SV fic post: East of the Sun part 36
6/17/08 03:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: East of the Sun
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/Wade, eventually clex, because there is nothing else
Rating:PG
Word Count:1441
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this section contains violence, references to sexual abuse
Fair warning, dear readers—the mistakes here are all my own. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary for her encouragement and of course, the lovely cover!
It's a tiny bit, but I wanted to get past the last part.
He'd been wandering in and out of dark alleyways, and leaping from rooftop to rooftop for a few hours, and so far the night had been pretty much uneventful. He'd helped a dog untangle itself from a wire fence, and brought some blankets to a squat in Suicide Slums…nothing special. It was almost unnaturally quiet, considering New Year's was winding down. He'd expected a lot more pickpocket activity, maybe some break-ins but maybe everyone was home sleeping it off—maybe the hoods decided to give the city a break for one night.
"Help—hel—" Yeah, sure they did.
There was a thud like someone kicking a side of beef, and Clark homed in on the sound. He had too much experience with that particular noise not to know what it meant. His heart leaped as a fierce, joyful glow filled him. Now *this* was just what he needed—working out some of the complicated tangle of his emotions on some lousy goon—
He zipped around a corner and saw what looked like a gangland murder in progress. It was dark—but not so dark he couldn’t see two guys on their knees, hands locked over their heads, necks exposed, and a third guy standing behind them—tall, almost as tall as him, and he had a pair of flat black guns trained on the backs of the kneeling men's heads. There was something about him that was familiar…the guns, the long black coat and flowing scarf…
"Hey!" Clark shot forward and the guy whirled around. Clark startled for a moment—the guy was wearing some kind of costume, maybe. A silky black mask obscured his eyes and partially covered an aquiline nose. His neck and chin were swathed in a long scarf that fell away as he whirled. Thick black hair fell over one eye…even masked, his chin hidden in collar and scarf, there was something in his face that radiated pure misery. He looked—devastated, like someone who'd lost everything. He seemed to be…be…Clark squinted. The guy was crying?
A leather gloved hand swiped at the guy's face… the gun in the opposite hand never wavered in its aim. "Oh. It's you. Good, give me a hand. These jerks need a lesson. I'm still trying to decide if I should plug 'em or take 'em in." he laughed, wild and high, and the kneeling men shivered, and started to beg for their lives. He kicked them. "Shut up!"
"Hey, come on," Clark repeated. "Don't…whatya say we let the cops deal with them, okay? Don't…don’t be them. What's your name?" he asked, and held his hands out in a soothing way. "I'm Cla—I'm a friend."
The tall man laughed again, but this time it was a softer laugh, less uncontrolled. "Used that move on mad dogs, have you? Afraid I'll start foaming at the mouth? I know who you are, Angel. Better than that—I *know* who you are. As for becoming them, it's too, too, late. I am one of them—have been. I just didn't know until tonight how much I was…" He stopped, and took deep, steadying breaths. When he could talk again he went on, seeming not to notice Clark was standing close to him. "I don't have a name," he said. He turned his head until his lips were almost at Clark's ear. "But you can call me Bruce," he whispered.
Clark felt a deep shiver go through him, but he didn’t pull away. He had a bone-deep feeling that this man was someone he could trust. That odd sense of familiarity touched him again. He studied the man—Bruce--and suddenly, started giggling.
Bruce glared at him. "What?" he asked sharply.
"The Shadow"? Clark bit his lip, trying not to giggle again and Bruce glared harder, his lip lifted in the beginning of a snarl…and finally huffed, a soft sound that morphed into a brief chuckle.
"All, right, all right. Shut the fuck up. I'm not tall enough to pull off Doc Savage, okay?" He shrugged and rewrapped the scarf. "I've got a day job…well; I guess it's a night job too. The people who employ me wouldn't like my hobby very damn much."
Clark nodded. He certainly understood that. He took a step towards the shivering hulks on the concrete. "Dips?" he asked.
"No. These guys are worse than fucking dips," he replied, contempt for the thugs thickening his voice. "Dope dealers—garbage. More and more of the junk is moving into Metropolis. When Edge and his Gentlemen lost their bootlegging money, they figured to make it back with this—this poison." He nudged the back of their necks with the black guns, hard enough to make them wobble on their knees. Clark took a breath, ready to intervene. He could see roughing the mugs up—but killing them in cold blood? The idea made him queasy….
Bruce turned to him, and said, "Angel, I've been watching you; I know what you can do." He looked at the guns in his hands ruefully, came to some private decision. He tucked the guns away. "Take care of these bastards for me?"
The kneeling thugs moaned and babbled, certain they were about to be rubbed out—it's what they would have done. Bruce kicked them into silence again.
It wasn't that Clark couldn't understand the anger Bruce felt. He'd seen enough to know that the burden of drug addiction didn’t restrain itself to the addict, seen things that made his blood boil but still, killing people…he was glad Bruce seemed to make the other choice. "All right." He knocked them both out, letting Bruce see everything. He reached out, flicked his fingers against their skulls. Tap, tap, and they were out cold on the cobbles of the street.
Bruce whistled, and Clark blushed, smiled a little. "Someday, Angel, you're going to have to tell me how you do that—snazzy move."
Clark felt like he'd just gotten a medal and won a game show both. He took the hand extended to him and shook it, gazing into Bruce's face as he did. There was something about him, something familiar and not just that he was dressed up as a radio character even though he had very real guns tucked in the back of his pants…"You're the guy at the hotdog stand!" Clark said, and blushed. The handsome guy at the stand…
Bruce spoke so low no one else but Clark could have heard him. "And you…" he smiled at Clark."You're the crooner." Clark gaped. He knew he was more than—that stupid name--the Angel? "And…you're the clarinetist's friend—Alex. He's a friend of mine too." He put a hand on his arm. "Clark—you have some amazing abilities. I watch you moving around the city. I *know* that you aren’t like the rest of us. You're better—"
Clark shuddered. "No I'm not—"
Bruce smiled and his grip on Clark's arm tightened. "All right, then—different. Could you—would you use those abilities to watch over Lex? He needs our help. Just…keep this between the two of us, okay? I'll explain soon, I swear," he said when Clark wanted to ask why, "but for right now, trust me. Lex needs you." He took his hand away and almost as fast as Clark could move, was gone. Clark could have followed him, but let him go. He shouldered the two mooks and sped them off to drop them on the steps of the local precinct.
Bruce was…amazing. Bruce was more of a hero than Clark could ever be, he decided—he did what he did knowing that he could be hurt, knowing that—Clark stopped. Wait a minute…he called Alex Lex. "But, no one calls him Lex just me. He flushed a furious red as he recalled just when he called Lex 'Lex'. That had to be coincidence. It probably wasn't unusual for his friends to call him Lex…not that Chloe did. Or Walt. Or Pete and he'd slept with him…Clark grit his teeth. He was not going to be jealous of—of—figments. Thing to do was. Was. Well. What was the thing to do? Alex had clearly made his choice. Clark walked on towards home, thinking, letting his thoughts wander…and he came back to Bruce and his plea for help. And he knew right then that Bruce disliked this Mahaney thing as much as he did and more than that, didn't trust it, Clark was willing to bet. Mahaney was a creep and Clark decided it was up to him to convince Alex of that fact…he smiled. He had a plan for that.
part 37
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/Wade, eventually clex, because there is nothing else
Rating:PG
Word Count:1441
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this section contains violence, references to sexual abuse
Fair warning, dear readers—the mistakes here are all my own. Thanks to
danceswithgary for her encouragement and of course, the lovely cover!It's a tiny bit, but I wanted to get past the last part.
He'd been wandering in and out of dark alleyways, and leaping from rooftop to rooftop for a few hours, and so far the night had been pretty much uneventful. He'd helped a dog untangle itself from a wire fence, and brought some blankets to a squat in Suicide Slums…nothing special. It was almost unnaturally quiet, considering New Year's was winding down. He'd expected a lot more pickpocket activity, maybe some break-ins but maybe everyone was home sleeping it off—maybe the hoods decided to give the city a break for one night.
"Help—hel—" Yeah, sure they did.
There was a thud like someone kicking a side of beef, and Clark homed in on the sound. He had too much experience with that particular noise not to know what it meant. His heart leaped as a fierce, joyful glow filled him. Now *this* was just what he needed—working out some of the complicated tangle of his emotions on some lousy goon—
He zipped around a corner and saw what looked like a gangland murder in progress. It was dark—but not so dark he couldn’t see two guys on their knees, hands locked over their heads, necks exposed, and a third guy standing behind them—tall, almost as tall as him, and he had a pair of flat black guns trained on the backs of the kneeling men's heads. There was something about him that was familiar…the guns, the long black coat and flowing scarf…
"Hey!" Clark shot forward and the guy whirled around. Clark startled for a moment—the guy was wearing some kind of costume, maybe. A silky black mask obscured his eyes and partially covered an aquiline nose. His neck and chin were swathed in a long scarf that fell away as he whirled. Thick black hair fell over one eye…even masked, his chin hidden in collar and scarf, there was something in his face that radiated pure misery. He looked—devastated, like someone who'd lost everything. He seemed to be…be…Clark squinted. The guy was crying?
A leather gloved hand swiped at the guy's face… the gun in the opposite hand never wavered in its aim. "Oh. It's you. Good, give me a hand. These jerks need a lesson. I'm still trying to decide if I should plug 'em or take 'em in." he laughed, wild and high, and the kneeling men shivered, and started to beg for their lives. He kicked them. "Shut up!"
"Hey, come on," Clark repeated. "Don't…whatya say we let the cops deal with them, okay? Don't…don’t be them. What's your name?" he asked, and held his hands out in a soothing way. "I'm Cla—I'm a friend."
The tall man laughed again, but this time it was a softer laugh, less uncontrolled. "Used that move on mad dogs, have you? Afraid I'll start foaming at the mouth? I know who you are, Angel. Better than that—I *know* who you are. As for becoming them, it's too, too, late. I am one of them—have been. I just didn't know until tonight how much I was…" He stopped, and took deep, steadying breaths. When he could talk again he went on, seeming not to notice Clark was standing close to him. "I don't have a name," he said. He turned his head until his lips were almost at Clark's ear. "But you can call me Bruce," he whispered.
Clark felt a deep shiver go through him, but he didn’t pull away. He had a bone-deep feeling that this man was someone he could trust. That odd sense of familiarity touched him again. He studied the man—Bruce--and suddenly, started giggling.
Bruce glared at him. "What?" he asked sharply.
"The Shadow"? Clark bit his lip, trying not to giggle again and Bruce glared harder, his lip lifted in the beginning of a snarl…and finally huffed, a soft sound that morphed into a brief chuckle.
"All, right, all right. Shut the fuck up. I'm not tall enough to pull off Doc Savage, okay?" He shrugged and rewrapped the scarf. "I've got a day job…well; I guess it's a night job too. The people who employ me wouldn't like my hobby very damn much."
Clark nodded. He certainly understood that. He took a step towards the shivering hulks on the concrete. "Dips?" he asked.
"No. These guys are worse than fucking dips," he replied, contempt for the thugs thickening his voice. "Dope dealers—garbage. More and more of the junk is moving into Metropolis. When Edge and his Gentlemen lost their bootlegging money, they figured to make it back with this—this poison." He nudged the back of their necks with the black guns, hard enough to make them wobble on their knees. Clark took a breath, ready to intervene. He could see roughing the mugs up—but killing them in cold blood? The idea made him queasy….
Bruce turned to him, and said, "Angel, I've been watching you; I know what you can do." He looked at the guns in his hands ruefully, came to some private decision. He tucked the guns away. "Take care of these bastards for me?"
The kneeling thugs moaned and babbled, certain they were about to be rubbed out—it's what they would have done. Bruce kicked them into silence again.
It wasn't that Clark couldn't understand the anger Bruce felt. He'd seen enough to know that the burden of drug addiction didn’t restrain itself to the addict, seen things that made his blood boil but still, killing people…he was glad Bruce seemed to make the other choice. "All right." He knocked them both out, letting Bruce see everything. He reached out, flicked his fingers against their skulls. Tap, tap, and they were out cold on the cobbles of the street.
Bruce whistled, and Clark blushed, smiled a little. "Someday, Angel, you're going to have to tell me how you do that—snazzy move."
Clark felt like he'd just gotten a medal and won a game show both. He took the hand extended to him and shook it, gazing into Bruce's face as he did. There was something about him, something familiar and not just that he was dressed up as a radio character even though he had very real guns tucked in the back of his pants…"You're the guy at the hotdog stand!" Clark said, and blushed. The handsome guy at the stand…
Bruce spoke so low no one else but Clark could have heard him. "And you…" he smiled at Clark."You're the crooner." Clark gaped. He knew he was more than—that stupid name--the Angel? "And…you're the clarinetist's friend—Alex. He's a friend of mine too." He put a hand on his arm. "Clark—you have some amazing abilities. I watch you moving around the city. I *know* that you aren’t like the rest of us. You're better—"
Clark shuddered. "No I'm not—"
Bruce smiled and his grip on Clark's arm tightened. "All right, then—different. Could you—would you use those abilities to watch over Lex? He needs our help. Just…keep this between the two of us, okay? I'll explain soon, I swear," he said when Clark wanted to ask why, "but for right now, trust me. Lex needs you." He took his hand away and almost as fast as Clark could move, was gone. Clark could have followed him, but let him go. He shouldered the two mooks and sped them off to drop them on the steps of the local precinct.
Bruce was…amazing. Bruce was more of a hero than Clark could ever be, he decided—he did what he did knowing that he could be hurt, knowing that—Clark stopped. Wait a minute…he called Alex Lex. "But, no one calls him Lex just me. He flushed a furious red as he recalled just when he called Lex 'Lex'. That had to be coincidence. It probably wasn't unusual for his friends to call him Lex…not that Chloe did. Or Walt. Or Pete and he'd slept with him…Clark grit his teeth. He was not going to be jealous of—of—figments. Thing to do was. Was. Well. What was the thing to do? Alex had clearly made his choice. Clark walked on towards home, thinking, letting his thoughts wander…and he came back to Bruce and his plea for help. And he knew right then that Bruce disliked this Mahaney thing as much as he did and more than that, didn't trust it, Clark was willing to bet. Mahaney was a creep and Clark decided it was up to him to convince Alex of that fact…he smiled. He had a plan for that.
part 37
TBC
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
6/19/08 02:27 am (UTC)Alex coming in the next bit. With Clark. ;)