submission in it; it was triumphant, joyous, claiming. He clapped his hands together with the drums and the timbrels, and Clark's heart leaped with it, answering: Yours. It was a dance of power, of surety. He turned and swayed and his feet kissed the earth, and Clark ached with joy to watch it, ached with desire for it to end.
A final flourish and Bruce bowed low to Clark. He looked up into Clark's eyes, a lazy smile on his face. "Does this worthless one please you, Master?" his voice said. His eyes said Mine.
Clark stood, a little unsteadily. "You please me well indeed," he said as formally as he could manage. "Come with me now and please me more."
The crowd murmured in what sounded like disappointment as Bruce stood and trailed Clark to the tent, a polite step behind his Master.
: : :
The tent flap had barely fallen into place behind them before they were in each others' arms again, Bruce pulling him so close Clark felt breathless. They staggered ungracefully to the bedroll, hands slipping under silk and brocade to cherished skin. Bruce touched his lips to Clark's broken brow with shaking tenderness. "I hate when you get hurt," he muttered thickly. "I had nightmares, when I was...traveling. Nightmares of a beautiful man being hurt, over and over, in a thousand different ways. I didn't know who he was. I knew I couldn't bear to see him hurt. That was the only thing I knew. The only thing I carried with me, through all the lives." Clark kissed his throat, the terrifyingly vulnerable hollow of his collarbone, brushed his lips along the fine hair around one nipple. Bruce groaned. "I promised myself," he went on, his voice low, "that when I found him, I would ask him--ask him--" His voice broke off and he dragged Clark back up into a long, searching kiss, and for a long time they did nothing but lie together, hands warm on skin, kissing as if they had nothing but time to memorize each other.
"What were you going to ask him?" Clark finally whispered into his hair. Bruce stayed silent, and Clark let his hands roam Bruce's ribs in fragments of their code: My lost one who is found. My pearl of great price, worth everything. My dearest friend. "Tell me," Clark said aloud.
"I promised myself that I would ask him to allow me to love him," Bruce said in a long, shaky exhalation.
Clark found himself suddenly caught between tears and laughter. "Bruce, you impossible, stubborn, perfect man," he whispered, "when have you ever waited for my permission to do anything?"
Bruce kissed the corner of his eye, touching moisture Clark hadn't known was there.
"I didn't this time, either," he said.
: : :
The wagon jolted over a rut and Clark winced but considered himself compensated by the way Bruce clung to his arm more tightly. Some kind of lark was singing in the sky above the caravan, a joyous trill of delight; Clark smiled up at it.
"My master seems well-pleased," said Bruce, snuggling closer.
Clark's head ached where Li's staff had whacked it; his body was both painfully sore and delightfully aching.
"I am," he said.
---
[click for the second part!]
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: A Zeta beam gone wrong strands Clark and Bruce on an alien planet in the distant past where Bruce must pretend to be Clark's pleasure slave.
Continuity: Comics, set in the (one hopes) near future when Bruce is back and the war between New Krypton and Earth is concluded. Contains random unfounded speculation. :)
Word Count: 8000
Notes: To thank kungfunurse for her kind and generous donation to Doctors Without Borders for help_haiti!
The Arctic wind was tugging at Batman's cloak, making the fabric ripple and shift like dark water. His arms were crossed and his back was to Superman as he gazed out across the ice, apparently as oblivious to the bitter cold as he was to Superman himself.
"Adam Strange said the Zeta Beam would pick us up in this location in about...fifteen minutes," said Clark.
Batman grunted.
"You...don't have to go."
Another grunt.
"I mean, Adam did specifically ask for you and I to negotiate the treaty, but we could get someone else to take your place. I'm sure you've got a lot of catching up to do from..." Clark's voice failed for a second. "From your time away."
Batman didn't even bother to respond this time.
"It's...good to see you again, by the way. Everyone missed you." I missed you, he wanted to add, but the stiffness of Bruce's back made it difficult to say. It was their first time alone together since that instant on the battlefield, in the middle of the rout of the Kryptonian army. Clark remembered the moment every night in his dreams: on his knees before the triumphant General Lane. Lane lowering the Kryptonite gun, the green light gathering at the muzzle pointed at Clark's head...
The gun exploding into harmless sparks and splinters. The bit of metal that destroyed it coming to rest at Clark's feet, his disbelieving eyes tracing the familiar angles and lines of a batarang.
He had looked up to see Bruce charging in to drop General Lane with a vicious punch to the jaw. Bruce had reached out a hand to him, to help him to his feet, and Clark had clung to it in amazement, unable to fully believe it was tangible, it was real. For a long moment they had just looked at each other, unspeaking, the battle raging on around them.
And then one of Zod's personal troops had charged at them, face contorted with fury, and Clark had moved to punch him and Bruce had fallen into place next to him, and then they were fighting side-by-side as always, as if the last horrible, empty year had never happened.
Every night Clark relived that moment, the joy of it, the way the universe had fallen back into the right patterns. Every day he carried that joy with him, close to his heart, like a secret. And despite that joy--or perhaps because of it--it was becoming rather annoying to have Batman resolutely refusing to look at him. "All right, Bruce," he said, trying not to sound too irritable, "What's the problem? Did you not want to come on this mission? Is this generalized grumpiness or have I done something specific to offend you?"
Batman whirled and stalked up to Superman. "You," he growled, pointing at him with one dark finger. "I came back from the dead, struggled through endless lifetimes of pain and suffering, clawed my way back to the present and charged off to save your life on the battlefield, and you...didn't hug me."
Clark blinked. Batman stood silent and accusing as an onyx statue, the wind lifting his cape the only motion about him. And then the corner of his mouth twitched in the barest of smiles.
Clark laughed, somewhat shakily. "You know what I've missed most about you, Bruce? Your sense of humor."
Bruce relaxed abruptly back into his crossed-arm posture. The smile was definitely tugging both sides of his mouth now, but he repeated, his voice as grim as if discussing how crime never sleeps: "You. Didn't. Hug me."
"We were, in case you didn't notice it, on a battlefield at the time, under attack by both human and Kryptonian soldiers!" That was a rationalization, Clark knew. There had been time for a brief comradely embrace. But Batman was right, he had just stood there like an idiot, shaken and overjoyed and unable to even move as he looked at his friend. Bruce Wayne, proud and beautiful and back from conquering death as he conquered everything. Everything. And now Clark was bickering with him about hugs. "Besides, you were hardly Mr. Snuggles when I came back from the dead," he pointed out, feeling foolish.
"That's different," Bruce said haughtily, lifting his chin. "Batman doesn't hug. Superman hugs. And you didn't." A pause. "You still haven't."
"All right then," Clark said, "One super-welcome-back hug coming up." He put out one hand and awkwardly pulled Batman against him in a one-armed hug. "There, I--"
Batman moved suddenly, a strange, ungainly motion that didn't have any of his usual grace, turning into the half-hearted hug and putting both of his arms around Superman, holding him close. "Clark," he said, his voice hoarse, and Clark closed his arms around Bruce in turn, the amazing reality of him, warm and strong. Clark's heart was pounding--or it might have been Bruce's, he couldn't tell, they were pressed so close now, Bruce's fingers digging into his back as if to get him even closer.
"Bruce. Bruce." His voice was shaking. "I missed you," Clark whispered against the slick black cowl, his lips touching leather, and if the cowl were off they would be against Bruce's hair, soft and dark as dreams. "Bruce, I--" The world made no sense without you, he wanted to say, started to say...
...just as the Zeta beam caught them up and took them to Rann.
: : :
They were in a large gray room, one window overlooking the turrets and spires of Rann. Batman whirled from Clark's embrace so quickly that it was like he had never been there; aside from a slightly lifted eyebrow Adam Strange betrayed no other reaction.
"No time for formalities, old friends," Strange said as they stepped off the platform. "We've received word there may be a plot to disrupt your trip, so we're going to get you to Srataan as soon as possible." He held out two bundles of cloth and gestured toward two screens, incongruously floral-patterned in a room full of alien technology. "We'll talk as you change."
Clark's clothes were a deep burgundy with gold braiding, with a golden disc engraved with what seemed to be a stylized tree that fastened a black half-cape to his shoulder. The cloth was stiff and heavy, like brocade.
"Some people on Srataan don't want their planet to open up to interstellar trade," said Strange as Clark fiddled with the metal buttons.
"I read the dossier." Batman's tone implied that Strange was insulting his intelligence. "Do you have any additional information?" Clark could hear rustling sounds from behind his screen.
"Nothing specific. I'm just annoyed that after two decades of negotiations, they've stipulated that they require neutral parties from a planet nowhere near this system to finalize the treaty."
"So you picked us because Earth is such a backwater?" asked Clark.
Strange laughed. "I picked you because Batman and Superman are two of the best negotiators I know, and together I'm sure you'll be able to convince Srataan its interests will be served by joining the Rannian League. Plus you're two of the only people I know who'd be able to process the information on Srataanian culture quickly enough."
"There are some fairly major gaps in those files," Bruce said, stepping out from behind the screen. Clark found himself gaping unashamedly. Bruce was wearing a midnight-blue tunic in a fabric that looked as silky and fine as Clark's was heavy. On the chest a five-petaled flower with a star at its heart was picked out in silver thread. Clark's eyes traveled involuntarily down tight black pants to knee-high black boots, then back up. A band of metallic cloth was looped around Bruce's neck like a choker to complete the look, and he was wearing a band of gem-spangled black silk as a mask.
Bruce's eyebrows arched and Clark looked away hurriedly.
"Srataan's isolationist history has meant we don't have a lot of information to go on," said Strange. "They've shared very little with us. They did stipulate that these would be the uniforms they expected you to wear to the negotiations."
Bruce brushed at the silver threads in his tunic. "If I understood the files correctly, I'm dressed as a member of the amri-je, a specialized cadre in the military?"
"Yes, and Kal-El has been given a traditional diplomat's outfit. They insisted you should dress like Srataanians as a sign of respect. It's also a security measure--they don't want you to stand out too much."
"Well," said Bruce, "I'll grant they do have good fashion sense." He was looking at Clark, his eyes glinting through the black silk, and Clark took a deep breath and turned to their host.
"We're ready."
Adam Strange bowed slightly and gestured toward the Zeta Beam platform. "I'm sorry for the rush, gentlemen, but we'd like to get you to Srataan as quickly as possible."
They took their places and Strange stepped behind the controls. The Zeta Beam generator hummed into life and Strange pushed the lever that would send them to Srataan.
As he did, there was a sudden commotion outside the door and a man burst through the door, dressed in a costume much like Bruce's and wielding an ugly-looking raygun. "Srataan Forever!" he screamed and aimed at them.
The beam from the gun intersected the Zeta Beam. The world vanished from around them in a nauseating wrench as Clark heard Adam Strange yelling a sentence he never heard end.
: : :
Clark staggered as the Zeta Beam released him, feeling the world spin around him. He doubled over, struggling to keep from being sick. Through his disorientation, he felt an extra spike of panic: Bruce. Had they been separated? He croaked his companion's name and was relieved to hear an answering grunt. The world seemed to be stabilizing now, and Clark felt blades of grass tickling his nose. He sneezed and the world went back to spinning again.
There were hands on his shoulders. "Easy," Bruce's voice said. "Relax. Close your eyes for a second." Clark did so and focused on Bruce's touch instead. His head hurt. His stomach hurt.
"What--" He managed to choke out.
"Something went wrong with the Zeta Beam."
Clark cracked his eyes open gingerly and the world came into gradual focus. He and Bruce were in a field of blue flowers, nodding in the wind.
The sun had a distinct reddish tinge.
"Where are we?" Clark asked, his stomach sinking.
"Not where. When." Bruce pointed and Clark turned to see a small village of clay buildings. A wagon was leaving it, drawn by an elk-like animal with leopard-dappled fur. There was no sign of technology whatsoever. "I recognize that animal from the files, it's the dominant herbivore on Srataan. This is the right planet, it's just the wrong time. The distant past, I'm guessing. Late Iron Age, based on the village. That means we're six or seven thousand years in the past."
"This can't be Srataan," said Clark, shaking his head at the reddish sky. "Suns don't go from red to yellow."
Bruce glared at the sun as if it were a personal affront. "I'd guess particulates, maybe from a volcanic explosion, shifting the spectrum temporarily. Can you..." His voice trailed off questioningly, and Clark shook his head.
"I'm having problems standing at the moment, forget flying." Bruce made a disgruntled noise. "Well, it's not my fault some lunatic decided to disrupt our Zeta Beam," Clark said, knowing he sounded childishly peeved.
"I didn't say it was," Bruce said, still frowning at the sky. He slipped something that looked like a tiny cell phone out of his pocket. "Lucky I decided not to leave this behind. Zeta Beam detector," he said to Clark's curious look. "It can predict where and when the next natural Zeta Beam will show up. If we can get there in time...probably it'll take us back to Rann."
"Rann five thousand years ago?"
"Well," Bruce said, "It would still be closer to where we want to be." The little machine made a booping sound, and Bruce made an annoyed sound in his throat. "The next estimated beam intersepction is a week from now, and quite a ways to the southeast. We'll have to figure out some means of transportation." He put the machine away and stared at the town. "Srataan would be largely a nomadic culture at this point."
Clark peered north, shading his eyes against the hazy red light. "Those mountains are probably the Dilandrahoons, which means we're in the northern part of the continent. If we can find our way to the Sondo River we can probably follow it upstream to Zuuri, which is--well, it won't be the planetary capital yet, but should be a large enough city for us to be inconspicuous while we pinpoint where the beam will come through," Clark said. "What, did you think I didn't read the same dossier you did?" he added as Bruce shot him a look.
Bruce made a neutral growling noise which probably meant "Yes, but I'm far too polite to say so." He started to move through the field of flowers, golden grasses brushing up against his tunic. "Let's get our bearings and try to find transportation." He untied his mask as he went, slipping it into a pocket. "I doubt anyone here will be reporting my secret identity back home," he noted wryly.
The village was a uniform golden-red color, soft-edged buildings made from something like adobe. Washing hung from clotheslines strung from building to building; Clark was relieved to see that the cut of their clothes was unusual but not clearly futuristic: thank goodness for military costumes keeping traditional design. Children played and tumbled in the dust of the street, most of them red-haired and darker-skinned than Clark and Bruce, though a few were closer to their coloring.
"We need to find a--" Bruce began, when a voice cut in.
"You," it said, and Clark turned with Bruce to see a hulking, broad-shouldered man with auburn hair in a uniform of olive drab. He was nearly a head taller than Clark, and gazed down on him with a look of suspicion. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" His gaze fell to the silver insignia on Bruce's chest and a complicated mix of emotions flickered across his face. "Is this one an amri?" he said to Clark.
Clark cast a quick glance at Bruce but found no help there; Bruce was listening intently, his face blank. Bruce had described his outfit as belonging to an amri-je, which must be related, so... "Yes."
"Is he yours?"
Clark felt unease start to settle in the pit of his belly; he was fairly certain elite military personnel did not belong to people. But not knowing what was going on, it seemed safest to say yes. "He's mine."
The look on the man's face settled into one of near-disgust. "By Dilandra's rosy nipples, man, where are you from? Some gods-forsaken south town like Senah?"
"Slightly...south of there, actually."
"Well, I should have guessed from your accent, I suppose." The man wrinkled his nose. "Look, you southerners can do what you like up there, but here in civilized parts we dress our amri properly." He waved a hand at Bruce's attire. "Your amri did not go through a lifetime of training and preparation just to be stuffed into something like this. Show some respect to his sacrifice and let him display his servitude as he's meant to. Honestly." He pointed at the silver ribbon around Bruce's neck. "You haven't even seen fit to give him a proper collar. What are you southerners, barbarians?"
Collar? Clark looked to Bruce for some cue, and discovered to his shock that somewhere during the man's speech everything about him had changed. The regal military-style bearing was gone, replaced by downcast eyes, hands held demurely in front of him, his entire posture submissive and deferential.
Oh Rao, thought Clark as he finally finished processing what the man had said. Oh Rao, no.
"You deserve better, don't you, Dark One?" said the uniformed man. "Imagine keeping an amri all covered up like that, it's totally against Code."
"My Master is sometimes unorthodox," said Bruce in a soft, light voice.
The man's eyebrows shot upward. "I would say so," he said, shooting a glance at Clark, "If he gives his amri freedom to speak without leave. A very lax master indeed."
Clark jerked his chin up and looked down his nose at his interrogator. "He pleased me so well last night I have given him leave to speak freely all of today."
The red-haired man shook his head, chuckling. "Unorthodox indeed. And hardly fair to the poor amri, denying him his 'sacred right to submission in all things'," he said in the tone of one quoting scripture. "Well," he went on, "I'll take you to the marketplace to get some more Code-compliant clothing."
"I'll go there soon and--"
The man drew himself up and put his hands on his hips in the way of bullying military types the galaxy over. "I say we go now, southerner."
Clark grimaced and fell in behind him.
"Morning, Captain Li," called one of the vendors across the bustling sounds of the marketplace. "Anything I can do for you?"
The red-haired man swaggered up to the stall. "We got an amri in violation of the Code, needs some more appropriate clothing."
"Oh, amri clothing and jewelry," the man said, seeming flustered. "Oh my, I don't have much of a selection. I'm just a traveling salesman."
"Surely you got something that'll suit?"
"Yes, well," the man pursed his lips. "I have a few items I was hoping to sell when I went to Zuuri next time, but maybe..." He rummaged under his table and came out with a small, elaborately, carved wooden chest. Inside was...very little, actually. Some bits of metal and fur. Clark was wondering where the clothing was when the vendor reached and and pulled out a tiny silk loincloth trimmed with black fur and bits of wrought black metal, and he realized that was the clothing.
The vendor and Captain Li looked at him expectantly, and Clark realized with a shock he had no idea of the economic system. "I...I'm afraid I have no money. There was a..." He let the sentence trail off and the vendor nodded sympathetically.
"...Got caught in one of those flash floods on the Sondo, did you, sir?"
"It was terrible," Clark murmured.
"Well," said the vendor, "what are those buttons of yours made out of?"
Clark touched one of the shining buttons. "Um, gold?"
The vendor shrugged. "Cut one off and I'll give you the outfit. I'll even throw in some sandals."
Under Captain Li's watchful eye, Clark cut one of the buttons off and handed it over. The vendor bit on it thoughtfully, frowned, and somewhat grudgingly handed over the scrap of cloth.
"He needs a proper collar, and perhaps some ankle bells," suggested Captain Li.
The vendor waved his hands in negation. "I don't carry collars, never got a license from the Temple for that. You'd have to go to a bigger town. I have a few ankle bells--"
"--That won't be necessary," said Clark, hoping from Li's wording that the bells were optional.
Both the vendor and Li looked disappointed. "Such a lovely amri deserves a more considerate master," murmured the vendor, but not so loudly that he couldn't pretend to have said nothing.
"Well," Clark said, turning to Li with his handful of cloth, "Thank you for helping me get him up to the proper Code. Now if you'll point us to an inn where he can change--"
"--What? Why not have him change here?"
"Here? In the street?" Clark resisted the urge to look at Bruce; he could tell he wouldn't get any help from that quarter right now.
"The amri exists to serve one, but to delight all," Li said, quoting again. "Why would you have such a treasure and be unwilling to flaunt him?"
Clark imagined Bruce stripping down in the street, taking off his boots and pants and heavy tunic with the hungry eyes of Captain Li on him, and felt angry heat rising inside of him. "Now, you--"
There was a gentle hand on his arm and Clark turned to see Bruce, his eyes still cast down. "Master," said Bruce, "You know I'm proud to display myself, to magnify your honor." He looked up, the merest flick of dark blue eyes that felt like a physical contact, full of meaning.
Clark crossed his arms. "Very well," he said, following Bruce's lead. "Go ahead."
Bruce slowly undid his heavy black boots, taking his time with the lacing. Then he stood and pulled the dark blue tunic over his head, followed by the white silk undertunic. By this time a small crowd had gathered and there was a murmuring as his chest and back were bared, most likely a reaction to the scars.
Clark tried to keep his face impassive as Bruce unbuckled his pants, but all he could think of was that he'd never seen Bruce naked. Oh, in the showers, in the medlab...but never like this. Never when he was allowed--expected--to just look and watch as Bruce revealed more and more skin, more tightly muscled body, all because Clark had asked him to. To magnify your honor.
Bruce was entirely nude now. His movements were neither lascivious nor hasty; he moved with the easy grace of one entirely unembarrassed by the crowd's stares, entirely uninterested in their attention. As he folded the leggings neatly, he locked eyes with Clark, a small smile on his face, and Clark's pulse did odd things. Because it wasn't a submissive smile at all, for a moment.
Not at all. It was mocking and challenging, and it made Clark's heart race faster than the sight of Bruce's sinewed legs.
Then Bruce broke the gaze and picked up his loincloth with the lazy ease of a person who had no shame in his beauty, fastening it carefully around his waist. It barely covered his genitals and made no pretense at all of privacy in the back, giving Clark--and the entire crowd that had stopped to gawk--an unimpeded view of muscular buttocks. Ignoring everyone else, Bruce bowed deeply to Clark. "Does this worthless one please you, Master?" he murmured.
Clark had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could answer. "Yes, you look satisfactory," he said.
Captain Li chuckled. "You are a difficult man to please, southerner."
Bruce looked up from the bow, his eyes huge and limpid. "Yet he is worth every effort this one can make," he breathed.
"Yes. Well." Clark couldn't stop looking at the line of Bruce's back, the delicate curve of his spine trailing downward-- "I wish to travel to the north," he said to Li, wrenching his eyes away.
"Ah, you will travel to Zuuri?"
"Yes," Clark said. It had to be more or less the right direction.
"You're in luck. There is a caravan leaving this very afternoon," said Li. "The caravan master, Fa, is staying at the Crossed Swords Inn. If you wish, I can escort you there to meet him."
"Yes, please," said Clark.
"Master..." murmured Bruce. At Clark's nod, he went on, "May I visit the Temple while you make arrangements?" He gestured toward a building with little to distinguish it from the rest except for one thing: etched above the door it had the insignia of a five-petaled flower, identical to the one on Bruce's abandoned tunic but without the star at its heart.
"Of course, dear one," said Clark. "I would never keep you from the Temple."
Bruce bowed again and turned away, but not before he met Clark's gaze one last time, his eyes full of promise.
It was not a promise of servitude.
Clark watched Bruce walk away across the square, the sway in his hips indicating he knew full well he was being watched. Then he noticed Li was watching as well, his eyes avid. "The inn?" Clark said, and Li tore his gaze away with evident reluctance.
"Of course. This way."
Fa, the caravan master, was a slim man with mutton-chop sideburns and watery blue eyes which widened at the silver threading in Bruce's discarded uniform. "I'll take you to Zuuri for the thread, and throw in a tent for you to stay in nights," he said. Clark suspected the ease of bartering meant he was getting massively fleeced, but was too happy to gain passage to complain.
"I'll be going as well," Captain Li said. "I've...taken an interest in traveling north, it seems." Clark didn't particularly like the smile on his face.
Fa looked delighted. "You know it's always a pleasure to have a member of the Guard along. So much safer," he beamed as he picked the silvery thread deftly from dark blue cloth. "We'll be leaving in a couple of hours," he said to Clark, flipping him a small copper coin. "Have a drink while you wait."
Clark had definitely gotten fleeced. But he took the money and got a mug of something that tasted like weak red wine and a scattering of brass coins in return, some of them stamped with the five-petaled flower symbol. Then he put his back to the wall and watched the patrons carefully, waiting for Bruce's return.
When he did, it was an event. He sauntered through the door and every eye in the place was immediately on him. He scanned the room until his eyes fell on Clark, and his face lit up in a smile that made Clark's wine suddenly seem stronger and sweeter. Crossing the room, he knelt before Clark on one knee, eyes cast down and hand over his heart. "Master, this one returns to the light in your eyes," he intoned.
Murmurs of appreciation went around the room; clearly Bruce had been doing his research on proper behavior. "Yes. Well. Thank you," Clark said, distracted by the realization that Bruce's eyes were smudged with something dark and slightly iridescent now, and that there was a rather dizzying scent like lilies and musk in the air between them. The crowd seemed less pleased with his graceless response, but Bruce merely moved to curl up on the floor at his knee with every evidence of delight. He ran one hand up Clark's calf--and Clark almost choked on his drink, because the caress was anything but soft and pliant. Instead, strong fingers gripped the muscles of his leg so fiercely it nearly hurt, kneading through the fabric with demanding roughness.
It felt, Clark realized, very good.
Situation under control, Bruce signed to him in the crude touch-language the JLA had devised for these situations, imprinting the message into his skin as if it were Batman's grating voice. Then he added in the more subtle, nuanced code the two of them had devised, Are you enjoying this?
Clark looked down at the nearly naked man at his feet; Bruce looked back at him with his eyes smoldering. Clark patted Bruce's head fondly, the dark curls thick under his fingers. Of course not, he signed emphatically.
I should think you'd like having me helpless and at your command, Bruce said, his fingers firm against Clark's leg and a world of hidden laughter in his touch, none of which reached his sultry, worshipful eyes. "I hope this worthless one pleases you," Bruce aloud.
You, helpless? Impossible. He could probably remove his hand from Bruce's hair, but instead he let the locks slide between his fingers as if it were something he'd been longing to do forever.
Fingers dug into his calf with bruising strength and Clark barely kept from groaning aloud in startled delight. "Oh yes," he said. "You please me...a great deal." Bruce's hands climbed ever so slightly higher, and Clark waited for his next message, but there didn't seem to be one. Well, no coded message, at least. Bruce's hands seemed to be conveying a great many messages indeed to Clark. He looked into his mug, almost afraid to meet those eyes, afraid what they might see in his own. He prayed the caravan would leave soon or there seemed to be some risk he'd end up dragging Bruce onto his lap, just to have those mocking, taunting hands where he could touch them, hold them fast...
When Fa announced the caravan was leaving, Clark leapt to his feet so hastily he almost spilled the rest of his wine.
: : :
The caravan was of covered wagons drawn by the spotted elk-like animals Clark had seen earlier. "I've got some of the best paakra on the continent," Fa bragged as he helped Clark scramble up onto his wagon and handed him a whip. "Mostly they'll follow the lead without any prompting, so don't you worry." Clark helped Bruce up onto the seat next to him, painfully aware of how some of the men and women in the caravan watched his body. Captain Li especially stood and watched, smirking, for longer than Clark felt comfortable with.
Fa gave a sharp whistle and the paakra started to lumber forward. As they fell into a convoy line, some of Fa's workers struck up a rhythm with timbrels, drums, and tambourines that seemed to be setting the pace for the animals. "We should be able to talk a little more freely now," Bruce said, his voice not carrying over the rumble of wheels and jangle of percussion.
"What did you find out at the Temple?"
"The amri are valued property, given by the Temples to men and women who have proven themselves the strongest in physical combat. Men and women alike have been known to duel over the right to own an amri. It's a highly coveted honor."
"To own another person?" spat Clark.
Bruce raised his eyebrows. "No, to be owned. To become an amri."
"An honor?" Clark felt like he might fall off the wagon with the force of his answer. "To be a slave?"
Bruce sighed and snuggled against him as the wagon jolted over a rock, looking for all the world like he was trying to coax his Master out of a bad mood. "The amri are closer to priest-prostitutes than slaves. Only the most beautiful, graceful and intelligent children are chosen for the chance to train for ten years in order to gain the privilege."
"The privilege of being owned by another human being," Clark said blankly.
"The privilege of magnifying the glory of Dilandra through holy servitude," Bruce intoned piously. He tilted his head. "Clark, do you honestly have no capacity to see how some people might revel in having their responsibilities lifted from them? The ecstasy of being beyond choice, beyond freedom, of knowing your life was cradled, always, in another person's hands?" His voice was thoughtful. "The bliss of service without question, without self-doubt..."
Clark's face felt hot. "I don't--I mean, that's awful."
Bruce shrugged, a fluid motion of bare shoulders that made Clark's mind feel fuzzy. "I'm just saying it's an understandable human tendency."
"Shouldn't we be trying to do something to stop it?"
"This is all history, Clark. At some point in Srataanian development, the amri evolved into the amri-je and became priest-warriors instead, so obviously something happened to change their status naturally. We shouldn't interfere."
Clark realized he was twiddling the whip handle in his fingers and stopped himself. "So how am I supposed to be acting toward you?"
Bruce shifted on the wooden seat, wrapping himself around Clark's arm. "Like Li said, an amri exists to serve one, but to delight all. That means I belong to you, a valuable ornament, a status symbol that you will wish to show off as much as possible. I am to dance, serve drinks, and otherwise be available for the delectation of others, who can look as much as they like but not touch." His hands tightened slightly on Clark's arm. "It's only for a week," he said like he was apologizing.
"I don't like it."
Bruce's voice was richly amused. "I'd noticed." He leaned forward and kissed Clark's cheek, an affectionate peck that seemed deeply at odds with his state of garish undress. "Buck up, champ. You'll just have to resign yourself to a week of owning my body." Clark could only make an inarticulate growling sound in response to that, and Bruce threw back his head and laughed.
After that they wiled away the remainder of the day comparing notes on the culture, debating the role of the Temple of Dilandra in Srataanian society, and sometimes just riding in silence together. The light was rich and bright across the steppes, the sky arcing above them in violet splendor, tinted by the crimson sun. Birds rose up from the grass at their approach, their shrill cries cutting over the drumbeats and bells.
Clark looked over at Bruce, currently holding forth on possible sociological models for Srataanian culture. Bruce broke off the mini-lecture at the look. "What?"
"Nothing." Clark looked away. "It's just...it's good to get to talk to you for a while. Uninterrupted. There's been no time since you...got back. And precious little before then."
"There's never really enough time." There was a weight of sadness in Bruce's voice that made Clark turn again to look at him; he was staring off across the vast plain of grass. "Not with the lives we've chosen."
Clark laughed slightly. "I had a lot of conversations with you over the last year." Bruce looked at him, puzzled. "Every night, just about. I'd come back to my bare little room on New Krypton and tell you about my day, ask what you thought of my choices." The chuckle became a full laugh. "You didn't like most of them."
"I am certain," Bruce said with some tartness, "That most of them involved you risking your life foolishly."
"Many did."
"Then no, I wouldn't have liked them." Bruce's voice was sardonic, but his mouth was tilted in a smile. "I'm glad I'm back so I can berate you for your idiotic choices in person."
"So am I." The breath caught briefly in Clark's throat. "Oh, Bruce. So am I."
Bruce met his gaze, his shadow-smudged eyes level, devoid of flirtation or coyness. "Thank you," he said. Then he grabbed Clark's arm and hissed "Look," pointing. A vast shape like a sabretooth tiger, inky black and with two whiplike tails, was slinking through the grass. The paakra snorted and stamped in a panic as they caught the scent of the predator, and there was a sharp whistling as Captain Li suddenly unshouldered a longbow and loosed a few arrows at the beast. It yowled, a deep, shuddering sound, and disappeared into the sea of grass once more.
"Now we know why it's good to have a guard along," noted Bruce.
Clark watched the way Li was preening and keeping an eye on Bruce to see if his prowess was being appreciated, and wasn't sure it was that good to have a guard along.
: : :
The caravan master called a halt for the night within sight of a wide, shallow river. "We'll ford it tomorrow," he said as his men and women scrambled about putting out bedrolls and tents.
The tent they set up for Clark was a surprisingly airy affair of some material like light silk, bare inside but for one bedroll and a hide of thick black fur to cover it. Clark yearned to go inside, to have something walling himself and Bruce off from the rest of the world, but Fa waved them over to the crackling fire where most of the caravan members were sitting cross-legged, chewing on some kind of biscuit and drinking tea.
Bruce bowed deeply to the gathering as Clark sat down and removed his sandals with the air of a person performing ritual. He moved to take over the serving of the tea. Deftly he went around the circle, pouring steaming liquid into small cups of bone.
When he reached Captain Li, the man smiled and pulled something out of his pocket: a copper chain hung with tiny bells. He shook it slightly and it jangled. "Bought you a little something, Dark One," he said.
Bruce stood still, looking at him and not moving, and Li flashed Clark a glance. "All right with you if I give it to him?"
Politeness warred with possessiveness for a moment; Clark nodded reluctantly. Li held up the anklet again. "Give me your foot," he said to Bruce.
Bruce hesitated a moment longer, then raised one foot, his knee bent like a ballerina caught in mid-pirouette. The other people around the fire murmured appreciatively as he held the pose without swaying, perfectly still. Li fastened the belled chain around his ankle, taking his time about it. "Pretty bells for a pretty amri," he murmured as he let Bruce's foot go.
Bruce pivoted on one foot and went to sit at Clark's side, his face expressionless. Clark reached out to pat his shoulder; it was rigid under his hand, unyielding.
Captain Li was smiling.
: : :
"What were you thinking?" Bruce rounded on him as soon as they entered the tent. "You let him touch me!"
Clark blinked at him. "It wasn't my place to--"
"--it damn well is your place, although it might not be for long." Bruce paced around the tent. If Clark didn't know better, he'd say the man looked anxious. "By letting him touch me, by letting him mark me with this--" He stamped the ground and the anklet jangled angrily, "--You've publicly admitted weakness. You've made it clear I'm up for grabs."
Clark scowled. "You don't belong to me. I'm not--I mean--I'd never treat you that way."
Bruce whirled on him, his dark eyes furious. "We're not on Earth, Clark. The rules are different here."
"I can't--"
"--Look, I know this is difficult for you, but you have to pretend you value me enough to actually put up a fight for me!"
Clark stared at him, seeing suddenly a strange hurt under the anger. "Bruce, I..." He reached out a hand, not quite touching him. "You know I..."
"Klaak!" The bellow nearly shook the silken walls of the tent, and Clark recognized his own name, pronounced with a Srataanian lilt. "Come out and face a challenge!"
"Ah, damn," breathed Bruce as Clark ducked out of the tent.
Li was standing in the middle of the circle of tents, legs spread in a fighting stance, a quarterstaff gripped in his hands. "Klaak," he said Clark emerged from his tent. "I challenge you for possession of your amri. Fight me now or prove yourself unworthy of his service and his body!"
There was a hand on his arm, hooking him back into the tent. Bruce's lips were at his ear. "Give me up, let me go," hissed Bruce. "I can get away later, you know I can. You don't need to fight him."
"You are not brave enough for such a beauty, Klaak!" roared Li in the circle.
Clark stared at Bruce, then pulled his arm away.
"Damn it, Clark!" Bruce whispered fiercely. "You don't have powers here! You could get hurt! I won't let you get hurt for me!" His eyes were dark with worry; Clark felt something tightening in his chest at the sight.
"I won't lose you, Bruce. Not again. Do you hear me? I will not lose you again."
He pulled away and went out to face Li.
The red-headed captain towered above Clark by at least a head; he grinned and tossed the quarterstaff at Clark, leaning down to pick up another one. "I assume you don't know the rules, Southerner," he said mockingly. "There clearly aren't enough ban-tal in your home village to even compete for the honor of an amri, to judge by your staggering incompetence. So I shall remind you there are no rules. Anything goes until one of us is unable to stand and yields." The quarterstaff twirled between them. "I look forward to treating your Dark One the way he deserves to be treated. I'll have him squirming under me this very night." He dropped into a defensive crouch, his eyes on Clark. "Perhaps I'll do it here by the fire, so all can watch me take my pleasure from him." The crowd that had gathered murmured slightly--in offense or appreciation Clark wasn't sure, and he no longer cared. Stark anger was burning in his belly; he tamped it down as best he could. Anger wouldn't help him win this fight.
Li jumped forward and Clark swung the quarterstaff up at the last second, still unsure of its heft and weight. He heard someone gasp behind him under the ringing clash of wood; it sounded almost like Bruce, but he had never heard Bruce sound so horror-stricken. He ducked, parried, ducked again, feeling the blows echoing in the bones of his arms. Li was incredibly strong, and Clark knew he was overmatched almost immediately. A combination of panic and fury galvanized him; he swung out and connected with Li's elbow, a glancing blow that nevertheless made the taller man grunt with surprise.
Then the butt of Li's quarterstaff got through his defenses and he felt it whack against his forehead.
He staggered, his head ringing, feeling blood trickling into his eyebrow. In a moment it would be in his eye and he wouldn't be able to see. Li stepped forward, staff raised for the finishing blow.
"Clark," someone groaned, their voice filled with anguish.
His own hands felt heavier than mountains, but he reached down to scoop up a handful of earth; as Li brought down the staff he threw the dirt into the other man's eyes.
Li scrabbled at his eyes, growling, and Clark brought the butt of his staff up into his groin as hard as he could.
Li made a sound like steam escaping from a kettle and collapsed very slowly, doubling in on himself. "Do you yield?" demanded Clark, shaking the quarterstaff over his prone body.
No answer but wheezes.
"Do you yield?"
The caravan master stepped forward to take away Li's quarterstaff; Li put up no protest. "I believe this match is over," he said.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Clark's vision was dark around the edges; the blood started to drip into his eye but he was too tired to wipe it away. His heart was pounding. He blinked and realized Bruce was in front of him, a cloth in his hands. The cloth was cool on his forehead; Clark hissed in pain as it touched his wound. "I beat him," he muttered thickly. He bent down and unclasped the copper anklet, hurled it into the shadows. "I'll get you a new one in Zuuri," he announced to renewed applause.
"I admit I didn't think you had it in you," Bruce said under the crowd's calls.
"You didn't think I'd fight for you?"
Bruce shook his head, not meeting his eyes. "I know you're brave; one of the bravest men I know. I knew you'd fight." His slid a hand to cup Clark's cheek and Clark leaned into it almost unconsciously. "No, I didn't think you'd be willing to fight dirty for me," he said.
"I'd do anything for you," Clark said. "Anything."
Bruce leaned forward and kissed him.
Bruce's mouth tasted like musk, like cinnamon, like Bruce. He bit gently at Clark's lower lip, and Clark found himself deepening the kiss as if he couldn't help it, his tongue exploring as Bruce inhaled sharply and explored back, strange and wonderful and perfect.
"Oh," Clark said dumbly as Bruce finally pulled away. "Oh."
"This is my Master," Bruce said loudly, kneeling to take Clark's hand and press his forehead to it. "This is the man I shall serve all my days, my strength and my consolation." His fingers tightened on Clark's. "Mine," he said, and his voice was rich and fierce and possessive.
Things got blurry for a while after that; there were small cups of steaming alcohol that Clark tried to pass up but were pressed into his hands by cheerful supporters. Fa started a chant of some sort that most people joined in on: something bawdy enough to make Clark's ears burn. And then someone was calling for the amri to do a Dance of Victory, dance for the glory of your master.
Clark blinked through the haze of wine and weariness. Bruce was standing in the firelight, the muscles of his chest cast into sharp chiaroscuro, his arms lifted. He beckoned, and the tambourines and drums started a slow, sinuous beat that seemed to reach into Clark's body, twine around his pulse.
Bruce danced.
His movements were grace itself, supple, shadow and flame embodied together. The crowd hushed, murmuring, as his bare feet stamped at the ground, his hands caressing and cutting the darkness.
His eyes never left Clark's.
Mine.
Clark's breath was short. Bruce's dance had nothing of meekness, nothing of submission in it; it was triumphant, joyous, claiming. He clapped his hands together with the drums and the timbrels, and Clark's heart leaped with it, answering: Yours. It was a dance of power, of surety. He turned and swayed and his feet kissed the earth, and Clark ached with joy to watch it, ached with desire for it to end.
A final flourish and Bruce bowed low to Clark. He looked up into Clark's eyes, a lazy smile on his face. "Does this worthless one please you, Master?" his voice said. His eyes said Mine.
Clark stood, a little unsteadily. "You please me well indeed," he said as formally as he could manage. "Come with me now and please me more."
The crowd murmured in what sounded like disappointment as Bruce stood and trailed Clark to the tent, a polite step behind his Master.
: : :
The tent flap had barely fallen into place behind them before they were in each others' arms again, Bruce pulling him so close Clark felt breathless. They staggered ungracefully to the bedroll, hands slipping under silk and brocade to cherished skin. Bruce touched his lips to Clark's broken brow with shaking tenderness. "I hate when you get hurt," he muttered thickly. "I had nightmares, when I was...traveling. Nightmares of a beautiful man being hurt, over and over, in a thousand different ways. I didn't know who he was. I knew I couldn't bear to see him hurt. That was the only thing I knew. The only thing I carried with me, through all the lives." Clark kissed his throat, the terrifyingly vulnerable hollow of his collarbone, brushed his lips along the fine hair around one nipple. Bruce groaned. "I promised myself," he went on, his voice low, "that when I found him, I would ask him--ask him--" His voice broke off and he dragged Clark back up into a long, searching kiss, and for a long time they did nothing but lie together, hands warm on skin, kissing as if they had nothing but time to memorize each other.
"What were you going to ask him?" Clark finally whispered into his hair. Bruce stayed silent, and Clark let his hands roam Bruce's ribs in fragments of their code: My lost one who is found. My pearl of great price, worth everything. My dearest friend. "Tell me," Clark said aloud.
"I promised myself that I would ask him to allow me to love him," Bruce said in a long, shaky exhalation.
Clark found himself suddenly caught between tears and laughter. "Bruce, you impossible, stubborn, perfect man," he whispered, "when have you ever waited for my permission to do anything?"
Bruce kissed the corner of his eye, touching moisture Clark hadn't known was there.
"I didn't this time, either," he said.
: : :
The wagon jolted over a rut and Clark winced but considered himself compensated by the way Bruce clung to his arm more tightly. Some kind of lark was singing in the sky above the caravan, a joyous trill of delight; Clark smiled up at it.
"My master seems well-pleased," said Bruce, snuggling closer.
Clark's head ached where Li's staff had whacked it; his body was both painfully sore and delightfully aching.
"I am," he said.
---
[click for the second part!]