for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

[stands_for_hope]

[continued from here and here]

Clark knew Bruce.

He knew that Bruce was, first and foremost, married to his work. He knew that the man was driven to a point just past healthy. By, you know, a few miles. He knew that Bruce could get focused, and that Bruce was not the sort to put down a mystery just because it seemed impossible to solve.

That said, after a week of hearing nothing out of Gotham (despite more than a couple calls, texts, and emails), Clark's very extensive understanding and patience regarding Bruce's behavior had quite firmly given up the ghost. That was why he was flying into the cave sans invitation (or even pseudo invitation) and looking around to see where--

Aha.

Asleep at the console. At 3pm in the afternoon.

Well, there was the sweet way to do this, which involved kisses and light touches, which was very much not in the cards at the moment. Then there was the slightly dickish way to wake him up, which would require a bullhorn or other loud noise making device; too much work. He could always go for polite, which would just involve a tap to the shoulder. Nope, they were past polite.

Which was why Bruce was summarily put over his shoulder as he started making his way upstairs.

Comments

[stands_for_hope]

Clark answers by pushing himself up and following along, stretching his arms and back and shoulders as they make their way to the bathroom. Clark can't help glancing around the room with a raised eye, this being his first time in this particular room, and keeps to himself the fact that the bathroom is only slightly larger than his apartment.

[frightening]

Clark's never been in here, really? Bruce might be mildly surprised to realize that, even if of course he hasn't; he just absently assumes Clark has been to and seen every aspect of his life. Possibly a weird thing to assume.

It's a nice bathroom, though, which it's obligated to be in a mansion. At some point in the past few years he's had it redone, obvious by the ultra-modern fixtures. The shower itself is enormous, with a dozen jets embedded in the walls and ceiling, water-proof control panel, a polished bench made out of the same marble that covers the floor and walls. Elsewhere there's a bath tub (... that could fit half a dozen people), but Bruce rarely uses it. The water heats up almost immediately and Bruce steps inside, pulls Clark along, and - yes, kisses him, why the hell not.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark is happy to be pulled into any kiss Bruce feels like giving him, especially when it leads him into a nice warm shower where he can wash off.

Just because he CAN deal with all manner of scents and the feel of the mess on his stomach doesn't mean that he enjoys it. Hot jets of water and marble under his feet is definitely an improvement.

[frightening]

Yeah, well, the mess on Bruce's end is up his ass, so there's less gracious appreciation for Clark's tolerance. Which is a point in favor of future use of condoms, though he'd quite enjoyed feeling all of him.

Anyway.

Besides the aforementioned needless details, Bruce isn't doing much more than rising off, since he'd showered before they began. He's pretty keen on touching Clark, though, the ghost of a smile on his face here and there. Thinking of how incredibly different this is compared to locker room showers training on the Watchtower. Also that they're both lucky he doesn't have under-used muscles that'd be sore right now otherwise.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark leans into every touch, chases Bruce's hand any time it looks like he wants to reach out, and there's a consistent smile on his face, small and warm and happy.

"How're you feeling?" he finally says, still looking pleased and delighted.

[frightening]

Bruce lets himself digest the question - which is probably good, too-quick answers with him can mean lies or anger. He slides his palms over Clark's hips and behind to hold him low on his back, looking at him plainly.

"Good," he says, and means it. Easily and quietly, he decides he doesn't want anyone else to make love to him that way; he liked it a lot, it's not about finding it uncomfortable but tolerable for Clark. He can't put his finger on why he makes that snap decision in his head, but it probably has something to do with emotional loyalty so he just shoves it into the Decisions Already Made box without further inspection. Done.

"Hopefully I wasn't too insufferably virginal." This is probably a joke.

[stands_for_hope]

"Oh, awful," Clark said with a flash of a grin before leaning in to give him a quick kiss, "bad enough we'll have to practice all kinds of things to get you past it."

HE's just... delighted. Almost floating as he walks around the shower.

[frightening]

No floating in his bathroom, Kent. Bruce keeps a firm hold of him, that maybe-playful edge just barely detectable. Getting laid definitely loosens him up, which can't be surprising going by brain chemicals alone.

"Is that so," he says, one eyebrow going up. "You better hope I don't get stage fright and turn shy." Bruce Wayne, shy about sex. Suuure.

He very briefly squeezes Clark's ass, split-second of a smile flickering across his face before he steps back to let one of the water jets hit his shoulders properly. Mph.

[stands_for_hope]

He did say 'almost'.

But the claims of possible stagefright get the most skeptical look in the world because Really. He'd have made a comment about it except that Bruce is now in the spray and trying to talk to someone with lots of water shooting at them usually gets lost in the noise. Instead, he goes to one of the other jets to wash off from head to feet, a bit of a sashay to the swing of his hips as he takes the step or two over. Then he's actually focusing on washing off.

[frightening]

Bruce lets the water (which is approximately two degrees below that of the molten core of the earth) nuke his shoulders and neck for a bit, giving Clark space to shower properly, and giving himself some time to just look at him. There wasn't much time for that in bed, too focused on touching and doing. He's seen the other man naked plenty of times, but he hasn't ever ... you know, checked him out.

He could do hell of a lot worse.

When he's done he steps out, letting Clark decide when to turn the water off, and goes to grab a towel from the pile of clean ones on one of the large counters.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark isn't oblivious to the watching but he doesn't play to it either, content to let the jet clear off most everything and give his muscles a nice spray. As soon as Bruce steps out, he uses whatever's in there to do his hair and give himself a good scrub before stepping out to grab a towel.

"Damn."

Because Bruce's towels are as ridiculously nice as everything else in his house. But the towels, he definitely feels the difference. AND they were good at drying. Clark's never found towels that weren't either a. sandpaper or b. awful at actually getting you dry. He'd swear these things are enchanted.

Soon enough, he's rubbing his hair off with a small one and has another wrapped around his waist to go look for Bruce.

[frightening]

Bruce hears that, observes the towel moment even though he's left the bathroom; maybe he'll remember to get him towels for Christmas. ... Maybe he'll remember to tell Alfred to get him towels for Christmas.

"Are you hungry?" Bruce asks quietly when Clark emerges. He's getting dressed, but it's nothing formal - he doesn't have to go to the company today, and it's still early in the daylight hours. "You've got clothes in one of the spare rooms, I think."

Unless Clark wants to wear his uniform or zip naked back to Metropolis.

[stands_for_hope]

He nods to that 'thought', since it is in fact the truth. There's at least one spare room that he's used on more than one occasion that has a few things of his stashed away. It's not his room or anything, but it's just... convenient.

Alfred's a very smart man.

"I could eat," he admits, looking Bruce up and down. Nothing formal, perhaps, but Clark still gets a little smile on his face from it. "What about you?"

[frightening]

Dark jeans, pulling a long sleeved black shirt on over his head. He doesn't mind the look Clark gives him. Likes it, in fact, which is something to think about. He's still adjusting to all the little changes that this big change has caused.

"I'm starving," Bruce says, and shrugs. "I think I ate a day and a half ago." I think again; Batman doesn't guess, he's fudging how long ago it was, probably like how he'll fudge how long he was awake. Slinking it in there with his casual maybe about whether or not Clark has clothes.

"We'll have to go to a diner or something, though, if Alfred realizes I've voluntarily gotten up before six am it'll scare him."

[stands_for_hope]

Clark is well aware of the fact that Bruce knows exactly when he ate, thank you very much. But given that he's expressing a desire to eat now and that he'd previously been taking care of a need for sleep, Clark's willing to leave it alone.

"Or I could cook. I'm sure you've got something we can both eat."

He flickered in place, reappearing dressed and with his hair somewhat in order, a pair of glasses in the breast pocket of a blue plaid shirt.

"Unless you have a diner you're itching to show me."

[frightening]

Huh. Bruce raises one eyebrow halfway, because ... well, it's not like he cooks, it's easy to forget to consider it an option. Meals made at home without proper cooking in the Wayne household tend to involve instant noodles and cold cereal, both of which Bruce sort of hates and only permits in the house at all because Dick likes them.

"I'm not in love with any diners," he admits. "The notion is more to avoid a chain reaction of waking up the rest of the house."

Or they could go to Clark's. Hell, they could go anywhere, he just hates waking Alfred on principle, and he knows Tim will have been out all night. Not like either are sleeping directly above the kitchen, but they're not dead exhausted like he was and thus still prone to waking up on a dime.

[stands_for_hope]

"Then a diner it is," and he tugs out his glasses to pop them on. There. He was ready to go outside the house.

After all, the last thing he wanted to do was upset the household. Alfred and Tim deserved their sleep.

"I'm assuming we've got about a half an hour drive regardless," since Wayne Manor was near exactly nothing and no one.

[frightening]

"Mm." Maybe a half an hour. Maybe twenty minutes. Depends how much Clark's going to protest his driving. Bruce pauses, though, unreadable expression on his face. He steps closer and runs his hands up Clark's chest, smoothing down minuscule remaining disorder from his quick change.

"Thank you. By the way." For being so loving and so careful, for staying with him the whole time he was asleep, for staying now... even for coming to check on him in the first place. Bruce isn't going to make a list out loud, Clark gets to infer everything under the sun because the words actually made it out of his mouth in the first place. And because Bruce doesn't want to talk about it, he kisses Clark before he can say anything in response.

It's not just that. It's nice to be able to kiss him. He feels able to be this easy with affection right now, so they might as well both enjoy it while it lasts.

When he steps away again, Bruce grabs a coat and a hat (doesn't put it on yet, his hair will finish drying in the car) and leads the way on the honestly rather long trek to the garage. It's all well and good, though, it'd defeat the purpose of leaving to prevent the others from being woken up too early if the garage door would do it. Better for everybody that it's approximately a thousand miles away. At least he doesn't waste time dithering over cars - BMW is least conspicuous. Definitely not a Lamborghini morning.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark pauses at the hand on his chest, leans the microscopic degree towards it, and can't help smiling over at Bruce at the thank you. He knows. He's very good at inferring and at figuring out when the inference isn't even necessary. The little kiss says everything.

Clark flickers again, returning with his own coat, eschewing the hat since it's only on the bare edge of being necessary, and follows along after Bruce without a word. They can talk in the car, after all. Best to leave people sleep.

Once they're at the car--

"I think my little Honda might curl up and die of shame if I ever drive here," he notes with a smile as he runs his hand along the side of the car. "You've really got an eye for cars."

[frightening]

"Only if you aren't taking care of it." Bruce pauses in the vee of the open driver's side door, sparing a moment to appreciate the line of the black E34. Not a newer vanity car - an ordinary model now, its leg of the 5 series having kicked the bucket in the late eighties. The last of the old school engine designs and aggressive hood slopes, out of production far before things like Bluetooth integration existed. It looks new, though, putting whatever it looked like even the first day out of the factory to shame. It definitely did not have the toys inside it does now: at some point the entire dashboard and electrical system was ripped out, rewired, and put back in. Bruce probably did it himself. Left the manual gearbox and the original shift stick knob, left the brown leather that's been cared for painstakingly over the years. The creak is barely a whisper when he sits down, but it's still firm.

"I like Hondas," he admits, turning the engine on once they're both in with the doors closed. Bruce will take a minute to skip through a touch display, skimming news, the police scanner, negligent playboy's missed work calls. "The company revolutionized cross-model interchangeable parts production; the craftsmanship on every detail is unbelievably precise. Ford popularized it a lifetime before but the quality is less by half, at least. You can take apart a Honda bike and use it to repair a Civic."

Engineer babble, oh god.

[stands_for_hope]

Does it prove how gone he is that he finds the whole thing mildly adorable? Not really, since Clark's always had a soft spot for people talking about the things they really enjoy, thinks the passion people can have for things is one of the greatest miracles in the world. But the fact that it's Bruce does make him smile a little bit more.

"I bought it on your recommendation," he points out with a sideways glance over at Bruce. After his last car had been blown up in a rather irritating situation that had nearly 'killed' Clark Kent. "But it's nowhere near as nice to look at as anything here."

[frightening]

"You were definitely tuning out the logic behind my recommendations." There may have been an oxford comma on the end of that sentence instead of a period at first, but it's forestalled by Bruce remembering how Clark looked at him an hour ago, said mine, yours, and thinks - knows - that Clark's never tuned out a single thing he's ever said. No matter what it seemed like.

Asshole.

The engine kicks up with a smooth and subdued roar that's barely audible to human ears inside the car as they leave the garage. Inherent noise dampening is a hallmark of good car body design, and Bruce could go on about it for hours. Declines to start. For his own dignity, if nothing else.

"The new Civics are looking nicer. They're finally upgrading their HF line with modern tech to cut fuel usage in half. I've considered giving employee bonuses to people who drive those, since we already do the same for hybrid cars." His tone carries a wry edge at his own expense; he knows his car collection is not exactly helping America's reliance on fossil fuel. But still.

[stands_for_hope]

"I'm sure they'd all appreciate it," Clark admitted as he leaned back in the seat. The car felt good, comfortable even given his size, and while he's with Bruce in the privacy of the car, he's not hunching in on himself or making himself smaller. Bruce's seen this before, because it's always been true to some degree, but there's a certain amount of uncurling that Clark does in front of him that never manages to happen anywhere else. It's really only more pronounced now: Clark Kent, allowed to exist without obligation for a breath or two.

"I will admit, it doesn't have any of the more high tech fuel innovations, but it gets good mileage. And it has the advantage of being paid off in about six months."

[frightening]

Ah yes, that.

"Were you really late on your car payment a few weeks ago?" Bruce asks, and it's so seamlessly a part of the conversation, without any awkwardness or socially inept detective pauses that is h a s to be manufactured. At a bare minimum, Bruce already knows the answer. Clark mentioned it offhandedly and Bruce didn't say anything, but he remembered because of course he did, and he either went through Clark's bills when he wasn't there or got into his bank account or found his lease through the dealership or hell, maybe he already has all the details of his civilian life on a hard drive somewhere.

What passes for politeness in his roundabout stalker way is giving Clark the opportunity to tell him to fuck off about it or not.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark didn't believe for one moment, one second, that the question hadn't been meticulously crafted and carefully sprung at just the right moment for his purposes. The question was whether or not to call Bruce on it. He flipped back and forth in it before finally sighing. The sigh would do the trick.

"Yes, actually," he admitted, deflating a little. "Raccoons got into my mother's cheese cellar and ruined her latest batch and the two families who usually board horses for the season didn't need the extra room. So it's been a little tight."