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.

Comments

[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

[isitablurred]

Clark couldn't know the doubts and realisations that flickered through Bruce's mind, about emotion, about family, about healing. He couldn't know that Bruce was beginning to see him as His Clark, and not in the way that he was becoming more like the Superman that he knew back home, but instead His all on his own, shining, standing apart. Perhaps if he did, he'd put himself under less pressure to be 'more like Superman', but that was an argument for another day.

But he could see what was on the surface, turn his head slightly into the fingers as they brushed his cheek, because those touches, when Bruce gave them, spoke infinitely more eloquently than he ever could with words. Clark understood without hearing; he heard the 'Thank you'. He heard 'But it's so hard.'

So he answered with a smile, because Clark's smile could speak a lot more than he ever could otherwise; a sunny, warm, bright smile that was all reassurance; that was friendly and reliable. It said:

'I understand. I'll do everything I can to help you. Don't worry about

[kingofrooks]

There was something remarkably unsettling whenever Clark disappeared and appeared again, with something in his arms that would've taken him at least an hour to retrieve. He should feel resentful about it- about Clark making decisions about what he needed, what he wanted. Yet he didn't, and Bruce wondered if it was because he was far too tired to, or because Clark was right- it must be the first, because the latter case would've made him angrier

[isitablurred]

"The wicked can wait until later to have their asses kicked, Bruce. This is about you feeling like you. It has nothing to do with them."

The symbol on the chest. He brushed it with his fingertips and then stood up. Putting it on again, anew, making himself whole again and letting Clark take the ruined armour back to the cave. It was strange--there was an identical set there, identically ruined--perhaps Bruce would be able to combine them into something functional, he was always complaining about how much mono-filament armour cost.

"I could probably irradiate you in such a way as to kill every germ, vaporise all the dirt and dead skin; you'd be cleaner than you ever have been. But there's nothing like a shower to make you feel clean, Bruce. The water will do you good."

He gathered the box and carried it toward the bathroom. It was easier than looking at the burn on Bruce's chest, even if it was a genuine confirmation that this was His Bruce. He'd sort of hoped he'd come back without it

[kingofrooks]

It was a little surprising that the burn remained even after death; Bruce would have thought that it would be similar to a 'reset' - that he would return back to life in the same state that he had arrived at the Port in. But apparently not - even his newest injuries were present, except for the bruises. However, there wasn't a scar on his temple- nothing that he could feel, anyway. He should check later, when he had a proper mirror

[isitablurred]

Clark only nodded quietly. Bruce was the boss, after all, and it was his secret to keep precisely as he wished. He nodded, stepping quietly back to give the other man his privacy and turning away. When the door closed behind him he vanished smartly, back to work while he listened to the sound of water running in the back of his head.

When Bruce was done, he would leave the shower to find a hot meal prepared for him by Clark. Thick, potted chicken with a half a loaf of bread to help settle it on an empty stomach. Bruce had died; eating after being killed was a troubling thing, because you were given time to think, to chew and swallow - things you couldn't have done were you still dead. It was humbling, too, to be reminded of how fragile you were--even for Clark, who was essentially invulnerable.

But he would be fine. Sure, Clark would need to watch him carefully, but of all the people on the island, it was Bruce that he trusted to keep it together the most. He didn't need to babysit him.