agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

[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.

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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?"

Bruce makes another one of his 'mm' sounds before he responds, chewing a bite of omelet thoroughly. Thinking about Malaysia, maybe.

(There are two types of people in the world: Those who are awed by Superman, and liars.)

"Someone knocked over one of our recovery clinics on the edge of town, wrote my name a thousand times on one of the walls with a purple Sharpie marker. I got the alert in the car - I know who it is," with a shrug, because of course he does, "but the board caught wind and they're unsettled."

Bruce doesn't sound concerned. Neither did Brucie, come to think of it, all petty irritation at being bothered with such a pointless issue.

Clark's nose twitched in irritation, considering he knew how well those recovery clinics worked to help people. While he knew that Bruce wasn't concerned, that Brucie wasn't concerned, it was still annoying. Finally, after a moment of settling, he grunted and went back to his breakfast.

Bruce would find them, especially if he knew who it was, and he'd more than likely punch them repeatedly in the face. At least there was that.

"Monarchs swept the Knights last night" he observes with glance towards a television playing the news on mute.

No one will be punched; Batman is going to ask this person very nicely to stop, observe the return of any supplies unused, and if there is any protest, Batman will break all his fingers. Slowly. At least that's the plan as far as Batman will explain it to this fellow who has a crush on Bruce Wayne. Usually, these types of plans work. Sometimes it takes a finger or a finger and a half, but it's never been more than that.

"It's the least they can do after being dead on arrival for three seasons, I suppose." Whether or not Bruce actually gives a shit about sports remains a true mystery, though it's something he has to keep abreast of for his public persona. "They can keep each other company in the mire of mediocrity the west coast has plunged everyone else in."

Clark gives a snort at that, because the Monarchs are his team. Not in the ownership sense, obviously, but in the loyal fan sense.

"The Monarchs have almost made it to the playoffs the last two years, thank you very much," Clark points out with a waggle of a finger. "That's not mediocre. That's above average. They've just had some trouble since they lost their head coach. The new guy hasn't quite gotten a handle on the team yet. It takes a while to really establish a team identity properly."

"A tragically unsuccessful robbery of an empty house," he drawls, because whether or not he actually cares, Gotham vs Metropolis ribbing is written in the fabric of the universe as something necessary. "The Knights at least dignify their abject failure by strategically not struggling when they know they're going to be steamrolled."

No amount of ribbing will cover up how bad Gotham's baseball record is lately, though. At least they have football?

"And yet, it doesn't stop the Knights players from asking for a raise. I guess losing really does sting." He goes back to his omelet then, since he wants to finish it before it's cold. Cold eggs are no one's friend.

Then he reaches for the waffle and dips it in the whipped cream on the side of the plate.

"Everyone wants a raise," he says, tone wry with a touch of genuine frustration. Bruce gives Clark a bit of a look at that but ends up rescuing the other waffle from a whipped cream death, settling it on his plate with the remains of his omelet.

He's quiet for a bit, then: "It'd be so easy to go bankrupt." A staggering thing to say, with his net worth at around 98.2 billion, but his father had done it almost to the point of no recovery before Bruce was born. The results were 50/50 - throwing money at problems does a fair amount of solving (no matter what those money can't buy happiness pricks say), but it can also seriously fuck the economy over and result in even deeper problems. Thomas Wayne had an unimaginable heart and a brilliant surgeon's mind, but he just wasn't a numbers man.

"Some days I wonder when I'll start spending all my nights threatening CEOs about exporting jobs."

"Not everyone gets paid 3.2 million dollars a year on average to play a kid's game on television," Clark notes, because he might be a sports fan, but he's never had any illusions about how the sport works, "while they play in a state-subsidized palace of a field."

He frowns a little at Bruce's bogarting of the majority of the waffles, as if they required saving from the clutches of the evil Superman and his whipped cream, but he's got hash browns and broccoli so... whatevs.

When Bruce makes the comment about bankruptcy and exporting jobs, he can't help but raise an eyebrow. There's no comment, because as he'd said previously, terrible with money. But the comment seems... unlikely. Both of them, honestly. For a large number of reasons. There's a question in his expression, though, one he's smart enough not to voice.

Should he be concerned about you, Bruce? ~~More than he usually is?~~

"I don't care about the financial angst of professional athletes," he says with a dismissive snort. "But you know me and my bleeding heart," here he turns sarcastic. "Made me think of something else, is all."

Bruce is ever trying to expand, to employ more people, to employ more at risk people, stabilize paychecks versus cost of living, secure livable benefits. It's frustrating to him that he can't just fix everything. All this money and power and it's still treading quicksand to fight against the tide of the rest of the country - the world - that's determined to choke everything below the upper class to death. It's never enough.

He's fine. He's just hard on himself. As usual.

The look he gets back is sympathetic, because they both have the same problem there and Clark knows exactly how much that heart really does bleed. It's the kind of look that makes him want to do Stupid Stupid things and it's only because he's Superman that these things don't get done. Because he knows it can't be forced. Because he believes that it'll get better. Because he has to believe it.

And what he wants more than anything is for Bruce to get to see it.

So what it falls back to is a desire to wrap himself around Bruce for a while and make him hope again.

"So what's the plan for today?" he asks, needing to change the subject before something stupid is done.

Edited 2015-11-14 00:18 (UTC)

"Meeting at 4pm, out after." The waffle is pretty good. A little dry without any butter or whipped cream, but there's no chance he's going to admit that. He has pride in his stubbornness.

"Nothing pressing barring the usual routine until then."

Which means he'll probably work out, or train, or spend time going through cold cases, or comb through police frequencies, or read something esoteric. Or, because he did not specify one of those things in response, he'll take into consideration whatever Clark may or may not suggest.

Yes, Bruce, you show Clark. You eat your waffles like a man. Dry. Like your... sense of humor?

But to the answer, he nods along and considers what he might suggest, since he knew how to pick out an invitation to propose something from Bruce's language. Honestly, Martian Manhunter had a harder time reading the two of them than they did each other.

"I've got duty tonight," he finally mentioned with a slight wince, "so I was hoping we might... discuss..." well--

"Are we mentioning things to Diana?"

Because Diana. Diana. Everyone else, of course, because superheroes could gossip like gorram fishwives, but mostly Diana.

Whatever, they're perfectly fine and he doesn't need the extra sugar. He indulged already by not requesting egg whites only in his omelet.

And then: very brief, very lowkey, but still very much a mental blue screen. Only Clark and possibly Dick know him well enough to catch something like that. Jesus Christ, Kansas, couldn't you just suggest going back and having sex again or something.

"We're not not mentioning things to Diana," he says slowly. "I'm not sure there needs to be an announcement, though."

What he said back in his sitting room-- they'll think Clark's insane. Not Diana, but anyone else who notices. It'll be a distraction, putting them both under needless gossiping scrutiny, and the handful of people who know Batman is Bruce Wayne are going to hate him even more with how well known of a womanizer he is. And sure, that's fine, Bruce doesn't care about people hating him (they would anyway), but he doesn't feel right about Clark being put through that.

He scrunches his nose in obvious distaste because no, no announcement necessary. Of course, he's over the moon, but he's no exhibitionist in any sense. His relationships and his happiness are his and his alone. No announcement necessary. But Diana was... Diana.

"You just want to let her find out on her own?"

Because the one thing Clark might understand even better than Bruce is spin control. How news and information works. And the one thing he knows is that if you can control the way information is released and received, you're miles ahead of where you'd be if someone just figures it out. And Diana is Diana.

...just because he wanted to back to the manor and have sex again (he definitely has plans to get his mouth around Bruce sometime soon) didn't mean he was going to avoid some of the more important questions. This is what you get for having a relationship with the responsible type, Bruce.

Uuuggghh god why do integrity and responsibility have to be things that exist at times when he doesn't need them to manipulate somebody else. Bruce thinks about it, his organic computer brain processing opinions and possibilities and his own paranoid standards of privacy quicker than should be possible.

"Hmph." That's a no. Bruce does something on his phone, swiping through, maybe finally replying to a text, maybe doing something with his hands to avoid answering. Bruce knows a fair bit about spin control as well - just look at his cover identity, and how many years it's been with no one so much as wondering.

"We can't be open with the rest of them, you have to know that. Any time we disagree, it'll be a lovers quarrel, every time we do agree or get assigned together it'll be preferential treatment." It's not so bad with Dinah and Ollie, but they aren't Batman and Superman.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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