Title: Look in these eyes Fandom: DCU (Superman/Batman) Summary: What he feels is, as ever, concealed behind the sign of the Bat. // The S-shield is, in such circumstances, misdirection at its finest. Pairing: Superman/Batman, after the narration of the comic of the same name. Warning: I blame Jeph Loeb for the tone and the points of view. Adult. Notes: Thanks to (at last count) Betty, LC, Mael, and Zee for audiencing this silliness and making constructive comments. For the Lord King Bad Fic challenge, meaning that I have suppressed all shame. Bruce is rarely shaken by his daily routines, though to me they look harsh enough to merit a reaction from nearly anyone. If he were not so determined to be superhuman, though, he would not be Bruce. I have worked long and hard to learn how to suppress emotional responses until it is safe to have them -- it would not be appropriate for Batman to respond with anything but anger, certainly not grief -- but -- Watching him now makes my blood run cold. There are some things that even years of training cannot encompass. It's distressing -- and yet perversely flattering -- that his discomfort is not because of anything that happened to him. That, again, is Bruce; he never seems to see his own danger. I should be accustomed to seeing comrades hurt and inured to the potential consequences. I know, rationally and practically, that it is possible for Clark to be wounded. He is far too concerned with others' peril to pay attention to his own. I will never be able to watch him suffer and remain unaffected. Pain is so subjective that it is impossible for me to know how the experience of being hit with green Kryptonite compares to the suffering that humans face at the hands of more terrestrial terrors. He always seems surprised by pain. Vulnerable. At his worst moments, he is as human as he ever seems; the lost last son of Krypton. Why the Kents felt moved to take him in is all too clear. We've talked about it, but the language of sensation is not one Bruce shares readily. I am quite familiar with the ultimately human urge to comfort someone in extremity. What he feels is, as ever, concealed behind the sign of the Bat. The S-shield is, in such circumstances, misdirection at its finest. I wonder whether he feels it's fortunate I can read him despite his attempts. It takes the sort of knowledge that requires years to develop, and even now I sometimes doubt my assumptions. He is not invulnerable, anymore than he is, at heart, inhuman. If he were either, he would be a great deal less dangerous; his flaws would be clearer and it would be much simpler to neutralize him. His focus, however, is unmistakable, and though his patience is legendary, I know before he draws the breath that he is going to say my name. If he weren't wearing the cowl -- he would still be Bruce. Sometimes it is difficult to know how to address him when we are alone. He is not entirely Superman, and yet to call him Kal implies somehow more than Superman. The pallor of the Kryptonite has faded, and -- He says, "Clark," and he is still studying me. His smile seems almost involuntary. "Yes, Bruce?" "The Kryptonite's effects are long gone." He has notes on this going back years, but it still seems like a question. At least, as much of a question as Bruce will ever ask. "Long gone," he says, and his smile softens a little -- away from Superman, and into Clark. "You knew that." "Hm," he says, and he looks away from me -- the first time he has since I was injured, though I hadn't noticed until he turned his head that slight fraction. "Bruce," he says, and touches my shoulder. His hands are warm; that which absorbs solar radiation must radiate it in turn, in some form. "Its effects occasionally vary," he says, and this is more of a statement. More defensive. More Bruce. "Sometimes," he admits, "but this was pretty much standard." He nods slightly. If I did not know him so well, I would miss it. Clark chuckles. "If I didn't know better, I'd ask if you were still feeling the effects." It's been years since I believed Bruce's impassivity. I say, "I'm fine." He puts his arm around my shoulders, ignoring my tone entirely. He wants so badly to seem cold, but if that were his real aim, he'd do better to avoid having friends. I can feel the shift in his shoulders -- he's leaning into the touch, ever so slightly. Bruce has never learned to ask for what he needs. "Of course I am," I say, and he -- no. Yes, he squeezes my shoulders, for all the world as if I were a small child he had rescued. Clark's offers of affection are as unsubtle as his uniform. He means to comfort me. His cheek is rough with stubble when I kiss him. His lips are hot, and this is not comforting in the slightest. I turn toward him, shrugging his arm off. Bruce scowls at me as if that should be enough to frighten me away; the easiest response is to smile at him. "What's wrong?" The combination of powers and ingenuousness is dangerous. I want to shake him until he stops seeming so pleased with himself. "Clark." He hasn't taken so much as a step away. He's still close enough to kiss. Still, in his standoffish way, allowing -- no, asking for this. It is only too easy to give it to him. I touch his shoulder again and he takes a deep breath. Clark can hear what I mean before I speak, when he is listening. This should stop before it goes much farther, but he shows no inclination to let it -- or me -- go. "Yes, Bruce?" "Lois." Bruce has always had the most dangerous weapons of anyone, but sometimes he overestimates their effects. "We've met." When Clark is not entirely Clark, he frightens me -- but though my pulse is faster now, it is not precisely fear. "And?" "The next time you buy her flowers, don't forget to kiss her." Thinking of Lois's face when this happens -- and Bruce will not forget -- makes me smile again. She knows me well enough that this will not surprise her; there is little we have not spoken of. Clark's words give me pause. I have never had that quality of rapport and trust with someone, and it seems improbable that I will find a partner as suited to my personality as Lois is to Clark's. She's known I love Bruce almost as long as I've known it myself. But I have him. Bruce is tense, controlled, careful, until he has a plan of action. Then he puts it in play as quickly as humanly possible -- which is quite quickly, for him. Clark has the grace to gasp when I kiss him, as if it is at all surprising. It's nearly as gratifying as the warmth of his mouth and the way he moves to embrace me. Bruce's armor is heavy, and though I knew it intellectually before, now that I feel him pressing against my chest, I truly understand. There are so many layers that separate him from the world. Clark tastes like sunshine. It is a strange flavor for anyone but him. I can feel his breathing quicken and he pulls me closer -- not a gesture I would accept from most lovers, but with Clark -- "Take your armor off. Please." This is safe enough. Bruce's cape, like his breastplate, is denser than it looks. He peels back the cowl and I can see how flushed his cheeks are. There is something uneven about unmasking in front of Clark; his face is already naked, and yet it still hides so many secrets. I have to kiss him, and then do it again, while he unfastens the lower half of his uniform. He bites at my lips and says, "We don't all have superspeed." Clark laughs and tugs my leggings down around my calves. "If it came with superpatience, I wouldn't mind." I have rarely seen so much of Bruce's skin unless he was injured. Now -- he is scarred, yes, but healthy. I can strip off my boots and leggings almost quickly enough. The touch of his skin makes me shiver. I want to acclimate to the warmth of Clark's body quickly so that it can cease to surprise me. With every fresh touch -- his hand on my thigh, reaching between us -- I -- Bruce is moaning as quietly as he can. I can't help beaming at him. If Clark insists on gloating over every small victory, I'll have to fight back with all my resources. Bruce's hands are so strong and rough, enough that I can truly feel alive with him. Clark must be holding back some of his strength, but as I push into our fists, I can't imagine how much. I can't stop kissing him long enough to listen to the sounds he makes. I'll remember this for later, when I can think about it. Clark is shivering and moaning against my mouth. There will never be enough of this in my life. How anyone could think Bruce was cold -- How anyone could think Clark was simple -- "Bruce --" "Clark --" He's perfect. He's perfect. Bruce is breathing hard and resting his weight on me. I could stay like this forever. It's a good thing the Fortress has showering facilities. "I need to get back to Gotham," Bruce says, but he isn't pulling away yet. "I know," Clark says, but he hasn't stopped smiling yet. "Give me three seconds' warning, that's all," I say, and he chuckles, deep in his chest. "It will be longer than that before I can remember why I need to go," I admit. His lips are soft when he kisses me back. I haven't been this warm in years.
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