226Chapter Seven: Kryptonian language
"When you see him, glare. Remember, you're the dangerous one."
Clark nodded.
"But don't intimidate him. Acknowledge that he's in charge. Make him feel powerful. Get him talking."
"Ok," Clark said. Bruce bristled.
"And don't say 'ok'."
Clark mimicked his impatient growl. "Whatever."
"…That's better," Bruce allowed, grudgingly. The sound of his own voice coming from the cowl he wasn't wearing had almost surprised him. He'd known that Clark could do that, but had assumed that it had something to do with his super powers. Perhaps the voice wasn't as perfect as it would have been away from the red lamps, but it was still pretty close.
Bruce finally got his borrowed red cape fixed in place, and flung it back over his shoulder. It was a far more dramatic gesture than he'd intended, and the cape obliged by settling behind him in imperially perfect folds. Clark couldn't help but grin. He felt like a complete imposter dressed up as Batman. But Bruce, he had to admit, made an excellent Superman.
Bruce caught his smile and scowled. "What?"
"Nothing," Clark said. Then he cleared his throat a little. "You look super," he growled, using Bruce's voice.
Bruce wasn't amused. "I thought you understood your situation here. Your job is to get away from this light, get your strength back, and escape. If you give yourself away before you're bulletproof…"
Clark sighed. "I know. Don't worry. A few minutes of yellow light and I'll be back for you and then we'll get out of here."
"No," Bruce said firmly. "You are not going to risk coming back to this room. You get yourself clear and contact the League. Somebody else can come pick me up later if I can't get out on my own."
Clark frowned. "I can't believe you think I'd leave you here."
"I think you'll do what I tell you."
That wasn't an attitude that Clark knew how to respond to. Silence settled between them. Finally Clark looked away. Angry.
Bruce drew air into his lungs, deep and slow. He was glad that Clark was upset. The anger would help him pull off the act.
And suddenly, that occurred to Clark. "Wait a minute," he said, looking Bruce in the eyes. "You're trying to make me mad on purpose."
Bruce let out the breath he'd taken. "Yes," he admitted.
Clark put his hands on his hips, clearly on the verge of lecture mode, but Bruce stopped him. "Don't do that," he snarled. "Batman doesn't stand like that. If you need to do something with your hands, you ball them into fists and bolt them to your sides. Got it?"
Slowly, Clark followed the recommendation. He even hunched his shoulders a bit. "Got it," he echoed, using Batman's voice.
Bruce nodded in approval.
They turned the camera back on and assumed their roles. Bruce sat on the floor, sometimes cross-legged, sometimes with his elbows on his knees, always keeping his face shadowed, while Clark paced around the room, studying the lights on the walls, glaring at the lights on the ceiling, and often just glaring at 'Superman' in frustration. When they spoke to each other, Clark asked a single gruff question, and Bruce provided a quiet, muttered answer and kept his palm pressed to his forehead.
Finally Clark ran out of things to study. He stood in the middle of the cell, fists at his sides. And then, purposefully, he stalked over and sat down next to Bruce.
"Don't get too friendly," Bruce muttered to him, in Kryptonese. "You're supposed to be me."
"Obviously," Clark replied in the alien language, carefully using Bruce's voice. "But this is exactly what you'd do. You'd stake out a spot where you had the best view of the door, and then you'd verify my condition."
"Just what is your condition?" Bruce asked, as if he'd been meaning to ask for a while.
"Tired," Clark replied. "and so of course the next thing you'd do is advise me to get some sleep while you stayed up to brood and scheme."
"I'm not going to sleep." Bruce almost sounded offended.
"I would," Clark told him, and switched back to English. "Try and get some rest," he instructed. "I need you to be sharp for whatever happens next."
"What about you?" Bruce mumbled in concern.
Clark glared straight ahead, and spoke through clenched teeth. "You're no good to me exhausted," he said, not answering the question.
Bruce had to admit, Clark was pulling off an impressively convincing Batman. He could only hope that his own impersonation of Superman was half as good.
Deciding that a tired Superman would concede to an unsociable Batman at that point, Bruce stretched his legs out in front of him on the floor and prepared to pretend to sleep. Remembering how Clark had been sitting when he'd first seen him via the surveillance camera, Bruce pulled his cape around his arms and then folded his arms over his chest, turning the cape into as much of a blanket as possible. He let his head tip forward and closed his eyes, but not before sneaking a sideways glance at Clark.
He was pretty sure that Clark wasn't looking directly at him, but he was equally sure that the tiny nod of Clark's chin meant that he approved of Bruce's 'getting some sleep' pose. Bruce let his eyes fall shut, and got to work on slowing his breathing.
Bruce hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night, but the night before that, thanks to Clark and the situation that had indirectly caused their current predicament, he'd gotten double his usual four hours. And he usually didn't start physically feeling tired until he'd been awake for at least forty-eight hours anyway- and he was still five or six hours away from that mark, so there should have been no possibility of him actually drifting off. And yet, miraculously, as he sat there counting his heartbeats, he began to get drowsy.
It was unbelievable. He couldn't understand it. Maybe it had something to do with the red lights. But no, that didn't make sense. Red lights usually just made him impatient. They reminded him of police cars, of danger and violence and rage—things that he thrived on, that justified his existence—but not things that made him sleepy.
Nothing about the cube-shaped cell reminded him of his dark, silent bedroom with its vaulted ceilings, his down comforter, his cool pillowcase. Alfred at the door, asking if he needed anything else. All the little parts of the routine, of the pattern, that had to be in place before he could even accept the thought of sleeping. His mind reached farther back, to Alfred's voice again, reading to him. Poetry. It was all so far away. Those years of nights when all he could do was lay in the dark and cry, helpless and angry and too young to do anything except grieve.
Clark had never had nights like those. Bruce had been to the Kent farm, had slept on the pullout sofa in the living room, had been kept awake by the owls and frogs and crickets. He wondered what could keep Clark awake. Why was it that every so often, Clark spent the night on the Watchtower? A metropolitan newspaper reporter had no business racking out in the Justice League headquarters, no matter how bad a day he'd had at the office. And Kal-El the last son of Krypton had his Fortress to sleep in, if humanity was burdening his consciousness. Bruce had slept there once too. He'd liked it. It was…quiet. Safe.
Abruptly, awareness of his environment returned. His eyes cracked open and he was amazed to realize that he must have dozed off. Clark had gotten up without his knowledge, and was standing near the middle of the room, a solid black barrier between Bruce and the door.
For a moment, he forgot that Clark was the one who needed to be protected. The mere fact that he was there, standing by, was incredibly reassuring. Bruce closed his eyes again. It seemed right, now, that he could sleep a little bit. He was actually comfortable. He liked the resilient feel of the 'S' shield pressed against his chest, his arms crossed over it. Clark's costume was snug and stretchy in all the right ways. No wonder the man wore it under his civilian clothes everyday. It felt good, not merely necessary like Batman's outfit. Even Clark's stupid boots were comfortable. They were more like the ninja tabi that Robin liked to wear. Perfect if you were light on your feet. Perfect if you were weightless…
The cell door beeped, jolting Bruce out of a dream that he would never admit had been about flying.
Clark looked over his shoulder as the door slid open. "This is it," he growled. "I'm going to talk to Luthor like I told you."
"Be careful," Bruce said, barely having to fake his sincerity.
Clark scowled at him. "Don't try anything while I'm gone. If they come for you, cooperate. Understand?" He stepped into the antechamber beyond the door, turning to look at Bruce as the door slid shut.
Bruce nodded, eyes unconcealed.
Clark returned the nod, and the door closed. The lock engaged, and Clark stood there, the darkness sinking in. This was it. He was alone. Bruce was still just a few feet away but he might as well have been on the other side of the universe. Clark had to pull this off.
Suddenly the little room he was standing in began to move—down. It was an elevator! Adrenaline made his heart pound and he was suddenly conscious of his confinement. He wasn't claustrophobic. He wasn't. But Bruce hadn't said anything about an elevator. And now he was going the wrong way. Down, into the dark. Away from the sun. Batman wouldn't care, he reminded himself. This would suit Batman just fine. He clenched his hands into fists, and the panic subsided.
He was ready for anything.
When the elevator finally stopped, and the door hissed open, the concrete-walled cell awaiting him did not surprise him. He kept his expression neutral, and took time to survey the room. There was a camera mounted high in one corner, protected by a Plexiglas bubble. And there were lights, aggravatingly fluorescent. They'd help him regain a little of his strength, but it wouldn't be much.
"Don't be shy, Batman. Come in." Luthor's voice, from a speaker on the ceiling. Clark glared at the camera as he stalked into the room. The elevator door closed behind him. "You'll have to forgive me for not meeting with you in person," Lex told him through the speaker. "The thing is, I just don't trust you."
"The feeling's mutual," Clark growled, sounding dangerously amused.
"You left quite a dent in the bulletproof door of the vehicle that brought you here," Luthor said, his tone matching Clark's. "And given how hell-bent you seemed on escaping, I was surprised when Waller told me how quickly you decided to cooperate."
Clark thought fast, and suddenly what Bruce had said made some sort of sense. Keep him guessing. Clark narrowed his eyes. "We both know why I did," he rumbled.
"Of course," Luthor purred. "But why don't you tell me anyway."
Clark smirked under the cowl. "Maybe Waller is just that good of a recruiter."
"She told you our intentions?"
Clark had too much momentum, he couldn't hold back. He took a risk. "Nobody wants an alien god running around unchecked, Luthor."
Luthor fell quiet. "You're baiting me, aren't you?" he mused at last. "I thought you'd have more tact."
Clark knew he had to recover fast. He adjusted his frown and his voice to seem annoyed. "Waller told me what you need. I'm the only one who can do the job."
"So I'm to believe you volunteered to be Superman's keeper out of some sense of duty?" He sounded slightly sarcastic, so Clark infused his voice with gravity.
"Yes." The word fell with such finality that Luthor seemed at a loss. Clark glared into the camera for all he was worth. "Handling him will be my responsibility, no one else's. I can gain his compliance. And I can do it without breaking him."
"Ah," Luthor said, sounding pleased with himself. "I thought you might have an issue with that part of the process. And that's why you're down here. Out of the way." He chuckled a little, unmistakably excited. The sound made Clark's skin crawl. "Don't worry," Luthor laughed through the speaker. "You'll get the chance to clean him up afterwards."
Luthor chuckled some more, Clark grit his teeth, and the speaker abruptly cut out. "Luthor!" Clark half-shouted, knowing that he wouldn't be heard.
Clark had to think. He turned his back to the camera and crossed his arms over his chest, Bat-mannerisms be damned. Most likely, this would work out in their favor. Luthor didn't seem to suspect that they'd traded costumes. And Bruce wasn't vulnerable to Kryptonite. Red sun lamps didn't sap his strength. He'd overpower Luthor and escape. Right?
Clark's eyes tore around the room. There had to be something he could do. He went back to the elevator door—there was no button, no control panel. He tried to pry the door open with his fingers. When that failed, he gave it the solidest kick he could manage. It didn't open the door, but it did make a wonderfully loud noise, which made him feel a little better. He kicked it again, and then concluded that it was time for a different approach.
There was a bed along one of the walls. Clark tipped it up onto its end and leaned it against the camera. Thus assured of privacy, he pulled off his cowl and gloves, and then took off the top half of his costume. He stretched out his arms, turned his determined face to the sickly fluorescent bulbs. It wasn't sunlight, but it was something.
He just hoped it would be enough.
Clark had only been gone for about ten minutes when the door to the red sun lamp cell beeped again. Bruce was still sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up, his elbows resting on his thighs. His interlaced fingers shielded his face, but he peeked beneath them to watch as the door opened.
Luthor. Bruce hadn't been expecting that. He stayed put, motionless, his brain churning through the possibilities. What had happened to Clark? Bruce was fairly certain that he hadn't had enough time yet to regain his strength. Had their switch been found out? No. Luthor wouldn't risk facing Batman one-on-one. He'd come to visit Superman. And he had come alone.
The door slid shut at Luthor's heels and Bruce was immediately on the defensive. If Clark had spoken with Luthor at all, obviously he hadn't had much luck stalling for time. Bruce picked a strategy. He would pretend to be Superman for as long as he could, hopefully distracting Luthor long enough for Clark, wherever he was, to absorb the light that he needed.
"Hello, Superman." His tone was a little too fond, his voice too soft. It made Bruce feel vaguely ill. He didn't respond.
Luthor walked towards him, each step almost theatrically deliberate. Bruce repressed the urge to jump up and incapacitate him with one blow. Superman wouldn't attack him like that. Not yet.
Luthor stopped, clasped his hands behind his back, narrowed his eyes. "I've been watching you for the past two hours," he said. "And I noticed something interesting. It seems that Batman speaks your Kryptonian language."
Internally, Bruce smirked. He'd initiated that part of his conversation with Clark earlier half-hoping that Luthor would pick up on that fact. In role, Bruce nodded. "…He's the only human who knows how," he said glumly, keeping his voice a bit whispery.
"Fascinating. Why did you teach him, I wonder?"
"I didn't. He taught himself."
"Why?"
Bruce knew exactly how to answer that. He almost wanted to smile. "So he can talk to me," he said innocently.
Actually, Bruce had learned Kryptonese because it pissed him off when Kal-El and his cousin Kara had conversations that he couldn't understand, especially when he knew that those conversations were about him (and included excessive giggling). But Luthor didn't need to know that. The idea that Batman and Superman had a special language all to themselves was just too irresistible.
Luthor's lip twitched a bit. "Your batfriend really cares for you," he said in that sickeningly soft tone.
Bruce nearly rolled his eyes. This would be too easy. "I know," he said solemnly.
"And do you know why you're here?" Luthor asked, as if talking to a toddler.
"Yes," Bruce answered, sighing. "The government wants to conscript me."
"Very good," Luthor said, amused. "But do you know why Batman's here?"
It had all the trappings of a trick question. Perhaps Luthor would try to tell him that Batman had been working with them from the start. Bruce didn't look up. How would Superman answer? Honestly, of course. "…yes," he muttered reluctantly. "You want Batman…to control me."
"Hmf." Luthor snickered. "Wrong. I want Batman…so that every time you defy me, I can inject him with a chemical that will eat away at that beautiful brain your little Justice club relies on so often."
Cognitively, Bruce knew he shouldn't have been surprised by anything that Luthor said. And there was no way Waller would have signed off on that scheme. Luthor was bluffing. He had to be. But Bruce still couldn't quench the disgusted anger that flared in his chest.
"…I don't believe you," he said quietly. "Amanda Waller won't let you do that to him."
"Are you sure?" Luthor asked slyly. "Because I think you'll be amazed at what she'll let me do to you."
Bruce let some frustration show through his voice. "Luthor, you have to realize that hurting me and hurting Batman isn't going to help you. You can't make me work for you that way."
"I disagree. But that isn't my goal."
Bruce was starting to fantasize about breaking both of Lex's arms. And maybe both of his legs. In several places. Keep him talking, Bruce ordered himself. Buy time for Clark. "What is your goal?" he forced himself to ask, although he really couldn't have cared less.
"I'll show the world," Lex whispered. "I'll show them what you are. You will admit my superiority. Waller wants your loyalty. But my goal is merely your submission to me."
Bruce's patience was at an end. He was reasonably convinced by now that the purpose of Luthor's visit was to verbally and possibly physically assault Superman. He didn't know what kind of weapons Luthor might've brought with him, but neither did he care. If Luthor thought that Superman was just going to sit there and take the abuse, he was in for a shock.
In the space of a blink, Bruce tackled him.
They did one somersault, a tumble of red cape and black suit and white silk tie, and then Bruce was on his feet, holding Luthor up in front of him with one hand around the back of his neck and the other holding one of his arms twisted behind his back. Bruce took advantage of the wall that was right in front of them, and shoved Luthor face-first against it.
"I'll destroy you," Luthor promised, his voice chillingly calm. "Before I'm done with you you'll beg--" Bruce bounced Luthor's face off the wall, breaking his nose. The blood suddenly pouring down his face did the trick of shutting him up.
Before Luthor knew what had happened, his captor had taken that white silk tie off his neck and used it to tie both his hands together behind his back. Bruce leaned against his prisoner, pinning him to the wall, and searched his clothes for weapons. He found two custom-made guns, and flung them to the far corner of the room in disgust. Last of all he found a Kryptonite-bladed dagger. He unsheathed it with his teeth, threw it at the camera.
It embedded itself in the lens.
And then suddenly, all the red lights went out, plunging the cell into darkness. Bruce forced Luthor to the floor and crouched beside him, driving one knee into his back to hold him down. Luthor was breathing loudly through his mouth. "Batman's been training you," he concluded, speaking in gasps. "It's -obvious. He must have anticipated a -situation where you'd have to defend yourself- without your powers- Clever of him."
"I've learned a lot from Batman," Bruce said straightforwardly, still pressing his knee into the back of Luthor's ribs.
Luthor chuckled, insidious. "I believe you have. And just imagine… what you could learn from me."
For the first time, Bruce genuinely felt a little bit sorry for Lex.
"Luthor," he said, quietly taken aback. "You don't understand."
Luthor grit his bloodied teeth, his lips curling against the metal floor. "I understand perfectly," he seethed. "The two of you—what you are to each other-You think I don't see it plain as day?"
Bruce shook his head, and managed to put just a little bit of pity into his voice. "You can't understand it, Lex. Because you don't have anything like it. And you never will."
"What are you mumbling about?" Lex demanded. "You think you have something special, something that I can't have? What is it? What is it about your hero that you love so much?"
Bruce dropped the act. It was as if the darkness itself spoke as he answered, somber and absolute: "…he's my friend."
As if on cue, the entire room shuddered, and then the ceiling was ripped right off. Early daylight poured in, and Bruce squinted over his shoulder just in time to see Clark, still dressed as Batman, tossing the entire ceiling ensemble away.
He looked back down, and discovered that Luthor had seen the same thing that he had. Annoyed, he pressed his fingers to the side of Luthor's neck, swiftly and humanely rendering him unconscious.
Then he stood up, and turned to glare at the now-hovering 'Batman.' Bruce squared his feet, felt a little bit of wind flag his red cape, and was about to put his fists on his hips when he caught himself and clamped his arms to his sides instead.
"You didn't do what I said," he accused.
"I did what I thought you'd do," Clark replied, smiling. "I found the room's power supply and took it out."
Bruce nodded. "Good job."
"Thanks."
Clark was smiling way too much. "What's so funny?" Bruce growled.
"Just so you could talk to me, eh?" Clark asked. Laughing, he reached down.
Bruce reached up.
And Clark pulled him into the sky.
When Luthor came to, his mind was already running at its highest gear. Superman and Batman—he knew their secret now. He knew.
He tried to sit up, but found himself restrained. He was strapped to a gurney, being wheeled down a hallway. Waller was walking next to him.
"Amanda," he said, his voice cold. "What is this?"
"Welcome back," Waller said dryly. "We're going to have a doctor take a look at your nose. And, by the way, you're under arrest. For the murder of six men in Gotham City."
"You can't be serious," Luthor murmured.
Her eyes flashed. "The murder charge is the least of your worries, Lex. Because I'm holding you personally responsible for Superman's escape. You ruined the best chance we had for garnering his cooperation."
"It wasn't me," Luthor snarled. "It was Batman! The two of them—they've been together all along! Right under our noses! The both of them!"
Waller frowned at him in antipathy. "If this is about how they're supposedly gay, I don't want to hear it."
"Gay?" Luthor exclaimed. Instantly furious, he struggled against the restraints for a second, and then gave up. "Gay?" he repeated, and burst into sinister laughter. "Oh, they're so much more than gay, Waller. So much worse. And they've hidden it from us all this time. We've been so blind! But now I know."
They wheeled him out to the ambulance. Hoisted him inside.
"-All the clues—the language! They thought they could fool us—but now I know their secret! And I'll take them down! I'll kill—"
The ambulance door slammed on his ranting.
Waller just shook her head.
...to be concluded!
Author's notes: Got a couple of comments/clarifications here for those of you who might be curious:
1. In the S:TAS episode "Knight Time," Robin asks Superman how he imitates Batman's voice, and his answer is "precise muscle control." I don't think that's a super power. Feel free to disagree.
2. The language they spoke on Krypton used to be called Kryptonian, but lately in the Superman comic books they've been calling it Kryptonese. And in Superman/Batman (currently my favorite comic book, of course) Batman really did learn how to speak it when Kara (Supergirl) came to earth. He was seriously that paranoid about Clark and Kara talking behind his back! XD
3. I haven't read a Robin comic book in a while but in the comics of the early-to-mid nineties, Tim Drake ran around in two-toed ninja tabi. Batman, of course, stuck to regular boots.
Okay I think that's it. This chapter went through two major rewrites (originally poor Bruce got beaten up) but I'm finally happy with it. I hope you liked it too! Now there's only one chapter to go. Thanks everybody for sticking with this story and I can't thank you enough for all the awesome reviews. I love you guys!