[ It all reads like excuses to Bruce, but he knows Clark knows that, and he's used to the other man just wanting to explain his perspective. There's no need to twist any knives-- especially ones he's caustically unaware of. ]
Sure.
He shows up about fifteen minutes later and lets himself in. Nothing about Bruce says he's angry, or even annoyed. He looks a little tired, but that's unfortunately becoming normal. Not a physical tiredness, something deeper.
Clark's at the table, sketching out a flier for his proposed new 'business', though he's yet to put things in motion to file for a license and all the other schnah involved in actually putting his plan into action. He looks up when Bruce comes in, tilts his head over to the coffee maker that has a fresh pot, and a small plate of lemon bars situated right near it.
It's an apology of sorts. The coffee, anyway. The lemon bars are just Clark trying to make things a little nicer today.
"I'm assuming something prompted your message, then?"
Huh. Bruce closes the door behind him, and the particular tilt of his head says that he's slightly puzzled at the offer of a silent apology. (Unwitting about the depth of that cut, then.)
"I had a conversation with Jason," he confirms, "who is unwilling to accept responsibility for Loki. Figured I'd register my disapproval to all parties before I have to endure a tantrum about it."
... For as much as Bruce cares, he can be such an asshole sometimes. That isn't ever going to change. Nothing besides unflinching perfection will ever be good enough for him, even from himself.
Which is why, for all that he found the tendency slightly frustrating, it wasn't insufferable. He knew, more than anything else, Bruce blamed himself at least as much as he blamed anyone else. It's hard to be angry at him when he's well aware that a good portion of Bruce's irritation is fueled by his frustration at himself.
"No tantrums here. Promise."
He puts down the paper he was working on and makes his way over with raised hands to take his coat. It's less of a matter of manners and more of an excuse to put his hand to Bruce's back, see where he is tension-wise. And perhaps offer a bit of comfort, regardless.
Bruce lets him take his coat and watches his face, still trying to puzzle out if he's bothered him somehow. He's as solid as ever, tension carried down his spine from stress. It's the metal bands and months of surgery; stress still settles in his shoulders, but since breaking his back, it coils everywhere. He'll never complain. Not even to himself.
"You didn't say anything that wasn't true," is Clark's answer to that before leaning in to kiss him. It's not an attempt to distract from the issue, or even to close the topic off. He's just greeting him ...and making it clear that whatever upset there was, Clark isn't upset at him. Because he isn't. He's happy to see him, settled by his presence, and clearly glad to not be spending the evening by himself tonight.
Bruce's back gets a gentle rub where he can sense some of the worst of the tension, but he'll leave it at that until they can lay down.
"If you understand, we don't need to talk about it." Bruce will trust him. It's possibly obvious he doesn't want to talk about it, as well, so that's a thing. He gives Clark an answering gentle kiss. "Do you want to sit down?" Since Clark made coffee, Bruce is going to grab some (maybe a lemon bar), but the idea of curling up with him is certainly appealing. If Clark wants to rub the tension out of his back, he's not going to complain.
"I had my reasons. I made a call. It was the wrong call." Done.
For all that he's Superman, he's well aware that he's not perfect. More aware than a lot of people are, as a matter of fact. And he has a feeling that Bruce has had enough arguing of late. They both have, to some degree.
He'd much rather sit and curl up with Bruce for the evening, yes.
"And I have a perfectly good couch here. It'd be a shame to waste it." He tilts his head towards said couch. "Get some coffee and anything else you want and I'll get settled in."
Another quick kiss before he slips away, tucking Bruce's coat up on the hanger before he heads for the couch as he'd said. There's a small plate with half of a lemon bar already on the coffee table that he'd been working on. He can work on it again.
The relief and appreciation at how easy and frank Clark is about that statement is palpable. Definitely had enough arguing of late. Bruce squeezes his arm, his thank-you more heartfelt for its silence. He retrieves coffee and a lemon bar, taking a sip before he sets it down and settles next to Clark, wasting no time insinuating himself against the other man. He wasn't aware how much he needed somebody to just say that, and of course Clark manages to be Superman about it.
Clark's own shoulders sink a little in contentment as soon as Bruce tucks in and he can't help reaching a hand back to start very casually rubbing at the back of Bruce's neck. Once Bruce has had a minute or so to sip at his coffee, maybe get a bite of lemon bar, he looks over and tilts his chin up.
Bruce eats about a third of his lemon bar, liking the lack of traditional sweetness. Coffee's better, though. He lets his eyes slip shut as Clark rubs his neck, enjoyment clear.
"Mm, well enough. Refitted all the windows, a couple were letting in weather which wasn't helping." He tilts his head back to encourage Clark's hand into a particular sore spot and makes a low noise. This doesn't suck at all.
Clark keeps working at his neck with strong, careful fingers and gently adjusts the angle of his head to work on the spot in question. His voice, when he speaks, is still casual, but there's a gentleness there that hadn't been present before; Bruce is relaxing and he wants to encourage that, not break the moment.
"Always good to keep the elements off your work," he notes. And, after a moment of consideration, extends his free hand towards Bruce's coffee in offer. He can easily put that, and the little plate with the lemon bar on it, on the coffee table if Bruce wants this more than that.
He takes another drink of his coffee before he hands over what he's got, giving Clark a slightly aloof look because-- sure, he likes the notion of getting a massage, what of it. He feels a little strange about accepting it, because he worries it'll be rudely one-sided, but it feels very nice.
Clark's reply is a very slight eyeroll, because he wouldn't have started (it's not really an offer when you're already rubbing their neck) if he didn't want to be doing it.
The coffee is put down on the table, as is the little lemon bar plate, and he shifts on the couch a little to start working in earnest. His work starts extending out to Bruce's shoulders and a little way down his back, though he tips his chin towards the bed in question. He pairs it with a soft stroke down the side of Bruce's neck; Clark wants to make him feel good, offer a bit of comfort and affection. There's nothing rude or selfish about accepting what he very much wants to give.
Bruce leans in to give him a brief, nip of a kiss to his mouth at that eyeroll. Hmph. But he sits and closes his eyes again at the attention. When Clark silently proposes a move he raises his hands and takes the other man's face before leaning in to kiss him, slow and tender. He loves him, and loves that they can spend time together just not saying anything. He loved it at home, too, knowing that they could be chatting away via comms or silently working side by side and they'd make sense.
He toes his shoes off and moves to the bed, waiting for Clark to join him before laying down.
The nip gets a single shake of his shoulders; the slow, tender kiss? a sweet, happy response. Clark takes the time to savor that kiss before Bruce slips away to toe of his shoes. He even sits for an extra moment or two with his fingers lightly pressed to his lips, silently showing his appreciation even as he stands.
The walk to the bed is short, the virtue of a small apartment, and he tugs off his button-down shirt before following suit and removing his shoes. He's not trying to encourage less clothing so much as he wants to make sure that he has a full range of movement. And to be fair, the undershirt, while hiding exactly nothing, is still a shirt.
Then he's slipping onto the bed and beckoning Bruce on.
Bruce runs a hand up Clark's bare arm, appreciative, before he tugs his own shirt off over his head and sets it aside. Just a black long-sleeved thing, no undershirt. He lays down on his stomach with his arms crossed beneath his head, face turned to one side so that he can watch Clark a little; he spares him a small, private smile.
It's harsh, and ridiculous. If neither of them had experienced the awful things they have in their respective homes, they'd never be here, and never have this together. Bruce would never know what it's like to kiss him, be held by him. There's no proof their deals with the Eudites will work, and there's so much stupid, senseless hurt with some of the things happening here. But they have each other.
Clark's eyes slip half-closed at the touch to his arm; he'll never deny that he enjoys being touched, and being touched by Bruce is a singular pleasure, even if it's one that he's been getting more often than not. All the same, he'll stop appreciating it approximately never, so Bruce has plenty of time to settle onto the bed on his arms and probably enough to catch the faintly goofy smile on Clark's face. Yes, Bruce, he's more than a little goofy for you.
His hands go to that back, urged on by the small smile from Bruce, gliding over the whole of it in large, sweeping gestures to press a little warmth into the skin before he starts. Warmth and light, gentle touches, the kind which he's well aware Bruce doesn't get enough of. Then his hands begin at the shoulders, a kiss pressed to the back of Bruce's neck as he starts, and he gets down to the business of working some of the frustration out of Bruce's muscles.
And if he happens to press a few more kisses down the length of Bruce's spine, he has a feeling Bruce won't be terribly put out.
Bruce responds quietly in soft, low sighs every so often when Clark's touch hits on something particularly knotted. As far as physical therapy goes, this is usually a far more clinical affair in the style of 'no pain no gain'. He lets himself drift, trusting Clark to look after him for a little while. If he'd thought about it beforehand he might have expected it to be difficult to adjust to being with someone so much after being so isolated; he'd had his family, yes, but relations with them had been so strained. Maybe he's that tired, or maybe it's just Clark-- this Clark, who he hasn't shut out.
He takes a moment to run his hand along the back of Bruce's head, lets his fingers float through Bruce's hair. He's working out Bruce's back, but he's also just applying little kisses and moments of soft affection mixed in.
"I love how much you let me touch you."
He loves showing Bruce how much he's loved, another language for him to tell him how much he means. Something that can't be misconstrued. Somewhere he knows, they both know, he'd never ever lie.
"Well you're pretty good at it." Bruce's eyes are half open now, watching him, another small smile on his face. He understands. Most people aren't fluent in body language, and would need the opposite-- more talking, less touching. And of course, Bruce can't make even that easy, letting barely anyone in. When Clark leans down to press a kiss somewhere high enough - his neck or shoulder, maybe - Bruce lifts his head a little to get his attention so that they can share a soft kiss.
Clark lets himself linger in that soft kiss, drink in the sweetness and give him some back in return. Thankfully, at this point, he's basically done, and his touches turn into slow, gentle petting more than anything else.
He shifts a little, settling against Bruce on his side, running his hands up and down Bruce's back. Now, he supposes, is when he could ask a question, start a conversation. But he doesn't feel as if it's necessary.
Bruce is sure he's never spent so much time just quietly being with anyone else in his life. Brief moments of indulgence have always been cut short by life-- be it circumstances outside his control, or by him choosing to end it. He doesn't deserve this kind of peace, he's certain of it. Bruce moves one arm so that he can rest his palm against Clark's chest, tucked close to him. He's not in the mood to nod off even after that, but he's happy to share this with him.
He smiles at that, lifts Bruce's hand and ducks down just far enough to press a few kisses to those knuckles before placing it back where he'd gotten it from, against his heart. Then, after a thought, he nudges Bruce's shoulder to try and tuck up under Bruce a little so he can touch him with both hands. Maybe get a few kisses. He thinks that might be an even better arrangement.
Bruce huffs something like laughter and moves, allowing them to resettle where Clark wants. He ends up stretched atop him and he lays his head on Clark's shoulder, one hand stroking over his hair. They're both lucky that Bruce can be comfortable laying on a concrete floor, or snuggling up to a Kryptonian might be bruise-inducing. As it is those steel muscles are perfectly nice, as far as he's concerned.
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Sure.
He shows up about fifteen minutes later and lets himself in. Nothing about Bruce says he's angry, or even annoyed. He looks a little tired, but that's unfortunately becoming normal. Not a physical tiredness, something deeper.
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It's an apology of sorts. The coffee, anyway. The lemon bars are just Clark trying to make things a little nicer today.
"I'm assuming something prompted your message, then?"
Besides random musing, anyway.
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"I had a conversation with Jason," he confirms, "who is unwilling to accept responsibility for Loki. Figured I'd register my disapproval to all parties before I have to endure a tantrum about it."
... For as much as Bruce cares, he can be such an asshole sometimes. That isn't ever going to change. Nothing besides unflinching perfection will ever be good enough for him, even from himself.
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"No tantrums here. Promise."
He puts down the paper he was working on and makes his way over with raised hands to take his coat. It's less of a matter of manners and more of an excuse to put his hand to Bruce's back, see where he is tension-wise. And perhaps offer a bit of comfort, regardless.
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"I upset you."
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Bruce's back gets a gentle rub where he can sense some of the worst of the tension, but he'll leave it at that until they can lay down.
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For all that he's Superman, he's well aware that he's not perfect. More aware than a lot of people are, as a matter of fact. And he has a feeling that Bruce has had enough arguing of late. They both have, to some degree.
He'd much rather sit and curl up with Bruce for the evening, yes.
"And I have a perfectly good couch here. It'd be a shame to waste it." He tilts his head towards said couch. "Get some coffee and anything else you want and I'll get settled in."
Another quick kiss before he slips away, tucking Bruce's coat up on the hanger before he heads for the couch as he'd said. There's a small plate with half of a lemon bar already on the coffee table that he'd been working on. He can work on it again.
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"How goes the construction project?"
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"Mm, well enough. Refitted all the windows, a couple were letting in weather which wasn't helping." He tilts his head back to encourage Clark's hand into a particular sore spot and makes a low noise. This doesn't suck at all.
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"Always good to keep the elements off your work," he notes. And, after a moment of consideration, extends his free hand towards Bruce's coffee in offer. He can easily put that, and the little plate with the lemon bar on it, on the coffee table if Bruce wants this more than that.
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The coffee is put down on the table, as is the little lemon bar plate, and he shifts on the couch a little to start working in earnest. His work starts extending out to Bruce's shoulders and a little way down his back, though he tips his chin towards the bed in question. He pairs it with a soft stroke down the side of Bruce's neck; Clark wants to make him feel good, offer a bit of comfort and affection. There's nothing rude or selfish about accepting what he very much wants to give.
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He toes his shoes off and moves to the bed, waiting for Clark to join him before laying down.
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The walk to the bed is short, the virtue of a small apartment, and he tugs off his button-down shirt before following suit and removing his shoes. He's not trying to encourage less clothing so much as he wants to make sure that he has a full range of movement. And to be fair, the undershirt, while hiding exactly nothing, is still a shirt.
Then he's slipping onto the bed and beckoning Bruce on.
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It's harsh, and ridiculous. If neither of them had experienced the awful things they have in their respective homes, they'd never be here, and never have this together. Bruce would never know what it's like to kiss him, be held by him. There's no proof their deals with the Eudites will work, and there's so much stupid, senseless hurt with some of the things happening here. But they have each other.
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His hands go to that back, urged on by the small smile from Bruce, gliding over the whole of it in large, sweeping gestures to press a little warmth into the skin before he starts. Warmth and light, gentle touches, the kind which he's well aware Bruce doesn't get enough of. Then his hands begin at the shoulders, a kiss pressed to the back of Bruce's neck as he starts, and he gets down to the business of working some of the frustration out of Bruce's muscles.
And if he happens to press a few more kisses down the length of Bruce's spine, he has a feeling Bruce won't be terribly put out.
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"I love how warm you are," he murmurs.
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"I love how much you let me touch you."
He loves showing Bruce how much he's loved, another language for him to tell him how much he means. Something that can't be misconstrued. Somewhere he knows, they both know, he'd never ever lie.
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He shifts a little, settling against Bruce on his side, running his hands up and down Bruce's back. Now, he supposes, is when he could ask a question, start a conversation. But he doesn't feel as if it's necessary.
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