Action and Re-Action: Analysis
Title: Analysis
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Continuity: Comics, set during Action Comics #3 ( scans)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Superman shows up on the doorstep of Wayne Manor to return something of Bruce's.
Word Count: 4300
Notes: Action and Re-Action is a series retelling the new versions of Action Comics and Justice League with a Superman/Batman angle. All chapters and notes on the series available here.
"Master Bruce."
Bruce groaned and lobbed a pillow in the direction of the voice at the door, burying his head under a spare. His knee ached where he'd landed on it badly the night before, his knuckles felt bruised, and he wanted to relive just one more time the moment where that would-be rapist had seen the fist coming at his face, the look in his eyes.
"Master Bruce, I believe you'll want to get up right away. We have a...guest who wishes to speak to you."
This time the strain in Alfred's voice penetrated Bruce's morning fog; he raised his head and blinked at him. "Someone at the gate?"
Alfred was holding the pillow like a silver serving tray, but his face was worried. "No, sir. That's the problem."
: : :
"This is trespassing, you know," seethed Bruce fifteen minutes later, glaring at the man in jeans and a cape standing on his front doorstep. He could tell his hair was still in disarray and he hadn't had time to put his shoes on, but his embarrassment over his appearance was nothing compared to the cold fear in his stomach at having a walking x-ray machine with super-hearing at his door. He wasn't ready, he wasn't ready for this, it had never occurred to him that Superman would just walk up to his front door and stand there looking like any normal person (in a cape). Don't show uncertainty. Glower.
Bruce glowered.
Superman crossed his arms. "At least I rang the doorbell. I could have just walked in, you know."
Bruce knew all too well. "Why are you here?"
Superman held out a neatly folded bit of linen, the elaborate monogrammed "W" on top. "I thought I'd better return this. Seeing as you were so worried about its whereabouts back in Luthor's lab."
Oh. Bruce looked down at the freshly-laundered handkerchief, then back up at Superman's tight, impassive features. "It was a gift," he said lightly, trying to smile. "Keep it."
"I'm not sure you want me to have gifts from you. Especially ones that could link us."
"I trust you to keep it safe," Bruce said. When the wariness didn't fade from Superman's face, he managed a laugh. "I should think you'd be the one that's reluctant to be connected to me. The hero of the common man, associating with a wealthy parasite?" He shook his finger in Superman's face playfully. "It would ruin your reputation." It was surprisingly hard to keep the light-hearted persona in place right now, for some reason. A memory flicked through his mind: the feel of Superman's mouth on his, the warmth of it. He banished the thought back to the corners of his mind where it belonged.
Superman was frowning past him into the shadows of the foyer. "You have a point, actually. Who was it that answered the doorbell--do you really have a butler? What is this, Upstairs Downstairs?"
Bruce heard an indignant sniff from behind him. "Yes, that was my butler. Alfred Pennyworth. He's an old friend of the family."
Superman's eyebrows lifted. "I have old friends of the family too, but I don't usually put them to work answering my doorbells and fetching me food."
Bruce's uncomfortable indignation vanished at the hint of self-disclosure. "Wait, you have a family? Did more of you come here? That was an awfully small rocket. How did you and that alien goat-thing both fit in it, or are there more rockets? I thought you said you didn't know where you come from," he finished up, then realized he hadn't taken a breath in between questions when Superman held up his hands as if to surrender, a lopsided smile on his face.
"I don't know a lot of those answers yet," said Superman. "I really don't."
Bruce nodded. "I understand if you don't trust me. That's your prerogative. I just...would really like to know more. About you."
Superman hesitated. He glanced down at the handkerchief in his hand, then back at Bruce.
"And I mean it about the handkerchief," said Bruce. "If you don't want to keep it, feel free to burn it or whatever. But I don't like to take things back once I've given them."
Something flickered in Superman's eyes, and Bruce remembered once again the tremor in those strong muscles as they had pressed against him. "I don't either," said Superman. He tucked the handkerchief back into his jeans and met Bruce's gaze. "I'll answer what questions I can, but I'd...rather not do it on your doorstep."
There was a challenge in his voice, the same tone of challenge there had been on the bridge. After a moment, Bruce stepped backwards and opened the door wider. "Have you had breakfast? Alfred makes a fantastic waffle."
: : :
"--So the government got the rocket, but your parents got you away in time?"
Superman finished off his third stack of waffles from his spot next to Bruce at the morning room table. "These are so good," he said to Alfred. "Thank you." Alfred's nod was polite, but Bruce knew that complimenting his cooking was sure to thaw him. "That's what my parents always told me," Superman said to Bruce.
"You were raised as human." Of course he was, Bruce thought. There was no way he'd seem so comfortable with human norms and culture if he'd arrived here recently. "Then what was that goat-thing they showed you?"
"I don't know," Superman said. "My parents never mentioned there being anything else in the rocket. Maybe that's what my race really does look like, and I just...unconsciously shape-shifted or something to match the first beings that found me."
He said it lightly, but Bruce could hear dark chasms of worry yawning underneath the words. He leaned forward and slapped Superman on the forearm, hard enough to make a sharp sound. Superman blinked at him. "Doesn't matter," said Bruce. "This is what you are now."
"Maybe you just don't want to imagine that you kissed a mutant goat-being."
Bruce assumed his most dignified air, mostly to cover up for the fact that he hadn't expected Superman to be the one to bring the kiss up again. "I'm sure that if your true form were a six-legged goat, you'd be a dashingly handsome six-legged goat and I would still have no regrets."
Superman looked down at his plate--remarkably as if he were flustered, but that seemed unlikely. "You haven't mentioned that this means I have a human name, a human identity," he said in a low voice.
"No, I haven't," agreed Bruce. He shrugged. "I don't think you need to have a name to know someone. Names are just labels. We are who we make ourselves into."
Superman's gaze was assessing. "And who have you made yourself into?"
Bruce spread his hands wide. "Who do I seem like to you?" It was a rhetorical question; he didn't need to know the answer.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
"You seem..." Superman looked around the sunny morning room, out at the whitecap-flecked sea out the bay window, at the silk brocade wallpaper. He looked back at Bruce's face. "You seem like a lot of things. You're brave and smart, you lie with the skill of a sociopath, you can watch someone being tortured and make jokes, and then risk your life to help them. I don't..." He shook his head, and there was something like pain in his eyes. "I don't understand you."
He didn't need to be understood, Bruce chastised the pang under his breastbone. "I know."
"But I like you," Superman added. He reached out with one finger and touched the back of Bruce's hand where the morning sunlight fell across it, a whisper-light brush across the knuckles that seemed to send a shock of sunlight through Bruce's body like a thread of gold. "We both have our hidden places," he said as Bruce struggled to keep his face calm. "Can we maybe...both accept that? I won't push if you won't." His finger stalled at Bruce's last knuckle, paused on that last ridge of bone. Superman was looking at Bruce's hands so intently that Bruce wondered if he was using some special vision on him, looking under the skin or into his molecules. Some kind of radiation causing these waves of heat shivering across his body, focused on that point of contact between finger and hand, that one bright point. "I just... haven't ever met someone like you before," said Superman.
"Says the super-strong alien," said Bruce.
"But I'm just an average person, really," said Superman. "Look at me." He gestured to his jeans and t-shirt. "I'm just some guy in boots who can jump high."
"Whereas I am an unrepentant hedonist who lounges all day in my bare feet." Bruce swung one of the feet at issue up into the air between them, waggling the toes--
--and Superman caught it between his hands like a butterfly or soap bubble, holding it with his thumbs pressed gently into the arch.
"Oh," said Superman after a moment, "That makes your heartbeat react." He let Bruce's bare foot lower until it was resting on his jeans-clad knee, his hands still wrapped around it. Warm hands. Strong.
Belatedly, Bruce realized he hadn't responded yet. "You can...hear my heartbeat?"
Superman's thumbs were moving along his instep, almost stroking it. "I can." The coarse fabric under his foot was warm, and his toes were resting on Superman's upper thigh. Muscles as strong as stone, something you could push off from and fall endlessly. Superman's fingers pressed a little harder, and Bruce's toes curled helplessly against the blue cloth. "Your hands aren't soft," Superman said. "You have callouses that aren't from holding a pen. These are not the feet of a man who has been chauffeured everywhere his whole life."
Anger sparked along Bruce's jawline, and he yanked his foot away. "I thought you said we weren't going to push."
"I'm not pushing," Superman said. "I'm just...admiring." But the moment was gone; he made no attempt to keep Bruce from pulling his foot back. "I'd better be going," he said, standing up. His mouth tilted in a slight smile. "Thank you for the handkerchief. I'll keep it safe."
Bruce stood as well, walking with him to the door. "You'd better--you don't want to be linked with me."
Superman turned at the door, his smile caught somewhere between mischievous and wistful. "Are you so sure?"
And then he was gone before Bruce could reply, running down the driveway in a deer-fast lope, leaping over the gate in a single bound and out of sight.
Bruce stood in the doorway, his bare feet cold and aching, until Alfred came to check on him.
: : :
The feel of Bruce Wayne's sinewy foot in his hands was, as it turned out, the best part of Clark Kent's day. By the time he returned to Metropolis, Superman was all over the news, his face plastered with angry banners: Alien go home! and Menace from Beyond? There were protests, furious people waving signs. Snarky newscasters with cynical smiles making jokes about flying saucers and anal probes. Clark resolved to ignore them all, put on the cape after work and went out.
The next day it was worse. The protests were bigger, more angry. It seemed a lot of people really hated him. Clark sat on his sagging bed and stared at his flickering television screen, watching the news cycle over and over. Stop watching, said a voice in his head. It sounded like his mother's. You'll just make yourself miserable.
He couldn't seem to turn off the television. Late into the night he sat in its merciless glow, bathed in silver vitriol.
The next day he woke up tired, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper. He rubbed at them and put his boots on, fumbling with the laces, fastening his cape with clumsy fingers.
That was the day a crowd started throwing bottles at him.
: : :
The t-shirt made a satisfying thump as he threw it into the trash can; the work boots made an even more satisfying bang as they followed. Clark sat on the edge of the bed, his parents beaming down at him from the photograph on the desk. Dear Ma and Pa, I miss you so much. Love, your son the failure. He lay down and stared at the ceiling, remembering dark blue eyes and a slanting smile. What would Bruce Wayne think when Superman disappeared? Would he be disappointed? Would he be worried the government had eliminated him? Would he think, I knew he'd give up?
Should Clark find some way to tell him he was alive, at least?
His eyes traced a water stain on the ceiling. Maybe he'd rather have Bruce think he was dead than find out he'd quit.
Clark closed his eyes against the pain of that thought.
Zee zee zee.
It was a tiny sound, a whisper like gossamer wings at his ear, but impossible to mistake for anything else.
Zee zee zee.
Clark covered his eyes with his forearm. He didn't want to talk to Bruce Wayne, didn't want to see him.
What if he was in danger?
Zee zee zee.
What if the government had figured out he wasn't entirely loyal to them, that he was playing some kind of end game of his own? What if Luthor had him in a room somewhere, tied to some torture chair, oozing that smile all over him?
Zee zee zee.
Clark sat up, staring wildly down at his bare chest. He looked over at the trash can, one corner of blue cloth sticking out of it.
Zee zee zee.
Thirty seconds later he was dressed and on his way, his boots thudding on the road as he ran.
: : :
The butler opened the door, his face impassive. Clark waved a little feebly, feeling that maybe he hadn't made the best impression last time. "Mr. Pennyworth, right?" The butler nodded. "Is Bruce...is Mr. Wayne okay?"
"Master Bruce is as 'okay' as he ever is," the butler said. "He was eager to see you. He said he...had a clue."
As Clark was ushered into the library, he realized that "eager" was an understatement. "Superman!" Bruce exclaimed as the door opened looking up from a computer screen, the planes of his face like a banked fire, glowing. "You came. Good. Come here." He gestured peremptorily to the computer screen, and Clark moved to look at it, casting a dubious eye on Bruce's intense expression.
On the screen five different windows were open: Clark saw "Say No to Alien Overlords!" and "Illegal Alien" signs frozen in mid-wave. Clark felt a rush of anger, mixed with defensive embarrassment--had Bruce called him here to join in the heckling? He opened his mouth to snap something, he wasn't sure what, but Bruce was already talking, not even noticing his reaction.
"Look at this. Look what I found." He reached out and grabbed Clark's shoulder, shaking him as though his triumph couldn't be contained. "These are five of those protests, scattered around Metropolis. Look." Rapid mouse clicking; a portion of each screen enlarged, zoomed closer. "Here. And here. And here again. The same guy at all of them."
"Sure," Clark said, "I remember him, he was in the tenement that I saved from the wrecking ball. I guess he blames me."
"Blames you so much he'd go out of his way to be at every single protest?"
"According to him, I left him homeless," Clark muttered, looking away from the man's angry face. "I suppose he's got plenty of time free to protest."
"Really?" Bruce pulled up another window: grainy footage shot from a cell-phone camera. Clark saw himself being shot by a tank, on all fours in front of it. A man jumped between him and the tank, yelling and waving his arms, shielding Superman with his body.
"Enough!" The man's voice was hoarse but clear. "This guy just saved our lives! My kids! What the hell is wrong with you people?"
Superman watched as the man turned his back on the tank to help Superman up. "Get outta here," he said, brandishing a fist at the looming tank. "We'll cover ya."
"That's the guy who, a week later, is calling for your head?" Bruce said as the Superman on the screen leaped into the air and the people on the ground cheered.
Clark shrugged. "People can change their minds."
Bruce made an exasperated noise in his throat. "Then tell me where a penniless homeless guy got the boots he's wearing," he said, enlarging one of the protest images. "He was wearing sneakers the night he lost his home."
"So he got new boots."
"Those are brand-new Timberland work boots. Sturdy. Well-insulated. Not flashy but durable. They run about two hundred dollars a pair." He looked over at Superman, and there was a steely satisfaction in his eyes that did strange things to Clark's stomach. "Don't you see? Someone's paying off this guy to badmouth you!"
Clark managed to tear his mind from thoughts of how kissable Bruce Wayne's mouth was when it was set in fierce determination. He looked at "Streets" Bowman's face on the screen. "I guess that would be Glenmorgan's style," he admitted.
"He's guilty," Bruce said.
"Sure, he's as corrupt as they come--"
"--No, I mean Bowman," said Bruce. "And I mean he feels guilty. Listen to his voice, watch his face."
"Mr. Glenmorgan offered us real hope for the future and fresh accommodations!" Bowman was saying. Bruce froze the screen again.
"Look at the lines of strain around his mouth, the way he looks down when he says 'hope.' He pulls it back together almost immediately, but his microexpressions aren't angry, they're guilty." Bruce tapped the computer screen between Bowman's eyes: gotcha. His own expression was nearly gleeful, all of his being focused on his prey. Clark had a sudden image of Bruce sitting in this library, watching protest footage for hours on end, those keen eyes scanning the screens, hunting for proof that the protests were insincere, rigged. That the people of Metropolis hadn't abandoned Superman on their own. Clark felt a sudden tightness in his throat and had to swallow hard.
At the sound, Bruce looked over, the predatory delight in his eyes shifting to his more usual irony. "I just...was wondering," he said awkwardly. "Why people would get so angry at you, so suddenly." A lopsided smile. "Besides, as a parasitic billionaire, I have a fair amount of spare time. Don't I, Alfred?"
"Indeed, sir." Clark started; he hadn't heard the butler come in. Was it that the man was that quiet, or was it that Clark was that distracted? "You are among the idlist of the rich."
There was irony in the English accent, irony and--Clark was surprised to hear--affection. Clark looked back at the screen of Bowman's uncomfortable face. "I appreciate all the work you've done. I really do. It...helps. A lot."
"What will you do now?" Bruce asked briskly.
"Do? I guess I'll go back to Metropolis," Clark said.
"But...what will you do about Bowman being paid off?"
Clark shrugged. "Nothing? If it gets him and his kids better clothing, how can I blame him?" Bruce gaped at him. "It doesn't matter," Clark said, only realizing as he said it that it was true. "As long as I know that the protests are at least partially fake, that makes the difference. I can keep going."
After a moment, Bruce nodded. He turned to the butler. "Alfred, could you maybe--"
"--bring the two of you some coffee, sir?" A polite nod. "It is brewing as we speak."
Bruce smiled after him as he left the room, then glanced at Clark out of the corner of his eye "Will you stay for coffee?"
"I think I have the time."
Bruce stood up and threw himself onto the wide leather sofa, which sighed under the weight of his body, settling. "I hope you don't mind me calling you like that," he said, closing his eyes. "Maybe we should come up with a way to communicate by voice, so I don't sound like I'm summoning you." He yawned hugely and gestured toward a chair. "Have a seat." He yawned again, then grimaced. "Sorry. Long night. Don't mean to be...rude."
By the time Clark took a seat his hand was dangling limp, almost to the floor; his breaths slowed, evened out.
"Oh my." Clark looked up to see Alfred standing in the door with a coffee tray. "Master Bruce has been reviewing that footage for a while," he explained, sounding apologetic.
"It's no problem," Clark said. "He looks like he could use the sleep." He stood up. "Would you tell him again how much I appreciate all he's done to help?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you stayed," Alfred said.
"I really ought to get back. I've got to patrol," Clark said. He felt suddenly restless, eager to get back to his city, to leap from building to building once more.
"At least take some cookies," protested Alfred as Clark started to leave.
Moments later, Superman was bounding effortlessly toward Metropolis, a cookie in each hand and one in his mouth. Chocolate chip: his favorite.
: : :
He was typing at his desk through lunch break the next day when a murmur through the Star's bullpen caught his attention. Someone turned up the volume on one of the televisions lining the wall, the one with "Streets" Bowman's pale face on it.
"--paid me money to speak out against Superman," Bowman was saying. There was an excited rustle and a dozen microphones seemed to be jousting to catch his voice. "No, I don't know who exactly," Bowman said in response to a shouted question. He looked down, then back up at the camera. "I wanted to apologize to Superman. He saved my family's life, and he deserved better than to be slandered by me. I'm so sorry." He managed a wan smile. "I might not have a home, but I can sleep better now with a clean conscience."
Clark sat at his desk, his instant ramen cooling unheeded, watching Bowman talk. "Superman Protester Recants," read the crawl. The conference ended and the coverage moved to talking heads discussing what difference this revelation might make in the public's perception of Superman.
Clark turned back to his work, his spirit somehow lighter. He'd been willing to keep going, but he was still glad Bowman had had a change of heart, for whatever reason. He typed a little faster, careful to keep it within normal human speed.
He was eager to get back out to helping people.
: : :
"You seem pleased with yourself, sir," Alfred observed as Bruce turned off the television.
Bruce was quite pleased, as a matter of fact, but contented himself with a smirk, picking up a fresh mug of coffee. He hadn't even had to intimidate Bowman much at all: the man had seemed almost relieved when confronted by a faceless shadow in an alley, eager to confess and make amends. A good man in a tough spot. Bruce made a mental note to see if there was a place for him at Wayne Enterprises--in a couple of months, long enough to not look suspicious.
"I still don't know why you didn't wake me up before Superman left," he grumbled.
"You needed the sleep," Alfred said primly.
"Do you disapprove of him?"
If Alfred was surprised at the apparent change of direction, he didn't show it. He pondered the question for some time. "I find him good-hearted, but rather rash and far too reckless for his own good." He looked narrowly at Bruce. "I would say you and he were something of a good match."
"As crime-fighting partners?"
"As partners, yes," Alfred shot back impeturbably.
Bruce took too hasty a gulp of coffee and attempted to look placid and bland as it scalded his mouth. Alfred smiled with the air of a person who has won an argument, leaving the room in triumph.
Bruce sighed and blew on his coffee, eyeing his watch as if it were tempting him. No, he couldn't just call up Superman every day without a good reason.
No, wanting to see that smile again was not reason enough, he reminded himself sternly.
---------
( Part Five)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Continuity: Comics, set during Action Comics #3 ( scans)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Superman shows up on the doorstep of Wayne Manor to return something of Bruce's.
Word Count: 4300
Notes: Action and Re-Action is a series retelling the new versions of Action Comics and Justice League with a Superman/Batman angle. All chapters and notes on the series available here.
"Master Bruce."
Bruce groaned and lobbed a pillow in the direction of the voice at the door, burying his head under a spare. His knee ached where he'd landed on it badly the night before, his knuckles felt bruised, and he wanted to relive just one more time the moment where that would-be rapist had seen the fist coming at his face, the look in his eyes.
"Master Bruce, I believe you'll want to get up right away. We have a...guest who wishes to speak to you."
This time the strain in Alfred's voice penetrated Bruce's morning fog; he raised his head and blinked at him. "Someone at the gate?"
Alfred was holding the pillow like a silver serving tray, but his face was worried. "No, sir. That's the problem."
: : :
"This is trespassing, you know," seethed Bruce fifteen minutes later, glaring at the man in jeans and a cape standing on his front doorstep. He could tell his hair was still in disarray and he hadn't had time to put his shoes on, but his embarrassment over his appearance was nothing compared to the cold fear in his stomach at having a walking x-ray machine with super-hearing at his door. He wasn't ready, he wasn't ready for this, it had never occurred to him that Superman would just walk up to his front door and stand there looking like any normal person (in a cape). Don't show uncertainty. Glower.
Bruce glowered.
Superman crossed his arms. "At least I rang the doorbell. I could have just walked in, you know."
Bruce knew all too well. "Why are you here?"
Superman held out a neatly folded bit of linen, the elaborate monogrammed "W" on top. "I thought I'd better return this. Seeing as you were so worried about its whereabouts back in Luthor's lab."
Oh. Bruce looked down at the freshly-laundered handkerchief, then back up at Superman's tight, impassive features. "It was a gift," he said lightly, trying to smile. "Keep it."
"I'm not sure you want me to have gifts from you. Especially ones that could link us."
"I trust you to keep it safe," Bruce said. When the wariness didn't fade from Superman's face, he managed a laugh. "I should think you'd be the one that's reluctant to be connected to me. The hero of the common man, associating with a wealthy parasite?" He shook his finger in Superman's face playfully. "It would ruin your reputation." It was surprisingly hard to keep the light-hearted persona in place right now, for some reason. A memory flicked through his mind: the feel of Superman's mouth on his, the warmth of it. He banished the thought back to the corners of his mind where it belonged.
Superman was frowning past him into the shadows of the foyer. "You have a point, actually. Who was it that answered the doorbell--do you really have a butler? What is this, Upstairs Downstairs?"
Bruce heard an indignant sniff from behind him. "Yes, that was my butler. Alfred Pennyworth. He's an old friend of the family."
Superman's eyebrows lifted. "I have old friends of the family too, but I don't usually put them to work answering my doorbells and fetching me food."
Bruce's uncomfortable indignation vanished at the hint of self-disclosure. "Wait, you have a family? Did more of you come here? That was an awfully small rocket. How did you and that alien goat-thing both fit in it, or are there more rockets? I thought you said you didn't know where you come from," he finished up, then realized he hadn't taken a breath in between questions when Superman held up his hands as if to surrender, a lopsided smile on his face.
"I don't know a lot of those answers yet," said Superman. "I really don't."
Bruce nodded. "I understand if you don't trust me. That's your prerogative. I just...would really like to know more. About you."
Superman hesitated. He glanced down at the handkerchief in his hand, then back at Bruce.
"And I mean it about the handkerchief," said Bruce. "If you don't want to keep it, feel free to burn it or whatever. But I don't like to take things back once I've given them."
Something flickered in Superman's eyes, and Bruce remembered once again the tremor in those strong muscles as they had pressed against him. "I don't either," said Superman. He tucked the handkerchief back into his jeans and met Bruce's gaze. "I'll answer what questions I can, but I'd...rather not do it on your doorstep."
There was a challenge in his voice, the same tone of challenge there had been on the bridge. After a moment, Bruce stepped backwards and opened the door wider. "Have you had breakfast? Alfred makes a fantastic waffle."
: : :
"--So the government got the rocket, but your parents got you away in time?"
Superman finished off his third stack of waffles from his spot next to Bruce at the morning room table. "These are so good," he said to Alfred. "Thank you." Alfred's nod was polite, but Bruce knew that complimenting his cooking was sure to thaw him. "That's what my parents always told me," Superman said to Bruce.
"You were raised as human." Of course he was, Bruce thought. There was no way he'd seem so comfortable with human norms and culture if he'd arrived here recently. "Then what was that goat-thing they showed you?"
"I don't know," Superman said. "My parents never mentioned there being anything else in the rocket. Maybe that's what my race really does look like, and I just...unconsciously shape-shifted or something to match the first beings that found me."
He said it lightly, but Bruce could hear dark chasms of worry yawning underneath the words. He leaned forward and slapped Superman on the forearm, hard enough to make a sharp sound. Superman blinked at him. "Doesn't matter," said Bruce. "This is what you are now."
"Maybe you just don't want to imagine that you kissed a mutant goat-being."
Bruce assumed his most dignified air, mostly to cover up for the fact that he hadn't expected Superman to be the one to bring the kiss up again. "I'm sure that if your true form were a six-legged goat, you'd be a dashingly handsome six-legged goat and I would still have no regrets."
Superman looked down at his plate--remarkably as if he were flustered, but that seemed unlikely. "You haven't mentioned that this means I have a human name, a human identity," he said in a low voice.
"No, I haven't," agreed Bruce. He shrugged. "I don't think you need to have a name to know someone. Names are just labels. We are who we make ourselves into."
Superman's gaze was assessing. "And who have you made yourself into?"
Bruce spread his hands wide. "Who do I seem like to you?" It was a rhetorical question; he didn't need to know the answer.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
"You seem..." Superman looked around the sunny morning room, out at the whitecap-flecked sea out the bay window, at the silk brocade wallpaper. He looked back at Bruce's face. "You seem like a lot of things. You're brave and smart, you lie with the skill of a sociopath, you can watch someone being tortured and make jokes, and then risk your life to help them. I don't..." He shook his head, and there was something like pain in his eyes. "I don't understand you."
He didn't need to be understood, Bruce chastised the pang under his breastbone. "I know."
"But I like you," Superman added. He reached out with one finger and touched the back of Bruce's hand where the morning sunlight fell across it, a whisper-light brush across the knuckles that seemed to send a shock of sunlight through Bruce's body like a thread of gold. "We both have our hidden places," he said as Bruce struggled to keep his face calm. "Can we maybe...both accept that? I won't push if you won't." His finger stalled at Bruce's last knuckle, paused on that last ridge of bone. Superman was looking at Bruce's hands so intently that Bruce wondered if he was using some special vision on him, looking under the skin or into his molecules. Some kind of radiation causing these waves of heat shivering across his body, focused on that point of contact between finger and hand, that one bright point. "I just... haven't ever met someone like you before," said Superman.
"Says the super-strong alien," said Bruce.
"But I'm just an average person, really," said Superman. "Look at me." He gestured to his jeans and t-shirt. "I'm just some guy in boots who can jump high."
"Whereas I am an unrepentant hedonist who lounges all day in my bare feet." Bruce swung one of the feet at issue up into the air between them, waggling the toes--
--and Superman caught it between his hands like a butterfly or soap bubble, holding it with his thumbs pressed gently into the arch.
"Oh," said Superman after a moment, "That makes your heartbeat react." He let Bruce's bare foot lower until it was resting on his jeans-clad knee, his hands still wrapped around it. Warm hands. Strong.
Belatedly, Bruce realized he hadn't responded yet. "You can...hear my heartbeat?"
Superman's thumbs were moving along his instep, almost stroking it. "I can." The coarse fabric under his foot was warm, and his toes were resting on Superman's upper thigh. Muscles as strong as stone, something you could push off from and fall endlessly. Superman's fingers pressed a little harder, and Bruce's toes curled helplessly against the blue cloth. "Your hands aren't soft," Superman said. "You have callouses that aren't from holding a pen. These are not the feet of a man who has been chauffeured everywhere his whole life."
Anger sparked along Bruce's jawline, and he yanked his foot away. "I thought you said we weren't going to push."
"I'm not pushing," Superman said. "I'm just...admiring." But the moment was gone; he made no attempt to keep Bruce from pulling his foot back. "I'd better be going," he said, standing up. His mouth tilted in a slight smile. "Thank you for the handkerchief. I'll keep it safe."
Bruce stood as well, walking with him to the door. "You'd better--you don't want to be linked with me."
Superman turned at the door, his smile caught somewhere between mischievous and wistful. "Are you so sure?"
And then he was gone before Bruce could reply, running down the driveway in a deer-fast lope, leaping over the gate in a single bound and out of sight.
Bruce stood in the doorway, his bare feet cold and aching, until Alfred came to check on him.
: : :
The feel of Bruce Wayne's sinewy foot in his hands was, as it turned out, the best part of Clark Kent's day. By the time he returned to Metropolis, Superman was all over the news, his face plastered with angry banners: Alien go home! and Menace from Beyond? There were protests, furious people waving signs. Snarky newscasters with cynical smiles making jokes about flying saucers and anal probes. Clark resolved to ignore them all, put on the cape after work and went out.
The next day it was worse. The protests were bigger, more angry. It seemed a lot of people really hated him. Clark sat on his sagging bed and stared at his flickering television screen, watching the news cycle over and over. Stop watching, said a voice in his head. It sounded like his mother's. You'll just make yourself miserable.
He couldn't seem to turn off the television. Late into the night he sat in its merciless glow, bathed in silver vitriol.
The next day he woke up tired, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper. He rubbed at them and put his boots on, fumbling with the laces, fastening his cape with clumsy fingers.
That was the day a crowd started throwing bottles at him.
: : :
The t-shirt made a satisfying thump as he threw it into the trash can; the work boots made an even more satisfying bang as they followed. Clark sat on the edge of the bed, his parents beaming down at him from the photograph on the desk. Dear Ma and Pa, I miss you so much. Love, your son the failure. He lay down and stared at the ceiling, remembering dark blue eyes and a slanting smile. What would Bruce Wayne think when Superman disappeared? Would he be disappointed? Would he be worried the government had eliminated him? Would he think, I knew he'd give up?
Should Clark find some way to tell him he was alive, at least?
His eyes traced a water stain on the ceiling. Maybe he'd rather have Bruce think he was dead than find out he'd quit.
Clark closed his eyes against the pain of that thought.
Zee zee zee.
It was a tiny sound, a whisper like gossamer wings at his ear, but impossible to mistake for anything else.
Zee zee zee.
Clark covered his eyes with his forearm. He didn't want to talk to Bruce Wayne, didn't want to see him.
What if he was in danger?
Zee zee zee.
What if the government had figured out he wasn't entirely loyal to them, that he was playing some kind of end game of his own? What if Luthor had him in a room somewhere, tied to some torture chair, oozing that smile all over him?
Zee zee zee.
Clark sat up, staring wildly down at his bare chest. He looked over at the trash can, one corner of blue cloth sticking out of it.
Zee zee zee.
Thirty seconds later he was dressed and on his way, his boots thudding on the road as he ran.
: : :
The butler opened the door, his face impassive. Clark waved a little feebly, feeling that maybe he hadn't made the best impression last time. "Mr. Pennyworth, right?" The butler nodded. "Is Bruce...is Mr. Wayne okay?"
"Master Bruce is as 'okay' as he ever is," the butler said. "He was eager to see you. He said he...had a clue."
As Clark was ushered into the library, he realized that "eager" was an understatement. "Superman!" Bruce exclaimed as the door opened looking up from a computer screen, the planes of his face like a banked fire, glowing. "You came. Good. Come here." He gestured peremptorily to the computer screen, and Clark moved to look at it, casting a dubious eye on Bruce's intense expression.
On the screen five different windows were open: Clark saw "Say No to Alien Overlords!" and "Illegal Alien" signs frozen in mid-wave. Clark felt a rush of anger, mixed with defensive embarrassment--had Bruce called him here to join in the heckling? He opened his mouth to snap something, he wasn't sure what, but Bruce was already talking, not even noticing his reaction.
"Look at this. Look what I found." He reached out and grabbed Clark's shoulder, shaking him as though his triumph couldn't be contained. "These are five of those protests, scattered around Metropolis. Look." Rapid mouse clicking; a portion of each screen enlarged, zoomed closer. "Here. And here. And here again. The same guy at all of them."
"Sure," Clark said, "I remember him, he was in the tenement that I saved from the wrecking ball. I guess he blames me."
"Blames you so much he'd go out of his way to be at every single protest?"
"According to him, I left him homeless," Clark muttered, looking away from the man's angry face. "I suppose he's got plenty of time free to protest."
"Really?" Bruce pulled up another window: grainy footage shot from a cell-phone camera. Clark saw himself being shot by a tank, on all fours in front of it. A man jumped between him and the tank, yelling and waving his arms, shielding Superman with his body.
"Enough!" The man's voice was hoarse but clear. "This guy just saved our lives! My kids! What the hell is wrong with you people?"
Superman watched as the man turned his back on the tank to help Superman up. "Get outta here," he said, brandishing a fist at the looming tank. "We'll cover ya."
"That's the guy who, a week later, is calling for your head?" Bruce said as the Superman on the screen leaped into the air and the people on the ground cheered.
Clark shrugged. "People can change their minds."
Bruce made an exasperated noise in his throat. "Then tell me where a penniless homeless guy got the boots he's wearing," he said, enlarging one of the protest images. "He was wearing sneakers the night he lost his home."
"So he got new boots."
"Those are brand-new Timberland work boots. Sturdy. Well-insulated. Not flashy but durable. They run about two hundred dollars a pair." He looked over at Superman, and there was a steely satisfaction in his eyes that did strange things to Clark's stomach. "Don't you see? Someone's paying off this guy to badmouth you!"
Clark managed to tear his mind from thoughts of how kissable Bruce Wayne's mouth was when it was set in fierce determination. He looked at "Streets" Bowman's face on the screen. "I guess that would be Glenmorgan's style," he admitted.
"He's guilty," Bruce said.
"Sure, he's as corrupt as they come--"
"--No, I mean Bowman," said Bruce. "And I mean he feels guilty. Listen to his voice, watch his face."
"Mr. Glenmorgan offered us real hope for the future and fresh accommodations!" Bowman was saying. Bruce froze the screen again.
"Look at the lines of strain around his mouth, the way he looks down when he says 'hope.' He pulls it back together almost immediately, but his microexpressions aren't angry, they're guilty." Bruce tapped the computer screen between Bowman's eyes: gotcha. His own expression was nearly gleeful, all of his being focused on his prey. Clark had a sudden image of Bruce sitting in this library, watching protest footage for hours on end, those keen eyes scanning the screens, hunting for proof that the protests were insincere, rigged. That the people of Metropolis hadn't abandoned Superman on their own. Clark felt a sudden tightness in his throat and had to swallow hard.
At the sound, Bruce looked over, the predatory delight in his eyes shifting to his more usual irony. "I just...was wondering," he said awkwardly. "Why people would get so angry at you, so suddenly." A lopsided smile. "Besides, as a parasitic billionaire, I have a fair amount of spare time. Don't I, Alfred?"
"Indeed, sir." Clark started; he hadn't heard the butler come in. Was it that the man was that quiet, or was it that Clark was that distracted? "You are among the idlist of the rich."
There was irony in the English accent, irony and--Clark was surprised to hear--affection. Clark looked back at the screen of Bowman's uncomfortable face. "I appreciate all the work you've done. I really do. It...helps. A lot."
"What will you do now?" Bruce asked briskly.
"Do? I guess I'll go back to Metropolis," Clark said.
"But...what will you do about Bowman being paid off?"
Clark shrugged. "Nothing? If it gets him and his kids better clothing, how can I blame him?" Bruce gaped at him. "It doesn't matter," Clark said, only realizing as he said it that it was true. "As long as I know that the protests are at least partially fake, that makes the difference. I can keep going."
After a moment, Bruce nodded. He turned to the butler. "Alfred, could you maybe--"
"--bring the two of you some coffee, sir?" A polite nod. "It is brewing as we speak."
Bruce smiled after him as he left the room, then glanced at Clark out of the corner of his eye "Will you stay for coffee?"
"I think I have the time."
Bruce stood up and threw himself onto the wide leather sofa, which sighed under the weight of his body, settling. "I hope you don't mind me calling you like that," he said, closing his eyes. "Maybe we should come up with a way to communicate by voice, so I don't sound like I'm summoning you." He yawned hugely and gestured toward a chair. "Have a seat." He yawned again, then grimaced. "Sorry. Long night. Don't mean to be...rude."
By the time Clark took a seat his hand was dangling limp, almost to the floor; his breaths slowed, evened out.
"Oh my." Clark looked up to see Alfred standing in the door with a coffee tray. "Master Bruce has been reviewing that footage for a while," he explained, sounding apologetic.
"It's no problem," Clark said. "He looks like he could use the sleep." He stood up. "Would you tell him again how much I appreciate all he's done to help?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you stayed," Alfred said.
"I really ought to get back. I've got to patrol," Clark said. He felt suddenly restless, eager to get back to his city, to leap from building to building once more.
"At least take some cookies," protested Alfred as Clark started to leave.
Moments later, Superman was bounding effortlessly toward Metropolis, a cookie in each hand and one in his mouth. Chocolate chip: his favorite.
: : :
He was typing at his desk through lunch break the next day when a murmur through the Star's bullpen caught his attention. Someone turned up the volume on one of the televisions lining the wall, the one with "Streets" Bowman's pale face on it.
"--paid me money to speak out against Superman," Bowman was saying. There was an excited rustle and a dozen microphones seemed to be jousting to catch his voice. "No, I don't know who exactly," Bowman said in response to a shouted question. He looked down, then back up at the camera. "I wanted to apologize to Superman. He saved my family's life, and he deserved better than to be slandered by me. I'm so sorry." He managed a wan smile. "I might not have a home, but I can sleep better now with a clean conscience."
Clark sat at his desk, his instant ramen cooling unheeded, watching Bowman talk. "Superman Protester Recants," read the crawl. The conference ended and the coverage moved to talking heads discussing what difference this revelation might make in the public's perception of Superman.
Clark turned back to his work, his spirit somehow lighter. He'd been willing to keep going, but he was still glad Bowman had had a change of heart, for whatever reason. He typed a little faster, careful to keep it within normal human speed.
He was eager to get back out to helping people.
: : :
"You seem pleased with yourself, sir," Alfred observed as Bruce turned off the television.
Bruce was quite pleased, as a matter of fact, but contented himself with a smirk, picking up a fresh mug of coffee. He hadn't even had to intimidate Bowman much at all: the man had seemed almost relieved when confronted by a faceless shadow in an alley, eager to confess and make amends. A good man in a tough spot. Bruce made a mental note to see if there was a place for him at Wayne Enterprises--in a couple of months, long enough to not look suspicious.
"I still don't know why you didn't wake me up before Superman left," he grumbled.
"You needed the sleep," Alfred said primly.
"Do you disapprove of him?"
If Alfred was surprised at the apparent change of direction, he didn't show it. He pondered the question for some time. "I find him good-hearted, but rather rash and far too reckless for his own good." He looked narrowly at Bruce. "I would say you and he were something of a good match."
"As crime-fighting partners?"
"As partners, yes," Alfred shot back impeturbably.
Bruce took too hasty a gulp of coffee and attempted to look placid and bland as it scalded his mouth. Alfred smiled with the air of a person who has won an argument, leaving the room in triumph.
Bruce sighed and blew on his coffee, eyeing his watch as if it were tempting him. No, he couldn't just call up Superman every day without a good reason.
No, wanting to see that smile again was not reason enough, he reminded himself sternly.
---------
( Part Five)