"I'd worked on it," Clark says, peeling the lids off cans. "I just hadn't written it yet."
Speaking of people being better at things: Lois, and churning out flawless last minute copy, give or take a few typos that become someone else's problem come business open. There's a smile at the corner of his mouth, self-aware, as he drains brine down the sink and empties weird, fleshy jackfruit pieces into a bowl.
"I called in sick," he adds, the real punchline. Perry White, who knows exactly what he's doing when he's forced to entitle Superman to sick leave. It's a little funny, within the margins of how much Clark is actually willing to fuck around with a job he loves, but—
He glances at the eggtimer. Cute, for its humbleness in all the minimalist aesthetic. Sets it to watch the rice for them as he says, "Better than calling in space abducted. It's been strange."
A cute eggtimer, and one not reminiscent of the white oval kind favored by psychopaths who kidnap peoples' moms. It ticks away, barely audible to human ears, the rings of its timer shifting bit by bit for the tough-skinned rice.
Bruce snorts. Yes, he can imagine Perry's face, barely not manifesting lasers out of his eyeballs powered by sheer incredulity. Aware of why Clark Kent calling in sick is absurd, and at the same time aware of being unable to refuse to request. Everyone is allowed sick days, and as a CEO who once spent months in proverbial wrestling matches with his own board over giving his entry level employees any at all, he is intimately familiar with all the ins and outs.
"In the aftermath, it hasn't been all that different from a dissociative episode."
Cannot be understated how stubborn brown rice is, so nothing Clark is doing is very urgent. He shakes some cherry tomatoes onto a cutting board, lazily goes about halving them with all the idle focus of presiding over a longform chess game. It can be quiet, like this. That had been the nice thing about space, and also the terrible thing.
He looks over at the normal thing Bruce says, but doesn't seem confused by it. (Someone should tell Perry that even Supermen deserve mental health days, right after they convince him that mental health days can apply in an office full of hypercompetitive A-type journalists. Good luck.)
"Is it still going?" he asks, turning his focus back down on tomatoes, trying not to squish them before they slice. An exercise in dexterity even if you don't have superstrength to regulate.
Cherry tomatoes are often somewhat wilted, in this house. Never chucked the moment they lose their tension, saved for frying up with other things. Dangerous in strong fingers, be they a fighter's, a tinkerer's, or an alien's.
"I know where I am."
Not an episode, even if it's very reminiscent. That after-shocky feeling of too real, making everything suspicious and ill-fitting. Bruce has ever felt like the times in between his bad turns are worse than the turns themselves; he trusts reality less, and ends up paranoid when he should be relaxing and recovering. Sometimes this folds well into his investigations, fueled by mania, unable to rest, trained from years and years to need very little of it.
"Not so bad. A lot less tiring. And I usually don't get to pet dinosaurs."
Warm, too, affection for a nice memory manifest in an errant dimple. What a strange thing to have happened, so strange that meditating on its strangeness feels as meaningless as commenting that dense woodland sure has a lot of trees, and so the strangeness has to come from the fact that they found peace, sometimes, fragile but simple. Dino dates. No souvenirs, this time.
Tomato halves are carefully scooped up, emptied into a bowl. Cutting board and knife washed, hands too.
"Wouldn't mind a trip up there on purpose sometime," he says, over the sound of running water. "Maybe not soon."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Speaking of people being better at things: Lois, and churning out flawless last minute copy, give or take a few typos that become someone else's problem come business open. There's a smile at the corner of his mouth, self-aware, as he drains brine down the sink and empties weird, fleshy jackfruit pieces into a bowl.
"I called in sick," he adds, the real punchline. Perry White, who knows exactly what he's doing when he's forced to entitle Superman to sick leave. It's a little funny, within the margins of how much Clark is actually willing to fuck around with a job he loves, but—
He glances at the eggtimer. Cute, for its humbleness in all the minimalist aesthetic. Sets it to watch the rice for them as he says, "Better than calling in space abducted. It's been strange."
no subject
Bruce snorts. Yes, he can imagine Perry's face, barely not manifesting lasers out of his eyeballs powered by sheer incredulity. Aware of why Clark Kent calling in sick is absurd, and at the same time aware of being unable to refuse to request. Everyone is allowed sick days, and as a CEO who once spent months in proverbial wrestling matches with his own board over giving his entry level employees any at all, he is intimately familiar with all the ins and outs.
"In the aftermath, it hasn't been all that different from a dissociative episode."
Normal things to say.
no subject
He looks over at the normal thing Bruce says, but doesn't seem confused by it. (Someone should tell Perry that even Supermen deserve mental health days, right after they convince him that mental health days can apply in an office full of hypercompetitive A-type journalists. Good luck.)
"Is it still going?" he asks, turning his focus back down on tomatoes, trying not to squish them before they slice. An exercise in dexterity even if you don't have superstrength to regulate.
no subject
"I know where I am."
Not an episode, even if it's very reminiscent. That after-shocky feeling of too real, making everything suspicious and ill-fitting. Bruce has ever felt like the times in between his bad turns are worse than the turns themselves; he trusts reality less, and ends up paranoid when he should be relaxing and recovering. Sometimes this folds well into his investigations, fueled by mania, unable to rest, trained from years and years to need very little of it.
"Not so bad. A lot less tiring. And I usually don't get to pet dinosaurs."
Space was alright.
no subject
Warm, too, affection for a nice memory manifest in an errant dimple. What a strange thing to have happened, so strange that meditating on its strangeness feels as meaningless as commenting that dense woodland sure has a lot of trees, and so the strangeness has to come from the fact that they found peace, sometimes, fragile but simple. Dino dates. No souvenirs, this time.
Tomato halves are carefully scooped up, emptied into a bowl. Cutting board and knife washed, hands too.
"Wouldn't mind a trip up there on purpose sometime," he says, over the sound of running water. "Maybe not soon."