#ponyo reference

Bruce does a little happy wiggle on the couch with his moth man plush being in the little's grasp. And gets up and speeds up the stairs and of course, Alfred follows him all the way to his son's little room. Now in said room the older man walks over to a smaller in length dresser , and looks through all of the mittens Bruce owns. Bruce himself settles down on the plush grey fuzzy beanbag chair and waits for his papa to find the fishy themed mittens.

Once Alfred said mittens he gets the mittens on his boy's hands , along with some more weather appropriate clothing. Alfred putting a pumpkin beanie on the other's head with a soft kiss to his forehead.

"There we are, all nice and cozy now"

"Mhms cozy. We goes now?"

"Not yet, you little sir. Haven't had lunch yet. And we are having supper with Clark and his parents."

Bruce huffs he had forgot about lunch maybe he can try and convince his papa that he doesn't need lunch, and the pumpkins are more important. Which is definitely going to be hard considering Alfred is a very stubborn man when it comes to his heath.

" but papa , we gotta go-"

"Yes darling I know. Here why don't I make you a filling sandwich and carrot sticks for our trip. You can eat it in the car. How does that sound?"

" like in Ponyo? Just wit outs the magic fishy"

" yes I suppose it's kinda like the movie in a way"

The drive out to the Kent farm was filled with the hum of tires and the crunch of leaves under the car's wheels. Gotham had already begun to fade into the background, replaced by rolling fields and the golden sprawl of autumn.

In the passenger seat, Bruce Wayne sat bundled up in his coat, fishy mittens on his hands, mothman plush resting in his lap. His long legs were folded up awkwardly in the seat, knees nearly bumping the dash, but that didn't stop him from quietly munching on his neatly cut sandwich and humming along to the soft music playing through the speakers.

"Papa" he mumbled between bites, voice smaller than usual. "we almost there?"

"Nearly, my dear" Alfred replied, his tone soft and calm, one hand steady on the wheel. "You'll know when we arrive the air will smell of hay and apple pie, and you'll likely hear Mr. Kent calling for Clark from the fields."

Bruce smiled at that, gaze dreamy as he watched the trees blur past. 'Clark loud' he murmured with a giggle.

"That he is" Alfred agreed, amusement coloring his proper British tone. "Though he comes by it honestly."

Sure enough, as the car pulled into the long dirt drive, a familiar voice rang out from the porch, carrying that honey thick southern warmth that could melt frost itself.

"Well, I'll be darned if it ain't Alfred Pennyworth and the lil Bat himself!"

Jonathan Kent called, waving one hand high in the air. Martha Kent appeared beside him, wiping flour on her apron.

"Oh, Bruce, sugar! Come give your Aunt Martha a hug before you run off to them pumpkins!"

Bruce lit up, that gentle regression glow making his face soft and open. Alfred chuckled, stepping out first and moving to open Bruce's door.

"Go on, love" he encouraged quietly. "But do mind your manners."

Bruce nodded, tucking his plush under one arm before heading over still tall and broad-shouldered, but moving with that loose, bouncy gait that only surfaced when he was small in heart. Martha met him halfway, arms open.

"Well, look at you! Ain't you just the cutest pumpkin I ever did see. That hat is near as orange as our barn!"

Bruce ducked his head bashfully, voice shy. "Papa said I gotta be cozy."

"Smart man"

Jonathan said, shaking Alfred's hand firmly when he reached the porch. "Good to see ya again, friend. Still lookin sharp as a tack."

Alfred's lips curved faintly. "And you, old chap, look remarkably well for a man who insists on working his fields rather than retiring."

Jonathan laughed. "Ha! Ain't wrong bout that. Come on, then Clark is out back pickin pumpkins like he's preparin for harvest festival."

As they made their way toward the patch, the air grew thick with the scent of earth and sweet cider. Bruce walked between Alfred and Martha, occasionally pointing out a particularly round pumpkin with delighted little noises.

"Papa! Look! Big ones!"

"I see them, darling" Alfred said fondly. "Though I say some of those are nearly your size."

Jonathan chuckled, voice carrying a teasing warmth. "Shoot, we'll get ya one just your size then. Clark! Get over here, boy, and help ya friend pick his pumpkin!"

Clark trotted over, hair ruffled and cheeks flushed from the wind. "Hey, Bruce! You ready to find the best one?"

Bruce nodded eagerly. "Bestest one! For carving!"

 "Well, we better get to it, then. Let's see what we can find."

The two of them wandered the rows, tapping pumpkins and debating which had the 'best face.' Alfred and Jonathan lingered behind, watching the pair with quiet amusement.

"Ya know" Jonathan said, crossing his arms. "you can tell that boy of yours feels right at home here. He smiles a lot more out here in the fresh air."

"I've noticed" Alfred replied, eyes soft as they followed Bruce's slow, content movements through the patch. "He... lets himself breathe here. No weight on his shoulders for a few hours."

"Good" Jonathan said simply. "He needs that. Every man does."

By the time Bruce decided on a plump, crooked pumpkin, the sun was hanging low and golden.

"Clark help me carry?"

he asked, looking sheepish the pumpkin was large, but Bruce could've easily lifted it in another mindset. Clark  grinned knowingly.

"You got it, buddy."

Together they waddled back toward the porch, laughter floating across the fields. Martha met them halfway with a tray of mugs.

"Here we go, boys , hot cider for brave pumpkin pickers!" she said brightly. "Careful now, it's hot as a billy goat in a bonnet."

Bruce accepted his mug with both mittened hands, sniffing it before taking a careful sip. His eyes went wide, and he smiled softly.

"Smells like candy, Aunt Martha."

She chuckled, brushing a lock of his hair back. "That's cause I put a lil cinnamon in it, sugar. Makes everything taste like home."

"Mhm" Bruce hummed, sipping at it once again. "Tastes tasty."

Martha's eyes softened. "Well, I reckon that's the best compliment I could ever get."

Alfred joined them on the porch steps, his own mug in hand. Watching Bruce nestled between Clark and Martha, he felt a small ache of gratitude a kind of peace he rarely allowed himself to feel.

"You've outdone yourself again"

Alfred said quietly to Martha. "You've managed to make even my brooding young man forget Gotham exists for a spell."

Martha smiled knowingly. "That's the magic of the countryside, Alfred. Y'all city folks forget how to slow down sometimes."

Alfred chuckled into his cider. "Quite right. Though I think I'll still take my tea."

The porch filled with laughter as the evening cooled. Fireflies began to sparkle in the grass, the sky dimming to a deep purple. Bruce had his head resting lightly against Alfred's shoulder, voice sleepy and small.

"Papa?"

"Yes, little love?" Alfred murmured.

"Next week... we make pie? Like Aunt Martha's?"

Alfred smiled, pressing a hand to Bruce's back. "Of course, darling. We'll make the finest pie in Gotham."

Jonathan lifted his mug in good humor. " y'all bring one em pies next time an we'll see whose is best."

Alfred's lips twitched in mock offense. "Oh, is that a challenge, Mr. Kent?"

"Sure as sugar it is" Jonathan said, grinning.

Bruce let out a sleepy laugh, murmuring, 'Pie contest...' before slipping into quiet drowsiness, the warmth of family and the scent of cinnamon wrapping around him like a blanket. And there, under the soft glow of the porch light, Alfred held his grown boy close still strong, still capable, but small where it mattered. And for a few sweet hours, that was more than enough.