S I M I L A R I T I E S
But there were moments of perfect clarity, when he … understood the Batman.
There were some traits of Batman that Bruce Wayne didn't have a monopoly on.
Over the years, the Dark Knight had worn off on Superman. While the Man of Steel would always be Earth's greatest protector, always the defender of the truth, always the bright and shining hero, there were moments, unseen by the public eye, where Superman borrowed pages from his grim counterpart's book.
The Fortress of Solitude was a castle of crystal, refracting sunlight so that the interior was as bright as noon even during the long arctic winters. Within, Superman was surrounded by his source of power. The light displayed his motivation clearly as well, the pure spring of his drive.
In the same way, the Batcave reflected its owner's personality. Dark and somber, intimidating and regal. Lit with the eerie glow of monitor banks, scattered with the crouching forms of black-painted vehicles. Soaring stalactites reached for the ground with the grace of cathedral arches. Shadows and long-ago grief, untarnished by the years, tempered in the furnace of a brilliant man's rage. If Bruce Wayne had been gifted with a happy childhood, he would have become known as one of the greatest men on his time, because Batman's mind, sharpened with training, was an incredible, incredible thing, destined for greatness.
They were so different, Batman and Superman, and sometimes Kal-El simply couldn't understand Bruce. Couldn't wrap his mind around the deep rage which drove him, a mere human, into the darkness night after night after night. Couldn't begin to comprehend his eternal stoicism and strength, couldn't grasp the apparent ease in which he shrouded himself in deception.
But there were moments of perfect clarity, when he felt as Bruce felt, did what Bruce did, and understood the Batman.
The Batcave was usually very quiet, even by Superman's standards. The quiet chittering bats or the subtle simmering of chemicals and occasional clicking of keyboards were often the only noise, because Batman breathed and moved silently, even in the security of his lair.
Such was not the case on the morning of December third,(1) when Clark entered the grotto.
It surprised him, because it was so unusual, and because it was so utterly unexpected.
The stone chambers resounded in classical music, piano and violin and a thousand other instruments singing in perfect, tragic harmony, echoing off the stone during brief silences before rising in lament again. The strings wept, the flutes wailed, and the tympani rumbled sorrow, and it almost took his breath away. Every monitor was off but the largest one, centered over the workstation. This screen displayed a hazy candid photo of the Waynes, taken mere days before their death. Their smiling faces shone down over the cave where their son's lost soul dwelt, over the mission which was born in their death, over the darkness which had consumed his life.
Even with his super senses, it took Clark Kent a moment to locate the solitary figure of Bruce Wayne.
There was a tall stalagmite in the center of the cave, well over thirty feet, and flat on top, about three feet in diameter. He sat atop it, cross-legged, his perch setting him at eye level with the larger-than-life images of his deceased parents. He wore the garb of the Batman, save for the mask, his face exposed, but this was not Batman. Every other time Clark had seen him in the cave, masked or unmasked, he had been distinctly Batman, but this was Bruce Wayne. Not Brucie, billionaire playboy, not Batman, Gotham's dark defender, but Bruce. Bruce who had lost his parents, Bruce who was wounded to the core, Bruce who never showed any visible sign of mourning.
Until now.
The music grieved for the man who refused to cry, and Bruce Wayne sat alone in a dark cave, eyes lost in memory, lit with the cool glow of the monitor, and the dead Waynes smiled at their silent son.
Superman cloaked himself in the shadows, and was silent.
Superman had been angry before, but he'd never understood the consuming, protective, deep rage which drove Batman.
He had come to Gotham to deliver some useless bit of something-or-other, quickly forgotten. But when he arrived in the city, he couldn't find Batman. He wasn't in the cave, nor the manor, and a quick check of Gotham's most notorious criminal hangouts turned up nothing. He finally hunted down Commissioner Gordon, who revealed that Batman had mentioned something about a gang on the lower east side. Superman offered his thanks before flying over. With super-vision and -hearing, he searched the alleyways from the sky. The dull thuk of flesh hitting flesh attracted his attention, and he immediately darted to the source of the sound. The easily recognizable red and blue of his uniform sent the ten men in the alley running, leaving their victim crumpled and discarded on the dirty ground. Superman almost ran after them, but his inhuman hearing detected the faltering heartbeat of the fallen man, who he'd missed at first glance, and he restrained himself. Helping the injured was the first priority.
The figure was so grimy and bloodstained that it took Superman a moment to register who it was, but when he did, he moved faster than he ever had before.
"Br-Batman," he hissed urgently, scanning for broken bones with x-ray vision. He found far too many for his liking, but none that would be permanently damaging if he was carried gently. Delicately, as though the man was made of fragile china instead of hard but bleeding muscle, the Man of Steel lifted the Dark Knight like a small child, cradling his awkwardly large frame in strong arms. Seeing the ashen tone of his visible skin, the dark red blood spots marring his uniform, the tremors that shook his broken body, and hearing the strangled whimper as he was picked up, Superman became angry. Potent rage filled him, and he wanted to hunt down and kill the men who had injured his best friend.
He didn't. He flew, a red-and-blue-and-yellow-and-bloody-black blur, to the Batcave, (because wounded or not, dying or not, Bruce would kill him if he took him to a hospital) and laid Batman down on the stainless steel table of the Batcave's fully stocked, ever-ready medbay. As he turned over the young billionaire to his highly competent butler, he forcibly turned his mind away from what he would do if Bruce had been killed by those punks.
Bruce pulled through, was back on the streets barely a week later, Alfred fruitlessly begging him to stay abed. The Dark Knight never brought up that night, but the Man of Steel never forgot about it. And every time they battled some super powered megalomaniac, Superman watched Batman with some small, protective corner of his mind, because that night, in that bloody alley, he'd sworn "never again," and he would do whatever it took to keep his friend safe.
The boy was only one of many.
He was wailing, alone in the wreckage left by the titanic clash of two god-like forces. The JLA was overrun with distress calls, only Superman and Batman present at this site, the team strewn across the planet, aiding cities wounded in the world's most recent fight for survival. Superman couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around the death count, but he knew it was at least in the thousands. The air reeked of blood. Tottering over the remains of skyscrapers, the child shrieked for his parents. Floating easily over the fragments of concrete, Superman lowered himself to eye level with the child. Scooping the boy into his inhuman arms, the Man of Steel made soothing noises. The toddler shook in his hold, sobs wracking his pudgy frame. "Mama-Dada-" he whimpered. Superman smoothed his messy blonde hair, making eye contact with the Dark Knight, who stood, statuesque, atop a small mountain of warped I-beams and cinderblock. He saw the empathy in deep blue eyes, and murmured into the child's ear.
"It's okay. It's going to be okay."
But he had not broken eye contact with Batman, and he knew, looking into the eyes that had witnessed the murder of his own parents, that it was not, and would never be, okay. But the lie was all he had, all he could offer, and he could only hope that the deception would protect the child from the horrible truth of the world.
He looked away from the Dark Knight, and continued to whisper his lie.
(1) As far as I know, this is NOT the anniversary of his parents' death, just a random day.
So…I really have nothing to say, except go read "Clarity: Symphony" and review!