Fic: For Ever Nearer Yet (1 of 3) (Clark/Bruce)
Title: For Ever Nearer Yet
Fandom: DCU/Smallville
Rating: PG
Prelude
I can fly
But I want his wings
I can shine even in the darkness
But I crave the light that he brings
Revel in the songs that he sings
My angel Gabriel
Metropolis, in the distant future...
On a rooftop, in Metropolis, in the twilight hours before dawn many years in the future, or perhaps, in the future's past, stand the world's two greatest heroes, side by side, the sun and the moon locked in their own celestial orbit. This is the day Superman decides to marry Lois Lane, and to the observer it is the fulfillment of a potentiality that some may call a divination, others a memory. All we know is that this is the day that will mark a change in the tenor of their relationship; this is the day some future observer will point to as proof that certain souls are tethered, one to the other, by an ethereal, gossamer thread which draws them together inexorably, like the rush of the river to the sea. That despite the past, in dereliction of memory, with no regard for future hopes and dreams, in spite of any and all obstacles-certain souls are linked by a bond that cannot and should not be broken.
The possibilities between these two-they are vagarious and endless. All that is clear is that he will ask her, and that some things will change, and others remain forever the same . . . and that the proposal will mark the end of the beginning.
"You asked her to marry you."
His tone is accusatory, but the cowl that covers half his face blurs the details-whether the statement hides anger, or resentment, or disappointment, or hurt, or fear. Clark spares no time wondering how Bruce learned he had finally asked Lois to marry him when it had only happened less than a half a day ago and he had been prevaricating up until the very last minute.
He can't keep the exasperation out of his voice, though. He's not in the mood to play Bruce's games, not here, on a rooftop that holds distant memories, in the small hours before the dawn, on a day that should be one of the happiest days of his life.
"Is this why you called me here? You said it was important."
Bruce's tone changes from accusation to derision, and isn't that always the way of the Gotham Knight, to make difficult, complicated, dark, what could be so simple, light and easy, to rely on their adversarial relationship rather than their years-long friendship to acquire the information he seeks, to attack love as if in the midst of a battlefield?
"Have you thought this through, Clark? If anyone finds out that she's the wife of Superman-"
"No one will find out. We'll be careful. As far as anyone will know, she's marrying Clark Kent."
"You're never careful, Clark. There isn't a stealthy, careful bone in your body. You approach everything like a battering ram, trusting your invulnerability to indemnify you from the consequences."
The night wind snatches at Clark's red cape, whipping it up and out like a wraith, as he takes an aggressive step forward and uses the few inches that separate them in height to his advantage.
"That's not true, and you know it. I'm always careful. I'm just not as careful as you." He can't help the bitterness that edges his words. "No one is as careful as you."
"If you had asked me-"
"But I didn't ask you, Bruce! It's been a long time since I've bothered to come to you for advice. Or hadn't you noticed? Besides . . . Clark Kent was careful enough to fool you."
The glacial pause, the nighttime shadows that coil around his ink-colored cape, gathering itself unto itself like a serpent, let Clark know that his point has struck like the thorn on the stem of a rose, viciously, unexpectedly.
"We don't have to be . . . what we once were for me to be right, Clark. You're being naïve, and you're putting Lois in danger. People like us can't afford these types of romantic entanglements. You work with her. You see her practically every day. You don't have to marry her-"
Clark can't stop the anger. He steps even closer, reaches out and grabs Bruce by the shoulders and shakes him a little, he's so angry. Only Bruce can make him this angry.
"Stop it, Bruce. You don't have the right to do this."
Of course, Bruce thinks of objecting-forcibly-to Clark's aggressive tactics, his fists clench at his sides, but he forebears. He knows Clark, better than anyone, knows that his anger is the first step in getting him to listen, the first step in convincing him to change his mind about marrying that woman. Anything can be tolerated if it forestalls such a disastrous result.
"I'm not like you," Clark says, his voice lowering to a whisper, his hands loosening and now merely resting on Bruce's shoulders, on the hard Kevlar that defines his outer shell. "The never-ending fight-it can't be my whole life. I grew up with a family. My ma and pa, no matter how hard it got, they always had each other. I need someone to love, Bruce, someone who can love me back. I don't want to be in this alone."
"You're not alone. What we have-"
"What we had, Bruce. Past tense."
"Fine," he growls. "We had the perfect working relationship."
Clark stares at him in amazement, wondering how a person who is so smart can be so oblivious to everything important, wondering how Bruce can care now when he had never cared when it mattered. He drops his hands and takes a step backwards.
"Stop trying to manipulate me. You're not changing my mind."
Their dance continues as Bruce takes a step forward this time, not allowing Clark to use any distance between them as a shield. This time it's Bruce who reaches out, but hesitantly, to place a gloved hand at the juncture of head and neck.
"I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm simply concerned. You're the most powerful man on the planet; it would be unwise to give your enemies any more leverage."
The earnestness, the innocence, the sharp light of truth that lives in Clark's too blue eyes , implacable as the approaching dawn, almost makes Bruce blink, almost makes him look away in shame at his complete inability to deal with this man with his heart first, rather than his head, when he knows that it's only the heart that means anything to Clark at all.
Clark scoffs, and the bitterness and the tired resignation, more than anything else provide a window into the nature of their relationship, at this time and place.
"You're always the first one to say it, Bruce: we're not friends, we're colleagues who help each other out from time to time. We're a long way away from the days when we used to-"
Clark stops himself, ducks his head, sighs, but then raises his head belligerently, with the same spark of defiance in his eyes that has clouded their relationship for months, years.
"Listen, Bruce," he says briskly, "let's not do this. The past is the past. It meant nothing. You've made that abundantly clear. It's time that we just let it go. I'm happy now, with Lois. I'm going to marry her whether you think it's a good idea or not. Go back to-whomever you're spending your time with these days."
"You don't know?"
"No. I have better things to do than to keep track of the revolving door that you call your love life."
"Liar."
Clark shakes his head, weary of the absolute gall of the man, and if Bruce is right, if Clark can pick out the rush of his heartbeat as some other person drives him to the edge of ecstasy and over, if with one hasty, involuntary glance he can ascertain every detail, even from a world away, he would never admit it. Never out loud.
"Whatever, Bruce. Listen, I have to go-"
Clark takes a step towards the edge of the roof, on the cusp of that preparatory moment when he will launch himself into the sky, leaving the past behind. Still, from behind him, the past won't let him go, never lets him go.
"Lois. You love Lois."
The voice that Clark would recognize anywhere is now flat, challenging, requiring Clark to turn and engage Bruce simply because Bruce wills him to do so. He never could resist Bruce at his most determined, and it seems to him that despite everything he has done to extricate himself from Bruce Wayne and their complicated relationship, nothing much has changed.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"She's what you want."
"Yes."
It only takes a shadowy flowing forward, the lightest of tugs for Bruce to pull Clark's head in close and for him to capture the lips that he knows so well with his own. For a timeless, dizzying moment, Bruce can't remember why he has denied himself the taste of Clark for so long, what can possibly be more important in the world than this, the electricity between them, the song of night and day that has been there from the very first moment they met, the way their bodies fit together, so perfectly. The way the whole world becomes more tolerable, infinitely more pleasing, when their lips meet.
He has only a handful of seconds to live in the rush of memories before Clark reacts. Clark is mad, glowering, and if Bruce hadn't known before this moment that Clark's heart is already engaged, that he has given his promise, on his honor, on his life, he knows it now. With one push, Clark sends him flying across the rooftop garden, until he crashes into a small tree in a large clay pot.
"We're not doing this."
His voice is like the crack of pre-dawn thunder.
Clark turns toward the edge of the roof and rests his hands on the stone balustrade that encircles the perimeter, looking down at the street below, while behind him, Bruce slowly gets to his feet, straightens his cape and brushes himself off. Clark doesn't even turn around as Bruce approaches his heart-side. He seems poised to fly away, and Bruce quickly moves close to forestall that option. They stand there in the hush of the dawning, shoulders touching, both staring into the pink of the lightening sky instead of at each other.
"I feel like I've spent my whole life wishing you'd-" Clark stops and takes a deep breath. "And now that I'm happy you want me to believe that I'm important to you?"
"You've always been important to me."
"Right, like an object to be picked up and played with, studied, dissected, but never loved. You saved that for other people."
He laughs, just a little. The sound is bitter, ugly, and so unnatural coming from him.
"Clark, how long are you going to hold that against me? How many ways do you want me to apologize? He was nothing. He meant nothing to me-"
"Just-stop, Bruce. I know you. I know what you're trying to do. I know better than anyone exactly how much of an ass you are."
Bruce doesn't bother to object. He allows the silence between them to soothe Clark's jagged edges, to stretch and to pool, until, finally, it becomes somewhat companionable. Clark can never stay mad at him for long.
"You remember when-"
"Of course I do. Like it was yesterday. You were standing over there," Clark nods his head to the right, towards where a large shrub and a small tree make a sort of alcove of shadows, "and I walked over, thinking that I needed to apologize for Lex being such a jerk to you. I was so nervous. I spilled my apple juice all over you." Clark pauses and smiles, just a little. "But you were nice to me. You didn't laugh." The smile threatens to spread to his eyes. "You were a lot less . . . muscular back then."
"I seem to remember you being a little shorter when I kissed you," Bruce adds wryly, "though not by much."
The small smile dies on Clark's face.
"It was a long time ago."
Silence.
"This isn't going to work, you know."
"What?"
"This," Clark waves his hand, "rehashing the past. I remember everything, Bruce. Better than you. But it's all gone. It never meant anything. We have nothing to show for all the crap we went through, the craziness, and the lies, and the constant fighting. It's almost as if it never really happened."
Clark doesn't have to say that it's all Bruce's fault that they have nothing but this warped friendship, his fault the way things are between them now. Incontrovertible facts need no utterance.
"I have to go. Don't call me unless there's a real emergency, Bruce. At least not until after the wedding."
Clark turns to leave.
"I'll do it."
He stops, glances over his shoulder at the Dark Knight standing there so dangerously.
"Do what?"
"Your Justice League. I'll do it. You sell the idea, I'll handle the op tech."
"You'll do it." Clark is flabbergasted. "After all the arguing, after everything you said. Why?"
"I changed my mind."
"You changed your mind?"
"Yes. Think of it as your wedding gift."
This time it is the Bat who turns to leave, extending a grappling hook and leaping up on the railing's edge, all acrobatic beauty and shadowy grace. As he flies in an arc toward his next landing point, he whispers, just loud enough for a person with super senses to hear:
Don't say it never meant anything.
And the hero known to the world as Superman closes his eyes against the sudden prickling, but he shakes it off and launches himself into the air, on angel's wings, most magnificent, resolved to live a life without memories of the past haunting him, where the present is all that matters. To the careful observer it seems that even the man who stands for all that is true in the world is not immune to the need to sometimes hide the truth from himself.
Of course the Batman knows truth, knows how to handle its sting, so he can readily admit to himself that as sure as night will fall in Gotham, Clark Kent has ruined him for anyone else. But he is comfortable with a life of deprivation and the fact of this truth means little to the day-to-day routine of his life. He is prepared to exist alone, pursuing his mission singularly, bereft of any meaningful entanglements. He needs only the knowledge that Clark Kent remains singular, too.
The night that Bruce invoked by his choice of meeting places, the night they both remember so vividly-every glance, every smell, every feeling is with them now as if it had happened only yesterday. Even after all the years that have passed, will pass, the memory is exactly the same for both of them-a perfect reflection of the first time they looked upon each other with longing, the first time they kissed and felt the earth tilt on its axis. Within each is the precious, perfect memory of the beginning of a love chiseled down to the bone of the soul's soul, a bond that is the paradox of their relationship-beginning, ending, never ending, always to begin again.
+
Continued...in Part 2 of 3.
Fandom: DCU/Smallville
Rating: PG
Prelude
I can fly
But I want his wings
I can shine even in the darkness
But I crave the light that he brings
Revel in the songs that he sings
My angel Gabriel
Metropolis, in the distant future...
On a rooftop, in Metropolis, in the twilight hours before dawn many years in the future, or perhaps, in the future's past, stand the world's two greatest heroes, side by side, the sun and the moon locked in their own celestial orbit. This is the day Superman decides to marry Lois Lane, and to the observer it is the fulfillment of a potentiality that some may call a divination, others a memory. All we know is that this is the day that will mark a change in the tenor of their relationship; this is the day some future observer will point to as proof that certain souls are tethered, one to the other, by an ethereal, gossamer thread which draws them together inexorably, like the rush of the river to the sea. That despite the past, in dereliction of memory, with no regard for future hopes and dreams, in spite of any and all obstacles-certain souls are linked by a bond that cannot and should not be broken.
The possibilities between these two-they are vagarious and endless. All that is clear is that he will ask her, and that some things will change, and others remain forever the same . . . and that the proposal will mark the end of the beginning.
"You asked her to marry you."
His tone is accusatory, but the cowl that covers half his face blurs the details-whether the statement hides anger, or resentment, or disappointment, or hurt, or fear. Clark spares no time wondering how Bruce learned he had finally asked Lois to marry him when it had only happened less than a half a day ago and he had been prevaricating up until the very last minute.
He can't keep the exasperation out of his voice, though. He's not in the mood to play Bruce's games, not here, on a rooftop that holds distant memories, in the small hours before the dawn, on a day that should be one of the happiest days of his life.
"Is this why you called me here? You said it was important."
Bruce's tone changes from accusation to derision, and isn't that always the way of the Gotham Knight, to make difficult, complicated, dark, what could be so simple, light and easy, to rely on their adversarial relationship rather than their years-long friendship to acquire the information he seeks, to attack love as if in the midst of a battlefield?
"Have you thought this through, Clark? If anyone finds out that she's the wife of Superman-"
"No one will find out. We'll be careful. As far as anyone will know, she's marrying Clark Kent."
"You're never careful, Clark. There isn't a stealthy, careful bone in your body. You approach everything like a battering ram, trusting your invulnerability to indemnify you from the consequences."
The night wind snatches at Clark's red cape, whipping it up and out like a wraith, as he takes an aggressive step forward and uses the few inches that separate them in height to his advantage.
"That's not true, and you know it. I'm always careful. I'm just not as careful as you." He can't help the bitterness that edges his words. "No one is as careful as you."
"If you had asked me-"
"But I didn't ask you, Bruce! It's been a long time since I've bothered to come to you for advice. Or hadn't you noticed? Besides . . . Clark Kent was careful enough to fool you."
The glacial pause, the nighttime shadows that coil around his ink-colored cape, gathering itself unto itself like a serpent, let Clark know that his point has struck like the thorn on the stem of a rose, viciously, unexpectedly.
"We don't have to be . . . what we once were for me to be right, Clark. You're being naïve, and you're putting Lois in danger. People like us can't afford these types of romantic entanglements. You work with her. You see her practically every day. You don't have to marry her-"
Clark can't stop the anger. He steps even closer, reaches out and grabs Bruce by the shoulders and shakes him a little, he's so angry. Only Bruce can make him this angry.
"Stop it, Bruce. You don't have the right to do this."
Of course, Bruce thinks of objecting-forcibly-to Clark's aggressive tactics, his fists clench at his sides, but he forebears. He knows Clark, better than anyone, knows that his anger is the first step in getting him to listen, the first step in convincing him to change his mind about marrying that woman. Anything can be tolerated if it forestalls such a disastrous result.
"I'm not like you," Clark says, his voice lowering to a whisper, his hands loosening and now merely resting on Bruce's shoulders, on the hard Kevlar that defines his outer shell. "The never-ending fight-it can't be my whole life. I grew up with a family. My ma and pa, no matter how hard it got, they always had each other. I need someone to love, Bruce, someone who can love me back. I don't want to be in this alone."
"You're not alone. What we have-"
"What we had, Bruce. Past tense."
"Fine," he growls. "We had the perfect working relationship."
Clark stares at him in amazement, wondering how a person who is so smart can be so oblivious to everything important, wondering how Bruce can care now when he had never cared when it mattered. He drops his hands and takes a step backwards.
"Stop trying to manipulate me. You're not changing my mind."
Their dance continues as Bruce takes a step forward this time, not allowing Clark to use any distance between them as a shield. This time it's Bruce who reaches out, but hesitantly, to place a gloved hand at the juncture of head and neck.
"I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm simply concerned. You're the most powerful man on the planet; it would be unwise to give your enemies any more leverage."
The earnestness, the innocence, the sharp light of truth that lives in Clark's too blue eyes , implacable as the approaching dawn, almost makes Bruce blink, almost makes him look away in shame at his complete inability to deal with this man with his heart first, rather than his head, when he knows that it's only the heart that means anything to Clark at all.
Clark scoffs, and the bitterness and the tired resignation, more than anything else provide a window into the nature of their relationship, at this time and place.
"You're always the first one to say it, Bruce: we're not friends, we're colleagues who help each other out from time to time. We're a long way away from the days when we used to-"
Clark stops himself, ducks his head, sighs, but then raises his head belligerently, with the same spark of defiance in his eyes that has clouded their relationship for months, years.
"Listen, Bruce," he says briskly, "let's not do this. The past is the past. It meant nothing. You've made that abundantly clear. It's time that we just let it go. I'm happy now, with Lois. I'm going to marry her whether you think it's a good idea or not. Go back to-whomever you're spending your time with these days."
"You don't know?"
"No. I have better things to do than to keep track of the revolving door that you call your love life."
"Liar."
Clark shakes his head, weary of the absolute gall of the man, and if Bruce is right, if Clark can pick out the rush of his heartbeat as some other person drives him to the edge of ecstasy and over, if with one hasty, involuntary glance he can ascertain every detail, even from a world away, he would never admit it. Never out loud.
"Whatever, Bruce. Listen, I have to go-"
Clark takes a step towards the edge of the roof, on the cusp of that preparatory moment when he will launch himself into the sky, leaving the past behind. Still, from behind him, the past won't let him go, never lets him go.
"Lois. You love Lois."
The voice that Clark would recognize anywhere is now flat, challenging, requiring Clark to turn and engage Bruce simply because Bruce wills him to do so. He never could resist Bruce at his most determined, and it seems to him that despite everything he has done to extricate himself from Bruce Wayne and their complicated relationship, nothing much has changed.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"She's what you want."
"Yes."
It only takes a shadowy flowing forward, the lightest of tugs for Bruce to pull Clark's head in close and for him to capture the lips that he knows so well with his own. For a timeless, dizzying moment, Bruce can't remember why he has denied himself the taste of Clark for so long, what can possibly be more important in the world than this, the electricity between them, the song of night and day that has been there from the very first moment they met, the way their bodies fit together, so perfectly. The way the whole world becomes more tolerable, infinitely more pleasing, when their lips meet.
He has only a handful of seconds to live in the rush of memories before Clark reacts. Clark is mad, glowering, and if Bruce hadn't known before this moment that Clark's heart is already engaged, that he has given his promise, on his honor, on his life, he knows it now. With one push, Clark sends him flying across the rooftop garden, until he crashes into a small tree in a large clay pot.
"We're not doing this."
His voice is like the crack of pre-dawn thunder.
Clark turns toward the edge of the roof and rests his hands on the stone balustrade that encircles the perimeter, looking down at the street below, while behind him, Bruce slowly gets to his feet, straightens his cape and brushes himself off. Clark doesn't even turn around as Bruce approaches his heart-side. He seems poised to fly away, and Bruce quickly moves close to forestall that option. They stand there in the hush of the dawning, shoulders touching, both staring into the pink of the lightening sky instead of at each other.
"I feel like I've spent my whole life wishing you'd-" Clark stops and takes a deep breath. "And now that I'm happy you want me to believe that I'm important to you?"
"You've always been important to me."
"Right, like an object to be picked up and played with, studied, dissected, but never loved. You saved that for other people."
He laughs, just a little. The sound is bitter, ugly, and so unnatural coming from him.
"Clark, how long are you going to hold that against me? How many ways do you want me to apologize? He was nothing. He meant nothing to me-"
"Just-stop, Bruce. I know you. I know what you're trying to do. I know better than anyone exactly how much of an ass you are."
Bruce doesn't bother to object. He allows the silence between them to soothe Clark's jagged edges, to stretch and to pool, until, finally, it becomes somewhat companionable. Clark can never stay mad at him for long.
"You remember when-"
"Of course I do. Like it was yesterday. You were standing over there," Clark nods his head to the right, towards where a large shrub and a small tree make a sort of alcove of shadows, "and I walked over, thinking that I needed to apologize for Lex being such a jerk to you. I was so nervous. I spilled my apple juice all over you." Clark pauses and smiles, just a little. "But you were nice to me. You didn't laugh." The smile threatens to spread to his eyes. "You were a lot less . . . muscular back then."
"I seem to remember you being a little shorter when I kissed you," Bruce adds wryly, "though not by much."
The small smile dies on Clark's face.
"It was a long time ago."
Silence.
"This isn't going to work, you know."
"What?"
"This," Clark waves his hand, "rehashing the past. I remember everything, Bruce. Better than you. But it's all gone. It never meant anything. We have nothing to show for all the crap we went through, the craziness, and the lies, and the constant fighting. It's almost as if it never really happened."
Clark doesn't have to say that it's all Bruce's fault that they have nothing but this warped friendship, his fault the way things are between them now. Incontrovertible facts need no utterance.
"I have to go. Don't call me unless there's a real emergency, Bruce. At least not until after the wedding."
Clark turns to leave.
"I'll do it."
He stops, glances over his shoulder at the Dark Knight standing there so dangerously.
"Do what?"
"Your Justice League. I'll do it. You sell the idea, I'll handle the op tech."
"You'll do it." Clark is flabbergasted. "After all the arguing, after everything you said. Why?"
"I changed my mind."
"You changed your mind?"
"Yes. Think of it as your wedding gift."
This time it is the Bat who turns to leave, extending a grappling hook and leaping up on the railing's edge, all acrobatic beauty and shadowy grace. As he flies in an arc toward his next landing point, he whispers, just loud enough for a person with super senses to hear:
Don't say it never meant anything.
And the hero known to the world as Superman closes his eyes against the sudden prickling, but he shakes it off and launches himself into the air, on angel's wings, most magnificent, resolved to live a life without memories of the past haunting him, where the present is all that matters. To the careful observer it seems that even the man who stands for all that is true in the world is not immune to the need to sometimes hide the truth from himself.
Of course the Batman knows truth, knows how to handle its sting, so he can readily admit to himself that as sure as night will fall in Gotham, Clark Kent has ruined him for anyone else. But he is comfortable with a life of deprivation and the fact of this truth means little to the day-to-day routine of his life. He is prepared to exist alone, pursuing his mission singularly, bereft of any meaningful entanglements. He needs only the knowledge that Clark Kent remains singular, too.
The night that Bruce invoked by his choice of meeting places, the night they both remember so vividly-every glance, every smell, every feeling is with them now as if it had happened only yesterday. Even after all the years that have passed, will pass, the memory is exactly the same for both of them-a perfect reflection of the first time they looked upon each other with longing, the first time they kissed and felt the earth tilt on its axis. Within each is the precious, perfect memory of the beginning of a love chiseled down to the bone of the soul's soul, a bond that is the paradox of their relationship-beginning, ending, never ending, always to begin again.
+
Continued...in Part 2 of 3.