Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | Hard R | 5/18
Title: Lost Years - Part 5
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); Hard R (this section) - for language and sexual situations
Word Count: 4,230 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Bruce decides the cave looks like a better place to live. Without Clark. Realizations are had on both sides.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Hmmm, this should have been posted *hours* ago. Gods, I hate letting RL and outright laziness get in the way of good fic. And, holy crap, this chapter got long! O_o
Index Post
Part 5
His boot still doesn't feel right on his foot, slightly misshapen after the lightning strike. Clark tried to at least fix the hole in the toe over the fire - having built a new pit next to the house until they can finish the stove, and eventually, a fireplace - but the result came out more lumpy than he would have liked. If only his heat vision were still working, maybe the patch would have been smoother, he thinks.
For now, he's having to make do with a mangled boot and a somewhat bum foot, the burn not quite healed up yet either, after five days. Even what little first aid cream Bruce produced from what was left of his utility belt didn't seem to help things along fast enough. And that's just got Clark irritated. The strike shouldn't have hurt him as much as it did, shouldn't have hurt him at all, actually, but it did. The branching burns over his chest are testament to that.
He just has to face the fact: he's vulnerable now. Very vulnerable.
Of course, he thinks Bruce might be taking the revelation a little harder than he is; the Bat has hardly spoken to him since the incident. Won't even look at him for more than a few seconds. But... Clark has to admit that there's the very real possibility that Bruce is still reacting to their kiss. It shouldn't have happened. He knows that. It was a moment of weakness and they were both in pain and shock, and...
Oh, who the hell am I kidding? he sighs to himself as he sits on his cot, dabbing at the burn on his temple with the last bit of antiseptic cream smeared on a ripped off piece of his cape. After more than a month trapped on this too-quiet world, there were bound to be complications. Their relationship was bound to change. The signs were there, of course, all the restless nights that he spent alone, the shivered huddling beneath warm covers when they were together, sharing body heat, needing to be near each other... How could either of them have expected to not get closer?
And... God, they've been together, been friends, been partners for most of their adult lives, so it isn't even like this should be a stretch for them. They're alone. With only each other to keep themselves from slowly going insane. It's a logical conclusion, really
Except that Clark doesn't feel one bit logical about any of this. The way Bruce has seemingly shoved him away... it's taken what's left of his heart and torn it to pieces. He can't deal with the one person he has left in his life, the one person he thought might know him best, not speaking to him. He can't deal with the utter silence of a world without at least Bruce to talk to. It's so deafeningly quiet he thinks he might scream.
Bruce has to know how much that hurts him.
Then there's the current sleeping arrangement. Two cots. Two people. No contact. He thinks Bruce might have designed it that way, knowing they were getting too close to one another, but he can't be certain. It's just... it's like his companion is terrified of where they might be headed, like the possibility of anything more than respectful friendship and cooperation between them is the most deplorable notion ever.
But then, Bruce has always had a habit of pushing people away when things got to real for him, romantic entanglement or not. Just look how well things turned out with Dick. And Selina. And Vicki. And Jason. And, hell, Diana, of all people. How could I even expect things to be any different with us? The thought is so bitter, Clark wishes he could just shake some sense into the other man.
Absently dabbing the scarlet cloth to his temple, he doesn't hear Bruce approaching until he storms up the three steps to the little house and swings the door open, letting it fall shut behind him, bright afternoon sunlight briefly streaming in around him. Clark looks up to see the Bat stride across the room, boots loud against the floor in the quiet house, to the slate that they managed to mount along the back wall, then pick up a piece of chalk and start scribbling notes and schematics in a furious scrawl.
For a moment, the Kryptonian simply watches him, regards his closed off, focused expression. It's like Bruce doesn't even realize he's in the room.
Finally, the Bat's hard voice breaks the silence, “We need to get started on trying to send that signal. We've spent too much time trying to get... comfortable.” He almost looks in Clark's direction, giving the Kryptonian the impression that he's utterly disgusted, again.
It takes him a long while, his heart squeezing and burning with anguish inside his chest, but he finally responds, “Fine. But I'm still going to try to finish building the septic tank, whether you help or not. Most of the plumbing is finished for the bathroom, so it should only be a few more days until I can get it all installed and finish enclosing the bathroom.” He isn't sure why he goes on about the damn house, but prattling on about domestic plans is better than silence, and he'll take anything he can get.
“I need you to make the mirrors, like we discussed before,” Bruce continues, not acknowledging a thing Clark said.
“Mirrors? Out of what? We never actually discussed whatever it is you're cooking up, Bruce,” he points out.
The Bat continues scrawling on the chalkboard. “Out of metal, whatever's left from the ship. And yes, we did. On the beach. The day before I found the cave.”
“On the...” Clark repeats. “But, that was almost two weeks ago!”
“Which just means that we've wasted two weeks that we could have been sending out a signal.” Bruce grinds out. His handwriting begins to look more like chicken scratch the more irritated he becomes. “We're gonna need rope. Might as well gather enough material to make a few hundred yards of it, in case we need more for other things. So whatever you can find, bring it back here. In the mean time, I'll start working on the water wheel to power it.”
Clark can only stare, realizing that Bruce is, once again, steamrolling right over him. He considers himself lucky he was able to talk Bruce out of setting up house in that cave. After a deadly silent moment, the only sound that of chalk stabbing and dragging against slate, something seems to snap within him, and he manages, “So this is how it's gonna be, huh? You make all the plans, tell me what to do, and I jump up and follow your every command?” He can't help the lump that grows in his throat, the low, desperate pitch to his voice.
The barb is enough to make Bruce finally turn from the chalkboard. “What?” he growls.
“You heard me. You've called almost every shot since we got here, and I've gone along with it. Happily. Even when I knew things would turn out badly. My flight out past the edge of the solar system? Pointless. That ship? Pointless. Me sleeping all over the damned place to try to get more sun? Pointless. If anything, all that just made things worse. We've been here a month. A month, Bruce! And no one has come for us. Do you really think that rigging up some... some SOS machine will get us rescued faster? Huh? Your signal can only travel at light speed. Light speed!! I don't know if you've done the math, but we're about seven light years from the nearest star. Seven. Light. Years.”
With his chin trembling in rage and grief, Clark plows on, heedless of Bruce's attempt to cut him off. “So what, exactly, is the point? We've run ourselves ragged trying to get rescued, and there's not any guarantee that help will ever come. I have pushed myself so hard that I can't even rely on my abilities anymore, and for what? So we can sit here waiting for help that never comes? Newsflash, either they don't ever get off the island, or it takes years. And that's on Earth!!
“So. I am going to keep trying to make life here a little more livable, and from now on, I refuse to be your loyal workhorse on your futile projects, Bruce. We're stuck here together. Together. So either we plan, live, and work together, or we can go our separate ways. You can go build your SOS machine, but you'll have to do it by yourself. I won't even stop you if you want to go live in that damned cave.” With his rant finished, he lets out a shuddered sigh, and for a moment, he thinks he might cry, the notion of Bruce leaving him is so... unthinkable. Immediately, he wishes he could take it all back.
“Is that what you really want, then? You want me to go, leave you to your... your plumbing?”
“No!” Clark cries angrily, his gut twisting. “I-”
“You know what? Fine. I'll go build this thing myself. And you won't have to worry about me giving you orders anymore.” Tossing down the chalk, he stalks out, slamming the door behind him.
Clark can only listen as Bruce walks away, the Bat's crunching footsteps leaving him behind.
* * * * *
The cave is chilly, but nothing Bruce can't handle. He's dealt with worse before. Huddling next to the small fire he's built by one wall of the cave, he stares into the flames, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to bring a few of those goddamn not-quite-deer skins so he wouldn't have to sleep on the ground. But whatever. He's prepared to put up with whatever it takes to get Clark out of his head, to get the looping images of Clark falling after the lightning strike out of his mind. To get away from the memory of his own panic at possibly losing the only person he has left.
Clark.
Damn you.
The entire last month spent on this godforsaken rock has been nothing but Clark. Everything, everything, has depended on him. From the failed solo flight, to building the ship, to finding - and cooking - all their food. Bruce doesn't think he can stand another minute being so... useless in the face of his own fate, so attached to the person he's pinned all his hopes on. So he'll take it on all by himself. He doesn't need Clark's help to get the signal device built. He can gather the supplies himself, make rope, polish some of the metal sheets from the ship's remains for mirrors, build the water wheel, and hook it all up on his own. It'll probably take a week. But so what? It's not like he doesn't have the time.
And he can live here, just like he'd originally planned. No need for construction. No need for creature comforts aside from some bedding.
Of course, he'll need food. He's not the best cook in the world - he thinks with a bitter chuckle - but there are plenty of fish in the stream. Plenty of fall vegetables all over the forest. Food is not a problem. He'll need to build another spit so he can cook over his fire, but again, it's no big deal.
Unwittingly, the thought of food just reminds him that he left Clark a good three hours before dinner time, and his stomach rumbles angrily in protest. The memory of Clark's cooking washes over him, the phantom tastes of foods and spices unique to this world teasing his senses. Dammit.
Right on the heels of the thought of Clark's farm-cultivated culinary skills comes the look on the Kryptonian's face that first morning when he surprised Bruce with breakfast and coffee. Bright smile lighting up an otherwise terrifying morning. Shining with hope and caring.
He realizes with a fit of clarity all the things Clark has done for him, for him, since they arrived here, and a sharp prickle of shame works its way up his spine. From hunting to cooking to building to following through on the damned plumbing project, all for him. Everything Bruce has mentioned in passing, everything he's planned, and everything he hasn't even voiced a need or a want for, Clark has done it. Bruce doesn't think he's truly done anything since they were stranded.
And none of that's even taking Clark's shared body heat into consideration.
The memory of Clark's body wrapped around his to stave off the cold takes over his mind with an unexpected rush of heat. All those damned nights spent huddled together, limbs impossibly tangled, chest to back, chest to chest, hell, his face buried in Clark's chest, his arms around his companion's waist. But all that was over with the creation of two cots. After that kiss... he'd been justified in his choice for their sleeping arrangements; they were just growing too close, getting far too attached to each other. And attachment like that only leads to bad things.
Still, a part of his mind is wholly dissatisfied with the distance he's kept since the day of the strike. The craving to have Clark's arms around him is too damned strong, and he slams his head back against the cave wall in frustration.
Damn you.
Just thinking about it is waking up parts of his body that he'd really rather not be involved in any of this. The blazing memory of the kiss, the feeling of Clark's skin against his, their mouths seeking each other's out, it's too much, and it has him half-hard with need, against all the protest of his conscious mind. Before he knows it, his hand is down the front of his uniform briefs and tights, gripping his cock and stroking it to full erection. God, it hasn't even been touched like this in over a month... but he can't. Can't let himself...
Letting out a small whimper as his protest is overrun by desire, he bites his lip, tugging himself harder, running the tip of his thumb over all the more sensitive spots, before he gives in and tugs his clothes down in a swift move to free himself. The taste of Clark's mouth beneath his ghosts over his mind, and he groans, stroking harder.
It isn't supposed to be like this, he thinks as his body begins to coil more tightly, building toward release. Can't... have feelings... for Clark... distracting...
But his body takes over, flinging his last coherent thoughts to the wind, and his breath quickens, his skin on fire with lust. He wants it to be Clark's hands on him, wants to be buried to his hips in his Kryptonian, and the image sends him tumbling, at last, over the edge, forces his explosion. He groans through gritted teeth as he shoots over his hand, trembling as he rides the cresting wave of pleasure. The shuddering orgasm seems to last forever, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut as his vision swims.
Finally, after a long moment, he begins to come back to himself. Opening his eyes, he lets his gaze travel over himself. He's a complete mess.
Great. Just great, he grumbles to himself as the full weight of it all settles over him. Here I am, alone, cold, and miserable, jerking off to fantasies about Clark, and he's probably all warm and cozy in his house and his cot, thinking I'm the biggest jack-ass in the damned universe. Just fucking great.
Hating himself, Bruce pulls up his uniform and grabs a torch to go find the underground stream and clean himself up, the memory of Clark being struck by lightning beginning to tear at his mind again.
* * * * *
In the too-cold house, Clark shivers beneath his not-quite-deer hides, unable to keep from listening to Bruce's breathless activities, his retained hearing now a curse. It's all too much for him to take in.
His mind fuzzy from thinking about their awkward relationship too much, he's hardly aware of his own actions until his hand is down the front of his uniform and stroking his cock in time to Bruce's ragged breaths.
“Bruce...” he whimpers in the cold night, despising this whole situation. “Bruce...”
When the other man comes, Clark is pulled over the edge with him, and afterward, he lets himself cry and scream with his frustration.
* * * * *
Clark hasn't felt so alone in his entire life. Six days without Bruce around, without the continual glare of the Bat, and he's starting to feel a little bit loony. He's tried not to listen in on his not-quite-companion since their first night apart, but he just can't seem to block him out. Every breath, every heartbeat, he hears. His ears seem to be assaulted by every move that Bruce makes as he builds his signaling machine by the wide stream. The cutting of wood, the twining of thick rope from vines, the hammering and polishing of metal into mirrors.
Even as Clark finishes connecting the plumbing to the makeshift septic tank and extending the back of the house to include the bathroom, all he can hear is Bruce.
He has to fight the urge to go to the man, realizing Bruce might never come back to him, and he has to force himself to accept that he's alone in this now.
But he can't. He won't.
He wants Bruce to come back so badly that it hurts. It physically hurts. Worse than the lightning strike. Worse than having all his air sucked away from him into space. He doesn't think he can handle the agony much longer, being alone with his thoughts and memories, with only the sound of Bruce's breathing and pulse to keep him company.
For a moment on his seventh night alone, he contemplates plugging his ears so he can't hear the other man anymore, can't hear him and pine for him, but when he realizes he'd only plunge himself into even deeper silence, all he can do is laugh insanely, raking his hands through his hair. Trying unsuccessfully to block out the sounds of Bruce's restless sleep, he wonders if this is how the Joker felt when he went bonkers.
* * * * *
Desperate to get some sleep, Bruce tosses on his makeshift bedding of grasses on the floor of the cave, close to the smoldering remains of his dinner fire. He turns onto his left side, using his arm as a pillow, but it's the same problem he's had every night as his spine twists at an odd angle. With a huff, he finally flops over onto his back and folds his hands beneath his head. Better. Sort of.
He still can't sleep, though.
Dismayed that dreamland seems so far away, he stares absently at the cave ceiling, craggy with stalactites and lit with pale orange flickers from the fire, shadows dancing eerily.
He misses his Cave.
At least he had a cot there if he couldn't make it up into the Manor. A cot... he misses sleeping on at least a cot so badly... misses the feeling of a soft mattress, misses warm covers wrapped around him, keeping his heat in. Misses that warm body snuggled next to his.
No. I'm not doing this again, he insists to himself, forcing the mental images down with a hardened will. He can't let himself stay so attached to Clark. He just can't.
But he can't deny that living without him has been damned near impossible. Sure, he got the signal machine built and working, mirrors flipping in Morse Code with the pull of the rope, the twined vines looped around pulleys and attached to the water wheel, but he... he's living in a cave, for God's sake! A fucking cave, with his tiny fire and poor excuse for cooking and eating utensils - branches, what he has is branches - and no goddamn covers.
If he felt like a jack-ass before, he feels like a Grade-A scum-bag now. He knows he should have just gone back. Should have forgotten about the fucking signal machine, tucked his tail between his legs, and gone to beg Clark's forgiveness. At least he might have had a real meal since then. And shared body heat.
And someone to talk to. And... and Clark.
Letting out a frustrated growl, he shoves himself up, grabs the torch, and stamps out the rest of the fire. This better not be a mistake.
* * * * *
The dreams are no better than reality. In his mind, Clark sees Bruce, standing with his back turned to him. He can't see Bruce's face, can't hear him, but he knows that the other man is angry, furious. Something Clark did... something made him turn away in disappointment. The fire pit on the beach stands between them, pieces of the ship chucked carelessly into the flames, an accusation of the worst kind. All my fault, he says to himself in the dream. All my fault.
“I'm sorry...” he chokes out, calling to Bruce over the fire. “Please look at me, please... say something. Bruce...”
At the edge of his senses, he hears voices he hasn't heard in well over a month. Diana, J'onn, Roy, Dinah, Hal... all jumbled up as they seem to be arguing about their search efforts for the two lost men.
And Bruce finally turns back to him.
His face is granite, frozen in an expression of grief.
Clark can't stand it, and before he knows he's moved, he's standing on the other side of the fire, reaching for his companion. “Bruce!!” he wails, “Please!”
The stone Bat's hands seem to find their way around his waist, warm and comforting even as his cold face never moves, and-
Snapping awake with a jerk, Clark blinks heavily and finds himself peering into Bruce's eyes, their blue depths too dark for the Kryptonian to make out anything other than a look of regret. It takes him a full five seconds to realize the other man is actually there with him, climbing onto the cot and slipping beneath the thick covers, his warm arms wrapping around him tightly. “Br-Bruce...” he finally breathes, moving to pull him closer, his hands clenching the Bat's shirt.
“Hush... I'm here, Clark. I'm here.” His voice is filled with pain, so much that Clark can't help his chest tightening with anguish.
“Missed you, so much...” he chokes out. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said...”
“Don't. I'm sorry, Clark. I know I've been a complete ass.”
Coming fully awake, Clark can tell how much it's killing Bruce to admit that, and he reaches up to smooth his companion's hair back from his face, fingertips brushing along his temple. “Just don't leave again. Please. I can't do this without you. Please.”
“Never again. I swear it.”
Exhausted and relieved, Clark buries his face in Bruce's chest, holding onto him for dear life.
* * * * *
In the morning, Clark wakes to find the cot cold next to him and the house freezing. It can't have been a dream. It can't have- but his thought is cut off as the smell of coffee and breakfast hits him. What? is all his sleep-fogged mind can come up with.
Just as he begins to sit up and throw back the covers, the door to the tiny house swings open and Bruce strides through, a wooden tray in his hands. All Clark can do is gape at him, not believing the sight before him.
Bruce looks an absolute wreck, with his hair sticking up at odd angles and stains from what might have once been some food item blotched over the front of his uniform shirt. He's rumpled, and the circles under his eyes are a heavy purple. “Morning,” he says quietly, bringing the tray over to the cot and laying it over Clark's lap. “Did you... sleep okay?”
“I...” But Clark is completely flabbergasted. Bruce... Bruce hasn't cooked a meal for them since they arrived! That's it. I've lost my mind, and I'm stuck in some fantastical hallucination. Maybe this whole thing is a delusion, and I'm tied up in a straight-jacket in Arkham, hopped up on fear gas and Joker venom. Eying the eggs and baked not-quite-potato on his plate, next to the steaming mug of almost-coffee, he wonders how he can make the hallucination last forever.
But the smell is so... so real. Bruce looks so real... Maybe... “Are... are you really here?” he breathes.
“I'm here,” Bruce whispers back, his face tight with barely-checked emotion.
“You came back.”
The Bat nods, avoiding eye contact.
“And... you made breakfast.”
Another nod, Bruce's head seeming to dip lower with shame. “It's not up to your standards, but...” He sighs. “I've... been a real ass-hole. I hope... hope you can forgive me.”
“Bruce...” Clark sighs. “Of course I forgive you.” Leaning over the tray, he pulls his companion, his partner, into a tight hug. When the other man relaxes in his arms and finally squeezes him back, holding him close, a warm fire is lit deep within him. For the first time in weeks, he begins to feel hope again.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); Hard R (this section) - for language and sexual situations
Word Count: 4,230 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Bruce decides the cave looks like a better place to live. Without Clark. Realizations are had on both sides.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Hmmm, this should have been posted *hours* ago. Gods, I hate letting RL and outright laziness get in the way of good fic. And, holy crap, this chapter got long! O_o
Index Post
Part 5
His boot still doesn't feel right on his foot, slightly misshapen after the lightning strike. Clark tried to at least fix the hole in the toe over the fire - having built a new pit next to the house until they can finish the stove, and eventually, a fireplace - but the result came out more lumpy than he would have liked. If only his heat vision were still working, maybe the patch would have been smoother, he thinks.
For now, he's having to make do with a mangled boot and a somewhat bum foot, the burn not quite healed up yet either, after five days. Even what little first aid cream Bruce produced from what was left of his utility belt didn't seem to help things along fast enough. And that's just got Clark irritated. The strike shouldn't have hurt him as much as it did, shouldn't have hurt him at all, actually, but it did. The branching burns over his chest are testament to that.
He just has to face the fact: he's vulnerable now. Very vulnerable.
Of course, he thinks Bruce might be taking the revelation a little harder than he is; the Bat has hardly spoken to him since the incident. Won't even look at him for more than a few seconds. But... Clark has to admit that there's the very real possibility that Bruce is still reacting to their kiss. It shouldn't have happened. He knows that. It was a moment of weakness and they were both in pain and shock, and...
Oh, who the hell am I kidding? he sighs to himself as he sits on his cot, dabbing at the burn on his temple with the last bit of antiseptic cream smeared on a ripped off piece of his cape. After more than a month trapped on this too-quiet world, there were bound to be complications. Their relationship was bound to change. The signs were there, of course, all the restless nights that he spent alone, the shivered huddling beneath warm covers when they were together, sharing body heat, needing to be near each other... How could either of them have expected to not get closer?
And... God, they've been together, been friends, been partners for most of their adult lives, so it isn't even like this should be a stretch for them. They're alone. With only each other to keep themselves from slowly going insane. It's a logical conclusion, really
Except that Clark doesn't feel one bit logical about any of this. The way Bruce has seemingly shoved him away... it's taken what's left of his heart and torn it to pieces. He can't deal with the one person he has left in his life, the one person he thought might know him best, not speaking to him. He can't deal with the utter silence of a world without at least Bruce to talk to. It's so deafeningly quiet he thinks he might scream.
Bruce has to know how much that hurts him.
Then there's the current sleeping arrangement. Two cots. Two people. No contact. He thinks Bruce might have designed it that way, knowing they were getting too close to one another, but he can't be certain. It's just... it's like his companion is terrified of where they might be headed, like the possibility of anything more than respectful friendship and cooperation between them is the most deplorable notion ever.
But then, Bruce has always had a habit of pushing people away when things got to real for him, romantic entanglement or not. Just look how well things turned out with Dick. And Selina. And Vicki. And Jason. And, hell, Diana, of all people. How could I even expect things to be any different with us? The thought is so bitter, Clark wishes he could just shake some sense into the other man.
Absently dabbing the scarlet cloth to his temple, he doesn't hear Bruce approaching until he storms up the three steps to the little house and swings the door open, letting it fall shut behind him, bright afternoon sunlight briefly streaming in around him. Clark looks up to see the Bat stride across the room, boots loud against the floor in the quiet house, to the slate that they managed to mount along the back wall, then pick up a piece of chalk and start scribbling notes and schematics in a furious scrawl.
For a moment, the Kryptonian simply watches him, regards his closed off, focused expression. It's like Bruce doesn't even realize he's in the room.
Finally, the Bat's hard voice breaks the silence, “We need to get started on trying to send that signal. We've spent too much time trying to get... comfortable.” He almost looks in Clark's direction, giving the Kryptonian the impression that he's utterly disgusted, again.
It takes him a long while, his heart squeezing and burning with anguish inside his chest, but he finally responds, “Fine. But I'm still going to try to finish building the septic tank, whether you help or not. Most of the plumbing is finished for the bathroom, so it should only be a few more days until I can get it all installed and finish enclosing the bathroom.” He isn't sure why he goes on about the damn house, but prattling on about domestic plans is better than silence, and he'll take anything he can get.
“I need you to make the mirrors, like we discussed before,” Bruce continues, not acknowledging a thing Clark said.
“Mirrors? Out of what? We never actually discussed whatever it is you're cooking up, Bruce,” he points out.
The Bat continues scrawling on the chalkboard. “Out of metal, whatever's left from the ship. And yes, we did. On the beach. The day before I found the cave.”
“On the...” Clark repeats. “But, that was almost two weeks ago!”
“Which just means that we've wasted two weeks that we could have been sending out a signal.” Bruce grinds out. His handwriting begins to look more like chicken scratch the more irritated he becomes. “We're gonna need rope. Might as well gather enough material to make a few hundred yards of it, in case we need more for other things. So whatever you can find, bring it back here. In the mean time, I'll start working on the water wheel to power it.”
Clark can only stare, realizing that Bruce is, once again, steamrolling right over him. He considers himself lucky he was able to talk Bruce out of setting up house in that cave. After a deadly silent moment, the only sound that of chalk stabbing and dragging against slate, something seems to snap within him, and he manages, “So this is how it's gonna be, huh? You make all the plans, tell me what to do, and I jump up and follow your every command?” He can't help the lump that grows in his throat, the low, desperate pitch to his voice.
The barb is enough to make Bruce finally turn from the chalkboard. “What?” he growls.
“You heard me. You've called almost every shot since we got here, and I've gone along with it. Happily. Even when I knew things would turn out badly. My flight out past the edge of the solar system? Pointless. That ship? Pointless. Me sleeping all over the damned place to try to get more sun? Pointless. If anything, all that just made things worse. We've been here a month. A month, Bruce! And no one has come for us. Do you really think that rigging up some... some SOS machine will get us rescued faster? Huh? Your signal can only travel at light speed. Light speed!! I don't know if you've done the math, but we're about seven light years from the nearest star. Seven. Light. Years.”
With his chin trembling in rage and grief, Clark plows on, heedless of Bruce's attempt to cut him off. “So what, exactly, is the point? We've run ourselves ragged trying to get rescued, and there's not any guarantee that help will ever come. I have pushed myself so hard that I can't even rely on my abilities anymore, and for what? So we can sit here waiting for help that never comes? Newsflash, either they don't ever get off the island, or it takes years. And that's on Earth!!
“So. I am going to keep trying to make life here a little more livable, and from now on, I refuse to be your loyal workhorse on your futile projects, Bruce. We're stuck here together. Together. So either we plan, live, and work together, or we can go our separate ways. You can go build your SOS machine, but you'll have to do it by yourself. I won't even stop you if you want to go live in that damned cave.” With his rant finished, he lets out a shuddered sigh, and for a moment, he thinks he might cry, the notion of Bruce leaving him is so... unthinkable. Immediately, he wishes he could take it all back.
“Is that what you really want, then? You want me to go, leave you to your... your plumbing?”
“No!” Clark cries angrily, his gut twisting. “I-”
“You know what? Fine. I'll go build this thing myself. And you won't have to worry about me giving you orders anymore.” Tossing down the chalk, he stalks out, slamming the door behind him.
Clark can only listen as Bruce walks away, the Bat's crunching footsteps leaving him behind.
* * * * *
The cave is chilly, but nothing Bruce can't handle. He's dealt with worse before. Huddling next to the small fire he's built by one wall of the cave, he stares into the flames, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to bring a few of those goddamn not-quite-deer skins so he wouldn't have to sleep on the ground. But whatever. He's prepared to put up with whatever it takes to get Clark out of his head, to get the looping images of Clark falling after the lightning strike out of his mind. To get away from the memory of his own panic at possibly losing the only person he has left.
Clark.
Damn you.
The entire last month spent on this godforsaken rock has been nothing but Clark. Everything, everything, has depended on him. From the failed solo flight, to building the ship, to finding - and cooking - all their food. Bruce doesn't think he can stand another minute being so... useless in the face of his own fate, so attached to the person he's pinned all his hopes on. So he'll take it on all by himself. He doesn't need Clark's help to get the signal device built. He can gather the supplies himself, make rope, polish some of the metal sheets from the ship's remains for mirrors, build the water wheel, and hook it all up on his own. It'll probably take a week. But so what? It's not like he doesn't have the time.
And he can live here, just like he'd originally planned. No need for construction. No need for creature comforts aside from some bedding.
Of course, he'll need food. He's not the best cook in the world - he thinks with a bitter chuckle - but there are plenty of fish in the stream. Plenty of fall vegetables all over the forest. Food is not a problem. He'll need to build another spit so he can cook over his fire, but again, it's no big deal.
Unwittingly, the thought of food just reminds him that he left Clark a good three hours before dinner time, and his stomach rumbles angrily in protest. The memory of Clark's cooking washes over him, the phantom tastes of foods and spices unique to this world teasing his senses. Dammit.
Right on the heels of the thought of Clark's farm-cultivated culinary skills comes the look on the Kryptonian's face that first morning when he surprised Bruce with breakfast and coffee. Bright smile lighting up an otherwise terrifying morning. Shining with hope and caring.
He realizes with a fit of clarity all the things Clark has done for him, for him, since they arrived here, and a sharp prickle of shame works its way up his spine. From hunting to cooking to building to following through on the damned plumbing project, all for him. Everything Bruce has mentioned in passing, everything he's planned, and everything he hasn't even voiced a need or a want for, Clark has done it. Bruce doesn't think he's truly done anything since they were stranded.
And none of that's even taking Clark's shared body heat into consideration.
The memory of Clark's body wrapped around his to stave off the cold takes over his mind with an unexpected rush of heat. All those damned nights spent huddled together, limbs impossibly tangled, chest to back, chest to chest, hell, his face buried in Clark's chest, his arms around his companion's waist. But all that was over with the creation of two cots. After that kiss... he'd been justified in his choice for their sleeping arrangements; they were just growing too close, getting far too attached to each other. And attachment like that only leads to bad things.
Still, a part of his mind is wholly dissatisfied with the distance he's kept since the day of the strike. The craving to have Clark's arms around him is too damned strong, and he slams his head back against the cave wall in frustration.
Damn you.
Just thinking about it is waking up parts of his body that he'd really rather not be involved in any of this. The blazing memory of the kiss, the feeling of Clark's skin against his, their mouths seeking each other's out, it's too much, and it has him half-hard with need, against all the protest of his conscious mind. Before he knows it, his hand is down the front of his uniform briefs and tights, gripping his cock and stroking it to full erection. God, it hasn't even been touched like this in over a month... but he can't. Can't let himself...
Letting out a small whimper as his protest is overrun by desire, he bites his lip, tugging himself harder, running the tip of his thumb over all the more sensitive spots, before he gives in and tugs his clothes down in a swift move to free himself. The taste of Clark's mouth beneath his ghosts over his mind, and he groans, stroking harder.
It isn't supposed to be like this, he thinks as his body begins to coil more tightly, building toward release. Can't... have feelings... for Clark... distracting...
But his body takes over, flinging his last coherent thoughts to the wind, and his breath quickens, his skin on fire with lust. He wants it to be Clark's hands on him, wants to be buried to his hips in his Kryptonian, and the image sends him tumbling, at last, over the edge, forces his explosion. He groans through gritted teeth as he shoots over his hand, trembling as he rides the cresting wave of pleasure. The shuddering orgasm seems to last forever, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut as his vision swims.
Finally, after a long moment, he begins to come back to himself. Opening his eyes, he lets his gaze travel over himself. He's a complete mess.
Great. Just great, he grumbles to himself as the full weight of it all settles over him. Here I am, alone, cold, and miserable, jerking off to fantasies about Clark, and he's probably all warm and cozy in his house and his cot, thinking I'm the biggest jack-ass in the damned universe. Just fucking great.
Hating himself, Bruce pulls up his uniform and grabs a torch to go find the underground stream and clean himself up, the memory of Clark being struck by lightning beginning to tear at his mind again.
* * * * *
In the too-cold house, Clark shivers beneath his not-quite-deer hides, unable to keep from listening to Bruce's breathless activities, his retained hearing now a curse. It's all too much for him to take in.
His mind fuzzy from thinking about their awkward relationship too much, he's hardly aware of his own actions until his hand is down the front of his uniform and stroking his cock in time to Bruce's ragged breaths.
“Bruce...” he whimpers in the cold night, despising this whole situation. “Bruce...”
When the other man comes, Clark is pulled over the edge with him, and afterward, he lets himself cry and scream with his frustration.
* * * * *
Clark hasn't felt so alone in his entire life. Six days without Bruce around, without the continual glare of the Bat, and he's starting to feel a little bit loony. He's tried not to listen in on his not-quite-companion since their first night apart, but he just can't seem to block him out. Every breath, every heartbeat, he hears. His ears seem to be assaulted by every move that Bruce makes as he builds his signaling machine by the wide stream. The cutting of wood, the twining of thick rope from vines, the hammering and polishing of metal into mirrors.
Even as Clark finishes connecting the plumbing to the makeshift septic tank and extending the back of the house to include the bathroom, all he can hear is Bruce.
He has to fight the urge to go to the man, realizing Bruce might never come back to him, and he has to force himself to accept that he's alone in this now.
But he can't. He won't.
He wants Bruce to come back so badly that it hurts. It physically hurts. Worse than the lightning strike. Worse than having all his air sucked away from him into space. He doesn't think he can handle the agony much longer, being alone with his thoughts and memories, with only the sound of Bruce's breathing and pulse to keep him company.
For a moment on his seventh night alone, he contemplates plugging his ears so he can't hear the other man anymore, can't hear him and pine for him, but when he realizes he'd only plunge himself into even deeper silence, all he can do is laugh insanely, raking his hands through his hair. Trying unsuccessfully to block out the sounds of Bruce's restless sleep, he wonders if this is how the Joker felt when he went bonkers.
* * * * *
Desperate to get some sleep, Bruce tosses on his makeshift bedding of grasses on the floor of the cave, close to the smoldering remains of his dinner fire. He turns onto his left side, using his arm as a pillow, but it's the same problem he's had every night as his spine twists at an odd angle. With a huff, he finally flops over onto his back and folds his hands beneath his head. Better. Sort of.
He still can't sleep, though.
Dismayed that dreamland seems so far away, he stares absently at the cave ceiling, craggy with stalactites and lit with pale orange flickers from the fire, shadows dancing eerily.
He misses his Cave.
At least he had a cot there if he couldn't make it up into the Manor. A cot... he misses sleeping on at least a cot so badly... misses the feeling of a soft mattress, misses warm covers wrapped around him, keeping his heat in. Misses that warm body snuggled next to his.
No. I'm not doing this again, he insists to himself, forcing the mental images down with a hardened will. He can't let himself stay so attached to Clark. He just can't.
But he can't deny that living without him has been damned near impossible. Sure, he got the signal machine built and working, mirrors flipping in Morse Code with the pull of the rope, the twined vines looped around pulleys and attached to the water wheel, but he... he's living in a cave, for God's sake! A fucking cave, with his tiny fire and poor excuse for cooking and eating utensils - branches, what he has is branches - and no goddamn covers.
If he felt like a jack-ass before, he feels like a Grade-A scum-bag now. He knows he should have just gone back. Should have forgotten about the fucking signal machine, tucked his tail between his legs, and gone to beg Clark's forgiveness. At least he might have had a real meal since then. And shared body heat.
And someone to talk to. And... and Clark.
Letting out a frustrated growl, he shoves himself up, grabs the torch, and stamps out the rest of the fire. This better not be a mistake.
* * * * *
The dreams are no better than reality. In his mind, Clark sees Bruce, standing with his back turned to him. He can't see Bruce's face, can't hear him, but he knows that the other man is angry, furious. Something Clark did... something made him turn away in disappointment. The fire pit on the beach stands between them, pieces of the ship chucked carelessly into the flames, an accusation of the worst kind. All my fault, he says to himself in the dream. All my fault.
“I'm sorry...” he chokes out, calling to Bruce over the fire. “Please look at me, please... say something. Bruce...”
At the edge of his senses, he hears voices he hasn't heard in well over a month. Diana, J'onn, Roy, Dinah, Hal... all jumbled up as they seem to be arguing about their search efforts for the two lost men.
And Bruce finally turns back to him.
His face is granite, frozen in an expression of grief.
Clark can't stand it, and before he knows he's moved, he's standing on the other side of the fire, reaching for his companion. “Bruce!!” he wails, “Please!”
The stone Bat's hands seem to find their way around his waist, warm and comforting even as his cold face never moves, and-
Snapping awake with a jerk, Clark blinks heavily and finds himself peering into Bruce's eyes, their blue depths too dark for the Kryptonian to make out anything other than a look of regret. It takes him a full five seconds to realize the other man is actually there with him, climbing onto the cot and slipping beneath the thick covers, his warm arms wrapping around him tightly. “Br-Bruce...” he finally breathes, moving to pull him closer, his hands clenching the Bat's shirt.
“Hush... I'm here, Clark. I'm here.” His voice is filled with pain, so much that Clark can't help his chest tightening with anguish.
“Missed you, so much...” he chokes out. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said...”
“Don't. I'm sorry, Clark. I know I've been a complete ass.”
Coming fully awake, Clark can tell how much it's killing Bruce to admit that, and he reaches up to smooth his companion's hair back from his face, fingertips brushing along his temple. “Just don't leave again. Please. I can't do this without you. Please.”
“Never again. I swear it.”
Exhausted and relieved, Clark buries his face in Bruce's chest, holding onto him for dear life.
* * * * *
In the morning, Clark wakes to find the cot cold next to him and the house freezing. It can't have been a dream. It can't have- but his thought is cut off as the smell of coffee and breakfast hits him. What? is all his sleep-fogged mind can come up with.
Just as he begins to sit up and throw back the covers, the door to the tiny house swings open and Bruce strides through, a wooden tray in his hands. All Clark can do is gape at him, not believing the sight before him.
Bruce looks an absolute wreck, with his hair sticking up at odd angles and stains from what might have once been some food item blotched over the front of his uniform shirt. He's rumpled, and the circles under his eyes are a heavy purple. “Morning,” he says quietly, bringing the tray over to the cot and laying it over Clark's lap. “Did you... sleep okay?”
“I...” But Clark is completely flabbergasted. Bruce... Bruce hasn't cooked a meal for them since they arrived! That's it. I've lost my mind, and I'm stuck in some fantastical hallucination. Maybe this whole thing is a delusion, and I'm tied up in a straight-jacket in Arkham, hopped up on fear gas and Joker venom. Eying the eggs and baked not-quite-potato on his plate, next to the steaming mug of almost-coffee, he wonders how he can make the hallucination last forever.
But the smell is so... so real. Bruce looks so real... Maybe... “Are... are you really here?” he breathes.
“I'm here,” Bruce whispers back, his face tight with barely-checked emotion.
“You came back.”
The Bat nods, avoiding eye contact.
“And... you made breakfast.”
Another nod, Bruce's head seeming to dip lower with shame. “It's not up to your standards, but...” He sighs. “I've... been a real ass-hole. I hope... hope you can forgive me.”
“Bruce...” Clark sighs. “Of course I forgive you.” Leaning over the tray, he pulls his companion, his partner, into a tight hug. When the other man relaxes in his arms and finally squeezes him back, holding him close, a warm fire is lit deep within him. For the first time in weeks, he begins to feel hope again.
* * * * *