Bit of a smile at that, because it's— quaint is not the world he'd use, but he isn't sure what else. Nostalgic isn't, even though he understands a kind of isolated living and its rituals. Big house, tight-knit unit, neighbors way down the road. It would be insane of him to draw a comparison aloud. But there's still understanding.
And a little envy.
"You should get Barry and Vic out there."
It'd be fun. (And they know the way. They have picked up Clark from Smallville before. No comment.) He forgets to ask if Martha would be weirded out by ether; she raised a Kryptonian, smiled and cheered at Batman, rolled with a resurrection. Faith!
Clark immediately smiles at the thought, mostly because watching Martha Kent interact with her son's new friends has been extremely good, and even better, she's getting used to it.
He's had Diana round by now, too, and the memory of her being on her best behaviour, as though Martha were the intimidating force in the room, had been pretty endearing. And Clark can't say Martha isn't, who'd probably found Diana being as European as she is probably just as alien as the rest, but quicker to adapt than the Amazonian had been. Equalised with the inevitable bonding over photo albums dug out of the staircase cupboard, which had been Clark's cue to go do the dishes.
He almost recounts this before the conversation diverts. Some other time. Instead, he says, "Uh huh?"
Perhaps Bruce has already heard such tales from the very Amazon in question. But he'd keep quiet about it, happy to hear it from Clark's point of view, too.
Some other time, indeed. Committed to relaying this mysterious thought, now that he's voiced its existence. Now is a bad time, but there is never a good time; today has already been very bad and very good, and if it's very bad again, at least it wasn't all bad.
"Would you be opposed to having a tracking implant?"
With the number he's stuck people with, you'd think he'd have more practice asking. But. He doesn't usually ask.
"I could use your communicator," he says, of course meaning the little chips he'd introduced some time ago, linking all of these funny 'teammates' together, stuck to edges of uniforms, allowing them to speak freely with each other while working. Probably that I could sounds an awful lot like I already do, but that can't be a surprise. Bruce has never made a secret of his tendencies. "But we've run through a few, and they're not always on you."
Oops, a laser beam nuked the communication chip sewn into my shoulder. Oops, I had to punch this monster in plainclothes.
If Clark focused his attention, he could identify that right now, Lois Lane's heartrate implies she's probably in the gym across the street from the Planet, the sound of each dual-thump elevated but steady. He could confirm that by tuning in specifically to hear the soft and consistent thump of her trainers hitting the tread, and music funnelled tinnily into her ears.
And when something happens, and doesn't something always happen, Clark doesn't have to focus his attention at all. So Bruce's comment gets a glance, and some silence.
The thoughtful kind, anyway, until he says, "And I guess the red lamp would make that possible," like thoughtful silence has also been used to figure out how that's meant to work, more than whether or not he's comfortable with it.
"Technically," he admits, but there's something in his voice that suggest hedging. He continues: "I've also given consideration to something ingestible, so you could consciously eject it from some internal organ or another, if you decided it was no longer optimal to have. Versus put you in a position where you'd have to try and gouge something out of your arm like you were in a Hostel movie."
What would he even use. Can Superman pierce his own skin? Can God microwave a burrito so hot?
Bruce shrugs. These are normal things to think about, when you care about someone and you're Batman. Clark's ability to monitor him down to the contractions of his pupils in bright light could be frustrating, but mostly, he just finds it perversely comforting. Sensible. Useful. Sometimes—
Sometimes other things, and Clark knows about all of it, he's sure.
"It could be externally deactivated, somehow," Clark says, thoughtfully, though not drumming up an argument either way, just—probably far too used to talking about the oddities of himself with Bruce, the obstacles, the benefits. It's a contrast to having had no one to discuss such things.
No, that's not entirely true. His parents, and Martha in particular, who'd been there through the growing pains, who never looked at him in shock or dismay at each new thing, just worry, sometimes something else. He thinks he learned all of these invasive biometric readings from her own intuitive guidance, long before he learned how to fly.
"Whatever works," he says. "No, I don't mind. I think it's..." Practical? Necessary? "Probably fair," he settles on, more good humour than anything pensive.
Bruce tilts his chin down enough to look at Clark over the edge of his sunglasses via the rear-view mirror. What might be the darkly comedic punchline, here. Something something, it's already fair because we know I can kick your ass. Something something, oh do you really think that would make it equitable. Anyway. A brief moment. Familiar kind of silent not-banter.
"It isn't about that." Fairness. But surely Clark knows. Still, it might be worth it to try and articulate it, so that he can't wiggle around to something creepier and colder later. He watches traffic for a bit, thinks distantly that Clark could be driving faster.
There have been moments when Clark has done something like settled in to sleep next to Lois, in blue shadows through the blinds, and closed his eyes and listened to the clockwork steadiness of a heartbeat across the river. Not because he's worried, but just because.
So Bruce says that, and then quiet that unfurls between them, and Clark smiles a little to himself. Easily seen, still, at a profile angle. I understand it's an invasive ask, he says. I just want to, the follow up.
"Okay," he says, simply. It feels more appropriate, somehow, than a weightier I trust you.
Something can be invasive, and also be desired; Bruce has never been normal, about the things he likes, or takes comfort in. It would be easier if it were just fuzzy handcuffs. But it isn't, and the more time goes on and the more Clark sees and understands of him, the more data he has on why everyone else has fled.
He smiles a little, and says okay, and Bruce's internal organs do something. The mortifying ordeal of being known gets a degree less terrifying week by week.
Okay.
Maybe they'll even take a nap when they get back, out on wooden chairs on the deck, in the weak New Jersey sunlight. Glass to one side and water to the other, and no dreams. Or Clark will get a ticket. The world is a strange place.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And a little envy.
"You should get Barry and Vic out there."
It'd be fun. (And they know the way. They have picked up Clark from Smallville before. No comment.) He forgets to ask if Martha would be weirded out by ether; she raised a Kryptonian, smiled and cheered at Batman, rolled with a resurrection. Faith!
"I had a thought."
Not about the farm.
no subject
He's had Diana round by now, too, and the memory of her being on her best behaviour, as though Martha were the intimidating force in the room, had been pretty endearing. And Clark can't say Martha isn't, who'd probably found Diana being as European as she is probably just as alien as the rest, but quicker to adapt than the Amazonian had been. Equalised with the inevitable bonding over photo albums dug out of the staircase cupboard, which had been Clark's cue to go do the dishes.
He almost recounts this before the conversation diverts. Some other time. Instead, he says, "Uh huh?"
no subject
Some other time, indeed. Committed to relaying this mysterious thought, now that he's voiced its existence. Now is a bad time, but there is never a good time; today has already been very bad and very good, and if it's very bad again, at least it wasn't all bad.
"Would you be opposed to having a tracking implant?"
With the number he's stuck people with, you'd think he'd have more practice asking. But. He doesn't usually ask.
no subject
Instead of saying 'what' or 'no' or 'absolutely not', Clark repeats, querying, "A tracking implant?"
Beg pardon.
no subject
Oops, a laser beam nuked the communication chip sewn into my shoulder. Oops, I had to punch this monster in plainclothes.
"I understand that it's an invasive ask."
no subject
And when something happens, and doesn't something always happen, Clark doesn't have to focus his attention at all. So Bruce's comment gets a glance, and some silence.
The thoughtful kind, anyway, until he says, "And I guess the red lamp would make that possible," like thoughtful silence has also been used to figure out how that's meant to work, more than whether or not he's comfortable with it.
no subject
What would he even use. Can Superman pierce his own skin? Can God microwave a burrito so hot?
Bruce shrugs. These are normal things to think about, when you care about someone and you're Batman. Clark's ability to monitor him down to the contractions of his pupils in bright light could be frustrating, but mostly, he just finds it perversely comforting. Sensible. Useful. Sometimes—
Sometimes other things, and Clark knows about all of it, he's sure.
no subject
No, that's not entirely true. His parents, and Martha in particular, who'd been there through the growing pains, who never looked at him in shock or dismay at each new thing, just worry, sometimes something else. He thinks he learned all of these invasive biometric readings from her own intuitive guidance, long before he learned how to fly.
"Whatever works," he says. "No, I don't mind. I think it's..." Practical? Necessary? "Probably fair," he settles on, more good humour than anything pensive.
no subject
"It isn't about that." Fairness. But surely Clark knows. Still, it might be worth it to try and articulate it, so that he can't wiggle around to something creepier and colder later. He watches traffic for a bit, thinks distantly that Clark could be driving faster.
"Or safety. Though that, too. I just want to."
no subject
So Bruce says that, and then quiet that unfurls between them, and Clark smiles a little to himself. Easily seen, still, at a profile angle. I understand it's an invasive ask, he says. I just want to, the follow up.
"Okay," he says, simply. It feels more appropriate, somehow, than a weightier I trust you.
no subject
He smiles a little, and says okay, and Bruce's internal organs do something. The mortifying ordeal of being known gets a degree less terrifying week by week.
Okay.
Maybe they'll even take a nap when they get back, out on wooden chairs on the deck, in the weak New Jersey sunlight. Glass to one side and water to the other, and no dreams. Or Clark will get a ticket. The world is a strange place.