stands_for_hope | for frightening: To Infinity and... just a little beyond that

for frightening: To Infinity and... just a little beyond that

Generally, when it came to interstellar politics, the first name called up among the Justice League (for good or ill) was Green Lantern. And when the request for arbitration came to them from a distant planet, they'd initially suggested the Corps to do the job. That, unfortunately, had started a political fiasco of its own at first, given some less than savory behavior from the Guardians regarding the planet in question in the recent past, but thankfully Diana had been able to smooth the ruffled feathers and propose a solution.

That was why Superman, well known throughout the stars and the last survivor of a planet many considered to have gotten a similarly questionable shake from Oa, had been asked to take on the mission. Given the distance and the unfortunate tendency for situations like this to be a trap of some sort, it had been decided he'd need a partner and Batman had been, in Diana's words, 'the obvious choice.'

Of course, Bruce Wayne's capability to deal with and even carefully handle politicians was well known to her, as was his ability to smell a rat at 100 paces should there be something underhanded afoot. Then there was simply the logistics: Gotham had decent coverage with Batwoman and others, and with Superman off for a week, Diana was needed to handle whatever might happen in Metropolis.

Which was why, after a bit of discussion (just a bit), Clark and Bruce were on their way to Voepra Prime on what was more likely than not going to be a PR vacation.

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Clearly.

Clark's been in the back, ~~letting Bruce aclimate to Not Being In Gotham~~ checking over the ship's supplies, listening in to the engine to make sure that everything was working properly there given how long it's been since they had to do one of these, and generally keeping himself out of the way. But when the fussing is no longer so blatant that he can sense it like a beacon, he makes his way up front and settles in the co-pilot's spot with an easy enough smile.

"They said it'd take most of today to get there, was that right?" he starts, keeping the topic neutral and his tone mild. He has to be sure not to be too mild but he's usually reasonably decent at knowing the right mix around Bruce's moods. Usually, not always, but usually.

His shoulders go tense when Clark first sits down, but it's for show-- threatening further moodiness, apparently. But he unwinds a heartbeat later, even pushing the cowl off his head.

"Yes," he says with a grunt, scrubbing one gloved hand over his hair. "Twenty-two Earth hours. I can't believe we're going this far into deep space just because the Corps won't pull its collective head out of its space police ass."

Much better. No need for the cowl for at least 20 or so hours, after all. If that.

"Well, at least we can always rely on Oa to be Oa," and it's the most optimistic pessimism there is, about as far as Clark can get in that direction. "But look on the bright side. Voepran medical technology is supposed to be second to none and they sounded reasonably open to sharing some of it with us in exchange for the assistance."

There'd be an advantage to this. That counted for something.

"Assistance is probably going to be sitting through three days of bureaucratic posturing and PR seminars poorly disguised as welcoming celebrations." Grumble. Bruce fiddles pointlessly with a gauge on the control panel before giving up and leaning back in his seat, exhaling. The fact that he's alone with his boyfriend (!) on a space ship for 20 hours hasn't really sunken in; he's still so rigidly in work mode that he's too fixated on being stuck in a tin can for nearly a day, useless.

Clark can't disagree with that, after all, but he's not all that upset about it. Their beats are covered, and, well, he enjoys the company. Even if things are boring, they can chat and spend time together. There'll be nice parts to it.

"You look tense. Backrub?"

Skipping straight past the idea that they needed to be on guard or that there was work to do. There wasn't, they both knew it, and they were in extremely safe space, one of the reasons why only two League members was allowed this far out.

--Wha. The sudden halt to the gears turning in Bruce's head is almost audible, and he looks up at Clark, suspicious. It's like a physical thing, the realization of Oh yeah, we're a thing, and the knowledge that they can fool around on the job clicking into place. This isn't really new with him: even innocent gestures in uniform can ruffle his feathers, because nothing comes before work.

"That's not a very effective use of the League's time," he says primly. You know. Because Bruce Wayne is the picture of purity.

It is moments like this, watching Bruce's attention shift like a cat hearing the can opener, that utterly delight him about his partner. It's adorable, quite frankly, and the prim propriety that follows as the cat attempts to pretend he didn't nearly fall off the back of the couch...

"Bruce," he points out with a delicate grin, "this whole thing is an ineffective use of the League's time. If we're going to be out here regardless, I'd much rather enjoy it than spend it 'efficiently' twiddling our thumbs."

Beat.

"And that isn't really an answer. Especially since you look tense."

His eyes narrow. What do you mean this whole thing is an ineffective use of the League's time, did you drag me away from Gotham for a stupid reason and a number of other uncharitable thoughts trip through his head. Months ago he'd pick a fight. Now, he takes a moment and forces himself to consider the situation through the perspective of their relationship and not just a crazy person who has no purpose or function in life outside his mission-- something he's really had to work at. He loves Clark, so he tries, but it's been a slow road.

"I'm in uniform." Do you know how long this takes to get on and off, Kansas. (Of course he does.)

"Uniforms come off," is his answer to that. "And can be put back on. Especially when we have 20-something hours."

He could have pointed out that he'd removed the whole thing in a fraction of a second once upon a time, but he's well aware that bringing up that particular escapade is not the wisest course.

There's another beat of silence before Bruce finally relents with, "All right."

He takes one last look at the control readout - everything perfectly normal, emergency AI in place if anything unexpected happens - and pushes himself to his feet. Hmph. He meets Clark's eyes and frowns slightly. His frowns have languages; this one is relaxed, lacking venom.

"You're a terrible influence, you know that."

"Just trying to encourage a tactically-sound course of action," Clark says, and he's not even attempting to look innocent. He's teasing, just a little, but he spreads his hands somewhat thoughtfully.

"We'll have to be on guard the whole time we're on the planet, watching out for everything and anything that could sabotage the peace talks. It only makes sense to use the time we have free to rest and prepare."

It's very strange. Having someone who just wants to make him happy, who accepts even his worst moods. Bruce never imagined taking their partnership past their working relationship, their friendship, could be so fulfilling. He raises gauntlet-covered hands and brushes them across Clark's chest - the symbol there, before letting them fall to his sides.

"Where do you want to help me get this thing off?"

Clark glances back, acting as if he hadn't already picked a spot while he was doing his inspection, before grinning up at Bruce as if to compliment him on the design of the ship for including-

"The bunks in the back should do, I think. Unless you had a better idea..."

Are they really going to fool around on a Justice League lightspeed cruiser before an intergalactic politics mission? Apparently. Bruce shouldn't be surprised; it's not the oddest thing he's ever done, by far. He makes a little 'huff' noise before walking past Clark to the small barracks area, unlatching the stays on his cape once he's in there. There's no sudden thunk or fall, given its construction, and he folds it over his arm to set it aside.

Clark lets him start the process, put the cape to one side, before he steps a little closer, placing a hand gently against the next most obvious clasp to start undoing the outfit. It's an offer, silent and careful and one which is extended with the understanding that it might be refused. But the hopeful little smile on his face says he hope it isn't.

Bruce glances at his lover, one eyebrow raised, before his expression quirks into something like a small smile. Yes, alright. Bruce detaches his gauntlets, letting Clark do as he likes, not moving painfully slow but not hurrying, either. As the Kryptonian has pointed out: they've got time.

It's almost as if he could year the 'yes' out loud, the way his face lights up, and he leans in to press a soft, quick kiss to Bruce's cheek. Then it's a matter of carefully, methodically (but not terribly slowly) removing Bruce's armor and carefully placing it on one of the other bunks until he's left with the all-black undersuit under his hands.

There's a kind of ritual to it. Putting the armor on puts his head firmly in Batman's mindset - his real mindset. Taking it off, by that logic, should strip the monster away. It doesn't; dulls it, maybe, and helps remind him that there are other things in life, but there's no actual off button.

All the same, here they are. Bruce undoes the closure at his shoulder, the odd cut of the undersuit letting him more or less peel the thing off. This is the real pain in the ass, given how tight it is, but he's got it down to a fine art after all these years. Having another pair of hands helps, too.

Of course there's no off button. There's no off button to who Bruce is and Bruce is Batman.

Those hands are gentle as they slide over the curves and dips of muscle and bone, and the smile on his face isn't so much lustful as it is... happy. Being with Bruce, getting to do things like this, makes him happy. The lust is just a part of that, shown by how reverent those fingers are.

"Lay down?" because he did mean it when he offered to give him a backrub.

Bruce sits down on the edge of the nearest bunk, but shoots Clark a bit of a look. "You're going to do this in uniform?" Teasing but also challenging, typical Wayne. There's no reason for Clark to get undressed as well-- other than Bruce wants him to be, and it'll expedite things when Bruce inevitably runs out of patience and wants to tackle him.

Clark looks over at Bruce and leans down to press a kiss to his cheek again before shifting just a little to add another to the corner of his lips. Or perhaps his lips themselves. Sometimes, Bruce was helpful.

"I was thinking you could help me out of mine as well. That is, if you want to."

Mm, yes, he catches that second kiss, the tilt of his head somehow possessive. Mine. He reaches out and settles his hands on Clark's hips - a silent Yes - and rubs circles with his thumbs. He knows how much the other man likes his hands.

Bruce is very familiar with the Superman suit by now, knowing every catch and corner even before they became intimate with each other thanks to dozens of disasters (and his own detail-obsessed mind, perhaps). He runs his palms up Clark's chest, slowly divesting him of those primary colors, making sure that his fingers, the backs of his knuckles, any skin possible presses against Clark's where it can.

And it acts like a strange sort of balm, soothing and entrancing even as it heightens everything. Bruce might be able to feel it, possibly hear it, definitely see it, the way his muscles relax and his breathing goes even more even at his touch. The fact that it's possessive, well, that just makes him smile, honestly; he likes it, likes that Bruce considers him worth having, that Bruce will claim him as his own.

When the uniform is gone and they're both down to, well, next to nothing, Clark makes a point of catching those lovely hands and pulling one of them to his lips.

"Now, you probably should lay down."

"Going to have your way with me?" Bruce lets his fingertips drag down Clark's body as he sits again, turning to stretch out on the bunk-- which sounds like it'd be awkward, but Bruce manages to be graceful even when getting the shit kicked out of him, somehow.

If you asked Clark, he'd say it's just Bruce's natural poise, something he was either born with or learned almost immediately, something that's been with him since well before Batman had a name or a costume. He's intensely controlled, and he's certainly no lummox no matter how many jokes are made, but he'll never quite have that poise. His own tendency has a gravitas to it, but not nearly the same level of elegance.

"Going to give you a backrub, like I said," Clark informs him, "though should you decide it's time for something else, I'm fairly sure I'll be pleased with the results."

for frightening: To Infinity and... just a little beyond that

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