Chapter Text
The last day in Las Vegas began much more quietly than the previous ones.
Far too quietly, considering that Dick was currently trying to force all of their merchandise into a suitcase that clearly didn't have enough room, Jason was still hugging his championship belt—now signed by even more wrestlers than before—as if it were a priceless treasure, and Tim was reviewing the itinerary for a safe flight home to calm his anxieties while Bruce watched the chaos from a seat near the suite's window.
Surprisingly relaxed as he ate breakfast.
"I don't understand how you managed to buy so much stuff in three days," he muttered.
"Emotional investment," Dick replied immediately.
"Historical value," Tim corrected.
"Rhea Ripley and Liv Morgan touched this belt and kissed me on the cheek. I'm never washing it," Jason added, as though that explained absolutely everything.
Bruce decided not to pursue that conversation any further.
Meanwhile, Alfred was finishing packing the last few items into a suitcase with the kind of elegant efficiency that made even packing after a chaotic weekend look effortless.
"I have to admit," Dick said while forcing his backpack shut, "this was probably the best trip we've ever taken."
"No argument there," Jason added.
"Objectively, it was quite successful. We all had fun, and Bruce probably managed to get a date with someone decent for once," Tim confirmed.
Bruce smiled slightly as he listened to them and then looked at Alfred.
"And you?"
The butler glanced up.
"Me, sir?"
"Did you enjoy the trip?"
Jason laughed.
"Of course he did. He probably spent the whole weekend gambling like a rich old man."
"Young Master Todd, I must remind you that I only gambled reasonable amounts and, more importantly, with moderation."
"You won money."
"That was merely statistics."
Dick grinned broadly.
"You also kept mysteriously disappearing..."
Tim looked up from his tablet.
"And coming back smelling like expensive perfume."
Alfred maintained exactly the same neutral expression.
Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly.
"...Alfred."
The butler calmly adjusted one of Bruce's ties inside the suitcase.
"Yes, sir?"
Bruce watched him for several seconds.
And then Alfred, very elegantly, remembered his weekend.
It turned out that Las Vegas was infinitely more enjoyable without four men shouting over one another about completely different topics at the same time.
On the first night, after discreetly escaping the family chaos at the Bellagio, Alfred had found himself strolling peacefully through the hotel's casinos, supposedly "just to observe the atmosphere."
Three hours later, he was winning money from a drunk man at blackjack while a cocktail waitress told him she adored his accent.
And he was only just getting started with his weekend.
Depending on how one chose to look at it, that was either a very good thing or a very bad one.
A pair of retired ladies from Chicago had overheard him speaking while he ordered a whiskey, and apparently that alone was enough to make him the most interesting man in the casino.
After several questions about himself, England, manners, tea, and various matters that bordered suspiciously on royal family gossip, Alfred came to the conclusion that the women were simply enormous fans of Downton Abbey.
"Madam, I'm afraid that considerably reduces my employment opportunities."
That made them laugh for far longer than he considered prudent, and before long they had invited him to play the slot machines.
Alfred had never played slot machines before, but he quickly discovered that they were absurdly entertaining.
Especially when a lady named Agnes shouted, "IT'S ALL THANKS TO MY LUCKY ENGLISH GENTLEMAN!" every time they won money.
The third day was more relaxed.
That afternoon, he headed to the pool in search of relaxation and ordered a pair of elegant cocktails—one for himself and one for a retired woman he had met at the poolside bar who seemed thoroughly entertained by his company.
The third night somehow ended with him in a small jazz bar inside a neighboring hotel, where Alfred spent nearly two hours talking with an elegant widow from Texas about European wines, architecture, and why "American men no longer know how to wear suits properly."
Honestly...
It had been a rather pleasant weekend.
(Though he had failed to see Cirque du Soleil, as tickets apparently needed to be purchased at least a month in advance.)
Quiet.
Elegant.
And, most importantly, free from the shouting of the people he was destined to look after.
"Alfred."
Bruce's voice brought him back to the present, and the butler blinked once.
"Sir?"
Bruce was still watching him with mild suspicion.
"I asked if you enjoyed the trip."
Alfred finally adjusted the last suitcase and allowed himself a small, elegant smile.
"Yes, sir."
He picked up the suitcase with absolute calm.
"It was quite pleasant."
Tim narrowed his eyes slightly.
"That sounded suspicious."
Jason immediately pointed at him.
"I KNEW IT! I KNEW HE WAS UP TO SOMETHING!"
Dick looked delighted.
"Did you meet people?"
Alfred picked up another suitcase.
"Las Vegas is a very sociable city, Master Richard."
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"I don't want any more details."
"A wise decision, sir."
Jason still looked offended.
"And while we were living through WrestleMania, you were just relaxing?"
Alfred looked at him with complete serenity.
"Someone had to properly represent this family in civilized environments."
"Slot machines are not civilized environments!"
"That depends greatly on the hotel, Master Todd."
Dick collapsed onto the couch laughing.
"Okay, now I need to know EVERYTHING."
"You shall not, young masters. Let us remember that what happens in Las Vegas stays exactly where it happens."
"ALFRED!"
"Never."
Bruce shook his head slightly as he watched them argue.
And honestly, for the first time in a long while...
Everything felt absurdly normal.
Alfred finally picked up the suite keys.
"Very well, gentlemen. The plane departs in two hours, and I would prefer to avoid anyone attempting to sneak another replica into the carry-on luggage."
Dick burst out laughing, and Bruce simply smiled as he picked up his phone.
The screen lit up almost immediately with a new message.
Clark.
"Let me know when you get to Gotham."
Bruce looked at the message for only a second before slipping the phone away again.
And Alfred, from the other side of the room, smiled discreetly like someone who already knew exactly what was happening—even before Bruce himself did.
The first date happened almost three months after Las Vegas.
Not because they didn't want to see each other sooner.
But because between tours, training sessions, charity events, corporate meetings, interviews, travel, and three sons who were extremely attentive to any change in Bruce's mood... finding time proved absurdly complicated.
Even so, the messages never stopped.
They began formal, short, and polite, eventually giving way to longer messages that were easier and more natural to send. Sometimes Clark would be the one sending photos from airports when work took him far from where he had been after Las Vegas, while Bruce replied from quiet offices while pretending to pay attention during important meetings.
Clark sending videos of fans he found entertaining, and Bruce forwarding ridiculous financial articles just to annoy him.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, talking to Clark became a natural part of Bruce's days.
So when they finally happened to be in Gotham at the same time, the date ended up happening in an almost offensively simple way. It wasn't extravagant or public. It took place in a small elegant café near downtown, private enough to avoid cameras—or at least that had been the plan.
Clark arrived first, without a mask or Superman's extravagant attire. Just dark jeans, a denim jacket over a plaid shirt, and his glasses as he checked something on his phone.
Bruce recognized him the moment he walked in, and honestly, it was still strange to think that nobody else did.
Clark looked up as Bruce approached and immediately smiled when their eyes met.
"You're two minutes late," Clark said as soon as Bruce sat down across from him.
Bruce draped his jacket over the back of the chair.
"I'm Bruce Wayne. Technically, I arrive whenever I want."
Clark let out a low laugh.
"Ah, right. I'd forgotten the billionaire ego."
"And I'd forgotten how unbearable you are without the mask."
"I think you like me quite a lot."
Bruce picked up the menu without fully hiding his smile.
"Maybe just a little."
Clark watched him for a few seconds longer than necessary.
He still listened to him completely and looked at him with a calm smile that somehow made Bruce even more nervous now that there was no mask obscuring his view. There was no doubt that despite their brief encounter, they had grown fond of each other and missed one another, because the conversation flowed with complete ease.
Clark telling stories about a recent tour through Mexico alongside world-class stars.
Bruce talking about a corporate event where two investors had nearly come to blows over a ridiculous argument about hotels.
And eventually—because it was inevitable—they ended up talking about the videos that had surfaced right after the farewell party ended.
Clark let out a laugh as soon as Bruce brought up the subject.
"I'm not exaggerating when I say the internet completely lost its mind that night."
Bruce took a sip of coffee.
"Dick showed me a video edited with romantic music and glowing effects."
"Jason sent me a meme of you that said, 'Bruce Wayne watching a two-meter-tall man slowly approach him.'"
Bruce closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"I don't want to know how he got your number."
"They got it after applying way too much pressure on Instagram. I'm weak under psychological pressure."
That earned a genuine laugh from Bruce.
Clark smiled slightly when he saw it.
"There was also one where they compared the way we looked at each other to scenes from romantic movies."
"Tim made a presentation explaining why 'the tension was statistically evident.'"
Clark nearly choked laughing.
"That can't be real."
"He used graphs, and a large portion of it was screenshots from Disney movies."
"Okay, now I need to see it."
Bruce shook his head, still amused.
"You do not want to encourage that."
"Too late. I think your sons have already decided we're a lost cause."
Bruce rested an arm on the table.
"And you are absolutely no help."
Clark tilted his head slightly.
"Me?"
"Clark, you flirted with me in front of half the after-party."
"You played along. Obviously I was going to be weak in the face of Bruce Wayne's charming smile."
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"You gave me your number hidden inside an autograph."
Clark smiled slowly.
"And it worked."
Bruce wanted to respond with something quick and elegant, but the words got stuck in his throat, preventing him from continuing the argument because it had worked far too well to be true.
Clark watched him silently for another second.
The café was still filled with soft background noise around them, but Bruce barely noticed it anymore.
"You know what's the strangest part?" Clark asked.
"What?"
Clark offered a small smile.
"That I thought you'd be impossible to really get to know."
Bruce held his gaze.
"And I thought you were just an absurdly charismatic wrestler."
"That part is still true."
"Yes, definitely."
Clark let out a small laugh as he reached across the table to take his date's hand, and Bruce felt that warm, dangerously comfortable feeling settle in his chest once again. The spark that had begun in Las Vegas and kept growing every time Clark smiled at him like that.
When they finally left the café, Gotham was quiet... as quiet as a night in the city's illuminated downtown could allow.
Just the two of them walking together down the street while the night slowly unfolded around them.
Clark slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
" So... a second date?"
Bruce glanced at him.
"Does that mean this was officially a date?"
Clark pretended to think about it.
"Well, we talked for three hours, I made you laugh several times, and you didn't run away when I mentioned that someday we could all visit my family together."
"Solid arguments."
Clark smiled.
"I try to do my best, and more importantly, I'll do my best to make something work... if that's what you want, of course."
Bruce shook his head slightly annd then, before thinking about it too much, he answered:
"Yes, I'd like a second date."
The smile that appeared on Clark's face was so immediate and genuine that Bruce felt something dangerously close to happiness.
The date had ended quite a while ago, yet Bruce was still leaning against his car with no real intention of leaving, and Clark was still there talking to him with a broad smile on his face. He was staying beside him voluntarily.
Everything had been far too pleasant.
Pleasant enough that Bruce found himself wondering several times when the last time a conversation had felt this easy had been, no strategies, no hidden motives, no need to carefully measure every word because it might end up in the press; for the first time in a long while, it felt real and he was enjoying the moment, which was becoming dangerously addictive for his heart.
Clark was saying something about a report he had done years ago when Bruce realized he was watching him more than he was listening. The glasses framing those striking blue eyes, the dark, curly hair and Even the way he moved his hands when talking about something he liked, Bruce found him attractive.
Clark finished a story and let out a small laugh.
Bruce felt something warm—something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a very long time—settle inside his chest, and for the first time in years he didn't try to push it away.
Clark seemed to notice something in his expression because he fell silent, watching him in exactly the same way Bruce was watching him, the distant sounds of the city were still there, far away and unimportant.
Clark smiled more softly than before.
"What?"
Bruce shook his head slightly.
"Nothing."
Clark raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him.
"Liar."
Bruce let out a low laugh.
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
Another comfortable, natural pause settled between them.
Bruce realized in that moment that he was dragging out the goodbye because he didn't actually want to leave, and he was beginning to suspect that Clark didn't want the date to end either.
As if they had reached exactly the same conclusion, Clark took a small step toward him, and Bruce felt a strange nervousness he hadn't experienced in years.
It was so absurd that it almost made him laugh.
He was Bruce Wayne.
He had negotiated with ruthless businessmen, faced hostile interviews, raised three impossible children, and yet a journalist who also happened to be a professional wrestler managed to make him nervous.
Clark seemed to be going through something similar, because for the first time since they had met, he appeared unsure of exactly what to say.
Bruce liked that more than he should have.
"Bruce..."
His name sounded different in Clark's voice now.
Softer.
Closer.
Bruce held his gaze for a moment and finally decided to stop thinking because, honestly, he had wanted to do this for weeks.
He was the one who closed the distance.
And for a second, the world seemed to become completely still.
The kiss was warm.
Just a brief, unhurried brush of lips that was enough to reveal the feelings they had been quietly nurturing for months.
When they pulled apart, Clark was still smiling.
And Bruce discovered that he was too.
"Thank you," Clark said at last.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"Thank you?"
"I think this date went pretty well."
Bruce laughed.
"Pretty well?"
"I'm trying to be objective about it."
"You're terrible at evaluating your own situations."
"That's unfair."
"You jumped off a rope and landed on top of me."
Clark had the decency to look embarrassed.
"I still think that shouldn't be our origin story."
"And yet it is."
Clark laughed again.
And this time, when he leaned in to kiss him again, Bruce decided that maybe Dick had been right from the very beginning:
That had been the best money he had ever spent in his entire life.
And honestly...
After all the chaos of WrestleMania, the accidents, the masks, the viral videos, and the absurdly obvious public flirting...
Maybe that was exactly what he needed.
Although a professional wrestler was definitely not supposed to come included as a commemorative gift in the VIP package.