Chapter Text
14—
Epilogue
Here and now . . . at the top of the Metropolis Observatory . . .
The rain poured down in torrents, drenching everything—hair, cape and costume—in a cold wash of nighttime forgetfulness. Superman stood on the abandoned utility bridge connecting the old dome of the Metropolis Observatory to the new Observatory building that had been funded by the Luthor Foundation for the Advancement of Science. The building was built into the side of a mountain and had the distinction of being the highest point outside of the city where a person could look down on Metropolis or up at the stars unimpeded. It had always been his favorite place to go when he needed time alone to think but couldn't afford to be too far away from Metropolis in case he was needed. In the dark, with the rain falling in sheets, he longed to find an answer to his troubles, for an end to his embarrassment and the inescapable wanting that had taken over his thoughts; he longed for a simpler time, when the stars were mysterious, untouchable, without the taint of familiarity, where, instead of looking down at Earth from a Watchtower, he spent his time looking up, in wonder, at the night sky.
He was so confused. This was never supposed to happen. It hadn't happened, but it felt like it had, felt like the most real thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life. It seemed impossible to forget—
Hands in his hair, gentle fingers that entwined themselves there and felt like heaven; the passionate press of arms and legs, a devouring assault of lips and mouth on tender skin, the scandalous symphony of noise—of sucking, of whimpering, of moaning….
How was he supposed to explain this to Lois when he didn't even understand it himself? Where would he find the words to explain it to Bruce when he couldn't even bear to look at him?
How was he going to explain being heartsick over an illusion?
He didn't even look up when the Dark Knight stepped out of the shadows behind him.
"How did you find me?" Batman. Always the shadow by my side. He is the only person who really knows me, the different aspects of me. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself.
"We've known each other for a long time, Clark. I'd be a poor friend if I couldn't find you when you don't want to be found." Not a look, or the usual corn-fed smile. Just silence, so unusual for Clark. Just a silhouette of darkness etched in rain. He almost looks like he belongs in my world, robbed of that last bit of innocence that has set him apart from every other hero. I wonder if I know this Clark.
After a few minutes, when it became obvious that Clark wasn't going to say anything, Bruce tried again.
"Lois is worried. She said you took a leave of absence from the paper."
"I put in a vacation request." Clark shrugged. "I never take vacations. I have a lot of time piled up. Don't know if I'll get it."
"Well, if Perry gives you a hard time," Bruce smirked, though he was sure the effect was blunted by the rain and his cowl, "I'm sure the owner of the paper will support you."
Even his quip got no response.
Somberly this time, Bruce tried again. "You think you need a break?" The weight of the world is on his shoulders. Superman is expected to be a paragon, everyone's own personal hero. He has an indomitable spirit that refuses to admit it's impossible to save everyone. I remember my father, as a doctor, was very much the same way. He would never give up on a life he thought he could save—and he thought he could save everyone. I look at Superman and see a man my father would have respected; a man my father would have been proud of. It's probably why I put up with him, even though his Boy Scout routine drives me up a wall.
Superman shrugged noncommittally.
"Clark—" Bruce reached out, grabbed his arm and turned him around, "look at me. What happened at the Fortress?"
Clark went still, and for a moment, Bruce was sure he would receive no answer at all to his question.
"You talked to J'onn?"
"He told me to talk to you."
Clark shrugged his hand off. "Bruce, listen, I just don't want to get into it right now. It's personal. Do you understand?"
"I think you need to talk about it."
Clark shook his head. "Not now. Not with you."
It was Bruce's turn to be silent, hurt. "I thought we trusted each other."
"Leave it alone, Bruce." The first time I met Batman, I was sure we'd never get along, sure he'd only ever be someone I could tolerate, in small doses. Over years of saving each other's lives, of confidences shared and trust established, I came to see that our differences were the glue that made our partnership that much stronger. A marriage of equals and opposites, he became the brother that I never had, a brother of nighttime shadows who grounded me whenever I strayed too close to the sun.
"Clark—"
"Leave it alone."
Bruce's voice, usually so low and threatening, took on a new note of exasperation. "What would you do if you were in my position? Would you leave it alone?"
Clark stared at him with eyes of indigo shadows, full of indecision, and Bruce saw something he thought he'd never see: Clark, poised on the edge of a lie.
"I wanted something," he said, hesitantly, "—something impossible. I wanted something I knew I couldn't have. I wanted it—" more than anything. His tone became ashes, bitter. "Lex took advantage of that."
Finally! At least Clark was talking to him. "Let me fix it," Bruce offered as a way to keep him talking, to wrest a full explanation from this stranger who had once been his closest friend.
"You can't. Not everything can be tinkered with like one of your gadgets, Bruce."
"I can deal with Lex Luthor."
Clark sighed and shook his head. This was the Bruce he knew—stubborn, obstinate, with an insatiable curiosity and need to control every situation. How could he have ever been fooled into thinking— Clark used his x-ray vision to look beneath Batman's costume, to confirm something he already knew: Bruce's body was scarred, his skin riddled with the evidence that his was a human battle. The pristine skin, the soft smooth expanse of chest that had so captivated him during their time together—No! The illusion of their time together!—was a complete fabrication, a lie. And worse, he should have been able to tell. Of course Bruce's skin would be the paper upon which was written the story of his many battles. The truth was obvious, if he had only been willing to see it. Clark raised a hand, wanting to touch, to mark the difference between the truth and the lie with his own fingertips, but he stopped himself. He had almost forgotten. He didn't have the right.
Bruce noticed the way Clark seemed to look right through him, the aborted movement, and, finally, the resolute set to his face that spoke of endless possibilities, stunted and unrealized. "Clark, what are you looking at? What do you see?"
To Clark, it was all so clear—now. "Nothing."
Bruce frowned. For some reason Clark's answer stung.
"Where will you be? At the Fortress?" I don't want him to leave. Though I don't have the details, I can see something has changed him. He needs to talk about it. Clark shouldn't be alone.
"No. Not there."
"What if I—what if we need you?"
"I thought you knew how to find me?" Clark lips quirked upwards, but it was only a pale imitation of his usual smile.
Bruce scowled at the rain and reached up to pull off his cowl. He suspected there was nothing worse than wet Kevlar plastered to his face for a protracted length of time. He shook his head, spraying raindrops everywhere. "Yeah, in Metropolis," he answered. "No telling how long it would take me if I had to search the whole world. We're none of us getting any younger, Clark."
Clark turned away without answering. Sometimes, looking at Bruce actually hurt. Batman was the perfect combination of all that was most beautiful and most deadly, like a blue expanse of sky coupled with a raging storm. Although our perspectives often differ, I know if everyone else in the world proves unreliable, I can rely on Batman; if ever I need a friend, I can call Bruce and he will be there for me as much as his nature allows. There is no one that I trust more, but I know he doesn't have it in him to understand this—
"J'onn has my itinerary. He can contact me if there's an emergency." But he won't.
Clark turned to face Bruce once more and floated up, slowly, as if he wanted to keep his long-time friend in his sights until the last possible moment, before he turned his back and left him behind. In the pit of his stomach he felt an incredible sinking feeling, a tightly coalescing fear that he had been seduced into crossing a thin line and could never return, said things, done things that he could never take back. Everything is ruined. Now, every time I look at him it all comes rushing back to me: I see him naked, I feel him touch my face. I hear him staying my name—passionately. I taste the sweetness of his lips. I smell his unique scent. Even if all of it was illusory, it is still a sad, pathetic fact that I love the illusions.
He flew away through a wash of rain. The sky was a tide of blackness. Something hung heavy over everything, not thunder, but the weary weight of lies and weakness, the deception of self, the weight of knowing that all the best dreams simply slip away, ephemeral, intangible, like smoke.
finis
A day never meant for me,
maybe, stays with my memory: one
whose beginning was nowhere
and endless.
—Neruda