We're nearly getting somewhere orz There is, in fact, more downstairs than there is up. Bruce slides back a veneered panel in the bedroom and taps a sequence into a digital pad, and what Clark thought was a wardrobe folds aside to reveal a utilitarian stairwell, complete with industrial-grade steel-tread staircase. A series of striplights flicker on, spilling their hard light into the bedroom.
It illuminates Bruce, standing there in full Batman regalia, sans cowl. It's one hell of a juxtaposition: Bruce Wayne's face above all that form-fitting armor, no trim three-piece suit to disguise the cut of his physique. It almost makes it harder to accept as reality, and Clark feels like he needs to touch the edge of the uniform where it contacts Bruce's neck, bridge the two identities with his fingertips.
He stops that train of thought as soon as he realizes it, stuffs both of his hands into his sweatpants pockets and covers by adopting an impressed expression--easily done, because he is kind of impressed, actually. "Very James Bond," he says. "Very Batman."
Bruce casts him a speculative look. Clark parries with the sunniest smile he can muster this side of dawn.
He's led down, then along a cavernous tunnel constructed from blocks of reinforced concrete, steel grating underfoot, all meticulously fabricated and borderline sterile until it dramatically cleaves into natural rock outcroppings. Bruce strides on ahead while Clark stops to stare up at the cavernous space, into the tenebrous pockets that the utilitarian uplighting can't quite chase away.
"Wow," he says, turning on the spot, squinting into the shadows. The dark is when he misses his enhanced eyesight the most; he can make out something indistinct fluttering in the gloom, but only barely. He takes a wild, wild guess at what it might be. "Are there actually bats up there?"
He hears Bruce's footfalls scuff to a halt. "It's possible," he says after a moment, cagily.
"Wow," Clark says again, under his breath, and picks up again at Bruce's impatient jerk of his head.
The rest of Bruce's lair has the same aesthetic, all glass-clad hard surfaces and severe angles that cling to the natural undulations of the cave walls, cantilevered steel beams supported by the unyielding bedrock. There's some kind of workshop up in the mezzanine, but apparently that's not part of the tour--and nor is the graffitied uniform entombed in a glass coffin at the foot of the stairs.
(Bruce must have to walk past it every time he comes down here, grief like a millstone around his neck; too heavy to carry easily, too huge to leave behind.
Clark wonders where the kryptonite spear is.)
They pass the Batmobile--battered and smeared with salty residue; when Clark flattens his palm on the hood, the metal is still warm--and Alfred, in a pair of grimy overalls, paging through screenfuls of diagnostics.
"I see you didn't manage to keep out of the bay this time," he says to Bruce.
"Not through lack of trying."
"I find that very hard to believe, sir." He swipes across his tablet screen. "I'm sending this to your desktop so you can read it later and think about what you've done."
"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce says with easy sincerity. "What would I do without you?"
Clark remembers now: the voice in Bruce's ear at Luthor's gala. He and Alfred are a team--one that's long been established, that much is obvious--and now Clark is going to be part of a team as well. He's blindsided by how keenly he wants it. The idea has tapped into a wellspring of longing he didn't realize was there.
(He wants to know Bruce like that, he thinks, watching him animated in conversation. He wants that kind of trust, to be allowed a measure of his burden.)
*
This bit of cave is apparently a gym, if the mats on the floor, the racks of weights and the punchbag are anything to go by. The sledgehammer and the tractor tire are more of a mystery, but Clark doesn't want to ask.
He stands in the center of the cavern, shoulders back, chin up. Bruce paces around him, looking him over like he's a prize mule at the state fair. Not for the first time, Clark wonders why his life persists in being quite so weird.
"You have good posture." Bruce unclips his cape as he circles, letting it crumple onto the floor. It drops like there are lead weights stitched into the hem. It's probably the case. "And you're in excellent physical shape."
"Thank you," Clark says, erring on the side of flattered.
"But you didn't work for it. Did you." It is unequivocally not a question. "You didn't sweat."
"I," Clark says, and there's no reason why he should feel ashamed of this, but he does anyway. "I didn't have to."
"Hm. This is going to be difficult." Bruce stops his pacing, brings himself into Clark's personal space. Clark hadn't really noticed that Bruce is a touch taller than him, but he's feeling it now.
"I didn't think it would be easy." Clark offers him a lopsided grin and a quirked eyebrow. "So, when do we stop the macho posturing and get down to business?"
Bruce smiles back at him, claps both his hands on Clark's shoulders in something that reads as camaraderie. That lasts approximately two seconds before Bruce presses his hip against Clark's, twists, and through some bullshit manipulation of physics, puts him flat on his back. It drives the air out of him like he's been slugged in the gut.
Bruce gets down on one knee, arm slung casually across his thigh. "I'm not just going to teach you how to win a fight, Clark. I have to teach you how to survive when you lose one. How to take a hit, how to fall. You need discipline and you need fearlessness. Never being afraid isn't the same as being brave."
"That sounds familiar." Clark sits up, runs a hand through his hair. Maybe not the best time to poke at this sore spot, but he can't help it. "What was it… 'only men are brave'?"
Clark expects Bruce to go blank or hard-eyed, but instead he grimaces, gives his head a small shake. "Not my finest moment."
Clark sees the guilt shadowing his face. "Apology accepted," he says gently, getting to his feet and offering Bruce a hand up--not that he needs it. Clark thrills a little when he accepts anyway.
Then he tries catching Bruce's calf with his own, attempts to pivot the man's weight on his hip and-- Bruce turns in his hold, slams him back down onto the mat and immediately pins him with a straddle, presses his wrists to the floor either side of his head.
"Amateur," Bruce growls, thighs tensed against Clark's flanks. Clark can feel his own pulse where Bruce's grip is tight on his wrists.
"Well," Clark says, a little breathless, trying not to laugh with it.
"Getting ahead of yourself. Points for trying, though."
Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (3/who the fuck knows)
There is, in fact, more downstairs than there is up. Bruce slides back a veneered panel in the bedroom and taps a sequence into a digital pad, and what Clark thought was a wardrobe folds aside to reveal a utilitarian stairwell, complete with industrial-grade steel-tread staircase. A series of striplights flicker on, spilling their hard light into the bedroom.
It illuminates Bruce, standing there in full Batman regalia, sans cowl. It's one hell of a juxtaposition: Bruce Wayne's face above all that form-fitting armor, no trim three-piece suit to disguise the cut of his physique. It almost makes it harder to accept as reality, and Clark feels like he needs to touch the edge of the uniform where it contacts Bruce's neck, bridge the two identities with his fingertips.
He stops that train of thought as soon as he realizes it, stuffs both of his hands into his sweatpants pockets and covers by adopting an impressed expression--easily done, because he is kind of impressed, actually. "Very James Bond," he says. "Very Batman."
Bruce casts him a speculative look. Clark parries with the sunniest smile he can muster this side of dawn.
He's led down, then along a cavernous tunnel constructed from blocks of reinforced concrete, steel grating underfoot, all meticulously fabricated and borderline sterile until it dramatically cleaves into natural rock outcroppings. Bruce strides on ahead while Clark stops to stare up at the cavernous space, into the tenebrous pockets that the utilitarian uplighting can't quite chase away.
"Wow," he says, turning on the spot, squinting into the shadows. The dark is when he misses his enhanced eyesight the most; he can make out something indistinct fluttering in the gloom, but only barely. He takes a wild, wild guess at what it might be. "Are there actually bats up there?"
He hears Bruce's footfalls scuff to a halt. "It's possible," he says after a moment, cagily.
"Wow," Clark says again, under his breath, and picks up again at Bruce's impatient jerk of his head.
The rest of Bruce's lair has the same aesthetic, all glass-clad hard surfaces and severe angles that cling to the natural undulations of the cave walls, cantilevered steel beams supported by the unyielding bedrock. There's some kind of workshop up in the mezzanine, but apparently that's not part of the tour--and nor is the graffitied uniform entombed in a glass coffin at the foot of the stairs.
(Bruce must have to walk past it every time he comes down here, grief like a millstone around his neck; too heavy to carry easily, too huge to leave behind.
Clark wonders where the kryptonite spear is.)
They pass the Batmobile--battered and smeared with salty residue; when Clark flattens his palm on the hood, the metal is still warm--and Alfred, in a pair of grimy overalls, paging through screenfuls of diagnostics.
"I see you didn't manage to keep out of the bay this time," he says to Bruce.
"Not through lack of trying."
"I find that very hard to believe, sir." He swipes across his tablet screen. "I'm sending this to your desktop so you can read it later and think about what you've done."
"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce says with easy sincerity. "What would I do without you?"
Clark remembers now: the voice in Bruce's ear at Luthor's gala. He and Alfred are a team--one that's long been established, that much is obvious--and now Clark is going to be part of a team as well. He's blindsided by how keenly he wants it. The idea has tapped into a wellspring of longing he didn't realize was there.
(He wants to know Bruce like that, he thinks, watching him animated in conversation. He wants that kind of trust, to be allowed a measure of his burden.)
*
This bit of cave is apparently a gym, if the mats on the floor, the racks of weights and the punchbag are anything to go by. The sledgehammer and the tractor tire are more of a mystery, but Clark doesn't want to ask.
He stands in the center of the cavern, shoulders back, chin up. Bruce paces around him, looking him over like he's a prize mule at the state fair. Not for the first time, Clark wonders why his life persists in being quite so weird.
"You have good posture." Bruce unclips his cape as he circles, letting it crumple onto the floor. It drops like there are lead weights stitched into the hem. It's probably the case. "And you're in excellent physical shape."
"Thank you," Clark says, erring on the side of flattered.
"But you didn't work for it. Did you." It is unequivocally not a question. "You didn't sweat."
"I," Clark says, and there's no reason why he should feel ashamed of this, but he does anyway. "I didn't have to."
"Hm. This is going to be difficult." Bruce stops his pacing, brings himself into Clark's personal space. Clark hadn't really noticed that Bruce is a touch taller than him, but he's feeling it now.
"I didn't think it would be easy." Clark offers him a lopsided grin and a quirked eyebrow. "So, when do we stop the macho posturing and get down to business?"
Bruce smiles back at him, claps both his hands on Clark's shoulders in something that reads as camaraderie. That lasts approximately two seconds before Bruce presses his hip against Clark's, twists, and through some bullshit manipulation of physics, puts him flat on his back. It drives the air out of him like he's been slugged in the gut.
Bruce gets down on one knee, arm slung casually across his thigh. "I'm not just going to teach you how to win a fight, Clark. I have to teach you how to survive when you lose one. How to take a hit, how to fall. You need discipline and you need fearlessness. Never being afraid isn't the same as being brave."
"That sounds familiar." Clark sits up, runs a hand through his hair. Maybe not the best time to poke at this sore spot, but he can't help it. "What was it… 'only men are brave'?"
Clark expects Bruce to go blank or hard-eyed, but instead he grimaces, gives his head a small shake. "Not my finest moment."
Clark sees the guilt shadowing his face. "Apology accepted," he says gently, getting to his feet and offering Bruce a hand up--not that he needs it. Clark thrills a little when he accepts anyway.
Then he tries catching Bruce's calf with his own, attempts to pivot the man's weight on his hip and-- Bruce turns in his hold, slams him back down onto the mat and immediately pins him with a straddle, presses his wrists to the floor either side of his head.
"Amateur," Bruce growls, thighs tensed against Clark's flanks. Clark can feel his own pulse where Bruce's grip is tight on his wrists.
"Well," Clark says, a little breathless, trying not to laugh with it.
"Getting ahead of yourself. Points for trying, though."
*