Work Text:
Art is here!! Amazing Art
T he second to last portal had collapsed behind the last of the refugees. Wonder Woman had leapt through, Lasso gleaming in the darkness between dimensions. The Watchtower was sinking further into orbit. Even though the engines were straining to correct their course, the massive installation was dying. She would crush a fair sized city when she landed.
If only there were cities to crush.
North America was gone, covered in the parademons that had been brought by Darkseid. They ravaged the land, devouring everyone that they encountered. They didn’t even have the decency to leave the dead alone afterwards. No, they converted them into soldiers, more undead creatures to serve the darkness. Nothing could slow them down. While it took less than a day to engulf Detroit, the entire western seaboard had fallen in days, the continent in less than a fortnight.
Now, there were only pockets of survivors, even now being rescued by Lanterns and other heroes, pulling them into alternate dimensions. So, WatchTower fell, to no one’s surprise. All the last two heroes on board could do was aim it at the ever-growing hives.
Superman looked out the view screen, and felt tears tracking down his face. His friends, family, everything gone. Except Bruce. Bruce, who still stood at the controls, making the engines and thrusters sing out one last song in defiance. He’d managed, god only knew how, to correct their course each time it looked like they’d hit South America. There were still resistance cells there. Brazil had not been emptied yet. Only my husband, Clark thought with a pained laugh, could make a disaster land where he wanted it to land.
“Bruce?” he called, pulling his way up the tilting deck.
“Busy,” Bruce barked, one hand skimming over another panel, while the other cradled his stomach.
“Bruce,” Clark said again, choking on the pain radiating up his leg.
“I can -”
Clark reached over the board. “Enough. You’ve done it. You need to leave.”
Bruce, cowl down on his shoulders, shook his head. “No. We need to get you-”
“I’m dead, B.”
Bruce looked up. “Please, don’t, Clark…”
Clark shook his head, even as his hips began to spike with pain. “I’m dead, and you’re wasting time. Get out of here.”
The black-clad vigilante was shaking. Clark wished he could hug him, hold the sobs in his chest, lie and say everything was going to be alright. But it wasn’t. He’d been infected hours ago. Clark knew that his Kryptonian body had held out as long as he could. But he couldn’t move mountains, or breathe underwater. He wasn’t a superstrong being. He was just Clark, from another world. Strong, but not strong enough.
Not strong enough to win the day.
“Get to safety.”
Bruce shook his head, clutching his stomach. “You’re supposed to come, too. It’s - no! - you’re supposed to be there - not - I can’t do this alone.” Even as he spoke, refused to believe, he was pulling himself against the rails, moving toward the last flickering portal.
“Bruce, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” They were face to face. The last railing stood between them. A push, a step, and Bruce would be through. Clark tugged once, and his cape floated between them. He wrapped it around Bruce’s shoulders, one last time. One last Bat burrito, safe in his arms.
“Save Martha,” he whispered, voice tight with pain. The infection was traveling faster up his torso. He had to do it now, before his love saw it. “Save Martha, Bruce,” he implored, both hands on the bulging stomach of his mate.
Bruce nodded, tears on his face, hand sneaking out to clasp his one last time.
Another spike of pain shot up his spine, ringing in his ears. The Watchtower was heating up fast. Reentry was going to be cataclysmic. He pulled away, and, with the last of his own will, pushed Bruce backward. The portal closed.
He was safe, Clark thought, soul dying in the husk his body was becoming. Their daughter was safe.
Bruce was far in the back, taking inventory of the pieces of the car that he couldn't leave behind. While the car itself had been destroyed, there were still highly classified pieces of the main computer system that Bruce would rather not have anyone else get their hands on. Most of the chassis was wrapped around a tree thing, and he'd had to leave another section of the windshield behind because another of the alien vines had sprouted right through it, and then absorbed most of the plasticized components. He might not be the gardener type, something his mother had been despairing of when he was six, but he would honour what she would have done had she been hovering over his shoulder.
"Alfred, dear, don't move that old wagon wheel. There's an adorable lilac sprout that needs to grow a bit more before we take away its protection."
Bruce smiled at the memory. That tire had stayed all summer in an otherwise spotless garden path. But she'd been right, at the end of the summer, as the gardener settled the bush to a better location. It had just needed a little love and attention.
Turning to the scrap heap in front of him, he knew that 'love and attention' would not be enough to save the faithful machine. He leaned over the main engine scrap heap, reaching into the innards for what was dripping oil onto the floor.
Footsteps tapped lightly on the steel grating. There was a swish of a cape. Clark. Bruce thought, surprised, but a little bit happy. He'd thought the Kryptonian would stay away after the battle, not even join them on their return. He could fly himself home, for that matter. He certainly didn't need a broken Fox to get home, he thought.
"Victor was right," he called out, not rising to see the superhero. "I don't have much chance at rebuilding this one. I don't even think I got all of the engine back."
The swish of the cape settled over a few tools, clattering them on the grating.
Bruce kept working, reaching backwards for another wrench on the toolbox. "We got back as much as we could, but there is always some debris that is left behind on these sorts of missions." The wrench was just out of reach. Bruce pulled himself up enough to clear his head of the exposed piping. Twisting, he stretched out his back before turning to the toolbox.
Superman stood behind him, eyes glowing dark red.
Bruce froze. So, his brain whispered, now he wants to talk. With no witnesses, and the threat neutralized. That's .... that's fair, I suppose.
"Clark?" he asked quietly.
Superman stood behind him, and his mouth smiled.
Vigilantes hone many of their natural skills. They have to, otherwise they become footnotes in a police report. Much like law enforcement and hostage situation personnel, you learn to hone that sense of something not being right with a person. That niggling little hindbrain response can often be analyzed - are they drugged, drunk, under duress, psychotic. It is an instinctive response that has been the only reason, for many creatures, that they lived long enough to have creatures of their own.
Something was not right here. Bruce's hindbrain was screaming for him to run, hide, whatever motion he needed to make it, but make it now.
Superman moved .
The rush of air was barely past Bruce's hair when he was spun around, body slammed into the wall of the flying fox. His vision swam in dizzying circles as his head was cracked twice in quick succession against the paneling. Air blasted out of his chest, even as he tried to say Clark's name. Inflexible hands grabbed both of Bruce's arms, pulling his arms back so hard he felt one shoulder dislocate in the first half second, the second straining until another yank ripped it out of alignment.
Bruce screamed; the sound was muffled by something in between his jaws. He bit down, tasting the coarseness of alien fabric.
The alien spoke in his ear. "You are remanded into my custody for destroying my world, and everything I've ever loved."
Bruce gasped, struggling to move against the body pressing him into the wall.
Until the wall wasn't there anymore.
Until a vicious backhand had Bruce collapsing to the floor. Darkness rushed to catch him before he hit, but not before he saw Superman, white cloak and white uniform with the red house of El sign, standing over him as if in execution.
Pain woke him briefly. An intense flare of pain, as his shoulder socket ground against itself. He could barely open his eyes before the second crack reverberated around the room. The wave of pain nearly caused the blackness to return. He clung to the faint light in the room, trying to focus, to find out where he was –
He was dropped, hard, onto a hard surface, with no care or regard. That did not bode well – EMTs were extra careful, Alfred was careful, even Gotham porters in the hospital were careful-ish with their charges. Blinking, trying to focus, he looked around the darkened room.
“Where the—argh!!” White light burned into his eyes, stabbing deep into his head. He couldn’t raise his arms to block it – the pain was whiter than the room. His shoulders screamed in agony before numbing out, cutting all feeling to the limbs.
The figure – Superman – leaned into his view, face impassive. One hand pushed Bruce’s face to the side, fingers spread against his eyes, cheek, jaw and hair. Pushing him down, pinning him despite his struggle to move. The other hand held something Bruce couldn’t quite see. He caught the glimmer of metal, of a blade or metal tipped – drill. It was a drill bit.
Bruce bucked as hard as he could off the table, abs, hips and legs working furiously to get him off the surface. His arms lay beside him, numb from the shoulders down. He tried to move his fingers, anything, but there was nothing there, no feeling at all. Hard rubber soles pushed his body higher off the table, trying to vault out from under the hand that held him.
He couldn’t get up.
Superman, face as blank as the moment he had lunged at Bruce in the Fox, simply held his head to the table. He brought the instrument to the side of Bruce’s head, shifting it slightly through the long strands of sweat soaked hair. His eyes gleamed dully, red deep in the corneas. “Stay,” he said calmly, and pressed down.
There was a faint beep, a scratch at his skin. Bruce froze, terror turning his body to stone. The scratching sensation returned, but faster, concentrated in one spot. The sound was faint, but it called to memory every dentist appointment he’d ever been to. The moment after cleaning, and before they started –
--the drilling sound was lost under Bruce’s howl of pain. He tried to move again, tried to shift his head, anything, but Superman held him. Held him like a frog on a dissection tray in 10th year science. Held the instrument in place, in the side of his head, and didn’t so much as flinch.
A second tone, and the drilling sound was replaced with something higher pitched, gaining strength. Almost like it was charging, Bruce thought. His vision had narrowed, sparks flying in front of him. He was hyperventilating, he was going to pass out, he wanted to pass out, and wake up from this morphine-induced nightmare that he was caught in. Despite all his training telling him otherwise, he desperately wanted this to be a dream, as a child would of visions of being lost in the crowded streets. It can’t be real. It can’t be real. It Can’t Be Re—
A click, a puff of displaced air, and something was shot directly into the drilled area. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t hurt, why didn’t it hurt? Bruce was panicking. He knew. He knew why it didn’t hurt. Gasping for air that wasn’t coming, he felt the emptiness swallow him, even as his mind screamed at him –
It didn’t hurt, because there were no nerves inside the brain itself to tell him it did.
Returning to consciousness was slower, this time. He had time to catalogue all the wounds on his body. His shoulders had both been replaced in their sockets, something rubbed on them to muffle the pain. His knee was unwrapped, but not twisted from battle anymore. There was soft fabric against his skin now, light and painless, instead of heavy armour. His head ached, in that dull throbbing roar he’d come to associate with concussions and opiate withdrawal.
Bruce could feel hardness under his back, light shining above, and, most interesting, no restraints. No rope, or cuffs, or chains.
Shifting his shoulders, his eyes cracked open. The room he was in was well lit, with reflective walls made of glass. The ceiling was a solid white, light coming from behind the surface to make the whole room glow. He sat up slowly, mindful of his wounds. He was alone.
The room was odd - display cases arranged nearly at random. Each case was dark, but he could still make out vague human shapes inside them. The corners all touched, enclosing him in a glass cage. The stillness, the silence broken only by his breathing, the white light that shone from above, it all reminded him of a museum at closing time.
One case wall shivered, and revealed a pathway to more display cases. Bruce took a step toward it, only to stop as someone walked into the rotunda area. Superman walked into the room, carrying a small lead box with him, and, of all things, a clipboard. The alien, dressed in white with black undersuit just showing, showed no rush, no concern about whether Bruce could harm him. He set the box on the small table just as the case shimmered back into view and turned to face Bruce. “You are here,” he began, voice flat, “to receive punishment for your crimes against my world, and everything in it. You will be punished to the full –“
“I’m sorry, but what crimes? Who the hell are you?”
Superman broke off, looking annoyed. “I’m Kal-El of Krypton. You’re Bruce Wayne, of Gotham. Also known as Batman. You ask this every time.”
Bruce shook his head, slowly. “I’ve never seen you before. You’re not my Superman. Who are you?”
“Your Superman is dead,” the other one snapped, “no thanks to you. Yet another life you claim to not be able to save!”
Bruce remained still. He’d seen Clark come back – in black, with anger on his face and fists at the ready. But he was alive after the battle. He’d been fine.
“As I was saying,” Kal-El continued, breathing deeply. “You will be punished to the full extent of your life.”
“For what crimes?” Bruce bit out. “I’ve done nothing to you.” He started to move, back still against the glass cases. “Hardly seems your M.O., being judge and executioner. Aren’t you all about the truth, justice and the –”
“Justice that you won’t enforce! Justice that ignores murderers, and lets you play cat and mouse with people’s lives! Your game killed everyone, and then you had the nerve to fight me over fixing your problem!”
His eyes were glowing red, making Bruce backup instinctively. “Justice isn’t being a criminal's executioner,” Bruce growled. He knew that now, knew how far he could have fallen, if not for his Superman. Even dead, Superman was still that beacon of hope for him. A beacon that, admittedly, had to be beaten over his head before he would look to the light and not back away from it.
Kal-El ignored him. “Even when you came back to me - even then you fought me. You get everyone killed, and you never suffer for it! She died! She was all I had! You took her from me!”
Bruce swallowed dryly. “Lane is fine, here.”
Kal-El ignored him. “You never learn! You never see the big picture, Bruce. And it gets your family killed. Every time!
“You will suffer, as I have suffered, these long years-“
Where the hell had that doorway been? The glass cases all looked the same. There were no changes between them. Bruce began circling the room, facing Kal’s raging temper. The alien had been swept up into a monologue that made little sense to Bruce. Only when the topic flipped around again to the ‘everyone suffers and dies under you’ did he interrupt.
“Are you done with the villain monologue?” Bruce asked, pacing around the room to the farthest edges. “I’ve got things to do today.”
Kal-El flipped into eerie stillness. His body language calmed nearly instantly. Bruce backed up another step, body sensing danger. “Despite never meeting, you are all the same. You never learn.”
Kal-El produced a pen from somewhere, and clicked off a few things on the board. “Fine, Inspector Wayne, you can figure it out afterwards.” He tossed the board onto the dias, where it rattled with a resounding clank.
“Three seconds ought to do it.”
Bruce turned, and noticed three things in quick succession. First, the central platform was gone, sunk into the floor. Second, the small box was open, revealing a small sphere, split in half, held apart by what looked like a screwdriver. Third, there was a small, yellow sticker on the lid, with a symbol every WHMIS sheet had on it at the bottom – a bold R, with a vial imposed over the center.
Radioactive Materials.
He scrambled backwards, back hitting the glass wall behind him. Kal-El stood behind the box, one hand on the ball, one on the screwdriver. “Superman, what -?” Bruce started to say, when the alien pulled the screwdriver free.
The two halves met with a silence that rocked Bruce’s mind.
“One.”
Throwing his arms up, knowing it was useless, pointless, instinct only, he still saw the flash of white light, tinged blue that erupted at the contact point.
“Two.”
Bruce wanted to scream, to run, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
“Three.”
He was trapped, and it was over. Everything was over.
“Complete.” A scraping sound, and the light was gone.
Adrenaline still coursing through his body, Bruce shook in place. He lowered his arms, half expecting the room to be different, to be changed. But there was nothing, nothing different, despite the monumental event that scared him breathless. Masking it as anger, he snarled, “What the hell have you done?”
Kal-El closed the lid, locking it with a faint click. “I’ve left reading materials for you, to pass the time. The first stages will, no doubt, begin shortly.” He picked up the box, smirking. “I know how you love to do your research into everything, Bruce.” One glass wall section shifted into thin air, revealing a small room. A decontamination room, Bruce guessed.
He walked into one of the glass cases, and the glass pane shimmered back into view. He pressed something on the other side of the door, and the cases around him shimmered for a moment with an eerie green light. “Oh,” he said, turning back to his prisoner, voice clear through the wall. “Don’t worry about any messes. I know Alfred taught you better, but the room will deal with any bodily fluids that it comes in contact with.” He sounded like he was telling his houseguest where the extra towels were.
Bruce snarled, pacing. “Not sticking around for the after show?”
Kal-El smiled slightly. “Always the same,” he said softly. “The neural chip I inserted is recording as we speak. I always keep excellent records, just in case.” He turned, slipped through the next glass wall, and was gone.
The prisoner racked his hands through his hair. There, on the side, one small patch of freshly congealed blood – the entry point. Bruce’s fingers clawed at the strains. He wanted to pull it out, get the thing out of his head, get it out, out, out! Breathing rate picking up, he started to pace the length of the room.
He had to find a way out. He had to get out, and get to the others. He might be a dead man walking, but he needed out. He needed to get to the others – because this monster knew about him. And knew about the others.
He knew about Alfred.
Clark stood at the back of the aircraft, staring into nothing. He’d been all over the Fox. In every room. In every compartment. Listening to the space around him, he could hear nothing except the hum of the machinery, the other metas talking in the hold, Diana sharpening her sword. But he didn’t hear anything coming from the man that had brought this all together.
Where was Bruce?
When he’d first boarded, Bruce had been busily strapping down the remains of the car-tank. He’d shrugged off the offer of help; Cyborg was helping carry the last piece in as they spoke. Clark had left him to it, sensing he’d rather be alone with the … body?... than have to explain everything just then. Pa always got that way when the tractor needed an overhaul. It was the only affair he’d ever have, Ma used to joke. Pa would mutter something, and stomp out to the shed. Clark could see the smirk, though. He’d snuck out once or twice to hear some of the things Pa had talked to the tractor about that he wouldn’t discuss with anyone else.
They were six hours into the return, and he’d gone back to see Bruce. Diana’s talk about how Bruce had assembled the league for him, in his memory, didn’t fit with the angry vigilante he’d fought. For Clark, it felt like it had been just last week, but he knew now it was longer. Bruce had changed in the last year. Diana had been insistent on that point. He’s better, she’d said. He’s come back to himself, for you. He has done all this, nearly sacrificed everything, in your name. For you.
That was not the Bruce Wayne he’d researched. That was not the rich playboy at Luthor’s Gala. Clark might be Superman and an alien from another world, but he was first Clark Kent, an investigative journalist. He got to the bottom of the story. And if he was wrong, he went back over everything and found the wrong step, the sidetrack or source, and fixed it.
He was wrong about the Batman. He was wrong about Bruce Wayne.
So he would look, and listen, and learn where the mistake had been. Find the sidetrack and slip back up the path until he is back to where he should have been. But to do that, to correct that mistake, he first had to find the man.
He wasn’t on the Fox.
And he wasn’t dead. Clark had scanned the ship in every direction, looking for a heat source that was dissipating. Nothing. He’d simply disappeared, mid flight, over the ocean. Bruce wasn’t here, wasn’t dead, wasn’t hiding beneath any technology that could mask a heartbeat or a sealed room where no sound could travel.
Clark turned and headed back to the cockpit, to where Cyborg was running the ship.
The holographic projection was amazingly detailed. The rear hold laid out in front of them, showing the car wreckage, Bruce working in the guts of the mess. It projected his voice recording in clear audio.
" Victor was right. I don't have much chance at rebuilding this one. I don't even think I got all of the engine back."
He hadn’t turned to see who it was. Knowing Bruce, he’d probably deduced it from foot falls or the swish of cape.
"We got back as much as we could, but there is always some debris that is left behind on these sorts of missions."
Clark watched as another Superman gilded around the car. The harsher red emblem caught the workman’s light, glowing momentarily. The other Superman stopped right behind Bruce, watching Bruce stand up, his upper armour peeled off to reveal the undersuit.
They were frozen for a second, and then the cameras blurred.
“I’m slowing the footage down. It gets kinda blurry here.” Cyborg’s projection flickered, a millisecond clock appearing in the air above the projection. Suddenly Bruce was up against the wall, arms brutally twisted and chained behind him. The other Superman slammed him twice into the hard metal, shoving a gag in his mouth at the same time. Bruce barely had time to breathe before being backhanded into another wall, sliding down unconscious. Something flickered, and the attacker hauled Bruce up by the collar and stepped into nothingness.
They were gone.
00:00:032 the clock read.
“Holy shit,” Barry whispered.
Clark agreed. 3.2 seconds from talking to unconsciousness. From somewhere safe, after the mission was done. Abducted by a creature wearing Superman’s face. If Bruce had changed his mind about Clark before, he certainly was rethinking that decision. The thought hurt more than it should. Why would he need Bruce’s regard in the first place?
Diana spoke. “We need to find where they went.”
Cyborg closed the projection down. “There are energy readings all over the lower decks. It’s going to take time to pull any useful data out of it.”
“Anyone else wondering who the evil twin is?” Barry asked, shifting nervously. He avoided Clark’s gaze. Everyone except Diana was avoiding looking at Clark. Diana stared straight at Clark, eyes darkening in contained emotions.
“We will find out,” Diana said.
There was a light, fading into and out of existence, half way down the car park. Then there was twinkly light, and sparkles, and then a person started to appear.
They held an orb, spinning in their hands, different bands of colour racing around the surface. Slowly, other shapes behind them started to form. One shape, near the bottom, flickered twice, before fading completely away.
Diana drew her sword, Barry seemed poised to do – something. He wasn’t sure what the speedster could do. At the far other end, Cyborg and Superman come from the Fox’s open ramp.
The light settled, revealing people. A woman stood in the middle, hands twisting the orb like a circular rubix cube. Two taller men, both in costumes, stood behind her, hands falling off her shoulders.
The taller one looked around, and whistled. “Nice landing, Zee. And nice Cave.”
The man with the red helmet grunted, stepping away from the group.
“Where’s Damian?” the blue one asked.
The others man glanced around. The woman, though, closed her eyes and sighed. “He didn’t make the jump.”
The burly man swore.
The center woman, the leader, by all accounts, looked around the cave. “How long has he been missing here?”
Diana stepped forward. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“How long has Bruce been missing?” the other woman clarified, clearly not interested in answering. “Hours or days? It’s important.”
“Uh, how did you know -?” Barry started. Cyborg grunted, and the kid shut up. “Sorry.”
“Oh my god, it’s a Baby Barry.” The blue one spoke up. “You’re what, 15? How young is the League here? Can’t be more than a half dozen years.”
“Seriously, though. Bruce is missing, and we need to start trying to find him.” The woman set the orb down in her bag. “Our window is very small, and getting smaller by the minute.”
“Who are you?” Cyborg asked, eye scanning the trio. “Your background radiation signatures are unheard of.”.
The lead in Clark’s stomach was gaining pounds. Taken. What a calm word for brutally beaten and chained. The dread was sour of his tongue. It was the same feeling as when Martha had been kidnapped. The same drop, the same feeling of the world suddenly getting that much heavier.
“What do you mean, taken?” Clark said from behind them.
He kept trying to remember - this is Batman. The man that decided to try and kill a god and only stopped because of one miraculous coincidence. The man that had set out to do the impossible - bring a man back from the dead. He’d done it, too. With no regard for his own safety.
But that sinking lead ball pushed the replay button in his head. It reflected just enough light to highlight the bloody temple, the crushed shoulders.
He stepped forward, black cape swishing silently. “Taken by who?”
The change was instantaneous. Both men whipped around, weapons drawn. The woman gasped, leaping backward in surprise. Clark watched them all with his hands spread out.
The orb holder stared at the Kryptonian. “You’re not dead here.”
“Not anymore,” Clark confirmed, hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names.”
She ignored him. “Nightwing, Hood, stand down.” She stepped forward, head tilting. She didn’t get more than a few feet away, staring at him intently. She was looking for something, Clark felt. Something that she hadn’t found yet. “What do you mean, not anymore?” she demanded when she was standing right in front of him.
Clark looked to Diana, who nodded. “Bruce and the others just brought me back a few days ago.”
Dick spoke, voice hushed. “The world doesn’t know you’re back.” Wide eyes scanned the rest of the intruders. “He’s not going to know you’re back.”
The woman’s eyes were darting around the cave. “The cave, it’s blacked out, yes? Nothing can scan into the main areas?”
Cyborg shrugged. “I can, but not much else will be able to.”
“Block the security cam feed. Put it on a loop of non-occupied hours. If he uses the ship’s scanners to access the cave, he’s going to be looking for how frantically searching you all are.”
"Why?"
The woman growled under her breath and said, "Just do it."
Cyborg spoke up from beside Diana. "It's already done."
Both men relaxed at that, the woman closing her eyes briefly. "My name is Zee, this is Nightwing and Red Hood. They are superheroes from different universes. They've both trained under different Batmans."
"Cool, you guys learned everything from Batman," Barry said, peeling a piece of his suit off. He shook his sweaty hair from his face. "Like, apprenticeships?"
"He raised us," Nightwing supplied. "Do you have any idea how long he's been gone?"
Diana looked to Cyborg, who shrugged. "Less than 10 hours."
Zee breathed out deeply. "We're here earlier than normal." She gestured to the table nearby. "Sit. We need to talk."
Diana and Clark sat down at the table. Barry sparked away for a moment, returning with clean clothes on and swallowing the last bite of a pizza.
"His name is Kal-El, Overlord of his Earth. He took over from his world's Justice Alliance nearly 50 years ago. From what I've gathered from my experience with him, his original Bruce Wayne was a member of the Alliance, who started a rebellion against Kal-El's regime, and died for it. My Batman fell under his control 20 years ago. Ever since his death, Kal-El has been enraged. He travels from universe to universe, finding Bruce Waynes and Batman alike and torturing them to death." She swallowed; her eyes closed.
Nightwing spoke up. "I've been with Zee, hunting this psychopath, for about 15 different Batman. We've had others helping, but every time we've landed, its always been around 90 hours since he was taken. This time, he's barely been gone half a day. And we've got all of you to help. We need to work together, and fast, to catch this murderer before he adds your Bruce to the pile."
Shaking, Bruce sank back onto his knees. The mess, just as Kal-El had said, was being absorbed right into the floor, with nary a piece left. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, pointedly ignoring the faint stain of red, and pushed off the floor.
The small table cube was still in the far corner of the room. On top, several sealed water bottles rested, with a selection of bland bananas. Something to throw up would make the dry heaves easier, he thought. Besides, there was no point poisoning him. Kal-El might have been a cruel being with god-like delusions, but that was overkill.
Bruce stumbled over toward them. The room was tilting a little, and he lost his footing near the end. He threw an arm out to stop himself, hand on cool glass –
--ripping, tearing flesh, and the squelch of blood on bloody tissue. I can’t even scream anymore, It’s too much – the pain is too much, and the armour – my armour that makes me invincible – it’s killing me faster.
-- I cough, oh god, no, please – I’m sinking again, my legs can’t hold me up, and I can feel it, feel the spearhead inch up. Feel the pressure on my lungs, the stabbing, Christ, it’s –
-- agony, white hot, choking on blood as it rips through tissue. Legs collapse, the point rips higher – blood, choking, wracking coughs – can’t move can’t move can’t move, can’t – body sinking on my knees, slumped against the wood – another cough, twisting, can I ... please... twisting, twisting –
-- pain pain pain can’t breathe, heart – I found it – heart – cardiac arrest – more blood, so much – muscles spasming – hear the rip, see the point from beneath my chin – blood –
Bruce threw up against the glass case he had been leaning on. He fell back, choking on the bile in his mouth, scrambling backwards from the horror he’d just – frantic hands ripped at his shirt, yanked it out, open, to reveal – clean skin, unbroken. No blood, no spearhead, nothing. He was fine. Bruce still felt echoes of pain, throbbing in his gut, in his head.
The transmitter. Bruce swallowed another round of bile. He’d experienced a ... a downloaded copy of how the person had died. It couldn’t have been me, he thought, wildly. That can’t have been the way – I – he died. It shouldn’t be possible. They were Batman, they knew several ways to get out of impalement.
The case front was clear now, lit from behind the splatter of vomit. Bruce stood slowly, careful to not touch anything other than the floor. Facing the ... display case, Bruce realized. Just like at a museum. Just like the one that his father had taken him to, when he was six, and fascinated by Knights in Shining Armour. He’d been in awe of the suits, swords, axes, everything on proud display. But the full suit of armour, standing tall in the middle of the exhibit, would always be in his memory of that day, his father’s face reflecting behind him in the glass.
Standing in front of the case now, Bruce faced the grim reality of the last secret of the armour. That the last time it was worn, it had not been enough. It hadn’t saved the wearer from a horrendous death.
The empty cowl stared straight ahead, even as the arms were posed to hold the bloody spear. It cradled it against the shoulder, keeping the bloody bat emblem clear for all to see.
The silence hung in the air, until Barry broke it. "Did ours teach anybody, Alfred?" Barry asked, turning quickly.
The question was met with frigid silence from the Englishman. Cyborg smacked the speedster's head. "The case, you idiot," he muttered. Several sets of eyes flicked to the lone uniform in the case by the stairs.
The larger man, the one carrying the guns on his belts, made his way over the prominent case. Alfred made a movement toward him, but then seemed to think better of it. “You recognize it, sir?” he inquired.
The man’s face was carefully blank as he stared at the costume inside. “Every single one, he always does this – makes a fucking monument to the most horrible day in my life to stare at every goddamn day.” He huffed out half a laugh.
“Some things never change, Hood,” the slender man said, shaking his head. He turned back to Diana. “None of you have any idea about us?”
Diana shook her head, and looked at Victor. “There is no record of anyone using the name Nightwing here, or Red Hood,” Cyborg said quietly. “If you are from Gotham, then this version doesn’t have a night job.”
“Big bird,” Hood called out from the far side of the room. “Come look at this, and tell me I’m wrong.”
Despite the lenses in the domino mask, Alfred could sense that the young man was rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Jay, I’ve seen it a dozen different times. It’s just as gross as the first time.”
Hood shook his head, tapping the glass. “Look, dimwit.”
Nightwing sighed. He vaulted over the railing and went to stand beside the other man. “It’s bloody, painted with words and--”
“And too fucking small for me, Nightwing.”
“Hate to break it to you, but even you were a scrawny packrat at one point.”
“Not that thin.”
Nightwing looked back at the costume in the case. “What?” He peered closer. “Shit,” he whispered. “That’s ... that’s mine?” He started to feel around the edges of the glass. “What happened to--”
Alfred stepped away from Zee, bristling like a badger. “That was Master Richard’s, sir, and I would ask that you leave it be. There is no reason to ... disturb...”
Nightwing pulled his mask off, wiping away the dirt with the back of one hand. “It’s the first major difference we’ve seen yet.” He tried to smile. “I’m Dick, and I never died. Jason did.”
Alfred stood stock still, staring at Nightwing’s face.
“I died here, and that’s why you don’t know about Jason Todd, or about Timothy Drake or Damian Wayne. Because he stopped having Robins. He stopped being Batman, and turned into something else.” Richard took a few steps forward. His voice barely echoed in the cavern, only for the elder man to hear. “He turned into someone else, and you just got him back, didn’t you? That’s why the League is so new here. He didn’t form it until now.”
Alfred’s eyes closed wearily. “He came back broken, blood on his hands and his heart ripped out and left on the grounds of that cursed alley.”
“Crime Alley?” Jason whistled. “This universe really is a keeper. I had to go all the way to Ethiopia to get splattered against a wall.”
“Enough.” Nightwing said wearily.
“You’re dead in this universe, Todd.”
“Of course I am.”
“From TB, when you were 5.” Cyborg’s eyes flashed, scanning the readouts in front of him quickly. “Neither of your parents outlived you. Only one other Jason Todd in the city, younger than you. By your accent, you’re from the Narrows. He's from the upper west side.”
“Maybe I’m better off here.”
“And Asian-African.” Cyborg closed the feeds. “It’s not you.”
“What about Timothy Drake, Jack Drake’s son? He’s the third Robin from my universe.” asked Richard.
Cyborg tilted his head, as if hearing the data from another part of the room.“Dead. Malnutrition and neglect, age 7. Both the Drakes are in jail for it, too.”
“This world’s Bruce really does have no one,” Dick said, slumping against the wall.
“He has us now,” Diana said with conviction. She stood between the groups. “We will find him, before this creature kills him again.”
Diana gripped his shoulder hard. “We will find him, Superman,” she said firmly. “It does no good to cloud your mind with scenarios.”
Clark wished he shared Diana’s optimism. All he could think of was Bruce was alone, without his suit, or his belt, with a madman. An evil overlord who would stop at nothing to exact his revenge. He swallowed hard, eyes closing against his imagination. Bruce, bleeding to death in a cell; Bruce being drowned with cement bricks encasing his feet.
The clipboard was still on the raised dias across the room. After the fourth violent spasm of vomiting, Bruce gathered enough of himself to stagger in that direction. Shaking legs barely holding him up, he crossed the room to lean heavily on the dias. The clipboard was over an inch thick of paper. Bruce grabbed it, and slowly sank to the floor. His stomach spasmed again, but nothing made its way up enough to worry about. He pushed his wet hair out of his face and began to read.
Some of the papers had been ripped out of a book, possibly a medical textbook. Others were printouts from various websites - thankfully all reputable. He didn’t think he had it in him to deal with wikipedia. Articles on radiation safety, articles on nuclear warfare were scattered throughout the pile. At least, Bruce thought to himself, this Kal-El knew Bruce well enough to not give him garbage and hearsay websites for research.
The thought stuck with him. What would Clark be like, working with him? Would they be able to work together on a case, Clark coming from the more legal angle of things, writing a report that exposed corruption while Bruce hid in the shadows. His heart twinged at the mental image: Clark in his flannel, pencil held gently between his teeth as he typed out line after line. Bruce could bring him coffee as he went back to his own reports, maybe scanning through his own data that had been less-than-legally sourced from their suspect. He swallowed another surge of bile and the dream. No point now, he thought.
The second to last group caught his attention: The Demon Core and the Strange Death of Louis Slotin. It was from the NYTimes at least. It was the illustration on the front that drew his eye the most. The nuclear core, originally named Rufus of all things, was shown in a recreation of the fatal accident, with a screwdriver holding the two beryllium half sphere apart. The accident had been an idiot move on the scientist’s part, for not keeping to safe lab practices. The burst of radiation had taken 3 seconds to fatality injure two of the scientists.
The same core, he suspected, that Kal-EL had brought into the containment room.
Swallowing bile, Bruce continued to read through the reports. He read on the history of the core, and the building of it and it’s ‘siblings’ for World War Two. Ever the researcher, he absorbed everything he could - until he got to the last few pages.
They were torn out of the Merck manual. The symptoms and complications of Acute Radiation sickness. Prognosis and treatment.
He didn’t want to read it.
He started to, stopped, and just stared at the header. If he didn’t read it, he couldn’t be sure that was what the flash had been. Never mind that was probably ludicrous. Never mind that reality had never worked that way for him. Never mind that it was childish to hold the idea of ‘if I don’t know, it’s not true.’
One line at a time, his father’s voice sounded in his memory. Just read one line at a time, Bruce. Use your fingers if you have to. Each word by itself. Don’t worry about what comes next.
Then it was a bedtime story. Now it was a death prognosis.
… extensive burns … internal failure … hallucinations … frontal lobe disintegration …
Bruce dropped the clipboard. Lowering his head onto his knees, he blocked out the world with his arms. His body shook as his mind rewound the numbers.
Acute mortality without medical care. -- 95-100%
Life Expectancy.
His breath caught in his chest; a strangled sob punched out of him.
2 days–2 weeks.
"Six days"
Barry looked shocked. "That long?"
Nightwing shrugged. "We don't know if each of them lasted the full 6 days, but on the seventh day after the abduction, the body is always found in Crime Alley." He looked away, swallowing. "We can’t stay long enough to get the coroner's report."
"And on the seventh day he rested," Alfred murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That does not leave us a great deal of time."
Barry shifted a little, nervous. "So, um, have you guys ever - um, found one alive still?"
Clark desperately wanted to hear a yes. Somewhere where his alter-ego had been stopped. He hoped that there had been places where murdering in cold blood, torture and desecration had been stopped.
Jason shook his head. "We figure that the third one was still alive when he was dumped in the Alley. But the werewolves took care of that in minutes."
His heart sank at Jason’s answer. Might have been alive was as good as dead. Left alive only to realize freedom was just out of reach, and he couldn’t save himself. Clark had to close his eyes, take a deep breath at the image of a wounded Bruce trying to crawl out of the Alley, only for wolves to start to rip him apart. His Bruce was still alive, then. He had to be. Psychopaths followed patterns. He hoped.
"Werewolves," Cyborg stated flatly.
Dick swallowed a large bite of his sandwich. "You'd be amazed at the weird stuff we've passed through."
It had been another stumble, trying to get back to the low platform Kal-El had left up. He hadn’t meant to brush against another clouded case. He hadn’t meant to be thrown into the worst high definition episode of ‘this is your life’ he could have dreamed of.
-- my chain is hooked to the top of the wooden pole, leaving me no room to walk or sit down. My throat burns from the dry air, and so little water as to be nothing. I can barely stand up without the room moving. Nothing I’ve done has helped, nothing gets me free. My armour mocks me from the case in front of me, placed on a mannequin.
He’s walking around the room, pulling up another of those table blocks. The monster places his tray on top, and whisks off the cloth like he’s some fancy waiter revealing the chef’s surprise.
Blades. Sharp, glinting in the harsh light, all different sizes, arranged neatly by size. A basin of white powder sits beside them.
I know what he’s about to do.
I know why he’s not given me any water for two days.
I’m pulling on the leash, scrambling against the pole, trying to shimmy up and somehow, this time, unhook it. I’m dragging bloody fingers up the wood, yanking on the chain with every last scrap of energy. My feet rip against grain, toenails long since broken and torn from the skin.
Kal-El just stands there, watching me fail. He waits, silent, for me to cease struggling.
I’ve lost the battle against my body, against gravity and fate and madness. Leaning on the pole, my gasps for air are not sobs. They aren’t. It hasn’t even started yet, and I won’t break, won’t give up. My training is still so fresh, the horrors that the League put me through to make the Bat, and I will make my masters proud.
Blackness swims in Bruce’s mind. Gasping, he tried to shut his mind, close the connection, anything to stop the flow of images. They don’t listen.
-- the straps around my chest crush me to the stake, the straps around my hips have removed the need for standing. Not that I can. Not that I ever will again. He’s dusting my arm ... limb ... stub... the powder burns as much as the cuts do, hot flame against fresh blood, clotting the flow nearly instantly.
-- my body shakes, my breath chokes me. I’m fading into nothing, one cut off piece at a time. He disintegrates them right in front of me. Parts of – parts of – my body are gone forever. Atoms to the cosmos. Every cut, another part gone.—he’s gone through three trays. Three trays of knives and saws and axes, taking me apart the only way that terrifies me.
-- they won’t find a body. Alfred will never know what took me. He’ll never have to bury another Wayne. He’ll wait, and wait, and I’ll never see him again, and he’ll never see me again –
--Kal-El holds up the part, my amputated forearm and elbow joint for my inspection. “Thirty-seven,” he intones, before raising the disintegrator and banishing it forever.
“Thirty-eight will be a kidney, I believe.”
The memory went dark suddenly, releasing Bruce to the floor again. He could feel his arms tight around his chest, feel the sobs tearing his abused throat apart. His nerves still burned. It was an after image, not real.
It felt real. And for another Bruce, it had been. A young Bruce, a new Batman, cut down in his youth. Bruce choked against the words in his mind. A waste, he thought. All that training, only to come up against this creature with the face of a man.
“He had a stroke as I was preparing the blade for his kidney.”
Kal-El stood to one side of the room, head tilted to watch Bruce. His face was bland, void of everything but mild curiosity.
“Why would you perform Lingchi on him?” Bruce gasped as he tried to straighten up, at least kneeling on the floor. “He did nothing – none of them attacked you!”
“I was unaware that humans could have such destructive strokes before the age of 30,” Kal-El continued, ignoring Bruce’s question. “His death was not scheduled for 32 more hours.”
Bruce heaved himself to his feet, leaning, with care, on the raised dais. “Why did you perform Lingchi on him?” he repeated loudly.
The alien focused on him. “Bruce took apart my soul into a hundred pieces. I simply wished to return the sensation.”
There it was, again. The plot for the whole ordeal – some cosmically sadistic score settling. “You keep telling me about this grand score you have to settle with your Bruce, but shouldn’t you be going after him, not every copy you can find?”
Kal-El stared at him, mute.
“What?” Bruce taunted. “Can’t catch him? Or is your ego no match for intelligence and strategy?” He was gasping, trying to claw in enough air. “Your fancy ship can’t get the one you want, so you go pick on other, weaker Batmen-“
“YOU STOLE MY WORLD, AND TURNED THE REST OF THE WORLD AGAINST ME!” Kal-El exploded, face twisted with rage and flushing blood red. The alien turned, crashing a fist into the closest display case. The glass shattered, shrapnel flying everywhere. “And then, he left!”
Bruce could feel dozens of tiny cuts on his arms and face. He ignored them, to say, “He died on you.”
Kal-El stalked forward, and grabbed Bruce’s scrubs. Hoisting him high into the air, the alien snarled, “He took the coward’s way out of my grasp, after destroying everything!”
Twisting, Bruce tried to get out of the grip. His weak struggles did not stop the infuriated man from shaking him roughly.
“You will suffer, as I suffer, every day of my existence. When all the Bruce Waynes have suffered as much as I have, then, and only then, will I stop.”
“You’ll never be satisfied,” Bruce gasped, blood flowing from his nose. “You’ll never stop. Psychopaths don’t stop.”
Kal-El’s face grinned. His eyes remained as hard as obsidian, as he took three deliberate steps, and threw Bruce into another case.
--lungs seizing, coughing, I can’t stop, the air is thick with smoke and soot I can’t stop coughing. Even with the breathing tube in my nose, the coughs won’t stop.
-- the pile is warming beneath my feet. The kerosene is doing its job. The smoke should have knocked me out, at least. Smothered the life from my body, even as the flames started their work. But the airflow into my throat won’t let me pass out. He won’t let me escape. He’s staring into the flames, face a mask.
-- the smell, fuck, the smell is – that’s my flesh, that’s me – cooking, burning – it hurts, but it’s not agony, not yet. Whatever the hell he’s put into the tube is keeping me awake, alive, focused – it hurts, and I can’t move, can’t escape, that crackling is me it’s me I’m on fire, I’m burning alive
--the nerves are on fire. I can feel it, feel every lick of the flames, screaming because the gas has stopped, nothing blows into my lungs, no air, no gas, just fumes and smoke and ash from my own flesh...
This time, it was Bruce who passed out.
Barry couldn’t help himself. “You mean, like one where he's an actual vampire, or where we’re all genderbent? That would be so awesome to meet yourself, but they’d be different! And to be able to talk to them would be – you could learn so much if you found an older version –“
Zee smiled from behind her holo screens. “The universe I come from doesn’t even have binary genders.”
Barry scooted over to her, intrigued. “How exactly – I mean, not you know, exactly--”
Zee laughed. “In your terms, we are both bearer and sire. And yes, both partners can be pregnant at the same time. Makes for some very tight families.”
Barry’s eyes were wide, trying to digest that. “So, everyone...”
“Barry,” Diana scolded.
“It’s alright. It’s always the speedster that asks, or the Lantern. And I’m guessing the Lantern hasn’t shown up yet.”
Diana shook her head. “There hasn’t been a Lantern on Earth in thousands of years.”
“Not yet, at least. And yes, Barry, everyone has everything. Except breasts – we’re the only universe to not have fully formed breasts even when not pregnant or nursing. You get them if you need them. Saves a great deal of hassle.”
Diana laughed softly. Victor was carefully not making eye contact with anyone, scanning various parts of Gotham.
The cases were lit by soft light, now, the ceiling lights dimmed.
That was the first thing he noticed upon waking up.
The second thing was the burning itch in his arms. The pull of tightening skin over the burns, heated and hot to the touch.
The third was the psychopath standing in the corner watching him.
“Come for another pound of flesh?” Bruce growled, sitting up. He was laid out on another dias, like some movie starlette on an altar. Not an image he was at all comfortable with.
“Merely assessing whether you’re on schedule or need supplemental exposure.”
Bruce drew a shaky breath and swung his legs down. “Villains always want the hands on approach,” he mocked, getting to his feet.The nausea was loosening his tongue - it felt more like Brucie was trying to talk stocks while in a canape fountain. “It’s like - it’s a compulsion with every one of you. You can’t complete an evil master plan without a soliloquy about --”
“You still doubt me,” Kal-El interrupted. “Some part of that brilliant mind insists that you are going to get free of this and win the day.” The flat laugh that came out chilled Bruce’s spine worse than anything the Joker had ever uttered.
“I’ve beaten you before.” Bruce backed up a few steps. “I’m sure other Bruces have done the same.”
The alien floated over to one case. He laid a hand on the glass above the chestplate. The glass shimmered, shook and melted away. Kal-El reached inside, and pulled out a long stake wrapped in bloody chains. “Some deaths are so classic that they become a trope, you know,” he said, flipping the topic on its head.
Bruce shifted backward even more, even as Kal-El walked forward with the weapon.
“But I’ve loved the classics. They are so -- soothing in their predictability. The formula is the same, for man, woman, alien, animal.” He tapped the bar against his leg, absently. His eyes stayed focused unblinkly on Bruce’s face. “Everything has a place, and a routine. Don’t you find routines to be reassuring, Bruce?”
Bruce edged back farther until his back hit something. Twisting, he was surprised to see another dias rising from the floor. He hadn’t even heard it move.
“I think you do,” Kal-El whispered in his ear, crowding him against the new dias. “I think you’ll enjoy this one.”
-- ‘this seems mundane for a psychopath’ my voice is rough, it's been too long without enough water. But I doubt he’ll be generous with that. ‘you know it’s nearly cliche at this point.’
The chains tighten, pulling my shoulders just that little tighter. The left is aching more, probably will be the first to pop. Strangely, he’s not doing these evenly. My legs are barely feeling the strain.
‘Classics aren’t meant to be rushed.’ Kal-El nearly scolds me.
I need him distracted. I need him to go off into another rant. Goading him on seems like a likely scenario. “Classics are condensed into comic books all the time. Great way to get caught up. The pictures help, I’ve heard.”
Just like my Clark. He’s livid at the mere mention of the sacrilege of classic works to comics. Even while he begins his tirade, my hands slip backwards, lock picks in my fingers. I’ve nearly got the reach for the right cuff - another angle, another jab, it should-
--I scream as he pulls the wheel four cranks all at once. My shoulders are in agony, even as the left one pops out with the most sickening sound. I’ll never get used to it. My hand goes numb, dropping the picks with a clink. I’ll have a hell of a time getting that shoulder back in --
Three cranks at my feet, oh god, my bare ankles are pulled right out, dislocated with ease and speed. He’s saying something, words, but they are meaningless. I can’t hear them, I can’t -- I’m screaming again as he moves one more crank on my feet.
He waits until I’m whimpering, barely able to catch my breath. He leans down over me, eyes glittering red in the dark room. “But sometimes, condensed timelines really do work better. Especially if you are on a deadline. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Kal-El lifted the stake from againsts Bruce’s chest as the human collapsed. As Bruce began to vomit once more, arms braced against the floor, he caught sight of the alien gently stroking the wooden stake before carefully replacing it in the case.
The roar of the engines of the motorcycles faded into the cave system. As much as Jason had wanted to take the older Batmobile (“Fuck - Dickie bird, it has a machine gun on it!”) Zee had pointed out that it was a bit conspicuous. Of course, what sealed the deal on not taking it was the fact of half the engine being out on cinder blocks.
No one remained, save for Cyborg and Zee who were coordinating both sides, marking out routes that were being sent to various HUD. The sound of engines had faded, leaving Clark with Alfred at the main computer.
“What was it you needed my help with, Alfred?” Clark asked softly. His black costume blended in with the cave’s shadows. He hoped the elderly man hadn’t just pulled him aside to keep him from the field. He needed to be doing something, needed to be out there, looking for Bruce. Finding him before - before. Clark refused to think that they wouldn’t find Bruce in time.
He was Batman. He was Bruce Wayne. He had trained for years and fought the ugliest villains that Gotham had to offer. Clark felt certain he’d be … he couldn’t even think the word in his mind.
Bruce was being tortured, right now. While Clark did nothing. It twisted in his guts worse than knowing he’d told lies to nearly everyone he knew. Worse than realizing that, while Lois might still have the ring, she’d moved on. She refocused, and drove into her work with fierceness and fire - and no return ticket. She’d closed that chapter.
Clark swallowed back everything he didn’t have time to deal with. Alfred needed help, and from little he knew about the mysterious voice over the comm, that meant it was serious.
Alfred gestured vaguely at the two on comms. “While no doubt they will be able to scour the city in record time, I have a suspicion that the area they are looking for is not one of the grey zones.” He began walking back upstairs, gesturing for Clark to follow him. “Speed and security cameras are all well and good, but there are times when on-the-ground reconnaissance is the only way to get anywhere.”
Clark smiled faintly in understanding. “And you would know where to start looking?”
Alfred turned back to him. “Oh, I have ideas. But rather than where, I know whom to start asking.” He gestured lightly at his cape. “You would, perhaps, be better off wearing something less conspicuous. I’m sure that Master Bruce has something that should do.”
Bruce woke up on the raised dais, lights muted. Swallowing the taste of bile, he pushed himself upright – mostly. The room was spinning, and was oddly bright in the walls. Slowly, his vision focused enough to see that some of the suit displays had been turned on. Some were even tilted towards each other, like a macabre conversation circle. They still were all connected at the corners, but now it felt more like a starburst of cases, rather than an execution style arena. All combined, he was in a museum exhibit devoted to one man’s psychotic rage.
It took several minutes of meditative breathing exercises before Bruce could even begin to move his body enough to stand. It was highly unlikely, and probably a waste of precious energy, but if he could find one of the cases that hadn’t been sealed, that he could open without going into another flash of memory, maybe he could find a way out. He held out a glimmer of hope that one of the various belts would have a shard of kryptonite in it.
Bruce finally stood, swaying in place. The meager rations he had managed to swallow the last time he’d been awake were not sitting well. He’d probably end up throwing them up, too. Mind over body, right now, was all he needed, and a plan.
The closest three suits were obviously sealed tight. He scanned his eyes over the next conversation circle. Two carried swords, and the other pitcher of what looked like water. Drowned, Bruce assumed, or waterboarded until his death. All three, though, looked tightly sealed. He walked around the other side of the dais, leaning on the cold marble like slab. There was one that was apart from the others. The cases next to it were darkened, nearly opaque. That suit was nearly identical as his own, with only a few style differences. The ears were much higher, a chin guard settled beneath the mask, and the gloves were only four fingered each. But the most important part was the belt settled low on his waist – and the door that wasn’t completely sealed.
He moved slowly toward it, pacing his breathing. If he fell against another case, he didn’t know what he’d see. He didn’t know if he would even be able to get back up afterwards. How much time was he losing for each of these visions? How taxing on his body were these memories of torture and suffering? Would he be able to get back to the dais? To the only source of water or food that he’d seen in this hell hole?
He was sweating heavily when he reached the case. The door to it was on the side, he noted. The armour had been slid in sideways, which made the belt release mechanism on the far side. There was no entrance from the other side that could be seen. So, he just had to figure out how to open this door without touching it.
In the end, his body’s betrayal gave him the answer. A sudden, deep choking cough exploded out of him. Bruce staggered away from the case, throwing up an arm to cover his face. Even as a cherry-sized clot worked its way out of his lungs, Bruce’s elbow, covered in the sleeve from his scrubs, knocked into the door, pushing it wide open.
Once he could breathe, Bruce stood straight again. So, skin to skin contact was needed. He could work with that. He’d grab the gauntlets first, and then work on getting this suit out. He pulled his sleeve down, fisting it tightly, and reached into the case.
His covered fingers brushed the sleeve of the suit, and his world exploded again –
- Clark was dead, ripped to pieces on the floor of the room. His blood coated the floor beneath the bench the monster has me strapped to. Using his – using his blood, my Clark, we’ve barely been married a year, why now? Why? What is this monster getting from this?
- my throat chokes again, it can’t clear itself from the metal shaft shoved down it. It moves and moves, and there is nothing that I can do to stop it. The engine shifts rhythm, jagged thrusts bruising my throat.
“You should be more accustomed to this, Brucie. You were the whore of the social scene. I’m surprised your Superman would even touch something so sullied.”
My hands twist, they can’t get free, I’ve broken nearly every bone in them to try and slip out of the shackles. They rattle to the same beat as – as –
He’s changing the piece again. Christ, no more, I can’t take another size, another round, please, I will beg if I could get the sounds past the muzzle locking the shaft to my face. He shows me, holding it up to the large mirror in front of me, even as he takes a dollop of drying blood and fluids and coats the shaft. I can feel him pressing against my entrance, please no, please no, no more, no more –
--I scream, feeling something more tear inside me. It’s too much, and the thrusts begin again, harder against my ass, brutal in the thrusts. My chained body can’t move left or right, only forward onto one, or backward onto the other. Clark, my love, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we wasted so much time, so much lost, please someone – anyone – end this, please...
Bruce felt the tears on his face, felt sobs so strong a rib cracked under the force, even as he choked on the sheer misery he still felt. He’d been dying, internal bleeding, being fucked to death by machines. And to see his husband – Clark – dead before him.
He’d been married. The faintest flash of happiness in an overwhelming ocean of agony. His Clark had been - they’d been married. They would have come back from a mission, held each other in solitude, quietly reassuring each other was safe. Or if Bruce had come home hurt, how would it have felt to have his husband hold him until the pain faded away?
His other might have mourned the lost time, but he had it, if only for a moment. That Bruce had been loved. Cherished. Worth dying for.
But he had no one. He was alone, and in so much pain he could barely see straight. Breathing shifted his broken ribs, bones breaking down from the inside out. But the pain was nothing, incomparable to the ache of loneliness. His Superman would not be coming. He had no reason to. The world didn’t need Batman.
Bruce slid the rest of the way to the floor, vision going dark. But not soon enough to miss the gleam from the eyes of his captor as Kal-El closed the case above him.
The tent-town on the east end of Gotham was dimly lit at this time of the evening. Most of the fires hadn't started yet. The quiet conversations continued between members, even as tempers and posturing amongst others grew loud. Alfred, a heavy canvas sack slung over one shoulder, approached one of the men sitting outside, smoking.
“Would Mallcolm with two Ls be here today?” he asked.
“Might.” The other man looked Alfred over, and then scanned Clark. “Whose he? Narc?”
“No.” Alfred said simply. “Tell him I have a job for him. From the Bat.”
The other man nodded. “Stay here.” He slowly got up, taking his joint with him. It was a few minutes before he returned, with a short fellow behind him. Mallcolm with two Ls, as he was known, was a small man, quiet, and had a left hook that Alfred was quite impressed with. He also knew more of the people in the shelters and on the streets. Bruce had struck up an information deal with him years ago, when trying to track Nigma. Any intel was welcome on the rogues of Gotham.
Mallcolm shook Alfred’s hand, and nodded at Clark behind him. “Training up your replacement, finally?.”
Alfred huffed. “Hardly qualified to do half of my job.”
Mallcolm barked a laugh. “You got a long way, fresh face.” He turned back to Alfred. “What’s the Bat need?”
“Intel,” Alfred said. “Strange places, weird feelings. He’s looking for a part of town that no one wants to go to, that they used to frequent. I thought perhaps my friend and I could ask around, find out where the shadows seem to devour people.”
Mallcolm nodded slowly. “Someone’s got a new lair, huh? Scarecrow again?”
Clark frowned, but held his questions. Alfred was already shaking his head. “He’s not told me. Simply gave me the job.”
“Informative bastard, ain’t he?” It was said with a strange sort of affection. Clark had seen that odd mix of respect and wariness before, when he’d been hunting more stories about the Bat. It didn’t fit back then with the image he’d been making about the Batman. The information still didn’t fit well into his mental puzzle. “Go on. John’s already told people you’re here.”
“Cheers,” Alfred said. He started forward, motioning for Clark to keep up with him. “He made arrangements years ago for information to be collected by the vagrant and migratory populations of Gotham. They tell him things, leave messages in a few specific places. In exchange, he managed to ‘arrange’ to have medical personnel come into the camps and help those that wanted it.
“It’s rather difficult for some to make it to the clinics, even though they are more than welcome. But having the doctors come to them - that removes so many barriers of stigma and class divides that they can get the help they need. And, if they wish, more permanent assistance.” Alfred turned down one particular path.
“He enlisted--”
Alfred turned a corner, oriented himself, and kept walking. “Favours and exchanges, Master Kent, will oftentime garner more results. Even those whom most would never look twice at have their own honor and pride.”
Clark shook his head. “But, with the company, he could --”
Alfred stopped, and turned around to face Clark. “He could,” he said quietly. “He has the resources, the infrastructure, the connections.”
“They why--”
“What he doesn’t have is the ability to change the majority of people’s perspectives. While his company does hire those with less direct experience and tenuous living accommodations, nearly every other major employer won’t. Landlords won’t rent without proof of permanent employment. Social services often balk at helping those who aren’t living on their own, or make the programs simply inaccessible.” Alfred’s face was drawn, but his eyes were piercing.
“He doesn’t have that power, and he needs it before he can perform the massive undertaking that it would be. Because enough of these people have been knocked down enough times by society that they aren’t going to trust anyone who says they can help. They are not going to go by the word of a spoiled rich man who makes it look more like a PR stunt than a true desire to help.”
Clark looked around them. This time, he really looked. He observed his surroundings with the level of care he’d reserve for determining where a building was going to fall. And, after a minute of shoving his expectations to the side, he truly saw more.
The tents were higher quality, waterproof roofs with actual floor coverings. There were small camp stoves and hibachis scattered throughout the area. A few of the larger tents had more supplies hidden away, like medical supplies. Even people’s clothes were much less worn out than you’d expect. Clark turned as one woman squeezed past, and could smell - that was citrus shampoo. Fresh, too, which meant somewhere here there were showers, with supplies.
“He sets all this up, without anyone knowing it’s him,” Clark realized out loud. “He never takes any credit for this, not even when doing so would bring good PR to him. Because … because it wouldn’t help the issue.” He swallowed, stunned. Bruce knew it wouldn’t work for it just to be a stunt, a charity case shown to the world. And he wouldn’t do that to someone.
He wouldn’t make someone live like him, as an example and an object lesson, Clark realized, sinking backwards into a new appreciation.
“You’ll find, Mister Kent, that he has his fingers in many different areas of this city. Most of those are with gloves to hide the prints.”
Clark nodded absently, still looking around. The little touches of human decency spoke to him. Social workers would bring standard supplies. But the Bat and Bruce had arranged for gender-marketed supplies. He could smell Old Spice and Dove, and a dozen other specific hygiene scents. He knew that some of them had hidden away small bottles of aftershave, or tiny samples of perfumes. It was something that showed that they were still seen as people, as individuals. The amount of empathy that Bruce showed was staggering.
Clark had never once thought of the Batman as having a heart or a conscience. He was a force of revenge and retribution. But now, in the heart of one of Bruce’s quiet efforts, he had to see that he was wrong.
“I’m beginning to see that, sir,” he said quietly.
Alfred stared at him for a moment before nodding. There was a small group of people around one large bin fire, watching them. “I’ll introduce you; Margaret is always a good person to start with.”
“-not seeing anything on West 12, Zee.”
“--amusement island is empty. Never seen it without at least a dozen henchmen; fucking creepy like this --”
“--um, I haven’t found anything, 10-Foxtort?”
Cyborg closed his real eye and sighed. “Keep to English, Barry. Please.” Zee kept her smile in check, marking off Diana’s first spot.
The holomap spread between them was updating constantly. Whole sections of the southern tip of Gotham were eliminated. Jason was making short work toward the Money Strip. Cyborg continued accessing people’s phones, ATM cameras and the like to knock even more sections off in their hunt.
“How do you do it?” Cyborg asked quietly as they waited for another check in.
“I’m not well versed on the mechanics, sadly. I only know how to use it from my Bruce’s notes.”
Cyborg shook his head slowly. “No, not that. How do you jump knowing that you are just going to be losing people each time?”
Zee stopped typing, staring at the middle distance between them. “Because losing one life is nothing compared to what Kal-El has done. In one universe he forced Bruce to watch as Kal-El destroyed the whole of the city. Once it was nearly all of the eastern seaboard, up past Nova Scotia. If I have the choice, the chance, I have to take it. I can’t leave that monster to continue.”
Cyborg watched her carefully. “Batman has always had a no killing rule, as Alfred tells it.”
She sniffed, quickly typing another route to Jason. “I wonder how many of the criminals he knocks unconscious have died from brain hemorrhages later on? Or died in hospital days or weeks later?” She shook her head. “Every universe I’ve been through has Batman in it, and every one is the same in this regard. Batman may, in many cases, revile murder, but his manslaughter list is probably much higher than you’d expect. Collateral damages, one of his other Robins told me early on.”
Cyborg nodded slowly, updating another section in the North, as Diana relayed information back.
“He’s a rabid monster,” she said quietly, voice firm. “The only responsible thing to do is to kill it, before this madness and chaos crashes into another world.”
When Clark had handed out all of the provisions Alfred had brought, he reconvened at the car. Alfred was already there, a map of the Gotham city and greater Gotham area laid out over the hood.
Clark looked over the map, where Alfred was quickly marking areas. “There were several stories that were repeated to me,” he said. “They focused on the north east end of Gotham, just past the ‘red blue’ light district.”
Alfred nodded, making another mark in that area. “I found the same stories. An area that used to be good for peddling, now feels like something is waiting for them.”
He nodded. “And it’s new, not even a week old.”
Alfred sighed. “I believe,” he said, straightening up, “that we need to send someone to investigate the area.” The map between them was lit by street lamps, showing not less than seven circles around the red blue district. Nowhere else on the map had more than two points.
“It doesn’t make sense to get everyone back before checking it out,” Clark said. “I can do a quick retcon and report back by the time everyone is back at the cave.”
Alfred looked at him. “And give yourself away?”
Clark shook his head. “I’m still dead, as far as everyone knows. He won’t even be looking for me. But another human, wandering the streets at night won’t set off any alarm bells. It’s like Zee said, it’s a blindspot. He doesn’t expect me, he won’t be wasting time looking for something that isn’t there.”
Walking around the car, Alfred unlocked the trunk. “If you insist on this course, sir, take along a drone to leave behind. That way we can keep surveillance accurate for any comings or goings.” He pulled out a small device, about the size of a CD. “Attach this to any surface in clear eyelines. It activates remotely once it is deployed.”
Clark took the small robot. “Custom job?” he asked, smirking a little.
“He does like to keep his fingers busy. I’ll have the others brought back in,” Alfred said quietly, refolding the map. “Be safe, Master Kent.”
There wasn’t a light show going on above him on the ceiling. Bruce was sure there wasn’t. That, of course, did not mean that he didn’t see a light show. They flickered like the northern lights. Shades of blue, green, yellow, and orange danced, and he danced with them. He was floating, weightless, at peace. Hallucinations were a pleasant way to pass the time.
He coughed, weakly.
Coughed again, and again, throat closing over nothingness. Shaking against the floor, his chest shook with the spasms. Each cough rattled every bone in his body, made him feel like a child’s rattle being bashed into their crib.
Gurgling sounds started deep in his chest, and suddenly he was choking, forcing the coughs into spasms, to throw up, to spit out whatever was blocking the airway. Bruce choked, and choked, and wondered if this was it. Dying via vomit on the floor, body falling apart cell by cell.
A bloody mass finally fell out of his gaping mouth. Spitting out blood, Bruce felt tears on his cheeks. Even with everything else, seeing a blood clot nearly the size of your fist drove home the truth. He wasn’t walking out of this one. He was dying.
Alone.
The largest table in the cave held various platters of food. Three carafes stood with the strongest brew that was available in the cave. Another set of carafes held crystal clear water, with various fruits floating serenely amongst the ice cubes. Despite all of the bounty, everyone still looked and felt ragged. Even Barry was only half-heartedly demolishing a plate of peanut butter and protein powder sandwiches.
There was a ping, a chirp on Alfred’s phone. “That would be the drone coming online,” Alfred said, quickly typing. The largest screen flickered to life with infrared and visual scans. The ship was nestled amongst the warehouses and factory lots like it belonged there. Rough sides, and sharp corners were well suited to the grim area of dilapidated buildings. Within moments, Clark had reappeared amongst them, out of breath.
“That’s it,” Zee confirmed. “That’s his ship.”
“That’s ugly,” Barry commented around an orange. “No offense,” he said, glancing at Clark.
“It’s not Krptonian,” Zee continued. “I don’t know who makes them, but they are experts at dimensional physics. The interior will be substantially bigger.”
Cyborg stood closer to the screen, and tendrils of cables plugged themselves into the computer bank. After a second of brief flashes, he unplugged, and projected the same ship onto the table in three dimensions. “Only one entrance, engines are sealed from outside entry. I doubt that we’d be able to carve our way in without schematics.”
Nightwing pointed at the nearest buildings with his chopstick. “Looks like good cover until the last 50 feet. We just need him to open up the ship. Most of us could be inside within seconds.”
Clark nodded, stifling a yawn. His whole body was stiff, and the coffee was not doing anything to help. “I could be that distraction. You said I’m always dead in his picks.” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose having a dead man knock on your door would be something to open it up for.”
“It would certainly get my attention,” Barry muttered to himself, drowning in more coffee.
Cyborg nodded. “The rest of us would be in the buildings. There’s enough lead in the pipes underneath that section of the factory district that if we came up from the sewer system, he wouldn’t see us until we were right on his doorstep.”
Jason, leaning against another table full of equipment, spoke up. “So, plan A is to rush the door? And hope he doesn’t just slam it in our faces?”
“Superman will drive him back into the ship,” Diana said firmly. “We will fall in behind him from a safe enough distance that Kal-El will not feel the effects of the Kryptonite until we are ready.”
Zee pushed a hastily sketched room into the middle of the table. “There used to be a grand rotunda, leading to the various sections of the ship. He might have changed the configuration, but I doubt it. At that point, you press the attack with the Kryptonite, Clark and I will begin searching for Bruce.”
“Um…” Barry half raised a hand. “I’m … um… not great at fighting, per say. I … um… push things and run away. Really fast. But I think he’s faster.” He gulped. “What use is speed in a tiny room?”
Cyborg hummed. “Supplies.”
“What, like coffee runs?”
Cyborg almost smiled. “They can’t carry all of the weapons that we can forge with kryptonite on them. As the battle progresses, you can bring new weapons in, and get anybody out who is injured or dead.”
Barry chewed on that one for a moment. “Okay, why dead?” He paused, and then answered himself. “Right, small room, things on the floor, tripping hazards. Sounds like a plan.”
“Nightwing and I will attack first,” Diana announced. “Red Hood will cover our escape route, and ensure that Zee can start searching, and Cyborg can get into the main hub of the ship. He will disable the ship’s engine system. After we engage in battle, Clark will fall back and begin searching.”
“When do we start?” Clark asked, dreading the answer.
Zee stood behind the monitors, going from screen to screen. "Tomorrow night."
"Why not now?" Jason demanded. "We know where he is, we can strike now. Better to strike while we still have the element of surprise."
Dick looked from face to face and sighed. "We're all exhausted," he said, passing a hand over his eyes. The domino peeled away from his face with ease. "It's day 4. The pattern is always 7 days. We've got time to regroup, get ready."
Jason snarled, "What do we need to get ready, Dickhead? Are we not motivated enough? Do we need some plebeian motivational speech next to rouse our spirits?"
"You need sleep, you need food, and you need weapons." Zee pulled up the schematics of the kryptonite stores. "These pieces need to be forged into usable weapons. Unless you just want to throw glitter at him and hope it sticks. Diana and I, with Cyborg, can continue work on forging tonight and tomorrow morning. There's enough to equip everyone with several options."
Dick agreed. "It's been a while since any of us had a full night's sleep. And I'd like a shower, with real soap this time." Jason sank back into his chair, mollified about the promise of more weaponry.
Alfred stepped up behind Clark and softly cleared his throat. “Master Kent, this way?” he gestured to the side. Curious despite his exhaustion, Clark followed to the medical area. Against one wall, a pod was opening.
“Is that - is that a tanning bed?” Clark asked, bemused.
“In essence, it was. Master Bruce rebuilt it with you in mind. As ultraviolet radiation is a fuel source for your people, he felt it was best that there be a concentrated source available for you in case of injuries or illness.” Alfred finished the start up sequence in the panel next to the head. “Inside there are settings and a timer, if you wish to be awoken within a set timeframe.
Clark tried to talk. It didn’t work the first time. “When - when did he build this, Alfred?”
Alfred paused. “Fifteen weeks ago, I believe.”
Another piece was settling into Clark’s brain in the puzzle marked Bruce Wayne. “I wasn’t alive yet, fifteen weeks ago. Why would he waste the time -”
“Master Bruce felt that, should you return, you might need immediate assistance. He wished to be prepared for such an occurrence. You will find, Master Kent, that the things Master Bruce cares about doing, he does with the obsessive need to cover all contingencies. He dislikes being caught unprepared.”
Clark swallowed. Just in case Clark needed it, he spent hours rebuilding this to suit him. It was longer than a standard bed would be, far wider than any he’d ever seen before. The higher dome meant it was far less claustrophobic, either. Which wouldn’t be something you’d worry about in a tanning bed - you’d have your eyes closed all the time.
But Clark wouldn’t need to. He’d open his eyes, and see the wider dome above him, lit and white, completely unlike a coffin lid would have been. Bruce had thought about that. He’d sat down, worked out larger schematics, and taken the time to consider the user’s mental wellbeing. You didn’t do that for a merely utilitarian object. You do that for another’s comfort. Bruce never struck him as someone who gave any concern for comfort for himself. His chairs in the cave were austere, and one looked like it was just hauled out of the last car he’d crashed, and put on wheels.
But Alfred’s work area - there the chairs were ergonomic and comfortable. The floor was covered in anti fatigue matting, the tables all were easily adjustable in height. Even the coffee area was arranged for the least amount of motions, every type of container easy to open with a flick of a finger. Bruce had probably designed the whole thing to measurements that made Alfred’s job that much easier.
He turned back to Alfred, who was staring at him. “He -”
Alfred nodded. “For something he cares about, Master Kent, he tries to prepare for everything. Because in preparation -”
“- he can’t be caught off guard.” Clark swallowed the emotions down, hard. Now he needed to recharge, get ready. He’d pick apart this whole new section of show-don’t-tell Bruce that had just been dropped into his lap.
“Rest well, sir,” Alfred murmured, stepping away. He returned to the main area. Jason and Richard had already made their way upstairs with Diana. That only left the young leader of the group.
Alfred waited patiently for the young woman to come up for breath from her adjustments to the discs interior. The swirling discs twinkled dully, half-hearted light in a darkened room. Her fingers were just as nimble as Bruce's were, with that unerring determination to reach deep into the heart of the mechanical problem before her. There was so much of her that triggered old, dusty memories - a young Bruce, taking apart the toaster, and older Bruce reassembling the rotary phone in his father's office. Even older memories surfaced as he watched the young mistress frown in annoyance - Martha, jaw settled sweetly, but firmly informing her father that she wasn't going to be abandoning her husband after some minor business setback and her complete concentration on toddler Bruce's description of his wall painting. So much of her was achingly familiar.
"A word, if I may?" Alfred asked, as she rose from the floor. "Miss Wayne."
She held still a moment, before a soft smile graced her features. "It doesn't matter what universe I'm in, you always see right through me." She sighed. "It's quite annoying, Alfred."
"I'm quite sure it is. But, if I may say, Master Bruce isn't any better at fooling me."
She laughed, sitting on the closest workbench. "A genetic failure, then?" She smiled. "I never really try anymore."
Alfred settled against the bench behind him. "They don't know, do they?"
She shook her head. "My parentage doesn't enter into the issue. If anything, it would distract them when we catch the alien. They would become more concerned with protecting me than dealing with the psychopath." She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, sinking into the bench. "It suits the mission much better, that, for now, I'm only tech support. I'm the only one who seems able to manage our jumps, and I recruited every Robin to hunt with us. Besides, we've never run into another me in any of our jumps."
"Ah," Alfred murmured. "A singularity amongst the cosmos."
"Something every little girl dreams of: being unique. I can say from experience, though, that it's not all that and a bag of crisps."
Alfred nodded slowly, his eyes full of old sorrow. "He's from your universe, isn't he, my dear?"
She swallowed. “Of a sort. I was raised in his universe, but Bruce and I weren’t from his. Our Clark pushed us through a portal when the war turned against them. There – there was an invasion. They infected whomever fell into their army, mindless drones. Clark was newly infected, barely holding on. He wrapped my Father in his cape, and pushed him through a collapsing escape portal.” She looked up, meeting Alfred’s eyes. “We didn’t land where the rest of the people from North America did. We landed in this monster’s home, who was more than happy to have a new pet Bruce. I was merely a bonus.”
There was a suspicious gleam to the older man’s eyes. “My dear child,” he whispered, raising a hand to her cheek.
Zee swallowed. “He couldn’t escape, he never got free. He bargained for everything, with the only thing he had, all to protect me.” At Alfred’s wince, she smiled sadly. “I figured it out when I was a kid, but he tried so hard to shield me from him. From what he was being forced to do. Kal-El wanted a superpowered child. Father refused.”
Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. “If he was anything like the Bruce I know, the mere idea of bringing a child into the world with captivity as the only option would be abhorrent.”
“Yes. But Kal-El was stuck with me, a powerless near human child who looked like him. He had to settle for me, and started to groom me up to be a puppet in front of the camera. Help his PR.”
Alfred saw the stray tear in her eye, even as she blinked it away. “Is that when you lost him?” he asked gently.
“We were out at a function, a museum gathering. He was acting as my chaperone, following behind me all evening. I’d been shown to another room of the rotunda by the host. I’d barely turned the corner when - when the bombs went off. He was still 20 feet away when the ceiling collapsed.”
She collapsed against Alfred's coat, shoulders heaving with muted sobs. “I found his body in the rubble, just in time to see it fade away. He’d had a chip installed in his world. Destroyed the body after complete brain death. He’d told me that would happen. He’d - he’d warned me. I only had a moment to say goodbye, Alfred. He was gone, and everything was chaos. Then there were people, and -” She swallowed back another wave of tears. She pulled herself up, breathing deeply.
“There were resistance groups to Kal-El’s reign. Papa had been slipping them information. They’d built the orb, but it was locked to my genetic signature. He was - his plan was to smuggle me out, and send me to another universe, to get help.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Get help, miss, or send help back?”
Zee shrugged, eyes downcast. “I don’t know. But when the dust had cleared, Kal was there.
“Kal-El went berserk.” She swallowed a few more tears and continued. “Kal-El didn’t realize I wasn’t in the explosion. He - he eradicated everyone left in the area, declaring that they had all killed his husband. We were just climbing down into the sewer system below the museum when the beam from his eyes incinerated the person above me. The resistance hid me for a month, until he found us.”
Alfred nodded slowly, eyes kind.
“When I stepped out of the leader’s circle ready to beg for their lives, Kal-El looked like I had stabbed him in the heart. He was yelling, how it always took him away. How it had taken me away, too.”
“The mission, the cowl,” Alfred said quietly.
She nodded. “He left, without killing anyone else. We had no idea why, until later. Seven days later, another Bruce Wayne was found in Crime Alley, with black wings shredded beyond endurance, and a spear driven through him.”
Zee choked. “Another 7 days, another Bruce Wayne. This time a human flayed. After the third one, I found a way to track him, and began to hunt for the psychotic serial killer.”
Alfred placed both hands on her shoulders - a silent support. She breathed out, bringing herself back under control. “I cannot express how much I wish we’d caught him before he reached another Bruce. So many that he killed, and I – even with Robins from other universes, we couldn’t – how –”
Alfred hushed her. “My dear, not to sound like a cliche, but we have a different team here. Different people with their own unique skills and experience. Do not despair before we even try.”
Far across the cave, Clark bit down hard on his fist, muffing his curses and sobs. Sinking back onto the solar bed, he pressed the start button. He needed to get recharged now - to stop this psychopath before he killed another Bruce.
His Bruce.
The ship sat silent in the darkness, one streetlamp flicking half a block away to give some clue as to where the main hatchway was. Cyborg and Zee had pointed out the most likely exit the alien overlord would take. “He won’t take a side access point,” she’d said just before they left. “Too small and poorly placed. He’ll lower the loading ramp. It will be backlit from the inside - all grand entrances. He was good at those.”
Clark had nodded. “That’s where we focus, then. And we’ll go in after Diana, Victor and Barry are inside.”
Three bursts of his laser vision on the front hatchway finally got someone's attention. The cumbersome door grated open, screeching, sending several local dogs howling. The light from inside was just as blinding from this real ship as any cliche Spielberg movie. Sometimes, Clark thought, just before the silhouette was clear, everything really was the same, no matter what. Some things never changed. Clark watched, immobile and impassive, as another man wearing his face walked out of the ship.
"You're not dead yet?" The white Superman said softly. He tilted his head, eyes flat. "Or you're just coming back. Which is it?"
Clark ignored the questions. "Release Batman, and you can leave unharmed."
The monochrome Superman huffed a laugh. "Young, aren't you?" His feet left the ground, settling into the air like a lethal hummingbird. "All bravado and righteousness. I'm surprised dying didn't curb some of that."
Clark floated backwards, keeping a safer distance. He needed Kal-El to get a little farther away. "Truth and Justice isn't changed by death-" he began.
Kal-El outright laughed in Clark's face. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy destroying you. Wipe that Kansas idealism back into the earth where it belongs." He launched forward, even as Clark ducked around him. One fist barely connected with Clark's cheek, spinning him away from his target - the open hatchway. Clark shook himself and settled himself back into the air.
He swerved around another blow, slipping into superspeed to make a dash for the ship. Kal-El matched him, another punch launching from the left. Clark smiled, flowing with it. Pa had taught him that - go with the flow of the wind, keep on going. His fist clenched, he swung back, hitting Kal-El in the shoulder.
“You fight like a school yard bully,” Kal-El sneered.
“You’re not much better. Retirement obviously made you a bit slow.” He rocketed up, swinging an arch to the main doors. Kal-El followed, barely catching the younger Kryptonian’s cape. A tug sent them both rattling around the launch bay, crashing through crates and supplies.
Kal-El stood up, panting. “I’ve changed my mind, I’m taking you inside. Something to pass the time while Bruce slowly melts from the inside.” Stalking toward Clark, he growled, “Watch his helplessness because he’s just a weak human.”
Clark bolted down the ship’s main corridor. Dimly, he heard the crackle of the speed force behind them as he flew. He needed to give Barry three trips. Turning just before a bend in the large corridor, he threw another large containment trailer at the overlord.
Kal-El smashed through the crate with little concern for the parts flying everywhere. “I’m getting annoyed at this temper you have. Aren’t you just dying to give me another grand lecture, or the come in peace speech.”
Clark floated higher in the grand rotunda, hearing the second crackling. Cyborg was in position, Diana was in the ship, so that just left Dick and Jason. “Didn’t really have time to prepare,” he said, deadpanned. “It’s been a busy week.”
Kal-El soared up, sneering. His eyes started to glow, red beams charging rapidly. Clark waited, tense - dashed to the left when the beams launched at him. The third level of the balconies exploded in a shower of sparks and hot metal. Clark zoomed around the top level, racing more lasers. Two more crackles and a voice in his earpiece. “We’re ready,” Diana said.
Kal-El’s head tilted to the side. “More of you? Lovely. More bodies to parade in front of him.”
Clark didn’t answer, super speeding back down to the others. In a gust of wind, he passed Diana and Dick. He swung around the landing zone, and picked up Zee. “Let’s go.”
The doors slid apart, helixing into the walls. Wonder Woman stood to one side, sword ready. Nightwing walked forward into the rotunda. Both of them watched the slowly descending alien land softly on the floor, gazing at them with mild amusement.
“Diana,” Kal-El said, head tilted to the side. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Where is Bruce Wayne? What have you done with him?” she asked, moving into the room proper.
“And Dick Grayson, another surprise. I could have sworn you were rotting in the ground in this universe.”
“Where’s Batman?!”
Kal-El ignored them, still smiling like a benevolent god to his parishioners. “He is serving the punishment he deserves. You may leave now.”
Diana raised her blade, Nightwing drew his escrima sticks, charging them up.
Kal-El sighed. “I give you the choice. Every time you fight me.” Without a second’s pause, he launched at Diana. They met in a clash of sparks and metal screeching. He stopped her with ease. Diana tried to use the gauntlets to force a blow, but he ripped one off her arm. His eyes glowed red, melting the straps for the second one. Diana stumbled back, gasping for air.
Nightwing launched forward. Now they had stopped moving at super-speeds around the room, he could aim for the right target. He raised both of his escrima over his head, intent on landing a head shot. Kal-El turned, a snarl twisting his features.
“Argh!!” Dick screamed at the simple backhand that sent him flying. His teeth shook, even as his body hit the ground hard. Even after he’d stopped skidding across the floor, he still couldn’t get up.
Screaming, Diana launched back into the fight. Blows traded back and forth finally saw Kal-El backed into one wall, Diana’s sword at his throat. The psychopath was laughing softly, even as the princess brought a dagger up, laced with kryptonite.
“Where is Bruce?” she demanded again.
Kal-El shook his head, laughter dying into a sigh. “Always a pleasure to fight with you, Diana.” His eyes started to glow red again. “Seriously, though? One tiny blade of kryptonite. This world’s Bruce is nearly not worthy of the Bat symbol if that’s all the kryptonite he has.” One block knocked the sword from her grip, the second drove her into the wall. The wall tiles shattered around her as she slid to the ground.
A green tipped wingding scraped across his face. A long tip strip of red appeared on his cheek, and healed almost instantly.
“One moment,” Kal-El said, turning away from Diana. She was barely moving under the rubble.
Dick raised both weapons. “Where is Bruce?” he demanded again. “Why are you killing them?”
Kal-El shook his head. “He deserves it, that’s why,” he said as if to a child. “He needs to be punished to fit his crimes.” The alien rushed forward, grabbing Dick by the front of his costume. “He earned this,” he said, shaking Dick like a rag doll. “He’ll suffer until I SAY IT’S OVER!” Superspeed slamming the young man into the wall took less than a second of work. Before Dick even registered that they were moving, he head was slammed repeatedly into the floor.
The glow of the Lasso caught Kal-El’s arm as he threw Dick into another wall. Diana, face bloody and chest heaving, pulled back as hard as she could. “You cannot continue murdering innocent men for crimes they did not commit,” she growled. “You have to stop this!”
Kal-El snarled. Giving the lasso one ruthless yank, he propelled her into his reach. “I have to do no such thing. He’s mine, to do with as I please. He doesn’t get to die without MY PERMISSION!” Flying as high as he could in the rotunda, he pulled her close. “You, however, do have it.”
He dove, superspeed making them a blur. The floor shook under Dick and Jason, even knocking Flash to the ground as he blurred in with new batarangs. Diana was two feet deep in the hole, unconscious, as Kal-El floated up again.
The alien was panting, blood trailing from several small batarangs lodged in his muscles. “I’m going to enjoy killing you both again.”
Clark flew into the main chamber, only to be repelled back by the wave of radiation. Everyone had their weapons out, green light casting ugly lights on the walls. Clark nearly crashed into the far wall, but managed to keep his feet. Even as he ran down the hallway, he could hear the battle starting hard behind him.
The corridors were long, with no AI to guide him to wherever Bruce was being held. The further he got from the battle, the more his senses returned. Stopping at a junction, he closed his eyes, listening. There were the shouts, cries, and breaking metal sounds from the battle. He ignored them. They weren't what he was looking for. The ship hummed under his boots, irregular pulses catching his attention. The ship was struggling to maintain power levels -- Tim's hit must have been harder than they originally thought. That still wasn't the sound he was searching for.
He turned on the spot, floating soundlessly in the air.
There was a rustle of cloth, a low voice coughing weakly. A heartbeat that fluttered in uncertainty. Bruce.
Nightwing scrambled down the hallway nearest him as Jason started his attack with the long knives Diana had dropped. He skidded to a halt, looking frantically for the spear.
“I got it!” Flash sparked into focus in front of him. “Spear, and wingdings!”
Nightwing grabbed the spear. “Get those closer to the fight, and get Diana out. She’s down.”
“Got it!” Flash sparked, and was gone. Dick tore back down the hallway, spear ready to be hurled.
Jason was keeping the alien at a distance, several slices open across the S. He wasn’t doing well, blood coating the left side of his body, but he was still moving. He caught a glimpse of Dick coming and shifted the fighting, putting Kal-El’s back to Dick’s hallway.
The spear flew beautifully, Dick thought as it left his hand. Truly, Bruce had outdone himself on his little murder quest. He hoped it was enough. God and all the cereal in the world, let it hit him, he begged silently.
The spear lodged an inch deep into Kal-El’s back. With a roar, the alien stumbled to the ground, lurching away from Jason’s stabbing sword. With one hand, he smacked Jason’s whole body away from the fight. The younger man skidded down the hall until he lost momentum halfway to the next turn.
Kal-El turned toward Nightwing. He reached back, hand grasping at the spear. “You are an insolent, ingratiating circus welp that should have been killed at the circus that night.” With a growled yell, he yanked the spear out and threw it down the hallway away from Jason. “Bruce should never have wasted his time with vermin like you.”
“Sticks and stones, man,” Dick taunted back, wingdings at the ready. “Betcha Kryptonite stings worse.”
Keeping to the air was still faster, this deep. He flew down, turning as the corridors dipped. Finally, huge doors blocked his way. Flowing script adored the flat metal. Clark completely ignored them, and pushed.
They swung open, silent and smooth. Not even locked, Clark thought. How is he keeping Batman contained? Unlocked doors, unguarded rooms, there should have been a trap or something. Running past several darkened display cases, he turned into the center ring. There, surrounded by more of the cases, a raised dais held someone.
"Bruce," he whispered, recognizing the finely built weapon of a body under soft grey scrubs.
Zee strode past him into the room, crowbar in hand. “Get him to safety,” she ordered, barely looking at the wounded man. “The battle could come through here if Jason doesn’t drive him back.”
Zee began smashing cases, the shattering glass mixed with a high pitch whine. Clark looked up to see her tossing a small disc onto one mannequin, for it to stick the breastplate, whine, and implode. The entire armour was simply gone in a moment.
Clark stopped, watching as she reached out a hand to the last set of armour. “Papa,” she whispered as she pressed her palm to the Bat symbol, and the armour moved. It shivered, and shifted, and suddenly was climbing over her arm. Fractal patterns climbed up her arm, cascading over her clothes and down her legs. In less than a minute, the case was empty, and she was completely covered in black armour.
“Get him to safety,” she repeated, voice rough with the modulator. The bat cape was still cascading to the floor, assembling itself, as she marched out the room.
Clark nodded, and turned back to the man on the dias. The figure barely stirred. Clark moved closer, slowly looking over the prone man.
There were no ropes, no chains, No bombs attached to trembling flesh. He lay atop the dais, eyes closed, with nothing stopping him from leaving.
Clark scanned him quickly. There were several livid red and brown burns on his hands and arms, with blackened sections emerging. Bruce’s breathing was laboured, with a watery wheeze that spoke of liquid in the man’s lungs. Clark looked again, looking for signs of poison or drugs in his body. That’s when he saw it. When he understood what it took to keep the Batman in one place, unable to escape.
There was so much wrong. Heavy damage to the DNA strands of nearly every cell of his arms and chest. Massive amounts of cellular degeneration were offset by mutated cells trying to replicate with horrible deformations. Internal bleeding, failing kidneys. Intestinal paralysis had shut everything down. All of it covered in an energy source the human body wasn’t meant to contain.
Radiation damage.
“Bruce,” he gasped, trying not to cry. “Oh, Rao, what happened?” He brushed one hand over the pale face, intent on pushing the strands off his face. The gentle motion wasn’t gentle enough – a whole section of hair slipped through Clark’s fingers and fell softly to the floor.
Clark choked, tears springing into his eyes. The amount of radiation to do this to him – he’d only been gone 5 days. This – this was something Bruce couldn’t –
Bruce’s eyes opened slowly. He stared at Clark, mouth opening slightly. Nothing came out, barely a breath of air against Clark’s cheek.
“I’m getting you out of here,” Clark choked. “It’s - it’s,” he tried to say, it’s going to be fine. But he couldn’t lie to Bruce. He just couldn’t get the words out. It was probably a miracle that Bruce was even conscious at this point.The amount of pain he was in was lighting up the neurons in his brain like a firework display.
Bruce stopped trying to speak. Instead, the barest smile slipped onto his face. He kept staring at Clark, as if trying to memorize his face.
“I’m going to get you home,” Clark vowed, lips trembling. “I promise, Bruce.”
Bruce gave the slightest nod, eyes sliding closed. It was almost as clear as words. “I know you will.” Clark could only choke back another sob or a yell or a scream at the heavens. Why, why did he have to get taken now? Now, when Clark had finally learned just who Bruce was. Why did he have to say hello and goodbye all at the same time?
No. Clark refused to finish that thought. He couldn’t finish that thought. They’d all fought so damn hard to get to him, to find him. It wasn’t right that they just got there in time to say goodbye.They would find some way to fix this.
Clark pulled his cape off, and wrapped Bruce in it.
Shaking his head, Jason swore. He’d been tossed at least forty feet away from the fight. He pulled himself to his feet, leaning for the barest moment on the wall beside him.
“You need any help there, or are you good?" Flash called out. He was pulling Diana back to her feet, letting her lean on him to get walking again.
A crackling came over their earpieces. “The ship is down, I’ve turned the engines and power off, back up lights are working.” Cyborg’s voice sounded grimly pleased.
Jason shook his head, reloading his guns with quick, practiced moves. “Get her out of here,” he growled. “We’ll finish it.”
Heavy running sounded above them on the walkway. Kal snarled, staring up at the suited Bat holding the spear once more - and then bellowed, “Martha!”
Zee stood at the edge of the platform landing, armour tesseracting around her body. The Bat symbol was clear on her chest. She hefted the spear.
“YOU WERE MY LAST PIECE OF HIM!” he hollowed, eyes lit crimson.
“I was never yours, Kal-El,” she answered calmly.
“THE DAMN MISSION - IT TOOK YOU AWAY, TURNED YOU AGAINST --”
“He was never yours,” she spoke over him, even with her softer voice. He was panting, fury nearly visible on his breaths. “You were only his jailor, never his.”
Tearing down the hallway, Jason ignored the words being hurled. He could unpack later -- after the bastard was dead. Jason pulled the kryptonite knuckles out of his side pocket, shifting them tight into his fist. He was going to get in there and do some serious damage. The second and third batarangs had slid out of the wounds on his back, smearing blood all down the white cape. Chest heaving, sweat actually covering his face, Kal-El looked deranged.
Jason put all of his rage and anger and hurt, yelled them into the air and poured them into his arm, and punched Kal-El right in the jaw.
The psychopath lurched under the assault, barely keeping his feet. Snarling, he swung at Jason, barely even reaching the helmeted man. Jason kept his momentum up, and swung around. Another punch landed on the other side of Kal-El’s face, nearly knocking him right off his feet.
“Still” – gasp – “following the Bats rules, huh, boy?” he sneered, stumbling backwards. “Not going to do it right – not going for the big scary guns?”
Jason ignored him, panting for air. Yanking the helmet off, he tossed it towards one of the bodies on the floor. “You are one pompous, arrogant asshole who never knows when to shut the fuck up.”
Kal-El snarled, and rushed forward again, swinging out with his wounded arm.
Jason dodged, easily. The alien obviously didn’t remember how to fight injured; he was swinging with fists clenched with his wounded side. There would be no power to those punches. The next wounded punch, Jason didn’t dodge. He stepped into it, forward, right into the alien’s inner circle. The taller being snarled, and tried to bring his fist in quickly enough to block Jason.
Jason’s uppercut was faster. Landing right into the arrogant jaw, Jason could hear the sweet sound of teeth slamming together. Even as Kal-El’s head snapped back, Jason swung again, an overhand punch driving him to the ground.
Gasping, Kal-El hit the floor hard. Hard enough that Jason could feel the grating under his feet shake. The bellow of pain was intense; he’d landed right onto yet another batarang that Dick had lodged in his back while Jason was busy. Twisting, trying to get up with weakening limbs, Kal-El could do nothing but snarl wordless sounds.
“I don’t follow rules that don’t work,” Jason said, pulling his .45 out of its holster. “I’m here to get the job done, asshole.” He aimed, quick and precise, and let one k-bullet loose on the alien.
Kal-El dropped to the floor, eyes wide, as blood poured from his head wound.
Kal-El’s body jerked as three more shots embedded themselves in his chest, heart and lungs.
In the sudden silence, the bullet casing pinged off the floor like church bells at dawn, sharp and clear.
The cave was quiet. Dick and Jason were sprawled out on the benches, barely talking. Jason hadn’t even bothered to take any of his armour off before collapsing down. Diana, standing a few feet away, was leaning over the table, eyes barely focused on the schematics of the ship they’d just fought in.
Zee was back in normal clothes again, after figuring out that the armour disengaged the same way that Superman’s did. Barry had watched with wide eyes while it disappeared.
“That was amazing, and so, like, minimalist. Imagine a whole wardrobe of superhero uniforms, and you could hide them in, like, a purse or a fanny pack, that would be so cool.” He was trying. Too hard, maybe. But he was trying to keep some joy at the end of the mission.
She’d half smiled, turning the disc over in her hand. “I wonder what happens to anything in your pockets?” Bruce always loved his pockets and pouches. This Bruce was no different, having more than the standard amount of hiding places on his person. She had no doubt he would have had a difficult time emptying everything.
Had.
Everyone knew it was past, now, the days of Batman. They’d all seen him, cradled in Clark’s arms. If just his face and the fact that Bruce was needed to be carried out hadn't confirmed everyone’s fears, then Cyborg’s reading would have. Cyborg had explained, in a flat monotone voice, what that had meant. Someone who had a CT scan got 10 mSv worth of radiation. Workers evacuated from Chernobyl had started with those exposed to 350 mSv. Fukushima had seen 400 mSv per hour when the blast went off. A dose of 4000 was fatal in more than half the cases.
Bruce’s level was close to 8000 mSv.
They had brought him home to die. And there was nothing anyone could do.
Bruce felt a cold rush up his arm, startling him out of vaguely pleasant dreams of flying and seeing the stars rush by. Turning his head this time took only half a herculean effort. Opening his eyes nearly took the rest.
Alfred was sitting beside him, a syringe steadily pushing into the IV line in his hand. Bruce could feel the press of liquid into the veins, and another shiver shook his palm.
“Hush,” Alfred murmured, thumb rubbing circles. “No fussing, Bruce. None of that, now.” He pulled the syringe out, and capped the line off. Alfred held onto the hand, both thumbs rubbing gentle circles. “You’re going to bruise horribly this time, I’m afraid. Your veins are getting as hard to find as sunlight in Gotham.” The old man sighed, eyes closing. He was tired.
Bruce could only stare at Alfred’s face. He could see the lines of worry, the disordered hairs and barely there shadow of a beard. Alfred only let himself get this … this dishevelled when Bruce was seriously injured. When leaving his bedside was dangerous, Alfred simply wouldn’t. He’d stay, days on end, and keep death away simply by sitting there.
But it didn’t matter. Bruce was dying. He couldn’t feel parts of his body. The pounding in his skull was a faster pace than his heartbeat. And even though he knew there were injuries, knew his shoulders should still be screaming at him, he was the most comfortable he’d been in years.
He was home. Alfred was safe. He wasn’t alone. Diana would make sure Alfred would be alright, or maybe Clark would check with him. He could rest now. The world was in much better, more capable hands now.
Bruce could let go.
His eyes closed in a sigh as the dreams welcomed him.
“What can I do?” Clark asked, floating up beside Cyborg in the guts of the Kryptonian ship.
Cyborg paused in his work, head tilting. He did that when he was accessing information , Clark realized. Like reading a manual while you work. Or listening to instructions. Maybe the ship was talking to him, Clark thought. Or maybe all young people did that to annoy their elders, like they could hear something that the other couldn’t. Jason did the same thing, even Dick had.
He'd talked to Dick and Jason. The idea that there were other universes had caught his imagination. Anything could be out there - any version of him, doing a hundred different things. Some universes where there was hardly a difference, or something inconsequential, like how he took his coffee; some nothing looked familiar. Jason had griped about a Clark that wasn't Kryptonian, he'd been a sentient octopus-like creature.
There were other Bruces.
And that had hit him hard in the gut. Other Bruces, doing exactly the same thing - fighting an unending battle. But in every story Dick had told him, in every universe, Bruce and Clark were -- Clark swallowed his sorrow. They were friends. Companions, brothers in arms against injustice and defenders of those who needed them. They were the people you called to save the world, or to save a child from the monsters under the bed. There had been two universes where Dick had seen his mentor and father figure being just an ordinary man. His parents had stood beside him, proud of the young man they'd raised. Bruce had been in medical school in one of them, and dating a young human Clark Kent from IT. Another universe had Bruce alone, old and tired, passing the company off to a new generation of CEOs, no heirs, no family, no one to comfort him when he got home.
In some universes, they'd been lovers, couples, soulmates.
Clark could not describe the shear wave of emotion that had crashed over him. And jealousy. He'd been taught better, never really understood jealousy in its full green glory, but now. Now he felt it in every bone. Why did they have something that he couldn't have? Why did they get to stand beside this brave man, and he had to watch him die?
Bruce was slipping away from him, like sand in his fingers. He tried to cup it with the other hand, grabbing a cup to catch all the pieces. Bruce's time was running out, caught in the winds on the beach before a storm. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. He'd only just found out who Bruce was. He'd only, in the last three days, realized the depth of the man's caring, attachment, and dedication to doing the right thing for his city. He'd had his entire viewpoint on Bruce Wayne, philanthropist vigilante, turned on its head and smashed out the window.
And now he was leaving. Dying. And it hurt .
It hurt more than when he'd realized that Lois had moved on with her life. He'd been dead for over two years. She'd mourned and grown past their relationship. And that hurt less than the thought of Bruce dying. And wasn't that strange. It hurt him deeply, where he'd stored moments away like when he'd realized he'd never be normal. He would never have a simple life as a farmer's son. When Lana had left, even knowing about everything, that had destroyed a part of his soul. The part where he wanted to be with someone who knew, who he didn't have to keep secrets from.... who wouldn't be upset that he missed dinner because of a hurricane. He needed the person he lo-
Oh.
Shit.
Clark stood completely still, frozen in the nanosecond as the thought bounced along his synapses. Loved. Someone who understood. Someone who would never question whether he needed to go help. Who might not be able to go, but would do anything to help others in need. That's what he needed, wanted, begged with all his heart to have.
Someone like Bruce. Because that was exactly how Bruce would be with him. And now he was going somewhere that he couldn’t follow him.
And damn it, but Clark was not going to sit back and watch Bruce walk that road.
“Charging,” Cyborg suddenly interrupted, coming up from whatever eConversation he was having. “She’s not charged enough to start up the systems.”
Clark looked around at the darkened room and the tiny hum of standby machines the universe over. “How do we do that?”
Cyborg shrugged. "I'm not certain, but if Barry managed it once, we might be able to use the Speed Force's electrical field to charge these batteries."
Clark nodded. "We need to try."
Cyborg's eye flickers red, back to human, staring at Clark. "You know, this might be too much on him."
Clark's jaw clenched, staring at the grey Kryptonian technology.
"Just saying, man, you might want to consider that. He's -"
"--Old, I know."
Cyborg snorted. His mechanical arm was buried deep into the guts of the machine. "No, he's human. He's stubborn enough to not let age be a factor." Something sparked down the corridor. Cyborg grimaced and continued. "He's human, and his body may not survive this."
"We need to try," Clark reiterated. "Like he did for me."
Victor watched him for a moment. "If it doesn't work, what then?"
Clark couldn't envision that scenario. It would work. It had to. Bruce would be, maybe not ok, but he'd be better. He would be Batman, and they'd finally get the chance to work together. And not just for 15 minutes.
Alfred slowly approached the young man who wasn’t not Master Dick. Older, a bit quieter, but there was still so much of the young boy who’d brought short-lived joy to the Manor. Tonight, he needed to beg a favour. It was a favour he would never, in normal circumstances, have even dared to think.
Bruce was fading.
He was fading faster than they had expected. The blood transfusions they had started last night weren’t helping anymore, and immersive oxygen therapy wasn’t helping. The dosages of pain medications were as high as possible without sending his lungs into abrupt failure.
Dick looked up from the coffee mug he was staring into at Alfred’s quiet cough. “How’s Bruce doing?” he asked.
Alfred swallowed hard. “He’s --” Alfred had to stop, smothering his emotions before continuing. “He’s fading quickly. I’m afraid it -- our treatments are no longer --”
Dick slipped around the table, and pulled Alfred into an embrace. “What can I do?” he whispered as older hands gripped his coat.
Alfred pulled back, tugging his waistcoat back into place. “He’s asking for Master Richard. He’s slipped back into his memories, and I don’t think I can bring him back to the present. Or that it would be kind to do so.”
Dick nodded. “Probably not. Do you think - would he realize that I’m not the same? I’m a lot older now.”
“His vision is so poor, my boy, I doubt he’d notice if you were green with extra limbs. Your voice would give him a great deal of peace.”
Dick huffed a laugh, to cover a choked sob. “Let’s go,” he said.
The very air felt stale, despite the high levels of oxygen in the room. Bruce was halfway sitting up, a CVC line snaking inside his shirt to deliver more blood to his fading system. Dick could see it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing on this Earth would save him at this point. He sniffed, swallowing the lump in his throat. This was part of the job, he thought to himself. Sometimes saving someone just meant being there for them, at the end.
“Hey, B,” he said softly, coming to a stop at the end of the bed. “How are you doing?”
Bruce’s eyes were glazed, bloodshot and constricted. “Di-,” he wheezed. Dick sat down beside him quickly and reached one hand out to him. “Wha--”
Dick shushed him. “Hey, hey, no talking. You - you got pretty banged up.” He smiled, lips quivering. Somehow, he kept his voice steady. “You breathed in a lot of smoke,” he lied.
“o-a?”
“I’m fine, B. Just a few scratches. Alfred already said I have to go to class tomorrow.” Dick smiled widely, knowing Bruce could barely see him. There had been a mission when Dick was about 12. Maybe it would be similar enough…. “We got everybody out, but the basement collapsed. Alfie talked us through the sewers.
“He’s worried about you. You gotta stay in bed today, B. Just let Alfie fret over you. It’s not everyday the whole building falls on a guy.”
His hand was wet, where it held Bruce’s in a featherlight grip. Tears, he realized. His tears were falling silently.
Bruce struggled to say something else. Dick had no idea what it was, but it ended with Bruce’s head rocking back and forth.
“B, Bruce, stop that. You’re fine.” Dick reached out and laid a hand on Bruce’s cheek. Maybe he was disoriented again. “Alfred’s got you on some pretty strong stuff. You’ll be ok.”
“sss...sss-ssor --”
Dick shushed him again. “No sorries, we’re good. Bruce, it’s okay, everything will be ok. You just - just gotta rest a while. Do what Alfred tells you.” He could barely see Bruce’s face through the tears still draining steadily from his eyes.
Another series of rattling sounds escaped from Bruce’s mouth. His eyes were slipping closed, brow furrowed. He tried to rally against his body. Moaning, he forced bloodshot eyes open again. “... uv ooh… sn…” He tried again. “uv you, sn….” He coughed wetly, eyes closing,
Dick swallowed a sob. “Love you, too, B. Always will.” He waited, watching as Bruce sank back into unconsciousness.
Alfred stepped up behind the young man who wasn’t not his grandson. He pulled him into a crushing embrace, letting his waistcoat muffle the sounds of his sobbing.
The group was small and quiet. They may have brought down a mad man, and saved countless more lives, but the loss was heavy in the silences. Zee was already packed, suit shifting over her chest and arms. The orb was caught in a sunbeam from overhead, charging. Dick had quietly packed up various weapons and supplies. Several of the new batarangs slipped into the kit as well.
“You won’t stay?” Diana asked.
“We can’t, Diana,” Zee said simply. “We have to go now.”
“We only have 8 days, on the outside, in each universe,” Nightwing explained, settling his bag onto his back. “The jumps get lethal if we push it too far.”
She frowned. “Have there been others with you?”
Nightwing nodded, face drawn. “Yeah. We lost two members just getting here. And I know I’m not the first Dick Grayson she’s worked with. Several Tims, at least two other Batgirls. It’s – it’s been rough. You never know until the jump is over if everyone made it.”
Jason, leaning against the table, agreed. “Sometimes they just don’t show up. Sometimes they are already dead.”
Nightwing’s eyes closed behind the domino. “And sometimes it’s worse. So, yeah,” he said, shaking himself a little. “Yeah, we’re heading out. We’re going to try and get back to our own universes. There’s a little demon who needs a new Batman to show him the ropes where I’m from.”
Zee joined them, orb glowing in her hands. “I’m hoping to be able to jump close to when they each left. But I have to retrace every universe that we've been in t get there.” The armour glinted in the lowlights of the cave. Even now, it still shifted to cover as much as possible, crawling over her fingertips to hug the orb.
Barry gave them each one more hug. “Wish you could stay, but –“
“But,” agreed Dick, smiling. “See ya around, Barry.”
The orb was spinning. Dick held onto her shoulder. “Jason?” he called.
Jason pushed off the table. “I’m staying.”
Everyone but Zee turned to look at him. “This world needs a Batman in the League. And the Old Man won’t be flying anymore. I figured, I’m dead already here, can’t screw anything up. Why not stay?” He shrugged, meeting Zee’s knowing gaze. “Not like I’ve got a place to go home to.”
Dick opened his mouth, closed it. He nodded. “Alright, little wing. You look after him.”
Zee nodded. She did indeed know what had happened in Jason’s universe. That he wasn’t going to go back - that wasn’t surprising in the least. “Good Hunting, Jay-bird,” Zee whispered, as the lights swirled. They were gone.
The sound of shattering glass brought Clark to the kitchen area. The room was dark, but the light from the monitors in the cave lit up a figure standing beside the glass divider. They shook a hand free of a towel and ignored the shattered divider. Another few steps forward revealed grey hair and spectacles.
“Alfred?" Clark called softly.
Alfred straightened, pulling his hands behind him. He turned, face shuttered. "Master Kent," he said stiffly.
Clark motioned to his clenched fists. "Any blood Bruce shouldn't see?"
Alfred pulled the offending hands back around. "Quite the observant young man, aren't you," he said dryly. "I dare say that must be useful in your line of work."
Clark shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Alfred...?" He trailed off. The older gentleman was quickly setting up a fresh pot of coffee and getting a bowl of ice chips from the freezer. "How is Bruce?"
Alfred didn't turn to face Clark. "Resting."
Clark sighed softly. "Please, Alfred, tell me."
Alfred stopped abruptly, holding onto the counter with whitened knuckles. "Master Bruce's condition is not your concern. Sir."
"How much longer can he last, Alfred?"
Alfred straightened his shoulders, pulling himself away from the counter. Turning around, he wasn't the kind older man who fed Barry trays of treats. The steel in the grey eyes challenged the alien. Clark knew, with certainty born from years working stories and interviews, that this was a face that men had seen before dying. He was a soldier. An old soldier whose last mission was failing right before his eyes. It was losing to an enemy that he couldn't see, or fight, or defeat.
"He will survive for however long his body can manage."
"Days?" At the lack of response, he tried again. "Hours?" involuntary pupil dilation - confirmation. "He's not going to wake up again, is he?"
Alfred remained silent, shuttered. But there were tells he couldn't hide from an alien who saw in more visual fields than humanly possible.
Clark nodded, looking away. "Victor and I have been working -"
"No."
"Alfred, it might be the only chance."
Alfred spoke over him, voice firm. "You are not going to gamble with his life. He's suffered enough at the hands of enemies and allies alike." Picking up the bowl of ice chips, he marched back toward the medical area of the cave. Clark fell in beside him, cape trailing whispers across the floor.
Clark frowned. "Even if it saves his life?"
"Are you certain it will? Or is this the last efforts of a desperate man trying to make amends for another's crime?"
The words were true. And False. Clark could barely tell where the line was anymore. If this was just another mission, just another set of wounds, would he be fighting this hard to save Bruce? Clark wanted to think he would be, but Ma didn't raise a liar. The fact that it had been his face on that monster, another universe that had proved Bruce right, was weighing heavily on him. Another Kal-El had done this, not only to this Bruce, but to dozens of others. They were the same, at the very core. He felt, maybe not responsible, but almost complicit in these crimes.
"We think that there is a chance that this will undo the damage from the radiation. It might not be a complete job, but isn't it worth the chance?"
Alfred scoffed. "Quantity over quality, Mister Kent? You would have found that argument does not hold any sway with Master Bruce."
Clark snorted. "But healing the damage from this mission, we think it will work long enough to do that. Victor calculated the energy needed, we should have --"
"And if you are wrong?" The elderly man lowered the bowl of ice beside Bruce's bedside. He turned to face Clark, body the last shield between the alien and the dying man. "If this doesn't work, if you create another abomination of rage and destruction, what then? If he's conscious enough to know what he's doing, but can't control himself, will you take that burden from his soul?" Alfred stepped closer. "Bruce has destroyed much by trying to save it. Would you undo all he has accomplished with insanity and bloodshed?"
Clark's eyes closed against the flash of the ravaged face of Doomsday. "He won't. If he's - if he changes, I'll take the responsibility."
Alfred did not move. "Even if it means killing him?"
"Even if it means killing him." Clark opened his eyes. "But I have to give him the chance, just like he did for me. Please, Alfred. He's earned a miracle for himself. Let me try to give it to him."
Alfred stood unmoving, staring at the alien in front of him. Behind him, his charge slept on, ashen face barely visible against the sheets. The machines keeping him alive were counting down the minutes with their read-outs. He doubted that Bruce's spirit would see sunrise. His body was decaying while his soul still resided in it. A more horrible death Alfred couldn't imagine. He turned, leaning heavily on the bed railing. Even raised voices hadn't stirred the dying man. "He has at that," Alfred murmured, breathing deeply. "We should work quickly," he finished, reaching for the IVs.
Clark nodded, and stepped around to the other side. Between them, IVs, heart monitors, and other medical equipment was removed from the prone figure.
Superman's cape was free of his shoulders, and he was leaning over the bed when Alfred spoke. "I argued against reviving Superman. I asked Master Bruce whether being reborn was what Clark Kent needed, that perhaps he was already at peace."
Clark looked from the ashen face on the pillow to the elderly man. "And what did he have to say?"
Alfred stared at him, hard eyes glinting. "'The world needs Superman. And the team needs Clark.' He didn't feel that he could lead this team of people. He felt that you, who has always hidden your alien part of yourself behind guileless smiles, was more human than he was."
Clark nodded faintly. With a burst of speed, Bruce was wrapped tight, and cradled in Clark's arms. "He's wrong, you know," Clark said, floating softly. "He's so human, he overflows with it. The team might need Superman, but the team and Superman needs Bruce."
Alfred scoffed softly. "Not Batman?"
Clark smiled sadly. "Him, too. Even if he doesn't know how to play well with others."
Alfred huffed a small laugh. "Too true," he agreed. "That is hardly one of Master Bruce's stronger skill sets."
The transport carrier's engines were whining when the hatches closed. Cyborg was at the controls, coaxing another flight out of the engine. Clark could hear him murmuring things like, “It’ll be repaired soon, I promise,” under his breath.
Clark, already settled against one bulkhead, nodded to Barry. "Let's go."
Barry bolted up to the front, leaving Diana with the other men. "Alfred," she began, laying a hand on the elder man's shoulder. "You don't need to accompany us. I'm sure that Bruce would prefer you to not endanger yourself needlessly."
"Miss Prince," Alfred said, slipping into the crash seat next to Clark. "These hands were the second pair to hold that young life, to comfort when his father needed to see to his wife's labor. I have stood by that boy for nearly half a century, and I feel it every night when the comm goes quiet. Every night is the same dread, racing to that alley to see a scared child amid the shattered remnants of his childhood.
“I have long come to terms with knowing that I will be called to the city morgue to identify his body, that his last breaths will be alone. But if there is any way that I can ease those breaths, Miss Prince, then I will take every step needed to do so. Even at the risk of the mission. Or myself."
There were more exposed wires on the floor than before. Some had been strung, Christmas light style down the corridor. Others snaked under floor panels and into the walls. No matter where you looked, the ship was exposed, torn apart and cobbled together again.
Clark floated over all of it, cradling the still form in his arms. He stared straight ahead, even as the great doors groaned open before them. Barry stood to one side, sparks cascading down his legs. "He's - is Bruce still --?" Barry asked, nervous.
"Breathing," Clark finished. "We need to hurry, though."
Barry gave a short nod and bolted off again. Cyborg was standing behind the podium, hand engaged with the main control panel. He was talking to Barry, giving energy readouts. Diana stood beside him, hand on her lasso. Her frown spoke volumes.
Clark ignored it.
From his peripheral, he noted that Alfred was carefully away from everyone, pressed back against the wall. The older gentleman was also the closest to the pit, with a large ledge right in front of him. He shifted, and Clark's vision caught the barest glimpse of a black grip, matte against the holster. Alfred's eyes caught his. They were guarded, shuttered against hope. His hope had died years ago, after being called out to the alley in the dark years ago. He'd buried it deep after another night in the same cursed alley had brought ruin. Now, they bore witness, and the grim determination to keep going through the hellish night.
Clark desperately hoped he could bring some light back to him.
"We're as charged as we're going to get, Superman," Cyborg said into the hush. Barry popped into sight beside him, panting and leaning on the console.
Clark swallowed. "Start it up."
The gentle hum of machinery revved into a dull grinding sound. Three of the guardian AI bots hung in the air, turning to Clark. Static sounds fell from one of them even as it dipped closer. Clark hugged Bruce a little closer. "I'll hold onto him," Clark said to the bot, feeling both possessive and silly. It's not like the AI spoke English.
"Welcome, Kal, House of ###" the AI's voice grated out the last word. It sounded like an old cassette being eaten by a tape deck. "Proceed ### selection #### procedure."
Clark looked over his shoulder at Cyborg. "Care to translate that?"
"You're clear."
Clark took one last deep breath and shifted the load in his arms. The black cape fell back from Bruce's face. Clark wanted to say something, do something, to tell Bruce what would happen, how sorry he was for this whole nightmare. But words were not going to help. And it wasn't his place to apologize. And Bruce would not be able to hear him, most likely. "Hold on," he whispered anyway, stepping into the warm liquid.
The golden waters rose around his legs, slipping around the alien material of his suit. Slowly, Clark sank downwards, his knees lightly touching the grating under him. With so little of the genesis liquid left, and Bruce still needing to breathe, he couldn't submerge Bruce as they had done to him. All he could do was slowly sink Bruce's body into the fluid, unwrapping his cape as the liquid buoyed the slack body.
How had Bruce felt, standing on the side of this pool not even a week ago? Had he been scared that it wouldn’t work, that everything was for naught? Did he feel this gut wrenching desperation? He wasn’t a religious man, Clark knew from his study of the billionaire what felt like eons ago. But did he think of a prayer, just in case?
Did he feel like if this didn’t work, his heart would never be whole again?
Clark pushed the last of his cape from underneath Bruce's shoulders and held the man's head steady. "We're ready."
Cyborg twisted his hand in the control panel. "Barry, one more shock, main conductor. In three."
"Three," Barry's voice squeaked from the tiny headset.
"Two."
"Two."
With another twist, something descended from the ceiling. The panels unfurled to reveal a crystal structure, as Cyborg reached one. The lightning from the speedster cracked around the crystal, blue arches catching the tip of the lowest point. Clark's gasp was overridden by the singing screech of the main conductor powering up. The lightning, crackling and jumping free from the crystal, finally collapsed into one beam that struck the center of the liquid pool.
Clark felt the jolt of power. It left his feet tingling and feeling raw, like after working the fields with Pa when he was a boy. When he could still get blisters from shoes he didn't tell his Ma were just a bit too small now. That same burn travelled up his legs, ricocheted around his lungs and heart. He gritted his teeth, and focused on his hands, keeping them loose around the precious burden they carried.
For the first moment, Bruce didn’t move. His breath was caught, his body still lax, floating in Clark’s grip.
“Please,” Clark whispered to the air. “Just one. Save one.”
Bruce’s face frowned slightly. It was all the warning that Clark was given before the man started to writhe. Breathes turning to gasps, choking for air, the human was shaking. His back arched as a guttural scream punched out of him. Clark threw his arms around his chest, trying to hold him still.
Diana took a step forward. Cyborg barked, “Stay out, it’s charging again.”
Another arch of light was gathering at the top of the apparatus above them. Smaller, with a faint blue glow, the lightning arched around the conductor point. With another screech of metal it lit up the fluid once again.
The sob that tore out of Bruce’s mouth was covered in blood. Clark tipped him forward, letting the blood run into the frothing liquid. “Bruce, please, just breathe. Just breathe,” he babbled. Bruce was shaking, the current passing faster this time through his body. Even breath was exhaled on a moan of pain.
The screeching sound of machinery overused suddenly stopped. The lights that were coming from the panels under the liquid faded slowly, as did the robotic assistants. Cyborg said, “We’ve lost power, hold on.”
The waters settled slowly, soon only ripples from where Bruce still shook with after-tremours. Clark still held him, still keeping the injured man’s face above the liquid. Bruce was still unconscious, still whimpering with pain every breath out. But he - did he look better? Clark pulled one hand away from Bruce’s head, and lifted one hand out of the liquid. Were those burns smaller?
By Rao and everything else, he hoped so.
“The ship’s not responding. Barry, do you have another charge ready?” While Cyborg was speaking, reading off energy outputs, discussing with Barry another recharging, Clark held Bruce’s slowly stilling body.
It had taken nearly all the systems being overridden, safeties removed repeatedly. It had been all they could get from here. The ship was gone.
Clark lifted the unconscious figure out of the still liquid. Cradling him against his chest, he slowly waded back to the edge of the regeneration pool.The question was whether it had been enough.
Alfred stood at the edge, laying the cloak out on a protruding section of the decking. His face was nearly as white as Bruce’s, eyes only for his charge. “Put him here,” he said softly, shrugging off his coat to roll into a pillow. “Gently.”
Once lowered to the makeshift cot, Bruce started to shiver. Alfred quickly wrapped the edges of the cape around him, hushing softly. He looked up at Clark. “Can you...?” he trailed off.
Clark nodded, and shifted his vision.
The change was overwhelming.
Massive amounts of cellular regeneration had occurred, in nearly every part of Bruce’s body. His lungs looked clearer, with some minor damage that could, possibly, continue healing. The burns on his arms were no more than a bad sunburn, skin cells already replicating correctly. The long nerves in the arms were repaired. They were overloaded with pain signals, but Bruce would be able to use his hands in a few days or weeks, probably.
Scanning his lower torso, Clark wasn’t sure about the intestines. They looked – raw. Healing, but still as if they were burned and wounded. Most of his internal organs looked bruised, battered, but intacted. The microflora seemed missing, as well. Clark couldn’t tell, he wasn’t sure, he was rushing. Taking a fortifying breath, he swept his scan back up to Bruce’s head, to the most important part – his brain.
The prefrontal cortex was still repairing itself. Clark could see cellular regeneration blooming over the whole area. The entire left section had been nearly deadened just before they’d started, and now whole sections were lit up to Clark’s eyes, neurotransmitters firing in fireworks displays of activity. The damage to the hippocampus was erased - complete and utter reversal of the huge areas of dark space. Fluid was no longer pushing against the memory-storing center of the brain. When he woke up - when, Clark repeated to himself - he’d be able to remember, to return to the present.
He could still see the biochip deep in Bruce’s brain tissue, microscopic tendrils branching over most of the frontal cortex. Zee had been right – there would be no extracting that without seriously destroying what made Bruce himself. All Clark could hope for was that they never ran into another species that knew how to use such devices.
“I’m not sure,” Clark choked out. “It’s - there’s - I think enough is reversed. I don’t know, his body is in so much pain, the signals are overwhelming.”
Cyborg stepped closer, red eye sensor running over the unconscious man’s body. “The geiger readouts are promising. He’s down to 3 Gy.”
Clark looked up. “What are his chances?”
“60-85 percent recovery rate. He’s going to be in a ton of pain, though.”
Alfred swallowed, and gave one perfunctory nod. “Then we need to get him home, warmed up, with proper medical assistance.” He stroked the greying hair back from Bruce’s face. None of it fell out this time. “Hold on, Bruce,” Clark heard him whisper. “Please, just a little longer, my boy.”
The medical bed in the cave looked like nothing else than a bed from a science fiction movie. The amount of experimental technologies that were expertly woven together was astonishing. Touch screens, wireless scanning, it all worked together only because of the brilliant minds that had declared it would.
Clark slowly stepped into the room, closing the sliding doors gently. Alfred sat on the edge of the bed, taking various readings the old fashioned way. He was talking softly, hands gentle. He was nearly always touching the man with one hand or another. Constant contact, Clark realized.
Bruce was so small without the cowl or the armour, Clark realized suddenly. So small, and frail and utterly human. How did he manage such a feat as to turn himself into a figure that transcended humanity? How did he make himself more than a man?
He shook his head. He’d read too many of his Ma’s favourite Harlequins. Words like that were always said by the damsel, thinking about her suitor midway through the book. The point where she decides he’s not the rogue the court all said … he was…
He smiled and huffed a laugh. Just like him.
Planning a sick bed for a dead alien, getting the plans ready for trying to resurrect someone. That’s not something you decide on a whim. And it wasn’t something you kept ready in your main command room. You made it, and stored it away. He was sure that Bruce had other sections of the cave devoted to prototypes and failed equipment. At the very least, you don’t leave it plugged in. It was fully charged when they got back to the cave.
Could Bruce feel something other than guilt towards Clark? Maybe camaraderie? Maybe friendship? Or maybe, Clark thought, stepping deeper into the room, he’d go right to obsessively loving the man he tried to kill.
That seemed like more Bruce’s style, to be honest.
“Alfred, let me sit with him for a while. You’ve been on your feet for over a day.”
Clark was surprised when Alfred nodded immediately. “Yes, I should. Summon me should you need anything, Master Clark.” He stood slowly, a few joints cracking. “I won’t be more than a few hours.”
He must be exhausted, Clark realized. Emotional rollercoaster rides worn even superpowered aliens out. He can’t imagine the mental exhaustion the older gentleman must be experiencing.
“Go on, grab some sleep. I’ll call if anything changes.”
Alfred tucked the small trolley of medical instruments to the side. With one last soft grip of his hands, he let go of Bruce and silently went upstairs. Clark listened, tracking him going up into the kitchen area, and finally into a small guest room under the main building. He refocused on the still man under the sheets. He sighed softly, letting stress and tension flow away. Bruce needed a calm presence beside him, not something high strung and tense as a grappling line.
There was something soft underneath him. He could feel it against his cheek, smooth against his hands. Even the back of his neck felt it, gentle pressure against the pounding in his skull.... which wasn't pounding nearly as much. The softness was cool, smooth, and completely lovely. It was, in fact, so completely at odds with his experiences for the last few days that he had to find out why. What had changed?
Bruce reached out, testing. His stomach was still a knot of angry tissue, with nothing inside it to evict. It wasn't trying to crawl up his neck though, like heartburn after Alfred had tried recreating chili from that old book, which wasn't even in English..... A pleasant change, he thought, focus wavering. Regular meals, English blandness. Lovely idea. But that brought something else into focus - his guts were the only thing that was full of gnawing pain. The rest of his muscles were loose, resting, peaceful even. Such a wonderful sensation, the absence of pain.
Or the absence of feeling. Bruce tried to move his hand, feeling the softness under his fingers, but it didn't respond. He couldn't move it; he was paralyzed again. Drawing in a shaking breath, he tried again. Nothing. He couldn't move them, not even a twitch. It was Bane all over again, left to drown in the gutter, body ignoring all his brain’s frantic commands. He was out, somewhere, hurt, he didn't know as whom, he couldn't feel a cowl, but if it had been removed? He didn't hear any chains, or laughter, or ....
...wait. He could hear a voice, talking. And it wasn't a monologue. It was... too soft. Bruce brought his attention to the words. The sounds were repeating over. Like a chant, or prayer. They found your body, his mind said, suddenly. They found it, and you're dead and they are praying for your soul. They'll never pray hard enough to save it.
Bruce tried to open his eyes, move his head, something - anything - to show them he was there, he was still there, he'd not dead, please, dear God don't bury me again, don't bury me in the ground I'm here I’m here I'm here --!
Something warm touched his face, his brow, his hair. It smoothed his skin, pushed hair away from his brows. He liked it. He just wanted to let them know he did. He had to.
"... fine, .... lake ..."
They were talking again, words clearer this time. He tried to focus, but it was hard. So hard to listen, not hear the blood in his veins, and his head was pounding.
"... are fine, you're ... lake house. Alfred ... resting... need to... alright."
It didn't make sense. His brows drew together in the faintest of frowns, a sighing whine slipped up his throat. The fingers returned, even as the voice grew closer. He could feel the soft air against his face. They were right there. If only he could touch....
"Bruce, You're fine. You're home, in the lake house. Alfred said you need to be resting. You need to rest, Bruce. You're going to be alright."
The drawl was soft. It made everything soft. It drifted over his skin, his mind, everything. It was the sound of warm blankets and hot cocoa and sleep in sunshine. So much softness, he needed nothing else but to stay with it. Wrap up in it. It already surrounded him. It expected him to let go; it wanted him to let go of the hard, sharp feelings.
So he did, and sank back under the blankets into darkness.
“It’s been nearly a week, Alfred. Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”
Clark sat at the end of the bed, one hand resting gently on the covered knee. Bruce was bundled under the blankets, still unconscious. The readouts from the various monitors told them he was stable, and that he was healing remarkably well.
Alfred fussed with the IV line again, frowning. “He’s been surfacing, but never to full wakefulness. I suspect the painkillers are not working as effectively as I’d hoped. He has done this in the past, when his injuries are dire. He has long known the art of keeping himself unconscious for long periods. He simply doesn’t use it very often.” He stepped back from the bed. “All we can do is keep him comfortable and safe. Talk to him, let him understand he’s home, and safe.”
Clark sighed, looking away. “Then I shouldn’t be here, Alfred. My voice is the same voice that did this to him.” There was a pain in his heart, one that he didn’t want to tell Alfred about. How did you tell the father-figure of the man who had tried to kill you, resurrected you, and then nearly died by another you’s hand that you’d fallen in love with his son? He didn’t even know where to begin.
Alfred stared at the young man. “Mister Kent,” he said slowly, hesitantly placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “the first time Master Bruce woke up, it was to your voice. If he thought he was still in danger, he would not have settled back to sleep in moments. He would have fought, and clawed his way to full consciousness.
“It wasn’t my voice he responded to. It was yours. Your voice, Mister Kent, told him that he was safe.” Alfred squeezed his shoulder. “It will be your voice he comes back for.”
Clark swallowed hard; tears pricked at his eyes. “I hope you’re right, Alfred.” He still wouldn’t look up at the older man.
Alfred harrumphed lightly. “I usually am regarding Master Bruce’s habits. I’ve certainly spent enough time circumnavigating them.” As he stepped out of the room, he heard the soft drawl start again, reading something by Austin to the bedridden man. Come back, dear boy, he thought desperately. Come back for both your sakes.
Bruce floated softly on waves of warmth and pressure. The warmth was a nice change, he thought drowsily. The room had been cold, last time he’d been awake. Cold and burning in his body, and now it was evenly warm. Comfortable. Sunday afternoon with tea, scones, and warm brandy. He could stay here for a while.
He remembered pain, before this pleasant place. Pain, anguish, fear. The memories were vague. There was something he should be worried about… something major. But it slipped away in the currents.
Bruce let himself drift for a little while. Time didn’t have much meaning here. He couldn’t even feel his breath moving his ribs. And that didn’t scare him. The warmth and the pressure said to not worry about it. He rarely was this comfortable; Alfred must have him on good drugs. That sent a slow query through his thoughts. Drugs meant injuries, meant mission, meant … his memory was still too foggy.
Someone was talking to him.
He pushed against the warmth, and tried to hear the words that they were saying. He wanted to wake up this time. All the way. Not just this half conscious pool of forgetfulness. More words were coming, different voices… One was Alfred. The soft burr in his voice was soothing. Not the clipped London accent that he took when he was upset, or in public. He must be at the Lake House, then.
The other voice was soft, smooth, and dragged words together… That was a Kansas accent. Clark was in the room. It hadn’t been Clark before, in the room. It ...
Kal-El.
Bruce felt the fear stab into the mists of his memory, and yanked out memories covered in visera. Dying, slowly burning alive in his own body, trapped in a room with a thousand glass doors, everywhere the blue glow of exploding radiation -
Hands were on his body, now, tapping his cheeks. The words weren’t quiet anymore, they were urgent. “Bruce? Come now, wake up, my boy, open your eyes.”
He was gasping, panting, his lungs were burning inside and out, and he couldn’t get up, couldn’t move.
“Master Bruce, deep breaths, boy. Come on, you can do it, open your eyes, Bruce.”
“I’m sorry, Alfred,” the alien said. “I’ll - I think it’s me he’s afraid of.”
Alfred. That meant home, that meant safe, that meant that that was Clark, not Kal-El, he was home, he was safe. The fight fled his body as suddenly as it had started. He sank back into the warmth of the bed, panting slowly settling down. As his heart settled, he heard Alfred mutter, “A birdsong would startle him at this point, Mister Kent. Come now, boy, open your eyes for me.”
Well, when Alfred said he had to … Bruce slowly felt his eyelids flutter, start to open in the dim light. Alfred was sitting on the bed next to him, rubbing soothing circles on his chest. He wanted to say something, but just opening his mouth seemed far away. He blinked slowly, refocusing on his father-figure’s face.
“Welcome back to the living, Bruce.” Alfred raised one hand to his cheek, running smooth fingertips down from his eyes.
Bruce blinked slowly, eyes slipping down to the bed sheets… so he was in a bed. And Alfred was here, so he was home. It was very dark, he thought drowsily.
“Stay awake a little longer, Bruce,” Alfred asked, tapping one cheek.
He opened his eyes again, and saw a blur of plaid, blues and blacks smearing together. Clark. Clark was still alive. Alfred was talking, but he couldn’t hear too well. Clark was smiling, smiling at him. Like he was glad to see him awake. He tried to return it, but that wasn’t what his body wanted to do -- it wanted to sleep more. It wanted to succumb to the drugs in his system. As his eyes closed again, despite Alfred’s tapping, the last thing he saw was that smile.
Bruce let himself sink back against the pillows, mindful of the CVC line still settled in his chest. Breathing was hard, staying alert and in the present was hard. Everything in his life right now was hard. Even staying awake was proving to be more difficult than he'd ever thought possible. Alfred might scold him for trying to stay up longer than his body wanted to, but Bruce was determined. Determined to stay up, and be around Clark, no matter the cost.
Because he was afraid of Clark. And he wouldn't let himself be.
Logically, he knew that Clark and Kal-El might be the same genetic person, but the concept of nature versus nurture could not have been answered more clearly in the two. He knew this. He just - just didn't always feel it when he woke up to Clark leaning over his bed to help. He'd panicked at least three times, weakly thrashing out. He had all of his fingers unbroken only because he had been too weak to actually lift his arm off the bed.
He needed to solve this, so in his viewpoint, repeated exposure was the best way to do it.
Clark had probably figured it out. He always spoke up before getting too close to the bed. His drawl from Kansas (and how did he not realize that Superman was midwestern just from his voice alone?) was stronger when he was with Bruce. He never raised his voice.
So, he shouldn't be afraid.
He didn't want to be afraid. He wanted to listen to the words and hear affection. He wanted to see a man that would look deeper than the sparkling idiot he gave to the world, and see him. Because, and he could admit this to himself now, he was falling for Clark. Badly. So badly he didn't want to even talk to Alfred about it, or about anything remotely related to romance. He certainly was not going to talk to Diana, even though she was the most emotionally involved member of the team. He certainly was not interested in one of her patented lectures on opening oneself to love and heartbreak and the wisdom of everything the Hallmark company had shoved down American throats for a century.
The light tap on the door brought his attention back to the boy scout in question. Clark had a tray with the next IV bag ready, with a couple of newspapers folded neatly beside it. The steam from a coffee mug swirled in the air as he crossed the room.
"You're still up?" Clark asked, bemused. "I thought after Alfred was done changing bandages you'd take a nap."
Bruce watched him carefully, running down his mental checklist. Clark used more of his upper body in his normal speech patterns. He blinked more often than was necessary, but not too much extra to be noticeable. His hair was curling just enough that Alfred probably wanted to trim it out of sheer frustration. There were laugh lines at the edges of his eyes that were more pronounced.
Not Kal-El.
His Clark.
Bruce had been so preoccupied that he'd completely missed Clark setting up the IV bag, and starting the pump, until the first flash of coolness in his chest startled him.
"I think most of you is already asleep," Clark murmured, settling down with the coffee cradled in his hands.
Bruce shrugged minutely. The coffee actually smelled good. He wasn't going to risk swallowing it. But he could enjoy the smell. And the company. Bruce gestured to the paper. "Today’s?" he croaked.
Clark nodded. "Yes, and no, I'm not reading you the top stories. Alfred said no current events." He flipped open the reviews. "I've got the book reviews, if you're interested."
Bruce shrugged again.
Clark's smile was soft, even as he started on the latest interview with Cat Sebastian. Bruce turned his head on the pillow, just taking in the animated face. Clark showed so much on his face, ready for everyone to see. And he got to lie here and stare, and wish for something that might come true, while he drifted away.
Soft sounds of rustle blankets nudged Bruce awake. The blanket on top of him was warm, fresh from the dryers. It still had the faint scent of lavender and vanilla that Alfred loved to use on the linens. He thought about sinking back to sleep, letting the perfume slip him back into light sleep. Fresh sheets meant that Alfred was done changing bandages and replacing IVs. So, waking up now meant he wouldn't have to endure any of the usual poking. And Clark would be here ...
The simple idea of talking with - ok, maybe talking was a stretch. But listening to the stories that Clark brought with him, the snippets of news, those moments were worth it. Worth the rolling stomach, the ache deep in his body, worth the exhaustion, to be the sole focus of those brilliant blue eyes. He craved that focus. Clark gave everyone his full attention, with no hidden plan or deceit. His focus felt like midafternoon sun on a windowsill, warm without burning you away. Some part of him was refreshed every time those eyes met his, and that small smile tingled at the edges of his mouth.
Bruce opened his eyes slowly. True to form, Alfred was tutting softly to himself as he adjusted the IV in the stand, the pump numbers flashing. Another jab of gnarled fingers, and he closed the case with a triumphant smirk. Bruce huffed a laugh.
"Ah, he awakens to spread jolly feelings," Alfred teased. He continued to tidy up the mess of medical supplies. "I'm quite surprised you decided to. I thought when even the catheter change didn't wake you, you were going to listen to me for once and stay asleep for a spell."
Bruce turned his head slowly to each side, glancing around the room. The pillow crinkled softly under his ear and he sank back into it. "Where's?" he whispered.
"Master Clark has been called away to assist with helping Mister Stone on the ship." Alfred settled down on the edge of the bed. "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with my company for the day, Master Bruce."
And just like that, Bruce felt the energy drain out of him. His body felt heavier by the breath, and he knew that it showed on his face.
"Hush, boy, he'll be back in the evening. You'll have plenty of time to gaze at that chiseled face tonight."
Bruce tried to glare at Alfred; kittens looked angrier than he was. "Don't ... stare," he groused.
Alfred smirk deepened. "My boy, I've watched you your entire life. When you become twitterpated, it's as clear as day." He reached forward. Long fingers, soft with years of work and oils, pushed free strands off his face. "You have a penchant for throwing your whole body into any feelings. And you, sir, are twitterpated with the young alien."
Bruce scowled from under the blanket that was being tucked back around him. "Not ... a real word."
Alfred's face twitched toward another smile. He restrained himself for Bruce's pride. "The young boy who insisted on viewing that movie several times in his 2nd year of school would argue against that."
Bruce shrugged with his eyebrows, a smile creeping onto his face. "Liked Thumper...s’all."
"You compared me to the owl. Especially after I caught you with Miss Annabelle."
Bruce huffed a laugh, despite the ache in his lungs afterwards. It was cut off when a yawn slipped out between breaths.
"Sleep, foolish boy," Alfred murmured. "Or you will force me to recite Byron to bore your brain to rest."
Alfred had cleared away the medical paraphernalia when Clark arrived, landing on the deck just outside his room. For a moment the sun, already dipping low over the lake, caught the cape and the parcel hanging from Clark’s hand just the wrong way.
Bruce felt his whole body tense. Closing his eyes, he tried to take a deep breath. His body was trembling, and he hated it. Hated that he was scared of a man that he – How can you fall in love with something you fear? He was sure Alfred had something to say about that. Something about self preservation being a dying trait in the Wayne family line.
“Hello, Bruce, Alfred,” Clark said from the doorway. The cape was gone, the plaid returned. He was carrying a –
“Is that a picnic basket, Clark?” Bruce asked, fear falling aside for the moment so confusion could have room.
Clark shrugged. “Kinda. Ma knows you’re not doing well, so she sent me with a few things.”
Alfred shook his head, smiling fondly. “She does realize that Master Bruce can’t even keep water down, correct?”
Clark shrugged, putting the large basket down on the low table. “She didn’t seem to mind. There’s freezing instructions for the soup and pies. And she’s slipped in some cider.”
Alfred immediately swept over to the basket, plucking the brown bottle out from the rest. “I don’t believe Master Bruce needs to be anywhere near this. Please extend our thanks.” He swept from the room, basket firmly tucked under an arm.
Bruce blinked, and then looked to Clark. He was rubbing his neck and looking everywhere other than Bruce. “It might not be pure cider in there,” Clark muttered.
Bruce huffed a laugh, fear settling back into its corner. “She gave you apple moonshine? To go across state lines?”
“Yes.” Clark drew out the word slowly. “Yes, she did.”
Every time he talked with Clark, he realized just how far Kal-El had strayed from the good man that was standing in his bedroom, blushing because his mother just made him into a bootlegger.
The room was lit with a golden glow normally reserved for highly polished wood. It was the one point in the day when the fishbowl house that Master Bruce had built actually felt like the Manor's old rooms. Warmth and light mixing together brought to mind old tea socials Mrs. Wayne would hold in the arboretum. She would be radiant in the light, just as her son was, when he deigned to stay under the sun. Sometimes, Alfred thought, Bruce could use being pulled out into the sun more often. He'd certainly start to get a tad more colour to his cheeks.
The young man in question was laying propped up on pillows, reading glasses perched on his face. After nearly 5 weeks, he was just beginning to get bored at times. And Master Bruce with boredom knocking was an alarming sight. He'd tried to go back into work, as expected. Alfred, though, had put a firm wall in the way. Bruce simply could not bully his body into working. This time it was too serious, and systemic. His boy had saved the bloody world. It could bloody well do without him now in recompense.
The sheaf of papers trembled slightly in Bruce's grip, but he kept trying to read the enlarged print. Alfred would have been happy to keep everything on a tablet if the young master would keep his focus on light reading, rather than looking over old case files. As it was, analog was the only system Bruce could not hack into.
"Anything caught your fancy, Master Bruce?" he asked, walking the rest of the way into the room, tray with light refreshments sliding onto the end table.
Bruce huffed, and dropped them to the bedspread. "Ivy might be interested in learning more about the Maya Biosphere Reserve down in Guatemala. ... Seems to be a newer look at small-scale forestry." He paused, breathing heavily for several breaths. "Her projects in upper New Jersey ... might ... benefit." Bruce leaned back heavily on the headboard pillows. After nearly 5 weeks, he was just beginning to get bored at times. And Master Bruce with boredom knocking was an alarming sight.
Alfred took the sheets, shuffling through the list of abstracts. "Shall I post her a copy?"
Bruce huffed. "Email it. Save time .... and bandages." His head rolled on the pillow. "Tea time already?"
Alfred nodded, and settled in to serve. "You did take a rest earlier this afternoon." At Bruce's frown, he scolded, "You are recovering, you will give your body the time it needs."
Bruce took the offered tea. "It needs ... a long soak." He took a sip of tea, humming in appreciation. "Sponge baths don't help."
Alfred nodded. "After tea, I will check the status of the burns, sir."
They settled into a comfortable silence. "It's been a long time," Bruce murmured some time later.
Alfred, thoughts elsewhere, blinked. "Hmm?"
"Since I've ... been this bad..." The cup was slowly lowered to his lap. His hands were curled around the lingering warmth.
"Years, I should think," Alfred agreed quietly. "Probably not since the incident with Bane."
Bruce picked a little at the blanket's soft edge. "I'm ... I'm not coming back from this, am I, Alfred." He swallowed. "This ... this isn't going to go away."
Alfred sighed softly, and set his own mug aside. Taking the tender hands in his own, he ran gentle thumbs over the knuckles. "Five weeks ago, I sat here watching you struggling to breathe, knowing that nothing I did was making any difference for you. Even holding these hands caused you pain." He swallowed, and continued. "Four weeks ago, you needed me to teach your throat how to swallow again."
Bruce nodded, eyes downcast.
"You've always sought to run before you could toddle, Bruce. But this time, you need to take all the steps in order. I can't say whether you will haunt Gotham's roofs again. I can't say that you'll even be able to walk across the room unaided again." Alfred cleared his throat of the feelings balling themselves up in his throat. "All we can do, Master Bruce, is pick ourselves up after we fall. We shall see how far we can pick you up again."
Bruce took a shaky breath, holding Alfred's hands as hard as he could. The grip was weak, but he held on.
Later, when Bruce had leaned back against the pillows in utter exhaustion, Alfred started to work on the bandages wrapping the worst of the burns. Humming thoughtfully, he turned Bruce’s arm over slowly, examining the burns.
“And?” Bruce asked, voice dragged over sandpaper. “Closed enough?”
Alfred’s face shrugged. “So far as I can tell, they’ve healed enough to be soaked. I’ll draw up a bath downstairs straight away.” He gathered the last of the refuse into the small bin. “I’ll give Mr. Kent a ring.”
Bruce shifted in the bedding, eyes slipping away from Alfred. “I can manage on my own,” he muttered. His fingers were tangling up on the edge of the blanket. While he craved Clark's company like clear water after the dessert, this - this was stepping over a line. A line he wanted to cross, but he was terrified of doing so, too.
What if Clark had only been here just to look after him, from some twisted form of guilt? Bruce couldn’t imagine baring so much of himself to find out he was no more cared for than any patient by a nurse? What if those nights when he awoke to hear Clark’s voice were only a duty, like picking up a neighbour’s mail?
Despite what his reputation proclaimed from every smear rag in the country, he was very particular about who got to see him with no layers, no armour, no shields. Armani was an armour just as much as kevlar. The shadows and alcohol hid his flaws and scars well enough for a night’s toss in the sheets. But helping with this? Changing bandages, helping him bathe, that would open himself up to a host of vulnerabilities that he was not ready to share. He never would be fully ready, he knew. But with Clark, if this wasn’t just a duty, a job, an obligation, he could come closer than ever before.
But if he opened that wall, pushed aside his defenses only to be met with indifference? He didn’t know how to pick those pieces up.
Alfred, of course, saw all of this pass over Bruce’s face. Rather than address anything head on, he sidetracked.
“Yes, well, sir, if you do have a slip, I’m not exactly 55 anymore, able to lift you back into bed. It’s been quite a few years since my shoulders let me. Mr. Kent has offered to be of any assistance in your caretaking. It would be unseemly of me to ignore such an offer and then land myself back in ER. All over slippery floors and a man who doesn’t ask for help.”
Bruce glared at the blanket, still not looking at Alfred. “I - I ask for help,” he tried. The words even sounded foriegn to him. And he knew that Alfred couldn’t carry him anymore. He’d given Alfred trouble over the last time he’d even needed a shoulder to lean on to get to his own bed.
That got a fully barked laugh. “Hardly counts if it’s your secretary, or the press is in attendance.” Alfred shook his head, already fishing his cell from his welding apron. With a tilt and a smirk, he continued. “But, if Mr. Kent is unappealing, I’m sure Mr. Curry would be more than-”
“No.” Bruce leaned back into his pillows, eyes suddenly meeting Alfred’s. The flush was fading fast.
“Or Miss Prince’s strength would be more than -”
“Clark is fine, Alfred. Fine. I’m - it’s fine.”
Alfred waited, and when no more was forthcoming, he continued, “Mr. Allan is out with -”
“Enough,” Bruce all but begged. His chest shook as he coughed harshly. “Clark can help. I’m - I’m just not - I’m sure he has other things to do.”
“Clark is still legally dead at this point, sir. He has no job, and is still recovering from his own miraculous return. It works out for you both.” Bruce didn’t respond to that, merely watching Alfred from suddenly heavy eyes. “I’ll get the lower bath ready for you, so you may soak in peace. Rest until then, Master Bruce,” he admonished, snatching the articles from the bed. “Not wearing yourself out more.”
Bruce nodded, eyes tired. “Just… for a few minutes, Al,” he mumbled. They slid closed not a moment later. Alfred pulled the light dimmer down as he left the room, shaking his head in amusement. Terribly fallen, indeed.
Clark whistled as he walked around the last bend in the hallway. “You don’t do anything by half, do you?”
Bruce, arms looped loosely around the other man’s neck, smiled. “Why? No point doing it then.” Watching Clark’s face from this perspective, seeing all the minute changes in his face, it was something -
Something.
Bruce wasn’t stupid. He might pretend to be loose with his tongue and his belt buckle. But all parties involved knew what was going to happen. They all knew the script. Everyone knew the give and take of sex, power, and influence. He knew lust and desire. He knew interest and the vague feeling of, well, why not. He had played long enough to know all the feelings that might burn in the present would be gone in the morning light, withered away into memory soon forgotten.
Oh, but he didn’t know this feeling. He didn’t know where it would take him.
But, he desperately wanted to find out.
All of this was completely bypassing Clark, who was gaping at the 12 foot high ceiling.
The bathroom. Okay, Clark amended to himself, it’s a ‘Bathe Room’. A room with an overly large tub, with black and silver tiles swirling in patterns all over the room and the walls. The ceiling was, oddly, done in tones of white, with a few places where silver tiles - no.
“You put constellation patterned lights on the ceiling.”
Bruce laughed under his breath. “That’s what you - you’re an unusual man, Kent.”
Clark smiled. “All this money, and you put stars on the ceiling like an eight year old after they visited the planetarium.”
Bruce seemed to be puzzled by that one, which let Clark carry him closer to the tub already three-quartered filled with water and fuzzing bath bombs.
“Bubble bath?” he’d asked Alfred, before getting Bruce. He’d only been a bit surprised with the long list of herbal, vitamin and oils that were mixed into salts and oatmeal. Alfred’s smelt better than most of the herbal stores in the shops that he’d been forced into at Christmas time.
Alfred was just turning off the last tap, towels and scrubs at the ready. “Everything is here, Master Bruce. I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through Mister Kent’s treatment. Something has come up that requires my attention.”
“Thanks, Al.” Bruce said softly, watching as his father-figure subtly gave his blessing with whatever this was. God, he hoped he didn’t screw this up as he did everything else.
Clark walked closer to the tub. When he was only a few feet away, he lowered Bruce’s bare feet to the mat. “Need help getting in?” he asked, holding onto Bruce’s shoulder.
Bruce nodded, head spinning from the change of position. “Slowly,” he croaked, eyes closed.
Clark slipped the bathrobe from around Bruce. He slipped one arm around Bruce’s waist, careful to keep his grip only tight enough to support, and the other held Bruce’s elbow. “On three,” he said.
“Three,” Bruce muttered, and swung a leg into the bath. Clark laughed, and guided the stubborn man down into the water. The water swelled around the pale skin, neatly camouflaging him inside the tub. He was nearly invisible, except for the groan of pleasure that wrenched itself free. Clark found himself immensely glad that he was still wearing jeans. And that Bruce had his eyes closed, and brow furrowed against the heat, leaning back against the padded headrest.
“You good?” Clark asked, trying to keep his voice even. If Bruce noticed, he’d be surprised. The man looked like he’d discovered sexless orgasms. The wave of relaxation that passed over his face was beautiful to behold. Peaceful bliss settled in, and Bruce’s brows smoothed into softness. Clark wanted to stroke that face, feel the softness of well-deserved tranquility.
After a few minutes, Bruce opened his eyes, and tilted his head to the side. “You don’t have to stay,” he rasped. He wanted him to stay, but for reasons that didn’t involve nursing. God, he should not have said that, he should know to keep his mouth shut when anything to do with emotions are in play.
Maybe Clark can read minds. Maybe his face is an open book. Clark just smiles softly and says, “I want to.” He then adds, softly, “and not just to get you from drowning in your own bath-lake.”
Bruce huffed a laugh, and closed his eyes. “It’s not a lake if it’s inside,” he murmured. “Just comfortable.”
“Pond, then.”
What would you know about ponds? Bruce almost asked. He remembered just in time - Kansas, farm, ponds were probably everywhere. Hell, the boy had probably been fishing every Sunday in the summer like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Before you get any hick ideas, no, I didn’t go fishing in a pond in the summer.”
Bruce snorted. “Mind reader.”
Clark shook his head, laughing a little. “Your poker face needs work.”
Bruce shrugged a little. “Still think you’re reading minds,” he said, slurring a few letters. He shifted his hands in the water, watching small ripples in the thin foam surface. From his step stool, Clark smiled.
“You need a rubber duckie in here. I’ve seen ones dressed up in bat-cowls.”
That got another laugh out of Bruce. “I’m not bringing a rubber duck in here.”
Clark’s smile turned wicked. “Betcha I can get one hidden in here. Even from you.” The smile that graced Bruce’s face was beautiful. He couldn’t look away from it. It wasn’t just his mouth, which, admittedly, was gorgeous and should not belong to a man that spent most of the time scowling. His face was, for once, completely animated. The simple joy slipped into the creases of his eyes, mingling with the crows feet, turning them into laugh lines. It softened his frown lines, smoothing the elegant eyebrows into graceful wings. Rao, I have it bad, don’t I? Clark thought to himself.
They sat in silence for a while, Bruce drifting in and out of a light doze. At one point, the temperature in the water dipped. Before Clark could even ask, the sides of the tub began to heat themselves behind the porcelain, effectively reheating the water to steaming comfort. Bruce’s sigh sent yet more inappropriate thoughts and feelings downward. He didn’t even know if Bruce felt that way - could feel that way anymore around him. He wasn’t about to ask, and ruin what they had.
“You should be with Martha. I’m sure she’s ecstatic her son is back,” Bruce said softly, eyes barely open. He didn’t want Clark to leave. He didn’t. But if it were him, and he had that chance to see them again… well, he had to make sure. Make sure Clark wasn’t here out of some misplaced sense of guilt.
Clark smiled, fingers tracing patterns in the thin foamy top. “I go back every morning, Bruce. We talk, she makes breakfast and heads out to work. But there’s not much needing to be done, and it’s a small place. I’m more helpful here.”
Something didn’t add up. “But,” Bruce said, a small frown. “It’s a farm. Aren’t there … crop things …” he trailed off, fingers swirling the water absently.
Clark looked away. “She’s, uh, living in town now. She couldn’t keep the farm up without--” he stalled, and then started over. “She’s working at the old diner, the one her and Pa would go to for their date nights.”
Bruce smiled sadly. “It was an Italian restaurant for my parents,” he whispered, getting lost in the memory. “They always brought back dessert for me. Alfred would serve it out on Mother’s tea set the next morning.”
“Sounds fancy,” Clark murmured, staying completely still. Something told him not to press, that Bruce talking about either of his parents was a rare and treasured moment.
“Fancy people,” Bruce agreed, eyes closing. He slipped back into a doze, barely waking up when Clark finally declared he’d marinated in the bath salts long enough.
It was only later, all settled in his bed, and Alfred setting up the evening IV line, that one detail finally settled into place. “Al,” he said hoarsely. “The Kent farm - did it go on the market?”
After sitting on the edge of the bed, Alfred pulled his phone from his pocket, quickly searching. “It appears so, Master Bruce. It seems - ah,” Alfred said, frowning. “Repossession, three months ago.”
“Buy it.”
Alfred cocked an eyebrow. “The farm, sir?”
“Yes - no,” Bruce corrected. “Buy the bank. Less conspicuous.”
Alfred glanced over his glasses at the man he’d raised. “Hardly inconspicuous for Wayne Financial to purchase any Kansas bank.” He began tapping on the screen, though, opening the channels he’d need to make the purchase quietly. “And hardly an appropriate courting gift.”
“Alfred,” Bruce said, turning his face away.
“I’m only suggesting, sir. Perhaps starting with something a bit smaller before Mister Kent finds out.”
“Al,” Bruce begged, trying to bury his face in his pillow.
Alfred huffed a laugh at the blush settling upon the hollow cheeks. “Perhaps a coffee shop, or bakery is more appropriate. More intimate, sir?”
Muffled words answered the older man’s teasing.
Bruce had managed to cajole Alfred into helping him get onto the deck that afternoon. Despite the chill, it was a crisp day, the breeze had smelt wonderful floating off of Clark’s coat that morning. He was, he admitted to Alfred quietly, getting tired of looking out at everything. Finally Alfred had relented, helping the younger man slowly out to the lounge chairs already settled outside. He’d left him with a few books, several pillows, a pager, and three woolen blankets he suspected might have been from Martha.
He was settled in with his second weak cup of tea. The faint crack of the sound barrier had him smiling despite himself. Clark was back early. Maybe they could stay out here until dinner.
Clark landed not a minute later, not even in his uniform yet. (Bruce had caught him holding it a few days ago before softly putting it down in the large shirt box he’d been storing it in.)
“Bruce,” Clark said, gesturing with an envelope. “Did you - did you buy the farm?”
Bruce curled his hands tighter around the mug. “No,” he answered, evasive. Suddenly, this seemed a lot more awkward than he’d thought it would be.
Clark sat down heavily on the other deck chair. “Ma got this today - it’s the deed to the farm. Paid in full. She’s - we’d - did you do this?”
Bruce looked away, sheepish. “I - I bought the bank.”
Clark blinked, tried to talk, and stopped.
“It seemed the easiest solution.”
Clark shook his head, laughing a little hysterically. “Buying a bank seemed the easiest solution to…? How can we ever - “
“Don’t thank me,” Bruce interrupted. “I was simply correcting a mistake. The farm is hers, and it should stay that way.”
Clark was still gobsmacked. “Bruce, I - “
“I suggested something smaller,” Alfred chimed in from the doorway. He was carrying a tray with another steaming mug on it. “A shop, or a bakery, but he was insistent on going ‘big’.”
Clark took the mug with a smile.
“Of course,” Alfred added as he walked back to the sliding doors, “his father did have an entire botanical garden built before he finished courting a young Martha Kane. It must be a family trait.”
Bruce hid behind his tea.
There was a landslide.
There was an avalanche.
There was an earthquake that then made a tsunami. (He'd gotten help from Arthur on that part, at least. Clark had no idea how he could stop a tsunami himself.)
There was an eruption that nearly leveled a small island, but then birthed a new one 10 miles offshore.
All in all, Superman had been busy for nearly a week straight.
Clark was ready to just hide for a day to get caught up on not being in life-endangering situations. The mental load of devastation sat heavy on him. Admittedly, he had only been coming back as Superman for about a month. He'd been doing a few rescues here and there beforehand, but never in costume. A month ago, though, he'd felt the urge to go out flying, to see people again. It had been four months since Steppenwolf and the psychopath Kal-El. Ma was settled back into the farm house. The tasks of keeping the farm in good order were as caught up as he could get them for her. He also suspected that she'd been breaking things on purpose to give him things to do. She'd known he wasn't ready to go out yet.
The red cape fluttered behind him as he landed on the dock for the Batwing, and made his way into the cave proper. There were Rules, and Alfred was quite insistent on the no-capes above ground rule. After his first fly out with the new costume, he'd landed in the cave to be greeted by Alfred who held a tray of clothes and toiletries, with a pointed reminder of the location of the showers. He'd blushed a bit, like he'd been caught at the mudhole with the pigs when he was a boy, and taken the hint.
After changing, Clark made his way upstairs. Alfred was cooking something divinely scented in the open kitchen area in the first sub level. "He's upstairs, Master Clark," Alfred said, not turning from the sauce he was stirring.
"Thanks, Alfred. I'll make sure he leaves the tablet behind for dinner this time." Clark smiled at the older man's huff.
"Do," came the curt reply.
The sun was starting to set over the green edges of the lake. It was a golden sunset, and Clark basked for a moment in the last rays. Sunsets always felt like a dessert to him. Just that tad bit more to fill up the taste buds, as it were. He shivered, and walked around to the bedroom area.
"Clark," Bruce called softly from behind him.
Clark turned around, and his face broke into a grin. "Someone's been busy this week," he said, walking slowly forward. Bruce stood, albeit leaning on a cane, by the far window wall. There was a comfortable armchair in the corner he must have been sitting in, reading. The soft lamp was still on. "I'm - it's been a long time -" He reached out a hand, hovering nearby. "It's good to see you on your feet again," he finished.
Bruce looked tired, but far happier than he'd been before Clark had left. "It is," he whispered, panting. He smirked slightly. "Can't always have a solar-powered lift service handy."
Clark laughed softly. "No, suppose not. How long have you been walking around?"
"Yesterday? Not sure," Bruce said, weaving slightly. He took a few shaky steps forward "Four sleeps? It's Thursday, right?"
Clark shook his head. "Saturday, B."
Bruce looked completely baffled. It was an adorable look, Clark thought, with wispy hairs out of place and bags under his eyes. He wanted to lean down and kiss it. "Really?"
"Yeah."
Bruce shook his head, breathing heavily. "Thought - I must have slept longer." His legs were shaking now. "Days still get -" Clarrk caught him as he sank toward the floor.
"I got you, Bruce."
Bruce nodded, his chest heaving. “I’ll be fine. Just need -” Clark swept him off his feet even as he spoke. “Or not,” he muttered, but his head had already sunk to rest on Clark’s shoulders.
“You never cease to amaze me, Bruce,” Clark said, walking slowly toward the living area. “But you need to be awake enough to eat dinner. Alfred is not going to spoon feed you anymore.” He felt the huff of a laugh from him as Bruce wound his arms around his neck. He carried Bruce to the low slung sofa bench thing (Clark was adamant that if it didn’t have a proper back, it wasn’t a sofa). “Do you want me to put you down here or the dining area?”
The arms tightened around his neck, Bruce burying his face into the warm flannel.
Clark’s breath hitched as he felt the warm puff of air on his neck as Bruce shifted to be closer to him. "It's - it's been hard," Bruce whispered. He kept his face hidden. Clark sank himself down onto the bench, keeping Bruce easily in his lap, and kept quiet.
“You are - it’s - I’ve been hurt before -” Bruce stuttered to a halt, taking deep shaky breaths. Clark was rubbing his back in small circles, letting him work it out. “He wasn’t you,” Bruce started again. “I knew that right from the start. I never looked at him and thought he was you, even at the end. But now - I look, or it’s a shadow, or a scent -” Bruce’s fist clenched in Clark’s shirt.
“I’m trying, and it’s hard, and I - I want this.” His voice broke off, gasping for air. He was grateful that Clark wasn’t talking yet, just holding him. He had to get the last part out, he had to. “I want - I need you, Clark, but I’m no good for you, I’m broken and damaged and-”
“And everything I want in my life, Bruce,” Clark finished softly. He stared down at this incredible man, who even now was willing to sacrifice his own wants for Clark’s. “May I be honest, Bruce? I despised the man I thought you were. But then, I started to find the real you, not the false faces you give everyone. I found a man that was willing to give everything from himself to others, and never expect even a thank you. A dark man who uses that darkness where others can’t.”
Bruce shook his head, but didn’t interrupt.
“Yes, Bruce. You gave out employment opportunities for petty criminals. You make deals with the vagrant population in exchange for good supplies and help if they want it. Your private donations run more clinics in this city than I had ever thought possible. That man, you, Bruce, that man is amazing and wonderful and rough at the edges.” He paused, and tilted Bruce’s face back up to make eye contact.
“That’s the man that I’m falling in love with.”
Bruce’s eyes were shining with tears, even as he mouthed, “Why?”
Clark smiled softly. “Because I know you, and love you, and I desperately want to.” He leaned down a bit more. “And I want to kiss you so much,” he whispered against Bruce’s lips.
Bruce’s smile ghosted over his lips, and he lifted himself up enough to kiss the man he’d hated, feared, worshipped and loved.
The sunset over the lake was fading into purples and blacks, stars just coming out above them. Clark settled his hot chocolate back onto the deck chair's arm and leaned back. Bruce was snuggled tightly into his blankets, using Clark's shoulder as a head rest. He was fiddling with something in his hands under the blanket. Clark didn't want to pry just yet. Bruce had asked him very specifically to come tonight, and to be ready to stay for the night. Given that Alfred nor Dr. Lee had given him clearance to do any fun night activities, Clark wasn't sure what this was going to be about. He didn't want to break the silence they had now.
In the last 6 months, Clark had learned that silence could be comfortable, and welcome. Bruce relaxed into stillness and calm. Constant talk, motion and emotions overwhelmed the man until his shields refused to come down. He'd learned the hard way to not push Bruce to do anything that wasn't life-threatening. Just let Bruce know that it was needed, and he would. Pester him, and mountains moved faster than he would if he was being forced into it.
Another moment stretched out between them before Bruce finally spoke. "She left something for me, before she left." His voice was still rough, prone to breaking and cracking.
Clark stayed silent, his arm wrapped about Bruce's shoulders.
"The Kryptonian technology that was - implanted - was linked to specific bio-signatures. Zee estimated that this might be the only item left that I would be able to pick up memories from." From underneath the blanket, he pulled out a small black box, old paper envelope tucked underneath. "I - I haven't opened it yet."
Clark took the offered box, turning it over in his fingers. It looked more like an oblong ring box than anything else. "You think this was from Lord Kal-El?"
Bruce stared at the box, his eyes distant. "Zee said it was from her Bruce," Bruce said, gesturing with the envelope. Clark could just see elegant cursive on the folded pages. He swallowed. "She kept it with her since Bruce died. Kal-El shouldn't have been able to see it."
Clark nodded, keeping quiet. When Bruce didn't continue, he finally broke the silence. "Do you want to open it?"
Bruce shrugged and shook his head at the same time.
Clark smiled softly. He'd learned, too, when to listen to Bruce's words and when to listen more to his body language and what it didn't say. And right now, it wasn't saying he was sure enough to open it. "It won't activate for me. Do you want me to open the box?"
The older man wouldn't meet his eyes, but nodded. “Please,” he whispered.
Clark pressed down, the faint hiss of escaping air against his fingertips. The inside was black, velvet by the feel of it. Snuggled deep inside, a glint of silver and gold catches the light. Opening it the rest of the way, Clark huffs a tiny laugh. Of course, he thinks.
He turns it around to show Bruce. The tiny batarang, silver alloy glinting in the light from the last rays of light, glows against the black velvet backdrop. Wrapped inside the bat, twisting as a river down the plains, the crest of the House of El shimmered golden. Two small chain pieces hinted at where the necklace would have been joined, to be worn close to the heart of the wearer.
“The crest is the same material used on the ship’s control paneling,” Clark explained, scanning the molecular structure. “The silver bat is a mixture of pure silver, titanium and tungsten.”
“Two worlds together,” Bruce said, voice rough. His eyes were glued to the batarang, hands clenched together in his lap.
Clark reached into the box, pulled the pendant from the box. Nothing happened, no flashes of memory or knowledge. “It’s warm,” Clark said out loud. “Like old USB sticks used to get when you plugged it in.”
Bruce nodded, fingers twisting the blanket into bundles. He was nervous, and terrified, Clark realized. It was only reasonable. The memories he'd been through had been all torture and death. They only had an assumption of what was held inside of this piece.
“I’ll keep an eye out, in case it gets too much,” Clark promised, cupping Bruce’s hand in his free one. "If you start to show anything strongly, I'll break the connection. You said that should probably work to end the memory sequence."
Bruce swallowed. "Stay," he croaked. "Please, Clark."
"I'll be here the whole time."
Clark held out the batarang, patiently waiting for Bruce to release the blankets from the death grip his hands had become. Only after Bruce had held out both hands, palms up and shaking, did he lay the batarang into Bruce’s outstretched hand.
Even as the cool metal touched his hand, Bruce felt the deep pull of the memories. He braced himself, knowing that nothing he did would help, would shield him from the horror he might see --
She was so tiny. Settled into my arms, a tiny fist lightly hitting his chest. She was mostly asleep, mostly done with her second... third? ... snack of the evening. My eyelids are heavy, but I don't want to sleep. I don't want this day to end. The day I brought this adorable piece of sunshine into the universe. She's so small, and perfect, and finally here. Her hair is tufted up, and her eyes are cloudy blue. She looks like him. My Clark.
The heartbreak feels worse than labour. She'll never meet the kind, compassionate man who is her father. She'll only know this vicious god-being who holds the key to this gilded prison she was born into. I won't cry. Not today. Her first day is for joy.
The sinking exhaustion was lifting, even as joy settled into his psyche. A child, a daughter. The idea floored him, even as the memory shifted in Bruce’s vision. There was a sense of movement, almost like he’d just turned his head to look at another part of the screen. Pain arches through his gut, hips and neck as he sinks into the next vision --
Martha is asleep, thankfully. She won't see her papa taking an hour-long shower. Won't hear the sobs over the rush of the water. She's four, she doesn't need to be comforting me when I come back to her battered and bruised. Kal-El was riled up - there has been dissension in Russia and Canada, riots in the Central European Union. He's convinced himself that I'm to blame for this resurgence. His Bruce had been a leader before his death - a martyr. Killed for an outdated idea such as peace and safety. There are times I envy that.
Our - union - was not gentle.
They never are.
I won't give him a child, one that he can warp into another monster. I will never be relaxed enough to allow the breeding sphincter to open in his presence. I can't do that; I can't bring another child into this hell. Martie is powerless, my Clark had none of the powers that make this Lord inhuman. Martha's human for all intentions. She's no use to him, save for PR stunts in the future. She's a sweet, intelligent child that knows too much already.
The towels wait to be used; the soaps left out for me to carve the next layer of skin off with. And on top ... she's left ZeeZee, all wrapped up in a towel. The zebra sits there, with a small cloth pillow for nap time, waiting for me to tuck him back in with her.
Clark, you would love her more each day.
The hopeless defeat settled into Bruce’s stomach. For a moment, he could feel the depression sink deep in his body. The moment shifted again, with new feelings pummeling his mind -- sorrow and pride and revulsion so strong he would throw up bile to feel it gone --
Martie finishes her recitation flawlessly. Her French has improved since we started watching older films in horribly dubbed French. She learns so well when she's upset that someone else has done it wrong. I can do that, Papa, she tells me. I can translate with more eloquence than these AI software bots.
Kal-El ignores her, standing at the doorway. "Bruce, come," he says, voice tight. Another failed search for the leadership then. Another round or two. I hope no broken bones tonight.
I place a soft kiss on her forehead. "Well done, Martie," I tell her. "Make sure the books are put away before you retire." I stand, pulling my sweater off my shoulders. It won’t survive if I don’t.
"Now," Kal-El commands.
Martie swallows, and turns to Kal-El. "I was hoping you'd join us and help me with my Russian tonight, Father, sir." She stares straight at him, voice calm. "Papa's is too antiquated to be much assistance."
"Another night," he growls, eyes red tinged.
"Thank you, Father sir," she says, dipping her head. "Goodnight, Papa." She walks away into her room, calm and collected.
Kal-El grabs my shoulder, fingers brutal. "Did you put her up to that? Trying to get out of your duty, however fucking terrible you are at it?"
"Of course not, she's a child!" She’s eight, she doesn’t need to have the reality of her papa’s ‘duties’ shoved in her face. She’s eight, and she already figured it out without a single word. I'm seething, I’m furious, I need to calm down. He’s never once responded well when I show anything but submission. “She doesn't understand anything other than your broken promises."
I swallow a scream as his fingers slip my arm out of alignment. God, not again, not again, please, I'm not healed yet from last time, please, not again.... He's going to get the leather binders out again, it took weeks for my body to heal last time, the whip marks to fade.
He pulls me away, and all I can think of is Clark, on the schoolyard. All of six, standing up to the 3rd graders trying to beat up Suzie Mallard.
You'd be so proud, Clark. She's perfectly like you. I’m so sorry that I can’t save her.
The pain echoes down Bruce’s shoulder, only a memory. He can barely breathe for the flood of fear, shame, and hopelessness that are only mildly tempered with love and pride in his daughter.
"I don't understand." She's quiet. Subdued. She doesn’t know what to think about what those slips of cardstock mean.
"You're twelve, now. You need to start performing your duties to my world." Kal-El is impatient. "I thought you'd be happy, grateful to get this chance!"
She's nearly in tears, but says, "I don't know what it is you want me to do."
I kneel beside her. "You'll go outside, with Kal-El, and attend this dinner with him. People will ask you questions and want to talk with you. You'll be with someone the whole night; they can answer anything you don't know the answer to."
She sniffs. "Why can't it be you with me?" she whispers, tears starting to fall. "Why do I have to leave you behind?" She's crying now, nearly silent. I wrap my arms around her. My darling little one, I'm so sorry. I can’t help the tears slipping down my face either. She’s leaving, I can’t protect her from our prison. I don’t even know if he’ll bring her back.
Kal-El snarls, striding towards the door. "Have her ready by 4 o'clock."
Bruce feels the tears on his own face, distant and removed. He barely shakes his head - he needs to finish this - he needs to understand. He can hear Clark’s voice, soothing, but it’s lost in the next blast of colour and sound.
I don't care about the lights, the limo, the fine coat wrapped around my shoulders. I'm transfixed by her - Martha Wayne-El, my darling little girl all grown up. She's seventeen, tall, and looks like her grandmother did on her prom night. She's dazzling, the only bright spot in my world.
"You're staring, Bruce," she whispers, smiling at the cameras.
"As your valet, I'm supposed to keep you in sight at all times."
She walks farther into the gallery, purse held in long fingered hands. "At the risk of walking into pillars?"
"I'll take it." I stand back three paces, leaning on the black cane that is my only allowance towards my destroyed body. I channel every performance Alfred would put into being my escort, my guardian against the world. I hope I make him proud, if he can see this, if the souls can travel universes. I feel like him, watching from tired eyes as the younglings flee the nest. I would do anything for her.
She smiles, glancing back. She wants to take my hand, lead me around and tell me everything she knows about this gallery, the artists, even the staff. Her excitement is better than any analgesic for my soul. If only we were home, she would have been free to do just that. Free to express herself, free to attend university far from home and come back a whole new person. But now, I'm no one special, only staff to watch her while Kal-El is busy.
It's enough.
The guide to the exhibition rests in my coat pocket, lines and notes covering most of the pages. It's a simple thing, these notes. They look like orders, invoice numbers, and a few comm-numbers. But for the young man holding the next doorway open, hand outstretched in greeting, it will be a goldmine of alien technology.
It's the last schematic for a portal transporter. One that might, if they can get it working, take Martha far away from this hell. And possibly bring someone back to help.
I hope it's enough. It has to be. For now, it's all I have to give the Resistance.
How could so much emotion rest in one mind, burden one soul into the ground. Bruce could barely catch his breath, but he had to try, there was one memory left, he could feel it, pressing against his brain, waiting to be seen.
I settle myself in the small staff area. The older style coat flares beneath me as I wait for the page to summon me. There are refreshments, but my eyes are caught by the book beside me. The book fails open to a page highlighted with a student's notes, scribbles and numbers in the margins. The whole book is covered like that. An assigned novel, left behind by a forgetful student. Nothing worth a passing glance.
Unless you know the cypher. Unless you know how to read the numbers for words, words for pages, notes backtracking. I slip the pen from my pocket, make a new addition to the epilogue. A few notes on chapter 4, a citation on chapter 12.
Taken together, the meaning will be clear. She is the keystone to the device. Protect her, and I will give you every scrap of knowledge I have. Save her, and all I know will be yours.
I drop the book carelessly onto the sofa's side table. It must be enough.
His hands slacken as the memories fade away, resting in the past of his mind. Bruce could feel his body slumping to the side, caught by strong hands that cradle his body and soul as if they were glass. Clark was beside him, murmuring quietly. The batarang was back in its box, safely nestled in its nest of velvet.
“She was his daughter,” Bruce gasped, turning his face into Clark's chest. "She was - a child - she grew up with that monster - " The words were lost to the choked out sound from his chest.
Clark held Bruce tightly, rocking the sobbing man slowly. He remembered what he had heard, before they rescued him. Alfred must have kept quiet as well. Most likely, Zee had asked for the details to be kept from everyone here, too.
"Those were Bruce's memories, then?" he asked when Bruce took a few deep breaths.
Bruce didn't pull away. He lay as he had collapsed against Clark's chest, staring into the lake's horizon. "His Clark wasn't superpowered. Zee wasn't superpowered, either. Bruce was - he was enslaved, supposed to give Kal-El another - decades of abuse, violence, all to keep her safe. Kal-El kept them like pets!” Another cluster of sound wedged itself in his throat, even as he tried to swallow it down.
“But her Bruce found a way to save her,” Clark said softly into Bruce’s silver locks. “He was captured and alone, and scared, but he still found a way to free her. He was brilliant, resourceful, and patient. It’s what I love about you, Bruce. You always find a way to save people, no matter what.”
Clark laid a kiss gently on his temple, pulling Bruce back up his chest to lean against his shoulder. “You can take an impossible situation and make it yours, make it do what you need it to do. You’re brilliant, Bruce. And I can’t wait to see what you manage next.”
Bruce relaxed back against his Clark. Out there, thousands of other Bruces were fighting, loving, hating, and dying, all because of their Clarks, their Supermans. But here, now, he had this Clark, his Clark. And they had a second chance, both of them pulled from the edge of nothingness to fight again. The fight might not be with fists, or words, but they would be together.
“Stay with me?” he whispered, holding onto Clark’s hands under the blankets.
“For as long as you’ll have me, plus a few more decades,” Clark said, southern drawl smooth in the evening air.