Chapter Text
“Clark,” Bruce grumbled. “I hoped we’d be seeing the inside of our bedrooms a lot more.”
“I’ll make it up to you, baby, I promise,” Clark said, as he fussed with Bruce’s suit one last time.
The dichotomy was stark. Clark was dressed in his brilliant blue and red Superman garb, while Bruce was in something decidedly more “formal”. He was wearing a gray, pinstriped suit, a single button done on his jacket. He wore a shirt of dark, desaturated plum, and a black tie with gold accents, and a matching pocket square. His Italian loafers gleamed, black and gold, matching with the gold-framed, side-shielded sunglasses he wore. Clark didn’t want to know how much the watch cost.
“Ready to go?” Clark asked.
“Hrn.”
Clark wrapped his great crimson cloak around Bruce in a cocoon, and clasped him in a great bear hug.
It felt to Bruce a bit like being on an elevator with a noise machine on. He felt the slow lurch in his guts as they accelerated, his brain pressed against the base of his skull. They were only at cruising speed for a few moments before Bruce felt their direction change, and his organs began to float, ever so slightly, inside his frame.
His feet felt solid ground, and the cocoon unraveled, flash-blinding him momentarily.
Where the hell was he?
Clear, blue open skies that hurt to look at. The chittering of grasshoppers. Green and yellow, carved up into esoteric geometries known only to those who worked the land. Dust and dirt under his shoes. Chickens were clucking their gossip and business. The squeaking chain of the hanging bench. The faded yellow of the old farmhouse.
“Clark, where the hell are we?”
“The most special place on the planet for me,” Clark smiled.
“Ma~! I’m home!” Clark called toward the house.
Home, Bruce thought.
Oh, fuck.
Ma Kent opened the screen door to meet her boy.
She didn’t expect him in his Superman outfit, and definitely didn’t expect the severe-looking man standing in the drive.
“Clark, honey, so good to see you,” She hugged the big man. “Are you in trouble, dear? Who is he? ” She asked in a whisper.
“No, I’m not in trouble, Ma, that’s uh… that’s my boyfriend.”
Ma Kent blinked, then adjusted her glasses just to confirm what she was seeing. “You’re sure you’re not in trouble, dear? He looks like a gangster from the movies.”
“Well,” Clark sucked air through his teeth. “He might be worse than that, he is a billionaire.”
Ma Kent looked up through her eyebrows at Clark, then sighed. “That’s certainly the last thing we thought you’d bring home, but we of course trust your judgement, honey. Lemme get Pa, and we’ll get you boys something to eat.”
She fished her walkie-phone out of her pocket, pressing the “Talk” activator of the chunky yellow and black device. “Pa, come on down to the house, dear. Clark’s just come by and he’s got a surprise for you, over” bloop!
“On my way, over” bloop!
Pa walked up the drive about a minute later from one of the branching paths off the house.
“Clark, my boy~” The portly man gave his son the biggest bear hug he could manage. “What’s the haps, what’s the news?” He patted his son’s shoulder vigorously.
“I want you to meet someone, Pa, this is my boyfriend-”
Pa’s expression grew serious. “Bruce Wayne,” he interrupted.
“It’s a, um, honor to meet you, Mr. Kent. Sir.” Bruce shot his arm out for a handshake.
Pa gave a curt, professional shake. “Nice to meet you,” he intoned.
Pa sighed. “Look, I gotta hustle on these tractor repairs. I’ll… I’ll be down in a bit, Clark.”
Pa Kent walked back toward the tractor shed.
Ma and Clark were dumbstruck.
“Bruce, honey, come on inside the house, we’ll get you some iced tea-”
“Pa just needs to cool off, B, come on-”
Bruce started walking down the drive.
Fwump. Thump-clack.
“Dammit, son, what do you think you’re doing?” Pa interrupted Bruce as he was rolling up his sleeves.
“Helping. Please.” Bruce was studying the machine.
Pa sighed. “You really think you can help anybody with that attitude?”
Bruce stopped. What attitude?
“What do you mean?” He asked.
Pa pointed his grease-stained finger at Bruce’s jacket and jewelry on the dirt. “That. Thinking like a rich man. How can you expect to help anyone when you treat the hard work of others like dirt?”
Bruce froze.
“I’m no fashion expert, but your duds there must have cost a pretty penny. That watch probably cost more than we paid for this farm. But that’s not the true measure of it, rich man.”
“I’d wager that your suit was probably hand-made by an experienced tailor who spent years on their craft, using textiles also likely handmade, or at least made with expensive materials and techniques, all of which come with the cost of time and human experience. How many hands do you think touched your suit, son, before it ever got to you?”
“Your watch,” Pa Kent continued. “How much blood, sweat and tears were spilled mining the precious metals and gems it’s made of? How many years did the watchmaker spend perfecting their craft? How many hours did it take just to assemble that watch? The value of things is far more than their price tag, rich man.”
“What do I do?” Bruce asked.
Pa stopped. He looked through his dirty glasses and considered. The man was rolling up his sleeves to help, which already signaled something was very confused in this rich person, like he didn't know where he belonged.
“You wanna help?” Pa asked.
“Yes. Please. Sir.” Bruce’s head hung low.
“Alright, son. It starts with giving things proper respect. Try to connect with things a little more and understand what it takes to make ‘em.”
Bruce slowly picked up the items and tried to pat the dust off them.
“The next thing, ask for help when you need to. In this case, why don’t you go ask Ma and Clark if they can set you up with some work clothes, then you can come on back.”
“Yes, sir,” Bruce said, before hustling down the drive, kicking dust onto his expensive shoes.
“And no more of that ‘Sir’ crap!” Pa called. “I ain’t my Dad, You’ll make me break out in hives.”
“Well, except for the sunglasses, now you look ready to work,” Pa commented.
Bruce felt small in the big clothes. Sure, they were from when Clark was younger, but they needed to cuff the overalls and the arms of the Smallville H.S. Gym t-shirt hung down to his elbows. The boots were a bit loose. The cheap mesh trucker hat felt kind of nice though. It was light, and the breeze blowing through the back felt refreshing on his head.
“I need the sunglasses, Mr. Kent. I will try to be careful with them.”
Pa grumbled at the continued formality. Little steps then.
“Somethin’ wrong with your eyes, son?”
“Yes, Mr. Kent. I am sensitive to light.”
“You see okay in the dark?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on just a minute,” Pa waggled his dirty finger as he went to the work area and opened a large metal locker. He rummaged in a scuffed, gray plastic bin, labeled “Eye Protection”, and came back with some odd-looking goggles. The eyepiece was gray and bulky, giving the eyes a lot of room, and it was held by a stretchy woven band. The lenses sat on a hinge at the top.
“See how these work for you, son. No sense in getting your glasses messed up if we got something on hand.”
Bruce took the proffered goggles, and closed his eyes as he made the swap. They were immediately familiar, as he recalled the sensation of this type of welding equipment on his face from long ago. The world was tinted a deep emerald green as the light was filtered through the blocking lenses.
“Acetylene goggles. Thank you.”
“You sound like you might know what the hell you’re doing,” Pa remarked.
“No, Mr. Kent,” Bruce answered, as he inspected the tractor’s engine. “I’ve never worked on a Farmall. Our tractor at home is different.”
“Alright, well, she’s an old girl from the seventies, and in addition to her normal maintenance, she’s developed a bit of a knock-”
“I dunno, Ma, I never seen Pa like that,” Clark lamented as he peeled the boiled eggs and put them into a bowl. He changed into spare clothes he kept on the farm. Another white shirt plastered with the art for a local agriculture convention, and work jeans and boots.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, dear. You know how your father is about capitalism, and he probably just needed a minute. Didn’t Bruce just look darling in your old clothes, he looked a bit like you when you first wanted to help out on the farm.”
“Ma, I was a toddler then,”
“Oh, I know, but it feels the same when it’s a younger generation, you’ll understand when you get older.”
‘Younger’ generation. Right.
“Tell me about him, Clark,” Ma said as she expertly de-shelled an egg. “Pardon my nosiness, but he looks like he’s had a hard life for such a rich person. So many scars, my goodness. And he looks like he doesn’t get nearly enough sun. And aren’t you feeding him?”
“Yes, Ma. It’s… complicated. See he and I are also, you know, co-workers.”
Ma’s glasses slid down her nose. She was listening, and peeling the eggs mostly by feel, her wrinkled hands moving with the efficiency of experience.
“Well, that must have made things easier, I imagine,” she added.
“No, it was pretty awkward, really,” Clark began chopping the eggs. He was chopping quickly with his super-speed, but not in haste. He’d feel really bad if he had to replace one of Ma’s knives again. “But, we did form the Justice League together, after that.”
Ma blinked as she was mixing the ingredients together. She smiled, and continued stirring. “Ah, I see. So he’s the Batman you talk about so much.”
Ma started spreading the egg salad onto the multi-grain bread. “You know, he always looks so sad behind that smile in the pictures.”
“Yeah. He’s getting better, though. He seems to be connecting with his kids better.”
Ma looked at Clark over her glasses in surprise. “He has children? His hands must be awfully full.”
“Well, they’re all grown, really. The youngest, Damian, is about fifteen this year.”
“Oh, have you been getting to know them too?”
“Yeah, I met them shortly before we started dating. They’re all good kids, even if they could use a lesson in manners sometimes.”
Ma Kent smiled as she listened to Clark, and cut the sandwiches into halves.
“And I am telling you, son, I told Eldon and Carlos out the way, I says, ‘You are gonna regret buyin’ those fancy tractors with the auto-pilot and the GPS’, but they did, I mean I get it, they got a helluva lot of land to work, but wouldn’t you know it. Ten years later the goddamn tractor conglomerates won’t let us repair the damn tractors we bought, fair and square,” Pa clomped off his boots and opened the screen door to head inside.
“Tell me,” Pa said as he crossed the threshold into the house, “That seem right to you, son?”
“No, Mr. Kent it doesn’t,” Bruce said, following suit behind Pa Kent.
“Now, boys, it’s time for lunch. Leave the shop talk at the door,” Ma Kent kissed Pa on the cheek lovingly as she handed him a glass of iced tea. The irregular cubes from the tray clinked amongst the ombre golden-brown of the tea, all contained in a glass with flowers painted on it.
Bruce also found one in his hand as well. The tea was slightly sweet and refreshing.
They all sat at the wooden table, the plate piled high with sandwiches, and the large bowl was filled with a garden salad. A pitcher of iced tea accompanied the meal.
“Now hon, can we please see your eyes during the meal?” Ma asked as she passed the salad around.
“Ma, wait-”
Bruce took his sunglasses off, his irises immediately shrinking. The picture bleached to him as his retinas were overloaded by the natural light and bright blue sky. He started blinking rapidly, unable to keep his eyes more than half-open.
“Bruce, no, put those back on-” Clark waggled his hand at the sunglasses. “Ma, Bruce is… sick-”
“I’m cursed, ma’am.” Bruce Wayne interrupted. He was fighting to keep his eyes open. He had to look downward, keeping the sky out of his vision. “One of the effects is that my eyes are much more light-sensitive.”
“Oh well, goodness, ignore what I said then, put your glasses back on if it will make you more comfortable. Makes no sense for you to suffer on my account.” Ma patted Bruce’s hand.
Bruce put the sunglasses back on as Clark loaded his plate.
“Dig in,” Pa announced, as lunch began in earnest.
“Now Bruce,” Pa said as he finished a sandwich half, “I’m sure you know the drill by now-”
“He doesn’t, Pa.”
“Oh. Well, alright then. Well, Bruce, since Clark brought you here, we’d like to get to know the man who’s dating our son. Now, of course, you helped me with the tractor, and we had a good talk there. Right now, let’s just go over the basics. Obviously your financial needs are covered, so we can skip right on over that.”
“Now, how old are you, dear?”
“Thought the paper said he was in his forties or somethin’-”
“I’m approximately a century old.” Bruce admitted, for the first time, out loud. In front of Clark’s parents. It didn’t feel good to say.
Ma and Pa Kent’s eyes boggled.
“That’s a, uh, hell of an age gap, son.”
“I mean, Pa, you know I’m technically gonna be five thousand in three years-”
“Ut-tut-tut-tut, don’t you start with that again. Just because you got stuck in that… what’d Jor-El call it agin- “Phantom Zone”, just because you got stuck there for all that time when you was a baby in that ship, don’t think you can start telling me and Ma you’re older than we are.”
“You ‘member the Great Depression, Bruce?” Pa asked.
Bruce hung his head low. “Not as it happened here. I was isolated, learning.”
“Oh, education!” Martha exclaimed, changing the subject. “Where did you graduate from?”
“I’ve never graduated from an accredited institution, ma’am. I, um, left the United States at a young age, studying underneath various masters of craft. I-”
Bruce clutched the side of his head as he remembered, truly, where and when he was at that time in his life. Names filled in. Chronological specifics fell into place. His head hurt. His ears rang, and his nose began to bleed. Black ichor began to run from his eyes.
“I was moved out of Europe under cover of darkness in 1936, after the Nuremburg laws took effect. I was still only an academic at the time, and the people I was staying with didn’t want me getting caught by the Germans. I went east, through the Kingdom of Romania, then into Turkey, Iran, India, then finally Tibet. I learned in each of those places, though not all of my teachers were…” Bruce remembered his time with R’as. “Gracious.”
Bruce was aware of Clark dabbing away the blood and ichor from his face.
“Clark, is that part of-”
“I’ll save you some time, Ma. We’re both figuring it out, but yeah, anything that seems atypical, you can probably chalk it up to the curse.”
Ma studied Bruce intensely. The fact that Bruce might as well be a vampire wasn’t what bothered her. The gray skin, the pointed teeth, those sad, sunken eyes. No, what upset her were the scars. And not the ones that would upset most people, like the animal bite on his forearm, or the memory of a gunshot wound imprinted on his bicep. No, the ones that bothered her were small. Insignificant, really, when compared to their loud, boisterous cousins that were inflicted by violence. They ran pale, those shallow, raised marks. All but imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t seen their kind before. The ones that criss-crossed on the inside of the forearm to make it look random. And the ones that ran vertically up the center of the inside of his wrists.
“Clark mentioned you had children, Bruce? Tell us about them,” Ma beamed.
Pa raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Bruce smiled as he pulled out his phone, went to the photos app and into the “Private” folder.
He scrolled through the camera roll, and found a picture of his eldest. It was taken at a dive bar, somewhere in Blüdhaven. Dick Grayson was rolling his eyes, his birthday party hat sat cockeyed on his head. He was being necked by two redheads: one a tall, beautiful black woman with frankly massive amounts of curly red hair that blended to a warm orange like a bonfire cascading from her head, and the other was an athletic young man with freckles and ginger hair.
“This is my oldest, Richard. I adopted him after he survived his family’s murder. We might be the most alike, and I think that might drive him crazy. He’s passionate about everything he does, and in many ways he’s surpassed me, even if he doesn’t see it.”
“Handsome sonofagun that’s for damn sure,” Pa said.
Bruce found another photo. It was from the Naked Lady Party. Jason Todd was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by clothes, flexing his arms while two transgender women were laughing, hanging onto his bulging biceps while he suspended them with his muscular frame. He was grinning from ear to ear, his smile just a little wider on one side.
“This is from this week. This is Jason, my next oldest. He’s gone through so much, and still every day he chooses to give. I took him in, hoping to teach him, but I think it might be the other way around. I think he teaches me, and he might also just be the glue that holds us together, though he’d never admit that.”
“Oh my goodness, he’s almost as big as you, Clark!” Ma remarked.
“He sure is, I found that out the hard way.”
Bruce selected another photo. It was in winter at Cass and Steph’s favorite diner. They were sitting next to each other, bundled up in sweaters and jackets and scarves, foreheads touching, eyes closed and smiling. Cass had whipped cream on her chin, while Stephanie had whipped cream on her nose. There were two plates of mostly-eaten Belgian waffles and two mugs of cocoa in front of them.
“This is Cassandra and her girlfriend Stephanie,” Bruce indicated. “If I ever have any doubts as to the future of Gotham, they dispel it. They may be the most perfect ‘Batman and Robin’. Cassandra is an accomplished ballet dancer, and Stephanie is wonderfully creative and talented with music. I’ve often hoped I could see a performance of them both together.”
“Oh, they look so beautiful together,” Ma fawned.
“I met them when I found out they’d been breaking into my apartment,” Clark added.
“What, these girls? No wayyyyyy,” Pa snickered.
Bruce found his next picture. Duke was wearing a bucket hat and shorts with Timberland boots, looking like he was giving instructions. There was low-cost film equipment and props all around him, and it looked like they were filming with a hand-made miniature set.
“This is Duke. His parents were functionally taken from him by remnants of my past. He stepped up to aid Gotham when I couldn’t, and he’s a bright and talented young man. Here he’s working on a film project with his friends.” Batman sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make things right for him, but I won’t stop trying.”
“Think he’s seen any Roger Corman flicks?” Pa asked.
Bruce considered. “I think it’s likely.”
The next photo showed Damian laying in a hospital bed with Tim in the aftermath of Tim saving Damian from his grandfather. Tim was reading an untranslated manga, and Damian was asleep with a careworn-looking stuffed elephant.
“This is Timothy and Damian,” Bruce pointed to each subject. “I usually can’t get a good photo of Damian unless he’s not aware I’m taking one. Tim might be the smartest person I know, and he remains resourceful, imaginative, and absolutely driven. He’s a person for whom limits are meant to be tested, or in his preference, broken.” Bruce chuckled. “Sometimes for better or for worse.”
“What happened here?” Ma asked with concern.
“Tim put himself in harm’s way to save Damian from his grandfather. Some of his organs were damaged, and the weapon he was impaled with seemed to be laced with a poison that permanently injured him. He needs to rest for the majority of the day, but he still finds ways to be active.”
“Gracious,” Ma responded. “And this is Damian, your youngest?” She pointed to Damian in the picture.
“Yes ma’am. Damian is my only child related to me genetically. It wasn’t mine or his mother’s choice to have him, but we love him as if it were our choice. It was his grandfather’s desire that Damian become his heir, a future that neither Damian, his mother nor I wanted for him. We… struggle with it sometimes. We miss his mother, and he feels so much harder than most. He’s a wonderful visual artist, and he has a way with animals that borders on uncanny.”
Pa whistled. “That is a hell of a passel of kids you have there, son.”
“Oh they all seem wonderful and full of life. So many different kinds of artists, too!”
Bruce considered for a moment. “They may actually all be artists, now that I think about it. Dick was a professional trapeze artist, and I suspect Jason may be a writer and just not telling me.”
“Now Bruce, tell us more about your own interests and hobbies-”
“Now, hold on there, mama,” Pa quickly came to the rescue. The sandwich plate was empty, and everyone’s plates were clean.
He stroked his round, bearded chin, before checking his pocket and fishing out a flat, silver case.
“Why don’t we give it a break until dinner? You boys’re staying for dinner, right?” Pa looked over his glasses at Bruce and Clark expectantly.
“Uh, sure Pa. That’s okay, right Bruce?”
“Mhm.”
“Good!” Pa slapped his knees, then groaned as he got up out of the chair. “Bruce, my boy, why don’t we get some fresh air? I’m gonna burn one down, my joints are actin’ up.”
“Aw, Pa…” Clark groaned.
“Look, Clark, I got a green card now!” Pa could barely contain a grin as he fished the card out of his wallet.
Clark dragged his hands down his face as he saw Pa’s medical marijuana “green card”.
It was, as he should have expected, a laminated piece of green construction paper.
“Heh heh heh,” Pa chuckled, amused by his own joke. He patted his son on the shoulder briskly and headed out to the patio.
Bruce followed suit, and sat next to Pa on the wooden swinging bench.
Pa opened the silver case, and pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out. The case smelled a type of green as it opened. Hints of mint and fern amongst the musk. He selected one, lit it, then closed the case and put it into his pocket.
Pa took a drag thoughtfully, slowly breathing out the smoke in a relaxed, tumbling cloud.
“Ever done drugs?” Pa asked, as he offered the joint to Bruce.
“Not often, and this one is new,” Bruce responded. Being in an altered mental state was nothing new to Bruce. He’d used psychotropics before during his training, and he’d lost count of how many times and how many strains of fear gas he’d been subjected to.
“Alright, well, don’t be a hero. Just take ‘er easy,” Pa instructed as Bruce took a puff.
Bruce exhaled, and a relaxing, green quietude filled his chest. Complaints in his body he didn’t know he had suddenly quieted down, and his weight felt…distributed better? More evenly? His head definitely felt like it had been replaced with a balloon. So light, and wobbly. There was a comforting numbness in his cheeks and a tingling in his head and at the base of his skull.
“You’re a natural, kid,” Pa said as he took the joint back and had another puff.
Bruce couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity. He easily had outlived this old man by at least a generation or two, and yet, Pa was right. Bruce was the kid in this scenario.
He got himself under control, and sighed, looking out at the fields under that boundless prairie sky.
“The last time Clark brought someone home to meet us was all the way back when he was in high school, bless ‘im. She was real pretty, too. But, you know, young love… sometimes… sometimes folks need time to figure things out. Figure what they want. He was heartbroken about it, I think,”
Pa took another puff.
“Then all the Superman business started, and the poor boy… he just stopped taking real time for himself. Hard enough bein’ from outer space and all, the only thing left of it that weren’t what Jor-El and Lara gave ‘im gets used to try to kill ‘im. Never understand those Kryptonians. Should be using your power to leave things better for your children, but instead,” Pa puffed and breathed. “Chunks of their planet are flying through space, buncha fuckin’ loaded guns pointed right at the heads of all the survivors of their people. Helluva thing. Course, Clark’s right. Been about five thousand years since Krypton blew, might not be any other survivors.”
Pa passed the joint back to Bruce.
Bruce took a small hit, then passed it back.
“Boy, you might just be the strangest fella I ever did meet,” Pa continued. “You got more money’n you know what to do with, but it don’t seem like you act like it on purpose. Somebody tried to raise you right, I can tell.”
“Now,” Pa blew out a puff of smoke, then put out the roach. “Listen, Bruce. You know I’m not a big fan of the money, but you shown me that it doesn’t make you. And don’t worry about the non-traditional family stuff, Hell, Martha and I were swingers back in the day.”
“Dad!” Clark called from inside the house with shock.
“Heh, you know how it is, kids don’t wanna know their parents are having sex,” Pa chuckled. "But the list of social activities around here gets real short around here if you don't want Christ in 'em."
“Actually, my boys gave me the sex talk last week,” Bruce replied deadpan.
Pa guffawed with wheezing laughter, slapping his knee. “Oh, that’s good,” Pa said, finally. “That’s good, that’s good. Means your kids trust you.”
“I trust my boy, he wouldn’t have brought you here if he weren’t serious about you. As his father, I want more than anything to protect my boy, and to see him happy. So I gotta ask you, Bruce, man to man. When you look at my son, who do you see? Clark, Kal-El, or Superman?”
Bruce tilted his head in confusion.
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Bruce admitted. “I don’t see a difference, really. Clark’s not like me. He’s the same person no matter what he’s called or what he wears, because none of that defines him. Because no matter how I look at him, what I see is his kindness. The only difference I see is what shape that kindness takes.”
“Well I’ll be,” Pa said, leaning back into the bench. “You know, I never thought I’d hear someone say that they see my boy for who he is, not some picture they hold of him. You’re alright, son. ‘Course, Ma was immediately taken with you and all your kids. While you were showing your pictures, I haven’t seen her eyes light up like that since we got Clark.”
“Pa? What else needs doing today?” Clark asked, peeking through the crack in the screen door.
Pa stretched, and slapped his knees. “Welp, the tractor was the big thing on my list today, still need to move hay bales, but I reckon that can wait until mornin’. Big day today, with special guests. And you help out so much anyway it’s not been too hard keeping up with the farm.”
“Then can I show Bruce around?” Clark asked.
“Course you can, son.” Pa smiled.
Clark took Bruce by the hand, and walked down the wooden steps. Pa noticed the cape bundled in Clark’s free hand.
“Just remember to be back by dinner! You’ll be able to smell it,” Pa called as Clark walked with Bruce along the drive.
Ma Kent went out onto the patio, wiping her hands on her apron and sitting down next to Pa.
“Hamburgers tonight?” She asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Pa confirmed. “I’ll get the grill fired up here shortly.”
Pa fished his cigarette case out of his pocket and handed it to Ma, who opened it, and selected the roach. “Come on,” Pa groaned. “Grab a fresh one. Only the best for my lady.”
Ma rolled her eyes and smiled, lighting the fresh joint and taking a small, conservative hit.
Ma blew the smoke out of her nose, and began rocking the swinging bench.
“Where’d Clark and Bruce get off to?”
“Welp, Clark said he was gonna show Bruce around, so I imagine he’ll show him around the farm, show him the spaceship, and then they’re more’n’likely gonna be screwing like bunnies in the hayloft until dinnertime.”
“Clark finally found himself a keeper, didn’t he?” Ma asked.
“Sure seems like it,” Pa smiled, closing his eyes and relaxing to the gentle swinging motion of the bench.