Clark woke up to the sound of birdsong. He slowly, peacefully, opened his eyes, witnessing the gentle golden glow along the edges of the drapes. He carefully sat up, appreciating the softness of the sheets and the plushness of the pillows, before placing his feet down on solid ground, and when he was secure they would hold him, he stood, and with careful steps, made his way to said drapes.
He drew them open, and looked down into a spectacularly kept courtyard, saw the sparkling morning dew on the leaves of the trees, felt the light on his skin, and saw the pink and orange glow that still filled the sky but would soon fade as the sun started to rise.
He took a deep breath, and felt grateful to be where he was.
He padded to the bathroom, on his own, and was grateful for that too. He was just stepping back out into the bedroom when he heard a rap on the door, and when he opened it, was met with Alfred, in his starched black and white uniform, kindly smiling as he announced.
"Breakfast is served, Mister Kent. Would you care to join me downstairs?"
He was brought back to his childhood, Ma Kent ringing a cow bell for him to come home, and whenever he heard that bell, he without fail knew he would be returning to a lovingly prepared home cooked meal.
The scene of the three of them sitting around that rustic circular table, with gingham tablecloth and fresh cut flowers from Ma's flower beds; Pa saying grace, giving thanks for their meal, for their home, for each other, their hands joined with the smells of the food wafting all around them, Clark wiggling in his seat in happiness.
Yes, he had been blessed that time too. To have landed where he did.
"Thank you, Alfred. I would like that very much."
"Very good, sir. Please, if you would take a seat..." Alfred replied, while making a sweeping motion towards the wheelchair, then finishing.
"...We will be on our way."
Bruce was not at breakfast. Clark could not say he was completely surprised by that, but he was surprised that even in a grand manor such as this one, there was a rustic circular table, no gingham table cloth, and no cut flowers, but with immaculately ironed, white linen napkins and placemats, along with noble, grand old silverware, where he and Alfred dined together.
And Clark could definitively say it was better than the food at the Tower.
No wonder Bruce rarely ate there.
Clark was enjoying an improvised tour of the grounds going into the evening hours, after resting for most of the day, Alfred pushing him along in the wheelchair, pointing out various artworks in the hallways and which member of the Wayne family had acquired them. Then, outside, fresh air, blue sky turning red as the sun started to set, traversing manicured garden paths, Alfred noting what flowers were blooming and which were waiting.
It reminded Clark of some of the strolls he had taken Ma Kent on. She passed peacefully in her sleep, shortly after Pa, of what Clark suspected was a broken heart, to match the heart attack that had taken him so suddenly from her. But during that brief interlude between, Clark had made it a point to visit home more often, to see her, sit with her, and when she wanted to go on a longer journey than her legs could carry her, he pushed her along, just as Alfred was doing for him now.
Afterwards, he and Alfred enjoyed a quiet dinner, just as they had enjoyed a quiet lunch, except that dinner was interrupted by a phone call.
"If you would excuse me, sir." Alfred announced.
"Of course." Clark replied simply, as Alfred stood and walked to the telephone, and while Clark was not positive it would be him, it was Bruce, could hear him, as clearly as he could hear Alfred's side of the conversation.
"The meeting went longer than expected. I've already eaten."
"When shall we expect you, sir?"
Was strange for Clark, that he was included, or even that he was the reason Alfred said 'we' instead of 'I.' At this hour, Alfred was the only staff at the Manor, for Alfred was the only staff that lived at the Manor, while others only visited, to clean the rooms, to trim the trees and mow the lawn.
"I'm on my way now. 3O minutes."
"Very good, sir. I will prepare the fire."
"Thanks, Alfred."
It was also strange to witness these quieter moments, of Alfred and by extension Bruce's daily life, as Alfred hung up the phone and returned to the table. What happened when the City of Gotham was not undergoing a crisis. The very life Bruce was constantly fighting for those citizens to have.
Alfred resumed his place at the table, and reported to Clark, "If nothing else unexpected should happen, Master Bruce will be returning shortly. He has already eaten." Clark suspected this was more out of politeness, that Alfred already knew Clark had heard. Could not help overhearing, and Clark nodded.
However, the next piece Alfred reported did surprise him.
"If you are feeling well enough for it, Mister Kent, I will escort you to the great room, so you may exchange a few words with Master Bruce upon his arrival. If not, I will happily return you to your room for the evening."
Clark watched as Alfred started and stoked the fire, and once he was satisfied, that it was roaring and would continue to do so for some time, he walked away, first from it, then out of the room, though not before explaining.
"I will be tidying up in the kitchen, Mister Kent. Please, make yourself comfortable, and do call if you should need anything."
"Thank you, Alfred."
Alfred nodded in recognition, and shortly Clark was alone, in this vast space with its vast ceilings, lined with vast book shelves. Dimly lit, he was sure Alfred could walk these rooms in complete blackness if need be, and Bruce's preference for din was well established. Clark himself could also see just fine, though he noted the strange shadows cast, by the flames of the fire, how it turned the exquisite furniture into simply hulking shapes, for the lamp light was so quickly diffused in such a space, mainly lighting the tables they were resting on, and not the space itself, like lanterns lining a road in the dark.
Clark stood, to test himself and to stretch his legs, and gravitated to the light, felt the warmth of the fire on his skin, and though he had heard him coming, he was still somewhat surprised to hear Bruce's voice, as he entered the room.
"Good evening, Clark. I trust the accommodations are up to your standards?"
Clark turned around to face him, noticing the long shadow Bruce now cast in the room as well. As he had overheard, Bruce's attire indeed indicated he had come from the offices of Wayne Enterprises, though dressed unusually for him, in blue, not black, his suit jacket draped over his shoulder. The distinction between the two colors, however was not so distinct in this light.
The quality and nature of Bruce's clothing, and the location they were standing, as Bruce indeed had made no move to sit down as of yet, made Clark feel woefully underdressed in a way he had not felt prior to Bruce's arrival, in cotton pants and shirt. Also made him realize how little he had interacted with Bruce under such casual circumstances. If one could call these casual circumstances.
Put another way, how rarely he had seen Bruce out of his Batman uniform. And how rarely Bruce had seen him out of his Superman one.
He was amused though, that Bruce's opening words would be in jest, though Clark confirmed all the same.
"They are. Alfred has been good to me."
"I would offer you a drink, but I know you do not generally partake."
Clark knew that Bruce drank socially, it upheld his public image as a fun-loving, free-wheeling man of high style and expensive tastes. Not excessively, but enough, yet Clark doubted Bruce drank much outside that.
Clark was the same, except that since his public image was a mild mannered, rather reticent man, except when work demanded he be more loquacious, who lived simply with few indulgences, he was rarely pressured into upholding that custom.
"The thought is still appreciated."
Bruce gave a quick smile, and there was something freeing, about not needing to be those people, but it did not last long and Clark knew he was being studied. His stance, stable but somehow lacking, and the at the moment abandoned wheelchair, lingering off in the distance.
And Clark was again surprised, Alfred had been pushing him in said wheelchair, preparing him meals, knew the extent of his fatigue more intimately than Bruce, and yet Clark had not felt nearly so self-conscious as he did now with Bruce. To distract, to remove the focus from himself, he asked, conversationally.
"How was your day?"
However, this question made him self-conscious in other ways. Even Bruce seemed somewhat taken aback. It was a simple, common question, and yet in hindsight, Clark was positive they had never asked this of each other before. The question sat between them briefly, before Bruce did a deflection of his own.
"Dull. I would not want to bore you with the details. Or bore myself in the retelling of it."
Clark knew he had an opportunity to push, ask again, but he declined to. Instead, he told Bruce of his day: his meals with Alfred, their stroll around the garden, the things he had seen there, and in the house itself.
And though part of Clark was chiding himself, why would Bruce care about the details of his own home, that Bruce would find this just as dull as his own day at the office had been, Clark sensed that Bruce did not find this dull. On the contrary, that he was interested, more than interested, in fact, intrigued, actually.
Clark was not sure why, it could be that Bruce was still studying him, looking for some clue as to… something, his physical condition in what he had been able to do this day, his mental condition and his ability to tell a story, hold a narrative – he had improved from yesterday, at least.
More fancifully, maybe it was seeing his family home through someone else's eyes, someone else's perspective, who had not been born here, lived here, but Clark briefly wondered if the reason Bruce was intrigued was perhaps the same reason Clark himself had been repeatedly intrigued by this situation.
Not only did they so rarely see each other out of costume, they had so rarely spoken to each other at length like this. And when they had, it was business. Coming up with a plan, sharing information, debating strategies. Clark had learned early on in his relationship with Bruce that he was a man of few words, and Clark had so often settled for silence, companionable, but silence nonetheless, with him, electing instead to simply stand guard or be in his physical presence, with or beside him, that this type of companionship felt unnaturally foreign.
Even for Clark himself, the sound of his voice, speaking at length, seemed unnaturally foreign. He lived alone after all, and he was not in the habit of talking to himself.
Bruce did ask him some follow up questions, shared a few more details, about certain artworks, details Alfred had not, and the more Bruce spoke, the more Clark found himself wanting to listen, hear him speak more, and he pushed himself, even though he was tiring, to sit here longer, to continue this conversation, sensing that this was a rare opportunity, one that would not come again anytime soon, if ever again, but there was also something so… peaceful about this, with the crackle and spark of the fire, the softness of the chair he was sitting on, the plushness of the rug underneath his feet, how Bruce too looked the most relaxed Clark had ever seen him.
It was Alfred who put a stop to things, when he returned to the room.
"Welcome home, Sir."
"Thank you, Alfred."
"And as for you Mister Kent, while I hate to be the bearer of bad news, I must insist you retire for the evening. You are looking rather peaked, even in this light."
"I won't argue with you there, Alfred. I feel rather peaked."
Clark stood, and Alfred wordlessly brought forth the wheelchair, to Clark's relief, and then to his surprise, Bruce stood as well.
"I will return shortly, Sir." Alfred started, while Bruce simply nodded, and Clark added.
"Goodnight, Bruce." Again, for a salutation so common – though again, one he had never said to Bruce, he had bid him good evening, but never goodnight – it did not come out easily, however it did not hang long between them, for the answer to this was traditionally only an echo.
"Goodnight, Clark." And for a salutation so common, the effect of hearing Bruce say it back to him was profound. Heavy, like a winter blanket. Dare he say, even nostalgic, a glimpse of something long lost and forgotten, suddenly and surprisingly found, not entirely clear or sure of what that was, only clear and sure that it was there, that something had been dredged up from the depths.
He was so caught in the throes of it himself, that he could not be sure this time if Bruce felt the same, if this was a shared experience, or if this was simply within himself, a private matter, was there truly was a moment of stillness, that even Alfred got caught up in, did he truly linger, ever so slightly, before taking hold of the handles on Clark's wheelchair to push him away, and Clark felt rather like he did as a child, when Ma Kent would tell him it was time for bed, though he wanted to continue his self-taught flying lessons under the cover of darkness, but he also did not want to worry his ma, who he knew was on their front porch, calling for him. Not loudly, and no cow-bell at those later hours, even though their closest neighbors were far, far away. Ma was considerate like that. Even for dinner, she did not need to use that to call him. She knew he could hear her, there was no need even for her to go outside, she could remain in the house, its well worn kitchen and he would still hear. The cow-bell was more to keep up appearances, to give him some semblance of normality.
And here at Wayne Manor, Clark used what she had instilled in him so well, those manners, to give him some semblance of normality in this place and situation, for being so seemingly mundane, had turned far away from normalcy, for Clark at least, as he bid goodnight to Alfred, and noted there was no earth shattering in this, the saying of it felt as it should, familiar, a kind closing to their conversation and to their day, after Alfred had delivered him back to his room, and he went to sleep that night warm yet wondering, what exactly had transpired this night and if it would still trouble him in the coming morning.