Work Text:
It's late when I fly home that night. Too late to swing by Lois's, so I fly straight to my apartment.
I'm tired, and my clothes are dusty from working at the debris field all night. But work starts in a few hours, and unlike the Justice Gang, I'm not privately funded. Decency requires that I shower before work. I'll pick up a little treat for Lois to make up for missing our goodnight kiss, too.
But right now, I'm just tired and eager to drop into a chair and close my eyes for a few hours until the sun comes up.
It's been one month since the rift left its irreparable mark on the Metropolis skyline. Most of the injured have gone home to their families, but the garbage remains from Lex's mad schemes, and cleanup is harder than fighting his lab-grown army. There's no rush of adrenaline. No victorious finish. It's sad picking through broken things, determining what can be saved, what can be returned to their original owners, and what, despite all your hard work, has to be destroyed so that it can be rebuilt.
Maybe that's why I don't fully understand what's happening when I see It— a shadow on the roof of my apartment building as tall as a man. I am dismissive of it at first. So I saw a shadow? Big deal. It's nighttime. What isn't a shadow?
But then the shadow is gone, and I'm left wondering if the thing I saw moved like a shadow or if it had been moving...differently and with purpose.
I touch down on the rooftop seconds after I begin to question It, but I am already too late.
My mind must be playing tricks on me because I'm tired, I conclude. And of course I'm tired. A month ago, someone tried to kill me. They almost succeeded while I was imprisoned in darkness.
But tonight I dream of sunlit cornfields and wake up refreshed and energized, yet Earth's yellow sun is both real and imagined. Tomorrow I’ll wake up early, and fly to the other side of the country to get my girlfriend her favorite breakfast pastry and cold brew because I can and because it will make her smile.
We never live an inch without involvement, which includes all our good deeds in addition to our transgressions.
…
There was a line at the coffee shop, so I'm late to work, but strangely so is Lois. She hadn't mentioned any new assignments to me, so her absence is unusual.
Instead of Lois, I find a well-dressed man sitting on my desk, legs crossed and picking at the dirt beneath his nails. He looks like he'd be a tall man when he's standing and is nearly as broad as I am, and he's wearing a three-piece suit that is starkly out of place in the bullpen. He doesn't belong here. He belongs upstairs in Perry's office, drinking sherry, or downtown in an opera box.
"Can I help you, sir?" I say, thinking that he is lost, and set Lois's coffee and crumb cake on her desk beside a bouquet of stargazer lilies that are there when I arrive.
"Just waiting for my star reporter," the man says in a polished voice that sets my teeth on edge as he checks his Rolex. The battle with Lex has made me wary of the billionaire class. The Earth was brought to the prink of disaster all because an unloved child with fast toys and a black card ran out of ways to feed his ego in a world where Superman existed.
I look around. There's nobody else. Surely he can't mean me? I've never met this man before in my life. "Flattered. But I'm afraid I don't recall your name, Mr….?"
The man looks up, hazel eyes on fire with the kind of manic energy I usually see on the faces of my enemies before they begin to monologue. "Oh, forgive me, I was speaking about Ms. Lane," he says and points at her desk where the flowers sit. "I didn't realize this desk was occupied because of the mess. Assumed it was storage."
My mouth falls open. This guy can't be serious. He's here for Lois? With flowers? "Okay, pal, who are—"
"Bruce Wayne," he interjects and holds out his hand for a firm handshake that tests my ability to stay relaxed in my human pantomime. "And I'm not your pal, but I might just be your worst nightmare."
I frown. "The Gotham billionaire?" Lex hasn't been in the metaphorical ground for a month, and yet here come the vultures to fill the void he left behind. Maxwell Lord has been sniffing around town, too, as Luthorcorp's stocks continue to plummet in the aftermath of Lex's failed assassination attempt on me.
"Gotham doesn’t produce billionaires, doll. Most of my money is in offshore accounts and national holdings. The title of billionaire is really more of a global one if you want to get technical about it," he says, purposefully misrepresenting my meaning.
Gosh, it's finally happened. I've met someone even more irritating than Guy.
"Do you mind parking it elsewhere?" I make a shooing motion after I take my hand back. "I've got a deadline and would like my desk back now."
"This desk? Oh, you see, this is my desk now. They're all mine if we're still being technical about things," he says cryptically. Then he leans back, supine and at an angle that feels ever so slightly sexual in the way he shows off his long neck and broad chest. His suit is tailored and hugs him in all the right places, just as a good suit should, and I can't get Lex out of my head when I look at him. Bruce has a full head of hair, he but possesses the same confidence that no metahuman I've met can match because we are not born heroes. We grow into our super selves even if we are born with powers. Bruce Wayne, however, was born a prince and knows it.
"Ugh! I'm so bored! Where is the enigmatic Ms. Lane? I'm a busy man and very powerful, you know? What about my deadline?" He whines. I'm annoyed until he knocks over a cup of old coffee on my desk, then I'm panicked!
It happens too fast to do anything about it. There are too many people looking directly at us for me to use my powers. By the time I scoop up the cup, a black stain has already spread across a stack of papers I need for a piece I'm working on about metahumans that predate Superman, because I think Lex was partially correct. There are too many conversations that revolve around me. It's not safe for Clark Kent or for Superman to be so centered, and it's not right that I've inherited all the credit for keeping the world safe. I follow in the footsteps of giants, that's all.
"DUDE! Look what you did to my research!!!" I bellow and dab at the only copy that remains of the Gotham Gazette's first article on Batman. My tie does its best, but unfortunately, the corrosive brand of coffee Perry insists we all drink eats through the aged paper in seconds, reducing it to mulch. The Gotham paper takes the most damage, but none of my work makes it out unscathed.
"Oh, don't be a baby. Just print the article off again," Bruce says dismissively.
"I can't." It costs money to digitize print media and hire a trained archivist to categorize it in a logical and accessible manner for the research field. None of this is backed up. "Some of these were priceless," I inform him, and look mournfully at the pile of paper. It's a devastating loss, and humiliating because with one careless mishap, this jerk has managed what no one else has: made Superman a criminal. Few of these documents were obtained legally. I spirited them out of municipal libraries across the globe, fully intending on bringing them back once my work is complete. But recklessly, I've only left further destruction in my wake.
"Nonsense. Everything has a price. Even you."
I shake my head. "Nope, not me. Got everything I need already, Mr. Money Bags."
He chuckles. "Oh, yes, because you're Clark Kent, a simple man from Kansas. How could I forget?"
I look at him, shocked. Bruce Wayne knows of me? Does he have a fetish for my Superman articles like Lex did? "I didn't tell you my name."
"No, you didn't. And right now, you are wondering how I know who you are," he searches my face with his hazel eyes. He must find something he doesn't like because his smile vanishes. "Okay, let's do this, four-eyes," he says and cracks his neck and knuckles like he is preparing for a fight. "You like paper as a medium because you prefer things to remain analog and static. You hate change. I'd wager you love the classics, yet you fall short of what anyone would call a romantic. The flowers I brought for Ms. Lane? They bother you. Partially because I am who I am, but also because you've never done it before. You assume a strong-willed woman like Ms. Lane would be too modern-minded to like flowers, but newsflash, Clark , everyone likes flowers. Men too. Because everyone likes to feel cared for, even Joker has Harley to look after him."
It's true that I've never brought Lois flowers, but that's because I know her well. He doesn't. He knows nothing about either of us! "Okay, Detective Columbo, I'm going to need you to take a step back. No one was asking for a criminal profile here."
Bruce rises from the desk and steps towards me, encroaching on my personal space. "Not a romantic," he repeats, "yet you still think of yourself as a dreamer. Others call you naive, and you do your best not to resent the accusation, but you're only human, like the rest of us. Sometimes it gets to you, like I am getting to you now."
I laugh dissimvely. "Nice try, but—
"Oh, I'm not finished with you, yet, Clark," he growls, his voice diving suddenly into a deep baritone before popping back up an octave. "You were an average student with an above-average bench press. And unless I've lost my touch, that is not a spare recorder in your trousers, big boy. How am I doing?"
I cover my crotch with a coffee-stained newspaper and stare at him aghast. He…he did NOT just talk about my junk in my place of business! Who does that!?! And, yes, okay, I'm big in places, and buying pants that fit is not easy in Metropolis on a reporter's salary. No one has ever been rude enough to point it out!
Bruce puts his hands on his hips, looking Superman-esque as he stands before me, forging ahead with malicious glee now that he's found a vulnerability. "Is that what you bring to the bull pen, Clark? Big dick energy? You hide it behind a lack of adverbs and overworked sentences, but you are reckless and care more about your sermons than reporting on the facts. Wouldn't you agree, Ms. Lane?" Bruce suddenly wheels away from me as Lois joins us.
"God, Wayne. I heard you were a playboy, but I didn't figure you'd be a sadist, too. Kicking Kent is like kicking a puppy. Why don't you pick on someone who can fight back?" she says as she stands up to a man three times richer than Luthor, and I feel myself falling in love with this fearless woman all over again.
Bruce laughs. "Anyone have Superman's number on them?"
The comparisons to Lex keep stacking up. What is this hold I have over the other 1%? "What's your business here in Metropolis, Mr. Wayne?" I ask, changing the subject.
Bruce looks deferentially at her to explain. She sighs, "He's the new owner of The Daily Planet. He closed the deal in secret thirty minutes ago. Perry just found out."
"WHAT!?" It can't be. I knew the Planet was in dire straits since the dimensional rift tore the building in half, but it doesn't seem fair for things to end this way. We busted Lex Luthor! We broke the story of the century! Wayne is an outsider. A Gothamite! What does he want with a Metropolis paper?
"Guilty as sin," the billionaire says, then bows,
"Smallville, will you please pick your jaw up off the floor and make yourself useful somehow," Lois grouses and offers her hand to Bruce.
LOIS. I mouth at her with my brows furrowed. Why am I getting picked on instead of him?
"Yes, the flowers could use some water, Clark," Bruce says, still helping himself to my first name as casually as if he owns it along with the building. He is smiling again, too, but the light does not return to his eyes.
"Leave him alone, Mr. Wayne. Clark is about as exciting as a dictionary, but a good man."
I glare at her, too, now, and wonder who decided today was Kick Clark In The Pants Day
"Then maybe he could get mesome water, and allow us the opportunity to get to know each other a little better," Bruce suggests. "Perhaps over lunch?"
"Maybe you could buzz off," I snap at him. It's weak. I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth, and the bullpen goes quiet just in time for everyone to hear me make a fool of myself.
Their shared second-hand embarrassment fills the room, palpable until Bruce breaks the silence. "So, lunch? My driver is outside."
I wait for Lois to lay into him. Maybe throw a stapler or kick over the trash can; however, to my horror, she accepts.
"My boss says I have to, so sure."
"Good ol'Perry. Love that guy," Bruce says, like he belongs here with us. Lex was at least convincingly charismatic. This guy is just a jerk.
"You don't even know him," I grumble, knowing I have been defeated.
"Oh, Clark! Is that jealousy I hear? Come closer," Bruce beckons with obvious delight. "I suffer from partial hearing loss on my left side—too many punk rock concerts in my youth. You'll have to speak up if you want to be insulting."
It's Lois's pleading face that makes me relent. She has always been the more politically savvy of us, and after Jarhanpur, we had a long talk about how I could show more restraint in my praxis as both Clark Kent and Superman. "No. Enjoy your lunch," I say, but the words feel like concrete in my mouth.
Bruce's expression shifts between me and Lois, then back to me, traveling down my body with something like interest. "How about we make this a threesome? My treat."
My jaw is definitely on the floor again. "No, that's really not necessary, Mr. Wayne! I have that deadline!" I squeak as I remind him.
"Nonsense." He snaps his finger. "There. The deadline is gone. Remember, I own this paper now and insist you have lunch with us."
I'm pretty sure Perry would disagree, but Lois is giving me her sternest 'stop being stubborn' look."
"Fine. Whatever." I say, giving up.
Bruce lays a hand on each of our shoulders and pushes us toward the door. "Excellent. There are few things I love more than midday menage a trois. Any allergies I should be aware of? Mmm, Clark? He asks me and only me.
Bruce Wayne may have come for Lois, but I think I've accidentally made myself his prey.
…
I thought I knew what I was getting into when we went to lunch—a boozy luncheon where Lois and I would be required to pander to Bruce Wayne's fragile ego before we were released back into our natural habitat.
I still can't explain how or when it happens, but somewhere between the salad and main course, he'd switch gears and reveals the savvy businessman that lurks beneath his bad manners. It is honestly quite astounding how quickly he can drop the act, and I'm Superman outside of work. The double life is my entire thing. But it took practice, and Bruce Wayne is not known for his strong work ethic. He’s more of a Jetski guy
Bruce holds us hostage at the corner table of the restaurant for THREE HOURS, grilling us about the journalistic standards of The Daily Planet, our views of the Luthor situation, and its impact on the working class, as well as inquiries into our current projects.
I want to ask: why the act? What was he trying to accomplish by antagonizing me while he waited for Lois? If he was waiting at all. There is a story here, but my mind is struggling to piece everything together. It feels fuzzy, almost like there was a tiny piece of Kryptonite in the room, but that's impossible. There's no more Kryptonite left on the planet. I think I'm just starstruck, and that's the worst part because I had decided to hate this man forever.
However, when he lays down his swords, Bruce Wayne is incredibly cool and innovative, and by the time the crème brûlée arrives, I'm horrified to realize I'm desirous of his approval.
Bruce does not seem impressed by my metahuman projects, however. Instead encourages me to focus on busting corrupt billionaires like Luthor or Maxwell Lord of all things.
"What about Wayne Enterprises? Would I be welcomed in Gotham if I have questions about Wayne Tech's government contracts?" I ask, testing him.
He waggles a finger in my face. "There's my little moralist, but no, neither of you would not be welcome in Gotham. I'm sorry. I assure you, however, that Wayne Tech has no government contracts beyond those related to medical services. I am not an arms dealer like the Luthors." He says in reply.
"Sounds like you've got something to hide, Mr. Wayne," Lois says accusingly.
He laughs. "Hardly! The problem is you two! Or more specifically, Superman. Gotham’s local flying rodent problem does not play well with others, as I'm sure you already know."
"Batman! You've met Batman!" I sit forward in my chair, excited. Few people have met the Dark Knight outside the GCPD.
"Met is a strong word, but yes, I know of Batman," Bruce demurs. "I also know that Superman seems to follow you and Ms. Lane around like a bad cold, which brings me to my last question: which one of you is sleeping with him?"
Neither of us speaks at first. Lois recovers fastest. "Oh, we're not…we just interview him."
Bruce studies us silently, but beneath the table, I feel his foot brush my ankle suggestively.
"OH! Yeah! No!" I say, pushing back from the table. It's not that I'm freaked out that I'm being flirted with by a man, but I'm spoken for. "Superman and I...nope. Nope, we're just friends.
Lois punches me beneath the table, and I play back the words I just vomited from my mouth.
"Source! Not friend! Superman is a trusted source and nothing more."
"Uh-huh," Bruce says insincerely, but his phone rings, saving me. The voice on the other end is British. "Master Bruce, you're needed at home. I'm afraid Mr. Jay has made an unauthorized bank withdrawal."
"Copy that," Bruce says tersely and hangs up. "I'm afraid I must go." He removes two black credit cards from his breast pocket and lays one down in front of each of us. "Your new company cards. There are no limits," he explains.
I pick up mine. Lois leaves her on the table. "Is this supposed to be a bribe?" She asks.
Bruce grins at her, but his smile looks mournful this time. "No, I would never insult you like that, Ms. Lane. I respect you too much; corny as that sounds. But I think you like corny,” he glances at me. “All this is to express my appreciation for how neatly you wrapped up Lex Luthor. It's one of the reasons I moved so quickly to buy The Daily Planet and prevent Maxwell Lord from buying the last honest paper. There is good work being done here; I want you to do more of it. This is my charge: seek out corruption wherever it lurks. Drag it out into the light. Give your enemies no quarter."
He speaks directly to Lois and spares no further attention for me despite the bountiful gift he's laid at my feet. I recognize the look in his eyes. He means what he says about respecting her and maybe a bit more, but I can't find it in me to feel jealous. Lois is worthy of the whole world's admiration, and that includes that of the wealthiest man on the planet.
"For someone who doesn't work for the government, you certainly sound like a soldier," she comes back at him.
"All good people are soldiers in a world gone mad, Ms. Lane. Most don't know it yet, but I fear they soon will," he says as he rises to his feet.
Bruce lingers at my side before he departs. Seated, I must now look up at him.
He swallows hard, and his gaze is filled with a frustration I don't understand. Then he removes a single carnation from the table decoration and lays it down in front of me. "Clark…I'm sending the name of my optometrist to your inbox. Those glasses don't do anything for your angles. Trust me."
Bruce Wayne leaves Lois and me stranded across town with a mountain of questions and $500 To-Go box in her lap.
"I think someone had a crush on you," she says on the taxi.
"I don't think I'm the only one," I tease back.
She laughs. "Oh, ho-ho! Wayne liked me just fine, but he wanted to fuck you."
"Nah, you're imagining things. He thinks I'm a fool." I tell her, but remember the brush of his foot against my ankle.
"Smallville, the day I'm wrong about what a man wants, is the day they put me in the ground."
My palms are sweating. If she's right, is she bothered by it? This thing with Lois is still so new and precious, I am afraid of every little threat to it. But I promised to work on my avoidance issues, and talk when I want to stay silent. "You aren't mad, right?"
"Only, if he didn't intend to share you," she says, popping open the To Go box and digging into her piece of cheesecake, which has been ornamented in edible gold foil. There is a matter-of-factness to her voice that makes me curious.
"Wait, you're serious, aren't you? You don't mind sharing."
"It's called relationship anarchy, but no, I don't mind sharing," she clarifies. "Does that bother you?"
I think about it. "A little. I was mad when he brought you flowers," I confess, even though the carnation Bruce left me with sits in my pocket hypocritically.
"Yeah, well, you're an idiot," she says, cracking a smile, and lifts a piece of cheesecake to my mouth with her fingers. "I don't need flowers. When I'm with you, I feel like I can fly," she says cleverly, because we are not alone in the car.
I take the cheesecake from her hand and lick her fingers clean. We make out in the cab on the way back to work, leaving a generous tip for the driver on Bruce Wayne's dollar.
…
News of the acquisition breaks while the new boss is entertaining us. Our colleagues were not pleased when they learned where we had been all afternoon while they fielded questions from other networks.
Their anger is justified if outsized, but then I remember Bruce's black card burning a hole in my pocket.
Lois still thinks it's a bribe, but my money is on surveillance. He can track our movements and expenditures with it. I place mine in my desk drawer and resolve to forget about it.
"OLSEN! Stop wasting time with this Spirit Halloween bullshit." Perry hollers as he strolls up to the coffee machine with a red-faced Jimmy in tow.
"But Chief! It's a good story!"
"Not today it ain't. And don't call me Chief!" Perry yells.
Jimmy returns to his desk and slumps into his chair like a captain going down with the ship.
I roll myself over to his side with a bag of M&Ms in my hand. "What's going on, Jimmy?" I ask and offer him the candy.
"I don't know! Maybe nothing. But just maybe something . It doesn't make any sense, man. Why is he here in Metropolis?" Jimmy sighs and hands me a printout. Then fishes a couple of M&Ms out of the bag.
"Man-sized bat spotted in Cheapside. Does Metropolis have its own Batman?" the headline reads.
I start to choke. "BATMAN IS HERE!?"/p>
Jimmy nods, but then shakes his head. "Yes? No? I don't know, Clark. My source swore she saw him, but that's impossible! He NEVER leaves Gotham."
I freeze. Cheapside is a couple of blocks from my apartment. "Cheapside? And she was sure it was Cheapside." I ask, growing nervous.
"As sure as anyone can be after leaving Tuesday Night Trivia and Mary Martin's."
So not very sure. That's comforting because the only reason Batman would be near Clark Kent's apartment would be if he knew about Superman's secret identity.
"Clark, are you feeling okay? You're white as a sheet."
I wince. "Yeah. Fine. Just fine. Tough break on the story, Jimmy. Better luck next time."
…
I return to my apartment exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, but force myself to use the elevator like a normal person. I tend to leave and enter via the window because who would rather walk when you could fly? But appearances still need to be maintained.
So when I find the envelope on the floor inside my foyer, I don't know if it was put there today or yesterday.
It's a simple note on plain cardstock, handwritten and ordinary except for the signature.
See you around. - B
I am ashamed to admit that Bruce Wayne is my first suspect, but there's another potential culprit, too: B for Batman. That thought is less comforting than the first. There is only one reason why Batman would be snooping around Clark Kent's building: he knows who I really am, and if so, Clark Kent is ruined.
See you around, I read again. Does he intend to make a repeat visit? But no. 'He NEVER leaves Gotham,' Jimmy had said, and my recent research supports this argument.
It takes me three tries to relax my eyes enough to fire up my X-ray vision, and my apartment lights up like a Christmas tree. I lose count of how many audio and visual bugs have been planted in the cabinets and shadowy corners of every room. Some don't even look like they've been turned on. It's as if he planted them solely to be an inconvenience. He knows who I am, and he's being a jerk about it. He wouldn't do this otherwise.
I spent the rest of my evening debugging my apartment until there is only one left in the back of my refrigerator.
I bend down, stare directly at the camera, and remove my glasses, so I'm sure he sees me for me. "You know, I'd have invited you in if you just asked. Maybe next time you'll do me the courtesy of calling ahead...B."
I little red light at the center of the camera blinks in mocking acknowledgment. I let my eyes fill with red, preparing to blast it with a low-dose of red laser, then stop and let my anger wash out of me. Blasting it to Kingdom Come is what Old Clark would have done. But, there is some utility in having a direct line of communication with another independent metahuman who operates outside Maxwell Lord's editorial direction.
I put my glasses back on and close the door on Batman.
I'm still tired. Of course I am. A month ago, someone tried to kill me while I was weak and friendless as a superhero. But there is something new on the wind, tendrils of fate that are tugging me towards others of my kind—first the Justice Gang, now Batman.
Alone, anyone of us could fall to the whims and ambitions of dangerous men. Together, peace stands a fighting chance.