|Qua da fuq, cat. Qua da fuq.|
So, tonight was back to school night for Zoomboy, and I’ve got to say– I was irritated as hell.
I’m about to be a diva mom– forgive me. As a former teacher I should know better, but I’ve gained some perspective since then– and it doesn’t always skew in the teacher’s favor.
See, in the 5th grade, Zoomboy had a perfectly nice teacher. Who did not mesh with ZB at all. She was all about the Homework, and all about the class procedure, and ZB was… not. She liked him, he liked her, but as teacher and student? She bored him shitless and he drove her bugshit.
So, tonight, the first class was gym, and there’s no way to make that more exciting or more personal than gym class ever is. The second class was math. We decided that math would be ZB’s one NON honors class but he’s been bored. So, I raised my hand and said, “If your kid wants to move to honors…” and she said, “ZB? Oh, not with his behavior and organization.”
I was sort of… floored, actually. I mean, I talk to teachers all the time. His sixth grade teachers– he had three– adored him. And I was like, “Oh God– what if a teenage monster has stolen ZB’s skin! And we didn’t see! I’m the worst mother ever!”
So, at every class, I made it a point to talk to the teacher personally– they had very little time– but I was like, “One word answer– how’s he doing?”
I got responses from “Awesome,” to “He works so hard” to “He’s so smart, he just needs to organize” to, “He’s a doll. I love that kid.”
And I had a lightbulb.
It was the fifth grade teacher all over again.
It’s not even her fault– she’s creating the best class she’s got– but her class is designed to move the lower achievers to grade level.
ZB is above grade level and he’s bored to tears.
So, I have to fix this. Something. Because if four out of five of the teachers surveyed recommend ZB as an awesome kid, then the one teacher who doesn’t has the potential to fuck up every good thing going on in school.
*urg* I hate being a special snowflake. I do. But he’s my odd little duck–and I am always so torn between wanting to fight for my kids and wanting them to do it on their own. I think this time he needs me.
* * * *
“Why jeans?” Bruce asked, bobbing lightly under the rope and landing solid air punches before ducking again the other way.
Clark looked up from his laptop. Bruce had stayed up late the night before, looking over Wayne holdings, and Clark had confiscated the damned thing because… reasons.
Because Bruce needed rest reasons.
And Clark had promised he’d scan some of the e-mails Batman had singled out as breaks in the mad bomber case. It had been the only thing that had dragged Bruce to his bed– no longer in the infirmary, thank God.
“I asked you,” Bruce said, not puffing at all, “why jeans? You wear them when you’re not working or wearing red undies and tights.”
Clark looked down at his jeans– not too faded, not too new, perfectly tailored to not be too tight or too loose. “They’re comfortable,” he lied. Yoga pants were comfortable. The form fitting leather of his Superman suit was comfortable. Jeans chafed and were cut awkwardly and invariably grabbed his… package… when he didn’t want it to be grabbed.
“Your cock is too big,” BRuce said, not even looking at him to see if he’d blush.
Of course Clark blushed. “You wouldn’t know,” he muttered.
Because yes, Bruce had been okay with the sleeping over– even sleeping in the same bed. He hadn’t complained that Clark had moved his things in, or that they had seemed to seamlessly weave their lives together without even mentioning that they’d taken two pairs of pants and sewn a circus tent out of them.
And day by day, Superman had watched Batman push and repair and heal the wreck his body was back into the finely honed human machine he wanted it to be.
But neither of them had mentioned…
Bruce stopped his bobbing and weaving drill and swung around–on his good leg, Clark noted, because Bruce had little tricks to hide whether or not an injury was still hurting him and that was one of them.
“Are you saying you’d like me to check,” Bruce said, eyebrow arched.
“No,” Clark muttered. Bruce took one, two, three cocky steps forward and then…
“Fuck!” Bruce said, his once broken leg collapsing over too much work.
“Fuck!” Clark snapped, setting the laptop down and rushing to where he writhed on the floor.
“Goddammit,“Bruce snarled, face taut with pain. “Goddammit. I was close– I was so damned close!”
“Close to what? Crippling yourself for life?”
Bruce rolled to sit, knees bent in front of him. He buried his face against his knees and let out a sound of supreme frustration, and Clark kneeled behind him, rubbing a soft circle on his back.
“You don’t need to feel sorry for me,” Bruce growled after a moment.
“Feel sorry for you?” God, they never touched. They laid in the same bed, night after night, and watched each other in sleep, but they’d never… “You’re driving me to blue balls, do you know that?”
Bruce straightened up and turned to look at him. “If you want me so bad, kiss me,” he muttered. “You just lay there, looking. It’s getting boring.”
Clark scowled. “You’re a grown man, you know–“
“You moved into my house, and pretty much told the JLA we’re married, and you don’t have the guts to fucking kiss me?” Bruce demanded. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Why don’t you kiss me?” Clark asked, stung. “I mean–“
“How do I know it’s not pity?”
Clark snapped his jaw shut. “I’m sorry?”
“We chase each other for five years, and suddenly you move in… because you feel sorry for me?”
“I feel sorry for me,” Clark Kent sputtered. “I have fallen in love with the most exasperating, closed off, communicatively crippled self-obsessed–“
“I fell in love with Superman,” Bruce Wayne said in his boardroom voice. “And Clark Kent. I’m not so self obsessed that I don’t get altruistic alien trumps millionaire playboy any day of the week.”
“Do you really love me?” Clark asked, feeling pathetic. He had his arms wrapped around his knees too, in a mirror pose of Bruce, and he scooted his but, easy like a child, until their sides were touching, hip to hip.
“God,” Bruce said, laying his head on Clark’s shoulder. “You close your eyes every night and I think, ‘He’ll kiss me tomorrow.'”
“I don’t just want to kiss you,” Clark confessed to the top of his head. “I want to… oh, gods do I want to…” He wasn’t so fluent in the F word that he could use it in the way for which God intended.
“Why don’t you?” Bruce turned his head, and to Clark’s surprise, ran his lips along his jaw.
“Because you were hurt.”
Ah. Lightbulb moment, for both of them.
“Why do you think I’ve trained so hard,” Bruce admitted, running his lips down Clark’s neck.
“So we could–“
“You won’t hurt me,” he said in his Batman voice.
“YOu’ll tell me if it hurts,” Clark begged him. Their mouths were so close to touching. They were going to kiss. They were going to make love. T hey were going to fuck.
Bruce Wayne smiled, eyes dancing. “If you’ll tell me why jeans.”
Clark blushed, when the idea of being naked, of having Batman inside him, hadn’t made him even stutter. “Why not?” he played for time.
“Because they look uncomfortable on you, and you have better stuff to wear on your off hours. Why jeans?”
Clark smiled sheepishly. “Because I wanted you to notice my ass,” he admitted.
Bruce whispered in his ear. “I noticed your cock,” he whispered, and Clark shivered.
“Care to notice it in person?” he all but begged.
“Kiss me, asshole.”
Bruce Wayne tasted… like everything. The dark of the sky between the stars, the depth of the blackest cave, the twist of the night dweller’s heart– all of it was in his kiss.
Clark moaned and pushed Bruce gently against him– and kissed some more.
Maybe tomorrow, we’ll get to some smex!