(FIC) Little Bee's Adventures in Outer Space (Bruce, Clark, PG)
I wrote this story for taro_twist's birthday, but it got.. kind of out of hand, so I'm sorry it's so late, sis! you know I love you!!
Thanks to Jen, who helped me get off my behind and finish this, and for the beta! and for the love! *glomps Jen*. This is the third part of Quiet Revelations, a series of slow introspective unwitting seduction :P
Fandom: DCU
Title: Little Bee's Adventures in Outer Space
Pairing: Bruce, Clark
Series: Third part of Quiet Revelations
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3600+
Notes: I took a cue from ladybugkay's awesome Hearts and Bones, because I loved her sick Bruce a lot.. I had the bunny of the little Bee story since the drabble request meme, but her muses definitely fed mine :) Please don't hate me, Kay! I am also very sure I was somehow inspired by starsandsea, but I kind of always am :P
Little Bee's Adventures in Outer Space
The first time Bruce had pneumonia, he was six years old.
His father got very angry with him, as Bruce knew he would get if he got caught staying awake all night waiting for his father to return. Wrapped in a thin blanket, he scurried outside the house, waiting by the doorsteps, intent on seeing his father drive back from the hospital in the middle of a snow storm. His father had found him a few hours before dawn, three days before Christmas Eve.
Bruce had been very sick -and grounded- after that.
Thirty years later, he laid similarly in bed on a Winter Solstice, arm thrown over his eyes, coughing miserably.
“I ought to say, Master Bruce, that if you were more sensible about your health you wouldn’t find yourself in such a state,” Alfred said briskly as he laid a tray with tea. “If you wanted to skip the Christmas party so badly you could have booked flight tickets and get out of town. No need for such extreme measures.”
“Alfie,” Bruce croaked, his voice a whisper. He didn’t say anything else, the single word -an endearment Bruce used sparely now but that had been most common during his childhood- was a plea for mercy.
Alfred sat on the bedside, helping Bruce to sit up. He was weak and bathed in sweat, running a steady fever since the night before. “I’m just saying, sir, that it’s quite an inconvenience to call off the catering and the invitations on such a short notice.”
“Am I grounded?” Bruce asked, a small smile tugging at his lips as he took the cup Alfred handed him, his hold trembling slightly.
“Very grounded, sir. If I remember correctly, last time you underwent such behavior, your father decided to alert Father Christmas of your misadventure so he wouldn’t come to the Manor until you were healthy again.”
“I… I think I remember that.”
“I remember that very clearly, sir. It fell among my duties to keep you from getting out of bed. You were never good at staying still, Master Bruce. Quite a handful, even then.”
“Mad Hatter…” Bruce started to explain, but his voice thinned out and another coughing fit took over him. Alfred took the half empty cup from his hands, keeping the liquid from spilling.
“Master Clark told me all about your little encounter with mind control.” Alfred smiled at Bruce’s grimace between coughs. “Lucky for you to have Master Clark coming to the rescue, sir, if I might add,” Alfred kept teasing. Bruce didn’t like to be saved anymore that he liked finding himself in a situation where he needed saving. “Without his timely intervention, you might have frozen to death.”
Bruce regained his composure, taking an unsure breath. He stared down at the bedcovers, his brow furrowed. “It’s not my fault everyone gets crazier in the holidays,” he said with a thread of voice.
“Chin up, Master Bruce. At least you won’t be out in the cold for a couple of weeks. And the cave is strictly forbidden too.”
“Alfred-“
“No, sir. I’m sorry, but if choose to endanger your condition with the damp and cold of the cave, I will have no choice but to leave you to your devices.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, eyeing Alfred carefully. Alfred’s most powerful card, to leave him, had come to play before, and Bruce knew from experience he wasn’t bluffing. Alfred had left a couple of times. The older man knew it wasn’t the lack of help that always did Bruce in, but the lack of a confidante and a friend. He couldn’t bear to disappoint Alfred.
That he was proud of his obsessive daredevil was an unspoken understanding. Sometimes Alfred regretted passing down his reserved manners and emotional understatement to an already self-absorbed boy. Bruce had a hard time, more than with anything else, remembering that not everyone was used to reading between the lines.
“No cave. Two weeks?” Bruce relented.
“We’ll see how you recover, sir.”
“Two weeks.”
Alfred smiled. “Would you like me to get your sketchbook?”
Bruce nodded, stifling another fit of coughing, his left hand going to his chest. Alfred stood up, retrieving a silver pen and a drawing block. Reading was entirely out of the question -fever and reading always resulted in heavy nausea, which had made young Bruce into a terribly difficult patient to keep entertained.
Handing his charge the book and the pen, Alfred cleared the tea tray and headed for the kitchen. He was afraid that one day the Master’s need for a confidante and friend would turn into a great source of grief if the Master didn’t allow anyone else to become close to him in equal terms. It made Alfred very happy to see Master Clark and Master Bruce forming a strong bond, but sometimes the sluggish pace at which the pair moved was downright infuriating.
Something would have to be done about it.
---
That evening, before Alfred could set his plans in motion, Clark Kent showed up at the Manor. Alfred smiled approvingly at the familiar form at the door while Clark fidgeted with a small gift box, compulsively readjusting his charcoal coat.
“Master Clark, what a wonderful surprise. Please come in, sir.”
Clark readjusted his glasses. “Hello Alfred,” he greeted as he walked in. “I brought something, for… well, Barbara told me Bruce had caught a cold.”
Alfred eyed the brightly wrapped box. “I’m sure Master Bruce will appreciate your thoughtfulness, sir.”
“No, no, it’s… it’s for you, Alfred. It’s tea. I don’t think he can be easy to deal with if he’s bedridden, and I thought you might need something to relax,” Clark said, shrugging.
Alfred nodded, showing Clark upstairs. “That’s very kind of you, sir. Thank you.” The older man smiled with satisfaction. Master Clark was walking down the right path, doing the right things. Maybe the one who needed further prodding was his long-time ward.
Alfred knocked softly on the mahogany door, walking in with a light step. “Master Bruce?” He called. The body lying on the four-poster bed was very still, the covers pushed to the feet of the bed. Alfred sighed, moving close to rearrange the heavy blue coverlet. As he worked around the bed, giving concerned looks at his feverish patient, Clark closed in, picking a sketchbook from the edge of the bed so it wouldn’t fall to the floor.
Clark eyed the scribbles and sketches on the book, smiling fondly. “Does he ever stop?” he asked, turning a page full of line work for some kind of vessel or vehicle.
Alfred looked at Clark for a long minute, his eyes assessing and unreadable. Clark was suddenly very aware of where Bruce’s heavy stare came from. Alfred smiled, seemingly pleased with whatever he concluded, and looked down to his sleeping charge. Leaning over, he gently grabbed Bruce’s wrist and brought the arm down from the unnatural position it was resting to lay it over the rearranged covers. What was visible of the dark blue silk pajamas was soaked in sweat, and Clark wondered -not for the first time- what exactly was he doing here.
“Take a seat, Master Clark,” Alfred said, pointing to a big leather chair by the French doors. “I would like to show you something, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Clark said, sitting on the chair and leaning forward to keep an eye on his friend as Alfred left the room.
Barbara’s call hadn’t been especially insistent or alarming. She had called to alert Superman that one of the big names of Intergang had been busted by Star City’s PD, and thanked him for saving Batman almost as an afterthought. She had laughed, a thread of affection lacing her voice, and said if he ever had wanted to spend a quiet Christmas with the bat gang, this was the year; Bruce didn’t have the strength to object to their plans for a small party now that the big Wayne gala was canceled.
Clark had thanked her and said his goodbyes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of concern that the call had left him with.
Bruce, not strong enough to object?
It was hard to believe, so he had decided to pay the thawing Bat a visit, hoping he wouldn’t be too surly after being saved from Mad Hatter, of all people. Superman had found Batman by the pier the day before, staring vacantly at the sea, wet and cold. Snow had been falling over the black cape, almost incandescent white for a moment before melting; the black leather in stark contrast with his blanched skin, his jaw relaxed, and his lips -blue, almost blue- parted, puffing small clouds of breath. A guardian statue watching over Gotham Harbor, the waves breaking below him.
Mad Hatter had been nowhere to be found. Superman had pulled at the cowl -sheer instinct at that point, unsure of what was going on- and Bruce had collapsed in his arms, shivering and mumbling curses. Clark understood Bruce’s anger at Mad Hatter; the only thing they both hated more than magic was mind control.
Clark tried not to smile as he flipped through the sketchbook, trying to make sense of the scribbles by the edges. Bruce had terrible handwriting.
Alfred walked back into the room, carrying a tray with an old notebook and medicine bottles. He poured water into a glass from the nightstand jar, and stirred Bruce. Clark got up, unsure if he was supposed to help or if it was better to keep to himself.
“Time for your antibiotics, sir. You have a visitor,” Alfred whispered. Bruce’s reply was lost to Clark, sleepy mumbles about signing someone a check, and Alfred’s lips curved into a tiny smile. “Not the kind of visitor who wants a check, sir. At least, I don’t think so,” Alfred said, turning to Clark, urging him with a glance to get closer.
“That’s some cold you have, B.” Clark said softly, taking his cue from Alfred’s low voice, burying his hands in the slacks’ pockets.
With Alfred’s help, Bruce sat up, rubbing his eyes sluggishly. Alfred rearranged the pillows while Bruce stared at Clark, the usually sharp blue eyes cloudy and disoriented. “Cold?” He rasped, his voice thin and harsh.
“Barbara told me you were so sick you couldn’t object to a family Christmas party. Invited me to it, even.”
Clark chuckled at Bruce’s look of complete confusion. “Alfred?”
“We talked about this before, Master Bruce. You conceded that having a small gathering of those dearest to you would be a nice change of pace from your current repose. Nothing big, of course. Just your little family of crime fighters, I believe.” Alfred shot Clark a reproachful look and the Kryptonian had the decency to look sheepish.
Bruce frowned, glaring at Alfred and Clark in turn before conceding defeat. Clark supposed that arguing with Alfred was difficult enough when at full capacity, it was probably nigh-impossible when incapacitated. “When?” Bruce asked, lips pursed in what seemed suspiciously like a pout.
“Christmas Eve, sir. Three days from now.” Alfred handed him a glass of water and half a dozen pills.
“Oh, okay.” Bruce took a sip of water, fighting a fit of coughs, and swallowed the pills one by one. “I’ll be dead by then,” he said almost as an afterthought.
“No such luck, Master Bruce. I’m not going through the trouble of planning another party for you only to call this one off too. I’ll remind you about the cancelled invitations and catering I had to attend to earlier today.” Alfred retrieved the almost empty glass and handed Clark the old notebook he had brought. “You might have to excuse Master Bruce’s conversational skills right now, sir, but I hope you can both keep entertained with this. It’s the Master’s first incursion in the world of self-published literature; a little quaint, but it has its share of enlightening verses here and there.”
Clark picked up the notebook, his curiosity piqued. Bruce glanced at the book as it passed hands and groaned. He cleared his throat, wincing. “Am I taking any pills for the indignity?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. But I can call Dr. Thompkins and ask if she can prescribe something for your aggravation.”
Bruce growled, the intimidating effect completely lost on Alfred, who reached out and carefully pushed the sweat soaked hair back from his charge’s forehead. “Now, Master Bruce. Try to be a good host.”
Alfred walked out of the room, giving Clark another unreadable look. Bruce was glaring at Clark like he was to blame for everything that made him miserable. It wasn’t an unusual glare. “I just came to check on you, don’t look at me like that,” he said defensively.
Bruce huffed and settled in the pillows, throwing his head back. Beads of sweat shook from his hair and traveled down his neck, down the open folds of the silken shirt. Clark cleared his throat, looking away, and opened the notebook.
With big, stylized letters in black ink, it read: Adventures in Outer Space.
In smaller, scribbled words in blue ink, possibly posterior, it read: By Bee Wayne.
Clark chuckled, turning the page. He could hear Bruce’s elaborate breathing make a pause as he waited for his reaction. Half was covered in text, elegant handwriting belying the content and the childish drawings covering the rest of the off-white page.
“This is not your handwriting,” Clark noted, trying to bite down a laugh.
“Alfred’s,” Bruce said, turning to face Clark, propped on the pillows.
Clark raised an eyebrow. “You dictated it to Alfred? How old were you?” Clark asked, ignoring the long suffering sign. The vigilante hadn’t been born formidable and dark, despite common belief. Clark had wondered on occasion about Bruce’s childhood, but it was a painful subject he would never prod about, and one Bruce seldom spoke about unprompted.
“Six, I think? Almost seven.”
“This is good art for a six year old.”
“I was… very visual.”
“I especially like the pirate ship. What’s the blob around the deck?”
“…a pressurized helmet.”
“For the ship?” Clark chuckled.
“It’s a space pirate ship.” Bruce coughed, reaching for his chest absently. “Had to keep the air inside the ship somehow as it sailed into space.”
Clark read out loud. “’Last time our hero was fighting the Hippo Queen and her evil minions’ - Hippo Queen, Bruce?” Clark paused, waiting for an explanation. Bruce had closed his eyes and snorted, a small smile in his lips. Clark kept reading. “’And her minions on the Nile. What new adventures await the Captain, lord of the seas and scientist of tomorrow? ‘The Stars are the limit!’ Captain Bee says. ‘I finished my newest invention! The space ship is ready to sail… into space!!!’”Clark laughed at the rocket propelled pirate ship depicted below, pressurized helmet and all.
“A pirate astronaut. You have never done things by halves, have you?” Clark wondered, smiling at the little figure with a big red pirate hat with an astronaut helmet around it. He kept reading…
“Yarr! The moon is in our way!’ Captain Bee put his hands on his hips, letting his hat obscure his face. “Turn to the right! We must protect our ship and find the star shores of Mars! To the right, friends! Don’t let the ship crash!”
Captain Bee ran to the wheel, taking control of his ship as his men fought to change course. The Mother of Pearl sailed across the black space, barely missing the Moon, the ebb of her white tide shaking the ship. Captain Bee turned towards Mars, the rockets at full speed.
“We must take The Mother of Pearl to Mars and save Dr. Leslie, my pirate friends. She is the only one that can help us now… Father has allied with Santa and there will be no Christmas on Earth unless we can bring the antidote back home!”
Little did the pirate crew know that Captain Bee needed the antidote for himself, not just to save Christmas. He had been bitten by a giant snake in his travels and suffered a terrible illness, but he was strong and didn’t let it show. He stared into the horizon, searching with his sharp eyes for the Star Whale that protected Mars. They had to trick the Star Whale into letting them in, or fight it. Captain Bee was not afraid.
Clark turned the page and almost choked on the depiction of the Star Whale. It reminded him of Starro, if Starro was glued to a whale’s face and drawn by a six year old with a penchant for rockets. He chuckled.
“Clark?” Clark stopped reading as he heard Bruce whisper, shivers running down his friend’s body.
“Yes?”
“What did your mother do… when you were sick?”
“I didn’t get sick much,” Clark said, an affectionate smile on his lips as he looked down at Bruce.
“Ever?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t think so...” Clark trailed off, biting his lip. Bruce’s eyes were half lidded, his gaze distant. Clark guessed he wasn’t thinking about his Adventures in Outer Space. His grip tightened on the notebook. “What about your mother?”
Bruce smiled a sad smile, his eyes closing. He went quiet for a long while, and when he spoke again, Clark’s heart tumbled a little. “I don’t remember.”
Clark swallowed, his jaw set. The way Bruce revered his parents, like they could have never done any wrong, distant judges that he had to constantly prove himself to; Clark had guessed he probably didn’t remember them very well. “I’m sure she was around, worried sick. Maybe she cooked for you?”
“We had a cook back then… Miss Maggy. And Alfred. I think…” Bruce voice wavered, his teeth chattering. Clark put down the story and moved to sit on the bed, one hand closing over a silken clad arm. “I think my mother sang. I remember her singing.”
Clark began to stroke his arm. Bruce’s eyes remained closed, and he looked like he was about to lose the fight to stay awake. Clark tried to recall his earliest memories of his mother and father. He had an extraordinary memory, but the first images were blurry, almost watercolor paintings in his mind. A stray sound or a single smell was fortuitously attached to those fragments of his life, joyous little jewels from a time of innocence and curiosity. No powers to worry about, no responsibilities, no idea of a world that went beyond the farm, nothing bigger than the fields around home, no one stronger than his father. Clark smiled, the yearning entangling with later memories, a lifetime of experiences in Smallville and around the world. The first time he flew over the Atlantic, dipping into the water playfully, white foam rising as he broke the surface. His first visit to Africa, flying over the grass planes, rough housing with lions. Climbing the Kilimanjaro. Walking knee deep in the snow in Siberia, helping to pull provisions to an off road settlement. Seeing pain and poverty, joy and courage, despair and hope, people driven by their dreams and nightmares everywhere he went, no matter which country it was, which religion they professed, the color of their skin or language they spoke. Mankind, gloriously ripe with potential, constantly tripping with their own feet.
Clark wondered what it would have done to him to see the world without having those first memories of innocence and watercolored joy, if he hadn’t been raised by his parents, but the Fortress AI. He wondered if Bruce had ever been afraid of being left to be raised by the State and how Alfred had ended up with custody. He kept stroking Bruce’s arm, the silk cool and slippery under his touch, the warmth and the strength of the muscle below insinuated through the thin material. Bruce’s breathing was still labored but he seemed to be asleep now.
Clark opened the book again, looking at the last page. The biggest figure in the picture had a mustache -Bruce’s father, Clark suspected- and was smiling, a figure with a dress standing close by. She had the red pirate hat in her hands, and a smaller figure stood next to another woman, this one wearing a white dress or a doctor coat. Captain Bee and Doctor Leslie were smiling at each other, like they were sharing a secret. Alfred’s handwriting read at the top:
‘We’re home now, Doctor Leslie. Thanks to your antidote, Christmas is saved!’ Captain Bee said to his friend.
‘Yes, little Bee. But you must not let your parents know you’re secretly Captain Bee, space pirate, lord of the seas and scientist of tomorrow. They would worry about your adventures!’ Doctor Leslie said.
Captain Bee laughed. ‘They won’t know, Doctor Leslie! It’s our secret.’
Clark stared at the relic of a time without worries with a certain reverence. It was a fragment of memories that made the difficult choices easier, the innocence and curiosity of a simpler time. It was one of the little pieces of the machinery that made up Bruce’s moral compass, a piece that was subtly different from the ones that made up Clark’s, but similar enough that it made Clark yearn for home.
And here our story ends. What new adventures await our hero? Which new friends will he meet on his travels? Tune in next time to find out!
Clark closed the book and stood up. He left it on the bedside table and with a last glance at his friend, he closed the door behind him.
It was but one piece of the puzzle, one painting in a collection, one jewel in the crown. With enough time, Clark was sure he would be able to put it all together and gaze at the masterpiece and the mystery around him without being completely perplexed.
Clark was a patient man.
Thanks to Jen, who helped me get off my behind and finish this, and for the beta! and for the love! *glomps Jen*. This is the third part of Quiet Revelations, a series of slow introspective unwitting seduction :P
Fandom: DCU
Title: Little Bee's Adventures in Outer Space
Pairing: Bruce, Clark
Series: Third part of Quiet Revelations
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3600+
Notes: I took a cue from ladybugkay's awesome Hearts and Bones, because I loved her sick Bruce a lot.. I had the bunny of the little Bee story since the drabble request meme, but her muses definitely fed mine :) Please don't hate me, Kay! I am also very sure I was somehow inspired by starsandsea, but I kind of always am :P
Little Bee's Adventures in Outer Space
The first time Bruce had pneumonia, he was six years old.
His father got very angry with him, as Bruce knew he would get if he got caught staying awake all night waiting for his father to return. Wrapped in a thin blanket, he scurried outside the house, waiting by the doorsteps, intent on seeing his father drive back from the hospital in the middle of a snow storm. His father had found him a few hours before dawn, three days before Christmas Eve.
Bruce had been very sick -and grounded- after that.
Thirty years later, he laid similarly in bed on a Winter Solstice, arm thrown over his eyes, coughing miserably.
“I ought to say, Master Bruce, that if you were more sensible about your health you wouldn’t find yourself in such a state,” Alfred said briskly as he laid a tray with tea. “If you wanted to skip the Christmas party so badly you could have booked flight tickets and get out of town. No need for such extreme measures.”
“Alfie,” Bruce croaked, his voice a whisper. He didn’t say anything else, the single word -an endearment Bruce used sparely now but that had been most common during his childhood- was a plea for mercy.
Alfred sat on the bedside, helping Bruce to sit up. He was weak and bathed in sweat, running a steady fever since the night before. “I’m just saying, sir, that it’s quite an inconvenience to call off the catering and the invitations on such a short notice.”
“Am I grounded?” Bruce asked, a small smile tugging at his lips as he took the cup Alfred handed him, his hold trembling slightly.
“Very grounded, sir. If I remember correctly, last time you underwent such behavior, your father decided to alert Father Christmas of your misadventure so he wouldn’t come to the Manor until you were healthy again.”
“I… I think I remember that.”
“I remember that very clearly, sir. It fell among my duties to keep you from getting out of bed. You were never good at staying still, Master Bruce. Quite a handful, even then.”
“Mad Hatter…” Bruce started to explain, but his voice thinned out and another coughing fit took over him. Alfred took the half empty cup from his hands, keeping the liquid from spilling.
“Master Clark told me all about your little encounter with mind control.” Alfred smiled at Bruce’s grimace between coughs. “Lucky for you to have Master Clark coming to the rescue, sir, if I might add,” Alfred kept teasing. Bruce didn’t like to be saved anymore that he liked finding himself in a situation where he needed saving. “Without his timely intervention, you might have frozen to death.”
Bruce regained his composure, taking an unsure breath. He stared down at the bedcovers, his brow furrowed. “It’s not my fault everyone gets crazier in the holidays,” he said with a thread of voice.
“Chin up, Master Bruce. At least you won’t be out in the cold for a couple of weeks. And the cave is strictly forbidden too.”
“Alfred-“
“No, sir. I’m sorry, but if choose to endanger your condition with the damp and cold of the cave, I will have no choice but to leave you to your devices.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, eyeing Alfred carefully. Alfred’s most powerful card, to leave him, had come to play before, and Bruce knew from experience he wasn’t bluffing. Alfred had left a couple of times. The older man knew it wasn’t the lack of help that always did Bruce in, but the lack of a confidante and a friend. He couldn’t bear to disappoint Alfred.
That he was proud of his obsessive daredevil was an unspoken understanding. Sometimes Alfred regretted passing down his reserved manners and emotional understatement to an already self-absorbed boy. Bruce had a hard time, more than with anything else, remembering that not everyone was used to reading between the lines.
“No cave. Two weeks?” Bruce relented.
“We’ll see how you recover, sir.”
“Two weeks.”
Alfred smiled. “Would you like me to get your sketchbook?”
Bruce nodded, stifling another fit of coughing, his left hand going to his chest. Alfred stood up, retrieving a silver pen and a drawing block. Reading was entirely out of the question -fever and reading always resulted in heavy nausea, which had made young Bruce into a terribly difficult patient to keep entertained.
Handing his charge the book and the pen, Alfred cleared the tea tray and headed for the kitchen. He was afraid that one day the Master’s need for a confidante and friend would turn into a great source of grief if the Master didn’t allow anyone else to become close to him in equal terms. It made Alfred very happy to see Master Clark and Master Bruce forming a strong bond, but sometimes the sluggish pace at which the pair moved was downright infuriating.
Something would have to be done about it.
---
That evening, before Alfred could set his plans in motion, Clark Kent showed up at the Manor. Alfred smiled approvingly at the familiar form at the door while Clark fidgeted with a small gift box, compulsively readjusting his charcoal coat.
“Master Clark, what a wonderful surprise. Please come in, sir.”
Clark readjusted his glasses. “Hello Alfred,” he greeted as he walked in. “I brought something, for… well, Barbara told me Bruce had caught a cold.”
Alfred eyed the brightly wrapped box. “I’m sure Master Bruce will appreciate your thoughtfulness, sir.”
“No, no, it’s… it’s for you, Alfred. It’s tea. I don’t think he can be easy to deal with if he’s bedridden, and I thought you might need something to relax,” Clark said, shrugging.
Alfred nodded, showing Clark upstairs. “That’s very kind of you, sir. Thank you.” The older man smiled with satisfaction. Master Clark was walking down the right path, doing the right things. Maybe the one who needed further prodding was his long-time ward.
Alfred knocked softly on the mahogany door, walking in with a light step. “Master Bruce?” He called. The body lying on the four-poster bed was very still, the covers pushed to the feet of the bed. Alfred sighed, moving close to rearrange the heavy blue coverlet. As he worked around the bed, giving concerned looks at his feverish patient, Clark closed in, picking a sketchbook from the edge of the bed so it wouldn’t fall to the floor.
Clark eyed the scribbles and sketches on the book, smiling fondly. “Does he ever stop?” he asked, turning a page full of line work for some kind of vessel or vehicle.
Alfred looked at Clark for a long minute, his eyes assessing and unreadable. Clark was suddenly very aware of where Bruce’s heavy stare came from. Alfred smiled, seemingly pleased with whatever he concluded, and looked down to his sleeping charge. Leaning over, he gently grabbed Bruce’s wrist and brought the arm down from the unnatural position it was resting to lay it over the rearranged covers. What was visible of the dark blue silk pajamas was soaked in sweat, and Clark wondered -not for the first time- what exactly was he doing here.
“Take a seat, Master Clark,” Alfred said, pointing to a big leather chair by the French doors. “I would like to show you something, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Clark said, sitting on the chair and leaning forward to keep an eye on his friend as Alfred left the room.
Barbara’s call hadn’t been especially insistent or alarming. She had called to alert Superman that one of the big names of Intergang had been busted by Star City’s PD, and thanked him for saving Batman almost as an afterthought. She had laughed, a thread of affection lacing her voice, and said if he ever had wanted to spend a quiet Christmas with the bat gang, this was the year; Bruce didn’t have the strength to object to their plans for a small party now that the big Wayne gala was canceled.
Clark had thanked her and said his goodbyes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of concern that the call had left him with.
Bruce, not strong enough to object?
It was hard to believe, so he had decided to pay the thawing Bat a visit, hoping he wouldn’t be too surly after being saved from Mad Hatter, of all people. Superman had found Batman by the pier the day before, staring vacantly at the sea, wet and cold. Snow had been falling over the black cape, almost incandescent white for a moment before melting; the black leather in stark contrast with his blanched skin, his jaw relaxed, and his lips -blue, almost blue- parted, puffing small clouds of breath. A guardian statue watching over Gotham Harbor, the waves breaking below him.
Mad Hatter had been nowhere to be found. Superman had pulled at the cowl -sheer instinct at that point, unsure of what was going on- and Bruce had collapsed in his arms, shivering and mumbling curses. Clark understood Bruce’s anger at Mad Hatter; the only thing they both hated more than magic was mind control.
Clark tried not to smile as he flipped through the sketchbook, trying to make sense of the scribbles by the edges. Bruce had terrible handwriting.
Alfred walked back into the room, carrying a tray with an old notebook and medicine bottles. He poured water into a glass from the nightstand jar, and stirred Bruce. Clark got up, unsure if he was supposed to help or if it was better to keep to himself.
“Time for your antibiotics, sir. You have a visitor,” Alfred whispered. Bruce’s reply was lost to Clark, sleepy mumbles about signing someone a check, and Alfred’s lips curved into a tiny smile. “Not the kind of visitor who wants a check, sir. At least, I don’t think so,” Alfred said, turning to Clark, urging him with a glance to get closer.
“That’s some cold you have, B.” Clark said softly, taking his cue from Alfred’s low voice, burying his hands in the slacks’ pockets.
With Alfred’s help, Bruce sat up, rubbing his eyes sluggishly. Alfred rearranged the pillows while Bruce stared at Clark, the usually sharp blue eyes cloudy and disoriented. “Cold?” He rasped, his voice thin and harsh.
“Barbara told me you were so sick you couldn’t object to a family Christmas party. Invited me to it, even.”
Clark chuckled at Bruce’s look of complete confusion. “Alfred?”
“We talked about this before, Master Bruce. You conceded that having a small gathering of those dearest to you would be a nice change of pace from your current repose. Nothing big, of course. Just your little family of crime fighters, I believe.” Alfred shot Clark a reproachful look and the Kryptonian had the decency to look sheepish.
Bruce frowned, glaring at Alfred and Clark in turn before conceding defeat. Clark supposed that arguing with Alfred was difficult enough when at full capacity, it was probably nigh-impossible when incapacitated. “When?” Bruce asked, lips pursed in what seemed suspiciously like a pout.
“Christmas Eve, sir. Three days from now.” Alfred handed him a glass of water and half a dozen pills.
“Oh, okay.” Bruce took a sip of water, fighting a fit of coughs, and swallowed the pills one by one. “I’ll be dead by then,” he said almost as an afterthought.
“No such luck, Master Bruce. I’m not going through the trouble of planning another party for you only to call this one off too. I’ll remind you about the cancelled invitations and catering I had to attend to earlier today.” Alfred retrieved the almost empty glass and handed Clark the old notebook he had brought. “You might have to excuse Master Bruce’s conversational skills right now, sir, but I hope you can both keep entertained with this. It’s the Master’s first incursion in the world of self-published literature; a little quaint, but it has its share of enlightening verses here and there.”
Clark picked up the notebook, his curiosity piqued. Bruce glanced at the book as it passed hands and groaned. He cleared his throat, wincing. “Am I taking any pills for the indignity?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. But I can call Dr. Thompkins and ask if she can prescribe something for your aggravation.”
Bruce growled, the intimidating effect completely lost on Alfred, who reached out and carefully pushed the sweat soaked hair back from his charge’s forehead. “Now, Master Bruce. Try to be a good host.”
Alfred walked out of the room, giving Clark another unreadable look. Bruce was glaring at Clark like he was to blame for everything that made him miserable. It wasn’t an unusual glare. “I just came to check on you, don’t look at me like that,” he said defensively.
Bruce huffed and settled in the pillows, throwing his head back. Beads of sweat shook from his hair and traveled down his neck, down the open folds of the silken shirt. Clark cleared his throat, looking away, and opened the notebook.
With big, stylized letters in black ink, it read: Adventures in Outer Space.
In smaller, scribbled words in blue ink, possibly posterior, it read: By Bee Wayne.
Clark chuckled, turning the page. He could hear Bruce’s elaborate breathing make a pause as he waited for his reaction. Half was covered in text, elegant handwriting belying the content and the childish drawings covering the rest of the off-white page.
“This is not your handwriting,” Clark noted, trying to bite down a laugh.
“Alfred’s,” Bruce said, turning to face Clark, propped on the pillows.
Clark raised an eyebrow. “You dictated it to Alfred? How old were you?” Clark asked, ignoring the long suffering sign. The vigilante hadn’t been born formidable and dark, despite common belief. Clark had wondered on occasion about Bruce’s childhood, but it was a painful subject he would never prod about, and one Bruce seldom spoke about unprompted.
“Six, I think? Almost seven.”
“This is good art for a six year old.”
“I was… very visual.”
“I especially like the pirate ship. What’s the blob around the deck?”
“…a pressurized helmet.”
“For the ship?” Clark chuckled.
“It’s a space pirate ship.” Bruce coughed, reaching for his chest absently. “Had to keep the air inside the ship somehow as it sailed into space.”
Clark read out loud. “’Last time our hero was fighting the Hippo Queen and her evil minions’ - Hippo Queen, Bruce?” Clark paused, waiting for an explanation. Bruce had closed his eyes and snorted, a small smile in his lips. Clark kept reading. “’And her minions on the Nile. What new adventures await the Captain, lord of the seas and scientist of tomorrow? ‘The Stars are the limit!’ Captain Bee says. ‘I finished my newest invention! The space ship is ready to sail… into space!!!’”Clark laughed at the rocket propelled pirate ship depicted below, pressurized helmet and all.
“A pirate astronaut. You have never done things by halves, have you?” Clark wondered, smiling at the little figure with a big red pirate hat with an astronaut helmet around it. He kept reading…
“Yarr! The moon is in our way!’ Captain Bee put his hands on his hips, letting his hat obscure his face. “Turn to the right! We must protect our ship and find the star shores of Mars! To the right, friends! Don’t let the ship crash!”
Captain Bee ran to the wheel, taking control of his ship as his men fought to change course. The Mother of Pearl sailed across the black space, barely missing the Moon, the ebb of her white tide shaking the ship. Captain Bee turned towards Mars, the rockets at full speed.
“We must take The Mother of Pearl to Mars and save Dr. Leslie, my pirate friends. She is the only one that can help us now… Father has allied with Santa and there will be no Christmas on Earth unless we can bring the antidote back home!”
Little did the pirate crew know that Captain Bee needed the antidote for himself, not just to save Christmas. He had been bitten by a giant snake in his travels and suffered a terrible illness, but he was strong and didn’t let it show. He stared into the horizon, searching with his sharp eyes for the Star Whale that protected Mars. They had to trick the Star Whale into letting them in, or fight it. Captain Bee was not afraid.
Clark turned the page and almost choked on the depiction of the Star Whale. It reminded him of Starro, if Starro was glued to a whale’s face and drawn by a six year old with a penchant for rockets. He chuckled.
“Clark?” Clark stopped reading as he heard Bruce whisper, shivers running down his friend’s body.
“Yes?”
“What did your mother do… when you were sick?”
“I didn’t get sick much,” Clark said, an affectionate smile on his lips as he looked down at Bruce.
“Ever?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t think so...” Clark trailed off, biting his lip. Bruce’s eyes were half lidded, his gaze distant. Clark guessed he wasn’t thinking about his Adventures in Outer Space. His grip tightened on the notebook. “What about your mother?”
Bruce smiled a sad smile, his eyes closing. He went quiet for a long while, and when he spoke again, Clark’s heart tumbled a little. “I don’t remember.”
Clark swallowed, his jaw set. The way Bruce revered his parents, like they could have never done any wrong, distant judges that he had to constantly prove himself to; Clark had guessed he probably didn’t remember them very well. “I’m sure she was around, worried sick. Maybe she cooked for you?”
“We had a cook back then… Miss Maggy. And Alfred. I think…” Bruce voice wavered, his teeth chattering. Clark put down the story and moved to sit on the bed, one hand closing over a silken clad arm. “I think my mother sang. I remember her singing.”
Clark began to stroke his arm. Bruce’s eyes remained closed, and he looked like he was about to lose the fight to stay awake. Clark tried to recall his earliest memories of his mother and father. He had an extraordinary memory, but the first images were blurry, almost watercolor paintings in his mind. A stray sound or a single smell was fortuitously attached to those fragments of his life, joyous little jewels from a time of innocence and curiosity. No powers to worry about, no responsibilities, no idea of a world that went beyond the farm, nothing bigger than the fields around home, no one stronger than his father. Clark smiled, the yearning entangling with later memories, a lifetime of experiences in Smallville and around the world. The first time he flew over the Atlantic, dipping into the water playfully, white foam rising as he broke the surface. His first visit to Africa, flying over the grass planes, rough housing with lions. Climbing the Kilimanjaro. Walking knee deep in the snow in Siberia, helping to pull provisions to an off road settlement. Seeing pain and poverty, joy and courage, despair and hope, people driven by their dreams and nightmares everywhere he went, no matter which country it was, which religion they professed, the color of their skin or language they spoke. Mankind, gloriously ripe with potential, constantly tripping with their own feet.
Clark wondered what it would have done to him to see the world without having those first memories of innocence and watercolored joy, if he hadn’t been raised by his parents, but the Fortress AI. He wondered if Bruce had ever been afraid of being left to be raised by the State and how Alfred had ended up with custody. He kept stroking Bruce’s arm, the silk cool and slippery under his touch, the warmth and the strength of the muscle below insinuated through the thin material. Bruce’s breathing was still labored but he seemed to be asleep now.
Clark opened the book again, looking at the last page. The biggest figure in the picture had a mustache -Bruce’s father, Clark suspected- and was smiling, a figure with a dress standing close by. She had the red pirate hat in her hands, and a smaller figure stood next to another woman, this one wearing a white dress or a doctor coat. Captain Bee and Doctor Leslie were smiling at each other, like they were sharing a secret. Alfred’s handwriting read at the top:
‘We’re home now, Doctor Leslie. Thanks to your antidote, Christmas is saved!’ Captain Bee said to his friend.
‘Yes, little Bee. But you must not let your parents know you’re secretly Captain Bee, space pirate, lord of the seas and scientist of tomorrow. They would worry about your adventures!’ Doctor Leslie said.
Captain Bee laughed. ‘They won’t know, Doctor Leslie! It’s our secret.’
Clark stared at the relic of a time without worries with a certain reverence. It was a fragment of memories that made the difficult choices easier, the innocence and curiosity of a simpler time. It was one of the little pieces of the machinery that made up Bruce’s moral compass, a piece that was subtly different from the ones that made up Clark’s, but similar enough that it made Clark yearn for home.
And here our story ends. What new adventures await our hero? Which new friends will he meet on his travels? Tune in next time to find out!
Clark closed the book and stood up. He left it on the bedside table and with a last glance at his friend, he closed the door behind him.
It was but one piece of the puzzle, one painting in a collection, one jewel in the crown. With enough time, Clark was sure he would be able to put it all together and gaze at the masterpiece and the mystery around him without being completely perplexed.
Clark was a patient man.