Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham was overwhelming. Clark thought he'd gotten used to life in the big city, with the constant noise, the smells, and the general assault on his senses. He thought he'd gotten pretty good at drowning all that out. 

Then he arrived in Gotham this morning – his first big assignment from Perry; it felt like he'd finally proven himself to the man – and his confidence had gone right out the window. 

Gotham was louder than Metropolis, more crowded, and on top of that, filled with lead. It messed with Clark's eyes even when he wasn't using his x-ray-vision, made his vision spotty and created strange flickers and shadows in his periphery that made him flinch. 

Additionally, Gothamites weren't the friendliest of people, and especially (understandably) not after the tragedy they'd just endured. Still, it made Clark even more aware of himself, of his broad shoulders, the fact that he was taller than everyone around him and constantly had to work not to bump into someone. He didn't want a confrontation because he accidentally mowed someone over, and he definitely didn't want to intimidate these people. 

He would be representing the Daily Planet at a press conference later that day, the first one Bruce Wayne was giving ever, and it revolved around his plans to become more active in his company and help Gotham through this crisis. 

Clark felt he first needed to see with his own eyes the damage that had been done to the city, the pain and suffering Riddler had caused, before he could judge the viability of Bruce Wayne's plans. But it was also penance, at least partially, because Clark had been on the other side of the world when the bombs went off and the seawalls crumbled – even Superman couldn't save everyone – and the least he could do was see what he hadn't been able to prevent.

And if Clark was also trying to gather some information on the Batman, figure out more about the man he'd, until recently, believed to be an urban legend, well. Clark was a journalist, after all. And someone who could use a friend in the same business as him. 

So he traveled to Crown Point, and…

Fuck.

The sheer scale of destruction, the despair palpable in the very air here as the people searched through the rubble, tried to build makeshift homes for themselves without running water or electricity… it stole his breath. It was like a punch to the gut, making him even more determined to cover this story, to see if Wayne was going to repeat the mistakes of the past or if he'd learned from them. These people deserved someone who would go to bat for them. 

However, Clark learned quickly that Gothamites didn't like to talk to outsiders, especially not to Metropolitans, and definitely not about the Bat. All Clark earned himself for his efforts were hostile glares and the occasional order ‘to fuck off back to Metropolis’. 

Two hours of this, and he hadn't learned anything new about Gotham's vigilante, except that Gothamites were fiercely loyal to him. And maybe, thought Clark, that was enough for now. What he learned about the city's efforts to rebuild, well… In Crown Point they were practically nonexistent. These people were left entirely to their own devices and crime ran rampant, that much was obvious after even the short amount of time Clark had been here. 

By the time the sun began to sink behind the destroyed buildings that reached into the sky like broken teeth, casting dark shadows over the wrecked cars and piles of rubble littering the streets, Clark was thoroughly overstimulated. His mind was miles away when he began to make his way back into the heart of the city, towards Wayne Tower where the press conference would be held. He was formulating a list of questions for Bruce Wayne while trying not to give into his own despair at the suffering and the grief that surrounded him. 

He blamed that preoccupation (as well as the constant misfiring of his senses this city caused) for the fact that he didn't notice he was being followed. If he had, he'd never have turned down into this dark alley, in the hopes of getting a bit of a reprieve from, well, everything, really. 

“You're either incredibly stupid or reckless to be going around in this part of town asking questions, especially looking like that,” someone said from behind him, a few seconds after he'd entered the alley, making him stop in his tracks. Clark slowly turned around, and hadn't even fully made it before he was already being pushed. His back hit the wall, and he had to be careful to roll with the movement, so as not to crumble the brick or hurt this stranger. 

It was disorienting in his current state, and it took Clark a few seconds to resettle. Once he did, he immediately felt like he had taken a second hit when he caught sight of his assailant, who pressed his forearm against Clark's chest, keeping him pinned. 

It was a man, about a head shorter than Clark, and despite the hood he'd pulled up over his head and the scarf partially obscuring his snarling mouth, his striking features rendered Clark momentarily speechless. 

He was young, younger than Clark probably, with ashy black hair that hung in messy streaks around his sharp face, almost long enough to reach his jaw. The man's eyes were smeared with black grease paint that only served to accentuate his big blue eyes, a shade so dark it seemed almost black in the dim light of the alley. Like the arctic ocean surrounding the Fortress of Solitude… Aside from the scarf and the hoodie, the man also wore a bomber jacket and baggy jeans, all of which seemed designed not only for comfort but also for blending in, as if he wanted to disappear into the city itself. And maybe that would've worked, too, if they'd passed each other by on the street, but now, standing face to face like this, Clark was sure he'd never forget this man. 

You're beautiful, Clark wanted to say, and it was that thought that pulled him back to reality, to the fact that this man had practically attacked him. “What do you mean? And why ‘especially looking like that’?” 

The man growled, honest to God growled, and the sound traveled straight to Clark's groin. Nevermind that he was keeping Clark pinned against the wall, looking absolutely feral when he sneered, “You look like you're from Metropolis.”

“Well… I am, so good on you for that. But I'm still not sure why that means I shouldn't ask questions? I'm a journalist, that's what we do.” Only after the words were out, did Clark realize how snarky they sounded. He should be more careful, shouldn't he? A regular human would be scared in this kind of situation, or at the very least rattled, but somehow Clark couldn't bring himself to feign that emotion. His gut instincts told him that this stranger didn't mean him any harm. 

For a moment, the stranger said nothing, seemingly taken aback by Clark's petulant reaction, but that didn't make him loosen his grip. His forearm was still pressing into Clark's chest, his other hand keeping Clark's wrists trapped against his belly and his hips were only inches from Clark's own, ready to bodily press him into the wall should he struggle. Clark contemplated it for a second, but then he realized he was only thinking about it because he wanted to feel more of this man pressed against himself, and held still, embarrassed. 

The stranger shook his head, snorting derisively. “You can't be very good at your job, then. Otherwise you'd know how dangerous asking the wrong questions can be.”

Clark grinned, he couldn't help it. “I like to think I've asked the right ones. After all, I've got a source speaking to me right now–” 

“What an accomplishment,” sneered the man, interrupting Clark, who wasn't deterred in the slightest. But he did let his grin slip and his eyes sharpen, and continued as if the man hadn't spoken. “And it seems to me like you’d have some interesting answers for me. So... What do you know about the Batman?”

The stranger snorted again, and his grip on Clark's wrists tightened, before he abruptly let go and pushed himself back a few steps. “ Leave,” he ordered, and the way he looked at Clark, with his big, beautiful eyes narrowed and his lips curled, was strangely reminiscent of an angry cat. The dark grease paint only served to heighten the effect. 

Which wasn't fair, exactly. Clark was well aware that this stranger was potentially dangerous – he'd managed to sneak up and get the drop on him, after all, and overstimulated or not, Clark should've noticed – but the image was still there. 

“I can't do that,” he answered, staying put as the stranger stared at him with an intensity that made butterflies dance in his stomach. Probably not the sanest reaction, but Clark was finding that Gotham seemed to have that effect on him. “Like I said, I'm a journalist and I'm here on assignment.”

If possible, the stranger's black-lined gaze darkened further. “You're writing about Batman?”

“Not exactly, no. That's more of a while-I'm-here side project.” Clark shrugged. “Until recently the Bat was more myth than man, at least to Metropolitans, and since we have our own hero, you could say I'm curious about Gotham's.”

The stranger said nothing, merely cocked his head in a way that managed to be answer enough, and continued to stare at Clark, unblinking and unmoving. He had a strange intensity about him, something unpredictable and almost feral that made Clark want to… tame him, for lack of a better word. Weirdly enough, that was really working for Clark. 

Clearing his throat and surreptitiously taking a step closer to the man, Clark asked, “So, care to give me a statement before I get on with my actual assignment? It would get me out of your hair faster, you know.”

“You should go home,” answered the man seriously, and was Clark imagining things or did his posture relax the slightest bit? “Walking through an alley like this on your own is reckless.” 

Before Clark could think of a reply, a way to prolong the conversation, two more men suddenly appeared at the mouth of the alley behind the mysterious stranger. 

“Well well well, what do we have here?” said one, making the other snicker in a nervous way that put Clark instantly on edge. They were both armed, guns already trained on Clark and the stranger, and Clark had long since learned that nerves were the most dangerous thing in a situation like this. He'd rather not have to watch his new friend get hurt if he could help it. 

The first mugger grinned as he and his companion stalked closer, waving his weapon around. “Looks like two assholes who are about to hand over their phones and wallets. Or else.”

Clark took a slow step forward, deliberately putting himself between the muggers and the young man who'd tried to warn him of just such a situation. Protectiveness rose within Clark. 

“There's no need for violence,” he said calmly, confidently, as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his wallet. “We can solve this peacefully and all be on our way, no one has to get hurt.” He needed to deescalate the situation, or failing that, buy a bit of time to think of a way to believably incapacitate them. 

It seemed, however, that Clark had still managed to underestimate the stranger, as he suddenly lunged past with a snarl on his lips. Lightning fast, he knocked one would-be mugger's arm aside and slammed it against the wall, making him drop his weapon, while he kicked the other one's knees out from under him. The second man crumbled to the ground with a pained yelp, and before the echo even had the chance to fully fade, the first man was knocked out cold by an elbow to the temple. Clark watched, desire, awe and maybe even a tiny bit of fear swirling in his gut at the sheer competence the stranger displayed as he rounded on the second assailant, rendering him unconscious as well with only a single punch. Swift, precise and practiced. 

The stranger straightened and shook out his hand, before he turned to Clark once more. His heartbeat was still relaxed, noted Clark absently, and his breathing even. Like nothing unusual had happened. 

“Wow,” managed Clark, laughing a little in disbelief. He ran his fingers through his curls, shook his head, and pushed his glasses up his nose. “That's one way of handling it, I suppose. But thank you.” 

Those huge, dark blue eyes were fixed on Clark as he approached, zeroing in on him like lasers, and it was exhilarating to have that focus directed at him, now more than ever. The stranger didn't say anything, but he didn't move away when Clark came to a stop in front of him. A strange feeling of victory surged in Clark's chest. “Do you do this kind of thing often? Saving clumsy reporters?”

The stranger growled, practically wrenched himself backwards, and glowered at Clark as he retreated towards the mouth of the alley.

He really is just like a stray cat, thought Clark abruptly, trying to hide his smile, and just like with a stray cat, there always came a moment when the animal would retreat. Two steps forward, one step back.  

“Go back to Metropolis,” the stranger snapped again, eyes never leaving Clark's. Then he reached the end of the alley and with one last, lingering glare, he disappeared around the corner. 

Lord help me, thought Clark, fighting the urge to fan himself, but I'm smitten already. 

Taking only a short moment to compose himself, he quickly exited the alley as well, hoping to maybe catch another glimpse of the stranger, but he was nowhere to be found. As he looked around, however, his eyes snagged on the clock tower that rose into the horizon, towering above this part of the city, and his blood ran ice-cold. 

He was really, really late for the press conference.

Suppressing a series of curses, Clark hurried down the main road, trying to flag down a taxi. If he missed Bruce Wayne, Perry was going to kill him. Besides, after the morning he's had, Clark himself was eager to get some answers out of the young billionaire.

Chapter Text

Bruce wasn't ready for this, not by a long shot. It felt… blasphemous, to attend something as trivial as a press conference while big parts of Gotham didn't even have running water. People didn't have roofs over their heads, they were starving, and yet what the press was focusing on was him . 

But if Bruce wanted to help people in a meaningful way, he had to utilize his wealth and family name, that much he'd realized during this ordeal with the Riddler. Being vengeance wasn't enough. Vengeance, inherently, came after the tragedy. It didn't prevent it, it wasn't useful, and if the rising death toll and orphaned children, the destroyed homes and communities had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be better. 

Bruce needed to be a warning to people like Riddler, as well as hope and justice for those he sought to protect. Gotham's citizens should feel safer with him around, not more scared. 

So if he had to step out in front of a crowd of reporters, smile and talk about his family legacy, evade a few questions about his whereabouts these past few years and act like he wasn't disgusted by it all… well, it seemed like a small price to pay.

Still, he felt inexplicably nervous as he stepped out onto the podium (which had been erected in the lobby of Wayne Tower for exactly this purpose, and to Bruce, seemed a little like overkill). He'd barely set foot on the stage, when he was assaulted by a veritable sea of flashing lights, leaving him temporarily blinded. 

Even after he'd adjusted, the brightness of those flashes stung his eyes, made him yearn for his sunglasses (or an emp to take out every single camera with), and he had to resist the urge to flinch away. He could not seem weak or unsure here, and a move like that would definitely be interpreted as such. Every little thing he did right now would be put under the microscope, and he had to be ready for that. This was a mission, he told himself. A mission like any other he faced as Batman during the night, and he was determined to see it through successfully. 

Inexplicably, the handsome face of the reporter he'd met earlier flitted through Bruce's head – Clark Kent, his brain helpfully supplied – and, infuriating as he'd been with all his questions, Bruce decided that maybe he should try to channel some of his energy. After all, he'd been charming and approachable. A gentle giant, who smiled and hunched his shoulders so that he wouldn't seem quite as intimidating, but with an underlying backbone of steel. 

Bruce tried a smile – God, that felt weird – and held up his hand. The crowd of reporters gave one more rush of murmurs before it quieted down, only the occasional camera flash making Bruce squint his eyes.  

“Since its founding, Wayne Enterprises has been an integral part of Gotham City,” said Bruce, reciting the speech he and Lucius had carefully crafted together. Bruce had been prepared for resistance, but surprisingly enough, Lucius Fox, acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises, had been thrilled that Bruce was taking an interest, and had been only too happy to support him. 

“It may have started out as a small company, but it quickly grew into much more than that. Beyond providing Gotham's people with employment, Wayne Enterprises has always been about progress, about giving back to the community. It has been about building things up – not just technology, but the city and her people, too.”

It occurred to Bruce only after he'd already started speaking, that maybe he should have given some kind of greeting to the gathered crowd or come up with an excuse as to why he'd been nearly half an hour late – he couldn't exactly explain that he'd saved a man from getting mugged – instead of diving straight in, but… Well, it was too late for that now, and he wasn't exactly known for being social. Looking out over the assembled journalists and photographers eagerly taking notes, Bruce shook the thought off, and continued. 

“However, as recent developments have shown, this company, and myself most of all, has grown complacent. We have forgotten where we came from, and didn't pay enough attention to the needs of this city, to the ones preying on her people. Any one of us should have realized what the Renewal Fund had become. We should have seen the suffering it caused, and stopped it.”

Bruce took a deep breath and let his gaze roam once more, trying to keep his frustration in check. Because this was on him . If he'd taken an interest in his family's legacy, like Alfred had asked him to so many times, Riddler might never have come to be. He could have prevented this. 

And that's when Bruce saw him. Clark Kent. Pink-cheeked and with those ridiculous curls of his, he stood at the back of the room, watching Bruce with rapt attention, a notepad clutched in his big hands. Their eyes met across the crowd, and Bruce found himself unable to look away. He thought about the tireless way Kent had asked his questions today, the empathy he'd tried to show the people of Gotham, and even though Bruce had to stop him before he got himself hurt, he also found himself admiring Kent for his tenacity. 

Thus, it felt only right to direct the next part of his speech at Clark Kent. 

“This negligence, is why I will be taking a more active role in Wayne Enterprises from now on, and it is also why my partners and I have created the Martha Wayne Foundation. The foundation, like my mother always was, will be dedicated to rebuilding the city and helping her people in meaningful and lasting ways, a few of which my partner, Lucius Fox, will explain in more detail in a few minutes.” Bruce made himself smile again, and it was easier this time around because he was looking at Kent's own smiling mouth. “After I have given you time for questions, of course.”

The next hour passed in a tedious blur of shouted questions, only thirty-five percent of which were actually relevant. The remaining seventy-five percent either repeated themselves or had nothing to do with the subject matter at hand. Vicky Vale asked him a maddening total of six times whether or not he was currently in a relationship while other people tried to get him to talk about the mayor's funeral or his mother's alleged mental health issues… 

It was more tiring than a full night of patrol, and unfortunately it seemed to only get worse once he finally stepped off of the podium to let Lucius handle the details. He'd just taken a deep, calming breath, preparing to leave, when he heard footsteps behind him. 

“It's nice to see you again, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce didn't freeze – he wasn't an amateur. He slowly turned around and stared blankly at Clark Kent, unblinking because he knew that tended to put people off. He needed to play this very carefully. “I'm sorry– Who are you?”

Kent didn't stop smiling, and stepped closer, apparently not disturbed at all by Bruce's intentional rudeness. “I admit, it took me a few minutes – your look is quite different – but you probably should invest more in makeup remover, Mr. Wayne.” Reaching out, Clark gently swiped his thumb under Bruce's eye. Bruce was too stunned to react. The touch was barely-there, featherlight, and yet it made the breath inexplicably catch in Bruce's throat. When Kent pulled his hand back, there was a faint smudge of grease paint on the pad of his thumb. 

Bruce considered denying it, a million ready excuses coming to him, but Kent's confident, barely-there smile convinced him otherwise. Maybe he could spin this somehow, make the headlines benefit the foundation… He needed to talk to Lucius. “I suppose you have your story then, Mr. Kent,” he said curtly, ready to turn around again, and finally leave . “If you would excuse me…”

But Kent's grin widened slightly, growing just a tad crooked, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. And Bruce didn't know why, exactly, but the sight rooted him to the spot, made his stomach feel strange. Like he'd stepped off the side of a building. “I'm not really planning on writing about that,” said Kent. “I'm far more interested in the Martha Wayne Foundation, and if you don't mind, I'd like to talk more about it.”

Gritting his teeth, Bruce lifted his chin, eyes narrowing. Maybe he'd misjudged Clark Kent, after all. “And I suppose if I refuse you'll write that exposé after all? You realize that I didn't do anything illegal. I simply wanted to have an honest look at the situation and I couldn't very well have rolled up in a limousine. People don't pay enough attention to places like Crown Point, Mr. Kent.” Myself included, added Bruce silently. He had been too focused on the city center, not systematic enough in his patrols. He'd need to change that. 

Kent's smile slipped slightly, and he looked a bit taken aback. “I'm not here to blackmail you, Mr. Wayne. I sincerely want to know more about the Foundation, because you're right, places like Crown Point have been neglected by officials and the city's rebuilding efforts, criminally so. I would like to help and draw more attention to it, but I won't force you to talk to me. Besides,” he added, and now his smile grew sunny once more, mesmerizing Bruce as he took a small step closer. “It really was a pleasure to see you again. But to be honest? I prefer your earlier look. It was more… you.”

Bruce's heart rate picked up, and for a moment he couldn't quite find his voice, which made Kent's dimple reappear, and there went Bruce's stomach again. When he stayed silent a beat too long, however, Kent nodded. “Think about it,” he said, and murmured a goodbye. He started to turn away, and somehow that wasn't acceptable at all, and before Bruce even knew he was going to say anything at all, he blurted out, “Coffee!”

Cocking his head in a way that Bruce could not describe any other way than cute, Kent turned back to him, hopeful. “Coffee?”

Bruce cleared his throat, and had trouble meeting Kent's eyes. “There is a café close by. I was planning on stopping there on the way home. You can… ask me questions. There.”

“It's a date, Mr. Wayne.” Kent's grin was radiant, lighting up the room and making Bruce's stomach flutter weirdly again. 

Bruce was instantly filled with regret. Why did he have to say anything? He shouldn't have done that. He should've just let Kent go. It would've been the logical thing to do, the smart thing. Kent already knew too much about him. Indulging his questions was dangerous. Bruce should invent an excuse and simply bolt while he still could. 

And yet, Bruce kept his mouth shut. 

Chapter Text

“Thank you for sitting down with me, Mr. Wayne.” Clark smiled encouragingly at the man in front of him, who barely acknowledged it, and was instead frowning down at his coffee. Clark wasn't sure what made Bruce Wayne decide to invite him here, but it sure seemed like he regretted it now. Clark probably shouldn't find that adorable, especially because of Mr. Wayne's grim expression as he looked at Clark now, but it still was . 

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Bruce glared. “I can't stop you, can I?”

Clark's brows drew together. “Of course you can. I told you before that I don't intend to force you, and I stand by that. Besides, you've said it yourself: there isn't much of a story here.” 

Letting his lips pull into a teasing smile in the hopes of making Mr. Wayne more comfortable, Clark leaned forward slightly. His gaze caught on Wayne's deep blue eyes, still lined with a faint sheen of black paint. “I mean, who would believe that the elusive young billionaire Bruce Wayne spends his free time dressing like a teenager from the early 2000s, eye-makeup and all, and sneaks around the city to help out hapless reporters? I would be laughed out of the room. And I'm not interested in gossip and lies, so I refuse to speculate.”

Mr. Wayne blinked at him, bewildered. “A teenager from the early 2000s? Seriously?” he repeated, but he didn't sound angry anymore, so Clark counted that as a success. 

“If the shoe fits…” Clark shrugged, and hid his smile behind a sip of his caramel macchiato. But when Mr. Wayne remained silent and kept staring at him, Clark sighed. “Look, I won't say that I'm not still curious about you being in Crown Point today, but I genuinely am here because of the Martha Wayne Foundation. I think it could be exactly what this city needs now. And I'd like to help, however I can.”

Clark held his breath as those seemingly bottomless blue eyes studied him for a long moment. He wasn't lying, he really did want to support the foundation; it was the least he could do, really, after not being there when the seawalls collapsed. 

“Earlier, you seemed more interested in Batman than the rebuilding,” said Mr. Wayne slowly, and his gaze sharpened slightly as he stared at Clark like he was trying to see into his very mind. 

Clark felt himself flush under the scrutiny, and nervously pushed his glasses up his nose. “I admit that I got a bit too excited there. The prospect that Superman might not be the only hero was too intriguing…”

Wayne looked surprised, and a spark of curiosity lit up his expression. “Have you met him?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Clark, before he could think better of it. Adjusting his glasses again, he hastily added, “Only in passing though! I see him flying past the Planet building sometimes… My colleague is assigned to cover him. Newswise I mean.” God, Clark needed to shut up. He was making a right fool out of himself. 

Wayne didn't smile, however. He continued to study Clark with that same curious expression. “Do you believe him?”

“What do you mean?”

Wayne tilted his head. “Superman. The Last Son of Krypton, The Man of Steel. Do you believe all of that?”

“I… You mean, do I believe that he's from a different planet?” asked Clark, thoroughly confused. “Why would he lie about that?”

Blinking slowly, Wayne said nothing for a moment, like he was waiting for Clark to go on. But Clark had no idea what to say, didn't know what Wayne expected of him. 

Eventually, Wayne let out a tiny snort, nodded, and took a sip of his coffee. Like he was responding to something Clark had said, like he had come to some sort of decision about it. Clark had no idea what that meant, but he thought it might be best to change the subject. He didn't need more attention drawn to Superman's and Clark Kent's ‘acquaintance’, and he definitely didn't want to find out if Bruce Wayne held similar views as Lex Luthor. 

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, and tried to steer the conversation back on track. “Look, Mr. Wayne, if you'd rather not sit for an interview, we could just have coffee and call it a day, you know? The last thing I want is to make you feel like you don't have a choice in the matter.”

Wayne seemed taken by surprise again. He kept looking at Clark – he did that a lot, staring, watching, observing (it should probably be unnerving but Clark found himself charmed yet again) – before he slowly shook his head. “No,” he said. “You're right, Mr. Kent, we should talk about the Foundation. It needs all the attention it can get.”

“Please, call me Clark,” blurted Clark automatically, and felt his face flush hot immediately after. This was way too forward of him, how unprofessional! Clark opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish, searching desperately for a quick way to move on,but Mr. Wayne beat him to it. 

“Bruce,” he said, always watching Clark with that steady gaze of his, but the corners of his mouth were pulling up the tiniest bit now, and— Oh no , thought Clark, heart pitter-pattering dangerously in his chest, he might be developing a bit of a crush on Bruce Wayne. Which wouldn't do at all . So, Clark hastily launched into his questions. 

Thankfully, he had a lot of them, and Bruce didn't seem to notice anything off (even though every time Clark used Bruce's first name, an excited little jolt went through his body, which was ridiculous but at least it didn't seem to show on his face). 

This wasn't Clark's first interview, far from it, but it was probably the most important one of his career so far. And yet, it didn't feel like that at all. It felt weirdly like friends catching up – if catching up meant discussing the socio-economics of Gotham City, the rise in crime, lack of healthcare and how to (ideally) combat all of those issues. Bruce also turned out to be rather eloquent once he relaxed enough around Clark to utter more than a stilted sentence at a time, and the research he'd done to identify problems around the city was thorough and well thought out. It was impressive, and Clark felt himself get lost in it all just a tiny bit. He was definitely crushing on Bruce. 

“When do you think the Foundation will be able to start realizing projects? And which ones are you prioritizing?” asked Clark, combating the urge to doodle little hearts surrounding the words ‘Clark + Bruce’ on his notepad. He cleared his throat, chased the thought away, and added, “After seeing the situation in Crown Point myself… the people there need help immediately. How are you planning on providing that when the Foundation is just starting out?”

Bruce nodded thoughtfully, one of his long fingers tapping a rhythm he probably didn’t think Clark could hear on the table. “I agree that help is needed immediately. Winter is approaching and we need to get people off the streets, which is why I invested so much in the Foundation myself. I don't have the numbers off the top of my head, but as a first step, I've bought out several buildings in affected areas that are still intact and can be used as shelters,” explained Bruce seriously, like he was listing off simple facts. Like he hadn't just admitted to spending several millions of his own money on this. Then Bruce grimaced slightly, and added, “We still need to convince the mayor to let us do that, however. There are still a few permits missing. Alfred and Lucius seem to think hosting charity events will help with that. They say we need to show sincerity and commitment and we’ve planned several events towards that end  over the course of the next few weeks.”

Clark felt his lips twitch, torn between being annoyed with Gotham's mayor for stalling on a project like this and being endeared by Bruce's obvious reluctance in regards to social events. “You don't seem too pleased about that.”

Bruce hesitated, eyes flicking from Clark to his notepad and back again. “Off the record?” he asked, and Clark nodded quickly, secretly – pathetically – pleased that Bruce apparently trusted him with whatever he was about to say. At least enough to believe he wouldn't use it (which he wouldn't, but still; they only met this afternoon). 

“I realize that Gotham's upper echelons have their own ways of doing things, but… throwing a party while people out there are fighting for their lives doesn't sit right with me.” Bruce ran those long elegant fingers of his through his hair, messing it up and making it resemble the bird's nest he'd sported when Clark had met him for the first time. It was endlessly endearing. “Alfred says it will be worth it in the end, that it could benefit the foundation to make friends and build connections. I'm not sure I agree.”

“I see what you mean. Those sorts of politics always feel… tainted,” answered Clark carefully. “But I think that this Alfred of yours has a point, too. If you can win over the upper crust, the stream of donations might be more steady, which, in turn, would help more people in the long run.”

“I'm aware. I just don't like it,” said Bruce, disarmingly honest. Then those deep blue eyes fixed themselves on Clark again, gazing into him like he was a particularly interesting specimen. “Can I ask you something, Clark?”

Surprised, Clark fumbled for his words a little before he managed a, “Sure, anything.” 

Bruce's intense gaze didn't waver. “Why did you go to Crown Point? Why not just head to Wayne Tower for the conference?”

“Oh.” Clark shifted a little in his seat and took another sip of his coffee to buy himself some time to order his thoughts. “I've never been to Gotham before,” he ventured after a moment, mind flashing back to the destruction he'd seen today. “I heard that Crown Point was hit the hardest in Riddler's attack, and I felt like if I was going to visit the city, I owed it to the people here to not just see the parts that are still intact but all of it, you know? Because how else could I write about it?” 

Bruce cocked his head, gaze boring into Clark's. The way he looked at him, barely blinking past his focus, could be described as disconcerting, but Clark actually found it attractive… What was wrong with him? 

“Are you always this thorough when you're writing an article?” asked Bruce after what felt like an eternity, and Clark got the sense that there was another question hidden behind this one, but he couldn't figure out what it was. 

“I try to be, yeah. I… This might be a bit too personal, so please stop me at any time, okay?” Clark took a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching around his coffee cup. “I never knew my biological parents,” he said. “Ma and Pa found me crying outside their house one day and when no one came to claim me, they decided to raise me as their own. I know I was incredibly lucky, I always knew. But I also wondered, you know?”

Clark had no idea why he was telling Bruce this, why he was baring his soul when he hadn't shared that with anyone before, but it felt important and he didn't want to stop, and since Bruce didn't interrupt him, he didn't. “I was angry and hurt. I thought there was something wrong with me, that my biological parents just didn't want me and threw me away. Until I finally found out who they were.” 

Clark smiled but he knew it looked sad. He'd never forget the day he came face to face with Jor-El's hologram. “I learned that they didn't have a choice, that they pretty much gave their lives to protect me, and I realized then, that people and their stories are complicated. There's always more than meets the eye, more sides to a story than what is immediately obvious, and there's always a reason.”

“So you made it your mission to find those reasons, and give a voice to the people who don't have one,” finished Bruce quietly, still holding eye-contact. Clark's heart leapt, and started to race. 

“Yeah,” he said, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He couldn't look away. “That's exactly it, actually. And I think we're missing out on kindness and depriving ourselves of opportunities to be kind by not looking deeper than the surface.”

Bruce laughed – honest to God laughed – and he looked so beautiful that Clark couldn't even be offended that he was being laughed at. He was just glad he was already sitting down because suddenly, he felt weak in the knees. 

“You really are a Metropolitan through and through, Clark,” said Bruce, shaking his head, and it almost looked fond to Clark. “No Gothamite would ever look at a secret and suspect kindness behind it.”

Clark felt his cheeks heat. “I'm from Kansas, actually.” Averting his eyes, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, only moved to Metropolis about five years ago. For college.”

“That explains a lot about you,” said Bruce, and when Clark chanced a look, Bruce was still grinning. This time, there was no doubt about it being fond, and Jesus wept , he was handsome when he smiled, almost unbearably so. It transformed his entire face, made his eyes shine and a dimple appear in his right cheek. He looked years younger. Lord help him, but Clark wanted to preserve the sight forever. 

He opened his mouth – to say what, Clark didn't know, because what was there to say to a statement like that? – when Bruce's phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket, and immediately his smile vanished, replaced by the inscrutable expression he'd worn all day. 

“I'm afraid I have to go,” he said, already pushing his chair back and grabbing for his coat. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Clark, reeling a little from the abrupt change. Still, he plastered on his most genuine smile, because this day may have been unconventional, but it had been exciting too and Clark could never regret talking to Bruce like this. “Don't let me keep you. And thank you again, for sitting down with me. I'm sure you've got better things to do than talk with an up-and-coming journalist from Smallville, so I appreciate the time you took out of your day.”

Bruce paused in the middle of wrapping his scarf around his neck. “I don't have better things to do,” he said, matter of factly, and tilted his head again as he looked at Clark. Having someone who blinked as little as Bruce did staring at him like that should be unnerving. Instead, Clark just found it charming. “It's more important right now, yes, but not better.” 

Clark swallowed. “Well, maybe we can continue this another time then,” he said, and immediately wanted to sink through the floor, because what the heck was that . Bruce was just being nice. But to his surprise, the corners of Bruce's lips ticked up again into that faint smile that was rapidly becoming a favorite of Clark's. 

“Maybe,” answered Bruce, and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a pen and a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and held the paper out to Clark, who took it gingerly and then proceeded to stare at it in shock like an idiot.

It was a phone number. Bruce's phone number, presumably. 

Clark felt his mouth drop open. His head snapped up, eyes searching out Bruce to reassure himself that this was real, that it actually happened, but when he looked up, Bruce was already gone.

Chapter Text

“May I make a suggestion, Master Bruce?” Setting his jaw, Bruce stayed quiet, but that didn't stop Alfred. It never did. The old man simply adjusted the rear view mirror in order to stare pointedly at him. “The next time you want to invite Mr Kent over for dinner, just tell him you enjoy his company instead of inventing other reasons.”

A muscle in Bruce's jaw jumped. “I didn't invent a reason. What Senator Joyston said really is of interest to Clark's article. An article that will ensure the people of Gotham know who their representatives really are.” 

Alfred raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Of course, sir. How silly of me to assume that the man you have been in constant contact with every single day for the past four weeks might be a friend of yours instead of a business contact, please forgive me.”

Sarcasm practically dripped from Alfred's words. Annoyed, Bruce crossed his arms. He turned to look out the window and watched the scenery change as Alfred finally pulled away from the golf club to drive them back to the heart of Gotham. “It's a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he said eventually. “Clark gets material for his articles and I get to draw attention to things that matter.”  

Alfred sighed. “Be that as it may, it still gives off the rather unfortunate impression that you do not care about Mr Kent outside of a professional capacity. Which we both know to be a lie, one that might lead to him seeking connection elsewhere.” 

With an abruptness that startled Bruce, jealousy flared to life in his gut, searing hot and ugly, and he hated that Alfred’s words had that effect on him. He shouldn't care if Clark ‘sought connection’ with someone else. 

Yes, he and Bruce had been texting almost every day since the day they met and Clark had been assigned the coverage of all things Gotham (seeing as he had been the only one so far who had managed to get a personal interview with Bruce Wayne, it wasn't surprising), but that didn't mean anything. Did it? Admittedly, not all their communication was strictly professional. 

Bruce pulled out his phone and scrolled back through the texts they'd exchanged today alone:

Bruce: Francis Joyston is a menace.  

Clark: I take it, your golf date with the Senator is going well then?  

Bruce: It's not a date :( 

Bruce: But yes it's actually going well. Joyston agreed to donate to the foundation.  

Bruce: It's really the least he can do after making me get up this early.  

Clark: You met up with him at 1pm. 

Bruce: My point stands. Also, he won't stop talking.

Clark had sent back a row of laughing emojis. 

Clark: You're ridiculous. He's a senator, of course he talks a lot. 

Bruce didn't know why he'd felt the urge to text Clark in the middle of his meeting with Senator Joyston at the golf club. Except that it was excruciatingly dull and he'd felt out of his element among the high society and the thought of Clark had been comforting. While Joyston had bored Bruce to tears with stories of golf games past and other anecdotes, none of that was relevant information for Clark. Not that Bruce had shared any of it. He hadn't even thought about it when he texted Clark, not at first anyway. And of course that was before Joyston had gone off on a tangent about his fellow senators and their machinations in the wake of Riddler. Frowning, Bruce looked at his screen again, at the most damning message of all. 

Bruce: Do you have plans for tonight? 

Even now he couldn't quite explain why he'd asked that. Senator Joyston had only given up that information after Bruce had already sent it. It didn't make sense. As little sense as the panic he'd felt when Clark had immediately replied. 

Clark: None! Why? 

Bruce didn't have an answer beyond ‘because I want to see you’ and it had been pure luck that Senator Joyston had chosen that exact moment to chat a little too much about things he shouldn't have – probably because of the bourbon he'd kept sneaking from a flask he carried around in his breast pocket and thought no one knew about. It had given Bruce the perfect justification for his strange impulse. 

Bruce: I have information that might make a good article. 

Bruce: Dinner at the Belfry, 8pm?

Clark: Sounds great! I'll be there. :)  

As he read over Clark's response again now, with the silly little smiley face at the end, an excited little jolt went through Bruce once again. However, he didn't have time to examine that more closely. 

He didn't have time for anything. 

The only warning they got was the frantic honking of a car behind them. When Bruce lifted his head to see what was going on, he had just enough time to shout a quick – “Hold on, Alfred!” – and brace himself for impact before another car speared theirs at full speed. 

The sound of screeching metal was deafening as their car wrapped itself around the other vehicles hood, as it was pushed across the intersection and then toppled. The airbag punched Bruce in the face, slammed his head back before the movement of the rolling car snapped it to the side. Pain exploded in his right temple and his vision spun. 

Finally, the car came to a stop laying on its roof, but it took Bruce a moment to notice. He was dizzy, disoriented, and the quick inventory he took of his body wasn't exactly encouraging. There wasn't a part of him that didn't hurt and blood dripped down his forehead, making him reasonably sure he was concussed. Still, Bruce only allowed himself a second before he fumbled for his pocket knife to swiftly cut the airbag and seatbelt with. At least now he could breathe easier. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself over to Alfred and felt his blood run cold. 

Alfred's face was slack, blood trickling over his cheek, and it was terrifying to see him unconscious for the second time in three months, but Bruce pushed the feeling down. He instead focused on getting them out of the car. Whoever had rammed them was bound to come around to finish the job sooner rather than later. 

“Alfred, wake up. We need to move,” urged Bruce, after he'd carefully cut his seatbelt and lowered him down. He felt for a pulse with shaking fingers. “Thank fuck,” he muttered, briefly closing his eyes. “Come on, old man, wake up. I'm not sure I can carry you out of here.”

“Then what are all these push-ups for ?” croaked Alfred, devolving into a coughing fit directly after. Bruce's heart leapt with relief. The image of Alfred lying motionless in a hospital bed, connected to all those machines and with tubes sticking out of him, still featured prominently in Bruce's nightmares. He didn't need a repeat. 

He and Alfred began crawling out of the wreckage. “Clearly, I should have taken a page out of Superman's book and made myself invulnerable.”

“Clearly,” snarked Alfred, voice concerningly strained. Bruce paused to check on him and was relieved to see that Alfred was almost out of the car. Releasing a breath, he turned back around only to be met with the barrel of a gun. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Wayne,” said the man holding the weapon, grinning through his ski mask. He gestured with it. “Come on out. We're taking you on a little adventure. And don't even think about resisting, otherwise my friend will have to put a few holes in your butler. Capisce?”

Bruce's pulse began to race, but he instantly stomped down on the flash of fear. “Leave him alone and I'll cooperate,” he said, and the man's grin widened. 

“Oh I know you will, Mr. Wayne. Now get your ass out of that car.”

Gritting his teeth, Bruce hauled himself the rest of the way through the broken window. Pain lanced through his body, his head throbbed and he swayed for a moment, but that didn't stop him from whirling around to check on Alfred again. Thankfully, Alfred didn't look worse for wear. There was, however, a second assailant standing next to him, holding a gun to his head. 

“Go along with my friend, pretty boy. Nice and slow, or the old guy gets it,” said the man next to Alfred, pressing his gun harder to the back of Alfred’s head. 

Swallowing back a vile curse, Bruce nodded and turned back around to follow the first assailant. Once they were away from Alfred and the civilians cowering behind their cars all around the intersection he'd be a lot more comfortable. It seemed like more than one car had crashed due to these men ramming Bruce's car, and as he looked around Bruce spotted additional armed men holding the people at bay. 

It seemed excessive for a simple kidnapping. These men could've easily picked a less public location than the middle of a crowded street. This was someone sending a message. A hunch that was confirmed as soon as Bruce was shoved into the back of a van where several more people waited to receive him and one of them said, “Hurry the fuck up, man. The boss is getting impatient.”

Intrigued, Bruce didn't struggle and docilely settled down between two of the men as they bound his hands in front of him. Shortly after, the van began to move. Bruce stayed quiet and kept his head down, studying his kidnappers through the hair falling into his face. 

They kept quiet, and Bruce tried to find any discerning characteristics or indicators that would mark these people as belonging to one of the crime families of Gotham, but he couldn't find anything. Still, it had to be one of the families. They had been clamoring for territory and power in the wake of Riddler's attack, picking at the city's remains like vultures fighting over a corpse. Bruce had barely been able to keep up – as Batman or as Bruce Wayne –, but it seemed his efforts must've been enough to make him a target. Which was encouraging. It meant that what he did was at least enough to worry these criminals. 

So while it was unfortunate that Bruce was injured and fighting off the effects of a concussion, this might very well be his best chance to finally gain a better understanding of the state of the criminal underworld beyond ‘utter mayhem’. 

It seemed, however, that Bruce had failed to take Superman into account. 

After only a few minutes of driving, the van suddenly came to a screeching halt and Bruce was slammed against the back wall. Nausea rose worse than ever, climbing his throat with acid claws, and his vision swam, but above all that he heard a commotion start up outside. Shouts and gunshots that abruptly cut off again. The men guarding Bruce shared nervous looks before all except one moved to exit the vehicle and see what was going on. 

They never got that far. 

With a deafening screech the back door of the van was ripped away, torn off its hinges like it was made of tissue paper, and there stood Superman. Cape billowing in the wind, he surveyed the scene and as his eyes landed on Bruce, a faint red light began to glow in their depths. Bruce wasn't sure if that was just his imagination – his head was pounding worse than ever – but it still sent a shiver down his spine. 

“Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?” asked Superman, his voice strangely familiar to Bruce. He didn't have the chance to dwell on it though, because Superman's words apparently were the trigger everyone had been waiting for as Bruce's kidnappers rushed into action. Three lunged themselves directly at Superman, firing their machine guns at his chest, of which the bullets harmlessly bounced off – Bruce was mesmerized by the sight, even as the noise and flashing lights threatened to split his head in two – while another one of his assailants made a direct grab for Superman. 

The last man stayed with Bruce and the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed harshly against his temple. “Don't fucking move, asshole, or I'll blow pretty boy's head off!” 

Superman raised a single eyebrow, almost mockingly, at the man. Bruce couldn't help his amused snort if he'd tried. Well maybe he could have, if he wasn't concussed and still bleeding from a cut on his scalp, it was just… did these guys know nothing about Superman's powers? After Bruce's first meeting with Clark he'd researched Metropolis’ mascot and had immediately found a comprehensive list of the alien’s abilities. They were all over the news. If Superman wanted to move, then there was nothing this man could do about it. 

“Think this is funny, Wayne?” growled the guy holding him, jamming the gun harder into his temple and making bile rise as pain tore through his head. “You won't be laughing once the boss is through with you.”

Despite the agony pounding away at him, Bruce chuckled. His assailant made an outraged noise. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Superman, his eyes once again holding that faint reddish glow in them, his smile gone. “But I can't let you take him.” 

There was a gust of wind and before anyone could so much as twitch a muscle all of Bruce's kidnappers – conscious or not – were neatly bound and gagged on one side of the van, including the one that had been holding Bruce at gunpoint. 

Bruce blinked at them, feeling even more dizzy and disoriented than before. He'd barely even felt a thing, nevermind seen it when Superman had snatched the guy away. One second he'd been there and the next he was gone. 

“Mr. Wayne?”

Slowly Bruce turned his head, vision strangely doubled as his eyes searched out the owner of the voice. A nice voice. Deep and rich. Warm. Bruce liked that voice. 

“Mr. Wayne?” asked the voice again, and– right. The voice belonged to Superman. The man who'd botched Bruce's mission. Scowling, Bruce tried to take a step forward, swayed, stumbled, and suddenly there were strong arms holding him up. 

“Easy there, don't strain yourself. I think I should better take you to a hospital.”

Bruce scowl deepened and he pushed against Superman's solid chest. “You ruined it.”

Superman looked down at him in confusion. “I'm sorry?”

“You should be,” snarled Bruce, and now his brain was finally catching up enough to get properly angry. “This was my chance to find out who these people are working for! Why they were targeting me! And you ruined it!”

Now Superman seemed even more confused. “They clearly wanted to hurt you. I couldn't just do nothing.”

Bruce pushed harder against Superman's chest. “You've never intervened in Gotham before! You could've just stuck to that!”

“But they wanted to hurt you!” Superman seemed properly exasperated now. 

“So? This is Gotham! That's how we greet each other! I would've been fine.”

Superman gave him a sceptical look. Then he raised his hand to Bruce's temple, and even though the touch was featherlight Bruce flinched, a sharp pain stabbing directly into his brain as soon as he made contact. When Superman pulled his fingers back, they were covered in blood. “You were saying?”

Bruce didn't know what rode him and would later claim to have no memory of this whatsoever, but his lips pulled into a pout and the next words out of his mouth were, “Batman wouldn't have kicked up such a fuss about this. He'd have let them take me to their boss and then taken the whole operation down. As he should.”

Superman looked at him incredulously and then slowly shook his head. “You're a menace. A danger to yourself.” 

Bruce was still thinking about how to answer that – Alfred had said the same thing on numerous occasions and he couldn't dispute it, not really – when Superman hefted him into his arms. Just scooped him up in a bridal carry in one swift motion. 

Bruce was stunned speechless. His stomach swooped.

And then he threw up.

Chapter Text

Clark knew he shouldn't find this endearing – Bruce was clearly injured; heck, he was bleeding and he'd just thrown up all over Clark's suit – but the slightly dazed look in his eyes and that pout... He was still gorgeous, was all. Clark shook himself. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“I don't like hospitals,” murmured Bruce, blinking up at Clark without really seeing him. “Too much pain there…” He trailed off, but Clark could easily imagine what Bruce was referring to and it wasn't the fact that his father used to be a surgeon. No, more likely he thought about the days he spent there after his parents murder, the psychiatric evaluations, – Clark, along with everyone else in North America, had read all about it; the Wayne family history had been splashed all over the news after Riddler's attack – and more recently of course the hours he sat at Alfred's bedside after the man nearly got killed…

Clark's heart clenched in sympathy as he rose into the air. “I'll stay with you if you want, Mr. Wayne. You don't have to be alone.”

Bruce's eyes were slipping shut, his outburst hadmving sapped what strength he had, and Clark felt a stab of urgency hit him. As quickly as he dared he flew them towards the nearest hospital. “I need you to stay awake, Mr. Wayne, at least until we've got you to the doctor, okay? It's not far. Just a little bit longer,” rambled Clark, holding Bruce to his chest and despite the soiled fabric, Bruce curled closer, like a cat seeking warmth. Usually he was careful to keep at least some distance between himself and Clark, no matter how close they had gotten these past four weeks. They'd met up several times, often at Bruce's home, but Bruce always had a reason ready. As if he couldn't allow himself to enjoy Clark's company without turning it into some sort of practical endeavor first. It was adorable. May that was why this unabashed, cuddly side of him caught Clark so unawares. Not that he was complaining.

“I wanna see him,” said Bruce sleepily, rubbing his cheek against Clark's chest.

“Who?” asked Clark distractedly, more to keep Bruce talking and awake than anything else. They were almost there and he assumed it was about Alfred anyway. Except that it wasn't. 

“Clark. He was supposed to come to dinner. I want to see him. I miss him.”

Clark's heart jumped and started to race. Bruce wanted to see him. He wanted Clark there because he was feeling vulnerable. Because he wanted someone familiar with him. Someone he trusted. That had to be why, right? Gosh, Clark hoped so. 

They touched down in front of the hospital's entrance. “I'll see what I can do, Mr. Wayne, but I'm sure Clark will be here soon. He misses you, too,” he said, striding through the doors and waving at the nurses to get their attention. 

Bruce nodded, eyes fluttering close again, but he seemed mollified, and then the nurses were there with a gurney. Clark gently placed Bruce down and made himself only stay long enough to relay what had happened and tell them about the head injury before he flew off. It was harder than it should be, considering he'd be back here soon. After all, he'd promised Bruce he wouldn't leave him alone. 

What Clark hadn't considered was how difficult it would be to get back into the hospital as himself. 

“I really don't want to be a bother, Miss, but like I said Mr. Wayne is waiting for me. We're friends.”

The woman at the welcome desk leveled him with a flat stare. “Mhm, sure. You bloodsuckers really ought to come up with better lies. How stupid do you think I am?”

Clark blinked. “Pardon?”

The woman's mouth thinned. “Unless you're immediate family or Mr. Wayne puts your name on the list, you're not getting up, simple as that. Now fuck off before I'm calling security.” Shaking her head, she looked at her computer screen, dismissing him, and muttered, “As if I'm letting fucking paparazzi just waltz into Bruce Wayne's fucking room. Unbelievable.”

Clark stood there for a moment, unsure how to proceed. He needed to get to Bruce but he also didn't want to kick up too much of a fuss. And flying up there as Superman would draw too much attention. He understood why the hospital staff didn't want to let him through and that they had more important things to do than argue with him about that. But he couldn't just leave. He'd promised Bruce he'd be there. 

Clark stepped away, debating whether he should try his luck with a different hospital employee or if he really should just use his powers to sneak into Bruce's room unnoticed, when someone called his name.  

“Mr. Kent! I was about to fetch you.”

Clark turned around and instantly recognized the man coming towards him. “Mr. Pennyworth,” he exclaimed, surprised, and the man smiled. 

“It is good to see you again, even if the circumstances are less than ideal.”

“Uh, likewise,” answered Clark, frowning as he took in the bandages wrapped around Mr. Pennyworth's and peeking out from underneath his suit jacket. “I don't want to be rude, but shouldn't you be resting?”

“Follow me,” said Mr. Pennyworth, smiling and completely ignoring Clark's question as he set off towards the elevators at a brisk pace. They rode up in silence but Clark couldn't help and shoot nervous glances at Mr. Pennyworth. 

“Are you sure you're alright?” he blurted as they stepped out on the sixteenth floor. There was a slight limp to Mr. Pennyworth's step that seemed to get worse the longer he was up and walking around. He really should be in bed. 

Mr. Pennyworth hummed, shooting an amused look over his shoulder. “I assure you, I am quite well. Now. Here we are.” He stopped in front of one of the doors and pushed it open. “Do try and get him to sleep will you?” 

With that, Mr. Pennyworth turned on his heel and disappeared into the room adjacent to this one. Clark shook his head. He was starting to see why Bruce was the way he was and there was something undeniably endearing about it. Now wasn't the time to dwell on it, though. He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind himself. 

“Clark,” said Bruce immediately, trying to sit up, and Clark hurried over to his side. 

“Don't get up, Bruce. You're injured.”

Bruce didn't really seem to hear him but thankfully he did settle down once Clark was next to him. He looked pale and small in the hospital bed, with dark circles under his deep blue eyes and his hair all mussed up. Jesus, it was inappropriate, but Clark really wanted to kiss him. Until Bruce said, petulant, “It's only a concussion.”

“It's a lot more than that,” said Clark sternly. “You've been in a car crash, Bruce, and then you've been kidnapped. That's nothing to joke about. If Superman hadn't found you…” Clark trailed off and began fussing with Bruce's blanket instead, pulling it up to his chin, but Bruce wasn't having it. 

“Superman ruined everything,” he muttered, crossing his arms and foiling Clark's attempts to get him to settle down. Wincing - his ribs were bruised, Clark knew -, Bruce stared mulishly into the middle distance. The effect was further ruined by the lack of focus in his eyes and the way he slightly swayed in place. It would've been adorable, except that, in the face of Bruce's injuries, Clark couldn't forget his fear. When he'd heard that Bruce had been kidnapped, when he'd found him in that van, bleeding with a gun to his head….

“Superman saved your life ,” admonished Clark sharply. “I could have lost you, Bruce. Don't you understand that you could have died today?”

Bruce focused back on Clark – as best as he could right now anyway – taking in his clenched fists, and something in his posture softened. “I would've been okay. Batman–”

“Doesn't work during the day,” interrupted Clark, a sudden burst of jealousy bubbling up his throat and making his tone sharper than he meant it to be. He just didn't understand where Bruce's confidence in the Bat came from. Of course Clark had seen the news. He knew what Batman had done for Gotham and her people, but Bruce's conviction felt so personal…

To Clark's surprise, Bruce laughed weakly. “Come here,” he said, reaching out, and Clark didn't hesitate. He took Bruce's hand, let himself get pulled closer and then hastily sat down on the edge of the hospital bed when it seemed like Bruce was once again trying to sit up. 

“Don't move too much, you'll only aggravate your injuries.”

“I'm glad you're here. I missed you,” said Bruce on a sigh, eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally left his body. He didn't let go of Clark's hand.

“I missed you, too,” answered Clark, chest so full of fondness it was almost uncomfortable. Like he needed an outlet for it or he would explode. “Try to sleep a bit, Bruce.” 

Bruce's brows drew together and Clark marveled at how expressive he was. Of course it was due to the concussion and the painkillers but still… “I don't want you to leave,” mumbled Bruce, clumsily squeezing Clark's hand, and gosh but Clark's heart just about melted. 

“I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise. I won't leave you alone.”

Bruce smiled, that faint smile of his that was just a bit crooked. He turned his head, practically nuzzled into Clark's palm, and promptly fell asleep. 

Once again, Clark got the impression of a cat, especially with the smudges of black paint still clinging to the skin around Bruce's eyes, the way his hair hung messily into his forehead. He was so beautiful. Clark felt like he could watch him for hours. And that's exactly what he did. 

As the sun slowly sank below the horizon outside, Clark watched the light play over Bruce's face. He watched bruises bloom a dark purple on his skin, and wanted to go and find those kidnappers again, give them another whopping. He also wanted to find Batman and shake him, ask him what he did to deserve Bruce's faith and where on earth he'd been when Bruce had needed him. He didn't even want to think about what could've happened if he hadn't been listening out for Bruce…

But that was the thing, wasn't it? Bruce needed him, needed Clark , and that meant Clark was right where he was supposed to be. The thought was comforting. 

Sometime late in the evening, Clark wasn't sure exactly when, Bruce began to stir. He still hadn't let go of Clark's hand, had slept curled around it for hours. It was endearing, to see him wake up and freeze, eyes darting between Clark's face and his hand like he didn't remember how either had gotten there. Or like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. 

“Hey there,” said Clark, and he couldn't resist reaching out and brushing a strand of hair away from Bruce's face. “How are you feeling? Do you want me to call the nurse?”

Bruce didn't respond. His eyes snapped to Clark's face and then stayed there. The haziness was gone from his gaze, he looked like he was searching for something or trying to puzzle something out. And yet he stayed silent. 

“What's wrong?” asked Clark, at the same time as Bruce said, with a note of wonder but also the utmost conviction, “You're Superman.”

Clark's heart stopped and then it started beating twice as fast. “What?” he croaked. “How– Why–?” Panic gripped him. Desperately, he tried to find the right words, any words at all, really. He tried to tell Bruce that it was the concussion talking, that this was ridiculous and that he was just a reporter for crying out loud, but for some strange reason he just couldn't bring himself to utter a single sound. 

Bruce nodded and sat up, the way he swayed betraying that he wasn't as together yet as he'd seemed. “I recognized you. I didn't know it when you came to get me, but I did.” Lifting his hand, he skimmed his fingers over Clark's cheeks, under his eyes, one after the other. “It's your eyes. The glasses do a good job of diluting their effect but…” 

Clark didn't know how to respond. For the past four weeks he'd wished for nothing more than to be close to Bruce like this, to touch him and be touched in return. But he never imagined it to be like this without the pretense of work between them. Now that he was here, he was absolutely terrified. Aside from his parents no one knew who – or what – he was. What would Bruce do now? What would he expect? Wide-eyed, all Clark could do was stare at Bruce, waiting. But when Bruce moved to pull his hand back, Clark surprised himself by snatching it, lightning fast, and holding it tight. 

There were a million questions swirling through his mind, a million things he wanted – needed – to say, but he couldn't find his voice. All he could do was stare at Bruce, hold onto him. 

Bruce seemed to understand, though. He seemed to understand better than Clark himself did because his entire demeanor softened, something Clark never thought he'd see. He kept looking at Clark, unblinking, holding his gaze. “I'm not going to hurt you, Clark. But we will talk about your timing because we could have figured out who those people were working for if you hadn't burst in like that.”

Clark laughed, incredulous and maybe a bit hysterical. Not just at the absurdity of Bruce's words (the entire situation, really) but because he actually needed to hear them. “I thought Batman was already on his way to figure out everything and save you?”

For some reason, Bruce found this hilarious. Laughing, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Clark's collarbone. “I threw up on you,” he said suddenly, and Clark felt an unbearable fondness rise in his chest at the nonsequitor. Maybe… maybe being known wasn't so bad. As long as it was Bruce. 

“You did.” Reaching up, he let his hand hover before he cupped the back of Bruce's head and carefully slid his fingers through the silky strands of his hair. “How are you feeling? How's your head?”

Bruce sighed, burrowing closer. “Hurts. But it's nothing I'm not used to.”

“Used to?” repeated Clark, brows drawing together. The thought of Bruce being used to pain was upsetting. He resisted the urge to further curl around Bruce, to shield him, but it was a close thing. “Why would you be used to pain?”

But Bruce's breathing was slowing once more, evening out, like figuring out who Clark was hade taken what energy he'd had, and then he was asleep once more, curled into Clark's chest with Clark's fingers buried in his hair. And as Clark sat there, stunned and still in disbelief that this was all truly happening, that there was now a person out there besides his parents who knew him, truly knew him , he thought about Bruce. 

He had so many questions. What did Bruce think about him being an alien? Was he scared? Disgusted? It was hard to guess his thoughts based on how he acted right now. He still had a concussion and had painkillers coursing through his system. He wasn't himself. 

To avoid dwelling on his anxiety, Clark spent the next few hours thinking about their first meeting, about Bruce fighting off the muggers, and how he always looked tired. How he cared about the people of Gotham with an almost desperate fervor. Clark thought about the makeup smudges, how smart Bruce was, and the fact that he was used to pain, didn't seem the least bit afraid when he'd been kidnapped mere hours ago. When he'd just found out he was friends with a literal alien. 

And sure, that last one might just be the concussion and the painkillers, but still. It was odd, very odd if laid out all together like that, and it made a very specific, bat-shaped hope bloom in Clark's chest. Because… 

What if? What if the hero of Gotham was Bruce? What if that was another thing they had in common? What if Clark didn't have to be alone anymore? It made sense but it also sounded too good to be true. 

Breathing in deep, Clark buried his nose in Bruce's hair, reveling in the scent that was so uniquely him, and the hope took root inside of Clark's heart. For hours he mulled over what he knew of Bruce, all the little habits and idiosyncrasies he'd witnessed over the past month of their friendship and weighed it against his, admittedly very limited, knowledge of the Batman, so that by the time Bruce woke up again he was certain.

“Hello,” murmured Bruce several hours later, when the sun was slowly creeping up over the horizon, painting the jagged spires of Gotham's skyscrapers gold. His voice was thick with sleep as he blinked up at Clark but they were back to their usual shrewdness. 

The doctors had been there during the night checking Bruce's vitals – as had Alfred –, and they were all due back for another checkup soon. For now though, they had a little pocket of time to themselves and as much as Clark had thought about what to say, how to give voice to his hopes and fears and suspicions, words were failing him. 

Bruce pushed himself up into a sitting position, gaze never straying from Clark's, who had taken up vigil in the chair next to the bed after Alfred and the doctors had left. 

“You're Superman,” said Bruce, repeating his statement from earlier, but without the painkillers in his system his expression had become unreadable again. Still, there was no going back now. Clark swallowed. 

“And you're Batman.”

Bruce's fingers twitched where they lay on top of the covers and there was the faintest uptick in his heartbeat, but those were the only signs that Clark had surprised him. They stared at each other for a seemingly endless moment, before Bruce slowly inclined his head. “Where does that leave us?”

A concession. Clark's own heart began to trip and stumble. “I was hoping together,” he answered truthfully, and only realized that it was a confession of his own when Bruce’s breathing stopped. He didn't take it back, however, didn't clarify that he'd meant working together, that being Superman was lonely and that the main reason he'd tried to track Batman down in the first place was that he'd been desperate to have someone who understood.  

Clark didn't take it back because the other confession, that he'd slowly fallen in love with Bruce over the past months and wanted to be with him in any capacity he was allowed to be, was equally true. If not more so. 

Bruce nervously licked his lips. His breathing still wasn't back to normal and neither was his heart rate as he met Clark's gaze head-on. “I don't know how to do this,” he said, like he was picking his words carefully. “Being together with someone. I've never… until recently, I...” He exhaled harshly and shook his head, seemingly frustrated with himself and Jesus Christ, Clark was gone on this man. 

“We'll figure it out as we go,” he answered reassuringly, and laid a hand on top of Bruce's, needing to touch him in some way. He had the sneaking suspicion he might just pull Bruce into his arms and kiss him stupid if he didn't otherwise occupy his hands and he would never forgive himself if he scared Bruce away now. Which reminded him… “Are you really okay with this though?”

Bruce cocked his head but he was still looking down at Clark's hand. Slowly, he turned his wrist until they were palm to palm, and wove their fingers together. For some reason the innocent gesture hit Clark right in the stomach. “What do you mean? The contact? I admit that I'm not usually a very tactile person but I enjoy it with you. I like being close to you, feeling your skin against mine…” Bruce drifted off, seemingly mesmerized by his own thumb, which he had started to stroke over the back of Clark's hand. 

Small shivers of pleasure danced across Clark's skin but he was too nervous to let it distract him. He swallowed. “The fact that I'm not human,” he whispered, and tried his best not to tense up as Bruce's head snapped up and their gazes locked. These stares were riling Clark up in the best of of ways but right now he was too anxious to really focus on that. Silence stretched between them and the longer it lasted the more Clark's heart sank. 

Had Bruce not read up on Superman? Did he maybe not know or believe that Clark was actually from a different planet? Had he thought Clark was a metahuman? 

“Has it been a problem before?” asked Bruce, and even though Clark didn't know what he was saying he tried to take comfort from the fact that Bruce had yet to let go of his hand. 

“I've never told anyone before. If that's what you're asking.”

Bruce went still at that, his fingers tightening around Clark's. “I haven't told anyone either. Alfred knows but he's… I could never have done this without him.”

Clark was confused. A part of him was pleased to be trusted like this, enough that Bruce wanted to share personal things with him in a way he hadn't done before, but the other part was still terrified that he was too other for Bruce. That Bruce didn't understand just how different Clark really was and that once he did he would leave. The thought terrified Clark, but he'd rather know now , before he fell even more in love. 

“My parents know, obviously. I mean, they were the ones who found me when I came to earth. It would've been hard to keep it a secret when they knew before I did.”

“Your parents?” asked Bruce. “You came here as a child?” Even as his gaze bore into Clark's, reassuringly intense and unwavering, he kept playing with Clark's fingers. Absently, like holding hands was a novel experience he simply had to catalogue to its full extent even if his mind wasn't fully focused on it. It was helplessly endearing and pretty much the only thing keeping Clark from vibrating out of his skin. It gave him the courage to explaine how exactly he'd come to be on earth and how he'd become Superman. 

Bruce listened intently, a thoughtful crease appearing between his brows. “Your parents sound like good people,” he said eventually, after Clark had ended. “And I would love to see your ship one day.”

It was such a Bruce thing, thought Clark fondly, to somehow cram a whole host of emotional statements into two simple sentences like that. 

I'm glad your parents found you. 

I'm glad you didn't have to be alone.

It doesn't bother me that you're not human. 

I'm staying by your side.

Clark's shoulders loosened. He allowed himself to smile and squeeze Bruce's hand, to tenderly swipe his thumb over the inside of Bruce's wrist. “I'll show you,” he promised, and kept stroking Bruce's skin. He desperately wanted to pull Bruce close, kiss him senseless and never let him go, but he didn't want to go too far too fast. Having Bruce's easy acceptance was more than Clark could've asked for. It had been an amazing experience to become Superman and use his abilities to help people, but it had also introduced him to a level of hatred he hadn't experienced before. It had made him even more scared of letting anyone close enough to even consider telling them about his heritage.

“I'm glad you found out,” said Clark, looking up from their joined hands to once again meet Bruce's gaze. 

The corner of Bruce's mouth ticked up. “Me too,” he answered and then he tugged Clark forward and claimed his mouth in a kiss. A surprised sound escaped Clark and his stomach flipped, but then he got with the program. He crowded closer to Bruce, let the hand that wasn't holding Bruce's hand slide into his hair to angle his head and give himself better access. Heat coiled low in his belly, spread through his limbs and left his skin tingling. He swiped his tongue over the seam of Bruce's lips, asking for entrance, and with a low groan Bruce gave in. Their tongues twined, sliding against each other wetly, and– fuck. Electricity sparked between them. 

With difficulty Clark finally wrenched himself away and, breathing heavily, rested his forehead against Bruce's. “That was… wow.”

Bruce pressed another kiss to the corner of Clark's mouth. “We should do it again.”

Amused, Clark leaned back, away from temptation. “We will. Once you're better.”

Bruce frowned. “I'm fine.”

Raising an eyebrow, Clark pointedly looked around the room. “Really? And here I thought we were in the hospital because you have a concussion, cracked ribs and more bruises than I can count.”

Bruce glared at him, and Jesus Christ he looked adorable. Clark couldn't help but dive forward and kiss him again. Only a bit, though, it wouldn't do to get carried away. Bruce needed rest. 

“Once you're better,” began Clark, taking a shaky breath and putting more distance between them again. “Once the doctors clear you, we'll have that dinner you promised me and I'll kiss you as long as you want. And then we'll figure out who kidnapped you. Together.”

Bruce swayed slightly as if he was trying to follow Clark. “Sounds like a date.”

Snorting, Clark pushed Bruce back into the pillows. “Because it will be. Now get some more sleep, the doctors will be here to check on you soon.”

Bruce watched Clark fuss with his blankets. “You'll stay?”

Clark's heart melted in his chest, made him feel lighter than air. “Of course I'll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

“That might be longer than you're comfortable with.”

Clark smiled. “I highly doubt that.”

“Alright,” said Bruce, and settled down. He stifled a yawn but he didn't look like he actually wanted to sleep again. Not yet at least. “I still need to tell you about Senator Joyston.”

“If it's not too much you could do that now,” answered Clark, leaning back in his slightly too small chair to get more comfortable. Bruce's lips curved in that barely-there smile Clark adored so much and he reached out to take Clark's hand before launching into his findings. Clark wove their fingers together, thinking he could listen to Bruce's analytical mind at work for hours on end without ever getting tired.

Who would've thought four weeks ago that his trip to Gotham would lead to this? Not Clark, that was for sure. But he definitely wasn't complaining.