Gardens of Wayne Manor: Forsythia (26/40)
Title: Chapter Twenty-Six: Forsythia
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Martha Kent
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None necessary
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: 1200Summary: Clark is avoiding Bruce and Martha is getting fed up with him.
Martha Kent was arranging forsythia branches in a blue ceramic pot, bright arches of gold blossoms like rays of sunshine in bloom. “There,” she said as she put the last one in place. “How do they look?”
Clark didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading. “Fine,” he said, glaring down at it.
“Good,” his mother said. “Now take them up to the Manor and give them to Bruce.”
“What?” Clark’s head snapped up and he transferred his glare to his mother.
“You heard me. It’s been a week since he came back--”
“--Only five days, and he didn’t come back, I dragged him here against his will--” muttered Clark.
“--And you haven’t been up to see him once since the first day.” She put the pot of forsythia on the table in front of Clark with a thump.
“I told you that he--”
“--Clark. Joseph. Kent.” Clark winced slightly; his full name meant his mother meant business. “You know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter. He is your friend, and he needs a friend.”
“How many times, Ma?” Clark was on his feet now, the newspaper crumpled in his hand. “How many times is he going to leave me here and come back and expect I’ll just be his friend again like nothing’s happened, when he obviously wasn’t thinking of me at all--”
“You’re so sure of that.” Martha Kent’s arms were crossed. “Tell me: when did you add telepathy to your list of dazzling powers?” She shook her head. “You know, I’ve met your friends from the Legion, and they tell me you’re going to be a great hero someday, but if you can’t find it in you to be kind to one of your oldest friends right now, I don’t really see how.”
Stung, Clark grabbed the pot of forsythia along with the crumpled newspaper. “If being a hero means I have to be some kind of chump, maybe I won’t,” he shot back over his shoulder as he banged the door behind him.
It was difficult to maintain his mood of righteous indignation while carrying a blue bowl filled with brilliant yellow flowers, but Clark clutched the newspaper tighter and stewed all the way up to the Manor.
He entered without knocking--over the years such formalities had fallen away--and stomped into the morning room.
He turned to go, and a voice in the library said “Alfred? Are you back already?”
Just leave without saying anything, Clark thought. Just go. But he was already in the hall, then looking into the library.
Bruce was at his father’s old desk, writing in a notebook. He was dressed in pyjamas that hung on his gaunt frame, and his cheeks were hollow, but his eyes were lucid, the long lashes framing the same pale steel blue that Clark had imagined for a year. Something thumped hard under Clark’s breastbone, a bright bird full of song.
Bruce looked up, but at the sight of Clark in the doorway his face closed off. He shut his notebook with a thump and slid it out of sight, as if Clark were a spy, and Clark felt the thump in his chest switch abruptly back to anger.
He was turning to go when Bruce’s voice stopped him: “Since when do you need glasses, anyway?”
: : :
That was what was different, Bruce realized. It hadn’t registered through the haze of pain and fever he’d been in, but now it was obvious why Clark’s face had seemed strangely unfamiliar. The dark-rimmed heavy glasses did odd things to the angles of Clark’s face, obscuring his high cheekbones, turning the eyes behind them from that unearthly azure to a common blue.
It wasn’t just the glasses, either. Clark stood differently, slouching instead of the straight, direct figure Bruce remembered. His clothes fit all wrong and he looked like he’d put on weight. Everything about his body language screamed of insecurity and uncertainty. It seemed impossible: how could he possibly have changed so much in just a year?
Bruce realized a flush was creeping into Clark’s cheeks and he looked away, breaking what had become an uncomfortable stare. “I just suddenly needed glasses, I guess,” muttered Clark.
“So quickly? I mean--”
“--It's been more than a year since--you know what, just drop it, all right?” Clark looked wretched, and Bruce wondered if he’d stumbled onto a painful topic without meaning to. Or maybe Clark was just really uncomfortable around his druggie ex-friend, Bruce reminded himself, a sharp pang making his jaw set. Speaking of which...
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Ma cut some flowers and told me to bring them up.” Clark shrugged around the big bowl of flowers, a cascade of yellow that Bruce had hardly even noticed.
The terseness in his tone shrieked along Bruce’s nerves like ragged fingernails, sharpening his tone. “You can leave them on the desk, then.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed and he moved into the room to put the pot down on the desk near Bruce. He was clutching a newspaper in one hand, and a glint of gold caught Bruce’s eye. Without thinking, he reached out to touch the ring on Clark’s hand. “What’s that?”
Clark pulled back his hand like Bruce’s touch burned him. “It’s nothing,” he said.
The ring had a stylized “L” on it, with a star inside the angle of the letter. “Have you got a girlfriend?” Bruce aimed for “teasing,” but somehow his tone sounded almost bitter.
“I--I--no! No, it’s not that at all,” Clark stammered. “It’s--some friends and I, we’ve got kind of a club. A club for...” He paused, looking almost desperate, “For...talking about comic books and stuff,” he finished in a rush.
“Oh.” Bruce blinked. The idea of Clark hanging out with a bunch of other kids and talking about Flash Gordon and Zorro was...He felt an ambushing surge of loneliness, too painful to look at closely. He seized it ruthlessly and transmuted it into something less bleak, reminding himself that while he’d been starving on the streets and eating rats for the last year, Clark had been reading comic books with his little club. “That’s nice,” he said, managing a distant smile.
The scarlet flush swept up into Clark’s face and his eyes narrowed. “Just forget it,” he snarled. “You’re way past stupid kiddie things like heroics and stuff, I get it.” He tossed the crumpled newspaper down on the desk. “I thought you might--but never mind, it’s obviously nothing important.”
He stalked out of the room and was gone, leaving Bruce alone with the creased newspaper.
His hands shook slightly as he unfolded it, he noted. Apparently he wasn’t fully recovered yet. Beneath his fingers, the headline leapt out:
”Juror Recants in Cobblepot Case: Appeal Probable”
( Chapter 27)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Martha Kent
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None necessary
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: 1200Summary: Clark is avoiding Bruce and Martha is getting fed up with him.
Martha Kent was arranging forsythia branches in a blue ceramic pot, bright arches of gold blossoms like rays of sunshine in bloom. “There,” she said as she put the last one in place. “How do they look?”
Clark didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading. “Fine,” he said, glaring down at it.
“Good,” his mother said. “Now take them up to the Manor and give them to Bruce.”
“What?” Clark’s head snapped up and he transferred his glare to his mother.
“You heard me. It’s been a week since he came back--”
“--Only five days, and he didn’t come back, I dragged him here against his will--” muttered Clark.
“--And you haven’t been up to see him once since the first day.” She put the pot of forsythia on the table in front of Clark with a thump.
“I told you that he--”
“--Clark. Joseph. Kent.” Clark winced slightly; his full name meant his mother meant business. “You know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter. He is your friend, and he needs a friend.”
“How many times, Ma?” Clark was on his feet now, the newspaper crumpled in his hand. “How many times is he going to leave me here and come back and expect I’ll just be his friend again like nothing’s happened, when he obviously wasn’t thinking of me at all--”
“You’re so sure of that.” Martha Kent’s arms were crossed. “Tell me: when did you add telepathy to your list of dazzling powers?” She shook her head. “You know, I’ve met your friends from the Legion, and they tell me you’re going to be a great hero someday, but if you can’t find it in you to be kind to one of your oldest friends right now, I don’t really see how.”
Stung, Clark grabbed the pot of forsythia along with the crumpled newspaper. “If being a hero means I have to be some kind of chump, maybe I won’t,” he shot back over his shoulder as he banged the door behind him.
It was difficult to maintain his mood of righteous indignation while carrying a blue bowl filled with brilliant yellow flowers, but Clark clutched the newspaper tighter and stewed all the way up to the Manor.
He entered without knocking--over the years such formalities had fallen away--and stomped into the morning room.
He turned to go, and a voice in the library said “Alfred? Are you back already?”
Just leave without saying anything, Clark thought. Just go. But he was already in the hall, then looking into the library.
Bruce was at his father’s old desk, writing in a notebook. He was dressed in pyjamas that hung on his gaunt frame, and his cheeks were hollow, but his eyes were lucid, the long lashes framing the same pale steel blue that Clark had imagined for a year. Something thumped hard under Clark’s breastbone, a bright bird full of song.
Bruce looked up, but at the sight of Clark in the doorway his face closed off. He shut his notebook with a thump and slid it out of sight, as if Clark were a spy, and Clark felt the thump in his chest switch abruptly back to anger.
He was turning to go when Bruce’s voice stopped him: “Since when do you need glasses, anyway?”
: : :
That was what was different, Bruce realized. It hadn’t registered through the haze of pain and fever he’d been in, but now it was obvious why Clark’s face had seemed strangely unfamiliar. The dark-rimmed heavy glasses did odd things to the angles of Clark’s face, obscuring his high cheekbones, turning the eyes behind them from that unearthly azure to a common blue.
It wasn’t just the glasses, either. Clark stood differently, slouching instead of the straight, direct figure Bruce remembered. His clothes fit all wrong and he looked like he’d put on weight. Everything about his body language screamed of insecurity and uncertainty. It seemed impossible: how could he possibly have changed so much in just a year?
Bruce realized a flush was creeping into Clark’s cheeks and he looked away, breaking what had become an uncomfortable stare. “I just suddenly needed glasses, I guess,” muttered Clark.
“So quickly? I mean--”
“--It's been more than a year since--you know what, just drop it, all right?” Clark looked wretched, and Bruce wondered if he’d stumbled onto a painful topic without meaning to. Or maybe Clark was just really uncomfortable around his druggie ex-friend, Bruce reminded himself, a sharp pang making his jaw set. Speaking of which...
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Ma cut some flowers and told me to bring them up.” Clark shrugged around the big bowl of flowers, a cascade of yellow that Bruce had hardly even noticed.
The terseness in his tone shrieked along Bruce’s nerves like ragged fingernails, sharpening his tone. “You can leave them on the desk, then.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed and he moved into the room to put the pot down on the desk near Bruce. He was clutching a newspaper in one hand, and a glint of gold caught Bruce’s eye. Without thinking, he reached out to touch the ring on Clark’s hand. “What’s that?”
Clark pulled back his hand like Bruce’s touch burned him. “It’s nothing,” he said.
The ring had a stylized “L” on it, with a star inside the angle of the letter. “Have you got a girlfriend?” Bruce aimed for “teasing,” but somehow his tone sounded almost bitter.
“I--I--no! No, it’s not that at all,” Clark stammered. “It’s--some friends and I, we’ve got kind of a club. A club for...” He paused, looking almost desperate, “For...talking about comic books and stuff,” he finished in a rush.
“Oh.” Bruce blinked. The idea of Clark hanging out with a bunch of other kids and talking about Flash Gordon and Zorro was...He felt an ambushing surge of loneliness, too painful to look at closely. He seized it ruthlessly and transmuted it into something less bleak, reminding himself that while he’d been starving on the streets and eating rats for the last year, Clark had been reading comic books with his little club. “That’s nice,” he said, managing a distant smile.
The scarlet flush swept up into Clark’s face and his eyes narrowed. “Just forget it,” he snarled. “You’re way past stupid kiddie things like heroics and stuff, I get it.” He tossed the crumpled newspaper down on the desk. “I thought you might--but never mind, it’s obviously nothing important.”
He stalked out of the room and was gone, leaving Bruce alone with the creased newspaper.
His hands shook slightly as he unfolded it, he noted. Apparently he wasn’t fully recovered yet. Beneath his fingers, the headline leapt out:
”Juror Recants in Cobblepot Case: Appeal Probable”
( Chapter 27)