Chapter Text
Clark Kent adjusted his glasses with a sigh, trying not to scowl as Bruce Wayne sauntered into the bullpen of the Daily Planet like he owned the place—which, to Clark’s endless irritation, he did. The room seemed to shift with his arrival, a ripple of murmurs and sideways glances following his every move. Bruce Wayne was the picture of effortless charisma, from the sharp angles of his jawline to the perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than what Clark made in a year. He was the kind of man who didn’t walk into a room; he commandeered it, radiating charm and confidence in waves that crashed over everyone nearby.
Clark glanced away, determined to focus on his article. He had better things to do than indulge in the collective gawking, but the whispers around him were hard to ignore.
“Is that Bruce Wayne?” one intern whispered.
“God, look at that suit.”
“Do you think he’d sign my notepad?”
Clark suppressed a groan. He hadn’t even done anything, and somehow, he already felt like he was losing.
“Wayne’s looking at you again,” Jimmy Olsen whispered, leaning across his desk with a sly grin.
Clark’s fingers froze over his keyboard. Against his better judgment, he glanced up. Sure enough, Bruce Wayne’s gaze was fixed on him, sharp and calculating despite the relaxed half-smile that played on his lips. Bruce didn’t just look at people; he examined them, like he was reading some unspoken language in their posture or expression.
Clark immediately looked away, heat rising to his cheeks. “Great,” he mumbled. “Exactly what I needed.”
Jimmy chuckled. “What’s the problem? Billionaire playboy showing interest in you? Most people would kill for that.”
“Most people can have it,” Clark replied dryly. “Why does it have to be me?”
Jimmy tilted his head. “Why not you? You’re, like, the quintessential humble and charming guy. It’s your whole brand.”
Clark rolled his eyes, adjusting his tie in a futile attempt to stay calm. “Yeah, well, Bruce Wayne doesn’t strike me as someone looking for humble or charming. And I’m not interested.”
At least, not in him.
Clark’s heart clenched as his thoughts betrayed him, drifting to a certain Dark Knight. For months now, the brooding Bat had taken up residence in Clark’s mind, an unshakable presence that filled him with equal parts admiration and longing. It wasn’t just Batman’s strength or skill—it was the quiet, unyielding resolve behind his every action. The way he threw himself into danger without hesitation, always prioritizing others over himself. The gruff exterior that couldn’t quite hide a compassionate heart. Clark admired him. No, he more than admired him. He was infatuated.
Not that it mattered. Whatever fantasies Clark entertained in his quieter moments, he knew Batman wasn’t interested in that kind of connection. Gotham’s protector was a fortress, impenetrable and unyielding. And Clark respected that. But it didn’t make his feelings any less real—or any less painful.
And now, on top of managing those unreciprocated feelings, Clark had to deal with Bruce Wayne—flamboyant, infuriatingly persistent Bruce Wayne, who seemed to delight in catching him off guard. Lately, Bruce had been getting too close, his piercing gaze lingering just a little too long, his comments carrying just a little too much weight. It was unnerving.
He’s figuring me out, Clark thought uneasily.
He couldn’t let that happen. Bruce Wayne might be a playboy on the surface, but Clark knew better. He’d seen flashes of something sharper, something far more dangerous lurking beneath that carefree mask. And the last thing Clark needed was for Bruce Wayne to dig deep enough to uncover the truth.
Clark set his jaw, determination hardening his features. If Bruce wanted to play games, Clark would give him one. He might not be experienced in the art of deception or manipulation, but he had plenty of other tricks up his sleeve. For the first time in his life, he was going to lean into being the bad guy—or at least, bad enough to make Bruce Wayne back off.
How hard could it be to make someone like Bruce Wayne lose interest?
Clark adjusted his glasses one more time as he squared his shoulders and prepared to set his plan into motion, a small, determined voice echoed in his mind: Game on.
Bruce leaned against the bullpen’s doorframe, his gaze drifting to Clark Kent. There was something effortlessly magnetic about him—the way his tie was always just a little crooked, the way he furrowed his brow when focused, as if the world itself might unravel if he didn’t choose the right words.
Clark pushed his glasses up, muttering under his breath at his computer screen, completely unaware of how captivating he was. Bruce smiled faintly. There were plenty of people in his life who tried to impress him, but Clark wasn’t one of them. In fact, he seemed determined to avoid him altogether.
It was oddly compelling.
Clark glanced up and caught him staring. His expression twisted into something vaguely annoyed before he quickly looked away. Bruce, entirely unbothered, chuckled to himself. Clark was different.
And Bruce couldn’t stop watching.