ads Associates.Lately, he'd been finding the messages on his answering machine, whether it was in cultured English tones or a clear, young tenor. It was even, on occasion, a teen age boy or the harshness of an electronic mask. It didn't matter. It didn't even matter what they said. He knew what those voices meant.
Tonight, though, he needed no voice mail. All he had to do was pay attention to late night cable news after dropping Lois at home.
"In national news today, it seems it's business as usual in Gotham City, as one of its more notorious psychopaths went on yet another rampage through the streets. The scarred former DA brutally..." He was in uniform and in the air before the anchor had time to finish the sentence. Ten minutes later, he knocked on the manor's front door. The man who opened the door wore dignity as a garment, despite his robe and pajamas.
"Mr. Kent." Alfred didn't bother hiding the relief in his voice, any more than he could hide the exhaustion and worry in his eyes. "I was moments from telephoning you."
"How is he?" Clark strode into the manor as Alfred closed the door behind him, avoiding the cape with the ease of long practice. "The news sounded pretty bad."
"He's not good, sir. He lost lives tonight, and the villain was. Him." Hatred and anger filled Alfred's voice as he led Clark to the entrance to the Cave. "He shouted at me to leave him alone. Please, sir. Help him if you can."
"I'll try." He didn't always succeed, but the price of friendship, or whatever it was he had with this man, was that he try each time. Sometimes he wondered if he did it for Alfred, who was tearing himself apart with all the love of a father.
Clark knew as well as any that "father" was a fluid term.
He allowed Alfred to open the secret passage and made his way down the stairs, allowing his feet to touch the treads and make noise. God only knew what would happen if he startled the man sitting by the monitor.
"Superman." He didn't bother turning away from the vast monitor screen. Whether he'd seen Clark's reflection or had deduced it - or recognized Clark's footsteps - he showed no surprise at all.
"Bruce." Bruce wore his own robe over his tights, his discarded cowl and cape draped neatly over a chair.
"Get out. Go back to your sunny little Metropolis and your pretty girlfriend, *Superman*. You have no place here."
"Yes, I do. Right here." He strode off the last distance and, reaching around the high back of the chair, placed his left hand on Bruce's right shoulder. Bruce tried to shrug it off, but Clark kept it in place. He turned the chair until Bruce faced him. His dark blue eyes, swollen and red with exhaustion, stared at him over a face twisted in anger.
"You can't force yourself on me, Superman. I don't care how strong you are - you don't have it in you."
"I won't hurt you. That doesn't make me weak. It doesn't make you weak, either. Bruce." He touched Bruce's cheek with his other hand, stroking it just below the bone, avoiding a faded bruise. Bruce glared at him but didn't pull away.
"Let go of me. I want you to leave my house."
"You don't want me to go." He leaned closer, moving his hand to Bruce's other shoulder, his stomach twisting.
"Leave!" Bruce could intimidate psychopaths with a look and a swirl of cape, and superheroes with a well-placed word. He could make Clark back down with a single gesture. Just not tonight.
"No." Clark shook his head. Bruce pushed at him, rising to his feet to get the force he needed. Clark absorbed it easily, stepping back only to make room. "You can't hurt me." Not physically.
"Damn you!" Any normal human would have been felled by the blow to the chin. Only Clark's reflexes made it possible for him to move quickly enough, or Bruce would have broken his own hand. Somewhere deep inside, Clark wondered if this was Bruce saying how much he trusted him, or Bruce being self-destructive again. Or if he simply didn't care tonight.
"Whatever you want, Bruce." Bruce began cursing him, using the only weapon he had that could actually pierce Clark's skin, short of kryptonite itself, if Clark let it. He didn't, or at least he didn't let it show. He stood, silently, a careful smile on his face, until, Bruce became physical again.
Batman was one of the greatest martial artists in world. His skill and control were legendary - he could bring adversaries to the point of death without inflicting more than temporary harm. He used all those skills on Clark, hands and feet flying almost too fast to track. Clark did track them, though, so that Bruce wouldn't damage himself, relaxing his muscles and even moving with the blows, absorbing the pain.
Then the controlled breathing became ragged and harsh, and the punches and kicks became random and desperate, until finally Bruce sobbed as he pounded uselessly on Clark's chest. "Damn you! Damn you! Damn him! Oh, God, Harvey!"
And he let Clark catch him in his arms, burying his face in his shoulder and trembling. He let Clark stroke his back and sides gently, and for a brief moment, Clark hoped that it would end like this, that maybe this would be enough for him. Sometimes, it was. He knew better. Batman had fought Harvey Dent today.
Bruce's hands were moving on him now - rough, insistent, pulling off his cape, his shirt, his tights, tossing them aside, letting Clark do the same with his heavy silk robe, his Kevlar suit, before pulling Clark back to him, allowing their bodies to touch.
He was cool in Clark's arms, like all humans, and fragile, and he was still shaking even as his hands, clumsy in this as they were skillful in fighting, roamed Clark's body. Clark tried to kiss his mouth, but Bruce turned his head away to bite at Clark's neck, and ground his half-hard cock into him. Clark willed himself into full arousal, knowing in the pit of his stomach what would come next.
"Hurt me." Bruce's harsh whisper cut through him like no other words. Clark said nothing. He knew there was nothing he could say. He turned Bruce to the cave wall, and watched him brace himself against the damp roughness, his breath still ragged.
He spat into his hand several times, and coated himself as best he could, wishing Bruce allowed something else, and then opened Bruce as gently as Bruce would allow. "Enough. Now."
Hating himself, hating his weakness, Clark obeyed, positioning himself with one hand while the other grasped the wall, and slamming himself inside, trying to be hard enough for Bruce without hurting him. He listened for Bruce's gasps and curses, concentrating on what Bruce wanted, what he thought he needed.
Over and over again, he forced himself into Bruce's body, heedless of the tears flowing down his face. Bruce would never see them, so they didn't matter. Only Bruce mattered here and now.
So he kept on, keeping himself in check, until Bruce stiffened and cried out and only then did he permit himself to reach a utilitarian orgasm and leave, bringing Bruce to the cave floor along with him.
This time, when Bruce turned and sobbed into his shoulder, there were tears. Clark held him and let him cry himself into exhaustion, until he lay limp in his arms, his eyes red but calm. "I wish I hated him."
Clark kissed his forehead. "I know. The old lovers are the hardest ones."
"At least yours is sane." Bruce actually managed a chuckle before closing down again. "He'll never come back to me."
He wanted to tell Bruce that there was hope, but he'd lied enough. So he sat there until Bruce fell asleep. It took only a moment to wrap him in his robe, and to put on his own uniform. He flew him back up to the main part of the house and to his bedroom. Alfred met him at the door.
"Thank you, sir. I will take care of him now."
"I know you will. Good night, Alfred."
"Good night, sir."
Clark straightened his cape and flew out into the night and on to the Watchtower, where he would cry out his own anger and frustration in J'onn's warm and gentle arms.
Copyright 2003 Debra Fran Baker and NightRo