one day, you will understand. but that day is not today.
Who: Siren's Port
When: The night of Thursday, October 20th into the morning of Friday, October 21st.
Where: In the mind, in the dreams, in the unconscious of the sleepers.
Summary: The final night.
Warnings: These dreams may be considered not safe for work, with violence, gore, death, underlying sexual themes and other mentions of graphic nature. ( Read more... )
When: The night of Thursday, October 20th into the morning of Friday, October 21st.
Where: In the mind, in the dreams, in the unconscious of the sleepers.
Summary: The final night.
Warnings: These dreams may be considered not safe for work, with violence, gore, death, underlying sexual themes and other mentions of graphic nature. ( Read more... )
But all he wanted to do was to stay here, with Clark's heartbeat beating against his own, steady and calming. He took a deep breath and controlled his breathing, inhaling and holding, exhaling and stopping. His hands against Clark's shoulders clenched and unclenched in a rhythm set by the heartbeat he could feel as he attuned himself gradually to calm. To steady himself, and feel his feet again, rooted against the floor. To give strength to his knees so he didn't feel as if he was going to fall over the moment he pushed himself away from Clark.
Clark. Bruce exhaled quietly. When, he wondered, had this man become- someone whom he could lean against; someone whose strength he was relying on instead of pushing him away? He was showing Clark more weakness at this moment than he had anyone, and within his head he had his memory, his dream. A seared picture of blue Kryptonite. The sensation of being stabbed, the skin of his stomach opening even as his skull was split.
When did this man start meaning more to him than the Clark back home? When did he stop thinking of that Clark as 'his' and this one as 'other'?
He let go of a soft breath, and loosened his arms. Flattened the palms against the either side of Clark's collarbone, pushing against him lightly.
He could stand on his own, but he had no answers.
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He was back now, and holding him felt like holding his father again, in a way. It felt like the first time he'd broken down on Chloe. It felt like falling into his mother's arms, or Lois', after the hardest moments of his life.
When Bruce urged him to let go, Clark let go, but it was with all due hesitation, still hovering in his space for just a moment as though to grab him if he were to fall; he didn't, and then Clark was vanishing, barely for a second, and pressing a mug into Bruce's hands, still warming the coffee with heat vision as he did so.
"Maybe this will help clear your head a little," he told him, softly, leaving him to sit on the edge of the cot.
And he leant back, watching him as though he were watching a wobbling stack of Jenga blocks, wondering whether Bruce would just collapse the moment he thought everything was fine.
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Coffee mug in his hand. Reheated coffee. Bruce stared at it for a long moment. He could remember that he had a ton of reasons to not drink coffee, starting with the possibility of addiction and ending with his hatred of depending on anyone, much less anything. He wouldn't allow himself to use caffeine to keep himself awake and alert when he should be able to use his own willpower to the same effect.
Willpower, huh. He stared at the mug for a moment and could almost feel the phantom pain against his head. Bruce closed his eyes and lifted the mug- and he slammed back the hot liquid like it was a small shot of alcohol in a shot glass, letting the heat burn against his mouth and tongue and throat. The pain barely registered. Bruce coughed slightly, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
He dropped the emptied mug on the floor, lifting his eyes up to look at Clark for a long moment. Then he sighed quietly, turning his eyes away. There was something missing, and the burning heat of the coffee had indeed cleared his head enough for hm to formulate the question.
"You didn't tell me anything about what happened to you," he said, and caught Clark's gaze with his own.
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"Nothing much. After the funeral I tried my best to hold the family together. Your kids. Lois was amazing. She knew how much I..." He swallowed. "--missed you. We're better now. I tried catching up with a few people. Peter, Spike, Jason--I fenced Jason, knocked him out cold, but I reckon that was only because he wasn't at his best as it was. Talked to Dick when he was having a hard time of it, and Tim was a star on the network.
"That post of yours..."
A deep breath and he looked up.
"Why the hell didn't you tell anyone what you were going to do? Why walk in there and get killed, make them all go through this? It was selfish, Bruce."
Well there, it was out now. Hard and ungentle. He'd been alive almost no time at all and already Clark was shaking disappointed metaphorical fingers at him. He sighed and shook his head. "I mean, I know why, I just don't know..." He curled his hands into fists. "It was so hard without you."
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He would regret it if it wasn't a necessity. Bruce looked at him for a long moment more before he sighed quietly, an exhale that was barely enough to move the air in front of him- it was so light. He rubbed slightly at his eyes, and he knew that he had made a mistake. He was too rash, too impulsive, rushing in the moment the Port told him Sylar was alive again. But-
But he had done that in belief that he would not be missed. That the people around him would be able to go on without him. Bruce did not do what he did to be grieved; he tried his best to push the people around him away from him simply because he knew he could die at any time and he did not wish to inflict the grief of mourning on them. He knew how loss felt; he knew how heavy and bitter the taste of it on his own tongue.
Despite his efforts, they felt it anyway.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, dropping his head down and touching the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers. He resists pinching it and instead takes a long breath- then an even longer exhale. Stalling for time to try the right words.
(He could lie. He could brush it off. But he was still too raw, too empty. If he didn't concentrate he could still smell blood in the air. Blood and darkness and the remnants of radiation.)
"The Port told me he was there." His voice was flat. "I just- went, because I don't know when else would I be able to get a lock on him." A shuddering breath, and he dropped his head back, staring at the pockmocked, peeling ceiling.
"You shouldn't have missed me."
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"Shouldn't have missed you? Bruce--" He sighed, dropping a little of his anger, replacing it with something closer to pity. "You remember how you felt when Damian went home? Do you remember going out and searching for him even though you knew you wouldn't find him? The feeling of emptiness, the echo of something taken and the...chasm that's left behind? That's how we felt--less me, more your kids. You're a part of their lives, you define them - even if you don't want to - and now that you're a father you have a responsibility not to let yourself get killed for stupid reasons. For their safety and their peace of mind, but also for your own sake."
He raised his hand, pushing it back through Bruce's hair.
"You mean too much to them to be reckless, because it's not just your own life that you endanger. They were hell bent on finding Sylar themselves--and he baited them. The example you set was: it's okay to take on this psychopath even if he kills you."
His hand dropped down again.
"And you also taught them that you're fallible; that you can be killed, and that it hurts."
It's too many words for someone who's just returned to the living, and Clark shakes his head.
"I'm not blaming you for dying. It happens. But when it comes to judging people's emotional responses, you sure need a lot more work."
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The problem was- Clark made sense. He said everything that Bruce refused to admit to himself, simply because it was too dangerous. But then- the problem was simply that he couldn't think of himself as important. If he kept too much notice of the importance of his life- it meant that he would be too careful. That he couldn't take the risks that had helped him succeed so far. That he couldn't accept the fact that he could die every single time he stepped out of the house wearing the cape and the cowl.
It meant that he was leaving room for him to be afraid. Even if it wasn't for himself, it still meant that he was afraid. And fear- he couldn't feel fear. He had spent such a long time overcoming fear, every single bit of it, that he knew that to feel it again would be his ruin.
If he treasured his life at all, he would die far faster and easier than if he didn't. Bruce reached up and rubbed at his eyes.
"I have to believe that they can get past it," he said, and his voice was soft, heavy. Tired. "Or else I can't take the risks I do."
A breath, and he turned his head and fixed Clark with a sharp look. "If I don't take those risks, I would never win."
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He moved to sit beside him, and raised his hand up, brushing Bruce's hair back away from his face, blowing an ice-cool breath across his skin, that would be enough to rouse even the most tired of men. He needed him awake to hear this, because it was important, and he looked him straight in the eye as he spoke.
"I am your biggest fan, you know that? Honestly, every time you walk into a room I marvel. You're the guy who stands shoulder to shoulder with gods fearlessly. You are at the peak of human ability; mind over matter. For all that your body is magnificent, it's taken such a beating over the years that any other man less strong of will than you are would crumple after taking only one step. I sometimes wish I could take that pain away, but it defines you, just like the pain of your past defines you. Without either, you wouldn't be who you are. You are so human, so moral, and you inspire me more than I could say."
He touched Bruce's face, his thumb grazing his cheek bone.
"You aren't proud, you aren't fearless, you aren't arrogant, and yet you affect all of those things. I know that you want to love your boys, be there and support them as you never were as a child, and let you shy away from it as though to do so threatens or weakens you. What you don't understand is that emotion, and familial relationships, they galvanise you and give you strength. It's why I have Lois, why I have you, it's why I've tried to build bridges with all of your children. Knowing that I am fighting to come back to her gives me strength, Bruce--it isn't a weakness at all."
And he leant forward, brushing a benedicting kiss to the other man's temple, squeezing his shoulders with both hands.
"Nobody wants you to change, not be anything other than you are. Nobody is saying don't take risks, certainly not Mr. Get Stabbed With Kryptonite To Save the World over here. But you do need to know when to let other people in, and share the risk in order to lessen it. You are not alone, Bruce."
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Clark should make him feel ridiculous, treating him like a child. But instead Bruce only felt- safe, somehow. Grounded in ways that he could not articulate. It was not the praise- or not just it. He couldn't tell. There were too many words, too much warmth, and he had found his ground somehow. This wasn't something he could have had back home; not something he would be able to grasp back home. And he smiled a little to himself, self-deprecating, because he knew that he built his own reputation to such a point back home that no one would ever dare to say such a thing to him. Who would ever reach out and touch him like this.
He didn't know he even missed it. It was as if he had forgotten that he was human all this time and he was being forced to remember it. Through death, through involuntary resurrection, through reminders that there were people and events here that he could not control and could not completely grasp. He should hate it, this reminder, this loss of control- and yet it was this loss that made him find his feet again, the cracks within his being mending, melding back together and becoming better. Healing. Because-
Clark was difficult. Not entirely his, not entirely home. Entirely of here, smelling of Darkness and sunlight, safety and childishness. He was entirely a contradiction in himself, and Bruce knew that he was entirely different from the person he knew back home. He should resent that; should hate that he was wrong the first time. That the template he had for Clark Kent was so completely useless in the face of this man.
He didn't.
Bruce lifted his eyes. They weren't burning, but he had to take a long calming breath before he could reach out, his hands hesitant as if he was a child again- or as if he was blind, trying to find his way. But his fingers curled against Clark's cheek eventually, and he took another breath. There were so many words he could say, so many he should, to repay all that Clark had told him. But Bruce had never been good with emotions, much less expressing them. It was always easier to shove them away- shove everyone away. Yet. Yet Clark, somehow, deserved more than that.
"You're the person I believe in the most," he said quietly, his eyes fixed upon the alien blue. The shade is different from the man he knew back home- a little greener than most. "But I can't promise to do that." He let his hands drop.
"I can promise to try. But not more than that."
Because he was a creature of habit, and the hardest of all to break was solitude. Loneliness.
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But he could see what was on the surface, turn his head slightly into the fingers as they brushed his cheek, because those touches, when Bruce gave them, spoke infinitely more eloquently than he ever could with words. Clark understood without hearing; he heard the 'Thank you'. He heard 'But it's so hard.'
So he answered with a smile, because Clark's smile could speak a lot more than he ever could otherwise; a sunny, warm, bright smile that was all reassurance; that was friendly and reliable. It said:
'I understand. I'll do everything I can to help you. Don't worry about anything.'
His hands found Bruce's, in his lap, and folded around them.
"You're doing this for me, Bruce. You know your limits--exceed them for yourself."
This time when he stood back up, he vanished, returning with a narrow crate. One of Bruce's spare suits. He set it down on the bed, glancing up at the other man.
"You're going to need this."
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Or perhaps it was because this was Clark. He closed his eyes for a long moment, exhaling before he slipped off his seat, falling forward to the crate, He opened it, looking at the spare suit within, his fingers stroking against it. Kevlar and leather and metal; it was a familiar smell, a familiar texture. Bruce closed his eyes and reached up, letting the pieces of his armour pull open, exposing his scars and the red burn, the ruined armour falling onto the ground.
With his hand splayed on his own armour, he tipped his head up, looking at Clark for a long moment. Then, his lips quirked upwards.
"No rest for the wicked, hm?"
He looked at the armour again before he let it fall from his hand, standing up. A glance at Clark, "I need a shower." There were, of course, bathroom facilities in the safehouse. There was one in every safehouse - Carrie had made sure of that - but Bruce paused nonetheless, raising an eyebrow. It was getting easier and easier to slip back into his own skin.
"Unless your lesson precludes a shower?"
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The symbol on the chest. He brushed it with his fingertips and then stood up. Putting it on again, anew, making himself whole again and letting Clark take the ruined armour back to the cave. It was strange--there was an identical set there, identically ruined--perhaps Bruce would be able to combine them into something functional, he was always complaining about how much mono-filament armour cost.
"I could probably irradiate you in such a way as to kill every germ, vaporise all the dirt and dead skin; you'd be cleaner than you ever have been. But there's nothing like a shower to make you feel clean, Bruce. The water will do you good."
He gathered the box and carried it toward the bathroom. It was easier than looking at the burn on Bruce's chest, even if it was a genuine confirmation that this was His Bruce. He'd sort of hoped he'd come back without it.
"You want me to keep it to myself, right? About you being back? Can I tell Lois, at least?"
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He didn't feel self-conscious in front of Clark like this, instead following him to the bathroom. His mind was already starting to think, running through possibilities and the reactions of his children- and whom he would tell, and in what order. There was no doubt that he would have to tell each of them himself, and individually. He couldn't tell them all at once.
Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly in thought, but he stopped in front of the door, reaching out to take the case from Clark. Turning, he dropped it on the floor of the bathroom before looking at the man himself. Telling Lois... but Lois might, intentionally or unintentionally, tell others. Others whom he hadn't expected to tell yet.
He shook his head. "No," he said flatly, fixing Clark with a sharp glance. "No, not even her."
Then he stepped back, closed the door, and turned on the shower.
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When Bruce was done, he would leave the shower to find a hot meal prepared for him by Clark. Thick, potted chicken with a half a loaf of bread to help settle it on an empty stomach. Bruce had died; eating after being killed was a troubling thing, because you were given time to think, to chew and swallow - things you couldn't have done were you still dead. It was humbling, too, to be reminded of how fragile you were--even for Clark, who was essentially invulnerable.
But he would be fine. Sure, Clark would need to watch him carefully, but of all the people on the island, it was Bruce that he trusted to keep it together the most. He didn't need to babysit him.
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