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.
His gaze cuts back to Clark, undiluted in its lack of filter this early.
"It's not mistletoe. It's a spontaneously-appearing thing. And besides, it's not your self control I'd be worried about if it was." That last part is grumbled, but he doesn't even consider trying to muffle it. It is what it is.
Bruce slipped into his apartment in the dead of night and crawled into bed with him. Subtle, it was not.
"And if you did kiss me," Clark said matter-of-factly, "the biggest effect it'd have on anything is to give me a smile."
He doesn't know what it would make Bruce feel, which is why he's not about to kiss him (again). At least if Bruce kisses him, he knows that, however complicated the mess of emotions around it, Bruce wants to be kissing him.
Pan out, a quick dollop of butter in the pan, swirled around as it melted.
"Though you've got one in reserves, considering. I kissed you the last time."
Grumbles more. Coffee. Bruce doesn't know what he wants to do-- no, that's not accurate. He knows what he wants to do, and he knows what he should do, and they're on opposite paths. This is him dithering, which is unlike him to the extreme, but he hasn't ever been in a situation like this before. Nothing in his extensive history can lend any experience to draw from, and the person he'd usually go to as a sounding board is off limits, as that person is Clark.
He sets the cup down and rubs between his eyes, the bridge of his nose. Headache already this early, fantastic.
There was a split second temptation to put on a frown, possibly even a sad face. He decided against it, especially since he had scrambled eggs to add to the pan.
"Someone has to provide a counterbalance to all the grump," he pointed out with a soft snort. But he saw the rubbing.
"Won't help," he says, and then a long exhale, the kind that's for expulsion in meditation. Bruce finishes his coffee and roots around to make more.
"I had to get something looked at." It's risky, saying this; Clark could find his anonymous network post, which has the potential be alarming coming from him. "I went through-- an incident. At home."
What is he even saying. Bruce falls quiet, focusing on coffee and trying to sort it out.
Clark simply nods, listening. He's found, and not just with Bruce, that occasionally leaving people to talk will have them talking to themselves and the information one can glean from such a discussion, while more wild and erratically spread, could be more useful than directed questioning. But he turns to look at Bruce, because he does want him to talk.
Bruce doesn't want to talk. At all. He would like to not be in this position-- he feels like a coward wishing the incident with the Joker hadn't happened, so does that mean he has to wish Clark hadn't opened this pandora's box? Yeah, sort of. That doesn't make him feel great either, though, and there's only feelings now. Problems he can carefully unlock or punch to death are a distant fantasy.
"I don't know what to do," he admits after a while. It's hard for him to say it.
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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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"It's not mistletoe. It's a spontaneously-appearing thing. And besides, it's not your self control I'd be worried about if it was." That last part is grumbled, but he doesn't even consider trying to muffle it. It is what it is.
Bruce slipped into his apartment in the dead of night and crawled into bed with him. Subtle, it was not.
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He doesn't know what it would make Bruce feel, which is why he's not about to kiss him (again). At least if Bruce kisses him, he knows that, however complicated the mess of emotions around it, Bruce wants to be kissing him.
Pan out, a quick dollop of butter in the pan, swirled around as it melted.
"Though you've got one in reserves, considering. I kissed you the last time."
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"You smile too much as it is."
Grumbles more. Coffee. Bruce doesn't know what he wants to do-- no, that's not accurate. He knows what he wants to do, and he knows what he should do, and they're on opposite paths. This is him dithering, which is unlike him to the extreme, but he hasn't ever been in a situation like this before. Nothing in his extensive history can lend any experience to draw from, and the person he'd usually go to as a sounding board is off limits, as that person is Clark.
He sets the cup down and rubs between his eyes, the bridge of his nose. Headache already this early, fantastic.
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"Someone has to provide a counterbalance to all the grump," he pointed out with a soft snort. But he saw the rubbing.
"There's aspirin in the medicine cabinet."
Which was purely there for Bruce.
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"I had to get something looked at." It's risky, saying this; Clark could find his anonymous network post, which has the potential be alarming coming from him. "I went through-- an incident. At home."
What is he even saying. Bruce falls quiet, focusing on coffee and trying to sort it out.
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Spinach now. The cheese crumbles.
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"I don't know what to do," he admits after a while. It's hard for him to say it.
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"Well," he ventures gently, "what do you feel are the options?"
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