Chapter Text
There were very few things that Bruce Wayne found better than a dark night. One was the silence of being alone. No flashing cameras, no intrusive questions, no playing the part of himself. Another one was rain. The kind of rain that leaves the breeze just cold enough that you can feel it on your cheeks and on the verge of stinging. The one that leaves the streets damp and the lights seem to melt on the asphalt, an expressionist painting that makes the path a maze of reds, yellows and whites shining off the ground.
Bruce would often get lost. On purpose, really. Which means, of course, that he was never truly lost. And never truly someone else. Bruce could walk through all the endless streets of Gotham, and he became far too familiar with those, even the ones from Metropolis, but he could never walk away from his name.
It felt like a curse. And how terribly tragic that was. The only thing that should be his, truly his and no one else’s, was nothing more than a curse. Hearing his own name being called was a death sentence, no matter when. And answering felt like walking to the stand of the court house, ready to be prodded and poked until judgment was found.
And after so many years, Bruce should be good at it. He should be able to smile through the hurtful questions, the judging stares, the carefully worded greetings and the indiscreet pictures that no one ever bothered to ask before taking. Bruce was good at it, all things considered. He had learned, from a very young age, the exact way he was supposed to react. Had memorized the expressions he needed to make in order to make it out alive. He had it all under control.
So there was really no explanation as to why he was lost.
Bruce knew every street in Metropolis. He knew his clothes were drawing the right kind of attention. Knew there would be cameras, microphones, reporters and gossipers. And yet.
And yet, Bruce Wayne was lost in Metropolis. His white button up completely soaked from the pouring rain. His jaw set tight, eyes blurry from more than just the water from the storm. And the Gala Event left behind, as far as he could go.
He wasn’t sure what was it that made it so different from all the other times people pried into his personal life. Maybe it was, for once, a question he hadn’t been able to predict. Something too close to his heart, and that he hadn’t had time to rehearse the perfect speech and easy smile.
Bruce kept playing the scene in his head, the streets losing all meaning and his feet taking him to where he could forget. It had started with his name, a mean smile and sadistic satisfaction. Bruce had no answer for it, nowhere to hide as his face fell and the mask slipped. He couldn’t even hear the world around him until the flashing lights were blinding him.
All his years in high society made it very clear that the last thing he should do was run away, give them a reason to talk, let them know it had gotten to him. Bruce had gotten off easy. The waiter passing with a tray of champagne glasses was easy to bump into, and that made it slipping into the shadows and out of the building nothing but a seamless escapade. It would be hours until anyone noticed that his absence wasn’t just a fun adventure with his new and pretty plus one.
It had already been hours, probably.
Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to care. And the more he thought about it, the further away he wanted to get, and the faster he walked. It was an endless and vicious cycle that set a fast pace through the city.
He couldn’t stop, his feet wouldn’t let him. It was everything it took him to not think. At least enough for it to be bearable. Bruce couldn’t see where he was going, and he honestly didn’t care.
It was all too much. His mind was too loud. His shirt suffocating. The jacket he carried in his arms weighing him down. Even his hair made him want to scream. Breathing was becoming harder and harder.
And that damn light was getting closer and closer. The horn came like a scream. Bruce stopped on his tracks. The car hit the brakes a breath away from crashing into him. The driver yelling and cursing, shouting for him to get off the middle of the road.
Bruce freezed; eyes big and heart pounding. He had no idea where he was. It was hard to see anything through the storm. Last he remembered, it was just a light rain, but at some point it had turned into a storm, and the streets were empty, save the rare passing car.
“Get the fuck out of the street!” The driver's yell was accompanied by the loud horn.
He held his suit jacket tightly and walked back to the pavement.
It was hard to see ahead, and Bruce knew he couldn’t walk back the way he came. Simply because he had no idea the path he had made from the Gala to, well, here. All the buildings were dark, doors closed and windows shut.
Through the water, Bruce wasn’t sure if the yellow light coming from the other side of the street was a trick of his tired mind, or the last open and warm place in this forgotten part of the city. It was still his best shot.
His shoes were soaked, the puddles resembling a river, water flowing merciless. Bruce kept his head down, arm over his eyes as if it did something, and pushed the glass door hoping it would give in.
He stepped into the store hurriedly, making sure to close the door behind him, trapping the rain outside. It seemed so far away now. The bright light hurt his eyes, and opening them was an active effort, but one that he didn’t regret. Bruce let himself take in the place.
It was an old coffee shop. The wooden tables stained from far too many hot cups. The counter’s paint fading, but clearly it had never been that bright to begin with. The air was warm, and the soft noises of the machines filled the space with a melodic rhythm.
And, finally, Bruce wasn’t fighting his own mind.
There was silence, not deafening, but silence.
He could breathe. And even his cold clothes weren’t so bad.
Maybe Bruce should get a coffee. Sit down and let his shirt dry until he felt something close to warm. Pretend the world outside was nothing more than a bad dream and have the rain lull him into peace. Just the idea felt nice.
He must’ve been standing there for far too long, lost in his own head. The warmth was starting to spread when Bruce’s vision shook. One second he was lost in thoughts, the other he was being hit without warning. He took a moment to find his ground again, and then he was staring at a tall and broad man. Dark curls and creased button up shirt.
The man had a pair of glasses in his hands, but they seemed old and a bit beaten. And Bruce was probably staring, and his eyes were an unnatural shade of blue. Bruce was sure he was staring.
“I’m so sorry.” The man was quick to apologize, slamming the glasses on to his face and looking at Bruce worriedly. “Are you ok?”
Bruce felt fine. Finer than he had all night, really. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t find it in himself to answer.
“Oh, God.” The man seemed to panic. “I hit you way too hard, didn’t I? You don’t look ok, at all.”
He kept fretting over Bruce, but was too afraid to touch him. His hands would hover over his arms and shoulder, but never touch.
“I’m fine.” Bruce took way too long to answer him, and his voice was hoarse and he knew he was at the wrong place.
He wished he never spoke.
The man smiled brightly at him.
“Oh, thank God! I thought that I- Well, it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry.” Bruce said.
“For what? I was the one to bump into you.” The man seemed genuinely confused. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
“Still.”
Bruce knew exactly how to stand, how to smile and what to say. But this wasn’t a Gala, this was a coffee shop. Bruce wasn’t sure what the rules were, how he should move, or laugh. When to look. He passed his soaking wet jacket from one arm to the other, his newly exposed sleeve cold from the air, his eyes following the movement.
“You’re shivering” The man interrupted his thoughts. “I’m sorry- I just- You look so cold. Maybe you should sit down, I’ll get you a coffee.”
“A coffee would be nice.” Bruce tried to sound somewhat less like himself.
The man was beaming, for some reason, he seemed happy that Bruce took his offer. And then it hit him, of course the man would be happy. Maybe it was the money, or the fame, but he must want something from Bruce.
He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he felt surprised by this exact revelation.
The credit card was in his right pocket, and Bruce knew the cold was just his mind being ruled by his disappointed heart as he reached for it.
“Feel free to buy something for yourself.” He handed the man the card, not caring to look him in the eyes.
A few long seconds passed before Bruce felt the card slip from hand. Then something heavy and dry was weighing his arm down. Bruce looked up to see a coat, an old sweater really, full of loose threads and patched sleeves.
“Try to warm yourself a little, I’ll be right back with some hot coffee.” The man pushed his coat onto Bruce’s hand, trying to make a point.
Who was this man? Bruce must be really out of it, maybe all of this is a mirage provided by his mind, and truth is he is still in the middle of the street. But the air smelled of coffee, and the fabric of the sweater was soft, and the man’s eyes were blue. Bruce knew his own mind, and this was far kinder than anything it could come up with.
“I’m Clark, by the way.” He said, right in time with Bruce’s thoughts. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name…”
Bruce gave him a pointed look, that seemed to go over Clark’s head.
“Bruce.”
“Oh, like the millionaire!” Clark laughed.
Like the what?
Bruce was left standing in place as Clark walked up to the counter to place their orders.
What was this place? And who was this man? Bruce wasn’t trying to be arrogant, but his name was known. His face as well. Every month, or even week, there would be a new scandal about him. Some new lover, or Bruce Wayne was seen leaving a party, or even, on one memorable occasion, a picture of him puking outside a club. His face was all over the internet, and Clark didn’t recognise him.
Bruce wasn’t a religious man, but maybe there was a God out there. A God who was laughing at him and having the time of his life. But, and Bruce knew it was useless, he could feel the start of something akin to hope blossoming in his chest. It was stupid.
It was stupid and the sweater was warm, Bruce thought gloomily as he sat down on a table by the window. There were a few things already splayed around, a closed laptop, a finished cup of coffee and an open bag. Bruce was sure they were Clark’s, not because he was a great detective with incredible deduction skills, but because they were the only two people at this place. Save from the barista, who seemed to go in and out of the counter and to the back of the shop.
He didn’t mean to pry. He really didn’t. But there was no helping it when Clark’s small pocket notebook was open and on display, far too many news articles underlined and piled up around the table. Most of them were about a series of murders in a small city, all children. There was no way to read his handwriting, it all looked like scribbles with dots here and there, clearly written in a hurry.
Clark came back with two cups. He set one right in front of Bruce before sitting down on the bench across from him. He took a sip from his own drink before noticing that Bruce was staring at the mess of papers and post-its. Clark started to gather them all and shove it inside his bag, his cheeks with a bit more color than before.
Bruce drank his coffee slowly, not helping at all. He let his eyes linger on Clark’s face, waiting to see the spark of recognition.
“You don’t know who I am.”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” Clark was too busy trying to clean the table to fully process the conversation.
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Right…” He finally looked at Bruce.
“What are you drinking?” Bruce asked far too quickly.
Truth was, Bruce had a hard time reading people. He had learned how to behave as if it was something that could be written down and checkmarked, motions to go through that would guarantee no one ever questioned it. But there was no guidebook as to how he was supposed to act in a coffee shop, in the middle of the night, with someone who had no idea who he was. Clark came with no guide.
“Tea.” He answered with an appropriate pause. “Black tea with some red fruits and lemon drops.”
Bruce made no sound of acknowledgment, nor did he look at Clark to let him know he had listened. For all Clark knew, Bruce might’ve not even been paying attention to what he was saying, all his focus turned to a forgotten photograph on the table.
It was clearly taken from a crime scene. Something ritualistic and full of symbols written in blood. Probably from the series of murders of those children, Bruce thought. He was trying to remember what he had read about it when Clark slapped his hand over the photograph.
“Let me just-” He crumpled it in his hand and stuffed it into a pocket. “I’m sorry you had to see that, really. I should be more careful about where I leave my work, huh?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Well, yes, it is. But I just-”
“What do you work with?” Bruce interrupted him.
Clark didn’t seem to mind it, though. If anything, he seemed to like the fast paced conversation.
“I’m a journalist.” He smiled brightly.
“So not a night shift type of work.” Bruce pointed out.
“I guess not.” Clark scratched his neck, looking away. “Just thought I could catch up a bit, make a good impression.”
Bruce made a noise that couldn’t be classified as agreement or disagreement. He watched freely as Clark drank his tea, sipping his coffee along.
“What about you?” Clark asked at the right time. “What do you do for work?”
Bruce weighed his options. He shouldn’t lie, he didn’t want to, but this felt far too good to simply give it up. Bruce never knew he could breath so freely, that he didn’t need to care about his elbows on the table, or his combed hair falling out of place. He didn’t want to give it up, not now.
“I show up.” He landed on, with a straight face. “Then I pretend to be busy until I’m allowed to leave.”
Clark’s laugh came as a surprise. No one ever laughed at Bruce’s jokes, most didn’t even get them. But he could tell it was genuine, and he liked the sound of that.
“So” Clark said with the ghost of a smile still on his face. “A nine to five, then?”
“A nine to five.” Bruce conceded. It wasn’t quite that, as he owned the entire company, but it wasn’t a lie either.
The rain outside was nothing more than a soft noise. The storm long gone, leaving only a calm and comfortable drizzle. Bruce was warm in the borrowed sweater, all the cold forgotten by his bones. He knew the excuses for staying were running out.
“How do you like the coffee?” Clark set his cup down, now empty. “I wasn’t sure what to get you.”
“It’s” Bruce took a second to find the words. “Different from what I usually get. I like it.”
“If you liked that one, you should try their Irish.”
“What is this one?”
“A flat white.” Clark played with the small spoon at the edge of his plate. “You seem to have an expensive taste, so I thought it would suit you.”
“Hm.” Bruce hummed as he drank the last of his flat white. “And what suits your tastes?”
“I’m not much of a coffee person, to be honest.” Clark said. “Just the occasional espresso to get through the day.”
“You know an awful lot about coffee for someone who doesn’t drink it.”
Clark smiled at him. It wasn’t just polite, it was a secretive smile. As if Bruce knew something the rest of the world didn’t.
“What can I say?” Clark opened his hands. “And you know far too little for someone who claims to like it.”
Bruce wasn’t sure if he was smiling, he hoped he was. He hoped he had a genuine smile that made Clark want to see him laugh, and not a perfect picture of a white teeth and bright smile that the cameras wanted him to throw their way. The one he rehearsed all his life. Bruce hoped his smile was pretty.
It was probably late. Far too late for a week day, but Bruce kept praying the night wouldn’t end. That the rain kept them stuck inside, and he could live in this moment forever. Tomorrow, by this time, he was sure Clark would have forgotten all about him. At least, Bruce thought, he could carry this night in his heart for every Gala, and maybe he wouldn’t feel so alone.
Maybe that’s what compelled him to indulge in this pointless conversation, feeding a fantasy of a next time.
“I guess I should try their Irish, then.”
“I guess you should.”