uplifters | ( in the night ) ic inbox

[Shakes magic 8 ball will he ever not be like this? Signs point to no]

I've been fine, thank you.

What's your room number.

That’d be 404!

Are you planning to visit?

Yes. I'm already on my way.

I won't stay long.

Oh, it's no trouble. I'll be here, anyway!

[True to his word Bruce doesn't take long. He is rarely in a state of repose in the museum, with the exception of sleep he usually has his shoes on. His coat is near the door. The only detour he needs to make at all is for the small item that had prompted this whole venture to begin with- but now that he reaches for it, it becomes a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Bruce visibly pauses. Puts it down where it becomes an SD card again. Picks it up- where it becomes a bouquet. His brows come together. This hasn't been the case the entire time he's had it thus far, so why-

Ah. His purchase at the night market.

His options are two-fold: to retract their meeting entirely, or to just push through. And this is the reason that when Bruce appears outside of room 404 of the Landmark, he looks like he's here to pick up a first date.]

[ Clark opens the door and the room smells like corn muffins, but maybe that isn't quite as noticeable as the bright smile that comes across his face when he sees Bruce standing there.

All too easily, he chirps, ] Hi, Bruce! [ And the door is opened wider in a gesture of having nothing to hide at all. ] Come in, come in.

[ Not that the room's all that decorated yet, granted. Clark's moved the furniture enough to create a kind of balanced look to it, but there aren't very many personal items in there. Most interesting are probably three intricate, wooden posts gently leaning against the wall; they look freshly sandpapered, newly worked on. ]

It's nice to see you again... [ His voice trails off when he recognises what's in his hand. ] ...oh. [ Predictably, Clark's face turns a soft shade of pink. ] Is that for-- me?

[The door opens and many details become very clear all at once. It's warm inside Clark's room- warmer perhaps than it could ever be in the museum. And there's a smell in the air that Bruce recognizes but is not overly familiar with. He thinks of breakfast first, something filling and earthy- before his gaze moves past Clark altogether and into the room at large. It is probably not very good manners, but not even Alfred has tried to break him of this habit so perhaps it's permanent. There are small pieces of furniture, the kind of impersonal items that could be found in the Invincible. There are, incongruously, three wooden posts leaning against the wall.

Bruce does not chirp in reply. He stands politely in the doorway and looks from the room back to Clark's face in a single, lengthy sweep.] What?

[The flowers. His head shakes, a small thing. The changing of thoughts.]

Yes.

May I come in?

[ They are for him!? Clark’s eyes go wide for all of a moment, cheeks turning a shade darker in shy embarrassment, but then he nods his head and steps back to give Bruce more than enough space to breeze past him and make his way in. ] Yes, yeah. Of course. Please. [ He’d already invited Bruce in earlier, but the surprise sort of outweighs the bit of him that has actual, working braincells.

Once Bruce is in, the door shuts, and Clark shakes his head in a furious attempt to get the warmth on his cheeks to go away. It doesn’t make his tone any less genuine, though, when he offers, ] Make yourself at home, okay? [ Which is the same invitation Bruce had extended to him, technically, all those days ago at the museum, only Clark’s a lot nicer about saying it.

He sits across and a little to the side from wherever Bruce has situated himself, mimicking the way he’d positioned them back when Clark had been bleeding on his armchair. No direct facing might be what he’s most comfortable with, so Clark adapts. ]

Um… so. [ How horrifically awkward. Clark fixes his glasses, offers that same sheepish smile. He sits with his hands on his lap, his back hunched slightly in that same, incurable posture. ] What’s the occasion?

[ By that, of course, he means the bouquet. Goodness, he can’t believe it. ]

[Bruce isn't going to admit that there's a thread of enjoyment to be found in the misunderstanding, but that does nothing to keep it from happening. He's certainly very... chivalrous, between his attempts to leave the museum without causing a fuss, with declining excess medical attention- with tidying up and leaving a note behind, and by throwing his door wide, creating a small sitting room for them. Bruce does not feel out of his element because some of this is a matter of expectation. He's supposed to normalize situations, acting as a kind of equalizer- and Gotham had certainly given him enough practice.

How different is it really?
Bruce has very little interest in status and public perception, but he's also learned that treating the unusual as ordinary does a great deal to bridge the gap. He isn't sure what he thinks yet of Clark Kent, and the reply he'd gotten from Jason as confirmation had been frustratingly vague. But here they are.]

Thank you. That's very kind.

[Bruce moves carefully into the room, carries himself not warily, but mindfully- aware of his surroundings and careful to leave as little of an impression on them as possible. It's an attempt to be respectful of his space, but then, he supposes it wouldn't be the first time that his good intentions had fallen apart. Clark settles in and Bruce follows, seated carefully in his offered chair- both feet on the floor, spine straight, shoulders even. The flowers rest in his lap.

They make a wholly asymmetrical picture.]

I'm sorry. I should have asked how you were feeling first.
If you've healed well.

[ Why does Bruce sit so stiffly? Some irrational part of Clark’s mind tells him perhaps it’s his fault, but he knows better than to blame himself for such things—it could very well just be the fact that this is a young man who punctuates questions with period marks, and stiffness is just part of who he is.

Doesn’t make it any less concerning, though.

The question of his health brings with it a brief look of surprise, but Clark’s expression softens as he nods his head in agreement. ] I’ve healed just f-fine, thank you. [ He certainly isn’t going about wincing any more, for one thing, which is as positive a sign as any compared to how he’d been faring all those nights ago at the museum. Healing hadn’t been the issue so much as adapting to the dark world had been. ]

I wouldn’t have without you, [ Clark mentions, because of course he does ] so thank you, again.

I’ve, um, been looking around a bit. Trying to memorise the map and settle in. So, uh… it’s good. I’ve been as good as I can get, afterlife-wise.

[ The corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, he makes a brief gesture Bruce’s way to address him. ] I bet you’ve been busy. [ And this is less because Clark suspects anything and more because Bruce just gives off the impression of being a busybody. It’s a good thing, mostly, especially given Clark has a fair assumption that Bruce is the type to do as much as he can with whatever he’s got to do it with. He’s helpful, and he’s got a good heart. It doesn’t take much to gain Clark’s approval, but he can say with confidence that he likes Bruce very much.

He won’t ask him to elaborate on his adventures. Bruce seems like the sort of person to like his privacy. ]

It really is nice to see you again. [ A sheepish smile. ] I’ve been hoping you were all right.

[Perhaps he's just a man who wears his heart on his sleeve. Both times now that Bruce has seen him, Clark's emotions have been clear on his face, easy to read as they move across his expression. He'd been moving around the room with apparent ease thus far, but surely it isn't strange to followup; they'd had a very distinct first meeting. Bruce's gaze lowers, lands on Clark's waist and sweeps upward, an unselfconscious once-over.]

I'm very glad to hear that.

With one notable exception, arriving in Beacon is usually a more mundane experience.
Which would make you either very unlucky, or something of a troublemaker.

[Growing up among the Gotham elite, flitting through the upper echelon of socialites with loose or sometimes no morals, Bruce has learned that there are two ways to go about conversations. Directly, or with sleight of hand. Loyalties have historically been a shell game, and his own natural earnestness, his preference for setting a course and following it, have come at a high cost. Even now, with the city and arguably the world far behind him- it isn't a method he's abandoned.

It's the same sleight of hand that redirects their conversation now- where instead of talking about how busy or not busy he is, about the dubious nature of what passes for 'all right' in Beacon, his gaze goes to the beams along the back wall.]

I'm sure having a project on your hands will help.

[ A troublemaker-- Clark laughs, ducking his head as he does it and pressing the side of his fist to his mouth as he does. Oh, he’s trying not to be… and he’s certainly too old to make any real trouble, he’s sure. It feels a bit like teasing, though, and teasing often translates to building some sort of rapport. So, honestly? He’ll take it in stride.

Whereas Bruce is some masterful player of the conversational arts, Clark is simple. He’s simple in that he’s confused at the mention of projects until he follows Bruce’s line of sight, and then there’s another sheepish noise and a brief nod of the head. ] Oh, that’s what you’re talking about. [ Clark’s the type to just ask when he’s curious about something; it’s fortunate that he’s able to read people, that being said, and that he’s met enough types to know when someone enjoys being roundabout and difficult for no particular reason.

His best friend back home was unnecessarily cryptic about everything, too. ]

Yeah—um, someone found a greenhouse recently, right? At least, she said so on the… the computer… [ The term Clark is looking for is “network”. He crinkles his nose and moves past it, assuming Bruce in all his Gen Z wisdom ought to pick it up faster than Clark ever could. ] And you need to cross a, um, river to get there. She was able to fly, but [ lifting both his hands up to mimic flapping with his palms, Clark lets out a sigh ] I obviously can’t.

I thought a bridge’d be good. [ Settling again, he leans back into the sofa, thighs parted just a bit so his joined hands can rest between them. ] Built all sorts of things back home, so, um, it isn’t too hard.

Mostly I wanna grow all sorts of vegetables. [ Clark sounds quite excited about it, and the grin on his face matches the hope in his tone. ] It’d be nice, don’t you think?

[He likes simplicity. He likes honesty too, and directness. Bruce doesn't always trust those qualities because too often he's found that they're skin deep- that they're worn like a suit jacket, put on for special purposes and special occasions. And perhaps it's unfair to like them in the first place, when he rarely embodies those qualities himself.]

Be careful not to wade in while you're building. Something lives in the waterways.
A few people have died that way.

[To the uninitiated this might sound like discouragement or disapproval- but it couldn't be further from the truth. A bridge would be useful, allow people without metahuman abilities to access larger areas and explore new locations. Bruce is responding with the best armor he can provide: knowledge, information. It is not the only way for a person to perish here in Beacon, but all bodies of water present a special kind of danger. Not all spirit attacks will snuff out a flame.

The shards of glass that Bruce keeps hidden beside his bed, the remains of Jim Gordon's lantern- are a testament to that.

The thought surfaces, and Bruce quietly closes it away. Another time. Another place.
Not here.

Bruce considers the garden instead, watches the easy, optimistic smile settle on Clark's mouth, watches his hands come to rest between his legs. It's a good sign, he thinks. The readiness to act. The sense of community. The corner of his own mouth tugs, an echo.]

But I can't say I'd complain about fresh produce. There's a worrying number of pickle jars collecting in the general store.

With so much on your agenda I realize it's in very poor taste. But I'm here to ask for a favor.

[ The reminder of danger serves as good reinforcement that the afterlife, apparently, isn’t free from death. Clark had heard, of course, that being brought back is possible after (and he’s not sure if he’s happy or not that there isn’t a second tier of afterlife to go to), but it doesn’t make him any more excited to lose his life. The knowledge is filed away as important information, denoted by a seriousness to his expression and a nod of the head. The water is dangerous, be careful when you step in it.

For the rest of this, though? Clark’s glad to have received some form of approval. Though he isn’t one to do things for the praise of others, that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable to get it. Clark Kent’s only human, after all.

Albeit an especially eager human, given the way he says (without hesitation, as for all his shyness Clark is as earnest as they come), ] I’ll do it. [ He’s not thinking about “poor taste” or “oh no, I don’t have time”, even when he hasn’t heard all the details of it yet. It’s probably a touch naïve, but there isn’t anything in Clark’s countenance that suspects he says “yes” because he’s an idiot. If anything, as meek as he tends to be, there’s a quiet confidence to him. A certainty that anything Bruce says, he can do.

This is less because of his own personal abilities and more because he never gives up, and when you never give up, you're bound to find a way to do anything.

His posture’s straightened somewhat now that they’ve gone into serious territory, at least as much as it’s allowed. Clark pushes his glasses up his nose. ]

What is it?

[His posture straightens and Bruce wonders if it's worry that prompts it, or simply the shift in tone. The change in subject matter. Bruce is very careful about what he asks- about who and what and when. The exchange of favors is a tried and true way to win or cement alliances, but it isn't a method he prefers. Unfortunately the options he has left to him are few. There are a handful of individuals he's come to trust and rely on, but this is somewhat- unique.

Bruce leans forward and offers the bouquet of flowers, and the moment he releases them into Clark's hand, a small SD card is left behind.]

I'd like you to make this available to the public.

[Apparently he's less interested in explaining the oddities of shapeshifting flowers than he is about the card itself.]

It's an app that can translate Morse code, both text-based and sound-based. It can be installed on any of the tablets.

[ The resurgence of the bouquet makes Clark freeze at first, his cheeks going pink, but he does get the hint and hold his hand out. Maybe Bruce is just trying to bribe him and this isn't some kind of-- ]

Oh. [ The flowers are a card now. Clark cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing as he holds it up between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand is used to adjust his glasses to help him look at it, help his eyes focus.

His heart rate calms somewhat. This is definitely easier to deal with than flowers (and does, blessedly, pull a less emotional reaction). ]

How do you make this "available to the public"? [ The card is placed back into his palm, fingers curling securely around it but not too tight. ] Is there someone I should talk to?

[The moment of uncertainty telegraphs easily. Not for the first time he's aware of how easy it is to read Clark's expression- of how little he seems to do to disguise it. His eyes go to the flowers, and as the shape transforms into a small card his brows come together. There's no way of knowing if this is the pieces falling into place and by extension, if shape-shifting objects are just part of the norm in Metropolis- or if it's simply the promise of a change in subject matter.]

Make an announcement on the network.

[Bruce's hands return to the only safe place for them right now- his lap.]

It can be used on any tablet. And the community at large can direct you.
Tell them you found it, anywhere will do.

You don't want to be associated with it. [ It's not a question. Clark looks some measure of confused by this, but-- perhaps to Bruce's credit-- chooses not to ask why. In his line of work he's more than used to receiving information others would rather not have linked to them; it's a courtesy that he certainly doesn't mind handing over to Bruce. ]

Okay. [ He holds his hand and the card inside it to his own chest, nodding once. ] I can do that.

Thank you for trusting me.

[ Clark seems to be grateful for a lot of things. He's even more open about it. ]

Is that all you n-needed me to do, Bruce?

[It's less a matter of pride than it is one of survival- but Bruce believes he's had a significant amount of practice in learning to read a person. He isn't concerned about being a good judge of character, in his experience, it's motive that reveals the most. That gives him the most reliable means of anticipating responses, predicting reactions.

Until this moment Clark has been polite and accommodating and not quite vulnerable as much as he's come across as- inexperienced. He'd been in some degree of shock after the attack in the woods, but hadn't decompensated or given himself over to adrenaline. He's asked questions that elaborate on a factual understanding of life in Beacon, not simply a subjective view. He'd said he was a reporter, these qualities would fit the bill. But something feels off.

You don't want to be associated with it, lines up against the stuttered is that all you n-needed.

Maybe he's over-thinking it. Maybe he's just bothered by the choice of words.
Thank you for trusting me.
Is that what he's doing?

Bruce straightens, stiff-backed in his chair, while the rest of his body remains almost unnaturally still.]

Yes, that's all.

Are you going to ask for anything in return?

Oh, I... [ He wracks his brains, as if expending a genuine amount of energy to think of anything he could possibly need from him. Then it hits him, and he lets out a soft 'oh' that's coupled with the raising of his index finger, as if telling Bruce to wait, wait right there!.

He rises from his seat, nearly stumbling on his way to the kitchen, but at least he manages to put the memory card into his pocket as he messes up his steps to keep it safe. He hadn't been lying; he'll definitely make that request of his happen.

When Clark reappears, he has a plate with three corn muffins on it, the plate small enough that around the muffins is about an inch and a half left of plate to keep them from falling off. The muffins are sweet, freshly baked; they definitely explain the pleasant smell that'd covered the whole of the apartment. Clark's covered the whole thing in cling wrap to protect the goods from the outside, because his intentions for them with regards to Bruce are: ] Take some. [ He's smiling as he says it, holding the plate out in two hands. ] I m-made too much. You'd be doing me a favour helping me finish them.

The corn was canned, though. Fair warning. [ Just like the one Bruce gave him before the stew, remember?

Clark Kent never forgets. ]

[This isn't. What he'd been expecting.

Nothing about Clark Kent had gone as expected and Bruce, who has spent considerable time and effort and energy on learning how to anticipate the future, how to predict the people around him and course correct in the moment- finds is deeply offputting. He'd said it in part as a formality, an attempt to be polite and express a measure of gratitude. Favors are a currency in and of themselves in Gotham, and his understanding of Kent to this point has led him to believe that whatever the ask might be, the price was likely to be a small one.

He wasn't expecting muffins.
Bruce looks at the plate, wrong-footed.

His hands move on reflex, before he makes a conscious decision to take them- but it does nothing to keep wipe the perplexed crease between his brows.]

You really do prefer to keep busy. [A beat.] Thank you.

[His hands find the plate, and then it too, becomes a bouquet of flowers. Bruce looks at it. He doesn't sigh, but he does exhale a little longer than he would otherwise.]

Oh--! [ Clark jumps back at the sudden change from food to bouquet, his hands lifted close to his mouth and his fingers curled in towards his palms. The surprise fades easy, though, and his hands drop as he moves forward, landing on his knees to anchor him as he bends down and takes the flowers in.

He fixes his glasses, what with how they'd been jostled in his jump. ] That's just like the c-card, huh. [ Which means the whole thing is probably harmless. Not ideal, of course, but harmless, and as long as Bruce is okay, Clark supposes he is, too.

But the sad fact remains: ] Gosh, I hope you get to eat them somehow.

[Clark visibly startles at the transformation, and Bruce suspects he might have done the same- if he hadn't been through this already. Instead of shock or awe, his expression just seems... tired. As if magic tricks like this are an everyday occurrence. He can be comforted by two details at least. That he only asked one question this time, and that he isn't blue. Dr Ingram had been an unfortunate sight, to say the least.]

I'm sure I'll manage.

[Somehow this does not sound optimistic- just long suffering. The flowers lift just a little, as he begins to climb to his feet.]

The effects only last for a month, either way.

Thank you for seeing me. [His gaze flicks away, in the direction of the card.] And for that.

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