wound up with all things little
Bruce couldn’t help but feel his heart fall a bit at the utterly uninhabitable appearance of the old house.
Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Rating: General Audiences
Tags: historical AU, regency, no powers, farmer!Clark, farmwife!Bruce (if you squint)
Bruce couldn’t help but feel his heart fall a bit at the utterly uninhabitable appearance of the old house.
After many years of traveling the world and galavanting through the ton, Bruce Wayne returns to his family’s estate in the countryside to find his childhood home in a condition he cannot manage to restore without some help…
Bruce couldn’t help but feel his heart fall a bit at the utterly uninhabitable appearance of the old house.
The cab driver, whose one-horse carriage was now only visible by the small cloud of dust its wheels were kicking up, hadn’t said a word of complaint at his far destination after glancing up and down Bruce’s tailored and patch-less traveling outfit in a way that made him a bit self-conscious. Although he asked a rather shamelessly high price for the trip, it seemed the driver hadn’t seen it amongst his duties to warn an unfamiliar out-of-towner about the desolate state of his destination.
The house, though just as large and stately as he remembered from his young childhood, showed clear signs of abandonment and deterioration. The yard, though lush and green, was tellingly overgrown, and the hedges and flowers grown wild and unruly. Bruce could even see several boarded-up windows. Hands on his hips and his one small luggage on the grass at his feet, Bruce let out a small sigh and figured he might as well head on inside anyways.
After a many few circuits around the entirety of the great house, and likely over an hour in the sweltering heat of the summer sun, Bruce had been fabulously unsuccessful in finding his way inside the place. He rather cursed the sturdy hand of whosoever had hammered the boards so immovably in securing the house. Although he appreciated their care to place the nails as to avoid ruining the yet still fine ornaments and trimming, even after much prying and pulling and kicking with his heels, Bruce had been rebuffed entrance to the manor. Shut out of his own ancestral home! The idea would have made even Alfred chuff at Bruce’s expense.
It was all he could do to make a seat of the blessedly cool stone step under the shade of a tree, to rest himself and come up with a plan of action going forward. He now regretted his insistence on going ahead of Alfred, who was back at the town house dealing with settling affairs, to the apparently uninhabitable manor. Perhaps he had been a bit unrealistic in thinking his old home would be just as, well, homey as it had been when he had lived here with mother and father…
After quite some time spent listening to the soft symphony of the midday insects buzzing in the long grass while kicking at the pebbles near his shoes, Bruce heard the unmistakable sound of a horse and carriage drawing near. Shielding his eyes with a hand, he could make out the small shape of some small square on wheels cutting across the lawn some distance away. The cart rattled on a well-worn dirt path that cut through the front lawn of the manor quite rudely, likely made by the local farmers taking a shortcut while making their way to and from market.
The loud rattle of the old cart slowed, probably to give whatever farmer a better view of the comedic, humiliating, ridiculous scene before he went on his way. The rattle slowed even more, to a rhythmic thunk-thadunk-thunk, then, inexplicably, it creaked to a stop. Still keeping busy by fanning himself with his hat, Bruce couldn’t resist a quick glance up at the cart. As he expected, a weather-beaten face was turned shamelessly towards him from atop the splintered, wooden contraption. And yet, unexpected were a pair of twinkling young eyes peeking through a dark mop of sun-browned hair, matched with a small smile holding a mischievous twist. Most unexpected, that mirthful mouth called out to him:
“In need of a ride?”
He diligently kept his hat waving a stale breeze towards his neck. “No, I’m quite where I need to be.”
The unexpectedly young man made a show of looking about Bruce’s situation. “Well, pardon my ignorance, but I might say I am the first man to meet a squatter who looks much better suited to be a gentleman.”
Damn. Bruce just now realized his hands were blackened and rough from his fruitless struggle against the boards.
“And why do you say I am such an unlawful dweller when I could be here in all manner of business?”
The farmer shook his reins lazily as his horse, which bent its head to chew on some grass. “Just a guess, I suppose. You have few belongings, and I see no carriage or horse, so you must have come on foot, carrying your possessions compactly, as a drifter might. And perhaps you thought this great country house perfect for your use, as you have heard of its being abandoned for many years. Tell me that I am not a fine detective.”
Bruce found himself rather annoyed by how much he rather liked the cheeky twinkle in the man’s eyes.
“I must admit your conjecture, while flawed, is founded on sound logic.”
“Oh? Pray, do tell me where I am mistaken.”
“I am not, in fact, a squatter.” And Bruce sniffed, not quite able to resist leaning into the silly bit, even turning up his nose slightly. “But I am a gentleman.”
At that, the dark-haired man let burst a warm, booming laugh. It was the kind of laugh accustomed to rolling out into the open air and unfolding itself to fill rooms with its mirth. Unwittingly, Bruce found his own lips curling into a tilted little smile at the sound.
The man wiped his eye as if to smudge away tears, as his outburst of amusement finally ran its course, and he took a few shuddering breaths through bright white teeth stuck in a cramping grin.
“Oh, a gentleman indeed. My lord, I beg your forgiveness for my trespass and rudeness.” His eyes now dry, his voice still hinted at another chuckle only just held at bay. “What can this lowly peasant offer for his mercy?”
Bruce had only just managed to wrangle his face into a semblance of sternness, and yet it threatened to crack as he said, “You may offer your lord a seat on your carriage.”
Bruce watched with a little too much satisfaction as the man seemed to be utterly shocked for half a moment, frozen with eyebrows raised high into his messy fringe, before letting out another delighted bark as he promptly drove his rattling cart forward to stop directly before Bruce. In one light motion, the man hopped from his cart and scooped up Bruce’s bag. Bruce took his offered hand and found himself lifted up onto the cart like he weighed nothing to the man. The young farmer made his way back up to his own seat just as easily as he had alighted to the ground and immediately drove the horse forward down the dirt path. Bruce looked down at his own dust-smudged hands as he tried to wipe them clean on a handkerchief; those hands had held his in a dry, strong grip, broad palms rough and warm against his own.
“Ma will have put the tea on just now, and we should get there just in time, we’re not far down the road.”
“Your land is a part of this same estate, then?”
“Yes, the Waynes’ estate. We must be the farm closest to the old manor.”
The man hadn’t lied, as presently the rattling of the old wooden cart slowed once more to stop alongside a little cottage. The young man jumped from the cart and practically flew about, closing the gate behind, unhitching the horse, and taking his luggage in hand once more. Bruce again took his offered hand and found himself lowered to the ground with that same easy strength and for the first time realized the shocking bulk of the man. Bruce considered himself to have a tall and muscular sort of stature, built up with many rigorous hobbies and a love of outdoorsmanship, but apparently farmwork was a sport that shaped this man as if chiseled from stone. The man should have towered over him but for his gentle slouch, which somehow gave the same illusion to this man as to cause one to mistake a ton of hay might be lighter than a pillow.
Not taking any notice of Bruce sizing him up, the young farmer steadily nudged him forward and in through the small door of the little cottage with many praises for his “ma”s tea and hospitality. Bruce let himself be herded gently by the man, who he figured must be about his age or a few years younger now that he had taken a closer look at him, and found himself seated at a small table in a small wooden chair.
From the next room, where the young man had energetically scurried into, Bruce heard much clattering of dishes and muffled exclamations between the man and a woman. Some more clattering and some scraping of wood and shuffling later, a white-haired woman shuffled into the room holding a tray.
“Pardon my manners, sir! My Clark has just now let me know you will be our guest for tea!” Clark, it was, followed closely behind and wearing a little sheepish smile.
Bruce began to stand, his hat in hand, when the elderly woman practically flew to set down her tray and insist, “Oh please, sit, sit! Clark has told me you have been travelling, please sit and rest awhile at our table.”
Bruce sat again in his chair and watched with amusement as Clark managed to also fit himself into his own small chair. A plate laden with nearly all of the biscuits and toast from the tray was set before him, and a steaming cup of herbal tea was poured.
“Oh, Clark! How could you let me be such a horrible host to our guest? I am Martha Kent, please call me Martha, and you have already met Clark.” Bruce thought he heard a muffled thump from under the table at the emphatic ‘guest’, and from beside the Mrs. Kent, Clark’s face grew pinched for a moment, as if flinching from some unexpected sensation. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m sure you must want some better refreshments-”
“There’s no need to worry. I should be the one sorry for visiting unannounced.” Bruce smiled warmly at the woman, who grew a little pink. “I was lucky Clark came upon me when he did, as it seems my trip isn’t going quite as planned. I came here to manage some personal matters, but it seems I will have to wait for my man to catch up before I can do anything about those.”
“Well I hope you will find our humble village hospitable for your time here, Mister…”
“Bruce Wayne.” He dipped his head a little. “I apologize, I realize I never introduced myself.”
From his left he heard an unexpected crunch and turned to see Clark’s biscuit transfigured into a small mound of crumbs on his plate. The mound’s creator was staring at Bruce with bright blue eyes round as teacups and mouth almost comically agape.
“You… You’re Mr. Wayne? As in the Waynes? Our Waynes?”
“Well, yes. I do not know if there are any other Waynes, otherwise I might not have come on this business myself.” He softened his smirk a little at Clark’s terribly stunned and lost expression. “In fact, I may have to inconvenience your household for a while longer, at least until I can find some place to put up, as the manor seems like it is not quite suitable for my ‘squatting’.” Bruce couldn’t resist giving a raking wink to Clark at that, the man in question promptly turning red as a rooster’s comb.
Oh, this whole ordeal might not be so terribly boring as Bruce had thought.
