Gardens of Wayne Manor: Meeting and Greeting (9/37)
Title: Chapter Nine: Meeting and Greeting
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: G
Warnings: None needed
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: 2000Summary: Bruce and Clark meet again, unsure if they still have a connection after so many years.
June
"Kent!
Perry White's bellow made heads turn all over the bullpen. A few people cast Clark sympathetic looks as he hurried past their desks; others smirked slightly, glad they weren't going to be the ones to get the rough edge of a White tongue-lashing.
Clark swung the office door open and peered inside, blinking. "Something I can do for you, sir?"
White looked up from his papers, the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth jutting ferociously. "There you are, Kent. Carl Kent, right?" He glared down at the papers again as if the answer might be there.
"Uh, Clark, sir."
"Whatever, Kent. Gotta job for you."
"Really?" Clark felt himself brightening; he leaned forward, ready to receive his instructions and spring into action.
"Yeah. I ordered a hoagie from Luigi's an hour ago and it hasn't come. Run and check on it, would you?"
"Uh...sure, Mr. White," Clark said, trying not to sag in disappointment.
"And hurry it up, I hate when the bread gets soggy," Perry growled, his attention clearly turned somewhere more important.
The door clicked quietly shut behind him and Clark hurried back through the bullpen, through the sound of rattling keys and rustling paper and animated conversations, to the wide double-doors leading to the street. As he left the building, Clark took a moment to surreptitiously touch the fading gilt letters stenciled on the glass: The Gotham Gazette.
Clark Kent went out into the rain-soaked streets of Gotham, darting across the street to Luigi's. It wouldn't do to mess up the first assignment of his summer internship, with high school just around the corner and so much still to learn.
: : :
It was still pouring when Clark got home; he was almost relieved because it meant he wouldn't have to weed the kitchen garden. To Kill a Mockingbird beckoned from his coverlet, and he eagerly plunged back into Maycomb to hide in the balcony with Scout and listen to Atticus Finch address the jury. He put down the book to blow his nose some time later--not that he was crying--and heard his mother come in, shaking water off her raincoat. He wandered into the kitchen to find her tenderly placing a potted azalea on the kitchen table. She looked up, rain still in her gray-threaded hair. "How was your first day at the paper?"
"It was pretty cool," Clark said, getting the sugar out of cupboard as Martha poured herself a cup of coffee. "It's an exciting place. I wish I could write something, but I don't think Mr. White is going to notice me more than to have me fetch sandwiches."
Martha stirred her coffee and blew across the surface. "Well, even Ernest Hemingway had to start somewhere."
"Ma, I want to be a journalist, not a novelist."
Martha rolled her eyes slightly. "Clark, Hemingway started off as a reporter, covering the Spanish Civil War."
"Really?" Clark's had never found the short stories about bullfighting and fishing he'd been assigned in class very interesting, but now his interest was piqued. He scribbled a note to himself: Look up Hemingway's journalism. "Anyway, it's interesting to see all the reporters working and talking and arguing. You really feel like stuff is getting done there."
His mother patted his hand. "It sounds lovely. Now, you know I'm going to need that vegetable garden weeded in the morning before you go in to town, if it's not raining."
Clark bit his lip. He'd promised his mother the internship wouldn't interfere with his gardening duties--and besides, his garden work was where he was actually getting some income. But he was going to have to get up around four to get the weeding done before the bike ride to the Gazette...
Martha's face softened slightly and she squeezed his hand. "Tell you what. I'll do the south half of the garden in the morning if you promise to get the rest done when you get back."
"I promise, Ma! You're the greatest!"
"And don't you forget it," Martha agreed, letting go of his hand to pick up her mug again.
The doorbell rang, and Clark jumped to answer it. On the doorstep, a black umbrella held centered precisely over his head, was Alfred Pennyworth. He inclined his head at Clark. "May I come in?"
"Sure," Clark said, stepping aside and taking his coat. "My mother's in the kitchen, she--"
"--Actually, Master Clark, it is you I have come to see."
"Oh, Mr. Pennyworth," Martha jumped up as the two of them entered the kitchen. "Let me make you some tea."
"That would be very kind, Mrs. Kent." He looked at the tiny shrub in its pot on the table and reached out to touch one brilliant pink bloom. "This is exquisite."
He and Clark's mother chatted for a moment about bonsai while Clark tried not to fidget, wondering what Mr. Pennyworth was here about. The butler took a long, appreciative sip of tea, then cleared his throat. "Master Clark, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but Master Bruce returned to Wayne Manor slightly more than a week ago."
Clark blinked and looked down to hide his surprise. "I didn't know that." In the six years since Bruce's parents had died, Bruce had only returned home a handful of times, and never for more than a day or two. Alfred went up to see him now and then, but he rarely returned to the Manor. He usually spent Christmases at the boarding school, and even his summer vacations were taken up with various kinds of specialized summer classes at prestigious camps. Clark had only glimpsed him from a distance, a few times over the years: a dark figure, slightly taller each time, one he hadn't tried to approach. "I haven't seen him."
"He has...not left his room often," Alfred said. "He keeps the blinds drawn. He seems..." He paused, seeming to consider and discard words, and finally said, "...discouraged."
"So?"
"Clark," his mother said swiftly, putting a hand out, but Clark set his jaw.
"What do you want me to do about it? He doesn't care what I think. Ask one of his pals from Milton to come cheer him up."
"He doesn't--" Alfred broke off and sighed. "I know it has been quite some time, but I believe Master Bruce does care what you think."
Clark swallowed. "Maybe I don't care what he thinks."
Alfred's gaze sharpened; when he spoke, his voice had an edge. "Master Clark. Bruce was your friend. He is in pain. I believe--I fervently hope--that you are not the kind of person to turn your back on a soul in pain."
Clark glared stubbornly at the wood grain of the table, and after a time Alfred sighed again, thanked Martha for the tea, and made his way out of the bungalow.
Martha came back from seeing him out and stood in the kitchen door; Clark could feel the weight of her gaze upon him. "I don't owe him anything," he muttered, sounding petty and small even to himself.
"Clark--"
"I don't owe him anything," Clark repeated.
: : :
"Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"
Bruce dimly heard the tapping on his door, but he was far too rapt to respond until he finished the passage. Taking a long, shaking breath, he put the book aside reluctantly. The light tap came again. "Come in," he said to Alfred.
Except that it wasn't Alfred. Bruce blinked in consternation to find a boy his own age standing in the doorway, looking inquiring and a touch sullen at the same time. It took an instant for Bruce to make the connection between the gangling teen in his door and the memory of laughter. "Clark," he said, surprise suddenly cutting through the sense of grayness surrounding him. "What are you doing here?"
Clark's face clouded further. "Mr. Pennyworth told me I should come see you."
"Oh." The brief spark of emotion faded at the realization that this was a chore for Clark, a duty he was discharging to his employer. Clark was staring at him, and Bruce tried to remember the proper conversational rules for seeing old friends. "It's been a long time. How are you doing?"
"Fine. I'm working at the Gotham Gazette right now. I'm an intern."
"That must be nice."
"Well, today was my first day."
"I'm sure you'll do very well." Bruce wanted, with a sharp suddenness that made his eyes ache, to scream or break something, to do anything other than be polite and conversational with Clark. All the ways he had imagined this conversation going over the years, and a stilted conversation out of an etiquette book had never been one of them. Bleakness descended on him like black wings, cutting him off from the room, from the world. He was nothing but a monkey going through the elaborate greeting behaviors of his species, the required shows of deference and harmlessness. He bared his teeth slightly in the primate display of goodwill termed a "smile." "Will you be working there all summer?"
"Yeah." Clark was frowning. He gestured at the book. "What are you reading?"
"Lord of the Flies," Bruce said, holding up the cover.
"I've never read it."
"It hasn't taught me anything I don't already know," Bruce said, bitterness for a moment breaking through the dull detachment. Clark's frown deepened. There was an awkward silence in which Bruce considered several potentially proper ways to continue or end the conversation, rejecting all of them. What did it matter if Clark thought he was rude, if he failed to give the correct primate signs? Flash your belly, don't show your teeth, keep your hackles down...it was all predators and prey, fight or flight. Bruce was tired of fighting and he didn't know how to fly. So he sat in silence.
Clark had been looking around the room with its stacked boxes as if searching for something to discuss. His eye lit on one long box and his face suddenly flooded with animation, the child Bruce knew shining through the mask of the bored teen. "You've got a Celestron?"
"Alfred gave it to me for Christmas."
Clark lifted the unopened box almost reverently. "I've been saving up my allowance to get a new telescope. But I could never afford a Celestron..."
"You can have it if you like."
Instead of gratitude, anger flicked across Clark's face. "I don't need your charity, Bruce." he hissed a breath between his teeth. "What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?"
Bruce looked down at his book, the leafy jungle on the cover. "I got kicked out of Milton."
"What? That's awful!" The anger was gone from Clark's voice, replaced by a quick and ready sympathy that made something in Bruce's chest ache. "Why would they do that? What happened?"
"I guess I just didn't...fit the model of a Milton boy," Bruce said. He didn't really want to talk about it. He wasn't even sure why he'd brought it up.
Silence hung in the room for a moment. Bruce looked down at his book and waited for Clark to throw his hands up and leave.
"I'm not taking the telescope," said Clark. "But I'd like to borrow it Friday night. If you'll come along."
Bruce bit his lip, a dozen polite ways to refuse running through his mind. I'm so sorry, but I have other engagements. I'm afraid I must decline. Perhaps some other time.
"Okay," he heard himself say. It wasn't even a polite acceptance, it would never be considered proper etiquette.
Clark smiled at him, and Bruce felt for just a moment like maybe there was something beyond forms and rituals and the blood-spattered hierarchies of human power and status.
"Cool," said Clark.
(Chapter Ten)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: G
Warnings: None needed
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: 2000Summary: Bruce and Clark meet again, unsure if they still have a connection after so many years.
June
"Kent!
Perry White's bellow made heads turn all over the bullpen. A few people cast Clark sympathetic looks as he hurried past their desks; others smirked slightly, glad they weren't going to be the ones to get the rough edge of a White tongue-lashing.
Clark swung the office door open and peered inside, blinking. "Something I can do for you, sir?"
White looked up from his papers, the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth jutting ferociously. "There you are, Kent. Carl Kent, right?" He glared down at the papers again as if the answer might be there.
"Uh, Clark, sir."
"Whatever, Kent. Gotta job for you."
"Really?" Clark felt himself brightening; he leaned forward, ready to receive his instructions and spring into action.
"Yeah. I ordered a hoagie from Luigi's an hour ago and it hasn't come. Run and check on it, would you?"
"Uh...sure, Mr. White," Clark said, trying not to sag in disappointment.
"And hurry it up, I hate when the bread gets soggy," Perry growled, his attention clearly turned somewhere more important.
The door clicked quietly shut behind him and Clark hurried back through the bullpen, through the sound of rattling keys and rustling paper and animated conversations, to the wide double-doors leading to the street. As he left the building, Clark took a moment to surreptitiously touch the fading gilt letters stenciled on the glass: The Gotham Gazette.
Clark Kent went out into the rain-soaked streets of Gotham, darting across the street to Luigi's. It wouldn't do to mess up the first assignment of his summer internship, with high school just around the corner and so much still to learn.
: : :
It was still pouring when Clark got home; he was almost relieved because it meant he wouldn't have to weed the kitchen garden. To Kill a Mockingbird beckoned from his coverlet, and he eagerly plunged back into Maycomb to hide in the balcony with Scout and listen to Atticus Finch address the jury. He put down the book to blow his nose some time later--not that he was crying--and heard his mother come in, shaking water off her raincoat. He wandered into the kitchen to find her tenderly placing a potted azalea on the kitchen table. She looked up, rain still in her gray-threaded hair. "How was your first day at the paper?"
"It was pretty cool," Clark said, getting the sugar out of cupboard as Martha poured herself a cup of coffee. "It's an exciting place. I wish I could write something, but I don't think Mr. White is going to notice me more than to have me fetch sandwiches."
Martha stirred her coffee and blew across the surface. "Well, even Ernest Hemingway had to start somewhere."
"Ma, I want to be a journalist, not a novelist."
Martha rolled her eyes slightly. "Clark, Hemingway started off as a reporter, covering the Spanish Civil War."
"Really?" Clark's had never found the short stories about bullfighting and fishing he'd been assigned in class very interesting, but now his interest was piqued. He scribbled a note to himself: Look up Hemingway's journalism. "Anyway, it's interesting to see all the reporters working and talking and arguing. You really feel like stuff is getting done there."
His mother patted his hand. "It sounds lovely. Now, you know I'm going to need that vegetable garden weeded in the morning before you go in to town, if it's not raining."
Clark bit his lip. He'd promised his mother the internship wouldn't interfere with his gardening duties--and besides, his garden work was where he was actually getting some income. But he was going to have to get up around four to get the weeding done before the bike ride to the Gazette...
Martha's face softened slightly and she squeezed his hand. "Tell you what. I'll do the south half of the garden in the morning if you promise to get the rest done when you get back."
"I promise, Ma! You're the greatest!"
"And don't you forget it," Martha agreed, letting go of his hand to pick up her mug again.
The doorbell rang, and Clark jumped to answer it. On the doorstep, a black umbrella held centered precisely over his head, was Alfred Pennyworth. He inclined his head at Clark. "May I come in?"
"Sure," Clark said, stepping aside and taking his coat. "My mother's in the kitchen, she--"
"--Actually, Master Clark, it is you I have come to see."
"Oh, Mr. Pennyworth," Martha jumped up as the two of them entered the kitchen. "Let me make you some tea."
"That would be very kind, Mrs. Kent." He looked at the tiny shrub in its pot on the table and reached out to touch one brilliant pink bloom. "This is exquisite."
He and Clark's mother chatted for a moment about bonsai while Clark tried not to fidget, wondering what Mr. Pennyworth was here about. The butler took a long, appreciative sip of tea, then cleared his throat. "Master Clark, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but Master Bruce returned to Wayne Manor slightly more than a week ago."
Clark blinked and looked down to hide his surprise. "I didn't know that." In the six years since Bruce's parents had died, Bruce had only returned home a handful of times, and never for more than a day or two. Alfred went up to see him now and then, but he rarely returned to the Manor. He usually spent Christmases at the boarding school, and even his summer vacations were taken up with various kinds of specialized summer classes at prestigious camps. Clark had only glimpsed him from a distance, a few times over the years: a dark figure, slightly taller each time, one he hadn't tried to approach. "I haven't seen him."
"He has...not left his room often," Alfred said. "He keeps the blinds drawn. He seems..." He paused, seeming to consider and discard words, and finally said, "...discouraged."
"So?"
"Clark," his mother said swiftly, putting a hand out, but Clark set his jaw.
"What do you want me to do about it? He doesn't care what I think. Ask one of his pals from Milton to come cheer him up."
"He doesn't--" Alfred broke off and sighed. "I know it has been quite some time, but I believe Master Bruce does care what you think."
Clark swallowed. "Maybe I don't care what he thinks."
Alfred's gaze sharpened; when he spoke, his voice had an edge. "Master Clark. Bruce was your friend. He is in pain. I believe--I fervently hope--that you are not the kind of person to turn your back on a soul in pain."
Clark glared stubbornly at the wood grain of the table, and after a time Alfred sighed again, thanked Martha for the tea, and made his way out of the bungalow.
Martha came back from seeing him out and stood in the kitchen door; Clark could feel the weight of her gaze upon him. "I don't owe him anything," he muttered, sounding petty and small even to himself.
"Clark--"
"I don't owe him anything," Clark repeated.
: : :
"Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"
Bruce dimly heard the tapping on his door, but he was far too rapt to respond until he finished the passage. Taking a long, shaking breath, he put the book aside reluctantly. The light tap came again. "Come in," he said to Alfred.
Except that it wasn't Alfred. Bruce blinked in consternation to find a boy his own age standing in the doorway, looking inquiring and a touch sullen at the same time. It took an instant for Bruce to make the connection between the gangling teen in his door and the memory of laughter. "Clark," he said, surprise suddenly cutting through the sense of grayness surrounding him. "What are you doing here?"
Clark's face clouded further. "Mr. Pennyworth told me I should come see you."
"Oh." The brief spark of emotion faded at the realization that this was a chore for Clark, a duty he was discharging to his employer. Clark was staring at him, and Bruce tried to remember the proper conversational rules for seeing old friends. "It's been a long time. How are you doing?"
"Fine. I'm working at the Gotham Gazette right now. I'm an intern."
"That must be nice."
"Well, today was my first day."
"I'm sure you'll do very well." Bruce wanted, with a sharp suddenness that made his eyes ache, to scream or break something, to do anything other than be polite and conversational with Clark. All the ways he had imagined this conversation going over the years, and a stilted conversation out of an etiquette book had never been one of them. Bleakness descended on him like black wings, cutting him off from the room, from the world. He was nothing but a monkey going through the elaborate greeting behaviors of his species, the required shows of deference and harmlessness. He bared his teeth slightly in the primate display of goodwill termed a "smile." "Will you be working there all summer?"
"Yeah." Clark was frowning. He gestured at the book. "What are you reading?"
"Lord of the Flies," Bruce said, holding up the cover.
"I've never read it."
"It hasn't taught me anything I don't already know," Bruce said, bitterness for a moment breaking through the dull detachment. Clark's frown deepened. There was an awkward silence in which Bruce considered several potentially proper ways to continue or end the conversation, rejecting all of them. What did it matter if Clark thought he was rude, if he failed to give the correct primate signs? Flash your belly, don't show your teeth, keep your hackles down...it was all predators and prey, fight or flight. Bruce was tired of fighting and he didn't know how to fly. So he sat in silence.
Clark had been looking around the room with its stacked boxes as if searching for something to discuss. His eye lit on one long box and his face suddenly flooded with animation, the child Bruce knew shining through the mask of the bored teen. "You've got a Celestron?"
"Alfred gave it to me for Christmas."
Clark lifted the unopened box almost reverently. "I've been saving up my allowance to get a new telescope. But I could never afford a Celestron..."
"You can have it if you like."
Instead of gratitude, anger flicked across Clark's face. "I don't need your charity, Bruce." he hissed a breath between his teeth. "What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?"
Bruce looked down at his book, the leafy jungle on the cover. "I got kicked out of Milton."
"What? That's awful!" The anger was gone from Clark's voice, replaced by a quick and ready sympathy that made something in Bruce's chest ache. "Why would they do that? What happened?"
"I guess I just didn't...fit the model of a Milton boy," Bruce said. He didn't really want to talk about it. He wasn't even sure why he'd brought it up.
Silence hung in the room for a moment. Bruce looked down at his book and waited for Clark to throw his hands up and leave.
"I'm not taking the telescope," said Clark. "But I'd like to borrow it Friday night. If you'll come along."
Bruce bit his lip, a dozen polite ways to refuse running through his mind. I'm so sorry, but I have other engagements. I'm afraid I must decline. Perhaps some other time.
"Okay," he heard himself say. It wasn't even a polite acceptance, it would never be considered proper etiquette.
Clark smiled at him, and Bruce felt for just a moment like maybe there was something beyond forms and rituals and the blood-spattered hierarchies of human power and status.
"Cool," said Clark.
(Chapter Ten)