Chapter Text
Clark Kent knew three facts:
- Bruce Wayne was one of Gotham’s (and Metropolis’) most handsome and eligible bachelors.
- Bruce Wayne never failed to flirt with him when he covered the social beat for Cat.
- Bruce Wayne was Batman.
The first time he had been assigned the socialite beat had been a “punishment” from Perry, even if he denied it was.
“Kent!”
Three heads turned to look at Perry at the same time, both Lois and Jimmy’s eyes landed on the subject of Perry’s ire right after. Clark cringed in his seat, suppressing flinching as that day’s newspaper was slammed on his desk. “What did I tell you last time?”
“Uh,” Clark’s gaze flicked between Perry’s expression, his lips pressed together, a knit between his brows, hands on his hips, and the newspaper glaring up at him from his desk just as accusingly.
Yeah, he wasn’t getting out of this one.
“No more Superman fluff pieces?” He asked, voice small.
“And what is this?”
“A Superman fluff piece?”
Perry pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep breath before speaking again. “No. No more. You’re going to write me a piece on the Wayne Gala tonight, no buts.”
“You’re relegating me to social? What about Cat?”
“I’m not relegating you anywhere. Both me and the public are tired of hearing about Superman saving a kitten out of the three for the thirty-fourth time in a week. Save the Superman pieces for important events, not daily occurrences. This will be good for you, get you out of your comfort zone… And Cat is out for the week — strep throat. I expect it by my desk at the end of the week. Or, well, you know, you’re fired!” Perry turned on his heel and stomped back to his room, already reaching into his back pocket for his hourly stress cigarette.
“He’s not going to fire you.” Lois said, her chair rolling until it hit the side of Clark’s. He stared down at the newspaper, mouth twisted in a grimace.
He knew Perry was right, of course he was. Clark was a good writer, really, and maybe he had settled in on a comfortable routine in his stories. That was his fault too. It was all he could afford to do after his patrols. Metropolis had apparently taken a page out of Gotham’s book and its night crime had steadily began climbing since he started out as Superman. He had expected the opposite, but apparently criminals were eager to catch a sight of the Man of Steel.
“I know.”
“Chin up, Smallville. Think of it as a break; the galas are always a piece of cake. If you manage to get a quote from Wayne himself, Perry might ease up on you a little.” Lois dropped her head to meet Clark’s gaze, eyebrows lifting, manicured hands patting his knee in both encouragement and sympathy.
“I know,” He repeated, dragging his hands down his face. The Wayne Gala meant going into Gotham. Going into Gotham meant going into Batman’s territory, and Batman was most definitely not a Superman fan. “I just… He told me to stay out of Gotham.”
“What? No, he didn’t. He told Superman to stay out of Gotham. Not Clark Kent, ordinary civilian, reporter for the Daily Planet. There’s no way you’ll run into Batman again as yourself!”
Clark’s hands eased away from his face, hesitance oozing out of him. “If he does, I’m blaming you.”
Lois smiled, leaning back on her chair. “I can deal with Batman. What I cannot deal with is you mopping about. I hate it when you make that face. Stop it.”
“What face?” He asked, making the face.
“I’m going to let Perry fire you. In fact, I’m going to help you pack your stuff… right now!”
“Wait, Lois, I was joking! Lois, no, wait—!”
Clark had sought the Bat a few months into his night patrol, both annoyed and frustrated at the amount of bank robberies and museum break-ins. News from the Gotham Gazette and the Daily Planet had reported on how the ever elusive Batman had steadily began reducing the amount of petty crimes in Gotham. Enough to the point where citizens could go a few days without being held up at a jewelry store or held at gun point in the bank. It was a miracle for Gotham. But the Bat had been at it longer than Clark had and he would really appreciate some pointers. And if he was curious about the vigilante no one could quite pinpoint, nobody else but him had to know.
Batman, however, was not very happy to receive a visit from Superman.
It had not been hard to find him. Clark just had to listen in to the sound of punches, hard and heavy, and the pained wheezes that followed. He hovered in the air while Batman finished tying up the gang trying to break into a chemical facility. Some of his rogues’ goons if the smeared makeup on bruised and bloody faces was anything to go by. He would’ve gone with a mask, but then again, he had no room to talk when his disguise was a pair of glasses.
The Batman was a big guy. Broad shouldered, covered in kevlar and leather, his cape flowing after him as he propelled to the roof of a building a bit further away. He stopped to check something on his wrist, a watch computer or something, probably telling him where the next crime was taking place. His heartbeat was oddly calm, steady, no crazy spikes even after the fighting that would have winded even the best of fighters. Clark watched a little longer, half fascinated, half amazed, eyes tracing Batman’s figure as if he was trying to commit him to memory. Maybe he was. This was the first (and probably only) time he’d be able to do this without looking like a creep. Which he totally wasn’t, by the way. He forced himself to glance away after noting the shoulder to waist ration, and wasn’t that unfair?
“You’re not welcome here.” A gruff voice snapped Clark out of his thoughts. Looking down made him realize Batman was looking straight up at him. He was sure he had been high up enough to go unnoticed. He sheepishly floated down until his feet touched the floor of the roof, ways away from the Bat, wanting anything but to appear intimidating.
“Hello,” Clark began, straightening himself up to the Superman usual, a friendly but cautious smile on his face. Was he wearing eye makeup? “You probably already know who I am—“
“I do.”
“But we haven’t met and I thought that was a darn shame. I was thinking we could help each other out. You’ve been doing a great job in Gotham, but if we worked together maybe—“
“No.” Batman snapped, though his voice did not rise, husky and low. He stared Superman down as if he was one of the criminals he had just finished in beating down. “I am not interested in help from you. You are not welcome in Gotham. Your help is not needed in Gotham. Stay out of my city.” He left no room for Clark to argue, his grappling gun already in his hand before Clark could even think of speaking.
Clark remained on the roof for a few more minutes, dumbfounded by the harshness in Batman’s tone, the coldness in his demeanor, the close mindedness of help from Superman. Batman didn’t even know him and he already saw Clark as nothing but a pest. Clark swallowed his pride, flew back to Metropolis, and tried not to sulk.
Lois had asked him about it the very next day as soon as he sat down in his chair, claiming he was making the face and to stop pouting. She, at least, seemed sympathetic about his plight, offering a soft smile and a promise of pie from his favorite diner later to cheer him up.
“It’s Gotham,” She’d said between bites of her own slice of pie, deliberately pointing at Clark with her fork. “He’s territorial. Funny, he seems like the type. But, I wouldn’t sweat too much about it. You’re good, Clark. If he doesn’t see that, it's his loss.”
Lois had made it sound so simple. Clark knew he was good; he tried his darn hardest to be the goodest version of himself everyday. Why was it so hard for the Batman to accept a little help? Sure, he had been doing fine on his own, but weren’t two always better than one?
Perry’d barked at him to leave as soon as possible if he wanted to keep his job, making Clark nearly jump out of his seat and into Lois’ arms much to his chagrin. He left the office with his ears burning red and Lois and Jimmy’s laughter echoing blocks after. Sometimes his superheating felt more like a punishment than a power.
Cat had been kind enough to let Clark know the dress code. She had sounded really sick over the phone as she told (threatened) Clark to not wear any of his “horrible, oversized and ugly” suits (ouch). He really didn’t think they were that bad but Cat said if she caught wind of him wearing the clothes he wore to the office, she was going to kill him and then herself. Clark really did not want Cat to kill him or herself so he pulled out the first suit he’d worn when he first got hired at the Daily Planet. His Ma had it made for him, tailored to his measurements and everything, a pretty blue that complimented his eyes, but he wore it once and only once. It made him look too much like Superman.
Cat did not comment on that after he sent the picture of his outfit for her to approve. Was it not as noticeable as he thought?
Clark: [Image Attached]
Clark: This okay?
Cat liked a message.
Cat: You look really good!
Cat: If you dressed like that more often
Cat: You wouldn’t be single
Cat: Don’t embarrass my good name out there.
The suit was incriminating enough. Clark did not bother with his hair as he slung his press badge over his neck and stuffed his voice recorder in his pocket. It would have been even worse if Cat had insisted he comb it over, really, he should count himself lucky.
He was nervous the whole way over to Gotham. He should’ve taken the metro instead of flying over, but he couldn’t shake the willies away. Sue him, he just wanted to get his bearings together before heading into the art museum. Clark kept an ear out for the Batman’s heartbeat as he landed on a nearby alley, only exiting after finding nothing but the normal hustle and bustle of Gotham City.
The Gotham Museum of Art had been decked out for the occasion. Banners and pretty lights decorated its outside in the signature Wayne blue, a carpet rolled out down the steps, and photographers going crazy behind the stanchions trying to catch the best shot of the socialite of the week. This gala was a charity event, pieces of the Wayne’s family personal collection would be on display, some for sale, with all profits going right back into the museum. A normal occurrence here. Gotham’s favorite billionaire a philanthropist in all sense of the word. Not that he and Lex were competing, but if they were, this would be an even worse look on Lex.
Clark grimaced. The mental image of Lex prancing around like Bruce Wayne horribly disturbing. Perhaps only Bruce could act the way he did and still come across as endearing.
Clark went through his mental notes on Gotham’s resident billionaire as he made his way up the museum steps, flashing his press badge to security before he was engulfed into one of the many playgrounds for the elite. His parents had been killed when he was very young and Bruce Wayne had disappeared from the public eye up until three years ago. When he returned, he was not the gloomy figure that would occasionally appear in important events and the media would talk about him as if he were a rare cryptid caught on camera. This new Bruce was all smiles and laughter, throwing his money around like it was candy. He quickly earned the nickname of “Brucie Wayne,” something he leaned into hard, giggling into microphones when asked about its origins by reporters.
“Oh, you know…around. Maybe I’ll show you another time?” He’d winked, squeezing the interviewer’s arm and left him as crimson as the carpet.
Gotham City (and its sister Metropolis) loved Brucie Wayne. While Clark had never had much interest in the him before he had eyes and a working brain (lies, he also had a little mini crush on the man). Bruce was unfairly handsome. His various appearances in magazines and billboards, both fully dressed and half naked, always made Clark do a double take. Sue him again, even Superman was not immune to a set of pretty eyes and dark hair. Neither were half of the sister cities.
He stopped in his tracks, he was going to see Bruce Wayne today. Rao, he hadn’t even fully thought about it and it hit him just as well as brass knuckles lined with kryptonite. No wonder Cat had been so devastated and Lois so eager.
Was he going to be able to do this? Absolutely, he was a good journalist and while a little awkward, he always got the job done.
Was he going to survive it? Probably not, but that was for a later him to worry about.
Clark hated that Cat had been right about the suit. While his demeanor remained the same, still withdrawn into himself while he talked with Gotham’s socialites, they seemed far more pleasant than the few times he’d spoken with a lot of them in his normal clothes. He asked about their favorite paintings, what made them so special, and what the charity meant for them, and compared to the other press around the room, he seemed to be doing quite well.
“Mr. Kent, it was such a pleasure talking to you,” A woman, Ellis Voss, smiled at him, one of her hands coming to his arm, squeezing while her smile widened. “I didn’t know they had your type in Kansas, where was it that you grew up again?”
Clark flushed, a nervous laugh escaping his lips, trying his best to gently pry her fingers away from his arm. “Smallville. Really, well, small. You wouldn’t know of it.”
“If all the Kansas boys are built like you, I’d take a flight there any day.” Another woman hummed, flanking his other side.
Actually, scratch that. The suit had been a horrible idea.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me,” he began, desperately looking around the room for any sort of saving grace. And he got it in the form of one Bruce Wayne making his very late but fashionable appearance in his own gala. In the split second that their attention left him, Clark squirreled himself to the corner of the room. He absolutely did not need to see Bruce in person, no, of course not, he’d be very content with the magazines he hid in his drawers and the cologne billboard he passed by everyday on his way to work. He had enough material for a wonderful piece Perry was sure to approve and he could get back to writing pieces he liked, with a little more enthusiasm. Yes, he’d fly back to Metropolis and start on it this very moment…
He’d only heard it once but he knew that sound. Was that…?
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Bruce Wayne stood in front of him in all his glory. Golly, he was even prettier in person. Steel blue eyes, the color of the sky just before it rained, sharp, lined with black liner, and the most sheer of dark color on the outer edges of his lids. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, the other reaching for Clark’s press badge, lightly tugging Clark forward, long dark lashes fanning across his cheeks as he read the name on the badge, before his eyes flicked back to Clark’s.
Holy moly, he was screwed.
“Mr. Wayne! I don’t think we’ve met before, Clark Kent from the Daily Planet. I— um — I’m covering for my colleague, Cat—”
“For Ms. Grant, I know. I may or may not have personally requested you, Mr. Kent. Like I said, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Clark didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “All good things, I hope?”
Bruce smiled, still fiddling with the badge on Clark’s neck, he tipped his head to one side, a few strands of his dark hair falling over his eyes. “Yes, of course. I am a very big fan of your Superman articles. How do you know the Big Blue, hmm?”
“Mr. Wayne, I believe I should be—“
“Bruce. Please. Mr. Wayne was my father.”
“Right. Mr… Bruce, I should be the one interviewing you. Mind if I get a quick comment about the gala tonight?”
“The gala? Right,” Bruce laughed, a dainty little thing, like the sound of a bell. Clark tried his best to not turn bright red at the sound. “Well, what would you like to know, Mr. Kent?”
“What made you decide it was time to finally open up your family’s collection to the public?”
“I like art,” Bruce began softly. Softer then even Clark expected. He didn’t know what to think of the man before him. “My parents liked this museum, I remember a lot of the pieces back from when I was a child. The family’s own collection has just been sitting in Wayne manor collecting dust, isn’t that a shame?” He looked up at Clark with his big blue eyes, an almost pout lining his lips.
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again. Nodded instead. A sliver of a smile graced Bruce’s lips at the gesture.
“I thought we could maybe do a trade. The museum, me, and the people here. I’m tired of looking at the same paintings anyway. My butler might not appreciate the change but I will. I like pretty things, especially if they’re tall, dark, and handsome. Might you know who I’m speaking of, Mr. Kent?”
This time there was no suppressing the heat that took over his face, up to the tips of his ears, no words able to make it through the panic spreading in his head. Was… was Bruce Wayne flirting with him?
Clark swallowed, remembering he was a very serious and professional reporter here for work. He gently plucked his lanyard from Bruce’s delicate fingers, much to the billionaire’s disappointment if the deepening of his pout was anything to go by. The butterflies in Clark’s stomach simply fluttered harder. “I’m afraid not, Bruce. I’m also afraid I don’t know Superman personally. Just…” Clark offered the most convincing, totally not Superman branded, smile he could muster, “a really big fan!”
“Hm.” Bruce hums, looking slightly dejected. It does not last long, as he is drawing back just enough to rake his eyes over Clark’s figure in the (darned) suit, the corner of his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.
Not for the first time that night did Clark feel like a piece of meat, but he found that this time, he did not mind it so much (pervert).
He does not reach for Clark again, and Clark almost wished he had not pulled away like he had. That close, he had been able to see the details of Bruce’s face not even the best cameras could capture. The gentle span of freckles across his nose, made even less noticeable by the paleness of his skin, like moonlight shining on a porcelain statue, the tiny white scar on the corner of his eyebrow or the one near his hairline, the pale pink of the elegant curve of his mouth.
Up close, Bruce Wayne did not smell like the colognes he promoted. Clark had stopped once (a few times) to try the scents himself, imagine the scent trail left behind as Brucie made his rounds in galas and parties. This scent was not as masculine as one would have expected, a lingering sweetness underneath the leather and tobacco notes… definitely vanilla. Clark found he liked this a whole lot better.
More intimate.
“I was hoping you would be able to introduce us. I am a big fan of Superman. I mean,” Bruce sighs dramatically, his head lolling back for a second. “He’s just so hot.” He whines.
Clark tries very hard to not think about the sound.
Very, very hard.
Like really hard.
He does not succeed, chocking on his own spit as Bruce’s eyes land back on him. He looks absolutely devastated, a slight wet sheen to his eyes, mouth downturned into the tiniest of frowns, but there is a playfulness in his demeanor that stops Clark from being able to read him fully.
“Bruce,” Clark tries, his voice high pitched and stupid. What the heck could he even say to that?
“I heard he had a harem,” Bruce pointedly ignores Clark’s pleadings, placing his untouched champagne glass on the tray of a passerby server, now staring Clark down like a predator does to its prey. “And I was so eager to join, Mr. Kent, you don’t know the half of it!” He steps closer, still surveying a feverish Clark. “I wanted him to manhandle me and throw me around, his muscles are huge. You don’t think he’ll crush my head between his thighs if I ask really really nicely?”
Clark was cornered against the wall, palms pressed against it, feeling one hundred percent like the corned animal he absolutely wasn’t. Matter of fact, he could have made an escape as soon as he got the much needed comment on the charity gala tonight, but he didn’t. His heart felt like it was about to jackrabbit out of his chest, so loud that even without super hearing, he was sure Bruce could hear it from where he stood. He laughed nervously, swallowed the lump in his throat, and hoped to appease one Bruce Wayne before he was eaten on the spot (he wouldn’t have minded if he was really being honest).
“I am very sorry, Bruce. I-If I do see him, hypothetically speaking of course, I’ll put in a good word for you?”
Bruce all but deflates. He falls forward and Clark braces to catch him, instead his chest is met with a face full of Bruce Wayne.
Clark freezes, his lightly shaky hands hovering over merino wool clad shoulders. In the few years he had acted as Superman, he had never encountered a bigger emergency than this. Was Bruce crying? How much had he drank tonight? Clark felt infinitely worse for thinking he’d been flirting with him. No, he was just drunk out of his mind.
“Mr. Wayne,” He lowers his voice, gentle hands finally resting on Bruce’s shoulders, Clark’s eyes scanning the room for any possible cameras to snipe with his heat vision if they so much as dared as take a picture of Bruce in such a vulnerable position. “Maybe it’s best we get you back home. Allow me to call you a—”
Bruce looked up then, his cheek squished against the soft fabric of Clark’s suit, the sulky moue on his lips quickly turning into a smile. “It’s Bruce,” He said, making no attempt to move.
Bruce blinked up at him. Clark tried to not get (even more) smitten. “I don’t need you to put in a good word for me, Mr. Kent. Matter of fact, I think I’m over the Big Blue now.”
“Pardon?”
“Hmm, yeah. Now that I think about it, you’re better looking.”
“What?”
What?!
Bruce nodded sagely from where he had made himself comfortable against Clark’s chest. His smile grew into a grin. “You’re sooo buff. What do you do as a reporter that gets you this big?”
Clark was about to melt into a puddle and die. There was absolutely no way that the Bruce Wayne was in his arms, giggling about how ripped Clark was after wondering if Superman would let him into his harem. No way. Surely he must have been hit with one of the many hallucinogenic gasses the foes of the Batman used like air freshener around the city. He finds no words in his throat, jaw slacked as Bruce continued on his tirade of torture.
He’d pulled away from Clark’s chest, hands finding his biceps instead, ooo-ing and aaa-ing every time he squeezed. Clark most definitely did not flex (liar). Bruce bit down on his lip like he’d done before, yet the expression on his face now could only be classified as pure, unadulterated, lust.
His hands left Clark’s arms, one traveling to his waist, the other grabbing him by the chin and lowering Clark down the few inches that separated the two. “I like you, Mr. Kent. Clark, yes?”
Clark dumbly nodded.
“I think you like me too, if the sound of your heart was anything to go by. How cute.” Bruce’s thumb inched closer to the corner of Clark’s mouth, blue-gray eyes traveling across the planes of Clark’s face with laser point focus. “I think I might’ve just found my Big Blue, yeah?”
“Master Bruce?”
Clark all but jumped out of his skin. He had half a mind to make a run for it, move out of the city, change his name, and find a new way for Superman to avoid Gotham at all costs. It felt like he had been hypnotized, mind controlled, poisoned, something, anything to explain why he had turned into nothing but Kryptonian putty in Bruce’s hands. He had not even heard the man now standing next to them approach.
Bruce did not move. He did not bother to remove the hand on Clark’s waist (under his jacket), the other joining instead. He barely turned his head in acknowledgment, too busy tracing ships into Clark’s fabric clad skin. “What is it Alfred?”
“I believe, sir,” The man — Alfred — did a once over of Clark, deemed him not worthy enough of his time, and returned to looking at Bruce. “That your speech was supposed to be given ten minutes ago. I have been calling you.”
At that, Bruce sighed, long and dramatic, and finally pulled himself from Clark’s side. He very much wished he could phase through walls right now. He had never been this embarrassed in his life.
“That’s what that was,” Bruce said, fishing his phone out of his pockets after patting both his suit and his trousers down. “Ugh, Alfred. I told you I didn’t want to give a speech. Everyone knows what we’re here for. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Yes, sir. But a speech is a formality. You’ve done this many—”
“The thing,” Clark pipped up, two pairs of eyes settling on him, one curious, one mildly peeved. He furled in on himself just a little more, deciding to just focus on Bruce. “That you told me about your parents. It was sweet. I’m sure it’ll resonate with a lot of people here; art lovers and the simple folk like me. It doesn’t have to be long, but I,” He paused, his eyes scanning Bruce’s expression for any pinch of disapproval. There was nothing but warmth on his face. “I think it would be a wonderful speech, Bruce.”
For the first time since Clark had known of Bruce Wayne, he had never known him to be shy after his reappearance. Yet, now, he seemed unsure, hesitant. His brows drawn together, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze lingering on the floor while the silence stretched.
An apology laced the tip of his tongue, he had not meant to overstep any boundaries, but Clark had often been scolded by Lois for lacking any tact. He should have taken Cat up on her offer of a murder-suicide.
“That is a wonderful idea,” Bruce finally said, his disposition now as sunny as the mornings in Metropolis. He stepped into Clark’s space again, this time, his arms wrapping around him in a hug that Clark returned only after a minute of uncertainty. “Thank you, Clark.” Bruce whispered in his ear before pulling away. A smile remained on his lips as he joined the man who had been so patiently waiting for him. “I’ll see you around!” He threw a kiss and a wink at Clark’s direction, finally disappearing into the night’s thick crowd.
Clark took a moment to gather himself, leaving the gala before Bruce’s speech began. Tonight had been hectic enough and he had gotten what he needed a long time ago.
Gotham’s nights were always chilly, even in the summer, and tonight was no exception. The cold air filled Clark’s lungs, the gentle breeze brushed the hair from his face, and the hustle and bustle of the city eased the flurry of thoughts on the forefront of his mind.
Why had Bruce Wayne singled him out, in a crowd of better looking and wealthier men?
How drunk had be really been to throw himself at Clark like that? Sure, he’d read stories but he always took the gossip from the media with a grain of salt.
Most importantly, however, was how oddly steady Bruce’s heartbeat had remained throughout the whole interaction. A steady beat of a drum, even as he swung from emotion to emotion, it did not speed up or slow down like anyone else’s would have. It almost reminded him of…
Clark laughed. He laughed so hard he scared the couple on the sidewalk so bad they crossed the street and almost ran away.
He really needed to get himself together.
—
The Gotham charity piece was easier to write than Clark had expected. The quietness of the night helped in allowing him to put his thoughts to paper without losing too much focus on the blaring alarm of a car or the window of an apartment being broken. It was as if the world was giving him a respite, sensing that this strange but significant meeting with Bruce had sparked something in him that was not there before.
He read through a flurry of articles on the man and came to one singular conclusion: they didn’t know him. Now, Clark would not exactly say he knew him very well either, but there was something deeper to Bruce Wayne than just big parties and love scandals. That small moment of vulnerability he allowed himself to have when speaking of his parents was something that hardly any interviewers got from him, as the names on the usual papers all called him some sort of vapid, bratty, airhead who knew nothing apart from spending his parents money. Yet, if anyone did any modicum of research into Bruce, they would see the exact opposite.
Since his taking over Wayne Industries, Gotham had been doing better in every sense. Bruce had invested heavily into low income housing, homeless shelters around the city, and job programs to get people back on their feet. Wayne Industries had also opened up a set of hefty scholarships for kids around the city, no matter the major they chose or where they came from, a simple essay was all they needed to enter asking “What does Gotham mean to you?”. Even the charity galas, which were often dismissed as a way for Bruce to get drunk off his ass, carried significant change with them. The remodel of the Mia library downtown, the upgrading of metro lines in Park Row (Bruce never called it Crime Alley in his speeches), and he had recently turned his attention to the Narrows, planning on investing heavily into its infrastructure in hopes of dissuading the mob from taking up further residence there.
The story took a life of its own. Clark made sure not to stray too far from the references Cat and Perry had given him. It was not an investigative piece, or an op-ed, but the Daily Planet’s favorite gossip column. Still, he was very happy with it and proud. Really really proud. If Bruce had been honest in enjoying his work on Superman, maybe he’d like this piece a whole lot more.
A copy was submitted bright and early on Perry’s desk. So early in fact, that Lois seemed almost confused to find him at his desk before she had gotten there. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her large (and too sugary) coffee cup. “Are you really here or did I not get enough sleep last night?” Lois came up to his side, fingers finding the skin of his arm and pinching as hard as she could.
He tried to not make it a habit to be late, but with his Superman duties, he often barely made it by the skin of his teeth. Perry had already gotten on him many of times because of his tedious little habit but he was out there saving the world before lunch time! He’d never say that but he cut himself some slack every now and then.
“Hey! Ouch, it’s me. I’m here…” He swatted her hand away, already glaring in her direction while she put her stuff down, her laptop fished from inside her bag alongside a protein bar she tossed at Clark without much fanfare.
“I’m guessing you had a good night?” She asked, amusement creeping its way onto her face as she perched herself on his desk.
“What? Nooo.” Clark asked through a mouthful, his turn to stare at her blankly. He waved his hand at her, a psssshhhh leaving his mouth, shaking his head, trying to do anything but look at Lois directly in the eye.
Lois Lane was like a shark in water the moment she detected a hint of insincerity.
Clark should’ve known he wasn’t safe.
Her foot made contact with his chair, sending him skirting a few feet away while she stood and towered over him. “Spill.”
Clark cringed into himself, right into his oversized suit jacket that did very little to hide him from Lois’ glare. “Bruce Wayne might’ve flirted with me…” He mumbled; a whisper of a secret he wanted to keep to himself a little longer.
Lois looked over his kicked puppy demeanor, and gasped. “You’re not lying.”
He shook his head, heat creeping up on the back of his neck.
“Oh my god. You’re not lying. How did that— Why did you— What the fuck Clark!”
It was even more embarrassing telling the story out loud. He saved a few details to himself, not wanting to give Lois any more ammunition to tease him with when it came to his (very warranted) crush on Bruce Wayne. He skirted around the flirting with Superman as best as he could, but the glint in Lois’ eyes told him he wasn’t quite off the hook.
“Wow, Smallville, I never pegged you as a billionaire’s man but here we are.”
“Lois, you know that’s not it,” He was interrupted by the sound of her laugher. Clark groaned into his hands.
“Kent!”
Good golly, apparently today was not shaping out to be his day.
“Yes, Perry, sir?”
“I sent you to Gotham to write a story — not to become the story! Wanna tell me what the hell this is?”
He took the Gotham Gazette out of Perry’s hands, the headline plastered on the front page made him want to throw up.
Exclusive: Is The Wayne Heir Spoken for?
Pictures captured show the billionaire looking very intimate with a mystery man. Are his playboy days finally over?
And yeah, that looked incriminating as hell. There was Bruce, pulling Clark down to his level, enough to that the eyes of the camera, it looked like a kiss. Clark’s hands did not help the predicament, resting on Bruce’s criminally small waist (stop it). There was no way of denying that was him either, the curls at the top of his head, the peek of his glasses, the blue of his suit. He looked between Perry and the paper, Lois peeking over his shoulder only to draw back with a small gasp.
“…Oops?”
Perry balked at him. Clark wondered what kind of flowers his Ma would plant at his grave.
“I mean! I mean it isn’t what it looks like chief! Bru— Wayne got a little too drunk. He accidentally pulled on my badge. I was trying to keep him upright. Really! I swear on my scouts honor.”
“You weren’t a Boy Scout.” Lois piped up helpfully from behind him.
“Whatever it was, Kent, I don’t care. Can you imagine what would happen if your identity was revealed? It’d put every article written on Wayne and his enterprise into question. Other people, other newspapers, will not just question your journalistic integrity, but the Daily Planet’s as well.” Perry pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a few deep breaths before straightening himself up again. “You’re a good reporter, Clark. It wasn’t a punishment, and I don’t want you to think this conversation here is one either. But, you’re playing a dangerous game if you’re going what you think you’re doing.” He left the newspaper in Clark’s hands. “Don’t mess it up.”
Clark couldn’t ease the pressure off his chest, his throat tight, eyes zoned in on the picture probably plastered in every newspaper of both cities. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was up in a billboard by lunch.
It frankly wouldn’t be a big deal. He knew he was a good reporter, that even if a relationship (or hookup ((as if he would ever be happy with just that))) with Bruce were to occur, it wouldn’t mess with his journalistic credibility. His first duty as a reporter was to tell the truth, and he hoped that his article on the art charity didn’t look like just a piece glazing Wayne Industries, but a small deep dive on how much money and care Bruce was putting into a city long neglected by those who had the means to help it out the most, and how that care was being returned ten fold with the betterment of not just businesses, but of the people who once felt the city was doomed. Sure, it had some of the cattiness (ha ha) that Cat liked to include, but it wasn’t just the gossip column to Clark.
The big deal was just who exactly had taken the picture. Clark had been on high alert since Bruce stumbled into his arms, smelling like sugar and sin and smiling like he knew the funniest joke in the world. He had never heard a camera go off. Not even a phone camera, which he had definitely not trained himself to spot and hear in case he was caught in a precarious situation when changing into his Superman suit. That part irked him the most, running through his memories in hopes to find when he’d slipped up and let Bruce get caught up in another scandal like this.
Rao, he probably didn’t even remember the gala. He had been quite drunk, stumbling to the stage even with his butler’s supportive hand braced between his shoulder blades. Clark had heard the slight slur to his words when he thanked the crowd for being there and the giggles that plagued the end of his, frankly, wonderful speech when he messed up the ending.
How had he reacted to finding out about the headline? The picture?
Clark knew very well these scandals were not new to Brucie Wayne. There was one almost every other week. But he knew Bruce was a very smart, dedicated, and charming man. He knew the effort he put into Gotham. To be depicted in such a simple, reductive term, like playboy made Clark see red.
“Hey,” Lois placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her blue eyes full of worry. “What’s going on in there? I can hear your gears turning.”
She didn’t mention the tiny holes he’d burned in the paper with his heat vision.
“It’s not fair.” He muttered.
“Clark, you should’ve known that the media are a bunch of vultures when it comes to Wayne.”
“No. I mean, yes, that is a problem. But I just…he’s more than what they make him.”
He hated the look Lois gave him. Like a shelter dog who had just been told and understood they were going to be put down.
“Have you ever thought about him liking it that way?”
Clarke blanked at that, face scrunching up in disbelief.
But what if Bruce did? He leant into the names the media game him.
Brat. Dim. Playboy. Easy.
The beloved Brat Prince of Gotham.
“I. No, it’s just too— He’s not just that. I know him and he’s kind and sweet and”
“Clark.” Lois stops him. Spins his chair to fully face her, shaking her head. “You don’t know him. You’ve met him once. Jeez, you know, I don’t think this crush is doing you any good now. How about you take the day off? Think it over. I’ll talk to Perry.”
Clark wants to crawl into a hole and never come out.
She’s right. He met Bruce once. Did a little research on him. Wrote an article on him. Just once.
Once. Once. Once.
“You’re right, Lo. I’m, I’m gonna go. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
The night time crime scene seems to be very in tune with his emotions. It was another quiet night. A simple mugging and corner store robbery to be stopped. Even the criminals seemed to notice his off kilter mood, going down without much of a fight or an argument.
He found himself flying over to Gotham before he could think twice about it. A light drizzle began as soon as he entered the city as a faux welcome of his arrival.
Clark had the very stupid idea to seek out Bruce.
How could he just show up in costume in the middle of the night? What would he say?
Hey, Bruce. Don’t freak out. It’s me Clark Kent and I’m actually Superman but that doesn’t really matter. Are you okay? I’m sorry about the picture. I should’ve known better.
Stupid.
Even if he showed up in his civilian’s attire, it was still the middle of the night. He didn’t want to be seen as a weird stalker creeper (and possibly ruin any chance he has with Bruce).
Instead, he closed his eyes and listened. There were the usual sounds. The metro running late, a baby crying, a couple arguing about who’s turn it was to choose a movie, an oven burning pizza, the quiet volume of a jazz band playing in a club and amongst the midst, the steady heartbeat of the Batman as he swung from rooftop to rooftop.
Clark was decidedly not going to interrupt his crime fighting.
There was an ice cream shop opened late. A vanilla ice cream cone did always lift his spirits.
He didn’t think about how it reminded him of Bruce. Of the sweetness that underlined the woody notes of his cologne. Of him being beloved by many, yet not understanding it was more complicated than it seemed.
A coffee scoop topped it. This one for a slight variation. He also didn’t think about how this one reminded him of the Batman. Slightly bitter, intense in flavor but with a sweet aftertaste. The caffeine added a much needed buzz after such a long day.
Clark sat on one of Gotham’s many rooftops. The drizzle had stopped, but he sat on his cape anyway as he overlooked the city. It was beautiful in the nighttime. He understood why the Bat was so protective over her.
The heat beat grew closer and closer and closer, until the sound of rubber boots hitting the ground stood right behind him. Still, the heartbeat remained the same.
Clark smiled to himself, aware even the Batman couldn’t see it.
“I thought I told you to—”
“To stay out of your city,” Clark tried replicating the Bat’s voice, ignoring how he very clearly heard him clench his hands into fists right behind him. “I know. I know. I’m not trying to get in your way. I’m just,” he gestured to his ice cream, “trying to have a better night.”
The Batman went quiet. His footsteps approached the edge of the building where Clark sat. He didn’t join him but he also didn’t tell him to leave either. Clark saw it as an invitation to talk while he finished his cone.
“I haven’t had the greatest of days. I got in trouble, possibly got someone else in trouble too. I don’t know this person, well, at least not as much as I would like to know them. But, I know they’re kind and I know they care about this city a lot too… in a way, he’s kinda like you.” Clark dared a peek at the figure standing next to him.
The Batman’s face was expressionless. No change in his demeanor from the last time Clark had bothered him. He stared out into the night sky, where the batsignal was glaringly absent today. Why was he out here if he hadn’t been called?
“I mean, not in a bad way. You both just… love Gotham with all your might. And I get it. I really do. It’s how I feel about Metropolis.” Seeing how the Bat hadn’t outright punched him and threatened him for being in Gotham for too long, Clark took a chance. He brushed the crumbs off his hands and stood up, looking at the caped crusader.
“That night, when we first met, I didn’t mean to imply that I didn’t think you could take care of your city on your own. You can. You absolutely can and have been doing it all by yourself far longer than I have, and way better in fact too. I wanted to work together for my sake. I’m doing everything I can but no matter how much effort I put in, the crime never seems to stop.”
That earned a reaction. The Batman turned his head, eyes fixed on Clark’s, he gave the slightest of nods. Clark continued.
“I wanted some pointers.”
“Pointers?”
“Yes. Anything, really. I want crime to stop in Metropolis just as much as you want crime to stop in Gotham. I don’t want to step on your toes or take over your city and, Rao, have a harem of women. I just want to be good. Do good. Is that… do you think you could help me out?”
The silence stretched between them. Clark half expected the Bat to simply turn away and grapple off again, even after he’d laid himself bare and asked for his help. Instead, he was rewarded with a huff.
A huff that sounded almost like a laugh. Clark tried not to smile too big and scare his new friend away.
“You talk too much.”
“Yes.”
“Your costume is too bright.”
“That too.”
“But… if you promise not to get in my way. Maybe we can work something out.”
Clark ignored how the Bat’s heart, for the first time since they had met, spiked up. It was minuscule, a fraction of a beat, but enough to tell Clark maybe he wasn’t as doomed as he thought.
He offered a hand, trying and failing to suppress the giddiness that threatened to overtake him.
“I’ve never heard anything better.”