Gardens of Wayne Manor: Fall (6/37)
Title: Chapter Six: Fall
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Martha Kent, Thomas Wayne
Rating: PG
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: 1800Summary: Autumn brings foliage, blackberries--and an accident.
September
"Don't forget your jacket!" Martha Kent called to Clark as she heard the door open.
"Aw, Ma," complained Clark, but dutifully shrugged his jacket on.
Outside it was cool and crisp, a perfect late-September day. School was back in session, which meant the weekdays were a tedious slog, a sodden blur of gray classes that Clark didn't pay much attention to. But today was Saturday, and it was magic.
Bruce was waiting for him halfway down the path between their houses. "Let's go!" He was running before he finished the sentence. Clark pelted after him, to the fields south of the Manor, the grasses bleached to an autumn gold.
Bruce slowed down to a walk as they got to the field, letting Clark catch up. He paused to pry open a dry milkweed pod, releasing a cloud of silken white parachutes that lifted into the sky. Clark pulled open another pod, enjoying the contrast between the rough exterior and the secret softness within, a handful of pure white down that a breath puffed into floating life.
"You've got one caught in your hair," Bruce pointed out, plucking it free and blowing it into the air. Bruce had one in his own hair, a single white star against the darkness, but Clark decided he liked the look of it and didn't mention it.
The southern grove was a riot of scarlet maples and yellow beeches, tossing in the wind. They didn't often spend much time here, preferring the pine barrens and the creek to the north of the house, or the mystery of the rocky shoreline. Today, though, it was glorious, the scent of dry leaves a sweet mustiness in the air, touched with salt tang from the sea breeze. To Clark's delight, they found deer tracks in the soft earth--although his mother probably wouldn't be pleased to see them, he thought ruefully.
They picked blackberries and ate them until their faces were sticky and their tongues dyed purple, sweet tartness in handfuls of explosive flavor, their jackets catching on briars. Full of blackberries and warm with sunlight, Clark didn't even notice the time until Bruce looked at the lengthening shadows and looked a bit alarmed. "We better get back for supper," he said.
Clark grinned. "Race you back?"
Bruce was already running, kicking up dead leaves with each stride. Clark took off after him, whooping.
And then, in the middle of a step, Bruce disappeared.
For a moment, his absence was so sharp and sudden that Clark could process nothing but the empty space in front of him where his friend had been. Then the sound of splintering wood registered belatedly on his ears--crashing wood and a cry, abruptly cut off.
He skidded to a stop in the dry leaves, staring wildly at a dark hole in the ground, jagged bits of broken boards edging it. "Bruce?" He fell to his knees, his hands clutching at splinters. "Bruce!"
The darkness swallowed up the name completely, consuming it, leaving Clark in the sunlight alone.
: : :
There were slimy rocks under him and his left arm was nothing but a blaze of pain. Bruce struggled to breathe past the searing agony in his arm and chest, struggled to see in the sudden darkness. He had fallen. The thought seemed sluggish, lagging far behind the pain racing along his nerve endings and turning the world to dark fire.
There was a swelling murmuring all around him, rising and falling. The sea, he told himself. He could hear the sea, echoing.
There was something under the sound of the sea.
Where was Clark? Disoriented and blinded, Bruce struggled to sit up. He croaked Clark's name once, a feeble sound.
As if the name were a summons, the sound under the waves sharpened, focused. Coming closer. He felt a wail building in him, clamped his chattering teeth over it.
And then it boiled over him: a chittering darkness, a living darkness, a cloud of eyes and claws that rushed over him, buffeting him with the promise of suffering.
He was alone in the terror-filled dark, and the wail forced itself out of him, beyond his control, the sound lost in the shrieking madness around him.
: : :
The darkness poured out of the hole like a living being, one with a thousand wings and eyes and a voice that was like Bruce's but lost and hopeless, screaming. "Bruce!" Clark put out his hands as if to stem the maelstrom somehow, as if Bruce would be in the midst of them, being carried aloft in a cloud of shadow. Softness brushed his fingers, touched his face; the swarm dissipated around him as the bats fled skyward. In the sudden shuddering silence in their wake, he leaned over the hole and called Bruce's name again, hearing his voice crack.
No voice answered him, only the sound of distant waves like sobs.
Clark stared wildly up at the Manor, so far away. "Bruce! I'm going to go get help, okay? Just...just hold on!" A moment longer he hesitated at the edge of the gaping hole. Then he turned and ran up the hill as fast as he could, leaving Bruce alone.
: : :
"I left him alone!"
Martha Kent wanted to hug her son, but he stood in the kitchen with his posture rigid and aching, mute fury locking his muscles.
"You had to get help, honey. He's okay, just a broken arm, and he would have had to wait there until someone found him if it weren't for your help." She reached out and patted his shoulder, but he just shook his head, his jaw tight with anguish.
"I didn't help him. I left him there. I should have found a way to get him out."
"You did everything you could."
His head snapped up and he glared at her. "He was afraid and all alone."
Martha wrapped her arms around herself for a moment. "Oh Clark," she murmured. "We're always alone at such moments. There's nothing you can do about it."
She hadn't expected him to understand her, and was surprised by the sudden sharpening of his vehement glare, blue eyes trembling on the verge of tears. "But it isn't fair," he cried as if it was wrenched from him. "It's not fair!" He whirled and ran as if he couldn't bear to stand still a moment longer; she heard his bedroom door slam.
Martha Kent sat down at the kitchen table. Her coffee was cold, but she wrapped her hands around the mug as if it could give her some warmth, some comfort. "Jonathan," she whispered to the empty place in her heart. "Oh, Jonathan. I don't know how to keep him safe."
: : :
Bruce's face was very pale against the crisp white pillows; Martha Wayne watched him with a vague sense of worry. "He's fine, dear," said her husband, pushing back the hair on his son's forehead. "Aren't you fine, son?"
"Yes, Father," said Bruce. "I'm fine."
Martha worried at her lip. "Is your cast uncomfortable? Does it itch?"
Bruce didn't look down at his arm, at the hard white plaster. "It's okay."
Thomas shot his wife a reassuring smile. "You'll get all your friends to sign it," he said to Bruce. "And you'll have a great story to tell them."
Bruce closed his eyes.
An eloquent glance passed between Thomas and Martha. She didn't have to say anything, they both knew the old argument: Thomas had been in the middle of surgery when Bruce had been brought in; Leslie Thompkins had set his arm with brisk, kind efficiency, but Thomas hadn't seen him until he came home in the evening. Thomas was hopeless when Bruce was ill; somehow seeing his own child suffer reduced him to incoherent brusqueness. He looked apologetically at his wife, who narrowed her eyes with a hint of threat.
Thomas sighed and sat down on the bed next to Bruce. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, kiddo," he said. "I should have been there for you."
Bruce shook his head slightly. "It's okay," he said. "It's just--"
"Just what?" Thomas asked as Bruce fell silent.
Martha saw thoughts flicker beneath the deep blue of Bruce's eyes, a darkness beneath their clarity. "I don't know," he finally said, looking helpless, lost for words. "It's nothing." He frowned suddenly. "It's...nothing," he repeated slowly, more to himself than his parents, as if turning over the words in his mind.
"Well," said Thomas, pleased to hear his son was fine. "Tell you what, kiddo. When that cast comes off, we'll do something to celebrate. Just the three of us, a Wayne family night on the town."
Bruce looked up as if seizing on something to distract himself. "I'd like that," he said.
"What would you like?"
He paused as if slightly embarrassed. "Could we go see the new Zorro movie?"
Thomas chuckled. "Of course. Anything that'll make you happy, Bruce."
: : :
Martha Wayne came wide awake all at once, alert as if someone had screamed. The house was silent. She glanced at the clock: midnight.
A faint rattling noise broke the silence. Martha glanced over at Thomas, fast asleep. Then she slipped out of bed and to the window.
Outside, standing in the garden between two wings of the Manor, was a small figure: Martha recognized the Kent boy, his back to her, looking up at Bruce's window. He reached down to the pebbled walkway and tossed something upward; the rattling sound echoed between the wings again.
A figure appeared in the far window, his face a smudged white oval in the moonlight. Martha expected Clark to wave, but instead he simply stood very still, looking up. It was Bruce who lifted his uninjured hand in a slight wave. Then he reached out and rested it on the glass, looking down at the garden. There may have been a faint smile on his face; Martha couldn't see him clearly enough. At that, Clark did move his hand: not in a wave, he simply lifted it slightly, reaching out as if to touch the glass so far above him.
The two stood in the moonlight for a long time, unspeaking. Then the Kent boy nodded his shaggy head once and turned to slip away through the garden, back toward his house.
Bruce stayed at the window for a long time after that, looking down at where Clark had been. Eventually he melted back into the shadows of his room and was gone, leaving Martha alone with the moon and the garden.
(Chapter 7>
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Martha Kent, Thomas Wayne
Rating: PG
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: 1800Summary: Autumn brings foliage, blackberries--and an accident.
September
"Don't forget your jacket!" Martha Kent called to Clark as she heard the door open.
"Aw, Ma," complained Clark, but dutifully shrugged his jacket on.
Outside it was cool and crisp, a perfect late-September day. School was back in session, which meant the weekdays were a tedious slog, a sodden blur of gray classes that Clark didn't pay much attention to. But today was Saturday, and it was magic.
Bruce was waiting for him halfway down the path between their houses. "Let's go!" He was running before he finished the sentence. Clark pelted after him, to the fields south of the Manor, the grasses bleached to an autumn gold.
Bruce slowed down to a walk as they got to the field, letting Clark catch up. He paused to pry open a dry milkweed pod, releasing a cloud of silken white parachutes that lifted into the sky. Clark pulled open another pod, enjoying the contrast between the rough exterior and the secret softness within, a handful of pure white down that a breath puffed into floating life.
"You've got one caught in your hair," Bruce pointed out, plucking it free and blowing it into the air. Bruce had one in his own hair, a single white star against the darkness, but Clark decided he liked the look of it and didn't mention it.
The southern grove was a riot of scarlet maples and yellow beeches, tossing in the wind. They didn't often spend much time here, preferring the pine barrens and the creek to the north of the house, or the mystery of the rocky shoreline. Today, though, it was glorious, the scent of dry leaves a sweet mustiness in the air, touched with salt tang from the sea breeze. To Clark's delight, they found deer tracks in the soft earth--although his mother probably wouldn't be pleased to see them, he thought ruefully.
They picked blackberries and ate them until their faces were sticky and their tongues dyed purple, sweet tartness in handfuls of explosive flavor, their jackets catching on briars. Full of blackberries and warm with sunlight, Clark didn't even notice the time until Bruce looked at the lengthening shadows and looked a bit alarmed. "We better get back for supper," he said.
Clark grinned. "Race you back?"
Bruce was already running, kicking up dead leaves with each stride. Clark took off after him, whooping.
And then, in the middle of a step, Bruce disappeared.
For a moment, his absence was so sharp and sudden that Clark could process nothing but the empty space in front of him where his friend had been. Then the sound of splintering wood registered belatedly on his ears--crashing wood and a cry, abruptly cut off.
He skidded to a stop in the dry leaves, staring wildly at a dark hole in the ground, jagged bits of broken boards edging it. "Bruce?" He fell to his knees, his hands clutching at splinters. "Bruce!"
The darkness swallowed up the name completely, consuming it, leaving Clark in the sunlight alone.
: : :
There were slimy rocks under him and his left arm was nothing but a blaze of pain. Bruce struggled to breathe past the searing agony in his arm and chest, struggled to see in the sudden darkness. He had fallen. The thought seemed sluggish, lagging far behind the pain racing along his nerve endings and turning the world to dark fire.
There was a swelling murmuring all around him, rising and falling. The sea, he told himself. He could hear the sea, echoing.
There was something under the sound of the sea.
Where was Clark? Disoriented and blinded, Bruce struggled to sit up. He croaked Clark's name once, a feeble sound.
As if the name were a summons, the sound under the waves sharpened, focused. Coming closer. He felt a wail building in him, clamped his chattering teeth over it.
And then it boiled over him: a chittering darkness, a living darkness, a cloud of eyes and claws that rushed over him, buffeting him with the promise of suffering.
He was alone in the terror-filled dark, and the wail forced itself out of him, beyond his control, the sound lost in the shrieking madness around him.
: : :
The darkness poured out of the hole like a living being, one with a thousand wings and eyes and a voice that was like Bruce's but lost and hopeless, screaming. "Bruce!" Clark put out his hands as if to stem the maelstrom somehow, as if Bruce would be in the midst of them, being carried aloft in a cloud of shadow. Softness brushed his fingers, touched his face; the swarm dissipated around him as the bats fled skyward. In the sudden shuddering silence in their wake, he leaned over the hole and called Bruce's name again, hearing his voice crack.
No voice answered him, only the sound of distant waves like sobs.
Clark stared wildly up at the Manor, so far away. "Bruce! I'm going to go get help, okay? Just...just hold on!" A moment longer he hesitated at the edge of the gaping hole. Then he turned and ran up the hill as fast as he could, leaving Bruce alone.
: : :
"I left him alone!"
Martha Kent wanted to hug her son, but he stood in the kitchen with his posture rigid and aching, mute fury locking his muscles.
"You had to get help, honey. He's okay, just a broken arm, and he would have had to wait there until someone found him if it weren't for your help." She reached out and patted his shoulder, but he just shook his head, his jaw tight with anguish.
"I didn't help him. I left him there. I should have found a way to get him out."
"You did everything you could."
His head snapped up and he glared at her. "He was afraid and all alone."
Martha wrapped her arms around herself for a moment. "Oh Clark," she murmured. "We're always alone at such moments. There's nothing you can do about it."
She hadn't expected him to understand her, and was surprised by the sudden sharpening of his vehement glare, blue eyes trembling on the verge of tears. "But it isn't fair," he cried as if it was wrenched from him. "It's not fair!" He whirled and ran as if he couldn't bear to stand still a moment longer; she heard his bedroom door slam.
Martha Kent sat down at the kitchen table. Her coffee was cold, but she wrapped her hands around the mug as if it could give her some warmth, some comfort. "Jonathan," she whispered to the empty place in her heart. "Oh, Jonathan. I don't know how to keep him safe."
: : :
Bruce's face was very pale against the crisp white pillows; Martha Wayne watched him with a vague sense of worry. "He's fine, dear," said her husband, pushing back the hair on his son's forehead. "Aren't you fine, son?"
"Yes, Father," said Bruce. "I'm fine."
Martha worried at her lip. "Is your cast uncomfortable? Does it itch?"
Bruce didn't look down at his arm, at the hard white plaster. "It's okay."
Thomas shot his wife a reassuring smile. "You'll get all your friends to sign it," he said to Bruce. "And you'll have a great story to tell them."
Bruce closed his eyes.
An eloquent glance passed between Thomas and Martha. She didn't have to say anything, they both knew the old argument: Thomas had been in the middle of surgery when Bruce had been brought in; Leslie Thompkins had set his arm with brisk, kind efficiency, but Thomas hadn't seen him until he came home in the evening. Thomas was hopeless when Bruce was ill; somehow seeing his own child suffer reduced him to incoherent brusqueness. He looked apologetically at his wife, who narrowed her eyes with a hint of threat.
Thomas sighed and sat down on the bed next to Bruce. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, kiddo," he said. "I should have been there for you."
Bruce shook his head slightly. "It's okay," he said. "It's just--"
"Just what?" Thomas asked as Bruce fell silent.
Martha saw thoughts flicker beneath the deep blue of Bruce's eyes, a darkness beneath their clarity. "I don't know," he finally said, looking helpless, lost for words. "It's nothing." He frowned suddenly. "It's...nothing," he repeated slowly, more to himself than his parents, as if turning over the words in his mind.
"Well," said Thomas, pleased to hear his son was fine. "Tell you what, kiddo. When that cast comes off, we'll do something to celebrate. Just the three of us, a Wayne family night on the town."
Bruce looked up as if seizing on something to distract himself. "I'd like that," he said.
"What would you like?"
He paused as if slightly embarrassed. "Could we go see the new Zorro movie?"
Thomas chuckled. "Of course. Anything that'll make you happy, Bruce."
: : :
Martha Wayne came wide awake all at once, alert as if someone had screamed. The house was silent. She glanced at the clock: midnight.
A faint rattling noise broke the silence. Martha glanced over at Thomas, fast asleep. Then she slipped out of bed and to the window.
Outside, standing in the garden between two wings of the Manor, was a small figure: Martha recognized the Kent boy, his back to her, looking up at Bruce's window. He reached down to the pebbled walkway and tossed something upward; the rattling sound echoed between the wings again.
A figure appeared in the far window, his face a smudged white oval in the moonlight. Martha expected Clark to wave, but instead he simply stood very still, looking up. It was Bruce who lifted his uninjured hand in a slight wave. Then he reached out and rested it on the glass, looking down at the garden. There may have been a faint smile on his face; Martha couldn't see him clearly enough. At that, Clark did move his hand: not in a wave, he simply lifted it slightly, reaching out as if to touch the glass so far above him.
The two stood in the moonlight for a long time, unspeaking. Then the Kent boy nodded his shaggy head once and turned to slip away through the garden, back toward his house.
Bruce stayed at the window for a long time after that, looking down at where Clark had been. Eventually he melted back into the shadows of his room and was gone, leaving Martha alone with the moon and the garden.
(Chapter 7>