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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Given that inch he takes it, tangling with him, pressing his mouth to Clark's in a kiss that speaks - shouts, screams - his passion and affection. Love. Bruce tugs him enough to get one arm around him, the other against his hair, holding him close. Like when they'd been recovering before, his hold is protective.

This is their moment, and the rest of reality can fuck off for a while. Bruce is willing to lay here with him (and enjoy laying here with him) for as long as it takes. It's not a process he's gone through with anyone else, but of course, no one else is Superman. Bruce never forgets what he is, an alien god, and some people think it's cruel of him to never regard Clark as simply human. Idiots. Remembering isn't just Batman being cold hearted and paranoid. It's about respect.

There's a niggling little part of his mind that says he needs to pull up, needs to pull out of this strange hyperaware focus and back into his usual frame of mind. It says 'stop being weird', 'stop being alien', 'why can't you have sex like a NORMAL person?' and he leans back into Bruce's arms, into that protective hold, and soundly tells those voices to fuck off because he feels amazing.

Because Bruce had made goddamn love to him and he'd never felt so good in his entire life.

But that's the beginning of the words really coming back, English and the bed and the room and what's outside the room. He breathes in Bruce, tips his head up, and kisses the pulse point on Bruce's throat before pulling back to look at him with clear eyes. Another kiss, gentle and sweet and pressed to Bruce's lips, and he breathes out.

"Can I say 'thank you' now?"

Bruce looks at him, pushing Clark's hair back from his forehead, that one unruly cowlick that Bruce usually thinks looks dopey on him. This morning it's cute.

"If you want to," he murmurs. He's content, wondering about the cathartic experience of it versus the sexual experience. Not that he's going to put this in a file somewhere about Kryptonians, he just... wonders. If he did the right thing, if it measures up to how Clark's other lovers have treated him. (How would he know that no one's ever engaged this side of him?)

"You don't ever have to."

The thing about Clark Kent was that anyone who knew him, really knew him, knew about both sides of him... knew how much trouble he had with being different, with feeling alone. Those he'd been with before Bruce had combated this by treating him as human as anyone else.

Bruce was the first one to go at the problem from the opposite direction, very firmly acknowledging that Clark was different, felt things differently, required different treatment, but through pure force of will, had normalized those things. He'd said, in no uncertain terms, that Clark was an alien, he did require different care sometimes, but just as certainly, that that was okay. And how could he doubt Batman?

That was why he holds on tight and tips his head back to kiss Bruce's hand, from his fingers down to his palm and finally, the wrist.

"I know I don't have to," he murmurs, "but you should know how much I enjoyed that."

The thing is, Bruce knows what it's like to feel alone. Thanks to his life and the choices he's made, he knows what it's like to be alone. He'll never complain, though; he doesn't complain when people get angry with him for not thinking or reacting like they do, doesn't complain when people hate him for not behaving 'correctly' because they refuse to take into consideration how monumentally different his life is from theirs, how it's impossible for him to go back after all this time. People rage at him, guilt trip him, accuse of him of being deliberately selfish because they can be vigilantes without acting like he does, never once thinking to acknowledge that they all move in the protection of his wake, and that he never had anyone to hold his hand or help him or take his emotions out on. Bruce keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't even consider complaining no matter how isolating it's become-- he chose to do this to himself, and he's human. Clark didn't choose. Worlds of difference.

But still there's ... a degree of understanding.

"I'm glad you did," he says after a while, and there's a slightly odd quality to his voice. If Clark looks he'll see that it's because Bruce has a small smile on his face - not smirking or sharp, but warm, and like all his real smiles, somewhat rusted. It's not an expression his face is used to making without being dishonest about it.

Edited 2015-11-16 16:33 (UTC)

Clark certainly looks. And he can't help lifting a finger to run along the outside of the smile.

"Thank you for that too."

That's the thing about being with Bruce: the man is a gift. An absolute gift. And if he heard anyone saying differently, well... maybe the defensiveness regarding how others treated him wouldn't be new, but it would definitely have new shades to it now.

Bruce makes a little 'ugh' noise that's plainly all for show, pretending it's such a burden Clark is so sentimental and full of feelings and doesn't even have the decency to let Bruce smile like a goofball without poking a finger in his face. He leans in to kiss Clark softly, and makes sure he's in a comfortable position holding him, so they can just settle here for a while.

Bruce's kisses are as multifaceted as the man himself, and this one is no less of a revelation. It's enough to make a man damn glad that he'd finally gotten his shit together and asked him out. He knows that not everyone gets to see even a fraction of the sides that make up the man in his arms, but he can still imagine that what small part they do get is still pretty damn enchanting.

The little 'ugh' noise merely has Clark ignoring it in favor of the gentlest eyeroll the world had ever seen before he was being kissed. That took precedence over-- well, just about anything.

He loves kissing Bruce, loves the firm weight of his body on top of him, actually enjoys the strange sensation of Bruce's clothes on his naked body, and he's quite content to just... kiss the other man for a bit. After all, the likelihood of getting another chance like this any time soon is next to nothing and Clark wasn't about to waste a precious second.

It's almost dreamy like this, slowly making out in the dim morning light. Ah.. ha. Someone opened the curtains a little while they were gone, how great for Bruce to notice Alfred has been in here judging the remnants of what was going on earlier-- at least he didn't have the gall to change the bedsheets.

He drifts, near dozing in some moments; Bruce isn't properly tired, given how much he finally slept, but sexual activity is still taxing in its own way. He can't bitch too much about getting the opportunity to laze around after, especially not when it's like this.

Clark deserves better and Bruce... doesn't deserve anything. But the Kryptonian will live on for centuries still. Bruce won't be wasting that much of his time, all in all. Maybe it's alright for him to be selfish.

A bit of sunlight on his skin is just about the only thing that makes this better and he'd thank Alfred for that if he knew any way of getting through that sentence without blushing himself halfway to the grave.

Bruce seems content to lazily kiss him until something comes up, and Clark is all kinds of all right with this, even if he's a little surprised. He's already gotten so much more of Bruce's time than he ever expected when he came here. And that's fair. Bruce has a massive company to run, let alone the smaller organizations under it that do charitable work, and that's just Bruce Wayne. Batman has even more to do, and if he didn't entirely trust Bruce to know his own needs and limits, he'd be nudging them out of the bed so Bruce wasn't irritated later.

But Clark's feeling uncharacteristically selfish and as long as Bruce let's him, he's going to hold on. Clark can't help running his hands along the lines of those jeans, along the fine material of his shirt as he explores the planes of Bruce's back. He feels a little ridiculous being turned on by the curves and dips of muscle there considering, but he is. Mostly because he knows how hard Bruce works to maintain it and the absolute poetry it allows him to weave in the midst of a battle.

There is no one quite like Batman in a fight.

Eventually, his hand settles on the center of Bruce's back, right over his heart, and stays there. That heartbeat... the world could burn to ash and as long as he still heard it, there'd be hope. They'd figure something out. And that might sound like poetry, but it'd been the case a time or two. Nothing like superheroics to make outrageous declarations yesterday's League reports.

He doesn't know which day it'll be gone, when nothing but silence will ring in his ears. He doesn't know and he can't imagine it. And that's why he's going to just hold on for the moment, kiss the man he loves, and take this morning for what it is.

He knows this kind of touch, this type of intimacy, is important to Clark, and vital to most people. If he indulges like this he can rationalize it as doing something for Clark, and not for himself - he can't get used to it. He just can't. Then he'd end up wanting it, and that can lead to needing it and there's no way that he can permit that to happen.

Stolen moments.

Eventually, he does have to get up. Bruce deliberately cuts this just a little shorter than necessary, reminding himself that as much as he loves it, he doesn't get to accept it as a routine fixture. Gently he extracts himself, careful about being smooth and steady in the event Clark's still drifting deep in sensation.

"Gym," he reminds him, stroking his hair as he kneels beside the other man. "Stay here for a bit. You know where I'll be."

His eyes slip closed at the hand in his hair and a faint smile curls on his lips that he doesn't even realize.

"I always do."

He leans back to settle a little more firmly on the bed.

"Give a whistle if you need someone to hold your towel."

Another one of his trademark half-dismissive grunts, and Bruce is up and out.

Even as he's changing and warming up, Bruce is sure Clark is monitoring him, which is half strange and half comforting, but he lets it slip away from his attention. He has to do this as often as he can manage to keep his mind and body from crumbling in the field.

Form practice that melts into half-waking meditation. Holding positions, slowing his heart rate.

Hundreds of pushups come later.

Clark takes the time to properly acclimate himself to the world at large, slowly expanding his senses out until the world is once more crashing around in his ears. It's pretty good timing too, given that Toyman decides that today is his day.

That one takes about an hour to clear up, all told, as much because the damn thing had been tricky as because he'd helped with some of the rubble clean up and reassuring people as Toyman had been once again taken away. Once it was done, though, he headed straight towards the practice area. He wants to watch Bruce practice for a while.

...there's reasons why Clark doesn't think Bruce is a creeper and not all of them are an understanding of his strange mental twists.

All the same, he does come with a towel and a couple of bottles of water, not that Bruce hadn't brought his own.

When Clark gets there, Bruce is going through forms that are ... something. Not properly acrobatics or martial arts, balancing on his hands, controlled returns to his feet (or one foot, or the other), finding a balance point straight upside down on one hand, sweeping back to his feet. Control past the point of concentration keeps blood from rushing away to his head when he inverts his own gravity.

Someone his size, capable of the kind of violence he is, should not be able to be this graceful. But he is, and this is what needs the most practice; he gets enough combat training in combat these days, and when he needs more of that, he has virtual reality programs or people to stand in as ringers. Bruce needs to be able to have a center that's calmer than calm, still and unmovable, under the most trying of circumstances. He needs to find this in himself daily.

He knows Clark is there, but he doesn't so much as pause. They understand these things about each other.

Clark doesn't wave, doesn't disturb him. No, he's there to watch because there is no greater show in the universe if you have the right eyes. Clark happens to be the owner of those eyes.

It actually has very little to do with lust (only the same small amount that he felt every time Bruce was Incredibly Competent and he was reasonably certain everyone felt that, didn't they?) and everything to do with beauty. Grace like that paired with such strength is a pinnacle of natural beauty, as stunning to observe as the Cano Cristales or the White Desert or the Aurora Borealis. The fact that he can watch every nerve impulse, see every flex of muscle and shift of bone... it should be like seeing behind the magician's curtain but if anything, it makes the whole thing even better.

So he doesn't need a book, a snack, anything, really, as he floats silently and watches. He's got everything he needs right now.

And so this is how the afternoon goes; companionable, quiet, the sort of thing Bruce didn't know he needed out of a relationship but ... surprise, there it is. It's only when Bruce is winding down from the trancelike state that he notes no one's walked in on them, which is odd. The only reason Tim wouldn't be down here now is if someone told him to leave Bruce alone.

Suspicious. He's going to have to have a word with Alfred about this whole thing.

Anyway, Bruce is now on the pleasantly buzzed edge of physical tiredness. He walks over to Clark and sits down on the mat-covered floor so he can snag a water bottle. Sweat-covered, breathing deep and slow, he feels satisfied and centered. He could push himself more, hit the weights, or the track, but he still has to go out tonight. Best to save it, coiled and waiting.

Clark lets him settle without a word, floating down to sit beside him and slightly behind him. His hand reaches out, slow and obvious to make sure Bruce is aware of exactly what he's doing, before settling on his shoulders. He gives a light squeeze before running the side of his hand down the side of Bruce's spine. Then he pauses.

It's an offer, and Bruce is welcome to take it, leave it, postpone it... whatever he wants. Clark's surprisingly good at low to no pressure. He's also exceptionally good at massage.

Bruce makes a 'hm' noise that translates to 'hold on a minute' while he finishes draining the water bottle at a steady pace. He rolls his shoulders, his neck, a variety of popping sounds shaking loose. (Aging. It happens.) Then he turns, looking at Clark and sending him a small, fleeting smile.

Hi.

And then he lays down. On his chest, arms crossed beneath his head, moving with catlike grace that hints at smugness. Because if Clark is volunteering, then he gets to do it correctly while Bruce isn't hunched over.

There's a joke somewhere, about the variety of things that Bruce says with his many 'hm's and 'hnn's. Something with Kryptonese, maybe a reference to mimes...

And that is why Bruce is not here with Hal Jordan.

The 'Hi' gets a smile back, one that's a little less fleeting and a little more encompassing but he's content to let Bruce work himself out as he needs and get properly hydrated before putting his hands to the other man. This was, after all, one of the many things he'd mentioned in his rambling explanation. And one he, honestly, was looking forward to.

That said, as soon as Bruce is laid out flat, Clark's floating behind him, hands starting with a good light run over his back, and then the rest of his body.

It didn't do to just work the back, after all, not if you were going to be thorough. It just meant you'd be moving the tension instead of properly working him out. The once over gave him a good idea of the areas that needed the most work, how much force he would be using, and the directions he wanted to go to properly do this job. Bruce, after all, was not the only who understood the value of planning and precision.

When he finally gets down to it, he starts at the shoulders with sure, strong hands. No oil or cream, but he doesn't need it with the slickness of Bruce's skin and the smoothness of his own. Shoulders out to arms and hands (oh he enjoys that part), pulled in to sides, down the back, some care taken with the ass before he shifts to the thighs and calves all the way to the feet. Bending one leg then the other, he takes his time with those; what Bruce does might be white collar but he's out from behind a desk often enough to need it.

Edited (braaaaains..) 2015-11-17 00:07 (UTC)

Quips about Hal and Bruce fall into the abyss of non-existence where everything Geoff Johns has ever written about Batman resides.

'White collar' is a good joke though.

Parts of Bruce's spine are held together with metal, and his muscles have taken so much abuse over the years that if he doesn't work them to malleable warmth often enough, they tighten up and fail, trauma finally catching up with him once the proper acids aren't moving around. He pays people to do this kind of thing, pays them even more to keep their mouths shut about the scars covering him. It's nice - wonderful, even - to have Clark do it for him.

And that is part of why Clark wants to do it for him: to save Bruce from showing his scars to those who don't understand, to help him take care of himself, and because he's the only masseuse in the world with x-ray vision and the ability to actually observe cellular and chemical changes in the body while he's working.

Clark occasionally has his own terrible ego, and the fact that he feels more comfortable with his hands on Bruce's overworked back than anyone else's is one of the sweeter facets.

Of course, he also enjoys the intimacy of it, the act firmly straddling the line between something that could theoretically be done between close team mates for purely practical reasons and between lovers as a means of care and affection. Even foreplay. He actually doesn't particularly care where it leads. He enjoys this for itself, an end as much as a means. But he can't help but press the tiniest of kisses along the back of Bruce's neck as he finishes.

Bruce inspires sweetness and gentleness in him too, after all. Because he knows how little of it Bruce has had. And how much Clark, at least, thinks he deserves.

It's not leading anywhere except to work later; this has been incredibly good but it can't go on forever. He's got too much to do, and it's not fair to set a precedent of screwing around while he's got work he could be doing.

Bruce turns to lay on his back, settling flat. "Thanks," he says quietly, appreciation in the understated way he looks at him. He pulls each knee to his chest and holds, one at a time, breathing deep. Making sure e v e r y t h i n g is stretched and released and been without pressure for a while.

"You left for a while."

Not an accusation, an invitation to chat about work. (And how the fuck did Bruce figure out he left, anyway.)

True for them both; he'll have to do a patrol tonight and follow it up with some writing if he wants to get anything in on time for tomorrow. Plus there's a few things up at the Fortress that need attending to; robots are great but he doesn't trust them with everything.

The thanks gets a nod, which translates as much to 'you're welcome' as 'you're always welcome' with the obvious caveat of both of them regularly having plenty on their plate.

"Toyman," he says with a shrug, because once you've seen one fifty foot rubber ducky, the hilarity value kind of wears off.

"Time to have a word with whoever keeps paying that guy's bail," he says through an almost-grimace as he balances the center of his gravity against one hip, positioning his knee through some nitpicky alignment adjustment. "Or let Okamura kick him around for a while."

That kid's alright. Could have picked a better name, but if it irritates the actually villainous ones, eh. Might as well make himself useful.

"I might not be free again for another week and a half."

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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that icon startles me every time lol

sorry ^_^;

it makes me laugh! 8D

MFU was literally just Silly Faces: The Movie. That's def my fave though.