Bruce doesn't quite resist, but there's a long moment of non-reaction before he begins to unwind, almost mechanically. Standard operating procedure says he should tell Clark to mind his own fucking business, maybe leave Richard another tragic voicemail move on— he's at a loss, and yet he has endless motivation to do something, despite being unable.
Why the fuck would he say he's a great dad.
He ends up curling his arms around Clark, clinging there, head against his shoulder. Clutching too tightly, but only until he manages a deep breath out. Leans into Clark, then, hoping that he can somehow intuit an apology for being such a weirdo.
It's a while before he says,
"I miss my kids."
Is the thing. A real shitty thing to try and navigate around, the justified estrangement of one, and the brutal death of the other, which reinforces that rift between the survivors. Sandwiched in the middle of two sets of murdered parents. It's a trauma echo chamber in Wayne Manor, and they're rebuilding it. God help them.
Clark settles a hand at the nape of Bruce's neck as he leans in, staying steady and stable, thumb rubbing tiny arcs at his hairline. A wish that he could do more, expressed right there, and then stilling when Bruce speaks, says that.
Mm. His chin pokes Bruce's shoulder, head ducking, holding him tighter, like he too felt some small heartbreak at the sentiment alone.
"It's not too late with him," he says, finally, very certain for someone who has only met the guy for a few minutes. But it feels like a crucial few minutes. It feels like a few minutes that wouldn't have happened if this thing weren't true. That tight grip only lessens once he senses some even unconscious pull-back from Bruce, but otherwise remains, a steel circle of an embrace that Bruce could collapse into, if he wanted.
Clark adds, "Maybe he's just making his own way back."
He considers pulling back. Maybe it's almost there, unconsciously. It's not too late, Clark says, and Bruce watches some other world (maybe the same world where Bruce does not say anything, that day at the aquarium, does not tell Clark about being in love with him, even if it isn't any of his business) where he stands up straight and ends the conversation. It would be fine if he did, he thinks. Understandable. Both because it's so painful to Bruce, and because this is a lot to ask of Clark, honestly. He did not perhaps sign up for this particular brand of baggage, when he invited Bruce to Christmas some years ago, but here it is. Airport carousels full of it as far as the eye can see.
Not quite a collapse. Some form of unspooling. Melting into him, trusting Clark with his weight, physical and emotional. Arms around him, hands tucked up over the backs of his shoulders.
Surely there's a point where he gets better at this. (Surely there's a point where he realizes he already has.)
After a while - when did he close his eyes? Bruce isn't sure - he ventures, muffled, "We should visit your mom sometime."
See. This is funny. Parent angst. What if Martha also misses her kid. Let's go look at the fucking corn, Kent.
The not-collapse is felt more like Bruce relaxing than a real shift of weight, although Clark becomes aware of that too. Easily done, he holds Bruce to him, and stays quiet. He can, after all, do that much.
And then smiles against Bruce's shoulder, where he'd tucked his face down against it, at that suggestion.
"We'd love that," he says, cheer low-key but present. It's probably not just a tactic to change topic, maybe, but hopefully Bruce was also prepared for this to eventuate, laser-burned into his calendar, at least as far as Clark is concerned.
Gently, Clark moves his hands to Bruce's shoulders, sets him upright. Doesn't back off, though, still bracketing him in and using that proximity to touch his face, snare in eye contact. A silent kind of you okay? in big eyes and expressive eyebrows.
Bruce is very prepared. Let's go. If Clark said, alright, get in the air (named Superman?), he'd probably go right now. It's that kind of a mood. But he reels it in to look back at his lover, his own expression serious. He's okay. It's all still a lot, and he cares about every aspect, but he's also okay.
He lets his hands slip back down to Clark's sides, trying not to be so literally clingy.
Just sometimes, Clark thinks that this thing they have is selfish, or his part in it is. It's very physical, what he shares with Bruce, and intense, and strange, snared and tangled in hard edged life and death realities, past and present and future. Maybe it's also because it feels easy, like gravity, but also like base impulse, like jumping off something high, like biting down as hard as you can. Just human things.
But all of that feels overwhelmed when there are these moments, here, and Clark leans in and kisses him very sweetly, as the only reply possible to a thanks.
Clark really is so ready to kiss him at any moment. He knows that's the case with Lois, too. What a dope. Bruce finds himself leaning into it just a fraction anyway, in that quick moment, one hand against the Kryptonian's chest. Part of him still wants to scream an explanation, but there isn't actually an explanation he could get out. Clark's seen more progression than Bruce has.
So.
"Is there something wrong with the coffee maker?" He draws some nonsense shape with his thumb against Clark's shirt, makes himself still. Gives him a look that's softer than he intends (he thinks). "Or do you just want to hold my hand at Starbucks."
"I was talking about the coffee maker," Clark assures, smile tipped crooked, his hand dropping down from Bruce's face to rest on his arm. "But I do like Starbucks."
It's one of his three character flaws, along with dubious veganism-related ethics and being too good looking.
He would argue that this isn't just any moment, and maybe he's got a lot of kissing time to make up for, both in general and with Bruce Wayne and Lois Lane in particular, but also: fair. Implicitly, he'd also like to hold hands.
One arm stays around Clark, leaving a free hand to arrange coffee for them both without moving too much. The light is fading - Bruce wants to put in solar power on the manor grounds, what a joke with how overcast it always is - but he still might pull the drapes around the bedroom half of the house. Just because.
"Want to watch a movie?"
Sit in his bed with coffee, move little, hold hands.
Or—
"Mm, actually, there might be some data from Vic to sift through." Will Superman let that stand, query.
Clark needs both his hands for coffee making, given he does not take his black and intravenously, but stays close anyway, their sides touching within the bracket of Bruce's arm as he goes ahead and drowns his espresso in cream and cooking sugar. There's a deep chuckle before Clark says, "Vic's always gonna have data for you to sift through."
And arguably, there will always be movies to watch, but that's a nil on the prospect of doing more work when lounging in bed with coffee and a show is on the table.
"What's the mood? Citizen Kane or Body Snatchers?"
He's aware there are movies after 1959, it's just they have some catching up to do.
Two wolves fighting: I need to escape this emotionally vulnerable day and do something useful, vs, I like this and I want to feel better. Bruce is fine with pretending he isn't making that decision, letting Clark's dismissal of data sifting be the verdict. Pressure valve release, and feeling ... safe.
How embarrassing, for Batman. He isn't used to it. Might not hate it. What a world.
"Which one have you seen the most times?" asked in a way that implies it's a saucy question, as in, we're going to make out through most of it anyway! But without enough heat as to declare specific intent. Cuddles, mostly, he imagines.
"Body Snatchers."
Much funnier. So: shoes off, drapes closed, James Bond tv screen lifted from an invisible panel on the floor, film cued up. Bruce drags a spare pillow from the back closet (that leads to the stairwell that shouldn't exist) to have something extra to lean on. And tries not to think too hard about dead kids.
Comfortable black and white and silver, Transatlantic accents, and fresh coffee aren't bad sensations to immerse yourself in. Touch-wise, there's Clark's shoulder resting comfortably against Bruce's, the line of contact from hip to knee.
Clark does not know Rick Grayson's biometrics well enough to track him anywhere on the eastern seaboard, but while they sit quietly, he does expand his field of sensory input to include the Wayne property in general. Work has concluded with the sun sinking down under the horizon, so there's no excess of construction or stranger-noises to sift through. He can hear Alfred in his own relatively modern living space, putting something heavy and iron onto a stovetop, the creak of metal.
Birds in the trees, retiring. When he does not pick out an extra heartbeat, Clark returns to the room by bringing up his coffee to drink from, setting it aside, and then nudges at Bruce. "C'mere."
He is superior to lean against than spare pillows. Baking warmth. Ergonomic. Good spoon potential.
He thinks, when they're sitting there: it'll be nice when the manor is done. Specific rooms for this kind of thing, cozier kitchens, Alfred with his own wing again, practically. It's a world that feels strange and familiar at once. There's nothing to be done about anxiety over returning to it - has anything good come from that place? - but some undefined yearning for home is present, too.
Coffee mug clinks against the nightstand, sheets are shuffled around beneath weight. Bruce c'meres.
Clark is superior to lean against. He lets himself be guided and also nudges Clark around, settling in, getting his head on his shoulder. He remembers things like sitting cuddled up with Selina in her old town loft, watching whatever garbage daytime TV she liked to put on to feel normal. Back then, he thought it'd work, if they just cared hard enough. He still isn't sure if they didn't, or if they were just never going to make it, no matter what. Or even worse, if she counts as something lost in the destruction of his family. A relationship warped forever, like his absent ward.
What he and Clark have is too much, but it finally feels like enough, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Why the fuck would he say he's a great dad.
He ends up curling his arms around Clark, clinging there, head against his shoulder. Clutching too tightly, but only until he manages a deep breath out. Leans into Clark, then, hoping that he can somehow intuit an apology for being such a weirdo.
It's a while before he says,
"I miss my kids."
Is the thing. A real shitty thing to try and navigate around, the justified estrangement of one, and the brutal death of the other, which reinforces that rift between the survivors. Sandwiched in the middle of two sets of murdered parents. It's a trauma echo chamber in Wayne Manor, and they're rebuilding it. God help them.
no subject
Mm. His chin pokes Bruce's shoulder, head ducking, holding him tighter, like he too felt some small heartbreak at the sentiment alone.
"It's not too late with him," he says, finally, very certain for someone who has only met the guy for a few minutes. But it feels like a crucial few minutes. It feels like a few minutes that wouldn't have happened if this thing weren't true. That tight grip only lessens once he senses some even unconscious pull-back from Bruce, but otherwise remains, a steel circle of an embrace that Bruce could collapse into, if he wanted.
Clark adds, "Maybe he's just making his own way back."
no subject
Not quite a collapse. Some form of unspooling. Melting into him, trusting Clark with his weight, physical and emotional. Arms around him, hands tucked up over the backs of his shoulders.
Surely there's a point where he gets better at this. (Surely there's a point where he realizes he already has.)
After a while - when did he close his eyes? Bruce isn't sure - he ventures, muffled, "We should visit your mom sometime."
See. This is funny. Parent angst. What if Martha also misses her kid. Let's go look at the fucking corn, Kent.
no subject
And then smiles against Bruce's shoulder, where he'd tucked his face down against it, at that suggestion.
"We'd love that," he says, cheer low-key but present. It's probably not just a tactic to change topic, maybe, but hopefully Bruce was also prepared for this to eventuate, laser-burned into his calendar, at least as far as Clark is concerned.
Gently, Clark moves his hands to Bruce's shoulders, sets him upright. Doesn't back off, though, still bracketing him in and using that proximity to touch his face, snare in eye contact. A silent kind of you okay? in big eyes and expressive eyebrows.
no subject
He lets his hands slip back down to Clark's sides, trying not to be so literally clingy.
"Thanks," he says quietly, achingly sincere.
no subject
But all of that feels overwhelmed when there are these moments, here, and Clark leans in and kisses him very sweetly, as the only reply possible to a thanks.
"You wanna get coffee?"
no subject
So.
"Is there something wrong with the coffee maker?" He draws some nonsense shape with his thumb against Clark's shirt, makes himself still. Gives him a look that's softer than he intends (he thinks). "Or do you just want to hold my hand at Starbucks."
no subject
It's one of his three character flaws, along with dubious veganism-related ethics and being too good looking.
He would argue that this isn't just any moment, and maybe he's got a lot of kissing time to make up for, both in general and with Bruce Wayne and Lois Lane in particular, but also: fair. Implicitly, he'd also like to hold hands.
no subject
"Want to watch a movie?"
Sit in his bed with coffee, move little, hold hands.
Or—
"Mm, actually, there might be some data from Vic to sift through." Will Superman let that stand, query.
no subject
And arguably, there will always be movies to watch, but that's a nil on the prospect of doing more work when lounging in bed with coffee and a show is on the table.
"What's the mood? Citizen Kane or Body Snatchers?"
He's aware there are movies after 1959, it's just they have some catching up to do.
no subject
How embarrassing, for Batman. He isn't used to it. Might not hate it. What a world.
"Which one have you seen the most times?" asked in a way that implies it's a saucy question, as in, we're going to make out through most of it anyway! But without enough heat as to declare specific intent. Cuddles, mostly, he imagines.
"Body Snatchers."
Much funnier. So: shoes off, drapes closed, James Bond tv screen lifted from an invisible panel on the floor, film cued up. Bruce drags a spare pillow from the back closet (that leads to the stairwell that shouldn't exist) to have something extra to lean on. And tries not to think too hard about dead kids.
no subject
Clark does not know Rick Grayson's biometrics well enough to track him anywhere on the eastern seaboard, but while they sit quietly, he does expand his field of sensory input to include the Wayne property in general. Work has concluded with the sun sinking down under the horizon, so there's no excess of construction or stranger-noises to sift through. He can hear Alfred in his own relatively modern living space, putting something heavy and iron onto a stovetop, the creak of metal.
Birds in the trees, retiring. When he does not pick out an extra heartbeat, Clark returns to the room by bringing up his coffee to drink from, setting it aside, and then nudges at Bruce. "C'mere."
He is superior to lean against than spare pillows. Baking warmth. Ergonomic. Good spoon potential.
no subject
Coffee mug clinks against the nightstand, sheets are shuffled around beneath weight. Bruce c'meres.
Clark is superior to lean against. He lets himself be guided and also nudges Clark around, settling in, getting his head on his shoulder. He remembers things like sitting cuddled up with Selina in her old town loft, watching whatever garbage daytime TV she liked to put on to feel normal. Back then, he thought it'd work, if they just cared hard enough. He still isn't sure if they didn't, or if they were just never going to make it, no matter what. Or even worse, if she counts as something lost in the destruction of his family. A relationship warped forever, like his absent ward.
What he and Clark have is too much, but it finally feels like enough, too.