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.
Once in a while, it strikes him at random; how attractive Clark is, how easily he could (can, does sometimes) become distracted to the point of blocking out everything else. What might that look like, reaching over and yanking him closer via rolling desk chair, kissing him, grappling to the floor.
Fingerdrum on desk surface. Anyway, science.
"Maybe."
Well.
"There's no drawback to you learning about it. I've never built anything exactly like this before, so I don't know it'll go. Boring, probably, but if you want to hold a screwdriver for a few afternoons I won't kick you out preemptively."
'Boring', he says, and Clark's smile skews crooked. There'd been a glance at fingerdrum, which might as well have been an airhorn of a signal, signifying something. "I can do that," he says, easy warmth. For the concession, maybe, but also the thing itself, contributing in some small way to something complex, interesting, and for him. There is a lot that Bruce does along those lines. Has before.
Clark has donuts, so. One of them he is about to steal, reaching for the box when he pauses, hand hovered in place, that transformation in expression and demeanor like a dog hearing something beyond the capabilities of human hearing.
Duty calls.
The wind in the room displaces anything paper-light, although it's not quite the violent storm of kinetic movement when Barry does this. Still, Clark was here and now he's not, chair rotating silently in place, and hardly ten seconds later, a sonic boom will mark his exit from the area properly, somewhere in the sky.
And despite that rudeness and urgency, Bruce is pretty sure there is still the lingering ghost of a touch having subtly rearranged his hair more definitively than just the wind of take off.
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no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
'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.
no subject
Fingerdrum on desk surface. Anyway, science.
"Maybe."
Well.
"There's no drawback to you learning about it. I've never built anything exactly like this before, so I don't know it'll go. Boring, probably, but if you want to hold a screwdriver for a few afternoons I won't kick you out preemptively."
no subject
Clark has donuts, so. One of them he is about to steal, reaching for the box when he pauses, hand hovered in place, that transformation in expression and demeanor like a dog hearing something beyond the capabilities of human hearing.
Duty calls.
The wind in the room displaces anything paper-light, although it's not quite the violent storm of kinetic movement when Barry does this. Still, Clark was here and now he's not, chair rotating silently in place, and hardly ten seconds later, a sonic boom will mark his exit from the area properly, somewhere in the sky.
And despite that rudeness and urgency, Bruce is pretty sure there is still the lingering ghost of a touch having subtly rearranged his hair more definitively than just the wind of take off.