uplifters | ( in the night ) ic inbox

[ 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.

( in the night ) ic inbox

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject