Music of the Spheres 5: Disorientations
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Notes: "Music of the Spheres" is a series set in the combined universes of "Batman Begins" and "Superman Returns." Other stories and notes on the series here.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bruce decides to take Clark by surprise by arranging for them to meet a contact at a cutting-edge Gotham nightclub. Bruce needs a distraction. Clark provides one.
Word Count: 3280
I heard the sweep
Of mighty wings, that in their waving keep
The music that the spheres make endlessly...
(Philip Bourke Marston)
Batman stood on top of the Metropolis building where he had met Superman a few days earlier. He didn't particularly feel like calling out for the Kryptonian's attention, so he simply stood there and hoped that eventually the alien would notice him.
He hadn't waited for very long before Superman floated up to the roof, perching with inhuman grace on the railing. Kal crossed his arms and eyed him in a way that Batman would have called "warily" if the other party weren't invulnerable.
"Any leads on the WayneTech building?"
"I've tracked down the company that made the explosives and I suspect it's got links to Luthor."
Superman looked puzzled. "Why would Luthor want to destroy his partner's building?"
"Maybe he wants to keep Wayne guessing, paranoid. He's probably assured Wayne that he's the only one who can keep him safe." This was, as a matter of fact, true. "It's a way of keeping Wayne cowed and in line, since he's not the brightest to begin with."
Now the alien's chiseled mouth tightened in obvious irritation, but he said nothing.
"You've been keeping an eye on that rig? Any sign that it's found anything interesting?"
"Again, I'd have no reason to inform you if it had, but as far as I can tell, no."
Batman felt frustration rise in him as he looked at that remote face in the moonlight. "Superman. Kal. Whatever it is, I don't want to get my hands on it to hurt you."
"Oh?" Disbelief freighted the clear, deep voice.
"It's just...a precaution. What if someone found a way to control you, somehow? You're so powerful, Kal. You can't blame humanity for being concerned."
"And by 'humanity,' you mean...?"
There was a long pause. Superman descended onto the roof fully, his feet landing with the softest of thuds, and looked up at the stars. "Sometimes...I'm amazed anyone trusts me at all. I'm not human. How can people know my motivations? I'm so different." He sounded, briefly, very tired.
Batman felt a perverse impulse grip him, maybe a knee-jerk tendency to disagree with anything the alien said. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not that mysterious and inscrutible. You rescue kittens from trees. Little kids from traffic accidents. You might be an alien, but you obviously care about the same things we do. You value humans, even if you weren't raised as one."
Kal's face was still in the silver light, completely expressionless, looking up at the sky and not meeting Batman's eyes.
Batman shrugged, suddenly almost embarrassed. "Not that I trust you to stay, or to remain satisfied with serving us instead of ruling us. I'm just saying." He stopped there because he wasn't sure what he was saying. He made a mental note not to let irritation prompt him into making speeches merely for the sake of argument in the future.
Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. "You wanted to have some way we could get in touch with each other. Here." He wanted to get back to Gotham very badly all of a sudden.
Superman took the little device he held out. "What is it?"
"It's a pager of sorts. Transmits voice across a secure frequency. Lets you get in touch with me if you need to."
"Or you to get in touch with me."
"Unlikely." Superman nodded gravely at Batman's flat statement and pocketed the tiny device somehow. Batman couldn't see any pockets in the outfit, but it was gone. "I'm getting back to Gotham now." He disappeared into the shadows as best as one could when dealing with super-hearing and x-ray vision.
A couple of hours later, speeding in his roadster back toward Gotham, Bruce Wayne heard the little pager chirp. He picked it up, dropped his voice to Batman register. "Kal?"
"Batman?" A pause. "Thank you."
Batman grunted and closed the connection. Bruce Wayne stepped on the gas. Clark usually got in to his hotel room around now and he wanted to check on the reporter.
: : :
Clark Kent sipped his morning coffee, grimacing at its bitterness. As soon as he started up his laptop and connected to the Internet, a chat window popped up. Bruce Wayne. Clark hadn't heard from Bruce for a couple of days, since they had parted with Bruce promising to look into the lead he had gotten at the soup kitchen. Now it seemed the lead had panned out somewhat. Bruce had a time and place to meet someone who might have known someone who was involved in the bombing. Was Clark interested in coming along?
Count me in. Clark certainly wasn't going to let Bruce keep risking his skin in some foolhardy adventure on his own.
The meeting was this evening, at some sort of Gotham club. Bruce gave him the name and address. What should I wear to blend in?
A delay. Oh, anything is fine. Something comfortable.
After Bruce signed off, Clark frowned and typed the club name into Google. He stared at the club's home page, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused. Something comfortable. Bastard.
After a while, amusement won out. Clark drained his coffee, paid up for his access time, and left the café. He had some errands to run.
: : :
Bruce Wayne waited outside the club for Clark to show up, lounging against a wall and watching the club's exotically-dressed and glittering patrons come in and out. He chuckled slightly to himself. It was probably cruel of him to leave the reporter in the dark about the nature of this club, but he needed Clark to provide a distraction, and it would work better if the country mouse didn't know what he was getting into.
Bruce's ensemble--a black mesh shirt with leather lacing at the neck, black leather duster and pants--was almost embarrassingly tame for a cutting-edge cross-dressing bar. He had to admit he was looking forward to seeing how a sweatshirt and jeans would go over here. It would probably be applauded as an ironic postmodern statement. Bruce was so busy scanning the crowd for Clark's familiar "Smallville" logo that he didn't notice one of the more exotically-dressed patrons walking up to him.
"Bruce?" said the man in Clark's voice.
Clark Kent was dressed in a flowing shirt of some glimmering golden cloth, brushed with a feathery pattern and open at the neck. Midnight-blue velvet pants tied with a wide sash and laced-up leather boots completed the outfit. He had traded in the heavy black glasses for something oval and lilac-colored; behind them his blue eyes were lined with metallic gilt, the lids painted with peacock-blue. His dark hair was so thick with gold dust that it gleamed in the streetlights. The effect should probably have been effeminate; it was not. Rather, Clark seemed to have transcended gender altogether. With his high cheekbones, pale skin and chiseled lips, he looked ethereal, otherworldly. Bruce felt a shiver go up his spine.
Then the other man ducked his head and smiled, Clark's familiar aw-shucks smile, and Bruce felt himself back on more familiar ground. He realized he was staring unabashedly and pulled his eyes away to case the crowd of patrons--who seemed much more mundane now.
"Nice outfit," said Clark. "You should wear leather more often, it suits you."
Bruce hid his smile and gave Clark an exaggeratedly appreciative once-over. "I've got nothing on you. That's...impressive."
Clark merely smiled rather enigmatically. "When should the person you're planning on meeting get here?"
"We're about fifteen minutes early."
"Well, I'm just glad it was tonight. I just got word this afternoon I'm to go back to Metropolis tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Well, I've finished collecting the information I needed to, wrote that background story...I've done all that I can do here."
Bruce felt at a loss. "It just seems kind of...sudden."
Clark grinned, turquoise blue eyeshadow glinting in the light as his eyes creased. "Gotham's a great city to visit, Bruce, but I don't think I could live here." He looked directly at Bruce, his gold-streaked hair falling almost into his eyes, his face serious again. "Don't worry, I'll keep in touch." Before Bruce could respond, Clark turned and made his way into the club.
Inside the club itself the crowd surged in a tumultuous wave of glitter, latex, and metal. High-pitched electronic music throbbed urgently and plaintively, with a trance-like rhythm. Bruce leaned against the bar and ordered them both drinks. Clark drank his gingerly, looking rather like a blue-and-gold butterfly sipping nectar. Finally Bruce spotted his contact. He grabbed Clark. "I need you to go dance."
Clark stared at him. "What?"
"I need to talk to that guy over there, and I need to be seen doing it by as few people as possible. Thus, I need a diversion."
"You think my dancing will provide a diversion...here?" Clark indicated the seething frenzy of exotic people.
"Clark, looking like that, you could distract God himself, I suspect." He kept his voice light and tried not to notice the sudden high color in those incredible cheekbones. Clark looked like he wasn't sure if he'd been complimented or insulted. He took another sip of his drink, then suddenly looked worried.
"But I don't know how to dance."
"Huh?"
"I don't know how to dance, Bruce. I've never danced before in my life."
"Are you kidding me?"
Clark shot him a glittering look. "Bruce, do you know why good Midwestern Christians disapprove of sex?"
"Um..."
"Because they're afraid it might lead to dancing." The look was definitely sly for a moment, then it sobered again. "But seriously, I have no idea how to dance."
Bruce waved his hands helplessly, indicating the frenetic dance floor. "Dancing is...just dancing. You just close your eyes and hear the music and move your body the way the music wants you to."
Clark looked at him gravely. "I can try."
Bruce clapped a friendly hand on the other man's shoulder. Gold fabric slipped under his fingers like liquid. "I'm sure you'll do your best." He pushed Clark slightly toward the dance floor and started to make his way toward the contact.
Clark walked toward the dance floor. He knew he must look strange in all this silky, velvety fabric. The music was insistent and repetitive. He was fairly sure, if he remembered correctly, that a good Kansas farm boy shouldn't feel comfortable in these clothes, shouldn't feel like they fit him better than the suits he wore every day.
He hesitated on the edge of the crowd of dancers, shooting a look back at Bruce. The playboy might not realize it, but he was entirely transfigured by his outfit as well, tame as it might be here. The mesh and leather seemed to pare away everything affected and superfluous about him, leaving only a sense of predatory grace. He had brushed his hair in long strands on his forehead and along his face; his only adornments were the dark kohl smudged around his eyes and one dangling earring with a pale moonstone in it, glowing against his cheek. He looked back, saw Clark hesitating, and gave him a reassuring smile.
Clark stepped onto the floor. People were already looking at him. Just close your eyes and hear the music and move your body the way the music wants you to.
Clark closed his eyes.
Kal heard the music.
: : :
Clark was dancing. Bruce supposed it was dancing. It seemed to be part dancing, and a good part--a very good part--sex, and part...skating? Swimming?
After a while, he managed to tear his eyes away and back to the contact. Who was also staring at Clark, like almost everyone in the room. Annoyed, Bruce snapped his fingers at the man. "Hey, eyes here." The man--who was friends with a man who had planted the explosives that had leveled WayneCorp's offices--gave Bruce some information and some names, in between sneaking glances at Clark. Then he scuttled off.
Business out of the way, Bruce turned back to watching Clark. As he watched the man dance, his eyes closed, lost in the music, Bruce suddenly felt a suspicion seize him. It seemed impossible, but he forced himself to look at it seriously. The more he considered it, the more he had to admit that it was oddly plausible. It explained so much--Clark's diffident ways, the feeling that he was always keeping something hidden, his shyness and remoteness, the incredible physique he kept hidden under those ill-cut suits.
Not that Bruce had been paying attention to his physique.
Once he had seen it, the enigma that was Clark suddenly made perfect sense, the pieces fell into place, and Bruce cursed himself for an idiot for not having seen it sooner.
It might seem far-fetched, but was it not possible that Clark Kent...was gay?
He would, of course, be in the closet--Metropolis was a much more straight-laced town than many, and Clark wouldn't want to risk his job.
Watching Clark dancing, breathtaking and exotic, Bruce felt a pang thinking what it must be like, growing up in a small Midwestern town and knowing in your heart you were so different. As a teenager, Bruce had learned--somewhat to his chagrin--that in "The City that Makes San Francisco Blush," being bisexual warranted barely a raised eyebrow. But in America's heartland, Clark must have always felt isolated, alone. He had grown up surrounded by people who saw an important part of him as not even human. Bruce ached to think of the life the young Clark must have lived, always hiding something, learning to deny that side of himself and keep it locked away. He looked at Clark, his face rapt and lovely, the way his body moved beneath the velvet and the shining cloth.
How could anyone deny something so beautiful?
Another song began and Bruce realized that he had been watching Clark for some time now, and the other man had never stopped dancing or even opened his eyes. He didn't even seem slightly out of breath. Most of the patrons of the club were still watching him in open fascination. Bruce felt--something--flicker through him, but he wouldn't look at it closely. He just knew that he didn't like having all those people watching Clark. Admittedly, he had sent the man out as a diversion, but that diversion was over now, and no one should be staring at Clark except--well, no one should be staring at Clark.
He made his way onto the floor and up to Clark, speaking loudly to overcome the sound of the music still ebbing and flowing around them. "Clark, you can stop now." The other man didn't seem to hear him. "Clark? That's probably enough. Hello? Clark?" Still no response. The other man continued his strange, weaving dance, lost in whatever world he had entered. "Clark!"
Almost alarmed now, Bruce put out his hands and grabbed Clark's shoulders. Clark's blue eyes leapt open in shock and he stopped dead, one hip coming to rest slightly against Bruce's. He blinked. "Bruce?" His voice was strange and distant. He shook his head sharply, once, then twice; golden dust rose from his hair like an aureole.
Bruce continued to hold him by one shoulder, steering him toward the bar. "Come on, let's get you sitting down." Clark followed meekly, his eyes dazed. He sat down but stared straight ahead, blankly, until Bruce waved a hand in front of his eyes. "Earth to Clark? Come in, Clark." Then he shook his head again, more slowly.
"I...I don't think that was a very good idea."
Bruce spoke lightly to try and mask the disquiet he felt. "Are you kidding? As a distraction, it was stellar."
Clark closed his eyes. "Stellar. Ha ha." It wasn't a laugh; he articulated the syllables as if he had read in a book somewhere that "ha ha" meant laughing, and was mouthing the sounds by rote now.
It must be a reaction to the noise and the crowds and lights. Maybe he was allergic to all that damn gold dust in his hair. Bruce tried to pull him back with some conversation. "Have you ever tried dancing like that with a partner, Clark?"
Clark opened his eyes again. They looked less...eldritch...now, but horribly tired. "I don't...I don't think that's actually possible."
"Nonsense. Any dance can be danced with a partner."
"Maybe not that one."
"You just haven't met the right partner then. I'd love to see it when you do, someday." He eyed Clark's exhausted face, then stood up and pulled the reporter from his seat. "Come on, I'm taking you back to your hotel room."
: : :
To walk: to move by advancing the feet alternately so that there is always one foot on the ground in bipedal locomotion. Clark was walking. One foot on the ground at all times. First the right foot. Then the left foot. Right foot, left foot. See Clark walk. Walk, Clark, walk. Bruce was beside him. Right foot. Left foot. Each one had to hit the ground before the other one could be picked up. It seemed like a very long walk.
Eventually they reached Clark's hotel. Bruce followed him in without being invited and pulled him into the bathroom when he tried to go lie down. "No, I want to get that glitter out of your hair. I think it's what's making you sick." He got Clark on his knees next to the bathtub and started to run the water. "So this is the mysterious bathroom," Kal heard him mutter over the gushing water.
Clark was pushed, unresisting, over the edge of the bathtub. He felt warm water sluicing over his head, felt Bruce's hands stroking through his hair to get all the gold out of it. By the time Bruce was rubbing his hair with a towel, Kal had pulled himself together enough to make the other man leave the bathroom while he changed. He hadn't been wearing the costume due to the low neck of his club clothes, but he still didn't really feel like getting undressed like a child by Bruce Wayne.
He emerged from the bathroom to find Bruce standing by the bed, the sheets turned down. "Lie down and promise me you'll get some sleep, not get back up and work when I leave."
Kal was too tired and distracted to argue. He nodded and crawled into bed; Bruce pulled the sheets up around him. He felt Bruce's hand on his shoulder.
"I'm going to let you try and get some sleep now, Clark." He squeezed Clark's shoulder. "I'll..." He paused. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, okay?" Kal nodded again, only half-listening. He heard the door shut.
Kal lay in bed...Clark lay in bed, trying to sleep. Eventually he put his pillow over his head, but that was ridiculous and didn't help at all. It was much worse than usual tonight.
Most of the time he could manage to lull himself to sleep by imagining concrete sensations. Usually it was the feel of soil in his hands, the smell of earth, the sound of the wind in the cornfields. He could fill his mind with them and that would help.
Tonight, however, it was the feel of water in his hair, and hands as warm and gentle as water, and Bruce Wayne's soft voice reassuring him. At some point, it was enough to lead him into something like sleep, away from the stars.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Notes: "Music of the Spheres" is a series set in the combined universes of "Batman Begins" and "Superman Returns." Other stories and notes on the series here.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bruce decides to take Clark by surprise by arranging for them to meet a contact at a cutting-edge Gotham nightclub. Bruce needs a distraction. Clark provides one.
Word Count: 3280
I heard the sweep
Of mighty wings, that in their waving keep
The music that the spheres make endlessly...
(Philip Bourke Marston)
Batman stood on top of the Metropolis building where he had met Superman a few days earlier. He didn't particularly feel like calling out for the Kryptonian's attention, so he simply stood there and hoped that eventually the alien would notice him.
He hadn't waited for very long before Superman floated up to the roof, perching with inhuman grace on the railing. Kal crossed his arms and eyed him in a way that Batman would have called "warily" if the other party weren't invulnerable.
"Any leads on the WayneTech building?"
"I've tracked down the company that made the explosives and I suspect it's got links to Luthor."
Superman looked puzzled. "Why would Luthor want to destroy his partner's building?"
"Maybe he wants to keep Wayne guessing, paranoid. He's probably assured Wayne that he's the only one who can keep him safe." This was, as a matter of fact, true. "It's a way of keeping Wayne cowed and in line, since he's not the brightest to begin with."
Now the alien's chiseled mouth tightened in obvious irritation, but he said nothing.
"You've been keeping an eye on that rig? Any sign that it's found anything interesting?"
"Again, I'd have no reason to inform you if it had, but as far as I can tell, no."
Batman felt frustration rise in him as he looked at that remote face in the moonlight. "Superman. Kal. Whatever it is, I don't want to get my hands on it to hurt you."
"Oh?" Disbelief freighted the clear, deep voice.
"It's just...a precaution. What if someone found a way to control you, somehow? You're so powerful, Kal. You can't blame humanity for being concerned."
"And by 'humanity,' you mean...?"
There was a long pause. Superman descended onto the roof fully, his feet landing with the softest of thuds, and looked up at the stars. "Sometimes...I'm amazed anyone trusts me at all. I'm not human. How can people know my motivations? I'm so different." He sounded, briefly, very tired.
Batman felt a perverse impulse grip him, maybe a knee-jerk tendency to disagree with anything the alien said. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not that mysterious and inscrutible. You rescue kittens from trees. Little kids from traffic accidents. You might be an alien, but you obviously care about the same things we do. You value humans, even if you weren't raised as one."
Kal's face was still in the silver light, completely expressionless, looking up at the sky and not meeting Batman's eyes.
Batman shrugged, suddenly almost embarrassed. "Not that I trust you to stay, or to remain satisfied with serving us instead of ruling us. I'm just saying." He stopped there because he wasn't sure what he was saying. He made a mental note not to let irritation prompt him into making speeches merely for the sake of argument in the future.
Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. "You wanted to have some way we could get in touch with each other. Here." He wanted to get back to Gotham very badly all of a sudden.
Superman took the little device he held out. "What is it?"
"It's a pager of sorts. Transmits voice across a secure frequency. Lets you get in touch with me if you need to."
"Or you to get in touch with me."
"Unlikely." Superman nodded gravely at Batman's flat statement and pocketed the tiny device somehow. Batman couldn't see any pockets in the outfit, but it was gone. "I'm getting back to Gotham now." He disappeared into the shadows as best as one could when dealing with super-hearing and x-ray vision.
A couple of hours later, speeding in his roadster back toward Gotham, Bruce Wayne heard the little pager chirp. He picked it up, dropped his voice to Batman register. "Kal?"
"Batman?" A pause. "Thank you."
Batman grunted and closed the connection. Bruce Wayne stepped on the gas. Clark usually got in to his hotel room around now and he wanted to check on the reporter.
: : :
Clark Kent sipped his morning coffee, grimacing at its bitterness. As soon as he started up his laptop and connected to the Internet, a chat window popped up. Bruce Wayne. Clark hadn't heard from Bruce for a couple of days, since they had parted with Bruce promising to look into the lead he had gotten at the soup kitchen. Now it seemed the lead had panned out somewhat. Bruce had a time and place to meet someone who might have known someone who was involved in the bombing. Was Clark interested in coming along?
Count me in. Clark certainly wasn't going to let Bruce keep risking his skin in some foolhardy adventure on his own.
The meeting was this evening, at some sort of Gotham club. Bruce gave him the name and address. What should I wear to blend in?
A delay. Oh, anything is fine. Something comfortable.
After Bruce signed off, Clark frowned and typed the club name into Google. He stared at the club's home page, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused. Something comfortable. Bastard.
After a while, amusement won out. Clark drained his coffee, paid up for his access time, and left the café. He had some errands to run.
: : :
Bruce Wayne waited outside the club for Clark to show up, lounging against a wall and watching the club's exotically-dressed and glittering patrons come in and out. He chuckled slightly to himself. It was probably cruel of him to leave the reporter in the dark about the nature of this club, but he needed Clark to provide a distraction, and it would work better if the country mouse didn't know what he was getting into.
Bruce's ensemble--a black mesh shirt with leather lacing at the neck, black leather duster and pants--was almost embarrassingly tame for a cutting-edge cross-dressing bar. He had to admit he was looking forward to seeing how a sweatshirt and jeans would go over here. It would probably be applauded as an ironic postmodern statement. Bruce was so busy scanning the crowd for Clark's familiar "Smallville" logo that he didn't notice one of the more exotically-dressed patrons walking up to him.
"Bruce?" said the man in Clark's voice.
Clark Kent was dressed in a flowing shirt of some glimmering golden cloth, brushed with a feathery pattern and open at the neck. Midnight-blue velvet pants tied with a wide sash and laced-up leather boots completed the outfit. He had traded in the heavy black glasses for something oval and lilac-colored; behind them his blue eyes were lined with metallic gilt, the lids painted with peacock-blue. His dark hair was so thick with gold dust that it gleamed in the streetlights. The effect should probably have been effeminate; it was not. Rather, Clark seemed to have transcended gender altogether. With his high cheekbones, pale skin and chiseled lips, he looked ethereal, otherworldly. Bruce felt a shiver go up his spine.
Then the other man ducked his head and smiled, Clark's familiar aw-shucks smile, and Bruce felt himself back on more familiar ground. He realized he was staring unabashedly and pulled his eyes away to case the crowd of patrons--who seemed much more mundane now.
"Nice outfit," said Clark. "You should wear leather more often, it suits you."
Bruce hid his smile and gave Clark an exaggeratedly appreciative once-over. "I've got nothing on you. That's...impressive."
Clark merely smiled rather enigmatically. "When should the person you're planning on meeting get here?"
"We're about fifteen minutes early."
"Well, I'm just glad it was tonight. I just got word this afternoon I'm to go back to Metropolis tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Well, I've finished collecting the information I needed to, wrote that background story...I've done all that I can do here."
Bruce felt at a loss. "It just seems kind of...sudden."
Clark grinned, turquoise blue eyeshadow glinting in the light as his eyes creased. "Gotham's a great city to visit, Bruce, but I don't think I could live here." He looked directly at Bruce, his gold-streaked hair falling almost into his eyes, his face serious again. "Don't worry, I'll keep in touch." Before Bruce could respond, Clark turned and made his way into the club.
Inside the club itself the crowd surged in a tumultuous wave of glitter, latex, and metal. High-pitched electronic music throbbed urgently and plaintively, with a trance-like rhythm. Bruce leaned against the bar and ordered them both drinks. Clark drank his gingerly, looking rather like a blue-and-gold butterfly sipping nectar. Finally Bruce spotted his contact. He grabbed Clark. "I need you to go dance."
Clark stared at him. "What?"
"I need to talk to that guy over there, and I need to be seen doing it by as few people as possible. Thus, I need a diversion."
"You think my dancing will provide a diversion...here?" Clark indicated the seething frenzy of exotic people.
"Clark, looking like that, you could distract God himself, I suspect." He kept his voice light and tried not to notice the sudden high color in those incredible cheekbones. Clark looked like he wasn't sure if he'd been complimented or insulted. He took another sip of his drink, then suddenly looked worried.
"But I don't know how to dance."
"Huh?"
"I don't know how to dance, Bruce. I've never danced before in my life."
"Are you kidding me?"
Clark shot him a glittering look. "Bruce, do you know why good Midwestern Christians disapprove of sex?"
"Um..."
"Because they're afraid it might lead to dancing." The look was definitely sly for a moment, then it sobered again. "But seriously, I have no idea how to dance."
Bruce waved his hands helplessly, indicating the frenetic dance floor. "Dancing is...just dancing. You just close your eyes and hear the music and move your body the way the music wants you to."
Clark looked at him gravely. "I can try."
Bruce clapped a friendly hand on the other man's shoulder. Gold fabric slipped under his fingers like liquid. "I'm sure you'll do your best." He pushed Clark slightly toward the dance floor and started to make his way toward the contact.
Clark walked toward the dance floor. He knew he must look strange in all this silky, velvety fabric. The music was insistent and repetitive. He was fairly sure, if he remembered correctly, that a good Kansas farm boy shouldn't feel comfortable in these clothes, shouldn't feel like they fit him better than the suits he wore every day.
He hesitated on the edge of the crowd of dancers, shooting a look back at Bruce. The playboy might not realize it, but he was entirely transfigured by his outfit as well, tame as it might be here. The mesh and leather seemed to pare away everything affected and superfluous about him, leaving only a sense of predatory grace. He had brushed his hair in long strands on his forehead and along his face; his only adornments were the dark kohl smudged around his eyes and one dangling earring with a pale moonstone in it, glowing against his cheek. He looked back, saw Clark hesitating, and gave him a reassuring smile.
Clark stepped onto the floor. People were already looking at him. Just close your eyes and hear the music and move your body the way the music wants you to.
Clark closed his eyes.
Kal heard the music.
: : :
Clark was dancing. Bruce supposed it was dancing. It seemed to be part dancing, and a good part--a very good part--sex, and part...skating? Swimming?
After a while, he managed to tear his eyes away and back to the contact. Who was also staring at Clark, like almost everyone in the room. Annoyed, Bruce snapped his fingers at the man. "Hey, eyes here." The man--who was friends with a man who had planted the explosives that had leveled WayneCorp's offices--gave Bruce some information and some names, in between sneaking glances at Clark. Then he scuttled off.
Business out of the way, Bruce turned back to watching Clark. As he watched the man dance, his eyes closed, lost in the music, Bruce suddenly felt a suspicion seize him. It seemed impossible, but he forced himself to look at it seriously. The more he considered it, the more he had to admit that it was oddly plausible. It explained so much--Clark's diffident ways, the feeling that he was always keeping something hidden, his shyness and remoteness, the incredible physique he kept hidden under those ill-cut suits.
Not that Bruce had been paying attention to his physique.
Once he had seen it, the enigma that was Clark suddenly made perfect sense, the pieces fell into place, and Bruce cursed himself for an idiot for not having seen it sooner.
It might seem far-fetched, but was it not possible that Clark Kent...was gay?
He would, of course, be in the closet--Metropolis was a much more straight-laced town than many, and Clark wouldn't want to risk his job.
Watching Clark dancing, breathtaking and exotic, Bruce felt a pang thinking what it must be like, growing up in a small Midwestern town and knowing in your heart you were so different. As a teenager, Bruce had learned--somewhat to his chagrin--that in "The City that Makes San Francisco Blush," being bisexual warranted barely a raised eyebrow. But in America's heartland, Clark must have always felt isolated, alone. He had grown up surrounded by people who saw an important part of him as not even human. Bruce ached to think of the life the young Clark must have lived, always hiding something, learning to deny that side of himself and keep it locked away. He looked at Clark, his face rapt and lovely, the way his body moved beneath the velvet and the shining cloth.
How could anyone deny something so beautiful?
Another song began and Bruce realized that he had been watching Clark for some time now, and the other man had never stopped dancing or even opened his eyes. He didn't even seem slightly out of breath. Most of the patrons of the club were still watching him in open fascination. Bruce felt--something--flicker through him, but he wouldn't look at it closely. He just knew that he didn't like having all those people watching Clark. Admittedly, he had sent the man out as a diversion, but that diversion was over now, and no one should be staring at Clark except--well, no one should be staring at Clark.
He made his way onto the floor and up to Clark, speaking loudly to overcome the sound of the music still ebbing and flowing around them. "Clark, you can stop now." The other man didn't seem to hear him. "Clark? That's probably enough. Hello? Clark?" Still no response. The other man continued his strange, weaving dance, lost in whatever world he had entered. "Clark!"
Almost alarmed now, Bruce put out his hands and grabbed Clark's shoulders. Clark's blue eyes leapt open in shock and he stopped dead, one hip coming to rest slightly against Bruce's. He blinked. "Bruce?" His voice was strange and distant. He shook his head sharply, once, then twice; golden dust rose from his hair like an aureole.
Bruce continued to hold him by one shoulder, steering him toward the bar. "Come on, let's get you sitting down." Clark followed meekly, his eyes dazed. He sat down but stared straight ahead, blankly, until Bruce waved a hand in front of his eyes. "Earth to Clark? Come in, Clark." Then he shook his head again, more slowly.
"I...I don't think that was a very good idea."
Bruce spoke lightly to try and mask the disquiet he felt. "Are you kidding? As a distraction, it was stellar."
Clark closed his eyes. "Stellar. Ha ha." It wasn't a laugh; he articulated the syllables as if he had read in a book somewhere that "ha ha" meant laughing, and was mouthing the sounds by rote now.
It must be a reaction to the noise and the crowds and lights. Maybe he was allergic to all that damn gold dust in his hair. Bruce tried to pull him back with some conversation. "Have you ever tried dancing like that with a partner, Clark?"
Clark opened his eyes again. They looked less...eldritch...now, but horribly tired. "I don't...I don't think that's actually possible."
"Nonsense. Any dance can be danced with a partner."
"Maybe not that one."
"You just haven't met the right partner then. I'd love to see it when you do, someday." He eyed Clark's exhausted face, then stood up and pulled the reporter from his seat. "Come on, I'm taking you back to your hotel room."
: : :
To walk: to move by advancing the feet alternately so that there is always one foot on the ground in bipedal locomotion. Clark was walking. One foot on the ground at all times. First the right foot. Then the left foot. Right foot, left foot. See Clark walk. Walk, Clark, walk. Bruce was beside him. Right foot. Left foot. Each one had to hit the ground before the other one could be picked up. It seemed like a very long walk.
Eventually they reached Clark's hotel. Bruce followed him in without being invited and pulled him into the bathroom when he tried to go lie down. "No, I want to get that glitter out of your hair. I think it's what's making you sick." He got Clark on his knees next to the bathtub and started to run the water. "So this is the mysterious bathroom," Kal heard him mutter over the gushing water.
Clark was pushed, unresisting, over the edge of the bathtub. He felt warm water sluicing over his head, felt Bruce's hands stroking through his hair to get all the gold out of it. By the time Bruce was rubbing his hair with a towel, Kal had pulled himself together enough to make the other man leave the bathroom while he changed. He hadn't been wearing the costume due to the low neck of his club clothes, but he still didn't really feel like getting undressed like a child by Bruce Wayne.
He emerged from the bathroom to find Bruce standing by the bed, the sheets turned down. "Lie down and promise me you'll get some sleep, not get back up and work when I leave."
Kal was too tired and distracted to argue. He nodded and crawled into bed; Bruce pulled the sheets up around him. He felt Bruce's hand on his shoulder.
"I'm going to let you try and get some sleep now, Clark." He squeezed Clark's shoulder. "I'll..." He paused. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, okay?" Kal nodded again, only half-listening. He heard the door shut.
Kal lay in bed...Clark lay in bed, trying to sleep. Eventually he put his pillow over his head, but that was ridiculous and didn't help at all. It was much worse than usual tonight.
Most of the time he could manage to lull himself to sleep by imagining concrete sensations. Usually it was the feel of soil in his hands, the smell of earth, the sound of the wind in the cornfields. He could fill his mind with them and that would help.
Tonight, however, it was the feel of water in his hair, and hands as warm and gentle as water, and Bruce Wayne's soft voice reassuring him. At some point, it was enough to lead him into something like sleep, away from the stars.