FIC: 36 Views of Mt. Fuji: Fall (9/9)
Title: 36 Views of Mt. Fuji: Fall (9/9)
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-13
Summary: Clark and Bruce get back to the Manor and contemplate how life may be changed for both of them from now on.
Word Count: 2000
Author's Notes: This concludes this series; it's been a wonderful year writing it and I thank all of you who were so patient with the boys being slow and stubborn!
Bruce Wayne strode off the plane into Gotham Airport to meet Alfred and Dick, Clark at his side.
Well, he tried to stride. However, he was forced to assess his striding performance as "poor." In fact, his gait was much closer to a limping amble than a stride.
But at least the part about Clark being at his side was correct.
As Dick and Alfred spotted them, Dick came up with his arms open. Clark gently intercepted the hug and wrapped his arms around the boy; Bruce heard him say softly, "Hold off on the hug, he's a bit sore still."
Alfred was eyeing him in horror. "Good heavens, Master Bruce, what have you done to yourself this time?"
Bruce grinned wryly. "I might have run slightly afoul of a sword." He waved a self-deprecating hand over Alfred and Dick's horrified exclamations. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just get winded easily, that's all." He started to walk along the corridor and found that the flight had taken more out of him than he'd thought; for a second the beige walls spun just a bit.
A strong arm wrapped around his back, stabilizing him. Bruce shot a glance at Dick and Alfred. "Fortunately for me, Clark has decided to take on a part-time job as nursemaid and mother hen." His tone was sarcastic, but he didn't pull away from Clark's arm either.
He headed toward baggage claim leaning on Clark, pretending not to notice either Alfred's speculative look or Dick's delighted flash of a grin.
: : :
Bruce hadn't invited Clark to dinner, had never even mentioned it as a possibility, and yet here Clark was, standing with their suitcases down in the hall of Wayne Manor, getting ready to spend the night. Apparently it was to be assumed from now on that Clark would spend time here without an invitation.
Clark stood in the hallway, dazed with something between joy and apprehension. This couldn't possibly be so simple now, after all they'd been through. Something would happen, Bruce would set limits and boundaries and pull away, Clark couldn't relax.
Could he?
He followed Bruce upstairs, past his old guest room, to the suite on the end. Inside it was dark and yet oddly cozy. A walnut four-poster bed draped with burgundy hangings was in the center of the room; Clark shot a glance at it and went suddenly shy, looking down at the handle of his suitcase. "Put your case on the chest there at the foot of the bed," Bruce said, then noticed Clark's downcast gaze. "What's wrong?"
"I've...never been in your bedroom."
A pause, then a low chuckle. Bruce pulled Clark's chin up and kissed him lightly. "Well, get used to it. When you're visiting, you'll be here."
Clark patted the dark red coverlet gingerly. "And will I be visiting often?" he asked, still looking down at the bed. Unable to resist when finally faced with the real thing, he risked a peek with x-ray vision and was delighted to find that his suspicions of black silk sheets had been absolutely correct. The image of Bruce naked on them flashed through his mind and his mouth went totally dry. "I'm sorry?" he was forced to ask as he realized he hadn't heard Bruce's answer at all.
"I said mi casa es su casa, Clark. It's Spanish, it means--"
"--I know what it means," Clark said hastily.
Bruce gaze was level. "I'll give you a key so you can come and go as you like. Of course there'll be a lot of times I'm not here, but you'll always be welcome." He moved carefully closer to Clark, holding on to one of the bedposts for support. "And if I weren't still practically unable to walk, I'd have you on this bed for the first time right now, before dinner."
His voice was low and caressing, and Clark felt almost dizzy with lust. "That'd be swell," he said giddily, without thinking, and Bruce laughed again.
They stood there for a long time just looking at each other, not even touching, until Alfred's voice called them down to eat.
: : :
Clark was surprised to find himself ushered into the kitchen rather than either the formal or informal dining room. "We usually eat in here," Dick explained as he pulled out a chair for Clark. "For everyday meals." His grin was both knowing and delighted at the implication that Clark dining with them would be a routine occurrence.
The kitchen was spacious, built for a fully-occupied Manor, yet somehow it managed to be intimate as well. The white-painted wood had china-blue accents; in one corner stood a small white table with a mosaic of glass chips laid into it, blue and red and green. Bruce set the table while Alfred finished chopping something at the island. "Nothing fancy, sirs," said the butler as he turned to lay a platter on the table. "Just some sandwiches to take the edge off."
The sandwiches turned out to be layered with mozzarella, tomatoes, and prosciutto, and Dick had finished one almost before Clark had finished his first bite. Alfred raised a quizzical eyebrow at Clark. "Master Bruce informs me you'll be dining here fairly regularly in the future. Do you have any allergies or dislikes I ought to know about?"
"He doesn't eat abalone, or horse," Bruce said around a mouthful of sandwich, and winked at Clark.
Alfred's face reflected horror. "Horse? I should hope not, sir," and Dick laughed.
"I like just about anything," Clark said, feeling oddly shy.
Dick wanted to hear the whole story of what happened in Japan; Bruce and Clark took turns telling him between sandwiches, with Alfred listening intently as he washed the dishes. Dick gasped when Clark got stabbed, frowned when Bruce was rather vague about how he got into the sword in turn, and whooped when Bruce defeated Kyodai. The kitchen was warm, the food delicious, and sometime in the middle of the story Clark realized he didn't feel like a guest anymore. The manor didn't feel like a place he was visiting.
It felt--just a little--like home.
Clark felt a tiny stab of alarm at that. He shouldn't start making assumptions. Bruce might not even mean for this to be permanent, he might--
Clark suddenly remembered how it had felt to be sheltered and held within the shadows of Bruce's love as he crossed the river in Fukumaden, how the dark flame of Bruce's passion had cherished and protected him.
Clark smiled to himself and took a bite of one of the meringues Alfred had put on the table, listening to Dick complain about his schoolwork. The spirit of Muramasa had told him that only in Fukumaden could Clark know himself to be loved completely.
As Bruce slipped a hand into his, Clark began to allow himself to think that wasn't true.
: : :
Bruce was lying in bed, alone. Down the hall he could faintly hear Clark's voice coming from Dick's bedroom--the boy had insisted on hearing a Kryptonian fairy tale before going to bed. Bruce would have been there himself, but Alfred, Dick, and Clark had all ganged up on him and decided--completely arbitrarily--that he needed to be in bed. All right, he had gotten a bit wobbly on the stairs, but that was no reason to have everyone fussing over him. He had finally given up and let Clark tuck him into bed just to shut them all up. Alfred was bad enough; now Dick and Clark were in his life too, making demands, crowding his personal space. Bruce could tell he was going to deeply regret all of this.
Given that, he wasn't sure how to classify the emotion he felt at hearing the voices down the hall, or at the sound of Clark's footsteps coming toward his bedroom. It probably should have been annoyance.
It didn't seem to be.
Clark appeared in the doorway in his navy pajamas, smiling at Bruce. "I told him there were more than three thousand stories about Nightwing and Flamebird in my Kryptonian library. Not only was he not put off, I thought he was going to burst with glee." His eyebrows rose as he noticed the pile of cloth by the side of the bed and one bare shoulder sticking out of the covers. "I'm pretty sure you were wearing pajamas when I got you in there."
Bruce snorted. "More comfortable without them. But colder. Are you going to stand there all night or get in here and warm me up?"
Clark's pajamas joined the pile on the floor; Clark joined Bruce in bed. Bruce stretched up against him luxuriously, savoring warm skin against scars. "Don't expect too much of a man who can't even make it up the stairs without passing out," he whispered against Clark's mouth.
Clark just chuckled, stroking a gentle hand down his side. "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right?"
"Mm, yes. Plenty of time," Bruce said comfortably, warming himself in the light of Clark's smile.
"I need to go to work at the Planet tomorrow morning and do some patrolling in Metropolis tomorrow night," Clark said softly.
"Will you have time to stop here for dinner between?"
A slight hesitation. "Would you like that?"
Bruce huffed in exasperation. "I won't be able to go on patrol for at least a few more days, I'll be going stir crazy. I'm glad you won't be hovering around micromanaging me all day long, but if you can spare time for dinner I'd like to see you."
Clark shifted against him, their legs and feet tangling together. "Barring an emergency, then, I'll be here. Promise me you won't overwork yourself, though--you're up for monitor duty in a week and I don't want to have to cover for you."
Bruce grunted. "I should be healthy enough in a week to watch a computer screen." He meant to say more, but sleep rolled over him at abruptly and he disappeared into it.
He awoke at some point to find the covers off, moonlight and starlight washing over the both of them. Clark's hands were brushing his body like a filigree of light, warm and comforting, and Clark was crooning something very softly in a language that was all sibilants and drawn-out vowels. Kryptonian. He thought muzzily to himself that he would have to start learning that.
He fell asleep again hearing alien music, feeling love traced on his body like mandalas of protection.
When he woke again the sun still wasn't up, but the light in the room was moving toward gray, night mingling with day, shadows lightening toward the dawn.
He studied Clark's face in the dim half-light, the lines of it, the curve of his mouth. Clark's love was so brilliant, so radiant, it would probably burn out in time as he had to deal with Bruce's reserve, his oddities. Bruce heard himself sigh very quietly: the memory of that love, like a flame in his hand, could almost banish doubts entirely if he let it. But that probably was wishful thinking.
The diffuse light was like pearl, tinted with rose, filling the room with the potential for brightness.
Inside Soultaker, one's will could shape the world. But here, in the real world, it was impossible for even the strongest wills to shape reality.
Even two of the strongest wills.
The sun was almost above the horizon. Clark's eyelashes fluttered very slightly.
He loved Clark. He knew that. And Clark loved him. But was that enough to make it work? Bruce couldn't help but wonder if he was too set in his ways; maybe it was too late for him to learn to share his life with a partner. Maybe it was too late years ago. There was no way to be sure, no sign to be had.
The first rays of the sun touched Clark's face, and he opened his eyes and smiled.
Bruce smiled back at him.
Nothing
in the world
is usual today.
This is
the first morning.
--Izumi Shikibu
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-13
Summary: Clark and Bruce get back to the Manor and contemplate how life may be changed for both of them from now on.
Word Count: 2000
Author's Notes: This concludes this series; it's been a wonderful year writing it and I thank all of you who were so patient with the boys being slow and stubborn!
Bruce Wayne strode off the plane into Gotham Airport to meet Alfred and Dick, Clark at his side.
Well, he tried to stride. However, he was forced to assess his striding performance as "poor." In fact, his gait was much closer to a limping amble than a stride.
But at least the part about Clark being at his side was correct.
As Dick and Alfred spotted them, Dick came up with his arms open. Clark gently intercepted the hug and wrapped his arms around the boy; Bruce heard him say softly, "Hold off on the hug, he's a bit sore still."
Alfred was eyeing him in horror. "Good heavens, Master Bruce, what have you done to yourself this time?"
Bruce grinned wryly. "I might have run slightly afoul of a sword." He waved a self-deprecating hand over Alfred and Dick's horrified exclamations. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just get winded easily, that's all." He started to walk along the corridor and found that the flight had taken more out of him than he'd thought; for a second the beige walls spun just a bit.
A strong arm wrapped around his back, stabilizing him. Bruce shot a glance at Dick and Alfred. "Fortunately for me, Clark has decided to take on a part-time job as nursemaid and mother hen." His tone was sarcastic, but he didn't pull away from Clark's arm either.
He headed toward baggage claim leaning on Clark, pretending not to notice either Alfred's speculative look or Dick's delighted flash of a grin.
: : :
Bruce hadn't invited Clark to dinner, had never even mentioned it as a possibility, and yet here Clark was, standing with their suitcases down in the hall of Wayne Manor, getting ready to spend the night. Apparently it was to be assumed from now on that Clark would spend time here without an invitation.
Clark stood in the hallway, dazed with something between joy and apprehension. This couldn't possibly be so simple now, after all they'd been through. Something would happen, Bruce would set limits and boundaries and pull away, Clark couldn't relax.
Could he?
He followed Bruce upstairs, past his old guest room, to the suite on the end. Inside it was dark and yet oddly cozy. A walnut four-poster bed draped with burgundy hangings was in the center of the room; Clark shot a glance at it and went suddenly shy, looking down at the handle of his suitcase. "Put your case on the chest there at the foot of the bed," Bruce said, then noticed Clark's downcast gaze. "What's wrong?"
"I've...never been in your bedroom."
A pause, then a low chuckle. Bruce pulled Clark's chin up and kissed him lightly. "Well, get used to it. When you're visiting, you'll be here."
Clark patted the dark red coverlet gingerly. "And will I be visiting often?" he asked, still looking down at the bed. Unable to resist when finally faced with the real thing, he risked a peek with x-ray vision and was delighted to find that his suspicions of black silk sheets had been absolutely correct. The image of Bruce naked on them flashed through his mind and his mouth went totally dry. "I'm sorry?" he was forced to ask as he realized he hadn't heard Bruce's answer at all.
"I said mi casa es su casa, Clark. It's Spanish, it means--"
"--I know what it means," Clark said hastily.
Bruce gaze was level. "I'll give you a key so you can come and go as you like. Of course there'll be a lot of times I'm not here, but you'll always be welcome." He moved carefully closer to Clark, holding on to one of the bedposts for support. "And if I weren't still practically unable to walk, I'd have you on this bed for the first time right now, before dinner."
His voice was low and caressing, and Clark felt almost dizzy with lust. "That'd be swell," he said giddily, without thinking, and Bruce laughed again.
They stood there for a long time just looking at each other, not even touching, until Alfred's voice called them down to eat.
: : :
Clark was surprised to find himself ushered into the kitchen rather than either the formal or informal dining room. "We usually eat in here," Dick explained as he pulled out a chair for Clark. "For everyday meals." His grin was both knowing and delighted at the implication that Clark dining with them would be a routine occurrence.
The kitchen was spacious, built for a fully-occupied Manor, yet somehow it managed to be intimate as well. The white-painted wood had china-blue accents; in one corner stood a small white table with a mosaic of glass chips laid into it, blue and red and green. Bruce set the table while Alfred finished chopping something at the island. "Nothing fancy, sirs," said the butler as he turned to lay a platter on the table. "Just some sandwiches to take the edge off."
The sandwiches turned out to be layered with mozzarella, tomatoes, and prosciutto, and Dick had finished one almost before Clark had finished his first bite. Alfred raised a quizzical eyebrow at Clark. "Master Bruce informs me you'll be dining here fairly regularly in the future. Do you have any allergies or dislikes I ought to know about?"
"He doesn't eat abalone, or horse," Bruce said around a mouthful of sandwich, and winked at Clark.
Alfred's face reflected horror. "Horse? I should hope not, sir," and Dick laughed.
"I like just about anything," Clark said, feeling oddly shy.
Dick wanted to hear the whole story of what happened in Japan; Bruce and Clark took turns telling him between sandwiches, with Alfred listening intently as he washed the dishes. Dick gasped when Clark got stabbed, frowned when Bruce was rather vague about how he got into the sword in turn, and whooped when Bruce defeated Kyodai. The kitchen was warm, the food delicious, and sometime in the middle of the story Clark realized he didn't feel like a guest anymore. The manor didn't feel like a place he was visiting.
It felt--just a little--like home.
Clark felt a tiny stab of alarm at that. He shouldn't start making assumptions. Bruce might not even mean for this to be permanent, he might--
Clark suddenly remembered how it had felt to be sheltered and held within the shadows of Bruce's love as he crossed the river in Fukumaden, how the dark flame of Bruce's passion had cherished and protected him.
Clark smiled to himself and took a bite of one of the meringues Alfred had put on the table, listening to Dick complain about his schoolwork. The spirit of Muramasa had told him that only in Fukumaden could Clark know himself to be loved completely.
As Bruce slipped a hand into his, Clark began to allow himself to think that wasn't true.
: : :
Bruce was lying in bed, alone. Down the hall he could faintly hear Clark's voice coming from Dick's bedroom--the boy had insisted on hearing a Kryptonian fairy tale before going to bed. Bruce would have been there himself, but Alfred, Dick, and Clark had all ganged up on him and decided--completely arbitrarily--that he needed to be in bed. All right, he had gotten a bit wobbly on the stairs, but that was no reason to have everyone fussing over him. He had finally given up and let Clark tuck him into bed just to shut them all up. Alfred was bad enough; now Dick and Clark were in his life too, making demands, crowding his personal space. Bruce could tell he was going to deeply regret all of this.
Given that, he wasn't sure how to classify the emotion he felt at hearing the voices down the hall, or at the sound of Clark's footsteps coming toward his bedroom. It probably should have been annoyance.
It didn't seem to be.
Clark appeared in the doorway in his navy pajamas, smiling at Bruce. "I told him there were more than three thousand stories about Nightwing and Flamebird in my Kryptonian library. Not only was he not put off, I thought he was going to burst with glee." His eyebrows rose as he noticed the pile of cloth by the side of the bed and one bare shoulder sticking out of the covers. "I'm pretty sure you were wearing pajamas when I got you in there."
Bruce snorted. "More comfortable without them. But colder. Are you going to stand there all night or get in here and warm me up?"
Clark's pajamas joined the pile on the floor; Clark joined Bruce in bed. Bruce stretched up against him luxuriously, savoring warm skin against scars. "Don't expect too much of a man who can't even make it up the stairs without passing out," he whispered against Clark's mouth.
Clark just chuckled, stroking a gentle hand down his side. "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right?"
"Mm, yes. Plenty of time," Bruce said comfortably, warming himself in the light of Clark's smile.
"I need to go to work at the Planet tomorrow morning and do some patrolling in Metropolis tomorrow night," Clark said softly.
"Will you have time to stop here for dinner between?"
A slight hesitation. "Would you like that?"
Bruce huffed in exasperation. "I won't be able to go on patrol for at least a few more days, I'll be going stir crazy. I'm glad you won't be hovering around micromanaging me all day long, but if you can spare time for dinner I'd like to see you."
Clark shifted against him, their legs and feet tangling together. "Barring an emergency, then, I'll be here. Promise me you won't overwork yourself, though--you're up for monitor duty in a week and I don't want to have to cover for you."
Bruce grunted. "I should be healthy enough in a week to watch a computer screen." He meant to say more, but sleep rolled over him at abruptly and he disappeared into it.
He awoke at some point to find the covers off, moonlight and starlight washing over the both of them. Clark's hands were brushing his body like a filigree of light, warm and comforting, and Clark was crooning something very softly in a language that was all sibilants and drawn-out vowels. Kryptonian. He thought muzzily to himself that he would have to start learning that.
He fell asleep again hearing alien music, feeling love traced on his body like mandalas of protection.
When he woke again the sun still wasn't up, but the light in the room was moving toward gray, night mingling with day, shadows lightening toward the dawn.
He studied Clark's face in the dim half-light, the lines of it, the curve of his mouth. Clark's love was so brilliant, so radiant, it would probably burn out in time as he had to deal with Bruce's reserve, his oddities. Bruce heard himself sigh very quietly: the memory of that love, like a flame in his hand, could almost banish doubts entirely if he let it. But that probably was wishful thinking.
The diffuse light was like pearl, tinted with rose, filling the room with the potential for brightness.
Inside Soultaker, one's will could shape the world. But here, in the real world, it was impossible for even the strongest wills to shape reality.
Even two of the strongest wills.
The sun was almost above the horizon. Clark's eyelashes fluttered very slightly.
He loved Clark. He knew that. And Clark loved him. But was that enough to make it work? Bruce couldn't help but wonder if he was too set in his ways; maybe it was too late for him to learn to share his life with a partner. Maybe it was too late years ago. There was no way to be sure, no sign to be had.
The first rays of the sun touched Clark's face, and he opened his eyes and smiled.
Bruce smiled back at him.
Nothing
in the world
is usual today.
This is
the first morning.
--Izumi Shikibu