Thirty-pack or no, it jolts him, head swiveling around in probably outrage as he says, "That never came up," on the topic of things shown him.
Clark has his own balancing act to do, not dissimilar to Bruce's. Sure, he isn't at typical Kryptonian brute force now, and sure, he is wrestling Batman who could probably do about twenty different things at every given pin attempt, but he's still formidable, and he doesn't quite know how much yet.
And so this kind of playfighting is probably reminiscent of interacting with an adolescent Doberman who isn't sold on not being a puppy. More prone to hurting itself, probably, but could leave a bruise when not paying attention.
But here, in this tangle, he reaches up and back to find where Bruce slipped his hand beneath his head, and before he can ease it away, Clark keeps it there, which keeps them close. His eyes are bright, and he hasn't quite stopped smiling since that first broke. Breathing harder, too, when normally that tends to only happen for feelings reasons.
"You're holding back," is not an accusation, but only because it's a fact. And a taunt.
A man confident he could wipe the floor with this cornfed, albeit shredded, dweeb. He's not pressed close to Clark despite how close they are, holding himself just so above him; his shirt touches the younger man's in places, but no pressure from body to body. Impressive core strength.
"You've never felt that before, have you."
From me.
A taunt right back, though there's some recon in it, too. He is watching Clark very closely, and part of his attention is ever on the monitors.
Training like this being, he expects, a balancing act, where they could never actually match one another so much as go through motions. Any holding back on Bruce's part would have been more to avoid injuring himself on Clark, or preventing Clark from accidentally doing so himself.
And then there was that one time. He glances when he spies Bruce checking the monitors, and says, "Prognosis, doctor?"
He's not quite used to this enough to be impressed by incredible feats of core strength or appreciate that they are even happening, although maybe through subtle adjustments of his posture, Bruce might be able to tell he's taking his time in lining up a counterstrike.
Bruce doesn't move, and he lets his eyeline stay on the monitors. Pointedly, the hand in that threatening tickle location stays there, his touch almost light; prepped for immediate movability, if needed. Ominous. There is the matter of knees, and of course the hand behind Clark's head, and how close they are.
"I don't want to keep you in here for too long. We'll have to try to replicate this a few more times. Think you can thread that needle?"
Bruce's thumb indents. Slightly. Well? You gonna try and knock me over or what?
The news that his stay on earth, as it were, is likely to be limited for right now seems to twinge disappointment, although not too overtly, and it doesn't show up on the monitors besides. It's not just the excuse to bodily roll around with Bruce without fear of harm, although it's not not that.
But what it is is that it's nice. Nice because it's temporary, true, but nice to feel human in a more visceral way than he has before, and not from pain, or mortality. He will need to monitor the situation, but his own prognosis indicates something good about that, a different sort of intimacy.
He twitches at that pressing in of Bruce's thumb, and twists beneath him.
His knee bumps into a pressure point, his rolls his weight, loops an arm around the arm he already has caught. On top of Bruce, half kneeling, a hand pinning him down against the mat. (Flip a coin on whether he is about to get face planted into the mat with his own momentum or not.)
It's incredibly strange. Pushing against Clark has ever been a sensation that is wholly different from pushing against a human body— even when he'd gassed him with kryptonite, there was a sense he was hitting something else. Like trying to crush a stone in your hand and having it go soft instead of shatter. Now, he can feel the way they collide and it's all normal, standard almost-pain, knees against fascia, hands and fingers gripping, the elbow he nearly collides with would just hurt, and not risk crushing his entire ribcage.
Bruce is pinned. He could get out of it. Perhaps Clark can even tell. But this deliberate surrender is about more than not wanting to break Clark's nose; Bruce looks up at him, curious and daring.
"Here," he says, pitched a little lower without thinking. Getting his hand under Clark's, encouraging him into a mirror of their earlier position.
"You don't have to stop."
His wrists won't shatter. His shoulders won't go through the floor. Maybe he'll get a boner and forget about the way he's planning on comically tumbling Clark over his head in a second.
Clark is thinking that if he can get his leg over like that and then pull his weight like this then maybe he could actually lock Bruce down. But Bruce makes his suggestion instead, and that curious look being tipped up at him is mirrored back. You don't have to stop calls out to him, to test the premise.
The stress of the pin lets up, Clark shifting his weight to properly straddle and grip Bruce's hands under his own.
In a reversal of earlier, there's that gentle pressure that finally builds into itself, a little faster now that he's had some time to get a feel for this human thing. Force and then weight as he bears down on Bruce's hands. They've done this before, Clark over him, effortlessly bending Bruce's arms down against the ground, or the bed, or wherever it is they landed.
Which means they haven't done this before, force and object trembling between the pressure of either, muscles straining.
This is not only alluring on principle, but they'll see if he breaks something. Stress testing.
It's fine.
Bruce does not go effortlessly. For a while he can push up, keeping Clark suspended in a battle between gravity and his own strength, but the angle makes him concede or strain past good sense. Clark will have to work to get his wrists against the ground, though, and Bruce shifts one knee like he's threatening to throw him. Doesn't follow through. Yet.
"It can be satisfying," he says, breath a little thin from strain, "pushing so hard it burns."
Definitely a concept they know about, intimately, in themselves and each other; he's verbalizing purely to watch Clark's eyes as he listens.
He is sure Bruce is cheating. Clark hasn't worked out how, just yet.
There is a minute shift in his positioning like he intends to counter that knee, but it doesn't get anywhere, all his focus directed into this one thing. Bad habits, leaving himself open. Tempting to bear down on one side, but also seems like he'd deserve to get thrown if he sacrificed his own balance that badly, and instead Clark stays put, so there's that.
He'd been watching Bruce's face already but in a less directed way, eye contact then snapping into place accordingly. How are you talking, first of all.
Lot of key words in that sentence, second of all.
"I missed it," he says, instead, not easily. Rare, that they—that he—will point directly to their fight, mostly because they don't always have to, but also because it's still weighted in his mind, dangerous, edged.
Next time, when Bruce is speaking so stilted and strange in his armor, Clark will perhaps understand the twofold reason of the voice modulator. One, anonymity. Two, it takes the embarrassing edge off of gasping for breath after extreme exertion and just sounds spooky. Wheezing not very intimidating.
Anyway. This is not extreme exertion. Sorry, Clark.
Bruce moves a little beneath him, but it's nothing more than re-settling his weight. Flexing his shoulders. Grounding himself a little better, in the event he flips the other man. And illustrating how close he is, how trapped, and yet how still dangerous. If he pushes now, it won't be a matter of trusting Clark to move and prevent Bruce from hurting himself. It'll just be a fight.
Will diplomacy work? Can he talk Bruce into a collapse? Is he actually going to give up? Wait—
That prospect seems to enter his brain as sharp and sudden as an exclamation point. Sure, he imagined being overpowered, imagined losing, has in fact lost before, but that's different to making the concerted decision that you just can't do the thing you're trying to do. That he literally isn't strong enough. (A gasp of laughter, here.)
Which makes sense, obviously. Both of them are physically ridiculous, but Bruce has an edge, is used to his own limitations, is a gigantic person. He had said, you don't have to stop, but not that he won't need to.
Slowly, Bruce feels that pressure start to lessen, Clark careful not to take his foot off the gas too fast.
Oh my god, and Bruce smiles, unable to stop himself. It's a little bit edged, because that's just who he is, but mostly it's warm, and nearly a laugh. Clark is so fucking charming, he almost can't stand it. Somewhere occasionally infuriating. The Bat is dead, and Bruce had tried very hard not to let it filter into the more embarrassing dreams, and then he's just some dopey farmboy—
He lets Clark back off by degrees, breathes deep. When he's almost there, just on the cusp of being able to sit up, Bruce moves.
Push. Both hands, forcing Clark back, and he'll either right himself on his knees or topple. Should be knees, if he remembers anything at all from the painstaking lessons. Either way, Bruce gets hands on his shoulders, fisted into his shirt, hauling him practically onto his own lap. A funny not-pin, but somehow, it seems like Bruce still has leverage. He shifts one hand forward from shoulder to neck, against his pulse. Checking in. Awfully close.
"We're going to shut it down for now," is what he says, instead of doing something stupid. "And you'll need to wear a monitor for 24 hours." Don't worry, it's just a sticker. Bruce is good at this.
Clark has not exhausted himself to the point of being totally incapable of reacting, although the temptation to flop on the mat is extremely great. No, he gets his knees under him before he's hauled again in close, eyes flashing wide as his hand clasps down on Bruce's arm—
—which is at first a feather light touch until he remembers, and so goes ahead and digs fingers into bicep.
And then gusts out another disbelieving laugh as Bruce goes and checks his vitals. Honestly. There is sweat on Clark's forehead and his eyes are bright in a way that would ordinarily take a lot more physical exertion to encourage. He already feels like he's doing something stupid, and it is tempting to drag Bruce down with him. Further down.
No, alright. Let's not immediately fuck with the data. He loosens his grip on Bruce's arm too.
"You should too," he says. Don't explode on exit, Wayne.
Clark leans in to plant a kiss on Bruce's forehead, clumsily friendly, and moves to roll away.
"Alright." Mostly because it'll make Clark feel better, but also: yeah, well. Don't explode on exit, Wayne.
He watches Clark go, ready to reach out if he wobbles (enjoy the way it feels to stand up quickly when you're winded!), but otherwise, this experiment for today is wrapped. Boners probably a bad idea when they aren't sure if either of them will be able to recover just from breathing a little quickly after a playground tussle.
Decompression goes as good as it's gone; better, and Bruce only feels slightly lightheaded. The inside of his nose burns a little, like he's had a nosebleed, but no actual blood happens. He was right, the last time that he passed out— he's got it. They've got it. And all it needs is some fine-tuning, and then he's fairly certain his plan won't even require this kind of sealed chamber.
Which means he essentially ignores Clark for the next three days, absorbed in nerdery, consenting to bagels as long as he can eat them over his notebook. The bat signal goes up, and Bruce goes up too, but then sits back down at a ping from Vic. I've got it :)
It's three days of something else, for Clark, whether it's overseeing the safe landing of a charter plane during an unexpected blizzard or buying a new cuttlefish bone for Woodstock or, you know, doing his dayjob. And he still finds time to visit the lakehouse, and chats to Alfred, and fails to chat to Bruce, and gets like only a little bit jealous about a science project even though it is for himself, just normal Superman things.
It's donuts, this time. They are round with holes in them, so it's of the same family. Clark is opening the box to obviously take one for himself as he glances, contextualise, and says, "What, giving you a night off? I definitely didn't."
He has tried. He is wearing, currently, some of the clothes he keeps stashed here, deciding to stick around rather than have only suited up just for donut delivery. Not that he is above that, or anything.
Vic doesn't sound like that. Bruce eyes him over the edge of one screen, though there's nothing bitey-bat-hostile about it, like he can get sometimes if he feels like he's being interfered with. Apparently, Victor Stone being a native Gothamite gives him a pass in a way that not even Superman gets. Bruce probably shouldn't even be going out anymore at all, but he still does; he's sure he'll die out there, unable to stop. But that's alright, and it's (hopefully) a fair bit away, still.
Tonight, he's got plenty to occupy himself with. Late night donuts, for one.
"So—"
A quiet breath, enigmatic pause in a way that is not actually enigmatic, and more telltale of Bruce being slightly nervous in a way he won't express.
Clark steps nearer to set the box down in range for the sharing. He is holding his prize, chocolate and sprinkles, but he got two of everything. They'll taste fine, in a vegan kind of way. The box apparently withstood the flight pretty well.
And there'd been a smile about the smiley. Neither confirming nor denying.
"You're making me a lamp?"
The slightly nervous, he can sense, and he only spends half a second living in the reality that Bruce is helping him furnish his apartment with his bare hands before Clark says, "Wait, really?"
Edited (whoops cmere face square) 2021-03-24 06:48 (UTC)
A look. Really. Bruce leans back and lets Clark see the schematic on screen— not exactly a Tiffany. Like a camping lantern, almost, but the dome shapes sketched out by digitally perfect curved lines suggest something more fiddly, almost like a tiny satellite. There's what's obviously the 'bulb', though the bit that does the work is poured out of pieces that more closely resemble solar panels. The base is a battery chamber, though it obviously isn't going to take double As.
"If you get sprinkles on my keyboard," sounds awfully parental. He only slips into it once in a blue moon, usually when he isn't paying attention to what he's saying.
More present: "A red sun lamp."
Edited (why am i thinking about connecticut) 2021-03-24 07:35 (UTC)
Clark pulls a chair over, and is careful with his donut, a hand hovered to catch any sprinkles when he takes a bite while also absorbing the information in front of him. There's a double-blink at the pronouncement of the device's name and function, but he doesn't look to Bruce first.
Instead, he reaches over and past Bruce to commandeer the mouse, and look for himself, clicking through components.
"I thought the closed environment was necessary," he says, not argumentative, just prompting, curious and focused. You leave someone alone with your group project for half a week—
"Sort of." Shift to allow for another set of broad shoulders engaging with the mouse. (He should get an upright one, says Alfred.) "It'll help. It was necessary to collect the data I needed without any interference. But the end goal was always to find a way to those effects through other means."
Bruce indicates on a second screen, lines of data about the things they had been testing. Production, interaction, result, abatement.
"It won't really do anything, if you flipped it on in the middle of the street, or a ballroom. But in a bedroom with the curtains drawn, left on for a bit." He tips his head, hums something that conveys he thinks it should work off these specs, but of course, there will be tweaking involved. Bruce is a brilliant engineer, but he's self-taught. There will always be a degree of mad scientist about him.
"That chamber. I'll be dismantling it. I won't have somewhere you can be trapped like that. With this, it's got an escape hatch by virtue of being fragile. No reinforced doors or control panels. Calmly turn it off, or if something happens, it's easily breakable."
Bruce's explanations marry with the information that Clark is reading, absorbed with supereyes and into superbrain. He arrives at that conclusion almost as Bruce says it, nodding along like he understands. He does.
Serious-reading-face softens, a breath of a laugh. Over the months of development, he's remembered what Bruce had said, about not needing to think about setting down a cup of coffee. He's reframed that goal into the idea of the sealed chamber, a place he could be, and train, and sure, reclaim that specific kind of intimacy with Bruce if they so chose.
He hadn't arrived at the conclusion that that place could be relatively anywhere.
Clark looks to him past his shoulder like he's about to say something clever or ask another question, but he says instead, "It's perfect." It's an idea still, sure, but a perfect one.
They have been doing this too-intimate thing for a while, now, and still, Clark manages to find all these ways to catch him off-guard. It's perfect, he says, and it sounds so sincere. Bruce looks at him, and then looks back at the schematics. Yes, well. It's just a lamp. He ends up pulling the box of donuts over and peering within, selecting something with the least explosive topping.
"I'm sure there'll be a learning curve, even if it works right," he hedges. Pointlessly catastrophizing on a small scale. He haggles with himself, internally, and ends up adding: "I hope so. That it is."
Perfect.
Getting better at this optimistic thing, in stops and starts. He still feels it, but old habits die hard, and happiness is an ill-fitting suit, no matter that he bought it on purpose. What is this, chocolate with— "What flavor is pink supposed to be?"
Clark watches Bruce do the thing—the withdraw, the pessimism, and even, at this point, the self-correction. Unbothered by it all and warmed by the last. Plus, his donuts efforts will no longer be in vain.
"A berry," he answers, looking back at the schematics and listing back in his chair, loosely folding his arms over his T-shirt. He tends to wear big loose ones like he's still (was never) in college, so the casually impressive flexing has to hold up on its own. Plus, still finishing his donut. "There should be a plain one in there. I mean, a cinnamon one."
Which is plain, basically. And only one, so it's definitely for Bruce.
"How long until a prototype? I mean—" Quick amendment, minding manners. "Approximately, roughly. I know you've been working a lot already on this."
Cinnamon is appreciated, but he has already accidentally gouged (a) berry flavored non-dairy glaze with the side of his thumb, so a little under half of the chocolate-with-pink donut is broken off, and shoved in one motion into his mouth.
Om.
Bruce sits back to manage that, hand hovering near his face to obscure the lack of grace in having done so. A brilliant deviation from eating leftover pizza all the times Barry has continued to poke his head in, all sharp-sweet and nothing with sauce, but he's immediately sick of the sugar. It's fine. Not that disgusting, for being vegan. Chews thoroughly, definitely not just buying himself some time to perversely revel in the awareness that Clark is bordering on impatient for this thing he's making.
They've been very well-behaved so far. Mostly. He isn't sure if he's glad they never properly fooled around in the chamber, but he is sure they're going to end up strung-out in a very particular by the time the lamp works.
"Shouldn't take as long as the first part. I'll have a better estimate after I knock the first model together."
It is expected and anticipated that Bruce will have more than one donut, if not all tonight. Clark just doesn't mind helping himself first to his food gifts, the last of his donut disappearing behind his fangs, followed by the sprinkles that had fallen into his hand, shotgunned like pills.
'Uh huh' says a nod as he finishes his bite, listening, and swallowing before speaking, "Can I help?"
His tone makes it a real question as opposed to seeking permission to hang out or something: can he help, or is it too fiddly and he'd just be breathing down Bruce's neck.
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no subject
Clark has his own balancing act to do, not dissimilar to Bruce's. Sure, he isn't at typical Kryptonian brute force now, and sure, he is wrestling Batman who could probably do about twenty different things at every given pin attempt, but he's still formidable, and he doesn't quite know how much yet.
And so this kind of playfighting is probably reminiscent of interacting with an adolescent Doberman who isn't sold on not being a puppy. More prone to hurting itself, probably, but could leave a bruise when not paying attention.
But here, in this tangle, he reaches up and back to find where Bruce slipped his hand beneath his head, and before he can ease it away, Clark keeps it there, which keeps them close. His eyes are bright, and he hasn't quite stopped smiling since that first broke. Breathing harder, too, when normally that tends to only happen for feelings reasons.
"You're holding back," is not an accusation, but only because it's a fact. And a taunt.
no subject
A man confident he could wipe the floor with this cornfed, albeit shredded, dweeb. He's not pressed close to Clark despite how close they are, holding himself just so above him; his shirt touches the younger man's in places, but no pressure from body to body. Impressive core strength.
"You've never felt that before, have you."
From me.
A taunt right back, though there's some recon in it, too. He is watching Clark very closely, and part of his attention is ever on the monitors.
no subject
Training like this being, he expects, a balancing act, where they could never actually match one another so much as go through motions. Any holding back on Bruce's part would have been more to avoid injuring himself on Clark, or preventing Clark from accidentally doing so himself.
And then there was that one time. He glances when he spies Bruce checking the monitors, and says, "Prognosis, doctor?"
He's not quite used to this enough to be impressed by incredible feats of core strength or appreciate that they are even happening, although maybe through subtle adjustments of his posture, Bruce might be able to tell he's taking his time in lining up a counterstrike.
no subject
Bruce doesn't move, and he lets his eyeline stay on the monitors. Pointedly, the hand in that threatening tickle location stays there, his touch almost light; prepped for immediate movability, if needed. Ominous. There is the matter of knees, and of course the hand behind Clark's head, and how close they are.
"I don't want to keep you in here for too long. We'll have to try to replicate this a few more times. Think you can thread that needle?"
Bruce's thumb indents. Slightly. Well? You gonna try and knock me over or what?
no subject
But what it is is that it's nice. Nice because it's temporary, true, but nice to feel human in a more visceral way than he has before, and not from pain, or mortality. He will need to monitor the situation, but his own prognosis indicates something good about that, a different sort of intimacy.
He twitches at that pressing in of Bruce's thumb, and twists beneath him.
His knee bumps into a pressure point, his rolls his weight, loops an arm around the arm he already has caught. On top of Bruce, half kneeling, a hand pinning him down against the mat. (Flip a coin on whether he is about to get face planted into the mat with his own momentum or not.)
no subject
Bruce is pinned. He could get out of it. Perhaps Clark can even tell. But this deliberate surrender is about more than not wanting to break Clark's nose; Bruce looks up at him, curious and daring.
"Here," he says, pitched a little lower without thinking. Getting his hand under Clark's, encouraging him into a mirror of their earlier position.
"You don't have to stop."
His wrists won't shatter. His shoulders won't go through the floor. Maybe he'll get a boner and forget about the way he's planning on comically tumbling Clark over his head in a second.
no subject
The stress of the pin lets up, Clark shifting his weight to properly straddle and grip Bruce's hands under his own.
In a reversal of earlier, there's that gentle pressure that finally builds into itself, a little faster now that he's had some time to get a feel for this human thing. Force and then weight as he bears down on Bruce's hands. They've done this before, Clark over him, effortlessly bending Bruce's arms down against the ground, or the bed, or wherever it is they landed.
Which means they haven't done this before, force and object trembling between the pressure of either, muscles straining.
no subject
It's fine.
Bruce does not go effortlessly. For a while he can push up, keeping Clark suspended in a battle between gravity and his own strength, but the angle makes him concede or strain past good sense. Clark will have to work to get his wrists against the ground, though, and Bruce shifts one knee like he's threatening to throw him. Doesn't follow through. Yet.
"It can be satisfying," he says, breath a little thin from strain, "pushing so hard it burns."
Definitely a concept they know about, intimately, in themselves and each other; he's verbalizing purely to watch Clark's eyes as he listens.
no subject
There is a minute shift in his positioning like he intends to counter that knee, but it doesn't get anywhere, all his focus directed into this one thing. Bad habits, leaving himself open. Tempting to bear down on one side, but also seems like he'd deserve to get thrown if he sacrificed his own balance that badly, and instead Clark stays put, so there's that.
He'd been watching Bruce's face already but in a less directed way, eye contact then snapping into place accordingly. How are you talking, first of all.
Lot of key words in that sentence, second of all.
"I missed it," he says, instead, not easily. Rare, that they—that he—will point directly to their fight, mostly because they don't always have to, but also because it's still weighted in his mind, dangerous, edged.
no subject
Anyway. This is not extreme exertion. Sorry, Clark.
Bruce moves a little beneath him, but it's nothing more than re-settling his weight. Flexing his shoulders. Grounding himself a little better, in the event he flips the other man. And illustrating how close he is, how trapped, and yet how still dangerous. If he pushes now, it won't be a matter of trusting Clark to move and prevent Bruce from hurting himself. It'll just be a fight.
"I know."
You'll have to trust me more than that.
no subject
Just, in general.
Will diplomacy work? Can he talk Bruce into a collapse? Is he actually going to give up? Wait—
That prospect seems to enter his brain as sharp and sudden as an exclamation point. Sure, he imagined being overpowered, imagined losing, has in fact lost before, but that's different to making the concerted decision that you just can't do the thing you're trying to do. That he literally isn't strong enough. (A gasp of laughter, here.)
Which makes sense, obviously. Both of them are physically ridiculous, but Bruce has an edge, is used to his own limitations, is a gigantic person. He had said, you don't have to stop, but not that he won't need to.
Slowly, Bruce feels that pressure start to lessen, Clark careful not to take his foot off the gas too fast.
no subject
He lets Clark back off by degrees, breathes deep. When he's almost there, just on the cusp of being able to sit up, Bruce moves.
Push. Both hands, forcing Clark back, and he'll either right himself on his knees or topple. Should be knees, if he remembers anything at all from the painstaking lessons. Either way, Bruce gets hands on his shoulders, fisted into his shirt, hauling him practically onto his own lap. A funny not-pin, but somehow, it seems like Bruce still has leverage. He shifts one hand forward from shoulder to neck, against his pulse. Checking in. Awfully close.
"We're going to shut it down for now," is what he says, instead of doing something stupid. "And you'll need to wear a monitor for 24 hours." Don't worry, it's just a sticker. Bruce is good at this.
no subject
—which is at first a feather light touch until he remembers, and so goes ahead and digs fingers into bicep.
And then gusts out another disbelieving laugh as Bruce goes and checks his vitals. Honestly. There is sweat on Clark's forehead and his eyes are bright in a way that would ordinarily take a lot more physical exertion to encourage. He already feels like he's doing something stupid, and it is tempting to drag Bruce down with him. Further down.
No, alright. Let's not immediately fuck with the data. He loosens his grip on Bruce's arm too.
"You should too," he says. Don't explode on exit, Wayne.
Clark leans in to plant a kiss on Bruce's forehead, clumsily friendly, and moves to roll away.
no subject
He watches Clark go, ready to reach out if he wobbles (enjoy the way it feels to stand up quickly when you're winded!), but otherwise, this experiment for today is wrapped. Boners probably a bad idea when they aren't sure if either of them will be able to recover just from breathing a little quickly after a playground tussle.
Decompression goes as good as it's gone; better, and Bruce only feels slightly lightheaded. The inside of his nose burns a little, like he's had a nosebleed, but no actual blood happens. He was right, the last time that he passed out— he's got it. They've got it. And all it needs is some fine-tuning, and then he's fairly certain his plan won't even require this kind of sealed chamber.
Which means he essentially ignores Clark for the next three days, absorbed in nerdery, consenting to bagels as long as he can eat them over his notebook. The bat signal goes up, and Bruce goes up too, but then sits back down at a ping from Vic. I've got it :)
"You taught him that." J'accuse.
no subject
It's donuts, this time. They are round with holes in them, so it's of the same family. Clark is opening the box to obviously take one for himself as he glances, contextualise, and says, "What, giving you a night off? I definitely didn't."
He has tried. He is wearing, currently, some of the clothes he keeps stashed here, deciding to stick around rather than have only suited up just for donut delivery. Not that he is above that, or anything.
no subject
Vic doesn't sound like that. Bruce eyes him over the edge of one screen, though there's nothing bitey-bat-hostile about it, like he can get sometimes if he feels like he's being interfered with. Apparently, Victor Stone being a native Gothamite gives him a pass in a way that not even Superman gets. Bruce probably shouldn't even be going out anymore at all, but he still does; he's sure he'll die out there, unable to stop. But that's alright, and it's (hopefully) a fair bit away, still.
Tonight, he's got plenty to occupy himself with. Late night donuts, for one.
"So—"
A quiet breath, enigmatic pause in a way that is not actually enigmatic, and more telltale of Bruce being slightly nervous in a way he won't express.
"I'm making you a lamp."
no subject
And there'd been a smile about the smiley. Neither confirming nor denying.
"You're making me a lamp?"
The slightly nervous, he can sense, and he only spends half a second living in the reality that Bruce is helping him furnish his apartment with his bare hands before Clark says, "Wait, really?"
no subject
A look. Really. Bruce leans back and lets Clark see the schematic on screen— not exactly a Tiffany. Like a camping lantern, almost, but the dome shapes sketched out by digitally perfect curved lines suggest something more fiddly, almost like a tiny satellite. There's what's obviously the 'bulb', though the bit that does the work is poured out of pieces that more closely resemble solar panels. The base is a battery chamber, though it obviously isn't going to take double As.
"If you get sprinkles on my keyboard," sounds awfully parental. He only slips into it once in a blue moon, usually when he isn't paying attention to what he's saying.
More present: "A red sun lamp."
no subject
Instead, he reaches over and past Bruce to commandeer the mouse, and look for himself, clicking through components.
"I thought the closed environment was necessary," he says, not argumentative, just prompting, curious and focused. You leave someone alone with your group project for half a week—
no subject
Bruce indicates on a second screen, lines of data about the things they had been testing. Production, interaction, result, abatement.
"It won't really do anything, if you flipped it on in the middle of the street, or a ballroom. But in a bedroom with the curtains drawn, left on for a bit." He tips his head, hums something that conveys he thinks it should work off these specs, but of course, there will be tweaking involved. Bruce is a brilliant engineer, but he's self-taught. There will always be a degree of mad scientist about him.
"That chamber. I'll be dismantling it. I won't have somewhere you can be trapped like that. With this, it's got an escape hatch by virtue of being fragile. No reinforced doors or control panels. Calmly turn it off, or if something happens, it's easily breakable."
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Serious-reading-face softens, a breath of a laugh. Over the months of development, he's remembered what Bruce had said, about not needing to think about setting down a cup of coffee. He's reframed that goal into the idea of the sealed chamber, a place he could be, and train, and sure, reclaim that specific kind of intimacy with Bruce if they so chose.
He hadn't arrived at the conclusion that that place could be relatively anywhere.
Clark looks to him past his shoulder like he's about to say something clever or ask another question, but he says instead, "It's perfect." It's an idea still, sure, but a perfect one.
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"I'm sure there'll be a learning curve, even if it works right," he hedges. Pointlessly catastrophizing on a small scale. He haggles with himself, internally, and ends up adding: "I hope so. That it is."
Perfect.
Getting better at this optimistic thing, in stops and starts. He still feels it, but old habits die hard, and happiness is an ill-fitting suit, no matter that he bought it on purpose. What is this, chocolate with— "What flavor is pink supposed to be?"
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"A berry," he answers, looking back at the schematics and listing back in his chair, loosely folding his arms over his T-shirt. He tends to wear big loose ones like he's still (was never) in college, so the casually impressive flexing has to hold up on its own. Plus, still finishing his donut. "There should be a plain one in there. I mean, a cinnamon one."
Which is plain, basically. And only one, so it's definitely for Bruce.
"How long until a prototype? I mean—" Quick amendment, minding manners. "Approximately, roughly. I know you've been working a lot already on this."
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Om.
Bruce sits back to manage that, hand hovering near his face to obscure the lack of grace in having done so. A brilliant deviation from eating leftover pizza all the times Barry has continued to poke his head in, all sharp-sweet and nothing with sauce, but he's immediately sick of the sugar. It's fine. Not that disgusting, for being vegan. Chews thoroughly, definitely not just buying himself some time to perversely revel in the awareness that Clark is bordering on impatient for this thing he's making.
They've been very well-behaved so far. Mostly. He isn't sure if he's glad they never properly fooled around in the chamber, but he is sure they're going to end up strung-out in a very particular by the time the lamp works.
"Shouldn't take as long as the first part. I'll have a better estimate after I knock the first model together."
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'Uh huh' says a nod as he finishes his bite, listening, and swallowing before speaking, "Can I help?"
His tone makes it a real question as opposed to seeking permission to hang out or something: can he help, or is it too fiddly and he'd just be breathing down Bruce's neck.
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