"He's just barking," Bruce grumbles, though there's clear and distinct fondness in the way his performative sulking is so open, unguarded. He trusts Alfred more than anyone alive, and his comfort with him is absolute. There is something distinctly more real person about Bruce when they interact, peeling back all the agony and shadow and revealing some guy raised by a single parent.
Work-rough hand squeezes perfect one. Fingers thread. Bruce circles the pad of his thumb over Clark's knuckles, affectionate, but a little like it's a substitute for pacing, too. He gives him a look, and it's plain: Nearly there.
Possibly, if the numbers crunch correctly, already there.
Peas are returned to the freezer, food is set out, dinner is had at the table. (Always the table; Clark has probably noticed, when visiting him and Lois, Bruce has no natural inclination to sit on the sofa for a meal.) Alfred does things the way Bruce does things - nearly obsessive precision made to look effortless. Dinner is immaculate, despite being stitched together with leftovers. He seems to have some kind of magic in selecting water glasses that never succumb to messy condensation. No alcohol. Bruce has a head injury. Alfred has been working on re-creating a pie recipe floated to him from Clark's mother, but the humidity is doing something funny to the dough, he thinks.
Lois is on CNN dissecting a piece she's been deep into, a mangled wreck of politics and corporate shadows. Her video keeps getting delayed with jittery repeats, a satellite issue from Dubai, and Bruce keeps trying to guess what the next word will be, knowing Clark can already hear. Once Alfred has retired (back to the main house, he wants to be up early for the woman taking measurements for carpets), Bruce pushes Clark back on his bed, curtains open to the dark star-flecked sky.
no subject
Work-rough hand squeezes perfect one. Fingers thread. Bruce circles the pad of his thumb over Clark's knuckles, affectionate, but a little like it's a substitute for pacing, too. He gives him a look, and it's plain: Nearly there.
Possibly, if the numbers crunch correctly, already there.
Peas are returned to the freezer, food is set out, dinner is had at the table. (Always the table; Clark has probably noticed, when visiting him and Lois, Bruce has no natural inclination to sit on the sofa for a meal.) Alfred does things the way Bruce does things - nearly obsessive precision made to look effortless. Dinner is immaculate, despite being stitched together with leftovers. He seems to have some kind of magic in selecting water glasses that never succumb to messy condensation. No alcohol. Bruce has a head injury. Alfred has been working on re-creating a pie recipe floated to him from Clark's mother, but the humidity is doing something funny to the dough, he thinks.
Lois is on CNN dissecting a piece she's been deep into, a mangled wreck of politics and corporate shadows. Her video keeps getting delayed with jittery repeats, a satellite issue from Dubai, and Bruce keeps trying to guess what the next word will be, knowing Clark can already hear. Once Alfred has retired (back to the main house, he wants to be up early for the woman taking measurements for carpets), Bruce pushes Clark back on his bed, curtains open to the dark star-flecked sky.