SquidgeWorld Archive

Garden of Earthly Delights
By Dannell Lites

He comes striding into my private place walking on the ground like any other man.

From the trees, I watch him closely. He must know that I'm here. Ears that can hear a sparrow fall half way around the world if he wishes it, eyes that can see molecules bond and the birth of distant planets when he chooses are surely not fooled by my simple tricks of silence and utter stillness.

I watch him pause and close his eyes, connecting to the earth beneath his boots like the roots of a tree, delving deep into the nourishing soil for sustenance. A warm, passing breeze touches his face, ruffling hair the exact color of midnight and he smiles. He inhales deeply, and I follow suit, almost without thought, tasting the crisp, sharp tang of the great apple tree that lies at the heart of Ivy's Garden here in Robinson Park. An errant sunbeam kisses his tanned face for a moment and sets his skin aglow like burnished cooper. When he reaches for the apple, I have to smile at the instant and foolish religious simile.

Carefully, so as to disturb nature as little as possible, he sits beneath the tree and begins to wait.

Oh yes, he knows I'm here, all right.

His hands reach out and touch the earth, running the rich fragrant soil between his fingers. And not for the first time I wonder if his sense of touch is as keen as his other senses. Can he feel the tiny microscopic creatures that live there in the soil he holds, aerating it and fertilizing it with their bodies when they die? Can he feel the differences in texture between one grain of earth and another? What must it be like to be him?

Not for the first time I thank God that I will never know.

He has thick, broad hands with short blunt fingers, the nails carefully clean and trimmed. A workman's hands strong and steady. The hands of a skilled craftsman. Or a farmer. I remember that his foster father is a farmer and I imagine him as a young boy, smiling and walking down the rows of a cornfield under a bright Kansas summer sun, surrounded by life and growing things. Suddenly I understand why he likes this place, this Garden.

I watch as he polishes the apple he plucked on the bright blue sleeve of his costume. With relish, strong white teeth bite into the pale flesh of the fruit and, from the inside, his face lights with pleasure like a beacon. I wonder if he is remembering the taste of his foster mother's apple jelly on buckwheat pancakes or is it perhaps the flavor of hot cinnamon spiced apple pie or the mouth-puckering tartness of fresh apple cider? There is such elegance in the simplicity with which he enjoys even so common a thing as eating. The unadorned pleasure is infectious and quite beautiful.

But then, I have watched him for a very long time, doing a great many things and that's how he does everything. Brightly, brightly and with beauty.

When he is done, when he has wrung the last ounce of joy from the apple, he carefully buries the seeds. In twenty years time there will be new apple trees to grace this Garden and I almost believe, as I watch him settle his broad back against the rough tree bark, that he might be content to simply sit here patiently and see them grow over the fullness of time.

I beat back a strong surge of envy for this man. What must it be like to be so unafraid, I wonder as he wipes his hands on the scarlet glory of his cape? To be so in control? Lightly, I touch the ground several feet away from him and approach him openly.

"Hello, Clark."

He smiles like the rising gold of the sun that gives him his powers.

"Hi, Bruce. If this is your new place, I like it better than the old one."

I decide not to sit. I am quite comfortable, towering over him. It doesn't seem to bother him, though, I must admit.

"Leslie tells me those medical supplies you brought will come in handy," I say finally into the awkward silence. I am not usually so anxious to make those around me feel at ease. Keeping others off balance is what I do. It's how I am. He smiles at me, but makes no move to rise.

"You're welcome," he assures me. His face darkens a bit and he lookes down at the earth as if to make sure that it is still there and an essential piece of himself along with it.

"It was little enough to do, God knows I - I wish I could do more." I say nothing and his smile takes on a rueful tinge after a moment. "I know, I know. I leaned my lesson the hard way the first time I was here after the quake. The people of Gotham have to help themselves. I can't do it for them. You showed me that."

"No," I tell him, and it is only the truth, "I let you find that out for yourself."

But it still hurts you that you can't, doesn't it, I think?

I saw Clark rescue a cat from a tree once. Yes, yes; I know. Ludicrous thought, isn't it? All that strength and power ... rescuing a tiny orange tabby striped ball of piteously meowing fur from a tall tree ... Fire departments don't do that anymore, you know. Rescue kittens from trees, that is. But there you have it. That's Clark. His biggest problem was keeping the little creature from injuring itself trying to bite and scratch him. The sobbing five year old girl waiting on the ground for her beloved Pur-Cat was grateful, though. Hiccuping, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. I don't think I've ever seen him look happier.

I shift uncomfortably on my feet for a moment. When I first met Clark, like almost everyone, I was afraid. There aren't many things I allow to frighten me, but Clark was one of them. I watched him fly faster than sound carries itself through the air and I was afraid. He stopped an onrushing train in its tracks and lifted it like a feather and I went cold beneath the insulation of my suit. Cold and frightened deep down in my guts where I live. I saw him perform one amazing, near miraculous feat after another, and I wondered how to control him. I wondered how to stop him if he ever became really angry.

And I didn't like the answers I found.

He still frightens me a bit. But, slowly, very slowly, I think I'm learning to trust him. Trust isn't easy for me. Six year old Bruce Wayne trusted the world to be a safe place to grow up in and the world left that little boy kneeling in an alley in a slowly spreading pool of his parent's blood and the continual roar of gunfire echoing in his ears. But Clark ... Clark is ...

I think it started with the kryptonite. Lex Luthor's kryptonite ring. The past is always painful and dangerous, isn't it? Clark's past, in the form of little tiny bits and pieces of the home world and heritage he was denied, are deadly to him. They cause him great pain and, so far as is known, they are the only things that might destroy him. When Clark defeated Luthor and took the ring he wore containing the last known piece of kryptonite on Earth, he did an extraordinary thing with it.

He brought it to me.

"I trust you," he said, then put it in my hands and told me to watch over it and keep it safe.

He didn't say, "In case it's ever ... needed." He didn't have to.

Understand. I'd never made a secret of the fact that I didn't trust Clark. That I was all too certain his veneer of altruism and goodness was just that: a veneer; perhaps even a blind to conceal something more sinister. No one is that perfect. No one. I reminded myself that he was an alien, not human. Where did he come from? Why was he here? At the time, I never knew that Clark was asking himself those very questions. Meticulously, I began to assemble data.

And one of the things I eventually realized is that, no, Clark isn't perfect. He gets as angry, as unhappy and frustrated as any of us. But he doesn't give in to these things. He controls them. I admired that about him. The fact is, he can't give in to them. If he does ...

If he does, then the rest of us mere mortals on this small backwater world are in a world of hurt.

"Bruce?"

I don't realize, until then, that I've just been standing there, staring at him. He must think I'm a great fool and I flush to think of it. Damn. How does he do that? Make me feel like a rude child and a too stern parent at one and the same time?

"Aren't you going to tell me I shouldn't be here," he asks, somewhat puzzled. "Tell me I don't belong?" I sigh.

"Why would I do that, Clark?"

He begins to look concerned.

"I'm not sure ... but you always do. I guess I just expected it."

"Always do the unexpected," I deadpan in my best tutorial voice. "Being nice is necessary, at times. It keeps the enemy off balance." The joke falls very flat.

"Are you all right, Bruce?" he asks. He is serious, I can tell. "You look ... tired."

"You mean I look defeated," I think. "Tired? Yes, I'm ... tired. But that's not it."

For obvious reasons, I've never had my memory tested. But from all evidence, I'm certain that it's photographic and fairly eidetic. I don't forget something once I've seen or heard or smelled or tasted it. And the one that lasts the longest is the sense of smell. Rooted deep in the hypothalamus, the hind brain, the 'reptile brain', the memory of the smell of a thing is always the last of the sensory impressions to fade. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to take the smell of Dick Grayson's anger with me to my grave. That and the look of betrayal in his eyes and the sound of rage in his voice.

Damn you! Damn you to Hell. Why, Bruce, why? Why couldn't you just leave it alone?

One interference too many in his life, I suppose. And now he is gone.

"I'm fine, Clark," I lie to him.

His face tells me how much credence he sets by that, but he says nothing. He doesn't shame me and for that I am grateful. But then, Clark is always courteous.

He rises up through the branches of the great apple tree like smoke and when he floats down again he holds in his hands an apple, fresh plucked and covered with dewdrops. I think fleetingly of the Golden Apples of the Hesperides ... Zues's wedding gift to Hera and I smile.

And then I remember that it was one of the Apples, inscribed "To The Fairest" and tossed by Eos, the Goddess of Discord, into the marriage feast of Peleus and Thetis for all the Goddesses present there to quarrel over, that began the Trojan War.

Let's not even *mention* Eve and the Snake in the Garden of Eden.

No, let's NOT mention that.

Innocently, Clark holds out the apple to me. "Here," he says. "You haven't been eating well, have you? Ma always used to tell me that she could tell when I was upset. She said it was the only thing that ever put me off my feed." I don't laugh at him. Not even a chuckle. I'm very proud of myself for that. It takes more restraint than I know that I possess. I still think Clark sometimes needs a keeper; someone to look after him and protect him from the world's harshness. He's much too innocent for his own good. Not naive, mind you. Innocent. There's a remarkable difference.

I'm not sure why I reach out to claim that apple. But I do. And if my hand lingeres mere moments longer than is entirely proper ...

"Batman," I tell myself fiercely, "is strong. He can do this." But if Clark notices the slight tremble in Bruce Wayne's hand he gives no sign of it. Or perhaps he did. Just before I withdraw my hand he strokes my palm with one finger.

Accidentally, of course.

The choice is mine. I hesitate for only a moment.

"Thank you," I say, and bit strongly into the apple.

I am surprised at how soft his hand is. Soft and unscarred like a child's. I'm not sure what I expected. Clark is surprising in so many ways, I can't think why I should be so intrigued by this simple thing. Of course, it is only rational. Invulnerable skin will hardly form calluses. But I've seen bullets bounce off that skin; those hands can rend steel, crush a lump of coal into a diamond. But there is no sign of such a thing in the feel of them.

Beneath my gauntlets, my hands have hard calluses, rising like mountains from the plains of my palms. I have small hands for such a large man. And I have abused them mightily. For a moment I am very afraid again. How can two people, so different as Clark and I, ever find a common ground? I begin to hope that he might ignore my response to his subtle overture.

Clark's smile seems to warm the air around him.

"I think you need a break from all this," Clark says softly. "There's something I'd like you to see, somewhere I'd like to take you," he continues, and then he hesitates, swallowing hard. "That is ... if you like."

Like a deer, caught in the headlights of an onrushing semi-tractor trailer, I freeze. My answer is very important to Clark. I think of Gotham and all the death and destruction beyond the peaceful environs of this small Park. There are a thousand and one pressing reasons for me to say no. Clark will accept any of them, I am sure. Without question. And never mention the moment again. Yes, there are many reason for me to say no.

And only one very important reason for me to, perhaps, say yes.

I don't want to watch the light of hope and passion die again in someone else's eyes, knowing that I killed it. My traitorous memory fills my world with the sound of the steady drip, drip, drip of filtered water through the porous limestone of my chosen huddling place, nestled deep within the sheltering Earth. The Batcave is gone, now; like so many other things in my life.

Bruce, you can't keep doing this to yourself! You drive everyone who loves you away. And I can't watch it anymore. I *won't*. I'm leaving..

drip drip drip

Clark is watching. And waiting.

drip drip drip

I clear my throat. "As it happens," I say in the husky little used voice of Bruce Wayne that I thought I'd drowned beneath the shadow of the Bat years ago, "I have the day free."

Clark gestures me forward. "Put your arms around me," he instructs, "and press yourself as closely to me as you can."

Startled, I blink. "Pardon?" I say, not quite believing my ears. Beneath his golden tan, Clark's face colors like a schoolboy's.

"I didn't mean ...," he blurts. "That is, I -- not *here* ... " Hopelessly entangled in his own verbal embarrassment, like a kitten in a ball of yarn, I am forced to rescue him. Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around him . He tenses for a moment and then seems to relax.

"Where are we going?" I ask. "I assume we'll be flying?" He nods.

"Ah - south," he explains. "Way south. You - ah - need to get so close because otherwise the wind friction when I fly might burn you. There's an aura close to my skin that prevents that. Protects anything close to me. It keeps my clothes from burning up or tearing when I fly." He grins impishly. "My clothes never get dirty, either, so I save a lot on laundry." I think of poor Alfred's continual battle to keep me properly clothed in various versions of the suit and I almost laugh.

"What's south?" I wonder.

He smells like sunshine. All the way to our mysterious destination I lay my head on his chest, listening to the thundering beat of his heart, inhaling the warmth of a bright summer day from his skin. He's very warm. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. His body is a great solar furnace, storing the energy of Earth yellow sun, to be released at his command. Unexpected, but not unpleasant.

"Home," he says simply and, like a coiled spring, leaps into the sky.

Part 2

This is where you *live*?" I exclaim, working hard to stifle the incredulity in my voice and keep from gawking like an Ugly American tourist. Clark puts me gently down on the polished metal floor.
"No," he corrects me, "this is where - "

"Greetings, Kal-El, son of Jor-El," says the small floating robot in a vibrant feminine voice that I recognize instantly. I don't need to see Clark wince to remember the voice of Lois Lane.

" ... this is where Kal-El lives," he says very clearly, after a moment. "Clark Kent lives at 334 Clinton Street, Apartment B ... "

I've known for some time that he isn't human. That he is an alien. That he is the last survivor of a doomed planet called Krypton, circling a giant red star, who was rocketed to safety just before the cataclysm that destroyed his world struck. But this is the first I know of how much more he himself has discovered about his origins.

"Kal-El is your Kryptonian name," I say quietly. He nods and his throat works, as if he wants to say something more. But he holds his silence.

After a moment, he says, "You can call me Kal, if you like." He looks at me as if gathering himself for some great, dangerous task.

"My name is Kal-El," he says again, more firmly this time. "When I'm here ... I'm Kal-El."

I wonder how many he allows to call him that. How many he allows to even know of Kal-El. Not many, I think. Kal-El is a part of him he doesn't trust in the sometimes cruel and capricious hands of most people, I guess. Kal-El is vulnerable The only part of Kal-El that isn't invulnerable is his heart. When you stab him there he bleeds. There he's just like the rest of us. That he wears on the end of his sleeve. Kal-El is a lonely alien, easily feared and distrusted. He hasn't a lot in common with affable, inoffensive Clark Kent of Smallville, Kansas. It takes me a full minute, I'm sorry to say, to realize just what he is telling me.

When he gave me the kryptonite he was trusting me with his physical safety, the safety of his body. Now, he is trusting me with something even more precious.

He is trusting me with his heart.

"I call it my Fortress of Solitude," he tells me, gesturing about him.

"Hello, Kal," I say. My hand shakes only slightly when I sweep back my cowl. "My name is Bruce." The air is cold for a moment on the flesh of my exposed face. I feel naked. But my voice is steady as a rock. There is a very awkward moment when he just stares at me from out of corn-flower blue eyes gone wide and guileless.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, and it is my turn to stare. "Pictures are one thing, but ... "

Somehow, I always just assumed that he knows what I looked like beneath the mask. The man has x-ray vision, after all, and the cowl is kevlar, not lead. But apparently he's never peered beneath my shield. There is no doubt that his reaction is genuine, though.

He takes my hand and begins to show me his home. Like Kal himself, it is an extraordinary blend of common earthly things and intriguing Kryptonian devices whose use I can only guess at. Like Kal, it is a marvel. Robot servitors and a little white mongrel pup he named Krypto who seems determined to savage my cape. Kal has to drag me away, kicking and protesting, from his computers.

"Good God," I cry, "what a database! It makes the Crays in the Batcave look primitive! How do you ... Can we link ..."

"The databases are probably incompatible," he remarks sadly. "Does the Batcomputer speak Kryptonese?"

"It can learn," I promise. "If I ever get it completely back on line, that is."

Kal isn't much of a cook. At least not compared to Alfred. His mother's skill there didn't rub off on him, I'm afraid. Not too surprising. He doesn't, after all, have to eat, strictly speaking. But the tomato soup is hot, the ham and cheese are smoked and the bread is fresh. I don't complain. The conversation is diverting in the extreme. Did you know he likes jazz? So do I. And to say he's well read is an understatement. With all the physical power he possess, it's quite easy to forget how intelligent he is. His casual mention of how Kieseritsky might have won The Immortal Game, that perfect icon of the chess players art, almost makes me drop my spoon. I decide not to play chess with him. Poker, on the other hand ... he has no poker face at all.

His bedroom isn't all that surprising, either; simple really and quite small. Unlike the rest of his home, Kal's personal space, in the form of this unobtrusive, quiet room is easy to understand. Soothing almost. I begin to relax. The matted print of Monet's "Water Lilies" that graces one wall, with it's pale pastels and flowing, liquid lines completes a very restful atmosphere. The most exotic thing in the room turns out to be a small statue of a man and a woman holding aloft the globe representing a large alien world. At first I take it for carved crystal or even diamond, perhaps, but the faint rainbow radiance it throw off tells me that it is nothing Earthly.

"What's this?" I ask, intrigued.

His smile is almost wicked.

"Kryptonite," he says. I do manage not to snatch my hand away as if it has been burned and that is no small accomplishment. Kryptonite is radioactive, after all. Just ask Lex Luthor. But be careful when you do. The robotic prosthesis used to replace his right hand where he wore his signet ring of green kryptonite is quite deadly. Slowly, I lower my hand without touching the statue.

"Kryptonite?" I reply as calmly as I can, and watch him grin at the effectiveness of his joke. "Isn't that rather an odd place to keep it? On your dressing table?"

He laughs.

"Not all kryptonite is deadly," he tells me. "This, I think, is a piece of the Jewel Mountains on the south continent of Urikka. It's harmless. But it is beautiful, isn't it?" I have to agree with that.

There are pictures of Jonathan and Martha Kent and a hologram of a strangely dressed couple that I presume to be Jor-El and Lara, his natural parents. Kal looks a lot like his mother. I gaze about, uneasy for a moment. But there are no photos of Lois to condemn me for what I am about to do. Then the rumors must be true of her coming engagement to Metropolis Police Inspector Sam Henderson. I don't let myself dwell on it overmuch. As the Bard observed, 'the course of true love n'er did run smooth'. Kal's pain about that is a private matter. If he wishes to speak of it I'll listen.

He looks at me, smiling, and begins to remove his boots. I reach out and tap the light node on the wall, plunging the room into darkness and wait for my eyes to adjust. But Kal has other ideas.

"No," he says in a low voice. "Would you mind if we leave the lights on? I want to see you."

My first instinct is to say no. I open my mouth to say it, yes I do. The Batman is a creature of the night. The shadows are my natural element. The darkness of the night is soothing, cool, and concealing. It covers many sins, many flaws. Not for me the harsh, revealing light of day. Kal, on the other hand, is a child of the day, a gift of the sun to her Earthly children. He belongs in the light. I look at my hand still hovering near the light node and remember the scars beneath the kevlar and leather.

I am not a vain man. I'm really not. People tell me that Bruce Wayne is handsome and I occasionally find that useful. Otherwise it doesn't concern me. And yet ... there are more than a few scars on my body. I knew, without having to see the evidence, that there are none on Kal's. Like Michelangelo's "David" his unmarred flesh will be smooth and perfect.

I am not ashamed of my body. But, curiously, I find myself wishing, for his sake, that it was less imperfect, not quite so ... used.

I think of Kal and know that in the shadows, in my darkness, he will wither and die.

Gently I reach out and touched my scarred fingers to the light node. Instantly, the room springs into brilliant illumination.

And Kal's smile is still the brightest thing in the room.

I sit down in a chair and lean down to remove my boots.

"No," says Kal, "let me do that."

Without any trouble at all he kneels and slids the heavy footgear off my feet, leaving them bare. When the cold air hits them I gasp involuntarily and my toes curl. At least I think it is the chill of the air and not Kal's hand on my instep that does that.

"Sorry," he apologizes. His eyes flash red for a moment and a welcome heat begins to emanate from the walls. "Is that better? I don't get many guests, so I don't usually bother with the temperature."

He sets my boots aside, walks and sits on the bed. Surprisingly, it is almost as large as my bed in the master bedroom of Wayne Manor. But then, Kal needs a large bed. I can see Martha Kent's fine hand in the lovingly quilted bed cover depicting a rising sun in bright colors of red and gold. But I discover that I don't need it's softness to warm me. Kal is enough.

Unclothed, Kal is even more ... impressive. Perfectly proportioned, he's like a figure from the hands of the Greek master sculptor Praxiteles. He is right about the lights. I wouldn't have wanted to dim this glory. The rumpled pile of colorful cosume parts we leave on the floor is evidence enough of our impatience, I think. He pulls me down onto the bed and holds me.

"I'd never have taken you for a hedonist," I say, fingering the silk sheets of the large bed. He must hear the smile in my voice, because it never reaches my face, I'm sure of that. I have too much practice at that game.

"I like the feel of silk," he says, reasonably. I am suddenly struck by what it must be like to have his sense of touch, to feel the texture of a thing so completely and I surpress a shiver.

He can't seem to get enough of my body. With his hands, lips and tongue he explores me, caressing his way down slowly, inch by inch. He doesn't miss a spot. His mouth still tastes faintly of the apple from Ivy's Garden. If, as I suspect, it is Lois Lane who taught him to kiss, then I owe her a considerable debt. He tastes of salt and the Earth. When I join my body with his he pulls me in deeper and crys out. When he takes me, I bury my face in an eider down stuffed pillow and tremble like a child.

When we are both spent and exhausted, he fells asleep in my arms.

Bruce Wayne is very good at dealing with "the morning after" blues and the discomfort they bring in their awkward wake. The polite kiss of the hand to raise goose bumps on feminine flesh and the softly murmured "It was lovely, my dear." I, myself, have not dealt with such things but once. And I was very bad at them. Talia's regrets, if she has them, about what happened between us, are her own.

I'm not a sound sleeper. I'm not much of a sleeper at all, actually. The night is when I am most alive. Sleep brings dreams. And I ... don't like dreams. But I watch Kal sleep and it is soothing. Curled into his pillows, he slumberes peacefully, a smile on his lips.

People are vulnerable when they sleep. Perhaps that's one of the reasons that I don't trust it. But then, I don't trust a great many things. In the soft light of his bedroom, I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He is a sprawler, an untidy slumberer, one arm flung casually behind his head. Even when he sleeps he has nothing to hide and doesn't try.

I can't sleep. I toss and turn, decieving myself that it is just the unfamiliar bed that keeps me from finding the comfort of sleep. After a bit, I rise, terrified of waking Kal. Most especially, I don't want to do that. Don't want to face him just yet. I can't seem to sit still. Furiously, I pace at my restlessness, in futile hope of beating it into submission. At the writing desk, I pull out the plain stationary stored there and begin at least a half dozen notes to leave on the pillow or on the dressing table.

Dear Clark, Last night was wonderful, but ...

No.

Dear Clark, I'm so sorry to do this ... Again, no.

I crumple every one of them and throw them all in the small plastic waste can sitting beside the desk. The words won't come.

"Coward!" I accuse with a hissing breath. "Bloody, bleeding coward. You never could face your own mistakes, could you? And just how in the name of anything Holy were you planning to sneak off into the night, anyway, you idiot! You're somewhere south of Little America on the Antarctic continent. What were you going to do? Walk home?"

Silently, I dress myself in the suit, my protection, my armor, and go to wait for Kal in the kitchen. He's not a late sleeper, so I don't have to wait for very long.

Padding into the kitchen on bare feet, yawning and stretching, he sleepily smiles at me in passing and damn near breaks my heart. Odd isn't it? There are many of people who'd tell you that I don't have a heart. Just a refrigeration pump for the ice water in my veins.

Yesterday, I'd have been one of them.

Yesterday.

He pours milk over his cereal and I clear my throat.

"Clark, I ... "

When I call him Clark, he looks up and I force myself to met his eyes. I owe him that much at least. But it is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Suddenly, I long for the insanity dancing in the depths of the Joker's eyes or the hellish torment burning in the eyes of my friend, Harvey Dent, Two Face. Anything but the calm acceptance and resignation in those bright blue eyes sitting across the table from me now. He nods, almost imperceptibly and I watch the brightness, the eagerness, in his eyes fade just a bit.

"I - guess I should take you home," he says, softly.

He looks away and I can tell that I have hurt him, deeply. But, of course, he says nothing. Not even with his eyes does he accuse me of cowardice; of failing him. What I see there is only regret. Regret and acceptance of another lost opportunity, another denial of his humanity, his personhood. Never anger or recrimination. He lowers hs head back to his milk and cereal.

I think too much. It's my gravest fault. Even as a child I was guilty of it. I can't seem to stop. My mind races forward in fits and starts and sometimes the rest of me must struggle to keep pace. My mother urged me to paint and sculpt to draw me out of myself. I did it to please her and it worked quite well.

"This is lovely, Bruce," she hugged me as I flushed with pleasure at her praise. The sculpture in question was a bust of her, full of her beauty and my love for her. "You should do this more often!"

I am thinking now. I am thinking of Kal. Without meaning to I have wounded him, greiviously. What I can't quite understand is, why. The knot slowly tightening in my belly grows even colder and more tense. Why have I done it? Have I merely used him to assuage my own lonli - weakness? I don't want it to be as simple as that. Have I fallen prey to his need? His desire to touch and be touched?

Its easy to be overawed by Kal. Most people are. His powers lend him a presence and a gravity that are hard to ignore. It's easy to lose sight of the man in the looming shadow of Superman. He's rarely allowed to be himself. And here I am, about to deny him yet again. I feel ... I feel, somehow, as if I have failed at some simple task, been unable to see something quite obvious or solve a rudimentary puzzle. I feel myself ... lacking ....

I'm not a man who abides failure.

So why have I done this? And, more importantly, why am I trying to deny it, now? Never before have I shared my body with another man. And yet .. it is easier than I thought. Being with Kal feels natural, somehow, like a gust of that strong wind that sweeps the Kansas prairie he so loves. I - didn't expected that.

I don't make it easy for people to know me. The better others know you, the more of yourself you show them, the easier it is for them to weaken you. To - hurt you. I'm reckoned a fearless man by many people. Even I'm not *that* brave, though. But Kal is. His openness makes Kal one of the most courageous men I know, I suspect.

Am I ashamed of what I have done? Of making love to Kal?

No.

Does it frighten me?

Oh, yes.

I made a bad mistake once. One that hurt someone I care for very deeply, wounded them even more sharply than I am about to wound Kal. Without any conscious effort, I conjure the feel of Dick Grayson's hand on my cheek, the sight of such pain in his blue eyes ...

"I love you, Bruce. And I know you love me. Not the way I wish you loved me ... You - can't. No, don't be sorry. It's all right. But I want you to make me a promise, okay? Don't shut everyone out. Find somebody and let them love you. Before it's too late. You couldn't save your parents, there was nothing you could have done. You can stop punishing little Bruce Wayne for that, now. Promise me."

I watch Kal eating his breakfast. With the tart scent of apples and sweet cinnamon wafting from the cereal comes memories of Kal striding through Ivy's Garden almost a part of the natural beauty growing there.

I remember his body arching beneath mine, his head thrown back in bliss. I remember the many small gasps of passion I wrest from him and the feel of his hands whispering down my body. I remember the look of transcendent joy shining on his face as he shares himself ... all of himself ... with me.

I remember the trust that lives in his eyes and his heart.

"Kal?"

Startled, he looks up with wide crystal blue eyes, spilling milk on his chin that dripped off the dimple there back down into the cereal bowl. "Are you ... sure, Bruce?" he asks.

I lift one sardonic eyebrow.

"Kal?"

His blue eyes widen even further in hope filled expectation and he holds his breath.

"Yes?"

"Shut up and eat your Cheerios."

The End