Bruce lays marigolds on the headstone and bows his head. Mourning has been a feature of his life--a clockwork of observance, but he never quite knows what to do with himself, here. Kansas winter has laid the ground bare, and he turns his collar up against the wind that scours the fallow country.
“Better if it had been me,” Bruce says, at last, laying a gloved hand against the stone. It warms the joints of his hands--and then burns.
He recoils faster than the tremors can become noticeable. Crouches, anticipating. The hand that punches through the frozen topsoil isn’t human.
Gaunt, gray flesh reveals itself. Skin that hasn’t seen the sun in a year. Fingernails scrabble at dirt as it seeks for purchase. Bruce fights down the wild horror that rises in him. He grabs the forearm and pulls. Alive, alive, Clark is alive. Topside, his movements are clumsy. His jaw clicks when it opens, a sibilant hiss rumbling in his throat, eyes jumping from point to point, hair in a frenzy.
“Clark.”
He responds to the name too well. The hand on Bruce’s throat feels like penance, and he is pressed against a tree, choking, guttering on stale air.
Clark’s pupils constrict to points of fury. He pulls Bruce back by his throat, and slams him again --yes, like Bruce had done in their fight. Bruce slips a hand into Clark’s free palm, dangling at his side uselessly. Clark still feels it. Recoils. Releases Bruce to drop to his knees.
Gentleness from an enemy is disorienting; Bruce quickly counters, surging up. His hand falling across Clark’s face in a stinging slap.
Bruce doesn’t break his hand. So he does it again, and again, until he breaks skin.
Clark dabs at his blood like it’s the most miraculous thing he’s seen.
Bruce hitches back against the tree when Clark steps forward.
“Do you know me?” Bruce’s breath is coming quick, shallow, now. A year has changed much about Bruce’s thinking. Breathing, heart rate, perspiration, blood flow; all of the signs are there, if Clark cares to read them.
Clark presses forward. His skin as dry as paper as he slides his hand up to Bruce’s neck, closing over his windpipe gently, testing Bruce’s willingness. Bruce’s chin comes up as he fades around the edges of Clark’s inexorable strength, because it’s all rushing back, now: the color into his skin, the light into his eyes, the strength of his body--and the understanding about what he can do with it.
“I know you,” Clark whispers roughly against Bruce's cheek. It’s a start, anyway.
Mini-Fill: Fallow Country (Bruce/Clark, in a graveyard)
“Better if it had been me,” Bruce says, at last, laying a gloved hand against the stone. It warms the joints of his hands--and then burns.
He recoils faster than the tremors can become noticeable. Crouches, anticipating. The hand that punches through the frozen topsoil isn’t human.
Gaunt, gray flesh reveals itself. Skin that hasn’t seen the sun in a year. Fingernails scrabble at dirt as it seeks for purchase. Bruce fights down the wild horror that rises in him. He grabs the forearm and pulls. Alive, alive, Clark is alive. Topside, his movements are clumsy. His jaw clicks when it opens, a sibilant hiss rumbling in his throat, eyes jumping from point to point, hair in a frenzy.
“Clark.”
He responds to the name too well. The hand on Bruce’s throat feels like penance, and he is pressed against a tree, choking, guttering on stale air.
Clark’s pupils constrict to points of fury. He pulls Bruce back by his throat, and slams him again --yes, like Bruce had done in their fight. Bruce slips a hand into Clark’s free palm, dangling at his side uselessly. Clark still feels it. Recoils. Releases Bruce to drop to his knees.
Gentleness from an enemy is disorienting; Bruce quickly counters, surging up. His hand falling across Clark’s face in a stinging slap.
Bruce doesn’t break his hand. So he does it again, and again, until he breaks skin.
Clark dabs at his blood like it’s the most miraculous thing he’s seen.
Bruce hitches back against the tree when Clark steps forward.
“Do you know me?” Bruce’s breath is coming quick, shallow, now. A year has changed much about Bruce’s thinking. Breathing, heart rate, perspiration, blood flow; all of the signs are there, if Clark cares to read them.
Clark presses forward. His skin as dry as paper as he slides his hand up to Bruce’s neck, closing over his windpipe gently, testing Bruce’s willingness. Bruce’s chin comes up as he fades around the edges of Clark’s inexorable strength, because it’s all rushing back, now: the color into his skin, the light into his eyes, the strength of his body--and the understanding about what he can do with it.
“I know you,” Clark whispers roughly against Bruce's cheek. It’s a start, anyway.