#It's a whole lot more fun to write them all when they're ribbing Damian though

[audreycritter]

Hi, I love your writing! I don't know if your flash fiction prompts are still open, so if they're not, ignore this! But, if they are open: Damian and Martha Kent? Pretty please?

This was an ask clarified to be in the Cor Et Cerebrum universe and it was SO MUCH FUN to write. I’m sorrynotsorry it got so long for something that’s just talking, haha. Rating: GRelationships: Gen/Friends

Gear Shift (AO3 Link)

Damian Wayne is sitting in the front of an old Ford F-150 on a rough wool blanket thrown over the tattered upholstery of the bench seat. He’s got both hands on the steering wheel, but the engine is off and the window down as he listens to the argument behind him.

Martha Kent is on the side porch right in view of the dirt road up into the west field and Jonathan Kent is standing in the bed of the truck, next to the two massive and grayish-white, plastic tanks of organic fertilizer. The old man has a red bandanna tucked under his ballcap, draped down over the back of his neck.

“Don’t you let him drive that truck, Jonathan Kent,” Martha snaps from the porch, shielding her eyes against the sun.

“He’s thirteen!” Jonathan protests, slapping his hand against a tank. “Clark started driving for haying when he was twelve!”

“You know why that’s different,” Martha says sternly.

“The Llewellyns start their kids at twelve, too,” Jonathan says stubbornly.

Damian holds his palm against the worn gearshift, uncertain what he should do. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard them really argue before.

“Caleb Reinhardt had Eric driving when he was nine. Nine, Martha! Now I’ll grant you he was tall and I’ve never met such a level-headed kid all my life.”

“That was nigh on twenty years ago,” Martha snaps. “Things have changed.”

“He’s thirteen,” Jonathan says. “I’m not taking him joy-ridin’! And he already knows how to drive. You do, don’t you?”

He looks at Damian and Damian nods. He feels like he’s betraying Martha Kent, who throws her hands in the air and says, “Alright, then, Jon, but if you get him killed you’re gonna make the phone call, not me.”

Jonathan clambers down from the truck bed and strides over to the porch, where he and Martha stand with their heads bent close together; her side is to him, though, a little defensively according to Damian’s own understanding of body language.

And if he was a normal kid, maybe he wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying. Or maybe he’d just be polite enough to tune it out and amuse himself for a minute with studying the gauges in the truck. But he’s got sharp ears and a sharper sense of… maybe it’s not curiosity, maybe it’s self-preservation. Whatever the reason, he can hear what they’re saying across the quiet morning yard and he listens. He watches in the large side view mirror.

“Do you trust me, Marty?” Jonathan asks, and Martha waves a hand dismissively. And then she nods.

“You know I do,” she replies. “I’m not saying I agree with you.”

“Is it my decision?” he asks seriously, his tone firm, his ballcap and bandanna wadded in his hand. “Am I gonna be in the doghouse over this?”

“No,” she replies, resigned. “Go on, then. You know how I feel, I’ve made it clear. But I’m done meddlin’.”

Jonathan kisses the top of her head and pulls his cap and bandanna back on, and heads back to the truck. He hauls himself up into the bed and taps the rear window in the cab.

Damian twists and slides it open.

“You close up that other window, now, and take it slow up that slope.”

The engine rumbles as it turns over and Damian glances in the mirror one more time, as he cranks the window shut. Martha is still standing on the porch and he can’t figure out her posture– she’s got one hand on her hip while she watches Jonathan, but she looks neither angry nor accepting.

For all the arguing, Damian does know how to drive and he can drive well, thanks to a fleet of manual transmission cars and a lot of not-always-authorized practice. Jonathan shouts instructions through the open rear window and they make slow laps around fields while the farmer sprays the young crops before the sun climbs too high.

They’re back to the farmhouse by lunch and Damian parks the truck in the gravel by the nearest barn while Jonathan opens the empty tanks to air out. Damian braces himself for whatever reception they get inside, uncertain how much of Martha’s lingering displeasure will fall solely on Jonathan’s head and how much will trickle down onto his own. She’s never been really angry with him before, even if he’s seen her annoyed in small ways or scolding, but it always seems to come from a calm center. And he’s never heard her really argue with Jonathan before.

Jonathan himself is whistling like he hasn’t a care in the world as they walk toward the farmhouse and Damian nods at the old farmer’s thanks. He really did enjoy helping and it’s only now back at the house that he’s worried; out in the fields, it was the furthest thing from his mind.

They both kick their boots off on the porch and the screen door creaks as they go inside. Martha is in the kitchen slicing pieces of cold ham. There’s already a plate with a tomato sandwich on thick homemade bread for Damian.

“How’d it go?” she asks, sounding cheerful, and Damian takes the plate with a confused frown. He carries it to the dining room where he’s sure they’ll follow, while Jonathan chats with her. They speak in low voices, too low for him to hear with the air conditioner running in the dining room. Then Martha laughs and Jonathan pokes his head into the room just as Damian sets his plate down, “Come on and eat on the porch with us. Martha made some sweet tea if you want a glass.”

They eat on the front porch under the shade from the roof and when Jonathan stands and announces he’s running into town for some things, Damian declines his invitation to come along.

“Suit yourself,” the old man says amiably. “Just boring bank and feed store business anywho. Shouldn’t be long.”

He leaves and Damian is acutely aware that Martha is sitting on the porch swing, not bustling around to gather the plates and empty glasses, because he is still sitting and she’s waiting him out.

“Jason’s classes end at four today,” Damian observes as a distraction.

“They do,” Martha agrees. “He’ll be back for supper.”

“Would it be alright if I climbed into the barn loft to do some sketching?” Damian asks, still looking at the steps he’s sitting on instead of her. His legs look too long to him after that last growth spurt. He’s still not used to how far down the steps they go when he stretches out and they feel like not part of his own body.

“Only if you stay off that loose hay,” Martha says. “I was proud of you today when Jon and I were talking. You didn’t jump into the middle of things to defend yourself. Last year, you might have.”

Damian looks back at her sharply. She and Jonathan acted like nothing was wrong the entire meal and now he’s genuinely bewildered.

“Why are you pretending not to be mad at him?” Damian demands.

Martha’s eyes open wide in an expression of surprise and then her face relaxes. She stands and begins gathering the plates.

“Come help me thin the carrots before it’s too hot,” she says. Damian follows her into the house with tall glasses in his hands and he sets them in the sink.

Minutes later, they’re outside again, this time in the smaller family garden near the house. Martha has a wide sunhat tied beneath her chin and Damian kneels next to her to pull the feathery carrot tops she points to. They dump the pullings into an scratched yellow bucket for the chickens.

“I’m not mad at Jonathan,” Martha says after they work for a bit. “We didn’t agree, that’s for certain, but we agreed it was his decision.”

“You weren’t happy when we left,” Damian says, watching a worm wriggle in the spot where he’d pulled a skinny, short carrot.

“Nope,” Martha shakes her head. “But most folks take some time to get over things they don’t like. Doesn’t mean they can’t.”

Damian considers this.

“If I were at home and I fought with Father,” he says, knowing that it’s not exactly the same relationship, “we might stay angry for hours or days. Until one of us relented.”

“Once, Clark went a whole week without talking to me,” Martha says. “Lord, but that boy can hold a grudge when it suits him. I’m glad it’s a rare thing.”

“Father and,” Damian pauses, wondering if he’s giving too much away but also genuinely puzzled and trying to make sense of things. Sometimes the way the Kents behave is just so foreign, like another language that he’s never been taught. Or perhaps just a separate dialect, where he misses phrases and idioms while following the general direction.

“I’m no snitch,” Martha teases him, ribbing him with an elbow. “But you keep your secrets if you need to.”

“Father and Selina sometimes quarrel,” Damian says, guessing this to be a similar relationship of a sort. Closer than son and father, that’s for certain. “It might take them weeks or months to resume their relationship. They don’t always argue loudly. Sometimes, I am not aware there was a disagreement until I notice her prolonged absence.”

“Hm,” Martha says thoughtfully. When she doesn’t start in on a lecture in reaction to this, he continues.

“I do not think he has spoken to Mother for over a year. But perhaps that should not count. I am uncertain they have had any conversation not resulting in conflict for the entirety of my life.”

“You know your grandparents fought,” Martha says casually, dropping a handful of carrots into the bucket. They fall soft and soundless on the stems of the others.

“What?” Damian says, frozen. “You knew them?”

“Of course not,” Martha laughs, not loud or hard, but gentle and quick. “But honey, everybody fights.”

Damian forces his hands to keep moving, to seize vegetable matter and pluck it out of the earth. He has never heard his Wayne grandparents spoken of with anything but solemn or confiding tones, something like hushed reverence. Even Father, for all his interior motivations and the ways he makes them known, doesn’t really talk about his parents in the days before they were murdered. And he must have memories– he was nearly the same age when they died as Damian was when he left the League for Gotham, and Damian most assuredly remembers his life before.

“If they were married, they fought,” Martha says. “Now, I’m not saying they screamed or threw things. Some people fight so silent and still you never can figure out how they even know they’re mad about the same thing. I knew a couple like that once, up on a farm on the other side of town. They left to join their kids in Arizona years ago, but that’s beside the point. I was over piecing a quilt with her once and every time he came in the house, she’d get all tight-lipped and he’d just scowl. But they made up all the same. Worst fight they’d ever had, she told me later, and about wallpaper of all things.”

“That sounds like Father and Pennyworth,” Damian says with a grin at the plants in front of him. “They fought like that over a red chair once.”

“Now that is a battle of wills if I’ve ever heard tell,” Martha observes with a chuckle. “Anyways, my point was, everybody fights. Fathers and sons, sisters and sisters, husbands and wives. And some of them it just tears apart. Some hurt people can go a whole lifetime and never reconcile. But if you don’t wanna go leaving a trail of broken relationships behind you, you figure out how to fight and get over it, real fast.

“So, to answer your question, no. I’m not mad at Jonny. I was. And I’m sure he was miffed at me for challenging him. He doesn’t like it much when I do, but I do it all the same, and we both survive. But we both got over it and because we don’t like to be miserable, we both got over it pretty darn quick.”

“Tt,” Damian says softly, thinking. “I would not have helped by defending my driving experience then.”

“Nope,” Martha says, standing and brushing her skirt off. “You know what the Bible says about that? ‘He who meddles in a quarrel not his own is like one who takes a passing dog by the ears.’ You might be fine, might get your fingers bit. I used to quote that one at Clark pretty often, he had a habit of getting himself involved in things. Guess I didn’t convince him otherwise very well, now did I?”

Damian grins again, this time at her.

“I don’t think he learned,” Damian comments.

“Well,” Martha says, picking up the bucket. It’s not very heavy but Damian takes it anyway and she lets him. They pick their way out of the garden and toward the chicken coop. “Well, I didn’t mean for this to turn into a lesson. Goodness, I hated when my Ma did that to me– take an honest question and turn it into a moral, but here I am, doing it to you same as I did to Clark and Conner.”

“It’s alright,” Damian says. “I am interested in finding alternative methods to conflict resolution. It is a significant portion of my life.”

“Yes,” Martha says, looking over at him. He’s nearly as tall as her now. “I suppose it is. Not exactly of the mending fences variety though.”

“There may be that as well,” Damian says. “Perhaps you have observed Father’s past habit of incorporating orphaned youth into our family. I had acquired several siblings even before my arrival.”

“Incorporating,” Martha says while Damian tosses the carrot bits into the chicken yard, “is perhaps not the word I would use. But you do have an awful lot of people to get along with, I’ll grant you that.”

“They are suitable,” Damian says, watching the chicken peck at carrot tops and squawk at each other. “Thank you for answering my question.”

“You know,” Martha says slowly, in that way she speaks when she’s second-guessing herself. He’s only heard it often enough to know what it is. “Me and Jonathan have had a lot of practice and we made a commitment to each other a long, long time ago. I don’t want to give you the impression that I think everything your daddy does is the wrong way to do things.”

“He is a very capable man,” Damian says, “but it is a foolish person who only seeks one teacher. It is wise to search out the master of each art.”

Damian is not trying to be profound, just honest. He is not prepared for the way that Martha Kent’s eyes suddenly fill with tears, the way she turns her head to snap at the chickens to hide it.

“Look at you,” she says gently, glancing at him a moment later. “You stop that growin’ up and take a year or two off, else I’m gonna have to pester your daddy or Clark into finding some new little ones. We still need a baby around here.”

Damian doesn’t move. He’s worried now that he insulted or wounded her, until she leans over and gives him a quick hug. He doesn’t pull away or do much to return the hug, but he accepts it and the relief within his ribcage is immense.

“Come on inside and keep me company while I make cake. I’m in a mood,” Martha says, walking back toward the farmhouse. “I’ll let you lick the beaters if you still need good reason to come indoors.”

“I suppose it would be unkind to boast about this to Jason,” Damian says, setting the bucket down and tagging along after her. “But I do enjoy his exaggerated outrage.”

“To be honest, honey, I think he does, too,” Martha confides in a low whisper as they go into the kitchen. “But maybe we’ll just save one in the fridge for him just in case.”

Damian nods and washes his hands, looking out the window at the field as he does.

“Thank you for trusting Jonathan,” he says. “I like to drive.”

“Oh boy,” Martha says. “I know that tone. Your daddy doesn’t let you at home, does he?”

Damian smirks at her over his shoulder. “We don’t have a farm,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “But it’s okay. I’m not a snitch.”

“Lordy. Jonathan’s gonna be, though,” Martha says. “But that’s alright. He brought it on himself. Go get your sketch pad. I’m not gonna have you pilfering bits of brown sugar while I work, so you should keep yourself busy.”

Damian quick-steps away from the towel she swats at his legs and returns a moment later with his sketchbook. While she whisks eggs for the cake, he sits at the small kitchen table in the room thick with the smell of vanilla and sketches the soft green stems of carrots from memory. It is quiet while he works and while she works, but it is a good quiet and he feels no need to fill it with words– the scritch scritch of charcoal pencil and the thwick thwick thwick of beaters are enough.