agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

"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)

To be fair, the ripples made from Superman obeying Batman's ridiculous rules could have a pretty big impact too. It's only fair that Clark wants to build in... not a road. Not even a door. More of a hatch than anything. He figures it's better to establish that hatch now rather than bust through a wall and possibly cause more damage than he'd like to.

"That's the point of this conversation, isn't it?" and it isn't quite mock innocence, but it is making it clear that the discussion is about both of them, both of their usual lines in the sand. It might have started with him, but it won't end with just him.

Batman's rules can be left for another day's argument. Arguments. Days. Because no amount of feelings for each other will ever keep that from being an issue over and over again, Bruce knows, but that's just the way it is.

"Yes."

Clear and firm. It goes for both of them. No doubt they'll each trod over it in times of (conveniently perceived and/or actual) emergencies, but it's a good start for whatever this is that they've gotten themselves into. And something of a milestone for Bruce, as far as transparent communication goes. He's willing to do it - initiate it - for Clark.

And Clark knows what's going on. This all is being done out loud, incredibly transparent as things between them go. They tend towards the unspoken, after all.

He sucks in a breath and shoves down the thousand and one doubts he has about this to finally ask

"So... what are the options?"

He flicks another look Clark's way through the mirror, something else on the tip of his tongue-- but whatever it is, doesn't say. Instead the car slows, rapid enough that under anyone else's control it would be jarring and not the smooth transition to in-city speeds; they're already curving into the highway that'll loop them to downtown, bypassing the suburbs. Thirty minutes, ha. They will be parked in fifteen. Amazing, sometimes, how all that introspection is only a handful of minutes out loud.

"Well, one is pay your car off. Two is I give you money to give your parents, regularly. Three is both. Gets slightly more complicated after that."

He looks sideways over at Bruce, directly, no mirror involved.

"Which option means you won't be worried about me?" because honestly, that's the reason that convinced him, more than anything. And when it boils down to it, there's no such thing as softening this blow. His pride won't smart better or worse depending on the amount of money because he is very well aware that no matter what it is, it's nothing to Bruce. Doing this is doing it, and he's never been one to do things halfway.

"Assuming you don't want me to force a paygrade adjustment mandate on the Planet that hits parameters so specific they catch you and a dozen other people, or take a branch out of the nonprofit dummy I use to bankroll the Watchtower to get a tax break on donations to Superman's continued well-being..."

.. Which he would do. Because he is insane.

"Both. If there's extra you feel uncomfortable with, I have a list of organizations to donate to a mile long."

As tempting as the paygrade adjustment is (and it is, mostly because it benefits more than just him), that option is too dangerous. Too obvious. But--

"Clark. Clark Kent. Superman isn't getting anything."

Because he's doing this for Bruce Wayne, not Batman. He's doing this because they're doing this together. Clark had asked Bruce to let him love him, to let him be there for him, and right now... well, right now, he's agreeing to the same.

They're at a red light. The windows are tinted (even the front windshield, which is illegal, but oh well), and so there's no security risk when Bruce leans over and presses a quick kiss to the side of Clark's mouth. The gesture may be sweet but his touch is steady and his expression is serious - if softened by something deeper.

"Which is why none of that's ranked in the top three."

Bruce would never screw around with the lines between Superman and Clark. Though they don't need those lines between the two of them, they exist for a reason. Same with Bruce and Batman.

"I wonder if I'll actually puke if I eat pancakes made with GMO flour." ... The diner is up ahead.

He'd been wrong. There was one thing that softened the blow. And of course, Bruce had figured it out and done it. It was sort of amazing how that worked.

"Honestly, whatever you think is best," he says with a hand through his hair. "I'm generally pretty terrible with money."

His smile is wry as he glances over.

"And I think you'll survive a little plebeian flour."

Bruce does not say I know you are, because that feels like pushing it right now, so he just huffs at the assertion about plebeian flour. He's starving and he needs coffee; in retrospect it's a minor miracle he didn't offer to do something even more outlandish.

The diner is jammed in between an apartment building long since re-purposed for offices and a gas station, the ruins of an out of use freeway off-ramp scraping overhead covered in moss and ivy. The crumbling parking lot is nearly full, the value of the cars wildly varied. Everybody comes here. Like any other old, urban city, Gotham is stitched together too densely for thick dividing lines.

He pulls the cap on as he gets out, locking the car up behind them. The diner is self-seating with amiable acknowledgement from the girl behind the counter ('Morning sweethearts, coffee'll be over in a sec'), and soon they're in a booth that's cleaner than the grimy windows suggest it should be. Menu's aren't sticky either. Not bad.

"Eggs or omelettes here?" Clark asks as he picks up the menu and starts browsing through. He's learned through the intensely scientific method of having eaten at a whole bunch of them that most diners are either good at eggs OR omelettes. The occasional gold star establishment does BOTH well, but he figures it's worth asking since he's guessing Bruce has probably eaten here at least once before.

He's about to say something else when his eyes get that distant look in them that Bruce knows well enough and he sighs as he holds up a finger and starts pulling himself back out of the booth. Duty calls.

"This shouldn't take too long but if she comes by, order me something? I trust you."

Anything vegetarian on the menu would probably serve him well enough.

Edited (ugh word repeats.) 2015-11-13 08:06 (UTC)

"See you, sweetheart."

It sounds a bit like a quiet echo of the girl behind the counter, but regardless, it's probably not playing fair. Batman only plays to win, though.

Bruce feels more human with coffee, and orders an array of things either of them could eat (except for bacon), in the event Clark ends up being gone for long enough that he has to take the rest of it home. He checks up on news from his phone; ignores an obnoxious text from Tim he's glad he didn't read when Clark was present.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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