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Annotated Version of Chapter XVI (Last Chapter)
The Wind At Midnight
Part XIV
Clark watched in the silence as Bruce stepped up onto the base of the repaired Eastern piston, facing the crowd of Dome Engineers, Rampart workers, and the remains of Tim's flyers. The rest of his City was watching via the Glasses, courtesy of a gadget or sixteen from Barbara. The Lord of Gotham stood there for a long, silent minute, his face calm and stern, his eyes shining with tears Clark wondered how many people could see. [*tilts head* This Bruce, Nightlord Bruce, is sort of what you get when you meld Batman and Bruce (not Brucie, though) into one, and make them a respected, public figure. One who grew up under Alfred and Lucius' tutelage, of course. He's a lord, Gotham's Prince, through and through, and in this world he doesn't have to hide it. Wayne Enterprises Bruce, in a lot of ways ...]
He did. He saw them. All his focus was on the man, his Lord, his Bruce. He saw the tears. He saw the way the shoulders were stiff and tense beneath the rich black drape of the cloak of his dress uniform. He was quite a sight, the Lord of Gotham. So different from the battered, exhausted man who had fled through an enemy City at Clark's side. No aged bandages wrapped around the chest in lieu of a shirt, only the deep black of his military coat, the shine of silver braiding. And no blue cloak, heirloom catches, only a sweep of black velvet that glinted gently at the edges where silver thread had been woven into it. No. This was the Nightlord in all his tired glory, standing for his people. [Looking back, it was sort of strange to write this, a military Clark. One who notices the details of status and the trappings of power]
But it was still Bruce, to Clark. He was still that man, for all that he didn't look it. It was there, in the sad humour of the eyes, the glinting passion. It was there in the way Bruce's eyes lingered on him, for the smallest of moments, before he turned back to his people, for this, the last goodbye. [But he's still Clark. He still has Clark's priorities. No matter the status, no matter the power, it's still the people behind them that matter to him]
It was a funeral. For all they had lost.
"Gotham," Bruce said, quiet and carrying, Barbara's Glasses catching his voice to carry it out across the City. "My City." He paused, swallowing, his throat heavy with words, and Clark ached to fly to him, to stand beside him and help him do this. But Bruce was the Lord of Gotham. He had been so for a long time, through so many of her struggles. He would stand for her again. [One thing I've always liked about Clark/Superman is that he lets people stand on their own two feet. He'll hold out a hand to help them, if they need it, but there's always a sense about him that he believes you can do it yourself, and he's just there to help you towards that. I think it's why combative people like Lois and Bruce find him so relatively easy to be around. He's an alpha, yes, but he doesn't feel the need to show it by pushing other people down]
"Here we are again," the Nightlord went on, softly, maybe a little sadly, but there was a smile there, in the corner of his mouth. "Right back where we started, floating damaged over a world that decided to kick us out." He smiled a little, half bitter and half joking. "I feel so rejected." A low murmur went up, laughter and grumbles spreading in rings out from him, and Clark watched the humour in tired, worn faces. So used to fighting, these people. [Sometimes I think, in canon, if Bruce could let the Bat's grim cold slip back a little, let a little of Brucie's often razored humour into his leadership style more often, he'd get a lot more done. *shrugs*]
"But this time, it's different," Bruce continued, when they'd settled back down. "This time, it meant something. This time, my people, my friends ... this time, we accomplished something." His eyes went back to Clark's, warm and vivid, and Clark stared mutely back. "This time," Bruce said softly, "we changed the world. Gotham showed them what was possible. She showed them the way forward. And our people, our friends and loved ones, those who died ... They died for that. More than just to save our City. More than just to protect us. What they did had meaning. And it always will. It always will ..." [Look, I like my tragedies deep and heroic and meaningful, okay? *smiles lopsidedly* And this world, I made it larger than life so I could have that. So there could be a funeral for the fallen on the ramparts of a floating Gotham, where their sacrifice leads them to the stars]
He trailed off, bowing his head, his grief and pride so obvious and so powerful that it was echoed all through the City, all through the crowd, and Clark felt those same emotions settle in his own chest, wrap themselves gently around his aching heart. Not for nothing. Despite it all, you did not die for nothing. Oh, Bruce ...
The Nightlord turned, then, to the looming metal piston behind him, his eyes tracing it up into the shadows of the Ramparts, to the mechanical darkness that housed the great Dome that shielded them from the hollow stars. He reached out, laid his hand gently against the metal, and the names that were etched there. The names of the fallen. All the fallen, all who had lost their lives in Luthor's last, desperate gamble. Gothamite and Metropolite alike. Clark knew. He'd seen them, traced the letters with his fingers, the names of men he'd known, the names he saw mourned in Bruce's eyes as his Lord held tight to his shoulder. The names of the dead, etched into the rebuilt City, into the very thing that kept the rest of them alive. [If it weren't for Clark, I don't know that he would have done that. Put all the names there, even Luthor's. If he hadn't met his Metropolite Commander, come to know Metropolis so personally, I don't know that he would have etched the names of her fallen so prominently beside his own. But he had, and he did]
"You will be remembered," the Lord of Gotham finished, quietly, echoingly. "What you died to protect will be fought for, defended, as long as I live, as long as Gotham lives. I swear it."
And around him, around Clark, the voices of the people of Gotham rose into a sad, joyful chorus as they repeated the words, as they echoed their Lord in his promise to the fallen. And Clark, tears streaming silently down his cheeks, lifted his voice with theirs. One of them in grief and pride and promise, his uniform irrelevant, his allegiance of no consequence. [Again ... this is a personal thing, it comes from my dad, in a lot of ways, and from standing in the graveyards of Ipres, German and English alike. Because it doesn't matter what side you were on, when you lie beneath the fields. It matters that you died, and that you lived, and that you had something you believed was worth fighting for]
What they had fought for, the lives they had died to protect, all of them, were his to defend for as long as he was able.
---
Clark stood at the window, looking out on a view he had never thought to see in his life. His reflection watched him back, a phantom against the vast wheel of stars, and the glow of a City at home with the darkness. He watched Gotham as she rotated gently, smiling at the life he could still see in her. [I browsed about fifteen hundred sci-fi and fastasy art galleries online for this, by the way. Not for details, or a specific image, because that was in my head anyway, but because I adore cityscapes, and steampunk cityscapes IN SPACE just demanded an image binge. Heh] He heard someone come in behind him, the door of the Rampart apartment opening with deceptive quiet, but there was no mistaking the sound of feet on his carpet. He tilted his head, to watch for their reflection as they entered his room, and smiled when he met Bruce's eyes over his shoulder. [*tilts head* I have a little thing, I think, for people talking via reflections. Especially reflections in windows looking out onto awesome scenery. From Bladerunner, and Batman:TAS, and Bubblegum Crisis, and other movies and shows. It's just a visual frame that I really, really like - reversal, reflection, over-layering the man onto the city, onto each other, reflection and reality, truth even warped ... I like it]
"Commander mine?" [I still don't know, by the way, how things like that endearment happen in my fics. Someone will call someone something, randomly, from some weird corner of my brain, and it will stick like glue and become all weird and evocative, and I can't shake it thereafter. But I do like 'Commander mine'. *smiles wistfully* Oh, I do like that one] Bruce said, softly, asking permission to enter. Clark shook his head with the smallest of smiles, and turned to greet him. And stopped, as he finally saw, close up, the man Bruce had become. When he'd left Bruce before, when Alfred had run him off for treatment, the man had been thin and haunted, dressed in the cloak and some very worn bandages, dirty and tired. Now ... the Lord of Gotham watched him from the doorway, his uniform as black as night, his dress-cloak a sweeping shadow from his shoulders, the only gleam of brightness the rich silver of his braiding and the trim of that velvet sweep, and the quiet shine of eyes that at last looked whole. Clark blinked in awe, shaking his head a little at the sight. He felt rather tawdry, suddenly, his dress whites feeling dusty and ill-kempt. [This was actually an artefact description, since I know it overlaps with the one from the funeral above a lot. That's because the funeral/memorial scene wasn't in the original draft, and once I added it ... I still just liked this description too much to chop it. *shrugs sheepishly*]
"My lord," he whispered, surprised to find himself hoarse, wondering at the sudden emotion that seized in his throat.
The Nightlord stepped softly into the room, moving towards Clark with that liquid gait that all his people seemed to have, his face wary and sad as he watched his Commander's eyes. Clark stared back, silent and wondering, until Bruce moved past him to stare blindly out the window. There was silence for a long moment, while Clark struggled to resist the urge to touch the man, hold him until Bruce told him what was wrong. The funeral ... but it was more than that. He could see it. [Bruce needs smacking, sometimes, but he's so ... lost and afraid, here. Three days, remember, between his first meeting with Commander Kent and this, and he thinks he's going to lose him. It doesn't seem real that he could hold on to him, after only days of alliance. He can't believe it]
"J'onn will be here soon," Bruce said, suddenly, his voice quiet and noncommittal. Clark blinked.
"Yes?" he asked, wondering why that was important. He wanted to meet this man, certainly, this alien who knew his origins, who might know Clark's. But there was something more in what Bruce was saying, something J'onn's arrival meant that Clark didn't understand. He waited for Bruce to explain it to him. [Clark, on the other hand, doesn't get it. Once Clark makes up his mind, it's made up and it takes a Kryptonite nuke to change it again. He decided during Luthor's last assault and Gotham's flight where he stood]
"He'll be arriving in the Javelin, or one of them," the Nightlord continued, still not looking at Clark. "She's part of our space fleet, one of sixteen boats we have capable of space flight." Clark nodded, his professional curiosity rearing its head, and he knew his eyes were shining eagerly. But boats, flight ... always his love. "And ..." Bruce started, and paused to swallow. "And planet landings. She'll be heading to Earth for a meeting with the Sea King. Barbara arranged it." [Because it never occurs to Bruce to just tell people these things, not until he can shoot himself in the foot doing so. *shakes head at him* Tactically, he's a genius. Personally, he's a moron]
Clark looked at him, feeling his head start to shake, feeling ... he didn't know what he was feeling. Confusion, maybe? Mostly confusion. Shock. Hurt? Maybe that too. But mostly ... confusion. He knew what that meant, knew what choices were suddenly opened to him, choices he had never expected to have again ... [I don't think Clark had really accepted it yet. Being confined to a space city, away from his planet and all he'd ever known. He'd known it, decided it, but it hadn't properly sunk in, and then Bruce pulls this shit out of nowhere, and he doesn't know what to think]
"Then why?" he asked, hearing his voice crack a little. Bruce's shoulders tightened. He knew what Clark meant, but he wasn't going to answer until Clark asked. "Down there ... with Luthor ... why did you want me to leave so badly? Why did you ... Why did you want to send me away?" His hand touched that velvet cloak before he knew he had reached, a plaintive, questioning grip. Why didn't you want me? Why ... [Why make me choose, in the heat of the moment, in the rush of fear? Because he was afraid, Clark, and he wanted to be sure. Of you. Of himself. Because suddenly there was something as important to him as the missiles bearing down on his city, and he didn't understand that, and it scared the crap out of him. So he made you choose, because he couldn't]
"I had to," Bruce said, suddenly, harshly, turning his head rapidly away so he wouldn't have to see Clark's reflection. In his own, Clark could see that his eyes were tightly closed. [Again, the talking via reflections thing. I just really, really like it? Plus. It seems sort of fitting, talking to Bruce that way. I'm not sure why]
"Why?" he asked again, sadly, simply. He didn't understand this. But Bruce wheeled away, back into the center of the room, his face heavy and hard. He looked hunted, like the man Clark had seen flying through an enemy City. Bruce looked back up at him, and his eyes were hollow.
"I had to," he repeated. "I had to try ... I had to try to let you go. Clark ... look around you, Commander mine. Look where you are. In my City. In my hands. Up here ... I had to give you the choice down there, because up here ... Up here, Commander, no-one could stop me from keeping you." He stopped, looking at Clark, and the longing in his eyes, the conflict ... Clark ached for him. "I could keep you," Bruce finished, softly. "I might never let you go, and you could never escape. Not here. That boat ... she's going back to Earth. And I could keep you." [Okay. I know, I spent the entire fic not-so-subtly fangirling Bruce in all his awesome not-Batman-but-still-awesome-pirate-prince glory, but I think ... even writing it, I think I didn't really love Nightlord!Bruce until this moment. Until he showed me what he was in this world, and how afraid he was, and how very, very deeply he could want something, and be afraid of the power of his own want. He wasn't ... fully human to me, maybe, until this moment]
Clark looked at him for the longest moment, seeing the sadness in him, the pain and desire. Seeing the desperate intimacy of the man. Then, he stepped forward, stepped right up to the Lord of Gotham who stood between him and the door. He looked into Bruce's eyes, his faith shining in his face. [Clark, though ... Clark knew all along. Clark loved all along]
"Then do," he said, very, very quietly. "My Lord, keep me." [And it's not a challenge. It's permission. It's a request. It's longing, and love, and forgiveness]
And after a second, his expression an agony of longing ... Bruce stepped aside. He bowed his head, his eyes downcast, and opened the path to the door, and the ship that waited beyond. He let Clark go. [Because Bruce always will. Because what he can do scares him, and what he can feel scares him, and though he'll want down to his soul, he will never hold another against their will. And every time he lets someone go, it breaks away a piece of him] And Clark, smiling as though his heart were about to break, moved in to wrap his arms around the man and hold him close. His hand came up to stroke absently at Bruce's hair, his heart aching as he felt the man he loved shake against him.
"Such an idiot," he murmured, gently, hearing the echo of Lois in his own voice. [*smiles* He hears her voice in his head a lot, I think. Whenever he's being stupid, or overbearing, or just plain annoying. And whenever anyone else is being the same. Lois has opinions about that kind of thing] "My Lord ... Bruce. Ask me to stay. But ask me to stay, and I will never leave your side." And, hearing some murmur Bruce couldn't hold back, he leaned back a little to look at his face, to see those fierce blue eyes shining at him. "Ask me, and I will be as happy as I have ever been," he finished, soft and sincere, his voice full and heavy with love. [Of course I'm bloody staying, you idiot! What, you thought sticking with you through the assault of a city and what felt like the end of the world was a fluke?] His smile turned fierce as he saw it echoed, but Bruce pulled back, pulled away, and moved again to the window. Clark stared after him, trying hard not to be frustrated. [Let's be fair, people feel that way a lot around Bruce, whichever incarnation of him we happen to be dealing with]
"No," Bruce said, suddenly. "Commander mine, I could not ask you to abandon your City. Gotham and I ... we lost each other, recently. I could not ask that of you." Clark stepped forward, to disagree, to say something, but Bruce was continuing. "However ..." the Nightlord went on, determinedly not looking at Clark. "I thought, hoped, that you might be willing to serve Metropolis in a slightly different capacity, Commander Kent." [Because much as I love them together, they are not the kind of men to drop all their responsibilities and elope. No matter the world. And Clark loves Metropolis. He's a part of her. He's not a Gothamite, no matter how much he might wish to be for Bruce's sake. And Bruce does know that]
"What do you mean?" Clark asked, frowning, reaching out to touch Bruce's shoulder gently and turn him so he could see his face. The Nightlord looked at him with fierce, determined eyes, gleaming with delight and hope, and Clark needed to know what he meant, needed to understand what Bruce wanted so much from him. He would give it, anything he could, but he could not give what he did not understand. "Bruce?" [On the other hand, Bruce does have a plan ...]
"Gotham fought for her place out here, did you know that?" the Nightlord answered, quietly, after a long moment. "We had no choice, of course. Fight or perish, and despite our losses, despite our despair, we were not quite ready to die. Not then. Not now. So we fought. We remade our City into something that could sail the stars, something that could stand up to whatever came for her. Gotham has made a place for herself out here, Commander mine, one that we never intended to surrender." [Look, I wanted Gaslight Space Opera, okay? And it just ... it flowed to this, to this point, to this choice, without conscious direction on my part. I swear!]
"I know," Clark whispered. He'd seen them. Seen the names, the readiness. He didn't know why this was so important now, but he knew that his Bruce had fought for a long time for his City. Bruce smiled gently at him.
"I know, Clark. I know you do. But there is so much you don't know. Not yet. You didn't know about the Javelins. You didn't know about J'onn. You still don't know that we have been on Earth for many years." He smiled at Clark's stunned look. "Oh, yes. Where do you think most of our people came from? We were decimated, after the Upheaval. We'd lost so many. We had to make it up somehow. So we built the ships, the fleet. And we went back to Earth. Our people have been rotating between the City and Earth, and a couple of other colonies, for nearly a decade, Commander mine." He smiled gently. "Dick was from Earth, you know. And Cassandra. We ... borrowed them. The unwanted. The lost. Those abandoned to the deserts, to the ruins of those Cities that never made it to the skies. Gotham ... she has more of a history with Earth than you, or anyone else, know. And that is going to continue." [I had miles of background and world-building in my head, by this point. I may yet go back and fill some of it in ...]
"Why?" Clark whispered, confused, sensing ... something. Something in Bruce, some elation, some triumph. "Bruce, what are you doing? What is Gotham ... What is it you want for Earth?"
The Nightlord looked at him, his eyes dark and intense, as fierce and powerful as Clark had ever seen him. "The stars, Commander mine," he said, softly. "For everyone. For humanity. Because we don't have much time, you know. Luthor knew it, I think. Luthor knew that our time on Earth was limited, that he had to find another power, another way to live. He wanted Gotham for that, and he tried to take her. Because Earth is changing. The Cities ... they were not meant to fly. The force of them, pushing their way through the air ... they are changing the world, Commander. Changing the climate, forcing the world into shock. The deserts are spreading, the atmosphere shifting desperately around the intrusions of mankind. Even Arthur's kingdom ... the planet will be a long time recovering from the Upheaval. And humanity might not be able to survive the changes in between." [This was the summer after taking a very interesting climatology module in college. It, ah, may show, a little?]
Clark stared at him, stunned, wondering. He had never thought, never known ... no wonder the Sea King disliked skytrash so. And Bruce ... "What then?" he asked. "What now? What ... what do we do?" The Nightlord smiled, sadly, joyfully.
"We go to the stars, Commander mine. We take ourselves out into the universe, and leave Earth to those who will care for her. Arthur, and those like him. Those who will see her through her rebirth, while we seek our place in the wider universe." [*crosses arms mutinously* I refuse to be ashamed of my vast, space-opera-y leanings, or the very real thrill I felt writing that. I refuse]
"How?" Clark whispered. So much, so wide ... he had never dreamed of so wide a world as the one that opened in front of him now, never thought to walk so hard and meaningful a road as Bruce asked him to. But at the same time ... he yearned for it, he realised. He always had. That hollow place in his heart, the need Metropolis had never been able to fulfil ... this was it. This was what he had sensed, waiting for him for all those years. And as much as it terrified him, he longed for it. [It had been building, all the way from the first few chapters. And I know, I know, nobody ever believes me when I say this, but I write things as they go along, as they flow, and I never plan this shit! I sweat I don't. Personally, I think I just tend to do the bulk of my writing in my subconscious, and it just translates itself to the keyboard via my fingers without telling my conscious mind what the hell is going on. *growls at subconscious*]
"Gotham has begun it," Bruce went on, seeing the change in Clark, seeing the elation. He was smiling, almost laughing, the pride Clark remembered from when he had flown for the first time, as fearful and determined then as he was now. "She's taken the first steps, made the beginnings of the path." He smiled a little. "She had very little choice. But we've made contact, out here. Touched civilisations. The Lanterns. The Gods. Others. We've made our place, found acceptance, to a degree. We've had to fight for it. We'll always have to fight for it. But it's there, and now it's time for the rest of Earth to follow us. It's time, Commander, for your people to follow ours."
"Metropolis," Clark realised, his hands beginning to shake. "You mean Metropolis." [The Shining City will not be left behind on Earth. Not for this. Gotham may have been the first, but Metropolis in some ways will be the finest. The Black Bitch owns my heart, but her sister demands her due]
"To start with," Bruce nodded. "Metropolis is a City of considerable renown. Luthor, whatever else he may have done, saw to that, and I've no doubt Lord Lois will continue the trend. [Whatever else he is, Luthor is always damn good at his job. Lois is not exactly a slacker either] Metropolis is a symbol for Earth in a way Gotham could never be. We've been gone too long, grown too fearsome for them to trust us. But Metropolis ... It will take time, though. Your City will need time to recover, need time to make herself again what she was before Luthor's madness. And beyond that, she will need time to learn what we have learned, to become as ready for the stars as Gotham. Metropolis has a long road ahead of her, Commander mine. If she chooses to walk it at all. I'll be taking that up with her Lord, of course. But ... in the meantime ... there was the question of your role?"
Clark shook his head, confused, awed, fear and wonder and longing and dread tangling together in his chest. The thought of it ... his City, his Metropolis, a City of the stars ... he could feel the universe unfolding around him, sense a vastness that he had never touched before, a depth of time and challenge that was greater than anything he or his City had ever faced. [I get that, sometimes. Really get it, I mean. The sense of a thing unfolding, impossibly vast ...] And maybe it was only his pride ... but he believed it could be done. He believed in Bruce, in Lois, in Gotham and Metropolis and all the desperate brilliance of humanity. [So do I] It could be done. And he would do anything in his power to help.
"What do I need to do?" he asked, quietly, the depth of his emotion shaking in his voice, his heart pushing so insistently against the walls of his chest that it was a wonder he could speak at all. "What do you need, my Lord?"
Bruce came to him, stood close to him, taking Clark's shaking hands in his own so that he could hold them to his chest, to his heart. He swallowed, shaking his head, the emotion storming through him as powerfully as it did through Clark, the strength of it stunning them both.
"I thought," he started, his voice low and almost drowned. "I wondered if you might be willing to serve your City as an ambassador. Her Ambassador to the Stars. And if you were, if you could do that ... Gotham would be proud to bear you, Commander mine. Anywhere. Everywhere." His voice broke, died, and he could only lean into Clark, only lean against the shaking strength of him. [Have his City, and Clark's City, and Clark ... he really does want, so very badly, so very desperately. He really does hope] Clark couldn't speak, couldn't say anything, his heart so full it had to burst, had to break, but it didn't ... It wouldn't. Not so long as this man was by his side. Not so long as Bruce was with him.
He could do anything, for that.
"Bruce," he managed, strangled and full. "My Lord ... I will. I do. I ... anything. Anywhere. My Lord ..." And he couldn't continue, couldn't say a thing, his words too deep, too tangled, and all he could do was tip his head forward, hold the man close to him, as close as he could, as near as breathing, meaning so much, holding so much ... He felt the thud as his knees hit the carpet, heard Bruce give a strangled, gasping chuckle, and hugged him tight, hugged him close. His Lord. His Bruce. [Commander mine. My Lord. Why does a simple possessive mean so damn much? How did that happen? But it does. To both]
The stars wheeled beyond the window, the lights of Gotham dancing as she smiled in at them, as their damaged lady bore them through the turning of the universe, the turning of fate upon a single choice, and Clark held tight to Bruce, and Bruce reached up to kiss him, to give back, the beating of two hearts so strong and fragile and determined. And through all the vastness of the universe, they were no more than two men, and all the weight of the choices they made was no more important than the love that built and bloomed and shattered between them. [That image ... the interlocking spirals, macrocosm through microcosm and back, universe through a human heart and vice versa ... the world spins thus. I really, really think it does]
They were Gotham and Metropolis.
They were Lord and Commander.
They were Bruce and Clark.
And they loved each other.
[A declining, ascending order of simple truths, the world tightening and expanding again. Yea gods, I'm a romantic. A hopeless, hopeless romantic. And wow, was that a blast from the past. *blinks some* Wow]
[End]
Part XIV
Clark watched in the silence as Bruce stepped up onto the base of the repaired Eastern piston, facing the crowd of Dome Engineers, Rampart workers, and the remains of Tim's flyers. The rest of his City was watching via the Glasses, courtesy of a gadget or sixteen from Barbara. The Lord of Gotham stood there for a long, silent minute, his face calm and stern, his eyes shining with tears Clark wondered how many people could see. [*tilts head* This Bruce, Nightlord Bruce, is sort of what you get when you meld Batman and Bruce (not Brucie, though) into one, and make them a respected, public figure. One who grew up under Alfred and Lucius' tutelage, of course. He's a lord, Gotham's Prince, through and through, and in this world he doesn't have to hide it. Wayne Enterprises Bruce, in a lot of ways ...]
He did. He saw them. All his focus was on the man, his Lord, his Bruce. He saw the tears. He saw the way the shoulders were stiff and tense beneath the rich black drape of the cloak of his dress uniform. He was quite a sight, the Lord of Gotham. So different from the battered, exhausted man who had fled through an enemy City at Clark's side. No aged bandages wrapped around the chest in lieu of a shirt, only the deep black of his military coat, the shine of silver braiding. And no blue cloak, heirloom catches, only a sweep of black velvet that glinted gently at the edges where silver thread had been woven into it. No. This was the Nightlord in all his tired glory, standing for his people. [Looking back, it was sort of strange to write this, a military Clark. One who notices the details of status and the trappings of power]
But it was still Bruce, to Clark. He was still that man, for all that he didn't look it. It was there, in the sad humour of the eyes, the glinting passion. It was there in the way Bruce's eyes lingered on him, for the smallest of moments, before he turned back to his people, for this, the last goodbye. [But he's still Clark. He still has Clark's priorities. No matter the status, no matter the power, it's still the people behind them that matter to him]
It was a funeral. For all they had lost.
"Gotham," Bruce said, quiet and carrying, Barbara's Glasses catching his voice to carry it out across the City. "My City." He paused, swallowing, his throat heavy with words, and Clark ached to fly to him, to stand beside him and help him do this. But Bruce was the Lord of Gotham. He had been so for a long time, through so many of her struggles. He would stand for her again. [One thing I've always liked about Clark/Superman is that he lets people stand on their own two feet. He'll hold out a hand to help them, if they need it, but there's always a sense about him that he believes you can do it yourself, and he's just there to help you towards that. I think it's why combative people like Lois and Bruce find him so relatively easy to be around. He's an alpha, yes, but he doesn't feel the need to show it by pushing other people down]
"Here we are again," the Nightlord went on, softly, maybe a little sadly, but there was a smile there, in the corner of his mouth. "Right back where we started, floating damaged over a world that decided to kick us out." He smiled a little, half bitter and half joking. "I feel so rejected." A low murmur went up, laughter and grumbles spreading in rings out from him, and Clark watched the humour in tired, worn faces. So used to fighting, these people. [Sometimes I think, in canon, if Bruce could let the Bat's grim cold slip back a little, let a little of Brucie's often razored humour into his leadership style more often, he'd get a lot more done. *shrugs*]
"But this time, it's different," Bruce continued, when they'd settled back down. "This time, it meant something. This time, my people, my friends ... this time, we accomplished something." His eyes went back to Clark's, warm and vivid, and Clark stared mutely back. "This time," Bruce said softly, "we changed the world. Gotham showed them what was possible. She showed them the way forward. And our people, our friends and loved ones, those who died ... They died for that. More than just to save our City. More than just to protect us. What they did had meaning. And it always will. It always will ..." [Look, I like my tragedies deep and heroic and meaningful, okay? *smiles lopsidedly* And this world, I made it larger than life so I could have that. So there could be a funeral for the fallen on the ramparts of a floating Gotham, where their sacrifice leads them to the stars]
He trailed off, bowing his head, his grief and pride so obvious and so powerful that it was echoed all through the City, all through the crowd, and Clark felt those same emotions settle in his own chest, wrap themselves gently around his aching heart. Not for nothing. Despite it all, you did not die for nothing. Oh, Bruce ...
The Nightlord turned, then, to the looming metal piston behind him, his eyes tracing it up into the shadows of the Ramparts, to the mechanical darkness that housed the great Dome that shielded them from the hollow stars. He reached out, laid his hand gently against the metal, and the names that were etched there. The names of the fallen. All the fallen, all who had lost their lives in Luthor's last, desperate gamble. Gothamite and Metropolite alike. Clark knew. He'd seen them, traced the letters with his fingers, the names of men he'd known, the names he saw mourned in Bruce's eyes as his Lord held tight to his shoulder. The names of the dead, etched into the rebuilt City, into the very thing that kept the rest of them alive. [If it weren't for Clark, I don't know that he would have done that. Put all the names there, even Luthor's. If he hadn't met his Metropolite Commander, come to know Metropolis so personally, I don't know that he would have etched the names of her fallen so prominently beside his own. But he had, and he did]
"You will be remembered," the Lord of Gotham finished, quietly, echoingly. "What you died to protect will be fought for, defended, as long as I live, as long as Gotham lives. I swear it."
And around him, around Clark, the voices of the people of Gotham rose into a sad, joyful chorus as they repeated the words, as they echoed their Lord in his promise to the fallen. And Clark, tears streaming silently down his cheeks, lifted his voice with theirs. One of them in grief and pride and promise, his uniform irrelevant, his allegiance of no consequence. [Again ... this is a personal thing, it comes from my dad, in a lot of ways, and from standing in the graveyards of Ipres, German and English alike. Because it doesn't matter what side you were on, when you lie beneath the fields. It matters that you died, and that you lived, and that you had something you believed was worth fighting for]
What they had fought for, the lives they had died to protect, all of them, were his to defend for as long as he was able.
---
Clark stood at the window, looking out on a view he had never thought to see in his life. His reflection watched him back, a phantom against the vast wheel of stars, and the glow of a City at home with the darkness. He watched Gotham as she rotated gently, smiling at the life he could still see in her. [I browsed about fifteen hundred sci-fi and fastasy art galleries online for this, by the way. Not for details, or a specific image, because that was in my head anyway, but because I adore cityscapes, and steampunk cityscapes IN SPACE just demanded an image binge. Heh] He heard someone come in behind him, the door of the Rampart apartment opening with deceptive quiet, but there was no mistaking the sound of feet on his carpet. He tilted his head, to watch for their reflection as they entered his room, and smiled when he met Bruce's eyes over his shoulder. [*tilts head* I have a little thing, I think, for people talking via reflections. Especially reflections in windows looking out onto awesome scenery. From Bladerunner, and Batman:TAS, and Bubblegum Crisis, and other movies and shows. It's just a visual frame that I really, really like - reversal, reflection, over-layering the man onto the city, onto each other, reflection and reality, truth even warped ... I like it]
"Commander mine?" [I still don't know, by the way, how things like that endearment happen in my fics. Someone will call someone something, randomly, from some weird corner of my brain, and it will stick like glue and become all weird and evocative, and I can't shake it thereafter. But I do like 'Commander mine'. *smiles wistfully* Oh, I do like that one] Bruce said, softly, asking permission to enter. Clark shook his head with the smallest of smiles, and turned to greet him. And stopped, as he finally saw, close up, the man Bruce had become. When he'd left Bruce before, when Alfred had run him off for treatment, the man had been thin and haunted, dressed in the cloak and some very worn bandages, dirty and tired. Now ... the Lord of Gotham watched him from the doorway, his uniform as black as night, his dress-cloak a sweeping shadow from his shoulders, the only gleam of brightness the rich silver of his braiding and the trim of that velvet sweep, and the quiet shine of eyes that at last looked whole. Clark blinked in awe, shaking his head a little at the sight. He felt rather tawdry, suddenly, his dress whites feeling dusty and ill-kempt. [This was actually an artefact description, since I know it overlaps with the one from the funeral above a lot. That's because the funeral/memorial scene wasn't in the original draft, and once I added it ... I still just liked this description too much to chop it. *shrugs sheepishly*]
"My lord," he whispered, surprised to find himself hoarse, wondering at the sudden emotion that seized in his throat.
The Nightlord stepped softly into the room, moving towards Clark with that liquid gait that all his people seemed to have, his face wary and sad as he watched his Commander's eyes. Clark stared back, silent and wondering, until Bruce moved past him to stare blindly out the window. There was silence for a long moment, while Clark struggled to resist the urge to touch the man, hold him until Bruce told him what was wrong. The funeral ... but it was more than that. He could see it. [Bruce needs smacking, sometimes, but he's so ... lost and afraid, here. Three days, remember, between his first meeting with Commander Kent and this, and he thinks he's going to lose him. It doesn't seem real that he could hold on to him, after only days of alliance. He can't believe it]
"J'onn will be here soon," Bruce said, suddenly, his voice quiet and noncommittal. Clark blinked.
"Yes?" he asked, wondering why that was important. He wanted to meet this man, certainly, this alien who knew his origins, who might know Clark's. But there was something more in what Bruce was saying, something J'onn's arrival meant that Clark didn't understand. He waited for Bruce to explain it to him. [Clark, on the other hand, doesn't get it. Once Clark makes up his mind, it's made up and it takes a Kryptonite nuke to change it again. He decided during Luthor's last assault and Gotham's flight where he stood]
"He'll be arriving in the Javelin, or one of them," the Nightlord continued, still not looking at Clark. "She's part of our space fleet, one of sixteen boats we have capable of space flight." Clark nodded, his professional curiosity rearing its head, and he knew his eyes were shining eagerly. But boats, flight ... always his love. "And ..." Bruce started, and paused to swallow. "And planet landings. She'll be heading to Earth for a meeting with the Sea King. Barbara arranged it." [Because it never occurs to Bruce to just tell people these things, not until he can shoot himself in the foot doing so. *shakes head at him* Tactically, he's a genius. Personally, he's a moron]
Clark looked at him, feeling his head start to shake, feeling ... he didn't know what he was feeling. Confusion, maybe? Mostly confusion. Shock. Hurt? Maybe that too. But mostly ... confusion. He knew what that meant, knew what choices were suddenly opened to him, choices he had never expected to have again ... [I don't think Clark had really accepted it yet. Being confined to a space city, away from his planet and all he'd ever known. He'd known it, decided it, but it hadn't properly sunk in, and then Bruce pulls this shit out of nowhere, and he doesn't know what to think]
"Then why?" he asked, hearing his voice crack a little. Bruce's shoulders tightened. He knew what Clark meant, but he wasn't going to answer until Clark asked. "Down there ... with Luthor ... why did you want me to leave so badly? Why did you ... Why did you want to send me away?" His hand touched that velvet cloak before he knew he had reached, a plaintive, questioning grip. Why didn't you want me? Why ... [Why make me choose, in the heat of the moment, in the rush of fear? Because he was afraid, Clark, and he wanted to be sure. Of you. Of himself. Because suddenly there was something as important to him as the missiles bearing down on his city, and he didn't understand that, and it scared the crap out of him. So he made you choose, because he couldn't]
"I had to," Bruce said, suddenly, harshly, turning his head rapidly away so he wouldn't have to see Clark's reflection. In his own, Clark could see that his eyes were tightly closed. [Again, the talking via reflections thing. I just really, really like it? Plus. It seems sort of fitting, talking to Bruce that way. I'm not sure why]
"Why?" he asked again, sadly, simply. He didn't understand this. But Bruce wheeled away, back into the center of the room, his face heavy and hard. He looked hunted, like the man Clark had seen flying through an enemy City. Bruce looked back up at him, and his eyes were hollow.
"I had to," he repeated. "I had to try ... I had to try to let you go. Clark ... look around you, Commander mine. Look where you are. In my City. In my hands. Up here ... I had to give you the choice down there, because up here ... Up here, Commander, no-one could stop me from keeping you." He stopped, looking at Clark, and the longing in his eyes, the conflict ... Clark ached for him. "I could keep you," Bruce finished, softly. "I might never let you go, and you could never escape. Not here. That boat ... she's going back to Earth. And I could keep you." [Okay. I know, I spent the entire fic not-so-subtly fangirling Bruce in all his awesome not-Batman-but-still-awesome-pirate-prince glory, but I think ... even writing it, I think I didn't really love Nightlord!Bruce until this moment. Until he showed me what he was in this world, and how afraid he was, and how very, very deeply he could want something, and be afraid of the power of his own want. He wasn't ... fully human to me, maybe, until this moment]
Clark looked at him for the longest moment, seeing the sadness in him, the pain and desire. Seeing the desperate intimacy of the man. Then, he stepped forward, stepped right up to the Lord of Gotham who stood between him and the door. He looked into Bruce's eyes, his faith shining in his face. [Clark, though ... Clark knew all along. Clark loved all along]
"Then do," he said, very, very quietly. "My Lord, keep me." [And it's not a challenge. It's permission. It's a request. It's longing, and love, and forgiveness]
And after a second, his expression an agony of longing ... Bruce stepped aside. He bowed his head, his eyes downcast, and opened the path to the door, and the ship that waited beyond. He let Clark go. [Because Bruce always will. Because what he can do scares him, and what he can feel scares him, and though he'll want down to his soul, he will never hold another against their will. And every time he lets someone go, it breaks away a piece of him] And Clark, smiling as though his heart were about to break, moved in to wrap his arms around the man and hold him close. His hand came up to stroke absently at Bruce's hair, his heart aching as he felt the man he loved shake against him.
"Such an idiot," he murmured, gently, hearing the echo of Lois in his own voice. [*smiles* He hears her voice in his head a lot, I think. Whenever he's being stupid, or overbearing, or just plain annoying. And whenever anyone else is being the same. Lois has opinions about that kind of thing] "My Lord ... Bruce. Ask me to stay. But ask me to stay, and I will never leave your side." And, hearing some murmur Bruce couldn't hold back, he leaned back a little to look at his face, to see those fierce blue eyes shining at him. "Ask me, and I will be as happy as I have ever been," he finished, soft and sincere, his voice full and heavy with love. [Of course I'm bloody staying, you idiot! What, you thought sticking with you through the assault of a city and what felt like the end of the world was a fluke?] His smile turned fierce as he saw it echoed, but Bruce pulled back, pulled away, and moved again to the window. Clark stared after him, trying hard not to be frustrated. [Let's be fair, people feel that way a lot around Bruce, whichever incarnation of him we happen to be dealing with]
"No," Bruce said, suddenly. "Commander mine, I could not ask you to abandon your City. Gotham and I ... we lost each other, recently. I could not ask that of you." Clark stepped forward, to disagree, to say something, but Bruce was continuing. "However ..." the Nightlord went on, determinedly not looking at Clark. "I thought, hoped, that you might be willing to serve Metropolis in a slightly different capacity, Commander Kent." [Because much as I love them together, they are not the kind of men to drop all their responsibilities and elope. No matter the world. And Clark loves Metropolis. He's a part of her. He's not a Gothamite, no matter how much he might wish to be for Bruce's sake. And Bruce does know that]
"What do you mean?" Clark asked, frowning, reaching out to touch Bruce's shoulder gently and turn him so he could see his face. The Nightlord looked at him with fierce, determined eyes, gleaming with delight and hope, and Clark needed to know what he meant, needed to understand what Bruce wanted so much from him. He would give it, anything he could, but he could not give what he did not understand. "Bruce?" [On the other hand, Bruce does have a plan ...]
"Gotham fought for her place out here, did you know that?" the Nightlord answered, quietly, after a long moment. "We had no choice, of course. Fight or perish, and despite our losses, despite our despair, we were not quite ready to die. Not then. Not now. So we fought. We remade our City into something that could sail the stars, something that could stand up to whatever came for her. Gotham has made a place for herself out here, Commander mine, one that we never intended to surrender." [Look, I wanted Gaslight Space Opera, okay? And it just ... it flowed to this, to this point, to this choice, without conscious direction on my part. I swear!]
"I know," Clark whispered. He'd seen them. Seen the names, the readiness. He didn't know why this was so important now, but he knew that his Bruce had fought for a long time for his City. Bruce smiled gently at him.
"I know, Clark. I know you do. But there is so much you don't know. Not yet. You didn't know about the Javelins. You didn't know about J'onn. You still don't know that we have been on Earth for many years." He smiled at Clark's stunned look. "Oh, yes. Where do you think most of our people came from? We were decimated, after the Upheaval. We'd lost so many. We had to make it up somehow. So we built the ships, the fleet. And we went back to Earth. Our people have been rotating between the City and Earth, and a couple of other colonies, for nearly a decade, Commander mine." He smiled gently. "Dick was from Earth, you know. And Cassandra. We ... borrowed them. The unwanted. The lost. Those abandoned to the deserts, to the ruins of those Cities that never made it to the skies. Gotham ... she has more of a history with Earth than you, or anyone else, know. And that is going to continue." [I had miles of background and world-building in my head, by this point. I may yet go back and fill some of it in ...]
"Why?" Clark whispered, confused, sensing ... something. Something in Bruce, some elation, some triumph. "Bruce, what are you doing? What is Gotham ... What is it you want for Earth?"
The Nightlord looked at him, his eyes dark and intense, as fierce and powerful as Clark had ever seen him. "The stars, Commander mine," he said, softly. "For everyone. For humanity. Because we don't have much time, you know. Luthor knew it, I think. Luthor knew that our time on Earth was limited, that he had to find another power, another way to live. He wanted Gotham for that, and he tried to take her. Because Earth is changing. The Cities ... they were not meant to fly. The force of them, pushing their way through the air ... they are changing the world, Commander. Changing the climate, forcing the world into shock. The deserts are spreading, the atmosphere shifting desperately around the intrusions of mankind. Even Arthur's kingdom ... the planet will be a long time recovering from the Upheaval. And humanity might not be able to survive the changes in between." [This was the summer after taking a very interesting climatology module in college. It, ah, may show, a little?]
Clark stared at him, stunned, wondering. He had never thought, never known ... no wonder the Sea King disliked skytrash so. And Bruce ... "What then?" he asked. "What now? What ... what do we do?" The Nightlord smiled, sadly, joyfully.
"We go to the stars, Commander mine. We take ourselves out into the universe, and leave Earth to those who will care for her. Arthur, and those like him. Those who will see her through her rebirth, while we seek our place in the wider universe." [*crosses arms mutinously* I refuse to be ashamed of my vast, space-opera-y leanings, or the very real thrill I felt writing that. I refuse]
"How?" Clark whispered. So much, so wide ... he had never dreamed of so wide a world as the one that opened in front of him now, never thought to walk so hard and meaningful a road as Bruce asked him to. But at the same time ... he yearned for it, he realised. He always had. That hollow place in his heart, the need Metropolis had never been able to fulfil ... this was it. This was what he had sensed, waiting for him for all those years. And as much as it terrified him, he longed for it. [It had been building, all the way from the first few chapters. And I know, I know, nobody ever believes me when I say this, but I write things as they go along, as they flow, and I never plan this shit! I sweat I don't. Personally, I think I just tend to do the bulk of my writing in my subconscious, and it just translates itself to the keyboard via my fingers without telling my conscious mind what the hell is going on. *growls at subconscious*]
"Gotham has begun it," Bruce went on, seeing the change in Clark, seeing the elation. He was smiling, almost laughing, the pride Clark remembered from when he had flown for the first time, as fearful and determined then as he was now. "She's taken the first steps, made the beginnings of the path." He smiled a little. "She had very little choice. But we've made contact, out here. Touched civilisations. The Lanterns. The Gods. Others. We've made our place, found acceptance, to a degree. We've had to fight for it. We'll always have to fight for it. But it's there, and now it's time for the rest of Earth to follow us. It's time, Commander, for your people to follow ours."
"Metropolis," Clark realised, his hands beginning to shake. "You mean Metropolis." [The Shining City will not be left behind on Earth. Not for this. Gotham may have been the first, but Metropolis in some ways will be the finest. The Black Bitch owns my heart, but her sister demands her due]
"To start with," Bruce nodded. "Metropolis is a City of considerable renown. Luthor, whatever else he may have done, saw to that, and I've no doubt Lord Lois will continue the trend. [Whatever else he is, Luthor is always damn good at his job. Lois is not exactly a slacker either] Metropolis is a symbol for Earth in a way Gotham could never be. We've been gone too long, grown too fearsome for them to trust us. But Metropolis ... It will take time, though. Your City will need time to recover, need time to make herself again what she was before Luthor's madness. And beyond that, she will need time to learn what we have learned, to become as ready for the stars as Gotham. Metropolis has a long road ahead of her, Commander mine. If she chooses to walk it at all. I'll be taking that up with her Lord, of course. But ... in the meantime ... there was the question of your role?"
Clark shook his head, confused, awed, fear and wonder and longing and dread tangling together in his chest. The thought of it ... his City, his Metropolis, a City of the stars ... he could feel the universe unfolding around him, sense a vastness that he had never touched before, a depth of time and challenge that was greater than anything he or his City had ever faced. [I get that, sometimes. Really get it, I mean. The sense of a thing unfolding, impossibly vast ...] And maybe it was only his pride ... but he believed it could be done. He believed in Bruce, in Lois, in Gotham and Metropolis and all the desperate brilliance of humanity. [So do I] It could be done. And he would do anything in his power to help.
"What do I need to do?" he asked, quietly, the depth of his emotion shaking in his voice, his heart pushing so insistently against the walls of his chest that it was a wonder he could speak at all. "What do you need, my Lord?"
Bruce came to him, stood close to him, taking Clark's shaking hands in his own so that he could hold them to his chest, to his heart. He swallowed, shaking his head, the emotion storming through him as powerfully as it did through Clark, the strength of it stunning them both.
"I thought," he started, his voice low and almost drowned. "I wondered if you might be willing to serve your City as an ambassador. Her Ambassador to the Stars. And if you were, if you could do that ... Gotham would be proud to bear you, Commander mine. Anywhere. Everywhere." His voice broke, died, and he could only lean into Clark, only lean against the shaking strength of him. [Have his City, and Clark's City, and Clark ... he really does want, so very badly, so very desperately. He really does hope] Clark couldn't speak, couldn't say anything, his heart so full it had to burst, had to break, but it didn't ... It wouldn't. Not so long as this man was by his side. Not so long as Bruce was with him.
He could do anything, for that.
"Bruce," he managed, strangled and full. "My Lord ... I will. I do. I ... anything. Anywhere. My Lord ..." And he couldn't continue, couldn't say a thing, his words too deep, too tangled, and all he could do was tip his head forward, hold the man close to him, as close as he could, as near as breathing, meaning so much, holding so much ... He felt the thud as his knees hit the carpet, heard Bruce give a strangled, gasping chuckle, and hugged him tight, hugged him close. His Lord. His Bruce. [Commander mine. My Lord. Why does a simple possessive mean so damn much? How did that happen? But it does. To both]
The stars wheeled beyond the window, the lights of Gotham dancing as she smiled in at them, as their damaged lady bore them through the turning of the universe, the turning of fate upon a single choice, and Clark held tight to Bruce, and Bruce reached up to kiss him, to give back, the beating of two hearts so strong and fragile and determined. And through all the vastness of the universe, they were no more than two men, and all the weight of the choices they made was no more important than the love that built and bloomed and shattered between them. [That image ... the interlocking spirals, macrocosm through microcosm and back, universe through a human heart and vice versa ... the world spins thus. I really, really think it does]
They were Gotham and Metropolis.
They were Lord and Commander.
They were Bruce and Clark.
And they loved each other.
[A declining, ascending order of simple truths, the world tightening and expanding again. Yea gods, I'm a romantic. A hopeless, hopeless romantic. And wow, was that a blast from the past. *blinks some* Wow]
[End]
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