The War of Our Time
Bruce stirs in his nest, woken up by sensing something wrong.
He glances around the dark in the quiet living room. Nothing seems out of order. Taking a sniff of the air, Bruce annoyingly notices that Clark’s scent on the nest materials are slowly fading away, but the homey feeling of the entire apartment is made upon to that. Temporarily enough for Bruce. Maybe he should invite Clark to sit within the nest with him next time when he comes back.
Speak of Clark.
There is a tiny trace of fresh Alpha scent flowing in the cool air of night, picked up by the sensitive nose of Bruce.
He is more sensitive than most people. Most Omegas even, since they need good noses to detect any dangers rising in their surroundings. It's a good tool in their pockets to find good time and measures to please Alphas who protect, and comfort Betas who serve, and befriend with other Omegas who share the same mindset. Hence Omegas are always in a controversial debate of pack leadership because of their sneaky and trickery ways to work things out in their favor. They are sly the best, manipulative the worst.
Nevertheless, modern society prefers the patriarchy on top of everything, even when firearms are much more advanced and deadly than some random Alphas can do by throwing a punch.
Bruce understands the significance and impacts coming from the same thought process generated this conclusion and expectations, but he doesn’t give a damn about it. He would never become Batman if he cared.
Following the trace of scents, Bruce gets up quietly, prowls close to the bedroom and cracks the door open.
A breeze rushes out from the crack one of a sudden and carries down the nightly cool and fresh Alpha scent. A bitter and metallic note seeping through the normal pleasant Alpha scent alerts Bruce. There is something wrong going on inside.
He peeks.
The bedroom is dimly lit by the moonlight poured into the room through the open window installed on the far end wall. The unceasing night breeze keeps blowing up the half drew up curtain, making the vague shadows of furniture eerily dancing on the floor.
Clark is sitting on the edge of his bed, suit on, posture slouched, brooding. The usual radiant red cape seems dull, pooling on the bed and piled up, threatening to slip on to the floor with the tiniest stir from Clark. Even with the primary color of his suit, he slowly fades to a long silhouette.
Clark is too stuck in his own head to notice Bruce wakes up and moves around outside of the bedroom. The crack of the door catches him out of the guard. He startlingly raises his head and meets Bruce’s inquisitive eyes head on. Panic flashes in his inhumanly blue eyes.
He changes into the casual flannel shirts and jeans in a blink of an eye and zips in front of the bedroom door. He pulls the door wide open and awkwardly touches his bridge of nose, only to embarrassingly find out he forgot to put on his glasses. His hand grabs his neck instead. Clark gives Bruce a tired smile.
“Good evening, Bruce.” Despite his effort of trying to stay positive, Clark sounds awfully defeated. “Sorry to wake you up ... yeah. You alright? Need anything?”
Bruce ignores Clark’s pathetic squeak when he pushes in. He grabs Clark’s forearm to steady him and scents him - a deep inhale through the nose to take in every subtle detail in Clark’s scent.
No matter how many sweet assurances Clark dares to put up in his scent, the sensitive nose of him could always pick up the nuance traces of frustration, anger, sadness and desperation... Everything has the potential to slide toward distress and aggression. Alphas tend to get aggressive under stress. It’s not easy to poke Superman, but Bruce knows the supervillains are getting creative these days.
“It’s not really a good time.” Clark murmurs under his breath when Bruce ghostly brushes the tip of nose on his exposed skin of neck. But contrary to his words, his body slightly leans toward the warmth of Bruce, seeking for comfort and support.
The bitterness of adrenaline rushing through the veins and rust smell of blood are impossible to neglect. Gun powders, dust, gasoline, the burned plastic and rubber, they’re all too familiar to Bruce. Clark smells like a tough battle and a defeated one, leaving bad taste in his mouth.
It’s very subtle though. Like extremely delicate. Bruce just knows. What he knows puts him on edge.
Clark extends one hand to hold on Bruce’s nape of the neck. Familiar warmth radiating from his palm and soothes Bruce’s nerves.
“No, nonono. Don’t worry about me.” He gently nudges Bruce close to him, until the gap between their bodies closes and he is practically hugging Bruce. Clark coos, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Uhmmm.” If he says so. Not that Bruce believes in any of this bullshit.
Bruce reaches out to Clark, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist, patting his back. The rigid muscle reflexes under his fingers, having no idea to do with such sudden intimacy. The other hand used to hold onto the door frame snaps to Bruce's small of the back, pulling him into a tight hug. Tension finally started to bleed out from his body.
“...Long day?” Bruce asks.
Clark rubs his cheek on top of Bruce’s head. It’s illegal to do so because he is not that much taller than Bruce. “Yeah. I think that’s one way to put it.”
They stay like this for a good minute until Clark pulls back and looks Bruce in the eyes.
“You should rest.” He says. “It’s too late in the night. Come on, I’ll make you bed and you’re going to sleep tight alright?”
Bruce gives him a disapproving glare. They haven’t even started on Clark’s problem.
Clark gets surprisingly well at reading him now. He sheepishly smiles, “or we can talk while lying on the bed.” He gives a small squeeze to Bruce’s hand and guides him toward the king size bed, the only thing in this apartment actually accommodated to Clark’s size. Thank God. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s a habit to squeeze oneself into anything two sizes smaller because it’s more comfortable, or an investigative journalist is a doomed career even a decent one can make no money.
Bruce let himself be led.
Clark uses super speed to get everything ready. He doesn’t forget to snatch the soft old blanket Bruce left on the couch.
Well. That’s part of his nest so Clark really shouldn’t do that, but the scents on the blanket are dull. Bruce decides to let him off the hook this time.
“Do you want some snacks? Water?” Clark doesn’t wait for answers. A cup of warm milk is set on the nightstand in no time.
Bruce sits on the end of the bed, watching Clark busying himself with all kinds of trivial tasks: securing all the windows and doors, patting the pillows to make them fluffy, tidying up the bedroom, putting away all the random loose sharp objects like he is a child and can fall on them... bringing him a plate of finger food.
Chicken salad rolls are sliced to nice pieces and carrots are cut to perfect finger length, a small sauce cup of Ranch dressing to go by.
It’s always endearing when Clark works on the domestic stuff like these. One of his gestures of love is food. Clark cooks perfect sunny side up eggs and toast crispy on the edges and soft and warm in the middle. He cuts off the edges when he finds out how Bruce prefers him and lets a piece of butter melt on it before serving to him. Orange juice is always fresh squeezed with a good use or a bit of show off of his strength. For main courses he either comes back to cook something quick but hearty, or brings back whatever delicious healthy takeout in the equivalent five-minutes driving range of Superman. There is always plenty of food stock up in the refrigerator. Country beef stew, apple pies, gigantic bowls of salad certainly makes Alfred happy. A feast to feed an entire family but for one person.
There is no way Bruce could finish them all even if he is eating for two. Clark ends up eating left-overs all the time. He heats up one plate full with heat vision and comfortably sinks into the single couch after a hard working day. He eats while absent-minded listening to the news. Bruce could feel Clark stares blankly at his back most of the night but purposefully not to acknowledge it.
He doesn’t feel like speaking up anyway these days. It’s a calm and relaxing experience. He only got a glimmer of the similar experience when diving too deep in meditation.
Or lucid dreaming as an outsider it’s supposed to be.
Huh.
Juggling between Superman, day time job, supporting friend, good son and responsible parent is a scheduling nightmare. Clark sneaks delicious finger food whenever he can. He has a smitten smile on his face every time watching Bruce eating. Bruce doesn’t comment on it either.
For this moment, Bruce has no appetite. He pushes the plate back into Clark’s hands. All he wants now is for Clark to stop zipping around like a bumblebee lost in a rainy day.
“Wanna go straight to sleep?” Clark sheepishly says, “just suggesting.”
Bruce pats the spot next to him. “Here.”
“Okayyy-- But hon, I haven’t taken a shower. Don’t want to soil your nice and warm blankets. Wow.”
Bruce takes matter into his own hand and grabs a fistful of Clark’s shirt and pulls with determination. Clark pretends to fall over on the bed next to Bruce. He rolls over to lay on the side, facing Bruce, roaring his head with one hand supporting his chin, smiling, “happy?”
Bruce climbs on the bed and slips under the comforter. Clark moves to make room and snuggles to him. Bruce reaches out for the switch, kills the light.
The room now flows in a sea of comfortable quiet darkness. The flashy red light of the alarm looks like a distant light tower. The only things that could be heard are consistent buzzing and humming of electronics and circuits, periodic insect noises and night bird songs, and quiet breaths of both of them.
Clark’s scent drifts slowly in the air. Closing his eyes, Bruce could imagine how it timidly reached him, enveloping him, impossible to hide all the nuance feelings from him. Clark has an iron control over his scents, but fatigue and exhaustion are creeping up with him quite quickly.
Clark goes from being quiet to restless squirm. It takes him an embarrassingly long time or conjures enough courage to curl up to Bruce, like a big spoon.
“You’re doing better now, aren’t you?” Clark whispers. “You become more expressive than the first day I met you on the street. You’re like being shocked. Not moving a bit. I don’t think you speak any real words the first couple days in my apartment. I don’t even think you would stay, but there you are. I’m thankful for that.”
Hilarious. Bruce rolls his eyes. He doesn’t think Clark notices what he does. Like, everything. Only sees, but not observes. For a man who has multiple super visions, Clark is hopelessly useless. Blind as a bat will actually be a compliment to him.
How he keeps his reporter job at Daily Planet is beyond Bruce.
Never mind, it’s not like Gotham journalists are doing any better. Whatever runs on nowadays paper is worse than junk, full of propaganda and hatred. What’s people going to do with these?
Clark keeps rumbling sweet nothing for a while.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” Clark signs, softly. Vulnerability bleeds out of his words. “I don’t know what to do with you. Yeah. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with anything around me. I only want to help. To lend a hand. Or being there for them. Somehow it becomes super hard for no good reason.”
He groans, anger and sadness sparks in his scent. A short life laugh escapes from him. “At least not good reasons for my understanding.”
Bruce turns and faces him, reaching out to hold Clark’s hand. Clark’s finger automatically laces with his, giving a weak squeeze.
“I fear I don’t understand this world anymore.” Clark says defeated. His scent complicates every split second he fights the control over it. He struggles with grace like a half paralyzed man.
“Uhm.”
“Very responsive.” Clark deadpans, but fails miserably to conceal agony rising due to his self doubt.
The scents stir something heavy inside Bruce. The baby squirms in his womb, sending a wave of dull ache spreading from his abdomen to fingertips, causing his index finger convulses involuntarily.
Not yet. Bruce thinks. There is no real danger. Only an over stressed Alpha. It’s not going to be super hard to fix.
He has perfect control with his breath and heartbeat. They are leveled and calm.
Bruce puts the other hand on his belly, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
“I ought to tell you about it, right? What happened today.”
Clark nuzzles in on Bruce’s forehead, pulling his head to his chest, placing his chin on top of his head. Since Bruce is under the comforter and Clark is on top of it, their position is too awkward to put up a proper hug. Clark places his hand on the back of Bruce’s neck.
“There were... a group of kids. Teenagers. They were a team called Ultimen. You might have heard about them before, like, they were kinda the rising stars of popular culture right now, it didn't matter they only appeared a year ago.”
Clark gives a few humorless chuckles. His every control of his mood and feelings cracks. His own words drag him back to the wasted land of the battlefield. The sheer force of memory. It pains before you dare to recall it, and that’s what Clark did all night long, dancing around the real problem. The bleeding wound won’t scab until he takes care of it.
“I don’t think I... didn’t like them. Like I said, they are kids. They didn’t know what they were getting involved in before they jumped in. I know that’s hypocrisy of me saying it because I started flying around when I was a teenager. Not always saving the world kind of things. No. It’s just hard to not do anything when you have power. Temptation is the true devil. That’s a long time before Lois decided to name me Superman. Like years. I got called a lot of weird names before that and I was still nobody. But I messed up a lot of things when I was young, okay? I was lucky to fix most of them.”
Bruce caresses his belly, silently listening.
“Um, I don’t think that’s what I mean. My words tend to get away from me. What’s wrong?“ Clark grumbles. Sadness slips into his scent. Before creating a good cocktail of depression, his scent takes a shape turn towards aggression.
Clark changes to talk about his past crossed with those Ultimen kids. Anger is slowly and secretly built upon word by word. It’s not directed at the kids. He could never hate a kid, but anger is anger. It burns Bruce’s sensitive nose, along with other boiling feelings of Clark. Seeping down to his core.
The baby knows too.
Bruce presses himself against Clark, burying his nose in his scent gland, inhaling. It startles Clark, who looks down to him and checks on him.
“You okay?”
Bruce hums and lets him continue.
“Okay. You smell nice too.” Clark chuckles before quite down.
Bruce doesn’t care about what he smells like, but he likes his scent mingled with Clark’s, taking the edge of frustration away, turning the acrid rage to something mellow and nostalgic. Bruce pushes out more of his scent. He can tell Clark flares his nostril instinctively.
That’s not enough.
Clark’s monologue unfortunately moves into a dangerous zone.
“They aren’t normal kids. Not because they are metas with super power, but because they are artificial beings created in a laboratory.”
The arm wrapped around Bruce tightens.
“To become some kind of living weapon to serve the needs of the government. All their memories, their home, their family and friends, their everything are lies. Their entire lives are lies. And the government feeds them more lies, even lying about their own condition. Their genetic structures can only stay stable for a period of time and then the government swaps them out like nothing happened.”
The unfairness of fate, the cold world, the anger, the rage, the desperation, the agony, the pain, they are all familiar to Bruce like old friends. They follow him like the shadow under the sun. Sometimes they recede, but they never go away.
He doesn’t need to listen to the end of Clark’s story, because he knows how it ends deep down in his heart. The very reason makes Clark furious and mad. Because even if he wants to throw a fit there is nothing he can hit.
He is one man up against a system. The system is not perfect but most people live in peace with it, until some unlucky ones fall as the victims.
Even Superman couldn’t beat over something senseless and untouchable.
But you are not alone.
Bruce presses a kiss on Clark’s chin. Then another on his lips. Clark is rendered speechless by this sudden change of Bruce but he responds after a moment of hesitation. Hot and messy. The comforter between them is kicked and tossed away. Bruce climbs onto Clark and the other lifts him up in the air with both hands on his hip.
A loud, shameless moan is ripped from Bruce’s throat when Clark licks a long strip down his neck and chest. Hot tongue plays with the nipple. Groins grand against each other.
For this war of justice in our time, you’re never alone.
For that, Bruce can promise.