TEST DRIVE MEME #8

[inthenightmods]

TEST DRIVE MEME #8

Hello and welcome to the In the Night test drive meme for January! Thanks for your interest in our game! In an effort to streamline our application process and avoid future confusion between incoming and existing players, we will no longer have a reservation period. Applications open on January 22, and will be judged on a first-come, first-served basis.

While you're here...

• Take a look at our rules and faq pages to familiarize yourself with the game.
  
• Note that we have a (current) application cap of 16 apps this month for new players, as the game has a player cap of 70. An accurate count of current players will always be available on the taken page.
  
• TDM threads can become game canon if both players wish. If the situation isn't something that could happen in-game, you're free to chalk it up to some strange hallucination, a shared dream, or other mysterious circumstance.
  
• Note that this is not limited to new characters threading with characters already in-game. If current players wish to thread out the TDM prompts as canon events, they are welcome to do so. They are welcome to make posts in the main comms for TDM events as well. Please note, however, that actual plot clues or happenings will not occur in TDM prompts.
  
• If you plan to apply, please keep in mind that we do require at least one sample thread on the application to be from our TDM (though it doesn't need to be the current TDM).
  
• You're welcome to use the provided prompts or come up with something on your own, but we do ask that all threads take place in our game's setting.

Thank you again, and we hope you'll choose to join us!

log prompts

CAKE BY THE OCEAN

It's a brand new year, and with it, a brand new...you? Well, you are dead, but there's still plenty of ways that you can embrace the spirit of starting fresh, especially when it seems that the forest spirits have their own traditions that they're eager to share! If you've only just arrived, you may find yourself pelted with loaves of bread and accosted with noisemakers, or if you're a seasoned Beaconite, maybe you're wearily unsurprised to find strings of onions being placed around various doorways. Just another day in the afterlife. Best to go along with it, even if some of these practices seem to be somewhat chaotic. It's never a good idea to make the spirits mad, after all, and especially not when they're trying to show you...some sort of semblance of good will, you think. For the most miserable of souls, at least you can be comforted in the knowledge that it should all be over before the day is out.

This is a miniature version of the festivities present during this month's intro log!

I CAN'T FEEL MY FACE WHEN I'M WITH YOU

Winter has made its way to Beacon. It's fortunate that plenty of snow gear has been made available at the general store, so this is a great time for those with little-to-no experience with genuine snow to get out there and draw some angels or build forts for some playful snowball fights! At least...it is, at first. Linger too long and you'll find yourself caught in the middle of a raging blizzard that seems to have swept in out of nowhere. In an instant things seem to go from cold to freezing, and the need to get back inside where there's safety from the elements is pressing. Fortunately, you aren't alone. It might not be your usual residence, but more than one of you have tumbled into the same shelter, and will probably be stuck in there until the worst of the storm passes. No time to get to know each other like the present, right? Gotta break the ice somehow (haha).

network prompts

RUN BOY RUN

The changes in the weather isn't the only thing that residents old and new need to keep weary of. While a great many of the forest spirits remain generally friendly, traveling alone comes with its risks. There's always the possibility that you may encounter a creature that's less inclined to let you pass it by unscathed. And so it goes for you as you venture out into the trees with your lantern and torch in hand. Whatever reason you had for starting out alone, and whatever got you to this point, you've had to take shelter from a very, very displeased spirit. Maybe it has a body not meant for climbing, and you've scaled high up into a tree that it won't let you down from, or maybe you've taken shelter inside of a structure that it's too big to squeeze itself into. Whatever the case, it's clear that your pursuer isn't giving up the ghost (haha), and you'll need to contact someone for some form of help to get yourself out of this.

1000 FORMS OF FEAR

It's a normal day in Beacon...which means that something inconvenient at best and terrifying at worst must be just around the corner. Whether or not you're on edge about the relative calm, it doesn't seem that anything weird is happening...until you try and post to the network. No matter how many times you try, the message you intend to write erases itself. As if someone else has hacked into your tablet, a new message re-types itself in front of your eyes. One of your greatest fears or greatest regrets announces itself for all to see, and there's no getting rid of it. All attempts at getting rid of it are fruitless, and it doesn't seem that you can back out of the new post window now that you're here. Your only option now is to hit send. But, hey, your fellow residents are a pretty understanding lot. Maybe they won't hold whatever it is against you. Maybe you can explain it away. There's always lying, too, if you want to go that method of covering your tracks.

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Comments

[pearlstrings]

[He doesn't watch the process, as the man reaches one-handed for the thermos and takes it apart, brings it to his mouth to drink, fumbles while putting it back together. He's aware of it, but Bruce makes the decision to keep his gaze lowered, to appear occupied by opening and unpacking the medical kit. Maybe it isn't necessary, but it's the kind of thing he would appreciate if their positions were reversed; the illusion of privacy where a true version of it is impossible.

The museum is quiet and empty around them, a space filled only by the sound of their breathing, by the rustle of clothing and the exchange of their voices. When Bruce looks up again it's just in time to watch the man push his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. He pauses, considers. Then shakes his head just once.]

We can move if it becomes uncomfortable.

[There's no point in stressing him unnecessarily. He seems to have settled regardless- it's a positive sign. Bruce rises. For the angle they're at he'll have better access if he remains kneeling, so that's what he does. He withdraws a canister of sterile water and gauze to start, settling them near the edge of the chair as he leans forward and reaches carefully for the sweater.]

I'm going to take a look. [It's a formality, the kind of thing his father used to say when he'd been very small- when Alfred had carried him in from the back garden and Bruce had tried desperately to hide his skinned knee beneath both hands. Afraid of the sight. Afraid of the consequences. This close, the ghost a scar over his nose and one running perpendicular to his eyebrow speak volumes to how far he's come. Perhaps there was no helping it. That boy with the skinned knee never left the alley. He'd died there beside his parents.

Bruce's fingers find the middle of the man's shirt, at his sternum, and he begins unlooping the buttons. It makes it easier to reach underneath, instead of rolling from the bottom and hoping for the best. Bruce is certainly not a doctor, but Alfred had taught him no small amount of emergency aid in the last seven years- for everything else, practical experience fills in the gaps. His hands are steady, but his touch is soft. The cloth comes away and blood wells to the surface underneath, freshly pulsing now that the barrier has been removed. He reaches for the water.]

I take it you're still getting used to things here.

[uplifters]

[ Clark's teeth grit together when the sweater is pulled; some of the blood's dried, causing it to sound not at all unlike a sticker being peeled from a fruit. His hand is shaking again, and though his gaze drifts downward to see the young man work, the sight of his own ugly little wound has him letting out a soft noise and looking away once more, instead.

He isn't strong enough for this. And, his cheeks warming slightly as his shirt is undone and gently pushed aside, he realises he isn't protected enough from embarrassment, either.

Clark's skin is smooth, soft like it belongs to someone who has no business at all being outside by himself to get attacked by restless spirits. It makes the wound stick out even more-- a single flaw in an otherwise perfect picture (that is, if you don't count the horror that is his posture)-- and one that makes Clark flinch the moment he feels it being cleaned with water. ]

Gosh, that's cold. [ He exhales shakily through his teeth, shivering slightly. ] Uh... but I'm. Y-Yes. I've only recently...

The ferry dropped me off, a few-- few days ago. But don't ask me how many. [ Clark tries for a laugh, but it comes out awkward and stilted and like he's trying to distract himself from the very awful reality that someone is touching a wound that is an opening in his body. There's blood coming out of him, like he's a gosh darned jelly doughnut, and even the concept of it makes his head spin a little. ] I've never missed the sun so much.

[pearlstrings]

[It's always a little strange to meet people here in Beacon. Bruce doesn't look for faces he recognizes so much as he looks for those who hesitate- people with a reluctance to move forward or people who visibly struggle with taking the first steps. Some of those here are very forthcoming about how and why they've died. Others are more guarded. It's hard to imagine a man like this in Gotham- and not just because of his smooth hands. He has no callouses or scars and while he doesn't look frightened he does seem nervous. He flinches the first time damp gauze presses against the wound, muscle jumping reflexively under his fingertips; his skin pebbles.

Bruce doesn't withdraw, but he does find value in maintaining the conversation. Distraction helps, it occupies part of the mind- diverts his attention elsewhere even in only a small part.]

I've heard something like that before. There's someone here from an island, I imagine it's been a difficult adjustment.

[The gauze comes away a bright, scarlet red- saturated enough that it makes the pads of his fingers pink. Bruce doesn't look at his own hands. He readies a new piece of gauze instead, carefully cleaning the area. It'll be best to sterilize it once he's able to get some of the bleeding under control. That's unlikely to go over well, but in his experience, what's necessary is rarely what's kind.]

What was it like? Home.

[uplifters]

[ Clark doesn't seem to realise that the cleaning isn't even the worst bit, even though the pressure against torn skin and open wound keeps making him shiver. The cold makes him shiver too though, so really, Clark doesn't have a chance of winning here and not looking like an utter wimp.

He's grateful for the talking, though, if only so he can try to focus his mind on anything but the weirdness of the gauze's texture on his ruined skin. ] Home was... [ He takes a moment. ] Well, it was bright, for one thing. "The city of the future"! There were lots of folks and sights of all kinds to see, lots of-- lot of things to do, because everything was happening everywhere. [ Clark smiles, and though there's still some strain in his expression from the fear in being cleaned up, the light in his eyes is genuine. ] One of those places.

Of course it had its, its bad spots. [ He lets out a laugh and then an 'ow', because that laugh was a bit more barking than he intended. ] All big cities do. It's crowded and I'm terrible, just awful with crowds, and a lot of the time I'd get, erm, swept away with the currents of people, if you know what I mean.

[ Sometimes he'd end up on the completely opposite side of the road from the one he ought to be on, just because he was overwhelmed onto a crosswalk. ]

But it... gosh, the loneliness you feel there is different from the one here, when you're in the dark and all b-by yourself.

[pearlstrings]

[Is it? Bruce's brows come together, a small, thoughtful crease. Gotham is perpetually grey- as if the sun itself doesn't want to be seen. He's come to learn that everyone feels alone there; in the dark, by themselves. Standing outside the museum surrounded by the thick, unending wood hadn't been so different from standing inside the manor, flanked by paintings and portraits. Bruce has been lonely for most of his life. The setting changes very little. And yet- he finds that when he reaches for empathy, when he searches for a memory that might compare, it comes readily.

What wouldn't he give, to press his face into Alfred's shoulder again. To hold on hard.]

It sounds very exciting.

[The man beneath him shivers and Bruce glances down at the blankets, reminded of their nearness. His temperature still feels low. The warmth and the pressure will help his sympathetic nervous system, when all this is over. But the bleeding has begun to slow enough that he can move to the next stage, sterilization. He begins to wet a piece of fresh gauze, and offers a word of warning before he moves in to clean it.

It's the place where someone else might offer comfort or coddling. Bruce isn't ignorant to those tendencies, he'd gotten enough of them inside hospital waiting rooms, while nurses would pass and assure him that everything would be fine. But it isn't in his nature to try and make armor out of happy thoughts. Bruce prefers to prepare, to offer knowledge and outline expectations. His weight comes to rest against one of the man's bent knees, an anchor holding him to the cushions.]

I apologize. This is going to sting, but there isn't anything I can do to help it.

[He'll try to be brief.]

What did you do there?

[uplifters]

[ It may not be the sweet comfort of a kind voice and the consoling touch of a hand, but Clark appreciates the warning all the same. He voices a quiet 'okay' like his opinion matters, and he takes in a deep breath that's firm as it comes and shivery as it goes, and nods his head once like this is enough to steel himself.

Well, whether it is or not, it's got to be.

He doesn't get to answer the young man's question immediately, not when the touch of the gauze brings an entirely new sensation. Clark blinks tears in the corners of his eyes, his lips pressed together tight, and there're a few more attempts to breathe through his nose and then breathe it all down. ]

Um, I was-- [ He lets out another slow exhale, the circle of his lips forming a wooshing sound, and while his first instinct is to look away...

Clark tries looking at the young man's face, instead. He's so calm, so collected. So experienced and cool. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from him. Maybe looking at something calm will help him calm, too. ]

I was a f-father. [ A beat, until he realises what 'do' typically means. ] And a journalist. I worked for-- I was with the Daily P-Planet.

[ When this next round of cleaning is done, Clark lets out a relieved little sigh, gaze still on the man even if it loses focus for a second. But he tries to recover, tries to be brave.

And he manages a shaky smile, murmuring, ] Can I ask what you did in your home?

[pearlstrings]

[He waits for the small nod before he knows that it will be a small nod. What he's really looking for is a moment of acknowledgement- the acceptance that signals that he won't be taken by surprise by what's to come. And then, as gently as he can manage while maintaining efficacy, he continues. There's a hiss overhead, breath that comes in sharply through the nose and rushes out the mouth; it's the same thing he'd used to do, when his nighttime excursions had come with a physical cost. A broken ankle, a fractured forearm- more cuts and bruises than he cares to remember. It's the reason Bruce doesn't rush now. He knows that his own experiences are not the norm and thus shouldn't be treated as such. But in the end-

This person is in pain. He doesn't want to add to it.

The peroxide comes away and Bruce waits just a moment, to see that the skin around the wound has begun to dry in the air before he brings fresh water to it, an attempt to soothe. The wound has mostly stopped bleeding, but pink traces are everywhere- on every piece of discarded cloth. In the creases of his knuckles. The muscle beneath his fingers jumps again and Bruce looks up, intends to search his patient's face for signs and signals- but is momentarily disarmed to find that he's already looking. Perhaps that's the reason that each part of the reply lands the way it does.

He says I was a father and something in Bruce's shoulders both tightens and yields. And a journalist- a profession Bruce doesn't dislike but one that he has, conflicted feelings for. I was with the Daily Planet. Recognition washes over him. Metropolis?

He doesn't ask. Instead, the moment that he starts to smile Bruce turns his face away, withdrawing both hands to reach for medical tape and a square of sterile gauze. What did you do is a painfully loaded question with no clear answer. Bruce thinks: I tried to help. I tried to change.

Can I ask what you did in your home?
Not enough.]

My city was annexed for the last year before I came here. The mainland flew supplies in when it could. Everyone that stayed behind mostly focused on survival.

[uplifters]

[ Clark doesn't miss the look of understanding that flashes over the young man's face at the name of the newspaper, and it makes his own eyes go wide. He might not have a lot of talents, but he knows what body language is, and he would ask for more but.

But he turns away.

And Clark, though not a mind reader in the least, feels his face fall.

He winces slightly when the gauze is pressed to his wound, but there's relief there when the tape touches his skin to keep it secure. They're done cleaning for now, then. Clark probably shouldn't be as relieved as he is, but that undercurrent of feeling all right is still overshadowed by the guilt he feels for bringing this young man's own past up. He makes a mental note not to ask about it again, but the damage is done; hopefully it won't be too difficult to backpedal, though.

Talk of his home only makes Clark's expression soften further. He really shouldn't have asked. ]

I see. [ It's not something Clark Kent understands, necessarily-- Metropolis had never been so dire-- but there is a weight to his words, a quietness to it that betrays empathy instead of sympathy. Everyone that stayed behind. Survival. It couldn't have been pretty, with words like that used to paint the situation. And someone as helpful as this person before him is, well...

Now he understands why he looked away. Somehow, he feels the words "no wonder you were so good at fixing me up" aren't going to be a comfort in the least. If Clark knows anything, it's easier to remember failures over successes, every time. ]

Thank you, [ he finally says, his tone still soft, but a little less dire ] for helping me. I... I know you said, uh, I might've made it on my own, but.

I've never met anyone like you. [ The corner of his mouth tugs up again, a dimple showing in his cheek. ] So. I'm glad you were there to, erm. To find me.

[ Clark moves to close his shirt, shivering lightly and letting out the softest 'whew'. Now that he knows he's going to be all right, the fear-adrenaline is fading and the cold is starting to sink in. This afterlife winter's no joke, is it? ]

My name's Clark. [ His shirt buttoned up properly (but still torn in the side, so really) now, Clark holds one hand out while the other pushes his glasses up. ] Clark Kent.

I owe you one, mister.

[pearlstrings]

[There's always something to prepare for. Even here in Beacon, with people from so many worlds and timelines, Bruce keeps his cards close to his chest. He gives his first name only and avoids discussion about his own home, he has two aliases on the network and only claims one of them. It's difficult to know how much of it is a matter of trust, how much of it is carefully cultivated habit, and how much of it is personal. Bruce has always valued privacy, something that had been in very short supply after the murder of his parents.

When Bruce averts his gaze now he knows exactly how it will read to the outside observer. That it isn't the truth is irrelevant.

He holds the gauze with the widest part of his palm and stays there for a moment- just long enough to be sure that more blood isn't about to soak through. That he hasn't simply done the task but that he's done it well. And this is where the man above him, Clark, misses the mark. No wonder you were so good at fixing me up would have been received very well- perhaps not outwardly. But Bruce has spent so much of his life trying to make a difference, trying to make it matter- all he ever sees is the number of times he missed the mark. The tape unwinds and Bruce secures it in place with practiced, methodical strokes; it needs to be secure, an anchor to keep out infection, but he doesn't want to cause unnecessary pain.

When he finally moves back, weight resting on his heels, he realizes that there is still blood beneath his nails. In the creases of his knuckles and fine lines of his hands. An experimental touch tells him it's largely dry, and that's why he reaches for the blanket as Clark begins buttoning his shirt. As he dimples.

It's a very- unguarded expression.]

You don't. It's what anyone would do.

[He returns the handshake.]

Bruce.

[uplifters]

[ Nostalgia is supposed to happen with something you've felt before, isn't it? Something that you had once and lost?

Clark doesn't understand the sense of familiarity when Bruce's hand is in his own, doesn't know what it is about the firmness of that grip that makes his mouth pull a little higher. But it's there all the same. Bruce has, for some reason or other, a comforting touch, and he wonders if it's because somewhere in the back of his mind the name Bruce is so heavily associated with one of his closest friends on the planet. ]

Bruce. [ Ah, even the way his tone's gone is a little sweet-- Clark tries to chuckle, but then he goes to touch his side alongside a small wince, before realising that he probably shouldn't touch it. It leaves his hand awkwardly hovering over his body (everything about Clark is awkward, though, so this is a given). ] ...it's nice to meet you, Mr. Bruce. [ It's always best to be polite.

Their hands separate, but the smile stays on Clark's face. ] If you're not going to let me owe you, [ which he will, anyway, whether Bruce wants him to or not-- the debt is scratched in his name, under "Bruce from the museum" ] at least let me give thanks for the good you did.

You gave me your name, see? [ He laughs, pauses, winces, and then squirms. And winces again. ] ...nngh. M-Makes you more than "just anyone", that sort of thing.

[ Clark spares his bandaged side a look, sighs, and then looks back at Bruce with a more sheepish expression. ]

I'll, uh, get out of your hair now. I've already imposed too much-- [ And when he tries to stand, there's a slight grimace on his face. To Clark's credit, though, the teeth in his inner cheek keep him from making another terrible noise, which is a decided improvement. ]

[pearlstrings]

[He's been soft spoken through this entire process, subdued and uniquely mild-mannered for a man so visibly uncomfortable with the sight of his own blood. Bruce turns the thought over: Metropolis, with all of it's bright lights. It's Gotham's inversion in every possible way. Clark withdraws, expression as fond as the pitch of his voice, and Bruce means to follow that too- perpetually curious about every question with no immediate answer. But instead of doing anything remotely sensible, like taking this moment to ease back into the chair and try to unbundle the tension in his body, or to exhale, or to have another small swallow of water- Clark decides that he's going to stand.]

Clark.

[Bruce, sounding not at all unfamiliar with giving orders to men twice his size, reaches out with one hand and halts the movement at the nearest possible place. His knee.

The pressure isn't nearly enough to imply that he's trying to force the other man to sink back down, but rather that he's making a very firm suggestion.]

There's more than enough room. [His face turns to the side, a kind of gesture to the space around them without removing his gaze and by extension, without letting Clark from his sight. The reminder he offers is matter-of-fact and yet still as polite as any comment he might make at one of the Wayne Foundation galas.] It's a museum.

Besides, even without considering blood loss or the plunging temperature, trudging out into the snow is only going to exacerbate it.

[He doesn't yet move to get off of his knees, but he does reach for the blanket, pulling it carefully into his lap.]

It was my invitation. But failing that you can call it selfishness.

GOD

[uplifters]

[ Clark stops at the touch to his knee, and for a moment that-- along with the way that Bruce says his name-- is a sobering gesture. Some innate part of him responds to it instantly; Clark's head turns briefly to catch Bruce's gaze, dark as it is in the already low light, and the surprised expression melts away into some kind of gentle (if not awkward) understanding.

Rationalising is a good thing. It makes the part of Clark's brain responsible for logic fire synapses to tell the stubborn part of him to calm down. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the word selfishness makes him laugh instead, all shaking shoulders and moving torso... before he mutters an 'ow' and sits as told. ]

"Selfishness". [ He takes in a deep breath, stiffly sinks further into the backrest of the seat, and shuts his eyes briefly. ] Funny thing from a man who spent so much time to fix a stranger up.

[ But here he is, seated again. Down because Bruce insisted. Now it's imperative that Clark keep a debt to him, and when he opens his eyes again he uses them to find the thermos he'd put aside. Reaching is kind of an ordeal, and Clark still asks a brief 'may I?' like Bruce might say no, but at least this time, with both his hands free, it's a touch easier to open.

(Even if he has to exert some effort, still, to twist it. Golly.)

He considers the dried blood on his hands, and then the dried blood on Bruce's, and after he's taken another few gulps of water he pours another serving out. Bruce's hands are dirty with him because he'd worked so hard. Clark feels sort of stupid, offering water that Bruce himself had gotten, but the sentiment is there as he holds the cup out. ]

You should have some too, m-mister. [ Then, he realises: ] Ah, I promise I'm not sick.

i have so many feelings

[pearlstrings]

[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.'

[uplifters]

[ The insistence to use just this young man's first name has his eyes widening just a touch before he nods his head in agreement. ] Right. [ He smiles. ] Bruce. [ It's the second time he's said it and the second time his tone's gone soft, the 's' sound at the end almost unheard. It might've been because of the nostalgia earlier, but with the blanket over his legs in what Clark considers a thorough bout of caretaking, he decides that the fondness isn't borrowed so much as it is blooming slowly, like a bud in a particularly chilly spring. ]

Sorry, [ while he has genuine intentions in his apology, there's a small chuckle there that shows he isn't too broken up about it ] 'mister' is a bit of a, uh, force of habit. [ But a lot of Clark's habits are a touch outdated, a little bit out there. He doesn't seem to be embarrassed by them as much as he is aware of who he is; even now, chances are he'd only apologised because he didn't want to make Bruce uncomfortable, and he's already made one ill-fated misstep today.

It takes some bravery, but in a small gesture he pushes his glasses up his nose, chuckling (and biting back the wince when he does it too hard) as he says, ] I suppose "Bruce" is better if we're gonna be friends, isn't it?

[ And though it isn't outright forcing, there is an ease in the way Clark says it, but it's not like it'll take much to get Clark to like Bruce to begin with. ]

If you'd, uh. If you'd like, I mean.

[ He did, after all, say that there's no-one out there quite like Bruce. His father always told him to hold on to the special people you meet in life-- it ought to be the same in death, too.

That being said, he's hoping the fact Bruce accepted his little cup of water is a step in the right direction. Clark doesn't know how likely Bruce is to take anything from anyone in such a way, but decides there must be some level of comfort when their fingers brush as he takes the cup back in his shaky grip. (If not some resignation at the fact his hands are still unsteady.)

He refills the cup, and if Bruce doesn't take what's offered a second time, he'll start to sip from it like a dainty little girl at a tea party. You don't realise how thirsty you are when all you feel is shock, but Clark worries he might choke on water if he went too fast. ]

...are you going to stay here, too?

[pearlstrings]

[There have been no small number of jokes made in the past- moments where Alfred had been filling a mug with coffee, or hovering over his shoulder during target practice and said something about his tendency to take in strays. Bruce continues to believe that isn't the case, but there are times when the memory comes to him so strongly that he can't help the thought when it resurfaces. What would Alfred say?

No one, in Gotham, would consider this a declaration of friendship.
Which is to say- Bruce did, once. When he had been naive enough to afford it. But it's a belief he'd grown out of with age and experience, and one that seems to have held true here in Beacon- where relationships are complicated simply because of the population size. The inevitability of overlap. But the genuine, careful way he says it we're going to be friends, lands so close, bypasses so many of his expectations, that there's a definitive moment where Bruce is at a loss. He does not look like a deer in the headlights, he's done his best to train himself out of an instinct to freeze- but for several seconds Bruce looks exactly as disarmed as he feels.

He's spared the expectation to form a reply when Clark continues. When he's able to busy himself with drinking the contents of the small cup. One hand lifts on the second offer, a wordless decline.]

I'm going to make something to eat.

[He glances at Clark's shirt as he stands. Bruce is able to mend most things, but he suspects this might be beyond repair. He doesn't have anything in the museum that would be a suitable exchange. -Perhaps if he's able to get the man to relax enough to fall asleep, there's likely to be something usable in the general store. He can make it there and back in no time. Assuming he sleeps on his own. Riku notwithstanding, ketamine is likely to make a bad impression.

Bruce's hands rest at his sides, but he's mindful not to touch and make more of a mess as he goes. He's had practice.]

Stay under the blanket. It's important to keep your body temperature from dropping.

[uplifters]

[ Clark's first instinct is to ask if there's anything he can do to help, but he's told to stay under the blanket, and so whatever attempt he might have made to lift from his leaning into the backrest is halted and reversed. He leans back, looking every bit the kicked puppy that he hopes he doesn't resemble, and nods his head with a push of his glasses up his nose.

In Bruce's defence, he might just make it worse in the end. Lord knows Clark isn't the most graceful person in general, and it'll probably be worse in a kitchen that requires any measure of skill. ]

All right. [ On the bright side, at least he doesn't sound dejected as much as he sounds accepting. ] Just, um, let me know if I can do anything, all right?

[ As Bruce walks away, Clark watches him go until his silhouette is no longer seen in the darkness. After that, he settles into the seat and resists the urge to brush his hand over his bandage, and instead pulls the blanket as much as it can go up his body without messing the set-up on his lap too much.

Having mostly intact trousers makes Clark feel that it's all right to pull the blanket all the way to his chin. Underneath it, he runs warm like a heater, but he supposes Bruce doesn't have to know that. It's kind enough of him to worry enough to want to keep him warm; if nothing else, he'll wear it for the sentiment, and he shuts his eyes and hums quietly, his ankles twisting lightly to tap the tips of his shoes together.

He'll wait patiently for as long as he has to. In any case, Clark supposes it can't be too long. ]

[pearlstrings]

[He half expects it- an offer to help, a request to know what he can do. It's comforting in the end, that it doesn't- not because Bruce is trying to avoid being seen or because he's eager for time alone, but because it spares them both whatever fight may follow. It's difficult, to impress upon another person where their boundaries should be. To remind them of their physical limits or to advise them about health and recovery when they have no sense of self-preservation. The thin, fair scars over his nose and brow are a testament to that.

But instead of completing the motion and pushing up out of his chair, Clark's momentum reverses and he sinks obediently back into his seat. Bruce lingers by the doorway, watchful and quiet for the redirection- only to nod, a small thing, when Clark finally acquiesces. The nod doesn't quite mean that he accepts these terms, that he'll ask for Clark if he needs something, so much as it means he's pleased to see that his directions are being followed. It speaks to his character. Bruce is and always has been attempting to control the variables in his life. It isn't necessarily a good thing, and it certainly isn't always kind.

The kitchen inside the museum is a new addition- a deliberate creation much like the bathroom and shower. These were added as he came to call this building, as he ceased to be the only person spending significant time here. There's something to be said for Bruce's own sense of self-preservation, how hypocritical his standards can be, especially to an outside observer. Until he'd had other people to consider he'd been walking to the lake to bathe and cooking meals to ration inside the Invincible- packing them up and disappearing without a word. Other people is the reason there's a stove for him to work on. That there are ingredients for a simple stew that won't just fill the stomach, but will taste well. Bruce wouldn't call himself a chef by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd learned a few things from Alfred over the years- going without spices for the first few months had been a choice, an attempt to leave the resources for people who might need them. Like it or not, Bruce is changing.

He isn't gone for long and though he's out of the immediate line of sight he can still be heard moving around. There's an occasional clink of cutlery on dishware, a small thud against wooden countertops. When Bruce does emerge again its with a steaming bowl between both palms- and it's to find Clark with his blanket pulled up to his chin. His eyes closed. It's a strangely endearing sight. He waits, just a moment, to see if he'll stir- and if he doesn't will ask very quietly:] Are you awake?

[uplifters]

[ Clark's eyes open when he's spoken to, lashes fluttering somewhat as he blinks repeatedly to regain himself. Had he napped? The way blue eyes slide over to catch Bruce and the way he's lit with his lantern is slow and lethargic; he recognises him almost instantly, though, and a slow (if not ultimately sleepy-looking) smile grows on his face. ]

Hi. [ His tone is soft, and Clark slowly rises from where he's gotten himself slumped into the chair. ] Yeah, I'm awake. [ He shivers only a little bit when he feels his side move with him, dipping his head to take his glasses off and wipe them with the edge of the blanket.

The glasses slide back on and he looks a little more awake, teeth showing a bit in his grin. ] Welcome back.

[ He doesn't want to seem like a complete invalid, so he pulls the blanket into a position draped over his shoulders instead of hiding his lap away. There's a brief exhale and a light shiver of his shoulders, and then Clark sits with as good a posture as he can manage. Hopefully this makes him look more all right and less like a hospital patient.

There is the briefest sniff with his nose, before: ] Wow, [ it's a bit of an awed exclamation ] wh-what's that?

[ Clark has seemed to notice the bowl in Bruce's hands, finally. His gaze flicks from it up to Bruce in question. ]

[pearlstrings]

[His eyes come right open, suggesting that he's either a very light sleeper or that he hadn't been dozing at all. Bruce's lantern stays where it's been all night, looped through a cord on his belt and resting at his back- where Clark's remains close by, casting a long shadow over the floor. The man himself begins to rise, then changes course to clean his glasses.

There's a small comfort in that at least- that he's in high enough spirits to smile.]

Don't thank me yet.

[Bruce doesn't close the distance right away, a more apt metaphor for the way he regards others than anything words could say. He stays where he is as the blankets shift, become a shroud instead of a fortress and only when the movement begins to slow does he pace quietly into the room.]

There are no animals or vegetables in Beacon. Nothing grows.
Rations are delivered monthly by the ferry.

[It's a diplomatic way of excusing his cooking that he thinks even Alfred would be proud of. But it's also a polite way, he thinks, to set expectations. The majority of their supplies are.... well preserved. Perhaps their physiological changes here in Beacon, the need for less food and less sleep, is a blessing in disguise. The bowl hovers between them and steam wafts upward.]

And I'm no chef.

[uplifters]

But-- [ Whatever attempt at protest Clark might have made is swiftly dampened out by the most matter of fact listing of details he's ever heard. He's not sure what this has to do with anything for a while there, his brow lifting and his expression screwing up somewhat in thought, but then Bruce brings up chefs and it all dawns on him quite swiftly. ]

Are you trying to, to tell me your food isn't very good?

[ That's what it sounds like, anyway. Clark was primed for argument already, but suddenly Bruce has closed the space between them. He's there, holding the bowl out towards him, and Clark finds himself taking another sniff and thinking, well, it still smells pretty good, so what's the problem?

Up close like this, the steam is more obvious in the air. Just looking at it instills a sort of comforting warmth, even though the motion of his hands and the brush of his fingers over Bruce's sort of gives Clark's own heat away. ]

I promise I won't expect a five-star meal, okay? [ That's neutral territory, isn't it? He's not sure, really, if Bruce is seeking approval or something of the sort, but he seems like a man of facts, and so facts are what Clark gives him.

He dips his head and blows at the soup, thumb brushing gently against the bowl. ] ...but you don't have to worry about taste, Bruce.

Frankly, I-- I'm just touched you made something for me at all. [ That's what makes cooking for someone else as tender a gesture as it is.

He takes the first sip, which is indeed not at all that extravagant, but is warm in a perfect metaphor for the feelings that having Bruce take care of him evokes. Is the stew too hot? He can't tell. Hopefully it isn't too strange he doesn't react with a burnt tongue. ]

Mm. [ Clark nods his head, glancing up at him. ] It's perfect.

[pearlstrings]

[It's- slightly more than that. Bruce had grown up with someone to care for him, to make all of his meals, if they're going to stay on that subject. And he'd at times chosen to live the live of a stoic- he'd chosen to stay on the streets with Selina for a time. He'd gotten through the annexing of Gotham the way everyone else had, with the same limited supplies. But there's a significant divide between the expectation of what eating out of cans every day would be like, and the reality. This, the bowl in Clark's hands with mystery meat and bits of potato and what once might have been vegetables- is the reality. It doesn't smell terrible, but it doesn't look great either.

The matter is quite literally out of his hands regardless. Clark takes the bowl and Bruce notes silently that in their brief touch that there's a reassuring warmth to his skin. It's a good sign. He withdraws and moves back out of the room, but his voice carries.] Have you considered that your standards are too low?

[It would probably be best for Clark to stay the night. There are beds upstairs but Bruce can really only ethically offer his own, besides- he rarely uses it anyway. Though he's admittedly less concerned about the pair of them making it up the stairs than he is about convincing him to stay in the first place. There's a line between chivalrous and self-sacrifice that's easier to address in others than in himself.

When he returns a short while later its with his long sleeves gathered up around his elbow, just enough to bare his wrists. And most importantly, it's with two mugs of coffee in his hands.]

I'm your host, for all intents and purposes. And I can think of one person from home that would never forgive me otherwise.

[uplifters]

[ The only thing that follows Bruce's question is laughter, and after that a quiet (but not any less whingeing) 'ow'.

Clark is eating the soup quite happily, though, despite its lacklustre taste. He hadn't been kidding about the sentiment mattering-- it'd make even lukewarm hotdog water taste like gourmet soup, knowing someone had done something for him specifically. That was how his son's attempts at cooking went for him in ages past, and Jason's skills in the kitchen were a lot worse than whatever it is Bruce managed to do with this stew.

By the time Bruce returns, Clark feels a lot better than he did when he was first found out in the cold night. There's colour in his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, and a bowl of soup that's only got one more hearty gulp left. Clark takes said gulp before he goes to take the mug of coffee offered to him, and as he cradles the bowl in his hand, he looks with wide eyes at the drink he takes in the other like he can't believe what he's seeing.

Coffee! Is it the fact he knows he's dead that makes the whole thing seem like a godsend? It's not like canned goods don't exist out here, given Bruce's stew's main ingredients. But then, again, Clark's sentiment goes a long way. ]

"Never forgive you"? For-- for what, not serving me filet mignon? [ After he's bent to put the bowl down on the floor, Clark holds the mug in two hands like a child holds anything precious. ] We make do with what we have, and you didn't have to make any of this for me in the first place.

[ He grins. It is the most confident he's looked so far. ] My standards are just fine.

I'll admit, though, [ and he leans in slightly in a very careful attempt not to jostle his wound, his voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper ] the coffee does smell better than the soup.

[ Coffee that he sips... and then goes 'wagh, hot!' at, after. ]

[pearlstrings]

For being a bad host.

[Bruce is two things at once, always. There is the quiet intensity that lead him to call the museum home, of all places he could choose. That is responsible for the supplies that he has stockpiled in nooks and crannies around town- that led to false floorboards and walls, small bags secured in rafters. He works here, keeps his notes here, and despite the other residents he's managed to collect he's still notoriously cagey about sharing. And then there's this, the real mask. Bruce is a cavalier, disinterested teenager around town. He has easy, meaningless conversations. He sits around in the bar and needs help from others when things go south. It isn't good but it's functional. It serves a purpose.

It's what he does now, who he is now, when one mug dangles from his fingertips and the steam collects against his palm. When he hovers near Clark's side as he finishes and takes the coffee. Only once it's left his hand does he move further into the room- to find a worn old chair, to bring it's crooked wooden legs up and then set it a short distance away. He doesn't use these two points to place them opposite one another, but he doesn't settle at his side either. They're at an angle to one another. Indirect.]

But don't worry. I'll try not to take it personally.

[uplifters]

Your standards must be astronomical. [ Not that Clark minds this, though, if the smile on his face—caught between fond (already) and amused—is any indication.

It’s all right that Bruce is some distance away. If that’s what makes him most comfortable, then so be it. Clark’s not much for wants or demands, and he’s fully content to remain where he is, sipping at his coffee and being surprised at how hot it is and not learning his lesson because he keeps sipping again anyway.

The silence is comfortable as it stretches between them, and Clark looks down at his coffee once it’s halfway full. He’s warmed up nicely now, both from the soup and the drink, and surely those two thing should be enough to energise a man to get up and go.

But he’s not sure, really, how long he’s welcome, and chances a glance Bruce’s way before he looks down at his coffee again, his thumb gently brushing against the side of it. ]

Um… [ His brows furrow slightly. ] Did you want me to s-stay? The whole night?

[ In a way he supposes Bruce’s behaviour had been leaning towards it, but Clark doesn’t want to assume. ]

[pearlstrings]

[They are. Though not on the subject of hosting- that, he suspects, will always be one of Alfred's preoccupations; worried about his public image, his family legacy, his true identity, Alfred's counsel has been an omnipresent warning to play the part. To remember that a mask isn't enough to protect the people he cares about. It's a thought for another time- a more private moment.

The cup sits between his palms as if he'd wanted something to warm his hands more than he wanted something warm to drink. This is partially true. In his experience, it's easier to convince someone to take care of themselves if a social precedent is set. He does not know Clark Kent, but his actions thus far suggest some lack of self-preservation. Bruce does not snort, but there's something in his expression as his eyes move away that suggests it anyway. This is becoming a habit.]

As I said, you can call it selfishness.

If there's anything you need during the night, you can message me on your tablet.
[His gaze flicks upward, to the vaulted ceilings and gallery room at large.]

The museum is large place.