FIC: 5 Times Superman was Mind-Controlled and DIDN'T Try to Kill Batman
cmer posted some more scans from The Batman episode that will air Saturday, in which Batman meets Superman for the first time. One which stood out:
Yeah, that seems to be a mind-controlled Superman, doing what he does best: try to kill Batman. You know, I could put up scans of the different times a mind-controlled Superman has tried to kill Batman, but I don't want to crash all of your computers.
So to commemorate the first Superman/Batman meeting on The Batman, here's a short and silly story...
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Title: 5 Times Superman was Mind-Controlled and DIDN'T Try to Kill Batman
Characters/Pairings: Superman/Batman
Rating: R
Summary: What's a boy to do when every mind-controlling villain in the DCU always makes a beeline straight to you?
Word count: 1300
Monday:
Superman came to himself to find the vastness of space all around him and before him, the looming form of Starro, the mind-controlling space starfish. He snapped into combat-ready position, thinking loudly at the monster: //Whatever sinister purpose you have brought me here for, know that I will fight you with all my being! I will never submit to your foul machinations! I...//
From the giant bulk before him there was a sudden burst of an emotion like pleading, and an intense sensation: itchiness. Superman stared at the starfish. Then, sighing, he applied judicious heat vision to the gap between Starro's third and fourth arms.
A wave of relief poured off the space-starfish. Superman's mind filled with the crushing weight of Starro's thoughts: //You have served well, small being. Go now with my gratitude for your service.//
Superman flew back toward Earth, rolling his eyes.
Tuesday:
The Mad Hatter ducked away from Batman's swing, cringing. "I just wanted someone to have tea with me!" he shrieked, dodging and fleeing into the night.
Batman kicked down the door to find a strange tableau: a long table with elaborate place settlings. Robots shaped like the Dormouse and March Hare sat at the table, going through the motions of serving tea.
Standing at one end of the table, his hand resting on the back of a chair, stood Superman. His eyes were blank and glassy-turquoise; one of the Hatter's mind-control cards was tucked into the blue headband resting on his dark hair. He was wearing a short, frilly blue dress with a white pinafore, white stockings, and patent-leather Mary Jane shoes.
Batman studied him for a while, waving a hand in front of the opaque blue eyes. "Curioser and curioser," he muttered, smiling slightly. Then he braced himself mentally and reached out to pluck the mind-control card from the headband.
Wednesday:
"No, I finally managed to break free on my own when she had me attack the loggers. I guess the distance made her control more tenuous. What's really annoying is she could have just asked. I don't like loggers poaching on virgin forests any more than Ivy does, I would have been happy to just round them up and stop them."
"Superman--"
"--But no, she's got to pull out the old lipstick and send me off like a puppet to do her evil whims."
"Clark--"
"Yes, Bruce?"
"She kissed you?"
"Well, sure. That's how the lipstick works. She pretended to be a fan asking for my autograph and laid one on me. Next thing I know, I'm flying off to Oregon to terrify some loggers."
"She only kissed you, then? You and she didn't do...anything else?"
"What? Why...Bruce, are you jealous? I didn't know you had a thing for Pamela Isley!"
"...I don't."
"Are you blushing, Bruce? Oooh, Batman and Ivy sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S--"
"Clark?"
"Yes, Bruce?"
"Please shut up."
"Oh yes, feel free to tell me what to do, every two-bit crook in the universe goes after me the minute they find a mind-control device, why should you be any different? Hey, where are you going?"
"I've got work to do, Superman."
"What are you worki--damn, I hate when he does that."
Thursday
As it turned out, the situation was largely based on a misunderstanding. The White Martians were preparing for another assault on the JLA and noted that their telepathic reading of Superman indicated that he secretly felt intensely passionate hatred toward Batman. It seemed logical to drive a wedge into the heart of the JLA by unleashing the full force of that hatred, so they bent their mental energies toward unblocking those repressed feelings and urging the Kryptonian toward expressing them. It had taken weeks of work, but eventually they had their breakthrough. Superman had abruptly bolted from his Fortress and made a beeline toward the Watchtower and Batman.
The results, however, were far from what the White Martians had expected.
As J'onn J'onnz explained later to a deeply mortified Superman, White Martians are apparently "tone-deaf" about emotions. They can perceive strong and weak emotions, but not subtle differences between strong emotions.
Like, say, the difference between negative passion and positive passion.
Friday
Clark was holed up in his room in the Watchtower and refusing all pleas to come out by Flash, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman and the rest. Every time he even considered leaving, he would once again see himself pouring his heart out to Bruce on bended knee, confessing how much he loved and cherished and adored and desired him. Batman had had to call J'onn to come drag him away, still ranting about Bruce's beautiful eyes and brilliant mind and devastatingly sexy voice.
Clark groaned and covered his eyes. No, he was never going to leave this room again.
What was worse, he had meant every word of it. Still did. He had just been pretending he didn't, for such a long time.
Superman was deeply sorry the JLA had defeated the White Martians without him this time, because he dearly wished he could make them suffer a fraction as much as he had suffered over the last day.
Mid-groan, Clark suddenly uncovered his eyes and sat up.
This wouldn't have been a problem except that he hadn't intended to.
As his body moved toward his desk, Clark struggled to get it back under control, to no avail. Was he going to tear open the Watchtower and kill everyone in it? Or merely do something deeply humiliating again?
He hoped he could be forgiven for almost wishing the former.
Apparently, however, he was going to make his way to the desk and pick up a notebook and a pencil. In a bold, slanting, and familiar script, Clark watched his hand write:
This is B. Working on Grodd-based device. Seems to be functioning.
Superman snarled through locked vocal chords and tried to wrest his hand back.
Can sense some of your emotional state as well. Interesting.
There was an oddly long pause while Superman's hand hovered over the notepad and Clark tried not to think about how miserable he was. Then his body was maneuvered carefully to sit back down on the bed, and his hand started writing again.
You won't come here to talk. And I have nothing to apologize for, so I won't go there. This seemed... Again Clark's hand paused. ...wisest.
Clark tried not to feel anything beyond annoyance and proper alpha-male aggression, but the other emotions welled up behind it unbidden: embarrassment, regret, a sort of pained cherishing, sorrow...
Idiot. Clark's hand stabbed at the paper fiercely, lapsing into almost a scrawl. Then it went back to being careful script.
Apparently you need some proof that being controlled doesn't have to be so terrible. Clark. His left hand reached up and brushed through his hair, very carefully, trailing down and across the nape of his own neck.
Clark blinked in surprise--blinking being about all he could do right now. His surprise become confusion, and the beginnings of something else, as his hand traced along his jaw. His right hand wrote, I can feel that, and Clark brushed his left along the insignia on his chest, exploring, trailing lower, agonizingly slow...
His right hand paused at the waistline of his uniform, his own warm fingers slipping across the skin of his waist, brushing lower almost tentatively. I can feel you. The handwriting wasn't as careful as it had been before, the cautious script slanting across the paper diagonally, the loops sharper and less controlled. Feel what you feel. Clark. Let me. I want. Clark's free hand raised to trace his mouth, touching his lips gently. The handwriting was almost a scribble now. Please.
Clark would have nodded if it were possible, but he merely felt his assent as strongly as he could.
The notebook fell to the floor and Bruce lowered Clark to the bed, hands deft and sure and controlled, making Clark lose control, both of them losing control together at last.
Losing Control">