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Published:
2020-06-04
Completed:
2020-06-11
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2,938
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2/2
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Glass Primrose, Lead Asphodel

Summary:

It was just a lamp. Clark bought it at a yard sale for three dollars, to give Bruce as a present when he had no money for anything else. The stained glass flower design looks ridiculously out of place in the Batcave. Bruce should have gotten rid of it years ago.

But times change, and Clark and the primrose lamp become constants of Bruce's world.

Until the light goes out, and the world forces him to let go.

Notes:

This is my first fanfic, so I don't know how well I did. I only hope you enjoy it.

This fic is mostly platonic, but feel free to read into it if you like.

Check out my Tumblr at blooms-in-april for more fics, what inspired me, and if you want to send requests or prompts.

Thanks for reading and enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Primrose and Asphodel

Chapter Text

It had been an odd present.

Bruce had been sitting at his metal workbench, adjusting the springs on a new grapple launcher for the Batmobile. Despite his new sidekick’s annoying habit of nicknaming everything, Bruce had to admit Dick’s way of speaking was rubbing off on him. After twisting a few screws this way and that, Bruce frowned at the stubborn metal gleaming under the harsh LED lighting and switched over to a finer tool. He had just managed to pry the first screw loose when, suddenly, every alarm in the Batcave went off.

Bruce sighed.

“How many times.” He said, as he angrily spun his chair toward the monitors to shut off the infernal blaring, “Do I have to tell you not to do that?”

“Sorry, B.” Superman shuffled his feet apologetically. “I forgot.”

“You have an eidetic memory. Use it.” Bruce went back to wrestling with the grapple launcher. “What do you want, Clark?”

“I actually wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” Clark said. “I know I was busy the last few days, but it was still terribly rude of me.”

“You were stuck battling giant slugs in an alternate dimension. I think you’re excused.”

“Yes. That wasn’t fun.” Clark stepped closer. “But still, I wanted to get you something and I didn’t have much time, or money for that matter, but when have I ever had much money compared to you?” Clark laughed awkwardly. “Oh great, I’m really making a fool of myself. What I wanted to say was, here.”

Clark hurriedly set something on the corner of the workbench and Bruce finally looked up.

“What is this?” he asks.

Clark turned red. “It’s a lamp.”

“I can see it’s a lamp. My question is why is it here.”

“It’s your present. I know it’s lame.” Clark looked down at his feet in what Bruce would say was shame, if the man expressing it weren’t the most powerful being on Earth. “I was just busy with the whole slug thing and the mortgage on the farm was due, so I was spending all my pocket change and food and light money on that, so I couldn’t get anything else.”

Bruce took in the stained glass lampshade, attached to a cast iron stand and lit by a single dingy bulb. It looked horribly incongruous with the gleaming metal surface of the workbench, the matte black of the tools,the blue-white LED lighting of the cave.

“Pete’s mom, Mrs. Ross, she was having a yard sale. It was going for five dollars, but I worked it down to three. Everything in Metropolis is so expensive.” Clark’s voice sinks down to a whisper. “I just thought it was pretty.”

Bruce sets down his tools and turns the lampshade to get a better look. “Does it work?”

“Yes! Yes it does.” Clark exclaimed in relief, rushing forward to grab the cord and rooting around for an outlet. “I checked before I bought it. You never know with Mrs. Ross.”

The light flicks on, yellow light pouring through the floral stained glass design.

“You do know LED bulbs use 75% less energy than incandescent,while being less of a fire hazard?”

“I just thought you could do with a little warm light.” Clark smiled.

Bruce grunted, but didn't turn the lamp off. Clark continued. “Mrs. Ross claimed it was Tiffany’s, but I doubt that’s really true. It is nice though, the flowers are-”

“Primula vulgaris and asphodelus, I know.”

Clark smirked. “Well, I was going to say primroses and asphodel, but if you want to be snobbish about it.”

“I want to get some work done, Clark, which you are directly interfering with.”

“Alright, alright, I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Evidently not.” Bruce grumbled half-heartedly. Clark smiles at him anyway.

“I’m glad you liked your lamp, Bruce. See you at the next Justice League meeting!” With that, Superman sped out of the cave, setting off every single one of the alarms again.

“Damn you, Clark.” Bruce cursed, spinning back over to the main monitor to shut off the alarms again. He looked at the security configurations, and after a moment of thought, adjusted the settings to disregard black haired, blue eyed humanoid forms traveling at above Mach 4.

Returning to his work desk, Bruce continues to fiddle with the stuck springs, grabbing for tools and resolutely ignoring the intruding article now shining brightly on the corner of his work table.

“I heard that Mister Kent came by earlier today.” Alfred remarked as he made his way down the steps with a tray of tea. “Apparently knocking is no longer in vogue in the midwest.”

Bruce sipped his tea, holding the saucer the way Alfred had taught him. “He wanted me to look at something.”

“I see.” Alfred said. Bruce refused to comment further.

“It is a surprisingly tasteful lamp. Though perhaps not quite appropriate, floriography-wise. Primroses.” Alfred gathered up Bruce’s empty cup and poured him another. “It might look rather fetching in the East Parlor, facing the garden. Shall I take it there?”

Bruce sipped his tea broodingly and looked at the thing. Alfred was right. The design was quite pretty; white, pale yellow and pink primroses with asphodel blossoms tucked in between. It would not look out of place in the East Parlor, a quiet little place that no one ever visited, except Dick when he wanted a good sulk. He could get it off his desk, out of his way and preserve the dark ambiance of his workroom.

But Clark would make such a fuss if he didn’t see it the next time he came in. He wouldn’t say anything of course. He was too polite for that. But he would get his soft eyed, Superman-is- disappointed look, and no person on Earth would want to inflict themselves with that if they could avoid it.

“I’ll find a place for it later, Alfred. Leave it for now.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.” Alfred is silent as he gathers up the tea cups, but Bruce can feel his eyes on him.

It will only be a few weeks, a month at most. Clark will forget about it and Bruce can shove this three dollar yard-sale lamp into the East Parlor with the other brick-a-brack and have his workspace back.

Another twist and the stuck spring finally comes loose. The motion knocks Bruce’s elbow lightly into the lamp, nudging it a bit closer to the edge of the worktable. Bruce frowns and shoves the clunky thing out of the way. He starts replacing the damaged springs with new ones, pushing them in and screwing them into place. The soft colored light shines over his workbench, muting the sharp edges of the shining steel.

Clark was right. The light is warmer.

 

oOo

 

The grappling hook is fixed and improved and finally replaced with a new version altogether. Bruce has other birthdays. Clark continues to speed into the Batcave without invitation, thankfully without any alarms. The primrose and asphodel stained glass lamp is never relocated to the East Parlor, and continues to bump Bruce’s elbow annoyingly whenever he is trying to work. Over time, it is nudged to the tipping point and almost crashes to the concrete floor. Clark manages to super speed and catch it, spilling his tea in the process. After this incident, it becomes a sort of routine for them. Clark speeds in, Bruce grumbles at him and continues working. Clark smiles and nudges the stupid lamp safely away from where it has been inching closer to the precarious edge, before talking Bruce into taking a break and having some tea with him.

Dick becomes Nightwing. Jason rises as Robin and dies. Tim Drake steps in. The Watchtower is built, the Teen Titans and countless new heroes appear. The lamp remains on Bruce’s workbench. The bulb goes out exactly once and Bruce frantically searches all over the Manor for something that is not LED. Alfred saves him and discreetly purchases a box of incandescent bulbs for that exact purpose. The lamp keeps shining, Bruce keeps knocking it over,Clark continues to catch it before it falls. And all is well, or as well as it could ever be in this world.

Then Doomsday appears.

 

oOo

 

“Are you going to the funeral, Master Bruce?”

“No.” Bruce looks over his notes on a new villain emerging in Gotham. “I have work to do.”

“Yes, this rising ‘Bane’. I can see why that would be more important.” Alfred’s voice is as professional as ever, but the tea he pours him is chillingly cold. Bruce takes a single sip of it and sets it down.

Alfred makes his way up the steps to the manor before turning back to look at him. “I know this sort of thing is hard, Master Bruce. God knows, I of all people understand. But you can’t lock yourself up here in the dark forever. Hiding from grief never makes it go away.”

Bruce does not respond, continuing to write. Alfred sighs, putting on his mourning coat. “We’ll be back shortly, Master Bruce.”

The door closes and the main lights of the Batcave automatically shut off.

Bruce continues scribbling away, brow furrowed, the yellow lamplight washing over the tense grooves of his face. Superman is dead. But there is no time to think of that now. There is work to be done, work Batman can do, and there is no time to mourn Superman’s death.

Superman is dead. Bruce can accept that, has accepted that, is already working on contingency plans and precautions to fill the gap. He’s not in denial of the cold facts. He watched the battle from the hospital room his short confrontation with the monster had put him in. He cleaned up the precious Kryptonian blood off car hoods and mangled street signs and charred pavement. He helped design the coffin, implementing his own security system so the body would not be disturbed. Bruce can accept the fact that Superman is dead.

He just can’t face the fact that Clark is too.

How long he works, Bruce doesn’t know. A puffy-eyed Dick barges in to scream at him until his voice breaks. Alfred comes in with soup that sits and goes cold. Bruce does not keep track of how many times it is dumped and replaced. Diana talks about comradeship and Elysium and the glory it is to fall in battle. After Bruce does not so much as twitch to acknowledge her, she and Alfred converse in low tones.

“When he mourned Jason, was he like this?”

“Just so, Ms. Prince.”

“Then a solution there must be! What helped him then?”

Alfred was silent. “I tried to move him. Three days he didn’t leave this place. Master Clark came to talk to him.”

The name hangs heavy in the air.

“He is like a man made of glass. He does not speak, he does not eat, he does not weep. He cannot move, or he will shatter.” Diana’s eyes glow. “ Bruce is Orpheous. He cannot look at Eurydice's face, or she will vanish. And this Hades has no end.”

“I fear he will simply collapse before he leaves of his own free will.”

“Three days.” Diana says, her face hardening. “Three days and he does not come out, I will drag him out myself. I’ll burn in Tartarus before I lose another comrade.” She exits the cave like a goddess on the warpath, metal greaves ringing with each step.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred says. “Won’t you have some tea, my boy?” He pushes the cup onto the metal of the worktable. “Please, Master Bruce. Master Clark would want it so.”

Bruce does not respond. Alfred stands there silently for a long time, eyes so very dark and sad, before bidding him goodnight and making his way upstairs.

Bruce continues to write, now meticulously drawing blueprints for an easily transportable cage. Small and light enough to be set up quickly, strong enough to contain an enormously powerful creature. Like Killer Croc. Or Bane.

Or Doomsday.

Burce skitters away from that thought and digs his pen roughly into the paper. It snaps, splattering ink all over the paper.

“Damn it.” He swears, scrubbing viciously at the marks with his grubby sleeve. “Damnit, damnit, damn-”

His elbow jerks too far, bumps the lampstand like it always does. Nudges it the last little bit too far, for one final time. Bruce scrabbles at it, but it’s too late.The concrete floor is unforgiving.

Bruce is on his knees beside the wreckage before he can register he has moved. Glass shards are everywhere, pale pink and soft yellow primrose petals shattered across the floor. The asphodel remains stubbornly fixed to its lead welding. The flower of death is cold and cruel without the warm light to illuminate it.

Bruce grasps the scattered broken pieces in his hands, clutching them until he starts to bleed, then only clutches them tighter. His chest is heaving and something is burning down his face. It’s only a lamp, only a cheap three dollar lamp from a yard-sale, with silly flowers and an out of date incandescent light bulb. But all he can think of is , please, not now, dead, dead, dead, I can’t live without you, please, not when I need the light, I need the light, it was warm-

“Damnit, damnit,damnit.” he whispers under his breath. “Damnit, damnit, damn you-”

He turns his face to the stone ceiling that is now his sky and wakes every bat with his shattering scream.

“GOD DAMN YOU CLARK!!!”

Chapter 2: Daffodils and Sunflowers

Notes:

Hi! I'm back with an additional second part. This chapter references the Reign of the Supermen comics and Bane breaking Bruce's back, so that's the context here. Hope you like!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The world is dark. For a very long time.

Bruce eats. Bruce sleeps and works and breathes. But no one would say Bruce lives.

He goes on. He must go on. There is a world to save, a Gotham to take care of, justice to be served.

The burden is the same. Clark’s just not here to help him carry it all.

He keeps a shard of glass in his utility belt. The ruins of the lamp sit in a box underneath his workbench. Fixing it is a lost cause. Every night, he’ll set out the pieces and tools, and just stare at it. It hurts to look at. He can’t do it. Maybe someday,a long time from now, the sun will rise and he’ll have the strength to fix the lamp. Weld the broken pieces back together, set it down among the thousands of flowers and offerings at Clark’s monument. But not now. Not today.

Batman endures, through heartache and mourning and broken bones. When Bane breaks his back, Bruce only wishes it was the worst agony he ever felt. The wrenching and cracking of the spine barely brushes the top three.

Alfred wheels him down to sit in the East Parlor. He sits there, day after day, looking out on the garden. On his better days, Bruce wheels himself out among the flowers. There are his mother’s roses, the foxglove Jason always liked. There are primroses too, pale pink and blue, with happy yellow centers.

All the colors hurt his eyes.

Time passes. Bruce recovers, takes up the cowl again. The lamp’s shattered pieces remain in their box. And there is a light in the East, news from Metropolis. Four men fly about, claiming to be Superman. The city buzzes with speculation. Bruce doesn’t give them more than a cursory glance before dismissing them. He has no patience for copycats and frauds.

And then, Lois Lane proclaims that Superman, the true Superman, has returned. ALIVE! the headline roars. Diana declares. “It’s him. The lasso does not lie.”

“Go see for yourself, Master Bruce.” Alfred urges him.

“I won’t go.” Bruce replies, the shattered petals of stained glass spread over his workbench.

“But he has returned..!”

“If I go there, and it’s not Clark in that body, behind that face…” Bruce stops picking through the broken pieces of glass. “I’m not going.”

“Then I hope you don’t mind if I drop in.”

Bruce stiffens. The glass petal he holds cuts into his palm.

“I’m here, Bruce.” Clark steps forward. His hair is longer, he has stubble, but it’s Clark's eyes, his face, his voice.

“Are you who you claim to be?” Bruce’s voice is hoarse with emotions he doesn't want to name.

“Yes. I’m really here. Diana approved and everything.” Clark steps closer and his scent washes over Bruce; fresh wind, newsprint, and wheat in the sun. Big gentle fingers pry the shard of glass from Bruce’s hand. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“I broke it.” Bruce says, voice cracking.

“I know.” Clark soothes, arms wrapping around Bruce as he starts shaking. “It’s okay that you broke it. It was just a silly lamp anyway.”

“Not a silly lamp.” Bruce grits out, burying his face in Clark’s hair. “Not a silly lamp. You gave it to me. You gave it to me.”

“Aw shucks, Bruce.” Clark smiles, and Bruce starts crying in earnest. “I knew you cared.”

oOo

The next week, Clark arrives covered in rubble, a wrapped present in hand.

“Earthquake in London. There was a flea market nearby. Saw this and thought of you.” Clark sets it on Bruce’s workbench with a cheeky smile.

Bruce sets down the grapple launcher he is again modifying and unwraps the gift.

 

It’s an obscenely bright yellow stained glass lamp, complete with an out-of-date incandescent bulb. Clark plugs it in and points out the design.

“I thought it was fitting.”

Sunflowers. For adoration, loyalty, and longevity.

Daffodils. For rebirth.

Clark grins like a child. "So do you like it?”

“God damn you, Clark.” Bruce says. "I love it."

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed this happy ending! Let me know what you think. Leave a comment or check me out on Tumblr@blooms-in-april. I'd love to get some prompts and feedback!

Love April

Notes:

This fic is mostly referring to the Death of Superman comic, where Doomsday kills Superman and he eventually comes back.

So Clark will come back! And he'll bring a new lamp once he sees what happened to Bruce's old one.

Look up Tiffany's lamps or stained glass lamps if you want an idea of what the lamp looked like.

The flowers in this fic were chosen for a reason and have real floriography meanings.

Primrose- I can't live without you

Asphodel- Death

Asphodel is also the flower of Hades, God of the dead, who plays a big part in the Orpheus/Eurydice myth mentioned by Diana.

Hope you liked the fic, please feel free to message me on ao3 or Tumblr with anything you'd like to discuss.

-April