Work Text:
Clark has to admit it. He is really not having the best time in Metropolis.
Smallville was a dizzying array of wide open spaces. In his youth, that golden isolation had been useful. It had kept him safe as he learned to finetune his sense of control. He thought that maybe things in Metropolis would be different. That the pace of the city, the density of its population, would force him to build networks, communities, long-standing friendships with people who could be trusted. Who could truly know him.
That was a pipe dream.
Metropolis’ rhythms are still foreign to him, even as he falls in love with them. His slow and plodding attempts at small talk with his coworkers are shot down as often as he makes the attempt, and he finds it hideously difficult to sustain any relationship longer than a few dates without being able to justify why he’s always rushing off in a hurry. When he’s Superman, he only talks to Luthor, who sucks, Lois, who sees him as a headline, and Emil down at S*T*A*R Labs, who sees him as a scientific experiment. When he’s Clark, he only talks to his parents, who are far away from him, Lois, who doesn’t trust him, and Jimmy who is Jimmy.
He thought he was used to feeling like an alien, out of place in every environment. He was wrong.
There was a moment when he thought maybe he wasn’t quite so alone. Gotham City has its own hero, a darker shadowy figure who operates largely at night, when Clark is least busy. Clark was discomfitted by his reliance on fear and violence, but desperate times were calling for desperate measures. He had crossed the bay to Gotham to try and help out during one of Batman’s busts, and found himself almost ruining the operation, getting absolutely soaked in sewage, and being chewed out by an absolutely furious Bat, who was nothing even approaching grateful.
Once burned, twice shy, Clark has not returned to Gotham, stuck in his isolation once more.
That was almost a year ago, though in the past month he’s been spotting signs of the Bat in Metropolis, though the Bat has been no less active in Gotham. Batarangs embedded in certain walls, treadmarks that match with the Batmobile’s tires, a glimpse of a cape here and there when Clark isn’t paying attention. He has no idea what any of this means, but he hopes it means something positive. Fears it doesn’t.
Either way, today isn’t about Batman. It’s his one year anniversary of being in Metropolis and he’s going to celebrate with all of his friends.
Clark flies around the city in a lazy loop, taking in the sights as the sun sets over the horizon, buskers playing souped up instruments that produce sounds Clark has never heard before, kids running away from their parents trying to corral them out of the park for dinner, teenagers joy-riding rigged ATVs on the roads, as sirens follow behind. The city is alive, all of the time, so alive that Clark can barely breathe with it.
Eventually, he settles on a rooftop in the financial district and looks over the city he’s grown to love. The city who hasn’t quite made up her mind about him yet.
There’s a movement in the corner of his vision, and when he turns to look at it, he sees Batman standing on a nearby roof. The sunset spills across his dark armor, limning him in pink and gold. The suit should look ridiculous on him. It doesn’t.
Clark flies over to him, hovering a few inches off the concrete roof.
“Hi,” Clark says. Batman doesn’t move at all, just stays tucked in the eaves of the building. Clark tries again. “I’ve been staying out of Gotham, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” the Batman says, his voice low and gravelly.
Clark nods. “I don’t usually see you in Metropolis,” he says. “But I’ve seen you a lot this month. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were following me.”
“I am following you,” he says.
“Oh,” Clark says, stymied by that. He didn’t think he’d admit to it so quickly. “How has that been going for you?”
“Why would I tell you?” Batman asks.
“Professional courtesy?” Clark tries.
“We’re both wearing capes,” Batman says. “What about this interaction screams professional to you?”
“I like the cape,” Clark says, a touch defensive. “I think it’s classic.”
“I’m also wearing a cape,” Batman responds, like he thinks Clark is a special kind of idiot. “You don’t need to explain the appeal to me.”
“Right,” Clark says, reevaluating the man in front of him, coming to no conclusions. “So, what’s the endgame here?”
“For the cape?” Batman asks. Asshole.
“For the stalking,” Clark says, exasperated.
“What do you think?” Batman asks.
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked,” Clark says. Talking to this guy is like talking to Lois. Lots of questions, not a lot of answers.
“I’m building a profile on you,” Batman says after a beat, surprisingly honest. “Your strengths, your weaknesses, your battle patterns.”
“Why?” Clark asks, discomfited.
“So far, humanity has no response to you,” Batman says, baldfaced, fearless. “No contender to equal you, no force to intimidate you. I intend to correct that.”
“And you think following me around for a month is going to give you some kind of an edge?” Clark asks, skeptical and hurt in equal measure.
“It already has,” Batman says. “I already have an idea of what kind of abilities are at your disposal. Super speed, super strength, flight, invulnerability, freeze breath, laser eyes. You’re less likely to use your eyes and your breath in combat or other emergency situations, which suggests those powers developed later in life.”
“That’s stuff anyone could have figured out,” Clark lies.
“Your fights with humanoids tend to last twenty to thirty minutes longer than fights with non-humanoid entities, suggesting you pull your punches with humanoids, which in turn suggests pro-human bias, despite your supposedly extra-terrestrial origins,” Batman continues, putting Clark immediately on the back foot. “Your fighting style is obviously untrained, though somewhat effective, which suggests that you’re self-taught, a hypothesis further supported by your wariness around powers you’ve developed later in life.”
Batman’s words ring heavy in Clark’s ears. He’s embarrassed, he realizes. He didn’t realize his lack of experience, the degree to which he’s just been figuring this out on his own, was so obvious.
“Okay, well now that you’ve told me all of that, you know I’m going to start compensating for it right?” Clark asks, trying to cover for the fact that he’s reeling, his cheeks hot with the shame of it.
“You assume that these are my only observations,” Batman responds, a glimmer of smugness in his voice.
Well, shit.
“You’re still neglecting a critical component of your profile,” Clark points out, scrambling to get some footing back.
“Oh?” Batman asks, narrowing his eyes. Clark feels himself gain his first advantage the whole conversation.
“The psychological aspect, specifically,” Clark continues. “You might have a handle on my behavior in battle, but how well do you understand why I act when I do? What do you know about my hopes, my fears, my ideals, my flaws?”
“I know more than you think I do,” Batman says, but Clark senses weakness.
“How can you be sure?” Clark asks. “Have you tested your assumptions?” Batman doesn’t speak. “Then how can you rely on them in the field?”
Batman evaluates him wordlessly for a long time. Clark fights the urge to squirm.
“What do you propose?” he eventually says, his eyes narrow white slits in his cowl.
“Let’s get a burger together,” Clark offers. “I know a great late night place not too far from here. We’ll grab some food, sit up on a rooftop somewhere and have a conversation.”
Batman stares at him, his face like stone. “Are you serious?” he asks.
“Sure,” Clark says. “Why not? We’ll make a pact of mutual non-aggression, get to know each other a little more. If you still think I’m a threat that needs to be eliminated with great force at the end of the meal, I’ll go, and we won’t talk again.”
“You won’t submit to my judgment?” Batman asks. “Allow yourself to be eliminated with great force?”
“Would you?” Clark asks.
The corner of Batman’s mouth flicks up. It feels like a way bigger victory than it is.
*
Clark takes them to a Superburger. He can’t really see Batman’s eyes behind the white lenses, but he’s pretty sure they’re rolling like dice. They sit on the top of a nearby building, munching away at their meals. They got the same thing, a cheeseburger with fries. It’s wild to see Batman eating anything. Clark almost thought Batman would tuck the burger into his cape and digest it through shadows.
Maybe he’s been indulging his imagination a little too much.
“So, what do you want to know?” Clark asks.
“Your planet,” Batman says. Of course he’s not starting with small talk. “The article Lois Lane wrote said it was destroyed.”
“Yeah,” Clark says, controlling his tone, keeping it even. “I was the only survivor.”
“How do you know?” Batman asks. “Couldn’t someone else have sent off an escape pod?”
Clark shakes his head. “I mean, it’s technically possible, but my father was one of the few people on the planet that knew the crisis was approaching. Almost nobody believed him when he said Krypton was doomed. I would be surprised if anyone else had the foresight to prepare a capsule like the one I was sent in.”
“How old were you when this happened?” Batman asks. “Lane was sparse on the details.”
“That’s because I was sparse on the details,” Clark responds, trying for a laugh. He doesn’t get one. “I was young. Very young. Most of what I know is because of a recording my father left for me.” It’s a stretch to describe the hologram of Jor-El as a recording, but it’s basically the truth. It’s a record of his father, not his father himself.
“In what language?” Batman asks.
“Kryptonian,” Clark says. “But there was a translation matrix in the capsule that helped me parse it out.”
“It must have taken you time to understand your own origins then,” Batman asks.
“Yes. I was lucky to grow up somewhere safe,” Clark says. He doesn’t want to answer any questions about that, though. Krypton is safe, insofar as it is dead. Smallville can’t be a part of this conversation. “How about you? What made you take up this life?”
“I saw a need,” Batman says.
“Bullshit,” Clark says, knee-jerk. “It’s not just that. It’s never just that.”
Batman tilts his head to the side, acknowledging the truth of Clark’s statement.
“I was given an opportunity very early on to see how cruel the world could be,” Batman says and Clark hears the truth under it as clear as a bell, I was victimized as a child and never truly recovered. “As I grew, I saw how widespread that cruelty was. This city is full of people who are exhausted, impoverished, and without hope. The people who need change the most are often so beat down that they can’t muster a response. The people who can create change are often so insulated from hardship that they won’t lift a finger. I see the world as it is. I can do more than most. So I do.”
Clark nods. “I get it. Seeing how violent the world can be is daunting. It scares a lot of people into inaction. It takes a lot of bravery to take a stand against the ways people hurt each other.”
Batman hums, not fighting Clark on it. “My turn. Why Lois Lane?”
“She’s an amazing journalist and the public trusts her,” Clark responds. “They know she’s not suckered into believing anything on face value.”
“Not because you’re attracted to her?” Batman asks.
“I have a professional relationship with her,” Clark says, avoiding the question, too obvious.
“Are you attracted to human women?” Batman prods.
“I am on occasion, though I don’t have a specific preference for women,” Clark clarifies, for a reason he actually cannot name right now. “But the point is moot.”
“‘Cause you’re in love with Lois Lane?” Batman asks.
“I’m not in love with Lois Lane,” Clark says, but his words sound petulant to his own ears. “Maybe I have a little bit of a crush, but that doesn’t mean I’m in love with her.”
“You call it a crush?” Batman asks, unimpressed.
“What, you don’t have crushes?” Clark asks.
“No,” Batman says, like this is very obvious. “I’m a grown man.”
“You’re dressed like a bat,” Clark points out.
Batman makes a soft grunting noise, like he acknowledges Clark’s point but still disagrees. It’s odd how easily Clark decodes it. Or maybe he’s dead wrong.
“Speaking of which, why Batman?” Clark asks. “Why not Shadowman or The Darkness or something like that?”
“I didn’t choose the name,” he responds through a bite of his burger.
“You chose the bat ears,” Clark says, “and the bat insignia on your chest.”
“Bats are scary,” he says.
“No, they’re not,” Clark says. “Bats are adorable.”
“They're winged rats that drink blood and fly at you from out of the darkness. That’s scary,” Batman says, and Clark can tell he actually believes what he’s saying.
“Bats have cute furry faces,” Clark argues. “There are children’s books about them. They are not scary.”
“I scared you, didn’t I?” Batman asks.
“Not really,” Clark lies. “I was a little hesitant in the beginning, but I wasn’t scared.”
“You were scared out of your bright blue britches,” Batman says, finishing his burger with gusto.
“I’m a bulletproof alien who can fly and shoot lasers from his eyes, I was not scared of you,” Clark insists.
“You were, because despite all of those things, you don’t fully know what I can do,” Batman says. “I appear out of the shadows, I’m violent and effective, and I disappear after I act. I’m mysterious, I’m dark, I’m dangerous. I represent the unknown, the shadowy parts of the world that people avoid, the caves and caverns of the human subconscious. Just like a bat.”
“You lost me at the end there,” Clark says, eating a fry.
“Oh please, at least I’m not a flashing neon sign begging people to like me,” Batman says, with an odd edge.
Clark stiffens. “Alright, that’s a low blow.”
“I’m serious. I used to think it was more sinister, the way you picked favorites,” Batman says, a new scorn in his voice. “The way Metropolis saw you more than any other city in the world. The way Lois Lane always got saved, but other people didn’t. I wondered if maybe they had brokered deals with you for protection, if there was something sinister under that All-American charm. Now I see what the truth is.”
“Oh yeah?” Clark says, something starting to roil in his gut.
“You are dangerously lonely,” Batman says, and it hits Clark like a kryptonite bullet, deadly in its precision. “You need people to love you. You need people not to be afraid of you. It’s like a compulsion. You would do anything to feel like a human, to feel accepted. You can’t be everywhere at once, so you pick the places that you’re attached to, and you try to make them trust you, feel grateful for you. It’s your biggest blind spot, and it’s easy to exploit.”
“And you’re going to exploit it?” Clark asks, chilled.
“I already have,” Batman says, gesturing to their positions on the roof. “You’re confiding in me. You want to engage with me. That gives me an easy lure if I ever want to put you in danger or trap you.”
“And what do you think you could do to me, if you trapped me?” Clark asks, his throat tight with something sick.
“I’d figure something out,” Batman says, his voice calm and matter of fact. “I always do.”
“This was a mistake,” Clark says, standing up. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were trying to manipulate me,” Batman says, standing as well. “You used all the tactics that hostages use on their kidnappers to humanize themselves. You talked to me about your secret crush, your fears, your tragic past. You even broke bread with me. But answer me this, Superman, do you actually need to eat food to live?”
Clark stays silent, shaking with an emotion he can’t describe.
“That’s what I thought,” Batman says, withdrawing until his cape folds completely around his body, a shadow again. Inhuman. Like Clark, but different. Very different.
“You know what I learned about you, Batman?” Clark asks. He’s figured out what that emotion is now. Rage.
“Enlighten me,” Batman responds, cold, cutting.
“I learned that you are capable of incredible cruelty,” Clark says, “and that you are ready and willing to exercise that cruelty at a moment’s notice. Metropolis may deserve better than me, but I truly pity Gotham if you’re its hero.” Batman doesn’t flinch, the bastard. Clark lifts in the sky, the new angle looking down on Batman doing a lot for his mood. “Clean up the food after I go,” he says. “You shouldn’t litter.”
Then, Clark flies far, far, away.
*
The rest of the month is miserable. Clark almost misses two deadlines because of an extra-terrestrial creature that punches a hole in several museum exhibits trying to get to a different dimension, Lois goes on what appears to be a very successful date with Perry’s son, and Steve Lombard spills coffee on Clark’s pants not once, not twice, but three separate times.
It’s almost enough to make a man give up and go back to Kansas. Almost.
By the end of the month, Clark is almost catatonic with exhaustion. In fact, he’s holed up in his apartment, ready for a full 48 hour pity party when it happens.
“Superman,” he hears. The voice is gravelly and familiar, spoken from somewhere deep in the heart of Gotham.
Clark ignores it. He doesn’t want to talk to Batman. Ideally, he never talks to Batman again. He’s warm and comfortable in his apartment, he’s got Grey Ghost on the TV, a bowl of popcorn in front of him on the coffee table, and not a single problem in the world that only he can fix. He doesn’t need to be in Gotham. In fact, Batman specifically told him to stay out of ‘his city’. It would be ridiculous to go there, especially right now.
“I need you,” Batman says.
This is a trap. This is obviously a trap. Batman told him point-blank that this was the kind of thing he would do to trap him. The only right move is to ignore this. Prove Batman wrong about him. He doesn’t have a blind spot. He’s 100% capable of assessing a threat for what it is, and staying far away.
“Please,” Batman says, in that same gravelly tone.
Goddammit.
Clark is hovering over a gothic monstrosity of a building in the next three seconds. He took his time, just in case. Batman is standing on the top of the building, a dark shadow in a city full of them. There doesn’t seem to be any threat nearby, no criminals out of Arkham, no lights in the sky calling for a hero.
“You’re not in any danger, are you?” Clark asks, annoyed already.
Batman shakes his head.
“So what is this? Exploiting my blind spot?” Clark asks, rolling his eyes as he descends to the roof, standing in front of Batman’s hulking form. “Taking advantage of my dangerous compulsion to be loved?”
Batman silently brings his arm out from under his cape, offering a wrapped burger to Clark.
“I thought we agreed, I don’t need to eat,” Clark says. The burger stays outstretched. It smells really good.
They stand there in silence for a few frustrated seconds before Clark reaches out and grabs the burger.
“This doesn’t make us friends,” Clark says, gesturing with the burger.
“I’m aware,” Batman says.
“It doesn’t even make us allies,” Clark continues.
“Agreed,” Batman says.
“So, what is this supposed to be?” Clark asks. “A peace offering?”
“An apology,” Batman answers.
Honestly, kryptonite would have made less of an impact than those two words. Clark blinks at Batman, then blinks at him again, completely incapable of speech.
“I lashed out at you because I was scared,” Batman says, once it becomes obvious that Clark is not going to respond. “That’s unacceptable. I’m supposed to control my fear, not let it control me.”
Clark deflates. This again. Great. Why did Clark think this would be any different than any other control freak on Earth?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, weary. “Though even a saint would have decked you after what you said.”
“I’m not scared that you’re going to hurt me,” Batman says, his tone derisive, as if the idea is preposterous. Clark is forced, once again, to recalibrate. How does this guy keep surprising him? “I’m scared that I’m not scared.”
Clark stares at him, baffled. “What does that even mean?”
“I like you, Superman,” Batman snaps. He says ‘like’ as if it’s a curse. It’s the craziest declaration of affection Clark has ever heard. To be fair, he hasn’t heard all that many in his life. “I honestly like you. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it when we talked.”
“I felt it,” Clark says, almost against his will, because he did feel it. That’s why it hurt so much when everything went south.
“It’s too easy to trust you,” Batman continues. “It’s too easy to want to trust you. That makes you a liability for me. I don’t appreciate having liabilities.”
“You know, your desire to not have any liabilities is in and of itself a liability,” Clark points out, unwrapping his burger now that the conversation has become annoying again. “If you can’t let anyone in, they can’t point out your weaknesses, which means you can’t compensate for them.”
“And if you let the wrong person in, they can exploit you that much more easily,” Batman points out in return.
“I don’t know what convinced you that I’m in the habit of letting people in,” Clark says, peeved by the implication that he is naive, “but I’m actually very good at maintaining my privacy.”
“I was stalking you to learn how to destroy you, and you asked me to get a burger with you,” Batman says, his voice a perfect deadpan. “You told me about your crush. You came out to me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re the exception to the rule,” Clark says, taking a bite of his burger. It’s a phenomenal burger. Way better than Superburger, though he would never admit it.
“Why would I be an exception for you?” Batman asks, obviously confused.
“I felt it too, remember?” Clark says, after he finishes chewing.
Neither of them says anything for a long time after. Instead, Batman turns and sits heavily on the edge of the roof, dangling his feet off the edge. Clark joins him, wary, like approaching a skittish cat. Batman doesn’t move away, doesn’t even react, as Clark finishes his burger. At some point, Batman produces a massive box of tater tots from under his cape, and they eat them in silence as they watch over Gotham’s strange nightlife, beautiful women with heavy-duty tasers in their bags heading to nightclubs, gangs of teenagers in clown makeup graffitiing the sides of buildings, late-night diner employees sneaking out on breaks to feed stray dogs curled up together near dumpsters.
“You’ve been faster to use your eyes and breath during emergencies,” Batman says, out of nowhere. “Your fights are ending faster as well.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for the advice?” Clark asks.
“You respond quickly to feedback. Means you have an adaptive mind. Probably your greatest advantage in the field,” Batman continues.
“Not the fact that I can fly?” Clark asks.
“Any asshole can figure out a jet pack,” Batman says and Clark grins helplessly, so unbearably charmed by maybe the most annoying person he’s ever met.
“Thank you for the compliment,” Clark says instead, because he has a hunch it’ll make Batman uncomfortable.
As predicted Batman stiffens. “Do you at least understand why it’s hard for me to trust you? To trust this?” he asks, sounding almost as annoyed as Clark is. Maybe even a little charmed too. That might just be wishful thinking.
“It sounds to me like it’s just hard for you to accept that you already do trust me,” Clark says. “But I’ve accepted that, so you should too.”
“You could kill me in a second,” Batman says. “You could explode my head with your eyes.”
“That’s true,” Clark says. He looks out over the edge, spotting a young woman walking to a convenience store. The neon of the store sign reflects onto the dark wet pavement, creating a garish sort of rainbow on the ground. Clark gestures towards her with his chin. “You could kill her just as fast, couldn’t you?”
Batman looks for a second, before nodding his head grimly.
“Why don’t you?” Clark asks.
“You’ve made your point,” Batman says.
“I’m genuinely curious,” Clark says, and he’s not lying. Batman’s assessments have been accurate so far. He wants to hear this one. “Because I don’t know why I don’t. I was hoping maybe you would.”
Batman doesn’t say anything for a long time. Clark listens to the sound of the world around him, listens to the thud of Batman’s heart. It’s strong. Beautiful even. “It’s because of that pesky need to be loved,” Batman says, breaking their silence. “It creates its own inverse effect.”
“The need to love,” Clark says, surprised at how easily he’s following along. It’s too easy to talk to Batman. He’s starting to realize why Batman thinks that’s a problem.
“The human condition,” Batman agrees. “Loving and being loved.”
“You’re actually a softie under all of that Kevlar, aren’t you?” Clark asks, something horrifically close to fondness in his chest.
“And you’re a paranoid snoop under that big smile,” Batman says. Before Clark can respond, he’s standing up, his boots heavy on the stone ledge. “I need to go.”
Clark deflates. “Oh.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Batman says.
“What? Why?” Clark says, but Batman is already firing his grapple into the mouth of a gargoyle nearby. “Wait, don’t--”
But Batman is already gone, slipping into the lead lined alleys of this absolutely unlivable city. If Clark concentrates he could try to pick out Batman’s heartbeat out of the thousands around him, but he’s too tired now. He just had a burger and maybe six hundred tater tots. He wants to go home and watch Grey Ghost and ignore the world for as long as he can.
The Batman of Gotham City can wait for another day.
*
The next week, Clark is hot on the trail of what appear to be several shipments of weapons to Kaznian separatists heading out of the Metropolis docks. He’s studied the shipping manifests of a series of cargo ships that are owned by several layers of shell corporations, and he has a contact at the docks who seems to be willing to confirm that Luthor is behind the transactions.
He’s literally out of the door of the building about to rush to the subway when he hears a voice from behind him calling out his first and last name.
Clark whips his head around to see billionaire and socialite Bruce Wayne advancing on him from the sidewalk, a brilliant smile on his terrifyingly attractive face.
“It is Clark Kent, isn’t it?” Bruce Wayne asks. Clark nods, somewhat dumbstruck. “Bruce Wayne,” Bruce says, introducing himself as if Clark doesn’t know exactly who he is, where he’s from, every notable tragedy that befell him in his childhood, and the names of at least sixteen models regularly linked to his name in the tabloids.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Wayne,” Clark says, wondering what exactly is about to happen to him, and how he can avoid it.
“Bruce, please,” Bruce says, sticking his hands in his pockets in a way that somehow directs Clark’s attention to both his broad shoulders and his thick thighs under his exquisitely tailored suit.
“Bruce, then,” Clark responds, trying to stand in a way that isn’t quite so self-conscious. He’s not sure he accomplishes it.
“Sorry to stop you when you’re out the door,” Bruce says, doing a pretty good job of feigning apology, “but I was told the life of an investigative reporter makes you hard to reach, and I’m leaving the country on vacation tomorrow morning.”
“Completely understandable,” Clark says, though he understands almost none of this interaction. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m in a predicament and I was hoping you could help me resolve it,” Bruce Wayne says, settling into a stance Clark would almost describe as flirtatious if he could think that without his brain melting. “You see, my people tell me you’re good at writing.”
“Your people? You haven’t read anything I’ve written?” Clark asks, which is not a polite thing to say, but he’s off his game today.
“Jury’s out on if I can read at all,” Bruce responds blandly. The laugh that comes out of Clark was not supposed to.
“Sorry, that was rude,” Clark says, ducking his head and trying to get this interaction back on rails. “Remind me why the quality of my writing is relevant to you?”
“Well, I have a gala coming up next Friday for a great cause. I think it’s either schools or prisons,” Bruce begins.
“I can see why you would mix them up,” Clark replies and Bruce’s smile gets somehow wider.
“Now usually an event of that scale gets a Daily Planet reporter, and usually that reporter is Cat Grant, but after the snafu last spring between Ms. Grant and my close friend Ronnie Vreeland over either a dress or an affair, Ronnie insisted that she won’t attend the fundraiser if Ms. Grant makes an appearance. You can see where my dilemma lies,” Bruce says, imparting this information as if it had major geopolitical implications.
“Let me make sure we’re on the same page,” Clark says, trying to not be charmed by this impossibly handsome vapid man, and only partially succeeding. “You’re either down a generous donation from a close personal friend to a cause that matters to you, whatever it ends up being, or you’re down a reporter from a city you don’t live in.”
“So you understand why this conflict tears at the edges of my soul,” Bruce says with a straight face and Clark can’t help his grin, unfortunately. “After I heard the news, I decided to throw myself on the mercies of your editor Mr. White, in hopes that he would send someone else. Perry informed me that if I was looking for someone inoffensive, Clark Kent is my man.”
It’s not the first backhanded compliment he’s gotten from Perry and it won’t be the last. “And your team told you I was good at writing,” Clark adds.
“And my team, consisting of people who do read, told me you were good at writing,” Bruce confirms. “Perry told me if you weren’t up for the tremendous challenge of finding something scandalous to say about the glitterati of Gotham, you were free to say no, and I’d have to make do. I’m hoping that you’re willing to be my hero. What do you say?”
“Alright,” Clark says after a brief pause. He knows he’s not supposed to be in Gotham without Batman’s invitation, but he won’t be going in his cape, he doesn’t have any plans next Friday, and a party full of the richest and most famous Gotham socialites actually seems like it might be fun if only so he can gossip with Ma about it later. “But you’ll owe me at least three good quotes for my article.”
“Mr. Kent, if I am good for nothing, I’m good for quotes,” Bruce says, crossing over his heart like a little kid on a playground.
“Then it’s a deal,” Clark says, smiling at Bruce. “I’ll see you then, if you can spot me in the crush.”
“I’m sure you’ll catch my eye,” Bruce says. He shifts, going oddly still in a way that reminds Clark of something, a bell ringing faintly in his head. “Who knows, maybe we could grab a burger after. Some tater tots too.”
Clark furrows his brow, surprised that Bruce would make an offer like that. It’s overly familiar, almost intimate, and weirdly pointed. Which is strange, because the only person who’s had tater tots with Clark anytime recently was. Was.
Bruce watches him evenly, a little smirk on his lips. The penny drops.
“You’re kidding,” Clark says, the words punched out of his mouth.
Bruce immediately turns and walks towards an expensive car that’s been idling at the curb, exactly as infuriating in this guise as he is when he’s wearing the cowl, throwing a casual, “See you soon, Mr. Kent. Wear your suit,” over his shoulder.
Clark watches as Bruce gets into his car and speeds away into traffic, the usually gridlocked streets parting for him like the Red Sea. He feels like he’s been hit in the face by Metallo. Bruce Wayne is Batman. Bruce Wayne was following him, cataloguing his weaknesses for the last two months. Bruce Wayne knows his secret identity. How did he know? How long did he know?
Clark gets a message on his burner from his contact at the docks about their meeting, because the world doesn’t actually stop for Batman the way it always seems to. He doesn’t have to check his watch to know he’s running late. He was planning to take the subway over, but he could probably still make it in time if he got into a cab with a sufficiently motivated driver.
Without thinking, Clark turns into a semi-secluded alley, speed-changes into his supersuit, and takes to the blue Metropolis sky in seconds, leaving the sound barrier in tatters behind him.
It might be a little reckless, but right now, he feels like flying.