It's only on a slight delay before Clark steps alongside, matching pace, accepting momentum. His next breath is semi-laughter, judging from the way it strikes as steam in the cold air. He's considered getting annoyed about smart assery with regard to his status as messianic alien in tights, if not for the fact he has the luxury, now, of working farmland in Kansas secured beneath his mother's name.
The counter words, ivory tower spring to mind, but the dark grey silhouette of the manor looming behind them has Clark laying down that specific kind of sass with an inwards sigh.
"Crystal palace's exclusively for capes," he says, instead, retreating into easy self-deprecation. "I can borrow something, if you don't mind. Unless it's got ears."
Maybe, if Superman had a nice animal mascot headband as part of his outfit, Bruce would not have wanted to murder him so badly. Did you ever think of that, Clark. Did you.
The hike back to the lake house is right at the midway point of 'long' and 'not too long'; Clark caught him before he could make it all the way to the crumbling mansion or wander past it. Bruce doesn't ask anything further about his jaunt with Diana, nor does he explain why he's bothering to do this Right Now. (He's not getting any younger. No time like the present. Batman doesn't believe in rest. Pick.)
Alfred is in the kitchen when they arrive, wearing pajamas and a house robe and looking appropriately shocked. His alarmed expression eases when whatever he reads on his ward's face tells him there's nothing to be concerned about, but shifts to something else-- something that makes Bruce roll his eyes when he believes Clark isn't looking at him.
"Might I get you something to drink, Mr Kent?" while Bruce slinks off like a shadow to his bedroom.
That Clark has superanticipated another warm moving body ahead of him spares him momentary awkwardness. Well. Mostly. He still manages a second of it when he stops short upon realising that following Bruce directly into his bedroom would classify as weird, and an extra half-second recovering from the alien decorum of a man his senior being the deferential one in the social transaction.
Even if he suspects Alfred more playing at butler than being one. Manners kick in.
"No sir," he says, nonetheless. "But thanks, anyway. Sorry about the hour."
But, you know. Bats are nocturnal, says his crooked, pressed smile.
Alfred's eyebrows go up in an initial bit of confusion about the hour, but catches on a moment later and nods, conspiratorial. Yes, yes, the hour, the hour during which sane people are asleep. (Does it look like anyone sane lives here, Mr Kent.)
Anyway, he's getting a cup of tea handed to him, despite the 'no'.
(Meanwhile: Bruce is shrugging out of his expensive coat, changing his clothes, and digging out something for Clark to wear. In the moonlit chamber of his unnervingly exposed bedroom, he downs a dose of lorazepam with the remaining, tepid white wine still on his nightstand. It's just to take the edge off, make sure he can think; he'd have to have much more alcohol or trazodone to end up loopy.)
Upon his return, Bruce looks almost shockingly normal. Long sleeved shirt with a soft collar, gym pants, bare feet. (All black.) He's carrying what must be for Clark.
"Have you considered just playing cards or watching a sporting event?" Alfred asks, immediate and waspish, frown only deepening at Bruce's monosyllabic, unconcerned response. Even more peeved, "Ordering in Chinese and discussing your feelings?"
"Goodnight, Al."
The older man makes a disgusted noise but leaves them be, muttering. Bruce is walking to the back of the kitchen to a door that leads to an antechamber, one of the only enclosed rooms in the house. One's a door to a hallway that leads to the rest of the house proper - other bedrooms, and so on. And one door is an elevator.
Clark's brows knit together midway through the exchange, his 10% depleted teacup set aside as he slides a look between men. By the time Alfred is finished, bewilderment has converted into bewildered amusement, the corner of his mouth crooking up.
"Mr Pennyworth," is goodbye, good natured.
(For the record, he Did Not let supersight glimmer through the walls for long, curiousity only overtaking him when he thinks it's been long enough for a man to have gotten dressed. Concern has dogged his heels since they turned away from the manor and headed back for the house by the lake, and concern dogs his heels now as he follows Bruce down the corridor.
Nothing for it, really.)
"Considering the state of things from the last Wildcats v Meteors game," Clark says, presently, "my vote's for cards, next go."
Obviously, they're not going to talk about their feelings.
"He just thinks I'll hit you too hard," is mild, and Not Actually Funny. Whether it's a joke about Bruce having tried to hard to murder him is unclear - but unlikely, given the depth of his regret. Which means it's probably a self-depreciating joke, implying Alfred thinks Bruce might intentionally hurt himself.
It would be easy.
Anyway, into the elevator. The panel has no numbers, though some buttons are more worn than others; surely there can't be that many subterranean floors. Bruce pokes one and they're lowered to something in between the cave (The Cave) and the surface level. There's a modestly sized gym space, clean and stocked but still in a way that says it hasn't been used in a while. Bruce must get his own practice in elsewhere.
"Locker room's that way," Bruce says, tossing him the space clothes. It's more like a mini luxury hotel spa back there, but whatever.
While Clark is gone, Bruce turns off the CCTV for this room. When he returns, he's sliding a paper and bamboo screen over the mirrored wall, apparently not in the mood for the reflections.
Battlesuit folded and left behind, Clark Kent emerges, dressed like a normal human and bare foot and-- well, nervous might be a leap. Anticipation and uncertainty, mingled together. The deductive leap on what Alfred might think is not a difficult one to make, and the simple question -- why are you doing this -- glimmers beneath the surface.
Maybe they'll figure it out on their own.
"That I'm not so used to defending against counter attack," he says, pacing at a circle, a little, acclimatising. "That she thinks several steps ahead of any given move she takes. You and her have that in common."
Blurry footage of a red-and-blue clad figure slamming bad guys into buildings does not look like someone who has plans.
"That she'd probably appreciate it if we got another lady on the team." A few comments, here and there, about how men fight, as if it were an anomaly. He doesn't know Diana any better than he knows Bruce, really, but he likes her.
Bruce watches him, considering. Probably playing back all the times he's observed Clark fight. Deciding where to start and what to start with.
"She might be equally disappointed by any women who've learned to fight in the outside world," he says wryly. "I've known a lot of women who could lay my ass out flat, but none like her."
Clark pauses only long enough to think about it, and to consider the man in front of him: Bruce, out of the batsuit, let alone the heavy armouring of the version he wore to battle with him, all scratched up silver like he'd welded himself into it. Not long enough, though, for Bruce to have to prompt him again, Clark approaching like he's stepping up onto a stage, cameras all on him. He has, after all, never done this before. Even Diana had been different (with a hair toss, an arched eyebrow, let's go, and they went).
But, settling into the form he's been shown, he centres his balance, and swings a punch.
He doesn't condescend to slow down by a lot, trusting in Bruce's ability to counter. Being the kind of man whose heart is worn on his sleeve (or in a big S, on his chest), a lack of murderous intent and malice takes the viciousness out of it, anyway.
(Or desperation, as with Zod, in the end, and as with Doomsday, desperate to end something and unable to make it happen as fast as he would like.)
Sidestepped. Bruce observes, and while his standards are high enough that he doesn't show any appreciation for the fact that Clark takes a swing as he'd been shown how to do that night in Milwaukee, he at least doesn't look disappointed. One hand snags Clark's wrist, fingers looping around. His other, in a fist, tags Clark's ribs light enough to barely be a tap. Marking. If they were matched for strength, farmboy would be in a world of hurt.
He stops.
"Once more."
This time, Bruce stops him with a hand on his wrist, and guides Clark to shove his elbow towards Bruce, aiming at his solar plexus. There's an art to it, but it isn't an elegant one. Holds and hold-breaking, using brute force only where the weak points are, to destabilize and cripple.
Another thing he took away from Diana: alongside his failure to defend against attack, there is also his habit to choose not to, and that choice having become at least one feature of the fighting style he's built for himself. Absorbing impact and absorbing energy along with it, wasting ammunition as guns turn to him, acting as shield and decoy in ways living beings are generally not expected to.
Which is no excuse, really, and certainly won't impress Bruce. Or Diana. Not that he's interested in impressing Bruce. Or Diana!
He swings, gets caught, and a little faster, folds his arm as shown, stopping just shy of delivering more than a bump of elbow to torso. "Owch," he suggests, wry.
"Mm." Yes, ouch. Back to one, Kansas, say the eyebrows and flat look. Bruce puts him through his paces, corrects his form, makes verbal notes.
It's been a lot of years since Bruce has had to meditate. He gave it up, along with a number of other things. That's the old man in between, the perfect ninja, the monolith. He resisted things. He purged murderous rage and vice. He used his baser emotions like a finely sharped blade, and only permitted blood to wet it when he could control it.
Not so much, these days.
His pulse jumps when Clark gets too close. He grits his teeth when Clark rolls his shoulders and manages to pull taught the borrowed undershirt, which while strictly too loose on him, does not actually do anything to hide his physique or occasional glimpses of chest hair. (The Superman suit does that too. Bruce hates it. Can't you laser vision that off or something, you asshole, it's 2017 and that's not supposed to be attractive. How do you know Bruce's weakness is performative erotic gender standards. Fuck ooooofff.)
They run through a series of moves, and Clark is picking it up, and this time when he stops short to spare Bruce's chalk-fragile human skeleton, he hooks his foot behind the younger man's heel and pulls, while pushing in the opposite direction on his arm. Bonk.
Clark isn't the worst student. His questions are often silent, asked in movement, glance, eyebrows, sometimes verbalised. He takes instruction, and there's no ego for Bruce to have to get his nails beneath and peel back. At least, not right now. But he also isn't the best student.
He's never been the best student, too easily distracted, sometimes too literal. He stops short of chalk-fragile human skeletons as well as improvisation, doing only exactly as he is told. Maybe some of this will shake out on the battle field, but after only an evening, it's probable that after the first failed attempt, it'll be back to putting bad guys through concrete until they stop.
In short, he isn't paying attention when suddenly his own foot isn't where he expected it to be.
It's not just that, either. Bruce's manner can seem strangely aloof, negligent, while his heartbeat and the barely detectable even to Kryptonian ears sound of molars squeezing together gives off a different story, and he is superaware of both, when he should definitely be ignoring the latter. So they have each others attention, and Clark isn't certain if either of them know what they're doing with it. (But he thinks he likes--)
Bonk.
Surprise, and there's a slight flutter in the air as if he was just about to cheat through levitation. He permits the fall instead with a slightly inelegant smack of hand to mat, and an affronted look on his face. Mouth pinching, he brings his leg around in an effort to knock Bruce down in retaliation. Improvising!!
Truthfully, Bruce was not expecting any kind of retaliation - though, also truthfully, he did not expect Clark to just topple over like that. But despite it, there are some things too well-ingrained, too long made a part of him past habit and into default regulatory function.
He hops over it.
A glimmer of hope, though, in that improvisation. Instinct makes Bruce step out of Clark's immediate strike range (if he were human), liquid-quick and easy, always so graceful despite the tank-like size of him. There's no reason to have any reaction there, no matter the affronted look on Clark's face or the satisfying sound he made hitting the floor.
It's quick. Barely-there, a flicker of an expression that's not quite anything all the way. Nearly taken over by an unexpected emotion: Bruce trying not to smile.
"Starting to get it," he muses, using a shift around to get back to one as an opportunity to school his expression while facing away.
Maybe if Clark weren't looking for it -- or something, if not that -- he'd miss it.
But he is, so he doesn't. Rolling to sit, first, watching Bruce turn aside, before climbing to his feet when he recognises a return to position. By the time Bruce turns back, there's a smile ready for him, crooked, a glint of canine. "I think General Zod took it personal," he says, pacing into position, "that a Kryptonian without any kind of genetically encrypted destiny he could recognise, without a lick of training, might go toe to toe with him. It's what he was made for, being a warrior."
Which is what Kal-El was intended for too, but not in the same way, not through the same methods. "How long did it take you? To make you what you are."
Twenty years in Gotham City, but he had to start somewhere.
It's a testament to how far Bruce has come that he doesn't have something to say about that first bit. (Someday. That he was there, that he ran into the dust and debris while others ran out, that the building Zod and Superman heat-visioned into oblivion was his, filled with employees and their children, people he'd moved out of Gotham to be safe. That a shadow he'd spent so long running from caught him.)
Maybe there's something in his gaze before it's blinked away.
Yeah, well. Zod was a dick.
"What, this?" Eyebrows up. Dry. "This is a shitshow, Kent, I'm falling apart."
But that's not what he's asking, and Bruce knows it. Once more - he directs him. Again, from the top. Pushes him a little, forces him to make a call about how Bruce is coming at him.
"Ten years or so," is what he says eventually, "between when I started to wander and when I came back to Gotham. Another five to think I had it figured out."
Since Clark is interested in sweeps, he shows him one.
The flat look that Clark deals to Bruce at the words shitshow is not quite on par with the one he gets more often than not, and mitigated when steered back into training. It takes a certain amount of double-think, honing skills without exercising them to their fullest, but then, he's had a lot of practice with restraint.
He'd learned how to cauterise wounds with lasers that can cut buildings in half; he can go through these motions with Bruce without liquefying his insides.
A real answer gets rewarded with German Shepherd headtip in the midst of it, natural inclination to latch to facts of interest. When the sweep comes, he avoids it as Bruce did before, and then snorts. "Careful, Wayne," he says, because we're doing last names, now, "might start feeling sorry for you."
And he pushes back. It's inevitable that his version of human speed and strength will be that much clumsier and predictable, especially given he is going through motions he's shown, but if surprise is what earns praise
not that he is doing this for praise, it's just nice to know you're not wasting someone's time
Something to alight on the field of landmines that is his entire person; implying Bruce, who nearly succeeded in killing Superman, needs this corn-fed moron to feel sorry for him, lists towards insulting. (Even though he was the one to bring it up, even though any implication there might be that Clark is lacking, because he nearly fell to this broken old man, or that he finds him worthy of inquiry. Even though Bruce is pitifully, embarrassingly enamored with him. Yes.)
To counter the inherent clumsiness in control, Bruce slows him down further. Focusing purely on how it feels. The movement, not Bruce's hands on his skin; he wonders distantly if his senses make small things more intense, or if he needs to get hit by a bus to feel anything. There's a method to tai chi's madness and this isn't quite it, but the principle is the same. Pay attention.
Oh well in that case Clark Kent of the Daily Planet will not share what he's
just kidding.
But after a moment, first adapting to the slow down, an uncertain look flashing across his face before he focuses. Paying attention, possibly to Bruce's expectations, possibly not. For the layman, this probably feels silly, and he is something like that himself, and so feels it, but wanting to take this seriously overrides it.
Speaking of overrides, it's probably clear that whatever he was going to say has been taken over by something else, maybe something stupider, given his entire self.
"That you're impressive," is what comes out of his face around when he slow motion fails to deflect the next slow motion strike he didn't slow motion anticipate, maybe with a self-conscious uptick at the corner of his mouth, but eyes dreadfully earnest, down to the bitty patch of brown marked in all the blue.
Bruce isn't sure if he's satisfied or disappointed that his surly response got Clark to (apparently) abort the mission. It doesn't occur to him that maybe he just decided to wait a moment, change tactics. Usually, once Batman gets somebody to stop something, they stay stopped.
Not so with Superman.
The failure to deflect leaves Bruce with his hand almost at Clark's throat, neither grasping nor impacting with, just there, an open-palmed tag that, were it a real hit on a human, would leave someone staggered, possibly even in need of immediate medical care with a dislocated or collapsed esophagus. Sharp brown eyes snap to mostly-blue ones-- ones Bruce has studied in pictures, in videos, up close while reeling from kryptonite-- and it's clear even through his usual stoic expression that he's surprised. A little disbelieving, too, and deeper, something that's - flustered? God forbid.
Walls shift into place. Bruce tags his throat, barely-there. Got you.
And then he's stepping back, removing his hands.
He doesn't know what to say to that so he's just. Not going to say anything. Apparently.
Surprised, and disbelieving in a way that doesn't seem skeptical, which is important, and he can't help but like being capable of surprising Bruce Wayne in ways he chooses. Clark swallows in the wake of the barely-felt tag to his throat, backing up a step himself. His hand chases the touch without really thinking about, banishing the lingering tickle of it with the flat of his palm.
Smiles, a little, says, "And winning."
It's very possible that he has flustered himself in the wake of open silence, because playing it off isn't supereffective. But okay about it, really, no walls within him to shift into place.
"Is that so." More wry than shuttered, this time. Implying he isn't trying to get one up on Clark, perhaps-- no matter that he always seems to be. Though that seems-to-be is with everyone; a compulsion, defense mechanism, way of life he doesn't know how to turn off.
He could change the subject, here. He should. This is dangerous - more dangerous than trying to punch each other's lights out. Bruce knows by now that the only plans to stop Superman must hinge on Clark flinching, and this is - something. They're both unsteady, and he isn't sure why. (Well, he knows why he's unsteady, but can't imagine it's the same for Clark.)
"When you were traveling, where was the weirdest place you came across?" A beat. "Besides Gotham, which I noticed you avoided."
Of course Bruce knows about that. Either from his standard batcreeping or because of Martha.
Seems like a rich description to ask of Superman to assign anything, especially as directed by Batman -- and at the same time, maybe too vast a category for someone whose first seventeen years of their life was spent in a place called Smallville, Kansas. Mountains qualify as weird.
"I skipped most big city centres," Clark says, of Gotham, hands dropping to fidget again with one another. "Weirdest place was probably as far west as I got before going north. Desert town, if-- marble and pink limestone open mall palace and parking lot can qualify as a town. I had a dish washing job, there. Couldn't tell you where the other employees went every night, and every customer was just passing through. Transitional. Should have been perfect for me."
He didn't last a week, say his eyebrows. Rootless wandering, he can handle, but places that seem to exist like oil on water are unsettling. Five generations of Kents, turning over soil, make an impression.
"But normal's my home state's main export." Next to corn.
Those transitional places - Bruce wouldn't do well there, either. For as twisted as he is, as much as the Kent farm makes him want to skitter away, there's nothing absent about Gotham. Too much context, the both of them. And he quirks his eyebrows for: "Turns out it's easier to hide in big cities, huh?"
Metropolis, like Gotham, is large and busy enough to afford cover. Sure, his co-workers at the Daily Planet know, but who else? Places like this, the subways of New York, downtown Los Angeles - 'weird' doesn't even rank a participation prize. They don't stick out so glaringly.
"I did the Appalachian Trail when I..." Clark trails off there, unsure exactly how to put words around that unique compounding of frustration and loneliness and desperate need to figure things out in a way that doesn't sound, you know, melodramatic. He gives up on that quickly enough. "Well, I'd been wanting to do it, made it something to work towards. Took about six months to fund it, and we're talking-- pocket change, by the time I was ready."
Most would have run out, midway through, maybe less. It takes months. He knew then he didn't need things like people needed them. "It's not all solitary. Cabins, camp sites, other hikers, even the noise? Of woodlands like that? But there's the portion around the Tennessee-North Carolina border, where you can see all around, mountains and forests, indifferent and ancient."
He then stops, thinks, says, "It was beautiful, but. Maybe that's not a favourite place. Just a favourite time.
"What about you? Or is Gotham just weirdest and best?"
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It's only on a slight delay before Clark steps alongside, matching pace, accepting momentum. His next breath is semi-laughter, judging from the way it strikes as steam in the cold air. He's considered getting annoyed about smart assery with regard to his status as messianic alien in tights, if not for the fact he has the luxury, now, of working farmland in Kansas secured beneath his mother's name.
The counter words, ivory tower spring to mind, but the dark grey silhouette of the manor looming behind them has Clark laying down that specific kind of sass with an inwards sigh.
"Crystal palace's exclusively for capes," he says, instead, retreating into easy self-deprecation. "I can borrow something, if you don't mind. Unless it's got ears."
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Maybe, if Superman had a nice animal mascot headband as part of his outfit, Bruce would not have wanted to murder him so badly. Did you ever think of that, Clark. Did you.
The hike back to the lake house is right at the midway point of 'long' and 'not too long'; Clark caught him before he could make it all the way to the crumbling mansion or wander past it. Bruce doesn't ask anything further about his jaunt with Diana, nor does he explain why he's bothering to do this Right Now. (He's not getting any younger. No time like the present. Batman doesn't believe in rest. Pick.)
Alfred is in the kitchen when they arrive, wearing pajamas and a house robe and looking appropriately shocked. His alarmed expression eases when whatever he reads on his ward's face tells him there's nothing to be concerned about, but shifts to something else-- something that makes Bruce roll his eyes when he believes Clark isn't looking at him.
"Might I get you something to drink, Mr Kent?" while Bruce slinks off like a shadow to his bedroom.
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Even if he suspects Alfred more playing at butler than being one. Manners kick in.
"No sir," he says, nonetheless. "But thanks, anyway. Sorry about the hour."
But, you know. Bats are nocturnal, says his crooked, pressed smile.
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Anyway, he's getting a cup of tea handed to him, despite the 'no'.
(Meanwhile: Bruce is shrugging out of his expensive coat, changing his clothes, and digging out something for Clark to wear. In the moonlit chamber of his unnervingly exposed bedroom, he downs a dose of lorazepam with the remaining, tepid white wine still on his nightstand. It's just to take the edge off, make sure he can think; he'd have to have much more alcohol or trazodone to end up loopy.)
Upon his return, Bruce looks almost shockingly normal. Long sleeved shirt with a soft collar, gym pants, bare feet. (All black.) He's carrying what must be for Clark.
"Have you considered just playing cards or watching a sporting event?" Alfred asks, immediate and waspish, frown only deepening at Bruce's monosyllabic, unconcerned response. Even more peeved, "Ordering in Chinese and discussing your feelings?"
"Goodnight, Al."
The older man makes a disgusted noise but leaves them be, muttering. Bruce is walking to the back of the kitchen to a door that leads to an antechamber, one of the only enclosed rooms in the house. One's a door to a hallway that leads to the rest of the house proper - other bedrooms, and so on. And one door is an elevator.
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"Mr Pennyworth," is goodbye, good natured.
(For the record, he Did Not let supersight glimmer through the walls for long, curiousity only overtaking him when he thinks it's been long enough for a man to have gotten dressed. Concern has dogged his heels since they turned away from the manor and headed back for the house by the lake, and concern dogs his heels now as he follows Bruce down the corridor.
Nothing for it, really.)
"Considering the state of things from the last Wildcats v Meteors game," Clark says, presently, "my vote's for cards, next go."
Obviously, they're not going to talk about their feelings.
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It would be easy.
Anyway, into the elevator. The panel has no numbers, though some buttons are more worn than others; surely there can't be that many subterranean floors. Bruce pokes one and they're lowered to something in between the cave (The Cave) and the surface level. There's a modestly sized gym space, clean and stocked but still in a way that says it hasn't been used in a while. Bruce must get his own practice in elsewhere.
"Locker room's that way," Bruce says, tossing him the space clothes. It's more like a mini luxury hotel spa back there, but whatever.
While Clark is gone, Bruce turns off the CCTV for this room. When he returns, he's sliding a paper and bamboo screen over the mirrored wall, apparently not in the mood for the reflections.
"Pick up anything worthwhile from Diana?"
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Maybe they'll figure it out on their own.
"That I'm not so used to defending against counter attack," he says, pacing at a circle, a little, acclimatising. "That she thinks several steps ahead of any given move she takes. You and her have that in common."
Blurry footage of a red-and-blue clad figure slamming bad guys into buildings does not look like someone who has plans.
"That she'd probably appreciate it if we got another lady on the team." A few comments, here and there, about how men fight, as if it were an anomaly. He doesn't know Diana any better than he knows Bruce, really, but he likes her.
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Bruce watches him, considering. Probably playing back all the times he's observed Clark fight. Deciding where to start and what to start with.
"She might be equally disappointed by any women who've learned to fight in the outside world," he says wryly. "I've known a lot of women who could lay my ass out flat, but none like her."
In many ways.
"Alright. Try and hit me."
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But, settling into the form he's been shown, he centres his balance, and swings a punch.
He doesn't condescend to slow down by a lot, trusting in Bruce's ability to counter. Being the kind of man whose heart is worn on his sleeve (or in a big S, on his chest), a lack of murderous intent and malice takes the viciousness out of it, anyway.
(Or desperation, as with Zod, in the end, and as with Doomsday, desperate to end something and unable to make it happen as fast as he would like.)
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He stops.
"Once more."
This time, Bruce stops him with a hand on his wrist, and guides Clark to shove his elbow towards Bruce, aiming at his solar plexus. There's an art to it, but it isn't an elegant one. Holds and hold-breaking, using brute force only where the weak points are, to destabilize and cripple.
"You follow?"
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Another thing he took away from Diana: alongside his failure to defend against attack, there is also his habit to choose not to, and that choice having become at least one feature of the fighting style he's built for himself. Absorbing impact and absorbing energy along with it, wasting ammunition as guns turn to him, acting as shield and decoy in ways living beings are generally not expected to.
Which is no excuse, really, and certainly won't impress Bruce. Or Diana. Not that he's interested in impressing Bruce. Or Diana!
He swings, gets caught, and a little faster, folds his arm as shown, stopping just shy of delivering more than a bump of elbow to torso. "Owch," he suggests, wry.
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It's been a lot of years since Bruce has had to meditate. He gave it up, along with a number of other things. That's the old man in between, the perfect ninja, the monolith. He resisted things. He purged murderous rage and vice. He used his baser emotions like a finely sharped blade, and only permitted blood to wet it when he could control it.
Not so much, these days.
His pulse jumps when Clark gets too close. He grits his teeth when Clark rolls his shoulders and manages to pull taught the borrowed undershirt, which while strictly too loose on him, does not actually do anything to hide his physique or occasional glimpses of chest hair. (The Superman suit does that too. Bruce hates it. Can't you laser vision that off or something, you asshole, it's 2017 and that's not supposed to be attractive. How do you know Bruce's weakness is performative erotic gender standards. Fuck ooooofff.)
They run through a series of moves, and Clark is picking it up, and this time when he stops short to spare Bruce's chalk-fragile human skeleton, he hooks his foot behind the younger man's heel and pulls, while pushing in the opposite direction on his arm. Bonk.
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He's never been the best student, too easily distracted, sometimes too literal. He stops short of chalk-fragile human skeletons as well as improvisation, doing only exactly as he is told. Maybe some of this will shake out on the battle field, but after only an evening, it's probable that after the first failed attempt, it'll be back to putting bad guys through concrete until they stop.
In short, he isn't paying attention when suddenly his own foot isn't where he expected it to be.
It's not just that, either. Bruce's manner can seem strangely aloof, negligent, while his heartbeat and the barely detectable even to Kryptonian ears sound of molars squeezing together gives off a different story, and he is superaware of both, when he should definitely be ignoring the latter. So they have each others attention, and Clark isn't certain if either of them know what they're doing with it. (But he thinks he likes--)
Bonk.
Surprise, and there's a slight flutter in the air as if he was just about to cheat through levitation. He permits the fall instead with a slightly inelegant smack of hand to mat, and an affronted look on his face. Mouth pinching, he brings his leg around in an effort to knock Bruce down in retaliation. Improvising!!
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He hops over it.
A glimmer of hope, though, in that improvisation. Instinct makes Bruce step out of Clark's immediate strike range (if he were human), liquid-quick and easy, always so graceful despite the tank-like size of him. There's no reason to have any reaction there, no matter the affronted look on Clark's face or the satisfying sound he made hitting the floor.
It's quick. Barely-there, a flicker of an expression that's not quite anything all the way. Nearly taken over by an unexpected emotion: Bruce trying not to smile.
"Starting to get it," he muses, using a shift around to get back to one as an opportunity to school his expression while facing away.
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But he is, so he doesn't. Rolling to sit, first, watching Bruce turn aside, before climbing to his feet when he recognises a return to position. By the time Bruce turns back, there's a smile ready for him, crooked, a glint of canine. "I think General Zod took it personal," he says, pacing into position, "that a Kryptonian without any kind of genetically encrypted destiny he could recognise, without a lick of training, might go toe to toe with him. It's what he was made for, being a warrior."
Which is what Kal-El was intended for too, but not in the same way, not through the same methods. "How long did it take you? To make you what you are."
Twenty years in Gotham City, but he had to start somewhere.
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Maybe there's something in his gaze before it's blinked away.
Yeah, well. Zod was a dick.
"What, this?" Eyebrows up. Dry. "This is a shitshow, Kent, I'm falling apart."
But that's not what he's asking, and Bruce knows it. Once more - he directs him. Again, from the top. Pushes him a little, forces him to make a call about how Bruce is coming at him.
"Ten years or so," is what he says eventually, "between when I started to wander and when I came back to Gotham. Another five to think I had it figured out."
Since Clark is interested in sweeps, he shows him one.
"All downhill from there."
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He'd learned how to cauterise wounds with lasers that can cut buildings in half; he can go through these motions with Bruce without liquefying his insides.
A real answer gets rewarded with German Shepherd headtip in the midst of it, natural inclination to latch to facts of interest. When the sweep comes, he avoids it as Bruce did before, and then snorts. "Careful, Wayne," he says, because we're doing last names, now, "might start feeling sorry for you."
And he pushes back. It's inevitable that his version of human speed and strength will be that much clumsier and predictable, especially given he is going through motions he's shown, but if surprise is what earns praise
not that he is doing this for praise, it's just nice to know you're not wasting someone's time
then an attempt is made.
"You want to know what I think?"
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Something to alight on the field of landmines that is his entire person; implying Bruce, who nearly succeeded in killing Superman, needs this corn-fed moron to feel sorry for him, lists towards insulting. (Even though he was the one to bring it up, even though any implication there might be that Clark is lacking, because he nearly fell to this broken old man, or that he finds him worthy of inquiry. Even though Bruce is pitifully, embarrassingly enamored with him. Yes.)
To counter the inherent clumsiness in control, Bruce slows him down further. Focusing purely on how it feels. The movement, not Bruce's hands on his skin; he wonders distantly if his senses make small things more intense, or if he needs to get hit by a bus to feel anything. There's a method to tai chi's madness and this isn't quite it, but the principle is the same. Pay attention.
"Not particularly," is deadpan.
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just kidding.
But after a moment, first adapting to the slow down, an uncertain look flashing across his face before he focuses. Paying attention, possibly to Bruce's expectations, possibly not. For the layman, this probably feels silly, and he is something like that himself, and so feels it, but wanting to take this seriously overrides it.
Speaking of overrides, it's probably clear that whatever he was going to say has been taken over by something else, maybe something stupider, given his entire self.
"That you're impressive," is what comes out of his face around when he slow motion fails to deflect the next slow motion strike he didn't slow motion anticipate, maybe with a self-conscious uptick at the corner of his mouth, but eyes dreadfully earnest, down to the bitty patch of brown marked in all the blue.
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Not so with Superman.
The failure to deflect leaves Bruce with his hand almost at Clark's throat, neither grasping nor impacting with, just there, an open-palmed tag that, were it a real hit on a human, would leave someone staggered, possibly even in need of immediate medical care with a dislocated or collapsed esophagus. Sharp brown eyes snap to mostly-blue ones-- ones Bruce has studied in pictures, in videos, up close while reeling from kryptonite-- and it's clear even through his usual stoic expression that he's surprised. A little disbelieving, too, and deeper, something that's - flustered? God forbid.
Walls shift into place. Bruce tags his throat, barely-there. Got you.
And then he's stepping back, removing his hands.
He doesn't know what to say to that so he's just. Not going to say anything. Apparently.
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Smiles, a little, says, "And winning."
It's very possible that he has flustered himself in the wake of open silence, because playing it off isn't supereffective. But okay about it, really, no walls within him to shift into place.
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He could change the subject, here. He should. This is dangerous - more dangerous than trying to punch each other's lights out. Bruce knows by now that the only plans to stop Superman must hinge on Clark flinching, and this is - something. They're both unsteady, and he isn't sure why. (Well, he knows why he's unsteady, but can't imagine it's the same for Clark.)
"When you were traveling, where was the weirdest place you came across?" A beat. "Besides Gotham, which I noticed you avoided."
Of course Bruce knows about that. Either from his standard batcreeping or because of Martha.
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Seems like a rich description to ask of Superman to assign anything, especially as directed by Batman -- and at the same time, maybe too vast a category for someone whose first seventeen years of their life was spent in a place called Smallville, Kansas. Mountains qualify as weird.
"I skipped most big city centres," Clark says, of Gotham, hands dropping to fidget again with one another. "Weirdest place was probably as far west as I got before going north. Desert town, if-- marble and pink limestone open mall palace and parking lot can qualify as a town. I had a dish washing job, there. Couldn't tell you where the other employees went every night, and every customer was just passing through. Transitional. Should have been perfect for me."
He didn't last a week, say his eyebrows. Rootless wandering, he can handle, but places that seem to exist like oil on water are unsettling. Five generations of Kents, turning over soil, make an impression.
"But normal's my home state's main export." Next to corn.
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Those transitional places - Bruce wouldn't do well there, either. For as twisted as he is, as much as the Kent farm makes him want to skitter away, there's nothing absent about Gotham. Too much context, the both of them. And he quirks his eyebrows for: "Turns out it's easier to hide in big cities, huh?"
Metropolis, like Gotham, is large and busy enough to afford cover. Sure, his co-workers at the Daily Planet know, but who else? Places like this, the subways of New York, downtown Los Angeles - 'weird' doesn't even rank a participation prize. They don't stick out so glaringly.
"Where was your favorite place?"
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"I did the Appalachian Trail when I..." Clark trails off there, unsure exactly how to put words around that unique compounding of frustration and loneliness and desperate need to figure things out in a way that doesn't sound, you know, melodramatic. He gives up on that quickly enough. "Well, I'd been wanting to do it, made it something to work towards. Took about six months to fund it, and we're talking-- pocket change, by the time I was ready."
Most would have run out, midway through, maybe less. It takes months. He knew then he didn't need things like people needed them. "It's not all solitary. Cabins, camp sites, other hikers, even the noise? Of woodlands like that? But there's the portion around the Tennessee-North Carolina border, where you can see all around, mountains and forests, indifferent and ancient."
He then stops, thinks, says, "It was beautiful, but. Maybe that's not a favourite place. Just a favourite time.
"What about you? Or is Gotham just weirdest and best?"
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