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[FIC] DC Comics: An Ajar Door
SO YEAH I'M RIDING ASTRIDE BOTH COMPANIES RIGHT NOW.
/stares at Marvel fic she posted five minutes ago @_@ ... Oh well. At least my DC OTP isn't obscure?
(I need to write the crossover in my head out someday.)
Also icons might be needed. One day.
An Ajar Door
Characters/Pairings: Clark Kent/Superman, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG
Words: 659
Summary: Clark Kent is still learning the language of Bruce Wayne.
It should mean nothing. With anyone else, it would be nothing – a careless mistake, perhaps, or maybe an offhand sort of movement, causing the door to remain open. Just a little bit ajar.
But Bruce wasn’t anyone else. With Bruce he spoke in these little details, and Clark stood outside the door, his hand half-raised as he considered the tiny, tiny crack. Bruce knew that the door wouldn’t keep him in – it wasn’t lead-lined, and he could see past it easily enough if he was the sort to invade a person’s privacy that way. Even if the door was lead-lined, a single punch from Clark could just blow it off its hinges, and whatever inside would be exposed. Open for him to see.
Clark wouldn’t do that either.
Bruce knew that; but Bruce also knew that he could, and Clark didn’t know which one he was thinking about when he left the door ajar like this.
He placed a hand on the doorknob.
Such a speaker of tongues, he thought wryly, and let his fingertips caress the knob. It was plated in gold, curved at an angle that meant that the hand could rest there for an eternity without feeling tired. It was well-made, well-crafted, and Clark wondered, inanely, whether the colour of the doorknob had anything to do with what he was supposed to do next.
Bruce spoke many, many languages. He scaled the Tower of Babel with clawing hands and eager, hungry eyes that refused to be defeated. If his mission was to finish that Tower, then he would have learnt every single language, one by one, until he had conquered them all and could command the masses to do his stead. Or perhaps he would finish the construction himself, placing brick above brick.
Nothing would have stopped him. He blew through everything in life like they were countless battles in an endless war. Language was simply one of those obstacles he crossed.
Speaker of tongues. He even mastered Kryptonian, the language of Clark’s people. A language that was considered by its own people to be far too advanced for any other civilisation to ever master.
And of course, Bruce had to prove them wrong.
Bruce was brilliant. He could speak over ten languages; think of a thousand plans and have ten thousand contingencies for those plans and have a hundred thousand backup plans for those. He could think in circles, in triangles, in pentagons, and even octagons if he tried hard enough.
Clark’s lips curled upwards, amused at his own thoughts. If Bruce knew them, he would laugh—or Clark thought he would, anyway.
He wasn’t sure.
See, the most complex language of Bruce’s own. Kryptonian could change the meaning of an entire sentence according to the enunciation of a single syllable in the middle of the sixth word from the end, but the language of Bruce Wayne, of Batman, was entirely dependent on the tone of his voice, in his shift of his shoulders, in the tilt of his head, in the curl of his lips, in the light of his eyes. A thousand and one variables, constantly changing, without a textbook that dictates absolute meanings. It was all dependent on context, on the changes of a mercurial mood. A challenge to try to even understand, much less master.
So, an ajar door to Bruce’s bedroom. With a doorknob that had long grown warm beneath Clark’s hand.
Bruce had given him no signal that he was welcome—but he had nothing to tell him he was unwelcome either. And with Bruce, what was not expressed was often just as important—if not more so—than what was.
This—could be an invitation. Or it could be nothing. He could be overstepping his boundaries.
(So what?)
An ajar door.
Clark lifted his hand from the knob. Placed it flat against the wood. Pushed against the door.
Stepped in.
And closed it behind him.
Takes his chances.
End
/stares at Marvel fic she posted five minutes ago @_@ ... Oh well. At least my DC OTP isn't obscure?
(I need to write the crossover in my head out someday.)
Also icons might be needed. One day.
An Ajar Door
Characters/Pairings: Clark Kent/Superman, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG
Words: 659
Summary: Clark Kent is still learning the language of Bruce Wayne.
It should mean nothing. With anyone else, it would be nothing – a careless mistake, perhaps, or maybe an offhand sort of movement, causing the door to remain open. Just a little bit ajar.
But Bruce wasn’t anyone else. With Bruce he spoke in these little details, and Clark stood outside the door, his hand half-raised as he considered the tiny, tiny crack. Bruce knew that the door wouldn’t keep him in – it wasn’t lead-lined, and he could see past it easily enough if he was the sort to invade a person’s privacy that way. Even if the door was lead-lined, a single punch from Clark could just blow it off its hinges, and whatever inside would be exposed. Open for him to see.
Clark wouldn’t do that either.
Bruce knew that; but Bruce also knew that he could, and Clark didn’t know which one he was thinking about when he left the door ajar like this.
He placed a hand on the doorknob.
Such a speaker of tongues, he thought wryly, and let his fingertips caress the knob. It was plated in gold, curved at an angle that meant that the hand could rest there for an eternity without feeling tired. It was well-made, well-crafted, and Clark wondered, inanely, whether the colour of the doorknob had anything to do with what he was supposed to do next.
Bruce spoke many, many languages. He scaled the Tower of Babel with clawing hands and eager, hungry eyes that refused to be defeated. If his mission was to finish that Tower, then he would have learnt every single language, one by one, until he had conquered them all and could command the masses to do his stead. Or perhaps he would finish the construction himself, placing brick above brick.
Nothing would have stopped him. He blew through everything in life like they were countless battles in an endless war. Language was simply one of those obstacles he crossed.
Speaker of tongues. He even mastered Kryptonian, the language of Clark’s people. A language that was considered by its own people to be far too advanced for any other civilisation to ever master.
And of course, Bruce had to prove them wrong.
Bruce was brilliant. He could speak over ten languages; think of a thousand plans and have ten thousand contingencies for those plans and have a hundred thousand backup plans for those. He could think in circles, in triangles, in pentagons, and even octagons if he tried hard enough.
Clark’s lips curled upwards, amused at his own thoughts. If Bruce knew them, he would laugh—or Clark thought he would, anyway.
He wasn’t sure.
See, the most complex language of Bruce’s own. Kryptonian could change the meaning of an entire sentence according to the enunciation of a single syllable in the middle of the sixth word from the end, but the language of Bruce Wayne, of Batman, was entirely dependent on the tone of his voice, in his shift of his shoulders, in the tilt of his head, in the curl of his lips, in the light of his eyes. A thousand and one variables, constantly changing, without a textbook that dictates absolute meanings. It was all dependent on context, on the changes of a mercurial mood. A challenge to try to even understand, much less master.
So, an ajar door to Bruce’s bedroom. With a doorknob that had long grown warm beneath Clark’s hand.
Bruce had given him no signal that he was welcome—but he had nothing to tell him he was unwelcome either. And with Bruce, what was not expressed was often just as important—if not more so—than what was.
This—could be an invitation. Or it could be nothing. He could be overstepping his boundaries.
(So what?)
An ajar door.
Clark lifted his hand from the knob. Placed it flat against the wood. Pushed against the door.
Stepped in.
And closed it behind him.
Takes his chances.
End