Humans don't have the senses that Kryptonians do. Bruce can't use supersenses to determine where Clark is, what his heart rate is doing, and make a guess about his state of patience based on his breathing. But humans don't have the resources Batman does. So, from afar, he checks in on Gotham's crime forecast, monitors his contacts (in Bludhaven, where his son doesn't know for sure but assumes the old man watches him, in Old Town, where Selina won't speak to him, on the east side, where Kate is as effective as he can be). He checks the observation devices he left in Clark and Lois's apartment. His mother's farmhouse.
There's no response to the text. Clark will be able to tell when Bruce is nearby, getting out of a cab and making the short trek down half a block (traffic; it was quicker to just get out and walk around the corner), and wait by the main door of the building to help a young woman struggling to get into her home with her groceries. He's quiet an unassuming about it, which is the way to go when you're a strange, six-foot-four man approaching a lady out of nowhere. He politely stands away from her unit door holding haphazardly packed bags.
Too keenly aware for his own good, Clark has positioned himself at the other end of the apartment so that he isn't just standing at the door like a weirdo. He listens, with affection, to the sound of Bruce navigating both his building and his neighbours, sitting on the windowsill and managing his own expectations.
The kind of thing you should only do when you want to be pleasantly surprised.
For example: Bruce knocks.
On the other side of the door, Bruce will hear earth-bound footfalls crossing in a deliberate line from one corner of a reasonably priced floorplan to the other. The lock turning, the handle twisting, and the door opened-- enough inches for Clark to peer through, reveal a fraction of a stupid smile, before it opens the rest of the way.
"You don't do things by halves, do you."
There's an ease to the way Clark speaks and smiles that could come across as-- well, easy. But then there's the earnest crease at his brow, the too-direct eye contact, the way he holds himself, signals that transmit something higher key beneath it all. Intensities that most would not attribute to Smallville.
Defined eyebrows knit, quirk upward, a silent, sassy, Have you never met me before?
Maybe there's a part of Bruce that still feels a certain way about an alien with godlike powers trampling towards him with a determined stride, even if that omnipowerful alien is taking the time to delicately unlock and open a door he could turn to dust with a nudge of a finger. But what is that way, now? It's not fear. It's something else. Some small, jolt of his pulse likes it, likes the incredible power wrapped up in labrador harmlessness. Likes the fact that Clark could kill him easier than breathing, and doesn't.
Likes that Clark is alive.
He moves, stepping forward into the midwestern nerd's personal space and pushing him back into the apartment - one of those things Clark'll have to play along with, despite Bruce's stature cutting a literally looming figure over him - and stopping, far enough in to offer a slim cut of privacy despite the open door.
Alright, he doesn't say. He leans forward, down, and kisses him.
Clark plays along in a way where it isn't as much a pretense as it should seem. Socialised to be deferential and Bruce has the unique distinction of being a bigger dude than he is and he steps back as psychology overrides sense. He might have turned off to show him inside as hospitality protocols kicked in, live and ready, if not for Bruce's silence.
And then nearness, and a kiss that Clark is prepared to receive.
His hands hover then lay flat at Bruce's waist, entering that easy state that rides some fine line between peace and prickling of senses. A smile keeps insisting itself, though, cutting sharp across his face, and he reaches past Bruce enough to shepherd the door closed with his fingertips, dovetailed into shepherding the other man inside with one hand at his waist and a few coaxing steps backwards, unwilling to give up proximity after Bruce came all this way.
When the door closes, its with a firmer slam than intended.
He thinks for the millionth time, I don't know how to do this, but for once, he takes that thought in hand and cripples it. The kiss he gives Clark doesn't speak of his uncertainties; it says I'm going to learn.
Clark's worth it. They're worth it. He has to believe it - and he does, since he's here.
"Shut up," Bruce says against him, not startling at the abrupt door closing. That fucking smile, he means. Shut up with your face. One hand moves higher, confident and demanding to splay along his throat and jaw, bullying Clark into a posture that lets Bruce kiss him more and deeper and a little possessive.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
There's no response to the text. Clark will be able to tell when Bruce is nearby, getting out of a cab and making the short trek down half a block (traffic; it was quicker to just get out and walk around the corner), and wait by the main door of the building to help a young woman struggling to get into her home with her groceries. He's quiet an unassuming about it, which is the way to go when you're a strange, six-foot-four man approaching a lady out of nowhere. He politely stands away from her unit door holding haphazardly packed bags.
Anyway.
Knock knock.
no subject
The kind of thing you should only do when you want to be pleasantly surprised.
For example: Bruce knocks.
On the other side of the door, Bruce will hear earth-bound footfalls crossing in a deliberate line from one corner of a reasonably priced floorplan to the other. The lock turning, the handle twisting, and the door opened-- enough inches for Clark to peer through, reveal a fraction of a stupid smile, before it opens the rest of the way.
"You don't do things by halves, do you."
There's an ease to the way Clark speaks and smiles that could come across as-- well, easy. But then there's the earnest crease at his brow, the too-direct eye contact, the way he holds himself, signals that transmit something higher key beneath it all. Intensities that most would not attribute to Smallville.
no subject
Maybe there's a part of Bruce that still feels a certain way about an alien with godlike powers trampling towards him with a determined stride, even if that omnipowerful alien is taking the time to delicately unlock and open a door he could turn to dust with a nudge of a finger. But what is that way, now? It's not fear. It's something else. Some small, jolt of his pulse likes it, likes the incredible power wrapped up in labrador harmlessness. Likes the fact that Clark could kill him easier than breathing, and doesn't.
Likes that Clark is alive.
He moves, stepping forward into the midwestern nerd's personal space and pushing him back into the apartment - one of those things Clark'll have to play along with, despite Bruce's stature cutting a literally looming figure over him - and stopping, far enough in to offer a slim cut of privacy despite the open door.
Alright, he doesn't say. He leans forward, down, and kisses him.
all icons are icon terrorism
And then nearness, and a kiss that Clark is prepared to receive.
His hands hover then lay flat at Bruce's waist, entering that easy state that rides some fine line between peace and prickling of senses. A smile keeps insisting itself, though, cutting sharp across his face, and he reaches past Bruce enough to shepherd the door closed with his fingertips, dovetailed into shepherding the other man inside with one hand at his waist and a few coaxing steps backwards, unwilling to give up proximity after Bruce came all this way.
When the door closes, its with a firmer slam than intended.
what a stupid face
Clark's worth it. They're worth it. He has to believe it - and he does, since he's here.
"Shut up," Bruce says against him, not startling at the abrupt door closing. That fucking smile, he means. Shut up with your face. One hand moves higher, confident and demanding to splay along his throat and jaw, bullying Clark into a posture that lets Bruce kiss him more and deeper and a little possessive.
A little apologetic, too.