A Trio of Virtues

Part II

Theological Virtues

...These three remain: Faith, Hope and Love. But the Greatest of these is Love.

1 Corinthians 13:13 (NIV)

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Love

With each step, the wood creaked. He couldn't help but wonder if his foot would just fall right through the protesting lumber. Looking down suspiciously, his head immediately shot up as he was caught.

"Y'know, my pa replaces these boards every winter. He just doesn't weather seal them."

"Why does he do that?"

"So, I can hear city slickers and traveling salesmen before they ever make it up to knock on my front door."

Looking at the now open door, Bruce smiled. "Mr. Kent. It's nice to see you again, sir."

"Likewise, Bruce. Come on in. No need to be so formal. Just set yourself down. That must have been some flight. Not to mention the car ride."

"Yes well," Bruce began as he took off his coat. "We had to keep up appearances."

"The press has been following us pretty closely, Pa," Clark explained as he took Bruce's coat and hung it next to his own on the rack by the door. Quickly, he joined them in the living room and headed for the offered sofa.

Once Clark sat down beside him, Bruce placed his hand on his knee before he continued. "They've been crawling everywhere trying to find something juicier than that footage they keep recycling of us eating dinner together."

"I saw the video on the news. Do people just follow you around with cameras?"

"Everybody has a cell phone camera these days," Bruce replied with a shrug. "At least, they got my good side."

Raising his eyebrows, Jonathan mouthed "okay" as Martha Kent ran out of the kitchen. Making a bee-line for her son, she threw her arms around his shoulders, dragging him to her. As she lamented the hours, the days, the weeks since his last visit or phone call, Clark helplessly spurted apologies and explanations. Finally, she released him and his now tussled hair only to turn towards the man seated casually beside him.

Reclined on the sofa arm, Bruce shook with the strain of repressed laughter until he caught Martha Kent's eye. Then, he picked his chin off his fist just as he sat straighter. As she closed in, he cleared his throat and flashed a smile - A smile that faltered when she placed her hands on her hips and called him that man distracting her son away from her.

To her credit, she kept up the act for another thirty seconds before collapsing into a fit of giggles. Stumbling over to her husband, she used the corners of her apron to wipe tears from her eyes. Patting his chest, she slowly calmed herself. With a final, loud sigh, she clapped her hands once to get the room's attention.

"Clark, you go help your father finish the last minute chores around the farm. Bruce, you can come help me in the kitchen." With that, Clark stood up and followed his Father to the front door. Stunned, Bruce could only watch as Clark waved once before heading out into the cold. Taking in the shock on Bruce's face, Martha placed her hands on her hips and commanded, "Come on, everyone here works for their food. You can help me set the table."

Blinking rapidly, he stood up and followed her to the kitchen.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked up to the crowded stove and pointed to a small nook containing a standard size, rectangular dining table, four chairs and full-size china cabinet - all made out of oak. Walking over to the china cabinet, Bruce opened the top drawers and found placemats and napkins. Closing the drawers, he opened the next set and found a sterling silverware set and service. Looking through the glass doors of the cabinet, he saw the plates and bowls. Taking a hold of the knobs, he started to open the cabinet doors when he heard, "My mother gave us that china set as a wedding present."

Drawing in a deep breath, he opened the cabinet all the way. Carefully, but efficiently, he stacked salad plates on dinner plates and bread plates on salad plates. As he reached for bowls, he paused. Looking over his shoulder, he asked, "Will you be needing bowls?"

"No, nothing like that."

Taking the twelve part stack, he placed the plates on the corner of the table before turning back to the cabinet and gently closing the doors. Pulling open the top drawers, he pulled out four sets of placemats and napkins. He rummaged through the drawer a little, but failed to find napkin rings. With a shrug, he closed the drawer and turned back to the table. He put down four white cloth rectangles before reaching for the bread plates. Swiftly, he placed a plate in the upper left corner of each place setting. Setting the salad plates beside the dinner plates, he set a dinner plate in the center of each cloth, resting a salad plate on each dinner plate.

One at a time, he picked up a square cloth napkin. Folding it into a triangle, he twisted the cloth until it sat up elegantly as he placed it in the center of the salad plate. Taking a step back, he took in the sight of the molded cloth orchid. Satisfied, he quickly repeated his actions on the other three place settings.

Turning back to the cabinet, he pulled open the second set of drawers. He took out one set of silverware at a time, placing it properly on each placemat. As he turned to ask another question, he jumped back. Seated at the table, Martha Kent looked back at him. Without saying a word, she motioned to the next chair over. Stiffly, he complied and waited. Thankfully, he didn't wait long.

"I can tell you've done this before."

"Of course. I was raised by a butler, after all."

"You were about to ask me something before."

"Do you need me to ready a coffee service?"

"No, that's okay. Don't bother yourself."

"It's no bother. You have a service in the drawer that's sufficient to serve four."

"I noticed you didn't say full."

"That's because it's not. It's missing a teacup and a saucer."

"Yes, I know. Once, when Clark was four years old, he got into the drawers. I came in and found him with the whole service on the floor surrounding him in a half-circle. He was holding a teacup set at the time. I guess I startled him because he jumped and dropped the set. It shattered beyond repair. Oh, he cried the whole time he helped me clean up. Once the cup was in the trash, I sat him down and explained that while things are never more important than people, we should always be careful around other people's things."

"That's a nice story."

"What kind of stories do you have?"

"Nothing like yours. Holidays were difficult for a long time after my parents died. Alfred did his best, but it just wasn't the same."

"I see. How about before they died?"

"I suddenly realize where Clark gets his interviewing skills."

"Flattery will get you everywhere but out of this question."

"Okay," he sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. He sat quietly looking Martha directly in the eye, hoping she would flinch. She never did. Finally, he swallowed hard and softly said, "My parents were involved in many charities. The holidays were often punctuated by galas and charity dinners."

"No, I mean your family memories, not the public ones. We used to take Clark caroling every Christmas, but that's not what made for the dearest memories."

Twirling the corner of a placemat, Bruce considered her words. As he twisted the soft cloth between his fingertips, he recalled, "We always had Thanksgiving dinner in the main dining room. Without leaves, the table can seat twelve people, but we didn't even use half of it. We sat huddled on one end, close enough to talk quietly and touch easily. I'd..."

Quietly, he found her hand comforting. As it laid across his, stilling his fidgeting. Gently, she warmed his skin, patting it softly. As his eyes met hers, she offered, "You could call me Ma, if you want."

"Thank you. That's very kind, but..." Letting go of the placemat, he quickly took her hand in his. "I've only ever called one woman Mother and she's the only one I ever will."

"I completely understand."

As they smiled, they heard the Kent men enter the house. Standing, their hands squeezed once more before parting. Suddenly, Martha was all business again. Back at her stove, she stirred and turned off burners. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, "Can you go and tell them that the food is ready?"

Dinner, for the most part, was pleasant. The food was simple, but perfectly cooked. While Clark and Jonathan seemed to be in a contest over who could shovel in the most food, Bruce was a bit more discerning. He took two perfectly cut slices of turkey breast, a large helping of roasted potatoes and vegetables and a modest portion of stuffing. His one indulgence was Martha's cornbread. By the end of the night, he had three pieces.

Of course, Martha Kent went about interrogating Bruce in her usual way. She wasn't shy and showed no fear as she asked question after question about Bruce's past, his present and his plans for the future. Finally, a day's worth of work and the excitement of the day caught up to her. After her chin slipped off her knuckles for the second time, Jonathan placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook her awake enough to steer her away from the table and make her way upstairs.

Alone at last, Bruce and Clark waited to speak until they heard a bedroom door click shut. Turning to each other, they glanced around and nodded. Together, they stood up and cleared the table. As Clark prepared the dishwater, Bruce brought the pots and pans over from the stove.

Carefully, they washed and dried the china, returning it to the cabinet. In rolled up sleeves, Clark washed the pots and pans, leaving them to dry on the draining tray. As he let the water down the drain, he felt two arms wrap around his waist. Leaning back against a strong chest, he grabbed a dishtowel and dried his hands. Softly humming under his breath, Clark gasped as lips ghosted across the ridge of his ear.

Turning around, he pulled Bruce into a fierce embrace. Kissing, hugging, clawing and tugging at any flesh in sight, their eyes met as they leaned in for a kiss. There was no need for words. They both knew what the other wanted.

In a burst of super speed, Clark turned off all the lights in the house and returned to Bruce's side. Taking Bruce's hand, he led him up the stairs to his old bedroom. Opening the door, he let Bruce enter first. Clark leaned against the door jamb as he watched Bruce take in the room.

Walking over to the tall dresser across the room, Bruce paused to examine a collection of high school sport trophies. Glancing back at the doorway, he shook his head as he took in the pennants and posters on the walls. Leaning against the dresser, he observed, "You were quite the little joiner, weren't you?"

"What can I say?"

"You did football, baseball and track?"

"Yeah. Didn't you play sports in high school?"

"I attended an English boarding school. They had a rugby team and a soccer team, but I wasn't on either of them. I tended to keep to myself."

"I would have thought you would be big man on campus. You are Bruce Wayne, after all."

"Oh, you mean I'm fantastically rich. Well, at an English boarding school, everyone is fantastically rich so money doesn't make you stand out much."

"That's not what I meant." Pushing off the door jamb, Clark closed the door. Crossing the room, he walked up to Bruce and placed his hands on his hips. Pulling him closer, he whispered, "I mean you're BRUCE WAYNE. You're the Human man who everyone knows is Human but instills more fear in the heart of a criminal than any other member of the league. The man who didn't blink once before tossing me across the room the first time we met."

Watching pride and awe dance across Clark's face, Bruce waited until he finished speaking before he drew him down for a quick kiss. One kiss became another. Each subsequent kiss became deeper until they melted into each other. As the intensity of the moment became overwhelming, a most undignified whimper escaped Bruce's lips as Clark pulled away.

With his index finger pressed against soft lips, Clark nodded to the right and tapped his left ear. The message was clear and it made Bruce grin. Drawing closer, Bruce proceeded to kiss his way down the body before him.

As he felt liquid heat surround his erection, Clark flung his head back. Once the humming and low, guttural moans began, he pressed his wrist to his mouth and dug his fingers into jet black hair. As his need became urgent, he couldn't stop the groan that flew out of him as Bruce pulled away. His body on fire. He could hear his blood pumping through his body as Bruce quietly disrobed.

With pants and shirt piled on the floor, Bruce turned toward the twin size bed. Advancing, he stopped a foot from the bed and knelt down. Placing his hands on the mattress, he looked over his shoulder at Clark and waited.

Stroking his erection, Clark paused long enough to grab a lotion bottle. Squeezing its contents into his palm, he prepared himself first. Kneeling behind Bruce, he quickly prepared him as well.

Gently, he kissed the space between Bruce's shoulder blades as he entered him. Once fully-sheathed, he wrapped his hands around Bruce's shoulders and pressed his forehead against the spot he just graced with a kiss.

Straining against one another, sweat slick fingers slipped down slippery skin until they once again gained purchase at the swell of the biceps. Digging into the hard muscle found there, he rode on furiously, nearing completion. With a final painful squeeze, Clark arched his back and found release as he pressed Bruce against the bed.

Coming down, his grip loosened. Over a map of scars covering Bruce's back, his fingers paused to trace the deeper ones. Down his flanks where the tingle of his fingertips made soft laughter erupt. Finally, taking hard flesh in hand, he worked at bringing Bruce to completion. Pressing tender kisses to shaking shoulders, he felt the moment Bruce let go as the body beneath him tensed, pushing back against him.

Finally, they collapsed beside the bed. Sinking to the carpet, they sat side by side, panting while they lightly brushed their fingers across trembling skin. Softly, Bruce ran his fingertips up Clark's neck, pausing to cup the chiseled chin as he whispered, "That wasn't the first time we met."

"What?"

"That time, in the restaurant. It wasn't the first time we met. The first time was at the airport."

"I didn't think you even noticed me at the airport."

"I notice everything, Clark."

Laughing softly, Clark smiled easily until his eyes caught the speckled skin on Bruce's arms. Narrowing his eyes, he examined the wounds that would be blackened bruises by morning.

"Bruce, I'm so sor-"

The fingers pressed to his lips stopped his apology. With a shake of his head, Bruce coolly countered, "Don't. Don't ever apologize for what happens when we make love."

"But..."

"But, nothing. Being able to bruise is a part of my human condition."

"Bruce, I-"

Again, fingertips returned to his lips.

"I know. I love you, too."

The smile he received in response was like none he had ever seen before. It stretched across Clark's face and reached up to brighten the blue of his eyes. It seemed to light up the whole room and yet be reserved for him and him alone. Cupping Clark's cheek, he pulled until they sealed this new revelation with a kiss.

Breaking away, Clark stood up. Pulling Bruce to his feet, they climbed into the ridiculously small bed. After much tossing and turning, they finally settled down with Clark's back pressed against the wall and Bruce balancing precariously on the edge. Wrapping a strong arm around Bruce's waist, Clark whispered, "Don't worry about falling. I've got you."

Snuggling into the body behind him and the pillow beneath his head, Bruce sighed, "I know."