Tuna salad sandwiches, plentiful to balance the moratorium on snack food side dishes (potato chip crumbs? on this hardware?), packed only with some water bottles and cans of Diet Coke. Enough time has passed by now that they won't explode when opened, jostled by the journey, though one is dented. Pressure changes in the flight.
"I would just prefer that you not explode and that I," crack-hiss, hey, still slightly carbonated, even, "do not immediately get leukemia."
But banter isn't released without a slanted look through eyelashes as Clark likewise reaches for a Diet Coke. Bruce, please. The tab is peeled free, the carbonation activates, and talking about this feels a little like he is circling something. A couple things, even.
"You said the chamber might make you sick," he prompts, as he brings can up to mouth to drink from, eyebrows querying.
Mild-mannered journalist Clark Kent. Less so, that m-word. Angling towards the point with his callbacks and questions, digging at a story. Bruce might tell him to cough it up if he didn't find him doing his job attractive (don't unpack that).
"Like it made you sick."
But not, Like it allegedly would have killed Lois, who was given a nifty space hat.
"Sort of. You can adjust. I might not be able to, even if I tweak things. At first, anyway. It's not about the danger of the atmosphere itself the methods used to achieve it. What it looks like, to me, is that the kind of generators - for lack of a better word - used to maintain a Kryptonian liveable atmo on the Phantom Drive ship are not compatible with humans. Or beings from a lot of worlds. You're very good at accepting extreme radiation, no matter the type. I need to look into a... ecologically friendly wind turbine alternative."
He drinks some north pole frozen soda.
"Shellfish."
Ok?
"They do really well with radiation. It's why the fishing market near the wreck has changed like that."
A subtle glimmer of amusement in there. Cool shellfish fact, Bruce. To his credit, Bruce talks about generators and atmospheric conditions and Kryptonian ships and he has Clark's undivided attention, a head-cocked alertness that hasn't gotten old yet, at least not on Clark's side of the conversation. He's never needed to be the smartest person in the room. Or the anythingest person.
"Well, if we can figure it out, and if it doesn't give you a massive radioactive hangover the whole time, it'd be nice to be on a level playing field for a little while. Maybe not only in a strictly professional capacity."
If that's too soon of an angle to pursue, then you'll forgive him for already thinking about it on the plane ride over. Or while they were packing tuna salad sandwiches, even.
This is not actually being overly smart - this is having unprecedented access with which to draw conclusions - the smartness comes later, when he actually does the thing. But if Clark would like to find his application of crabs deal with radiation okay enticing enough to open the door to that sort of talk, Bruce will not dissuade him.
"Mmhm."
As if Clark were talking about the weather. Bruce doesn't actually like Diet Coke; this was a tactical decision, back when they were packing said sandwiches. Counter-balance to tunafish. At least it wasn't egg salad. Would Jor-El forgive him, he wonders, for balancing a soda can on a sleek and silver console's edge as he stands and moves to kiss his son. Probably. Fucking for freedom.
It's a surprise and it's not a surprise, the kiss, when it happens, that it happens. Clark's hands do that thing where they automatic drift up to touch Bruce and rest in place, light and gentle, as is the way he returns the kiss.
A smile interrupting it, inevitably. Out the corner of his eye, he notes one of the androids drifting circuitously nearer. Maybe just randomly, maybe its considering relocating that coke can somewhere less offensive. Clark would doubt dad minding much, although that's not his wondering right this minute.
He'd had an argument with Selina, some years ago. About how he never reached for her, and waited for her to push, every single time. She was furious at him. You'll force an issue for everything, to defeat someone, to help someone, but you'll never take anything for yourself, like you're ashamed.
They both knew he was ashamed of himself, but after years of it, she just felt like he was ashamed of her. I want to be wanted, too.
Bruce took note. It's difficult, still. But he reached out so often in violence, at the start, that—
He's trying. Things that are important to him. And he likes Clark's mouth under his. He doesn't let it linger, though, slipping away almost coyly.
Maybe so.
"I'm nothing if not thorough." He's run all the numbers. Soda can retrieved in rough fingers, he observes the oval assistant floating by, probably scanning the negative nutritional benefit of carbonated cancer water. "And I miss it, too."
That thing they don't talk about out loud, most of the time.
It. That thing. He's talked to Lois about it, a little bit. Trying to walk a line between honesty with his wife and privacy on Bruce's end of things, in the same way he would not unearth details at random about his sex life with Lo. Even without that balance, it's a hard thing to describe in words.
Without sounding completely crazy, anyway. It's nice when it can just be it.
His hand lingers on Bruce as he slides away (far too nimble footed for a man of his proportions), affection shaped in the corners of Clark's mouth. For the kiss. For missing it, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Like Clark wasn't gonna ask.
Tuna salad sandwiches, plentiful to balance the moratorium on snack food side dishes (potato chip crumbs? on this hardware?), packed only with some water bottles and cans of Diet Coke. Enough time has passed by now that they won't explode when opened, jostled by the journey, though one is dented. Pressure changes in the flight.
"I would just prefer that you not explode and that I," crack-hiss, hey, still slightly carbonated, even, "do not immediately get leukemia."
no subject
But banter isn't released without a slanted look through eyelashes as Clark likewise reaches for a Diet Coke. Bruce, please. The tab is peeled free, the carbonation activates, and talking about this feels a little like he is circling something. A couple things, even.
"You said the chamber might make you sick," he prompts, as he brings can up to mouth to drink from, eyebrows querying.
no subject
"Like it made you sick."
But not, Like it allegedly would have killed Lois, who was given a nifty space hat.
"Sort of. You can adjust. I might not be able to, even if I tweak things. At first, anyway. It's not about the danger of the atmosphere itself the methods used to achieve it. What it looks like, to me, is that the kind of generators - for lack of a better word - used to maintain a Kryptonian liveable atmo on the Phantom Drive ship are not compatible with humans. Or beings from a lot of worlds. You're very good at accepting extreme radiation, no matter the type. I need to look into a... ecologically friendly wind turbine alternative."
He drinks some north pole frozen soda.
"Shellfish."
Ok?
"They do really well with radiation. It's why the fishing market near the wreck has changed like that."
no subject
A subtle glimmer of amusement in there. Cool shellfish fact, Bruce. To his credit, Bruce talks about generators and atmospheric conditions and Kryptonian ships and he has Clark's undivided attention, a head-cocked alertness that hasn't gotten old yet, at least not on Clark's side of the conversation. He's never needed to be the smartest person in the room. Or the anythingest person.
"Well, if we can figure it out, and if it doesn't give you a massive radioactive hangover the whole time, it'd be nice to be on a level playing field for a little while. Maybe not only in a strictly professional capacity."
If that's too soon of an angle to pursue, then you'll forgive him for already thinking about it on the plane ride over. Or while they were packing tuna salad sandwiches, even.
no subject
"Mmhm."
As if Clark were talking about the weather. Bruce doesn't actually like Diet Coke; this was a tactical decision, back when they were packing said sandwiches. Counter-balance to tunafish. At least it wasn't egg salad. Would Jor-El forgive him, he wonders, for balancing a soda can on a sleek and silver console's edge as he stands and moves to kiss his son. Probably. Fucking for freedom.
no subject
A smile interrupting it, inevitably. Out the corner of his eye, he notes one of the androids drifting circuitously nearer. Maybe just randomly, maybe its considering relocating that coke can somewhere less offensive. Clark would doubt dad minding much, although that's not his wondering right this minute.
"So you ran those numbers too," he says.
no subject
They both knew he was ashamed of himself, but after years of it, she just felt like he was ashamed of her. I want to be wanted, too.
Bruce took note. It's difficult, still. But he reached out so often in violence, at the start, that—
He's trying. Things that are important to him. And he likes Clark's mouth under his. He doesn't let it linger, though, slipping away almost coyly.
Maybe so.
"I'm nothing if not thorough." He's run all the numbers. Soda can retrieved in rough fingers, he observes the oval assistant floating by, probably scanning the negative nutritional benefit of carbonated cancer water. "And I miss it, too."
That thing they don't talk about out loud, most of the time.
no subject
Without sounding completely crazy, anyway. It's nice when it can just be it.
His hand lingers on Bruce as he slides away (far too nimble footed for a man of his proportions), affection shaped in the corners of Clark's mouth. For the kiss. For missing it, too.