agoodyarn | daemon au

If Caterin is ruffled by that she doesn't show it, morphing back into a sugar glider and deftly climbing up Bruce's undersuit to sit on his shoulder against his neck again. Bruce nods, eyes grave. But-- before Clark makes it to the door he steps after him and reaches out to snag his hand (the one without his daemon on it).

"It'll be soon."

He squeezes Clark's hand, then lets him go.

He can't help the little smile and he gives Bruce's hand a squeeze back before he lets go.

"Soon," he says back.

Then he's out the door.

Twelve hours later, Bruce texts Clark a time and - just to be sure - the address of the manor. This is a proper invite, after all, he shouldn't be expected to have to dart in a window or enter via the cave.

Twenty four hours after that, he's waiting nervously in an ornate sitting room, trying not to pace too much before the large curved window. Alfred has given up on his ridiculousness and is waiting to get the door, his lioness daemon lounging nearby. Dinner is going to be a quiet, less-than-formal affair-- not that anything in Wayne Manor can truly be informal, but Bruce decided against one of the dining rooms. He didn't want Clark to think he's not taking it seriously, though, and also vetoed the idea of sitting in the main joint of his bedroom suite.

"This was a bad idea," he mutters.

"No it wasn't," says the quiet voice of his daemon, sitting on the nearby end table in the form of a small black hedgehog. "He likes you very much, I think."

Bruce just makes a 'hn' sound, and goes back to pacing.

Clark arrives exactly on time, as if he'd been listening to the chime of the clock on Wayne Manor to make his appearance. Neither early nor late, so Bruce was entirely prepared but also clear on the importance of the visit, Clark is dressed up like a human being who actually knows how clothes work. His shirt, a blue that brings out his eyes, is well-tailored and fits his frame. The pants are also fitted well, and his hair has actually been tamed into something a little playful but still polished. He'd even gotten a proper hanging hook for Neoma to hang from his belt so he could carry up the flowers that he'd brought: carnations in deep and light red. He didn't want to go overboard, after all.

Alfred is polite and dry - it's often difficult to tell the difference between genuine politeness and reserved silent judging, with Alfred, and today is no exception. His daemon offers no insight, her mamma lion gaze appraising but aloof. No comment is made on the new dynamic of Clark's presence.

In the sitting room, Bruce tries not to look nervous, and ends up just looking far too serious, his expression almost a scowl. Black turtleneck, black slacks, his hair relaxed and not in the severe rich asshole style he maintains in public.

"Hello," he says, one hand on the back of a chair, gripping it tightly. Alfred gives him a bit of a Look from behind Clark before closing the doors, leaving them to their own devices.

Clark looks at him for a moment before giving him a soft, warm smile.

"You know," he says gently, "I do actually like you the way you are. How you talk. The barely there smiles. Even how gruff you can be. You don't have to worry about offending me" almost impossible "or impressing me" already done "or... I don't know, upsetting me? Whatever it is that's making you grip that chair so tight."

He steps forward then.

"I came here for you. Not some... polished facade."

Bruce looks down at his hand like it's an interesting, entirely independent entity. There is a very tiny sound that might be a hedgehog sigh. He releases his death grip on the chair and looks back up at Clark-- and seems to notice the flowers for the first time, blinking.

"You don't really know the way I am," he says, fingertips brushing the soft petals, frown still on his face. "We're so easy when we're working, and I don't know how to be like that when I'm not working. I'm Batman, or I'm doing the playboy shit and I don't really do anything else."

He casts about for something to say but comes up short, his gaze returning to the other man. "I like you a lot. I don't want you to be disappointed."

"I don't," he agrees, "or at least, I don't yet. I'm looking forward to finding out, though. I like you too."

But he shakes his head.

"The only thing that would have disappointed me would have been not getting that text."

He holds up the flowers a little.

"Should I pick a vase or just put them off to the side? I... probably should have realized they weren't exactly what you'd be looking for but... I did want you to know I was serious. About the kissing." And the wanting more kissing.

Nee, from her vantage point just below his hip, started looking around for Caterin, but she didn't seem inclined to move.

Edited 2016-03-21 20:32 (UTC)

Bruce takes the flowers (strangely carefully) and sets them on a sideboard amongst heirlooms and priceless pieces of art disguised as trinkets. Caterin is there, nosing around at the blooms, sitting beneath a plump flower and watching them with her quiet little eyes.

"I know you're serious," Bruce says softly. "You don't do things you don't mean."

Which is one of the reasons why Bruce thinks he's perfect. How can anyone really be that sincere with their goodness? ... And why does he like Bruce Wayne?

"Good," he says with a little lift of his chin. "I was worried that-- well, I mean. Sometimes people think I'm just being nice. But there's nothing nice about pretending to be interested in someone. I was just kind of... amazed you felt something back."

He ducks his head again, looking up with a bashful little grin.

"I was about ready to float when you kissed me that first time. I thought you were going to punch me at first, if I'm honest. And then that instead. Almost made me dizzy."

He reaches down and pulls Neoma up to shoulder height, glancing up at the small chandelier.

"Would it be all right if she hung from the chain there? She won't disturb the crystals or the filligree. She just prefers to hang."

Bruce doesn't say anything in response to all those things - he looks at Clark, his expression still serious, but there's something in his eyes that suggests he's very touched. Unused to it, too. After a moment he glances to one side.

"That's fine," about Neoma. Still hiding in the flower bouquet, Caterin wiggles her nose. "Would you like to sit down?"

The small table and comfortable, ornate chairs look casually arranged, but in reality Bruce spent an hour moving them here and there, inching them this way and that. They're on an angle, not directly across from each other, but not obnoxiously couple-y, either. Just enough to suggest intimacy without encroaching on either's personal space too much. There's already water, and a coffee pot.

Neoma flutters up to the chain and finds a spot to hook in as Clark makes his way to a chair and sits. He's surprised that the angle is exactly right to look over at Bruce. The man thinks of everything. He wishes he was half as clever.

"So how has your last couple of days been?" he starts, cheerful and clearly pleased to be where he is.

Bruce sits down and smooths an imaginary wrinkle on his pants, hoping his stealth fidgeting isn't obvious for what it is. What should they talk about? They have such rapport in the field, and their conversations flow easily there - though the topics are usually heavy, or technical. The friendly edge to them has grown naturally, and it always gives him a little jolt of warmth when it happens.

"It's been a lot of board meetings and plan approvals," Bruce says, and silently offers to pour him water or coffee, if he'd like any? "I design a lot of things. But I can't put my name to them. I have aliases that are freelance employed in several smaller companies and I funnel ideas in to Wayne Enterprises to be developed by teams that work for me. Every so often I go in and sift through to find them and see how they've turned out. Sometimes it's so vastly improved on it's kind of incredible, or dead on, or sometimes it's just like playing telephone at a frat party."

Rambling. About his backwards wriggling to be an engineer without anyone knowing he's an engineer. He almost rolls his eyes at himself.

He gestures towards the water; coffee isn't his favorite, though he'll drink it on occasion. Water is fine. Best he keeps the coffee for himself.

"That sounds a little like how things go with STAR Labs," he admits with a little smile. "Nothing quite so calculated, I guess. But I try to toss the occasional hint their way when it looks like they're onto something useful if I have files on anything similar."

He tucks an errant wavy strand behind one ear.

"It's a delicate balance, trying to help people without making things worse. Or, worse still, stepping in where I don't have any business. It's something I try and keep in mind in both fields."

He looks over at Bruce.

"I imagine it must be frustrating, though. To see your babies grow up with other engineers... or get perverted like that. I suppose that's one of the nicer parts of your job as Batman: you get to see things through all the way."

He makes a 'hm' noise, pouring water, then coffee for himself. "It's alright. I'd be bad at putting it through all the way myself anyway."

All the collaborations, pitches, critiques.. he's just not patient or diplomatic enough. "I don't know if I'd be an engineer if I wasn't how I am." Batman. "I'd probably just be a recluse. And they're not really 'babies'. I mean. I do have .. well, I'm looking after a child."

Dick Grayson, who he keeps very much away from all this (so far), and out of the tabloids as much as he can. Bruce doesn't mention him at all at work, for obvious reasons.

That makes him sit up a little, clearly warming to this topic.

"You're a father?" he glances around the room as if he might see some sign of the child, pictures or crayon drawings... the idea of a house so large that those things wouldn't be all over the place is a little outside of him, though he figures it out almost immediately.

"Girl or boy?"

"No," he says quickly, some measure of guilt evident for a split-second. "Legally he's just my ward. Dick Grayson, he's ten years old." He wonders if Clark will have heard about the incident (incident, he hates thinking of it like that) with the Flying Graysons. And then, noticing Clark's instinctive glances-- "He's got school tomorrow."

Bedtime is early when you're small.

"I couldn't let him go into the system."

Was it selfish of him? Probably. Thousands of children need to be saved from the American foster care nightmare, and Bruce had never even considered adoption (or children in general) before that night. But he was there, and he knows - he knows exactly - how it feels. "He's brilliant," Bruce says, then stops. "Does that make things different?" Between us.

He can't help blinking. Because--

"Bruce," and yes, his face is all scrunched up as he tries to figure out how that even-- "Do you really think I would have a problem with you adopting a kid who needs a home?"

Says the adopted kid whose parents had entirely circumvented the system and brought him home from a space capsule that had nearly totaled their car.

He can't help a small laugh.

"No," just in case that wasn't clear, "I think that's great. And I hope I get to meet him sometime when it isn't past bedtime."

The look Bruce gives him is neutral - but considering. Neither chastised nor surprised by the correction.

"People can like kids just find but still not be interested in seeing someone who has to split so much of their time," he points out, unruffled. All the same he tucks that reaction away in his head to remember. He likes that Clark is okay with it, and even seems happy and interested.

"I think he'd like you. I'm ... well, I try to be good with him." Mister Sunshine he is not. "Alfred's better. He's already had to deal with me my entire life, though, so he's got practice. And Dick's a far better kid than I was. After, I mean."

Bruce was an okay kid before.

"My father could be a little gruff with me sometimes," Clark offers with an encouraging, if crooked, smile. "Kids know, though. When they're loved. And I'm sure he's a great kid."

It doesn't sound like a snow job when he says it, though. He does look interested in meeting Dick and he clearly thinks that anyone who's impressed Bruce is impressive.

"What's he interested in?" he asks with a lift of his head and a sip of water, "I mean, other than acrobatics. And I'd assume acrobatics."

Because yes, he is familiar with the incident.

He fusses with his coffee while trying not to look like he's fussing with his coffee. Bruce is really touched that Clark is interested in Richard; he's come to understand and honestly believe that Clark says nothing insincerely, and so he knows the wouldn't ask after him if he didn't already care. There's an odd noise and he glances over, brief, watching Caterin (now a sugar glider) make her way lightly up a bookcase to slink across the chandelier chain. Carefully, then, inching her way closer to Neoma.

"Everything," Bruce says. "I mean, he likes going to school, though I can tell homework is going to be a problem eventually despite the fact that he's so smart. He's a wanderer."

Clark doesn't look up to watch in the kind of way that most people would assume means he hasn't noticed, but that Bruce would know he was pointedly making an effort not to look at. Neoma, for her part, seems to be watching with interest but not moving. She'll let Caterin move at her own pace.

"Easily distracted by new and interesting things?" He shakes his head a little. "I remember that. I had so much trouble at school when I was really young that I think they were close to putting me in remedial classes."

Another sip of water.

"The world was just so big and so many things were happening... trying to sit in a desk and pay attention to just one thing was agonizing."

"You were uniquely distractable, I think," Bruce says, not unkindly. He knows what kind of inner peace and concentration Clark has to have, with his senses - Bruce has to understand it, for them to be able to work together. "But he likes being there, so everything else is all right."

Bruce had been a horrible student, after. Smart enough but resentful of every living thing on earth, and especially hateful towards institutions and anything telling him what to do. Dick is leaps and bounds ahead of him already.

There's a brief knock at the door and when Bruce doesn't immediately say anything to deter him, Alfred pushes it open so that he can bring in dinner. It's all vegetarian, though neither of them points that fact out explicitly. Up above, Caterin has settled on Neoma's feet on the chain, her tail gently coiling around the fruit bat's legs.

Neoma's nice and still, though it's not a strained or uncomfortable stillness. Instead, it's the slow and steady, even movements that let the little sugar glider know that all is well.

Clark, for his part, doesn't remark on the food choices because of course Bruce knew his eating habits, or at least that important detail. Instead, he thanks Alfred, compliments him on the food, then works on giving the best compliment he can by eating heartily.

There's not much conversation during dinner itself. The food is good, after all.

Caterin is very quiet; the Siamese cat form that she dons in public is equally silent, though she spends most of her time in an expensive carrier. Safe from the over-bright flashes of paparazzi cameras. The fact that she's sitting with Neoma is a good sign, though, no matter how shy her movements are.

Bruce surreptitiously watches Clark, taking mental notes about the things he likes best. He's not sure if the silence they lapse into is comfortable or awkward-- is this a date? He's never been on a real one. In his life.

"Alfred took over on the menu," he says, just. Obviously. "My idea of dinner is usually protein powder with kale and chicken."

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