Clark stood before the imposing Wayne Manor, Bruce's business card in his hand, where the older man had, in painstakingly neat handwriting, written down his home address. For a long time, all he did was stare through the security fence, down the long driveway, at the mansion, standing tall and dark against the gray, cloud-filled sky. He felt more insignificant and tiny as he looked at that pristine building than he ever had, even while craning his neck to see the tops of the city's skyscrapers.
Three days.
Three days had passed since Clark had dined with Bruce Wayne.
Three days since the offer had been made for Clark to come live at Wayne Manor.
Three days where Clark had constantly been torn - ready to leave for Wayne Manor in one moment, and ready to flee Gotham in the next.
The dinner itself had gone remarkably well. As Bruce had promised, the food had been exquisite. And, Clark had to admit, so had the company. As they'd talked, Clark had felt more and more at ease. He forgot, after a while, the obvious age difference between them. He forgot how much of a class difference exited between them - that Bruce had always been, and always would be, rich beyond reasoning and that Clark had grown up not quite poor, but close enough to it.
He'd found Bruce to be friendly and honest, but shrewd in his observations. He was remarkably intelligent, and came off as a regular guy, despite the fact that he was the richest man on the planet. But what surprised Clark the most was how much Bruce spoke to him as an equal. He didn't speak down to the dirt poor commoner that Clark was. He didn't talk down to the relative child that Clark was, compared to Bruce himself. He treated Clark with respect and understanding. When they'd spoken of Clark's parents, he'd empathized with Clark's loss but hadn't pitied him or played what Chen had called the "pain Olympics" - that age old game of one-upping one another to see who'd had things worse, as though it was some kind of twisted competition.
In turn, Clark had found himself opening up to the man, and talking to him with ease. Oh, Clark still held his little secrets close, that was true. But for the first time since meeting Chen back at Grandma Tildy's house, Clark felt like he'd found a true friend in Bruce. He knew in his heart that he could trust the billionaire - that the man's intentions were pure and good in offering Clark his home. But Clark's old fears had never truly died. He still worried about his ability to keep his secrets safe, and to keep his powers from accidentally causing harm.
It had been a long, sleepless three days as he'd grappled with the choice before him.
But then, unfortunately, the choice had been made for Clark last night.
He'd just about to get settled down to try and get a little sleep for the night - though he'd doubted he could, with his indecision refusing to allow his mind to be still long enough for sleep to claim him - when it happened. A very drunk, very aggressive older man had tried to force himself on Clark.
Clark had done everything in his power to get away from the man, while ensuring that he didn't hurt him. Some small part of Clark was aware of the fact that he wouldn't be completely responsible if the man was injured. Some people would even argue that the man had it coming, for attacking a young man the way he had. But not Clark. He was far too aware of the immense powers he possessed. It would a simple thing to miscalculate his strength and accidentally do something like would prove fatal to the man. The wrong flick of Clark's wrist could easily snap the man's neck. But, no matter how wrong the drunk was, no one deserved to be killed like that.
So he'd been forced to reign in his strength, and that had given the drunk the upper hand. Clark had felt himself pushed up against the cinder block wall. A beefy hand had gone around Clark's throat, though the pressure hadn't been enough to choke off Clark's air. The other hand had gone to Clark's crotch, groping, squeezing, and fumbling for the zipper of his jeans, though the man had been too intoxicated to properly work the device. The smell of cheap booze wafting off the man's breath had made Clark's eyes water as the man brought his head close to Clark's.
There had been only one avenue Clark could see that could save him from his predator. He brought up his knee, hard. The man's eyes had rolled upward and he'd wheezed out a hiss of pain as Clark's knee crashed into his nether regions. The hand had released itself from Clark's throat and flown to protect the drunk's injured area. Clark took the opportunity to scream out for help.
That had alerted the shelter's staff. They'd come running and immobilized the man. Jake and Dirk - each of them built like a linebacker - had grabbed the man's arms and held him until the Gotham Police Department could dispatch a couple of officers to the shelter. The man had been arrested and taken away to jail. Clark had given his statement, and luckily, there had been a couple of witnesses who'd given their statements as well. Clark thought that there might have been more witnesses than just the two who'd stepped forward, but he understood the fear of making waves at the shelter. He couldn't blame them.
But the incident had sealed the deal for Clark. Risk of discovery be damned; he needed to get off the streets and accept Bruce Wayne's generous offer. He'd spent the rest of the night awake and vigilant, lest anything else happen to him or anyone else. Thankfully, nothing else had transpired, but Clark was left shaken and more than resolute to move into Wayne Manor that day.
So now, here he was, standing just outside the gate, looking at the home of Bruce Wayne, trembling with anticipation and fear.
He knew it would be a world totally alien to him. He was a regular guy. He wasn't cut out for the world that the insanely rich lived in. But he felt trapped - he couldn't continue living on the streets anymore. Besides, if he lived with Bruce, he could at least stop worrying about his safety and where his next meal was coming from, and go back to focusing on his studies. His time as a homeless youth had served to steel his will more than ever to become an investigative journalist. He'd seen the kinds of problems and corruption that most people weren't aware of, and he hungered to rectify that problem.
Clark closed his eyes for a moment, gathering up his courage to approach the gate and request entrance. He'd promised himself that there would be no turning back once he crossed over onto the property. There could be no running away this time. He had to make this work. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out again before opening his eyes.
His mom's old trick had worked. He did feel a little calmer.
Thunder rumbled in the far distance. Clark inhaled through his nose, smelling the storm. It was a long way off, but the wind was picking up, hastening the thunderclouds on their way closer. In a way, it seemed fitting that it should storm by the day's end. He remembered only too vividly how it had stormed the night he'd been dropped off at Grandma Tildy's. It somehow felt like things had come full circle.
Feeling a bit more emboldened, he approached the gate.
There must have been a sensor that he tripped as he stepped closer. Before he knew it, a video screen on his left flickered into life. An older gentleman appeared on the screen.
"May I help you?" he asked, in a mild British accent.
"Uh...hi. My name is Clark Kent..." Clark said, feeling like he was being silently judged. "I...uh...I was told to come here..."
The other man's features softened a bit as Clark struggled to introduce himself and explain his presence. "Ah, yes. Master Bruce has been anticipating you. I'll bring the car down to pick you up at once."
"Oh...no...I can walk," Clark said, already feeling out of place in this world of money and influence.
"Nonsense," the man replied. "It's no trouble, Master Clark."
Master?!
"No, really. I like walking," was all he could manage to get out.
The man shrugged a bit. "As you wish, sir."
The gate swung open inwardly on silent hinges. Clark hefted the hiking frame on his back, settling it more comfortably on his shoulders. Then he picked up his other bags - now far less than what he'd had when he'd first fled from the halfway house - and started down the long driveway. It wasn't a completely straight road. In a couple of spots it became ever so slightly serpentine, to accommodate the land around it. Clark walked at a brisk, but casual pace. He didn't want to dawdle and keep Bruce waiting, but he also didn't want to get to the door too quickly either. He looked around as he walked, but there wasn't much to see; just an immaculately kept lawn and the occasional tree.
Before long, Clark found himself at the very foot of Wayne Manor. He took another deep breath, then screwed up his courage once more and rang the doorbell. Almost instantly, the older gentleman from the video screen at the gates appeared, opening the doors and ushering him inside.
"Come in, come in," the man said, waving him in. "Welcome home, Master Clark." There was nothing but a smile on his face and eagerness in his voice.
"I...uh...just Clark is fine," Clark stammered.
"You'll never change his mind about calling you 'Master,'" came Bruce Wayne's amused voice as he stepped into the large living space. "Alfred's a bit...old school with the formalities."
"I guess I have a lot to get used to," Clark said with a shrug, though he doubted he ever would.
"May I take your bags, Master Clark?" Alfred asked.
"Oh...um...sure?" It came out more as a question than anything else.
"Come on in," Bruce encouraged. "Can I offer you anything? Something to eat or drink?"
"Oh, no. I had lunch at the soup kitchen before I came here," Clark said, blushing in embarrassment. Here he was, in a multi-million dollar home, talking about a soup kitchen, of all things!
"You sure?"
Clark nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."
"You want to relax a bit, or get the grand tour?" Bruce asked.
Clark hesitated. "Um...whatever you think is best. I...uh...this is all a bit overwhelming," he admitted.
Bruce chuckled a little. "I expect that it is. Maybe once you see the place you'll feel a bit more at home and comfortable."
Clark shrugged. "Sure."
"We'll start with your room," Bruce said, leading the way. "You know, I was really hoping you'd take me up on my offer," he admitted as they wound their way through Wayne Manor. "But you should have called. I would have picked you up, instead of you needing to make your way here on your own."
"Oh, it's okay," Clark said, brushing off Bruce's concerns. "I didn't mind walking here. It gave me some time to clear my head of a few things. But...I guess I should have called. I didn't mean to drop in unannounced. It's just...there was an incident at the shelter this morning and I wasn't really thinking straight."
Come here. Come to papa. Oh, yeah. I like 'em young and feisty.
Clark flinched at the unbidden memory.
Bruce stopped in his tracks and faced Clark. "Don't apologize. I meant it when I said my doors were open, day or night, once you made your decision." He frowned. "What happened at the shelter?"
Let me show you a good time.
"A drunk man thought I was...available to him," Clark said simply, trying to will the flashbacks away.
Rick! Get away from him!
Hold him down!
You okay, boy?
The police are on the way.
Bruce scowled. "I don't blame you for leaving at all." He kept walking as he continued. "Did you file a police report?"
Young man, can you tell us, in your own words, what happened here? Let's start with your name and date of birth.
Someone get this guy out of here! I don't want him within a thousand feet of this kid!
Do you understand that you'll be required to appear in court, should you choose to press charges?
"Yeah." He nodded, swallowing around the panic that was building inside of him.
"Good."
"They came and arrested him. There were witnesses, so..." He shrugged.
Bruce nodded gravely, his mouth a tight line. "Good." He stopped outside of a closed door. "If you press charges - and I would, if I were you - you'll have whatever resources you need from me to make sure he goes to jail. Ah, here we are. Your room." He gestured. "Go on, open the door."
Clark took a deep breath, feeling inexplicably nervous, the same as he had at Grandma Tildy's, that very first night. He reached out and touched the shining golden doorknob and turned it slowly. He pushed the door opened and sucked in a breath. Of course he'd known that Bruce was rich, but he hadn't expected the extravagance of the room.
Everything was done in shades of white, blue, and gray, with dark cherry furniture. And it was massive - far bigger than even the living room in the quaint farmhouse Clark had grown up in. A king sized bed was against the wall on the left. On an entertainment center, Clark could see a sizable television. Hooked up to it was some kind of strange gray box. Clark saw the words "Nintendo Entertainment System" written on it. Next to it was a stack of plastic cartridges. Bruce saw him looking questioningly at it.
"It's a gaming system," Bruce explained, walking over to the unit. "I have a friend in Japan who was able to get me one. It won't be released here in the states for a while yet. Probably another year or two. But he owed me a favor..." He shrugged.
"A...gaming system?"
Bruce nodded. "You open the hatch like this," he said, demonstrating. "And insert the cartridge like this. Go to channel three and press the power button on the console. These are the controllers. It's the future of game playing," he said proudly.
"That's awfully nice of you," Clark replied, feeling more and more unworthy of this new chapter of his life.
"I'll give you some time to check things out, get your stuff put away. In a little bit, I'll show you the rest of the house. There's no rush. And tomorrow we'll head out and get you a new wardrobe. Unless...do you have enough, for the night? I don't mean to presume but, I want you to be comfortable here," Bruce continued.
"Oh, I have enough for a couple of days," he said, nodding absently, his head still spinning.
"Well, in any case, there are a few things in the dresser that Alfred picked up once I described you to him. Hopefully they fit. It's not much, but I didn't want to have too much, in case the size was wrong." He paused a moment before speaking again. "Alright then. I'll leave you be. Dinner is at six. Down the stairs and to the left. You can't miss the dining room."
The billionaire turned to leave, Alfred just steps behind him.
"Hey, Bruce?" Clark ventured.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. Thank you for all of this. I'm...I can't believe how generous all of this is."
"You're welcome."
And with that, Clark was left alone in his new room.
He immediately took off his shoes and set to exploring everything. Aside from the bed and the entertainment center, there was a large dresser and a walk in closet to check out. A desk was in the corner of the room - Clark could just imagine himself settling down to his studies there, and a smile ghosted over his lips. He could scarcely wait to dive back into schoolwork. Not only would it get him closer to his goal of becoming a journalist, but it would also bring back a sense of normalcy to his life.
There were bookshelves too - empty for the time being, but Clark looked forward to filling them. He'd always been an avid reader, and deeply missed the simple pleasure of buying a new - or even secondhand - book and spending an evening immersed in the world contained within its pages. There was a bathroom on his right, and Clark ducked inside to check it out. He was mildly surprised to find it fully stocked with all the essentials a young man would need - toilet paper, plush gray towels, shampoo and conditioner, razors and shaving cream, even a toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss.
Seeing it all made Clark feel grimy. Before he could do anything else, he felt compelled to wash off the smell and feel of the streets. He padded back to the bedroom door, enjoying the feel of the navy blue carpet beneath his feet. He closed and locked the door, then stripped out of his dirty clothing. The hot shower he took was one of the most luxurious he'd ever taken, simply because he felt safe in doing so. At the shelter, the showers were often tepid and rushed, and always filled with fear. Fear that someone would steal from you when you were otherwise occupied. Fear that you might be attacked while your guard was down. But this time Clark could make the water as hot as he desired and linger under the spray of the showerhead for as long as it suited him.
He made a point of soaping down every last inch of his body and scrubbed his hair thoroughly. That was the other fear in the shelter. You never knew what kinds of creepy, crawly things people might track in with them. It had only been sheer luck that he hadn't come down with a case of lice, or worse. Finally, he felt clean and shut off the water. He dried swiftly. He knew he couldn't shave with a traditional razor - he'd learned that long ago when he'd first noticed hair sprouting above his upper lip. So he used the mirror to bounce thin beams of his heat vision back onto his skin, searing the stubble away into nonexistence.
Satisfied, he returned to the bedroom and investigated what clothing had been left in the dresser for him. He knew he could always wear something he already owned. After all, just the day before he'd spent a few of his hard earned dollars washing and drying the few outfits he owned at a run down little Laundromat. But he was curious to see what had been left for him. So he went and opened the top drawer of the dresser. Clean pairs of white socks and a package of boxers that looked like they might fit greeted him. The next drawer down had a few plain t-shirts. After that was a drawer with a couple pairs of shorts and lightweight pants. The bottom drawer had a small selection of pajamas.
Clark selected a fresh white shirt, a pair of black basketball shorts, and a pair of socks, as well as a pair of the boxers. Everything fit well enough, and he was grateful for the garments. The truth was, even though his own items were clean, some of them were already showing signs of wear and tear, from being worn so often.
New clothes.
It was a simple pleasure, but one Clark had not often gotten to enjoy since fleeing the halfway house. Sure, he'd been able to buy some new things, once in a while, now that he had a job, but it was usually the cheapest things he could find. And that meant what he'd bought hadn't always been the most comfortable things to wear.
He checked his appearance in the full length mirror, then went and laid down on the bed. He sighed in contentment as he sank into the soft blankets covering it. He could get used to such luxuries. The beds at the shelter had been little more than hard cots or a clear space on the concrete floor. And even his comfortable bed at Grandma Tildy's hadn't been nearly this plush. Or this large.
He didn't mean to, but before he knew it, he was asleep. The combination of not sleeping the night before and all the restlessness he'd experienced while he'd been trying to decide whether or not to take up Bruce's offer had exhausted him. He didn't sleep long - just an hour or so - but he felt much refreshed when he next opened his eyes. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and for a half a second he was disoriented, not knowing where he was right away. But in a heartbeat it all came back to him.
There was still some time before dinner, so Clark put on his glasses and unpacked his meager belongings. His mother's knitted blanket went on top of the comforter on the bed, as it always had. His clothing went into the dresser. The globe his parents had found with him went onto the top shelf of the bookshelf where it would be safe. The manila envelope he had with him went into the hidden compartment built into the seat of the reading nook in the window.
Belatedly, Clark realized he hadn't even looked out the windows to see the view. There were two large windows and double doors leading out to a balcony. The storm was about to hit - lightning flashed in the sky and thunder boomed. But the rain hadn't yet begun, so Clark stepped out onto the balcony. His room overlooked a large pool in the back yard. It would be nice, he mused, to lay out in the sun back there, diving into the pool to cool off. He'd need to remember to pick up some swim trunks while he added to his wardrobe.
The first raindrops hit him in the head and he reluctantly headed back inside. As a farm kid, he was used to spending as much time as possible outdoors. He didn't mind being indoors, but he preferred to be out in the fresh air whenever he could. He closed and locked the door behind him, then pulled the curtain against the darkening sky.
It was nearly time for dinner by then anyway, as Clark's complaining stomach helpfully pointed out. He left the bedroom and went down to the living room. Alfred was there, as though waiting for him. He stood from his seat as he greeted Clark.
"Ah, Master Clark. Right this way for dinner."
"Oh...thanks," Clark said. He wasn't sure he would ever get used to having someone wait on him. It didn't feel right in the least.
"Follow me," the butler said pleasantly.
"Sure. So...how long have you been working here?" Clark asked, making small talk as the followed behind the older man.
"Oh, since before Master Bruce was born. I worked for his parents for many years," the man replied with a fond smile. "It's been an honor and a privilege, working for the Wayne family." He paused for a moment, then, "If I may say so, sir, I hope you'll be comfortable here. Master Bruce is a good man."
"Yeah, he seems like it," Clark agreed. "But, Alfred? You don't really need all the 'Master Clark' and 'sir' stuff with me. I'm just a kid that Bruce plucked off the streets. There's nothing special that warrants such, well...formality."
Alfred smiled gently. "You may feel that way, Master Clark, but you'll have to excuse me. I could no more drop the formality than a man could fly. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
Clark shook his head, unconvinced. "I'm not entirely sure that's true."
Alfred chuckled lightly. "Perhaps, Master Clark. Perhaps." A moment later, he stopped. "And here is the dining room," he announced.
"Thanks for showing Clark the way, Alfred," Bruce said, standing from his seat.
"Of course, sir," the butler said, dipping his head in acknowledgment. "Enjoy your meal."
"Come, sit," Bruce encouraged, waving Clark forward.
Clark sat across the table from him. "Your home is beautiful," he complimented Bruce.
"I'll take you on the full tour after dinner, so you know where everything is," Bruce promised. "Is everything in your room okay? Anything you need or want?"
"Oh...everything is great," Clark said. "Truthfully, it's a bit...overwhelming." He felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment.
Bruce merely chuckled. "I suppose it would be. But if there is anything you need, just let Alfred or myself know and you'll get it."
"Thank you. That's very generous," Clark said.
"Relax," Bruce said, perhaps noting Clark's lingering doubts about living in such an extravagant place. "You seem nervous. I assure you, I have no ulterior motives, if that's what's bothering you."
That made Clark chuckle, and some of his unease bled out with it. "Oh, that's not it. It's just...this is a completely new world for me. Being called 'sir' and 'master.' Having a bedroom bigger than my living room, back home before my parents died. Being told I can have whatever I want or need. Having technology that wouldn't even be available in this country for another year or two. I'm grateful for it all, Bruce. Please don't think I'm not. But in my head, I'm still a poor, homeless runaway. I still feel like...like the police will find out that I'm a runway and bring me back to the halfway house."
"About that..." Bruce began uncomfortably.
Clark felt his blood draining away from his face as he went pale. "What?"
"I spoke with the police commissioner. He's an old friend of mine. I explained the situation and that you'd be staying here. Just to make sure everything is on the level, you understand?"
"Wh...what'd he say?" He almost dared not to ask it.
Bruce cracked a small smile. "Everything's been cleared. The fortunate thing is that you've almost aged out of the foster system. They aren't going to care so much about dragging you back to a place where you'd really only have about half a year left before you could be legally kicked out onto the streets. It's terrible, really, to think about getting kicked out of the system, but in this case, it actually helps you." Though he'd begun talking with a tiny smile, by the end, Bruce's voice was sorrowful and apologetic.
Clark breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad. I don't think I could show my face back there, after running off without an explanation."
"Why did you run away, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I...I..." Clark stuttered, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. "It doesn't matter. I got this idea in my head about getting out on my own and it didn't pan out the way I'd hoped. It's true that I miss some of the people I knew back there, at the halfway house."
"You could visit, if you'd like. I can send you there on one of my planes."
"That's a kind offer, but I'd rather not. Yeah, I miss them, but I'm really not sure they'd be willing to forgive and forget my sudden departure."
Bruce merely nodded. "I see."
"Especially now," Clark continued, speaking his train of thought aloud. "I mean, this place is incredible. If anyone deserves to live in the lap of luxury, it's the guys I left behind. Grandma Tildy's was a really, really nice place, but, well, halfway houses aren't exactly rich. Corners had to be cut when we could. We did what we could to raise funds, to help pay the bills and make sure that no one had to go without a birthday gift or Christmas present. But despite all of that, almost everyone was happy there. Oh, we had some guys who were just so angry at the situation they were in that they wouldn't allow themselves to take any joy in anything we did there. But for the most part, it was a good place to be."
"Sounds like you miss it a bit," Bruce observed.
Clark shook his head. "No...yes...I don't know. I miss my friends there, but chances are, if I was still living there, at least half of them would be gone - moved into foster homes or to relatives that were finally ready to take them in. Except my friend, Chen. He was training with Grandma Tildy to eventually take over the day to day running of the place. Anyway," he said, cutting off whatever Bruce was going to say, "it's all behind me now. I really do just want to make a fresh start here."
"And what kind of start do you want?" Bruce asked.
"I just...I want to get back to school. Finish up my high school diploma. Get into a good college, even if I have to pay my way through. I probably destroyed my hopes of getting a scholarship with the gaps in my education, even though I was in an accelerated program at my last high school. I want to get a job at a good, well-respected newspaper someday. I want to be able to help people. To give back to the community somehow, even if it's just in donations of canned goods to a soup kitchen or something. I want to make a difference."
"All noble goals," Bruce pointed out, as Alfred appeared with platters of food. He effortlessly switched topics. "I hope you don't mind roast duck. Alfred makes it quite excellently. Particularly the pomegranate sauce."
Clark nodded. "My dad used to cook duck sometimes, but with an orange and ginger glaze. He was a great cook. My mom too."
A brief silence fell as the two selected pieces of meat, garlic potatoes, and glazed carrots. There was plenty of hot, fresh bread and butter to go with it, and more than enough options to choose from to drink. Clark opted simply for an ice water.
"In a few days we can talk to one of the administrators at the high school," Bruce said after pouring himself a fresh drink. "See what they can do for you, in terms of getting your credits transferred and enrolled for the fall."
"That would be great," Clark replied gratefully. "Just...um...I'm not sure how to ask this."
"What?"
"It'll be a regular high school, right? I don't think I could ever fit in, in one of the, uh, fancier schools."
Bruce chuckled. "If that's what you'd be comfortable with, that's what we'll do."
"Thanks."
"Let's see. Today is Sunday...how about Wednesday?" Bruce asked, thinking aloud.
Clark shook his head. "I'm supposed to cover my co-worker's shift at the furniture store on Wednesday."
"Clark, you know you don't have to keep working, right? I've got money set aside for you, so that you can buy whatever you want or need." The billionaire seemed surprised by the fact that Clark was still looking ahead to going to work.
He shook his head again. "I appreciate that, but I gave my word. Not just to RJ, but to the store owner too. If it's all the same, I'd like to keep working, at least until school starts up in September. It feels good, to be doing something with my time, learning new skills, even if I might never need them in my professional life."
Pride beamed in Bruce's eyes. Pride and maybe even a little amusement. "You are one rare young man, Clark. Of course you can keep working, if that's what makes you happy. I admire your work ethic and dedication."
"Thanks."
Clark stopped to take a bite to eat. Bruce was right. The duck was excellent. But it made Clark's heart ache as he missed his parents. His dad would have loved the dish, he was sure of it. His mom had never really liked pomegranates, but she would have enjoyed everything else, he knew.
"Clark? Are you okay?"
Apparently, his sorrow had shown on his face.
"Uh, yeah," he said quickly. "The food is really good. My dad would have asked for the recipe in a heartbeat," he added.
"Well, eat up. You never have to worry about going hungry again," Bruce assured him.
To Be Continued...
