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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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.

"Well aware," because he'd like to say that they could be open about things, he really would, but he actually knows the rest of the Justice League. And if they don't want to spend half the time with the League with their blood pressure at the boiling point, then it's really best if absolutely nobody with a lightning bolt on their costume or a green ring know anything about this.

Clark might actually break something if Plastic Man was involved.

"Families?"

Because Alfred already knew. And Clark was pretty much unable to keep anything from his mother for any length of time.

Bruce gives the barest nod at his acceptance - he knows most of their esteemed coworkers already have regular betting pools about their arguments, about how long they'll go in between being best friends and someone yelling. Very few seem to understand it's just how they operate. It won't be good for anyone to throw this into the mix.

"Fine-- and I mean your parents."

Cousins and part clones do not count for this. Yet. Bruce doesn't know what he'll say to the boys (Dick will know instantly without needing to be told a thing, damn him), but they've always had an understanding about personal lives. To some degree. It'll be fine. Hopefully.

His phone beeps. Bruce unlocks the screen to glance at it and... freezes, expression as if his phone has just personally betrayed him in a grave way.

Clark nods automatically to Bruce's answer, because that'd pretty much been what he'd meant. Of course, Connor and Kara and Karen are family, he'd never say different. But they're also superheroes in their own right and that means that they fall into the second category primarily.

They're also all terrible at keeping secrets so it's an automatic 'no'. His parents, on the other hand, know their business.

When the phone beeps again, Clark sighs a little since he'd been about to propose more selfish and enjoyable, but the horror on Bruce's face freezes the words in his mouth. Clark can do many things but while he can read the horror on Bruce's face, he has no idea what in the world could be the source of it.

"Bruce?"

Bruce doesn't look up, or move, but one eyebrow raises, the expression on his face shifting to dire incredulity. Whatever it is-- is possibly only that bad to him.

After a brief moment that manages to feel like it stretches out for an eternity, Bruce picks up his phone and turns it around so that Clark can read it.

B: ( 7:01am ) S & I had sex. Insisted you be told. 0 approval on wider announcement. Princess: ( 7:04am ) Finally.

Clark can't help the snort before letting one of his hands spread over his face. He's scrubbing at it for a moment before a mildly goofy smile spread on his face, seemingly against his will since he keeps trying to rub it off.

"Ahh, Diana."

Imperiously, Bruce retracts the phone, closes out of the auxiliary OS - as if he'd text Wonder Woman from the Android operating system his mobile service datamines every split-second of - and shuts the screen off. His lack of response is enough of a response in itself; he's sure Diana is really entertained, somewhere. These people and their stubborn habit of caring about him as a person, ugh. Intolerable.

"Well that's done." Grumble. "Anything else you want to do today?"

Clark decides this, then, is when he can tilt his head to the side and give Bruce a smile so innocent it's positively indecent.

"I can think of a few things. If you have the time."

Bruce shakes his irritation with Diana off - it's not real irritation, anyway, they're too close for that - and looks over at Clark, clearly buying exactly none of that projected innocence.

"I have eight hours," he observes smoothly, taking a moment to drain the last of his coffee. Eight and not nine, because he has to factor in drive time back to the Manor, and how long it'll take him to get ready for the meeting and leave for that.

Not an insubstantial amount of time. But: "I will need to work out for a while, so if you stay you're volunteering yourself."

"I can work with that." Plenty of time, honestly, even given the fact that he can feel in his bones that he's going to get called out a few times to deal with some catastrophy and possibly his ex falling out a window.

"And I wouldn't dream of skipping out on a workout."

Bruce was pure poetry in motion and that wasn't any less true while he was working out. Beautiful to watch.

"Mm." Alright then. Bruce is content to sit in companionable silence for the rest of breakfast, though he knows it won't take long now that he's acquiesced to spending the rest of the day together. It's nice, though, that he and Clark can talk about anything, that he can be more talkative around him than he is with anyone else in the world, and that they can also just shut up.

He puts the meal on his card (he considers telling Clark to pay for it, but then remembers he might not have his wallet at all unless he stopped at home), and leaves a $200 tip on it since the waitress has seen his name now. She doesn't notice until they're heading out the door, and she yells a frantic 'THANK YOU! JEEZ!' and Bruce just shoots her a bright smile over his shoulder. Pandering, but he's got an image. ... A few images.

Back in the car, and on the road.

Back in the car and on the road, Clark leaning back into the seat with a pleased little smile, listening to the world at large and the sounds of the road and Bruce's heartbeat. It's a few minutes before he speaks up to admit--

"I may have mentioned my feelings to Diana before I mentioned them to you."

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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