Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | PG-13 | 13/20
Title: Lost Years - Part 13
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 3,324 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Clark finds alternate transportation home, but not before Bruce goes out of his mind with worry. Later, an anniversary is marked.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Deciding exactly how to work this chapter has been a pain in the neck. So, a huge thank you to bradygirl_12 for helping me get my muses back in line! :) I promise not to take so long with the rest of the story.
Index Post
Part 13
Two day have come and gone, and Clark hasn't returned. Three days. Another night. Gut twisting worriedly as he once again tosses in the too-large bed, Bruce tries and fails not to worry. It's raining again. Colder this time, the chill seeping in around the door and windows.
He wonders if it's raining where Clark is. If he's wet and cold, plowing through the mud and muck trying to get back. He wonders if Clark is hurt, or sick... or powerless.
Or dead.
The thought leaves him cold, ice running up his spine. He... doesn't know what he would do if... if Clark never came back. His brain tries to shut down at the very idea. Left alone here... he'd be insane inside of two weeks.
He wonders offhand if this is how Clark felt while Bruce was unconscious, terrified and slowly losing his mind. It probably serves Bruce right for worrying him so badly, turnabout being fair play. Another in a long line of cosmic jokes set against them.
But the repeated thoughts of all the morbid possibilities continue to eat away at his stomach, as they have for the past day and a half. He can't seem to get the images out of his head. Can't focus on anything positive. Can't figure out how Clark lasted two weeks with him in a coma and not getting any better.
Knowing he won't get any more sleep, Bruce throws back the covers and gets out of bed, limping stiffly to the bathroom. It's still at least an hour until dawn, but coffee and journaling will keep him occupied.
And keep him from heading out blindly in search of his companion.
* * * * *
With a dozen sacs of dry goods and fruits slung across his shoulders, suspended by a makeshift yoke, Clark ascends the next hill, mentally kicking himself for being so damn stubborn. One trip. Right. God, what was I thinking? Of course, Bruce will never let him live this down once he gets back to the farm.
That is, if he doesn't kill him first. Four days longer than planned, six days away from the farm. It'll be a miracle if Bruce doesn't skin him alive for being such a fool. It'll be a miracle if... if Bruce hasn't hurt himself trying to take care of the farm by himself.
But again, Clark mentally smacks himself. Bruce is perfectly capable of taking care of the farm. Bum leg and all. He's the Goddamn Batman, isn't he?
Another hill, another crest. Darned landscape. If he hadn't run out of speed three quarters of the way home, this would have been a breeze. Though, if he hadn't insisted on gathering everything in one trip, he might have had the energy reserves to make quick work of the journey.
Damn Bruce for being right.
Two self-loathing-filled hours later Clark comes around an outcrop, and his vision is suddenly filled with a sight he'd practically forgotten about, and hadn't once considered as a means for transportation until this very moment. Stopping dead, he drops the sacks, a grin moving over his face as his eyes move over the large herd spread across the shallow valley below him.
Maybe Bruce won't kill him after all.
* * * * *
Eight days. Eight goddamn days, and Clark still hasn't come back. Bruce is doing everything he can to keep himself occupied, but it doesn't stop him from running every scenario through his mind. He's worked on the garden, developed a new training regimen that's more remeniscent of his training as Batman, cleaned out the soap house and the smoke house, reorganized the supplies in the cave, even designed and built a moderately-sized extension onto the back of the barn, to accomadate further livestock or project needs. Still, the images flicker behind his eyelids with every blink, a stop-motion film with a morbid theme. This morning, he's adding the final panels to the roof of the barn extension, the early autumn sun shining brightly above him, the animals filling the air with their usual musical accompaniment, but all he can see is Clark laying dead somewhere, body exposed to the elements, probably being picked clean by vultures or other scavengers.
The feelings that come with it eat away at his stomach a little more, and he wonders how long it'll be until he has an ulcer.
But some sound off in the distance breaks him out of his perpetual state of worry. Something like a whistle. Higher pitched than the usual variety of bird calls. And... he freezes, the hammer dropping from his hand and clattering down the sloping roof as recognition hits him, a punch to the gut and a shock to his entire system. He's suddenly unable to keep the grin off his face as the tune clarifies to “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's home from work we go...” and he's scrambling down from the tall ladder, not even worrying about his leg anymore as he runs as hard as he can. “Clark!!!” he yells at the top of his lungs, the pit of his stomach completely dropped away now.
“Honey, I'm hooooome!!” comes Clark's response from further up the trail, and then Bruce sees him, looking a mess and grinning like an idiot, holding long leather straps in one hand, attached to-
Bruce stops in his tracks at the sight, confused and surprised, jaw falling open.
Horses.
Clark brought horses back with him!
“What do you think?” Clark laughs, strolling down the last hill on the trail, but Bruce can't answer, dumbstruck as he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around his lover, pulling him close and holding him tightly.
“Don't you ever, ever scare me like that again!!” Bruce growls, face buried in Clark's neck. “I thought you were dead!”
The Bat feels Clark's arms surround him and hold him, warm and steady. “I'm so sorry, Bruce,” the Kryptonian whispers close to his ear. “I swear I won't ever do that again.”
“Damned right you won't.” Forcing the lump in his throat down, Bruce squeezes harder, trying to convince himself that this is real and Clark is really home. He's lost so much of himself over the last week that he doesn't even care whether his companion sees the sentimentality. Mantle of the Bat be damned, it's been far too long.
For a while, they simply stand there, holding each other tight, Clark whispering soft words of reassurance and the breeze caressing them both with a gentle hand. Reunited after too many days and nights spent apart, alone, they just don't want to move, but Bruce comes to his senses after a long time, finally convinced that he's not dreaming, and he slowly pulls back from Clark, stepping away to appraise the horses.
Tall animals with wide hooves, somewhat like Clydesdales, but not as heavily built. Sleek and chestnut brown, both, with dapples of cream on their shoulders and sides, their fur just starting to thicken in anticipation of the coming cold. One with a cream-colored mane, the other with chestnut. Both carrying six large burlap sacks tied on with several of the leather strips Clark had taken with him. Both sporting a simple bridle and reins.
Clark only has eyes for Bruce, watching him circle the animals, hand running gently over their fur as his eyes light up with a gleam that Clark missed so badly. He catalogues every nuance, every feature, noticing how much Bruce seems to have changed in only a week. His hair seems more wild, face darker with time spent in the sun, frame leaner and yet, more muscled. Clark has to wonder just what he's been up to, and-
It's then that he sees what's missing. Bruce isn't limping. Well, maybe a little, but nothing like he was before. It's such a relief that Clark has to shake his head and blink a few times to make sure he isn't imagining it. “Your leg...” he starts. “You're not limping.”
Bruce looks up from his inspection of the harness, a wry grin pulling up one side of his mouth. “I've been working on it.”
Clark lets out a heavy breath, grinning. “I can tell.” Then his attention focuses on Bruce's close appraisal of the simple tack he fashioned for the horses, and he lights up with glee and begins to recount the best part of his trip. “You wouldn't believe how easy they were to tame. Gave them a few sugar berries, and they accepted the bridle with no fuss at all. Let me ride them after about an hour.”
“You're joking,” Bruce shakes his head, still slowly moving around the animals and already working out in his head their potential applications around the farm.
The taller man crosses his arms over his chest. “Nope. Earth horses would be ashamed of them; it was completely embarrassing!”
The Bat smirks darkly at that, coming back to Clark's side. “I'll bet.”
Snaking an arm around Bruce's waist as they start to head back down to the farm, Clark chuckles warmly, “Come on, let's get these two stabled, and we can fix some lunch. I'm starving!”
“I'm sure you are! And it's a good thing I just finished putting an addition on the barn. Things might have been a little cramped.”
“You what!?” Clark gapes, pausing mid-step. “I've only been gone a week!”
Bruce gives a small smile and shrugs, “I was bored, needed distraction.”
As they share a brief hug and get moving again, Bruce remembers the cats. Clark will be heartbroken, for sure. Deciding to wait until after lunch to tell him, he grips his lover tighter around the waist, and schools the grief that's already threatening to show itself.
* * * * *
Lunch turns into a full-on feast by the time they get everything to the table, and Clark's mouth is watering so badly that he doesn't even bother offering the grace that he knows he probably should. He's digging in by the time Bruce pours their juice, not quite ignoring the other man's open laughter at him for his seeming lack of manners.
But really, who can blame him? He hasn't eaten anything other than rations and a few sweet berries for the last ten days, so a plate-full of actual meat and late summer vegetables smells and tastes like manna from heaven.
“Clark,” Bruce breaks into his thoughts after a while.
The Kryptonian looks up from his food, only a mild sense of shame reddening his cheeks as he chews and sallows a large bite of boar meat, and wonders when he became so rude. “Sorry,” he offers weakly.
His lover gives him a soft smile, and Clark realizes he must have been watching him for a while; not a morsel has been disturbed on Bruce's plate.
“It's all right,” the Bat says quietly. “I'm just glad you're home.”
“You and me, both.”
When Bruce doesn't say anything else, instead looking down at his plate and starting to move the food around with his fork, Clark gets the first inkling that something's wrong. A tingle of apprehension shoots through his body.
“What is it?” he asks quietly.
A suddenly grief-stricken expression is turned up to him. “A lot happened while you were gone.”
Clark's stomach knots and his appetite flees with that one sentence. “What happened, Bruce? Tell me.”
“One of those large wolf things wandered onto the farm.”
Oh, no...
Bruce's eyes harden. “It killed Diana. And Cass.”
“Oh, God...” Clark breathes, his fork falling from his fingers and clanking noisily against his plate as shock sends spikes of adrenaline through him in a single heartbeat. “Wh-why didn't you say anything before? I've been home almost two hours already!” He's not sure why, but anger bubbles up from some deep, dark place, and he feels his cheeks redden with an intense heat.
“I'm sorry,” his companion murmurs, looking away after a moment. “I wasn't sure how to tell you. I... tried to wait until after we'd eaten, but...”
“Jesus, Bruce!” Clark snaps, and he pushes back from the table to stand. Chest heaving with quick, deep breaths as he tries to process what happened, he runs a hand through his hair and turns to scoop into his arms one of the cats that's been patiently waiting for scraps from the table. He looks into the blue eyes of the dark-furred feline, then notices the broad patch of fur missing from Jay's left hind leg. A long line of stitches meanders down from the cat's flank to his foot. “I guess you got caught up in the action,” he says to the animal, feeling grief start to wrap itself around his heart as Jay nuzzles into his chest and he scratches him behind one tufted ear.
“He was hurt pretty badly,” Bruce says from behind him. “I... didn't think he'd make it.”
Turning back, Clark meets his lover's saddened gaze with his own, and his eyes start to sting of their own accord. He sets the cat back on the floor gently. “Come here,” he says to Bruce, throat starting to feel thick and knotted, and in a wave of motion, the other man is in his arms, holding him against the tears that he knows there's no fighting. “I'm so sorry I wasn't here,” he chokes around a sob. “God, I'm sorry.”
* * * * *
Clark spends more than an hour beside the little graves behind the house, Bruce disappearing for a while to brew some hot tea and bring him a cup - that he's now long since finished - while he takes in the reality that two of their native companions have gone. The dirt is already being invaded by autumn weeds, and two tiny, slate grave markers lay over the heads. It's a heartbreaking sight to Clark, but all too familiar, one that he's experienced often before. The inevitable result of drawing life close around you, he supposes, as he remembers the fenced off graveyard behind his parents' farm, where they'd laid to rest countless cats, dogs, horses, and even an old cow that they couldn't bear to sell for slaughter. It was a place of reverence, of quiet and peace, of memories, and the knowledge that you did everything you could to make that animal's life the best it could be. Now, here... Clark didn't expect the need for such a place would arise so soon, hadn't anticipated this.
But he realizes that was a mistake on his part. The end of life is inevitable for all creatures. The tightness of grief in his chest seems to steal his air for a moment as he remembers vague plans for where he might have had to bury Bruce if his companion hadn't woken from his coma. Shivering at the memory, he reaches a hand out blindly, catching Bruce's as the other man steps close behind him.
“I'm here,” Bruce reassures him in a rumbled whisper that Clark can feel through the entirety of his being.
With a shuddered sigh, the taller man turns away from the graves and lets Bruce wrap him up in arms that feel so much stronger than Clark remembers. “We need to fence off the area,” he murmurs into his lover's neck, nuzzling close. “Big enough for others.”
And he doesn't need to say 'graves'. The unspoken reality hangs between them, mournful and heavy and ever-present.
Such is life on a farm.
* * * * *
Some two weeks pass before Bruce notices the first dew on the grass. In that time another harvest has been taken in, final adjustments have been made to the barn extension to stable the horses, who - due to their surprising speed - they've named Wally and Bart, a fence has been erected around the graveyard, and they've begun drawing up plans for a separate outbuilding to house their growing number of projects. They've been busy, working and mourning and healing from a disastrous summer, trying their damnedest to get the farm ready for the slowly encroaching cold.
Which is keeping their eyes on the changing seasons. The morning dew accompanies a crisp breeze and ever chillier nights, and with that comes a sense of anticipation, a thrum in the air that doesn't just mean winter is getting closer. Bruce has been watching the calendar.
It's with this in mind that he finds Clark sitting on the porch steps not long after breakfast, scooping out the innards of a large, purple gourd that resembles - and tastes similar to - pumpkin. Breathing in the cool morning air, Bruce takes a seat next to his companion and rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him.
“It's been a year,” he says quietly, staring off at the richly tinted blue of the sky above the treeline.
For a moment, Clark is quiet beside him, scooping more seeds and loose pulp out and into a bowl, then returns, “I know.”
“Have you had any more of that dream lately?”
Clark only shakes his head.
Unsurprised, Bruce nods his understanding. There was probably nothing to them, anyway, a simple fantasy cooked up by Clark's desperation to get them home.
“I don't think I remember how to be that person anymore.”
And Bruce is surprised. “Hrm?” the Bat quirks an eyebrow, focusing on his lover.
“The person that landed on the beach that day,” Clark goes on, finally looking up from his work. “The person that flew around the planet looking for signs of civilization. The person that refined metals out of rock with no tools. Superman.”
Bruce is sure they've been over this line of thinking a time or five over the past year, but he stops himself from grinding his teeth, his guts twisting too much to let him be irritated. “Clark...” he starts.
“No, I'm serious, Bruce,” the other man goes on. “We've changed. I've changed. A lot. And I don't mean just in the powers department. I don't think I'd know what to do in a large scale intergalactic battle anymore. You're the only person I know how to work with now.”
Bruce knows that his companion is right, on some level. They've been through a lot. But he's been trying. The revised training regimen has been good, and with the blissful dreams of taking down the Joker visiting him several nights a week, he thinks it might not be so difficult to go back to being the Batman should rescue come soon. Heaving a sigh, he turns fully to his partner and clasps his shoulder with a hand, laying the other on his thigh. “Clark, when we get home-”
“If,” the Kryptonian cuts him off, more and more skeptical these days.
“No. When we get home... it'll be like... riding a bicycle. It's only been a year. We'll be fine. You will be fine. I promise.” At Clark's unconvinced look, he scowls. “I know you don't believe me, and I can't believe you're making me be the hopeful one here,” he admonishes halfheartedly, “but we can't just give up completely.”
Clark surprises him again as his worried look morphs into a small smile. “So you're the optimist now?”
“Shut up,” Bruce grumbles.
And a grin slowly spreads over Clark's face, the challenge taken and the tense moment seemingly left behind. “What would the League think? And Alfred? They'd wonder if it was time for Arkham!” he finishes, chuckling darkly.
“What was that?” the Bat accuses, eyes narrowed, as realization settles over him, and he releases Clark and crosses his arms over his black shirt. “Some kind of ruse to get me thinking positively?”
“Caught me,” Clark laughs harder, setting the bowl and the gourd aside and reaching up to clasp Bruce's face and plant a firm kiss on his lips.
Bruce manages to lose himself to the kiss for a moment, letting his hands slip around Clark's waist, but after a moment he pulls bck slightly. “Rotten bastard. I must be a bad influence on you.”
“Maybe. C'mon, lets go inside and I can show you the real power of positive thinking.”
At the low husk of the promise of sex in Clark's voice, Bruce wastes no time rising from the porch and dragging his lover along with him. One year spent alone on this planet be damned, they have each other, and really, what else could matter?
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 3,324 (this section)
Prompt: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Clark finds alternate transportation home, but not before Bruce goes out of his mind with worry. Later, an anniversary is marked.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Deciding exactly how to work this chapter has been a pain in the neck. So, a huge thank you to bradygirl_12 for helping me get my muses back in line! :) I promise not to take so long with the rest of the story.
Index Post
Part 13
Two day have come and gone, and Clark hasn't returned. Three days. Another night. Gut twisting worriedly as he once again tosses in the too-large bed, Bruce tries and fails not to worry. It's raining again. Colder this time, the chill seeping in around the door and windows.
He wonders if it's raining where Clark is. If he's wet and cold, plowing through the mud and muck trying to get back. He wonders if Clark is hurt, or sick... or powerless.
Or dead.
The thought leaves him cold, ice running up his spine. He... doesn't know what he would do if... if Clark never came back. His brain tries to shut down at the very idea. Left alone here... he'd be insane inside of two weeks.
He wonders offhand if this is how Clark felt while Bruce was unconscious, terrified and slowly losing his mind. It probably serves Bruce right for worrying him so badly, turnabout being fair play. Another in a long line of cosmic jokes set against them.
But the repeated thoughts of all the morbid possibilities continue to eat away at his stomach, as they have for the past day and a half. He can't seem to get the images out of his head. Can't focus on anything positive. Can't figure out how Clark lasted two weeks with him in a coma and not getting any better.
Knowing he won't get any more sleep, Bruce throws back the covers and gets out of bed, limping stiffly to the bathroom. It's still at least an hour until dawn, but coffee and journaling will keep him occupied.
And keep him from heading out blindly in search of his companion.
* * * * *
With a dozen sacs of dry goods and fruits slung across his shoulders, suspended by a makeshift yoke, Clark ascends the next hill, mentally kicking himself for being so damn stubborn. One trip. Right. God, what was I thinking? Of course, Bruce will never let him live this down once he gets back to the farm.
That is, if he doesn't kill him first. Four days longer than planned, six days away from the farm. It'll be a miracle if Bruce doesn't skin him alive for being such a fool. It'll be a miracle if... if Bruce hasn't hurt himself trying to take care of the farm by himself.
But again, Clark mentally smacks himself. Bruce is perfectly capable of taking care of the farm. Bum leg and all. He's the Goddamn Batman, isn't he?
Another hill, another crest. Darned landscape. If he hadn't run out of speed three quarters of the way home, this would have been a breeze. Though, if he hadn't insisted on gathering everything in one trip, he might have had the energy reserves to make quick work of the journey.
Damn Bruce for being right.
Two self-loathing-filled hours later Clark comes around an outcrop, and his vision is suddenly filled with a sight he'd practically forgotten about, and hadn't once considered as a means for transportation until this very moment. Stopping dead, he drops the sacks, a grin moving over his face as his eyes move over the large herd spread across the shallow valley below him.
Maybe Bruce won't kill him after all.
* * * * *
Eight days. Eight goddamn days, and Clark still hasn't come back. Bruce is doing everything he can to keep himself occupied, but it doesn't stop him from running every scenario through his mind. He's worked on the garden, developed a new training regimen that's more remeniscent of his training as Batman, cleaned out the soap house and the smoke house, reorganized the supplies in the cave, even designed and built a moderately-sized extension onto the back of the barn, to accomadate further livestock or project needs. Still, the images flicker behind his eyelids with every blink, a stop-motion film with a morbid theme. This morning, he's adding the final panels to the roof of the barn extension, the early autumn sun shining brightly above him, the animals filling the air with their usual musical accompaniment, but all he can see is Clark laying dead somewhere, body exposed to the elements, probably being picked clean by vultures or other scavengers.
The feelings that come with it eat away at his stomach a little more, and he wonders how long it'll be until he has an ulcer.
But some sound off in the distance breaks him out of his perpetual state of worry. Something like a whistle. Higher pitched than the usual variety of bird calls. And... he freezes, the hammer dropping from his hand and clattering down the sloping roof as recognition hits him, a punch to the gut and a shock to his entire system. He's suddenly unable to keep the grin off his face as the tune clarifies to “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's home from work we go...” and he's scrambling down from the tall ladder, not even worrying about his leg anymore as he runs as hard as he can. “Clark!!!” he yells at the top of his lungs, the pit of his stomach completely dropped away now.
“Honey, I'm hooooome!!” comes Clark's response from further up the trail, and then Bruce sees him, looking a mess and grinning like an idiot, holding long leather straps in one hand, attached to-
Bruce stops in his tracks at the sight, confused and surprised, jaw falling open.
Horses.
Clark brought horses back with him!
“What do you think?” Clark laughs, strolling down the last hill on the trail, but Bruce can't answer, dumbstruck as he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around his lover, pulling him close and holding him tightly.
“Don't you ever, ever scare me like that again!!” Bruce growls, face buried in Clark's neck. “I thought you were dead!”
The Bat feels Clark's arms surround him and hold him, warm and steady. “I'm so sorry, Bruce,” the Kryptonian whispers close to his ear. “I swear I won't ever do that again.”
“Damned right you won't.” Forcing the lump in his throat down, Bruce squeezes harder, trying to convince himself that this is real and Clark is really home. He's lost so much of himself over the last week that he doesn't even care whether his companion sees the sentimentality. Mantle of the Bat be damned, it's been far too long.
For a while, they simply stand there, holding each other tight, Clark whispering soft words of reassurance and the breeze caressing them both with a gentle hand. Reunited after too many days and nights spent apart, alone, they just don't want to move, but Bruce comes to his senses after a long time, finally convinced that he's not dreaming, and he slowly pulls back from Clark, stepping away to appraise the horses.
Tall animals with wide hooves, somewhat like Clydesdales, but not as heavily built. Sleek and chestnut brown, both, with dapples of cream on their shoulders and sides, their fur just starting to thicken in anticipation of the coming cold. One with a cream-colored mane, the other with chestnut. Both carrying six large burlap sacks tied on with several of the leather strips Clark had taken with him. Both sporting a simple bridle and reins.
Clark only has eyes for Bruce, watching him circle the animals, hand running gently over their fur as his eyes light up with a gleam that Clark missed so badly. He catalogues every nuance, every feature, noticing how much Bruce seems to have changed in only a week. His hair seems more wild, face darker with time spent in the sun, frame leaner and yet, more muscled. Clark has to wonder just what he's been up to, and-
It's then that he sees what's missing. Bruce isn't limping. Well, maybe a little, but nothing like he was before. It's such a relief that Clark has to shake his head and blink a few times to make sure he isn't imagining it. “Your leg...” he starts. “You're not limping.”
Bruce looks up from his inspection of the harness, a wry grin pulling up one side of his mouth. “I've been working on it.”
Clark lets out a heavy breath, grinning. “I can tell.” Then his attention focuses on Bruce's close appraisal of the simple tack he fashioned for the horses, and he lights up with glee and begins to recount the best part of his trip. “You wouldn't believe how easy they were to tame. Gave them a few sugar berries, and they accepted the bridle with no fuss at all. Let me ride them after about an hour.”
“You're joking,” Bruce shakes his head, still slowly moving around the animals and already working out in his head their potential applications around the farm.
The taller man crosses his arms over his chest. “Nope. Earth horses would be ashamed of them; it was completely embarrassing!”
The Bat smirks darkly at that, coming back to Clark's side. “I'll bet.”
Snaking an arm around Bruce's waist as they start to head back down to the farm, Clark chuckles warmly, “Come on, let's get these two stabled, and we can fix some lunch. I'm starving!”
“I'm sure you are! And it's a good thing I just finished putting an addition on the barn. Things might have been a little cramped.”
“You what!?” Clark gapes, pausing mid-step. “I've only been gone a week!”
Bruce gives a small smile and shrugs, “I was bored, needed distraction.”
As they share a brief hug and get moving again, Bruce remembers the cats. Clark will be heartbroken, for sure. Deciding to wait until after lunch to tell him, he grips his lover tighter around the waist, and schools the grief that's already threatening to show itself.
* * * * *
Lunch turns into a full-on feast by the time they get everything to the table, and Clark's mouth is watering so badly that he doesn't even bother offering the grace that he knows he probably should. He's digging in by the time Bruce pours their juice, not quite ignoring the other man's open laughter at him for his seeming lack of manners.
But really, who can blame him? He hasn't eaten anything other than rations and a few sweet berries for the last ten days, so a plate-full of actual meat and late summer vegetables smells and tastes like manna from heaven.
“Clark,” Bruce breaks into his thoughts after a while.
The Kryptonian looks up from his food, only a mild sense of shame reddening his cheeks as he chews and sallows a large bite of boar meat, and wonders when he became so rude. “Sorry,” he offers weakly.
His lover gives him a soft smile, and Clark realizes he must have been watching him for a while; not a morsel has been disturbed on Bruce's plate.
“It's all right,” the Bat says quietly. “I'm just glad you're home.”
“You and me, both.”
When Bruce doesn't say anything else, instead looking down at his plate and starting to move the food around with his fork, Clark gets the first inkling that something's wrong. A tingle of apprehension shoots through his body.
“What is it?” he asks quietly.
A suddenly grief-stricken expression is turned up to him. “A lot happened while you were gone.”
Clark's stomach knots and his appetite flees with that one sentence. “What happened, Bruce? Tell me.”
“One of those large wolf things wandered onto the farm.”
Oh, no...
Bruce's eyes harden. “It killed Diana. And Cass.”
“Oh, God...” Clark breathes, his fork falling from his fingers and clanking noisily against his plate as shock sends spikes of adrenaline through him in a single heartbeat. “Wh-why didn't you say anything before? I've been home almost two hours already!” He's not sure why, but anger bubbles up from some deep, dark place, and he feels his cheeks redden with an intense heat.
“I'm sorry,” his companion murmurs, looking away after a moment. “I wasn't sure how to tell you. I... tried to wait until after we'd eaten, but...”
“Jesus, Bruce!” Clark snaps, and he pushes back from the table to stand. Chest heaving with quick, deep breaths as he tries to process what happened, he runs a hand through his hair and turns to scoop into his arms one of the cats that's been patiently waiting for scraps from the table. He looks into the blue eyes of the dark-furred feline, then notices the broad patch of fur missing from Jay's left hind leg. A long line of stitches meanders down from the cat's flank to his foot. “I guess you got caught up in the action,” he says to the animal, feeling grief start to wrap itself around his heart as Jay nuzzles into his chest and he scratches him behind one tufted ear.
“He was hurt pretty badly,” Bruce says from behind him. “I... didn't think he'd make it.”
Turning back, Clark meets his lover's saddened gaze with his own, and his eyes start to sting of their own accord. He sets the cat back on the floor gently. “Come here,” he says to Bruce, throat starting to feel thick and knotted, and in a wave of motion, the other man is in his arms, holding him against the tears that he knows there's no fighting. “I'm so sorry I wasn't here,” he chokes around a sob. “God, I'm sorry.”
* * * * *
Clark spends more than an hour beside the little graves behind the house, Bruce disappearing for a while to brew some hot tea and bring him a cup - that he's now long since finished - while he takes in the reality that two of their native companions have gone. The dirt is already being invaded by autumn weeds, and two tiny, slate grave markers lay over the heads. It's a heartbreaking sight to Clark, but all too familiar, one that he's experienced often before. The inevitable result of drawing life close around you, he supposes, as he remembers the fenced off graveyard behind his parents' farm, where they'd laid to rest countless cats, dogs, horses, and even an old cow that they couldn't bear to sell for slaughter. It was a place of reverence, of quiet and peace, of memories, and the knowledge that you did everything you could to make that animal's life the best it could be. Now, here... Clark didn't expect the need for such a place would arise so soon, hadn't anticipated this.
But he realizes that was a mistake on his part. The end of life is inevitable for all creatures. The tightness of grief in his chest seems to steal his air for a moment as he remembers vague plans for where he might have had to bury Bruce if his companion hadn't woken from his coma. Shivering at the memory, he reaches a hand out blindly, catching Bruce's as the other man steps close behind him.
“I'm here,” Bruce reassures him in a rumbled whisper that Clark can feel through the entirety of his being.
With a shuddered sigh, the taller man turns away from the graves and lets Bruce wrap him up in arms that feel so much stronger than Clark remembers. “We need to fence off the area,” he murmurs into his lover's neck, nuzzling close. “Big enough for others.”
And he doesn't need to say 'graves'. The unspoken reality hangs between them, mournful and heavy and ever-present.
Such is life on a farm.
* * * * *
Some two weeks pass before Bruce notices the first dew on the grass. In that time another harvest has been taken in, final adjustments have been made to the barn extension to stable the horses, who - due to their surprising speed - they've named Wally and Bart, a fence has been erected around the graveyard, and they've begun drawing up plans for a separate outbuilding to house their growing number of projects. They've been busy, working and mourning and healing from a disastrous summer, trying their damnedest to get the farm ready for the slowly encroaching cold.
Which is keeping their eyes on the changing seasons. The morning dew accompanies a crisp breeze and ever chillier nights, and with that comes a sense of anticipation, a thrum in the air that doesn't just mean winter is getting closer. Bruce has been watching the calendar.
It's with this in mind that he finds Clark sitting on the porch steps not long after breakfast, scooping out the innards of a large, purple gourd that resembles - and tastes similar to - pumpkin. Breathing in the cool morning air, Bruce takes a seat next to his companion and rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him.
“It's been a year,” he says quietly, staring off at the richly tinted blue of the sky above the treeline.
For a moment, Clark is quiet beside him, scooping more seeds and loose pulp out and into a bowl, then returns, “I know.”
“Have you had any more of that dream lately?”
Clark only shakes his head.
Unsurprised, Bruce nods his understanding. There was probably nothing to them, anyway, a simple fantasy cooked up by Clark's desperation to get them home.
“I don't think I remember how to be that person anymore.”
And Bruce is surprised. “Hrm?” the Bat quirks an eyebrow, focusing on his lover.
“The person that landed on the beach that day,” Clark goes on, finally looking up from his work. “The person that flew around the planet looking for signs of civilization. The person that refined metals out of rock with no tools. Superman.”
Bruce is sure they've been over this line of thinking a time or five over the past year, but he stops himself from grinding his teeth, his guts twisting too much to let him be irritated. “Clark...” he starts.
“No, I'm serious, Bruce,” the other man goes on. “We've changed. I've changed. A lot. And I don't mean just in the powers department. I don't think I'd know what to do in a large scale intergalactic battle anymore. You're the only person I know how to work with now.”
Bruce knows that his companion is right, on some level. They've been through a lot. But he's been trying. The revised training regimen has been good, and with the blissful dreams of taking down the Joker visiting him several nights a week, he thinks it might not be so difficult to go back to being the Batman should rescue come soon. Heaving a sigh, he turns fully to his partner and clasps his shoulder with a hand, laying the other on his thigh. “Clark, when we get home-”
“If,” the Kryptonian cuts him off, more and more skeptical these days.
“No. When we get home... it'll be like... riding a bicycle. It's only been a year. We'll be fine. You will be fine. I promise.” At Clark's unconvinced look, he scowls. “I know you don't believe me, and I can't believe you're making me be the hopeful one here,” he admonishes halfheartedly, “but we can't just give up completely.”
Clark surprises him again as his worried look morphs into a small smile. “So you're the optimist now?”
“Shut up,” Bruce grumbles.
And a grin slowly spreads over Clark's face, the challenge taken and the tense moment seemingly left behind. “What would the League think? And Alfred? They'd wonder if it was time for Arkham!” he finishes, chuckling darkly.
“What was that?” the Bat accuses, eyes narrowed, as realization settles over him, and he releases Clark and crosses his arms over his black shirt. “Some kind of ruse to get me thinking positively?”
“Caught me,” Clark laughs harder, setting the bowl and the gourd aside and reaching up to clasp Bruce's face and plant a firm kiss on his lips.
Bruce manages to lose himself to the kiss for a moment, letting his hands slip around Clark's waist, but after a moment he pulls bck slightly. “Rotten bastard. I must be a bad influence on you.”
“Maybe. C'mon, lets go inside and I can show you the real power of positive thinking.”
At the low husk of the promise of sex in Clark's voice, Bruce wastes no time rising from the porch and dragging his lover along with him. One year spent alone on this planet be damned, they have each other, and really, what else could matter?
* * * * *