Chapter Text
This was not how Bruce expected his day to go.
Ropes dug into his wrists, leaving them red and sore. And he, frankly, wasn’t having any of it.
It would’ve been so easy. It was a sloppy job, to be completely transparent. The warehouse was barely protected, save for the few guards who were engaged in mindless chit-chat. How had he managed to get captured by these bumbling fools? The mere thought left his pride aching. The ropes were barely even tied on properly, and there were at least 7 different escape routes he could identify from his position alone. He would need no more than 3 minutes to slip out of his restraints, turn the goons upside down, and get the hell out. But no. That’d just blow his cover. Convenient.
His knee bobbed up and down, jaw clenched impossibly tight. The lingering stench of cigarette smoke and filth was almost nauseating, and the droning noise of dripping water behind him only served to tick him off further. It's only a matter of time before someone shows up, he reminded himself, a sigh tumbling from his lips.
Bruce’s thoughts were broken alongside the sound of the skylight shattering above, introducing a blur of blue and red sweeping through the warehouse with elegance and ease. It was like watching flies dropping; an unknown current knocking each of the guards out cold before they could even hope to raise their weapons.
Well. This was not who he was expecting.
“Superman,” Bruce commented, effortlessly schooling his expression of genuine surprise, “I must say, you are not the knight in shining armour I was expecting.”
Clark turned to meet Bruce’s gaze, his mouth opening to respond, but the words withered on his tongue.
Oh.
He knew that Bruce had a reputation. One that coloured him as a playboy, a good-looking man that any girl would fawn over. But he hadn’t been expecting this. This, being the absolute artwork of a man that graced his vision, looking like he jumped straight out of some out-of-this-world romance novel with Michelangelo as the illustrator. From his straight, inky black hair, his jaw that seemed to be carved from stone, to his eyes- oh, don’t get him started on his eyes. They held such a profound depth, a universe Clark knew he would lose himself to if he wasn’t careful. They were expansive, the colourful variety of emotions clashing in ways that made Clark want to untangle them one by one-
“Will you untie me, or will you stand there staring all night?”
Clark blinked, snapping out of his momentary trance. He straightened up, clearing his throat. “Yes. Sorry. I just… you were the last person I was expecting here.” He murmured, sheepish yet as Superman-like as he could muster at that very moment. The Kryptonian moved forward, gently undoing Bruce’s binds.
“I could say the same to you, Superman,” Bruce mused, rubbing his sore wrists as they were pulled free, “I don’t believe this is your usual domain.”
Clark responded with a firm nod. “That is true, Mr Wayne. I have turned a blind eye to Gotham for far too long now. The crime rates of this city… well, lightly put, they far exceed that of Metropolis.”
“Ah. How noble.”
Clark raised an eyebrow at that response, watching the other man rise from his seat and dust off his suit (which had somehow remained impeccable throughout the whole ordeal of getting kidnapped). The man had this effortless grace to him, yet, beneath the flawless image, Clark sensed the underlying melancholy that was burrowed deep within. He was guarded, Clark realised. Heavily guarded.
“I’m grateful that you came to my rescue,” Bruce murmured, mindlessly adjusting the cuffs of his suit, “so tell me. How can I repay you?”
Clark’s eyebrows raised, and he quickly shook his head in disagreement. “No, no, this is not a transaction. I assure you. I could never take any form of payment. Especially for something that I aspire to do.” The Kryptonian was always firm on this. For him, this was not a job, but a responsibility. A necessity. What he seeked was to inspire hope in the hearts of the innocent, to protect the people of his found home. Never would he accept any form of compensation–
“Really? Nothing at all?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, although he wasn’t in the slightest surprised at Superman’s altruistic nature. “I would feel bad if I didn’t at least… help you with something.”
Clark cleared his throat, his thoughts conflicting with his usual ideals. He didn’t like asking for favours, but, since the opportunity expressed itself, he decided to give himself an exception just this once.
“... Well, the entire reason why I came to Gotham today was because… I’d like to reach Batman.”
That gets Bruce’s attention.
“... You wish to meet Batman,” he repeats, as if testing the idea on his tongue, expression infuriatingly unreadable, “I would have figured you’d find it relatively easy to track people down.”
“It’s not that simple. He’s good at covering his tracks.” A short pause. “Besides, I don’t wish to take that route. It could cause distrust, and something tells me Batman appreciates his privacy.”
A beat.
“So you want me to help you with that? That vigilante… he’s a bit of a nutcase. I think he’s secretly a vampire.”
Clark blinked slowly.
“Huh?”
“I’m kidding. Yes, I believe it will be quite simple.” The dry humour in Bruce’s tone was obvious, which caused Clark’s ears to flush slightly. “After all, he has a rather nifty nightlight.”
“Nightlight…? Oh, um, er, okay, cool.” Clark mentally facepalmed himself. “... I appreciate it, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, nonchalantly strutting out the warehouse as if he hadn’t been tied up 5 minutes ago.
Gotham was even stranger than Clark anticipated.
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Clark was feeling unusually restless. He tied each of the dazed goons up with unhurried ease and took off through the broken skylight above. Within the matter of minutes, he lowered himself and the criminals in front of the GCPD, leading to a rather unwelcome audience of startled police officers and civilians alike. His ears picked up the hushed whispers:
“Isn’t he that Super-guy?”
“Great. Just what Gotham needs. Another grown man in a costume playin’ hero.”
Clark tuned them out as he deposited the goons in front of the large building, offering a polite smile before taking off once again. For a moment, he just stayed, hovering above the brooding city. Yet his mind was swarmed with thoughts. Thoughts that he was utterly unfamiliar with.
“Get it together, Clark…” he chided himself, squeezing his eyes closed as if it could restart his brain like a computer. It didn’t.Instead, all he could see were the same few images flashing in his mind. The images of the most captivating man he had ever laid his eyes on. The images of those eyes that were burnt into his mind, clinging like stubborn leeches on his skin.
“What is wrong with me…”
Opening his eyes once again, Clark scanned the city with sharp eyes. His ears picked up all the little sounds: a little girl asking her parents for a doll, a couple calling out to a taxi, a man visiting his hospitalised mother.
Beyond the glittering skyline, a dying star becomes a beautiful supernova. When something as beautiful as a star dies, there is no end. Instead, there is an explosion of energy; light, sound, heat. The energy remains in a never-ending swirl of liveliness and light, bubbling with joy and a fondness for life.
The world is like a supernova.
At the end of a path, there is a new beginning, bursting with hope, triumph, and promises of more. On the bustling streets, people were constantly going on with their day. Even as we live under the same sky, we live the same day in a different way. Some got accepted; some were rejected. Some fulfil promises, goals, and ambitions. Some give up. Nevertheless, the world is filled with laughter and ambition to live life to the fullest.
Gotham was dark, but it was still home to the vast variety of humans Clark had come to love.
He had no time to fawn over a billionaire he just met.
Filled with renewed resolve, Clark descended once again, returning to the abandoned warehouse he had found Bruce Wayne in prior. Landing light on his feet, his eyes browsed the filthy area before zeroing in on the rope carelessly strewn beneath the legs of a wooden chair. Clark dragged his fingers over the texture of the grain before his eyes caught on a sharp glint of gold contrasting the dark wood. He picked it up, turning it in his fingers. A cufflink, the letter ‘W’ etched in luxurious print. Wayne.
He ran his thumb over the imprint, feeling the divots cling at his skin before pulling apart.
He wanted to see him again.
Wait, what? No, he got over this already. There’s no way he–
Still completely drowned in his own thoughts, Clark noticed something in his peripheral. Through the previously broken skylight—consequent to his elegant hostage-rescuing entrance—he saw it. A beacon in the darkness. A call. A warning. A tangible symbol of justice and vengeance. There, in the Gotham night, a bat took watch, the harsh yellow against the gloomy backdrop of the city a steady reminder.
The Bat was here.
Clark wasted no time, pocketing the cufflink and shooting up through the ceiling towards the source of the light. He felt like a moth drawn to a flame. Curiosity gnawed at him like an impatient thing, waiting for the revelation that would be vengeance wrapped in black on a Gotham rooftop. Rain slicked the gargoyles along Gotham’s skyline, turning stone into something almost alive. He flew briskly before gently lowering himself onto the rooftop, eyes locked on the dark silhouette before him; the man’s very posture emanating confidence and intimidation. Clark couldn’t help but be drawn.
The man didn’t turn, his eyes fixed on the city below as if it might confess something if he stared too long.
“You’re hard to track, Batman.”
“That’s the point.” Gotham’s wind tugged at his cape. He let it.
“I didn’t come to fight,” Clark continued.
Batman finally glanced over his shoulder, his gaze so sharp and piercing it felt like it was peeling back Clark’s skin. The lenses in his cowl narrowed, adjusting, measuring. “You never do. That’s what makes you a threat.”
Clark absorbed the words without flinching. “I came because something’s coming. Something neither of us should face alone.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched imperceptibly tight. He wasn’t surprised at Superman’s proposal. During their earlier encounter, he had anticipated it. That didn’t make him any less hesitant, however. The Riddler’s flood from years back had devastated Gotham, and while the streets have been wiped clean, the effect was still there.
The crime rates in Gotham skyrocketed, blooming like rot. Ink in water. Infection in flesh.
Exacerbated by Falcone’s death, Gotham’s criminal underworld only served to thrive, with the sharp increase in crime rates being a constant, mocking ringing in Bruce’s ear to remind him of his shortcomings. But it was also a reminder for change. For more. This was Bruce’s city; one that he was adamant to protect. And if he wasn’t enough for the city back then? He would go through Hell and back to make sure he was now.
Bruce turned fully now, rain beading on black armour. “You don’t know Gotham.”
“Maybe,” Clark replied, taking a small step forward, “But I know fear. And I know what it looks like when it’s organised.”
That elicits a scoff from Bruce. “You think I don’t?” He stepped closer, boots scraping stone. “I’ve spent years dragging this city out of the dark inch by inch. And you-” he gestured vaguely upward, toward the clouds, toward everywhere else- “you want to swoop in and call it a partnership?"
The response was blunt, and Clark sensed how the words held an underlying distrust of a metahuman’s powers, and a deliberate desire for control over what he saw as his city. Batman saw Superman as a potential threat rather than assistance, and the realisation made Clark’s chest tighten fractionally. But Superman didn’t rise to it. “I’m not here to take over. I’m here to stand beside you.”
“That’s the problem,” Bruce said sharply. “You can stand beside anyone. You’re not the one who has to worry about what happens when you fall.”
A beat. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.
“I fall,” Clark muttered quietly. “More than you think.”
Bruce’s gaze narrowed beneath the cowl and really studied him then. Not the suit. Not the symbol. The man. The hesitation. The choice to stay on the ground. The restraint that felt… deliberate.
“You could stop every crime in this city in a week,” Bruce said. “You don’t. Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t last,” Clark answered. “People don’t need a god hovering over them. They need someone who believes they can be better.”
Bruce’s laugh is humourless. “You’re in the wrong city for belief.”
“Maybe,” Clark responded, cape restless behind him, the red a stark contrast to the darkness enveloping the city, “but maybe that’s the whole reason I’m here. I’m not just some unpredictable force that’s threatening the balance you’ve created in Gotham. I’m here to help. Genuinely. Even if that’s not something you’re used to accepting.”
The rain intensified, ruthlessly drumming against armour and cloth. Bruce turned away again, his eyes scanning the streets below.
Clark shattered the momentary silence. “You don’t trust me,” he stated like he knew for certain.
“No,” Bruce replied bluntly, “I don’t.”
Clark stepped closer; not threatening, not imposing. Present. “You don’t have to. Not now. Just… let me help. Whatever this is. It’s bigger than Gotham. Bigger than Metropolis. I’ve just… I’ve got that hunch. And if we don’t work together-”
“Then what?” Bruce cut him off, voice sharp enough to cut through steel, “You’ll do it yourself anyway?”
Clark met his gaze, undeterred by Bruce’s cutting tone. “No. I’ll respect your decision.”
That gave Bruce pause. Just for a second.
“You’re asking me to put my city in the hands of someone who could level it by accident.”
“I’m asking you,” Clark corrected, “to hold me accountable.”
The words hung between them, heavier than rain. Bruce considered them. Really considered. Would he be able to maintain that control, that balance that he has tried so hard to perpetuate? With Superman in the picture, would criminals still see him as a threat? Would civilians still see him as a symbol of justice?
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “... this isn’t a yes.”
Superman nodded, a small, understanding smile gracing his lips. “Wasn’t expecting one.”
A distant siren wailed below. Gotham’s heartbeat. The very sound that Bruce had grown so accustomed to.
Batman spoke again, voice low in warning. “But if you’re lying to me… if you’re wrong–”
“I won’t be.” Clark cut him off. Then, softer, “And if I am… you’ll stop me.”
Bruce turned to look at him. “You seem awfully confident in that.”
Clark offered him a small, earnest smile. “I’ve heard you’re very good at what you do.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Just… there. Then–
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Clark straightened. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
That earns him a sharp nod from the other, the silence filled with understanding and a quiet respect for one another. Bruce fired his grapnel, cape snapping open as he vanished into the Gotham rain.
Clark remained on the rooftop a moment longer, listening to Gotham breathe; the scurrying footsteps of citizens, the sharp shrill of sirens, the wail of a children’s cry. This was Gotham. Heavy. Fractured.
Alive.
And now he was here to protect it.
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The descent into the Batcave always felt like Gotham was swallowing Bruce whole.
Carved from ancient limestone, the cave was vast and jagged, a cathedral sculpted by time rather than hands. Moisture clung to the air, carrying the scent of earth and machinery. The unmistakable silhouettes of shadows dwelled, longer than physics should allow, folding into corners that almost seemed engineered for secrecy.
Here, technology thrummed like a second ecosystem.
Behind monitors, wires snaked downwards like roots seeking deeper soil, vanishing into server stacks hidden in the lower recesses. Above everything, quiet yet undeniable were the bats themselves, woven through stalactites like words on a page.
“I’ve brought your tea, Master Bruce.” The butler approached, clean and stoic as ever, a practiced hand supporting a small tray of pleasantries and an expensive china set.
“Leave it.” Bruce peeled back his cowl, fingers gently plucking the advanced lenses from his eyes and returning them to their respective ports.
“Rather prickly today. Although I suppose that isn’t a rare phenomenon.” Alfred murmured dryly, placing the tea set on the desk despite Bruce’s words. He knew he would take it eventually.
Bruce didn’t respond, keyboard clacking beneath his fingertips as he accessed the recording footage from the lenses. Images filled the monitor: images of him.
“That is Superman.” Alfred mused, a mere eyebrow raised as if he were discussing the weather.
“He suggested a team-up. Said he ‘felt something coming’.” Bruce’s jaw clenched minutely, pulling up a sheet of flight patterns of the Kryptonian on a separate monitor, “You know what, Alfred? I hate that. The fact he felt unstable enough from pure instincts to require a partnership."
“Well, sir, I do hope his colourfulness transfers onto you. The cave is quite drab.”
Bruce just shot the butler a look.
“Besides, you said yes, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
“But did you say no?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.”
Bruce groaned and dragged a hand down his face as the butler sauntered off, way sassier than any butler had any right being, but not without turning one more time. “For the record, Master Bruce, I believe this opportunity will bear a good fate. And clearly, if you agreed, you internally believe it to be a good idea too.”
An inward sigh. “What is with everyone and intuition lately?” he mumbled under his breath.
Bruce reached his hand out, grasping the handle of the teacup and bringing it to his lips, eyes scanning the monitors as they accessed various articles regarding Superman.
He wanted to intrude on the action in his city? Fine. But if there’s even the slightest hint of him becoming a threat?
He’d stop at nothing.
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The deep scent of coffee wafted through the air, threading all throughout the bustling atmosphere of the Daily Planet: the restless heartbeat of Metropolis. The building was filled with whirring printers and sleep-deprived, caffeine-dependent journalists, the clacking of keyboards and clicking of mice a constant hum in the background.
Clark weaved through the various desks and reporters, clumsily adjusting his glasses as he slid into his cubicle. He began to work, joining the rest of his colleagues with the incessant barrage of computer work. Yet, his mind stayed elsewhere.
To yesterday. To Bruce Wayne. To Batman.
Clark hasn’t felt this way in a long time. His last had been Lois Lane, an amazing journalist and an even more amazing woman. He remembered how he had been when he first saw her: clumsy (even more than now), uncertain, and fresh out of college. To him, she was in a whole other league. Smart, confident, independent, beautiful… she was a whole package deal. He developed a crush within a day. She was onto him within a week.
It had been a few years after that, and they’ve grown to be good friends instead. And that was more than enough for the both of them.
“You’ve got that look, Smallville.”
Clark practically jumped out of his seat, startled, as he whipped his head back to meet Lois’ gaze.
“The what?”
She rolled her eyes, taking a small sip of coffee. “You’re so incredibly obvious, you know that?”
Clark shifted in his seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lois.”
“Uh huh,” she mused, unconvinced, as she leaned forward, a ridiculously smug grin on her lips, “so are you gonna tell me the lucky girl or do I have to start guessing?”
Clark cleared his throat, redness creeping up his neck as he shook his head. “It’s… not like that, Lois.”
Lois huffed, pushing her feet against the ground, forcing her chair to roll forward slightly. “Don’t play dumb with me, Smallville. I know that look. You’ve got a crush.”
Clark’s face immediately went 5 shades darker. “W-what? No…!”
“You can’t hide anything from me, Smallville.”
“... I’m not hiding anything.”
“You know I’ll figure it out soon enough, right, Boy Scout? I know you better than you’d hope.”
Clark groaned. “You will not figure it out because there’s nothing to figure out–!”
Footsteps rapidly approached the two of them, the gravelly sound of someone clearing their throat cutting off Clark’s words. “Lane, Kent, this doesn’t look like a productive work day to me.” Perry White’s booming voice cut through the air, making Clark straighten up almost immediately.
“I, er…”
“Lane,” Perry’s gaze focussed on Lois, who regarded him with a confident smile, “Bruce Wayne is holding a gala this Friday. I’ll need you to be there.”
Holy shit.
Clark didn’t even want to know how red his face was right now. The mention of that name, that Lois would get to see him, that she might even talk to him was way more exhilarating and also more… envy-evoking than he wanted to admit.
“This is going to be some good material for us. Bruce Wayne hasn’t made a major public appearance in ages. From what I’ve gathered, it’s about a new project the Wayne Foundation is embarking on. Take someone with you. I want the report finished and on my desk as soon as possible. The faster we publish, the better.” Perry stepped away before glancing back one last time, “And I want it faster than Gotham Gazette!” With that, the door to his office slammed shut.
The room was quiet for a moment. Too quiet compared to what Clark had associated with his workplace. Then–
“It’s Bruce Wayne.”
Clark felt his throat go dry, every swallow feeling like he was ingesting a cheese grater.
“What?” he squeaked out, voice pitifully high.
“Oh my god, it literally is.” Lois’ entire face lit up like she won the lottery as she wheeled her chair even closer to Clark’s cubicle. “You know, I really never would have guessed you’d fall for Mr Billionaire Playboy over there–”
“It’s not! I mean, no way, I would never, there’s not a chance, why would I– why would I ever fall for… for… no!” Clark stammered, entirely too aware that he was only digging his grave deeper.
Lois crossed her arms and leaned back against her chair, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Do you not realise how incredibly obvious you are to me, Farm Boy?”
Clark tried his best to come up with more excuses to stupidly spew out before abruptly being cut off once again.
“If you admit to it, I’ll let you come with me.”
Now that caught his attention.
An opportunity to meet Bruce Wayne again? In the same week? The infamous reclusive prince of Gotham with his beautiful eyes, and beautiful nose, and beautiful lips–
“And if you still refuse to admit to it, I have no problems bringing along Jimmy instead.”
The Kryptonian groaned. “Lois, you– that’s basically blackmail!”
“Oh, and now you’re being dramatic.” Lois straightened out, nudging Clark’s foot with her own. “C’mon, Smallville. If this is about Bruce Wayne being a guy, and you–”
“No, no, it’s not like that… I know you’d never judge me if I…” Clark sighed, slumping forward slightly, “... fine. You’re right.”
Lois grinned triumphantly, although her expression softened fractionally. “You know, with the way I always see right through you? It’s like I’m the one with x-ray vision.”
Clark coughed at that, adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “... so I can come with you, right?”
A laugh. “Sure you can, Smallville.”
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The manor was just as extra as Clark had imagined. Luxurious, golden chandeliers hung from the high ceilings as the wealthiest women and men in Gotham circulated the area with borderline rehearsed rhythm. Within the storm, servers moved with experience and ease, their hands supporting trays of an egregiously expensive champagne. Conversation flowed. Glasses clinked together. Laughter permeated through the air.
And Clark felt ridiculously out of place.
In the ballroom filled with prominent Gotham socialites with sparkly dresses, tailored suits, and plastered grins, there he stood: tacky blazer, loose-fitted dress shirt, wonky glasses. He was pathetically out of place. He was a page torn from a different book.
And he was still nowhere to be found.
Sure, it was somewhat a miracle he was even rumoured to turn up in the first place. But still, late to his own gala? Clark couldn’t help but feel… disappointed. Then, the doubts started to flood his mind. What if he doesn’t even show up?
“Don’t look so down, Farm Boy,” Lois said, strutting towards him in her elegant dress that made him look even tackier than before, “he still might show.”
“I wasn’t down. He doesn’t show up often anyway. Besides, he never lets anyone interview him.” Clark muttered, although he visibly deflated.
“Sure. But I at least wanted to see the man that’s got you hooked like some stupidly buff fish,” she teases, nudging the Kryptonian with her elbow.
Clark coughed, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “He’s literally famous. You can look up a picture or something.”
“Not the same.”
Clark sighed. His fingers fiddled with the strap of the lanyard dangling from his neck, eyes flitting around for anything even remotely newsworthy before something grabbed his attention.
The crowd ebbed with a new life, stretching and contracting like an interspatial rubber band. Conversation stopped, now replaced by low whispering and quiet giggling. It was like some invincible force disrupted the atmosphere, introducing its own magnetic field and drawing in everyone in its path.
Clark moved, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun they seemed to be orbiting. And there, in the eye of the storm, was him.
Bruce Wayne.
Oh, Rao.
His alluring aura was rolling off of him in waves, drawing people in left and right. Clark watched as a young woman’s hand brushed his arm, slow and seductive. Something in Clark’s chest twisted at that. This was so stupid. Bruce was so handsome, so popular, and he was surrounded by people that actually… looked good with him. He, on the other hand, looked like his closet consisted solely of clothes from a cheap vendor and spent his free time reading books and trading cards. Why would he ever look at him?
From the centre of the crowd, Bruce’s eyes drifted. Over the fake smiles. Over the overly friendly gestures.
And then their eyes met.
And they lingered.
Bruce was surrounded, soft whispers and gentle touches filling his every sense, and yet his gaze didn’t budge. Their eyes stayed locked together, and Clark didn’t dare move.
He felt someone shove his back. Lois.
Clark swallowed, and his feet moved on their own. He weaved his way through the various bodies, eyes staying locked on Bruce who still looked his way. The girl still hanging on his arm seemed slightly irritated, her nails digging into the fabric of his blazer with barely concealed desperation. But Bruce didn’t seem to care.
Clearing his throat, Clark spoke as he finally stood a few feet in front of Bruce. “Mr Wayne, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he held up his Daily Planet ID, the plastic surface reflecting the light of the chandelier above, “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. I know you must be a busy man, but I’d like to ask if I could have the privilege to interview you regarding the new project the Wayne Foundation will be undergoing?”
He knew he’d say no. The man was silent for too long, and he hadn’t allowed anyone to interview him in years, and he had much better things to do–
“Sure.”
Clark’s throat went dry. “Sorry?” he squeaked out almost pathetically. He was hoping Bruce hadn’t noticed.
“Come. Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Bruce effortlessly slipped away from the woman and the rest of the crowd, eliciting murmurs and surprised gasps as Clark stumbled behind him.
This is real, this isn’t made up, it’s actually real.
He felt his cheeks burn from the weight of the eyes on him, but he tried to remain calm. He couldn’t let Bruce notice he was freaking out.
The two of them approached a room far from the rest of the gala, the room’s silence a stark difference to the commotion outside. They were alone. Just the two of them.
Bruce ambled towards a chair, steps measured and confident. As he sat down, he gestured towards another chair, offering it to Clark. The Kryptonian dragged the chair forward until it was a few metres from Bruce’s and took a seat. He loosened his tie, the atmosphere in the room suddenly suffocating.
“Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you,” Clark began, steadying his voice as best he could, “would you be alright if I recorded this conversation?”
Bruce just shrugged. Clark swallowed, quickly reaching into his pocket and taking out his recorder, pressing the small button and placing it on his arm rest. He cleared his throat as he got his notebook and pen ready, Bruce’s gaze heavy. Clark could barely breathe. Barely move. But he needed to.
“Right, so… this new project… you are funding research regarding stem cells?”
Bruce hummed. “That is correct. In my eyes, stem cells will… revolutionise healthcare worldwide. And it starts here, in Gotham.” His eyes stayed locked on Clark’s, not glancing away even for a moment.
“Basically,” Bruce continued, his fingers drumming against his thigh, “stem cells are unspecialised cells. They can develop into many different specialised cell types, meaning they can essentially aid in replacing cells lost due to injury, disease, or age. I guess it’d help to think of them like… a key, capable of opening many different locks.”
Clark stared at his lips as he spoke. He caught himself before Bruce noticed (at least, he hoped), choosing to look at his notepad instead. “What are you hoping will come from this research?”
“Well, the people at Wayne Enterprises are looking into machinery that can help… manipulate these stem cells. Think of it as a 3D printer, but instead of plastic filaments, these cells can be utilised to… engineer various different types of organs and tissue.” Bruce’s fingers pinched and pulled at the fabric of his trousers, which hugged his thighs just right. Clark tried not to look. “The overall process will be efficient if perfected, and will definitely save numerous lives in the near future.”
Clark nodded along, diligently jotting down notes in his notepad. He felt Bruce’s gaze on him, still locked on his face. Clark felt like some sort of exhibition; a butterfly nailed onto a corkboard or a mosquito preserved in resin.
“That’s very fascinating. I can definitely see the significance this could have on modern healthcare. If you don’t mind me asking, how–”
“Where did you get your glasses from?”
Clark paused, lips sealing shut from sheer surprise. Why did Bruce Wayne want to know where he got his glasses from? It felt like his lips were bound in concrete, but he quickly peeled them apart.
“Uhm… I just got them from some random optical store in Kansas. I’m, uh, from there.”
“Hm. They look nice.”
Now Clark was just confused. Flattered, yes, but mainly confused. Because they were not good glasses, and they weren’t meant to be. They were meant to be the most standard glasses out there, like red roses in a flower shop or black shirts in a clothing store. Nothing special. And yet they caught Bruce Wayne’s attention. Something about it uneased Clark, making him shift in his seat.
“I’m sure you could find something much nicer, Mr Wayne.”
The only response he’s graced with is a quiet huff; almost a laugh but not quite.
Clark felt the sweat of his palm seep into the paper, making it soft and translucent like sugar meeting water. He wiped his palms on his trousers.
“Anyways, continuing on with the interview… would you mind explaining how the unspecialised stem cells become specialised?”
“There are probably better people you can ask, since I am no expert,” Bruce started, leaning back comfortably in his seat, the display a stark contrast to the growing unease settling in Clark’s gut, “but I can probably give you a brief overview. Basically, a combination of internal factors and external factors from the cells’ environment or neighbouring cells can turn specific genes on or off. This basically allows a stem cell to become a heart muscle, or a neuron, or a blood cell, or, really, any other type of cell. It all depends on the cues received. It goes without saying that it isn’t impossible for humans to influence the kind of cells produced.”
His pen glided over the damp paper as Clark nodded, trying to ignore the rising heat in his cheeks. Why was listening to him talk like this so hot? Clark didn’t know if he should feel turned on or weirded out. Irritation flared as ink struggled to mark the moistened paper. His pen tip repeatedly ran over the same spot in hopes of marking it, like a knight’s sword hoping to dent armour. He’s snapped out of his thoughts as Bruce’s voice filled the room again.
“How long did you live in Kansas?”
Okay, this is officially weird.
The glasses question was already strange, but this? This strangely intimate request into Clark’s private life? A million questions flooded into Clark’s mind—a stubborn tsunami he couldn’t fight. Why did he want to know? Is this his way of wanting to get out of the interview? He wouldn’t actually care about this information… would he?
“I… I lived there for a while. Was born there… went to college there…” Clark answered, voice soft but a bit more gravelly than usual.
“Interesting,” Bruce slung a leg over the other. Clark tried not to look. “I’ve never been. To Kansas, that is. Nice place?”
“It’s, er… nice. Yeah. You probably wouldn’t find it very interesting, though.”
That elicits a snort from Bruce. “Trust me, Mr Kent, it doesn’t take much to interest me.” His voice lowered dangerously. A beat of silence followed.
“Right. Um. Let’s, uh, let’s continue with the interview.”
The interview dragged on, the low sound of Bruce’s voice filling every space of Clark’s mind—he talked of human biology, technology and engineering, figures, statistics—words that didn’t quite infiltrate fully. He nodded along, a smile plastered on his lips that didn’t quite meet his eyes.
And the entire time, Bruce never looked away.
He watched as if he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Like he had a gun pressed to the back of his head. Like if he turned for even a second, his brain would get blown out of his skull. And that unsettled Clark. More than he’d like to admit.
Bruce’s lips kept moving, chewing over his words and spitting them out like they’d been rehearsed a few hundred times in the mirror. He didn’t stutter. He spoke like he was performing, each word meant to draw Clark in closer like some dog on a leash.
But, Rao, his eyes.
They told a vastly different story to the words coming from his mouth.
They were the exact same as when they first met.
Melancholic. Lonely. So guarded, yet somehow so expressive.
Clark was pretty certain most people didn’t realise. Because he was also certain not many people looked at him. The man, not the idea. And Clark was more observant than most people. Where they saw a pretty, rich man, he saw a troubled one. Pretty, yes. But troubled. And it tugged harshly at Clark’s heart.
They wrapped up the interview smoothly. They shook hands briefly, the touch electric, before Bruce effortlessly filed into the ballroom once again. He mingled with the various participants of the gala, an easy smirk on his lips as people tripped over their feet for a chance to talk to him. It felt like watching a play: the spotlight permanently fixed on Bruce’s figure as others crawled to share his light yet, no matter the effort—the desperation—remained in his shadow. Natural, but rehearsed. Smooth, yet recognisable. Tidy. Nothing was out of place.
“How’d the interview go, Smallville? Managed to keep it in your pants?”
Clark startled, twirling around to stare at Lois with comically widened eyes, his face deepening into a bright crimson. “Lois!”
Lois laughed, clearly amused. “Relax. I’m just teasing,” she grinned, nudging her shoulder against his. “But seriously, though, what went on in there? I’m dying of curiosity right now.”
“Listen, I…” Clark turned in the direction of Bruce once again, watching as he tipped champagne past his lips, before turning back to Lois. “I’ll tell you after the gala. Okay? Let’s grab dinner before we head back to Metropolis.”
Lois sighed but nodded in agreement. “Fine. But I want all the details,” she murmured with a wink before sauntering away again, going headfirst into a large crowd of Gothamites.
Clark’s shoulders visibly slumped as he was left alone once again, his large hand running through dark locks.
This was one hell of a long night.
Finally, after what felt like 3 minutes and 3 days simultaneously, the gala wrapped up. Gothamites began to filter out of the manor, the space slowly diluting in population. Clark found Lois again, who was buzzing with the energy of champagne in her system.
“Drank too much, didn’t you?”
“Ridiculous, Smallville. I only had one glass for the mood.”
“Strange. Because you look way more giddy than usual.”
“You’re just saying that because you have no idea what it feels like to be drunk,” she teased with her signature grin.
“That’s because I can’t. My metabolism is too fast for that.”
“You’re so boring sometimes.” She rolled her eyes with a chuckle, pulling out her phone. She scrolled a bit, still keeping in time with his steps. “There’s a nice bar close to here that’s open. How’s that sound?"
Clark shrugged in response, turning towards the manor one last time. Bruce was already gone.
“... yeah. That sounds good.”
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Footsteps, loud and hurried, echoed throughout the vast space of the Batcave. Bruce scrambled into his seat with an unfamiliar haste as he shucked his contacts off of his pupils, the Batcomputer efficiently accessing the footage taken that night. His finger repeatedly abused the forward arrow, skipping through the material. Various faces appeared. The system accessed information, showcasing names, ages, and occupations. Then came him. Clark Kent. Bruce clicked, accessing his file.
Name: Clark Kent.
Age: 26.
Occupation: Journalist
Workplace: Daily Planet.
Place of Origin: Smallville, Kansas.
No social media platforms. No available pictures aside from his ID photo. He was practically invisible, hiding in plain sight. Insignificant. Unimportant.
At least, he should be.
Because the reality was, to Bruce, he was anything but.
Each time the feed was pointed at Clark, it flickered. Subtle, yet there, like a single ripple in a vast ocean. Invisible to most. But not to Bruce. His contacts were an amazing technological feat, the nanotechnology within some of the most efficient the world had to offer. It never glitched. And yet every single time he looked at that tacky reporter, the feed would waver as air would in heat. Even if it was brief, Bruce caught it.
The sound of Clark’s voice—firm yet unable to hide the backbone of nervousness and unease—filtered through Bruce’s brain, his every thought consumed by the journalist on screen. What secrets were he hiding? Bruce had to know. He needed to know or else his skin felt like it’d light on fire, where the only thing capable of extinguishing it were the ins and outs of Clark’s very being. He wanted to inject him into his veins, to feel the pulse within his blood, to feel their hearts beat in tandem until there was nothing left he didn’t know.
Because if there was one thing Bruce hated, it was not knowing.
His eyes never left the screen. Not even once. They remained glued on the monitor with an obsession—a compulsion—that Bruce hadn’t realised he was capable of. He consumed the information on his file like a drowning man would consume oxygen. He couldn’t get enough. He couldn’t—
His eyes zeroed in on the words on the screen. So little. Yet they spoke volumes. Bruce stood. Donned his suit. Then disappeared into the night.
The trip to Metropolis was over in a matter of mere minutes. The Caped Crusader navigated the streets as if he were part of the shadows, the darkness bending to his every movement. His steps were feather-light, like an owl approaching its prey. Bruce finally paused once he reached a building. An apartment complex.
Swiftly, he grappled onto a balcony, pulling open the window that was left unlatched.
Clark Kent’s apartment.
Bruce bit down the rising taste of bile and guilt, his eyes scanning every corner of the room. It was normal. Books on shelves, dirty dishes in the sink, an unfinished cup of coffee sitting forgotten on the dining table. Everything was where it should be. It was the kind of apartment he’d expected an ordinary journalist to live in. But that just made him more certain of his hunch.
He carefully reached into a compartment in his utility belt, producing a tiny, black spider. Its legs navigated Bruce’s glove; not out of curiosity, but out of algorithm. Within its beady eyes, thousands of wires wove and tangled in a hideously small amalgamation of red, black, and blue. A seamless cover; Bruce’s very own eyes hidden in plain sight. He planted the camera on the wall, watching as it climbed its way up into the dusty corner already accompanied with the remains of an old cobweb. Perfect. Seamless. Undetectable.
With one final glance around the apartment, Bruce slunk out, disappearing into the night.
“Hey, Lois? You got home safely, yeah? Right. Good.” The doorknob twisted open as Clark stepped inside, taking off his shoes with his phone propped up against his shoulder. “Yeah. Just got back too. See you tomorrow.”
He hung up the call, eyes scanning the room with the relief of returning to his silent reprieve.
“Shoot. I left the window open…” Clark muttered with a groan, shutting the window and securing it tight.
Bruce watched through the feed as Clark retreated into his bedroom, jaw screwed tight. He had no time for guilt. Only answers.
Clark was an anomaly, one that Bruce had not seen coming.
He would untangle all his secrets one by one, in utter silence and darkness.
And by the time Clark realised?
It’d already be too late.