It's incredible how quickly a house can fall into disrepair. Even one made generations ago, its foundations and walls stone instead of drywall. He remembers, sometime in the mid-90s, the east wing having to be gutted and refinished, needing an update from the Victorian ages. Walls and windows needed modern insulation to keep up with the rapidly shifting climate, the increasingly bleak storms and increased humidity infringing on even the eastern seaboard's ancient stoicism.
With the right application of funds, a house can be restored even quicker. This will not be a fast remodel, but it won't take ten years. The west wing had the worst of it - the oldest in the first place, the least refurbished since his grandparents' day, with its old bones and questionable roof and the most very flammable antiques stored within.
"There was a mold problem," Bruce says, standing in the taped-up open doorway of a large room, observing all the plastic drop sheets and leftover tools from the day crew. "I noticed about a week before it burned. Someone was booked to come in and look at it the next week. By accident, really. Nobody lived in this part of the house. But a bird got in."
And there is Clark, in normal human clothes, with normal human foot creaks on floorboards that are due to be stripped and replaced. Plaid, denim, accidentally in keeping with his supercolours, and scuffed boots. He has been walking alongside Bruce for the most part, staying in visual range and earshot, and not pretending like he hasn't come here before. And anyway, he'd pick up on the sounds of cameras.
When Bruce pauses at the doorway, Clark moves past him.
His imagination isn't such that he can't picture what it used to look like, what it will look like. Where he draws short is imagining it as any kind of family home and not, like, a heritage building, with velvet ropes and little plaques. Probably some these big rooms were like that more than others.
"What happened?" he asks, tipping a look upwards, then around back at Bruce. Curious, light, not without knowledge that almost any question could find a cold patch in their conversation. "How'd the fire start." Not, like, to the bird, whom he will imagine was set free.
Bruce looks in at the empty room, just an unremarkable skeleton, remembering exactly what it used to be. There's no sentimental value in it, specifically, he just has that kind of a memory. And thinking of it makes his thoughts want to spiral somewhere else.
Mm.
He returns his attention to Clark, and moving down the hall. Oh, I shooed the bird out—
Not that, of course. His footsteps are quieter than the other man's. Only one of them is trying, and it's not Bruce. There should be more of an echo, but the architecture of this place is too good for it, even missing all the sinew and fat.
"I wasn't well after Richard was killed. I started it myself. Don't really remember my exact thought process." He toes through some broken glass, trying to identify it. How is there still glass? Clink, crunch.
"I should amend that. I haven't been well."
A difference, between wasn't, and still isn't. He still isn't. It's not an excuse for anything, but it's the first time he's mentioned out loud that the brutal end of the boy he took in when he was eight years old (car bomb, listed on his death certificate) is what kicked off the bloody, slippery landslide that put him on a murderous collision course with Superman. It isn't just that. But after he got back from the funeral, he put his ideals away on a shelf somewhere, and the sinking began.
He sounds remarkably okay. Not flippant, not fine, but like someone who is coming to terms with talking about things, now and again.
but not for asking. It's the kind of apology that can be attached to any number of aspects to the conversation but isn't insincere for it. Maybe he could be sorry about having not understood it all until this moment, even if Clark has journeyed a long ways from being that earnest, angry reporter fossicking about in Batman's leavings. Maybe he is just plainly sorry that Bruce has experienced that loss.
Probably all of it, simply stated, that tinge of echo in his voice from the cavernous, hollowed out halls of the house. He thinks: that was years ago. Imagine having this place and what you did to it in your own backyard for all this time.
But all the same, Clark says, "Glad the bones stayed," as he moves to wind around closer. "Something to build off of."
Sorry, my kid died six years ago would not have been an acceptable pass out of Bruce's horrendous behavior, anyway. He has not dealt with it - at all, really, and so certainly not well. 'The world doesn't make sense until you make it', he'd told Superman, and that's what he was trying to do. Hurt the world enough so that the absence of his son made sense. What a guy, this Bruce Wayne.
He makes a non-committal sound, accepting the condolences for what they are. It will be like this for some time; Bruce unearthing land mines in himself to show Clark, and offer apologies about their existence, without actually saying he's sorry.
"Me, too. It's been around for a hundred years, it's already embarrassing enough I managed to get it like this."
Couldn't have come by with a hoover, in between? Nope. (Though he did come by. To the tombs, to stare at the ruins. Driving past it every day, situating his current residence so that he would always have to look at it and be haunted, ensuring the wounds would never heal. He could have moved to another property, to one of his dozen penthouses, to another country. But he wanted the pain. Normal Batman shit.)
Stealthily—not at all stealthily, but he can dream—Clark has ranged closer to Bruce as he talks, and in the short silences in between, the non-committal hums. Once in range, he can go and take Bruce's hand somewhere low between them, should Bruce care to pretend it's not happening, sliding fingers between fingers.
But the last part gets a startled smile out of Clark, amusement creased through his brow. "Well," he says, "as long as we're not talking bunk beds. I don't think Barry would make it out alive."
A gentle tug, to resume their wander.
And he adds, quietly, because he doesn't want it to just skirt on by, "It's not embarrassing. Pain."
"Any of us would have to catch Barry," he points out. Fortunate, for a kid that annoying. Though it really is funny that his luck prompted him to be struck by lightning in the first place. No bunk beds. Bruce does not qualify what his experience with dorm rooms are, but it's probably a long way away from what Clark's thinking about. Individual quarters, and inevitably, an aesthetic closer to the manor in its prime than his current crushingly bleak modern tastes.
Ah. What a world. It turns out :/ is contagious.
"It's kind of you to say that," is what comes out of his mouth, eventually, sounding carefully selected. There is a hallway that wraps around an open area like an indoor terrace; atrium. The ceiling has glass panels, boarded up or broken out. "But I imagine you have had fewer tantrums in life than I have had."
"I put twenty logs through a truck one time," Clark says.
The sidelong look has trace humour, but he is also being completely serious. "'Cause a guy at a bar tried to get me to fight him. It was his truck, and a bad day." It was a cumulative outcome, to be very fair. Probably Batman would have noticed some supertantrums if they were a common occurrence. But still, probably more on the 'embarrassing' end of the justified rage spectrum.
He tips a look up at the ceiling, speculative. "I spent a lot of time not my best self, Bruce. Still do. There's a lot I'd do differently, or not at all."
Clark can beat himself up all he likes, he has never done anything on the level Bruce has, or he wouldn't have gone and investigate the Bat of Gotham in the first place. But there is still something about that anecdote, and that admission, that tugs at him. Because he knows Clark must feel like it, even if their actions are not truly comparable, and sometimes that's the only thing that matters. The bruises left somewhere intangible, made by sadness, and grief, and loneliness.
"Mmm." A noise that says, I don't appreciate it when you make me wrong about more things than I'm already wrong about. Growth that he doesn't actually argue, perhaps.
(He has not removed his hand from Clark's.)
"I am trying for 'honest'," he ventures, after a while.
"I know," Clark says. He gently jostles the joined hands between them. "I guess I want you to know I get it. Some of it."
Not all of it, and he wouldn't presume to. He's lost people he loved but he's never lost a kid. He is not quite so willfully self-destructive so much as just willing to take big gambles. But having never experienced certain things doesn't preclude the ability to empathise. One would hope so, of an indestructible demi-god-like alien.
He still has his eyes trained upwards, and he says, "Would some kind of Superman sensing sky window freak you out?"
If he didn't know, or wasn't sure thirty seconds ago, that hardly matters; he knows he can tell Clark and be understood, even through his bullshit habit of crucifying himself over everything. He wishes he had the finesse to do any of this without seeming like he's trying to play a game of whose-suffering-is-worse or like he's daring Clark to be shocked. But he doesn't. So.
So this, basically.
"Why would it freak me out? Do you think I have something against windows."
Hey, that sounds to him like he's getting his sky window.
"I figure you'd rather limit your points of entry," Clark says, delivery dry. "Conserve the aesthetics."
Does a motion-sensor roof door fit in with one-hundred-year-old mansions? Clark imagines not but he's never really had to think about it before. He also says, "It's generous, what you're doing," in the kind of gently nudged way of someone who don't mean strictly financially.
Bruce looks around, not terribly animated, but still well within his own parameters for implying comedic effect. What about any of the gaudy, old-world crap clogging this place up seemed aesthetically conservative? Sure, it'll have fewer doors in and out, because the manor had approximately thirty, all for different wings and suites and servants. But they can pop a garage door opener on a skylight, Kent, yes. They have the technology.
"That word," he says, keeping his voice light, but then he doesn't continue right away.
'Generous'. Yeah, he tends to hear it meaning financially, and not in a friendly way. How generous, Mr Wayne, the billionaire. Anyway, Bruce shrugs. It's the best he can do. He thought he'd raise kids in this house and leave it to them, and that isn't what's happened. Won't ever happen. One orphaned boy wasn't enough to fill it and he thought. He had hoped. Tried.
Failed.
"I thought so too, but now I think I've made an error not just showing you the penthouse." Humor. It's on the roof of the Wayne Foundation building.
At that word, Clark squeezes Bruce's hand. It doesn't hurt. It feels normal.
"I'm a simple man," Clark admits, which is also funny, because a fancy penthouse is far from simple. "But I don't mean just me. Or just the house."
The house, inasmuch as he still feels like 'house' barely applies to a place this big and grand. He's used to a kitchen with vertical shades and old fashioned backsplash, and narrow stairs with creaky parts, and the way the whole place kind of shivered every time he ran down them with Shelby racing ahead.
Anyway. He means the Justice League, bringing them together, which on that note is probably an adequate amount of collective chaos for a place of this size.
Bruce does not elaborate on that incredulity, but it is there between them in spirit, like a long scroll being unfurled, all the ways in which Clark Kal Joseph "Superman" El Kent is just about the most complicated person currently residing on planet Earth. And not just because he's an alien. Maybe not even mostly because he's an alien. Maybe, because he is such a sensitive person - sensitive as in, so aware, so careful - that he shows so little, and yet makes people feel like they're seeing all there is to him.
But Bruce likes him how he is. Scroll or no scroll. And Bruce is worse about his own complexities, blunter and less refined as they are. He turns so that he's looking at Clark, and uses their joined hands to tug the younger man forward. His other goes up to hold the back of his head, and he presses a kiss to his mouth.
I know what you meant.
"I was thinking," he says when he pulls back, "that I can probably figure out a way for you to practice without having to restructure a mountain somewhere."
Clark raises his eyebrows. Sure he's simple. He buys like three of the same pair of jeans at a time once he works out if they fit and likes very basic beer brands and a whole other long list of stuff that Bruce can accurately guess about him.
But he's not arguing. He's being kissed. He likes the way Bruce kisses him, too. It feels oddly like being gifted something. His hand lands on Bruce's chest, lingers there when they pull back from one another.
"Oh yeah?" he says, at what comes next. "It's not hollowing out the moon, is it?"
Visiting the Mariana Trench. Prospecting abandoned Russian mines. There's options.
Keep up with the times, Kansas, WayneTech is already mining moon cheese and has been for years. (No.) (Or are they.)
Anyway, how's that for some light deflection away from the subject Bruce brought up on his own in the first place. His eyes watch Clark's carefully, like he's sifting for reactions, before he ends up skimming his gaze elsewhere. Casual and thoughtful, not at all like he isn't sure how this'll land.
"I copied the computer out of the scout ship," is what he says, like whatever, "and I don't have much of a workable translation, but the equations are mutually intelligible without it. The atmosphere mix settings explain some things."
Anyway. 'Copied the computer out of the scout ship' feels big, big enough that Clark doesn't seem to react at first. It feels impressive, for starters, and then intriguing for seconds, curiousity sharpening then in his mismatched eyes, which seek out Bruce's. There are, anyway, limits to what he personally can get out of something so advanced.
Which didn't stop him from taking it back and landing it on the top of an Arctic mountain, with polar bears for neighbors.
He occupies the next pause by taking up Bruce's other hand in a tangle with his own. No escape now.
He and Vic had been in there for a while, and Bruce, for a while more. Before and after, his own spiders of connectivity slowly but steadily cloning alien drives. It's the first time he had received a not enough space error exceeding multiple yottabytes. If the young man made up of mostly machine parts thought it was weird that he was hotwiring 5KTB bricks to the back of the mainframe like an awful hacker in a heist movie, he politely didn't mention it. Probably there were weirder things to focus on, like
resurrecting Superman.
It's been some months, since then. Some more, since Clark gently repossessed the ship itself. The task of interfacing it, then trying to understand anything, has been slow-going. And he didn't want to say anything, if he turned out there was nothing there. His further invasion into Clark's privacy (though it's not like it was his ship, and besides, he was dead at the time) should at least yield something.
"Like the exact conditions on Krypton. 'Red sun' does not actually mean anything, scientifically. But those equations describing the oxygen levels, radiation densities..." Bruce shrugs, looking at him again, not pulling his hands away. "I can recreate it."
It's a ready memory. Standing on the bridge of the scout ship, suddenly surrounded by these impossible beings, all staring at him, all analysing, measuring. (Butter couldn't melt in their mouths, he imagines Martha saying.) He remembers projecting as much confidence as he could muster at the time, and remembers the distinct way it sounded like he'd swallowed in own tongue around I take it you're Zod.
On account of how overwhelming it all was, sure, but also how he'd immediately felt it, the weight of it, the air and gravity and something even more pervasive that had made him feel even less welcome than the steely stares of the Kryptonians.
"So instead of restructuring a mountain, you're talking about me."
Just to demonstrate he's on the same page, or getting there, with a glint of humour before matching, better, Bruce's tone. "I've experienced those conditions before. It wasn't pretty, to begin with."
He does not say, I thought you'd like that, and explain how it lessens Clark's burden of responsibility for setting a coffee cup down an accidentally exploding his entire apartment building. Obviously, Clark will be aware of that. Bruce knows this is more fragile ground, kicking up memories that are painful, both because of the emotional turmoil and the literal, physical pain.
Those readings do not suggest an easy re-entry in either direction, and besides, he's seen footage from 'downtown' Smallville. After minimal investigation, it was not difficult to discern what it was that kept tripping up the Kryptonian soldiers.
Was it better or worse than kryptonite?
Mm. Nope, bad question.
"I could probably make adjustments, but it wouldn't be fun, the first couple shots. For either of us, I imagine."
Correction: they're talking about both of them. Apparently.
And it's enough to draw Clark out of fun reminiscing, more direct focus leveled at Bruce across the several inches keeping them apart. Wheels turning as he grounds himself slightly by splaying his fingers and feeling the delicate bones of Bruce's caught in between.
"Might not be so bad on a second pass," he says. "I adapted. Zod adapted."
Nothing's worse than kryptonite.
His fingers close again, gentle.
"What would it be like? For both of us. Even playing field?" And there is a crooked rise to the corner of his mouth. Clark on a human level could probably get taken out handily by Alfred.
The world of fandom might be suspicious of Superman for having executed Zod, but that was never Bruce's complaint. He reviewed the reports of that with a cold eye, and came to the conclusion that it was justified. Everything in between, though, and Zod himself, was what fuelled his paranoia, and beyond.
He does not want Clark to be harmed. Not even by this.
"I don't know," he admits with a small shrug. (He could be taken out handily by Alfred only because Alfred was a secret agent. Clark is stacked. It would still probably hurt to punch him, without powers.) "Odds are more than even I'd just puke my guts out the whole time, but that's not too different from my average Monday morning. You'd do alright."
Drunk jokes, eyy.
"It... would be important to me, whether it works or not, whether it goes beyond this conversation or dies here, that awareness of it doesn't leave you and I."
The drunk joke gets a :/ and not just because of the alcoholism. The feeling is mutual, in not wishing either of them harmed, but Clark probably has to at admit: Bruce is innately more calculated in his risks. He takes ridiculous ones, but differently so than his own. Clark would probably fly through the centre of the sun without much encouragement.
(Also it's a little because of the alcoholism.)
"Okay," he says, after a second. 'It would be important to me'. "Secret's safe."
A beat, and then a half-smile, flash of teeth, "How long've you been thinking about this?"
Bruce gives him a bit of a look - careful, measured, like that Okay was actually supposed to be a Yes and, leaving Bruce stuck because his next line isn't going to volley right. He doesn't immediately respond to the following question. Considering. Clearly more to delve into there, but, letting it be for a second.
"I hadn't put a timer on it," he says, because neither Since I first learned of you, in a bad way, nor When I decided to resurrect you, hoping to connect with you, or Relatively recently because your punches suck sound acceptable in his head.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
With the right application of funds, a house can be restored even quicker. This will not be a fast remodel, but it won't take ten years. The west wing had the worst of it - the oldest in the first place, the least refurbished since his grandparents' day, with its old bones and questionable roof and the most very flammable antiques stored within.
"There was a mold problem," Bruce says, standing in the taped-up open doorway of a large room, observing all the plastic drop sheets and leftover tools from the day crew. "I noticed about a week before it burned. Someone was booked to come in and look at it the next week. By accident, really. Nobody lived in this part of the house. But a bird got in."
So I looked.
no subject
When Bruce pauses at the doorway, Clark moves past him.
His imagination isn't such that he can't picture what it used to look like, what it will look like. Where he draws short is imagining it as any kind of family home and not, like, a heritage building, with velvet ropes and little plaques. Probably some these big rooms were like that more than others.
"What happened?" he asks, tipping a look upwards, then around back at Bruce. Curious, light, not without knowledge that almost any question could find a cold patch in their conversation. "How'd the fire start." Not, like, to the bird, whom he will imagine was set free.
no subject
Mm.
He returns his attention to Clark, and moving down the hall. Oh, I shooed the bird out—
Not that, of course. His footsteps are quieter than the other man's. Only one of them is trying, and it's not Bruce. There should be more of an echo, but the architecture of this place is too good for it, even missing all the sinew and fat.
"I wasn't well after Richard was killed. I started it myself. Don't really remember my exact thought process." He toes through some broken glass, trying to identify it. How is there still glass? Clink, crunch.
"I should amend that. I haven't been well."
A difference, between wasn't, and still isn't. He still isn't. It's not an excuse for anything, but it's the first time he's mentioned out loud that the brutal end of the boy he took in when he was eight years old (car bomb, listed on his death certificate) is what kicked off the bloody, slippery landslide that put him on a murderous collision course with Superman. It isn't just that. But after he got back from the funeral, he put his ideals away on a shelf somewhere, and the sinking began.
He sounds remarkably okay. Not flippant, not fine, but like someone who is coming to terms with talking about things, now and again.
no subject
but not for asking. It's the kind of apology that can be attached to any number of aspects to the conversation but isn't insincere for it. Maybe he could be sorry about having not understood it all until this moment, even if Clark has journeyed a long ways from being that earnest, angry reporter fossicking about in Batman's leavings. Maybe he is just plainly sorry that Bruce has experienced that loss.
Probably all of it, simply stated, that tinge of echo in his voice from the cavernous, hollowed out halls of the house. He thinks: that was years ago. Imagine having this place and what you did to it in your own backyard for all this time.
But all the same, Clark says, "Glad the bones stayed," as he moves to wind around closer. "Something to build off of."
no subject
He makes a non-committal sound, accepting the condolences for what they are. It will be like this for some time; Bruce unearthing land mines in himself to show Clark, and offer apologies about their existence, without actually saying he's sorry.
"Me, too. It's been around for a hundred years, it's already embarrassing enough I managed to get it like this."
Couldn't have come by with a hoover, in between? Nope. (Though he did come by. To the tombs, to stare at the ruins. Driving past it every day, situating his current residence so that he would always have to look at it and be haunted, ensuring the wounds would never heal. He could have moved to another property, to one of his dozen penthouses, to another country. But he wanted the pain. Normal Batman shit.)
"How nightmarish is the idea of ... dorm rooms?"
no subject
But the last part gets a startled smile out of Clark, amusement creased through his brow. "Well," he says, "as long as we're not talking bunk beds. I don't think Barry would make it out alive."
A gentle tug, to resume their wander.
And he adds, quietly, because he doesn't want it to just skirt on by, "It's not embarrassing. Pain."
no subject
Ah. What a world. It turns out :/ is contagious.
"It's kind of you to say that," is what comes out of his mouth, eventually, sounding carefully selected. There is a hallway that wraps around an open area like an indoor terrace; atrium. The ceiling has glass panels, boarded up or broken out. "But I imagine you have had fewer tantrums in life than I have had."
Not as a child, mind you. Bruce was a great kid.
no subject
The sidelong look has trace humour, but he is also being completely serious. "'Cause a guy at a bar tried to get me to fight him. It was his truck, and a bad day." It was a cumulative outcome, to be very fair. Probably Batman would have noticed some supertantrums if they were a common occurrence. But still, probably more on the 'embarrassing' end of the justified rage spectrum.
He tips a look up at the ceiling, speculative. "I spent a lot of time not my best self, Bruce. Still do. There's a lot I'd do differently, or not at all."
no subject
"Mmm." A noise that says, I don't appreciate it when you make me wrong about more things than I'm already wrong about. Growth that he doesn't actually argue, perhaps.
(He has not removed his hand from Clark's.)
"I am trying for 'honest'," he ventures, after a while.
Out of practice.
no subject
Not all of it, and he wouldn't presume to. He's lost people he loved but he's never lost a kid. He is not quite so willfully self-destructive so much as just willing to take big gambles. But having never experienced certain things doesn't preclude the ability to empathise. One would hope so, of an indestructible demi-god-like alien.
He still has his eyes trained upwards, and he says, "Would some kind of Superman sensing sky window freak you out?"
no subject
If he didn't know, or wasn't sure thirty seconds ago, that hardly matters; he knows he can tell Clark and be understood, even through his bullshit habit of crucifying himself over everything. He wishes he had the finesse to do any of this without seeming like he's trying to play a game of whose-suffering-is-worse or like he's daring Clark to be shocked. But he doesn't. So.
So this, basically.
"Why would it freak me out? Do you think I have something against windows."
Like his entire current residence is a window.
no subject
"I figure you'd rather limit your points of entry," Clark says, delivery dry. "Conserve the aesthetics."
Does a motion-sensor roof door fit in with one-hundred-year-old mansions? Clark imagines not but he's never really had to think about it before. He also says, "It's generous, what you're doing," in the kind of gently nudged way of someone who don't mean strictly financially.
no subject
"That word," he says, keeping his voice light, but then he doesn't continue right away.
'Generous'. Yeah, he tends to hear it meaning financially, and not in a friendly way. How generous, Mr Wayne, the billionaire. Anyway, Bruce shrugs. It's the best he can do. He thought he'd raise kids in this house and leave it to them, and that isn't what's happened. Won't ever happen. One orphaned boy wasn't enough to fill it and he thought. He had hoped. Tried.
Failed.
"I thought so too, but now I think I've made an error not just showing you the penthouse." Humor. It's on the roof of the Wayne Foundation building.
no subject
"I'm a simple man," Clark admits, which is also funny, because a fancy penthouse is far from simple. "But I don't mean just me. Or just the house."
The house, inasmuch as he still feels like 'house' barely applies to a place this big and grand. He's used to a kitchen with vertical shades and old fashioned backsplash, and narrow stairs with creaky parts, and the way the whole place kind of shivered every time he ran down them with Shelby racing ahead.
Anyway. He means the Justice League, bringing them together, which on that note is probably an adequate amount of collective chaos for a place of this size.
no subject
Bruce does not elaborate on that incredulity, but it is there between them in spirit, like a long scroll being unfurled, all the ways in which Clark Kal Joseph "Superman" El Kent is just about the most complicated person currently residing on planet Earth. And not just because he's an alien. Maybe not even mostly because he's an alien. Maybe, because he is such a sensitive person - sensitive as in, so aware, so careful - that he shows so little, and yet makes people feel like they're seeing all there is to him.
But Bruce likes him how he is. Scroll or no scroll. And Bruce is worse about his own complexities, blunter and less refined as they are. He turns so that he's looking at Clark, and uses their joined hands to tug the younger man forward. His other goes up to hold the back of his head, and he presses a kiss to his mouth.
I know what you meant.
"I was thinking," he says when he pulls back, "that I can probably figure out a way for you to practice without having to restructure a mountain somewhere."
no subject
But he's not arguing. He's being kissed. He likes the way Bruce kisses him, too. It feels oddly like being gifted something. His hand lands on Bruce's chest, lingers there when they pull back from one another.
"Oh yeah?" he says, at what comes next. "It's not hollowing out the moon, is it?"
Visiting the Mariana Trench. Prospecting abandoned Russian mines. There's options.
no subject
Keep up with the times, Kansas, WayneTech is already mining moon cheese and has been for years. (No.) (Or are they.)
Anyway, how's that for some light deflection away from the subject Bruce brought up on his own in the first place. His eyes watch Clark's carefully, like he's sifting for reactions, before he ends up skimming his gaze elsewhere. Casual and thoughtful, not at all like he isn't sure how this'll land.
"I copied the computer out of the scout ship," is what he says, like whatever, "and I don't have much of a workable translation, but the equations are mutually intelligible without it. The atmosphere mix settings explain some things."
About you.
no subject
Anyway. 'Copied the computer out of the scout ship' feels big, big enough that Clark doesn't seem to react at first. It feels impressive, for starters, and then intriguing for seconds, curiousity sharpening then in his mismatched eyes, which seek out Bruce's. There are, anyway, limits to what he personally can get out of something so advanced.
Which didn't stop him from taking it back and landing it on the top of an Arctic mountain, with polar bears for neighbors.
He occupies the next pause by taking up Bruce's other hand in a tangle with his own. No escape now.
"Like what?"
no subject
resurrecting Superman.
It's been some months, since then. Some more, since Clark gently repossessed the ship itself. The task of interfacing it, then trying to understand anything, has been slow-going. And he didn't want to say anything, if he turned out there was nothing there. His further invasion into Clark's privacy (though it's not like it was his ship, and besides, he was dead at the time) should at least yield something.
"Like the exact conditions on Krypton. 'Red sun' does not actually mean anything, scientifically. But those equations describing the oxygen levels, radiation densities..." Bruce shrugs, looking at him again, not pulling his hands away. "I can recreate it."
no subject
On account of how overwhelming it all was, sure, but also how he'd immediately felt it, the weight of it, the air and gravity and something even more pervasive that had made him feel even less welcome than the steely stares of the Kryptonians.
"So instead of restructuring a mountain, you're talking about me."
Just to demonstrate he's on the same page, or getting there, with a glint of humour before matching, better, Bruce's tone. "I've experienced those conditions before. It wasn't pretty, to begin with."
no subject
He does not say, I thought you'd like that, and explain how it lessens Clark's burden of responsibility for setting a coffee cup down an accidentally exploding his entire apartment building. Obviously, Clark will be aware of that. Bruce knows this is more fragile ground, kicking up memories that are painful, both because of the emotional turmoil and the literal, physical pain.
Those readings do not suggest an easy re-entry in either direction, and besides, he's seen footage from 'downtown' Smallville. After minimal investigation, it was not difficult to discern what it was that kept tripping up the Kryptonian soldiers.
Was it better or worse than kryptonite?
Mm. Nope, bad question.
"I could probably make adjustments, but it wouldn't be fun, the first couple shots. For either of us, I imagine."
no subject
And it's enough to draw Clark out of fun reminiscing, more direct focus leveled at Bruce across the several inches keeping them apart. Wheels turning as he grounds himself slightly by splaying his fingers and feeling the delicate bones of Bruce's caught in between.
"Might not be so bad on a second pass," he says. "I adapted. Zod adapted."
Nothing's worse than kryptonite.
His fingers close again, gentle.
"What would it be like? For both of us. Even playing field?" And there is a crooked rise to the corner of his mouth. Clark on a human level could probably get taken out handily by Alfred.
no subject
The world
of fandommight be suspicious of Superman for having executed Zod, but that was never Bruce's complaint. He reviewed the reports of that with a cold eye, and came to the conclusion that it was justified. Everything in between, though, and Zod himself, was what fuelled his paranoia, and beyond.He does not want Clark to be harmed. Not even by this.
"I don't know," he admits with a small shrug. (He could be taken out handily by Alfred only because Alfred was a secret agent. Clark is stacked. It would still probably hurt to punch him, without powers.) "Odds are more than even I'd just puke my guts out the whole time, but that's not too different from my average Monday morning. You'd do alright."
Drunk jokes, eyy.
"It... would be important to me, whether it works or not, whether it goes beyond this conversation or dies here, that awareness of it doesn't leave you and I."
no subject
(Also it's a little because of the alcoholism.)
"Okay," he says, after a second. 'It would be important to me'. "Secret's safe."
A beat, and then a half-smile, flash of teeth, "How long've you been thinking about this?"
no subject
"I hadn't put a timer on it," he says, because neither Since I first learned of you, in a bad way, nor When I decided to resurrect you, hoping to connect with you, or Relatively recently because your punches suck sound acceptable in his head.
Well they're all acceptable to him, but.
"Long enough."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)