Well. Writers should be good at imagining, anyway.
Rough fingers curl around the extended bottle (timed with one eyebrow lifting), because he feels like it would be enormously petulant to refuse. The backs of his knuckles on his right hand are reddened a little, a small cost for having decked somebody without expensive armor encasing fine, arthritis-prone bones. He wishes it were more. Pain can be grounding, helpful for when he feels like he's got too much kite string.
This is when he asks Clark what the fuck they're doing. Pop, followed by a ping, bottle cap hitting the rooftop. A simple application of pressure in the right spots, and who needs an opener. Bruce takes a drink. It's fine.
What the fuck are we doing.
Nothing out loud. Bruce just looks at him. It's dangerous to talk; he doesn't trust himself, and bitterly hates the thought of tripping over his own tongue or snapping at him. But at least there's virtually no alcohol in beer, and he won't come within a thousand miles of tipsy loosening. They're something like co-workers now. Clark has good manners. Maybe this is some kind of normal ritual, common knowledge for people who weren't raised in isolation by-ex MI5 agents.
no subject
Rough fingers curl around the extended bottle (timed with one eyebrow lifting), because he feels like it would be enormously petulant to refuse. The backs of his knuckles on his right hand are reddened a little, a small cost for having decked somebody without expensive armor encasing fine, arthritis-prone bones. He wishes it were more. Pain can be grounding, helpful for when he feels like he's got too much kite string.
This is when he asks Clark what the fuck they're doing. Pop, followed by a ping, bottle cap hitting the rooftop. A simple application of pressure in the right spots, and who needs an opener. Bruce takes a drink. It's fine.
What the fuck are we doing.
Nothing out loud. Bruce just looks at him. It's dangerous to talk; he doesn't trust himself, and bitterly hates the thought of tripping over his own tongue or snapping at him. But at least there's virtually no alcohol in beer, and he won't come within a thousand miles of tipsy loosening. They're something like co-workers now. Clark has good manners. Maybe this is some kind of normal ritual, common knowledge for people who weren't raised in isolation by-ex MI5 agents.