Gardens of Wayne Manor: Rosemary for Remembrance (15/37)
Title: Chapter Fifteen: Rosemary for Remembrance
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth
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: 2800Summary: After their adventure, Bruce and Clark have a summer to spend together.
Smuggling Ring Smashed, Ringleader in Custody, blared the front page of the Gotham Gazette. Clark was reading it in the kitchen, his lips moving slightly as he hit the lines he was most proud of: When asked about his escape, Detective James Gordon said that he had help from two local boys who would remain unnamed. "They're real Gotham heroes," Gordon said.
The cottage door swung open and Bruce burst in without knocking. "Have you got it? Let me see it!" Clark held out the paper and Bruce grabbed and read it avidly. "Hey," he said, "This says 'by Dennis Gonzalez and Clark Kent'. Why'd you have to share the byline?"
"Mr. White argued I shouldn't have to, but the chief editor said he wasn't going to let an intern have a front-page headline, no matter how good the story was." Clark felt again the complicated mix of indignation and pride--the editor had admitted it was a good story, after all. "Mr. Gonzalez tightened up a lot of my language and changed a few lines to be better."
Bruce scowled. "It's still your story."
Clark shrugged. "There'll be others." Bruce's fierce defense warmed him almost as much as the story itself.
Bruce grinned. "You're right, there will." He glanced a bit nervously at the door. "Look, I'd better get home before your mother gets back." Martha Kent had not taken the news of Clark's adventures terribly well, and Bruce had decided it was better to lay low for a while. "I have to get to work on those application forms, anyway."
"How's it going?"
"Finished the Sorbonne this morning. Need to work on the University of Tokyo and Oxford ones next. Won't hear back for a while, though."
Clark squashed the selfish hope that Bruce got rejected at all of them. "Well, you've got all summer to brush up on your French and Japanese."
"That and...other things," Bruce agreed. He handed the paper back to Clark. "It's a good story," he said hastily. "You should be proud. It's really impressive."
And then he was gone, running up the hill back toward the Manor.
: : :
When Clark left the Gazette the next day, he found Bruce Wayne waiting outside the old revolving doors. He was leaning against the wall, reading a book. He glanced up when Clark came through the doors and smiled slightly. "Hey," he said.
"Hey."
The crowd of people leaving work flowed by and around them. Bruce chewed at his lip for moment. "Would you like to go exploring with me?"
"Exploring where?"
"Gotham."
Clark glanced up at the skyscrapers, the late-afternoon sun turning them from gray stone to golden. "I don't know, Bruce." Gotham, the national murder capital, was no place to go rambling about. Casual crime was a constant fear. Clark had never seen much of the city beyond the Gazette and the library, and the path between those two and home.
"I need to do this," Bruce said, his jaw set. "I've been away from Gotham too long. I'll do it without you if I have to, but...I'd like the company. We'll be okay," he added as Clark continued to hesitate. "We can deal with a little danger."
A couple of weeks ago, Clark Kent would have turned him down. But since then he'd had a gun pointed at his head, he'd saved a man from a watery grave. And he'd seen Bruce Wayne leap into the unknown to save a life.
Clark nodded.
"Okay, but I have to get back home before seven or my mother will worry."
Bruce nodded in turn, his silver-blue eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Promise."
And so began the first of many evenings spent learning the secrets of Gotham.
They followed faint trails through Robinson Park and startled young lovers making out in the bushes. They climbed rickety fire escapes and looked out over the maze of rooftops. They watched the trains roar through Gotham Station, watched the intricate ebb and flow of humanity.
And as the sun set and scarlet light flowed through the narrow winding streets, Clark found himself standing at the mouth of a narrow alley. He looked up at the sign: Park Row. "This is--"
"I know," Bruce said, his voice tight. "I've never been back. I needed to come back." He touched Clark's elbow, a fleeting brush. "I was hoping you'd come with me."
"Of course," said Clark.
Together they stepped into the street known better now as Crime Alley.
The air seemed darker there, somehow, or it might have been Clark's reaction to the tension in Bruce's body. The cobblestones grated under their feet. Somewhere in the shadows there was a rustling sound, then a crash. Clark jumped. Bruce did not. A thin cat slipped from the shadows and glared at them with mad eyes, then skittered away.
Bruce stopped suddenly. "Here," he whispered. They stood together for a long moment, Clark's gaze flicking nervously around the shadowed alley. Bruce was looking down at something only he could see. "I'll come back again," he said, not to Clark. He looked at Clark, his eyes almost luminous in the gathering gloom. "Okay. Let's go home."
They hurried out of the darkness and back into the late summer sunlight.
They got off the train at Bristol station just as the sun slipped below the horizon. As Clark unlocked his bike, he looked over to see Bruce staring out over the city, the lights starting to come on across it. "She's beautiful," Bruce said. "And we helped her, too, the other day. All of the city."
"Yeah."
"I've been away too long." Bruce looked away from the city to Clark's face with a suddenly stricken expression. "And I'm leaving again. To France or Japan or England. I don't--" He paused and frowned. "I don't want to leave again."
Clark looked down at his bike, kicked one of the pedals and watched it spin. "She'll wait for you." The pedal slowed and stopped, and he looked up at Bruce. "This is something you have to do. And you've got all this summer, right? That's a lot of time."
Bruce's smile was fleeting. "Not enough. But--" he nodded, "--It's a start." He bent and started to unlock his own bike. "Thank you," he said, looking down at the lock. "For today."
Clark shrugged, embarrassed. "I didn't do anything." He slung his leg over the bike and put his foot on the pedal. "Race you home," he said.
Clark beat him, but Bruce claimed it was because he had a head start.
: : :
The car door slammed shut and Alfred Pennyworth glanced in the mirror, assessing his charge's expression. What he saw made him suppress a small sigh. "How did it go?"
Bruce glowered out the window. "It went like--" He stopped and glanced guiltily at Alfred's eyes in the mirror. "It went badly."
"You said that with the interviewer for the Sorbonne and the interviewer for Oxford too," Alfred pointed out.
"That's because they all went badly," Bruce said. "I'm no good at this--this being charming and friendly stuff. I say what I mean or I don't say anything." He kicked the back of the seat with absent-minded petulance. "It's hopeless." He stared out the window at a homeless family sleeping in a box, a small child curled up under a tarp. "Anyway, maybe I should be focusing here, not traveling the world."
"Charm can be learned, sir," Alfred pointed out. "It is a skill like any other, no different from fencing or algebra."
Bruce snorted. "It feels different."
"Then I suggest you take it as a challenge." Bruce's eyes lifted to the rear-view mirror in surprise, and Alfred continued: "You're looking for a new challenge, are you not?"
Bruce blinked. "I guess I am."
"I believe human relations are a sufficient challenge for anyone, no matter how talented."
"Hrm." But Bruce was clearly turning over the idea in his mind. He stopped kicking the back of his seat and pulled out a notebook. "Maybe..." he muttered to himself, jotting down notes. He stayed engrossed in his thoughts until the car pulled up in front of the Manor, where Clark Kent was mowing the lawn, tossing up an endless cascade of green as he wheeled the mower back and forth across the wide expanse. He let the mower shudder to a halt as Bruce opened the door, running across the grass.
"Hey," he said, "How'd it go?"
"Awful," Bruce said. "As usual."
Clark shook his head. "Don't be stupid," he said, his voice affectionate. "They'd be crazy to pass you up." He reached out and shoved lightly at Bruce's shoulder. "Stop moping."
Alfred marveled once more that Bruce didn't stiffen or push Clark away as he did anyone else who showed him any sort of physical affection, however disguised as teasing. Instead he aimed a kick at Clark's shins, a sly smile flitting across his face.
Clark danced away and stuck out his tongue. "Poor widdle rich boy Brucie, it must be so hard being brilliant and wealthy," he taunted.
Bruce was trying to look outraged, but his voice revealed stifled laughter. "Shut up, you," he growled, and lunged at Clark, who ran off across the lawn only to get tackled from behind by Bruce. The two boys rolled on the grass, pummeling at each other in mock-battle--mock on Bruce's part, certainly, as Alfred had no doubt that he could have rendered the other boy unconscious in a moment if he were serious--and hurling insults between laughter. Alfred watched them and wondered if Clark Kent were even aware of how much Bruce opened up around him, how the gloom and distance that always seemed to set him apart dissipated around his friend. He wondered if Bruce was aware that, his lack of "charm" notwithstanding, he was the only person who could get bookish, diffident Clark to roar with laughter.
The air was filled with the heavy, sweet scent of fresh-cut grass. Bruce's good suit would be covered with grass stains and probably ripped, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to care.
: : :
Bruce was helping Clark trim the hedges when the letter came. He'd gotten in the habit of helping Clark with the gardening when he wasn't studying--not asking to help, just picking up whatever Clark was doing and working alongside him. He enjoyed clipping the hedges, molding nice square shapes from the wild growth, taming nature into something manageable and organized.
"Master Bruce!" Alfred's voice drifted across the grounds. Bruce looked up, pushing sweat-soaked hair off his forehead, to see Alfred standing on the steps, holding an envelope.
"Do you think--" Clark didn't finish the sentence before they were both loping up the lawn to the Manor.
It was a thin envelope, with French stamps in the corner. Bruce hesitated, but Alfred and Clark's expectant looks made it impossible to put it off any longer. He ripped open the envelope, took a deep breath, and unfolded the letter.
It was an acceptance letter to the Sorbonne.
"I told you you'd get in," Clark crowed even before Bruce finished reading it.
"Good work," said Alfred.
Bruce looked at the neatly typed phrases, at Alfred and Clark's beaming faces. They looked pleased and satisfied, and Bruce was ashamed at the brief, unworthy wish that had gone through his head as he opened it: that he would be rejected and could stay here, helping to tend the grounds and studying, forever.
: : :
The days were getting shorter. Bruce had been tacitly forgiven for his role in leading Clark into danger and was welcome in the Kent bungalow again. As he buttered another fluffy biscuit he hoped once more that Mrs. Kent never found out they'd been prowling around Chinatown and the waterfront just last evening.
"Are you all packed?" Mrs. Kent refilled his lemonade glass.
"Almost. I don't leave until Thursday," Bruce pointed out, feeling a bit defensive.
"Ma's always packed at least three days in advance," Clark said, laughing.
"It never hurts to be prepared," Mrs. Kent sniffed. "And this is such a long trip, after all. Won't you be coming back for Christmas?"
"He's going to be studying a lot, Ma," Clark said before Bruce could answer. "Even during breaks. But you'll write, won't you?" he said, turning to Bruce. "You'll send postcards?"
"Of course," Bruce said. "And I'll come back as soon as I can." He took a long drink of lemonade, focusing on the tart coolness while he gathered his thoughts. "I was thinking," he said, trying to keep his voice studiously casual, "Clark mentioned you and my mother were planning a moon garden before...well, years ago."
"That's right." Mrs. Kent looked surprised and shot a glance at Clark.
"Do you still have the plans?"
"Of course."
"I was thinking...I talked to Alfred and he agreed the estate had the funds for it, so maybe you could make the moon garden? I think--" Bruce felt his voice falter and cleared his throat, "--I think my mother would have wanted you to finish it."
"Oh, I would...I would love to. That's a very good idea, Bruce." Martha Kent got up from the table hastily and started to clear the dishes away, taking a moment to dab at her eyes with her apron when she thought the boys weren't watching. "I'll get started on it right away."
"You'll make sure to use that statue that's in the storage shed, won't you? The one with the angel and devil?" Bruce wasn't going to admit that he'd slipped into the shed a few times during the summer to gaze at the statue in the moonlight, at the fallen and unfallen angel, their eyes locked on each other, wings curved around each other in elegant lines of either fight or flight. Cool marble beneath his fingers, the delicate tracing of feathers frozen into stone.
"Of course, dear. That was going to be the centerpiece of the whole garden. Oh my, I'll have to start ordering the roses right away," Martha said, clasping her hands together.
"Maybe it will be done by the time you come home again," said Clark. "We'll have it ready for you." He didn't smile, but his eyes were bright as a promise.
: : :
Bruce shook hands with Alfred, solemnly. The airport crowds bustled around them. "Have a safe flight, Master Bruce."
"Well, if you think I'm shaking your hand," huffed Martha Kent as Bruce turned to her, then swept him up in a hug. She smelled of lavender and roses, and Bruce found himself holding her very tightly for a while as she patted his back.
"Well," he said to Clark at the end.
"Well," said Clark.
Bruce felt a sudden helplessness grip him. A handshake was impossible, but a hug seemed...not right, he told himself. A small part of his mind said that if he were to hug Clark he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave at all, but he ignored it resolutely. There didn't seem to be any third option. But he couldn't go without some kind of physical contact between them. That was what friends did on saying goodbye. And Bruce wanted...he needed...
Clark seemed oblivious to Bruce's sudden turmoil. He was pulling something out of his mother's handbag, a slip of waxed paper with something green within it. "I wanted to give you this," he said, holding it out. "It's a sprig of rosemary from our garden. You know--rosemary for remembrance? Just to have...have something with you from home," he said with a sudden, slight stammer to his voice.
Bruce reached out and took the little bit of paper, his fingers closing over Clark's for just a moment. The sprig of rosemary smelled of cool evenings and summery days, salt sea breeze and friendship. He slipped it into the outside pocket of his carry-on bag. "Thank you," he said. "But...I won't need anything to remember you."
Then he turned and went before he could say anything else, anything foolish, hurrying through security and into the wide, blank corridors of the airport, into the wide, blank future.
As Gotham City dwindled outside the windows of the airplane, fading into the late-summer sun, the world lay ahead of Bruce Wayne like a vast road full of promise. His eyes watered as the light reflected off the bay and into his face, and he brushed at his cheeks, turning his face to the window so no one would fuss over him. The scent of rosemary still clung to his fingers.
The future was waiting for him.
And he'd be back someday.
(End of Arc 2. Arc 3 picks up when Clark and Bruce are 16; the first chapter can be found here!)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth
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: 2800Summary: After their adventure, Bruce and Clark have a summer to spend together.
Smuggling Ring Smashed, Ringleader in Custody, blared the front page of the Gotham Gazette. Clark was reading it in the kitchen, his lips moving slightly as he hit the lines he was most proud of: When asked about his escape, Detective James Gordon said that he had help from two local boys who would remain unnamed. "They're real Gotham heroes," Gordon said.
The cottage door swung open and Bruce burst in without knocking. "Have you got it? Let me see it!" Clark held out the paper and Bruce grabbed and read it avidly. "Hey," he said, "This says 'by Dennis Gonzalez and Clark Kent'. Why'd you have to share the byline?"
"Mr. White argued I shouldn't have to, but the chief editor said he wasn't going to let an intern have a front-page headline, no matter how good the story was." Clark felt again the complicated mix of indignation and pride--the editor had admitted it was a good story, after all. "Mr. Gonzalez tightened up a lot of my language and changed a few lines to be better."
Bruce scowled. "It's still your story."
Clark shrugged. "There'll be others." Bruce's fierce defense warmed him almost as much as the story itself.
Bruce grinned. "You're right, there will." He glanced a bit nervously at the door. "Look, I'd better get home before your mother gets back." Martha Kent had not taken the news of Clark's adventures terribly well, and Bruce had decided it was better to lay low for a while. "I have to get to work on those application forms, anyway."
"How's it going?"
"Finished the Sorbonne this morning. Need to work on the University of Tokyo and Oxford ones next. Won't hear back for a while, though."
Clark squashed the selfish hope that Bruce got rejected at all of them. "Well, you've got all summer to brush up on your French and Japanese."
"That and...other things," Bruce agreed. He handed the paper back to Clark. "It's a good story," he said hastily. "You should be proud. It's really impressive."
And then he was gone, running up the hill back toward the Manor.
: : :
When Clark left the Gazette the next day, he found Bruce Wayne waiting outside the old revolving doors. He was leaning against the wall, reading a book. He glanced up when Clark came through the doors and smiled slightly. "Hey," he said.
"Hey."
The crowd of people leaving work flowed by and around them. Bruce chewed at his lip for moment. "Would you like to go exploring with me?"
"Exploring where?"
"Gotham."
Clark glanced up at the skyscrapers, the late-afternoon sun turning them from gray stone to golden. "I don't know, Bruce." Gotham, the national murder capital, was no place to go rambling about. Casual crime was a constant fear. Clark had never seen much of the city beyond the Gazette and the library, and the path between those two and home.
"I need to do this," Bruce said, his jaw set. "I've been away from Gotham too long. I'll do it without you if I have to, but...I'd like the company. We'll be okay," he added as Clark continued to hesitate. "We can deal with a little danger."
A couple of weeks ago, Clark Kent would have turned him down. But since then he'd had a gun pointed at his head, he'd saved a man from a watery grave. And he'd seen Bruce Wayne leap into the unknown to save a life.
Clark nodded.
"Okay, but I have to get back home before seven or my mother will worry."
Bruce nodded in turn, his silver-blue eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Promise."
And so began the first of many evenings spent learning the secrets of Gotham.
They followed faint trails through Robinson Park and startled young lovers making out in the bushes. They climbed rickety fire escapes and looked out over the maze of rooftops. They watched the trains roar through Gotham Station, watched the intricate ebb and flow of humanity.
And as the sun set and scarlet light flowed through the narrow winding streets, Clark found himself standing at the mouth of a narrow alley. He looked up at the sign: Park Row. "This is--"
"I know," Bruce said, his voice tight. "I've never been back. I needed to come back." He touched Clark's elbow, a fleeting brush. "I was hoping you'd come with me."
"Of course," said Clark.
Together they stepped into the street known better now as Crime Alley.
The air seemed darker there, somehow, or it might have been Clark's reaction to the tension in Bruce's body. The cobblestones grated under their feet. Somewhere in the shadows there was a rustling sound, then a crash. Clark jumped. Bruce did not. A thin cat slipped from the shadows and glared at them with mad eyes, then skittered away.
Bruce stopped suddenly. "Here," he whispered. They stood together for a long moment, Clark's gaze flicking nervously around the shadowed alley. Bruce was looking down at something only he could see. "I'll come back again," he said, not to Clark. He looked at Clark, his eyes almost luminous in the gathering gloom. "Okay. Let's go home."
They hurried out of the darkness and back into the late summer sunlight.
They got off the train at Bristol station just as the sun slipped below the horizon. As Clark unlocked his bike, he looked over to see Bruce staring out over the city, the lights starting to come on across it. "She's beautiful," Bruce said. "And we helped her, too, the other day. All of the city."
"Yeah."
"I've been away too long." Bruce looked away from the city to Clark's face with a suddenly stricken expression. "And I'm leaving again. To France or Japan or England. I don't--" He paused and frowned. "I don't want to leave again."
Clark looked down at his bike, kicked one of the pedals and watched it spin. "She'll wait for you." The pedal slowed and stopped, and he looked up at Bruce. "This is something you have to do. And you've got all this summer, right? That's a lot of time."
Bruce's smile was fleeting. "Not enough. But--" he nodded, "--It's a start." He bent and started to unlock his own bike. "Thank you," he said, looking down at the lock. "For today."
Clark shrugged, embarrassed. "I didn't do anything." He slung his leg over the bike and put his foot on the pedal. "Race you home," he said.
Clark beat him, but Bruce claimed it was because he had a head start.
: : :
The car door slammed shut and Alfred Pennyworth glanced in the mirror, assessing his charge's expression. What he saw made him suppress a small sigh. "How did it go?"
Bruce glowered out the window. "It went like--" He stopped and glanced guiltily at Alfred's eyes in the mirror. "It went badly."
"You said that with the interviewer for the Sorbonne and the interviewer for Oxford too," Alfred pointed out.
"That's because they all went badly," Bruce said. "I'm no good at this--this being charming and friendly stuff. I say what I mean or I don't say anything." He kicked the back of the seat with absent-minded petulance. "It's hopeless." He stared out the window at a homeless family sleeping in a box, a small child curled up under a tarp. "Anyway, maybe I should be focusing here, not traveling the world."
"Charm can be learned, sir," Alfred pointed out. "It is a skill like any other, no different from fencing or algebra."
Bruce snorted. "It feels different."
"Then I suggest you take it as a challenge." Bruce's eyes lifted to the rear-view mirror in surprise, and Alfred continued: "You're looking for a new challenge, are you not?"
Bruce blinked. "I guess I am."
"I believe human relations are a sufficient challenge for anyone, no matter how talented."
"Hrm." But Bruce was clearly turning over the idea in his mind. He stopped kicking the back of his seat and pulled out a notebook. "Maybe..." he muttered to himself, jotting down notes. He stayed engrossed in his thoughts until the car pulled up in front of the Manor, where Clark Kent was mowing the lawn, tossing up an endless cascade of green as he wheeled the mower back and forth across the wide expanse. He let the mower shudder to a halt as Bruce opened the door, running across the grass.
"Hey," he said, "How'd it go?"
"Awful," Bruce said. "As usual."
Clark shook his head. "Don't be stupid," he said, his voice affectionate. "They'd be crazy to pass you up." He reached out and shoved lightly at Bruce's shoulder. "Stop moping."
Alfred marveled once more that Bruce didn't stiffen or push Clark away as he did anyone else who showed him any sort of physical affection, however disguised as teasing. Instead he aimed a kick at Clark's shins, a sly smile flitting across his face.
Clark danced away and stuck out his tongue. "Poor widdle rich boy Brucie, it must be so hard being brilliant and wealthy," he taunted.
Bruce was trying to look outraged, but his voice revealed stifled laughter. "Shut up, you," he growled, and lunged at Clark, who ran off across the lawn only to get tackled from behind by Bruce. The two boys rolled on the grass, pummeling at each other in mock-battle--mock on Bruce's part, certainly, as Alfred had no doubt that he could have rendered the other boy unconscious in a moment if he were serious--and hurling insults between laughter. Alfred watched them and wondered if Clark Kent were even aware of how much Bruce opened up around him, how the gloom and distance that always seemed to set him apart dissipated around his friend. He wondered if Bruce was aware that, his lack of "charm" notwithstanding, he was the only person who could get bookish, diffident Clark to roar with laughter.
The air was filled with the heavy, sweet scent of fresh-cut grass. Bruce's good suit would be covered with grass stains and probably ripped, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to care.
: : :
Bruce was helping Clark trim the hedges when the letter came. He'd gotten in the habit of helping Clark with the gardening when he wasn't studying--not asking to help, just picking up whatever Clark was doing and working alongside him. He enjoyed clipping the hedges, molding nice square shapes from the wild growth, taming nature into something manageable and organized.
"Master Bruce!" Alfred's voice drifted across the grounds. Bruce looked up, pushing sweat-soaked hair off his forehead, to see Alfred standing on the steps, holding an envelope.
"Do you think--" Clark didn't finish the sentence before they were both loping up the lawn to the Manor.
It was a thin envelope, with French stamps in the corner. Bruce hesitated, but Alfred and Clark's expectant looks made it impossible to put it off any longer. He ripped open the envelope, took a deep breath, and unfolded the letter.
It was an acceptance letter to the Sorbonne.
"I told you you'd get in," Clark crowed even before Bruce finished reading it.
"Good work," said Alfred.
Bruce looked at the neatly typed phrases, at Alfred and Clark's beaming faces. They looked pleased and satisfied, and Bruce was ashamed at the brief, unworthy wish that had gone through his head as he opened it: that he would be rejected and could stay here, helping to tend the grounds and studying, forever.
: : :
The days were getting shorter. Bruce had been tacitly forgiven for his role in leading Clark into danger and was welcome in the Kent bungalow again. As he buttered another fluffy biscuit he hoped once more that Mrs. Kent never found out they'd been prowling around Chinatown and the waterfront just last evening.
"Are you all packed?" Mrs. Kent refilled his lemonade glass.
"Almost. I don't leave until Thursday," Bruce pointed out, feeling a bit defensive.
"Ma's always packed at least three days in advance," Clark said, laughing.
"It never hurts to be prepared," Mrs. Kent sniffed. "And this is such a long trip, after all. Won't you be coming back for Christmas?"
"He's going to be studying a lot, Ma," Clark said before Bruce could answer. "Even during breaks. But you'll write, won't you?" he said, turning to Bruce. "You'll send postcards?"
"Of course," Bruce said. "And I'll come back as soon as I can." He took a long drink of lemonade, focusing on the tart coolness while he gathered his thoughts. "I was thinking," he said, trying to keep his voice studiously casual, "Clark mentioned you and my mother were planning a moon garden before...well, years ago."
"That's right." Mrs. Kent looked surprised and shot a glance at Clark.
"Do you still have the plans?"
"Of course."
"I was thinking...I talked to Alfred and he agreed the estate had the funds for it, so maybe you could make the moon garden? I think--" Bruce felt his voice falter and cleared his throat, "--I think my mother would have wanted you to finish it."
"Oh, I would...I would love to. That's a very good idea, Bruce." Martha Kent got up from the table hastily and started to clear the dishes away, taking a moment to dab at her eyes with her apron when she thought the boys weren't watching. "I'll get started on it right away."
"You'll make sure to use that statue that's in the storage shed, won't you? The one with the angel and devil?" Bruce wasn't going to admit that he'd slipped into the shed a few times during the summer to gaze at the statue in the moonlight, at the fallen and unfallen angel, their eyes locked on each other, wings curved around each other in elegant lines of either fight or flight. Cool marble beneath his fingers, the delicate tracing of feathers frozen into stone.
"Of course, dear. That was going to be the centerpiece of the whole garden. Oh my, I'll have to start ordering the roses right away," Martha said, clasping her hands together.
"Maybe it will be done by the time you come home again," said Clark. "We'll have it ready for you." He didn't smile, but his eyes were bright as a promise.
: : :
Bruce shook hands with Alfred, solemnly. The airport crowds bustled around them. "Have a safe flight, Master Bruce."
"Well, if you think I'm shaking your hand," huffed Martha Kent as Bruce turned to her, then swept him up in a hug. She smelled of lavender and roses, and Bruce found himself holding her very tightly for a while as she patted his back.
"Well," he said to Clark at the end.
"Well," said Clark.
Bruce felt a sudden helplessness grip him. A handshake was impossible, but a hug seemed...not right, he told himself. A small part of his mind said that if he were to hug Clark he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave at all, but he ignored it resolutely. There didn't seem to be any third option. But he couldn't go without some kind of physical contact between them. That was what friends did on saying goodbye. And Bruce wanted...he needed...
Clark seemed oblivious to Bruce's sudden turmoil. He was pulling something out of his mother's handbag, a slip of waxed paper with something green within it. "I wanted to give you this," he said, holding it out. "It's a sprig of rosemary from our garden. You know--rosemary for remembrance? Just to have...have something with you from home," he said with a sudden, slight stammer to his voice.
Bruce reached out and took the little bit of paper, his fingers closing over Clark's for just a moment. The sprig of rosemary smelled of cool evenings and summery days, salt sea breeze and friendship. He slipped it into the outside pocket of his carry-on bag. "Thank you," he said. "But...I won't need anything to remember you."
Then he turned and went before he could say anything else, anything foolish, hurrying through security and into the wide, blank corridors of the airport, into the wide, blank future.
As Gotham City dwindled outside the windows of the airplane, fading into the late-summer sun, the world lay ahead of Bruce Wayne like a vast road full of promise. His eyes watered as the light reflected off the bay and into his face, and he brushed at his cheeks, turning his face to the window so no one would fuss over him. The scent of rosemary still clung to his fingers.
The future was waiting for him.
And he'd be back someday.
(End of Arc 2. Arc 3 picks up when Clark and Bruce are 16; the first chapter can be found here!)