agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

He opens his mouth and he'd like to say that he had answers for everything Bruce had said, but he can't. Because literally everything is blasted out of his mind by the last two sentences. It's so... ridiculous. The image of the Batman sitting in his homey little apartment. His mind is taken up with whether Bruce would sit on his couch and take in the Monarchs pennant on one side of his minuscule television opposite the Grey Ghost poster. Or would he sit in the chair Clark wrote in all the time, the one near the window in the living room? Would he look through the fridge, see if he was eating well enough? Check his mail and his bills to make sure that he's not running too lean taking care of his own needs as well as a good portion of the farm?

It's also incredibly sad. Why sit in his empty apartment? Why not call him? Why not ask him to watch a movie or play a game or-- anything? Why sit in his empty apartment while he was out and not--

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.

"If you just wanted to see me," he says, slow and careful and with all of the wind knocked out of him, all of it, "why didn't you just say so?"

Clark will never understand. Clark will never understand how Bruce can so... criminally undervalue himself. His company. His companionship. For goodness sake, despite the fact that he'll rib the man for literally anything else, Bruce's mortality is the ultimate Do Not Fly zone because there is absolutely nothing funny about that idea to Clark. Clark is already bracing for the day he loses Bruce. And he already knows it won't help a damn thing when it happens. And Bruce thinks he has to sit in his apartment while Clark is out instead of asking for a piece of his time? Does he not realize he's important?

He doesn't realize he's important.

"You really have no idea how important you are, do you?" is all he can say after all that, and it's airy and soft and full of a terrible kind of awe.

The ego that fuels Batman is monstrous, and even if it wasn't, Bruce Wayne remains the richest man on the planet despite hemorrhaging cash nonstop into philanthropic ventures. His list of achievements in and out of the mask is staggering, made all the more mind-blowing by virtue of being one mortal man. He is very aware of how important he is in the grand scheme of things. He's made himself this way.

Being important to Clark personally is another matter entirely.

That look on the alien's face makes him drop his own gaze in a kneejerk reflex. This is not where he expected the conversation to go-- it's difficult (extremely difficult) for him to be confronted with the kind of affection Clark's been showing. How can he hear something like that and not just think Bruce was being weird and creepy? --That is, if he did it at all, which he's never going to confirm. Is it because he loves him? That word he used, when explaining what he wanted. Bruce doesn't feel worth it, especially not from Kal-El. He's going to fuck it up, because he fucks everything up. Christ. He really doesn't want to think about that right now.

"Shut up," he says, sounding lame even to himself. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed." Bruce reaches out and grabs Clark's hand, using the kind of grip that says he expects the other man to play along and let himself be dragged, and heads up the stairs.

Oh, the second he said it, Clark knew he'd done it. Or if he hadn't done it, he'd thought about it enough to have as good as done it. That's why he does play along with it, lets Bruce drag him up.

But--

"We're talking about this later..." cause he's not shutting up on command, thank you very much. He's Superman, dammit.

Maybe he mumbles it, though. Cause he doesn't want to fight. He wants to wrap himself around Bruce and start chipping away at whatever he has to get through to convince Bruce that he's important to him. Not because he's a multibillionaire. Not because he's Batman. Because he's Bruce, his partner. Grumpy, sarcastic, overworked, deeply empathic Bruce who is literally the best man he's ever known.

Also the most stubborn.

Bruce hears him, but pretends he doesn't. He doesn't want to talk about this later, he wants to pretend this argument never happened and that Clark just waited until Bruce called him back tomorrow, then came over, and they did this without any of the weird tension that's now tangled into whatever this is.

It's not like he's kicking Clark out, though. A thing worthy of note.

His bedroom is dark, heavy curtains drawn with no light leaking through. It could well be night, from in here, and Bruce drags his shirt off over his head as soon as the door's closed behind them. He leaves his underwear on and that's all, the thin insulating clothing he wears beneath his armor discarded without care. "Come here," he says firmly as he crawls into bed. If Clark doesn't want to shut up on command, maybe he'll do this.

Edited (phrasing ) 2015-11-09 07:03 (UTC)

Clark notes it.

Clark doesn't immediately come, because there's some things he has to do first, like pull off his costume. He doesn't do it at superspeed, takes the time to pull off the cape, fold it. Tug off the top portion, push off the boots and the leggings. Those he leaves on the floor in a heap.

Once he's also down to his underwear, then he walks over, waiting by the bed. He's not getting into it quite yet. Not till Bruce tugs him in.

He'll listen if Bruce tells him. Here, when it comes to this, he'll do as he's asked because at least Bruce is asking. Out loud. With words. He knows that's difficult, so he has no trouble going along with it.

He's sure Clark will be able to see the eyeroll in the dark, inhuman eyesight aiding him where Bruce walks through the pitch-black room from memory. "Stop being an ass," he growls, and reaches out - with uncanny accuracy based on hearing his footsteps - and grabs Clark by the hip and pulls.

Clark is not actually being an ass and Bruce knows it, but it's easier to act like this than address anything of emotional significance. Also he really does want to get the fuck to sleep, and he wants to do it next to him, holding him or being held or whatever the other man wants. Just, come on already, Kansas.

Clark goes down easily enough, making the bed bounce a little with his weight. He's almost tempted to point out that being an ass is Bruce's job before he decides that there are better things he can do with both his mouth and his time. That's why he snakes his arms around the other man, his movements slow and meant to soothe, to send Bruce towards sleep again.

He follows that up with a couple of soft, almost reverent kisses along Bruce's shoulder before laying his head on the pillow beside him and closing his eyes. Sleep. Sleep good. They should definitely sleep.

Suddenly, this is a stranger idea than he anticipated.

Clark's skin on his for the first time, arm around him, mouth on his shoulder. Bruce is so scarred and worn that feeling someone so unblemished is surreal - Selina is as battered as he is underneath her leather, the familiarity of it consoling. This is something else, something good but so different it throws him for a loop. He huffs an exhale of some undefinable emotion and places his hand over Clark's arm, resting there.

Whatever. He'll have his existential crisis about being too dark and warped to be touching someone who's practically a god and made of sunlight after he's gotten at least four hours. Bruce evens out his breathing, and within minutes, is asleep.

(At some point, Alfred is going to poke his head in and turn Bruce's backup phone off, not in any way surprised at the company therein.)

Clark takes a little longer to drop off, since he has quite a lot of adrenaline to sort through. The drop of going from incredibly angry to incredibly... 'not angry' is about the best he can do to describe where he is now, but it's definitely an adjustment.

It helps being wrapped around Bruce. Touch is an incredibly important sense for him, keeps him grounded, tells him where he is when he can hear a billion things, smell a billion things, see so far. Wrapping his arms around Bruce is, in some ways, more comforting than any conversation. Feeling the marks against his skin, against his hands, that particularly heartbeat thunking steadily against his own...

He's out shortly after Bruce even if he might not need that sleep nearly so badly. He wakes when Alfred walks in because he can't miss the intrusion, but it's dark in here and he figures this is as good a way as any for the butler to find out. After, he drifts off again.

Congratulations on your big steel blanket, Bruce. Clark's more than a bit of a cuddler but at least he's nice and warm?

Without any beeps or alarms to wake him, Bruce sleeps for way more than four hours. It wasn't hugely considerate of him to drag Clark in with him in the middle of the afternoon - not everyone is nocturnal - so if he wants to bail (even temporarily), Bruce won't wake up surprised.

He is surprised to wake up naturally and without a headache, though. He feels curiously well-rested, which means someone turned off his alarms. Ugh. He's not annoyed at getting the sleep he needs, but now he's probably going to have to answer questions about how long he was awake in the first place. Steel blanket or not, Bruce rolls out of bed and slips away into the bathroom before he can get caught up in contemplation over Clark.

Besides, he's gross. How the other man stayed at all when he smells like he's been working for a week without pause is a mystery and a half. A shower is desperately needed.

The thing about having a sense of smell like Clark's is that you either learn to treat every smell as 'interesting' or you go slowly mad from the stink of the whole planet. Since Superman had yet to attempt to Febreeze all of eastern seaboard, it can be assumed that he'd managed to do the former.

...and he generally liked Bruce's smell. Generally. The week of hard work had pushed a little past that to where he was more able to tolerate it, but such was life.

By the time Bruce gets back from his shower, Clark is laying in the bed propped on one arm, clearly waiting for him. And regardless of what Bruce is wearing or not wearing, there's a bit of speculation in those eyes. He'd been with Lois Lane, after all. The man was not a stranger to intense arguments... or makeup sex. Which, he figures, in this case is probably going to be makeup making out at the most but still. Could be fun.

Make up for what, Clark being impatient and overstepping? --would be his petulant rejoinder to that, but they're not having this conversation out loud, and even if they were, Bruce probably wouldn't say it. Maybe. He's not apologizing, at any rate.

He's wearing a towel around his hips, another one being used to rub through his hair. He adjusts the lighting in the room from a panel outside the bathroom door, raising it to a dimness just enough so he can see without much strain. "I slept for over twelve hours," he says, "I can't believe you're still here." Hair sufficiently damp from drying, he tosses the towel back in the bathroom and runs a hand over it, pushing it out of his face.

Makeup festivities weren't about who was right or wrong. It was about getting past the fight. And weird backroad or not, they had gotten past it. Even if Clark pulled the topic up again, he wouldn't have nearly the heat behind him that he'd had last night. He'd figured out the missing puzzle piece. It wasn't necessary.

For his part, however, Clark shrugs,taking the opportunity to lay back then. He's smiling, just a little. Relaxed. While it wasn't the move forward he'd been expecting, it was one he had enjoyed.

"Nothing exploded or flooded or got attacked by something large and full of spines," Clark explains easily enough, "and I wasn't working today at the Planet anyway. So here I am."

He frowns a little.

"Besides, I didn't want to leave."

Why would I, is the unspoken question.

(Why indeed, with all those shirtless icons Bruce's pb doesn't have. Gosh.)

That statement is a spark against the tinder of insecurity Bruce struggled with the ~~night~~ day before - he fights internally not to remember Clark looking at him with pained eyes, wondering aloud at Bruce's opinion of himself. The other man can probably tell his brain tripped over something, since he stills in the doorway of the bathroom, neither moving nor responding for a while.

"As long as you honestly didn't have anything to attend to," he manages in an even tone, finally stepping forward to rejoin him on the bed, somewhat cagey. Whatever else, he wouldn't be able to tolerate this thing between them leading to either man slacking elsewhere.

Edited (bats are nocturnal) 2015-11-09 20:14 (UTC)

Clark actually looks mildly insulted. But only mildly.

"I should think the other week would have made it clear that I can still want to spend time with you and keep my head in the game. But no, Bruce. I'd never ignore my duties to curl up in bed with you."

Which had very little to do with Bruce and everything to do with Clark's own issues. Clark had enough guilt as it was dealing with every sparrow that fell. The idea of getting his rocks off while he was needed wasn't even horrifying. It was unthinkable. Clark sighs a little, rubs at his nose, and runs a hand through his hair.

"My bathroom could probably do with a scrub," he admits, trying to keep it light, considering, "but you do take precedence over some things..."

Look, he expects literally everyone to be more emotionally attached to things than he is - well, no, he expects literally everyone else to act on it more than he does. Bruce might be able to fool most people he knows into thinking he doesn't feel things, but internally, he feels so much that he tortures himself on an hourly basis. He just doesn't know how Clark will act, and it's in his nature to anticipate the worst from everyone.

"You could do that in ten seconds," Bruce says, "Including travel time." He kneels on the bed and crawls back, slow, laying on his stomach next to Clark. That's not an invitation to go clean his bathroom, it's pointing out that he had the time to do it while Bruce was out cold. Time management, Kent. Too late now.

He draws the fingers of one hand along Clark's shoulder, feeling how soft his skin is, knowing it's impenetrable and covering muscles no force could even dent. Feeling how warm he is. After a moment he drops his hand and looks away, the breath he lets out communicating I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

Clark is a fabulous actor, really. Or rather, he's got a fabulous act set up wherein most people have absolute no idea how much processing is going on at a given time inside his head, and a good 80% of it is dedicated to parsing the incredible amount of data he actually takes in, finding which pieces Superman could do something about, and then deciding which ones he should do something about. Because he can't be the world's savior. He can't be their magic bullet, not for every problem, not in every situation. Even if he could use every ounce of his speed, refuel himself by flying under the sun, save everyone (and he can't, in his more reasonable moments, he know he can't) it wouldn't be right. Because his job isn't to save everyone and fix everything.

It's just to show them the way and protect them long enough for them to figure things out on their own. It has to be. He's seen what happens in other worlds when it's not. He knows what he can become when even a small chunk of his humanity, when his belief in humanity, gets torn away. It's not good. It's never, ever good.

And because of that, every day, Clark wonders if his decisions, every one of them, are right. Because if he's wrong, he has to live with it. And, of course, he has to live with it when he's right too.

So maybe in that context, maybe for a man who can hear all the pain and joy in the world, maybe for him, a few hours holding onto the person he loves is absolutely worth it whether Bruce is awake or not. Maybe letting the sound of Bruce's heartbeat fill his ears, the marked and scarred skin under his fingers, that scent, sour as it was, real and visceral and his... those things are precious. Clark's. Necessary.

Far more necessary than going to clean his bathroom.

"You realize I still experience cleaning the bathroom the same as you or anyone else," Clark muses with a low snort. "It just doesn't take as much time."

But then Bruce's fingers are on him and his eyes slip closed with a soft smile of delight at the careful, exploratory touches. He opens them again when they disappear, blinking a little at Bruce's distress.

"Touch," and it's neither a command nor a request. It's just an offer. His own hand reached over to rest lightly on Bruce's shoulder. And it said: you can't screw this up, Bruce. Trust me.

Edited (...watch me spend half an hour on the tag and then forget to pick an icon.) 2015-11-09 21:46 (UTC)

It's frustrating. Bruce is not a physically affectionate person, but he is a physical person; in this situation his instinct is to touch him and instigate more. But he doesn't know what to do (emotionally or mechanically), and as Clark is well aware, Bruce hates not knowing what to do.

Bruce does trust him. Maybe more than he should. He turns his head back and looks at Clark's hand, letting the contact smooth away the frazzled bits on his nerves. It's Clark. His best friend. Who he's gone through so much with, hell and hell again, and thinking about it maybe it's actually shocking they haven't fallen together like this sooner. If the way they've operated for over a decade isn't love, what the hell is?

He moves onto his side facing Clark, and takes the hand that was on his shoulder, pressing it against the side of his neck, like he had when they were sitting on his sofa what feels like ages go already. It's gentle, not about anything but feeling him through his heartbeat and breathing.

Clark decides to take the initiative, leaning in and stroking the line of Bruce's jaw with the side of his thumb. He knows it makes Bruce confused, even uncomfortable, but he can't quite help that almost every time he touches the other man in this context, it's clear that he holds Bruce as something precious. It's no different now, though he does his best to distract by leaning in to kiss him.

And it's not nearly as frantic, not nearly as desperate, but all of those emotions from that first night in the kitchen are still there. Slow and sweet and gradually heating until his other hand reaches over to run down Bruce's arm and settles at his hip.

It's a lot. Bruce has been protecting himself from accepting the full impact of how Clark feels, but embracing it is just. A lot. He knows he's a lot, too, and still feels hesitation about pressing in further. Does Clark need all his awful baggage? No.

But all the same, he kisses back. Because he wants this, wants Clark, his mouth on his and his hands on his bare skin. This is the language he can use to push past everything that makes him hesitant, and give the other man a part of him that he can't articulate.

And he'll take it in a heartbeat. Once Bruce is kissing him, once he can feel the rhythm of the kiss between them, he can't help the soft noise of want that slips out, or the way the hand at Bruce's hip shifts around to his back as Clark moves closer.

Good. It feels good, more than he expected even though they've kissed enough times now that he should be used to it - he's not and there's something almost tangible in the energy between them. After a moment or two of that Bruce pushes Clark onto his back and settles partway against his chest. He touches Clark's hair, sweeping it from his face with his fingers, looking at him in the dim light before he presses another kiss to his mouth. The towel is.. somewhere, he's moved a bit since laying back down.

Clark settles on his back with something too quick to be a laugh and too joyful to be a moan. But then Bruce's hand is pushing his hair out of his eyes and Bruce is looking at him and it's his turn not to know what to do because his chest is just heavy and full and somehow Bruce's hands on him somehow make it lighter, the kiss helps him breath again. He needs it, in fact.

He doesn't need oxygen, food, or water, but he absolutely needs Bruce to keep kissing him.

There will be no objection. Bruce kisses him like he's learning him, like it's the most important thing he's ever done; he's slow and burning, the laser-intensity of being the focus of his attention diffused by his pace but no less present. He only stops to sit up, take one of Clark's hands and places it on his side, not satisfied with ghosting touches.

"I learn quick, you know," he tells him, his low voice working for him just as well here in bed as it does growling at criminals. "You'll still have to show me."

That voice is... unfair. He's not complaining, exactly, but it does take a moment to pull his head out of a fog of pure lust as Bruce stumbles headlong into one of his more pleasant fantasies. It doesn't help that he's been the focus of Bruce's considerable attention for the last few minutes. Or, you know, it does help.

"Dammit, Bruce," and Clark's voice isn't rough, just low and thick and deep. He gives Bruce's side a firm squeeze. It's a moment before he's got his head on straight enough to think.

"How far are we going?"

Because he needs to know if he's going to plan the trip, after all.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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