truth_and_justice

Clark can't help but smile when he finds the slip of paper. It's... Bruce. 100% Bruce. An absent thought goes to the writing he'd been doing, to the character and the story he'd written around the love of someone who anyone from home would recognize as Bruce in a heartbeat. And all he can think is that no matter how many words he uses, he'll never able to aptly describe the way the man can make him feel sometimes.

He considers the note, considers where it is, and carefully slides a magnet atop the tape. It's not something he wants moved. It's a little piece of Bruce in the apartment when he's technically alone, a little reminder that he's loved when he starts getting down on himself. Yes, he'll shift over to one side, where he can see it easily while cooking. But he'll definitely keep it up.

One does not discount gifts like that one, after all.

He doesn't need moral support to look for a new residence - and he suspects the other man is going to find some way to be gratingly cheerful about it - but this is what he's doing today. Asking You want to go? is perhaps unlike him, but easier than trying to contrive some other excuse for them to spend a few hours in each other's company while he's busy. What if they end up on a date? Oh, god.

Anyway. They're meeting at Bruce's apartment, and he times getting out of the shower a few minutes before Clark arrives. He's wearing a pair of leather - somethings? motorcycle or riding pants? (and nothing else) and toweling his hair off when the door opens.

He'd been about to announce his presence, since he'd just walked in using the key he had. He'd brought a couple more dishes (production had slowed a little since Bruce had gotten his blender, just down to a snack and a dinner per day since he was reasonably certain that Bruce would only have patience for a genuine meal about that much. He'd been about to do that, and put the food on the counter, and say words and many things and then there was a wet and still slightly dripping Bruce Wayne wearing leather pants walking out and Clark will never have trouble believing in karma again because there is literally no other reason why he can ever think of why he'd deserve this other than perhaps saving the world a couple of times.

Yes, a couple of times. If it'd only been once, Bruce would have been wearing a shirt. Or wouldn't have been wet. Bruce was wet. He could see every drop still working it's way over his skin and he was reasonably certain he couldn't actually concentrate on anything else because one of them was slowly making it's way down the center of his torso, the heavily-muscled trunk that'd been built and sculpted over a thousand nights and he has never in his life, in his entire life been so thirsty for a single drop of water but there he is.

Wanting to lick Batman is a very awkward place to be. Especially when you're probably supposed to be mentioning the food you'd brought and that you're ready to go look at apartments with him.

Bruce would like to point out that he definitely toweled off enough to put trousers on - but then, he doesn't have supersenses. Maybe residual shower humidity looks far more detailed to a Kryptonian. He scrubs the towel through his hair once more before giving the rest of himself a once-over and chucking it over the back of a barstool.

"Hi," he says, looking at that look. How interesting. He's got a list of things to work through and observe the reactions; he didn't expect one so immediately noticeable. Clark is staring at him as though he's about to blink across the tiny apartment and eat him.

"Still up for it?"

Apartment shopping. Are you up for apartment shopping.

The specific fantasy fluttering through his mind at the moment involves pinning him to the ceiling, peeling the leather off of him with his teeth, and sucking him off. It is only by the grace of Kryptonian processing that he 1. hears what Bruce says, 2. goes through the process of coming up with a response for it that matches what's going through his head instead of what's actually going on, 3. realizes that he's responding to what's going on in his head instead of what's going on, 4. listens to the words AGAIN in the context of actual current objective reality, and 5. comes up with a response like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He's got himself together. Really, he does. Just because he happens to use superspeed to accomplish it doesn't make it any less true.

"Of course," he says with a warm smile, his brain clearly returning to active mode, "and I brought over some dinner for later. Though of course, you're welcome to just leave it in the 'fridge if you wanted to grab something while we're out."

Bruce definitely doesn't have superspeed, but he can read the micro-est of microexpressions, and he catches what looks like the start of something, there. Not enough to bust him with any evidence, but it's still pleasing in its own way. He'll make a note of these particular parameters.

"We'll see how long it takes," he says. And then: "I forgot to do laundry. I need a second to see if I can find a real pair of pants." His last clean shirt is set out over one arm of the sofa, but everything else he owns is crammed into one basket that he's been oblivious to for a week. He's seriously the worst at this-- surely Alfred could have tried to instill some basic living skills in him. But no.

Clark looks over at the pile of laundry and actually winces, just a little.

"Do you know how to do laundry?" he asks, keeping his tone mild. Mostly because he knows the price of the clothes in that basket and the idea that he'd ruin any of it actually pains him. But he doesn't want to sound insulting. He doesn't know how to do the kind of advanced engineering that Bruce does, at least when it comes to Earth technology (which is a very different beast from Kryptonian). It's just... a skill.

"Yes." Bruce gives him a bit of a look, but it's not actually that offended. He's aware it's a perfectly legitimate possibility that he's never had cause to do laundry before. But he has, and has even worked a job doing laundry - admittedly by hand in a very rural area, but the principles of sorting things and not being a total absentminded loser are the same. ... He just forgot. As he's not in the habit of doing it.

If it makes Clark feel any better, only what he was wearing when he showed up is his standard over-priced designer fare, the rest bought conservatively with his Eudio budget. He pulls his shirt over his head then reaches down to undo the top of his pants (which are closely-tailored, actual athletic-purpose riding pants that he picked up before adventuring with Isabeau, on close inspection, and not fanfic grade leather monstrosities tyvm) but pauses. "Do I need to do this in the bathroom?" ... Because he saw that total bluescreen moment when you walked in, Clark. Is the front door even closed yet, honestly.

The front door is closed.

Because he reaches back and closes it. Because no, Bruce, you don't have to do that in the bathroom. It is, after all, your apartment. And he's a grown adult male; he can certainly control himself. He just hadn't been expecting that. He'd been expecting Bruce's usual wardrobe, which he'd been properly prepared for. It was not his fault that Bruce threw something at him that no one who happened to be attracted to men (or perhaps, no one as deeply in love with him as Clark was) should be prepared to handle on the fly. Honestly, he probably would have been more prepared for Darksied to smash through the window and throw a left hook at him.

But he's an adult. Which is why he averts his eyes.

"I'm not making you change in the bathroom in your own apartment when I know perfectly well what you look like naked," Clark notes with a faint roll of his eyes. "I also have manners."

He does, really.

"And I was just asking about the laundry to make sure you didn't need help. I know you're fully capable, but I don't want you to have to buy a new set of shirts because of a misplaced sock."

Edited (ugh word and space) 2015-12-22 16:59 (UTC)

Bruce makes a small noise that would be a disbelieving Uh-huh from anyone else, but in any event, he proceeds to change into a soft pair of jeans he's reasonably confident he's only worn once before this. At least he's not wearing underwear?

"Why would I buy a new shirt over a sock?" he asks, faintly puzzled. He's not that bad. Though he does pause to consider the merits of just buying a new change of clothes later and putting off laundry for another day.

"Because a dark sock on a white shirt can leave a dark mark that's nearly impossible to entirely clean," he explains as he turns to give Bruce a little more privacy while he gets dressed.

Especially since he's not wearing underwear.

"Not if you use cold water." Bruce has no idea how Alfred makes those calls, but the couple of times he's done it in recent years he's shoved everything in at the same time and just picked cold. It's been fine. And besides: "I don't have any white shirts here."

On the subject of socks, he pulls those on, and then boots, and he grabs his coat. He swings by Clark so he can pick up the tupperware and stick it in the fridge before he returns to the other man and looks at him, considering. Should he apologize for terrorizing him with wardrobe choices? ... No. Bruce kisses him.

"Cold water doesn't work best for everything," he notes, but of course, Bruce wins the argument with the trump card of being Bruce Wayne and kissing him.

...that's all right. Clark can lose the laundry discussion. He's good with that. The kiss is a much better prize than being reigning laundry champion. After all, he's got the cooking championship nailed down.

It's a strange thing: every time he kisses Clark, it becomes fractionally more difficult to convince himself to stop. Every time his reservations wear away a little more, and he feels more and more like these small moments aren't enough. He has no idea what enough would be. Bruce's hands are on Clark's shoulders, and he doesn't want to break away but-- they have somewhere to be, so he steps back, the reluctance in him almost a tangible thing.

"Alright. Let's go." He turns away. Back to business.

Clark smiles as Bruce pulls away from the kiss and reaches over to give Bruce's arm a light squeeze with his own. Bruce isn't the only one who's enjoying this, who finds himself reluctant to pull away.

"So are all of these places in the same complex and you're just picking a model," he asks as they make their way out the door, "or are there a few different places all over that you're looking at and comparing space versus value?"

"The latter," he says as they head out. Bruce locks the door (replaced and not backwards; he handed out the new key not long ago) behind them and sets off. The nearest one isn't too far away, but nothing he's looking at is in this neighborhood. Too much right here is spoken for by the city for new arrivals, and besides, Jason(s) should at least have to spend more than thirty seconds figuring out where he's gone.

The journal will involve a bit of tram riding, but it's an excuse to see more of the city. Bruce has finally invested in sunglasses, too, so he won't end up dying. He flicks through directions on his phone, occasionally quietly showing Clark this or that about where they're headed, or a possibility he's already discarded.

Clark leans over and eventually gives in and lets his arm slip behind Bruce on the shoulder rest so that he can get a good look (and yes, they're both forgetting that Clark could get a good look from across a football field, but there you go), commenting every few listings on this detail or that which Bruce may or may not have considered since he's Batman, yes, but there's those little details or living in a city apartment, permanently living there, with no butler, that Clark is aware of more than he is.

By the time they get to the first one, Clark's been fully 'briefed'.

For all of Bruce's PDA history - hanging off models and ex-strippers and, sometimes, a very long-suffering Vicki, Clark's hand in his or Clark's arm halfway around his shoulders is the first time he's engaged in it honestly. He wonders if Selina... well, it's not worth wondering about, anymore. That heartache is something he'll take to his grave.

The first apartment is about the size of the studio one he's already in, though the design is nicer and the furnishings more in line with what Bruce is used to, at home. The next two places after that are middle of the road, bigger but nothing either offensive or inspiring-- one's missing a landlord, but, having gotten permission to view it, Bruce shrugs and picks the lock.

"I point out having picked the lock to the place doesn't speak well to you as a renter," Clark notes as he leans against the wall beside the door. His tone should really be more disapproving, but he's been apartment hunting with Bruce all afternoon, curled up on various public transportation, and it's put him in quite the good mood.

"And if it doesn't, I'm going to have to question the wisdom of living here."

Bruce's answering sound is probably agreement, though he's going to take a look around anyway. The floorplan is nice, shadiness aside. Clark probably doesn't want to hear that. The balcony in the back overlooks an alleyway, and someone is already staring over. Huh. Maybe the floorplan isn't that nice. He locks the door from the inside on their way out, and is glad he didn't notice any security cameras.

"Do you know how many apartments Bruce Wayne is a co-signer for in Gotham City?" he asks as they head to their next destination (a rather large townhouse with a curiously low monthly fee, so Bruce suspects it's the Eudio equivalent of a crack den).

"Given all the programs you run to help with housing, I'd assume the number's pretty high," Clark admits as they make their way towards the next one. Does he tuck in near Bruce? Yes, yes, he does. For warmth. Clearly.

Bruce's warmth. Of course.

"Why do you mention it?"

"Three hundred and eighty one." The program in place to help Wayne Industries employees fix their lives says that if they need help securing anything after six months of work, they'll find a way to do it. Coming out of prison, credit scores, trying to move from low income housing.. it's rough, even in Gotham. Unsurprisingly, having a billionaire co-sign for you makes rental discrimination evaporate.

"Despite that, I've never done this before. Or anything like it. Every property I've bought for myself, I went off estate agent dossiers." The penthouse doesn't count. He bought the building before he put the living quarters in.

The solar-powered definitely already warmer than a human guy needs warmth, huh. Obligingly, Bruce rests his arm around Clark's shoulders so the poor thing doesn't freeze.

"I can think of one you didn't buy through an estate agent," he admits with a little smile. It had been a singularly kind gesture, after all. One he'd never forget. He knows that technically, one is not supposed to mention their ex in any capacity with someone new, let alone mention a wedding present, but it'd been one of the kindest things that Bruce had ever done for him. And Bruce wasn't... new. So dancing around his past made very little sense to him.

He was here now. He was with Bruce. And the two of them were sharing some warmth in the cold December weather as they walked through the streets of Eudio.

"Do you like this better or worse than the dossiers?"

"You were my estate agent on that one, however unwitting." He moves his arm, leaving his hand at Clark's back for a while, the ghost of a squeeze at his side for one moment. Bruce doesn't regret it. He's bad at gifts and Clark is bad at accepting his money, so it worked out for everybody. God, he hopes Clark is able to reconcile with his heart and Lois at home, he doesn't like the thought of him single and drifting. He wants to ask, but he doesn't know how-- he especially doesn't know how to ask without it ending up a disaster of insensitivity on his part. So he won't.

"There's nothing to like or dislike about either, it's just a process." He almost says It's novel, but catches himself before he turns too accidentally patronizing. "It's alright."

It's keeping them occupied, and it's nice out. He can't complain.

Clark is currently giving himself a personal time out to make sure that he's sure of his actions, but he's reasonably certain that he's going to make a point to head home for a few days to finalize his divorce. Not now. Not... for a while. But he will. He will, even if he's relatively certain that the Bruce in his own world will never trust him again. Even if he's relatively sure that his world is slowly learning how little it truly needs a Superman with the rest of the Justice League watching over them.

"At least it's something to do," Clark points out cheerfully as he tilts his head towards the street where he remembers the next one is.

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