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“Jonathan,” Martha nudged her husband awake, whispering, “I think someone’s downstairs.”
Blinking sleep out of his eyes, Jonathan sat up quietly, head canted to listen. “You sure?”
“I’d swear I heard the screen door creak.” She’d been after him long enough to get around to oiling those hinges.
“You wait here,” Jonathan said, on his feet and shrugging into his robe, slippered feet quiet as he went across to their bedroom door, opening it a crack to listen some more.
Hmph, Martha thought. She got into her own robe and slippers, and tiptoed over to join him, peering out into the darkened hallway, moonlight pouring through the big window at the far end of the hall providing some light. “There,” she whispered, clutching Jonathan’s arm tight, “I can see a light downstairs.”
“Coming from the kitchen, looks like.” Jonathan turned to look at her, smiling a little. “Don’t suppose you’d stay right here if I told you to?”
She sniffed, told him, “Not too likely, no.”
“Didn’t think so. C’mon,” taking her hand, Jonathan guided them down the farmhouse steps, approaching the kitchen, the light going on and off, like—
“Jonathan,” she whispered, “I think whoever it is is getting into our icebox.” Whoever’d break into their house just to rummage in their refrigerator? Martha wondered, exchanging a look with her husband – both of them arriving at the same answer.
Certain of it, in fact, Martha hurried on ahead of Jonathan, found the light switch, saying, “Clark Joseph Kent!” as her clean, bright kitchen was lit up.
Sure enough, there he was, in a pair of jeans and a red flannel shirt, giving them a big, wide-eyed look and almost dropping the carton of milk he’d got hold of. “Uh… Hi!”
Arms folded across her chest, Martha gave him a hard look. “That’s all you have to say?”
Smile forced and a little sheepish, he said, “Sorry I woke you up?”
“You here by yourself?” Jonathan asked, over at the screen door, having a look outside.
“It was kind of a last minute impulse,” Clark said, still standing there with the milk, caught halfway between the icebox and the old kitchen table.
Martha exchanged another look with Jonathan, betting they were both thinking the same thing again: What was their boy doing here, in Smallville, when he was supposed to be getting married in Gotham City tomorrow?
Truth be told, they hadn’t known quite what to think when Clark told them he was engaged to that silly playboy, Bruce Wayne, who was always in the gossip magazines because of one harebrained escapade or another.
Clark coming out to them, like they said these days, hadn’t been such a surprise. Compared to watching him struggle with his powers, frightened of the government, somebody, coming to take him away from them, Clark telling them he was gay and in love with the Prince of Gotham had been pretty easy to get used to. Besides, if Clark loved him, there had to be more to the Wayne boy than met the eye.
Once they’d met Bruce and found out what else he was, a lot of things had suddenly made sense.
Martha couldn’t deny she’d been a little disappointed at first. She’d always had a hope Clark would make a match with that pretty Amazon princess, picturing the beautiful children they might have together. Of course Bruce had all those boys -- rambunctious, and a little smart-mouthed, but sweet for all that -- and they all seemed to adore Clark. Not to mention the things that could be done with science these days.
But not a lick of that was going to matter if there wasn’t a wedding come Saturday.
“What’s on your mind, son?” Jonathan said, sitting down at the table, gesturing for Clark to join him.
Martha took the milk from him, pouring him out a glass to go with the big piece of chocolate cake he’d already helped himself to.
Hanging his head a little and sounding like he was admitting to a terrible secret, Clark said, “I don’t know if I can go through with it all, Pa.”
“Marrying Bruce?”
Clark nodded, looking miserable.
Taking her place at the table, Martha shared another look with Jonathan before reaching over to lay a hand on Clark’s arm. “Honey, did Bruce do something to upset you?”
Clark looked up sharp at that, vehemently shaking his head. “No. No, it’s nothing Bruce has done. He’s …” he sighed, “Bruce has been perfect. It’s just…” he waved a hand as if to encompass everything. “It’s too much,” he finished, looking as downcast as Martha had ever seen him.
“It’s just nerves, sweetheart,” Martha patted his arm, wishing she could still rock him on her lap and comfort him like she’d done when he was little. “Why, I had butterflies in my stomach like you wouldn’t believe right before I married your father.” She gave Jonathan a fond, warm look. “Soon as your grandpa walked me down the aisle, and Jonathan took my hand in his, they all just up and disappeared like they’d never been.”
Voice small, Clark said, “Mine feel like they’re the size of pterodactyls.”
Martha and Jonathan exchanged smiles over his head.
Jonathan said, “There’s more than just nerves going on, isn’t there?” And he looked out through the backdoor again, out where those trucks and cars had been, cameras and microphones pushed in Jonathan and Martha’s faces by nosy entertainment reporters and those paparazzi, wanting some kind of scoop on what had been proclaimed the wedding of the century.
Martha’d tried to take the high road, imagining how much more ravenous they would all be if they knew it was Superman and Batman getting married – kind of like when those blasted ducks got loose in her garden, eating every darn thing in sight right down to a nub.
If it had been aggravating for her and Jonathan, how much worse must it be for the boys, being gawked at and followed every time they went out? Bruce would likely be used to it, but Clark, quiet and shy, not even all that comfortable with people staring at him when he had on that costume – Martha wasn’t so surprised he’d run away from it for awhile. She was just glad he’d come home, instead of going off to that Fortress of his.
She patted his hand, asking, “Have you talked to Bruce about all this?”
He shrugged. “I’ve tried to. He just says it’ll blow over, to just give it time.”
“He’s probably right about that,” Jonathan said. “Some scandal’ll come along, knock you boys right off the front page.” He gave Clark a thoughtful look. “You know that, son. What else is bothering you?
Sighing, Clark sat up a little straighter, nodding. “There was a party the other night,” he said, the words starting to tumble out, chock full of hurt and anger, “people coming up and smiling at us, offering congratulations, but then I’d hear them across the room, snickering, saying things like how they bet Bruce’s parents were rolling over in their graves, and hoping Lucius Fox or somebody’d had the good sense to draw up a pre-nup and make me sign it since Bruce was too big of an idiot to do that, and,” he paused, biting his lip, the hurt growing deeper, “and talking about placing bets that it was all a big joke Bruce was playing on that hayseed from Kansas and whether Bruce would wait until we were exchanging vows to let the cat out of the bag, or just not show up and leave me standing there like a fool. Either way would be really hilarious, according to them.”
Martha met Jonathan’s eyes, reached over to touch his arm, warning him not to get himself all worked up. “You know that’s just small-minded people talking, Clark,” she said. “They’re jealous of what you and Bruce have, and being nasty with it.”
He nodded, looking disgusted with the knowledge. “I don’t even care what they say about me. It’s Bruce – these people smiling in his face, pretending to be his friends, and all the while they’re thinking he’s an idiot, or worse, that he’s just as shallow as they are. The criminals he goes up against have more respect for him.”
“And isn’t that just the way Bruce wants it, son?” Jonathan said, catching Clark’s eye and holding it for a long time, an understanding passing between them that Martha marveled at.
After awhile, Clark nodded, reluctantly admitting to that truth.
“You embarrassed by him?”
A mutinous look starting to settle over his face, Clark said, “No, sir, I’m not.”
“Maybe you need to figure out just who it is you’re in love with,” Jonathan went on, and Martha held her breath for a moment at the way Clark was glaring back at him.
Then, as quickly as the storm had come, it cleared away, and Clark was admitting in a small voice, “I wondered about that for a long time.”
“What did you figure out?”
“That it was all of him, even that scatterbrained persona, because of how hard he works to maintain it.”
Jonathan nodded. “Kind of like him taking on everything you are, and pretend to be.”
Clark nodded back, sighed. “I just wish the rest of the world would go away, leave us alone.”
“It will, soon enough.” Jonathan reached over to pat Clark’s shoulder, squeeze it. “You need to talk to Bruce about these things, though, son. He’s going to be your husband in a couple of days,” and Martha was so proud of how Jonathan didn’t stumble over that, not even for a moment, “and you’ve got to trust him with your worries and troubles.” He reached for Martha’s hand, giving her the same look he’d worn when she’d been walking down that aisle to him. “There’s no other way a marriage can work.”
Watching them, Clark’s face lit up with a real smile, bright enough it was a wonder it didn’t wake up the rooster.
As it was, that old rooster would be crowing everything awake before too much longer anyway, and Martha and Jonathan had a busy ahead of them. “Well, your father and I’ve got a lot of packing and things to do, if everything’s all right now,” she said, watching his face, not sure she liked the little bit of worried guilt she caught in his eyes before he looked away. “Is there anything else, Clark?”
“Just…” He made a face, embarrassed. “I … might have left Bruce a letter.”
Martha and Jonathan exchanged another look, shaking their heads at each other, at their boy.
“What’d this letter say, son?”
Clark glanced at his father, shrugged, looked away. “Not too much. Just that I, umm, that I had to get away by myself for a little while.”
Martha sighed, rolled her eyes. “So I guess you won’t be staying for breakfast then.”
“No,” he was already on his feet. “No, I think I better get back to Gotham.”
Jonathan walked him to the door, patting him on the shoulder. “That sounds like a real good idea, son.”
“I’ll see you later today?” Clark asked, giving them an anxious look.
“Bruce is sending his plane out to pick us up,” Jonathan said, “provided there’s no change in plans.”
Suddenly looking and sounding like the hero the world adored, Clark told them, “There won’t be.”
And then she and Jonathan were standing there on the porch, watching him whirling into his costume and launching himself into the air, graceful and sure of himself, turning once to wave down at them, a big grin on his face, and then he was off, zooming away over the fields and just a dot on the horizon in the blink of eye.
My little boy… Martha sighed, pressing into Jonathan. “I never do get used to that.”
Jonathan hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head. “C’mon, old gal, got a busy day ahead of us.”
That they did, that they did.
Drying off from his shower, Bruce put on the black silk pajamas and robe waiting for him, and headed upstairs to the Manor.
It had been a long night, mostly sharing stakeout with Jim Gordon as they waited for the Dagrepont- Bernoulli gang to strike again. As anticipated, the gang had hit the Gotham City Museum of Natural History, aiming for the museum’s priceless collection of rare gems.
Batman, Gordon, and the GCPD had rounded them all up, and Bruce Wayne would be making a sizeable donation to the museum later today that should cover the cost of repairing the damage that had been done in the process.
Gordon had gone to some pains to tell him that, with this gang rounded up, things were looking quiet in Gotham now; he might even take a vacation – maybe Batman should think of that, get away for a couple of weeks. Like for a honeymoon? Bruce had been tempted to ask.
Gordon knew; Bruce would have been highly disappointed if a police officer of Jim Gordon’s caliber hadn’t worked it out by now. For Gordon’s own safety, though, it was impossible to acknowledge that understanding in any but the most cryptic manner. He appreciated the oblique reassurance that Gotham would be in good hands while he and Clark took some time for themselves.
On their honeymoon.
Bruce shook his head, still not entirely sure he believed it was happening – that tomorrow morning billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne was marrying Clark Kent, ace reporter for The Daily Planet.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. Once in awhile Bruce felt something he suspected was pretty damn close to giddy.
And he was a little concerned that, the closer the day got, the quieter Clark became. Bruce knew something about the party the other night had upset him, but other than a muttered comment about how “those people” made Two-Face look like an amateur, Bruce hadn’t been able to get much out of him. Knowing the hypocritical sycophants that comprised a few of “those people,” Bruce could form a fair idea of what had Clark troubled.
Paused in front of his bedroom door, wanting to talk to Clark, Bruce looked across the hall at another room, the one Clark had moved into on the grounds that they shouldn’t sleep together again until after the wedding. This suggestion had struck Bruce as absurd on a number of grounds, not least of which was its being proposed right after they’d just had sex in the shower.
“Is this some obscure Kryptonian tradition, Clark?”
Dripping wet and glowing, Clark had said, smiling, “It’s an old Kansas tradition.”
Bruce had rolled his eyes and scandalized him by pointing out there was a high probability Clark’s own parents had slept together before marriage. He suspected sleeping alone the last couple of nights was as much payback for that remark as any half-baked notion of abstinence making their wedding night more special.
Sighing and giving into Clark’s ridiculous whim – it was for just one more night, after all, and then he would be able to curl up next to Clark, soak up the warmth of him, anytime he wanted – Bruce went into his room and stretched out on his bed. With sleep eluding him, however, he turned his mind to examining the possibility of their wedding night not being spectacular. After some little time, Bruce was pleased to conclude that he could construct no scenario to support such a hypothesis. The combined party-crashing efforts of Darkseid, Luthor, Toyman, Joker, and Ra’s al Ghul would be insufficient to dampen their ardor.
Dampen their ardor… Bruce groaned, burying his face in the pillow. That’s what falling in love with Clark had reduced him to.
Rolling back over, he tried glowering the smile off his face. To no avail.
He sighed, running a hand along the cool sheets beside him, burying his face in the pillow Clark had used and breathing deep. It was ridiculous to miss someone this much. Especially when that someone was right across the hall from him.
It wasn’t even about sex. He just wanted to be with Clark, watch the early morning sunlight gilding his skin; watch those eyes, bluer than anything on earth, open and look at him, filling with love.
Mind made up, Bruce got up and opened his bedroom door, crossing swiftly to Clark’s room and cracking the door open just wide enough to quietly slip inside – and then coming to a dead stop.
Early morning light that should have been painting Clark’s body with intriguing bands of light and shadow, instead fell across an empty bed. Blankets that should have been tangled and falling off the bed, were neat and tidy without so much as a crease. No discarded clothes were scattered about, no shoes kicked into a corner, no glasses on the nightstand – but there was a crisp, white envelope propped on the fireplace mantle, Bruce’s name written across the front in neat, precise penmanship.
Bruce had no desire whatever to pick up that envelope and look at its contents.
So long as he ignored it, he could imagine any number of emergencies coming up, the kind of crisis only Superman could handle. So long as he didn’t open it, he didn’t have to feel like an idiot, or wonder what he’d done wrong, or try to pick up the pieces of his heart and put them back together.
Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed, arms folded tight around himself, thoughts racing. There would have to be a statement issued. Reservations cancelled. Should he call the Kents? They were expecting to be flown out here later today…
This wasn’t like Clark. If Clark wanted out of this, he’d just tell him – wouldn’t he? Maybe … maybe he was jumping to conclusions.
Suddenly convinced of that, Bruce pushed up from the bed and crossed swiftly to the mantle, reaching for that damning envelope – just as a gust of wind blew through the open window in a blur of red and blue, the envelope snatched away an instant before Bruce would have got hold of it.
They stared at each other, Clark opening his mouth to say something but failing to produce anything more enlightening than, “Ummm.”
Seconds ticking by uncomfortably, Clark suddenly blurted, “I had to talk to my parents.”
Nodding slowly, gaze fixated on the envelope Clark was clutching, practically wringing it, Bruce asked, “About what?” He was pleased to note he sounded perfectly calm and composed, nothing at all betraying the turmoil still tight in his belly.
“Just,” broad shoulders lifted in a modest shrug, “you know, stuff.”
“Stuff? That you couldn’t talk to me about?” All right, that had come out a bit sharper than intended, a faint trace of hurt shading it. To cover it, he brusquely asked, “What’s in the envelope?”
“Nothing.” Clark looked at it, crumpled in his hand, and for a moment Bruce thought he would just incinerate it then and there.
“It must be something. It has my name on it.”
“Nothing that matters now.”
“I want to see it.”
“Bruce—“
“Give it to me.”
Sighing gustily enough to stir Bruce’s hair, Clark reluctantly handed it over.
Smoothing out the envelope, Bruce ran a thumb under the flap and withdrew two sheets of creamy stationary, embossed with the Wayne coat of arms.
Dated 11:20 , last night, it read:
Dear Bruce,
I love you. You have to know that. This … everything that’s happened since Diana set us up on that blind date, it’s been amazing. Like a dream come true. I mean, you could have anyone in the world – and you picked me.
I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time we met, but I was always afraid to let myself hope you might ever look at me that way.
It still doesn’t seem real sometimes. Every morning, before I open my eyes, I tell myself that this will be the day, this will be the morning I wake up and realize this has all been a dream, an enchantment. How could it be anything else? A farmboy from Kansas – and the Prince of Gotham? A big blue Boy Scout – and the Dark Knight? One of these things is not like the other. You know?
And … and then I open my eyes, and you’re there, your head on the pillow beside me, and you’re relaxed and sleepy, your hair falling into your eyes, and you’re looking back at me … and I know it’s all true. This is real. We’re real.
“Clark…” Bruce looked up again, thoroughly baffled now. “This is a love letter.”
Gaze still fixed on the carpet, Clark said, “You haven’t read page two.”
What horrors awaited him on page two?
Shuffling the sheets, he read:
All this glitz, though, the media scrutiny, the upper crust of Gotham society intruding into everything and whispering about us … I don’t know if I can do that part. I don’t know how you do it.
Getting married wasn’t supposed to be a possibility for me, so I never spent a lot of time trying to picture what it might be like. If I ever had, though, I don’t think it would have been anything like this … this extravaganza that’s going on, like we’re the star attractions in some three-ring circus.
And I know it’s my fault, for pushing you to make a declaration. I just didn’t stop to think about the consequences. (Yes, I know: So what else is new?) I … I just need to get away for a little while, Bruce. Clear my mind. I’ll probably be back before you even find this, so it’s really just me talking to myself. I want to talk about it to you, I’ve tried, but you just never listen.
No, I didn’t mean that. Forget that. I mean … I don’t know what I mean.
I love you. Nothing changes that, Bruce.
Yours always,
Clark
Shuffling the pages back together, Bruce looked up from the letter. “I’m listening now.”
Clark winced. “I know you listen, Bruce. That…” He made a frustrated sound, running a hand through his hair. “I want it to be like it was, before the rest of the world found out. Everything made sense then.”
“It’s a little late in the day for that, Clark.”
“I know. It,” he sighed again, shook his head, “it was just a panic attack.”
“Superman doesn’t have panic attacks.”
Clark gave him a glum look. “You’d be surprised what Superman has.”
Skimming the letter again, Bruce could allow Clark might have a point there. “What did you mean getting married wasn’t supposed to be possible for you? Why not?”
“I’m…” Clark was giving him a wary, searching look, “not human. For one thing.”
“Yes, I can see how your two heads and all could be a problem,” Bruce grumbled, frowning at him.
“I might not have two heads, Bruce, but I’m not exactly like all the other boys, either.”
Listening carefully, Bruce wondered if Clark was aware of the faint trace of lonely bitterness that tinged his words. Strange to think of the most powerful being on Earth ever being a lonesome teenager, so often on the outside looking in, and still carrying those memories pretty close to the surface. In Bruce’s book, that made Clark as human as one could be.
He put the letter back in its envelope and laid it on a table. “First, for your information, I am very glad you’re not like all the other boys. In case you didn’t know, it happens to be a pretty big deal to find out Superman is in love with you. Second,” he stepped closer, watching a flicker of alarm appear in those eyes, “if you don’t think I’m listening to you, you have it well within your power to make me sit down and pay attention. And third,” he placed his hands on those broad shoulders, squeezing, “if you ever run away again, I will track you down and kick your Kryptonian ass. Any questions?”
Eyes wide, Clark shook his head.
Bruce leaned in to kiss his forehead, then tugged him over to the bed, sitting him down and settling beside him. “Now, if you had ever pictured yourself getting married, what do you think it would have been like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe like my parent’s wedding, the pictures I’ve seen in their wedding album.”
“Very traditional?”
“It’s not that so much, Bruce.” Clark reached over to take his hand, twining their fingers together. “It’s the,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “the atmosphere you can sense. Just family, friends, gathered in this little church, no paparazzi or high society crowding in. It was just about them loving each other, not some big social event of the season.”
Not sure if it would help or not, Bruce pointed out, “My parent’s wedding was the social event of the season.”
Clark shot him a guilty look and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I—“
With his free hand, Bruce laid two fingers over his lips. “I don’t actually mind talking about my parents, not now.” Painful memories, he had discovered, became easier to bear when they were shared. He’d found that even helped happier memories to filter through. “But I do remember them saying there were a couple of moments when they had thought about eloping.”
Eyes lighting with a flare of hope, Clark said, “But we couldn’t do that. What about all the guests?”
Bruce shrugged. “As long as there’s plenty of free food and booze, they won’t care.”
Struggling with temptation, Clark said, “My parents are coming, though. And our friends.”
“I’m sure everyone would understand.”
“Well, but,” Clark bit his lip, “where would we elope to?” Eyes lowered, he said, “I don’t think we could get married in Smallville.”
“Eyebrows might be raised?”
Clark’s shrug was diffident. “A few,” he admitted, thus conceding that Smallville had its share of flawed inhabitants.
“We could find a place,” Bruce said. “There’s always Las Vegas.” Inwardly, he shuddered at the thought of a tacky Vegas wedding, officiated over by Elvis, but if that’s what Clark wanted than that’s damn well what Clark would have. Still, he mentally crossed his fingers.
Clark looked up, mulling the idea over. “It’s just, lots of plans have been made,” he finally said, as if reluctantly letting go of the notion.
“Plans can be changed.”
Giving him a suspicious look, Clark asked, “Why are you being so reasonable?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe because I love you?”
“Oh.”
“Clark,” Bruce cupped a hand along his face, “what do you want to do?”
Heaving a deep sigh, Clark said, “I want to wake up next to you every morning, knowing I can touch you and kiss you and hold you as much as I’ve ever wanted. I want our friends and family to witness us pledge our love. And, and I don’t care if the whole rest of the world’s looking on.”
“You’re sure?” Bruce stroked a thumb along a cheekbone.
He nodded. “I’m sure. Ma and Pa helped me understand that I can’t pick and choose the parts of your life I like.” Clark caught hold of his hands. “I love you, Bruce, all of you. That’s all that matters. If having you means swanky parties and red carpet events every night, I can get used to that.
Smothering a yawn, Bruce said, “It’s not every night, and we could always become reclusive, refusing all invitations. All anyone wants out of Brucie is his money anyway.”
“Which just proves they don’t have a clue. Have you been to bed at all?”
“Can’t sleep without you,” Bruce said, sleepy, scooting back onto the mattress and stretching out. He patted the space beside him. “Join me? I promise not to molest you.”
For the first time since he’d flown in through the window, a smile lit up Clark’s face. “It’s not like you to make promises you can’t keep, Bruce.”
Well able to summon up a glower now, Bruce pointedly patted the mattress again. “Get over here -- now.”
A blur of color, then Clark was settling beside him, modestly clad in boxers and nothing else, propped on an elbow and watching him.
The only thing keeping Bruce from pouncing was the heaviness of his eyelids. “You’ll be here when I wake up?” he asked, giving up the battle to keep his eyes open.
So he only heard the tenderness in Clark’s voice, assuring him, “Always, I promise,” and he felt it in the way Clark gathered him close, a strong hand stroking the back of his head again and again until he drifted off.
When he opened his eyes again, Clark was still there, watching him. “Was Alfred just in here?” he asked, scrubbing a hand over his face and tugging at the blanket that had been pulled up over them.
“Umm hmm. He and the boys are heading to the airport to pick up my parents.”
Hoping his sons would be on their best behavior, Bruce stretched comfortably against the silky sheets. “Last chance to change your mind about eloping.”
“No eloping.”
“So you’ll marry me?” Bruce asked, butterflies fluttering in his belly and making him feel like he really was proposing all over again.
“Oh, yes,” Clark whispered, leaning in closer, “I will.”
“Mmm, I like the sound of that,” Bruce whispered back, grasping the back of Clark’s head and dragging him down for a kiss.
“Are we going to rehearse the wedding night, Bruce?” Clark was nuzzling his throat, pushing down the blanket.
“What happened to keeping ourselves pure until then?”
“Well, it still counts if we don’t sleep together tonight.”
Bruce pulled back to look at him. “How much of this is because your parents are going to be right down the hall tonight?”
Looking affronted, Clark said, “I can have sex with my parents in the house.”
“Of course you can,” Bruce said, trying not to laugh at his expression. “I’ll hold you to that the next time we visit Smallville,” he murmured, and kissed him. “However,” he sat up, “as it happens, I never believed this was a possibility for me, either – especially not with you,” he traced his fingers along Clark’s face, treasuring the feel of him, the warmth of the love shining in those blue eyes. "So I want to do it right the first time – the only time.”
Clark nodded, catching his hand and pressing a kiss to the palm. “Me too.”
Another lingering kiss, then they settled back on the sheets, breathing out matching sighs, only their hands touching.
It was enough.