5Alienation
It's strange to see Batman sitting in the government building. It's a strange sight altogether, more superheroes in one place than he's ever seen outside of the Watchtower, except when they're fighting. Now, the costumed force fills up the marble lobby, sitting on chairs, on tables, a few perching on the banisters. There's a smattering of non-hero, non-powered people in the room also, but they stand out in the way they hold themselves, keeping congregated in groups, as though mindful of safety in numbers. They look nervous, Superman thinks darkly, wondering what Clark Kent could write about them. It's not their future that's being decided on.
In another way, the sight hurts. Like there are lines already being drawn between what's normal and what's not. The heroes in the room are mostly subdued. Everyone waiting to file in. They've been here for hours. It will probably be a few hours more.
He sits next to Batman when the seat next to him is vacated. Batman sits on the low no-backed couch like he's at a war council. He makes the potted plant wilt beside him. It's strange, and almost funny, but only because of how funny it isn't. He's been scowling for the last five hours, creating a personal space wide enough to reach the moon. It hasn't stopped people from sitting beside him, and as Superman paced through the lobby, he could hear snatches of each conversation. He lets them talk to fill the silence until their worry has been put out in the open and then talks them through their options. What to expect if worst comes to worst. Or just lets them sit and ramble on about the furniture, what their family did that day, giving them his full attention.
Superman can feel his tiredness. Not just in the tightness of his muscles, the adrenaline in his bloodstream, the almost impassable flatness of his voice with the hint of a catch underneath. It echoes from him, like a shockwave. Bruce needs to lie down. He needs people to stop sitting next to him. He needs to not be here.
They all need a lot of things.
Superman wants to jump into the air and leave the world behind till everything becomes a jumble of voices in the atmosphere and he can pretend not to listen, just flying, alone in the clouds. But he needs to be here, so instead of making circles around the earth, he paces through the room wearing an almost invisible dip in the marble.
When he sits next to Batman, Bruce relaxes unconsciously, like a chemical reaction to his presence. Superman drags the potted plant in front of them with his foot and turns around to give his friend the privacy he'd been too stubborn to ask for.
Batman has his eyes shut. "You didn't need to do that," he says wryly, leaning against the marble wall.
"You're almost collapsing," Superman answers. "How long has it been since you slept?"
"Slept at all or slept well?" Bruce counters.
Too long.
The silence lengthens between them. Superman listens to the other conversations in the room almost absently, but it doesn't help, only making him more wired. He wants to fight something. He wants to scream. Neither of those things will help. He listens to the rustle of clothing, the clink of keychains, the pounding of hearts, stares up and through the ceiling to the sky above. It's a perfect day. The sun is out.
"Tell me you'll abide by their decision," he says. The tension in Bruce's muscles returns. His heart-rate increases. Superman wishes he hadn't said anything. Bruce opens his eyes.
"Please, Clark," he says. "Not now."
"I need to know you'll stand by it. The other heroes will need examples, we're the biggest examples they could have. What they need." The founders of the Justice League.
Wonder Woman has already stated that if this decision goes through, she will be leaving the world of man, returning to Themyscira.
"I never asked to be an example."
Of course not. Batman, who never admitted he was anything other than a consultative role. Whose hero persona is based on fear and legend, too close to the villains he fights for Clark's comfort.
"I know."
"Just leave it." Bruce turns aside. Clark takes it as a good sign that he doesn't merely sit up and stalk away but that would mean leaving his seat. Emerging from behind the wall Superman created. It's a subtle form of blackmail neither of them acknowledge.
"I can't."
"And what do you think they'll do to you?" Batman asks. His tone mocking.
"I plan to abide by the decision," Clark says slowly. It will hurt, but he's had practice. "I can live as Clark Kent." He's already letting go.
Batman laughs, a twisted sound. Quiet, almost hysterical if it weren't so carefully controlled, so sharply pointed.
Clark flinches.
"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you you're in denial," Bruce says, doing just that. "They don't want Clark Kent."
Superman frowns. He knows what Batman's insinuating, but he has to believe this decision will be based on fairness. Whatever they offer to keep him as "Superman," he's not planning to take it. If they vote out heroes, if they vote against the fifth of the population with powers, they will get what they asked for. There will be no more Superman. There will be no more heroes. And if Clark has to learn to hear less, if he lies awake at night hearing screams and forcing himself not to act—well, he's done it before. He, more than anyone, knows the truth of the adage, you can't save everyone.
Batman can't do that. He's never known how to stand aside. He's never learned to not blame himself.
"There you are," Jason says, still a hint of his usual amusement, and the kid slips over Superman's barrier with unnatural precision to flop himself into the seat between them. He sighs, and Batman's arm tightens around him. "Pretty cool fort," he says, looking at Superman, but his eyes are suspicious. You were pushing him again, weren't you? they say. Superman smiles a half-smile and stands up. "I should," keep walking around the room, watching the specks of marble sheer up under his boots, "go."
He steps away.
.
.
.
