Or: five ways Bruce said "I love you" without saying it—and the time Clark heard him anyway.
This is in no way intended to preclude the anon who was considering a short fill from coming back—the more fills the merrier, y/y? \o/
I last saw the movie a couple weeks ago; I don't think Clark ever learns that Batman and Bruce Wayne are one and the same during it, but I can't remember for sure. (Were we supposed to think overhearing Bruce's earpiece at the fundraiser made him 100% sure?) If he did ... then this takes place in a slight AU where he didn't. :D What can I say, I like a little identity porn on the side!
flowers.
Clark wakes up in his grave.
It's dark, but not too uncomfortable. Clark likes to breathe, but he doesn't need to do it very often; the air's stale and close, but there's more than enough of it for him. And the coffin is—wow, really nice. Clark wonders vaguely whether Mom will be able to get a refund for it, once he's climbed out of it.
Bearing that hazy thought in mind, he doesn't shove a hand through the lid. He waits a while, tests himself against the weight above him, waits a while more. The strength would be coming back faster if he could get a little sunshine down here, but Zod generously proved that doesn't make the whole difference—Earth's air by itself helps.
Once he can, he pushes the lid up a couple inches. He's not a hundred percent yet, but he's strong enough to compress the dirt just outside the coffin sideways, to make himself space and then squeeze out that way. He closes the lid behind him, takes a second to pack the dirt right above him down—up?—so it'll stop breaking off in clumps and falling on his face, and then switches over to x-ray for a second. The dirt's mostly dark, some larger stones showing up whiter, and beyond that—
Beyond that, there's someone kneeling at his grave.
Rules out using the heat vision to blast his way up, Clark thinks dimly, squinting through the ground. Who is that? He's past the point of letting himself think it's Dad, even for a second; and it's not Pete either. No glasses. (And Pete's never broken anything but the one ankle—with this person, Clark can see at least a dozen thick uneven calluses, places where fractures have grown over with new bone.)
Well. Whoever they are, they're about to get one hell of a surprise.
They notice, because of course they do: even with human hearing, Clark's digging must start to get audible once he's less than a foot from the surface. The person stands and takes an uncertain step back, something falling from their grip with a soft sound Clark's hearing just barely catches. And then Clark grits his teeth and shoves, and his hand breaks through.
And, God, the sunlight is like—the sunlight's like nothing Clark's ever felt before, not even like it was after the nuke or the World Engine; it's like water after forty days of desert. Clark's covered in dirt and sweat, just about as tired as he's ever been (as tired as he's probably capable of); the suit they buried him in is musty and dank and giving way at the seams; but he forces that hand out of the ground and the sun hits it, and suddenly he feels like he could do anything. Suddenly he feels brand new.
The person—man—says, "Jesus," and Clark can't help it, he laughs into the dirt that's still over his face—and then has to spit a bunch of grit off his tongue. Amazingly, the guy doesn't panic or run away screaming, even though Clark's bursting out of the ground like a B-movie zombie. He kneels down and grabs Clark's hand, and plunges his other hand into the soil beside Clark's wrist.
With the sunlight soaking into Clark, he could probably have done the rest himself, but between him and the guy it's easier. Clark gets his other hand up and they widen the hole Clark's made, the guy ripping sod up and tossing it away, until Clark can see—
"Bruce Wayne?"
Mr. Wayne—Mr. Wayne, and what on earth is a billionaire business-owner Clark argued with at a party doing at his graveside?—goes still, staring down at Clark. For the span of a breath, his face is perfectly, unnervingly opaque, as unreadable as if he were wearing a mask.
And then he blinks and swallows and says, "I—met your mother, after what happened in Metropolis. Mr. Kent, do you—would it be better if you were in the sun?"
Well, that answers the question of how much he knows about Superman. Clark reaches up out of the hole, and Mr. Wayne clasps his hand. Clark can push himself up from here, of course he can; but people usually like him better if he lets them help him with things like this. "You're helping me climb out of my grave," he says. "Call me Clark."
Clark doesn't have to do as much of it himself as he'd expected; Mr. Wayne's pretty strong for somebody who wears a suit that expensive. With one sharp heave, Clark makes it over the lip of the hole, and then he settles onto his knees and tips his head back. The air, the sunshine, all of it feels amazing, and every second Clark spends soaking it in pushes the exhaustion further and further away.
"Stay there," he hears Mr. Wayne say, "I'll call Martha, just—stay there," and Clark kneels there next to his own grave and smiles down at the grass.
He takes one deep breath, another, and then starts gently brushing the dirt off his burial suit; and when he turns his head to check one shoulder, he's met with the sight of his headstone. His headstone, with a rose that must be from Lois, and a bouquet of lilies from the garden at the farm—that's Mom, and God, that must have been so hard for her after Dad, having to go out there alone and pick twice as many.
But there are wildflowers, too, Clark sees. A handful of them; all dried out, now, and pulled out of the cemetary vase as though—
As though Bruce Wayne had been about to replace them with the new handful he'd brought, which is scattered over the ground a foot away: where he dropped it when Clark surprised him.
Huh, Clark thinks. That's a nice gesture to make for a dead stranger, even one who's Superman. Doesn't seem much like Mr. Wayne, with his suits and his corporate espionage, his unreadable smile; but then Clark doesn't know him that well, after all.
FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (1/6)
This is in no way intended to preclude the anon who was considering a short fill from coming back—the more fills the merrier, y/y? \o/
I last saw the movie a couple weeks ago; I don't think Clark ever learns that Batman and Bruce Wayne are one and the same during it, but I can't remember for sure. (Were we supposed to think overhearing Bruce's earpiece at the fundraiser made him 100% sure?) If he did ... then this takes place in a slight AU where he didn't. :D What can I say, I like a little identity porn on the side!
flowers.
Clark wakes up in his grave.
It's dark, but not too uncomfortable. Clark likes to breathe, but he doesn't need to do it very often; the air's stale and close, but there's more than enough of it for him. And the coffin is—wow, really nice. Clark wonders vaguely whether Mom will be able to get a refund for it, once he's climbed out of it.
Bearing that hazy thought in mind, he doesn't shove a hand through the lid. He waits a while, tests himself against the weight above him, waits a while more. The strength would be coming back faster if he could get a little sunshine down here, but Zod generously proved that doesn't make the whole difference—Earth's air by itself helps.
Once he can, he pushes the lid up a couple inches. He's not a hundred percent yet, but he's strong enough to compress the dirt just outside the coffin sideways, to make himself space and then squeeze out that way. He closes the lid behind him, takes a second to pack the dirt right above him down—up?—so it'll stop breaking off in clumps and falling on his face, and then switches over to x-ray for a second. The dirt's mostly dark, some larger stones showing up whiter, and beyond that—
Beyond that, there's someone kneeling at his grave.
Rules out using the heat vision to blast his way up, Clark thinks dimly, squinting through the ground. Who is that? He's past the point of letting himself think it's Dad, even for a second; and it's not Pete either. No glasses. (And Pete's never broken anything but the one ankle—with this person, Clark can see at least a dozen thick uneven calluses, places where fractures have grown over with new bone.)
Well. Whoever they are, they're about to get one hell of a surprise.
They notice, because of course they do: even with human hearing, Clark's digging must start to get audible once he's less than a foot from the surface. The person stands and takes an uncertain step back, something falling from their grip with a soft sound Clark's hearing just barely catches. And then Clark grits his teeth and shoves, and his hand breaks through.
And, God, the sunlight is like—the sunlight's like nothing Clark's ever felt before, not even like it was after the nuke or the World Engine; it's like water after forty days of desert. Clark's covered in dirt and sweat, just about as tired as he's ever been (as tired as he's probably capable of); the suit they buried him in is musty and dank and giving way at the seams; but he forces that hand out of the ground and the sun hits it, and suddenly he feels like he could do anything. Suddenly he feels brand new.
The person—man—says, "Jesus," and Clark can't help it, he laughs into the dirt that's still over his face—and then has to spit a bunch of grit off his tongue. Amazingly, the guy doesn't panic or run away screaming, even though Clark's bursting out of the ground like a B-movie zombie. He kneels down and grabs Clark's hand, and plunges his other hand into the soil beside Clark's wrist.
With the sunlight soaking into Clark, he could probably have done the rest himself, but between him and the guy it's easier. Clark gets his other hand up and they widen the hole Clark's made, the guy ripping sod up and tossing it away, until Clark can see—
"Bruce Wayne?"
Mr. Wayne—Mr. Wayne, and what on earth is a billionaire business-owner Clark argued with at a party doing at his graveside?—goes still, staring down at Clark. For the span of a breath, his face is perfectly, unnervingly opaque, as unreadable as if he were wearing a mask.
And then he blinks and swallows and says, "I—met your mother, after what happened in Metropolis. Mr. Kent, do you—would it be better if you were in the sun?"
Well, that answers the question of how much he knows about Superman. Clark reaches up out of the hole, and Mr. Wayne clasps his hand. Clark can push himself up from here, of course he can; but people usually like him better if he lets them help him with things like this. "You're helping me climb out of my grave," he says. "Call me Clark."
Clark doesn't have to do as much of it himself as he'd expected; Mr. Wayne's pretty strong for somebody who wears a suit that expensive. With one sharp heave, Clark makes it over the lip of the hole, and then he settles onto his knees and tips his head back. The air, the sunshine, all of it feels amazing, and every second Clark spends soaking it in pushes the exhaustion further and further away.
"Stay there," he hears Mr. Wayne say, "I'll call Martha, just—stay there," and Clark kneels there next to his own grave and smiles down at the grass.
He takes one deep breath, another, and then starts gently brushing the dirt off his burial suit; and when he turns his head to check one shoulder, he's met with the sight of his headstone. His headstone, with a rose that must be from Lois, and a bouquet of lilies from the garden at the farm—that's Mom, and God, that must have been so hard for her after Dad, having to go out there alone and pick twice as many.
But there are wildflowers, too, Clark sees. A handful of them; all dried out, now, and pulled out of the cemetary vase as though—
As though Bruce Wayne had been about to replace them with the new handful he'd brought, which is scattered over the ground a foot away: where he dropped it when Clark surprised him.
Huh, Clark thinks. That's a nice gesture to make for a dead stranger, even one who's Superman. Doesn't seem much like Mr. Wayne, with his suits and his corporate espionage, his unreadable smile; but then Clark doesn't know him that well, after all.