Bruce casts a glance at Clark when it's decided - surprised, a little, and somewhat apologetic like Oh that's right, of course Smallville runs on normal, sane person time. He will not be sleeping, and not only because of the electrical current under his skin that's lingered even after uncoupling from Clark and returning indoors.
And not only because he's a graveyard shift person in general. He stares at his phone-- at the reminders in text form (easy for Alfred to say, he's still allowed to speak to him), at the number still at the top of his speed dial, several years and new phones on, always programmed in, always carried over. The number whose last contact is an outgoing, unconnected call dated exactly twelve months ago. (It used to be a gap of nine months, between his birthday and the holiday season, but that fell by the wayside; a concession to I'd prefer it if you stopped calling.)
He should. Stop calling.
It rings, and hits voicemail. The recorded playback is a cheery, male voice, vowels flattened by the same dialect Bruce only rarely exhibits. The sound of it would not reach anyone else's ears, but, well. Circumstances are what they are. You've reached Richard Grayson! Who is using this name now to avoid having a voicemail box that sounds like you misdialed and got a phone sex line. Tell me all your secrets and I'll get back to you!
'It's me.' (He knows who it is. He hasn't blocked Bruce's number, though he could. Maybe that's a sign.) 'I'm sure you heard... well, maybe not. I don't know what you talk about. Alfred's in England, and I'm in Kansas. Not snowed in at Wichita airport or anything, either. It's...' (Silence.) 'You'd like it. There's a dog.' (More silence.) 'Happy Christmas.'
Click.
Happy, not merry, because he was raised by an Englishman. Whatever. Bruce lets out a breath and tosses his phone on his bag, desultory. Parent of the fucking year. He did not speak loudly, not wanting to disrupt Martha - and he did not take the call outside, knowing that if Clark wanted to eavesdrop, he could do so from a solar-system away. Does he care if the younger man listened in? ... He's not sure.
There's no tell-tale sound of shifting weight or ungainly footsteps to alert him to anyone's nearness, but Bruce turns his head to look at the closed door anyway, almost expectant. Ninja senses, perhaps.
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Bruce casts a glance at Clark when it's decided - surprised, a little, and somewhat apologetic like Oh that's right, of course Smallville runs on normal, sane person time. He will not be sleeping, and not only because of the electrical current under his skin that's lingered even after uncoupling from Clark and returning indoors.
And not only because he's a graveyard shift person in general. He stares at his phone-- at the reminders in text form (easy for Alfred to say, he's still allowed to speak to him), at the number still at the top of his speed dial, several years and new phones on, always programmed in, always carried over. The number whose last contact is an outgoing, unconnected call dated exactly twelve months ago. (It used to be a gap of nine months, between his birthday and the holiday season, but that fell by the wayside; a concession to I'd prefer it if you stopped calling.)
He should. Stop calling.
It rings, and hits voicemail. The recorded playback is a cheery, male voice, vowels flattened by the same dialect Bruce only rarely exhibits. The sound of it would not reach anyone else's ears, but, well. Circumstances are what they are. You've reached Richard Grayson! Who is using this name now to avoid having a voicemail box that sounds like you misdialed and got a phone sex line. Tell me all your secrets and I'll get back to you!
'It's me.' (He knows who it is. He hasn't blocked Bruce's number, though he could. Maybe that's a sign.) 'I'm sure you heard... well, maybe not. I don't know what you talk about. Alfred's in England, and I'm in Kansas. Not snowed in at Wichita airport or anything, either. It's...' (Silence.) 'You'd like it. There's a dog.' (More silence.) 'Happy Christmas.'
Click.
Happy, not merry, because he was raised by an Englishman. Whatever. Bruce lets out a breath and tosses his phone on his bag, desultory. Parent of the fucking year. He did not speak loudly, not wanting to disrupt Martha - and he did not take the call outside, knowing that if Clark wanted to eavesdrop, he could do so from a solar-system away. Does he care if the younger man listened in? ... He's not sure.
There's no tell-tale sound of shifting weight or ungainly footsteps to alert him to anyone's nearness, but Bruce turns his head to look at the closed door anyway, almost expectant. Ninja senses, perhaps.