Ficlet: That Special Day
Title: That Special Day
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: DC Comics
Summary: The wedding is in just a few hours, and Clark finds himself soothing a distraught and micromanaging Bruce Wayne.
Word Count: 650
"The macarons were supposed to be pale green! These are aqua. Aqua! Unacceptable!"
Clark Kent looked at Bruce Wayne, his tuxedo tails vibrating with rage, and sighed. "Bruce, the wedding favors are not that important--"
"--I'm sending them back," announced Bruce, whipping out his phone and getting halfway through the number before Clark extracted it from his grip. "God damn it, for the amount of money we're paying, we deserve pale green macarons, Clark!"
"No," Clark said. "The wedding is in just a couple of hours, there's no time. We need to focus on--"
Bruce whirled around, the favors forgotten. "You're absolutely right, Clark. We need to focus on what's important."
"Yes, exactly," Clark said, relieved. "And what's important on this very special day is--"
"--Baby's breath."
"Baby's breath?"
Bruce nodded rapidly. "The florist put far too much baby's breath in the pew decorations. Did they think we wouldn't notice? There's still time, I'm going to go have a talk with--"
He stopped as Clark put a hand on his elbow, then took a deep breath.
"Am I doing it again?" he asked.
Wordlessly, Clark wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.
"I'm doing it again," Bruce muttered against Clark's neck.
"Maybe a little," said Clark, turning his head to kiss his ear. "Freaking out about baby's breath might be a little out there."
"I just want it to be perfect, is that so much to ask?" Bruce sounded as if this were an entirely reasonable question, and Clark supposed for a man who spent decades honing his mind and body to their ultimate peak it might even be so. "I don't want the photographer to be incompetent--"
"--We have had three different photographers quit in despair," Clark reminded him.
"And I don't want some substandard wedding cake--"
"--your insistence on actually overseeing the making of the cake was a little--"
Bruce thumped Clark's shoulder with a fist. "--the napkins, Clark. No one should have to put up with shoddily-folded dinner napkins. They were a travesty."
Clark sighed. They had ended up skipping the stag party entirely to spend all of last night refolding napkins into the proper swan shapes, and after weeks of such behavior, Bruce was clearly at the end of his rope. As was everyone, really.
He swept Bruce up into his arms, cradling the exhausted head against his chest. "Well, we're almost there, and you'll be able to rest soon. I have to say I'm relieved you weren't anything like this for our wedding."
"It's Dick," Bruce mumbled against his lapel. "And Barbara. I couldn't stand it if their wedding was less than perfect."
"But it's okay for us to get married at City Hall and have a cake bought at the supermarket for our reception?"
Bruce chuckled weakly. "Admit it, you thought it was perfect."
"Of course it was." He kissed the top of Bruce's head. "And theirs will be too, because you'll be there."
"I know. Thank you," muttered Bruce. He relaxed against Clark, and for a long moment they stood there in the silent, sun-drenched ballroom. Soon it would be filled with laughter and music and friends, but for now it was just the two of them.
Then he felt a hand plucking at his lapel. "There's too much baby's breath in your boutonniere," Bruce complained, his voice fretful.
"Let's go," said Clark, carrying Bruce toward the door as he tried to extract some of the offending white blossoms. "God, I'll be glad when this is over and you finally get some sleep."
Bruce was still lamenting the fact that Steph had refused to get her hair dyed black to match the other attendants--"It would have looked so much more striking in the photos, Clark! Why did she just laugh at me?"--as they made their way to the church.
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: DC Comics
Summary: The wedding is in just a few hours, and Clark finds himself soothing a distraught and micromanaging Bruce Wayne.
Word Count: 650
"The macarons were supposed to be pale green! These are aqua. Aqua! Unacceptable!"
Clark Kent looked at Bruce Wayne, his tuxedo tails vibrating with rage, and sighed. "Bruce, the wedding favors are not that important--"
"--I'm sending them back," announced Bruce, whipping out his phone and getting halfway through the number before Clark extracted it from his grip. "God damn it, for the amount of money we're paying, we deserve pale green macarons, Clark!"
"No," Clark said. "The wedding is in just a couple of hours, there's no time. We need to focus on--"
Bruce whirled around, the favors forgotten. "You're absolutely right, Clark. We need to focus on what's important."
"Yes, exactly," Clark said, relieved. "And what's important on this very special day is--"
"--Baby's breath."
"Baby's breath?"
Bruce nodded rapidly. "The florist put far too much baby's breath in the pew decorations. Did they think we wouldn't notice? There's still time, I'm going to go have a talk with--"
He stopped as Clark put a hand on his elbow, then took a deep breath.
"Am I doing it again?" he asked.
Wordlessly, Clark wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.
"I'm doing it again," Bruce muttered against Clark's neck.
"Maybe a little," said Clark, turning his head to kiss his ear. "Freaking out about baby's breath might be a little out there."
"I just want it to be perfect, is that so much to ask?" Bruce sounded as if this were an entirely reasonable question, and Clark supposed for a man who spent decades honing his mind and body to their ultimate peak it might even be so. "I don't want the photographer to be incompetent--"
"--We have had three different photographers quit in despair," Clark reminded him.
"And I don't want some substandard wedding cake--"
"--your insistence on actually overseeing the making of the cake was a little--"
Bruce thumped Clark's shoulder with a fist. "--the napkins, Clark. No one should have to put up with shoddily-folded dinner napkins. They were a travesty."
Clark sighed. They had ended up skipping the stag party entirely to spend all of last night refolding napkins into the proper swan shapes, and after weeks of such behavior, Bruce was clearly at the end of his rope. As was everyone, really.
He swept Bruce up into his arms, cradling the exhausted head against his chest. "Well, we're almost there, and you'll be able to rest soon. I have to say I'm relieved you weren't anything like this for our wedding."
"It's Dick," Bruce mumbled against his lapel. "And Barbara. I couldn't stand it if their wedding was less than perfect."
"But it's okay for us to get married at City Hall and have a cake bought at the supermarket for our reception?"
Bruce chuckled weakly. "Admit it, you thought it was perfect."
"Of course it was." He kissed the top of Bruce's head. "And theirs will be too, because you'll be there."
"I know. Thank you," muttered Bruce. He relaxed against Clark, and for a long moment they stood there in the silent, sun-drenched ballroom. Soon it would be filled with laughter and music and friends, but for now it was just the two of them.
Then he felt a hand plucking at his lapel. "There's too much baby's breath in your boutonniere," Bruce complained, his voice fretful.
"Let's go," said Clark, carrying Bruce toward the door as he tried to extract some of the offending white blossoms. "God, I'll be glad when this is over and you finally get some sleep."
Bruce was still lamenting the fact that Steph had refused to get her hair dyed black to match the other attendants--"It would have looked so much more striking in the photos, Clark! Why did she just laugh at me?"--as they made their way to the church.