[His face comes around so readily- as if it's a kind of honed reflex. But it isn't confusion he finds there, or even stubbornness. Clark looks down, catches his gaze, and simply gives in. His mouth and whatever he might have intended to say is lost to a laugh that shakes his shoulders, then makes him flinch. The entire procession is so natural that Bruce finds himself uncomfortably on edge all over again. He wouldn't call himself a pessimist and he wouldn't say that he expects casual cruelty- but there's very little that has ever come to easily to him.
Perhaps it's a difference in life experience. He's heard plenty of stories about Metropolis, and the man before him now, sweet-tempered and conscientious is- at odds with his life experience.
But Clark sits and perhaps that's enough to be content with. The cushions yield beneath his weight and Bruce gathers the blankets as he settles, turns renewed attention on the thermos of water. It gives him space to interrupt- to drape the heavy blankets over the man's lap and trap what warmth might remain.]
You could argue that I just don't want to see my hard work go to waste.
[Clark drinks and Bruce watches the bobbing of his adam's apple, reconsiders his plans for the evening. The weather is unlikely to turn again, the last of the blizzard passed a few hours ago- but he has enough supplies stock piled to make something for dinner. Something he wouldn't have considered if he didn't have company to think of. And he's prepared to push to his feet and get started, until a portion of water is offered to him in turn.
He hesitates. Looks at his hands.]
Bruce. [He reminds- reaching for the cup with the heels of both palms, an attempt to keep himself from making a mess.] Even my father was rarely a 'mister.'
i have so many feelings
Perhaps it's a difference in life experience. He's heard plenty of stories about Metropolis, and the man before him now, sweet-tempered and conscientious is- at odds with his life experience.
But Clark sits and perhaps that's enough to be content with. The cushions yield beneath his weight and Bruce gathers the blankets as he settles, turns renewed attention on the thermos of water. It gives him space to interrupt- to drape the heavy blankets over the man's lap and trap what warmth might remain.]
You could argue that I just don't want to see my hard work go to waste.
[Clark drinks and Bruce watches the bobbing of his adam's apple, reconsiders his plans for the evening. The weather is unlikely to turn again, the last of the blizzard passed a few hours ago- but he has enough supplies stock piled to make something for dinner. Something he wouldn't have considered if he didn't have company to think of. And he's prepared to push to his feet and get started, until a portion of water is offered to him in turn.
He hesitates. Looks at his hands.]
Bruce.
[He reminds- reaching for the cup with the heels of both palms, an attempt to keep himself from making a mess.] Even my father was rarely a 'mister.'