Fic: The Nutcracker's Promise | DCU | Clark/Bruce | PG-13 | 1/1
Title: The Nutcracker's Promise
Author: Saavikam
Fandom: DCU
Characters/Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Oswald Cobblepot, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, assorted others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,937
Prompt: for my DCU FFA challenge - writer's choice: red kryptonite
Summary: After Clark is gifted with a set of unusual dolls at a charity fund-raiser on Christmas Eve, the last thing he expects is to spend the night dreaming about fighting the criminals of Gotham alongside the mythical Batman and his Robins. The revelations in his dreams are just as baffling, even as a promise is made to him.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes: Originally written for the 2008 WF Slash Holiday Ezine, this also fills the last prompt for my dcu_freeforall challenge! Now I can go make myself a banner... XD Also, this story was based on The Nutcracker ballet, and art from the Ezine for this story will be added later.
The Nutcracker's Promise
Clark is fairly well surprised by the glitter and sparkle of the Christmas Eve charity fund-raiser, the otherworldly atmosphere set ostensibly on the top floor of the tallest building in Gotham while the city so far below crumbles with despair and devours itself with crime. It's an oxymoron to him, that these wealthy few would put so much into a party, when their money might have been better spent by contributing directly to their 'causes'. But then, who is he to judge, when he spends so much of his own time working in Metropolis and, for all intents and purposes, ignoring the plight of so many?
But he thinks perhaps that's a philosophical question better left for a quiet evening at home, considering the assault the glimmering gala is making on his senses.
Above him, several hundred chandeliers throw their prismatic light around the ballroom while twinkling Christmas lights shimmer along the walls, over the draped tables, twined through the boughs of pine and holly and the twelve-foot Christmas tree at the end of the room. Ornaments shine with green, red, silver, gold, and what he's pretty sure are actually faceted gems set in platinum. And surrounding and covering everything is a glittering sheen of white, soft and cool, as if it were real snow dusted with flakes of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. He has to wonder.
It really is a scene out of some holiday fairy tale-the lights, the classic seasonal scores performed by the small orchestra and choir, the laughter and gaiety of society's own jewels, the heavenly aromas of the expensive dinner, gingerbread and pecan pie over the remnants of turkey with all the trimmings, sweet and warm and soft and bright. But the notable difference is his own presence. Well, his and that of the other members of the Justice League, all in full costume with a few dressy elements reserved for events like this. Diana's enjoying a dance with an Air Force General from a wealthy family while Hal and Wally discuss politics with several elderly upper-crust gentlemen over pie. Ollie's spinning Dinah around the dance floor, and even J'onn seems to be enjoying the festivities as he leads an older woman in a dance, his usual appearance toned down quite a bit for the benefit.
At the moment, Clark is the only League member on his own, hanging back from the festivities to take it all in and regroup. It's been a whirlwind event so far, with the charity auction and the feast already done with. In another half-hour it'll be time for the big donations from the wealthiest of the wealthy, complete with over-sized novelty checks, photo ops, and speeches, before a round of impromptu giving starts. In the midst of all that, Clark has already shaken at least a hundred hands, posed for easily three dozen photos, and smiled so much that he thinks his face just might get stuck this way. It's tiring to the core.
Oh, to be here as Clark Kent instead, and not be noticed by a single person. But that would defeat the entire purpose of his presence. He is here to help do some good, after all, and if shaking the hands of Gotham society will help, he's glad to do it.
~*~*~
An hour later, the majority of the big donations have been made, most of which with Clark and at least one other Leaguer on stage to take photos with the wealthy donors, guaranteed Society Section front page material. He feels like his hand is about to fall off, in conjunction with his frozen face, but again reminds himself that it's all in the name of charity. He'll stand here doing this all night if it means the deserving people of Gotham, the country, and the world in general will benefit.
As he accepts the twentieth novelty check of the evening, this one from a rich heiress, the jewels around her neck probably worth more than the donation, he starts to think something isn't right. He can feel tension rising in the grand ballroom, hearts beating faster with anticipation, fear, and worry, and it raises the hair on the back of his neck, sets his teeth slightly on edge, crawls beneath his skin in uncomfortable ways. It's not enough to call a panic, by any means, but the glitter of the gala suddenly seems pale and cold, as if a subtly malicious intent has been revealed... and he realizes why. Someone's missing, someone who's supposed to make a large donation to the Gotham Children's Fund....
His weary eyes scan the crowd for the two-hundred fifty-seventh time since this part of the fund-raiser commenced, this time searching for the billionaire that makes the rest of the elite look poor by comparison. He's supposed to be here, supposed to come out of his eccentric seclusion for the first time in many years to make his donation, the last of the evening. With but one more large donation on the list before his, the gathering of his peers is becoming restless, Gotham society waiting to either exalt him or flay him alive-with gossip and rumor, anyway. The natives, such as they are, are restless.
Clark hopes for Bruce Wayne's sake that he arrives as scheduled.
Pulling his attention back to the matter at hand, he finishes the photo op with the rich heiress and waits while the host of the event announces the next wealthy patron to make his donation. A rather squat man with a long, pointed nose, a toothy sneer in place, and dressed to the nines in a top hat and tails ascends the two steps to the small stage just as the host announces him as Oswald Cobblepot. From the hard glint in the man's eye through his thick monocle, Clark gets an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something about him... just doesn't seem right.
But Clark doesn't have time for unwarranted suspicion, and shakes off the feeling just as an usher hands Cobblepot's novelty check up to the stage for the squat man to donate.
“Here we are, then,” Oswald starts, his voice squawking and sharp, like nails on a chalkboard to Clark. “It is my great pleasure to donate, in the name of the esteemed Cobblepot family, of which I am the last living member,” he says with a slight bow and a tip of his top hat, “five million dollars to the Save the Penguins Foundation!”
For a moment, utter silence blankets the room, as the name of Cobblepot's chosen charity registers with the crowd. Clark is taken aback, certainly, by the odd choice of charity, but what's surprising is the look of offense on the faces of the other wealthy donors. Clearly, this was meant to be an evening for donations to charities active in Gotham, not... not this. A ripple of whispers moves over the crowd then, shock turning to disbelief as faint applause follows from various points in the room.
Clark still feels like he could hear a pin drop without even trying.
“What?” the short man squawks, his face crinkling with anger. “It's a damn fine charity. They deserve all the help they can get! Poor birds never hurt anybody....”
At the continued glares from the crowd, Clark steps up, suddenly feeling a minute amount of pity for the man. Gotham society was being overly-cruel. “You're absolutely right, Mr. Cobblepot,” he says, reaching out to shake the man's hand. “They could probably use a lot more help from donors such as yourself.”
Oswald squints up at him through his monocle at that, as if not quite believing that the hero actually defended his choice. “Wha-? Oh! Y-yes, quite right!” When his toothy sneer returns, he accepts Clark's handshake heartily, stepping close for the photographers.
For a moment, Clark thinks the squat man is standing just a bit too close, and his skin starts to prickle with the same unfounded suspicion that had set him on edge when Cobblepot stepped onto the stage. But then the photographers are done, the novelty check whisked away, and the odd little man is waddling down the steps to melt back into the crowd. Shaking his head, Clark can't help feeling a little stymied by the whole encounter as he finds his hands dusted with fine red glitter, the stuff seeming to be everywhere tonight. He brushes them off, wondering what just happened.
But just as he's coming back to his senses, a rustling murmur falls over the crowd, and Clark snaps up to full attention, scanning the room again. Beside him, Diana leans over discreetly and whispers, “I don't think he's coming, either.”
Clark gives her a quick, faint frown in return. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised,” he whispers back, watching the host sweat as he waits for their last donor.
After a too-long moment of glares and restless murmuring from the crowd, the host swallows heavily. “Well, I'm afraid it appears that, once again, Prince Wayne will not be joining us. In his stead, I'm proud to-”
The seeming hiss of the rich and powerful at the announcement is suddenly cut off along with the host's prepared speech as a voice rises from the back of the room. “Master Wayne sends his fondest regards, I assure you, but there is no need for our impeccable host to do the honors himself.” The measured British accent catches Clark off guard. He hasn't heard anyone sound that controlled, authoritative, and yet casual and honest all evening. It's refreshing, in a way.
Heads whip around to see a dapper-looking older gentleman stepping through the crowd as it parts to let him pass, his head held high and his expression pleasant, showing his pride to be here in Wayne's stead. In one hand he carries a moderately-sized crimson Santa sack, bulging with several boxes, and Clark's interest is piqued. There isn't a novelty check in sight.
“My apologies for my late entrance,” the gentleman says as he steps up to the small stage, shaking the host's hand and setting his sack down beside him, a hint of a wry smirk on his face. “But I suppose it's better late than never. Master Wayne is terribly sorry he hasn't been able to make it out to this event, but has sent me as a matter of course, to deliver his donation to the Gotham Children's Fund.”
Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he withdraws a simple piece of paper, which Clark can see is an actual check, rather than the garish show of wealth that the entire roomful of people has been expecting. Without waiting for a photo op, he hands the check over to the host, shaking his hand quickly.
The host visibly pales as he reads the amount on the check. “Tw-twenty-five million dollars! Mister, uh-”
“Pennyworth,” the older gentleman supplies. “Alfred Pennyworth.”
“Mister Pennyworth, this... this is amazing!” The host's eyes are wide, his jaw falling open as he stares at the check. The crowd is murmuring again, this time pleased and surprised.
“I understand this is larger than his usual donation, but he was quite adamant about having more than just a token effect on the city this year.”
Camera flashes seem to fill the room for a moment, capturing the moment of shock and awe as the crowd fully digests just how large the donation is. None of the others have even come close to this. Clark simply stands back and takes it all in, in complete awe himself. Of all the things he's heard about the Prince of Gotham over the years, such a large heart hasn't been one of them. In fact, Wayne has been painted as the eccentric playboy, a man who locked himself and his adopted sons away after the second of them was nearly killed by a ruthless villain. And that was many years ago now, before Clark even moved to Metropolis.
“There's one more thing,” Mister Pennyworth continues on. Stepping back so he can address both the host and the heroes on the stage, he opens his Santa sack and withdraws a shining, green rectangular box with a large red bow, handing it to Clark. “Master Wayne is making a donation of toys to both Gotham Children's Hospital and the Gotham Homeless Shelter, so that every child in dire straits might have some comfort this holiday season. This,” he says, indicating the box, “is just a token of gratitude to Superman, and indeed all the heroes that help keep us safe. If you would, sir.”
Clark's realizes his jaw has fallen open, too, at this point, and he straightens again, smiling sheepishly. “Oh, of course. I... thank you,” he nearly stammers, pulling the end of the red ribbon to release the top from the box. When he pulls the top away and parts the tissue paper underneath, he finds the contents surprising, and he can't help another look of intrigued awe. In the middle is a large wooden nutcracker, painted to look like the mythical Batman, the hinged jaw the only part of him uncovered by his dark costume, while glittering blue jeweled eyes peer out from behind what appears to be a cowl. A silken black cape falls from the broad shoulders of the nutcracker, soft in Clark's hands as he lifts the doll out of the box.
“Master Wayne insisted you have this, sir, to keep as a reminder that you and the rest of the Justice League are not alone in your fight against the criminals of the night, that Gotham has her own secret way of helping.”
Looking up from the gift, Clark smiles genuinely. “Thank you so much, Mister Pennyworth. This is... a uniquely beautiful gift.”
“That's not all,” the older gentleman notes, the wry smirk back on his face as he indicates the box again.
“Oh?” Clark looks back into the box, and after handing the nutcracker to Diana, he parts more tissue paper, to find three small wooden toy soldiers staring up at him, each painted with their own variation of a bright yellow, red, green, and black costume, their sparkling blue eyes surrounded with variously-colored domino masks, realistic-looking silken black hair covering their heads, and similar short capes hanging from their shoulders.
Clark remembers the myth that he'd heard whispered among criminal circles and societal circles alike since before he became Superman. The Batman worked in Gotham with a young partner called Robin, whose appearance changed every few years, as if he had been not one, but many different boys, until one day, they all disappeared into the night, absorbed by Gotham's shadows. The inclusion of the three toy Robins makes sense.
“Thank you, again,” he says, lifting the Robin with the yellow cape and black domino mask from the box to show to the crowd, society and Leaguers alike, who at this point are gawking openly, their curiosity getting the better of them.
“It is my pleasure,” Pennyworth says, his smile seeming sadder now as he gazes at the toys.
With that, the host calls an end to this part of the gala, opening the time for on-the-spot donations to the various charities represented tonight. Rich benefactors begin to move toward the table at the side of the stage that has been set up for this, suddenly seeming to be more eager to donate. Though Clark knows it's thanks to the Prince's donation, he's too absorbed in the gift of the nutcracker and the toy Robins to really make note of it. His head swims as his senses are overwhelmed by the lights and glitter of the evening, the strange donation by Mister Cobblepot, the surprising generosity of Bruce Wayne, and the enigmatic, ever-changing smile of Alfred Pennyworth as the older man disappears once again into the crowd.
~*~*~
Parting ways with the rest of the League before the night's liquor supply can really start its free flow through the crowd, Clark excuses himself from the gala, wraps the box with the Batman nutcracker and the toy Robins gently in his cape, and heads for home, fully exhausted and still puzzled and awed by the events of the evening. If he can just get warmed up and get a good night's sleep, he's sure things will be clearer in the morning, when he can look back on it all objectively. But for now, his head is positively fuzzy and he can't wait to heat up a mug of cocoa and crawl into bed.
When he lands on his balcony, nearly slipping on the cold railing that's still wet from the wintry mix that's been falling on Metropolis for the last two days, he decides that even the cocoa is out. No, definitely straight to bed.
But there's one thing he absolutely has to do first. Carefully unwrapping the box and its contents again, he sets the nutcracker and the toy soldiers up on the little round side-table next to his small Christmas tree in his living room. A mantle would have been better to display them, but city living couldn't be so kind. He's lucky he has room for the skinny tree with its multi-colored lights and sparse ornaments as it is!
Standing back from the display, he smiles tiredly, running a hand through his hair. Four sentinels to guard the shining tree. From what, he doesn't know, but it's such a lovely sight. If only they were real....
He'll have to remember to deliver thank-you cards to Mister Wayne and Mister Pennyworth personally. Such a wonderful gift....
The hearty yawn that cuts off his train of thought almost sends him stumbling back.
Yep. Bedtime.
Heading into his small bedroom, he has just enough time to strip off his uniform, throw on a pair of pajamas, and drop into the bed and pull the covers over himself before sleep comes for him.
~*~*~
In his dreams, the gala is still glittering around him, shining and bright and loud. High-pitched laughter, gleaming jewels, snowflakes, novelty checks, and the grating squawk of the little man with the pointed nose and thick monocle. It's almost like he never left, except for the ever-increasing volume of Mister Cobblepot's chatter. The squat man almost seems to be yelling in his ear, squawking directives as if he was commanding an army. So loud....
But Clark has to be in Metropolis. Something's wrong. Sirens are wailing. An alarm is ringing. He feels trapped by the crowd as they press in around him on the dance floor, laughing in their gaiety, all their jewels blinding him. He can't see anymore, all the glittering light surrounding him.
Sirens.
Police reports over the radio of a robbery at the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art.
The squawk of Mister Cobblepot.
It's too much to take.
He has to get to Metropolis!
Forcing his way out of the crowd-where has all his strength gone?-he makes his way to the door, but just as his hand latches onto the ornate doorknob, he realizes he's in his pajamas. Where did his suit go? He can't save Metropolis in his pajamas! With a quick spin, he finds his suit and pulls it on, discarding the plaid flannel in a blur of rustling fabric, and jamming his feet down into his boots.
Much better.
The wail of sirens slams into him again, and he snaps back to attention. He has to get outside! Has to get back to Metropolis and stop the little man from taking what isn't his.
Opening the door, he stumbles as his vision is filled with the sight of an enormous Christmas tree. It's the tree from the gala, gleaming and bejeweled, seeming to take up the entire room!
Clark can feel his pulse rushing in his ears as shock knocks him backward. The tree is growing! Twice his height and getting taller. Glittering and twinkling and enormous.
Beside the tree.... Clark blinks, rubbing his eyes. The Batman nutcracker is growing, too! Tall and menacing, blue jeweled eyes turning softer, real, as the jaw seems to knit itself back onto the rest of the face, teeth disappearing behind lips. Wooden hands become gloved fists, clenching tight. He's sure he can hear the the creak of leather and the rustle of silk, even more so as the toy Robins begin to grow and move, falling in line behind the ever-growing Batman.
But the sirens! So loud....
He has to get to Metropolis in time to stop the squat man. Has to stop him!
Everything glitters around him. Red and shining. Blinding lights on the tree. Gleaming eyes behind domino masks.
Holding his hands in front of him, he tries to block out the light. Too much. It's too much!
But the sirens keep wailing!
Backing away from the ever-growing tree, now more like a giant redwood than a Christmas pine, he stumbles toward the balcony. He has to save Metropolis from the squawking little man.
~*~*~
The dream changes swiftly as the room with the enormous tree and the Batman gives way to the grand entryway of the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art. Everything around him is strange, surreal, odd angles and shapes, as dreams often are, and he thinks nothing of it as he seeks out the squawking of the little man with the monocle. So loud, with the sirens and alarms and shouting....
And suddenly there are guns pointed at him, thieves dressed all in black, shouting and yelling, and firing their weapons as they surround him.
“You said he'd be out of the game, Penguin!”
“This ain't gonna work!”
“Keep firing, he's weakened!”
“He shoulda' been down for the night, I swear!” comes the grating squawk of the man in charge at last. “Dosed 'im with enough to take down an elephant!”
“He ain't no elephant, you idjit!”
The voices blur together, a swirling cacophony of shouts and sun-bursting gunfire, as Clark tries to make his way out of the circle of thieves. But he can't seem to get very far, his feet feeling like they're trudging through molasses. The bullets begin to sting where they hit him, hard pings against his chest, arms, back, legs, and God, his face. Squeezing his eyes shut against the assault as it grows more painful, he pushes forward. He has to stop Cobblepot! Keep him from doing whatever he's doing. Take down his men.
But he can't remember how. Everything is blurred together as he blinks to try to get his bearings, sculptures at intense angles all around, faceless goons firing at him, yelling, squawking, anger all directed at him like snarling dogs with pointed teeth dripping with venom. He's rooted to the spot, forced into a defensive position, overwhelmed by it all. Can't seem to move. Can't seem to do anything but cower with his face covered by his hands. The bullets... they're tearing at his flesh now, burning and searing where they hit him, ripping through his suit and slicing his skin.
And he realizes he's shouting along with the cacophony, “No! No! Have to stop you! You can't do this! Stop you!” But he doesn't know if he can stop them. The pain from his wounds is an inferno consuming him, even as his insides are shredded with the ache of terror at his own ineffectiveness. He doesn't think he's ever been this afraid. He can't stop them!
After what feels like hours the searing of the bullets begins to fade, the swirling of voices begins to fall from its crescendo, and he risks a peek from beneath his tightly shut lids. He wants to throw up as the room begins to spin around him, all looming shapes and twisted colors, shining and threatening all at once. It's too much to take. Too much.... He has to keep going, keep the nausea down.
Before him, two of the black-clad goons cover an arched doorway to the left of the grand entrance, while the rest are filing through, still firing their weapons in short bursts. And Cobblepot... Cobblepot is waddling down the steps from a raised platform, brandishing an umbrella at the goons to tell them to cease their fire, his monocled eye gleaming with smug condescension as he looks down his long nose at Clark, who realizes he's doubled over and kneeling on the floor.
“I should have realized you'd be such a nuisance,” the short man squawks, reaching into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, the same he wore to the gala. “Good thing I brought extra!” With a swift twist of his wrist and a heavy exhale, he blows a handful of sparkling, fine red dust at the prone hero.
In the instant before it hits his face, Clark has just enough time to register what's happening, and begin to wonder if this is really a dream. The glitter....
And suddenly Clark is choking, his lungs dragging in the glittering dust automatically. His vision swims even more, bright colors and dark shadows and the toothy leer of the squat man that the goons are calling Penguin, before everything goes blessedly dark.
~*~*~
Waking again takes an act of will that Clark finds simply Herculean. But he's still in the dream, the looming sculptures crowded around him. The grand entryway is finally still, the blaring of gunfire a distant memory as sirens seem to grow louder from every direction, closing in on the museum. Red and blue lights begin to flash from outside, blinding him again.
And he isn't quite sure what happened, only that he needs to find Cobblepot. He needs to stop him! What he's taken... he isn't sure exactly, but he knows it's important. It's got to be important!
Pushing himself to his feet, he feels the scraping slide of open wounds in his arms, legs, and torso, and he grimaces, trying to force down the fresh wave of nausea. Can't be sick now. Not with a villain to catch. Penguin-Cobblepot?-has to be stopped!
He can't rest until his task is done. Can't rest....
It's a long way to the arched doorway the gang escaped through, his feet still feeling mired in molasses, but he makes it, trudges through, following the trail. He can still hear them, distantly, more shouting and cursing, the goons turning on their boss as they make their way up the stairwell toward the roof.
The roof! Of course, Penguin and his thieves must have some way to escape via the roof. It's not a new trick, heck, villains have been doing it for years, but the simplicity of it seems utterly absurd to Clark in that moment, and he wants to laugh himself silly. There's a sparkle of red around the edges of his vision then, and he can't help a chuckle at his own delight in it.
No! He has to get to the roof and stop Penguin!
Mustering his reserves, he forces all his energy into speeding up the stairwell in pursuit of the thieves. They can't get far now, no matter what they've stolen.
~*~*~
When the dream shifts again, he's on the roof, staring at a helicopter that seems to take up the entire expanse of concrete and brick. A brief flash of the enormous Christmas tree and growing Batman nutcracker passes before his eyes, and he feels a little like Alice in Wonderland, helpless as he shrinks, the lights of the city he can see around the monstrosity before him twinkling silver and red, blurred by frigid, drizzling sleet. It's just too much....
“Why won't you stay down!?” comes the grating shriek of the Penguin over the deafening clapping whirl of the helicopter blades as they speed up.
“Give it up, Cobblepot!” Clark hears himself shout, his voice graveled and wet, as if he's choking on blood. Oh, God, he can taste blood!
The scene around him starts to tilt, cold, wet brick rising in slow motion to meet him, and the sound of Penguin's high-pitched laughter fills his ears. “Forget it, Superman! You're toasted!”
“N-nooo....” is all he can manage, realizing he's sprawled on the rooftop, scrambling but unable to push himself up again. Looking back up to the helicopter, he sees the goons shoving a crate up into it, Penguin supervising their work with a maniacal grin, all pointed teeth and loathing.
But then shadows seem to loom up all around, dark and imposing, and Clark thinks that's it, the dream is about to be swept away, Thank goodness.
Flashes of yellow and red, green and black, glinting blue.
Shouting, gleaming reflections off of edged weapons, the goons in shock, Penguin's squawk of indignant surprise. “No! You're gone! What the-?”
And the pulsing whir of the helicopter blades seem to drown out everything, loud and angry as they start to pull the helicopter up and off the roof. Clark's hands go to his ears as he lays on his side, grimacing with the pain of the noise. So loud.... Sirens, shouting, gunfire, all too much....
There's only one way to stop it, even as the flashes of color and shadow seem to overtake the helicopter, and with every last ounce of energy he can muster, he draws heat into his eyes and focuses on the base of the whirling blades. Incapacitate the vehicle, burn out the motor, that's all he can do... and in a flash of gleaming red, sparks erupt from the top of the helicopter.
The blades finally slow to a stop and more shouting fills the air, orders being given as the shadows and colored flashes seem to resolve themselves into more definite shapes. Silken capes of black and yellow, raven hair, jeweled-blue eyes. Clark can't believe what he's seeing as the darkest shadow resolves itself further into the shape of a man draped in a black cape, looming closer, kneeling over him.
“Superman....” the man in the suddenly very real cowl says, his voice soft and low.
“You... you're not real,” he counters. The Batman was a nutcracker, a doll based on a legend. This is the strangest dream he's had in years.
“I'm real, I promise,” comes the Batman's reply.
There's a gloved hand on his arm suddenly, pushing back the tatters of his bullet-torn cape, and Clark gasps in surprise at the touch. So warm.... When did he get so cold? With a shiver, he stares up at the Batman. “You're a dream. I wish you were real.” And he does. The wolf-blue eyes staring out of the cowl glitter down at him, warm as the hand on his arm. “Wish you were real.”
“I'm not a dream, Clark.”
That clinches it. The Batman wouldn't know his real name....
The gloved hand releases his arm suddenly, and in his momentary shock, Clark glances around wildly, looking for the hand. Instead, he catches the red, yellow, black, and green forms that have gathered around them. They're... the Robins! The other figurines... grown into teenage boys.... “Wha-?”
“We're real, we're all real,” the Batman goes on, and with a tug at the front of his cowl, he pulls back the rubbery material.
The face that reveals itself is one he remembers from the old news reports.... “B-Bruce Wayne?” he gapes.
The Prince of Gotham smiles at him softly from the costume of the Batman, and Clark knows he's lost his mind completely. What had he done to have such extraordinarily strange dreams?
“Yes,” Wayne finally answers, his blue eyes glittering, same as the Batman's had.
“Bruce, what are you doing!?” comes a shocked response from one of the Robins. “Penguin....”
Clark sees the flashing of anger in eyes behind a red domino mask, before the billionaire shoots back, “He's out. They're all out, it's all right.”
“But-”
“No buts. It needed to be done. Now go call Alfred. Tell him to bring the plane down and bring medical supplies with him. We're taking Superman back to his apartment.”
A chorus of, “Yessir,” comes from all of the boys, and with a rustle of capes, the three disappear.
Bruce looks back down at him. “Can you move?”
Clark wonders why a dream would ask him something like that. He feels like he's mired in mud again, his body not responding like it should. “I....” And that's all he can manage, the taste of blood once again sliding over his tongue and down his throat as he feels the icy touch of sleet falling on him. But it's not sleet, it's... it's snow, fine white flakes falling from the sky around them, shining like the jeweled glitter of the gala, bright white and pure.
“All right. We'll get you home. Everything will be fine, I promise you.” With another tug at the rubbery cowl, the billionaire becomes the Batman once again, his shadow surrounding Clark with reassuring warmth against the snowy cold, and as Clark feels the ground drop out from beneath him, the sound of sirens fading away at last, darkness comes once again.
~*~*~
Another shift in the dream seems even more fantastic, the settings of the real world traded for a palace of crystalline ice, shining and bright, lit with millions of twinkling fairy lights, candles, and miniature suns set in silver sconces. He's at another gala, but this one is so unlike the last, with revelers in gleaming costumes and feathered masks, silken capes and pixie boots. They're all so happy, twirling in a dance to an ethereal tune the likes of which Clark has never heard. His own costume is a fancier version of his Superman attire, with gold edging on his cape, bright ruffles down each arm, and epaulets on his shoulders. Laughing at the sight, he feels his hand caught suddenly, and twirls in time with the music to find himself suddenly embraced by the Prince of Gotham, the dark-haired man dressed all in black, his flowing cape topped with a high collar, a black feathered mask over his eyes.
“May I have this dance?” the prince whispers, close enough for his lips to tickle Clark's ear.
His breath catching in his throat, Clark can only nod mutely, and without any warning, he's pulled into another twirl, the Prince leading him in the dance. As the otherworldly music plays on, echoed against the giant crystals, the pair glide across the floor, almost as if they're dancing on air. A twirl, a slide, arms around his waist clutching tightly. So warm, safe.
“I've got you. Hold on.”
Clark shivers at the low voice, feeling it reverberate through him, all masculine strength and power.
But it's not real. He knows it's not real. None of this is.
“Not real,” he murmurs.
The voice in his ear is insistent. “I'm real, I promise.”
Around them, other revelers press in from all sides, moving as one in the dance. Flashes of yellow, red, and green costumes, all with matching feathered masks, the music and murmuring of the crowd growing louder all the while.
“He's hurt pretty badly.”
“He'll be all right. Just needs to rest and heal.”
“He needs sunlight.”
“That's what the lamp is for.”
“Should be in a hospital.”
“Not like this.”
But then the voices fade away, leaving only the music and the warm embrace of the Prince, twirling him over the dance floor. “I've got you, Clark.”
“Promise?” he hears himself say, his heart aching in his chest. He doesn't want the Prince to disappear, not yet. Not ever.
“I promise.”
~*~*~
It feels like days have passed in dreams when Clark comes to, the sudden shock of pain and disorientation assaulting him from all directions, and he jerks awake involuntarily, for a moment not knowing where he is or how he got there. “Wh-wha-?”
“Easy, easy,” comes a voice from his left, warm and low, before a hand lands on his bandaged arm.
Bandaged?
Forcibly blinking his eyes open, Clark tries to focus on the person in the room with him, realizing he's in his own bed in his tiny apartment, a sun lamp positioned over him even as the gentle light of morning peeks through the curtains. “Wh-?”
“It's okay, you're all right,” the man says, giving him a soft smile. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I....” It takes a moment, but then the enormity of his dreams from the previous night begins to come back to him. The ever-growing tree, the Penguin, the nutcracker... the nutcracker!
Blinking more furiously at the man sitting at his side, he finally really sees him. The nutcracker... the Batman... Bruce Wayne! Is it possible it was all real?
“You... you're real?” he manages weakly, his throat feeling like sandpaper and gravel as he gazes up into the glittering blue eyes above him.
“I'm real,” the Prince replies.
“Then....” But Clark can't quite get his mind around it all. It doesn't make sense. His dreams.... Shaking his head, he furrows his brow in confusion.
“You weren't dreaming, Clark. Well, you were, but you weren't. You were dosed with red kryptonite, drugged heavily. It seemed to make you hallucinate, made you weak enough to be injured.”
“What? You mean... the glitter?” And suddenly, there's some semblance of sense. The glitter at the gala, it was everywhere.
The Prince's expression darkens for a moment. “Yes. It was... what changed us back.”
“I don't understand.”
“We were...” he starts, “well, it's a long story. And an embarrassing one, at that. My sons and I were... enchanted. Turned into dolls.”
Clark begins to tense at the suggestion. “Magic,” he ventures.
Wayne nods. “I hate magic. Never trusted it.”
“Me, neither,” Clark smiles softly. He's not sure why, but the Prince seems even more beautiful in the soft, gray light of morning than he had in the dream. “Prince Wayne-” he starts.
“Call me Bruce. Please,” the man cuts him off, his hand on Clark's arm again, thumb stroking over bare skin between bandages.
Clark gasps, smiling wider, his breath caught in his throat for a moment. “Bruce. I... I'm still confused. You were... the nutcracker?” Saying it, the idea sounds even more ludicrous than before. How could the Prince of Gotham have been a nutcracker, of all things?
One corner of Bruce's mouth pulls up in a slow smirk. “Irony, I suppose. A nutcracker and toy soldiers, the most innocuous toys imaginable. Nothing truly important. And in a unique twist, the man who performed the spell set it so that only a glittering poison from another world could break it. At the time, we hadn't had any extraterrestrial contact yet. Or so we believed. He knew we'd spend quite a long time as dolls.”
And another connection dawns on Clark as Bruce finishes. “You're... the Batman!?” He can't help but gape at him.
Bruce's smirk grows. “Yes. But I suppose it's only fair that you know, since I knew your identity from the moment the spell was broken, finding us here in your apartment.”
“So... it wasn't just a legend, then.”
“Hardly. But Alfred made sure the rumors continued to circulate.”
“Alfred...” Clark starts. “He gave me the dolls-you, I mean.”
Bruce nods. “My butler, as he told everyone at the gala. He knew everything. Knew what might break the spell. Which is why he gave us to you. There was a high likelihood that you'd be exposed to some variety of kryptonite sooner or later.”
Voices from the other room interrupt, as someone calls out to announce their return with breakfast, the sudden scent of coffee enticing and undeniable. Clark glances toward his door with an eyebrow raised.
“My sons, Dick, Jason, and Tim,” Bruce explains. “They helped me get you back here.”
With that, it all finally clicks, every last piece of the puzzle falls together, and it's like the enormous Christmas tree, bright and gleaming. He's not sure his relief at the revelations doesn't show on his face like he thinks it might. “Your sons are all Robin. There were three different Robins! And... you weren't a recluse. You really had 'disappeared', for lack of a better term!” It was as if Rao had been lit inside his mind. “I left to try to stop Cobblepot, and you were all transforming from toys into... into you.”
“Exactly. I promised you I was real, didn't I?”
Smiling, Clark sighs, feeling the first sense of contentment since his strange journey began. “You did.”
Bruce reaches up to brush an errant lock of hair back from Clark's forehead, his fingertips leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “I'm glad you're all right, Clark. I'm sorry you had to get involved with this.”
“Don't be sorry. I'm not.” Clark shakes his head weakly, suddenly wishing he had some of that coffee. “I'm glad you were here.”
“All right,” Bruce concedes, leaning down to brush a light kiss over Clark's forehead. “Get some rest, and heal up.”
Clark's heart seizes in his chest at the kiss. “I will,” he whispers back.
“Promise?” comes Bruce's amused reply.
A smile teases Clark's lips, the reality of it all settling in as he realizes it's Christmas day, there's actual snow outside, and an honest-to-God prince is sitting next to him, gracing him with a kiss and hope for Gotham and the world in the gift of the Batman. “I promise.”
~*~*~
Author's Notes #2: In one version of The Nutcracker ballet, the little girl's (Clara's) dream about the Nutcracker doll turning into the Prince and fighting the Mouse King and his army turns out to be real, where her love turned the enchanted Prince back into himself. Herr Drosselmeyer, who gave her the Nucracker doll at her family's Christmas party, was the Prince's father, and knew what would break the spell on him.
Author: Saavikam
Fandom: DCU
Characters/Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Oswald Cobblepot, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, assorted others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,937
Prompt: for my DCU FFA challenge - writer's choice: red kryptonite
Summary: After Clark is gifted with a set of unusual dolls at a charity fund-raiser on Christmas Eve, the last thing he expects is to spend the night dreaming about fighting the criminals of Gotham alongside the mythical Batman and his Robins. The revelations in his dreams are just as baffling, even as a promise is made to him.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes: Originally written for the 2008 WF Slash Holiday Ezine, this also fills the last prompt for my dcu_freeforall challenge! Now I can go make myself a banner... XD Also, this story was based on The Nutcracker ballet, and art from the Ezine for this story will be added later.
The Nutcracker's Promise
Clark is fairly well surprised by the glitter and sparkle of the Christmas Eve charity fund-raiser, the otherworldly atmosphere set ostensibly on the top floor of the tallest building in Gotham while the city so far below crumbles with despair and devours itself with crime. It's an oxymoron to him, that these wealthy few would put so much into a party, when their money might have been better spent by contributing directly to their 'causes'. But then, who is he to judge, when he spends so much of his own time working in Metropolis and, for all intents and purposes, ignoring the plight of so many?
But he thinks perhaps that's a philosophical question better left for a quiet evening at home, considering the assault the glimmering gala is making on his senses.
Above him, several hundred chandeliers throw their prismatic light around the ballroom while twinkling Christmas lights shimmer along the walls, over the draped tables, twined through the boughs of pine and holly and the twelve-foot Christmas tree at the end of the room. Ornaments shine with green, red, silver, gold, and what he's pretty sure are actually faceted gems set in platinum. And surrounding and covering everything is a glittering sheen of white, soft and cool, as if it were real snow dusted with flakes of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. He has to wonder.
It really is a scene out of some holiday fairy tale-the lights, the classic seasonal scores performed by the small orchestra and choir, the laughter and gaiety of society's own jewels, the heavenly aromas of the expensive dinner, gingerbread and pecan pie over the remnants of turkey with all the trimmings, sweet and warm and soft and bright. But the notable difference is his own presence. Well, his and that of the other members of the Justice League, all in full costume with a few dressy elements reserved for events like this. Diana's enjoying a dance with an Air Force General from a wealthy family while Hal and Wally discuss politics with several elderly upper-crust gentlemen over pie. Ollie's spinning Dinah around the dance floor, and even J'onn seems to be enjoying the festivities as he leads an older woman in a dance, his usual appearance toned down quite a bit for the benefit.
At the moment, Clark is the only League member on his own, hanging back from the festivities to take it all in and regroup. It's been a whirlwind event so far, with the charity auction and the feast already done with. In another half-hour it'll be time for the big donations from the wealthiest of the wealthy, complete with over-sized novelty checks, photo ops, and speeches, before a round of impromptu giving starts. In the midst of all that, Clark has already shaken at least a hundred hands, posed for easily three dozen photos, and smiled so much that he thinks his face just might get stuck this way. It's tiring to the core.
Oh, to be here as Clark Kent instead, and not be noticed by a single person. But that would defeat the entire purpose of his presence. He is here to help do some good, after all, and if shaking the hands of Gotham society will help, he's glad to do it.
~*~*~
An hour later, the majority of the big donations have been made, most of which with Clark and at least one other Leaguer on stage to take photos with the wealthy donors, guaranteed Society Section front page material. He feels like his hand is about to fall off, in conjunction with his frozen face, but again reminds himself that it's all in the name of charity. He'll stand here doing this all night if it means the deserving people of Gotham, the country, and the world in general will benefit.
As he accepts the twentieth novelty check of the evening, this one from a rich heiress, the jewels around her neck probably worth more than the donation, he starts to think something isn't right. He can feel tension rising in the grand ballroom, hearts beating faster with anticipation, fear, and worry, and it raises the hair on the back of his neck, sets his teeth slightly on edge, crawls beneath his skin in uncomfortable ways. It's not enough to call a panic, by any means, but the glitter of the gala suddenly seems pale and cold, as if a subtly malicious intent has been revealed... and he realizes why. Someone's missing, someone who's supposed to make a large donation to the Gotham Children's Fund....
His weary eyes scan the crowd for the two-hundred fifty-seventh time since this part of the fund-raiser commenced, this time searching for the billionaire that makes the rest of the elite look poor by comparison. He's supposed to be here, supposed to come out of his eccentric seclusion for the first time in many years to make his donation, the last of the evening. With but one more large donation on the list before his, the gathering of his peers is becoming restless, Gotham society waiting to either exalt him or flay him alive-with gossip and rumor, anyway. The natives, such as they are, are restless.
Clark hopes for Bruce Wayne's sake that he arrives as scheduled.
Pulling his attention back to the matter at hand, he finishes the photo op with the rich heiress and waits while the host of the event announces the next wealthy patron to make his donation. A rather squat man with a long, pointed nose, a toothy sneer in place, and dressed to the nines in a top hat and tails ascends the two steps to the small stage just as the host announces him as Oswald Cobblepot. From the hard glint in the man's eye through his thick monocle, Clark gets an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something about him... just doesn't seem right.
But Clark doesn't have time for unwarranted suspicion, and shakes off the feeling just as an usher hands Cobblepot's novelty check up to the stage for the squat man to donate.
“Here we are, then,” Oswald starts, his voice squawking and sharp, like nails on a chalkboard to Clark. “It is my great pleasure to donate, in the name of the esteemed Cobblepot family, of which I am the last living member,” he says with a slight bow and a tip of his top hat, “five million dollars to the Save the Penguins Foundation!”
For a moment, utter silence blankets the room, as the name of Cobblepot's chosen charity registers with the crowd. Clark is taken aback, certainly, by the odd choice of charity, but what's surprising is the look of offense on the faces of the other wealthy donors. Clearly, this was meant to be an evening for donations to charities active in Gotham, not... not this. A ripple of whispers moves over the crowd then, shock turning to disbelief as faint applause follows from various points in the room.
Clark still feels like he could hear a pin drop without even trying.
“What?” the short man squawks, his face crinkling with anger. “It's a damn fine charity. They deserve all the help they can get! Poor birds never hurt anybody....”
At the continued glares from the crowd, Clark steps up, suddenly feeling a minute amount of pity for the man. Gotham society was being overly-cruel. “You're absolutely right, Mr. Cobblepot,” he says, reaching out to shake the man's hand. “They could probably use a lot more help from donors such as yourself.”
Oswald squints up at him through his monocle at that, as if not quite believing that the hero actually defended his choice. “Wha-? Oh! Y-yes, quite right!” When his toothy sneer returns, he accepts Clark's handshake heartily, stepping close for the photographers.
For a moment, Clark thinks the squat man is standing just a bit too close, and his skin starts to prickle with the same unfounded suspicion that had set him on edge when Cobblepot stepped onto the stage. But then the photographers are done, the novelty check whisked away, and the odd little man is waddling down the steps to melt back into the crowd. Shaking his head, Clark can't help feeling a little stymied by the whole encounter as he finds his hands dusted with fine red glitter, the stuff seeming to be everywhere tonight. He brushes them off, wondering what just happened.
But just as he's coming back to his senses, a rustling murmur falls over the crowd, and Clark snaps up to full attention, scanning the room again. Beside him, Diana leans over discreetly and whispers, “I don't think he's coming, either.”
Clark gives her a quick, faint frown in return. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised,” he whispers back, watching the host sweat as he waits for their last donor.
After a too-long moment of glares and restless murmuring from the crowd, the host swallows heavily. “Well, I'm afraid it appears that, once again, Prince Wayne will not be joining us. In his stead, I'm proud to-”
The seeming hiss of the rich and powerful at the announcement is suddenly cut off along with the host's prepared speech as a voice rises from the back of the room. “Master Wayne sends his fondest regards, I assure you, but there is no need for our impeccable host to do the honors himself.” The measured British accent catches Clark off guard. He hasn't heard anyone sound that controlled, authoritative, and yet casual and honest all evening. It's refreshing, in a way.
Heads whip around to see a dapper-looking older gentleman stepping through the crowd as it parts to let him pass, his head held high and his expression pleasant, showing his pride to be here in Wayne's stead. In one hand he carries a moderately-sized crimson Santa sack, bulging with several boxes, and Clark's interest is piqued. There isn't a novelty check in sight.
“My apologies for my late entrance,” the gentleman says as he steps up to the small stage, shaking the host's hand and setting his sack down beside him, a hint of a wry smirk on his face. “But I suppose it's better late than never. Master Wayne is terribly sorry he hasn't been able to make it out to this event, but has sent me as a matter of course, to deliver his donation to the Gotham Children's Fund.”
Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he withdraws a simple piece of paper, which Clark can see is an actual check, rather than the garish show of wealth that the entire roomful of people has been expecting. Without waiting for a photo op, he hands the check over to the host, shaking his hand quickly.
The host visibly pales as he reads the amount on the check. “Tw-twenty-five million dollars! Mister, uh-”
“Pennyworth,” the older gentleman supplies. “Alfred Pennyworth.”
“Mister Pennyworth, this... this is amazing!” The host's eyes are wide, his jaw falling open as he stares at the check. The crowd is murmuring again, this time pleased and surprised.
“I understand this is larger than his usual donation, but he was quite adamant about having more than just a token effect on the city this year.”
Camera flashes seem to fill the room for a moment, capturing the moment of shock and awe as the crowd fully digests just how large the donation is. None of the others have even come close to this. Clark simply stands back and takes it all in, in complete awe himself. Of all the things he's heard about the Prince of Gotham over the years, such a large heart hasn't been one of them. In fact, Wayne has been painted as the eccentric playboy, a man who locked himself and his adopted sons away after the second of them was nearly killed by a ruthless villain. And that was many years ago now, before Clark even moved to Metropolis.
“There's one more thing,” Mister Pennyworth continues on. Stepping back so he can address both the host and the heroes on the stage, he opens his Santa sack and withdraws a shining, green rectangular box with a large red bow, handing it to Clark. “Master Wayne is making a donation of toys to both Gotham Children's Hospital and the Gotham Homeless Shelter, so that every child in dire straits might have some comfort this holiday season. This,” he says, indicating the box, “is just a token of gratitude to Superman, and indeed all the heroes that help keep us safe. If you would, sir.”
Clark's realizes his jaw has fallen open, too, at this point, and he straightens again, smiling sheepishly. “Oh, of course. I... thank you,” he nearly stammers, pulling the end of the red ribbon to release the top from the box. When he pulls the top away and parts the tissue paper underneath, he finds the contents surprising, and he can't help another look of intrigued awe. In the middle is a large wooden nutcracker, painted to look like the mythical Batman, the hinged jaw the only part of him uncovered by his dark costume, while glittering blue jeweled eyes peer out from behind what appears to be a cowl. A silken black cape falls from the broad shoulders of the nutcracker, soft in Clark's hands as he lifts the doll out of the box.
“Master Wayne insisted you have this, sir, to keep as a reminder that you and the rest of the Justice League are not alone in your fight against the criminals of the night, that Gotham has her own secret way of helping.”
Looking up from the gift, Clark smiles genuinely. “Thank you so much, Mister Pennyworth. This is... a uniquely beautiful gift.”
“That's not all,” the older gentleman notes, the wry smirk back on his face as he indicates the box again.
“Oh?” Clark looks back into the box, and after handing the nutcracker to Diana, he parts more tissue paper, to find three small wooden toy soldiers staring up at him, each painted with their own variation of a bright yellow, red, green, and black costume, their sparkling blue eyes surrounded with variously-colored domino masks, realistic-looking silken black hair covering their heads, and similar short capes hanging from their shoulders.
Clark remembers the myth that he'd heard whispered among criminal circles and societal circles alike since before he became Superman. The Batman worked in Gotham with a young partner called Robin, whose appearance changed every few years, as if he had been not one, but many different boys, until one day, they all disappeared into the night, absorbed by Gotham's shadows. The inclusion of the three toy Robins makes sense.
“Thank you, again,” he says, lifting the Robin with the yellow cape and black domino mask from the box to show to the crowd, society and Leaguers alike, who at this point are gawking openly, their curiosity getting the better of them.
“It is my pleasure,” Pennyworth says, his smile seeming sadder now as he gazes at the toys.
With that, the host calls an end to this part of the gala, opening the time for on-the-spot donations to the various charities represented tonight. Rich benefactors begin to move toward the table at the side of the stage that has been set up for this, suddenly seeming to be more eager to donate. Though Clark knows it's thanks to the Prince's donation, he's too absorbed in the gift of the nutcracker and the toy Robins to really make note of it. His head swims as his senses are overwhelmed by the lights and glitter of the evening, the strange donation by Mister Cobblepot, the surprising generosity of Bruce Wayne, and the enigmatic, ever-changing smile of Alfred Pennyworth as the older man disappears once again into the crowd.
~*~*~
Parting ways with the rest of the League before the night's liquor supply can really start its free flow through the crowd, Clark excuses himself from the gala, wraps the box with the Batman nutcracker and the toy Robins gently in his cape, and heads for home, fully exhausted and still puzzled and awed by the events of the evening. If he can just get warmed up and get a good night's sleep, he's sure things will be clearer in the morning, when he can look back on it all objectively. But for now, his head is positively fuzzy and he can't wait to heat up a mug of cocoa and crawl into bed.
When he lands on his balcony, nearly slipping on the cold railing that's still wet from the wintry mix that's been falling on Metropolis for the last two days, he decides that even the cocoa is out. No, definitely straight to bed.
But there's one thing he absolutely has to do first. Carefully unwrapping the box and its contents again, he sets the nutcracker and the toy soldiers up on the little round side-table next to his small Christmas tree in his living room. A mantle would have been better to display them, but city living couldn't be so kind. He's lucky he has room for the skinny tree with its multi-colored lights and sparse ornaments as it is!
Standing back from the display, he smiles tiredly, running a hand through his hair. Four sentinels to guard the shining tree. From what, he doesn't know, but it's such a lovely sight. If only they were real....
He'll have to remember to deliver thank-you cards to Mister Wayne and Mister Pennyworth personally. Such a wonderful gift....
The hearty yawn that cuts off his train of thought almost sends him stumbling back.
Yep. Bedtime.
Heading into his small bedroom, he has just enough time to strip off his uniform, throw on a pair of pajamas, and drop into the bed and pull the covers over himself before sleep comes for him.
~*~*~
In his dreams, the gala is still glittering around him, shining and bright and loud. High-pitched laughter, gleaming jewels, snowflakes, novelty checks, and the grating squawk of the little man with the pointed nose and thick monocle. It's almost like he never left, except for the ever-increasing volume of Mister Cobblepot's chatter. The squat man almost seems to be yelling in his ear, squawking directives as if he was commanding an army. So loud....
But Clark has to be in Metropolis. Something's wrong. Sirens are wailing. An alarm is ringing. He feels trapped by the crowd as they press in around him on the dance floor, laughing in their gaiety, all their jewels blinding him. He can't see anymore, all the glittering light surrounding him.
Sirens.
Police reports over the radio of a robbery at the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art.
The squawk of Mister Cobblepot.
It's too much to take.
He has to get to Metropolis!
Forcing his way out of the crowd-where has all his strength gone?-he makes his way to the door, but just as his hand latches onto the ornate doorknob, he realizes he's in his pajamas. Where did his suit go? He can't save Metropolis in his pajamas! With a quick spin, he finds his suit and pulls it on, discarding the plaid flannel in a blur of rustling fabric, and jamming his feet down into his boots.
Much better.
The wail of sirens slams into him again, and he snaps back to attention. He has to get outside! Has to get back to Metropolis and stop the little man from taking what isn't his.
Opening the door, he stumbles as his vision is filled with the sight of an enormous Christmas tree. It's the tree from the gala, gleaming and bejeweled, seeming to take up the entire room!
Clark can feel his pulse rushing in his ears as shock knocks him backward. The tree is growing! Twice his height and getting taller. Glittering and twinkling and enormous.
Beside the tree.... Clark blinks, rubbing his eyes. The Batman nutcracker is growing, too! Tall and menacing, blue jeweled eyes turning softer, real, as the jaw seems to knit itself back onto the rest of the face, teeth disappearing behind lips. Wooden hands become gloved fists, clenching tight. He's sure he can hear the the creak of leather and the rustle of silk, even more so as the toy Robins begin to grow and move, falling in line behind the ever-growing Batman.
But the sirens! So loud....
He has to get to Metropolis in time to stop the squat man. Has to stop him!
Everything glitters around him. Red and shining. Blinding lights on the tree. Gleaming eyes behind domino masks.
Holding his hands in front of him, he tries to block out the light. Too much. It's too much!
But the sirens keep wailing!
Backing away from the ever-growing tree, now more like a giant redwood than a Christmas pine, he stumbles toward the balcony. He has to save Metropolis from the squawking little man.
~*~*~
The dream changes swiftly as the room with the enormous tree and the Batman gives way to the grand entryway of the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art. Everything around him is strange, surreal, odd angles and shapes, as dreams often are, and he thinks nothing of it as he seeks out the squawking of the little man with the monocle. So loud, with the sirens and alarms and shouting....
And suddenly there are guns pointed at him, thieves dressed all in black, shouting and yelling, and firing their weapons as they surround him.
“You said he'd be out of the game, Penguin!”
“This ain't gonna work!”
“Keep firing, he's weakened!”
“He shoulda' been down for the night, I swear!” comes the grating squawk of the man in charge at last. “Dosed 'im with enough to take down an elephant!”
“He ain't no elephant, you idjit!”
The voices blur together, a swirling cacophony of shouts and sun-bursting gunfire, as Clark tries to make his way out of the circle of thieves. But he can't seem to get very far, his feet feeling like they're trudging through molasses. The bullets begin to sting where they hit him, hard pings against his chest, arms, back, legs, and God, his face. Squeezing his eyes shut against the assault as it grows more painful, he pushes forward. He has to stop Cobblepot! Keep him from doing whatever he's doing. Take down his men.
But he can't remember how. Everything is blurred together as he blinks to try to get his bearings, sculptures at intense angles all around, faceless goons firing at him, yelling, squawking, anger all directed at him like snarling dogs with pointed teeth dripping with venom. He's rooted to the spot, forced into a defensive position, overwhelmed by it all. Can't seem to move. Can't seem to do anything but cower with his face covered by his hands. The bullets... they're tearing at his flesh now, burning and searing where they hit him, ripping through his suit and slicing his skin.
And he realizes he's shouting along with the cacophony, “No! No! Have to stop you! You can't do this! Stop you!” But he doesn't know if he can stop them. The pain from his wounds is an inferno consuming him, even as his insides are shredded with the ache of terror at his own ineffectiveness. He doesn't think he's ever been this afraid. He can't stop them!
After what feels like hours the searing of the bullets begins to fade, the swirling of voices begins to fall from its crescendo, and he risks a peek from beneath his tightly shut lids. He wants to throw up as the room begins to spin around him, all looming shapes and twisted colors, shining and threatening all at once. It's too much to take. Too much.... He has to keep going, keep the nausea down.
Before him, two of the black-clad goons cover an arched doorway to the left of the grand entrance, while the rest are filing through, still firing their weapons in short bursts. And Cobblepot... Cobblepot is waddling down the steps from a raised platform, brandishing an umbrella at the goons to tell them to cease their fire, his monocled eye gleaming with smug condescension as he looks down his long nose at Clark, who realizes he's doubled over and kneeling on the floor.
“I should have realized you'd be such a nuisance,” the short man squawks, reaching into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, the same he wore to the gala. “Good thing I brought extra!” With a swift twist of his wrist and a heavy exhale, he blows a handful of sparkling, fine red dust at the prone hero.
In the instant before it hits his face, Clark has just enough time to register what's happening, and begin to wonder if this is really a dream. The glitter....
And suddenly Clark is choking, his lungs dragging in the glittering dust automatically. His vision swims even more, bright colors and dark shadows and the toothy leer of the squat man that the goons are calling Penguin, before everything goes blessedly dark.
~*~*~
Waking again takes an act of will that Clark finds simply Herculean. But he's still in the dream, the looming sculptures crowded around him. The grand entryway is finally still, the blaring of gunfire a distant memory as sirens seem to grow louder from every direction, closing in on the museum. Red and blue lights begin to flash from outside, blinding him again.
And he isn't quite sure what happened, only that he needs to find Cobblepot. He needs to stop him! What he's taken... he isn't sure exactly, but he knows it's important. It's got to be important!
Pushing himself to his feet, he feels the scraping slide of open wounds in his arms, legs, and torso, and he grimaces, trying to force down the fresh wave of nausea. Can't be sick now. Not with a villain to catch. Penguin-Cobblepot?-has to be stopped!
He can't rest until his task is done. Can't rest....
It's a long way to the arched doorway the gang escaped through, his feet still feeling mired in molasses, but he makes it, trudges through, following the trail. He can still hear them, distantly, more shouting and cursing, the goons turning on their boss as they make their way up the stairwell toward the roof.
The roof! Of course, Penguin and his thieves must have some way to escape via the roof. It's not a new trick, heck, villains have been doing it for years, but the simplicity of it seems utterly absurd to Clark in that moment, and he wants to laugh himself silly. There's a sparkle of red around the edges of his vision then, and he can't help a chuckle at his own delight in it.
No! He has to get to the roof and stop Penguin!
Mustering his reserves, he forces all his energy into speeding up the stairwell in pursuit of the thieves. They can't get far now, no matter what they've stolen.
~*~*~
When the dream shifts again, he's on the roof, staring at a helicopter that seems to take up the entire expanse of concrete and brick. A brief flash of the enormous Christmas tree and growing Batman nutcracker passes before his eyes, and he feels a little like Alice in Wonderland, helpless as he shrinks, the lights of the city he can see around the monstrosity before him twinkling silver and red, blurred by frigid, drizzling sleet. It's just too much....
“Why won't you stay down!?” comes the grating shriek of the Penguin over the deafening clapping whirl of the helicopter blades as they speed up.
“Give it up, Cobblepot!” Clark hears himself shout, his voice graveled and wet, as if he's choking on blood. Oh, God, he can taste blood!
The scene around him starts to tilt, cold, wet brick rising in slow motion to meet him, and the sound of Penguin's high-pitched laughter fills his ears. “Forget it, Superman! You're toasted!”
“N-nooo....” is all he can manage, realizing he's sprawled on the rooftop, scrambling but unable to push himself up again. Looking back up to the helicopter, he sees the goons shoving a crate up into it, Penguin supervising their work with a maniacal grin, all pointed teeth and loathing.
But then shadows seem to loom up all around, dark and imposing, and Clark thinks that's it, the dream is about to be swept away, Thank goodness.
Flashes of yellow and red, green and black, glinting blue.
Shouting, gleaming reflections off of edged weapons, the goons in shock, Penguin's squawk of indignant surprise. “No! You're gone! What the-?”
And the pulsing whir of the helicopter blades seem to drown out everything, loud and angry as they start to pull the helicopter up and off the roof. Clark's hands go to his ears as he lays on his side, grimacing with the pain of the noise. So loud.... Sirens, shouting, gunfire, all too much....
There's only one way to stop it, even as the flashes of color and shadow seem to overtake the helicopter, and with every last ounce of energy he can muster, he draws heat into his eyes and focuses on the base of the whirling blades. Incapacitate the vehicle, burn out the motor, that's all he can do... and in a flash of gleaming red, sparks erupt from the top of the helicopter.
The blades finally slow to a stop and more shouting fills the air, orders being given as the shadows and colored flashes seem to resolve themselves into more definite shapes. Silken capes of black and yellow, raven hair, jeweled-blue eyes. Clark can't believe what he's seeing as the darkest shadow resolves itself further into the shape of a man draped in a black cape, looming closer, kneeling over him.
“Superman....” the man in the suddenly very real cowl says, his voice soft and low.
“You... you're not real,” he counters. The Batman was a nutcracker, a doll based on a legend. This is the strangest dream he's had in years.
“I'm real, I promise,” comes the Batman's reply.
There's a gloved hand on his arm suddenly, pushing back the tatters of his bullet-torn cape, and Clark gasps in surprise at the touch. So warm.... When did he get so cold? With a shiver, he stares up at the Batman. “You're a dream. I wish you were real.” And he does. The wolf-blue eyes staring out of the cowl glitter down at him, warm as the hand on his arm. “Wish you were real.”
“I'm not a dream, Clark.”
That clinches it. The Batman wouldn't know his real name....
The gloved hand releases his arm suddenly, and in his momentary shock, Clark glances around wildly, looking for the hand. Instead, he catches the red, yellow, black, and green forms that have gathered around them. They're... the Robins! The other figurines... grown into teenage boys.... “Wha-?”
“We're real, we're all real,” the Batman goes on, and with a tug at the front of his cowl, he pulls back the rubbery material.
The face that reveals itself is one he remembers from the old news reports.... “B-Bruce Wayne?” he gapes.
The Prince of Gotham smiles at him softly from the costume of the Batman, and Clark knows he's lost his mind completely. What had he done to have such extraordinarily strange dreams?
“Yes,” Wayne finally answers, his blue eyes glittering, same as the Batman's had.
“Bruce, what are you doing!?” comes a shocked response from one of the Robins. “Penguin....”
Clark sees the flashing of anger in eyes behind a red domino mask, before the billionaire shoots back, “He's out. They're all out, it's all right.”
“But-”
“No buts. It needed to be done. Now go call Alfred. Tell him to bring the plane down and bring medical supplies with him. We're taking Superman back to his apartment.”
A chorus of, “Yessir,” comes from all of the boys, and with a rustle of capes, the three disappear.
Bruce looks back down at him. “Can you move?”
Clark wonders why a dream would ask him something like that. He feels like he's mired in mud again, his body not responding like it should. “I....” And that's all he can manage, the taste of blood once again sliding over his tongue and down his throat as he feels the icy touch of sleet falling on him. But it's not sleet, it's... it's snow, fine white flakes falling from the sky around them, shining like the jeweled glitter of the gala, bright white and pure.
“All right. We'll get you home. Everything will be fine, I promise you.” With another tug at the rubbery cowl, the billionaire becomes the Batman once again, his shadow surrounding Clark with reassuring warmth against the snowy cold, and as Clark feels the ground drop out from beneath him, the sound of sirens fading away at last, darkness comes once again.
~*~*~
Another shift in the dream seems even more fantastic, the settings of the real world traded for a palace of crystalline ice, shining and bright, lit with millions of twinkling fairy lights, candles, and miniature suns set in silver sconces. He's at another gala, but this one is so unlike the last, with revelers in gleaming costumes and feathered masks, silken capes and pixie boots. They're all so happy, twirling in a dance to an ethereal tune the likes of which Clark has never heard. His own costume is a fancier version of his Superman attire, with gold edging on his cape, bright ruffles down each arm, and epaulets on his shoulders. Laughing at the sight, he feels his hand caught suddenly, and twirls in time with the music to find himself suddenly embraced by the Prince of Gotham, the dark-haired man dressed all in black, his flowing cape topped with a high collar, a black feathered mask over his eyes.
“May I have this dance?” the prince whispers, close enough for his lips to tickle Clark's ear.
His breath catching in his throat, Clark can only nod mutely, and without any warning, he's pulled into another twirl, the Prince leading him in the dance. As the otherworldly music plays on, echoed against the giant crystals, the pair glide across the floor, almost as if they're dancing on air. A twirl, a slide, arms around his waist clutching tightly. So warm, safe.
“I've got you. Hold on.”
Clark shivers at the low voice, feeling it reverberate through him, all masculine strength and power.
But it's not real. He knows it's not real. None of this is.
“Not real,” he murmurs.
The voice in his ear is insistent. “I'm real, I promise.”
Around them, other revelers press in from all sides, moving as one in the dance. Flashes of yellow, red, and green costumes, all with matching feathered masks, the music and murmuring of the crowd growing louder all the while.
“He's hurt pretty badly.”
“He'll be all right. Just needs to rest and heal.”
“He needs sunlight.”
“That's what the lamp is for.”
“Should be in a hospital.”
“Not like this.”
But then the voices fade away, leaving only the music and the warm embrace of the Prince, twirling him over the dance floor. “I've got you, Clark.”
“Promise?” he hears himself say, his heart aching in his chest. He doesn't want the Prince to disappear, not yet. Not ever.
“I promise.”
~*~*~
It feels like days have passed in dreams when Clark comes to, the sudden shock of pain and disorientation assaulting him from all directions, and he jerks awake involuntarily, for a moment not knowing where he is or how he got there. “Wh-wha-?”
“Easy, easy,” comes a voice from his left, warm and low, before a hand lands on his bandaged arm.
Bandaged?
Forcibly blinking his eyes open, Clark tries to focus on the person in the room with him, realizing he's in his own bed in his tiny apartment, a sun lamp positioned over him even as the gentle light of morning peeks through the curtains. “Wh-?”
“It's okay, you're all right,” the man says, giving him a soft smile. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I....” It takes a moment, but then the enormity of his dreams from the previous night begins to come back to him. The ever-growing tree, the Penguin, the nutcracker... the nutcracker!
Blinking more furiously at the man sitting at his side, he finally really sees him. The nutcracker... the Batman... Bruce Wayne! Is it possible it was all real?
“You... you're real?” he manages weakly, his throat feeling like sandpaper and gravel as he gazes up into the glittering blue eyes above him.
“I'm real,” the Prince replies.
“Then....” But Clark can't quite get his mind around it all. It doesn't make sense. His dreams.... Shaking his head, he furrows his brow in confusion.
“You weren't dreaming, Clark. Well, you were, but you weren't. You were dosed with red kryptonite, drugged heavily. It seemed to make you hallucinate, made you weak enough to be injured.”
“What? You mean... the glitter?” And suddenly, there's some semblance of sense. The glitter at the gala, it was everywhere.
The Prince's expression darkens for a moment. “Yes. It was... what changed us back.”
“I don't understand.”
“We were...” he starts, “well, it's a long story. And an embarrassing one, at that. My sons and I were... enchanted. Turned into dolls.”
Clark begins to tense at the suggestion. “Magic,” he ventures.
Wayne nods. “I hate magic. Never trusted it.”
“Me, neither,” Clark smiles softly. He's not sure why, but the Prince seems even more beautiful in the soft, gray light of morning than he had in the dream. “Prince Wayne-” he starts.
“Call me Bruce. Please,” the man cuts him off, his hand on Clark's arm again, thumb stroking over bare skin between bandages.
Clark gasps, smiling wider, his breath caught in his throat for a moment. “Bruce. I... I'm still confused. You were... the nutcracker?” Saying it, the idea sounds even more ludicrous than before. How could the Prince of Gotham have been a nutcracker, of all things?
One corner of Bruce's mouth pulls up in a slow smirk. “Irony, I suppose. A nutcracker and toy soldiers, the most innocuous toys imaginable. Nothing truly important. And in a unique twist, the man who performed the spell set it so that only a glittering poison from another world could break it. At the time, we hadn't had any extraterrestrial contact yet. Or so we believed. He knew we'd spend quite a long time as dolls.”
And another connection dawns on Clark as Bruce finishes. “You're... the Batman!?” He can't help but gape at him.
Bruce's smirk grows. “Yes. But I suppose it's only fair that you know, since I knew your identity from the moment the spell was broken, finding us here in your apartment.”
“So... it wasn't just a legend, then.”
“Hardly. But Alfred made sure the rumors continued to circulate.”
“Alfred...” Clark starts. “He gave me the dolls-you, I mean.”
Bruce nods. “My butler, as he told everyone at the gala. He knew everything. Knew what might break the spell. Which is why he gave us to you. There was a high likelihood that you'd be exposed to some variety of kryptonite sooner or later.”
Voices from the other room interrupt, as someone calls out to announce their return with breakfast, the sudden scent of coffee enticing and undeniable. Clark glances toward his door with an eyebrow raised.
“My sons, Dick, Jason, and Tim,” Bruce explains. “They helped me get you back here.”
With that, it all finally clicks, every last piece of the puzzle falls together, and it's like the enormous Christmas tree, bright and gleaming. He's not sure his relief at the revelations doesn't show on his face like he thinks it might. “Your sons are all Robin. There were three different Robins! And... you weren't a recluse. You really had 'disappeared', for lack of a better term!” It was as if Rao had been lit inside his mind. “I left to try to stop Cobblepot, and you were all transforming from toys into... into you.”
“Exactly. I promised you I was real, didn't I?”
Smiling, Clark sighs, feeling the first sense of contentment since his strange journey began. “You did.”
Bruce reaches up to brush an errant lock of hair back from Clark's forehead, his fingertips leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “I'm glad you're all right, Clark. I'm sorry you had to get involved with this.”
“Don't be sorry. I'm not.” Clark shakes his head weakly, suddenly wishing he had some of that coffee. “I'm glad you were here.”
“All right,” Bruce concedes, leaning down to brush a light kiss over Clark's forehead. “Get some rest, and heal up.”
Clark's heart seizes in his chest at the kiss. “I will,” he whispers back.
“Promise?” comes Bruce's amused reply.
A smile teases Clark's lips, the reality of it all settling in as he realizes it's Christmas day, there's actual snow outside, and an honest-to-God prince is sitting next to him, gracing him with a kiss and hope for Gotham and the world in the gift of the Batman. “I promise.”
~*~*~
Author's Notes #2: In one version of The Nutcracker ballet, the little girl's (Clara's) dream about the Nutcracker doll turning into the Prince and fighting the Mouse King and his army turns out to be real, where her love turned the enchanted Prince back into himself. Herr Drosselmeyer, who gave her the Nucracker doll at her family's Christmas party, was the Prince's father, and knew what would break the spell on him.