Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One

Today was Clark Kent’s first day at the Gotham Gazette.

Moving to Gotham was exactly what he’d expected—exhausting, chaotic, and far more work than necessary. What he hadn’t expected was for it to happen on such short notice. Clark had heard the rumors about the exchange program the Daily Planet and the Gotham Gazette had been discussing, but he’d assumed it would be a long, carefully managed process. Especially considering the rivalry that ran bone-deep between the two news outlets. He certainly hadn’t expected to be chosen.

Perry had explained that both organizations stood to benefit greatly if they could establish a more trusting relationship—hinting at future information-sharing, the kind that could only happen once mutual confidence was built. To make that possible, each company selected a single journalist considered the most likable, mild manner and least controversial. The hope was that familiarity would soften old tensions.

There was politics involved, of course. Clark made a conscious effort to remain uninvolved. The less he knew—and the less he participated—the easier his life would be.

Clocking in that morning was more nerve-wracking than his first day at the Daily Planet. Not that Clark hadn’t faced far more stressful situations as Superman—but being careful around new people while maintaining his identity as Clark Kent had always made him uneasy. He was hyper-aware of every movement, every glance, every shift in tone around him.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t stumble upon any overly curious coworkers.

Clark had read some of these journalists reports—coworkers, he reminded himself—and there were a few names that stood out. People who latched onto mysteries and refused to let go until they’d uncovered the truth. It almost reminded him of Lois.

So here he was, trying to find his desk and blend in—an impossible task when you’re built like a brick wall and stand six-foot-three. He could feel eyes on him before he even looked up, the subtle pause in the room as conversations faltered.

Of course, it didn’t work.

His new coworkers eyed him like a slab of meat dropped onto a platter in front of hyenas. Clark kept his expression neutral as he located a desk with his name on it. He set his bag down— “Clark Kent”

He froze and slowly looked up, abandoning the slim hope that ignoring it might somehow make him invisible.

Mario Ito, the chief editor.

So much for subtlety.

Mario waved him closer. Clark stumbled slightly as he hurried forward, hoping to get it over with as quickly as possible. He stopped when they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

Once Clark was beside him, Mario raised his voice.

“Good morning, everyone. As I’ve already mentioned, we have a new journalist joining us today through the exchange program. He’s from the Daily Planet. This is Clark Kent.”

Clark swallowed.

“H-hello, e-everyone,” he said, stumbling slightly over his words. “It’s a ple-pleasure to meet you. I hope we can work well to-together and cre-create work that’s both inspiring and important to the people of Gotham.”

He nervously pushed up his glasses.

Silence.

Some of his coworkers stared. Others turned back to their screens as if he didn’t exist. Awkward—but manageable. Either they didn’t care, or they didn’t trust him. Which was fine—better, even. At least none of them seemed overly interested in him.

“Follow me,” Mario said, already walking away.

Clark followed him into what he assumed was Mario’s office. Once inside, Mario sat down.

“Close the door.”

Clark did so and waited.

“I know this exchange program was decided by upper management,” Mario said, folding his hands together, “and I may not have had a say in it. But I expect this workplace to remain unaffected. The Gotham Gazette and the Daily Planet don’t have the friendliest history, and bringing in an exchange journalist won’t magically fix that. Any issues that arise will not be tolerated. Do you understand me, Clark?”

“Yes, chief.”

Clark hunched his shoulders and lowered his gaze, deliberately making himself seem smaller, less threatening.

Mario studied him, brow quirking slightly. A grown man nearly twice his size, shrinking in on himself. Interesting. The thought lingered, then Mario dismissed it.

“Here.”

He dropped a box of files onto the desk with a dull thud, an ID tag tucked inside showing Clark’s face and full name.

“These are the stories you’ll be covering. One of our journalists has been assigned to assist you. If you have problems, you know where my office is. And don’t lose your ID.”

Clark took that as his cue to leave. He went to Chief Mario’s desk, offering a brief nod without lifting his gaze and grabbing the box before heading for the door. He paused there, drawing in a slow, steadying breath before stepping out.

The walk back to his desk was even worse than before. Eyes followed him. Whispers carried easily—far too easily, considering he was Superman.

“I heard the exchange is just an excuse for the Daily Planet to plant a rat.”

“Worst person they could’ve sent. You can see him coming a mile away.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him all the time.”

“Shut up, Shally.”

“You shut up, Nick. No matter what you say, I will never go on that date with you—”

Clark kept his head down.

Six months, he reminded himself. Just six months.

The box contained half-written, unpublished articles. Interview lists for schools and neighborhood committees. Requests for on-the-ground reporting in some of Gotham’s rougher districts.

Fluff, by most standards.

At first glance, it didn’t look like much. But Clark knew better. It was a solid three months of real, hard, meaningful work.

To an accomplished journalist, it might’ve felt insulting.

Clark loved it.

These stories gave voices to people who were usually ignored—and that mattered just as much as any headline.

About thirty minutes into organizing his schedule—checking the map to see how much ground he could cover in a day, making sticky notes of important dates and interviews, logging into his computer and setting up the documents in neat order to keep easy track of everything, slowly settling into the work zone—Clark was snapped out of it by the sound of footsteps approaching.

Measured. Deliberate. Elegant.

“Good morning, Mr. Kent.”

Clark looked up.

“Elijah Fitzwilliam,” the man said smoothly. “I’ll be assisting you while you’re with the Gotham Gazette. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kent.”

A hand extended toward him.

Clark froze.

Elijah was striking—devilishly so—in a crisp navy-blue suit that made him look almost out of place in the newsroom. Like he belonged in a castle. His voice carried a smooth English accent that seemed to draw people in without effort. Light brown hair, almost dirty blond, and green eyes so vivid Clark held his breath subconsciously to stay in the illusion.

“Ahem.”

Elijah cleared his throat, covering his mouth with a loose fist, hoping to draw Clark’s attention back from wherever it had drifted.

“Oh—uh,” Clark said, scrambling to stand and nearly tipping his chair over. “Y-your pleasure—I-I mean—” He winced. “I’m s-s-so sorry, I—I…”

Clark stopped, too embarrassed to force another word out. He took a moment to calm himself, grateful that Elijah was kind enough to give him the time he needed to compose himself.

It didn’t help much. Clark could still feel Elijah’s eyes on him, the heat of his blush continuing its slow, traitorous spread.

“I-I’m Clark Kent,” he managed at last. “The p-p-pleasure is all mine, Mr. Elijah.”

Elijah smiled. Bright. Knowing.

“Please,” he said, still wearing the easy smile. “Do call me Elijah. Shall I give you a brief tour?”

Clark nodded, cheeks warm.

“That would be great. Thank you and feel free to also just call me Clark.”

Nodding Elijah began with the important areas—the conference rooms, company meeting rooms, and the interview spaces reserved for visiting guests. From there, the tour gradually shifted toward the more casual amenities: the gym, the game room, and the quieter spaces employees used to decompress between assignments.

He saved the most important location for last.

The break room.

It was a wide, comfortable space lined with couches and scattered tables, clearly meant for socializing or quiet relaxation. Off to one side, almost blending into the wall, was the kitchen—its presence marked only by a discreet door handle. The kitchen itself was a separate room, fully enclosed and intentionally private. Once the door was shut, it created a quiet pocket of isolation, shielding whatever was happening inside from the rest of the floor.

As Elijah prepared two cups of coffee, he filled the space with light, unobtrusive small talk—the kind that asked for nothing and made the silence feel less daunting. Clark appreciated it, even as he struggled to rein in his nerves and steady himself.

“How do you like Gotham so far?” Elijah asked casually. “Even if it hasn’t been long—has anything caught your eye?”

“Um…”

Clark needed to be careful in his interactions with Elijah. Unfortunately, Elijah was one of the few people Clark had hoped to keep his distance from. Everything the man investigated seemed to leave no stone unturned. He was sharp, dedicated, and relentless—qualities Clark respected deeply, but did not want turned on him.

Clark had read many of Elijah’s pieces over the years.

What he hadn’t expected was the man himself.

He hadn’t known what Elijah looked like until today, and the reality of him—his presence, his composure—caught Clark off guard in a way he hadn’t prepared for. Normally, Clark didn’t care whether someone was handsome or not. It was never something he paid much attention to.

But he already held a deep respect for Elijah long before they’d met, and that respect made it harder to ignore the man now—to dismiss his presence as easily as Clark might have otherwise.

“N-nothing yet,” Clark said. “But I do plan to look around after work and check a few places out.”

He didn’t mention that it would be for work. He wasn’t sure whether that detail might turn into a landmine.

“Wonderful,” Elijah replied easily. “Do let me know how it goes. I’d be delighted to show you a few of my favourite places, should you care to join me.”

“Of course.”

Clark offered a small smile, content—for the moment—not to be ostracized. He remained keenly aware of every movement, every glance, but the conversation stayed light. Easy. Manageable.

Elijah continued the gentle small talk as they headed back toward Clark’s desk, coffee in hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you today, Clark.”

Elijah retrieved a business card, offering it with an easy, practiced motion.

“My contact details are listed there. Do not hesitate to email me should you require anything.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Clark said. “The pleasure is mine.”

Clark nodded as he accepted the card, watching as Elijah turned and walked away. His attention snagged briefly on the way several members of the staff—coworkers, Clark reminded himself—watched Elijah go as well. Judging by the exchanged looks and quiet pauses, Elijah was either popular, well-respected, or both.

Clark exhaled once he was gone.

Sitting down, he turned his attention to the pile of work waiting for him. He focused carefully, determined to have everything sorted before the day was done so he could build a neat, organized schedule to follow moving forward.

Hours passed quickly, with Clark slipping away every now and then—pretending to use the bathroom—to make brief trips back to Metropolis. Pull on the cape and deal with redirect a runaway train, or handle whatever crisis had decided that was the day to happen—before returning to Gotham as if nothing had occurred.

Nothing major followed. The day remained quiet. Peaceful, even—which was rare, and very much appreciated.

Clark barely noticed the time slipping by as he worked. He didn’t have much opportunity for a proper lunch, and with the way his body burned through calories, that wasn’t ideal. Instead, he relied on granola bars and other small snacks from his bag, eating when he could while staying focused on the work in front of him.

By the time he glanced up at the clock, it read 7:00 p.m.

Far later than he’d intended.

Looking around, Clark realized the newsroom was nearly empty. Aside from himself, only a woman a few desks away and a man slumped over the printer—very clearly asleep—remained. Everyone else had already gone home. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue, but Clark didn’t like drawing attention to himself, and staying late wouldn’t do him any favors given the rumors already floating around about him being a mole.

He wrapped up the last of his work over the next half hour before finally standing. His back protested immediately, stiff from hours of sitting. Grabbing the worksheet he planned to start with the following day, Clark made sure the most important notes were written down clearly before slipping everything into his bag.

Before leaving, he checked around once more, anxiety flickering briefly. He made sure he had his ID—he’d definitely need it to get back in tomorrow—before heading out.

Stepping outside into the open air, Clark rolled his shoulders, loosening tense muscles as his hunger finally made itself known. Deciding he’d earned a small reward for getting through his first day without any major missteps, Clark wandered through Gotham in search of food.

Or several meals, more accurately.

Using his super hearing, he listened for the telltale signs of a busy restaurant—voices overlapping, cutlery clinking, the hum of conversation. When he caught the sound of people ordering and laughing, he followed it.

What he found surprised him.

An entire stretch of the street—several blocks at least—was lined with restaurants, glowing warmly against the night. It was lively. More so than Clark had expected.

Isn’t Gotham supposed to be dangerous?

People moved easily between storefronts, talking and laughing, unbothered by the late hour. After some deliberation, he decided he didn’t need to choose just one place.

Clark hopped from restaurant to restaurant, enjoying the atmosphere and the food far more than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t until he was finishing his fourth meal that he realized the street had begun to thin out. Most people had already gone home.

Deciding it was finally time to head back, Clark pulled out the map he’d printed earlier at the office. He checked his location and the nearest transit route that would take him close enough to walk the rest of the way. He could’ve used his phone, but he preferred the old-fashioned method.

He planned to stop by a store on the way for breakfast supplies, but the later it got, the more aware he became of the city around him. Clark wasn’t worried about himself—but if something happened, stepping in without revealing himself would be difficult.

This was Batman’s territory.

Clark respected that.

But he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stand by.

Unfortunately, what he’d been half-expecting happened only a few blocks later.

He heard the crying before he saw anything.

It was small and broken—the sound someone made when they were trying not to be heard and failing anyway.

Then came the shouting.

“Hand over your fucking purse!”

Clark rounded the corner and the scene came into focus all at once: a woman standing rigid in front of a child, her body angled protectively; a man facing them, gun raised, voice sharp and panicked.

Clark didn’t think.

He ran.

The decision was immediate—instinctive. He was already moving before the rest of the world had time to catch up, before any plan could form. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay where he was.

As he closed the distance, he slowed—just enough to be heard, just enough not to startle.

“Excuse me,” Clark said.

The gunman whirled around.

The gun came up fast—too fast—and suddenly Clark was standing there, right in front of it.

For half a second, Clark froze.

Not because of the weapon.

But because his body was already here.

He hadn’t felt himself decide to move, hadn’t remembered closing the distance. One moment he’d seen the woman and the child—fear, urgency—and the next he was standing in the open, hands lifting on instinct, breath catching as his thoughts scrambled to catch up.

I’m here. With no plan.

The realization landed hard.

No plan. No script. No room to escalate. And no way to disappear into Superman.

This was Batman’s city.

Clark forced himself to breathe, steadying the reflexive tension in his shoulders. He couldn’t fail—not with the stakes so high, not with a woman holding a gun she might actually use.

He had to figure something out.

Quickly.

Up close, Clark could tell the man was young. Early twenties at most. Tall, but not hardened—not really.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Clark said carefully, “but it seems like things have gotten a little out of hand. If there’s something you need, maybe I can help?”

The man looked a little pale and was breathing unevenly. Like he was starting at a ghost and almost unraveling.

From beyond him, Clark heard the soft, unmistakable click of a safety being disengaged.

The sound echoed sharply in the narrow street.

The robber stiffened, his attention and gun snapping back toward the woman and child he’d been threatening only moments before.

“Uh—maybe we could all put the guns away?” Clark offered, wincing internally. That was terrible. “We could talk this out. Come to some kind of… peaceful agreement?”
He stepped slowly between them, careful not to startle either of them, placing himself squarely in front of the woman. His hands lifted, palms open, doing his best to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

Her brow furrowed sharply. Either this man was incredibly brave—or incredibly stupid.

Clark gave the robber a nervous smile. “You mentioned a purse? Is money what you’re after? I have some cash. If that’s not enough, we could walk to an ATM?”

The man’s grip tightened.

“This was supposed to be easy,” he blurted, words tumbling over each other. “You were just supposed to give me the money and be done with it—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His gun jerked as he breathed hard. “Don’t—don’t push me. I will shoot you.”

That would be… problematic.

Not because it would hurt Clark—but because it wouldn’t. Not just anyone could take a bullet and walk away like it was nothing. Secret identity or not, that would be a dead giveaway.

“How about this,” Clark said quickly. “I’ll give you my wallet. All of it. No one gets hurt.”

 

Batman POV

The night was still young as Batman and Damian—Robin—began their patrol.

Too quiet.

Batman had marked several locations to stake out, hoping to gather more information on the Mutant Gang. Their sudden inactivity worried him. Gotham never went quiet without reason.

“Batman,” Oracle’s voice chimed in, cutting through his thoughts. “We’ve got a robbery in progress a few blocks from your location. Coordinates incoming.”

Batman barely acknowledged it before the data flashed, showing the coordinates.

Then Oracle continued, tone sharp and uneasy. “You’ll want to move fast. The situation’s escalating—and there’s a child at the scene.”

That was all he needed.

Batman fired his grapnel and launched forward, moving fast.

From above, he took in the scene in seconds—the woman, the child, the armed suspect—

And then something unexpected.

A man stepped into the confrontation.

Batman slowed, landing silently on the edge of a nearby fire escape as he assessed the scene below. Woman. Child. Gunman.

Then the variable.

The civilian stopped behind the gunman instead of charging in—hesitant, as if he hadn’t fully decided to be there yet.

“Excuse me?”

The gunman spun, weapon snapping up toward him.

Batman watched the man’s face closely.

There it was—real surprise. A flicker of it, sharp and unguarded. His eyes widened, his body stiffening for half a second too long.

You didn’t plan for that.

Then the moment passed.

The man exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as if he’d consciously forced them to relax. His expression settled into something calmer. Neutral. Almost casual.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man said carefully. “But it seems like the situation’s gotten a little out of hand. If there’s something you need, maybe I can help?”

The gunman stared at him, breathing unevenly, clearly unraveling.

The soft click of a safety disengaging echoed through the street.

The gunman stiffened, swinging the weapon back toward the woman.

That was when the civilian moved.

He stepped forward decisively. Placing himself squarely between the gunman and the lady. Boxed in now—gun in front of him, gun behind him—and yet his tension didn’t spike. His breathing stayed even. His shoulders remained loose, hands raised, movements slow and deliberate.

As if he were placating a child.

The nerves were there, unmistakably so—but not because of the weapons. Something else was bothering the civilian. Something internal. And whatever it was, it wasn’t fear of getting shot.

That was… unusual.

“Hey—maybe we can all put the guns away,” the man said, voice careful, uneven in a way that suggested he knew exactly how bad that sounded. Batman caught the brief wince that followed, the flash of internal recognition—wrong thing to say. “We could… talk this out? Come to some kind of peaceful agreement.”

The gunman didn’t look reassured. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening as the weapon jerked slightly with each breath.

The civilian was still speaking but the gunman didn't seem to paying attention, instead having an internal struggle.

Batman narrowed his eyes

“This was supposed to be easy,” the gunman blurted, words tumbling over each other, breath coming fast. “You were just supposed to give me the m-money—this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

His gun twitched again. “Don’t—don’t push me. I will shoot you!”

The threat rang hollow.

Batman noted the lack of reaction from the civilian. No flinch. No retreat. Not even a shift in stance. It was as if the words themselves barely registered.

That, Batman didn’t like.

One wrong move now—one sudden sound, one escalation—and someone innocent would get hurt. The civilian was trying to de-escalate the situation, but he was untrained. Unprotected. And dangerously exposed.

The longer this dragged on, the worse the odds became.

Decision made.

Batman dropped from the fire escape without a sound.

He hit the pavement in a controlled descent, knees bending just enough to absorb the impact. No echo. No scrape. No telltale noise.

Batman moved immediately.

From the shadows, he flicked his wrist.

The Batarang cut through the air in a tight, precise arc.

It struck the gun with a sharp crack, metal ringing as the impact knocked it cleanly from the gunman’s grip. The weapon skidded across the pavement, spinning to a stop several feet away.

The gunman yelped, more in shock than pain, clutching his hand as he staggered back. “Sh—!”

He spun around, eyes wild, searching the darkness for the source.

Batman stepped forward then—slow, deliberate—his silhouette emerging from the shadows.

The gunman froze.

“Fuck,” he breathed. Then louder, panic detonating whatever resolve he’d had left. “Fuck—fuck, it’s—it’s the fucking Bat—!”

He bolted.

Batman didn’t pursue.

He simply tracked the man’s movement, already aware of the shadow dropping ahead of him. A body slamming into the gunman hitting the pavement with a dull thud.

A grunt. A brief struggle.

“Oracle,” Robin’s voice cut in calmly. “Suspect secured.”

Batman turned back to the street.

The civilian was still standing exactly where he’d been left, looking at Batman and blinking as if the world had rearranged itself around him. Shock lingered openly on his face as the danger dissolved.

The woman had moved—gun snapping up instinctively toward Batman.

Recognition followed a heartbeat later.

Batman.

She exhaled shakily, the breath sounding like it had been trapped in her lungs for far too long. Her gun lowered. Then disappeared into her belt behind her jacket.
Her gaze snapped to the civilian after.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. “I had that under control!”

The man looked stunned, shoulders hunching slightly as if he were trying to fold in on himself. He didn’t argue.

The woman turned to Batman, gave a brief, sharp nod, then pick up the child’s and walked away without another word.

Batman activated his comms quietly. “Red Robin.”

“I’m already moving,” came the reply. “I’ve got eyes on them. I’ll make sure they get home safely.”

Batman watched until the pair disappeared around the corner, then held his gaze there a moment longer, listening for anything out of place.

Only then did he turn back to the civilian.

Up close, the man was… big. Taller than Batman. Broad-shouldered. Built like someone who should have been intimidating—but wasn’t. His clothes hung loose on him, as though he’d chosen them specifically to make himself look smaller.

Batman’s gaze swept over him automatically. No visible injuries. No shaking hands. Breathing steadily.

“Are you hurt?” Batman asked.

The man startled, clearly not expecting to be addressed directly. “N-no. I—I don’t think so.”

Batman studied him for a moment longer.

“That was unsafe,” he said, voice low, controlled. Not accusatory. “You weren’t prepared. You aren’t trained for situations like that.”

The man’s shoulders dipped further, posture turning apologetic.

“I understand wanting to help,” Batman continued. “But stepping into an armed confrontation without a plan puts you—and everyone else—at risk. You can’t rely on goodwill when weapons are involved.”

He paused, then added more quietly, “You did the right thing trying to protect them. You just shouldn’t do it that way.”

The man nodded quickly. “Y-yes. I—I understand.”

Batman held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

Blue eyes. Clear. Open. Almost painfully earnest. There was something undeniably gentle about him—like a golden retriever that had wandered into traffic out of concern for someone else.

“Do you need me to walk you home?”

The man looked genuinely shocked. “Oh—uh—no! No, that’s not necessary. I—I live pretty close. I’ll be fine.”

Batman suspected that was a lie. But he let it go.

He nodded once. Then fired his grapnel and vanished into the night.

Minutes later, he regrouped with Robin, already shifting focus back to the night’s work.

They staked out one of the many warehouse belonging to the Mutant Gang quietly—tracking movement, logging faces, noting deliveries. Batman slipped inside unseen, neutralizing two guards silently, planting surveillance bugs and scanned serval documents.

Weapons. Cash. Standard operations.

Yet something felt off.

Before he could pinpoint it, Red Robin’s voice cut in. “Batman—need backup. Two-Face. Mall. Hostages. Two casualties confirmed.”

Batman didn’t hesitate.

“On our way.”

 

Clark POV — Aftermath

Clark stood where he was long after everyone else had gone.

His heart was still pounding, but not with fear—with surprise and realization.

Batman didn’t yell at me.

He’d expected it. The anger. The reprimand. Maybe worse. That what always happened, Batman didn’t like help or others stepping into his territory.

Instead, Batman had been… careful. Gentle, even.

Because he thinks I’m just a civilian.

The thought hit him all at once.

Batman didn’t see Superman standing there. He saw Clark Kent—untrained, unarmored, trying his best not to let someone get hurt.

And he’d respected that.

Clark smiled at that. Today is just full of surprise it seems and maybe… maybe this won’t be so hard.

Batman had told Superman to stay out of Gotham.

But he hadn’t said anything about Clark Kent.

As Clark walked to a near by store, the city humming softly around him, he found himself still smiling—small and thoughtful.

For the first time since arriving, he felt something like excitement.

“Maybe Gotham has more to offer than I thought”

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

The morning started off on the wrong foot—maybe he’s used up all his luck yesterday. Hot coffee had spilled across his not-so-pristine white shirt, thankfully unable to do him any real harm, but still irritating enough that he’d had to double back home to change before heading into work. What sealed the deal was when he finally reached the office and discovered his desk had been tampered with.

Blatantly.

His neatly stacked files had been scattered. His chair shoved nearly a foot away from the desk. The framed photo of his dog was turned face down. Sticky notes plastered across his keyboard—none of them useful, all of them sarcastic.

Cute.

His new coworkers clearly weren’t fond of him. That much he’d expected. Transfers always stirred up territorial instincts. But this? This wasn’t passive-aggressive. It was deliberate.

They wanted him to know.

They wanted it thrown in his face—We don’t trust you. We don’t want you here.

Clark stood there for a moment, taking it in. He would’ve ignored cold shoulders. He would’ve tolerated whispers. But this was something else entirely. This was a middle finger disguised as office humor, which he really should have expect from gothamites.

Clark slowly began putting everything back into place, expression calm, movements careful. If they were trying to throw him off, they were going to be disappointed.

It would take more than this.

Clark sighed, nudging his chair back into place before sitting. The newsroom buzzed around him, familiar and comforting in its chaos. Phones rang. Printers hummed. Somewhere nearby, someone was arguing about a headline.

By late morning, he was already deep into his assignment—following up on safety concerns at several public elementary schools. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. Clark spent the first half of the day speaking with teachers and principals, jotting down notes as they voiced concerns they’d been repeating for years: aging equipment, delayed maintenance, budgets stretched too thin.

At the last school on his list, he stepped out onto the playground and immediately felt his stomach drop.

One of the climbing structures leaned at an unnatural angle. The metal frame beneath the platform was bent outward, edges jagged enough to catch skin—or worse. Clark crouched, adjusting his glasses as he examined it more closely. He took several pictures from different angles, documenting the damage carefully.

“This shouldn’t be here,” he murmured under his breath.

Kids ran past him, laughing, unaware of how close they were to something dangerous. Clark straightened quickly, forcing a smile when a teacher glanced his way. He couldn’t do anything now—not with children everywhere, not with staff watching. Still, the image stayed with him long after he left.

He barely had time for lunch, relying instead on the granola bars tucked into his bag. It wasn’t ideal, but deadlines didn’t wait.

Later that afternoon, Clark found himself back at the school.

The playground was empty now, the sun lower in the sky, the air quieter. He approached the damaged structure again, setting his bag down nearby. Carefully, he tested the loose metal, fingers tightening around the bent edge. It wouldn’t take much to make it safer—just enough to keep a child from getting seriously hurt.

The metal shifted back into place with a soft groan, it settled more securely than before—not perfect, but better. Safe for the kids now.

Clark was just finishing when a voice piped up behind him. “What are you doing?”

Clark almost jumped. He quickly straightened, turning toward the kid. A quick flood of thoughts ran through his mind—Oh, great, I’ve been seen. Why was I moving it? Well, it’s just a kid. But I should really be more careful when I use my powers.

Clark forced a nervous chuckle. “Oh, I was just checking out the structure. It looked a little unsafe for kids.”

The kid just stared at Clark—intense, skeptical. He didn’t say anything, but his look made it clear he didn’t quite buy the excuse. Still, he didn’t call Clark out on it.

Finally, the kid said, “If you’re going to fix the playground—or if you’re waiting on someone to fix it—can you fix the swings?”

Clark tilted his head. “The swings?”

“Yeah.” The kid nodded toward the swing set. “I’ll show you.”

They walked over. There were four swings, but only one worked. One was coated in dirt and looked ready to fall apart. Another was missing a seat entirely and the third was missing the seat.

The kid sat down on the one working swing, gently swaying. He said quietly, “I’m the only one that uses these swings... but it’d be nice if they worked. In case someone wants to swing with me.”

Clark examined the dangerously loose swing hinge. He made a mental note: this would go in the article. He needed to push hard to get this playground fixed fast.

As he was looking, the kid asked, “You’re not from here, are you?”

Clark looked back at him, chuckling nervously. “No... what gave me away?”

The kid shrugged. “Nobody in Gotham cares about fixing playgrounds. And you talk too nicely.”

Clark blushed a little, caught off guard. “Well... I can’t change how I talk. But I don’t regret making sure kids have a safe place to play.”

The kid studied Clark a bit longer. “Do you always help?”

Clark tilted his head and smiled. “Of course. Why?”

The kid looked at his feet. “Do you only help kids? Or grown-ups too?”

Clark’s expression softened. In a steady, honest voice, he replied, “I help anyone and everyone in need.”

The kid hesitated. “But how can you help adults?”

Clark could tell there was something the kid wasn’t saying—something on his mind. So Clark kneeled down, sitting next to the swing. “I may not know what the problem is... but if you tell me, I can listen. And I’ll try to help.”

The kid went quiet, then whispered, “But I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

Clark nodded gently. “I promise—I won’t make anything worse for you.”

But the kid didn’t respond. He stared at the ground for a long moment, then hopped off the swing. “Never mind,” he muttered, before turning and running off.

Clark stood, watching him go. He wanted to call out, to reassure him, but there was no convincing him now. Chasing after him would only scare him more.

Once the kid was gone, Clark turned back to the swing—the dangerously loose hinge. He pressed the metal back into shape, ensuring it wouldn’t fall apart.

After ensuring everything is stable, he heads back home. Sitting at his desk, he writes the articles. He doesn’t just mention the structural flaws—he highlights the urgency and the human side. The lone kid on the swing stays in his mind. He knows with enough attention, change will follow.

Over the next two weeks, Clark published two major articles—one on playground safety and one on the poor quality of meals in underfunded schools. During this time he formed connections with the kids, though the boy from the playground remained cautious at first. Over three more encounters, the boy slowly opened up.

While he kept a low profile at work however, things hadn’t improved.

His coworkers still hadn’t warmed up to him. Conversations stopped when he approached. Assignments were handed to him without eye contact. He was tolerated—nothing more. Strangely, that distance only seemed to narrow the space between him and Elijah. Elijah, who refused to ignore him. The first time Elijah had called him “love” across the newsroom, Clark had nearly spilled his drink in shock. The second time, he had. It had startled him—enough that, for a brief and mildly terrifying moment, Clark wondered if the only coworker who treated him kindly was… flirting. That thought had spiraled faster than it should have. Until he noticed Elijah called everyone love. And darling. And sweet. It wasn’t selective. It wasn’t suggestive. It was just… him. Flamboyant, warm, faintly theatrical—but friendly.

So Clark accepted it for what it was. Elijah being Elijah.

And he firmly pushed aside any thoughts that suggested otherwise.

During the end of the first week Elijah had asked Clark to come with him to the gala being hosted by Bruce Wayne next week, saying he'd rather not go alone and would appreciate the company. Clark agreed, wanting to help Elijah and reciprocate the kindness he's been shown. When Elijah joked about his usual frumpy suit, Clark said that he doesn't have anything else. Elijah insisted on picking something better and planned a whole outing—after work, they’d shop for a suit and then have dinner at one of Elijah’s favorite spots. Saying he promised Clark dinner and is a man of his word. Clark, though nervous about standing out, couldn’t say no to Elijah’s persistent kindness. By the end of the workday, a day before the gala., Elijah showed up at Clark’s desk, ready to go.

Clark saw Elijah approaching just as he finished his sentence, saving his article draft and tucking away his things. Elijah reached his desk with a playful grin. “Ready for our date?”

Clark stood up and nodded. “Yes.”

Elijah, gesturing for Clark to follow.

They took the elevator down to the basement, where Elijah’s car was waiting. When they arrived, Clark’s eyes widened “Wait, is that a Koenigsegg Gemera?” Elijah raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
Clark grinned. “How could I not? It’s a four-seater hypercar—2.0-liter twin-turbo three-cylinder, plus three electric motors! Combined, it’s over 1,700 horsepower. Zero to 60 in under two seconds. And it’s got a top speed over 240 miles per hour. Plus, the Dihedral Synchro-Helix doors, the luxurious minimal interior, and yet it’s a plug-in hybrid. It’s basically a marvel of engineering!”
Elijah chuckled, impressed. “Wow, you know your stuff.”

Clark shrugged, still beaming. “What can I say? I might not drive often, but a masterpiece is a masterpiece.”

They got in, and Clark was still rambling on, soon he noticed Elijah watching him. Clark’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, sorry, I got carried away.”

Elijah smiled warmly. “Don’t apologize love. I like seeing this side of you. You’re always so shy—seeing you excited is nice.”

Clark looked down, flustered, and murmured, “Thanks.” Elijah chuckled. “I hope you’ll be comfortable enough to show me that side more often.” Clark smiled softly. “Yeah.”
Elijah pulled out of the garage, the engine humming smoothly beneath them. Clark sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the window while beating himself up.

“Yeah”?

Who just says yeah to something like that?

His social skills might not have been the sharpest on a good day, but that? That was tragic. Even for him.

Someone tells you they like seeing you open up. Someone says they hope you’ll be comfortable enough to be yourself around them. And your brilliant response is—..........Yeah. Clark resisted the urge to sink lower into the leather seat. Before he could spiral any further, Elijah glanced over at him with an easy smile. “We’re here.” Clark blinked, looking up and around. The storefront outside came into view, warm lights glowing through tall glass windows.

“That was quick,” Clark murmured.

Elijah chuckled. “It’s not that far from work.”

Clark nodded, still trying to shake the lingering embarrassment off as Elijah parked the car. Together, they headed inside. The lighting was soft and warm, reflecting off polished marble floors and dark wood paneling. Everything gleamed—tailored suits displayed like artwork, shoes lined up with surgical precision, glass cases housing cufflinks that probably cost more than his monthly rent.

This was expensive.

He didn’t need to look at a single price tag to know that, matter of fact he probably couldn’t find a price tag even if he tried. That how expensive this was was. Luxury practically seeped from the walls. His mouth fell open before he could stop it.
He quickly snapped it shut and leaned closer to Elijah. “Have we… perhaps come to the wrong store?” he asked quietly. “Maybe we could try somewhere a bit more… reasonable?”
Elijah looked at him like Clark had just suggested they shop in a bin behind the building.
“Why on earth,” Elijah began, gently tapping Clark’s shoulder, “would I bring you somewhere and expect you to purchase something you clearly don’t want?”

Clark blinked.

Elijah continued, voice light and amused, “If I’m the one insisting, then I’m the one paying. It would be rather cruel otherwise, wouldn’t it?”
Before Clark could protest further, Elijah walked toward one of the attendants.
A well-dressed woman with a poised smile approached. “Good evening, sir. How may I assist you today?”

Elijah gestured casually behind him toward Clark. “I’m here to pick out an outfit for my date.” The attendant smiled knowingly. “Of course, sir. We’d be delighted to help" Clark stood rooted in place, stunned into silence. This was it. He was trapped. He couldn’t walk out now. Elijah had been nothing but kind at work. They had projects together. A gala to attend. Clark could not—absolutely could not—be rude enough to storm out of a store. But how could he just let Elijah buy him something so expensive? he certainly couldn’t afford anything here. Not even if he used his credit card. Not even if he maxed it out twice. He was stuck.

“Sir?” another voice said gently.

Clark turned to find a male attendant beside him. “If you’ll follow me.” Clark nodded numbly as the man guided him toward a private dressing area—an elegant space with velvet seating just outside the curtained fitting rooms. The kind where you stepped out after changing and someone sat directly in front of you to assess the look almost like a bride’s rehearsal. Perfect. No pressure at all. Behind him, Elijah had already seated himself comfortably, flipping through a large leather-bound catalog of seasonal collections.

“I’ll warn you,” Elijah called lightly, not looking up. “I’m terribly particular. This may take a while.” Clark swallowed. The attendant handed him a suit. “We’ll start with this, sir.” Clark stepped into the fitting room, drawing the curtain closed.

He changed quickly, fingers steady out of habit, though his thoughts were anything but. When he turned toward the mirror, he stilled. The suit fit like it had been measured to him personally. The fabric hugged his shoulders perfectly, tapered at his waist, falling cleanly down his frame. The deep charcoal color sharpened his features. Elevated them. He looked… different. Professional. Polished. Dangerously close to recognizable.

His pulse jumped.

He adjusted his glasses automatically. They still sat on his nose. His hair was still slightly tousled, not styled. The Kryptonian lenses—crafted with subtle technology from his father’s archive in the Fortress—would continue to distort perception just enough. No one would connect him to Superman.

Still.

It made him nervous.

“Clark, dear,” Elijah’s voice called from outside the curtain, warm and teasing. “Are you finished? We’ve quite a few options to sort through, and I’ve already chosen your next ensemble. Do come out and show me.”

Clark inhaled slowly. It will be fine. He pushed the curtain open. Elijah looked up. And froze. Not dramatically or theatrically. But his pupils widened just slightly. His posture straightened. The catalog slipped a fraction lower in his hands. He hadn’t expected that.

Clark stood straighter without meaning to, the tailored suit emphasizing every line of his build. Mild-mannered Clark Kent had always been handsome Elijah knew that but right now?

Elijah stood.

He walked toward Clark slowly, stopping just within arm’s reach. Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and adjusted Clark’s tie, smoothing the fabric carefully. His fingers brushed lightly across Clark’s chest in the process—gentle, unhurried. “You know,” Elijah said softly, voice no longer teasing but sincere, “I didn’t realize I’d need to catch my breath tonight.”

Clark’s face went crimson.

Elijah smiled—bright, but not predatory. Just warm. “You look…” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “You look spectacular. I suppose I should have expected it, but seeing it is something else entirely.” Clark’s knees instinctively pulled closer together. His hands hovered awkwardly before settling against the side of his thighs. He lowered his gaze.

“I— I’m glad it’s… acceptable,” he managed, trying to keep his voice steady.

Elijah “Acceptable?" chuckled softly. “Clark, that suit is lucky you’re wearing it.” Clark’s ears burned. He dared a small glance upward, offering a shy, almost disbelieving smile. And Elijah, watching him closely, looked entirely pleased.

“Ahem”

The male attendant cleared his throat politely, the sound just loud enough to pull them back to reality. Both of them startled slightly. Elijah stepped back first, a faint flush rising along his cheekbones. He cleared his own throat in response, suddenly finding the polished marble floor very interesting.

“Right,” he said, smoothing the front of his jacket unnecessarily. “Yes. Of course.” Clark, meanwhile, looked as though he might combust on the spot. The attendant maintained a perfectly neutral expression—professionally blind, as though he hadn’t just witnessed a moment that felt far too intimate for a co-works room.

“Shall we proceed with the next option, sir?” the attendant asked smoothly. Elijah nodded, regaining some composure. “Yes. The navy one, I think. And perhaps the double-breasted I pointed out earlier.” Clark swallowed. There was more? He retreated behind the curtain again, heart still racing, trying very hard not to replay Elijah’s words in his head. Get it together. It was just a compliment. A normal, perfectly reasonable compliment. People gave those all the time. Right? The curtain shifted again as the attendant passed in another suit. “This one next, sir.” Clark glanced at the hanger. Navy. Deep, rich, almost midnight blue. The fabric looked even finer than the first. He changed. When he stepped out again, Elijah was already watching. This time, he didn’t freeze. He stood slowly instead, walking around Clark in a slow, deliberate circle. Clark tried very hard not to straighten too much. Elijah adjusted the sleeve, then the lapel. “This one,” he murmured thoughtfully, “is for tonight.”

Clark blinked. “Tonight?”

“Yes.” Elijah stepped back, examining him. “Dinner deserves effort.” Clark’s face heated again. “It’s just dinner.” Elijah tilted his head. “And?” Clark had no response to that, well none that would be acceptable to Elijah. The attendant nodded approvingly. “Excellent fit. We can tailor the waist slightly for a sharper silhouette.” Elijah snapped his fingers lightly. “Yes. Do that.” Clark stared at both of them like he had somehow lost control of his own body. Before he could recover, another suit was already being prepared. The third one was charcoal with a subtle sheen. The fourth, black with a modern cut. The fifth, a daring deep emerald that made Clark feel like he’d accidentally wandered into royalty. Each time he stepped out, Elijah’s gaze grew warmer. More focused.

He wasn’t laughing now. He was studying. By the time Clark tried on the sixth suit—a classic black tuxedo with a razor-clean line down the trousers—Elijah didn’t even pretend to deliberate.

“That’s the one,” he said quietly.

Clark hesitated. “For…?”

“The gala.”

The word hung heavier between them. The tux fit like precision. Sharp shoulders. Structured waist. It made Clark stand taller without meaning to. More confident. More—......

Elijah stepped forward again, slower this time. He adjusted the cuff, brushing his fingers lightly over Clark’s wrist.

“For the gala,” he repeated softly, “you don’t hide.”

Clark’s breath caught. The Kryptonian lenses in his glasses would protect him. His posture, his mannerisms—those were his disguise too. He could slouch. Soften his voice. Become smaller. But in that tuxedo? He didn’t look small. He looked powerful. It made him nervous. “You’re overthinking again,” Elijah said gently, as if reading him.

Clark blinked. “I am not.”

“You are.”

Clark’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Elijah smiled faintly. “The navy for tonight. The tux for the gala. The rest,” he waved dismissively toward the pile of rejected perfection, “was merely research.” Clark stared at the mountain of luxury fabric around them. “Research,” he repeated weakly. Elijah leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough. “And I’ve concluded something very important.”

Clark swallowed. “What’s that?”

Elijah’s smile softened. “You clean up dangerously well.”

Clark slipped back behind the curtain to change out of the tuxedo. He took a steady breath as he hung it carefully. The navy suit had already been selected for dinner. The tux for the gala. That was enough, more than enough. Finished changing he stepped out in the navy suit, curls slightly ruffled, glasses adjusted, he found Elijah speaking quietly with the male attendant a few steps away. Clark couldn’t hear what they were saying.
He assumed it was about tailoring. The attendant approached him with a polite smile and a clipboard. “If you would kindly write your address here, sir, we’ll have the tuxedo delivered tomorrow afternoon after final adjustments.” Clark nodded and wrote it down carefully.

“Everything will arrive by tomorrow.”

“Thank you” Clark replied.

Behind him, Elijah rejoined his side, expression calm and unreadable.

“Sorted?” Elijah asked lightly.

“Yes,” Clark said. “That was… efficient.”

Elijah’s lips curved slightly. “I try.”

The attendant gave a small bow of his head. “Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen.”

Elijah inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Clark added awkwardly, “Good night.”

They left. Clark never noticed the quiet instruction Elijah had given moments earlier.

The restaurant was quiet, elegant, and intimate. Soft lighting. Muted conversation. Crystal glasses. The host immediately brightened.

“Good evening, Mr. Harrington.”

Elijah gave a polite nod. “Good evening.”

“A table for two this evening? For you and your guest?”

“Yes.”

“Your usual table is prepared.”

Clark tried not to react to usual. They were seated at a beautiful corner table — angled slightly toward the main floor of the restaurant. From where Clark sat, the entrance was off to his right, visible past Elijah’s shoulder without much effort. Clark had taken to looking at anything but Elijah. What he was so scared of he wasn’t sure. Once seated, Elijah leaned forward slightly.

“Do you always analyze fabric stitching, table placement, and emergency exits when you’re nervous?” he asked mildly.

Clark blinked. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I’m observant.”

Elijah smiled faintly. “Fascinating.”

A waiter approached.

“Gentlemen. May I begin with drinks?”

“I’ll have the Château Margaux, 2009,” Elijah said smoothly.

“And for you, sir?”

Clark froze slightly. “I’m not sure.”

Elijah waved gently. “He’ll have the same.”

Clark looked at him.

“It’s an excellent vintage,” Elijah added softly. “Trust me.”

Clark relented. “Okay.”

The waiter nodded. “Excellent choice, sir.”

Once alone again, Elijah asked, “Anything in particular you favor?”

Clark hesitated. The menu was entirely in French. He recognized maybe three words. None of them helpful.

“Not particularly,” Clark said carefully. Then, after a small pause, he added with quiet honesty, “Though that may be because I don’t understand any of this.”

Elijah blinked.

Clark cleared his throat. “I do like dessert, though.”

“You could have said so,” Elijah murmured.

Clark adjusted his glasses. “I didn’t want to look… uncultured.”

Elijah leaned forward over the table, lowering his voice.

“Clark,” he said gently, “there is nothing uncultured about asking questions.”

Clark looked up at that. Elijah turned the menu toward him, angling it between them. His fingers rested lightly along the edge of the page — long, elegant, almost pretty.

“Very well,” he said. “Allow me.”

He tapped the first section. “This is duck confit. Slow-cooked. Crisp skin. Rich but delicate.”

His finger moved lower, tracing a neat line beneath the next item. “Sea bass — light. Refined. Safe choice.” Another smooth motion. “Lamb with rosemary reduction. Bold. Slightly indulgent.”

Clark wasn’t entirely sure when he stopped listening. The way his fingers curved slightly as he turned the page, the subtle movement of his wrist as he pointed — it was… distracting. Graceful. Clark swallowed and forced his gaze back to the menu.

“You make it sound less terrifying,” he admitted.

Elijah smiled faintly. “Food should not terrify you.”

Clark let out a quiet laugh at that — softer than he expected, genuine enough that it surprised even him.

Elijah looked up at the sound.

There was still a trace of laughter lingering in his own expression, like he might join Clark if given the excuse. The corner of his mouth tilted upward, eyes warmer — not teasing, not studying. Just… present.

Clark felt it.

For once, he didn’t look away. Elijah had leaned forward over the table, one hand still resting near the menu between them. He stayed where he was, close enough to see the faint crease near Elijah’s eye when he smiled.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The low murmur of the restaurant dimmed. The clink of glassware blurred into background noise. Clark wasn’t thinking about posture. Or exits. He was just aware of Elijah. And the way Elijah was looking at him. The moment felt longer then it was, almost as if time slowed down to a stop. He didn’t even realize his gaze had shifted at first, still in a trans from the moment. What had pulled him out? A flicker of light across polished floors. A subtle shuffle near the entrance?

No.

It was the feeling. That quiet, unmistakable sensation of eyes on him.
Clark’s gaze drifted — just slightly — past Elijah’s shoulder. And met Bruce Wayne’s deep ocean blue eye looking right back at him .

Bruce stood paused at the doorway, reporters and flashes momentarily redirected behind him. His date lingered at his side, but Bruce wasn’t looking at her.

He was staring directly at Clark.

Intensely. Focused. Clark couldn’t quite read the expression. Was he curious? Assessing? Something else? It lasted only a second. But it felt longer. Elijah noticed the change in Clark immediately — the way his attention had drifted. He turned slightly in his chair. His eyes followed Clark’s line of sight. And landed on Bruce. Recognition flickered across Elijah’s face. The intensity smoothed into something charming effortless, the billionaire smile.

Clark finally blinked, fully aware of the room again as Bruce approached their table.

“Elijah,” Bruce greeted casually. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

___

Bruce Wayne's POV

Bruce had never been careless with names.

Two weeks ago, when he’d encountered Clark Kent on that rooftop, he’d caught the name from the badge before the man could turn away.

Clark Kent.

He’d looked him up that same night. Journalist. Recently transferred. Strong investigative record. Not flashy — but thorough. Methodical and then there had been the detail Bruce hadn’t expected.

Superman.

Clark Kent was one of the few reporters the alien gave exclusives to. Bruce hadn’t liked that. He didn’t trust anyone with that kind of power — especially not someone who inspired blind faith and yet the journalist who seemed to have earned that trust had been mild-mannered, awkward unimportant and frankly? basically invisible in everything other than his work.

It hadn’t added up. So Bruce had dug deeper. Clark had broken several difficult cases. Financial corruption. Infrastructure misuse. Patterns most people overlooked. His detective instincts were sharp. Not on Bruce’s level.

But good.

Good enough that Bruce had made a quiet note to monitor him. You could never be too careful. In the following weeks, Clark had published two pieces in Gotham — one exposing neglect in public school infrastructure, another questioning food standards in underfunded districts.

Bruce had read both.

He’d made arrangements afterward. Quiet donations routed through subsidiaries. Directives to review municipal spending gaps.

-

Bruce stepped into the restaurant with composure. The flash of cameras followed him briefly before security redirected the press. His date murmured something about the attention. Bruce barely heard her. He was already scanning the room out of habit. That was when he saw Elijah.

Corner table. Angled toward the main floor.

And seated across from him— Clark Kent.

It took only a second to place him. Two weeks ago. Rooftop encounter. Glasses slightly crooked. Calm under pressure in a way that hadn’t matched the awkward exterior. Clark looked different now.

Not in appearance — the glasses were still there, the curls still falling forward — but in posture. In expression.

From the doorway, Bruce had a clear view of his face. Clark wasn’t tense. Wasn’t guarded. He was leaning slightly forward, listening. Smiling faintly at some thing Elijah had just said.

There was a warmth there Bruce hadn’t seen before.

Elijah leaned closer.

Clark didn’t retreat.

That warmth didn’t match the rooftop encounter. It didn’t match the composed journalist in print, either. It was… personal. Clark’s eyes shifted and met his.

Directly.

No panic. No fumbling. Just recognition. Bruce held the eye contact for a measured moment.

Clark didn’t look intimidated.

Interesting.

Elijah turned next, following Clark’s gaze. Recognition crossed his face. Bruce adjusted his cuff and let the public smile slide into place as he approached.

“Elijah,” he greeted lightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

His gaze moved briefly back to Clark. The journalist had layers. Bruce intended to understand them.

Elijah rose smoothly to greet him. “Bruce. I should have known you’d appear the moment something interesting was happening.” Bruce’s smile deepened slightly at that.

“I have impeccable timing,” he replied.

His gaze shifted to Clark again.

Up close, the journalist looked exactly as he had on the rooftop two weeks ago—mild posture, polite expression, glasses slightly askew. Nothing outwardly threatening. Nothing overtly remarkable.

And yet Bruce knew better than to measure people by presentation.

He extended a hand.

“Clark Kent, isn’t it?”

Clark stood quickly, almost knocking the table edge with his knee before steadying himself. He extended his hand.

“Yes. Clark Kent. Gotham Gazette.”

Bruce took it.

The navy-blue suit fit him impeccably. Structured through the shoulders, clean lines down the torso, tailored close enough to define without appearing deliberate. It complemented Clark’s frame in a way his usual rumpled attire never had.

Bruce had noticed he was attractive on the rooftop two weeks ago. It had been difficult not to.

But this?

With proper tailoring and posture adjusted by design rather than instinct?

Clark could have rivaled the men who walked Wayne-sponsored runways.

And Bruce knew exactly what those standards were.

His date—who had yet to receive more than a polite glance from him—was a model. He was intimately familiar with symmetry, presentation, cultivated beauty.

Clark’s appeal was different.

Less manufactured.

More… unintentional.

Which made it more interesting. Bruce released his hand smoothly. His grip was firm. Not overcompensating. Not weak.

“I’ve read your recent pieces,” Bruce said casually.

“The school infrastructure report was thorough.”

Clark blinked—clearly not expecting that.

“You’ve… read it?”

Bruce gave a small shrug. “I try to stay informed.”

That was technically true.

Clark seemed unsure whether to take the compliment at face value or search for something underneath it. His expression shifted subtly—calculating for a split second before smoothing again.

There it is, Bruce thought.

That flicker.

Clark wasn’t naïve. He was careful.

“Elijah keeps good company,” Bruce said, glancing between them now. “Though I suspect he’ll take credit for that.”

Elijah placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “I always take credit.”

Bruce allowed himself a small smile before turning back to Clark—casual now, not studying.

“I’ve read your recent pieces,” he said. “The school infrastructure report was thorough.”

Clark blinked slightly. “You’ve read it?”

“I try to stay informed,” Bruce replied evenly.

Before Clark could respond, Elijah reached out and lightly touched his arm—just above the elbow. The gesture was brief but grounding.

“See?” Elijah murmured quietly, leaning just enough for Clark to hear. “You’re doing perfectly well. Stop overthinking.”

Clark’s ears turned pink almost instantly. He dropped his gaze, lips pressing together in mild embarrassment.

Elijah laughed softly, shaking his head with fond amusement before turning back to Bruce.

“He does this,” Elijah explained lightly. “Keeps overthinking. He’s still unsure whether Gothamites will take to his writing. It’s new ground for him.”

Bruce’s expression shifted into understanding rather than scrutiny.

“Yes,” he said. “I know what you mean. Gotham can be… particular. People here tend to examine everything thoroughly.”

Clark looked up slightly at that.

“But,” Bruce added calmly, “they respect consistency. If you continue producing work with substance, you’ll earn their attention. Whether they agree with you or not.”

Elijah nodded approvingly. “There you are, Clark. Practical encouragement from the city’s most scrutinized man.”

Bruce allowed the corner of his mouth to lift faintly.

Elijah continued, “Hopefully tomorrow’s gala will be something you can enjoy—and use. A chance to get closer to the everyday Gotham citizen.”

He gestured lightly toward Bruce.

“Though you’ll also meet people like him, who are anything but ordinary.”

Bruce gave Elijah a pointed look. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

Clark gave a small, nervous smile, clearly still adjusting to being in the middle of this social triangle.

They spoke for another minute—light conversation about the gala’s expected turnout, city donors, the inevitable speeches. Bruce kept his tone easy, measured. Engaged, but not lingering.

Eventually, a subtle tug at his arm interrupted the flow.

His date.

She had remained silent the entire exchange, expression carefully neutral but patience visibly thinning. Her manicured fingers tightened slightly at his sleeve.

Bruce turned smoothly.

“Forgive me,” he said politely. “I seem to have monopolized your evening.”

Elijah waved him off. “As you always do.”

Bruce inclined his head toward Clark. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then, to Elijah, “Try not to corrupt him before then.”

Elijah smiled innocently. “No promises.”

Bruce allowed himself a quiet huff of amusement before guiding his date back toward their table.

For the remainder of the meal, he attempted to be present. He listened. He nodded. He responded when appropriate.

But his attention wandered.

Not obviously. Not enough to draw notice. Yet every so often, his gaze drifted—unintentionally—to the corner table.

The navy suit complemented Clark more than it had any right to.

It sharpened him.

Refined him.

Bruce found himself noticing the way Clark laughed—rare, but unguarded when it happened. The sound carried lightly through the room, warm enough to draw attention without demanding it.

He hadn’t expected that.

What could Elijah possibly be saying that loosened him so easily? On the rooftop, Clark had been careful. Measured.

Tonight, there were glimpses of something else entirely. Dry humor. A flicker of boldness beneath the awkwardness.

Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, listening to his date describe a recent campaign shoot. He nodded at the right moments.

Still, his eyes shifted again.

Clark was leaning forward now, clearly invested in whatever Elijah was saying. Animated in a way that suggested comfort.

Bruce found that more curious than he should have.

Four impressions.

Nervous and awkward, mild-mannered, Clark Kent. The composed journalist. The rooftop civilian who hadn’t panicked under Batman’s scrutiny. And this version—softened by candlelight, laughing without calculation.

Bruce did not like variables.

And Clark Kent, it seemed, had several, how many more did he have? how many layers?

-

Bruce watched the corner table until it finally cleared.

Elijah rose first, smooth and composed. Clark followed a moment later, adjusting his glasses as he stood. They exchanged a final word Bruce couldn’t quite hear before heading toward the exit.

Bruce tracked the movement unconsciously.

He hadn’t meant to.

But he had.

Once the door closed behind them, the restaurant felt noticeably less interesting.
His date resumed speaking, laughter light and rehearsed. She leaned closer now, fingers sliding along his sleeve with practiced familiarity.

Under normal circumstances, the evening would have followed its expected progression.

Dinner.

Public photographs.

A whispered rumor or two. Perhaps a hotel suite later—just visible enough to maintain the narrative. Bruce Wayne, charming and indulgent. Predictable.

That had been the purpose of tonight. To be seen, photographed. To remain exactly what the public expected him to be.

He reached for his wine, letting the glass tilt lazily in his hand. He even let his posture slacken slightly—just enough to sell the image.

But the performance had lost its rhythm.

His attention drifted, uninvited.

The corner table was empty now.

The absence irritated him more than it should have.

His date continued talking—something about a brand launch, or a photographer in Milan. He nodded vaguely, gaze unfocused. Ordinarily, he would have played along.

Stayed long enough. Left together. Let speculation do the rest. Tonight, however, the prospect felt exhausting.

Not because of Clark.

He refused to frame it that way but because the evening no longer interested him. Which is normal, this was a chore, not something he dose for pleasure.

He set the glass down with quiet finality.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short,” he said smoothly. “I have documents to review before tomorrow.”

His date blinked.

“Now?”

He offered a half-smile—the careless, slightly aloof one the tabloids loved.

“Unfortunately.”

She didn’t believe him. That much was obvious. And she wasn’t meant to. Bruce Wayne was not known for late-night paperwork. He was known for excess. For distraction. For irresponsibility. Leaving mid-date would only reinforce that image. He signaled for the bill before she could protest properly. When it arrived, he paid without looking at the total.

“I’ll have the car take you home,” he added.

The dismissal was clean. Unceremonious. By the time she processed it, he was already on his feet. A few heads turned as he left. Good. Let them talk. Let them assume he’d gotten bored. Let them assume he’d had too much to drink. Let them assume anything at all.

Outside, the night air was cool. He adjusted his cuff once, expression unreadable. He had not come here for Clark. And yet— He entered the car without finishing the thought.

“Home, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Bruce had not slept nearly enough.

The Joker’s escaping from Arkham had ensured that.

He had stayed out longer than usual the night before, extending patrol routes, recalculating contingency paths, adjusting response protocols. The city never stayed quiet after something like that—not for long.

And somewhere between drafting new fail-safes and reviewing Arkham security footage, his thoughts had wandered.

Unhelpfully toward a certain journalist. He didn’t dwell on it, he couldn’t afford to.

Morning had come too quickly.

Now he sat through his third board meeting of the day, the low drone of financial projections blending unpleasantly with the dull throb forming behind his right eye. The migraine had been building steadily since noon.

The amount of coffee he’d consumed had not helped.

If anything, it had sharpened the edge of it.

By the time he retreated to his office, a stack of files waited on his desk like a quiet accusation. He worked through them methodically, posture rigid, tie loosened and hanging over his shoulder.

A knock came at the door.

“Mr. Wayne?”

“Come in.”

His secretary stepped inside carefully. “Sir, I just wanted to inform you that the gala has most likely already started.”

Bruce glanced at the time.

He closed his eyes briefly and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have the car ready.”

When she left, Bruce shut his laptop, slid unfinished files into his briefcase, and pocketed his tie. He would take the paperwork home. Intended to finish it later.

Once home, he showered quickly.

The steam eased some of the tension in his shoulders but did nothing for the migraine.

When he stepped into his room, a mug sat waiting on the nightstand.

Soup.

Alfred.

A small note rested beneath it. "Please eat this before going out again, sir."

Smiling faintly. He took a slow sip. The warmth settled in his chest. Alfred always made the best soup.

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, though Alfred was nowhere nearby.

Once dressed—perfectly tailored tuxedo, mask of composure firmly in place—he headed out.

None of his children had agreed to attend.

He would endure the evening alone.

The moment he stepped out of the car, flashes began.

“Bruce!”

“Mr. Wayne!”

“Over here!”

Cameras exploded in white bursts of light. He Waving and exuding his Brucie charm. Once inside people swarmed him, questions about recent events, business deal, proposals to spend the evening together overlapped. Laughter. Music. Glass clinking. All of it too much.

The migraine pulsed harder behind his eyes.

He smiled anyway. Charmed the company he had, switched drinks to keep up the appearance of having to much and acting slightly reckless, moving through the crowd with practiced ease, greeting donors, exchanging polished pleasantries, allowing rumors to grow in the wake of his presence.

Do all that while— He searched. He told himself he wasn’t. That it was simply habit. Scanning a room. Identifying exits. Mapping threats.

But his gaze kept drifting.

Looking for what?

He knew.

He had fixations before.

They never ended well.

They were distractions.

And distractions was a liability.

Still— A glimpse of dimples across the room captured his attention. Wrong person. Broad shoulders near the bar.

Not him.

A familiar stance near the staircase.

No.

Did he not come?

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

He—

A laugh cut through the noise. Warm. Unrestrained. And there it was, he had heard that laugh before. never directed at him but it was memorable.

Bruce turned—not abruptly, never abruptly.

And found him.

Clark stood near one of the marble pillars, engaged in conversation, tuxedo sharp and devastatingly well-fitted. The structured lines made him stand taller. Stronger. Confident in a way Bruce hadn’t seen before.

Bruce almost stared.

Almost.

He was far too trained to make that kind of mistake.

The woman speaking to him paused mid-sentence when she noticed his attention shift.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce blinked once and returned his focus to her instantly.

“My apologies,” he said smoothly. “You were saying?”

She resumed.

He listened.

He responded.

But his was attention split for the rest of the evening.

Every time Clark laughed, Bruce felt it like a subtle shift in gravity.

He told himself it was observation.

Nothing more.

And then—

Clark disappeared.

Bruce scanned the room casually.

Once.

Twice.

No sign.

The migraine sharpened.

The lights felt harsher now. The noise louder. The air heavier.

He excused himself with practiced grace and moved toward the nearest balcony doors.

Cool air greeted him instantly as well as relief.

He stepped forward, fingers curling slightly against the stone railing—

And stopped.

He wasn’t alone.

Clark stood there, leaning lightly against the balcony rail, eyes closed. The city lights reflected faintly against his glasses. His posture was relaxed—unguarded.

For a moment, Bruce simply watched.

"Need some fresh air as well?" Clark said without looking towards Bruce. Having been noticed, Bruce signs and decideds to be somewhat honest.

"Yes, it quit stuffyy and humed innn theirr rght now" slurring his words, trying hard not to show an interest at least anymore then Bruce Wayne would actually

Clark’s lips twitched faintly. “Sounds rough,” he murmured.

Bruce leaned more heavily against the railing than he normally would have allowed, letting the appearance of mild intoxication settle naturally into his posture. To anyone watching through the balcony doors, he looked perfectly on brand—slightly flushed, expensive drink in hand, bored billionaire escaping a party he barely tolerated. Only Clark, standing close enough to notice the tightness around his eyes, seemed unconvinced.

“You don’t actually sound drunk,” Clark observed quietly.

Bruce glanced sideways at him. “And you sound far too observant for a gala guest.”

Clark smiled slightly at that, lowering his gaze toward the city below. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of Gotham drifted upward even this high—distant sirens, honking traffic, the low mechanical hum of a city that never truly slept. Clark inhaled slowly, visibly relaxing, and Bruce found himself watching the movement unconsciously before forcing his attention back toward the skyline.

“You clean up well,” Bruce said casually, before he could fully stop himself.

Clark blinked, then immediately flushed beneath the balcony lighting. “Oh.”

Brilliant response, Bruce thought dryly.

Clark adjusted his glasses awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“The suit was a good choice.”

Something small and amused flickered across Clark’s expression. “I didn’t exactly choose it.”

“Elijah?”

Clark groaned softly, tipping his head back against the railing. “He practically dragged me into the store.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I can imagine.”

“He picked everything,” Clark continued. “I think the sales attendants were starting to get emotionally invested in the process.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, the sound surprising both of them slightly. Clark looked over almost immediately, clearly not expecting it, while Bruce subtly straightened again, regaining control over himself before the moment lingered too long.

“You seem comfortable with him,” Bruce said, tone carefully neutral.

Clark nodded easily. “He’s nice.”

The simplicity of the answer irritated Bruce more than it should have. Nice. Not charming or overwhelming or even flirtatious—just nice. Bruce looked back over the skyline, jaw tightening faintly as the word settled very unpleasantly somewhere beneath his ribs.

“He talks a lot,” Clark added after a moment, smile faint but genuine. “But it’s kind of… easy around him.”

Easy?

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure why that bothered him.

Before he could get his thoughts in order the balcony doors slid open behind them.

The woman stopped abruptly upon seeing Bruce and Clark standing together. Clark stepped back instinctively, polite professionalism slipping back into place so naturally it almost felt rehearsed.

“um—Hello,” Clark said quickly.

The woman blinked between them. “Mr. Harrington was looking for you, Mr. Kent.”

Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Thank you.”

He glanced once toward Bruce before adjusting his cuff slightly. “I should probably head back before Elijah sends out a search party.”

Bruce inclined his head smoothly. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Clark smiled faintly. “You too.”

And then he was gone.

Bruce remained on the balcony for another minute after the doors shut behind them. The night air no longer felt quite as cool, and the silence he had come outside searching for now felt strangely occupied.

Bruce eventually pushed himself off the railing and headed back inside, the warmth of the ballroom hitting him immediately. Music swelled through the room while conversations overlapped into one constant blur of noise, but now that he had stepped away from it once, the atmosphere felt even more suffocating than before. He slipped the familiar Brucie Wayne smile back into place easily enough, accepting another drink from a passing waiter and allowing a woman near the staircase to hook herself onto his arm for appearances. Still, his attention wandered despite himself. Every so often, his gaze swept the crowd automatically, catching flashes of navy fabric that never quite belonged to the person he was looking for.

He found Clark again near the center of the ballroom beside Elijah, listening politely while one of Gotham’s older donors spoke far too loudly about stock markets and city restoration projects. Clark looked attentive in the way good reporters always did, nodding at the right moments while subtly guiding the conversation where he wanted it to go. Bruce watched him work from across the room, mildly surprised by how natural Clark seemed now compared to earlier in the evening. The nervousness was still there if someone looked closely enough, hidden in the slight adjustment of his glasses or the careful squaring of his shoulders, but he adapted quickly. Gotham either hardened people or swallowed them whole, and Bruce found himself wondering which direction Clark Kent would ultimately fall toward.

A burst of laughter pulled Bruce from his thoughts when Elijah leaned toward Clark and murmured something near his ear. Clark nearly choked on his laughter, coughing into his hand while Elijah looked entirely too pleased with himself. The sight irritated Bruce unexpectedly. Not enough to matter, certainly not to mean anything, but enough that he finished the rest of his champagne in one slow swallow before setting the empty glass onto a passing tray harder than necessary. The woman on his arm glanced up at him questioningly, and Bruce immediately relaxed his expression again before she could think too deeply about it.

“You looked ready to murder that glass,” she teased lightly.

Bruce smiled easily, smooth and effortless. “It offended me.”

She laughed, exactly as expected, but Bruce barely heard it. Across the ballroom, Clark was laughing again too, head tilted slightly downward while Elijah spoke animatedly beside him. Bruce hated how easy it was becoming to find him in a crowded room. Almost automatic in a way that definitely unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Fixations were dangerous enough on their own; unconscious ones were worse.

By the time Bruce finally left the gala, his migraine had sharpened into something unbearable. The city lights outside smeared slightly through the tinted windows of the car as he loosened his cufflinks and leaned his head back against the seat. Alfred’s voice came softly through the comm system a few moments later, calm as always. “You should rest tonight, Master Bruce.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “I’ll rest when Joker is back in Arkham.”

A pause followed that. “That was not a recommendation.”

Bruce ignored him, because underneath the migraine and exhaustion, something else continued bothering him. The Joker’s escape was too organized and clean. Joker enjoyed spectacle, chaos, blood in the streets and fear splashed across headlines, but this escape had been precise. It had minimal casualties, targeted interference, planned extraction routes. Someone had helped him, and whoever it was had enough intelligence to remain invisible afterward.

Three hours later, Batman crouched above Crime Alley while rain soaked through the cape pooling around his boots. The cold barely registered anymore. Below him, a black van sat idling outside a condemned pharmacy with its headlights off and fake plates attached crookedly to the bumper. Batman had been tracking the vehicle for nearly an hour after spotting it near one of the underfunded school districts Clark had written about earlier that week. At first, the connection had seemed coincidental. Gotham corruption spread everywhere eventually. But coincidences rarely survived long under scrutiny.

The van doors opened slowly, and two men stepped out carrying a heavy crate between them. One guard remained outside smoking while another barked instructions from inside the vehicle, his voice rough and impatient beneath the rainfall. Batman narrowed his gaze toward the markings stamped along the crate’s side. He could make out everything but some of it looked like medical transport. Chemical storage, perhaps. Illegal modifications had been scratched over the original serial numbers? Then, faintly beneath the rain and engine noise, he heard it. A child soft crying.

The sound was weak enough most people would have missed it entirely, but Batman suit picked up the soft cry. The guard outside lit another cigarette, completely unaware death was already perched above him in the dark. Batman moved without warning. The first man hit the pavement before he could even process the shadow dropping toward him, his skull cracking sharply against concrete. The second reached for a weapon, but Batman slammed him against the van hard enough to dent the metal inward before wrenching the gun from his hand.

The third man tried to run. A grapple line snapped around his ankle immediately, yanking him backward onto the flooded pavement with a scream. Batman crossed the distance in seconds and drove him unconscious with one brutal strike before turning back toward the van. Rain rolled from the edge of the cowl as he ripped the rear doors open, and for the first time that night, he was more then just angry.

Two children sat inside.

Drugged. Terrified. Barely conscious beneath dim yellow transport lights.

One still wore part of a Gotham Elementary uniform beneath a hospital restraint strap.

Batman’s jaw tightened violently as his eyes lifted toward the clipboard hanging nearby. A familiar district logo stared back at him from the paperwork clipped beneath. For one long moment, Batman simply stared at it while rain hammered against the roof of the van overhead.

Then he reached for the comm in his cowl.

“Oracle.”

Her voice crackled through instantly. “Have you found anything on the van?”

Batman kept his gaze fixed on the children. “I need every underfunded school tied to Gotham Renewal Initiative pulled immediately. Financials, medical partnerships, transport records. Everything.”

There was a pause. “…B is everything ok?”

His voice dropped colder.

“Now.”