FIC: Two Forms, One Soul (1/9)
Title: Two Forms, One Soul, Chapter One
Pairing/Characters: Bruce/Clark, Lois Lane, Dick Grayson
Continuity: Animated series, a few years after B:TAS.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Dick Grayson asks Clark Kent for help, Clark finds his teammate and friend Bruce Wayne oddly changed.
Word Count: 1300
Warnings: None necessary
Notes: Written for the 20_inkspots challenge with
rai_daydreamer (you can look forward to her art in later chapters!). Prompt #18: "Under the glass moon." (see the full table here)
Clark Kent adjusted his bow tie and polished his glasses one more time, checking his reflection carefully. Lois Lane had agreed to go on a date with him--if he were to be fully honest with himself he would probably have to admit it was because she wanted to get a good look at the inside of Wayne Manor and its billionaire owner. Still, it was a chance. It was always possible he could have a breakthrough tonight, could convince Lois to finally see him as something other than her dorky co-worker.
It was even possible she might let him kiss her goodnight.
Clark imagined her stopping at her hotel door turning her face upward to him, waiting, expectant. He imagined how he would lean forward and--
He broke off that train of thought ruthlessly. Not only was it most likely totally futile, but he was losing sight of the main reason he was going to this fundraiser.
As he re-tied his bow tie, he remembered Dick Grayson's worried voice on the phone. "I need you to check on Bruce. He's been...not himself. Told me I should be focusing on Bludhaven and...not to come around Wayne Manor anymore." Dick's hurt had been palpable.
"He's been avoiding League actions as well," Clark had noted. "None of us have seen him for a month, at least. But Dick," he had added reasonably, "He goes through jags like this, right? The man's a brooder, just take it in stride."
"I've been trying to," Dick said. "But I just got a call from Alfred.
"Clark, he's dismissed Alfred."
Clark frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Dismissing Alfred was a grave portent indeed. Even in his worst funks, Bruce had never sent the butler away. Now the man was all alone in that huge Manor and dank cave and he didn't seem to be coming out.
Clark hadn't been invited to this Red Cross fundraiser, but he figured this might be the last chance he had to see Bruce publicly. The man hadn't been responding to phone calls or League pages. So crashing the party seemed to be the safest way to quickly check on him.
Not to mention when he had mentioned the plan to Lois she had been thrilled at his chutzpah and insisted on coming along. That was definitely a fringe benefit.
Clark sighed. The bow tie was a total loss. For some reason, with all his powers, he could never tie a simple bow tie. It must be some kind of mental block.
Maybe Lois would tie it for him?
Cheerfully he started to go next door, visions of Lois's capable fingers brushing his neck dancing in his head.
: : :
There was a harp playing somewhere, long liquid glissandos of music, as Lois and Clark entered the ballroom of Wayne Manor. The chandelier was blazing, casting wavering dim lights in the perfectly-polished marble floor. Lois's arm was warm in his; he could feel her head swiveling as she took in all the sights. But his eyes were drawn irresistibly to a group of people on the far side of the ballroom.
They were gathered around someone, hanging on his every word, and as Clark drew closer he realized with a start that it was Bruce Wayne, talking about some fine point of water polo.
A strange prickle ran up Clark's spine as he watched Bruce talking, and his footsteps slowed on the marble floor, dragging to a stop. He seemed to be staring, but he couldn't look away somehow.
Bruce was very pale, as if he hadn't left the house for a month or two. His features seemed...sharper, even more aristocratic than before. And his eyes had a feverish glitter to them that seemed to transfix Clark, a dark gleam impossible to look away from. He was holding forth about some recent match, his voice low and yet authoritative, and everyone was hanging on his every word as if they couldn't get enough of his voice. Clark couldn't hear his voice perfectly clearly over the buzz of the party, but he wanted to--it was richer and more compelling than he had remembered Bruce's voice, somehow. He wanted to hear it more clearly. He took another step forward, Lois's arm still locked in his.
As he did, Bruce's head suddenly snapped up and he looked straight and unerringly at Clark.
Clark froze as Bruce stared at him, his eyes bright and confrontational. Bruce brushed aside the people he had been talking to and stalked over to Clark. Had his movements always had such feral grace, such perfect self-composure? Bruce had always been dangerous, had always been beautiful, of course he had. But somehow at this moment his beauty and menace hit Clark like a blow, like a fresh revelation. Part of his mind was stammering irrational panic: danger danger get away flee danger. He ignored it and held his ground.
"You were not invited," Bruce said, his voice low and menacing, each syllable carefully enunciated.
Clark struggled to find words, torn between the unreasonable impulse to turn and flee and another, different impulse that he couldn't quite define but seemed to involve listening more closely to Bruce's beautiful voice. Leaning in. Leaning closer. He shook his head slightly, focusing. "Dick called and asked me to check on you. He's worried about you."
"He's a good boy." Bruce seemed distracted by something, his voice distant. His eyes roamed over Clark as if they were assessing him for possible threats. Clark felt oddly uncomfortable, vulnerable.
"Won't you talk to him?"
"No." Bruce's head snapped back up and he met Clark's eyes squarely again. "I shouldn't be talking to you." He stepped closer, just one step. Lois made a small sound that seemed to be of fear, and Clark suddenly remembered she was there at all. "Clark," Bruce whispered. "Go home. You can't help me. No one can help me. And I..." His eyes were as deep as a sky, a sky Clark could fall into, a sky with no stars, no light at all. "...I can hurt you more than you can imagine."
Then he was gone, turning his back and walking away, returning to his conversation. The crowd parted and fell into place around him like iron filings drawn to a lodestone. Clark watched him go, unable to look away, wishing he would turn again just once, let Clark glimpse those dark eyes one more time. "Bruce," he whispered, and far across the ballroom Bruce paused just an instant, his back stiff and wary. Then he kept going, walking away.
Walking away.
Someone was pulling on his arm and calling his name. He looked down at the woman there, gazing up at him from wide, alarmed eyes. "Lois," he said, seeming to call her name up from some recess of memory.
"Let's go back to our hotel," she said, her face pale. "I've seen enough."
She dragged Clark away.
: : :
At the door of her hotel room Lois paused, looking up at him. She seemed to be waiting for something, her face turned up expectantly. Clark blinked down at her, and slowly her expression shifted from inviting to annoyed. "Never mind," she muttered. The door swung shut behind her.
Clark continued to blink at it for a long time, his thoughts strangely slow. He was going over that conversation with Bruce again. What could he have said to make Bruce listen?
What could he have said to make him stay?
Make him keep talking to him, keep looking at him?
It was important that he talk to Bruce, he told himself as he let himself into his own room, prepared for bed. People were worried about him. Dick and Alfred were worried about him. The entire JLA needed him back.
He had to find some way to talk to Bruce again.
He had to.
---
Chapter Two
Pairing/Characters: Bruce/Clark, Lois Lane, Dick Grayson
Continuity: Animated series, a few years after B:TAS.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Dick Grayson asks Clark Kent for help, Clark finds his teammate and friend Bruce Wayne oddly changed.
Word Count: 1300
Warnings: None necessary
Notes: Written for the 20_inkspots challenge with
rai_daydreamer (you can look forward to her art in later chapters!). Prompt #18: "Under the glass moon." (see the full table here)
Clark Kent adjusted his bow tie and polished his glasses one more time, checking his reflection carefully. Lois Lane had agreed to go on a date with him--if he were to be fully honest with himself he would probably have to admit it was because she wanted to get a good look at the inside of Wayne Manor and its billionaire owner. Still, it was a chance. It was always possible he could have a breakthrough tonight, could convince Lois to finally see him as something other than her dorky co-worker.
It was even possible she might let him kiss her goodnight.
Clark imagined her stopping at her hotel door turning her face upward to him, waiting, expectant. He imagined how he would lean forward and--
He broke off that train of thought ruthlessly. Not only was it most likely totally futile, but he was losing sight of the main reason he was going to this fundraiser.
As he re-tied his bow tie, he remembered Dick Grayson's worried voice on the phone. "I need you to check on Bruce. He's been...not himself. Told me I should be focusing on Bludhaven and...not to come around Wayne Manor anymore." Dick's hurt had been palpable.
"He's been avoiding League actions as well," Clark had noted. "None of us have seen him for a month, at least. But Dick," he had added reasonably, "He goes through jags like this, right? The man's a brooder, just take it in stride."
"I've been trying to," Dick said. "But I just got a call from Alfred.
"Clark, he's dismissed Alfred."
Clark frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Dismissing Alfred was a grave portent indeed. Even in his worst funks, Bruce had never sent the butler away. Now the man was all alone in that huge Manor and dank cave and he didn't seem to be coming out.
Clark hadn't been invited to this Red Cross fundraiser, but he figured this might be the last chance he had to see Bruce publicly. The man hadn't been responding to phone calls or League pages. So crashing the party seemed to be the safest way to quickly check on him.
Not to mention when he had mentioned the plan to Lois she had been thrilled at his chutzpah and insisted on coming along. That was definitely a fringe benefit.
Clark sighed. The bow tie was a total loss. For some reason, with all his powers, he could never tie a simple bow tie. It must be some kind of mental block.
Maybe Lois would tie it for him?
Cheerfully he started to go next door, visions of Lois's capable fingers brushing his neck dancing in his head.
: : :
There was a harp playing somewhere, long liquid glissandos of music, as Lois and Clark entered the ballroom of Wayne Manor. The chandelier was blazing, casting wavering dim lights in the perfectly-polished marble floor. Lois's arm was warm in his; he could feel her head swiveling as she took in all the sights. But his eyes were drawn irresistibly to a group of people on the far side of the ballroom.
They were gathered around someone, hanging on his every word, and as Clark drew closer he realized with a start that it was Bruce Wayne, talking about some fine point of water polo.
A strange prickle ran up Clark's spine as he watched Bruce talking, and his footsteps slowed on the marble floor, dragging to a stop. He seemed to be staring, but he couldn't look away somehow.
Bruce was very pale, as if he hadn't left the house for a month or two. His features seemed...sharper, even more aristocratic than before. And his eyes had a feverish glitter to them that seemed to transfix Clark, a dark gleam impossible to look away from. He was holding forth about some recent match, his voice low and yet authoritative, and everyone was hanging on his every word as if they couldn't get enough of his voice. Clark couldn't hear his voice perfectly clearly over the buzz of the party, but he wanted to--it was richer and more compelling than he had remembered Bruce's voice, somehow. He wanted to hear it more clearly. He took another step forward, Lois's arm still locked in his.
As he did, Bruce's head suddenly snapped up and he looked straight and unerringly at Clark.
Clark froze as Bruce stared at him, his eyes bright and confrontational. Bruce brushed aside the people he had been talking to and stalked over to Clark. Had his movements always had such feral grace, such perfect self-composure? Bruce had always been dangerous, had always been beautiful, of course he had. But somehow at this moment his beauty and menace hit Clark like a blow, like a fresh revelation. Part of his mind was stammering irrational panic: danger danger get away flee danger. He ignored it and held his ground.
"You were not invited," Bruce said, his voice low and menacing, each syllable carefully enunciated.
Clark struggled to find words, torn between the unreasonable impulse to turn and flee and another, different impulse that he couldn't quite define but seemed to involve listening more closely to Bruce's beautiful voice. Leaning in. Leaning closer. He shook his head slightly, focusing. "Dick called and asked me to check on you. He's worried about you."
"He's a good boy." Bruce seemed distracted by something, his voice distant. His eyes roamed over Clark as if they were assessing him for possible threats. Clark felt oddly uncomfortable, vulnerable.
"Won't you talk to him?"
"No." Bruce's head snapped back up and he met Clark's eyes squarely again. "I shouldn't be talking to you." He stepped closer, just one step. Lois made a small sound that seemed to be of fear, and Clark suddenly remembered she was there at all. "Clark," Bruce whispered. "Go home. You can't help me. No one can help me. And I..." His eyes were as deep as a sky, a sky Clark could fall into, a sky with no stars, no light at all. "...I can hurt you more than you can imagine."
Then he was gone, turning his back and walking away, returning to his conversation. The crowd parted and fell into place around him like iron filings drawn to a lodestone. Clark watched him go, unable to look away, wishing he would turn again just once, let Clark glimpse those dark eyes one more time. "Bruce," he whispered, and far across the ballroom Bruce paused just an instant, his back stiff and wary. Then he kept going, walking away.
Walking away.
Someone was pulling on his arm and calling his name. He looked down at the woman there, gazing up at him from wide, alarmed eyes. "Lois," he said, seeming to call her name up from some recess of memory.
"Let's go back to our hotel," she said, her face pale. "I've seen enough."
She dragged Clark away.
: : :
At the door of her hotel room Lois paused, looking up at him. She seemed to be waiting for something, her face turned up expectantly. Clark blinked down at her, and slowly her expression shifted from inviting to annoyed. "Never mind," she muttered. The door swung shut behind her.
Clark continued to blink at it for a long time, his thoughts strangely slow. He was going over that conversation with Bruce again. What could he have said to make Bruce listen?
What could he have said to make him stay?
Make him keep talking to him, keep looking at him?
It was important that he talk to Bruce, he told himself as he let himself into his own room, prepared for bed. People were worried about him. Dick and Alfred were worried about him. The entire JLA needed him back.
He had to find some way to talk to Bruce again.
He had to.
---
Chapter Two