Work Text:
*
He wonders if there's ever been anyone who hated moonlighting as a prestigious, privileged face.
Bruce glances down, several times, at the back of his hand markered with an address.
"It would certainly be good for you, Master Bruce... if you were to attend more of these events. You have been, after all, left as the head representative of the WayneTech branch in Metropolis previously established. Lucius Fox, and myself, simply cannot act as your representative..."
Right...
The next step in saving Gotham from itself: maintaining appearances, as the fully grown heir to a billion-dollar empire, he supposes. Establishing himself. Participating in society. Giving back as a philanthropist, as Thomas and Martha Wayne would want for Bruce.
Bruce understands now doing all of this can create its own advantages.
Especially while fighting crime.
(It won't hurt to be diligent about separating identities. Even if involves forced pleasantries attending an extravagant ribbon-cutting ceremony.)
He remains on a more unaccompanied end of a train-car, watching the glitter of sunshine off of West River. The high-rail system smooth as silk. Bruce does wonder what LexCorp provided in their technological funding, quietly noting the "L" metal emblems everywhere. However, they've been plastered over in the stickers of the Jarhanpur flag colors. No love for known traitors of peace and empathy and humanitarian aid.
Since getting through Metro City Airport, Bruce recognizes more and more of this city's outright sympathy and solidarity for Jarhanpur. While everyone scrolls on their phones, heads down, Bruce prefers a newspaper in the morning while traveling out. Especially with dark roast coffee.
No coffee this time. Bruce ignores his headache as a result.
He does read, uncrossing his legs and hunching.
Besides the usual news articles, the well-established and well-documented facts about Boravia's betrayal of international trust, regarding its alliance with the USA: coverups of genocidal acts done onto Jarhanpur, for year and years, by military personnel and government leaders... Lex Luthor's secret involvement now revealed... everything else written is opinion pieces, by Daily Planet contributors and other Metropolis news. The condemnation of high-ranking officials of the US government. Lies about finding a "two-state' solution. General lack of accountability.
He flips to another page, distracting himself from the murmurs of conversation around him but not enough.
Bruce's eyes hone in on something small rolling... between his feet?
A bright blue ball?
Slowly, Bruce grasps onto it, examining. Is that... yes, the 'Superman' logo, in yellow and red, printed onto the blueness.
Huh, Superman...
No wonder Metropolis has the problems it has with gigantic space creatures and inter-dimensional imps...
He meets eyes with a little girl in polka-dot smiley overalls stumbling to a halt, three feet from Bruce. Her little eyes narrow. Good on her, Bruce considers in silence. Never trust a stranger who takes your toys. He tosses it, underhanded, right back into her little, opening hands.
(Especially when it is a strange-looking guy wearing mismatched brands of Italian leather shoes and a trenchcoat...)
Bruce tries to go back to reading his newspaper, but she hasn't moved. Or stopped staring.
The little girl purposely rolls her 'Superman' ball back in Bruce's direction. This time, it bounces hard against one of his dress shoes. Grunting, Bruce picks it up once more, cradling the ball between his fingers. Well... Bruce holds it out with his left hand, using fingertips.
He waves his right, compression-bandaged hand over it for a moment, attracting her interest. The little girl's eyes widen.
Bruce shows her the 'Superman' ball out in the open again, this time letting it drop into his palm and the curl of Bruce's fingers. He misdirects her eyes from the left hand, using his right to act as if Bruce plucked the ball up with it. When he reveals his fingers empty, she beams.
"You're a pretty brave kid..." Bruce says in a low voice. The little girl eagerly runs up, being handed back her 'Superman' ball. Over her little shoulder, Bruce spots a woman watching them. Mom, looks like. "Better not wander off from your mom again, alright? Or she'll worry about you."
To his relief, the little girl nods. She runs back to her and her mom's seat. Mom's smile grows.
Training with John Zatara was actually good for something...
Magic wasn't in the cards for Bruce. He never believed in it, or wanted to master himself. But mastering disguises and vanishing illusions and sleight of hand? That's entirely workable. Bruce groans with lips closed, rubbing at his stiffened shoulder. Torn ligaments. Not fully recovered.
Life proves different in Metropolis.
(Everybody in Gotham City knows Bruce Wayne. So it is, admittedly, nice to be seen as another face on the train, Bruce realizes.)
His phone lights up deep in Bruce's trenchcoat-pocket, but buzzes noisily.
Bruce frowns, recognizing WGBS-TV's office number.
He answers—
"Wayne, my man! How the hell have you been!"
—and turns down the overenthusiastic greeting in Bruce's ear, fighting off a wince.
"It's early, Josh."
"I had a limo waiting for you — not to mention Morgan Edge's incredibly hot and Brazilian personal assistant — jesus, Wayne, did you get lost?"
The markered-on address, on Bruce's palm, smeared off. He absently thumbs it, until it's illegible.
"No," Bruce says tonelessly, still looking down. "The public transit works just fine."
"Then you won't mind if I take the limo off your hands? Thanks. You're a real pal... heh." Joshua Coyle leers on the other side of the connection. "By the way, Edge messaged. Said he is gonna be late for brunch with the top tech execs, but you and me can skip if we weren't—"
A distant but thunderous-like boom cuts off everything.
It vibrates the air itself.
What feels like the rail-line underneath them, and the high-powered train over it, shakes with violent intensity.
The cell-signal died on him, Bruce assesses, and apparently so has everyone else's. Faces surrounding Bruce contort with dread, frustration, and panic. They try ringing loved ones. Or emergency services. He gazes from a window, trying to process the sight: of the large, miles-deep whirlpool flooded in the center of Metropolis's bay, and the humanoid and see-through creature, glowing orange, hunkering towards them.
"Brace yourselves!"
He heaves off his trenchcoat, wrapping it securely to the nearest train seat-railing.
"Hold onto something!"
The rest of the train-passengers already scrambling.
Everything tilts. Metal spark hot. The high-powered brakes fail to kick in, jammed or damaged, as the entire structure of their car derails into mid-air. Lifted, as if 16,000 tons of carbon steel and passengers weigh nothing. Everything tilts again, but at a 55 degree angle, Bruce sees.
Towards the back-exit...
An orange-glow corrosive liquid melts through glass and whatever else... leaving a free-falling drop down below.
He dangles with the dozen or so people clinging for their lives, one or two yelling garbled nonsense.
Bruce's shoulder strains. Agony flares any injuries.
"Please, please, oh my god!"
Down below him, the little girl's mother hysterically sobs and sobs. She maintains what can only be a death grip on the polka-dotted overalls. They had been ahead of him — above him, Bruce quickly works it out. They must have fell in the commotion and complete chaos of derailing.
The mother's other hand, and her arm, trembles to keep hold of the last seat-railing.
"Hang on!" Bruce insists. "I'm coming to get you both! Wait!"
As he cranes an arm around his railing, unwinding the trenchcoat free, the voices of Bruce's fellow passengers heighten—
"ARE YOU CRAZY, MISTER—!?"
"He's really gonna get himself killed, oh—"
"Yes, save them—!"
Bruce maneuvers himself down another four rows of train-seats, going slower than he likes, reassuring the little girl's mother now begging him to be careful... not for their sake, but for Bruce's... and Bruce manages to convince the middle-aged woman hang onto him with one arm instead.
He gazes down her other arm. The mother's fingers fist the overall-strap.
Whining, and suspended in the air, the little girl reaches for her 'Superman' bright blue ball lodged in a seat-cushion.
Those little fingers outstretch.
Suddenly, Metropolis's rampaging creature hauls them all further up. Another window melts, orange-glowing.
Her ball vanishes...
It falls through the gap of bright morning air underneath them...
Using the momentum, Bruce forcibly clutches onto the little girl's outstretched hand and yanks her up into his hold. Her heart, little as it is, pounds against Bruce's. More metal surrounding them buckles under pressure. Glass loudly shatters, raining down. But, the dozen passengers...
They either cheer, dangling from above Bruce's head, or laugh through their tears of elation.
Bruce grunts, looking to them.
"Can you help us up?" he hollers.
"Whooo! You got it, man!"
Somebody stronger climbs down, encouraged by Bruce's selfless act to help, and listens for Bruce explaining and then catches an end of Bruce's trenchcoat. Whoever is higher up grabs the one end, and Bruce will have both the little girl and her mother climb or get pulled up, one-by-one.
"Remember what I said about being brave..." Bruce whispers, inches from her face as her little eyes moisten. "You can do it, kid."
The little girl hesitates, then she grabs onto the end of the trenchcoat. People above, they decide it is best to pull her.
She whimpers.
"Close your eyes if you're afraid."
Bruce hopes she listens, as the little girl goes up, up, flying high like Superman she adored.
(Good question... where is Superman?)
Once the little girl has been recovered, brought further out of danger, Bruce insists that the mother goes next. She hoists herself up.
He waits, Bruce's shoulder and his dominant arm aching.
Losing its strength.
Damn it...
A chorus of yells, insisting Bruce move, move, NOW! as they try to finally reach him...
That's when everything clears in his mind.
Nobody pulls him up. Nobody can.
Bruce falls.
Not for a lack of effort, grabbing frantically at the sides of the melted metal exit, Bruce's bandaged hand cutting open, hemorrhaging red...
...
He tumbles, airborne, without safety-gear or a contingency plan.
He isn't Batman here.
...
Milliseconds...
...
It is like thinking under deep water... unable to find breath...
...
Bruce, it's gonna be okay.
Thomas Wayne's own words Bruce repeated from memory...
Close your eyes if you're afraid.
...
He dizzily does...
Anticipating the bone-crushing impact of water, or Metropolis's paved ground...
...
Then, Bruce feels himself righted. In mid-air.
Slowing down.
No longer at gravity's mercy, he realizes it is a set of warm and thickly muscled arms locking around him. Hard as steel.
There is no way, right...?
Is it...?
...
...
"You," Bruce finds himself gasping out, catching his breath at last.
He staggers in place, dazed, when the other man gently releases him. Bruce's feet touch the very sturdy-feeling rooftop of Galaxy Communications — and, Superman — the Superman — clasps onto Bruce's shoulders, with an even gentler hold of hands, in case Bruce himself isn't so sturdy.
"Take it easy," comes a rumble.
Superman's voice, deep as weeds and heady.
Bruce tries to fight the lightheadedness crawling over. He needs to... say something. Instead of being on the verge of passing out.
"I promise you're gonna be alright now."
Not far off, Metropolis's latest threat interrupts with an ear-splitting roar. The vibrations of it thrum. A Newstime helicopter, or News-copter, as Bruce heard from the media, hovers and points their camera crew from where Superman (and Bruce) had been, right back to Metropolis's water.
"That son of a gun just won't quit, huh," Superman comments, distracted. But there's a hint of smile.
He looks around.
"Wait here... oh, do you mind?"
Bruce only stares, as the other man casually tosses a bright blue ball into one of Bruce's hands.
The little girl's ball.
"You—" he mumbles, admittedly a little more than taken aback and Bruce shields himself, forearms raised and crossed, when Superman takes flight. No more of an explanation, he guesses, solemn-faced. Superman's wind blows suit-clothes and Bruce's neatly trimmed hair upwards.
In moments, Superman saves the rest of the train-cars, lifting them. And effortlessly beating the orange-glowing creature out.
Like it was just another Monday morning...
(Absolutely not, Bruce prefers Gotham and its dark underbelly of criminals and petty gangs to... whatever this is.)
*
He's not waiting around.
Especially not for Superman.
"Wayne!"
In the first floor corridor, as Bruce leaves the elevators, Joshua Coyle smacks on Bruce's back, looking distraught. He walks alongside.
"Wayne, holy hell, I can't believe YOU were up there! My ulcers are acting up!"
"...how about anything for this?" Bruce monotones, gesturing with his obviously bleeding palm.
*
Josh eventually finds Bruce a windowless room. Stock with an unopened first-aid kit.
"They're postponing." He explains, observing with varying degrees of nausea as Bruce cleans himself up, "No, uh... no ribbon-cutting ceremony."
It doesn't matter to Bruce, in truth. WayneTech made its donations. Hired its seasoned workers from the layoffs connected to Morgan Edge's own business. Everything functions the same, ribbon or not. He half-listens in on Josh nervously continuing the babble. Television personality and all.
"Did'ya hear about the Boravia-Jarhanpur conflict? They've ended it."
"By giving Jarhanpur back its independence and land, yes," Bruce says offhandedly, getting adhesive tape. "Your parents are from Boravia, Joshua?"
He hesitates, gazing at Josh proudly presenting out something — a dual citizenship passport?
"There's no more Boravia," Josh announces, seeming to get wistful. "We are all part of Jarhanpur now. Because it's been Jarhanpur. I mean, not to get political... but what was this conflict about anyway? Jarhanpur is the homeland of three of the world's religions. We share that in common."
"Manufacturing war fills pockets," Bruce offers.
"Ugh, yeah, it's always about money." The complaining, from an employee of a corrupt CEO, it rings a bit hollow. "As Lex Luthor knows."
(And the very dead president of Boravia, he adds silently.)
"Glad all of that crap about Superman wasn't true," Josh says aloud, genuinely meaning it.
Bruce's eyes narrow in thought.
Superman...
"C'mon, Wayne. I'll get us a ride out of here."
*
There's an entrance back through a side-street. One that connects to the parking garages of Metropolis General Hospital.
Josh hurries for a driver.
In the middle of this, Bruce recognizes familiar faces in the crowd of Metropolis rescue workers. Faces on the train. He can't help but feel comfort as the little girl recognizes him back while letting a paramedic inspect her facial cuts. She squeals, getting her mother's attention.
The little girl escapes everyone, running full-speed over to hug Bruce around the middle. Persistent kid.
Bruce's mouth twitches, smiling fondly.
"You did good." Instead of hugging her, Bruce stoops down to eye-level. "And I think... someone wanted you to have this back..."
He pretends to hold out nothing, fingers curled and hiding her bright blue 'Superman' ball.
Then, slapping his wrist, Bruce pops her toy into the air.
Excitedly, the little girl catches it.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Bruce replies, nodding. "Thank Superman."
When she's called back, running off, he stays squatting and waves to the little girl's mother waving in gratitude. Bruce's non-dominant hand absently rubs at his shoulder aching all-over. Losing adrenaline. Recovery isn't happening. Alfred might need to do surgery on the tendons.
"No need to thank me either, you know," comes a rumbling and deepened voice behind Bruce. "All in a day's work."
Bruce senses him before it registers in Bruce's ears — and still, Bruce startles upright. Bruce's legs cramp painfully. He limps, turning. The same bright 'Superman' blue, yellow, and red greets him. Well, the height is 'Super' anyway, Bruce considers broodily. Much taller than Bruce.
Meanwhile, Superman's eyes flick up and down.
"Good golly... you're plenty hurt, aren't you," he says matter-of-factly. "We can get an overnight stay in Metropolis General, if necessary."
Bruce firmly jerks his elbow away from Superman's hand meaning on gently escort Bruce. Even while it hurts.
"It's not necessary," Bruce retorts.
"I understand, but please trust me — you should get checked out. Especially when it is this severe of a rotator cuff tear. And scapula fracture." He then identifies the placement of Bruce's rib-bruising and stitches opening on his upper thigh. His wound, hot. Apprehension seizes Bruce.
(Is Superman capable of figuring out who Bruce is?)
"OVER THERE!"
A swarm of reporters, from all of Metropolis's boroughs and surrounding areas, enclose around the pair.
"That's him, THAT'S HIM — Mr. Bruce Wayne, is it TRUE you were saved by Superman?"
"What HAPPENED up there on the train?"
"How do you KNOW Superman? Does he work WITH Wayne Enterprises?"
Bruce grimaces, lowering his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices an aggravated-looking Josh motioning for Bruce to follow. Through an opened car-door.
Superman puts up a hand, directing the reporters greedily eyeing him. "Excuse me," he declares importantly, "this man needs a doctor and you—"
Making a calculated but risky decision, Bruce acts.
He grabs onto Superman's chin, breathlessly leaning in, kissing against that wide and warm cheek.
The cameras immediately go off flashing.
"—you, you?" Superman repeats dazedly, now gawking.
His expression hilariously young.
(Physically thirty while appearing human, Bruce thinks. Conventionally attractive. Tall, dark and obscenely handsome. All-American blue eyes.)
Bruce's fingers unclench from Superman's chin.
He rasps, lips mashed up, "thank you..." and ducks down into the reporters crowding closer for a Superman interview.
Thank you for lending a distraction...
*
Josh doesn't ask.
Alfred does.
He scolds Bruce about cementing an image of himself 'that doesn't align with what Bruce set out to do'... and Bruce counters it with his own observations: Playing pretend, playing the role of spoiled billionaire 'playboy' in the tabloids.. who would ever suspect him as Batman?...
Even so, none of this comes comfortably or easily for Bruce.
In fact, he hates it.
(Behaving as if insanely drunk? Taking selfies? Cuddling and necking with a very handsy Cat Grant, an hour ago?)
Taking to the balcony, overlooking Racine's wealthiest and most minimalist-looking lodgings, Bruce gets air. Hopefully, alone. He lingers by the arrangement of rose-bushes, tapping on his phone and replaying the earlier footage. Of... kissing Superman. Bruce's hair windswept. His complexion pale with pain. The corners of Bruce's own eyes faintly lined with the black grease-paint never properly washed off.
"You're being too careless, you idiot..." Bruce huffs, under his breath.
To no one but himself...
He taps for updates about the high-rail train incident near Metropolis's West River. Last report cited no fatalities. Minimal injuries sustained.
And... thank god, no mention of Bruce Wayne.
Grunting, Bruce taps off his phone.
"Hello again."
Under the flood of city-lights and starlight, there's a ripple of red.
Metropolis's favorite hero...
Bruce cautiously moves away as Superman lowers himself towards the balcony's balusters, hovering.
"Sorry, I- uh, recognized your heartbeat and—" Making a flustered noise, cutting himself off, Superman grins and avoids eye-contact. Bruce hears him and wonders. Wonders if one rescue is all it takes. "Nevermind. You looked like you were deep in thought. I shouldn't have interrupted."
After a long moment of quiet, Bruce clears his throat.
"Come to add more to your harem, Superman?" he drawls.
"Funny."
It doesn't come off as insulted.
Superman's grin lengthens, revealing dimples.
"So... you're from Gotham City, right? It explains a lot about you," he points out, chuckling. Bruce allows himself to echo the chuckle with Superman, playing pretend. Despite this, Bruce has a distinct sense Superman knows it is also pretend. "I hear it has its own superhero."
"More like a vigilante... if you ask me, probably some wack-job," Bruce says dismissively.
"The Batman sounds terrifying. I've been curious, naturally, but we haven't met."
Swallowing to disguise a throat-clench, Bruce sips out of a glass.
Hmm...
(Ginger ale can usually pass as alcohol... usually. Usually to drunkards. But maybe not to a Superman.)
"Really?" Bruce feigns interest, combing non-bandaged fingers in his hair. "I thought all of you would be in some... 'justice' league together."
As soon as the thought comes alive, Superman's face lights up.
"You know, I do like the sound of that."
Unfortunately, Bruce privately does as well.
If there was a need for allies, or a 'justice league'... Batman, Superman, Mr. Terrific, Hawkgirl... not Green Lantern... it would prove beneficial. Very likely. He tries to imagine it as Superman decides to hover himself over the balcony, in front of Bruce, landing soundless.
Superman's grin fades.
"I really came here to thank you, Mister Wayne." he explains, "This morning, I saw you. I saw you risk your own life to protect people."
Bruce scoffs, arranging his mask of outright boredom, and looks away.
"...no need to thank me, you know," he says, mocking Superman's earlier and rather kind-hearted words.
Even so, Superman doesn't take the bait.
His face softens with amusement.
"May I?"
Bruce doesn't know what he means. At all. He feels one of Superman's hands over Bruce's wrist, mindfully dragging down. Their fingers brush. Damn it, Bruce swallows and holds a breath. Trying to calm his heart-rate before Superman notices. Needing to learn and meditate better control.
Who is Superman?
Who does Superman know?
It could be exhaustion, or the prescription painkillers, or... far too much ginger ale roiling his stomach... but there comes the faintest of head-nods. Out of Bruce. He lets Superman tilt his face and incline for Bruce's shaven cheek, dutifully pressing a kiss. Softness concealing steel.
Bruce gives him another half-moment exhaling against Bruce's jaw, and then charges forward.
He drops the glass.
He grasps roughly onto Superman's nape, melding mouths. Kissing open-mouthed.
Chins bumping.
The tips of noses flattening.
Exhaling, Bruce rides an impulse, sucking Superman's lower lip in the kiss and biting down. It should hurt. It won't.
He hears the low, awed intake of breath.
No...
It's supposed to be playing pretend. The gossip columns, from every corner of the internet, and YT vloggers have already posted their spin on Boy Billionaire Bruce Wayne. Kissing men, kissing women... kissing up the reputation ladder. It's game for any one who draws Bruce Wayne's interest.
"Hey, hey now," encourages and gusts across Bruce's lips coated in saliva. "Focus. Deep breathes. Your pulse just sky-rocketed... what's wrong?"
Bruce shakes his head and rubs off his mouth.
"You should go..."
He leans out entirely, the dark curls of Superman's hair peeling off of Bruce's forehead.
And he misses the unconvinced look.
"Well... since it is getting late, I'm thinking you are probably right," Superman says, not arguing over something so unimportant.
Before he's gone, vanishing into the night sky, Bruce turns.
"Work on your heroic timing, Superman... or else you're gonna find yourself out of the job."
A grinning, good-natured laugh.
All of its warmth carries right into Bruce's chest.
"If it means more every day heroes like you, Mister Wayne... would that be so bad?" Superman counters.
And takes off.
Eyes lidded, Bruce grunts to nothing.
"...guess not," he mumbles.
*