If Bruce said anything off-beat or awkward, it doesn't resonate as such for Clark, and only serves to redirect broad smile from down at Shelby to up at Bruce. "Well," he says, giving the dog one last pat on her hindquarters before getting to his feet, "there's always next year. Or tonight, if mom turns in early."
Private and special, maybe so. Come tomorrow, the house will be full of friends and family, and the night before had always been a more quiet affair of Kents and the occasional guest star. But if Clark could tell what Bruce was thinking, he might laugh off the idea that anything he could do would disturb the evening. They've been collectively putting up with weird for too long.
He's joking about Tibet, probably, finding a place to perch on furniture, wine in hand.
"Think they celebrate in Atlantis?"
And how would that go, if they did. Of their team, Arthur has been the most challenging to think of something for, particularly as he's pretty sure the fish king does not particularly care for his company, and anything waterproof seems made for those who are not themselves waterproof.
(He'd dropped a small bottle of Jack off at the likeliest coast, with a card, which was probably the most apt of his haul. Barry got a T-shirt that said HI on the front and BYE on the back, and Diana, a glass paperweight with a mini Parthenon inside. For Victor, a pair of mirror sunglasses that just barely blot out the light from his robot eyeball (which had gotten some mild mockery for Clark's choices in civilian disguises). His present for Lois, a bracelet made from abalone shell, waits for her in her apartment upon return from her own family commitments.
These, delivered in advance, presumably so that he wouldn't be interrupting Santa's flight patterns.)
Edited (sorry victor here u go) 2017-12-17 04:47 (UTC)
It sounds more cynical than he really means it to, something Bruce only realizes one it's out of his mouth. He prevents himself from immediately making it worse by trying to tack on any awkward explanations by taking a drink (finally), though that ends up looking off-beat as well, with how he downs half a glass in a heartbeat. He's forgotten what pacing himself looks like.
And then, not that funny: "I figured I'd just send everybody a check."
He'd laughed it off, about buying out the small Kansan firm that owned the debt on this property. The Kents had let him laugh it off. It wasn't a hardship for him; if anything it was an insulting oversight that he'd kept the Superman suit and obsessed over Martha's dead son while being oblivious to the fact that she'd been foreclosed on. If he'd been behaving with any bit of human decency, she'd never have had to move out in the first place.
The point is, it's really all he's good for. His hand tenses briefly on the wine glass, resisting the urge to drain it.
--and Clark is not that effervescently naive, humour crinkled in his eyes and an eyebrow raised. It's wholly likely that neither Kent expects anything further from Bruce Wayne, and in a way, tonight is about an occasion shared in their regifted family home. (Strike that -- Shelby has some expectations, given that she goes to sit by Bruce now that Clark's attention has diverted. Farm folk aren't as easy to charm as city dwellers, for whom animals are a relative novelty.)
And anyway, for having bought gifts for six to seven people, he'd stopped by maybe two all purpose stores to do it. There will be no shade from Superman.
"We got beer, too, if you like, but I think mom is trying to make you feel at home with something fancier."
Timed, so that he's saying it as Martha enters the room, smiling easily as she aims a swat at his shoulder. "Thirty-seven-years and I can count on one hand how many friends you ever brought by for me to try and impress."
Clark, who considers himself just thirty-six, only pauses somewhere behind his eyes before letting it slide, taking his own generous sip of wine as she rounds on Bruce, because moms always temporarily love her son's friends more when they display good manners. She is nothing like a stereotypical country wife, having not been one for some time, all flannel shirts and shoes tracking in the dirt and grey hair only just contained in its clip, so the warmth exuded is more or less unique to Bruce Wayne, whom she knows as having saved her, whom she knows as having given them back their farm just 'cause he could.
Nothing indicates that she might know better about how Bruce came to be Clark's friend, and how they started. "Now, Bruce, we're not ones to stand on ceremony, so I'm gonna need an extra set of hands while Clark sets the table, if you wouldn't mind."
"That's my cue," is more to Shelby than anyone else, and Clark -- more earthbound than usual, footsteps a heavy reverberation through hardwood floors -- sets off to do as sideways instructed.
Whether or not they expect something, something exists. Shuffled in with the wrapped presents are two cards - each also wrapped in bright paper, and whether that's obtuseness or humor, who knows - one for Martha, containing a personal crash-course in stock market investing and silver sparkling bracelet that looks so spindly and delicate as to be alarming, almost, but through the wonders of engineering is perfectly sturdy. The second is for Shelby
no it's for Clark, and he doesn't get any jewelry. He gets a very thin tourist English-to-Tibetan phrasebook, and a printout detailing the makeup and potential useful applications of a half dozen alien minerals. Bruce does not have congress-approved-Luthor-level access to the crashed scout ship in Metropolis, but he has his ways, and his ways have allowed him to obtain samples and scans of material native to Krypton. Though he won't say so, it strikes him as sad that Clark's only weakness is a piece of rock from his own demolished home planet. A piece of himself, used to kill him. But kryptonite is not the only thing they have from that world, and what else they have could maybe make some very good lightbulbs, or contain hazardous material without risk of corrosion.
Not as glamorous as the bracelet. Bruce Wayne is not very glamorous, under the bespoke threads.
Bruce does not point these cards out, hoping against hope they'll wait to find them until he's gone-- because he will be gone, either before or just after more people arrive, not trusting himself to be acceptably social. For now he's ... an extra set of hands, whatever that means. Happy to do as he's instructed, even though he is an unmitigated disaster in anything resembling a kitchen, as Martha will soon discover if she needs him to so much as wield a butter knife. He does his best.
A benefit to having given up his alcohol-free lifestyle is being less concerned about what he eats, though he's still very fond of kale shakes. (The horror.) Ten years ago he'd balk at typical Christmas fare, sticking to greens and proteins while picking gingerly at carbohydrates and sugars. Fortunately, he doesn't have to be such a prick about it, today.
Being a pair of hands is not too intensive, at least, where putting a man to work in her kitchen is more a social occasion than anything else, something to do while she chats. Arrange some breadrolls, getting a salad bowl off of somewhere high, could he take that out of the oven and put it over there, throw this towel over it to keep it warm. The food more or less exclusively comes in glass dishes with lids, heavy and warm and far too much of it, even if it's all getting loaded onto the table for them to enjoy. There will be a lot of tupperware filling, later, with much intended for Clark to take with him when he goes.
Clark handles table setting, as he'd done since he was tall enough to do it. Setting out enough for more than two people is oddly nostalgic in a way he's not about to rest into for very long, and chooses the distraction of glancing at where he can see his mother gently directing Bruce around her kitchen. It would be cool if his heart could stop doing inexplicable, unverifiable things in his chest, or at least pick one thing. What's it about this time of year that makes everything so sentimental, anyway.
A lot of his adult Christmases have involved watching TV and guilt, mainly.
At the table, Martha leads a toast to having her son back with her for the holidays (and she keeps a steely grip on her emotions as she says it) and to Bruce, comin' all the way out here and sharing his Christmas with them.
There is a moment, when Martha is holding her emotions in check and no one is saying anything to threaten her grip there, that Bruce looks at her with something shuttered behind his expression. He manages to miss her gaze with it-- an understanding that has nothing to do with having wronged Clark so badly. His sympathy is, for a flicker of time, so exact there can be no other conclusion.
(Only Kryptonians get to come back from the dead. The moment passes without attention on it.)
Beer, again. Bruce meets Clark's eyes after skimming over the label, familiar for having guessed it, north of here. It feels like an inside joke, and he hasn't had one of those in ages. Budweiser guy after all.
If it feels a little like flirting, that's fine.
Bruce tells them that Alfred doesn't actually believe several of these dishes exist, especially the sweet potato and marshmallow one; too English, and too east coast after that, and so he photographs it to be sent to his adopted father. To be shortly exchanged for pictures of a proper UK spread, including Christmas pudding, which Bruce assures them is actually revolting. Yams are superior, he's decided, having had them all of once, right now.
To say that an earth-dwelling Kryptonian doesn't need to eat would be inaccurate, in that it requires a fundamentally reductive definition of 'need'. An earth-dwelling Kryptonian doesn't 'need' a great deal of things, by that logic. He doesn't need to eat, absorbing his energy and life force from the sun, and doesn't need to sleep. He doesn't need to seek shelter, for the cold doesn't quite sink its teeth into him, and the shade is antithetical to what he does need. He doesn't need the companionship of humans, or their respect, or to be helped up when he falls. He doesn't need to come home, unless he wants to, or to even have a home. Maybe he never even needs to touch down.
Clark Kent, however, has his own needs. Even for a flying man of steel, gravity is not a choice, but a fundamental of the universe by which he governs his movement. For as long as Kent farm exists, it will always pull at him. Beyond even that, certain rituals reinforce connection; his people were probably the same kind of social animal as he the human being he was raised as. Sharing a meal, passing dishes over the table, getting up to take care of refills, taking Bruce's phone from Martha to look at, and handing it back again.
These aren't thoughts he thinks in their entirety, but they lurk beneath the surface, thanks to time spent away, dead or alive. There are moments that feel a little greyer than they used to, and moments that feel more vivid. This one belongs in the latter category.
Martha asks after Alfred, sensing the undercurrent of family as something better understood than questions of employment. (Confirming, too, that an inquisitive nature in Clark does not only come from a surprise career as a news reporter.) There are spans of time where Clark doesn't say anything, having eaten his fill and relaxing back in his chair, contributing idle remarks, finishing his beer and watching them both. Martha, at home in her own home, and Bruce, who Clark suspects of enjoying himself, but he can already feel a desire to find out for real.
"Clark?"
"Yep?" Startling from idle staring, Clark snaps to attention at gentle verbal prod across the table. "Present."
"I was saying that my granny's eggnog recipe is among our best kept secrets next to you, and isn't that right."
"I mean, obviously." Rising to his feet, Clark moves to start taking up dishes to clear the table. Shelby gets up along with him, clearly keen to lick any plates that might come her way. To Bruce, aside, "Maple syrup and a little salt."
Kryptonians on Krypton were human, is what Bruce would have said, to that line of thought. Unscientific and factually incorrect as it is. And yet, it must be true, because Kal-El is here and not on some other planet full of emotionless beings. If his body is of the stars, his heart and soul are terran, and that's two versus one.
He's good at it. Being human. Better than Bruce, that's for sure.
There's a look on his face, a flicker of almost-laughing-- perhaps it had been behind his teeth to say So it's not a secret at all, in Smallville?
Because.
Anyway, he's saved, because Clark fills in the blank of the joke for him, breezily outing the recipe as easy as Zod blowing a hole through the roof of the house they're all sat in right now. (Should he have asked Clark about creating a new identity on paper? He could. Can. No one would be able to see through it; the FBI itself could not crack even Bruce's earliest forgeries. Maybe he'll ask. Not today. Making the offer on Christmas would be weird-- though practical. Who doesn't like a practical gift?
Please help him, holiday deities.)
Eggnog is strange. Raw custard and nutmeg and not enough alcohol. He wonders about making it, despite being fully aware it'd be a glass of brandy with a spiced cream garnish. Bruce drinks it even though it bucks up against his preferences, too sweet and cloying, because it seems correct, and because he's pretty sure Marta Kent could get him to eat sandpaper with bit of broken glass if she offered it to him.
Richard would like it.
Brains are the worst.
"What am I doing here?" he asks, when they're outside on the porch watching the snow come down in fat flakes. Ostensibly to take the dog out. He knows it's Clark behind him, not Martha; footsteps. Clark. What am I doing here.
Clark closes the door behind him, eyebrows drawn together at that question. He hasn't bothered to put further layers back on, hands bare against the frigid air, but not cold. He generates his own warmth, and out here, maybe Bruce can feel a breath of it when he steps out alongside. Shelby's made tracks in the snow, digging around, still exuberant from the way the house smells so different and there's a new human to make friends with.
He sort of knows how she feels, does Clark, but lacking a tail to wag, he just fidgets with what he brought out with him. There's only one person in the world he might wrap a present with black paper for. It's of modest size, a little crumpled. Soft.
"Still figuring that out myself," he says, with hapless honesty.
Except he has a few ideas. Saying them out loud, even if invited to, strikes him as awfully presumptuous.
Bruce lets out an abrupt bark of laughter, dry in the brittle air, and it's parts You'd be amazed how well I can tolerate things I hate and You know I don't, you already know how much I absolutely do not hate this.
What he hates: that Clark can read him like that, already. He tells himself it's because Clark can probably detect his pulse and his breathing and the tension in the depths of his muscles or whatever other neuron-firing atomic-level bullshit that his alien senses allow him to observe like an expression on his face. But if it's any of that, then it's only a little. Clark has known him for barely any amount of time, and yet he still knows him, and it is so infuriating.
Bruce has decided something. Foolishly, but inevitably. He's going to--
Stop short when he turns to look at Clark, catching the being-fidgeted-with wrapped item. His eyebrows go up.
Stepping into an alternate universe where he has no control over the things that come out of his mouth, Bruce says, "I don't really need anything. I mean, I - probably own whatever store most people would pick something up from, I'm kind of an awful anomaly about it, it's-- stupid. Uhm." An in this horrible alternate universe, he doesn't even have the dignity to not say uhm or have it sound like he's being an asshole. No, he sounds as nervous an suddenly off-kilter as he did in Russia, I don't-- not--
Somewhere out there is a universe where he's not a complete tool. Bruce looks back out a that the snow, and Shelby, and is glad he's not the type to turn red. (New Jersey accent voice: Ffffuuuuuuck.)
Clark opens his mouth, and kind of stands there stupidly for a moment before closing it just when Bruce has finished. He's not sure whether the contents of his present are inane enough in a way he should be shy about, all of a sudden, or defensible in light of Bruce talking about owning the world. Paper crinkles a little before he makes himself stop.
"Bruce," is a little laughed. Steam in the air, from between perfectly aligned white teeth. "Trust me, I absolutely realised the 'man who has everything' factor, so just-- here." He manages not to say it's stupid, so don't worry, because surely Bruce can come to that conclusion on his own.
He holds it out.
(It's socks, he got him socks. Not practical socks, nothing that Bruce could hope to fit into his most generous of bat boots, but the woolly, curl up at the fireplace kind of socks that require some degree of homebody relaxation to be appreciated.
They are black, with yellow bats. Wintry Halloween fair.)
"Bat guy," he says, clumsily, around when Bruce actually opens it.
That other universe. Bruce needs to find and inhabit it, immediately.
He's being incredibly insulting, or he would if he'd managed to get that out without tripping over himself like a tongue-tied kid, and what does Clark do-- just laughs, hands him the gift anyway. Bruce is powerless to do anything but accept it and peel back the somber wrapping paper (that he found black wrapping paper is so hilariously detailed, who does that). And then Bruce is holding what might as well be knockoff merch of his own phantasm persona, holding fuzzy socks, and staring at them, dumbfounded.
You have to abort, a voice in his head tells him, of the thing he'd decided to do. It's a reasonable, logical voice. You had a window thirty seconds ago before this element was in play, but it's closed and you can't, now, because you're never going to hear the end of it. He's going to decide the bat-socks are were a factor, just to drive you up a wall. You know this.
Well, yeah, he thinks. But the socks are kind of a factor, now.
Whatever argument the reasonable voice might have had (probably That's even more reason to stop you absolute moron), he never lets himself get there. Bruce looks up, reaches out with the hand not holding socks and crumpled black paper, fits his work-worn fingers around the back of Clark's neck - against the soft hair at the base of his skull, his thumb at the edge of his jaw. There's a heatbeat of time that accounts for traversing the space between them - a few feet apart, an extra few vertical inches to clear. Plenty of time for Clark to stop him or punch him in the face. Bruce kisses him.
Plenty of time for Clark to consider whether the Vulcan nerve pinch might have any effect on him and whether the socks were really bad enough to warrant it.
He remembers standing in the store and locating the socks by chance and not even thinking twice about how this is definitely the perfect gift for Bruce Wayne, and maybe had he played out the actual giving of it in his mind somewhere between there and standing at the register with these socks and Barry's shirt, he might have come up with something else. Because he wouldn't have anticipated that hand at the back of his neck, and Bruce suddenly close.
And tipping up his chin to meet the kiss when it comes.
Surprised, despite that instinct, heart doing a flip. Clark hovers his hands at his sides before landing them gently on Bruce's arms. Fingers close on folds of fabric, smooth them out again with the warm flat of his palms. Beyond that, he honestly does not do much, maybe enough to inspire a withdraw, but doesn't allow it, closing the space of a millimetre's give with the soft pressure of participatory kiss.
As he'd imagined doing, replaying that one strange encounter a handful of times with the occasional deviation.
He has a way he goes about this - kissing - that he holds himself away from, tonight. Always edging on just too aggressive, having grown too old or too bitter for both patience and gentleness, halfway punishing himself for sexual desire by denying any room for catharsis barring the physical; certainly he has no room for comfort, or care.
Except for now. Now, when the only roughness is the faint scrape of his artful five o'clock shadow against Clark's perfect skin, and when Bruce doesn't push at all until the younger man shifts into it. Even then it's soft, barely more than tentative. Like maybe he'll break this spell by being himself, and so he's careful, lips only parting once he's thought about it specifically, seeking out the core of that unearthly warmth.
His other hand finds his side, padded by woolen socks and the faint crinkle of paper.
He didn't think it was possible for them to be this way with each other. When they'd been sparring, in that moment when he knew, Bruce had figured it would be like his most prominent dreams (and nightmares). Violent. Clashing. Clawing for the energy that had bloomed with such fire between them-- and would that be bad? It was passionate, after all, and he thought if they'd have anything it would be an extension of that-- getting each other out of their systems, or worsening the addiction, who knows.
What Clark remembers most clearly from sparring are the gentle touches and adjustments, the mock-strike taps to his ribcage or back or face; Bruce's focus on him, his attention, finely detailed; and of course, but also only after that, Bruce beneath him, and the fact that he does not, did not, feel guilt in extracting some amount of pleasure from all of it. Clark had figured it would be like
well, just that. Walled off, disguised, stolen.
This is better than that, certainly.
(He is dimly aware of Shelby, now up on the porch and out of the ice, and absolutely not aware of Martha Kent checking out the curtain that neither man froze to death at any point, eyebrows going up, mouth pinched into a half-smile and very carefully letting lacy hangings back into place. Alright then.)
His hands, unmanicured and rugged and manful, find places to be on Bruce's ribcage, curled high against his shoulder, only just resisting the temptation to press his palm over that resting heart rate. Warmth radiates mainly from the torso outwards, stifling in their close contact, but spread through his skin, his hands, and between them in open mouthed kissing, the slightly clumsy bump of teeth and lips as Clark figures out this somewhat new angle. Maybe it's an illusion in the chill.
Clark opens his eyes on a slight delay when there is a moment's break, eventually, a slightly anxious flick of his eyes as he reads Bruce's, left to right. But a smile upticks the corner of his mouth, anxiety not being thr right word, probably.
Shelby puts her cold nose at the back of Bruce's leg.
"You're welcome," because it's definitely about the socks.
Helpfully, while Bruce is out of practice with other men by a vast expanse of time, he is accustomed to fitting his mouth against a shorter person's. It is, in fact, routine (as it must be for all people with his particular dimensions), and so the only angle he's concerned with is finding each new best way they fit together for these exploratory kisses. On a delayed thought, 'exploratory' doesn't seem like the right word; learning, maybe. If there are echoes of relief or need, he worries that they're only coming from him - because who needs Bruce Wayne? And furthermore, what does Kal-El of Krypton possibly need from anyone? Much less an old man who tried to murder him.
That this is happening at all after what Bruce has done to him feels unreal. It's only the lack of horror that tells him it isn't a dream, for his subconscious, clever as it might be, is too disdainful to ever bribe him with a fantasy without suffering.
Clark says You're welcome and Bruce twitches one brow up, looking back into his eyes - it's a shame that it's too dark out here to really see the dual color of them, but he's plenty beautiful as-is standing in the moonlight. Instead of trying for some kind of sassy comeback he tips his head forward for another kiss, and this time he lets the barest edge of withheld roughness bleed through. Desirous and thorough and with a ghosting imprint of white teeth at his lower lip when he pulls away.
There's an awkward, un-Bat-like shuffle, getting socks from his off-hand to the one at Clark's neck. Freed, he pats Shelby's head.
"I'm in the middle of something," he rumbles at the dog. Thump thump. Her tail happily whacks the porch railing.
It certainly eliminates some foolish smiling, kiss catching on teeth and blood stirring. It's over quick, Clark borderline swaying back towards it before re-centring, soberly finding himself staring at Bruce's profile. Impervious to socks and shuffles and Shelbys. He's not entirely sure what he would do with Bruce in any kind of long term plan, but he knows that if this is the last time they have physical closeness, this specific kind of intimacy
well he is less convinced of that, now, but still. As soon as Bruce's attention strays back off his dog, Clark pushes back in by planting his hand on the side of the other man's face and unstoppably drawing him back in for round two, a more heated and assertive version on his end of things. Momentum might push them both a little off-balance, if it was possible to be off-balance when you're Superman. A steadying hand on Bruce's chest.
"What're you doing for New Years?" is a line, once it's done.
There's no plan long-term enough that can account for forces of nature like the two of them.
But the way Clark leans after him when they part is gratifying - the way he pulls him back for more far beyond just gratification. Bruce is human, so fragile in comparison to a Kryptonian, but perhaps the most solid human he'll have ever leaned into. He doesn't go anywhere near off-balance, though if Clark is paying attention, he'll be able to hear - feel? - his heartbeat, made so much quicker, breath made almost shallow, warmth flushing through him that has nothing to do with the solarpowered man he's holding. Being held by.
He's abandoned Shelby to grip Clark's side, letting them slip closer to each other like-- gravity, like magnets, like the tide and the rocks it breaks against. Like, for a less dramatic image, two people who want to be near.
And. Then. Bruce tilts his head back a little, giving Clark a narrow-eyed, incredulous look in the colored Christmas light glow. "Do you need to reschedule?"
The incredulity is oddly reassuring, like Bruce has no where to be in particular right now either, like the dreamlike quality of Christmas lights and snow and surprise kisses is not as temporary as it immediately feels. Bruce, himself, certainly doesn't feel like a passing moment, solid muscle on solid bone and solid centre of gravity. The solid thump of a faster heartbeat.
"Just filling up your dance card."
Preemptively. You're meant to kiss on the stroke of midnight. Clark has seen movies.
There's little room between them, now. Just the padding of winter garments, and Clark's own hyperawareness easily circumventing conventional layers like wool and cotton and skin. The hand settled to brace against Bruce's chest relaxing a little, fingertips tracking along weave.
Maybe Clark had heard an earthquake in Tunisia and had to leave. How the heck would Bruce know.
"Oh," he says, like it's a complete sentence. Oh, all right, and-- there's more, but it's overwritten by another kiss, because even if the way this exchange is going suggests a trajectory past tonight, what if it never happens? What if this is the only time? Clark could come to his senses, or Bruce could develop willpower. This is, after all, a terrible idea.
"Nothing." On New Year's, he's not doing anything. Said mostly against Clark's lips, still pressed close. "It's too cold for anyone to try anything in Gotham, I usually have the night off."
January on the eastern seaboard, every crook, big and small, too intimidated by the weather to bother with anything with the city blanketed in snow and ice. (Well, maybe Victor*, but he retired before Bruce had, the first time. Maybe he'll tell Clark about it someday.)
Speaking of freezing, Bruce should be just that. But Clark is so warm.
Oh, that's good or oh, that's interesting or something similar might have been a reply that Clark's mouth begins to shape around but he is far more interested in kissing even more, too privately enamoured with (and maybe just a little giddy about) the idea that Bruce would rather be doing that than talking. (On reflection, later, that may make sense, but here and now, the slight clumsiness of words mumbled into kisses is charming.)
He, too, is settling into the way their bodies fit together, a hand laying now on the back of Bruce's neck and the other keeping him anchored with a handful of shirt.
The snow comes down harder. That Martha has not interrupted them indicates to Clark that she knows not to, but this thought is shelved firmly before he can weigh in on it or act on it. What he does react to is the sound of the dog door suddenly swinging as Shelby gives up on these losers, turning to look.
Let's go to Tibet and find a yurt to make out in.
"We should probably go inside now."
It's a stilted way to say that. Specific. Maybe Bruce's way of saying words is catching, transferable via open mouthed kisses. Maybe Clark just wants to find a phrase that can't be loopholed into meaning that they should go inside and never so much as make eye contact again. But there is humour, crinkled at the corners of his eyes, present in ever-ready smile. He doesn't let go, but he does open up his embrace so that it's not an accidental man of steel cage.
A wise course of action, especially given that the pause allows Bruce's internal clock to catch up and put together: yes, Martha probably poked her head out and went right back inside. A mildly panic-inducing thought, because it's one thing to be happy your son brought a friend you like over, it's another to catch your son making out with said friend. He forgets, sometimes, that not everywhere is the same social super-liberal (immoral?) haven as Gotham City (the conservatives love it - look, look, they let the queers touch and give poors more food stamps in Jersey, and their capitol is a shithole). Though, Clark did not seem particularly skittish, and it's nearly 2018. Maybe she's fine with the fact that it wasn't a woman her son was out here attached to by the face.
"And pretend we've been talking about the weather for an hour?"
He's got jokes.
He's also got-- this last thing, before he steps away (which feels terrible, for a moment). Bruce nuzzles against him, faint sound of stubble audible in the chilly air, and kisses his jaw near the curve of it, nose pressing just behind his ear. It would be fine, he thinks, to stand out here until he can't feel his feet for the cold - to discover if it's possible to leave Clark's invulnerable lips kiss-reddened, to memorize the taste of his mouth on an atomic level.
Going inside and not looking like complete lunatics or twitterpated teenagers is fine, too.
Quippiness of this line utterly spoiled with distraction, because what the fuck. The gentleness mingled with intimacy almost has Clark reversing that subtle withdraw, the desire to luxuriate in gentle touches and the slightly assumptive, soft way Bruce is going about all this is a powerful deterrent against going inside. It's ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with him. All he does is kind of go still, then tip his head to bump temple to Bruce's in slightly doggish affection.
They go inside. Martha is doing a pretty good impression of having not seen anything, although the slightly evasive eye contact with Clark in specific while they do the last of the dishes is confirmation enough and he feels-- like he should probably want to die about it, but abstractly does not.
Probably 'cause she's still smiling like that at Bruce as she shows him to the guest room they've prepared, asking if he's got all he needs. Good enough.
They turn in early, relatively speaking. It's cold and deeply dark, anyway, and Clark lies in his old room and listens to Martha easing into her early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine slumber. He is busy staring fixedly at the ceiling. Thinks about calling Lois. Hey, you know that thing we talked about? I have some developments. But how're the folks? That's it, for people he could talk to, with his mom asleep, and Diana still qualifies as Bruce's friend, anyway.
So that's fine. He's just regressed into his sixteen-year-old self, lying where he's lying now, thinking about every stupid thing he'd managed to say to Lana Lang that day.
Bed springs shift, a half-motion towards getting out of bed. He redirects his focus to the guest room, mostly just to confirm if Bruce is also awake, or if he's turned into a pumpkin with promptness. Bare feet silent where they touch down, gravity whatever he makes of it, he goes to step out into the cold, dark hallway.
Bruce casts a glance at Clark when it's decided - surprised, a little, and somewhat apologetic like Oh that's right, of course Smallville runs on normal, sane person time. He will not be sleeping, and not only because of the electrical current under his skin that's lingered even after uncoupling from Clark and returning indoors.
And not only because he's a graveyard shift person in general. He stares at his phone-- at the reminders in text form (easy for Alfred to say, he's still allowed to speak to him), at the number still at the top of his speed dial, several years and new phones on, always programmed in, always carried over. The number whose last contact is an outgoing, unconnected call dated exactly twelve months ago. (It used to be a gap of nine months, between his birthday and the holiday season, but that fell by the wayside; a concession to I'd prefer it if you stopped calling.)
He should. Stop calling.
It rings, and hits voicemail. The recorded playback is a cheery, male voice, vowels flattened by the same dialect Bruce only rarely exhibits. The sound of it would not reach anyone else's ears, but, well. Circumstances are what they are. You've reached Richard Grayson! Who is using this name now to avoid having a voicemail box that sounds like you misdialed and got a phone sex line. Tell me all your secrets and I'll get back to you!
'It's me.' (He knows who it is. He hasn't blocked Bruce's number, though he could. Maybe that's a sign.) 'I'm sure you heard... well, maybe not. I don't know what you talk about. Alfred's in England, and I'm in Kansas. Not snowed in at Wichita airport or anything, either. It's...' (Silence.) 'You'd like it. There's a dog.' (More silence.) 'Happy Christmas.'
Click.
Happy, not merry, because he was raised by an Englishman. Whatever. Bruce lets out a breath and tosses his phone on his bag, desultory. Parent of the fucking year. He did not speak loudly, not wanting to disrupt Martha - and he did not take the call outside, knowing that if Clark wanted to eavesdrop, he could do so from a solar-system away. Does he care if the younger man listened in? ... He's not sure.
There's no tell-tale sound of shifting weight or ungainly footsteps to alert him to anyone's nearness, but Bruce turns his head to look at the closed door anyway, almost expectant. Ninja senses, perhaps.
For an extended few seconds, Clark stands near Bruce's door, shoulder to wall, listening with only a little regret that there's something to listen to, knowing himself too well to pretend to focus on something else. By now, he's graduated from "who's that?", not the kind of thing you want to say near anything resembling a red carpet, to having done enough homework to contextualise what he hears.
The homework itself does not fit what he knows, now, of either Batman or Bruce Wayne.
Silence, then. Go back to bed. Clark imagines doing that, lying awake, stiflingly conscious of Bruce also lying awake. A Christmas nightmare.
He gently brushes his knuckles against the door, a tap to announce his presence before his hand goes to the door handle, easing his way inside when he's not immediately told to go away. Shorts and T-shirt make up his pyjamas, all loose on him, all nondescript. He does, in fact, own some of his own merch in pyjama form, in jokey and adorable, and he's left it in Metropolis, thank god.
"I heard you not sleeping," is his explanation, that easy, midwestern blend of amused and apologetic at the same time.
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Private and special, maybe so. Come tomorrow, the house will be full of friends and family, and the night before had always been a more quiet affair of Kents and the occasional guest star. But if Clark could tell what Bruce was thinking, he might laugh off the idea that anything he could do would disturb the evening. They've been collectively putting up with weird for too long.
He's joking about Tibet, probably, finding a place to perch on furniture, wine in hand.
"Think they celebrate in Atlantis?"
And how would that go, if they did. Of their team, Arthur has been the most challenging to think of something for, particularly as he's pretty sure the fish king does not particularly care for his company, and anything waterproof seems made for those who are not themselves waterproof.
(He'd dropped a small bottle of Jack off at the likeliest coast, with a card, which was probably the most apt of his haul. Barry got a T-shirt that said HI on the front and BYE on the back, and Diana, a glass paperweight with a mini Parthenon inside. For Victor, a pair of mirror sunglasses that just barely blot out the light from his robot eyeball (which had gotten some mild mockery for Clark's choices in civilian disguises). His present for Lois, a bracelet made from abalone shell, waits for her in her apartment upon return from her own family commitments.
These, delivered in advance, presumably so that he wouldn't be interrupting Santa's flight patterns.)
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"I hope not."
It sounds more cynical than he really means it to, something Bruce only realizes one it's out of his mouth. He prevents himself from immediately making it worse by trying to tack on any awkward explanations by taking a drink (finally), though that ends up looking off-beat as well, with how he downs half a glass in a heartbeat. He's forgotten what pacing himself looks like.
And then, not that funny: "I figured I'd just send everybody a check."
He'd laughed it off, about buying out the small Kansan firm that owned the debt on this property. The Kents had let him laugh it off. It wasn't a hardship for him; if anything it was an insulting oversight that he'd kept the Superman suit and obsessed over Martha's dead son while being oblivious to the fact that she'd been foreclosed on. If he'd been behaving with any bit of human decency, she'd never have had to move out in the first place.
The point is, it's really all he's good for. His hand tenses briefly on the wine glass, resisting the urge to drain it.
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--and Clark is not that effervescently naive, humour crinkled in his eyes and an eyebrow raised. It's wholly likely that neither Kent expects anything further from Bruce Wayne, and in a way, tonight is about an occasion shared in their regifted family home. (Strike that -- Shelby has some expectations, given that she goes to sit by Bruce now that Clark's attention has diverted. Farm folk aren't as easy to charm as city dwellers, for whom animals are a relative novelty.)
And anyway, for having bought gifts for six to seven people, he'd stopped by maybe two all purpose stores to do it. There will be no shade from Superman.
"We got beer, too, if you like, but I think mom is trying to make you feel at home with something fancier."
Timed, so that he's saying it as Martha enters the room, smiling easily as she aims a swat at his shoulder. "Thirty-seven-years and I can count on one hand how many friends you ever brought by for me to try and impress."
Clark, who considers himself just thirty-six, only pauses somewhere behind his eyes before letting it slide, taking his own generous sip of wine as she rounds on Bruce, because moms always temporarily love her son's friends more when they display good manners. She is nothing like a stereotypical country wife, having not been one for some time, all flannel shirts and shoes tracking in the dirt and grey hair only just contained in its clip, so the warmth exuded is more or less unique to Bruce Wayne, whom she knows as having saved her, whom she knows as having given them back their farm just 'cause he could.
Nothing indicates that she might know better about how Bruce came to be Clark's friend, and how they started. "Now, Bruce, we're not ones to stand on ceremony, so I'm gonna need an extra set of hands while Clark sets the table, if you wouldn't mind."
"That's my cue," is more to Shelby than anyone else, and Clark -- more earthbound than usual, footsteps a heavy reverberation through hardwood floors -- sets off to do as sideways instructed.
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no it's for Clark, and he doesn't get any jewelry. He gets a very thin tourist English-to-Tibetan phrasebook, and a printout detailing the makeup and potential useful applications of a half dozen alien minerals. Bruce does not have congress-approved-Luthor-level access to the crashed scout ship in Metropolis, but he has his ways, and his ways have allowed him to obtain samples and scans of material native to Krypton. Though he won't say so, it strikes him as sad that Clark's only weakness is a piece of rock from his own demolished home planet. A piece of himself, used to kill him. But kryptonite is not the only thing they have from that world, and what else they have could maybe make some very good lightbulbs, or contain hazardous material without risk of corrosion.
Not as glamorous as the bracelet. Bruce Wayne is not very glamorous, under the bespoke threads.
Bruce does not point these cards out, hoping against hope they'll wait to find them until he's gone-- because he will be gone, either before or just after more people arrive, not trusting himself to be acceptably social. For now he's ... an extra set of hands, whatever that means. Happy to do as he's instructed, even though he is an unmitigated disaster in anything resembling a kitchen, as Martha will soon discover if she needs him to so much as wield a butter knife. He does his best.
A benefit to having given up his alcohol-free lifestyle is being less concerned about what he eats, though he's still very fond of kale shakes. (The horror.) Ten years ago he'd balk at typical Christmas fare, sticking to greens and proteins while picking gingerly at carbohydrates and sugars. Fortunately, he doesn't have to be such a prick about it, today.
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Clark handles table setting, as he'd done since he was tall enough to do it. Setting out enough for more than two people is oddly nostalgic in a way he's not about to rest into for very long, and chooses the distraction of glancing at where he can see his mother gently directing Bruce around her kitchen. It would be cool if his heart could stop doing inexplicable, unverifiable things in his chest, or at least pick one thing. What's it about this time of year that makes everything so sentimental, anyway.
A lot of his adult Christmases have involved watching TV and guilt, mainly.
At the table, Martha leads a toast to having her son back with her for the holidays (and she keeps a steely grip on her emotions as she says it) and to Bruce, comin' all the way out here and sharing his Christmas with them.
Clark dings beer bottle to glass.
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(Only Kryptonians get to come back from the dead. The moment passes without attention on it.)
Beer, again. Bruce meets Clark's eyes after skimming over the label, familiar for having guessed it, north of here. It feels like an inside joke, and he hasn't had one of those in ages. Budweiser guy after all.
If it feels a little like flirting, that's fine.
Bruce tells them that Alfred doesn't actually believe several of these dishes exist, especially the sweet potato and marshmallow one; too English, and too east coast after that, and so he photographs it to be sent to his adopted father. To be shortly exchanged for pictures of a proper UK spread, including Christmas pudding, which Bruce assures them is actually revolting. Yams are superior, he's decided, having had them all of once, right now.
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Clark Kent, however, has his own needs. Even for a flying man of steel, gravity is not a choice, but a fundamental of the universe by which he governs his movement. For as long as Kent farm exists, it will always pull at him. Beyond even that, certain rituals reinforce connection; his people were probably the same kind of social animal as he the human being he was raised as. Sharing a meal, passing dishes over the table, getting up to take care of refills, taking Bruce's phone from Martha to look at, and handing it back again.
These aren't thoughts he thinks in their entirety, but they lurk beneath the surface, thanks to time spent away, dead or alive. There are moments that feel a little greyer than they used to, and moments that feel more vivid. This one belongs in the latter category.
Martha asks after Alfred, sensing the undercurrent of family as something better understood than questions of employment. (Confirming, too, that an inquisitive nature in Clark does not only come from a surprise career as a news reporter.) There are spans of time where Clark doesn't say anything, having eaten his fill and relaxing back in his chair, contributing idle remarks, finishing his beer and watching them both. Martha, at home in her own home, and Bruce, who Clark suspects of enjoying himself, but he can already feel a desire to find out for real.
"Clark?"
"Yep?" Startling from idle staring, Clark snaps to attention at gentle verbal prod across the table. "Present."
"I was saying that my granny's eggnog recipe is among our best kept secrets next to you, and isn't that right."
"I mean, obviously." Rising to his feet, Clark moves to start taking up dishes to clear the table. Shelby gets up along with him, clearly keen to lick any plates that might come her way. To Bruce, aside, "Maple syrup and a little salt."
"Oh, you don't know a thing."
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He's good at it. Being human. Better than Bruce, that's for sure.
There's a look on his face, a flicker of almost-laughing-- perhaps it had been behind his teeth to say So it's not a secret at all, in Smallville?
Because.
Anyway, he's saved, because Clark fills in the blank of the joke for him, breezily outing the recipe as easy as Zod blowing a hole through the roof of the house they're all sat in right now. (Should he have asked Clark about creating a new identity on paper? He could. Can. No one would be able to see through it; the FBI itself could not crack even Bruce's earliest forgeries. Maybe he'll ask. Not today. Making the offer on Christmas would be weird-- though practical. Who doesn't like a practical gift?
Please help him, holiday deities.)
Eggnog is strange. Raw custard and nutmeg and not enough alcohol. He wonders about making it, despite being fully aware it'd be a glass of brandy with a spiced cream garnish. Bruce drinks it even though it bucks up against his preferences, too sweet and cloying, because it seems correct, and because he's pretty sure Marta Kent could get him to eat sandpaper with bit of broken glass if she offered it to him.
Richard would like it.
Brains are the worst.
"What am I doing here?" he asks, when they're outside on the porch watching the snow come down in fat flakes. Ostensibly to take the dog out. He knows it's Clark behind him, not Martha; footsteps. Clark. What am I doing here.
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He sort of knows how she feels, does Clark, but lacking a tail to wag, he just fidgets with what he brought out with him. There's only one person in the world he might wrap a present with black paper for. It's of modest size, a little crumpled. Soft.
"Still figuring that out myself," he says, with hapless honesty.
Except he has a few ideas. Saying them out loud, even if invited to, strikes him as awfully presumptuous.
"But you don't hate it."
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What he hates: that Clark can read him like that, already. He tells himself it's because Clark can probably detect his pulse and his breathing and the tension in the depths of his muscles or whatever other neuron-firing atomic-level bullshit that his alien senses allow him to observe like an expression on his face. But if it's any of that, then it's only a little. Clark has known him for barely any amount of time, and yet he still knows him, and it is so infuriating.
Bruce has decided something. Foolishly, but inevitably. He's going to--
Stop short when he turns to look at Clark, catching the being-fidgeted-with wrapped item. His eyebrows go up.
Stepping into an alternate universe where he has no control over the things that come out of his mouth, Bruce says, "I don't really need anything. I mean, I - probably own whatever store most people would pick something up from, I'm kind of an awful anomaly about it, it's-- stupid. Uhm." An in this horrible alternate universe, he doesn't even have the dignity to not say uhm or have it sound like he's being an asshole. No, he sounds as nervous an suddenly off-kilter as he did in Russia, I don't-- not--
Somewhere out there is a universe where he's not a complete tool. Bruce looks back out a that the snow, and Shelby, and is glad he's not the type to turn red. (New Jersey accent voice: Ffffuuuuuuck.)
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"Bruce," is a little laughed. Steam in the air, from between perfectly aligned white teeth. "Trust me, I absolutely realised the 'man who has everything' factor, so just-- here." He manages not to say it's stupid, so don't worry, because surely Bruce can come to that conclusion on his own.
He holds it out.
(It's socks, he got him socks. Not practical socks, nothing that Bruce could hope to fit into his most generous of bat boots, but the woolly, curl up at the fireplace kind of socks that require some degree of homebody relaxation to be appreciated.
They are black, with yellow bats. Wintry Halloween fair.)
"Bat guy," he says, clumsily, around when Bruce actually opens it.
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He's being incredibly insulting, or he would if he'd managed to get that out without tripping over himself like a tongue-tied kid, and what does Clark do-- just laughs, hands him the gift anyway. Bruce is powerless to do anything but accept it and peel back the somber wrapping paper (that he found black wrapping paper is so hilariously detailed, who does that). And then Bruce is holding what might as well be knockoff merch of his own phantasm persona, holding fuzzy socks, and staring at them, dumbfounded.
You have to abort, a voice in his head tells him, of the thing he'd decided to do. It's a reasonable, logical voice. You had a window thirty seconds ago before this element was in play, but it's closed and you can't, now, because you're never going to hear the end of it. He's going to decide the bat-socks are were a factor, just to drive you up a wall. You know this.
Well, yeah, he thinks. But the socks are kind of a factor, now.
Whatever argument the reasonable voice might have had (probably That's even more reason to stop you absolute moron), he never lets himself get there. Bruce looks up, reaches out with the hand not holding socks and crumpled black paper, fits his work-worn fingers around the back of Clark's neck - against the soft hair at the base of his skull, his thumb at the edge of his jaw. There's a heatbeat of time that accounts for traversing the space between them - a few feet apart, an extra few vertical inches to clear. Plenty of time for Clark to stop him or punch him in the face. Bruce kisses him.
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He remembers standing in the store and locating the socks by chance and not even thinking twice about how this is definitely the perfect gift for Bruce Wayne, and maybe had he played out the actual giving of it in his mind somewhere between there and standing at the register with these socks and Barry's shirt, he might have come up with something else. Because he wouldn't have anticipated that hand at the back of his neck, and Bruce suddenly close.
And tipping up his chin to meet the kiss when it comes.
Surprised, despite that instinct, heart doing a flip. Clark hovers his hands at his sides before landing them gently on Bruce's arms. Fingers close on folds of fabric, smooth them out again with the warm flat of his palms. Beyond that, he honestly does not do much, maybe enough to inspire a withdraw, but doesn't allow it, closing the space of a millimetre's give with the soft pressure of participatory kiss.
As he'd imagined doing, replaying that one strange encounter a handful of times with the occasional deviation.
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Except for now. Now, when the only roughness is the faint scrape of his artful five o'clock shadow against Clark's perfect skin, and when Bruce doesn't push at all until the younger man shifts into it. Even then it's soft, barely more than tentative. Like maybe he'll break this spell by being himself, and so he's careful, lips only parting once he's thought about it specifically, seeking out the core of that unearthly warmth.
His other hand finds his side, padded by woolen socks and the faint crinkle of paper.
He didn't think it was possible for them to be this way with each other. When they'd been sparring, in that moment when he knew, Bruce had figured it would be like his most prominent dreams (and nightmares). Violent. Clashing. Clawing for the energy that had bloomed with such fire between them-- and would that be bad? It was passionate, after all, and he thought if they'd have anything it would be an extension of that-- getting each other out of their systems, or worsening the addiction, who knows.
This is something else entirely.
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well, just that. Walled off, disguised, stolen.
This is better than that, certainly.
(He is dimly aware of Shelby, now up on the porch and out of the ice, and absolutely not aware of Martha Kent checking out the curtain that neither man froze to death at any point, eyebrows going up, mouth pinched into a half-smile and very carefully letting lacy hangings back into place. Alright then.)
His hands, unmanicured and rugged and manful, find places to be on Bruce's ribcage, curled high against his shoulder, only just resisting the temptation to press his palm over that resting heart rate. Warmth radiates mainly from the torso outwards, stifling in their close contact, but spread through his skin, his hands, and between them in open mouthed kissing, the slightly clumsy bump of teeth and lips as Clark figures out this somewhat new angle. Maybe it's an illusion in the chill.
Clark opens his eyes on a slight delay when there is a moment's break, eventually, a slightly anxious flick of his eyes as he reads Bruce's, left to right. But a smile upticks the corner of his mouth, anxiety not being thr right word, probably.
Shelby puts her cold nose at the back of Bruce's leg.
"You're welcome," because it's definitely about the socks.
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That this is happening at all after what Bruce has done to him feels unreal. It's only the lack of horror that tells him it isn't a dream, for his subconscious, clever as it might be, is too disdainful to ever bribe him with a fantasy without suffering.
Clark says You're welcome and Bruce twitches one brow up, looking back into his eyes - it's a shame that it's too dark out here to really see the dual color of them, but he's plenty beautiful as-is standing in the moonlight. Instead of trying for some kind of sassy comeback he tips his head forward for another kiss, and this time he lets the barest edge of withheld roughness bleed through. Desirous and thorough and with a ghosting imprint of white teeth at his lower lip when he pulls away.
There's an awkward, un-Bat-like shuffle, getting socks from his off-hand to the one at Clark's neck. Freed, he pats Shelby's head.
"I'm in the middle of something," he rumbles at the dog. Thump thump. Her tail happily whacks the porch railing.
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It certainly eliminates some foolish smiling, kiss catching on teeth and blood stirring. It's over quick, Clark borderline swaying back towards it before re-centring, soberly finding himself staring at Bruce's profile. Impervious to socks and shuffles and Shelbys. He's not entirely sure what he would do with Bruce in any kind of long term plan, but he knows that if this is the last time they have physical closeness, this specific kind of intimacy
well he is less convinced of that, now, but still. As soon as Bruce's attention strays back off his dog, Clark pushes back in by planting his hand on the side of the other man's face and unstoppably drawing him back in for round two, a more heated and assertive version on his end of things. Momentum might push them both a little off-balance, if it was possible to be off-balance when you're Superman. A steadying hand on Bruce's chest.
"What're you doing for New Years?" is a line, once it's done.
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But the way Clark leans after him when they part is gratifying - the way he pulls him back for more far beyond just gratification. Bruce is human, so fragile in comparison to a Kryptonian, but perhaps the most solid human he'll have ever leaned into. He doesn't go anywhere near off-balance, though if Clark is paying attention, he'll be able to hear - feel? - his heartbeat, made so much quicker, breath made almost shallow, warmth flushing through him that has nothing to do with the solarpowered man he's holding. Being held by.
He's abandoned Shelby to grip Clark's side, letting them slip closer to each other like-- gravity, like magnets, like the tide and the rocks it breaks against. Like, for a less dramatic image, two people who want to be near.
And. Then. Bruce tilts his head back a little, giving Clark a narrow-eyed, incredulous look in the colored Christmas light glow. "Do you need to reschedule?"
Is now a bad time. Or something.
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"Just filling up your dance card."
Preemptively. You're meant to kiss on the stroke of midnight. Clark has seen movies.
There's little room between them, now. Just the padding of winter garments, and Clark's own hyperawareness easily circumventing conventional layers like wool and cotton and skin. The hand settled to brace against Bruce's chest relaxing a little, fingertips tracking along weave.
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"Oh," he says, like it's a complete sentence. Oh, all right, and-- there's more, but it's overwritten by another kiss, because even if the way this exchange is going suggests a trajectory past tonight, what if it never happens? What if this is the only time? Clark could come to his senses, or Bruce could develop willpower. This is, after all, a terrible idea.
"Nothing." On New Year's, he's not doing anything. Said mostly against Clark's lips, still pressed close. "It's too cold for anyone to try anything in Gotham, I usually have the night off."
January on the eastern seaboard, every crook, big and small, too intimidated by the weather to bother with anything with the city blanketed in snow and ice. (Well, maybe Victor*, but he retired before Bruce had, the first time. Maybe he'll tell Clark about it someday.)
Speaking of freezing, Bruce should be just that. But Clark is so warm.
* Fries
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He, too, is settling into the way their bodies fit together, a hand laying now on the back of Bruce's neck and the other keeping him anchored with a handful of shirt.
The snow comes down harder. That Martha has not interrupted them indicates to Clark that she knows not to, but this thought is shelved firmly before he can weigh in on it or act on it. What he does react to is the sound of the dog door suddenly swinging as Shelby gives up on these losers, turning to look.
Let's go to Tibet and find a yurt to make out in.
"We should probably go inside now."
It's a stilted way to say that. Specific. Maybe Bruce's way of saying words is catching, transferable via open mouthed kisses. Maybe Clark just wants to find a phrase that can't be loopholed into meaning that they should go inside and never so much as make eye contact again. But there is humour, crinkled at the corners of his eyes, present in ever-ready smile. He doesn't let go, but he does open up his embrace so that it's not an accidental man of steel cage.
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"And pretend we've been talking about the weather for an hour?"
He's got jokes.
He's also got-- this last thing, before he steps away (which feels terrible, for a moment). Bruce nuzzles against him, faint sound of stubble audible in the chilly air, and kisses his jaw near the curve of it, nose pressing just behind his ear. It would be fine, he thinks, to stand out here until he can't feel his feet for the cold - to discover if it's possible to leave Clark's invulnerable lips kiss-reddened, to memorize the taste of his mouth on an atomic level.
Going inside and not looking like complete lunatics or twitterpated teenagers is fine, too.
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Quippiness of this line utterly spoiled with distraction, because what the fuck. The gentleness mingled with intimacy almost has Clark reversing that subtle withdraw, the desire to luxuriate in gentle touches and the slightly assumptive, soft way Bruce is going about all this is a powerful deterrent against going inside. It's ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with him. All he does is kind of go still, then tip his head to bump temple to Bruce's in slightly doggish affection.
They go inside. Martha is doing a pretty good impression of having not seen anything, although the slightly evasive eye contact with Clark in specific while they do the last of the dishes is confirmation enough and he feels-- like he should probably want to die about it, but abstractly does not.
Probably 'cause she's still smiling like that at Bruce as she shows him to the guest room they've prepared, asking if he's got all he needs. Good enough.
They turn in early, relatively speaking. It's cold and deeply dark, anyway, and Clark lies in his old room and listens to Martha easing into her early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine slumber. He is busy staring fixedly at the ceiling. Thinks about calling Lois. Hey, you know that thing we talked about? I have some developments. But how're the folks? That's it, for people he could talk to, with his mom asleep, and Diana still qualifies as Bruce's friend, anyway.
So that's fine. He's just regressed into his sixteen-year-old self, lying where he's lying now, thinking about every stupid thing he'd managed to say to Lana Lang that day.
Bed springs shift, a half-motion towards getting out of bed. He redirects his focus to the guest room, mostly just to confirm if Bruce is also awake, or if he's turned into a pumpkin with promptness. Bare feet silent where they touch down, gravity whatever he makes of it, he goes to step out into the cold, dark hallway.
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Bruce casts a glance at Clark when it's decided - surprised, a little, and somewhat apologetic like Oh that's right, of course Smallville runs on normal, sane person time. He will not be sleeping, and not only because of the electrical current under his skin that's lingered even after uncoupling from Clark and returning indoors.
And not only because he's a graveyard shift person in general. He stares at his phone-- at the reminders in text form (easy for Alfred to say, he's still allowed to speak to him), at the number still at the top of his speed dial, several years and new phones on, always programmed in, always carried over. The number whose last contact is an outgoing, unconnected call dated exactly twelve months ago. (It used to be a gap of nine months, between his birthday and the holiday season, but that fell by the wayside; a concession to I'd prefer it if you stopped calling.)
He should. Stop calling.
It rings, and hits voicemail. The recorded playback is a cheery, male voice, vowels flattened by the same dialect Bruce only rarely exhibits. The sound of it would not reach anyone else's ears, but, well. Circumstances are what they are. You've reached Richard Grayson! Who is using this name now to avoid having a voicemail box that sounds like you misdialed and got a phone sex line. Tell me all your secrets and I'll get back to you!
'It's me.' (He knows who it is. He hasn't blocked Bruce's number, though he could. Maybe that's a sign.) 'I'm sure you heard... well, maybe not. I don't know what you talk about. Alfred's in England, and I'm in Kansas. Not snowed in at Wichita airport or anything, either. It's...' (Silence.) 'You'd like it. There's a dog.' (More silence.) 'Happy Christmas.'
Click.
Happy, not merry, because he was raised by an Englishman. Whatever. Bruce lets out a breath and tosses his phone on his bag, desultory. Parent of the fucking year. He did not speak loudly, not wanting to disrupt Martha - and he did not take the call outside, knowing that if Clark wanted to eavesdrop, he could do so from a solar-system away. Does he care if the younger man listened in? ... He's not sure.
There's no tell-tale sound of shifting weight or ungainly footsteps to alert him to anyone's nearness, but Bruce turns his head to look at the closed door anyway, almost expectant. Ninja senses, perhaps.
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The homework itself does not fit what he knows, now, of either Batman or Bruce Wayne.
Silence, then. Go back to bed. Clark imagines doing that, lying awake, stiflingly conscious of Bruce also lying awake. A Christmas nightmare.
He gently brushes his knuckles against the door, a tap to announce his presence before his hand goes to the door handle, easing his way inside when he's not immediately told to go away. Shorts and T-shirt make up his pyjamas, all loose on him, all nondescript. He does, in fact, own some of his own merch in pyjama form, in jokey and adorable, and he's left it in Metropolis, thank god.
"I heard you not sleeping," is his explanation, that easy, midwestern blend of amused and apologetic at the same time.
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