agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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.

Clark gives him a quick little smile at the endearment before heading towards the bathroom. That isn't where he goes, of course, and where he's actually going might become immediately apparent if Bruce happens to check the Planet's website with his phone: apparently the Royal Flush gang are in town, nothing earthshaking, though the live news feed rocks as Superman comes onto the scene. It's not terribly riveting television, and it's wrapped up in a rather short amount of time. Superman, for his part, eschews an interview or commentary to instead throw off a little salute from the air before disappearing.

And Clark comes back from the bathroom after roughly seven minutes.

"I hope you got me coffee," he says as he finishes fixing his hair. Or rather, unfixing it into the messier style favored by Clark Kent.

Of course he watches it, Bruce did not become a different person within the span of seven minutes, he will ever be a man with a need to know everything no matter the invasive cost of the observation. It's nice of the Daily Planet's website to make it easy today.

"What kind of monster do you take me for," Bruce says smoothly, looking up at him over the rim of his own coffee cup as he raises it to take a sip. There is in fact a mug waiting for Clark, though its temperature may have dimmed slightly over the course of the five and a half minutes it's been there.

"You sure he should be drinking any coffee? You were in there for a long time, darling," says the girl behind the counter who is no longer behind the counter, popping up to refill Bruce's coffee on her way elsewhere.

"He's just very exacting." Barring exceptional cover circumstances, Bruce is always polite and kind to service workers. A habit held-over from when his parents were alive.

"I'll bet. Food'll be up in a minute."

Edited (oh my god) 2015-11-13 19:15 (UTC)

Clark may have perfected the art at subtly glaring at his coffee until it's a decent temperature again without anyone noticing it and the only indication would be that there's a light steam coming out of the cup a moment later. He takes a sip, makes a decision, and then proceeds to commit a crime against the bean with at least two creamers and an outrageous amount of sugar.

"'Exacting?'" he can't help but question, because really, of the two of them?

Then he's bowing his head to the server. "Thank you, ma'am." Before turning back.

"Mmm, what'd you get us?" he asks as he looks down at the menus.

The look Bruce spares him while he ruins his coffee says that is revolting, but due to their friendship he may continue to live. This time.

Then, "Mm." What are you talking about, Mr. Kent, Bruce Wayne is terrible at his job, everyone in Gotham knows this. Always throwing money around and embarrassing his shareholders. Is he amused? Hard to tell.

"Omelets and waffles." Decided not to leave the house and betray Alfred's pancakes in the same go.

The look Clark returns with could be translated as an intense commentary on exactly how terrible pop-tarts with peanut butter were as a 'dessert'... or a simple 'bite me'.

He leaves the subject of 'exacting' alone for the moment before popping the diner menus back into the slot near the wall and sipping at his coffee concoction.

"Sounds good to me. Anything with mushrooms?" He could do mushrooms right now. That sounds good. He shifts a little and in the booth, his feet nudge up against Bruce's and he can't help a faint blush because really, he wasn't playing footsie but it still happened and he can't help being happy when he's happy.

A) Not coffee, coffee is entirely different and somewhat sacred B) Surely no biting at the diner, Kansas, good heavens. Between their borderline psychic exchange and the "accidental" footsie, the look in response to that response is Not until we're back at the house.

"Yours is mushrooms, green peppers, light onions, comes with hash browns and broccoli." Why broccoli? Who knows. It just does.

On cue, their food arrives, the girl pleasant about it - two omelets roughly the size of house cats, and a waffle plate that's clearly intended for sharing (though Bruce is definitely rescuing his before it's over-adulterated with synthetic syrup). Bruce gives her a quiet thank-you with a small smile before she ducks out again.

Clark would be horrified to know that Bruce thought he'd be going at those waffles with anything like that synthetic mess. He can taste every single chemical in everything he eats. That stuff tastes like plastic to normal people.

All the same, he ends up nodding politely at the server with a smile in thanks before going for his omelet first, because it looks delicious and the broccoli has some cheese on it so it's about as wonderful as food can be.

Don't worry, Bruce. Clark can wait until they're home. That's just a happy good food noise.

Because non-spoilable coffee creamers are so natural. Hmph.

His own omelet is good - Clark's right, from earlier, about any one place doing eggs or omelets well, obvious this particular diner does the latter pretty damn well. Sausage and potato omelet plus bacon is awfully heavy for his normal diet, but as noted, he hasn't eaten in a while. That in mind, it says something of his easy control that he doesn't inhale everything.

Bruce touches Clark's foot with his own at that noise, teasing, and then has to go through several more alerts on his phone. He ends up calling someone, using a subdued, scratchy voice and pretending to be hungover and irate about being contacted so early.

What do you think the sugar was for? It's a balance.

Clark listens to the mock hungover call with a wry smile as he works on his omelet. He can't help but think of his own message priority system, though his own had more to do with what he heard than any device, and how he listened listened listened-- oh there was something he had to attend to. Bruce handled his with a 'hungover' phonecall while he'd gone off and punched a bunch of people who really needed to put down the playing cards.

It's a working breakfast for both of them. There's something ordinary in it, because this has been them any number of times before, be it in the cave with takeout or playing unexplained-absence-tag-team at an event Bruce Wayne is hosting and that Clark Kent is covering.

"Anything interesting?" he asks when the other man returns, still working through his food. The inclination to talk shop is hard to resist, even in the necessarily vague language used in public.

This one had taken about three minutes, and the woman might cut off his coffee supply at this rate.

"Malaysia," is his answer for this one. Because of course, after a certain number of hours, something had to go wrong. This one had involved some unfortunate flooding and thank goodness for the ability to spin at speeds that could actually dry him off and leave everyone none the wiser. "Not really."

Worthwhile, certainly, but not really 'interesting'. Just what he'd find out after a little research was some unfortunate restructuring of a budget by a government official who wasn't from the area that would hopefully get overturned soon enough.

"You?"

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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