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"Well, it doesn't make sense"
"It doesn't have to make sense, Smallville"
"Who arrives late to a party at their own home?"
Clark raised the camera slowly and searched for a nice scene to photograph. Through the lens, he browsed the huge room, occasionally zooming in on some fancy guest of the luxurious Gotham gala at the Wayne Manor.
"People like Bruce Wayne do" Lois answered, taking a sip of her drink. The reporter looked amazing in her low cut velvet dress. She understood the assignment, blending right in with the millionaires, mob bosses, actors and models that attended the gala every year. Only the Press Pass around her neck separated the woman from the crowd.
"Is this about a grand entrance?" Clark asked, snapping a few shots. Unlike his colleague, the country boy didn't fit in at all. Oversized suit, thick glasses and wrong shoes.
Lois noticed her colleague's estrangement. "Clark, most of the elite of Gotham comes from old money. Some families are as old as the city itself. These events - parties, fundraisers, auctions… It's all a way to keep their power in check" The woman finished her glass of champagne and immediately saw another one being delivered to her "They show off their money and cars, gossip about the nouveau riche, make secret deals. And they wait for the drama, for the fights and the adultery. Bruce Wayne is just one of the leading members of this theater"
Kal adjusted the glasses on his face and gave Lois a small smile. They had been at the party for a couple of hours already, making interviews. He had developed this weird curiosity about every character inside the Manor. And somehow, he wanted to see how Brucie Wayne fitted into all that. The owner of the big mansion, head of WE, playboy billionaire.
"Well, speaking of the devil" Said Lois, suddenly perking up. She grabbed the other journalist by the lapel and started pulling him to the same direction all the other guests were looking at.
It wasn't difficult to know why. Even with live jazz music playing, the low rumble of a sports car arriving was very audible to kryptonian ears. It wasn't going towards the parking space though. Of course not. The dark gray Aston Martin slowly entered the huge garden, showing off, making the windows shake a little.
The Aston Martin was brand new, ridiculously expensive and shockingly exclusive. To park it right in front of the windows was a great way to tease the crowd. Through the lens of the Daily Planet camera, Clark saw Bruce Wayne step out of it. The playboy adjusted his tuxedo, as if he hadn't noticed the attention he was receiving, and, just like that, Brucie had managed to cause a furor.
Kent took more pictures than necessary. Brucie and the sports car, Brucie being greeted by the Gotham mayor, Brucie shaking the politician’s hand, Brucie smiling at a group of flirty guests, Brucie finally entering the party through the front door. The party at his own home.
”Don't spare any expenses, Cat Grant loves hundreds of Brucie photos“ Lois said, writing something down. Clark lowered the camera from his face, turning to his colleague to see an amused smile.
“We have to save space for the power checking drama“ He answered, taking the strap from his neck “Here, it’s your turn to take pictures” Lois rolled her eyes before grabbing the camera. She hated filling in for Jimmy Olsen.
“I don’t know how to focus with this new zoom”
“It’s easy. You put your hand here and turn this way. Point at Brucie and just then you’ll be able to… be able… um…”
“Be able to what?”
Clark blinked a couple times in confusion. He had been leaning towards Lois, but froze awkwardly in position.
Just a few feet away, was Bruce Wayne. They had seen him coming, of course. They had positioned themselves for it. The man had been walking around greeting his guests, a glass of something already in his hand. But the closer the gothamite got, the more Kal could see dark shadows on his visible skin. Lots of them. There were bruises on his forehead, cheeks and knuckles. His neck was so dark, no wonder it had been covered with a turtleneck.
Was that another part of the theater Clark didn't understand?! Bruce looked like he had been violently beaten up, but no one seemed to mind. On the contrary, people kept complimenting his looks. Was that a sexual thing that the absurdly rich used as a symbol of status too? Like, to parade around with bruises to show how great their night had been. Or was it a Brucie™ thing? The man could do whatever he wanted and no one batted an eye.
"Look at his face..." Clark muttered, feeling a little worried.
"What do you mean?" Lois frowned.
"Don't you see anything different about his appearance? His skin"
"Not really, Brucie loves to wear a lot of makeup sometimes"
Kent turned to the other journalist as if she had grown three heads. What was she talking about?
"I mean… the bruises. Those must hurt"
"What? What bruises?"
Clark turned to the playboy, who had gotten even closer and was now greeting an old italian actress who didn't seem to stop laughing. The woman was holding his hand, squeezing Bruce's red injured fingers. That definitely was hurting.
"Kent, stop staring at him” Lois whispered, poking his ribs. Clark softly pulled the camera off of the woman’s face and put it in front of his own. And he was right, through the lens Bruce seemed fine. Perfect skin, no bruises…
Of course only he could see. No one else had super vision. Things could be hidden from the human eye, not the kryptonian. No one knew Bruce Wayne was so injured.
"Smallville" Lois whispered urgently.
Clark lowered the camera, only to realize Bruce Wayne stood right there, in front of them with an amused smirk on his face. Owner of the big mansion, head of WE, playboy billionaire himself. And the worst part was that, this close, the kryptonian could see clearly the reds, purples and greens that the layer of pigmented foundation tried to cover.
"Hello, Ms. Lane. Nice to have you here tonight" Bruce greeted, shaking the journalist's hand.
"Nice to be here. The Manor looks beautiful as always" Lois smiled.
"I'll let Alfred know you liked it. He's the one that planned everything" He gave a crooked smile and took a huge sip of whatever he was drinking. Clark couldn't pinpoint what it was by the smell. He also didn't know who Alfred was.
"I don't think we've been introduced" Bruce turned to Clark with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Even with Kent's shy and slightly hunched posture, he was still a little taller than the gothamite.
"Kent. Clark Kent, journalist for the Daily Planet"
"Bruce Wayne" They shook hands. Clark couldn't forget about the bruised knuckles under his grip though. "Nice to meet you, Kent. Hope you excuse me, I need to go greet the other guests"
"Sure, nice to meet you too".
In a second Brucie was already laughing at a group of drunk rich people, greeting them with pats in the back. Lois turned to Clark and couldn't help but laugh at his dumbstruck face.
"See? That wasn't so bad" She laughed, poking his cheek.
“No, it was fine” Kent murmured, but adjusted his glasses the way he used to do when deep in thought.
Clark just didn’t seem to forget about Bruce Wayne. Throughout the event, even as he did his job interviewing and documenting the Gala, his eyes would occasionally browse the crowd in search of the Gotham prince. He had promised a good article for Cat Grant and Jimmy Olsen, after all. However, he couldn’t stop himself from checking those bruises again. They were just so… It didn’t look healthy, that’s all. And the fact that only he knew about those, it gave the kryptonian the feeling he had discovered a very sensitive secret.
And hour after hour, people kept squeezing and pulling Bruce in a way that made Clark squirm. But the silly part was… the gothamite looked fine. He hadn't stopped smiling, didn't look in pain. Not once he hesitated from shaking someone's hand. The kryptonian knew he was overreacting completely.
“No. We’re probably not gonna see Gideon for another month“
Clark perked up.
“Every time his company’s investigated he decides to take a vacation“ A group of men burst out laughing. The journalist lowered the notepad he had been writing on. He was pretty sure he recognized that voice.
“I mean, there is a chance this time is for good...“ Kent followed the conversation. A little ahead there was a group of old men in a circle, drinking and smoking. The voice came from the center... And Clark was right. He did recognize the voice. It was, after all, a very amused Lex Luthor “It's sad that the FBI forces so many of our friends to move to Europe and never return“
The circle around the socialyte shook with laughter again. Kent could just blink, feeling anger start to grow inside of him.
Not even a week before, Lex had attracted Superman to his company’s lab and poisoned the hero with kryptonite. It was a difficult fight, a lot of pain, but Kal had managed to overcome the weakness and take the evil genius to the police. It wasn’t very effective, apparently. Lex was already out, sipping whiskey at a fancy party with a crooked smile on his stupid face. Clark felt like breaking something - or someone.
Instead, the man turned and paced away stiffly.
Kal ignored Lois’s confused call and just kept walking until he reached the wall of the ballroom. Then, not wanting to stop, he turned left into the first door he saw ajar.
It was a little embarrassing to enter the busy kitchen though.
It wasn’t a big area, but it was full of black clad workers doing different tasks. A frowning garçon eyed the journalist before continuing to fill glasses with cognac.
However, except for the one worker, no one seemed to notice the tall stranger at all. No one really cared, so Clark just kept walking further. Maybe there would be an empty space somewhere. He ignored a door that led outside, where some women smoked, then avoided a small office where a mustached man wrote on a notebook. Soon he reached a wooden corridor, away from all the rush.
There were a few steps down. After that the world seemed to be miles away. He hadn’t walked that much, but the wood and metal structure of the 150 year old Manor managed to drown all noise. It was nice, actually. All of a sudden the journalist didn’t feel the need to punch someone anymore. Maybe he had been kinda overwhelmed. Loud sounds, agglomeration and too many perfumes. Super senses could be a pain in the ass every once in a while.
Clark only realized he had entered a big wine cellar after feeling the cold air on his neck. The wide room was mostly dark, except for a few orange toned lamps that gave the illusion of warmth to the gray stone and wood cellar. And just like in the corridor, the underground room managed to muffle the party noise into just a vibration.
The kryptonian sighed and adjusted the thick glasses he didn't really need, resting his hand on a shelf. Lex Luthor was the last straw, but Kent had been overworked for a while. Superman had made his first appearance for the public a few months before. However, Clark was starting to really feel the effects of this double life. On his mind and on his bones. He didn’t remember feeling physically tired before. And that night… the prestigious Gotham gala… for a few hours it didn't feel like the real world, because…
Clark froze. For a second he even held his breath, as if that made any difference.
Right there, sitting on a wooden table in the middle of the room, was Bruce Wayne.
He had been so still and quiet, someone could’ve easily mistaken him for a statue. Not even Clark, in his distraction, had realized. But the billionaire hadn’t noticed the journalist yet. His eyes were closed, brows furrowed a bit, and seemed to be resting.
Kent didn’t know what to do. He could've supersped out of the room, but… he kinda didn’t want to. There was something so fascinating about that scene. Had Brucie escaped from his own party? He looked so calm. Quiet wine cellar, sounds of the party only barely reaching the kryptonian ears, probably completely silent to Bruce’s human ones, warm half light and comfortable chilliness. It really did feel good. So Kal just kinda… stayed?
He should’ve escaped when he had time though. When Wayne opened his eyes slowly and noticed the kryptonian only a few meters away, Clark felt a little creepy.
But the gothamite didn’t seem angry. Not even surprised. The two men just stayed there, staring at each other blankly for a few seconds. But now not only Kent felt creepy, but puzzled. He didn’t think he had ever seen such intense coldness on the playboy’s ice blue eyes before.
More than ever, the purple on Bruce’s neck seemed agonizing. Now it was clear that something had squeezed his throat and probably the man felt pain every time he spoke. His hurt face was another story, Kal didn’t understand how people at the party didn't notice the soft swelling under the left eyebrow. Or maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe Bruce had been overextending his physical capacity too.
Then, as quickly as a lightning, there was a different glow to Wayne’s eyes. One that was much more familiar: that kind of carefully placed flirty look that appeared so much in magazines. Even his body seemed to relax.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you entering” He smiled “Carl, right?”
Clark adjusted his glasses and felt his posture relax, even though he was as puzzled as before.
“Clark Kent” He smiled back, taking a few steps closer. From that distance the man could see Bruce’s shaky injured fingers. He didn’t seem to be able to move them properly, keeping his hand sprawled on the table, but the digits subtly raised.
“Clark Kent, can you do me a favour?” Again, the seductive informal smile “I came down here to grab a bottle, but I think I’m too drunk to see straight. Can you grab a Terrantez for me?”
The man pointed to a shelf in a jerky movement. It was so casual, the way he pretended the injuries weren’t there, trusting only the pigmented coverage of expensive makeup to help him. Kent knew there were more bruises hidden under the clothes, but he wouldn’t check. He wasn't one to judge people's sexual life.
Kal’s eyes roamed the cellar and stopped at the shelf Bruce had pointed. But instead he walked to a wine fridge behind the table and grabbed two chilled bottles of champagne.
"Oh, not those ones, Kent"
"I know" He answered softly, walking back to the table "Just a second, mr. Wayne"
Clark stopped right in front of Bruce, a lot closer than before, and put a bottle on the table next to his thigh.
"Do me a favor, mr. Wayne. Hold it like this, please" He said, taking the man's hand. He put the cold bottle of champagne on the billionaire's fingers and placed it over his right hand, making the man hold it against his own knuckles.
A small frown appeared on Bruce’s face, even though the smile was still there.
"And why am I doing this?"
"Your fingers. If you don't ice them they'll be swollen tomorrow"
That seemed to really make Bruce's smile falter. He looked at his hands, trying to assess if the makeup had rubbed off. Clark watched it, adjusting his glasses in a compulsive way. Maybe the courage to get closer came from his Superman desire to take care of everyone, but as Clark Kent he couldn't stop blushing.
"Can I?" The journalist asked.
Bruce raised his eyes and saw the other man get even closer than before, a mysterious determination in his gaze "... Okay"
It took a lot of self control to not startle when the gothamite felt Kal's unusually warm fingers grab his chin. His face was softly raised upwards. Then, the other cold champagne bottle was pressed against his eyebrow, right on the most tender bruise. The one that had given Wayne a headache all night.
The improvised compress wasn’t pleasant, but it really was a good idea. So Bruce made himself untense. Then he just closed his eyes and let the... stranger... take care of him. It was honestly a very weird situation.
Clark, on the other hand, was hypnotized. While he was doing research the day before, he had caught himself staring at a colorful photo of a very drunk Wayne leaving a party. It looked more like a high fashion shoot than an ‘end of the night’ paparazzi snapshot. The man had looked beautiful in his very seductive and controlled chaos. And there he was. Bruce Wayne, out of the TV and magazines, literally on Kent’s hands. But somehow, he behaved nothing like the man had expected him to behave.
"Do they hurt?" Clark asked. The room was silent for so long, he thought his question would be ignored. But in the end, the gothamite slowly opened his eyes and answered a simple “No”. It was probably a lie.
Then Bruce started staring at the other man in that intense scrutinizing way he always did. It’s not like it was subtle, Kent had rigidly glued his eyes to the champagne bottle in an attempt to ignore the stare. Usually the gothamite never broke his playboy character when entertaining guests, most definitely never with a member of the press. But this time he didn’t care that much, Clark Kent wouldn’t write about that. Something about his way made that very clear. But a mystery hadn’t been answered: how had he noticed it?
“Mr. Wayne, we've been… Oh!”
Bruce looked at the entrance of the cellar, where a short uniformed young man looked very red in the face. He didn't know what the worker thought was happening, but couldn't hurt his reputation.
"We've been what?" He asked, the drunk amusement effortlessly slipping back into his voice.
“Oh… um. Been looking for you, sir. The mayor asked”
"Apparently I can't leave for five minutes" He joked, even though he had disappeared for a lot longer than that "I'll be right up"
The young man nodded, but didn't leave. He stayed waiting awkwardly by the door, exhaling anxiety.
Bruce put the bottle of champagne back on the table, even though he wished he could've done the compress for longer. His fingers felt a little stiff, but at least his hand wouldn't be useless the next day. Clark Kent was right.
"Well, no one ignores mayor Mannings" Bruce slid off the table and stumbled a little before standing upright. Only standing like that he could see how tall the journalist actually was, even with his terrible posture. Clark had already taken a few steps back and had been brushing back his messy hair with his fingers, sharing the same level of awkwardness as the garçon. Bruce closed the distance between them, invading Kal's personal space the way he himself had done before.
Then, in a slow but firm movement, the man grabbed his chin, leaned in and gave Kent a soft kiss on the jaw. It was just a press of the lips, then he was already walking away, adjusting his suit. But to the kryptonian… Clark felt a wave of heat washing over his whole body, making the tip of his ears tingle and his whole face feel warm. Before he could stop himself, he croaked a "Bruce!"
The billionaire stopped, looked back and blinked in confusion. In front of his face was a black sleek wine bottle. Slowly and hesitantly, he took it from Kal's hand. Wayne tried to pinpoint in his mind exactly when the journalist had grabbed the Terrantez off the shelf, since he didn't have it before "Thank you, Clark… Really"
Then, Brucie turned and left with the relieved young man, who was grateful it wasn't too difficult to lead away the tipsy owner of the house. And Clark just smiled, feeling a little silly.
Lois Lane was probably at the gala, photographing everything and cursing his unprofessional ass. The man knew that. But maybe she could wait a few more minutes. Clark wanted to make sure the strong blush in his cheeks would go away before returning.
*