Work Text:
This damn gala was beginning to grate on Bruce’s last nerve. Much longer, and he’d have to stage some elaborate accident to necessitate his early retirement. The stack of champagne flutes in the centre of the room was starting to look very appealing. Bruce didn’t know if he wanted to drink himself into a stupor or upturn the table, if only to make a spectacle.
… eventually, he decided to refrain from upturning the table, not wanting to give Alfred more work to do the following morning. Instead, he picked up another glass of champagne, downing it in one. How many had he had now? It must have been… at least nine or ten. He’d be nursing this hangover for days. Really, he was getting way too old to still be drinking like a teenager.
Urgh, he needed some air.
Making a discrete getaway from whatever conversation he was forced into - at this point in the evening, all the names and faces of his guests had started to meld together - Bruce headed up to the second floor, where there were rows of balconies looking out over the courtyard. A perfect hiding place for someone who did not want visitors.
It seemed that someone else had the same idea.
Standing on Bruce’s favourite balcony - the absolutely nerve - was a man about his age, dressed in a truly horrendous plaid shirt, complete with the ugliest tie that Bruce had ever seen. Apart from his poor fashion choices, the man was decently attractive, with his broad shoulders and well-built arms, though his poor posture wasn’t doing him any favours. If he stood up at his full height, he would probably have been even taller than Bruce, which was a significant achievement. Bruce had no idea why someone would go through all the effort to train that muscle, only to hide it under objectively hideous clothing.
Then again, Bruce was doing largely the same thing. While the stranger hid his muscle with his poor posture and ugly plaid shirts, Bruce plastered makeup over his bruises, put a vapid smile on his face and prayed that no one got far enough with him in bed to see the scars on his body.
“Any particular reason you’re up here?” Bruce grumbled. This was his balcony , damnit.
“Just needed some air,” the other man replied. “I’m Clark Kent, with the Daily Planet.”
At that moment, Bruce really wanted the reporter off his balcony, so he could wallow in peace. Seriously, was nothing sacred anymore?
“Bruce Wayne,” he said, by way of greeting. “This is my party.”
“I’m quite aware of that, Mr. Wayne.” Clark adjusted his glasses. “I should be taking my leave.”
Bruce examined the man closely. Now that he was taking a second look, Mr. Kent looked an awful lot like Superman. They wore their hair different, and Mr. Kent was wearing glasses, but other than that, they could have been twins.
… weird.
“Anyone ever told you that you look an awful lot like Superman?” Bruce slurred, just sober enough to get his words out. Taking Clark’s face in his hands, he turned his face this way and that, to get a good look at him. “It's… uncanny, really.”
Clark went deadly silent.
Curiouser and curiouser… if Bruce didn’t know better, he might have suspected that Clark was Superman.
Patting Clark on the cheek, Bruce took a half-step back. “I’ll let you get back to the party, Mr. Kent.”
Looking awfully harried (and a touch flushed), Clark removed his glasses and ran his fingers through his hair. Turning to Bruce, he mumbled, “Nice meeting you, Mr. Wayne.”
This time, it was Bruce’s turn to freeze.
Because that was Superman, standing right in front of him.
It wasn’t simply that Clark looked like Superman. No, without his glasses and messy hair, he was a spitting image for the Man of Steel. The illusion was shattered.
Bruce’s mind stuttered to a halt. Even if he had been stone-cold sober, he was certain that he would have been unable to form a coherent thought, faced with the scene before him.
Superman - the paragon of virtue, the head of the Justice League, the best man Bruce knew - moonlighted as a goddamn reporter. How long had Clark been hanging around him, with Bruce completely unaware.
Against his best efforts, Bruce felt his heart quicking in his chest. He had always made an effort to slow his heart rate around Superman, lest he accidentally reveal more than he meant to, but he was unprepared and far too drunk to force his body to comply.
“Mr. Wayne?” Bruce was snapped out of his stupor by Clark placing hand to his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”
Now that he was closer, Bruce could see Clark’s eyes. They were a clear, pure, icy blue, just like Superman’s.
How had Bruce not noticed?
Clark seemed even more harried than before. “Should I call your butler for you?”
Bruce tried to force his alcohol-addled mind into compliance. “No, I’m alright. Just… thinking about something.”
He needed to be certain. He had to know . Soon enough, a plan was forming in Bruce’s head.
It was perfect .
“Mr. Kent? Could you do me a favour?” Bruce asked, his voice simpering and sweet as he leaned against the balcony railing.
“What is it?” If Clark seemed suspicious, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it. That worked perfectly in Bruce’s favour.
Bruce lowered his voice to something more dangerous. Not quite Batman’s growl, but something close. “Try your best to catch me, Metropolis.”
“What?”
With that, Bruce hoisted himself over the edge of the balcony and jumped.
Turns out, seconds could feel pretty fucking long when you were falling to your possible imminent death. Honestly, Sober Bruce probably would have made a different decision, but Sober Bruce wasn’t here right now, so it was Drunk Bruce’s turn at the wheel.
For the briefest moment, Bruce was concerned that he was wrong. Maybe Clark was really just a mild-mannered reporter who looked a little too much like Superman? Maybe he was going to go splat in the middle of the courtyard, and traumatise all of his guests, Clark included. Shame, really. Clark seemed like a nice enough guy, even if he wasn’t Superman.
Bruce closed his eyes. The moment he did, he felt a pair of strong hands grab onto him, stopping him mid-air.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Clark snarled, using his full Superman voice. Bruce liked it a little too much.
He realised, belatedly, that he had used the same nickname for Clark that Batman used for Superman.
Well, fuck. There went his secret identity… oh well, that was a problem for Sober Bruce to deal with.
“Relax, Metropolis,” Bruce slurred, trying to play it off casually. “You can fly, so it's fine.”
Clark was clearly unimpressed. “What would you have done if you were wrong?”
“I’m never wrong,” Bruce muttered, resting his head against Clark’s chest. “But if I was… it was only two stories, I would have been fine.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Clark grumbled, flying Bruce up to the balcony. It was a miracle that none saw them. That would have been one hell of a headline.
Billionaire Playboy Bruce Wayne Takes a Swan Dive From Balcony; Rescued By a Small-time Reporter in a Shitty Tie.
The articles practically wrote themselves.
“You’re the one who’s still cradling me in his arms,” Bruce countrered. “I reckon that says more about you than it does me.”
Clark deposited Bruce on the balcony, staying stubbornly silent.
“If I throw myself off that balcony again, will you catch me a second time?” Bruce asked.
Clark rolled his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” laughed Bruce. “So, Superman moonlights as a small-time reporter…?”
“More like a small-time reporter moonlights as Superman,” Clark said, keeping his voice low. “Who would have guessed that Batman was a billionaire playboy. That’s one hell of a scoop.”
“It's not the same, but… if you’d like to have an interview…?”
Clark shrugged. “You know what? Sure. You owe me one after all that.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal, then, Metropolis.”