Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Smallville was a misleading name, he thought. The town was larger than he had expected, farmland and fields taking over his vision as soon as they passed the sign to enter. Sparseville would probably be a better name for it. Or Flatville.

While there was a lot of land in the town, there was very little of… well, anything else.

Bruce Wayne sat in the passenger seat of a black SUV driven by Alfred, down the old roads of Smallville. The sixteen year old stared through the bug-speckled window at the endless sprawl of farmland. Green stitched across the horizon, broken only by the occasional crooked silo or red-roofed barn. From the moment they’d driven away from the highway, Bruce felt exposed in a way he never had before. In Gotham, tall buildings and shadowed streets hemmed him in. Over here, the world stretched out as far as he could see, and he hated it.

They’d already driven past the main ‘center’ of the town — which was only two streets with all of the larger stores, the school, and a movie theater situated on them. There wasn’t much in the town of Smallville itself. Anything more exciting than gas station coffee would be the next town over.

Bruce sat up straighter as the tires slowed and turned into a large gravel driveway. The house at the end of it was white-washed and sagging, a single storey. A wooden shed was somehow still standing a few paces away, even as the doors tipped dangerously forwards. The land behind the house was bigger than Bruce had expected, dominated by rows of cornstalks. There were a few other trees bearing fruit, though Bruce couldn’t name them from this distance. A red barn stood a bit further away, likely housing the few animals at the farm.

“Here we are, Master Wayne,” Alfred said, already unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the SUV. “I trust that you will show our host the manners I have taught you.” There was a pause, and then Alfred continued, tone a bit softer. “And that you will actually try to enjoy yourself for once. We’ll only be here eight weeks, but you deserve a bit of time away from the rest of the world.”

Bruce nodded once, sharply. His throat was too tight to give a verbal response. Bruce knew that Alfred only had his best interests in heart, but it was hard to feel it when this was the last thing he wanted.

He should be back in Gotham for the summer, continuing his research, training, and honing his body. He should be in Europe, learning from martial arts masters as he perfected his form. He should not be in Smallville, Kansas for eight whole weeks, just because Alfred thought he needed a break.

But Alfred was a smart man. He had framed the visit as a way for him to reconnect with his aunt, an old widow who was the last remaining family Alfred had. And Bruce, who was Bruce to try to ruin this for him?

Bruce unbuckled his belt and slid out of the car. His head snapped up as a screen door banged open and an unfamiliar old woman made her way out. Her long gray hair was tied back in a plait that bounced against her spine. Her face was weathered, lines deep like she had done every part of her life fully, never holding back any emotions. A knitted shawl hung over her shoulders despite the warmth of the day. She walked quicker than Bruce expected, body hunched and wagging a shaky finger in Alfred’s direction.

“Alfie, my boy,” she walked down the steps carefully but quickly. The years in rural Kansas had pretty much washed away Margaret Pennyworth’s British accent and turned it into something more Midwestern. “It’s been too long.”

The voice was familiar, even if her face wasn’t. Bruce had heard her on the other end of the phone sometimes, when Alfred called her to catch up.

Alfred, who was already out of the car and removing their luggage, smiled at the sight of his aunt approaching him. He let her embrace him and plant a kiss on each cheek with a familiarity that made Bruce flinch. He hadn’t realized they were so close. How long had Alfred resisted visiting her, remaining with Bruce in Gotham? A sharp stab of guilt creeped in behind his ribs, and he looked away before it could get worse.

“Aunt Margaret,” Alfred returned the embrace, smiling when she pulled away. “It has been very long, indeed. But of course, life has been quite busy for me. It is not the easiest thing, taking care of a young man, no matter how good he may be.”

Margaret huffed, and then her sharp gaze landed on Bruce. She appraised him quickly, with a kind of precision that actually made him a bit nervous. “And you must be the boy — Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce straightened immediately, coming around the front of the car and offering her a hand to shake. “That is me, Bruce. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Margaret.”

“Oh, aren’t you a polite darlin’,” Margaret chuckled, taking his offered hand and pulling him into a hug instead. Bruce froze, but didn’t pull away. He managed to awkwardly pat her back before she let go of him. “And none of that ‘Miss’ business. You’ll call me Aunt Marga. Everyone in town does.”

Alfred collected the two trunks they had packed, and made his way up the porch stairs. Margaret kept her hand in Bruce’s, and used him instead of the railing to get up the stairs. Bruce, unable to get free from Aunt Marga’s clutches, resigned himself to the situation. The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he went along, following the two of them into the house. Inside, it smelled like lemon polish, fresh bread, and something like cinnamon. It was warm in a way Wayne Manor wasn’t. That unsettled him too.

Margaret released her hold on Bruce and patted his upper arm. “Go help your guardian take those bags. Your room is the one at the back, with the door to the deck. Poor little Alfie isn’t as spry as he used to be.”

Alfred gave her a look that would’ve withered a lesser person. As it was, Margaret just laughed to herself.

Bruce took his chance as he collected his bag from Alfred and carried it down to the room that was meant to be his for the next eight weeks. The bedroom was small, likely the smallest in the house, but it had a small en suite the size of a broom closet — Bruce assumed this must’ve been the room Margaret used when her and her late husband fostered children. And there was a door, which led straight outside to the fields in the backyard. Bruce liked that, the chance to escape if he ever felt trapped.

He propped his suitcase against the wall, and plopped back onto the mattress with a sigh. Bruce hadn’t realized how tired he was, until he felt the mattress against his back. The springs dug into his muscles when he positioned himself wrong, and it creaked every time he breathed — but the lull of sleep still crept up on him.

Bruce didn’t want to be here, not one bit. He didn’t want to call that woman ‘Aunt Marga’, or look after animals, or tend to crops, or deal with small town folk who were probably too nice for their own good. He wanted to go home, to go back to Gotham. He had a Mission. It wasn’t concrete, but there was something coming together there. A way to make Gotham better. To make his parents’ murderer pay. To fix the broken system.

He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds, and then breathed out through his nose. He repeated the practice a few times, doing his best to regulate himself internally. Another trick he had learned in the process of honing himself for the Mission.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t think much of the sound of the front door opening again. Not until Margaret’s voice followed the sound.

“There you are, my boy,” she crooned. “Just on time, aren’t you, Clarkie? Clark, dear, this is my nephew Alfred. He’s stayin’ with me for the summer, with his ward. Bruce is around your age, I think so. How old is he now, Alfred?”

Bruce heard Alfred respond, “He’s sixteen.”

“Oh, I’m seventeen,” a boyish voice told Alfred. His voice sounded polite, that Midwestern charm bleeding through in just three words. Bruce could practically imagine the way Alfred would be looking at him — approvingly, already taken by his attitude. “I’m entering my senior year at Smallville High this September.”

Alfred hummed, wisely not mentioning that Bruce had already graduated. “Sounds like you’re on track, young man. Bruce could use a friend near his age.”

“I’d be happy to show him around town sometime, if he’s willing,” Clark told him, the polite smile still audible, even as the faint unease crept into the edges. If Bruce had to guess, Clark was only offering because it was polite, not because he wanted to. The adults in the room didn’t seem to pick up on his mild hesitation at all.

“Oh, I have an idea! Why don’t you take the boy out to the fields? He can help you collect those vegetables, feed the chickens. Your work will go faster if you had a hand.” And before anyone could add anything, Aunt Marga shouted out, “Bruce! Bruce, honey! Come out here and meet Clark, will you?”

Bruce panicked.

He hadn’t thought to shut the bedroom door and it was too late now, so he closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. Deep breath in, and then out. He could hear Aunt Marga take a breath like she was going to start shouting for him again, but Alfred got up and said, “I shall go fetch him for you.”

Bruce continued to fake sleep, eyes shut and breathing even, despite the slight flutters of his heart. But that was fine, no one was there to pull out a stethoscope on his sleeping form. He waited for a long time, until Alfred’s footsteps paused at the door, and then the faint click as he shut it before returning to the kitchen. Their voices were slightly muffled now, but Bruce could still hear Alfred say, “Well, Bruce has fallen asleep. It seems our journey tired the boy out more than we realized.”

“That’s alright,” Clark responded, the smile still audible. He remained polite, but Bruce could swear he heard some strain in his voice now. “Traveling’s hard, I get it. And I’ll be fine on my own, Aunt Marga. I collect your crops myself all the time. I don’t know how much you guys collect crops in the city, so it’ll probably be better to do it on my own if it’s just… uh, Bruce’s first day here.”

Bruce felt a surge of annoyance rip through him, before he forced it down. He supposed he couldn’t exactly blame the other boy. He was only proving Clark’s case that city boys were soft, pretending to fall asleep because of a bit of traveling.

Bruce couldn’t hear Aunt Marga or Alfred’s response, but a door closed a few moments later, signaling Clark had walked out to the fields.

—

Bruce wasn’t sure when he fell asleep. Not until he woke up, sweaty and flushed.

He sat up, eyes flicking around as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. His gaze landed on the suitcase near the wall, on the sun hanging low in the sky through the window — and he remembered.

Smallville, Kansas. Right.

With a faint groan, Bruce got out of bed and peeled off his sweat soaked shirt. He dug through his suitcase for a pair of clothes, fishing out a pair of loose pants and a grey polo. He showered quickly in the small en suite, just to get the sticky feeling off of his body, and then changed into the clothes he had set aside. As he pulled the polo over his head, his stomach grumbled lightly, reminding him that it was almost dinner time.

He padded out of the room and towards the kitchen. Lost in his thoughts, he completely forgot that he had been trying to avoid company before he accidentally fell asleep.

The first thing he saw when he entered was a boy standing a bit awkwardly near the fridge, arms overflowing with a stack of crates. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and ears of corn threatened to spill out of each crate. The boy was wearing a flannel shirt and worn jeans, which was a horrible fashion statement, but he looked… soft in them. Comfortable, even.

The boy — Clark, Bruce remembered suddenly — looked up at his entry. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue — open like the sky, clear like a lake — and startling against his sun-browned skin. A tumble of unruly curls sat atop his head, thick and dark, with strands falling against his forehead. They brushed dangerously close to his eyes — those crystalline blue ones — but with his arms full of crates of produce, he was helpless to do anything with them.

Bruce’s gaze drifted over him without meaning to, but he caught his thoughts before they could stray. Clark stood taller than most boys around their age — a solid six-two or six-three, his frame already leaning towards the strength of a man. Broad shoulders that accompanied well muscled biceps and forearms, a wide chest — the build of a boy who’d spent his whole life working under the sun. Real, honest work.

And yet, for all of his height and build, his clothing style left much to the imagination. It was horrendous, really. The worn red flannel with those washed jeans and scruffed up boots looked secondhand, or just really old. He wore everything half a size larger than he needed, covering the true outline of his form. Bruce shifted his gaze away from the boy’s shoulders, back to his face, only to catch those sky blue eyes studying him just as intently.

Pretty, Bruce’s brain supplied without warning. His heart skipped a beat, and he forced himself to calm down again.

Bruce broke Clark’s gaze, his brain finally realizing that there were other people in the small kitchen. Alfred and Aunt Marga stood with their backs to the boys, cooking up dinner. Alfred was measuring out some rice while Aunt Marga inspected the produce out of a bag.

Ever attuned to Bruce, Alfred looked over his shoulder and smiled at the sight of his ward. “I hope you had a restful nap, my boy,” Alfred murmured.

Bruce shrugged noncommittally.

At Alfred’s words, Aunt Marga looked over too. “Ah, there you are, Bruce. Had a good nap?” She wiped her hands on her apron and set some peeled potatoes aside.

Bruce hummed in response, not wanting to come off as rude to the woman who would be housing him for the next eight weeks. “Yes, I slept better than I expected to. The drive was more tiring than I realized.”

Aunt Marga smiled and nodded, before looking back at Clark and raising a sharp brow.

The same way Bruce was able to read Alfred’s microexpressions, it seemed like Clark could read Aunt Marga’s. He adjusted his grip on the crates and nodded at Bruce.

“Hey. I’m Clark, Clark Kent. I’d shake your hand, but as you can see…” he trailed off, shrugging with the crates. “Um, I live down the street at the Kent farm. Aunt Marga told me you’re here for the summer.”

Bruce nodded, because it was true. “My name’s Bruce,” he said, even though he was sure Clark had already been told. “It’s nice to meet you.” Not really, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“Clark here comes ‘round to help take care of the farm in the summer,” Aunt Marga told Bruce, chopping up the peeled potatoes. “In the summers, it’s hard for me to take care of it all by myself. So Clark does the corn and the chickens, and I look after the apple trees. After Clarkie here heads out for college, I’ll probably have to hire another helper. But our system works well for now. He’s a good lad, smart with all the life out there.”

Bruce considered that. Aunt Marga’s words made it sound like Clark wasn’t going to stay in Smallville for school. Which was expected — the nearest semi-reputable college was a bit ways away. If Clark was going to university, he’d have to move out for sure.

His gaze shifted towards Clark, who blushed a bit at Aunt Marga’s words. He seemed to be bad at taking compliments, no matter how small they were.

Bruce was already thinking of an excuse to vanish, but Aunt Marga cut in again. “Bruce, be a dear and grab the top two crates from Clark. He’s a strong boy, but even he’ll have a hard time carrying all that back home. Drop him home, will you? Don’t be late for dinner though, you’ll have to come right back.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Marga,” Clark cut in hastily, those bright blue eyes wide. “I’m alright, really. I don’t need—”

“I’ll help,” Bruce said, ignoring Clark’s outburst. He stepped closer to the older boy, and grabbed three of the crates, leaving the other three in Clark’s hands. He shifted the weight of the crates, getting comfortable with them. Bruce might not have filled out his body yet like Clark, but he could still carry his own weight. He glanced at Clark and raised a brow. “Well then. Lead the way.”

And that was how Bruce found himself walking down a dusty old road with a stranger by his side. The Kent farm was a ten minute walk, but with the crates and the awkward silence, it was feeling much longer.

Bruce wasn’t even sure why he was here. Clark had said he could do it on his own, didn’t he? But it was the way Clark seemed to brush Bruce off, without even knowing him. Writing him off as a city slicker with no hands-on knowledge. It was true, partially. But Bruce had seen other parts of life, things Clark had never seen. Hopefully, he never would. No one deserved that, not even an annoying farm boy.

Clark glanced sideways at Bruce a few times, shifting the crates in his arms. After an uncomfortable amount of silence, he started speaking. “So… Gotham, huh? Bet this place is pretty different from what you’re used to.”

Bruce could feel the strain in his upper arms from carrying the crates. He had no idea how Clark didn’t even sound winded, but Bruce had to breathe before responding. “Yes, it is.”

Clark waited for a moment, but it was obvious that Bruce wasn’t going to expand, he continued. “I’ve never been to Gotham before. How different is it over here for you?”

Flat and claustrophobic, Bruce could say. Endless. Open. He didn’t though.

“Very,” he responded. “Gotham has high rises, alleys, malls — the usual city things. This place is more… sparse,” Bruce finished.

The conversation was halting, filled with more awkward pauses than Bruce knew what to do with. Silences lasted longer than the words did. Clark did his best, even though he clearly wasn’t a fan of Bruce’s city origins. He talked about school, and the markets, and the carnival that was posted around the edge of town near the end of summer.

Both boys were… unsure of each other, for lack of a better explanation. It made the talking a bit awkward, but Bruce wasn’t all that eager to get over it anyways.

When they reached the end of the road, Bruce noticed another farmhouse. This one had a second storey, but it looked like Aunt Marga’s. The mailbox at the end of it read in faded letters: KENT.

“Well, this is me,” Clark said, bending over a bit so Bruce could add the crates to Clark’s arms again. “I’d invite you in, but Aunt Marga is peculiar about dinnertime in her home, you’ll see. It’s best if you’re not late for it.” Clark hesitated, looking down the path they came from. “You’ll be alright to walk back on your own?”

Bruce couldn’t help but raise a dry brow. Sure, he wasn’t from the countryside, but he navigated streets more complicated than this. “It’s straight back down, and on the left,” Bruce told him. “I’ll manage.” He hesitated briefly, but said, “Thank you for offering.” Alfred would be pleased to know that he still had manners, even when he was annoyed.

Clark smiled, wide and bright, and Bruce felt something sharp behind his ribs. “No problem,” he responded easily, his gaze flicking down briefly to Bruce’s… chest? He looked up at Bruce again, his eyes open like a cloudless sky, and Bruce wondered if he’d imagined that moment. “I’ll see you around. Let me know if you ever need help or anything. I don’t mind lending a hand.”

Bruce nodded once, curt, and leaned back on the balls of his feet. “Goodbye, Clark,” he said, then turned and started to walk away.

“Bye, Bruce!” Clark shouted back.

The cicadas droned on as the sun dipped lower and Bruce made his way closer and closer to Aunt Marga’s house. Somewhere in his chest, Bruce felt an unfamiliar flicker.

Not even a full day here, and he was already going insane. He had no idea how he was going to last for the rest of the summer.

Chapter Text

The days passed by in a strange routine Bruce wasn't sure he would ever get used to.

He woke to noise each morning. Every morning. Aunt Marga was incapable of moving through the first few hours of the day silently. Her voice carried through the thin walls and down the halls — whether she was yelling at the guy who delivered her fertilizer, or haggling the other old ladies in town for a ride to bingo night, or arguing with the feed supplier over a price that was already fixed.

Even when she wasn’t in combat with the outside world, she filled the house with her chatter. While making tea for Alfred or coffee for herself, she spoke without a break, the words and gossip spilling from her mouth like breath. Alfred answered her in low hums and quiet responses — a much more appropriate volume for any speech before eight in the morning — but by then, Bruce was awake enough for even those softer sounds to grate on his nerves.

On the third morning, as if by some divine miracle, Aunt Marga’s voice didn’t carry down the halls. Bruce woke on his own, the small house blessedly still. He lay there for a few moments, suspicious of the silence. Maybe Aunt Marga was taking pity on him. Or maybe she was sleeping in. Or maybe it was still earlier than she woke up. When did she wake up? Bruce hadn't kept an eye on that yet.

“Finally,” Bruce murmured under his breath, draping an arm over his eyes. He could easily sink back into sleep, catch another hour or two before someone inevitably woke him.

But the Gods were not that merciful.

The moment he got comfortable in bed, the faint clatter of something caught his attention. He cracked an eye open to scan the small room, and found… nothing. He closed it again.

But the noise returned, sharper now. A steady shuffle, scrape, shuffle pattern. One he could not, for the life of him, recognize. And when that shuffling was accompanied by a “Buk, buk,” he sat up, every muscle tight with disbelief. He might’ve never heard that sound before, but of course he could recognize it. Some things were just universal.

His eyes searched lower this time, and he finally found the source. A chicken.

She was absurdly comfortable with the situation, not at all caring that there was a human just a few feet away from her. Bruce did not share that sense of calm. Her golden-brown plumage was bright against her head and neck, until it shifted to a darker colour throughout the rest of her body. Bruce wasn’t sure if it was just the early light straining through the thin curtains, or if there was a spattering of orange throughout the rest of her body.

They locked eyes, the chicken’s fuzzy little head slightly tilted. Her feathers puffed up, like she was challenging Bruce. Which would be ridiculous, Bruce thought. He doesn’t even know this chicken.

The bird clucked again, and hopped across the rug near the foot of his bed. And then — to Bruce’s absolute horror — nestled herself squarely in Bruce’s open suitcase. Bruce could see something brown and bright against his dark clothes, and that’s when he realized what had happened before he woke up. This chicken had laid an egg, right on top of Bruce’s polos.

If this was a challenge, then the chicken had won the first round.

For a long second, Bruce could only stare, frozen in shock. For all of his internal and external training through the years, he had no clue how to deal with a situation like this. None of the meditation experts, martial arts trainers, or former detectives told him how to deal with a chicken laying an egg inside of his suitcase.

As soon as the chicken climbed out of his suitcase, all of Bruce’s clothes were hung up in the closet and his suitcase was zipped up inside of it. He was not going to risk this event repeating itself. He made a mental note to triple check locks that night. He tried shooing the bird from his room with a series of gestures and tools, but she seemed to recognize that he hadn’t the faintest clue how to handle her. So she stayed, staked her claim in the room.

Chicken: 2, Bruce: 0.

It wasn’t until Alfred appeared a little while later that the chicken was carried out. Bruce took the out for what it was, and locked himself in the washroom to get ready for the day. He tried his best not to think of poultry and polos in the same breath.

By the time he made his way out to the kitchen, he realized that he had not yet missed Aunt Marga’s tirade against the world. Bruce had just woken up earlier than usual, and now he had front row seats to the fertilizer supplier being berated by a woman who had too much free time. He did his best to swallow the pained look on his face, only because Alfred seemed constantly amused by Aunt Marga.

Bruce drained his coffee cup and poured out another. This was for Alfred, he reminded himself. Staying in this stupid town, living with the part banshee — Bruce could and would survive this.

When Clark arrived at nine in the morning with a cheery, “Good morning, Aunt Marga,” Bruce resisted the urge to slam his head against the kitchen table. He compromised and took a large gulp of his coffee instead, nearly choking on it. This was another part of the routine — the blue-eyed boy showing up at nine in the morning, every morning, and then heading out back to start on whatever work Aunt Marga had set aside for him.

For the past few days, Bruce had carefully stayed in his room and pretended to sleep until Clark was out back and deep into his work for the day. In the early evening, he was sent by Aunt Marga to walk Clark home just like the first day. Always with some fresh produce or pie in their hands.

“Hello, my boy,” Aunt Marga greeted him and then promptly shoved a piece of pie into his mouth. “The cornstalks near the edge of the property have some good picking for today. And I’ll have you pick some tomatoes later. I’ll be needin' them for my pasta sauce.”

“Of course,” Clark nodded after he had swallowed the piece of pie. He gave Alfred a small smile, and greeted him too, and then did a double take at Bruce being awake already. “Mornin’,” he said anyway, that smile still on his face.

“Good morning,” Alfred smiled back as he sipped his tea. Bruce nodded and hoped that would be enough of a response.

Aunt Marga hobbled over to the table and took her seat, eyes flickering between Bruce and Clark. Bruce dutifully avoided her gaze, and sipped his coffee.

“Clark, you’ll take Bruce out with you today,” Aunt Marga told him, though her eyes remained on Bruce.

The younger boy looked up slowly and raised a brow. Before he or Clark could say something to dissuade her, she shook her head and clicked her teeth loudly.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” she said preemptively. Her eyes sharpened on Bruce. “You might be here on vacation, but I’m not letting no grandson of mine be useless out in the cornfields. Clark’ll show you the ropes, and you’ll get some good ol’ sun on your skin. You’re deathly pale, did’ya know that?”

Bruce looked to Alfred for help, but Alfred had a stupidly fond look in his eyes as he watched Bruce and Aunt Marga. Bruce realized it must’ve been Marga calling him her grandson, and resisted the urge to sigh. Finding no help from his guardian, he turned back to Aunt Marga.

“I suppose that the sun is stronger here than in Gotham,” he finally murmured.

“You’ll help,” Aunt Marga repeated. “The corn won’t pick itself.”

Which was how Bruce found himself standing at the edge of the field, sleeves rolled up, facing rows of cornstalks that were taller than he was. The cornstalks took over about half of the farmland Aunt Marga had, the entire East end. The West end of the farm was split between some produce for Aunt Marga to use in her home, and some apple trees that she passed out to the rest of the town.

According to Aunt Marga, the cornstalks on the far end of the property would have sweet corn that was ready to be picked. They picked them in a pattern, rotating between the rows of cornstalks and never overpicking. The harvest was meant to last all summer that way, bringing in a steady flow of cash as Aunt Marga sold the corn to her suppliers continuously.

Clark confirmed that the ones Aunt Marga had recommended were ready by checking a few of the stalks and nodding to himself. He opened a burlap sack, tossing a grin in Bruce’s direction — though it felt a little less warm than the ones he gave Alfred or Aunt Martha.

“Ever seen corn outside of a can, city boy?” he teased, seeing the look on Bruce’s face.

Bruce’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t respond to the jab. He had more self control than that, he did.

“You need to grab this part, right here,” Clark was explaining, taking an ear of corn in his hands. His hands were big, almost as big as the ear of corn itself, which was a stupid thing for Bruce to notice. “Feel the silk — make sure that it’s dry and warm. If you squeeze the corn like this, you should feel the kernels being full way below the silk. If you’re really uncertain, you can peel back some of it, pluck a kernel out and squeeze. If it looks like this—” Clark demonstrated “—then it’s ready to pick. Try not to do it too often though. It ruins the corn sometimes.”

Bruce nodded, taking in the information easily. He moved near Clark, working on filling up the sack that the older boy had brought out. Clark hummed quietly as he worked on picking the corn, taking his time to check each one before picking it off. He didn’t take long to check their quality — by now, he was able to pick the good ones and bad ones apart easily. But he didn’t rush his work either. It was clear that he enjoyed this.

Bruce wiped the back of his neck, the sweat collecting again already as the sun beat down on them. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he was dealing with sunburn in some uncomfortable places.

As the burlap sack began to fill with ears of ripe corn, Clark’s humming shifted into actual words. He pulled his sleeves up a bit, revealing some more tanned skin on his forearms as twisted another ear of corn off. The muscles shifted beneath the surface of his skin, strong and sure — unlike anything Bruce had ever seen from a seventeen year old before.

“Aunt Marga’s farm is one of the biggest corn producers in Smallville,” Clark explained, focused on the task even as he answered questions Bruce hadn’t asked. “Her husband’s family had the farm for five or six generations, I think. One of the oldest families, right there with the Kents and a couple others around town, and these guys started with corn and apples. A little while later, they shifted some of the apple trees away, and started some fresh produce too. The corn can be hard work—” Clark twisted an ear off with a grunt “—but Aunt Marga would never stop with it. It’s what the farm’s known for.”

Bruce hummed in response, squinting against the sun as he mulled that information over. Clark hadn’t revealed much of anything he couldn’t guess, but it was nice to have his thoughts confirmed without having to ask directly.

“Do you know if she plans on selling it?” Bruce questioned after a bit. He remembered what Aunt Martha had said back on his first day in Smallville. “You’re planning on leaving for University after next year, and she can’t really rely on farmhands forever now.”

Clark frowned, as if he didn’t like the concept of mortality that Bruce was bringing up. Bruce could understand that. He had only known Aunt Martha as something more than a voice on the other end of Alfred’s phone for three days, and even he thought she’d outlive him. It was something about those Pennyworth genes, it had to be.

“It’s a bit of a pride thing for her — talking about selling the farm or anything of that sort,” Clark responded quietly after a long time. “I know she has some kind of plan for… after, but she ain’t keen on talking about it. Ma thinks one of her foster kids might move in with her and help with the farm, but even that is nothin’ but speculation.”

Bruce blinked up at Clark stupidly, surprised that he hadn’t thought of that. “She’s still in contact with them.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure,” Clark shrugged awkwardly, even though Bruce hadn’t exactly phrased it as a question. He looked back at the house, as if Aunt Marga was going to be summoned by them speaking of her. Clark continued to work as he spoke. Whether or not Aunt Marga could be summoned by her name alone, she’d definitely be summoned if they stopped working. “She stopped fostering some years back, after she and her husband got too old. I don’t remember many of the kids while they were here, but most of them come by and visit her during the holidays and stuff.”

The younger boy considered that as he tied off one of the burlap sacks and opened another for them to fill. “I didn’t realize foster children stayed so close with their foster parents.” Bruce spoke quietly, almost under his breath, but Clark had heard him anyway.

“I don’t know about most, but Aunt Marga’s do,” he told Bruce. “She took in kids that were from troubled homes, or older than most. Teenagers. Worked with them in these same fields, took them to markets to sell their hand-picked goods, milked the cows, collected the eggs — all of it. I suppose she made an impact when no one else wanted to even try.”

Bruce was quiet for a while, drinking in the information that Clark so freely gave. He knew, objectively, that Aunt Marga and her husband had fostered children. They had a room with a separate washroom built just for those kids’ comfort — the one Bruce was sleeping in now. But hearing the way Clark talked about her, the impact she and her husband had on those kids’ lives, still do… it made sense in a way. It was easily reflected in how Aunt Marga never gave up with Bruce, no matter how difficult he had tried to be.

The rest of the day passed quietly, small stories shared between the rows of corn. Bruce’s arms hurt when it was over, but he hoisted one of the burlap sacks over his shoulders and carried them out to the lean-to. Clark carried two with much more finesse, but even he didn’t say a word to patronize Bruce.

Clark actually smiled at Bruce as they made their way to the porch. This one was something Bruce had never seen before, definitely not directed at him. Sharp on the edges and soft in his eyes — the smile was real.

“So, same time tomorrow, then?” Clark joked.

Bruce huffed, but he couldn’t think of an excuse, so he simply nodded. That smile widened until it almost hurt Bruce to look at it.

The next week passed in a similar manner. Bruce woke up early, drank his coffee and ate some breakfast like a zombie until Clark’s arrival. Then they went out together and worked on something new each day. Some days they focused more on the animals, collecting some eggs for Aunt Marga, or milk to send to a neighbour. Other days they picked produce and distributed it to those who’d placed orders for it. Sometimes they went back to those cornstalks, picking sack after sack of corn.

Clark still teased him about being a city boy, but there was a fondness there too. Like he respected the fact that Bruce was actually trying. Bruce, for his part, began to talk to Clark about his life in Gotham, the things he was beginning to enjoy about Smallville, the new gossip Aunt Marga had picked up on her morning phone calls. It was peaceful, mundane in a way that Bruce didn’t realize he craved.

When that realization hit, he pretended not to notice Alfred’s knowing smirk.

The days were not without their downsides though. Once, Bruce had gotten lost in the middle of the cornfield, between the rows of stalks that loomed over him and looked the same. He tried his best, but he couldn’t tell which way led back to the farm and which way would lead him to the open road. He’d barely gotten an “Oh shit,” out of his mouth, when another head popped between the rows and sighed with relief.

Clark, hair strewn with corn silk and a few stray kernels, grinned at him. “There you are,” he murmured, straightening up and leading him back. “C’mon. Farm’s this way.”

Bruce let himself be led out, pretending that he wasn’t relieved to see the stupid farm boy’s face.

Another afternoon had gone much worse. Bruce watched as Clark milked Gertrude — patient, and kind as he taught Bruce the movements. Gertrude remained calm. She liked Clark as much as all of the other animals on the farm, which was a lot. As Bruce slinked away behind Gertrude to avoid being picked for milking duty, the air suddenly turned rancid. Bruce inhaled a lungful of cow fart before he realized what had happened. He’d doubled over coughing while Clark rushed him out for some fresh air.

It was only once Bruce could breathe properly again that Clark lost his composure, laughter bursting out of him so hard that he had to brace his hands on his knees. He laughed until the tears came. “Sorry, sorry—” Clark got out between wheezes. “God, your face—”

Bruce, with mussed hair and bruised pride, couldn’t even muster any anger to fight. If anything, he was grateful that Clark had led him out for fresh air before breaking down. Small mercies. After that, he was very careful where he stood in the barn.

And so the days went on.

Each one managed to carve away the sharp tension that had been there between Bruce and Clark. It wasn’t gone, it might never be, but it had whittled down into something that barely pricked either boy.

Bruce, who once stood stiff and wary, found himself leaping into piles of hay with Clark shouting encouragement. He fed the two horses without flinching at their teeth. He rode the tractor around the edges of the property with Clark next to him, wind whipping through his dark curls. When they found a leaky pipe, Bruce knelt in the dirt with Clark to fix it, sleeves tugged up as he was taught.

He’d grown so accustomed to the friendship — if that was what it was — that he forgot about his oldest, most ridiculous nemesis on the farm.

The damn chicken.

He was rudely reminded of her when he walked with Clark to feed the chickens together one morning. The coop smelled of straw and grain, the air alive with the low murmurs of hens. Bruce had barely stepped through the doorway when a sharp, familiar “Buk, buk!” rang out. He froze. Too late. Something feathery and furious descended on his ankles.

Bruce yelped, jumping backwards as he tried to get her away. “Get off of me,” he tried shooing her, pulling his hands back every time her beak got dangerously close to him.

In the chaos, he tripped over his feet, and almost went sprawling back, when a band of steel wrapped around his waist. Clark caught him with ease, straightening them both and then bent down and lifted the chicken off of the ground like this was just a normal occurrence. Bruce could still eel the shape of his arm around him.

“This is Harriet,” Clark explained, keeping a tight hold on her so she wouldn’t run. She leaned into Clark like she was comfortable there, but her beady eyes watched Bruce. “Seems like she finds your ankles interesting.”

Bruce huffed, shaking some of the spilled feed out of his hair. “She laid an egg in my suitcase. She’s a menace with feathers.”

Clark laughed loudly. “All chickens are, Bruce. They all are.”

“She seems to like you well enough,” Bruce huffed, crossing his arms.

Clark smirked, still holding Harriet. “Jealous?” he grinned. Bruce’s mouth fell open to argue, but before he could respond, Clark continued. “C’mon. Let’s feed the rest of these girls, and then we can head back inside for some snacks.”

Harriet’s beady little eyes watched him the entire way.

It became a pattern after that. Harriet following him around when she managed to sneak into the house. Harriet pecking his shoes whenever he got too close to the chicken coop before Clark. Harriet running after him when all he was trying to do was pick some cucumbers for a salad Aunt Marga wanted to make. Clark was there more often than not, and he’d taken to keeping the boy and chicken far apart from each other, even if he laughed every time the chicken made it past him.

As Bruce leaned against the fence, the one he and Clark were taking a look at that day, he thought of how quickly his life had changed. How different it was here, than back home.

Alfred’s explanation to send Bruce here was so that he could relax freely. But instead, he was breathing in cow farts, getting lost in corn rows, and having a war — that he was losing — with a chicken.

Clark wiped his dusty hands as he got to his feet. “Well, that’s all for today. Tomorrow, we can screw together the new pieces.” He turned to Bruce, that new smile on his face again. But it wasn’t new anymore, was it? He’d seen it countless times over the past week, only ever directed at Bruce. “Ready to head inside?”

Bruce squinted against the light, the warmth from the smile almost as blinding as the sun right behind the older boy. He nodded.

They walked home together.