Chapter Text
Getting into print journalism in the era of clickbait may have been a mistake. Clark had spent his whole life admiring the elegant use of the English word. He had a passionate love affair with the concept of truth being nailed down in print. He went to Kansas U for journalism and graduated at the top of his class, starry eyed and ready to fight the sword with his pen. Then life hit.
Student debt thankfully wasn’t much of a factor. He’d gotten generous scholarships and a (barely) paid internship at the Kansas City Star during his time in undergrad. The cost of living in Metropolis, however, was much higher than Kansas. Worse than that, the housing market was inflating and affording a studio apartment on a junior reporter’s salary was getting harder and harder. Roommates weren’t an option due to his…second job.
It was with these thoughts that junior reporter Clark Kent, Kal-El the last son of Krypton, and Superman, hope of humanity, teamed up to fight their greatest enemy yet…The Daily Planet’s last physical copy machine. It was a beast of a thing. It came to the center of Clark’s chest, armored in aging, off-white plastic, cracking and yellowing at the corners. It huffed and groaned constantly, as though in pain, or gearing up for a fight. Clark was going to give it one, because Stacy from accounting had dropped her ring and it had rolled underneath the copier. She’d been sobbing about it in the break room, having tried everything to get her new engagement ring back from the monster which had then splurted ink across her blouse. Lois had helped her dab at the ink, using up an entire tide pen, and Clark had stupidly offered to retrieve her ring.
Clark let the door to the printing room close behind him. It was a dimly-lit closet of a room, longer than it was wide, and he stared down his opponent as he carefully removed the cream-colored sweater his Ma had knit for him. He rolled up his sleeves, stalking toward his opponent. The printers on either side blinked their blue lights as he got down low and gently, gently tilted the huge machine back so he could look underneath.
The cobwebs and dust bunnies were terrible. He lay on the floor to get a better view and blew, using just a hint of his super powers to clear the last of the debris. There, at the back, glimmered Stacy’s engagement ring. He heard footsteps in the background and carefully repositioned himself so that it looked as though he was hoisting the corner of the copier up with all his might, then reached out for the ring.
The door slammed open
“KENT” Perry White bellowed.
Clark dropped the corner of the copier onto his foot and ink exploded across his chest. He looked up at his boss as meekly as he could with ink dripping from the corner of his glasses.
“Yes sir?”
Perry sighed. “Just clean up and meet me in my office. Try not to break anything else while you’re at it.”
“Yes sir,” Clark chirped, giving a friendly salute with his newly ink-stained hand. Unbeknownst to him, his sleeve had been caught on a cracked corner of the machine and he managed to tear it from cuff to armhole as he executed the salute. Perry sighed into his hands and shook his head before walking off.
Clark extricated himself from the copier. Yet another expense of being a junior reporter: he just kept ruining all his work clothes. It wasn’t his fault that the things were so flimsy. If he tied his tie too hard he ripped it in half, and the buttons on his shirts were no match for his super strength. His Ma had taken to sewing all the buttons onto his shirts with fishing line just so they stood a chance.
He picked up his sweater with his clean hand and made his way to the break room, hearing as he left, the copy machine let out a mechanical huff in triumph.
At least the fight hadn’t been a total loss. He walked into the break room looking like he’d gone toe-to-toe with a giant squid, but when he held out his clean hand to Stacy he unfurled his fingers to show her engagement ring, slightly dusty but no worse for wear. She burst into tears and went to hug him before remembering the ink he was covered in. She patted him on his clean shoulder and offered him some wet wipes from her purse to clean off his glasses. He accepted gratefully and Lois made some coffee as he stepped off to the bathroom to change into the extra hoodie he kept in his work bag.
Most of the ink came off in the sink and he dropped his ruined shirt in the trash regretfully. Clark checked himself in the mirror. Yep, every bit the mild-mannered junior reporter who’d just lost a fight to the copier. No one would even guess. He pushed his glasses up his nose, hunched a little more, and made his way to Perry’s office.
“Kent,” Perry began and then sighed when he actually got a look at Clark. “The damn copier really got you.”
Clark just nodded.
“I’m…sorry,” Perry said. “I didn’t mean to startle you back there. Look, Kent, you’ve been here a year and a half, yes?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you’ve done pretty good work as a copy editor. Miss Lane would have been laughed off the Pulitzer nominee list if they’d gotten a look at her spelling.”
Clark ducked his head. For all that Perry yelled and blustered, he was a good man, and Clark appreciated the way he remembered and recognized his employees.
“And then last month, when Lombard got his appendix out, you filled in well.”
“Thank you sir.” Clark grinned, he didn’t actually get to write many full length articles, and while doing the sports reporting wasn’t really his thing, he’d been happy to get to stretch his journalistic legs.
“--although I could have done without the commentary on the NFL’s willful ignorance of the lasting damage concussions have done on their players,” Perry continued as though Clark hadn’t said a word.
“Sorry sir.” Clark deflated.
“I got some very nasty calls about that one.”
Clark curled inward further.
“Then again,” Perry said, getting up from his desk and standing at the window. “I’m the one to blame.” He spread his stance a little and clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the view.
“Sir?”
“I am, after all, editor-in-chief, Kent. I ran that article because you were right, and someone should say it.” Perry glanced at Clark, eyes crinkling at the edges, creasing his dark face with lines. “You don’t get all the gray hair I have by locking your good reporters in the copy room.”
Clark began to smile again. It sounded like he was really going to get an assignment. “Sir, are you saying…”
“Yes, Kent, I’ve got a job for you.” Perry turned back around, his face serious but his eyes still crinkling at the corners. “I can’t give it to just anyone. I need Miss Lane here in Metropolis in case Superman shows.”
Clark leaned forward as Perry slid a file over to him like a detective in a crime drama.
“This,” Perry said, “could be serious news. Joshua “Jinx” Lewis, a criminal from Gotham’s underbelly, turned up dead last week.”
Clark blinked. A dead criminal in another city was hardly news, but he knew Perry knew his stuff.
Perry flicked the file open. It wasn’t much, a few pictures of the man, a bare statement from the GCPD, and a criminal record. “Lewis was small fry, a drug runner for some less-than-notable mobsters. In the last year he got rich…fast. Bought a yacht and a mansion, acted like he was out of the business for good. And now he’s dead, not a mark on him. It’s a story, Kent, and I have a feeling it’s a good one. I just need someone to track it down, and I need us to track it down first before those imbeciles at the Gotham Times snatch this out from under us.”
Clark looked into Perry’s dark eyes and was reminded that, at one time, the blustering editor had been a young journalist. The shelves behind him showed the fruits of his labor, three pulitzers, a dozen other notable awards, a framed announcement of his promotion to editor…Clark wondered if Perry ever felt the itch . If he still had that drive, that bloodhound instinct that the best journalists had to chase a story to the finish. Locked in his corner office with a few too many decades of hard journalism across his shoulders, Clark realized Perry wasn’t able to chase that tantalizing hint of a story anymore, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t still feel it. And he was giving it to Clark.
Clark beamed. He stood up, gathering the file into his hands and remembered at the last minute not to hold it so tight it ripped. “I won’t let you down, sir. I promise I’ll get this lead.”
Perry nodded. “Before the Gotham Times, Kent. I don’t care what it takes to break the story, I want it broken by the Planet.”
Clark thought his face would split in two. “I won’t let you down sir!” He said again, and raced off. His super hearing let him in on the secret of Perry’s slight chuckle as Clark raced back to his cubicle.
“Lois,” he hissed. “I’ve got an assignment, all my own!”
She grinned across her desk at him, her fingers never slowing down on the keys of her computer and doubtless leaving a dozen typos in their wake. “I knew you’d get one, Clark. You really deserve it.”
Clark blushed at her praise. When he’d first arrived at the Planet he’d been quite…taken with Lois Lane. She was confident, competent, and already an established journalist in her own right, despite only having a couple more years in the business than him. She’d not won a Pulitzer yet, but she’d already been up for nomination twice and it was only a matter of time. All that had sort of… dazzled Clark. He had a deep affinity for competence in anyone, and the fact that Lois was drop dead gorgeous and unfailingly kind only deepened the feelings.
She had, of course, noticed Clark’s little crush within days of him starting at the Planet. At the end of his first week, when the newbies were going out for drinks, she joined them. Lois had taken him aside to discreetly let him in on the knowledge that, while men were lovely and all, they were not for her. He had been mortified to realize that his crush had been so obvious, but she’d been so unbothered by it and so kind about it that it had simply solidified his little crush into a more platonic admiration. That had bloomed into a fast friendship these days, but whenever she complimented his work, a tiny hint of that hero worship still reared its head.
Lois grinned at him, because she knew. Of course she knew. She knew everything.
Well, Clark thought, not everything. God, he hoped she didn’t know everything. Then again, if anyone would figure him out…
“So,” she said, pausing her typing long enough to swig from her coffee mug, “Whatcha gonna do about it?”
“I’m going to Gotham tomorrow on the train,” Clark whispered. “I’m going straight to the source Lois, and I’m going to find out what happened to this guy, Joshua Lewis. He’s dead without a mark after making a ton of cash in the last year.”
Lois raised an immaculate eyebrow and stopped typing, intrigued. “What do you mean without a mark ?”
Clark rolled his chair over and flicked open the file. “Police and coroner’s report, Lois. They’re totally bare, but the autopsy didn’t find a cause of death.”
Lois stared at the pages. “So what do you think did it?”
Clark shrugged. “It’s Gotham, the coroners there have seen everything. If they don’t know, it’s new, and if it can kill without a trace it’s bad.”
Lois smirked at him and sat back in her chair. “And what if they do know, Clark?”
Clark grinned back at her, not quite his usual friendly smile, something sharper. “Then they’re corrupt, and I’ll drag them to the light.”
“That’s my boy.”
Dragging crooked cops and corrupt coroners to the public eye seemed a little less realistic in Clark’s shoebox of an apartment. He plugged in the hot plate that was what passed for his kitchen and sighed as it tripped a breaker.
Clark fiddled with the fuse box until the lights came back on. Then he closed the blinds and used his heat vision to pop a bag of microwave popcorn. He sat on his couch, which sagged badly in the middle, and pulled up Grey’s Anatomy on his laptop, ready to relax in his sweatpants and watch whichever surgeon ended up in mortal danger this time.
Clark was itching to track down Joshua Lewis’ killer, to switch tabs and start unraveling the man’s digital life, but Perry had done most of it for him. Come to find out, Lewis had been basically a ghost until he’d come into money last year. There wasn’t anything digitally to find on the man. So Clark had to resolve himself to waiting. Tomorrow was Friday, a brand new day, and he would have the whole weekend, longer if it took it, to chase the traceless killer.
Wait.
Tomorrow was Friday. It was Thursday. Clark didn’t swear because he just didn’t , but he could’ve . Thursday was when the Justice League met. Sure, heroes had met for the occasional team up and shared information before, even set up a junior version for their various kids and sidekicks, but heroes tended to be naturally independent and strong-willed. They weren't the sort of people to easily form into teams. Clark, however, believed in teamwork, and so, while the Justice League might have been occasionally referred to by the papers as a loose term for various heroes, as a league, The JL was still in its infancy. Clark had pushed so hard for it to be a league at all, it would look just awful if he was late for a meeting. Clark thanked his lucky stars for super speed as he changed into his suit and raced for the watchtower.
The watchtower wasn’t impressive exactly. It was . It was a space station where the best heroes in the world met, but it had been sort of gifted by NASA, sort of recycled. It was very close to being space junk in Earth’s orbit, and had simply been repurposed. Of course, they were planning on something better, Batman had some sort of connection to Wayne Enterprises, or at least a deal with their R&D department, and Kryptonian technology would of course be in use. The Justice League was still so new, though, and their start had been a little rocky.
Clark landed in the space station and sighed as he had to duck to get through a doorway. Hopefully all that was behind them, because he’d really like a meeting place where he didn’t brain himself on doorways. It always made him look like an idiot in front of…
Him.
Clark felt his face heat up a little and fought back his blush valiantly. The Batman of Gotham stepped into the room, avoiding the low doorway with grace. Here was the man, the hero, who had first inspired Clark to don a suit and fight crime. The dark knight, not a metahuman, not an alien, just a brave man who was so determined to do the right thing, to help his city, that he now sat at a table with Diana, Princess of the Amazons, Arthur, King of Atlantis, and…Clark Kent, son of Martha and Jonathan. Except no one else knew that. To the JL he was Kal-El, the last son of Krypton. And to Clark, Batman was incredibly and infuriatingly untouchable.
And hot.
Clark tried not to think about that part. He had to try really, really hard sometimes.
Clark looked around, anywhere but where, across the table, Batman was scowling. Clark frowned as he saw the empty spots at the table
Arthur noticed and nodded, “Lantern’s off…lanterning,” he said.
Cyborg stepped into the room and smiled at the assembled heroes. “I brought donuts, but Flash is out of commission for the night, some personal thing I think.”
Batman sighed. “That’s because having a weekly meeting is a waste of time.”
Clark felt his blush flare to life, this time fueled mostly by annoyance. “We agreed last time,” he began, feeling his usually cool temper rise.
“We agreed that, while the JL is young, we’re going to try to meet weekly, just to check in,” Diana took over. She frowned at Batman disapprovingly.
Batman said nothing.
Clark cleared his throat and fought down his blush once again. “I’d like to go over the plans for the watchtower, if no one else has more pressing issues.” Clark berated himself for sounding so pathetic, he needed to be firm, demanding, like Batman. Maybe without being rude, though.
The meeting settled into its usual pace. Diana led much of the discussion, with Batman and Cyborg adding their technical insight. Clark, not being quite in his depth, ate a donut and thought longingly of his abandoned popcorn bag. He interjected occasionally, asking about the ways kryptonian tech could be safely integrated without frying more earthly circuit boards. Unfortunately, the discussion left Clark wishing he’d taken an electrical engineering class at Kansas U.
They moved into a brief tactical discussion as they discussed newer types of threats and the possibility of teaming up in pairs for smaller-scale battles. That perked Clark up.
“I think myself and Batman make a sensible pair,” he said. “Because of our geographical proximity,” he added hurriedly. He could work with Batman! They’d be partners.
“I don’t want Superman in Gotham,” the bat said gruffly.
Clark didn’t let his shoulders curl inward. He knew B was protective of his city. It had nothing to do with what he thought of Superman. If he ever really thought of Superman. Clark conceded the point.
“No, you know your rogues best, and dealing with the more political and bureaucratic side of things can be complicated, but for threats near the Metro-Gotham area we would be the obvious choice.”
B gave a grunted assent and the discussion moved on.
At the end of the meeting Clark stopped Batman. “Do you want a donut? Cyborg left the box behind and you haven’t had any yet.”
“I don’t eat donuts.”
Clark furrowed his brow. “Everyone eats donuts,” he said. Then realization dawned. “B do you have an allergy? That’s important to know, and I know Cyborg would have felt awful if he’d brought something that you weren’t able to eat.”
Batman sighed. “I don’t have an allergy.” He picked up a donut, plain glazed, and took a bite as if to prove a point.
“Oh,” Clark said. “Good, I mean, since that’s…” he tailed off, unsure what to say. He always felt a little tongue tied around Batman. Worse, he knew that B didn’t like him one bit. Clark wouldn’t have been surprised if he had kryptonite in one of the lead-lined pouches on his belt. Clark deflated. “Anyway, thanks for coming even though I know you don’t think much of the meetings. I appreciate it, B.”
Batman took another bite of the donut and Clark tried to unglue his eyes from the tongue that swiped out to lick sugar glaze off of B’s bottom lip.
“I don’t mind the meetings,” Batman said at last. “They’re too frequent, but while the watchtower’s being built I can manage.” He popped the last of the donut in his mouth and gave Clark a perfunctory squeeze on his shoulder as he moved past him out the doorway.
Clark moved aside to let him go and thanked his lucky stars that Batman couldn’t hear his heartbeat because that one squeeze had weakened his entire spine. Like that tiny bit of approval had shot liquid sunlight into his veins. And as the dark knight left Clark got a whiff of his aftershave and groaned internally, knowing he’d be thinking of that scent at least until the next league meeting.
Since when did Batman wear aftershave?
Finally back alone in his apartment, Clark ate his popcorn and slipped into bed, feeling the springs protest against his weight.
He dreamed of Gotham and Batman and a weapon that killed without a trace.