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memesinthenight2020-01-15 12:52 pm
inthenightmods) wrote in memesinthenight2020-01-15 12:52 pm
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TEST DRIVE MEME #8
TEST DRIVE MEME #8
Hello and welcome to the In the Night test drive meme for January! Thanks for your interest in our game! In an effort to streamline our application process and avoid future confusion between incoming and existing players, we will no longer have a reservation period. Applications open on January 22, and will be judged on a first-come, first-served basis.
While you're here...
- Take a look at our rules and faq pages to familiarize yourself with the game.
- Note that we have a (current) application cap of 16 apps this month for new players, as the game has a player cap of 70. An accurate count of current players will always be available on the taken page.
- TDM threads can become game canon if both players wish. If the situation isn't something that could happen in-game, you're free to chalk it up to some strange hallucination, a shared dream, or other mysterious circumstance.
- Note that this is not limited to new characters threading with characters already in-game. If current players wish to thread out the TDM prompts as canon events, they are welcome to do so. They are welcome to make posts in the main comms for TDM events as well. Please note, however, that actual plot clues or happenings will not occur in TDM prompts.
- If you plan to apply, please keep in mind that we do require at least one sample thread on the application to be from our TDM (though it doesn't need to be the current TDM).
- You're welcome to use the provided prompts or come up with something on your own, but we do ask that all threads take place in our game's setting.
Thank you again, and we hope you'll choose to join us!
log prompts
CAKE BY THE OCEAN
It's a brand new year, and with it, a brand new...you? Well, you are dead, but there's still plenty of ways that you can embrace the spirit of starting fresh, especially when it seems that the forest spirits have their own traditions that they're eager to share! If you've only just arrived, you may find yourself pelted with loaves of bread and accosted with noisemakers, or if you're a seasoned Beaconite, maybe you're wearily unsurprised to find strings of onions being placed around various doorways. Just another day in the afterlife. Best to go along with it, even if some of these practices seem to be somewhat chaotic. It's never a good idea to make the spirits mad, after all, and especially not when they're trying to show you...some sort of semblance of good will, you think. For the most miserable of souls, at least you can be comforted in the knowledge that it should all be over before the day is out.
This is a miniature version of the festivities present during this month's intro log!
I CAN'T FEEL MY FACE WHEN I'M WITH YOU
Winter has made its way to Beacon. It's fortunate that plenty of snow gear has been made available at the general store, so this is a great time for those with little-to-no experience with genuine snow to get out there and draw some angels or build forts for some playful snowball fights! At least...it is, at first. Linger too long and you'll find yourself caught in the middle of a raging blizzard that seems to have swept in out of nowhere. In an instant things seem to go from cold to freezing, and the need to get back inside where there's safety from the elements is pressing. Fortunately, you aren't alone. It might not be your usual residence, but more than one of you have tumbled into the same shelter, and will probably be stuck in there until the worst of the storm passes. No time to get to know each other like the present, right? Gotta break the ice somehow (haha).
network prompts
RUN BOY RUN
The changes in the weather isn't the only thing that residents old and new need to keep weary of. While a great many of the forest spirits remain generally friendly, traveling alone comes with its risks. There's always the possibility that you may encounter a creature that's less inclined to let you pass it by unscathed. And so it goes for you as you venture out into the trees with your lantern and torch in hand. Whatever reason you had for starting out alone, and whatever got you to this point, you've had to take shelter from a very, very displeased spirit. Maybe it has a body not meant for climbing, and you've scaled high up into a tree that it won't let you down from, or maybe you've taken shelter inside of a structure that it's too big to squeeze itself into. Whatever the case, it's clear that your pursuer isn't giving up the ghost (haha), and you'll need to contact someone for some form of help to get yourself out of this.
1000 FORMS OF FEAR
It's a normal day in Beacon...which means that something inconvenient at best and terrifying at worst must be just around the corner. Whether or not you're on edge about the relative calm, it doesn't seem that anything weird is happening...until you try and post to the network. No matter how many times you try, the message you intend to write erases itself. As if someone else has hacked into your tablet, a new message re-types itself in front of your eyes. One of your greatest fears or greatest regrets announces itself for all to see, and there's no getting rid of it. All attempts at getting rid of it are fruitless, and it doesn't seem that you can back out of the new post window now that you're here. Your only option now is to hit send. But, hey, your fellow residents are a pretty understanding lot. Maybe they won't hold whatever it is against you. Maybe you can explain it away. There's always lying, too, if you want to go that method of covering your tracks.
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stop boy stop
That is to say, Bruce is very sure, as he hears leaves and twigs crunching underfoot- that he's listening to a chase. There's nothing sedate about the pace of the drumming and though from an outside perspective it might look as if he's lurched reflexively into motion, Bruce has chosen to follow the sound. These details, the rhythm and the direction, the way his own breath clouds in the air, this he's certain of. But when he finds a lantern on its side out here and no figure to whom it belongs- he has his doubts.
He'd found the shards of a lantern just like this after all, a month ago, and the wound is still fresh no matter how careful he is to keep it out of sight. He misses Jim Gordon but how much can it mean in a life full to the brim of missing? Of people he will never be able to say goodbye to.
The suspicion isn't unreasonable. There had been a month of constant hallucinations, of varying intensities, that plagued every resident in Beacon. There's no reason to believe it could only happen once. But fear has never been enough to convince Bruce to look the other way. He stands over the lantern for a long moment, aware of the differences in shape and size and contour and he knows that it isn't the same, that the flame inside is still burning strong, and that there's a smear of-
He grazes it with one fingertip.
Blood.
Bruce lifts the lantern and carefully brushes away loose dirt. He can conjecture at where it's owner might have gone but he can't stay still, he needs to start closing the distance. The lantern is tucked into the bend of one elbow, allowing him to keep his right hand free- but he doesn't need to search for very long. He hears it in the distance first. Hello? Then a little louder. Is someone out there?]
It's dangerous to go too far from your lantern.
no subject
Clark hadn’t really thought too hard about any literal tethers to the item, having grown attached to it more because of the ‘S’ shaped in the cast iron. It looked like something from home, from Krypton, and having arrived in the afterlife with it, Clark assumed it was simply something he had to care for ever since.
Dropping it had been a reflex of surprise when the claws slashed into him. Clark hadn’t even stopped to think when the superspeed kicked in and caused him to flee instead of stay and fight an innocent animal.
Still, his tone is kind when he admits a quiet, ] Thank you. [ And though he looks surprised and then sad when he really, truly gets to see who’s helped him—or, rather, how young the boy is—the expression lasts for only a moment before Clark smiles again, sheepish. ] I don’t know if I would’ve made it all alone out here.
[ The hand on his side is bloody in a way he isn’t used to, but his free one is clean save for the dirt on it, and held out for Clark to take his lantern back. ]
I guess you don’t share that problem, huh?
no subject
Bruce's head shakes, a dismissal of the question as the lantern is lifted out of his hands. He has other priorities as soon as the light shifts and he's able to see the blood for himself. Bruce's eyes flick up. He doesn't look especially pale or clammy, his pupils are round and reactive. His eyes flick back down and Bruce reaches for the man's side; there is a decision in that too. Bruce moves with deliberate slowness not because he's wary or inexperienced, but because he's learned to telegraph his movements in his time here. It gives the other a chance to pull away and by extension, offers the veneer of privacy.]
You might have surprised yourself.
[But if he is allowed to make contact, there's something almost practiced about his touch. Not clinical, just familiar. He's trying to get a look- to see the extent of the injury, the severity, and to pare his options down from there. In the process, this movement reveals his own lantern, looped with rope and secured to the belt around his waist. It means the little owl is readily hidden from view but also that both of his hands can remain free.]
May I?
no subject
It’s shallower than it ought to be, though. The straighter angle of the slash betrays a close proximity between Clark and his assailant, but the depth of the wound makes it seem like the claws had taken a bit more pressure to break skin.
Either way, whatever touches the boy might employ seem not to affect him. Clark breathes and the wound lives, but he seems fairly calm about the whole thing.
You know, save for the delayed ‘ow’ he lets out, but it’s a few seconds too late and probably sounds out of place and a touch disjointed from the whole experience. ]
Does it look bad? [ He’s made a pointed effort not to look, in any case, like the sight of blood makes him weak. ] Um… do you know where to find a doctor?
no subject
Bruce's fingers touch the fabric of his shirt, gently separating the pieces of the torn material so that he can widen the gap enough for a look beneath. Each exhale tightens the gashes and each inhale draws them open; blood trickles in dark, narrow streams around the rhythm. The angle doesn't taper the way he might expect in a chase, the way Bruce's own have when he'd been unable to outmaneuver a knife in its entirety. It's. Interesting. But within the context of people here in Beacon, with varying abilities and strengths, from different times and places and even worlds- It's something to think on later. Something to remember.
Instead he's aware of the way the man keeps his gaze averted, the cadence of his breath that appears even and suggests an absence of fear or panic. They're good signs, if also strange.] I don't think you'll need stitches.
[He says instead, carefully withdrawing. And then one hand goes to the place between his own shoulderblades and Bruce begins to pull his sweater off. He's worn layers so there is infact another long-sleeved shirt underneath, but this will suit their purposes. He folds it up before extending it, pressing it to the man's side with the wordless encouragement that he hold it there and maintain pressure.]
I have medical supplies. Will you be able to walk?
no subject
Ooh, but he certainly does wince if he presses too hard, which is often enough considering his sort of awkward clumsiness. Clark takes a few tries before he finds the right pressure the boy had applied earlier, and then does his best to stay that way.
He manages a wry smile. ] I can certainly try walking. [ But it should be obvious, anyway, that the wound isn’t so bad that he’d be impaired by it.
Clark considers the sweater now pressed against it and makes a mental note to make it up to this boy somehow; he hadn’t wanted to ruin a perfectly good piece of clothing with his own blood, which is about one of the worst ways anyone could ruin anything. ]
Thank you, [ he mentions once they start on their way, his lantern in one hand and the other over the sweater ] for helping me. [ Clark tries not to grit his teeth as he moves, but it’s hard not to whenever he puts weight on the leg of the side affected. ]
I’m, uh, s-sorry about your sweater, though. I think the blood’s ruined it.
no subject
[This is a blanket statement, one meant to serve all purposes and meet multiple ends. What he means is that the thanks isn't necessary, this is simply the right thing to do- he means it's alright if you can't walk by yourself, and he means the sweater hardly warrants his concern. But then, because this doesn't seem like enough, and because he's trying to make a point of being Bruce Wayne when he isn't wearing his mask, because Bruce Wayne is good at small talk- he adds] Supplies come in from the ferry every month anyway.
[It sounds better than the other truth, which is that by those measurements- Bruce has ruined plenty of other clothes the same way.
Instead of the cabins in the village or the rooms inside the Invincible, Bruce has been living inside the vast and abandoned museum- a building he's been steadily converting into a work space. The walk isn't terribly far, but it means a significant portion of it will take them along a narrow path through the woods. It's very dark, and very quiet.
He watches as the man takes his sweater and carefully experiments, trying to find a pressure he can replicate. He'll have his hands full, between that and his lantern; when he walks he favors his injured side and doesn't straighten entirely, doesn't extend his leg. It puts him off balance. Bruce hasn't been more than a step or two ahead and that makes these details easier to notice. It also makes them easier to compensate for. He pauses and his weight pivots for the few inches it takes for the gap to close- and then Bruce wordlessly puts himself beneath the man's arm. The difference in height between them provides the perfect niche. He takes to the man's good side, turning himself into a kind of physical reinforcement, a crutch- and adjusting his gait so that they fall into step.]
Here. Lean on me.
[They function as participants in a three-legged-race; Bruce puts one arm around his waist, palm firmly on the center of his back, and he takes the cues as they come. Waits to see if he needs to carry the lantern too, instead of letting it dangle over his opposite shoulder.
They aren't far now either way. Little by little their destination approaches until the shape of the museum, dark and lightless, becomes visible as an empty space against a starry sky.]
you're killing me
[ But Clark doesn’t ask him to, and still it happens all the same. The boy… is a lot stronger than he looks. Is taller up close. Holds him with a kind of steadiness that betrays his experience in things like this—perhaps not the act of carrying a slashed man about specifically, but in the act of helping. It makes Clark have to hide his smile, but that isn’t too difficult with how small the whole ordeal makes him feel. At least the silence that stretches between them—Clark’s laboured breathing and the uneven sound of his steps aside—is comfortable (and a little familiar, even if Clark pushes that stray thought aside). At least Clark has the decency to be able to hold his absurd lantern, instead of being even more of a burden.
A part of him is so used to holding others up that he almost feels shy about this.They approach what Clark makes out to be the shape of a building only because of the darkness set in the middle of an otherwise twinkling sky. He’s not sure what to expect, and he struggles a bit going up the stairs, but the presence at his side is steady. He has half a mind to ask what his saviour’s name is, but keeps the question to himself. There is something about being taken to this big building at the end of a narrow path that feels like an honour already; Clark knows it’s only happening because he was fool enough to try and make friends with a bear in the first place, but that doesn’t change his sentiments towards knowledge he deserves and doesn’t deserve to have. ]
Where are we? [ He’s not sure if this is the boy’s home. Does he live here by himself? The building had looked huge from the outside—who else is filling up all this space? If only his lantern could illuminate the space better; as it is Clark only follows the leads he’s given, having fallen into step with this stranger like a tried and trusted instinct. That, too, is strange, but he doesn’t dwell on it. ]
i'm so glad i won't die alone
For each leg of it Bruce takes the first step and then pauses, acting as a physical anchor- a still point for the man to pivot around. And little by little, they manage. The door looks like it should squeak on its hinges, but it doesn't, and instead they find themselves inside a massive hall.]
This is the museum.
[Few people ever bother to come out this way, new residents seem to take its presence with a grain of salt and by extension Bruce has very few visitors. He's called it home for some time now- long enough that bedrooms of a sort have been made on one of the wings of the upper floor. And downstairs has been converted into a work space. There's a long wooden bench just out of sight, up against a wall, that's dotted with tools and salvaged bits from the scrapyard. There's a space converted to serve as a bathroom which means he doesn't need to wash up in the lake anymore. There's a table with a portable stove on top and a single deep pot, beside it a stack of unmatched bowls. Bruce doesn't stop for any of these and leads the way instead to an adjacent corridor.
In this hall there is a desk stacked with a few books and stray pens. A mug that's been here for an indeterminate amount of time and two chairs dot the space. A clearly handmade end table. They're humble furnishings that indicate a favoring of practicality over comfort, and every time Bruce comes here with someone else in tow, he sees them for the first time all over again. There's no time to dwell on it, really. He doesn't rush them through, after all, they're already inside and relatively safe from both the spirits and the cold. Any hurry now is just going to cause additional, unnecessary pain. His eyes land on a worn armchair and Bruce leads the way until they're hovering within arms reach. Under the guise of steadying his arm, Bruce reaches for his wrist and presses two fingers to his pulse.]
Here. Take your time.
I'd ask you to lie down, but the ground will be too cold. And too dirty.
no subject
But even if he’d mentioned this as a museum, it doesn’t really look that way as they go along, less because of structure and more because what slices of it Clark can see in the darkness look far too lived-in and domestic to be anything but a home. It’s nice, though, in the way Clark always feels homes are nice; he’s talking less about the décor and more of the sentiment.
Now that they’ve stopped, the armchair just in reach, Clark’s hand is shaking where it’d been pressing into his wounds, but somehow he still manages to have enough energy to laugh at the boy’s comment— ] Cold and dirty is better than cold and bleeding alone. [ Which… isn’t necessarily the biggest comfort, so to speak, but Clark’s always been an optimist to the end. That might be one of the reasons why he’s so prone to getting himself in stupid situations.
He settles in the armchair and lets out a soft noise when he does it, but carefully moves himself so he’s seated up instead of leaning back (or at least as ‘up’ as he can manage, what with his horrid posture). He takes a moment to catch his breath, putting his lantern down on his lap, and then glances where his hand is pressing the sweater now definitely tinged with red. ]
Oh, golly. [ The sight of blood is going to make his head spin, so he makes a pointed effort to look up at the ceiling above him instead, only dimly illuminated with the light that radiates off his single lantern. ] That looks worse than it is, right?
[ If Clark Kent were any good at medicine, he would’ve known it didn’t even look that bad. It’s sort of out of his wheelhouse, though. ]
…thank you for taking me here, though. [ He may be making an effort not to look down at himself, but he finds the young man’s face as best he can (because it was a young man, wasn’t it, who was strong enough to carry him along like that for so long?) so he can offer a smile. Granted, the lighting makes the whole expression look a touch weird, but Clark hopes the gratitude in it is conveyed well enough. ] I wouldn’t have, uh, known where to go, really.
no subject
He makes a small sound as he settles, posture carefully maintained. His face tips up towards the ceiling. The sweater is saturated and the skin of his palm is dark and red. Urgency tightens in the pit of his stomach.]
It looks worse than it is.
[Bruce is a very good liar. It's the reason he's able to say it as evenly as he does, to make a blanket statement in the absence of fact. Alarming him and the surge of adrenaline that might follow would do them no favors. He touches the back of his hand to the man's forehead for an estimate of his body temperature- and makes a short mental list. There are blankets in the next room, he can take them from his bed and lay something out on the floor, keep him horizontal but also let his body warm up. The temperature, the injury, and the bloodloss will make it necessary to stave off the cold. His hand lowers again and rests atop the man's own, pressing down just enough to remind him to maintain pressure even now that they've stopped, that his body is probably prepared to rest.
And then he leaves.
The museum is not a house and was never meant to be. The huge open halls make it very difficult to hide, especially on the lower level where no modifications have been made. It means that Bruce is visible when he hurries out of the room and makes his way to the staircase. One knee comes to rest on the second step and he pulls something from one ankle only to drive it into the seam of the third stair. It's a false step. In the compartment underneath he withdraws a bag that he slings over one shoulder, before replacing the wood. He rounds the corner and vanishes momentarily into the kitchen where he fills a thermos with drinking water, and the room becomes quiet again as he heads towards his sleeping space. When Bruce reappears it's with a bag strapped around his back, a thermos in hand, and blankets folded over both arms. He doesn't stop to talk. He drops the blankets to the ground first, spreading them out as best as he can- only to offer the thermos a beat later.]
Is it easier for you to stay sitting or do you want to lie down?
no subject
[ But the moment he's certain he's gone, Clark relaxes, his hand steady as it presses into his wound and his eyes shutting as his ears do the heavy lifting for him. He listens as the young man moves about, listens to the sound of moving pieces and opened compartments, and takes the minutes that they're separated to give his wound a proper look.
The lack of healing is concerning, but only in a "well, I suppose this is to be expected of the afterlife" sort of way. It's still bleeding, and Clark thinks about what the best situation for this would be-- he'd have to be a bit dizzy, wouldn't he? Somewhere along the lines of rambling too much despite his weakness, as people with blood loss tend to be? Clark Kent isn't good with anything related to violence, and so he'd have to be tense throughout the procedure of being patched up, because the victim of the violence had been him.
Wetting his lip, Clark's ears pick up his return, and once more his posture stiffens somewhat. His hand, while pressing with the same intensity he'd been taught to apply, shakes a little bit again, and even if he may not have received a greeting, he lets out a relieved little exhale all the same. ] You're back. [ The young man prepares some kind of set-up on the floor, but Clark reels back a bit in surprise when the thermos is offered his way. ]
For me? [ Obviously. ] Th-Thank you.
[ So he takes it, setting it between his thighs to open it properly, and then brings it up for a drink of water that spills a bit out of the corner of his mouth with the tremble of his hand. Embarrassing.
Closing the thermos is an equally tough ordeal, but he manages despite the clatter of metal failing to put itself back together. ] I, um... I think I'm going to, uh, squirm either way? [ Clark pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles, apologetic in the soft curve of his mouth. ]
But you've laid that out for me. [ And Clark isn't the medical expert, here. ] It'll probably be better if I'm d-down, won't it?
no subject
The museum is quiet and empty around them, a space filled only by the sound of their breathing, by the rustle of clothing and the exchange of their voices. When Bruce looks up again it's just in time to watch the man push his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. He pauses, considers. Then shakes his head just once.]
We can move if it becomes uncomfortable.
[There's no point in stressing him unnecessarily. He seems to have settled regardless- it's a positive sign. Bruce rises. For the angle they're at he'll have better access if he remains kneeling, so that's what he does. He withdraws a canister of sterile water and gauze to start, settling them near the edge of the chair as he leans forward and reaches carefully for the sweater.]
I'm going to take a look. [It's a formality, the kind of thing his father used to say when he'd been very small- when Alfred had carried him in from the back garden and Bruce had tried desperately to hide his skinned knee beneath both hands. Afraid of the sight. Afraid of the consequences. This close, the ghost a scar over his nose and one running perpendicular to his eyebrow speak volumes to how far he's come. Perhaps there was no helping it. That boy with the skinned knee never left the alley. He'd died there beside his parents.
Bruce's fingers find the middle of the man's shirt, at his sternum, and he begins unlooping the buttons. It makes it easier to reach underneath, instead of rolling from the bottom and hoping for the best. Bruce is certainly not a doctor, but Alfred had taught him no small amount of emergency aid in the last seven years- for everything else, practical experience fills in the gaps. His hands are steady, but his touch is soft. The cloth comes away and blood wells to the surface underneath, freshly pulsing now that the barrier has been removed. He reaches for the water.]
I take it you're still getting used to things here.
no subject
He isn't strong enough for this. And, his cheeks warming slightly as his shirt is undone and gently pushed aside, he realises he isn't protected enough from embarrassment, either.
Clark's skin is smooth, soft like it belongs to someone who has no business at all being outside by himself to get attacked by restless spirits. It makes the wound stick out even more-- a single flaw in an otherwise perfect picture (that is, if you don't count the horror that is his posture)-- and one that makes Clark flinch the moment he feels it being cleaned with water. ]
Gosh, that's cold. [ He exhales shakily through his teeth, shivering slightly. ] Uh... but I'm. Y-Yes. I've only recently...
The ferry dropped me off, a few-- few days ago. But don't ask me how many. [ Clark tries for a laugh, but it comes out awkward and stilted and like he's trying to distract himself from the very awful reality that someone is touching a wound that is an opening in his body. There's blood coming out of him, like he's a gosh darned jelly doughnut, and even the concept of it makes his head spin a little. ] I've never missed the sun so much.
no subject
Bruce doesn't withdraw, but he does find value in maintaining the conversation. Distraction helps, it occupies part of the mind- diverts his attention elsewhere even in only a small part.]
I've heard something like that before. There's someone here from an island, I imagine it's been a difficult adjustment.
[The gauze comes away a bright, scarlet red- saturated enough that it makes the pads of his fingers pink. Bruce doesn't look at his own hands. He readies a new piece of gauze instead, carefully cleaning the area. It'll be best to sterilize it once he's able to get some of the bleeding under control. That's unlikely to go over well, but in his experience, what's necessary is rarely what's kind.]
What was it like? Home.
no subject
He's grateful for the talking, though, if only so he can try to focus his mind on anything but the weirdness of the gauze's texture on his ruined skin. ] Home was... [ He takes a moment. ] Well, it was bright, for one thing. "The city of the future"! There were lots of folks and sights of all kinds to see, lots of-- lot of things to do, because everything was happening everywhere. [ Clark smiles, and though there's still some strain in his expression from the fear in being cleaned up, the light in his eyes is genuine. ] One of those places.
Of course it had its, its bad spots. [ He lets out a laugh and then an 'ow', because that laugh was a bit more barking than he intended. ] All big cities do. It's crowded and I'm terrible, just awful with crowds, and a lot of the time I'd get, erm, swept away with the currents of people, if you know what I mean.
[ Sometimes he'd end up on the completely opposite side of the road from the one he ought to be on, just because he was overwhelmed onto a crosswalk. ]
But it... gosh, the loneliness you feel there is different from the one here, when you're in the dark and all b-by yourself.
no subject
What wouldn't he give, to press his face into Alfred's shoulder again. To hold on hard.]
It sounds very exciting.
[The man beneath him shivers and Bruce glances down at the blankets, reminded of their nearness. His temperature still feels low. The warmth and the pressure will help his sympathetic nervous system, when all this is over. But the bleeding has begun to slow enough that he can move to the next stage, sterilization. He begins to wet a piece of fresh gauze, and offers a word of warning before he moves in to clean it.
It's the place where someone else might offer comfort or coddling. Bruce isn't ignorant to those tendencies, he'd gotten enough of them inside hospital waiting rooms, while nurses would pass and assure him that everything would be fine. But it isn't in his nature to try and make armor out of happy thoughts. Bruce prefers to prepare, to offer knowledge and outline expectations. His weight comes to rest against one of the man's bent knees, an anchor holding him to the cushions.]
I apologize. This is going to sting, but there isn't anything I can do to help it.
[He'll try to be brief.]
What did you do there?
no subject
Well, whether it is or not, it's got to be.
He doesn't get to answer the young man's question immediately, not when the touch of the gauze brings an entirely new sensation. Clark blinks tears in the corners of his eyes, his lips pressed together tight, and there're a few more attempts to breathe through his nose and then breathe it all down. ]
Um, I was-- [ He lets out another slow exhale, the circle of his lips forming a wooshing sound, and while his first instinct is to look away...
Clark tries looking at the young man's face, instead. He's so calm, so collected. So experienced and cool. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from him. Maybe looking at something calm will help him calm, too. ]
I was a f-father. [ A beat, until he realises what 'do' typically means. ] And a journalist. I worked for-- I was with the Daily P-Planet.
[ When this next round of cleaning is done, Clark lets out a relieved little sigh, gaze still on the man even if it loses focus for a second. But he tries to recover, tries to be brave.
And he manages a shaky smile, murmuring, ] Can I ask what you did in your home?
no subject
This person is in pain. He doesn't want to add to it.
The peroxide comes away and Bruce waits just a moment, to see that the skin around the wound has begun to dry in the air before he brings fresh water to it, an attempt to soothe. The wound has mostly stopped bleeding, but pink traces are everywhere- on every piece of discarded cloth. In the creases of his knuckles. The muscle beneath his fingers jumps again and Bruce looks up, intends to search his patient's face for signs and signals- but is momentarily disarmed to find that he's already looking. Perhaps that's the reason that each part of the reply lands the way it does.
He says I was a father and something in Bruce's shoulders both tightens and yields. And a journalist- a profession Bruce doesn't dislike but one that he has, conflicted feelings for. I was with the Daily Planet. Recognition washes over him. Metropolis?
He doesn't ask. Instead, the moment that he starts to smile Bruce turns his face away, withdrawing both hands to reach for medical tape and a square of sterile gauze. What did you do is a painfully loaded question with no clear answer. Bruce thinks: I tried to help. I tried to change.
Can I ask what you did in your home?
Not enough.]
My city was annexed for the last year before I came here. The mainland flew supplies in when it could. Everyone that stayed behind mostly focused on survival.
no subject
But he turns away.
And Clark, though not a mind reader in the least, feels his face fall.
He winces slightly when the gauze is pressed to his wound, but there's relief there when the tape touches his skin to keep it secure. They're done cleaning for now, then. Clark probably shouldn't be as relieved as he is, but that undercurrent of feeling all right is still overshadowed by the guilt he feels for bringing this young man's own past up. He makes a mental note not to ask about it again, but the damage is done; hopefully it won't be too difficult to backpedal, though.
Talk of his home only makes Clark's expression soften further. He really shouldn't have asked. ]
I see. [ It's not something Clark Kent understands, necessarily-- Metropolis had never been so dire-- but there is a weight to his words, a quietness to it that betrays empathy instead of sympathy. Everyone that stayed behind. Survival. It couldn't have been pretty, with words like that used to paint the situation. And someone as helpful as this person before him is, well...
Now he understands why he looked away. Somehow, he feels the words "no wonder you were so good at fixing me up" aren't going to be a comfort in the least. If Clark knows anything, it's easier to remember failures over successes, every time. ]
Thank you, [ he finally says, his tone still soft, but a little less dire ] for helping me. I... I know you said, uh, I might've made it on my own, but.
I've never met anyone like you. [ The corner of his mouth tugs up again, a dimple showing in his cheek. ] So. I'm glad you were there to, erm. To find me.
[ Clark moves to close his shirt, shivering lightly and letting out the softest 'whew'. Now that he knows he's going to be all right, the fear-adrenaline is fading and the cold is starting to sink in. This afterlife winter's no joke, is it? ]
My name's Clark. [ His shirt buttoned up properly (but still torn in the side, so really) now, Clark holds one hand out while the other pushes his glasses up. ] Clark Kent.
I owe you one, mister.
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When Bruce averts his gaze now he knows exactly how it will read to the outside observer. That it isn't the truth is irrelevant.
He holds the gauze with the widest part of his palm and stays there for a moment- just long enough to be sure that more blood isn't about to soak through. That he hasn't simply done the task but that he's done it well. And this is where the man above him, Clark, misses the mark. No wonder you were so good at fixing me up would have been received very well- perhaps not outwardly. But Bruce has spent so much of his life trying to make a difference, trying to make it matter- all he ever sees is the number of times he missed the mark. The tape unwinds and Bruce secures it in place with practiced, methodical strokes; it needs to be secure, an anchor to keep out infection, but he doesn't want to cause unnecessary pain.
When he finally moves back, weight resting on his heels, he realizes that there is still blood beneath his nails. In the creases of his knuckles and fine lines of his hands. An experimental touch tells him it's largely dry, and that's why he reaches for the blanket as Clark begins buttoning his shirt. As he dimples.
It's a very- unguarded expression.]
You don't. It's what anyone would do.
[He returns the handshake.]
Bruce.
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Clark doesn't understand the sense of familiarity when Bruce's hand is in his own, doesn't know what it is about the firmness of that grip that makes his mouth pull a little higher. But it's there all the same. Bruce has, for some reason or other, a comforting touch, and he wonders if it's because somewhere in the back of his mind the name Bruce is so heavily associated with one of his closest friends on the planet. ]
Bruce. [ Ah, even the way his tone's gone is a little sweet-- Clark tries to chuckle, but then he goes to touch his side alongside a small wince, before realising that he probably shouldn't touch it. It leaves his hand awkwardly hovering over his body (everything about Clark is awkward, though, so this is a given). ] ...it's nice to meet you, Mr. Bruce. [ It's always best to be polite.
Their hands separate, but the smile stays on Clark's face. ] If you're not going to let me owe you, [ which he will, anyway, whether Bruce wants him to or not-- the debt is scratched in his name, under "Bruce from the museum" ] at least let me give thanks for the good you did.
You gave me your name, see? [ He laughs, pauses, winces, and then squirms. And winces again. ] ...nngh. M-Makes you more than "just anyone", that sort of thing.
[ Clark spares his bandaged side a look, sighs, and then looks back at Bruce with a more sheepish expression. ]
I'll, uh, get out of your hair now. I've already imposed too much-- [ And when he tries to stand, there's a slight grimace on his face. To Clark's credit, though, the teeth in his inner cheek keep him from making another terrible noise, which is a decided improvement. ]
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Clark.
[Bruce, sounding not at all unfamiliar with giving orders to men twice his size, reaches out with one hand and halts the movement at the nearest possible place. His knee.
The pressure isn't nearly enough to imply that he's trying to force the other man to sink back down, but rather that he's making a very firm suggestion.]
There's more than enough room. [His face turns to the side, a kind of gesture to the space around them without removing his gaze and by extension, without letting Clark from his sight. The reminder he offers is matter-of-fact and yet still as polite as any comment he might make at one of the Wayne Foundation galas.] It's a museum.
Besides, even without considering blood loss or the plunging temperature, trudging out into the snow is only going to exacerbate it.
[He doesn't yet move to get off of his knees, but he does reach for the blanket, pulling it carefully into his lap.]
It was my invitation. But failing that you can call it selfishness.
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Rationalising is a good thing. It makes the part of Clark's brain responsible for logic fire synapses to tell the stubborn part of him to calm down. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the word selfishness makes him laugh instead, all shaking shoulders and moving torso... before he mutters an 'ow' and sits as told. ]
"Selfishness". [ He takes in a deep breath, stiffly sinks further into the backrest of the seat, and shuts his eyes briefly. ] Funny thing from a man who spent so much time to fix a stranger up.
[ But here he is, seated again. Down because Bruce insisted. Now it's imperative that Clark keep a debt to him, and when he opens his eyes again he uses them to find the thermos he'd put aside. Reaching is kind of an ordeal, and Clark still asks a brief 'may I?' like Bruce might say no, but at least this time, with both his hands free, it's a touch easier to open.
(Even if he has to exert some effort, still, to twist it. Golly.)
He considers the dried blood on his hands, and then the dried blood on Bruce's, and after he's taken another few gulps of water he pours another serving out. Bruce's hands are dirty with him because he'd worked so hard. Clark feels sort of stupid, offering water that Bruce himself had gotten, but the sentiment is there as he holds the cup out. ]
You should have some too, m-mister. [ Then, he realises: ] Ah, I promise I'm not sick.
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Perhaps it's a difference in life experience. He's heard plenty of stories about Metropolis, and the man before him now, sweet-tempered and conscientious is- at odds with his life experience.
But Clark sits and perhaps that's enough to be content with. The cushions yield beneath his weight and Bruce gathers the blankets as he settles, turns renewed attention on the thermos of water. It gives him space to interrupt- to drape the heavy blankets over the man's lap and trap what warmth might remain.]
You could argue that I just don't want to see my hard work go to waste.
[Clark drinks and Bruce watches the bobbing of his adam's apple, reconsiders his plans for the evening. The weather is unlikely to turn again, the last of the blizzard passed a few hours ago- but he has enough supplies stock piled to make something for dinner. Something he wouldn't have considered if he didn't have company to think of. And he's prepared to push to his feet and get started, until a portion of water is offered to him in turn.
He hesitates. Looks at his hands.]
Bruce.
[He reminds- reaching for the cup with the heels of both palms, an attempt to keep himself from making a mess.] Even my father was rarely a 'mister.'
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hope this is ok!