A fountain that vanquishes
by Te
June 24, 2007
Disclaimers: As per usual, everything belongs to others.
Spoilers: Nothing even resembling the name.
Summary: Clark is pleased with himself.
Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content.
Author's Note: Why yes, it *is* another sequel to One is
silver. I think I'm done now, though.
Acknowledgments: To Katarik, Petra, and naughtypixie,
all of whom provided much-needed help and company.
*
He feels... unseemly.
This is, of course, a product of his upbringing -- he has
learned, well, how to mark these things, so as to better both
appreciate them and deflect them, when necessary for one
reason or another: There is a non-specific crime against
society -- or perhaps against politesse in general -- in being
quite so pleased with oneself.
What shows from this, Clark knows, is the hint of a blush far
too many of the people in his acquaintance assume has
something to do with items caught by his superhearing. It's
annoying, but it would be far, far worse if they assumed it
had something to do with his x-ray vision.
His friends and loved ones have long since granted him the
benefit of the doubt for that power, and he is, of course,
grateful --
Better to overhear than to see -- this is a human (and mostly
Western) point of view which Clark has accepted within
himself. To the east, and far, far below:
"I don't know, little brother, but you have to admit
there's something soothing about the fact that he can hear
you all the time."
"Do I?"
"Yes," -- A scuffle, a muffled sound Tim would
undoubtedly wish would not be termed a squeak. "Yes,
you *do*."
"Because you say so."
"Because -- because I'm *right*."
"I -- all right," --
Tim's voice is more amused than conciliatory.
Clark is --
Yes, he's pleased with himself, and his upbringing -- for this,
at least -- can do with itself whatever it wants. He --
This is something he deserves, an earned right which does
not feel entirely dissimilar to the freedom humanity has
given him to cross and re-cross flight paths above and
around the earth. He is no invader, no matter the
circumstances of his arrival. He is one of their *own*.
Just as Dick and Tim... well.
Of course, they always would have worked well together,
and of course they were all but destined to be great friends,
but he's allowed -- he *believes* he's allowed -- to take
some small amount of credit for the speed at which they've
become --
"Another movie, Timbo?"
"Sure. I'll get the popcorn --"
"And I'll -- just because I like you very much -- leave you
space on the couch."
"That's quite big of you, Dick, especially since an eight foot
couch isn't nearly wide enough for the two of us."
"Are you calling me grabby?"
Another scuffle, and perhaps Dick is doing his impression of
Godzilla. Almost certainly, there's a part of Dick which is
smiling -- loving the sound of Tim's brief and honest
laughter, and perhaps feeling some variety of the sense of
victory --
No, victory is too harsh, too -- martial. It's far more
numinous than that, far more of a wordless sensation of
having been correct, and wanted. Clark has made Tim
laugh, too.
He's made Tim -- Tim has given him many precious things
and feelings, and allowed himself to be, if not led, then
perhaps... urged toward? Dick is often too wonderful, too
perfect and difficult to credit with something as knowable
as simple humanity. (As if that could ever be *simple* --
but, of course, he is an *outside* observer.)
Tim needed to be able to see him as another young man,
as extraordinary as himself, perhaps, if in different ways.
Dick had needed... something like the same thing for Tim.
It's far more difficult to define, as is only correct -- even
proper -- for a man like Dick.
("It's really nice to meet you, sir!")
It's --
There are things he could do -- many thousands of them --
which have nothing whatsoever to do with New York City.
Certainly, this sort of -- he doesn't, really, think of it as
matchmaking --
He ought to give Dick and Tim as much time as possible to
themselves, to learn themselves as they've given him time
to learn them. They haven't called. They don't...
"You know, kiddo, it will never cease to amaze me how
often you seem to think it will *work* to place obstacles
between yourself and my desire to -- cuddle."
"There was a different word in there, I think. Possibly it
started with 'mo.'"
"You're imagining things."
Fabric on fabric, a breath, a stifled laugh -- Dick has pressed
his face against... perhaps Tim's shoulder?
"I really don't think I was -- Dick --"
"Mm, do you mind?"
"I -- of course I don't. You --"
"I know, little brother. I know."
There's nothing, right now, that they need from him, but it
isn't a terrible thing -- after all, it allows him to believe he
*was* needed, once, and perhaps will be again.
Clark is, perhaps, a trifle infatuated with possibility. With
everything he can see, and hear, with everything he can
sense, with everything *he* can, if he puts some fraction
of his power to the task, *change*, there is a seemingly
infinite number of things which humanity can and does get
up to that have nothing to do with him, or with anything or
anyone other than itself.
Of course, many of those things are quite terrible, but...
He has learned -- he has been quite firmly and undeniably
*taught* -- that even terrible things have their uses. Whether
or not the man he's going to visit would agree is irrelevant --
how he would *smirk* to hear that argument! --
Bruce will never hear him say it. As opposed to:
"Bruce."
"I was wondering when you'd explain your presence."
And *how* recently did your alarms go off, Bruce? The
*games* you play... "I'm not sure if I *did* plan to explain
myself," Clark says, and flies a gentle spiral around a flock
of migrating geese.
"No...? Did it really seem the time for a social call, Clark?"
Never have two words ever been imbued with quite so much
menacing mockery. Not since the last time, anyway. But --
"God, you make me feel like I'm cheating at *life*,
somehow, little brother."
"You -- you wouldn't be implying that life's a game, would
you, Dick? Because --"
"Because giant, humiliating noogie heading your way...?"
"Hmm."
Closer -- if negligibly so, given his altitude -- Bruce has
begun lifting again. In truth, most humans wouldn't have
been able to hear the pause.
Perhaps Bruce assumes he's found something else to do --
there are so many things, and *yet* --
"I enjoy spending time with my friends, Bruce."
The grunt is only a response because of the timing. Focusing
on Bruce isn't precisely difficult for him (now, and won't ever
be again --) at this height. The difficulty is in deliberately
ignoring everything else.
That -- that will never be anything but... perhaps 'cheat' is
the best word. In any event, Bruce is stripped down to a
pair of shorts and nothing else, and there's a nagging sense
of strangeness to that, if not, precisely, a sense of tease --
there are parts of Bruce which do, in fact, think that way,
but Clark is reasonably sure Bruce wouldn't --
Ah. Clark understands why, and it's something -- it's nothing
for a conversation at a distance. "May I --"
"Is the alternative your continuing to torture my sniffers?"
Of course, distance provides the opportunity to indulge in
any number of impolite expressions... "I hadn't decided," he
says, and remembers a time when that particular tone of
voice was *only* mild, as opposed to the precise sort of
mild which tended to grant just the slightest narrowing of
Bruce's eyes.
"Hm," Bruce says, and, "I'm waiting."
No 'welcome' this time? It isn't that Clark isn't aware that
he'd hardly asked for one this time. It's just that there's
still a part of him which misses it. Still, it's an invitation of
speed --
And Bruce's shorts are loose enough at the thigh to provide
a ripple when Clark's wake hits. He isn't too close -- if he
were, Bruce's expression would be even less welcoming
than it is.
He -- Clark is more than close enough, of course, to note
every place where his fingers hadn't bruised, where he'd
controlled himself enough to keep himself from irritating
Bruce's skin with his tongue -- "I've never had difficulty
understanding why so many of the people in your life found
you painfully difficult to --"
"Clark."
"Of course," he says, more quickly than glib -- he hadn't
meant to bring that up. "I'm sorry, it's just..." Clark spreads
his hands and nods -- only a little -- toward Bruce's inspiring
expanse of exposed flesh.
"Are you honestly implying that you lack the professionalism
to deal with my state of *dress*, Clark?"
"One could say 'undress.'"
Bruce folds his arms over his chest. There is, of course, no
unnecessary flexion. Bruce has never needed to resort to
posturing... hm.
"I think I'd like to... are there photographs of you as an
adolescent?"
There's an impressive -- and impressively *brief* -- tremble
behind that eyebrow raise.
Clark has surprised him, to at least a certain extent. "You
can't always have been quite so... well."
"Did you want me to take a moment and oil myself, Clark?
Perhaps some posing?"
The images are, of course, that variety of ridiculous which is
designed to not just break tension, but batter it, whimpering,
to the ground. Clark is made of sterner stuff than that,
however: he tilts his head to the side.
Within several fantasies which Clark had not actually had
until this very moment, this is where Bruce wryly, arrogantly,
wonderfully suggests that Clark strip down to a similar state
of dishabille. For comfort. Professionalism.
Something of the sort.
Within reality, there is Bruce's carefully targeted sense of
*disappointment* and the turn of his shoulder. Which --
"*That* hasn't worked on me in years, Bruce. You're not that
much older than I am --"
"Of course not. My *apologies*. It's simply far too easy to
forget when you insist on behaving like an -- yes, *precisely*
like an adolescent, only --"
"I think you're being unfair to your partners, Bruce," Clark
says, and slips around until they're facing each other again.
And are slightly closer.
"An adolescent burdened with a surfeit of the puerile."
"Kiss me."
"No."
Moments like these are when it's most difficult to pretend to
any degree of humanity. A human wouldn't perceive the
tension in the arms which aren't -- at the *moment* --
reaching for him, and certainly wouldn't be able to *smell* --
it's absolutely outside the rules of their entire relationship --
certainly their professional one -- to glance down.
Bruce steps back.
Clark looks up again, plasters something like apology over
his features --
The clear and cold edges of the sneer in Bruce's eyes
suggests his efforts were entirely worthless. And --
"--Clark, I mean."
"Well..." Fabric on fabric, the minute sounds of muscle
shifting, stretching. Dick is almost certainly sprawling, now.
"'Well...?'"
"I didn't think you meant *Bruce*, little brother. He -- you
know Clark's not *going* to call, right?"
"He -- won't?"
Clark never would've imagined Bruce could become
irrelevant at a moment like this, but there's *hurt* in Tim's
voice, and it's *directly* related to himself, and he can't
possibly let --
The freedom within the subjectivity of time is one, now, of
brooding and *discontent*, to say the least. One of the first
lessons Bruce had taught him was how to ignore hurtful and
incorrect assumptions about himself, no matter how clearly
he could hear them, but he has never, never refused himself
the right to correct them with his loved ones.
His --
His other loved ones --
"Could it be that there *is* something useful you could be
doing with your time, Clark?"
Why can't Bruce call him 'Kal' every time they're alone?
And --
"Oh, no, no, *no*, little brother, it's not like that, I
promise."
"Then I -- I don't think I understand."
Icily polite formality, directed at no one but himself. Robin's
too *young* to punish himself that way, and if there are
pitfalls and moments of horrible farce within the designation
*of* 'too young,' that doesn't mean it isn't the truth --
"Clark, what *is* it?"
Irritation *and* worry within Bruce's voice, and that's
something to be worked with, used, and yes, perhaps,
manipulated -- Bruce has also taught him the value of being
hung for a goat as opposed to merely a sheep, but. "I --
right now --"
"*What*, Clark?"
"It's just that he doesn't want to push you. He --"
Dick's laugh is heartfelt, innocent of concern even *for*
his -- his little brother, and that's just not good enough.
Bruce's expression tells Clark that he's already taken to the
air, and perhaps that's enough of an excuse, however self-
serving. Had he done this to Dick? Dick hadn't *had* anyone
to talk to in those days, not about *him*.
Unforgivable --
He'd only wanted to make sure -- well, he *hadn't* wanted
to push, but it's still --
Unforgivable.
"No, listen, I'll talk to him --"
"I think that would be. I mean. The phrase 'fatal
embarrassment' comes to mind, Dick --"
"Didn't you ever pass notes in school?"
"To *whom*? I mean -- no."
"I -- right. Just -- *you* call him. And watch him show up in
seconds, or less, okay? Trust me."
He could be there. He could *prove* it --
Bruce's expression is an uncomfortable looking mix of
suspicious and concerned --
"Well... I... all right. If you say -- all right, Dick."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Yeah."
A slightly muffled clap -- Dick's hand on Tim's shoulder,
almost certainly. It's Dick --
Tim is almost certainly wrapped in warmth and acceptance
right now. It's as much as -- more, perhaps, than -- Clark
himself could offer. Clark sets his feet down again. "Sorry,
Bruce, I -- something of a... personal. Nature."
Subjectivity also gives him just enough time to wonder
which trap he'd walked into by choosing *now* to be quite
so circumspect -- it's different when it's his feelings, his
actions, his --
"Really," Bruce says, and --
It's not that he moves, or in any way shifts his position. It's
just that Bruce seems abruptly larger, and, oddly, far less
naked. Or possibly far less intriguingly naked. That's
desperately unfortunate, and more than worth a frown --
"Personal, Clark?"
"I -- well. It was about me," Clark says, and doesn't
begrudge himself the desire to hint at a future in which he
could, potentially, become affronted. It's certainly his *turn*
to cross his arms over his chest.
"Which," Bruce says, and seems quite prepared to leave it at
that --
It really is an inadequate question. Clark -- well, which
*what*? Clark *deserves* more detail than that, and it's
really only... it would be a gift to both courtesy and -- and
*clarity*.
"Which of them *was* it, Clark?"
Except that more is... more. He's long since -- it's not that --
He's not ashamed of the fact that he pays attention to the
people he cares about, and he's not ashamed of the fact that
Bruce *knows* it, so -- perhaps he stands a little straighter.
He doesn't glare -- there's less than no *point* with Bruce --
but he could be glaring, and so long as he knows that Bruce
knows it, this -- *attack* won't go anywhere. "You already
know -- I know you're perfectly aware that Dick and Tim
are spending time together this weekend." Clark lets his chin
jut.
When Bruce tilts his head to the side, the angle is
impressively minute, and gives a sense of a rather
implacable variety of precision. "And you decided to listen
to them discussing you."
"Well -- they -- it wasn't a decision, per se --"
"Per se."
This -- well, this may, possibly, *redefine* ridiculous. The
fact that Bruce feels the need to be this variety of predatory
doesn't change -- "You're the one who never *wants* me
to talk about my relationships with your partners."
"Perhaps -- I've changed my mind."
There is, as it happens, very little comfort in the fact that no
one in Clark's life could possibly blame him for finding that
statement frankly staggering. The fact of the matter is that
he'd been gaping for long enough that Bruce's smile is
triumphantly *mean* and, for that matter, he's *still*
blushing.
Correcting it would be just another victory for Bruce.
However.
Clark puts his fists on his hips.
Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.
"I *did* have a question for you, Bruce."
"Really. You *don't* feel an urge to... share?"
Ignore it, press on -- "This is the first time I've seen you
working out quite this -- casually in some time."
"We've covered that --"
Not by half. "In *fact*," Clark says, and deliberately places
one finger between Bruce's pectoral muscles. "This is the
first time you've done so, in my observations --"
"You never really *stop* 'observing,' do you, Clark?"
"-- since taking Tim in."
Clark's watching it for it, of course. The shift, the admission --
he knows the shape and heat of Bruce's flushes, now, but to
get one *here* -- he's ready for it.
He waits for it.
He --
"Did you think it was relevant?"
Dammit. "Do you shower with him, Bruce?"
"It hasn't been necessary."
Ha. "Was it really necessary with Dick, Bruce?"
The slight quirk at the corner of Bruce's mouth isn't entirely
(beautifully) involuntary, but it's acknowledgment of a point
scored, just the same.
It's not enough --
"Have you asked *him*, yet?"
-- of a point. "You're holding yourself back --"
"I haven't stopped you," Bruce says, starting to turn away
again, and it's also not enough that Clark is aware of Bruce's
increased heart-rate, of the flush that's still hidden beneath
all of those scars and -- *walls*.
"I want more," Clark says, and doesn't bother trying to coat
the surrender in anything else. As it is -- Bruce is certainly
calling it manipulation in his own mind, granting himself the
excuse to stop turning, to pause, there, on the edge of
offering something he'd doubtlessly consider comfort...
Well.
"Please," Clark says.
"Yes," Bruce says, and if the laughter behind the man's eyes
is supposed to be an acknowledgment of just how very
much he craves Clark's *capitulation*, it's rather weak.
If no weaker than the fabric and bristling thorns of
*personality* between them in the moments -- too many --
before Bruce lifts his chin enough for Clark to comfortably
cup his face.
His eyes are still laughing.
"Yes, Bruce?"
"I honestly expected you to -- tax me with Jason, again."
The image of course, is the one which has lingered,
unresolved, within his own mind for the better part of two
years, now: Jason, barely on his feet, staggering from either
the weight or the fact of Bruce's kiss. Both of Bruce's hands
on Jason's face, the two of them naked and freshly wounded
in a dozen minor -- to them -- ways, the steam of the shower
obscuring nothing from Clark's vision.
And Bruce is watching him remember, Bruce knows he's in
the process of remembering, and undoubtedly he has any
number of images and moments to supply -- no.
Bruce doesn't have enough.
"I would give him to you. If I could."
"It's one of the things that terrifies me about you, Kal," Bruce
says, and the laughter is still there, but it feels more, now,
like another wall to break. Or --
Perhaps it's just that now there's a question of whether or
not he *should* --
"-- Clark, this couch is finally starting to feel like mine,
little brother."
"I've begun to keep rarefied company," Tim says,
shifting, touching? Touching, yes, and the sound --
Clark forces his focus away, back. The two of them --
Bruce's eyes are narrow. "Don't."
"I -- it wasn't --" Dick called his *name* --
"I trust you," Bruce says, and it feels like the ground is
shifting beneath him, within him. That particular *color* of
humor belongs to Tim, as well. That thought doesn't belong
*here*, right now --
Clark steps back. "Perhaps I should --"
"What?"
The strange thing is that Bruce's step closer doesn't feel
either deliberate or even that variety of cruel Clark has come
to have proprietary feelings for --
"Why *did* you come, Clark?"
"To --"
He's cut off by nothing save for the smile creeping inexorably
out from behind Bruce's eyes, the steady lift at the corner of
Bruce's mouth. "Be honest."
"I --" Honest? Again? *Really*, Bruce? If it feels petty to let
himself at least *begin* to scowl, then it also feels like
something of a relief, like rescuing the tatters of his cape
after a particularly brutal battle, like straightening Clark
Kent's tie -- "I needed distraction."
"From my -- from Dick and Tim."
Your *what*? "Yes. They were... they seemed very happy,
and --"
"Past tense?"
Clark shakes his head, doesn't listen, doesn't reach --
"You -- *Dick* --"
"I expected you to go to them. I expected... well," Bruce
says, and there's something almost entirely human about
the smile on his face. It's -- broad and sly and shocking --
And pulled back into something infinitely safer -- not fast
*enough*. "Bruce."
"Yes?"
"There are still -- you're aware that sometimes young
women... lift their shirts..."
"Did I 'flash' you, Kal?"
Again, with *that* name --
It's a different sort of capitulation to just kiss the man, and
another to be kissed. Bruce's eyes are open and watchful,
Bruce's fists are around his wrists --
He lifts Clark's left hand to his own face and lets go -- he
keeps his hold on the other one --
"Ah -- I believe I -- I believe I've mentioned that I enjoy
being held down already, Dick --"
"Several times. Doesn't stop being *wonderful* --"
"Focus," Bruce says, biting Clark's lip hard enough to injure
the jaw of a lesser man.
"How --"
"I'm Batman," Bruce says, and Clark will never be able to
hear the man use that phrase without knowing that he's
laughing, however deeply hidden it might be.
"You're dangerous --"
"Of course." And this kiss is slower, but not gentler. If Bruce
isn't careful, Clark will bruise him --
("I trust you.")
Bruce is -- and Clark can hear yet another 'of course' --
leaving it to Clark to draw the lines. If Bruce has any
superpower, it's the ability to abdicate responsibility with the
force of a thousand --
Ten thousand --
It's another sort of shocking when Bruce releases the hold
he has on Clark's other wrist, or possibly it's a test, but --
Bruce is no less nearly naked than he was when Clark had
arrived. The sweat has long since dried on Bruce's skin, but
Clark can fix that, change that, touch -- yes. The adolescent
whose skin Bruce has accused him of wearing finds it
perfectly apt to slip his hand beneath the waistband of those
shorts, to cup muscle, stroke skin which was last soft
sometime when Clark had still thought himself merely a
different sort of human.
Smooth, curving -- Clark is hardly settling, and while Bruce's
thrust against him is far too precise to be flattering, it's
deliberate enough to make this -- more necessary than it
already was?
Is that what he's thinking?
It's difficult to be sure. There's no *surrender* here, this
time, unless it's his own. The first time, Clark had worn
*away* at Bruce. Now --
"Rip them off, Kal."
Quiet as a suggestion, infuriating as an order -- Bruce's
shorts are a strip of shredded cloth, and Bruce's teeth are
bared for --
For Clark's *tongue*, for his own teeth, and when Bruce
starts walking backwards, it's tease and invitation, a
welcome with sharp edges, hunger, something that tastes
like rage when Bruce is finally pressed against something
solid, something he can't move without more effort than
Clark plans on letting the man expend.
His hips are the same strange and wonderful machinery
under his hands as any could be, but stronger than most.
Bruce's hair is prickling at Clark's thumbs and Bruce's throat
is bare, exposed --
Bruce is laughing, low and heavy in his chest, his throat, but
Clark can stop him breathing with the force of a lick, and it
feels wonderful to do so, or perhaps he means maddening.
Perhaps --
They're at the Case.
They --
He has Bruce pressed against --
And this time, as, perhaps, he could've predicted, Bruce
doesn't save him from the smile. It's there, it's blatant, and
it's --
("I may not be able to fly or shoot laser beams outta my
eyes, but when you've got a tentacle beast problem? I am
*so* your man, Big Blue.")
"Jesus, Bruce."
Bruce narrows his eyes and lets his lips purse, slightly.
"Language, Kal. Young people look up to you."
"I've never --" Not in a graveyard. But --
Bruce's hand (hard, rough under carefully contrived surface
repair) is on Clark's mouth, but it's less a matter of hushing
him than of -- examination, caress, memorization.
"I -- I know what you taste like, now."
"Yes."
"Bruce, I... was this the way --"
Two fingers in his mouth, deft and implacable, salty, cool,
*human*. Clark licks, sucks, and surrenders again -- this
time to the urge to skip his usual habit of blinking at
something resembling human regularity. Bruce's focus is
on his mouth, the motion of his own fingers, and --
In this position, he can't really --
He can't really imagine *thrusting* against Bruce this way,
*here* --
Until he can. Until he has to, because Bruce lifts one of his
legs and curls it around Clark.
"I --" He can't speak with Bruce's fingers in his mouth.
There's a ludicrous profundity to the thought, a weakness
which works its way -- at speed -- to Clark's knees. He
keeps them from buckling and tries not to just --
He --
He tries a push, something of a grind. He feels his face heat,
but Bruce is already responding in kind, nodding his head.
This smile is small, honest, and even seems a little kind --
but that could just be the physical realities of stimulus. He
already knows he can make Bruce lose his focus, but...
Is the Case warm against his back?
Does it seem more welcoming than Clark's increasingly
permanent state of befuddled shock?
Bruce is too beautiful to be the man he is, and Bruce is far
too human like this. It's too much, somehow, to expect Clark
to be able to treat him, treat *with* him the way he does
with other soft, fragile bodies, tear-able skins, bruising
flesh --
He pulls himself back, and forgets that he's still holding
Bruce. He feels Bruce's minor stumble and cries out around
the fingers still in his mouth.
It feels like a gentling when Bruce pulls out, and the wash
of relief makes *him* stumble, want to stagger --
And then Bruce drops to his knees.
"Bruce, we -- you don't --"
"Should I seduce you?"
"I -- what?"
"Should I talk about how much I admire you? How grateful
I am for your friendship, for the rudeness you ignore, the
warmth of you?"
"Bruce --"
"Should I tell you I find you beautiful?"
The beautifully awful smile is back, but it isn't, truly, aimed
at him right now. The weapon of it -- he reaches down to
cup Bruce's face again, both hands, and feels Bruce
shudder --
"I know how *you* taste, Kal --"
"Bruce, *please* --"
"I know what you want. Do you know how long I've wanted
to give it to you?"
"Yes --"
"Then..." and Bruce's hands are steady on his thighs, rising,
and every time Clark forces himself to look, Bruce is
watching him, waiting for him. "Should I thank you for
saving me from my own... you know how possessive I can
be, don't you?"
"I do, Bruce, what -- what do you *want* --"
"Everything I can't have, Kal. You know that, too. But
sometimes my desires can be more... accommodating," he
says, and Bruce isn't moving as slowly as he could, but it's
hard to be that sort of fair in his own mind when it comes to
the sight -- the *feel* -- of Bruce tugging down Clark's
tights and shorts and wrapping one hand around his penis.
The squeeze is another staggering relief. Just -- the sense of
*completion*, the sense --
"Bruce, it feels -- it..."
"Tell me, Kal."
He can't. He isn't sure if he knows what all of himself is
talking about. He feels scattered, raw, *young* --
"-- you could, possibly, consider letting me shower by
myself, Dick. Just on the off chance that I can get
*clean* --"
"Where has the *love* gone?"
"Kal."
He's expecting anger, and perhaps he deserves it, but
Bruce --
"Tell me how it feels, Kal."
"I --"
"Or show me," he says, and the stroke is hard and sure,
easier than anything Clark could manage --
"You -- when you say my name, my other name --"
"Kal." Bruce presses his thumb against the head. "Put your
hands... put your hands in my hair."
"I -- I'm not sure I can just --"
"I am," Bruce says, and somehow it's become gentleness,
*care*, for Bruce to only smile at Clark from behind his eyes.
"Sure, that is."
His lovers have all --
Dick, certainly, and even Tim, in his limited experience --
Both of them, Clark thinks, would find something wonderful
in the sight of Clark's shaking hands, something they need
from him. He can't imagine, even now, Bruce needing any
such thing from him, but he's getting it, just the same.
Perhaps that's the shape of his own wariness, fear, and
*confusion*. Long before he was given the opportunity to
*kiss* Bruce, he could imagine Bruce needing just that. If
not from him utterly, than from him as a replacement, a
thing to take the position of both what was lost and what
was never fully *claimed* --
("I love you, Superman -- I mean, Clark!")
This is -- this feel of Bruce's scalp through his fingertips, this
position, this --
"Is this -- is this what you *need*?"
"Would it be easier if I said 'yes,' Kal?"
Bruce is too *quick*, too -- subjectivity has become
something alternately meaningless and confusing,
frustrating -- how could Bruce be observing him at enough
speed to know him so well?
How could he *ever*?
Is it even remotely relevant with his fingers curling in Bruce's
sleek, damp hair? This -- of course he could always do this
for Dick -- always, after he'd made Dick assure him a half-
dozen times that it was *exactly* what he wanted, but --
"Stop thinking," Bruce says, and the laugh is under it like so
much unsteady ground.
"You have to realize --"
"Would it help if you distracted yourself? Or perhaps I
should just..."
The sigh is too much, entirely worthy of protest -- until Clark
catches the smile again -- he's being teased. "Bruce, if you're
going to -- if this is --"
Bruce's hold on his penis and hip can never be as brutal for
him as it is for Bruce himself, but it works as a statement as
much -- if not more -- as his mouth on Clark.
As ever, there's the sense of unnerving cool, of leaving
himself open to something alien and dangerous, and, as
ever, he wants to laugh at that thought, but the desire
comes too late for him to do anything about it.
Bruce watches him as he sucks, as he *pulls*, and it's
impossible to place *this* within the category of something
they've done before, even though it is. It's far more
important now that they've only made love *once*, that that
was only a start, a tease, a --
Batman isn't *here*, now, even as goading suggestion,
and Clark is running out of thoughts to throw at this thing,
at the expression in Bruce's eyes which is becoming more
and more inner-focused. Another tease of subjectivity --
seconds don't pass before Bruce slips his eyes closed again,
before the pressure and *fact* of this become something --
Something --
Cupping Bruce's head is an act half-lost between necessity
and obscenity, pulling him closer and forcing more of
himself *inside* is thus merely reaction, or --
He is not --
He has never been *immune*, and of course he's never
wanted anything of the kind: a beautiful man on his knees,
hungry enough to simply *take* Clark -- hungry enough
*for* Clark to shed anything resembling inhibition or
pause.
This is something he's given himself and something he never
plans to be without. This is his chance at definition and
humanity, to share what he feels, everything he is --
Doesn't he have a similar form?
Don't his muscles and impulses work the same way?
Bruce --
"Oh, Bruce, I already -- I already know --"
Something, this -- Clark scratches at Bruce's scalp as lightly
as he can, and tugs on his hair somewhat harder than that.
The sweetness to this is only the same if he ignores where
he's getting, *how* he's getting it. Bruce has told him in
possibly every way he could that they're not alone here,
and that the quality of their -- company is specific.
If he thinks about anything other than the rhythmically
vicious scrape of teeth -- if he *can* think about anything
else, it's to wonder how the cold stone feels to Bruce's
knees, and if the foundation of the Case seems at all
welcoming against the pads of his feet.
He'd already known that this is one of the things -- the
*freedoms* -- Bruce had *taken* from Jason, and he would
give anything to know what Jason had taken in return, if
only, in this moment, to know if the rock of his hips is
correct, if it's as needful as it feels, as warming and perfect.
And --
There are things he can't *do*. He can't be on this *planet*
without losing some of his focus to the sounds of Bruce's
partners' breathing beginning to slow, without wallowing in
the tantalizing warmth of an embrace he can hear, a
friendship growing deeper and even, perhaps *despite*
Dick's use of the epithet 'little brother,' more familial.
"Oh, they're -- you -- Bruce you've given them room to be
*happy* --"
And he hadn't meant to make Bruce groan, but the sound,
the feel, the reality --
"I need *more* from you, now, I -- *please* --"
Another groan, and Bruce is -- *working* himself on Clark's
penis, pushing him -- pushing both of them --
"*Bruce* --"
The hand on his scrotum is teasing, testing -- gentle until it
*isn't*. Clark feels himself going rigid, looks down in time
to see the slick shine of Bruce's saliva on his penis, to see
Bruce go down, again and again --
When he accidentally pulls hairs from Dick's scalp, Dick will
often scream around him. Bruce grunts, low and powerfully
*male* --
Somehow the sound of his own cry is more relevant than his
orgasm. Until, of course, it's anything but the kind. Clark
closes his eyes --
Clark listens to the sound of Dick placing a dry, soft kiss
against Tim's skin --
Clark staggers at Bruce's *push*, effectual only for the sense
of how sudden it is, how cruel, how -- "I'm sorry," Clark says,
when he remembers how to make his muscles work.
Bruce -- wipes his mouth. And raises an eyebrow. "Are you?"
"Well -- you pushed --"
"Because I was hoping what you *were*... was 'just getting
started,'" and Bruce rises gracefully, powerfully to his feet
and -- it really is something of a *stalk*.
He could, of course, keep Bruce from grabbing him by the
penis again, but he hasn't the faintest clue of why he'd want
to. Still -- "How much is this going to change the way -- our
relationship?"
"Your timing is questionable," Bruce says into the skin of
Clark's throat.
"I can -- I'm willing to stipulate --"
Bruce's bite is pressure, scrape, signature of hunger --
"I do -- I think I need to know --"
"I believe Jay would have, at this point, referred to you as a
'chick,'" Bruce says, and kisses where he'd bitten.
"I'm comfortable -- with my masculinity. And I think I need
to --"
"I'll do everything in my power to see that it changes nothing,
Clark. At all."
This will always be a struggle, then? Perhaps it's the best he
can hope for. Perhaps he can simply --
The brush of Bruce's penis against him, hard, slick --
He surprises himself, somewhat, by lifting Bruce and flying
him to the exercise mats, by laying Bruce down and covering
him, kissing him -- surprise becomes inevitability when held
against the deadly *approval* in Bruce's eyes, against the
feel of Bruce's fingers twined in his own, pressed hard
against the mats. This is something...
This is not something he could do for hours at a time. Bruce
isn't that sort of lover and this isn't that sort of act -- not for
him. (Dick, yes. Tim -- he's not sure. There's something of
the febrile about Tim's sexuality, and there's no way to be
sure whether or not it's solely due to his lack of experience --)
There's comfort in the knowledge that he won't lose himself
to the thrust and push, the grind, the pleasure of simple
contact. This, at least, can be merely -- 'merely' -- physical,
something to wear down at the edges of Bruce's -- lust.
He's blushing again, and he will never again *underestimate*
the ability of Bruce's sexuality to stun him, break him from
his internal stride --
Every kiss is longer now, Bruce pushing himself until he's
breathless, until the counterpoint of his hips becomes
ragged --
"*Harder*, Clark --"
A demand for attention as much as act. Bruce *beneath*
him -- "Please tell me I can have more than this --"
"I'm still -- considering," Bruce says, and gasps, once --
It's terrible, it's beautiful, the Cave is too silent, almost
watchful, waiting -- has Bruce offered vulnerability in any
other place? How long has it *been*? It feels slightly more
transgressive than everything else to roll them until Bruce
is straddling them, and then to move Bruce's hips faster and
more evenly than he can manage --
"Kal."
Bruce's smile is savage, triumphant -- perfect when displayed
in concert to the shine of sweat on his skin, the dozens of
immediately visible scars, the broken field of dark hair on his
chest --
Bruce looks *barbaric*, and these are fantasies Clark is
absolutely sure he's *never* had.
Until, of course, Bruce ejaculates on Clark's chest. The sheer
number of times he's imagined *that* --
It is, perhaps, not the most comfortable sort of familiarity,
but it's enough that his smile doesn't feel as tremulous on
his face as it does from behind it.
Bruce tilts his head.
"Yes?"
"I'm considering whether or not I want you to penetrate me."
"Oh, I --"
Bruce's thumb on his mouth is, of course, a command. Clark
sees no reason whatsoever not to let everything he's
currently thinking, however, show in his expression. "In
retrospect, I should have perhaps chosen to be less than
honest..."
"What --"
Bruce presses the pad of his thumb against the edges of
Clark's teeth. "Not today."
Oh. Well -- "You're quite sure?"
The smile is wry. The finality, when Bruce stands, is
cripplingly absolute. Still --
"Not *today*, you said...?"
"Not today," Bruce says, and rolls his head on his neck before
stretching --
Really, there's something almost obscene about a man of his
size being that *flexible* --
Tim's breathing is perfectly even. He doesn't snore. The
'reflection' of sound -- Clark already knows that Tim tends
to sleep on his stomach, save for when he's having a
nightmare...
"*Which*, Clark...?"
"Er -- Tim. He's sleeping --"
"I didn't require elaboration," Bruce says, and moves until
he's looking down at Clark. His expression, now, is somewhat
roughly bemused.
Clark folds his hands on his chest. "I'm not the one who
changed the rules between us."
Bruce narrows his eyes -- stops. "And the fascinating thing is
that you honestly believe that --"
"It's --"
"Irrelevant, at the moment, Kal," and Bruce offers his hand.
Clark takes it, and uses the restoration of a proper sense of
time to consider -- and reconsider, and reconsider, and
reconsider again -- whether or not it would be worth it to pull
Bruce back down to him, or at least pull Bruce *close* once
Clark is on his feet...
Ultimately -- it's not the time. Clark stands, and settles for
squeezing Bruce's hand.
"You've given me -- you realize *I* can't go back?"
Bruce stares at their hands, raises an eyebrow -- another
smile. "Yes," he says, after enough time has passed for him
to make his own irritatingly *controlled* point. "You should
go."
To New York? Probably not, no matter how much -- he
could warm them both, love them...
"Clark."
"Kiss me?"
"Hm." But Bruce cups Clark's face with his free hand just the
same, and kisses him -- lightly -- on the mouth. "Let me
finish my workout."
"I'd never dream of interrupting -- again."
Clark drinks in the amused disapproval, the sense of himself
as something reckless and strange --
And then he dresses himself -- somewhat -- properly, again,
and flies.
None of them call him -- or call him *back* -- but Clark can
be patient.
end.