"I was gonna ask, if you got the postcard," Clark says, with a tone that seems to fill in the end of that with an unpronounced but I didn't want to be weird. "It's a good aquarium. I liked it a lot."
The reviews are in. What to say next? Do you like aquariums? What is your favourite aquatic creature? Your top three, if you had to pick? Probably an improvement on the other things Clark could ask, things that are more sharply curious than what Rick happens to think of sharks, for all their teeth.
Or maybe not just ask, but something more instructive. Call your dad, the world's ending.
"It's going to be kind of a base of operations," he says, instead.
Rick nods along with aquarium opinions. It is a good aquarium. Perhaps he even likes it a lot, too, or the kid who inhabits the memory of that place did. Detective-work falls into place in bits, and the young man looks back towards the kitchen entrance, as if perhaps longing for a window.
Just to see. Or breathe. They're on the ground floor, surely he's not going to hurl himself out of anything.
"If you're really his friend, you'll get him to stop." Rick looks back at Clark, his expression a sad mirror of the way Bruce shutters himself, sometimes. "You're something special. Maybe he'll listen."
It's a disarming thing to say, and it shows on Clark's face, characteristically open where Bruce, and apparently his son, are so skilled at staying closed. But staying open is its own skill, and Clark doesn't mind if someone as insightful as Rick Grayson can see: that flicker of surprise, not just for the directness but like he's never framed these concepts in this way; some hint of regret, less easily attributed; apology.
"I love him," he says. Cards on the table, and the circle grows wider. "And I don't think he would."
And would Clark do that, anyway? Only once, so furious it ran cold inside of him, and then never again. He looks at Rick. Wonders if that's it, that's the crux. Change and stagnation. "Would it help to know he's doing all this for the right reason?"
Rick's expression is plain shock, the simplicity of it almost comical. Wide-eyed like he's been jump-scared in a movie by a cartoon squirrel leaping out from behind a bush. It's a hell of a thing to say, for starters, particularly about Bruce Wayne. And then the whole laundry list of other reasons it's shocking. (Perhaps not the least of which: was dad actually out? A mystery for an investigative journalist to look into at a later date.)
The moment of silence drags on long enough to border on uncomfortable.
"Okay," is what Rick says, eventually, in the forcibly chill tone of someone windmill flailing somewhere inside. Hamster wheel going at critical speed. "I— okay."
Cool. What.
"I mean, I kind of hoped you'd know there's no actual right reason. Is what I was getting at, there. He's always meant well. No one on the planet-" a beat, and his smile returns, rueful, "no one anywhere cares more than him. But that's an insane way to care."
Rick shrugs.
"Good luck, I guess. Look, ah, I have to do something. Maybe we'll see each other again."
Except, for what? None of what Clark has said is he interested in walking back. But it seems a bad note to end a first encounter on, doesn't it? Unpleasant shock, something disappointing, a hurried exit.
He does love Bruce. He does find the idea of trying to make him stop something like a betrayal, forged first of the belief that what he's doing is wrong. And he does think there's a right reason, even without prophetic dreams, maybe even without a galactic threat slowly (too fast) making its way to earth, but also, those things aren't irrelevant either. Good luck, I guess.
But Rick Grayson didn't come here to be convinced about something. It's not Clark's impulse to try. So, circling back to: wait.
"I'm sorry," is true, at least, regret having sunk its teeth in when that shock had first crossed the young man's face. "I wasn't mounting an argument, I just know you two haven't talked in a while."
And he's doing better. But maybe if Clark pushes his luck much further, a caped figure in black will fall on his head from the rafters. Probably he should let the kid go, or back off, let him finish touring the place. Instead:
Rick - who is so sweet-natured at his core, under the grief and trauma and bitterness, maybe that's the real tragedy of his life, falling in with all this (He's always meant well) - is already putting his hands up in a placating gesture, his expression earnest. No no, it's fine, he knows Clark isn't trying to start anything. I'm just surprised, is all, and—
He waits. Polite. Stays rooted to the spot and doesn't even seem like he wants to bolt, though he must.
Everyone's being very polite, which only gives Clark a twinge of regret for the fact his question isn't going to be. The impulse to get his fingers in where he shouldn't, but equally, he knows he'd regret not.
"Is that why you're not?"
The glasses do have a virtue of magnifying earnest appeals through the eyeballs. It has literally never worked on a single Gothamite cop that Clark has ever talked to, but, you know. "Talking."
Quiet, for bit. Far off, the sound of a car on the main road; probably someone leaving the lake house. A bird sings.
Rick just looks sad.
"The glasses suck as a disguise. FYI." Just, you know. Getting that out there, only marginally hysterically. It's obvious that this Gothamite cop is desperately reassuring himself he's talking to Superman, and not merely some stranger here to manipulate him into spilling his guts. Somewhat of a pained look, but maybe he's never spoken about it to anyone, and the potential is maddening for want of something.
"When I was a kid, I asked him this awful thing, like kids do. And he told me that he didn't know if being Batman when my parents died would have meant he could have saved them. But that he wished he was, so he could have at least tried." Rick smiles, and it's still sad. He shakes his head, his voice goes a little tight. "He was a great dad. And he's also that, at night. In between. There's no one reason."
Clark smiles slightly, in spite of the moment, and readjusts the glasses' sit on his face, like that'll do it. They're a great disguise. Everyone knows Superman doesn't need glasses.
And he thinks he sees that, the fact that answering such a question is tempting. How many people in the world can you talk to about your dad, Batman? So Clark listens, silent, receptive, empathy reflected back the next time Rick glances his way. Something softens when Rick reports on Bruce being a great dad. It's not a new insight into Clark's understanding of Bruce, but it's not something everyone wants to say all the time, when things are rough.
It all sounds like a familiar kind of sad mess, a tangle with its odd tensions, and surprising slack. Clark lets Rick's answer stand on its own for a second, before inquiring, "That mean there's no one solution?"
Can someone be a great parent, and also be Batman? It seems Rick is still wrestling with that; his fond memories of when brutal vigilantism was awe-inspiring, and not the source of so much personal pain. Bruce took his trauma and turned it into a force for good. Bruce took his trauma and turned it into a force of bloody, blind revenge. Maybe hoping for understanding from another guy in a funny suit punching bad guys with an imaginary name was a longshot, but what exactly can Batman do that Superman can't? Does the world need Batman, does Gotham? Do those things need Batman more than a small scattered handful of family members need Bruce Wayne? Is it just as unfair to disregard what Bruce might need in return?
These and other sad tales showing nightly.
"Not yet, I guess."
Another sound of a vehicle, rumbling closer. More construction in all likelihood, but the potential for it to be Alfred in a G-Class.
And: solve all problems standing right here, through logic and empathy, or at least enough of them that they can take the long way back to the lakehouse, scare Bruce and Alfred out from their hiding places, share a family dinner, listen to fond and not sad anecdotes, leave estranged father and son to talk of deeper things, resolve their outstanding arguments, catch up on what they've missed—
Alright, well. One step at a time.
"I'll let him know you dropped by," feels like as good a fair warning as any, rather than permission being sought, Clark pressing a smile that is thin but not insincere. "It was nice meeting you."
Those things can happen. Surely, Bruce and Alfred also want them, and maybe Rick too. Maybe Rick only wants to want them, but that's better than nothing. Clark's right. One step at a time.
A nod, for the warning. Fair enough. In all likelihood, Rick is smart enough to accept that no visit on home turf would go unnoticed either way.
"You too," he says, equally subdued, equally sincere. "And thanks. For, uh." He shrugs, smile widening a bit. That's the thing, about Superman. He's Superman. Thanks for all your supering, man.
Rick takes his leave, but not back to his car. He's aimless for a bit, until he picks his direction. Either wishing to kill time until he's less likely to be observed, or dithering. Who knows. The grounds are expansive, and the graveyard is a bit of a walk, but it's one of the only footpaths still clearly carved. When he stops, it's not to grovel before a Wayne ancestor. No past generations are his people.
Quietly, to no one, "Hey, shithead."
(Jason always wanted knives or C4. So he also got stuffed animals.)
Clark says, "Bye," with a wave of his hand, watching Rick go.
And then he moves deeper into the manor, avoiding the echoing sounds of contractors from the other wing as he moves up some unsafe stairs, the soles of his neat if cheap shoes not even evoking a creak from old wood as he goes. He roams towards some wide windows, the glass panes in them still intact, just dirty, and from there he can watch Rick make the last little way down a path before disappearing from view a few steps later.
But Clark listens to the crunch of his shoes over earth, twigs, grass, watches the glimmer of his form through the mess of the layers of the world. Listens to the odd collection of sounds of a relative stranger on the move, the ambiance of heart beat and steps and the rustle of his coat. Until it stops, and he speaks, voice an echo in the field of Clark's focus.
He blinks, and landscape resolves from skeletal transparency into solid shades of green and grey. Allows himself to lose track of Rick, to hear instead nearby engines, voices, fluttering creatures housed in the rooftop.
Takes a breath, and moves, walking the long way back to the lake house.
Real World Days are always more draining to Bruce than even getting the shit kicked out of him. Even the tedium of shuffling chess pieces at Wayne Enterprises is preferable. But they're necessary, and when it's finally done - contractors cleared out, papers signed, paint samples decided on, permits paid for - the lake house is quiet, even though it does feel a little scuffed thanks to the unusual intrusion. He'd been very tempted to hold all these hand-off meetings in the city, but in the end, doing so would have been wildly impractical.
So. Leaning against the kitchen counter and staring out at the expanse of land between the lake and the manor - just a smudge over a tree line when it's clear - Bruce has a mug of coffee, a glass of scotch, and his cell phone.
He holds out the scotch bottle, eyebrows quirked. Or coffee, he could pick that, too.
"Enjoy exploring?"
It's been a long day. He's sorry he couldn't spend more of it with Clark, but if either of them held grudges about time being infringed upon by a thousand different kinds of outside demands, this'd never work.
Clark makes for the coffee maker, and likely none of his shitty minimum wage jobs adjacent to coffee are compatible experiences with the expensive, fancy space-age bullshit that dispenses black European coffee at a dribble. He's seen both Bruce and Alfred operate it enough to get it going, anyway, as he says, "Not as quiet as usual."
It's gonna be a little while until it is, again, and probably even longer than that for the kind of quiet that put the whole place into repose.
Machine set to growl and do whatever mysterious and arcane coffee practices it must, Clark moves for the fridge in search of cream, fishing that out and turning back to Bruce. The transparent look of someone with something he wants to say, and instead says, "How was your day?"
Bruce will push the right button when necessary for more coffee. His own is teetering on the edge of lukewarm, but it hardly bothers him. Tea is what really grinds gears, in this house.
"'Quiet' is part of why mom had this place," he muses. So, you know. It's alright. In the midst of regrets - the manor should have never fallen to such a state, the horrors should never have happened - there's also acceptance. It can be loud. And he can have a haven from it, when it's too loud.
Not that this place is as silent as it used to be, either. Have you noticed how many people he is dating these days.
Scotch consumed, in a neat single swallow. Glass clinks down on the counter as he says, "Productive. Annoying." He shrugs. "You had company."
Clark is locating a stirring spoon out of the drawer when Bruce says this last part, and presses a thin smile at it without yet looking up. Of course.
"I intercepted company," he corrects, next retrieving the sugar, going for the crumbly brown kind that is more normally used for cooking, with its high molasses content. Leans against the island, then, with his gathered supplies, looking across at Bruce, all fondness. "Rick Grayson?"
Name change, ostensibly. The lift at the end isn't a question.
"Saw his car come in," sounds like a and that's all; could have been on security, could have caught sight of it. Either way. His surveillance equipment is not yet wired into the manor, though it will be soon. Clever bird. Mm. He sips his cooling coffee, does not push the button on the machine yet, as it's not ready.
Rick. Guess we all grow up sometime. It feels brittle to not have been in his life for the adjustment, but surely this is progress. Him being here at all, remembering the gate code, making the drive. Apparently not telling Clark to fuck off. His fiddle with his coffee mug is not buried anxiety, you can't prove anything.
Bruce looks like he's going to say something. Doesn't.
Clark looks like he's ready to listen to whatever Bruce is going to say, and when that doesn't happen, his mouth skews into a rueful line. The sound of Bruce's tiny fidgets against the coffee up all echo loud to someone who is super and keyed into what he's doing.
"He got the postcard," he says, by the by. "I'm not sure that was the inciting motivation, but."
A beat, and he adds, more directly, if a still gently applied pressure, "When was the last time you two were in the same room?"
He's glad the coffee is growing tepid. The very faint annoyance of it alleviates the tiniest amount of anxiety about the rest of this; focusing on something else. But it's fleeting, and Bruce is more regretful than anxious, anyway.
"Years."
So.
He's staring, unfocused, at the bottom of his coffee mug, not a Clark.
There's a moment where Clark thinks about saying something else, thinks about not saying it, and then it comes out of his mouth anyway as he says, fondly, "He looks like you."
Not physically, obviously. But he is speaking as someone who does not literally resemble his parents either, but you might still see Jonathan in the way he touches the top of the doorway leading into the kitchen back home, or Martha in the way he looks at people before embracing them. Likewise, Rick moves like Bruce Wayne too. Studies people like him. Wears his coats like him.
Bruce nods, slowly. Unclear if that's agreement, or just acceptance; imagining it, and the metrics that might prompt Clark to make such a comparison. Uncertain if it's good or bad that his influence is so obvious on someone who wishes to be free of it. He thought he was doing the right thing, with how he raised Rick. At the very least, he thought he was doing the honest thing.
Love's not enough, etc.
Anyway. He moves over to do the thing with the coffee maker, so Clark doesn't blow it up. Ta-da. He lingers there, still holding his own empty mug.
"Thank you," he says. "For talking to him. I don't need to know what you talked about, just. I know you."
Bruce shakes his head a little and exhales through his nose, some wordless completion of that scattered thought. I know enough about you to know you'd be kind to him, and that's all I want for my kid anymore, is shit that's not awful, and that isn't me. Some terrible creeping emotion threatens to close his throat and he runs his thumb over the edge of the mug, thinking.
There is a puzzled line drawn at his brows when Bruce thanks him, and it kind of stays there through the rest. They're closer, now, so Clark wanders a hand out to touch his waist, just a light point of connection through clothing layers, while the coffee machine does its thing.
Gee, but Bruce looks sad. He isn't really a person from whom that can be hugged away, either. Not everyone is.
"I didn't really know what I was doing," Clark says. "But he humoured me a little."
Which was nice of him, Clark thinks. He could definitely have told him to fuck off at any point, and still been polite about it.
"But he definitely didn't come here expecting me."
"But he clocked you anyway, huh." A guess, but a very educated one. Of course Richard Grayson did, he is who he is. There is something so impossibly fond in his voice, but he's still sad. Bruce knows that it's entirely possible - probable, even, sucker bet - that R(d?)ick has done his homework on Superman already, and that just
does something to him.
The next breath he takes is steadier, and his posture reorients to normal. That look leaves his face. Behold, compartmentalization so efficient as to be art. He's still silent for another moment, but eventually: "Sorry. Don't know why that got me. I'm used to it, I really am."
Ha, ha. Anyway we're cool, let's have some coffee.
Clark doesn't move, but he does manage not to stare at Bruce with open—something. Not pity, but it'd be easy to mistake it that way. He stands in place instead and studies some middle distance through Bruce's clavicle as he considers what magical right thing there is to say that makes everything better again, comes to the conclusion it doesn't exist.
So he just says what's on his mind, which is, "Sometimes I think being someone's kid is a responsibility too, when you grow up. You realise you're just two people, and you owe it to one another to act on that. You realise that one day, you have to come home, or not."
His hand wanders from Bruce's waist to his hand.
"He didn't come here to look at a building." He did come here to look at a gravestone, but Clark is ready to believe that if Rick wanted to look at a gravestone, he could have just looked at a gravestone. Or not at all. Personally, he was always in the habit of looking at the sky.
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The reviews are in. What to say next? Do you like aquariums? What is your favourite aquatic creature? Your top three, if you had to pick? Probably an improvement on the other things Clark could ask, things that are more sharply curious than what Rick happens to think of sharks, for all their teeth.
Or maybe not just ask, but something more instructive. Call your dad, the world's ending.
"It's going to be kind of a base of operations," he says, instead.
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Just to see. Or breathe. They're on the ground floor, surely he's not going to hurl himself out of anything.
"If you're really his friend, you'll get him to stop." Rick looks back at Clark, his expression a sad mirror of the way Bruce shutters himself, sometimes. "You're something special. Maybe he'll listen."
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"I love him," he says. Cards on the table, and the circle grows wider. "And I don't think he would."
And would Clark do that, anyway? Only once, so furious it ran cold inside of him, and then never again. He looks at Rick. Wonders if that's it, that's the crux. Change and stagnation. "Would it help to know he's doing all this for the right reason?"
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Rick's expression is plain shock, the simplicity of it almost comical. Wide-eyed like he's been jump-scared in a movie by a cartoon squirrel leaping out from behind a bush. It's a hell of a thing to say, for starters, particularly about Bruce Wayne. And then the whole laundry list of other reasons it's shocking. (Perhaps not the least of which: was dad actually out? A mystery for an investigative journalist to look into at a later date.)
The moment of silence drags on long enough to border on uncomfortable.
"Okay," is what Rick says, eventually, in the forcibly chill tone of someone windmill flailing somewhere inside. Hamster wheel going at critical speed. "I— okay."
Cool. What.
"I mean, I kind of hoped you'd know there's no actual right reason. Is what I was getting at, there. He's always meant well. No one on the planet-" a beat, and his smile returns, rueful, "no one anywhere cares more than him. But that's an insane way to care."
Rick shrugs.
"Good luck, I guess. Look, ah, I have to do something. Maybe we'll see each other again."
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Except, for what? None of what Clark has said is he interested in walking back. But it seems a bad note to end a first encounter on, doesn't it? Unpleasant shock, something disappointing, a hurried exit.
He does love Bruce. He does find the idea of trying to make him stop something like a betrayal, forged first of the belief that what he's doing is wrong. And he does think there's a right reason, even without prophetic dreams, maybe even without a galactic threat slowly (too fast) making its way to earth, but also, those things aren't irrelevant either. Good luck, I guess.
But Rick Grayson didn't come here to be convinced about something. It's not Clark's impulse to try. So, circling back to: wait.
"I'm sorry," is true, at least, regret having sunk its teeth in when that shock had first crossed the young man's face. "I wasn't mounting an argument, I just know you two haven't talked in a while."
And he's doing better. But maybe if Clark pushes his luck much further, a caped figure in black will fall on his head from the rafters. Probably he should let the kid go, or back off, let him finish touring the place. Instead:
"Can I ask you something?"
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He waits. Polite. Stays rooted to the spot and doesn't even seem like he wants to bolt, though he must.
"Sure."
Oh god, what's it going to be.
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"Is that why you're not?"
The glasses do have a virtue of magnifying earnest appeals through the eyeballs. It has literally never worked on a single Gothamite cop that Clark has ever talked to, but, you know. "Talking."
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Rick just looks sad.
"The glasses suck as a disguise. FYI." Just, you know. Getting that out there, only marginally hysterically. It's obvious that this Gothamite cop is desperately reassuring himself he's talking to Superman, and not merely some stranger here to manipulate him into spilling his guts. Somewhat of a pained look, but maybe he's never spoken about it to anyone, and the potential is maddening for want of something.
"When I was a kid, I asked him this awful thing, like kids do. And he told me that he didn't know if being Batman when my parents died would have meant he could have saved them. But that he wished he was, so he could have at least tried." Rick smiles, and it's still sad. He shakes his head, his voice goes a little tight. "He was a great dad. And he's also that, at night. In between. There's no one reason."
Shit sucks. People are hard.
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And he thinks he sees that, the fact that answering such a question is tempting. How many people in the world can you talk to about your dad, Batman? So Clark listens, silent, receptive, empathy reflected back the next time Rick glances his way. Something softens when Rick reports on Bruce being a great dad. It's not a new insight into Clark's understanding of Bruce, but it's not something everyone wants to say all the time, when things are rough.
It all sounds like a familiar kind of sad mess, a tangle with its odd tensions, and surprising slack. Clark lets Rick's answer stand on its own for a second, before inquiring, "That mean there's no one solution?"
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These and other sad tales showing nightly.
"Not yet, I guess."
Another sound of a vehicle, rumbling closer. More construction in all likelihood, but the potential for it to be Alfred in a G-Class.
"I meant it, about that thing I have to do."
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And: solve all problems standing right here, through logic and empathy, or at least enough of them that they can take the long way back to the lakehouse, scare Bruce and Alfred out from their hiding places, share a family dinner, listen to fond and not sad anecdotes, leave estranged father and son to talk of deeper things, resolve their outstanding arguments, catch up on what they've missed—
Alright, well. One step at a time.
"I'll let him know you dropped by," feels like as good a fair warning as any, rather than permission being sought, Clark pressing a smile that is thin but not insincere. "It was nice meeting you."
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A nod, for the warning. Fair enough. In all likelihood, Rick is smart enough to accept that no visit on home turf would go unnoticed either way.
"You too," he says, equally subdued, equally sincere. "And thanks. For, uh." He shrugs, smile widening a bit. That's the thing, about Superman. He's Superman. Thanks for all your supering, man.
Rick takes his leave, but not back to his car. He's aimless for a bit, until he picks his direction. Either wishing to kill time until he's less likely to be observed, or dithering. Who knows. The grounds are expansive, and the graveyard is a bit of a walk, but it's one of the only footpaths still clearly carved. When he stops, it's not to grovel before a Wayne ancestor. No past generations are his people.
Quietly, to no one, "Hey, shithead."
(Jason always wanted knives or C4. So he also got stuffed animals.)
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And then he moves deeper into the manor, avoiding the echoing sounds of contractors from the other wing as he moves up some unsafe stairs, the soles of his neat if cheap shoes not even evoking a creak from old wood as he goes. He roams towards some wide windows, the glass panes in them still intact, just dirty, and from there he can watch Rick make the last little way down a path before disappearing from view a few steps later.
But Clark listens to the crunch of his shoes over earth, twigs, grass, watches the glimmer of his form through the mess of the layers of the world. Listens to the odd collection of sounds of a relative stranger on the move, the ambiance of heart beat and steps and the rustle of his coat. Until it stops, and he speaks, voice an echo in the field of Clark's focus.
He blinks, and landscape resolves from skeletal transparency into solid shades of green and grey. Allows himself to lose track of Rick, to hear instead nearby engines, voices, fluttering creatures housed in the rooftop.
Takes a breath, and moves, walking the long way back to the lake house.
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Real World Days are always more draining to Bruce than even getting the shit kicked out of him. Even the tedium of shuffling chess pieces at Wayne Enterprises is preferable. But they're necessary, and when it's finally done - contractors cleared out, papers signed, paint samples decided on, permits paid for - the lake house is quiet, even though it does feel a little scuffed thanks to the unusual intrusion. He'd been very tempted to hold all these hand-off meetings in the city, but in the end, doing so would have been wildly impractical.
So. Leaning against the kitchen counter and staring out at the expanse of land between the lake and the manor - just a smudge over a tree line when it's clear - Bruce has a mug of coffee, a glass of scotch, and his cell phone.
He holds out the scotch bottle, eyebrows quirked. Or coffee, he could pick that, too.
"Enjoy exploring?"
It's been a long day. He's sorry he couldn't spend more of it with Clark, but if either of them held grudges about time being infringed upon by a thousand different kinds of outside demands, this'd never work.
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It's gonna be a little while until it is, again, and probably even longer than that for the kind of quiet that put the whole place into repose.
Machine set to growl and do whatever mysterious and arcane coffee practices it must, Clark moves for the fridge in search of cream, fishing that out and turning back to Bruce. The transparent look of someone with something he wants to say, and instead says, "How was your day?"
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"'Quiet' is part of why mom had this place," he muses. So, you know. It's alright. In the midst of regrets - the manor should have never fallen to such a state, the horrors should never have happened - there's also acceptance. It can be loud. And he can have a haven from it, when it's too loud.
Not that this place is as silent as it used to be, either. Have you noticed how many people he is dating these days.
Scotch consumed, in a neat single swallow. Glass clinks down on the counter as he says, "Productive. Annoying." He shrugs. "You had company."
Both of them can't play coy.
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"I intercepted company," he corrects, next retrieving the sugar, going for the crumbly brown kind that is more normally used for cooking, with its high molasses content. Leans against the island, then, with his gathered supplies, looking across at Bruce, all fondness. "Rick Grayson?"
Name change, ostensibly. The lift at the end isn't a question.
"He didn't stick around for long."
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Rick. Guess we all grow up sometime. It feels brittle to not have been in his life for the adjustment, but surely this is progress. Him being here at all, remembering the gate code, making the drive. Apparently not telling Clark to fuck off. His fiddle with his coffee mug is not buried anxiety, you can't prove anything.
Bruce looks like he's going to say something. Doesn't.
It's fine.
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"He got the postcard," he says, by the by. "I'm not sure that was the inciting motivation, but."
A beat, and he adds, more directly, if a still gently applied pressure, "When was the last time you two were in the same room?"
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"Years."
So.
He's staring, unfocused, at the bottom of his coffee mug, not a Clark.
"Did he look okay?"
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There's a moment where Clark thinks about saying something else, thinks about not saying it, and then it comes out of his mouth anyway as he says, fondly, "He looks like you."
Not physically, obviously. But he is speaking as someone who does not literally resemble his parents either, but you might still see Jonathan in the way he touches the top of the doorway leading into the kitchen back home, or Martha in the way he looks at people before embracing them. Likewise, Rick moves like Bruce Wayne too. Studies people like him. Wears his coats like him.
'Years' is a rough answer.
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Love's not enough, etc.
Anyway. He moves over to do the thing with the coffee maker, so Clark doesn't blow it up. Ta-da. He lingers there, still holding his own empty mug.
"Thank you," he says. "For talking to him. I don't need to know what you talked about, just. I know you."
Bruce shakes his head a little and exhales through his nose, some wordless completion of that scattered thought. I know enough about you to know you'd be kind to him, and that's all I want for my kid anymore, is shit that's not awful, and that isn't me. Some terrible creeping emotion threatens to close his throat and he runs his thumb over the edge of the mug, thinking.
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Gee, but Bruce looks sad. He isn't really a person from whom that can be hugged away, either. Not everyone is.
"I didn't really know what I was doing," Clark says. "But he humoured me a little."
Which was nice of him, Clark thinks. He could definitely have told him to fuck off at any point, and still been polite about it.
"But he definitely didn't come here expecting me."
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"But he clocked you anyway, huh." A guess, but a very educated one. Of course Richard Grayson did, he is who he is. There is something so impossibly fond in his voice, but he's still sad. Bruce knows that it's entirely possible - probable, even, sucker bet - that R(d?)ick has done his homework on Superman already, and that just
does something to him.
The next breath he takes is steadier, and his posture reorients to normal. That look leaves his face. Behold, compartmentalization so efficient as to be art. He's still silent for another moment, but eventually: "Sorry. Don't know why that got me. I'm used to it, I really am."
Ha, ha. Anyway we're cool, let's have some coffee.
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So he just says what's on his mind, which is, "Sometimes I think being someone's kid is a responsibility too, when you grow up. You realise you're just two people, and you owe it to one another to act on that. You realise that one day, you have to come home, or not."
His hand wanders from Bruce's waist to his hand.
"He didn't come here to look at a building." He did come here to look at a gravestone, but Clark is ready to believe that if Rick wanted to look at a gravestone, he could have just looked at a gravestone. Or not at all. Personally, he was always in the habit of looking at the sky.
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