This is me trying to catch up with all my fics on AO3 lol, so I actually wrote this last year, I'm just really behind on getting them all set up here too
Bruce used to wonder if he really would burn, were he to stick his hand into a fire.
Used to wonder if he had enough left within him to feel. In that dark chasm inside him.
He has lost years before, he knows. Succumbing to darkness. To violence. To rage.
To a slow, lurking cold in his bones. In his heart. Justice corrupted by his own demons.
He had lost control.
The blood of his son, the laughter of death. Bones broken into a million splinters of pain- all a cry to his failure. A reminder of how he could never take it back.
Like the old memory of shining white pearls falling, one by one. Falling to scatter onto gravel. Rolling away, their beauty lost.
The distant fire of a gun.
A young boy's scream.
Running...
Falling...
Flying...
So he watches the flames flicker in shadowed places and wonders.
Until the world begins to change around him.
People believing in gods who are not gods. War coming to the streets and cities of the world.
Empires colliding.
And the god who is not a god emerges, alive, from the ashes.
Then he meets her.
Slowly, a fragile truce begins to form.
And then he finds out that no, fire does not burn. LIGHT , does not burn.
It purifies.
It washes away the dark stains on your soul, cleanses the river of your regrets. Helps you to open your eyes and become YOU again.
To see the path laid out before you with clear sight.
To follow your calling again.
To come back to your strength. Your ambition.
To save people.
Not harm them.
He remembers who he is.
What he stands for.
And he is no longer alone.
The stars over Gotham are dim, unable to compete with the glow of a city that never fully sleeps. He can see it all through the window of the Manor's dining room- the cold glass a mirror into the velvet of the night outside.
It is rare for Bruce to be home on a night like this- breath smoky with bourbon, ice rattling in his glass like knucklebones.
Even rarer for him to be alone.
Not that it will last for much longer, Bruce allows with a small wry snort... It's only a matter of time before Clark gets home from work, or Alfred decides he's done tinkering with oil stained fingers down in the batcave. Either one would be welcome, he realises with some amusement. He wonders when exactly he came to depend on family to this extent.
To the point where it is okay to send Clark a text saying, 'I miss you', when he's gone on a job. Okay to tell Alfred on the rare bad days that, no, he is not okay, but he will be. In time.
To reach out to Dick and ask him how he is going. To feel a warmth splutter to life in his chest when his son's voice lights up at the call. How he says "It's good to hear from you, Bruce."
He comes back to himself with a start as a sound makes itself known. A scratching rap, which becomes all to clear in the next moment, because Clark is hovering outside the window, tapping on the glass with one finger, a shit-eating grin on his face.
It doesn't even surprise Bruce anymore.
"I told you to use the door," he says flatly, corner of his mouth twitching as he struggles to hide a smile.
Clark's eyes are impossibly blue, shining like gemstones against the black curls of his hair. He's in the suit, hovering in front of the glass, and his crimson cape ripples in waves on a phantom breeze. He tilts his head, crossing his arms.
"Isn't it a bit early to be drinking, B?" he asks, voice muffled by the glass- his small curved fangs, one kryptonian attribute Bruce still is not quite clear on the use of, flashing in the light bleeding from the dining-room.
"It's almost nine," grouses Bruce, downing the last mouthful of his bourbon. "I'm a grown man, I drink as I please."
Clark smiles, soft and sweet, and Bruce's fingers itch to run through his curls, to hold him close.
"You going to come in?" he asks, setting the glass down.
"Yes, boss," teases Clark, before dropping out of sight. It takes him a full five minutes to wind his way though the manor to Bruce's side, the cape whispering on the stone beneath him.
The taller man slides an arm about his waist, pulls him to his side, and Clark goes willingly, one hand falling to cover Bruce's.
"Rough day?" murmurs Clark.
"Better now you're here," Bruce admits.
Clark pulls him down into a kiss of tender sweetness, and Bruce feels like he can breathe again. He's here. He's here and he's safe and... and he's staying.
"...Love you," Bruce whispers, almost too soft for anyone to hear. Anyone save for Clark.
Clark, who smiles back and says, "Love you too."
When Clark hits the ground beside Diana, he starts to scream.
And the lightning forks a blinding pulse overhead to the drumming of thunder as the portal sears red, like a gaping wound, and more and more of the monsters come flying out of it. It's just like the nightmare- except this time, Bruce isn't dreaming.
This time, it's real.
Bruce thinks he will never be rid of that scream. Of the cry from a man unused to pain. Of suffering.
Of the way Clark's back arches, his leg cut open down to the bone.
There is no blood.
But of course... Bruce already knows that Clark does not bleed.
"Father..." says Damian, looking up from his cereal. His son's face is still, thoughtful.
"Yes?" Bruce finishes knotting his tie, and turns to gaze at the small boy sitting alone at the long table.
He looks so fragile.
Sometimes it makes Bruce's heart seize, and he finds his breath cut short. The fact that he is responsible for this child. His son...
He's not the best role model. He knows that... but he's trying. Lord knows he's trying.
"Is there something wrong with me?"
Before Bruce can try to ask what the hell that is supposed to mean, he hears the hall door swing open.
And of course it is Clark- his gait twisted with that limp, his eyes sparkling like the ocean under sunlight, fangs glinting in the sun as he yawns. His curls are a mess, shirt inside out. Bruce is tempted to flick at the tag sticking out of his collar, but forgets to when Clark presses a warm kiss to his cheek.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hi," says Bruce, dry.
Clark makes as if to vanish into the kitchen, then stops and turns to face Damian. "What were you saying?"
Damian doesn't look bothered by the interruption. He pushes his cereal away and says, again, "Is there something wrong with me?"
Clark darts a confused look at Bruce, as though he might know what's going on. Bruce ignores him, instead drawing up the chair opposite their son. Clark comes to lean on the back behind him, breath warm on Bruce's neck.
"Can you explain?" asks Bruce. And god, he's trying, alright? He's doing the best he can.
Somehow, it's always different with Damian. Maybe because he's not adopted. Maybe because Bruce had not even known he existed.
Maybe because Bruce had held him in his arms as he watched the boy's mother drive away. Had felt that tiny hand wrap around his thumb.
Fuck, he's tired.
Damian's brow wrinkles. He's far to serious for a seven year old. "All the other children at school..." he says, slowly, "They... they think so slowly. I cannot understand them, father. It is as if they are stuck in a state of development far younger than they are supposed to be."
"Maybe it's just you that's faster, Damian," says Clark gently.
Bruce could kiss him. He often wonders where they would be without Clark's steady, kind, gentle presence... and always feels gloomy when he does.
"But why am I so different?" demands Damian. "That is what I am trying to tell you! I know everything they try to teach us! I have read nearly a third of the books in Father's library... What they are making us learn... I know it all."
He doesn't sound angry. Just confused. Perhaps even a little sad.
"You prefer teaching yourself?" Bruce can smell coffee drifting from the kitchen. Hear someone moving about. Probably Alfred. Waiting for them to finish this discussion no doubt.
Damian frowns, thinking. "I do not know. Maybe..."
Clark finally gives up on standing and sinks into the chair at the head of the table, between Bruce and Damian. He stifles another yawn, the wedding-band on his ring-finger gleaming gold, then says, "You know, at your age it's alright sometimes to not to know what it is you want."
Damian sighs. "I know that, dad, but-"
"If I might interject," comes Alfred's British tone, wry as usual, as the older man appears with a mug of steaming tea, "I can always tutor Master Damian here at home if he so wishes. I am quite sure we can find somethings that he has yet to learn."
Damian's face gradually lights up, like a sunrise. "Really? Would you do that? It would not inconvenience you, Alfred?"
"I mean, I can offer a hand," says Clark, because he is far too good for any of them, lest of all Bruce.
"Nonsense," says Alfred with a wave of his hand. His dark eyes flash with what Bruce wants to swear is mischief. "If I need help, I'll ask for it."
Bruce smirks. "If you say so, old man."
Clark coughs a laugh into his fist as Alfred gives Bruce a look that could shrivel a lesser man.
Clark heals, slowly.
He rests, lets the others do the fighting. And before long, he is walking. Or, perhaps limping is a better word...
The starburst of torn flesh along his ribs heals into a constellation of small sliver scars, hard to see unless you knew exactly what it was you were looking for. The bruises from Steppenwolf's fingers fade and vanish like old watermarks.
And for a while, they all think he's going to be alright.
But his leg doesn't heal like the rest if him. Not the limp, not the dull echo of pain when the air cools in the winter, not the ugly, twisting scar- stretching from just above his knee to his ankle.
Clark is luckier than most: he can fly. The damage doesn't affect him as badly as it would a human.
But still.
Bruce was the one who brought him to the fight.
Bruce was the one who put him in harm's way.
Dark thoughts like these are bouncing around inside his head one evening when Clark finds him at the Batcave monitors.
"It's not your fault, you know."
Bruce can't look at Clark, because despite how much he wants to believe that... he knows it's a lie.
Bruce does not want to live a lie.
"Yes," he says, softly. "It is."
Bruce doesn't think he will ever get used to waking up beside Clark.
Of the way the Kryptonian's face lies still and serene, his dark curls framing his face. Of his warmth.
How he holds Bruce close as though he is something special- something worth keeping.
It almost makes him guilty to think of this wonderful man being with him when he knows he doesn't deserve Clark whatsoever.
But he never says anything. Even if he knows that it makes him selfish, but is he really to blame for it? After all the people he has lost... is it really so bad to want to keep Clark close.
To keep him safe?
"Who's his mother?" Clark asks one day, watching Bruce knot his tie with a small furrow on his brow. They have been married almost six years now... and sometimes Bruce still fears that, one day, Clark will see through him to the darkness in his soul and leave him in a flash of red, blue and gold.
He hasn't yet. Bruce hopes he never will.
"Damian?" Bruce flicks his eyes to the kryptonian's, the reflection in the mirror leaving a sheen of secrets in his dark irises.
"Yes."
Bruce sighs. "Talia al Ghul."
Clark looks startled, not disapproving. "As in TALIA, Talia?"
Bruce nods. The thought hangs like a storm cloud over him as Clark frowns.
"How-"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"... I've tried. Nothing's working."
Clark's leaning on the railing of the Manor's balcony, watching Damian throwing sticks for Titus to fetch on the green below.
Bruce can see it too, from his position at the open window. The boy claims to be above such things as petty fun, yet when no one is looking... he softens. Eases. As though is is afraid to be a child.
Clark says, "Jason... maybe you two just-"
"If you say we need to 'talk it out' I'm fucking hanging up on you, Clark, I swear to god."
Bruce can hear the whole conversation. And maybe he feels slightly guilty for the fact that he's standing close enough to make it happen, but it's been so long since he heard Jason's voice... to know he's okay is a weight gone off his chest. And it's not wholly his fault: Clark has the phone on speaker.
It still amuses Bruce that, despite his super-human hearing, Clark sometimes misses the most mundane things.
Like the fact that Bruce is a mere three meters from him, dropping eves through an open window.
"I have nothing to say to Bruce," snaps Jason, voice sharp over the speakers. "And if you mention him again, then I might start thinking the same of you, too."
Clark sighs, but says softly, "I'm sorry, Jason. What were you saying?"
Jason grunts. He's quiet for a while before saying, "I just... needed someone to talk too... someone I can trust."
And Bruce's heart breaks like a mirror falling to the stone.
GOTHAM TIMES
Weddings column:
Bruce Wayne to Clark Kent, Sunday May 14th.
The ceremony will take place at noon in the chapel, with both families standing by. A reception will follow in the south wing's event room, for Invites only.
*
Excerpt from the GOTHAM TIMES ONLINE JOURNAL, written by Jessica Strauer, 16th of December:
— On my way to the town hall, I managed to catch Clark Kent-Wayne on his way to the Daily Planet. He insisted I call him Clark, and refused to comment on his 'personal life' but has confirmed that both he and Bruce are happy together, along with their young son, Damian Wayne.
One cannot say the same for all of Brucie's fancy friends: with the billionaire having withdrawn from the nightlife of his former haunts, the question comes to light of how exactly has Clark managed to tame the formerly wild and salacious playboy.
"I haven't tamed anyone," says Clark, looking amused. "I suggest you ask Bruce if you want details."
I inquired about his injury, seeng as he seemed to be limping rather severely. I can imagine the cold weather does little to help. Clark merely gets a distant look in his eyes before finally saying, "It's not really bothering me anymore."
"This is a stupid game," mutters Damian, scowling as Dick pauses in his miming of what Bruce had been sure was a bird of some sort.
"Charades is a classic!" Barry protests, from where he's curled on one of the couches, half under a blanket. His fingers are twitching but his head is nodding- eyes fluttering closed. It's an endearing look on him- and Bruce is suddenly reminded of just how young he is.
Sometimes he forgets.
Though, in all due fairness, it is nearly midnight.
Clark smiles and tosses the speedster a pillow, Barry jolting in surprise before tucking the offering under his head and mumbling a barely coherent, "Thanks, Supes."
Diana is in the kitchen with Alfred, probably helping him clean up the remains of a rather late dinner, and Victor and Arthur excused themselves for their seperate homes long ago. Yet, the Manor is warm with the sense of family. Bruce lets out a sigh, leaning back against the sofa, Clark's fingers sliding through his hair.
Dick laughs as Damian protests Barry's statement, but the speedster is fast asleep- small sparks of blue electricity flickering in his hair. Titus barks loudly, probably echoing Damian, and Bruce has to hold in a laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him. He contents himself with a smile instead.
Then he remembers what he had overheard earlier that week, and his heart saddens. It's easier not to look at Clark when he says, "I... caught you speaking to Jason..."
Clark sighs, his voice almost... resigned as he says, "I'm half tempted to just lock the two of you up in a room and wait for you to talk it out..." He curls up beside Bruce, tucking his head of soft curls under Bruce's chin. "Feel like you'd probably kill each other though."
It's a fair evaluation. At least, for Jason. Bruce would never initiate blows between him and his son, no matter the anger he felt.
Clark hums softly against the hollow of Bruce's throat before settling into the curve of his side. "Give him time, B. He'll come around."
And it hurts, but somehow... Bruce knows it's not a lie when he says, "I know."
"Clark," says Bruce, and the wind is cool on his face, the salt of the air sharp on his tongue. They're by the bay, the sea spray fogging up Clark's glasses, and he has to take them off to look at Bruce.
That's when Bruce gets down on one knee. And he doesn't care if people walking past recognise him. Doesn't care that the stone is digging into his knee like a bed of pins.
Because he only has eyes for Clark. Sees how his blue eyes stretch wide in surprise, his mouth a small O of surprise.
"I know there are better men to love..." says Bruce quietly. "Men who deserve the kind of person you are far more than I ever will... but Clark, I'd like to be that man. If you'll let me."
Clark is crying now, shining tracks of silver that shimmer on his cheeks. But he says nothing, one hand fisted over his heart as if the words were hurting him.
"I... I can't imagine my life without you," Bruce admits. "And it's not for lack of trying. I'm not a selfish man, but God, I need you like I need air..."
Clark takes a shuddering breath, and Bruce says,
"Clark Joseph Kent... will you marry me?"
Then Clark is kneeling opposite him, taking his face in his hands, and all he says is, "Bruce, I don't WANT better." And he's kissing him: fevered, as though he is scared that Bruce will vanish. As if he would ever have the strength to leave Clark. And Bruce kisses back, knotting his hands in Clark's dark curls, dragging his teeth over his lower lip.
Because he's here. And he's real.
The ring Bruce slides onto Clark's finger is as golden as the sunset that halos them in its light.
Like hope.
