Apparently I have a lot of feelings about Bruce&Martha! Which I'm sure comes as a huge surprise to everyone. I JUST WANT BRUCE TO HAVE FRIENDS, OKAY. ALFRED IS AWESOME, BUT BRUCE NEEDS MULTIPLE PEOPLE PLATONICALLY INVESTED IN HIS WELFARE.
Dinner is wonderful. The fish is great—"Not quite as good as what your father used to catch on weekends," Mom says, with a wistful little smile, "but it came out all right."
And Bruce—there aren't any words for Bruce, Clark thinks, or at least none Clark's used to using. He does put his hand close to Clark's, and shoots Clark a wicked glance when their knees brush once, again, under the tiny dining room table; and then Mom says loudly from the kitchen, "You better not be getting indecent out there!"
"Mom," Clark squawks, and Bruce—Bruce laughs, not a low easy Bruce Wayne chuckle but an almost accidental-sounding snort.
Clark's still uneasy about the prospect of outright lying to Mom—letting her make assumptions and deliberately not correcting them is bad enough. But if Bruce says something blatantly untrue, how can Clark not back him up?
Except he doesn't. It must just be luck, but Mom doesn't ask him anything that would force the issue, and Bruce doesn't push it himself. He doesn't make any lewd remarks, not even milder ones; he doesn't tease or joke or give Clark his usual long heavy-lidded stares. Compared to what Clark is used to, in fact, Bruce barely puts on a show at all.
He's actually kind of—normal. Not that he isn't making an effort: he eats his fish with gusto, compliments everything from the sauce to the silverware, and even lets Mom serve him heaping seconds. "I've learned my lesson," he murmurs to Clark while she's dishing it up. "I skip lunch before I come to your mother's house. She always cooked like—"
He stops short, the smile sliding off his face.
"What?" Clark says.
And Bruce looks at him like—like Clark's not sure what, mouth pressed into a sharp line, eyes dark. "Like you were still there to eat it," he says, low, and then looks away, and his hand's pressed flat to the tabletop so tight his fingertips have gone white.
Mom comes back in, then, so Clark doesn't say anything; but he puts his hand over Bruce's on the table for a moment, even though no one's taking pictures.
Bruce is like that for the rest of the evening: not the grimness so much, but that—that openness stays with him. Bruce has never talked about Clark's death before, at least not where Clark can hear him; he's never stopped smiling on one of their dates, never been less than effortlessly smooth. But he's different here, somehow less opaque—enough to say things he didn't quite mean to say, to let cracks show where Clark hadn't realized he even had any.
Just how many times had he come to see Mom, anyway? Clark knew Mom had learned Bruce's identity, but he hadn't expected her to ask Bruce about Diana, to tease Bruce so easily, to smile at Bruce so fondly. She'd said it was lovely to see Bruce, but Clark's realizing it wasn't just a pleasantry: she'd meant it when she'd said it had been too long. She's—she's missed Bruce, Clark thinks, she cares about him and she's missed him. Clark hadn't even known she liked him.
And Bruce—Bruce has apparently told her all kinds of things. "I had Alfred choose the vintage," he admits, when he pours Mom her third glass; and Mom laughs like she knows who that is, looks at Bruce almost indulgently.
"Of course you did," she says, and pats the back of his hand before he sets the bottle down. "And I've been meaning to ask—did you solve that problem you were having with the grappling hooks?"
Clark feels like he's slid into some kind of alternate universe: his mom is making conversation about the contents of Batman's utility belt.
And, even more oddly—Batman is letting her.
He doesn't get the chance to ask Bruce about it until later. He doesn't want to do it in front of Mom—it would seem weird and confrontational, and if he and Bruce were actually dating, presumably he'd already know this stuff.
But once they're all so full even Bruce has to turn down another serving, Mom sends the two of them out to the back porch while she checks on the cheesecake. "Just to make sure it's cooled enough," she tells them, and then makes little shooing motions with her hands until they go.
"You realize she's probably going to cut that thing into thirds," Clark says, once they're outside; and Bruce makes a face.
"And here I'd hoped she might be merciful," he murmurs, and Clark can't help smiling.
It's a beautiful night, clear, the wide dark sky glimmering with stars and a breeze coming at them across the fields, the grass shushing faintly—at least to Clark's ears. He's not actually sure whether Bruce can hear it.
He sits down on the top step and looks up, and he waits for Bruce to sit, too, before he says, "So you and Mom know each other pretty well."
There's a small pause. But Bruce doesn't sound like he feels cornered when he says, dry, "You were dead for a while. You missed a few things."
"She told me that she'd met you," Clark concedes. "That she knew about you. She didn't say you'd visited that often while I was gone." He risks a glance, and something about the way Bruce looks—gazing off into the distance, face such a perfect picture of serene unconcern—makes him abruptly sure he's on to something. "And then you stopped."
Bruce doesn't say anything.
"When I came back," Clark adds, prodding.
Bruce is still for another moment, two—and then he shoots Clark a little smile. "I wouldn't lie to your mother, Clark." He pauses, and then amends, wry, "At least not about that. I am busy."
"I'm sure you are," Clark agrees. "And I'm sure you were equally busy while I was dead. You just didn't let it stop you then."
And maybe it's too direct; maybe Bruce is full and tired and not actually a robot, despite the impression Batman likes to give; maybe being back in the Kent house is throwing Bruce off more than he'd anticipated. Whatever the reason, Bruce doesn't manage to brush it off. Clark can almost see it happening, a step at a time: Bruce examining his cards, trying to decide which one to play, becoming grimly aware he's out of trumps.
Bruce's jaw goes tight—and that isn't right, that's not what Clark wants. He didn't bring this up because he wanted to make Bruce feel bad about it. "I don't mind if you're friends with my mother," Clark says quietly, and when Bruce's profile still doesn't ease, Clark leans over until their elbows bump. "She likes you—God knows why," Clark adds, and he's glad he did because it makes Bruce snort again, brings his gaze swinging around to Clark's face. "And I know you heard her. She'd love to see you any time you get a chance."
"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce says, and he does his best but can't quite manage to make it sound dismissive.
"Good," Clark says.
He doesn't know why he does it; he doesn't know why it seems like a good idea, like a thing that will be okay. Partly because they're still staring at each other, probably. And they're sitting close enough together for it, too. Bruce's face is half shadow and half starlight, but Clark thinks maybe this is the first time he's seeing it clearly in the ways that count. And it's so easy: all Clark has to do is lean forward and tilt his head a little to catch Bruce's mouth with his own.
The movement presses their near arms together from shoulder to elbow. Bruce doesn't startle so much as he just goes still. It feels strangely close, intimate, Bruce with the railing at his back and Clark in front of him, and all the vast space of the Kansas night around them secondary to the four inches of air between them, to the small almost-sound Bruce makes in his throat when Clark parts his lips—
"Cake's cut—looks like you two are already getting into something sweet, though, hm?"
Clark breaks away with a laugh, groaning, "Mom," helplessly and turning to look: Mom's propped the door open with her hip, and two plates of cheesecake are in her hands. The slices actually look pretty reasonable, Clark thinks, but maybe Mom's trying to be restrained, since Bruce forged his way so bravely through seconds at dinner.
"I didn't ask you over so I could not make fun of you, Clark," she says, shaking her head at him, and then she smiles down at Bruce and holds out the plates.
"Thank you, Mrs. Kent," Bruce says, taking one.
His expression looking back at Mom is so warm Clark might not have noticed anything, except that he turns away from her once he has the cake in his hand and it's gone: the change is so quick, so complete, that Clark double-takes in surprise. The motion must catch Bruce's eye, because he glances up from his cheesecake toward Clark. His face is—it's almost as good as Batman's cowl, Clark thinks, when it goes blank like that. And then he meets Clark's eyes and gives Clark a tiny nod.
For a half-second after Bruce looks away, Clark is completely bewildered. And then he replays that little nod in his head and understanding rolls through him, a sick slow wave of it.
Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming.
And why shouldn't he? Clark could have—Clark should have. Clark should have heard her, and that should have been why he kissed Bruce. There's—there isn't any reason for Clark to have done it otherwise, or at least not any reason Bruce will want to hear. Bruce is just pretending. And Clark's been letting Bruce make all the moves, because so far Bruce has been the best equipped to make them; but Bruce doesn't have superhearing, and that would have made this a perfectly reasonable moment for Clark to step up to the plate.
Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming; and Clark can't even imagine trying to correct him.
The cheesecake is probably really good—Mom's usually is. But Clark finds, after, that he can't really remember how it tasted.
FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (11/?)
Dinner is wonderful. The fish is great—"Not quite as good as what your father used to catch on weekends," Mom says, with a wistful little smile, "but it came out all right."
And Bruce—there aren't any words for Bruce, Clark thinks, or at least none Clark's used to using. He does put his hand close to Clark's, and shoots Clark a wicked glance when their knees brush once, again, under the tiny dining room table; and then Mom says loudly from the kitchen, "You better not be getting indecent out there!"
"Mom," Clark squawks, and Bruce—Bruce laughs, not a low easy Bruce Wayne chuckle but an almost accidental-sounding snort.
Clark's still uneasy about the prospect of outright lying to Mom—letting her make assumptions and deliberately not correcting them is bad enough. But if Bruce says something blatantly untrue, how can Clark not back him up?
Except he doesn't. It must just be luck, but Mom doesn't ask him anything that would force the issue, and Bruce doesn't push it himself. He doesn't make any lewd remarks, not even milder ones; he doesn't tease or joke or give Clark his usual long heavy-lidded stares. Compared to what Clark is used to, in fact, Bruce barely puts on a show at all.
He's actually kind of—normal. Not that he isn't making an effort: he eats his fish with gusto, compliments everything from the sauce to the silverware, and even lets Mom serve him heaping seconds. "I've learned my lesson," he murmurs to Clark while she's dishing it up. "I skip lunch before I come to your mother's house. She always cooked like—"
He stops short, the smile sliding off his face.
"What?" Clark says.
And Bruce looks at him like—like Clark's not sure what, mouth pressed into a sharp line, eyes dark. "Like you were still there to eat it," he says, low, and then looks away, and his hand's pressed flat to the tabletop so tight his fingertips have gone white.
Mom comes back in, then, so Clark doesn't say anything; but he puts his hand over Bruce's on the table for a moment, even though no one's taking pictures.
Bruce is like that for the rest of the evening: not the grimness so much, but that—that openness stays with him. Bruce has never talked about Clark's death before, at least not where Clark can hear him; he's never stopped smiling on one of their dates, never been less than effortlessly smooth. But he's different here, somehow less opaque—enough to say things he didn't quite mean to say, to let cracks show where Clark hadn't realized he even had any.
Just how many times had he come to see Mom, anyway? Clark knew Mom had learned Bruce's identity, but he hadn't expected her to ask Bruce about Diana, to tease Bruce so easily, to smile at Bruce so fondly. She'd said it was lovely to see Bruce, but Clark's realizing it wasn't just a pleasantry: she'd meant it when she'd said it had been too long. She's—she's missed Bruce, Clark thinks, she cares about him and she's missed him. Clark hadn't even known she liked him.
And Bruce—Bruce has apparently told her all kinds of things. "I had Alfred choose the vintage," he admits, when he pours Mom her third glass; and Mom laughs like she knows who that is, looks at Bruce almost indulgently.
"Of course you did," she says, and pats the back of his hand before he sets the bottle down. "And I've been meaning to ask—did you solve that problem you were having with the grappling hooks?"
Clark feels like he's slid into some kind of alternate universe: his mom is making conversation about the contents of Batman's utility belt.
And, even more oddly—Batman is letting her.
He doesn't get the chance to ask Bruce about it until later. He doesn't want to do it in front of Mom—it would seem weird and confrontational, and if he and Bruce were actually dating, presumably he'd already know this stuff.
But once they're all so full even Bruce has to turn down another serving, Mom sends the two of them out to the back porch while she checks on the cheesecake. "Just to make sure it's cooled enough," she tells them, and then makes little shooing motions with her hands until they go.
"You realize she's probably going to cut that thing into thirds," Clark says, once they're outside; and Bruce makes a face.
"And here I'd hoped she might be merciful," he murmurs, and Clark can't help smiling.
It's a beautiful night, clear, the wide dark sky glimmering with stars and a breeze coming at them across the fields, the grass shushing faintly—at least to Clark's ears. He's not actually sure whether Bruce can hear it.
He sits down on the top step and looks up, and he waits for Bruce to sit, too, before he says, "So you and Mom know each other pretty well."
There's a small pause. But Bruce doesn't sound like he feels cornered when he says, dry, "You were dead for a while. You missed a few things."
"She told me that she'd met you," Clark concedes. "That she knew about you. She didn't say you'd visited that often while I was gone." He risks a glance, and something about the way Bruce looks—gazing off into the distance, face such a perfect picture of serene unconcern—makes him abruptly sure he's on to something. "And then you stopped."
Bruce doesn't say anything.
"When I came back," Clark adds, prodding.
Bruce is still for another moment, two—and then he shoots Clark a little smile. "I wouldn't lie to your mother, Clark." He pauses, and then amends, wry, "At least not about that. I am busy."
"I'm sure you are," Clark agrees. "And I'm sure you were equally busy while I was dead. You just didn't let it stop you then."
And maybe it's too direct; maybe Bruce is full and tired and not actually a robot, despite the impression Batman likes to give; maybe being back in the Kent house is throwing Bruce off more than he'd anticipated. Whatever the reason, Bruce doesn't manage to brush it off. Clark can almost see it happening, a step at a time: Bruce examining his cards, trying to decide which one to play, becoming grimly aware he's out of trumps.
Bruce's jaw goes tight—and that isn't right, that's not what Clark wants. He didn't bring this up because he wanted to make Bruce feel bad about it. "I don't mind if you're friends with my mother," Clark says quietly, and when Bruce's profile still doesn't ease, Clark leans over until their elbows bump. "She likes you—God knows why," Clark adds, and he's glad he did because it makes Bruce snort again, brings his gaze swinging around to Clark's face. "And I know you heard her. She'd love to see you any time you get a chance."
"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce says, and he does his best but can't quite manage to make it sound dismissive.
"Good," Clark says.
He doesn't know why he does it; he doesn't know why it seems like a good idea, like a thing that will be okay. Partly because they're still staring at each other, probably. And they're sitting close enough together for it, too. Bruce's face is half shadow and half starlight, but Clark thinks maybe this is the first time he's seeing it clearly in the ways that count. And it's so easy: all Clark has to do is lean forward and tilt his head a little to catch Bruce's mouth with his own.
The movement presses their near arms together from shoulder to elbow. Bruce doesn't startle so much as he just goes still. It feels strangely close, intimate, Bruce with the railing at his back and Clark in front of him, and all the vast space of the Kansas night around them secondary to the four inches of air between them, to the small almost-sound Bruce makes in his throat when Clark parts his lips—
"Cake's cut—looks like you two are already getting into something sweet, though, hm?"
Clark breaks away with a laugh, groaning, "Mom," helplessly and turning to look: Mom's propped the door open with her hip, and two plates of cheesecake are in her hands. The slices actually look pretty reasonable, Clark thinks, but maybe Mom's trying to be restrained, since Bruce forged his way so bravely through seconds at dinner.
"I didn't ask you over so I could not make fun of you, Clark," she says, shaking her head at him, and then she smiles down at Bruce and holds out the plates.
"Thank you, Mrs. Kent," Bruce says, taking one.
His expression looking back at Mom is so warm Clark might not have noticed anything, except that he turns away from her once he has the cake in his hand and it's gone: the change is so quick, so complete, that Clark double-takes in surprise. The motion must catch Bruce's eye, because he glances up from his cheesecake toward Clark. His face is—it's almost as good as Batman's cowl, Clark thinks, when it goes blank like that. And then he meets Clark's eyes and gives Clark a tiny nod.
For a half-second after Bruce looks away, Clark is completely bewildered. And then he replays that little nod in his head and understanding rolls through him, a sick slow wave of it.
Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming.
And why shouldn't he? Clark could have—Clark should have. Clark should have heard her, and that should have been why he kissed Bruce. There's—there isn't any reason for Clark to have done it otherwise, or at least not any reason Bruce will want to hear. Bruce is just pretending. And Clark's been letting Bruce make all the moves, because so far Bruce has been the best equipped to make them; but Bruce doesn't have superhearing, and that would have made this a perfectly reasonable moment for Clark to step up to the plate.
Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming; and Clark can't even imagine trying to correct him.
The cheesecake is probably really good—Mom's usually is. But Clark finds, after, that he can't really remember how it tasted.