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To put it very succinctly: Clark Kent was bizarre.
It wasn’t the first impression of the man, but rather the accumulation of all the pieces that led Bruce to that conclusion. On first impression, Clark Kent was inexplicably bland. Slumped posture, timid presence, suit from the bargain bin’s last call section. His glasses were slightly bent, and his hair was objectively a mess. His accent was from the midwest, his manners from the last century. Overall, an unremarkable man.
When Perry White replaced Cat Grant for, quote, “her own damn good” (and, yes, the turf war between Two Face and Bane had admittedly gone on longer than Bruce would have liked), Bruce had been expecting whatever muscular man they’d had running the sports section. Buckram Buckley, or Chester Chadsworth, or Trent Travis, or whatever his name was. So, suffice it to say, Bruce was baffled when he learned Clark Kent was taking over. Or, more accurately, he was baffled once he saw Clark Kent.
His background also lent itself to confusion, when Bruce went digging. Humble beginnings in a small town in a part of Kansas known for shoving any boy with working limbs into football. But, yet, Clark Kent had never participated in a singular sport. He didn’t actually have a single extracurricular to his name, save for a very brief stint in an agricultural club at 12.
He was consistently referred to with some variation of “nice”, or “sweet”, or “gentle”, as well.
Yet, Perry White sent him.
Perry White was many things. A fool was not one.
Seeing Clark Kent stumble into the packed ballroom and park himself against the wall to scrawl furiously in his notebook did, at first, make Bruce reconsider White’s sanity. However, despite the aforementioned blah-ness, Clark Kent did make for a striking figure. With real-life objects to compare to, that limp-noodle posture was proven to bely just how large Kent actually was. Broad shoulders nearly as wide as the trim paneling he was leaned against, biceps thicker than the gap in the pattern.The straight, vertical lines of the paneling proved how deep he stooped—how much height he’d been hiding.
If Kent gave up that atrocious posture, he’d be damn near the size of a linebacker.
So, perhaps, White had actually made a sound choice after all.
…yet, honestly, everything failed to explain why Kent opted for a kyphotic stance.
One would think that an intelligent man with favorable genetics and without a history of bullying would have some level of confidence. Yet, Kent seemed determined to wilt.
Bruce had sent one of the models over to report. Katrina Velt, the one who was a newscaster by day. Any buxom young man with a face and body like that would surely capitalize on Katrina’s long, lean lines and lovely looks.
Kent turned bright red and stumbled his way through a bland conversation. He’d recognized her from the Dutch news stations, and thought she managed to balance succinct storytelling with the emotions needed for each story.
Boring.
So, perhaps Javier Carrasco would offer a better in, if Kent wasn’t able to fall sway to a woman.
…yet, they descended into a long conversation about soccer, and that was it. Javier reported nothing, other than the dimple in Kent’s cheeks when he smiled.
That left Bruce with a singular option: approach Kent himself. He snagged two flutes of champagne and swaggered his way over to the absolute mystery trying to become one with the wall.
“A bit on the nose, no?” Bruce said, gesturing vaguely to Kent’s tie—paper airplanes dotting navy blue polyester. It clashed horribly with the brown faux-tweed of his cheap suit.
“Mr. Wayne!” Kent sputtered, proving once again he blushed fairly easily.
“Please. Bruce,” he corrected. “And please, drink.”
Kent seemed to panic for a moment, fumbling with his notepad and pen before shoving both into his coat pocket and delicately accepting the glass. “I’m working,” he protested weakly.
“All work and no play…” Bruce offered his most simpering smile. Kent smiled awkwardly back before taking a placating sip of champagne. His nose scrunched adorably as he swallowed. Hm. Another interesting factor. “Or, would you rather something else? I try to keep my guests happy.”
“This is fine,” Kent said, smiling slightly. “Thank you.”
“Are you certain? I’m told aside from my rakish good looks causing weak knees, my worst quality is my pushiness.” He winked theatrically. Kent choked out a laugh, cheeks flushing pink.
“I can see that,” Kent said, light and on the verge of teasing. Bruce couldn’t help the genuine smile that tweaked the corners of his mouth.
“My bluntness is also a weakness,” Bruce said. “So, forgive me in advance, but—”
“Why am I here?” Kent interrupted.
“Well, I was going to ask why you burden such a beautiful body with such horrible clothes, but…I suppose, that might be the more polite question.” Bruce sipped slowly as he looked him up and down. “My original question would have come with an offer to remove them for you.”
Kent choked, face scarlet.
“Perry informed me ahead of time that you’d be taking Ms. Grant’s position here tonight,” Bruce said. “I am, however, surprised Ms. Grant didn’t dress you. You are representing the Tribune, after all.”
Somehow, Kent’s face turned even more red.
“I’m just taking photos and a few notes,” Kent managed to choke out. Bruce just hemmed as he ran a hand along Kent’s bicep. Under the horrible texture of his suit, Bruce could feel pure muscle. Interesting. He truly was an enigma swaddled in bad taste and insecurity.
“But you’re so pretty,” Bruce simpered. And he was. Square, masculine features balanced with full cheeks, deep dimples at the corners of his mouth, strong nose, sturdy brows. Bright blue eyes behind thick lenses, with prominent lower lids that served to further soften his appearance. Again, Bruce was struck with how starkly bizarre it was for someone this conventionally attractive to be this openly insecure. “Imagining you in a tight, fitting suit…well…”
Gently, Kent removed Bruce’s hand. “Mr. Wayne, I appreciate—”
“Bruce,” Bruce corrected, once again.
“I am mighty flattered by your interest, Mr. Wayne, but partaking in, uh, dalliances isn’t in my interest,” Kent said, a touch firmly. “I would appreciate being able to work, if you would so please.”
Hm, so Mr. Bland did, in fact, have a spine.
“Oh, do you not swing—-”
“When I’m working, I don’t ‘swing’ at all,” Kent said, a bit firmer.
Bruce straightened his posture, taking a step back. “I apologize. I do tend to be a bit forward.”
A small nod was all Kent responded with.
“I also must confess, I did look into you, just a little bit. Security and all that blah-ness,” Bruce said. “Kansas, huh?”
“Mr. Wayne—Bruce—unless you’d be able to tell me what Mrs. Rockefeller is wearing, I’d prefer to get back to work.”
Bruce offered a lazy glance over his shoulder in the effort of looking like he hadn’t already scoped her out. “Christian Dior from two seasons ago, knock-off Louis Vuittons, and a Swarovski set she traded half the diamonds for cubic zirconia. You know, her husband got embroiled in quite the legal scandal. Scraped them damn near dry, but she insists on pretending everything is fine. There’s rumors he’s angling to work for the Penguin.”
Those charming brows raised, the flute was handed back to Bruce, and Kent quickly scrawled it down. “Really?”
“Mm, it’s what every little birdie is talking about. Not quite as bad as the ex-Mrs. Lindau, though. Her husband ran with the mob, and all their assets got seized. She’s there, wearing that yellow dress.” His eyes scoped the room, settling on a brownish-maroon gown elegantly draped on cedarwood skin. “If you want a showcase, it’d be Miss Ngozi Okeke, just there. Custom Mugler, Bvlgari, imported hair jewelry from a small brand in Nigeria. She’s a rising star in modeling, but there’s been friction from the more…close-minded folks. If anyone deserves the spotlight, it’s her. Not those old biddies who bought their way in.”
Shit, he couldn’t help but think as soon as the words were out.
Party-Bruce was meant to be a charming simpleton, blissfully ignorant to the world outside this bubble of glitz and glam. He wasn’t supposed to have…opinions.
But Kent was writing it down eagerly, seeming not to notice Bruce’s slip up. “Any other recommendations?”
His eyes swept the crowd, men in a sea of boring suits, women mostly in states of one-up-manship, very few actually interesting people amongst them. “Lena Reyes,” Bruce settled on. Iridescent cobalt blue in a form-fitting, floor length dress, billowing shawl in silk faille. Delicate silver necklace catching the light, complemented by drop earrings. Only on her honey-toned skin could a color that rich, that loud work. “Inherited a large fortune, but has prioritized charity work. We collaborate from time to time, though she’s mostly networking out of Baltimore. Custom Versace, and her mother’s jewelry."
Kent nodded.
“Is that sufficient?” He’d really rather focus on Kent. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something, and he wasn’t going to rest easy until he figured it out.
“Any of the men? Cat usually tries to keep it equal—”
“Michael Carter”—he pointed to the blonde man who seemed to have just appeared overnight (and yes, he was still investigating him)— “is in a Dolce and Gabbana suit, with a silk tie in a Von Wijk knot. Newcomer, in tech. Overhauled data security for the main database used by large companies.”
Kent wrote it down.
“And I’m in custom Armani, slightly modified from my usual styles. Silk instead of velvet and satin. I’m using my father’s cufflinks. My mother’s brooch is pinned to my lapel.” He rattled it off as quickly as he could, but Kent’s brows still furrowed—those blue eyes quickly darting to Bruce’s cuffs and lapel. Bruce offered Kent his champagne back, and Kent accepted it. “So, Kansas. Was it a big town or small?”
“Small,” Kent said.
“Ooh, was it one of those—?”
“Mr. Wayne, please,” Kent said.
“I was asking about sports,” Bruce said glibly, offering a coy smile. “Those ravishing young lads, throwing around the pigskin, or what have you.”
An exhausted, tired sigh filtered from Kent’s lips. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.
“And did you—?”
“No.” Kent took a large sip of his champagne, continuing to look like he’d rather be anywhere but there.
“But your stature—”
“I was a late bloomer.”
Bruce smiled wickedly at him, teeth fully on show and everything. “You have a fabulous habit of interrupting everything I say.”
Kent flustered spectacularly.
“It’s charming. A rather interesting quirk, I must say.”
“Sorry—”
“It’s refreshing, Mr. Kent.” It was also indicative of…something. Bruce hadn’t put his finger on it yet—those perfect manners, with this boldness hidden beneath.
Kent made a vague noise as he took another drink.
“Metropolis is a long way away from Kansas.”
“College,” Kent said with half of a shrug. “Met U had a good journalism program. And you? Princeton, or Brown, or…?”
“Gotham Community College, actually,” Bruce said. “I spent my earlier years galivanting, so I missed out on the typical opportunities. Technically, I didn’t need a degree, what with inheriting my family’s company and all, but lo, I felt inadequate compared to the men and women who invested their time in their degrees.”
“Humble,” Kent mumbled into his drink—and god, Bruce needed to keep drawing that out. That was probably why White sent Kent. That gorgeous, perfect sass and spine he was hiding under the personification of beige.
“I tend to be.” And he made sure to wink especially egregiously.
“I’m sorry. That was meant to be an inside thought.”
“Oh, but I thought I made it clear. I appreciate your attitude, Mr. Kent. It’s rare.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything—”
“I like it, Mr. Kent,” Bruce said, firmer. “I like you. You’re different. It’s refreshing. Most people are here to kiss my ass”—and, here, Kent choked—“and while you attempt to remain polite, you’re not fake. Though, yes, I do have ulterior motives, I genuinely enjoy speaking with you.”
“And that required flirting?”
“You’re attractive, I’m attracted, I took a shot,” Bruce said flippantly as he brought his glass to his lips. “You’re welcome to shoot me down.”
Kent sputtered for a few moments before managing out, “I’m not.”
“Please, your humbleness is damn near blindness.”
“Just like yours is to arrogance.”
And, okay. Maybe Bruce wanted to take a break from psychoanalyzing the enigma that was Clark Kent, and instead attempt to bed him instead.
But, no. He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
“That is quite a salient observation,” Bruce said, instead of every other thought in his head.
“You’re quite transparent, Mr. Wayne,” Kent said.
“Bruce,” he corrected once again.
“Clark,” Kent said, offering his hand. And perhaps this was why Perry White sent him. He managed to break your walls down so easily, and made you lose yourself.
So, Bruce accepted the hand shake as he stared into azure-blue behind chipped and bent lenses.
He may never unravel Clark Kent, but that was okay. Any moments with him were precious. Bruce could spend a lifetime unravelling Clark Kent, and that was fine.