previous parts here
Title: Somewhere Between, part 3
Pairing: Clark/Dick, Bruce/Clark; Bruce/Dick and Clark/Lex implied
Rating: Adultish, R/NC-17
Length: 1518 words
Spoilers: future fic for SV, *loosely* based on DC's retcon of Nightwing (post-Crisis)
Warnings: slash, angst
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Al & Miles, WB/CW and DC Comics.
A/N: Once again, this Dick is much more bitter and worldly-wise than he should be. My apologies.
Summary: Clark gets a phone call from Dick. He goes to New York. They hang out.
Clark rises from his crouch, socks slightly damp from the misted rooftop, and crosses his arms across his bare chest.
Batman stands there, cape reflecting the Manhattan light, the rest in shadow.
Okay, two can play that game so Clark says nothing, just glares. The average bad guy cowers in front of him too. But then again, that’s when he has the cape, not when he’s half-naked with his fly open.
Batman’s mouth gets thinner as he almost imperceptibly glances down.
Clark zips up, normal time, still glaring.
Clark raises his fist, knocks on that invisible door between them. “Hello, is Bruce in there? I’d like to talk to him please.”
The gauntlets clench and Batman takes one step forward. But then he stills, reaches up and pushes the cowl back.
“I hate it when you do that. I do not have MPD.” His hair’s all over the place, a little sweaty, but somehow manages to fall into his eyes. He raises one hand and brushes it back, the glove combing through. Looks back at Clark, penetrating and stern, before the hand falls away.
“What do you think you’re doing, Clark?” And he waits.
Yeah, bone-crushing silence is right. Clark feels that worm of guilt that wants to burst out in ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘It just happened’ and ‘I suck, okay?’ All questions of flight dwindle to the ground in the gravity of those blue eyes. But Clark’s feeling pissy and he’s got his own questions that Dick didn’t really answer, and if they’re supposed to be protecting the innocent then why the hell didn’t that apply to Dick in the first place?
So Clark finds that devilish asshole grin that he’s so ashamed that’s in his arsenal without so much as the glint of red anywhere around.
“Getting laid,” he says. “What’s it look like?”
Bruce’s eyes widen, a shock of blue. “He’s vulnerable right now. You’ve no right to take advantage of that.” He turns, faces the skyline. “I expect better of you, Clark.”
Yeah, everybody does. You know, because he’s not human or fallible. Untouchable.
“I really need to tip my PR guy,” Clark says. “He’s doing a hell of a job.”
“Your job’s in Metropolis. Anyone covering for you tonight?”
“Anyone covering Gotham?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I know my priorities.”
Bruce stoops, picks up a piece of gravel. He casually flings it. Clark speeds to the side, catches it where his head used to be. “Cameras being one of them.”
“Someone has to keep an eye on him.”
“In his bedroom? That someone shouldn’t be you.”
“You never made it that far, Clark. You didn’t see enough backseat action in Smallville that you can’t observe propriety?”
Backseat action? As in high school? Bruce may be highly intuitive, but that was a total miss. Clark can’t stop the laugh that starts deep within. “I was a virgin, you moron!”
Bruce whirls, snarls, steps towards Clark who backs away still clutching his belly, full of laughter. Shit, he just called Bruce a moron. God. He feels the wall beside the roof door against his back. Much too funny.
But Bruce isn’t laughing. Instead he smiles that vicious smile that makes all humor pick up its skirts and run away in terror. “I’d be embarrassed too,” he says softly, stiletto edge.
“What?” Clark manages to say, the laugh fluttering to the gravel-strewn roof.
“Taking it up the ass from Luthor. Who’d admit to that?”
And if that laugh fluttered, it crawls off and dies now. Jesus. Whatever Lex might be now, cruel and dangerous, full of nothing but hatred and his own brand of cold righteousness, he’d been different once. That part of his past Bruce has no right to, no right to cheapen it, no right to put it under his sordid surveillance. Plus he’s dead wrong. Show him, show…
“Just like Dick won’t admit to taking it from you?”
Bruce’s fist lands three inches from his head, cracks the brickface.
“Ooh, that had to hurt,” Clark says.
Bruce’s face a grimace just inches from his own. “What did he say?”
Clark doesn’t answer, just smiles, leans languid against the brick. Just a pleasant conversation.
“What. Did. He. Say.”
This is the part where Bruce should lose it. But he relaxes, fist uncurling until it’s just a hand resting against a wall. One corner of his mouth goes up. “I knew you were too good to be true,” he says. “You’re quite the player, aren’t you, Clark?”
And he leans down and in, breath ghosting Clark’s neck, his throat. “Well, so am I.”
Bruce’s other hand reaches down, caresses Clark’s thigh. His breath moving towards Clark’s ear. “If that’s what you’re after, you don’t need to go to New York to get it.”
Clark’s fingers curl into the brick, holding onto something. He can’t move. Pinned by a breath and glove-tipped fingers. “Gotham’s just as far,” he says.
“Hmmm,” the breath says again. “Is it?”
The hand moves up. Clark lets out a breath as, for the second time that night, his jeans open.
“I don’t need to tell you how beautiful you are,” the breath says again. “All that rose-colored innocence just a façade, Clark. You know. You’ve been playing with us all, haven’t you?”
Oh God, Bruce knows what he’s doing. The hand moving up, and then down, on his…on his…Oh God.
“Look at that flush. So pretty for me, Clark. So pretty…”
“B…Bruce?” Behind him, a brick shatters. His fingers meet as his mouth opens, gasps.
“Shhh, no more pretending. We’re finally being honest.” The breath ghosts his neck again. “The things I can do to you. ”
Bruce pulls back slightly, hand still braced against the wall, his other still moving. He just looks until Clark turns his head to the side, looks away.
“Let’s make this a little more…interesting.”
The wave of green nausea hits Clark like a fist. His knees buckle until gravel cuts into them. He’s bleeding, leaning into Bruce’s thigh. Bruce puts a hand under his chin, tilts it up. He rubs his thumb along Clark’s cheek. “Just enough to even this out,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”
But it does hurt. His fingers clutch at the cape, pull uselessly.
And Dick was right. He couldn’t have, not if this is what’s lurking beneath that stoic exterior. Something that he keeps locked away, a Pandora’s box. Clark thought he knew, thought he knew…
He manages to look up. “Is this what you want, Bruce? Like this?”
And Jesus, he’s crying. Sure it hurts, but stupid, so stupid. He’s had the K pulled on him how many times? And he always struggles to get up, always.
“It’s okay,” he says. As if Bruce cares, but still. “It’s okay. You’re still my friend. I love you. It’s okay.”
He’s saying this like he’s talking to a cornered dog, a frightened child. Forgiveness for the scratches and bites, their nature.
Bruce’s hand trembles, the thumb stops on his cheek. His lips part as if to say something and then close. His eyes widen slightly. He opens up the belt and stows the sickness away, closes that Pandora lid. He kneels down, hand still on Clark’s face.
“Do you need anything? Water?”
Clark leans into the touch, closes his eyes, breathes. “No, I’m good.”
And it’s just a brush, lingering, lips on his. “I’m sorry.”
Bruce stands, replaces the cowl, the mask. He opens up the belt again, the other side, tosses something lightly by Clark’s knees.
“The code’s 1138. To shut it off,” he says. “Go back to him. You’ll have your privacy.”
It’s a remote. Clark just stares at it. Stupidly. But, you know, it’s hard enough to face the K when he’s all adrenaline pumped. A little wooziness is allowed.
He hears the boots run, a swish of line, and he’s gone.
The roof door slams open.
“Motherfucker! He K’d you. He fucking K’d you!”
Dick sprays gravel as he runs, comes to Clark’s side. He’s only in jeans and his jacket, no shirt, tennis shoes, from somewhere, unlaced. He looks down as Clark stands up. Clark’s jeans are still open.
“You zipped up,” he says. “I saw.”
And Dick says this so calmly, observational, as if he expects Clark to say ‘Yes, it is nice weather, isn’t it?’ or ‘Yeah, how ‘bout them Yankees?’ Clark just laughs. Not so different from the old man. Who isn’t so old. And maybe Clark should just go sit on Everest for a while and think. Cool air would do him good.
“I provoked him, Dick. It’s all right.” He leans down, retrieves the remote, zips up. “Here,” he says, handing it over. “The shut-off code’s 1138.”
Dick just stares at it, incredulous. “He just gave this to you?”
“We had a little heart-to-heart,” Clark says.
Dick’s eyes narrow. “You mean you sucked him off. What did I tell you?”
“Never came up,” Clark says as they head for the open roof door. “Hey, what’s on after Conan? I always forget.”
continues in part 4