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Neon lights shone despite the onslaught of grimy rain that belted down. A heavy thud as the young man tugged at the clips of his utility belt before tossing it to the side, half haphazardly, not caring where it landed. He sighed before turning on a pin, bending down, and launching. He landed elegantly on the thin bars. Catching his balance was easy; it was looking down that was difficult. Traffic, women and men hooted down below. Buzz of lights and the slashing of rain filled his silence as he inhaled softly. An exhale released the silver mist; he could barely see past his hand, let alone his feet. But he knew the drop, had measured it multiple times. No matter how he landed, he would be dead. But, just for a moment, he would be alive. Feel the blood pumping throughout, the wash of air in his ears, the tousle of hair as he accepted the fall. The only other time he had felt it was the cradle of his father's arms. But now, it would last forever.
As he stood, feeling the wind ruffle beneath his feathers, the itch to jump already. He steadied his nerves, within the background saw to his comms vibrating, a repeated flash as he merely steeled his eyes forward, ignoring everything and anything. “Come on, Grayson. One last time.” He muttered softly. The wings gave a glance at the man's cowardice as he inhaled one last time. As he exhaled, he pushed off from the tips of his toes, feeling the rubberised edges clinging to the metal sheet. He was pushed before tucking and turning. As per all the other times, his body curved and his spine tucked inwards, head hitting butt. Air gripped him, clutching at the thin waist and broad shoulders. As he untucked himself, his hands reached forward. Body diving down, his eyes tightly closed.
He was here, alive, present. For once, the raging thoughts were silenced, tamed by the beast of the wind. The cold ache of the wind as he flew down, feeling droplets splatter across the toned muscles. His eyes opened, watching as the world moved at a slow pace. Buildings blurred, lights flickered like candles. The ever-present river was steady as he felt a bubble of manic laughter break free. Hands reached forward as his gaze dipped down, and he saw it. Before the panic could rise, his hands instinctively ran to his waist. Slippery fabric was met instead. Warm blood turned silver, a jack rabbit in his chest as he felt it. The dread of panic, the cowardice of his mind. “Fuck-fuck fuck fuck fuck” was muttered permanently. He reached forward, back, his body a rag doll. Lumbering through like Icarus, he felt the wax wings give way. Born to rise, doomed to fall. A scream was consumed by air as tears streamed down the domino mask. Gloved hands wildly gripped onto nothing; the ground was approaching at a pace, a pace of a runner. The pace of a lion, closing in, the jaws of death open. His throat bared, and for a singular moment, peace. Maybe this was it. Better to be found as a squished bug, rather than a carcass of Joker's carving. A bubbled monstrosity of Scarecrow. A broken doll of Banes. But he was scared, scared of the memories that flooded. Of seeing Bruce, crumbling like a paper plane discarded by a spoiled child. He was to remain as an object of near permanence. Just like Jason. The suit is forever immortalised, a continuous sign of his failure as a father. The Bat was capable of being anywhere and everywhere, just not with his sons. Not to his daughters and certainly not to his blood. Drums beat overhead as it filled the poor bluebird's mind, filling it with dread, painful memories of everything he had done wrong. All the loves he would leave behind, the coffin door closing. Beat, after beat, after beat. He was lost to it all, lost to the screaming sound of iron against iron. He was lost. Forever falling, desperately clinging and praying that somewhere, out there, someone would hear. God's hand would act, and he was just dreaming, that the warm rain that danced along his arm, his mask and deep in his hair was all fake. A concoction of conceptual dreaming, a faux pas of the real ideal. To die without pain, to die with sacrifice. To be welcomed into the breastbone of his mother. Familiar smells of flowers and wine to embrace him, gently petting his hair and kissing his forehead. Not the hooting of a drunk woman, the lashing of the wind or the familiar grasp of red that lingered at the edges. No, for he was a delusional idiot. No God existed, no man would save him. No, he, Dick Grayson, was doomed to fall. To follow in Jason's footsteps and join him at the gate of Hell. So far gone, Dick failed to feel it. An unstoppable force meeting a movable object, clinging arms captured the bird. Caging it and squeezing with a python's grip.
“I got you.” He was thrust forward, warm heat mixed with pine and spice wrapped around him. “I got you.” Arms wrapped around his waist, his back. His head thrust deep into the heat as he clung back, maybe God was merciful in its death, an angel to guide him back. The ever-changing landscape of Gotham was a breeze, passing through as the bright lights blended into one another, becoming a blur of colour. Feet found solid ground, the stranger clad in blue allowed him to pull back. “You might-” But before the man could continue, Dick felt it. The pure surge of and reline, his body acted on impulse. Curling inwards as a strong wave of pure fear overcame him. Acid burned before forcing its hand down, pulling his mouth open as vomit erupted out, spilling below. A pat on his back offered little help as he continued. There was someone dry heaving, panicking. Air seemingly could not approach their lungs quickly enough, but as he collapsed, as such of Bruce in his dreams. He realised it was him. Concrete solid underneath as the bird threw the bones of the dead as a poor offering to the god who saved him. “Throw up.” The god continued softly as Dick felt his energy leave, as he stepped back. The bird stumbled before collapsing within himself, hard concrete bit back as he wiped at his mouth pathetically. Weak like a drowned kitten, red polished boots stood in front as big blue eyes looked up. A broad body, sat along wide shoulders, a red cape. Matched with curly black hair and steel eyes. It was him, Superman. He merely offered a soft smile before bending down; his knees were the same size as Dick's fist, closed, his thighs thick like beams. And within all the strength, he held merely softness. A cavity formed in Dick's chest as reality merely slapped him by the cheek.
“I-I slipped. That's all,” Dick muttered as Superman's head merely tilted, a furrow of his brows as he offered a quick tilt of his smile before it dropped, forming a more serious expression. “I did!” The bluebird stood by his lie, despite the racing heart and the lack of breath. The tightness of his chest squeezed. His lip trembled as the God continued to stare, in essence peering past Dick, seeing the pure pain of it all. Before Dick knew it, warm arms wrapped tightly, sinking beneath the wet fabric, easily suffocating Dick. “Don't tell Bruce.” Was muttered softly, as his head dove inwards, hands wrapping deep into the red fabric, bunching it up within his fists. “Please.”
“I won't,” Clark replied softly, feeling the gentle shakes of the young man's back. He ignored it, allowing a moment of grace for Dick.
If there was a thing Clark was not. It was that of a liar. As the curtains pulled back, allowing for the steel-capped boots to step upon the carpeted floors. He padded through the bedroom, despite it being located within Wayne Manor, which was coated with light blue wallpaper. Shelves of figures, comic books and theoretical knowledge. A boy forever trapped in his parents' vision. Clark continued his journey, approaching the bed and gently placing the sleeping man on it. To protect him from the rain, Clark had ripped his cape off, wrapping it around Dick. Despite the protests, the man had fallen asleep within moments. Whatever internal struggle seemingly dispelled by the continuous smell of safety. Clark didn't want to remove it; Dick's face had finally smoothed into a state of normalcy, and he merely stepped back, turning towards the open window. Thunder cracked against the old walls as rain clattered against the windows. Pale curtains billowed inwards as Clark sighed gently.
“Master Kent.” Was summonsed as he turned, facing a stern-faced Alfred. “Master Dick.”
“I-” He couldn't think of a lie quick enough, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water. Alfred merely sensed it, tactfully raising an eyebrow at the state. A freshly wrung Superman, hair plastered to his face, raindrops streaked throughout his suit. Casually holding a barely awake Dick, wrapped within the dark of the cape. The young man passed out within the bed, his suit sticking to him as the butler merely walked further into the step, Clark stepped back. He wasn't prepared to fight the butler over a situation based on fiction.
“Late-night flying. Sir.” Alfred continued his movements, walking towards the boy, gently pulling away at the cape, rousing Dick softly. “Master Dick. You cannot sleep in these wet clothes. Please.”
“I'm fine, Alfred. Promise..” Dick muttered softly, his head diving into the pillow, almost suffocating himself. Alfred merely sighed before offering a look to Clark.
“Master Bruce is waiting for you also, sir. In the study.” Alfred said softly, grabbing at Dick's underarms as though this was a normal occurrence. Clark flashed a nervous smile before nodding, padding against the floor, he disappeared into the hallway. A final look being cast back, seeing the exposed pale skin of the back, half of the man's suit peeled off, his body turned on its side. Alfred was working diligently, and Clark quickly turned, avoiding the flash of guilt that rose quickly. He walked through the dark halls, feeling it rise, completely overwashing him. In truth, he only flew into Gotham to surprise Bruce. Working all week on back-to-back deadlines, forced interviews and fake ones. Clark had been buried extremely deep in his work, and that wasn't even anything compared to the protection of Metropolis. He had, by better terms, “ghosted” Bruce, leaving emails open and a refusal to commit. Finding a small spare break of time, he grabbed it with both fists and shook it violently. Deciding on a midnight trip to Wayne Manor was evident, but as he flew, it called to him. Against the thunderous clash of the cymbals, scattered rain and hum of the city. The murderous, traitorous beat of the boy's heart pierced through it all, washing over and for a second. Deathly fear had consumed him. He had pushed his body to the limits, pushing and flying only to see a struggling bird. Even when he had gripped him tightly, it never left. And now. He was here. Standing in front of the hazel door, it pushed open. Bruce was pacing, a black robe tied around the waist, gently lapping at the socked feet. A glass of whiskey sat on the desk. Measly, a single lamp offered a small glimpse of light, but he was pacing. Back, forth, back, forth. His heart was erratic. Gone was the usual practice of patience, replaced with the error of trial.
“You'll wear the carpet out if you're not careful,” Clark said gently. Instead of receiving a piercing glare, it washed over him, pinning him to the spot.
“I should've seen it,” Bruce muttered softly before the glare pulled away. Clark stepped forward as Bruce returned to the drink, grabbing the hard rim before pulling it to his lips, a heavy gulp before it slammed back down. “I should've seen it.”
“Bruce.” Clark offered, but the man merely shook his head, a heavy exhale before he slammed the glass back down, a pivot before the arm flung it. It dashed past Clark before hitting the door behind. Shattering into pieces, a reflection of the millionaire, Clark merely sighed heavily. “Breaking glasses will not tell me what's going on.”
“You were there, Clark. What would've happened if you weren't?” Bruce spat back, but it lacked the heat, merely doused in a cold fog. “He would've died. He. He should've told me.”
“If it's any relaxant, I think he was dealing with something beyond our reach, Bruce.” Clark offered, taking the moment of silence to continue, no rebuttal as he walked forward. Closing the gap, he reached out, gently touching the cold tips of the man's palm. He pushed, sliding his hand and feeling the tension bleed out slowly. Bruce's stormy eyes were pinned on the floor, seemingly burning a hole into the red-capped boots. “He would've tried a different way, a way we wouldn't have foreseen. It's just...” Clark stopped trying to find the words before his hand expanded, easily overtaking Bruce's.
“Human,” Bruce muttered, before a dry chuckle left him. His gaze lifted, searching against Clark's before the face fell into a sense of guarded reservation. “He's being human.”
“No.” Clark rebutted, “He's scared. You don't have to be human to know what metal tastes like.” He offered a flash of a smile as Bruce's mask fell slowly, revealing a sense of compassion and his own grief. “Dick will be okay. He just needs time. And to know this was not a mistake, just a misunderstanding.”
“Not a mistake? Clark. He almost died.” Bruce pulled away, hot, cold. The man pulled his hands from the trap before turning, walking past, and heading towards the small cart that hosted the tiny glasses and amber-filled bottles. “It wasn't a mistake for him to climb up there; it wasn't a mistake that he refused to answer his comms. It wasn't a mistake.” A breath before he continued. “He's been taking hits, letting them get the upper hand. Almost to a breaking point.” The glass clacked against the metal tray as he lifted the decanter, pouring the liquid before roughly putting it back down—another heavy gulp as the rain lashed outside. A strike of thunder illuminated the room for a moment. “He wanted to die.”
“It was not a mistake, Bruce. A mistake is to slip. A choice is to fall.”
“And what? I should've let him fall. Let him die.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Then what are you saying!” Breathless pants filled the room as the god merely watched the human clamber to a decision, one they both knew but denied the prospect of understanding. “Tell me. Make me understand.”
“He needs to be understood. Not forced into explaining it, Bruce. You've been there, I've been there. He has been there now. No matter how much we force it, that gap is always there, and sometimes it gets too big. And no matter how much we fill it. They get lost in it. All we can do is offer a light.” Bruce looked like he was considering murder; maybe he held a secret kryptonite bullet under the desk. Maybe he was thinking of how to poison the god, to kill him and forever silence him. But honestly. He knew Bruce. And his method of madness would be fixated on fixing Dick, to lock him within the ivory tower and deny him the freedom he needed. A look of murderous intent wrapped within the handsome features as the glass was placed down. Bruce drew himself to the man, and within a few steps, he approached the God. Hands reached out, and within moments, Bruce enwrapped Clark in a tight hug. Burying his head into the soft neck, his hands diving within the wet locks of hair. Tightly, he held, inhaling the foggy scent of the man.
“Thank you for catching him.” He whispered, “I just hate how I can't do anything. I'm the most powerful man in Gotham, and I can't even save my son.”
“Don't say that, Bruce.”
“Why not? It's the truth.”
Clark pulled away, his hands gently circling the man's waist, feeling the soft fabric of the robe before offering a smug smile. “Because the most powerful man in Gotham is here, holding the second most powerful man.”
Bruce found no comedy in the sentence, if anything, offering a deadly glare of annoyance. But it eased the tension, allowing Bruce to relax for a moment. Although he was human, the Gods always took pity on him.