daemon au

[stands_for_hope]

So... daemons. Animal of a different gender from yours = your soul. Tag one of the characters on here with a starter, post your own with or without a request for one of mine or play here as you like.

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[stands_for_hope]

"Not going anywhere," he says as his hand slid into Bruce's hair, started stroking, holding him. "I don't have work until tomorrow morning. And nothing's going on in Metropolis."

Nothing more important than this.

[frightening]

Bruce feels so bizarrely needy after that confession. Like he's afraid Clark's going to change his mind, and he-- he doesn't know. How do you keep someone from changing their mind about being in love? Bruce knows he isn't changing his mind, not ever. It feels crazy to say.

"Kiss me?"

[stands_for_hope]

Clark looks up at him, smiles up at him, and gives a little nod even before moving. Because there's one thing he needs to make sure Bruce knows.

"I'm not letting go, though."

Which isn't a choice or even a warning. It's more of a piece of information for Bruce to be aware of.

Because then he's kissing him.

[frightening]

Bruce is ... happy. Elated. He's unused to the feeling. He lets himself sink against Clark, kissing him and holding him. The sofa is overstuffed and comfortable so they can stretch out however they like-- and Bruce would like quite a lot, having very much enjoyed the way they'd fallen asleep together.

He doesn't know how much time they spend making out, but eventually, when his mouth feels almost bruised and he thinks he might go crazy if they don't stop or go further, he pulls away and rests his head against the leather sofa cushion, just looking at Clark. (Going further sounds pretty great, but so does waiting, somehow.)

"Do you want to go for a walk?" he asks quietly.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark is almost intoxicated from it, from the kisses and the closeness. It takes him a moment as Bruce draws back a little to look at him for him to focus on anything but going after him for another kiss. To the question-

"Sure. Lead the way?"

[frightening]

It does take a moment. Even after Clark answers, Bruce just looks at him, and then swipes his tongue along the seam of his lips, coaxing him into a slow, open-mouthed kiss that's mostly tongue. Clark feels and tastes so good.

Almost abruptly Bruce stops and rolls back, onto his feet. He's restless, and showing Clark the grounds will be good for him. Get some air. He's not used to all this-- feeling and having it not go towards anger.

[stands_for_hope]

He laughs just once at the abruptness, though it's clearly a laugh of delight as opposed to mocking him. Not that he's opposed to mocking him a little. His own return to his feet is more languid, spent watching Bruce with a warm (if slightly teasing) smile.

"Where're we going?"

[frightening]

"Outside," Bruce says with a shrug, straightening his shirt in what he hopes is a non-nervous way. "It should be nice out. For Gotham." Maybe a little gloomy even up here, but not cold, and not disgustingly humid.

Caterin hops over, sugar glider again, to scramble up and hide in Bruce's pocket. She's been good not interrupting so far and is relieved at the opportunity to join him again; Bruce sticks his hand in his pocket, almost apologetic.

[stands_for_hope]

Neoma actually starts to fly after Caterin before swooping back over to Clark, settling on his shoulder and tucking up behind his ear. Clark can't help but smile a little at that.

"There's a decent amount of sunlight. I'm sure it'll be nice."

He offers his hand to the one that isn't in a pocket.

[frightening]

Bruce takes Clark's hand, giving him a small smile as he does. It's a bit of a hike to even get outside - Bruce finds a small sweater slung on a railing, and they have to backtrack so he can put it away in Dick's room. It's rare for things like that to slip Alfred's notice, and Bruce says it feels like finding a four-leaf clover.

They go out through the back of the house via what was once the servant entrance (now unused; they pass several rooms full of covered-up furniture). There's a path that leads to a garden, meticulously cared-for, gazebo and all, but Bruce leads them further out to the expanse of land the manor sits on.

"I fractured my arm falling out of that tree once," he muses, nodding at a gigantic, ancient willow not far away. "My dad about lost his mind."

[stands_for_hope]

"Was it as big then as it is now?" was the question he ended up asking as he looked over at the tree. He couldn't help that his hand slipped back just a little to brush against the arm near him, as if assuring himself that Bruce was currently just fine.

"Though either way, I can imagine it was terrifying. My parents... well, it was more about what I broke than what broke on me."

A tilt of his head.

"Though there was that very disturbing period where my flight was less than voluntary."

[frightening]

"I don't think it could have grown much since then," Bruce says, looking up at it as they get closer. "It seemed.. ten times as big, then." He must have been five or six, scrambling around when he shouldn't have been, always imaginative and happy to play with Caterin alone.

Bruce flicks his gaze over to him. "Floating away? Did you have to get a kite string?"

[stands_for_hope]

He looks over at Bruce with just a bit of wryness to that smile.

"You make that joke but you're talking to a kid who had a rope around his waist for a few weeks."

[frightening]

Bruce considers it for a moment-- his usual over-analysis, maybe. "That must have been frightening, for a kid." Caterin fusses in his pocket and he fetches her out, holding the small animal for a moment before letting her hop down to bound through the grass towards the tree. Apparently they'll be climbing. "How old were you?"

[stands_for_hope]

Neoma launched herself towards the tree. Unlike most bats, she had no problem with sunlight. Probably due to her human's nature.

"Eight. And it was, I guess. It was a rough couple of weeks. But I figured it out. My Pa helped me."

[frightening]

"He sounds like a good man."

Bruce always has quiet, almost delicate-sounding respect for good parents. Like he's holding something breakable and can't bear to risk any damage coming to it. At the tree, Caterin is dancing to and fro on a wide branch, eager to play with Neoma.

[stands_for_hope]

Neoma is flitting through the trees, heading down to Caterin with a happy squeak.

"He is. I was very lucky that it was Martha and Jonathon Kent who found me."

[frightening]

"My mother's name was Martha," he says after a while-- and feels immediately stupid, because Clark probably knows that even though Bruce has never talked about it before. Most people who know anything about Bruce Wayne know about his parents; if Clark feels this way about him maybe he's googled him before, or something.

Bruce looks up at the tree once they're under the wide branches and hanging strings of leaves. He's glad Caterin and Neoma are getting along; he doesn't know if most adult daemons would take to one like Caterin, whom he knows is ... about as emotionally developed as he is.

[stands_for_hope]

But Clark's only response is to reach over and slide his hand around to wrap one arm to Bruce's waist and curl a little closer to him.

Yes, the details of his family are public record. And yes, he'd known about Martha Wayne. But Bruce is telling him about his mother, whose name was Martha. And that's another thing all together. Something that makes him humbled and appreciative. Something that makes him feel closer to the man beside him.

And he can watch their daemons play. Neoma is delighted, utterly delighted with Caterin, with her playfulness, her gentleness, her quiet, simple strength and her boundless love.

[frightening]

Bruce lets himself lean against Clark a little, touched by that reaction. Wordless, like so much of their communication in the field is starting to become. He still doesn't know how to make that ease work when they're not doing what they do-- but maybe he can learn.

"Do you visit your parents often?" he asks, and after a moment steps away and reaches up to get a grip on the lowest rung of the tree's sprawling limbs. He pulls himself up, heedless of getting bark and dirt and whatever-else on his expensive clothes.

[stands_for_hope]

Clark watches him for a moment before reaching up and, picking another nearby branch, hauling himself up. Regardless of whether or not he could, he's not actually using his flight. This is just muscle and effort. Once he's up, he settles on the branch to sit.

"Decently often. At least once a month, usually more. Depends on the season, though. I spend more time when they need more help around the farm."

[frightening]

"You really grew up on a farm, didn't you." Bruce sits with one leg on either side of the wide branch, picking at a slim leaf. Of course he's done his research on Clark Kent, but it almost feels like reading.. Little House on the Prairie, or something. Idyllic. No wonder Clark's so good, raised like that. "What do you help with? --I," Bruce cuts himself off, again feeling ridiculous. "I know I sound stupid. Sorry. My experiences are all one extreme or another, but never that."

[stands_for_hope]

"You're talking to a reporter, Bruce," he points out as he lets himself lean back and forth, swaying comfortably in the sunlight.

"There are no stupid questions, especially when it's clear that you want to know the answers." He glances up to see Neoma and Caterin playing a jaunty game of chase, catch, and cuddle.

"And I help with the fencing, put out new posts. We don't keep cows, but the folks next door do so it's best for us to keep our fences up. Checking over crops, tending, picking, loading. Sometimes my parents'll keep animals if someone needs a space or two, so tending to them. Maintenance on the truck or the tractor... all kinds of things."

He leans back a little.

"We grow corn, for reference."

[frightening]

"Don't phrase it that way," he says, wry but teasing, light. Bruce Wayne likes his share of journalists - Clark, Lois, Vicki - but for the most part, the media has been a large, invasive, unpleasant part of his life. Talking to a reporter has a wildly different meaning for him than most people.

"Corn in Kansas. You're.. well, of course you're Superman," Bruce sounds like he's almost laughing, there, soft and fond.

[stands_for_hope]

He realizes only after he'd said it what the connotations of that kind of statement could be. The first request gets a quick nod. He'll remember that.

"Wouldn't that be if we grew spinach?" he says back with a little grin, lifting an arm to do a Popeye-esque flex. Well, a partial one. He likes this shirt.