Green's Hill-Amy Lane's Home - News

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Moar Adventures of Chicken!

Text--
Chicken: Mom, how do you change a tire?
Me: You get the tire out of the trunk--wait, why are you asking.

Phone Rings

Chicken: Okay-- so I've got a spare in my trunk?
Me: Your father and I are going to hell for this.
Chicken: Are you sure?
Me: Of course I'm sure-- all cars have a spare in the back.  Now lift up the thing--
Chicken: There it is!
Me: Now pull out the jack, and the crossbar thingy, and the tire--wait. How bad is your tire flat? Can you just pump air into it--
Chicken: It exploded.
Me: How'd you do that?
Chicken: I don't know.  I curbed it, it was flat, I tried to drive it to a gas station and it blew up.
Me: That's bad.
Chicken: It's what dad told me to do.
Me: Next time call an auto service.
Chicken: How to I operate a jack?
Me: Okay--
Chicken: Wait-- here's the owner's manual. It's got pictures.
Me: You can read that?
Chicken: Yeah, no big deal.
Me: Please tell me you're not on the side of the road changing your tire.
Chicken: Mom! I'm not stupid! I'm in the mall parking lot, inside.
Me: 0.0 Okay…
Chicken: It was safe.  Anyway--

And at this point, my attempts to help Chicken change a flat tire via a phone call from San Diego to Sacramento are interrupted by a dick. Well, he was a nice guy, really-- I mean, a chivalrous guy, who wanted to help the sweet little lady change a tire, and I was grateful. But before she hung up I heard him being condescending to the little girl with the big problem, and I wanted to get pissed.  Hey there, buddy-- that little girl was smart and resourceful and she could read an owner's manual.  Her only problem is that she has parents who forget things like AAA and how to change a flat.

Treat her like an equal-- she's got this grownup shit nailed.


Tuesday, September 1, 2015

More Parenting Fails

*  This afternoon Big T asked me if we had any dish soap. I told him no, I'd get him some tomorrow. Two hours later I got mad because the dishes weren't done.

Lightbulb!

*  Squish has had to do laps in soccer because we're three minutes late. A part of me thinks this is draconian and you shouldn't do this to nine year olds. Another part of me is wondering how I can get away with not talking to the people I'm usually talking to at 4:30 when I need to get her ready for soccer.  The other part of me remembers when my parents made me late for band and I had to do laps and I swore they were horrible people.

Ah, karma. It's a bitch.

*  Zoomboy is doing very well in math, but he has lost his school agenda. Because he's my spawn, that's why. And because I wait until the traffic clears to go pick him up. And because… because he's MINE, and I LOSE SHIT and I'm SORRY!

Oh my God-- could I possibly recall my part of the gene pool? It's not good for them-- it's just not!

*  Chicken got a flat tire. Apparently neither Mate nor myself taught her how to change a flat tire. I could have sworn Mate did it. He was like, "I just ran out of time…"

Story of my fucking life.

*  Y'all? I'm DYING for Fanfic Friday. Just saying. I'd really love to be somebody new!

*  And as a side note, I just lost two minutes after typing that last sentence-- I'm not sure, but I think maybe sleep would be a great thing for all of us. God. Soccer season. Thirteen years down, eight and a half to go.

*  Oh, and the .gif?  I uploaded that for a FB contest, and you know what? It makes me laugh, and I really needed that laugh.

Heh heh… get it? Pie!

Decisions decisions...

And here we have Chicken's asshole cat bodyhumping
the socks I"m blocking. And Squish laughing at him.
Asshole cat.
So, some things I need to decide in the next week--

*  Swag items-- should I order pamphlets with my backlist on them? Just business cards? Magnets? Yarn bags? WHAT SHOULD MY SWAG BE THIS YEAR? (Input welcome here, people-- sayin'!)

*  Amy's Lane, which I will write next week.  Things on my mind: Author promises, the differences in het tropes vs. m/m tropes, buying swag for cons, the keeping of the queue.  Again, input is welcome.

*  My queue-- I have the next three items after Selfie planned, and two of them are original and one of them is the sequel to Candy Man, Bitter Taffy, and Lollipop. After that, I'm thinking either Johnnies, or an equally high profile sequel.  Again-- did I mention your input? It is welcome?

*  My blog-- I blog about my kids here, and I like that, but have been thinking about hooking it up with a tumblr. I know a lot of other authors have declared the blog obsolete-- but I'm reluctant to give up the utter random of this blog.  Should I keep the blog for family and start tumblr for fanfic and career only? Is it worth it to develop one more social media skill?  So… many… options…

*  Whether or not to move Squish to the fifth grade. This one is more personal and family, but she loves her teacher, can probably learn DIFFERENT things than when she was in the combined 3rd/4th class last year, BUT… she's with the same group of kids that I've seen terrorize teachers from the 1st grade. They're not always nice to her. I sense impending bullying disaster, and it hurts me. She's SUCH an awesome, special kid.  I'm not sure which thing will be better--but if she keeps getting sad this year, I'm SO gonna try a thing. Anything.

*  Fanfic Friday-- c'mon, guys-- in the comments. Let's hear your favorites. No promises on my end, because I don't sail ALL the ships, but you may spark an idea. I mean, I wrote that Captain Starlord thing because someone mentioned it, right?

*  Knitting queue-- am currently making socks for a friend's family, but I also need to knit a blanket for another friend's kid-- and finish a fairly easy/quick wrap that I was planning to wear at GRL. Any other suggestions? And OH CRAP-- I need to knit this year's batch of fingerless mitts.  Nevermind-- Knitting, I actually have wrapped!

So there you go-- today's interactive blog. Go forth! Interact! I shall sit and reap the benefit of your input. Or something.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Weekend...

So yesterday, Zoomboy had a seeding tournament. It consisted of four mini-games, to determine which division the teams were in.  Mate's team (and thus, Zoomboy's) won all four games.

I told Mate he shouldn't get used to it, because now they were in a higher division.

He was still excited-- his team did really well.

Today, tired and kind of spacey, we decided to go to lunch and to the movies. It was one of those days that if we stayed home, we'd sleep. If we tried to get stuff done, we'd whine.  Stopping to get my new eyeglass prescription and then making it to lunch and a movie seemed like the height of productivity. Yeah, when I say my family has oddish priorities, well, there it is, in action.

Anyway-- we saw The Man From U.N.C.L.E. which was amazing, and awesome and tremendous-- and slashy as hell.

You heard me-- Guy Ritchie did it again, he managed to craft a bromance that toyed with our affections just as much as the Sherlock movies did. And Henry Cavill and Armie Hammer were… *droolz*  Also-- and for some reason I find this sexy as heck-- they had what I call the Winchester Height Syndrome.

What this means is that one of the actors (Cavill) stood 6'1", which is pretty damned tall for Hollywood. The other one (Hammer) stands 6'5".  So, when Cavill was on his own, he dwarfed the delicate female costar. But when Hammer was next to Cavill, he looked like he could eat Cavill for brunch.

So see?

Sam and Dean all over again. The Winchester height syndrome indeed.

Anyway-- it was delicious, and since folks sort of like the idea of a FanFic Friday here, I'll see if maybe these two bite me hard enough for me to bite back. Meow!

And tomorrow, ZoomBoy starts his new math class. And I'm so nervous. C'mon, ZoomBoy-- after all that fuss, we'd better not fall behind.

And Squish wants all of you to know that she's been reading The House of  Dies Drear and she thinks it's really awesome. I told her I'd tell you-- because I think she's awesome and had to share.


Saturday, August 29, 2015

Quarks

*** In Amy news, huzzah! I wrote my e-mail and talked too much and Zoomboy's principal said he could switch math classes.

Now, holy crap baby, you'd better not suck. That's all I've got to say, you'd better not suck.  Anyway-- on to SuperBat, and I think the ending of this chapter.  Should I tag all these or something? Or hey! I could put them on GoodReads!  Ooh… I'll have to remember to do that.

Anyway-- on to the end.

***

They never knew the room was bugged. But that was okay--Diana cleared the observation deck as soon as she saw them sitting, hips touching, Bruce with his head on Clark's shoulder.

Finally it was going to happen.

And it wasn't like she was a born voyeur, but hey-- she'd known both of them biblically, and…

Well, at the very least she wanted to see them happy.

*  *  *

Clark fell into the kiss like a rock into a well.  Oh… everything. Everything he'd ever hungered for in sex, but had been missing, it was in the taste of Bruce Wayne's mouth, in his rough-skinned touch on Clark's biceps, in the urgent way he cupped Clark's neck and urged him closer, harder, more.

Clark barely had the presence of mind to lift his head.  "Bed," he rasped. "Shouldn't we… bed--nung…"

Bruce lay on his back, hands busy at Clark's leather belt.  "We're on mats here," he panted. "Bed too far."

Bed too far, words too complex, Bruce shoved the jeans down past Clark's hips and groaned as he grabbed himself a double handful of super-ass.  He kneaded, and licked Clark's ear, then nibbled, then nipped.

"Ah-ahhhh…"

"Does it hurt?" Bruce asked, breath shivering in the cave of Clark's ear. "You're Superman… you topple buildings… my teeth, right there…"  he nipped again, and Clark heaved against him, grinding his bare cock into the crease of Bruce's thigh.

"Nungh…"  Clark couldn't make words, couldn't explain the weird inversion of quantum mechanics that controlled the density of his body when he was in close proximity with humans, couldn't give voice to why he'd never fucked a woman to death and had never shot a hole through a man's ass with his super sperm. He couldn't talk about hickeys on his skin, or why he'd never clench someone's dick off, or the time he'd masturbated until he was raw, hearing Bruce's voice in his ear while he was far away, visiting Krypton, receiving reports from the JLA for no other reason than they missed talking to him.

He could just quiver, and grind against Bruce's leg, and shudder, because it had been long, so long, and he'd wanted this man with unrelenting need.

Bruce's low laughter was edged with desire. "Don't care if it hurts," he muttered. "As long as it drives you--"

He went to nip again, and Clark let out a roar of frustration.  He ripped off Bruce's T-shirt, and shredded his sweats, watching in fascination as Batman, scourge of Gotham city, went boneless underneath him, staring at him hungrily with parted lips and hooded eyes.

"Insane," Clark panted, so there was no mistake, and then he lowered his head to Bruce's chest.  Nipple… suck… lave… nip… feel Bruce's fingers, tightening in his hair.  Other nipple… suck… lave… nip--

"You gonna get to my cock soon?" Bruce goaded, thrusting his hips up.

Clark's moan sounded broken, even to his own ears. Bruce shoved at his head, not gently, and Clark followed his lead, wanting to taste, wanting it in his mouth, while Bruce lay helpless beneath him.

Helpless. The man hated being helpless.

Clark wanted his body in full fighting trim-- wanted his muscles hard and impervious, wanted his cardio muscle beating strong and rhythmically.

It was Bruce's figurative heart Clark wanted to hold in his hand.

Clark couldn't cup it there, next to his chest, make sure Bruce Wayne was never hurt again.  His body, his humanoid, animal body, was urging him to mate, to claim, with mouth, and ass and cock, and that was the best he could do.

He lunged at Bruce Wayne's cock--thick and hard, wider than any man Clark had been with, and only a little shorter than Clark's own.  Clark stretched his mouth around it, took it deep into his throat, swallowed hard, fed from him, and Bruce's breathless yelps of pleasure/pain were sustenance to his soul.

He cupped Bruce's ass, spreading it, hefting Bruce's hips closer so he could take that cock to the bottom  of his throat.  Ah-- ah… Bruce grunted, allowing a little precum to spurt, and Clark wanted it, all of it, lining his throat, filling his stomach, making him human--you are what you eat.

"If I cum now,  you'll have to top," Bruce panted.

It was enough to make Clark pause.  He pulled back, allowing Bruce's cock to flop on his cheek and bounce off.  "No," he whispered, tortured.  "No. Fuck me. I… need…"

He needed Bruce inside. If Bruce was trapped inside him, they could never be separated, never be parted, their atoms would mingle, their cosmic dust would form the same stars.

He shredded his own clothes and while Bruce was still kicking off sweats and shoes, he blurred, to the bedroom and back, for the bottle of high end personal lubricant that had been sitting there, hopefully, since he'd moved in.

Bruce laughed softly when he returned. "You are an optimist," he muttered, pushing gingerly to his knees and pulling Clark in for a kiss by his bare shoulder.

"Why?" Clark couldn't seem to get his breath.

"That's a big bottle."  Bruce smiled, inviting Clark to get the joke, but Clark couldn't.

He squirted a dollop and turned around, hands and knees, and reached behind him, plunging his lubed fingers in without hesitation or second thought.  Helpless. He was helpless before the desire that consumed him.

He thrust hard and deep, grunting, body lost in the throes of the animal act, and when Bruce grabbed his wrist he almost did the unforgivable and shook him off.

But he didn't.

He succumbed to the whispered, "Sh… sh… it's okay. I've got you. I'll take you. You need me."

Superman, most powerful man on the planet, buried his face in his arms and waggled his bare, stretched ass in the air. "I do," he half sobbed. "I do. I ned you. I need you. I need you so bad…"

Bruce's hands on his hips reassured him, and his cock, thick and still wet from "super drool" breached him slowly, carefully, until Clark wished he could clench and rip a man's dick off because he was dying, begging, every sob, every syllable, a cry of debasement, of acknowledgment.

I'm helpless without you. I'm nothing. I'm space dust. I'm only real with you inside me, in my head, in my heart, in my body.

Bruce seemed to know. He slid all the way in and then gentled his hands over Clark's body, tender touches, and he was murmuring words.

My beautiful one… my sky. My blessing, my promise, the matter of my heart. 

Oh God… Bruce Wayne spoke poetry during sex.

Clark Kent closed his eyes and howled, needing the animal, needing the fucking, unsure of when he would ever hear words like that again.

But the fucking was inevitable, like colliding planets but faster, fuller, until it wasn't just a cock in an orifice, it was a Bruce Wayne inside Clark's skin, inside his body, taking residence in his heart, until Clark couldn't hold him there anymore and he exploded, detonated, became atoms, electrons, protons, quarks.

He came, his cock spewing semen like any other man.

And his ass clenched, triggering Bruce's climax, hard and strong, still arousing Clark, even as his arms trembled, went out from under him, and he collapsed in a puddle of his own cum, Bruce on top of him, sweaty, and laughing and exhausted.

And still murmuring. Of course I love you, how could I not? And when I die, I'll become dust, and I'll fall through the heavens to touch your skin.

Clark felt tears start. Bruce was mortal, Clark was not, but no. No, he didn't want this end, not for them.

He spoke his own poetry.

When you die, my matter will fly outward, our dust will mingle, we'll be the same, particles, neutrons, atoms, quarks, we'll be inside each other, creating, recreating, the planets, the suns, the stars.

Bruce nuzzled his ear, and they both stopped telling each other silly words.  "My leg hurts," he confessed, and Clark almost broke down right there.

"Get off me, asshole. I'll carry you to bed."

He did, too, feeling like he'd actually succeeded in the JLA goal, and rid the world of evil.

He'd earned Bruce Wayne's trust, could see him helpless, could prostrate himself before his heart's god and be given sweet release.

It was a quark of happiness in a universe of chaos. It was enough.

* * *

Diana saw it all-- heard their vows, watched their sex. And yes-- a part of her needed a lover desperately after that, and she would go find one, because she had no qualms about sexual gratification, nor should she.

But a part of her was troubled. She would remember their words--for forty years, they would haunt her. Bruce Wayne grew old, eventually retiring to the watch tower, where his fine mind continued to benefit the world, even if he could no longer execute acrobatics in the field.

Clark Kent aged slowly, looking fifty to Bruce's eighty--but still looking at Bruce Wayne, every day, like he hung the sun and the moon and the stars.

The day the Watchtower exploded was the worst day of her life.  Bruce was inside, scrambling desperately to reroute the reactor leak that had been created by an enemy, and Clark, flying faster than light, faster than thought, but not faster than time, trying to get there to save him, as he'd always saved him, even from that first bomb that had nearly destroyed them both.

He was too late.  He'd felt the heat of the blast as he'd reached into the flare of it, and as Diana screamed, "Clark, no!" she watched it happen.

It was an act of will.

She saw his body fade, his molecules spreading, the density and power that was Superman becoming thinner, more human, until, as the blast wave expanded, he was taken out, vaporized, like Bruce Wayne had been but a half-second before.

When the bad guy had been caught--because they were always caught-- she'd presided over their services. In front of the entire world she'd recited the words that only she had heard, the vows the lovers had said before each other and one reluctant voyeur:

 Of course I love you, how could I not? And when I die, I'll become dust, and I'll fall through the heavens to touch your skin.

When you die, my matter will fly outward, our dust will mingle, we'll be the same, particles, neutrons, atoms, quarks, we'll be inside each other, creating, recreating, the planets, the suns, the stars.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Why jeans?

Qua da fuq, cat. Qua da fuq.
So, tonight was back to school night for Zoomboy, and I've got to say-- I was irritated as hell.

I'm about to be a diva mom-- forgive me. As a former teacher I should know better, but I've gained some perspective since then-- and it doesn't always skew in the teacher's favor.

See, in the 5th grade, Zoomboy had a perfectly nice teacher. Who did not mesh with ZB at all. She was all about the Homework, and all about the class procedure, and ZB was… not.  She liked him, he liked her, but as teacher and student? She bored him shitless and he drove her bugshit.

So, tonight, the first class was gym, and there's no way to make that more exciting or more personal than gym class ever is. The second class was math. We decided that math would be ZB's one NON honors class but he's been bored. So, I raised my hand and said, "If your kid wants to move to honors…" and she said, "ZB? Oh, not with his behavior and organization."

I was sort of… floored, actually. I mean, I talk to teachers all the time. His sixth grade teachers-- he had three-- adored him. And I was like, "Oh God-- what if a teenage monster has stolen ZB's skin! And we didn't see! I'm the worst mother ever!"

So, at every class, I made it a point to talk to the teacher personally-- they had very little time-- but I was like, "One word answer-- how's he doing?"

I got responses from "Awesome," to "He works so hard" to "He's so smart, he just needs to organize" to, "He's a doll. I love that kid."

And I had a lightbulb.

It was the fifth grade teacher all over again.

It's not even her fault-- she's creating the best class she's got-- but her class is designed to move the lower achievers to grade level.

ZB is above grade level and he's bored to tears.

So, I have to fix this. Something. Because if four out of five of the teachers surveyed recommend ZB as an awesome kid, then the one teacher who doesn't has the potential to fuck up every good thing going on in school.

*urg*  I hate being a special snowflake. I do. But he's my odd little duck--and I am always so torn between wanting to fight for my kids and wanting them to do it on their own. I think this time he needs me.

*  *  *  *

And now the SuperBat.  (Short tonight-- was a long day!)

"Why jeans?" Bruce asked, bobbing lightly under the rope and landing solid air punches before ducking again the other way.

"What?"

Clark looked up from his laptop. Bruce had stayed up late the night before, looking over Wayne holdings, and Clark had confiscated the damned thing because… reasons.

Because Bruce needed rest reasons.

And Clark had promised he'd scan some of the e-mails Batman had singled out as breaks in the mad bomber case. It had been the only thing that had dragged Bruce to his bed-- no longer in the infirmary, thank God.

"I asked you," Bruce said, not puffing at all, "why jeans? You wear them when you're not working or wearing red undies and tights."

Clark looked down at his jeans-- not too faded, not too new, perfectly tailored to not be too tight or too loose.  "They're comfortable," he lied. Yoga pants were comfortable. The form fitting leather of his Superman suit was comfortable. Jeans chafed and were cut awkwardly and invariably grabbed his… package… when he didn't want it to be grabbed.

"Your cock is too big," BRuce said, not even looking at him to see if he'd blush.

Of course Clark blushed. "You wouldn't know," he muttered.

Because yes, Bruce had been okay with the sleeping over-- even sleeping in the same bed.  He hadn't complained that Clark had moved his things in, or that they had seemed to seamlessly weave their lives together without even mentioning that they'd taken two pairs of pants and sewn a circus tent out of them.

And day by day, Superman had watched Batman push and repair and heal the wreck his body was back into the finely honed human machine he wanted it to be.

But neither of them had mentioned…

Well, anything.

Bruce stopped his bobbing and weaving drill and swung around--on his good leg, Clark noted, because Bruce had little tricks to hide whether or not an injury was still hurting him and that was one of them.

"Are you saying you'd like me to check," Bruce said, eyebrow arched.

"No," Clark muttered.  Bruce took one, two, three cocky steps forward and then…

"Fuck!" Bruce said, his once broken leg collapsing over too much work.

"Fuck!" Clark snapped, setting the laptop down and rushing to where he writhed on the floor.

"Goddammit,"Bruce snarled, face taut with pain. "Goddammit. I was close-- I was so damned close!"

"Close to what?  Crippling yourself for life?"

Bruce rolled to sit, knees bent in front of him.  He buried his face against his knees and let out a sound of supreme frustration, and Clark kneeled behind him, rubbing a soft circle on his back.

"You don't need to feel sorry for me," Bruce growled after a moment.

"Feel sorry for you?"  God, they never touched. They laid in the same bed, night after night, and watched each other in sleep, but they'd never… "You're driving me to blue balls, do you know that?"

Bruce straightened up and turned to look at him.  "If you want me so bad, kiss me," he muttered. "You just lay there, looking. It's getting boring."

Clark scowled. "You're a grown man, you know--"

"You moved into my house, and pretty much told the JLA we're married, and you don't have the guts to fucking kiss me?" Bruce demanded.  "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Why don't you kiss me?" Clark asked, stung. "I mean--"

"How do I know it's not pity?"

Clark snapped his jaw shut. "I'm sorry?"

"We chase each other for five years, and suddenly you move in… because you feel sorry for me?"

"I feel sorry for me," Clark Kent sputtered. "I have fallen in love with the most exasperating, closed off, communicatively crippled self-obsessed--"

"I fell in love with Superman," Bruce Wayne said in his boardroom voice. "And Clark Kent.  I'm not so self obsessed that I don't get altruistic alien trumps millionaire playboy any day of the week."

"Do you really love me?" Clark asked, feeling pathetic. He had his arms wrapped around his knees too, in a mirror pose of Bruce, and he scooted his but, easy like a child, until their sides were touching, hip to hip.

"God," Bruce said, laying his head on Clark's shoulder. "You close your eyes every night and I think, 'He'll kiss me tomorrow.'"

"I don't just want to kiss you," Clark confessed to the top of his head. "I want to… oh, gods do I want to…"  He wasn't so fluent in the F word that he could use it in the way for which God intended.

"Why don't you?"  Bruce turned his head, and to Clark's surprise, ran his lips along his jaw.

"Because you were hurt."

Ah. Lightbulb moment, for both of them.

"Why do you think I've trained so hard," Bruce admitted, running his lips down Clark's neck.

"So we could--"

"You won't hurt me," he said in his Batman voice.

"YOu'll tell me if it hurts," Clark begged him.  Their mouths were so close to touching.  They were going to kiss. They were going to make love. T hey were going to fuck.

Bruce Wayne smiled, eyes dancing.  "If you'll tell me why jeans."

Clark blushed, when the idea of being naked, of having Batman inside him, hadn't made him even stutter.  "Why not?" he played for time.

"Because they look uncomfortable on you, and you have better stuff to wear on your off hours. Why jeans?"

Clark smiled sheepishly. "Because I wanted you to notice my ass," he admitted.

Bruce whispered in his ear. "I noticed your cock," he whispered, and Clark shivered.

"Care to notice it in person?" he all but begged.

"Kiss me, asshole."

Bruce Wayne tasted… like everything. The dark of the sky between the stars, the depth of the blackest cave, the twist of the night dweller's heart-- all of it was in his kiss.

Clark moaned and pushed Bruce gently against him-- and kissed some more.


***
Maybe tomorrow, we'll get to some smex!



Wednesday, August 26, 2015

And Then This Happened...

So, yes, fan fiction tomorrow, I promise.

See, my phone has been dying all day. Mate and I are trying to figure out why it's not charging, hardly at all, and why it's hemorrhaging power and bandwidth, but since I rely on it a lot, it's been a pain in the ass.

So, Mate called me when he was just about to leave work and told me he was going home to nap, and that we could take the phone to the service store when I got home from taking the kids to dance. We hung up and I dropped the kids off and ran to the gas station to fill the tank and get them some ice water. (It's all fans in the dance studio, no AC, and it was around 100 degrees today.)

Anyway, so I was in the AM/PM when I get a text with this photo, captioned with "Fuck!"

And that's when my phone died.

Of course it was.

So, anyway, Mate is okay, and long story short, that's why I didn't get home until 9:30 tonight, and why I'm writing fanfic TOMORROW and not today.

Poor Mate-- he really loves this car.


Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Be it Krypton or Gotham…




The promised fanfic-- but first, a brief Mate moment:  We were watching 48 Hours when we started giggling. It seems that we can't ever watch a movie about San Quentin without remembering the time I accidentally traveled that bridge THREE TIMES because Mate was taking a nap and the detour was REALLY DAMNED CONFUSING.  "All I was doing was taking a nap!" "And all I was doing was getting bumfuck lost!"

*happy sigh*  Good times.

And that being said…

***

Clark came by after his expected shifts at The Planet-- about twice a week, now that he was spending most of his time as Superman at The Watchtower or Hall of Justice.

But twice a week he flew, a red and blue blur, through the waterfall and into the infirmary in the BatCave.

He always changed into old man jeans and a polo shirt on his way.

"Why the jeans?" Bruce bitched as he tried--once again-- to take weight on his broken leg. He collapsed between the support bars, and Clark grunted, something in his stomach twisting.

"It's still broken," he said, using his X-Ray vision to confirm what he knew. He stood and crossed his arms, clutching at his elbows to keep himself from reaching out.

"Bullshit," BRuce said, clambering to his feet.  He balanced on one leg and rested his weight on the good shoulder.

Which wasn't so good.  He gave a little gasp and his knee gave and he crumpled, but Clark caught him before he hit the ground.

"Why?" he asked gruffly. "You can't fucking heal?"

"He's still out there," Bruce muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"Fine," Clark snapped.  He should let go. He should let go and let the leg fracture again, let the shoulder hit the ground and dislodge the pins, let the damned stubborn brain splatter like an egg in its shell.  Instead he scooped up the fragile, human body, bulky muscles fading with the lack of food and exercise, and cradled it like an infant's.  "You're being stupid."

Without acknowledging what he was doing, Clark levitated up and glided out of the physical therapy room.  The infirmary had become Bruce's main bedroom these days, but Bruce made a reluctant whimper as they neared it.

"God, please," he muttered. "I hate this… I want to get--"

Clark didn't let him finish the sentence.  Not too fast or too rough, as smooth as he could possibly fly, but quickly too, he whooshed up through the BatCave, under the waterfall, and into the open air.

The sun was setting in the late spring night, and Clark settled down lightly on the topmost gable of Wayne manor, Bruce still cupped in his arms.

"This is humiliating," Bruce muttered.

"You're welcome."

"I don't mean this moment."

Clark had to think about that-- about Bruce trying to overcome injuries Clark would never suffer.  About the Justice League scrabbling to find a killer while Bruce couldn't sit at the computer for the pain.  About how Batman-- even Batman--had to succumb to human frailty.

"Next time," he said, voice bitter, "maybe you'll get the fuck out of there."

Bruce sighed.

And then, miracle of miracles, laid his head against Clark's shoulder, his muscles softening, going lax, giving up the fight.

Mostly.

"Next time," Bruce muttered, as the sun disappeared behind the city in a flash of tarnished gold.  "Next time, maybe you'll keep up with me."

Clark closed his eyes.  "Stop running away from me then," he whispered.

"Just a human.  Just a weak, fragile human--how can I possibly outrun the mighty Superman? Why should I even--"

"Just shut up," Clark said, voice choked. "I don't give a shit why you've run from me for five years. I don't care anymore. Just… just stop running, or let me go."

"You're the one holding me, Superman."  Dripping irony.  "Maybe I should say the same about you."

"No."  Bruce felt so sweet in his arms.  Sweet and trusting--for once giving up, letting Clark do all he knew how to do.  "Not letting go. Not now."

"Good," Bruce admitted.  Clark listened to his heartbeat slowing, his breathing leveling out. He was falling asleep, stubbornly refusing to admit he was tired.

"Why good?"

"Because it's a long way down without you."

Oh.

Bruce cuddled into his chest like a kitten into a mama's furry folds, and Superman watched gray and then purple wash over Batman's beloved Gotham.

"I waited five years for this," he said, almost puzzled.  "Five years, I've been waiting for one of us to break.  And now? Now, I'd chase you for another ten years, twenty, your lifetime, if only you were up at the Watchtower, giving me shit about assignments."

Bruce's hand--battered, but soft after the weeks of inactivity, came up and cupped his smooth cheek. No stubble for Superman, no stubble for Clark Kent.  He rubbed his thumb over Clark's lips, and Clark sighed, sucking the thumb into his mouth.

"In twenty years I'll be too old to heal well from this," Bruce said.  Not asleep. Clark should have known.  "In twenty years, I'd be really asleep."

Clark gave a solid pull on Bruce's thumb and released it, dropping his head to nuzzle the stubborn man's temple. "You wasted five mortal years, playing catch with me?" he asked, angry-- blazingly angry--but not about to yell at Bruce now.

"Age isn't the worst thing to happen to us, you know."  Bruce Wayne's inky dark eyes were focused on Clark's face.

"What is?"

"I don't know, Cal-El-- you tell me."

Clark didn't answer.  The use of his name-- the last name of a dead planet--was enough.  The air began to chill and Bruce shivered in his arms.

"We should go--"

"No-- not yet."  Bruce turned his face to the sky and searched the darkness.  He smiled and gestured with his chin. "The moon is rising there, in the northeast. It'll come right over Gotham."  He smiled.  "It's my favorite time."

"God your demand--"

"Don't come by anymore," Bruce said suddenly, face turned toward the sky.

Clark almost dropped him.  "What?"

"Not while I'm recovering. Wait-- I'll be able to--"

"No."

"We'll be equals-- that's all I ever--"

"No."

"Clark!"  The pleading in his voice almost made Clark relent.

But, "No. No, I'm not going to leave you alone.  I'm going to take you outside and keep you from hurting yourself and give Alfred a break and…"  He took a deep breath.  "No.  Because I said so."

"I'm not weak."

"No."  And then, like it was being ripped from his chest. "I'm weak, Bruce. Can't you just let me be weak? Please?"

Bruce snorted. Big fucking imposition, obviously. "If you're going to come, could you bring some beer?"

"It's bad for you."

"Wine?"

"No."

"Chocolate?"

"Favorite?"

"Expensive and difficult to obtain. And good with strawberries and champagne."

"God, you're a pain in the ass!"

Again, that sleepy, I'm-just-staying-awake-to-dick-with-you snort. "Well you wouldn't know that, would you?  Because you spent the last five years running."

"Toblerone. I'll swing by the French provinces for the champagne."

"I'll have Alfred get the strawberries."

The window from the gable behind them swung open, and Superman glided forward a few feet, looking behind him in surprise.

"Alfred will get strawberries if you get him back inside. Alfred is, quite frankly, too old for this shit. If he gets sick--"

They were gone before Alfred could finish that sentence, and Bruce was asleep before Clark got him back to his own bed.

He looked younger, asleep. Younger and pale, and so sad.

What's worse than being dropped? Of falling behind? Of getting blown up by a mad bomber from your own miscalculations?

Being alone.

Alfred didn't bring him strawberries-- he brought him soup, on a silver tray with a silver trencher. And a crystal flagon of orange juice.  And a cot, with a pillow.

Clark didn't go back to the Daily planet the next day.

He didn't go back to the Watchtower the next night.

In fact, he sat at Batman's precious console and dicked with the settings until he could hear Diana's voice there, clear as rain, and see the same feeds they got in the Hall of Justice and the Watchtower.

"Where are you?" Diana asked, puzzled.  "Is that Bruce's--"

"I'm home," Clark muttered, daring her to correct him based on what she saw on his feed.

A quiet, dawning comprehension flittered across her face.  "Tell Alfred to ready himself for some deliveries," she said without missing a beat.

"Tomorrow."

"Yeah-- sure."  She looked behind her shoulder.  "Barry, did you hear that? No running down there in the small hours of the night, do you understand?"

Barry's grunt could be heard off camera.  "Killjoy."

"Should we tell Dick you're there?"

Great.  "Yeah, sure. Tell him the same thing about arriving in the middle of the night."

"That was never Dick's style," Diana said dryly.

"I don't want to hear about it," he muttered.  God, who could figure out the twisted relationship between Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne.  Suddenly he brightened.  "YOu know what?"

"You're the most sexually repressed man in history?" Diana asked, with no irony whatsoever.

"Possibly. But I am his healthiest relationship."

"You know what?" she asked, her china blue eyes wide with horror.

"You're finally figuring out why you and I never worked?" he said, only partly facetious. They should have been fantastic. Diana and Batman should have been fantastic. But apparently that was not the pairing off the gods wanted.

"No," she said, no humor at all.  "But I could fly there, find a random guy on a football field and bang him on the roof of the World Trade Center, and I would still have the healthiest relationship of all you random assholes in this little club."

Superman blinked.  Thought of his exchange with Bruce, and what they'd had to do for things to progress this far.

"I am not going to argue," he said after a moment. "Keep Barry out of our bedroom. I need a cold pack on my head."

Which was a lie, of course, because Clark Kent didn't get headaches.  But he did need to go watch Bruce sleep some more.  He especially needed to stretch out on the bed and look at him, defenseless and vulnerable, letting Clark have his back while he got better.

Five years.

Totally worth it.

A brief political interlude

First off, I'm still writing some more on that SuperBat fic I started last night. I want to see what happens, and if your'e not in a political frame of mind, just blow right by this.

Second of all--I'm not putting this out on social media, because I know it invites debate and anger. I'm not really up to debate and anger-- if you do have a reasoned response to this, feel free to post it, and I'll publish it. If I get ranting, I'll press delete--and I'm not going to reply to anyone's reasoned response. I'm saying my piece--people will say theirs, and we will let it stand there and hopefully part as friends.

But this needs to be said. From the bottom of my toes, I believe it needs to be said:

This is bothering me.

My daughter's soccer coach-- not her father this year-- was telling a parent that he was upset that his daughter was being taught about Islam in school, and he was going to protest that.

I taught English for 18 years.

We taught about the Puritans arriving on the shores of this country and bringing their moral fortitude, as well as hypocrisy and-- quite deliberately-- smallpox.

We taught The Crucible wherein the Puritan belief system was responsible for the deaths of a scandalous number of people, not to mention the persecution of thousands more.

We taught Jonathan Edwards and "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" and William Blake's "Little Lamb, Who Made Thee" and Nathaniel Hawthorn's The House of Seven Gables and-- do I need to go on?

Religion drives mores and principles. Mores and principles--and a reaction AGAINST the mores and principles--drive history, politics, culture and literature. History, politics, culture and literature define humanity.

Understanding how a people defines itself is one of the few ways of establishing empathy and finding peace.

The surest way-- and I do mean the surest way-- to ensure that our species destroys itself with violence is to refuse to learn about the religions--and hence the history, mores, principles, politics, culture, and literature-- that drive the many people in our pluralistic society.

So let's be honest here. If you're complaining that there should be a "division of church and state" because someone is teaching the history of a religious belief in school, what you're really saying is not that you believe in the division of church and state. It's that you believe your state should only respect your church.

And that your church-- and I don't care which religion you practice, it is still only a percentage of the world at large-- is the doctrine which should make policy.

Ignorance is not freedom-- ever. Thank you, George Orwell, for teaching me that. It's amazing what you can learn if you open your mind.

Chinks in the Armor

"Get out of here, Wayne!"  Superman gritted his teeth and pushed his bulk against the iron door. "This blast is going to take you out."

Batman didn't deign to answer. He was busy playing finger-dance on a control panel that he swore, left and right, was going to stop the bomb from going off.

"Get them out," he said tersely, and Superman looked behind him to the family, cowering in the corner of the alleyway. They hadn't asked for this, Superman thought, swallowing. They hadn't asked for this, and Batman had put himself right in the way.

"You get them--"

"Get them the fuck out of here," he snarled. "Come back if you have time."

Augh! Arrogant, self-serving, overreaching, prideful fucking martyr who had been going into that fucking building alone until Superman spotted him. Oh, who was Clark kidding-- if Superman hadn't tailed him. Because they were supposed to be working on the mad bomber case as a team, but damned if Bruce Wayne could do anything but find the problem and try to fix it. He was like a fucking automaton, one of those machines that would throw itself against a wall again and again and again until all it's parts fell off and it was just a mechanical stump, oozing oil!

The image added impetus, and Superman moved as quickly as he could without hurting the people he was carrying, two at a time. Family of six, one, two, three trips-- yes!  There was Bruce, still working doggedly at the control panel, but Superman could hear the whine of the detonator. It was going to go off early, and he was standing there, just standing there, and Superman was going at warp speed and he'd get there in time he'd get there in time he'd get there in time oh please God let him get there in--

BOOM!

Except bombs never made that sound, did they?  They just created a big empty vault of silence that the ear and the head would remember as noise later.  In the tumble of that silence, Superman managed to be between the annihilated metal door and Bruce Wayne when it went off, and even managed to wrap his arms around Bruce's shoulders, but they'd been thrown about, like dolls in an empty box, being shaken to pieces by an angry baby.

In the chaos, Superman tried to cup his body around Batman's, a muscular hand cupping an egg, but it wasn't enough.

The explosion ended, and Superman, Bruce Wayne in his arms, pulled his legs under him and pushed, heaving half a brick wall off his back.  In the clearing dust, it looked…

So bad.

His armor was pierced--destroyed in places, and he was bleeding from his mouth and nose.  One shoulder hung, unsupported by bone, and a bone in his leg had popped through not just the flesh but the body armor as well.

Superman stared at him, impervious body shaking, and prayed.  C'mon, you stubborn fucker-- breathe. 

C'mon, Batman, breathe. 

Oh please. Please Bruce. Please. 

The flutter of his chest was enough.  Superman clutched him as tight as he dared and flew away, faster than thought.

He should have taken him up top, to where the Justice League was beginning to function like the well-oiled machine they could be.

But Bruce hated that place--it didn't feel like home.

Superman knew where the Batcave was.

***

It took him and Alfred and Diana several hours to put Batman back together again.  Even unconscious, he didn't moan with the pain.

"I hate him for that," he ground out, when Diana pointed it out to him. "Stubborn fucker."

"Clark!" She looked almost comically surprised, and after the twelve hours they'd just put in, sewing parts of a man back together that should never be exposed, Clark let out a wounded laugh.

"He's rubbing off on me," he said, scrubbing at his face with a bloody hand.

Her touch on his shoulder was nothing but kind.  "Yes, well, you've been working together for years."

"Yes."  The bleeding had been stopped internally. He'd had to laser a hole through Bruce Wayne's skull to keep his brain from swelling and squishing like a ripe peach.

"You're the only person he talks to," she said, trying to make it light.

"There's Alfred," he disclaimed.

"We all talk to Alfred."

"Yes."  Because he needed something to say. "What were we talking about?"

"How you need to shower and change," she said gently. "I'll take the first watch."

Alfred slept in a cot next to Bruce's bed, his lined, aristocratic face relaxed into worry, but even his posture-- on his back, hands lightly clasped across his chest--was correct in sleep.  Superman got out of the shower and shooed Diana into her own shower, sitting down and watching with reassurance as the  the sound of Batman's heartbeat continued, with obstinate regularity.

"You don't have superpowers," he said after a moment. His voice rang strangely in the sterile room.  "You're so smart-- so damned smart-- you beat us all to the bad guys, but you don't have superpowers.  How's that fair?  I don't understand how that's…"  He took a breath and ran his hand through his wet hair.  "I don't understand how that's fair," he finished weakly.  "How is it fair that you should be tagging after me, after Diana, after Barry and Hal-- you should be… obnoxious. A kid, trailing after his older brothers and sisters. But you're not. You're… you're the first one there."

His voice broke on the anger. "Goddammit, why do you have to be the first one there!"

Bruce should have been too drugged to answer, but Superman heard it anyway.

"You're slow," he slurred. "Slow and dumb."

Superman let out a crippled laugh.

"Hand," Bruce muttered, flexing his fingers.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

Superman stared at his hand, IV inserted, and saw the fingers do the flexing thing again.  "Wha--"

"Clark!"  And yes. He was lying there, mostly dead, making an incredibly odd request, and getting pissed because Clark Kent couldn't read his mind.

Clark watched his fingers wiggle again and, slowly, praying Diana was still in the shower, or asleep in the other room, touched his fingertips to Bruce's.

Bruce laced their fingers together.  "Slow and dumb," he muttered, as his fingers tightened.

Clark rested his head on the mattress.  When he woke up, the heartbeat monitor was still going, but Alfred and Diana were gone.

Bruce was looking at him through swathes of bandages.

"What?" Clark asked, wiping his mouth self-consciously.

"Superdrool," Bruce said. "Should bottle that."

"Shut up."

"Sure. Go save somebody. I'm recovering here."

Clark recoiled. "Well, fine--if you're going to be an asshole about--"

"He doesn't want you to see him weak," Alfred said crisply, hustling in with a tray. "Do you Master Bruce."

Even through the bandages Clark could see him wince. "Alfred…"

"Shut up."

"You're fired," Bruce growled.

"Excellent. I won't have to watch the two of you make cow eyes at each other for another five years."

"He's dumb," Bruce explained patiently, like a child lecturing a parent on the reasons school sucked. "Dumb and slow."

Alfred cast an exasperated look at Clark. "I am not going to argue with you. But given that only a saint could love you, I'm going to ask that you cut us all a break and not drive him from your bedside."

For the first time, Bruce's eyes met his, searching, searching…

Clark looked back, not sure what he should see.  "He's right," he said after a moment.

"Don't tell him that," Bruce begged. "Man thinks he's in charge already.  What's he right about."

"Only a saint could love you."

Batman snorted.  "Buy a fucking halo, asshole," he muttered, and then fell back asleep.

** *

End of Part 1-- thank Chicken for sending me the inspirational .gifs, and I'll finish it tomorrow, barring anything interesting on the home front.  (I need to finish it-- I promised you people sex, and as soon as I put up the disclaimer box, people got REALLY interested, didn't they?)  And thanks, all, for bearing with me. I have no promises for how long my fanfic binge is going to last, but for some reason, it's just making me happy as hell right now.  And I'm writing fiction like a fiend as well, so it's like, win/win for the right brain!

So tune in tomorrow-- hopefully there'll be smex then.