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Title: The Wind At Midnight
Rating: PG-13 overall, I think.
Characters/Pairings: Will be Bruce/Clark. Bruce, Clark, Lois, Jimmy this chapter.
Summary: Almost a quarter of a century ago, the cities of Earth were torn from the earth by some mystic upheaval and set flying, before threatening to fall back. To prevent the incredible loss of life if they fell, structures known as Ramparts were rapidly constructed, containing the material apparently most susceptible to the new mystical gravities of earth: silver. A new world order was built, as the deserts created on the surface during the Upheaval denied cultivation, based on Cities and flightpaths and park-grown food, a world in tentative political and physical balance. And now that balance is threatened.
Chapter summary: Demons and secrets and migraines.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Conceit inspired by James Blish's 'Cities in Flight'. Rest is mine.
The Wind At Midnight
Part VII
When he stepped back into her lair twenty minutes later, Lois was on her own again, pacing to and fro across the room, tapping and muttering to herself. She was as happily and determinedly busy as he'd ever seen her, and the sight made him smile a little. But when she turned and saw him, she didn't smile back. Her first expression was surprise, and that rapidly morphed into exasperation as he stood in the doorway and shuffled.
"Clark, honey," she said finally, perching one annoyed hip on her board. "You really can't take a hint, can you?"
He shifted, his mouth curving ruefully. "Oh, I can," he murmured, and he could. He knew exactly what she'd been hinting at, and he had very nearly gone with it, too. "Just, not now, okay?"
She sighed. "Why not now, flyboy? You mightn't get the chance, later."
He nodded sadly, and then tried a faint smile. "I know. It's just ... it feels too much like ... like taking advantage of him. He's hurt, he's alone, he needs us to help him. I just ... I couldn't." He'd stood in the doorway, watching Bruce make his way to the bed, trying to work up to asking. Then Bruce had turned to him, in the dim golden light, reaching up stiffly to pull off the cloak, his bruised face curious and composed. And Clark couldn't. He just couldn't, no matter that it might be his last chance, no matter how badly he wanted to. He couldn't take advantage of that suddenly visible vulnerability. And there had been something in Bruce's eyes, as he'd helped him sit down, that had seen it in him. He couldn't tell if the man had been grateful or disappointed. And he was almost afraid to find out.
Lois watched him as he remembered, and shook her head. When she looked back up at him, there was such softness in her eyes, such warm and exasperated caring, that he didn't know what to do. "Flyboy," she said quietly. "I swear, you really are the most idiotic, blind, romantic lump I've ever met. You really, really are."
He blinked, and grinned a little. "Well, that's why you love me, isn't it?"
She laughed, and turned back to her Glasses, shaking her head. "It's a good job I'm not in love with you, or I can see I'd be in for a long haul, flyboy. And since you're here, you wouldn't come over and help me out, would you? My shoulders are knotting horribly."
He reached up to scrub one hand through his hair in wonder, and walked over to her smiling. "Sure," he murmured, and laid his hands gently on her shoulders, brushing his thumbs lightly over the back of her neck, feeling the tightness there. She arched her neck a little, settling in to the sensation, and immediately got back to work.
"You should give him one of these," she muttered quietly, her body arching a little as he hit a sore spot. "He'd follow you into Hell."
"I think he's already been there," Clark murmured back. Then his hands went still on her shoulders, and his face creased into a frown.
"Clark?" she asked, turning her head a little to look back at him. "What's wrong?" He looked down at her, and bit his lip, gnawing worriedly. She turned to him more fully, concern rapidly filling her sharp eyes. "Clark?"
"Lois, I ..." he started, and sighed, firming his resolve. He had to tell someone. "Lois, I think he did something to me," he said at last, very quietly. She stared over her shoulder at him for a second, then spun all at once to seize hold of his uniform.
"Did something?" she asked harshly. "Did what? Clark, if he hurt you ..."
"No!" he exclaimed hurriedly, then quieted. "No. It's not like that. It's just ... You know the rumours, that he took Gotham to Hell and back? That he's some kind of demon?"
"Ye-es," she said slowly, deliberately, and he flushed a little.
"Do you think he can turn other people into demons too?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably. She just stared at him, utterly incomprehending and more than a little worried, and he sighed. Looking to one side, he stepped back a bit, and held up a hand. "Lois, just ... just watch, okay? And then tell me. Alright?" She nodded warily, and he bit his lip again, closing his eyes.
And focused on feeling light.
When he opened them again, hovering a couple of inches off the floor, she was still staring at him. But instead of the shock and horror he'd expected, she had pressed a hand to her mouth, partially disguising a smile of the strangest mix of sorrow and pity and joy he'd ever seen. He blinked. "Lois, is this normal?"
She shook her head, unable to speak for a minute, still staring at him. Then she lowered that disguising hand to smile openly, and stepped up to lay it gently on his floating chest. "For you, flyboy?" she murmured thickly. "I think it is. I really think it is." He blinked at her in shock, and her smile turned a little rueful as she tried to explain. "Clark, you know how some people talk in their sleep? Well, honey ... you fly." She patted him gently. "You always have. I thought you knew."
His heels hit the floor with a thud as he gaped at her. "What?" he whispered, hoarsely. She stepped back a little from his confusion, and shrugged helplessly.
"I honestly thought you knew," she said, her hand waving aimlessly as if trying to grab the right words. "You hid it on the ground, so well nobody would suspect, but in the air ... Clark, there's nothing like you in the air. I've never seen you do it without a sail, except those couple of times in your sleep when you'd crashed on the cot, but ... somehow, flyboy, I'm not surprised. But ... you really never knew? Never even suspected?" There was a hint of incredulity in her voice. He shook his head desperately.
"No, I didn't!" he said, controlling the panic in his voice with difficulty. "Lois, I never knew. Not until he told me. Not until him."
"Then," she said, slowly and gently, "I think you might owe him some thanks, flyboy, don't you? He's handed you back the sky. That's a hell of first date, don't you think?"
He blinked, and looked down at his hands. Slowly, he curled one into a fist, and raised it as if to study it, his face red with shame and amazement. "I almost hit him for it," he admitted, rich wonder threading through his voice. "I thought he'd turned me into a demon. I almost hit him."
Lois snorted, her eyes still shining at him, though there was just a hint of teasing now. "Clark, honey, only you. Only you. What the hell made you think he was a demon in the first place? Does he strike you as one?"
"No," Clark started, then slowed, musing. He thought back on the last twelve hours of his life, and the man who had figured so largely in them. "No, he doesn't. He strikes me as ... courageous. Determined. Fierce. Protective, maybe too much so. Honourable ..."
"Gorgeous? Dreamy? The love of your life?" Lois finished, and laughed when the flush climbed past his ears. Smiling broadly, her eyes shining with love, she stepped forward and reached up to take his face between her hands, pulling him down so she could press his burning forehead to hers. "Clark, honey. I gotta tell you something. The man is not a demon. He is not weak. I doubt there is a single person on this planet who could manage to take and keep an advantage over him. And I'm fairly sure he thinks you're the most gorgeous, awesome human being he has ever met. If, by the end of this, you have not snogged him into submission at the very least, I am going to be severely disappointed in you! Understood?" Blinking, staring into her serious, laughing eyes an inch from his, he nodded, and she tipped her head up a little further to kiss his forehead before letting go. "Good," was all she said, and turned back to work.
Bemused, he stared after her, one hand coming hesitantly up to brush in wonder over his forehead. Bringing it down to stare at it for a minute, he looked back over at her, and smiled. "Lois?" he said softly.
"Flyboy," she answered back, not turning around. His smile deepened into something mischievious.
"You and the Spider ... Barbara ... how's that going?"
She turned to him then, her lips curving into a full, challenging smirk, her hand settling combatively on her hip. "That," she enunciated, and grinned at him, "is an entirely professional relationship, and absolutely none of your business!"
He nodded sagely, manouvering towards the door before she could find something to throw. "Of course it is," he managed, ducking out of the room as she flipped a nasty gesture at his head, both of them laughing. But he was pretty sure that his eyes as he left had been saying something quite different.
He was pretty sure they'd been saying thank you.
---
Two and a half hours later, he went to wake Bruce up. Well, technically, two hours and twenty minutes later, he went to wake Bruce up. If he happened to spend ten minutes just standing there, studying the man, well, it hurt no-one. They had a little time left, and he just ... wanted to watch him. Bruce was different when he was asleep, he thought. Less guarded. Less ... intense. But not by much. There was so much leashed energy in this man. So much power and ferocity. And all of it channeled into protecting what he cared about. He was vulnerable now, hurt and sleeping, open to attack, but somehow not. Even now, Bruce looked as if he could face whatever came. It was something Clark had to admire, even as he wished he knew how to make it unnecessary.
After a few minutes, duty prompted him to move forward. They had work to do, risks to run, wars to prevent, even if he didn't really want them to have to do any of it. Bruce looked so tired ... But it had to be done.
He stepped up beside the cot, and blinked in surprise. A pair of hooded blue eyes stared up at him, life drifting back up into them as he watched. Bruce was more than half awake already, and seemed to be studying him as avidly in turn as he'd been studied. Clark flushed a little, staring down at him, and Bruce smiled softly, his expression strangely open. The look sent a thick ribbon of warmth curling immovably around Clark's chest, and he smiled back, unguardedly delighted.
"Time to go?" Bruce whispered. It seemed fitting. It was a quiet moment.
"Time to go," Clark affirmed softly, and grimaced lightly. Bruce chuckled ruefully, and reached up to pull himself free of the blankets. Clark stared at the chest the motion revealed, mostly disguised beneath white bandages, which had been adjusted recently. He looked up at Bruce's face sharply, concern and shame in his frown. The Nightlord shook his head ruefully.
"Needed some tweaking after Corben," he explained easily. "Five minutes work, that's all. I'm good to go."
Clark stared at him, oddly disappointed and disapproving. "Do you ever ask anyone for help?" he asked, a hint of temper showing. "Or think to tell them you need it in the first place?"
Bruce ignored him for a second as he heaved himself into a sitting position on the edge of the cot, grunting with the effort. Then he looked up at Clark with a strange expression, a kind of wondering frown. "Yes," he said quietly. "I once asked an enemy Commander to help me get a cloak."
Clark blinked, then swallowed. "And why ... why did you do a thing like that?" he asked thickly. Bruce met his gaze for a long minute, and his smile was warm, hesitant.
"Because I was a little desperate," he murmured. "And he had honest eyes."
Clark stared at him. Kind eyes, whispered another, female voice in his head, and he remembered the touch of a small, courageous hand on his cheek. Who were these people, to show such courage, such trust? And how was it that he, of all people, had earned it from them. That wounded girl, this damaged man. How had he managed to let them think him worthy of the trust they gave? And how was he now supposed to live up to it? But he had to. And ... he could. Because there was something powerful about being trusted, something warm and wonderful about having someone believe in you that much. And this man ...
He smiled back, and reached out wordlessly to take Bruce's hand and pull him gently to his feet. The other man came easily, the rest having returned some of the grace and power to his movements, and for a moment they stood there, in that small room, their hands clasped firmly together. Clark watched those blue eyes, just for a moment absorbing the life and ferocity and strength that lived in them, and smiled deeply.
"Come, my Lord," he murmured quietly, the warmth inside him spilling inevitably into his tone, but he didn't mind that. "Let's get our Cities back."
For a second, Bruce's hand firmed around his, a strong clasp of emotion, and then the Nightlord disengaged with a rich smile. He stepped back, and swept Clark a deep and courtly bow, holding one arm out towards the door. "Lead on, Commander mine," he laughed, rich and proud and warm. "Lead away!"
---
Lois looked them over critically as they prepared to head out. Or rather, up. Jimmy'd managed to acquire a second handsail for Bruce, and they were leaving from the roof within the half hour. But the Dataqueen wanted to give them one last briefing beforehand. It was her only way of showing nerves, and it made Clark want to hug her.
"Remember," she commanded briskly. "I'll be monitoring the beams between the air patrols, confusing them if need be. But that doesn't give you any room to be stupid, either. Most of them are Clark's boys. They are not idiots. Keep quiet, stay unobtrusive. And for Wind's sake, try to keep my migraines to a minimum!"
"Yes, Ma'am," Clark deadpanned, and nearly earned himself a knee where it'd cost him. When it came to fighting, Lois was not above dirty tactics. Almost made you sorry for Luthor, until you remembered who you were talking about. Bruce merely raised a tolerant eyebrow, risking joining Clark on the floor, but he had the air of command to carry it off. Lois huffed at the pair of them.
"Just ... be careful, alright!" she finished in exasperation, and from the way one hand reached up as if to try and cradle the opposite elbow, Clark realised she really was worried sick about them.
"Lois," he said softly, and stepped forward to touch her shoulder lightly. She looked up at him, her expression firmly one of aggravation, but that faded as she recognised his concern. Her stern features softened for a moment, the worry and caring clear for a second in her eyes, and as he pulled her gently into a hug, he had to smile. She was such a fierce, protective woman, his Lois. It was a wonder she and Bruce didn't get on better. But no wonder at all that he loved them both so much. So instantly, so completely.
When she thumped his arm gently a moment later for him to let her go, her face was calm and composed once more. And determined. She straightened herself proudly, as if disclaiming any responsibility for what had just happened, and turned to Bruce with a glint in her eye. "Clark, honey, would you just go check those sails for a minute?"
He blinked. "Jimmy and I just ..." he started, and caught the needle-sharp look she sent him. "Sure thing, Lois!" But he watched closely, walking away, as she stepped right up into Bruce's space, obviously resisting poking him in the chest with difficulty, and started to murmur to him in a low, fierce tone. The Nightlord's expression rapidly flitted from wary to affronted to astonished to wondering, before finally settling on warm determination as his eyes drifted over to meet Clark's. Clark frowned back at him, but Bruce only smiled faintly, happily, and looked back down solemnly at Lois, his fist rising to his chest as if swearing an oath. She stared up at him for a minute longer, as if trying to pin that oath, whatever it had been, to the inside of his skull, before nodding sharply and stalking away as if nothing had happened.
Clark shot Bruce a questioning look as the Nightlord stepped up to take his sail, but the man only shook his head. "A private matter," he muttered, and smiled disarmingly at Clark. Who wasn't impressed, for all the dent it made in the man's aplomb. "Shall we, Commander mine?"
Clark frowned down at him in frustration, shot one last look across the roof to where Lois stood with Jimmy, proud and confident with one hand resting combatively on her hip, and shrugged. "As you wish, my Lord." A short, powerful run later, they swept out over the parapet, catching the updraft around the building to curl up around the globe. As they came back around, Clark looked down to see Lois raise a hand in a short, jerky wave, before she brought it back down and strode determinedly back into her lair.
It had begun. And now they all had their jobs to do, their risks to run. A mistake from here could cost two Cities their existance.
So they would just have to avoid making any.
Thankfully, for the first leg of this journey, that didn't look like it was going to be a problem. Bruce lived up to Clark's judgement on the Atlantis Tower, guiding the sail confidently and purposefully. He even negotiated the tricky crosswind down Fifth without too much of a problem, which not many of Clark's boys had managed. Soon enough, Clark felt confident enough in his partner's skills to take the necessary lead, trusting that Bruce would follow.
Which was just as well, because the skylanes out towards the Ramparts were becoming increasingly active. Looked like word of the escape had finally spread to the lower echleons. Clark wondered how Luthor had explained that one, that their injured guest was now a fugitive. But then ... the Nightlord's reputation did rather lend itself to tales of supposed infamy. He was guilty of assuming the worst himself, after all. But he hadn't realised how quickly it could spread, how soon an entire City could be made to believe the worst of a man. How easily they could be made to attack for a lie. It was ... terrifying.
He glanced over at Bruce as he dipped to take the first of the winding rat-runs that hopefully would get them through unseen. The Nightlord's expression had changed, becoming hard and focused and alert, and he followed Clark with intelligent precision. Bruce knew exactly how much danger he was in. He always had, Clark realised. He'd expected to stand alone against a City from the start. But it was only now, only seeing the air thick with people hunting for them, that Clark understood what that meant, how much fear and courage that entailed.
They were getting through, he decided. Instantly. Absolutely. Bruce was not falling to Luthor again.
They dipped down to street level, Clark guiding them along the twisting routes he knew like the back of his hand, but careful to use the ones he mostly kept to himself, his secret paths through the City. He flew through them with ease, light as air, every trick and swirl of wind through the streets memorised and instinctive. There was power to this, he thought suddenly. Power in knowing something no-one else did, power in using it to pass without fear. Or as much fear as there would have been otherwise, anyway. And that was what this was about, wasn't it. Secrets, and the power they held. The power Luthor wanted, the power Bruce wanted to keep from him. Gotham's power. Even Clark's power, his secret that he hadn't even known he'd held. So many secrets, unfurling all of a sudden.
And all linking back to the man who swooped low behind him, eyes watching his surroundings warily, body tuned to the flight but also singing with ready energy, prepared to take a blow, to fight. Bruce looked up suddenly, catching Clark's eyes as he looked over his shoulder. Clark looked away again hurriedly, turning his attention back to their path. But the incisive cut of those eyes, the way they had gone from cold assessment to concern to warmth in a bare instant, stayed with him. Bruce was a man used to secrets, used to fighting. Used to being in danger. Used to being next to alone in unfriendly territory.
Clark had to wonder why.
But those were concerns for later, when they had time. The Ramparts were looming close ahead, showing the darker gaps where the City handsails swept along the channels into the boat hangars on the far side, the smaller hangars facing Cityward for the sails of maintainence workers, boat pilots, Dome Engineers, Lensemen, and all the myriad others who lived and worked in the great flight-ring. This was Clark's second home, after the Planet Center. This was where he was in his element, where he worked and fought and flew, where he took his boats out to defend his City. This was his place.
Which was suddenly, as long as he stayed with Bruce, full of potential enemies. A place to walk cautiously, conscious of threat. That ... hurt. A surprising amount. But there was nothing he could do, save remember that Lois would have changed that by the time he returned, and get on with the job.
He came up out of the warren of lesser housing immediately beneath the inner wall of the Rampart, taking his sail daringly up its face to land her in one of the smaller hangars, looking back down to see Bruce taking a less ambitious, if equally effective, route. He smiled sheepishly as the other man pulled in beside him, shooting him a long look in the process. Bruce shrugged it off, his cool focus slipping back into place. They were far from done yet. And none of it was going to be easy.
Quite suddenly, Clark was glad of that annoying air of capability the Nightlord wore like a cloak. He had a feeling they were going to need every ounce of Bruce's confidence.
Luckily, he had plenty.
Part VIII: http://icarus-chained.livejournal.com/33751.html#cutid1
