Chapter Text
They were fighting again.
“—mpossible, stubborn, insufferable—“
“Are you quite done? Hypocrisy is not a good look on you, Superman.”
Abruptly, Clark stood from the meeting table, chair scraping as it clattered onto the floor. To his left, Bruce could see Wally flinch; Diana pressed two fingers to her temple.
“I do not want to hear that from you, of all people,” Clark’s voice was strung taut, raised, as it was with almost nobody else in the room but Bruce, “because what the hell were you thinking, you stupid, obstinate, selfish, destructive, reckless—“
“I do not quite see the issue here—“
“—and that is the problem!” Clark exploded. Frustration lined the edges of his handsome features. It was both unnatural and fascinating to see that expression when Clark was suited up; and, despite himself, it never failed to give Bruce a stab of satisfaction, the peeling away of that untouchable mask inextricably tied to the red-and-blue. The absence of Clark’s — Superman’s — otherwise unwavering placid smile, warm and genuine but not always easy.
Still, Bruce was getting impatient.
“Look, I admit it was rash, considering the unpredictability of magic. But it is precisely because of the unpredictability of magic that I attempted to shield the blow.“
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Clark demanded. “All that ended up doing was the magic splitting into two and hitting the both of us.”
“I admit the outcome was sub-optimal, but at that moment I made the tactical decision to step in. The information we received was that you were his target. Therefore it made the most sense that, in the case his magic was targeted to you directly, I were to—“
“To what? To get yourself hit instead? In case you forgot, B, I’m invulnerable—“
“Yes,” Bruce said sharply. “Invulnerable, not infallible. Now sit back down.”
For a suspended moment, they stared at each other. Smeared ash and dirt faded into the black of Bruce’s cowl, invisible remnants of their battle, and Bruce could feel the ache in his muscles, the sweat down his back. Meanwhile Clark had barely a hair out of place even as tension lined the flatness of his mouth.
Seizing her chance, Diana swiftly cut in, much to the visible relief of the rest of the League members in the room.
“I’ll have to agree that both of you are idiots, but we can worry about that later.” She snapped her fingers, standing up alongside Clark. “If the debrief can be wrapped up, Batman and Superman, the two of you can get checked out by Zatanna and we can all go home.”
“Trust me, I’d like nothing more than to go home right now,” muttered Arthur, even as some of the tension dissipated from the room. Bruce kept his heart rate steady — the pulse against his ribcage unchanged, ba-dum, ba-dum — before he took a deep breath, finally breaking eye contact with Clark.
“Fine. This case has been wrapped up. Dismissed.”
Wally was out of there in a flash. The rest hurriedly followed suit, although J’onn cast him an unreadable look before leaving, one Bruce didn’t particularly care to look further into.
Wordlessly, Bruce and Clark waited for the room to clear. When Shayera stepped out, leaving just the two of them, in creeped a breath’s moment of suspension — Bruce seated, Clark pacing the room — where Bruce was suddenly overcome, so deeply that it choked him, with an exhaustion that had him exhaling. Damn it. He never questioned his work, not anymore. He couldn’t afford to. But his day had been a shit one: Jason wasn’t returning his calls, Dick broke his ribs, Tim was being moody again, Damian was Damian, Wayne Enterprises was plagued by internal conflict, a kid had been terrified to tears upon seeing him during patrol, and so on, and so forth.
Seeing Superman get hit by magic, and getting himself hit by magic, was the cherry on top of his fucking day. When Clark had been in danger because Bruce failed to see reinforcements coming, he’d been so angry at himself — and at Clark for not being more careful — that he’d instinctively moved forward to absorb the blow. All that did was unnecessarily get the both of them affected, so, good job, Batman.
The rest of the League understood. They didn’t so much as scold him for the failure, even when they should have. They had every right to. Clark was different; the second they’d walked into the meeting room he’d begun ranting. He never pulled punches when calling out Bruce’s bullshit, even if he was equally as guilty of doing reckless and unnecessary things in battle.
It wasn’t the first time they’d taken hits for each other in battle, nor would it be the last, but every time Bruce would flex his fingers and curl them into fists, hard enough to draw blood, blinded with rage at everything and everyone and Clark fucking Kent but most of all himself.
His breath out was near-silent, but one that didn’t go unnoticed. (Clark noticed; Clark always noticed.) Sighing, Clark slipped onto the chair next to Bruce. His hand fluttered onto Bruce’s shoulder, a gentle brush — feather-light, fleeting, but there.
“Are you okay?”
Bruce scoffed, meeting the piercing sapphire blue of Superman’s eyes. “What an inane question to ask.”
Predictably, Clark ignored this. He hesitated briefly, before biting his lip in an uncertain gesture that was, once again, something Superman wouldn’t be caught dead doing — and evidently it wasn’t Superman Bruce was speaking to, wasn’t the superhero or even his teammate, wasn’t Clark Kent the bumbling country reporter, but instead Clark. Kal-El.
“You know I hate when you take hits for me.”
You know I worry about you, is what Clark didn’t say, and just as well because both of them knew Bruce despised hearing that.
“I know,” Bruce said evenly. “I hate when you do the same.”
“Yes, but you’re—“ Human, Bruce finished for him, Clark looking agonised for a split second, fragile, weak, “—just so darn reckless. And stubborn. So stubborn.”
“I guess that makes the two of us,” Bruce muttered, reluctant warmth unfurling in his chest like a flower in bloom as Clark, looking very much like it was against his will, huffed out an exasperated laugh.
“You’ve always got to have the last word, don’t you?” Clark said. “Just don’t pull that whole stunt again.” They both knew Bruce couldn’t promise that. They both knew Clark couldn’t promise anything either. “I hate magic,” he added, almost like an afterthought, “since you’re right, it’s always so unpredictable. But there’ve been no effects, right?”
“Not that I can identify. As of now, at least,” Bruce said, just as much confirmation as warning while he did a quick diagnostic check on himself. “Considering the target of the spell was you, though, I should be asking you that question.”
“Nope, nothing as far as I can tell either.”
Bruce felt a scowl stain his face at that, brow furrowed deeply in what he would call consideration, and what Alfred would call paranoia. Shuffling through the files in his mind to categorise their experiences and reports of magic — the worst-case scenario, the best-case scenario — he was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realise Clark was laughing silently until he looked up.
“What?” he snapped, irritably. This was no laughing matter.
“I can hear you overthinking from here.”
“Who knows what the spell—“
“It’s okay, B,” Clark interrupted. It was always ‘B’ in uniform; ‘Kal’ instead of ‘Clark'. “We’ll get through it, whatever it is. We always do.”
Bruce paused. “Careful, now — that’s a bold statement. Cocky, almost.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, mischief and something else swimming in his eyes: “Only because we’ll be together.”
Bruce collected himself and turned to meet Clark’s gaze. A cutting response hung on the edge of his tongue, harsh and caustic and defensive, hand-in-hand with a completely opposite reply, playful and amused. Bruce himself didn’t know which would win, and was rather curious to see which would come out, when Clark held up one hand, the other going to his ear.
Immediately, Bruce shut up. He was used to the movement, something Clark always did when he was trying to listen to something in particular.
“Ah,” he said, after a minute or so. “Doggone it.”
The casual Kansas drawl was a sharp contrast to Superman’s deliberately neutral-sounding English. Even as Bruce considered him warily, he suppressed a brief burst of mirth at the slang. “What?”
“Zatanna just went off-world.”
“When?”
“Ten seconds ago.”
Bruce clicked his tongue. “We’ll get someone else to check us out. I don’t think they’ll be as good as Zatanna, but it’s the best we can do.”
Clark nodded, all business again, as he stood, cape swishing behind him, as if the wind was lifting him afloat. He was vibrant even under fluorescent lights, a different, more natural shade of bright. Just like that, he was Superman again — dazzling like the sun. A shining symbol, untouchable. Warm and helpful, but distant. “Shall we?”
In lieu of a reply, Batman walked out of the meeting room, the room lights shutting automatically. The own end of his dark cape fluttered, chasing the echoes of shadows.
Clark reached home around three in the morning. Bruce’s contact warned them that the effects of the spell were still lingering, but had been diminished as it was split across the two of them. What exactly the spell did was— it was still a mystery, which Bruce was obviously not happy to hear — he’d been tense and silent afterwards, despite Clark’s best attempts to reassure him. He probably blamed himself for everything, that incorrigible bastard.
When Clark had told him before parting, once again, that it would be alright; that they’d been through worse, and come out whole, and he was confident that as long as they were together, whatever problems surfaced from the spell would be solved — Bruce had given him a look. It was withering and razor-sharp even under his cowl, as sharp as the words that made an incision straight across Clark’s throat:
“Spoken like someone who’s used to being all-powerful.”
Which was foul. It was more than foul; it was true, and both of them knew that.
Many off-world monsters and super-powered villains and heroes alike could fight him, hurt him. Diana could give him a run for his money, if she really wanted to. Almost all the League members could.
Still, having a few weaknesses like Kryptonite and magic was hardly anything compared to what Bruce and those on Earth faced. Clark didn’t experience the same aches and pains the people he protected did; he was alien, and he was different, and he had the power to snap someone’s head off in a millisecond. To tear down a world that took decades to build, to rule over everything.
Walking among humans, it was no wonder he was seen as— as a God. Clark was terrifying. Clark was terrified of himself. Of what he could do; what others thought he could do.
So of course people feared and revered Superman in equal measure. Of course that made him forget that it was so, so easy for the others to get hurt. Of course Bruce would see it that way; that Clark was being flippant with his life. But Clark was just— he knew Bruce was strong, that he could hold his own—
But—
No, no. Clark knew Bruce better than that. Bruce had grimaced afterwards, near-imperceptible, and left before Clark could reply. He knew Bruce, and Bruce knew him. Bruce knew what to say to cut, how to dig right into wounds and push people away. It wouldn’t work on Clark, though; it never had, and it wouldn’t now either. Bruce was anxious, he was angry, and he had lashed out the only way he knew how, aiming to throw up walls high enough to create miles of distance.
With a deep breath, Clark extricated himself from the whirlpool of his thoughts. He would give Bruce the space he needed for now. On autopilot, he bustled around the toilet to brush his teeth and wash up, the normalcy of it calming.
At half past three, he stowed away his suit in his usual hiding place before pausing in front of the drawer where Lois used to put her perfume. There were still traces of Lois in his apartment, ghosts of a relationship past, but it no longer stung like before. Clark would always love her, but he was learning to let go, and learning that love came in many, many forms. Tomorrow, he would wake up and consult Bruce again, make sure that Bruce knew he wasn’t going anywhere, and then perhaps try to remotely contact Zatanna if she still wasn’t back.
Satisfied with this, Clark settled into sheets in a bed too big for one and drifted quickly into sleep.
Clark Kent woke up refreshed. Raised on a farm, he was an early riser through and through — drawing his curtains open in one swift motion, golden sunlight leaked through his window, syrupy and warm. He basked in its caress on his face, marvelling in the way he seemed to draw energy from it.
Time for work. Perry didn’t like to be kept waiting, and he had an article to work on.
Clark went about his routine, humming idly to himself as he poured out orange juice, before he paused. His movements were stilted today. There seemed to be something sticky clinging to his mind, relentlessly niggling.
It was— did he usually take this long to get ready?
Shaking it off, he continued bustling about, but its fingertips scrabbled stubbornly at the edges of his consciousness. When he put on a flannel shirt, he paused, because the red in the plaid didn’t look quite right on its own; when he picked up his phone, he could only remember that he had forgotten something important.
Frowning, Clark scrolled through his texts. There were a few unfamiliar contacts: Diana, Arthur, Wally, the list went on and on. The only Diana he knew was… surely it couldn’t be Diana Prince? Clark was friends with her, but they weren’t close enough to exchange contacts.
Scrolling through a few cryptic conversations, he concluded that he must’ve been hacked and made a mental note to get it checked out later on.
When he reached the office, Lois greeted him at his cubicle, locks of hair curled around her shoulders as she waved something in his face. It was a newspaper not from the Planet, dated this morning — the headline read, Batman and Superman get hit by mysterious green spell.
“You okay?” she asked randomly.
Puzzlement fizzled alongside amusement in the twist of his lips, and Clark gently nudged her off his table, opening his laptop as he did so. When Lois repeated the question, louder this time, Clark figured she must not have been joking. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Is something up with you?”
Like he was fish on a stick, she shot him a look sharp enough to skewer. That look, it reminded Clark of— of someone. Who? It was on the tip of his tongue — a hazy memory, a shadowy figure, intelligent eyes and a strong physique — who? Suddenly, it was critical that Clark talked to him. But when Lois tossed the paper onto his table, it landed with a cracking slap, and the feeling slipped out of his hands like water through fingers.
That was alright. It was probably just a classmate from long ago.
“By the way, my phone’s been hacked,” Clark told her, idly flipping through the paper she brought with her. “If I can’t fix it, I might need to get a new one, if I can afford it.”
“Hacked?” Lois’ eyes widened fractionally; a disproportionate amount of alarm was laced in her voice. “I know you wouldn’t be so careless as to have anything— incriminating in there, but if someone had access to your phone—“
“It’s no big deal,” he reassured hastily, taken aback by her vehemence. “My phone’s contents are as normal as normal gets. Are you quite alright? You’re acting strange.”
“Me? I’m the one acting strange? Even your accent…”
Clark was offended. “Hey, what about my accent?”
Lois regarded him, before seemingly shaking her head and dismissing a thought. “Never mind. God knows what’s going on in the life of mysterious Clark Kent.”
That brought forth a round of bright, clear laughter from him. Jimmy glanced over from his cubicle at the sound and offered a grin that Clark unabashedly returned. Mysterious. Now that was a good one. Clark was an open book. He had nothing going on in his life except work, work, talking to Ma, and more work. He didn’t even have any friends, unless you counted his coworker Jimmy, his ex-girlfriend Lois, or his mother and his son and his cousin.
And okay, maybe he shouldn’t be laughing at that thought. He sobered quickly, a stone in his gut and blood squeezing his ribcage a little too tight, but the smile didn’t slip off his face as Lois very cautiously bid him farewell to chase a lead on a recent case.
“Call me if you want to talk,” she made him promise before leaving. Clark waved her away with thanks, pulling up his own half-finished article. He’d been writing an expose on a recent Metropolis factory fire that sprung as a result of negligence, and just needed to finish a final round of editing before sending it in to Perry.
“Kent! Get your ass in here right now!”
Speak of the devil. Clark just managed to get a glimpse of Jimmy clasping his hands together and mouthing, ‘Sorry!’ before he was whisked away into Perry’s office. With a sense of foreboding, he closed the door behind him.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Perry sat and didn’t bother looking up from his desk. “Just confirming that you’re taking Olsen’s place at the fundraiser tonight, as he so kindly informed me earlier.”
“The— what?”
“The fundraiser at our oh-so-dear sister city Gotham,” he said impatiently. “One of Bruce Wayne’s many pet projects?”
Clark did his best not to scrunch his nose, instead bowing his head slightly and tucking his chin in. “I understand, but I mostly do investigative work and work with Superman. I’m not quite sure if I’m suited…“
“Just shut up and go,” Perry grumbled. “Suited or not suited, it doesn’t matter. You’d probably be able to make someone taking a big shit sound like news. What’s the problem? Is a fundraiser not meaningful enough for you?”
It took Clark a second to process the rare, albeit strange, compliment. “It is! It is, and thank you, but—“
“Then that’s that. Now get out of my office.”
Dazed, he left and immediately cornered Jimmy, who held up his hands in surrender.
“I’m sorry, man, it was a super last minute thing but my father fell sick and—“
“It’s alright,” Clark said, and while he wasn’t exactly happy about it, it wasn’t a lie. “You have a way with words,” his Pa used to say. He loved doing good by exposing truths through journalism, and while this wasn’t his usual beat, this too was a form of raising awareness.
Clark just wasn’t exactly sure about this particular fundraiser; Bruce Wayne, after all, was notorious. He was a sleazebag, or so they said. Slept with men and women alike, left and right. Vapid, frivolous, and air-headed, never serious, shallower than a puddle of water. Gossip rags had a field day every time Bruce Wayne hosted something — the press loved Bruce Wayne like Metropolis loved Superman.
Rumours were rumours, though. Clark would make his own judgements, and call it intuition, but— the idea didn’t fit quite right in his head, an incongruence at the core of it all that made his head spin because— Wayne was— more. More. Somehow.
Either way, Clark wasn’t exactly looking forward to having to mingle with the type of people that usually attended these events. They tended to speak in a way that made his skin itch and gossiped behind each others backs in a nasty way; plus, the quotes they gave were, at most, politically correct, and at worst, completely useless.
His senses always tended to be overloaded, too, with all the titters and chatter, the glitz and glamour and smell of champagne.
“I thought you would appreciate it, though,” Jimmy said, cutting through his musings.
“Hm?”
“Considering you always head to Gotham for press events when you can? Especially when Bruce Wayne’s involved…”
Clark stared at him for a beat, so baffled by what Jimmy was saying that he was willing to overlook the coy tone. When did he ever—? No, wait. Come to think of it, he did vaguely remember attending quite a few similar events in the past. He couldn’t quite remember much, though — he only recalled the resultant quotes he’d gotten here and there.
Strangely, those memories were coloured with a haze that burst with amusement and joy when he poked at it. It was— they had been fun, some way or the other. Exciting.
“Just a coincidence,” Clark dismissed. It hurt his head to think about it too much. “The fundraiser’s tonight? I’ll have to do some quick research before I go. I’ll start after I finish the other article.”
“Sure.” Jimmy hit his back gratefully. “I owe you one! Thanks, man.”
So that was how Clark ended up putting on his shabby (only) suit that hung too large on his frame, hovering awkwardly in a corner. The fundraiser was held in a ballroom that stretched infinitely, a wide expanse of glittering silver, gold, crystal. His skin was prickling — the ballroom was loud, overwhelmingly so — filled with conversation, laughter, the clink of glass.
Fifteen minutes had passed, and all the fashionably late were beginning to show up. Clark pushed up the nose of his glasses. Okay, enough dawdling. Time to do his job. Careful to move slowly, clumsy but not so clumsy he hit anything, he stumbled his way into the crowd to find someone to talk to.
Here was one of the many ways he and Lois differed; she was all confidence, aggressiveness with inlaid charm. She couldn’t afford to be anything else. On the other hand, Clark with his flannel shirts and midwestern accent was someone so irrelevant, so unthreatening, that people simply overlooked him. That, too, was useful — he didn’t need to be respected, or even recognised. He liked to fly under the radar; it was easier, in some ways. More comfortable.
He liked it. Not having to be anybody. Something crawled over the surface of his skin, the raw edges of the thought scraping against the insides of his brain. It was nice. Why?
When he spotted a woman he recognised as a relatively frequent donor to both Gotham and Metropolis charities, though, all that flew out the window.
“Ma’am,” Clark said, hurriedly walking forward, hopeful to get something more substantial, “I’m a reporter from the Daily Planet. May I have a word?”
And so the evening ticked on, the hands of the clock crawling forward, until Clark just about teetered on the edge of giving up. He was sick of hearing the same things repeated over and over, and in the end he had gleaned a grand total of three points:
One, that “Yes, I am deeply invested in rural agriculture renewal but I cannot tell you a single thing about it” was the general sentiment amongst many.
Two, that there was a lot of subtext and animosity between socialites in the room, but when they talked, it was all faux smiles and false, ringing laughter.
And three — that everyone loved detailing Bruce Wayne’s many exploits and adventures like he was some gilded bird in a cage, a prized exhibit at the zoo, spoken with a kind of condescending fondness that the Gothamites especially adopted.
Seriously. Clark heard the most outlandish tales, from Bruce Wayne breaking his ribs volcano boarding to him bedding ten people in one night, from him accidentally stumbling upon a ton of corruption and his managers frantically having to handle the aftermath to him vomiting all over someone’s shoes. At this point, the man was more myth than man — even if Clark instinctively took everything they said with a pinch of salt.
Across the room, Bruce Wayne could be seen very obviously drunk and stumbling, loudly talking gibberish and somehow still managing to charm everyone in the vicinity.
So much for doing good for a cause. Clark would have a few choice words to say to him, if he were ever given the chance.
Whatever the case, Clark was getting restless. Not only was the lack of stimulating conversation grating on his nerves, everything seemed to be strangely heightened to the point of nausea; all sensations were dialled to eleven, the loose collar of his suit abruptly choking. The lights were too blinding, the sounds too deafening — he was feeling the beginnings of a pounding headache.
Clark needed some fresh air.
Right on cue, he felt his phone buzz from his pocket. It was Ma because of course it was. He had no one else. Clark scanned the area until he spotted a set of doors opposite the entrance. He crossed the ballroom, hit accept, and stepped out onto the empty balcony.
“Hello?”
“So my son finally decides to answer my calls,” comes his Ma’s voice. “Saved enough cats from trees for today?”
Despite him not having a good time, it really was a nice night. Still, yet not unsettling; cool, yet not harsh. It was comforting to hear his Ma and her weird teasing again. “Sure,” Clark snorted into the phone. “I’m actually at a fundraiser in Gotham right now, but I’m happy to take a break. I’ll bring Conner and Kara to visit sometime. How have you been?”
“Gotham, huh?” Her voice changed; there was something slipped in, a sly mischief that was a little out of place. But this was his Ma, so Clark took it in stride. “Talked to Bruce Wayne, recently?”
“Talked to? Not quite. Talked about?” Clark rolled his eyes with as much sass as he could muster, even to an audience of zero. “Definitely.”
His mother sounded delighted at that. Just like that, they went on for a while — conversation with his mother always flowed easy, and the frigid air biting his cheeks was a welcome respite. The din from the ballroom was muted, and no one could be bothered to so much as glance over; the party, after all, was far from here.
Best of all, the view was phenomenal. Clark’s breath caught in his throat as he surveyed the city skyline. Absolutely beautiful. The sun had set long ago; the sky was a cloudless jet black, save for a star or two, scintillating with a brilliant white light just beside each other. Binary stars, perhaps. Sentinels, gravitationally bound and watching over the city. Down below was an equally enchanting sight, one Clark drunk in hungrily.
Metropolis in the day was something else. A vibrant city through and through, every corner was illuminated, full of glass and straight-edged, high-rise chrome architecture. At night, though, Gotham was one stunning lady. He’d never tire of Gotham’s view — considering it was Gotham, there was even less light at night; the alleyways were dark, foreboding; and yet, somehow, there was something comforting about it, Clark tended to find. He didn’t like the gloominess, the obscurity. But somehow it felt familiar to him anyway.
The old buildings were beautifully constructed as well, a stark contrast from Metropolis’ more modern buildings. Many of them seemed to be lead-lined, and despite the high crime rates, it was very clear that Gothamites were proud and protective of their city.
“Are you enjoying the fundraiser?” Ma asked, jokingly steering the topic away as it broached whether or not she was taking good care of herself. Clark knew she always took good care of herself, though, so he allowed it. “It’s not your usual scene, is it?”
Clark grimaced at the thought of going back into the mess, leaning his arms against the railing. He couldn’t even touch the champagne; he never did when on the job. Even off the job, he wasn’t a big fan. Somehow, alcohol didn’t seem to have much effect on him. Was that normal? Perhaps he was just blessed with amazing tolerance.
“I’m actually covering for Jimmy,” Clark explained. “His father isn’t doing so great.”
“Oh, that’s horrible. Give him my blessings, why don’t you," Ma sounded sympathetic, and when Clark assured her he would, she went steely. “Now stop dawdling! Go back in and mingle.”
“I will, I will, but gosh, am I sick of hearing them gossip. It’s all Bruce Wayne, this, Bruce Wayne that—“
“Bruce Wayne what?”
Clark nearly dropped his phone straight off the balcony.
Shit.
“Clark?” said his Ma.
“I’ll— call you back,” he murmured, very faintly.
“Oh, no,” came the voice — a silky smooth drawl; rough underneath, scraped like gravel, “do go on. I do so wonder what you have to say about me.”
Now, Clark wasn’t often caught off-guard, but he was now — his heart was pounding, his jaw ajar. Adrenaline felt like shots of morphine through his veins, a jittery kind of injection that had him paralysed for half a second. Slowly, in half-disbelief, Clark turned around and came face-to-face with disturbingly familiar slate-blue eyes.
Okay, so he hadn’t imagined it.
Rao, what was his life. While complaining about Bruce Wayne, Bruce darn Wayne himself had showed up.
Rao? God. Momentarily disorientated, Clark blinked, taking in a very different kind of view this time.
Wayne’s dark hair was slicked back, framing a shockingly handsome face with well-defined cheekbones, and a jawline that might as well have been sculpted by the Greeks. Michelangelo would have a field day with the graceful contours of his face. Predictably, his suit was tailored to perfection; he had one hand in his pocket, the other on his hips. Expensive fabric clung to his outline, accentuating broad shoulders and suggesting cording muscle underneath as he shifted.
There was a glint of golden-silver at his wrist, likely a watch that cost more than Clark’s entire annual salary. Infuriatingly, everything was compounded a thousand times in attractiveness by the arrogant tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips. That darn man was smirking. He was enjoying making Clark uncomfortable.
And Clark was. He really was. Those eyes were— where had Clark seen them before? It reminded him of—
Of—
Someone. Someone important or maybe a shade of greyish slate blue he’d seen in someone else’s eyes. They were so, achingly familiar and yet so— foreign.
That wasn’t the only thing that was strange. Wayne was known to drink a lot, and sure enough, there was the stench of alcohol around him, but his gaze was heavy, assessing, and cuttingly lucid. There was a heartbeat he’d recognise in his sleep slamming against Clark’s ears, and it had to be Clark’s own, it was the only explanation, but—
The smell of cologne and musk underneath, too, was something that made goosebumps rise all over Clark’s arm. A rare occurrence.
“Mr— Mr Wayne,” Clark stuttered, awkwardly, once he got the words to come out.
Wayne spread his arms, theatrical. “That’s me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s almost like this is my fundraiser.” Wayne walked forward, just half an inch, but Clark suddenly couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Wayne’s gaze pinned him in place. Something felt different. Wayne was acting different from just about thirty minutes ago. He was perfectly balanced, his words unslurred, his comebacks quick and scathing.
It was odd. At the same time, it made perfect sense to Clark.
“You haven’t been a very gracious host, Mr Wayne,” Clark blurted what he’d been thinking all evening with no preamble. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to say it, but maybe it was the curiosity digging its heels at the back of his mind, the urge to pry some hidden mask off until his fingertips bled; he could feel his awkward country boy behaviour melt away. “Getting drunk, insulting half your guests and flirting with the other half, and then breaking four wine glasses is certainly a unique way to raise funds.”
“Please, call me Bruce.” Wayne lifted an eyebrow, more amused than offended. “I’m honoured. You must have been watching me very closely.”
Clark hadn’t realised it either, but he must have been. Reining in his frustration, he tried to sound as polite as he could:
“Mr Wayne, I do believe you are truly contributing to a good cause. All of you here have the potential to do so much in the world. A little bit at a time. People like you, with the power and the means… you have a responsibility. You could do so much. If only you could be a little less…”
“Frivolous? Stupid?” Wayne suggested, and for a moment Clark blinked at him, astonished. Another smirk was toying at Wayne’s lips, but it was more genuine this time, there was more in his eyes now. Self-deprecation, at himself. A spark of interest, at Clark.
He seemed to look at Clark anew, up and down in once-over that had Clark’s mouth going dry.
“That’s not what I meant,” Clark began, but he was interrupted.
“And you? Lingering on the balcony and badmouthing the host?” Wayne clicked his tongue, stepped closer until he was within arm’s reach. Too close. “You haven’t been a particularly gracious guest, either.”
And, well, he had Clark there. “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing his tongue to unstick, and for some reason the proximity was inhibiting his ability to think, “I have nothing against you, really, I’m sure you’re a— great person—”
“My goodness,” Wayne interrupted in a light breezy voice, with emphasis, with much humour, “you sound pained just having to say that. It’s a cute attempt, though. Very polite.”
“No, I don’t— it’s the truth. I was just talking about how everyone has been saying things about you this whole evening.”
“About me? I’d like to say things about you.” Unhurriedly, lasciviously, Wayne’s eyes roved over Clark’s face, then his figure, and somehow Clark got the feeling that despite the ill-fitting suit he wasn’t deterred. There was— a shocking intensity in his gaze, like Clark was being flayed open.
Red splotched Clark’s cheeks, rather against his will. The full force of the Bruce Wayne charm was intoxicating. It was dangerous.
“Yes.” Clark cleared his throat. “Mr Wayne, have you heard of a little something known as personal space?”
“Bruce. And not really,” Wayne told him dismissively. “Either way people do tend to talk about me a lot. I’m rich and handsome. Comes with the territory, perhaps; they just can’t resist my charm.”
This man was ridiculous. “Surely,” Clark said, very dryly. “I’m sure breaking your ribs tripping and falling down the stairs is particularly charming, if the rumours are true.”
Wayne looked delighted at the sass. “One hundred percent true, much to the chagrin of my butler.”
“Is it true you’ve even been volcano boarding? Your butler — he must worry about you a lot.”
“He does. Too much.”
“For good reason, I expect.”
“Perhaps.” Here Wayne lowered his voice, coyly: “Is that all you’ve heard? What else have they been saying?”
And Clark paused.
There was no way, right? Bruce Wayne wasn’t actually hitting on him right now. He had a room full of rich and attractive people to flirt with. What was Wayne’s angle here?
Wayne didn’t seem fazed by the lack of a reply. He reached out, and Clark had to catch himself from stiffening reflexively — thankfully, all Wayne did reach to turn over his press pass and read out Clark’s name, curling the syllables around his tongue.
“Mr Kent.” The name settled easily in his mouth. Wayne looked him in the eyes again. Closer, Clark was once again taken aback by how piercing this man’s gaze actually was, just for a moment, before it glazed over. “The Daily Planet, huh? I don’t usually do reporters, but I can make an exception just for you.”
“Mr Wayne, I don’t—“
“Bruce,” he corrected again.
“My Wayne,” said Clark firmly. “I’m simply here to collect quotes for my coworker to write a piece. If I weren’t, it would be highly unethical to proposition a reporter working on anything related to you or your company. If— if that’s what you’re implying, I mean.”
“I shall count my lucky stars that you aren’t writing the piece, then.”
“That isn’t the point. It goes against our code — we need to remain some sort of impartiality, at least, when writing a piece, to uncover the truth and report to the best of our abilities.”
“Even if it’s a fluff piece?”
“The type of piece doesn’t matter.”
“Such a Boy Scout.”
A lighting jolt of familiarity shot through Clark at the nickname. “Excuse me? I’m hardly a Boy Scout for having integrity.”
And, to Clark’s surprise, Wayne snorted with a strange cynicism that made Clark blink, “A journalist with integrity? Colour me impressed. That’d be a first.” Then: “Surely you can be persuaded; a drink, a dance—“
Clark folded his arms and didn’t let him finish.
“Do you always think with your libido?”
Bruce ran his tongue over his lips. “Only for people that interest m—“
“Mr Wayne, please. You have the ability to help people, in the position you’re in. So many others here are the same… but you, Mr Wayne — I had hope for you. I’ve read about Wayne Enterprises’ efforts in the environmental and social spheres, about the children you helped. I wanted to— I’d believed that you, despite everything, cared. About your company, the people in it; where the money goes, how it helps. This whole night, though, you haven’t seemed to be taking it all very seriously.”
And something like the beginnings of vexation slammed onto Wayne’s face just as quickly as it disappeared. A split second, where he looked to be grappling with himself silently, before he pursed his lips and put on a smirk again. One significantly more artificial, now that Clark knew to look.
“I’ll have you know, my fundraisers are actually very effective,” Wayne tossed his head back and laughed, gratingly. “I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned forward, stopping just shy of the shell of Clark’s ear, breath hot against skin. “I know what I’m doing. You’re right, Mr Kent. I think I can do good. I should do good.” That self-deprecation was back. “It’s the least I can do.”
Clark stared at him for a beat.
Right. Okay. That was— wait.
The dissonance of it all gave Clark whiplash, his body and brain left floundering and disconcerted. Wayne sounded like he was joking, or maybe flirting, or maybe pretending to be better than he was — but Clark considered the idea, rolled it around in his head.
If so, then that meant that Wayne cared about more than just himself and his own pleasure, that he was more aware of everything than the public was led to believe. That he led them to believe. That was quite a secret to drop randomly on a reporter on a balcony, of all people. Clark resolutely disregarded the goosebumps on his arm from having that mouth so close to his ear and instead inhaled, returning his levity with dead seriousness:
“Why?”
And for a second, just a split second, near-imperceptible but just enough to convince Clark that he was right about Bruce Wayne being full of shit, that smile flickered away.
“Ah, reporters, reporters. Always so serious. Lois Lane — surely you know her, she’s famous among journalism, not to mention also working at the Planet — was like that, too — the last time I spoke to her, all she did was telling me to ‘stop talking nonsense’. What you see is what you get, though.” Wayne pulled back and clapped him on the shoulder, lingering for longer than appropriate, but all of a sudden all the flirting and lusty looks from under eyelashes no longer fazed Clark.
“I see a lot, Mr Wayne. More than many in that room.”
Wayne replied only after a beat. Playing dumb, then. “Like what you see?”
“I do, actually,” Clark murmured, and that seemed to startle a laugh out of Wayne, one that was less plastic and more warmth. Clark found the sound melting to a candied sweetness in his ears. The more Clark puzzled it out, the less the pieces seemed to fit. The man in front of him was flirty, flippant, perhaps facetious, but vapid and shallow he was not.
Clark’s mouth seemed to move faster than his filter. “I’ve— read articles about Wayne Enterprises’ endeavours. I didn’t think much of it, but—“ he wasn’t sure where the information was coming from, how he knew all this with a passion, “—employee wages are capped at a very high level. You pay extremely well, and it’s well known that there are strict anti-harassment policies in place all throughout your branches. And there have been— stories, from several of your workers, that you helped them get jobs personally.”
For a brief moment, Wayne looked— annoyed, again, but the expression was smoothly replaced with one of boredom. “Please,” he laughed, laconically, “most of it’s done by my board directors, anyway; half of what you said sounds like gibberish to me. Plus, you of all people should know how the media tends to exaggerate things. You’re a reporter.”
“These are facts, though,” Clark argued, and there was no answer. In the ensuing silence, Wayne slipped like water, like shadow, beside Clark, facing the balcony; looking over the city. Finally, finally, his smirk faded. Instead, it was replaced with something inscrutable, harder to read.
Wistfulness? Contemplation? That same self-deprecation he’d been seeing hints of, maybe.
Whatever it was, it was clear that this was a place he treasured. Gotham was his city.
“It’s not everyday I see people come up to this balcony,” Wayne murmured, a deft change of subject. “A shame.”
This was not what Clark had heard. This was not what Clark was prepared for. He’d braced himself for someone unreasonable and glib, charismatic but ultimately with no depth.
The man standing in front of him was— Clark wasn’t sure what he was. But it was not that.
“You,” he ventured, “love this city very much, don’t you?”
Wayne didn’t tear his eyes away from the skyline, seemingly contemplating something.
“I do,” he said finally, then turned back to Clark. “Mr Kent.”
“…yes?”
Bruce Wayne paused, briefly.
“Do I know you?”
It was an obvious pick-up line. And yet, and yet. Clark let the question seep into his bones and felt the answer: Yes. But things still didn’t add up, and his headache was making a vicious return, so he settled with:
“I’ve been to your charity galas before, but as far as I can remember, this is our first proper conversation.”
Bruce— no, Wayne went silent, his brow creasing.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, and turned back to the balcony railing. Moonlight fell on Wayne, who had initially been backlit by the light of the ballroom, silhouette outlined by darkness. Here, smokey wisps of silver caressed the edges of his features, softening them in a way that strangely made Clark ache.
He looked… human. It was a bizarre thought that crossed Clark’s mind, and it only intensified the pounding in his head and the blood rushing to his ears, so he buried it.
“Gotham,” Wayne said all of a sudden, “is beautiful, isn’t she? She sings so fine at night. A tune of woe and desperation, the streets scream for a protector. Vengeance and justice, it’s a fine line to walk. Sometimes I wonder…”
Clark tilted his head, prompting. “You wonder…?”
Again, micro-expressions flitted at rapid speed over Wayne’s face. Bewilderment, before he looked seconds away from burying his head in his hands, before he threw his head back and merely laughed. “I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter. As you can see, Mr Kent, I am rather drunk.”
“Are you, though?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he challenged.
“You tell me, Mr Wayne,” Clark shot right back.
“Mr Kent, you couldn’t separate me and my bottles of wine in the cellar if you tried. There’s perfectly good champagne here tonight. Of course I would partake — I always do.”
“You certainly seem a far greater degree sober than you had just ten minutes ago.”
“God knows why,” Wayne muttered under his breath, obviously not meant for Clark to catch, then said, “Sue me. The wind on this balcony does wonders.” He winked, a sort of charm that was so easy to fall into, but that was it. Clark wasn’t letting this go. He would push and push until he got something real. “Not to mention the eye candy.”
“You can have your eye candy back in the ballroom.”
“But it’s so stuffy in there, Christ, surely you think the same, you’re out here too.”
“I came out to take a call. Why are you still here, Mr Wayne?”
“I don’t know,” Wayne said, “Perhaps I’m rather enjoying your presence. I do so wonder how you would look if that suit fit a little better, hm?”
Clark frowned. “This isn’t about me,” he returned stubbornly. “The party’s in there, and yet you’re still here. Mr Wayne, you said it yourself — your fundraisers, despite your seemingly irresponsible behaviour, are known to be effective. Underneath, somehow, you know exactly what to do. Your company runs smoothly, stocks are high, Wayne Enterprises’ management is famously well-organised. You yourself told me: You know what you’re doing.”
“It was a joke, Mr Kent, surely that was obvious — even I’m not so unaware as to think I do anything of use in my company. Sorry to burst your bubble, but you’ll have to thank my managers for that. They do so know how to make things work. I just sit there and let the cash rake in.”
“Surely all this can’t be a PR stunt. It’s one thing to donate here and there, it’s another to put in such a consistent effort. Not to mention all your anonymous donations—“
Wayne stiffened.
“—and not even the I-mean-to-be-found-out kind.”
“And how, exactly, pray tell, do you know about these ‘anonymous donations’?”
“Lois,” Clark admitted, and Wayne rolled his eyes with a sarcasm that had Clark all the more determined to push him forward, into the light.
“Reporters. Ever so nosy.”
“Only when we have a reason to be. Do we have a reason to be, Mr Wayne?”
“Hardly. Unless you’re interested in my many exploits, but I’m under the impression the Daily Planet is rather reputable. A bit more than a gossip rag, no?”
“I don’t care about all that; you’re kind, Mr Wayne. You’re kind. You took in children when they were in need. I saw a few of them out there, in the ballroom. They love you. They’re grateful to you. Dick Grayson, Timothy Drake, Barbara Gordon—”
Wayne flinched as if he was struck, just barely, but Clark was insistent now. It was of vital importance, suddenly, that he should tell this to Wayne. That he should know Clark thought he was kind. This back and forth finally had Wayne gripping the railing harder than necessary, a darker edge of frustration lining the curve of his lips — an acerbic, mocking thing.
It felt like the most genuine thing Clark had seen from him this whole evening.
“Okay, I’ve had enough. Leave it, Mr Kent.”
“No,” Clark said, with a burning surety and single-minded resolve, and Wayne huffed, half in incredulity, half in amusement.
“I don’t like you, Clark Kent,” Wayne said. “Not people like you, obsessed with being righteous with all your lofty morals. Naivety is what it is. Going around preaching that you can do good in the world, that people are inherently good, that oh, you can make a difference. You must be blind. The world isn’t so forgiving. I’m sure you know that. Look at yourself — where did the meek and timid Kansas boy back in that gala go? All I see is one persistent journalist. Your terrible clothing do a good job, but I recognise a strong figure when I see one. All this,” Wayne pointed, lazily, sardonically, “is very hypocritical of you.”
And despite the abrupt harshness, victory coiled in the space behind Clark’s chest, warm and triumphant.
“That’s an awfully cynical thing to say.”
“It’s the truth. Gotham is my city. I know her more than anyone — kindness will not do the trick. Here, kindness is weak. Mercy is foolishness.”
“Cynical,” Clark repeated, his point reinforced. “But that’s not all, is it? Despite that, you want to do good. You should do good, you said. You want it to make a difference. ‘It’s the least I can do’?”
“Please. It was merely a jest. Hookers and alcohol can only do so much; might as well dabble in some philanthropy. How much can we really do, anyway, in the end?”
“I don’t believe that.”
Wayne just snorted, low and quiet. “Alright. Sure. That sense of responsibility repulses me. I really, really don’t like you, Kent.” At last, at last, he turned to go. He couldn’t leave, though, not like this — shit, not like this. With a burst of frantic urgency, Clark stepped forward, ready to stop him. How, he didn’t know, but—
Clark didn’t need to do anything. Right before exiting the glass-panelled doors of the balcony, back into the ballroom, Bruce Wayne stopped dead in his tracks. His back was broad, bearing a weight that made Clark agonise: I want to bear that weight with you; I would, if you would let me. In seemingly uncharacteristic indecision, Wayne lingered, and Clark stood there in the moonlight under the stars, waiting — he didn’t know for what — with his hand half-outstretched.
“Fuck it,” Wayne muttered, before whirling around, marching right back up to Clark, and shoving him against the balcony railing.
“I hardly—“
“Just shut up,” said Wayne, annoyed, and then he pressed their lips together with much more force than necessary.
He kissed Clark, not soft or gentle, but rather harsh. Passionate. Teeth bit down on Clark’s lower lip, drawing out a cut-off sound, his knees going weak. The railing might have dented beneath him, but the feel of Wayne’s mouth, hot and insistent, chased the awareness away.
What in the bloody hell. It seemed not all the rumours about Wayne had been false, then. Helpless, Clark’s hands came up to grip Wayne’s back out of sheer instinct. The kiss deepened; it was the kind you parted your legs for, the rest of the world vanishing in an instant. Bruce’s hands on him, clutching at the nape of Clark’s neck, felt like a brand, a searing burn against bare skin; in the dark, Clark found himself groping almost blindly, his fingertips dancing over Bruce’s clothes, tangling in his hair.
When Bruce — Wayne, whatever — pulled back sharply to suck in a breath, all Clark could do was stare at him, dumbfounded and dazed.
“What—“
“I seriously dislike you,” Bruce bit out, dead serious for the first time tonight. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. His hair was tousled, his suit unbuttoned; tie loose and shirt half untucked. God, he should not look that good.
“I don’t understand,” Clark replied faintly.
“Don’t you?” Bruce asked, and then said: “Come home with me.”
And Clark knew, deep down, that it was an even more horrible idea than it felt, to become just another notch on Bruce’s bedpost.
And somewhere, deep down, Clark also knew that if he said no, he would never get the chance again.
Clark already had enough material from the fundraiser for Jimmy to write an article. Even so, he could refuse. He should refuse. Clark had to refuse.
“Okay,” Clark said. And that was that.
Something was wrong, the voice in his head sung the whole time, a taunt, a plea, a warning: Something is wrong. Something was wrong, but just then, in the arms of a man that was a facsimile of someone he knew and loved, Clark couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Something’s wrong with Bruce too, then? I can’t reach either of them by my usual means.”
“Yes, Ms Prince. He’s— the same, but different. Diminished, somehow. I don’t think Master Bruce recalls anything about being Batman, but he remembers bits and pieces of his life as Bruce Wayne. Enough for me to be convinced it’s him, even with almost everything remotely related to his alter ego forgotten. Ms Lane told you the same thing about Mr Kent?”
“Yes. The way he is now, Clark is dangerous — we’re lucky he’s controlling his powers subconsciously, but it’s still a risk. I’ve already contacted Zatanna. She should be back on Earth very soon to take a look at them. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”
“That’s a relief to hear. Before that, I think we might have another problem,” Alfred began to explain, extremely wryly. “They’re both currently in one of the Manor’s guest rooms. They’ve absconded there after tonight’s fundraiser. I must say, I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime, with Bruce and his exploits. For Mr Kent to be added to the list…”
There was a pause.
“Surely, you can’t mean—“
“Indeed.”
“Oh. Oh, no.” Diana sounded torn between delight and horror. “No, surely not — to think that this was what it would take for them to finally— well. This is a disaster. When they regain their memories…”
“I would have tried to stop Master Bruce, but he was rather eager. I don’t think he saw me try to get his attention before dragging Mr Kent into the nearest available guest room. Funnily enough, it’s the guest room Mr Kent most frequently uses when he stays over, so perhaps you’re right about them still subconsciously retaining certain habits.”
“Oh, goddesses above. I’m worried, but I rather look forward to the aftermath. Perhaps they’ll finally get their heads out of their asses now that they’ve worked out all the sexual tension.”
“Knowing Master Bruce, I, for one, do not particularly look forward to it. One can wish, however. I shall wish on the nearest star when I can.”
“Alright. We’ll be at the Manor tomorrow morning, then. Do you think you can convince Clark to stay the night?”
“Convince Master Bruce to let Clark stay the night, you mean. I will make sure I do. With that being said — good night, Ms Prince.”
“Good night, Alfred. Things will hopefully be back to normal soon. Let’s hope they talk this through like adults.”
Famous last words, thought Alfred, before he hung up the phone.
By the time they finished, the fundraiser was over, and Clark didn’t know what he expected after the most confusing, mind-blowing sex of his life. For Bruce Wayne to kick him out, maybe, or call him a taxi. He definitely wasn’t expected Bruce Wayne to exchange a few heated words with his butler, storm back into the guest room, throw a shirt at him and say:
“It’s late. You can stay here until morning.”
“Do you treat all your conquests like that?”
“Why? Would you like to feel special, Mr Kent?”
“No, of course not, I just— anyway. I’ll pay for the vase I broke.”
“Leave it, really. It’s fine. Take that bed. Tomorrow you can head back to Metropolis.”
On a post-coital high, Clark took a second to process the words. Then, bleary-eyed, buried under silk sheets that felt heavenly on his skin, he blurted: “And you?”
Are you staying? was the implied question. Bruce paused on the way out of the door, his clothes already back on, armour built back piece by piece in the sashay of his hips and the smirk of his lips. The man Clark had glimpsed earlier — full of scars, inside and out, beautiful in more ways than one — bitter, someone who cared too much; smart, perhaps too smart, and incredibly perceptive — was slipping away just like that. All Clark could do was watch powerlessly and grab onto sand running through fingers.
“Don’t push it, Mr Kent.”
And then Bruce left, another migraine slowly creeping through the bliss Clark had basked in, dragging him to slumber.
The bed, Clark found, was cold.