I'll find repose in new ways though I haven't slept in two days
Who: Clark Kent and Spike
When: 17th, just after the log with Jason and Spike
Where: Streets etc.
Summary: Clark doesn't interfere as things take their natural course, but he does try to pick up the pieces.
Warnings: Language, probably.
The overall voice of the city was different than it had been before. When his mind had cleared after losing Bruce, he'd begun to be able to hear it; distractingly different. People were colder, angrier. People were dying, hurting, acheing. He heard them when they cried, and thought that nobody could hear them. He heard them stop, and hold their breath, and hitch back a sob before they challenged their next breath. He heard them softly mutter a reverant word to themselves, and Clark knew how lonely they felt, even when it was the same word muttered from half a dozen different people.
The dreaming hadn't helped with that Portside unity. Shared emotions rose even from the bed; people who got up on the same side, woke with the same shivers, fought back the same feelings. Clark woke with them too, even when he slept late in the morning. They were inescapable, and tonight... Tonight he had woken himself after the first dream and flown out into the night, swearing not to close his eyes again until at least mid afternoon the next day. No way.
He listened to Dick, to Tim and Damian, to Cass. He listened to Jason. He listened, and he stayed away, knowing he was unwelcome, knowing that interrupting would change nothing. He saved a young family - a mother and her toddler - from where they had holed up in a run down building, thinking that it would protect them from the Darkness. When he flew back again, he sought out Spike where he'd heard the voices last.
Out of touch--he was out of touch. What had he missed, caught up in his own grief? How much had he failed the people closest to him? The gentlest landing--still capeless.
When: 17th, just after the log with Jason and Spike
Where: Streets etc.
Summary: Clark doesn't interfere as things take their natural course, but he does try to pick up the pieces.
Warnings: Language, probably.
The overall voice of the city was different than it had been before. When his mind had cleared after losing Bruce, he'd begun to be able to hear it; distractingly different. People were colder, angrier. People were dying, hurting, acheing. He heard them when they cried, and thought that nobody could hear them. He heard them stop, and hold their breath, and hitch back a sob before they challenged their next breath. He heard them softly mutter a reverant word to themselves, and Clark knew how lonely they felt, even when it was the same word muttered from half a dozen different people.
The dreaming hadn't helped with that Portside unity. Shared emotions rose even from the bed; people who got up on the same side, woke with the same shivers, fought back the same feelings. Clark woke with them too, even when he slept late in the morning. They were inescapable, and tonight... Tonight he had woken himself after the first dream and flown out into the night, swearing not to close his eyes again until at least mid afternoon the next day. No way.
He listened to Dick, to Tim and Damian, to Cass. He listened to Jason. He listened, and he stayed away, knowing he was unwelcome, knowing that interrupting would change nothing. He saved a young family - a mother and her toddler - from where they had holed up in a run down building, thinking that it would protect them from the Darkness. When he flew back again, he sought out Spike where he'd heard the voices last.
Out of touch--he was out of touch. What had he missed, caught up in his own grief? How much had he failed the people closest to him? The gentlest landing--still capeless.