agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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."

Edited (i had a theme i was going to continue then forgot to continue it) 2015-11-12 05:10 (UTC)

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."

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.

Edited 2015-11-12 05:35 (UTC)

"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.

"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.

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."

"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.

Edited (definitely why people do superhero rp, to hear about cars) 2015-11-12 19:14 (UTC)

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."

"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.

"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."

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.

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."

Clark deflates and Bruce has to take an undetectable moment to repeat Raccoons got into my mother's cheese cellar to himself silently, because sometimes Kansas seems like it's the alien planet, not Krypton.

Once they're off the manor's main property, past the gates at the edge of the hill and around the initial curving road with a hundred warning signs attached to the tiniest guard rail possible, Bruce can really open the car up. There's no sensation of suddenly being squished into the seats from the force, and barely a sound as he presses the accelerator and changes gears, but the MPH dial jumps several notches.

"I need your help," he begins slowly, "walking me through how to offer help without putting my foot in my mouth."

And that's not calculated. Strangely. Bruce had considered paying the car off without saying anything, but thought Clark might not appreciate it. Bruce tries to be understanding about the world where money and pride intersect, but it's difficult for him.

Clark can't help looking over now, one eyebrow practically at his hairline.

"Are you asking ME for advice on how to talk to me?"

And he doesn't sound annoyed, just... Incredulous. Amused. Oddly fond.

After all, it made a terrible sort of sense. It just requires an outrageous amount of trust and a certain amount of built in leeway. Of course Bruce just asked him. Why involve a middle man?

"And I guess it depends on what kind of help you're offering."

Yes he IS just asking you, Clark, obviously that's the easiest way to skip all the red tape. Only Clark can really answer, and it's not like Bruce believes for a second the other man isn't aware his inclination is to just pay for everything and ignore the reactions.

"Financial help. There are options."

Of course there are options. Of course Bruce has a list of things ready, ranging from simple to outlandish. He just has no idea which would make Clark the least annoyed.

In the back of his head he maintains he should get credit for not paying the car off.

Clark nods, because he knows that. He knows, somewhere in his head, that Bruce could probably pay every bill he has and not even spend a percent of a percent of what Bruce makes in a day. Possibly an hour. But he's not-- he can't--

Anyone who ever said that Superman was perfect had never seen him try to accept financial assistance. Even when he needed it.

"Why?"

And it's not a question fueled by confusion but a very deliberate one.

Offering Superman money is one of those minefield missions only Batman is equipped for. Somehow.

Being opaque as possible has worked so far. The scenery zooms past them, and Bruce hardly seems to notice; he likes driving, loves his machines. It's easy as breathing to control the car at speeds that would certainly result in his license being suspended permanently if not for his sophisticated police scanners.

"Two reasons. One you will hate, and one that sounds manipulative-- but it's just honest. They're both true."

Edited (where did that extra word come from) 2015-11-13 00:18 (UTC)

"We're playing cards face up right now," Clark says, his voice light and easy.

It's a trap. Well, it's kind of a trap. The sort you know you're going to spring and it's just a matter of whether or not you survive the consequences. The cards are definitely face up, but they've also got razor edges.

"So..."

"So."

Yes, they are playing that way, and Bruce doesn't bother to refute the assertion. It is correct.

"One: If you only worked at the Planet, it wouldn't be an issue."

Because Superman exists, whatever time Clark-the-hypothetical-human would have for doing more work for more pay is sunk into being a hero, and whatever better work he's capable of has to be sacrificed in the name of keeping his identity secret. And Superman doesn't get a paycheck. Bruce knows the idea that he should be compensated for the work he does as Superman is grossly insulting, and so he prefaced it. This is the one you will hate. Yet, hating it does not make his point untrue.

"The other is, if I find out weeks down the line something's happened to you or, God forbid, your parents because you couldn't make ends meet, I would never forgive myself, Clark. I think about that and I weigh how mad I think you'd be if I did it without asking versus how much I care for your folks and how much even a little slip there would kill you."

... Aaand there's the manipulative reason. But it is, as he said, honest.

Edited (stopped typing in the middle of two words??) 2015-11-13 00:43 (UTC)

He nods, and it says something about this being a job for Batman that he merely seems to be considering what Bruce had said before he even gets to an emotion.

Because there's a lot to this question. A lot of variables and issues tied up in this and most of them, most but not all, are on his side of the fence for once. Declare his love and eternal devotion, sure. Hand over his heart without a drop of concern, of course. Taking a car payment, though, is apparently a Big Deal.

Some part of him wants to jump at it. Because financial interdependence is a step towards the kind of 'normal' relationship bindings that most people take for granted. There was no 'Ma's money' and 'Pa's money', after all. It was just Kent money, not that there'd ever been much of it.

But maybe, the more demanding parts of his mind insist, that's just an excuse. AFter all, it was bad enough that he'd left his family farm. It was bad enough that his father would be the last Kent farmer on that land after how many generations? Maybe this was just him trying to find an out. Have his cake and eat it too. He should be able to satisfy all of his own needs, and the needs of his parents. After all, he's Superman. Other people made due. This was like cheating. Cheating that made someone else make up for his failings.

But there are Bruce's two points, and Bruce hadn't been inaccurate in his assessment of his opinion, at least on the first.

Because he's frustrated at how little time he has to dedicate consistently to his job, his home, his parent's home. And he's frustrated at his frustration because his job as Superman is so important, as much to him as anyone else, but he can't help that it does create challenges. That he'd be on the verge of losing his job half the time if it wasn't for Perry's affection for him and-- well, it probably doesn't hurt that his best friend owns the damn paper.

That'd been a bit of a loop. He could be honest inside his own head. It'd been a relief, given who was previously owning it, but once he'd gotten past the relief, he'd had to wrestle with it just a little.

The second point is the real issue. Because it's a temptation. It's a serious temptation, but it's also a terrible idea, if he's honest with himself. Because he utterly believes Bruce. He believes Bruce down to his toes that the man himself cares about Clark, bout Clark's parents, about his mental state if something ever happened to the farm or his family. He knows that Bruce is an intensely caring man, no matter what comes out of his mouth, and the fact that he'd been so honest--

It made him very reluctant to turn the words on him.

Because it wasn't as if Clark wasn't afraid often enough about Bruce. It wasn't as if his great strength and speed, his senses and his powers, weren't at Bruce's command just about any time he asked for them. That he loved working with Bruce as much because of the experience as because he was there and could watch his back properly, and as much as he loved Tim and Dick and even Barbara, no one else but him was really Properly.

He wasn't proud of it, but that didn't make it any less true.

But it's a choice right now. To accept. To accept the help, yes, but also to accept that Bruce is opening to him and hold back from the easiest shot he's ever had at getting Bruce to let him help more. Because he doesn't want to hurt Bruce, never wants to hurt Bruce. And if Bruce says that his financial state is genuinely weighing on his mind, there's really only one answer.

"Well, Bruce," he says, and his voice is quiet but firm, "what you say is 'Clark, part of being in a relationship is letting someone take care of you. So if you're serious about this, let me help you.'"

Bruce will always be bad at accepting help, worse at asking for it, consequences be damned. But in fairness, even if Clark threw it back at him - no one could blame him if he did - writing a check for his best friend is technically an incredibly small thing for Bruce Wayne to do. Emotionally, it's massive, but that's why this conversation is happening. The ripples made from Superman overstepping Batman's ridiculous rules could result in a lot more than someone's bruised ego.

And then Clark says that, and Bruce almost wants to laugh.

Well fucking played, Kansas. Cards up and all.

Bruce meets his eyes through the rear-view mirror, serious still, with an edge of I see what you did there that implies fondness but does not actually let up into said fondness yet. Instead of an objection or the beginnings of an argument about how he's painfully aware this is a set up to come back to bite him in the ass later, he says: "In this relationship, we're making a point to ask."

Tacit agreement. Concession of the r-word. There may not be another pair in all 52 universes who need to take such precision care over the terms and services of doing what's best for the other, but Bruce supposes that's what happens when the only person who can complete an orphaned Kryptonian savior slash rural farmboy journalist is an orphaned borderline-clinical split personality billionaire vigilante (and so too in reverse). Nothing will ever be normal, and normal could never work to begin with.

Edited 2015-11-13 02:00 (UTC)

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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