always with the Dick jokes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irrelevant) wrote2010-12-14 11:10 am
irrelevant) wrote2010-12-14 11:10 am
[fic] Still Life in Alley (DCU)
Still Life in Alley
Batman/Clark Kent | PG | ~1000 words
notes: I… I… oh god, I don’t really like this pairing, but![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rai_daydreamer made an amazingly beautiful piece of art that touched my Bats/Supes-wary soul, and then I wrote this. There’s no one set canon I’m using, more like a wonky combination of the DCAU, the live-action movies, and comics.
“I told you to stay out of my town,” the voice says.
Clark immediately stops walking and goes still.
He knows it’s the stupidest thing he could’ve done, but his response is automatic. He’s Clark Kent right now, living in Clark Kent’s headspace. And when a threatening voice addresses Clark Kent from an alley in semi-public surroundings, he freezes up.
The voice is still threatening, but Clark is almost sure there’s an added edge of amusement, “You should have kept going. In Gotham, if you stop, you’re already dead.”
He was wrong about the amusement. There was no humor at all in those last three words.
Turning his head, he tries a new trick the Fortress suggested, bending light around his corneas and lenses and looking through the brick arch, past the slanting shadows to the figure crouched on a ledge within them.
“Why are you here?” asks the Batman.
There are no other heartbeats, no voices or footfalls close enough to be of concern. Clark throws a swift glance around – a human would, and verisimilitude is important – and goes to stand just inside the mouth of the arch.
His eyes feel oddly strained from attempting to see what wouldn’t normally be visible. He blinks and they refocus and Batman is once again one with his shadows.
“I didn’t,” Clark begins, then pauses, not sure how to continue. Everything he can think of to say would probably sound like an excuse. Even the truth.
Well, he thinks, beginning to feel annoyed, that’s just too bad isn’t it? He’s here on legitimate business, conducting himself politely, wearing normal clothing and doing his best not to intrude on one touchy individual’s turf. Which is more than he can say for that individual’s conduct on his turf.
And now he’s letting himself get aggravated to the point where he’s even thinking like him. Great, Clark. Just great. Why don’t you grow a permanent scowl, learn to growl like you’re trying to cough up a hairball, and start walking around looking like a bondage advertisement while you’re at it?
“I’m not here,” he says, and then he belatedly hears with his ears and brain what his mouth just said. He can control the rush of blood to his face, but for some reason the tips of his ears always turn red, no matter how hard he tries to stop the reaction. He can feel them heating up.
“You look pretty solid to me.” Maybe he was right about the amusement.
“I am,” he says. “I’m here, but only for—I mean, I’m here. Part of me is. I mean… darn it! You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Batman says, sounding odd. Odder. Odd for him. Less growly, almost as though he’s… purring? “Empirical evidence aside, you seem to believe you’re missing a few parts. I suggest we test your hypothesis.”
He moves inhumanly fast. Clark always manages to forget how fast he is when a few months go by without any contact between them. I’m supposed to be the one with superspeed, he thinks, and then his hat is falling from his hand and he’s being pulled up onto his toes by his suit jacket and a gloved hand.
Batman is… kissing him.
Clark’s eyes are open so wide, he’s not sure he’ll ever get them shut again.
I was right, he thinks. I’m not here. I’m in my hotel room, in bed, having a Gotham-induced nightmare.
The really Kafkaesque part of the whole bizarre situation is how it doesn’t feel like a nightmare. Nightmares aren’t a strange mix of firm and soft. They don’t move carefully, as though trying not to scare him awake. There’s no smell to them, mingled leather and metal and brick dust; no aftertaste of coffee and something indefinable that shares the name of the man it belongs to.
Nightmares are pure fear and Clark isn’t a criminal. There’s nothing here for him to be afraid of.
As he has been with everything else tonight, he’s wrong about his eyes. They’re getting heavy, slipping closed behind the slipping shield of his glasses. He sees his hand lift to trace one of the cowl’s points, I was right about that, anyway, they are sharp, and then he sees the backs of his closed eyelids as his mouth parts under gentle pressure.
After that, he only has to feel.
He’s let go of so gently that at first he doesn’t realize he has been. Batman’s mouth slides away from his and he notices his feet are back on the ground. The gloved hand is gone from the front of his suit.
Clark opens his eyes and looks down at his crumpled shirt. “My mom gave me this tie,” he says, not very clearly.
“Bring it by tomorrow. I know someone who’s good with wrinkles.” There's a pause like a brief laugh. "Kent."
"Hmn?" Clark says absently.
"Based on my observations, I'd say you're all there."
He knows the sound the grapple makes by now. Unsurprised, he looks up in time to see a dark mass being swallowed up by the city’s heavier, thicker darkness.
He looks back down at his tie. It really is in bad shape, and he’s never been that great with an iron.
With grave deliberation, Clark pushes his glasses back into place. He leans down, picks his hat up, dusts it off and puts it on while he listens, getting an auditory handle on the state of his surroundings.
There’s a group of kids passing by, laughing and hooting and looking for trouble. Clark hopes they don’t find it. Rather, he hopes they don’t do anything that will make it come looking for them.
He waits until the clatter of chains and skateboards dies away before he leaves the alley and walks the last few blocks to his hotel.
“You’re in a good mood,” the clerk at the desk says as he goes past. She grins at his startled look. “Dude, you’re whistling.”
Ducking his head, Clark takes himself, his red ear tips and his traitorous mouth up to his room.
He hopes he won’t dream, but, he thinks glumly, this is Gotham. He’s not that lucky.
Batman/Clark Kent | PG | ~1000 words
notes: I… I… oh god, I don’t really like this pairing, but
rai_daydreamer made an amazingly beautiful piece of art that touched my Bats/Supes-wary soul, and then I wrote this. There’s no one set canon I’m using, more like a wonky combination of the DCAU, the live-action movies, and comics. “I told you to stay out of my town,” the voice says.
Clark immediately stops walking and goes still.
He knows it’s the stupidest thing he could’ve done, but his response is automatic. He’s Clark Kent right now, living in Clark Kent’s headspace. And when a threatening voice addresses Clark Kent from an alley in semi-public surroundings, he freezes up.
The voice is still threatening, but Clark is almost sure there’s an added edge of amusement, “You should have kept going. In Gotham, if you stop, you’re already dead.”
He was wrong about the amusement. There was no humor at all in those last three words.
Turning his head, he tries a new trick the Fortress suggested, bending light around his corneas and lenses and looking through the brick arch, past the slanting shadows to the figure crouched on a ledge within them.
“Why are you here?” asks the Batman.
There are no other heartbeats, no voices or footfalls close enough to be of concern. Clark throws a swift glance around – a human would, and verisimilitude is important – and goes to stand just inside the mouth of the arch.
His eyes feel oddly strained from attempting to see what wouldn’t normally be visible. He blinks and they refocus and Batman is once again one with his shadows.
“I didn’t,” Clark begins, then pauses, not sure how to continue. Everything he can think of to say would probably sound like an excuse. Even the truth.
Well, he thinks, beginning to feel annoyed, that’s just too bad isn’t it? He’s here on legitimate business, conducting himself politely, wearing normal clothing and doing his best not to intrude on one touchy individual’s turf. Which is more than he can say for that individual’s conduct on his turf.
And now he’s letting himself get aggravated to the point where he’s even thinking like him. Great, Clark. Just great. Why don’t you grow a permanent scowl, learn to growl like you’re trying to cough up a hairball, and start walking around looking like a bondage advertisement while you’re at it?
“I’m not here,” he says, and then he belatedly hears with his ears and brain what his mouth just said. He can control the rush of blood to his face, but for some reason the tips of his ears always turn red, no matter how hard he tries to stop the reaction. He can feel them heating up.
“You look pretty solid to me.” Maybe he was right about the amusement.
“I am,” he says. “I’m here, but only for—I mean, I’m here. Part of me is. I mean… darn it! You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Batman says, sounding odd. Odder. Odd for him. Less growly, almost as though he’s… purring? “Empirical evidence aside, you seem to believe you’re missing a few parts. I suggest we test your hypothesis.”
He moves inhumanly fast. Clark always manages to forget how fast he is when a few months go by without any contact between them. I’m supposed to be the one with superspeed, he thinks, and then his hat is falling from his hand and he’s being pulled up onto his toes by his suit jacket and a gloved hand.
Batman is… kissing him.
Clark’s eyes are open so wide, he’s not sure he’ll ever get them shut again.
I was right, he thinks. I’m not here. I’m in my hotel room, in bed, having a Gotham-induced nightmare.
The really Kafkaesque part of the whole bizarre situation is how it doesn’t feel like a nightmare. Nightmares aren’t a strange mix of firm and soft. They don’t move carefully, as though trying not to scare him awake. There’s no smell to them, mingled leather and metal and brick dust; no aftertaste of coffee and something indefinable that shares the name of the man it belongs to.
Nightmares are pure fear and Clark isn’t a criminal. There’s nothing here for him to be afraid of.
As he has been with everything else tonight, he’s wrong about his eyes. They’re getting heavy, slipping closed behind the slipping shield of his glasses. He sees his hand lift to trace one of the cowl’s points, I was right about that, anyway, they are sharp, and then he sees the backs of his closed eyelids as his mouth parts under gentle pressure.
After that, he only has to feel.
He’s let go of so gently that at first he doesn’t realize he has been. Batman’s mouth slides away from his and he notices his feet are back on the ground. The gloved hand is gone from the front of his suit.
Clark opens his eyes and looks down at his crumpled shirt. “My mom gave me this tie,” he says, not very clearly.
“Bring it by tomorrow. I know someone who’s good with wrinkles.” There's a pause like a brief laugh. "Kent."
"Hmn?" Clark says absently.
"Based on my observations, I'd say you're all there."
He knows the sound the grapple makes by now. Unsurprised, he looks up in time to see a dark mass being swallowed up by the city’s heavier, thicker darkness.
He looks back down at his tie. It really is in bad shape, and he’s never been that great with an iron.
With grave deliberation, Clark pushes his glasses back into place. He leans down, picks his hat up, dusts it off and puts it on while he listens, getting an auditory handle on the state of his surroundings.
There’s a group of kids passing by, laughing and hooting and looking for trouble. Clark hopes they don’t find it. Rather, he hopes they don’t do anything that will make it come looking for them.
He waits until the clatter of chains and skateboards dies away before he leaves the alley and walks the last few blocks to his hotel.
“You’re in a good mood,” the clerk at the desk says as he goes past. She grins at his startled look. “Dude, you’re whistling.”
Ducking his head, Clark takes himself, his red ear tips and his traitorous mouth up to his room.
He hopes he won’t dream, but, he thinks glumly, this is Gotham. He’s not that lucky.
no subject
You're right about that S/B issue: I'm pretty sure it drove the Batman/Superman shippers wild. =P But you know, I think the last issue (#78) is the one that really showcased what I love about the Bat/Super dynamic. Those two kids discussing which one of them would win in a fight, and then Bruce goes: "You know, that one kid's guess was really close." And Clark's all: "Wait what? How close? You're going to tell me, right? Right? .... Bruce?"
I laughed until cried, it was just so *them*.
I'm working on a longer fic for these guys, set in a BTAS-style universe, but it's mostly friendship and comedy with just a hint of shippyness. Which is as close as I can get to the Batman/Superman ship, I guess.
no subject
OMFG! #78 was AWESOME. At first I was like, WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHY ARE THEY FIGHTING? And when it finally dawned on me what was happening I kind of smiles, but Clark's reaction left me in TEARS! It was awesome.
Also, have you read Emperor Joker? Yeah, that's why Clark and Bruce are the BESTEST friends!
it's mostly friendship and comedy with just a hint of shippyness. OMFG! YES! I'm so THERE!