Gardens of Wayne Manor: Haunted House (10/37)
Title: Chapter Ten: Haunted House
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
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: 1800Summary: Bruce and Clark go out to watch the stars and find a mystery instead.
Bruce glanced at his watch. It was three-fifty. Clark would still be at his internship. He said he never got out until at least four, maybe later if there was something he was required to do. He could be stuck there until six or seven. Bruce moved the heavy curtains of the library aside and looked at the sky. It was clear and cloudless. He felt something twitching at the corners of his mouth and realized to his surprise it was something like a smile. He frowned to himself and dropped the curtains once more.
He looked at his watch again. Three-fifty-seven.
There was a polite knock at the door and Alfred appeared with a backpack in hand. "As you suggested, sir, I've packed a light dinner for the two of you." Martha Kent had invited Bruce over for supper, but Clark had wanted to get as early a start as possible so they could hike up the bluff and get set up before twilight.
Bruce peered into the backpack. "Did you pack a cream soda for Clark like I said? It's his favorite."
If Alfred was surprised that Bruce remembered Clark's beverage of choice after six years, it didn't show in his expression. "Of course, sir."
"Thanks," Bruce said, and Alfred nodded gravely.
Bruce moved back to the windows, which just happened to overlook the driveway. He looked down the drive, which was empty. "If I may say so, sir," Alfred said behind him, "I'm pleased to see you getting out of the house a little bit."
"Uh huh," said Bruce, looking at his watch. Four-ten. He looked back into the backpack. "Is this sandwich baloney? Clark never liked baloney."
"It is ham, sir."
"Good. Good." Bruce looked out at the gleaming pebbled drive again. "Good."
"I shall leave you to your preparations, sir," said Alfred. For some reason, there was a slight smile in his voice as he faded from the room.
Bruce huffed an exasperated sigh and picked up Lord of the Flies. He read a few pages, then glanced at his watch again. Four-twenty. Fidgeting, he changed chairs to one next to the window and picked up the book again, though that island of terror and brutality seemed much less engaging right now.
By sheer coincidence, he happened to be looking down the drive when he saw the tiny figure appear at the gates: Clark on a beat-up bicycle, pedaling furiously. Bruce watched him getting closer, making his way toward the Manor. As Clark tossed the bike down at the door, Bruce grabbed his book and dove for the sofa.
: : :
When Alfred showed Clark into the library, Bruce was stretched out on the sofa, reading. "Oh, hi," he said as Clark came in. "Is it..." he glanced at the clock, "...already almost five?"
"Sorry I couldn't get back sooner," Clark said. "I was helping out with an interesting article and couldn't get away." The truth of the matter was that he'd started trying to weasel out of work starting at three, but Perry White had kept piling chores and errands onto him until it was clear he was going to be stuck there until six or so. He had finally managed to cajole another intern into taking over his duties for the evening, with a promise that he'd return the favor next week. Vicki was a classmate of his and he knew he could trust her to cover for him.
"No problem." Bruce handed him a long leather case with a carrying strap. "You carry the telescope, I've got our food here."
Clark hoisted the case almost reverently as Bruce picked up the backpack. A Celestron! It was like the Holy Grail of telescopes.
"Don't stay out too late," Alfred said as they headed out the door. "And be careful walking along the Bluff Road, you know cars tend to go too fast there."
"We'll be careful, Mr. Pennyworth," said Clark.
"Don't worry, Alfred," said Bruce.
Together they walked down the driveway and to the road.
It was a hot day, but the sun was getting low in the sky and the air was cooling a bit. The road wound upward toward the high bluffs overlooking Gotham City and the sea. Soon they'd left the city entirely behind: there were only cottages and old houses, spaced widely apart. There was a breeze off the ocean that tossed the dusty grass by the side of the road; grasshoppers and small snakes leapt and slithered out of their way.
They walked in silence for a while. Clark was worried that Bruce was annoyed or bored, but a quick sidelong glance showed that he looked more preoccupied than anything. Not in a bad way, just like he was taking everything in, analyzing and judging it. Gotham. Friday. Late afternoon, thought Clark. Two teens set out to view the night sky. Little did they know that casual jaunt would lead to...
Clark snorted and shook his head; lately he'd taken to narrating his own life like it were a newspaper article. Too much time at the Gazette was leaving him thinking like newsprint.
"Penny for your thoughts," Bruce said. "You laughed," he added when Clark looked at him.
"Oh. I guess I did," said Clark. "I was just thinking about working at the newspaper. I really wish I could get a chance to write a story this summer, but interns never get to do stuff like that."
Bruce kicked a stone down the dirt at the side of the road, caught up with it and kicked it again. "Why do you want to be a reporter?"
"I've been working at my school paper. Nothing big, just little stuff. I guess I like the feeling of putting words together, trying to say things so people understand why they're important. Nothing fancy, just ideas, explained as clear as possible. I did write one story--" He broke off, a little embarrassed, but Bruce nodded at him to continue. "I wrote a story about the gifted and talented program at my school that my teacher used when she was arguing with the school board about cutting funding for the program. She said it made a difference in the vote." Clark couldn't help smiling to himself a little at the memory. "She recommended me to the Gazette because of it."
"Wow." Clark glanced sharply at Bruce, picking apart the syllable for sarcasm or mockery, but Bruce's face was devoid of irony. "That's impressive. You changed things for the better." A shadow crossed his face as Clark watched.
Clark shrugged. "Well, Ms Hamilton was probably just being nice."
"Maybe," Bruce said. "But it's still cool."
"What do you want to do? When you get older?"
The shadow darkened. "I...don't know. I want to make a difference. I studied hard at Milton. I was good at it. But--" He broke off. "I don't know. Books and judo classes don't seem to be enough. And then when I--" He stopped again, stooped to pick up a rock without breaking stride, threw it at a nearby tree with a sharp, almost vicious motion. It thunked off the trunk. "It doesn't matter," he muttered, voice taut with an anger that seemed to be focused inward.
They walked on in silence for a while, Bruce's head down, glowering at something only he could see. He only seemed to notice his surroundings again as they reached the top of the bluff. The ocean shimmered at the base of the cliffs, dotted with silver whitecaps. There was a clear patch of field between the road and the drop-off to the sea. On the other side of the road, facing the ocean, was a ramshackle little house, the shutters hanging askew and weeds choking the driveway.
Bruce looked around as if he'd forgotten where he was. "Oh," he said. "How about we set up here?"
"Here?" Clark cast a glance at the old house. "But that's..." He let the sentence trail off unfinished. The old Cobblepot cottage had been abandoned since Egbert Cobblepot had died years ago without heirs. His nephew had inherited everything, but since no one had been able to track him down, it all was in legal limbo. The Cobblepot patriarch had died in this very cottage, half-mad and raving, and there had been rumors of strange sounds and unexplained lights in the house ever since. But Clark couldn't quite see explaining to Bruce that he didn't want to star-watch near a haunted house, so he bit his lip and said nothing. Ghosts aren't real, Kent. Get over it.
The sun was low in the sky now, the ragged larches behind the cottage casting long shadows across the road like prison bars. "I'm hoping we'll be able to see Hyperion tonight," Bruce said, gazing out across the bay.
Clark couldn't help whistling, impressed. His telescope could make out Saturn's rings, but he'd never seen any of its moons.
"You want to unpack the telescope while I get us a soda?" Bruce waved Clark over to the telescope while he went over to the backpack.
Clark touched the Celestron in its case almost reverently, a work of technological art. He heard a soda can open behind him and felt a cold, damp can get placed in his hand. He took a sip without looking, then stopped in surprise. "Cream soda, my favorite. Thanks."
"Oh, is it?" Bruce said distantly, looking out at the ocean.
Clark put the soda down and started to lift the telescope gently from the bag--and as he did, an eerie sound suddenly filled the air, a quavering, wailing cry.
It was coming from the abandoned house across the street.
Clark almost dropped the telescope, his skin crawling. He wanted nothing more than to grab their stuff and get out of there--but Bruce was already running toward the house. "Bruce!" Clark yelled, hurrying after him, "We shouldn't--"
"--What if someone's trapped in there?" Bruce was pelting up the weed-shattered driveway. "What if someone needs help?"
It was harder to remind himself that ghosts weren't real when the sun was nothing but a bloody sliver on the horizon and shadows lurked everywhere. The cry came again, an ululating keen, full of formless menace. "They don't--I don't think they sound like they need our help, Bruce."
Bruce's feet were loud on the rotting porch. The door was boarded up, so Bruce jumped off the porch and ran around to the back. There he found a door, half-hidden behind a shaggy lilac bush. "Come on," he whispered as he started to squeeze through.
"Bruce, I don't--"
"--It's a mystery, Clark, a real mystery!" Bruce's face was alight; for the first time Clark caught a glimpse of the Bruce he remembered from years ago.
He followed that Bruce into the darkness.
( Chapter 11)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
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: 1800Summary: Bruce and Clark go out to watch the stars and find a mystery instead.
Bruce glanced at his watch. It was three-fifty. Clark would still be at his internship. He said he never got out until at least four, maybe later if there was something he was required to do. He could be stuck there until six or seven. Bruce moved the heavy curtains of the library aside and looked at the sky. It was clear and cloudless. He felt something twitching at the corners of his mouth and realized to his surprise it was something like a smile. He frowned to himself and dropped the curtains once more.
He looked at his watch again. Three-fifty-seven.
There was a polite knock at the door and Alfred appeared with a backpack in hand. "As you suggested, sir, I've packed a light dinner for the two of you." Martha Kent had invited Bruce over for supper, but Clark had wanted to get as early a start as possible so they could hike up the bluff and get set up before twilight.
Bruce peered into the backpack. "Did you pack a cream soda for Clark like I said? It's his favorite."
If Alfred was surprised that Bruce remembered Clark's beverage of choice after six years, it didn't show in his expression. "Of course, sir."
"Thanks," Bruce said, and Alfred nodded gravely.
Bruce moved back to the windows, which just happened to overlook the driveway. He looked down the drive, which was empty. "If I may say so, sir," Alfred said behind him, "I'm pleased to see you getting out of the house a little bit."
"Uh huh," said Bruce, looking at his watch. Four-ten. He looked back into the backpack. "Is this sandwich baloney? Clark never liked baloney."
"It is ham, sir."
"Good. Good." Bruce looked out at the gleaming pebbled drive again. "Good."
"I shall leave you to your preparations, sir," said Alfred. For some reason, there was a slight smile in his voice as he faded from the room.
Bruce huffed an exasperated sigh and picked up Lord of the Flies. He read a few pages, then glanced at his watch again. Four-twenty. Fidgeting, he changed chairs to one next to the window and picked up the book again, though that island of terror and brutality seemed much less engaging right now.
By sheer coincidence, he happened to be looking down the drive when he saw the tiny figure appear at the gates: Clark on a beat-up bicycle, pedaling furiously. Bruce watched him getting closer, making his way toward the Manor. As Clark tossed the bike down at the door, Bruce grabbed his book and dove for the sofa.
: : :
When Alfred showed Clark into the library, Bruce was stretched out on the sofa, reading. "Oh, hi," he said as Clark came in. "Is it..." he glanced at the clock, "...already almost five?"
"Sorry I couldn't get back sooner," Clark said. "I was helping out with an interesting article and couldn't get away." The truth of the matter was that he'd started trying to weasel out of work starting at three, but Perry White had kept piling chores and errands onto him until it was clear he was going to be stuck there until six or so. He had finally managed to cajole another intern into taking over his duties for the evening, with a promise that he'd return the favor next week. Vicki was a classmate of his and he knew he could trust her to cover for him.
"No problem." Bruce handed him a long leather case with a carrying strap. "You carry the telescope, I've got our food here."
Clark hoisted the case almost reverently as Bruce picked up the backpack. A Celestron! It was like the Holy Grail of telescopes.
"Don't stay out too late," Alfred said as they headed out the door. "And be careful walking along the Bluff Road, you know cars tend to go too fast there."
"We'll be careful, Mr. Pennyworth," said Clark.
"Don't worry, Alfred," said Bruce.
Together they walked down the driveway and to the road.
It was a hot day, but the sun was getting low in the sky and the air was cooling a bit. The road wound upward toward the high bluffs overlooking Gotham City and the sea. Soon they'd left the city entirely behind: there were only cottages and old houses, spaced widely apart. There was a breeze off the ocean that tossed the dusty grass by the side of the road; grasshoppers and small snakes leapt and slithered out of their way.
They walked in silence for a while. Clark was worried that Bruce was annoyed or bored, but a quick sidelong glance showed that he looked more preoccupied than anything. Not in a bad way, just like he was taking everything in, analyzing and judging it. Gotham. Friday. Late afternoon, thought Clark. Two teens set out to view the night sky. Little did they know that casual jaunt would lead to...
Clark snorted and shook his head; lately he'd taken to narrating his own life like it were a newspaper article. Too much time at the Gazette was leaving him thinking like newsprint.
"Penny for your thoughts," Bruce said. "You laughed," he added when Clark looked at him.
"Oh. I guess I did," said Clark. "I was just thinking about working at the newspaper. I really wish I could get a chance to write a story this summer, but interns never get to do stuff like that."
Bruce kicked a stone down the dirt at the side of the road, caught up with it and kicked it again. "Why do you want to be a reporter?"
"I've been working at my school paper. Nothing big, just little stuff. I guess I like the feeling of putting words together, trying to say things so people understand why they're important. Nothing fancy, just ideas, explained as clear as possible. I did write one story--" He broke off, a little embarrassed, but Bruce nodded at him to continue. "I wrote a story about the gifted and talented program at my school that my teacher used when she was arguing with the school board about cutting funding for the program. She said it made a difference in the vote." Clark couldn't help smiling to himself a little at the memory. "She recommended me to the Gazette because of it."
"Wow." Clark glanced sharply at Bruce, picking apart the syllable for sarcasm or mockery, but Bruce's face was devoid of irony. "That's impressive. You changed things for the better." A shadow crossed his face as Clark watched.
Clark shrugged. "Well, Ms Hamilton was probably just being nice."
"Maybe," Bruce said. "But it's still cool."
"What do you want to do? When you get older?"
The shadow darkened. "I...don't know. I want to make a difference. I studied hard at Milton. I was good at it. But--" He broke off. "I don't know. Books and judo classes don't seem to be enough. And then when I--" He stopped again, stooped to pick up a rock without breaking stride, threw it at a nearby tree with a sharp, almost vicious motion. It thunked off the trunk. "It doesn't matter," he muttered, voice taut with an anger that seemed to be focused inward.
They walked on in silence for a while, Bruce's head down, glowering at something only he could see. He only seemed to notice his surroundings again as they reached the top of the bluff. The ocean shimmered at the base of the cliffs, dotted with silver whitecaps. There was a clear patch of field between the road and the drop-off to the sea. On the other side of the road, facing the ocean, was a ramshackle little house, the shutters hanging askew and weeds choking the driveway.
Bruce looked around as if he'd forgotten where he was. "Oh," he said. "How about we set up here?"
"Here?" Clark cast a glance at the old house. "But that's..." He let the sentence trail off unfinished. The old Cobblepot cottage had been abandoned since Egbert Cobblepot had died years ago without heirs. His nephew had inherited everything, but since no one had been able to track him down, it all was in legal limbo. The Cobblepot patriarch had died in this very cottage, half-mad and raving, and there had been rumors of strange sounds and unexplained lights in the house ever since. But Clark couldn't quite see explaining to Bruce that he didn't want to star-watch near a haunted house, so he bit his lip and said nothing. Ghosts aren't real, Kent. Get over it.
The sun was low in the sky now, the ragged larches behind the cottage casting long shadows across the road like prison bars. "I'm hoping we'll be able to see Hyperion tonight," Bruce said, gazing out across the bay.
Clark couldn't help whistling, impressed. His telescope could make out Saturn's rings, but he'd never seen any of its moons.
"You want to unpack the telescope while I get us a soda?" Bruce waved Clark over to the telescope while he went over to the backpack.
Clark touched the Celestron in its case almost reverently, a work of technological art. He heard a soda can open behind him and felt a cold, damp can get placed in his hand. He took a sip without looking, then stopped in surprise. "Cream soda, my favorite. Thanks."
"Oh, is it?" Bruce said distantly, looking out at the ocean.
Clark put the soda down and started to lift the telescope gently from the bag--and as he did, an eerie sound suddenly filled the air, a quavering, wailing cry.
It was coming from the abandoned house across the street.
Clark almost dropped the telescope, his skin crawling. He wanted nothing more than to grab their stuff and get out of there--but Bruce was already running toward the house. "Bruce!" Clark yelled, hurrying after him, "We shouldn't--"
"--What if someone's trapped in there?" Bruce was pelting up the weed-shattered driveway. "What if someone needs help?"
It was harder to remind himself that ghosts weren't real when the sun was nothing but a bloody sliver on the horizon and shadows lurked everywhere. The cry came again, an ululating keen, full of formless menace. "They don't--I don't think they sound like they need our help, Bruce."
Bruce's feet were loud on the rotting porch. The door was boarded up, so Bruce jumped off the porch and ran around to the back. There he found a door, half-hidden behind a shaggy lilac bush. "Come on," he whispered as he started to squeeze through.
"Bruce, I don't--"
"--It's a mystery, Clark, a real mystery!" Bruce's face was alight; for the first time Clark caught a glimpse of the Bruce he remembered from years ago.
He followed that Bruce into the darkness.
( Chapter 11)