[[A very late thank-you request for missmisthallery, who asked for a Brenda/Clark oneshot set during their time at Gressenheller, specifically when the two first met. I had so much fun writing this.

Spoilers: For the identity of Layton 'nemesis'. You know which one.]]

Quack! Quack!

Clark let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Now, Clark. A true gentleman should always cover his mouth."

"Sorry, Hershel," Clark groaned, collapsing onto a bench overlooking Gressenheller's lake. "Didn't get enough sleep last night…"

Curse his habit of leaving work until the last minute. He wasn't like Hershel, who would complete his assignments months in advance and still have time for extra studying or adventuring. Good lord, the man never stopped! Some nights, he would stay up reviving Clark with cups of tea. If it weren't for his roommate, Clark thought he would have flunked university by now.

Hershel sat beside him, his brow furrowing at Clark's stubble. "Is that why you didn't shave this morning?"

Clark stroked his chin. "No, actually. I've been considering growing a beard."

Hershel couldn't stifle a chuckle. "Trying to be hip, old bean?"

"Excuse me—" Clark tipped his chin towards the sky. "—Having facial hair is the height of sophistication. The mark of a wise gentleman! Just look at Dr. Schrader's beard, or Dean Delmona's moustache…"

"My dad has a beard," Hershel mumbled.

"…And may we not forget Gandalf the Grey."

"Must you bring Lord of the Rings into this?"

Before Clark could argue that, yes, Lord of the Rings was worth bringing up at any given moment, a shout cut across the campus.

Clark and Hershel turned. Though it was impolite to stare, Clark struggled to look away from the young woman sprinting towards them. She was wearing a butter yellow cardigan, a bright green skirt and brown loafers (Hershel's usual choice of shoes). Clark was no fashion connoisseur (outside of the facial hair department), but her outfit definitely clashed… in a rather cute manner.

The woman was reaching frantically in the air.

Clark glanced up. He cried, "Duck!"

"Indeed, that is a duck," Hershel observed. "But what has it got in it's mouth—?"

Clark shoved Hershel's head down, nearly knocking off his red cap. The white bird swooped over them and landed in the lake with a splash.

"No, no, no…" panted the woman. She leaned over the wall in front of the lake, frowning at the duck.

Clark stood up and asked her, "Are you alright?"

She looked at him, shook her head and sighed. "That dastardly duck just stole my hat."

"Your hat?" Hershel repeated. He and Clark squinted at the brown item in the duck's beak. It resembled a soggy loaf of brown bread more than a hat. (No wonder the duck swiped it.)

"Brenda!" A ginger-haired woman joined them. (Hershel quickly fixed his cap.) "Did you catch the duck?" The bizarrely dressed Brenda pointed to the lake. Her friend tsked. "Ducks aren't even supposed to eat bread…"

Clark coughed, "Might I inquire, er, why your hat looks like that?"

"It's part of my costume for Gressenheller's stage production," Brenda explained sadly, "or at least, it was… Miss Cato's going to be so disappointed in me…."

"Perhaps we can fish it out of the lake?" Hershel suggested.

"Good idea," the ginger-haired woman agreed.

They found a fallen tree branch and poked it into the water, trying to snag the hat or at least scare the duck.

The feathered thief simply swam out of their range. "Quack, quack, quack!"

"It's laughing at us," Clark grumbled.

Brenda huffed, "Yes, it does sound like that."

"No, it really is laughing. I can tell."

Brenda's friend made a face at him. "You can tell what that duck is saying?"

"Clark has a… special the connection with animals," Hershel filled in. He'd discovered this when Clark drunkenly struck up a conversation with a spider one evening.

"I was able to communicate with them as a child, but I think I'm losing my touch now," Clark admitted, trying to lessen the oddness of the situation.

Much to his relief, Brenda didn't appear unnerved. She grinned. "But you said you can still understand the duck. Could you maybe talk to it— ask it to return my hat?"

"I… I can try." Clark bent over the water's edge, cleared his throat and called, "You there! Mr. Duck!"

The bird shot him a glare— or as close to a glare as a bird can get— and let out a scandalized, "Qua-quack!"

"What was that?" Clark strained his ears.

The duck flapped her wings. "I am female."

"S-sorry." Clark swallowed. He pointed to Brenda's hat. "That thing you've taken isn't a piece of bread. It belongs to the lady up here."

The duck turned her head from the bread-hat, to Brenda and back to Clark. "Looks like bread, but does not taste like bread…" She pecked the hat, making Brenda gasp. "Still mine."

"What if we traded you the hat for some real food?" Clark offered.

The duck bobbed her head eagerly. "Agreed. Food in exchange of ugly head-thing."

Clark addressed his human company, "Do we have any food for the duck?"

Hershel reached for his satchel. "I have a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich…"

"But Claire said we're not meant to feed the ducks bread." Brenda bit her lip. "We don't want to hurt her."

"The lettuce should be fine on its own," Claire assured them. She winked. "Trust me, I'm a scientist."

"Lettuce it is then," said Hershel. He took his sandwich apart and handed the lettuce to Clark.

Clark leaned over the water, stretching his hand out to the duck. "Here you go. The food for the hat. A deal's a deal."

Slowly, the duck swam up to him. She dropped the hat and it floated over to Clark. Brenda picked it up with a joyful cry.

Clark grinned. "There you go—"

In a flash, the duck pinched the lettuce from Clark's hand. Clark was so startled that he fell into the lake headfirst. He floundered to surface, spluttering and stinking of lake water. (Well, he was certainly shaving his beard now.)

"Clark!"

Three pairs of hands hauled him onto dry land. A cardigan was draped around his shoulders.

"B-but your c-costume," Clark said to Brenda, his teeth chattering.

"It'll dry along with my hat." Her smile was enough to warm him up… almost. "Thank you."

"That was so brave of you," Claire gushed as Hershel helped Clark to his feet. "I'm sorry for doubting your, um, abilities earlier. When did you discover you can communicate with animals? Does it run in your family?"

"Really, Claire," Brenda giggled. "Let him rest."

Clark shook his dripping-wet head. "No, it's fine. We can talk about it over lunch."

"Sounds good to me," Claire laughed.

As the four of them walked away, a mustached man emerged from behind a tree by the lake. He glared at the duck gobbling down her piece of lettuce. "Next time you steal the red-haired lady's glasses so I can save them. Got it?"

"Quack! Quack!"