Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | R | 11/20+
Title: Lost Years - Part 11
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); R (this section)
Word Count: 4,764 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Just when things look to be at their worst, a miracle happens.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Urgh. The long waits between chapters continues. This one just kicked my butt. O_o With any luck, this next week will be kind to me, and I can get the next chapter written.
Index Post
Part 11
March 1st, 2008
I managed a whole hour of sleep last night, thank God. I might have been a little loopy yesterday. Which is probably for the better, anyway, because who wants to remember their birthday like that? Even if it does only come around once every four years.
Anyway, I finally got Bruce to eat some of that melon. Or suck on it, at least. He's been asking for more, amidst his other delusional dreams, but it seems like a genuine request. Who am I to argue? He wants more, he'll get more. And!! His fever doesn't seem so high. Well, his color looks a little better, anyway. I hope I've hit on something with the melon, but I don't want to get my expectations up. Just wish I knew what the hell was going on inside his body.
I also finally remembered to feed the animals. Think they might have gone two days without. I now have more eggs than I know what to do with, too, and poor Bessie was bursting with milk. Don't think I've felt this... guilty since... since we had to dismantle the ship. Christ, I need some more rest. I can't take care of Bruce like this.
* * * * *
Another morning, another day waking - or becoming a little more conscious - to attend to Bruce's still mostly sleeping form. At least the fever dreams have slowed, but there are still bandages to change, IV fluids to switch out, other bodily functions to attend to. It's been so long now that Clark is moving by rote memory, robotically going about the morning routine. Put on the coffee, feed the animals, tend to Bruce. He's sure he remembered to take care of his own necessities in there somewhere, not that it really matters. Some things just aren't necessary anymore; bothering to shave would only take precious time away from his patient.
Coffee downed. Wakefulness achieved, more or less. Chair pulled up beside the bed, fresh plate of pink melon laid on the bedside table for breakfast or lunch or both. Three days now feeding the sweet fruit to Bruce. Or is it four? Shaking his head to clear out the remaining vestiges of light sleep, Clark picks the pinkest piece of melon to offer.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says to the unconscious Bat, Bruce's eyelids fluttering as he passes from sleep to hallucination once more.
“Look for the cookies, J'onn. In the utility belt,” comes the weak plea from the bed, voice low and raspy from overuse and overnight dehydration. “Top drawer.”
“We found the cookies, Bruce. Now wake up and eat your watermelon.”
Bruce is on the piece of fruit almost before Clark can get it to his mouth, automatically sucking on it and gumming it down into mushy pulp.
“There. See? It's better when you don't sleep all the time,” the Kryptonian manages with a tired smile, reaching for another piece of pink melon for himself. After sucking the sweet juice and eating the pulp, he offers another piece to Bruce, stroking his forehead when the Bat takes it immediately. “There. Good.”
And another day passes into the same routine. Clark talking to Bruce on end about nothing and everything. Bruce offering no response but the occasional delusional comment about watermelons and the Joker. Even a statement about the state of affairs in the GCPD. Gordon would be offended if he could hear it, Clark is sure.
The kittens make their usual show, mock-fighting and pouncing their sleeping daddy, and at one point Diana decides to grace them with her presence after meandering in the open front door, curling up at the foot of the bed and purring, green irises shining through narrowed eyes. Her deep, rumbling purr is as soothing to Clark as it is to the kittens, who take the opportunity as morning becomes afternoon to nurse in turns.
Eventually, Clark climbs back into the bed beside his slumbering companion, and succumbs to the need for more sleep, resolutely ignoring the possibilities as he takes Bruce's cool, limp hand in his. So what if Bruce seems weak? He's doing better. Can't lose him. Won't.
* * * * *
After a brief nap, Clark is slowly jostled awake by the form next to him shifting in the bed. “Shhh...” he soothes, reaching up to stroke Bruce's forehead as he has so often. “I'm he-” But the skin beneath his fingertips is cool, clammy, and drenched in sweat, and he realizes he didn't even notice the temperature of Bruce's hand when he took it before falling asleep. “Bruce?” he starts tentatively, his insides suddenly at war, torn between terror and hope. He shakes his companion's shoulder lightly. “Bruce?” Oh, God. Please, please. I can't. Let it just be the fever. Please. “Bruce!”
But the Bat doesn't stir at all, just breathes shallowly, his lips parted and pale. God, so pale, Clark starts to panic. Frantically, he rubs his hands over Bruce's cheeks and scruffy two-week beard, murmuring encouragement and prayers and curses as he chokes on a sob.
Nothing changes, but for a little bit of color returning to his partner's face. Breathing still shallow, eyes still shut, motionless. “Bruce!”
Terrified, Clark looks to the day's second plate of melon, still sitting on the bedside table, and a desperate thought occurs to him. Anything. Anything to keep Bruce from leaving him. From leaving him alone here. Please, God.
* * * * *
The first thing he notices is the light shining right into his eyes. Squeezing them shut, he groans, lifting a hand to cover his face. Feels like something's tied onto his hand, but he doesn't care. The breeze feels too damn good. Christ, it's hot! Why am I under all these covers?
He tries to throw back the comforter and sheets with his free hand, but he doesn't have the strength. Can't quite muster the energy. Another groan escapes him at the futility, and he realizes his mouth tastes like sweet cotton and his throat is parched and raw. “Wh-wha-? What happened?”
“Bruce?” The call seems distant at first, sleepy.
The room starts to spin, and for a moment he thinks he might throw up. Suppressing the urge, he tries to open his eyes, blinking against the hard light. “Clark?” he croaks.
“Bruce!!” Clark's voice is strained and shaking, joyful and relieved, and Bruce finds his blurred form sitting next to him in the bed, reaching over to wipe his hair back from his face. “A-are you really awake? Say something!”
“Close the damned curtain,” he grumbles, shutting his eyes again and letting his hand fall beside him.
A breathless, exhausted chuckle, and the Kryptonian's weight lifts off the bed. After some shuffling, the light goes away, and he opens his eyes, finding Clark kneeling next to him.
“You look like crap,” he mutters as his vision clears. The dark rings under his companion's eyes, the sallowness in his cheeks, the distinct lack of a tan, and the thin growth of beard are unmistakable, and... Blinking again, he tries and fails to make sense of it; his mind feels like it's been buried in a peat bog for six thousand years and petrified.
“Well, you would, too, if you'd barely slept in two weeks,” Clark smiles faintly, sounding completely strung out. “How are you feeling?”
He thinks for a moment, winces as he begins to process the pain in various parts of his body. The sticky sweat is the worst, though. “Worse than you look. It's too hot. Get these covers off me.”
Clark starts, then moves to push them back. “There. There you go.”
“Thank you,” Bruce breathes, feeling cooler as the breeze washes over his mostly naked body. Then he blinks at Clark, his companion's statement finally hitting him. “What do you mean, 'two weeks'? What the hell happened?”
“You don't remember?”
“Um...” After a moment of searching, Bruce shakes his head weakly, “No.”
Taking a breath, Clark looks at him painfully, rising to perch on the edge of the bed and lay a hand on his chest. “You were bitten. By some kind of octopus. In the lake.”
The Bat gives a slight nod. “And?”
“And you've been mostly unconscious since then. You had a fever that I just couldn't get down. Hallucinations. The occasional convulsions.”
“What day is it, Clark?” Bruce finally demands, getting irritated and absently scratching at his face, where he realizes his own beard has grown out a bit.
“March fourth.”
“March...” His eyes go wide, and the room tries to spin around him again. To hold down the nausea, he grabs his partner's hand and holds as tight as he can. When the spell passes, he shakes his head and tries to lift himself. “I missed your birthday, then.”
Clark chuckles, helping him to sit up and lean back against the pillows and headboard. “It's okay. You wouldn't have wanted to see me on my birthday. I was... a little out of it.”
Bruce looks at him sadly, noting how the remainders of desperation have changed Clark's face into some kind of feral parody of man, then wiggles his hand with the IV in it. “I guess it's been pretty bad, then.”
A sigh. “Yeah. I... started the IV on the twenty-second, when you started to get dehydrated. Had some trouble with your wound at first, some of the punctures from the thing's teeth started to necrotize. It finally started healing a few days in, though, so you didn't lose much tissue.”
“That's why my leg hurts, then.” Shifting uncomfortably, he feels the pull of stitches and the thick, peeling scab above his ankle and beneath bandages. But there's something else further up, something restricting his movement, tied to his leg, and his stomach lurches at the sudden realization, even as he can't make himself look down. “Clark, is that a catheter?”
His companion looks sheepish for a moment, his cheeks going red above his thin beard. “Um... yeah. After I started the IV, it sort of... became a necessity.”
Bruce's teeth start to grind, his eyes squeezing shut. “And what is it made of?”
A nervous breath. “Copper tubing. I'm sorry... I couldn't find anything else that would stay in place.”
“Get it out. Now.”
Clark practically jumps to attend to it, and after an excruciating moment during which Bruce growls every curse he can think of, hands white-knuckling the bedsheets, the pain is gone, leaving only a dull ache and the need to pee - which he knows from long experience won't be happening any time soon.
It takes Bruce a few minutes to catch his breath and calm down, but when he opens his eyes, Clark is sitting next to him again, working to disengage the IV. His companion's eyes are soft and wet, regret clouding them as he focuses on gently removing the needle.
“It's okay, Clark. I'm all right,” he says, repressing a hiss as the needle slides out.
Laying the discarded IV aside, the Kryptonian looks at Bruce again, tears finally spilling over. He takes the Bat's face in his hands and leans in close, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I thought I'd nearly lost you, Bruce.”
Bruce doesn't know if it's the nausea or his gut twisting with emotion, but he takes a deep breath and weakly grabs Clark's shoulders. “Hush. I'm... alive, because of you.”
“Bruce...” Clark chokes out, leaning his forehead against the Bat's. “I was so scared. I mean-” Pulling back, he pauses, looking inward, and his hands slide down over Bruce's chest. Then, “Whatever that thing injected you with was nasty stuff. You were having some pretty bad fever-dreams. I mean, really out there. At one point you were convinced we were in the middle of a League meeting, dancing the Tango and sewing quilts for J'onn's birthday. And...” He pauses again, his brow furrowing momentarily, seeming hesitant. “And then there was the watermelons. Always watermelons, like some weird afterthought. I got you to suck on some of the pink melon from the garden on my birthday, and you've been sucking that stuff down like crazy ever since. I... think that might have been what you needed. Like, somehow you knew... And... God, I even put some of the juice in your IV a few hours ago, 'cuz I didn't know what else to do... But it worked! And...” He looks at Bruce intently, brow furrowed again, shaking his head. “You really don't remember?”
Glancing at the pink-tinted IV line stretching upward with narrowed eyes, Bruce shakes his head fractionally. “No. Nothing since...” The memory is still a bit fuzzy, but he remembers flying out on the rope and diving into the water, Clark joining him in a stunning leap. He remembers taking Clark hard, the two of them swimming lazily and splashing each other afterward, then... darkness. “Nothing since swimming in the lake,” he says quietly.
Clark rakes a hand through his unwashed hair, looking for the world like a man that's seen hell and lived to tell about it.
“You can fill me in on the rest later,” Bruce whispers, his throat still protesting. “I need to get out of bed, get cleaned up, see if I can't-” he winces, “use the bathroom.”
“Okay. Take it slow,” Clark murmurs, moving to help him up.
As his feet hit the floor, Bruce's stomach lurches again, and he finally recognizes it as being completely empty. “What have we got to eat around here, anyway?”
A grin splits the clouds of his lover's introspection, and his eyes light up, sparkling jewels set in a sea of pale flesh and dark hair. “Anything you want.”
* * * * *
March 4th, 2008
Bruce is awake. God, who or whatever you are, thank you. Thank you.
* * * * *
“Coffee?” Clark offers the filled, steaming mug to his Bat, still snuggled beneath the covers after a long night of peaceful sleep. Looking at him, he might never guess what Bruce has been through over the last two weeks, he's already doing so much better. Who would think a shower and a shave - Bruce insisted on shaving right away - could do so much good?
Not that Bruce isn't still far paler than he should be; even spending endless hours in the Cave had never made him quite this... pasty. And there's no telling how bad things are beneath the surface, how much damage that thing might have actually inflicted.
Of course, Clark is well aware that he doesn't look much better, himself. But at least he's got his brain power mostly back after a full night's rest. Thinking more clearly now, he knows it'll be a few days getting themselves, the house, and the farm back in shape after their ordeal, after he almost lost his mind from fear, grief, and loneliness, and it could take weeks for Bruce to-
Bruce takes his mug, smiling faintly. “Thank you.”
Clark can't even continue his line of thinking; now that he's got his Bat back, all those little smiles are the moon and the sun and all the stars combined, beaming brilliantly into the darkness he's been buried under for so long. Grinning easily back as his heart swells, he sits on the bed next to Bruce, leaning over to plant a light kiss on his bare shoulder.
The Bat gives an almost cat-like rumble of pleasure from deep in his throat and chest at the kiss, sipping his coffee. Then, “If I wasn't still in so much pain, I'd ravage you for that, Clark.”
Chuckling lightly, the Kryptonian slips an arm around his lover and leans into him. “Maybe when you're feeling better.” Really, parts of him can't wait, it's been so long. But he will wait. He waited nearly a lifetime for his Bat, he waited two weeks for him to wake up; he'll wait another week or so, or however long it takes for Bruce to be ready.
After a few moments of just sitting, of Clark nuzzling into his precious Bat's shoulder and neck as coffee is sipped, Bruce says, “I want to walk out to the barn and the field today.”
Clark stiffens slightly, worried. “Are you sure you want to go that far so soon? You just woke up yesterday.” Bruce hasn't even been able to make it to the bathroom on his own yet, so there's no telling how a trip around their little homestead will go.
“Yes,” Bruce nods slightly, his jaw set with a determination that Clark knows too well is all Bat.
“All right,” he returns quietly as one of the kittens decides to join them on the bed, nuzzling Bruce's good leg. When the Bat reaches down to rub Jay's head and scratch behind his ears, Clark reverts to a mode he rarely uses anymore and pitches his voice lower, firmer. “But we'll take it slow, okay? It's not like we don't have time on our hands for you to heal, and I don't want you pushing yourself too hard, too fast.”
Still petting the now teenage kitten, Bruce glances at him sideways, a smirking twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Of course, Bruce pushes himself harder than Clark is comfortable with anyway, and the slow trip out around the farm becomes a grimacing kind of torture that the Kryptonian almost can't bear to be a party to. The damage to Bruce's right leg is worse than Clark thought, and it seems the Bat can't really place any weight on it just yet. But they make it back after an excruciating half hour, Bruce panting and grunting with pain and weakness, and Clark helps him down onto the porch, where they sit in the shade and breeze, swatting at the occasional insect and petting the occasional purring cat that slips by.
“This is gonna take fucking forever,” Bruce grumbles, breaking the long silence as he picks a weed that's grown through the planks of the porch. Splitting the stem with his fingers, he doesn't look at Clark for his reaction.
For his part, Clark is only partly mortified at Bruce's language, noting that he sounds more like his wayward middle son than himself. But he certainly understands his frustration, the way the pain can suddenly and swiftly overwhelm even the most determined will, casting everything into doubt and shadowing the light of hope and recovery. His chest clenches with grief, loathe to see his Bat so distressed and wishing Bruce had just listened to him and not insisted on taking the long walk so soon.
“I know,” he says finally, his voice a whisper. After another long pause, he suggests, “Why don't we work out a training regimen for you. As much physical therapy as we've both been through over the years, it shouldn't be too difficult to map out. We'll take things slowly.” He pauses at the firm assertion. “So you don't hurt yourself.”
Silent and still staring at the torn weed he's fiddling with in his hands, Bruce nods.
“It'll be all right, Bruce, I promise.”
The Bat gives him a look that could be confused with anger if Clark didn't know better. “How the hell can you be so sure?”
There's no hesitation. “Because I won't let it not be okay, Bruce. You'll be fine.”
Bruce clenches his jaw, his eyes storming with doubt, another expression Clark hates to see.
“Whatever it takes, right?” he offers, leaving no room for argument.
Another slight nod, “Right.” His features grow hard. “And when I'm able, I want to catch one of these damned octopuses.”
Confusion replaces determination. “What for?”
“Because I don't want anymore damned surprises. I want a record of every goddamn species on the face of this planet, everything we can find and make note of, starting here and now.”
“Okay,” Clark breathes with a small smile, relieved that the hard will of the Bat is indeed intact. Leaning over and catching him around the shoulders, he pulls Bruce tightly to him and nuzzles into his shaggy hair. Still weakened arms wrap around his waist in return, and for a while they sit together, comforted in each other's presence, until Clark pulls back. “You need a haircut,” he smirks, ruffling the soft, unkempt wisps around his lover's ears.
“Speak for yourself,” Bruce smiles back, leaning back into his Kryptonian. “I kind of like this look. It's different.”
“Says the man who used to spend two hundred dollars on a trip to the salon,” Clark chuckles, gripping his Bat tighter.
“Bite me.”
With another chuckle, Clark sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Bruce's neck, nipping lightly at the invitation. It might take months, or hell, years, but his Bat will be just fine.
* * * * *
March 6th, 2008
Clark still hasn't told me all the details about my hallucinations. He mentioned Tim and Alfred a few times, but I get the feeling that there was more to it than League meetings and hidden cookies. He seems... upset by it. I don't know. I won't push him, anyway. God knows he's been through enough. He'll tell me when he tells me.
Whatever. I probably don't want to know, anyway. And I've got more important things to worry about than fever dreams, things like getting back on my feet. I'm still shaky, with two weeks of accumulated muscle atrophy, and my leg feels like it's been chewed up. I think there might be nerve damage, but Clark won't admit to the possibility. It still hurts to use the bathroom, too. But only in that vague sense that things have been violated. Nothing I haven't felt before. I'll live. Anyway, Clark made me a walking cane today that I'll use until I can support myself fully on my right leg. We're also putting together a plan for my physical therapy. It's gonna hurt like a sonofabitch, but I need to get back into shape. Even if - god forbid - even if we never get home and I never wear the cowl again, I have to be fit. I just can't let Clark run this farm by himself. For any length of time. The state of things now is evidence enough; it's too much for him with his diminished power levels. Damned orange sun. He needs me, and I won't let him down.
In the mean time, I'm starting a new project. Considering the events of the last three weeks, I think it's prudent to start cataloguing the species of this world, giving them proper scientific names, studying them, so we don't run into any more surprises like this one. When - if - we get home, it could be invaluable information to add to the Fortress computer's alien life forms database. It's gonna take a whole hell of a lot of work, considering this planet's broad diversity, but it will be worth it in the long run. At some point, I might also be able to do scientific analyses beyond simple dissection and anatomical study, but for now, cataloguing and basic description will suffice. I wish I had more experience in cladistics and general taxonomic classification (at least I have enough working knowledge of Latin to have somewhat of a clue), but Clark has offered his own expertise in the field to help (thank you, photographic memory and years spent working on the Fortress's database). We've already worked out a rudimentary system to keep things uncomplicated, with classification based on the Earth model, as this world's evolution seems to run parallel. One looseleaf notebook for each classification subset. I.E. - one for each class of animals (and that's a lot of classes, considering the number of phyla), one for each class of plants, one for all fungi (for now), one for all algae and protists (for now), and when we get there, one for bacteria (though that will require a good microscope, if we can manage build one). One notebook for cladistics to unify it all. One page per species. It's crude, but it's a start. We'll probably need to expand to one notebook for each order and family, depending on what sorts of organisms we find, but that's a while down the road. At least we can expand and move things around with the looseleaf setup.
* * * * *
March 6th, 2008
Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Invertebrata
Class: Cephalopoda
Order: Octopoda
Family: Decapodidae
Genus: Octopus
Species: Octopus ankylopodia
Common Name: Armored Blue Octopus
Features: Armored plates on each of ten suckered tentacles, circular ring of teeth on ventral mouth, tubular digestive tract, blue-green mantle, bicameral eyes, secretes highly toxic venom into prey upon biting
Habitat: Fresh water streams and lakes
Range: Northern hemisphere, limits unknown
Notes: Species classified into new family. The name 'octopus' may also be wholly incorrect, as the species has ten arms, not eight. It is not yet known if all of this world's octopuses are ten-armed.
* * * * *
March 6th, 2008
Kingdom: Plantae
Phylum/Division: Magnoliophyta
Class: Magnoliopsida
Order: Cucurbitales
Family: Cucurbitaceae
Genus: Citrullus
Species: Citrullus rosa
Common Name: Pink Melon
Features: Dicotyledonous ground vine with broad, dark green leaves. Bears bright red flowers and large fruit with a purple rind and pink internal flesh. Seeds are broad, flat, and white. Fruit ripens in early to mid-summer, and contains juice which acts as an antidote to the venom of Octopus ankylopodia, and as a fever reducer and painkiller.
Habitat: Hillsides, full sun
Range: Northern hemisphere, limits unknown
* * * * *
Closing the second looseleaf notebook after filling in the 'features' and 'notes' to accompany Clark's classifications, Bruce sits back in his chair at the table, uncomfortable from being hunched over, the chair creaking a little with his weight. “Ugh,” he groans, not completely happy with the first species entries. Clearly it'll take a little finesse to work out the bugs in the system. But at least they'll be able to put some proper names to the things on this world, maybe be able to stop saying things like 'not-quite-deer' and 'chicken/duck'. It'll be nice.
Organized. Formal.
A project to keep them occupied while they wait. Distracted.
But right now his head is still a little fuzzy from working so hard to recover. Two weeks mostly unconscious will do that, he supposes. He's more tired than he thought he'd be, and damn, that bed looks comfortable right now.
Pushing himself up out of the chair, he blows out the lamp, then grabs his cane and shuffles across the room to flop roughly down next to Clark, his partner already asleep and lightly snoring, face smashed against the pillow and a sleek, pale kitten - Kara - curled up in the center of his back. A smile pulls up the corner of Bruce's mouth as he burrows under the covers - only one sheet now; it's too hot for anything more - and settles next to his companion.
Focusing on his Kryptonian in the near-darkness, Bruce watches him breathe through slightly parted lips, his face finally clean shaven again, his skin still pale. He's been so exhausted the last two days... it's about time he got some real rest, he deserves it so badly. He deserves more than Bruce thinks he can ever give him. For here is this man, willing to put his own wellbeing on hold, willing to see things through, no matter what the outcome. Willing to bolster him up during his recovery, patient and encouraging. Willing to entertain his insane project, knowing he'll wind up doing the majority of the classification work by default. And all after what Bruce realizes must have been a living nightmare. He can't imagine the frustration Clark must have felt, waiting for him to wake up, listening to his ravings, however bad they must have been, the constant loneliness he must have felt, the fear and uncertainty, the rare birthday blown all to hell - which he's already vowed to make up to him.
Bruce can't blame him for not offering to share the details of the fever dreams. In truth, he knows he's better off not knowing, but if Clark wants to tell him, he'll listen. If not... he won't ask. He knows it wouldn't be worth it for either of them to drag his love back through all that.
When his eyes catch the little blossom of a scar on Clark's left temple from so many months ago, he gently brushes his fingertips over it before finding dark hair and smoothing it back, leaving a single unruly curl laying over his forehead.
So many burdens Clark has carried...
In a whisper in the summer night, he ponders, “Is there really any wonder why they call you Superman...”
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); R (this section)
Word Count: 4,764 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Just when things look to be at their worst, a miracle happens.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Urgh. The long waits between chapters continues. This one just kicked my butt. O_o With any luck, this next week will be kind to me, and I can get the next chapter written.
Index Post
Part 11
March 1st, 2008
I managed a whole hour of sleep last night, thank God. I might have been a little loopy yesterday. Which is probably for the better, anyway, because who wants to remember their birthday like that? Even if it does only come around once every four years.
Anyway, I finally got Bruce to eat some of that melon. Or suck on it, at least. He's been asking for more, amidst his other delusional dreams, but it seems like a genuine request. Who am I to argue? He wants more, he'll get more. And!! His fever doesn't seem so high. Well, his color looks a little better, anyway. I hope I've hit on something with the melon, but I don't want to get my expectations up. Just wish I knew what the hell was going on inside his body.
I also finally remembered to feed the animals. Think they might have gone two days without. I now have more eggs than I know what to do with, too, and poor Bessie was bursting with milk. Don't think I've felt this... guilty since... since we had to dismantle the ship. Christ, I need some more rest. I can't take care of Bruce like this.
* * * * *
Another morning, another day waking - or becoming a little more conscious - to attend to Bruce's still mostly sleeping form. At least the fever dreams have slowed, but there are still bandages to change, IV fluids to switch out, other bodily functions to attend to. It's been so long now that Clark is moving by rote memory, robotically going about the morning routine. Put on the coffee, feed the animals, tend to Bruce. He's sure he remembered to take care of his own necessities in there somewhere, not that it really matters. Some things just aren't necessary anymore; bothering to shave would only take precious time away from his patient.
Coffee downed. Wakefulness achieved, more or less. Chair pulled up beside the bed, fresh plate of pink melon laid on the bedside table for breakfast or lunch or both. Three days now feeding the sweet fruit to Bruce. Or is it four? Shaking his head to clear out the remaining vestiges of light sleep, Clark picks the pinkest piece of melon to offer.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says to the unconscious Bat, Bruce's eyelids fluttering as he passes from sleep to hallucination once more.
“Look for the cookies, J'onn. In the utility belt,” comes the weak plea from the bed, voice low and raspy from overuse and overnight dehydration. “Top drawer.”
“We found the cookies, Bruce. Now wake up and eat your watermelon.”
Bruce is on the piece of fruit almost before Clark can get it to his mouth, automatically sucking on it and gumming it down into mushy pulp.
“There. See? It's better when you don't sleep all the time,” the Kryptonian manages with a tired smile, reaching for another piece of pink melon for himself. After sucking the sweet juice and eating the pulp, he offers another piece to Bruce, stroking his forehead when the Bat takes it immediately. “There. Good.”
And another day passes into the same routine. Clark talking to Bruce on end about nothing and everything. Bruce offering no response but the occasional delusional comment about watermelons and the Joker. Even a statement about the state of affairs in the GCPD. Gordon would be offended if he could hear it, Clark is sure.
The kittens make their usual show, mock-fighting and pouncing their sleeping daddy, and at one point Diana decides to grace them with her presence after meandering in the open front door, curling up at the foot of the bed and purring, green irises shining through narrowed eyes. Her deep, rumbling purr is as soothing to Clark as it is to the kittens, who take the opportunity as morning becomes afternoon to nurse in turns.
Eventually, Clark climbs back into the bed beside his slumbering companion, and succumbs to the need for more sleep, resolutely ignoring the possibilities as he takes Bruce's cool, limp hand in his. So what if Bruce seems weak? He's doing better. Can't lose him. Won't.
* * * * *
After a brief nap, Clark is slowly jostled awake by the form next to him shifting in the bed. “Shhh...” he soothes, reaching up to stroke Bruce's forehead as he has so often. “I'm he-” But the skin beneath his fingertips is cool, clammy, and drenched in sweat, and he realizes he didn't even notice the temperature of Bruce's hand when he took it before falling asleep. “Bruce?” he starts tentatively, his insides suddenly at war, torn between terror and hope. He shakes his companion's shoulder lightly. “Bruce?” Oh, God. Please, please. I can't. Let it just be the fever. Please. “Bruce!”
But the Bat doesn't stir at all, just breathes shallowly, his lips parted and pale. God, so pale, Clark starts to panic. Frantically, he rubs his hands over Bruce's cheeks and scruffy two-week beard, murmuring encouragement and prayers and curses as he chokes on a sob.
Nothing changes, but for a little bit of color returning to his partner's face. Breathing still shallow, eyes still shut, motionless. “Bruce!”
Terrified, Clark looks to the day's second plate of melon, still sitting on the bedside table, and a desperate thought occurs to him. Anything. Anything to keep Bruce from leaving him. From leaving him alone here. Please, God.
* * * * *
The first thing he notices is the light shining right into his eyes. Squeezing them shut, he groans, lifting a hand to cover his face. Feels like something's tied onto his hand, but he doesn't care. The breeze feels too damn good. Christ, it's hot! Why am I under all these covers?
He tries to throw back the comforter and sheets with his free hand, but he doesn't have the strength. Can't quite muster the energy. Another groan escapes him at the futility, and he realizes his mouth tastes like sweet cotton and his throat is parched and raw. “Wh-wha-? What happened?”
“Bruce?” The call seems distant at first, sleepy.
The room starts to spin, and for a moment he thinks he might throw up. Suppressing the urge, he tries to open his eyes, blinking against the hard light. “Clark?” he croaks.
“Bruce!!” Clark's voice is strained and shaking, joyful and relieved, and Bruce finds his blurred form sitting next to him in the bed, reaching over to wipe his hair back from his face. “A-are you really awake? Say something!”
“Close the damned curtain,” he grumbles, shutting his eyes again and letting his hand fall beside him.
A breathless, exhausted chuckle, and the Kryptonian's weight lifts off the bed. After some shuffling, the light goes away, and he opens his eyes, finding Clark kneeling next to him.
“You look like crap,” he mutters as his vision clears. The dark rings under his companion's eyes, the sallowness in his cheeks, the distinct lack of a tan, and the thin growth of beard are unmistakable, and... Blinking again, he tries and fails to make sense of it; his mind feels like it's been buried in a peat bog for six thousand years and petrified.
“Well, you would, too, if you'd barely slept in two weeks,” Clark smiles faintly, sounding completely strung out. “How are you feeling?”
He thinks for a moment, winces as he begins to process the pain in various parts of his body. The sticky sweat is the worst, though. “Worse than you look. It's too hot. Get these covers off me.”
Clark starts, then moves to push them back. “There. There you go.”
“Thank you,” Bruce breathes, feeling cooler as the breeze washes over his mostly naked body. Then he blinks at Clark, his companion's statement finally hitting him. “What do you mean, 'two weeks'? What the hell happened?”
“You don't remember?”
“Um...” After a moment of searching, Bruce shakes his head weakly, “No.”
Taking a breath, Clark looks at him painfully, rising to perch on the edge of the bed and lay a hand on his chest. “You were bitten. By some kind of octopus. In the lake.”
The Bat gives a slight nod. “And?”
“And you've been mostly unconscious since then. You had a fever that I just couldn't get down. Hallucinations. The occasional convulsions.”
“What day is it, Clark?” Bruce finally demands, getting irritated and absently scratching at his face, where he realizes his own beard has grown out a bit.
“March fourth.”
“March...” His eyes go wide, and the room tries to spin around him again. To hold down the nausea, he grabs his partner's hand and holds as tight as he can. When the spell passes, he shakes his head and tries to lift himself. “I missed your birthday, then.”
Clark chuckles, helping him to sit up and lean back against the pillows and headboard. “It's okay. You wouldn't have wanted to see me on my birthday. I was... a little out of it.”
Bruce looks at him sadly, noting how the remainders of desperation have changed Clark's face into some kind of feral parody of man, then wiggles his hand with the IV in it. “I guess it's been pretty bad, then.”
A sigh. “Yeah. I... started the IV on the twenty-second, when you started to get dehydrated. Had some trouble with your wound at first, some of the punctures from the thing's teeth started to necrotize. It finally started healing a few days in, though, so you didn't lose much tissue.”
“That's why my leg hurts, then.” Shifting uncomfortably, he feels the pull of stitches and the thick, peeling scab above his ankle and beneath bandages. But there's something else further up, something restricting his movement, tied to his leg, and his stomach lurches at the sudden realization, even as he can't make himself look down. “Clark, is that a catheter?”
His companion looks sheepish for a moment, his cheeks going red above his thin beard. “Um... yeah. After I started the IV, it sort of... became a necessity.”
Bruce's teeth start to grind, his eyes squeezing shut. “And what is it made of?”
A nervous breath. “Copper tubing. I'm sorry... I couldn't find anything else that would stay in place.”
“Get it out. Now.”
Clark practically jumps to attend to it, and after an excruciating moment during which Bruce growls every curse he can think of, hands white-knuckling the bedsheets, the pain is gone, leaving only a dull ache and the need to pee - which he knows from long experience won't be happening any time soon.
It takes Bruce a few minutes to catch his breath and calm down, but when he opens his eyes, Clark is sitting next to him again, working to disengage the IV. His companion's eyes are soft and wet, regret clouding them as he focuses on gently removing the needle.
“It's okay, Clark. I'm all right,” he says, repressing a hiss as the needle slides out.
Laying the discarded IV aside, the Kryptonian looks at Bruce again, tears finally spilling over. He takes the Bat's face in his hands and leans in close, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I thought I'd nearly lost you, Bruce.”
Bruce doesn't know if it's the nausea or his gut twisting with emotion, but he takes a deep breath and weakly grabs Clark's shoulders. “Hush. I'm... alive, because of you.”
“Bruce...” Clark chokes out, leaning his forehead against the Bat's. “I was so scared. I mean-” Pulling back, he pauses, looking inward, and his hands slide down over Bruce's chest. Then, “Whatever that thing injected you with was nasty stuff. You were having some pretty bad fever-dreams. I mean, really out there. At one point you were convinced we were in the middle of a League meeting, dancing the Tango and sewing quilts for J'onn's birthday. And...” He pauses again, his brow furrowing momentarily, seeming hesitant. “And then there was the watermelons. Always watermelons, like some weird afterthought. I got you to suck on some of the pink melon from the garden on my birthday, and you've been sucking that stuff down like crazy ever since. I... think that might have been what you needed. Like, somehow you knew... And... God, I even put some of the juice in your IV a few hours ago, 'cuz I didn't know what else to do... But it worked! And...” He looks at Bruce intently, brow furrowed again, shaking his head. “You really don't remember?”
Glancing at the pink-tinted IV line stretching upward with narrowed eyes, Bruce shakes his head fractionally. “No. Nothing since...” The memory is still a bit fuzzy, but he remembers flying out on the rope and diving into the water, Clark joining him in a stunning leap. He remembers taking Clark hard, the two of them swimming lazily and splashing each other afterward, then... darkness. “Nothing since swimming in the lake,” he says quietly.
Clark rakes a hand through his unwashed hair, looking for the world like a man that's seen hell and lived to tell about it.
“You can fill me in on the rest later,” Bruce whispers, his throat still protesting. “I need to get out of bed, get cleaned up, see if I can't-” he winces, “use the bathroom.”
“Okay. Take it slow,” Clark murmurs, moving to help him up.
As his feet hit the floor, Bruce's stomach lurches again, and he finally recognizes it as being completely empty. “What have we got to eat around here, anyway?”
A grin splits the clouds of his lover's introspection, and his eyes light up, sparkling jewels set in a sea of pale flesh and dark hair. “Anything you want.”
* * * * *
March 4th, 2008
Bruce is awake. God, who or whatever you are, thank you. Thank you.
* * * * *
“Coffee?” Clark offers the filled, steaming mug to his Bat, still snuggled beneath the covers after a long night of peaceful sleep. Looking at him, he might never guess what Bruce has been through over the last two weeks, he's already doing so much better. Who would think a shower and a shave - Bruce insisted on shaving right away - could do so much good?
Not that Bruce isn't still far paler than he should be; even spending endless hours in the Cave had never made him quite this... pasty. And there's no telling how bad things are beneath the surface, how much damage that thing might have actually inflicted.
Of course, Clark is well aware that he doesn't look much better, himself. But at least he's got his brain power mostly back after a full night's rest. Thinking more clearly now, he knows it'll be a few days getting themselves, the house, and the farm back in shape after their ordeal, after he almost lost his mind from fear, grief, and loneliness, and it could take weeks for Bruce to-
Bruce takes his mug, smiling faintly. “Thank you.”
Clark can't even continue his line of thinking; now that he's got his Bat back, all those little smiles are the moon and the sun and all the stars combined, beaming brilliantly into the darkness he's been buried under for so long. Grinning easily back as his heart swells, he sits on the bed next to Bruce, leaning over to plant a light kiss on his bare shoulder.
The Bat gives an almost cat-like rumble of pleasure from deep in his throat and chest at the kiss, sipping his coffee. Then, “If I wasn't still in so much pain, I'd ravage you for that, Clark.”
Chuckling lightly, the Kryptonian slips an arm around his lover and leans into him. “Maybe when you're feeling better.” Really, parts of him can't wait, it's been so long. But he will wait. He waited nearly a lifetime for his Bat, he waited two weeks for him to wake up; he'll wait another week or so, or however long it takes for Bruce to be ready.
After a few moments of just sitting, of Clark nuzzling into his precious Bat's shoulder and neck as coffee is sipped, Bruce says, “I want to walk out to the barn and the field today.”
Clark stiffens slightly, worried. “Are you sure you want to go that far so soon? You just woke up yesterday.” Bruce hasn't even been able to make it to the bathroom on his own yet, so there's no telling how a trip around their little homestead will go.
“Yes,” Bruce nods slightly, his jaw set with a determination that Clark knows too well is all Bat.
“All right,” he returns quietly as one of the kittens decides to join them on the bed, nuzzling Bruce's good leg. When the Bat reaches down to rub Jay's head and scratch behind his ears, Clark reverts to a mode he rarely uses anymore and pitches his voice lower, firmer. “But we'll take it slow, okay? It's not like we don't have time on our hands for you to heal, and I don't want you pushing yourself too hard, too fast.”
Still petting the now teenage kitten, Bruce glances at him sideways, a smirking twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Of course, Bruce pushes himself harder than Clark is comfortable with anyway, and the slow trip out around the farm becomes a grimacing kind of torture that the Kryptonian almost can't bear to be a party to. The damage to Bruce's right leg is worse than Clark thought, and it seems the Bat can't really place any weight on it just yet. But they make it back after an excruciating half hour, Bruce panting and grunting with pain and weakness, and Clark helps him down onto the porch, where they sit in the shade and breeze, swatting at the occasional insect and petting the occasional purring cat that slips by.
“This is gonna take fucking forever,” Bruce grumbles, breaking the long silence as he picks a weed that's grown through the planks of the porch. Splitting the stem with his fingers, he doesn't look at Clark for his reaction.
For his part, Clark is only partly mortified at Bruce's language, noting that he sounds more like his wayward middle son than himself. But he certainly understands his frustration, the way the pain can suddenly and swiftly overwhelm even the most determined will, casting everything into doubt and shadowing the light of hope and recovery. His chest clenches with grief, loathe to see his Bat so distressed and wishing Bruce had just listened to him and not insisted on taking the long walk so soon.
“I know,” he says finally, his voice a whisper. After another long pause, he suggests, “Why don't we work out a training regimen for you. As much physical therapy as we've both been through over the years, it shouldn't be too difficult to map out. We'll take things slowly.” He pauses at the firm assertion. “So you don't hurt yourself.”
Silent and still staring at the torn weed he's fiddling with in his hands, Bruce nods.
“It'll be all right, Bruce, I promise.”
The Bat gives him a look that could be confused with anger if Clark didn't know better. “How the hell can you be so sure?”
There's no hesitation. “Because I won't let it not be okay, Bruce. You'll be fine.”
Bruce clenches his jaw, his eyes storming with doubt, another expression Clark hates to see.
“Whatever it takes, right?” he offers, leaving no room for argument.
Another slight nod, “Right.” His features grow hard. “And when I'm able, I want to catch one of these damned octopuses.”
Confusion replaces determination. “What for?”
“Because I don't want anymore damned surprises. I want a record of every goddamn species on the face of this planet, everything we can find and make note of, starting here and now.”
“Okay,” Clark breathes with a small smile, relieved that the hard will of the Bat is indeed intact. Leaning over and catching him around the shoulders, he pulls Bruce tightly to him and nuzzles into his shaggy hair. Still weakened arms wrap around his waist in return, and for a while they sit together, comforted in each other's presence, until Clark pulls back. “You need a haircut,” he smirks, ruffling the soft, unkempt wisps around his lover's ears.
“Speak for yourself,” Bruce smiles back, leaning back into his Kryptonian. “I kind of like this look. It's different.”
“Says the man who used to spend two hundred dollars on a trip to the salon,” Clark chuckles, gripping his Bat tighter.
“Bite me.”
With another chuckle, Clark sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Bruce's neck, nipping lightly at the invitation. It might take months, or hell, years, but his Bat will be just fine.
* * * * *
March 6th, 2008
Clark still hasn't told me all the details about my hallucinations. He mentioned Tim and Alfred a few times, but I get the feeling that there was more to it than League meetings and hidden cookies. He seems... upset by it. I don't know. I won't push him, anyway. God knows he's been through enough. He'll tell me when he tells me.
Whatever. I probably don't want to know, anyway. And I've got more important things to worry about than fever dreams, things like getting back on my feet. I'm still shaky, with two weeks of accumulated muscle atrophy, and my leg feels like it's been chewed up. I think there might be nerve damage, but Clark won't admit to the possibility. It still hurts to use the bathroom, too. But only in that vague sense that things have been violated. Nothing I haven't felt before. I'll live. Anyway, Clark made me a walking cane today that I'll use until I can support myself fully on my right leg. We're also putting together a plan for my physical therapy. It's gonna hurt like a sonofabitch, but I need to get back into shape. Even if - god forbid - even if we never get home and I never wear the cowl again, I have to be fit. I just can't let Clark run this farm by himself. For any length of time. The state of things now is evidence enough; it's too much for him with his diminished power levels. Damned orange sun. He needs me, and I won't let him down.
In the mean time, I'm starting a new project. Considering the events of the last three weeks, I think it's prudent to start cataloguing the species of this world, giving them proper scientific names, studying them, so we don't run into any more surprises like this one. When - if - we get home, it could be invaluable information to add to the Fortress computer's alien life forms database. It's gonna take a whole hell of a lot of work, considering this planet's broad diversity, but it will be worth it in the long run. At some point, I might also be able to do scientific analyses beyond simple dissection and anatomical study, but for now, cataloguing and basic description will suffice. I wish I had more experience in cladistics and general taxonomic classification (at least I have enough working knowledge of Latin to have somewhat of a clue), but Clark has offered his own expertise in the field to help (thank you, photographic memory and years spent working on the Fortress's database). We've already worked out a rudimentary system to keep things uncomplicated, with classification based on the Earth model, as this world's evolution seems to run parallel. One looseleaf notebook for each classification subset. I.E. - one for each class of animals (and that's a lot of classes, considering the number of phyla), one for each class of plants, one for all fungi (for now), one for all algae and protists (for now), and when we get there, one for bacteria (though that will require a good microscope, if we can manage build one). One notebook for cladistics to unify it all. One page per species. It's crude, but it's a start. We'll probably need to expand to one notebook for each order and family, depending on what sorts of organisms we find, but that's a while down the road. At least we can expand and move things around with the looseleaf setup.
* * * * *
March 6th, 2008
Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Invertebrata
Class: Cephalopoda
Order: Octopoda
Family: Decapodidae
Genus: Octopus
Species: Octopus ankylopodia
Common Name: Armored Blue Octopus
Features: Armored plates on each of ten suckered tentacles, circular ring of teeth on ventral mouth, tubular digestive tract, blue-green mantle, bicameral eyes, secretes highly toxic venom into prey upon biting
Habitat: Fresh water streams and lakes
Range: Northern hemisphere, limits unknown
Notes: Species classified into new family. The name 'octopus' may also be wholly incorrect, as the species has ten arms, not eight. It is not yet known if all of this world's octopuses are ten-armed.
* * * * *
March 6th, 2008
Kingdom: Plantae
Phylum/Division: Magnoliophyta
Class: Magnoliopsida
Order: Cucurbitales
Family: Cucurbitaceae
Genus: Citrullus
Species: Citrullus rosa
Common Name: Pink Melon
Features: Dicotyledonous ground vine with broad, dark green leaves. Bears bright red flowers and large fruit with a purple rind and pink internal flesh. Seeds are broad, flat, and white. Fruit ripens in early to mid-summer, and contains juice which acts as an antidote to the venom of Octopus ankylopodia, and as a fever reducer and painkiller.
Habitat: Hillsides, full sun
Range: Northern hemisphere, limits unknown
* * * * *
Closing the second looseleaf notebook after filling in the 'features' and 'notes' to accompany Clark's classifications, Bruce sits back in his chair at the table, uncomfortable from being hunched over, the chair creaking a little with his weight. “Ugh,” he groans, not completely happy with the first species entries. Clearly it'll take a little finesse to work out the bugs in the system. But at least they'll be able to put some proper names to the things on this world, maybe be able to stop saying things like 'not-quite-deer' and 'chicken/duck'. It'll be nice.
Organized. Formal.
A project to keep them occupied while they wait. Distracted.
But right now his head is still a little fuzzy from working so hard to recover. Two weeks mostly unconscious will do that, he supposes. He's more tired than he thought he'd be, and damn, that bed looks comfortable right now.
Pushing himself up out of the chair, he blows out the lamp, then grabs his cane and shuffles across the room to flop roughly down next to Clark, his partner already asleep and lightly snoring, face smashed against the pillow and a sleek, pale kitten - Kara - curled up in the center of his back. A smile pulls up the corner of Bruce's mouth as he burrows under the covers - only one sheet now; it's too hot for anything more - and settles next to his companion.
Focusing on his Kryptonian in the near-darkness, Bruce watches him breathe through slightly parted lips, his face finally clean shaven again, his skin still pale. He's been so exhausted the last two days... it's about time he got some real rest, he deserves it so badly. He deserves more than Bruce thinks he can ever give him. For here is this man, willing to put his own wellbeing on hold, willing to see things through, no matter what the outcome. Willing to bolster him up during his recovery, patient and encouraging. Willing to entertain his insane project, knowing he'll wind up doing the majority of the classification work by default. And all after what Bruce realizes must have been a living nightmare. He can't imagine the frustration Clark must have felt, waiting for him to wake up, listening to his ravings, however bad they must have been, the constant loneliness he must have felt, the fear and uncertainty, the rare birthday blown all to hell - which he's already vowed to make up to him.
Bruce can't blame him for not offering to share the details of the fever dreams. In truth, he knows he's better off not knowing, but if Clark wants to tell him, he'll listen. If not... he won't ask. He knows it wouldn't be worth it for either of them to drag his love back through all that.
When his eyes catch the little blossom of a scar on Clark's left temple from so many months ago, he gently brushes his fingertips over it before finding dark hair and smoothing it back, leaving a single unruly curl laying over his forehead.
So many burdens Clark has carried...
In a whisper in the summer night, he ponders, “Is there really any wonder why they call you Superman...”
* * * * *