Another short drabble that came with an LJ prompt. The topic for all of these was using 'Brucie', if you couldn't tell. Bruce's ridiculous, fake-drunk persona he uses in public. I really love the friendship that he and Clark share, so I hope I did alright in expressing that. Clark is nearly always exasperated with him, after all. Haha. :D

Disclaimer: The same old drill.

BLACKOUT:

Clark had always been, at the base of his character, a gentle soul. Mild-mannered, if you would.

That didn't mean that he couldn't be insistent if he put his mind to it, however.

Getting Bruce to take a week off in the country while he nursed a broken arm from his latest endeavour with Killer Croc had seemed a relatively simple task, even given the fact that Bruce was the subject at hand. He reacted to vacations like most people reacted to smallpox or the bubonic plague. If Bruce was any less dignified, he would have come kicking and screaming, and even then, it was a close thing.

All the same, Clark knew that the time off would be good for him, even if he had to exasperatedly force it down the man's throat like a child taking cough medicine.

Since Bruce already hated the idea so vividly as it was, Clark didn't feel as bad as he probably should have when the weather stuck stubbornly to thundershowers.

Bruce, though, was fickle at the best of times, and although he was as warm as he ever got towards Ma Kent, and Clark could swear that he was maybe almost enjoying himself a little bit, the man knew how to take revenge for what he felt had been a slight.

So, for the majority of the week, whenever they'd gone into town (and they did so often; Bruce could only stand being a hermit if he was in front of a monitor being productive, it seemed), he'd been treated to a performance of Brucie, Gotham Socialite, with the saturation cranked full blast.

Smallville was, of course, small, but Clark didn't see the need for Bruce to entertain himself in the local high school, of all places. He'd spent a quarter of an hour leaning over the secretary's desk, smiling and being generally flirtatious (Doris had two toddler grandchildren, and Clark had painted her fence last summer), before letting himself into a class where the students were in the middle of a lab. Clark could do little else but follow after him, mouth set into an apologetic, pained sort of grimace as Bruce shook hands with old Mister Mills, who had been in the middle of explaining frog dissection to the class, and who was now looking very confused indeed.

Brucie had then proceeded to tell the class that he was from the 'city' and he was Clark's 'boss', as though he were addressing kindergarteners instead of teenagers, and he was using very foreign and magnificent words. Then he'd told them all he thought frog dissection was barbaric and had gone out with witch hunting and plaid, even though he somehow managed to look excited and disgusted all at the same time.

Thunder rumbled, and Clark shook his head, face buried in one hand as he stayed near the door.

Batman was effective because he was taboo and unexpected and no one knew exactly how to safely handle him.

Brucie was effective for the same reasons, though it was really on the opposite end of the spectrum.

The thunder outside peaked to a roar, and muffled whatever small, gentle request Mister Mills had to get Bruce to leave so the class could continue.

And then, right on cue, the lights gave out.

There was a consuming silence that came with the darkness, even as rain swelled against the windows.

Then Bruce coughed, his plastic cheer palpable from across the room.

"Well, Trent. This seems like a terribly appropriate time to turn potatoes into flashlights, doesn't it? Unexpected turn of events, but I'm assuming that you all came prepared? Crack a bottle of the bubbly stuff, too; I don't think Lassie's going to have the generators up any time soon."

Next time, whether it was mocked as 'down home wisdom' or not, he was just going to let working bats brood.