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Tears and Rain	By : Waxcrayons Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 13546 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not nor will I ever own Batman, Superman,DC comics or any of their characters, or make any money off of them.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
In the flickering light was a pair of cold hands clawing at a bruised, beaten, and degraded body, rolling it carelessly into even colder arms with a muted, distant chuckle. Couldn't they see it wasn't proper to move someone in that condition? The grievous head wound alone told of a concussion that could be fatal. There were children running around that knew of the little sports-jem called second impact syndrome, right? Hell, what about the probable whiplash type injury that may be present from the blow that made that wound? Did the writers think to maybe open a first aid 101 pamphlet when they wrote this? Seriously, those ribs were broken and that foot was swollen to all hell... He would have to say though, those make-up artists and special effects guys were getting really good at making diseased and festering cuts and feverish skin look sickeningly realistic, what with all the different versions of CSI and Law & Order on. But was it really necessary? These crime dramas were too much like porn... Too graphic. It scratched the same kind of voyeuristic itch in just another perverse way. When he wasn't so drowsy he was going to tell Jason the boy wasn't allowed to watch them anymore...
That's not a show.
No. It wasn't. It was just trash television disguised in the format of an educated drama. He didn't want to watch it. His eyes closed and the background noise was lost around him, a fusion of distant voices and sounds, all oddly familiar but just as easily tuned out. Around his waist he could feel arms holding him close. It was rather suave of Clark to wait until he was too exhausted to lift his head in protest to start 'cuddling' him. A faint smile touched his lips... It was just the kind of stunt Clark would pull. It felt nice... Still, Jason likely didn't appreciate his Dad getting man-handled right in front of him, engrossed in his horror-porn or not.
“Not here...” He was going to murmur 'Not here, Clark' but a strange cautionary feeling came over him, holding his tongue long enough that he changed what he was going to say. Instead he sighed a simple “No, Kal.”
Kal. When have I ever called you 'Kal'? For whatever reason it felt right under the circumstance. The growing knot in his stomach agreed.
***
Ethereal sunlight filtered easily through the modest farmhouse windows , the sweetest smelling breeze dancing along with the shears to the rhythmic tapping that little plastic cone on the end of the lift-cord made. There was a specific name for that silly thing, he knew there was. Whatever Bruce, it's not that important. So he thought... So why did it bother him so much? Why did he have a burning need to know what the little bastard was called? Why not just admit he didn't have the answer? Easy. Because that is not the way of the Bat, compadre. No Mysteries go unsolved with Batman on the case!
Songbirds sang melodic greetings to the nocturnal creature in their midst, beckoning the sleeping back to rouse and come out to enjoy the golden sun they so loved along with them. Why not this one time? It was a perfect Sunday. Cerulean skies, white clouds... Just a perfect Sunday like a any other at the Kent family farm. A small paradise tucked away in a sleepy township, forgotten by most State maps.
Upon arrival Dick had feigned mild boredom with a long-suffering face, Jason had insisted the clean country air smelled like a the flat pine tree hanging on the rear-view mirror and he hated it, and Tim began complaining that he missed home for all of five minutes before the country charm captured their child hearts. The children were quickly busied with exploring, frog catching, stone hopping (and swimming when they missed the aforementioned stones), goat or chicken chasing depending on the whim of the moment, and generally being muddy, wheat-chewing care-free boys. It was good for them. That the country air seemed to work as a natural and full proof sedative at night was just a parental perk.
From down the open stairwell the sounds and smells of a hearty country comfort breakfast wafted up to greet him as the songbirds had. Only bacon and eggs were better equipped to beckon to him. Sorry, birdies, but bacon is my true temptress. He stumbled out of bed towards the upstairs bathroom where someone had thoughtfully set out his shaving kit. He went about his morning grooming routine with the door open so as to hear the chatter from down below.
A woman was singing a vaguely country song on the radio that Martha Kent sang along with in a voice that wasn't not harmonious herself. As she sang a verse that went something like: “If you;re not in this for life, If you're not in this for love... I'm outta here.” Jonathan Kent mumbled that Shanaia wasn't country any more with just a hint of contempt. Martha seemed to respond by singing more passionately from a place much closer to where Jonathan;s gruff voice had come from. Bruce chuckled and nearly cut himself shaving.
“Oh, leave Shanaia alone, Pa. She's really cute.” Clark defended.
“No proper counrty gal dresses in a leopard print belly-top, son. You come home with one of those and I will have to straighten you out, hear?” Jonathan gruffed.
“Fine, fine.” Clark relented. The radio blurred through a series of stations and static before settling on an Oldies Only broadcast. “Ah!” Clark mused and joined his mother in singing the Betty Everett classic 'It's in his Kiss'. Clark seemed to know it better than Martha.
“Surprise, surprise.” Bruce chuckled again as he both washed his face and brushed his teeth in an unrivalled display of human dexterity... for a Sunday morning.
'It's in his Kiss' followed into the Platters 'Smoke gets in your Eyes' which seemed to be unanimously accepted by the downstairs crew. Even Dick knew the words to the old tune of yesteryear, and the following Paul Anka hit 'Diana'. The tunes were then followed by weather and traffic newsbites and loud commercials punctuated with rowdy conversations and laughter.
Bruce hurriedly rinsed his face off and towel dried before he hit the guest bedroom for a fresh pair of clothes. Nothing too fancy as the Smallville townsfolk eyed him suspiciously enough as is. Having the kids with him lessoned the open disdain towards the City-boy with the punk hair, and he found the less black and grey he wore the better. With a grimace he pulled on a form fitted canary yellow tee-shirt and dimmed its vibrancy with an olive green zipper hoodie, and stone washed blue jeans. His smallville disguise, he liked to call think. It was like looking at a stranger when his reflection met him in the mirror. When he finally made his way downstairs the DJ's were just starting to play a telephoned request from a listener who had just loves the Shirelles back in her day. The request was unfamiliar to him until it got into the chorus. Then it was just too obvious. With confidant charm he entered the kitchen and spun a delightfully startled Martha as he serenaded her.
“So tell me now, and I won't ask again,” He crooned in his ever masculine baritone. “Will you still love me tomorrow?”
“Hey, that lady is spoken for.” Clark piped up, in an exaggerated version of his natural faint mid-western accent. “He's putting the moves on your gal, Pa!”
“She's faithful.” Jonathan assured his son. “Ma wouldn't run out on us at the beck and call of some city hoodlum.”
“I could show you the world, Mrs. Kent.” He purred seductively.
Martha blushed like a school girl at her first dance before patting his cheek. “Jonathan gave me the world 44 years ago, honey. And the moon on a string a long time before you were born.”
He sighed, defeated, and released her. “ I know when I'm beat.”
“You're a total dork sometimes, Bruce.” Jason scoffed.
“I thought it was funny...” Time whispered shyly.
“I was trying to score you a good mom, brat.” He ignored Jason's protests as he physically moved the boy out of his preferred seat. “The house could use a woman's touch.”
“Alfred's kind of like a mom.” Dick commented innocently. “He does the laundry and cooks good food”
“Mrs. Kent makes the best pies.” Tine once again added shyly.
“Ma Kent makes the best everything.” The Kent men insisted in union.
He leaned over to his kids and in an audible faux-whisper proceeded to warn them that they were in Kent country. “You have to watch what you say or the locals get restless.” The boys stared at the Kents a little wide-eyes and nodded.
“To Ma Kent!” Jason raised his orange juice.
“To Ma Kent!” Everyone one followed along.
“Oh, stop it.” Martha huffed without any real heat before she systematically placed full plates of food before each of ravenous boy and man present. Just as swiftly as the full plates had been placed there, the empty ones were whisked away, the kitchen was tidied and Sunday bests were donned.
Clark went with his traditional parents to Sunday Mass and took Dick, who's parents had been a touch religious themselves along with them. Jason, who shared his rage issues with organized religion, chose to stay behind, as did Tim when the appeal of playing won over his restless heart. He waved the Kents off as the radio played the apropos song 'One Fine Day' by the Chiffons, and took up residence on the porch swing to oversee the smaller boys toss stones at stacked cans. Next was their attempts to balance while running along the top of the log fences. He imagined a young Clark as carefree and untamed as his boys doing much the same thing decades ago. It put a wide grin on his face. He leaned back, arms out strung along the top of the swing and based in the warm sunlight...
***
...It wasn't warm or even really sunlight. It wasn't even Sunday. Jonathan... Jonathan Kent passed away a while ago now. In place of golden sunbeams was instead the warmth-less unforgiving glare of fluorescent light blinded him. Even squinting he couldn't make out the person who submerged him with care into lukewarm water. It stung all over and he tried to escape but soft hands held him easily in place. I'm confused... I know that. But whoever is holding me here is trying to help. Once more his tongue caught in his throat. All he could manage was one questioning, plaintive name.
“Kal..?”
***
Well of course it wasn't Sunday, sunny, or warm. It was a typically chilly Gotham autumn night – a night that had come to an end much earlier then he was expecting. Aside from the one nasty robbery turned hostage situation turned high speed chase, the criminals seemed to be taking a personal day. Well I did get to try out my newly modified car. Worked beautifully too. He nodded to that and felt his baby purr as she took him homeward. There was a saying somewhere and he was definitely para-phrasing that went something like: 'A true warrior knows when to fight and when to rest.'. Tonight was a night of rest, evidently. Catching up on some sleep would put him back on top of his game. Not that I'm ever far off it, mind you.
So here he was in his master bathroom in a deep sauna/hot-tub thing with jets, soaking out the kinks in his body and dozing... dreaming about one fine day when Clark's and his family has been together as one. It wasn't for the last time, but it had been one of his favorites. With everything that had happened to Clark and his family lately it wasn't a surprise he was being nostalgic. He wasn't good with death, and never had been. Never knew how to feel or what to say... never knew how to comfort those left behind. Yet somehow people always came to him for comfort in such situations, as if they could sense the deep sense of lost in him. He cast aside the iPad he was using to check Wayne stocks and sank up to his chin in the soothing waters, where he resolved to stay for a long time. The chill that disturbed his humid domain said otherwise.
“Hey...” A downtrodden voice greeted. “Alfred said I could find you up here. He said you wouldn't mind.”
Alfred told you wrong. It was what he wanted to say, but as he glanced over to do just that he got a good look at the large man trying to fold into himself and disappear, and found he couldn't. The man's father just died. He reminded himself. Remember what that was like? “What can I do for you?” He asked knowing full well there wasn't a whole lot he could do naked and in a hot-tub. Well... not in this context.
“Ma's friends took her to the Dominican to get her away and get a fresh look on things. I... I can go anywhere I want but... I just need to be with family.” Clark finished weakly.
So I'm your family, huh..? He mulled the implications of that over until he noticed Clark twitch, seconds away from excusing himself and apologizing for being a bother. “It's okay.” He reassured the Kansas boy. “Make yourself comfortable, if you can” The bathroom designed for a crowd despite it's size.
Clark nodded with a flash of relief in his eyes. The older man chose to sit by his side, rolling up his pant-legs to slip his feet into the water. “It's so hard.” Clark began after a moment. “God, Bruce... It's so hard. How did you get over it? How do you function every day after? It hurts so much...”
He bit his lip while trying to find the right words to say. Clark had no problem discussing his feelings. Country folk were frank and open. Rich Gotham socialites were reserved and poise. “I...” Well, I never got over it. He didn't tell Clark that outright, but the man seemed to read into him and nodded understandingly. Bruce felt his non-answer shouldn't be left at that, however. “I hate to say it, but it does get easier. It will always hurt when you dwell on it... but it gets easier to accept that the people you love are gone.”
“I hope so.” Clark whispered slightly misty eyed. “I know it's not easy for you to talk about this stuff... Thanks.”
“People are going to tell you not to dwell on things, especially the past, but I think I owe it to my parents to remember them, and feel pain for their passing every now and then.” He shrugged reaching out blindly for a way to explain. “Bad things happen every day Clark. It's okay to feel what you need to feel for as long as you need. If you need to cry... Then do it.”
Clark wiped a few stray tears away and laughed weakly. “You really don't take your own advice, do you?”
“It doesn't mean it's not good advice, and anyway,” He admitted shyly enough to put Tim to shame. “I cry when it really matters. Nobody ever sees me do it.”
“That's not entirely true... But you're right.” Clark agreed. He was quiet for a long moment, choosing to pick up Bruce's discarded iPad to set up a playlist of nostalgic rockabilia. The first song that played was CCR's 'Have you ever seen the Rain'. They listened to it in silence until the next track began, and Clark started to share with him stories about Jonathan Kent and Clark's adventurous youth in the Kansas wilderness.
He listened with a smile on his face. If talking was how Clark dealt with things, he was okay with hearing the guy out. By the end of his stories Clark was beaming and Bruce was a wrinkled prune. He climbed out of the tub and reached for the towel that Clark chose that exact moment to abscond with a few feet away.
“You look good wet and naked.” He observed with a mischievous quirk of both brow and the corners of his lips. How Clark could go from such deep sorrow to playful flirting in such a short span must be a testament to his therapeutic listening skills. “Does it feel good?”
“It's a little cold.” He replied. “You know, being without a towel when I'm wet and naked.”
Clark snickered. “No. The hot-tub? I've never been in one.”
Bruce glanced over at the jetting tub. “So... hop in?” He offered. “If you want.”
“Sweet.” Bruce was assaulted with discarded clothing. “Feels nice.” Clark stated, wading in
Bruce towelled off, and wrapping it around his waist, returned to stand by the tub. “Having fun now?”
“Well... I am missing something.”
“No Kal--!” He began, but it was too late. The big lug pulled him in, towel and all.
***
Wait.
That wasn't warm water covering him... It was a dry scratchy blanket. That bath scene wasn't happening right now, he was remembering Clark's warm bare chest and the steely arm that held him close. Here there was a long dark haired figure bandaging him up. He felt damp... but clean. The figure checked his head for a fever.
Wait. That's not some figure, it's me. Jason had come down with a fever and he was checking the boys temperature that way because the thermometer was all the way downstairs. Jason was having trouble breathing so he had rubbed some vapour rub on the kid's chest. No one was smoothing bandages, it was vapour rub...
No it isn't. It's bandages. His mind reeled. It was never sunlight, or Sunday. It was never that one fine day or even that sad one following Jonathan's death. Jason was sick over a month ago now, and I have never, ever, called Clark 'Kal' in person. I'm not thinking properly... lost in memories. Someone had carried him, bathed him, bandaged him, and put him to bed. In a real bed. The knot in his gut urged him to wake. Dream time was over.
Heavy eyelids creaked open to reveal a warm utilitarian room. The overhead lighting was harsh, but not so much as it had been in the other room. His eyes adjusted slowly but soon he was making out the shape of a man fiddling with small tools designed for work with electronics. In one hand the man held a black mask designed with pointed ears... That's mine. Low music played nearby. Some kind of goth/techno fusion all the rage with kids... Yeah, in the 80's. The man brushed long hair out of his face absently while never taking his eyes from his work. Bruce fixated on him knowing eventually his sharp wits would come back and put a name to the face.
Go back to sleep. One side of him pleaded.
He can help you. Get his attention. The Batman side of him insisted. Which was all well and dandy, but how? He was too weak to move.
Nygma! All the signal lights went off. The man was Edward Nygma. Edward, who had freed one of the doctors and given him the tools to escape. Edward, who was keeping the secret of his identity. Edward, who had bathed him and wrapped his wounds. That Edward Nygma was a few feet away taking apart his communication devices implanted in the cowl of his batsuit. So tired... but I have to stay awake. Just long enough for you to look up, Edward. Look up, buddy. The frustration could bring tears to his eyes. This place is in Chinatown, by the Dixon Docks. I couldn't make it to a safe house practically naked and shoeless, but Edward could help me get to one. Look up!
“Oh?” Nygma at last glanced his way and was as surprised to see him as he was relieved to be seen. The thin riddle master left his perch by a work table and came to his bedside. His temperature was taken again and bandages were fussed with. “You've been in and out of it for a long time now. Do you understand me? You look lost.”
He did his best to nod, infinitely frustrated that he couldn't form the words that could save him. I just need him to help me get to One Gotham Center. I can get gear and help. I just need to tell you where to take me, Edward. Please... Still, no sound would escape his throat.
“Don't panic now...” Edward soothed. “Your heart is pounding.”
I'm not panicking, I'm just plain desperate!
“The other two you were with got away. I've been watching the news and reports are in that the chubby one made it back to society. He's a convulsing catatonic wreck that hasn't given the police any information, but he's alive. No word on Arkham yet.” Nygma's voice was soft, presumably to help calm him down. “You look so frail, Bruce. You should rest while you can. I don't think I can do much else to help you given the circumstances.” The Riddler pensively bit a lip. “He wouldn't let me feed you. He said you weren't going to... to be around... for much longer.”
...And you told me not to panic a second ago.
“I'm sorry... I don't know what I can do for you. But if I can do anything... I will.”
He nodded slightly. What else can I expect? The Joker has finally decided to... Oh, God, who will have to tell Clark and my little birds? A pathetic final thought before his body wilfully shut down.
***
Diana huddled down with Gotham City's Commissioner James Gordon over a city map the good man had laid open across the passenger seat of the nearest squad car. The howling wind forgotten in spite of it's roar in favour of a positive step forward in controlling this catastrophe. James Gordon explained to her and the part of their team they had managed to get a hold of the lay of the land. What she gleaned out of the briefing was that Arkham Asylum that sat in the North-West was over run just as Blackgate which sat South-East experienced a record breaking jailbreak. It was clear to the police that this Joker was responsible, but the wide-spread panic covered every part of the city caught in between the two locations, which consisted of pretty much the entire city. Gangs were defending their turfs and for the moment to be left alone to save man-power and cut down on collateral damage. The Northern Bristol County was untouched, as were most of the harbours. There weren't any leads on where this Joker was operating out from, which was unusual. James Gordon explained that the lunatic was sickeningly enthralled with his own handiwork and always quick to claim his havoc. When Diana showed the Commissioner an edited excerpt of the video that was fed to their headquarters he sadly admitted he couldn't place the location.
“Is that the Bat?” Gordon asked pointedly, but she could hear the growing concern in the man's voice. “Is this why you people are here?”
The edit did show a beaten figure on the ground, but nothing else. Nothing of what happened seconds later... “Yes.” She answered honestly.
“I can't really put out a MISPER for an urban legend, Ma’am. But there are a handful of detectives I can trust to keep an eye out discretely for him. He's a good kid... We'll find him.”
“I hope so... Where would you like us to start?”
We'll find you Batman... Bruce, as Kal calls you. I promise.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Tears and Rain