I feel like I have to apologise for this. BRUCE, PLS.
Waking up after drinking during the day goes like this: jolt yourself awake with your own snoring. Find it almost impossible to swallow, since your mouth is dryer than Kansas dirt at high noon. Crack one eye open and see your host and mentor on the bed next to you, back against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, doused in sunset as he reads a newspaper.
Clark groans and rolls over to bury his face into a pillow.
"Evenin'," Bruce says, and swats Clark across the shoulders with the paper. There's something off about his voice that Clark can't place until he talks some more. "Listen, I gotta bounce. I got a tip about a fella who knows a guy, says he can hook me up with some sweet new tech. Top of the line, state of the art, hotter'n a dame in daisy dukes."
Clark props himself up on an elbow and stares, trying to figure out why Bruce has suddenly acquired a Jersey accent--and why he's wearing a garish plaid shirt under an ill-fitting suit. He quickly reaches the only logical conclusion.
"Am I still drunk?" he asks.
"You tell me, sport." Bruce bounces off the bed and brushes himself off, straightens his lapels. He runs a hand over his hair. It's slicked flat, shiny and unctuous. "How do I look?"
Clark blinks at him slowly. He's even got a fake moustache. It makes him look sleazy as hell, every inch the uncle nobody wants to invite to Thanksgiving. "Like a used car salesman," he says, a little dazed. "Bruce, what--?"
"Who the hell is Bruce?" Bruce says, flattening his own name with a derisive drawl.
Who, indeed.
Just when Clark thought things couldn't get any more ridiculous, Bruce unfolds a pair of aviators and pushes them on his face, flicks a match out of his pocket and grips it between his teeth. He heads off with a loping gait. "And I'm outta here. Don't wait up, sweetheart."
Clark sits up, sheets crumpling around his waist. He knows his face must be almost comical with disbelief, but he can't seem to configure it into anything else. Bruce pauses in the doorway, slides his sunglasses down his nose and gives Clark a legitimate once-over, gaze dragging across his chest and stomach. Clark flushes despite himself.
"Nice," Bruce says, shoots him a pair of fingerguns and a wink, then turns on his heel and struts off, leaving Clark to wonder which one of them is having the mental breakdown.
*
By the time Clark's showered and raided the kitchen for coffee and breakfast--or supper as it may be, his body clock is inside-out--he's half convinced himself that he imagined the whole thing, an unanticipated interaction between alcohol and his physiology triggering some kind of bizarre hallucination.
Walking through the lingering cloud of Brut when he comes back through to the bedroom, however, cements it as an actual thing that actually happened to him.
"Wow," he says under his breath, and taps in the cave's access code.
*
He finds Alfred in the mezzanine, dismantling a grapnel gun atop a set of blueprints. He glances up and acknowledges Clark with a nod and a 'good evening', almost goes back to his work, but something in Clark's face obviously catches his attention. There's dry amusement in the set of his mouth. "By your look of confoundment, I presume you've met Mr. Malone," he says.
"Do I want to know?" Clark says, settling on the other side of the bench.
"Most assuredly not. Hmm." Alfred ratchets out a length of wire rope, examines a frayed section and then lets it snap back, ejects the whole reel. "Although, if you ever have a free weekend, his rap sheet is quite the read. Very lurid."
"You're right," Clark says, "I don't want to know."
Alfred chuckles. He selects a different reel of cable--made of a different material entirely, by the look--and slots it into the grapnel gun, lifts his glasses to squint as he feeds it through the levers and mechanisms. Clark watches him affix the claw with a deft series of knots then meld them with a touch from a soldering iron.
"He gets through a lot of gear, huh," Clark says.
"Gotham's brickwork tends to come off worse, as a rule, but yes. The cables have a very limited lifespan." Alfred drops his glasses back down onto his nose, screws the gun's casing back together, readies it. "I'm trying him on a different line this time, monomolecular wire. Much more lightweight without sacrificing tensile strength, less likely to fray, or to put grooves in the statuary. Of course, I anticipate getting my ear twisted until the Batman gets accustomed to the feel of it."
He says 'the Batman' like he's talking about a recalcitrant child. Clark grins. "You're not the average butler, are you, Alfred."
"I've had to adapt to very particular set of circumstances, Mr. Kent," Alfred says with an arch of one eyebrow.
"How long have you worked for him?" Clark asks.
"I didn't realize this was an interview," Alfred says. "No comment."
"It's not like I have a job anymore. I'm just curious."
"About me?" Alfred says, fixes Clark with a level stare. "Or about Master Bruce."
"Both of you," Clark says, after only a small pause.
Where Bruce is suspicious, Alfred is circumspect. "I've worked with him for a very long time," he says. "I've known him for even longer than that." He starts clearing off the workbench, folding up the schemata and returning his tools to their box.
"Are you really a butler?" Clark says.
"Not entirely," Alfred replies, "strictly speaking, I'm also a valet."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." Alfred smiles at him, small and firm, and Clark sees a reflection of Bruce's resolve in it. "You're asking if I have secrets. But you already know the answer to that. There's nobody on this Earth who doesn't have a secret, Clark."
"Definitely." Clark says. "But I only want to know one. Can you fight?"
*
"I admire your determination," Alfred says the third time he wipes the floor with him. "But you really are awfully predictable, Master Clark."
Sparring with Alfred is even more frustrating than sparring with Bruce, because Alfred apparently feels even less compunction at flooring him in the most efficient manner possible. Clark had anticipated someone closer to his own skill level--someone slower, at least, considering his age--but more fool him. He rolls to his feet once again, huffs out a sharp breath and raises his fists.
"Master Bruce has certainly schooled you in formality and technical aptitude, but I fear he's neglecting a most crucial component of your combat training." Alfred rolls up a shirtcuff where it's slid down his arm.
"What's that?" Clark says, last syllable cut short as he whips to the side, turns Alfred's strike into a glancing blow. He's fast and he's vicious. Clark hops back a step to regain his balance.
"Try hitting below the belt now and then," Alfred says, and lands a jab on Clark's ribs. Clark can feel the bruise already, blossoming around a raw-knuckled imprint. "And I mean that quite literally. All's fair in war and crime."
"You best not be teaching my boy to fight dirty." And there's Bruce, slouched against a steel abutment, still in his clownish getup. His real body language bleeds through as he walks over to them; shoulders squared, chin up. He tosses Alfred a sleek black device, all bevelled corners and matte finishing. "May I cut in?"
Alfred rolls his eyes, tears off Bruce's fake moustache with a brisk yank. To Bruce's credit, he only flinches a little. "Be my guest," Alfred says, retrieving his glasses from his vest pocket. "I'll get to analyzing this, shall I?"
"You're a star," Bruce says, lifting his sunglasses to wink at Alfred. He's practically oozing with synthetic gratitude.
"Oh, for crying out loud," Alfred mutters, and spares Clark a long glance that screams at him to get out while he can. He takes himself back up to the mezzanine.
Bruce waits until he's gone, then advances on Clark, fists up in a laughable I-Know-Kung-Fu pose.
"Okay," Clark says, and holds his hands up in surrender. "This is kind of freaking me out."
"It should," Bruce says, finally in his own voice instead of the nasal affectation. He relaxes his guard. "Awful, isn't he. But incredibly useful. I regained a sequencer, and there's a rumor that the Gotham National Bank is due an attempted robbery."
"Let me guess," Clark says. "They're going to hack the systems using some recently-obtained prototype technology."
Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (11/?)
Waking up after drinking during the day goes like this: jolt yourself awake with your own snoring. Find it almost impossible to swallow, since your mouth is dryer than Kansas dirt at high noon. Crack one eye open and see your host and mentor on the bed next to you, back against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, doused in sunset as he reads a newspaper.
Clark groans and rolls over to bury his face into a pillow.
"Evenin'," Bruce says, and swats Clark across the shoulders with the paper. There's something off about his voice that Clark can't place until he talks some more. "Listen, I gotta bounce. I got a tip about a fella who knows a guy, says he can hook me up with some sweet new tech. Top of the line, state of the art, hotter'n a dame in daisy dukes."
Clark props himself up on an elbow and stares, trying to figure out why Bruce has suddenly acquired a Jersey accent--and why he's wearing a garish plaid shirt under an ill-fitting suit. He quickly reaches the only logical conclusion.
"Am I still drunk?" he asks.
"You tell me, sport." Bruce bounces off the bed and brushes himself off, straightens his lapels. He runs a hand over his hair. It's slicked flat, shiny and unctuous. "How do I look?"
Clark blinks at him slowly. He's even got a fake moustache. It makes him look sleazy as hell, every inch the uncle nobody wants to invite to Thanksgiving. "Like a used car salesman," he says, a little dazed. "Bruce, what--?"
"Who the hell is Bruce?" Bruce says, flattening his own name with a derisive drawl.
Who, indeed.
Just when Clark thought things couldn't get any more ridiculous, Bruce unfolds a pair of aviators and pushes them on his face, flicks a match out of his pocket and grips it between his teeth. He heads off with a loping gait. "And I'm outta here. Don't wait up, sweetheart."
Clark sits up, sheets crumpling around his waist. He knows his face must be almost comical with disbelief, but he can't seem to configure it into anything else. Bruce pauses in the doorway, slides his sunglasses down his nose and gives Clark a legitimate once-over, gaze dragging across his chest and stomach. Clark flushes despite himself.
"Nice," Bruce says, shoots him a pair of fingerguns and a wink, then turns on his heel and struts off, leaving Clark to wonder which one of them is having the mental breakdown.
*
By the time Clark's showered and raided the kitchen for coffee and breakfast--or supper as it may be, his body clock is inside-out--he's half convinced himself that he imagined the whole thing, an unanticipated interaction between alcohol and his physiology triggering some kind of bizarre hallucination.
Walking through the lingering cloud of Brut when he comes back through to the bedroom, however, cements it as an actual thing that actually happened to him.
"Wow," he says under his breath, and taps in the cave's access code.
*
He finds Alfred in the mezzanine, dismantling a grapnel gun atop a set of blueprints. He glances up and acknowledges Clark with a nod and a 'good evening', almost goes back to his work, but something in Clark's face obviously catches his attention. There's dry amusement in the set of his mouth. "By your look of confoundment, I presume you've met Mr. Malone," he says.
"Do I want to know?" Clark says, settling on the other side of the bench.
"Most assuredly not. Hmm." Alfred ratchets out a length of wire rope, examines a frayed section and then lets it snap back, ejects the whole reel. "Although, if you ever have a free weekend, his rap sheet is quite the read. Very lurid."
"You're right," Clark says, "I don't want to know."
Alfred chuckles. He selects a different reel of cable--made of a different material entirely, by the look--and slots it into the grapnel gun, lifts his glasses to squint as he feeds it through the levers and mechanisms. Clark watches him affix the claw with a deft series of knots then meld them with a touch from a soldering iron.
"He gets through a lot of gear, huh," Clark says.
"Gotham's brickwork tends to come off worse, as a rule, but yes. The cables have a very limited lifespan." Alfred drops his glasses back down onto his nose, screws the gun's casing back together, readies it. "I'm trying him on a different line this time, monomolecular wire. Much more lightweight without sacrificing tensile strength, less likely to fray, or to put grooves in the statuary. Of course, I anticipate getting my ear twisted until the Batman gets accustomed to the feel of it."
He says 'the Batman' like he's talking about a recalcitrant child. Clark grins. "You're not the average butler, are you, Alfred."
"I've had to adapt to very particular set of circumstances, Mr. Kent," Alfred says with an arch of one eyebrow.
"How long have you worked for him?" Clark asks.
"I didn't realize this was an interview," Alfred says. "No comment."
"It's not like I have a job anymore. I'm just curious."
"About me?" Alfred says, fixes Clark with a level stare. "Or about Master Bruce."
"Both of you," Clark says, after only a small pause.
Where Bruce is suspicious, Alfred is circumspect. "I've worked with him for a very long time," he says. "I've known him for even longer than that." He starts clearing off the workbench, folding up the schemata and returning his tools to their box.
"Are you really a butler?" Clark says.
"Not entirely," Alfred replies, "strictly speaking, I'm also a valet."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." Alfred smiles at him, small and firm, and Clark sees a reflection of Bruce's resolve in it. "You're asking if I have secrets. But you already know the answer to that. There's nobody on this Earth who doesn't have a secret, Clark."
"Definitely." Clark says. "But I only want to know one. Can you fight?"
*
"I admire your determination," Alfred says the third time he wipes the floor with him. "But you really are awfully predictable, Master Clark."
Sparring with Alfred is even more frustrating than sparring with Bruce, because Alfred apparently feels even less compunction at flooring him in the most efficient manner possible. Clark had anticipated someone closer to his own skill level--someone slower, at least, considering his age--but more fool him. He rolls to his feet once again, huffs out a sharp breath and raises his fists.
"Master Bruce has certainly schooled you in formality and technical aptitude, but I fear he's neglecting a most crucial component of your combat training." Alfred rolls up a shirtcuff where it's slid down his arm.
"What's that?" Clark says, last syllable cut short as he whips to the side, turns Alfred's strike into a glancing blow. He's fast and he's vicious. Clark hops back a step to regain his balance.
"Try hitting below the belt now and then," Alfred says, and lands a jab on Clark's ribs. Clark can feel the bruise already, blossoming around a raw-knuckled imprint. "And I mean that quite literally. All's fair in war and crime."
"You best not be teaching my boy to fight dirty." And there's Bruce, slouched against a steel abutment, still in his clownish getup. His real body language bleeds through as he walks over to them; shoulders squared, chin up. He tosses Alfred a sleek black device, all bevelled corners and matte finishing. "May I cut in?"
Alfred rolls his eyes, tears off Bruce's fake moustache with a brisk yank. To Bruce's credit, he only flinches a little. "Be my guest," Alfred says, retrieving his glasses from his vest pocket. "I'll get to analyzing this, shall I?"
"You're a star," Bruce says, lifting his sunglasses to wink at Alfred. He's practically oozing with synthetic gratitude.
"Oh, for crying out loud," Alfred mutters, and spares Clark a long glance that screams at him to get out while he can. He takes himself back up to the mezzanine.
Bruce waits until he's gone, then advances on Clark, fists up in a laughable I-Know-Kung-Fu pose.
"Okay," Clark says, and holds his hands up in surrender. "This is kind of freaking me out."
"It should," Bruce says, finally in his own voice instead of the nasal affectation. He relaxes his guard. "Awful, isn't he. But incredibly useful. I regained a sequencer, and there's a rumor that the Gotham National Bank is due an attempted robbery."
"Let me guess," Clark says. "They're going to hack the systems using some recently-obtained prototype technology."
"Exactamundo, kemo sabe," Bruce says.
*