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

[isitablurred]

He was listening; perhaps harder than he had even realised, Clark was listening for the sound of his name, whether it came from someone within the port or without it. He longed to hear Jor-El's voice, soft and reassuring: "My son." Longed to hear Bruce's reassurance so hard that he almost heard it out loud; a whisper like a shout.

"Clark."

And he would place his hand reassuringly, just for a moment, on his shoulder, and everything would be alright. Somehow he would find the strength to continue.

Clark.

But that hadn't been a whisper from a ghost, from the past, that was real. It was a real voice, the echo of it still on his eardrums, and Clark focused, listening harder, listening to...listening to a heartbeat. A heartbeat. Bruce's heartbeat, distinct and unique and racing.

AliveAliveAliveAliveAlive

The city was a blur around him, or perhaps he was a blur. A newspaper stand was disturbed by his passing, and the owner hurled abuse at him even though the sound of his shouts wouldn't catch up until long after Clark had reached the safehouse. He was faster than sound, after all. His fingers trembled as he opened the door, punched in the code too fast and had to force himself to slow down and do it all over again, deactivating the alarms. Inside he could hear soft breaths, the ticking of a clock, the beating of a heart, and he stepped forward with trepidation, gross hesitation that leapt in his chest.

He had never been this afraid before.

"I'm here."

Stepping forward mechanically, one foot at a time. It could be a trick.

[kingofrooks]

His knees seemed plastered against the concrete flooring, and his breathing was so fast. He felt like a fool, so affected. Barely hearing the quiet beep of the lock opening. Password. There was something coming in- Bruce's instincts were still sharp enough that he could scramble for a batarang, throwing it at the intruder- no, no, wait. That had to be Clark, and his wrist twisted slightly and the black blade sank into the wall.

Batarangs. Self-made, self-formed. The edges sharper, the handle larger than what he had used in Gotham. Made for killing monsters, an adjustment of design to fit the surroundings. His eyes were fixed upon the thing, the blade sank into the wood of the door, inches from Clark's face. Clark's face.

He pushed himself upwards. His legs were not weak. He wasn't weak. He refused to let that happen. Bruce gritted his teeth again, heard the sound of them grinding together and it reminded him of Sylar. Broken armour, split apart Kevlar. Clark standing in front of him. Blue kryptonite- why had he not wondered about this before? Why didn't he know?

"The blue K," his voice wasn't hoarse. Why wasn't it hoarse? He had been dead. This wasn't making any logical sense. He coughed, cleared his throat for no reason at all. His voice wasn't hoarse.

"You came here with it sticking out of your body, didn't you?" His hands clenched against Clark's front, grabbing at his chest, at the cotton cloth, nails getting caught against the fabric. He's trying to pull him down and in, eyes wild and wide, barely noticing the missing cape. The pieces were too jumbled for him to make sense of them, but this- this, he knew.

"That's why SERO has it. You were unconscious. They stole it from your body. It was a knife, wasn't it?" A shaky breath in. "A knife Zod stabbed you with." Clench, unclench. Clench.

"Luthor. What does Luthor have to do with Zod?"

[isitablurred]

The Batarang wouldn't have scratched him even if it had hit, but Clark watched it embed itself in the wall none the less. He raised his hand, brushed his fingertips against the blade in lieu of looking straight at Bruce, afraid he might see him with his head off, the way that he had seen Carrie.

But when he spoke, Clark drew his eyes around, looked at the man standing inches before him, and felt relief sink over him. He was back; frantic and shattered looking, his voice rough, but alive. Bruce grabbed him, and the jumbled words swept together into a picture.

He'd dreamt.

"You come back from the dead and the first thing you think to do is grill me? You really are--" Anything more he might say caught in his throat, and still ignoring him, Clark swung forward - down - all at once, wrapping his arms around Bruce and half lifting him off the ground as he hugged him. He closed his eyes tight, pressed his face into his neck, and just squeezed.

So much loss, but this was real. He was alive, and by god his questions didn't matter; they were questions for a life he'd left behind in Metropolis, not for now.

"None of that matters. Forget it."

[kingofrooks]

He could barely breathe, the embrace was so tight. Pressed against the alien warmth of Clark's chest, his feet raised up into tiptoes to touch the ground. Bruce's eyes went wide, and he tensed immediately, still trying to figure out his equilibrium, trying to draw the line between the real and the fake. Was the still dreaming? Clark's grasp was far too strange and unfamiliar. He had never been held like this, by a body larger and hotter than this, the thin cotton of Clark's Superman uniform separating their skin.

The shield on Clark's uniform. The shield on his chest. Matches against each other, pressed against each other almost perfectly. Almost, because his scar had healed with crooked lines. Crooked and raw and red, completely unlike the straight lines of the shield on Clark's chest.

A dragging breath inwards. Bruce didn't let his head drop against Clark's chest. Real, this had to be real. There was no experience that he ever had that would make him imagine something like this. He knew his own imagination; his own consciousness. He would not have this, in his own mind. That was not how it worked; not how he worked.

"I have to know," he rasped quietly, his voice rough from his own belief of it. His hands clenched against the top of Clark's shoulders, nails digging into invulnerable flesh before he let go. Closed his eyes and tried to steady himself- but he did not push Clark away. Warmth and heat worked better than the cold concrete floor. Clark reminded him that this was real; that this was the Port; that he was in the- physical world, and not the shadows.

Each of Clark's breath, each of his shaky inhales against too-hot skin- reminded him that he was alive. Alive, with a steady heartbeat against it. He focused on that. Steady beats, trying to calm the roar of his own heart.

"It's all mixed up together. I can't tell which is yours and which is mine." He tipped his head up, snapped his eyes open- fixed them on Clark.

"You had the same dream, didn't you?"

[isitablurred]

Of course he had to know; of course. Clark loosened his grip just a little bit, tilting his head back so that Bruce could look straight at him. "You know my memory is crystal clear; I can tell you the details almost as I dreamed them, but the reality itself is so much more complicated."

Too many words for an impossibly complicated situation. He almost didn't hear himself speak past the first few, so instead he shifted, lifted Bruce clean off his feet and carried him - fully expecting him to fight it - from the cold stairwell all the way to the cot in the next room; the same one he'd laid him down in as a child.

"Stay there and stay still for a second." X-ray vision. His eyes scanned Bruce for a few moments, then he crouched down beside the bed.

"Your arm was broken when I found you." I found you. He looked back up, anxious for a moment, then quickly away again. "It seems to be healed now, but... You were dead, weren't you? All this time."

It was an awful thing to say, no less so because it brought the great weight of everything crashing back down on him, pressing in like a train driving him into a wall. Bruce had been dead and he was alive. Alive, with his heart beating against Clark's hand--when had his hand fallen back on Bruce's chest? It was as though he was marvelling at it.

"I dreamed about you, and I dreamed about Krypton. Memories. You saw my parents; Lara and Jor-El. You saw Lex, possessed by Zod, before I threw his Phantom back into the Zone, and you saw Zod--the Kandorian clone, the night I risked everything to protect the world."

He dropped his arm back to his side.

"And your dream, Bruce; your mother's pearls. I felt her tears under my fingers, and watched maggots devour your children. Your fears--I felt them too. I can still feel them, like I can feel the cold, dank darkness of the cave. Most people don't dream the way that I do--that we do."

[kingofrooks]

Bruce had fought, of course, pushing back against Clark. But it was a distracted kind of fighting, and he had stopped with his hand right about the El shield, above Clark's heart, and started to breathe according to each thump against his hand. In, out, in, out. It was as if Clark's heartbeat was the only thing that was anchoring him to reality.

He had to snap out of this. There were words. Answers to his questions. Bruce let himself sink into the cot, looking at Clark with dull, blank eyes. He blinked once, twice- sucked in a breath and concentrated just as Clark mentioned that he found his body. With a broken arm. It was Clark who had found his body, who had- made sure that he didn't return as a Darkness monster as Carrie had. It was Clark who had found his body after he had made such a mistake. When he had underestimated Sylar and died for it- did he die, really? Even if there was a body, he still breathed now. He still lived. His heart was roaring too loudly in his ears for him to not be living. For him to be dead- he couldn't even believe he was there.

He made a mistake. He should have paid for it. That was the price of his mortality - he could not make mistakes. Not a single one- and yet, he had made a fatal one. He had died, and now he was back here. Alive, by the whims of a Core; of something that he had no control over. Something that the Port refused (or could not) tell him about. He was alive by the whims of someone else, his life and death controlled by something else. Something he had no idea was even real or not. His breathing was speeding up again but he made a mistake, a grave mistake. Sylar broke his arm and murdered him just like he had Carrie and Bruce did not pay for it.

No. He had to think about that later. Clark was speaking again, of Kandorian clones. Of a Lex Luthor possessed. A Phantom in a Zone- the Phantom Zone. Differences in their worlds. Bruce's own memories- the Cave. The corpses. The maggots and the pearls. His mother. Lara. He had not dreamt alone. Dreams- dreams and memories and realities and his hand was shaking. Information overload. But he had to know more. He had to.

Bruce took a breath and reached out again. Fingers sliding slowly over Clark's cheek, cupping his face like he was a very young child, following the line of his cheekbone. Just once, before he dropped his hand.

"There were others," he murmured quietly, and closed his eyes again. Breathed out. His heart was still thundering. "Other dreams."

Silence. He reached forward and slid Clark's NV out of a hidden pocket, turning it in his hand to check the date. He didn't even think to ask for it- not now- two weeks. He had been gone for two whole weeks. Too long. He didn't have enough information. He need to know more and he knew too much.

"Tell me what happened," he said, and his shoulders straightened. Every breath he took was steel, sinking into his bones and flesh. He willed his hands to stop shaking. "Tell me everything."

[isitablurred]

The touch was soft, and familiar, and just for a moment Clark realised exactly what he was; a grounding force, familiar in his unfamiliarity, and a reminder that the Port was real. He understood the words that had not been spoken, the reason why Bruce had called him here rather than anyone else, and he made himself a little more comfortable on the floor, giving up his NV without hesitation.

"Joker died, first of all. Threw himself into the sea--Re-l saw it happen. Jason went off the deep end a little, and the others, they're holding themselves together. Black Bat helped--she was amazing with the boys. I... Don't know all the details, but Spike went after Jason one night, and Dick--Dick took it hard. He seemed to think it was all a trick, a test or something."

Clark exhaled, pausing, knowing full well none of this was what Bruce really wanted to hear.

"The dreams started just after the expedition to the Missionworth Lighthouse set off. Everyone dreaming together. It's been going on all week. Dreaming of the lighthouse intermittently, standing in on the dreams of others. I saw your dream but..." He had been in denial; hadn't believed it was really Bruce's. How could it be when he was dead?

He found himself reaching out again just to make sure, his own hand finding Bruce's, closing around both it and the NV as though to keep him from posting anything, from sending out for Robins, or pizza, or whatever it was you needed to do most urgently after dying.

"Do you need to go back to the cave?"

[kingofrooks]

The Joker was dead. Dick took it hard- he would have to convince the boy that it was truly him, then; that it was not a trick or a test and he had really return. Jason- Jason was a mess. Their relationship was a mess that Bruce didn't want to touch yet. A lighthouse. Dreams. He had been gone two weeks and the Port is screaming again, needing his help. Bruce needed to find his feet again; need to find his center again. There was no time to waste.

But he couldn't. He could barely breathe right, and every single time his heart thumb against his head he could feel his temple slicing open again, the blood spilling out. He was surprised - and oddly grateful - that that part wasn't part of the dream. It wasn't something he would have ever shared with anyone; nor would he subject anyone else to that experience, second-hand or not.

He breathed against Clark's chest, hard sharp breaths against the El shield. His hand loosened around the NV, clenching against Clark's wrist, knowing that it was weakness but needing the warmth, the solidity, the truth that this man was different from the one he knew back home. That he was real. That this was not a dream. That he was alive; alive and breathing and out of danger. That there was no blood in his mouth or his throat or his head.

"Not right now," his words were barely audible, but that didn't matter when it came to Clark. He dropped his head against Clark's shoulder again, pulling him up and close to him, stealing his warmth because he felt too cold. Like he was still a corpse. "I can't let them see me like this."

Fallen apart. Gone to pieces. Uncertain of reality; unable to find his own equilibrium.

No, he couldn't.

[isitablurred]

Clark wasn't sure he could move away; even if he wanted to, Bruce needed this, and so instead of letting him go, he just let his arms close further around Bruce's back, holding the other man to his chest. He'd been killed - ruthlessly, horribly - and somehow this was anchoring him. Truly, it was the least he could do, and somehow it made it easier for him too. The last time he'd held Bruce, he'd been a cold, stiff, lifeless body. Right now, he felt almost as though he was about to cry, and Clark might join him if he did. Emotion and stress all reaching their pinnacle, like a wave, and the only way was down was to come crashing together.

He breathed in the man's hair, let his eyes flutter closed, let his shoulders fall from the stoic straightness that he'd bourne for the last fortnight, and just held him, because it was all he could do to make it better.

And Bruce was alive; Bruce's heart beat against his chest, his breath was hot and slightly wet through the cotton of his costume, his hair was soft, and his skin was warm and clammy.

He would stay there for as long as Bruce needed him to stay there. He would stay there until Bruce gathered himself and let him go, or until comfort ran into peaceful sleep--he deserved to sleep peacefully, to leave off living for just a little longer.

[kingofrooks]

The tights made it hard for him to have a proper grip, and Bruce's hands were nerveless again. He could barely curl them into a fist, so he just gave up on that, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Clark's neck, leaning against him with his entire weight, almost hanging off of him, trying to find a rock in the storm. His mind refused to calm still, running in circles and circles, chasing his death-memories, the dreams, the thousand and one questions. There were so many things that he needed to find out, that he needed to know.

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.

[isitablurred]

Clark was almost content himself to stay just like that; as much as he knew that this was for Bruce's good, there was a part of him that needed it himself, that had struggled for the last few weeks without anyone there to lend him the strength and wisdom he needed, even if he'd never actually needed or relied upon it before. Like losing his father, losing Bruce was like having a rug pulled from underneath him, leaving him with a struggling family and a building sense of loss.

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.

[kingofrooks]

Bruce took the cup of coffee and stepped back. Back a little more until his knees hit against the edge of the bed and he sat down, hard. His mind was still curiously blank, emptied of anything of substance- he took a long, ragged breath inwards, closing his eyes. His shoulders remained stubbornly strong, straight, tension seeping into every single pore- but that was alright. He needed that. It was- something that he was used to, and he needed familiarity right now.

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.

[isitablurred]

Clark stared for a moment as Bruce shot the coffee back. It wasn't steaming hot, but it wasn't just warm either--must have burned. Still, despite dropping the mug he seemed a lot more alive when he looked back at Clark, and he blushed, looking away.

"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."

[kingofrooks]

That post. Bruce almost winced, because he knew that it wasn't the best thing he could have done. But he had to keep his secret identity and not let it be obvious that Bruce Wayne was Batman- because it would be extremely obvious if Wayne disappeared at the same time Batman's death was announced. The post would establish that he was 'alive', if only for shortest while... and he knew that it would remind the people around him- those in the know- the truth.

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."

[isitablurred]

Again Clark was close, again with his hands on Bruce's shoulders, only this time rather than hug him he gave him a hard, firm shake. His eyes were fixed, dogged.

"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."

[kingofrooks]

It took him some effort to not turn his head towards that hand, to chase its heat and solidity as Clark pulled it away. Bruce closed his eyes slightly and let himself fall backwards, catching himself with his palms against the bed, staring back at the ceiling again.

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."