Romany

If I fall in the forest, do I make a sound?

romanyg@livejournal.com — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 10:27:43 GMT

So, er, hey. Trying to catch up, speeding through all the Racefail and Mammothfail posts, so I follow a link over to The Angry Black Woman and find this post: Dear Hollywood, Gypsy Curses? NOT Okay., which points out the absolute fail of Sam Raimi's film Drag Me To Hell for reinforcing the racist stereotype of the scary old gypsy lady using her scary gypsy magic to curse someone. Should be all YAY!

Except. The comments.

I'm used to people not knowing much, if anything, about the Romani except for media and cultural stereotypes. So I expected to see some not-so-informed comments in response to the post. Most were totally cool and just the nodding in agreement type. Until Scott chimes in with a Yeah, I knew some of those people once comment:

Good post. Lenny Bruce once observed, everyone in New York sees gypsies, but did you ever know anybody who was tight with a gypsy? I lived upstairs from a gypsy family for three years. We got along. I walked their dog. They taught me how to read palms, but Romani are pretty inward-looking, suspicious and prefer to have us leave them alone more than promote dialogue. If Jews or people of color had done the same, we’d all still be living in 1890.

I’ve met Sam Raimi. He graduated from Tisch Film. Enough said. I like Evil Dead, Xena and Spiderman, but Sam is not a deep thinker. My contention that Romani need to be open to dialogue doesn’t suggest that Raimi is not simply a lazy tool. Lori S. is right. If gypsies were so freaking powerful, why do they remain the most internationally persecuted people on the planet?

What the...? Explosions of RAGE! Why do they remain that way, Scott? Because you're not exactly helping. Open to dialogue? GAH!

nojojojo had this to say further down:

Scott,

"I lived upstairs from a gypsy family for three years. We got along. I walked their dog. They taught me how to read palms, but Romani are pretty inward-looking, suspicious and prefer to have us leave them alone more than promote dialogue. If Jews or people of color had done the same, we’d all still be living in 1890."

Do you blame them? Between Sam Raimi, and you stereotyping and blaming them for their own oppression, they can’t win for losing. Dude.

I’m not sure you intended to come across this way, but can you check your language in the future, so you don’t?

Which, yeah, *total* point. Except The Angry Black Woman responds directly to nojojojo *in defence of Scott's comment*:

actually, I didn’t read Scott’s comment that way (but I’m biased, because I know him). I wouldn’t characterize the notion that Romani would rather be left alone than engage in dialogue “blame” but rather “a reason for their actions”. I can see how not wanting to deal with outsiders (which is how I’ve typically heard this expressed, but must admit I don’t know for sure if it’s actually the case) is a natural reaction to oppression and persecution. I can also see how that could be detrimental to fighting said persecution, but that isn’t the fault of the Romani, but the people who think: “well, they don’t complain about the evil gypsy woman stereotype, so it must be okay!”

anyway, that’s how I read it.

Okay, breathe, Rom, breathe. That is not what he said. Perhaps that's her extrapolation, but that is not what he *said*.

So I had to put in my $0.02 (still in the moderation queue, but hey, I just submitted it):

Scott,

I have to disagree as well (and frankly, it's taken me over two hours to calm down enough to use the word 'disagree') on a few points. First off, I think the Lenny Bruce quote serves as an example of a racist remark which you did not use ironically. Romani is a big word that includes many nations, so I can't tell from your comment if your neighbors were Roma, Sinti, Kale or even Lom or Domari (who are not Rom but related and also called 'gypsy' by the world at large). In other words, not monolithic. Also, why was it their job to serve as cultural ambassadors? To satisfy your curiosity?

"If Jews or people of color had done the same, we’d all still be living in 1890."

Romani *are* people of color. And just because you're not aware of Romani activism does not mean it doesn't exist.

So yeah, the reason we're stereotyped and oppressed is because we're not *loud* enough and we *don't engage in dialogue*.

Some of you may remember the post I made two years ago, I am not your Halloween Costume, I am not your Gypsy Rover, regarding the racist remark in phaballa's user info. I was upset and emailed her, made the post. I never did tell you that she replied with "I'm sorry this offends you, but I'm not changing it." Two years later, the user info is still the same.

I guess I wasn't loud enough or just not Open To Dialogue.

I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

A wave and a ficlet

romanyg@livejournal.com — Thu, 28 May 2009 09:53:58 GMT

Ack, I'm *seven* weeks behind in answering comments, but I took a gander at the prompts over at sb_kink. So yes, still with the Bruce/Clark thing here. Some great comment fic there, yay! Which I need to feed. *cough*

So I see a prompt for "grudge sex" (okay, I'm *slightly* paraphrasing). But my brain only turned up "grief sex" which is something completely different. Kind of. So nothing big, 1300 words, post-Final Crisis and completely dependent on *that* plot point (DCU and sortamaybe Bruce/Clark), bleak, nothing super-explicit, and something to offend just about everyone. Or not. Also, I unashamedly abuse the second person because someone has to.

"I used to jerk off to this," he says, fingers splaying against the headboard, stretching into a yawn. He's half-asleep, the uniform a dark puddle on the rug that you and your wife argued about for half an hour in the Carpet Barn off 54th. She won and now it lies graceless beneath your bed that reeks of sweat and semen, both his and yours.

You should hang it up, you think. The cowl stands in the middle, empty and accusing. You never would have, before. Never. But now you have and it's done. Or as done as it can be with his hand running over your arm as he rolls into you with an "Mmmm."

He keeps talking as you place your hand over his to push it away. But you don't. You leave it there. "Used to imagine catching you two in the act—"

"Don't," you say, finger in sudden warning against his lips. He nods slightly, eyes older than they should be and understanding, and just takes that finger, sucks on it, rubs his jaw against the heel of your hand. He has stubble and you wish it could hurt, burn.

"Dick, don't," you say again, but it's already too late.

It's just as much about grief for him as it is for you.

It should have been Diana, if anyone, you tell yourself as you roll the sheets and comforter into a ball to take to the laundromat down the street. You wince as you hear the heavy boots, wisp of silk, five floors above, the roof top of your building. You and your wife planted a tomato garden there, petitioned the co-op for it. All since withered on the vine, neither of you having tended them regularly. An eye-sore, the building petition will say, get rid of those things, a fire-hazard.

Some farmer you turned out to be.

A swish of line and he's gone.

It should have been Diana. That, you could explain and maybe she'd forgive you.

"You know better than that, Kal," Diana says. "He loved you."

The washing machine vibrates, having taken your last quarter. There's a ripped copy of Ladies' Home Journal on the chair next to you. A mass of rags that could be a man is asleep under the folding counter.

"Hey," you say, "Do you need—?"

"Fuck off," the mass says as he rolls over toward the wall.

You laugh, softly. How Gotham. And your throat tightens as you shake your head to loosen it again. How Gotham, but this is Metropolis, your city, and how does it come to this?

By the time he says, "Fuck off," again, he's rolling into the inexplicably open door of the nearest shelter and you're flipping through that Ladies' Home Journal.

Bruce – caboose – papoose – adduce – recluse – chartreuse – profuse – mongoose – induce – seduce.

Seduce.

Bruce.

You're hovering six miles above Centennial, but you have telescopic vision so you can see perfectly well into the limousine that you'd very much like to fling into a lake at this precise moment. You could rescue her then, bride-carry, even though you haven't had the courage to ask her out yet.

It's ten years ago and the head of Bruce Wayne disappears underneath her skirt as one stiletto tries desperately to scratch the bullet-proof glass. He's saying filthy things as he rises, suspenders falling off his shoulders, and her neck arches beneath his mouth.

In space, no one can hear you scream. Technically, you know that you need to fly past the mesosphere for sound not to carry. But the thin, horrible noise tells you close enough.

"Did you want something, Clark?" Bruce says. It's five o'clock in the morning and he's sitting on the edge of his monstrous bed sipping a scotch. He dips his fingers down and grabs an ice cube. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks on it.

"Let's try to keep this professional," is all you say before you fly off the veranda.

"Wait," he whispers. You could be as far as the Solomon Islands before he says this, but you hear it regardless.

This is also ten years ago, minus eight hours.

He never says it again. At least, not to you.

You've forgotten the fabric softener and have lectured your own mother on the evils of dryer sheets often enough that you decide to live with the inevitable static. Your building has a laundry room in the basement so you don't even need to be here.

Here is where normal is. Or at least where it should be.

You hum as you fold.

The adultery rate among emergency workers is horrific and your own particular brand of rescue workers fares no better with that percentage. Divorces occur almost as often as marriages. You know this. You've counseled enough, given advice, the firm hand on the shoulder. Be strong, you say, you have to be.

God, you're an idiot.

"I should tend the chores," you say as Ma and Lois put the last of the casseroles away. You're all wearing black and you can't bear to look at Pa's chair in the darkened living room.

You're in work clothes now and you don't turn as you hear the careful footsteps behind you in the barn.

"Thanks for coming, Bruce."

"I sent Alfred around the block."

You turn. He stands at least three feet from you, hands in his trench coat.

"The nearest block is a good five miles away."

The corners of his mouth twist up, briefly, before gravity turns them down again. "Well, he might be a while then."

"Why didn't we?" you ask as Bruce heads out of the barn. It's a horrible question, and the tone of your voice betrays what you mean even though the words themselves are vague. He may think you mean now.

He stops, stares out at the near field. It's sunset. A full minute ticks by before he says, "It would have been a disaster."

You can only nod. The hay needs cutting and you should do that before you and Lois head back to town.

"Take it from me," he says after another silent minute. Dust on the horizon announces that Alfred has found that block and is returning. "Some what-ifs should never be indulged."

They don't hug; they don't even shake hands. What would be the point?

She's waiting for you as you turn the key in the lock, laundry bag slung over your shoulder. None of the lights are on.

"You forgot the mattress pad," is all she says.

She doesn't go to the closet; she doesn't pack her things. Instead, she helps you remake the bed.

"Oh, Clark," she says, "Let's talk about this later."

You can't move until she does; it's impossible. Lucky for you, her arms go around you.

An hour later, you make dinner while she showers.

It's tomorrow or the day after. You're floating above Gotham. Bruce would want you to at least check.

"Do we have a problem?" Batman says as he's crouched on a cornice. The gargoyle beneath his boot is either smiling or vomiting.

"No, Jesus, fuck no!" whimpers the man dangling from his left gauntlet. He's already pissed himself. The urine trail snakes down to his collar.

"I wasn't talking to you." The snarl, it's uncanny.

"No, we're good," is all you say, all he would want you to say. Batman is a few inches shorter than he should be and more than a few pounds lighter, but certainly no less terrifying. He gives you one short nod and ignores you until you fly away.

You hear the confession before you've flown three blocks. You smile. You won't be back for quite some time, but he'll be all right. After all, Dick has been taught by the best.

Messages from under the rock

romanyg@livejournal.com — Wed, 13 May 2009 17:48:27 GMT

Will I never just go away? *g* Behind, apologies, same old. Just a few things before I attempt to catch up again:

Dreamwidth. What? Not again.

Someone posted in sv_inquiry looking for a fic of mine. No one responded. Just the resounding silence of "Dude, I have no clue and don't care." Ha! How's that for humbling, Ms. Rom? You're forgotten! Heeee.

Ended up in the emergency room at the lovely hour of 3:30 a.m. a bit ago from *stress*. I need to calm down. *g*

I have not seen Star Trek, watched television, or done anything much. But Rom, how will we talk to you? you say. I don't know, but it's kind of damp beneath this rock that I live under now. Plus there are bugs. Hopefully, the rest of you are enjoying sunshiny spring.

Fic: "Otherwise It Won't Come True", DCU, Bruce/Clark, Teen

romanyg@livejournal.com — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 04:44:36 GMT

Yes, I've been away. And I owe many comments, so ridiculously behind. My apologies and promises to catch up.

Title: Otherwise It Won't Come True
Author: Romany
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark
Rating: Teen/PG-13
Length: ~4000 words
Spoilers: none really
Warnings: slash, ridiculous analogies (Alexander/Hephaistion)
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to DC Comics. Except the parts that belong to Oliver Stone

Summary: Some analogies are loose at best.

"You didn't like it," Clark said from the floor, leaning against the footboard, head tilting slightly back and looking up. Bruce sat on the soft blue comforter, an eye on the laptop beside him, one knee drawn up and feet bare. The credits rolled on the new plasma screen across from them. The ending score a soft reverberation in the master, quadraphonic, drum beat and lilt.

"There went three hours of my life." Bruce reached over for his water bottle on the nightstand, aimed the remote and the room fell silent. Now only the afternoon sounds of the manor garden drifted through the barely ajar balcony door: birds, squirrel chatter, Alfred's gardening gloves sifting through the loam.

Clark shrugged, nibbled salt from his fingers, popcorn bowl a foot away. A few stray kernels, invaders on the area rug, Persian, most likely antique and irreplaceable. "You're the one who picked it. Besides, you managed to keep busy."

And Bruce had kept himself occupied, never giving the film his full attention. He worked on his laptop, did pull-ups on the closet bar, sit-ups on the floor, stretches. Even resorted his sock drawer, toes and heels matched as he rolled, flickering his eyes to the screen occasionally. This a man that could crouch, unprecarious, on a building ledge hours at a time, focused. And he couldn't sit still through a movie. His comments and criticisms the only proof that he'd been paying any notice at all.

"Ten minutes in, I knew it wasn't worth it."

"Then why—?"

Bruce closed his laptop, drew up his other knee. "You seemed to be enjoying it. And some parts held my interest."

True, at certain points during the film, Bruce would pause, turn his head to the screen. And those scenes were all when...Clark couldn't keep in the laugh of disbelief.

"You're kidding. Bruce, you didn't find those scenes a bit flowery?"

Standing, Bruce put his laptop away. Back turned, he said, "It's a love story, Clark, set against a time in history." He zipped up the case, murmured, "I drew certain analogies."

Clark's hand fell away from his mouth then. "Loose, at best. We don't, you know, all that much." He thumped his head, gently, against the footboard. He didn't want to bring that up at all, unsure.

"When we have opportunity, we do," Bruce said, back still turned.

"You didn't exactly jump me when I got here this morning." In fact, Clark had sat at the breakfast table, Bruce still in his bathrobe, newly risen, at a quarter to eleven. Bruce handed him a section of the paper, sipped his coffee, as Alfred set a plate down in front of Clark. And Clark had said nothing when he followed Bruce into the bedroom, only to find that Bruce had put in a DVD and then dressed. Alfred arriving with a tray of popcorn and drinks, then quickly exiting.

"I wanted you to watch the movie first." Now he did turn, face impassive and arms crossed, waiting for a reaction, response.

Clark only looked back at him, reached for his glass of water, ice long melted from the early autumn heat but still cool, swallowed. "We don't have much in the way of opportunity. This—" He noticed the angle of his head, still sitting on the floor. "Do you have to loom like that?" Awkward, but he didn't feel like getting up, rising and asserting his slight difference in height.

"I'm not looming." But Bruce uncrossed his arms, leaned against the bureau, ran a hand through his hair. "You're avoiding the question."

"You didn't ask one."

"Didn't I?"

"No. Maybe you're avoiding it by making these vague statements."

Pushing himself off the bureau, Bruce huffed, the breath ruffling his bangs. Normally, he didn't have any, his hair either brushed back and elegant or sweat-slick from the cowl. But here he was, t-shirt and sweats, casual. With bangs. Hair a disarray from his morning shower and a quick comb. Clark took a quick breath, unable to look away and not wanting to.

"What?"

"You."

"Now who's making vague statements?"

"I think you're you right now. It's not always easy to tell."

A flash of irritation segued into a soft smile. "Precisely." He crouched in front of Clark, elbow on his knee, and peering just a foot away from Clark's face. "That's the point."

Clark couldn't lean any farther back so he leaned slightly forward. "What point?"

"Intimacy."

"I thought we were talking about why we weren't."

Crouch turning into a sitting position, their legs brushed and Bruce leaned in so now that foot of distance halved into six inches. "We are. You really want me to do that to you?"

"Do what?"

"Make this about sex. I don't want to do that."

Clark fought the pull, the lean forward and no distance, instead he focused on Bruce's eyes. "Sex would be good."

"It hasn't been?" Bruce tilted his head slightly, a real question and whisper.

Incredible, the first word that popped into Clark's mouth, but he didn't let that go. Infrequent, but he didn't let that one out either. And he couldn't say precisely who started it three months ago, blame either himself or Bruce. All he knew, one minute they were sharing a cup of coffee on the Watchtower, literally, one cup between them, because only one had been in the cabinet. Both of them laughing, rare for Bruce but not unheard of, close. And the next minute saw them kissing and closer.

"That first time—"

Bruce only raised an eyebrow. "You expected me to push you up against the bulkhead?"

"No. I don't know. It was..." Nice. But that was a stupid word, inadequate. Slow didn't cut it either. Unexpected, maybe. How they ended up at the manor instead of racing off to available quarters on the tower. Morning sheets, the sun of Gotham creeping through the shut drapes and both of them drifting off after.

"Was what?"

"The rest were like those too." All five times. Five times in three months. "What are we doing, Bruce? Are we having an affair? Is this just a friendly thing? What?"

Bruce shifted closer, cupped Clark's cheek, ran a thumb along his face. "We haven't exactly talked about it. I didn't want to."

Clark closed his eyes, preparing.

"No. Look at me."

He did.

"My life has been a series of brief affairs, Clark. Maybe I want to take it slow for once and not wipe my hands of it after a few tempestuous weeks."

"That's not what I—"

"Do. Yes, I know. We're friends."

Clark's mouth opened, but no words came, only the slow bubble of desolation in his chest.

Bruce kept his hand on Clark's cheek, insistent. "No, you don't get it. I have far fewer friends than people I've slept with." He shook his head, hand falling away and rising. "This isn't coming out right. Wait here." He disappeared into the bathroom, rummaged through the vanity and returned with a small black velvet case.

"Sit on the bed, the angle's better."

Rising, Clark went to the edge of the bed, sat down, but not without a question on his face. "You know, that looks like a lady's cosmetics bag to me."

"It is." Bruce opened the bag, retrieving a thin black pencil.

"Should I ask where it came from?"

"No. It's old. That's all you need to know." Pausing, Bruce closed the bag, tossed it on the comforter. "We both come with a history, Clark."

The hint of Selina's perfume hung in the air, stale. How many years and he still hadn't boxed up all of Lois's things. "I guess we do."

"Look up," Bruce said, testing the pencil on his thumb and leaving a black smudge.

"Are you going to put that on my face?"

"Eyeliner does go around the eyes, which tend to be on the face."

"What does this—? Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You want to make me look like the actor in the movie, with all the kohl or whatever that was supposed to be. You know, I don't think that was one of the more historically accurate—"

"Indulge me," Bruce said, the pencil not retreating. "There's a point here."

"Yes, and it's right by my eye."

"Even if I deliberately stabbed you with this, all I'd do is break the thing." Bruce now tilted Clark's chin, planning his mode of attack.

"Reflexes, personal space..."

The grip on his chin tightened. "Relax. I know what I'm doing."

Clark took a deep breath, not too deep, released it slowly, nodded, and then kept still. "Okay, Max Factor, do your worst."

Bruce drew the liner, long strokes and then short, across each eyelid and then underneath. Clark tried not to blink, having horrible visions of snapping the pencil in half, splinters. Somehow, he managed it. The pencil retreated and now Bruce used his thumb to rub lightly on the lids, upper and lower, mouth pursed and intent, pencil between his lips. Clark looked at the faint stitch lines, faded scar on the underside of Bruce's chin. He breathed again, now concentrating on the feel of Bruce's fingers, gentle and purposeful on his face. Almost sensual, close, and Clark wondered what Bruce would do if he fell back on the bed, pulled Bruce down with him.

But then Bruce drew back, thumb and forefinger together. "Eyelash."

It must have been loose already. Although invulnerable, Clark's body regenerated like anyone's. Skin cells and bone and hair. Bruce twirled the lash slightly, intrigued, and Clark knew that this would end up on a glass slide down in the cave along with all the other samples that Bruce had retrieved over the years.

The corner of Bruce's mouth twisted up as he held the lash out. "Make a wish," he said.

"You're in a mood," Clark said, but couldn't help the soft smile, surprise.

"Is that a problem?"

"No." Clark let out a soft breath, the lash fluttering in the air, filtered sunbeam from the garden. And his wish both great and small. Four hours he'd been here, selfish, since the world didn't make for such allowances. Please. An hour more, maybe two. Let the volcanoes sleep, the earth not rage up, flood waters hold back. Peace, for a short time, and just this place.

The lash twirled and fell on the carpet.

"So what did you wish for?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you. Otherwise, it won't come true."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

"All right. You."

Bruce's eyes widened slightly, imperceptible to anyone but Clark. "That's just like you, Clark Kent, to wish for something you already have." He leaned in, whisper, breath in the ear. "You look ridiculous, by the way."

Clark leaped up and dashed for the bathroom.

"I look like a cartoon!" he said to the mirror, blue eyes somehow bluer in contrast and huge. "Was that your point?"

"You're quite lovely," Bruce said, now behind him, but his own image smirking at Clark in the mirror.

"I'm glad I could amuse," Clark muttered, turning on the tap and looking for the soap. "Because you didn't have anything better to do today."

But Bruce reached around him, turned the faucet off. "Leave it on. I'm getting used to it." Arms now wrapping around Clark's waist, chin tilting to lean on Clark's shoulder, he said, "There are always things I have to do. But I made time for you."

"You are in a mood," Clark said, looking sidelong at Bruce, the image of the two of them in the mirror on the periphery. "Not that I'm complaining."

The grip around his waist tightened, the chin on his shoulder turned so that Bruce's mouth grazed his neck. "You've been gone three and a half weeks, Clark. And we lost contact with you after the first week." Yes, deep space mission. He couldn't help it if the communications device sank into a lava pit. He retrieved it, of course, but he couldn't make it work after that.

"You had that trip to Austria the two weeks before that," Clark countered, arching his neck to give Bruce better access. "If that's really where you ended up. I did look for you once or twice."

Sighing, Bruce closed his eyes briefly. "That's what I meant by opportunity. We mostly work separately. That can't change."

"So on our downtime, we watch an epic-length movie and you assault me with eyeliner?" Clark took another quick glance at himself in the mirror. "I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille."

"Wrong movie."

"Are we role-playing?" Clark grinned, pulled away. "Then I should make it more authentic." He stripped off his t-shirt and grabbed Bruce's blue satin robe from the hook by the door, put it on without tying the sash to leave his chest bare. He flipped the back so that it billowed behind him. Lowering his lashes and raising them again dramatically, he said in a reasonable Irish brogue, "You once said the fear of death drives all men. Are there no other forces? Is there not love in your life, Alexander? What is it you fear?"

Standing away from the vanity, Bruce crossed his arms. "That's not...Fine." And in a better brogue, he said, "Who knows these things? When I was a child my mother thought me divine; my father, weak. Which am I, Hephaistion? Weak or divine?" He walked toward Clark, pausing just inches in front of him. "All I know is I trust only you in this world. I've missed you. I need you." He paused again, swallowed, voice now low. "It is you I love, Hephaistion. No other."

Clark's eyes widened. And with the eyeliner on, he was sure they looked impossibly big. His breath hissed between his teeth. Just a game. They were playing a game and he'd started it. Or Bruce did. One of them did. Or they were just playing off each other.

"Your line," Bruce mumbled after more than a few seconds. His expression open and expectant as if he hadn't said that word.

"Like a deer listening in the wind you strike me still, Alexander. You have eyes like no other. I sound as stupid as a school boy, but you're everything I care for. And by the—" Clark laughed, small chuckle and blush. Midwestern accent now. "I'm sorry. I can't say it. It's just..."

Bruce, still inches away, glared.

"Okay, okay." Finding the brogue again. "By the sweet breath..." Another laugh. "Okay." Breath. "By the sweet breath of Aphrodite..." Clark leaned into the vanity. He slid down to the tile, shoulders shaking and ridiculous sounds coming out of his mouth. He rubbed an eye and black smears ended up on his hand. Clark looked at it for a moment and then just howled. And couldn't stop. "I've ruined my makeup!" He collapsed on the floor in giggles.

"Are you done?"

"Give...give me a minute," Clark said, and kept giggling. Breath evening out, he said, "Okay, I'm done." He turned, still on the floor, his only view Bruce's bare feet, the hem of his sweatpants. "Don't you wear steel toes?" He reached out, couldn't help it, to the small ridge that shouldn't be there on the middle toe of Bruce's left foot, bone spur and badly knit, hairline fracture. The beginnings of osteoarthritis. "You're only thirty-six," he whispered against that toe, hand now reaching up the calf.

"Don't." Bruce pulled away, stepped back.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, now on his back and staring at the bathroom ceiling. What were they doing? They didn't have this kind of time. Clark closed his eyes, laughter gone from his voice. And finished his line. "I'm so jealous of losing you to this world you want so badly."

Bruce knelt beside him. And finished his line too. "You'll never lose me, Hephaistion. I'll be with you always. Till the end."

Clark looked into his eyes, the two of them silent for a moment. "Aren't you supposed to hug me now?" he whispered.

"Not on the bathroom floor." Bruce turned and walked back to the bedroom. By the time Clark had picked himself up, slowly, since he considered making a hasty exit through the tub drain – physics be damned - or disappearing altogether, he found Bruce rummaging through a walnut box on the bureau.

"I found it in Egypt..." Bruce said, brogue again, and a ring in his hand.

"Your prep school ring?" For that's what it was, blue stone set in silver and impossible print scrawled around.

Bruce only beckoned impatiently so Clark stepped forward.

"The man who sold it to me said it came from a time when man worshiped sun and stars. I'll always think of you as the sun, Alexander."

"Wait, are we switching?"

Bruce said nothing in his own voice, only took Clark's hand and shoved the ring on a finger, sliding it easily over the knuckle. It fit. Bruce always had large hands.

"No one in their right mind would compare me to the sun," Bruce finally said, low and annoyed, but hand still on Clark's.

"If we're switching, then shouldn't you be the one with the eyeliner?"

Instead of answering, Bruce let Clark's hand drop, stormed over to the cosmetics bag still on the bed. He grabbed the pencil from it and quickly lined both eyes, upper and lower lids, while peering in the mirror above the bureau. "Satisfied?" he finally said, turning.

"You're stunning," Clark said, but not without a low chuckle, lip quivering from the suppressed open laugh. "It brings out your eyes."

Bruce only glared, eyes narrowing.

"No, really, I mean it," Clark said, daring to come closer and arms opening. Bruce didn't back away - or down. "Next time, we'll have a Mary Kay party." But he said this with arms already wrapping around Bruce. "Let's just skip to the hugging, okay?" And when Bruce didn't flinch, his own arms going around Clark, underneath the robe and bare hands against Clark's skin, he added, "And if I'm lucky, the conquering thighs part."

"We should try it," Bruce said, murmur along Clark's collarbone, robe sliding down as far as it could, and breath.

"Most people would call this a hug," Clark said, hands sliding down. "A naughty hug." Smirk against Bruce's ear and fingertips going beyond the waistband of Bruce's sweatpants and further. "You have got the best -"

"No, I mean intercrural."

"By all means, get technical with me." Clark backed up, pulling Bruce with him, until his back hit the mattress and Bruce landed on top of him. The robe splayed behind him on the comforter. Even with it half off his shoulders, he managed not to strain the seams as he kneaded that best ass that he didn't get a chance to finish saying earlier. He hoped his fingers relayed the message. The way Bruce arched and ground into him told him message received.

"It means - "

"I know what it means." Clark lay fully back, with what he wanted to be a seductive smile but was more likely a goofy grin. "You can have my virginal thighs."

"Clark..."

"But you'll hurt yourself if I don't get my jeans off first."

"Clark..." Bruce said again, head bowed and shoulders slumping. The wonderful grind stopped. "Why is this a joke to you?"

Closing his eyes briefly, his own hands slowing, he said, "Will you let me be serious?" A whisper and real question

"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do all afternoon? I said - " But Bruce stopped, shook his head in frustration.

Managing to get one arm out of the robe, Clark raised his free hand, the one that still had the prep school ring, just touched the side of Bruce's face. Bruce leaned into it, a small sigh escaping and eyes pleading. His lined eyes, impeccable and unsmudged. Beautiful, Clark wanted to say, and as open as he'd ever seen them. But instead, he said, "No more analogies. This is just us, okay?"

"Us," Bruce managed to repeat, face turning slightly to kiss Clark's wrist, but eyes still focused on Clark.

"I like the sound of that." But Clark didn't let Bruce respond, not in words, as he leaned up and kissed him, drew him down, hand wrapping around his neck

And if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. But sometimes wishes do come true. As yes, Clark did manage to get his jeans off and the afternoon minutes ticked off into hours, the earth turned in peace and quiet. This room the only place he needed to be or wanted. Evening would come with its sirens and screams, its horrible injustices, and two people determined to make a difference, have it make sense.

But that time was hours away.

In brief

romanyg@livejournal.com — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 01:42:10 GMT

Well, it seems I haven't posted anything in 2-1/2 months. Sofia sent me an email that simply read:

WOMAN, ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!?

Yes, I said, after several days, I am.

Currently, I'm at my mother's - who is rather more than poorly - and have an hour or two since she's resting.

During my absence, someone(s) nominated a few of my WF fics for the WFA (World's Finest Awards). Thank you, someone(s)!

Also, my very belated thanks to chrisleeoctaves, dakinigrl and netweight for the lovely holiday cards, and to discord26 for the v-gift.

Although I've been horribly negligent, I've missed you all.

This is not my beautiful icon.

romanyg@livejournal.com — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 00:01:25 GMT

No, it really isn't. I have no clue who or what this icon is. Is LJ randomly swapping out icons? Old news for the rest of you, I'm sure. But yes, I've been away again and horribly negligent, owe comments.

I missed my LJ-versary too. Five years!

In other words: HI!

Skip=ZOMG! and zother things

romanyg@livejournal.com — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 20:21:21 GMT

Wow. I *just* finished reading through skip=zomg! on the flist. And it only took me a week and a half! \o/ No fic, and I didn't comment on most of them, but I *read* them. (I don't filter anything/anyone out but comms.)

Please, oh please, never let me fall that behind again.

I just drove Mr. Romany to the airport so that he can cavort with fellow fanboys. This is a big deal for him - he's not the biggest social butterfly in the world. He doesn't even like going out to the movies because there are *people* there.

And I promised the littlest Romanita that I'd take her to go see HSM3 this weekend. The things I do. *g*

[Huff Puff!] Random Fandom

romanyg@livejournal.com — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 17:28:36 GMT

This is the only Jossverse/Smallville crossover icon that I have. Not that there are too many of them. *g*

So...Writercon 2009 will be in Minneapolis. I reallyreally want to go since I've been to 2004 (Las Vegas) and 2006 (Atlanta), but I need to see how many nickels I can rub together to do that. Also, time is more of a factor for me now. But Jossverse is my first fandom love, and I treasure the friendships that I've made there. Convince me that I have nickels and time!

Whatever happened to that Smallville con that was supposed to happen in 2007, then got postponed to 2008? Did it die an ignoble death?

Speaking of, guess what happened on season premiere night for SV and SPN? My DVR hates me! We get the kidlets snuggled down, turn on the tv and...2 hours of infomercial! What?!? But! I finally saw the first ep of SV, so yay! I'll catch up with the rest soon. I haven't been able to get my hands on the first ep of SPN however, so boo!

Rumor has it that nwhepcat is now writing SV! I'm not back to fic-reading mode yet, but I look forward to diving into those.

Catching up slowly: I've filtered out all my comms and am at skip=eleventybillion, just reading the personal posts to see what you've been up to while I've been offline.

Also, I've finally seen Iron Man!

ETA: Slight spoilers for SV 8x01 in comments.

I'm alive!

romanyg@livejournal.com — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 22:54:46 GMT

Wow. I think this is the longest that I've ever been on radio silence, so to speak. Real life is taking *all* of my time. Nothing exciting, but stressful anyway. My glass is half-empty! Not only is it half-empty, but the rim is chipped so I'll cut my lip if I take a drink. And look, there's a fly floating in it. Poor fly. Yes, I'm one of those. *g*

But I'm grateful and *so* late in thanking the people who remembered my birthday (over a month ago now, eep!).

Thank you...

entrenous88 for the lovely e-card.

jeannev, morganichele, mskatej, roya_spirit, svgurl, talitha78 and tmelange for the shiny v-gifts.

baggyeyes for the great icon that I'm using for this very post. Determined Bat!

and zeldadestry for a fantastic 3:10 to Yuma fic - Devils and Pilgrims, All in Accord. It's Ben/Dan and wonderful. Harsh and subtle at the same time. The voices!

Sofia, when asked her age, loved to say, “Mas sabe el diablo por viejo que por diablo.” The devil knows more because he’s old than because he’s the devil. A man lived enough, he saw all manner of suffering. A man lived enough, he gave in. A man lived enough, he stopped trying.

Also, thank you to everyone who wished me well on my birthday. My apologies for not thanking you individually.

I've a few comments to catch up on as well as email (over the next few days). Someone must have recced my Mad Men fic after I disappeared into the ether because it's had some play that I need to acknowledge. So I thank you too.

I am now 42 and should be the answer to life, the universe and everything. Alas, I am not.

Also, HI!

Thank you!

romanyg@livejournal.com — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 04:42:48 GMT

Thank you so much to the shy, anonymous people who gifted my user page with a cute polar bear and penguin! *feels loved mysteriously*

The polar bear's looking at the penguin kind of funny - hungrily, in fact...*g*

Well, that's fifteen minutes of my life I want back.

romanyg@livejournal.com — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 00:12:30 GMT

Seriously. You know, LJ has this option where you can set your journal so that it's public but only friends are allowed to comment. And when does LJ *tell* you that the comment you just typed for a *publicly* available fic is *not* acceptable? That's right! *After* you type the freaking thing! And then LJ *eats* your comment. Bye-bye! Poof!

ROM SMASH!

Just WHY? You know, if you only want your *friends* to comment on your fic, LOCK that PUPPY down. DO NOT WASTE MY *FREAKING* TIME!

No *freaking* love for your fan-dance there. No love.

GRRRRR!

And then she says, "Why don't you write?"

romanyg@livejournal.com — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 02:04:52 GMT

So I've been away. Vacation. And I'm hopelessly behind. I've two fics that I need to get out *now* and er, that's not going to happen. I thought, hey, notebook, you know? I'll do it longhand. HAHAHA! I just can't compose that way anymore. Plus, busybusy, no time. So I'm going to be late on the lynnevitational. *hangs head* But I'll finish up "In This Room, The Quiet" (sorry, tmelange!) soonish.

Also made of fail: What kind of irresponsible person lets a seven-year old apply their own sunscreen? Oh, that would be *me*. Sunburn! I told her that the white handprint on her iodine color shoulder is quite the fashion statement. She does not believe me above the OW! But, hey, it could be the new body art. Er, yeah, I'm reaching. *sigh*

Even my olive-skinned child turned a lovely shade of rose. And she *never* burns. She does not appreciate the new experience. She couldn't understand why she felt so horrible this morning. I told her, "It's the sunburn, hon. Your body's trying to heal." She only glared at me and tried to drown herself in her bowl of cereal.

So she asks me the other day, when she sees me wringing my hands and muttering something about deadlines: "Mommy, why aren't you a writer?"

*pause and blink*

"Well, I do write," I said. "A writer is someone who writes."

"No," she said, "Why aren't you an author?"

"You mean as in books?"

"Yes. You write so why aren't you published?"

*headdesk and flail*

You see, I've managed to tune out my family and the people I know when they frown at fanfiction and tell me that I'm wasting my time and that I'll never be a real writer if I keep up this nonsense. You're a thief, they say, and a hobby's a hobby but this is ridiculous and degrading. Grow up. And so on.

But I must have internalized some of that, *believe* it somewhere, because I don't even know what to say to my own kid. She just wants to understand what I do, be proud of me. And yeah, I've got nothing.

*bleeds inside*

Fic: "Click of the Latch", Mad Men, Don/Pete, Adultish

romanyg@livejournal.com — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 18:17:47 GMT

Well, there doesn't seem to be any Mad Men fic out there. Maybe I wanted an excuse to use this icon.

Title: Click of the Latch
Author: Romany
Fandom: Mad Men
Pairing: Don/Pete, Pete/Trudy, Pete/Peggy implied
Rating: Adultish/R
Length: 1810 words
Spoilers: S1 only
Warnings: slash, het, obsession
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to AMC.

Summary: Pete doesn't believe in hero worship. Except when he does.

Pete knows when Don's in the office and when he's not. He knows the sound of that office door closing: to head out for a long lunch with a client, when Roger steps inside for a drink and the latest, when Don's alone. Different sounds, all of them, the click of the latch.

The office breathes and catches when he's gone, waits for him to come back.

You either work for Don or against him. It's magic really, how he can look at a client and know what they need is greater than what they want. How he pauses, lights a cigarette, looks out the window and then back again. The artwork, the copy, doesn't matter. It's his voice and his silences. Pete has that too, but Don doesn't see it. He's a nuisance, a threat. A name and nothing else.

You either work for Don or against him.

It doesn't have to be this way.

Don has the house in the suburbs, the beautiful blonde wife. Rumor is that she was a model. Kids. They have barbeques on the weekends, invite the neighbors. Or so Pete thinks. He's never been invited. None of them have, the worker bees, the drones. Don isn't the type to mix it up with the hoi polloi, pretend to be one of the guys. Don doesn't have to pretend anything.

Pete goes for a drink sometimes after work with the guys, jokes around. They laugh and he's supposed to be having a good time. It's how its done. Don has to know this. Wherever he is, it's a different bar, restaurant maybe. He can't head back on the six o'clock every night and be where he is.

No, he's here in the city. He has to be.

What does it take to have a drink with the man?

Pete gets the next round.

If Don pours you a drink, you're in. He calls you into his office, says, "Good job." Pats you on the back. Small talk. Pete's seen this happen.

Peggy gets the next drink, not him. He can smell it on her breath and it's disgusting. The way she carries herself now. Brazen. And she can't have thought of it on her own. Don's had to have taken her under his wing, whispered in her ear. Not like that, Pete would know if he had. Don's never chased a girl around the office, had a girl on the side.

He doesn't walk up Amsterdam and wonder what happened to the sweet girl pecking away at her typewriter. Don doesn't do anything like that.

Trudy says it's time for a housewarming, the apartment's as set up as it's going to be. Pictures on the wall, the bed made, appetizers in the oven. She's made him rearrange the furniture half a dozen times.

The record's going in the stereo cabinet, lid down, and the doorbell rings. Everyone's here.

Don didn't bother to say no to the invitation. He just didn't show up.

McCann Erickson is courting Don. Everyone knows this. The gifts, the way Roger glares at him and then doesn't. Gossip and a soon to be empty office. Nature abhors a vacuum and someone will move in there. Pete has plans, he's been noticed.

It's business. This is how a man moves up in the world.

They'll bump elbows now, just not in the hall. Don won't be there.

Don stays. The door to his office clicks shut.

Pete comes to bed with only his pajama bottoms. Trudy asks where his top is as she puts down her book, gets the light.

"It's hot," he says. And it is, the window open, car horns blaring. Don wouldn't put on a top to sweat underneath a sheet so why should he. He climbs into bed and kisses her, hand on her face and then in her hair.

"I'll just be a minute," she says, pulling away.

He holds onto her arm. "You don't need it," he says.

"Oh, honey." A whisper and smile as she lies back, raises her nightgown. She's not wearing underwear, and he's noticed the hint over the last few months, the one week when she doesn't. "It's the perfect time."

"It's not what you think," he says. Pete's a married man now, he can experiment. He moves down the bed, spreads her thighs.

"What are you...? Don't, that's disgus—"

At school, his fraternity brothers would laugh and say, "If you'll lick a hole, you'll suck a pole." But they weren't Don Draper. Don would be above such childishness and fear. Creativity is the key, see what they need and not what they expect.

"Oh! Oh. That's...nice."

It is. Especially when it's his turn. It's all in the pitch.

Pete's quick on his feet, an innovative thinker. The other fellows do it the way it's always been done. By the rules. And so they can't make that step forward. They see a ladder and stop at every rung. They flirt with the girls, have their hobbies. Really, anyone could write a book, a short story. He's done that.

No, it's that blank look in their eye until they get it.

Don's eyes are never blank. They narrow as he leans forward, taps his cigarette against the ashtray, a puff of smoke wisps around him. The stuff of dreams.

Sometimes, Don shoots them down.

They decide to try. Trudy closes the diaphragm case and never opens it again. Pete leaves the lamp on.

If Don reaches over, turns his lamp off, it's only because he doesn't want to wake up his kids. His wife's kept her figure. Don moves over her, blanket sliding down the bed, arms braced and powerful. Don rolls, hands on her hips, her knees at his sides.

"Wow, tiger," Trudy says above him as she breathes and rolls away. "That was different."

"It was, wasn't it."

It's a lie. All of it. Don Draper doesn't exist, the truth crammed in a shoe box. Photographs and a name. Dick Whitman.

It's a lie.

Pete doesn't put the lid back on the box for a long time.

It's a lie. And an opportunity.

It's a lie.

Dick doesn't suit him. The name sits in Pete's mouth until he spits it out. That promotion is his, he's earned it, and Don's holding him down, back. Down. Holding him down.

Don strides down the hall to Cooper's office, daring Pete to pull the trigger. Brave and idiotic and it makes no sense. Don's a criminal, a thief. He stole everything.

And none of that matters. Pete's bullets, the truth, ricochet like Don's Superman, impenetrable.

Don lights a cigarette, flicks his wrist, raises his eyebrow. He doesn't look relieved or grateful, not even sharp anger. He just stands there while Pete gets the dressing down.

And why shouldn't he? He's Don Draper.

Trudy's crying in the bathroom. It's that time of the month and she didn't stock her necessities. Bad luck, she had said.

"Did you look in the cabinet? You don't have one just lying around, do you?"

No, she doesn't. So Pete finds himself inside the all-night drugstore not going down that aisle. Perhaps they need some other things.

Don would never find himself in this situation. But if he did, he'd be at the register right now with a box of Kotex in his hand, unashamed, chat with the clerk.

Pete pauses by the comic book rack. Superman, just as he remembers. But that's not quite right. The dark hair, larger than life. But it's not quite right. Pete flips through an issue of Batman, takes an occasional glance down the aisle with the floral boxes. Really, tiny flowers on the box. It's quite something. And Trudy's crying in the bathroom, he needs to get home.

Batman. Well, that's interesting.

Don's not Superman, he's Bruce Wayne.

Pete has a bottle of eighteen-year Buchanan's in his desk. He's been saving it.

Don passes him in the hall now, not even a nod, goes back inside his office. He's working late. Pete listens to the elevator doors open and close, people going home. The janitor empties Pete's wastebasket.

It doesn't matter which of them gets a story in The New Yorker, the Atlantic. Don hasn't written a book; he writes his life. And Pete wonders what it's like to do that. Repackage.

He opens his desk drawer, gets the bottle, gift box.

"Don, do you have a minute?"

Don leans back in his chair. His the only light left on, a single lamp on his desk. Down the hall, the elevator bell rings, closes on the janitor. It's quiet.

"This isn't a good time, Pete."

Pete steps inside, leaves the door ajar, places the box on Don's desk. He waits.

Don picks it up. "Apology not accepted." He places the box back down, still looking at Pete.

Don's eyes are never blank.

"Aren't you going to open that?" Pete stays where he is.

The corners of Don's mouth twitch. He rises, gets two glasses from the bar. "Don't make a habit of this," he says as he pours. He hands a glass to Pete and he sits on his couch, arm along the back, in shadow. He sips his drink, says nothing.

Pete's still standing in the middle of the room. He swirls his glass and then sits on the couch too.

Whoever Dick Whitman was, he died in Korea. This is Don Draper.

Don can walk into any room and own it. Pete's still working on that.

Don shifts on the couch, comfortable, waiting.

What's there to talk about, really? Pete finds that his glass is now empty, a burn in his throat. And he doesn't even know that he's doing it until he is, his eyes closed. Don's mouth is nothing like Trudy's.

"You're drunk, Pete." Don pulls away, stands.

He might be. He skipped lunch today, worked through. "Maybe I am."

Don puts his drink down at the bar, glass half full. He lights a cigarette, looks out the window, broad shoulders and back. Regal, and Pete's supposed to be the aristocrat, but Don's the self-made man. They both know whose kingdom this is.

A wreath of smoke, ember and ash. "Go home to your wife."

Pete leans forward, places his empty glass on the coffee table. He stands, goes to the door. Don turns, a silhouette, the Manhattan lights. Pete can't see his eyes, but he can feel them, assessing. The angle and new information.

"Get the door."

Pete's already stepped across that threshold and he's not going back. He stays where he is, reaches for the knob, pushes. The door clicks shut.

Don's eyes are never blank. You either work for Don or against him. It doesn't have to be this way.

Don leaves the lamp on, just like Pete knew he would.

Fic: "Nor the Rain", DCU, Bruce/Clark, Adult

romanyg@livejournal.com — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 06:11:19 GMT

Still busy and behind. I see that it's porn battle time again and I thought, "Okay, I'll do that." I ended up with a story instead. And schmoop. Yeah, me. Go figure. *g*

Title: Nor the Rain
Author: Romany
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark
Rating: Adult/NC-17
Length: 2507 words
Spoilers: early career, pre-Robin
Warnings: slash, Russian poetry, unrepentant schmoop
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to DC Comics.

Summary: Bruce decides it's time.

Superman spilled his coffee, trickles running down his tights, jaw dropping.

"You took it out."

Batman sat, crouched beside him on the stevedore's office roof, looking out over Gotham Harbor, his own cup firm in his gauntlet. One corner of his mouth twisted up.

"You peeked. Lead's bad for the pores." Looking sidelong, the eyes of Bruce Wayne now apparent beneath the mask, he said, "Besides, it was time."

"Then I should tell you—"

"I already know."

Batman, Bruce Wayne, rose, leaped down and disappeared in a sea of cargo containers.

Two days later, Clark found himself on the list of invited media to the Gotham Orphans Benefit at Wayne Manor. He also found himself fiddling with his press packet on the lawn of said manor, celebrity guests subtly steering around him in their sun hats and linen shirts.

"Have you done your homework, Mr. Kent?"

A hand, patrician and strong, manicured nails, lighted on his arm, the words a whisper, breath in his ear.

Clark could only nod, keep a not too firm hand on his virgin Mimosa.

"Have you, Mr. Wayne?"

"Oh, I have." Again, the whisper. The hand on his arm squeezing. "May I call you Clark? It suits you."

I will not call you Kal, Kal-El, or any of your other ridiculous names, Superman. This isn't Krypton.

"Call me Bruce," the whisper, melodious tenor and drawl, Gotham Brahmin accent, "Give it a try."

"Bruce." His own Kansas accent, with a hint of Mid Atlantic, horrible and flat.

A soft chuckle. "See? We're friends already, Clark."

"Are you this friendly with the others?"

"As much as I value your trade, my relationship with the fourth estate runs from adversarial to a loose alliance at best." That hand ran up his arm to his shoulder. "A man in my position, you know how it is."

"You know what I mean."

That breath and whisper closer. "You know what I mean too. You're the only one I talk to."

Talk? They argued. All the time. Even argued about the word argue. Okay, more like quibbling. Over little things. Like who should be first at the scene, jurisdiction and authority. Somehow New York was neutral ground but Milwaukee wasn't. So those weren't so little. But that had turned into the odd coffee ritual over Gotham. Books and movies, even the color teal. Details dropped without the face or name to go with them. Clark had never gone so far out of his way to argue with anyone, arranged his schedule.

"I know you worship at the altar of Kurosawa. You're one of only ten people outside of Russia to have even heard of Elena Luvasova, let alone read her. You think raspberries are overrated and Hershey should be sanctioned for ruining chocolate." Clark said this light and low as he watched a caterer open another bottle of champagne, small cliques of people shifting and regrouping. Laughter, far away from the two of them.

A chin rested on his shoulder as the hand slipped down his arm again. "One of eleven people now, am I right?"

"I was always one of the ten. She doesn't translate well, but she's exquisite in Russian."

Clark could hear the slow shut of eyelids, the steady heartbeat quicken slightly and back down again. "Prove it."

"We were walking from the station, slow feet on the ground. Sparrow Hills and Moscow below us. The sun was not kind to you that day, nor the rain which came after..."

And that heartbeat, which he would know anywhere, but hadn't pried to find it since he promised, skittered slightly, inches from his back. His own slow smile, head turning so that dark hair, hint of blue eyes, was peripherally visible. "You're a sap, Bruce." Funny, how the name, forbidden and withheld, came easily now.

"Shh, it's a secret." The grin, unthinkable three days ago. "Come on, I'll give you a tour. Let's escape these dreadful people before they notice."

Third stop was the library. A piano, Chesterfield chairs, books all the way to the ceiling. A walnut book ladder rested on one side. Bruce stopped before a grandfather clock, antique.

"It doesn't work anymore," he sighed. "Sentimental value." His fingertips glanced the casing.

And then Clark saw it, the door, and the stairs. His eyes widened, but he didn't speak. They weren't alone in the house. A few guests in the main parlor at the front of the house, complaining about the sun. Such an unnatural day for Gotham and humid.

Bruce smiled, small and real, eyebrow raised in acknowledgment. "I said I'd give you a tour." He looked down then, hands now in pocket, toeing the floor with a summer oxford. "Would you look at that? Scuff mark."

Clark looked down, the herringbone floor, the cave below that. "You weren't kidding," he said, a low whistle and wonder. The infamous lair, right beneath him, batmobile on the tarmac, the soft hum of electronics, lab and work bench.

"Yes, it's horrible." Was that a wink? "I'll have to get it buffed out."

Fourth stop was the kitchen. Old fashioned and glass cabinets, immaculate. A middle-aged man in butler uniform spoke sternly into a phone.

"We were promised a morning delivery. I don't care to hear your excuses, young man. There are other vendors, I must say, that don't rely on them. Good. Half an hour then and no later. Goodbye." He sighed and put down the phone. "Ah, Master Bruce, may I—?"

"We're just on our way through, Alfred. I'd like to introduce a friend of mine, Clark Kent. Clark, this is Alfred Pennyworth. Don't let the uniform fool you, he runs this place with an iron fist."

"A pleasure, sir." Alfred looked at him shrewdly, Bruce's hand on Clark's arm, and suddenly Clark could believe the iron fist and possible other powers.

"It's nice to meet you," Clark said, awkward and slight stammer.

"He's a shy one!" Bruce said, that hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "It's all right, Clark. We don't stand on ceremony here."

Alfred's mouth twitched, conveying 'We most certainly do.' But he said, "Please, Mister Kent, make yourself at home. May I get you anything?"

"Oh no. Thank you. I'm just...you have a beautiful home."

Alfred relaxed, a soft smile. "One tries." He stood away from the counter, surety and grace and subtle power. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, I have some late deliveries to attend to." On his way out, he said low, in passing, so that Clark shouldn't have been able to hear, "Be good, Master Bruce, and be a gentleman."

"He likes you," Bruce said, as if he were suddenly sixteen and Clark had met with his parents' approval. This wasn't just a kitchen, but a test. Clark didn't know what to say. Until he saw the massive espresso machine.

"I knew it!" Triumph in his voice, evidence on the counter.

"Just because some of us prefer not to drink that swill they serve in diners—"

"Snob." Clark practically bounced on his toes in glee. He managed not to float with it. He turned to call Bruce a snob again, but the word stayed in his throat when he saw the expression on his face. Part exasperation and part something else.

And he just stood there when Bruce leaned in and kissed him. Soft and no tongue until Clark kissed him back. Even then, it was slow. Bruce knew what he was doing but there was still a question behind it, and behind that, fear. Clark ran a reassuring hand down Bruce's back, pressed closer.

"Is this part of the tour?" Clark said, when they pulled away.

"You're not seeing anyone, are you?" Bruce said, leaning so their foreheads touched, shaky. "I didn't just—"

"I thought you did your homework." Clark tilted that chin, a small kiss and quick. "I lead a lonely life."

Bruce, eyes still closed, shook his head. "You're the only one I talk to. I can't—"

Putting a finger to Bruce's lips, Clark whispered, "Shh, it's okay. Show me the rest of the house."

"Well, here we are," Bruce said after Clark shut the door to the master suite behind him. The bedroom mahogany and blue. Clark wanted to laugh, drive away his own nerves, because yes, they were here.

"Here we are," he said, an echo, and small. He placed his press packet on the bureau, hands not knowing what to do and Bruce a good five feet away. Lady-killer, the tabloids said. But that's all they said. "Have you...?" Clark let the question fade. Stupid thing to ask and presumptuous.

"Yes." But Bruce didn't move. Or explain. Not that Clark needed him to. "Have...Can you?"

"Yes." And Clark did laugh then, shook his head. "Just look at us. It's like high school all over again." God, he really didn't know what to do with his hands and his feet were glued to the floor.

"High school?" Bruce's voice rose, accusation.

"No, no, college. Definitely college." His hands went up in defense, placating. "I just meant—"

Bruce's face softened then and he stepped forward. Without saying a word, he reached out, took off Clark's glasses, placed them on top of the press packet. Then he brushed part of Clark's hair forward, one finger twisting to form a curl. After that, he just looked, hands going back in his pockets. He still didn't say anything, didn't move, his heartbeat mostly steady, but not quite.

Clark took one of his hands, placed it a few inches from Bruce's face so that only the lower half was visible. Bruce frowned and Clark laughed. "There you are," he said. He took his hand away. The full face, naked and open, was much better.

"There you are," he said again, this time leaning forward, the kiss much deeper, harder than it had been in the kitchen.

Somehow, they managed to shrug out of shirts and shoes, slacks and socks, without breaking apart too much, until they were nothing but undershirts and boxers on top of the blue coverlet. And then it was just skin and the coverlet, Bruce's hand reaching down, no nervousness in his strokes and mouth on Clark's neck.

Clark hissed, arched, attempted to turn over. But Bruce's hand held him in place. "No," he said, urgent and apology, as he climbed on top of Clark, hands pinning Clark's wrists to the bed. Cock to cock now, he moved. "I'm not going to last." And that was the last of the words as they ground together, Clark's hips rising. He wasn't going to last either, eyes locking and blue and he wanted to look but he gave up, kissed Bruce above him, fast and nasty and whimper and rising. Literally. A few inches above the bed, but his wrists still pinned as Bruce ground down a final time and anything but quiet.

Just breath and a mess and fully on the bed now. Clark noticed the flutter of curtains, the summer breeze. "The window's open," he murmured, not quite ready to care about anything but the feel of Bruce collapsed on top of him.

"I'm known for disappearing from my own parties with the prettiest thing that comes along. This shocks no one," Bruce said, a mumble against his neck. "But this is the first time it's been true."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

Bruce shifted, looked over, still partially draped on Clark. "Do I even need to explain this to you?"

"No." He reached over, his free arm, brushed the hair over Bruce's ear. "The lines were long today and the factory closed. You come to me, hands empty, and speak of art and how things were when you were a boy. We speak of the dead. There is no food in the icebox, but there is half a loaf of bread on the counter. Eat. We will share it. The body needs, but the heart does what it wants. This, they cannot take away. The sun shines over Moscow whether you are here or not."

Bruce said nothing, only let out a slow breath. He pushed forward, the kiss far from small, lingering, hand finding its way to the back of Clark's neck. "I'll be right back."

Clark looked at the curtains, listened to the clink of glasses from the lawn. Bruce came back from the bathroom, washcloth in his hand. "Here."

"Looks like rain," Clark said as the curtains fluttered more. Small shrieks and curses, umbrellas opening and dashes to the door. "Shouldn't you...?"

"Gotham in June." Bruce crawled back onto the bed, settled, eyes closing half-way and a yawn. "April in Paris." His eyes closed more. "We should go."

"In April?"

"No. Tomorrow."

"I have to work." Clark shifted until he was spooning Bruce's back. Bruce didn't seem to mind. The Batman he knew would have punched him.

"White owes me a favor. Besides, you'll have to go anyway."

Clark sighed. "Business trip."

"Intergang. Part of it's your mess."

The rain fell in earnest now, the room darkening. "That's what you said last time. When you handed me a bomb."

"You distracted me. Otherwise I would have disarmed it."

"You handed me a bomb." But he mouthed the back of Bruce's neck when he said this, wrapped an arm around. Bruce gripped his hand, one squeeze.

"And you just stood there like it was the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch instead of just getting rid of the damn thing."

Clark couldn't help the chuckle. "One, two, five! Oh right, three! Hey, you told me you never saw that one."

"I saw it a few days ago. We can talk about it over crêpes in Montparnasse." Bruce yawned again. "Get the clock, would you? One hour." And his voice faded, but his hand still on Clark's.

"So that's your secret, night owl," he whispered as he let go, set the alarm. "You nap."

Bruce didn't answer, already asleep. Clark didn't know if he should rise quietly, get dressed. A few minutes wouldn't kill Bruce. He pulled up the throw from the bottom of the bed, barely big enough for the two of them. Bruce shifted, threw an arm around him, murmured something in his sleep. Clark listened to the rain, the escaping guests in limousines, the catering trucks. Downstairs, Alfred closed the door on the last of them.

"I'm amending the dinner menu," Alfred said to no one in particular as he headed into the kitchen. "If you care to stay."

Bruce had told. But Clark couldn't find any anger as Bruce nestled more against him. He listened to the rain, the world beyond that. And in this one moment, there was nothing. Peace, as much as it was possible.

He narrowed back down, the rain, this room, the man asleep beside him. He drifted off.

[FAIL!] You're going public!

romanyg@livejournal.com — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 21:09:56 GMT

You may have already seen this in a gazillion places, but I'm passing it along because certain things should NOT be DONE.

Such as publicly linking a fan's name with their RL info. In several places. In order to generate wank so that the visit count goes up on your site. So that you can generate more ad revenue and make said site (and info) saleable.

Yeah, I didn't get my fandom rulebook either, but I think I'd find that under FAIL! and SHUN! if I had the hardcopy.

Because when the pro- and anti-OTW people hold hands and sing kumbaya over this? We're talking serious breach.

Posts with all the details are here and here.

ETA: I'm speaking of Laura Hale and her fan/fandom wiki. Someone pointed out that while I shouldn't link her site, I should mention her name because this is far and away from her first strike and many might not know who she is and her role in fandom for the past ten years.

Gingerism?

romanyg@livejournal.com — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 18:11:34 GMT

Apparently, there's such a thing as gingerism in the U.K. I'm just sort of baffled. What?

Fic: "And In This Room, The Quiet (2/3)", DCU, Bruce/Clark, Adultish

romanyg@livejournal.com — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 23:40:27 GMT

Okay, I lied. This is actually the second part of three. Turns out this is a bit longer than anticipated. My plans, they go awry!

First part is here.

Title: And In This Room, The Quiet (2/3)
Author: Romany
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark; Bruce/Ollie and Clark/Lois implied.
Rating: Adultish, R/NC-17
Length: 5022 words
Spoilers: Superman/Batman Annual #2
Warnings: slash, angst, surprises and uncertainty
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to DC Comics.

Summary: Bruce visits Metropolis. He and Clark end up talking.

By the time they reached the sidewalk, the silence between them had grown palpable. Bruce suddenly found himself desperate to break it, an uncharacteristic sweat in the autumn breeze.

"Dick still watches that show you like," he said, looking sidelong at Clark and away again as they headed down the street toward the Plaza. Completely ludicrous thing to say, even if true. He felt like he was fifteen again, mouth dry and with his list of conversation topics in neat script by the phone as he called up that girl he met in Judo. Horrible invention, the telephone. He hated it. That inevitable silence on the other end when something he said fell flat. He'd mastered it now, of course, all silences his own and purposeful, but he didn't have to like it.

"Really? Which one?"

There was more than one? Bruce only had the memory of the dim light of the television from the media room as he had paused in the hallway, caught by the sounds of laughter. He'd been irked that Clark had the capacity, smiled when he heard the inevitable soft 'ouch', evidence of bruised ribs.

"Keep it down," he had said from the doorway, paper in hand, only intending to stay for a moment. But the sight of Dick's head on Clark's shoulder, the curl of his body, so young and desperate for touch, the simple comfort that Bruce was incapable of giving anyone, made him amend his statement. "What are you watching?" And he sat to join them.

"The one with those people and their silly lives," he said now. He just described every situational comedy every produced. Yes, fifteen and tongue-tied and perhaps he should hail a taxi, right now, head to the airport and back to Gotham. Forget the meeting he had tomorrow afternoon. He could be suited up, armored and grim, within two hours. He hated Metropolis almost as much as he hated telephones.

"You mean Friends?"

"Yes, that one." They reached the traffic light, the imposing red hand. Other pedestrians halted around them, half of them in hockey jerseys, the arena only five blocks to the east. In Gotham, crime increased eight percent after sports events, win or loss, opportunity and high spirits. Bruce gripped the neck of Ollie's cognac bottle that much tighter when an inebriated redheaded woman mistook Clark for an injured player, requested his autograph. The light turned green, the walking man in the box below, and the crowd moved through the crosswalk like a school of fish.

"I've got my ears open," Clark said when they reached the other side, before Bruce could accuse him of negligence, and the group dispersed to various parking lots, bars and the elevated station. "But I think Metropolis's finest have this covered. I have to let them do their job, Bruce."

"I didn't—"

"You were about to." But Clark only said this with a smile, no admonition, hands in his pockets and pause. "Bruce, did you want me to take you back? You know, not to your hotel but...you go a little nuts when you can't get out there."

He paused himself, tempted. Clark could have him at the manor within minutes. But the thought of being dependent on nothing but those arms, the sure hands, negated any such wish. "I have a meeting tomorrow," he said, continuing down the block, his hotel now within view.

"And tonight." Clark stopped, having clearly shocked himself by openly referring to Ollie and the bottle Bruce gripped in his hand. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm not judging you."

With a statement like that, of course he was. Clark and his mid-western values, home and hearth, his faint hope of office romance, couldn't do anything but judge. Naïve, and possibly hypocritical, Clark probably learned all about the pleasures of casual sex in a blanket strewn truck bed, just like every other farmboy across America, brief serial monogamy, and called it love. "I'm not discussing my sexuality with you." Bruce increased his stride, turning away.

Clark caught him quickly, hand on his arm. "Look, I know it's none of my business. I was just surprised. I mean, I've only seen you with women."

"And you honestly think I slept with all of them?"

Clark flushed, muttered, "Just one. Aren't you," he paused, obviously searching for what he thought a non-offensive word, "Involved?"

Involved? He'd certainly seen no reason to curtail his activity during Clark's stay. But he'd thought he'd been discreet. More for Dick's sake than Clark's. What did he care what Clark thought about him? But he found ways to enjoy brief flirtation and company, never with the same person twice. Except Selina. And that hadn't been so discreet. Or quiet. He already had a few marks on his person that he could attribute to her, not all of them from combat. "We have a loose arrangement" was all he said in explanation. Let Clark judge that as well.

"She has nice eyes," Clark said, rather more appreciatively than warranted. "And he has nice arms." That was certainly more appreciative than warranted.

"When the hell have you ever seen his arms?" Shock and hiss.

"Costume. You know, with the, what are they called, the wrist guards and the things that go around the bicep? So, um, yeah. Arms."

"Clark Kent!"

"What? Just because I don't get around doesn't mean I don't have eyes." And Clark's own eyes glimmered, blue, jovially licentious. Over a man. A blond man. With a foul mouth.

And Bruce knew from personal experience what that foul mouth could do. Oh, he and Ollie were going to have some words over that nuisance cell phone. And Ollie would apologize personally with much more than a restaurant-grade bottle of cognac. Bruce was going to take his hands, fist them through that blond hair, and shove his opinion down that foul mouth on its knees.

To think that Ollie would corrupt a man like Clark. Him and his idiotic superhero club. With that Wonder Woman and her bondage lasso of truth. That Lantern with his ring of tricks. And who knew what that Martian could do? All their revealing spandex and Clark's undoubtedly boundless solar energy. Just floating there, never satiated, and calling out, "Next!" Justice League of America. Ha! Justice Orgy of America. The world would go untended while they slid all over each other. Those—

"Bruce!"

Bruce found himself standing in the automatic doors of the Plaza, blinking at the lobby, with no recollection of having walked the necessary half a block to get there. He turned to find Clark behind him.

"I should go," Clark said, looking down and somewhat ashamed. "You're here." His head nodded toward the lobby, a concierge and sofas.

"Why don't you come up? Just for a few minutes."

He couldn't leave it like this.

He flicked the light on, tossed his card key on the entry table. Clark whistled, soft, behind him as the door latched shut.

"Wow. This is much bigger than my apartment. This is a room?"

"Two-bedroom executive suite." Bruce set the bottle of cognac down on the bar, went behind to open the full-size refrigerator, fully stocked.

"Don't you have to pay for that?"

Bruce didn't bother to look up. "It's included. Does this look like an Embassy Suites mini-bar? Do you see a checklist?" Clark had spent a month in residence with him; he should have dropped the wide-eyed innocent act by now. Or maybe it wasn't an act. Clark took and used only what he needed. "I have to do this," he said, voice low to keep the sense of shame out of it. Around him, symbols of a careless and wasteful life, conspicuous consumption, when he had slept in forests, lived on a simple bowl of rice a day, threaded his way through hostels, scavenged in alleyways, survival. "You know that."

"There's a jacuzzi in here!" Clark said, distant, from the master bath, on expedition and exploring.

"You're easily impressed." But that didn't come out condescending. In fact, he tried to stifle a small laugh, and failed. "Did you want a Coke?" Before, he hadn't allowed such frivolousness and junk in Clark's daily regimen. He could allow it now. "Or I could make some coffee."

Clark reappeared, elbow leaning on the bar. Slapping it firmly, he shouted, "More whiskey—and fresh horses for my men!"

"Coke it is, then." Bruce took a bottle from the refrigerator, opened it and set it down. "Straight up."

"You understood that?"

"Apparently."

"Now I am impressed." Chin now in hand, Clark gave him a slow smile, raised his bottle in salutation and tipped the bottle to his mouth.

Bruce took a quick breath, wrenched the foil from the cognac and twisted the cork. He poured a small amount into a snifter he found hanging above the bar. "Manners, Kent. I didn't have my drink ready yet."

"Aren't you saving that?" A soft question, void of accusation or sly innuendo.

"It's just one drink," he said, shrugging. "Have a seat."

Clark looked behind him, the careful arrangement of chairs and sofas, end tables and coffee table. "Sitting implies staying implies more than a few minutes. Are you sure you want that?"

Grabbing his snifter, and the bottle, from the bar, Bruce made a point of settling on a sofa. "Do you want to talk or not?"

"Well, if you put it that way..." A gentle reprimand for Bruce's own manners, but Clark sat on the armchair close to that sofa, elbows on his knees, Coke bottle dangling from his hand.

And then the silence, the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the pulse of Clark's throat as he drank. Bruce sipped his own drink, swirled the glass.

"So do you—"

"I was thinking—"

The jumble of words, both of them speaking over each other. And then not.

Clark shook his head, laughed. "Why don't you go first?"

Nodding, Bruce took another sip of cognac. "Do you think that show is a little risqué for Dick?"

Inwardly, he cringed, although he managed to hide it. He had turned back to the inane icebreaker. But this was an honest question, having no clue what would be appropriate for a recent thirteen-year old. Whispers had reached his ears, the idle gossip, of the impending disaster his guardianship would be, his idle life and reputation. What did a man like Bruce Wayne know about children? As if they expected Dick to show up floating face down in his pool, a corpse, system full of alcohol and drugs within a year's time.

He did endanger him. He knew that. Just not in the way the rumors indicated.

"There's only a hint of adult humor," Clark said, brow raised but treating the question seriously. "Bruce," and he paused, as if worried he'd cause offense, "With what he sees, does, are you thinking of censoring his TV?"

Pushing back the immediate anger, defensiveness, he only said, "I'm trying, Clark. I—"

"I know you are. I lived there, remember?" He set the bottle down, half-empty, on the end table, leaned forward. "I'll be honest with you, I thought it a little weird at first. He's an eighth-grader doing, well, you know. But he has the same drive you do. If it hadn't been for you, what you've provided, he'd be going out there anyway." Clark leaned further, put a reassuring hand on Bruce's knee. And Bruce didn't flinch at the touch. "You've given him a good home, Bruce." And then he pulled away, smiled. "But I think you can let him watch the occasional comedy. They say laughter's good for the soul."

Bruce didn't say anything to that, only looked down at his drink, the knee where Clark's hand had been.

"You don't have anyone to talk to about this, do you?"

He found himself shaking his head in honesty. He had Alfred, of course, but so few people knew all aspects of his life. In fact, Clark might be the only one outside of his household that did. And only because he'd been a brief member of it. But his presence, or rather an absence now, remained: the darkened room down the hallway, the empty space beside Dick as he watched television. Even on his morning run, he'd find himself, just twice at the most, turning to snidely tell Clark to catch up. And no one was there.

"Alfred suggested that you come up some weekend. To visit. Dick would like that."

"And what would you like?"

He looked up at that. To admit that he would, would be to admit that Ollie had been right. Partially. He'd done his damnedest to isolate himself. And anyone that threatened that isolation, any need they managed to strike in him, he'd sexualized until everything burned away. Ollie hadn't been the first heterosexual man Bruce had convinced into bed. And Ollie hadn't been the first one to request to repeat the experience either. Compartmentalized, easy packages of a few hours, all potential camaraderie reduced to a room that Bruce could walk away from.

But he couldn't do that to Clark. Clark, who had swallowed his pride and studied under him. And in the end, the student had become the teacher, reaching down to pull Bruce out of his own nightmare with the hand of trust and belief. The gift of hope, Dick had said. Immeasurable and necessary.

"I might find it tolerable," he said.

Clark's eyes gleamed and the corner of his mouth twisted up. "Then I'll check my calendar. Have my people call your people."

Bruce narrowed his eyes, but a small sound escaped him that could be mistaken for a short laugh. "You and your humor."

"I know. I'm terrible." Yet Clark looked like he thought himself anything but. "I'm free this weekend," he said. "Short of impending doom and catastrophe, I can be up at the house Saturday morning. Dick and I can go toss the ball around while you snooze the day away."

"I do not sleep in!"

"Maybe you should try it one of these days. You burn your candle at both ends."

"Clark..."

"But ah, it gives a lovely light." Clark's chin rested in his hand, elbow on his knee, and still leaning forward in what Bruce would call an intimate distance. He removed his glasses, pocketed them. And yes, that idiot pervert Edge was right, the camera would love Clark, the startling blue eyes. The ends of his hair curled about his face as it did every evening that Bruce had been witness to.

"Clark Kent, are you flirting with me?" This came out in a whisper, incredulous, and not a little bit admonishing. But Bruce found himself leaning forward as well, belying any hint of rejection.

"I might be," he whispered back. "But it's probably all I'm good for," he murmured, pulling away slightly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" A hiss of frustration and confusion. Had he even given Clark the slightest idea of sexual interest? He'd obviously overheard the men's room conversation between Ollie and himself, Ollie accusing Bruce of only having one 'on-button' and a hard-on for Clark, incapable of friendship. As if Bruce were some rutting animal with no amount of self-control.

"I don't know if I can. I mean, I've never...I can't take that chance. I think I missed my shot, Bruce." Clark's eyes, which had been appallingly flirtatious, now only showed a deep devastation.

Bruce snorted. "Would you please say something that makes sense?"

"Look but don't touch. I can't even look that long. I get a little hot under the collar, if you know what I mean."

"No. I don't. English, Kent, use it." Bruce sat back, rubbed a hand over his face and then through his hair. He downed the rest of his drink, too quick, and a burn down his throat.

"I don't have anyone to talk to about this either," Clark said, sitting back himself now, looking down at his hands. "So this isn't coming out right. I'm sorry."

"Why do you have to apologize all the goddamn time? What the hell do you have to apologize for?" He flung off his jacket, found his cell phone and turned it off. He was damned if the thing was going to go off now.

"What are you doing?" Clark appeared startled by the vehemence of Bruce's tone and actions. Startled and young, as if he could somehow harm him. But he had, marks on that body and strain, and Bruce had always asked for more. And Clark had given.

"We're having a conversation. No interruptions. You were saying?"

"How old were you the first time you...?"

"That's a personal question, Clark." Snappish. He didn't just yield information for the asking. He didn't yield anything. He sighed. He didn't discuss his life because he had no one to discuss it with. No childhood friends to speak of. No friends at all, in fact. And from what he observed, friendship entailed the exchange of information, trivialities and secrets. "Fourteen. Lisa Jacobson. Swiss chalet, ski trip. And if you're referring to the other, fifteen, Andrei Pawalski, martial arts retreat."

"Why am I not surprised that you make your first kisses sound like a rap sheet?"

"Who said anything about kissing?"

"Oh." Just a small sound and flush. Not knowing whether to feel annoyed or pleased, Bruce let both thoughts flow through him, neither winning, until only an odd tingle remained.

"My first kiss happened much earlier." He didn't elaborate, not wanting to think about that. Some things should remain private.

"You always remember your first," Clark said, relaxing into a wistful smile. "I was sixteen and it was underneath the oak tree in Harper's Field, the summer before junior year. Lana Lang. She had her hair down that day and the way the sun caught it, I felt like I could just reach out and stroke it, hold the sun in my hands..."

Clark's voice faded, retreating into memory. Bruce poured himself another drink. Of course Clark's first experience would be sunlight and perfection rather than disappointment and awkwardness, staring up at the darkened oak beams in Lisa Jacobson's room, wondering what to do with the condom and how soon he could get out of there. Whether Alfred would be able to see it in his eyes, give a faint cluck of disapproval and nothing more.

"You're lucky," Bruce said, sipping his next drink much too quickly. "Most first times aren't so idyllic."

"Who said anything about that?" Clark threw his words back at him, no sting, just self-inflicted irony. "I kissed her, Bruce. That's all we ever did."

Small town morals, of course. "I'm sure things changed when you got to Metropolis."

"Lori. Met U. We were engaged, but it didn't work out." He retrieved his Coke, twirled the bottle in his hand but didn't drink. "It's a long story. Did you ever see the movie Splash?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well, it was like that but without the happy ending." He drank the rest of the bottle, tipping it and his head back briefly. "But we only ever kissed too."

In danger of slopping his drink, although only a small amount remained, Bruce carefully set his glass down on the coffee table. "Do you mean to tell me you were engaged and you didn't..."

"No. Never have. Never gone past second. And that was just," Clark wiggled his fingers in a ridiculous fashion, "Hands."

"Are you saving yourself?" That was ludicrous. Who did that? Superman, apparently. Truth, Justice and Chastity Before Marriage. And then the thought occurred to him, the comment about Ollie's arms, the brief flirtation prior to this. "Clark, are you gay?" He said this quietly, unlike the shock of the previous question, the words sounding appallingly like hope. Self-conscious, he picked up his drink, polished it off, just one drink away from inebriated and doing something entirely foolish. He'd turned his cell phone off, after all. But there was always the bar in the lobby and an anonymous pick-up would be wiser.

"No and no."

"You're asexual." Logic and loss. So easy to forget that Clark wasn't even human, his appearance and mannerisms. He'd been socialized for romance, but that didn't override biology. And what little Bruce had been able to collect, and he'd collected everything made available, the Kryptonian race had been as cold as their planet. A wonder they ever managed to reproduce at all.

Clark's eyes widened and he laughed, hard and for a good twenty seconds. "I wish. That would make my life a whole lot easier."

"Clark," Bruce's hand poured his third drink. "Are you going to make me play twenty questions?" He'd add that he had better things to do with his time. But then Clark might leave.

"I'm a people person. Definitely. Like you, I guess."

"No one in their right mind would call me a people person."

"You know what I mean."

Bruce's drink paused on the edge of his mouth. A few sips in, he felt that buzz, the languid limbs, that he only pretended to on most nights. "Enlighten me."

That should have been Clark's cue, to lean over the arm of his chair, demonstrate. But he didn't take it. Only here for the conversation and nothing more. But this was how people talked to one another, wasn't it? Revelations and goodbyes. Advice and support. Let's do this again over coffee.

Bruce was definitely going to head down to the bar after Clark made his inevitable departure, grab the first reasonable body he could find. And he wouldn't imagine those broad shoulders underneath him at all.

"I'm just lucky that purple tentacles don't do it for me," Clark continued, as if Bruce weren't only a foot away. "Believe me, when I was thirteen, I worried about that. But then puberty hit and that wasn't a problem. Just a whole set of new ones. Look but don't touch. Careful, Clark, you might break something." He closed his eyes then, let out a breath. "And for two months, I didn't have that problem. I missed my shot, Bruce."

His powers. The strength and the restraint. Clark implied that no one human could bear the brunt of it. But he wasn't the only one in this world with such abilities. Bruce had a file on each and every one, most of them signed on for that disaster of a league. A whole dating pool for Clark if he'd stop wallowing like he was the sole twenty-four year old virgin on the planet.

"Isn't Wonder Woman available?" And that came out a bit churlish. No doubt due to the drink.

"Diana?" Clark smiled as if it an incredibly pleasant thought. And then he blushed. "It came up. But we decided to stay friends."

"Because of Ms. Lane."

"How did you...? Well, you've met her."

Smitten, definitely smitten, with a woman that insulted him. And Clark would surely spend the next few minutes waxing about all her admirable qualities.

"Don't you masturbate?" he snapped, finishing off his third drink and slamming the glass on the table. Yes, inebriated, and not willing to put up with discussing the finer qualities of women and Clark's noble celibacy.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Just answer the question."

Clark blinked for a moment, swallowed. "I do," he answered, low.

"And how extensive is the property damage?"

"I don't hurt anything!" And that blush turned furious.

"Did you do it during those two months that you, oh so eloquently, missed your shot?"

"A few times," he muttered. But then he laughed. "You kept me pretty busy."

"Was the experience significantly different?"

Silent for a moment, Clark finally said, soft, "No."

"Well, there you go. Glad I could be of service."

Bruce let his head fall to the sofa back, stared at the ceiling and rubbed his eyes. There was a reason he didn't drink. Images of Clark flying off into the sunset, Lane in his arms, pranced in his brain like some horrid technicolor romance. Classic happy ending, birds bursting into song. He let out a laugh, a short bray. "What are you waiting for? It's early. Go call her up and play nine-ball."

"She'd probably go if it were Superman." The voice closer than it should have been. Bruce felt the dip on the sofa next to him. "She likes Superman."

Oh, she certainly did. Her articles just this side of girlish praise. "Don't be ridiculous, Clark." He rolled his head slightly so that Clark came into view. "You're you." Even in his state, he knew that one shouldn't voice secrets. Not in a place like this.

"She doesn't see it that way."

Only because she didn't know. How could anyone look at Clark and not see him? Of course, even when he knew, he'd only seen Superman, Clark Kent just a ludicrous mask. But he knew differently now and all he saw was Clark. Even if he'd been in costume, he'd still be Clark. "You're you," he repeated, as if that should make any kind of sense.

And Clark sat there, facing him, inches away, that incessant curl having somehow worked its way down along his forehead, revealing. Bruce wanted nothing more than to reach out, brush it back.

Inches away. Clark might as well have been a mile.

"I'm not the person to be giving relationship advice," Bruce said, rolling his head back toward the ceiling, away.

"You don't believe in them?"

"I do." He knew people were capable, if not himself. He'd seen what his parents had. Clark's parents, if the way they quietly held hands on the porch as he and Alfred drove away was evidence of that. What Clark could have. He'd been engaged, for heaven's sake. "But it's rare."

"Haven't you ever...?"

Had a relationship of any significance? "No. I don't have time for that sort of thing."

"You're only twenty-five, old man. You might be surprised."

"I don't like surprises." And he didn't. Surprise meant that he hadn't assessed the situation properly. Surprise meant facing three gunmen instead of the two he counted. Surprise meant not getting the victim out of the line of fire in time. Surprise was the man walking out of the shadows, the sudden sweat of fear in his parents' hands as he held them.

"I should test that theory." Clark's hand cupped his chin, turned his head. Bruce only had a quick view of half-lidded eyes and closing, a mouth slightly parted, before that mouth landed on his own, softer than that mouth had a right to be.

"I'm sorry," Clark whispered, pulling away. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, you shouldn't have," Bruce whispered back. And he closed that distance, hand wrapping around Clark's neck, to show him that he meant stopping.

He supposed he had to grudgingly thank the high school sweetheart and college fiancée for teaching Clark how to kiss. Bruce straddled him, short of breath, Clark pushed back against the length of the couch. He'd already managed to strip off that ill-fitting jacket and unknotted the tie. The buttons he could do by feel, desperate for skin. His own shirt and tie long cast to the floor.

Making out on the couch like a teenager, when a perfectly good bed lay just a door away. But Bruce didn't know how far Clark was willing to go, the expressed fear. And Jesus, he'd never been with a virgin before, even when he lost his own. Reluctant men, yes, but not untouched.

Fully erect, he struggled with his buckle, wrenched the belt away and then Clark's own. If Clark would just shift, yes, like that, he could dry-hump him, come in his own pants if he had to. And that would be something Bruce had never experienced before.

"Driven snow," Bruce murmured as he worked his way down to an exposed nipple, swirled his tongue. Untouched and Clark's first.

"Now that's just bad," Clark managed within a giggle. Yes, he actually giggled. Which should be annoying, but Bruce's cognac-addled brain whispered 'adorable'. "I think you're humping my leg."

"I am," he said, a thrust against Clark's thigh for emphasis. "I'm open to suggestions."

Clark stilled, and for a horrible moment, Bruce thought he'd collect himself and flee, Bruce having gone too far. But Clark only placed a hand on the side of his face, stroked, gentle.

"No strings, Bruce. I promise."

Bruce bowed his head against Clark's chest and nodded.

"Bruce?"

"I understood you perfectly. You're using me for sex."

"No, I mean I'll be okay. If this is it."

Bruce looked up at that, Clark's face full of something indefinable, something that made Bruce want to kiss it away. He pulled at Clark's tie that dangled to the side, wrapped it over his own neck. "Here's your string. Pull."

Clark smiled, a glow, and pulled.

A few kisses more and Bruce risked bringing a hand down, touched Clark and his sizable erection, just one stroke over the material of his suit pants. "I think this qualifies as third."

"For you," Clark hissed, neck arching.

Bruce took Clark's hand, shifted. "Better?" When Clark didn't answer, just looked grateful, he added, whisper against that neck and thrust into that hand, "You're going to come tonight, Clark. We both are." That got him a shuddering breath. "But I think this will be easier on a bed."

Clark glanced at the open door, nodded. "Okay." Hopeful sigh and fear that sent a shiver down Bruce's spine. He rose, led the way, sure that Clark would follow.

Even if this was just the first notch on Clark's belt, something to give him confidence to pursue some starlit romance, Clark had been right about one thing.

You always remember your first.

Fic: "And In This Room, The Quiet" (1/3), DCU, Bruce/Clark, Adultish

romanyg@livejournal.com — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 08:39:20 GMT

Well, over at wfslash, tmelange organized a contest based on the recent issue of Superman/Batman Annual #2. 1000 - 5000 words. Easy, right? Ha! I'm now at the 11,000+ mark. Heh. Me and directions. You should go and check out the stories that did.

Title: And In This Room, The Quiet (1/3)
Author: Romany
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark, Bruce/Ollie, Clark/Lois
Rating: Adultish, R
Length: 5584 words
Spoilers: Superman/Batman Annual #2
Warnings: slash, language, territoriality
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to DC Comics.

Summary: Bruce visits Metropolis. He's not there to see Clark. Ollie has other ideas.

Bruce found himself in the hallway late one afternoon, knuckles poised to knock on Clark's door, before he realized the pointlessness of it. Superman returned to Metropolis two weeks ago. So instead, he let his hand fall to the knob, opened the door to see a darkened room, the bed made. He stood in the doorway and looked, but only for a moment before closing the door.

"Will Mister Kent be returning, sir?" Alfred said from the banister, a laundry basket in his arms. "For the weekend, perhaps?"

"No. He's quite recovered."

Alfred passed him, the scent of freshly laundered towels. "As you say, Master Bruce."

Of course Clark wasn't returning. Clark didn't need him anymore. And until the unlikely event that Bruce woke up to find himself dripping with powers that he might need lessons in controlling, reining in, then he had no reason to find himself on Clark's doorstep in Metropolis.

He turned, headed for the stairs.

He was down in the cave, examining the shattered remains of Supernova's helmet. He studied the fracture lines in the focused light.

"He should have had a concussion from this."

Dick somersaulted in mid-air, flipped off the mat. "He probably did. But he went right back out there anyway."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, helmet on the workbench. "Yes, I suppose he did."

Dick laughed, sprang back on the mat, handstand. "That's Superman for you."

Actually, that had nothing to do with Superman and everything to do with Clark. But the demarcations weren't so simple, man and hero. Bruce had done as much as possible to break him, came perilously close, but that line shifted away, shimmered in the distance. The faint smell of sweat and sick and disinfectant clung to the remains of the helmet.

What was Bruce clinging to? He shut the worklight off and put the helmet away.

He had a reason for being here in Metropolis, and that had nothing to do with Clark. Idly flipping through a magazine in the photography studio waiting room, he did his best not to speak to either Luthor or Queen who sat near him on the sofa. It wasn't very hard.

Queen, however, couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"So Lex, did you read what the Planet had to say about you this morning? Seems they don't like you very much."

Luthor waved a dismissive hand. "Their attempts at defamation of character are merely amusing. It's not even worth suing them for libel." He reached for his coffee. "However, the exploits of the two of you are vastly more entertaining. Have either of you managed to crawl outside of the society pages?"

Bruce looked up from his magazine, allowed a slow, lazy smile to creep across his face. "Why, Lex, have you ever managed to crawl into them?"

Queen laughed, slapped Bruce's knee. Bruce stifled a violent urge and laughed with him, managed to put a conspiratorial and somewhat fraternal arm around Queen's shoulder. "Good one, Bruce," he said. "Hey, remember that time in London?"

"Actually no, Ollie, I don't. Only read about it the next day. Horrible hangover. Found out that Worcestershire sauce really doesn't work."

Lex eyed them both coolly over his cup. "Some of us are better at attending to business, it seems. And better at discretion."

Queen winked at Bruce. "Where's the fun in that?" he said to Lex. "They say new money's all brains. But don't worry, Lex. I'm sure you'll have great looking kids."

Bruce removed his arm. Queen was unnecessarily antagonizing Luthor. "Ollie, down boy. You'll make him spill his coffee and then we'll have to do a reshoot."

Lex looked at his watch, nonplussed. "Yes, let's get this over with."

After the shoot, for some tedious cover of Forbes, Bruce found himself in the elevator with Queen. He supposed that he'd have to make some remark about doing drinks, end up at some high-end bar, where he could ditch the man in the name of some woman or other. If Queen hadn't diverted himself by that time.

Arrow Car. Ridiculous. And hopefully back in Star City.

Queen broke the silence first. "You know where I'm going, Bruce. Our mutual friend over at the Planet."

"I have no idea—"

Queen only shook his head, interrupting him. "Yes, you do. He's as good as in. You, on the other hand, are the hard sell. We're going out to dinner, and we're not talking shop. This is just a social call. Why don't you tag along?"

What in the world would Clark and Queen have to talk about besides...? "So you're the one who sent it."

The elevator opened and Queen brushed past him into the lobby. Turning over his shoulder, he had a sly smile on that smug face of his. "Bruce, I knew you before you acquired your joie de vivre. And considering how that coincided with certain changes in Gotham...Well, let's just say it wasn't that hard to figure out. You were always such a dour little bastard. Not saying you didn't have a reason—"

"We're not discussing this here." Bruce made for the lobby door, but Queen put a hand on his shoulder.

"My car's in the garage. Come on, we can talk about it on the way."

The car, although a rental, was an ostentatious yellow roadster with an uncharacteristic backseat. Of course. Bruce was a horrible passenger. He always was except when Alfred was behind the wheel.

"You should have turned left back there," he said, elbow on the door and breeze ruffling his hair since Queen had the top down. "It's a shorter route." He no longer needed to pretend. It wasn't exactly freeing.

"Still the charmer." Queen just laughed and kept going straight.

They arrived, signed in at the desk, and were escorted to the bullpen. Pure chaos as most of these so-called journalists appeared to be on an internal time-clock and dashed past them on their way to lead whatever they called life on the outside. Only a smattering still at their desks.

Bruce spotted Clark, eyes drawn, in less than a second. Hair a mess, shirt sleeves rolled up, pencil behind his ear, glasses. And there was a woman leaning over his shoulder, pointing something out on the screen. Clark appeared quite happy for the attention. They both looked up at the same time. Bruce knew the rhythm of partners.

"Mr. Queen!" Clark said. "Is it five o'clock alre—" And then he saw Bruce. He paused, mouth meeting in a distinct 'B' before he said, "I see you brought a friend. Are you joining us, Mr. Wayne?"

Trust Clark to make that a more weighted statement than it needed to be. His presence here certainly didn't mean acquiescence in terms of their superhero club. "For dinner, yes," he said, carefully nonchalant.

"Clark," the woman, most likely Lois Lane with whom Clark shared, more often than not, a byline, said sotto voce, "Are you working on something here?" She gave both Queen and himself a predatory smile that less observant men would call charming. "Lois Lane," she said holding out her hand. Queen shook it, an eyebrow and corner of his mouth upturned. Bruce beamed back at her in utter vacuity but his hand in hers less than gentle. "So what brings America's two most eligible industrialists by our neck of the woods?"

"Off the record," Queen said with a wink and something approaching a leer, "We're absconding with Clark here for an evening of beer and pool. But the next time I'm in town..."

Lane merely crossed her arms, wry smile on her face. "I can drink Miss Kansas here under the table. And kick his ass in any pool hall. You boys up for some nine-ball? Loser has to answer three questions."

Clark seemed to welcome this brand of abuse, obviously smitten and Lane clearly blind to it. Bruce felt himself bridle on Clark's behalf. Odd, since he himself had done much worse. But Clark had fought him, stubbornly taking anything verbal or physical, looked him in the eye, challenging. Bruce found that although he was reluctant to this little social event, he certainly didn't want Lane accompanying them. He had no reason to dislike the woman, but he didn't wish to witness her continued denigration of the man either, nor Clark's discomfort as Queen would undoubtedly flirt with her and Bruce would have to follow suit for appearances.

"I can't speak for Ollie," Bruce said, voice lilting into smoke and promise, "But I know that I would prefer a quieter setting for conversation, just the two of us." He made sure to put a soft smile to that, gleam in his eye. "Another time, Ms. Lane?"

Clark shot him a swift look, a brief moment of power beyond measure, and Bruce felt a tingle of something that had nothing to do with suspicion. And if the satisfaction he also felt had anything to do with territory, it meant keeping Lane away from it. He decided not to pursue that thought, even inwardly.

"I promise it's not an interview, Lois," Clark said, taking his suit jacket off his chair back. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Should I let the two of you arm-wrestle for it?" Queen said, indicating with a nod the spacious front passenger seat and the cramped backseat.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare make Mr. Wayne—"

Curt, Bruce cut him off. "He knows, Clark. I'll take the back." The better to observe.

Bruce regretted it as soon as he clipped his seatbelt. He regretted it even more when Clark, with a quick glance over his shoulder, adjusted his seat to give Bruce more room.

Of course, beer and pool turned out to be nothing of the sort. Queen squealed the brakes to a stop in front of the valet station for the Metropolis Seasons which sported several restaurants, casual and elegant both. But Bruce already knew their destination. Queen was showing off. To what purpose, he had yet to determine.

"We're heading up to the top," Queen said with a smile and a wink. "Ever eaten at Everest, Bruce?"

Bruce had quietly scaled the real Everest six years previously. To find something atop the world's highest mountain. Himself, perhaps. He had only mourned to find the snow-burdened detritus of careless men. That in fact, no place on this earth was free from filth, perverted wealth and power, selfish agendas. The mountain itself, the elements that chipped away at his body, couldn't scrape him clean.

"Can't say that I have."

Clark smiled beside him on the sidewalk. "I live here, and I haven't either."

For all Bruce knew, and for all that it could be possible and therefore that much more likely, Clark had taken his brown bag lunch sometime this very week and sat on the top of that peak, cleaned up after himself and others, only to rush back to the office in time for a press conference.

"Gentlemen," Queen said, "We're all in jacket and tie. Shall we?"

During the appetizers, Clark excused himself to use the restroom. Not one minute later, half of the restaurant paused their murmured conversations to watch a streak of blue and red stream by the windows. And quite used to the sight, went back to their drinks and their meals.

Where could Clark possibly be off to now? Bruce carefully set his fork down. Clark. Superman had flown by, no less powerful or marvelous than he had been prior to his brief residence at Wayne Manor, and Bruce could only see Clark.

Queen took a sip of wine. "He'll be back. Or not. Comes with the territory."

Clark returned in eight minutes. "Fire in New York," he whispered.

"We're not talking shop," Queen said, eyebrow raised in warning but a damnable twinkle in his eye all the same. "This is social time."

"I'm not interested in socializing," Bruce said, picking at his salad.

"Then why are you here?" Clark turned to Bruce as Queen asked the question. Clearly, he couldn't imagine why Bruce would be here. But considering that Bruce himself didn't have the answer, he couldn't blame him. The list of things he blamed Clark for had grown surprisingly small.

Clark and Queen were laughing, recalling some inane moment from a television show that Bruce had never seen and couldn't care less about. Apparently, the two of them did find some common ground outside of the obvious. No doubt, they would segue into sports next. Or the plight of the common man, which Queen only pretended to know the first thing about, having recently embraced radicalism. Hypocrite. Showing off the wonders of his station, to befriend or something worse.

Queen already had a mega-powered pretty boy, as rumor would have it, to be so-called friends with. He could damn well leave Bruce's alone.

And if Bruce had any friends then, yes, he would claim Clark.

Bruce had enough. He stood, barely polite, and found the restroom. He washed his hands in the sink, looked at himself in the mirror. Where was the consummate liar, the purveyor of small talk? His mask dangerously thin, he either needed to re-layer or just get the hell out of there.

"Do me a favor, Bruce," Queen said as he entered, checking the stalls quickly and then leaning against the door to bar anyone else entrance, "And keep this one in your pants. You've been acting like a jealous bitch all evening. You keep this up, he's going to notice."

Hands still wet, Bruce flung the droplets from them, a few splattering Queen's dress shirt. Petty, but a small satisfaction all the same. "Perhaps I don't care for the company."

Queen narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms. "Look, this isn't about you or your city. It's bigger than that. You don't want in? Fine. We could use you, but we'll manage. But we need him. And I'm not going to let you ruin that because you have a hard-on you don't know what to do with."

Bruce gritted his teeth, wanting so very much to tell Queen exactly where he could put his Arrow Car and his quiver full of trick arrows. "You've always been sordid, Ollie. What makes you think—"

"I have a dim memory of a certain weekend in Geneva that tells me that's exactly what you are when you can let go of some of your crap. Don't bullshit me, Bruce. You only have one on-button. And a mouthful of your come is the last thing he needs."

Bruce just snorted, found a towel. "Believe what you want to believe."

"You want to know why you don't have any friends, Bruce? That's because you've managed to fuck every single one of them and then throw them in the shit-pile when you're done."

"I never fucked you. So by your logic, we were never friends."

"Clinging to the letter of the law? That's not like you. We were friends, or could have been. You know we did everything but. How many times did we suck each other off?" He laughed, seemingly finding humor in this whole situation, shook his head. "And I'm fucking straight."

Bruce turned slightly at that, the corners of his mouth twisted up in what could only loosely be called a smile. "Are you now?"

"What I'm saying is, leave this one alone. If you didn't manage to play footsie while the two of you were playing house—" Queen must have noticed his minute startlement. "Queen Communications, it's amazing what satellite technology can be applied to when all the military contracts are ditched and a certain someone goes missing in Gotham. You might think about investing." Queen stood away from the door, leaned against the vanity and now just a foot away. Bruce didn't appreciate the gesture of closeness, but he was hardly about to yield space.

"Where were you and the rest of them when he needed someone?"

"I have no clue why he went to your little military camp."

"He needed to learn how to survive."

"Really? I've got some great photos that say you were doing your best to kill him."

Bruce leaned in, his own arms crossed, whispered, "That's what survival is. It's—"

"You think you're the only one that's in the shit? I'm in it every fucking day, King of Pain. Want to have a pissing contest? We're in the place for it. Compare scars? What the fuck, Bruce?"

Bruce only smiled, teeth. "Funny, how similar we are, isn't it? Try all you want, but you'll only be a watered down version of me. Ever have an original idea, Ollie?"

Queen stared at him for a moment, an audible breath. And that breath turned into a laugh, a laugh that grew until he almost doubled over with it. Rising, barely capable of speech, he said, "Yeah, one. And you can't stand it. You still think it's all about cities, Bruce? Yours, mine, his? That's small thinking. Jesus, it's old school. We're not the first. It's been the same fucking thing since at least the war. You ever talk to Scott, Grant? They worked your beat before you were even shitting your pants."

Bruce restrained the fist he felt forming. Barely. "Then you know your idea is hardly original. And that it didn't work well the first time."

Queen's grin didn't lessen. "Shoulders of giants, not denying. I know my history. And it did work. For a while."

He surprised himself by closing that distance. A small kiss, but far from chaste. Equally surprised, Ollie returned it. Yes, Ollie. Bruce had thought of him once on a first name basis. For a time. "I remember my history too," Bruce said, pulling away. "You mentioned Geneva, but you seem to have forgotten Prague."

"I think that was implied in the 'how many times?' part," Ollie said, their distance now disturbingly intimate, wistful yet mischievous smile on his face. "You know, why don't we eye the dessert cart, have some coffee. Then we'll grab a bottle of cognac, have one for old times. It was fun, in an abusive sort of way."

Bruce certainly hadn't come down here for any sort of assignation, but a reminiscent hour or two with Ollie wouldn't be the worst thing. Despite his claims of heterosexuality, Ollie had been exuberant, almost wearing. "I might be persuaded," he said, the whisper of an actual smile on his face. He pulled away, a small reluctance. "We've been gone a while, Clark must be wondering—"

"Yeah, weird that no one's come in here." Ollie shook his head, pushing off the vanity, a soft laugh. "You know, he's probably guarding the door."

Fighting the sense of small horror, Bruce made it to the door first, wrenched it open to find Clark's broad back only a foot away standing off against a thin and harried young man.

"Look, I don't care if there's a freaking orgy going on in there, I need to take a leak. Come on, I've got a table full of people waiting."

"It'll just be a minute," Clark said, not moving and arms crossed. But he turned his head when he heard the door, smiling in relief. He stepped aside. "All yours."

The young man, Bruce placed him about twenty-two and from the look of his suit and posture he'd say that he was here on business rather than family or a date, halted mid-dash when his eyes appeared to recognize himself and Ollie. "Bathroom deal, huh?" he muttered as he passed them. "Must be nice. Me, I gotta hustle my ass off to get venture to even look at me." He paused, hand on the door, took a breath. "Since you made me wait, could you do me a favor and stop by my table on your way out, just say, 'Hi, John' or something? Mean the world."

Ollie shrugged. "Sure. Just make it a quick piss. We're wrapping it up."

John nodded, grin lighting up his face, and let the door fall shut.

"You have no idea what you just agreed to," Bruce murmured. Of course, Ollie just went along with it without assessing the situation. "He's clearly here on business and wants our names to validate whatever scheme he's trying to raise money for."

Clark politely coughed. "His name's John Finch, engineer fresh out of MIT. He's working on a medical laser that would put him in direct competition with LexCorp. In this town, that's the kiss of death. Literally. So he's having a little trouble getting funding."

Ollie merely cocked his head, smiled at him and led the way back to the table. "Our boy knows his stuff, Bruce," he said, signaling for the check and downing the cup of coffee that had appeared while they were absent. "What would a little hello hurt? Let's help out the little guy, stick it to the man."

"I do my homework," Clark said, blushing just a bit.

Clark might do his research, but he should be more aware of how disastrous such a seemingly goodwill gesture could be. If a mere appearance at this man's table would tip the scales toward funding then that meant that his project was viably competitive. And the only result would be either a LexCorp buyout or the engineer himself maimed or dead. Possibly all three. Which meant that Bruce would have to make a suggestion to Lucius to do a bit of research and Wayne Enterprises would end up putting up a protective umbrella over the whole thing. Clark had no clue what he was asking.

"The things I do," he muttered, downing his own coffee. He perused the room to see young Mr. Finch make his way back to a large table of twelve.

"You two go on ahead," Ollie said. "I just need to get a little something to go."

So Bruce found himself threading the tables with Clark to make their own way over.

"Thanks, Bruce," Clark said, next to him. But when he looked over to reply, their eyes only met a moment before Clark looked away, uncomfortable. He didn't know how much of the men's room conversation Clark had overheard. Enough, apparently, to designate himself guard to it.

Ollie caught up with them, jacket draped over his arm. He winked at Bruce when he revealed the hand holding a bottle of cognac beneath that jacket. "Playtime after," he whispered, low. "My suite's just two floors down."

Clark's back stiffened slightly, face coloring, but he didn't lose pace.

"Hey, John!" Ollie said, clapping a friendly hand on Finch's shoulder. "Thought we'd just stop by on our way out."

"It's good to see you again, John," Bruce said, aiming for relaxed. "Working hard so the rest of us don't have to?"

The businessmen around the table perked up, full attention. Venture capitalists mostly. Bruce recognized the breed. Throwing money to make money, regardless of the ethics. How many of this sort did he have to shake hands with at the club or tedious social events?

"Well, if it isn't our own young Will Rogers. Clark Kent, have a seat!" Morgan Edge, head of Galaxy Broadcasting, near the end of the table, waved to Clark, a brandy snifter in his hand. He was clearly drunk.

"Mr. Edge, we're only here for a moment—" Clark increased his customary slouch, looked sidelong at Bruce and Ollie.

"Nonsense! Get your ass over here and have a drink with me. Let these boys talk about their tech toys." Edge dragged a chair from an adjacent table, not even asking permission. Clark went over and sat, or rather, slumped. Edge slapped him on the back amiably. "Sit up straight, young man. I know your mother taught you better table manners than that."

Clark straightened, achieving full height, a glimmer of the personal power that he did his best to hide. Edge smiled, predatory, grabbed an empty water goblet and poured a generous amount of white wine, handing the glass to Clark. "So Clark, when are you going to come see me about a real job?"

"I'm perfectly happy at the Pla—"

"Print is dead! Haven't you heard?" He leaned on his elbow, swirled his glass. "The wife just goes on and on about you. We're going national, you know that? Imagine honest to God syndication, Clark. Your face in America's living room."

"My face?" Clark laughed, an embarrassed chuckle. "Mr. Edge, I don't think—"

Edge reached over, snatched the glasses from Clark's startled face. "Just look at those baby blues. The camera's going to love you."

Clark attempted to get his glasses back, but he only drew attention to himself. Such a small change, but the transformation startling.

"You don't want to deprive America, son. Do you?" Edge said, holding the glasses aloft. "Contacts. Get them." He leaned in. "I'll even let you write your own copy. You don't get an offer like that every day."

"Mr. Edge, please—"

"Such a classic face, earnest. A man would believe every word that came out of your mouth." His thumb traced the edge of Clark's lip before Clark leaned back. Edge let out a soft laugh, drunk, but not enough to be completely unselfconscious. "Aesthetics," he said. "It's my business. Do you know how many anchors get surgery just to—"

Bruce had wrested the glasses from Edge's hand before he could complete that sentence. He handed them quietly to Clark, put a protective hand on his shoulder. Clark put them back on, set his wine, unsipped, back on the table.

"Shall we?" Bruce said, only looking at Clark.

Edge looked at him, irritated. "We're talking here." He turned his attention back to Clark, hand on his knee to keep him from rising. "Ditch the party boys, Clark. They can't do jack for your career. I can." He took out a business card, hastily scrawled something on the back. "Here," he said, handing it to Clark. "That's my private number. Voicemail's always on, so call any time. I'll set you up right. You have a future, don't waste it."

"And you have a wife," Bruce said.

A nervous laugh rose from the businessmen near them, but not a shocked one. Edge had a reputation, not to mention a few sexual harassment suits. True, all of them from female staff. But there were rumors about the current sports anchor, an ex-quarterback of the Metropolis Meteors, Ben Surley. Gentle Ben, they called him, an obvious joke on his name but also an apt one for his demeanor off the field, and on the air.

Edge bridled, his eyes red with drink but still shrewd as he looked from Bruce to Clark, and then they widened, along with his smile, sharp. "You're adopted, aren't you?" he said to Clark. "Oh, I research all my potential hires," he said, looking now at Bruce. "I think maybe someone's daddy got around. Nice to have family, isn't it? But I'm sure Clark here can put any wild rumors to bed over lunch next week."

Ollie, quick, held back his fist before it landed in Edge's smug face. "Let it slide," he whispered in Bruce's ear. "No one in their right mind would believe it." A little louder, he added, "He's just yanking your chain for cockblocking." He rested his chin on Bruce's shoulder. "Or maybe this is his little way of talking himself into some fantasy brother – brother action. Got yourself a little family kink there, don't you, Morgan?" A mock pout in his voice, he added, "I feel so left out. And they told me blonds have all the fun."

Around the table, that nervous laugh turned into a roar. Edge's face turned an apoplectic shade of red as he pushed away from the table and stomped off toward the restrooms.

"I guess he's running off to call the wife," Ollie said, laughing himself. "Oh honey, they're so mean to me!"

The table laughed even harder. Someone at the other end motioned the waiter for another round. The ones sitting closest to Finch smiled and nodded at him as if he provided the entertainment.

Clark slumped farther down his chair.

"Here, kid," said the gentlemen on Clark's left, an investment banker and distant relative of the Rockefellers if Bruce recalled rightly, taking Edge's card out of Clark's hand. He dropped it in Clark's abandoned glass with a flourish, watched it sink to the bottom, irretrievable. "If your friends hadn't ridden cavalry, we would've had your back. This is Metropolis; we don't let our weirdos eat our young."

Liar. Of course they did. Metropolis had the shiny gleam but Gotham was more honest for all her filth. Yet there was nothing sly or devious about the smile the banker gave Clark, the gentle pat on the arm. Even as Clark, he appeared to inspire altruism in the hardest of souls. Whether that altruism took root remained to be seen.

"You good there, John?" Ollie said, arm now around Bruce's shoulder, and the other hand reaching down and gripping Clark's. "Because we have to get this poor traumatized man to a strip club, stat!"

Half the table turned to Finch as if this was a hell of a good idea for an after dinner adventure. Clark, however, looked mortified.

"Naw, just kidding. It's the coffeehouse for us," Ollie said before anyone could rise to join them. "Poetry night. What can I say? We like to mix it up a little."

That got a ripple of laughter as everyone settled back down with a "You boys have fun now."

"What? No one wants to hear my trials and tribulations in sonnet form? I'm wounded!" He turned his head on Bruce's shoulder, mock tears and a dramatic sigh. "This world doesn't deserve me, Bruce. You still love me, don't you?"

"With all my heart," Bruce said, shoving Ollie playfully away. "I might even have a haiku or two of my own for you." Love and poetry had nothing to do with it. Only a bottle of cognac, and the filthy words that would pour out of Ollie's mouth when half of that was gone. For now, the important thing, to get Clark out of there. They had a silent agreement on that.

"Come on, Clark. We'll miss sign-ups." And Ollie dragged Clark away from the table to the hostess station, with a grin and a wave.

"Jesus Christ, that was a fucking nightmare. Assholes think that shit is funny." Ollie put his jacket back on, brushed his sleeves, the cognac bottle now clearly visible. He moved his free hand, a fist, in an up and down motion to show what he thought of the entire table they just left. "You okay there, Clark?"

"I'm not ten!" he hissed over his shoulder, adjusting his own jacket. "I could have handled myself just fine."

Ollie, for the first time that evening, looked a bit lost for words as he glanced at Bruce. But Bruce didn't feel like helping him out of this predicament, only crossing his own arms.

"Hey, big guy, didn't mean to—"

"And that goes for you too," Clark hissed again, looking at Bruce this time. "Don't the two of you have some old times to catch up on?" he said, voice still stern, glancing down at the cognac bottle in Ollie's hand. "Just have a good laugh. On me. I'm going home. Thanks for dinner, Ollie." And Clark marched to the elevator, tall and straight, six foot four of pride.

"Clark!" Bruce's voice didn't rise in register, but the command rang through nonetheless. Just as it had when Clark attempted to walk away during one of their training sessions, pride bristling his back along with the bruises. Clark had turned back then. And he turned back now.

"Don't you walk away when I'm talking to you."

"You didn't say anything," Clark said, but his voice no longer stern. In fact, a smile, nostalgic, threatened. These words an echo and that bottle of cognac seemed entirely unimportant.

Ollie's cellphone rang.

"Crap! I have to take this." Turning his back on them, he whispered urgently into his phone. He slammed it shut. Looking at Bruce with an apologetic smile, he said, "Seems I have to jet. Hour, maybe two. You know how it is, no rest for the wicked." He twirled the cognac bottle, handing it to Bruce. "You're at the Plaza, right? Give me your cell."

When Bruce didn't move, he wiggled his fingers. "Your phone. Pony up." He snatched the phone away before Bruce had it completely out of pocket. He keyed a number into Bruce's phone and then did the same to his. "Call you when I'm done. Come here, you." He drew Bruce into a one-armed embrace, slipped Bruce's phone back in its pocket. Bruce's arms did nothing. He was too busy flinching. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, night owl," Ollie whispered, before pulling away.

Considering that Ollie's embrace with Clark—returned, of course—lasted a good fifteen seconds too long, Bruce wasn't sure what, exactly, it was that Ollie wouldn't do.

"Walk with me," he said to Clark after Ollie disappeared in the elevator. And before Clark himself could disappear.

Bruce had nothing to say. And neither did Clark. It was a long fifty story drop to the lobby.

Continues in part two.

Fic: "Bring Me Some Water", DCU, Bruce/Clark, Adultish

romanyg@livejournal.com — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 00:39:20 GMT

Okay, this might be a little bleak. Or something.

Title: Bring Me Some Water
Author: Romany
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark
Rating: Adultish, PG-13/R
Length: 3058 words
Spoilers: no real spoilers, semi-current continuity
Warnings: slash, angst, disturbing imagery, surreality
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to DC Comics.

Summary: Some nightmares are worse than others.

Bruce walks along a white sand beach, and people are scattered along it. It's late afternoon. The wind picks up and seagulls fly overhead. Hands in his pockets and a sweater wrapped around his shoulders, he stops and peers at the sun. He doesn't know how long he's been walking. He has sand in his shoes.

In the distance, Clark sits on a driftwood log. His pants are rolled up and his feet disappear into the sand. Bruce sits beside him.

"Fancy meeting you here," Bruce says. And somehow he smiles even though he's not quite sure where here is. This should bother him. A kite, old-fashioned and simple, flutters in the breeze.

"Beautiful day," Clark says, stretching and leaning back. His feet make small wakes in the sand. He's windswept and beautiful, three buttons opened from the collar. And something's missing, something vital...

"Clark, where are your glasses?"

Clark shrugs, apologetic and a small smile. "You never seem to give them to me," he says.

Oh, he's dreaming. He's had this one before. "I don't like this one," he says.

"It starts off okay," Clark says. "Can't you change the rest?"

"You never like it when I do," he says, looking down at Clark's right hand, fingers relaxed and spread. He risks reaching out, tracing the fine hairs above one knuckle and then another.

Clark sighs and leans slightly into him, but not enough to touch. "This part is nice," he says. "Your alternatives usually aren't."

He lowers his hand, leaves it over Clark's. "Because of..."

"No," Clark says. "Because you think I judge you."

A horse, riderless, runs past, hooves spraying through the surf. Bruce watches and shakes his head. "Am I really this blatant?"

"It's okay. No one knows, not even me."

"Especially you. I make sure of that."

"Seriously, Bruce, would it be that terrible?"

"Circumstances being what they are, yes."

Clark sighs again. "You're your own worst enemy, you know that?"

Bruce turns both their hands until their palms are united, fingers clasped. "That's oversimplification and a cliché."

Some feet distant, a little girl brings a pail of water, starts building a castle.

"You always tell me I'm a walking cliché," Clark says, looking out at the ocean. "So I'm not surprised you have me spouting them. Is this really what you think I am?"

"No, Clark," he says. He doesn't release his hand. "Where...?" He lets the question fade. He knows where.

But Clark answers. "Madaket Beach." And then he points. "See? You're right over there."

It's the kite and the little boy holding it, the man standing at his side and pulling the string, the woman, hand against her forehead, looking up. The view tilts, old video and harsh color, as if he's the one holding the camera. "I'm seven," he says, "We had a summer house not far from here."

"Go talk to him, Bruce. Talk to them."

But he can't. He's tried before, feet stuck in the sand and they never get closer until he falls into his room, hands twisted in the sheets and mouth dry. "I'll just watch," he says.

"I'll go," Clark says. He stands and lets Bruce's hand fall away. He walks and the sand allows it until he's kneeling down and talking to the boy. Clark has a way with children. The man and woman smile at each other and then at him. The father shakes his hand. They've taken to him of course. Everyone takes to Clark.

The boy reels the kite in and the man scoops him up to his shoulders. The three of them walk away, the woman's sandals in her hands.

"They've invited us back to the house," Clark says when he returns. "Should we go?"

"No." Bruce doesn't elaborate. He knows what he'll find if he does. An empty house, cloth draped furniture. Dust motes floating in the air as he pulls the cloth away to reveal a body. And then another. He'll be alone and he'll shout for Clark.

And he is. Standing in that house, cloth in his hands. The body laid out on the table is Clark's, hands at his sides, just as he was at the funeral.

Clark opens his eyes. "You're right," he says, "Let's go back to the beach."

"You're dead," Bruce says, sitting on the log again, looking out at the waves.

"I was. But not anymore." Clark's beside him, bare feet in the sand.

Bruce turns, hand a fist. "You son of a bitch, I'm the one who's supposed to go first. That's the way it is."

Clark's in shadow now, the cityscape of Gotham looming behind him, swallowing. Fog.

"Bruce, don't."

His fist slams into Clark. Who's kneeling in front of him. The cave dark except for the glow, green, of the ring on his hand as that fist pulls back. "It's better this way," he says.

Clark wipes the blood away from his mouth, still on his knees, cape wilted around him, hand shaking. "Like this?"

"Yes. Go ahead and judge me." He unbuckles his utility belt. It falls with a thud.

Clark looks up, eyes resolute, blue and pain. "You know I don't."

"I could keep you here for weeks and no one would ever find you." He's pushing the mask and cowl back now. "Believe me, this is better than the beach. We know how this ends."

Wet and horrible and sweet. Pillow over his head as he groans just one word. No.

"Open your mouth."

"Change it, Bruce."

Gauntlet in Clark's hair, Bruce curls down and he's cold. Crystal. Hard against his face. Chain around his neck and pulling.

"This is your alternative?" Clark's face, above him, is stern, noble. A diadem across his forehead and the crystal against his body a throne.

"Let me. Please." Bruce's bare hand reaches above the knee and beyond.

The chain tightens. "What makes you think I want this?"

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispers against that thigh.

"The beach, Bruce." And a forceful hand pushes so that the chain snaps and he's falling.

"Happy?" He's sitting on the log again. But the beach is empty, the faint beginnings of sunset.

Clark shifts beside him, feet digging into the sand. "It's not about me."

"She never finished her castle," Bruce says. The little girl gone with everyone else, the castle falling on one side.

"She never does. It's okay."

But Bruce is moving, sand scraping his knees through his slacks, gouging. He reaches out and the castle crumbles to nothing. "I've ruined it." He reaches for the bucket. He needs water. It recedes and he can't reach it.

"The tide will be back in soon. Don't worry about it." Clark hasn't moved from the log, his shirt completely open now, chest exposed. "We should go join them," he says.

Bruce looks over. Down the beach, a large bonfire and people surrounding it. Alfred, in full butler uniform, serves drinks from a silver tray. Dick does cartwheels around him. The sunset deepens and all the figures in silhouette. They're sitting on munitions boxes.

"I can't," Bruce says, back on the log beside Clark. "I have the lighter." He reaches inside his pocket, flips open a silver Zippo, engraved.

"They need you to bring the guitar, Bruce." He nods and a guitar leans against the log next to them.

Bruce picks it up. "I can't play," he says.

Clark only smiles. "Of course you can. You can do anything."

"I can't. Play." He takes the neck of the guitar, smashes the thing against the log.

But Clark is still smiling. "Now you can. Go over there and show them how it's done."

In his hand, a handle. He pulls and an ax head frees itself from the cut, log almost split in two. The edges are sharp, dark, a stylized bat.

"Let's go," Clark says, drawing his feet from the sand. His bare feet.

"Clark, your shoes."

He only shrugs. "Don't need them. It's a beach."

Clark doesn't understand. "We need to find your shoes." Bruce falls forward, brushes the sand away, on his knees now. Digging. Searching. "We can't go anywhere without your shoes. How many times do I have to tell you?" He presses his face against Clark's ankle, hand gripping his calf. Salt and sand in his mouth. Skin against his tongue. "Shoes. You can't be like this."

"Like what, Bruce?"

But Bruce can't stop, Clark's skin warm and trusting. His other hand reaches out. Shackle, gold, around the far ankle, the chain hanging from it delicate, links as small as a woman's necklace.

"Did I make this?" he says. He pulls, but the chain is too long, disappearing in the sand, a far away connection.

"No," Clark says, leaning slightly forward, voice low and yearning. "But you could have. Why didn't you, Bruce?"

"I drew up the schematic." He tugs the chain again. Brings both hands together and pulls apart, but the chain remains whole. Gold should be malleable. He's stronger than this. Ridiculous. "Took me years."

"I never saw it." Clark's hand reaches down, brushes back Bruce's hair.

"I hid it. Put the plans in the vault. But the door wouldn't close, lock properly, so I burned it."

"With the lighter." Clark's hand is still in his hair.

"Yes. I had to." The chain still won't break, the links won't even stretch. He only needs to find one. Just one and he can undo the whole thing. He'd use the ax, but Clark has no shoes.

"You have the key, Bruce. You've always had the key."

On the shackle, a small lock. Bruce digs in his pockets. An apple core, swiss army knife, string. Nothing else. "I lost it."

"You had me hold onto it for you," Clark says. "Here." From his hand dangles a tiny brass skeleton key, the keychain a heart, broken.

"Look at that useless thing," he says. "It can't possibly work." The sky a blood red, darkening.

"This? Easily fixed." Clark brings the keychain to his lips, kisses it. The heart now mended with a bandage, decorated with obnoxious yellow smiley faces. "Here."

"And that's supposed to hold it together?" Bruce reaches for the key, so small, the heart warm in his hand. He looks at it skeptically.

"It's a start."

But the key falls from his hand, disappears. "No, it's too late."

"Let no man put asunder," Clark says, voice on the edge of grief.

"Fuck the key." Bruce lunges up, grips Clark's shoulders and pushes him back off the log. They fall back on a red blanket and Bruce is on him, mouth on Clark's. "Fuck the key." The key doesn't matter, just Clark underneath him, responding. He's nothing but mouth and hands. A body on a beach. Two bodies. He only glances at the bonfire, now farther away. "They'll see us."

"Shh. No, they won't. It's dark. Wrap the blanket."

Bruce does, but it's bright and the blanket now dark. His cape surrounding them. They're writhing in the middle of the League conference table. Every member seated except two. Sand skitters across the varnish and Bruce can't stop. He can't stop.

"They don't know, Bruce. It's okay."

The sirens go off. Alarm. Attack. Not now. He's so close.

"Wally has the guitar. It's okay."

So close. "Clark." He should ask something, demand. But not with Clark's hand wrapping around his neck, bringing him back down.

"Hold them off, Clark."

They're back on the beach, behind the log. Clark turns his head and beams shoot from his eyes. The robots marching from the waves fall back into steam. But there are more. More. And Bruce isn't done. Not done.

Clark screams, head thrown back. Pain. Not ecstasy.

"Caught you with your pants down, didn't I, Batsy? Tsk." Laughter. "I found his shoes. And they call me a clown. Look at the size of these!"

Bruce rolls, leaps. A snarl and hands around The Joker's neck. Green eyelashes flutter and a garish blush splatters that face. "Seems you saved the last dance for me."

The shoes roll down the beach toward the waves.

"Tide's coming in! Everyone in the pool!" Laughter again. The sea lurches up, crashes and Bruce struggles against the pull out and down, the burst of air from his lungs. He pushes up, the surface far away. The driftwood log, dark shadow above him. He reaches. Air and gasping. Clinging to the log.

But it's not a log. It's Clark. Eyes open. Unseeing.

Bruce releases the body, watches it float away. The shore, distant, in flames. And the screaming.

"Hey."

Bruce is in his room, the drapes closed, blankets twisted around his body.

"Which one was it?" Clark says, next to him.

"The beach." He's breathing hard, heart rate accelerated. He curls into Clark's chest and Clark puts a gentle arm around him. Real and warm.

"You've been having that one a lot lately," Clark whispers, holding on. "Maybe we need to drive up there."

"Not now." He breathes, unwilling to roll away. Outside a bird sings. Dawn soon.

"Of course not. You only got to sleep an hour ago. This weekend."

Despite himself, Bruce is still partially erect. He rubs, a question and then certainty, against Clark's thigh. Nothing partial about it now.

A soft laugh. "Something you want to tell me?"

Bruce shakes his head, burrows into Clark's shoulder, a small pocket of shame.

"Hey, all of you, Bruce. That's what I signed on for." Clark puts a hand under his chin, raises it, to kiss him. He pulls back a little. "Hmm, dry mouth. We'll fix that."

"Where are you going?" Bruce says as Clark pulls away further, stands. The light so dim, but Bruce can make out more than the outline of his figure, pupils fully dilated.

"To get you some water." He pats the bed. "Keep it warm for me."

Bruce rolls over to Clark's side when he hears the faucet run from the bathroom. He spreads out in the fading warmth, the faint scent of Clark's dimestore aftershave. The tap turns off, but Clark's taking his time. "Hey, Kent, where's my water?"

Clark doesn't reply, the bathroom quiet. And dark.

And Bruce wakes in the center of his bed. Alone. The bathroom still and silent. He rolls into the pillow next to him, cold and only the smell of fabric softener. Clark isn't here. He never has been.

Bruce reaches for the nightstand, the phone in the charger, before he can prevent himself from pressing '5#' on his speed-dial.

"Hello?" Clark's voice, sleepy, answering on the first ring.

"Clark," Bruce says before he can hang up.

"Bruce? Is everything all right?"

"Yes, I just..." His voice fades. He doesn't know what to say.

"Tell him I say hi." Lois's voice, from the background.

"Bruce, hold on. I'm taking the phone into the living room." Bruce hears the rustle of sheets, movement. "Okay, we can talk."

"There's nothing to say. I shouldn't have called." He falls back to the pillow, puts his hand over his eyes.

"Bad night?"

"No more so than usual."

Clark sighs on the other end. "Whatever you want to say, I'll listen. Take your time."

"I had a dream," Bruce whispers. "You died." That's the least of it, but all he'll admit to. Even this is too much. He needs to disconnect. Now. He doesn't.

"It's been a tough year. A tough couple of years," he amends. "I have those kinds of dreams too. We process in our sleep, I guess." Silent for a moment, he then adds, "You need to sleep more. What time did you get in?"

"Late. It doesn't matter."

"And you have that thing tomorrow. Today. You can't sleep in."

Yes, a board meeting at ten. "It sounds like you know my schedule."

"Believe it or not, we do talk."

An uncomfortable moment, then two. They're not talking.

Clark laughs, soft, so as not to disturb Lois most likely. "So, um, what are you wearing?"

"What kind of question is that?" Bruce's eyes flash open, his slight erection rising. He bites the inside of his cheek, sharp, focuses on the pain.

"Isn't that the kind of question people ask during late night phone calls?" Clark's nervous laugh dies. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

"I should think so," Bruce says, stern. "What would you say if I asked you that sort of question?"

"Oh, I'd go into long detail about my Met U t-shirt and boxers with the reindeer on them. Sexy, huh?"

"Clark, it's July." He doesn't add that he sleeps in the nude, but he wants to. Dangerous territory and he needs to steer the conversation away from this.

"So I can't have a little Christmas in July?"

He will not rise to Clark's flirtatious banter. He will not. "I should go."

"Bruce, it's five-thirty in the morning. I need to get up soon anyway. Why don't I grab us some coffee, head on over? It sounds like you need to talk."

"No!" Not now, not in his state. "I should go back to sleep."

"Are you sure? Bruce, this is the second time this month you've called like this, and it's only the fifteenth." Clark sounds far from annoyed, only concerned.

"You should go back to bed, Clark. I'm fine."

Clark hesitates. "Bruce..."

"I'm fine, Clark. Goodnight." He hangs up before Clark can say it in return. He puts the phone back on the nightstand.

He stares at the ceiling for a while, awake. He considers masturbating, but he won't allow himself to. Eventually, his erection subsides. Rising, he goes into the bathroom. The cheap shell nightlight that Clark brought him as a souvenir from his honeymoon is on, plugged into the outlet above near the vanity.

"How many times have you slipped on that imported tile of yours, Bruce, and called it a battle scar?" Clark had said, handing him the box. "You can't actually see in the dark, you know."

"I'm throwing this away as soon as I get home," Bruce had said in return.

Three years ago now, and Bruce has replaced the small bulb six times. One of the fake pearls had come loose and he'd repaired it.

Bruce grabs a glass from the cabinet, runs the tap. And gets his own damn glass of water.

[BRAG!] The Body Remembers

romanyg@livejournal.com — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:09:52 GMT

So I haven't been online much. Stress. The writing is all fits and starts and *blarg*. But!

Today, out at the park, my girls were doing/attempting cartwheels on the grass. So I decided to demonstrate. Heh. I'm nearing 42, out of shape, and haven't participated in such tomfoolery since I was *their* age.

But I did one. Knees straight, toes pointed, decent spread and landing. So I did several. Even did five in a row without stopping. And then I did a headstand. Whee!

Funny, what the body remembers. Muscle memory, it's a thing.

[Yayzity!] Runner-uppedness, recs and trope/ship ramblings.

romanyg@livejournal.com — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 22:48:59 GMT

Yes, I'm still hopelessly behind in all things. Summer is upon us and the *stress*! For now there are *activities* and I have to mastermind the Romanitas blissful, carefree summer. Not easy when it reached 111 degrees here last week and even the squirrels and birds that frolic through our trees said, "Forget this, I'm taking a *nap*!" Grown people fighting over popsicle boxes at the stores.

Even my father, who's supposed to be freezing his butt off 320 miles north of the arctic circle as we speak, has said that it's rather balmy in the polar regions (high 40's). Melty ice! Bugs! Cranky polar bears!

But I turn your attention away from scary summer heat to bounce for my runner-uppedness. Turns out that I runner-upped for not one but two fics for WFA 2007. Here's the nominee list for the curious. This is a first for me so I'm yazity. Congratulations to the winners!

So all of this happened for a few weeks ago. *sheepish* Because of my schedule, I haven't been reading much of the flist or fic lately, but I do have a few recs.

Best Served Cold by theclexfactor. Bruce/Clark, Clark/Lex, NC-17. Take Smallville, DCU, The Authority and Kill Bill, mix them together and you get this AU. Currently at chapter nine but not done yet.

The House of Earth by jen_in_japan. DCU AU in which a few thousand Kryptonians escape their planet's destruction to colonize - and enslave - Earth. This is not your happy-sex-funtime slave fic, which is Not My Thing because Issues, but rather one that considers the insidiousness of such a culture. Prologue plus four chapters so far but not done yet.

Ghosts by harmless_one. DCU. Bruce/Clark, Batclan, not rated but I'd give it a PG-13. Wayne Manor is haunted. Clark doesn't mind. This one made me *cry*. Only one other fic *ever* has made me do that. Harmless is one of the unsung talents of fandom. I would overclip my nails to write like she does.

Narrowed Down to Nothing by zeldadestry. Smallville futurefic, Clark/Lex, not rated (PG-13). He doesn’t even feel human most of the time. It takes a lot to upset him, a lot to make him happy. His feelings have faded to the point where he remembers them more than he experiences them. Zelda's another unsung talent. No one reads her because she only posts to yuletide and underthemistletoe. The rest of the time, she just posts to her own journal. But this one, wow, so bleak and *really* captures the the eternalness and alienness of Clark, the thin thread of connection he has.

Okay, this one's an author rec. giantsofold came out of *nowhere*, posted fic like crazy for a few weeks and then disappeared again. Who are you? Where are you? Come back! She can *write*, no excess, just yeah, I'll overclip my fingernails *again* just to approach this. Mostly DCU, some DCU/Marvel, some SV/DCU, all Clark-centric. Some ship, some gen. Her *gen*, zomg! Gorgeous.

Twenty Years by obsessive24. Alexander/Hephaistion (vid). Wow, really exquisite. True, not everyone cared for the movie, but that shouldn't stop you from watching this vid. My historical RPS OTP! Made even better by being tru fax. *g*

Okay, those of us who've read early season SV Clark/Lex exhaustively know that the Alexander/Hephaestion trope has been done and done and done to the point where no one uses it anymore because it's been done. Done to the point of cliché. I even had the good sense to edit it out of one of my early fics because, as new to the fandom as I was, I knew better. We all know how Lex and Lionel would use the classic examples, young world conqueror and all that, Alexander's armor with the sorta Kryptonian snakey symbol at the musuem. The friendship of legend, how history leans toward okay they did, the most emotionally binding relationship of Alexander's life. Lex is short for Alexander so that makes Clark...taller (Hephaestion was purportedly taller and more pleasing to the Persian eye than Alexander, funky redhead that he was). *g*

So two quotes:

If you want to be beautiful and good (kalos k'agathos), throw away the rag you have on your head and come to us. But you won't be able to, for you are ruled by Hephaestion's thighs.

- Diogenes to Alexander, letter

Intercrural sex for the win! Funny, but I have *never* seen intercrural in clex fic. But I'm sure someone will prove me wrong. *g*

...at Ecbatana there fell upon Alexander a stunning blow, the loss of Hephaestion. His intimate boyhood love, Hephaestion was gone, the congenial enthusiastic nature which had been so much more to Alexander than Ptolemy's sagacity or Nearchus' careful courage, the friend, more than a friend, and closer than a brother, who alone awoke a gentler emotion in the breast of the lonely Conqueror....

For there come, alike in discouragement and exaltation, to all men, however strong of body or brain, moments of craving, in which the soul gropes blindly for another soul; and the most strong, if he owns this need most rarely, feels it most imperious.

- Plutarch, Life of Alexander

And Clex fans say: Yes, exactly! This is why we *love* this trope. But when I read this quote from a DCU slant, I think, hmmm, Bruce? Because that's the *other* friendship of legend, yes? And certain parts fit Clark & Bruce where they don't necessarily fit with Clark & Lex: close in age, fellow warriors, trust, able to work apart, Bruce's crippling - the closest to defeat he'd ever been - occurring so soon after Clark's death. Bruce angsting about Clark's death (both in DCU *and* Timmverse) while Lex gloated. Also the happenstance of imagery: both Alexander and Clark compared to Apollo, whereas Hephastion's name derives from the Greek god Hephaestus (the later Roman Vulcan), god of industry and blacksmiths that dwells in either a volcano or *cave*. Clark and Bruce are The Big Two, a unit when Bruce steps outside of Gotham. Heroes.

But for some reason, I've *never* seen the Alexander/Hephaestion trope in World's Finest fics. Why is that fandom? But I've never seen intercrural with this pairing either. *g* Thighs of steel though, that's some dangerous stuff right there. Ah, I amuse myself.

Huge post! This is what happens when I don't get a chance to post for weeks at a time. *sigh*

Poll! Does Bruce Wayne dance?

romanyg@livejournal.com — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 21:43:38 GMT

Eep! So busy. But flist, I need your help with a burning question!

View Poll: #1207619

Fic: "Let Us Shut Up the Box and the Puppets", SV/DCU, Bruce/Clark, Adult

romanyg@livejournal.com — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 22:53:25 GMT

I've been quiet for a while. I owe some comments. Especially to Jen, to whom I could never express enough gratitude.

Title: Let Us Shut Up the Box and the Puppets
Author: Romany
Fandom: SV/DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark
Rating: Adult, NC-17
Length: 4342 words
Spoilers: no specific continuity
Warnings: slash, angst, disturbing imagery, extreme hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Al&Miles, WB/CW and DC Comics.
A/N: possibly the beginning of something larger

Summary: Another showdown in Gotham. Clark gets caught in the crossfire. He survives. Barely.

He's a man on fire, burning, soaring up, up and away through the Gotham night. A signal flare and distress call. Until the explosion snuffs it all and he falls, gravity stricken, a pockmark in an alleyway. Smoke from his body, asphalt and tar and brick, dust in his mouth.

Someone in the distance screams. Why doesn't anyone help them? But it's his own mouth. It's him.

"Me or the boyfriend, Batsy. Will it be Bachelor #1 or Bachelor #2?" Laughter and everything hurts.

A hand on his back. "Watchtower. Transport. Now."

And everything fades away.

Voices.

"What do you mean it's permanent?"

"We had to cauterize. He was in shock. Perhaps we could have stimulated regrowth, but chances are he would have died during the procedure. Even at full power, he only has limited regeneration. And he was completely vulnerable at the time."

"But he'll live?"

"All we have now is hope."

Voices again.

"We've decided. We're turning off the machines."

"No. They stay on."

"Only until his family gets here. So they can say goodbye."

"No. The vote wasn't unanimous. They stay on."

"You were the only one who voted against it. He wouldn't want this, Bruce. He needs to move on and you need to let him go. This shouldn't be a warrior's fate."

"Don't give me your ancient Greek platitudes. They stay on."

"He wouldn't do this to you. You wouldn't want this."

"Well none of us are him, are we? Get out."

He has something on his face, in his mouth, in his throat. His legs and one arm are still on fire.

"...For it may be remarked in the course of this little conversation (which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the riverside) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to thank Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for ridding her of some person whom she hated, and secondly, for enabling her to bring her enemies to some sort of perplexity or confusion—"

He opens his eyes, tries to cough and panics. Whatever is in his throat won't come out. It hurts.

"Shhh. You have a breathing tube, Clark. Relax. We'll get it out as soon as we can."

His legs, his left arm, they're on fire. Please.

"Shhh. Don't try to talk. Will someone just get the hell in here? He's awake."

Tube gone, he can breathe, but his mouth. Dry. "Water." Is that his voice? Weak.

"Soon. You're NPO right now."

"Water. Please."

"Soon."

Someone puts a spoon near his mouth. He opens. Cold. Wonderful.

"Ice chips. Better?"

He swallows. Bad idea.

"Thackeray."

"Excuse me?"

"Vanity Fair. Why?"

"We finished The Little Prince yesterday."

He nods, as if this makes some kind of sense. He nods off.

"My legs. They hurt."

"He doesn't—?"

"Phantom pain. He might not."

"My arm. Fingers. Cramp."

"We have to tell him."

"He'll find out soon enough."

He tries to sit. His right arm braces against the bed, but the fingers on his left hand are numb. He can't feel the sheet. So he looks. And it's gone. He can feel it, but it's gone, no arm below his bicep.

And his legs. Both. Above the knee.

One arm and three stumps. That's all he has left.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Clark..."

"Bruce, why?"

"What good would that have done?"

He turns his head, away. "Please, just go."

"I'm taking you home."

Clark attempts a laugh, but it's feeble. "I live in a third-story walk-up." This time the laugh does come. It's not a good sound.

"No, I'm taking you home."

"What would I do in Gotham?"

"What would you do in Metropolis?"

Bruce has installed an elevator off the kitchen. Clark's room is on the second floor in the guest wing. He forgoes the chair, floats up the grand stairs instead. He can no longer fly, but he can float, grip the banister with one hand. The room and adjacent bathroom are furbished for someone in his condition.

He sits on the edge of the bed. It's a queen-size. The edges of his Bermuda shorts flatten out to nothing on the comforter.

"Dinner's at six." Bruce has his arms crossed, leaning against the door frame. "Can I get you anything?"

"No." He remembers his manners. "But thank you."

"For what?"

"You don't have to do this."

"Of course I do. This happened on my watch, Clark."

"Lots of things happen on your watch." And before Bruce can bridle, he adds, "On mine too. Everyone's. That's the risk we take."

"So I should just dump you in some convalescent home?"

"No. I have resources."

"So do I."

Dinner, of course, is a farce. Alfred brings his steak out pre-cut and things go down from there. He stares at his plate.

"Would you rather have used your fork and your teeth? That would have been amusing."

He glares at Bruce, heat rising. He bisects, neatly, a small piece of steak. But he leaves a scorch mark on the Spode beneath.

"Alfred will love that."

Tim pushes his plate away. "Excuse me." He leaves the table and the room.

"Feel like a man now?"

Clark leaves the room too, a little less politely.

"Look, I know this can't be easy for you." Bruce sets a dinner tray on the bed. "But you can try to be gracious in my house. You hurt Alfred's feelings. And Tim's."

"Then I'll apologize to them when I see them."

"Fine. Have yourself a good sulk. I don't have time for this."

"I never asked you to."

"Oh, so you want to scurry back to your little farm and put your parents through this?"

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Clark. Deal with it."

He's on fire in the skies above Gotham. He crashes down. Dust in his mouth. Laughter in his ears.

"Shhh. Move over."

He does and a body presses against him, arm wrapping around.

"What time is it?"

"Go back to sleep."

When he wakes, the bed is empty beside him. But when he rolls, he can feel fading warmth.

Down the hall, from the master, the shower turns on.

He's bored. He leaves the morning papers untouched, lets the news of the world slip away. His ears aren't what they once were and he can't hear them anymore. The pleas, the screaming. Only this house, the woods surrounding it. Outside of that, nothing. He's glad for the silence.

He thumbs the remote, gliding through channels. He likes the classic movies best, the romantic comedies. Banter and conflict, but it all works out in the end. 'The End' appearing over a kiss, black and white.

"How can you watch that trash?"

"It's not. You'd prefer noir, I suppose?"

"A little more realistic, yes."

"I've had enough realism for a while."

"It's another one of those days, isn't it? We should find something useful for you to do."

Useful turns out to be an ergonomic keyboard and sorting through Bruce's data files. He's a little less bored, but not by much.

"You have a good eye for this."

His eye only correlates statistics, crime, psychological profiles. It's depressing and dry.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Have you tried the pool yet?"

He spends hours swimming. Bruce sits in a lounge chair, reading a corporate report, intent. He makes notes, talks for a while on his cell phone.

Clark idles to the edge of the pool when Bruce places the phone down on a glass table, eyes back on his report. He scoops a handful of water and aims.

Bruce leaps up, spluttering, storms forward. "Why you idiotic, childish—" And he stops. Clark is still giggling.

"Clark...Jesus." And he kneels down, one knee, hand reaching out, tentative. Clark stops giggling, only looks at Bruce.

Bruce pulls his hand away before it reaches anything. He stands. "I'll bring him down. I promise you that." He leaves, phone and report forgotten.

Clark bobs in the pool like a cork.

"You need to think about prosthetics."

"I have."

"And?"

"There might be some problems."

"You used to be an optimist."

"You'll see."

He breaks the first set in only two falls.

"You did that on purpose."

"There goes my ice skating career."

Bruce startles out of his frown into a rusty laugh.

They try the Fortress, but the AI gives vague, curt answers at best.

"He never did like me."

"It's a machine, Bruce."

"Can't he see that his cooperation is necessary? His useless territorial spats only hurt you."

"Bruce, it's a machine."

"Maybe he'd prefer Diana."

Clark sighs. "If you think that would help."

It doesn't.

Bruce is having another one of his parties. Laughter and the clink of glasses waft up from the floor below. Clark does his best to read a book. He ends up turning out the light and staring at the ceiling.

He's down at the party in a rented tuxedo. Bruce, in his playboy drawl, makes a snide remark about silk purses and sows' ears. Clark laughs it off. He has a glass of champagne in his hand. Lois drifts over.

"You clean up nice, Smallville. So how about it?" She extends her hand.

They're on the dance floor, the music in his body, feet on the floor. He isn't awkward at all. Bruce eyes them over the edge of his glass, blue eyes smoldering and his voice a smoky whisper for Clark's ears alone. Clark flushes.

It's the smoky whisper that wakes him. But the words aren't for Clark.

Bruce is out in the darkened hallway, leaning against a wall, drink in hand. Someone is kneeling in front of Bruce, opening up his trousers. It's not a woman.

Clark arches, a silent gasp, from his sudden erection.

He can't. But he is. He closes his eyes, but he can still hear it, that whisper. His hand moves faster than his shame. He hasn't touched himself, not once, since that night.

He comes when Bruce does and the sheet is a mess. The shame catches up with him. And the crashing realization that, now, he can never have this with anyone. Not the way he is. He'll never dance, no matter how awkwardly. He has no knees to kneel with.

He clenches his teeth and turns into the pillow, face tight, arm blindly reaching for tissues to clean up the remains of his now and future sex life.

There are murmurs in the hallway, but Clark doesn't listen.

A minute later, there's a knock on his door. Clark doesn't answer, just turns further into the pillow. Whoever they are, they'll go away, find a room that's empty.

Bruce opens the door. "Clark—" He stops. The room reeks of what Clark has just done. "I should have been more discreet. I'm sorry." He steps forward, places his drink on the nightstand, sits on the edge of the bed.

Clark can't look at him, clings to the pillow with his one arm. It's all he has.

"I'm intruding. I'll go." Bruce picks up his drink, footsteps to the door.

"Before, I used to think it was possible."

Bruce stops. "Did you have someone specific in mind?"

"No. Yes. It doesn't matter."

"Can you? With someone human?"

"I didn't just put a hole in your ceiling. So yes, in theory."

Bruce turns. He doesn't say anything for a moment. "You mean you've never...?"

"No."

Bruce sips his drink but doesn't move. Clark only looks at him from the corner of his eye. Bruce is calm, radiant. Beautiful. Whole. Impossible.

"Not everyone's that shallow, Clark. You shouldn't rule it out."

Clark lets that statement sink into him, a stone and intractable. He says nothing.

"Sexually, yes, I am shallow. That's all it ever is for me. Beautiful people and no strings."

Clark says nothing again. His voice will betray him if he does.

"But with you, you'd enter into it with your whole heart. There will be someone who values that." He sips his drink again, silent for a minute, then two. "The party's clearing out. I should get ready for patrol."

He leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

"Move over."

Clark does.

"What time is it?"

"Late. Early. Go back to sleep."

He does.

He's outside in the gardens. The scent of cherry blossoms and new-budded roses. The elusive sun of Gotham makes an appearance. He soaks in it, leaning back against a chair and closing his eyes. His skin tingles, an unrechargeable solar battery. He wonders if he is, fading. A bang and then a whimper, cinder and dying ember. He sighs. He is what he is now. Put out to pasture. It could be worse.

"So you're out here." Bruce puts down his coffee cup on the wrought-iron table and sits.

"You're up early."

"It's been known to happen. On occasion." He sips his coffee, reads the paper. "I have to go into the office today."

"No one's stopping you, Bruce."

"Did you want to go into town with me?"

Clark has an image of himself hung on a coat rack or put in a box like a puppy that can't be left to its own devices all day. He laughs, quiet. "And do what, exactly?"

"I'm not sure. There's a bookstore down the street, unfortunately corporate and bland, but it's large, has a coffee shop."

Clark's tempted. "I'd need to take the chair."

"Obviously."

"This is a test, isn't it?"

"Isn't everything?"

He's in the poetry section, reaching for a book, when someone takes it down for him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Clark takes the book, looks over and up. A blond man and tall. He only answers with "Thank you."

"Iraq, for me. I know a fellow soldier when I see one. Ground or air?"

"Air," Clark says. He should dispel the illusion, correct the assumption. But for some reason, he doesn't.

"I'm BK myself, but only the one. You double-AK guys have it rough. And they got your arm too. Bastards." He rolls up his pants leg, metal and plastic. "I got drunk off my ass on my Alive Day. You?"

"It's only been two months."

"Jesus. Explains the chair. They fit you yet?"

"They didn't work. It's okay."

"C-legs are supposed to be the shit. Yeah, right. I only have to worry about my ankle and it never rotates right, you know?"

"I'm sorry."

The man laughs. "Hey, I'm only in the boat. You bought the yacht. Come on, I'll buy you a cup of that expensive crap they call coffee. Exchange horror stories."

Clark doesn't say much, mostly listens. He insists on paying with the platinum debit card that Bruce gave him. His name on the card, but Bruce's money. He should feel bad about that, and he probably will when the conversation's over.

It's only fifteen minutes, and Charlie—that's the man's name—leaves with a clap to Clark's good shoulder. "Take care," Charlie says, "You'll talk about it when you're ready. Next time, I'll get you a cold one."

"I'm not much of a drinker."

"Good. Don't start. You might not be able to stop."

Clark just looks at him.

"I tell myself that I've got a handle on it, but that's a lie. I'll do AA when I'm ready. But a man's got to have something." He pauses. "You've got my number. Call or don't. It's all good."

Clark blinks at his empty coffee cup for a good five minutes after. He's about to wheel away from the table when a tall latté lands gently in front of him.

"Vanilla, low-fat, if I remember correctly."

Lex Luthor sits across from him, a cappuccino in his hand. "Hello, Clark. So, he finally let you out of the house."

"What are you doing here, Lex?"

"Curiosity. Some things, a man has to see for himself."

Clark looks over his shoulder. Mercy sits three tables away, glaring. "She honestly thinks you have something to worry about?"

"These are dangerous times."

"I suppose they are. Well, now you've seen."

Lex sips his cappuccino. He swallows, long and hard, after setting it down on the table. "I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this."

"I'm sure that bothers you."

"I would have done a better job."

"Yes, I'm still breathing. That must be hard for you."

Lex drums his fingers on the table. "Get out of that house of horrors, Clark. Come home."

"I'd rather not live at a LexCorp facility, thank you."

"I've taken over your lease. Your apartment's still there, just as you left it. The building has an elevator now."

"And a new state-of-the-art security system, complete with cameras, I'm sure."

"Of course. I have to look out for my property."

"I'm not your property, Lex."

"There you go, always jumping to dire conclusions. Frankly, I'm bored. I haven't had to replace my crystal barware set for months. I miss the satisfaction of throwing a tumbler at the wall."

"I'm afraid I'm not entertaining in that way anymore. Besides, Lois should be keeping you busy."

"She should, but she's off her game. Apparently, she misses her partner. I take it you haven't kept in touch?"

Clark sniffs his latté, decides to take a chance and drinks. It's good. "I haven't talked to her since I quit the Planet."

"And you haven't wondered why she hasn't attempted to see you?"

"It's not like I invited her."

"Since when has that ever stopped the incorrigible Ms. Lane? Could it be that the walls of Wayne Manor are that unscaleable?"

"What are you saying?"

Lex leans forward, face intent. "He's fucking you, Clark. Don't deny it. He never did care for competition. He must be ecstatic now that he gets to keep you as his pet."

Clark's eyes widen and he laughs, a single bray, shocked. "Now who's jumping to dire conclusions? He does what he wants, but not with me. My virtue's intact. Come on, Lex, just look at me."

Lex sips his cappuccino again. "I am."

"Well, there you go."

"I see Clark Kent. I always have."

"Lex?"

"If he's telling you that you're undesirable, then he's lying just to break you. Have I ever been that cruel?"

Clark blinks, swallows. "Worse."

"Well, I'm a liar. We both know that. But I'm being honest now. Come home, Clark."

"Get the fuck away from him, Lex. Now."

Bruce is at the table, trench coat, face furious, fists clenched at his sides. Mercy is right behind him. He whirls, puts her in an arm lock. She struggles, cursing, but can't break free. The entire café gasps.

Lex stays where he is, makes a point of finishing off his cappuccino, foam on his lip. He wipes it away. "You're making a scene, Bruce. This is a public place, daytime, and you're not dressed for such activities."

"I'll break her arm, Lex. Get the fuck away."

"Go ahead. I haven't had the pleasure of suing you for quite some time."

Clark places his hand on a wheel of his chair, turns, and rolls away.

Two voices behind him. "Clark!"

They drive in silence, on the outskirts of Gotham now. Bruce's hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. He stares straight ahead. Clark stares out the window.

Before they reach the manor, Bruce pulls over to the side of the road. He rests his head against the wheel, breathes. Clark turns, looks at him. Outside, nothing but trees. A bird sings. It's quiet.

"If that's what you want, you can have it. Condoms are in the glove compartment." Bruce's head is still against the wheel, hands gripping it. He doesn't look at Clark.

"I can't believe you." Clark undoes his seatbelt, opens the door and falls out of the car onto the shoulder of the road. He floats up, but not above the treeline, toward the manor. Behind him, he hears the car door slam, the engine restart. Bruce keeps pace, then guns the engine, races past him, driver's side window down. A hand, one finger raised to the sky, toward Clark, stays in place the entire time to the gates.

"So you're taking off."

Bruce leans against the door frame, watching Clark attempt to pack a suitcase one-handed.

"Why should I stay?"

"Yes, she tried to see you. And no, I wouldn't let her."

Clark sinks onto the bed, suddenly tired, head in his hand.

"You would have proposed, Clark. And then you would have been divorced in less than a year. You would have been back on my doorstep with a broken heart on top of everything else."

"Who are you to decide my life? You have no idea how any of that would have turned out."

"Yes, I do. It's my job to observe human nature."

"Get a new one then. I'm not human, if you haven't noticed."

"So you're going to run off to sleep with the enemy just because you're lonely. That's disgustingly human. But you're not going to do that. I'll physically restrain you until some sense crawls back inside your brain. Yes, I know all about your adolescent flirtation and how that fuels his obsession with you. But that's not love, Clark. Don't kid yourself."

"I know what he is. And no, I'm not going to do that."

"Really. Because that's what it looks like from over here. You want a woman, Clark? A man? Both? I can get you anything you want if it'll help get your head out of your ass."

Clark looks up, glares. Bruce is still in the doorway, arms crossed. "That's not what I'm about."

"Of course not. You sit in your fairytale castle singing 'Someday My Prince Will Come'. But take a good look in the mirror, that's not going to happen."

"Oh, so your little pep talk the other night was pure bull? Thanks a lot, Bruce. I look in the mirror every day, I don't need you to hold it up for me."

"I hurt you. I had to say something."

"So then what was your little offer in the car about? Prostituting yourself for the greater good?"

Bruce stands away from the door, crosses the threshold. "I've always wanted to fuck you. That's been obvious for years. Don't pretend you didn't notice. I tolerated your passive rejection in the name of friendship."

Clark says nothing for a moment. "That may have been true once. But not now."

"Get off the bed."

"What?"

"Get off the bed, Clark."

Clark floats away, sinks into the armchair by the wall. Bruce strides, purposeful, flings the suitcase onto the floor so that its few contents spill out. He turns down the comforter, the sheet beneath it. "What do you see?"

"Bruce, I don't want to play twenty questions with you."

"Two dips, Clark. Two. I crawl into this bed almost every night. What does that tell you?"

"That you're capable of human comfort. Bruce, where are you going with this?"

"If you had one erection, Clark, just one during that entire time, I would have taken care of it."

"I was asleep!"

"So asleep that you couldn't be aroused by a warm body lying next to you? Don't tell me that your sudden interest has nothing to do with self-pity and loneliness, misplaced gratitude."

"Do I look grateful?"

"No. You've been a pain in the ass the whole time. Now get in this bed."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"That what was true once is still true. Will always be true. You could be a brain in a jar and I'd still want you. Which is a hell of a lot more than you can say. Now get in this bed."

"Is this your way of physically restraining me?"

"Get. In. This. Bed."

Clark clings to the chair with his one good arm. "Are you always this romantic?"

"Clark Kent. Now."

"No."

"I'm not about to run out to the florist or have Alfred permanently bar me from the kitchen by attempting some foolhardy home-cooked meal just to placate you. What the hell do you want?"

He rises, his one hand a fist, floats in the air just inches from Bruce. "What do I want? I want to run again, to make an idiot of myself on the dance floor with my two left feet. I want two arms to hold someone with. I want to fly so high up that the Earth is silent below me. I want to fill out a suit. Any suit. I want to be able to help people again. I want to hear my name whispered on the other side of the planet so that I can drop everything and be there. I want—"

Bruce just looks at him, whispers. "If I could give that to you, I would. I've relived that night a thousand times. I've had to fight myself every night not to cross that line, find him and kill him in the most painful way possible. I forced myself to watch as they cut and burned away what was left just to save you. I watched a machine breathe for you. I stopped them from turning it off. Jesus, Clark, I read Thackeray to you just in the hope that you'd wake up and tell me to shut the hell up."

Clark smiles, despite himself. "I think Vanity Fair did the trick. I didn't let you get very far."

"I was desperate."

"Bruce, I never knew."

"That I had a copy of Vanity Fair?"

"J'onn's the mind-reader, not me. You flirted with everyone but me. In fact, you hardly ever had a kind word."

"That's what made it obvious."

"I can't believe I'm about to kiss a twelve-year old."

"I'm only emotionally stunted. Physically—"

Clark doesn't let him finish that. He leans in, the kiss soft and tentative, still a question.

Bruce answers by falling back and pulling Clark down on the bed with him.

Fic In Translation: "I Will If You Try", the Bruce-Speak Version.

romanyg@livejournal.com — Sun, 18 May 2008 22:24:59 GMT

One of the things that I do when I'm writing a fic is try to pay attention to the undercurrents, the parallel conversation in the dialogue of the person whose POV I'm not writing. Sometimes I even get to the point where I insert those into the text so that I can follow both sides of the conversation. This is just scaffolding though and I remove it to see if the resonance is still there. Doing this with Bruce can be especially fun because he rarely says what he means when it comes to personal situations, even though he has the appearance of being brutally blunt.

I call this 'Bruce-speak'. And these undercurrents are supposed to be unsaid, not put into words. To do so, would be to flatten out the meaning, change the actual spoken words too much because those mean something too. It's not a direct translation, only a loose one - undercurrent. Even from his own POV, he's not this emotionally aware. Plus, to expose his emotional underbelly probably makes him look too pathetic and he really isn't.

But since I wasn't ecstatically pleased with "I Will If You Try", just for fun, I thought I'd post the scaffolding version with the Bruce-speak in parentheses after each part of his dialogue. (The Bruce-speak in the letter is also in parentheses but not italics.)

"What do you want, Clark?" (Oh God, Clark, not now.) Bruce said from the lab bench in the cave. He had the mask and cowl pushed back to look at slides through the microscope. "Make it quick. Obviously, I'm busy." (Just go. I can't deal with this.)

"I just came by to see how you are," Clark said, Superman in uniform only. All Bruce had to do was say his name and he was. Clark. No one quite said his name like Bruce. Not his parents, not even Lois.

"And your communicator's not working?" (Please, take a hint.) Bruce said, not looking up, adjusting the microscope and taking notes. Not for the first time, Clark wondered how Bruce could master fine motor skills through the heavy gloves. Out there, sure, he had to, but here he could easily strip them off.

"Don't be disingenuous, Bruce. You know as well as I do that you didn't answer."

"For most people, that would have been enough of a clue that I'm not interested in being disturbed." (Just leave me alone. I can't.)

"I'm not most people."

Bruce braced both hands against the counter then, tensed. "Neither am I. Save the emotional triage for the others, Clark. I don't need the aggravation." (I'm hurting, Clark. I really need to be left alone. For once in your life, take a hint.)

"Are you?"

"Am I what? I really don't have time for this." (I don't want to talk about what happened.)

"Aggravated."

Bruce rose then, faced him. Clark didn't want to cross his arms, but he did, always on the defensive with Bruce. How many years and Bruce still made each conversation difficult.

"How dense are you?" (I'm not you, Clark. This isn't how I handle things.) he said. "Clearly, I'm aggravated. Would you prefer perturbed?" (Fine, I admit it. That's more than most people get. Happy?) He turned back to the lab bench. "You know the way out." (Please, just go away.)

Clark took a step forward rather than back. "If you don't want to be treated like a victim, then stop acting like one."

Bruce whirled, strode forward, mouth a horrible grimace and voice a gravely whisper. "They took something from me. They know my name, and they just took it. And you dare to come here and--" (How could they do this to me? I trusted them and look what they did. And now you want to talk? As if that would change anything?)

"I wasn't a part of that, Bruce, and you know it. I'm not defending what they did."

Now only a foot away, Bruce just looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Now who's being disingenuous? You did the same damn thing. That's the thing about power, no one's above using it. Not even you." (I don't know who to trust anymore, Clark. You took something from me too, just because you could. I know that it was different and I know why and I've mostly forgiven you. But it's all coming back. So yes, I'm pissed at you too.)

Burned alive and buried. Flayed. The screaming. Clark could still feel it, what he took into himself. "Believe me, you don't want those back. What I did, I did for--"

"Me? You die and come back and suddenly you're Jesus Christ? I've never been a member of the Church of Clark." (You died, Clark, when I believed, had to believe, you never would. You betrayed me, a loss of faith. I need to believe in you, Clark, your absolutes. Otherwise, what is there?)

"I did it for me, Bruce. I knew you didn't want it, wouldn't forgive me, but I did it anyway."

Bruce's heartbeat remained steady, pulse the same rhythm. "Then you're no different from the rest of them." (Don't tell me you need me. Right now, I'll take it the wrong way. You are different, Clark. You have to be.)

"No, I'm not."

"I despise your relativism. You, of all people, shouldn't subscribe to that excuse of a philosophy." (Don't fucking agree with me. Stop trying to be everyone's friend and negotiator. Don't lump yourself with the others, take their side. Your absolutes, Clark, remember?)

"Why do you do that? Make me different from the others? We're all--"

"Because you are. Because you know better. Because we--" (You are different. You should know me better than anyone. Because we--)

"Because we what, Bruce?"

Bruce didn't answer, only his heart, his blood now racing. He leaned in. "Stop me," (What am I doing? Stop me. Hit me, push me away. You have to. I need your absolutes, Clark.) he finally said, barest whisper and breath against Clark's mouth, a dare and a plea all at once. "Stop me." (Don't stop me. I need this too much.)

Clark didn't stop him. He only opened up and let him in.

"So now you're an adulterer," (Jesus, Clark, you're married. What the fuck did we just do?) Bruce said as he rolled off Clark, the two of them now a sweaty mess in the middle of Bruce's bed.

Clark sighed, rolled over, placed a hand over his eyes. This, apparently, Bruce's idea of afterglow. "I suppose I am."

"Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right, Clark?" (This never even occurred to you, did it? The possibility.) Bruce only stared at the ceiling. "You're going to tell her, of course." (Don't tell her, Clark. This should be our secret.)

"Marriage shouldn't be based on lies."

Bruce let out a laugh then, a bark only and narrow sound. "Why do you have to make my life so damn difficult? Just get out and let's forget this ever happened." (Oh, you are going to tell her. Great. I'm just your small little oops. Thanks for nothing. It finally happened and you could give a shit. Fuck you. Just get the fuck out.)

"Forget? Is that what you want?"

Bruce rolled away, faced the wall. "I can live with myself just fine without having my memories sorted like spoons in a drawer." (Maybe you did it because you can't say no to me, and that's all it was. Jesus, Clark, you're married. How am I supposed to live with that? But I will. I don't want to forget. I've had too much taken away from me already.)

Clark didn't move. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry, Clark. That doesn't change anything." (You regret it, don't you? Don't pretend you care about my feelings. If you did, you'd hear what I'm saying.)

"You think I would have pushed you away? Hit you? You get enough of that out there. You don't need that from me."

Bruce only turned his head, glared. "So I needed to fuck you up the ass instead?" (This was just a fuck to you. Humor the crazy man because he can't really touch you.)

"Apparently."

Bruce shifted, faced him, but the glare remained. "I have outlets. You have no idea what I need." (You know, I could go out there and get this anytime. That's not what I need, and you have no clue what that is. I was inside you and you couldn't feel it.)

"I'd feel better if you knew. I don't think you do, Bruce."

"You're not my therapist!" (We just had sex. In my bed. In my bed, Clark. And you want to talk about my issues? This is therapy to you?)

"No, I'm not. I hope I'm your friend."

"Friends don't do what we just did." (This is not a buddy-fuck. We're lovers now, Clark.)

"In our line of work? They do it all the time. Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Oh, so you're a slut. That's good to know. What number am I then?" (What? This isn't personal? Fuck you and your sex therapy. How many, Clark? How many?)

Clark rose up on an elbow. "I'm not your first, Bruce. But you're mine. I've said no plenty of times and I'm sure you have my entire sexual history on file."

The glare softened, faded to nothing. "There are things I have to do. It doesn't mean that..." (So I am your first. Oh God, I'm sorry. Yes, I fuck around and for less than noble reasons. But I'm obsessed with you, Clark, have to know everything about you. I know there's something wrong with that. But it doesn't mean I don't love you.)

"Doesn't mean what?"

"Nothing. Just go home, Clark. Salvage your marriage. If anyone can come out smelling like a rose, you can." (But I'll never tell you that. Especially not now. Go home, Clark, and live the life you're supposed to have. I didn't really touch you in any way that matters. So, in a way, you're still pure, didn't cheat.) Bruce stared at the ceiling again.

"This is ridiculous, Bruce. We're in bed. We need to sort things out, the two of us."

Bruce sat up, leaned against the headboard, ran a hand through his hair. "There's nothing to sort out. We fucked. It was a mistake. End of story." (I'm giving you an out, Clark. Can't you see that?)

Sighing, Clark sat up too, looked over at him. "This isn't about sex. If it were, I would have stopped you."

"So you know everything now," Bruce said, apprising him coolly. "Picked up some wisdom from the great beyond that you want to share with the rest of us?" (Just stop it. Stop preaching from the mountain. You know nothing about what's going through my head or why I do anything. Least of all, this.)

"Why do you always--?" Clark shook his head. "I've never understood you. Not really. But I do know that you don't handle death well."

Bruce stood, grabbed his robe. He went over to the window and looked out at the balcony. "Get out of my house." (Damn straight, you don't understand me. This hurts, Clark. Worse than before you got here. They've taken something and now you've taken something too. Taken, when you think you've given. My fantasy that, somehow, you could love me, that we could be intimate. You could have left me with something. Just go before I really lose it.)

"We need to talk," Clark said, leaning back but moving no further.

"I can make you leave, Clark. I'm not going to ask you again." (Talk? You can't hear a word that I'm saying. You think you have all the power here? Why won't you go?)

"You can't make me leave, but you can hurt me. There's a difference."

Bruce turned from the window. "If that's what it takes." (Don't call my bluff, Clark. I'll do it. Don't make me do it.)

"You have some in here? Seriously?"

Walking purposefully over to the nightstand, Bruce placed his hand on the handle but didn't open the drawer. "I'm not bluffing." (One last chance, Clark. Don't make me do it. Don't prove what I'm capable of. Don't make me be like them.)

Clark only drew up his knees, put his head cheek down on them, not taking his eyes off Bruce. "Go ahead. If that's what it takes."

Bruce's hand didn't move, stayed still. "Is this another one of your lessons, Mahatma? You'll just sit there and take it?" (You and your passive resistance. Just go ahead and prove how far you'll go for me when you really don't go anywhere at all. I'm supposed to feel bad about that?) But then he smiled, all teeth. "But then again, maybe you haven't had enough pain in your life to know better." (You don't know pain, Clark. You're a tourist.)

The drawer opened and then the box. Within seconds, Clark could only cling to his knees, trying desperately to keep the groans, whimpers, in. And failed. Bruce was the stoic, not himself, but he still felt that shame. Sweat ran down back. He still hadn't taken his eyes off Bruce, who just looked at him, face unreadable.

"Are you going to wake Tim up to help you hide the body?" Clark said, a bit shaky. "Or are you going to wait until morning?"

Both the box and drawer slammed shut.

"Fuck you, Clark." (I can't get through to you. I just hurt you, and even that means nothing. Hate me, something.) Bruce stormed away from the bed, faced the window again.

Falling back to the pillows, breathing in, Clark did his best to laugh and managed something reasonably close. "It's a little late for that, considering."

And Bruce only said, soft, "What are we...they. What are they becoming?" (I have no 'we', Clark. I can't be a part of that. I need a 'we'. I may say I don't, but I do.)

"Bruce, you have a right to be angry. It's human. But--"

Bruce turned, eyes narrowed yet glittering. "Human? What do you know about that, Clark? You're nothing but a parrot, a mimic, a cuckoo's egg in the human nest." (But you don't have a 'we' either, Clark. You just pretend that you do. Hurts, doesn't it? Will you just go now?)

Clark put a hand over his eyes and kept it there, eyes suddenly stinging, and the breath he had yet to catch completely, stuck. It took a few seconds before he managed, a choking sound, "Congratulations, you finally landed one."

"Clark, are you--?" (Oh crap, I made you cry.) The voice drew closer. "Oh, go ahead and have yourself a good cry. If you can't take this then--" (I hate it when you cry. You're supposed to be strong. Don't you know what this does to me?)

Clark rolled away from that voice, clung to the pillow.

"Clark..." (Clark, I'm sorry.)

A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled, but not ungently. Clark didn't want to, but he turned his face to Bruce. Bruce, who only looked at him, expression shifting and at war. Finally reaching out, Bruce ran his thumb along Clark's cheek and then brought that thumb to his mouth, tasted it, eyes never leaving Clark's face, intense and intent. Clark opened his mouth to say something, but Bruce shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed.

"This is what they do, Clark. Can't you see that?" (I'm just as bad as they are.)

Clark's eyes only widened, but he stayed silent.

"They take until there's nothing left to give." (If you had come before, I would have given you something besides pain. It's all I am now, all I have to give.)

"Bruce..."

"Until we turn on our own." (You're mine, Clark, and I hurt you.)

"Bruce, who--?"

Bruce only smiled, face now full of a fierce fondness. He brushed Clark's hair back and kept brushing. "Of course you can't. They can't get to you. But they'll use you, Clark. They'll use you. You need to see that." (They'll twist you Clark, make you see their side. You're invulnerable everywhere but your heart.)

Clark rose up on an elbow. "Bruce, who are you talking about?"

The hand in his hair turned into a fist. "Them. Villain, hero, it doesn't matter anymore." (They're all the same now. It's a two-front war.)

"It has to, Bruce. What we do--"

"Shut up. We're done talking." (No more issues, Clark. No more pain.) Bruce, fist still in Clark's hair, leaned in, mouth parted, and kissed him, pressed until Clark's head lay on the pillow again. Clark allowed it, kissed him back, hands caressing Bruce's shoulders just to gentle him down.

But Bruce didn't gentle. He opened up his robe, crawled onto the bed without breaking the kiss, straddled Clark. "I'm going to fuck you again," (It might not mean anything to you, but it does to me.) he whispered, mouth sliding down Clark's jaw. "You didn't leave when I asked." (You're still in my bed.)

Clark rolled until he had Bruce pinned beneath him, hands around his wrists. "No, Bruce." He had to hold him there, hold him until something made sense, until Bruce made sense again. "This isn't what you need."

"Then take it." Bruce pushed, but only his hips, neck arching slightly, defiantly submitting. "Take it, Clark." (I have something left to give, Clark. Take it. Make me feel something besides this.)

"Bruce, that's not what I mean." Clark released Bruce's wrists, sat back, but knees still around Bruce's thighs.

Rising, Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark's neck, hands in his hair again, mouth ghosting neck, jaw, lips. "The door's already open, you can't close it. Fuck me. You. No one else." (That boundary's gone. You can't pretend it didn't happen. I'll let you inside me. There's no one else, Clark.)

Clark kissed him then, wet and slow, apology and negation. "Bruce, enough's enough," he finally said.

But Bruce didn't pull back. "Tease," (Tease) he whispered. "You demand intimacy but then all you want to do is talk. This is communication, Clark. Like it or not." (Feel my body, Clark. Not my words. Hear what it has to say.) He reached for Clark's hand, kissed the palm and then sucked on two fingers, cheeks hollowing and eyes half-lidded, but no less demanding or daring. "You want me open? Open me up." (I have so much to tell you.)

"Bruce...this isn't intimacy. This is avoidance. Don't do this." But his plea carried no weight as the words disappeared into another kiss.

Reaching for the nightstand, bottle this time and not box, Bruce managed to move his thighs at the same time, spreading them as Clark's knees gave way, allowing it. "No, we've been avoiding this for years. Don't deny it." (We should have done this sooner.) His hand began moving on Clark. "You're hard for me, Clark. You always have been. Even before, as perfunctory as it was, you didn't just lie back and think of England, you made a mess on my bed." (This is sex, Clark, and some part of you wants it. Even if you deny that it's more, you can't deny that.)

Clark closed his eyes against it, but thrust into Bruce's sure hand, moved his knees again when Bruce took those fingers and pushed them inside himself. "Don't..." But he was already in, fingers moving.

"Clark, open your eyes. Look at me." (This is who I am, Clark. You will see me.)

Clark did. Even if he didn't, he would have cheated, stared through his own eyelids, looked anyway.

"You're right," Bruce said, slight flush seeping down his chest. "What we did, I do that all the time. It doesn't mean anything. But this...Be my first, Clark. My only." (I'm lying, Clark. But you can't tell, can you? You'd rather believe the lie, that what we did doesn't mean anything. But this...I've been saving myself for you, as impossible as that sounds. Not in all ways. But in this, this act, yes. My first, my only. No one else.)

Clark's mouth opened, but no words came out. His fingers, however, did, a gentle slide. He adjusted, hovering and hesitant as Bruce wrapped his legs around his back.

"Kiss me," (Kiss me.) Bruce said. And he did, but not moving anything else.

"I know the magic words," (I know what makes you tick, Clark. That button that will change what you mean by intimacy.) Bruce whispered, mouth now grazing his ear. And only a moment more, pause for effect, before he whispered, "I love you." (I love you.)

Clark gasped. This couldn't be Bruce. Not as he knew him. He had to be on something, altered, or horribly, someone else entirely. But the words had an effect all the same. He thrust, only partially in and sinking as Bruce rose to meet him.

"I'll hurt you," he whispered back, aiming for caution but failing.

"Love is pain, Clark," (You didn't say it back. Not even as an automatic response. I knew you wouldn't.) Bruce said, head back on the pillow. "Don't you know that by now?" (Because you don't. Because you don't believe me. You think I'm lying and I have to let you think that. This hurts both of us, Clark.)

Clark shook his head, but only slightly, for Bruce's eyes wouldn't let go.

And he was all the way in.

Afterward, Bruce pulled the blanket up. "You're in no shape to go anywhere. We'll think of something." (Stay the night, Clark. Stay with me. I'll fix everything in the morning.)

Clark only stared at the ceiling as Bruce shifted, draped an arm across him, drifted off with an, even to him, unintelligible murmur.

After some time, to the metronome of Bruce's heartbeat, he drifted off too.

The alarm woke him, early morning, but Bruce was gone. Only a breakfast tray, with a plain note, on the nightstand. Clark picked it up.

Clark,

(Dearest Clark,)

Yes, I ran away. There are words that must be said, that I wouldn't say if I were there. I'd only lie to you. Have breakfast. Take a shower. Take your time. Don't wait for me to come back. I won't.

(I can't face you right now. I'm a coward. I'd only tell you the truth. My house is yours. What I have is yours. These are only small things and mean nothing. But I can't come back.)

I trust that you'll burn this, but I'll be circumspect regardless. Habit.

(Don't keep this, don't show this to her. She'll know everything, even if you don't. It's not in my nature to be blunt, honest. Not about this.)

I have no excuse so I'll keep this short.

(I'm appalled at what I did. How could I hurt you?)

You're a decent man, Clark Kent. And I'm not. You caught me on a bad night. That's all it was. Don't look for hidden meanings. There are none. I'm not asking for your forgiveness or understanding. I am who I have to be.

(I can see now that you were only trying to be kind. It's not your fault that I feel this way and you don't. Normally, I have more armor than that, will always surpassing want and need. But it was a bad night, the revelations, the betrayals almost unbearable. But I meant what I said, openly and honestly. I love you. That said, you should never forgive me for how I expressed that. I can be ruthless, Clark. The world needs me to be.)

Do not pursue this. If you attempt it, I will turn you away. You know I have the means to do so. For my sake, as well as yours, do not make me hurt you more than I already have. But I will if you try. Abandon all hope...you know the rest.

(I can't bear another therapy session, and you might attempt it. And by doing so, unravel the truth. I will fight this, even as much as I want to embrace it, the vulnerability. There's a good chance that I could hurt you again. I need you to believe that, at least, so you'll stay away. I'm no good for you. And there's no hope for either of us, that I could change due to your understanding or that your feelings toward me would change. We can't have an affair, Clark. We'd enter into it for different reasons entirely. Just, please, stay away.)

Boundaries, fences, exist for a reason. We tore them down, but it's my responsibility to rebuild them. If I have faith in anything, it's this. We will rebuild. Not for the sake of friendship. That's gone. But for a necessary alliance. We have work to do.

(We need boundaries, Clark. There's no other way for us to deal with each other. We can't make this personal. There's just no time. And yes, I sacrificed our friendship for one greedy night that left both of us bereft. But we can't avoid each other. There are so few that I trust now, and I still trust you. We have work to do.)

And yes, my fault. You blame yourself for entirely too much. Apparently, I don't value the things that I should.

(All you wanted to do was talk, extend the hand of friendship. I'm the one that twisted it, tried to turn it into something else, and then blamed you when it wasn't.)

You have a good life, Clark. Go home and live it.

(You're married, Clark. And you're happy. Go home.)

Always,
B.

(Love always,
Bruce)

Clark looked at the breakfast tray—eggs, bacon, coffee, orange juice, strawberries, and one red rose. Joke or not, it was still a mixed message.

He left the tray untouched, took the note into the bathroom, felt the heat rise within and escape. The cinders wafted down to the sink basin. He turned on the faucet, washed the ash down the drain, the soot from his fingers.

They've been through worse. He and Bruce would rebuild.

Just not today.

Apologies, writer's angst, and meta on Bruce not being a Sex God.

romanyg@livejournal.com — Thu, 15 May 2008 23:16:51 GMT

I feel like I should apologize for my last fic, probably my last two. In fact, I ended up apologizing in all my replies to comments for the last one, and about half in the one before that.

My wacky ideas hurt people or make them angry. I'm aware enough of this that I haven't been posting to any of the comms lately. I don't want to upset people by inviting them over to my place and then bludgeoning them over the head when they get here. And if I thought that I was producing a quality product, I'd take my chances and let the work speak for itself. But I'm not sure that I am. The craft is suffering; I'm over-producing. And that makes me suck even more because I'm writing too much to take full part in the fannish conversation. I'm not pulling my weight in terms of interacting, feeding. Instead, I'm just getting farther inside my own head. Which would be fine, I guess, if I kept my fic to myself (and believe me, there are some pieces that embarrass me too much to ever make public). But I don't, I post.

So then the question is, who am I writing for? I'm not sure. If I said just myself then I would be a lying liar who lies because it's out there for anyone to see. But then I don't write what I think people want either. If I did, there would be a lot more sweetness and light. And I wonder about myself that I don't have that in me a good deal of the time. I'm too much of a cynic and not the biggest believer in happy endings. That's life and who wants that in their fic? Fic is supposed to fix things, serve as an escape. But half the time, I'm in the angst corner. And depending which fandom that is, it's either sizably comfortable or excruciatingly small.

In the Bruce/Clark fandom, it's excruciatingly small. So I feel like the Debbie Downer that's crashed the conga line without so much as an invite. Not only that, but I wander over to the punch bowl, poke people in the eye and say, "Isn't this fun?" And they say, "No, I don't like that, stop it." But then I do it again. And then when someone comes up and says, "Okay, poke me in the eye, I might like that," I put a lampshade on my head, dance on the table and play the mandolin.

In other words, I'm capricious and inconsistent. When I write this pairing, half the time I don't know what I'm going to get. Sometimes, I wave my magic wand and *poof* no Lois and Bruce is only quaintly neurotic. Sometimes, I want to challenge myself with the Confines of Canon which means no sunsets and ever afters. And sometimes, I just wack out completely and tangent off of meta or merely to amuse myself.

That said, one of the meta ideas is complete blasphemy. Seriously, I'll get burned at the stake for this one: Bruce might not be a Sex God. Yes, jump back in horror that I would say such a thing, but it cracks me up to think about it. "The sleek and sophisticated Bruce Wayne?" you say, "The grim and mysterious Bat? He's the sexiest thing to ever sex! Get behind me, blasphemer!"

Yes, he oozes sex, I'll give you that, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's all that in bed. "But...but, he *kills* people with multiple orgasms! He's a registered deadly weapon with his body!" This, fortunately or unfortunately, is fandom construction and wishful thinking. On panel, Bruce doesn't get around all that much. Seriously, *Clark* has a better sex life than he does. Bruce just doesn't get any regularly. We can say, "Oh yeah, right, you *know* he screws all those women senseless." But canon says he doesn't, explicitly states. In fact, Talia's the *only* one that he's had any longterm physical relationship with (and even that wasn't all that long). He could have just climbed on top of her, gone about his business, and she would be just as obsessed.

I don't know if he and Selina actually got down to it, but she's pretty aggressive so he might not have had to do all that much if they did. Plus, serious ampage in the sexual tension and the release of it can make up some points. So she might have gone back for seconds even if she just rode him like the prize at the pony show the first time.

When most people rack up their experience points, their teens and twenties, Bruce happened to be a bit busy. True, he *could* have slept his way across Europe and Asia, but he probably didn't. So focused on his training, he probably poured all his efforts into that. Canon says he's a dropout (college definitely, maybe even high school) so he wouldn't have had the opportunity to navigate any sexual situations there.

Still plenty of opportunity for one-night stands, right? Canon hints that he's not about that at all. He's not lecherous, doesn't stand around thinking, "Man, I'd *love* to tap that." He's a bit uptight, not physically demonstrative, doesn't even like to be touched all that much. He might not be that sensually motivated even if he is sexually (at times). He very well may not make a startling transformation in the bedroom, leave his tight-assedness at the door--which means he could be not that much of a giver in bed. He could just get the shit over with if he gives into it.

If he does get it up--and he might not, half the writers who write him claim he's asexual--he probably jerks off quick in the shower, washes the evidence down the drain, not thinking much about anything, just to avoid nocturnal emissions. (So yeah, nobody's ever *really* died from blue balls, that's just a line guys use to guilt someone into giving them some. The body will take care of that in your *sleep* to keep you nice and healthy on the inside.) And given Bruce's wacky dream life, he wouldn't want to deal with the wet dreams his brain cooks up.

But that doesn't mean that he doesn't have a reputation, serve as a challenge, inspire curiosity. People probably talk about him, his prowess, how he must be *fantastic* either as Bruce or Batman. Which would make him even *less* likely to want to prove them wrong, that he grunts and makes stupid noises and may not even last that long since he doesn't get much to begin with, that he doesn't know one million and one ways to get someone off, that he doesn't have a bat-dungeon hidden in the cave or a decadent bedroom full of fun toys.

He's certainly aware of the buzz surrounding him and he uses it to his advantage--in order to fluster people, throw them off, get information or get out of a sticky situation. But he doesn't use it to get himself into a fun sex sticky situation. He might be afraid that he couldn't possibly live up to his own reputation, be a big fat disappointment. That he may, in fact, be a freak on the street and a lady in the bed.

And yes, lady, because when Bruce *does* think about sex and relationships (and why he can't have either), he has these huge romantic fantasies. He's all about the *intimacy*, not the bump and grind. He thinks about beaches and sunsets and marches down the aisle. And that's how he always phrases it: opening myself up, revealing, knowing all of me, acceptance, happiness and bliss. He could be a bit of a shy flower, lie back, and say, "Make beautiful, sweet love to me." And whoever he's with would just blink at him and say, "Who *are* you?" and giggle. Or, at least, that's what he's afraid of, the rejection of who he really is.

True, he could possibly be a Technician (someone who's physically skilled but emotionally distant), but where would he pick up the skill set? He can read all the books, watch all the porn he wants, but that doesn't rack up the experience points. Like learning how to drive a car by reading the driver's manual, it just doesn't work that way. And he'd know it, increasingly, as he gets older. He *hates* not being able to do something well, be the absolute best. He can delegate a lot of things, grudgingly, when there's someone else who's better suited for the job, all his 'strategic alliances'. But he can't delegate his own sex life.

And he's attracted to powerful people, people he probably shouldn't be with. Either because they're on the wrong side, or he works with them, or they're simply unavailable somehow. He's an excellent saboteur of his own happiness. That could have just as much to do with his bedroom fear as all the rest of his angst. Poor guy. He could very well go the rest of his life counting on one hand the number of times he's gone past first base.

I don't know, I just crack myself up with these things. *g*