previous parts here
Title: Somewhere Between, part 4
Pairing: Clark/Dick; Bruce/Clark, Bruce/Dick and Clark/Lex implied
Rating: Adultish, R
Length: 1025 words
Spoilers: future fic for SV, *loosely* based on DC's retcon of Nightwing (post-Crisis)
Warnings: slash, angst, Clark's a poem.
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Al & Miles, WB/CW and DC Comics.
Summary: Clark gets a phone call from Dick. He goes to New York. They hang out.
Clark follows Dick back inside the apartment, shuts the door. The TV is still on, but Dick sheds his jacket, lets it fall to the floor. He turns off the TV. They don’t talk. This silence so unlike Bruce’s penetrating glare that chokes all words away, but soft and full of promise.
Everest. Maybe Mt. McKinley. But Clark’s done running. He’s run, flown over the Earth, and yet there’s only return. He can float in space, watch the world move at its own pace, far away, but the perspective never changes when he touches down.
So he breathes, stands there, as Dick aims the remote and pushes 1138. And the electronic buzz, that Clark hadn’t even known he’d been aware of, hushes.
“Are they off?” Dick says, turning.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Then be with me,” Dick says. He doesn’t move, just waits until Clark steps forward, until they’re chest to chest, not touching.
And he shouldn’t. Bruce is off brooding somewhere, in some corner of New York or maybe on his way back to Gotham, but Clark knows that the possibility of another dose of K is the least of his problems. He’s due to stand watch at the Watchtower in three days and it’ll be Bruce’s shift too.
In other words, work is going to suck for a very, very long time.
This is a test that he’s going to fail, no matter what answer he chooses. Multiple choice and ‘none of the above’ not even an option.
So he chooses to take his hand, reach out, and touch the side of Dick’s face. Just like that. They don’t need to do any more. Just touching, no sex stuff.
Who’s he kidding? Seriously.
So he leans in and kisses him, shivering slightly though he’s only been cold when the heat seeps out of that station, distress signal, and the universe reminds him he’s just a pinprick in the fabric of space, the cape a joke, a baby’s blanket lingering in the hull of a lifepod and everyone gone until warm hands pick him up and a voice says, “Hush now, everything’s going to be all right.”
Dick kisses him back, whimpers, arms flinging around his neck until the toes of his unlaced tennis shoes are the only thing on the ground.
And then nothing is as Clark wraps his arms around his waist, and they float to the back, that open dark door, ajar.
There’s a bed pushed up against the wall, blanket pulled down. The sheets have robots on them. A lava lamp, red glow, on the bedside table. A clothes rod, hangers haphazard, runs the length of the wall away from the bed.
“Junior suite,” Dick whispers against his neck, a soft grin. “It’s either a tiny ass bedroom or a fucking huge closet, take your pick.”
And Clark can hear the ghost image of Bruce, sitting at the console of the cave, saying, “Language, Dick. Language,” as Dick flips off the mat, showing off for company, Clark in the corner.
Clark puts Dick down, sits on the foot of the bed. He looks up as he puts two fingers inside that wellworn denim waistband and pulls. He kisses the skin just two inches up from the hip, the jeans low-slung, and his lips are a butterfly, a hummingbird, as they glance, little touches to the navel, the soft swirl of hair around it, wisps.
Dick’s breath shallows, heartbeat racing up, as he puts his hand in Clark’s hair, combs his fingers through it. “So gentle,” he says, awe and want. “God, Clark, you’re so fucking beautiful.”
And why do people always say that? Like he’s a girl? Something to be violated and cherished, fruit ripe in the mouth. He’s got the chiseled chin now, the arms. He can hold a building up as people scatter away from it, pluck airplanes out of the air before they hit the ground. Dudley DoRight, they snicker, as if he can’t hear. Boy Scout. And the other whispers, ‘So fucking beautiful. God.’ As if he’s Apollo, a sunbeam, gentle and wrathful, when he’s been Icarus more times than he can count. The earth pockmarked, craters from his body. A man who fell out of the sky one day and who keeps falling. Futility and hubris. A body at sea and breathing.
“So fucking beautiful…,” Lex has whispered in his ear, thinking him unconscious and beaten. “So fucking…”
Fucking and beautiful all mixed together and they’re just words hurled at him as the fingers touch and then pull away. Lex snarling at him to get up as he opens his eyes.
“Face me like a man,” he says. “Face me…”
And he gets up again because he always has to get up. It’s expected. Gets up and walks away as the sirens blare in the distance, people in need.
But he needs. Backburner, the kettle boiling and untended, a life, just his, that he can never have.
“Where are you going, you freak? Where are you going? Bastard!”
Where is he going? His tongue darts out of his mouth, tastes the salt sweat of Dick’s navel, indentation, womb-mark and human.
He has one too. A different planet, but all grapes on the vine. Connected. The tendrils of life. Lightspeed and slower radio waves, noises in the dark.
“Do you believe in life on other planets, Clark?” Lex says. They’re lying on a blanket, the edge of Crater Lake. The telescope forgotten in the truck bed, a distance behind them.
Their fingers brush.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce says. They’re in some back alley in Gotham. “The past shapes us, but we shape the future. What matters is what we do now.”
A scream and they both run towards it. Boots the same cadence, a rhythm. Together. One. Light and shadow. The streetlights. A frightened heartbeat not their own.
They make a difference.
“Hey,” Dick says. “Be with me.”
Dick leans down, pushes him back on the bed. Four walls. Shirts on a hanger. He kisses him, soft. Clark still hasn’t found any words.
“Be with me,” Dick says again. “I’m here, Clark. Here.”
And he is.