FIC: The Missing Moon
Title: The Missing Moon
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for World of New Krypton, but nothing major.
Rating: G (pre-slash or friendship)
Summary: Clark deals with homesickness while living on New Krypton.
Word Count: 1000
Note: For starsandsea 's birthday! Happy birthday to the author of some of the most lovely fic I know.
Commander El was heading home to his apartment after another long day of training. He ached; he'd have bruises all down one side later. But he was smiling as he remembered the fight he'd just had with Gor--not so much at the grunt of pain the other Kryptonian had made when Kal had punched him as at the looks of surprise and delight on the faces of the younger soldiers.
Bruce would be proud of him.
The smile slipped from his face as he forced himself to revise the tense: Bruce would have been proud of him. A wave of weariness caught up with him and he suddenly couldn't bear to go back to his Spartan apartment, stripped of all personality. He sensed he was being followed--Zod had someone keeping an eye on him all the time, but he used some other techniques Bruce had taught him and lost the person tailing him fairly quickly among the confusing, twisting turrets and pathways of New Krypton. Strategy and stealth. Bruce had taught him well indeed.
He remembered the weight of his friend's body in his arms, the way the shattered limbs had lolled unnaturally. He hadn't been able to get that memory out of his mind. He tried to remember Bruce alive, stifling laughter and trying to look stern at something Wally had said, or with his face abstracted and intent on some piece of evidence. He remembered the first time they'd met, how Batman had growled at him, trying to intimidate him. I'll be keeping an eye on you, he had snarled, jabbing a finger at Superman's chest like an attack. Clark wanted to remember him that way--yes, even with the distrust and warnings and everything. It didn't work. He could still smell the burned flesh, see the charred and gaping mouth. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to will the images away. I don't want to remember him broken. He was never truly broken, not in any way that matters.
He found himself in a tiny garden, one of the thousands scattered around New Krypton. Trees, climbing vines thick on a trelliswork, a bench made of some smooth white stone. The scent of the flowers was thick and heavy, cloyingly sweet, with some strange rank undertone, alien. Alien.
Clark looked up at the sky, staring into the darkness. There was something wrong with the sky, he realized. That was part of why he was feeling so unsettled. There was something wrong with the sky--
It hit him suddenly: of course, there was no moon.
There was no moon in the sky.
Homesickness as strong as nausea seemed to hit him in the gut, almost made him double over. He wanted more than anything to go home, to never hear Kryptonian again, to smell familiar flowers and see the buildings of Metropolis, their sweet Art Deco curves so human, so loved.
He would give anything to see the moon again.
He felt tears on his lashes and scrubbed at his face again, unwilling to weep, wanting to anyway. And then a voice grated from the darkness:
"Good fighting style against Gor." As Clark whirled, his heart hammering, disbelieving, it continued, "But you left your right side open in your second blow. That was stupid. It could have cost you."
"Br--" Clark couldn't finish the word, he was hallucinating, it couldn't be--
A rustle in the tree nearest him and familiar wolf-blue eyes blinked from the greenery. A shimmer, and a figure seemed to materialize, some kind of high-tech camouflage fabric going from oddly translucent to ninja-black and opaque.
"You're dead," Clark said.
"I was," Bruce agreed.
"Then how--"
"--Time travel," Bruce cut him off. "You don't really want to know the details. I'm not sure I understand them myself." A snort. "You look like a neo-Nazi in that uniform. Just thought I should tell you."
Clark looked around wildly, although he knew he hadn't been followed, knew Bruce would never have revealed himself if anyone were around. "How did you get here?"
Bruce's eyes glinted contempt. "The people of New Krypton are so smug and xenophobic they don't even think it's possible a mere human could infiltrate their precious city. They can't imagine it, so they don't even think to look. It's not too hard to avoid detection." A pause. "It helps that I know something about how smugness and xenophobia work. How they can leave you blind to...what matters."
"You should be on Earth. You shouldn't be here."
"I'm where I'm needed." Bruce's voice was surprisingly soft, but his tone left no room for disagreement. "I left a message with Oracle. The boys know where I am."
"I shouldn't be here either," Clark said. "I don't belong here. I'm not...my heart isn't Kryptonian. My heart is human."
"No. You're wrong." As Clark stood, shocked into silence by this rebuttal, Bruce leapt lightly from the tree to stand in front of him. He put out a hand and placed it lightly on Clark's chest, the fingers spread. "Your heart is Clark Kent's. Trust it. You're where you should be. As am I." He just stood there, his hand still over Clark's heart, looking at him. Clark started to back away, but something in Bruce's eyes stopped him, some mute appeal. "Let me look at you," Bruce said. "I haven't seen you in a long time."
"It hasn't been that long. Only three--"
"--Time travel."
"How long has it been for you?"
Bruce's eyes were deep, full of something Clark couldn't read. "A long time. Let me look at you," he said again.
They stood like that for a very long moment, Bruce looking at Clark's face as if drinking in something longed-for. His hair was lank and he hadn't bathed in some time; Clark could smell him under the sweet-rank scent of the alien flowers. Human sweat, human skin. He wanted, suddenly, to bury his face in the crook of Bruce's neck and breathe him in, lose himself in the scent of him, sharper and more real than Kryptonian perfume.
"I'll be keeping an eye on you," Bruce whispered. A promise, not a threat.
Long after he was gone, vanished back into the trees of the park, the memory of his touch warmed Clark's heart.
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for World of New Krypton, but nothing major.
Rating: G (pre-slash or friendship)
Summary: Clark deals with homesickness while living on New Krypton.
Word Count: 1000
Note: For starsandsea 's birthday! Happy birthday to the author of some of the most lovely fic I know.
Commander El was heading home to his apartment after another long day of training. He ached; he'd have bruises all down one side later. But he was smiling as he remembered the fight he'd just had with Gor--not so much at the grunt of pain the other Kryptonian had made when Kal had punched him as at the looks of surprise and delight on the faces of the younger soldiers.
Bruce would be proud of him.
The smile slipped from his face as he forced himself to revise the tense: Bruce would have been proud of him. A wave of weariness caught up with him and he suddenly couldn't bear to go back to his Spartan apartment, stripped of all personality. He sensed he was being followed--Zod had someone keeping an eye on him all the time, but he used some other techniques Bruce had taught him and lost the person tailing him fairly quickly among the confusing, twisting turrets and pathways of New Krypton. Strategy and stealth. Bruce had taught him well indeed.
He remembered the weight of his friend's body in his arms, the way the shattered limbs had lolled unnaturally. He hadn't been able to get that memory out of his mind. He tried to remember Bruce alive, stifling laughter and trying to look stern at something Wally had said, or with his face abstracted and intent on some piece of evidence. He remembered the first time they'd met, how Batman had growled at him, trying to intimidate him. I'll be keeping an eye on you, he had snarled, jabbing a finger at Superman's chest like an attack. Clark wanted to remember him that way--yes, even with the distrust and warnings and everything. It didn't work. He could still smell the burned flesh, see the charred and gaping mouth. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to will the images away. I don't want to remember him broken. He was never truly broken, not in any way that matters.
He found himself in a tiny garden, one of the thousands scattered around New Krypton. Trees, climbing vines thick on a trelliswork, a bench made of some smooth white stone. The scent of the flowers was thick and heavy, cloyingly sweet, with some strange rank undertone, alien. Alien.
Clark looked up at the sky, staring into the darkness. There was something wrong with the sky, he realized. That was part of why he was feeling so unsettled. There was something wrong with the sky--
It hit him suddenly: of course, there was no moon.
There was no moon in the sky.
Homesickness as strong as nausea seemed to hit him in the gut, almost made him double over. He wanted more than anything to go home, to never hear Kryptonian again, to smell familiar flowers and see the buildings of Metropolis, their sweet Art Deco curves so human, so loved.
He would give anything to see the moon again.
He felt tears on his lashes and scrubbed at his face again, unwilling to weep, wanting to anyway. And then a voice grated from the darkness:
"Good fighting style against Gor." As Clark whirled, his heart hammering, disbelieving, it continued, "But you left your right side open in your second blow. That was stupid. It could have cost you."
"Br--" Clark couldn't finish the word, he was hallucinating, it couldn't be--
A rustle in the tree nearest him and familiar wolf-blue eyes blinked from the greenery. A shimmer, and a figure seemed to materialize, some kind of high-tech camouflage fabric going from oddly translucent to ninja-black and opaque.
"You're dead," Clark said.
"I was," Bruce agreed.
"Then how--"
"--Time travel," Bruce cut him off. "You don't really want to know the details. I'm not sure I understand them myself." A snort. "You look like a neo-Nazi in that uniform. Just thought I should tell you."
Clark looked around wildly, although he knew he hadn't been followed, knew Bruce would never have revealed himself if anyone were around. "How did you get here?"
Bruce's eyes glinted contempt. "The people of New Krypton are so smug and xenophobic they don't even think it's possible a mere human could infiltrate their precious city. They can't imagine it, so they don't even think to look. It's not too hard to avoid detection." A pause. "It helps that I know something about how smugness and xenophobia work. How they can leave you blind to...what matters."
"You should be on Earth. You shouldn't be here."
"I'm where I'm needed." Bruce's voice was surprisingly soft, but his tone left no room for disagreement. "I left a message with Oracle. The boys know where I am."
"I shouldn't be here either," Clark said. "I don't belong here. I'm not...my heart isn't Kryptonian. My heart is human."
"No. You're wrong." As Clark stood, shocked into silence by this rebuttal, Bruce leapt lightly from the tree to stand in front of him. He put out a hand and placed it lightly on Clark's chest, the fingers spread. "Your heart is Clark Kent's. Trust it. You're where you should be. As am I." He just stood there, his hand still over Clark's heart, looking at him. Clark started to back away, but something in Bruce's eyes stopped him, some mute appeal. "Let me look at you," Bruce said. "I haven't seen you in a long time."
"It hasn't been that long. Only three--"
"--Time travel."
"How long has it been for you?"
Bruce's eyes were deep, full of something Clark couldn't read. "A long time. Let me look at you," he said again.
They stood like that for a very long moment, Bruce looking at Clark's face as if drinking in something longed-for. His hair was lank and he hadn't bathed in some time; Clark could smell him under the sweet-rank scent of the alien flowers. Human sweat, human skin. He wanted, suddenly, to bury his face in the crook of Bruce's neck and breathe him in, lose himself in the scent of him, sharper and more real than Kryptonian perfume.
"I'll be keeping an eye on you," Bruce whispered. A promise, not a threat.
Long after he was gone, vanished back into the trees of the park, the memory of his touch warmed Clark's heart.