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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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."

"I'm amazed you were free this long," he admits with a hand through his own hair. He's straightening it out and patting it down for being Superman, since he's pretty much just flying home straight into a city patrol. "Just give me a ring when you've got a minute or two you don't mind sharing."

Straighten the cape on his shoulders-- the damn thing always shifts one way or another.

"And if I don't hear anything for two weeks, I may sneak in to check on you."

Well, in a week and a half - or whenever - he probably won't have this many hours. But he's glad things have happened the way they did, today. (See, Clark, it wasn't so bad he wouldn't reply to an email after all!)

Bruce gives him an unreadable look for a moment, then:

"If you're very concerned, it's easier on my attention span if you just pop into the Cave for a few minutes than try to get me to answer personal communications."

If Superman had sent him something about a case, he'd have responded. But How are you? gets shelved until he's done working. From anyone.

Bruuuuce, that is not how that works. Goddammit, Bruce. Ignoring emails is not the way to sex and backrubs.

"If that's what you're going with," he says as he shifts his feet in his boots. Might as well make sure he's comfortable before he heads out. "I was actually trying to be less intrusive with the emails."

Demonstrably untrue. Ignoring emails has directly lead to sex and backrubs. Look at all the helpful things about relationships Clark is teaching him.

"Emails themselves are not intrusive, you're right." ... It's the expecting a reply bit. Bruce can talk to Clark if he zips in over his shoulder while he's working, like they do often enough anyway. Now he just has tentative permission-- though he's dreaming if he thinks that means Bruce won't continue to grumble about everything.

Still on his back, he beckons the other man closer with a small gesture.

Clark would point out that the sample sizes were too small for any kind of conclusion. Also that they were not expanding the sample size for that particular action. The supposed reaction, that could be repeated.

...tentative permission was good, though. He was all right with tentative permission. It provided all this fun and interesting leeway that he absolutely intended to use. Not that he ever expected to escape the grumbling. The grumbling was necessary. How would he know who was under the cowl without the grumbling?

He held back the desire to say something about how a ten second reply could work wonders (tentative permission was worth shutting his mouth) before kneeling down and lowering himself as beckoned. He didn't say anything, but he did ask what Bruce wanted with a twitch of his eyebrows.

Bruce saying 'go ahead and show up' is not the same as 'I won't be annoyed if you do show up'; it goes without saying that Clark is still expected to use his best judgment when deciding whether or not to act on this tentative permission. If it doesn't need to go without saying-- well he's still not going to point that out, and Clark can just learn the hard way.

Just this. He leans up and places a light kiss on Clark's lips, one of those quick domestic hello-or-goodbye ones.

Yes, yes, discretion, discretion, best judgement. He's not going to be popping in every day, of course, but it's nice to have that tentative permission when Bruce was being particularly difficult. Like an emergency $20 tucked into a jacket pocket for a day when you forget your wallet

Like the thought of one of Bruce's kisses, especially this little goodbye kiss.

"Have a good night, Bruce."

"You too, Kal."

It's about time for him to intake nutrients - nothing as glamorous as eating - and go through case files before he leaves for a meeting at the company.

As Superman leaves, he rolls to his feet feeling better than he has in months.

The little touch of Kryptonese makes him smile as he flies out. He has work to do (ugh, so much work to do) but he also has the memory of kisses over every bit of him to keep him until the next time.

And if Superman is smiling a little more often than usual on patrol, that isn't exactly the worst thing to ever happen, after all.

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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.