Chapter Text
"Sir normally this level of scowl and mad scribbling is relegated to late night activities what brings it to grace us in the light of day?" There was a practicality to the cucumber sandwiches Alfred brought in for lunch. They wouldn't go cold in the hours Bruce refused to look up from his work.
"Clark is either: Dying . . . Something parasitic or impeding his natural biotics. Cheating on me with a being that has over active Exocrine glands . . . Well he does have heightened smell so . . . Over active is speculative, perhaps just unpleasant. Or is participating is some sort of elabortare Kryptonian mourning ritual that he has not . . . Felt I would be compassionate enough to go through with him."
"He is . . . Downstairs sir. You could check in on him? Ask him yourself?" Alfred was met with every blink that Bruce had forgone since breakfast. "Very well, seeing as two of your three working theroies have made it so both of us will be abstaining from lunch, tell me do I want to know what brought you to these three very varied theroies?"
"If it's grieving it started three months ago. Which I am not saying that to imply that's too long for such a practice. He cares deeply. I just wish he would tell me who he has lost. I want to be there for him."
"I'll grab us tea. Please try to . . . Condense your memory sir. Dinner is something I will ask you to attend."
-Three Months prior-
Sniffling, Bruce could hear sniffling from the kitchen. He pressed open the door and there was Clark not only sniffling but his eyes were red, wet, he'd been crying. "Onions are a bitch!" Clark laughed nervous.
"You were . . . Chopping onions?"
"Yes." Clark rubbed at his eyes.
"Why?"
"For . . . Something that needs onions."
"Uh huh. Did you think to ask Alfred . . . To help you chop onions? Instead of . . . Whatever this is."
"It's something I have to do, all by myself."
"Chop onions?"
"Yes."
There was an awkward pause, the only sound was Bruce rapping his fingers on the door frame. He tried but he couldn't drop it. "And you have to chop onions all by yourself because?" Clark was always overly honest. He was being uncharacteristically flighty round the facts. This was cause for concern.
"It's . . . Important to me? It's for someone important to me. And before you ask again, yes chopping onions." Clark looked embarassed.
"I . . . Won't ask again." Had Clark been crying and thought Bruce would see it as weak? Unbecoming? Unheroic? Unmanly? "You are allowed to . . . Chop onions."
"Thanks." There was an eye roll to that appreciation. Did Clark not believe him?
Clark laughed, smiled, rubbed away tears and didn't allow fresh ones to fall. Was he hiding his pain from Bruce? The bat wasn't a deep well of emotional diversity but that didn't mean he wanted Clark to be equally obstuse with how he felt.
Clark's expressive nature was one of the many things Bruce loved about the man. It actually helped Bruce work through his own feelings, speaking the facts and watching Clark's face react accordingly, speak to him as if Bruce was yelling or crying, even laughing. Clark understood feelings Bruce had but didn't express. Understood was all Bruce really wanted at the end of the day.
"Can I . . . Do something to help with the onion process?" Maybe Bruce needed to try to be active in his support, be there for Clark, show him he wouldn't distance himself when his lover wasn't just roses on rainbows.
"Would a . . . Hug help?" Clark offered hugs constantly, Bruce refused them adamantly but they never seemed to leave the table as an option.
"Please?" Clark's eyes lit up. This was helping. Bruce would offer hugs more. Clark needed hugs. Eventually Clark would tell him why he was crying, what was causing him pain. Bruce would be there. He did not want Clark to cry alone again.
"I can be here. When you need to . . . Chop onions again."
"That's sweet but . . . I've got it covered, I'm not having you turning the batjet around everytime I try to cook. Though a hug after would be nice."
"I would . . ." He would turn the jet around but Bruce knew that he wasn't the only one that could be quick to feel coddled. He didn't want to push Clark farther away with his insistence. "You got it." Bruce kissed the top of Clark's head. He did smell a bit of onions but that was Clark covering his tracks, trying to throw off the detective.
-Present-
"Alternate theory master Bruce. He was chopping onions." Alfred gave a nudge to a still very ignored plate.
"Then there still would have been a death at play. Are you telling me you'd have him fuss about your kitchen while your pulse was still skipping?"
"I appear very much alive sir. Though perhaps master Clark persuaded me into fussing up my kitchen, promised to keep the mess to a minimum."
"Did he? I've caught him more than once, how many onions does one man need?"
Bruce took a skeptical bite of one of those cucumber sandwiches. Bruce's side glance seemed to imply both men were masters of their domain. Alfred's kitchen was as open for access as the bat's cave. "So three month mourning and the impossibility of me giving into whims that aren't your own. Where else have you let your mind wander?"