The Gardens of Wayne Manor: Deep Winter (1/37)
Title: Chapter One: Deep Winter
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Martha Kent
Rating: PG
Warnings: Character death
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: 1600Summary: When tragedy strikes the Kent family, Clark Kent's life turns down a different path.
December
Clark was eight years old and it was five days before Christmas when the world changed forever. He was sitting on the living room floor, staring at the presents under the tree, when he heard his mother's voice from the kitchen: "Jonathan, what's the matter?" And then high and panicky like he'd never heard it before: "Jonathan?"
There was a thud and a crash, and Clark was running to the kitchen, where his father lay on the floor. His mother had dropped the milk pitcher, and the milk was spreading across the floor; Clark saw it reach his father's hand, but his father didn't move.
There were ambulances cutting through the chill night air, people bending over his father, comforting his mother. Someone wrapped a blanket around him and he realized he was shivering.
They pulled a sheet over his father's face and Clark wanted to cry out that this was wrong, this wasn't real, but his mother put her arms around him and held him tight, and he buried his face against her and shook with sobs.
There was a funeral, and everyone patted Clark's head and everyone said nice things about his father, and Clark sat very straight in the pew, and when he wiped his nose on his sleeve his mother didn't scold him at all, just pulled him closer and handed him a tissue.
And then he woke up the next day and his mother was sitting on his bed, looking down at him. "It's Christmas," she said softly, and Clark blinked at her.
"I'd forgotten," he said, and she touched his hair.
"I know."
"What...what do we do?"
She looked out the window, thinking, then looked back at him. "I guess we open our presents."
She put some Christmas carols on, but they opened their presents quietly, carefully, as if the little wrapped boxes might shatter. Or as if Clark and his mother might. There weren't that many boxes, so it didn't take long. Clark managed a watery smile when he unwrapped the telescope his father had given him. Martha turned a small package over in her fingers a few times before unwrapping it. Into her hands fell a pendant, a shooting star with a glittering tail, and her fingers shook as she closed them over the little bit of jewelry. She raised her hands to her face with a sob. "Jonathan," she choked, "I can't do this alone. I can't!"
Clark sidled close to his mother and put a hand on her shaking shoulder. "You're not alone, Ma," he whispered. "We can do it."
Martha threw her arms around him. "I know," she managed. "I'm so glad I have you, Clark, my son. My son." She said the words fiercely, as if defying someone to contradict her, and hugged Clark tighter.
January was long and dark and cold. One night Clark padded downstairs for a drink of water to find his mother staring at papers scattered across the kitchen table, covered with numbers and marked with red ink. "Are you all right, Ma?"
She didn't answer right away, her eyes fixed on the papers. "We'll be okay, Clark. Just...things are going to have to be different."
"Different how?"
She straightened her shoulders. "We're going to have to move. We can't keep the farm."
"Move? But--" Clark felt his lower lip trembling like a small child's, but he couldn't help it, "--But this is Pa's house, this is--"
"--I know that," Martha interrupted him. Her voice was steady but her eyes were red. "But without him to help, it's impossible. We can't afford to keep the farm going. I'm sorry, Clark."
Clark gulped back tears and bit his lip. "It's okay, Ma. I know it has to be hard."
His mother blinked and then scrubbed at her eyes. "Come here, Clark." She put an arm around him. "We'll be okay. I just need to find different work somewhere, that's all. And it's not the building that matters, it's the family in it. We have each other."
Then there was a long time of clippings from newspapers and phone calls. And then they had to pack everything, all of Clark's belongings put into boxes and suitcases, the house echoing empty and lonely.
The night before they were to board the train to take them away from Smallville, Clark woke at the sound of the back door swinging shut. He looked at the clock: one o'clock. Out the window he could see his mother driving the Carstairs' backhoe out of the barn. There was something on the trailer behind it covered with a tarp. The headlights moved into the dark fields and beyond Clark's range of vision.
Clark lay back down and waited for her, but he must have dozed off, because he woke up with a start to find his mother sitting on the bed next to him, smoothing back his hair. Her face had a streak of dirt on it and she smelled sweaty, but her eyes were bright with some emotion Clark couldn't name. It wasn't quite happiness. Maybe satisfaction.
"I won't lose you too," she murmured as Clark blinked sleepily at her. "You're my son and nothing will change that, nothing will take you away from me. Nothing."
She kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, my little star," she whispered, and Clark fell asleep still smiling at hearing his baby nickname again.
: : :
The train ride was long, winding across fields and rolling hills and through roaring tunnels that made Clark's ears pop. The ground became snowier, until there was a thick blanket of white covering everything. Slowly the buildings became closer and closer together, until they were definitely in a city. Clark stared at the stores and houses streaming past, his mouth slightly open: he'd been to Topeka once, but this was so much bigger.
"Here we are," Martha said as the train pulled to a long, screeching stop. She lifted her bag--Clark insisted on carrying his own, although it was almost as big as he was.
On the platform, Clark stared around in amazement at the tall buildings, the sheer number of cars and people making their way through the slush, his head swiveling.
"And this is my son, Clark," he heard his mother saying, and turned to see a man in a long wool coat smiling at him. "Clark, this is Mr. Bell."
"Oh, call me Justin," said the man. He had curly blond hair and a lot of smile lines. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Clark," he said. "Our car is right over here."
Clark and his mother got in the back of the huge black car and the man put their luggage in the trunk. The city slid by the car windows, endlessly fascinating, as Justin spoke to his mother:
"I hope you'll like your bungalow okay, Mrs. Kent. Mr. Barnes, our last head gardener, took real good care of it."
"I'm sure it will be perfect. I've been looking at the garden layouts I was sent, and I'm eager to actually see them."
They were talking more, about gardens and planning, but Clark hardly heard them. They were driving down a long avenue with huge spreading trees overhead, tall hedges lining the road. The car slowed and turned to pass through a massive cast-iron fence that closed slowly behind them.
On the other side of the fence was a long, sloping lawn, currently covered in snow. And at the top of the incline was a huge stone mansion, like something out of a fairy tale. Clark felt his eyes growing round at the sight. His mother would be working for these people from now on? Like...a servant? With a sharp pang, he missed his home, the worn wooden boards beneath his bare feet, the way the third stair to the second floor creaked. Later, much later, he would hear about how Martha Kent's cousin, a former cook here, had begged the family to take on an inexperienced widow from Kansas as their new head gardener. He would realize then that the job had been nearly charity. But at the time he could only feel his chest aching with the desire to go home, home to when his father was alive and his mother smiled more often and everything was normal.
He didn't have a home anymore.
The car moved slowly past the mansion and then behind it, making its way down a snow-choked drive toward a small cottage half-hidden in trees. "There's your place," the driver said.
Clark heard a sudden whoop of laughter and turned his head to see three figures--a man, a woman, and a boy about Clark's age--come running around the corner of the huge stone building. The man and woman were fleeing from the boy, who was throwing snowballs at them. All three faces were bright with laughter. As Clark watched, the man suddenly turned around and seized the boy, swinging him up into the air and tossing him gently into a snowbank as the woman laughingly protested. The boy jumped to his feet again, his dark hair starred with snow, his cheeks flushed, and tackled his father, sending them both tumbling.
"And that's the Waynes," said Justin. "You'll meet them tomorrow, after you've had time to rest." He turned and smiled at Clark. "Master Bruce is nearly the same age as you, Clark."
Clark Kent watched the boy who looked so similar to him playing with his father, playing in front of his home, at ease and laughing.
For a hot, angry moment he hated Bruce Wayne with all his heart.
( Part 2)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Martha Kent
Rating: PG
Warnings: Character death
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: 1600Summary: When tragedy strikes the Kent family, Clark Kent's life turns down a different path.
December
Clark was eight years old and it was five days before Christmas when the world changed forever. He was sitting on the living room floor, staring at the presents under the tree, when he heard his mother's voice from the kitchen: "Jonathan, what's the matter?" And then high and panicky like he'd never heard it before: "Jonathan?"
There was a thud and a crash, and Clark was running to the kitchen, where his father lay on the floor. His mother had dropped the milk pitcher, and the milk was spreading across the floor; Clark saw it reach his father's hand, but his father didn't move.
There were ambulances cutting through the chill night air, people bending over his father, comforting his mother. Someone wrapped a blanket around him and he realized he was shivering.
They pulled a sheet over his father's face and Clark wanted to cry out that this was wrong, this wasn't real, but his mother put her arms around him and held him tight, and he buried his face against her and shook with sobs.
There was a funeral, and everyone patted Clark's head and everyone said nice things about his father, and Clark sat very straight in the pew, and when he wiped his nose on his sleeve his mother didn't scold him at all, just pulled him closer and handed him a tissue.
And then he woke up the next day and his mother was sitting on his bed, looking down at him. "It's Christmas," she said softly, and Clark blinked at her.
"I'd forgotten," he said, and she touched his hair.
"I know."
"What...what do we do?"
She looked out the window, thinking, then looked back at him. "I guess we open our presents."
She put some Christmas carols on, but they opened their presents quietly, carefully, as if the little wrapped boxes might shatter. Or as if Clark and his mother might. There weren't that many boxes, so it didn't take long. Clark managed a watery smile when he unwrapped the telescope his father had given him. Martha turned a small package over in her fingers a few times before unwrapping it. Into her hands fell a pendant, a shooting star with a glittering tail, and her fingers shook as she closed them over the little bit of jewelry. She raised her hands to her face with a sob. "Jonathan," she choked, "I can't do this alone. I can't!"
Clark sidled close to his mother and put a hand on her shaking shoulder. "You're not alone, Ma," he whispered. "We can do it."
Martha threw her arms around him. "I know," she managed. "I'm so glad I have you, Clark, my son. My son." She said the words fiercely, as if defying someone to contradict her, and hugged Clark tighter.
January was long and dark and cold. One night Clark padded downstairs for a drink of water to find his mother staring at papers scattered across the kitchen table, covered with numbers and marked with red ink. "Are you all right, Ma?"
She didn't answer right away, her eyes fixed on the papers. "We'll be okay, Clark. Just...things are going to have to be different."
"Different how?"
She straightened her shoulders. "We're going to have to move. We can't keep the farm."
"Move? But--" Clark felt his lower lip trembling like a small child's, but he couldn't help it, "--But this is Pa's house, this is--"
"--I know that," Martha interrupted him. Her voice was steady but her eyes were red. "But without him to help, it's impossible. We can't afford to keep the farm going. I'm sorry, Clark."
Clark gulped back tears and bit his lip. "It's okay, Ma. I know it has to be hard."
His mother blinked and then scrubbed at her eyes. "Come here, Clark." She put an arm around him. "We'll be okay. I just need to find different work somewhere, that's all. And it's not the building that matters, it's the family in it. We have each other."
Then there was a long time of clippings from newspapers and phone calls. And then they had to pack everything, all of Clark's belongings put into boxes and suitcases, the house echoing empty and lonely.
The night before they were to board the train to take them away from Smallville, Clark woke at the sound of the back door swinging shut. He looked at the clock: one o'clock. Out the window he could see his mother driving the Carstairs' backhoe out of the barn. There was something on the trailer behind it covered with a tarp. The headlights moved into the dark fields and beyond Clark's range of vision.
Clark lay back down and waited for her, but he must have dozed off, because he woke up with a start to find his mother sitting on the bed next to him, smoothing back his hair. Her face had a streak of dirt on it and she smelled sweaty, but her eyes were bright with some emotion Clark couldn't name. It wasn't quite happiness. Maybe satisfaction.
"I won't lose you too," she murmured as Clark blinked sleepily at her. "You're my son and nothing will change that, nothing will take you away from me. Nothing."
She kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, my little star," she whispered, and Clark fell asleep still smiling at hearing his baby nickname again.
: : :
The train ride was long, winding across fields and rolling hills and through roaring tunnels that made Clark's ears pop. The ground became snowier, until there was a thick blanket of white covering everything. Slowly the buildings became closer and closer together, until they were definitely in a city. Clark stared at the stores and houses streaming past, his mouth slightly open: he'd been to Topeka once, but this was so much bigger.
"Here we are," Martha said as the train pulled to a long, screeching stop. She lifted her bag--Clark insisted on carrying his own, although it was almost as big as he was.
On the platform, Clark stared around in amazement at the tall buildings, the sheer number of cars and people making their way through the slush, his head swiveling.
"And this is my son, Clark," he heard his mother saying, and turned to see a man in a long wool coat smiling at him. "Clark, this is Mr. Bell."
"Oh, call me Justin," said the man. He had curly blond hair and a lot of smile lines. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Clark," he said. "Our car is right over here."
Clark and his mother got in the back of the huge black car and the man put their luggage in the trunk. The city slid by the car windows, endlessly fascinating, as Justin spoke to his mother:
"I hope you'll like your bungalow okay, Mrs. Kent. Mr. Barnes, our last head gardener, took real good care of it."
"I'm sure it will be perfect. I've been looking at the garden layouts I was sent, and I'm eager to actually see them."
They were talking more, about gardens and planning, but Clark hardly heard them. They were driving down a long avenue with huge spreading trees overhead, tall hedges lining the road. The car slowed and turned to pass through a massive cast-iron fence that closed slowly behind them.
On the other side of the fence was a long, sloping lawn, currently covered in snow. And at the top of the incline was a huge stone mansion, like something out of a fairy tale. Clark felt his eyes growing round at the sight. His mother would be working for these people from now on? Like...a servant? With a sharp pang, he missed his home, the worn wooden boards beneath his bare feet, the way the third stair to the second floor creaked. Later, much later, he would hear about how Martha Kent's cousin, a former cook here, had begged the family to take on an inexperienced widow from Kansas as their new head gardener. He would realize then that the job had been nearly charity. But at the time he could only feel his chest aching with the desire to go home, home to when his father was alive and his mother smiled more often and everything was normal.
He didn't have a home anymore.
The car moved slowly past the mansion and then behind it, making its way down a snow-choked drive toward a small cottage half-hidden in trees. "There's your place," the driver said.
Clark heard a sudden whoop of laughter and turned his head to see three figures--a man, a woman, and a boy about Clark's age--come running around the corner of the huge stone building. The man and woman were fleeing from the boy, who was throwing snowballs at them. All three faces were bright with laughter. As Clark watched, the man suddenly turned around and seized the boy, swinging him up into the air and tossing him gently into a snowbank as the woman laughingly protested. The boy jumped to his feet again, his dark hair starred with snow, his cheeks flushed, and tackled his father, sending them both tumbling.
"And that's the Waynes," said Justin. "You'll meet them tomorrow, after you've had time to rest." He turned and smiled at Clark. "Master Bruce is nearly the same age as you, Clark."
Clark Kent watched the boy who looked so similar to him playing with his father, playing in front of his home, at ease and laughing.
For a hot, angry moment he hated Bruce Wayne with all his heart.
( Part 2)