"Because I'm not sleeping." Obviously. What a dumb question, Superman, gosh. There's a long moment (it feels long) during which the smooth and complicated gears in Bruce's head whir, and his conflicted brooding is nearly tangible.
Bruce is going to leave. He's going to get up, and walk out the door, lock it behind him, and Clark isn't going to stop him. He'll be disappointed, but they'll move forward, stilted and awkward for a while but it'll be fine. He's not going to pull his shoes off and walk the few feet to the bed, he's not going to crawl onto it. He's not. That's not what's happening.
Clark was still only about half awake, with his curls all over the place and his eyes fluttering between closed and open, but he still managed such a happy little smile as he felt the extra weight on the bed and Bruce's scent enters his nose warm and close. He doesn't throw an arm over him, but he does curl up against him with a happy sigh.
"Mmmthank you for the bird."
The little origami bird. He'd liked it. It was stuck carefully on the fridge under a magnet by one wing, seemingly flying past the white metal door.
This is not what I meant to do he tries to say, but it somehow comes out as: "Go to sleep."
Because it is what he meant to do. It's what he wanted to do. He feels a twist of a knife in his gut at how dishonest he feels, but a selfish part of him thrills at Clark gravitating towards him. He's so screwed.
Bruce lets himself settle where he is, on top of the covers, clothes still on, one side of him pressed against Clark. It's fine. He tells himself he's not going to actually sleep, just wait until Clark's under and leave again. Apparently this is the night for everything betraying his worse instincts, though, because Bruce doesn't stay and leave. He falls asleep.
He finally makes a noise of agreement before curling up against him and dropping off the rest of the way again. Come morning, though, Bruce would probably wake up to a thoughtful and awake Clark who seemed content to stay in bed for the moment, lounging idly in whatever sunlight there was like a cat.
Bruce is as easy to wake from sleep as Clark is - what he lacks in alien-gifted abilities he makes up for in paranoia and experience, an uncanny sixth sense that does a thousand things it shouldn't do. In an instant he's completely awake and mentally present, taking in his situation without moving or opening his eyes. Once he remembers where he is (berates himself for it), his brain promptly checks out again.
"Nnlighoff," he says, against whatever's against his face-- which feels like a rock with a warm covering, so that must be Clark's shoulder. Bruce twists downward and drags a pillow over his head.
Clark couldn't turn off the sun, certainly wouldn't want to even if he could, but he can turn his body to shield poor Bruce against the rays of the ever-encroaching sun. He's careful not to shift Bruce too much since he knows what a light sleeper he is, but once he's done, the terrible wicked sunlight isn't hitting Bruce much at all, and none near his face.
Good. Ugh. He tucks himself the tiniest bit closer, towards warmth and comforting sensations and away from sunlight, offering Clark the least surprising tabloid headline in the entire world. Bruce Wayne, Not A Morning Person. He dozes for another while, not really needing the sleep but hating the actual process of getting up-- but soon enough, he reminds himself that he is not actually supposed to be doing this. When he rouses and blinks a bit, he only looks at Clark for a short moment before his glance evades him, almost like he feels guilty for being here.
The headline Clark would use, in the tiny newspaper inside his head, is 'Bruce Wayne: Most Adorable Thing When Fussy and Half Awake' which is generally why Lois and Perry do the headlines.
For his part, Clark looks happy to see him. He hasn't touched him other than what contact Bruce has initiated, sleeping or awake, but he can't help the slightly doofy smile on his face at the sight of Bruce in bed beside him.
"You sleep all right?" he asks automatically, starting just as automatically to reach out before looping the gesture in an attempt to straighten his own hair.
Bruce is staring abstractly downward, trying to uncoil from his hedgehog-like defensiveness about being conscious while at the same time trying to convince himself to get up and leave. He doesn't want to leave, he wants to grab Clark and curl up with him and
Bruce abruptly rises and faces away from him, on the edge of the bed. He runs one hand through his hair, noting that he's still fully dressed and probably somewhat gross from sleeping that way. He sits there with his elbows on his knees, not saying anything.
Eventually: "That's the ugliest plant, you couldn't get a ficus?"
On the windowsill in the center, there's some kind of ferny green thing with silver protrusions. Bruce swears it looks bigger than it did when he noticed it last night, too, must be pretty fast-growing. Clark should chuck it before it develops mold. Bruce rubs his face, knowing his voice is rough with sleep.
Clark's lips had pressed down to a hard line, frustrated and sad in turns, before Bruce says something about the plant. Then he blinks and peers around Bruce to see what he might be talking about.
"Unless I'm hallucinating again," he deadpans, and surely he didn't mean to say again, so he plows forward and hopes Clark doesn't register it, "but I'm sure I saw it last night, too."
"I definitely didn't purchase it," he answers as he shifts around and slips out of bed. Thankfully, Clark sleeps in his boxers (or he put them on so fast that Bruce wouldn't know the difference) so as he walks around to take a look at the plant, Bruce can at least know he isn't seeing anything inappropriate. Clark, for his part, doesn't seem to care about wandering around in just his boxers with Bruce in the apartment. The man's seen him in less, after all. And it wasn't like they were doing anything inappropriate.
...what the hell is even appropriate? He doesn't know. He'd been good with the sleeping in the bed together, after all. It'd been nice. He could do with more of that.
"...I think it's some sort of mistletoe?"
Edited (adding things that disappeared!) 2015-12-03 17:19 (UTC)
Magically appearing festive plant growth in his apartment with no knowledge from either of them about how it got there. He thinks about Ivy, then quickly suppressed that thought.
He holds up a hand and steps between the plant and Bruce.
"That... may not be wise. Especially if it's magical."
...that's the one downside to this place. Random magic. Lots of random magic, and all of it totally normal to the people here.
"They used to burn mistletoe as part of a fertility ritual." And neither of them wanted to go there. Neither. of. them. "Not to mention that it might be something that's required for something while we're here. We don't know the ways of this place yet, so destroying something is not our best plan."
Oh. Clark's standing between him and the plant. In his underwear. Bruce raises his gaze, slower than is probably appropriate, to look at his face. Yeah, he's seen Clark in less. Hell, he's touched Clark in less, but it's always been in a clinical, usually life-or-death medical or scientific emergency way. Or just breezing by fully clothed to yell at someone in the locker rooms, with Clark's presence as collateral damage.
"You have to remove it, then," he says calmly.
Clark probably picked up on his heartrate trip there. Fffffffuck.
He picked up on it. And he has no idea why it might have happened if it wasn't for the speed at which Bruce's eyes moved. Oh. Oh. ...oh. Clark might be a little pink at the apple of his cheeks.
"I'll put it on the roof," he offers, "that way it's close but it's not here."
And he leans over to grab the potted plant, slow at first from the faint awkwardness before realizing what that did when it came to practical visuals, before both he and the plant disappear.
"Can't you use glo-- hell, Kansas." Did you want a batgrowl this early? Well you get one.
Bruce stands and stretches, runs his hands through his hair again. He caught that blush. Ugh. This is terrible. He should have left. He should have left hours ago, he shouldn't have even shown up. He should just dump Clark's key into the harbor, but it's not like he would have needed one, is it?
Whatever. If Clark's fighting Poison Ivy on the rooftop in just his shorts right now, it's what he gets. Bruce is going to use his shower. And his towels. Knowing Clark is lacking x-ray vision makes this feel like punishment. Good.
He'll always take a batgrowl. They're either deeply amusing or incredibly hot.
By the time that Bruce comes out of the bathroom, it should be noted that 1. Clark is back and he is dressed in an older pair of well-worn jeans and a t-shirt, 2. he is staring at the ceiling just above the entrance to his kitchen which has 3. a sprig of the strange plant that he'd just put up on the roof and which 4. also seems to be just above Bruce's head as he exits the bathroom.
He glances over as Bruce comes out, blushes a little because Bruce is under the mistletoe and points.
He doesn't take long-- doesn't even use all of Clark's hot water, which is uncharacteristically nice of him. (He has reasons not to linger. He's not sixteen. Fuck's sake.) Bruce reemerges dressed in the same clothes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair still damp. He immediately looks up, and frowns.
"What is it?" How does he still sound this tired, also. "Do you have coffee?" Oh.
Clark can't help the little grin at the idea of kissing Bruce under some mistletoe. The best he can do is press his lips together again but the curl is still at the corners of his mouth and the softness is in his eyes. After a moment, though, he gets the question.
"I can make some coffee. I bought some the other day. Needed it for the steak."
Which had been one of the tupperware meals. Clark wasn't hiding the fact that he was putting them there. He just hadn't signed the notes. It wasn't necessary.
He grunts an approval at that. He can probably function without coffee, but he doesn't feel like trying. Bruce wanders closer to the kitchenette, bleary still, if physically refreshed. (He used Clark's toothbrush, too. These are the sacrifices we make with friends like Bruce Wayne.)
Absently, he picks up the invitation on the counter. He'd received one, too, but had tossed in the the garbage without going through it. Like hell is he going to some cocktail party after he's finally rid himself of that life. Having nothing else to do at present but glare at a plant, he opens it, and starts reading.
Slow breath in and out. Serenely, Bruce sets the pamphlet down on the counter, then pushes it over and slides it off the edge and into the trash. Maybe Clark just won't notice.
He notices, because with a clean, wet-haired Bruce Wayne in his apartment full of mistletoe, he is hyper aware of what Bruce is doing. But he generally trusts Bruce's calls, so he just lets it go. If it was important, Bruce would tell him. Instead, he goes to the 'fridge and starts pulling things out.
"How do omelettes and a citrus fruit salad sound?" he offers as he looks through.
"Hn." ... Probably fine. He's not going to function until he's processed coffee, which he takes over obtaining since Clark is moving towards real food. Bruce sips and shoots a look over to the lurking plant. If Clark is paying attention he might notice it curiously resembles a look he's given the likes of Guy Gardner, ie, I'm thinking about eviscerating you and feeding you your own entrails because the thought relaxes me. Well, maybe not exactly that. Plants don't have entrails.
Edited (oh my god how many times can i edit) 2015-12-03 20:18 (UTC)
Clark can't help raising an eyebrow at the murderous glare that Bruce is sending at the plant. Really. What is his problem? It's a plant. It's slightly annoying but it's not causing any harm that he can see. He'd feel ill if the thing was actually exerting any magical influence him, almost certainly, but so far it just seemed to want to hang out in his apartment.
"I'm not going to kiss you unless you want me to, Bruce. Mistletoe's a tradition, not a requirement of honor."
Spinach and mushroom omelette with a bit of feta. That sounds good. He starts chopping.
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And there's more shifting, more reaching and finally, a wobbly Clark pushes himself up on one arm.
"Why're you onna couch?"
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Bruce is going to leave. He's going to get up, and walk out the door, lock it behind him, and Clark isn't going to stop him. He'll be disappointed, but they'll move forward, stilted and awkward for a while but it'll be fine. He's not going to pull his shoes off and walk the few feet to the bed, he's not going to crawl onto it. He's not. That's not what's happening.
So why
is he laying down on his stomach next to Clark.
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"Mmmthank you for the bird."
The little origami bird. He'd liked it. It was stuck carefully on the fridge under a magnet by one wing, seemingly flying past the white metal door.
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Because it is what he meant to do. It's what he wanted to do. He feels a twist of a knife in his gut at how dishonest he feels, but a selfish part of him thrills at Clark gravitating towards him. He's so screwed.
Bruce lets himself settle where he is, on top of the covers, clothes still on, one side of him pressed against Clark. It's fine. He tells himself he's not going to actually sleep, just wait until Clark's under and leave again. Apparently this is the night for everything betraying his worse instincts, though, because Bruce doesn't stay and leave. He falls asleep.
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"Nnlighoff," he says, against whatever's against his face-- which feels like a rock with a warm covering, so that must be Clark's shoulder. Bruce twists downward and drags a pillow over his head.
Yes, please, turn the sun off.
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For his part, Clark looks happy to see him. He hasn't touched him other than what contact Bruce has initiated, sleeping or awake, but he can't help the slightly doofy smile on his face at the sight of Bruce in bed beside him.
"You sleep all right?" he asks automatically, starting just as automatically to reach out before looping the gesture in an attempt to straighten his own hair.
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Bruce abruptly rises and faces away from him, on the edge of the bed. He runs one hand through his hair, noting that he's still fully dressed and probably somewhat gross from sleeping that way. He sits there with his elbows on his knees, not saying anything.
Eventually: "That's the ugliest plant, you couldn't get a ficus?"
On the windowsill in the center, there's some kind of ferny green thing with silver protrusions. Bruce swears it looks bigger than it did when he noticed it last night, too, must be pretty fast-growing. Clark should chuck it before it develops mold. Bruce rubs his face, knowing his voice is rough with sleep.
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"...I don't have a plant."
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It's right there. They're both looking at it.
"Unless I'm hallucinating again," he deadpans, and surely he didn't mean to say again, so he plows forward and hopes Clark doesn't register it, "but I'm sure I saw it last night, too."
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...what the hell is even appropriate? He doesn't know. He'd been good with the sleeping in the bed together, after all. It'd been nice. He could do with more of that.
"...I think it's some sort of mistletoe?"
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Magically appearing festive plant growth in his apartment with no knowledge from either of them about how it got there. He thinks about Ivy, then quickly suppressed that thought.
"I'm burning it."
it's an appropriate icon
"That... may not be wise. Especially if it's magical."
...that's the one downside to this place. Random magic. Lots of random magic, and all of it totally normal to the people here.
"They used to burn mistletoe as part of a fertility ritual." And neither of them wanted to go there. Neither. of. them. "Not to mention that it might be something that's required for something while we're here. We don't know the ways of this place yet, so destroying something is not our best plan."
Beat.
"I don't think."
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"You have to remove it, then," he says calmly.
Clark probably picked up on his heartrate trip there. Fffffffuck.
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"I'll put it on the roof," he offers, "that way it's close but it's not here."
And he leans over to grab the potted plant, slow at first from the faint awkwardness before realizing what that did when it came to practical visuals, before both he and the plant disappear.
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Bruce stands and stretches, runs his hands through his hair again. He caught that blush. Ugh. This is terrible. He should have left. He should have left hours ago, he shouldn't have even shown up. He should just dump Clark's key into the harbor, but it's not like he would have needed one, is it?
Whatever. If Clark's fighting Poison Ivy on the rooftop in just his shorts right now, it's what he gets. Bruce is going to use his shower. And his towels. Knowing Clark is lacking x-ray vision makes this feel like punishment. Good.
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He'll always take a batgrowl. They're either deeply amusing or incredibly hot.By the time that Bruce comes out of the bathroom, it should be noted that 1. Clark is back and he is dressed in an older pair of well-worn jeans and a t-shirt, 2. he is staring at the ceiling just above the entrance to his kitchen which has 3. a sprig of the strange plant that he'd just put up on the roof and which 4. also seems to be just above Bruce's head as he exits the bathroom.
He glances over as Bruce comes out, blushes a little because Bruce is under the mistletoe and points.
"I don't think it wants to leave."
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"What is it?" How does he still sound this tired, also. "Do you have coffee?" Oh.
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"I can make some coffee. I bought some the other day. Needed it for the steak."
Which had been one of the tupperware meals. Clark wasn't hiding the fact that he was putting them there. He just hadn't signed the notes. It wasn't necessary.
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Absently, he picks up the invitation on the counter. He'd received one, too, but had tossed in the the garbage without going through it. Like hell is he going to some cocktail party after he's finally rid himself of that life. Having nothing else to do at present but glare at a plant, he opens it, and starts reading.
Slow breath in and out. Serenely, Bruce sets the pamphlet down on the counter, then pushes it over and slides it off the edge and into the trash. Maybe Clark just won't notice.
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"How do omelettes and a citrus fruit salad sound?" he offers as he looks through.
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"I'm not going to kiss you unless you want me to, Bruce. Mistletoe's a tradition, not a requirement of honor."
Spinach and mushroom omelette with a bit of feta. That sounds good. He starts chopping.
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