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“Are you okay?” Lois asked, hand coming up to brush against Clark’s left bicep, smoothing out a wrinkle in his jacket. She looked beautiful in her own suit, all deep swathes of charcoal and blue accents, silver jewellery glittering in the overhead lights. He wanted to tell her that, to make sure she knew.
She smiled, rich crimson lips and white teeth, “That's the fourth time you've said in the past hour. I'm not complaining, flattery will get you everywhere, Smallville, but are you sure you're alright? You seem a little… tense.”
The sweetness of lilies clung to her wrists and throat, dark hair trapping the smell of rosewater shampoo, waves pulled over one shoulder. Effortless beauty, perfect in every way that Clark wasn't with his hunched, awkward posture and suit that fit slightly better than his others but nowhere near enough to be flattering - she was too good for him by far.
“I'm fine,” He assured her, and it was true. The ground floor of Wayne Enterprises’ tower was loud and lit from too many angles to be entirely comfortable for his heightened senses, but it was more than manageable. He just had a lot on his mind was all, eyes flitting out across the room, jumping from face to face, all the questions he'd yet to ask burning at the back of his throat. He'd memorised them perfectly but had written them down regardless - he was normal and human and knew how to do normal things like keep a list so he could pretend to need a prompt from time to time. Very human-like behaviour, designed to keep people at ease, from looking at the fumbling reporter a little too closely, “Just a lot of people.”
“Take a break if it's too much,” Lois said, her flowery scent keeping him afloat, treading water in a sea of mixed perfumes and colognes and the slight sharp edge of natural sweat. Her hand was a warm, soft presence through his sleeve.
“I will. Don't worry about me.”
“’Course I worry about you - someone's got to,” She teased, a group of tech company executives to one side caught her eye and Clark immediately clocked the keen edge to them. Like a shark scenting blood in the water.
He patted her hand gently, “Go ahead. I should probably get on with my list, too.”
“Try and keep the questions about Batman to a minimum. I don't want Perry breathing down my neck for not reeling you in, alright?”
He huffed a laugh, “Like you're afraid of Perry.”
A flash of a smile and she was off, stalking through the gatherings of people, dictagraph raised like a lethal weapon in her hand. Clark watched her go for a minute before letting his attention drift, to attune himself to the flow of the room better. A quartet was playing at the far end before a spread of large tinted floor to ceiling windows, and the lights, whilst not at their brightest, were still a warm golden hue that felt a little too much to bear with the way they caught and glinted off crystal glasses and a highly polished marble floor.
The main entrance doors, covered by a security detail, were thrown wide open, allowing a cool breeze but it didn't reach far enough in, the movement and number of bodies altering the flow too much. If Clark were able to, he was certain he'd be sweating. As it was, he simply undid the two topmost buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie, mimicking the other people around him. Human. Normal. He was just like them.
A bright peal of bubbling laughter had him stepping back to avoid being rammed into by two little girls and a boy - part of a group of representatives for the orphanages. It was surprising that they weren't bored, it wouldn't have been the first time Clark had seen children forced to attend one of these events. Usually they would sit awkwardly to the side, trying to avoid the disapproval of the surrounding adults with decidedly dour pouts on their small faces, but here they seemed to be welcomed, encouraged, even. Just as the three bolted past him, he caught sight of four more hiding under one of the tables, having made a makeshift clubhouse out of linen and silks. The first few times a grown up got too close to them, Clark found himself tensing somewhat, preparing for the inevitable scolding he'd come to expect even if his own parents had never treated him that way. Instead, there was just shared looks and an air of amusement about it all that he found himself focusing on rather than the constant barrage of noise and lights.
“Mister Kent, isn't it?”
Clark turned, surprised - clearly the stimuli had been getting to him worse than he'd thought if someone had managed to catch him off guard - and met slate grey eyes and neat black hair, “Mister Wayne. Yes- I-. Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”
“I remember, you interviewed me the other week about expansion into Metropolis,” Bruce Wayne said, smiling in that way that never achieved any level of authenticity. Synthetic, fake - it made Clark want to ask what was wrong and yet he felt certain it'd be a transgression to even dare. Wayne shifted his hand smoothly, swirling the champagne in the flute between his long fingers. He smelled of patchouli and lavender and something earthy, heavy enough to push away all else and yet soft enough as to not be overwhelming. Calming and steady, “You'll be pleased to know that dear Lex Luthor has given me a horrible mouthful over it.”
Clark let out a small laugh as the other man tipped back the last of his drink and gestured for a member of staff to take another glass from the tray. He offered one to Clark who shook his head politely, “Sorry, I'm on duty.”
Wayne placed it back and thanked the server regardless, “I'll have to make sure that the next time we see each other you can drink, then.”
Something in the way he said it, deep and rich and smooth, made the heat bite at Clark’s cheeks and down the back of his neck. He cleared his throat perhaps a little too loudly.
“Are you not going to ask me questions? I rather thought that was the point of having the press here.”
Clark was still fumbling his way through an answer to that when Wayne gestured for him to follow with a tilt of his head. They slipped into a small alcove in the far corner, far enough from the general crowd that it was quieter but not so distant as to be rude. Bruce slipped open the top button of his own collar and unspooled his bow tie to hang loose around his neck, “You were beginning to look overwhelmed there. Are you alright?”
Clark breathed in the warm spice of patchouli and the sweetness of lavender, “I'm fine. Just- it's a lot.”
“Do you always find these events difficult? It's not the first time I've seen you at one.”
Clark looked at him, surprised. It must've been clear on his face as Wayne smirked, “I notice things sometimes. I promise I am just as airheaded as they'd have you believe, but I remember faces, especially pretty ones.”
“I guess I just haven't slept well,” He said, reaching for the first lie he could think of, shouldering off the flirting he'd come to expect from the other man even if it was flattering.
“I'm even more glad you accepted the invitation, then. Your plus one is quite formidable, I don't think I've ever seen so many of Gotham’s upper crust so thoroughly cornered into making donations.”
At that, Clark laughed, “Yeah. Lois is- she's ruthless like that.”
“She should come work for me. It would certainly make these events easier from a fundraising standpoint.”
“Is it hard to raise money like this? I would've thought…”
Bruce lowered his voice, playful, “Off the record now, just between you and me, when it comes to the rich you have to pander to their tastes, make them feel important. Sure, the reminder of the humanity behind it all works to some extent, but you have to reach them personally to get them to actually care. Stroke their egos, make them feel morally good and worshipped for doing the bare minimum, and even then you're lucky if they'll deign to empty a single pocket.”
Clark's hand twitched, itching to jot that down even as it burned into his memory, taking up precious attic space where a neat little pile of ‘Bruce Wayne’ was beginning to collect, all built around the stark image of watery grey eyes glaring at him from behind glass. He pulled at his tie instead, fumbling to loosen the knot a tad more, and cleared his throat, “Well, that was-”
“Cruel of me to say? Surprising?”
Clark flushed at how easily Bruce had clocked him and ran a hand through his curls, unsure what to do or say or where to place any part of himself. Every time he'd met Bruce Wayne, he'd found himself on the back foot, cut off from what he thought he knew about the man and sent spiralling into new territory entirely. It was as if Clark was the only one seeing it, hearing it - the cutting edge to the man’s gaze, the weight that carried each of his words. It felt like, for some reason - and perhaps he was delusional for even thinking it - that Bruce was going out of his way to make a point, to lift the very edge of the veneer he'd lacquered his billion dollar life in. Clark wanted to believe it but a part of him knew, deep down, that it was likely nothing more than his own excess guilt - the want to help someone he'd failed so many years ago, like it could possibly make up for all that time, could change the outcome.
“Yes,” He managed, “I suppose it is.”
“You must agree with me somewhat, surely?”
“Excuse me?”
Bruce shrugged, took another sip of his champagne, “I've read some of your work. You haven't the most favourable opinions of people like me. I don't blame you.”
A pause. A twist in the pit of Clark's stomach.
“Why did you invite me, Mister Wayne?” He asked, “Not that I'm not grateful, but- like you said, I-”
“You're a breath of fresh air,” Bruce said, “Honest. Opinionated, rather like Miss Lois over there… I really do think I should get her something as compensation - a gift basket? I don't think I've ever seen Kane look so utterly put out.”
“Mister Wayne, I don't understand-”
“What was it you said during our interview? Ah, that the people of Metropolis would be 'interested' in me,” He smiled, plastic and false and somewhat dangerous in a way that Clark couldn't place, “Consider this an invested interest in turn. Simply put, we should be friends, Mister Kent. It would be nice to get a feel for Metropolis' ways as Wayne Enterprises intends to expand, and who better to tell me than a reporter for the Daily Planet?”
An indignant prickle began at the back of Clark's neck, “Mister Wayne, I hope you're not suggesting that I relay sensitive information to you? That would be highly inappropriate and-”
Bruce raised a hand, “You misunderstand. I mean it as sincerely and literally as possible. Gotham, for all I love her, is very set in her ways, so much so that Metropolis seems… daunting by comparison. I'd hate to end up there one day and make myself look a fool. So, if you were amenable, I propose exactly what I said - a friendship. Tell me what Metropolis is like, how its people live, the best locations… that sort of thing. You don't need to tell me anything other than public knowledge, I will not place your journalistic integrity on the line.”
“You want me to be… a travel book?” Clark frowned.
Light laughter, airy, with the same brightness to it that lit up the rest of the room, “I suppose you could see it that way. But who better to give me honest advice than a man who lives there? Especially a man who was once an outsider, too.”
For the briefest of moments, Clark froze, fear embedded deep in the pit of his stomach as his mind latched on to those words, turning the implications over and over in his mind. Did Bruce Wayne know who he really was? How did he know? What had given him away-?
“It must've been hard moving from a small town in rural Kansas to a big city like that.”
Ah.
Right.
“I suppose. College sort of eased me into it, though, I guess,” He said, and he'd had Jimmy, too. Jimmy, who had stuck by him despite all the weirdness and shambled excuses he'd given every time a new power popped up unannounced. Clark would've been lost without him, that was for sure - though the guilt settled in his stomach again at the reminder that Lois knew about Superman and Jimmy still didn't. He needed to change that and soon.
“I never really had the typical college experience myself,” Bruce hummed, “Dropped out of medical school, studied abroad instead.”
Clark nodded. That had only somewhat become recent knowledge, for the last couple of years leading up to his return to Gotham, there had been whispers that Bruce Wayne had met with some sort of tragic end. An overdose, suicide, or perhaps - somewhat poetically - a robbery gone wrong. Either way, though such unfounded rumours had never touched the columns of the more prestigious papers, the magazines had been rife with theories, each as dark and grisly as the last. It had been somewhat of a surprise then when the prodigal son had returned seemingly out of the blue, twenty-five and fresh-faced, no longer the haunted little orphan boy the tabloids loved to adorn front pages with. He was beautiful now, desirable now. Wealthy now. Descending like a flock of vultures, ready to pick and pull and pry apart until there was nothing left of this Bruce Wayne either.
If Clark had known, he'd have wanted to help him then, too, but like that day in 1981, he just didn't know how, had failed again through no real fault of his own even if it didn't feel that way. Now though, Bruce was the one reaching out to him, offering a connection that was more than just lifeless grey eyes from across the room or a child's harrowing face on faded newsprint or from behind cold glass.
“I do mean it, Mister Kent. I'd like for us to be friends. All entirely above board, of course,” Said with that awkward, stiff smile.
‘Clark. Look at him. That kid has never played anything,’ Pete's voice came back, clear as crystal, ‘Too rich for that. Ain't no way he'll play in a field with two farm boys.’
But Pete wasn't there to ruin it this time, to voice his complaints and feed into Clark's doubts and insecurities. To guide him away from someone who was clearly looking for some form of connection, one that Clark was more than willing - more than happy - to provide. He found himself smiling back, careful to hide his teeth, “Alright. Friends then.”
“Excellent,” Bruce Wayne hummed, finishing his glass with a pleased expression, “Truly excellent.”