It's not just in the parts that Clark missed--the way the seasons have turned without him, cold winds and dark evenings transmuted to a late golden summer overnight. Not just in the sheer volume of media surrounding the Doomsday catastrophe, miles of column inches and none of them written by him. Or the way his ma's hair has a few more grays, how her face is a little more lined, and knowing his absence is what put them there.
It's in the parts that are happening now, as well. He's recuperating well, now that the initial shock of his revival is wearing off. His body's slowed regeneration is steadily wearing away the gnarls of scar tissue over his heart, but it's taking months where once it would have been minutes. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel the faintest thread of scarring on his cheek.
The days are endless and unremarkable and slide into one another, one sun-dappled evening after the next, suspending him in the vague nostalgia of a mundane life. His days are spent helping on the farm, and the nights spent gradually depleting a stack of newspapers. He's catching up with the world slowly, but it doesn't feel like the world is catching up with him.
Except whenever Bruce Wayne comes to visit; a somber figure cut dark against the endless blue of the Kansas sky. To see that Clark's keeping okay, he says, but Clark can read between those lines well enough. Bruce talks about what's happening in Gotham and Metropolis and sometimes shares a few of his case notes. Ostensibly so that Clark can fill in some of the less obvious blanks that the newspapers leave, but Clark knows it's part olive branch, part lure. Bruce is giving him a glimpse into the comprehensive, systematic, exhaustive and exhausting gravity well of his life.
(It's difficult to reconcile the Batman's ruthless methodology with the man he first encountered in full socialite swing. It must take a lot of self-control to appear to have so little, and it makes Clark's head hurt at first.)
Sometimes Bruce talks about the new heroes. They were drawn out in the wake of Superman's death, moths to a funeral pyre. He doesn't say it outright, but Bruce wants Clark to join them. Clark can sense his frustration--and he understands it, understands that he is trying to assemble a team that remains resolutely incomplete while Clark is held here in this melancholy, also incomplete.
Clark is frustrated, too.
*
Today, Bruce agrees to have dinner with them. He calls his ma Mrs. Kent, again, and Ma tells him to call her Martha, again. Clark has to take her aside and gently ask her to stop, because he's learned that Bruce has several degrees of unreadable and the one that blanks his face so utterly is by far the worst.
*
"When are you going to come back?" Bruce eventually asks, ankle crossed over one knee, fresh-mown grass clinging to the cuff of his pants. The late evening breeze rustles the fields of young corn, susurration winding its way back to where they sit on the porch.
Clark rolls his empty lemonade glass between his palms, ice cubes clinking delicately. "Seems kinda pointless while I'm still essentially human."
"So you're just going to mope around here forever?" Bruce takes a sip of his coffee and then looks up at the darkening sky, at the emerging firmament of stars. His profile is cast in the warm light spilling out from the kitchen window.
Clark is beginning to anticipate Bruce's brand of baiting, but even if he can see it, that doesn't mean he can help himself. "I'm not moping," he says, "I'm introspecting."
Bruce's mouth quirks into a half-smile, face still turned skyward. "You know there's more you could be doing."
"Are you telling me to get a job?" He might be joking, but the uncertainty of his future keeps threatening to hit home. All of his documents belong to a dead man, and he's not sure what to do about that yet. It is kind of alienating. He can't quite appreciate the irony.
"I'm not telling you to do anything. I just want to keep you on point. I think you need to learn to protect yourself."
"I don't think that's necessary." Clark crunches an ice cube in his back teeth. "When I'm back, I mean, I'm back."
Bruce's smile has vanished. He places his coffee mug down abruptly. "And next time? What then?"
"It won't happen again."
"Clark." Bruce gets to his feet, the old wooden bench complaining as his weight shifts. He stands in front of Clark, arms folded. "It'll happen again."
Clark heart thumps hard. He takes a deep breath through his nose, feels the tight pull of healing skin over his chest.
"There's more kryptonite out there. When the Superman returns, there's going to be an all-star battle royale in the underworld. Every megalomaniacal freak will want a piece of it so they can get a piece of you. And some of them will manage. They'll weaponize it and won't hesitate to use it against you, and when that happens I will not have you flailing around like an idiot."
"Flailing."
Bruce unfolds his arms, gestures for Clark to get up with upturned palms. "Like an idiot."
Clark grins ruefully at him, shakes his head. Being strong is one thing, that's just how he is. Learning to genuinely fight is something else entirely. He doesn't want to be a weapon, and he doesn't know how to explain that to someone like Bruce.
He stands anyway. Bruce drops his hands to his sides, looking all the world like a harmless civilian in an expensive suit. "Do your best, Clark," he says.
Clark sighs, rolls his shoulders, takes a half-hearted swing and greets the decking with his face for his troubles. Bruce is as fast as he is uncompromising; blunt pressure of his knee in the middle of Clark's back, wide hand on the nape of his neck. The other pins one of Clark's wrist to the boards. His arm is trapped under him, squashed between his chest and the deck. A resurging memory of Bruce's weight threatens him into stillness.
"It's not just about you," Bruce says in his ear, voice low and even. Clark doesn't need to be able to hear his heartbeat to know it hasn't accelerated even a fraction. "You need to consider your team. I need to trust that you can have my back in any scenario, even when things have gone to hell and it's down to the wire."
"So, what you're saying is-- ow." Clark's voice is hoarse. His lungs feel crushed. A phantom burn of gas sends pinpricks of fear down his spine. "I'm basically a liability waiting to happen."
"Pretty much." The porch creaks, and the weight on Clark's back eases off; his ribs and chest ache with the sudden relief. Bruce dusts off his knees, then offers Clark a hand up. "But I can change that. Think about it, please."
Clark accepts, and is if Bruce notices his hands are shaking, he is grateful that he doesn't mention it--though Bruce doesn't release him right away, even when he's back on his feet. Instead, he clasps his other hand over Clark's, like a handshake. Steadying.
(Clark discovers that he was wrong about his heart rate, but only a little.)
The kitchen window cracks open and Bruce lets his hand drop, casual as you like. Ma leans out, sleeves rolled up over her elbows. "There's pie on the table, if you boys are done tussling."
Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (1/4ish)
It's not just in the parts that Clark missed--the way the seasons have turned without him, cold winds and dark evenings transmuted to a late golden summer overnight. Not just in the sheer volume of media surrounding the Doomsday catastrophe, miles of column inches and none of them written by him. Or the way his ma's hair has a few more grays, how her face is a little more lined, and knowing his absence is what put them there.
It's in the parts that are happening now, as well. He's recuperating well, now that the initial shock of his revival is wearing off. His body's slowed regeneration is steadily wearing away the gnarls of scar tissue over his heart, but it's taking months where once it would have been minutes. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel the faintest thread of scarring on his cheek.
The days are endless and unremarkable and slide into one another, one sun-dappled evening after the next, suspending him in the vague nostalgia of a mundane life. His days are spent helping on the farm, and the nights spent gradually depleting a stack of newspapers. He's catching up with the world slowly, but it doesn't feel like the world is catching up with him.
Except whenever Bruce Wayne comes to visit; a somber figure cut dark against the endless blue of the Kansas sky. To see that Clark's keeping okay, he says, but Clark can read between those lines well enough. Bruce talks about what's happening in Gotham and Metropolis and sometimes shares a few of his case notes. Ostensibly so that Clark can fill in some of the less obvious blanks that the newspapers leave, but Clark knows it's part olive branch, part lure. Bruce is giving him a glimpse into the comprehensive, systematic, exhaustive and exhausting gravity well of his life.
(It's difficult to reconcile the Batman's ruthless methodology with the man he first encountered in full socialite swing. It must take a lot of self-control to appear to have so little, and it makes Clark's head hurt at first.)
Sometimes Bruce talks about the new heroes. They were drawn out in the wake of Superman's death, moths to a funeral pyre. He doesn't say it outright, but Bruce wants Clark to join them. Clark can sense his frustration--and he understands it, understands that he is trying to assemble a team that remains resolutely incomplete while Clark is held here in this melancholy, also incomplete.
Clark is frustrated, too.
*
Today, Bruce agrees to have dinner with them. He calls his ma Mrs. Kent, again, and Ma tells him to call her Martha, again. Clark has to take her aside and gently ask her to stop, because he's learned that Bruce has several degrees of unreadable and the one that blanks his face so utterly is by far the worst.
*
"When are you going to come back?" Bruce eventually asks, ankle crossed over one knee, fresh-mown grass clinging to the cuff of his pants. The late evening breeze rustles the fields of young corn, susurration winding its way back to where they sit on the porch.
Clark rolls his empty lemonade glass between his palms, ice cubes clinking delicately. "Seems kinda pointless while I'm still essentially human."
"So you're just going to mope around here forever?" Bruce takes a sip of his coffee and then looks up at the darkening sky, at the emerging firmament of stars. His profile is cast in the warm light spilling out from the kitchen window.
Clark is beginning to anticipate Bruce's brand of baiting, but even if he can see it, that doesn't mean he can help himself. "I'm not moping," he says, "I'm introspecting."
Bruce's mouth quirks into a half-smile, face still turned skyward. "You know there's more you could be doing."
"Are you telling me to get a job?" He might be joking, but the uncertainty of his future keeps threatening to hit home. All of his documents belong to a dead man, and he's not sure what to do about that yet. It is kind of alienating. He can't quite appreciate the irony.
"I'm not telling you to do anything. I just want to keep you on point. I think you need to learn to protect yourself."
"I don't think that's necessary." Clark crunches an ice cube in his back teeth. "When I'm back, I mean, I'm back."
Bruce's smile has vanished. He places his coffee mug down abruptly. "And next time? What then?"
"It won't happen again."
"Clark." Bruce gets to his feet, the old wooden bench complaining as his weight shifts. He stands in front of Clark, arms folded. "It'll happen again."
Clark heart thumps hard. He takes a deep breath through his nose, feels the tight pull of healing skin over his chest.
"There's more kryptonite out there. When the Superman returns, there's going to be an all-star battle royale in the underworld. Every megalomaniacal freak will want a piece of it so they can get a piece of you. And some of them will manage. They'll weaponize it and won't hesitate to use it against you, and when that happens I will not have you flailing around like an idiot."
"Flailing."
Bruce unfolds his arms, gestures for Clark to get up with upturned palms. "Like an idiot."
Clark grins ruefully at him, shakes his head. Being strong is one thing, that's just how he is. Learning to genuinely fight is something else entirely. He doesn't want to be a weapon, and he doesn't know how to explain that to someone like Bruce.
He stands anyway. Bruce drops his hands to his sides, looking all the world like a harmless civilian in an expensive suit. "Do your best, Clark," he says.
Clark sighs, rolls his shoulders, takes a half-hearted swing and greets the decking with his face for his troubles. Bruce is as fast as he is uncompromising; blunt pressure of his knee in the middle of Clark's back, wide hand on the nape of his neck. The other pins one of Clark's wrist to the boards. His arm is trapped under him, squashed between his chest and the deck. A resurging memory of Bruce's weight threatens him into stillness.
"It's not just about you," Bruce says in his ear, voice low and even. Clark doesn't need to be able to hear his heartbeat to know it hasn't accelerated even a fraction. "You need to consider your team. I need to trust that you can have my back in any scenario, even when things have gone to hell and it's down to the wire."
"So, what you're saying is-- ow." Clark's voice is hoarse. His lungs feel crushed. A phantom burn of gas sends pinpricks of fear down his spine. "I'm basically a liability waiting to happen."
"Pretty much." The porch creaks, and the weight on Clark's back eases off; his ribs and chest ache with the sudden relief. Bruce dusts off his knees, then offers Clark a hand up. "But I can change that. Think about it, please."
Clark accepts, and is if Bruce notices his hands are shaking, he is grateful that he doesn't mention it--though Bruce doesn't release him right away, even when he's back on his feet. Instead, he clasps his other hand over Clark's, like a handshake. Steadying.
(Clark discovers that he was wrong about his heart rate, but only a little.)
The kitchen window cracks open and Bruce lets his hand drop, casual as you like. Ma leans out, sleeves rolled up over her elbows. "There's pie on the table, if you boys are done tussling."
*