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The November sun bathed the Kent farm’s fields with golden light as it began to dip below the horizon. Clark breathed in the loamy scent as he stood on the porch of his home, enjoying the familiar comfort one more time before he left. There really was no place like home, especially on a holiday.
“You sure you don’t want to stay for pie?” his mother asked from inside the house. Clark turned to see her lovely, lined face peering at him through the screen door.
“I’d love to, but I made a promise to a friend.”
His mother clucked her tongue as she disappeared back into the house. “Wish I’d known you weren’t staying before I made three whole pies. Your father can’t eat the way he used to, not with what the doctor told him about his blood pressure.”
“It’s all right, Ma. I’ll take one with me.”
His mother’s face appeared at the door long enough to beam gratefully at him. “Pumpkin or apple?”
Clark thought. His mother’s apple pie was the stuff of legends. If he ever needed one food to use as the pinnacle of the human culinary experience, it would be that. However, her pumpkin pie was amazing as well, and it was the traditional food of the holiday. Tradition would be safest. “Pumpkin.”
His mother appeared shortly with the pie wrapped in aluminum foil, and she tucked it into a brown paper bag.
“You mind you don’t drop that on your flight,” she cautioned as she handed it out to him.
“I won’t,” he said as he took the bag. If he could fly a nuclear bomb safely out into space, he could ferry a pie from Smallville to Gotham City.
“I hope your friend likes it.”
“I think he will.” Or so Clark hoped. He didn’t even know if Bruce liked pie.
“You could’ve brought him here, you know,” his mother said, just a touch too casually. “A friend of yours worth leaving your family for on Thanksgiving must be important to you.”
Clark’s heart made a sudden, unexpected lurch. She couldn’t know about his...his preferences, could she? Clark had always been careful to hide the truth from his parents, figuring they already had enough to deal with in raising a super-powered son. He’d even been sure to drop plenty of hints about how things were progressing well—albeit slowly—with Lois. It was getting harder and harder these days, though, the more Bruce became an integral part of Clark’s life. Bruce was more than just a friend or lover--he was quickly becoming Clark’s other half. How do you hide that from the people who hold an equal--yet vastly different--place in your heart?
“I appreciate it, Ma. But he’s…he’s a very private man.”
Her eyes bored into him momentarily, clear and sharp as the snap of sunlight dancing over water. Then, she gave him a small, warm smile. She stood on tip-toe, leaning towards him, and Clark bent down far enough to let his mother kiss him on the cheek.
“I just don’t like sharing my boy on Thanksgiving, that’s all. I figure I get two days a year I have you mostly to myself—”
“And Christmas will be here soon.” Clark laughed, smoothing down the fly-away strands of her grey hair. “Believe me, if I thought he’d want to come, I’d ask him. But he’s not very good with holidays.”
It was the best way Clark could put it. He knew Bruce well enough to know that he would not do well at a family-oriented celebration, no matter how honored he’d be at the Kent family table. Clark’s parents would only be a bitter reminder of everything Bruce had lost, had never had. Clark cared about him too much to put him through that pain, no matter how much he wished he could have everyone he loved together at once.
His mother nodded in understanding, and patted his arm. “Stop by the barn to say bye to your father before you go.”
“I will. Thank you again for dinner.” Clark pecked his mother on the cheek, breathing in the softness of her sweat, mingled with the spices she’d been working with in the kitchen: nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice. The scents of home. He wished he could bottle it and bring it to Bruce, and all the comfort it brought Clark.
He left his mother on the porch, and walked to the barn across the yard. His good-bye to his father was brief, yet heart-felt, and he felt slightly guilty leaving his aging father to his chores when Clark knew he could finish them within minutes. But Jonathan Kent was a proud man, and Clark knew better than imply his father needed his help. He’d been getting along fine without Clark since he’d left the farm for college years ago.
So, Clark stepped behind the barn, and in the shadows quickly changed out of his slacks, shirt, jacket and shoes, placing them into the paper bag with the pie. Then, after tucking Clark’s glasses safely away, Superman took to the sky like a blue and red bullet, disappearing into the gathering twilight.
The miles blurred beneath him, endless fields giving way to forests, then to mountains, and then to fields again before morphing into suburbs and cities. He didn’t rush, enjoying a leisurely flight, and even after a brief stop in Philadelphia to thwart a mugging he’d overheard, he arrived in Gotham City a mere ten minutes after he’d left Smallville.
He flew past the city proper, slowing as he approached the outlying hills. Here, the properties were few and far between, similar to the farm country he’d just left, but rather than clapboard houses these were enormous estates, surrounded by manicured gardens and tennis courts rather than apple orchards and wheat fields.
The most remote—and the largest by far—was Wayne Manor. It was a mansion, perhaps even a palace by some definitions. But Clark knew it for what it really was—a Fortress of Solitude. He, of all people, knew one when he saw one.
He descended on the inside of the wrought-iron gate, and ducked into a copse of thick oak trees near the path that led to the house. He quickly pulled his slacks, shirt, jacket and shoes over his uniform and replaced his glasses. Clark wished he had a mirror so he could make sure his hair wasn’t too messy, or he didn’t have a stray bit of gravy clinging to his shirt. Not that it mattered. Even when he was dressed to the nines, he always felt a bit rumpled and homey next to sleek, elegant Bruce. Unless he was wearing his Superman suit, of course, but that was a different story entirely.
He strode up the lengthy walkway to the door, which seemed a longer journey than his entire flight from the Midwest. The closer he got the more his anticipation grew, the same flutter in his belly that he felt every time he approached Bruce’s house. Tonight was special, though. They had never celebrated a holiday together before, not a major one, at least. It was a big step for them, for this relationship they’d been building together for months now.
His knock echoed on the large oak door. He waited, wondering if Bruce would answer the door himself, knowing it was Clark who was arriving, or if it would be—
“Alfred. Happy Thanksgiving,” Clark said as Bruce’s butler opened the door. Of course it would be Alfred. It was always Alfred.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you as well, Mr. Kent. Please, come in.” Alfred nodded politely, stepping back to allow Clark entrance into the estate. His narrow face remained as impassive as ever. You’d never know he knew he was opening the door for the Man of Steel himself.
Clark tried not to let his discomfort show as he stepped into the house. It was dark, only a few lights dimly lit in the foyer, and the large archways leading off from the entryway opened only onto blackness. In daylight those were just entries to cavernous, unused rooms, but at night they gave the impression of open, hungry mouths, eager to swallow Clark whole. No wonder Bruce spent most of his time alone in the caves below. There, he was able to fill the darkness with purpose--with the tools he needed to wage his private war on crime. Up here, though, in his own home, it was harder to face the vast emptiness, to choose to replace it with peace and light and healing. Clark liked to think he’d helped some, in his own way. Perhaps, someday, Wayne Manor wouldn’t be quite so dark.
Clark let Alfred take his jacket, as he had learned to do on his previous visits to Wayne Manor. He held out the paper bag.
“I brought pie,” Clark said, feeling suddenly nervous. Should he have asked Bruce about the pie? Was he inadvertently stepping on Alfred’s toes? Alfred must have certainly made pie as well, or bought one from some fancy Gotham bakery. Damn. He should’ve brought the apple one, varied the flavors.
“Indeed?” Alfred peered into the bag, sniffing. Clark held his breath, trying to find any sign of annoyance on Alfred’s face, but when he looked up, the slightest smile ghosted over his thin lips. “Pumpkin, I presume?”
Relief coursed through Clark. “My mother made it. There’s more than enough if you’d like some, too.” He didn’t know if it was polite to offer food to the “help,” but he couldn’t help himself. He still didn’t quite know how to treat Alfred, especially in relation to Bruce. He was most definitely a servant, but he was much more than that. Not quite a parent, not quite a friend, but still the only person Bruce trusted with every secret he had. It was confusing to Clark, perhaps more so because Bruce and Alfred seemed to be so at ease with their strange dynamic.
“Thank you, Mr. Kent. I’ll serve it for dessert,” Alfred said, cool and gracious as ever. He was either oblivious to or politely ignoring Clark’s awkwardness. “I’ll take this to the kitchen. Master Bruce should be up momentarily. He asked me to make you wait here, if you don’t mind. He wants to show you himself what he has prepared for the evening’s festivities.”
“All right.” Clark chuckled, a little nervously. He and Bruce had decided it was going to be a simple celebration, just a homemade Thanksgiving dinner while watching the football game. Nothing fancy, no high expectations. “Please tell me he didn’t fly in heritage turkeys for us to hunt on the estate or anything like that.”
Alfred scoffed. “The traditional turkey hunt is in the morning, Mr. Kent. I’m afraid you’ll have to arrive a bit earlier if you want to join in next time.”
Clark’s eyes went wide, his cheeks heating. “Wait, you’re…you’re serious? You guys actually hunt tur…” He trailed off as the corners of Alfred’s lips curled up into a smirk. “You’re putting me on.” Clark ran a hand over his mouth, feeling an odd mix of relief and embarrassment. He still wasn’t quite used to Alfred’s parchment-dry humor, and more than once Clark had found himself in the awkward position of both being the set-up and the butt of one of Alfred’s jokes.
“Forgive me,” Alfred said, his cool eyes twinkling.
“It’s fine!” Clark forced a laugh, waving his hand dismissively. “Really. I just never know what’s really a thing for Bruce or…or if…” if this farm-boy can ever really fit in here, in Bruce Wayne’s ostentatious, old-money world. “You hear stories all the time, you know?”
“I assure you, Mr. Kent, the things that Master Bruce indulges in are done purely for show,” Alfred said. “Every fox hunt, every black-tie gala, every Monaco Grand Prix.”
Wow. He hadn’t even known that Bruce did all of those things. Was this another joke? No, Alfred looked serious this time. Clark pushed his glasses up on his nose, using the gesture to hide the discomfort on his face. Alfred really wasn’t making Clark feel any better. Was that the point?
“There is very little that Master Bruce does simply for the enjoyment of it.” Alfred fixed Clark with a long, steady gaze. “And even fewer people he chooses to spend that time with.”
Clark swallowed hard. Was this Alfred’s way of saying he thought Clark was in the way…or that he was glad that Clark was there?
Alfred was quiet for a long moment, and Clark was sure he was about to dismiss himself.
“Days like today are hard on Master Bruce,” Alfred said quietly. “I hope that having you here will make it better.”
“I truly hope that as well.” He put as much earnestness into his words as possible, needing to communicate to Alfred just how well he understood Bruce’s loss, the depth of the pain that was the core of who he was.
“Only time will tell.” This time, Clark didn’t miss the message in the butler’s sharp eyes: I don’t care who you are. If you hurt Bruce…
Before Clark could reply—unsure whether to reassure or take offense—he heard Bruce’s footsteps echoing down one of the darkened hallways. Alfred heard them a second later, cocking his head in the direction of the sharp sound.
“Ah, and here he is now. I’ll leave you to your evening,” Alfred’s said, his tone evening out. He nodded politely to Clark. He turned and walked away, leaving Clark alone with his unease. Clark barely had time to process the conversation before Bruce’s familiar footsteps came to a stop.
“Hello, Kal.”
Clark’s heart skipped a beat. Only Bruce ever called him by his birth-name—or any variation of it—and it made Clark’s soul soar to hear it.
He turned, and found Bruce in one of the dark archways. Even on his off days Bruce preferred to wear all black, and tonight’s ensemble—a ribbed turtleneck sweater and slacks—was no exception, making his pale, chiseled face stand out like marble against the darkness.
“Hello, Bruce.” Clark smiled, his conversation with Alfred pushed to the back of his mind. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Bruce returned the smile, making Clark’s heart do a little flip. Every time he made Bruce smile felt like a tiny miracle, especially considering he’d never even seen the man crack the slightest grin before a few months ago.
“You’re late,” Bruce said. It wasn’t accusation, just fact. He was right. Clark was two minutes past the hour he said he’d arrive.
“Sorry about that. I had an unexpected delay on my flight.”
Bruce’s dark eyebrow arched up curiously, but Clark just waved a hand dismissively. They had agreed—no shop talk tonight. Clark walked towards Bruce, eager to close the distance between them. It had been almost ten days since they’d had a chance to be alone like this, and Clark was ready to make every second of it count.
“I was actually expecting you to be a bit later,” Bruce said, his tone deceptively light.
“Oh? Something wrong?” No shop-talk rule or not, if there was something that needed Superman’s attention…
“You were with your parents,” Bruce said simply. His tone was light, but his eyes were shadowed, avoiding meeting Clark’s. There was a tension to his shoulders that only Batman usually carried, and Clark was starting to wonder if Alfred’s words had been not a threat, but a warning.
“I would have understood, you know,” Bruce continued quietly, and he turned away down the darkened hallway before Clark could reach him.
“Understood what?” Clark followed Bruce, quickening his step to catch up.
Bruce was silent for a long moment. “Understood if you hadn’t come.” Bruce’s voice was so quiet that normal hearing could have barely picked it up. To Clark’s enhanced ears, though, it was as loud as a cry for help.
He caught up with Bruce, and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. Bruce stopped and let Clark turn him around. Bruce may have thought the darkness would shield his face, but with his enhanced vision Clark could see his expression as easily as if they’d been standing in sunlight. Clark’s heart broke a little bit to see the naked loneliness, the longstanding grief lining Bruce’s handsome face.
Clark pulled Bruce into his arms—careful to keep his strength in check—and ignored the feel of Bruce’s thick muscles tensing further in his embrace. He kissed Bruce gently, brushing his lips first against his smooth cheek, then over his full lips, and he felt Bruce relax against him by increments.
“I’ll always come for you, Bruce,” Clark said softly as he pulled away. He palmed Bruce’s cheek, savoring the warmth of his skin. He loved this man. Powerfully. He had for years—beyond comrades-in-arms, beyond friends, beyond lovers. Clark loved Bruce with everything he had, and now, finally, Bruce was allowing Clark to show just how deep that devotion ran.
Bruce’s hand covered his own, resting there for a long moment. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes of Bruce’s understanding—and acceptance—of Clark’s love. Clark had had to work so hard to make Bruce believe he wanted him—fears, flaws, and all—and not some infallible Dark Knight.
Bruce’s grip tightened around Clark’s as he gently pulled Clark’s hand off his face. He didn’t let go, though, threading their fingers together.
“I just wanted to make sure you’d make it in time before the game started.” Bruce’s tone was blithe again, and Clark could tell it was his attempt to ease the moment, not pull Clark down into the shadows enveloping him. Clark let him. It was why he was here—to shine light into Bruce’s world.
“Me, late to a football game? Never.” Clark chuckled. “I never got to play, so I’ve had to get good at watching from the stands. Or the couch. Or the sky.”
“You never played?” Bruce asked as he led Clark down the dark hallway.
“Nope. My Dad wouldn’t let me. Too much of a risk. I didn’t understand at the time, but now I do.” Clark sighed. “Still think I would’ve made a great quarterback.”
“You would’ve made a great anything,” Bruce said. “You could’ve won any game single-handedly!”
“What’s the fun in that?” Clark protested. “That’s not a game, that’s a massacre.”
“And that’s one of the things I love about you, Kal. Your sense of sportsmanship. Which means you’re going to love this.”
Bruce pushed open a heavy oak door, and Clark blinked rapidly as his sensitive eyes adjusted to the bright light flooding him.
“Wow!” Clark said as he took in Bruce’s living room. No, not a living room, more of a media room, or a straight-up movie theater. The entire back wall of the cavernous room was covered in a giant screen, nearly the size of a billboard. Two sports casters jabbered at each other animatedly in front of a football field, but the TV’s mute had silenced their banter. The main screen was bordered by windows showing other channels—news, sitcoms, other football games, advertisements. It was almost overwhelming to Clark. He rarely watched television, and never more than one channel at once. So, he simply broadened his focus, shifting the pattern of his brain to absorb and sort the visual information as quickly as it came at him.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Bruce said quietly, a hint of amusement in his voice as he let go of Clark’s hand.
“Doing what?” Clark asked, his eyes not leaving the screen. Minor earthquake in Mexico—Dow Jones rising—breath-freshening power—Oklahoma scores!—for a limited time only—Pope visits Cuba—Coming this Christmas—Tonight at 8 pm—Black Friday Sales start at midnight—
“Being Super. You should see your eyes. They look like pinballs, racing around trying to catch all the information at once.”
Clark closed his eyes, forcing his brain to slow down. “Not trying. Succeeding.” He tried not to sound smug, knowing that his ability to absorb and process information was probably the power that garnered the greatest amount of jealousy from Bruce.
Indeed, Bruce was scowling, and Clark gave him what he hoped was a charmingly sheepish smile. It must have worked, because the crease in Bruce’s forehead disappeared, and he simply shook his head as he walked towards the sleek leather couch in the middle of the room.
“Show off,” he muttered under his breath.
“And you don’t call this showing off?” Clark waved a hand at the massive screen. “This is as big as Gotham Stadium’s Jumbotron!”
“I wanted us to feel like we were really there.” Bruce shrugged as he sat down on the couch, looking up at Clark with his own guilty expression.
Clark joined Bruce on the couch, looking up at the players towering on the screen above him. “Maybe if we’d been shrunk to the size of mice.”
“If you don’t like it, we can watch it on a different screen. I have smaller ones.”
Clark caught the hint of uncertainty creeping into Bruce’s voice, and inwardly kicked himself. It was one thing to be privately uncomfortable with Bruce’s vast wealth, and another to seem ungrateful when Bruce used that wealth to try to do something nice for Clark.
“It’s amazing.” He placed his hand on the back on Bruce’s and gave him a grateful smile. “Just a little overwhelming.”
“I know what you mean,” Bruce said quietly.
Bruce didn’t say more, but Clark knew what he meant. “Amazing yet a little overwhelming” was the definition of their relationship. Most couples had to balance work, friends, and family with romance. Clark and Bruce had the added challenge of secret identities, super powers, and their self-imposed responsibilities to the world. Nights like this were rare, and all too short. Clark knew that at any moment either of them—or both of them—could be pulled away to face something bigger than law enforcement could handle. So, he savored the moment, the simple pleasure of sitting beside Bruce—no mask, no uniforms, no danger—and feeling the solid warmth of his hand under his.
“Your dinners, sirs.” Alfred’s voice broke the silence of the room, and both Bruce and Clark turned to find Alfred striding in, pushing a large cart bearing two covered platters. “Let it be noted that this would have been much easier to serve had you allowed me to set the table properly, Master Bruce.”
“But the game is about the start,” Bruce said. Clark caught the slightest hint of childish whine under his otherwise smooth tone, something so subtle he was sure he’d only caught it because of his sensitive hearing.
“And since when do you care about football, Master Bruce?” Alfred sniffed.
“Since the Gotham Knights are playing the Metropolis Metros for the playoff. Right?” Bruce turned to Clark.
Clark nodded, unable to hide his smile. Football was a religion in the Midwest, and Clark found it amusing that there was one thing that he knew so much better than the well-bred, well-educated Bruce Wayne did—and that he was trying to learn about it for Clark’s benefit. It was sweet, really, though Clark would never say so. Bruce never, ever did sweet.
Alfred’s eyes darted sideways to Clark, so quick it was almost just a reflex. Clark felt heat rising in his cheeks, his smile fading as he thought about their earlier discussion. Did Alfred think this was Clark trying to change Bruce…or was he grateful that he was actually forcing Bruce to just enjoy himself for an evening?
“Would you like to join us, Alfred?” Clark asked, trying not to sound as timid as he suddenly felt.
“Thank you Mr. Kent, but I do not watch football.” He turned his attention to the covered tray before him, then looked up, and gave Clark a quick wink. “Unless Arsenal is playing, of course.”
Clark smiled, relief flooding his chest. Alfred was trying. Clark understood his concerns. He shared them, in fact. Bruce Wayne had an image to protect—the careless, debonair playboy—in order to keep Batman safe. He also had to keep a strong face in the financial field to keep the money flowing for the cause, and the notoriously conservative circles Bruce had been born into would not look kindly upon a public liaison with not just a man, but a lowly news reporter. Clark Kent was suddenly the greatest secret Bruce had, and the one who could destroy Bruce Wayne utterly. Clark hoped that the more time went on, the more Clark proved that he was an asset, not a liability—to both Bruce and Batman—the more Alfred would come to accept him. Maybe even like him.
The rich smell of roast turkey and gravy pulled Clark out of his thoughts, and he turned his attention to the plates on the tray. He didn’t tell Alfred he’d already had dinner at his parent’s house. It didn’t matter, really; eating was just a pleasant formality for him since his Kryptonian metabolism didn’t need food. He was glad for that as he looked at the feast Alfred was serving up onto their plates, eager to try the butler’s version of Thanksgiving dinner.
He had to wait a little longer, though, as Alfred set up a pair of small folding tables in front of Clark and Bruce, and laid out the table setting in front of them. It was absolutely maddening to Clark to watch Alfred carefully set up their meal. If Martha Kent saw someone sitting quietly while she was fixing Thanksgiving dinner, you bet she would find something for them to do.
“If that will be all, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked after he had filled their wine glasses and placed their plates in front of them.
“Thank you, Alfred. That’ll be all.”
Alfred nodded, and turned smartly, striding out of the room.
“Just let me know when you want me to bring in the pie,” he called out before he shut the door behind him.
Once Alfred was out of earshot, Clark let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I don’t know how you can stand it!”
“What?” Bruce looked surprised.
“Letting someone else serve you like that! Doesn’t it drive you crazy, to just sit while someone else does all the work for you?”
Bruce seemed taken a bit aback. “Honestly, no.”
“You don’t find it demeaning?”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You, of all people, Clark, should understand the honor to be found in service.”
Clark’s face heated again, and he looked away, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Alfred is not just my butler, Clark. He’s my family,” Bruce said quietly. “Is it strange to you when you mother fixes you a plate?”
“That’s different,” Clark protested weakly. “I did my share of chores around the farm. It balanced out.”
“I may not have a cow to milk, but I do my share, in my own way.” Bruce was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t expect you to understand, Clark, but Alfred is part of who I am. I owe him…well, I owe him everything. I hope in time you two can find peace with each other.”
Clark looked up sharply, meeting Bruce’s shrewd gaze. So, he hadn’t missed the silent interplay between his butler and his boyfriend. Of course he hadn’t. Bruce seldom missed anything, especially when it came to the people he cared about.
“I don’t dislike him. I just wish he liked me better.”
“He likes you fine, Clark.”
“He has an odd way of showing it.” He hated how much the aloof butler’s approval meant to him. It made him feel like a teenager wanting a father’s permission to take his daughter to the school dance.
“He admitted you were probably the only person good enough for me.”
“He did?” Clark perked up a bit, and then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “He’s just saying that because I’m Superman.”
Bruce shook his head slowly.
“No. He said, and I quote, ‘I hope taking the holidays off to spend them with Mr. Kent becomes a trend. He’s a good influence on you.’”
Clark blinked in surprise, his heart swelling with pleasure. So, perhaps things weren’t as strained with Alfred as he had feared. He raised his wine glass. “To Alfred.”
“To Alfred.” Bruce clinked his glass against Clark’s, and took a sip of the ruby liquid.
As Clark took a drink from his own glass, a complex jumble of flavors danced over his tongue, richer and more potent than he had ever tasted.
“Do I want to know how expensive this wine—”
“No.” Bruce cut him off. He leaned forward—close enough so that Clark could smell the fragrant wine lingering on his tongue—and fixed Clark with that scowl he’d first seen from beneath his mask. “Stop appraising everything and just enjoy it Clark.”
Clark bit his lower lip, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel like I’m judging. I’m just…I’m not…”
“For what you’ve done for the world—for me—you deserve this and so much more than I can ever give you, Kal-El.”
“You’ve given me more than I ever dared hope for, Bruce.” Clark reached out to Bruce. “I don’t need fancy wines or big televisions. I just need you.”
To Clark’s surprise, Bruce pulled out of Clark’s touch. His lips turned down slightly at the corners, and Clark wondered what he had said wrong.
“That’s the problem, Clark. I can’t give you all of me.” He looked up at the big screen. “See those seats there in the stadium? Those private boxes?”
“Aren’t those the ones I sat in for that baseball game, when you were wooing me by letting me use your box seats?” Clark tried to lighten the mood, but the frown on Bruce’s face told Clark it wasn’t working.
“Yes. If I were anyone other than Bruce Wayne…we could be in those seats right now. We could go have brunch together at the Gotham Room tomorrow. Go scuba diving in the Caribbean next week. We wouldn’t have to spend all our downtime always stuck hiding here.” He sighed deeply. “Sometimes…sometimes I feel like Batman can give you more than I ever can.”
Clark carefully put his wine glass down, and searched for Bruce’s hand. When he found it, he squeezed, trying to be as gentle as he could. He wasn’t wearing his special kryptonite ring yet, and if he wasn’t careful he could crush Bruce’s hand as easily as if he were wadding up a napkin.
“Bruce, listen to me. I’ve had what Batman can offer. It’s wonderful, true. It’s dark and dangerous and beyond sexy.” He flashed Bruce a wicked little grin before letting his smile soften in earnestness. “But Bruce, you’ve given me something Batman never could.”
Bruce swallowed hard, and he looked away again. He still wasn’t used to these naked shows of emotion. Clark let him have his escape, but he kept talking.
“I…I have my own reasons for keeping our relationship secret. It’s not just you. My job, my family—I don’t know if I’m ready to share who I am with them. You’ve already shared more with Alfred than I have with my own parents. Nobody knows the whole truth about me, no one besides you. What you have given me is the freedom to be who I am. I can be Clark. I can be Superman. I can be Kal-El. With you, and you alone Bruce, I can be whole, and that’s worth so much more than box seats at the game or a vacation in the Caribbean.”
Bruce was still for a long moment, and Clark could practically watch his words slowly sink through the thick armor Bruce had woven about himself in his years of lonely struggle. He could see Bruce’s tight lips soften, the lines from his brow smooth. He squeezed Clark’s hand, tightly, as if he were the lifeline that was keeping him from sinking completely into a dark, roiling sea.
“Thank you,” Bruce said, his voice rough and quiet, “thank you for being patient with me.”
“You’re worth waiting for. Always have been.”
Bruce pressed his lips to the back of Clark’s hand, his head bowing to hide his face. Clark let him. He knew how difficult it was for Bruce to process genuine emotion, and he simply sat with his love, letting him compose himself, feeling the flux of his emotions through the tiny movements of his lips against his hyper-sensitive skin.
After a few moments, Bruce took a deep, shaky breath, and looked up with eyes as clear and bright as autumn stars.
“You do know we’re missing the game, right?” Bruce’s lips quirked up into a rare, genuine smile. It warmed Clark’s being down to the core to see such pure, open happiness from Bruce, and he knew without words what Bruce was telling him in return:
“With you, and you alone, Clark, I can be whole, too.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have one of those fancy DVR things recording the game?” Clark mock-scoffed.
“Of course I do. I just thought you’d want to watch the Knights beat the Metros in real-time.”
“Nope, I’m happy to watch the Knights get their butts kicked in delay, too.”
Clark squeezed Bruce’s hand once before letting go, and Bruce busied himself with rewinding the game back to the beginning. Clark studied the strong lines of Bruce’s profile in the flickering television light. After so many years of wondering and fantasizing about the man behind the cowl, Clark knew that he would never tire of looking at Bruce’s face.
“If you’re wondering if I’m this moody every holiday, the answer is yes,” Bruce said gruffly. Clark started. He hadn’t realized he’d actually been staring—and that Bruce was misinterpreting his ogling as scrutiny. “I’m even worse at Christmas.”
“Well, maybe we can change that a little this year,” Clark said easily.
“I usually work,” Bruce admitted. “There’s always something going on. But…” He swallowed hard, and cast a sidelong glance at Clark. “Maybe we can carve out some time together, meet here again.”
Clark thought of his parents, of the little farm out on the plains. His mother would be crushed to know she would have to share Clark again. Perhaps he could split his time again, spend the morning with them and the afternoon with Bruce. Or perhaps…
Perhaps it was time to let Bruce be the one to guide him through his own fears.
“Would….would you consider joining my family for some of Christmas?” Clark blurted out.
Bruce blinked rapidly, this sudden turn having caught him off-guard. “You want me to meet your parents?” he asked slowly.
“I…yes. Yes, I do.” Clark’s heart was hammering like crazy, and he felt slightly dizzy.
Bruce was quiet for a long moment. “Who do you want them to meet?”
Clark furrowed his brow in confusion. “Who do…why you of course, Bruce. Not Batman.” Clark had the strange mental picture of Batman—fully armored—sitting at his parent’s dining room table, grimly passing Jonathan a dish of string beans.
“I figured that. What I mean is, do you want them to meet Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent’s eccentric billionaire friend, or…”
Bruce’s words trailed off, though Clark heard what he was asking clearly: or this Bruce, Kal-El’s partner?
Nervousness pricked through Clark. He’d just told Bruce how he felt like he could only be wholly himself around him. True, he had an authentic self that he shared with his parents, but to merge the two completely, let them know that their son was different in even more ways…
Jonathan and Martha didn’t abandon you when your powers manifested as a teenager. They didn’t try to stop you when you decided to use them openly to help humanity. They didn’t even protest when you decided you wanted to leave the farm for the big city. They’ve been nothing but supportive, Clark. You owe them a chance.
“I want them to meet you,” Clark said, with an assurance he didn’t quite feel yet. “To see the man who’s made me happier than anyone else ever has.”
Bruce’s expression was unreadable, and Clark was afraid he’d just undone all the progress they’d made in the past hour. This was too much, too soon, as always, Clark. Meeting parents on Christmas…
“Yes, Kal,” Bruce said slowly. “I’ll meet your family for Christmas.”
Wow. Wow wow wow. Clark’s heart swelled so much he thought it would burst. He studied Bruce’s face, used his powers to read his heart rate, his breath, his pupil dilation, to make sure he was really agreeing, not just trying to appease Clark for fear of hurting his feelings. His slightly elevated heart rate told Clark that Bruce was indeed nervous, but not scared. He really meant it. He would meet Clark’s parents…as his partner.
“Thank you,” Clark said softly.
“You’re welcome.” Bruce gave him a small, warm grin.
“Really, that…that’ll be the best gift you can ever give me.”
Bruce’s eyebrow arched. “You’re just trying to dodge this whole gift-giving thing, aren’t you?”
Clark laughed, the knot in his chest loosening. “No! Really. But now that you mention it, I would be more than all right with skipping—”
“Not a chance. I already know what I’m getting you.”
Clark cocked his head, a new warmth spreading in his chest. “You’ve already planned for Christmas?”
Bruce’s expression was somewhere between sheepish and satisfied. “Of course. I always have a plan.”
“Is it smaller than a bread-box?”
Bruce held up a warning finger. “No hints. None.”
“Is it mineral, vegetable, or chemical?”
“I said no hints, Kal.”
“Come on, if I’m going to have a prayer of getting you something comparable—especially if you’re meeting my parents—I’m going to need a clue!”
“You’re on your own.”
“Fine. Just have to make you some diamonds, or maybe fly out to Mars to get you some mineral samples to play with, or—”
Bruce aimed the remote control at the paused TV. “Are we going to watch this game or not?”
“Whatever you want, dear.” Clark picked up his wine glass, and leaned back against the sofa. “I’m perfectly happy.”