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

[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

[kingofrooks]

It took him some effort to not turn his head towards that hand, to chase its heat and solidity as Clark pulled it away. Bruce closed his eyes slightly and let himself fall backwards, catching himself with his palms against the bed, staring back at the ceiling again.

The problem was- Clark made sense. He said everything that Bruce refused to admit to himself, simply because it was too dangerous. But then- the problem was simply that he couldn't think of himself as important. If he kept too much notice of the importance of his life- it meant that he would be too careful. That he couldn't take the risks that had helped him succeed so far. That he couldn't accept the fact that he could die every single time he stepped out of the house wearing the cape and the cowl.

It meant that he was leaving room for him to be afraid. Even if it wasn't for himself, it still meant that he was afraid. And fear- he couldn't feel fear. He had spent such a long time overcoming fear, every single bit of it, that he knew that to feel it again would be his

[isitablurred]

"I'm not telling you not to take those risks, Bruce, I'm only telling you not to take unnecessary ones. To recognise when something is a job for Superman, or for all of us. I am--"

He moved to sit beside him, and raised his hand up, brushing Bruce's hair back away from his face, blowing an ice-cool breath across his skin, that would be enough to rouse even the most tired of men. He needed him awake to hear this, because it was important, and he looked him straight in the eye as he spoke.

"I am your biggest fan, you know that? Honestly, every time you walk into a room I marvel. You're the guy who stands shoulder to shoulder with gods fearlessly. You are at the peak of human ability; mind over matter. For all that your body is magnificent, it's taken such a beating over the years that any other man less strong of will than you are would crumple after taking only one step. I sometimes wish I could take that pain away, but it defines you, just like the pain of your past defines you. Without either, you wouldn't be who you are. You are

[kingofrooks]

He should feel like a child. Should feel like he's being condescended to, being looked down upon, especially with that kiss against his temple. God, he hadn't been kissed like that- for decades. Ever since he had ran home from school after being teased, and his mother had cupped his face in her hands, the smell of her perfume all around him. She felt- safe- and oddly enough that was what Clark was doing as well. He smelled of sunshine and the slightest bit of sweat, his natural scent almost drowned out by the stench of the Darkness wafting from his skin. That, too, was another sign of reality. He recognised how the Darkness smelled; how it felt.

Clark should make him feel ridiculous, treating him like a child. But instead Bruce only felt- safe, somehow. Grounded in ways that he could not articulate. It was not the praise- or not just it. He couldn't tell. There were too many words, too much warmth, and he had found his ground somehow. This wasn't something he could have had back home; not something he would be able to grasp back home

[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.