Chapter Text
Trying to stay in the shelter of the upstairs balcony trellis, Clark rapped with his knuckles on Lois's living room windows. It was nearly seven in the morning, the news was on and the noise of the coffee machine could be heard from the kitchen, so she was certainly awake. Clark knocked again, just a little louder, hoping that no one would come out to wet the flowers just then, finding Superman floating in front of a window.
Lois appeared in the living room, in her dressing gown and with a cup of coffee in her hand. Her brows rose and Clark gave her a contrite smile, pointing to the window and to himself.
Lois rushed to open it. “Clark! Wasn't it better to take the stairs?"
He came in, careful not to drag on the ground with his cape the assortment of books, notes, glasses and potted plants on the shelf under the window. "Sorry. It seemed faster like that. I wanted to get those last boxes and try to tidy up before work."
Lois peered at him over the rim of the cup. "Have you been back to Ground Zero all night?"
Clark shrugged. "Just a few hours."
Lois shook her head. "You have to slow down a bit, Clark. Come on, sit down for a moment. When did you last get some sleep?" She took his arm and carried him to the sofa. "Shall I get you a coffee?"
Clark let himself be pushed into his seat. “Yes, please. Thank you. In any case, I don't need to sleep,” he said to her back as she retreated into the kitchen.
Lois gave an incredulous snort. "You can't even go on forever without ever stopping. It can't be healthy, not even for Superman."
"I know," he admitted. "It's just that… it doesn't feel right to do nothing."
Nor what he did was enough. Helping the reconstruction teams on their night shifts was nothing to Superman. It wasn't even an official commitment. Clark had simply shown up one evening, and, in the stunned silence that he had greeted him, had asked if he could do something, help move the rubble, clear a passage for the vehicles. Anything.
He had managed to keep his tone steady, but inside he was desperate.
Anything. He would do anything to undo that destruction.
He had half expected someone would tell him to his face that he couldn't hope to undo the damage he had caused, the lives he hadn't saved.
He had destroyed the kryptoforming machine, had saved a family from Zod, stopped him. Killing him. But the thousands of people who had been crushed by the collapsing Metropolis, what did he plan to do for them? What could he ever do?
Instead, no one had said anything like that. Someone, with kindness, barely hesitating, had shown him some steel beams to move and he had set to work, with grim determination, grateful to the core.
The next evening he found General Woodburn and his men waiting for him.
“You surrendered, you saved the day. You don't need to stay in Metropolis any longer,” Woodburn said.
"Maybe I feel I have to stay," he replied.
“Is it for the ship? The ship does not have a commander or a flag: she belongs to the US Government, now, under naval law. You can't claim it."
'It's my ship,' Clark would have liked to say, but it was a very childish statement, since he wouldn't have had the courage to even set foot on the Kryptonian ship. Not yet.
"She decides who to grant access to," he replied. "I guess you will take good care of her." He had looked around, between the collapsed buildings and the blocked streets. "I just want to help, General."
Woodburn looked at him, then nodded slowly. "Good luck, Superman."
And now, almost nine months later, the work was almost completed: Ground Zero no longer existed, Metropolis’ downtown had become a park in honor of the fallen.
"There's not much to do anymore," he told Lois when she returned to the living room. He took the coffee from her hands with gratitude.
Lois snuggled up beside him. “You don't have to rush it… There’s no need. You could have stayed here a little longer." She gave him a shove. "I didn't mean to take advantage of you," she smiled mischievously.
Clark laughed and shook his head. “I know, I know! It's just… I wanted to settle down, try something stable, for once."
After a decade of running from place to place trying to find out who he was, Clark was ready to stop and create the answers he was looking for. The uniform, the job at the Daily Planet, a home of his own, after that spark of attraction between him and Lois had not flared up to transform into a solid friendship instead.
"I'll take the last few boxes and get out of your hair once and for all, I promise," he said, finishing his coffee.
Lois held him back. “Come on, no more work before getting into your official job. Relax for a moment. Heaven knows if Perry won't crush you with Metro news this week."
As if waiting for Lois's signal, on the tv City news started. "The final preparations are underway for the inauguration of Ground Zero, renamed Heroes Park in honor of the victims of the invasion of Metropolis. Our correspondent, Sarah Parker."
"Thank you, Maria. As you can see behind me, the park is completed and already open to the public, which has begun to leave flowers, poems, toys and small tributes to the fallen. But the official opening will take place in three days and the question everyone is asking is the same: will Superman be there? To the Kryptonian who fought for the Earth during Black Zero has been dedicated... "
Clark got up and began pacing back and forth. "God. A statue. It’s absurd."
"Did you peek?" Lois asked. "It looks like you?"
Clark froze. "I sincerely hope not!"
Lois giggled, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Have you decided what you’re gonna do?"
The public had already been speculating on Superman's presence at the event for a few weeks.
Clark smiled incredulously at the question. “Is there really any doubt? I am not going." He got back to pacing. “Stand there still while they reveal a statue in my honor? As if ... as if it wasn't my fault, what happened!"
Lois put her feet off the sofa. “What happened wasn't your fault, Clark. It wasn't you who invaded this planet. Please, tell me you know it."
Clark stopped in the middle of the living room. "I don't think I deserve a monument anyway," he said in a contracted voice.
Lois put down her now empty cup and stood up. “I think you should go. Not for the monument. For the people."
Clark made a face. “The families of the victims will be delighted to see me, I bet. Lois, my presence will only end up hurting someone."
“And your absence will hurt others. Someone will get angry either way. But I think Superman should be more present, in the midst of the humanity he is fighting for."
"What do you mean?"
"Three quarters of the world knows you only from the images of the Metropolis invasion. Superman sightings are very rare. I'm just saying it might be a good idea to show up at the Commemoration of the Fallen. Show that you care about human beings."
Clark gasped. "Of course I care!"
"I know, Clark, sure!" Lois said coming closer, squeezing his shoulders. “I know it, I've never had any doubts. But the rest of the world doesn’t, it has never seen you in contact with other people. Military and reconstruction teams are not enough. Show yourself among the people. I think it would help. For you, too: to give a closure to the story of Zod and the other Kryptonians."
Clark closed his eyes and swallowed, his mouth full of the taste of dust and plaster and heated air, the feel of muscle, cartilage and bone under his hands.
Lois hugged him tightly. "Oh, Clark!"
"Sorry. Sorry. It's— it's over,” he stammered.
Lois watched him closely. "No, I’m sorry. You better go if you don't want to come to work dressed like that,” she added, letting him go. “And don’t find other things to do on the way: go home, shower, go to the Planet. Perry will put you under and so will I,” she threatened.
"Can I at least have my boxes?" Clark smiled.
"Help yourself," Lois conceded magnanimously.
---
"Your schedule for the week requires your attention, sir."
Bruce nodded absently, without taking his eyes off the screens on which indistinct and blurred images of cars stacked up messily on a bridge flowed, the only sources of light the headlights and emergency lamps with their orange glow.
The camera — a cell phone, actually — moved flickering together with its owner's hand up to the railing of the emergency gangway.
"Confirm to Lucius that I will be at the meeting with the insurance and HR folks. I will speak to the architects if they can keep the presentation under half an hour. The rest can wait."
The angle went over the parapet and dived down, in an exaggerated and too fast movement that made him almost contract his fingers on the grapple gun that he was not holding.
“I've already taken the liberty of confirming with Mr. Fox, sir. As a matter of fact, the only outstanding question is the answer to Mayor Meyer's office," replied Alfred.
Bruce was silent, gazing with greed and frustration at the grainy, barely comprehensible images of the figure in red and blue near one of the bridge pillars.
"The answer is no."
Nothing useful. He had expected it, yet he could not avoid a pang of irritation. The traffic cameras on the bridge would have offered higher quality images, perhaps, but not necessarily new data to analyze: the alien could fly; he possessed superhuman strength, out of any scale Bruce had ever applied to Batman's opponents before. There was nothing else to be gained from the Hoxford Bridge accident.
The mind free for a moment from his planning, he caught the anything but peaceful quality of Alfred's silence. He turned to look at him raising his eyebrows.
"Will you skip the victims' commemoration to obsess over Superman?"
"An omnipotent being has attracted an alien invasion to us, Alfred. It doesn't seem unreasonable to me to go out of my way to fully assess the situation and the threat he poses,” he replied.
"Threat?" Alfred repeated. "It seems to me that he has done nothing but good deeds."
Bruce turned his back on him again.
How else to define the alien? With what other terms? The dead of Black Zero numbered in the thousands. And that… creature seemed to have become Metropolis' new mascot, despite the destruction he had brought. Heroes Park was named after his victims in an act of pure, blind, arrogant confidence that the alien would not claim more at the first opportunity.
Alfred sighed. "Despite your opinion of Superman, sir, Bruce Wayne is a major funder of the rebuilding and—"
"—And my checks should be enough for anyone—"
"—And as the owner of Wayne Enterprises, representative of those who fell while working for you."
Bruce glared at him. “Be that as it may, I have no place among the rescuers and the reconstruction teams. People who risked their lives and did the real work."
What had done, Bruce? He had rushed towards a building already condemned, and was left in the middle of the dust, with the others, his eyes to the sky, his mind crushed by the sudden, total understanding of his own helplessness.
"What I am suggesting, and I apologize for my frankness, which these walls are not used to, is that Black Zero does not become another occasion for self-flagellation, a burden on your shoulders alone," Alfred replied, sitting down. at one of the work tables. “You already carry enough, sir. But I will certainly not insist you participate in a ceremony that could make you feel part of the human assembly. Perhaps even understood in your pain for this unpredictable event."
“I have to go,” he said, preparing to take on Batman's cape.
"I'll be listening, sir."
“No need, Alfred. Don't wait up for me."
"That sentence is starting to take on a sinister tone," Alfred said sternly.
"The world is sinister," Bruce replied, walking away, passing the case at the bottom of the stairs.
The fear that Batman inspired in the streets of Gotham was no longer enough. And, anyway, what good would that fear do in front of Superman, if Batman ever faced him? He wouldn't make a god back off with the nightmares of a child.
He hadn't even been able to fully assess the alien's capabilities, in nine months. There was no way to observe him: his interventions were so timely that the press and television often weren't yet at the scene of the disaster, or the accident, or the hostage robbery, or whatever it was.
And Superman certainly didn't linger to give interviews afterwards. Beside the one granted to Lois Lane after Black Zero, that had introduced the Last Son of Krypton to the world. Bruce had considered whether to approach Lane, but he had certainly not been the only one: the military, government agencies and other journalists had tried to question her and no one had stolen from her one more word than those she had decided to publish.
Was she protecting her sources? She was securing herself the most explosive exclusive on the planet? Was she loyal to the alien, voluntarily or due to some mental conditioning?
In any case, interrogating Lane entailed the risk of being too direct and attracting Superman's attention. Could he possibly be more subtle as Bruce Wayne? But Bruce Wayne and Lois Lane didn't run in the same circles: she didn't write about society or about city news. The inauguration of Heroes Park would not even have served as a ploy to approach her.
The idea of the ceremony made Bruce froth with anger. A few tabloids had even launched the idea that Superman would be present, and many news outlets had revived that speculation. Bruce found it a largely unlikely hypothesis, judging by the care with which the alien avoided being photographed or filmed.
He imagined him for a moment, suspended in the sky, above the crowd that would have filled the park, looking down at them, his face without features. He suppressed a shiver.
Widely unlikely.
But, although rarely, Superman was spotted far more often in Metropolis than anywhere else in the world. He undoubtedly kept an eye on the city. How the people of Metropolis could see it as a gift rather than a misfortune, Bruce could not understand.
In any case, even a distant sighting would have been more than he had at the moment. And attending the inauguration could have earned him points with Alfred: perhaps distracting him from Batman's recent conduct that he disapproved of, if not out loud, in any case with glances and comments that left little doubt.
Bruce sighed. It would have been torture, but he would go to the inauguration of Heroes Park.
For once at least he wouldn't have to jump through hoops to convince Alfred that he hadn't changed his mind because of him.
---
Thinking back on Lois's words, Clark gradually became convinced that simply ignore the ceremony would be unforgivably rude. He didn't want to be disrespectful, nor ungrateful to Metropolis, which against all odds had welcomed Superman as a hero.
At the same time, that hadn't stopped him from hoping that Perry would give him some assignment elsewhere, or even the cover of the ceremony, so he'd be forced to attend like Clark Kent. But of course, Perry had no intention of assigning a piece so attached to the image and condolence of the city to Clark Kent, who had just arrived from a Kansas farm.
That week, Clark was busy with fact checking for a series of Lois' articles, and getting away for a couple of hours the morning of the inauguration wouldn't be a problem.
"But what do I do? I just show up? Do I have to confirm my participation to the organizers?" he asked Lois on the phone as he emptied the last few boxes of his things into his new one-bedroom apartment.
“Do you want to tweet it? Go to the mayor's office and get put on the guest list? I'm sure they'd receive you,” Lois joked. “I don't know, Clark. Confirming that Superman will show up, telling the press, any curious and his brother that they will be able to take a close look at you in person... it’d become a bedlam."
Clark made a face. "I know. But if I just go, how long will it take for the news to spread and everyone to pour into the park?”
“Remember that even though the park is open to everyone, the ceremony is not. The area will be delimited, access reserved for those who have received the invitation. This is my advice: don't tell anyone anything, arrive discreetly at the last minute and do what the organizers tell you. A short and painless visit."
"Mmmh."
"It'll be fine, Clark."
“Yes, yes, I… I think I'm nervous,” he said. As if Lois wasn't quite able to feel it. He looked at the fragment of sky that was darkening from the small window in the living area. "I have to go."
"Someone in danger?"
"Not for now. But I want to be ready." Maybe visit Ma '. "Night, Lois."
"It'll be fine," she repeated, before saying good-bye.
Clark hoped for it with all his heart.
The ceremony started at ten officially, but there would be more than likely a slight delay.
At half past nine Clark sat in his cubicle at the Planet going over his daily to-do list for the benefit of his colleagues or Perry, in case they found themselves listening.
"I'd say you'd better start with the Water Resources Department, Smallville. They only accept appointments in person and on Fridays they close up early. If they don't give you an appointment today, put them at the end of the list,” Lois was saying. It was his excuse to get out of the Planet.
Clark nodded without saying anything.
Lois gave a half smile. "I’ll watching you on tv," she told him softly, before heading back to her desk. "Come on, Kent, before my article becomes old news!"
Clark chuckled and walked out of the paper. Barely out of sight, he used his speed to return to his apartment and put on his uniform.
And then there was nothing left but to go to Heroes Park.
He didn't want to alert every one of his presence by causing a supersonic boom, so he maintained a moderate speed, flying above the clouds. He made his way down to the park slowly, staying close to the structure surrounding the Kryptonian ship. The alien metal was hidden in a shed now, but Clark could hear the faint hum of the ship's systems. She was still there, waiting.
Clark turned his gaze to the crowd already gathered in the park behind a row of barriers, to the stage and seats for the three hundred guests of honor. Many were already in place.
He felt a slight pang of anxiety as he watched them, and was again grateful to have visited his mother the night before.
At his doubts and hesitations, Martha Kent had stared him seriously. “Maybe circumstances forced your hand when you chose to be Superman, but you continued to do it, right? If you want to keep saving the world, you'll have to let people get to know you, sooner and later."
"I don't know if they really want to know me, Ma '. I'm afraid they'll just see what they want to see.”
“Clark, they’re dedicating you a statue in the heroes park. I don't think they want to see a monster in you."
"It's… it's easier when they look at Clark Kent," he muttered.
“Honey, it's always you, with the cape or those glasses. And my son is a good person."
Above Heroes Park, Clark took a deep breath, bracing himself.
Behind the stage, next to the statue and the steles with the names of the fallen, still shielded from public view, there was a pavilion that was bustling with activity: representatives of the city administration and their assistants, VIP guests, a couple of photographers.
Clark approached fast enough not to be seen, but being careful not to shake the pavilion and the monument's inaugural curtain too much. Someone looked around, however, cautiously, even before he landed a couple of meters from Mayor Meyer.
Silence fell. A woman with a clipboard and earphones talking to the Mayor turned to him and even gave a small shriek, before covering her mouth with one hand.
"Superman..."
“Hello everyone,” he replied in Superman's tone. He nodded. “Mr. Mayor. I have heard of an invitation for me to the ceremony?"
The small group recovered and the tent filled with excited whispers.
Mayor Meyer stepped forward and held out a shaky hand. “Superman! It’s an honor to have you here. Obviously, we were hoping for your participation. It's ... it's an honor to meet you," the man repeated, just out of breath.
"For me too, sir," he replied accepting his hand.
“The audience will be thrilled to see you! Oh, we didn't think of another big screen for the crowd in the park, did we?"
The woman with the clipboard shook her head, her wide eyes still fixed on Superman.
"We could— oh, never mind," Meyer resumed. "Superman, this is my assistant and, here, yes, my deputy, Kate Martens."
Clark smiled and shook hands with them too. "Ladies."
“My irreplaceable staff, who organized this day and — maybe later you would like to meet the sculptor? — anyway, ah, some of our guests of honor, who have made generous donations to the city reconstruction fund and to that for the families of the victims... "
Clark listened diligently to the names of the small group of wealthy philanthropists, entrepreneurs and local celebrities who were introduced to him, who obviously all knew each other, judging by the smug glances they exchanged.
"… I'm afraid there is no one representing LexCorp, but they too have been essential in getting to where we are today, and — where — Mr. Wayne, don't stand on the sidelines, you of all people!"
Clark turned to follow the Mayor's nods to the man in the three-piece suit behind him. He met his gaze, fixed, intense, unyielding like his set jaw.
Then the man roused. He took his hands out of his pockets and took a step forward, shaking his head. "Sorry. I'm afraid I haven't recovered from this... vision, yet," he said with a deep voice and a light tone, every trace of intensity vanished from his person.
He came close to Clark perhaps a little too much and shook his hand.
"Superman," he said, almost quietly.
"Mr. Wayne," Clark replied, raising his head to continue looking him in the face.
Wayne was half a foot taller than him, surprisingly attractive and his grip too tight, compared to the caressing tone in which he replied, "Call me Bruce."
Clark raised his eyebrows.
Behind him one of the guests whispered, half amused and half offended: "Really?"
Wayne glanced at her briefly with an unremorseful half smile, then turned back to Clark. "Forgive me, I must be more nervous than I thought," he said, as his eyes slid from Clark's to the symbol on his chest, to their hands, and they seemed generally unable to fixate on a specific point.
And Clark might have believed him: few could immediately look him normally in his eyes when he was in uniform, but Wayne's heart was unusually calm in his chest.
Mayor Meyer walked over to them to put a hand on Wayne's shoulder, and Clark took the opportunity to escape the handshake, making room for him.
"Mr. Wayne isn't just one of our most generous benefactors," Meyer began, and Clark curiously noticed Wayne holding his breath imperceptibly, as if expecting a hit. "He was in downtown Metropolis on the day of the attack," Meyer continued, unaware, and Clark almost jumped.
Wayne looked back at him.
"He personally gave help to the employees of Wayne Financial Tower, freeing several people from the rubble, saving a little girl—"
"It was nothing," Wayne cut him off dryly.
"You were very brave, Mr. Wayne," Clark said, even though the first words that came to his lips had been 'I'm sorry'.
"I just picked up a little girl as we reached for the emergency services," Wayne shrugged, his hands back in the pockets of his suit. “I don't know why everyone wants to come up with a great story. I like children, I often pick them up. I always look like a presidential candidate."
"A wise man would have built an entire presidential campaign on that photo, Bruce," commented another businessman, almost resentfully. "Of course, you should have limited all the other debauched attitudes a bit."
"You can't ask me that, Brad," Wayne retorted with a cheeky smile. "In any case, we don't want to bore the hero of the day with anecdotes about my debauchery, I hope," he continued with another intense look at Clark.
Mischievous, perhaps?
Clark cleared his throat.
The mayor assistant, now in control of herself again, stepped forward. "Excuse me, we are a bit tight on timing, but before our guests take their seats on stage, is there time for some official photos with Superman?"
"Yes, sure!" approved Meyer. "You don't mind, do you, Superman?"
"Not at all," Clark replied, looking away from Wayne.
He followed the directions and settled in the middle of the group, undecided until the last whether to use his speed to blurry his face in the picture. But perhaps the result would have been disturbing. And as both Ma and Lois had said, the world would have to know him, sooner or later.
He meekly lent himself to the orders of the photographer, beside himself with excitement, and exchanged a few words with the guests and then with the mayor's staff, while the noise outside the pavilion increased as the park became crowded.
He struggled to let go of the emotional voices and cries coming from outside, along with the clicks of cameras and cell phones, and the rumbling of thousands of accelerated hearts.
In the din, Wayne's heart was as regular as that of a resting athlete.
Clark heard it accelerate madly and return disciplined in seconds, when he looked in his direction and met his gaze: Wayne was staring at him again, away from the group and from the frame. He had, somehow, acquired a glass of white wine.
Clark was again struck by how attractive the man was, mighty but at the same time long-limbed, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. Somehow, the wrinkles around his eyes and the hint of gray on his temples did not spoil the easygoing boyish air he assumed when joking with his wealthy peers.
Under his scrutiny, Wayne raised a corner of his mouth and slowly put a hand to his heart, tilting his head, as if to say himself flattered.
Clark tried to keep it together.
"We're almost ready, Mr. Mayor," Kate Martens interjected.
"Very well! Let’s start getting on stage? Superman, the staff advised that you go in last, just before the microphones open..."
Clark nodded: "At the last minute. Sure."
"Thank you. Maybe in the meantime you’d like to take a look at the monument? Kala will call you at the right time."
“But how… Where did you find that prosecco?”
"It’s my superpower?" Clark heard as the group of VIPs walked out of the pavilion.
"Aren't you coming, Bruce?"
“No, Angela. Lucius wants me in the front row with our employees."
“Brucie Wayne out of the limelight? You done something that hasn't hit the papers yet?" someone else commented.
"Not that I know. I’m just following orders."
“Lucius Fox is a wise man. I've tried to steal him from you more than once."
“Oh, I know. That's the reason I double his benefits every year."
As the group's laughter faded out into the open air, Clark realized he was almost alone with Wayne, if you didn't count the staff too busy with final preparations to do more than throw a few incredulous glances at Superman every now and then.
Wayne looked at him, in the relative silence of the tent, and Clark found himself both disappointed and relieved when the second photographer approached him.
“Superman, have you seen the statue? I thought we could take some shots with you next to it, or..."
Clark barely suppressed an embarrassed grimace. “I'd rather avoid that,” he said, seeking a diplomatic tone. “Maybe we can find some other option? In a minute?" he added hopefully.
"Oh. Sure. Yes,” the photographer replied, stepping back. "One minute, Superman."
Clark nodded at him, relieved.
“Good choice, if you ask me. The result would have been too 'performative'. Cheesy. Not that you have to ask anyone,” Wayne told him with a half-smile. "Also, I took a look at it, and it doesn't look like you at all. I guess the artist wasn’t so lucky to have you as a model."
Clark gaped. There was no doubt, Wayne was flirting with him without shame. While judging him.
Clark was not avoiding his statue to appear humble: the theme of the day was not 'Superman confronts himself', as any photo of him in front of his own image in the pose of Atlas holding up the world would have suggested. The ceremony was for the heroes of Metropolis, the people Clark hadn't saved.
"That's not the point, Mr. Wayne," he said finally, shaking his head. “We are here to honor Metropolis’ fallen, to celebrate the city's ability to rise again. It is the hope in tomorrow that must prevail on this day."
"Ah, that's your shtick, right?" Wayne said condescendingly. "Will hope save us, Superman?" he asked, almost angrily, staring at him again, again too close.
“Maybe not alone. But without hope we have nothing,” Clark replied firmly.
Wayne seemed to consider his answer and find it convincing as a politician's speech. He shrugged and smiled, though. "You're also wise... But I asked you to call me Bruce."
Clark gave a tiny, incredulous snort. It seemed that Wayne couldn't decide how to deal with him, swinging from intrusive flirting to passive-aggressive judgments. Clark assumed that the playboy façade was his usual attitude, but that he had several issues with Superman and Black Zero. How to blame him.
"And you? Is that why you are not on stage, that you have avoided the photos, Mr. Wayne?" he asked. “Too performative? Too cheesy?"
Wayne looked away, letting his gaze wander around the pavilion, and suddenly he seemed a lot less intrusive to Clark.
“No,” he replied, “a more practical matter. While, I admit, I would love a photo of you, Superman," and he looked Clark up and down, making him suddenly feel hot, "well, let's say Gotham doesn't have good memories of ... peculiar subjects in bright costumes."
Clark frowned. "You’re not from Metropolis?"
Wayne looked at him almost comically outraged for a second, then chuckled. "A man's ego can be so ridiculous ... Why should you know? No, I'm not from Metropolis." He spread his arms. "Gotham, born and raised."
Gotham, the dark twin of Metropolis. Clark had never given her too many thoughts: the city was famous for its very high crime rate, but Superman was mainly concerned with natural disasters, accidents. In Metropolis his field of action was wider, true, but it was the proximity and the knowledge of the city that made it possible.
"But then," he asked, confused, "why give so much money for the reconstruction of Metropolis?"
Wayne raised his eyebrows. “I may not be a Tomorrow City resident, but the Wayne Enterprises employees who died in Black Zero, their families, are. I can't let them down,” he added almost through gritted teeth.
Clark swallowed.
"But, as I said, Gotham is reluctant to trust whoever wears primary colors," Wayne went on with a glance at the Superman uniform. He lifted the hand that was not holding the now empty glass to place it on the symbol of the House of El, then seemed to reconsider and let it fall to his side. “We have already believed in heroes who then turned into monsters. It would not be appropriate to be seen too convinced too soon, if you know what I mean."
"Besides, you're not convinced," Clark murmured.
Wayne's eyes pierced him. "Does it matter to you?" he asked, just as softly.
Did it matter that Bruce Wayne didn't trust Superman? Did it matter that a rich, entitled man, was not convinced of Clark's good faith? One of the many skeptics worried about Superman's existence: exactly the kind of person Lois and his mother thought would change their mind if Clark presented himself openly to the world.
A man who had donated millions of dollars to rebuild a city that wasn't his own because he was loyal to his people, who had survived the destruction Clark and the other Kryptonians had wrought, who had saved lives by risking his own...
"Maybe," he replied.
Wayne studied him, tilting his head slightly. In doing so, he quickly surveyed the pavilion. The hand along his side found Clark's wrist. His fingers grazed lightly where the uniform revealed his skin.
"Unexpected," he commented, watching Clark's reaction.
He snorted quietly. "I wouldn’t have said, from your attitude in the last twenty minutes, Mr. Wayne."
"Bruce," Wayne corrected him again, his hazel eyes incredibly intense. "What can I say, not even I expect to be always successful."
"I… this is not the place, Mr. Wayne," Clark said.
Wayne took a step back, letting go of his wrist. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, it isn’t. It isn’t at all." Then he lifted his face and smiled at him. “But nothing prevents us from taking up the discussion elsewhere, isn't it? I will stay in Metropolis for a few days. Riviera Complex, do you know it? Well, I guess you won't have any trouble finding it," he added taking another step back, lightly. "It's time for me to take my seat."
Clark cleared his throat, caught off guard. “Um, yes. It was a pleasure... Bruce."
Wayne smiled again and slipped out of the pavilion, taking off leisurely.
After a moment Clark moved in the opposite direction, as Wayne's heart, controlled until then, exploded in a furious gallop. Clark's own was no better.
He left the pavilion, went up the marble steps in front of him without thinking. He took a deep breath, completely ignoring the statue that was supposed to represent him; it helped that the stone colossus had his face with generic features fixed on the palm of his own hand. Curtains rustled in the light breeze.
Clark looked up at the Hero Steles, with the names of all Black Zero's fallen. Perhaps a year later, others would be added: the names of those who had not survived the consequences and complications of their injuries.
Walking past those names was like walking among ghosts. The names that Clark read echoed behind him, repeated by parents, family members, lovers. In the commotion of voices, Clark caught Wayne's — Bruce —reassuring someone ("I talked to the insurance folks, Milly, they'll cover those therapies too. It should all be resolved in a couple of days ...") and then inquiring about the outcome of someone else's surgery ("It's almost certain they won't be able to save his legs by now.") and someone else's children ("Devon is better, Mr. Wayne, thank you. It's hard for him, for both of us, but… ").
Clark closed his eyes, forced himself to swallow past the lump in his throat as he rested his hand on one of the steles in front of him. He had caused so much pain, so much anger. He would have done anything to bring a modicum of relief to those people.
He heard the photographer silently approach. He stood still, turning his head a fraction when he heard him shot, so that it wasn’t visible other than his ear and cheekbone.
Then he straightened his back, put his expression back together and turned to look towards the photographer and the mayor’s assistant who was approaching at a brisk pace.
"If you're ready, Superman."
"I am."
He floated onto the stage.
---
He was extremely grateful that he hadn't hired a driver to go to the Heroes Park ceremony. It would have meant having to hold back, in the traffic of Metropolis; pretend to be bored, playing on his phone. Remain relaxed and indifferent.
But luckily Bruce had taken the Aston Martin, even though it was more suited to a soirée than a commemoration. With its tinted windows and soundproofed cockpit, no one could see or hear him, as he squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, while his breathing accelerated through his contracted throat.
He had seen the alien. He had talked to him. He had touched him.
He had played the familiar Bruce Wayne routine because he couldn't do anything else, he couldn't think of anything else. He had gone to the park inauguration with the hope of spotting Superman, but not very convinced that it would happen.
But Superman had shown up himself and Bruce had found himself in front of him.
Completely unprepared to face him. Not completely in control of himself, pulled by panic, fear and fury. Bruce Wayne's performance had stumbled several times, Bruce too slow to recover from the surprise, suddenly assaulted by anger when he and Superman remained almost alone.
Superman hadn't reacted to Bruce Wayne's veiled accusations, his almost schizophrenic attitude. But Bruce had certainly not expected him to react to his inadequate attempts to accost him.
He had done it more out of habit than anything else: he hadn't planned on seducing Superman.
The mask had slipped again when, upon contact with each other, the alien's pupils had widened, in the center of the alarming, inhuman blue of his eyes. He had parted his lips, held his breath. Unmistakable signs of attraction, if previous prolonged visual contacts could have been mere curiosity or even suspicion. But when Bruce had touched his wrist, Superman had exposed himself.
Bruce felt he could exclude mind reading from the alien's catalog of powers, because in that moment —eye and skin contact, physical proximity — he should have perceived Bruce's thoughts as clear as the sun; instead, Superman hadn't recognized him as an opponent or any kind of threat.
Superman had seemed willing to be seduced.
Bruce had found himself in front of the alien completely unprepared and had stumbled, by sheer luck and coincidence, into a possibility.
He had sketched a plan in his mind and moved to set it afoot, as unforgivable as it was what he was thinking of Superman ten feet from the monument to the victims he had caused.
When the ceremony finally began, from his seat in the front row Bruce had dared to activate the hidden micro camera he was wearing and had not taken his eyes off the alien for a single moment. He was certainly not the only one: videos, tv footage and photos of Superman on the stage next to Metropolis Mayor who greeted the assembled crowd with a grave and solemn nod would have flooded social media and the news for days.
Yet, even though the micro camera had also collected other data, Bruce was convinced that he had obtained more relevant results with those few words exchanged face to face, through direct observation.
He couldn’t trust the alien's words, of course — besides, perhaps it was Bruce who had revealed more, with words — but seeing the alien move, interact with external stimuli would be as fundamental to understanding him as to record the variations in the atmosphere when he took off.
Further observation of the subject was needed to derive additional data on him, and Superman did not seem averse to another encounter. He hadn’t, after all, turned down Bruce Wayne's invitation.
It wasn’t sure that he would accept it, either: perhaps he would realize the potential disadvantage in admitting his attraction; perhaps he wouldn’t trust Bruce Wayne, who was, after all, anything but reliable. But the possibility existed. And this time, Bruce was going to be ready.
He slowed his breathing, cleared his mind.
He called Alfred as he drove through the wide streets of Metropolis. "There’s a change of plans, Alfred. I'll have to stay in town for a few days. I’m going to need some equipment."