This ends a bit abruptly, but oh man, I'm so tired, and I have a busy weekend ahead of me :(((( To be continued!
------
Clark had sat awake most of the night, and doesn’t recall ever actually falling asleep – though he realises that he must have done, because he definitely wakes up, with a jerk that sends pain spiraling though his chest and side. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why he’s surrounded by glass and polished concrete, instead of the cramped confines of either his apartment or the hotel room he’s been staying in.
He’s still getting used to the strange need to sleep – he gets tired, even in his usual form, but ten minutes or so in the sun and he feels recharged. Sleep had been optional. The first time he’d sunk into involuntary sleep had been strange – though not frightening. He’d watched Lois drift into sleep enough times that he knew what was happening, her breath deepening as he’d stroked his thumb across her forehead.
Clark draws in a quick, deep breath.
It’s the waking up Clark is struggling with – that moment of disorientation, the strange, sudden sensation of being dragged out of one world and into another.
And then there’s the fact that his head feels like sludge.
He blinks in the grey light, deciding that it must still be morning – if only just. Someone must be already awake, because there’s a stack of clean blankets sitting next to him on the couch that weren’t there yesterday, and the towel with the melted ice cubes Clark had placed on the coffee table last night has been cleared away.
Clark blinks, recalling suddenly the way Bruce had cleaned up his cuts – the way he’d told him his ribs wouldn’t be healed for weeks. He recalls the implication that, therefore, Bruce regularly moves and fights with similar injuries, before they’re anywhere close to better.
The dab of the disinfectant against his skin had hurt, but even so, Clark had recognised it for a cleansing, healing pain. And…
Clark swallows, but he forces himself to follow the thought to its conclusion.
… And it had been nice. Just to be touched. Even when it was out of medical necessity. It had been part of what had made him feel so lost during all those years of wandering, and… it’s been a while now, too.
Since anything. He knows he’s a tactile person. Lois had teased him about it, and it’s always just something he’s known about himself. He likes being warm. He’s sometimes watched the casual way Ted and Booster slap each other on the back, and has thought…
All right.
It doesn’t really matter what he’s thought.
Clark lips his lips. “Bruce?” he calls out, tentatively.
He’s not expecting an answer. The house just feels empty. He doesn’t need super senses to know it.
Clark isn’t sure whether his relief outweighs his disappointment at the confirmation, though. Bruce likes to believe he’s impenetrable, but Clark has known him quite some time now, and he can tell when he’s unhappy. Or not… unhappy. Not in the usual sense.
But even if he couldn’t tell, it’s not like Bruce’s obsessive love of isolation is some big secret. Clark understands what it cost Bruce to make this offer, and he appreciates it. But saying he appreciates it, or acknowledging that it must ruffle Bruce to have someone else in his house would only make it worse, and draw attention to Bruce’s discomfort. Clark sighs, wincing at the pain it causes in his ribs. He’d like to say thank you. But he knows the best thing he can do is just silently accept Bruce’s hospitality, and try to leave as little evidence of his presence here as possible.
He manages to stand on the second go. He feels stiff from sleeping sitting up, and his ribs, if anything, feel worse than they did yesterday.
Maybe he should get himself some breakfast.
At least the house itself is open plan, so he doesn't have to go hunting around, trying to find the kitchen. Everything there is as cold and precise as the rest of the house – almost like it’s a laboratory, rather than a kitchen. Clark has always associated kitchens with organized chaos – not that his mom ever allowed her kitchen to be dirty, but it was always filled with jars of lemonade, sprigs of herbs she’d picked and kept in bottles of water, and the cookbooks that’d been handed down through generations. Whenever Mom had been cooking there’d been flour everywhere, eggshells in the sink, bread rising on the counter.
There’s nothing of that here – Clark feels kind of like he’s looking at an empty shell of a kitchen, something that’s been put together for show.
Turning, he’s a little surprised when he sees there’s something out of place here after all – there’s a single piece of notepaper that’s been left on the black marble counter. Clark picks it up. Hope briefly flits through his chest that it’s from Bruce.
Mr. Kent –
Ahh, no, it’s from Alfred.
Mr. Kent –
It was thought that it would be best to allow you to sleep. When you require breakfast, please contact me via the intercom on the wall to your left.
- A.
Clark squints down at the note. It was thought, not Master Bruce thought, or Master Bruce wanted. It's the kind of indirect language he uses in articles when he's saying something without really saying it. It has been said in Washington circles that, or It has been questioned whether.
Usually that was followed by some unflattering suggestions about himself or the rest of the League. He’s asked Perry not to assign him these stories, but he can’t remember the last time Perry ever actually listened to him about anything to do with that.
Clark glances up at the intercom a moment – he doesn’t feel comfortable summoning Alfred from what he’s sure is his tremendously busy day elsewhere in the bowels of the Batcave. And he’s perfectly capable of making his own breakfast.
If he can find the fixings in Bruce’s strangely Escher-like kitchen.
Ignoring the pain in his side, Clark cautiously opens cupboards, finding most of them bare; though one contains a set of immaculately stacked crockery. It’s a start, at least, and Clark allows himself a groan of pain as he reaches up for a bowl.
Right. He has a bowl.
The morning is going great.
What kind of cereal would Bruce have in the house? Cheerios? Probably not. Froot Loops? No. Trix? Definitely not.
Clark amuses himself with his musings until he finally finds a singular box of Quaker oats on the bottom shelf of the pantry. It’s not exciting, but it’s healthy at least. But he’s going to have to find a saucepan if he wants to make oatmeal, and some salt and milk and –
“I thought I told you to buzz Alfred if you wanted something to eat.”
Clark spins around, jarring his ribs painfully at the sound of Bruce’s voice. He didn’t hear him come in; he knows Bruce is perfectly capable of moving as silently as the shadows, but it’s yet another reminder of just how muted his senses are right now.
“I know,” Clark says. “But I can make my own breakfast.”
Bruce doesn’t respond, he simply moves past Clark, reaching into the pantry to grab the oats. Bruce is wearing the suit he goes to work in – three piece, criminally expensive, a silk scarf draped around his neck. Clark catches a whiff of expensive aftershave, before Bruce turns away again.
“These have probably been here for at least ten years.”
“They haven’t been opened. And the box says use by next year. So…”
Bruce half-turns back to Clark, raising an eyebrow. Clark isn’t sure what meaning he’s supposed to infer from that, but he holds Bruce’s gaze nonetheless. So he might not be so comfortable with having Clark in his home, but dammit, he basically forced him to come here – interfered with his work to make it impossible for him to refuse, in fact – and Clark isn't about to let himself be intimidated when he’s here by invitation.
“Am I allowed to eat the oats?”
Bruce shrugs, putting them down on the counter. “Sure, if you want. But I’m going to have Alfred make me some French toast and coffee.”
Clark blinks, opening his mouth and then closing it again. “Haven't you eaten yet?”
“I don’t like eating in the mornings. I just have coffee.”
He opens a drawer and takes out a little foil pod of coffee; he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to call Alfred.
“Those aren’t recyclable, you know.”
“They are now.” Bruce shrugs, plucking the pod from Clark’s fingers. “At least, that’s what the scientists I pay to tell me these things tell me.”
Clark frowns. He can never decide what he thinks of this version of Bruce – the louche, playboy, saving the planet is great PR, you know version. He knows it’s not Bruce, even as it is. And this is what he finds most confusing about him, in many ways – everyone likes to say Batman lives in the shadows, but Clark sometimes wonders if they know just how right they are. Just when he thinks he’s starting to get Bruce pinned down, he moves, changing shape, and Clark realises that he has, once again, been left holding nothing.
“Have you iced your ribs yet this morning?”
Clark starts a little. “Uh, no.”
“You should go do that.”
Bruce’s eyes are on the bruise on his side, and Clark can see something approaching disdain in them.
“Okay,” he says, swallowing, as Bruce hands him a cup of ice.
Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Five
------
Clark had sat awake most of the night, and doesn’t recall ever actually falling asleep – though he realises that he must have done, because he definitely wakes up, with a jerk that sends pain spiraling though his chest and side. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why he’s surrounded by glass and polished concrete, instead of the cramped confines of either his apartment or the hotel room he’s been staying in.
He’s still getting used to the strange need to sleep – he gets tired, even in his usual form, but ten minutes or so in the sun and he feels recharged. Sleep had been optional. The first time he’d sunk into involuntary sleep had been strange – though not frightening. He’d watched Lois drift into sleep enough times that he knew what was happening, her breath deepening as he’d stroked his thumb across her forehead.
Clark draws in a quick, deep breath.
It’s the waking up Clark is struggling with – that moment of disorientation, the strange, sudden sensation of being dragged out of one world and into another.
And then there’s the fact that his head feels like sludge.
He blinks in the grey light, deciding that it must still be morning – if only just. Someone must be already awake, because there’s a stack of clean blankets sitting next to him on the couch that weren’t there yesterday, and the towel with the melted ice cubes Clark had placed on the coffee table last night has been cleared away.
Clark blinks, recalling suddenly the way Bruce had cleaned up his cuts – the way he’d told him his ribs wouldn’t be healed for weeks. He recalls the implication that, therefore, Bruce regularly moves and fights with similar injuries, before they’re anywhere close to better.
The dab of the disinfectant against his skin had hurt, but even so, Clark had recognised it for a cleansing, healing pain. And…
Clark swallows, but he forces himself to follow the thought to its conclusion.
… And it had been nice. Just to be touched. Even when it was out of medical necessity. It had been part of what had made him feel so lost during all those years of wandering, and… it’s been a while now, too.
Since anything. He knows he’s a tactile person. Lois had teased him about it, and it’s always just something he’s known about himself. He likes being warm. He’s sometimes watched the casual way Ted and Booster slap each other on the back, and has thought…
All right.
It doesn’t really matter what he’s thought.
Clark lips his lips. “Bruce?” he calls out, tentatively.
He’s not expecting an answer. The house just feels empty. He doesn’t need super senses to know it.
Clark isn’t sure whether his relief outweighs his disappointment at the confirmation, though. Bruce likes to believe he’s impenetrable, but Clark has known him quite some time now, and he can tell when he’s unhappy. Or not… unhappy. Not in the usual sense.
But even if he couldn’t tell, it’s not like Bruce’s obsessive love of isolation is some big secret. Clark understands what it cost Bruce to make this offer, and he appreciates it. But saying he appreciates it, or acknowledging that it must ruffle Bruce to have someone else in his house would only make it worse, and draw attention to Bruce’s discomfort. Clark sighs, wincing at the pain it causes in his ribs. He’d like to say thank you. But he knows the best thing he can do is just silently accept Bruce’s hospitality, and try to leave as little evidence of his presence here as possible.
He manages to stand on the second go. He feels stiff from sleeping sitting up, and his ribs, if anything, feel worse than they did yesterday.
Maybe he should get himself some breakfast.
At least the house itself is open plan, so he doesn't have to go hunting around, trying to find the kitchen. Everything there is as cold and precise as the rest of the house – almost like it’s a laboratory, rather than a kitchen. Clark has always associated kitchens with organized chaos – not that his mom ever allowed her kitchen to be dirty, but it was always filled with jars of lemonade, sprigs of herbs she’d picked and kept in bottles of water, and the cookbooks that’d been handed down through generations. Whenever Mom had been cooking there’d been flour everywhere, eggshells in the sink, bread rising on the counter.
There’s nothing of that here – Clark feels kind of like he’s looking at an empty shell of a kitchen, something that’s been put together for show.
Turning, he’s a little surprised when he sees there’s something out of place here after all – there’s a single piece of notepaper that’s been left on the black marble counter. Clark picks it up. Hope briefly flits through his chest that it’s from Bruce.
Mr. Kent –
Ahh, no, it’s from Alfred.
Mr. Kent –
It was thought that it would be best to allow you to sleep. When you require breakfast, please contact me via the intercom on the wall to your left.
- A.
Clark squints down at the note. It was thought, not Master Bruce thought, or Master Bruce wanted. It's the kind of indirect language he uses in articles when he's saying something without really saying it. It has been said in Washington circles that, or It has been questioned whether.
Usually that was followed by some unflattering suggestions about himself or the rest of the League. He’s asked Perry not to assign him these stories, but he can’t remember the last time Perry ever actually listened to him about anything to do with that.
Clark glances up at the intercom a moment – he doesn’t feel comfortable summoning Alfred from what he’s sure is his tremendously busy day elsewhere in the bowels of the Batcave. And he’s perfectly capable of making his own breakfast.
If he can find the fixings in Bruce’s strangely Escher-like kitchen.
Ignoring the pain in his side, Clark cautiously opens cupboards, finding most of them bare; though one contains a set of immaculately stacked crockery. It’s a start, at least, and Clark allows himself a groan of pain as he reaches up for a bowl.
Right. He has a bowl.
The morning is going great.
What kind of cereal would Bruce have in the house? Cheerios? Probably not. Froot Loops? No. Trix? Definitely not.
Clark amuses himself with his musings until he finally finds a singular box of Quaker oats on the bottom shelf of the pantry. It’s not exciting, but it’s healthy at least. But he’s going to have to find a saucepan if he wants to make oatmeal, and some salt and milk and –
“I thought I told you to buzz Alfred if you wanted something to eat.”
Clark spins around, jarring his ribs painfully at the sound of Bruce’s voice. He didn’t hear him come in; he knows Bruce is perfectly capable of moving as silently as the shadows, but it’s yet another reminder of just how muted his senses are right now.
“I know,” Clark says. “But I can make my own breakfast.”
Bruce doesn’t respond, he simply moves past Clark, reaching into the pantry to grab the oats. Bruce is wearing the suit he goes to work in – three piece, criminally expensive, a silk scarf draped around his neck. Clark catches a whiff of expensive aftershave, before Bruce turns away again.
“These have probably been here for at least ten years.”
“They haven’t been opened. And the box says use by next year. So…”
Bruce half-turns back to Clark, raising an eyebrow. Clark isn’t sure what meaning he’s supposed to infer from that, but he holds Bruce’s gaze nonetheless. So he might not be so comfortable with having Clark in his home, but dammit, he basically forced him to come here – interfered with his work to make it impossible for him to refuse, in fact – and Clark isn't about to let himself be intimidated when he’s here by invitation.
“Am I allowed to eat the oats?”
Bruce shrugs, putting them down on the counter. “Sure, if you want. But I’m going to have Alfred make me some French toast and coffee.”
Clark blinks, opening his mouth and then closing it again. “Haven't you eaten yet?”
“I don’t like eating in the mornings. I just have coffee.”
He opens a drawer and takes out a little foil pod of coffee; he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to call Alfred.
“Those aren’t recyclable, you know.”
“They are now.” Bruce shrugs, plucking the pod from Clark’s fingers. “At least, that’s what the scientists I pay to tell me these things tell me.”
Clark frowns. He can never decide what he thinks of this version of Bruce – the louche, playboy, saving the planet is great PR, you know version. He knows it’s not Bruce, even as it is. And this is what he finds most confusing about him, in many ways – everyone likes to say Batman lives in the shadows, but Clark sometimes wonders if they know just how right they are. Just when he thinks he’s starting to get Bruce pinned down, he moves, changing shape, and Clark realises that he has, once again, been left holding nothing.
“Have you iced your ribs yet this morning?”
Clark starts a little. “Uh, no.”
“You should go do that.”
Bruce’s eyes are on the bruise on his side, and Clark can see something approaching disdain in them.
“Okay,” he says, swallowing, as Bruce hands him a cup of ice.