Chapter Text
Clark Kent felt thankful, standing in the large ballroom of a high society gala. Not thankful to be at the gala, mind you, but thankful to have never been assigned the society beat during his journalism career. Sure, the culture or lifestyle puff pieces he’d written for two and a half years out of college were uninspiring and dull, but he’d gotten right where he wanted to be, with a job in investigative journalism. A position he could use to create change in his civilian identity, not just his Super one.
Except, Cat Grant was sick this week, and Perry still wanted coverage of the latest charity ball thrown by Bruce Wayne. Something about an orphanage or children’s hospital or a hospital for orphaned children. It was certainly in the notes from Cat that he’d skimmed before the event started, though he should probably look over again.
It’s really no different than what he’s used to. Go in, get some quotes of substance from anyone involved or important, and write up the same milquetoast article that has been written dozens of times before. He could probably do it in his sleep.
The biggest difference is the people he’d be interviewing. Gotham was old money elites—a type of person that you simply didn’t see in Metropolis. The type of people that grew up with instruction on etiquette instead of just… manners.
Clark sighed, looking down at the list from Cat. Wayne Foundation Gala Attendees to speak with. No surprise to find Bruce Wayne’s name right at the top. Underlined.
Clark sighed again.
———
Ultimately, it was Bruce Wayne that found Clark Kent.
Clark had been busy putting it off as long as he could. It helped that Wayne didn’t arrive until well after Clark, so he had already checked off most of the names on his list, but he was still ignoring Wayne’s name at the top of it.
It wasn’t all because of Wayne’s playboy reputation either. He’d already been thoroughly flirted at, mostly the older women so happy to chat with this “dashing young reporter,” but something about Wayne put Clark off. It could be that his experience with billionaires was pretty thoroughly soiled by Lex Luthor. It could be that such exuberant charity would be a sturdy front disguising other dubious activities. It could be that those cool, dark eyes seemed to hold more depth than you’d ever witness from Brucie Wayne in public.
“Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not believe we have been acquainted.” The voice approaches from behind him, and even with his super-powered hearing, manages to get the jump on Clark. He’s unsurprised when he turns and sees Bruce Wayne staring intently back at him, something sharp and calculating hiding under his easy charisma.
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Wayne. Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” he said, shaking Wayne’s calloused hand. Clark began to wonder why a man like Bruce Wayne had such rough hands, but Clark was dazzled by the brilliance of his smile. He was truly stunning in person.
“Such a beautiful man,” Wayne began, reaching out to adjust Clark’s lapel but letting his hands linger over his chest, “wearing such an unsightly suit. Be glad none of Gotham’s vigilantes are on the prowl for crimes against menswear.”
Clark laughed at the absurdity of the compliment. “Well, Mr. Wayne, if you decide to change that fact, do let me know, and I’ll be sure to keep my wardrobe out of your city.”
“Unfortunately, Mr…” he trailed off, looking down to the press badge hanging from his neck, name already forgotten, “—Kent, I’m afraid the vigilante life is not for me. The company I spend my nights with leaves me rather… occupied, as you might imagine. No time to harass the handsome reporter for wearing tweed in June.”
What a bizarre exchange. “Do you often attract your… partners… by insulting their fashion choices, Mr. Wayne?”
Wayne’s steely eyes raked over him then, appraising, drinking in his appearance. When he looked back up, meeting his gaze once more, the intensity behind them could only be described as hunger. “Only when it would be my sincerest pleasure to relieve them of their clothes, Mr. Kent.”
For a brief moment, Clark’s brain shut off. He’d expected flirting. Of course he had; this was Bruce Wayne. But he can’t think of a single time anyone had ever looked at Clark Kent that way. Superman, sure, but never Clark. And it made his whole body feel warm.
Clark looked away, clearing his throat, searching his notepad to remember what he was meant to be doing. The heat of Wayne’s eyes fixated on his own made him squirm, but flattery be damned, he had an article to write. “Um, might I get a quote? I’d love to hear how the Wayne Foundation plans to extend its charity work this year, or perhaps if you are still waiting to see the results of tonight’s donations, how your goals will be affected.” Clark had managed to read through Cat’s notes again while putting off this very conversation.
When Wayne didn’t reply immediately, Clark risked a glance up at the other’s face. If he believed Bruce Wayne was as dull as everyone else took him to be, he’d assume he was trying to work out how to answer, but he knew it was something else. Wayne was appraising him again, or perhaps his question, his expression open but unreadable. Something about it made Clark’s face even redder. After a beat, Wayne replied.
“I’ll admit, Mr. Kent, I don’t normally get real questions at these things,” he began with a smile, “but, it’s impressive how much money you can raise when it gives people like me an opportunity to dress up and get drunk. The Wayne Foundation accomplished a lot last year—” and Clark watched wordlessly as the Brucie Wayne in front of him changed on a dime to a completely different Bruce Wayne, “—especially protecting the children of Gotham, and we are looking to open another orphanage this year. Plus adding to the welfare and scholarship funds, we hope tonight’s donations will help us cover those new initiatives.”
Clark blinked for a moment. As much as the intense attention of Wayne’s desire had lit something inside him, something in that answer had kindled it too. He could hear it in his tone—Wayne cared. Genuinely cared about the impacts of his charity. It mattered to him that he was making a difference, and Clark knew exactly what that sounded like. What it feels like to be a part of.
He was self-aware enough to mentally laugh for thinking Bruce Wayne was hot for his philanthropy. Somehow, he had not expected to find himself so charmed by the most charming man in Gotham.
“Do you expect you’ll hit your goal this evening?” Clark asked, hoping to keep this Bruce talking. Hoping to learn more about him, his heart, maybe his intellect if he’s lucky.
“I’m not sure where we are for tonight’s goal, but if by some tragedy we fall short, I am more than happy to personally cover the difference. Gotham is worth every cent. Have you spoken to Lucius? He knows a lot more about the specific allocations, of course.”
“I have not spoken to Lucius,” he said, trying not to be disappointed to be redirected to someone else.
“Oh, then do come with me, I shall make the introduction.”
Clark let himself be led by Wayne (quite literally, his hand at Clark’s back felt strangely intimate in a way that felt absurd and laughable), but he did exactly as promised. “Lucius, my dear, this is Clark Kent; I believe he has some questions you will be able to answer.”
While Clark shook the man’s hand, he could feel the intensity from Wayne’s gaze return to him. Before leaving the two of them to their conversation, Wayne cut between them one more time. “I do hope to see you again, Mr. Kent.”
With a salacious wink, Wayne was gone.