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The Justice League communicators are only supposed to be used for emergencies. But if this isn’t an emergency, Clark doesn’t know what is. Really, Batman should be grateful Clark isn’t standing on a Gotham rooftop right now. He knows Batman will already be annoyed that Clark was interfering in Gotham at all, but Clark really needed him to at least hear him out; he’d spent his shift at the Daily Planet unusually antsy, constantly adding little finishing details to his powerpoint.
The sound of Batman touching down on the rooftop of the Daily Planet is so quiet that Clark almost misses it– or maybe that’s just more proof of how nervous he is.
“You called?”
Clark spins around. The usually-clear Metropolis skies are dark grey, as if Batman had brought the clouds with him. Still, he wears the slivers of moonlight like a thousand-dollar watch, and Clark’s just a little glad that he was the only one of them that could hear heartbeats.
“I need to talk to you,” Clark says. “Privately.”
If Batman is intrigued at all, neither the whited-out lenses of his cowl, nor the steady rhythm of the decoy heartbeat built into his suit, give it away.
“What is this about?”
I may have uncovered a massive criminal conspiracy in Gotham. Clark glances around, thinking of the bugs he’d found in his apartment. The rooftop of his civilian identity’s workplace doesn’t seem any safer, but he’d need to give Batman something .
“It’s about Bruce Wayne.”
Batman stills– a reaction that shows for a precious half-second, before he quickly ropes his emotions back under control, forcing his body language to relax again, as if nothing Clark said fazed him.
“Bruce Wayne?” He echoes, his voice controlled and even, not giving anything away. But if Clark knows anything about the Bat– and he considers himself to be just a bit of an expert, at least compared to other non-Gothamites– he knows that means Batman has something to give away.
Does Batman already suspect the man? Honestly, the idea makes Clark feel relieved. He doesn’t have the mind for strategy like Batman did; if Batman knew, he’d already have a plan ready to neutralize the threat.
“I can explain everything in detail at the Fortress. I don’t want to risk anyone else listening in.”
Batman must be really intrigued, because he lets Clark carry him bridal-style without even a disapproving grunt first.
(What? It’s just the most efficient way Clark has found to carry him.)
“So,” Batman says, standing in front of the monitor in the Fortress. “What about Bruce Wayne?”
Clark clears his throat, fiddling with the clicker. He’d removed all the transitions, right? The last thing he needs to see is Batman’s judgemental stare as one slide slowly crumples up into a ball to reveal the next.
“I know it’s your city, and you want us to stay out of it, but I have a few reasons to believe he’s a danger to Gotham.”
Click. Bruce Wayne is a supervillain.
Batman stares. Clark frantically clicks to the next slide.
“So, there was a gala last week–”
“You think Bruce Wayne is a danger to Gotham?” Batman asks, in a dry tone that he usually reserved for asking Hal what the hell he was thinking. “Bruce Wayne, the playboy billionaire who can barely sign his name on his checks?”
That’s supposed to be slide four, but okay.
“It’s an act.” He’s surprised Batman hadn’t seen right through it, honestly. “He’s being very careful to act incompetent for the press, but do you really think Wayne Enterprises has survived this long on sheer luck?”
“There are a lot of people who want Wayne Enterprises to succeed,” Batman says. “The company’s success could hardly be attributed to one man, much less that airhead.”
“Of course it’s not just him. But I know he’s doing more than he lets on. I had a friend at the Daily Planet, a reporter who interviewed him recently.”
TWELVE DAYS AGO | WAYNE ENTERPRISES
Working at a newspaper, Clark had heard a fair number of things about Bruce Wayne– none of which were particularly kind. And they were all seemingly confirmed the minute Clark Kent first stepped into Wayne’s office, twenty minutes after their meeting was supposed to start.
“Kane, isn’t it?” Wayne asked cheerily, hanging up his putter and waltzing over to the bar on the far wall of his office.
Wayne’s assistant gave Clark a strained, apologetic smile as she closed the door behind him. The poor woman had probably been yelled at plenty of times by impatient journalists who’d found out Brucie was late because he was too busy playing mini-golf.
“Kent,” Clark corrected. “Clark Kent, with the Daily Planet.”
“Ah, right, the Superman paper.” Wayne opened a crystal decanter and poured generously, then waved his glass at Clark. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. I don’t drink on the job.”
“I won’t tell,” Wayne replied, throwing in a wink.
Clark gave an awkward smile in return. Lois had warned him– while smiling widely– about Wayne’s tendency to flirt with anything that moved into his field of his vision, especially when that thing was a journalist. He had a feeling that was only going to get worse, and he’d never been more grateful for the ill-fitting suits he wore.
Wayne took a seat at his desk, and Clark sat across from him, pencil poised over the notebook in his hand, though he was starting to suspect that he wouldn’t need it. Wayne swirled his glass, taking a sip, and Clark braced himself for the sharp scent of alcohol– but it never came. Surely Wayne wouldn’t own something that watered down?
“So why are you here? I haven’t seen your boy scout flying around here, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“We do report on more than just Superman, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, smile twitching. “I’m here about the new green initiative your company recently announced.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know much about that,” Wayne replied airily, taking another sip of his mysterious amber liquid. “You’d have to ask Lucius about that. But I’m more than happy to talk about more… fun things.” He punctuated the sentence with an appreciative look down Clark’s chest.
Clark clutched the notebook tighter in his hand. “It’s your company.” He could smell the dismissive reply coming– it’s my name on the building, but other than that – so he added, “And wasn’t it you who first proposed investing in clean energy to the board? Like putting solar panels on the building?”
“We put them on the roof , Mr. Kane,” Wayne said. “That’s where the sun is.”
“Well-spoken, Mr. Wayne.” Clark buried the sudden urge to purposefully get Wayne’s name wrong. “I take it you’ve signed off on the installation plans yourself, then?”
“I’m sure it came across my desk.”
“Not your desk. I have a few statements from your own employees talking about how you’ve met with them multiple times to go over the designs and logistics.”
For a brief second, something intelligent and calculating flashed behind Bruce Wayne’s slate-colored eyes. It reminded Clark of Batman– though he doubted Batman would appreciate the comparison.
“You’ve done your homework,” Wayne said, voice even. “I did visit them– my PR person insisted it’d make for good press. And, well, I need something to tell Luthor the next time I see him– he keeps saying it’s too expensive for LexCorp to do, you know.”
“Do you anticipate the move will save you money?”
Before Wayne could answer, the phone rang on his desk. The chipper smirk faded slightly when he saw the number. “Excuse me, Mr. Kane, but it’s my son’s school. My assistant can show you out.”
“Of course.” Clark was already standing up. “Family comes first.”
Wayne flashed him one last smile, and Clark left, shutting the door behind him. He paused outside the door, waiting to catch the voice on the other end of the line. And when said voice announced they were from Gotham Academy, calling about young Damian, Clark quickly stepped away, choosing to shut it out.
Wayne’s assistant was already on her feet. “I can show you the way out, Mr. Kent–”
“No, thank you,” he told her politely. “I can see myself out.”
Batman frowns. “I’m sure your friend at the Planet is very competent, Kal, but I don’t see how a single interview proves anything.”
“It’s not just one interview. He’s always dancing around the question, playing the fool,” Clark says. Lois and Cat had confirmed as much, when he’d casually brought up his own interview experience with Wayne during a shared lunch. “He’s more clever than he lets on. He’s been thrust in the limelight since he was a child– we can’t assume he doesn’t know how to trick any camera that’s pointed at him.”
“Controlling your media presence is a far cry from being a supervillain. And clean energy is something that would improve Gotham, not destroy it.”
Batman is the most paranoid person Clark knows; since when did he start believing people would manipulate others for entirely good reasons?
“I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t have more than just one interview.” He clicks back to his second slide. “And I wasn’t suspicious of him until what happened at a gala last week.”
TEN DAYS AGO | GOTHAM MUSEUM OF ART
Clark hated working the society pages, but the prospect of seeing Bruce Wayne again was certainly interesting; Clark found himself wanting to prod at his airhead persona. He wanted to know if Wayne was going to keep calling him ‘Kane’. He wanted to know if Wayne would be drinking the offered champagne, or if Clark would be able to detect what he was drinking instead.
He spotted Wayne almost immediately, slinking through a crowd of well-dressed socialites. He spotted the limp second– Wayne was favoring his right leg, in a subtle way, but one that Clark would’ve noticed during the interview.
Checking under his clothes was an instinct Clark had after years of saving people– but most people didn’t have scars like that . Some old and white, some newer and raised, criss-crossing his chest in a mosaic of violence. He wasn’t limping because his leg was broken, but Clark could tell that both of them had been fractured, multiple times, along with his arms, and his ribs , and– oh Rao, a crack in his hyoid bone, too, and how did a playboy billionaire damage the tiny bone in the middle of his neck?
But the scars paled in comparison to the other thing Wayne was hiding: a weapon. It seemed impossible that Wayne would be able to hide something like that under his bespoke suit, but then again, Wayne Technologies worked under him. Surely, it would be easy for him to manufacture a small bomb that could be hidden under clothing. And the employees who designed it would walk away thinking someone else had asked for it, and Wayne just blindly signed his approval.
Wayne’s eyes seemed to light up when they met Clark’s across the room. He started making excuses immediately, making a beeline for Clark, and this was a good thing, right? If Clark could keep him distracted, he’d never have the opportunity to use the bomb on his person.
And if things went south…well, Wayne didn’t know Superman was in the room. Clark had secrets of his own hiding under his suit.
“Kane!” Wayne said loudly, stumbling up to Clark. His champagne flute threatened to tip as he held it aloft. As Clark predicted, it smelled nothing like champagne. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Seen any good solar panels lately?”
Clark barely got the chance to reply before Wayne had signalled over a waiter carrying a tray of champagne.
“No, no, I don’t drink,” Clark insisted, when Wayne offered him a flute.
“Ever the boy scout,” Wayne said, winking, grinning roguishly. “How could I forget?” He tipped back the rest of his own flute, leaving it behind on the waiter’s tray, still holding Clark’s in his other hand.
“How is your son doing?” Clark blurted out, intent on keeping Wayne in conversation. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to flirting.
Wayne’s smile tightened. “My son?”
“Of course you don’t have to tell me,” Clark said quickly, face heating up. It was an open secret that Wayne fought hard to keep his children out of the press, at least while they were young– even harder than he fought to look like an idiot. “You mentioned at the end of our interview that his school was calling. I hope he wasn’t hurt.”
“He’s fine,” Wayne replied. “We did cut that interview short, though. Maybe next time I’m in Metropolis–”
“Is this Clark Kent?” asked a new voice, sounding eager. Clark turned to see Dick Grayson, Wayne’s eldest son, coming over, holding his own barely-drunk flute of champagne.
Wayne’s kids had heard of him. Wayne’s kids knew his proper last name.
“Dick Grayson.”
Clark shook Grayson’s proffered hand, smiling politely. “Clark Kent, I’m a reporter with the Daily Planet. ”
As subtly as possible, Clark looked over Dick; he had a few scars and injuries, but nothing that was out of the ordinary for a young-acrobat-turned-police-officer.
“Dick, I thought you were leaving.” Wayne turned his pretty eyes back on Clark–
“You think his eyes are pretty?” Batman interrupts, his voice sounding oddly strangled.
Clark startles, not realizing he’d even said it. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly with the hand not holding the clicker. “Half of Gotham thinks his everything is pretty.”
“You’re not from Gotham.”
“No, but I’m not blind,” Clark says, trying to tamp down the heat rising in his cheeks. Batman isn’t… jealous , is he? No, Clark wouldn’t get that lucky. “And none of this is the point. Dick left, and five minutes later, one of the windows exploded and an armed group of men started taking people hostage. And guess who I suddenly couldn’t see?”
“He’s a coward. It’s not unusual for him to hide when he sees a window exploding.”
Okay, Clark can admit it’s a fair point, but “Do you really think it’s a coincidence that nothing happened until after Wayne’s son left the building? He cares about his kids more than anything else, of course he wouldn’t let them get hurt. And he was carrying a bomb .”
“A smoke bomb,” Batman corrects. “I was there too, you know.”
Clark would’ve remembered seeing Batman at the gala; especially now that they were partners and maybe even friends, Clark always found his eyes being drawn to his iconic shadow, his ears drawn to the sound of his heartbeat.
He knows Batman can sense what he’s about to say, because Batman adds, “The hostage situation at the gala was a distraction to hide a shipment coming into the harbor.”
TEN DAYS AGO | GOTHAM MUSEUM OF ART
He was only an hour in, but Bruce could already feel the headache coming on. As the crowd of peacocks chattered about the latest scandal fresh off the presses, he couldn’t help but look longingly at the restricted hallway, wondering if he’d be able to play drunk-and-dumb well enough for the security guards to overlook it if they caught him.
He probably could.
He pretended to take another sip of champagne before spotting Dick. The excuse to go speak with him was already on his lips, and no one asked any questions as Brucie Wayne chose to regroup with his precious eldest son.
“I hate these things,” Dick muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Bruce had to agree. If it weren’t so in-character for Brucie Wayne to be at a gala, he’d be out as Batman right now, patrolling the streets of Gotham. His own investigations had revealed that someone had hired a small group of thugs to hit the gala tonight, causing a diversion, taking people’s wallets. It wasn’t hard to figure out that it was cover for some bigger plan; they just needed to figure out what.
Unfortunately, he was playing bait instead of detective, armed with a smoke bomb in case things went south and he needed an escape route. He was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to that.
“RR’s checking the docks now,” Dick informed him, raising his own flute to his lips.
That had been his and Tim’s hunch, that there was a shipment of something trying to slip under the radar of the Bats. There were a couple of cargo ships coming in tonight, not that any of them seemed particularly suspicious on the surface.
“You should make your excuses and start heading out,” Bruce said. Nightwing could handle the goons coming for the gala; depending on what Red Robin found, Batman would head for the docks.
Dick nodded and started to weave through the crowd again, slipping back into his civilian persona. Bruce did the same thing, easing back into the nearest conversation with a loud laugh and a story that they just had to hear that was mostly false and even less on-topic.
It wasn’t long before he felt someone watching him: Clark Kent, the Daily Planet reporter who’d interviewed him. Clark’s eyes widened when they met Bruce’s, his cheeks flushing as if he’d been caught staring, and, well– Batman might’ve been the one who’d read Clark Kent’s entire backlog of articles, but Brucie was the one who could actually flirt.
Not that Kent would ever fall for it, of course. He was far too smart to catch feelings for an airhead billionaire. But, well, Bruce could pretend.
“Red Robin found a ship carrying a lead-lined crate,” Batman explains, and actual vulnerability lodges itself deep in Clark’s stomach. “I left Nightwing to deal with the situation at the gala while I investigated it myself.”
“It wasn’t–”
“No,” Batman replies, firm but almost comforting. “I would’ve informed you of that. It was alien weaponry, and I’ve since taken care of it.”
Clark takes a tiny sigh of relief, but it doesn’t do much to settle him. He can’t help but think that the next time a strange shipment arrives at Gotham Harbor, it will be Kryptonite, and it will be Bruce Wayne’s doing. Or it would be something even worse, meant for Batman.
“I understand your fears, Kal,” Batman continues, “but–”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have proof,” Clark says, a little desperately. He’d considered the possibility that Batman would think he was being crazy, but still stung, more than Clark had expected. “There’s something under Wayne Manor. A cave. A secret lair. It’s not on any of the building plans.”
“Okay,” Batman says, and, finally. “I’ll look into it.”
And for the kicker. One last slide. “And I think he knows my secret identity.”
That gets the biggest reaction out of Batman all night. A sympathetic wince pulls at his mouth, his shoulders tense, he adjusts his posture. If he was drinking something– like Wayne’s fake champagne– he might’ve even spit it out.
“What makes you think that?”
In hindsight, Clark couldn’t help but feel like Wayne had been toying with him the whole time. Calling Superman a boy scout in the interview, calling Clark a boy scout— with a damn wink, of all things– during the gala. Even the question about Clark seeing “any good solar panels lately”-- we put them on the roof, Mr. Kane – felt like a reference to his ability to fly.
Clark knew Wayne had looked into him. He’d invited Clark out to dinner in Metropolis a few days after the gala, as a “raincheck on our interrupted interview”, and he’d dropped multiple references to Clark’s past articles. He’d asked plenty of questions about Clark’s own past, pressing for details about where he grew up.
Clark had been ready to write it all off until the day he walked into his apartment and heard the faint buzz of a listening device.
“Someone bugged my apartment.”
“Do you still have the bug?” Batman asks, jumping straight into detective mode. It’s the most trust he’s given Clark all night. “I might be able to find out who–”
“There’s no need, Batman. I compared them to an old patent registered to Wayne Technologies. There was no logo, but it was a perfect match.”
FOUR DAYS AGO | WAYNE MANOR
“Damian,” Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to bug Clark’s apartment.”
“I don’t understand what the problem is, Father,” Damian sniffed. “If you believe Clark Kent is being deceitful, surely this is the quickest way to find out what he’s hiding.”
But Bruce didn’t think that. Clark wasn’t hiding anything, it seemed. And Bruce had looked, from the minute he’d found out that Clark was going to interview him. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was Bruce, and all the things he was hiding; things would never work out, even if Clark Kent was capable of falling in love with a man like Bruce Wayne.
Apparently, none of his children were smart enough to figure that out. Ever since Dick had seen the headline about his not-a-date dinner with Clark, none of them had been able to let it go. Damian seemed to think the only reason he hadn’t “made a move” yet was because he was still in the stage of researching Clark Kent’s background.
“Just– get your brothers. We need to have a discussion about proper conduct towards civilians.”
When Batman speaks, his voice is almost weary in a way that only a parent’s– or a teacher’s– voice could be. “I’m going to kill them.”
Clark clears his throat. “Bruce Wayne?” He hadn’t thought…well, he’s concerned, honestly. He didn’t think I will kill him for threatening you moments happened outside of those Gotham vigilante romance novels that he obviously doesn’t read, because it would be ridiculous to read that kind of thing about his coworker.
“My children.”
Right. The Robins. But what did they have to do with Bruce Wayne?
Batman sighs. “Clark, Wayne didn’t bug your apartment.”
“You know my–” He catches sight of Batman’s pointed expression, and sheepishly says, “Of course you did. How did you figure it out?”
“There’s only so many reporters who have interviewed Wayne recently,” Batman grunts. “And even less who would’ve been invited to the Gotham Museum gala.”
Well, Clark thinks that’s much better than Batman laughing him out of the room for just wearing a pair of glasses. Or a comment about how even an idiot like Wayne could deduce his secret identity in a picosecond.
“And Wayne isn’t a supervillain,” Batman continues.
What? Did he miss Clark’s entire presentation? “Not even you can explain a secret lair under his hou–”
His throat closes up the minute he realizes Batman is reaching for the edge of his cowl. He’s gaping like a fish as the black cloth is slowly pulled away, revealing pale skin and slate-colored eyes.
“Oh.” It’s more similar to a whimper than anything else.
Bruce Wayne is not a supervillain. Batman is Bruce Wayne. His eyes really are pretty.
“You bugged my apartment?” Clark finally asks.
“One of my kids did. Obviously, they misinterpreted our relationship.” With an air of paternal protection in his voice, he adds, “They thought they were helping me.”
“Our relationship? They don’t think I’m a supervillain, do they?” Clark asks, more than a little distraught. He thought he’d made a rather good impression last time he met Batman’s– Bruce’s – boys. Okay, yes, the current Robin had attempted to bring Kryptonite with him, but that was before they actually got to know each other. Clark is pretty sure he wouldn’t even try to bring it the second time.
“They think you’re romantically interested in me,” Batman replies, an uncharacteristic amount of nervousness underlying his usual no-nonsense tone.
“It was a dinner date, wasn’t it?” Clark asks, face heating up. “When you showed up in Metropolis.”
“I was intrigued about you. It was a reconnaissance–”
“Most first dates are,” Clark interrupts, fighting a smile. “For the record, Superman can’t date supervillain billionaires– it would be bad for my image– but I think Clark Kent is willing. If you are.”
“I am.”
No hesitation. Not even a lecture on how it would impact team dynamics. He grins at Bruce, his stomach swooping like he's flying, and Bruce gives Clark a little smirk back that feels an awful lot like a blinding smile, coming from him. It's not the shiny, flashy thing that Bruce Wayne gives out--it's real. It’s more invigorating than any sunlight Clark’s ever felt on his skin.
“Hold on,” Clark says, his own eagerness fizzling out. Speaking of Bruce Wayne and skin… “Can we talk about the number of injuries you have? I'm conc–”
He's cut off by the sensation of Bruce's lips on his, warm and sure, his calloused palm gently cradling Clark's jaw. It's almost enough to make Clark forget about the bruised ribs.
(Almost.)
(If Batman is going to kiss him every time Clark attempts to bring up his injuries, then Batman is going to teach him the wrong lesson.)
ONE DAY LATER | WAYNE MANOR
“It was Drake who actually planted the bugs,” Damian says, the minute Bruce enters his room, glaring. “And the lecture was about conduct towards civilians , not aliens from other planets.”
Bruce crosses his arms. “You knew Clark Kent was Superman?”
“His disguise is a pair of glasses, Father. Even an idiot like Todd could’ve deduced it in a picosecond.”
If anyone asks, Bruce is going to say that he knew Clark was Superman the whole time. In hindsight, it's obvious. At the time– and he will admit this to Clark, and only Clark– he chalked up the similarities to his vision being tinted by whatever colors hope and attraction were.
“Clark's coming over for dinner,” Bruce says, ignoring the finally! that he hears from Dick down the hall. “Do I need to confiscate your Kryptonite again?”
Damien scowls, then grumpily concedes, “No. But he should know if he hurts you–”
Bruce sighs, tuning out the rest of Damian's threat. Perhaps Clark's theory about the Waynes wasn't completely inane after all.