Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | PG-13 | 8/18
Title: Lost Years - Part 8
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 3,193 (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) The First Thanksgiving.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Thanks for waiting so patiently for this, folks! This one's a bit lighter than the last, but in a warm fuzzy way. ^_^ Apologies for the religious references, but my Clark muse was insistent, in the interest of tradition. Oh, and the joke had to be made. You'll see what I mean. ^_~
Index Post
Part 8
“I know you're trying! Try harder!”
Clark is certain that's Diana's voice. And boy, is she angry! But he can't see her, can't tell where she is. He's... standing by the chicken/duck coop, with his fingers laced into the chicken wire. A few of the birds cluck angrily at him, snapping their beaks as they so often do. “Girls...” he warns, clucking back.
“We've looked everywhere, Diana.” It's J'onn, and even he seems to be losing his cool. “Both Zatanna and I have searched every plane we can think of, and there is still no sign of them!”
The sky is blue above him, a light breeze blowing past. His breath catches in his chest as he seeks out the source of the voices.
“You can't give up!” A weary sounding Dick cuts into the phantom conversation. “They wouldn't want you to give up.”
Another female voice is added to the angry discussion, “We're doing everything we can, please believe us! I've tried every locator spell in the books, and a few that aren't, but they seem to have just completely vanished from existence!”
“Dammit, that's not good enough, Zee!” Dick shoots back.
Diana adds forcefully, “You will find them, because I refuse to have them declared dead. Do you understand me? I refuse! I will not do that to Clark's poor parents.”
“And I won't do that to Tim and Alfred. It's not happening,” Dick finishes.
Clark frantically searches the sky, the horizon, looking as far as he can, but there's nothing. No one. Why can't I see them? he cries to himself, his chest tightening. Where are they?
Around him, the argument continues, finally trailing off with a gust of wind, the fresh air tossing his hair about his head. “Where are you!?” he wails to the wind, sinking to his knees in front of the bird coop, fingers catching on the wire as he goes down.
When the birds snap their beaks at him again, glaring with their dark eyes, the world fades from existence, and he becomes aware of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard.
“Clark? Clark! Wake up!”
Gasping, he comes awake, sitting straight up in the bed, his eyes popping open and his chest rising with his sharp breath.
“Whoa. Whoa. Settle down. It's okay. You're all right.”
Bruce!
“Shhh...” Bruce soothes him, reaching up to stroke his hair. “It's just a nightmare. Breathe.”
Nodding absently, Clark takes a few deep breaths, still fighting the frustration of the dream. When his companion draws him into the circle of his arms, he leans heavily into him, fingers digging into the Bat's homespun shirt, desperate for contact.
Rocking him gently, Bruce says quietly, “It was the dream again, wasn't it?”
“Y-yeah,” the Kryptonian manages after a moment. “I... sorry...”
“Hush. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Bruce's voice is like a balm on the wound, healing and soothing away the pain of the nightmare. The same nightmare he's had at least a dozen times since winter came, with its longer nights and deathly cold quiet. Except... every time, the dialogue is a little different. The League members - and non-members - different every time. The only constant is J'onn. But with each dream, they seem more desperate to find their missing teammates, closer to their wit's end. It's... disconcerting, at best. And he doesn't know if there's any real significance to the dreams, except that he wants so badly for the League to find them and take them home.
After a while of just letting Bruce hold him, Clark manages to compose himself, pulling away from his lover. He rakes his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair and sighs. “What day is it?” he asks, reaching to pull the feather filled comforter more securely around him in their wide, comfortable bed, noting that Bruce is already dressed and up.
“You don't remember?”
Clark shakes his head, his brow furrowed.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Clark,” Bruce smiles mischievously.
“Thanksgiving...” the taller man repeats.
Bruce rolls his eyes. “We've only been looking forward to this for a week.” Chuckling, he gestures to the stove. “The bird's already in the oven. Coffee's on. Fire's going. Animals have been fed, and breakfast is almost ready,” he lists off.
His head finally clearing, Clark registers the sharp aroma of coffee and the salty smell of eggs and almost-ham, sees the flicker of the burning logs in the fireplace, and... realizes he should have been up at least an hour ago. “Oh, damn. Sorry...”
His partner puts up a hand, “Stop. I've got it covered. And you don't have to worry about me burning anything. I'm following all your directions. To the letter.”
“Heh,” Clark smiles faintly. “Okay... Well, I should get up, anyway...”
Shifting to his knees, Bruce looms over Clark, forcing him back. “Nope. I've got everything covered. You just stay here a while. You deserve it,” he declares, finishing with a long, searching kiss.
Clark can't help but allow it and respond eagerly, pulling his Bat down over him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Bruce Wayne?” he quips against Bruce's mouth.
“Maybe I like taking care of you,” the Bat purrs suggestively, nibbling on a lip.
“I can accept tha- Um, the ham is burning, Bruce,” the Kryptonian points out, trying not to smile.
“What!?” the other man draws back, head whipping around. “Oh, shit!”
Clark snickers to himself as Bruce leaps over to the stove to do battle with their burning breakfast, and snuggles back into the bed, nuzzling into the down pillow and pulling the warm covers up over him.
* * * * *
Sitting on the porch steps, Bruce helps Clark snap the beans that the Kryptonian collected from a warmer climate the day before, prepping them for dinner. Luxuriating in the gentle breeze of the early spring as he snaps the long, brown pods, he listens to the few chirping birds that have already returned from their southern migration. It feels strange to be having a fall holiday when the first flowers are blooming, tiny bluish clusters popping up among the greening grass and the last remaining patches of snow, but they both know the first Thanksgiving was a celebration of making it through the hard winter, anyway. At least they can follow suit in the original tradition.
Some things, however, cannot be justified.
“I miss the parade,” he says out of the blue, snapping another bean and dropping it into the bowl set between them.
“Sorry?” Clark looks at him, eyebrows raised.
“The parade. The Macy's parade. Not that I ever watched it, but Alfred and Tim did. Even Dick and Jason, when they were at the Manor. Hell, they're probably all watching it now.”
Clark gives him a warm smile. “My parents are probably watching it, too. And I know they have it playing in the bullpen. Probably in the Monitor Room, as well.”
Bruce nods, remembering the way all his Robins got so excited about it. Dick had once pestered him endlessly for a week in advance, just to make sure they'd be close to a TV on Turkey Day so he could see the new Superman balloon. He can't help chuckling to himself at the memory.
“What's so funny?” Clark smirks at him sideways, snapping away.
“Heh. You. You as a balloon in the parade.”
The Kryptonian shakes his head, “I never could get over that. But then, I never was one for advertising or merchandising.”
“Which is why I had to take care of all your copyrights,” Bruce snickers.
“True...”
Turning to watch his lover intently at the sound of regret in his voice, the Bat catches the faint pained expression on his face. “I miss home, too,” he says quietly.
The soft, sad smile Clark gives him in return warms him and makes his heart ache all at once, and he can't help leaning over to kiss that perfect mouth, wishing he could take away every bit of pain that he and their exile have caused him.
* * * * *
“This is definitely more food than we can possibly hope to eat,” Clark chuckles, standing back with Bruce to behold the feast they've laid out for themselves. His lover's arm tightens around his waist.
“Good thing we have an icebox, then,” Bruce returns, smiling himself, holding Clark close for a moment as they take in the spread. The table is completely covered, with chicken/duck in the center, looking almost like a cooked turkey, surrounded by the beans in their cream sauce with crispy fried onions over top, mashed almost-potatoes with gravy, sweet purple winterberry sauce, sautéed almost-carrots and peas, rolls made from nut-flour with butter, and mulled apple-cherry cider. It's a meal made for kings. And there'll be leftovers aplenty.
“Shall we?” the taller man suggests, pulling away slowly.
“After you,” Bruce smirks, pulling out Clark's chair.
Clark takes his seat graciously. “Why, thank you!”
With a light laugh, Bruce moves around to take his own seat, and for a moment, they can only stare at the food, as if suddenly afraid that some spell might break if they partake of the meal. Or that somehow, celebrating the holiday away from home will make their isolation that more real.
“Seems like there should be football on a TV playing somewhere,” Clark says quietly.
The Bat only grunts, nodding in agreement. He misses catching the occasional Knights game, and watching them beat the tar out of both the Chiefs and the Sharks, just to rub it in Clark's face. He kinda wishes he'd seen that for what is was...
“Maybe we should say grace?” Clark suggests, cutting into his reverie with raised eyebrows.
Bruce inclines his head, not really seeing the point. He's never really been religious, and doesn't see how praying to a deity he doesn't much believe in, and that sure as hell hasn't helped them get home, is warranted. “Um... why?”
“I dunno,” the other man shrugs. “Tradition? Never was really my thing, but... Ma and Pa always say it over holiday meals, so...”
The Bat shrugs in return. “Sure, knock yourself out,” he says, not one to argue over tradition if it'll make Clark feel better, and the two men bow their heads, Clark clasping his hands.
“Heavenly father, we thank you for this bounty we are about to receive. For the skills and abilities that have allowed us to reap this harvest, for the fertile land, full of life. We thank you for the skills that have allowed us to survive in this untouched world, for for the strength and determination to keep going, for a relatively short and mild winter. In your name we pray, amen.”
Muttering his 'amen', Bruce looks back up to catch Clark's bashful gaze. “That was nice,” he whispers, at least able to admit to a beautiful sentiment when he hears one.
“Thanks,” Clark smiles shyly at him over the table.
Smirking, the Bat shakes his head, and moves to begin carving up the bird.
* * * * *
A while later, both men sit back from the table, full and content, neither wanting to get up just yet, happy to simply bask in the after-dinner glow. “I'm not sure I've ever been this full in my life,” Clark smiles lazily, his stocking feet entwined with Bruce's beneath the table.
“Hmph,” the Bat glares playfully back at him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I think I'm more stuffed than that bird was!”
The Kryptonian can't help a hearty chuckle, grinning ear to ear at his lover. “I suppose that's possible.”
For a few moments, they lapse back into silence, Bruce's eyes seeming to gloss over as he looks inward, Clark contemplating the leftovers. They'll be eating chicken/duck sandwiches for at least a week. Thank goodness for the icebox, and plenty of ice to keep it all cold, the taller man muses.
“We never got around to saying what we're thankful for,” Bruce says suddenly, breaking the silence softly.
“Hmm...” Clark regards him at the mention, having thought a great deal about the topic over the last week. He supposes they have a lot to be grateful for. “I'm thankful we made it through the winter. Thankful the pipes didn't freeze over.”
The corner of Bruce's mouth pulls upward. “I'm thankful you know so much about farming and livestock... and cooking.”
Another chuckle escapes Clark's throat, warm and light, the orange-tinted late afternoon sun streaming in through the window and highlighting his bright expression. “Well, I'm thankful you're a quick study in all of those areas.”
“I'm thankful you pushed about building the fireplace.” Bruce's look is dark and meaningful.
Clark blinks. “I'm thankful you pushed about making cloth and soap. It's nice to be clean on a regular basis again.”
A mischievous smirk moves over the Bat's face, half hidden in shadow. “I'm thankful for your powers of super-weaving.”
“Hey!” the other man protests, grabbing an uneaten roll from the basket and tossing it across the table.
Bruce makes the catch easily, chuckling all the while. “Oh, come on, somebody had to say it! We might still be wearing our uniforms if you hadn't been so fast with the loom.”
Shaking his head, Clark thinks of the late nights spent producing just one more yard of fabric, so they'd have enough to work with the next day. Three full sets of simple, cotton-like clothes, two sets of curtains, and a full set of bedclothes later, and they'd finally been prepared to meet the worst of the winter - a whole three weeks into it. He realizes that none of that would have happened if things had remained so rocky between them.
“Yeah, well, I'm thankful you finally came to your senses,” he says quietly.
The Bat gives him another dark look, blinking with smoky lashes, and nearly whispers, “I'm thankful you pushed all the right buttons.”
“Me, too,” Clark smiles faintly.
After returning his smile, Bruce's face seems to fall. “I wish we were home.”
A small sigh. “I do, too.”
“I miss Alfred's cooking.”
“I miss Ma's.”
“I miss Tim and Dick. And Barbara. The League.”
Clark's throat tightens at the mention of the people they'd left behind, the family and friends that he hoped were still waiting for them. “I miss Ma and Pa, and Kara, and Lois and Jimmy. Hell, even Perry.”
“I want to go home, Clark,” Bruce's voice, at last, seems to choke and crack with the release of energy, and his companion's heart clenches at the sound of it.
“I want to go home, too,” Clark sighs deeply, leaning forward and reaching across the table to take Bruce's hand in his, squeezing tightly. “Very much.”
* * * * *
The early spring night is already filled with the sounds of life returning to their corner of the world. Birds singing their evening songs. Insects chirping. Breeze rustling the slowly emerging leaves on the trees. Field mice scurrying about as they head above ground. The chicken/ducks squawking their displeasure at the rodents. It's a sweet symphony that Clark could listen to forever and not get tired of. Especially after two increasingly quiet months in which he couldn't get too far on foot, no thanks to the thick snowfalls that had blocked his path.
Relieved and pleased, he listens.
More rustling. Scurrying field mice. The hoot of an owl. The flutter of wings. He's sure there are bats around, though he doesn't know whether Bruce has any inkling of them yet. Maybe he'll surprise him with the discovery for Christmas.
“Mmph,” his Bat grumbles in his sleep, flopping over from one side to the other beneath the heavy, toasty comforter, facing away from Clark.
The Kryptonian smiles softly, staring at the ceiling, before turning onto his own side and snuggling up to Bruce, slipping an arm around his bare waist. Breathing in the bright, clean scent of his lover's freshly showered hair and skin, he nuzzles close, getting comfortable, wrapping himself around his lover.
It's their usual sleeping arrangement, as of late, reminding Clark of those first few nights on this lonely world, tangled together to conserve heat beneath a shelter barely fit to keep the rain off of them. Bruce hasn't admitted it, but Clark knows he loves it.
“I miss the Cave,” the Bat says sleepily out of nowhere, seeming to pick up their conversation from earlier in the evening.
“Shh, I know,” Clark tries to reassure him. “I miss the Fortress, too.”
“I miss Gotham. All the shadows and gargoyles.”
Of course he does, the Kryptonian smiles to himself, loving his Bat all the much more for it. “I miss Metropolis, with her bright, shining buildings, her spirit.”
“I miss patrol.”
He thinks of the times he'd visited Bruce's city and caught him mid-patrol, both alone and with his various partners. Bruce in his element. But then he thinks of the wind on his face as he descended from the sky to meet the Bat. “I miss flying.”
“I miss being Batman.”
“You're always Batman,” Clark chuckles lightly.
Bruce shakes his head against the pillow. “No, I'm just Bruce here. No Bat.”
“Baloney, you're the Bat, and you know it. But if you wanna split hairs? I miss being Superman.”
And that's enough to wake Bruce up. Roughly, he flops back over to face his companion. “I'm sorry.”
“Why?” Clark looks at him in the near-darkness.
“I know this can't be easy for you. You weren't made to be earth-bound.” He reaches up to stroke his lover's hair back from over his eyes. “You were made to soar above everything, to be more than-”
“Stop,” Clark cuts him off, grabbing his wrist lightly. “This can only go in one direction. I'm not some... some demi-god, Bruce. I never have been. Yes, I miss my powers. I miss riding the air currents and lifting mountains. But what I miss most of all is being able to make a difference, to help in whatever ways I could. Here... I can't exactly do that.”
Bruce exhales heavily, his nostrils flaring, and he lays his palm flat on Clark's cheek, fingers tracing his features. “You and I both know you're still the hero, here. There's no way we could have made it this far without everything you've done.”
The Kryptonian releases his wrist and slips his arm back around Bruce's waist, pulling him close. “Thank you. But please don't ever discount yourself. I love you, Bruce.”
The Bat returns a faint, crooked smile. “I love you, too.”
Shifting, Clark closes the small distance between them to plant a soft, lingering kiss on his lover's lips, tasting the sweet remainders of apple-cherry cider and their special blend of toothpaste on his tongue as he finds it.
A tiny, purring growl rises from Bruce's throat as the kiss goes on, his hand sliding around to twine into Clark's hair, holding him close and tight.
Before long, they're a tangle of limbs, covers and cool sweat, affirming life and their love and gratitude for each other in the best way they've learned how.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG-13 (this section)
Word Count: 3,193 (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) The First Thanksgiving.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: Thanks for waiting so patiently for this, folks! This one's a bit lighter than the last, but in a warm fuzzy way. ^_^ Apologies for the religious references, but my Clark muse was insistent, in the interest of tradition. Oh, and the joke had to be made. You'll see what I mean. ^_~
Index Post
Part 8
“I know you're trying! Try harder!”
Clark is certain that's Diana's voice. And boy, is she angry! But he can't see her, can't tell where she is. He's... standing by the chicken/duck coop, with his fingers laced into the chicken wire. A few of the birds cluck angrily at him, snapping their beaks as they so often do. “Girls...” he warns, clucking back.
“We've looked everywhere, Diana.” It's J'onn, and even he seems to be losing his cool. “Both Zatanna and I have searched every plane we can think of, and there is still no sign of them!”
The sky is blue above him, a light breeze blowing past. His breath catches in his chest as he seeks out the source of the voices.
“You can't give up!” A weary sounding Dick cuts into the phantom conversation. “They wouldn't want you to give up.”
Another female voice is added to the angry discussion, “We're doing everything we can, please believe us! I've tried every locator spell in the books, and a few that aren't, but they seem to have just completely vanished from existence!”
“Dammit, that's not good enough, Zee!” Dick shoots back.
Diana adds forcefully, “You will find them, because I refuse to have them declared dead. Do you understand me? I refuse! I will not do that to Clark's poor parents.”
“And I won't do that to Tim and Alfred. It's not happening,” Dick finishes.
Clark frantically searches the sky, the horizon, looking as far as he can, but there's nothing. No one. Why can't I see them? he cries to himself, his chest tightening. Where are they?
Around him, the argument continues, finally trailing off with a gust of wind, the fresh air tossing his hair about his head. “Where are you!?” he wails to the wind, sinking to his knees in front of the bird coop, fingers catching on the wire as he goes down.
When the birds snap their beaks at him again, glaring with their dark eyes, the world fades from existence, and he becomes aware of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard.
“Clark? Clark! Wake up!”
Gasping, he comes awake, sitting straight up in the bed, his eyes popping open and his chest rising with his sharp breath.
“Whoa. Whoa. Settle down. It's okay. You're all right.”
Bruce!
“Shhh...” Bruce soothes him, reaching up to stroke his hair. “It's just a nightmare. Breathe.”
Nodding absently, Clark takes a few deep breaths, still fighting the frustration of the dream. When his companion draws him into the circle of his arms, he leans heavily into him, fingers digging into the Bat's homespun shirt, desperate for contact.
Rocking him gently, Bruce says quietly, “It was the dream again, wasn't it?”
“Y-yeah,” the Kryptonian manages after a moment. “I... sorry...”
“Hush. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Bruce's voice is like a balm on the wound, healing and soothing away the pain of the nightmare. The same nightmare he's had at least a dozen times since winter came, with its longer nights and deathly cold quiet. Except... every time, the dialogue is a little different. The League members - and non-members - different every time. The only constant is J'onn. But with each dream, they seem more desperate to find their missing teammates, closer to their wit's end. It's... disconcerting, at best. And he doesn't know if there's any real significance to the dreams, except that he wants so badly for the League to find them and take them home.
After a while of just letting Bruce hold him, Clark manages to compose himself, pulling away from his lover. He rakes his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair and sighs. “What day is it?” he asks, reaching to pull the feather filled comforter more securely around him in their wide, comfortable bed, noting that Bruce is already dressed and up.
“You don't remember?”
Clark shakes his head, his brow furrowed.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Clark,” Bruce smiles mischievously.
“Thanksgiving...” the taller man repeats.
Bruce rolls his eyes. “We've only been looking forward to this for a week.” Chuckling, he gestures to the stove. “The bird's already in the oven. Coffee's on. Fire's going. Animals have been fed, and breakfast is almost ready,” he lists off.
His head finally clearing, Clark registers the sharp aroma of coffee and the salty smell of eggs and almost-ham, sees the flicker of the burning logs in the fireplace, and... realizes he should have been up at least an hour ago. “Oh, damn. Sorry...”
His partner puts up a hand, “Stop. I've got it covered. And you don't have to worry about me burning anything. I'm following all your directions. To the letter.”
“Heh,” Clark smiles faintly. “Okay... Well, I should get up, anyway...”
Shifting to his knees, Bruce looms over Clark, forcing him back. “Nope. I've got everything covered. You just stay here a while. You deserve it,” he declares, finishing with a long, searching kiss.
Clark can't help but allow it and respond eagerly, pulling his Bat down over him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Bruce Wayne?” he quips against Bruce's mouth.
“Maybe I like taking care of you,” the Bat purrs suggestively, nibbling on a lip.
“I can accept tha- Um, the ham is burning, Bruce,” the Kryptonian points out, trying not to smile.
“What!?” the other man draws back, head whipping around. “Oh, shit!”
Clark snickers to himself as Bruce leaps over to the stove to do battle with their burning breakfast, and snuggles back into the bed, nuzzling into the down pillow and pulling the warm covers up over him.
* * * * *
Sitting on the porch steps, Bruce helps Clark snap the beans that the Kryptonian collected from a warmer climate the day before, prepping them for dinner. Luxuriating in the gentle breeze of the early spring as he snaps the long, brown pods, he listens to the few chirping birds that have already returned from their southern migration. It feels strange to be having a fall holiday when the first flowers are blooming, tiny bluish clusters popping up among the greening grass and the last remaining patches of snow, but they both know the first Thanksgiving was a celebration of making it through the hard winter, anyway. At least they can follow suit in the original tradition.
Some things, however, cannot be justified.
“I miss the parade,” he says out of the blue, snapping another bean and dropping it into the bowl set between them.
“Sorry?” Clark looks at him, eyebrows raised.
“The parade. The Macy's parade. Not that I ever watched it, but Alfred and Tim did. Even Dick and Jason, when they were at the Manor. Hell, they're probably all watching it now.”
Clark gives him a warm smile. “My parents are probably watching it, too. And I know they have it playing in the bullpen. Probably in the Monitor Room, as well.”
Bruce nods, remembering the way all his Robins got so excited about it. Dick had once pestered him endlessly for a week in advance, just to make sure they'd be close to a TV on Turkey Day so he could see the new Superman balloon. He can't help chuckling to himself at the memory.
“What's so funny?” Clark smirks at him sideways, snapping away.
“Heh. You. You as a balloon in the parade.”
The Kryptonian shakes his head, “I never could get over that. But then, I never was one for advertising or merchandising.”
“Which is why I had to take care of all your copyrights,” Bruce snickers.
“True...”
Turning to watch his lover intently at the sound of regret in his voice, the Bat catches the faint pained expression on his face. “I miss home, too,” he says quietly.
The soft, sad smile Clark gives him in return warms him and makes his heart ache all at once, and he can't help leaning over to kiss that perfect mouth, wishing he could take away every bit of pain that he and their exile have caused him.
* * * * *
“This is definitely more food than we can possibly hope to eat,” Clark chuckles, standing back with Bruce to behold the feast they've laid out for themselves. His lover's arm tightens around his waist.
“Good thing we have an icebox, then,” Bruce returns, smiling himself, holding Clark close for a moment as they take in the spread. The table is completely covered, with chicken/duck in the center, looking almost like a cooked turkey, surrounded by the beans in their cream sauce with crispy fried onions over top, mashed almost-potatoes with gravy, sweet purple winterberry sauce, sautéed almost-carrots and peas, rolls made from nut-flour with butter, and mulled apple-cherry cider. It's a meal made for kings. And there'll be leftovers aplenty.
“Shall we?” the taller man suggests, pulling away slowly.
“After you,” Bruce smirks, pulling out Clark's chair.
Clark takes his seat graciously. “Why, thank you!”
With a light laugh, Bruce moves around to take his own seat, and for a moment, they can only stare at the food, as if suddenly afraid that some spell might break if they partake of the meal. Or that somehow, celebrating the holiday away from home will make their isolation that more real.
“Seems like there should be football on a TV playing somewhere,” Clark says quietly.
The Bat only grunts, nodding in agreement. He misses catching the occasional Knights game, and watching them beat the tar out of both the Chiefs and the Sharks, just to rub it in Clark's face. He kinda wishes he'd seen that for what is was...
“Maybe we should say grace?” Clark suggests, cutting into his reverie with raised eyebrows.
Bruce inclines his head, not really seeing the point. He's never really been religious, and doesn't see how praying to a deity he doesn't much believe in, and that sure as hell hasn't helped them get home, is warranted. “Um... why?”
“I dunno,” the other man shrugs. “Tradition? Never was really my thing, but... Ma and Pa always say it over holiday meals, so...”
The Bat shrugs in return. “Sure, knock yourself out,” he says, not one to argue over tradition if it'll make Clark feel better, and the two men bow their heads, Clark clasping his hands.
“Heavenly father, we thank you for this bounty we are about to receive. For the skills and abilities that have allowed us to reap this harvest, for the fertile land, full of life. We thank you for the skills that have allowed us to survive in this untouched world, for for the strength and determination to keep going, for a relatively short and mild winter. In your name we pray, amen.”
Muttering his 'amen', Bruce looks back up to catch Clark's bashful gaze. “That was nice,” he whispers, at least able to admit to a beautiful sentiment when he hears one.
“Thanks,” Clark smiles shyly at him over the table.
Smirking, the Bat shakes his head, and moves to begin carving up the bird.
* * * * *
A while later, both men sit back from the table, full and content, neither wanting to get up just yet, happy to simply bask in the after-dinner glow. “I'm not sure I've ever been this full in my life,” Clark smiles lazily, his stocking feet entwined with Bruce's beneath the table.
“Hmph,” the Bat glares playfully back at him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I think I'm more stuffed than that bird was!”
The Kryptonian can't help a hearty chuckle, grinning ear to ear at his lover. “I suppose that's possible.”
For a few moments, they lapse back into silence, Bruce's eyes seeming to gloss over as he looks inward, Clark contemplating the leftovers. They'll be eating chicken/duck sandwiches for at least a week. Thank goodness for the icebox, and plenty of ice to keep it all cold, the taller man muses.
“We never got around to saying what we're thankful for,” Bruce says suddenly, breaking the silence softly.
“Hmm...” Clark regards him at the mention, having thought a great deal about the topic over the last week. He supposes they have a lot to be grateful for. “I'm thankful we made it through the winter. Thankful the pipes didn't freeze over.”
The corner of Bruce's mouth pulls upward. “I'm thankful you know so much about farming and livestock... and cooking.”
Another chuckle escapes Clark's throat, warm and light, the orange-tinted late afternoon sun streaming in through the window and highlighting his bright expression. “Well, I'm thankful you're a quick study in all of those areas.”
“I'm thankful you pushed about building the fireplace.” Bruce's look is dark and meaningful.
Clark blinks. “I'm thankful you pushed about making cloth and soap. It's nice to be clean on a regular basis again.”
A mischievous smirk moves over the Bat's face, half hidden in shadow. “I'm thankful for your powers of super-weaving.”
“Hey!” the other man protests, grabbing an uneaten roll from the basket and tossing it across the table.
Bruce makes the catch easily, chuckling all the while. “Oh, come on, somebody had to say it! We might still be wearing our uniforms if you hadn't been so fast with the loom.”
Shaking his head, Clark thinks of the late nights spent producing just one more yard of fabric, so they'd have enough to work with the next day. Three full sets of simple, cotton-like clothes, two sets of curtains, and a full set of bedclothes later, and they'd finally been prepared to meet the worst of the winter - a whole three weeks into it. He realizes that none of that would have happened if things had remained so rocky between them.
“Yeah, well, I'm thankful you finally came to your senses,” he says quietly.
The Bat gives him another dark look, blinking with smoky lashes, and nearly whispers, “I'm thankful you pushed all the right buttons.”
“Me, too,” Clark smiles faintly.
After returning his smile, Bruce's face seems to fall. “I wish we were home.”
A small sigh. “I do, too.”
“I miss Alfred's cooking.”
“I miss Ma's.”
“I miss Tim and Dick. And Barbara. The League.”
Clark's throat tightens at the mention of the people they'd left behind, the family and friends that he hoped were still waiting for them. “I miss Ma and Pa, and Kara, and Lois and Jimmy. Hell, even Perry.”
“I want to go home, Clark,” Bruce's voice, at last, seems to choke and crack with the release of energy, and his companion's heart clenches at the sound of it.
“I want to go home, too,” Clark sighs deeply, leaning forward and reaching across the table to take Bruce's hand in his, squeezing tightly. “Very much.”
* * * * *
The early spring night is already filled with the sounds of life returning to their corner of the world. Birds singing their evening songs. Insects chirping. Breeze rustling the slowly emerging leaves on the trees. Field mice scurrying about as they head above ground. The chicken/ducks squawking their displeasure at the rodents. It's a sweet symphony that Clark could listen to forever and not get tired of. Especially after two increasingly quiet months in which he couldn't get too far on foot, no thanks to the thick snowfalls that had blocked his path.
Relieved and pleased, he listens.
More rustling. Scurrying field mice. The hoot of an owl. The flutter of wings. He's sure there are bats around, though he doesn't know whether Bruce has any inkling of them yet. Maybe he'll surprise him with the discovery for Christmas.
“Mmph,” his Bat grumbles in his sleep, flopping over from one side to the other beneath the heavy, toasty comforter, facing away from Clark.
The Kryptonian smiles softly, staring at the ceiling, before turning onto his own side and snuggling up to Bruce, slipping an arm around his bare waist. Breathing in the bright, clean scent of his lover's freshly showered hair and skin, he nuzzles close, getting comfortable, wrapping himself around his lover.
It's their usual sleeping arrangement, as of late, reminding Clark of those first few nights on this lonely world, tangled together to conserve heat beneath a shelter barely fit to keep the rain off of them. Bruce hasn't admitted it, but Clark knows he loves it.
“I miss the Cave,” the Bat says sleepily out of nowhere, seeming to pick up their conversation from earlier in the evening.
“Shh, I know,” Clark tries to reassure him. “I miss the Fortress, too.”
“I miss Gotham. All the shadows and gargoyles.”
Of course he does, the Kryptonian smiles to himself, loving his Bat all the much more for it. “I miss Metropolis, with her bright, shining buildings, her spirit.”
“I miss patrol.”
He thinks of the times he'd visited Bruce's city and caught him mid-patrol, both alone and with his various partners. Bruce in his element. But then he thinks of the wind on his face as he descended from the sky to meet the Bat. “I miss flying.”
“I miss being Batman.”
“You're always Batman,” Clark chuckles lightly.
Bruce shakes his head against the pillow. “No, I'm just Bruce here. No Bat.”
“Baloney, you're the Bat, and you know it. But if you wanna split hairs? I miss being Superman.”
And that's enough to wake Bruce up. Roughly, he flops back over to face his companion. “I'm sorry.”
“Why?” Clark looks at him in the near-darkness.
“I know this can't be easy for you. You weren't made to be earth-bound.” He reaches up to stroke his lover's hair back from over his eyes. “You were made to soar above everything, to be more than-”
“Stop,” Clark cuts him off, grabbing his wrist lightly. “This can only go in one direction. I'm not some... some demi-god, Bruce. I never have been. Yes, I miss my powers. I miss riding the air currents and lifting mountains. But what I miss most of all is being able to make a difference, to help in whatever ways I could. Here... I can't exactly do that.”
Bruce exhales heavily, his nostrils flaring, and he lays his palm flat on Clark's cheek, fingers tracing his features. “You and I both know you're still the hero, here. There's no way we could have made it this far without everything you've done.”
The Kryptonian releases his wrist and slips his arm back around Bruce's waist, pulling him close. “Thank you. But please don't ever discount yourself. I love you, Bruce.”
The Bat returns a faint, crooked smile. “I love you, too.”
Shifting, Clark closes the small distance between them to plant a soft, lingering kiss on his lover's lips, tasting the sweet remainders of apple-cherry cider and their special blend of toothpaste on his tongue as he finds it.
A tiny, purring growl rises from Bruce's throat as the kiss goes on, his hand sliding around to twine into Clark's hair, holding him close and tight.
Before long, they're a tangle of limbs, covers and cool sweat, affirming life and their love and gratitude for each other in the best way they've learned how.
* * * * *