Gardens of Wayne Manor: Postcards (34/42)
Title: Chapter Thirty-Four: Postcards
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Perry White, Lois Lane
Rating: G
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: 1400Summary: Bruce meditates in Nanda Parbat while Clark settles in at the Daily Planet, but their thoughts are not so dissimilar.
Bruce:
I hope this reaches you eventually. I used your Japan address, but I know you'll be on the road a lot. Settling into college life. My roommate--if you can believe this--is some kind of football star. He calls me "Clarkie." At least he isn't here much so I can get some studying done.
This postcard should probably be the Metropolis skyline, I guess, but it isn't. I miss reading in the gazebo with you. I hope this letter finds you well.
Yours, Clark
The postcard was dated four years ago, and was creased and worn around the edges. Bruce picked it up and read it again, just as if he didn't know the words by heart, noting once more with a smile the stilted formality at the end. He turned it over to look at the skyline of Gotham, the lights reflected in the waters of the bay.
Bruce hadn't seen electric lights in almost a year. Nanda Parbat was lit only by torchlight and an eerie flickering illumination that seemed sometimes to caress the air itself. Hidden deep in a cleft in the Himalayas, the monastery seemed untouched by time.
Years of traveling, of training, had brought Bruce here at last. Here to where he had learned to control his flesh and his will as one: to go without sleep, without food, without even air for longer than most humans. To make both body and mind as keen as a blade of vengeance.
He had sat on the doorstep of Nanda Parbat for a week, waiting, until the doors had been opened to him. Had swept the floors and boiled rice for a month in silence before the masters would consider training him. The day the Master came to him and told him they would teach him what they knew, Bruce asked, "How will I know when my training is complete?"
The Master had laughed--the odd, dry chuckle that Bruce would come to know well--and said, "I know your heart, boy. Your training will never be complete. But--" he had reached out and touched Bruce's chest with a wizened finger, "--You will know when you are ready."
Bruce held the postcard in his hand: on one side the lights of Gotham, on the other the marks of Clark Kent's touch. For a moment it felt like he held his own soul in his hands, both sides marked and claimed.
In that instant he knew at last that he was ready.
: : :
Clark:
Nice mountain range, huh? That's where I'm headed. I doubt there'll be post offices there, so you might not hear from me for a while. I can't say much more about it, I'm sorry. I think of you often. Don't forget your old friend,
Bruce Wayne
The desk was dauntingly bare and empty; Clark put the postcard showing a jagged knifes'-edge of mountains rearing into the sky onto its vast expanse. All around him the Daily Planet bullpen chattered and swarmed with energy, and once again Clark found himself wondering what on Earth he was doing here, in Metropolis rather than his home. But Clark had been offered jobs in Los Angeles, Austin, and Metropolis. Not Gotham. So he had been forced to take the job nearest his home and assume that eventually fate would bring him to where he was destined to be.
The bright red and blue costume sat unused in a suitcase in his tiny apartment, waiting for the right moment. Saturn Girl had smiled and said he'd know when that was. He missed the Legion, the company of people who understood him.
He reached out and traced the mountains on the postcard as though tracing the curve of a longed-for mouth.
A door banged open. "Kent!" bellowed a voice from his memories. "Get in here!" Perry White beckoned him into his office.
Inside the office he found a woman in a smart tailored suit, maybe two or three years older than he was. He knew her, of course--who didn't know Lois Lane, the hotshot reporter who had single-handedly raised the Planet all the way to the number-two newspaper in Metropolis? Her arms were crossed and she was glaring at Perry. "You've got to be kidding me," she growled, her voice lower and huskier than most women's.
Perry pointed at Clark with his unlit cigar. "I tell you, the kid's got a good instinct for this," he said to her. "He worked for me once. Trust me." He leveled a glare at Clark, still standing stunned by the compliment. "You're on the Mannheim story with Lane," he said.
"The--the Mannheim story?" stammered Clark.
Lois Lane rolled her eyes to the ceiling as if asking for divine assistance. "Bruno Mannheim, up and coming 'respectable businessman' who's probably clandestinely assembling his own Syndicate," she rattled off in a bored tone. "The man I'm intending to expose to all of Metropolis as having his fingers in every foul-smelling pie in the city. Or I was," she said pointedly, tapping her toe, "Until I got saddled with some cub reporter by my oh-so-brilliant editor."
"You mean the Bruno Mannheim who just got out of prison for threatening a juror on the Cobblepot case four years ago?" Clark said meekly.
"Told you he had the instincts," Perry chuckled as Lane's eyebrows shot up and she yanked them back down into a frown. "You'll make a good team, Mad Dog," he said.
Lois cast him a withering glance. As she walked past Clark on the way to the bullpen, she flicked his ear with a thumb and index finger, hard.
"Ow," said Clark.
"Just wanted to check how wet you were behind them," she said, stalking out of the office.
Clark rubbed his ear as if it were smarting, gazing after Lois Lane, until he heard Perry White chuckling behind him.
"What the hell are you waiting for, Kent?" said Perry when he turned, the chuckle turning into a scowl. "You better go after her and prove me right, or I'll have your head, you hear me?"
Lois was standing by his desk when he caught up to her, drumming her fingers on its vast bare expanse. "Let's get this straight," she said, pointing a perfectly-manicured, pragmatically-short scarlet fingernail at him, "You do what I tell you to do and you keep your mouth shut unless you have something very valuable to contribute. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good." She went to her desk and picked up a pile of papers, dropping them on his desk with a thump. "Fill out my expense accounts. I'm going to make some calls."
Clark bit his lip and started filling out Lois's paperwork, listening to her wrangle people about interviews on the phone. A kid with a shock of carroty hair came by and tossed a newspaper onto her desk; Clark could see enough of the banner to confirm it was today's edition of the Star, the biggest-selling newspaper in Metropolis. She opened it and riffled through the pages, then let out an annoyed snort. "Geez, they even scooped us in the stupid society pages," she muttered.
Clark went hastily back to the paperwork before she could catch him watching. "Gotham," she said. Then she repeated it, more loudly: "Hey, Gotham!"
Clark looked up to find her staring right at him. "Who, me?"
"That's where you're from, right?"
"Well, I went to college in Metropolis, and I lived in Kansas until I was eight--"
"--I didn't ask for your life story, I asked if you were from Gotham."
"More or less, yes."
"Then what do you think of this?" She tossed the newspaper over to him, folded open to the society pages.
The photograph leaped out at him before the headline: familiar ice-blue eyes over an unfamiliar smile, wide and easy and cheerful. His eyes lifted from the face to the words above it:
Return of the Prodigal Son.
(Chapter 35)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Perry White, Lois Lane
Rating: G
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: 1400Summary: Bruce meditates in Nanda Parbat while Clark settles in at the Daily Planet, but their thoughts are not so dissimilar.
Bruce:
I hope this reaches you eventually. I used your Japan address, but I know you'll be on the road a lot. Settling into college life. My roommate--if you can believe this--is some kind of football star. He calls me "Clarkie." At least he isn't here much so I can get some studying done.
This postcard should probably be the Metropolis skyline, I guess, but it isn't. I miss reading in the gazebo with you. I hope this letter finds you well.
Yours, Clark
The postcard was dated four years ago, and was creased and worn around the edges. Bruce picked it up and read it again, just as if he didn't know the words by heart, noting once more with a smile the stilted formality at the end. He turned it over to look at the skyline of Gotham, the lights reflected in the waters of the bay.
Bruce hadn't seen electric lights in almost a year. Nanda Parbat was lit only by torchlight and an eerie flickering illumination that seemed sometimes to caress the air itself. Hidden deep in a cleft in the Himalayas, the monastery seemed untouched by time.
Years of traveling, of training, had brought Bruce here at last. Here to where he had learned to control his flesh and his will as one: to go without sleep, without food, without even air for longer than most humans. To make both body and mind as keen as a blade of vengeance.
He had sat on the doorstep of Nanda Parbat for a week, waiting, until the doors had been opened to him. Had swept the floors and boiled rice for a month in silence before the masters would consider training him. The day the Master came to him and told him they would teach him what they knew, Bruce asked, "How will I know when my training is complete?"
The Master had laughed--the odd, dry chuckle that Bruce would come to know well--and said, "I know your heart, boy. Your training will never be complete. But--" he had reached out and touched Bruce's chest with a wizened finger, "--You will know when you are ready."
Bruce held the postcard in his hand: on one side the lights of Gotham, on the other the marks of Clark Kent's touch. For a moment it felt like he held his own soul in his hands, both sides marked and claimed.
In that instant he knew at last that he was ready.
: : :
Clark:
Nice mountain range, huh? That's where I'm headed. I doubt there'll be post offices there, so you might not hear from me for a while. I can't say much more about it, I'm sorry. I think of you often. Don't forget your old friend,
Bruce Wayne
The desk was dauntingly bare and empty; Clark put the postcard showing a jagged knifes'-edge of mountains rearing into the sky onto its vast expanse. All around him the Daily Planet bullpen chattered and swarmed with energy, and once again Clark found himself wondering what on Earth he was doing here, in Metropolis rather than his home. But Clark had been offered jobs in Los Angeles, Austin, and Metropolis. Not Gotham. So he had been forced to take the job nearest his home and assume that eventually fate would bring him to where he was destined to be.
The bright red and blue costume sat unused in a suitcase in his tiny apartment, waiting for the right moment. Saturn Girl had smiled and said he'd know when that was. He missed the Legion, the company of people who understood him.
He reached out and traced the mountains on the postcard as though tracing the curve of a longed-for mouth.
A door banged open. "Kent!" bellowed a voice from his memories. "Get in here!" Perry White beckoned him into his office.
Inside the office he found a woman in a smart tailored suit, maybe two or three years older than he was. He knew her, of course--who didn't know Lois Lane, the hotshot reporter who had single-handedly raised the Planet all the way to the number-two newspaper in Metropolis? Her arms were crossed and she was glaring at Perry. "You've got to be kidding me," she growled, her voice lower and huskier than most women's.
Perry pointed at Clark with his unlit cigar. "I tell you, the kid's got a good instinct for this," he said to her. "He worked for me once. Trust me." He leveled a glare at Clark, still standing stunned by the compliment. "You're on the Mannheim story with Lane," he said.
"The--the Mannheim story?" stammered Clark.
Lois Lane rolled her eyes to the ceiling as if asking for divine assistance. "Bruno Mannheim, up and coming 'respectable businessman' who's probably clandestinely assembling his own Syndicate," she rattled off in a bored tone. "The man I'm intending to expose to all of Metropolis as having his fingers in every foul-smelling pie in the city. Or I was," she said pointedly, tapping her toe, "Until I got saddled with some cub reporter by my oh-so-brilliant editor."
"You mean the Bruno Mannheim who just got out of prison for threatening a juror on the Cobblepot case four years ago?" Clark said meekly.
"Told you he had the instincts," Perry chuckled as Lane's eyebrows shot up and she yanked them back down into a frown. "You'll make a good team, Mad Dog," he said.
Lois cast him a withering glance. As she walked past Clark on the way to the bullpen, she flicked his ear with a thumb and index finger, hard.
"Ow," said Clark.
"Just wanted to check how wet you were behind them," she said, stalking out of the office.
Clark rubbed his ear as if it were smarting, gazing after Lois Lane, until he heard Perry White chuckling behind him.
"What the hell are you waiting for, Kent?" said Perry when he turned, the chuckle turning into a scowl. "You better go after her and prove me right, or I'll have your head, you hear me?"
Lois was standing by his desk when he caught up to her, drumming her fingers on its vast bare expanse. "Let's get this straight," she said, pointing a perfectly-manicured, pragmatically-short scarlet fingernail at him, "You do what I tell you to do and you keep your mouth shut unless you have something very valuable to contribute. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good." She went to her desk and picked up a pile of papers, dropping them on his desk with a thump. "Fill out my expense accounts. I'm going to make some calls."
Clark bit his lip and started filling out Lois's paperwork, listening to her wrangle people about interviews on the phone. A kid with a shock of carroty hair came by and tossed a newspaper onto her desk; Clark could see enough of the banner to confirm it was today's edition of the Star, the biggest-selling newspaper in Metropolis. She opened it and riffled through the pages, then let out an annoyed snort. "Geez, they even scooped us in the stupid society pages," she muttered.
Clark went hastily back to the paperwork before she could catch him watching. "Gotham," she said. Then she repeated it, more loudly: "Hey, Gotham!"
Clark looked up to find her staring right at him. "Who, me?"
"That's where you're from, right?"
"Well, I went to college in Metropolis, and I lived in Kansas until I was eight--"
"--I didn't ask for your life story, I asked if you were from Gotham."
"More or less, yes."
"Then what do you think of this?" She tossed the newspaper over to him, folded open to the society pages.
The photograph leaped out at him before the headline: familiar ice-blue eyes over an unfamiliar smile, wide and easy and cheerful. His eyes lifted from the face to the words above it:
Return of the Prodigal Son.
(Chapter 35)