FIC: Tell-Tale Hearts, 1/1, WORLD'S FINEST, R
An early Halloween fic, because it's always the right time for that. :)
Actually I think this fits bradygirl_12's Halloween challenge, but I forget to bring all that posting info with me and don't feel going to get it now. I'll put it in tomorrow.
Anyway...
Title: Tell-Tale Hearts
Fandom: worlds_finest
Pairing, characters: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Kent, Martha Kent, assorted pint-sized citizens of Smallville
Continuity: Ummm, some freaky mishmash of Comicsverse, Movieverse, Smallvilleverse.
Genre: Slice-of-life, fluff.
Disclaimer: DC, Warner Bros., etc. own them; I only play in the not-for-profit sandbox.
Warnings: Certain feminine matters are vaguely, and briefly, referenced.
Rating: Soft R, for some making out.
Word count: 4,229
Summary: Halloween in Smallville. Cupcakes cause consternation, the boys are left on their own to handle the trick-or-treaters, and Batman picks a fight with Wolverine. ;-)
Note: Batty cupcakes, and other recipes>
~Tell-Tale Hearts~
The old pickup rattling over a couple of potholes as Clark turned up the drive to the farm reminded him to put fixing those on his To Do list. Turning the radio off in the middle of Monster Mash, he parked in front and started unloading the truck. Some combination of indistinct grumbling and sawing noises caught his attention and he followed them around to the backporch, feet rustling through fallen leaves. Better put ‘raking up leaves’ on that list too, he decided, rounding the corner.
Pausing there, head cocked, he watched Bruce cutting the top off a pumpkin, the latest of several by the look of the jack-o-lanterns lined up along the porch. As he watched his friend, elbow deep in pumpkin guts, he couldn’t resist and called out, “Augh! You killed it!”
Bruce looked over at him, glowering. “What?”
“You know, what Linus says to Lucy, when she starts carving up the pumpkin,” Clark said, waiting for a shared pop culture memory to click. When he saw that wasn’t happening he put down the bags he was juggling and fished a DVD out of one of them. “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?” Still no flicker of recognition. He sighed, carefully bopping him on the head with the DVD. “Anyone would think you lived in a cave.”
“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Bruce murmured, reaching for a roll of paper towels to wipe off his hands and arms before picking up the knife again and contemplating the pumpkin.
“You volunteer for this?” Clark asked, looking at the half-dozen jack-o-lanterns just waiting for their candles. He picked up one that was grinning like the Joker, vaguely sinister now, in daylight; he suspected the creepiness would increase as full dark came on, and gave his head a bemused shake.
“Your father suggested it after I offered to help your mother in the kitchen.”
“Ah. Yeah, I don’t think she’s gotten over Christmas yet - or ever, actually.”
“I put the fire out, didn’t I? And offered to pay for the damages.”
“Bruce, you almost blew up the kitchen trying to make pancakes. Ma still bursts into tears if anyone mentions Bisquick.”
Another formless mutter answered that as Bruce stepped up his carving.
Clark sighed, moving closer so he could slip his arms around him and kiss the nape of his neck. “Everyone knows you meant well, Bruce,” he murmured against his ear, stroking soft dark hair. “You do a thousand and one things better than anyone in the world, cooking just isn’t one of them.”
“A recipe should be like a formula,” Bruce said, knife working through the pumpkin shell in a steady rhythm - in, out, around. “What does ‘a pinch’ even mean?”
“I have no idea. All I can make is scrambled eggs and grilled cheese.”
“We’d starve to death without your mother and Alfred.”
“Umm hmm.” Clark kissed his ear, looking at the new jack-o-lantern as Bruce finished. “Those are cute bats.”
A low grumble, then, “Bats are not cute. They are terrifying creatures of the night.”
“Of course they are,” Clark soothed. “Scary, scary bats,” he murmured, kissing him one more time before stepping back. This was still so fresh and new, there were times he couldn’t believe he could do this now, hold and kiss Bruce anytime he wanted. Sometimes he worried Bruce had allotted a secret, daily quota of how many times he would allow Clark to indulge himself with all these spur-of-the-moment intimacies, and would cut him off if he went over the appointed ration.
“It’s getting cool,” Bruce said, shivering slightly and rubbing his bare arms.
“Yeah, sun’ll be down soon. Come on, give me a hand with these,” Clark indicated the shopping bags, “and then you can go wash off the pumpkin gunk and get ready for trick-or-treat.”
Bruce gave him an odd look, as if Clark had missed an important clue, but just said, “I am not dressing up,” hefting some bags and carrying them into the kitchen as Clark held the door open with a foot.
“You dress up all the time,” Clark said, putting his bags on the table alongside Bruce’s and shutting the door.
“My point exactly.”
Well, Clark guessed when every night was Halloween for someone, there was no reason for this one particular night to be anything special.
“Clark?” Martha hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, making straight for the bags. “Did you get my nutmeg and allspice?”
“I got everything on your list, Ma.”
“What about the food coloring?” Items were quickly piling up along the table and counters as she emptied out the bags.
“Nutmeg, allspice, food coloring, everything you wanted, Ma.”
“I don’t see the powdered-Oh, all right. Oh! Bruce - what did you do with the pumpkin seeds?”
Bruce looked at Clark, eyebrows quirked. “Pumpkin seeds?”
“He saved the seeds, Ma,” Clark hurried to assure her, and cover for his friend. “He knew you wanted to roast them for later.”
“That’s goo-Clark, what are these?” Martha demanded, lifting out a bakery box and pushing back the lid to reveal half-a-dozen cupcakes decorated to look like adorable, fanged bats.
“They’re, umm,” he cast an uncertain look at Bruce, and then over at his father as Jonathan came down the stairs, “cupcakes?”
“And where did you get them?”
“The,” Clark frowned, adjusting his glasses and trying to interpret his father’s frantic gestures, “bakery?”
The look Martha fixed him with made Clark wonder if that’s how people felt when his eyes started glowing red. “Betty Lowell’s bakery?”
“Umm,” from the corner of his eye he saw Jonathan anxiously waving him off, “I guess?”
“You bought cupcakes from Betty Lowell? You think she makes better cupcakes than I do?”
Jonathan was making a slashing motion across his throat now, and Bruce - like he knew what was going on - jabbed an elbow in Clark’s ribs as backup. Venturing more carefully, Clark said, “No, Ma, your cupcakes are always the best. It’s just, you know, these were cute,” he went on, and both his father and Bruce gave him looks as if unable to believe how thick he was. Starting to sense that himself, and yet unable to veer off course, he added, “You know, batty cupcakes? Bats?” He flapped his arms to simulate flying as if that would clarify everything.
“If you wanted batty cupcakes, Clark, all you had to do was ask for batty cupcakes,” Martha said, picking the box up, Jonathan wrestling it away from her. “Didn’t you think I could bake you batty cupcakes?”
“Ma?” Utterly confused, he looked from Jonathan to Bruce and back.
Jonathan took her arm, saying, “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get your sweater and go for a walk.”
“But I could have made him batty cupcakes if he wanted batty cupcakes, Jonathan.”
“Clark knows that, honey. Don’t you worry,” Jonathan said, settling a sweater around her shoulders and leading her to the door, “your mini monster cupcakes and gingerbread skeletons and all will make Betty Lowell want to go out of business and never go near an oven again.”
As his mother stepped out on the back porch, Clark whispered to Jonathan, “What’s wrong with Ma?
“Your mother’s just fine, son. Just fine.” Jonathan patted his shoulder. “Just, for God’s sake, don’t ever go to Betty Lowell’s again. Okay?
Clark nodded. “Okay. Never go to Mrs. Lowell’s bakery, and don’t leave Bruce in the kitchen unattended. Got it.”
His father smiled, patted his shoulder again. “That’s it,” he said and went out to join Martha.
“See what comes of thinking bats are cute?” Bruce said darkly, taking out one of the cupcakes for a close inspection. “These look ridiculous.”
Clark took them away from him, putting them up on top of the refrigerator. “Just for that, you can’t have any then,” he said, ignoring the look Bruce gave him, as if he had secret ways of convincing Clark to give him a cupcake if he really wanted one.
~*~
“Have we got everything?” Martha Kent was casting a suspicious look around the kitchen, as though convinced one last tray of goblin feet was hiding from her behind the toaster oven. It was the sort of thing goblin feet would do, after all.
Clark’s father assured her everything was loaded in the pickup and ready to go. She didn’t look entirely convinced, but after another moment she nodded and appeared to draw her first deep breath since Bruce and Clark had come down to breakfast this morning.
“Clark,” Jonathan called over, “you got the keys?”
Digging them out of his well-worn, well-fitting jeans, Clark tossed them over, Jonathan deftly catching them, smiling as if this small ritual brought back a host of fond memories. Had Clark practiced how to control his strength by playing catch with his father? Bruce felt a slight pang, thinking of how few memories like that he had stored away.
“All right, we better get going,” Martha said. “Bruce, don’t let him eat all the candy, and Clark, keep an eye out for those little Thompson hoodlums - they’re all a bunch of arsonists.”
“Martha, let’s go,” Jonathan had her by the elbow, guiding her out the door. “We’ll see you boys later!” he called over his shoulder.
“The party’s at the community center,” Martha called back, “in case you decide to come after all.”
“We know, Ma!” Clark waved as Jonathan got the pickup started and headed down the drive.
Joining in the spirit of things, Bruce waved too, calling out, “Good night, Mrs. Kent, Mr. Kent!”
The pickup’s red taillights were soon headed off to town, the quiet darkness broken by some distant, youthful voices, headlights cutting through the night. Different from any Halloween he’d known in Gotham, where something terrifying really might be lurking in any given shadow. He supposed there was something to be said for this vastly more innocent version. He had inkling, at least, of why Clark loved the holiday.
“We’re really getting trick-or-treaters out here, so far from town?” Bruce said, looking out over the fields, transformed into something dark and mysterious - a couple of strategically placed scarecrows certainly added atmospheric. By day, they had appeared fairly innocuous, but he had to admit they took on an eerie aspect by night.
“We will; they hit the outlying farms and houses and then converge on town. I could take the scarecrows down if they’re bothering you.”
“They’re not bothering me.” They were only absurd figures stuffed with harmless straw. Their only power to frighten came from the imagination.
Still, he could admit to being glad Clark was beside him, in the pool of porch light, and that the Kents weren’t ones to go overboard with the Halloween décor. Besides the scarecrows, there were only the jack-o-lanterns, evilly grinning faces glowing in the dark, and a black cat, back arched and every hair standing on end, affixed to the front door. Well, and Clark’s orange sweatshirt, emblazoned with a glowing-eyed vampire bat and the words Happy Boo Day! Bruce had been making plans to get him out of it all day.
A breeze made the scarecrows sway and rustle through the leaves scattered over the ground. It whipped some of them up, whirling them in a circle and dancing them along the ground, briefly crossing through that patch of light before breaking formation and scattering once more, mingling with the dust.
He didn’t protest following Clark back inside, the farm’s solid, dependable door shutting out the night.
And if any of the rest of the League ever found out he’d been spooked by some harmless scarecrows, even for just a moment, he’d never live it down.
“Okay,” Clark had the television on and was loading one of the DVDs he’d rented, the cartoon he’d been going on about earlier, “I pick the first one, then you choose.”
Bruce nudged through the stacks of DVDs on the coffee table - The Haunting, Alien, Them!, and Sleepy Hollow. “I’ve seen Alien.”
Clark glanced over, interested. “Well that could explain a lot.”
“About what?”
“Why you’re always uncomfortable when we have an off-world mission.”
“I am not uncomfortable. It’s simply that a lack of data makes it difficult to make detailed plans in those situations.”
Clark smiled over at him, clearly not buying that. “Oh, is that what it is?”
Sitting beside him on the couch, reaching to cup a hand along the nape of Clark’s neck, playing with his hair, Bruce thought about telling him there was one alien he really liked hugging his face, but that might start something doomed to be rudely interrupted at the first shout of, ‘Trick-or-treat!’ He contented himself with light touches, reveling in the knowledge he could do this now. Sometimes he thought these quiet intimacies, a touch of hands, shoulders bumping, was the best part of all.
His image would be wrecked if that ever got out too.
Clark hit play and the cartoon began - Bruce swatted his hand as it inched over to the big bowl of candy treats. Even Clark turning big, puppy dog eyes on him was not enough to sway him, “Your mother said no sneaking candy. I don’t want to have to explain to her how you gorged yourself on Kit-Kats and Twix.”
“It’s not like I can get cavities or anything,” Clark said, still eyeing the bowl. “But she is kind of scary lately, isn’t she? Guess I didn’t realize how seriously she took these cooking competitions.”
Bruce shot him a dubious look, knowing he should probably hold his tongue, but, “I think it’s a little more than this cook-off against Betty Lowell, Clark.”
“You do? What? Pa said she’s not sick, but…” He bit his lip, worry shadowing sunny blue eyes.
Hating to see that look in those eyes, but also knowing it wasn’t his place to tell him, Bruce strove to find an oblique way to clue him in. “I’m sure your father’s right, Clark. It’s just, humans have … certain seasons to their lives, women especially, and your mother’s at an age where she’s probably entering into a new one for her.”
Brows drawn together as he tried to puzzle that out, Clark said, “Seasons?”
Bruce sighed. “Ask Lois to explain it to you.” Better her than him.
“Oh, it’s,” Bruce could see comprehension was beginning to dawn as Clark said, “it’s one those,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “female things?”
Bruce had to bite his tongue again, this time to keep from laughing at Clark’s look of apprehension. “I think it might be.”
Nodding very solemnly, Clark settled back against the cushions. “Female things are scarier than Darkseid.”
Bruce nodded along with him, unable to dispute that. He was just glad this was Kansas, not Gotham, where there was no possibility of any trick-or-treater knocking at the door dressed up as one of the more terrifying items of feminine health and hygiene.
And he didn’t say anything as Clark snuck several Kit-Kats. When confronted with feminine matters, a man needed reinforcement.
~*~
Bruce was forced to revise his opinion of the inherent wholesomeness of Kansans when one trick-or-treater showed up dressed as a vampiric Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, complete with a zombified Toto in a basket, and accompanied by a Tin Man with a bloody axe embedded in his head.
Overall, it was about what he would have expected, however. Numerous Harry Potters and other denizens of Hogwarts had traipsed up to ring the bell and demand their treats, along with one pint-sized Phantom of the Opera, some Zorros, and assorted princesses and pirates, along with the conventional Draculas, Frankenstein Monsters, Mummies, and Werewolves. Compared to all that predictability in fact, Bruce was inclined to score Vampire Dorothy and her friend points for creativity, even though Clark muttered, as they shut the door, “That was just wrong.”
“It was imaginative,” Bruce said as they sat back down and Clark restarted Alien.
Clark gave him a doubtful look. “It was imaginatively wrong.”
Smiling, Bruce slid down the couch a bit, legs stretched out. “Think that was the last of them?”
Head cocked, wearing that intently listening expression, Clark shook his head. “I think there’s one more car headed our way.”
“Any sign of the Thompson arsonists?” Bruce asked as the Nostromo crew was picked off one by one. He had to admit the chest bursting scene was still effective after all this time.
Tearing open a bag of M & Ms and pouring out a handful, putting all the green ones back, Clark said, “I think they were the Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and Captain Jack before Dorothy and the Tin Man.”
Bruce recognized the first two, but, “Captain Jack?”
Clark turned an incredulous look on him. “Captain Jack Sparrow? Pirates of the Caribbean?”
“The Disney ride?”
“Well, yeah. They made a movie out of it.”
“Out of a ride?”
“Hey, don’t knock till you see it.’ Clark opened another bag of M & Ms, again putting all the green ones back. “And how do you know about Disney rides?”
“I took Dick once. And you do realize the green ones are exactly the same as the red, blue, and yellow ones?”
“Except for how they’re green. Is there a picture of you somewhere wearing Mouse ears?”
“No. The grass is green and you walk barefoot through it.”
“Grass is different. And I bet there is a picture; I bet Dick talked you into it.”
Dick hadn’t, but his parents had on an earlier visit long ago. Bruce suspected he’d let Clark see that picture someday. “Green Lantern’s ring doesn’t freak you out.”
“That’s different too.”
Well, if there was a color that was deadly to him, Bruce supposed he’d be fussy about his M & Ms too.
~*~
Most of the Justice League had assembled on the front porch.
Well, almost.
Taking in the miniature Wolverine, Storm, and Magneto that were also in the group, Bruce said, “The X-Men aren’t part of the Justice League.”
“Huh,” Wolverine, all four feet of him - which wasn’t far off from the real one actually -- struck a pose, telling Bruce, “Justice League better be glad they’re not. Wolverine’d kick Batman and Superman’s butts all over the place.”
Folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes, Bruce said, “Is that so?”
“Bruce-“
“Wolverine would beat Batman and Superman in a fight?”
“Bruce-“
“Man, Wolverine’s like, indestructible.”
“So is Superman.”
“But Wolverine’s got adamantine claws,” the diminutive Wolverine declared, flexing his own hands as if deadly steel claws might really appear.
“Superman’s got heat vision. How do you think Wolverine would handle that?”
“Bruce-“
“Storm’d whip up some rain and put his fire out.”
“Huh. Astonishing Lex Luthor’s never thought of that one: just rain on Superman to stop him.”
“Bruce, let’s just give them their treats.”
“Dummy,” Batman, all four feet-three inches of him, kicked Wolverine in the shin, “even if you took out Superman, don’t you know The Batman’d come down on you like a ton of bricks? Nobody messes with what’s his and gets away with it. The Batman, he’s like a gazillion steps ahead of everybody.”
Bruce smirked approvingly and gave Batman an extra Mars Bar. Giving Superman a bag of M & Ms, he said, “I hear the Man of Steel doesn’t like the green ones.”
“Yeah?” Superman, brown-eyed and shorter than Batman, looked into his bag of treats. “Cool.”
“Swell,” Bruce told him, “Superman says swell.”
“Yeah,” Wolverine piped up again, “’cause Superman’s a big dork.”
Batman kicked him again. “Dude, you’re a dork. Superman’s more than cool. He’s like, legendary!”
Bruce slipped him, and Superman, another candy bar and only regretted not having some rocks to give Wolverine, like in the Charlie Brown cartoon.
~*~
“I cannot believe you tried to intimidate a six-year-old,” Clark said, shutting the door as the minivan’s taillights bumped back down the drive.
“I was merely correcting his false impressions. Besides, my alter ego did most of the intimidating.”
Clark narrowed his eyes at him. “And you’re damn proud of it, aren’t you?” Although, truth be told, he had to admit there was something sweet about any Batman standing up for Superman.
“You’ll notice,” Bruce said, voice turning silky, blatantly invading Clark’s personal space, sliding off the glasses and tossing them over his shoulder, “he was perceptive enough to know Superman belongs to Batman.”
“Umm,” Clark swallowed as Bruce slipped a hand under his sweatshirt, up over his ribs, “I don’t think that’s how he meant it, Bruce.” Pressed back against the door, he tried to bite back a moan as the sweatshirt was hiked up, Bruce’s head bending to his chest, lips brushing a nipple. “Bruce, my folks-“
“Won’t be back for hours.” Bruce nuzzled along his throat now, across his jaw. Lips lingering at the corner of Clark’s mouth, Bruce flicked out his tongue to lick right there, just that one spot, again and again until Clark could have sworn his knees wanted to give out. It was ridiculous - he was the Man of Steel, yet one touch from Bruce and he was reduced to Jello-O.
“You,” he had to swallow again, “you don’t want to go to the party?”
“I’m at the party,” Bruce murmured and Clark would have laughed - embarrassed, excited - except that Bruce finally kissed him right then.
It was a slow kiss, and luxurious. Bruce nibbled at Clark’s bottom lip, delicate bites as though a moment’s carelessness could injure. He licked at Clark’s lips and kissed them as if he’d never tasted anything better in his life and he wanted to savor every moment, murmuring, “So sweet, you taste so sweet, Clark.” Running his hands up Bruce’s back, Clark loved the feel of hard muscle flexing under his hands, loved the softness of dark hair sliding between his fingers. He tried to take control of the kiss but Bruce stole it away again, cupping Clark’s face, stroking his cheek. He held Clark still, kissing him full on the mouth, tongue flicking against Clark’s, the roof of his mouth, moaning into it, soft cries of pleasure that nearly finished Clark then and there.
They slid down the door, still kissing, touching. Clark cradled Bruce’s face, running a finger along an eyebrow, kissing his forehead, the faint lines as Bruce’s eyes crinkled from smiling. “I love touching you, Bruce. I love making you smile.”
“You can anytime, you know. You never have to hold back, Clark.”
“So now you’re a mind reader too?”
One corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked - Clark dove in quickly and kissed it, making him gasp. “Just the world’s greatest detective.”
“He said modestly.” Clark sighed, holding him close.
They sat like that, indulging in playful kisses, touches, making discoveries. Clark had never known the tips of fingers, his palm, the inside of his wrist were erogenous zones - not until Bruce kissed each of them, the tip of his tongue tracing circles at palm and wrist. And whoever would have guessed that, if you found this spot behind Bruce’s ear and kissed it over and over, that his eyelids would flutter and a shudder of delicious pleasure that Clark could almost taste would travel through the powerful body?
“Upstairs, now,” Bruce said, scrambling to his feet, bringing Clark with him. “I want to make love with you in the bed you grew up in.”
Eyes wide, Clark said, “The guest roo-“
Bruce hushed his with a kiss. “Your room, your bed.”
“I’m not sure we’ll both fit.”
Bruce smiled and took his hand, tugging. “We’ll figure out a way.”
Yes, yes they would. They did always find a way.
~*~
Moonlight spilled through the window and over their bodies tangled in soft sheets, chests still heaving, echoes of pleasure still tingling through them. Clark rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder, treasuring the lazy glide of fingers through his hair as he listened to the world.
There was turmoil and distress everywhere, of course, but the League was taking care of it; and Gotham was in good hands with Dick and Tim and Barbara and Jim Gordon on the job. Narrowing the field, he could hear the party at the community center just winding down, his parents headed out to the parking lot; his mother had taken first prize in every cooking category over Mrs. Lowell and seemed to be in good spirits again.
He let the rest of the world fade into a faint background buzz, focused on the sound that mattered most just as this moment: the beat of Bruce’s heart, steady in its regular rhythm again. Clark didn’t even need to use his powers to hear it; he could feel it, strong and constant, as he rested his head there.
“Everything all right?”
“Umm hmm.” He rubbed his cheek against Bruce’s chest, kissed an old and faded scar. “My folks will be heading home soon.”
“Mmmm.” The sound was something like a purr and a growl and sent a thrill of anticipation right through Clark. “I bet we have time,” Bruce said, shifting, rolling Clark onto his back and clasping both hands, pressing them back against the mattress.
Clark bet they did too, and then he was just feeling, absorbing every sensation of touch and taste as Bruce bent to kiss him, bedsprings creaking quietly as they moved together in the moonlight.
Actually I think this fits bradygirl_12's Halloween challenge, but I forget to bring all that posting info with me and don't feel going to get it now. I'll put it in tomorrow.
Anyway...
Title: Tell-Tale Hearts
Fandom: worlds_finest
Pairing, characters: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Kent, Martha Kent, assorted pint-sized citizens of Smallville
Continuity: Ummm, some freaky mishmash of Comicsverse, Movieverse, Smallvilleverse.
Genre: Slice-of-life, fluff.
Disclaimer: DC, Warner Bros., etc. own them; I only play in the not-for-profit sandbox.
Warnings: Certain feminine matters are vaguely, and briefly, referenced.
Rating: Soft R, for some making out.
Word count: 4,229
Summary: Halloween in Smallville. Cupcakes cause consternation, the boys are left on their own to handle the trick-or-treaters, and Batman picks a fight with Wolverine. ;-)
Note: Batty cupcakes, and other recipes>
~Tell-Tale Hearts~
The old pickup rattling over a couple of potholes as Clark turned up the drive to the farm reminded him to put fixing those on his To Do list. Turning the radio off in the middle of Monster Mash, he parked in front and started unloading the truck. Some combination of indistinct grumbling and sawing noises caught his attention and he followed them around to the backporch, feet rustling through fallen leaves. Better put ‘raking up leaves’ on that list too, he decided, rounding the corner.
Pausing there, head cocked, he watched Bruce cutting the top off a pumpkin, the latest of several by the look of the jack-o-lanterns lined up along the porch. As he watched his friend, elbow deep in pumpkin guts, he couldn’t resist and called out, “Augh! You killed it!”
Bruce looked over at him, glowering. “What?”
“You know, what Linus says to Lucy, when she starts carving up the pumpkin,” Clark said, waiting for a shared pop culture memory to click. When he saw that wasn’t happening he put down the bags he was juggling and fished a DVD out of one of them. “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?” Still no flicker of recognition. He sighed, carefully bopping him on the head with the DVD. “Anyone would think you lived in a cave.”
“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Bruce murmured, reaching for a roll of paper towels to wipe off his hands and arms before picking up the knife again and contemplating the pumpkin.
“You volunteer for this?” Clark asked, looking at the half-dozen jack-o-lanterns just waiting for their candles. He picked up one that was grinning like the Joker, vaguely sinister now, in daylight; he suspected the creepiness would increase as full dark came on, and gave his head a bemused shake.
“Your father suggested it after I offered to help your mother in the kitchen.”
“Ah. Yeah, I don’t think she’s gotten over Christmas yet - or ever, actually.”
“I put the fire out, didn’t I? And offered to pay for the damages.”
“Bruce, you almost blew up the kitchen trying to make pancakes. Ma still bursts into tears if anyone mentions Bisquick.”
Another formless mutter answered that as Bruce stepped up his carving.
Clark sighed, moving closer so he could slip his arms around him and kiss the nape of his neck. “Everyone knows you meant well, Bruce,” he murmured against his ear, stroking soft dark hair. “You do a thousand and one things better than anyone in the world, cooking just isn’t one of them.”
“A recipe should be like a formula,” Bruce said, knife working through the pumpkin shell in a steady rhythm - in, out, around. “What does ‘a pinch’ even mean?”
“I have no idea. All I can make is scrambled eggs and grilled cheese.”
“We’d starve to death without your mother and Alfred.”
“Umm hmm.” Clark kissed his ear, looking at the new jack-o-lantern as Bruce finished. “Those are cute bats.”
A low grumble, then, “Bats are not cute. They are terrifying creatures of the night.”
“Of course they are,” Clark soothed. “Scary, scary bats,” he murmured, kissing him one more time before stepping back. This was still so fresh and new, there were times he couldn’t believe he could do this now, hold and kiss Bruce anytime he wanted. Sometimes he worried Bruce had allotted a secret, daily quota of how many times he would allow Clark to indulge himself with all these spur-of-the-moment intimacies, and would cut him off if he went over the appointed ration.
“It’s getting cool,” Bruce said, shivering slightly and rubbing his bare arms.
“Yeah, sun’ll be down soon. Come on, give me a hand with these,” Clark indicated the shopping bags, “and then you can go wash off the pumpkin gunk and get ready for trick-or-treat.”
Bruce gave him an odd look, as if Clark had missed an important clue, but just said, “I am not dressing up,” hefting some bags and carrying them into the kitchen as Clark held the door open with a foot.
“You dress up all the time,” Clark said, putting his bags on the table alongside Bruce’s and shutting the door.
“My point exactly.”
Well, Clark guessed when every night was Halloween for someone, there was no reason for this one particular night to be anything special.
“Clark?” Martha hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, making straight for the bags. “Did you get my nutmeg and allspice?”
“I got everything on your list, Ma.”
“What about the food coloring?” Items were quickly piling up along the table and counters as she emptied out the bags.
“Nutmeg, allspice, food coloring, everything you wanted, Ma.”
“I don’t see the powdered-Oh, all right. Oh! Bruce - what did you do with the pumpkin seeds?”
Bruce looked at Clark, eyebrows quirked. “Pumpkin seeds?”
“He saved the seeds, Ma,” Clark hurried to assure her, and cover for his friend. “He knew you wanted to roast them for later.”
“That’s goo-Clark, what are these?” Martha demanded, lifting out a bakery box and pushing back the lid to reveal half-a-dozen cupcakes decorated to look like adorable, fanged bats.
“They’re, umm,” he cast an uncertain look at Bruce, and then over at his father as Jonathan came down the stairs, “cupcakes?”
“And where did you get them?”
“The,” Clark frowned, adjusting his glasses and trying to interpret his father’s frantic gestures, “bakery?”
The look Martha fixed him with made Clark wonder if that’s how people felt when his eyes started glowing red. “Betty Lowell’s bakery?”
“Umm,” from the corner of his eye he saw Jonathan anxiously waving him off, “I guess?”
“You bought cupcakes from Betty Lowell? You think she makes better cupcakes than I do?”
Jonathan was making a slashing motion across his throat now, and Bruce - like he knew what was going on - jabbed an elbow in Clark’s ribs as backup. Venturing more carefully, Clark said, “No, Ma, your cupcakes are always the best. It’s just, you know, these were cute,” he went on, and both his father and Bruce gave him looks as if unable to believe how thick he was. Starting to sense that himself, and yet unable to veer off course, he added, “You know, batty cupcakes? Bats?” He flapped his arms to simulate flying as if that would clarify everything.
“If you wanted batty cupcakes, Clark, all you had to do was ask for batty cupcakes,” Martha said, picking the box up, Jonathan wrestling it away from her. “Didn’t you think I could bake you batty cupcakes?”
“Ma?” Utterly confused, he looked from Jonathan to Bruce and back.
Jonathan took her arm, saying, “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get your sweater and go for a walk.”
“But I could have made him batty cupcakes if he wanted batty cupcakes, Jonathan.”
“Clark knows that, honey. Don’t you worry,” Jonathan said, settling a sweater around her shoulders and leading her to the door, “your mini monster cupcakes and gingerbread skeletons and all will make Betty Lowell want to go out of business and never go near an oven again.”
As his mother stepped out on the back porch, Clark whispered to Jonathan, “What’s wrong with Ma?
“Your mother’s just fine, son. Just fine.” Jonathan patted his shoulder. “Just, for God’s sake, don’t ever go to Betty Lowell’s again. Okay?
Clark nodded. “Okay. Never go to Mrs. Lowell’s bakery, and don’t leave Bruce in the kitchen unattended. Got it.”
His father smiled, patted his shoulder again. “That’s it,” he said and went out to join Martha.
“See what comes of thinking bats are cute?” Bruce said darkly, taking out one of the cupcakes for a close inspection. “These look ridiculous.”
Clark took them away from him, putting them up on top of the refrigerator. “Just for that, you can’t have any then,” he said, ignoring the look Bruce gave him, as if he had secret ways of convincing Clark to give him a cupcake if he really wanted one.
~*~
“Have we got everything?” Martha Kent was casting a suspicious look around the kitchen, as though convinced one last tray of goblin feet was hiding from her behind the toaster oven. It was the sort of thing goblin feet would do, after all.
Clark’s father assured her everything was loaded in the pickup and ready to go. She didn’t look entirely convinced, but after another moment she nodded and appeared to draw her first deep breath since Bruce and Clark had come down to breakfast this morning.
“Clark,” Jonathan called over, “you got the keys?”
Digging them out of his well-worn, well-fitting jeans, Clark tossed them over, Jonathan deftly catching them, smiling as if this small ritual brought back a host of fond memories. Had Clark practiced how to control his strength by playing catch with his father? Bruce felt a slight pang, thinking of how few memories like that he had stored away.
“All right, we better get going,” Martha said. “Bruce, don’t let him eat all the candy, and Clark, keep an eye out for those little Thompson hoodlums - they’re all a bunch of arsonists.”
“Martha, let’s go,” Jonathan had her by the elbow, guiding her out the door. “We’ll see you boys later!” he called over his shoulder.
“The party’s at the community center,” Martha called back, “in case you decide to come after all.”
“We know, Ma!” Clark waved as Jonathan got the pickup started and headed down the drive.
Joining in the spirit of things, Bruce waved too, calling out, “Good night, Mrs. Kent, Mr. Kent!”
The pickup’s red taillights were soon headed off to town, the quiet darkness broken by some distant, youthful voices, headlights cutting through the night. Different from any Halloween he’d known in Gotham, where something terrifying really might be lurking in any given shadow. He supposed there was something to be said for this vastly more innocent version. He had inkling, at least, of why Clark loved the holiday.
“We’re really getting trick-or-treaters out here, so far from town?” Bruce said, looking out over the fields, transformed into something dark and mysterious - a couple of strategically placed scarecrows certainly added atmospheric. By day, they had appeared fairly innocuous, but he had to admit they took on an eerie aspect by night.
“We will; they hit the outlying farms and houses and then converge on town. I could take the scarecrows down if they’re bothering you.”
“They’re not bothering me.” They were only absurd figures stuffed with harmless straw. Their only power to frighten came from the imagination.
Still, he could admit to being glad Clark was beside him, in the pool of porch light, and that the Kents weren’t ones to go overboard with the Halloween décor. Besides the scarecrows, there were only the jack-o-lanterns, evilly grinning faces glowing in the dark, and a black cat, back arched and every hair standing on end, affixed to the front door. Well, and Clark’s orange sweatshirt, emblazoned with a glowing-eyed vampire bat and the words Happy Boo Day! Bruce had been making plans to get him out of it all day.
A breeze made the scarecrows sway and rustle through the leaves scattered over the ground. It whipped some of them up, whirling them in a circle and dancing them along the ground, briefly crossing through that patch of light before breaking formation and scattering once more, mingling with the dust.
He didn’t protest following Clark back inside, the farm’s solid, dependable door shutting out the night.
And if any of the rest of the League ever found out he’d been spooked by some harmless scarecrows, even for just a moment, he’d never live it down.
“Okay,” Clark had the television on and was loading one of the DVDs he’d rented, the cartoon he’d been going on about earlier, “I pick the first one, then you choose.”
Bruce nudged through the stacks of DVDs on the coffee table - The Haunting, Alien, Them!, and Sleepy Hollow. “I’ve seen Alien.”
Clark glanced over, interested. “Well that could explain a lot.”
“About what?”
“Why you’re always uncomfortable when we have an off-world mission.”
“I am not uncomfortable. It’s simply that a lack of data makes it difficult to make detailed plans in those situations.”
Clark smiled over at him, clearly not buying that. “Oh, is that what it is?”
Sitting beside him on the couch, reaching to cup a hand along the nape of Clark’s neck, playing with his hair, Bruce thought about telling him there was one alien he really liked hugging his face, but that might start something doomed to be rudely interrupted at the first shout of, ‘Trick-or-treat!’ He contented himself with light touches, reveling in the knowledge he could do this now. Sometimes he thought these quiet intimacies, a touch of hands, shoulders bumping, was the best part of all.
His image would be wrecked if that ever got out too.
Clark hit play and the cartoon began - Bruce swatted his hand as it inched over to the big bowl of candy treats. Even Clark turning big, puppy dog eyes on him was not enough to sway him, “Your mother said no sneaking candy. I don’t want to have to explain to her how you gorged yourself on Kit-Kats and Twix.”
“It’s not like I can get cavities or anything,” Clark said, still eyeing the bowl. “But she is kind of scary lately, isn’t she? Guess I didn’t realize how seriously she took these cooking competitions.”
Bruce shot him a dubious look, knowing he should probably hold his tongue, but, “I think it’s a little more than this cook-off against Betty Lowell, Clark.”
“You do? What? Pa said she’s not sick, but…” He bit his lip, worry shadowing sunny blue eyes.
Hating to see that look in those eyes, but also knowing it wasn’t his place to tell him, Bruce strove to find an oblique way to clue him in. “I’m sure your father’s right, Clark. It’s just, humans have … certain seasons to their lives, women especially, and your mother’s at an age where she’s probably entering into a new one for her.”
Brows drawn together as he tried to puzzle that out, Clark said, “Seasons?”
Bruce sighed. “Ask Lois to explain it to you.” Better her than him.
“Oh, it’s,” Bruce could see comprehension was beginning to dawn as Clark said, “it’s one those,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “female things?”
Bruce had to bite his tongue again, this time to keep from laughing at Clark’s look of apprehension. “I think it might be.”
Nodding very solemnly, Clark settled back against the cushions. “Female things are scarier than Darkseid.”
Bruce nodded along with him, unable to dispute that. He was just glad this was Kansas, not Gotham, where there was no possibility of any trick-or-treater knocking at the door dressed up as one of the more terrifying items of feminine health and hygiene.
And he didn’t say anything as Clark snuck several Kit-Kats. When confronted with feminine matters, a man needed reinforcement.
~*~
Bruce was forced to revise his opinion of the inherent wholesomeness of Kansans when one trick-or-treater showed up dressed as a vampiric Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, complete with a zombified Toto in a basket, and accompanied by a Tin Man with a bloody axe embedded in his head.
Overall, it was about what he would have expected, however. Numerous Harry Potters and other denizens of Hogwarts had traipsed up to ring the bell and demand their treats, along with one pint-sized Phantom of the Opera, some Zorros, and assorted princesses and pirates, along with the conventional Draculas, Frankenstein Monsters, Mummies, and Werewolves. Compared to all that predictability in fact, Bruce was inclined to score Vampire Dorothy and her friend points for creativity, even though Clark muttered, as they shut the door, “That was just wrong.”
“It was imaginative,” Bruce said as they sat back down and Clark restarted Alien.
Clark gave him a doubtful look. “It was imaginatively wrong.”
Smiling, Bruce slid down the couch a bit, legs stretched out. “Think that was the last of them?”
Head cocked, wearing that intently listening expression, Clark shook his head. “I think there’s one more car headed our way.”
“Any sign of the Thompson arsonists?” Bruce asked as the Nostromo crew was picked off one by one. He had to admit the chest bursting scene was still effective after all this time.
Tearing open a bag of M & Ms and pouring out a handful, putting all the green ones back, Clark said, “I think they were the Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and Captain Jack before Dorothy and the Tin Man.”
Bruce recognized the first two, but, “Captain Jack?”
Clark turned an incredulous look on him. “Captain Jack Sparrow? Pirates of the Caribbean?”
“The Disney ride?”
“Well, yeah. They made a movie out of it.”
“Out of a ride?”
“Hey, don’t knock till you see it.’ Clark opened another bag of M & Ms, again putting all the green ones back. “And how do you know about Disney rides?”
“I took Dick once. And you do realize the green ones are exactly the same as the red, blue, and yellow ones?”
“Except for how they’re green. Is there a picture of you somewhere wearing Mouse ears?”
“No. The grass is green and you walk barefoot through it.”
“Grass is different. And I bet there is a picture; I bet Dick talked you into it.”
Dick hadn’t, but his parents had on an earlier visit long ago. Bruce suspected he’d let Clark see that picture someday. “Green Lantern’s ring doesn’t freak you out.”
“That’s different too.”
Well, if there was a color that was deadly to him, Bruce supposed he’d be fussy about his M & Ms too.
~*~
Most of the Justice League had assembled on the front porch.
Well, almost.
Taking in the miniature Wolverine, Storm, and Magneto that were also in the group, Bruce said, “The X-Men aren’t part of the Justice League.”
“Huh,” Wolverine, all four feet of him - which wasn’t far off from the real one actually -- struck a pose, telling Bruce, “Justice League better be glad they’re not. Wolverine’d kick Batman and Superman’s butts all over the place.”
Folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes, Bruce said, “Is that so?”
“Bruce-“
“Wolverine would beat Batman and Superman in a fight?”
“Bruce-“
“Man, Wolverine’s like, indestructible.”
“So is Superman.”
“But Wolverine’s got adamantine claws,” the diminutive Wolverine declared, flexing his own hands as if deadly steel claws might really appear.
“Superman’s got heat vision. How do you think Wolverine would handle that?”
“Bruce-“
“Storm’d whip up some rain and put his fire out.”
“Huh. Astonishing Lex Luthor’s never thought of that one: just rain on Superman to stop him.”
“Bruce, let’s just give them their treats.”
“Dummy,” Batman, all four feet-three inches of him, kicked Wolverine in the shin, “even if you took out Superman, don’t you know The Batman’d come down on you like a ton of bricks? Nobody messes with what’s his and gets away with it. The Batman, he’s like a gazillion steps ahead of everybody.”
Bruce smirked approvingly and gave Batman an extra Mars Bar. Giving Superman a bag of M & Ms, he said, “I hear the Man of Steel doesn’t like the green ones.”
“Yeah?” Superman, brown-eyed and shorter than Batman, looked into his bag of treats. “Cool.”
“Swell,” Bruce told him, “Superman says swell.”
“Yeah,” Wolverine piped up again, “’cause Superman’s a big dork.”
Batman kicked him again. “Dude, you’re a dork. Superman’s more than cool. He’s like, legendary!”
Bruce slipped him, and Superman, another candy bar and only regretted not having some rocks to give Wolverine, like in the Charlie Brown cartoon.
~*~
“I cannot believe you tried to intimidate a six-year-old,” Clark said, shutting the door as the minivan’s taillights bumped back down the drive.
“I was merely correcting his false impressions. Besides, my alter ego did most of the intimidating.”
Clark narrowed his eyes at him. “And you’re damn proud of it, aren’t you?” Although, truth be told, he had to admit there was something sweet about any Batman standing up for Superman.
“You’ll notice,” Bruce said, voice turning silky, blatantly invading Clark’s personal space, sliding off the glasses and tossing them over his shoulder, “he was perceptive enough to know Superman belongs to Batman.”
“Umm,” Clark swallowed as Bruce slipped a hand under his sweatshirt, up over his ribs, “I don’t think that’s how he meant it, Bruce.” Pressed back against the door, he tried to bite back a moan as the sweatshirt was hiked up, Bruce’s head bending to his chest, lips brushing a nipple. “Bruce, my folks-“
“Won’t be back for hours.” Bruce nuzzled along his throat now, across his jaw. Lips lingering at the corner of Clark’s mouth, Bruce flicked out his tongue to lick right there, just that one spot, again and again until Clark could have sworn his knees wanted to give out. It was ridiculous - he was the Man of Steel, yet one touch from Bruce and he was reduced to Jello-O.
“You,” he had to swallow again, “you don’t want to go to the party?”
“I’m at the party,” Bruce murmured and Clark would have laughed - embarrassed, excited - except that Bruce finally kissed him right then.
It was a slow kiss, and luxurious. Bruce nibbled at Clark’s bottom lip, delicate bites as though a moment’s carelessness could injure. He licked at Clark’s lips and kissed them as if he’d never tasted anything better in his life and he wanted to savor every moment, murmuring, “So sweet, you taste so sweet, Clark.” Running his hands up Bruce’s back, Clark loved the feel of hard muscle flexing under his hands, loved the softness of dark hair sliding between his fingers. He tried to take control of the kiss but Bruce stole it away again, cupping Clark’s face, stroking his cheek. He held Clark still, kissing him full on the mouth, tongue flicking against Clark’s, the roof of his mouth, moaning into it, soft cries of pleasure that nearly finished Clark then and there.
They slid down the door, still kissing, touching. Clark cradled Bruce’s face, running a finger along an eyebrow, kissing his forehead, the faint lines as Bruce’s eyes crinkled from smiling. “I love touching you, Bruce. I love making you smile.”
“You can anytime, you know. You never have to hold back, Clark.”
“So now you’re a mind reader too?”
One corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked - Clark dove in quickly and kissed it, making him gasp. “Just the world’s greatest detective.”
“He said modestly.” Clark sighed, holding him close.
They sat like that, indulging in playful kisses, touches, making discoveries. Clark had never known the tips of fingers, his palm, the inside of his wrist were erogenous zones - not until Bruce kissed each of them, the tip of his tongue tracing circles at palm and wrist. And whoever would have guessed that, if you found this spot behind Bruce’s ear and kissed it over and over, that his eyelids would flutter and a shudder of delicious pleasure that Clark could almost taste would travel through the powerful body?
“Upstairs, now,” Bruce said, scrambling to his feet, bringing Clark with him. “I want to make love with you in the bed you grew up in.”
Eyes wide, Clark said, “The guest roo-“
Bruce hushed his with a kiss. “Your room, your bed.”
“I’m not sure we’ll both fit.”
Bruce smiled and took his hand, tugging. “We’ll figure out a way.”
Yes, yes they would. They did always find a way.
~*~
Moonlight spilled through the window and over their bodies tangled in soft sheets, chests still heaving, echoes of pleasure still tingling through them. Clark rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder, treasuring the lazy glide of fingers through his hair as he listened to the world.
There was turmoil and distress everywhere, of course, but the League was taking care of it; and Gotham was in good hands with Dick and Tim and Barbara and Jim Gordon on the job. Narrowing the field, he could hear the party at the community center just winding down, his parents headed out to the parking lot; his mother had taken first prize in every cooking category over Mrs. Lowell and seemed to be in good spirits again.
He let the rest of the world fade into a faint background buzz, focused on the sound that mattered most just as this moment: the beat of Bruce’s heart, steady in its regular rhythm again. Clark didn’t even need to use his powers to hear it; he could feel it, strong and constant, as he rested his head there.
“Everything all right?”
“Umm hmm.” He rubbed his cheek against Bruce’s chest, kissed an old and faded scar. “My folks will be heading home soon.”
“Mmmm.” The sound was something like a purr and a growl and sent a thrill of anticipation right through Clark. “I bet we have time,” Bruce said, shifting, rolling Clark onto his back and clasping both hands, pressing them back against the mattress.
Clark bet they did too, and then he was just feeling, absorbing every sensation of touch and taste as Bruce bent to kiss him, bedsprings creaking quietly as they moved together in the moonlight.