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Let the record show that Clark had tried everything short of entering WITSEC to get out of covering this charity gala. He’d pleaded. He’d tried to play sick. He’d made a 30-point presentation. But Lois had told him to suck it up, because if she had to go, then so did he.
Normally, Clark was more than happy to run support for Lois on a story. But normally Lois’ stories didn’t involve going to Gotham and making small talk with people so obscenely rich that they seemed to think they were 18th century aristocrats.
Now, Clark had been through a lot. His life was probably incomprehensible to the average person. He could be anywhere on Earth in a matter of seconds. He spent a significant amount of his week in space. He regularly toyed with his own personality—or personas, rather—in order to maintain a double life. And yet, nothing made him feel more like an alien than smalltalk with Gotham elite.
“I just find journalists to be so loathsome," the woman who’d cornered Clark was saying. She hadn’t even introduced herself, and Clark couldn’t be bothered to ask. “They’re always twisting my words to make me seem so cruel.”
Clark strained to keep his fake smile plastered on his face. “Ma’am, I’m a journalist.”
“Hm?” She hummed distractedly before floating back into the crowd.
God, Clark hated this. Lois had ditched him to go snooping ages ago, and he’d just been standing around sipping his drink ever since. He barely recognized anyone in the room, which meant that he couldn’t even try to make himself useful and gather information for Lois.
Suddenly a hush fell over the room. Startled, Clark scanned the ballroom. Nearly everyone was looking towards the door, where Clark could just make out a dark head of hair poking over the crowd.
Just as quickly as they had quieted, low voices began to fill the room again.
Clark tuned into the whispered conversations, curiosity getting the better of him. Immediately, overlapping fragments filled his ears
“—Bruce—”
“—ward is actually here—”
“—Wayne—”
“—the kid—”
Clark made his way through the ballroom, maneuvering through the crowd. Sure enough, in the middle of the crowd, was the first person that Clark could actually recognize.
Unlike the rest of the room, Bruce Wayne was not just obscenely wealthy—he was a celebrity in his own right—and Clark would’ve had to have been living under a rock to not find his handsome face entirely familiar. But Bruce Wayne’s fame alone didn’t explain the dramatic reaction from the crowd. It wasn’t remotely surprising to find Bruce Wayne at a gala in his home town—especially one honouring one of his own foundations.
But Bruce Wayne was not alone.
The real surprise, and likely the story of the night, was the kid hovering at Bruce Wayne’s side.
Richard Grayson had been to galas before, many times in fact. Clark had read about it in Cat’s column. This wasn’t his first public appearance, not by a long shot. But Clark also knew that the buzz in the Daily Planet bullpen had been that for a tabloid doll and self-identified “ethical playboy”, Bruce Wayne was almost shockingly cagey about his new ward.
The mass of partygoers all appeared to be somewhat shocked; for a while, no one approached the duo, even as the volume slowly rose in the ballroom.
But eventually, the crowd of chattering elites inched their way forward and encircled the newcomers.
“Party just got a whole lot more interesting,” Lois said, sauntering up to Clark’s side. “There’s a story with Wayne and the kid, I know it.”
Clark raised a brow. “What, were corporate corruption schemes not enough for you? You’re moving in on Cat’s territory now?”
Lois shoved Clark’s shoulder and he dutifully rocked to the side. “I can multitask, and Cat can suck it. If she wanted a story, she would be here. I’m not going to pass on a chance to get eyes on the kid—you know Wayne has an embargo on publishing pictures of him?”
“Can’t really blame him for protecting his kid from these jackals.”
“Jackal?” Lois laughed. “They must have really done a number on you. I think that’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Smallville.”
“Lois—”
“C’mon, I want to talk to Wayne and I need you to use those shoulders of yours to clear a path.”
Dutifully, Clark led them towards the corner of the room where Bruce Wayne was holding court and entertaining the masses.
“—and then I said, this isn’t my car, this is an elephant!”
Wayne stood surrounded by tittering elites who were blatantly trying to win his attention. He was magnetic, and Clark found it hard to fault the people hanging on his every word.
“Gotham’s Prince Holds Court,” Lois muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Clark to hear even without super hearing. “But god knows what he’s talking about. Can you believe this guy is the CEO of a Fortune 500?”
Clark’s instinct was to agree that yeah, no, there was no way that Bruce Wayne was running anything at Wayne Enterprises. But there was something in the way that Wayne held his attention that made him hesitate.
“Do you see the kid anywhere?” Lois continued on, breaking Clark from his thoughts.
As though she’d summoned him, Clark suddenly spotted Richard Grayson in the crowd. He was dressed in a miniature suit and was holding a plate full of snacks as he masterfully weaved his way through the throngs of people towards Wayne.
Clark tracked the kid as he made his way through the room, moving with a confidence that was almost shocking for a kid who’d only recently begun coming to these events.
Then, just as Richard was almost at Wayne’s side, one of the partygoers stepped back and nearly bulldozed him. His plate clattered to the ground, right on top of the man’s shoes.
“You little freak!” the man snapped, raising his arm. “These are custom!”
Clark started to move forward, but before he got there, someone grabbed the asshole’s arm.
Bruce Wayne held the man’s arm back with an iron grip, his face completely lacking any ounce of the charm that he’d worn only moments before. In its place was a look of pure steel that made Clark freeze in place.
He knew that look.
“I would think again before laying a hand on my ward, Gerald,” Bruce Wayne said in a low monotone.
And Clark. Clark was no longer present in the ballroom. He was watching an interrogation on a rooftop, watching a fight in a Gotham alleyway, listening to a debrief on a sleek custom jet.
Clark mumbled some excuse to Lois and fled out of the ballroom, suddenly desperate for a moment alone.
He leaned against a wall in the hall outside and tried to process the revelation that he’d accidentally just stumbled into.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Playboy CEO Bruce Wayne was the brooding man that Clark had fought alongside, the man that he’d spent nights pouring over case files with.
He’d never have believed it if he hadn’t heard Batman’s voice come out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth with his own two ears.
He still barely believed it.
Clark let himself panic for a handful of minutes before he decided that it was probably time to call it a night. He took a deep breath and stood up, and pulled out his phone to send Lois an apologetic text.
“Mr. Kent,” a voice spoke from right behind him, making Clark nearly jump out of his skin. God, he was really out of it if someone was able to sneak up on him. Clark turned around to find none other than Bruce Wayne himself standing right there, carrying his ward on his shoulders.
Bruce Wayne was looking right at him. “It seems we need to have a talk,” he said, his tone falling just shy of Batman’s baseline growl. It was undercut slightly by the way that he was holding on to his kid’s ankles.
“Oh…what?” Clark replied intelligently. Why did Bruce Wayne know his name?
Richard Grayson leaned in conspiratorally. “We need to talk to you about, you know…” He raised his hands to either side of his head and pointed his fingers skyward.
Clark had no idea what was happening. “Uh, sure.”
Bruce started walking away, and Clark trailed after him silently, because what else was he supposed to do.
Eventually, they got to an office deep within the building.
“Where are we?” Clark asked, because he’d yet to properly reconnect his brain to his mouth.
“My office,” Bruce replied as he shot Clark a flat look.
Right. His office, because Bruce Wayne owned the building that they were standing in. Batman owned the building they were standing in.
As soon as the door shut, Richard flung himself off of Bruce’s shoulders in a move that nearly gave Clark a heart attack. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he bounded over to the massive desk and dug around until he produced a bag of gummy worms.
Bruce leaned against his desk. “What gave me away?”
“Sorry, what?” Clark said, feeling like he was still three steps behind.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “C’mon Kal, what made you finally put the pieces together?”
“Your face…and the voice—wait.” Clark finally felt his brain catching up to the conversation. “You just called me Kal. You knew?”
Bruce shot him an unimpressed look.
“He’s Batman,” Richard offered, like that explained everything. Which, Clark supposed, it kind of did.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything, B?”
Bruce shifted uncomfortably. “I—”
“It’s because he doesn’t have any other friends and he’s secretly super awkward,” Richard cut in with a perfectly matter-of-fact tone.
“Dick…”
“I think everything worked out great because now I get to talk to you! Superman is my favourite hero, and B was being so lame about me meeting you.” Richard was beaming a smile that shone in contrast to his guardian’s blank face.
Clark smiled. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Richard.”
“Dick.”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“You can call me Dick. Or Robin. But I guess I’m not really Robin right now, because Batman and Robin are partners, and B isn’t Batman right now.”
“Dick,” Bruce chided softly, “I think Clark might need a minute.”
Dick groaned dramatically. “But you’re going to invite him over for dinner right? Alfred will be so disappointed in you if you don’t. He told me he wants proof you have a real life friend.”
Bruce sighed and turned to Clark. “I know this is a lot. But I would love to have you over for dinner whenever you’re ready. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
Clark looked at Bruce, at his eyes that betrayed an earnestness otherwise hidden by his blank expression. He looked over at Dick, who was spinning in the large leather desk chair, and thought about the rumours of a new, young, vigilante running around Gotham with the Bat.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That sounds like a great idea.”
More than that, it sounded like a chance for someone to know Clark, and Kal, and Superman, all wrapped into one in a way that almost no one had before. Above all else, that was an offer that he couldn’t refuse.
“I can’t wait.”