Archive of Our Own

As much as he always means to, Bruce doesn't make it down to the Kents’ farm for dinner too often. There's always something: last minute missions, work at Wayne Enterprises, the neverending wave of crime in Gotham. He's only managed to get out for holidays, and even then, rarely on the proper day. 

It’s only by some miracle or perhaps grace of God that his and Clark's schedules have aligned with the Kents’ for once on a random Saturday. Bruce is lingering in the kitchen with Martha while Clark is helping Johnathan with something in the barn—moving hay bales, Bruce suspects, but he thought it best to give them space.

Martha is a wonder in the kitchen, managing three pots, the casserole and macaroni and cheese in the oven, and chopping a mountain of vegetables for salads. When Bruce offered to help, she'd just told him to sit and keep her company.

“Preparing for Thanksgiving early?” Bruce asks, looking at the number of dishes she's making. On top of everything else, there's pork and beans in the crock pot, and a freshly baked chocolate cake on the counter. She must be planning for leftovers.

Martha chuckles. “Just making sure there's enough for Clark, hon.”

Bruce frowns. Clark does have a big appetite, but this seems excessive, even for him. He tells Martha as much.

“Well, you wouldn't know it with how he eats in the city,” she tuts, dumping the contents of her cutting board into the salad bowl. “Never has enough. He's too thin now.”

“Too thin?”

Bruce wouldn't, in any way, describe Clark as thin. Clark has been a big man as long as Bruce has known him, softness covering muscle and filling out his large frame. He isn't sure if Martha is losing her sight, or if they have very different definitions of thinness.

“He was bigger before he moved to Metropolis,” Martha says. “I've got some photo albums in the living room I can show you later. He was nice and sturdy, just like Johnathan.”

Bruce's eyebrows arch.

Johnathan is shorter than Clark, like most people. But he's certainly wider, with a large, round belly that takes up his lap when he sits. Bruce has never seen Clark that size. He would have remembered that.

“I just worry about him out there,” Martha says, her voice a little softer. Her back is to him now as she tends to the stove, and he almost strains to hear her. “I know he's got Lois and Jimmy, and you and the rest of your friends. But he still lives alone and… I just worry he doesn't take care of himself like he should. Like the people he saves come first, and he's a distant second.”

Bruce knows the feeling all too well. The mission, the people, always come first. How would they live with themselves otherwise?

“I understand,” he says, belatedly. Martha shakes her head in disapproval.

“Of course you do. I'm sure you treat yourself the same way.”

Bruce can't bring himself to lie to her.

“We look out for each other,” he says at length.

Martha hums. She turns one of her burners off, deciding the potatoes are done, and moves the salad to the counter next to the dining room.

“And does he eat enough?” she asks.

Had she asked this question just 15 minutes ago, Bruce would've confidently told her yes. Now, he's not so sure. “I… thought he did,” Bruce says carefully. “But I suppose I don't know how much he eats at home.”

“Watch him at dinner tonight. Then tell me,” Martha says.

Bruce nods. It's the least he can do for her.

He stays in the kitchen until Martha asks him to set the table and help carry dishes out. Her final total is seven dishes: chicken casserole, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes with gravy, greens, barbeque pork and beans from her crockpot, homemade rolls, and the salad. The table groans under the weight of it all.

“I hope that's enough,” she says, frowning at it all. “Well, with the cake it should be. I've got some ice cream in the freezer too if we need it.”

Bruce privately thinks this is enough to feed them three times over, but he keeps his mouth shut. He's not about to question Martha in her own kitchen.

“Call Clark and Johnathan in, won't you hon?”

“Already here, Ma,” Clark calls from the door. “Heard y'all setting the table.”

The smile on her face is so fond that Bruce's heart aches. “Course you did. Well, wash up and you can have a seat.”

They all sit around the table, passing food and plates around to serve family style. Clark piles his plate high, taking advantage of the feast Martha has prepared. There's nothing unusual about that, Bruce thinks. Clark's just excited to have his mother's cooking again.

“It's delicious, Martha,” Bruce tells her after he's had his first bites of everything, and he means it. Martha's love and experience shines through her cooking.

“Oh, it's nothing special,” she dismisses. “I'm sure this is nothing compared to all the fancy food your private chefs make.”

“It’s far better,” Bruce insists.

While the meals Alfred makes are perfectly adequate in terms of nutrition, and give Bruce exactly the fuel he needs to maintain his build, they leave a bit to be desired flavor-wise. He doesn’t mind that. But it certainly makes him appreciate meals like this one even more. He indulges to his heart’s content, taking full advantage of a meal with the proper amount of seasonings for once.

“Surely that's not all you're going to have?”

Martha, evidently, does not see eye to eye with him on what constitutes indulgence. Clark and Johnathan are already on their second plates, while Bruce has just finished one. Despite how full it was, that must not be enough for her.

“That was plenty for me,” Bruce says. “I'd like to save some room for dessert.”

Martha frowns her disapproval. “Well… Have another roll at least. I think I might have made too many, and they're always better fresh.”

Bruce doesn't bring up the fact that she'd been worried she hadn't made enough food just twenty minutes ago. He dutifully takes another roll and slathers it in butter. At a nudge from Clark, he takes a bit more pork too.

That’s apparently enough for Martha to be content, because when he sits back after finishing his plate again, she doesn't say anything. Jonathon and Clark are still eating, while Martha is slowly nibbling on a helping of chicken casserole. Bruce isn't sure if she's eating it because she's hungry, or out of politeness, so that no one is eating by themselves.

Despite Bruce's earlier concerns, they've made a surprising dent in the meal. The casserole and potatoes are almost all gone, as is the salad, and the greens were finished a while ago. Clark seems to have a particular love of the macaroni, and is working on his third mountain of a portion. Bruce notes with some surprise that his pace hasn't flagged at all. While Johnathan has slowed, and doesn't seem like he'll be having much more than this plate, Clark is well on his way to fourths. Martha catches Bruce's eye and gives him a small smile. I told you how much he eats, she seems to be saying.

She certainly did.

Clark talks a bit, but at this point he seems more focused on food than conversation. Martha keeps up the chatter, telling them about what neighbor so and so’s daughter is doing, how a childhood friend of Clark's has just taken over the corner store, and the state of her bridge group (evidently there's been in-fighting). Johnathan mostly nods and makes noises of agreement, leaning back in his chair now, and Bruce contributes when he's not too distracted by how Clark is now on his fourth plate and his belt is creaking.

“Think I might be finished now Ma,” he says, at a lull in the conversation. His voice is a bit strained and he's got a hand on his belly now, trying to subtly rub it. Martha looks him over appraisingly, then glances at the table.

“There's not too much left,” she says. “Why don't you just have the last roll and finish up the mac and cheese? I know how much you love it.”

Contrary to her words, there's quite a bit of macaroni left. Bruce expects Clark to point that out to her, but without complaint, he leans forward to fill his plate again. He digs in with renewed vigor, as if he's forgotten how full he was just moments ago.

Martha nods her approval once he's done. “Thank you, hon. I just knew it wouldn't have been as good tomorrow.”

“Your food is always delicious,” Clark counters, as any good son should. “But I'm always happy to finish it all at once.”

Martha stands to give Clark a kiss to the top of his head. “That's my boy. Making sure I never need to buy Tupperware.”

They all share a laugh, though Bruce suspects that's not far from the truth. Thanks in no small part to Clark's near black hole of a stomach, there's not a morsel of food left. Clark looks about ready to sleep for the next twelve hours.

Of course, this is when Martha offers dessert.

Before Bruce can protest that clearly, Jonathon and Clark are too full for that, they're both perking back up and handing over their plates. Bruce does the same, and belatedly offers help clearing the table.

Martha waves him off. “You're a guest, hon. Let me take care of that.”

A few minutes later, she’s back with cake. She's given them all massive slices, but Clark’s is by far the biggest. He must have an eighth of the cake on his plate, accompanied by a scoop of ice cream.

“You let me know if you want more, alright?” she says, placing the plate in front of him. “There's plenty.”

Clark polishes off the ice cream and two slices of cake, while Bruce struggles through his portion. It's delicious—he’s just full. Clark finally seems to be too. It's clearly a fight for him to get the last few bites down, but he manages it.

“Thanks, Ma,” he says, smiling at her. He stifles a belch behind his fist. “Scuze me. Delicious as always.”

“Well, I've gotta give you a reason to come back and visit, don't I?”

“You don't have to cook for me to come visit.”

“No,” Martha agrees. “But I want to.”

She stands again, and this time Bruce is quicker to offer his help. Again, she dismisses him.

“Go relax with Johnathan and Clark. I've got a handle on everything here.”

Bruce does as he's told. He waits for Clark to be ready to stand, and watches with interest as he walks slowly to the couch, cradling his belly with one hand to keep from jostling it. He sits with a small groan.

“Gonna join me?”

Bruce snaps himself out of his stupor. Clark pats the couch beside him and Bruce sits, resting his arm on the back of the couch around Clark. Jonathon is already starting to doze off in the armchair beside them. He's put the Chiefs game on the tv, but none of them are fully watching it. Or, Clark and Johnathan are facing the tv at least. Bruce is watching Clark.

Clark's laid back on the couch, his legs spread a bit wider than usual. His eyes are half lidded; not fully asleep but certainly not very awake either. But it's the star of the show Bruce is interested in: his belly, stretching his sweater tight and just resting in his lap. Both of his hands rest on it. He looks… Content.

He looks gorgeous.

It's rare that Bruce sees Clark so unguarded for this long. With a stomach full of his mother's cooking, it's like all of his worries are stripped away and all that matters is digesting. It's a gift to see him so relaxed.

“What are you looking at?” Clark murmurs. Apparently he's more awake than Bruce thought.

“You,” Bruce answers honestly. And what a sight he's enjoying.

Clark smiles, bemused. “I look a bit different than usual?”

He gives his belly a gentle pat, to show he knows exactly what Bruce is so interested in. Bruce finds his eyes drawn down by the movement, and it takes considerable effort to drag them back up.

“I don't normally see you eat so much.”

“No,” Clark agrees. “It's really not practical for me to make this much food every day, much as Ma thinks I should.”

“She's worried about you.”

“She's always worried about me. I think that's her job.”

Clark reaches for one of Bruce’s hands to squeeze it in gentle comfort. He gives what must be an attempt at a reassuring smile.

“If it takes this much food to get you full, you're hardly having enough at home,” Bruce argues.

Clark hums. “I eat what I can. It's just that food is expensive, and I don't want to take more of it than I need. I'm not starving myself, I promise.”

Not starving is miles off from not hungry. And yet Clark doesn’t seem to see the issue in it. He’s grown accustomed to this.

“Don't listen to Ma, Bruce,” Clark adds. “You know I still eat a lot when I'm at home. It's nothing to worry about.”

Bruce will decide for himself what he wants to worry about. For now, he reluctantly grunts in agreement.

Later, once Clark has fallen asleep on the couch, Bruce investigates the photo albums Martha had mentioned. He gets momentarily distracted by Clark's baby photos before finding the album from Clark's teenage years.

Immediately he understands what Martha means. Teenage Clark was just about as tall and broad as today, but where Clark's belly now is soft and gently curved, his teenage self had a sizable potbelly. There's a photo of him and Johnathan in the living room just like last night, bellies bowing under the weight of one of Martha's feasts. Beside it, in Martha's tidy scrawl, are the words my boys.

“You see what I mean?”

Bruce hums as Martha sits beside him on the couch. “He was much bigger back then.”

Martha peers over a few more pages with him, smiling fondly as she reminisces. “People always asked me what I was feeding him,” she chuckles. “No one ever could understand how he'd gotten so big. I said his parents must've been giants.”

They must have been. Clark towers over nearly everyone, even when he slouches. So does Kara. Bruce wonders if all Kryptonians were so tall, or if the Els were unusual.

“I know he doesn't need to be that size,” Martha sighs eventually, looking at a photo of Clark and his childhood friends. “He's got enough padding to keep himself safe now. But he's not eating enough to be full, is he?”

She must know the answer, but she looks to Bruce anyway. He shakes his head.

“Nowhere near enough.”

She hums sadly. “I understand how it happens. He always wants to be just like everyone else, doesn't want to take anything more than the average person would. So he gets by. It just isn't properly caring for himself.”

It isn't. Bruce hates that he hadn't noticed that until now.

“I can help,” he offers. Now that he knows what the problem is, he can fix it. He has to.

“Oh, I'm sure you've got enough on your plate as it is,” Martha demures, ever considerate. “But… If you wanted to offer him a little more food now and then, I won't stop you.”

“I'll do my best.”

Bruce might not be able to be as perfect as Martha Kent, cooking enough food for her son like it's a full time job, but he can certainly think of ways to help. He'll just have to keep food on hand more often maybe… Set up more regular dates between him and Clark to make sure he's getting enough…

Yes. They can fix this. Bruce is on the case.

He starts small.

It isn't too hard. He sees Clark frequently, if not for long. It’s plenty of time to get a bit of food into him. The next time Clark drops by to help with a case, Bruce is ready.

“I had it handled,” he says gruffly, taking a granola bar out of his utility belt and pressing it into Clark's hand. “But… Thank you.”

Clark stares at the granola bar for a moment, confused. “Just thought you could use a bit of help. Why do you have this?”

“It's a snack, Clark. Have you heard of those?”

Clark, still befuddled, unwraps it. “Sure I have. You just don't normally give them to me.”

“... Habit, maybe,” Bruce mutters. Best to let Clark think he offered food because he's so used to doing it to younger heroes. “If you're going to be here, go over these files with me. I could use another set of eyes.”

It's enough of a distraction to get Clark to eat without thinking about it. To Bruce's satisfaction, he polishes off the bar.

“Need anything else?” Clark asks, once he's given his input.

“Come by the cave tomorrow,” Bruce says. “I could use your help again.”

The next night, Bruce has takeout when Clark gets there. He nudges it towards Clark and then sets in to work, getting Clark's help analyzing data. He could do it himself, of course. Clark knows that. And yet he says nothing—about the food or the help. Maybe he just assumes it was an excuse to spend some time together. In a way, it was.

Bruce continues his efforts in and out of costume. At the next Justice League meeting, he arrives early and leaves granola bars and packets of crackers out for anyone to take. Clark has two granola bars and some crackers, and an apple Bruce gives him later with the claim that he didn't want it himself. Later that week, he treats Clark to a five course meal with hearty portions at an Italian restaurant in Metropolis. Clark polishes off every plate, blissfully unaware that Bruce paid extra for the restaurant to give them twice the usual amount of food. He orders lunch for Clark to be delivered to the Daily Planet, making sure it's just after Clark has had his regular meal. Clark tells him off for ordering food so late, but he eats it anyway.

They’re just little things, but the little things help. Bruce notes with pride that Clark’s suits have been getting a bit tighter around the middle since he’s started paying more attention to his appetite. Unfortunately, he knows none of his interventions are making as much of a dent as the meal Martha made for them. His next plans need to be bigger than this. And he'll need some assistance.

“It's a very sweet idea, hon, but I think it might be a little much,” Martha says to him over the phone. “You have to remember that I have a lot more time on my hands than you do. It's a lot easier for me to make enough to satisfy him when I can spend the whole day making dinner.”

“I'm not expecting to do this every day. I'd just like to be able to get him properly fed a little more often.”

Martha hums. “Even every once in a while, it’s a lot of work. It’s taken me years to learn how to cook like this.”

“I know how to cook,” Bruce argues. “I learned in France when I was younger. I'm perfectly capable in the kitchen.”

Strictly speaking, he was in France training under a burglar to understand how criminals think and move. Martha doesn't need to know that part.

“I suppose you must have the kitchen space for it,” she muses. She pauses for a beat to deliberate. “Alright. I'll send you my recipes and talk you through them. And if you're going to do it properly, you'd better come down here for some vegetables too. Clark can always tell the difference.”

While Clark is distracted on a mission with Diana, Bruce makes his way down to the Kents’ farm. Martha goes over her recipes with him, giving him his own copies to make notes on. She sets him up with far too much food: all the ingredients for the salad, greens, potatoes, dried beans, Clark's favorite salad dressing, and even locally milled flour for the rolls. She tries to give him a chicken, too, but he tells her he can find those in Gotham. He's not sure one would last the journey back home anyways.

He flies back the same night, and prepares for Clark to stop by for dinner the following day. Martha advises him to make some things in advance while he's still learning her recipes, so he does the mashed potatoes and the base of the macaroni before suiting up that night. Alfred regards his attempts with amusement.

“You seem quite determined, sir.”

“I'm just trying to do something nice for Clark,” Bruce insists. He doesn't understand why this seems so strange to everyone.

“Quite.”

Bruce glares at him. “Do you have something to say?”

“Not at all, sir. Just that you may want to check your pasta before it boils over.”

“Shit!”

Alfred laughs at him as he rushes to turn the heat down. Bruce might understand cooking techniques, but it’s been a minute since he’s spent significant time in the kitchen.

“I'll leave you to it,” Alfred tells him, still smiling. “Call if you need anything.”

Bruce will not. He knows full well what Clark thinks of Alfred's capabilities in the kitchen, and he's not taking that risk.

With as much done in advance as he can manage, he heads out on patrol. His real work begins the next day. It's a Saturday, and for once, Bruce will be taking the entire day off. His plans are to do nothing but make dinner. Martha was right that he doesn't normally have this kind of time. But he can make it, for Clark.

Bruce is up and in the kitchen at nine the next morning, hours earlier than his usual. He rubs sleep out of his eyes and lays out all of Martha's recipes. He's going to get this right.

From nine until six, Bruce cooks. He sets up the crock pot, mixes dough for the rolls, and bakes a cake and lets it cool so that he can frost it. He chops vegetables and gets food on the stove and in the ovens (he's lucky to have two) sticking to his schedule down to the minute. He'd have finished it before Clark got here, if Clark hadn't decided to drop by a few minutes early.

“Oh Bruce, you shouldn't have.”

Clark is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, observing the mess Bruce has made. In spite of his words, there's a fond smile on his face.

“You aren't supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes,” Bruce grumbles, checking the greens. They’re nearly ready.

“I know. I just smelled something good and couldn't resist checking it out for myself.”

Bruce sighs, but reluctantly lets go of his strict schedule. He supposes getting dinner on the table a bit after Clark gets here isn't a crime. There isn’t that much left to do anyways.

“I used your mother's recipes, but I'm not sure how faithfully I followed them. I'm afraid the mashed potatoes might not be fluffy enough.”

“I'm sure they're fine,” Clark soothes. “I really wasn't expecting any of this. Have you been plotting with Ma behind my back?”

“... Perhaps.”

Bruce would like more credit for all of this, but to be fair, without Martha’s suggestion he never would have started it in the first place. And planning a mission for Clark so that he could go down to the farm without Clark knowing definitely counts as plotting behind his back.

Clark chuckles. “Either way, I appreciate it. Thank you, hon.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know how it tastes.”

“I’d thank you regardless. I appreciate all the effort you’ve put into this.”

He steps into the kitchen to press a quick kiss to Bruce’s cheek.

“I’m not done yet.”

“I know,” Clark says, bemused. “Want me to start moving food to the table?”

Bruce allows him. While he finishes up, Clark sets the table. Once everything is ready and plated, the spread is nearly identical to the one Martha made when they visited. Bruce is praying it all tastes as good as it smells.

“Go on,” Bruce encourages once they’ve both sat down. “Dig in.”

Clark fills his plate high, making sure to squeeze a bit of everything in. Bruce does the same, but waits for Clark to take the first bites. It doesn't much matter what he thinks of the meal. All that he cares about is Clark's reaction.

Clark takes a bite of the macaroni first. This, Bruce knows, is the most important—if he hasn't gotten Clark's favorite right, the rest of the meal may as well be a wash. To his great relief, Clark groans happily.

“Lord, that's good. You copied Ma’s recipe perfectly, honey.”

Bruce tries to stay humble, though a wave of pride washes over him. “I just followed her instructions.”

“And you did a great job of it,” Clark praises.

Taking his cue from Martha, Bruce has prepared conversation topics for when Clark is eating. They discuss the week over their first helpings, Clark asking about Bruce's trip to Kansas and how his parents are doing, and Bruce checking how the mission with Diana went. Clark pushes through his second and third helpings equally able to engage in conversation. It's the fourth helping when he really starts to slow down and focus only on the food.

“I think Ma forgot that normally Pa helps me with all this,” Clark comments. He’s starting to sound a little winded.

“You don't have to finish it all,” Bruce says. “Unlike your mother, I do own Tupperware.”

Clark hums. “I'm not calling it quits yet. Just… I might not manage everything.”

In truth, Bruce considered scaling back a bit on the meal. Martha had given him suggestions on how much Clark needed to be full, and how much he could cut if he wanted. In the end, he decided to stick with the same meal she'd made. He wants to see the true limits of Clark's appetite, to get him to the point where he really can't eat another bite.

Bruce watches Clark as he eats, pushing his appetite like he rarely has the chance to. Even though his pace has slowed, it's still steady. He's not yet at the point where he needs to pause between bites. He's got plenty of room left.

After his sixth plate, he leans back in his chair for a minute. Bruce's recounting of his encounter with Croc peters out as he notices now just how swollen Clark has gotten. He's nearly as full as Bruce remembers him being after Martha's dinner.

“Might need you to fix my next plate,” Clark groans.

“I can do that,” Bruce says. His mouth is oddly dry. He must not have had enough to drink with dinner.

Clark rubs his belly much more openly when it's just the two of them. He's clearly doing as much as he can to make room for more. Bruce wonders why he's still going—if it's out of politeness, being used to finishing all the food on the table, or a desire to be as full as physically possible now that the opportunity has presented itself.

Even when Bruce loads his seventh plate as full as he can get it, there's still food left on the table. When Clark resumes eating, it's at a snail's pace for him, taking a few bites, then pausing to catch his breath and rub his belly.

“Do you mind… If I take off my belt?”

Bruce shakes his head. For some reason, the words get stuck in his throat. Clark gets the message anyway, and undoes his buckle to give himself a bit more room.

“Might be my last plate,” he admits.

“Eat however much you like.”

It takes another ten minutes of pauses, belly rubs, and slow sips of water, but Clark manages to get the seventh plate down. He's out of breath now, and getting a bit catatonic. Bruce hopes he can make it to the couch by himself. He's definitely too heavy to carry.

“Finished?” he asks, after Clark has sat for a moment.

Clark considers the table. “There's not that much left.”

“There isn't. But I don't want you hurting yourself.”

Clark shakes his head. “Takes more than this to do me in. I can manage.”

Bruce should probably put his foot down at some point. He’s just so curious to see how much Clark can eat. He loads the rest of the food into the dish for the macaroni and sets it in front of Clark.

“If you insist on continuing, you should undo your jeans,” Bruce tells him.

Clark tries to look down at them to consider it, but his swollen belly is in the way. “Ah… You might have a point.”

He unbuttons, his belly surging forward again. He looks a tad bit more comfortable, so Bruce dismisses his reservations and watches Clark eat again.

As if to prove Bruce wrong, he picks up his pace again. It's nowhere near his speed at the start of the meal, but he manages to hold steady for most of the plate, keeping his fork in his hand. It’s on the last few bites that his second wind truly falters. Bruce watches, transfixed, as he pushes through, his belly poking out of his shirt, his breath coming in gasps, each bite seeming to take as much effort as lifting a skyscraper.

“Clark…”

“I’m… fine,” he puffs. “Two more bites.”

He takes them defiantly, though from his grimace when he swallows the last, he seems to regret it. He leans back in his chair and groans softly.

“... Everything alright?”

Clark takes a moment, but nods. “Don’t think… I’ve ever been this full.”

“I believe it.” Bruce can’t even begin to calculate the number of calories and pounds of food in Clark’s belly right now. “Should we table dessert?”

That gets a huff of a laugh. “I’ll have it later. Let me digest.”

Bruce nods, his eyes drawn back down to Clark’s gut. He clearly needs some time to breathe.

“Want to do that somewhere a bit more comfortable?”

Clark thinks about it for a minute, likely weighing the comfort of a couch against the effort of moving himself in this state. In the end, comfort wins out. “I suppose. Give me a hand?”

Bruce hauls Clark to his feet, wrapping an arm around Clark to steady him. Clark leans on him a surprising amount as they head to the nearest sitting room—the one with comfortable couches, not the one with furniture that should be for display only. Clark needs to be able to properly relax.

Clark plops down with a grunt and wastes no time making himself comfortable. He pushes his jeans down as low as he can manage and lifts his shirt slightly. Bruce doesn’t let that distract him at all.

“You sure you don’t have any ulterior motives here?” Clark asks after a moment.

Bruce frowns. “Ulterior motives?”

Clark chuckles. “You’ve been staring an awful lot.”

Bruce opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it abruptly. He can’t argue with facts. “That… wasn’t my main goal,” he says instead.

Clark is still smiling, bemused. Bruce doesn’t appreciate it. There’s nothing odd about being interested by how Clark’s stomach is physically capable of holding this much food. It’s just scientific curiosity.

“What was your main goal, then?”

“I just wanted to do something nice,” Bruce grumbles. “Is that such an unreasonable thing for a man to do for his partner?”

“Course not,” Clark assures. “This is just more than usual.”

It is. Their busy lives don’t exactly offer time for a normal relationship. They take care of each other where they can, but grand gestures like this tend to be reserved for birthdays or holidays, not a random Saturday. Clark isn’t surprised that Bruce cares, he’s just noting how much this is.

“I couldn’t get our conversation at your parents’ house out of my head,” Bruce admits finally. “You’ve been practically starving yourself for years without letting anyone know. And if you didn’t tell me about it, I knew it wasn’t a big enough issue for you to change anything on your own.”

“So you took matters into your own hands. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much food you’ve been giving me lately.”

Bruce would be shocked if he hadn’t. As much as he’d tried not to draw attention to it, Clark is as perceptive as Bruce. Any sudden change in behavior would stand out to him.

“I didn’t want you going hungry any longer.”

Clark smiles, but there’s a tinge of sadness there. “I can manage like that. I’ve done it most of my life.”

“Just because you can manage doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Clark hums, noncommittal. “I understand that. It’s just…”

He trails off, not quite meeting Bruce’s gaze anymore. Bruce rests a hand on his knee in comfort.

“Has it been better this way?”

He knows it is even without asking. Clark has been happier these past few weeks, and has never once turned down food. He isn't quite so ravenous at meals now either, since Bruce has encouraged him to eat more snacks throughout the day. He hasn’t seemed remotely uncomfortable about the weight he’s gained either. If anything, he’s more at ease now.

“It is better,” Clark agrees softly. “But it’s asking too much. How long are you going to be able to keep this up?”

“As long as you need,” Bruce assures firmly. “Or, as long as it takes for you to start using my credit card to buy yourself as much food as you want.”

He means it wholeheartedly. As long as Clark struggles to think he’s worth the amount of food it takes to keep him satisfied, Bruce will make sure he’s fed. It isn’t too much to ask. It’s just what it means to love someone.

“And you’re sure it doesn’t bother you?”

“Positive.”

Clark chews on his lip for a moment. “Then… Thank you, darlin’. For taking care of me.”

“Always,” Bruce promises.

He leans in to press a kiss to Clark’s cheek, resting a hand on Clark’s belly momentarily. It’s hardly the first time he’s done that, but the motion holds more weight now, getting to feel the swollen curve that’s the product of all his love for Clark. The extra pounds are proof that Clark is cared for. Proof that Bruce is making sure he’s alright.

“Not to change the subject too abruptly,” Clark starts. “But… Is cake still an option?”

Bruce laughs, leaning back. “Cake is always an option. I’ll cut you a slice.”

The next time Bruce and Clark stop by the farm for dinner again, Clark’s belly poking out of his shirt before the meal even starts, Martha nods in approval. Clark pops three buttons by the time he's finished eating, earning Bruce a proud smile from Martha and the reward of being allowed to help her with the dishes while Clark naps on the couch. Once they’re done, she pulls him down to her height so that she can press a kiss to his temple.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” she tells Bruce softly.

“Thank you,” Bruce returns. “For showing me how.”