Chapter Text
The air always became colder while he flew over Gotham. A feeling of foreboding filled his chest with a ghost of pressure as he hovered toward the lonely figure sitting grouched on the head of a gargoyle. The statue was grinning like knowing Clark’s invulnerable skin wasn’t going to prevent his teammate from tearing him a new one.
“We-eel, yeah…” he began as they had changed their brief greetings. Batman was not the one for the idle talk when on patrol, and what Clark had to say would make him pissed off anyway. No reason to make the situation any worse. “Remember when we had the League meeting, and you told us to stay out of your city? It is a funny story.”
The trademark glare tossed in his direction told him Batman was thinking otherwise. Clark was not the player anyone wanted to partner themselves in a poker game. He got too many tells, but he was a reporter, and awkward situations were nothing new to him. The charm was to prepare, and Clark had given his speech lots of thought.
The mess he was in wasn’t his fault. He had avoided Gotham as Superman. But then his colleague had fallen ill, and their boss had needed someone reliable to write about the Wayne Foundation Charity Gala. Its new project would improve the housing conditions of many unprivileged citizens of Gotham. The theme had plugged chords with Clark’s socially conscious heart, but he had soon found out why there had been no other eager volunteers. After observing a few hours of the drunken shenanigans of their host and trying in vain to get any serious statement out of the man, he started to believe Bruce Wayne’s reputation as an airhead heir of the great fortune was well earned. He had been ready to put the final dot into his report when a sudden incident had forced him to rip his notes and start considering the situation from a new angle.
It was Gotham, and when there were lots of rich people in the same place at the same time, it usually happened that some member of Batman’s weird rogues’ gallery made its appearance. This time it was the short guy with the killer umbrella. Clark flashed to the second floor, only to notice his chosen spot wasn't empty; there was a familiar figure changing his wardrobe into more kick-ass comfortable.
Clark had backed off and left Batman to do his thing, which he again did with ruthless efficiency. After the police had arrived to pick up Penguin and his flog of unconscious or batted-up crooks, Clark had made a few feeble attempts to contact Bruce Wayne, but his heart was not in it. What would he have said? So… you like it as rough as your most recent sex tapes told us, wink, wink.
Batman wouldn’t take his outing well, not even among the members of the Justice League. Oh boy. That one he had gotten right on the nose.
“You are trying to make me believe you haven’t known all this time?”
The suspicious sneer made Clark forget he should be more embarrassed than dignified. “Of course I didn’t know your civilian identity! I would never be so unrespectful. I haven’t spied any of my teammates with my powers. It was a coincidence. It is not like you haven’t known my real name from day one.”
That was because Clark and all his other teammates had told their identities themselves. There had been only one exception to the rule.
“Go home, Superman”, he said, and there was no reading of his tone or his frustratingly plain words.
“Alright, B. But what about… Are we good?”
The silence lasted a tad longer this time. Then he was given that suspicious glare again. “Hrrn. Any reason we wouldn’t be?”
That man! How come a guy with no meta powers whatsoever made him feel like poor Damocles, not able to enjoy his grapes while a sword was hanging over his head.
Clark didn’t need to wait long for a retaliation. Or was he being paranoid? After the gala, anything Bruce Wayne relating made him a bit hysteric.
“Perry, NO!”
Let’s correct: a lot of hysterics.
The half of the office copied his editor's astonished look. “Perry please”, Clark continued with more muted tones, “sent somebody else.”
“There is no one else”, Perry huffed, frustrated. “That man has scared off or seduced all my best reporters, excluding Ms. Lane, who threatened Wayne and me with bodily harm if she had to spend one more minute in the same room with that lecherous idiot. You know our figures; if Mr. Wayne gets even his hairdo tussled, Daily Planet will never recover from the lawsuit.”
“I refuse then too”, Clark whined. “I will… I will scratch his car with my keys or something. And what is the use to interview him, when everybody knows the acting CEO of his company is Lucius Fox.”
As soon as he had said the words, Clark felt as if he was slandering his teammate. Due to his confusion, Perry managed to end their conversation. The information was still new, but Bruce Wayne was Batman, and Clark would better learn to think his identity that way. This time there was no danger to be grouped or leered at during the interview. The silence around him and the Bat would be as thick as his ma’s mashed potatoes, which was much scarier. Clark didn’t exactly say he would have preferred Brucie’s wandering hands, but it was a close call.
Using the private elevator in the Wayne Tower was like ascending the stairs to the gallows.
“Your two o’clock is here, sir”, the assistant announced into the intercom when Clark arrived at the lobby. First, there was no answer. If his teammate wanted to keep up the appearances, he had forgotten the interview and made an extempore trip to his yacht, where he was partying with supermodels.
No such luck. As the door to the office opened, the man in question was sitting behind his desk, and Clark meant sitting, not lolling like an overcooked spaghetti all over the place as Brucie Wayne liked to show himself.
“Mr. Kent.” A raised eyebrow seemed to judge his cheap and too big suit jacket, his scuffed oxfords, and the ugly tie with yellow ducks he used only to irritate Lois. “I was told you were somewhat reluctant to meet me in person.”
Clark had wiped the office and detached half a dozen hidden cameras and listening devices. But what else was to be expected from the paranoid guy like Batman? If that meant he had to play along and act like they didn’t know each other from other circumstances, Clark could do him a favor. He knew what a pest keeping your secret identity secret could be.
“Are you nervous, Mr. Kent? I just wondered because you were more than a little persistent when you met Brucie last weekend.”
Clark wanted to roll his eyes. The third person always did the trick.
“Please, sit down.” Bruce Wayne sat back on his nice black chair. Clark’s chair was white leather and so small and uncomfortable for his big frame he suspected he had fallen victim to his teammate’s practical joke. “Would you like some refreshment? Coffee? Water?”
He shook his head, realizing what was lacking from the cater. There was no bar but the side table with strictly non-alcoholic beverages, which was only logical. There was no way Batman could have fought twenty armed crooks while sloshed.
“I detach a mild confusion. As I said I assume you met Brucie.”
There was again that royal way to talk about oneself. Perhaps people born with a silver spoon in their mouth were like that. It was a mild disappointment to realize his teammate didn’t order respect only because of his enormous skill set but also because of his assumed heritage. “I…tried to interview you, sir, but you are quite elusive when you want to be.”
That earned him a brief, unamused twist of the lips. “Very well. But you work with… him .”
Eight cameras, Clark reminded himself. No wonder his host didn’t want to speak directly about their other meetings. Clark nodded.
The man behind the scary-shiny desk seemed to lose some tension around his eyes and shoulders.
“He doesn’t know about me.”
And now Clark had again lost the thread. “He doesn’t?”
“Do I have to repeat myself constantly? I expected more intellect from a Pulitzer short-listed journalist. Or was that only a lucky break?”
Clark tilted his head. The manner, voice, expressions, everything was different from the man Clark had a misfortune to follow in the charity gala. Bruce Wayne was an Oscar worth performer.
“I am still listening if you want to explain the situation to me. Preferably with short words.”
“Very well”, his host sniffed. “How much do you know about dissociative identity disorder?”
Not short enough words. “Excuse me?”
His confusion brought out a frustrated sigh. “Am I speaking some foreign language, Mr. Kent? I assume any civilized person, who journalists at least used to be, is familiar with the term.”
“Yes, of course. But what that had to do…”
No way. “Are you telling me that Bruce Wayne I met at the gala… he is not an act?”
“He doesn’t know about anyone else. He thinks he is the Bruce Wayne. And he doesn’t expect nothing more of his time than his next drink or a willing warm body.”
The distaste of his words was a tangible thing, and Clark had to swallow his giggle.
“So what you are saying…. You have multiple personalities?”
“Obviously. I can assure you, Mr. Kent, it is quite exhausting to sit at the breakfast table and open the morning paper, not knowing if that idiot has messed everything up again the previous night.”
The current Bruce Wayne smiled like an unhappy barracuda in his ten-thousand-dollar power suit. “We have had… an arrangement. He is allowed to live his life freely if he doesn’t do anything too dangerous or unsavory. But recently it’s like he is for some reason coming unhinged.”
“I am sorry to hear that, but I am not sure what…”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Excuse me?”
“There is an important business meeting coming. Unfortunately, our business partners are from a respectable and also very traditional family. They have already once cut our negotiations short because of reputational risk. I assume you see the extent of my problem in its whole banality. I will pay you five, no, let’s make it ten thousand dollars a day if you go as his plus one to the parties during the next couple of weeks.”
“You will pay me that much to keep you from your drinks?”
Perhaps Clark had earned an icy stare. “I am teetotaler, Mr. Kent.”
Of course he was.
“Mr. Wayne…”
“When we are in private, you can call me with my real name.”
“And that is?”
“Wayne.”
Of course it was. “Wayne, I am not sure what you are asking from me. Are you coming out with your medical condition?”
“Not voluntarily, no. On the surface, this situation may seem like a vast competitive advance. In reality, any hint of instability or problems will make the market restless. Our stockholders would assume cuts and the first ones to go will always be our most generous charity endeavors, which in turn will affect our reputation in a diminishing way. This may create a negative cycle.”
They both know what his confession meant. Wayne was trusting Clark with his damaging secret. People did have an exhausting tendency to trust Superman. Noticing the practice applied even to his overly cautious teammate made Clark feel humbled. “I see. Any reason why somebody closer to your person can’t keep an eye on him?”
Wayne dropped his gaze. “We have tried. He is slippery.”
You could say that again. The speed with which Brucie had changed into Batman and back again told Clark he would also be unpredictable. “Let’s see if I have understood you right. It seems you are searching for more than some reporter guy from Kansas.”
“That is correct.”
“You don’t think that is an exaggeration?”
“No, I don’t Mr. Kent.”
Clark considered a second. The guy in front of him was stiff-necked as a broom handle and also plain rude from time to time. It was as if he had left his patience and dark sense of humor in the pocket of his other costume. But there was no hiding yourself from Clark’s abilities. Under his blank face Wayne was agitated, and according to his roaming stomach acids, on the edge of desperation.
“Alright”, Clark sighed. Perhaps this would be a case that needed Superman. “Do you have a plan for how we will proceed? How do I contact him? Does he know about the arrangement, or should we think of some excuse to be in his proximity? Does he need babysitting only on certain days or all the time until the papers are signed?”
Clark halted his questions as he noticed the bewildered expression on Wayne’s face. It was gone in a fraction of a second but left Clark an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was there some other complication to add to those already mentioned?
“You will do it? For ten thousand? You are a bad negotiator, Mr. Kent. I was ready to raise the fee as high as fifty.”
Wayne didn’t joke. Twisting in the corner of his left eye told Clark he would have a bombing of tics any minute now. When does he sleep, Clark wondered. His body couldn’t have much spare time after spending his days in the company and his nights in the street of Gotham. Was that Brucie persona his subconscious way to relax from his duty-filled life? If that was the case, it was a lousy stress relief.
“Wayne, you are part of the team. A friend. You don’t have to pay me anything. Of course, I will help you both.”
That earned him an incredulous huff, which turned into a coughing fit. Wayne took a sip from his glass. Water, as Clark knew after using his microscopic vision. “And one more thing Wayne.”
“What is it, Mr. Kent?”
“Friends usually call me Clark.”
Wayne breathed in, briefly closing his eyes. Perhaps this was a kind of exclamation that for him needed careful consideration. “Very well… Clark. I give you a number of my butler, Mr. Pennyworth. He will make the actual arrangements. And about your reason for this visit. Here.” Wayne pushed a neat stack of papers across the table. “I was away, so you interviewed my acting CEO, Lucius Fox. I assume the questions and answers are for your satisfaction.”
They were, and the same ones he had written down before their meeting. Clark would have been more surprised if Batman hadn’t hacked himself into the Daily Planet already ages ago.
“Thank you, Wayne.”