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No matter how many times he goes over the packing list, there is always that one thing he forgets. Today it’s toothpaste, and Ma Kent has taught him how to keep his pearly whites shiny even though his Kryptonian teeth could withstand a nuclear blast without a chip. So he goes to the drug store near the hotel the Daily Planet put him in.
Clark is in Gotham on an assignment, it’s nothing exciting just an inordinate amount of sick seabirds. He doesn’t know why the Daily Planet needs a story about sick seabirds in Gotham, he might as well be put on the sports section at this point.
He is grazing over the toothpaste section in the dimly lit CVS. The fluorescent lights are flickering and half out. The cashier is absorbed into their game of Candy Crush.
Clark has been here for twelve minutes.
Why is there so many toothpastes? What does he normally get? Is it the whitening so he can blind his criminals when he smiles or is it the anti-cavity so he can prevent his teeth from rotting or is it total care? Which flavor doesn’t he like mint blast or cool mint? Maybe it is peppermint. Maybe he should get this vegan option.
The door opening pulls Clark out of his revere, he looks over his shoulder. He may be Superman, but the crime in Gotham is no joke.
There is a disheveled figure in the corner swaddled in a thick coat much too large for him making his already massive frame hulking, with the black baseball hat to match, and sunglasses feels distinctly familiar. He doesn’t know anyone from Gotham though, at least not as Clark Kent.
Yet Midwestern rules state you must always say hello when you see someone you know. Clark watches the man longer, he is picking over the first aid section. Clark scans his body and sees several bruised ribs and lacerations. Does he know this man? Why is he bleeding so much?
The man’s eyes drift over to the Metropolis reporter. Clark was staring too long, well he has to say something now. Besides he must know the man, he looks so familiar, “Hi, how have you been?”
The man stiffens, and tries to turn back to the antiseptic and large bandages. Nor’easterners, not typically the friendliest bunch. It’s too late though Clark has engaged he must at least go through the five step polite small talk conversation.
“How about this crazy weather? I’m not really used to all this rain. Being from Metropolis and all.”
The man is decidedly not looking at him, and rather boring a hole into the box of gauze in front of him. He’s prickly and silent, which Clark doesn’t mind he can span the silence for the two of them.
“I’m in town for the week, working on a story. Something about all of those sick seabirds that keep showing up on Gotham’s shore. The researchers are completely puzzled have you heard about that.”
The man makes his first peep with a whispered, “Yes.” Clark’s super hearing barely picks it up.
“It really is quite odd, but enough about me how have you been?”
The man turns around, and behind the sunglasses Clark can see his wide eyes. There is a hush, “Well”, in response.
Clark looks over at the shelf behind the man, “Do you need any help there?”
“No.” He quickly plucks two boxes off the shelf and scurries toward the shelf check out. Not even a goodbye. People are quite strange here.
Clark calls out after him, “You can call me if you want!” The bells to the door are jangling before he can even get halfway through his final remarks. He’s not actually sure if the man even knows his phone number, but it is always worth a shot.
Clark turns back to his toothpaste debacle. He sighs and grabs a random one off the shelf, it will have to do.
Bruce rushes out of the CVS as fast as possible. His eyes are wide, and his heart is beating fast.
He would notice that Midwestern lilt anywhere, the glasses don’t do shit to hide his face, and besides he knows all of the Leagues identities. He just didn’t think they knew his. That was the only safety he felt sometimes in a room with men and women ten times stronger than him.
He’s still working on contingency plans for them. They just asked him to join recently, and to say the least he was reluctant. Clark never did say outright to him, “Hello, Batman.” But they were out in public. He didn’t even say “Hello, Bruce.” Bruce scours over the conversation trying to pinpoint what exactly does he know.
Clearly he must know something.
How could he have been so sloppy for Superman to find out his identity. He wears a lead lined cowl, and he never takes it off at the Watchtower. Any physical or digital trail would lead someone down many different and conflicting paths. He even writes with his right hand as Batman even though he is left handed.*
Sloppy, he admonishes himself. What a failure, he feels something welling in his chest, but he doesn’t cry. He is just going to go to the tower and hide until Alfred reasons with him. He’ll have to do something about Clark knowing about it eventually. Maybe he could get in front of it. Maybe he could randomly appear in Smallville and taunt Clark.
The paranoia creeps in like a dark shadow swallowing his heart. What if Clark is following him? Maybe that was why he was really in Gotham. They know his no meta rule, but he hasn’t seen Superman so technically he isn’t violating that rule. Bruce scrambles faster to the alley where he parked his motorcycle. The sooner he gets back to his cave to analyze this mess the better.
Clark looks up as he shuffles along the empty streets, and there he is. The man he saw in the drug store, his smile sparkling and his eyes vibrant and Photoshop making him look blissful with everything covered up, Bruce Wayne. No wonder he recognized him, he isn’t a family friend he is a small time celebrity. Clark wants to melt into the puddle if only his gosh darn Kryptonian skin would let him.
Bruce Wayne isn’t exactly that well known in Metropolis though, why did he recognize him? Clark furrows his brows, why was Gotham’s White Knight bleeding in a CVS? Who does he know in Gotham?
The lines all start to connect, and a small smile grows on Clark’s face. He can’t wait to see Batman at the next Justice League meeting.