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lady_bug_kayAuthor: ladybugkay
Fandom: DCU/Smallville
Pairing: Bruce/Clark (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3210
Warnings/Spoilers: A few references to things from all 6 seasons of Smallville, but although it's best if you've seen the pilot, you really don't need to have watched any of it.
Summary: After a horrific few days, Superman finds himself in Gotham for the first time.
Disclaimer: DC and Gough & Millar and all those people own them. I'm playing for entertainment.
He can see it on his hands. It’s still there.
He refuses to look at the rest of his body. (Last week he celebrated his twenty-second birthday, and his mom baked a cake.)
It’s not the right colour, he thinks. Too much rust; too brown. (Chocolate.)
Too much time has passed with him sitting here. There have already been two robberies he could have prevented—no one died—and he can hear a drug deal going down six blocks from his apartment. (Pete had flown in from
His arm brushes against his right thigh, and he ignores the crumbling and flaking. (When he was five, he broke a snow globe and the fake white snow had clung wetly to his hair and cheeks.)
It would be so easy to grow to hate Metropolis. He has lived there for one month, now, and he never once considered the possibility of something like this. He was stupid. Naïve. And Metropolis knows him, now. It expects things of him. One month, and he’s let his city down already. Two robberies and one drug deal, and he’s been here for only a few hours.
Two robberies, one drug deal, and one unarmed mugging.
He wonders what he’ll do when someone gets hurt. (He broke up with Jordan, his one and only college girlfriend, after two weeks, when he found a bruise on her hip from when they were making out the night before.)
This isn’t even his city. He can’t honestly say which city it is; he’s sitting here, on a rooftop, and he doesn’t know why.
If Chloe were still alive, she would want him to talk to her. She would want to be there for him.
But Chloe’s been dead for longer than he lets himself remember. Except when he sleeps.
There’s probably a reason why he’s been testing himself to see how long he can go without needing sleep. So far, it looks as if he needs nine hours of sleep every fourteen days. He’s only on day eight today. (Years ago, he’d had a minor problem with narcolepsy, but that turned out to be because of the meteor-affected girl in a coma who moved in next door.)
And it’s really not the right colour, he thinks. It looks old. Too much like something that happened in the past. He drags his thumbnail across his left palm.
There. That’s right.
He can hear a barfight spilling out onto the street a few miles away, but it isn’t his city. (Once upon a time, there was a farmboy.)
Cities are needy, greedy things. They demand. And then they threaten, and punish. But it’s worse when they cry. (And a boy from the city.)
The thing is, he hasn’t been doing this that long. Not professionally. Not on such a large and public scale. (An accident on a bridge.)
But he knows people. Oliver. His merry band. And he’s been running around behind the scenes since he was fifteen. No one could actually call him a novice.
And yet. He’d been so stupid.
A part of him wishes he could blame Lois. Her ridiculous article making him out to be a god, painting him as some kind of saviour. (He’d been hung on a cross only once.)
It’s possible he bought into his own press, which would be ironic, since he fact-checked the article for Lois. And there is some truth to the claim, after all. He can’t even remember the number of people he’s saved over the years. To be honest, he never kept track. (Not after the first one, anyway. Because it turns out, he didn’t really save him. Except from drowning.)
But it’s not Lois’s fault. It’s his fault, and he knows it. Or at least it’s his responsibility, which amounts to the same thing in his mind. And he’s just so angry, because he can’t even be angry at anyone else. There is no one to blame. No one to intimidate, to lecture, to punish.
He really wants a meteor freak or a robot or an evil Kryptonian: something he can hit. Something he can keep hitting until something changes. It’s not as fun being invulnerable, anymore. Today, he’s very glad there’s Kryptonite all over Smallville, because he’s afraid that kid’s vision of him not dying like other people is going to come true. And if this is what it’s like one month into his ‘destiny,’ he doesn’t have any idea how he’s going to survive immortality. (He died once. Jor-El brought him back. Maybe he’s had the only death he’s ever going to get.)
The colour is wrong again.
As he drags a thumbnail across the other palm, his brain finally registers the strange sound he’s been hearing for a while now. A quiet whooshing noise he can’t identify cuts off as he hears a near-silent thud behind him. He knows he should care, should turn around and look to see who owns the steady heartbeat, because rooftops are not generally places where people land unless they’re him or descending from a helicopter.
But he doesn’t. (Most of the things he’s done wrong in his life have been because of his own inaction. That doesn’t make him change. He’s selfish enough not to act when action would place him in a laboratory facing daily vivisection.)
“What are you doing here?”
The voice is rough. Hoarse and deep and threatening. If
He won’t turn to look, but he will speak.
“Aren’t you worried I might be a jumper?” And that’s. That’s wrong. That’s sarcasm, that’s a joke, and that doesn’t belong here. Not where
“Superman wouldn’t try to kill himself by jumping off a building.” There is a hint of disgust in the voice, a condemnation that
…until twenty-one hours ago. Oh. And there it is. The world is starting up again, forcing Superman back into play. (He had begged his father for years to be allowed to play football. One season, and he had given it up.)
It has been five hours since he recovered the last of the bodies. Twenty-one since the earthquake.
But it’s hard to imagine worse.
He had done what he could during the surprisingly brief duration of the actual quake. Racing around supporting buildings, holding bridges together, catching falling debris, pulling people to safety. There had been no way for him to know how long it would last. And he couldn’t get to everyone, couldn’t be everywhere.
And after. It was so much worse after. His strength was as much a hindrance as it was a help. He could see through wreckage to find people and lift it off them, but he couldn’t just toss it aside without regard for where it would land. He could break through elevator doors, but he had to be so careful not to disturb the fragile foundations of crumbling structures. And he could get people out, but that didn’t mean they were alive, and if they were, it didn’t mean they stayed that way.
He knew death. Jor-El and Lara. Ryan. Alicia. His father. Lana. Chloe. Not to mention the victims of Dark Thursday, more than a few of the meteor-affected, and some of the beings from the Phantom Zone. He’d touched it, been next to it, held the bodies in some cases.
But never so many.
And never so many at once.
“This is my city. Why are you here?”
The question drags him back to the here and now. The after. And the person speaking is right. This isn’t
It would take more energy to stand and turn than it does to float up and move until he can see the person behind him. (He had finally learned to fly, as
“I’m sorry—” is all he gets out before he realizes the person is dressed up in a bat costume. It takes
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize where I was. I’ll leave, now.”
He moves to go.
“Wait.” And the voice is the same, but it’s not. It doesn’t sound as strained, now. It’s less menacing. Apparently, Superman is not a threat at this time.
He can see the man in the batsuit facing in his direction, but there are lenses covering his eyes that prevent Clark from knowing if he is looking at him or not, and Clark can’t spare the interest to peek behind the mask. There is a long moment of silence that stretches between them like taffy.
They are strangers, even if this man knows of Superman, and the absence of dialogue between them should be awkward. It’s not. Maybe it’s because social niceties are not a part of
It’s only day eight, but
He waits. The silence expands, thickest where the two of them stand. And he drops his eyes without meaning to, staring at his hands again. (He has always worn primary colours.)
* * *
He’s been hearing reports of this ‘Superman’ for weeks, now. He doesn’t like what he’s heard. This alien is suspiciously charismatic, and the first person he saves happens to be a reporter at The Daily Planet. A reporter who writes an article about him that’s just shy of outright worship. And she keeps writing about him, adulation and desire dripping from every word.
Sometimes he wonders about the thoughtlessness and ignorance of the rest of the world. Has anyone stopped to consider this alien might be lying? Superman presents a very real threat to the world at large. Leaving aside for the moment his propaganda efforts, he is a marvelously talented and infinitely dangerous being. His exploits detailed in the press are many and varied. Lane’s initial article had provided very little useful information, but Batman has managed to glean some actual facts about this visitor from another planet through later articles and a few other sources of his own.
Thus far, he’s determined that Superman—and he despises the arrogance and absurdity of that moniker—has powers beyond the ability to fly. There is evidence that his vision is beyond extraordinary, possibly even to the extent of seeing through solid objects, his hearing seems likewise heightened, and in addition to his immeasurable speed and incredible strength, which surpasses anything Bruce is aware of, it is beginning to look as if nothing can harm him.
And that is what concerns Batman the most.
If there is nothing that can stop this alien, nothing to hold him back, what is to prevent him from taking over his precious Metropolis? From taking over the world? Batman prefers to keep his work within his chosen city;
Since Superman’s arrival a month ago, Bruce has been keeping an eye on his activities, as much as one can with someone that fast. When reports came in yesterday that Superman was heard breaking the sound barrier leaving Metropolis, Bruce had gone on alert instantly. There hadn’t been enough time for him to put into action the kind of elaborate failsafes he’s been working on, but he did have contingency plans in place.
Long before news broadcasts of the disaster, Bruce had been the first to see footage of the earthquake’s aftermath and Superman’s involvement. After a few hours’ close observation, when it became apparent he was there to help and not declare his supremacy, Bruce had turned away from the footage. He had a company to run and a city to protect, but he recorded all the footage, anyway, and reviewed it before patrol.
He parks the Batmobile in an alley before he starts his patrol. There is no specific crime requiring his focus, so he opts for flying on jumplines through the city as he makes his rounds. On a night like tonight, it’s best to be able to hear with his own ears if anything goes down.
As he swings into the eastern sector, he catches a glimpse of red atop a building where it should not be. He changes his route to come in unnoticed and when he’s a few blocks away, he recognizes the cape. Superman. In his city.
Alfred has always told him he has a temper worse than his mother’s and father’s combined, and at this moment, Bruce believes it.
He lands on the roof and braces himself for…something. An attack, an attempt to charm or mesmerize him. But there is nothing. And that makes him even more furious. How dare Superman ignore him in his city?
“What are you doing here?” It’s the most important question, and the one Bruce wants answered more than anything. He means in
“Aren’t you worried I might be a jumper?” In all the footage Bruce has of Superman, there is nothing of him speaking. Lane received the only interview, and her medium is print. It had never occurred to Bruce to question witnesses about Superman’s voice. He thinks that was probably a mistake. He sneers at the question—how stupid of the man to think he wouldn’t be aware of his identity—but he’s thrown by the voice itself.
The words should have been said dryly, amused or condescending, even insulting. But they weren’t. They were spoken in a flat voice, hollow and empty. Almost distracted. It throws Bruce, and he’s off his game for the first time in he doesn’t know how long.
He needs to regain his equilibrium.
“This is my city. Why are you here?”
And he’s seen countless hours of tape on this man and made calculations based on his abilities, but it’s still a shock to see him fly. In person, it’s even more impressive: a feat that no amount of digital manipulation can rival. This man—this alien, Bruce corrects himself—can fly. Is flying, right in front of him.
When Superman turns around, Bruce believes himself prepared for any reaction. But Batman is almost as stunned by the apology as Superman obviously is by the Batsuit. Batman has the advantage, here, though, because it is apparent Superman has never heard of him. He is thankful for that advantage. After a brief pause during which Bruce would give anything to know what he is thinking, Superman opens his mouth again.
As he listens to Superman’s apology, he notes the stains covering the inhumanly beautiful face and obscuring the bright colours of his uniform. Bruce is disappointed in himself for allowing Superman to distract him from his usual focus; he should have been aware of those stains before now. Superman moves to leave, and Batman’s gaze shifts from the costume to the eyes of the man before him. And the blank confusion and overwhelming devastation he sees make him wince and feel a sense of shame. Not for his suspicion of Superman in general, but for his behaviour toward him tonight. It is clear Superman has just returned from what Bruce knows to have been a hellish day, and he hasn’t even changed his uniform.
“Wait.”
Bruce knows what it is to fail. To be too late, too ineffective, not good enough to save someone. Maybe not to this extent, but he knows what it feels like. And it is all he can see in Superman’s eyes.
Neither one moves or says a word, but Bruce knows that there are no words. Not for losing one person, or two, and definitely not for losing thousands. How does a man, a superman, with all his powers and invulnerabilities, reconcile himself with the things he can’t do?
This is what stops Superman. And Bruce finds himself wishing he hadn’t learned this truth. He’s uncomfortable, now, with thinking of Superman as an alien, a threat. He didn’t come here looking to find common ground, but then, he had never expected a god to look so broken.
Superman’s eyes drop, and Bruce follows his gaze to the hands covered in dried, flaking blood.
+
