Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | R | 12/20
Title: Lost Years - Part 12
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); R (this section - for language)
Word Count: 3,901 (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) When they find their food stores dwindling as summer turns toward autumn, Clark has no choice but to take a trip. Of course, things don't go as planned.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Wow, I can't believe it's been almost 3 months since I posted a chapter. O_o I hope you all can forgive me. As with life, things just got in the way. But I'm back, baby, yeeeaaahhh!! :D Had to split this one in half, but at least that gives me a portion of part 13 already written. ^_~
Index Post
Part 12
With the rain sluicing out of the sky precluding work in the garden, it's all Clark and Bruce can do to keep themselves busy with small tasks inside the house. More classifications to add to their records, a hole in a pair of Clark's pants to be mended, a journal entry to be made, a pot handle to fix.
Not enough to do by a long shot, and by mid-afternoon there's simply nothing left. Even the cats have given up on play and have all sacked out in their chosen spots around the tiny house.
So it's no surprise that both men are bored out of their minds, even after their second round of lovemaking. Laying in the bed with the covers pulled up over them after they've cleaned themselves up, they listen to the hard rain abusing the roof, the thunder rumbling in the distance as the late summer storm drives its way across the landscape, relentless as it paves the way for autumn.
“This is getting old, fast,” Bruce grumbles, absently tracing patterns on his lover's chest beneath the thick comforter and sheet.
“Hmm?” Clark peeks an eye open at him.
“All this sitting around with nothing to do,” the Bat expands. “I think I might be getting cabin fever.”
His companion smiles sympathetically, “I know. There's only so much a man can write about before he's out of things to say.”
“And only so much to fix around here.”
“Heh,” Clark chuckles. After a silent moment, more thunder rolling somewhere far off, he suggests, “You want to run through your exercises again?”
Bruce's response is curt, “No.”
A sigh. “I know you're tired of it, but it's something to do. At the very least, we could get stretched out. God knows my back is still all knotted from bringing in the second harvest.”
The Bat gives him a long suffering look, then slips away and pushes back the covers to swing his feet onto the floor. “Fine,” he sighs.
Not looking back for Clark's reaction, Bruce tests his leg as he puts a little weight on it, grabbing his cane for support. Better than last week. Still not quite right.
Three and a half months, and his leg is still not completely healed. Three and a half months of training, exercising, working until his muscles have burned with overexertion, and he still has to use a goddamn cane to get anywhere.
Not to mention the persistent numbness around the scar. Fucking octopus.
But Clark is already kneeling on the thick bear skin rug in the center of the floor - a trophy from Bruce's third bear kill of the year, damn them and their taste for chicken/duck - so the Bat makes his way over, stiff from being inside all day, and joins him.
Clasping hands, both still naked, they push and pull against each other, stretching hamstrings and calves, lats and biceps, everything that tends to get tight with the kind of work they do around the farm. But they work in silence, given over to the boredom of the long, rainy day with nothing better to do.
After a long ten or fifteen-minute stretch - who can tell, anymore? - Bruce leans over his leg, the offending limb still outstretched, and inspects his scar.
Nope, still no feeling around the broad, pale circle.
“How is it?” Clark asks.
Bruce looks up to find the Kryptonian's cerulean gaze full of his usual concern. “The same,” he responds quietly, tearing his eyes away after a moment.
“I'm sorry.”
The Bat sighs. “I know. Not your fault, remember?”
It's a conversation they've had nearly every day since Bruce awoke from his fevered coma, always with the same results.
“Still...”
But Bruce is too annoyed to let it get any further. “Stop. Just stop it,” he grinds out, ready to pitch his cane across the room, for all the good it would do. Instead, he twines his hands into the fur of the rug, forcing his anger down. “Just... why don't you make some coffee, and I'll get the fireplace going. It's too damn chilly in here.”
With a silent nod, Clark rises, slips on a pair of pants, and goes about his usual routine, Bruce doing the same and hobbling over to the wood box to grab a few logs to get started. But before the Bat can get the fire going, Clark's voice breaks the silence, “Uh, Bruce? When was the last time you checked the coffee supply?”
“What?” Bruce whirls from his work, standing shakily.
Clark's eyes are wide as he holds out an empty canister. “We're out of coffee.”
“That's impossible. I filled it last week.”
“Well, we're out,” comes the Kryptonian's irritated reply.
The Bat sighs heavily, grabbing his cane for support. “Dammit,” he grumbles. “We should have plenty in the cave.”
“All right. I'll go,” Clark offers, shelving the canister.
Bruce considers it for a moment, then stops him as he's pulling on his shirt. “Wait, we'll both go. Might as well do a complete inventory.”
The taller man looks concerned for a moment. “You feel up to it?” he says, glancing up from grabbing his boots.
“Does it matter? The trail shouldn't be too much trouble, even with the rain, and we're about a month overdue for inventory. If we need supplies, better to get them now, before it gets too cold to travel.”
“Okay,” Clark sighs. “Let's go, then.”
* * * * *
A half-hour later, they're both standing in the slightly damp cave, torches set into their sconces along the walls, casting their dim, yellow light across the space. Bruce has his inventory book out and is already taking note of their supplies, Clark going for the coffee first.
“Damn, we're down to our last sack,” he says as he hauls up the large burlap bag. “It's a good four months worth, but that won't get us through winter unless we conserve,” he expands, looking over to his companion. Bruce only nods, taking down the numbers, and it's then that Clark sees the hard set of his jaw, the weariness around his eyes. He knew it would be a mistake to let Bruce come down here; but his Bat wouldn't have been deterred. Over the last three months, he's only trained harder, fought tougher, worked more determined than ever to get back into shape, and with such mixed results it's not hard to see how frustrated he is, how tired he is.
“Bruce,” he says, standing, “you should go back up to the house. I can take care of this.”
The Bat shoots him a hard look. “No.”
“All right, all right,” Clark raises his hands in surrender.
Moving past him with a frown, limping hard, Bruce goes to the stacked crates of various fruits. Apple-cherry, blood lime, pink melons; the assortment won't last a month, no thanks to a smaller than expected crop, but it's better than nothing. “You might have to make two separate trips,” he grumbles, taking down more figures.
Clark looks at him as he inspects the fruit supplies more thoroughly. “That'll take too long. I can do this in one short trip,” he insists.
“Like hell.” Bruce's eyes are narrowed. “We're already running low on salt and sugar, and we're almost out of aloe gel, too. Look.” Pointing, he tries to draw Clark's attention to the measly one sack of salt laid a bit farther back, next to a dwindling stack of sugar sacks - the crystals extracted from syrupy-sweet, grape-like berries native to the more southern climate.
“I'm not leaving you for more than two days, Bruce,” the Kryptonian counters, not even looking. “I won't.”
“You'll have to.”
“No.” Clark can hear both of their hearts pumping furiously as the argument escalates quickly. “One trip. I can get everything in two days, and be back before-”
“You don't have the speed or power to do that, anymore!” Bruce shouts, cutting him off. “Dammit, Clark! You'll get out there and have no way to get back! Don't you get it!”
The Kryptonian winces at the scathing barb. It's not entirely untrue, but he knows he has enough power for this, if he tackles it right. Blowing a breath out his nostrils, he clenches his jaw tightly and looks away. Then, quietly, “I can't leave you to run the farm with your leg like it is, Bruce. I can't... I shouldn't be leaving you at all.”
Bruce's unintelligible roar fills the cave with raging echoes as he finally flings his cane at a wall, breaking it into three splintered pieces.
* * * * *
They wait until the early morning of the next day for Clark to set off. The ground's still wet and soggy from the hard storm, the air still misty and gray as the clouds are finally moving on, but the temperature's rising quickly, so they both know everything will dry up soon enough. Clark's boots won't really know the difference as he speeds over the landscape, anyway.
By the time he's ready to head out, a pack full of burlap sacs and leather ties strapped to his back, Bruce's utility belt - filled with special tools for the trip - around his waist, suede jacket on and all, Clark wants nothing more than to scrap the entire thing and just take his lover back inside and wipe that hard grimace off his face for good. “I don't want to just leave you,” he says for the seventy-eighth time since the night before.
But Bruce is having none of it. “Stop stalling,” the Bat grumbles after a sip of coffee as they stand on the porch. “I told you I'd be fine here. Now get going.”
Clark shuffles from foot to foot, pacing a little and looking from Bruce to the trail and back several times. “Bruce...”
Finally, Bruce sets down his mug and limps over to wrap his arms around his Kryptonian's waist. “We're not having this argument again.” He looks at Clark with dark, hooded eyes, and all the taller man can do is sigh heavily.
“I - I know,” Clark replies after a moment, gripping his Bat just as hard in return. “I just...”
Bruce gives him one more squeeze, then pushes away. “Go.”
“I love you,” Clark whispers as he releases his companion.
“I love you, too. Now go.”
With a faint smile and a rush of misty wind, the Kryptonian is gone.
* * * * *
It's somewhat like a dream, Clark realizes, when he makes it all the way to the southernmost point in his journey. Surrounded by sparse jungle, he listens to sounds he hasn't heard in many months. Brightly-colored birds chirruping happily in the canopy, large insects buzzing by his head, a hundred species of frogs and snakelike-salamanders croaking and singing, and somewhere not too far away, a jungle cat snarling at a competitor or its prey or some other threat. The sounds, the fragrant smells, the too-damp air, it's almost overwhelming, in a way. Clark supposes he's simply gotten used to not sensing quite as much, and the sudden increase in information is overloading him, but regardless, it feels good. Good to be in the middle of life. Good to know that the planet they're on isn't just some barren rock.
He wonders for a brief moment if that means he's becoming too-used to the forest where they live. But no matter - he has a job to do, and limited time in which to do it. He's already been gone for six hours, not daring to run at full speed, if that's even available to him anymore, and he promised Bruce no more than two days. No more than two days for Bruce to tend to the farm alone. Thinking offhandedly about the daily chores around their homestead and how his love is faring with them, and trying not to worry, Clark seeks out his first stop, the coffee grove.
In a matter of minutes he's found it again, the grove a dense thicket where even the tall trees can't take root to block out the sun. The reddish berries are ripe and more than ready to be picked, the sprawling shrubs heavily fecund with their fruit. Smiling to himself, Clark sets to work in the most efficient manner he can afford.
* * * * *
Tossing uncomfortably in the empty bed, Bruce can't get himself to sleep. He knows logically that he's grown used to having Clark by his side and that his lover's absence is striking his subconscious in unpleasant ways, but he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Ignoring it resolutely, he flips over to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling, where the naked rafters cast inky shadows against the roof paneling. Beautiful, in its own way, but inefficient. He wonders how much heat they lost through the roof last winter. Maybe this year they can try to find a way to insulate it, maybe-
The blood-curdling screech of one of the cats cuts off his contemplation, and he's out of the bed before he realizes it, Batarang in hand as he pushes aside the curtain to see what's happening outside. In the sliver of moonlight cast through the patchy, leftover clouds, he makes out several of the cats surrounding and fighting a much larger animal. Too small to be a bear, but too big to be another cat. A flash of teeth. A low snarl. Cats screaming and claws glinting in the pale light. Dammit!
Bruce is outside in a heartbeat, arm poised to throw his weapon, but he can't get a good angle; the cats seem to be everywhere, swarming the beast as they work together to take it out. “Hey!” he screams, hoping to clear out the felines. “Diana! Jay!”
But they don't even respond to their names this time, fighting hard, screaming and screeching and hissing and spitting. Blood is flowing, shining in the moonlight, and Bruce knows he doesn't have much time to stop this before things go even more wrong. If his throw is off by a hair...
No time!
His pulse rushing in his throat and adrenaline shooting all the way to his toes, Bruce throws the Batarang.
* * * * *
Clark can't get to sleep. Laying in a grassy field with his pack under his head and his jacket pulled over him as the warm breeze ghosts over his face and tousles his hair, he watches the night sky, open and star-filled and vast, and thinks of home. Of Bruce. Their farm. Metropolis. Smallville. He thinks of the distances between the stars, from here to Earth. To Rann. Heck, even to Oa. Reaching emptiness that he can't traverse. And he wonders about all the signals they tried to send. The burst of static on his comm as he tried to activate it. Bruce's mirrors flipping in Morse code for months.
The stars shine and twinkle back at him in ignorance, defying even his thoughts, and it makes him so heartsick he feels like he can't breathe.
Lying here, in some horrific parody of camping out, his mind turns unwittingly back to those days spent sleeping around the globe, flitting from place to place, when all he wanted was to be by Bruce's side, to curl up around him beneath their capes and the not-quite-deer skins, to feel Bruce's warmth and breath against his skin, to hold him and damn the consequences. He's not sure he could ever go back to sleeping alone if they somehow manage to get home; he's not having any success tonight, certainly.
But God, he's tired. Bruce's warnings about his power levels creep into his thoughts, and he knows, even if he doesn't want to admit it, that he's been slowing down. Speeding a thousand miles to the south took more out of him than he thought it would, but he's not ready to give up yet. Three more stops to go, after he gets a few hours of sleep. Then he can head home. The weight should be no problem, and he's sure he'll be home by sundown. Positive even.
So why can't he convince himself that everything is all right? Deep inside, something feels wrong. And maybe it isn't him, but the niggling at the back of his brain is pulling adrenaline up from his gut and keeping him from the soft comfort of sleep.
Restless, he watches the sky.
* * * * *
The shovel smacks down the last bit of dirt with such finality that Bruce suddenly feels nauseas. Having to bury them... it feels too much like losing Jason all over again, except there's no one here to even offer a shoulder, much less get him through the grief. If Clark were here... He can't even make himself finish the thought, much as he'd like to. At least he wouldn't have had to do this alone.
As it is, his blood is still singing with the adrenaline of killing that damned wolf-thing - a new species to wander onto their little homestead, that Clark had insisted only stalked the more northern latitudes - and from the shock of finding one of the cats mortally wounded and another already dead. He's not sure he'll sleep at all for the next two nights, even with Clark back with him. Sure as hell won't be able to sleep anymore tonight. But what else is new? Not like he hasn't spent enough nights lying awake to be able to handle it. Of all the Earth's insomniacs, Bruce is a hardened pro and probably the master. Problem is, he doesn't exactly have a Cave full of computers and casework and vehicles that need repair and maintenance to keep him busy. Maybe he'll fix that leak he found in the barn roof yesterday. Though... he really needs daylight to for that sort of project. At the very least, he can add the wolf-thing to his steadily growing physical database of biological specimens. That should take an hour. Maybe.
The chilled air gusts around him for a brief moment, and he realizes he's letting his mind wander to avoid thinking about what happened. Truth be told, he hasn't had a pet, much less let himself become attached to one, in so many years he can't remember. Last time he even bothered with an animal was the week Selina had charged him with looking in on her cats occasionally, as she was headed to Paris for God only knows what. He'd even fed them and spent a few minutes with them himself as per her request, rather than have Alfred go in his stead. Oddly enough, the felines seemed to take a liking to him, and by the end of the week, he was almost sad to part their company.
Not that he would have admitted such a thing to Selina.
But these cats... they'd been his and Clark's constant companions for months now. Coming and going as they pleased, but always returning to the house to sleep and be fed, and to curl up in laps and purr noisily. They'd developed an affinity for sleeping next to or on top of the two men, especially next to Bruce's messed up leg, and he was certain they knew just where the trouble spot was, like they could sense that his chi was blocked or some other mystical thing that Bruce didn't believe in. Like they were trying to heal him by sheer force of will.
He lets a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth at that, thinking that they would all have done the Lantern Corps proud, and certainly Selina. Damned heroic little things.
Just like every hero Bruce had ever known. Fierce. Fiery. Determined to beat the odds.
Except that this time they hadn't. Diana and little Cass won't see another fight. Jay'll be lucky if the wound on his leg doesn't get infected and kill him anyway.
Bruce isn't sure he can stand to lose Jay a second time, and his chest tightens at the mere though of it.
Turning to limp back into the dark house, the Bat steels himself for a long night, assuring himself that he won't worry too much about Clark. He still has a whole day, he reminds himself, breathing deep. A whole day.
* * * * *
By early the next afternoon, Clark has made it to all but the last stop on his list. Running at a considerably slower clip than he'd like to, he makes a bee-line for the valley where he'd found the sweet pseudo-grapes. In the early summer, a single bunch had been enough to convince them that they could use them for sugar, to make a kind of wine, and for simple, sweet juice. Sort of a miracle fruit. And that wasn't even counting their, uh, regularity properties, Clark remembers with a chuckle.
He's still running slower than he should be able to when he reaches the wild vineyard, the vines creeping up the spindly trunks of sparsely-foliates trees. Bruce had hypothesized that the grape plants were penetrating the host tree and taking their nutrition, inhibiting leaf growth in a form of parasitism. It might be a losing situation for the host, but the grapes grow huge and deep purple, so who are they to argue with the relationship?
As he works, Clark realizes that he doesn't even care about how the system works, what he really wants is to be finished here and go home. As amazing as his trip has been, he would rather have spent last night in bed with Bruce, warm and happy, rather than sacked out on the ground with his pack for a pillow. Even having managed a whole five hours of sleep and shrugging off the sense of dread that had crept over him in the night, he's tired, he's sluggish, and his muscles are getting sore from hauling the weight of his harvest. But he has to keep going. Has to finish.
In an hour and a half, he's collected enough fruit to keep them in sugar and juice through the winter. “Finally!” he says to no one but the gleaned vineyard as he secures the last sack, ready to be on his way. No more than two hours until home, and Bruce, and bed, he realizes. Two hours until he can shrug off the heavy weight and rest.
Setting off as the sun dips lower toward the horizon, Clark can feel the end of his trip within his reach. His worry about Bruce crests and wanes, and he knows that his lover will be waiting for him, grumbling and anxious and fine. His heart swells with that, even as he feels the energy slowly leaving him. He'll be home soon and everything will be fine.
He's through the valley between the rugged mountains to the southeast of home, just coming to the foothills and narrow ridges of more worn down peaks, so close he can taste it. But he's so tired. Slowing. Still fast, but... Closing his eyes briefly as the wind rushes by, he feels the weight of his load dragging against his momentum. So tired.
Blackness.
When he awakens to the darkened landscape, the full sacks scattered around him where they fell, home suddenly feels farther away than it did on that day on the beach, so long ago. As far away as the stars.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); R (this section - for language)
Word Count: 3,901 (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) When they find their food stores dwindling as summer turns toward autumn, Clark has no choice but to take a trip. Of course, things don't go as planned.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Wow, I can't believe it's been almost 3 months since I posted a chapter. O_o I hope you all can forgive me. As with life, things just got in the way. But I'm back, baby, yeeeaaahhh!! :D Had to split this one in half, but at least that gives me a portion of part 13 already written. ^_~
Index Post
Part 12
With the rain sluicing out of the sky precluding work in the garden, it's all Clark and Bruce can do to keep themselves busy with small tasks inside the house. More classifications to add to their records, a hole in a pair of Clark's pants to be mended, a journal entry to be made, a pot handle to fix.
Not enough to do by a long shot, and by mid-afternoon there's simply nothing left. Even the cats have given up on play and have all sacked out in their chosen spots around the tiny house.
So it's no surprise that both men are bored out of their minds, even after their second round of lovemaking. Laying in the bed with the covers pulled up over them after they've cleaned themselves up, they listen to the hard rain abusing the roof, the thunder rumbling in the distance as the late summer storm drives its way across the landscape, relentless as it paves the way for autumn.
“This is getting old, fast,” Bruce grumbles, absently tracing patterns on his lover's chest beneath the thick comforter and sheet.
“Hmm?” Clark peeks an eye open at him.
“All this sitting around with nothing to do,” the Bat expands. “I think I might be getting cabin fever.”
His companion smiles sympathetically, “I know. There's only so much a man can write about before he's out of things to say.”
“And only so much to fix around here.”
“Heh,” Clark chuckles. After a silent moment, more thunder rolling somewhere far off, he suggests, “You want to run through your exercises again?”
Bruce's response is curt, “No.”
A sigh. “I know you're tired of it, but it's something to do. At the very least, we could get stretched out. God knows my back is still all knotted from bringing in the second harvest.”
The Bat gives him a long suffering look, then slips away and pushes back the covers to swing his feet onto the floor. “Fine,” he sighs.
Not looking back for Clark's reaction, Bruce tests his leg as he puts a little weight on it, grabbing his cane for support. Better than last week. Still not quite right.
Three and a half months, and his leg is still not completely healed. Three and a half months of training, exercising, working until his muscles have burned with overexertion, and he still has to use a goddamn cane to get anywhere.
Not to mention the persistent numbness around the scar. Fucking octopus.
But Clark is already kneeling on the thick bear skin rug in the center of the floor - a trophy from Bruce's third bear kill of the year, damn them and their taste for chicken/duck - so the Bat makes his way over, stiff from being inside all day, and joins him.
Clasping hands, both still naked, they push and pull against each other, stretching hamstrings and calves, lats and biceps, everything that tends to get tight with the kind of work they do around the farm. But they work in silence, given over to the boredom of the long, rainy day with nothing better to do.
After a long ten or fifteen-minute stretch - who can tell, anymore? - Bruce leans over his leg, the offending limb still outstretched, and inspects his scar.
Nope, still no feeling around the broad, pale circle.
“How is it?” Clark asks.
Bruce looks up to find the Kryptonian's cerulean gaze full of his usual concern. “The same,” he responds quietly, tearing his eyes away after a moment.
“I'm sorry.”
The Bat sighs. “I know. Not your fault, remember?”
It's a conversation they've had nearly every day since Bruce awoke from his fevered coma, always with the same results.
“Still...”
But Bruce is too annoyed to let it get any further. “Stop. Just stop it,” he grinds out, ready to pitch his cane across the room, for all the good it would do. Instead, he twines his hands into the fur of the rug, forcing his anger down. “Just... why don't you make some coffee, and I'll get the fireplace going. It's too damn chilly in here.”
With a silent nod, Clark rises, slips on a pair of pants, and goes about his usual routine, Bruce doing the same and hobbling over to the wood box to grab a few logs to get started. But before the Bat can get the fire going, Clark's voice breaks the silence, “Uh, Bruce? When was the last time you checked the coffee supply?”
“What?” Bruce whirls from his work, standing shakily.
Clark's eyes are wide as he holds out an empty canister. “We're out of coffee.”
“That's impossible. I filled it last week.”
“Well, we're out,” comes the Kryptonian's irritated reply.
The Bat sighs heavily, grabbing his cane for support. “Dammit,” he grumbles. “We should have plenty in the cave.”
“All right. I'll go,” Clark offers, shelving the canister.
Bruce considers it for a moment, then stops him as he's pulling on his shirt. “Wait, we'll both go. Might as well do a complete inventory.”
The taller man looks concerned for a moment. “You feel up to it?” he says, glancing up from grabbing his boots.
“Does it matter? The trail shouldn't be too much trouble, even with the rain, and we're about a month overdue for inventory. If we need supplies, better to get them now, before it gets too cold to travel.”
“Okay,” Clark sighs. “Let's go, then.”
* * * * *
A half-hour later, they're both standing in the slightly damp cave, torches set into their sconces along the walls, casting their dim, yellow light across the space. Bruce has his inventory book out and is already taking note of their supplies, Clark going for the coffee first.
“Damn, we're down to our last sack,” he says as he hauls up the large burlap bag. “It's a good four months worth, but that won't get us through winter unless we conserve,” he expands, looking over to his companion. Bruce only nods, taking down the numbers, and it's then that Clark sees the hard set of his jaw, the weariness around his eyes. He knew it would be a mistake to let Bruce come down here; but his Bat wouldn't have been deterred. Over the last three months, he's only trained harder, fought tougher, worked more determined than ever to get back into shape, and with such mixed results it's not hard to see how frustrated he is, how tired he is.
“Bruce,” he says, standing, “you should go back up to the house. I can take care of this.”
The Bat shoots him a hard look. “No.”
“All right, all right,” Clark raises his hands in surrender.
Moving past him with a frown, limping hard, Bruce goes to the stacked crates of various fruits. Apple-cherry, blood lime, pink melons; the assortment won't last a month, no thanks to a smaller than expected crop, but it's better than nothing. “You might have to make two separate trips,” he grumbles, taking down more figures.
Clark looks at him as he inspects the fruit supplies more thoroughly. “That'll take too long. I can do this in one short trip,” he insists.
“Like hell.” Bruce's eyes are narrowed. “We're already running low on salt and sugar, and we're almost out of aloe gel, too. Look.” Pointing, he tries to draw Clark's attention to the measly one sack of salt laid a bit farther back, next to a dwindling stack of sugar sacks - the crystals extracted from syrupy-sweet, grape-like berries native to the more southern climate.
“I'm not leaving you for more than two days, Bruce,” the Kryptonian counters, not even looking. “I won't.”
“You'll have to.”
“No.” Clark can hear both of their hearts pumping furiously as the argument escalates quickly. “One trip. I can get everything in two days, and be back before-”
“You don't have the speed or power to do that, anymore!” Bruce shouts, cutting him off. “Dammit, Clark! You'll get out there and have no way to get back! Don't you get it!”
The Kryptonian winces at the scathing barb. It's not entirely untrue, but he knows he has enough power for this, if he tackles it right. Blowing a breath out his nostrils, he clenches his jaw tightly and looks away. Then, quietly, “I can't leave you to run the farm with your leg like it is, Bruce. I can't... I shouldn't be leaving you at all.”
Bruce's unintelligible roar fills the cave with raging echoes as he finally flings his cane at a wall, breaking it into three splintered pieces.
* * * * *
They wait until the early morning of the next day for Clark to set off. The ground's still wet and soggy from the hard storm, the air still misty and gray as the clouds are finally moving on, but the temperature's rising quickly, so they both know everything will dry up soon enough. Clark's boots won't really know the difference as he speeds over the landscape, anyway.
By the time he's ready to head out, a pack full of burlap sacs and leather ties strapped to his back, Bruce's utility belt - filled with special tools for the trip - around his waist, suede jacket on and all, Clark wants nothing more than to scrap the entire thing and just take his lover back inside and wipe that hard grimace off his face for good. “I don't want to just leave you,” he says for the seventy-eighth time since the night before.
But Bruce is having none of it. “Stop stalling,” the Bat grumbles after a sip of coffee as they stand on the porch. “I told you I'd be fine here. Now get going.”
Clark shuffles from foot to foot, pacing a little and looking from Bruce to the trail and back several times. “Bruce...”
Finally, Bruce sets down his mug and limps over to wrap his arms around his Kryptonian's waist. “We're not having this argument again.” He looks at Clark with dark, hooded eyes, and all the taller man can do is sigh heavily.
“I - I know,” Clark replies after a moment, gripping his Bat just as hard in return. “I just...”
Bruce gives him one more squeeze, then pushes away. “Go.”
“I love you,” Clark whispers as he releases his companion.
“I love you, too. Now go.”
With a faint smile and a rush of misty wind, the Kryptonian is gone.
* * * * *
It's somewhat like a dream, Clark realizes, when he makes it all the way to the southernmost point in his journey. Surrounded by sparse jungle, he listens to sounds he hasn't heard in many months. Brightly-colored birds chirruping happily in the canopy, large insects buzzing by his head, a hundred species of frogs and snakelike-salamanders croaking and singing, and somewhere not too far away, a jungle cat snarling at a competitor or its prey or some other threat. The sounds, the fragrant smells, the too-damp air, it's almost overwhelming, in a way. Clark supposes he's simply gotten used to not sensing quite as much, and the sudden increase in information is overloading him, but regardless, it feels good. Good to be in the middle of life. Good to know that the planet they're on isn't just some barren rock.
He wonders for a brief moment if that means he's becoming too-used to the forest where they live. But no matter - he has a job to do, and limited time in which to do it. He's already been gone for six hours, not daring to run at full speed, if that's even available to him anymore, and he promised Bruce no more than two days. No more than two days for Bruce to tend to the farm alone. Thinking offhandedly about the daily chores around their homestead and how his love is faring with them, and trying not to worry, Clark seeks out his first stop, the coffee grove.
In a matter of minutes he's found it again, the grove a dense thicket where even the tall trees can't take root to block out the sun. The reddish berries are ripe and more than ready to be picked, the sprawling shrubs heavily fecund with their fruit. Smiling to himself, Clark sets to work in the most efficient manner he can afford.
* * * * *
Tossing uncomfortably in the empty bed, Bruce can't get himself to sleep. He knows logically that he's grown used to having Clark by his side and that his lover's absence is striking his subconscious in unpleasant ways, but he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Ignoring it resolutely, he flips over to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling, where the naked rafters cast inky shadows against the roof paneling. Beautiful, in its own way, but inefficient. He wonders how much heat they lost through the roof last winter. Maybe this year they can try to find a way to insulate it, maybe-
The blood-curdling screech of one of the cats cuts off his contemplation, and he's out of the bed before he realizes it, Batarang in hand as he pushes aside the curtain to see what's happening outside. In the sliver of moonlight cast through the patchy, leftover clouds, he makes out several of the cats surrounding and fighting a much larger animal. Too small to be a bear, but too big to be another cat. A flash of teeth. A low snarl. Cats screaming and claws glinting in the pale light. Dammit!
Bruce is outside in a heartbeat, arm poised to throw his weapon, but he can't get a good angle; the cats seem to be everywhere, swarming the beast as they work together to take it out. “Hey!” he screams, hoping to clear out the felines. “Diana! Jay!”
But they don't even respond to their names this time, fighting hard, screaming and screeching and hissing and spitting. Blood is flowing, shining in the moonlight, and Bruce knows he doesn't have much time to stop this before things go even more wrong. If his throw is off by a hair...
No time!
His pulse rushing in his throat and adrenaline shooting all the way to his toes, Bruce throws the Batarang.
* * * * *
Clark can't get to sleep. Laying in a grassy field with his pack under his head and his jacket pulled over him as the warm breeze ghosts over his face and tousles his hair, he watches the night sky, open and star-filled and vast, and thinks of home. Of Bruce. Their farm. Metropolis. Smallville. He thinks of the distances between the stars, from here to Earth. To Rann. Heck, even to Oa. Reaching emptiness that he can't traverse. And he wonders about all the signals they tried to send. The burst of static on his comm as he tried to activate it. Bruce's mirrors flipping in Morse code for months.
The stars shine and twinkle back at him in ignorance, defying even his thoughts, and it makes him so heartsick he feels like he can't breathe.
Lying here, in some horrific parody of camping out, his mind turns unwittingly back to those days spent sleeping around the globe, flitting from place to place, when all he wanted was to be by Bruce's side, to curl up around him beneath their capes and the not-quite-deer skins, to feel Bruce's warmth and breath against his skin, to hold him and damn the consequences. He's not sure he could ever go back to sleeping alone if they somehow manage to get home; he's not having any success tonight, certainly.
But God, he's tired. Bruce's warnings about his power levels creep into his thoughts, and he knows, even if he doesn't want to admit it, that he's been slowing down. Speeding a thousand miles to the south took more out of him than he thought it would, but he's not ready to give up yet. Three more stops to go, after he gets a few hours of sleep. Then he can head home. The weight should be no problem, and he's sure he'll be home by sundown. Positive even.
So why can't he convince himself that everything is all right? Deep inside, something feels wrong. And maybe it isn't him, but the niggling at the back of his brain is pulling adrenaline up from his gut and keeping him from the soft comfort of sleep.
Restless, he watches the sky.
* * * * *
The shovel smacks down the last bit of dirt with such finality that Bruce suddenly feels nauseas. Having to bury them... it feels too much like losing Jason all over again, except there's no one here to even offer a shoulder, much less get him through the grief. If Clark were here... He can't even make himself finish the thought, much as he'd like to. At least he wouldn't have had to do this alone.
As it is, his blood is still singing with the adrenaline of killing that damned wolf-thing - a new species to wander onto their little homestead, that Clark had insisted only stalked the more northern latitudes - and from the shock of finding one of the cats mortally wounded and another already dead. He's not sure he'll sleep at all for the next two nights, even with Clark back with him. Sure as hell won't be able to sleep anymore tonight. But what else is new? Not like he hasn't spent enough nights lying awake to be able to handle it. Of all the Earth's insomniacs, Bruce is a hardened pro and probably the master. Problem is, he doesn't exactly have a Cave full of computers and casework and vehicles that need repair and maintenance to keep him busy. Maybe he'll fix that leak he found in the barn roof yesterday. Though... he really needs daylight to for that sort of project. At the very least, he can add the wolf-thing to his steadily growing physical database of biological specimens. That should take an hour. Maybe.
The chilled air gusts around him for a brief moment, and he realizes he's letting his mind wander to avoid thinking about what happened. Truth be told, he hasn't had a pet, much less let himself become attached to one, in so many years he can't remember. Last time he even bothered with an animal was the week Selina had charged him with looking in on her cats occasionally, as she was headed to Paris for God only knows what. He'd even fed them and spent a few minutes with them himself as per her request, rather than have Alfred go in his stead. Oddly enough, the felines seemed to take a liking to him, and by the end of the week, he was almost sad to part their company.
Not that he would have admitted such a thing to Selina.
But these cats... they'd been his and Clark's constant companions for months now. Coming and going as they pleased, but always returning to the house to sleep and be fed, and to curl up in laps and purr noisily. They'd developed an affinity for sleeping next to or on top of the two men, especially next to Bruce's messed up leg, and he was certain they knew just where the trouble spot was, like they could sense that his chi was blocked or some other mystical thing that Bruce didn't believe in. Like they were trying to heal him by sheer force of will.
He lets a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth at that, thinking that they would all have done the Lantern Corps proud, and certainly Selina. Damned heroic little things.
Just like every hero Bruce had ever known. Fierce. Fiery. Determined to beat the odds.
Except that this time they hadn't. Diana and little Cass won't see another fight. Jay'll be lucky if the wound on his leg doesn't get infected and kill him anyway.
Bruce isn't sure he can stand to lose Jay a second time, and his chest tightens at the mere though of it.
Turning to limp back into the dark house, the Bat steels himself for a long night, assuring himself that he won't worry too much about Clark. He still has a whole day, he reminds himself, breathing deep. A whole day.
* * * * *
By early the next afternoon, Clark has made it to all but the last stop on his list. Running at a considerably slower clip than he'd like to, he makes a bee-line for the valley where he'd found the sweet pseudo-grapes. In the early summer, a single bunch had been enough to convince them that they could use them for sugar, to make a kind of wine, and for simple, sweet juice. Sort of a miracle fruit. And that wasn't even counting their, uh, regularity properties, Clark remembers with a chuckle.
He's still running slower than he should be able to when he reaches the wild vineyard, the vines creeping up the spindly trunks of sparsely-foliates trees. Bruce had hypothesized that the grape plants were penetrating the host tree and taking their nutrition, inhibiting leaf growth in a form of parasitism. It might be a losing situation for the host, but the grapes grow huge and deep purple, so who are they to argue with the relationship?
As he works, Clark realizes that he doesn't even care about how the system works, what he really wants is to be finished here and go home. As amazing as his trip has been, he would rather have spent last night in bed with Bruce, warm and happy, rather than sacked out on the ground with his pack for a pillow. Even having managed a whole five hours of sleep and shrugging off the sense of dread that had crept over him in the night, he's tired, he's sluggish, and his muscles are getting sore from hauling the weight of his harvest. But he has to keep going. Has to finish.
In an hour and a half, he's collected enough fruit to keep them in sugar and juice through the winter. “Finally!” he says to no one but the gleaned vineyard as he secures the last sack, ready to be on his way. No more than two hours until home, and Bruce, and bed, he realizes. Two hours until he can shrug off the heavy weight and rest.
Setting off as the sun dips lower toward the horizon, Clark can feel the end of his trip within his reach. His worry about Bruce crests and wanes, and he knows that his lover will be waiting for him, grumbling and anxious and fine. His heart swells with that, even as he feels the energy slowly leaving him. He'll be home soon and everything will be fine.
He's through the valley between the rugged mountains to the southeast of home, just coming to the foothills and narrow ridges of more worn down peaks, so close he can taste it. But he's so tired. Slowing. Still fast, but... Closing his eyes briefly as the wind rushes by, he feels the weight of his load dragging against his momentum. So tired.
Blackness.
When he awakens to the darkened landscape, the full sacks scattered around him where they fell, home suddenly feels farther away than it did on that day on the beach, so long ago. As far away as the stars.
* * * * *