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B&H part 44
The Previous Parts are here, full of sympathy for my pain. I think.
I hope this works.
“I don’t understand you. Why do you have to be like this? Why can’t you see that what I’m doing, I’m doing for you as well?” Bruce slammed his gym bag to the floor and yanked his coat off. “How hard can it be to do what Alfred tells you for *one* fucking day? Do your work…go to school?”
Clark threw his boots across the room. “Fuck you Bruce! Why should I do what you want? All you want me to do is go to school and come home and have no fucking life! Just what *are* you doing for me?”
“Look—I’m trying to help keep you safe--”
“Me safe? Me safe! Remember me--Invincible? All you did was take me away from Lex and my friends. I don’t know Alfred--he doesn’t know me or care about me.”
Clark jumped up from the small sofa in the room. He was angry now, determined to make Bruce listen to him. “That school—I hate it. Everyone thinks I’m stupid or—or--they make fun of me when they think I can’t hear and I have to go along with it, I can’t stand up for myself, Bruce. No one knows me. I’m sick of having to hide all the time.”
“Try thinking of someone other than yourself for a bit, please? I’m working my ass off, studying everything I can that will help us avenge Ma and Pop, and—and--my mom and dad. Don’t be self-centered, Clark. I need your cooperation. Or don’t you care about what happened?” Bruce changed out of his damp sweats. Clark watched him move; saw that he was heavier than he had been, more solid, muscular. Bruce was changing himself, remaking himself into some kind of weapon—and treating Clark like a liability. It made him furious.
“I’m so sick of hearing that,” Clark snapped. “You accuse me of not caring but you won’t let me help. You say you want to avenge them for the both of us, and then you shut me out at every turn. Why won’t you let me help, damn it.”
Bruce said, “I’m going to shower. Alfred is going to have dinner in a half hour. Please, for once, be ready to sit down with us.”
“Are you listening to me at all?” Clark was frustrated into shouting at Bruce. “Or do you want me alone and friendless and loveless so *you* can feel normal? You’re probably out screwing around every time you’re not here!”
Bruce swung around toward Clark and his eyes were ice cold with anger. “That’s it? You think there’s someone who’s keeping me from you? From my work? There’s no one. It would be selfish and stupid—and—having someone is not in the cards, not now, not—it’s dangerous,” he muttered, “it’s distracting. It divides your attention and then people die…”
For the first time since the funeral, it occurred to Clark that Bruce might be suffering from more than loss. Guilt might be driving him this hard, as well. “Bruce,” he said as gently as he could, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Clark,” he growled, and held up his hand, warning him off, but Clark pushed on, sure he was on the right track.
“They didn’t die because you had a life--”
Bruce focused completely on Clark. His expression was a strange combination of rage and fear; there was something in his eyes Clark had never seen before—he took a step back; even knowing that Bruce couldn’t hurt him didn’t stop him from flinching.
He leaned closer and Clark swore the space between the two of them wavered like desert air. Bruce snarled, “Shut. Up. Now.”
Clark dropped down on to the sofa; and threw his arm over his face; angry that he’d worried about him for even a minute, angry that he felt fear of Bruce. “Sure, No problem, whatever you want.”
Bruce turned away. “Good. Be dressed by the time I’m out of the shower.”
*****
They left England, traveled to France. Bruce studiously attended university and studied savate, in the studio and in the street.
Clark went to an American school, had nothing in common with the students. He spent most of his days alone, and his nights waiting for Bruce to come back to their small apartment. Some nights Bruce was cold, distant as he’d been in the days before and after the funereal. That was the Bruce he expected. Some nights he was surprised by a Bruce who was talkative and excited, and dragged Clark back out into the streets with him. He’d take him places Clark couldn’t imagine existed in the day, into a world that was all he knew turned upside down. He saw a Bruce he didn’t know. He began to realize there something that lived under the skin of everyone that was very, very different from the face turned towards the sun.
The next move landed them in Germany and another small apartment, in an old part of an old city. It felt dark and dank, as heavy with age the mountain it nestled against. Clark was always cold in it.
This time, there was no school for Clark, only a tutor that Bruce hired to teach him the language and keep him up on his studies. There were no late night explorations, no wandering the streets and watching the sun rise…Bruce kept his days to himself, his evenings a mystery. Clark and he fought often, a quiet, intense war of nerves that Bruce won more often than not until Clark stopped fighting. Bruce was content that Clark was finally adjusting. Until he came home one evening and found them on his bed.
Clark smiled up at him from the rumpled bed, hair black with sweat, curling around his face and neck. With one hand, the tutor held himself over Clark’s body; the other was paused in the act of pulling down the zipper of Clark’s jeans. His face was flushed, beads of sweat dropped on Clark, the pillow under his head. His eyes were enormous, and black with fear, and Bruce considered that to be an altogether sensible reaction.
In the blink of an eye, he had his fist in the man’s collar, yanked him up and off the bed. He had every intention of beating him senseless, and the first impact was painful and satisfying, and he wanted to do it again and again.
He realized Clark was watching him and felt a shiver of fear—the way Clark looked, so still, calmly smiling….
He hit the man until Clark rolled off the bed and stopped him. He helped Bruce throw him out.
******
back of a postcard of the I.G. Farben Building, Frankfurt
Lex,
I need your help. I’m having trouble with Clark. I’m thinking he might be better off at home, with you, if it’s possible. Do you mind? It’s okay to say no. I realize I don’t really have the right to ask.
Love,
Bruce.
Ps. I miss you
*****
February 21, 19—
Bruce,
You fucker. You fucker. Finally I’ve got an address for you. You waited long enough. I’m angry. You have no idea how angry. You left me! I don’t know why I bother helping you. It must be love.
Yes, send Clark. I’d be so happy to have him. You know, after all how I feel.
I have my own place, I have room.
Please don’t hide from me again.
I love you both,
Lex
back of a postcard of the Natural History Museum, Bern
*****
Lex,
Thanks. It’s okay now.
B.
******
TBC.
I hope this works.
“I don’t understand you. Why do you have to be like this? Why can’t you see that what I’m doing, I’m doing for you as well?” Bruce slammed his gym bag to the floor and yanked his coat off. “How hard can it be to do what Alfred tells you for *one* fucking day? Do your work…go to school?”
Clark threw his boots across the room. “Fuck you Bruce! Why should I do what you want? All you want me to do is go to school and come home and have no fucking life! Just what *are* you doing for me?”
“Look—I’m trying to help keep you safe--”
“Me safe? Me safe! Remember me--Invincible? All you did was take me away from Lex and my friends. I don’t know Alfred--he doesn’t know me or care about me.”
Clark jumped up from the small sofa in the room. He was angry now, determined to make Bruce listen to him. “That school—I hate it. Everyone thinks I’m stupid or—or--they make fun of me when they think I can’t hear and I have to go along with it, I can’t stand up for myself, Bruce. No one knows me. I’m sick of having to hide all the time.”
“Try thinking of someone other than yourself for a bit, please? I’m working my ass off, studying everything I can that will help us avenge Ma and Pop, and—and--my mom and dad. Don’t be self-centered, Clark. I need your cooperation. Or don’t you care about what happened?” Bruce changed out of his damp sweats. Clark watched him move; saw that he was heavier than he had been, more solid, muscular. Bruce was changing himself, remaking himself into some kind of weapon—and treating Clark like a liability. It made him furious.
“I’m so sick of hearing that,” Clark snapped. “You accuse me of not caring but you won’t let me help. You say you want to avenge them for the both of us, and then you shut me out at every turn. Why won’t you let me help, damn it.”
Bruce said, “I’m going to shower. Alfred is going to have dinner in a half hour. Please, for once, be ready to sit down with us.”
“Are you listening to me at all?” Clark was frustrated into shouting at Bruce. “Or do you want me alone and friendless and loveless so *you* can feel normal? You’re probably out screwing around every time you’re not here!”
Bruce swung around toward Clark and his eyes were ice cold with anger. “That’s it? You think there’s someone who’s keeping me from you? From my work? There’s no one. It would be selfish and stupid—and—having someone is not in the cards, not now, not—it’s dangerous,” he muttered, “it’s distracting. It divides your attention and then people die…”
For the first time since the funeral, it occurred to Clark that Bruce might be suffering from more than loss. Guilt might be driving him this hard, as well. “Bruce,” he said as gently as he could, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Clark,” he growled, and held up his hand, warning him off, but Clark pushed on, sure he was on the right track.
“They didn’t die because you had a life--”
Bruce focused completely on Clark. His expression was a strange combination of rage and fear; there was something in his eyes Clark had never seen before—he took a step back; even knowing that Bruce couldn’t hurt him didn’t stop him from flinching.
He leaned closer and Clark swore the space between the two of them wavered like desert air. Bruce snarled, “Shut. Up. Now.”
Clark dropped down on to the sofa; and threw his arm over his face; angry that he’d worried about him for even a minute, angry that he felt fear of Bruce. “Sure, No problem, whatever you want.”
Bruce turned away. “Good. Be dressed by the time I’m out of the shower.”
*****
They left England, traveled to France. Bruce studiously attended university and studied savate, in the studio and in the street.
Clark went to an American school, had nothing in common with the students. He spent most of his days alone, and his nights waiting for Bruce to come back to their small apartment. Some nights Bruce was cold, distant as he’d been in the days before and after the funereal. That was the Bruce he expected. Some nights he was surprised by a Bruce who was talkative and excited, and dragged Clark back out into the streets with him. He’d take him places Clark couldn’t imagine existed in the day, into a world that was all he knew turned upside down. He saw a Bruce he didn’t know. He began to realize there something that lived under the skin of everyone that was very, very different from the face turned towards the sun.
The next move landed them in Germany and another small apartment, in an old part of an old city. It felt dark and dank, as heavy with age the mountain it nestled against. Clark was always cold in it.
This time, there was no school for Clark, only a tutor that Bruce hired to teach him the language and keep him up on his studies. There were no late night explorations, no wandering the streets and watching the sun rise…Bruce kept his days to himself, his evenings a mystery. Clark and he fought often, a quiet, intense war of nerves that Bruce won more often than not until Clark stopped fighting. Bruce was content that Clark was finally adjusting. Until he came home one evening and found them on his bed.
Clark smiled up at him from the rumpled bed, hair black with sweat, curling around his face and neck. With one hand, the tutor held himself over Clark’s body; the other was paused in the act of pulling down the zipper of Clark’s jeans. His face was flushed, beads of sweat dropped on Clark, the pillow under his head. His eyes were enormous, and black with fear, and Bruce considered that to be an altogether sensible reaction.
In the blink of an eye, he had his fist in the man’s collar, yanked him up and off the bed. He had every intention of beating him senseless, and the first impact was painful and satisfying, and he wanted to do it again and again.
He realized Clark was watching him and felt a shiver of fear—the way Clark looked, so still, calmly smiling….
He hit the man until Clark rolled off the bed and stopped him. He helped Bruce throw him out.
******
back of a postcard of the I.G. Farben Building, Frankfurt
Lex,
I need your help. I’m having trouble with Clark. I’m thinking he might be better off at home, with you, if it’s possible. Do you mind? It’s okay to say no. I realize I don’t really have the right to ask.
Love,
Bruce.
Ps. I miss you
*****
February 21, 19—
Bruce,
You fucker. You fucker. Finally I’ve got an address for you. You waited long enough. I’m angry. You have no idea how angry. You left me! I don’t know why I bother helping you. It must be love.
Yes, send Clark. I’d be so happy to have him. You know, after all how I feel.
I have my own place, I have room.
Please don’t hide from me again.
I love you both,
Lex
back of a postcard of the Natural History Museum, Bern
*****
Lex,
Thanks. It’s okay now.
B.
******
TBC.
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That's all. That was intense and I loved every minute of it.
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*hug* You keep me going, beloved.
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So intense. Bruce is such a jerk!
And what's up with the "It's okay now." business?
Lex better get on his ass about that. Poor baby Clark needs a serious intervention.
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*wails*
*hugs the boys*
More more more, pleeeeease!!
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You, evol!!!!
*flails*
*runs*
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Bruce is the best kind of weapon.
I know I asked this before, but can I snuggle them? I think they need it more now. For comfort. They really seem to need it; things don't go well for them all.
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And I'd suggest snuggling them...carefully.
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Hehe, thank you! I just couldn't resist making it! I mean, not only is he naked and drawn way more built than I would ever expect, he looks so sad... Glad you like it. *g*
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I have this picture of tommy, and it's clear he's just in from filming, because he has makeup on his face, but the expression on his face... You've probably seen it, but if you haven't, here:
http://pics.livejournal.com/miche_connor/gallery/00012159
He looks just about burnt out. And that's what this bit makes me think Clark is. His fuse is almost gone and he's gonna 'splode.
eee.
Kinda glad Bruce is having such a hard time with Clark. It's almost like he wants to forget that Clark's parents went kaput too--got to control everything, the freakyfreak!
Ah, Lex. Love. I still want to smush him with hugs and feed him soup. He's too thin, I can tell.
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And Lex is way too thin, yes. He needs lots of hugs and soup.
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He pushes himself so hard, works so hard. I wish I could give him and all the others that work that hard on SV something so that they know we appreciate it, that we know they are trying to mold something with melting butter and it's hard, if not impossible, to get perfect.
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I'm saving up my comments till the end but must say how impressed and involved I am and devastated about Jon and Martha.
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Thank you so much! I try as hard as I can to make the stories interesting and engaging. That part with Jonathan and Martha was hard to write. I really liked them.
Ha, glancing over the older comments is kind of funny--I hardly remember how hard this story was to write, I just remember the good bits. :)