Chapter Text
Bruce was working on packing his fifth bag, because apparently he planned to bring all of his possessions to Clark's parents' farmhouse.
"Are you sure you want to visit the Kent farm, city boy?" Clark asked, only half-joking. "It's not that I don't want you to go with me, it's just that I don't want you to go and hate it the whole time."
"I want to meet your parents, Clark. And I'm totally fine with farms!"
"Oh really? So if you stepped in horse shit in those Berluti shoes, you would..."
"I would get them cleaned... or buy new ones. But that won't happen anyway, it's not like I'm going to wear my best suit to your parents' farm."
Clark raised his eyebrows and snickered, gesturing toward the Bat Suit, "Well, your actual 'best suit' won't be any more eye catching than the rest you've packed, which—don't think you'll get away with lying, I just saw you pack the Dormeuil suit."
"I packed it, but that doesn't mean I'll wear it on the farm. Just to—dinner, or something. Just in case."
"We're going to eat dinner in the farmhouse, Bruce."
"These are my clothes!"
"You could wear my clothes." Clark suggested, trying to imagine Bruce Fucking Wayne in one of his old flannel shirts and a pair of jeans. He would look like a farmer. A strong, sexy, working class farmer...
"I don't think I could fit—wait, is that a thing for you?" Bruce caught his eye mid-sentence, and apparently Clark's newfound fantasy was written on his face.
"I mean... it could work for me." Clark said casually, trying not to escalate the situation (they'd gotten distracted from packing several times) although he was now absolutely thinking about his clothes not fitting Bruce (who was broad and tall, but not as broad and tall as Clark, who was an alien).
"Well, ah. Maybe, then. I guess you can pack some things I can borrow. To blend in. But I'm bringing the Dormeuil!"
--
Clark steered his Prius through the Wayne mansion's wrought iron gate (which now opened for him automatically). Bruce had offered to drive the Batmobile, which—although a sweet ride with shockingly great gas mileage—wasn't the sort of vehicle you could leave parked on the driveway of your parent's farm.
On first glance, nothing about Bruce Wayne really said 'Bring me home to Ma and Pa'. Clark often felt like he was dating the bad boy in every cheesy 80's movie. That wasn't exactly a bad thing—he had been obsessed with Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club, and Bruce's ruggedly handsome face and dark brown hair were absolutely congruent with the majority of Clark's youthful celebrity crushes. It was just a bit... notable? sometimes?
Especially in moments like the one that occurred about thirty seconds after Clark pulled up to the mansion. Bruce jogged up to the car, slapped his hand onto the roof, and kissed Clark through the open window. He was dressed casually (Clark had argued him into it), but his jeans and plain black T-shirt fit him too damn well to mean anything but money. None of this was bad: Bruce looked great, it was nice to see him, and the kiss he greeted Clark with was thoroughly pleasant. It was just notably a moment that could have been in a romantic comedy, and Clark was a little more comfortable with his life feeling like an action movie.
His life also often felt like sitting through whatever genre would make a ten hour movie of an alien sitting in a news room, vigorously trying to report the activities of humanity back to the humans. Not that Clark wanted to be reporting human activity to anyone else. It was just a notably ironic career.
Alfred had followed Bruce out, carrying two suitcases and a carry on (Bruce had finally agreed not to bring more than one suit—on their trip to Smallville, Kansas. Boy, did Clark know how to pick 'em or what?) and cleared his throat. "Your luggage, Master Bruce".
"For fuck's sake, Alfred, I told you I'd come back in and get it!" Bruce cursed around Alfred frequently, but he only really cursed at Alfred when he was worried about him. Clark had been around long enough that he knew Bruce should've predicted this situation, so he joined the argument.
"Bruce! You left your luggage with Alfred? You know he shouldn't be carrying that kind of weight!"
"I told him not to—"
"You know him well enough—"
"Boys, how many times do I have to tell you? I'm strong enough to carry Wayne Enterprises, keep an eye on Gotham AND your merry band of vigilantes—"
"-Justice League-" Bruce interrupted.
"-and I'm strong enough to carry a couple of suitcases!" Alfred finished, glaring at Bruce.
"Maybe, but—you shouldn't have to," relented Bruce, taking his suitcases and walking around the car.
"Y'know, the offer still stands!" Clark said to Alfred, because Bruce was out of earshot so the previous argument was over. "My parents would love to meet you, and I'm sure Bruce would feel more comfortable if you came to Thanksgiving with us."
"I'm sure he would, but sometimes a buffer does more harm than good. I do not want to be what stands between Master Bruce and your family." Albert spoke quietly, and Clark got the feeling that he didn't want Bruce to know his refusal came from a place of well-meant emotional manipulation.
Which was smart, because the only thing Alfred did that frustrated Bruce more than physical labor was encouraging Bruce to connect with people.
"Well, alright then!" said Clark, because he was Midwestern and that's what he said when he didn't know what else to say. Alfred nodded, because he was a butler and that's what he did when there was nothing to be said.
Bruce closed the trunk and hugged Alfred before getting in the car. Clark waited for him to buckle his seatbelt, and then drove back down the driveway.