☀ @waynetowered ⇢ continued from [ x ]
Internal or not, language of that sort would’ve caused Clark to cringe ——- had it not been for the fuming bitterness. That arrogant son’of’a… he’s less interested in sitting here to stew in the rejection, but rather ready to confront him head on. This was ridiculous -— HUMILIATING -— and a total waste of his time. Just another nail in the coffin on this one; red flags he should have predicted and used as his reasoning for avoiding this mess altogether. Why he ever bothered agreeing to this in the first place was…beyond him. Damn that man’s convincing charm; his logic —- damn his everything.
He ditches the restaurant, but leaves behind an apology to the staff and a tip that emptied his pockets ( though by their standards — poor ). The single FLOWER he’d brought with him, as part of the charade ( no other reason, obviously ), is tossed to the curb as he takes off for a dark alleyway before flight. It won’t take him long to reach Wayne’s house —— so he does a few spins around the globe just to cool off.
Alfred lets him in, and takes him down to the cave in silence. Thoughts of shoving a fist in that perfectly squared jaw runs through multiple times, but once he’s in the cool, calm of the cave -—- he sucks in a deep breath, only to let it out once he’s directly behind him and his stupid chair.
❝ You didn’t show up. I kept waiting.❞ Short and sweet; a courtesy he didn’t think Bruce really deserved. And with the hopes of this turning into a civil discussion, Bruce half turns to face him —– offering up a response that brings Clark’s blood to a BOIL.
He blinks a few times in response; taken aback by the simple, impersonal response. He should have expected this —– it’s Bruce. Bruce only does things when it benefits him, or Gotham. It’s always on his time. His terms. An irritant Clark left alone, for the sake of their collaboration -—- at least until today.
❝ Cut the crap, Bruce!❞ He grips the corner of the chair and forces him to face Clark fully, and then leans in. ❝ Where were you, huh? SCREW the apology -— I want an explanation. You dragged me out here, pretending —- for you! And you make me look like a friggin’ idiot! Some puppy-love moron waiting on the Prince that never shows. I agreed to go along with this, to help ——- NOT at the expense of my dignity, or time. Which you’re wastin’. ❞ A huff, which is concerning enough as it is. The reaction Bruce elicits from him alone is embarrassing. That, and the fact that he had to clear his throat and try to casually pull back from their close proximity.
He hadn’t planned it this way.
Bruce had booked the restaurant for seven, a respectable time; with no real intention of showing up earlier than a quarter past the hour, an apologetic smile placed neatly onto his face, his hand already finding Clark’s behind his back, a charming, easy aptitude that would make the maitre d’ forgive him and seat them far back enough so that those paparazzi wouldn’t quite see them through the frosted glass (-- he is Bruce Wayne, after all). He’d order for them, as he’s done countless times before, choosing a Malbec and pouring their glasses for them; heavy-lidded and tart, brushing his fingertips over his by way of inappropriate casualness, just enough to presume, not startling enough to be overt. Charm the waitress with a smile, but never quite take his eyes off Clark -- who’d be wearing something ridiculous, probably -- his gaze soft enough to be foolish; sharp enough to be appreciative. Dinner would end and he’d insist on leaving a tip large enough to pay for half the restaurant, finding his palm in the small of Clark’s back, warm breath against his ear; they weren’t quite sure what to make of them, not just yet -- Bruce Wayne and his new friend -- picked up from the heavy night by ten, only a little tipsy, mouth red from the wine and later, later --
The call had come in at half-six, a muffled static reading of Russian swear words and garbled, fast coordinates. He’d steepled his hands together by his head and listened -- idiot had run the call through four different networks, but still hadn’t found his bug (like he would’ve anyway --); watching as the pertinent information was scrawled across his screen in blue, triangulated on his map within seconds, pinpointed and secured by the time the minute was up. Those idiots never learned.
He supposed he had meant to call, somewhere by the time the clock had reached eight, and Bruce had been squinting at his computer screen for the better part of the past two hours. It wasn’t unlike him to be late, and he’d grown accustomed to the look on men and women’s faces -- that broken annoyance as soon as he’d come into view, that scrambled, useless thought that he was bound to turn up eventually. Irregardless, it was their fourth outing; nothing special. Just a busy restaurant up near Old Gotham, too arrogant in itself for the food to be that good (not to say he wasn’t thinking of buying it, but --). The news reporters would be satisfied, it’d be a delicious twist in their tale -- the flirtation between the charming, innocent Daily Planet reporter and Gotham’s favourite playboy, had it reached a turn for the worst? It was enough, certainly, to keep the attention off them for a few days, at best. He supposed, but he didn’t. Clark had rather slipped his mind.
Cut the crap, Bruce. It’d be funny, almost, if it weren’t for the look on his face. Bruce arches an eyebrow, altogether more surprised by his vehemence than his sudden appearance. “It was just dinner, Clark,” he says, coolly, tilting his head a little as if to get a better view of his person. He does, annoyingly, look good; those sharp blue eyes boring into his and -- why is he so close? “I pull this kind of thing all the time.” It’s blasé, and Bruce motions with one hand, carelessly, to prove it, his tone verging on bored. “I’ll just have to make it up to you. Something bigger. Flashier.” He shrugs. “The press will like it.”
He then clears his throat, eyeing Clark with no degree of subtlety. “You can wear that again.”
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