So I'm a sucker for pining, is the thing, and this fill is rapidly becoming more about my id than about the prompt. /o\ OOPS AGAIN. Also, I'm 200% fudging a) the layout of the Kent house (both this time and last time), because I couldn't find enough screenshots of the right things, and b) the architecture of the lake house, because I need it to have more rooms. Imagine with me, please and thank you!
When they're finished with dessert, Mom drags Clark back inside—"To help me wash up, like the loving son you are," she says, and then, chiding, "No, no, don't you dare, you're a guest," when Bruce starts to stand up too. "You sit, it's a lovely night. We'll only be a few minutes."
She has her own plate, and Clark takes Bruce's and follows her in. He feels like he should be talking, like on any other night he would be, but he can't come up with anything to say: the only thing in his head is the look on Bruce's face before Clark kissed him, the difference after.
Mom takes the plates from him and puts them in the sink. She turns the tap on, and Clark automatically reaches for where she keeps the dish soap, in the cabinet above the sink—but she doesn't get out the sponge. She turns and takes the soap out of his hands, and then she tilts her head and says, "Clark, sweetheart, what in the world are you doing?"
"What?"
She sets the soap down on the counter, crosses her arms, and raises her eyebrows.
"Wait, you—you know?" Clark says. "I didn't think you'd buy it, but then—"
"Oh, honey," Mom says, "it's not that it's hard to believe. But I know what you look like when you don't want your picture taken. You think I couldn't tell when you started letting them do it on purpose? And God knows Bruce wouldn't take up with you lightly—splashing it all over the papers like this, making a big production out of it." She shakes her head, sighing. "Of course I know."
"But," Clark says, still three or four steps behind, "you wanted Bruce to come over, you—"
"Well, sure I did," Mom agrees. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of that man since you came back, except on the TV. Seemed like my best chance, if I could get him to make it part of one of his Batman plans."
She really did get to know Bruce pretty well, Clark thinks.
"But yes, I know." She stops and looks at him silently for a moment, lips pursed. "Or I thought I did, until I found you two kissing on my back porch."
Clark flinches; he can't help it. And in the split second before he looks away, he sees Mom's face change, a flash of something a little too much like pity for comfort.
"Mom—"
"And I know you wouldn't do that just to try to fool me," Mom adds, soft.
Clark stares down at the countertop, frozen; and then he draws in a breath and closes his eyes. He lets himself stall, checking on Bruce with the hearing—but Bruce hasn't moved, is still sitting on the porch steps, and his heartbeat is steady, which Clark's guessing it wouldn't be if he could hear what they were saying. And that's not likely anyway, with the tap running. Which maybe is why Mom turned it on.
"No," he makes himself say. "I didn't—I didn't do it for that." He presses a hand against the countertop and swallows. "I don't know why I did it."
"Clark," Mom says gently, and then nothing else, until Clark opens his eyes again and looks at her.
She's looking right back, of course—fond and a little sad, a little wistful.
"In my experience," she says, "if you're kissing somebody for no reason? It's because you've got the best reason there is."
Clark stares at her. That's not—he isn't— He drags in a breath, much too unsteadily, and looks away from her, shakes his head and forces out about a quarter of a laugh. "No, that's—it's not that, Mom, I swear. I just let myself—I just got carried away. It's not like that."
"Clark—"
"I'll help you with the dishes, all right?" Clark interrupts. "And then we really should get going, it's—it's late."
He picks up the soap again, reaches past Mom to fish around in the sink for the sponge, and still doesn't meet her eyes; he's being rude, he's being so rude, but he doesn't think he can bear to talk about this one single second longer.
And maybe Mom can tell, because she doesn't scold him. She's quiet for a moment, behind him. And then she lays a gentle hand against his shoulderblade and says, "All right—all right."
She heads out into the dining room after, to collect the rest of the dishes they left on the table; Clark has time to close his eyes, to suck in a couple ragged breaths, and still manage a neutral expression once she comes back.
The flight back to Gotham is—it's fine. Clark stares out a window into the dark and tries to think about nothing, and he mostly succeeds. The jet's big enough that he doesn't have to even look at Bruce if he doesn't want to; and Bruce cooperates spectacularly by picking a seat on the opposite end of the plane and immediately pulling a gleaming laptop out from somewhere. Coming from Bruce, the conspicuous inattention is like a neon sign: I AM GIVING YOU SPACE. Possibly with a smaller sign underneath, AND ALSO MYSELF—Bruce thinks he knows what was going on when Clark kissed him on the porch, everything's fine there, but going back to see Mom for the first time since Clark turned up alive still obviously threw him for a loop.
Clark's almost feeling calm by the time they land. In a fragile, glassy kind of way, but he'll take it. And then—
Then they leave the jet, and get into one of Bruce's damn cars.
It's not like the car Bruce drove to Mom's house—it's a limo, and not a stretch, which means the furthest Clark can get from Bruce is a diagonal, opposite seats. Facing each other, in other words; not directly, but it's not like on the plane, Bruce the sound of breathing and an occasional shift of weight but otherwise as good as not there. This is—Bruce is in the corner of Clark's eye no matter where Clark looks. Inescapable.
And it's all too easy for Clark to find himself right back on that porch. It's Gotham streetlights shining on Bruce's face now, not Kansas stars, but somehow Clark doesn't want to touch him any less for it—
God, he needs to get a grip. The porch was good luck, he should be glad Bruce thinks he was just doing his share. He can't rely on something like that happening again, someone turning up just in time to make his stupid impulses look like reasoned decisions. And Bruce—Bruce must've gone along with it because he actually trusts Clark. He trusts Clark, at least a little bit, which means the last thing Clark should be thinking about is exactly how far Bruce might go; how far Clark could get, how much he could get away with, if he—oh, God—if he leaned in first, told Bruce someone was looking, and then—
"Stay the night."
Clark jerks in surprise, meets Bruce's eyes, and for a moment it's all twisted up in his head: Bruce isn't—Bruce can't possibly be saying he'll actually sleep with Clark just because it somehow might get noticed if he didn't—and if he is then Clark has to say no, has to (please, God, let him say no)—
"It's late," Bruce adds, conversational. "The dinner going well is less interesting than the dinner going badly, and we'd only go our separate ways at this hour if the dinner had gone badly. Besides, all the better for us if you're seen leaving Gotham in the morning now and then."
For a moment, Clark's not sure whether he's more horrified at himself or more abjectly grateful that Bruce isn't telepathic. "Do you—are you sure?" he says, once his voice starts working.
"Certainly," Bruce says. "One of the guestrooms will be fine, I've ensured that no one can get close enough to the lake house for an interior picture. And my car dropping you off at your apartment tomorrow will do wonders." And then, with a wry little smile, "Don't worry, Clark, your virtue's safe with me."
Which might be reassuring, Clark thinks distantly, except he's not sure he has any left to lose.
That's when Clark gives in.
The car rolls up to the lake house, and they get out. Clark looks at it—through it, and not even with the x-rays; he's never seen a place with so much plate glass—and thinks about being inside: in Bruce's house, Bruce's space, surrounded by Bruce's things, lying somewhere on another floor and helplessly listening to Bruce's heartbeat while he sleeps.
And that's it. He gives in. Bruce is still pretending—and Clark will keep pretending right next to him, for as long as Bruce decides they should spin this thing out, but he's not going to lie to himself. Even if he doesn't let himself name it, this thing he's feeling about Bruce is real, and it's not going to go away in a day or two, a week. It's not something he can scare off by telling himself Bruce is a jerk. And he has to acknowledge it. That's the only way he can keep a rein on it while they're doing this. He'll accept it, he'll get it under control, and whenever Bruce ends things, he'll—he'll walk away; and he'll live with it.
FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (12/?)
When they're finished with dessert, Mom drags Clark back inside—"To help me wash up, like the loving son you are," she says, and then, chiding, "No, no, don't you dare, you're a guest," when Bruce starts to stand up too. "You sit, it's a lovely night. We'll only be a few minutes."
She has her own plate, and Clark takes Bruce's and follows her in. He feels like he should be talking, like on any other night he would be, but he can't come up with anything to say: the only thing in his head is the look on Bruce's face before Clark kissed him, the difference after.
Mom takes the plates from him and puts them in the sink. She turns the tap on, and Clark automatically reaches for where she keeps the dish soap, in the cabinet above the sink—but she doesn't get out the sponge. She turns and takes the soap out of his hands, and then she tilts her head and says, "Clark, sweetheart, what in the world are you doing?"
"What?"
She sets the soap down on the counter, crosses her arms, and raises her eyebrows.
"Wait, you—you know?" Clark says. "I didn't think you'd buy it, but then—"
"Oh, honey," Mom says, "it's not that it's hard to believe. But I know what you look like when you don't want your picture taken. You think I couldn't tell when you started letting them do it on purpose? And God knows Bruce wouldn't take up with you lightly—splashing it all over the papers like this, making a big production out of it." She shakes her head, sighing. "Of course I know."
"But," Clark says, still three or four steps behind, "you wanted Bruce to come over, you—"
"Well, sure I did," Mom agrees. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of that man since you came back, except on the TV. Seemed like my best chance, if I could get him to make it part of one of his Batman plans."
She really did get to know Bruce pretty well, Clark thinks.
"But yes, I know." She stops and looks at him silently for a moment, lips pursed. "Or I thought I did, until I found you two kissing on my back porch."
Clark flinches; he can't help it. And in the split second before he looks away, he sees Mom's face change, a flash of something a little too much like pity for comfort.
"Mom—"
"And I know you wouldn't do that just to try to fool me," Mom adds, soft.
Clark stares down at the countertop, frozen; and then he draws in a breath and closes his eyes. He lets himself stall, checking on Bruce with the hearing—but Bruce hasn't moved, is still sitting on the porch steps, and his heartbeat is steady, which Clark's guessing it wouldn't be if he could hear what they were saying. And that's not likely anyway, with the tap running. Which maybe is why Mom turned it on.
"No," he makes himself say. "I didn't—I didn't do it for that." He presses a hand against the countertop and swallows. "I don't know why I did it."
"Clark," Mom says gently, and then nothing else, until Clark opens his eyes again and looks at her.
She's looking right back, of course—fond and a little sad, a little wistful.
"In my experience," she says, "if you're kissing somebody for no reason? It's because you've got the best reason there is."
Clark stares at her. That's not—he isn't— He drags in a breath, much too unsteadily, and looks away from her, shakes his head and forces out about a quarter of a laugh. "No, that's—it's not that, Mom, I swear. I just let myself—I just got carried away. It's not like that."
"Clark—"
"I'll help you with the dishes, all right?" Clark interrupts. "And then we really should get going, it's—it's late."
He picks up the soap again, reaches past Mom to fish around in the sink for the sponge, and still doesn't meet her eyes; he's being rude, he's being so rude, but he doesn't think he can bear to talk about this one single second longer.
And maybe Mom can tell, because she doesn't scold him. She's quiet for a moment, behind him. And then she lays a gentle hand against his shoulderblade and says, "All right—all right."
She heads out into the dining room after, to collect the rest of the dishes they left on the table; Clark has time to close his eyes, to suck in a couple ragged breaths, and still manage a neutral expression once she comes back.
The flight back to Gotham is—it's fine. Clark stares out a window into the dark and tries to think about nothing, and he mostly succeeds. The jet's big enough that he doesn't have to even look at Bruce if he doesn't want to; and Bruce cooperates spectacularly by picking a seat on the opposite end of the plane and immediately pulling a gleaming laptop out from somewhere. Coming from Bruce, the conspicuous inattention is like a neon sign: I AM GIVING YOU SPACE. Possibly with a smaller sign underneath, AND ALSO MYSELF—Bruce thinks he knows what was going on when Clark kissed him on the porch, everything's fine there, but going back to see Mom for the first time since Clark turned up alive still obviously threw him for a loop.
Clark's almost feeling calm by the time they land. In a fragile, glassy kind of way, but he'll take it. And then—
Then they leave the jet, and get into one of Bruce's damn cars.
It's not like the car Bruce drove to Mom's house—it's a limo, and not a stretch, which means the furthest Clark can get from Bruce is a diagonal, opposite seats. Facing each other, in other words; not directly, but it's not like on the plane, Bruce the sound of breathing and an occasional shift of weight but otherwise as good as not there. This is—Bruce is in the corner of Clark's eye no matter where Clark looks. Inescapable.
And it's all too easy for Clark to find himself right back on that porch. It's Gotham streetlights shining on Bruce's face now, not Kansas stars, but somehow Clark doesn't want to touch him any less for it—
God, he needs to get a grip. The porch was good luck, he should be glad Bruce thinks he was just doing his share. He can't rely on something like that happening again, someone turning up just in time to make his stupid impulses look like reasoned decisions. And Bruce—Bruce must've gone along with it because he actually trusts Clark. He trusts Clark, at least a little bit, which means the last thing Clark should be thinking about is exactly how far Bruce might go; how far Clark could get, how much he could get away with, if he—oh, God—if he leaned in first, told Bruce someone was looking, and then—
"Stay the night."
Clark jerks in surprise, meets Bruce's eyes, and for a moment it's all twisted up in his head: Bruce isn't—Bruce can't possibly be saying he'll actually sleep with Clark just because it somehow might get noticed if he didn't—and if he is then Clark has to say no, has to (please, God, let him say no)—
"It's late," Bruce adds, conversational. "The dinner going well is less interesting than the dinner going badly, and we'd only go our separate ways at this hour if the dinner had gone badly. Besides, all the better for us if you're seen leaving Gotham in the morning now and then."
For a moment, Clark's not sure whether he's more horrified at himself or more abjectly grateful that Bruce isn't telepathic. "Do you—are you sure?" he says, once his voice starts working.
"Certainly," Bruce says. "One of the guestrooms will be fine, I've ensured that no one can get close enough to the lake house for an interior picture. And my car dropping you off at your apartment tomorrow will do wonders." And then, with a wry little smile, "Don't worry, Clark, your virtue's safe with me."
Which might be reassuring, Clark thinks distantly, except he's not sure he has any left to lose.
That's when Clark gives in.
The car rolls up to the lake house, and they get out. Clark looks at it—through it, and not even with the x-rays; he's never seen a place with so much plate glass—and thinks about being inside: in Bruce's house, Bruce's space, surrounded by Bruce's things, lying somewhere on another floor and helplessly listening to Bruce's heartbeat while he sleeps.
And that's it. He gives in. Bruce is still pretending—and Clark will keep pretending right next to him, for as long as Bruce decides they should spin this thing out, but he's not going to lie to himself. Even if he doesn't let himself name it, this thing he's feeling about Bruce is real, and it's not going to go away in a day or two, a week. It's not something he can scare off by telling himself Bruce is a jerk. And he has to acknowledge it. That's the only way he can keep a rein on it while they're doing this. He'll accept it, he'll get it under control, and whenever Bruce ends things, he'll—he'll walk away; and he'll live with it.
That'll have to be enough.