Chapter Text
Clark was a lot of things. He was a reporter, a superhero, an alien, a Kansan, a farm boy, a city boy, a bisexual, and an illegal immigrant. He was not, however, easy. This fact did not seem to be getting through the stupid, inflated head of Gotham’s famous Brucie Wayne. He had caught sight of them at the charity dinner, meandered over to Clark and Lois, and was pretending to be drunk while also trying extremely ostentatiously to get in Clark’s pants. Lois had been laughing behind her flute of champagne for several minutes while around them Metropolis’ most elite party got into full swing, and from Wayne’s –admittedly very nice– lips the innuendos flowed.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the stars from a private island,” Wayne was saying. “But I promise, they’re almost as good as the ones in your eyes.”
Clark had had enough.
“Mister Wayne,” he snapped, almost forgetting himself and straightening to his full height, but stopping himself just in time. “I am not interested in your money, your plane, your mansion, your fame, or –and I really cannot stress this enough– the “ stretch limousine” you keep so crudely referring to. I would not touch your limousine with a ten-foot pole, and I don’t care to hear how it can give me a “ great ride ” again, or else I’ll throw up the h'orderves. I have actual work to do for my actual job because, unlike you, I am at this gala because I believe in the cause.”
Wayne opened his mouth.
“If the next words out of your mouth don’t have anything to do with womens’ education initiatives, I would politely invite you to shove them so far back down your throat that you can tie them to your shoelaces.”
Wayne closed his mouth.
Clark walked off in a huff, ignoring his midwestern good manners and for once embracing the more Metropolitan attitude of sticking it to anyone and anything. He flicked open his notebook and tried to sidle in to interview one of the guest speakers, but his enhanced hearing distracted him.
Lois was still chuckling, but Wayne’s voice, unmistakable and irritatingly velvety, whispered, “Hot damn.”
Clark rolled his eyes and caught the guest speaker’s attention.
The charity dinner was almost over, when Clark became aware, once again, of Bruce Wayne at his elbow. He turned, an uncharacteristic scowl forming already.
“Mister–”
“Mister Kent, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize and, if you are amenable, start over.”
Clark, sufficiently nonplussed, took the proffered hand and received a firm, honest hand shake. His father would have been impressed. Despite himself, he was too.
“Good evening,” spoke Wayne. “My name’s Bruce, and I pretend to be drunk and terrible at parties so that paparazzi leave me alone and the more insalubrious type of reporter doesn’t try to chase me for a quote. I’m sorry for what happened before, and I would like to actually get to know you.”
Clark couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Why?”
“Because I’ve read your work and I admire it, because I would like to make up for being such a terrible boorish slimeball at the start and, if I’m being honest, because you look absolutely stunning when you are furious.”
Clark blinked. Mister Wayne –Bruce, as he’d introduced himself– hadn’t let go of his hand, from when they’d shook. His hand was warm, surprisingly calloused, and pleasant. Clark let go anyway. “Well, I guess I’m open to starting over as well. You can call me Clark.”
“Can I call you tonight? Sorry! Sorry, habits die hard, I would say old habits, but, well…”
“So it’s all an act?” Clark asked. Bruce seemed to be eyeing the notebook, so he flicked it closed and slid it into his jacket pocket. “Off the record, cross my heart,” he said.
“Yes, almost all of it. I don’t even drink much,” Bruce said, relaxing into a posture that should have screamed layabout playboy, but instead simply looked comfortable. “But it’s easier if I can keep people out of more personal affairs, and if they think I’m shallow they don’t bother to look beneath the surface.”
“Doesn’t that get lonely?”
Bruce smiled, shockingly pale blue eyes glimmering under the chandeliers like the last of a falling star. “Always.”
And then Clark spent hours talking with him, being led out to a balcony while they discussed the state of print journalism and the differences between Metropolis and Gotham. It was one of the better society evenings Clark had experienced as a reporter. After the speakers were done and the initial interviews, it was generally considered polite for the press to stay and mingle. Usually the company wasn’t nearly so good. There was always something, though, something curled under the surface of Bruce, hidden, and Clark was not allowed near it. It was familiar to him, something he knew so well from a man he barely knew, and wanted to.
Batman had also always been untouchable. It didn’t stop Clark from having fallen for him almost as soon as they’d met.
“I have to admit, this was a lovely evening,” Bruce said, as though he’d been reading Clark’s mind. “In incredibly lovely company.”
“Bruce,” Clark began. It was terrible, he felt. To have Bruce holding his hand gently on a balcony, Gotham’s prince, like some sort of novel, and know that he wanted to discard what hundreds of people surely dreamt of.
“Really, Clark, I’m glad you forgave me earlier,” Bruce was saying. “I don’t get to meet many people I can be myself with. Do you think…”
Don’t ask , Clark thought desperately. Don’t ask me on a date, not when I’m so in love with someone else that I don’t know what to do. You’re too lovely and I’ll have to turn you down, then you won’t want to talk to me again.
“Would you want to talk again –as friends, no limousine required– next time we’re in each other’s cities?”
Clark let out a tiny breath. “That would be nice, Bruce, I’d like that a lot.”
“Just so you know,” the man said, grinning and leaning in close to Clark’s ear. “The limousine isn’t required, but I’d still give you a ride if you wanted.”
Clark rolled his eyes and smacked at Bruce’s surprisingly built arm, but did not feel pressed to comment.