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.
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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.