The lakehouse breeds a different kind of cabin fever to the farmhouse back home--it's all undirected energy now, instead of inertia and lassitude. Not boredom so much as the need to be doing something, a persistent innervation.
So Clark takes himself off for a run around the lake every day, first thing. Three kilometres, give or take, twelve minutes of crisp morning air and plenty of time for Bruce to get anything he might need from his bedroom. (This is their silently-agreed upon system now, after a couple of supremely awkward encounters.
And if Clark notices that Bruce sometimes transitions between living room and cave while Clark is sleeping, he doesn't feel the need to mention it.)
Today he is fleet, eating up the distance like it's nothing, like he's barely touching the ground, and when the lakehouse comes back into view on his return he can see the privacy glass is still frosted. He checks his watch--a good minute faster than this time last week. He is getting better, and quickly.
He paces onto the deck as he catches his breath. The glass remains opaque, so he swings his arms across his chest, over his head, stretches in a cooldown. It seems natural to extend that into practice--tai chi feels most appropriate, what with the breeze rippling across the lake and pushing into the trees, the distant scatter of birdsong. Part the wild horse's mane. White crane spreads its wings.
The glass clears abruptly--Clark can almost hear it, a sharp tick right on the edge of his perception, the staticky shift of an interrupted electrical current. He catches Bruce watching him in his periphery, a dark suit behind the mirror sheen of the windows, mingled with the reflections of the rustling trees.
Brush knee and step forward. Slow, calm, his heartbeat steadying. He hears the door to the lakehouse open and then close again, the creak of the deck. He turns, and can tell immediately that Bruce is already halfway in character: the semi-amused raise of his eyebrows is there, the edge of a smirk. Not a board meeting this morning, then.
"Who are you schmoozing with today?" Clark asks.
"Not your business." Bruce cups his palm under Clark's elbow, encouraging him to lift it slightly. Clark resists, makes him press a touch harder. He's found that he's inclined to a little mischief when Bruce is being snippy with him. Not that it ever helps. "Clark," Bruce says, stern, and circles his wrist instead.
Clark grins insolently at him and deliberately lets his other shoulder drop. Of course, Bruce immediately tries to adjust his posture, one hand on his biceps--he can't seem to help himself, Clark's noticed. He tries to keep a straight face. It takes Bruce a second, then he gives a long-suffering shake of his head, lets his hands fall away.
"You're ridiculous," he says, over the gravel crunch of a cab approaching. He adjusts his jacket, straightens his cuffs, and then Bruce Wayne is in full effect. "We can dance later," he says, and pats Clark on the cheek. "But first I have to go spill a couple martinis down myself."
"Drink some, too," Clark calls as he swaggers away. "Give me a fighting chance!"
*
Clark kills an hour or so on the phone to his ma. She gives him the rundown on the latest news out of Smallville, which constitutes almost entirely of gossip, ("It's in the paper!" "Still gossip, mom,") asks him if he's remembering to floss, tells him she misses him. That leaves a hollow in his chest, and she hears it.
"Maybe you should come for a visit some weekend soon," she says. "I'll make cheesecake."
Clark smiles into his phone. "Thanks, mom. I'll run it by Bruce. See if he'll give me time off for good behavior."
"And how is Bruce?"
A bit less reserved since the chocolate cake incident, a little more receptive to Clark's goofing, but still distant, on the whole. Or detachedly friendly, like this morning, simmering under a pretense. To say he blows hot and cold is an understatement.
"He's Bruce," Clark says.
She laughs on the other end of the line. "He's welcome, too. Lord knows that man needs to learn how to take a break."
"Yeah, good luck with that," Clark says.
*
He takes a quick shower, uses one of the two identical bottles of body wash (thank, Alfred, Clark thinks, just great, just wonderful). In the bedroom he's toweling off his hair, when something catches his attention--the sheets on the bed, pulled taut and crisply folded while he was out.
Except there's a faint impression in the middle, just something in the way the sheets are slightly creased, like--
Clark drops the towel and leans over, a knee on the mattress. Bruce's cologne rises up to meet him. It's strong. He must have applied it just before lying here. Clark needs to swallow suddenly, finds it difficult. His breath is doing something weird in his chest, and the hair along his arms is prickling. Bruce was lying here while he was out running. Why?
Not your business, he hears Bruce say, and maybe it's not a contact he's meeting. Not a business partner. Maybe it's a date. And he had to blow off some steam beforehand.
Clark steps back from the bed, and god, why is he--
His face is hot; he feels like he needs to work off some nervous energy himself. The mats down in the cave are appealing right now--something to throw himself onto with as much force as necessary. He slides back the veneer panel that conceals the entrance and the security panel blinks to life, the glowing green display demanding credentials.
On the nightstand, Clark's phone buzzes.
[1:17] Bruce: Stop snooping.
Clark hesitates a moment.
[1:18] Clark: I'm not
[1:19] Clark: Can I use the gym?
[1:19] Clark: I'm kind of bored
There's no immediate response. Clark wanders into the kitchen and draws a glass of water, drains it in a long swallow. His phone vibrates in his pocket. The message is an excessively long hashcode.
[1:24] Bruce: There's decryption software on my laptop.
Clark pads into the living room, flips the laptop open and wakes it up. A blinking cursor stares back at him.
[1:25] Clark: Your laptop needs a password
If he had his super-hearing, Clark is certain he would be able to hear Bruce sighing. Possibly his eyes rolling, too.
[1:27] Bruce: Clark, I'm in a meeting.
[1:27] Clark: No you're not :^)
[1:28] Bruce: Don't emoticon at me.
Another long pause. Clark paces in a circuit around the living room.
[1:32] Bruce: 1047-27-5-39
[1:33] Bruce: Delete this message immediately.
[1:33] Bruce: In fact, delete this whole conversation.
[1:33] Bruce: And don't.
[1:33] Bruce: Touch.
[1:33] Bruce: Anything.
[1:34] Clark: Thanks, Bruce!! :^D
[1:39] Bruce: Clark. Please.
*
Clark's not sure how long he's down there. Long enough to work up a sweat on the punchbag; long enough to feel the ache in his arms and shoulders when he hits the mat, and for the tension in his gut to subside. He's got to feeling pretty zen, in fact--right up until Bruce gets home.
He comes down to the cave still in his suit, shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his shoes and lunges straight into Clark, knocks him on his ass like it's nothing.
"Uff," Clark says, hauling up into a ready stance. "Hi."
Bruce just throws him a feral grin and rolls up his shirtsleeves.
"Really? You're going to spar in a thousand dollar suit?"
"It's been that kind of day."
Clark sidesteps, circling carefully as Bruce does the same. "Your date didn't go well, then?"
"Date?" Bruce says, and Clark takes advantage of his surprise, darts in to land a point on him. Bruce grunts, casually deflects his next blow, brow drawn in a heavy frown. "I had wingtips in from Star City. R&D. No, I could have done without the interruptions."
"Did I make Bruce Wayne look unprofessional?" Clark asks, leaning back and dodging Bruce's fist by bare millimeters. Not a date, then. So why--?
Bruce grabs at Clark's t-shirt; the seams pull, threads giving way with a sharp crackle just on the edge of Clark's hearing. He can smell Bruce's breath, thick with alcohol. He's not drunk--his speed and coordination can attest to that--but he's not exactly sober, either. He seems to be on the edge of some anger or other.
"No," Bruce says, "you just--"
And just when Clark's ready to sweep at the back of his knees, collapse him down and push his wrists against the mat--Bruce drops his guard, stands up straight and sighs, rolls his shoulders. "Let's just--" he says, and pushes his hand through his hair. "Let's just have coffee tonight, okay."
Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (7/?)
So Clark takes himself off for a run around the lake every day, first thing. Three kilometres, give or take, twelve minutes of crisp morning air and plenty of time for Bruce to get anything he might need from his bedroom. (This is their silently-agreed upon system now, after a couple of supremely awkward encounters.
And if Clark notices that Bruce sometimes transitions between living room and cave while Clark is sleeping, he doesn't feel the need to mention it.)
Today he is fleet, eating up the distance like it's nothing, like he's barely touching the ground, and when the lakehouse comes back into view on his return he can see the privacy glass is still frosted. He checks his watch--a good minute faster than this time last week. He is getting better, and quickly.
He paces onto the deck as he catches his breath. The glass remains opaque, so he swings his arms across his chest, over his head, stretches in a cooldown. It seems natural to extend that into practice--tai chi feels most appropriate, what with the breeze rippling across the lake and pushing into the trees, the distant scatter of birdsong. Part the wild horse's mane. White crane spreads its wings.
The glass clears abruptly--Clark can almost hear it, a sharp tick right on the edge of his perception, the staticky shift of an interrupted electrical current. He catches Bruce watching him in his periphery, a dark suit behind the mirror sheen of the windows, mingled with the reflections of the rustling trees.
Brush knee and step forward. Slow, calm, his heartbeat steadying. He hears the door to the lakehouse open and then close again, the creak of the deck. He turns, and can tell immediately that Bruce is already halfway in character: the semi-amused raise of his eyebrows is there, the edge of a smirk. Not a board meeting this morning, then.
"Who are you schmoozing with today?" Clark asks.
"Not your business." Bruce cups his palm under Clark's elbow, encouraging him to lift it slightly. Clark resists, makes him press a touch harder. He's found that he's inclined to a little mischief when Bruce is being snippy with him. Not that it ever helps. "Clark," Bruce says, stern, and circles his wrist instead.
Clark grins insolently at him and deliberately lets his other shoulder drop. Of course, Bruce immediately tries to adjust his posture, one hand on his biceps--he can't seem to help himself, Clark's noticed. He tries to keep a straight face. It takes Bruce a second, then he gives a long-suffering shake of his head, lets his hands fall away.
"You're ridiculous," he says, over the gravel crunch of a cab approaching. He adjusts his jacket, straightens his cuffs, and then Bruce Wayne is in full effect. "We can dance later," he says, and pats Clark on the cheek. "But first I have to go spill a couple martinis down myself."
"Drink some, too," Clark calls as he swaggers away. "Give me a fighting chance!"
*
Clark kills an hour or so on the phone to his ma. She gives him the rundown on the latest news out of Smallville, which constitutes almost entirely of gossip, ("It's in the paper!" "Still gossip, mom,") asks him if he's remembering to floss, tells him she misses him. That leaves a hollow in his chest, and she hears it.
"Maybe you should come for a visit some weekend soon," she says. "I'll make cheesecake."
Clark smiles into his phone. "Thanks, mom. I'll run it by Bruce. See if he'll give me time off for good behavior."
"And how is Bruce?"
A bit less reserved since the chocolate cake incident, a little more receptive to Clark's goofing, but still distant, on the whole. Or detachedly friendly, like this morning, simmering under a pretense. To say he blows hot and cold is an understatement.
"He's Bruce," Clark says.
She laughs on the other end of the line. "He's welcome, too. Lord knows that man needs to learn how to take a break."
"Yeah, good luck with that," Clark says.
*
He takes a quick shower, uses one of the two identical bottles of body wash (thank, Alfred, Clark thinks, just great, just wonderful). In the bedroom he's toweling off his hair, when something catches his attention--the sheets on the bed, pulled taut and crisply folded while he was out.
Except there's a faint impression in the middle, just something in the way the sheets are slightly creased, like--
Clark drops the towel and leans over, a knee on the mattress. Bruce's cologne rises up to meet him. It's strong. He must have applied it just before lying here. Clark needs to swallow suddenly, finds it difficult. His breath is doing something weird in his chest, and the hair along his arms is prickling. Bruce was lying here while he was out running. Why?
Not your business, he hears Bruce say, and maybe it's not a contact he's meeting. Not a business partner. Maybe it's a date. And he had to blow off some steam beforehand.
Clark steps back from the bed, and god, why is he--
His face is hot; he feels like he needs to work off some nervous energy himself. The mats down in the cave are appealing right now--something to throw himself onto with as much force as necessary. He slides back the veneer panel that conceals the entrance and the security panel blinks to life, the glowing green display demanding credentials.
On the nightstand, Clark's phone buzzes.
[1:17] Bruce:Stop snooping.
Clark hesitates a moment.
[1:18] Clark:I'm not
[1:19] Clark:Can I use the gym?
[1:19] Clark:I'm kind of bored
There's no immediate response. Clark wanders into the kitchen and draws a glass of water, drains it in a long swallow. His phone vibrates in his pocket. The message is an excessively long hashcode.
[1:24] Bruce:There's decryption software on my laptop.
Clark pads into the living room, flips the laptop open and wakes it up. A blinking cursor stares back at him.
[1:25] Clark:Your laptop needs a password
If he had his super-hearing, Clark is certain he would be able to hear Bruce sighing. Possibly his eyes rolling, too.
[1:27] Bruce:Clark, I'm in a meeting.
[1:27] Clark:No you're not :^)
[1:28] Bruce:Don't emoticon at me.
Another long pause. Clark paces in a circuit around the living room.
[1:32] Bruce:1047-27-5-39
[1:33] Bruce:Delete this message immediately.
[1:33] Bruce:In fact, delete this whole conversation.
[1:33] Bruce:And don't.
[1:33] Bruce:Touch.
[1:33] Bruce:Anything.
[1:34] Clark:Thanks, Bruce!! :^D
[1:39] Bruce:Clark. Please.
*
Clark's not sure how long he's down there. Long enough to work up a sweat on the punchbag; long enough to feel the ache in his arms and shoulders when he hits the mat, and for the tension in his gut to subside. He's got to feeling pretty zen, in fact--right up until Bruce gets home.
He comes down to the cave still in his suit, shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his shoes and lunges straight into Clark, knocks him on his ass like it's nothing.
"Uff," Clark says, hauling up into a ready stance. "Hi."
Bruce just throws him a feral grin and rolls up his shirtsleeves.
"Really? You're going to spar in a thousand dollar suit?"
"It's been that kind of day."
Clark sidesteps, circling carefully as Bruce does the same. "Your date didn't go well, then?"
"Date?" Bruce says, and Clark takes advantage of his surprise, darts in to land a point on him. Bruce grunts, casually deflects his next blow, brow drawn in a heavy frown. "I had wingtips in from Star City. R&D. No, I could have done without the interruptions."
"Did I make Bruce Wayne look unprofessional?" Clark asks, leaning back and dodging Bruce's fist by bare millimeters. Not a date, then. So why--?
Bruce grabs at Clark's t-shirt; the seams pull, threads giving way with a sharp crackle just on the edge of Clark's hearing. He can smell Bruce's breath, thick with alcohol. He's not drunk--his speed and coordination can attest to that--but he's not exactly sober, either. He seems to be on the edge of some anger or other.
"No," Bruce says, "you just--"
And just when Clark's ready to sweep at the back of his knees, collapse him down and push his wrists against the mat--Bruce drops his guard, stands up straight and sighs, rolls his shoulders. "Let's just--" he says, and pushes his hand through his hair. "Let's just have coffee tonight, okay."
*