The look Bruce sends in return to that hang-dog mug is folded brow of Good god man, have some self-respect. Bruce's own guilt in the face of a dressing-down from nanny is far more resentful, posture not unlike a disgruntled child being forced to look nice for a family picture. Which adjusts, when he's joined - he sits up against the arm of the sofa more, knees bending to allow Clark's butt more than a sliver of sofa.
Peas stay held in place.
"It's fine." Not the worst bonk he's ever had, and far from the worst thing that could have happened, given how wildly reckless they're being, dicking around with all of this in the first place. "Just glad you evened out."
Things that would be bad: if they permanently nerfed Clark somehow.
"That might have done it, though," he says quietly. "Gotten the data to progress significantly."
He's been thinking about it feverishly since he came to, almost angry at having been back here and not in the chamber, itching to get his hands on the recordings. But he's making himself sit still, if only to keep from alarming present company. Speaking of, Alfred chimes in, voice raised from the narrow galley kitchen, backed up to a seamless glass wall:
"Don't think I don't know you two aren't whispering about something foolish," (Bruce pulls a face that says I wasn't WHISPERING), "I'd appreciate at least some credit for politely feigning ignorance of your secret clubhouse meetings thus far, preferably in the form of neither of you showing up with head injuries. Which is not—" here Alfred appears around the cabinet corner, wielding a pricey silicone heat-resistant spatula at them, "permission to avoid necessary medical attention when injured. I expect this sort of thing out of Master Bruce, but you I'm surprised in, young man."
"Al."
"Dinner's nearly done, just sit there and continue to look contrite, please."
no subject
Peas stay held in place.
"It's fine." Not the worst bonk he's ever had, and far from the worst thing that could have happened, given how wildly reckless they're being, dicking around with all of this in the first place. "Just glad you evened out."
Things that would be bad: if they permanently nerfed Clark somehow.
"That might have done it, though," he says quietly. "Gotten the data to progress significantly."
He's been thinking about it feverishly since he came to, almost angry at having been back here and not in the chamber, itching to get his hands on the recordings. But he's making himself sit still, if only to keep from alarming present company. Speaking of, Alfred chimes in, voice raised from the narrow galley kitchen, backed up to a seamless glass wall:
"Don't think I don't know you two aren't whispering about something foolish," (Bruce pulls a face that says I wasn't WHISPERING), "I'd appreciate at least some credit for politely feigning ignorance of your secret clubhouse meetings thus far, preferably in the form of neither of you showing up with head injuries. Which is not—" here Alfred appears around the cabinet corner, wielding a pricey silicone heat-resistant spatula at them, "permission to avoid necessary medical attention when injured. I expect this sort of thing out of Master Bruce, but you I'm surprised in, young man."
"Al."
"Dinner's nearly done, just sit there and continue to look contrite, please."