Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had everything he needed. 

Or, he would have had everything he needed if he hadn’t been filling in for Lois Lane. 

Lois wasn’t like him; Lois didn’t mind the galas. She was able to blend in with the elite, her charming smile and pretty eyes luring them in and getting them to speak about things that should stay under wraps. 

Clark wasn’t like that. 

Clark had an image to maintain. 

He couldn’t be charming; he had to be clumsy. 

He couldn’t be seductive; he had to be shy. 

He couldn’t be all-knowing; he had to be a non-threat. 

He needed people to dismiss his presence. 

But… 

More importantly, he needed to get Lois some quotes. Not from just anyone—she wouldn’t accept that, and if Clark were in her position, he wouldn’t either—which meant he had to stay and at least try to get a quote from the host of the gala. 

Clark owed it to her as well. She never did a job half-assed and he wasn’t going to be the reason she broke her streak. 

His eyes scanned the busy room; bodies were mingling in and out of groups, perfumes were mixing, and alcohol was being served left and right. It was not his type of scene, but Lois said it was always one of the best places to get information about anything.  

The elite have loose lips, Clark. I don’t go there to get drunk, I go there to find new leads.

She had been right. The conversations that Clark overheard throughout the night continued to prove her point—not that he had ever doubted her in the first place. 

His eyes scanned the room once more before he found the man he was looking for. 

It was the first time all night that Bruce Wayne was alone and it was a strange sight to witness. 

This was likely the only chance he would get for the rest of the night and once the man brushed him off with a dismissive comment about the gala, Clark would be able to head home. 

He approached Bruce, slowly.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, just loud enough that the other man caught the words and turned to face him. Clark stuck out his hand for an introduction. “Clark Ke-”

“I know who you are,” Bruce replied smoothly. One hand wrapped tightly around the champagne glass Clark had seen him grab an hour before; the other loosely grabbed onto Clark’s outstretched hand. 

It wasn’t the first time Clark had attended the same event as Bruce Wayne, but he never expected to be remembered. 

Most times, he wasn’t even noticed. 

Clark dropped his hand back to his side and eyed the still full glass Bruce was holding. 

“Not a big drinker?” 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Asking questions for your story?”

“Story?” 

Bruce’s eyes dropped to the notepad in Clark’s hand. 

“Oh,” Clark muttered, feeling embarrassed and off-center. He hadn’t expected the conversation to last past a simple introduction. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “Uh- no actually.” 

He turned the notepad so Bruce could get a better look at it. 

The notepad was filled with quotes from the select few people attending the gala that were willing to speak to Clark. Most were inconsequential and short—enough for a small feature in the paper, but not front page material—exactly what Lois wanted.

“I think I have just about everything I need.” 

Clark watched Bruce’s face carefully. The man didn’t smile, he didn’t move; his eyes remained resting on the notepad. Clark’s handwriting was no cause for shame on normal days, but under Bruce’s intense gaze, Clark turned pink. 

“Doctors’ handwriting,” Clark chuckled as he brought the notepad closer to his chest once more. 

Bruce remained silent. 

It was the first time Clark had interacted with the man up close and he… 

Well, Bruce wasn’t how many made him out to be. He seemed quiet, reserved, and his eyes tracked every move Clark made. 

His hand tightened around the notepad. 

“If there’s anything you would like to say-”

“No,” Bruce cut in sharply. 

Clark had expected that, but still, he was disappointed. 

Lois would have gotten a comment. But at the same time, Lois would be happy to know that he tried. The only other reporter than her that ever managed to get Bruce Wayne to speak was Vicki Vale and even then the quotes were dry and ill-fitting. It was almost as if Bruce intentionally said the worst answers to the questions. 

“Well, I’ll-” Clark made a vague gesture indicating his plan to exit the conversation and general area. He couldn’t stand the prying eyes of Bruce Wayne; the man was looking at him like he was trying to find an answer to an unspoken question. “See you around.” 

Clark turned away, trying not to focus on the strangeness of the interaction, when a hand—Bruce’s hand—wrapped around his upper arm, stopping him. 

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting from the hand gripping his arm to Bruce’s face. 

“You reported on Daith’s attempt to remove me as sitting CEO of Wayne Enterprises.” 

“I- uh- yeah,” Clark began, turning back to face the man fully. It wasn’t a question that Bruce had asked, but Clark still responded like it was one. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

Clark stilled. 

Maybe the man in front of him was, in fact as the tabloids had often said, a big drinker. Clark couldn’t smell alcohol on his breath but the question made no sense.  

“I’m a journalist,” Clark tried, unsure what response Bruce was hoping to find. He didn’t remember the article that well—it had been months ago, and a dull topic in Clark’s opinion—but he tried to remember if there was any reason for it to stick out in Bruce’s mind. “Why?”

“I read it,” Bruce said, ignoring Clark’s question.

“You did?” Clark couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice. 

Bruce Wayne had read his article. Out of all the articles, Bruce read his. Or maybe Bruce read all the articles that mentioned him; something unlikely and Clark would bet near impossible to do. 

The press liked Bruce Wayne; gossip columns loved Bruce Wayne. 

“You seem surprised.”

“A lot of reporters covered that story.” It was a statement—a fact—yet it fell from Clark’s lips like a question. He tried to shrug off the hand as he spoke but to no avail. Bruce wouldn’t even look at him—too busy watching the guests around them move about. 

“Yes. A lot of reporters did, didn’t they?”

It felt like a trick—a trap for Clark to fall into—but he wasn’t sure what Bruce was getting at. It was the second time that night that a question from Bruce had left him unsure how to answer. The only thing he could do now was stumble into the trap and hope it paid off. 

“I believe so.”

“So many reporters-” Bruce’s eyes finally moved away from the guests and back onto Clark. “And yet-” he took a small sip of the champagne- “you’re the only one who didn’t mention my kids.” 

“I don’t imagine your kids had anything to do with an attempted hostile takeover.” 

Bruce continued to stare at him—as if unsatisfied by Clark’s answer. 

“Not because I’ll be your boss soon?”

Clark’s eyes widened. “You’re buying The Daily Planet?”

Rumors had spread at work about a sale, but Clark hardly paid attention to them. They rarely held weight. 

He couldn’t help but feel caught off guard by the news, which apparently showed. Bruce’s eyes dropped from Clark’s face, his shoulders relaxed, and he let go of Clark’s arm. 

“What are you doing this Saturday?” He asked, once again ignoring Clark’s question—changing the topic completely. 

Clark shook his head. “Nothing-”

“Great. I would like to do an interview-”

“I thought Bruce Wayne didn’t do interviews,” Clark interrupted, a small smile on his face even as his brain still felt muddled. 

Bruce just smiled back in response. 

An interview with Bruce Wayne would be great for the Planet.

But Clark didn’t understand… any of what was happening. 

It didn’t matter if he understood or not; if Bruce Wayne wanted an interview, he got an interview. 

“My colleague, Lois Lane is a phenomenal-” 

“No. I like you; I want you to do it.”

“Oh,” Clark tried to hide the blush that covered his face. He felt flustered. Bruce Wayne was a known flirt, yet the kind words still made Clark’s heart skip a beat. “I don’t usually give interviews-”

“And I don’t usually do interviews-” Bruce took another sip of his champagne- “Looks like we’ll both be trying something new.” 

Chapter Text

The last place Clark expected to be spending his Saturday evening was at Wayne Manor. 

He knew that sounded dumb. He knew Bruce Wayne had asked him to come, yet he had spent all week waiting for a call and a subsequent cancellation of the tentative interview that had been set up.

But when Clark did receive a call it was for a confirmation, not a cancellation. 

Still, he refused to loosen his lips and let any of his colleagues, even Lois, know of the interview. It would remain an unsure thing until he had the words of Bruce Wayne typed and printed in the Daily Planet newspaper. 

He sighed. 

The manor was huge—it was infinitely bigger in person than it was in the select few images Clark had seen of it online—and clean, very clean. 

Clark’s eyes scanned the area he had been brought to once more. It was a sitting room, with a few round tables and plush velvet chairs scattered about.

It felt oddly unlived in. It felt unloved and neglected, yet perfectly polished at the same time—almost like a front meant to distract people from looking elsewhere in the house. Clark took detail of each inch of the room, unable to turn off his investigative mind.

It felt, most of all, alien, and that thought alone brought a small smile to Clark's face.

“Mr. Kent-” the man who had let him inside the house walked directly in front of him, pulling Clark out of his thoughts. He was holding a warm cup of tea towards Clark and watching him carefully. 

Clark awkwardly accepted the cup from the older man and sat it on the round table beside them. “Thank you, Mister…” 

He trailed off, unsure. 

“Just Alfred will do.” 

“Right. Thank you, Alfred,” Clark muttered as he pulled his notepad out of his bag. “So-” 

Alfred’s eyes narrow minutely. 

“Any topics I should steer clear of?” 

Alfred’s eyebrows arched slightly. 

“Topics?”

Clark nodded and lifted the notepad up for the man to take. It had different talking points, vague questions, and some statistics about the impact Wayne Enterprises had made over the last few years written on it. 

Normally, interviews didn’t go like this. 

Normally, Clark would have been given topics to steer clear of or when it came to his investigative work, topics that he needed to focus on. With Bruce, he had nothing to work with. 

“I don’t want to make him uncomfortable or-” Clark cut himself off. “I know he doesn’t do interviews often-”

“At all,” Alfred interjected. 

“What?”

“He doesn’t do interviews at all.” 

Alfred finally accepted the notepad, but his eyes remained on Clark for a second longer before dropping down to the paper. He looked over it for a brief moment before looking back up at Clark. 

“I read your article.” 

“Oh.” Clark wasn’t sure what to say. “Which one?”

There was no point in asking, Clark already knew which one Alfred was referring to. It had to be the same one Bruce had brought up at the gala. 

“The one about the… attempted takeover-” Alfred handed Clark back his notepad- “Thank you.” 

“For what?”

“For not bringing his kids into it.” 

The idea had never crossed Clark’s mind, but before Clark could make the comment, the sound of a gentle thud broke through the air ruining the sincere moment the two had began to share.

Clark turned and saw the hunched-over figure of Bruce Wayne, or who he assumed to be Bruce Wayne, leaning against the doorway, favoring one side over the other. 

Bruce gave him a small nod and made to move, stumbling slightly as he did. Clark was by his side in an instant, hands outstretched to stop the man from toppling over. 

He looked like shit. 

Normally, Clark wasn’t one to judge. 

Well...

That was a lie.

He was, after all, a superhero. He had to make quick assessments and snap judgements every day, but normally he wasn't one to judge another person's appearance—their character was more important anyways—but Bruce Wayne looked like shit.

Most of his skin was covered with dark cloth, but his face was left exposed and the dark circles under his eyes contrasted nastily with his pale skin. 

“Mr. Wayne-”

“Bruce.”

“Right,” Clark said, dismissively. “You don’t look well.” 

“I’m fine-” Bruce waved him off- “Just a hangover.”

Clark turned to look at Alfred, though his hands remained on Bruce’s shoulders gently offering support. Alfred’s frown was deep and his posture was tense.

“I think…” Clark trailed off for a moment, turning back to focus on Bruce. “I think we should reschedule-”

“No.” 

“Mr. Wayne-”

“Bruce-” Bruce’s intense blue eyes bore into his. “Call me Bruce.” 

“Bruce,” Clark began, voice more firm. “I will not interview you when you're in this-” he made a vague hand gesture- “condition. You should be resting.” 

“You’re already here-”

“And I can be here another day.” 

Clark dropped his hand from Bruce’s shoulder. He grabbed his bag and the notepad, ignoring the silent conversation he could feel taking place behind his back. 

Clark wrote his phone number down on a scrap piece of paper, writing it more neatly than he normally would have, and made to leave.

“To reschedule,” Clark muttered, handing the piece of paper to Alfred. He shot Bruce one last look. “If he wants.” 

“Of course,” Alfred said, taking the piece of paper and folding it neatly in half. 

“I’ll see myself out.” 

Clark carefully walked past Bruce, ignoring the way the man seemed to hunch into himself even more as the seconds passed. 

It sure was some… hangover, Clark thought briefly to himself. 

“I hope you feel better, Mr. Wayne.” 

He was almost at the door when he heard it. 

“Just Bruce.” 

Clark smiled and left the manor. 

-------------------------------

He told Lois. 

Well… Lois dragged it out of him after overhearing Clark’s phone call with Alfred. 

“I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me.”

“I was.” 

Lois glared at him, eyes intense even as she had a wide smile on her face. 

“Liar.”

“No-” Clark shook his head- “I was, but-”

“I get it. You wanted to keep Bruce Wayne all to yourself.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Clark muttered. “It’s not like that.”

“Of course, it isn’t.” 

Clark rolled his eyes. 

“Lois-”

“I get it, Smallville. I wouldn’t have told anyone until after the interview either.” 

“Exactly-”

“But,” she began, “you still should have told me.” 

“I did tell you.”

“You know what I meant.” 

Lois’ eyes scanned over the word document Clark had pulled up on the computer in front of them. It had the questions he planned to ask Bruce, the ones he asked Alfred to vet yet the man never did give his opinion to Clark on the matter.

“If you get this interview, Perry will get off your back.”

“I know,” Clark muttered. “He’s rescheduled but…” 

Clark trailed off. 

He had made it further than most journalists when it came to getting an exclusive from Bruce Wayne, but he didn’t make it far enough. Bruce could still cancel at any moment and leave Clark with no story to hand over to Perry. 

“He’s flaky,” Lois offered. 

Clark nodded. 

“There’s a gala-”

Clark groaned, cutting her off. 

“I’m not covering for you again.” 

“He’ll be there.”

Of course, Bruce Wayne was going to be there—it was a gala.

“So?”

“So,” Lois began, mocking Clark’s voice slightly. “You can get verbal confirmation from him about the interview.” 

It wasn’t a bad idea. 

“I thought you liked going to galas,” Clark said. 

But it was understood, between the two of them, that Clark’s words meant little. 

Lois liked the galas because the galas produced information, but that information was something Clark could easily attain for her while also securing his interview with Bruce Wayne. He was being gifted a golden opportunity, it would be unwise to neglect to take it. 

He sighed. 

“I’ll go.”

Chapter Text

The gala, as most galas Clark had attended, was boring. 

They always were and this one was, unfortunately, no exception. Worse than that, as his luck so had it, Bruce Wayne had yet to make an appearance. 

The event hadn’t been null nor devoid of valuable information, but it was information Clark would have been able to gather even if he had spent the night in a more suitable way. 

Lois had given him a hint, a suggestion of a whisper of a name of a person Clark should “stay clear of.”

She had added no emphasis on the words, nor did she repeat them when Clark arched an eyebrow at her, but there was no need. Their friendship had developed a way to read between the lines of, what others would assume to be, simple and forgettable conversation. 

Any warning to stay away was a disguised suggestion to investigate. 

Marcus Dioltel was the name she gave, occupied by a whisper of Luthor's name. 

Oddly enough, Clark had been familiar with the name even before Lois had uttered it to him. Dioltel was a lawyer working in arms with Daith, the man whose failed attempt to unseat Bruce Wayne had made him a laughing stock among high society rollers, and one of the only individuals involved in the scandal who managed to escape relatively unscathed—noted by his overbearing presence at the gala that night. 

Dioltel, so far as Clark had been able to tell, once worked with Lex Luthor and though Clark was not bold enough to make the claim public, knowing Luthor to be one of the best at covering his tracks, he was sure Luthor had something to do with the attempted takeover. 

It was all in the wash now. 

If  there was anything to be found out of their relationship, the news would send shock waves across the two cities of Metropolis and Gotham—a very deliberate attempt from Luthor to create a monopoly in a roundabout way of using sock puppets and flashy acts would taint the news for weeks and ruin Luthor for good. 

Which is why Clark knew that nothing would come from his tailing of Dioltel through the gala. 

He listened in now and again to the pleasantries exchanged between the man and whoever came to greet him—usually coworkers and the occasional businessman bringing along a companion for introduction. 

It was boring.

Clark sighed. 

“I hope my gala isn’t boring you, Mr. Kent.” 

What was the saying? Clark mused, quietly to himself. Think of the devil, and he should appear.

“Mr. Luthor,” Clark turned to face the man, hand outstretched in greeting. Luthor took it, and with a firm handshake, pulled Clark a bit closer. 

“You don’t normally cover these types of things.” 

It was a question without being a question. It was said in hopes Clark would expand on what had indirectly been asked, the why are you here, and Clark, for a moment remained silent and weighed his options. 

He was an investigative journalist. There had been many articles, many recent articles, published by him that brought up one or two things he was sure Luthor would have preferred to remain private. But to see the man so hostile, so publicly willing to confront, left a bad taste in Clark’s mouth. 

Whatever Lois had been onto, she had been correct in pointing Clark’s attention to the matter. 

“I’m covering for a friend,” Clark replied easily. 

“I see.” 

Clark knew Luthor wanted more, but acting ignorant as ever he remained silent on the matter that the other wished to discuss. Their attention was soon turned to the swaying figure of Dick Grayson, making his way, loudly, through the crowds of people nearby. 

As he moved, Clark couldn’t help but see the resemblance between the young man and Bruce Wayne. The way in which they held themselves, so different from other people upon inspection, but in a way that blended in with those around them was a mannerism that would trick anyone into thinking they were related by blood. 

“His kids,” Luthor began, recapturing Clark’s attention, “such a mess.” 

Clark remained silent and waited for Luthor to continue, but upon not hearing agreement from Clark he turned to the man and asked, in a cold tone, “do you disagree?”

Clark shrugged.

“I’ve never met them.” 

That was a lie. 

Throughout the years, instances came and went in which Clark had interacted with some of the Wayne children, but never for long enough to make any judgment. 

“I’m sure you know what the papers say about them.” 

Clark shook his head. 

It was another lie. 

Clark paid no mind to tabloid-type news, but he worked at a newspaper company. What the Waynes got up to, if deemed significant enough, always secured a place in the paper and a few extra sales if placed on the front page. 

Clark knew exactly what the papers said about them. 

Luthor just eyed him, visibly annoyed by Clark’s lack of concession and agreement in the matter. 

Dick, Clark noted as he ignored the hostility Luthor directed his way, was always two steps too close to Dioltel. He had followed the man the whole time Clark had been doing the same, yet it was only then, from a distance and next to Lex Luthor, that the pieces clicked in Clark’s mind. 

Why would Dick Grayson-

“I hope you’re not scaring away the press, Lexie.”

Clark’s eyes left the scene he had been picking apart and moved to Bruce Wayne, who had at some point made his way over to them. 

Clark hadn’t even noticed the man had arrived at the gala. 

The way Bruce had drawn out Luthor’s name clearly irked the man beside him, though he answered Bruce in a pleasant, yet overly sweet voice, “Bruce, when did you stumble in?” 

Bruce laughed in jest, though Clark could tell, and part of him believed Bruce could as well, that it was meant to be an insult. 

“Friday nights are always so busy for me,” Bruce leaned in a bit closer to Luthor, “but Dick tells me I haven’t missed much.” 

Clark watched the interaction with interest, made note of the way Luthor’s face spasmed a bit at the carefully worded slight, and saw the faintest twitch of Bruce’s lips. 

Luthor opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce spoke before the other could utter a word. 

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce stretched his hand out, in front of Luthor and towards Clark, “I didn't expect to see you here.” 

Luthor’s eyebrow arched slightly and his attention moved from Bruce to Clark. 

Clark easily accepted Bruce’s hand and with a handshake said, “I’m covering for a friend.” 

It had been the same thing he told Luthor and oddly enough it elicited the same reaction, though Bruce was better at concealing his want for more details. 

Bruce withdrew his hand, though his eyes lingered on Clark for a moment longer. 

The three remained quiet for a moment and Clark secretly looked for the right moment to announce his departure. 

He opened his mouth to speak-

“Mr. Luthor,” a woman’s voice rang out, and all three of them turned their heads in the direction of the sound, “A word, please?”

Standing there in all her glory was Vicki Vale and Clark had never been so glad as to see her. 

Luthor gave Bruce a reserved we’ll catch up later, and gave a quick nod to Clark before leaving. 

Once again silence settled in the air yet it was not as oppressive as it had been before. Clark was the first to break it. 

“That was some hangover you had the other day.” 

Like a bull in a China shop, Clark thought as he scolded himself. 

Bruce sent him an amused look, though his eyes, which Clark had begun to focus on frequently when they were near each other, were narrowed as if suspicious. 

“I should know my limits by now, but…” Bruce trailed off. 

Clark shrugged. 

“There’s nothing wrong with testing the limits once in a while.”

Bruce’s eyebrows raised and Clark felt a faint blush cover his face when he realized how suggestive the comment sounded. He turned away from Bruce, his eyes once again landing on Dioltel. 

Clark watched for a moment, the moves the man made were practiced and rehearsed—perfected in the last hour of introductions he had been subject to—but, the man still gave no insight into why he had attended the gala or if it had anything to do with it being hosted by Luthor. 

Clark’s attention quickly returned to Bruce, who he found staring at him already. 

“Is Thursday still good for you?” Bruce asked abruptly. 

Clark nodded. 

“Thursday’s fine-” Clark began but was cut off by the sudden appearance of Bruce Wayne’s oldest child. 

“What’s going on Thursday?” Dick asked, appearing next to Bruce and haphazardly throwing his arm around the man. “You making some plans?”

His speech was slightly slurred, the word suggestive, and his movements disconnected, but his eyes, just like Bruce’s, were incredibly sharp as they did a once over of Clark. 

“Is this the reporter that you like?” Dick staged whispered to Bruce, eyes still locked on Clark. 

“Dick-”

“Is it?”

“Dick-”

“Dick Grayson,” Dick said, sticking his hand out for Clark to shake, ignoring the small protests from Bruce.  

“Clark-”

“Kent,” Dick finished for him, stumbling slightly as he spoke. 

“That’s enough,” Bruce muttered, wrapping his arm around Dick’s back to steady his son. “I think you’ve had too much fun this evening.”

Dick opened his mouth to speak, but Clark beat him to it. 

“Maybe he was just testing his limits.” 

Bruce let out a quiet laugh. It was so different from the one the man had shared with Luthor earlier. It seemed to startle out of him, as if unplanned and completely authentic. 

“Take care, Dick,” Clark said as the two began to leave. “I’ll see you Thursday, Mr. Wayne.” 

Bruce shook his head, and in a voice too quiet to be heard by anyone but Superman, whispered, “Bruce.” 

Clark’s eyes watched the receding figures before turning back to Dioltel. He was slightly surprised to find the man conversing with Lex Luthor. 

Clark watched as Luthor introduced himself to the man publicly, the two of them acting like complete strangers. His eyes narrowed. 

Something was definitely going on. 

Chapter Text

It was Thursday. 

The other days passed in a blur, each one as dull as the last yet none the more boring than the next, until Thursday came to be. Clark wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had been looking forward to the interview, he was ashamed to admit his reasoning, however. 

It was no longer just about scoring an exclusive story with Bruce Wayne… 

It was more about seeing the man again and in a more intimate setting. 

Clark wasn’t a fool. He knew that Bruce Wayne likely paid him no mind beyond remembering his name and his obligation to give Clark an interview, thus making good on his word, but still, there was something nice about Bruce’s companionship. 

His phone rang and Clark was pulled away from his lingering thoughts about the billionaire. He answered without looking at the caller ID, too wrapped up in his own mind to care about the more trivial things—such as knowing who he would soon be speaking with. 

“This is Clark Ke-”

“When you get to the office,” Lois interrupted with slight annoyance weaved throughout her words, “I need you to double check my-”

“Hello to you too, Lois-”

“You expect me to say hello when you don’t even have my number saved-”

“I do-”

“This is Clark Kent,”  Lois interrupted with a bad imitation of Clark’s voice.

“I didn’t look at my phone before answering it-”

“Right-”

“Lois-”

“Anyways, when you get to the office-”

“I’m not going to the office.” Lois, of course, already knew that. He knew that Lois knew that because after the gala the two had talked, though Clark had done most of the conversing while Lois interjected every once in a while with questions, about what had transpired at the gala. Everything was dissected in great detail from Dioltel to Luthor to Bruce, they even talked about Dick Grayson! “I have that interview today.” 

Lois didn’t speak; she remained completely silent over the phone. 

Clark felt his stomach drop. 

“Lois?” He asked as he silently hoped it was enough to prompt her into speaking. 

“I just… I thought he would have canceled… given y’know… what happened.” 

Clark froze. 

Her words were choppy.

Lois’ words were never choppy. 

He was more than confused and increasingly concerned. 

“Lois-”

“I mean,” Lois interrupted, “If I were him, I’d never want the press near me ag-”

“Lois-” 

“What?”

“What are you talking about?” 

“You haven’t seen it?” 

There was something akin to dread laced in the comment Lois directed towards him. 

“Seen what?” Clark asked after a moment. 

He heard Lois sigh. 

“I’ll send you the link. Clark-” she cut herself off. There was some noise in the background, voices that Lois’ phone wasn’t quite able to pick up fully. “I have to go.” 

She ended the call before Clark even had the chance to say goodbye. 

It wasn’t the weirdest conversation that had ever taken place between the two of them, but it was still… strange. 

Clark’s phone buzzed once as a notification appeared on his screen; Lois had sent the link. 

He tapped it and held his breath. 

It was an article. 

Posted on a prominent website. 

Written by someone Clark was familiar with.

Well… not familiar familiar, but he recognized the name. 

Adam Esckley. 

An old friend of Lex Luthor. The connection between the two was mostly unknown, though it was highly suspected by some—especially those who happened to report on Luthor’s questionable actions. A move made against Luthor, was a move made against Esckley. 

Clark was lucky. He was a nobody. There was no dirt to post any time he wrote a less-than-stellar review of Luthor, but others, more prominent figures, had something to worry about. 

Esckley’s reporting reached large audiences, it swayed public opinion, and sometimes, depending on the topic, was the talk of the city for weeks to follow. The man knew how to entice, how to manipulate facts, and how to boil down the nasty truth into something more appetizing for the public. 

He’d make an excellent investigative journalist if he had any morals or a code of conduct. 

Clark scrolled down, past the two ads that plagued the page in obnoxious font, and-

Oh.

Fuck. 

He took a deep breath. 

He understood now what Lois meant when she said if she were Bruce Wayne, she wouldn’t be talking to the press. 

Sole Drake Heir to be Adopted by Billionaire Bruce Wayne Despite Allegations of Neglect

By: Adam Esckley 

Opinion Columnist 

There is much to being a parent. It is a job that demands more than most people are aware of. Each person who enters parenthood takes up a great responsibility and a heavy burden. It is through trial and error that parents learn and become better. But how many chances does one parent deserve and, more importantly, how many children should suffer during the process? 

That is a question on the minds of many in Gotham who have, for years now, watched from the sidelines as billionaire Bruce Wayne has wreaked havoc on the children he has adopted. The billionaire, known for his partying and flirtatious style, is rumored to be in the process of adopting another child, Timothy Drake, leaving many to fear for the kid’s safety. 

Those fears are not unfounded. 

Wayne’s oldest son, adopted, Richard Grayson, is well-known throughout Gotham and Bludhaven as a wild party animal--following in the footsteps of Wayne. A child who once could have become a bright young man, if placed under the care of a parental figure who knew discipline, has been tainted and ruined through his connection to Wayne. However, he is not the only example of Wayne’s inadequacy as a parental figure. 

One cannot help but wonder if the death of his second son, Jason Todd, could have been prevented if an attentive parent had been present. Six years ago…

The rest of the article wouldn’t load. 

Clark wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not.

Ignorance was bliss but there was no bliss to be found in the damned accusations thrown Bruce’s way. 

He closed the tab and headed for Gotham. 

----------------

“Mister Kent.” 

Clark had only knocked once before the wide oak doors to the manor had been thrown open and the slightly strained face of Alfred greeted him. 

“Alfred,” Clark said, stiffly though with a small smile. “How are you?”

The older man made no attempt to move away from the entrance, nor did he beckon Clark forward; Clark remained where he was. 

“I am-” Alfred shook his head- “I am surprised to see you here is all.”

Alfred finally moved to the side and Clark stepped into the manor. 

“I did not know if…” Alfred trailed off for a moment as he closed the door behind Clark- “you would be able to make it.” 

“I didn’t know if you would let me in,” Clark hit back quickly. He stepped to the side and followed Alfred as the man made his way through the manor. 

“I take it you’ve read the article.”

Clark paused for a moment. 

“Has he?” Clark asked, brushing off Alfred’s question. 

“I am afraid there was no way for him to avoid reading it. Esckley’s name is quite known amongst the inner circles in Gotham-”

“I’m aware.” 

Alfred arched an eyebrow but didn’t press at the comment Clark made. 

“He’s in the study-” Alfred gestured at the closed door in front of them- “He may not be talkative, but he refused to cancel your interview.” 

The man left without another word, leaving Clark behind to marvel at the large white door that stood directly in front of him. 

He braced himself slightly, opened the door, and slowly entered the dimly lit room. 

It was a large room—bigger than Clark expected, though that seemed to be a theme with the rooms in the manor. The room was encased by several bookshelves shoved against the walls, broken up only by an old fireplace that held dying embers and a piece of wood that was not burning. There was a beautiful rug, placed in front of a small couch and under the coffee table, with an intricate design that matched the curtains hanging from the only window in the room. There was a desk, shoved slightly to the side of the room, that had piles of paper stacked on top of it. 

And there was Bruce Wayne. 

Tucked away behind it all, hidden by the dim light and dying embers, staring at the window. 

Bruce didn’t look away from the window, even as Clark approached. He made no effort to be quiet, not wanting to disturb the man but also wanting the man to be aware of his presence. But it was all for not. 

Bruce didn’t acknowledge his presence at all. 

Clark made his way to the small couch, though he never sat down, and watched as Bruce stood up, abruptly, and made his way to the window. 

He never looked Clark’s way. 

He paced back and forth between the window and the desk thrice before sitting back down, body still tense and eyes narrowed. 

“Are you going to ask your questions?” Bruce asked finally, his eyes were still locked on the window, and his voice was of complete indifference. 

Clark found himself missing the way Bruce had spoken to him at the gala. He couldn’t quite describe the way the man spoke, not eloquently at least. It was like Bruce had been in on a joke that no one quite understood. 

Now the man sounded… void. 

He sounded as void as Clark felt.

Clark had nothing to say. He had no words to offer that would help make the situation better. He was useless. And wasn’t that a strange feeling to have? 

He had his faults, even as Superman, but never once had he felt so completely useless as he did now. 

The only thing he knew how to do was to observe Bruce in compassionate silence, but the silence could not go on forever.

“Are you okay?” 

Bruce laughed. 

It was a cruel awful sound. 

And once again, Clark found himself missing the small memory he had of the laugh that startled out of Bruce only a few days prior. 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay, Clark? ” 

“I read the article.” 

“Hmm…” Bruce nodded and finally looked at him- “And yet you still showed up. Were you curious to know if it was true? If the allegations were serious? Is that why you came here-”

“I came here,” Clark interrupted as gently as he could, “because you wanted an interview done.” 

Bruce stared at him. 

Neither one spoke. 

Clark moved forward a bit more, passing the couch as he went instead to the fireplace. He reignited it with ease. 

“But,” Clark said, finally breaking the silence, “I can leave if you don’t want to talk to me right now.” 

Or ever again.

Bruce remained silent and that was an answer all in of itself. 

Clark understood, yet understanding did not dim the feelings of disappointment that lingered within his chest. It wasn’t even about the interview.

Maybe it would have been easier if it was. 

His disappointment was no good. It didn’t change a thing, and as he made his way towards the door, the sympathy he felt for the man outweighed any emotional turmoil he felt for himself. 

Clark was halfway out the door when he heard it-

“Stay.”

It was gentle, soft, and it cracked at Clark’s heart. He couldn’t refuse the man even if he tried; he reentered the room. 

“Are you sur-”

“Please,” Bruce said as he gestured at the couch Clark had previously been lingering next to. 

The heavy weight of Bruce Wayne’s gaze stayed on Clark as he walked towards the couch and sat down. 

Clark stared at the fireplace as Bruce continued to stare at him. 

He wanted to speak. He wanted to clue Bruce in on his theory that had slowly been falling into place as the seconds passed but there was too much that couldn’t be disclosed and not enough that could be. 

How could Clark tell Bruce that Luthor was involved without sounding like a wronged journalist—a paranoid reporter—with a set agenda? 

How could Clark explain how he knew of Luthor’s connection to Esckley in a way that sounded reasonable—in a way that avoided mention of Clark’s superhuman hearing? 

How could Clark go into detail about his suspicions focused on Luthor and Dioltel without also bringing up Daith? 

It was all interconnected and the strings that attached one thing to the next tripped Clark up and left him in a bind. 

The silence was broken by a gentle knock on the door and the steady footsteps of Alfred, who despite bringing in two teas seemed surprised to see Clark still in the room with Bruce. He placed the cup of tea down in front of Clark first before making his way over to Bruce.

The weight of Bruce’s stare eased for a moment as Alfred acted as an indirect buffer—drawing Bruce’s attention away for the briefest of moments as he placed a cup of tea in front of Bruce. 

“Is there anything I can get you, Master Bruce?” 

Bruce shook his head once. 

“I’m alright. Thank you, Alfred.”

Clark spoke his thanks as well when Alfred passed by him once more, and as a gesture of gratitude pretended not to see the frown etched into the older man’s face. 

Clark waited until Alfred left the room to bite the bullet. The sound of the door closing prompted him to speak, though the words came out abruptly despite being practiced twice in his head-

“Luthor’s involved.”

Bruce raised one eyebrow but made no comment. 

Clark wasn’t sure what he expected. 

“I think,” he followed up awkwardly. 

“Why?” 

Clark shrugged. 

“He’s- I-” Clark cut himself off. “There are too many coincidences for it to be anything else.”

Bruce remained silent and Clark wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did know, that Bruce was listening to him. 

“Esckley, Dioltel, even Daith… they’re friends of Luthor’s- they’ve worked with him before to help cover things up-”

“You’ve never written an article about that.”

“There was never enough-” Clark paused for a moment as Bruce’s words sunk in. He looked up at the man before him. There was, though maybe it was the lighting, the faintest sign of a blush that dusted Bruce’s cheeks. 

How many of Clark’s articles did Bruce read?

“So Luthor,” Bruce continued as Clark remained silent. “You think he what? Wants to humiliate me?” 

I think he wants to create a monopoly, Clark thought but didn’t say.

It was a heavy accusation. 

“I don’t know-”

“You’re lying.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. 

“You’re rather observant for an airheaded billionaire.” 

“You’re rather intelligent for a bumbling reporter,” Bruce hit back without missing a beat. 

Clark paused for a moment. 

“You don’t seem shocked by what I said,” he finally said instead of addressing Bruce’s comment. 

It was true. 

Bruce seemed completely unfazed. 

It was like he already knew, or at least suspected Luthor was involved. 

“It makes sense,” Bruce replied with ease. 

Clark nodded but didn’t push Bruce for more of an explanation even though he desperately wanted to know more. 

“It also,” Bruce continued, “explains why Dioltel invited me to a private party he’ll be hosting next weekend.” 

That was… bold. 

Then again, the way Luthor confronted Clark that night at the gala was bold. 

“Are you going?”

“We,” Bruce stressed, “should.”

Clark shook his head, a small smile on his face. 

“I don’t think Dioltel will want a member of the press to join his party-”

“You won’t be going as a member of the press,” Bruce interjected, “you’ll be going as my plus one.” 

Chapter Text

Going as Bruce Wayne’s plus one was… nerve-racking. Not saving the world nerve-racking, but nerve-racking, nonetheless. It came with rules and certain cues that needed to be followed... things that Clark didn’t fully understand, but Lois, who had attended most galas where Bruce Wayne had brought a plus one, did. 

“You’ll need a new suit.” 

Clark sighed. 

It was the third time, that hour, that Lois had brought the topic back up. He had brushed the comment off the first time, tried to explain why it wasn’t a top priority the second time, and now he decided to hear her out before she felt the need to bring it up a fourth time. 

“I need a new suit?” 

Lois nodded, her eyes widening when she realized the opportunity Clark had given her. 

“Yes. You have to look nice-” she grabbed a stack of papers off her desk and dropped them onto Clark’s- “Look.” 

Clark did. 

The papers, 20 of them, contained the images of each person the press had snapped attending a gala with Bruce Wayne within the last two years. 20 papers, 20 beautiful people with elegant clothing, and perfect posture. 

Clark hunched his shoulders a bit. 

“Lois-”

“We can find you a new suit-”

“Lois-”

“It won’t be hard-”

“Lois-”

“Clark,” Lois’ voice was firm, but her eyes were kind as they peered down at Clark. “I already know what you’re going to say, and I won’t have it-”

“You don’t know what I’m go-”

“You’re going to suggest,” Lois interrupted, cocking her head slightly to the right, “that I go as Bruce Wayne’s plus one instead of you. You’re going to explain how-” her eyebrows arched- “and let me know if I’m wrong, you will call him and tell him about this idea. You’re going to argue that I’m better suited for it, and you think he’ll agree-”

“Of course, he will agree, Lois. I mean-” Clark gestured at the images- “I don’t look like that.” 

Lois paused for a moment. Her lips were in a thin line as her eyes took in every inch of the images Clark gestured to. 

“Fine.” 

Clark let out a sigh of relief. 

“If,” Lois added quickly, “you can get Bruce to agree.” 

Clark laughed. 

That would be easy. 

------------

Easy was… not quite the right word. 

In fact, impossibly hard would be a better way of describing how everything went down. 

Clark wasn’t arrogant, but he did expect to easily squash any concerns Bruce had about the switch. Granted, he hadn’t expected there to be any concerns at all. But that’s not how things panned out. 

That was not how things panned out, at all.

It had been a phone call, early in the morning, but not too early. Clark had made the decision to call before heading into the office, planning, in his ignorance, on gloating to Lois about how easily Bruce had conceded. 

However, Bruce did not concede; he doubled down. 

He dismissed any and all of Clark’s comments, making assurances here and there, and finally, when Clark pushed the topic once more, insisting that he had nothing to wear that would fit the required attire, Bruce had taken matters into his own hands. 

Which is how Clark ended up in one of the finest clothing establishments Gotham had to offer. 

Clark frowned as he ran his hand over the white dress shirt Bruce had given him only moments before. 

He had, though he was slightly ashamed to admit it, been difficult. Or he tried to be difficult. It seemed that every excuse or reason for why one outfit wouldn’t work out was quickly met with another outfit that addressed all the concerns. 

The outfits were nice, clean, sleek, and they fit Clark in a way his clothes never did. 

They all revealed too much despite covering nearly every inch of his skin. 

“Do you like that one?” Bruce asked, interrupting Clark’s slight spiral. 

Clark turned around to face the man. His white shirt strained a bit as he did, tightening around his defined muscles in a way that caught Bruce’s attention.

Clark tried not to act flustered as he shrugged in response. 

The shirt was nice, as were the black slacks, but they weren’t… Clark Kent. 

Maybe that was the point. 

Bruce held out a suit jacket for Clark to grab and made no further comment. A small frown had begun to make itself known on Bruce’s face, and though part of Clark felt bad for being the cause of it, he hoped it was a sign that the man would soon give up and accept Lois as his plus one instead. 

“I think…” Bruce trailed off for a moment before shaking his head and gesturing for Clark to put on the jacket. “You should tuck in your shirt.” 

Clark frowned, his hand tightened around the suit jacket, but he nodded as he stepped back into the changing room. 

“I still don’t know if it’s wise to have me as your plus one,” he muttered as he shrugged on the jacket Bruce picked out for him. It was sleek, black, and it fit him perfectly; Clark hated it. 

“It’ll make them nervous.” 

Clark sighed and fidgeted with the sleeves. 

“I don’t see how-”

“You’re still a member of the press, even if you’re going as my plus one.” 

Lois is a member of the press, Clark thought but didn’t say. 

“Why does it matter if they’re nervous?” Clark muttered as he removed the offending jacket. He stepped out of the changing area and ignored the slight frown on Bruce’s face as he handed it back to the man. 

“When people are nervous, they make mistakes-”

“And you’re sure I’ll make them nervous-”

“The press makes everyone nervous.”

Clark caught Bruce's gaze and held it. 

“Do I make you nervous, Mr. Wayne?” 

Bruce’s hand tensed on the jacket and his face turned a faint pink. He turned around without answering and pulled another jacket for Clark to try. 

“Black’s not really my color,” Clark tried, not grabbing the suit jacket in hopes that Bruce would give up. 

“I think black suits you fine,” Bruce replied instantly, though he retracted the suit jacket and placed it back on the rolling rack before turning his attention back to Clark. “What is your color, then?”

“Blue.”

“Blue?”

Clark nodded as he crossed his arms in front of his chest and hunched his shoulders a bit. He felt the strain of the white shirt as he did. 

He didn’t mind the clothing. It was the best of the best and better than anything Clark owned, but it revealed too much. 

There was a front to be put up each and every day, and though he knew, from some observation, that Bruce could likely relate, to some degree, he also knew that there was a chance the man would not understand at all.

“Clark,” Bruce finally said, breaking the small bout of silence that had begun to grow between the two of them. 

Clark looked up at him, peering over his slightly off-centered glasses. 

Bruce had turned his back to Clark at some point during the stretch of silence. The man was facing the rolling rack, his hand was placed on the only blue jacket it held. 

“If I asked you a question, would you be honest with me?” 

Bruce sounded small; the question was hesitant. 

“Of course,” Clark replied with only slight unease. 

“Have I… Is it… my company that you find lacking, or do you really just not like the clothing?” 

Clark was caught off guard. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn’t fast enough-

“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable-” 

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Clark cut in quickly. Bruce turned his head slightly and caught Clark’s eyes. His eyebrows were raised; the silent accusation was thrown his way. “I mean… I am but not because of you-”

Bruce let out a small laugh. 

“You really hate trying on suits that much?” 

“You have no idea.” 

A small bit of tension seemed to drain out of Bruce at the comment as if he had finally accepted Clark’s words as truth. 

“I didn’t mean to force this on you,” Bruce added, “I thought you wanted a new suit.” 

“I thought you would want me to look nice,” Clark replied, not looking at Bruce as he thought back to the images that Lois had shown him the other day. 

“You always look nice.”

Bruce walked away before Clark could respond. 

------------

Clark sighed as he stepped out of the changing area, now dressed in his oversized beige suit, and made a mental note to call Lois-

“Oh.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow as Clark almost walked right into him. His hand was raised as well, in an attempt to stop Clark, and though Clark knew it could not be so, he swore he could feel the warmth of the man’s hand penetrate through each layer of his suit and dance on his skin. 

“I didn’t…” Clark trailed off for a moment as he took a small step back. “I thought you left.” 

Bruce dropped his head a bit, disrupting their eye contact though his hand lingered in the air for a moment longer. 

“I never said goodbye.” 

Clark let out a small laugh. 

He didn’t have time to respond before Bruce made to leave, waving goodbye to the staff after they handed him a bag with a box inside it. 

The cold Gotham air wrapped around Clark as they made their way outside of the store, neither one speaking though the silence was not suffocating. 

Gotham was sickly as ever. The streets were grey and muddled; the people jaded and tired, but not Bruce. He seemed to stick out, and not in the billionaire type of way. He was distinguished from those who walked with their heads down with their eyes glued to the ground as they refused to see the inner workings of their city. Bruce watched, his eyes flickered from one thing to another in rapid succession, his gaze was sharp and intense as if he was constantly analyzing everything around him. He didn't avoid the ugly parts of the city, in a way, Clark noted, his attention almost seemed drawn towards them. 

“It's cold,” Clark remarked, rubbing his hands together—something unnecessary as his threshold for the weather differed from those around him. It was a habit more than anything else. 

“Yes.” 

The sound of the occasional passing car rumbled through the air as the sky continued to darken as night approached. Clark didn't know where exactly they were headed, but he couldn't find it within himself to care all that much.

Clark turned and faced Bruce-

“It's your turn.” 

Bruce looked back at him; eyes narrowed slightly. 

“What?” 

“To say something.”

“I apologize-” Bruce said as he let out a startled laugh. “I didn't realize we were taking turns.”

The man went silent for a moment before finally speaking once more-

“Why did you come?”

“What?”

“The other day… after Esckley’s article was posted. Why did you come?”

Clark hesitated for a moment. 

“You never called off the interview-”

Bruce stopped walking and turned to face him. 

“What if it was true?”

“What?”

“What if what Esckley said was true?” 

Bruce’s eyes were intensely focused on Clark. 

“Is it?” Clark asked 

Bruce looked away and bit his lip. 

“I- I’ve failed as a parent, Clark-”

The sound of trashcans, in the alleyway next to them, rattling interrupted Bruce. The man’s attention moved to the sudden sound as Clark’s did the same. He caught the faintest glimpse of what appeared to be a red helmet before it was obstructed by the shadows of the oncoming night. 

“Someone-”

“It’s getting late,” Bruce interrupted, eyes still glued to a specific spot in the alleyway that was blocked from Clark’s view. The lead used to mass produce most things in Gotham only continued to act as a hindrance as Bruce’s attention remained where it was. “Do you need a ride?”

Clark shook his head. 

“I’ll grab a cab.”

Bruce nodded and finally turned his attention back to Clark. He moved closer to the edge of the sidewalk, though not far enough away from his original spot to allow Clark to look around and see further into the alleyway. 

“I’m sorry for wasting your time today,” Clark said, trying to diffuse some of the tension that seemed to be lingering in the air and in Bruce’s body. 

Bruce looked at him with a slight frown. 

“You didn’t waste my time.” 

Clark opened his mouth to ask what Bruce meant by the comment when a taxi, slow, loud, and covered in peeling yellow paint, pulled to the side of the walkway. 

“I guess…” Clark paused for a moment, ignoring the way Bruce was still looking at him like an unanswered question. “This is goodbye.” 

“For now,” Bruce replied as he opened the taxi door for Clark. The man lingered for a moment, one hand on the door, the other holding the bag from the store.

“Have a good night, Clark.”

“You too, Mr. Wayne-” the bag was dropped in his lap and the door was closed before Clark could finish his sentence.  

Clark pulled the bag out of the box slowly, though not as delicate as he tried to. He opened it slowly-

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Clark ran his hand over the blue dress shirt in the box-

“Metropolis.” 

Clark threw one last glance out the window and watched as Bruce shoved his hands in his pocket and stared at the alleyway with the rattling trash cans. 

Chapter Text

Clark wasn’t ready. 

He was, but he wasn’t. His suit and hair were in order, but his nerves weren’t. The day had come about, the one he had been dreading—the one he felt—knew—Lois was more equipped to handle, had finally approached. 

And he wasn’t ready. 

He fidgeted with the sleeves of his dress suit once more, pulling them down and then rolling them back up, before sighing as he grabbed the oversized black suit jacket. 

It was the tightest one Clark owed, and it did him no favors, but he hoped that Bruce at least appreciated the effort he made. 

He knew Bruce understood, or had made the attempt to understand, as the blue dress shirt, made of the finest material Clark had ever draped over his body, was bigger than any of the ones Bruce had asked him to try on. It still wasn’t as large as Clark normally bought, but it was larger than the skin-tight ones that stretched anytime he so much as breathed. 

He debated calling and canceling—saying that something came up, given that it was Metropolis on a Saturday, something was sure to come about that would demand Clark’s attention—but he dismissed those thoughts with ease. 

Clark Kent was a lot of things, but he was not a liar and he was not a coward. 

And to think, Clark mused to himself as he paced his small living room, this all started because I didn’t mention his kids in my article . 

Clark wondered how that, out of all things, had managed to catch Bruce’s attention. Granted, he was forever grateful that his clumsy nature or tendency to stumble over his words hadn’t stuck out more in Bruce’s mind than his journalist work—but still… It was strange. 

The whole thing was strange. 

People like Bruce Wayne did not associate with people like Clark Kent, and maybe, Clark thought to himself when he caught a glimpse of his reflection, that was for good reason. 

He ran his hand over his shirt once more and continued to allow his mind to wander. 

Despite how hard he tried not to think about it, how hard he tried not to think of any time he had spent with Bruce—knowing he would only be more disappointed when Bruce inevitably told him that all Clark was to him was a source of information—his mind continued to replay the events from the night they looked at the suits. Specifically, the sight he saw, though barely, in the alleyway. 

He wasn’t ignorant of those who roamed the streets in Gotham. His occasional team-ups with Batman ensured that, for the most part, he was continuously up to date about the happenings of the cursed city—or as up-to-date as any outsider could be. 

He knew the man he saw in the alley. 

He knew it was the Red Hood, even when his mind tried to reason—tried to brush it off as the lights playing a trick on his eyes—he knew, deep down, who it was that had been lurking in the shadows. 

What he didn’t know was why Bruce didn’t seem bothered by the man’s appearance. 

Clark shook his head. That wasn’t right. 

Bruce did seem bothered… but he didn’t seem… scared.  

And it was not the first time that Clark paused and asked himself out loud, who the hell was Bruce Wayne?  

The sound of a gentle knock pulled Clark out of his spiraling. There was something more to Bruce Wayne than the man let on, but then again, Clark was a man with many secrets as well. Sometimes, things didn’t deserve to be pried into. 

He prayed that was the case with Bruce as he opened the door and greeted the man. 

------------------

The gentle touch of Bruce’s hand wrapping around Clark’s larger frame caused him to jolt slightly.

The two hadn’t spoken much in the car, other than the few basic pleasantries they exchanged, and Clark hadn’t been prepared for the movement the moment he stepped out of the passenger side door. 

“I would have opened the door for you,” Bruce muttered, his arm tightening around Clark as he tossed the valet his keys. 

Clark didn’t know what to say. 

He remained silent. 

Maybe it was the nerves, but things felt different. Something felt off about their interactions. The man beside him was Bruce Wayne, there was no doubt about that, though, in Gotham, one could never be too sure, but there was something sharper about the way he was acting. Strange and peculiar, yet familiar in a way that Clark couldn’t quite place. 

The man was focused, his eyes scanned every inch of the room they had been brought into, and his grip on Clark’s side never loosened for a second. 

“Bruce,” Clark said, finally breaking the silence as they continued to walk further into Dioltel’s mansion, “Are you alright?”

Bruce’s eyes snapped up to Clark’s before dropping down to the ground. 

He didn’t answer. 

“Bruce,” a young woman yelled, waving her hand in the air to catch Bruce’s attention. 

Bruce looked over and his hand tightened around Clark’s side. 

“Cynthia Walters,” Bruce muttered as the woman approached.

Clark nodded. He knew the name, but didn’t know the face—not at first. 

Cynthia looked different each time she appeared—constantly striving to be at the forefront of fashion had made her hard to recognize any given day. But the truth of the matter remained, no matter what she wore or what color her hair was, she was beautiful. 

“Cynthia,” Bruce said in an exaggerated tone as he finally released his grip on Clark, hugging the woman with the affection of a close friend who had been deprived of the other’s presence for a moment too long. “How are you, darling ?”

“You flatter,” Cynthia replied, gently slapping her hand on Bruce’s chest. She turned her attention to Clark and her eyes narrowed slightly. “And you are?” 

Clark opened his mouth to speak-

“Clark Kent,” Bruce said as he wrapped his arm back around Clark. “He’s my plus one for the night.” 

She continued to eye Clark for a moment before turning her attention back to Bruce.

“Mingling with the press never worked out for you before, Bruce.” 

There was an undercut to her words. The way she spoke to Bruce was the same as the way Lois spoke to Clark—there was some deeper understanding between the two, one that made Clark unsure of how to react. 

“What can I say?” Bruce asked as he let out a small disingenuous laugh. “Some temptations are hard to resist.” 

Cynthia remained silent for a moment—her eyes moved from Bruce to Clark and then back to Bruce. 

“Well…” she finally began, “grab your temptation and come sit down.”

---------------

It had been forty-five minutes of conversations, ones that never included Clark, and ones that were incredibly boring. 

His eyes scanned over the room they were in once more as his fingers mindlessly fidgeted with his jacket sleeve. 

Nothing had come about. Nothing of importance had been said. Gossip had been exchanged from one person to the next, but all of it was about mundane things—scandals that were only scandals in high society—things that Clark didn’t care to hear about. 

He had caught his name in utterance more than once, mostly jabs about his appearance, even one comment about the slight accent that coated the few words he had spoken, but nothing that made Clark think that Bruce had been right in his assumptions. 

He didn’t seem to make them nervous at all, in fact, it was how it always was. 

They ignored him. 

Clark ran his hand over his suit jacket once more—messing with the four buttons near his wrist—as he thought back over everything that happened. 

Daith, Dioltel, Esckley, Luthor… Bruce. 

They were all involved, in whatever it was that was going on, but the main question that Clark couldn’t shake was whether or not Bruce was involved or an unwilling participant.

Daith and Esckley made Clark think Bruce was an unwilling participant. The attempted takeover hurt Wayne Industries, and the opinion column hurt Bruce. 

But Luthor and Bruce went way back according to some sources. A friendly sort of rivalry existed between the two, though Clark countered, Bruce seemed to enjoy getting under Luthor’s skin—it may not be as friendly as some people painted it. 

Dioltel… Clark wasn’t sure how to think about his relationship with Bruce. Bruce had accepted the invite to the private party they were attending… 

Clark looked at Bruce, who sat beside him, and tried to understand things that were beyond his comprehension. 

Bruce looked totally at ease with the people that surrendered them—and they, in turn, seemed to adore Bruce. The man always seemed to know exactly what to say and how to say it. 

But there was still something… off. 

Clark looked away when Bruce’s attention turned to him. 

Maybe he was looking for something where there was nothing. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

But-

Bruce’s hand gently wrapping itself around Clark’s diverted his attention. His eyes snapped back up to Bruce’s and he watched as the man leaned in. 

“You’re not very social,” Bruce whispered. There was a certain tone he used, it was the same tone he used when he spoke with Luthor, like there was a joke hidden within the words—a joke only Bruce understood. 

Clark tried not to frown. 

Was he the fool in all of this? 

“I- uh-” Clark shook his head. “Not much to contribute.” 

Bruce leaned in further, his lips almost touching Clark’s skin, as he spoke. 

“Don’t be getting all shy on me now, Clark.” 

Clark could feel the blush paint his cheeks. 

Fool or not, he had fallen for Bruce Wayne's charm.

“Bruce-”

“You were right,” Bruce interrupted, cutting Clark off. A ghost of a kiss against the side of Clark's neck made his skin tingle and his head swim. He ducked his head in slight embarrassment. “Blue is your color.”

Clark nodded and tried not to act affected by the slow way Bruce pulled back, his lips lingering against the side of Clark's neck for a moment too long, before resuming his earlier position.

His hand remained on top of Clark’s. 

---------------

The conversations had died down when Clark noticed it placed within the flowers that Luthor had sent—his apology note attached as he had not been able to attend Dioltel’s private party. 

It was small, black, and attached to the stems of the slightly mangled flowers. 

A USB flash drive. 

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned to face Bruce, but the man was too engrossed in whatever conversation he had been having with the woman seated in front of them. 

He watched as Bruce made exaggerated motions, recalling a story that Clark had heard him tell already three times that night. He watched as Bruce’s hand made contact with the, still full, wine glass that sat in between the two of them. 

The wine spilled over the white tablecloth, and Clark winced at the stain he knew was to come and would never leave the expensive napery. 

Bruce was the first to react. He stood, finally removing his one hand from on top of Clark’s, and set the wine glass back up with a laugh and comment about how clumsy he was. 

A new cloth was brought within moments, before Clark even had time to register everything that happened, and was placed over the table. Bruce held the flowers as the exchange was made, apologizing profusely for his clumsiness though in a way that only Bruce Wayne would be able to pull off. 

The flowers were placed back down, this time directly in front of Clark. 

This time, with no USB hidden within the stems. 

Clark’s stomach dropped slightly. 

His brain could not come up with a reasonable excuse for why Bruce would have made the grab for the flash drive… unless he was working with Luthor and Dioltel. 

How else would the man have known about it? His attention had been held by the woman in front of them since the flowers had arrived. 

Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. 

It was only 10:58 p.m. 

The cabs in Gotham ran all night. Would it be unwise for him to call a cab to leave the event? 

Bruce was stringing him along, likely as a means of diverting his attention, and Clark had been stupid enough to fall for it. 

He sighed and shot Lois a short text, asking when she would be able to talk, before looking back up at the flowers. 

The USB was back within the stems. 

Clark frowned. 

He knew what he saw. He knew that the flash drive had been removed, but now it was… 

Clark eyed the flowers, then turned his attention towards Bruce. Bruce was already staring at him, when their eyes met, he raised his eyebrow, a playful expression on his face, but something tense about his body. 

Did he know that Clark had caught onto him?

Clark’s grip tightened around his phone. 

Who the hell was Bruce Wayne? 

Clark stood up abruptly. 

Suddenly, he didn’t care to find out. 

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” he offered, leaving the room before he could get a response. 

Chapter Text

To call a cab or to not call a cab—not quite the question Shakespeare had brought to the forefront of the mind of many individuals, but one that was plaguing the mind of Clark regardless. 

He knew he needed to stay. 

He knew he had a job to do. 

But-

Clark sighed. 

He didn’t want to. 

He didn’t want to waste another moment of his life listening to the cruel words tossed his way when people thought he couldn’t hear them, he didn’t want to listen as the people in the room verbally tore down their colleagues and  friends , and he didn’t want to hear whatever excuse Bruce was about to come up with. 

“I have to go,” Clark offered into the silent air. 

Bruce was there, lurking in the shadows, hidden but the steady beat of his heart gave him away. 

He heard Bruce move closer, and for a moment Clark wished things were not about to end in such nasty of a place. 

For a moment, Clark wished that Bruce had genuinely found him to be interesting. 

But Clark wasn’t a fool, he knew he was only a person that needed to be taken care of—distracted and told to look the other way so Luthor could continue to… 

Clark still hadn’t figured that part out. 

He was missing something. 

But what? 

“Is everything alright?” Bruce asked, his voice softer than Clark had ever heard it. 

“Why wouldn’t everything be alright, Bruce?” 

There was a beat of silence. The cold and unforgiving night air circled around them, the trees swayed, and there were rattling whispers of chains coming from various directions. 

Bruce opened his mouth but never spoke. 

Clark was dumb to feel disappointed, but if Bruce confessed—if he told Clark right then and now that he had been and still was working with Luthor—Clark knew he would have offered his forgiveness without a moment of hesitation. 

“The party’s almost over,” Bruce muttered. It was a weak sentence and Bruce refused to meet his eyes when Clark glanced his way. 

“Yes.” 

The whistling wind continued to make its way through Clark’s clothes, gently ruffling his suit jacket and pant legs, as the sound of rattling chains slowly died out. 

“It’s your turn,” Bruce said as he kicked a small pebble from beneath his feet. 

Clark paused for a moment, unsure and wary. 

“To say something,” Bruce finally added. 

There was a gentle stab at Clark’s heart as the word sunk into his brain and registered. It took a cruel man to mock someone already down on their luck-

Clark stilled. 

Bruce Wayne had never struck him as cruel. 

There was the small annoying flicker of hope once again making itself known in Clark’s mind. There was always a chance he had come to the wrong conclusion—no matter how slim it may appear. 

Clark knew that things were not always as they seemed. They rarely ever were. 

“The flowers Luthor sent were…” Clark paused for a brief moment, trying and failing to get a read on Bruce. The man gave no reaction—there was no uptick in his heartbeat, no slight gasp or intake of air at the mention of the flowers—he remained composed. “... nice.” 

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. 

Once again, silence filled the spaces between them—the distance increased as the minutes ticked by. 

Clark had nothing to say. 

“I can take you home-”

“I’ll call a cab.” 

“Clark-” Bruce cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He paused and waited a moment, but never continued. 

The air around them felt tight. Hidden words were weighing them down like anchors in the sea of wind that surrounded them. 

“You should get back to your party.” 

Clark pulled out his phone, intent on calling a cab-

“Clark-” Clark looked up at Bruce. He didn’t know the man, not really. Some things about Bruce seemed so familiar it unnerved Clark, other things remained a mystery, yet Clark could see the well-hidden anxiety that lined a small portion of Bruce’s body and Clark questioned how he was able to read the man so easily. 

It was like they had known each other for ages. 

“Please.” 

All the confusion, all the anger, and the hurt, that had made itself a home within Clark’s mind over the last hour and a half, dissolved. 

He put his phone in his pocket and gestured for Bruce to lead the way back into the party. 

-------------

Staying—it turned out—had been a wise decision, despite Clark still wishing he had called a cab when the time presented itself. 

Dioltel had finally made his appearance—fashionably late for his own party—with two women, uncomfortably younger than the man, hanging off his arms. 

He was sleazy but well-liked. Something that seemed to be a trait for many of the men at the party. 

And he was touching Clark’s back in too intimate of a way to be comfortable—his hand resting on the lower part of Clark’s back as if it wasn’t the first time the two had ever met. 

“Bruce,” Dioltel rolled the name around in his mouth as he spoke. “Said you were some hotshot reporter.” 

Clark nodded. 

The man was intoxicated, barely able to stand up straight, with lips too loose and hands too touchy. 

“You should-” he paused for a moment, stumbling slightly, “write an article about me.”

“What about you?” Clark asked in his most neutral of tones, prying for information in a way that seemed accidental. 

“I am-” Dioltel looked around the room then leaned in closer to Clark- “I’m going to become a very influential person here soon.” 

“Really?” Clark asked. He tried to spot Bruce within the few groups of people that surrounded them, but the man had all but disappeared. 

Dioltel nodded, a wide smile plastered on his face. 

“I’m going to become mayor.” 

Clark paused.

Marion Grange was the projected hopeful for all mayor-related things—her endorsement from Batman had all but secured her spot as one of the top contenders. 

What was Dioltel talking about? 

“I didn’t know you were running.” 

Dioltel laughed and pulled Clark in closer. 

“I’m announcing it next week-” Dioltel put his finger up to his lips and made a shush hand gesture- “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I-”

“Marcus-” Dioltel turned to face the man who had called his name. “Did you see the flowers Luthor sent?” 

Dioltel shook his head. He gave Clark a gentle pat on the back before heading over to the tables with the flowers on them. 

Clark watched as Dioltel, less than subtly, ripped the USB from the stems, breaking a few flowers as he did, and shoved it into his pocket. 

He startled slightly at the touch of a hand wrapping itself around his body—his attention was too focused on Dioltel to have noticed the person approaching. 

“He’s-” Bruce began. 

Dioltel moved away from the table, accidentally pulling the cloth linen that lined the table as he did. The flowers, the ones that had been the continuous cause of Clark’s distress, and the talking point of many of the guests, hit the ground and were crushed under the glass shards from the shattered vase. 

“Interesting,” Clark offered when Bruce remained silent a second too long after the commotion. 

“Yes.” 

“He’s going to be mayor.” 

“I overheard.” 

Clark shot Bruce a confused look. 

How had Bruce-

Clark froze. 

“Bruce?”

There was no logic to follow—not even logic that Clark could attempt to—it just… clicked. There was nothing Bruce did at that specific moment, no indicator or give away, but all the abnormalities of their interactions had finally accumulated in Clark’s mind. 

“Clark.”

Bruce Wayne was Batman. 

“I would like that ride home now.” 

-------------

Clark’s mind continued to replay the events of the night as Bruce drove through the oddly busy streets of Gotham. 

It was after midnight, yet time never seemed real in Gotham. 

Nothing seemed real in Gotham. 

Clark shot a quick glance at Bruce before looking back out the window. 

There was always a chance, just as there was earlier that evening, that he was wrong in the conclusion he had drawn, but there was no logic to dispute this time. It was a feeling, one that was based on small interactions that had been scattered throughout their time together, and basing his conclusion on a feeling was a gamble but one that Clark would make a thousand times over. 

“You’re Batman.” 

Bruce showed no reaction to the words. 

Clark wished he had. 

“You knew I was,” Clark started, trying not to sound disappointed. “Superman.” 

Bruce nodded. 

Clark bit back a sigh. Of course, he knew—he was Batman. 

Clark Kent had never impressed Bruce—Superman had. It was a display of trust, going to Clark for help on a case, yet it was a crushing revelation. 

Bruce didn’t like Clark Kent. 

He never had. 

He just needed the aid of Superman. 

“So this-” Clark made a small aborted hand gesture between the two of them- “was all for the case.”

“This?” Bruce asked with a small tilt of his head. 

“Our…” Clark trailed off for a moment. “Friendship.”

Bruce gave a choppy nod. “Yes.” 

Clark rubbed his hands on his pant legs—it was a nervous tick he developed sometime in high school, one that he thought he had conquered—and tried to ignore the weight in his chest. 

“So,” he prompted, unsure what else to do. 

“So?” Bruce asked. He looked confused and uncomfortable. 

Clark looked out the window. The air felt thick around him and his shirt felt too tight. 

“It was nice.”

The nearing city of Metropolis, out of reach but in view, eased some of Clark’s tension. 

He would be home soon enough. 

“What was?” 

“Our friendship.” 

The sound of a car backfiring in the distance barely registered in Clark’s mind. There were so many sounds at play in Gotham, cruel and unkind, yet familiar and warm. It was a dichotomy that only appeared that way on the surface. 

“Even if it was just for the case,” Clark finally added. 

Bruce remained silent and Clark knew not to push the topic once more. The man had made his stance on their… relationship clear. 

Extremely clear. 

Clark shook his head. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault that Clark had been the last one in on the secret. But everything had felt so-

It had all felt so real. 

Bruce pulled up to the entrance of Clark’s apartment building and Clark opened the door without a word. 

He paused for a moment, hand still on the door, and he looked at Bruce. 

“I think-” Clark waited until Bruce met his eyes- “we should continue this… separately.” 

“Separately?” 

“Yes.” 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed and for a moment Clark thought he would say something.

He never did. 

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wayne.” 

Clark turned around and tried not to be affected by the lack of a quiet comment asking to just be called Bruce.

Chapter Text

8 days. 

It had been 8 days since… the incident—since Clark realized he had been a fool dancing on a well-lit stage while others pulled the strings—and it still hurt. 

It hurt more than Clark had expected. 

He had never gotten to know Bruce Wayne, he had never captured the attention of the man, he had simply been used. 

He wasn’t mad. 

Not at Bruce, not at Batman, but maybe a little at himself. 

He should have been smarter. 

He should have known. 

When things seemed too good to be true, he should have investigated. 

He was investigating now, but it was too late to save his pride. 

Clark sighed as he continued to type up his notes about all that happened. There wasn’t much to the story, nothing worth publishing, and too much that relied on hearsay or educated, though not proven, guesses, but Clark still felt the need to have it all written down. 

He needed to organize his thoughts. A hard task to accomplish when his brain refused to move past Bruce, replaying the times they spent together, analyzing and then reanalyzing each thing that happened—each comment, each gesture, each brief moment of fleeting physical contact they had—Clark still couldn’t make sense of it. 

Clark couldn’t make sense of any of it. 

Dioltel, Luthor, Bruce… he just-

The sound of gentle knocking at his window pulled Clark’s attention away from his laptop and spiraling thoughts. His eyes darted over to the crooked clock on the wall across from where he sat. 

It was two in the morning. 

He stood, moving the laptop to the side, and listened. 

There was no sound to be heard, no quiet whispers or hushed murmurs, just the echoes of a steady heartbeat right outside his window. 

He moved cautiously towards the window, eyes catching the faint outline of the man, and sighed. 

It was Nightwing. 

Or rather, Dick Grayson, Clark corrected in his mind as he opened the window and stepped to the side. 

“Nightwing,” Clark said in lieu of a formal greeting. 

“Clark.” 

Nightwing made his way into the apartment, eyes rapidly taking in every inch of the barren living space as he did. 

“Your clock’s crooked.” 

Clark nodded. He remained by the window as Nightwing seemed to make himself at home despite it being the first time he had ever entered Clark’s apartment. 

Oddly enough, the interaction felt… natural, normal, almost worryingly commonplace. 

It seemed like just yesterday he was talking to a young Robin, excitedly reciting the old tales of the Kryptonian gods Nightwing and Flamebird. 

Now he was watching the same young man reach for a lukewarm piece of pizza from one of the containers that sat on Clark’s coffee table. 

“If you need a new name,” Clark said, trying to lighten the mood, “I’m all out of ideas.”

“There’s another party.” 

Clark moved away from the window. He debated playing dumb, pretending that he had no clue what Dick could mean by those three simple words, but there was no point. 

“That’s…” Clark trailed off for a moment, instinctively handing Dick a napkin as he tried to think of what to say.

Nightwing’s eyes never left Clark. He, much like his father, looked at Clark like there was an answer written within his body language, hidden and concealed, but there nonetheless. 

Maybe there was. 

But Clark didn’t know what question Dick was trying to ask. 

“Nice,” Clark finally finished. 

Dick nodded. 

Once. 

Then twice. 

He sat the half-eaten pizza back on the table. 

“Three boxes,” Dick muttered, “That’s a lot of pizza.”

“Yes.”

Clark waited for Dick to say something, but his answer did not seem to satisfy the man. He knew what fishing for information looked like—and though the bats were better at making it appear seamless, Clark had been around them long enough to see straight through their acts. 

“Superboy was-” Clark made a strangled hand gesture- “here.”

“Oh.”

Silence filled the room as the question that Dick wanted to ask continued to linger in the air. Clark wasn’t quite sure what was on the boy’s mind, but he could tell Dick was holding back. 

“How’s… he?” Dick finally asked. 

“He’s good.”

Better, Clark corrected in his mind. Their relationship was strained, and Clark still wasn’t sure what role he played in Kon’s life, if he was a brother or a father, but he knew he needed to be there for the boy. He had made mistakes, pushed Kon away when it was clear he was struggling, but each day, Clark tried to do better. 

“He’s living with my parents.” 

Dick nodded. “That’s good.” 

Once again, silence surrounded them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it left Clark’s skin feeling sticky with anticipation. 

He had never seen Dick so hesitant before, not even during the first time he met Superman. 

“Why are you here, Dick?” Clark tried, keeping his voice gentle and quiet as he asked the question. 

Dick sighed and ran his hands over his thighs as if wiping away sweat from his gloved hands. 

“There’s another party-”

“You already said that,” Clark dismissed quickly. 

“He’s allowed to bring a plus one.”

Clark nodded but remained silent. 

“It would be nice if he had someone with him who…” Dick trailed off for a moment, rolling words around in his head as he formed his sentence with care and caution. “Who has dealt with Luthor before.” 

Clark looked at him, his brain slowly registering the words, and shrugged. 

“Lois Lane-”

“Come on, Clark,” Dick snapped. It wasn’t anger that coated his words, it almost seemed like desperation. “You know him-”

“I know Batman-”

“That’s-” Dick made an aborted hand gesture- “There’s no Batman or Bruce or Brucie—it’s… it’s all him. It’s just him—he’s just-” 

Dick cut himself off and looked at Clark. 

“You know him better than anyone else-”

“Dick-”

“No,” Dick cut in, more aggressive with his tone, “Just- he likes you-”

Clark rolled his eyes. 

“He does.” 

“He doesn’t, “ Clark muttered, “trust me.” 

Dick scoffed as he stood up, his half-eaten slice of pizza still sitting on top of the coffee table. 

Clark remained where he was as Dick made his way to the still open window. The younger man froze for a second, hands gripping the ledge with his back still turned to Clark.

“He didn’t know.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed as he tried to understand the words. 

“What?” 

Dick turned slightly, his hands remained resting on the window, but his face was turned towards Clark. 

“He didn’t know that you were Superman,” Dick paused for a second, carefully watching Clark’s reaction. “Not at first.” 

“When?” Clark asked—the question came out stilted and awkward. 

“I don’t know. But, he didn’t know when he asked you for that interview.” 

Clark ran his hand over his face and sighed. 

He looked at Dick, then at the crooked clock that told Clark the man had been in his apartment for the last 45 minutes, before moving his attention back to Dick. 

“When’s the party?” 

Clark pretended not to see Dick smile as he replied, “tomorrow.” 

------------------

He was early. 

Exactly one hour and five minutes early. 

Just as Dick had requested. 

He didn't know why he came, and as he sat there, in his oversized suit and ill-fitting glasses, part of him wished that he didn’t. 

But it was too late now, and though Clark would never admit it, a small part of him was hopeful. 

Stupidly, dangerously, hopeful. 

And that was what worried him the most. 

Clark’s eyes caught the few slim figures that moved from their cars into the hotel building that hosted the event, but he had yet to see Bruce Wayne. 

Dick said he planned on being early, but as the minutes continued to pass, Clark wondered if the man would make an appearance at all.

Clark’s phone vibrated in his pocket and his attention was pulled away from the doors of the lavish hotel. 

He pulled the phone out of his pocket, making sure to note the name of the person listed, and answered. 

“Lois-”

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” Clark muttered, fidgeting with the buttons of his suit jacket. 

“Is he there?” 

Clark sighed. 

“Not yet.” 

Lois remained quiet for a moment. 

Clark hadn’t told Lois everything, it was impossible to do so without betraying Bruce’s trust, but she knew enough. 

“If you need me-”

“I’ll call you, I know.”

“Seriously, Clark-”

“I promise, Lois. You’ll be the first person I call.”

“I better be,” Lois muttered, before speaking a bit louder into the phone. “I want all the details-”

“Lois-”

“All the details you can tell me,” Lois corrected with ease. “And I’ll know if you’re lying.” 

“Of course.” 

Clark’s eyes caught the glimpse of a moving figure. He listened for a brief moment, ignoring the sounds of the city around them as he honed in on the person that was covered in the darkness. It was a familiar heartbeat, one that Clark recognized with ease. 

“I have to go.”

“Good luck, Smallville,” Lois said before hanging up the call. 

Clark smiled and tried to push away his nerves. 

He could do this. 

------------------

Catching up to Bruce was easy. 

Figuring out what to say was hard. 

Clark moved through the small crowd of people mingling outside the doors of the hotel and made his way next to Bruce, easily falling into step with the man. 

Bruce turned his attention to Clark, and for a brief moment, he looked startled before his face returned to complete indifference. 

“Clark,” Bruce greeted, eyes glued to the ground in front of him as he spoke.

“Mr. Wayne.” 

There was an upwards twitch of Bruce’s lips and his eyes moved back up to Clark’s. 

Clark opened the door for the man, making a small gesture for Bruce to lead the way. 

Bruce didn’t comment. 

The man seemed… almost lost in thought. 

Clark wrapped his arm around Bruce’s waist, flipping their briefly established routine, and leaned in, “Rough night?” 

Bruce let out a small laugh. 

“It’s going to be.” 

Clark tightened his grip on Bruce instinctively. 

He took one long look at Bruce. Behind the bravo, the air of self-confidence, and the small smile plastered on Bruce’s face, Clark could see how tired the man appeared. How he favored one side over the other and the slight strain of his eyes in the light. 

“I’m here,” Clark whispered. Though he wasn’t sure if it was meant as a reassurance to Bruce or to himself. 

Bruce leaned slightly into Clark’s body without thought. 

“Thank you,” he muttered. 

It didn’t matter, Clark realized in that moment, taking in the hunched figure of Bruce Wayne.

Any of it. 

If Bruce knew, or when he knew, if Bruce only needed, or wanted, the aid of Superman, none of that mattered anymore. 

All that mattered was being there for Bruce. 

Chapter Text

The people Clark faintly recognized, from hushed introductions at Dioltel’s first party, were none the more delightful on second occurrence. Those Clark still had yet to meet were the same in that regard with their side-eyed looks and scoffs placed conveniently halfway through Bruce’s introduction of who Clark Kent was and, more importantly, what he did for a living. 

Yet, even with the snide remarks that caught Clark’s ears, ones that he knew they would never say to his face so long as Bruce was by his side, the party was incredibly dull. Yet, there was a sinking feeling in the air, a taste of electricity, that was inescapable. 

Dread penetrated the cloth linen on the tables in front of them and such a mood escaped no one. If Clark had never been in such a situation before, he would have assumed the end of the world was coming. But Clark saved the world many times, with too many close calls for comfort, and the ending of the world didn’t feel like how it felt in that hotel ballroom—it was much more pleasant. 

The conversations people were engaging in were unnatural and stilted, there was a hushed and quick way of speaking that people used, and that left Clark unsettled. 

Everyone knew something was about to happen, the question was what.

Clark glanced at Bruce, who sat beside him at one of the round tables scattered throughout the enormous room, and tried to figure out what he was thinking. He knew it was an impossible task, Bruce was a hard man to read, but with no other form of entertainment, Clark tried his best. 

“Clark?” 

Clark looked away from Bruce and towards the woman who sat on the opposite side of the man. She was leaned in, her eyes tried to find Clark’s, and her hands nearly touched Bruce’s plate of half-eaten, worryingly expensive, food. 

“Yes?” Clark asked, mimicking her posture and leaning in closer—invading Bruce’s space without a second thought in a bolder way than the woman could ever be comfortable enough to mimic. 

“Bruce said you work for the Daily Planet. Is that so?” 

Clark nodded. 

“Is it-” the woman looked away for a brief moment, pulling away slightly as her discomfort shone through. “How did you get the job?” 

Clark raised his eyebrow. 

That was not a question he expected to hear that night. It was clear, upon his introductions with the people in the room, that many of them had nothing but distaste for the press. Yet this woman, who seemed genuinely interested in hearing what Clark had to say, went against all of Clark’s established expectations of new acquaintances. 

“I-” Clark cut himself off for a moment. He placed his hand on the upper part of Bruce’s thigh and leaned in further as if telling a secret only the woman was allowed to know. “I covered a story about Superman-” 

“Really?” 

Clark nodded once more. 

“I was the first person to get a direct quote from the man-”

“No!”

“Yes,” Clark muttered, leaning back but keeping his hand situated on Bruce’s thigh. “It was pure luck.” 

“Wow.” 

The woman seemed to lack words for an eloquent response. She nodded once more and as she began to ask another question, was interrupted by the person Clark assumed was her date. 

Clark looked at Bruce once more. Bruce’s eyes were pointed down, locked on Clark’s hand-

“Pure luck?” Bruce asked in the same joking tone that was hardly detectable but almost ever-present when the man spoke. This time, Clark understood. 

“Yes,” Clark muttered, squeezing Bruce’s thigh instinctively as his attention turned to the swaying figure of Daith. 

The man had been accepting, and offering, drinks left and right. He seemed to have an unquenchable thirst that only the finest of wine could satiate, yet his alcohol tolerance could not match such blatant abuse. 

It was evident, to Clark at least, that the man was attempting to get the attention of those around him. Somewhere in between the murmurs of high fashion and the latest scandal, the man had been slowly elevating his voice asking for those who were loudest to settle down. Slowly, but surely the antics that the man had engaged in seemed to affect those within the room. 

Bruce’s attention was still locked on Clark’s hand, he had yet to look up and he had yet to push the hand away. Clark made to pull away when Bruce placed his hand on top of Clark’s, keeping it in place.

Clark caught Bruce’s eyes for just a moment, he offered a small smile that Bruce returned before turning his attention to Dioltel. 

“I would like to make an announcement,” Dioltel yelled, his voice breaking through the relevantly quiet air with force. Clark could hear the sighs and saw a few eye rolls but his attention never strayed too far away from Dioltel. 

The man pushed away from the center table, his suit jacket stretching uncomfortably as he made a wide gesture with his arm and spun around to get a look at everyone in the room. 

“I am-” the man stumbled slightly, and even from a distance, it was obvious that his face was coated in a thick layer of sweat. “I am running for mayor of Gotham city.”

Silence. 

Pure unbroken and ever-so-heavy silence weighed on the room like an inescapable wool blanket. 

It was more silent than it had been all night. 

There was a rare murmur or two that Clark caught, a gasp on his left side and an “oh no” on his right, but other than that it was complete silence. 

Until-

The clapping.

It was slow, annoyingly paced, and coming from one man. Luthor stood up, applauding the man loudly and ushering those around him to do the same. The room broke out in confused clapping, scattered, stilted, claps, and Clark watched as the reaction did nothing to dim Dioltel’s ego. 

He grabbed the lady who sat beside him and pulled her into a standing position, kissing her cheeks before pumping the air twice. 

Clark watched as Luthor made his way over to the man, shaking his hand in a grande motion, and smiling as a few cameras flashed. 

“Are you going to congratulate him?” 

Bruce shook his head. 

“On what?” 

“He’s running for mayor,” Clark muttered, entertaining Bruce’s act of ignorance. “Of Gotham.” 

Bruce’s hand tensed over the top of Clark’s. 

It was hard to remember when Bruce appeared as he did that night, all glammed up and not operating in the shadows, how protective the man was of the cursed city—how defensive he got when anyone tried to enter, help, or hurt it. 

“He just needs the support of the-”

“He won’t make it that far,” Bruce interrupted. His tone was cold and clear, leaving no room for argument—not that Clark had one. 

Clark looked around the room once more, noting the way people were starting to once again mingle about as the food finally settled in their stomachs and a new form of gossip was freely given to ignite the dying conversations. 

“We need to-” Clark made a small gesture towards the intertwining people with his hand- “socialize.” 

Bruce nodded, but he made no attempt to move and his hand remained on top of Clark’s. 

Clark squeezed Bruce’s thigh once, slowly pulling his hand away and standing up. Bruce Wayne was not a man who could get away with a lack of socialization at such events. His refusal to stand up and mingle after such an announcement would be ill-received even if those in the room agreed with his stance. 

“I’ll be back.” 

Clark headed for the first group of people he vaguely recognized, intent on asking them for quotes he would never remember and, even if one stuck out in his mind, he would never publish. 

He heard Bruce slowly follow his lead, departing to the left as Clark headed to the right, both keeping up appearances while wanting to do anything but. 

----------------

It did not take long before Bruce was done mingling—that much was clear to Clark.

Perhaps it was because Clark had been acquainted with the man for so many years, even under a guise, that he was able to see the clear signs of discomfort and annoyance, or perhaps it was because Bruce seemed to lack the energy to keep up such a tiring front—either way, he could tell. 

Bruce was no longer the Brucie Wayne that he had attended the first party with, the man of the hour who made everyone fall in love with him, but rather he was hidden. Or as hidden as he could be given where they were and who he was. 

He disappeared from Clark’s eyesight with annoying ease. The disappearing act was one that Bruce had mastered to an alarming degree. 

Clark’s attention roamed the room, conveniently attaching to Luthor more times than could be a coincidence, as he sought out the figure of Bruce. 

Something felt… off. 

The air felt electric and tense like something was building, about to explode and shock everyone within the general area. 

“... he’s really something…” 

Clark listened in on the conversations, the muted congratulations and the jealous undertones and insinuations of bribes and forgeries, but more so than that he listened for the familiar heartbeat of Bruce. 

“... will be shocked if he…” 

Bruce, who was now in the kitchen of the hotel, far away from the ballroom Dioltel rented out, searching for… something. 

Clark could not help but be frustrated. There was something he was missing, some vital part of the happenings that surrounded him that continued to evade him. The puzzle pieces were connecting in place, yet the picture remained unclear and out of focus. 

“... check on the kitchen staff…”

Clark turned his attention to Dioltel. He was surrounded by only a small group of people, trying, and failing, to make a seamless exit as they continued to throw questions his way. 

Clark headed towards the kitchen without a second thought, throwing one last glance toward Luthor as he did.

----------------

Finding Bruce was easy. The man leaned up against the wall, just outside the doors that lead into the kitchen, yet out of sight of the workers inside. His face was slightly obscured by the poor lighting in the dim walking area that was nothing more than a connector of more important rooms, his hands were in his pockets as he stared at nothing in particular. 

Clark wasn’t sure how to act. 

The man was lost in thought, yet ever present in the moment. He gave a slight nod in Clark’s direction as the man approached, but remained glued to the spot as his eyes rested on the void wall. 

Oddly if Clark were to reach out, it seemed as though his hand would pass right through the man.

Clark opened his mouth to speak-

“I got what I needed,” Bruce interrupted, not looking Clark’s way. 

He was acting, Clark reflected, the same way he acted when Clark arrived at the manor for an interview—after Esckley’s article had been published. 

“That’s-” 

The sound of hurried footsteps approaching caught Clark’s attention. 

Bruce seemed to understand without explanation. He stood away from the wall, only slightly, and put his hand on the lower part of Clark’s back, pulling the man closer until he was backed up against the wall once more. 

Bruce’s arm trapped Clark in place, their bodies were flesh against one another with only hesitant distance between their faces. 

Clark went to pull back slightly, but Bruce’s arm remained where it was, his hand tightened around Clark’s side before dropping an inch. 

“Mr. Wayne-”

“Are you always this formal with your partners?” 

Clark’s eyes finally rose to Bruce’s. 

There was the look again. The one that let Clark know Bruce was enjoying himself—the one he used with Luthor the second time they met—the one that screamed there was a silent inside joke that only Bruce understood—but this time, Clark was in on the joke. 

He leaned in, invading space that did not exist between the two of them, his hands found places of rest on each side of Bruce’s body, and his lips lingered just above Bruce’s. 

“How informal would you like me to get?” Clark asked, refusing to break eye contact, even as Bruce squirmed slightly and his cheeks turned a light pink. 

“Clark-”

Bruce cut himself off and broke eye contact. The blush that painted his cheeks ran down his neck. 

Bruce cleared his throat. 

“Clark, I-”

“Gentlemen,” the loud annoying voice of Dioltel had Clark pulling away from Bruce with more hesitance than he would like to admit. His hand moved to Bruce’s waist, but the moment was gone. “The party’s upstairs.” 

There was a look on Dioltel’s face. Something akin to jealousy and envy, present but only noticeable if one knew what to look for. 

“Sorry,” Bruce offered, sounding anything but. He wrapped his arm back around Clark. His hand tightened on Clark’s waist as he sent a blank stare Dioltel’s way. “We needed somewhere private.” 

Clark fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Come on,” Clark muttered, heading back the way they came from, dragging Bruce, who refused to let go of him, with him. 

------------------

That was only the first of interactions with Dioltel that Clark had to suffer through. It seemed his companionship with Bruce, the fact that he worked for the Daily Planet, and the swelling ego of Dioltel made Clark a target of conversation. 

There was not a break from the man since reentering the ballroom, as Dioltel had followed them, too close for comfort, back from the kitchen area. His “checking on the kitchen staff ” had never taken place, and if it wasn’t for the man’s blatant attempts to secure himself an interview with Clark, to push his run for mayor into the public’s eyes through print, Clark would have been worried that the man had caught onto them. Yet it was clear, from the little Clark actively listened to, that the man was too full of himself to notice anyone else. 

It was a strange change of pace as Dioltel directed his conversation towards Clark instead of Bruce, though it seemed more like the man was monologuing to himself than engaging Clark in a discussion. Dioltel’s eyes danced around the room but they always found their way back to Clark.

Bruce had left for a brief moment, in between two incredibly dull stories that Dioltel found to be more humorous than they were, to get wine for the group. He easily held onto the three wines, handing one to Dioltel and the man didn’t break his sentence as he accepted the gesture. 

Clark couldn’t quite keep the small frown off his face. Dioltel was already concerningly hammered; Clark wasn’t sure how many more drinks the man's body would be able to handle before dropping. 

“What type of wine is this?” Bruce asked as he held his cup up, a subtle reminder that Dioltel had yet to take a sip out of the glass Bruce had brought him. 

Dioltel took a large sip, though it was more of a gulp, in response. His eyes closed for a moment as if internally searching through a menu of all the wines of that night to give the best-suited answer to Bruce. 

“Nuits-Saint-Georges Les Meurgers,” Dioltel muttered before taking another sip. “It’s a-”

“Red wine?” Bruce asked though it was clear he already knew the answer. 

Dioltel nodded. He finished the glass, finally uttering his thanks to Bruce for retrieving the glass for him, and with a slight laugh mentioned how long the night would have been if the ballroom had been barren of wine. 

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, an insult carefully laced on his tongue, Clark had no doubt, before he was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. 

Clark watched the slight scrunch of Bruce’s eyebrows as the man reached into his pocket, and noted the small frown as the man made a “one-moment” gesture before stepping away. 

The slight interruption did not seem to dampen Dioltel’s talkative mood, in fact with Bruce away, the man moved closer to Clark. 

Clark took a small step back, hand wrapped tightly around the wine glass he had been given, but that did little to dissuade Dioltel. The man continued to move in and out of the personal bubble Clark had mentally constructed with ease—as if he did not understand the absurdity of sucking up to Clark Kent of all people—as he continued to blab about nothing much at all. 

“... She’s the one who did my hair…” 

Clark nodded along, eyes searching for Bruce in what he hoped appeared more nonchalant than it felt. 

“... legal trouble that comes with being CEO…” 

He wasn’t worried about the man per se. Batman had proven himself more than capable on the missions the two of them worked together on in the past, but the man wasn’t there as Batman, he was there as Bruce Wayne—and Bruce Wayne had a lot of vulnerabilities. 

“... but when Luthor takes over-” Clark’s eyes snapped up to meet Dioltel’s. The man hardly noticed the change in attention. “I’ll turn a blind eye, y’know?” 

Dioltel looked at Clark for confirmation, though his eyes lingered a bit too long on Clark’s lips for comfort. 

“Sounds reasonable,” Clark agreed. “Are you close with Luthor?” 

There was a nasty glint in Dioltel’s eyes as he leaned in closer, wrapping his arm firmly around Clark as he pressed his lips against Clark’s ear to whisper, “I’d like to be close with you, Clark.” 

The way his name rolled off Dioltel’s tongue, like warm honey on a hot summer day, had Clark clenching his teeth. 

“Mr. Dioltel-”

“Just Marcus for you.”

Dioltel leaned in further but Clark’s firm, yet gentle, placement of his hand against the man’s chest stopped the movement. 

Clark was dancing in a minefield, unsure of each step he made and how it would impact the rest of the night. Each move felt vital, and each inch given felt like life or death—Dioltel needed to be comfortable around him, but not too comfortable. 

“I still,” Clark muttered, taking a small step back, “don’t see how you can turn the voting around. Gotham loves Marion Grange-”

“Marion,” Dioltel interpreted with venom laced throughout the name, “Won’t be a problem for long.” 

Clark tensed slightly. The evening air that had been stilted all night continued to weigh down Clark’s skin and glue his feet to the freshly polished floor. He forced a smile and made eye contact with Dioltel. 

“Well, I’m convinced,” Clark said with a fake laugh, pushing his Kansas accent onto the words as he refused to look away. “If you still have time, I’d love to ask you some questions for the Daily Planet.” 

Fake. 

Hollow. 

Resigned. 

Yet totally believable to someone whose ego was big enough to blind God. 

“Go on,” Dioltel prompted. His smug smile was not lost on Clark, nor was the way his eyes lit up at the mention of potentially getting his name in the Daily Planet’s paper. 

“In private,” Clark added through slightly gritted teeth.

Dioltel wrapped his arm tighter around Clark and this time, knowing the best way to figure out what was going on was through the man that disgusted him so thoroughly, Clark let his body be moved. He was snugly pressed up against Dioltel as they made their way up to the man’s hotel room. 

Clark cast one quick glance behind him, his eyes catching the intense blue eyes of Bruce for but a brief moment. He tried to convey at that moment all that he could without saying a word or giving anything away to someone else. 

Narrowed eyes, tensed jaw, but not making a move towards Clark—Bruce knew what was going on. He didn’t like it, but at least he knew. 

------------------

The hotel room Dioltel brought Clark to was… messy. 

Very messy. 

Too messy.

It appeared as though someone, perhaps Dioltel, had thrown things about in a hurried haze—searching for something hidden away—yet it was also clear, whatever had been searched for had not been found. 

There were papers placed around the room, some on the floor, some on the bed, and some on the bathroom counter. Clark wasn’t sure how to react or if he was meant to react at all. Dioltel’s lack of reaction pushed Clark into the assumption that the man had trashed his own room, yet the clear intoxication still lingered as a reason in Clark’s mind. 

“The view is nice,” Clark offered, catching the faint streetlight glow from the window that faced the city. 

“Yes,” Dioltel muttered, he wrapped his hand around Clark to stop his stumbling feet. 

“This isn’t an ideal place for an interview.” 

“Mhmm,” Dioltel leaned further into Clark, pushing up against the man as he struggled to stay upright. 

Clark gently led the man toward the only chair in the room. He waited for only a second before beginning to ask the question that had plagued his mind the last few hours. 

“Luthor is your strongest supporter it seems-”

“It’s his plan.”

Clark froze. 

“His plan?” 

Dioltel nodded, body slumping in the plush hotel chair. “Me as mayor—his plan.” 

“You must have made a strong impression on him when the two of you met a few weeks back-”

Dioltel let out a small giggle, he tried to sit up but his body was unable to handle the strain of the movement given his current state of intoxication.

“We’ve-” Dioltel made a flickering hand motion- “known each other for ages.” 

“Oh?”

Dioltel nodded. 

“That’s why he trusts me not to-” the man cut himself off for a second, further slouching in the chair, as a hiccup racked his body. 

Clark frowned. 

He had seen Dioltel drink his body weight in alcohol that night, yet in the ballroom, the man seemed… alert. Not as alert as others, he swayed and stumbled, but he didn’t appear to be only a few minutes from passing out. 

“Not to?” Clark prompted when Dioltel remained quiet. 

Dioltel slumped completely over, his eyes were closed and his mouth remained open. The secrets were right on the tip of his tongue, but now they were forever lost to Clark. 

Clark sighed. 

So close, yet-

There was knocking. It was light and gentle, quiet and hardly there, but noticeable and alarming. Clark looked around the room, at the papers that littered every inch of the area and the slumped-over Mayor hopeful, he was fucked. 

He neared the door cautiously as he listened, relaxing only slightly as he heard the steady heartbeat of Bruce outside. 

Clark opened the door and stepped to the side without a word. He made a wide gesture for Bruce to enter before closing the door with a lack of force so as to not draw any attention. 

Bruce threw one quick glance Clark’s way, his eyes were still narrow but his jaw was no longer clenched, before turning his attention to Dioltel. 

Clark rolled his eyes. 

“Did he tell you anything useful?” 

“I take it you had something to do with-” Clark motioned towards the man, ignoring Bruce’s question- “this.” 

There was a slight uptick to the corner of Bruce’s lips, that would be hardly noticeable to anyone but Clark, as he gave a curt nod. 

“I drugged his wine.”

Clark bit back a sigh. 

“He was about to tell me about-”

“Yeah- sorry.” 

Clark caught Bruce’s eyes for a brief moment and it was clear that the man was not in the least bit sorry. In fact, Clark mused to himself, Bruce almost seemed appeased about the situation. 

Bruce made his way through the room, looking in every corner and under each section of the bed, before turning his attention to Dioltel. Whatever he was looking for, however, was not to be found in the slumped man’s presence, and soon Bruce was walking over to the bed. 

“He wanted to talk-”

“I think,” Bruce interrupted, going through the papers on the bed as Clark’s eyes stayed glued to his back. “He wanted to do something more than just talk.” 

There was a slight edge to Bruce’s words, a layer of heat wrapped firmly around the icy statement that lingered in the air.

Clark raised an eyebrow. 

Was Bruce jealous? 

“Plus,” Bruce added, body slightly tenser than before, “You never finished my interview.” 

“I never started your interview, Mr. Wayne.” 

The words fell with ease from Clark’s lips. He hadn’t processed them until he realized the intense stare Bruce was directing at him.

Clark turned his attention to the papers that Bruce had been going through. He ignored the man’s gaze as he leaned down to get a better look at the sloppy handwriting that littered them. Most of the words were hard to make out, and some were impossible, but the overall sentiment remained. Dioltel, with Esckley ’s name attached through a soon-to-be-published article, had hired-

“You’re doing that on purpose.” 

Clark turned his attention back to Bruce, eyes looking over the top of his glasses as he peered at Bruce. 

“Doing what?” 

“Calling me that-”

“Calling you what?” Clark asked, eyes dropping back down towards the papers as he made to grab the one closest to Bruce. 

Clark’s fingers brushed the thin, slightly cold, piece of paper, and he-

He froze. 

Bruce’s hand was on top of his. Their skin meshed together as Bruce held his hand in place, not a tight grasp, not a loose one either, just… firm. 

“Clark.” 

Clark looked back up at Bruce. 

The man was staring at him the way he always stared at Clark—like he couldn’t quite figure him out. The hidden question that was Clark Kent never unraveled its mystery before Bruce it seemed. 

And as Clark reflected for the slightest second, he realized that’s how it always had been. Superman to Batman, Clark to Bruce, the man in front of him always seemed caught off guard by his behavior to some degree. 

Yet he seemed able to predict Clark, Superman, with concerning accuracy. 

What, Clark asked himself, was Bruce looking for? 

“Why do you look at me like that?” Clark asked, holding Bruce's eye contact. 

Bruce’s mouth twitched slightly. 

“Why do you call me Mr. Wayne?” 

Clark’s eyebrows narrowed. He… didn’t understand. Was Bruce’s question meant as a reflection of his own? 

He called Bruce, Mr. Wayne because that was who the man was. 

Clark shook his head slightly and turned his attention back to the paper, noting the gentle way Bruce’s hand fell from his. Soft prickles dance on the parts of his skin that Bruce had touched. 

He called Bruce Mr. Wayne because it was easier that way. 

Because he didn’t know Bruce. 

And when he thought he did, during the few moments he uttered the man’s name, everything had changed. Everything crashed down around them as Clark put the pieces together and realized Bruce Wayne was Batman. 

Secrets. 

There were always secrets that pushed in large amounts of distance between Clark and those around him. Usually, Clark was the one who held back, but with Bruce things were different. 

Their secrets prevented a true form of intimacy from forming—holding them back and eroding their understanding of one another. But-

Clark was an open book. He just… held people at a distance. It was easier that way. 

He knew Mr. Wayne, and Batman, but he didn’t know Bruce. 

Dick had said there was no separation between the identities. 

Bruce knew Clark Kent, and Superman, but he didn’t know Kal-El. 

But for Clark, there was a great degree of separation. 

They didn’t know one another, and yet, Clark knew that he deeply cared for the other man, and he hoped the sentiment was returned. 

But… in case it wasn’t, in case Clark was putting too much of his heart on the line, he had some form of distance established with the man—no matter how futile it seemed. 

“They hired someone to kill Marion,” Clark said, holding up the piece of paper that documented the purchase of such services. He refused to address Bruce’s question, still too confused by it to even attempt to answer. 

Bruce nodded. 

“You don’t seem concerned.” 

It was true. The man beside him took the news in stride and that was enough to ease Clark’s concern. 

It was evident that Bruce was, unsurprisingly, already aware of the situation at hand. 

Bruce grabbed the paper from Clark, easing it out of the man’s hands, and muttered “Butterfly Contractors—it’s an organization run by the GCPD.”

“Is that-” Clark paused for a moment. He was aware that at times corruption ran rampant in the GCPD. It seemed that every other year a new scandal would break and some big name within the police department would be outed. “... a good thing?” 

Bruce nodded once more and as he opened his mouth to speak, Clark's phone went off. 

He had received a text message from Lois, forwarding an article from Esckley—one that had just been published. 

Marion Grange: Mayor Hopeful Shot Dead.

By: Adam Esckley

Opinion Columnist

Tragedy has once again struck Gotham city as news broke this evening regarding Marion Grange’s, a strong contender in Gotham’s race for Mayor, death. Grange was outside her-

Clark held his phone up for Bruce to see without reading the rest of the sentence. 

Bruce took the phone from Clark and shook his head. 

“She’s fine-”

“I know,” Clark muttered, grabbing his phone back from Bruce. 

“The details were on that USB-”

“The one that was on the flowers.”

Bruce nodded. 

“I don’t-”

“We needed Esckley to post that article—it makes his involvement undeniable.” 

Clark nodded, slightly unsure. Something still didn’t make sense. 

“You were right,” Bruce offered, “Luthor was trying to create a monopoly.” 

Clark shook his head. He had never told Bruce his theory—it had been too early in their relationship and at the time Clark had come to such a conclusion, he had not been aware of Bruce’s secret identity. 

“I’m missing something-”

“Employment records from Wayne Enterprises,” Bruce suggested a small smile on his lips. 

Clark’s eyes narrowed. 

“I checked the employment records-”

“You checked fake employment records,” Bruce corrected. “There’s a man that was hired three months ago by my company. He’s been less than subtle about his desire to take my position-”

“And he still works for you?” 

Bruce shook his head. 

“He was fired before he started,” Bruce paused for a moment. “But he doesn’t know that, and neither does Luthor.” 

“If Daith’s attempt failed, why would this man’s attempt be any better-”

“Luthor’s given him far more connections this time… and money.” 

“Is that all it takes?” 

Bruce’s eyes caught Clark’s. 

“No.” 

Clark looked away as the tension between the two of them began to build. His eyes landed on Dioltel, who was in an uncomfortable slouch, and frowned. 

“What about-”

Bruce pointed out the window and gestured for Clark to move towards it. As if summoned by the man himself, and Clark had no doubt that Bruce would be able to do such if he so desired, three squad cars pulled up outside the doors of the hotel. 

“The GCPD has a strong stance against political assassination attempts.” 

“We should leave.”

Bruce nodded in agreement.

Clark turned once more to look at Dioltel as Bruce watched the officers slowly exit their squad cars with caution. 

“Why him?”

“Marion monitors things. She’s proactive. If Dioltel were in office, Luthor would have free reign to take over Wayne Enterprises-”

“You said it takes more than money and connections-”

“Not much more,” Bruce muttered, a sad tint to his words as he gestured for Clark to head to the hotel room door. 

------------------

With loud shouting and confused screaming, the night seemed to wind down right at its peak. There was a part of Clark, even after everything had been brought to light, that felt disappointed—yet Clark could not pinpoint why. 

It was not the prospect of Luthor walking away scotch free that bothered him—that was a familiar feeling that Clark recognized with ease—instead, something else brought about his dull mood as he watched the GCPD storm the ballroom before moving to the next room in search of Dioltel.  

Clark watched as Bruce turned his attention to Luthor, who was playing the act of a concerned and confused citizen, even as he held more knowledge than most about what was happening. 

“They won’t have anything on Luthor.” 

Bruce looked at him with an arched eyebrow. 

“They never do,” Clark continued with a strong and heavy sense of dread. Luthor would continue to roam free for another day. 

“That’s unfortunate.” 

“Yeah,” Clark muttered, eyes downcast. There had to be some way to link the man to what happened—if only Clark could figure out how… if only Clark were better at-

Bruce didn’t speak as he reached out for Clark’s hand, giving it a light squeeze, before letting go of it once more. 

Luthor was an expert at covering his tracks—having his name present in a way that brought about no attention—but Clark refused to give up. One day, Luthor would make a mistake—he would slip up—and when he did, Clark would be waiting for the opportunity to strike. 

“So,” Clark said, shaking his head and his thoughts of Luthor away. 

“So,” Bruce mimicked, a slight question in his tone. 

“When did you know?” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but Clark refused to elaborate. Waiting, instead, for the man to figure out the meaning behind the question himself. 

“Suit shopping.” 

Clark couldn't keep the grin off his face. “That long?” 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “You didn’t know until-”

“I’m not the World’s Greatest Detective-”

Bruce pushed Clark lightly, “No one calls me that-”

“Yes they do,” Clark argued, laughing slightly at the flustered look on Bruce’s face. 

Clark waited a slight moment, tracking the quick escape Luthor made as the cops around them finally started to let the party members leave, before speaking once more. 

“Where does that leave us?”

“Us?” 

Clark turned his attention back to Bruce. 

“Are you going to take me out on a real date?” 

“It was all real for me, Clark,” Bruce all but whispered. Clark moved closer to where Bruce was standing, taking slight joy in being taller than the man, and leaned down slightly. His eyes watched every inch of Bruce’s face carefully, looking for any sign of disgust or hesitation-

There was none. 

“It was for me too, Bruce,” Clark muttered, his lips hovering in front of Bruce’s. 

Bruce closed the distance when it was clear that words would only fail them. Clark’s hands grabbed Bruce’s waist, pulling the man closer, deliberately deepening the kiss before finally pulling away.  

“You still owe me an interview, though,” Clark muttered. 

Bruce dropped his head against Clark’s shoulder and let out a soft laugh. 

“Tomorrow,” Bruce whispered, “8 p.m., at the manor. Does that work for you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” 

Bruce pulled away slowly. 

“It’s a date,” Clark added with little thought. 

A faint pink dust settled on Bruce’s cheeks, and Clark had to remind himself that the man in front of him was widely considered an established playboy. 

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed, a small smile on his face. “It’s a date.”