Headstrong. We're headstrong.

[isitablurred]

Who: The Jedi Knight kingofrooks and his Padawan Apprentice isitablurred
When: Monday evening - 22nd August
Where: The Batcave
Summary: Without his superpowers Clark is just a common as muck human, and that's what villains rely on when they strip them away. Bruce can't have someone around him with such an obvious weakness.
Warnings: Violence, maybe some blood. UST. Will edit

Comments

[kingofrooks]

The thing was that- in a city of powers, having powers could be like none at all. Add to the mix the use of the Voids by SERO and it was a recipe of disaster in the making if Clark wasn't properly trained. The only reason Bruce was able to get out the time was because no one had ever expected a man who had no powers whatsoever to be as capable as he was. Bruce had been banking on their discrimination against 'normals', and he had a crucial few seconds when the Voids fighting him looked absolutely shocked that their powers had no effect whatsoever.

The next time they fought, he would've have that advantage. So selfishly, this training session would be for him as well - after training Clark, he needed him to have his powers again. All of them, in full throttle, set against Bruce's mind and skills to see how he could not be captured by anything that Clark's powers and new skills could throw at him. If he could get out of his grasp even when superspeed, superstrength, x-ray and telescope vision were on Clark's side, then Bruce was pretty much set with regards to whatever SERO would be able to throw at him.

There was also the fact that he had been stagnating without learning more skills, without improving further. Fighting the monsters and the hunters simply made him practice what he had already mastered - it was simply repetition now, and he was getting complacent. Without losing, without constant change, without new situations... he would get used to things, and the moment a new situation crop up, he wouldn't be able to react.

That didn't mean that he was prepared to lose in actual combat. He had no intention of being caught, whether by hunters or monsters or the police. That was what training was for - if he faltered, if he hesitated- in training, at least it would be in a safe place. He would be able to calculate out where he had gone wrong, fix it, and do it all over again. Experiments, tests, a control environment that most combatants could only dream of.

And all he needed to do was to convince Clark that he needed it too. That Bruce would be doing him a favour.

He dropped into the Cave mid-way through the Darkness, the motorcycle roaring its displeasure. He had been riding it too much lately, and though the engine was sturdy it was second-hand. Bruce tugged off the helmet, unclipped his cape, and tossed both at a worktable littered with half-finished batarangs, explosives, mace bombs, and other things he regularly shoved into his belt.

"You look like a teenager when you do that. How long have you been here?"

This time, he didn't even bother with the Bat's voice.

I could kill LJs formatting omfg

[isitablurred]

Seriously. The man couldn't just ask for something; he had to achieve it by sneaky methods. But then that was Bruce--nobody ever said he was going to be logical. Nobody said he was going to make sense.

The bike, as it arrived, was making a sound that Clark knew to be 'very unwell'. There were parts that had been shaken loose by overuse, that needed oiling more frequently if it was going to be ridden the way it was. The front strut and wheel was going to tear straight off if Bruce kept on applying the same turning force to it. As the bike came to a stop, Clark paused to eye it with a certain kind of consternation, drawing up plans of how to fix it, how to reenforce the forks without making it too heavy and difficult to drive. If Bruce was going to keep mistreating it like that...

Clark kicked off and span again, moved his hands into the air so that he applied just enough thrust to keep the chair steadily rotating, around and around, until dropping his foot down with a thump he stopped, and looked up at Bruce again.

"Two hours. Not here, but in the cave system. There's fake tunnels that angle off from the old mine shafts now, but it could do with being filled with spiderswebs, to be honest. It's too clean."

He span again, once, then stood up.

"You saw that news report this morning?"

/punches it for you

[kingofrooks]

"It looks like she accomplished what she wanted. Without needing a Super-rescue this time," the words were matter-of-fact, and Bruce ducked his head slightly as he pulled the cowl off. His hair was matted to his face with sweat, and there was dirt streaked underneath one cheek, but what was most startling was the sheer darkness of the circles underneath his eyes.

He tossed the cowl over to lie with the cape and the helmet, and dragged a hand through his hand. And he headed towards the mini-fridge he had managed to salvage from one of the richer sectors, opening it and digging out a bottle of water. Unscrewing it, he dumped half of its contents over his own head. It had been too long since he had slept well, and the chill kickstarted his brain- enough for him to notice that Clark was xraying his motorcycle, looking at it like a doctor would a patient. He rolled his eyes at him and his antics, knocking back the other half of the bottle before he spoke.

"Don't. Even think about it."

And he was walking back to the table, peeling off his gauntlets and dropping it on the table. It was a very organized mess, and he pulled a chair over and dropped onto it. His hair, wet with the cold water, fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back with his bare hands. Then, he leaned back against the chair.

"And your knowledge of the chsir's centrifugal force is remarkable. Are you quite done?"

[isitablurred]

It was still early in the night, and Bruce looked positively exhausted; the kind of exhausted that made Clark wonder whether he shouldn't just smack him in the back of his head and knock him unconscious, and leave him there for the rest of the night to sleep it all off. No, he probably had stuff to do.

Even down in the cave it was humid and warm. There were record high temperatures, and it couldn't be pleasant to drive around in hot leathers on a hot, unprotected motorbike on days like this one. He watched Bruce upend the bottle to cool down, but he could see quite clearly that the water did very little to the other man's ambient temperature, past providing a little burst of relief.

"Being childish? Never."

And he took a deep breath and exhaled all ice and cool, blowing straight at Bruce like the maw of an industrial sized air conditioner, and cooling the cave by five or six degrees in a single breath. He could have dropped the temperature all the way to freezing, but the shock of the temperature change would probably have killed Bruce. This would have to do.

"I know how an engine works, you know. You don't have to write me off as some superpowered klutz all the time."

[kingofrooks]

At the sudden wind, he closed his eyes, tipping his head back to expose as much skin as he could to the sudden cold air. Being in proximity with Clark was like being constantly in the presence of a portable temperature regulator. Heat from the eyes, cold from the mouth, and Bruce took in a breath of cool air and let it settle in his lungs, spreading out throughout his chest. He needed that chill - the nights were getting hotter, even as far north as they were, and it was starting to irritate him.

Not enough to actually affect him, though. The Port's summer nights were nothing close to Gotham's muggy, stifling and hot summers, in which a person's sweat could stay on their skin for hours simply because the air was that saturated with humidity. And the air never moved, not for entire days, until people were complaining loudly and the sale of fans and air-conditioners raise exponentially.

God, he missed his city.

It took a moment for Bruce to focus back on Clark, on what he was saying. He opened his eyes, dragging his fingers down the bridge of his nose, blinking hard as he loosed a single breath. It didn't cloud in front of him - good.

"I don't need you to fix it," he said, and that was all the explanation he was giving, really.

And he was standing up, reaching into his utility belt pocket to pull out a long strand of silver wire. And on the base of that wire hung a small piece of kryptonite, shining dark blue and glowing in the artificial light of the Cave. To Clark, it would probably remind him of Lana's necklace. Except in another colour.

"Wear this. Then I'll teach you how to fight like a human." He smirked a little. "If you pass that, you'll take it off, and the next step would be transferring those moves to be used alongside your powers."

[isitablurred]

It was a strange reaction, sure. Honestly, the only time that Clark had ever seen Bruce so very relaxed, they were about to attack SERO together. He was fluid then, all confidence and preparedness, his heartbeat placid, but only with the steadiness of anticipation. The next moment he would sweep into action, slash and punch and kick, and his heartbeat would rarely raise above that steady rhythm unless he was in mortal danger.

So as strange as the reaction was, it shouldn't surprise him. Bruce was a pretty strange man.

When Bruce raised the Kryptonite, though, heartbeat steady, he almost recoiled. Not the red of before, nor even Lana's green piece, turned crystal white by the ship. It was a shard of blue, hewn into an octahedron just as he remembered, hanging from a silver wire, where Lana's had been on a delicate jewellery chain.

And he was supposed to put it on. Willingly. Because he trusted this man.

Everything in his body screamed that no, this was a horrible idea. He'd spent his life trying to get away from pieces of Kryptonite, after all, and the few times that he had deliberately chased it down had never ended well.

The piece shone brighter as Clark stepped toward it. It always did, though only ever to him; its effect was already in place, and Clark could feel the chill in the cave as he never usually did. It was bearable. Trying not to betray his concern, or the slight hint of distrust he felt for Bruce since that incident months ago, he reached out and took the chain.

The world was full of second chances. God only knew he'd given Lex enough of them.

"You're going to enjoy this, aren't you?"

[kingofrooks]

Oh, he could already see the concern shining sharp in Clark's eyes - he had never been particularly good at hiding what he feels, especially not from Bruce. There were tells that he had already memorized from knowing him for how long he had and how much he had interacted with him.

This was, in a way, a est for himself. A way of... reaffirming, that he wouldn't be tempted to go off on his temper and hit Clark using kryptonite again. That he wouldn't cross the line again and abuse the trust this man had placed in him.

Dick had always shouted to him that trust was a two-way street. That someone who trusted him should have his trust back, and that he shouldn't take their trust for complete granted. It was something he had trouble with, and which he suspected he would always have problems with - simply because it was impossible for him to trust easily. Not when he could imagine a million and one other reasons for a person to do something for him that had nothing to do with kindness, goodwill, or trust.

But this was Clark. If there was anyone who had earned his trust in this place, it was this man.

Bruce let his hands drop to his side, looking at him for a long moment.

"No, I'm not, actually," his voice was low, and soft. Then folded his hands together and leaned back slightly. One step back, stabilizing himself better.

"You start."

[isitablurred]

"I already know that."

He'd folding his arms, stepping back from Bruce too, sizing him up. There's only a handful of men on the whole planet who would willingly get into a fistfight with Batman, and the entire list of them are clinically insane. So while he was at the very least grateful for the opportunity, for the chance of learning something out of all of this, the wariness was also there. He wasn't crazy, and he knew that without his powers, without being able to break speed down in superspeed mode, he was as good as--well, in a far less priviledged position--than any of Batman's usual opponents.

In fact, a touch of insanity might be pretty useful right about now.

The other problem was that neither he, nor Bruce, was the type of person to strike the first blow. There were no preemptive strikes, not because they were insensible, because at times when he hadn't been expected Clark had come out of nowhere and struck an opponent hard and fast enough to change the battlefield in the blink of an eye, but because you evaluated a situation. You gave your opponent a chance to surrender, to lay out their plan to you, or to attack--because if they attacked, then they left themselves open against a strong defense.

Which was why Bruce was never going to make the first move. It was why he hadn't, the last time they'd fought. He didn't know how to leave himself open.

Resolutely, Clark dropped his arms from their fold and told himself to get it over with. He swung out with a simple, direct punch, aimed solidly for Bruce's jaw.

[kingofrooks]

The problem with fighting Clark as 'only Clark' was this - the fact that Bruce would still see the shadows of Superman in the shift of his shoulders, in the briefest movements of his feet. Even when Clark had completely lost his powers, even when there was no red sunlight to take away powers that didn't exist- Bruce couldn't help but see the shield of the House of El. Simply because that was who Clark was, and that was how Clark thought, and whether or not powers were present or not, it didn't matter.

That was why it was easy enough for him to take another step back, his hand reaching out to block Clark's easy punch, his other hand grabbing hold of his wrist. The moment his fingers closed tight, he pulled him forward, and at the same time he shifted his weight entirely onto one leg, sweeping the other outwards.

If Clark reacted fast enough, he wouldn't fall on his face. Especially when Bruce released his grip on both fist and wrist.

"The first thing you need to learn is how to stand, and how to fall," he talked as he moved. "Your stance is weak - your hips move forward when you reach to punch, and as a result it's easier for you to be pulled. You're also relying on your ability to jump and float, and also on your superstrength to keep yourself from being moved."

Another step back, and he folded his hands behind him. It was the stance of many of his martial arts teachers, back in Tibet and in Thailand and in China, back when he was first learning.

"Stand properly. Feet wide, ankles loose, knees relaxed. Then try to punch me again."

[isitablurred]

It really didn't help that he was wearing it, did it? Clark stood his ground during the punch, a little like a tree might, yet unlike a tree Clark had no mastery over the gravity he'd need to stay put when Bruce pulled him forward. He stumbled, tried to find his own footing, but already he'd lost his center. The leg was the last, and he came down like a stone. His reaction times alone saved him, turning his shoulder into the ground barely, but landing hard on it. Painfully.

He was grimacing as he found his feet again, saving himself from glaring at Bruce--after all, he'd never had a teacher like this, someone to guide him, someone to show him how to stand, how to fight. For a guy who'd learnt everything he knew from experience, from combat, he wasn't that bad.

But it was true; he was dependant on his powers.

So as much as he wanted to glare and sulk, he was grateful for the chance to learn from someone who actually knew what they were talking about. This way, even if he lost his powers he'd be some use, and with the threat of blue Kryptonite here on the island, it only made sense.

He corrected his posture, as prescribed, despite the lancing pain in his shoulder, and met Bruce's eyes, unaware that the moment that he would strike could be read clearly in the concentration there. A wide stance, legs relaxed, ready to move - to flex and bend - with any response from Bruce. He drove forward with his first with a great deal of hesitation, though it was unsurity, rather than fear of pain. He could do pain.

[kingofrooks]

Pain was pain; in their world, it was a currency that was passed from hand to hand. Their bones and muscles and blood had withstood much more punishment than a normal human being ever could, and Bruce knew that if not for the strange, unexpected crossings he had with Apokoliptan technology and their advance healing machines, there would be parts of his body he couldn't even moved.

After all, he had his back broken before. And he recovered. Barely, clawing all the way- but he did. That was what mattered.

Bruce lidded his eyes for a moment, side-stepping the punching. At the same time, he ducked underneath, this time kicking outwards against Clark's hip, trying to destabilise his stance. At the same time, he reached upwards and grabbed hold of Clark's wrist again.

"Stop punching me like you think I'm going to eat your fist raw," he said dryly, his voice coming somewhere in the vicinity of Clark's armpit. "Make sure you know what you're punching at - swinging wildly is just going to open yourself up for attacks.

"Like here," he tapped against Clark's hip with a knuckle, "here," the ribs, "here," the soft skin underneath his arm. "Countless openings, really." And he flattened his hand against Clark's chest, and pushed him back.

"Do it again. Aim."

[isitablurred]

Again he fell forward, barely finding his feet again, half suspended in Bruce's grip. When he reached out underneath his outstretched arm to touch each weak point with his hand, he grimaced, well aware that he had left himself open. He didn't usually need to worry about it.

"Aren't you?"

Honestly, like this he felt that even if he did strike home, he'd break his hand. Yes, he'd had experience fist fighting without his powers before. He'd even managed to avoid breaking his fingers. The time he's spent in that Russian prison camp a few years ago had hardened him up no end, forced him to get used to the pain, demanded that he learn a few tricks. In the end his mind had been a greater asset than his strength, because the men there were strong, stronger than him by experience.

He'd almost escaped several times. In the end, Oliver had come to his rescue. Human life was cheap, it turned out.

Drawing on that experience he went again, striking out at Bruce like he was striking out at one of the guards, ducking under him like he was avoiding the butt of a rifle and driving his fist toward Bruce's gut. He stepped over, for there was little force behind the blow itself, and instead drove his head up for the other man's chin, his neck and shoulders tensed to take the blow, his arm coming in between himself and Bruce to protect his body from any counterattack.

Because he wasn't that bad--sure, his 'style' was streetbrawling, but it was a start.

[kingofrooks]

Good. Now he actually had some urgency behind his movements, fighting as if he might die if he didn't- well, Bruce wouldn't kill him, but he could inflict enough pain without any permanent damage to make Clark want to die, and he would really not go that route. Using pain only dulled pain, and made it an inefficient weapon the next time he had to use it. The best plan was to use it very, very sparingly.

In any case, Bruce let himself take the blow, throwing his head back, following the line of that hit so he wouldn't exactly feel the impact. He could feel the strength of Clark's headbutt, however, even as he reached down, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Now the next part was a little complicated.

Bruce stepped back, grabbed onto Clark's shoulder and used him as a pivot. Then, he spun around, turning on his heel until he slammed one shoulderblade against Clark's shoulder, letting go of it and at the same time moving towards Clark's back.

In a single motion, he slipped his arm around Clark's neck, his fist connecting very gently against the underside of his jaw. He popped out his thumb, and moved to the side, as if tracing his jawline- when in fact he was finding his pulse point, and pressing against his jugular vein.

"You took your eyes off me."

[isitablurred]

Even when he moves fast, he's still too slow, too clunky to do Bruce anything more than a glancing blow. If anything, he feels like Bruce is coddling him, taking the blow to be nice, rather than dodging it. He's seen him move faster than that.

Like that.

In less than a second Bruce was behind him, thumb smoothing across bare, vulnerable skin to find his pulse, pressing against it in such a way as made him instantly feel lightheaded. Like he'd just been shot. It was only the beginning of the lesson, no matter how he looked at it.

"I won't be making that mistake again."

Softly spoken, barely moving his lips, his eyes angled back as far as they could go, even though he had no chance of looking Bruce in the eye. He was in a headlock, and there were a dozen ways, under normal circumstances, that he could break out of it. But not with Bruce poised to play 'lights out' simply by pressing down a little harder.

"You're faster than they were in Siberia."

[kingofrooks]

Siberia. Now that was a leading remark. Bruce was tempted to ask him about it- about what could possibly have happened in Russia when it seemed that his world circled around Metropolis. Around Kansas, of all the places in the world.

But no. Not right now. Bruce filed that mention to the back of his head, concentrating on what was going on right here. They were training, sparring- and though Bruce's heart had barely even picked up speed, Clark's pulse was a subtle roar underneath his fingers. Bruce could kill him like this, just press his fingers against the vulnerable windpipe and snap it cleap. Anyone with a piece of blue rock could

That was why the blue rock remained entirely in Bruce's safekeeping. That was why he risked his life and now had a bounty on his head. He didn't exactly mind - none of the fools could catch him, because:

"I'm faster than anyone you'll meet," he said, voice low and quiet and amused. "At least, those who don't cheat and try to use their metahuman abilities."

Then, he let Clark go, stepping back, hands dropping to his side as he looked at him with lidded eyes.

"Try again."

[isitablurred]

And it was a story that Bruce had heard part of before. He'd died; been flown into the sun. But he hadn't told him about Montana. About 33.1. He hadn't told him about Siberia, about fighting for his life, about suffering. About walking through the Arctic snowfields barefoot, powerless.

It should have been Bruce, he thought, not Oliver. Just a small, niggling part of him that said that they were so close... That it should have been Bruce buying his life so that he could take it, giving the impression that the dirty foreigner that had been giving them so much grief was going to get his in the hands of this posh rich boy.

When Bruce let go, Clark turned around, putting distance between them again, raising his hand to rub absently at his neck. It was a prickly sort of sensation, the ghost of a touch that could have killed him. Odd, how he could feel it more now that it was gone--another thing to learn.

Faster than anyone you'll meet.

"How do you hit someone who's faster than you?"