Music of the Spheres Interlude: Pain is Inevitable, Suffering is Optional
Title: Pain is Inevitable, Suffering is Optional
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: Clark and Bruce patch each other up in the aftermath of a painful--and yet oddly ridiculous--battle.
Word Count: 2600
Notes: Written for the WFGE prompt F6: "A h/c-type story in which both Superman and Batman are injured and are refusing to admit they're hurt worse than it shows, and argue about who should be taking care of whom." The story is technically part of the movieverse crossover series The Music of the Spheres, but you really don't need to read the whole series to understand this entirely context-free story!
The door of the car opened with a pneumatic whoosh, and Batman almost fell onto the cave floor from behind the steering wheel. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself around to the other side, tasting blood in the corners of his mouth, hearing his steps drag gratingly on the floor.
The passenger-side door opened to reveal Superman sitting--well, "sprawling" would be a more accurate term--in the seat. His eyes were half-closed, head lolling against the headrest. His skin was pale and looked clammy, and green dust glittered in his hair.
"Clark." Bruce enunciated the syllable with great care. If he barked it, he was sure blood would fleck his lips.
Clark gazed at him glassily. "'M fine," he muttered.
"We have to get you to the showers."
Clark shook his head, and a few gleaming green flecks drifted to the floor. "Need to get that gash on your hip looked at first. You're bleeding."
Bruce glanced down in some surprise to realize that he did have a cut on his hip, slashed right through the armor, and it was indeed bleeding. No matter. "You're dying," he retorted.
"Am not," Clark said.
"Are too," Bruce muttered.
Impossibly, Clark chuckled. "Am...not." He blinked blearily up at his lover. "But I have to get out of the car to stitch you up." With a groan, he staggered out into the cave, wavering on his feet. "Where's...Alfred?"
"Called him on the way here," Bruce said, putting an arm under his shoulders and steering him toward the showers. Now that it had been pointed out, he could feel the pain settling into his hip like icy fire. He ignored it. "He was out. Said he'd get home as soon as he could. Might be an hour or two, though."
Clark mumbled something like a protest as they passed the first aid center, but he was so close to unconscious that he allowed Bruce to get them into the showers.
Bruce turned both heads on to full blast and got Clark under one of them without bothering to strip his uniform off. Billows of steam clouded the stall immediately as Clark spluttered into the hot water. Bruce scrubbed at Clark's hair and--Jesus, that was hot water getting into the gash on his leg. He gritted his teeth on a whimper and focused on getting Clark's hair clean.
Curls of blood started to circle the drain in the floor, mixed with sparkling jade. Bruce found himself staring at the menacing patterns they made, the colors of their mortality, and recalled the ridiculous chain of events that had led them here.
: : :
The latest crazy in Metropolis was the Toyman. Lately it wasn't enough to just be an evil genius like Luthor, it seemed every villain wanted a Gotham-style gimmick. The Toyman's was children's merchandise made deadly. And thus Batman found himself blinking incredulously at the camera feeds that showed Superman battling a herd of life-sized robotic My Little Ponies in the streets of Metropolis.
"This...is...ludicrous!" Clark panted over the intercom as he punched a pink pony in the muzzle. It reared back and tried to crush him under its hooves. "I'm taking them out of the city, away from the civilians. It seems to be just me they're after."
He flew into the foothills outside Metropolis, followed by a pastel stampede of rage, away from the city. Away from the cameras strategically placed throughout Metropolis, so Batman had to rely on audio alone now. He was already heading for the car--if there were no witnesses, he could give Clark a hand.
"Don't you dare," Clark growled as he heard the car start up. "Toyman's already in custody and I've got this under--ow--under control."
"Really?" grated Batman.
"Okay, I'll admit these are pretty tough ponies. But they're nothing I can't handle. I just need to--"
His words broke off into a cry of pain. "Kal!" Bruce yelled, hitting the accelerator.
"Kryptonite--" Clark's voice was ragged with shock. "Toyman's got a Kryptonite-equipped My Little Pony..."
The landscape blurred by as Batman homed in on Superman's location, his ears ringing with an agonizing series of thumps and evil nickering noises.
As he closed in on the herd, circled around a crumpled form, he hit the signal jammer on his dashboard to keep any transmissions of the fight from getting back to Toyman or anyone else.
Then he drove his car into the green pony that was trampling Clark.
He was out of the car before it finished moving, somersaulting through the air and slapping plastic explosives on the rump of the robotic horse. It whirled on him with a furious whinny that broke off as the explosives blew it into smithereens. Barely noticing the shards of plastic and metal shearing through his armor, Batman landed on the back of a bright-yellow pony and clung to its mane as it bucked wildly, trying to rid itself of its burden. A quick jab of a sonic probe into its ear made it crumple to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Batman fell and rolled away from it. Two more ponies were closing in on him, converging...he waited until the last moment and threw himself to the side, leaving the two robots to collide into a mangled heap.
His leg gave way as he fell and the last robot pony reared over him, knife-edged lavender hooves plunging toward his head--and then the legs simply melted into plastic and metal slag that dripped onto his armor, leaving a stink of burnt chemicals. The pony fell over, buzzing, and Batman struggled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his side as heated armor pressed against skin. "Kal," he croaked around a lungful of corrosive smoke, and jumped forward to catch Superman before the Kryptonian collapsed into the green-tainted mud.
He half-dragged Clark to the car, which was dented but still driveable. Clark groaned as the car rattled across the field, and Bruce turned on the fans to try and get some of the Kryptonite dust off of him. "Mane and tail...laced with K," muttered Clark.
"Evil My Little Ponies. That is the stupidest gimmick ever," Bruce growled.
"You're hurt," Clark said faintly.
"I'm fine."
"You have a cracked rib."
"Don't waste your energy x-raying me. Rest."
"I don't need to x-ray you. I can tell from the way you're breathing."
Privately, Bruce rather suspected he had at least two cracked ribs, but that was minor. Clark needed decontamination fast. "Hold on," he grated, and hit the gas.
: : :
Bruce realized abruptly he was still staring at the drain. The floor of the showers was glazed pink and Clark was tugging at his armor, working the buckles. "I think you're in shock," Clark said. "Gotta get you out of this--damn it," he cursed as his fingers slipped.
"You might still have dust in your uniform," Bruce protested, pawing at the red and blue cloth with a depressing lack of focus.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll get out of it too," Clark muttered, still working on the black armor. He made a sharp hissing noise as the chest piece clattered to the floor. "Bad burns."
Bruce blinked down at his chest. "Not so bad. Only first degree."
"Bad enough," Clark said shortly. He managed to wriggle out of his sodden uniform top, and it was Bruce's turn to wince at the mottled bruising along his ribcage, angry red already darkening toward purple.
Bits of Batman's armor were scattered around the shower, slowly filling with water; Bruce reached over and turned off the faucets. "Let's scan you and see if we got all the K off."
"Not until I stitch up that gash in your leg."
Bruce had forgotten the cut again. "It's not life-threatening."
Clark made a growling sound and took his arm, pivoting them toward the shower room door and a stack of thick towels and terrycloth robes. "Well, it's threatening my well-being having to look at it." He grabbed an electrolyte solution and handed it to Bruce. "Drink this while I stitch you up," he said as he shrugged into a robe.
A second look at his hip and Bruce had to conclude that the cut probably was top priority at the moment, so he sat down on the edge of the medical table and applied some topical anesthetic as Clark carefully threaded a needle. The gel was cool and Clark's fingers were deft and gentle as he pulled the thread through Bruce's skin, barely even flinching as he did so.
"Do you have a concussion?" Clark asked after a moment, still working.
"Huh?"
"You're being very...docile."
"I can be cranky if it would make you feel better," Bruce said, finishing up the last drops of solution. "But no, I'm pretty sure I managed to avoid head injury that time. No headache, no dizziness, no tinnitus. I'm just...very tired and sore." Clark laughed a little; it turned into a cough partway through. "There's probably still some dust in your lungs," Bruce said, frowning.
"Well, you inhaled so much smoke your voice naturally sounds like Batman's at the moment."
"It does?" Bruce asked, surprised. "Well what do you know, it does." He closed his eyes. The rhythm of the needle tugging at his flesh was almost soothing as long as he didn't look at it. "Maybe I should make a habit of inhaling smoke before going on patrol."
"Uh-huh," said Clark, clearly not listening closely. Bruce looked down at him through slitted eyes and noticed the tip of his tongue was sticking out of his mouth a little bit as he concentrated on the wound, and Bruce felt a rush of affection through his exhaustion. "Done," Clark said, straightening to grab a bandage and wrap it carefully around Bruce's leg. "Now let me wrap your chest for the ribs."
"Not until you get that radiation scan," Bruce said, setting his jaw. Clark looked like he was going to argue, but then he put his hands up in surrender, wincing a little.
"Can you at least scan me while I bandage you?" he suggested. "A compromise?"
Bruce chewed that over while getting the scanner. "All right," he said grudgingly. It was harder to scan Clark while he was in motion, but if he couldn't patch Bruce up he'd probably be fidgeting too much to scan well anyway. He watched the readout while Clark wrapped bandages around his chest, grimacing at the results. "I think we got all the external dust off, but there's some inhalation, as I suspected. Let's get some bronchodilation medicine into you. You're depowered enough right now it might help."
Clark finished up with the bandages and sighed as he held out a second robe for Bruce to put on. The sigh rattled somewhat. "If it would make you feel better."
"It would."
"Well, you take it too, for the smoke inhalation."
"If it would make you feel better." He rummaged in the medicine cabinet and found two inhalers. "Here's to your health," he said, handing one to Clark.
They clinked their inhalers together before using them.
"I hate to rest down here," Bruce grumbled. "Kind of cold and damp in just robes. Can we get up to the bedroom?"
"We can try," Clark said.
Very carefully, they made their way to the lift. The new lift was much smoother than the old, for which Bruce's ribs were very grateful. Soon they were standing at the bottom of the great staircase, staring up the red-carpeted steps. At the top was the bedroom, and cool sheets, and blissful sleep. So many steps away.
"We could sleep on the couch," Bruce noted. "It's not too--hey!" he protested as Clark swept him up into his arms. "Put me down, you idiot. I can walk on my own."
"Uh-huh, sure you can." Clark strode purposefully to the bottom of the stairs...and then stood there, looking up.
After a while, he started to sway slightly on his feet.
"Clark? You probably should put me down. Clark? Come on, hero, stop being macho." Clark's eyes were glassy with exhaustion, and Bruce enunciated very carefully to get through the haze. "Put. Me. Down."
Clark obediently leaned down to deposit Bruce on the stairs. Then he kept going, like a balloon losing air, until he was half-sprawled on the carpet beside him. "I might be a little weak still," he admitted.
Bruce clapped a hand to his shoulder. "We're going to get up those stairs and we're going to get into bed, Clark. Somehow, someway. We've survived a rampaging pack of My Little Pony robots--" He banged his fist on the carpet next to him for emphasis, "--and by God we are not going to be defeated by a flight of stairs!"
There was a faint giggle from the man next to him. "You're right," Clark said. "We can do this, Bruce. We can climb the stairs. Together."
When Alfred finally got home, still cursing Gotham traffic with language that could have blistered the car's paint job, he eventually found them in bed together on the second floor. Bandaged, bruised, and battered, they were sprawled gracelessly on the white sheets without even the blankets pulled up over them. Clark's arm was extended across the bed to almost reach Bruce, whose fingers were just brushing the other man's wrist.
Neither stirred as Alfred gently tucked them in under a warm comforter. Then he went downstairs to get some orange juice and waffles ready for when his boys woke up.
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: Clark and Bruce patch each other up in the aftermath of a painful--and yet oddly ridiculous--battle.
Word Count: 2600
Notes: Written for the WFGE prompt F6: "A h/c-type story in which both Superman and Batman are injured and are refusing to admit they're hurt worse than it shows, and argue about who should be taking care of whom." The story is technically part of the movieverse crossover series The Music of the Spheres, but you really don't need to read the whole series to understand this entirely context-free story!
The door of the car opened with a pneumatic whoosh, and Batman almost fell onto the cave floor from behind the steering wheel. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself around to the other side, tasting blood in the corners of his mouth, hearing his steps drag gratingly on the floor.
The passenger-side door opened to reveal Superman sitting--well, "sprawling" would be a more accurate term--in the seat. His eyes were half-closed, head lolling against the headrest. His skin was pale and looked clammy, and green dust glittered in his hair.
"Clark." Bruce enunciated the syllable with great care. If he barked it, he was sure blood would fleck his lips.
Clark gazed at him glassily. "'M fine," he muttered.
"We have to get you to the showers."
Clark shook his head, and a few gleaming green flecks drifted to the floor. "Need to get that gash on your hip looked at first. You're bleeding."
Bruce glanced down in some surprise to realize that he did have a cut on his hip, slashed right through the armor, and it was indeed bleeding. No matter. "You're dying," he retorted.
"Am not," Clark said.
"Are too," Bruce muttered.
Impossibly, Clark chuckled. "Am...not." He blinked blearily up at his lover. "But I have to get out of the car to stitch you up." With a groan, he staggered out into the cave, wavering on his feet. "Where's...Alfred?"
"Called him on the way here," Bruce said, putting an arm under his shoulders and steering him toward the showers. Now that it had been pointed out, he could feel the pain settling into his hip like icy fire. He ignored it. "He was out. Said he'd get home as soon as he could. Might be an hour or two, though."
Clark mumbled something like a protest as they passed the first aid center, but he was so close to unconscious that he allowed Bruce to get them into the showers.
Bruce turned both heads on to full blast and got Clark under one of them without bothering to strip his uniform off. Billows of steam clouded the stall immediately as Clark spluttered into the hot water. Bruce scrubbed at Clark's hair and--Jesus, that was hot water getting into the gash on his leg. He gritted his teeth on a whimper and focused on getting Clark's hair clean.
Curls of blood started to circle the drain in the floor, mixed with sparkling jade. Bruce found himself staring at the menacing patterns they made, the colors of their mortality, and recalled the ridiculous chain of events that had led them here.
: : :
The latest crazy in Metropolis was the Toyman. Lately it wasn't enough to just be an evil genius like Luthor, it seemed every villain wanted a Gotham-style gimmick. The Toyman's was children's merchandise made deadly. And thus Batman found himself blinking incredulously at the camera feeds that showed Superman battling a herd of life-sized robotic My Little Ponies in the streets of Metropolis.
"This...is...ludicrous!" Clark panted over the intercom as he punched a pink pony in the muzzle. It reared back and tried to crush him under its hooves. "I'm taking them out of the city, away from the civilians. It seems to be just me they're after."
He flew into the foothills outside Metropolis, followed by a pastel stampede of rage, away from the city. Away from the cameras strategically placed throughout Metropolis, so Batman had to rely on audio alone now. He was already heading for the car--if there were no witnesses, he could give Clark a hand.
"Don't you dare," Clark growled as he heard the car start up. "Toyman's already in custody and I've got this under--ow--under control."
"Really?" grated Batman.
"Okay, I'll admit these are pretty tough ponies. But they're nothing I can't handle. I just need to--"
His words broke off into a cry of pain. "Kal!" Bruce yelled, hitting the accelerator.
"Kryptonite--" Clark's voice was ragged with shock. "Toyman's got a Kryptonite-equipped My Little Pony..."
The landscape blurred by as Batman homed in on Superman's location, his ears ringing with an agonizing series of thumps and evil nickering noises.
As he closed in on the herd, circled around a crumpled form, he hit the signal jammer on his dashboard to keep any transmissions of the fight from getting back to Toyman or anyone else.
Then he drove his car into the green pony that was trampling Clark.
He was out of the car before it finished moving, somersaulting through the air and slapping plastic explosives on the rump of the robotic horse. It whirled on him with a furious whinny that broke off as the explosives blew it into smithereens. Barely noticing the shards of plastic and metal shearing through his armor, Batman landed on the back of a bright-yellow pony and clung to its mane as it bucked wildly, trying to rid itself of its burden. A quick jab of a sonic probe into its ear made it crumple to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Batman fell and rolled away from it. Two more ponies were closing in on him, converging...he waited until the last moment and threw himself to the side, leaving the two robots to collide into a mangled heap.
His leg gave way as he fell and the last robot pony reared over him, knife-edged lavender hooves plunging toward his head--and then the legs simply melted into plastic and metal slag that dripped onto his armor, leaving a stink of burnt chemicals. The pony fell over, buzzing, and Batman struggled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his side as heated armor pressed against skin. "Kal," he croaked around a lungful of corrosive smoke, and jumped forward to catch Superman before the Kryptonian collapsed into the green-tainted mud.
He half-dragged Clark to the car, which was dented but still driveable. Clark groaned as the car rattled across the field, and Bruce turned on the fans to try and get some of the Kryptonite dust off of him. "Mane and tail...laced with K," muttered Clark.
"Evil My Little Ponies. That is the stupidest gimmick ever," Bruce growled.
"You're hurt," Clark said faintly.
"I'm fine."
"You have a cracked rib."
"Don't waste your energy x-raying me. Rest."
"I don't need to x-ray you. I can tell from the way you're breathing."
Privately, Bruce rather suspected he had at least two cracked ribs, but that was minor. Clark needed decontamination fast. "Hold on," he grated, and hit the gas.
: : :
Bruce realized abruptly he was still staring at the drain. The floor of the showers was glazed pink and Clark was tugging at his armor, working the buckles. "I think you're in shock," Clark said. "Gotta get you out of this--damn it," he cursed as his fingers slipped.
"You might still have dust in your uniform," Bruce protested, pawing at the red and blue cloth with a depressing lack of focus.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll get out of it too," Clark muttered, still working on the black armor. He made a sharp hissing noise as the chest piece clattered to the floor. "Bad burns."
Bruce blinked down at his chest. "Not so bad. Only first degree."
"Bad enough," Clark said shortly. He managed to wriggle out of his sodden uniform top, and it was Bruce's turn to wince at the mottled bruising along his ribcage, angry red already darkening toward purple.
Bits of Batman's armor were scattered around the shower, slowly filling with water; Bruce reached over and turned off the faucets. "Let's scan you and see if we got all the K off."
"Not until I stitch up that gash in your leg."
Bruce had forgotten the cut again. "It's not life-threatening."
Clark made a growling sound and took his arm, pivoting them toward the shower room door and a stack of thick towels and terrycloth robes. "Well, it's threatening my well-being having to look at it." He grabbed an electrolyte solution and handed it to Bruce. "Drink this while I stitch you up," he said as he shrugged into a robe.
A second look at his hip and Bruce had to conclude that the cut probably was top priority at the moment, so he sat down on the edge of the medical table and applied some topical anesthetic as Clark carefully threaded a needle. The gel was cool and Clark's fingers were deft and gentle as he pulled the thread through Bruce's skin, barely even flinching as he did so.
"Do you have a concussion?" Clark asked after a moment, still working.
"Huh?"
"You're being very...docile."
"I can be cranky if it would make you feel better," Bruce said, finishing up the last drops of solution. "But no, I'm pretty sure I managed to avoid head injury that time. No headache, no dizziness, no tinnitus. I'm just...very tired and sore." Clark laughed a little; it turned into a cough partway through. "There's probably still some dust in your lungs," Bruce said, frowning.
"Well, you inhaled so much smoke your voice naturally sounds like Batman's at the moment."
"It does?" Bruce asked, surprised. "Well what do you know, it does." He closed his eyes. The rhythm of the needle tugging at his flesh was almost soothing as long as he didn't look at it. "Maybe I should make a habit of inhaling smoke before going on patrol."
"Uh-huh," said Clark, clearly not listening closely. Bruce looked down at him through slitted eyes and noticed the tip of his tongue was sticking out of his mouth a little bit as he concentrated on the wound, and Bruce felt a rush of affection through his exhaustion. "Done," Clark said, straightening to grab a bandage and wrap it carefully around Bruce's leg. "Now let me wrap your chest for the ribs."
"Not until you get that radiation scan," Bruce said, setting his jaw. Clark looked like he was going to argue, but then he put his hands up in surrender, wincing a little.
"Can you at least scan me while I bandage you?" he suggested. "A compromise?"
Bruce chewed that over while getting the scanner. "All right," he said grudgingly. It was harder to scan Clark while he was in motion, but if he couldn't patch Bruce up he'd probably be fidgeting too much to scan well anyway. He watched the readout while Clark wrapped bandages around his chest, grimacing at the results. "I think we got all the external dust off, but there's some inhalation, as I suspected. Let's get some bronchodilation medicine into you. You're depowered enough right now it might help."
Clark finished up with the bandages and sighed as he held out a second robe for Bruce to put on. The sigh rattled somewhat. "If it would make you feel better."
"It would."
"Well, you take it too, for the smoke inhalation."
"If it would make you feel better." He rummaged in the medicine cabinet and found two inhalers. "Here's to your health," he said, handing one to Clark.
They clinked their inhalers together before using them.
"I hate to rest down here," Bruce grumbled. "Kind of cold and damp in just robes. Can we get up to the bedroom?"
"We can try," Clark said.
Very carefully, they made their way to the lift. The new lift was much smoother than the old, for which Bruce's ribs were very grateful. Soon they were standing at the bottom of the great staircase, staring up the red-carpeted steps. At the top was the bedroom, and cool sheets, and blissful sleep. So many steps away.
"We could sleep on the couch," Bruce noted. "It's not too--hey!" he protested as Clark swept him up into his arms. "Put me down, you idiot. I can walk on my own."
"Uh-huh, sure you can." Clark strode purposefully to the bottom of the stairs...and then stood there, looking up.
After a while, he started to sway slightly on his feet.
"Clark? You probably should put me down. Clark? Come on, hero, stop being macho." Clark's eyes were glassy with exhaustion, and Bruce enunciated very carefully to get through the haze. "Put. Me. Down."
Clark obediently leaned down to deposit Bruce on the stairs. Then he kept going, like a balloon losing air, until he was half-sprawled on the carpet beside him. "I might be a little weak still," he admitted.
Bruce clapped a hand to his shoulder. "We're going to get up those stairs and we're going to get into bed, Clark. Somehow, someway. We've survived a rampaging pack of My Little Pony robots--" He banged his fist on the carpet next to him for emphasis, "--and by God we are not going to be defeated by a flight of stairs!"
There was a faint giggle from the man next to him. "You're right," Clark said. "We can do this, Bruce. We can climb the stairs. Together."
When Alfred finally got home, still cursing Gotham traffic with language that could have blistered the car's paint job, he eventually found them in bed together on the second floor. Bandaged, bruised, and battered, they were sprawled gracelessly on the white sheets without even the blankets pulled up over them. Clark's arm was extended across the bed to almost reach Bruce, whose fingers were just brushing the other man's wrist.
Neither stirred as Alfred gently tucked them in under a warm comforter. Then he went downstairs to get some orange juice and waffles ready for when his boys woke up.