Gardens of Wayne Manor: Frost and Splinters (8/37)
Title: Chapter Eight: Frost and Splinters
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: PG
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 1500Summary: Bruce deals with the aftermath of his parents' deaths, perhaps as well as he can. From Clark's point of view, that isn't very well.
December
Bruce was a ghost in his own house. He wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms, his footsteps swallowed up by silence. Most of the rooms were closed off, unnecessary, the furniture under slipcovers, vague white shapes looming where once there were chairs and sofas.
He had sworn an oath. Not to honor or to courage--words whose emptiness had been made all too clear when he simply stood there and watched his parents fall--but to something he couldn't put into words, something dark and demanding and consuming. He had sworn an oath. He didn't know how to fulfill it.
Bruce walked through the silent places his parents used to walk and could not comprehend why he was alive and they were dead.
Sometimes he wasn't sure which he was. He would wake in the morning with the cold winter sunlight on his face and find no reason to be alive. Then he would remember his oath, and he would pull himself out of bed and go to school and come home and roam the empty corridors as if he were looking for something.
He was a ghost, caught halfway between life and death, and he could not bear it. He had to be something more than this.
He began to make plans.
: : :
Antonia's tearstained face looked back from the car window as she and her husband drove away. Clark and his mother waved goodbye until the car was out of sight, their breath puffing clouds into the winter air. The Manor loomed behind them, its windows dark and empty as a skull's eye sockets. Clark wondered if Bruce was in the attic, watching out the tiny windows as one of the last servants of Wayne Manor left. He hadn't seen Bruce since that night of wind and thunder.
His mother wrapped her gloved fingers around his mitten and they started to walk back to the bungalow. Martha's face was distant, lost in thought; Clark knew she'd been going through the newspaper's help wanted ads for weeks now, looking for a new position. There were circles under her eyes that Clark hadn't seen there for almost a year. He squeezed her hand and she smiled down at him slightly.
Back in the tiny kitchen, she stirred a pot of chicken soup slowly, her mind clearly not on the task. Stacked up against the wall were cardboard tubes filled with plans and layouts for the gardens; this morning Clark had watched her roll up the plans for Martha Wayne's moon garden and slip them into tubes, capping them with a sense of finality and wiping at her eyes.
A quiet, formal rap on the door made Martha start and almost drop her spoon. Clark didn't jump to answer it: Bruce would never knock so politely, after all. "Mr. Pennyworth," he heard his mother say from the front hall. "Do come in." Her voice was resolute and colorless; she knew what he had come here to say.
Alfred Pennyworth stood in the kitchen in his neat black suit, straight and proper and grave. He looked as though he might bow to Clark's mother in her checked apron with her cheeks flushed from the stove. "Mrs. Kent," he said. "Master Clark. I have come to inform you that--"
"--We understand, Mr. Pennyworth," said Martha. "I've been looking into travel plans back to Smallville. I have a variety of options--"
Alfred shook his head, pursing his lips. "You misunderstand me, Mrs. Kent. After carefully perusing the household expenses, I have come to the conclusion that it would be wise to keep a gardener on staff. It would not do to let the grounds fall into disrepair, after all. I'm afraid--" He looked apologetic, "--Of course, we will be much more limited in the kind of help we can hire, but I believe I will be able to assist, and when Clark gets older--" He cast a quick look at Clark, who jumped to his feet.
"I can help! I'm already old enough to help, Ma!"
Martha twisted her apron in her hands, looking close to tears again--tears of relief this time. "Oh, Mr. Pennyworth," she said, her breath catching in close to a sob, "It would be very kind of you--so very kind indeed--"
Alfred looked extremely uncomfortable at her gratitude, as if he were afraid Martha might try to hug him. "Nonsense, Mrs. Kent," he said. "You are not here on charity. You are here because you are an excellent gardener. Mrs. Wayne always spoke so very highly of you, and with reason." He nodded, looking satisfied. "You and Master Clark are welcome here at Wayne Manor as long as you wish to hold your position." Then the butler retreated from the bungalow, clearly relieved at being done with this messy emotional business.
As the door closed behind him, Martha wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, thank heavens," she breathed, touching her falling-star pendant. She scooped Clark into a quick hug. "You don't mind extra work?"
Clark hugged her back fiercely. "You know I don't! I'll be here for you as long as you need me." And maybe soon, he thought, maybe soon Bruce would emerge from his terrible isolation and it would be like old times. It would feel like home, if that happened.
: : :
Years later, sitting in a stuffy college classroom listening to a lecture on human psychology, Clark will suddenly sit up straighter and start taking copious notes as the professor starts talking about post-traumatic stress disorder. He will go back to his dormitory carrying a stack of books from the library on trauma and clinical depression, reading them late into the night, nodding and exclaiming softly to himself.
But that is years in the future.
: : :
Clark woke to hear hammering noises from the forest, the sound of splintering wood. He pulled on his coat and sneakers and followed the sound over brown grass rimed with frost, the air sharp and cold with the promise of snow. He stopped short as he saw the source of the sounds, then broke into a run.
Alfred Pennyworth looked at Clark down from the big beech where he was tearing the last floorboards of the treehouse up. His breath steamed in the cold as he panted from exertion. "Master Clark," he said. "What's the matter?"
The Secret Fortress was in ruins, piles of shattered wood and debris on the ground. There were a few cardboard boxes there as well; Clark spotted some comic books peeking from them, a pillow. "What are you doing?" Clark asked, and his own voice seemed distant and frozen as if by the cold.
"Master Bruce told me to take the treehouse down," Mr. Pennyworth said. "Since he'll be attending Milton Academy from today and won't be home often--" He broke off. "He didn't tell you, did he?" His breath hid his eyes. "He's enrolled in Milton Academy, in Massachusetts. He'll be boarding there."
"When...when will he come home?" Alfred's stricken face told him all he needed to know.
"All of your books and things are in that box there," Alfred said.
Clark went through that box, then through the other boxes, then through the broken boards, with increasing desperation. "Watch you don't get a splinter there, Master Clark," Alfred called down.
"Where's the Sword of Oaths?"
"The what?"
"The Sword of Oaths!" Clark frantically rummaged through the wreckage. "It's a--a--" Alfred was looking down at him, uncomprehending. "It's just a letter opener," Clark finished softly.
"Rafael has already taken away some of the boards to dispose of them. I hope he didn't accidentally--" Clark wasn't listening to him, he was pawing through the boxes and boards again, to no avail. The little silver blade was gone.
Clark heard a car engine start in front of the Manor.
Tossing down a crate, he started to run toward the sound, the impact of his feet on the cold, hard ground driving the breath from his body until it sounded like he was sobbing. He rounded the corner of the Manor to see the taxi driver closing the trunk and getting into the driver's side. In the back seat Clark could see a small, dark figure.
The car began to move down the driveway.
Dragging icy air into his lungs, Clark screamed after the car: "I hate you, Bruce Wayne! I hate you!" He started to run after the car, his throat raw and aching as it pulled away, further away at every moment. "I hope I never see you again!" He hurled the lies like a handful of stones after the car, saw the shoulders of the small figure hunch as though from a blow.
"I hate you, Bruce Wayne!"
----
(End of Arc One. Arc Two picks up six years later, when Bruce and Clark are fourteen. Chapter Nine is here!)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: PG
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 1500Summary: Bruce deals with the aftermath of his parents' deaths, perhaps as well as he can. From Clark's point of view, that isn't very well.
December
Bruce was a ghost in his own house. He wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms, his footsteps swallowed up by silence. Most of the rooms were closed off, unnecessary, the furniture under slipcovers, vague white shapes looming where once there were chairs and sofas.
He had sworn an oath. Not to honor or to courage--words whose emptiness had been made all too clear when he simply stood there and watched his parents fall--but to something he couldn't put into words, something dark and demanding and consuming. He had sworn an oath. He didn't know how to fulfill it.
Bruce walked through the silent places his parents used to walk and could not comprehend why he was alive and they were dead.
Sometimes he wasn't sure which he was. He would wake in the morning with the cold winter sunlight on his face and find no reason to be alive. Then he would remember his oath, and he would pull himself out of bed and go to school and come home and roam the empty corridors as if he were looking for something.
He was a ghost, caught halfway between life and death, and he could not bear it. He had to be something more than this.
He began to make plans.
: : :
Antonia's tearstained face looked back from the car window as she and her husband drove away. Clark and his mother waved goodbye until the car was out of sight, their breath puffing clouds into the winter air. The Manor loomed behind them, its windows dark and empty as a skull's eye sockets. Clark wondered if Bruce was in the attic, watching out the tiny windows as one of the last servants of Wayne Manor left. He hadn't seen Bruce since that night of wind and thunder.
His mother wrapped her gloved fingers around his mitten and they started to walk back to the bungalow. Martha's face was distant, lost in thought; Clark knew she'd been going through the newspaper's help wanted ads for weeks now, looking for a new position. There were circles under her eyes that Clark hadn't seen there for almost a year. He squeezed her hand and she smiled down at him slightly.
Back in the tiny kitchen, she stirred a pot of chicken soup slowly, her mind clearly not on the task. Stacked up against the wall were cardboard tubes filled with plans and layouts for the gardens; this morning Clark had watched her roll up the plans for Martha Wayne's moon garden and slip them into tubes, capping them with a sense of finality and wiping at her eyes.
A quiet, formal rap on the door made Martha start and almost drop her spoon. Clark didn't jump to answer it: Bruce would never knock so politely, after all. "Mr. Pennyworth," he heard his mother say from the front hall. "Do come in." Her voice was resolute and colorless; she knew what he had come here to say.
Alfred Pennyworth stood in the kitchen in his neat black suit, straight and proper and grave. He looked as though he might bow to Clark's mother in her checked apron with her cheeks flushed from the stove. "Mrs. Kent," he said. "Master Clark. I have come to inform you that--"
"--We understand, Mr. Pennyworth," said Martha. "I've been looking into travel plans back to Smallville. I have a variety of options--"
Alfred shook his head, pursing his lips. "You misunderstand me, Mrs. Kent. After carefully perusing the household expenses, I have come to the conclusion that it would be wise to keep a gardener on staff. It would not do to let the grounds fall into disrepair, after all. I'm afraid--" He looked apologetic, "--Of course, we will be much more limited in the kind of help we can hire, but I believe I will be able to assist, and when Clark gets older--" He cast a quick look at Clark, who jumped to his feet.
"I can help! I'm already old enough to help, Ma!"
Martha twisted her apron in her hands, looking close to tears again--tears of relief this time. "Oh, Mr. Pennyworth," she said, her breath catching in close to a sob, "It would be very kind of you--so very kind indeed--"
Alfred looked extremely uncomfortable at her gratitude, as if he were afraid Martha might try to hug him. "Nonsense, Mrs. Kent," he said. "You are not here on charity. You are here because you are an excellent gardener. Mrs. Wayne always spoke so very highly of you, and with reason." He nodded, looking satisfied. "You and Master Clark are welcome here at Wayne Manor as long as you wish to hold your position." Then the butler retreated from the bungalow, clearly relieved at being done with this messy emotional business.
As the door closed behind him, Martha wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, thank heavens," she breathed, touching her falling-star pendant. She scooped Clark into a quick hug. "You don't mind extra work?"
Clark hugged her back fiercely. "You know I don't! I'll be here for you as long as you need me." And maybe soon, he thought, maybe soon Bruce would emerge from his terrible isolation and it would be like old times. It would feel like home, if that happened.
: : :
Years later, sitting in a stuffy college classroom listening to a lecture on human psychology, Clark will suddenly sit up straighter and start taking copious notes as the professor starts talking about post-traumatic stress disorder. He will go back to his dormitory carrying a stack of books from the library on trauma and clinical depression, reading them late into the night, nodding and exclaiming softly to himself.
But that is years in the future.
: : :
Clark woke to hear hammering noises from the forest, the sound of splintering wood. He pulled on his coat and sneakers and followed the sound over brown grass rimed with frost, the air sharp and cold with the promise of snow. He stopped short as he saw the source of the sounds, then broke into a run.
Alfred Pennyworth looked at Clark down from the big beech where he was tearing the last floorboards of the treehouse up. His breath steamed in the cold as he panted from exertion. "Master Clark," he said. "What's the matter?"
The Secret Fortress was in ruins, piles of shattered wood and debris on the ground. There were a few cardboard boxes there as well; Clark spotted some comic books peeking from them, a pillow. "What are you doing?" Clark asked, and his own voice seemed distant and frozen as if by the cold.
"Master Bruce told me to take the treehouse down," Mr. Pennyworth said. "Since he'll be attending Milton Academy from today and won't be home often--" He broke off. "He didn't tell you, did he?" His breath hid his eyes. "He's enrolled in Milton Academy, in Massachusetts. He'll be boarding there."
"When...when will he come home?" Alfred's stricken face told him all he needed to know.
"All of your books and things are in that box there," Alfred said.
Clark went through that box, then through the other boxes, then through the broken boards, with increasing desperation. "Watch you don't get a splinter there, Master Clark," Alfred called down.
"Where's the Sword of Oaths?"
"The what?"
"The Sword of Oaths!" Clark frantically rummaged through the wreckage. "It's a--a--" Alfred was looking down at him, uncomprehending. "It's just a letter opener," Clark finished softly.
"Rafael has already taken away some of the boards to dispose of them. I hope he didn't accidentally--" Clark wasn't listening to him, he was pawing through the boxes and boards again, to no avail. The little silver blade was gone.
Clark heard a car engine start in front of the Manor.
Tossing down a crate, he started to run toward the sound, the impact of his feet on the cold, hard ground driving the breath from his body until it sounded like he was sobbing. He rounded the corner of the Manor to see the taxi driver closing the trunk and getting into the driver's side. In the back seat Clark could see a small, dark figure.
The car began to move down the driveway.
Dragging icy air into his lungs, Clark screamed after the car: "I hate you, Bruce Wayne! I hate you!" He started to run after the car, his throat raw and aching as it pulled away, further away at every moment. "I hope I never see you again!" He hurled the lies like a handful of stones after the car, saw the shoulders of the small figure hunch as though from a blow.
"I hate you, Bruce Wayne!"
----
(End of Arc One. Arc Two picks up six years later, when Bruce and Clark are fourteen. Chapter Nine is here!)