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Title: The Wind At Midnight
Rating: PG-13 overall, I think.
Characters/Pairings: Bruce/Clark. Bruce, Clark, Luthor's forces 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: Aerial battles and snuggling and does anyone who hasn't already guessed want to know where Gotham's been these past two decades?
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Conceit inspired by James Blish's 'Cities in Flight'. Rest is mine.
The Wind At Midnight
Part IX
She lifted like a dream, this new boat of theirs. Straight for the roof, then diving forward like a hawk through gulls. The handsails leapt out of the way, the boats skewing sideways as they struggled to clear a path. Part of Clark was shouting regulations to himself slightly hysterically, while a bigger part was gleefully ignoring them. Beside him, Bruce's hands leapt to the armrests, his knuckles white as a feral grin stretched over his features. He shot Clark a blazing look, a bare instant long, and reached forward to flip the switch for the boat radio. Outside, his aristocratic voice blared clear and contemptuous through the panicked hangar.
"This is Bruce Wayne. Nightlord and Lord of Gotham. I'd just like to thank Metropolis for her wonderful hospitality, and congratulate Lord Luthor on pissing off just about every superpower on the planet. Your Lord makes a wonderful warmonger. You should be proud. Winds by with you! You're going to need them."
The Nightlord's face was dark and satisfied as he turned the radio back off, listening to the panicked roar that came though in the seconds after his announcement. Clark swallowed heavily, not daring to turn his head to look at him, all his focus on the steep dive to the desert sands below. A pair of blips screamed at him from the radarbank, two MADF fliers plunging clear of the City behind him. They must have been patrollers, just getting ready to go as he pulled his little stunt. Face set, trying not to think about Bruce's particular choice of words, he began maneuvers.
The sails flared out to the boat's sides as she pulled up, catching sun for power and air to steer simultaneously, her sleek form pulling low through the swoop to skim just over the dunes. Clark raised the port sail to bring them around in a tight, almost suicidal turn. They'd deliberately come out the west hangar, on the far side of the City from where they needed to go, just so he could swing around under Metropolis herself and use her to his own advantage.
Behind him, the two fliers turned to follow, banking wide. Newbies, he thought. Then he was in under his City, taking the boat up to almost caress her hull, ignoring Bruce as the Nightlord stiffened beside him. They plunged in through a cloud of steam from one of the steering vents, the instruments screaming for a panicked instant in reaction. Clark paid them no heed, memory steering him with absolute surety beneath the ridged lines of his City's hull, Metropolis herself protecting them as they fled her Lord. He smiled at that, murmuring silent thanks to her.
The fliers behind them had gotten lost in the venting, one of them just visible as a shadow behind the cloud. But there was no time to feel victorious, or even disappointed in their performance. Because, spilling determinedly from the hangars on the East Rampart, a small fleet of boats turned to greet them. And not his boats. Not MADF. These things were leaner, faster-looking than anything Luthor had ever given the MADF, and their spines above the steering sails bristled with weaponry.
"I guess your dataqueen was correct in her suspicions," Bruce commented lightly beside him, steely blue eyes fixed on the line of enemy ships. Clark didn't answer, his jaw set as fury and insult curled up through him. He reached to one side, and touched a number of instruments with deliberate precision, cold with anger. The sound of the boat changed around them, deepening and singing with power. He'd brought the engine online, the sails flashing white for a second as they connected with the powersink inside the brass bulge, feeding back into the self-contained engine, the two powersources working in perfect tandem. A small smile meandered onto his face as he took her up around the last of the vents, before they dove out of Metropolis' shadow to sweep straight into the jaws of the enemy.
He'd show Luthor what a MADF Commander was capable of. The Lord should never have gone behind his back with this.
Two of Luthor's boats opened fire as they plunged towards them, their sails flashing as solar energy was redirected into narrow beams from the cannon on their spines. Clark dropped the boat fifty feet, sweeping down to the desert and curling her sideways around a dune. Bruce grunted as the movement threw him into the side of his chair, and Clark shot him a brief look of concern. The Nightlord shook his head rapidly, his focus all for the enemy, and Clark quickly followed suit.
They rocketed forwards underneath the line of boats, the lean, vicious shadows passing over their sails as they flew. Above them, boats screamed and wheeled, turning to follow them, beams hissing as they kissed the sands. Clark ran their boat side-on up a dune, cresting it and sweeping into the air just as a boat came in range, their underbelly crackling as he swept her over the other, ripping the enemy sail clean off. The stricken vessel squalled sideways into the sand, her crew scrambling to get clear as fire set in above the engine. Clark winced, hoping as always that they would survive. He didn't like killing, even an enemy.
He kept her low, kept her running just ahead of the minor sandstorm kicked up by her passing, trying to keep the enemy reliant on radar alone. Lois had taught him a few tricks for dealing with that. Sweeping her from side to side, broadening the scope of the storm, he smiled grimly as they came in close to find him. He could feel the Nightlord's eyes on him as he did so, could feel the wary appraisal in Bruce's stare, and tried not to smirk. He might not be good at sneaking through his own City, but he'd been flying as long as he'd been alive. No-one could beat him in the air.
As he proved when, sending out a scrambling signal courtesy of Lois, he pulled her into a sudden, sharp ascent, shooting straight up into the wide blue, cresting in their blindspot to turn and dive at them out of the sun. Ever ready, Bruce leapt to their own weapon, their much smaller beam lancing out to wreak havoc among the milling enemy ships. Eyes sharp and cold, the Nightlord capitalised on Clark's maneuver to take out the sails on three of the enemy, and managed to rupture the lead ship's engine while he was at it. Grinning fiercely as they ploughed through the flock of disabled ships, Clark reached blindly sideways to squeeze the other man's shoulder as he pulled them out of the dive and back on course. Bruce said nothing, but a hand reached up to squeeze his in return.
There were four boats remaining, rising up out of the wreckage of their comrades to come after them again, rising high out of the sand to keep a real eye on their quarry. They weren't about to be fooled by the same trick twice. But Clark had hardly expected anything different. He had something else in mind entirely.
The engine roared behind him, power building through her as he ramped the ship up to Cityspeed, and then beyond. Bruce leaned back against his seat, knuckles whitening again as they powered clear of the Mongolian Desert and lunged out over the Japanese sinkhole beyond. Keeping half an eye on the radarbank, watching the enemy blips, Clark took her down into the perpetual maelstrom, the steam and roiling spray of the Pacific Ring of Fire rushing to meet them. The vicious tides of the volcanic whirlpool threw steam and fire into the air around them, and Clark hissed through his teeth as something, a rock, clanged distressingly off the engine. But their speed was up to twice that of Metropolis, capable of lapping the planet in under twelve hours, and the sinkhole wasn't wide enough to truly challenge them for long. Fists clenching in relief as they pulled clear of its angry grip, Clark winced as one of the blips disappeared behind them. Japan mustn't have liked them as much.
The Pacific piled away beneath them, its calm surface ripped by their passing, twin arcs of spray marking their path clearly to the three remaining followers. But Clark's focus lay ahead of them, to the dark line that seemed to rush forward to greet them. Dusk, racing around the globe, pulling the night behind it to sweep in silent majesty over the land. He could feel Bruce straighten in his seat, could feel the quiver of anticipation through the Nightlord. Clark couldn't blame him, despite his own irrational burst of anxiety. Metropolis had not passed through the Nightside in over fifteen years, the night unfamiliar and haunted territory to her Commander, but to Bruce it must have been like coming home.
Movement on the radar caught Clark's eye, and he blinked as two of their three pursuers banked suddenly, peeling away to the sides. Clark had time enough before they passed out of range to realise that they weren't sweeping wide to flank him. They were heading back to Metropolis. Giving up the chase.
It seemed Luthor was more afraid of the Nightside than he was.
The last boat didn't turn back. But neither did it speed up. Whoever it was, they weren't aiming to overtake. More like shadowing them, staying just in radar range. Watching them as they fled, making sure they were headed where Luthor thought they were headed. It was an ominous sign, but there was nothing Clark could do about it. He didn't want to decelerate to turn back and deal with them, not now. They had to be in Gotham before Metropolis came in range of her. One ship wasn't worth risking that.
Sighing heavily, feeling the muscles in his back unknot, Clark settled back in his seat, relaxing his deathgrip on the wheel. He felt more than saw Bruce slump beside him, the ebbing adrenalin hitting the Nightlord's wounded system hard. Locking the wheel to keep them on course, free to let the guidance systems take over now that he didn't have to maneuver, Clark turned his seat to look at his companion in concern.
Bruce leaned back against his seat, his eyes closed in momentary exhaustion. His hands were slack against the rests, his shoulders slumped and almost curled forward around his injured chest. Clark flinched a little, remembering promising to keep him safe, to do all the work. Looking back on events since leaving Lois' lair, the Nightlord seemed to have taken a far greater share of action on himself than Clark should have allowed him to. He was paying for it now, the exhaustion and pain writ large in his slumped form. The Nightlord wasn't going to be running around anytime soon.
Something heavy weighing in his chest, eyes crinkled with raw concern, Clark reached out to gently brush the backs of his knuckles over Bruce's cheek. Those vibrant eyes flared open, weariness instantly and forcibly dispelled as wariness took its place. Clark didn't flinch, kept his hand resting lightly against the other man's face, and smiled gently when Bruce relaxed into his touch. Grinning slightly at the man's rueful look, brushing his thumb over the high edge of Bruce's intact cheekbone, Clark shook his head in mild exasperation.
"Alright?" he asked softly, letting the concern show rich and gentle in his voice. Bruce blinked at him, the rushing half-light painting wounded shadows across his face, and nodded.
"Oh, indeed, Commander mine," he murmured, with quiet humour. "I've never been better." Clark opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped. Because in that moment the boat pushed past the line of dusk, and the darkness swept in around them with the night. And with it, Bruce changed.
In that single moment, in the rush of darkness, the Nightlord straightened in his seat. His pale face glowed like the moon in the light of the instruments, and Bruce lifted his head as life flooded back into him, filling his eyes until they shone like blue stars in the night. He turned to look at Clark, and the Commander bit his lip in realisation. It was relief he was seeing, in those shining eyes. Profound relief, a lifting burden, freedom returning to the battered face. Luthor had faded behind them with the light, his power clinging to the daylight paths, and the Nightlord was free again. Safe, beneath the stars.
Clark smiled at him then, unable to help himself. Reaching down with his free hand, keeping the other cupped gently around Bruce's cheek, he circled his fingers around one bare wrist, where shackles had been not hours before. Raising that free hand to the light between them, he smiled deeply as comprehension flared in that shadowed face.
"Welcome home, my Lord," he whispered, and meant it.
Bruce exhaled, sliding helplessly back into his seat as if all the energy had left him with that breath, and turned his head a little to press a grateful kiss to Clark's cradling palm. He smiled up at Clark, resting his head completely in his grasp, his eyes shining softly in the darkness. "It's good to be home, Commander mine," he answered, and a wry smile flickered over his face. "You've no idea how much."
Clark looked at him. He remembered the sight of him on the Atlantis Tower, stiff and ready for confrontation, He remembered him in Luthor's hall, battered and defiant, anger and humour coiled within him as he knelt helpless before his enemy. He remembered him in that room, chains around his wrists, a cheekbone broken by an enemy hand. He remembered holding him as a prisoner in the Ramparts, the pride and despair of the man as he faced a hateful crowd. He remembered him fighting for his life in the tunnels, no time wasted on disappointment or anger, just raw desperation leashed to precise action. He remembered all that, recognising that as long as Clark had known him, Bruce had been a prisoner, of circumstance or Luthor or both. He remembered that, and thought about seeing him now, alive and grateful for the night. "Oh, I think I do," he said, quietly. "I think I can see."
Bruce blinked at him, and nodded. Then, smiling richly, he reached out to let his hand hover gently over Clark's face, a questioning gesture. At Clark's surprised nod, the Nightlord gently trailed his fingers over Clark's face, frowning as they trembled slightly. Clark sighed a little, leaning into that caressing hand, and smiled as Bruce chuckled lightly in awe.
"Commander mine," Bruce murmured, brushing his thumb over Clark's lips, his eyes full as Clark kissed the tip. "Clark."
"My lord," Clark whispered back, feeling his heart rising inexorably within him. Then, stronger and louder as he reached out to pull the shaking man into his arms, being careful, so careful of his wounds. "Bruce." And thought his heart might break altogether when the Nightlord curled into him and rested his head tiredly on his shoulder. They stayed silent for a long minute, Clark holding Bruce, the starlight glimmering with quiet happiness over them.
It was Bruce who broke that silence, eventually. Without looking at Clark, his face nestled in the crook where shoulder met throat, the Nightlord sighed gently. "I owe you so much, Commander mine," he said, quietly. Clark tried to shake his head, tried to open his mouth to explain that he had done nothing, nothing close to what the man deserved, but Bruce was inexorable. "My life. My freedom. At the cost of your home, your past, everything you believed. I've cost you rather a lot, Clark."
Clark swallowed hard, and forced his voice to work, pushed it out past the tears in his throat. "No," he said, thickly. "No, Bruce."
The man chuckled softly against his pulse, his own voice nearly as shaky as Clark's. "Oh, I think I have, Commander mine. I really do."
"You've cost me nothing save my illusions," Clark managed, sincerity flooding his words. "You've cost me nothing, and gave me the sky. If anyone owes anyone, it's me."
Bruce lifted his head, then, to stare at Clark in astonishment. Clark looked down at him, trying to show the other man how much he meant what he said, how grateful he really was. For Bruce, for the sky, for a free Metropolis ... what he had gained from Bruce's captivity, from his suffering, far outweighed any paltry gesture he could possibly have made. Unable to speak, he settled for pulling the injured man closer, his hand stroking instinctively over Bruce's shoulder, and looked away so Bruce wouldn't see the tear that made its way over his cheek. How much he owed this man, how much he wanted to give, how little he seemed able to ...
A hand touched his damp cheek, fingers shaking as they curled to catch the moisture, and Clark looked down in shock to find Bruce staring up at him in awe. Shifting a little in Clark's arms, so he could rise, so he could meet his eyes, the Nightlord stared at him, and his eyes were so full of love and amazement that Clark shook with it.
"Clark," Bruce wondered, his hand firming on Clark's cheek, his face so close ... "You've been hurt so much by this," he observed quietly, and shook his head as Clark opened his mouth to deny it. "So much you could have been spared, had I never met you. So ... why is that I cannot regret it, despite that? Why can I not regret your being here, even knowing what it costs you? Am I that cruel, Clark? That selfish?"
Clark blinked at him, and smiled. Softly. Deeply. "Not cruel," he murmured, love and laughter rich in his voice. "Never that. Just perceptive."
"Oh?" Bruce asked, his nose brushing Clark's.
"Of course," Clark whispered, leaning in to press his lips to Bruce's, the faintest of kisses, there and gone again. "You cannot regret for me what I do not regret for myself."
Bruce closed his eyes, then, closed them as starlight shone on his tears, and his hand was desperate and tender as it curled through Clark's hair and held tight. "No," he murmured, resting his forehead against Clark's, his heart beating through the bandages until it seemed to vibrate in Clark's own chest. "No. But give me leave to try, Commander mine." He opened his eyes again, to gaze in hopeless love at the man who held him. "You deserve that much at least."
Clark nodded silently. And this time, the kiss was not faint. It wasn't fleeting. It was tender and burning with desperation, with the need to be close, full of love and relief and the simple joy that the other was near. That they were safe, and free, and together. Whatever the next hour might bring, whatever new fight they would have to face, in that moment, in the space of that kiss, they were happy. And when they pulled back, just a little, it was with a smile.
For a few minutes after that, Bruce seemed perfectly content just to look at him, his hand slipping down to rest on Clark's shoulder, his legs curled beneath him. And for a few minutes, Clark was perfectly content to sit and let him, and try not to smile at the incongruity of a Metropolis Commander flying through the night with a lap full of Nightlord.
Life with Bruce was good, he realised. Strange, but good. And on the heels of that thought, Bruce opened his mouth.
"I almost forgot," the Nightlord murmured, humour and surprise in his quiet voice. "You make me forget things, Clark. No-one does that."
Clark grinned, and hugged him a little. "Glad to be of service, my Lord," he answered, happy that at least he wasn't the only one forgetting things, then. "What have you forgotten?" Bruce looked at him, pulling back and straightening a bit, his gaze suddenly intense. Clark blinked at the change. "Bruce?"
"A debt," Bruce said at last, slowly and consideringly. "Something promised. Something owed."
Clark frowned. "To who?"
"To whom," the Nightlord corrected, and then grimaced as he realised what he'd done. Shaking his head, ignoring Clark's fleeting smirk, he went on. "To you, Commander mine. I made you a promise, and I almost forgot."
"What promise?" Clark asked, his brows lowering as he readied himself to wave it off. The Nightlord was going to have to stop obsessing over this! But Bruce just shook his head, and suddenly there was such an expression of hope and almost triumph on his face that Clark paused in his protest.
"On the roof," Bruce reminded gently. "I promised you I'd tell you what you deserved to know. Where Gotham has been. Where ... where you may have come from, Clark."
Clark stiffened, sudden fear curling through him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He didn't need to. He could learn to live with the flying. According to Lois, he'd already learned to live with it. He could fly, he had Bruce, and with Lois at work, he'd soon have Metropolis back, too. He was happy. He didn't need to know anything else!
The panicked whirl of thoughts ground to a sudden halt when, with infinite tenderness, Bruce reached up to brush a soothing hand over Clark's cheek. "Hush now, Commander mine. Don't do that. Don't fear me. Clark, you don't have to be afraid of me."
"I'm not," Clark said, striving to reassure, to explain. "But I don't need to know, Bruce. Not anymore. It doesn't matter."
Bruce pulled back a little, an expression of mock hurt flashing over his features, and then a gentler one, still triumphant. "It does to me, Commander mine. A promise is a promise, after all." And as Clark winced, he smiled. "You needn't worry, Clark. We've already established that neither of us are demons from Hell, remember? No matter what Luthor would have you think. You, of all people, have no reason to fear knowing who you are."
Clark paused, listening to the admiration and love in his voice, wondering at the fierce pride and power in his eyes. Bruce gazed at him, straight and proud, every inch the Nightlord, every atom Gotham's ruler. No prisoner, this man. Not bowed to duty, but proud of it, eager, ready to give. As if what he had to say was no burden, but a gift. A gift he desperately wanted to give to Clark, a secret he wanted to share. The secret, Clark remembered suddenly. The one he had taken all those blows to keep from Luthor, the secret he had fought his way through an enemy City to preserve. A secret he intended to entrust to Clark, a secret he was proud to share.
Knowing that, seeing that much trust, Clark could hardly refuse.
"Alright," he whispered, and smiled when Bruce's eyes flashed proudly. "Tell me. Where has you City been, my Lord?"
Bruce smiled at him, a secretive, sly smile, and turned his head to gaze out at the coast rushing towards them. "Look," he commanded softly. "Look out, Clark. Tell me what you see."
Bemused, Clark turned to do as he asked. "We're coming up on the Lousianite Desert," he noted, bewildered. Bruce laughed.
"Up, Clark," he murmured, amused. "Look up."
Clark looked up, at the night sky he hadn't seen in over a decade, in almost half his lifetime. He looked up at the stars that twinkled down at them, at the silent sweep of black that cradled them. And his heart surged within him as, in a single rush, he thought he saw. Thought he understood.
"Yes," Bruce whispered, and Clark turned to look at him, to the deep happiness, the pride and joy in his face. "Welcome home, Commander mine. Welcome to the True Night. Welcome, Clark, to the stars."
Part X: http://icarus-chained.livejournal.com/38293.html#cutid1
