"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.
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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.