Chapter Text
”It’s the blasted computer system. Infernal machine! All other cabins are completely booked, and you two... were accidentally assigned to a single room. I am mortified–”
Bruce hangs his long coat by the mirror, resists the overwhelming urge to massage the bridge of his nose and sigh. It only takes one shake of his head, and the clerk stops his incoherent ramble, like a child.
”It’s nothing to lose your head over, I’m sure an arrangement can be made”, Bruce says with a lighthearted smile. He leans in conspiratively, with a wink. ”Especially if my roommate is a lady.”
He had hoped that would calm the man down. Bruce Wayne was known for his carefree ways; it wasn’t like he couldn’t pay the other person a substantial amount of money to relocate to different accomodations. Either way, he did not plan on staying long; his Batsub was steadily following the ship, at a moments reach. The gossip mongers would have their due: Bruce Wayne, having the time of his life on a cruise to Bermuda, while the Bat enjoyed the solitude of his Cave, and the streets of Gotham.
The sweaty, brittle receptionist barks out a nearly hysterical laugh.
”The gentleman is due to arrive right about this hour, actually–”
That’s when the door opens, and Clark Kent walks in.
Bruce cannot deny. The first thought that went through his head was, are you fucking kidding me. Because what were the chances that, of all the people who had booked a room for the cruise, he’d end up in the same room with Superman himself?
After the initial shock wears off, he wraps himself in the comfort of his old bitterness. Of course the fates would have their cruel irony; the alien with the power to wipe out the entirety of the human race was standing awkwardly in the doorway, his glasses crooked, and his brow furrowed in confusion.
”I’m sorry. Is this not room 52?”.
The clerk turns around to explain the situation, his voice cracking several times. Bruce watches the shadow of pity play on Clark Kent’s features, follows the way he delivers a compassionate smile.
”Stop apologizing, these things happen. You need to calm down. This isn’t that big of an issue,” he tells the skittish man, resting a hand on his forearm.
He turns to Bruce next, hand outstretched. ”Hello, my name is Clark Kent. And your roommate for the next week, it seems. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
Bruce opens his mouth to say, I’ll pay you your salary for a year, just sleep on the goddamn deck, and feels his hand reaching for his checkbook. This... was something he did not prepare for.
Less than a year ago, he had seen Wayne Tower collapse.
He had held a trembling child, crying for her mother, while two gods battled and trampled upon the lives of men. The ridiculously normal, friendly reporter in front of him was responsible for the deaths of thousands; masquerading as the Messiah of humankind, becoming more and more involved in the workings of the world, until humanity would yield to one of its greatest weaknesses: the wish to be saved, absolved, ruled – so that existence had a purpose. Drawn to power like moths to a flame.
But power could not withstand its own weight. Power was what made the world spin, and what sent the head of men spinning – and if men were so easily corrupted, what could be said about a being from another planet? Power could not be trusted with anything, originary on Earth or otherwise, as it was the most alluring sort of poison.
He’s thought of all of this before. Stared at screens with grainy footage of flowing red capes, did his research; followed the trail of miraculous saves to Smallville, Kansas. Stared again, even for a longer time, at the yearbook photos of one Clark Kent, birth certificate forged. A smiling, blue-eyed kid no one would think twice about.
This was an opportunity.
He grasps Clark Kent’s fingers in what others would deem a bruising grip, an easy smirk on his lips, trying not to grit his teeth.
”I’m Bruce Wayne. Don’t believe a word they say about me in the press.”
Kent smiles.
*
When he was a child, his mother had taken him to the zoo. He must have been around seven, because he remembers that long-lost innocent glee and wonder, as he held on to his mother’s hand and resisted the urge to spook the colourful birds (she had told him to be good, you see).
But his strongest memory of that day is not of elephants, or panda bears. The sun was setting when they got to the cage of the Bengal tiger. There was a small crowd in front of it; a bunch of teenagers were leaning over the railing and throwing stones between the bars, trying to rile up the beast.
Martha tutted in disapproval. Bruce remembers the affronted look in her eyes, just before the purest, basest fear changed them into stone – the fight-or-flight response of any living organism, when faced with a threat. A terrifying sound startled the both of them: a roar, loud enough for Bruce to feel it reverberating in his chest. The tiger, sick of being prodded, had thrown itself at the bars.
The claws missed the reckless kids by centimeters. Martha tried to drag Bruce away, whispering reassurances, but Bruce could not help but stare, frozen in place, at the beast thrashing and roaring against its prison.
Decades later, that sound did not even make it to the top ten scariest sounds Bruce had ever heard. But the image. The image followed him, because once, in the barely lit corridors of Arkham, Batman had watched as the Joker roared his laughter against the glass wall of his cage, and saw a beast struggling to get out.
But at that moment, he wasn’t frozen into place, filled with morbid fascination, knowing that he was protected – that he would not be hurt as long as mother was there. No, he had wanted to roar back.
*
He feels claustrophobic. He tells himself that it would be sheer stupidity to throw away an opportunity like this, an opportunity to investigate.
”Pick a side,” Bruce throws out, as he hangs his suits inside the closet. Fiddles with the hems longer than necessary. His back is turned, but he can hear the small, mundane sounds of Kent unpacking.
”Sorry?”
He finally turns and faces Kent (Superman?), gesturing vaguely towards the bed.
”Which side of the bed do you want to sleep on?”, he elaborates, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Kent seems to disregard it completely.
”I’ll take the right side, if that’s alright. I like the sun,” he offers, with a small smile.
Bruce chuckles. Wasn’t that ironic as hell.
”I can hardly say the same. The sun isn’t very friendly towards hangovers, so the left suits me just fine.”
Kent eyes him across the bed, a mix of amusement and idle curiosity glinting in his eyes.
”Planning on having a lot of those, then?” he asks conversationally, as he slides his empty luggage bag under the bed.
Bruce asks himself for a stupid second if Superman could even get drunk. He’d probably have to test that.
”When you get to be my age, son, it’s all about going out with a bang,” he grins wolfishly. ”Life’s short – you’ve got to make the most of it.”
”And making the most of life is... drinking?”, Kent asks with a slight pause, unable to steer all of the disapprovement out of his voice.
Oh. So having a statue made after him wasn’t enough, he was also claiming the moral high-ground. He seemed to have had thoroughly forgotten it when he nearly demolished half a city, instead of keeping his war into space.
”For some of us it’s drinking, for others it’s judging other people for drinking. But hey, who am I to judge,” he answers lightheartedly, shrugging as he strolls towards the mirror, where he adjusts his tie in concentration.
He sees Kent’s surprised expression behind his shoulder, sees him open his mouth.
”See you at the gala,” Bruce says before opening the door and entering the darkness of the hallway, where he takes a long breath.
He yearns for Gotham’s noises, the city buzzing with skirming life underneath a gargoyle, as the wind threatens to overpower him.
*
Slipping into the Bruce Wayne persona had become easier and easier over the years. At first, it had felt like an ill-fitted clown mask, a suit stitched together from scratches. He never really did get rid of the anger at the back of his head, when people assumed him stupid, blind enough to oversee even the most obvious of schemes.
However, not even the media expected a man past his forties, after a lifetime of extravagant parties and ski accidents, to be as active as he used to be. Especially not after Jason.
He forces himself to erase that thought from his head. Don’t grind your teeth. Don’t grip the glass too hard. Smile.
He distracts himself by sending Alfred a small text, telling him to take control of the Batsub and return it to Gotham. He almost regrets not being in it; but good things came to those who waited.
He scans the crowd periodically for Kent (Clark? Superman?), in-between glasses of champagne, but the reporter is nowhere to be seen. Relying on intuition, he quickly excuses himself, whips out his phone and searches the latest news; and of course. There are a dozen of videos of Superman by now, posted barely minutes apart. He’s flying out of a building wrecked by flames, cape mysteriously untouched, delivering one civilian at a time in the arms of awestruck firemen.
Bruce can’t help the heady rush of anger at the sight of the besotted idiots in the background; they were looking at the alien almost... hungrily, as if they wanted to absorb every little detail of him. They were gazing at Superman with the feverish look of religion, glassy eyes and hands twitching to worship.
When Bruce returns to the party, he’s ten times as talkative, ten times as charming and lively. He knows his eyes are empty, but no one has ever taken that as a sign of pretense. Rather, it made him look even more superficial and vacant. After a while, he’s had enough to drink, just enough that he’ll sleep soundlessly, dreamlessly. He slips into his (their) room at almost 4 AM, and finds it empty.
As he occupies the left side of the bed, he wonders idly how many disasters Superman averted at night. How many people did he save? Was he keeping count? Did he think that the lives saved somehow made up for the lives lost?
The thought flutters behind his eyelids, before darkness takes him. Do I?