one day, you will understand. but that day is not today.

[thepull_mods]

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.

Comments

[kingofrooks]

There was something remarkably unsettling whenever Clark disappeared and appeared again, with something in his arms that would've taken him at least an hour to retrieve. He should feel resentful about it- about Clark making decisions about what he needed, what he wanted. Yet he didn't, and Bruce wondered if it was because he was far too tired to, or because Clark was right- it must be the first, because the latter case would've made him angrier.

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?"

[isitablurred]

"The wicked can wait until later to have their asses kicked, Bruce. This is about you feeling like you. It has nothing to do with them."

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?"

[kingofrooks]

It was a little surprising that the burn remained even after death; Bruce would have thought that it would be similar to a 'reset' - that he would return back to life in the same state that he had arrived at the Port in. But apparently not - even his newest injuries were present, except for the bruises. However, there wasn't a scar on his temple- nothing that he could feel, anyway. He should check later, when he had a proper mirror.

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.

[isitablurred]

Clark only nodded quietly. Bruce was the boss, after all, and it was his secret to keep precisely as he wished. He nodded, stepping quietly back to give the other man his privacy and turning away. When the door closed behind him he vanished smartly, back to work while he listened to the sound of water running in the back of his head.

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.