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.

Comments

[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.

[frightening]

"Not like that," he huffs, and nudges Clark's foot with his. "You're so wholesome and all-American. And it's sincere. If I didn't like you so much I'd probably throw up."

Bruce is definitely a stereotype, too; rich upper class east coast. (Dictionary definition Gothamite, too, but seeing as he forged that particular type-cast, it's excused.) He pretends to be so many different people, but Clark ... Clark is genuine through and through, no matter if he's a journalist or Superman.

[stands_for_hope]

That gets a laugh out of him and he nudges back.

"Actually, I'm a very lucky immigrant who happened to end up in Kansas, where they grow corn." He turns his attention up to Bruce with a lopsided smile.

"If I'm sincere, it's because the people who raised me taught me the value of sincerity and believing in what you say and do. There's good, sincere people all over."

Another nudge.

"Including Gotham."

[frightening]

"Americans are immigrants." Bruce leans in, but just sways back after, an almost childlike movement. A lucky immigrant who happened to end up in Kansas where they grow corn is, as far as Bruce is concerned, as all-American as it gets. He's got the flashy boy scout uniform to prove it; House of El colors, sure, but they aimed pretty damn well all the way from Krypton to coordinate.

"Alfred's very sincere."

[stands_for_hope]

"Most of us are," he agrees, "of one stripe or another. But I try to remember both sides of that when I can."

Nudge.

"You're very sincere. You. The one I'm in love with. He's incredibly sincere."

[frightening]

"I'm not, though," he says with a nudge back, covering up the way his face tries to color at hearing Clark say the-l-word. "I lie to everyone, constantly. You know that."

Batman's tactics are manipulative and vicious, while Bruce Wayne's are honestly not all that much better. He has to make his good deeds seem accidental, he has to trick his board into working the way he wants to.

"Some things.." Bruce looks out across the grounds, towards the ocean - they can't see it from here, but he knows where it is. "How I feel about you. Dick. That's different. But it's not the norm."

[stands_for_hope]

He shakes his head, the action mild.

"The two aren't mutually exclusive. What you do and how you feel. About me. About Dick. About Gotham."

He leans in a little, just a little, and offers a smile.

"You call me sincere when I spend 90% of my day pretending I'm human. Your actions are sincere in intent, even if the methods involve subterfuge."

[frightening]

Bruce looks back over at him and leans in as well, but he moves all the way, and places a soft kiss against Clark's mouth before he straightens up again.

"You're too biased."

He appreciates it, though. It's obvious in how his proverbial feathers are un-ruffled. Bruce isn't accustomed to anyone being sweet with him, much less someone giving him credit for the work he does, and while it can be overwhelming... he does like it.

[stands_for_hope]

"Maybe," he admits, leaning in again. His lips are still warm from the kiss and he wants another one, but the part he likes the most is Bruce leaning over to give it to him.

"But I got that way watching you."

[frightening]

Bruce's blush is obvious this time and for a split-second he doesn't know what to do, and so he leans forward to kiss Clark again. That way Clark can't see his face, so there.

Up above, Caterin is amused at Bruce's reactions, and clearly happy. She goes back to playing with Neoma after a moment of observation; maybe there's a connecting thread here somewhere, with how she likes to be a sugar glider. Something soft and affectionate that struggles to survive without others.

[stands_for_hope]

It wasn't what he was aiming for, but it's never an answer that Clark will refuse. He reaches one hand up to stroke Bruce's cheek as they kiss. Yes, he can feel the warmth of that cheek, but he won't say anything or tease. There are all manner of things Clark will poke fun at him for; the strength and depth of his feelings isn't one of them.