Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | PG-13 | 10/20+
Title: Lost Years - Part 10
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 4,515 (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) The boys celebrate their birthdays, but not how they would like to.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long to get out. I guess RL has just done a complete number on me, huh? Anyway, I've been wanting to do this chapter from almost the beginning, so I hope it comes out as good as I envisioned it (especially considering RL events that hit entirely too close to what happens in this chapter). Still working on what's now Part 11, so hopefully you won't have to wait too long for it. *hugs to all* Oh, and comments are love. *puppy eyes* ~O_O~
Index Post
Part 10
February 19th, 2008
Summer's already here. Would you believe it? It's not so humid as we expected, but it's already scorching outside. Thankfully, we get a good cross-breeze through the house when we open the front and back windows, and there always seems to be a decent wind coming off the ocean, so it's not so bad. With the cats around, the insect population hasn't invaded the house much, either.
Working out in the field is another story, though, for the weather and the insects. They are merciless little things, I tell you! I've never spent so much time swatting in my life. On top of all the bites - little red things that itch like crazy - I got so badly sunburned a few days ago that my neck peeled. Yuck! So of course, Bruce made me a straw hat like his. Even trimmed it in some of that blue ribbon, grumbling about my thick-headedness the whole time. It's... kind of cute, actually. But God, it feels a lot better without the sun beating down on me so hard. Never thought I'd hear myself say that! But I guess I'm just still getting used to being mostly non-powered. It's frustrating, not being able to lift ten tons of rock anymore, and now that my hearing seems to have faded a bit more, it's like the world has gone even quieter, or maybe gotten smaller. It's... eerie, sometimes. Last night I realized I couldn't hear the heartbeats of the chicken/ducks anymore. I was out of the house and halfway to the coop, thinking something had gotten to them, when it hit me. They were fine, of course, and I heard their heartbeats when I got within about fifteen feet, not that it made me feel much better.
But enough of that. We're going down to check out the signal rig in a little while, see what maintenance it needs. It's been a few weeks since we went down there. After that, if I can convince Bruce to have a little fun on his birthday, we're going swimming! There's a place further upstream, kind of like a little lake, where the creek pools before dumping over a small waterfall. About two and a half miles from here, if I'm not mistaken. I've got a surprise waiting for him up there, too. Hopefully, he'll love it, and it'll be a great afternoon. If I can't convince him to go swimming, though, I'll see if he wants to try out some fishing. I know for a fact that the fish in that lake are big enough to eat, and it's about time we added a little more variety to our diet.
* * * * *
“Damn,” Bruce mutters, kneeling next to the frayed rope, the bristled ends of one length dry against his fingertips as he inspects the damage. It looks like the change in weather through the winter and spring just tore the vine fibers to shreds. Which is bad news for everything back at the homestead they've got secured with the handmade rope. They'll have to double check it all when they get back later. So much for a nice afternoon. Of course, the breakage has left the signal rig broken down to rot, and he realizes he has no way of knowing how long it's been like this. “Can't believe we didn't check this sooner,” he grumbles, feeling foolish for not being more diligent about it.
“I'm sorry,” Clark offers, kneeling beside him and fingering the torn fibers, the sun dappling through the leaves somehow managing to find him and show off what Bruce thinks is becoming a really nice tan. “I know you worked hard on the rig.”
Almost startled out of his quick mental side trip, the Bat shoots him a hard look, pride for his water-driven machine crumbling. “Yes. I did. But...” He sighs, irritated at the reality check. “The signal's out there. No point in keeping this running anymore, anyway.”
His Kryptonian's eyes are gentle. “You sound like you're giving up.”
“No,” Bruce shakes his head, glancing again at the broken down apparatus. “Just... trying to face things the way they are.”
Squeezing his shoulder warmly, Clark gives him a sad smile, “I guess that makes sense.”
All Bruce can do is offer a tight-lipped smile in return. With a huff, he rises from his crouch and dusts his hands off on his lightweight cotton pants, almost wishing he'd never built the damned thing. In a way, he's glad it's finished. Too much anger associated with the time he spent living in the cave, working on the rig by himself, the stubborn Bat, alone on his quest. Alone and miserable. But all that's over now, and besides shucking off the remainder of those rough times, he realizes they can at least take the mirrors home, re-polish them, and use one in the bathroom. He's damned tired of shaving without proper visual reference.
“We can salvage most of the materials here, later,” he finally says, mentally inventorying the rig's remains.
Clark nods, “Of course. You just want to come back tomorrow?”
“Sure.” In the mean time, Bruce knows his companion has something up his sleeve for his birthday, and as much as he hates to admit to passing the personal milestone here, he's eager to find out what Clark has in mind. “Didn't you say you had some place you wanted to take me?”
Clark's smirking grin lights up the forest.
* * * * *
Standing on the shore of the little lake, the Bat crosses his arms over his chest, eying the heavy vine-rope his companion has tied to a high tree limb, reaching out over the water. “It won't hold us,” he grumbles.
“Sure it will,” Clark grins wickedly, already stripping off his homespun tunic. Tossing it aside, he gives Bruce a decidedly calculating look. “Come on. You haven't swung on a jumpline for the better part of a year.” He grabs the Bat's waist, moving into his space and looking slightly down at him with those damnable blue eyes that Bruce can't seem to resist anymore. “I haven't flown in that long, either. It's just a swing line. And if it breaks, we'll be over the water anyway. No harm. So come on, what do you say? Can you have a little fun on your birthday?”
At Clark's teasing tone and quirking smile, Bruce thinks he'd like to either sock him in the jaw or crush him to the ground, kiss him furiously, and fuck him until sunset. But the thought of having this man in the water is so much more inviting. “You're insane, you know that?”
“You wouldn't have me any other way,” the Kryptonian grins, pulling his lover to him for a long kiss, Bruce's arms snaking around his naked, golden torso. When he pulls back a little, he continues breathlessly, “Now come on, let's get out of these clothes and get cooled off.”
The Bat can't resist flicking his tongue over the corner of Clark's insatiable smile as he steps out of the embrace to strip. A few minutes and several articles of clothing later, and he's climbing the broad tree to get a good position from which to launch himself into the water. Clark is right, of course, he hasn't flown between rooftops since three days before they were stranded. He's only climbed exactly seven times since then, each time seeking the high end of a vine to be used as rope fibers. This time... well, he isn't quite sure he remembers ever climbing for fun. It was always for a purpose. Training. Patrol. More training. Maybe if he considers this an exercise in keeping his skills sharp, he can justify it without-
His line of reasoning abandons him when the breeze hits his bare body, his legs tucked under him as he crouches on a limb, vine cool and smooth in his hands.
To hell with it. I'm having fun.
And with a swift uncoiling of taught muscle he launches himself from the tree, catching the wind and slicing through the sunlight, feet first, aerodynamic, his body moving on years of honed instinct. The jubilant laughter beneath him is lost to the rush of air, and then he's releasing the vine, body angled to execute a reverse somersault. A single rotation, arms extended, and he meets the surface of the little lake in a smooth glide. The water is at first a shock of cold, but mellows to a soothing cool as he reorients himself, swimming back up for air.
As soon as he breaches the surface to suck in a refreshing breath, Clark's laughter and applause meets him, loud and raucous as a cheering crowd. “That was beautiful!” his Kryptonian shouts from the shore. “Perfect ten!”
Bruce sweeps his wet hair back with one hand, flashing a wicked smile and treading water, actually finding himself in as good a mood as his partner is as the flow of adrenaline and endorphins hits him just right. “You coming in, or what?”
But Clark is already heading up the tree, calling back over his shoulder, “What do you think?”
Rolling his eyes, Bruce swims out of the way, then stops to watch his lover finish scaling the tree, glowing with life, glorious in his nakedness.
“Geronimo!!”
* * * * *
Clark is sure this is the best afternoon he's had in months, relaxing and playing with Bruce in the lake, swimming in lazy circles, laughing and splashing like they don't have a single care in the world. Not too long in the water, and they've already made love once, Bruce pretty much having his way with him as they drifted toward the opposite shore. Floating in the afterglow quickly became lighthearted play once again, though, teasing each other with touches beneath the surface, and already they're back to splashing, shielding their eyes against the shimmering water droplets.
Their laughter swirling around them, Clark dives down to tickle Bruce's ribs, quick and sneaky beneath the dark surface. His Bat's squirming against his fingertips is irresistible, and he surfaces to the rich tenor of Bruce's laugh, a sound he's so sorely missed - if he's really ever heard it like this, unburdened, carefree - that his insides threaten to become a puddle of goo at the gorgeous sound.
“Gahaha!! Quit it!” the Bat laughs, grabbing his shoulder to dunk him playfully.
Clark takes the dunking, tickling again as he resurfaces, sliding up Bruce's body to grab the man's head in his hands and lay a soaking kiss on him. “God, I love you!” he chuckles as he catches his breath, still holding his lover's head. “Do you have any idea how good it is to hear-”
“Let go of my ankle, you,” Bruce cuts him off, squirming again. “What do you have, prehensile toes?”
The Kryptonian's brow furrows. “I don't have your ankle, Bruce. Wha-?”
“Gaaahh!!”
The scream rips through the serenity of the little lake, shattering their perfect afternoon, and suddenly Bruce is thrashing in the water, tearing out of Clark's grasp with a violent jerk. “Get it off!!”
A near-blind panic strikes Clark through the chest before his instincts kick in, and paralyzed shock gives way to action. He's only peripherally aware of himself grabbing Bruce around the shoulders and pulling him back to shore, heaving him up on the bank even as he convulses. “Bruce!!” he cries repeatedly as his lover's eyes glaze over with pain, focus lost to the sky. “Bruce!! Say something!!” But there's no response but incoherent screaming as he gets Bruce's legs and feet out of the water.
And he sees it.
Some kind of blue-green octopus - in a lake? - with armored tentacles, wrapped tightly around Bruce's right ankle and up his calf. “No!! Nonononono!!!” he wails, launching himself into ripping the thing away. But it's got some kind of circular row of teeth latched on tight, like a lamprey. Blood is trickling down Bruce's wet leg around the punctures. “Noooooo!!!!” Clark screams as his companion convulses again, eyes finally rolling back in his head.
A violent rip, and the thing is dislodged, a patch of Bruce's flesh with it. Blood begins to stream thinly from the open wound.
Tears. Pleas for help from the gods, whatever gods, any gods to help him get Bruce back to the house. Later, Clark doesn't remember gathering their clothes or wrapping Bruce's wound, or even carrying him back. All he remembers is the panic and terror at seeing his lover's eyelashes flutter and still as he fell unconscious beside the lake and the vine swing that was supposed to be a surprise, on a day that should have been so special. On Bruce's birthday.
* * * * *
February 20th, 2008
God help me, I don't know what to do. Bruce has been hovering between unconsciousness and feverish dreams ever since that... that thing bit him yesterday. He's got a pretty high fever, that I'm trying to keep down with soaked kitchen towels. Used up what little bit of ice we had in the icebox - and thank God we've been keeping it mostly stocked - but I'd kill for more right now. I'm afraid if I leave him to head north, he'll get worse while I'm gone. Yes, I still have the speed to make it a quick trip, but it could be easily a few hours. I just can't afford to leave him alone that long. Dammit!
What little pain killers we had on hand when we arrived here is long gone, and we haven't yet identified any herbs that will suffice as a fever-reducer, so that option is out, too.
As for his wound, it looks like it'll take a while to heal. I stitched it up where I could, but there's still a broad exposed patch in the center, where the octopus took the most flesh. It's only got a thin scab so far, but the whole thing is inflamed and the puncture wounds around the edges seem to be trying to necrotize. If any more of the skin turns black, I'll have to cut it away. Don't think that possibility doesn't scare me. I've seen a lot in my work, but this is Bruce, for God's sake! Anyway, I've been applying that aloe-like gel to try to cut down on the inflammation, and I've got a little bit of that herb we found that seems to have antibiotic properties. It stinks like hell, but it seems to be keeping the wound from getting infected. I hope I can find more of it before we run out.
I haven't been able to get him to take water, though. If this continues, I'm going to have to try an IV. Bruce has a single needle and syringe left in his utility belt, at least. Always prepared. Bruce the Boy Scout. Really, he's more deserving of the title than I ever was. God.
* * * * *
“Need to go on patrol. Don't make me stay here!” Bruce's voice is hoarse and frustrated, the fevered dream keeping Clark from closing his eyes for even the briefest of moments in the dim light of the bedside oil lamp. He can't. Can't sleep for even a moment with his lover in this state. All he can do is hold his hand, stroke his hair, and murmur soothing words, trying to attend to Bruce's delusions, to calm him.
“Shhh... Nightwing and Robin have patrol tonight. It's okay.” He realizes his own voice is strained and tired.
Bruce tosses his head. “No. No! Need to go out. Have to find watermelons. Please!”
Choking on his frustration, Clark squeezes his eyes shut, blinking away the sting of fearful tears. “You don't have to go anywhere, Bruce. Everything's taken care of.”
“Tim needs cookies and Alfred forgot to do the shopping. Have to go fuel up the jet. Now!” His body shudders, and Clark grabs his shoulders, laying partly over him to stop the tremors he knows are coming.
“Bruce, please stop! You don't need to go anywhere! Please!” But the Bat thrashes beneath him, struggling. “Stop! You'll pull out your IV! Stop!”
Whimpering, Bruce finally settles. “Have to go... he's out there...”
“Shhh... Shhh... Everything's fine, Bruce. It's all okay. There's no one out there.”
“J'onn's out there...” he cries weakly, eyelids fluttering. “Need to find him...”
Clark is stopped cold, a prickle crawling up his spine. “What?”
“We're alive!!” Bruce shouts. “Don't stop looking!”
In the wake of the eerie exchange, Clark lays back down next to Bruce, smoothing his hair back, silent. Nothing has made sense so far, out of all his Bat's hallucinations, but this...
The chirping of a farm full of insects and the purring of several kittens nestled around their feet fills in the quiet, accompanying the steady beat of Bruce's heart. For a moment, it begins to lull Clark out of his contemplation and into the twilight of sleep. Easy. Rhythmic. Calm.
But Bruce groans, and the sudden ammonia stink of urine assaults Clark, waking him again. “What the-? Oh, goddammit.”
* * * * *
February 23rd, 2008 (I think)
This is the fourth night I've gotten no sleep. I've got more than enough field medical experience to handle this, but... I just... I don't know. Tonight was hard. And... Bruce is so weak. Except when he gets agitated. Then... it takes a lot of effort to get him to calm down. And the dreams. They're getting worse. I think... I don't know. His fever just won't go down. God help me, I'm just... so scared. I lived without him before, and I almost lost it. And that was before we were together! If... I can't even think it. I just don't know what I'd do. I don't. I can't deal with this rationally. I can't!! I... I love him so much!! God. Just... please don't take him away from me. Please. I can't do this.
* * * * *
Lying in the bed next to his Bat in the afternoon sunlight, Clark has been watching little Jay, Selina, and Kara - now five pound hellions - for the better part of an hour, almost managing a smile at their antics as they pounce each other atop the thick quilt, chasing each other's tails and wispy ear tufts, hiding behind one or the other of Bruce's legs. It's the most entertainment he's had in more than five days, since before his lover was attacked by that whatever-it-was. Bruce hasn't had a single moment of lucidity since then, seeming tortured by his hallucinations and burning with fever, and even now, with kittens hopping about and landing on him intermittently, he isn't waking.
The thought sours what little cheer the kittens have brought, bringing back the absolute terror that's been burning his chest. He hasn't really had a moment without the fear of the worst eating at him since Bruce's birthday. Hasn't slept more then five minutes, hasn't eaten. He's only barely managed to remember to feed the animals on a regular basis. It's as if he's watching a horrible train wreck happen in slow motion, not knowing if he can get there in time, paralyzed by the possibility of a future without his beloved.
But Selina playfully attacks the fingers of Bruce's left hand, rabbit-kicking his palm, her fur ruffled by the breeze coming in the window, and the corner of Clark's mouth twitches involuntarily, a tiny ray of sunshine cracking through the pain of watching his lover fight whatever toxin the armored octopus injected him with.
“The cookies are in the grappling hook, Tim,” Bruce calls out in his delirium. For the briefest of moments, Clark thinks he could chuckle at the absurdity of the exclamation. “And you can't paint the Cave purple! Write it down. We need sunlight and watermelons!”
Waving off the rambunctious kitten, Clark takes his companion's hand in his, twining their fingers together in a firm grip. “It's okay, Bruce. No one is painting the Cave. And we found the cookies. Right where you left them.”
“No, you didn't! The Joker killed them!” The Bat's eyelids flutter as his breathing quickens.
Clark slowly smooths his lover's sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead with a wet towel, his gut twisting. “Shhh... The Joker hasn't killed anyone-”
“He killed Robin!! How many times do I have to tell you, we need watermelons!” Whimpering, Bruce starts to thrash in the bed, tangling himself in the covers and sending the kittens scurrying off in a panicked fluff. “Jason!! No!!”
“Hey, hey...” Clark tries to calm him, laying the cloth aside and stroking his hot face with cool fingertips. “Jason is fine. He's fine, Bruce. Nothing's happened.” He reaches across to grab his right wrist and keep him from ripping out the crude IV lashed to his hand. “Calm down.”
“But the cookies...” he cries, dark lashes still fluttering over heavy lidded eyes.
“Bruce, please!” comes Clark's anguished wail, his chest tightening again and tears slipping down his cheeks as he grips his lover's wrist even tighter. “Wake up, please... I need you.”
* * * * *
February 26th, 2008
He still won't wake up. I've done everything I can think of, short of dunking him in the ocean, to get his fever down, but it just won't break. Neither will the dream-like delusions. This morning, he called me Alfred a few times, and kept demanding more watermelons. Out of all the weirdness that's come out of his hallucinations so far, that's the one consistent thing. Watermelons. I don't get it. I'm tempted to cut up one of those pink melons from the garden and try to get him to eat it, though. Maybe it would calm him down some.
The IV, at least, seems to be working. He's taken about ten liters of saline since the 22nd, and his color's improved. Not quite so red and puffy as he was before. Even his wound looks better. The stitches are holding, and the necrosis has stopped, thank God. I didn't have to cut much away, just about a millimeter diameter around each puncture. Scab's thickened up, too, and thanks to the aloe-like gel, there doesn't seem to be any sign of infection.
I'm trying to stay hopeful, with those good signs, despite the fact that I haven't really slept in a week now. It's harder than it should be, to function this way, but I'm drinking plenty of water, and I managed a few eggs this morning. Have to keep my own strength up for Bruce. He needs me.
* * * * *
February 29th, 2008
Today's my birthday. My actual birthday. First since being stranded here. Bruce is still out of it. Fever seems not so bad. I need sleep soon. God, I'm alone.
* * * * *
Swaying in his chair pulled up next to the bed, Clark watches Bruce's eyes move beneath his lids, a regular dream holding him for once. “It's my birthday, Bruce,” he says quietly. “It's my birthday. My real birthday. You know I only get one every four years, right? I know I told you before, but I want you to know how special it is. It's so special... and because I'm here with you, it's even better. And... you're missing out on a pretty good party, being asleep and all. All the kids are here. There's even a cake and cookies. And watermelon. And ice cream. God, ice cream!”
When he gets no response from the sleeping Bat, he shakes his head, chuckling. “That's okay. Your birthday was kind of a bust, too. At least we got to swim some. And I know you loved swinging on that rope. You can't ever tell me you didn't. You can't lie to me. I know you too well.”
Bruce groans in his dream, tossing his head away from Clark and casting his face into the late afternoon sunlight streaming in the window. The breeze tousles his hair a bit.
“See? Sunshine. You've got plenty of sunshine. And I know you love it every bit as much as I do. All that darkness is just a cover. You can't bear to let anyone know all that light you have inside, just bursting to get out.”
The Bat's eyelids flutter in the sun, and he takes Bruce's right hand in his, gently.
“Do you know how much I miss you? How much I miss talking to you, and getting an actual response? I'm practically talking to myself, here, because I don't have you to spar with. I miss you! I miss your grouchiness in the morning before you're properly caffeinated. I miss your eyes. God, your eyes! Your beautiful, pale eyes, and the way you turn them on me when we're in bed, all heated, like you might hit me with heat vision, if you had it. I miss your burnt breakfasts, waking up to the smell of charred eggs and you cursing a blue streak at the stove. I miss the way you glare at the chicken/ducks when they get too loud, and that look on your face when I do manage to get the coffee to you in the morning, like I'm some kind of savior. And... that quietness that comes over you when we walk down to the beach or out through the woods. And the way you can go on and on about whatever project we're working on, but you save all the important stuff, your feelings about us, about everyone and everything we left behind, for when we're lying in bed, late at night, and it's dark. And...”
Absently, Clark scrubs a hand over his face, still swaying in his chair, taking a deep breath to calm himself and fight off the lump growing in his throat. He promised himself he'd try to get Bruce to drink, or eat, or something, and babbling on like an idiot isn't helping. He has to clear his head.
For a moment, he watches the liquid dripping and flowing through the syringe attached to Bruce's arm and the long, thin tubing made from chicken/duck intestine reaching up to the glass jar set up on a shelf above the bed.
“Come on. Eat your watermelon,” he finally says, and releasing Bruce's hand, he reaches over to the plate on the night table and picks a small square of cut-up melon. Carefully, he holds it to Bruce's lips. “Come on, eat.”
Another moan, but this time Clark takes advantage and shoves the fruit into Bruce's mouth, smashing it against his lips ant teeth. “Eat, dammit!!”
Lips begin to work around the pink flesh of the melon, as if actually tasting it.
“That's it. Come on, Bruce. Watermelon. Eat it. Please.”
Finally, Bruce begins sucking on the smashed fruit, his jaw moving vaguely.
“There,” Clark breathes. “Welcome to the party. Eat up. There. I knew you'd like that.”
His hand falling to his lover's chest and feeling the steady rise and fall, he listens to the lub-dub of the heart within. Steady. Alive. Hope. His mind and body awash with relief, Clark drops his head to Bruce's shoulder and lets himself cry.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 4,515 (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) The boys celebrate their birthdays, but not how they would like to.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long to get out. I guess RL has just done a complete number on me, huh? Anyway, I've been wanting to do this chapter from almost the beginning, so I hope it comes out as good as I envisioned it (especially considering RL events that hit entirely too close to what happens in this chapter). Still working on what's now Part 11, so hopefully you won't have to wait too long for it. *hugs to all* Oh, and comments are love. *puppy eyes* ~O_O~
Index Post
Part 10
February 19th, 2008
Summer's already here. Would you believe it? It's not so humid as we expected, but it's already scorching outside. Thankfully, we get a good cross-breeze through the house when we open the front and back windows, and there always seems to be a decent wind coming off the ocean, so it's not so bad. With the cats around, the insect population hasn't invaded the house much, either.
Working out in the field is another story, though, for the weather and the insects. They are merciless little things, I tell you! I've never spent so much time swatting in my life. On top of all the bites - little red things that itch like crazy - I got so badly sunburned a few days ago that my neck peeled. Yuck! So of course, Bruce made me a straw hat like his. Even trimmed it in some of that blue ribbon, grumbling about my thick-headedness the whole time. It's... kind of cute, actually. But God, it feels a lot better without the sun beating down on me so hard. Never thought I'd hear myself say that! But I guess I'm just still getting used to being mostly non-powered. It's frustrating, not being able to lift ten tons of rock anymore, and now that my hearing seems to have faded a bit more, it's like the world has gone even quieter, or maybe gotten smaller. It's... eerie, sometimes. Last night I realized I couldn't hear the heartbeats of the chicken/ducks anymore. I was out of the house and halfway to the coop, thinking something had gotten to them, when it hit me. They were fine, of course, and I heard their heartbeats when I got within about fifteen feet, not that it made me feel much better.
But enough of that. We're going down to check out the signal rig in a little while, see what maintenance it needs. It's been a few weeks since we went down there. After that, if I can convince Bruce to have a little fun on his birthday, we're going swimming! There's a place further upstream, kind of like a little lake, where the creek pools before dumping over a small waterfall. About two and a half miles from here, if I'm not mistaken. I've got a surprise waiting for him up there, too. Hopefully, he'll love it, and it'll be a great afternoon. If I can't convince him to go swimming, though, I'll see if he wants to try out some fishing. I know for a fact that the fish in that lake are big enough to eat, and it's about time we added a little more variety to our diet.
* * * * *
“Damn,” Bruce mutters, kneeling next to the frayed rope, the bristled ends of one length dry against his fingertips as he inspects the damage. It looks like the change in weather through the winter and spring just tore the vine fibers to shreds. Which is bad news for everything back at the homestead they've got secured with the handmade rope. They'll have to double check it all when they get back later. So much for a nice afternoon. Of course, the breakage has left the signal rig broken down to rot, and he realizes he has no way of knowing how long it's been like this. “Can't believe we didn't check this sooner,” he grumbles, feeling foolish for not being more diligent about it.
“I'm sorry,” Clark offers, kneeling beside him and fingering the torn fibers, the sun dappling through the leaves somehow managing to find him and show off what Bruce thinks is becoming a really nice tan. “I know you worked hard on the rig.”
Almost startled out of his quick mental side trip, the Bat shoots him a hard look, pride for his water-driven machine crumbling. “Yes. I did. But...” He sighs, irritated at the reality check. “The signal's out there. No point in keeping this running anymore, anyway.”
His Kryptonian's eyes are gentle. “You sound like you're giving up.”
“No,” Bruce shakes his head, glancing again at the broken down apparatus. “Just... trying to face things the way they are.”
Squeezing his shoulder warmly, Clark gives him a sad smile, “I guess that makes sense.”
All Bruce can do is offer a tight-lipped smile in return. With a huff, he rises from his crouch and dusts his hands off on his lightweight cotton pants, almost wishing he'd never built the damned thing. In a way, he's glad it's finished. Too much anger associated with the time he spent living in the cave, working on the rig by himself, the stubborn Bat, alone on his quest. Alone and miserable. But all that's over now, and besides shucking off the remainder of those rough times, he realizes they can at least take the mirrors home, re-polish them, and use one in the bathroom. He's damned tired of shaving without proper visual reference.
“We can salvage most of the materials here, later,” he finally says, mentally inventorying the rig's remains.
Clark nods, “Of course. You just want to come back tomorrow?”
“Sure.” In the mean time, Bruce knows his companion has something up his sleeve for his birthday, and as much as he hates to admit to passing the personal milestone here, he's eager to find out what Clark has in mind. “Didn't you say you had some place you wanted to take me?”
Clark's smirking grin lights up the forest.
* * * * *
Standing on the shore of the little lake, the Bat crosses his arms over his chest, eying the heavy vine-rope his companion has tied to a high tree limb, reaching out over the water. “It won't hold us,” he grumbles.
“Sure it will,” Clark grins wickedly, already stripping off his homespun tunic. Tossing it aside, he gives Bruce a decidedly calculating look. “Come on. You haven't swung on a jumpline for the better part of a year.” He grabs the Bat's waist, moving into his space and looking slightly down at him with those damnable blue eyes that Bruce can't seem to resist anymore. “I haven't flown in that long, either. It's just a swing line. And if it breaks, we'll be over the water anyway. No harm. So come on, what do you say? Can you have a little fun on your birthday?”
At Clark's teasing tone and quirking smile, Bruce thinks he'd like to either sock him in the jaw or crush him to the ground, kiss him furiously, and fuck him until sunset. But the thought of having this man in the water is so much more inviting. “You're insane, you know that?”
“You wouldn't have me any other way,” the Kryptonian grins, pulling his lover to him for a long kiss, Bruce's arms snaking around his naked, golden torso. When he pulls back a little, he continues breathlessly, “Now come on, let's get out of these clothes and get cooled off.”
The Bat can't resist flicking his tongue over the corner of Clark's insatiable smile as he steps out of the embrace to strip. A few minutes and several articles of clothing later, and he's climbing the broad tree to get a good position from which to launch himself into the water. Clark is right, of course, he hasn't flown between rooftops since three days before they were stranded. He's only climbed exactly seven times since then, each time seeking the high end of a vine to be used as rope fibers. This time... well, he isn't quite sure he remembers ever climbing for fun. It was always for a purpose. Training. Patrol. More training. Maybe if he considers this an exercise in keeping his skills sharp, he can justify it without-
His line of reasoning abandons him when the breeze hits his bare body, his legs tucked under him as he crouches on a limb, vine cool and smooth in his hands.
To hell with it. I'm having fun.
And with a swift uncoiling of taught muscle he launches himself from the tree, catching the wind and slicing through the sunlight, feet first, aerodynamic, his body moving on years of honed instinct. The jubilant laughter beneath him is lost to the rush of air, and then he's releasing the vine, body angled to execute a reverse somersault. A single rotation, arms extended, and he meets the surface of the little lake in a smooth glide. The water is at first a shock of cold, but mellows to a soothing cool as he reorients himself, swimming back up for air.
As soon as he breaches the surface to suck in a refreshing breath, Clark's laughter and applause meets him, loud and raucous as a cheering crowd. “That was beautiful!” his Kryptonian shouts from the shore. “Perfect ten!”
Bruce sweeps his wet hair back with one hand, flashing a wicked smile and treading water, actually finding himself in as good a mood as his partner is as the flow of adrenaline and endorphins hits him just right. “You coming in, or what?”
But Clark is already heading up the tree, calling back over his shoulder, “What do you think?”
Rolling his eyes, Bruce swims out of the way, then stops to watch his lover finish scaling the tree, glowing with life, glorious in his nakedness.
“Geronimo!!”
* * * * *
Clark is sure this is the best afternoon he's had in months, relaxing and playing with Bruce in the lake, swimming in lazy circles, laughing and splashing like they don't have a single care in the world. Not too long in the water, and they've already made love once, Bruce pretty much having his way with him as they drifted toward the opposite shore. Floating in the afterglow quickly became lighthearted play once again, though, teasing each other with touches beneath the surface, and already they're back to splashing, shielding their eyes against the shimmering water droplets.
Their laughter swirling around them, Clark dives down to tickle Bruce's ribs, quick and sneaky beneath the dark surface. His Bat's squirming against his fingertips is irresistible, and he surfaces to the rich tenor of Bruce's laugh, a sound he's so sorely missed - if he's really ever heard it like this, unburdened, carefree - that his insides threaten to become a puddle of goo at the gorgeous sound.
“Gahaha!! Quit it!” the Bat laughs, grabbing his shoulder to dunk him playfully.
Clark takes the dunking, tickling again as he resurfaces, sliding up Bruce's body to grab the man's head in his hands and lay a soaking kiss on him. “God, I love you!” he chuckles as he catches his breath, still holding his lover's head. “Do you have any idea how good it is to hear-”
“Let go of my ankle, you,” Bruce cuts him off, squirming again. “What do you have, prehensile toes?”
The Kryptonian's brow furrows. “I don't have your ankle, Bruce. Wha-?”
“Gaaahh!!”
The scream rips through the serenity of the little lake, shattering their perfect afternoon, and suddenly Bruce is thrashing in the water, tearing out of Clark's grasp with a violent jerk. “Get it off!!”
A near-blind panic strikes Clark through the chest before his instincts kick in, and paralyzed shock gives way to action. He's only peripherally aware of himself grabbing Bruce around the shoulders and pulling him back to shore, heaving him up on the bank even as he convulses. “Bruce!!” he cries repeatedly as his lover's eyes glaze over with pain, focus lost to the sky. “Bruce!! Say something!!” But there's no response but incoherent screaming as he gets Bruce's legs and feet out of the water.
And he sees it.
Some kind of blue-green octopus - in a lake? - with armored tentacles, wrapped tightly around Bruce's right ankle and up his calf. “No!! Nonononono!!!” he wails, launching himself into ripping the thing away. But it's got some kind of circular row of teeth latched on tight, like a lamprey. Blood is trickling down Bruce's wet leg around the punctures. “Noooooo!!!!” Clark screams as his companion convulses again, eyes finally rolling back in his head.
A violent rip, and the thing is dislodged, a patch of Bruce's flesh with it. Blood begins to stream thinly from the open wound.
Tears. Pleas for help from the gods, whatever gods, any gods to help him get Bruce back to the house. Later, Clark doesn't remember gathering their clothes or wrapping Bruce's wound, or even carrying him back. All he remembers is the panic and terror at seeing his lover's eyelashes flutter and still as he fell unconscious beside the lake and the vine swing that was supposed to be a surprise, on a day that should have been so special. On Bruce's birthday.
* * * * *
February 20th, 2008
God help me, I don't know what to do. Bruce has been hovering between unconsciousness and feverish dreams ever since that... that thing bit him yesterday. He's got a pretty high fever, that I'm trying to keep down with soaked kitchen towels. Used up what little bit of ice we had in the icebox - and thank God we've been keeping it mostly stocked - but I'd kill for more right now. I'm afraid if I leave him to head north, he'll get worse while I'm gone. Yes, I still have the speed to make it a quick trip, but it could be easily a few hours. I just can't afford to leave him alone that long. Dammit!
What little pain killers we had on hand when we arrived here is long gone, and we haven't yet identified any herbs that will suffice as a fever-reducer, so that option is out, too.
As for his wound, it looks like it'll take a while to heal. I stitched it up where I could, but there's still a broad exposed patch in the center, where the octopus took the most flesh. It's only got a thin scab so far, but the whole thing is inflamed and the puncture wounds around the edges seem to be trying to necrotize. If any more of the skin turns black, I'll have to cut it away. Don't think that possibility doesn't scare me. I've seen a lot in my work, but this is Bruce, for God's sake! Anyway, I've been applying that aloe-like gel to try to cut down on the inflammation, and I've got a little bit of that herb we found that seems to have antibiotic properties. It stinks like hell, but it seems to be keeping the wound from getting infected. I hope I can find more of it before we run out.
I haven't been able to get him to take water, though. If this continues, I'm going to have to try an IV. Bruce has a single needle and syringe left in his utility belt, at least. Always prepared. Bruce the Boy Scout. Really, he's more deserving of the title than I ever was. God.
* * * * *
“Need to go on patrol. Don't make me stay here!” Bruce's voice is hoarse and frustrated, the fevered dream keeping Clark from closing his eyes for even the briefest of moments in the dim light of the bedside oil lamp. He can't. Can't sleep for even a moment with his lover in this state. All he can do is hold his hand, stroke his hair, and murmur soothing words, trying to attend to Bruce's delusions, to calm him.
“Shhh... Nightwing and Robin have patrol tonight. It's okay.” He realizes his own voice is strained and tired.
Bruce tosses his head. “No. No! Need to go out. Have to find watermelons. Please!”
Choking on his frustration, Clark squeezes his eyes shut, blinking away the sting of fearful tears. “You don't have to go anywhere, Bruce. Everything's taken care of.”
“Tim needs cookies and Alfred forgot to do the shopping. Have to go fuel up the jet. Now!” His body shudders, and Clark grabs his shoulders, laying partly over him to stop the tremors he knows are coming.
“Bruce, please stop! You don't need to go anywhere! Please!” But the Bat thrashes beneath him, struggling. “Stop! You'll pull out your IV! Stop!”
Whimpering, Bruce finally settles. “Have to go... he's out there...”
“Shhh... Shhh... Everything's fine, Bruce. It's all okay. There's no one out there.”
“J'onn's out there...” he cries weakly, eyelids fluttering. “Need to find him...”
Clark is stopped cold, a prickle crawling up his spine. “What?”
“We're alive!!” Bruce shouts. “Don't stop looking!”
In the wake of the eerie exchange, Clark lays back down next to Bruce, smoothing his hair back, silent. Nothing has made sense so far, out of all his Bat's hallucinations, but this...
The chirping of a farm full of insects and the purring of several kittens nestled around their feet fills in the quiet, accompanying the steady beat of Bruce's heart. For a moment, it begins to lull Clark out of his contemplation and into the twilight of sleep. Easy. Rhythmic. Calm.
But Bruce groans, and the sudden ammonia stink of urine assaults Clark, waking him again. “What the-? Oh, goddammit.”
* * * * *
February 23rd, 2008 (I think)
This is the fourth night I've gotten no sleep. I've got more than enough field medical experience to handle this, but... I just... I don't know. Tonight was hard. And... Bruce is so weak. Except when he gets agitated. Then... it takes a lot of effort to get him to calm down. And the dreams. They're getting worse. I think... I don't know. His fever just won't go down. God help me, I'm just... so scared. I lived without him before, and I almost lost it. And that was before we were together! If... I can't even think it. I just don't know what I'd do. I don't. I can't deal with this rationally. I can't!! I... I love him so much!! God. Just... please don't take him away from me. Please. I can't do this.
* * * * *
Lying in the bed next to his Bat in the afternoon sunlight, Clark has been watching little Jay, Selina, and Kara - now five pound hellions - for the better part of an hour, almost managing a smile at their antics as they pounce each other atop the thick quilt, chasing each other's tails and wispy ear tufts, hiding behind one or the other of Bruce's legs. It's the most entertainment he's had in more than five days, since before his lover was attacked by that whatever-it-was. Bruce hasn't had a single moment of lucidity since then, seeming tortured by his hallucinations and burning with fever, and even now, with kittens hopping about and landing on him intermittently, he isn't waking.
The thought sours what little cheer the kittens have brought, bringing back the absolute terror that's been burning his chest. He hasn't really had a moment without the fear of the worst eating at him since Bruce's birthday. Hasn't slept more then five minutes, hasn't eaten. He's only barely managed to remember to feed the animals on a regular basis. It's as if he's watching a horrible train wreck happen in slow motion, not knowing if he can get there in time, paralyzed by the possibility of a future without his beloved.
But Selina playfully attacks the fingers of Bruce's left hand, rabbit-kicking his palm, her fur ruffled by the breeze coming in the window, and the corner of Clark's mouth twitches involuntarily, a tiny ray of sunshine cracking through the pain of watching his lover fight whatever toxin the armored octopus injected him with.
“The cookies are in the grappling hook, Tim,” Bruce calls out in his delirium. For the briefest of moments, Clark thinks he could chuckle at the absurdity of the exclamation. “And you can't paint the Cave purple! Write it down. We need sunlight and watermelons!”
Waving off the rambunctious kitten, Clark takes his companion's hand in his, twining their fingers together in a firm grip. “It's okay, Bruce. No one is painting the Cave. And we found the cookies. Right where you left them.”
“No, you didn't! The Joker killed them!” The Bat's eyelids flutter as his breathing quickens.
Clark slowly smooths his lover's sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead with a wet towel, his gut twisting. “Shhh... The Joker hasn't killed anyone-”
“He killed Robin!! How many times do I have to tell you, we need watermelons!” Whimpering, Bruce starts to thrash in the bed, tangling himself in the covers and sending the kittens scurrying off in a panicked fluff. “Jason!! No!!”
“Hey, hey...” Clark tries to calm him, laying the cloth aside and stroking his hot face with cool fingertips. “Jason is fine. He's fine, Bruce. Nothing's happened.” He reaches across to grab his right wrist and keep him from ripping out the crude IV lashed to his hand. “Calm down.”
“But the cookies...” he cries, dark lashes still fluttering over heavy lidded eyes.
“Bruce, please!” comes Clark's anguished wail, his chest tightening again and tears slipping down his cheeks as he grips his lover's wrist even tighter. “Wake up, please... I need you.”
* * * * *
February 26th, 2008
He still won't wake up. I've done everything I can think of, short of dunking him in the ocean, to get his fever down, but it just won't break. Neither will the dream-like delusions. This morning, he called me Alfred a few times, and kept demanding more watermelons. Out of all the weirdness that's come out of his hallucinations so far, that's the one consistent thing. Watermelons. I don't get it. I'm tempted to cut up one of those pink melons from the garden and try to get him to eat it, though. Maybe it would calm him down some.
The IV, at least, seems to be working. He's taken about ten liters of saline since the 22nd, and his color's improved. Not quite so red and puffy as he was before. Even his wound looks better. The stitches are holding, and the necrosis has stopped, thank God. I didn't have to cut much away, just about a millimeter diameter around each puncture. Scab's thickened up, too, and thanks to the aloe-like gel, there doesn't seem to be any sign of infection.
I'm trying to stay hopeful, with those good signs, despite the fact that I haven't really slept in a week now. It's harder than it should be, to function this way, but I'm drinking plenty of water, and I managed a few eggs this morning. Have to keep my own strength up for Bruce. He needs me.
* * * * *
February 29th, 2008
Today's my birthday. My actual birthday. First since being stranded here. Bruce is still out of it. Fever seems not so bad. I need sleep soon. God, I'm alone.
* * * * *
Swaying in his chair pulled up next to the bed, Clark watches Bruce's eyes move beneath his lids, a regular dream holding him for once. “It's my birthday, Bruce,” he says quietly. “It's my birthday. My real birthday. You know I only get one every four years, right? I know I told you before, but I want you to know how special it is. It's so special... and because I'm here with you, it's even better. And... you're missing out on a pretty good party, being asleep and all. All the kids are here. There's even a cake and cookies. And watermelon. And ice cream. God, ice cream!”
When he gets no response from the sleeping Bat, he shakes his head, chuckling. “That's okay. Your birthday was kind of a bust, too. At least we got to swim some. And I know you loved swinging on that rope. You can't ever tell me you didn't. You can't lie to me. I know you too well.”
Bruce groans in his dream, tossing his head away from Clark and casting his face into the late afternoon sunlight streaming in the window. The breeze tousles his hair a bit.
“See? Sunshine. You've got plenty of sunshine. And I know you love it every bit as much as I do. All that darkness is just a cover. You can't bear to let anyone know all that light you have inside, just bursting to get out.”
The Bat's eyelids flutter in the sun, and he takes Bruce's right hand in his, gently.
“Do you know how much I miss you? How much I miss talking to you, and getting an actual response? I'm practically talking to myself, here, because I don't have you to spar with. I miss you! I miss your grouchiness in the morning before you're properly caffeinated. I miss your eyes. God, your eyes! Your beautiful, pale eyes, and the way you turn them on me when we're in bed, all heated, like you might hit me with heat vision, if you had it. I miss your burnt breakfasts, waking up to the smell of charred eggs and you cursing a blue streak at the stove. I miss the way you glare at the chicken/ducks when they get too loud, and that look on your face when I do manage to get the coffee to you in the morning, like I'm some kind of savior. And... that quietness that comes over you when we walk down to the beach or out through the woods. And the way you can go on and on about whatever project we're working on, but you save all the important stuff, your feelings about us, about everyone and everything we left behind, for when we're lying in bed, late at night, and it's dark. And...”
Absently, Clark scrubs a hand over his face, still swaying in his chair, taking a deep breath to calm himself and fight off the lump growing in his throat. He promised himself he'd try to get Bruce to drink, or eat, or something, and babbling on like an idiot isn't helping. He has to clear his head.
For a moment, he watches the liquid dripping and flowing through the syringe attached to Bruce's arm and the long, thin tubing made from chicken/duck intestine reaching up to the glass jar set up on a shelf above the bed.
“Come on. Eat your watermelon,” he finally says, and releasing Bruce's hand, he reaches over to the plate on the night table and picks a small square of cut-up melon. Carefully, he holds it to Bruce's lips. “Come on, eat.”
Another moan, but this time Clark takes advantage and shoves the fruit into Bruce's mouth, smashing it against his lips ant teeth. “Eat, dammit!!”
Lips begin to work around the pink flesh of the melon, as if actually tasting it.
“That's it. Come on, Bruce. Watermelon. Eat it. Please.”
Finally, Bruce begins sucking on the smashed fruit, his jaw moving vaguely.
“There,” Clark breathes. “Welcome to the party. Eat up. There. I knew you'd like that.”
His hand falling to his lover's chest and feeling the steady rise and fall, he listens to the lub-dub of the heart within. Steady. Alive. Hope. His mind and body awash with relief, Clark drops his head to Bruce's shoulder and lets himself cry.
* * * * *