SquidgeWorld Archive

"To understand that man in the cape who could flyâ€"all I needed to know was Clark." ("A Superman for All Seasons," Jeph Loeb)

Clark Kent adjusted his rather crooked tieâ€"making it more crookedâ€"and walked into the glittering ballroom. Crowds of Metropolis's finest thronged around him, chattering and laughing. A string quartet played in a corner. Waves of noise and activity surged around him, making it impossible to locate the person he was looking for. Once he would have been able to pick that heartbeat out from the crowd without even thinking. He wondered, as he had wondered so many times in the last week, when his powers would come back. "When," not "if." When.

Eventually he caught sight of his target, in the center of a group of laughing people: Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. He was wearing a tuxedo and holding a glass of champagne, gesturing with a graceful hand while telling a story that had the sparkling people around him in stitches. His face was carefree and perhaps a bit simple; an easy smile came and went across it. He looked as if he was having the time of his life. One of the laughing men reached out and tousled Bruce's hair the way you might an adorable puppy, condescending and friendly. Not a flicker of resentment, not a trace of irritation showed on Bruce's face, as he gave an "aw shucks" shrug and grinned sheepishly. A hand that could dislocate a shoulder or disarm a bomb draped lazily across one giggling woman's shoulder, and he whispered something into her hair that made her blush.

Clark found himself frankly staring. If he didn't know better, he never would have guessed that this pretty, vapid...boy was one of the most dangerous men in the world.

A man came up to Bruce and whispered to him, tugging on his arm a bit. Bruce disengaged from his crowd of admirers and walked to the dais?taking up a microphone. His eyes scanned the audience, passing over Clark without a hint of recognition. He started to speak and the microphone squealed feedback. Everyone laughed, and the Wayne scion pulled a comic grimace before continuing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may be wondering why a Gotham boy is here in Metropolis, raising money. I'm not very good at making speeches..." He tilted his head self-deprecatingly and ran a hand over the back of his head in embarrassment, "...but Superboy did more than just save Metropolis; with his heroic actions he saved all of us. If it had not been for Superboy's sacrifice, this entire world would have ceased to exist, and all that we love about itâ€"all of its life, all of its laughter--would have perished in the dark and the void." Bruce's light, pleasant voice had darkened just a shade, just enough to evoke Batman's voice for Clark, who found tears suddenly stinging his eyes. He bowed his head to better listen to his friend's voice. "Superboy was never an idealist, and he didn't die for an idea, he didn't die for something abstract like truth or justice. He died for people. He died saving the people he loved, and all the people of this world. That's something we can all learn from Superboy: that as powerful as ideas are, in the end what matters are the people we love." Bruce paused and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted back up into the light, clear register of his persona. "So I mean, I figured, gosh, the least I could do was try to raise money for a statue to honor him, right? And folks, any money we raise in excess tonight will go toward Metropolis hospitals, to help children with long-term injuries from the recent conflicts, so please do give generously!"

The room filled with warm applause, and Bruce Wayne grinned, made a small, self-mocking bow, and stepped down. Before he could find his way back to a clump of people, Clark intercepted him, holding out his hand. "Thank you for your words tonight, Mr. Wayne," he said as they shook hands cordially.

Bruce smiled pleasantly at him. "It was the least I could do, Mister...?" He raised his eyebrows and waited for Clark to finish the sentence, the very image of a friendly but somewhat bored rich boy meeting a rather rumpled stranger.

Clark couldn't help smiling just a bit. "Kent. Clark Kent. I work at the Daily Planet."

"Ah! One of my employees, then." Just the barest edge of a wolfish smile touched Bruce's lips, but Clark immediately felt more comfortable. "I hope you're enjoying working for me?"

Clark allowed his voice to become just the slightest bit ironic. "It's an honor, sir." He met Bruce's steel-gray eyes steadily. "Seriously, thank you for what you said in your speech. I...I did a lot of stories on Superboy and I felt I knew him well. He was a...a good kid." He swallowed hard.

Bruce could probably tell he was having a hard time with the persona, because he reached out and gripped Clark's shoulder tightly, steering him slightly toward a large set of French doors. His voice remained careless and callow. "You knew him personally? Wow, I bet you have some amazing stories about him. Would you tell me a few in return for my work here tonight?" As Clark nodded wordlessly, he found himself guided out onto an empty marble balcony. The noise from the crowd faded a bit behind them, to his relief. The skyline of Metropolis stretched out in front of them like jewels. He put his hands on the cool white rail of the balcony to compose himself. It was warm for January today, but breeze was still cool enough to be bracing and to dry his eyes.

"How are you doing?" Batman's voice came from beside him. He looked over and was oddly startled to find the handsome face of Bruce Wayne looking back at him. They so rarely interacted out of costume, he hardly knew what Batman actually looked like. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he looked more closely, and he reached out suddenly to brush his fingers across a small scab on Clark's cheekbone. "What's this?"

"It's no big deal. I cut myself shaving. I find myself out of practice."

"You cut yourself. Shaving." Clark had no idea why this information seemed so serious to Bruce; Batman knew full well Superman had come out of the latest crisis with no powers. Bruce's fingers briefly touched three other spots on Clark's jaw. "You also missed a few spots, I see. You are out of practice."

Clark flushed, discomfited by the continuing confusing spectacle of Batman's voice coming from that blandly good-looking face. Not to mention getting grooming advice from either Batman or Bruce Wayne. He must be a sight, too; Bruce looked slightly nauseated just looking at him. As Bruce pulled his hand back, Clark found himself amazed at how soft that ungloved hand had been. Of course, a billionaire playboy doesn't have the hands of a fighter; Bruce must spend a lot of time making sure his hands didn't become calloused. Seeing Batman without his mask, without his gloves and armor...it was very disorienting. Clark wasn't sure if he liked it or not, but he was suddenly sure that he had liked having Bruce Wayne's strangely gentle hands on his jawline. But Bruce had moved back a couple of steps and turned to look out over Metropolis, away from Clark, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"If it's my turn to be serious, Kon died saving Dick. I'll always owe him more than I can ever repay. If Dick had died..." Bruce's voice trailed off and he studied the stars for a while, his profile silhouetted against the lights of Metropolis. "I meant every word of that speech. That the people we love are more important than any ideal. I think I've forgotten that sometimes." He turned back to Clark, met his eyes squarely. "I'm sorry for that." He was all Batman about the mouth and chin as he said it, and Clark knew how hard such admissions came to the man. Without really thinking about it, he reached out and clapped Bruce on the shoulder.

"We all forget it sometimes. We all get reminded of it, too." For a long moment they stood there, Clark's hand resting on Bruce's shoulder, Bruce gazing gravely at him. Clark found himself wondering if Bruce kept his hair as soft as his hands. It looked very soft, with just the slightest curl in it. He finally managed to drop his hand and back away a step; Bruce looked slightly relieved and Clark kicked himself mentallyâ€"what was wrong with him tonight? "Well, I shouldn't keep you any longer or the ladies will tear me apart for monopolizing you!" Bruce rolled his eyes and made a very Batman-esque snorting sound, but turned back toward the doors that led into the ballroom.

They went through the doors together and indeed, an assortment of women started bearing down on Gotham's most eligible bachelor. As they gathered around the skittish-looking Bruce, however, a commotion broke out near the doors to the kitchen. A scruffy man with a wild, rolling look to his eye had burst into the room, brandishing a carving knife. Raving madly--something about Superboy being an agent of the Devilâ€"he grabbed an elderly lady and raised the knife above his head.

Clark was already moving. The only reason he got there first, he realized later, was that Bruce had gotten hemmed in by admirers, putting him a second behind. The scuffle happened so fast Clark couldn't exactly recreate it later. He suspected part of the problem had been that he wasn't used to his de-powered reflexes yet. He probably should have been able to take down a crazy homeless guy without getting hurt. But as it was, he and the knife-wielder went down in a heap together and he felt the blade run into his shoulder with a sharp coldness. Once, then twice.

He saw his assailant picked up bodily and tossed toward two approaching security guards, and then Bruce was kneeling beside him, his steady hands removing Clark's shirt and starting to bind the wound with it. The crowd ebbed and flowed around the two of them, the chatter shaded with horror. Clark heard someone calling 911. The wound started to hurt, and it hurt a lot more than he had expected it to, considering he had just recently flown through a sun while being pummeled by one of the strongest beings in the universe. To distract himself, he watched Bruce's calm, aristocratic face, eyes narrowed with concentration as he staunched the bleeding and bound the wound. If Bruce was so calm, it couldn't be that bad, right? He clung to Bruce's blue eyes like a lifeline, as the rest of the world faded in and out around him. Eventually Bruce turned from Clark's shoulder and looked into Clark's eyes, with a small smile that didn't seem to be either Batman's or the playboy's. He wiped his hands on the tuxedo--Clark could see dark smears left behind--and laid one on Clark's forehead, like a mother checking a child's temperature. "You'll be ok, Clark. The ambulance is on its way."

As they loaded Clark onto the stretcher, he found that he was holding Bruce's hand. The ambulance drivers started to explain that Bruce wasn't allowed in the ambulance, but Bruce cut them off. "This is my--this is my employee, and I'll damn well be going to the hospital with him! I am not staying behind!" Bruce's voice was shaking now, and he was doing a credible impression of a man close to blind, unreasoning panic. Even through the haze of pain and shock, Clark couldn't help but smile to himself, impressed by Bruce's ability to stay in-character no matter what the situation. "What'll it take to let me go with him, huh, you ghouls?" Bruce fumbled with a wallet, his hands trembling, and hundred-dollar bills fluttered down around him. Clark began to think Bruce was actually acting a little too frantic to be believable, but the ambulance drivers apparently decided to take pity on the billionaire and let him come along. Bruce held tightly to his hand and watched his face intently as they made their way to the hospital. The lights of Metropolis flickered through the back of the ambulance in bands of brightness and shadow, sometimes lighting up Bruce's chiseled features, sometimes plunging them into a darkness from which only his eyes gleamed. Clark watched the play of light and shadows across Bruce's face, feeling a bit unmoored from reality.

At the hospital, they gave Clark shots of something that blurred the edges of the world even further. From a great distance he heard the doctor telling Bruce that if the knife had been even a few inches lower he might never have made it to the hospital, and even as it was Bruce's quick first aid had probably saved him. He heard Bruce's pleasant, clear tenor explaining that golly, doc, he hardly did anything, the security guards had mostly patched Mr. Kent up anyway. Bruce saying "Golly" almost made him laugh, but when he started to chuckle the room slid away from him for a while.

He came to in a quiet roomâ€"a private hospital room, Bruce must have pulled some strings again. The very palest of early morning light was coming through the windows. Clark thought suddenly of Lois; he assumed Bruce had called her, although she was out of the country at the moment and couldn't be back anytime very soon.

The door soon opened and Bruce and a doctor came in. Bruce was looking decidedly scruffier than he had a few hours ago. The doctor introduced herself and explained to Clark that his injuries had been fairly severe but that the quick actions of Mr. Wayne and the guards meant that he would probably be able to recover quite quickly. "You owe your boss here your life, Mr. Kent," she said seriously.

"I can't ever express my gratitude enough, Mr. Wayne."

"Please, call me Bruce." His eyes glinted irony, too tired to hide it completely. The doctor, absorbed in looking at Clark's x-rays, missed it entirely.

"You're a very lucky man, Mr. Kent," she said, looking at her clipboard. "You're in such good condition that you should recover with few ill effects. And don't think I don't appreciate your brave actions last night, but really, you should be more cautious. You're not Superman, you know."

Clark was suddenly glad she was not looking at him. He wished Bruce hadn't been. "I know." He closed his eyes. "I know."

After the doctor left, Bruce came closer to the bed and looked down at him, his face unreadable. Clark felt suddenly very tired, and his shoulder hurt. The drugs gave everything a strange, hyper-real edge that was very difficult to process. "Go ahead and say it, you know you want to. Tell me that I have to remember I'm not a hero anymore."

Bruce reached out and smoothed Clark's hair back from his forehead. Then his hand slipped a little lower, covering Clark's eyes briefly. Later, Clark would wonder if the painkillers had made him imagine it, the gentlest brushing of lips on his for just a moment. But he knew that he had heard exactly what Bruce said, his voice soft but emphatic, just before he turned and left the room.

"Never."

* * *

By the time they met in Gotham City to see Bruce and the boys off on their trip to Europe, Clark was fairly certain he had hallucinated the...what he thought he had felt. Bruce was his usual friendly but guarded self, commenting that Clark's shoulder seemed to be healing nicely, asking after Lois. The boys were in high spirits and Dick seemed to be healing well himself.

When the time came to board the ship, Tim hugged Clark with enthusiasm and then a muttered apology for jostling his shoulder. Dick embraced him warmly and whispered, "I'll take care of him, don't worry." As they raced up the gangplank, Bruce reached out and shook Clark's hand. Clark felt a pang of disappointmentâ€"he had been wondering if having Bruce's body pressed up against him, Bruce's arms around him, however briefly, might help him figure out how much he was just imagining. But he smiled warmly, covering the handshake with his other hand.

"Will you be coming back to the States at all in the next year?"

"Perhaps. If there's reason for me to."

"Well, you know I'd always love to see you. And I can't just fly out to where you are any more." The handshake had now passed the time limit for manly comfort, but Clark held on just a shade longer before letting go. Bruce didn't prolong it more. But he hadn't pulled away, either.

"Be well, Clark." And then Bruce was turning away, and walking away, and Clark was having a hard time breathing, somehow. Bruce, Dick, and Tim stood at the railing, the boys waving and grinning, as the ship set sail. Bruce simply stood, not smiling, not moving, looking at Clark as the distance between them widened.

Clark stood on the dock until the ship disappeared over the horizon. A cold wind blew toward the ocean, pushing at him, but he could no longer fly with it.

* * * * * *

Afternotes: This suddenly went sadder than I had intended at the end, sorry! Poor Clark's big heart just broke watching Bruce leave...I had to beg him not to actually start crying. Woobie...

I took some slight liberties with canon...the dock leave-taking scene takes place at the end of IC 7, but Wonder Woman's there and I've certainly ramped the angst up. I figure you'll all forgive me...

I would kind of like to write a companion piece to this, covering the same events from Bruce's point of view. But I'm concerned that it will become far too syrupy, since (and I hope this is clear from the story despite Clark's denseness) Bruce is totally freaking out here. Hmmm...