FIC: 36 View of Mt. Fuji: Spring (8/9)
Title: 36 Views of Mt. Fuji: Spring (8/9)
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Series Notes: 36 Views of Mt. Fuji is a series set early in Batman and Superman's careers, shortly after the S/B annual #1. The full series can be found here.
Rating: PG
Summary: Bruce is annoyed at the world in general and Clark in particular. Clark and Bruce visit Bruce's least favorite place in Kyoto, and reflections lead to revelations.
Word Count: 4000
Wakened by the scent
of flowering plum...
The darkness
of the spring night
fills me with longing.
--Izumi Shikibu
Bruce Wayne sat and listened to the speaker drone on about some very important issue. He remembered Shigeru Matsunaga's face from earlier this morning, locked in impotent rage, and felt a glow of satisfaction. He remembered Asaka Matsunaga's face as she stood in the office that should have been her husband's, an even better image. He should be feeling proud of a good day's work done even before breakfast.
Instead, Bruce Wayne was feeling a familiar sense of annoyance. He couldn't seem to shake it. He had left Matsunaga Construction and hurried to breakfast with Adytha Harpswell, only to discover she was still on her damned Superman fangirl spree. An entire meal having to listen about the paragon of perfection, the zenith of all sentient life, and epitome of grace and glory--not that Adytha's vocabulary and eloquence were that advanced. It was instead mostly squealings about how sexy blue tights were and how very hot that cute little curl was. And Bruce had to sit there and remember that the damn paragon had somehow gotten invited to an entire evening at the Manor.
What had he been thinking? Listening to Adytha swoon, Bruce was heartily sick of the man. He managed to excuse himself by saying he had to call Dick and check in with him, and breathed a sigh of relief as he dialed the number out in the lobby.
"You helped arrest the guy who hired that assassin?" Dick asked breathlessly. "Cool! Did Superman help?"
Bruce ground his teeth and decided not to mention Clark would be visiting the Manor when they returned. He didn't feel up to dealing with Dick's reaction right now.
As he was hanging up, he heard a familiar irritatingly cheerful voice behind him. Of course. He turned to glare at Clark, who stopped dead in mid-wave, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "What do you want?" Bruce snapped.
"I--" Clark continued to look nonplussed, which annoyed Bruce further. As if they were friends, as if Clark had the right to expect Bruce to be cordial to him whenever he decided to show up and bother him. "I was wondering if I could convince you to go sightseeing with me this afternoon. Play hooky from the conference. I mean, it's our last day here, and...well, I thought you might want to celebrate a little."
"What would you like to see?" Bruce made an effort to be polite.
"I haven't been to Kinkaku-ji yet, I hear it's gorgeous."
"Ah, the Golden Pavilion, of course. Every tourist has to go see it." Bruce could hear the condescension in his voice, and saw Clark frown in reaction. He took a deep breath. There was no reason to be so annoyed. It wasn't Clark's fault. Not exactly. "How about this, Clark: we'll go to Kinkaku-ji for you if you'll go with me to my favorite place in Kyoto after. I'll even call up Chiaki, tell her she can take the rest of the afternoon off, so we can...relax a little."
Clark's face lit up as if Bruce had thrown an arm around his shoulders. The Kryptonian was so ridiculously easy to please. "That sounds great!"
Well, at least he hadn't said it sounded "swell." Or "peachy-keen."
: : :
Bruce tried not to stalk along the path leading to the Golden Pavilion. Batman stalked. Brucie Wayne didn't stalk.
He had never really liked Kinkaku-ji, never really seen the appeal, for some reason. The path was crammed with schoolchildren in sailor suits on school trips, older women in kimono shuffling along. Clark walked along beside him, taking in the sights.
They reached the traditional viewing point for the Golden Pavilion. In front of them stretched a small pond, and in the middle of the water was a small, exquisite structure. Dark wood and whitewashed plaster at the bottom gave way to a second and third story covered with gold leaf, blazing bright in the spring sun. The delicately curving roof was topped with a golden statue of a bird about to take flight. The pavilion was reflected in the rippling water below it, distorted and broken.
It was static and rather dull, in Bruce's opinion. But it was one of the most-photographed sites in Kyoto, so here they were. God forbid Clark miss out on something shiny that everyone liked.
They stood side-by-side, looking at it, for some time. "If the water were still," Clark said thoughtfully, "The reflection would be breathtaking."
"The ripples never really stop," Bruce said. "The footsteps of all the tourists are enough to keep it in constant motion."
"That's a pity. A perfect mirror image would be...quite a sight."
Bruce made a noncommittal noise.
"When was it built?" Clark asked.
Do I look like your freaking tour guide? Bruce felt that irrational frustration corkscrew through him again, stronger than ever. He bit down on it hard and answered Clark, since after all, he did know the answer. "This is actually a replica. The original was built in 1393, but was destroyed about sixty years ago."
"Only a replica?" Clark sounded sad. "Was it destroyed during the war?"
Bruce shook his head, staring at the shining pavilion, floating like a vision, out of reach on the water. "Kyoto was mostly untouched during the war. It was burned down in 1955 by one of its monks."
"What?" Clark swung to stare at Bruce. "Really?"
"Oh yes, it was turned into a novel by Yukio Mishima. The monk claimed he couldn't bear knowing that the Temple existed in the same world as he did, that its perfection drove him to destroy it by ruthlessly revealing to him his own imperfection."
Clark made a small, confused noise. "He hated it so much?"
Irritation edged close to an emotion like anger. How the hell could Clark be so dense sometimes? "Don't be ridiculous, Clark. The monk couldn't bear that the Pavilion existed in such splendor totally independent of him, that it didn't need him at all, it was flawless as itself. He had to strike at it somehow, had to force it to respond to him, even if that meant destroying it." This seemed terribly obvious to Bruce. "He didn't hate it." Damn it, Clark, why must you be so obtuse? "He loved it."
For just a moment, it was as if the rippling pond beneath the pavilion had gone as smooth as glass, as if the shining building had for one timeless instant stood balanced in perfection above and below. Nothing dramatic, nothing overwhelming, just a realization of simple clarity.
So that's what it is.
I see.
Bruce blinked. Clark was speaking as if only a moment had passed, as if everything hadn't changed entirely and irrevocably. "But things can never need people. And people aren't things. No sentient being is...untouchable." He sounded rather wistful.
Bruce swung into motion away from Clark, away from the perfect pavilion, away from their reflections in the water, heading further down the path. "Yes, yes, no man is an island," he said lightly. "People need people, and people who need people are..." He broke into melodramatic song, flinging out an arm, "...the luckiest people in the world!" A flock of nearby schoolgirls broke into giggles and Clark's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. Bruce bared his teeth at the other man, daring him to laugh at the sight of Batman singing Barbra Streisand. "Spare me the platitudes, Clark, charming though they may be." Bruce paused. Had he just implied somehow that Clark was charming? He turned away quickly again from the Kryptonian and kept walking.
He was going to have to watch himself more carefully from now on.
: : :
"My turn," Bruce had said after they left the Golden Pavilion. "We've seen your stupid perfect pavilion, so now we go to my choice." The words had been cutting, but the tone had been otherwise: cheerful, almost carefree. Bruce had been so gloomy and irritable when Clark had run into him earlier; Clark had written it off as a natural let-down from completing what he had come to Japan to do, but the mood had been so savagely bitter he felt unsure. However, since viewing the Golden Pavilion, Bruce's demeanour had shifted mercurially to fiercely, almost fatalistically happy, the irritability dissipated entirely.
Clark had seen this sometimes in the people Superman rescued, the almost giddy calm that descends upon those who have decided they're doomed.
What did Bruce feel he was doomed to?
Clark felt a pang of worry at the way he had forced Bruce's hand on the Justice League. Batman was not exactly a man to be cajoled or bartered with on these things. Clark should have waited, should have let him join on his own terms.
Well, it was too late to worry about these things now.
Clark tried to tuck his thoughts away and was partially successful.
The taxi stopped in front of a large compound, its low beige walls topped with brown tile. They passed through heavy wooden gates into what looked almost like a small city. Pathways laid with massive granite stones wound between small buildings ringed with low, drab walls. Gnarled pine trees leaned over the walls and dark-tiles roofs lifted above them. A few sightseers walked along the path, but it was largely hushed and empty. "Daitokuji," Bruce said. "It's really many little temples collected into this one compound. I came here whenever I could when I was in Japan. Come here, I'll show you." He led Clark along the stone paths, past gates marked with Buddhist symbols, until they passed through a gate into a small mossy garden. The stone path ran up to an entranceway. Bruce pulled off his shoes and shelved them, then paid for two admissions from a rather bored-looking monk.
The temple itself was quiet; Clark and Bruce were the only people there. The dark wood floor in the entrance hall was polished to a gleaming sheen and Clark's socks slipped along it as he padded after Bruce. The hall widened out into the temple proper, a small building with wooden porches on all sides, overlooking dry stone gardens of raked white pebbles. Clark reached out for one of the informational pamphlets but Bruce held them away. "Uh-uh, I want you to see this without knowing about it."
The dark wood veranda overlooked an austere rock garden with white pebbles raked into diagonal stripes across its expanse. Small black rocks studded the white yard, seemingly at random. Behind the garden a low dun wall set off the white rocks. Bruce sank down on the wooden planks into a cross-legged position and stared out at the garden. Clark settled next to him. The sun-touched wood was warm under his hands. The garden hovered, inscrutable, in front of them. Clark sneaked a look at Bruce's face after a while; it was rapt, the dark blue eyes lost in thought, lips parted just a bit.
Bruce turned from the garden to Clark. "What is it?" It took Clark a moment to realize he was referring to the garden, and he transferred his gaze hastily to the glowing white.
"I have no idea, Bruce. Put me out of misery and let me in on the secret, would you?"
Bruce made a small snorting sound that was almost a laugh. "The founder of this particular temple was a powerful daimyo. Later in life, he converted to Christianity. He then spent the rest of his life hunting down and killing the monks of this temple for heresy." Bruce's mouth twitched at the expression on Clark's face. "Humans. We're a charming lot, aren't we?"
Clark said nothing, still staring at the garden, and Bruce continued, "After he died, the remaining monks returned here, rebuilt the temple, and redesigned the gardens." He shifted and stood up, Clark following his lead. "The reason you can't see it is we're at the wrong angle." He walked slowly down the length of the veranda to the far end, then turned to look across the garden lengthwise. "The pattern created by the black rocks." He put his left hand on Clark's shoulder and traced lines in the air with his right across the garden: a short horizontal, a longer vertical.
"It's a cross," said Clark slowly. "The rocks trace out a cross." Now that Bruce had pointed it out, it was obvious. The diagonally-raked pebbles were like rays of light descending from the arm of the cross.
"It's in memory and honor of their founder and his religion," Bruce said softly. His smile at Clark's expression was wry. "The wisdom and compassion of both the Buddha and the Christ are infinite, after all." The smile slid away as he looked out over the stones again. "This garden...it made me so angry back then. I would come here and sit and seethe. I wanted to throw things at it, rake my feet across the pebbles. How dare they forgive? How dare they let go?"
He seemed to realize his hand was still on Clark's shoulder and he stepped away, dropping it to his side. "I came here again last night. Before seeking out Matsunaga." Clark imagined that dark and ominous shape crouched on the low wall, staring down at the stones, the black cape trailing down. "I'm still not sure I understand it." Bruce's voice was thoughtful. "But I don't hate it anymore."
"Well," said Clark lightly, "That's progress of a sort."
Bruce turned to give him an unfathomable look from cool cobalt eyes, level and unsettling. "I suppose," he said. He leaned his back against a wooden support and slid down to a sitting position again. Clark dropped down next to him. The temple was almost silent, the compound around them muffling the noises of the city beyond. A bird trilled somewhere beyond the garden walls. Bruce stared out at the garden. Clark did too, but his mind was on the man beside him. It would be nice, he thought lazily, to lie down on the sun-warmed wood and put his head in Bruce's lap, feel Bruce's sure hands running through his hair.
"I suppose," Bruce said again, very softly.
: : :
"It's not particularly appropriate to be having drinks with a client, Mr. Wayne," Chiaki Yamaoka said gravely.
"Nonsense," scoffed Bruce, pouring her a beer and ignoring her horrified look at his breach of decorum in serving her. "After you got me through the closing ceremonies tonight I ceased to be your client, right? Besides, I brought along Clark here to chaperon so it wouldn't look too shady." He nodded at the reporter, who sipped at his beer and looked uncomfortable. Bruce produced an envelope and handed it with both hands to the interpreter. "This is a small bonus for all your troubles, Ms. Yamaoka." She hesitated, but took it and slipped it in her handbag unopened. Clark suspected she was going to be surprised at just how much was in that envelope.
"It was no trouble at all, Mr. Wayne."
"Well," Bruce said cheerfully, "I suppose you got an extra bonus in the chance to get to know Clark. Here's to you both." He raised his glass slightly.
Chiaki smiled just a touch sadly. "I'm very happy to have met Clark as well. But I'm afraid it will never work out between us, Clark." Her smile at the confused reporter might have been just slightly sly. "Thank you for opening your heart to me. I do hope that you can find the love you yearn for in someone more suited for you."
Both Clark and Bruce blinked. "Oh," said Bruce. "So you two aren't...I mean, you're not..." Chiaki shook her head solemnly. "Oh," said Bruce again, and poured himself another glass of beer. He took a long, slow drink, then put the glass down. "Well, anyway, the real reason I wanted to talk to you tonight was--" He looked down at his glass. "--WayneCorp has recently acquired a Japanese company headquartered here in Kyoto, and the new CEO is, although well-qualified, somewhat inexperienced. She will need a good interpreter to help negotiate with the Western companies she will be working with from now." He looked up at Chiaki. "Would you be willing to take on a full-time job with WayneCorp, working for Matsunaga Construction?" He jotted down something on a piece of paper, folded it, and slid it across the table to her. "Your starting salary would probably be around here, if you're interested. It's a rather meagre sum, but perhaps..."
He let the sentence hang in the air unfinished as Chiaki opened the slip of paper. Her face remained impassive, but her eyebrows twitched upward. The interpreter bowed her head politely, her hands folded in her lap. "You do me a great honor," she murmured. Then she looked up with a wide and unladylike grin. "I'd love to!"
"Good. Well. That's settled, then," Bruce said, looking pleased and slightly embarrassed.
The three of them talked for a while about the Golden Pavilion and Daitokuji, about Asaka Matsunaga, about the conference. Chiaki finally excused herself with a final bow to Bruce and a fleeting hug to a very surprised Clark. "Good luck," she whispered hastily in his ear, then left with a final wave.
"She's an interesting woman," Bruce observed as she disappeared through the door. "Too bad it didn't seem to work out for you."
"She...I don't think she was that interested in me," Clark said musingly.
Bruce frowned rather obstinately. "That's ridiculous." He seemed rather offended at the idea somehow. "What are all these women, blind?" he muttered irritably into his beer.
Clark grinned. "Was that a compliment, Bruce?"
Bruce made a growling noise. "Don't be stupid. I'm just saying I still can't believe a pair of glasses and a change in hairstyle is enough to turn you from 'oh my God he's dreamy' to 'meh, I've seen better.''
Clark's grin turned just a touch wry. "Well, believe it." He nibbled on a pod of edamame, the salty green beans served along with the beer. "That's okay, I'm willing to wait for someone who likes me and not just the cape." He finished up his beer. "Well, I'd better get some sleep, long flight tomorrow."
"You're not planning on flying back commercial?" Bruce shook his head emphatically. "I came here via private jet this time--official company business, after all--and I'll be returning the same way. You'll fly with me, of course. Waste of your time and energy otherwise, since you can't take--you know--more direct routes and skip customs and immigration altogether."
"Well...thank you," Clark said hesitantly, but Bruce just waved a dismissive hand.
"I know you, if I don't make sure you come back to Gotham with me you'll skip out on dinner and break the boy's heart." Bruce's tone was light, almost teasing, and Clark decided not to take too seriously the implication that he might ever do something to hurt Dick.
"I wouldn't skip out," he said carefully, hoping his ambivalence didn't show. Of course he wanted to sit and have dinner with Bruce and Dick again, chat and laugh as though they were...friends. Of course he wanted to spend the evening there, to see more of Bruce's life. Of course he wanted to spend the night under the same roof as the other man, to sleep in a bed that perhaps Bruce had slept in once, to know that Bruce was asleep just down the hall, so close, so close...he tamped down on the brush of lust ruthlessly. Of course he wanted all that. That was just the problem. "I'd never go back on my obligations."
"Your obligations," Bruce repeated. "Of course not." He put his glass down with a clunk. "You're a man of your word, after all."
Something in the tilt of Bruce's head, the angle of his winged eyebrows, made Clark feel he had given the wrong answer somehow, but the opacity of those sapphire eyes made it impossible to tell in what way. The stress on "obligations" might be a reference to the JLA situation again. Or...had Bruce wanted Clark to find some excuse to turn him down, relieve himself from entertaining the hick farmboy? Was there someone else he was anxious to meet again in Gotham and Clark was going to be in the way? For the first time, Clark felt a sick twist of jealousy in his gut. That was ridiculous, he told himself sternly. You could find someone sexually attractive without wanting to be in a relationship with them. Bruce was merely a good-looking man who had made Clark aware that he wasn't as straight as he had thought. The fact that Clark wanted to kiss the man across the table from him, wanted to pull him close enough to feel the heat of his body though his clothes, wanted to reach across the table and take his hand, put the wrist to his lips and feel the glorious pulse beneath them, maybe take one of those strong, capable fingers in his mouth and suck on it, suck...
Clark could no longer remember exactly where that sentence had been going in his head. "I've been looking forward to seeing the Manor again. I really have," he said, not letting himself think about whether or not that was what Bruce wanted him to say, hoping his voice didn't sound too husky.
A shift in the wide shoulders across the table: relief or discouragement, Clark had no idea. It felt like the more he wanted Bruce the less able he was to read him. Stupid, blind Kryptonian, dazzled with lust, unable to concentrate...
Bruce stood up and dropped money on the table. "I'll meet you in front of my hotel at ten o'clock to go to the airstrip, then." He paused a moment. "Maybe...when you're at the Manor, I could show you where I...work?"
Clark blinked. The chance to see the cave where Bruce spent so much of his time... "I'd like that, if you don't mind. I'd like to know what it looks like."
Bruce leaned closer to Clark, pitching his voice low under the hum of the bar. "You've got x-ray vision, Clark. You could always just look."
"It's not the same as being invited," Clark replied.
A long, level look. "No, I guess it's not. Well." He seemed to collect his thoughts. "Just promise you won't break anything," he said, wagging a finger at Clark and laughing at the reporter's disgusted look. "I'll see you in the morning," he said, and headed for the door.
Clark walked back toward his hotel. A few stray cherry-blossom petals wafted past him as he walked along. Another long night of trying not to dream about Bruce, not to fantasize about all the things he wanted to do, to have done to him...
It would make it too real. It would be like...admitting something. He wasn't sure what.
No, this infatuation would fade, like the cherry blossoms. He'd process the fact that he could be attracted to men and move on to find a more appropriate romantic interest. Someone less prickly and impossible. Someone interested in him in return. He just had to wait it out and be strong, not give in and let his body's impulses take up residence in his brain.
He was the Man of Steel.
He could do that.
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Series Notes: 36 Views of Mt. Fuji is a series set early in Batman and Superman's careers, shortly after the S/B annual #1. The full series can be found here.
Rating: PG
Summary: Bruce is annoyed at the world in general and Clark in particular. Clark and Bruce visit Bruce's least favorite place in Kyoto, and reflections lead to revelations.
Word Count: 4000
Wakened by the scent
of flowering plum...
The darkness
of the spring night
fills me with longing.
--Izumi Shikibu
Bruce Wayne sat and listened to the speaker drone on about some very important issue. He remembered Shigeru Matsunaga's face from earlier this morning, locked in impotent rage, and felt a glow of satisfaction. He remembered Asaka Matsunaga's face as she stood in the office that should have been her husband's, an even better image. He should be feeling proud of a good day's work done even before breakfast.
Instead, Bruce Wayne was feeling a familiar sense of annoyance. He couldn't seem to shake it. He had left Matsunaga Construction and hurried to breakfast with Adytha Harpswell, only to discover she was still on her damned Superman fangirl spree. An entire meal having to listen about the paragon of perfection, the zenith of all sentient life, and epitome of grace and glory--not that Adytha's vocabulary and eloquence were that advanced. It was instead mostly squealings about how sexy blue tights were and how very hot that cute little curl was. And Bruce had to sit there and remember that the damn paragon had somehow gotten invited to an entire evening at the Manor.
What had he been thinking? Listening to Adytha swoon, Bruce was heartily sick of the man. He managed to excuse himself by saying he had to call Dick and check in with him, and breathed a sigh of relief as he dialed the number out in the lobby.
"You helped arrest the guy who hired that assassin?" Dick asked breathlessly. "Cool! Did Superman help?"
Bruce ground his teeth and decided not to mention Clark would be visiting the Manor when they returned. He didn't feel up to dealing with Dick's reaction right now.
As he was hanging up, he heard a familiar irritatingly cheerful voice behind him. Of course. He turned to glare at Clark, who stopped dead in mid-wave, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "What do you want?" Bruce snapped.
"I--" Clark continued to look nonplussed, which annoyed Bruce further. As if they were friends, as if Clark had the right to expect Bruce to be cordial to him whenever he decided to show up and bother him. "I was wondering if I could convince you to go sightseeing with me this afternoon. Play hooky from the conference. I mean, it's our last day here, and...well, I thought you might want to celebrate a little."
"What would you like to see?" Bruce made an effort to be polite.
"I haven't been to Kinkaku-ji yet, I hear it's gorgeous."
"Ah, the Golden Pavilion, of course. Every tourist has to go see it." Bruce could hear the condescension in his voice, and saw Clark frown in reaction. He took a deep breath. There was no reason to be so annoyed. It wasn't Clark's fault. Not exactly. "How about this, Clark: we'll go to Kinkaku-ji for you if you'll go with me to my favorite place in Kyoto after. I'll even call up Chiaki, tell her she can take the rest of the afternoon off, so we can...relax a little."
Clark's face lit up as if Bruce had thrown an arm around his shoulders. The Kryptonian was so ridiculously easy to please. "That sounds great!"
Well, at least he hadn't said it sounded "swell." Or "peachy-keen."
: : :
Bruce tried not to stalk along the path leading to the Golden Pavilion. Batman stalked. Brucie Wayne didn't stalk.
He had never really liked Kinkaku-ji, never really seen the appeal, for some reason. The path was crammed with schoolchildren in sailor suits on school trips, older women in kimono shuffling along. Clark walked along beside him, taking in the sights.
They reached the traditional viewing point for the Golden Pavilion. In front of them stretched a small pond, and in the middle of the water was a small, exquisite structure. Dark wood and whitewashed plaster at the bottom gave way to a second and third story covered with gold leaf, blazing bright in the spring sun. The delicately curving roof was topped with a golden statue of a bird about to take flight. The pavilion was reflected in the rippling water below it, distorted and broken.
It was static and rather dull, in Bruce's opinion. But it was one of the most-photographed sites in Kyoto, so here they were. God forbid Clark miss out on something shiny that everyone liked.
They stood side-by-side, looking at it, for some time. "If the water were still," Clark said thoughtfully, "The reflection would be breathtaking."
"The ripples never really stop," Bruce said. "The footsteps of all the tourists are enough to keep it in constant motion."
"That's a pity. A perfect mirror image would be...quite a sight."
Bruce made a noncommittal noise.
"When was it built?" Clark asked.
Do I look like your freaking tour guide? Bruce felt that irrational frustration corkscrew through him again, stronger than ever. He bit down on it hard and answered Clark, since after all, he did know the answer. "This is actually a replica. The original was built in 1393, but was destroyed about sixty years ago."
"Only a replica?" Clark sounded sad. "Was it destroyed during the war?"
Bruce shook his head, staring at the shining pavilion, floating like a vision, out of reach on the water. "Kyoto was mostly untouched during the war. It was burned down in 1955 by one of its monks."
"What?" Clark swung to stare at Bruce. "Really?"
"Oh yes, it was turned into a novel by Yukio Mishima. The monk claimed he couldn't bear knowing that the Temple existed in the same world as he did, that its perfection drove him to destroy it by ruthlessly revealing to him his own imperfection."
Clark made a small, confused noise. "He hated it so much?"
Irritation edged close to an emotion like anger. How the hell could Clark be so dense sometimes? "Don't be ridiculous, Clark. The monk couldn't bear that the Pavilion existed in such splendor totally independent of him, that it didn't need him at all, it was flawless as itself. He had to strike at it somehow, had to force it to respond to him, even if that meant destroying it." This seemed terribly obvious to Bruce. "He didn't hate it." Damn it, Clark, why must you be so obtuse? "He loved it."
For just a moment, it was as if the rippling pond beneath the pavilion had gone as smooth as glass, as if the shining building had for one timeless instant stood balanced in perfection above and below. Nothing dramatic, nothing overwhelming, just a realization of simple clarity.
So that's what it is.
I see.
Bruce blinked. Clark was speaking as if only a moment had passed, as if everything hadn't changed entirely and irrevocably. "But things can never need people. And people aren't things. No sentient being is...untouchable." He sounded rather wistful.
Bruce swung into motion away from Clark, away from the perfect pavilion, away from their reflections in the water, heading further down the path. "Yes, yes, no man is an island," he said lightly. "People need people, and people who need people are..." He broke into melodramatic song, flinging out an arm, "...the luckiest people in the world!" A flock of nearby schoolgirls broke into giggles and Clark's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. Bruce bared his teeth at the other man, daring him to laugh at the sight of Batman singing Barbra Streisand. "Spare me the platitudes, Clark, charming though they may be." Bruce paused. Had he just implied somehow that Clark was charming? He turned away quickly again from the Kryptonian and kept walking.
He was going to have to watch himself more carefully from now on.
: : :
"My turn," Bruce had said after they left the Golden Pavilion. "We've seen your stupid perfect pavilion, so now we go to my choice." The words had been cutting, but the tone had been otherwise: cheerful, almost carefree. Bruce had been so gloomy and irritable when Clark had run into him earlier; Clark had written it off as a natural let-down from completing what he had come to Japan to do, but the mood had been so savagely bitter he felt unsure. However, since viewing the Golden Pavilion, Bruce's demeanour had shifted mercurially to fiercely, almost fatalistically happy, the irritability dissipated entirely.
Clark had seen this sometimes in the people Superman rescued, the almost giddy calm that descends upon those who have decided they're doomed.
What did Bruce feel he was doomed to?
Clark felt a pang of worry at the way he had forced Bruce's hand on the Justice League. Batman was not exactly a man to be cajoled or bartered with on these things. Clark should have waited, should have let him join on his own terms.
Well, it was too late to worry about these things now.
Clark tried to tuck his thoughts away and was partially successful.
The taxi stopped in front of a large compound, its low beige walls topped with brown tile. They passed through heavy wooden gates into what looked almost like a small city. Pathways laid with massive granite stones wound between small buildings ringed with low, drab walls. Gnarled pine trees leaned over the walls and dark-tiles roofs lifted above them. A few sightseers walked along the path, but it was largely hushed and empty. "Daitokuji," Bruce said. "It's really many little temples collected into this one compound. I came here whenever I could when I was in Japan. Come here, I'll show you." He led Clark along the stone paths, past gates marked with Buddhist symbols, until they passed through a gate into a small mossy garden. The stone path ran up to an entranceway. Bruce pulled off his shoes and shelved them, then paid for two admissions from a rather bored-looking monk.
The temple itself was quiet; Clark and Bruce were the only people there. The dark wood floor in the entrance hall was polished to a gleaming sheen and Clark's socks slipped along it as he padded after Bruce. The hall widened out into the temple proper, a small building with wooden porches on all sides, overlooking dry stone gardens of raked white pebbles. Clark reached out for one of the informational pamphlets but Bruce held them away. "Uh-uh, I want you to see this without knowing about it."
The dark wood veranda overlooked an austere rock garden with white pebbles raked into diagonal stripes across its expanse. Small black rocks studded the white yard, seemingly at random. Behind the garden a low dun wall set off the white rocks. Bruce sank down on the wooden planks into a cross-legged position and stared out at the garden. Clark settled next to him. The sun-touched wood was warm under his hands. The garden hovered, inscrutable, in front of them. Clark sneaked a look at Bruce's face after a while; it was rapt, the dark blue eyes lost in thought, lips parted just a bit.
Bruce turned from the garden to Clark. "What is it?" It took Clark a moment to realize he was referring to the garden, and he transferred his gaze hastily to the glowing white.
"I have no idea, Bruce. Put me out of misery and let me in on the secret, would you?"
Bruce made a small snorting sound that was almost a laugh. "The founder of this particular temple was a powerful daimyo. Later in life, he converted to Christianity. He then spent the rest of his life hunting down and killing the monks of this temple for heresy." Bruce's mouth twitched at the expression on Clark's face. "Humans. We're a charming lot, aren't we?"
Clark said nothing, still staring at the garden, and Bruce continued, "After he died, the remaining monks returned here, rebuilt the temple, and redesigned the gardens." He shifted and stood up, Clark following his lead. "The reason you can't see it is we're at the wrong angle." He walked slowly down the length of the veranda to the far end, then turned to look across the garden lengthwise. "The pattern created by the black rocks." He put his left hand on Clark's shoulder and traced lines in the air with his right across the garden: a short horizontal, a longer vertical.
"It's a cross," said Clark slowly. "The rocks trace out a cross." Now that Bruce had pointed it out, it was obvious. The diagonally-raked pebbles were like rays of light descending from the arm of the cross.
"It's in memory and honor of their founder and his religion," Bruce said softly. His smile at Clark's expression was wry. "The wisdom and compassion of both the Buddha and the Christ are infinite, after all." The smile slid away as he looked out over the stones again. "This garden...it made me so angry back then. I would come here and sit and seethe. I wanted to throw things at it, rake my feet across the pebbles. How dare they forgive? How dare they let go?"
He seemed to realize his hand was still on Clark's shoulder and he stepped away, dropping it to his side. "I came here again last night. Before seeking out Matsunaga." Clark imagined that dark and ominous shape crouched on the low wall, staring down at the stones, the black cape trailing down. "I'm still not sure I understand it." Bruce's voice was thoughtful. "But I don't hate it anymore."
"Well," said Clark lightly, "That's progress of a sort."
Bruce turned to give him an unfathomable look from cool cobalt eyes, level and unsettling. "I suppose," he said. He leaned his back against a wooden support and slid down to a sitting position again. Clark dropped down next to him. The temple was almost silent, the compound around them muffling the noises of the city beyond. A bird trilled somewhere beyond the garden walls. Bruce stared out at the garden. Clark did too, but his mind was on the man beside him. It would be nice, he thought lazily, to lie down on the sun-warmed wood and put his head in Bruce's lap, feel Bruce's sure hands running through his hair.
"I suppose," Bruce said again, very softly.
: : :
"It's not particularly appropriate to be having drinks with a client, Mr. Wayne," Chiaki Yamaoka said gravely.
"Nonsense," scoffed Bruce, pouring her a beer and ignoring her horrified look at his breach of decorum in serving her. "After you got me through the closing ceremonies tonight I ceased to be your client, right? Besides, I brought along Clark here to chaperon so it wouldn't look too shady." He nodded at the reporter, who sipped at his beer and looked uncomfortable. Bruce produced an envelope and handed it with both hands to the interpreter. "This is a small bonus for all your troubles, Ms. Yamaoka." She hesitated, but took it and slipped it in her handbag unopened. Clark suspected she was going to be surprised at just how much was in that envelope.
"It was no trouble at all, Mr. Wayne."
"Well," Bruce said cheerfully, "I suppose you got an extra bonus in the chance to get to know Clark. Here's to you both." He raised his glass slightly.
Chiaki smiled just a touch sadly. "I'm very happy to have met Clark as well. But I'm afraid it will never work out between us, Clark." Her smile at the confused reporter might have been just slightly sly. "Thank you for opening your heart to me. I do hope that you can find the love you yearn for in someone more suited for you."
Both Clark and Bruce blinked. "Oh," said Bruce. "So you two aren't...I mean, you're not..." Chiaki shook her head solemnly. "Oh," said Bruce again, and poured himself another glass of beer. He took a long, slow drink, then put the glass down. "Well, anyway, the real reason I wanted to talk to you tonight was--" He looked down at his glass. "--WayneCorp has recently acquired a Japanese company headquartered here in Kyoto, and the new CEO is, although well-qualified, somewhat inexperienced. She will need a good interpreter to help negotiate with the Western companies she will be working with from now." He looked up at Chiaki. "Would you be willing to take on a full-time job with WayneCorp, working for Matsunaga Construction?" He jotted down something on a piece of paper, folded it, and slid it across the table to her. "Your starting salary would probably be around here, if you're interested. It's a rather meagre sum, but perhaps..."
He let the sentence hang in the air unfinished as Chiaki opened the slip of paper. Her face remained impassive, but her eyebrows twitched upward. The interpreter bowed her head politely, her hands folded in her lap. "You do me a great honor," she murmured. Then she looked up with a wide and unladylike grin. "I'd love to!"
"Good. Well. That's settled, then," Bruce said, looking pleased and slightly embarrassed.
The three of them talked for a while about the Golden Pavilion and Daitokuji, about Asaka Matsunaga, about the conference. Chiaki finally excused herself with a final bow to Bruce and a fleeting hug to a very surprised Clark. "Good luck," she whispered hastily in his ear, then left with a final wave.
"She's an interesting woman," Bruce observed as she disappeared through the door. "Too bad it didn't seem to work out for you."
"She...I don't think she was that interested in me," Clark said musingly.
Bruce frowned rather obstinately. "That's ridiculous." He seemed rather offended at the idea somehow. "What are all these women, blind?" he muttered irritably into his beer.
Clark grinned. "Was that a compliment, Bruce?"
Bruce made a growling noise. "Don't be stupid. I'm just saying I still can't believe a pair of glasses and a change in hairstyle is enough to turn you from 'oh my God he's dreamy' to 'meh, I've seen better.''
Clark's grin turned just a touch wry. "Well, believe it." He nibbled on a pod of edamame, the salty green beans served along with the beer. "That's okay, I'm willing to wait for someone who likes me and not just the cape." He finished up his beer. "Well, I'd better get some sleep, long flight tomorrow."
"You're not planning on flying back commercial?" Bruce shook his head emphatically. "I came here via private jet this time--official company business, after all--and I'll be returning the same way. You'll fly with me, of course. Waste of your time and energy otherwise, since you can't take--you know--more direct routes and skip customs and immigration altogether."
"Well...thank you," Clark said hesitantly, but Bruce just waved a dismissive hand.
"I know you, if I don't make sure you come back to Gotham with me you'll skip out on dinner and break the boy's heart." Bruce's tone was light, almost teasing, and Clark decided not to take too seriously the implication that he might ever do something to hurt Dick.
"I wouldn't skip out," he said carefully, hoping his ambivalence didn't show. Of course he wanted to sit and have dinner with Bruce and Dick again, chat and laugh as though they were...friends. Of course he wanted to spend the evening there, to see more of Bruce's life. Of course he wanted to spend the night under the same roof as the other man, to sleep in a bed that perhaps Bruce had slept in once, to know that Bruce was asleep just down the hall, so close, so close...he tamped down on the brush of lust ruthlessly. Of course he wanted all that. That was just the problem. "I'd never go back on my obligations."
"Your obligations," Bruce repeated. "Of course not." He put his glass down with a clunk. "You're a man of your word, after all."
Something in the tilt of Bruce's head, the angle of his winged eyebrows, made Clark feel he had given the wrong answer somehow, but the opacity of those sapphire eyes made it impossible to tell in what way. The stress on "obligations" might be a reference to the JLA situation again. Or...had Bruce wanted Clark to find some excuse to turn him down, relieve himself from entertaining the hick farmboy? Was there someone else he was anxious to meet again in Gotham and Clark was going to be in the way? For the first time, Clark felt a sick twist of jealousy in his gut. That was ridiculous, he told himself sternly. You could find someone sexually attractive without wanting to be in a relationship with them. Bruce was merely a good-looking man who had made Clark aware that he wasn't as straight as he had thought. The fact that Clark wanted to kiss the man across the table from him, wanted to pull him close enough to feel the heat of his body though his clothes, wanted to reach across the table and take his hand, put the wrist to his lips and feel the glorious pulse beneath them, maybe take one of those strong, capable fingers in his mouth and suck on it, suck...
Clark could no longer remember exactly where that sentence had been going in his head. "I've been looking forward to seeing the Manor again. I really have," he said, not letting himself think about whether or not that was what Bruce wanted him to say, hoping his voice didn't sound too husky.
A shift in the wide shoulders across the table: relief or discouragement, Clark had no idea. It felt like the more he wanted Bruce the less able he was to read him. Stupid, blind Kryptonian, dazzled with lust, unable to concentrate...
Bruce stood up and dropped money on the table. "I'll meet you in front of my hotel at ten o'clock to go to the airstrip, then." He paused a moment. "Maybe...when you're at the Manor, I could show you where I...work?"
Clark blinked. The chance to see the cave where Bruce spent so much of his time... "I'd like that, if you don't mind. I'd like to know what it looks like."
Bruce leaned closer to Clark, pitching his voice low under the hum of the bar. "You've got x-ray vision, Clark. You could always just look."
"It's not the same as being invited," Clark replied.
A long, level look. "No, I guess it's not. Well." He seemed to collect his thoughts. "Just promise you won't break anything," he said, wagging a finger at Clark and laughing at the reporter's disgusted look. "I'll see you in the morning," he said, and headed for the door.
Clark walked back toward his hotel. A few stray cherry-blossom petals wafted past him as he walked along. Another long night of trying not to dream about Bruce, not to fantasize about all the things he wanted to do, to have done to him...
It would make it too real. It would be like...admitting something. He wasn't sure what.
No, this infatuation would fade, like the cherry blossoms. He'd process the fact that he could be attracted to men and move on to find a more appropriate romantic interest. Someone less prickly and impossible. Someone interested in him in return. He just had to wait it out and be strong, not give in and let his body's impulses take up residence in his brain.
He was the Man of Steel.
He could do that.