one day, you will understand. but that day is not today.

[thepull_mods]

Who: Siren's Port
When: The night of Thursday, October 20th into the morning of Friday, October 21st.
Where: In the mind, in the dreams, in the unconscious of the sleepers.
Summary: The final night.
Warnings: These dreams may be considered not safe for work, with violence, gore, death, underlying sexual themes and other mentions of graphic nature.

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[isitablurred]

"Lara."

The word was on his lips when he woke, a mantra, a shout - his mother's name - and Clark rose from his sleep, his fingers so deep in the mattress that they had ripped holes even through the dense fabric. Leaning forward he concentrated on stilling the thundering of his heart, closing his eyes tightly.

Dreams--he'd slept more tonight than he had any day previously, the toll of the days a weight bearing down on him. The dream... His own, and then others. Other dreams. The pearls, the bells, the blood on his hands.

Mother. Mothers and more mothers, many of them dead. His own, and the woman lying in the dark, his hands on her face, the woman on the throne. Mother. Overwhelming. It was all just too much

[kingofrooks]

It was rather ironic, to come alive in the midst of dreams. To open his eyes to not know if reality was reality again. Bruce had stumbled and nearly sprained his wrist on the floor that he had fallen against. He was in a safehouse. Empty. Concrete under his hand, rough and cold. There was another echo here, from when he first came into this place

[isitablurred]

He was listening; perhaps harder than he had even realised, Clark was listening for the sound of his name, whether it came from someone within the port or without it. He longed to hear Jor-El's voice, soft and reassuring: "My son." Longed to hear Bruce's reassurance so hard that he almost heard it out loud; a whisper like a shout.

"Clark."

And he would place his hand reassuringly, just for a moment, on his shoulder, and everything would be alright. Somehow he would find the strength to continue.

Clark.

But that hadn't been a whisper from a ghost, from the past, that was real. It was a real voice, the echo of it still on his eardrums, and Clark focused, listening harder, listening to...listening to a heartbeat. A heartbeat. Bruce's heartbeat, distinct and unique and racing.

AliveAliveAliveAliveAliveThe city was a blur around him, or perhaps he was a blur. A newspaper stand was disturbed by his passing, and the owner hurled abuse at him even though the sound of his shouts wouldn't catch up until long after Clark had reached the

[kingofrooks]

His knees seemed plastered against the concrete flooring, and his breathing was so fast. He felt like a fool, so affected. Barely hearing the quiet beep of the lock opening. Password. There was something coming in- Bruce's instincts were still sharp enough that he could scramble for a batarang, throwing it at the intruder- no, no, wait. That had to be Clark, and his wrist twisted slightly and the black blade sank into the wall

[isitablurred]

The Batarang wouldn't have scratched him even if it had hit, but Clark watched it embed itself in the wall none the less. He raised his hand, brushed his fingertips against the blade in lieu of looking straight at Bruce, afraid he might see him with his head off, the way that he had seen Carrie.

But when he spoke, Clark drew his eyes around, looked at the man standing inches before him, and felt relief sink over him. He was back; frantic and shattered looking, his voice rough, but alive. Bruce grabbed him, and the jumbled words swept together into a picture.

He'd dreamt.

"You come back from the dead and the first thing you think to do is grill me? You really are--" Anything more he might say caught in his throat, and still ignoring him, Clark swung forward - down - all at once, wrapping his arms around Bruce and half lifting him off the ground as he hugged him. He closed his eyes tight, pressed his face into his neck, and just squeezed.

So much loss, but this was real. He was alive, and by god his questions didn't matter; they

[kingofrooks]

He could barely breathe, the embrace was so tight. Pressed against the alien warmth of Clark's chest, his feet raised up into tiptoes to touch the ground. Bruce's eyes went wide, and he tensed immediately, still trying to figure out his equilibrium, trying to draw the line between the real and the fake. Was the still dreaming? Clark's grasp was far too strange and unfamiliar. He had never been held like this, by a body larger and hotter than this, the thin cotton of Clark's Superman uniform separating their skin

[isitablurred]

Of course he had to know; of course. Clark loosened his grip just a little bit, tilting his head back so that Bruce could look straight at him. "You know my memory is crystal clear; I can tell you the details almost as I dreamed them, but the reality itself is so much more complicated."

Too many words for an impossibly complicated situation. He almost didn't hear himself speak past the first few, so instead he shifted, lifted Bruce clean off his feet and carried him - fully expecting him to fight it - from the cold stairwell all the way to the cot in the next room; the same one he'd laid him down in as a child.

"Stay there and stay still for a second." X-ray vision. His eyes scanned Bruce for a few moments, then he crouched down beside the bed.

"Your arm was broken when I found you." I found you. He looked back up, anxious for a moment, then quickly away again. "It seems to be healed now, but... You were dead, weren't you? All this time

[kingofrooks]

Bruce had fought, of course, pushing back against Clark. But it was a distracted kind of fighting, and he had stopped with his hand right about the El shield, above Clark's heart, and started to breathe according to each thump against his hand. In, out, in, out. It was as if Clark's heartbeat was the only thing that was anchoring him to reality.

He had to snap out of this. There were words. Answers to his questions. Bruce let himself sink into the cot, looking at Clark with dull, blank eyes. He blinked once, twice- sucked in a breath and concentrated just as Clark mentioned that he found his body. With a broken arm. It was Clark who had found his body, who had- made sure that he didn't return as a Darkness monster as Carrie had. It was Clark who had found his body after he had made such a mistake. When he had underestimated Sylar and died for it- did he die, really? Even if there was a body, he still breathed now. He still lived. His heart was roaring too loudly in his ears for him to not be living. For him to be dead- he couldn't

[isitablurred]

The touch was soft, and familiar, and just for a moment Clark realised exactly what he was; a grounding force, familiar in his unfamiliarity, and a reminder that the Port was real. He understood the words that had not been spoken, the reason why Bruce had called him here rather than anyone else, and he made himself a little more comfortable on the floor, giving up his NV without hesitation

[kingofrooks]

The Joker was dead. Dick took it hard- he would have to convince the boy that it was truly him, then; that it was not a trick or a test and he had really return. Jason- Jason was a mess. Their relationship was a mess that Bruce didn't want to touch yet. A lighthouse. Dreams. He had been gone two weeks and the Port is screaming again, needing his help. Bruce needed to find his feet again; need to find his center again. There was no time to waste.

But he couldn't. He could barely breathe right, and every single time his heart thumb against his head he could feel his temple slicing open again, the blood spilling out. He was surprised - and oddly grateful - that that part wasn't part of the dream. It wasn't something he would have ever shared with anyone; nor would he subject anyone else to that experience, second-hand or not

[isitablurred]

Clark wasn't sure he could move away; even if he wanted to, Bruce needed this, and so instead of letting him go, he just let his arms close further around Bruce's back, holding the other man to his chest. He'd been killed - ruthlessly, horribly - and somehow this was anchoring him. Truly, it was the least he could do, and somehow it made it easier for him too. The last time he'd held Bruce, he'd been a cold, stiff, lifeless body. Right now, he felt almost as though he was about to cry, and Clark might join him if he did. Emotion and stress all reaching their pinnacle, like a wave, and the only way was down was to come crashing together.

He breathed in the man's hair, let his eyes flutter closed, let his shoulders fall from the stoic straightness that he'd bourne for the last fortnight, and just held him, because it was all he could do to make it better

[kingofrooks]

The tights made it hard for him to have a proper grip, and Bruce's hands were nerveless again. He could barely curl them into a fist, so he just gave up on that, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Clark's neck, leaning against him with his entire weight, almost hanging off of him, trying to find a rock in the storm. His mind refused to calm still, running in circles and circles, chasing his death-memories, the dreams, the thousand and one questions. There were so many things that he needed to find out, that he needed to know

[isitablurred]

Clark was almost content himself to stay just like that; as much as he knew that this was for Bruce's good, there was a part of him that needed it himself, that had struggled for the last few weeks without anyone there to lend him the strength and wisdom he needed, even if he'd never actually needed or relied upon it before. Like losing his father, losing Bruce was like having a rug pulled from underneath him, leaving him with a struggling family and a building sense of loss

[kingofrooks]

Bruce took the cup of coffee and stepped back. Back a little more until his knees hit against the edge of the bed and he sat down, hard. His mind was still curiously blank, emptied of anything of substance- he took a long, ragged breath inwards, closing his eyes. His shoulders remained stubbornly strong, straight, tension seeping into every single pore- but that was alright. He needed that. It was- something that he was used to, and he needed familiarity right now.

Coffee mug in his hand. Reheated coffee. Bruce stared at it for a long moment. He could remember that he had a ton of reasons to not drink coffee, starting with the possibility of addiction and ending with his hatred of depending on anyone, much less anything. He wouldn't allow himself to use caffeine to keep himself awake and alert when he should be able to use his own willpower to the same effect

[isitablurred]

Clark stared for a moment as Bruce shot the coffee back. It wasn't steaming hot, but it wasn't just warm either--must have burned. Still, despite dropping the mug he seemed a lot more alive when he looked back at Clark, and he blushed, looking away

[kingofrooks]

That post. Bruce almost winced, because he knew that it wasn't the best thing he could have done. But he had to keep his secret identity and not let it be obvious that Bruce Wayne was Batman- because it would be extremely obvious if Wayne disappeared at the same time Batman's death was announced. The post would establish that he was 'alive', if only for shortest while... and he knew that it would remind the people around him- those in the know- the truth.

He would regret it if it wasn't a necessity. Bruce looked at him for a long moment more before he sighed quietly, an exhale that was barely enough to move the air in front of him- it was so light. He rubbed slightly at his eyes, and he knew that he had made a mistake. He was too rash, too impulsive, rushing in the moment the Port told him Sylar was alive again. But