If Clark was thinking they'd retire upstairs and maybe Bruce would sit and offer some curt half-explanation over one exclusive arabica blend or another, then he obviously hadn't thought about it hard enough. If there are going to be curt half-explanations, apparently they're going to come in the mezzanine, where Bruce can direct most of his attention to the impenetrable array of data on his screens instead of at Clark.
Alfred looks up to greet them with a nod, and returns to tinkering at one of the benches. Clark wonders why Bruce didn't just get him to buzz Clark down if he was here all along-- and then it kind of hits him side-on, that Bruce absolutely could have. Clark didn't realize what he was asking of him, to request unfettered access to the cave like that, but maybe he does now.
Either way, Bruce acquiesced. And it's rattled him. It's kind of fascinating and kind of awful.
Clark leans back against the desk. "So, who else knows the magic number?" he asks, even though he's already figured the answer. Maybe Bruce wasn't always this solitary, but he is now, if not by nature then by necessity.
(He thinks about the costume in its cold glass cage.)
"Just me. And Alfred." Bruce says, settling back into his chair. As if on cue, Alfred stations the soldering iron he was using and evacuates the area. Bruce exhales, long and steady as he clicks about on the screen. "And you."
Clark stops himself staring at his profile, the set of his mouth and the muscle tensing in his jaw. He's rearranged the floating windows on his desktop, opened and closed the same few folders a half-dozen times.
"I forced your hand," Clark says.
"I could easily have said no."
"You should change the passcode."
"Don't tell me what to do, Clark," Bruce says, before Clark has even properly finished his sentence. He turns towards Clark slightly, stops messing with the windows for a moment to flick a glance over him. "No. I made a decision. It was probably overdue." And then, with something halfway to levity, "don't make me regret it."
Clark grins at him. "I'll try to be respectful of your boundaries," he says. Easily done; he may have stumbled over them this afternoon, but usually they are firmly delineated and also approximately two feet thick, ten feet tall and constructed of steel-reinforced concrete. Not that Clark thinks Bruce has intimacy issues or anything.
"Heh."
"Possibly--" Clark is aware that he's about to push things back into super-awkward territory, but honestly, this is the best opening he's going to get for this. "Possibly more so than you are of mine."
Bruce's hand stills on the mouse. He looks sidelong at Clark. The frown pulling at his brow projects a vague confusion, but his shoulders have tensed. He knows exactly what Clark is talking about.
God, Clark thinks, and something flutters in his chest. You did, didn't you.
"It's my bed," Bruce says, defensive. He opens his mouth, and then apparently thinks better of whatever brute force dissembling he was going to attempt. He sighs, looks at his fingers arrayed over the keyboard. "I'll have Alfred change the sheets."
"No, it's fine," Clark says before he can catch himself--just knee-jerk politeness, that's all, a desire to not be any trouble, and he flushes immediately. Bruce stares at him, open speculation on his face while Clark flounders for a more appropriate response.
He's rescued by the reappearance of Alfred and a tray resplendent with mugs and a French press. Bruce is still watching him as he takes a cup, but then he turns to Alfred and says, "Apparently, Ollie found a CS-1036 on his streets."
"Did he now," Alfred says, attention on the mugs as he pours.
"Mm. It was an excellent presentation, though a little unfair on his guys. I don't think they knew they were trying to pitch me my own tech." Bruce takes a sip of his coffee as it is. Clark reaches for the cream.
"Mr. Queen does like his practical jokes."
"He likes to get a rise out of me."
"In this instance, I suspect he succeeded," Alfred says.
Bruce ignores him. "But that's one cryptographic sequencer accounted for. I want the rest before anyone figures out how to reverse-engineer them. Do you even like coffee?"
Clark pauses, sugar cube hovering. "Sure I do," he says, and drops it in with a plink. "Cryptographic sequencer?"
"Something I'm developing for field research," Bruce says.
"Field research," Clark says, managing the air quotes even with one hand wrapped around his mug.
"Don't do that," Bruce says, and pulls a schematic up on-screen. "It's a powerful decryption tool. I designed it to intercept broadcasts even on secure lines. One of the prototypes out there has significantly advanced hacking capabilities. It's imperative that they're all recovered."
Security and surveillance devices, the papers said. And then some, apparently. Clark leans in to take a closer look, not that he can make much of it. "They have RFID then, right?"
"Right," Bruce says. "But they're low-grade, the range is only a couple hundred meters. I've been sweeping Gotham for them, but they're designed to be portable. Needle, haystack."
Night after night for weeks. It would exasperate even the most patient man. "Is there any way I can help?"
"There's nothing you can do that I'm not already doing myself."
"But there are things I could do, if you weren't doing them?"
Alfred, apparently a subtle warning system, takes himself back upstairs. Bruce turns his attention back to his screens. "Just leave this to me, okay."
There's a frustration building that makes Clark want to press him on it, rally against his obstinacy, but things have been fraught today already. Sleeping dogs, for now. He nods, pushes off from the desk.
"Clark," Bruce says. He reaches out as if to grab Clark's wrist, then thinks better of it at the last second. "Earlier. I didn't--there was nothing untoward. Happening. I was just tired. But it was still ill-judged. I'm sorry."
"I could smell your cologne," Clark says. It comes out less like the humorous observation he intended, what with his heart kicking unexpectedly.
Bruce goes tight-lipped--Clark watches his throat work--then his expression sharpens abruptly, his eyes narrowing. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Uh, fine?"
"I wasn't wearing cologne," Bruce says. "But there might have been some on my tie from last time I wore it. How are you feeling."
Oh. Clark's eyes widen, and he thinks about how much easier it was to run this morning, ground flying under his feet--and things did seem a little crisper, a little more saturated even under Gotham's customarily overcast sky, and how he's just been buzzing with energy--
"Better," he says and it's almost unbearable, the relief bubbling up through him. It's still nothing like he should be or like he's used to, but he finds himself holding his breath and listening. If he can't hear the circuits firing in the computers or Alfred moving about upstairs or the steady drum of Bruce's heartbeat, he can almost sense them when he focuses, all the tiny elements tugging at the edge of his awareness. It's more than he's felt for months, and he has to sit back against the desk for a moment.
"Looks like you'll have to start pulling your punches," Bruce says.
*
Clark can't sleep, and he's pretty certain it's not because of the coffee. His heart is pounding hard enough to vibrate against the mattress and no matter what he does, whenever he closes his eyes all he can smell is Bruce--his cologne, the damn body wash (that's actually probably Clark but it doesn't help to think that, doesn't help at all), and under it all that specific marker everyone has of their own, the natural scent of skin and sweat, and this one is recognizably his.
Bruce had lain here and he hadn't touched himself, but Clark--Clark is starting to think that he might. And maybe he should have seen this coming because they have spent a lot of time together with a lot of physical contact, and sometimes he thinks Bruce forgets himself and flirts a little--and maybe Clark has been flirting back, a bit. Bruce is an attractive man, Clark can acknowledge that. The intimidating intelligence, the sharpness. And he's brutally handsome. Brutal in a lot of ways, but tempered with compassion, and--
He's down in the cave. If he comes back up, would Clark hear him in time?
He is an awful house guest. His hand twitches against his abdomen, pushes under his briefs so he can cup himself and squeeze. He focuses as best he can while he strokes himself, straining to hear any telltale footsteps, desperately choking back the noises caught in his throat. Is that Bruce's heartbeat he can hear, or just an echo of his own?
It doesn't take him long--not when he turns his face into the pillow and sucks in a deep breath. He manages to kick the sheets down at the last moment, fails to muffle the deep gasps that shake out of him as he comes over his stomach.
He stares up at the ceiling while his pulse winds down to something reasonable and his breathing evens out, and wonders, with gentle horror, how he's going to face Bruce tomorrow.
Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (8/?)
Alfred looks up to greet them with a nod, and returns to tinkering at one of the benches. Clark wonders why Bruce didn't just get him to buzz Clark down if he was here all along-- and then it kind of hits him side-on, that Bruce absolutely could have. Clark didn't realize what he was asking of him, to request unfettered access to the cave like that, but maybe he does now.
Either way, Bruce acquiesced. And it's rattled him. It's kind of fascinating and kind of awful.
Clark leans back against the desk. "So, who else knows the magic number?" he asks, even though he's already figured the answer. Maybe Bruce wasn't always this solitary, but he is now, if not by nature then by necessity.
(He thinks about the costume in its cold glass cage.)
"Just me. And Alfred." Bruce says, settling back into his chair. As if on cue, Alfred stations the soldering iron he was using and evacuates the area. Bruce exhales, long and steady as he clicks about on the screen. "And you."
Clark stops himself staring at his profile, the set of his mouth and the muscle tensing in his jaw. He's rearranged the floating windows on his desktop, opened and closed the same few folders a half-dozen times.
"I forced your hand," Clark says.
"I could easily have said no."
"You should change the passcode."
"Don't tell me what to do, Clark," Bruce says, before Clark has even properly finished his sentence. He turns towards Clark slightly, stops messing with the windows for a moment to flick a glance over him. "No. I made a decision. It was probably overdue." And then, with something halfway to levity, "don't make me regret it."
Clark grins at him. "I'll try to be respectful of your boundaries," he says. Easily done; he may have stumbled over them this afternoon, but usually they are firmly delineated and also approximately two feet thick, ten feet tall and constructed of steel-reinforced concrete. Not that Clark thinks Bruce has intimacy issues or anything.
"Heh."
"Possibly--" Clark is aware that he's about to push things back into super-awkward territory, but honestly, this is the best opening he's going to get for this. "Possibly more so than you are of mine."
Bruce's hand stills on the mouse. He looks sidelong at Clark. The frown pulling at his brow projects a vague confusion, but his shoulders have tensed. He knows exactly what Clark is talking about.
God, Clark thinks, and something flutters in his chest. You did, didn't you.
"It's my bed," Bruce says, defensive. He opens his mouth, and then apparently thinks better of whatever brute force dissembling he was going to attempt. He sighs, looks at his fingers arrayed over the keyboard. "I'll have Alfred change the sheets."
"No, it's fine," Clark says before he can catch himself--just knee-jerk politeness, that's all, a desire to not be any trouble, and he flushes immediately. Bruce stares at him, open speculation on his face while Clark flounders for a more appropriate response.
He's rescued by the reappearance of Alfred and a tray resplendent with mugs and a French press. Bruce is still watching him as he takes a cup, but then he turns to Alfred and says, "Apparently, Ollie found a CS-1036 on his streets."
"Did he now," Alfred says, attention on the mugs as he pours.
"Mm. It was an excellent presentation, though a little unfair on his guys. I don't think they knew they were trying to pitch me my own tech." Bruce takes a sip of his coffee as it is. Clark reaches for the cream.
"Mr. Queen does like his practical jokes."
"He likes to get a rise out of me."
"In this instance, I suspect he succeeded," Alfred says.
Bruce ignores him. "But that's one cryptographic sequencer accounted for. I want the rest before anyone figures out how to reverse-engineer them. Do you even like coffee?"
Clark pauses, sugar cube hovering. "Sure I do," he says, and drops it in with a plink. "Cryptographic sequencer?"
"Something I'm developing for field research," Bruce says.
"Field research," Clark says, managing the air quotes even with one hand wrapped around his mug.
"Don't do that," Bruce says, and pulls a schematic up on-screen. "It's a powerful decryption tool. I designed it to intercept broadcasts even on secure lines. One of the prototypes out there has significantly advanced hacking capabilities. It's imperative that they're all recovered."
Security and surveillance devices, the papers said. And then some, apparently. Clark leans in to take a closer look, not that he can make much of it. "They have RFID then, right?"
"Right," Bruce says. "But they're low-grade, the range is only a couple hundred meters. I've been sweeping Gotham for them, but they're designed to be portable. Needle, haystack."
Night after night for weeks. It would exasperate even the most patient man. "Is there any way I can help?"
"There's nothing you can do that I'm not already doing myself."
"But there are things I could do, if you weren't doing them?"
Alfred, apparently a subtle warning system, takes himself back upstairs. Bruce turns his attention back to his screens. "Just leave this to me, okay."
There's a frustration building that makes Clark want to press him on it, rally against his obstinacy, but things have been fraught today already. Sleeping dogs, for now. He nods, pushes off from the desk.
"Clark," Bruce says. He reaches out as if to grab Clark's wrist, then thinks better of it at the last second. "Earlier. I didn't--there was nothing untoward. Happening. I was just tired. But it was still ill-judged. I'm sorry."
"I could smell your cologne," Clark says. It comes out less like the humorous observation he intended, what with his heart kicking unexpectedly.
Bruce goes tight-lipped--Clark watches his throat work--then his expression sharpens abruptly, his eyes narrowing. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Uh, fine?"
"I wasn't wearing cologne," Bruce says. "But there might have been some on my tie from last time I wore it. How are you feeling."
Oh. Clark's eyes widen, and he thinks about how much easier it was to run this morning, ground flying under his feet--and things did seem a little crisper, a little more saturated even under Gotham's customarily overcast sky, and how he's just been buzzing with energy--
"Better," he says and it's almost unbearable, the relief bubbling up through him. It's still nothing like he should be or like he's used to, but he finds himself holding his breath and listening. If he can't hear the circuits firing in the computers or Alfred moving about upstairs or the steady drum of Bruce's heartbeat, he can almost sense them when he focuses, all the tiny elements tugging at the edge of his awareness. It's more than he's felt for months, and he has to sit back against the desk for a moment.
"Looks like you'll have to start pulling your punches," Bruce says.
*
Clark can't sleep, and he's pretty certain it's not because of the coffee. His heart is pounding hard enough to vibrate against the mattress and no matter what he does, whenever he closes his eyes all he can smell is Bruce--his cologne, the damn body wash (that's actually probably Clark but it doesn't help to think that, doesn't help at all), and under it all that specific marker everyone has of their own, the natural scent of skin and sweat, and this one is recognizably his.
Bruce had lain here and he hadn't touched himself, but Clark--Clark is starting to think that he might. And maybe he should have seen this coming because they have spent a lot of time together with a lot of physical contact, and sometimes he thinks Bruce forgets himself and flirts a little--and maybe Clark has been flirting back, a bit. Bruce is an attractive man, Clark can acknowledge that. The intimidating intelligence, the sharpness. And he's brutally handsome. Brutal in a lot of ways, but tempered with compassion, and--
He's down in the cave. If he comes back up, would Clark hear him in time?
He is an awful house guest. His hand twitches against his abdomen, pushes under his briefs so he can cup himself and squeeze. He focuses as best he can while he strokes himself, straining to hear any telltale footsteps, desperately choking back the noises caught in his throat. Is that Bruce's heartbeat he can hear, or just an echo of his own?
It doesn't take him long--not when he turns his face into the pillow and sucks in a deep breath. He manages to kick the sheets down at the last moment, fails to muffle the deep gasps that shake out of him as he comes over his stomach.
He stares up at the ceiling while his pulse winds down to something reasonable and his breathing evens out, and wonders, with gentle horror, how he's going to face Bruce tomorrow.
*