![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: The Wind At Midnight
Rating: PG-13 overall, I think.
Characters/Pairings: Bruce/Clark. Bruce, Clark, MADF 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: In the Ramparts, the action heats up. In more ways than one.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Conceit inspired by James Blish's 'Cities in Flight'. Rest is mine.
A/N: Anyone who hasn't seen Rai_daydreamer's awesome, awesome illustrations for this story needs to go look. Now. I'm in absolute awe of her talent, and amazed that I managed to write something she considered worthy of it. Here:
http://rai-daydreamer.livejournal.com/40966.html?#cutid1
The Wind At Midnight
Part VIII
It was a mistake many people made, thinking the Ramparts were solid. They weren't. Oh, some had solid sections, and some of the richer Cities had more cohesive ones than others, but the simple fact of the matter was that Ramparts couldn't be completely solid, not if they were to function as more than just something to keep the City in the air. Most of them were in fact major centers of civil and commercial activity. The main hangars were usually on their outer skins, as well the Longlasses and the defenses, while the inner sections behind the broken bands of silver at their centers typically housed commercial shipping docks, the engines for raising and lowering the oxygen domes, hangars serving the Cities themselves, even some of the smaller manufacturing and warehousing facilities. The flight-ring of any of the major Cities was in fact a complex honeycomb of perpetual activity, frequented by thousands of employees, passengers, traders and guards.
It was a nightmare to patrol. A fact which played handily into the Nightlord's hands. Clark's too, but he didn't want to think of it that way. He didn't want to think of these people, his people, as enemies. He didn't want to have to fight them.
Fortunately, fighting didn't seem to be in Bruce's plans either. The Nightlord appeared to have a positive gift for infiltration without discovery, an instinct for how to make use of his surroundings to pass unnoticed, or simply unseen altogether. It was one of those things he needed to talk to Bruce about, like the sleep ampoules, the knowledge of Clark's own abilities, and the whereabouts of the Black City over the past twenty odd years. But for now, it was certainly useful. Combined with Clark's encylopedic knowledge of the Ramparts themselves, it meant they were making fast work of the inner skin, almost past the silver core and into the main activity center surrounding the hangars. Which was probably going to be something more of a problem.
They paused in a service corridor just off one of the smaller commercial docks to recoup and think ahead a little. Bruce leaned against the wall, his breathing harsh but steady, and watched the comings and goings beyond the service entrance with a cool and calculating expression. It was mildly worrying, that look.
"What now?" Clark asked softly, watching himself. All those people. Oblivious to their plight, to the powerplays in motion, to the looming threat Luthor had brought to swing over their heads. All those innocents. Standing between the one man who could save them and his freedom to do it. The irony rankled.
Bruce turned to look at him consideringly, his eyes narrowed and intense, utterly professional. "Lois said they don't know about your ... that you're with me, right?" Clark tried very hard not to flinch, but didn't quite manage it. His betrayal, he finished silently. They didn't know about his betrayal. Bruce went on, but his eyes were apologising silently. "Only the high ranks have heard. Luthor didn't want to risk splitting his forces between your men and his, correct?"
Clark nodded, swallowing. "Right," he said, softly, and it was Bruce who tried not to wince. The Nightlord managed it better.
"Then those people," he went on hoarsely, nodding out to the thoroughfare, "don't know you're not still Commander Kent of MADF. They don't know you're not against me, and they certainly don't know that you're actively helping me." Which didn't smack of betrayal at all, Clark thought wryly. "We can use that, Clark. We can use who they think you are to get us through. If they see you, one of the most powerful, respectable men in the City, a man charged with her defense, leading me, her most wanted villain ... they'll see what they want to see. They'll see their City triumphing over the enemy. They'll let us through, Clark."
Clark didn't doubt it. It sounded like exactly the kind of thing that would work. It just ... sickened him, a little, to use his own reputation, one he'd earned, to essentially betray his City. But more than that, it terrified him to realise how easily it could be done, how vulnerable his City really was to betrayal. People like Luthor, people like Corben, even Bruce if he decided to ... how easily people like that could destroy her. People who could twist the brightest aspect of her, the thing that should be cherished the most in her people, the fact that they trusted the authority of those over them, and use it to ruin her.
"Clark," Bruce called, quietly, and Clark shook himself free of his thoughts to find the Nightlord watching him sadly, his face furrowed with sorrow and guilt. "Clark, I know it doesn't mean much, but I'm ... I'm sorry I got you into this. I'm sorry you have to make this choice because of me." His voice was vibrant with sincerity, his eyes ... forgiving. A choice, he said. To do or not to do. A choice of who to betray. Luthor ... or Bruce.
Suddenly terribly angry, terribly sad, terribly in love, Clark stepped up to him. He raised a hand to Bruce's face, tracing the bruises lightly while those blue eyes watched him with absolute trust, a sudden knot of tears blocking his throat. He rubbed his thumb gently over the edge of Bruce's jaw, and let his hand fall to rest lightly on the man's shoulder.
"I'm not," he said softly, and watched those eyes soften and shine in fierce gratitude. Clark smiled at him for a second. He couldn't help it. Then, gently, he pushed on Bruce's shoulder until the man had turned away from him, and reached down to gather the Nightlord's wrists into his grasp. Letting his smile turn a little sad as Bruce straightened proudly in front of him, he stroked the man's pulse for a moment, before firming his grip into that of a guard with his prisoner.
"Let's go, my Lord," he said quietly, determinedly. And though he couldn't see it, he was sure Bruce smiled.
They marched out onto the thoroughfare as if they had every right, nay, duty to be there, Clark's face firmed into stern determination. They drew instant attention, attracting gazes from more or less everyone in the immediate vicinity. Metropolites stared in awe at the figure of the semi-mythical Nightlord, hands fluttering to brows in the old salute, voices muttering to the Winds to preserve them. Bruce stared them down proudly. Clark's grip on his hands behind his back had pulled the cloak with them, baring his injured chest to the crowds, and the recent exertions had weakened his left leg again. And yet, despite all of that, despite everything, he was still easily the most imposing figure there.
Clark pushed him hurriedly through the crowd, aiming determinedly for the continuing service tunnel on the far side. He made sure to keep his expression calm and stern, his movements purposeful but never furtive. He was in a hurry, but to bring the man in his grasp to justice, not to escape. Both their lives depended on it. But it still hit him like a blow to the chest when a low, ragged cheer rippled out around them. When they clapped him on the shoulder in passing, and spit in Bruce's face. When a boy, a child, darted in to kick at Bruce's left ankle, almost toppling the man. Clark held on to his wrists as he staggered, pulling him roughly back to his feet, but his face wanted to burn with sick embarrassment. He barked harshly for them to clear the way.
They did, parting ahead to let him through, their faces suddenly torn between triumph, confusion and shame. He was fiercely glad of that last, glad that his people could feel shame for wanting to hurt even an enemy. Glad that Luthor hadn't completely ruined them.
They were almost across the tunnel, almost safe, when Clark heard it. A call, from farther up the dock. His grip tightened instinctively on Bruce's arms in a possessive gesture, the Nightlord stiffening in reaction, as he realised who it was.
MADF.
Two of his boys coming off shift had spotted him. Had seen him escorting the demonic Nightlord to justice. They were rapidly approaching, calling behind them to attract more attention from the other lads, coming to help and congratulate him. Bringing half the MADF down on him and his fugitive companion.
There were times when it just did not pay to be popular.
Ahead of him, Bruce stopped, raising his head slowly, proud and desperate, waiting for him to move. Waiting for Clark to decide what he wanted to do. Waiting, even now, to be betrayed. Clark's hands clenched around the man's wrists before he fully knew what he was doing, angry and ashamed. And determined. It was the last thing he had ever wanted to do, and for a moment there he had let himself believe that there was still a chance he wouldn't have to, that Lois would fix things before he had to show his alliegance, but there was no more choice.
Shooting one last look at the MADF boys, at his men, Clark made his decision.
In one swift move, he released Bruce's wrists, shoving him forward a little so that he could catch the Nightlord's arm as he started running, pulling the momentarily stunned man after him as he raced away from his people towards the service corridor. Bruce, practical to the last, caught on quickly, much quicker than his boys did. He could hear them shout and mill around in confusion behind him, could see the shocked looks on the faces of civilians as he rushed past, and forced himself not to care. That could come later, when they'd gotten out of this place alive.
The MADF boys weren't all that long in catching on, despite having trusted him. He'd trained them well, after all, and tried not to be too bitter about it as they started closing in on Bruce and him. The Nightlord had gathered his cloak close into his body to prevent it from being grabbed, sheer determination overruling the obvious shake in his left leg. Bruce wasn't going to be fast enough, he saw. Not against the fittest force in Metropolis. But there was little he could do about it, short of trying to carry the man.
They made the service tunnel, diving gladly into the narrower space where they couldn't be surrounded easily. Clark tried to stop and hang back, let Bruce go first, but the Nightlord shoved impatiently at his shoulder, moving him forward. When two of his men clattered into the corridor behind them, Clark stopped arguing and ran, leading Bruce through the maze.
Twice, they were caught up as they plunged through the flight-ring corridors. Twice, Bruce spun and dispatched their pursuers, ruthless and desperate, lashing out with deadly precision until they fell back and let the Nightlord go. Helpless in the tight quarters, Clark had to settle for pulling the tired man behind him when it happened, so they could keep up the pace until Bruce got his rhythm back enough to keep up on his own. The Nightlord's features had settled into a grim determination that wouldn't be swayed, and it was all Clark could do to keep ahead of him.
But it couldn't last. Even with their signals scrambled courtesy of one pissed-off dataqueen, the MADF had the numbers and the knowledge of the ring to close in around them. Clark could feel it before he saw it, knew instinctively what his boys would have done. And sure enough, as they rounded a corner about a corridor ahead of pursuit, heading out onto a catwalk over one of the gear shafts for the Dome Engines, he heard another patrol approaching in the opposite direction to cut them off. He skidded to a halt, grunting as Bruce ploughed into his back, and cast about frantically for an exit he knew wasn't there.
There was nowhere for them to go.
Realising what had happened, Bruce wasted no time on disappointment. Spinning so he was back to back with Clark, facing back the way they'd come, the Nightlord prepared to fight for his life. As he'd more than once proved he was perfectly capable of doing. Clark really didn't want it to come to that. But there was nothing he could do, nowhere to run ...
Swallowing hard as he remembered something, keeping an ear out as the patrols came close, Clark tilted his head back to look up, twenty feet or so, into the great mechanisms that ground slowly above their heads. He didn't want to do this. It was too soon, too fresh a worry. But ... there was no choice.
Bruce gasped a bit in shock as he felt himself being seized, struggling instinctively before he realised who it was. Clark held on to him tightly as they started rising, and carefully did not look at his face, focusing on feeling light, on reaching the cover of one of the huge brass flywheels before the patrols passed beneath them. There had to be cover. MADF would think to look up, unlike most people. He'd made sure of that. But it was alright. From the safety of the mechanism, he watched them as they went by, as they met in confusion below. There was a long moment of aching tension, of holding breath, before they turned back their separate ways, thinking their quarry must have taken a different direction after all. Only after he was sure they were gone, only when the danger had passed and with it his excuse for avoiding this, only then did he turn to look at the Nightlord wrapped in his arms.
Bruce was staring at him, his expression something liquid and undefinable. Those fierce blue eyes pierced his, full of stunned gratitude, and awe, and something else. Something Clark had never seen before, something that made this terrifying gift suddenly natural, something that made it worthwhile, something that made him want to protect this man for eternity. Bruce stared at him, and Clark swore he could see love in his eyes.
"Clark," Bruce murmured, throatily. His hand reached up to touch Clark's face as they floated above the shaft, his thumb brushing over his cheek so softly, so tenderly, his hand shaking. "Commander mine." And because it seemed natural, because it seemed the perfect thing to do, Clark turned his head to press a gentle kiss to that trembling palm. Bruce blinked at him, his mouth opening but no sound coming out, his eyes fierce and a little wild. Feeling a dam breaking inside him, hesitation unmoored by fear and adrenalin and love, Clark leaned in all the way, and kissed him properly.
For an instant, it was soft, gentle. For an instant, neither of them could give more than stunned tenderness, fearful gentleness. For only an instant, before their fiercer natures leapt within them, the warrior and guardian, and Clark had to be so very careful to keep himself from crushing Bruce's wounded chest against his own. Lightheaded, it was only when his head bumped gently against the metal arm above them that Clark realised he'd forgotten where they were, what he was doing.
Nothing had ever made him forget he was flying before.
Blushing as Bruce chuckled lightly, as the Nightlord's eyes shone gently at him, Clark focused enough to bring them drifting back down onto the catwalk. For a moment after their feet touched the floor, Clark didn't let go, wanting to just hold this incredible man a little longer. Wanting to stay close. And for a moment, Bruce let him. Then he shook his head, and carefully disentangled himself, holding on to Clark's hand a second longer. Clark watched him silently.
"Come, Commander mine," the Nightlord said abruptly, stepping back to bow at him in courtly desperation. Bruce met his eyes in an odd mix of fear, regret and caring, and gestured towards the corridor beyond. "We've a job to do yet, I'm afraid."
"Of course," Clark said, quietly, and tried not to be too disappointed. Bruce flinched a little, trying to smile at him in encouragement, and settled on touching Clark's shoulder, squeezing lightly as his other hand clenched automatically in a fist at his own shoulder, that gesture of oathmaking he remembered with Lois. A promise, desperate and proud. It was enough.
They moved faster through the outer skin after that. The worst had already happened, after all. All the important decisions had already been made, and try as he might Clark couldn't quite bring himself to regret them. Using his newfound gift of flight was becoming more natural, now that he had finally chosen to use it of his own will, like a body-memory of something his mind had forgotten. Avoiding his men was like a training exercise, as much habit as anything else. And though he tried not to think about it, Clark found it was easy to do these things, and more, for the sake of the man at his side. He wondered where he'd draw the line, what Bruce could ask of him that he'd refuse. He knew it would come, sooner or later. The Nightlord was simply that kind of man.
They made the boat hangar rapidly enough, ghosting in through the steam vents overhead while pilots and traders milled around on the hangar floor, and one of the smaller boats raised herself gracefully for launch. Clark watched as she swept away, out into the sunlit air, her gliding descent taking her skimming down over the Mongolian desert just visible below, and despite himself his heart leapt at the sight. This was where he belonged, places like this. The hangars. The sky.
Beside him, one arm wrapped around Clark's shoulders as they hovered, Bruce pointed to one of the boats in dock. Her steering sails swept out to her sides, back around the brass bulge of the engine to her rear, her hull the long, smooth shape of a small cruiser. She'd be fast, right enough, and from the shape and line of her sails, she'd be manouverable too. Just what they needed.
Bruce tapped him lightly on the shoulder, gesturing silently to a large pipe traversing the hangar roof, running almost directly over their boat. Clark nodded rapidly, firming his grip around Bruce's waist as he negotiated the mess of pipes and lighting gantries until they connected with the larger one. Following its path across the hangar, hiding in its shadow, they made short work of what would have been an almost impossible crossing had they been on foot. For a brief moment, Clark wondered what Bruce had planned to do had he not decided to use his ability. Looking at the cool glitter of determination in those professional eyes, he thought he might not want to know.
There were two men, technicians, moving over the hull of their boat, getting her rigged for launch. They let them work, let them finish, and watched intently as they called in to the pilot and crew when they were done. Three, from the sounds of things. Three names called, anyway, in friendly and teasing complaint. Three to deal with.
Bruce nodded tightly, and gestured for Clark to put them down on the far side of the boat, between it and the wall. There was a smaller hatch just forward of the engine, in case the main entrance on the other side was blocked in a crash. The Nightlord pulled it open silently, and motioned for Clark to stay put while he went in. Clark frowned heavily, almost protesting, but Bruce's eyes were hard and grim, and he had to nod. Bruce flashed him the tiniest of smiles, his face softening for the barest instant, before the Nightlord stepped casually inside and disappeared from view.
Clark listened intently at the hatch, waiting for the cries of challenge, of alarm. They never came. Instead, moments after Bruce had gone inside, there came a series of soft thuds, interspersed with one or two sharp cracks, but nothing that would draw attention. Confused and anxious, Clark moved to go inside himself, to see what was going on. But before he could, the Nightlord reappeared, rubbing the edge of his hand gently, cursing silently as his left leg shook under him. Blinking at Clark's worried frown, Bruce paused to smile in reassurance, that competent air back in force, and gesture for him to come inside.
Two of the crew sat propped against the seats in the main cabin, slumped unconscious. The third man, the pilot, was sitting against the door through to the cockpit, a bruise beginning to show on his temple, alive but as out of it as his crew. While Clark stared in awe, and a little fear, Bruce moved to the first of them, and turned to ask Clark to help him move her. For a second, Clark could only stare.
"Clark?" Bruce repeated, slowly, concern in his voice. Clark shook himself, pulling his eyes away from the bruise on the pilot's head, and moved to the Nightlord's side. Bruce frowned at him, concerned and wary, but nodded and gestured for Clark to help him manouver her to the hatch so they could lay her gently outside, far enough away that she wouldn't be caught when the boat moved. The other two rapidly followed, until they were alone in their new boat. Clark stopped in the main cabin, looking around him in mild confusion, stunned by the efficiency of it.
"Well, Commander?" Bruce asked softly beside him, and Clark turned to look at him. "Will she do? Can you get us out of here, and give Lois her distraction?"
Clark blinked, staring at him, and then turned to move past him. He stepped into the cockpit, running his fingers lightly over the gleaming instruments, the guidance Glasses, the radarbank. The wheel. He ran his hands over her, getting to know her, getting the feel of the boat as he sat down. Dimly, he felt Bruce's presence behind him, felt the Nightlord watching him as he settled into her, and smiled slightly. He mightn't be able to take out three people in absolute silence, but no-one questioned him at the helm of a boat.
Turning to the other man, he tipped his head to the seat beside him, grinning. Raising his eyebrows in wry question, Bruce sat down, watching him as he prepared her for launch. Prepared to ignore every code of hangar behaviour, every launch rule, every traffic control system. Eyes suddenly alight, Clark set his eyes on the sky outside, pointing her to sweep like a hawk through a cloud of sailers and lesser boats.
Oh, yes indeed. He'd give Lois he distraction.
"Hold on," he commanded softly. "The radio is to your right. Think you're up to a little goodbye speech? Wishing Metropolis well, and all that?"
Bruce stared at him in turn, and then, slowly, a fierce grin spread over his battered face. "Oh, I think I could manage that," he nodded. Clark smiled at him.
"Alright. Then just trust me to do the rest."
And as he started the engine with a sudden roar, the sails leaping out to the sides as she began to move forward, Bruce smiled back, and nodded. "I do," the Nightlord said softly.
"I do."
Part IX: http://icarus-chained.livejournal.com/35228.html#cutid1
