Chapter Text
"I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction."
― Georges Bataille
Clark couldn’t make sense of Bruce Wayne, and it was starting to gnaw at him. The press had sold a solid image: a spoiled heir drowning in liquor, women, and grief, a man too rich to care about anything but himself and his money. But something was off. Clark could feel it. The man was hiding something, and he intended to bring it into the light. With Luthor out of the picture, locked away in Belle Reve, Clark shifted focus.
He let himself sink into the role of reporter, chasing Gotham’s election coverage, which often led to weapons, bloodshed, and dirty money, too much dirty money. No self-centered, money-obsessed man could steer away from an opportunity like that. If the public image was true, Wayne was involved. If it wasn’t, then he was hiding something worse. Either way, Wayne had a hand in Gotham’s mess. Clark just didn’t know where the hand was, or what it was really pulling.
He’d spent days searching for something, turning over every stone a reporter could reach and, when that wasn’t enough, calling on the kind of resources no reporter was supposed to have. He drifted over Gotham’s skyline, eyes cutting through brick and steel, ears tuned to whispers in alleys and boardrooms alike. He was close to giving up when, finally, he managed to find it. Personal deposits. Hidden accounts. And of all places, it traced back to Smallville. From there, the trail was easy to follow. Wayne was buying kryptonite, illegally, in bulk, straight from mining companies offering their discoveries on Smallville soil to whoever paid the highest price.
It was Luthor all over again. Another billionaire treating Superman like a problem to be managed, a threat to be neutralized. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? This time, though, he wouldn’t wait for things to spiral. He was ready. He would intervene before Wayne’s plans could take root. And this time, not as Superman, but as Clark Kent. This was Batman’s territory, after all, and Clark knew bringing Superman into Gotham would cause conflict. He’d spent the last few years successfully avoiding the hero who, very explicitly, despised him.
“I’m sure there’s no need for such an exhaustive interview process.” Bruce Wayne gave an easy laugh at Clark’s proposed work plan. “I’ve had my profile published before. Two hours will do. Trust me, Mr. Kent, a week with me would bore your readers. The late nights, the bad champagne, the endless handshakes, it’s hardly Pulitzer material.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, the picture of mild embarrassment. “I understand, Mr. Wayne. It’s just that with LuthorCorp on hold after Mr. Luthor’s arrest, and Wayne Enterprises expanding into Metropolis, investors are… on edge.” He lifted the glass of water they’d set out for him, letting a bead spill over the rim as if from clumsiness. “It’s in your best interest to settle those doubts. A thorough profile could do exactly that, and I’m sure I could write it more interestingly than you make it sound.”
That gave Bruce a pause, his brows knitting in thought. Clark let the silence stretch, using the moment to study the man across from him. Up close, the media frenzy made sense. Wayne was striking. His brow carried a trace of menace, while his eyes, cold and unblinking, held a hypnotic pull. He was beautiful, Clark could admit it to himself, not that it mattered when his moral compass was clearly compromised.
“What exactly do you have in mind?” Bruce conceded at last.
“I’m glad you asked!” Clark’s smile lit up, hopeful, almost overeager, as he flipped open the notepad he’d brought. “Nothing complicated. I’d simply shadow you for a week, ask a few questions here and there, and by the end, I’d have the most thorough profile ever published on you. I promise not to get in the way of your work… or your parties. Whatever it is you do.”
“And when would this week be?”
“As soon as possible, of course.” Clark leaned back, confident he’d secured his chance. “I know you value your time and your money. The sooner we publish, the sooner you reassure your investors.”
“This week’s out.” Bruce sighed theatrically, as if inconvenienced by his own schedule. “I’ll be in New York for a fundraiser."
Clark counted on it, of course. He wasn’t an amateur. Still, he let his expression slip, disappointment softening his features. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he straightened, voice brightening. “I could go with you. The Daily Planet would want coverage of the fundraiser anyway. Two birds, one stone.”
Bruce watched the reporter as they boarded his private jet to New York. What had he been thinking, granting a stranger this kind of proximity? It wasn’t like him. One lapse in judgment, and now he was trapped—condemned to endure what promised to be the most excruciating two days New York could offer. It had to be the reporter’s eyes, Bruce decided. Too kind, too earnest. The thought of sending Clark Kent, with those wide, guileless eyes, that stammering act, back to Metropolis empty-handed had felt almost cruel. Almost. But New York? That had been a mistake. And now it was too late to take it back.
The fact that Kent was correct about the investors also made the situation all the more insufferable. Gotham was used to Bruce’s antics. They didn’t care if he drank too much, said something foolish, or slept around. Metropolis was different. There, the playboy persona, so crucial to keeping his identity as Batman hidden, was a liability, a roadblock to freeing the city from Luthor’s grip. Kent offered a good solution: one week of careful exposure. Keep the persona intact, but let the work, the late nights, the deals show a different side. Playboy, yes, but disciplined, strategic, and ultimately trustworthy.
The careful exposure part of the thing that bothered him. Bruce wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating Clark Kent. He’d read his articles before agreeing to the first meeting, which also weighed heavily in his lapse of judgment. His writing was sharp, deliberate, cutting straight to its mark, so at odds with the nervous posture of the man before him, barely managing to climb the steps to the jet with that huge briefcase. Kent wrote with purpose, with conviction. He wrote for justice. And Bruce, against his better instincts, found himself respecting that. He just hoped it wouldn’t turn against him.
Once they were seated, with Clark directly across from him, claiming it was the “perfect interview setting”, Bruce abandoned any hope of catching sleep. With a silent sigh, he let the mask slide into place and sank fully into what was expected of him.
“So, Mr. Kent,” Bruce drawled, reaching for a glass of scotch the crew immediately served, “what mysteries of Gotham’s favorite billionaire do you plan on solving from thirty thousand feet up in the sky?”
Clark smiled faintly, flipping open his notepad as though it were a shield. “Oh, nothing too grand. Just the usual questions: what you do, how you do it, and why people should trust Wayne Enterprises with Metropolis in its hands.” He fumbled with his pen, almost dropping it, before steadying himself. “Nothing invasive. I promise.”
Bruce smirked, tilting his glass in mock salute. “Careful, Mr. Kent. That sounds dangerously close to hard journalism. Most reporters just want to know what brand of champagne I spill at galas.”
“I’ll get to that,” Clark said, a soft smile on his lips. Every time their eyes met, he looked away a fraction too quickly, an almost imperceptible twitch that Bruce found, against his better judgment, compelling. “But I thought I’d start with the boring part. The soul of it all.”
Bruce leaned back, eyes narrowing, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Soul, hmm? You might be the first reporter in years to think there’s anything like that left in me.”
“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Wayne.” Clark’s tone was light, almost playful, but there was steel beneath it. “It’s a well-known fact that a significant portion of your profits goes to charity. Isn’t that the equivalent of a soul for the rich? Philanthropy?”
Bruce’s smirk lingered, but his eyes sharpened. There it was, the reporter he had to watch out for, the one who wrote with purpose. “Ah,” he said, swirling the glass in his hand, “so my sins are forgiven if I write checks large enough to make people look away?”
Clark leaned slightly forward, hands resting on his notepad. “Not forgiven. Accounted for. People want to know why someone like you does what he does. What you actually want from doing what you do.”
Bruce chuckled softly, the sound low and deliberate. “Ah, Mr. Kent. You make it sound as if my entire life were some morality play. And here I thought I was just having fun.”
Clark took a careful step back, knowing that pushing Wayne too hard would only put him on the defensive. He switched to the standard interview questions, the safe territory. Wayne answered with the ease of rehearsed lines, polished and precise. Every so often, he would pause, fix Clark with a long, measuring look. Not threatening, but intensely curious. At those moments, Clark found himself shrinking slightly, not by choice, but by the weight of the man’s gaze.
The more time he spent with Wayne, the more it became clear: Bruce Wayne was nothing like Lex Luthor. There was none of the suppressed resentment, none of the cruelty. He watched his employees with genuine attentiveness, scanning the room for anyone who might need help, checking if his secretary, terrified of heights, was steady, if a server wanted a drink, even if Clark himself was comfortable. At that thought, he felt a spark of hope that the man before him was just as he presented himself, no bad, ugly, world domination plans. And then he remembered the kryptonite.
Clark caught the subtle shifts in Wayne’s heartbeat, even as he lied with practiced ease. He noticed the flicker in his eyes whenever questions grazed too close to personal territory, the carefully measured deflections, the insistence that he didn’t care. What it all meant, Clark couldn’t say. When the pilot announced their descent into New York, Clark felt as he had on takeoff, with nothing concrete. Still, he found himself strangely eager, anticipation curling in his chest. He desperately wanted to understand Bruce Wayne.
Wayne, it seemed, was not about to deny him the chance. By the time they reached the hotel, dinner had already been arranged.
“Tell me a little about yourself,” he said as he settled into the dinner table. The hotel’s restaurant was expensive, not one of the usual business-trip spots the Daily Planet covered. The setting was a relief after the cold formality of the jet. No secretaries hovering, no employees listening in. The lights were low, the music slow and classical, filling the space with an elegance that could have been romantic, if not for the pressing matters at hand. “I’m tired of listening to my own voice.”
Wayne looked every bit the part of the flawless billionaire as the candlelight danced across his features. Clark noted it, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it. He had a job to do.
“I suppose that depends on what you want to know,” Clark said carefully, folding his hands on the table. “My work, or the things I actually enjoy?”
Bruce gave a faint, amused smile. “Start with work.”
Clark’s eyes flicked to the menu, buying himself a fraction of time, but his mind was sharp, cataloging everything: the tilt of Bruce’s head, the subtle narrowing of his eyes, the way he gestured with ease, unconsciously commanding the room. “I’ve mostly covered criminal activity in Metropolis,” Clark said, his voice light, almost conversational. “Lois, my colleague, usually gets first pick on those stories. With Luthor out of the picture, crime’s been on the decline. So, I’ve been reassigned.” His gaze lifted, steady but mild. “To you.”
Bruce leaned back slightly, an eyebrow arched. “So I’m keeping you from all the fun. Had I known beforehand, I would’ve stepped up my game.”
“This is fun as well,” Clark replied, his smile warm, true. He glanced back down at the page and let his brow furrow theatrically. “How else would I get the chance to order… dear God, what even is a velouté of black truffle espuma?”
Bruce’s chuckle was low, deliberate. “Expensive foam, essentially. People convince themselves it’s art, so they don’t have to admit they’re paying three figures for air.”
Clark looked up, biting back a grin. “Sounds like New York in a dish.”
For the first time, Bruce let out a rich laugh, studying him with a flicker of amusement that almost passed for approval. Wayne regarded him for a long moment, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I have a feeling this is going to be a very interesting week, Mr. Kent.” Was he flirting?
“Clark, call me Clark.”
“Well, Clark,” Bruce drawled, savoring the name as though it were something rare, something to be tested on the tongue. “You’ll find Gotham men play a little differently than Metropolis criminals.”
There was no mistaking it — he was flirting.
Heat rushed to Clark’s face before he could stop it. He knew it showed. He was terrible at concealing tells like that. What was going on? What had he gotten himself into? A dozen thoughts collided in his mind at once, too many, too fast. He forced a steady breath, pulling his composure back by the thread. “Good thing I’m not here to play, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said lightly, though the smile on his lips felt more fragile than usual.
Bruce leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting against the table, the flickering candlelight painting his confident expression. “If we are spending so much time together, Bruce is better.”
Dinner with Clark Kent was unexpectedly entertaining. Bruce had discovered the man couldn’t handle flirting in the slightest. It was so obvious it was almost unfair. It made for the perfect tactic, a way to knock him off balance whenever his questions edged too close to dangerous truths. And if Bruce took a certain private satisfaction in watching Kent fluster, well, that was hardly his fault.
Bruce swirled his wine, the candlelight glinting in the glass, and let the silence hang just long enough to make Clark twitch. Then, with that deceptively casual drawl, he asked, “Tell me, Clark… are all reporters this fearless, or is it just you chasing after uncontrollable forces?”
Clark blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “Uncontrollable forces?” he echoed, as if testing the phrase.
Bruce tilted his head, studying him. “Metropolis has Superman. You’ve written about him more than once, haven’t you? I can’t imagine what it must be like, standing that close to a man who can topple buildings or save them.” He let the words hang, his tone hovering between admiration and skepticism.
Clark’s smile was polite, but there was a stiffness beneath it, the faintest tightening of his shoulders. “It’s… part of the job,” he said lightly. And then his eyes gained that slight edge Wayne was learning could be scary. “Are you worried? I mean, sure, Gotham has Batman, but coming to Metropolis must bring a whole new set of variables. Superman isn’t human.”
“Gotham eats men alive. Compared to that, an alien in a cape feels almost… straightforward.”
Clark’s fork paused midway to his plate. He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness, but Bruce caught the way his jaw flexed, the faintest sign of pressure behind the mask. “Straightforward,” Clark repeated, his voice smooth, but laced with something colder. “You make it sound like you’ve thought a lot about him.”
Bruce reclined, posture loose but deliberate, one hand draped along the back of his chair as if he owned the room. “Only as much as any man should,” he said, tone measured, yet edged. “Hand all the power in the world to a single individual, and the world’s as good as doomed.”
Clark set his fork down with careful precision, his gaze steady, unreadable. “Or saved,” he countered quietly, though the word carried weight, too heavy for the gentle lilt he gave it. For a moment, the hum of the restaurant faded. It was just the two of them, circling, testing, searching for weakness in the other’s armor. Clark’s lips curved in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe the expected outcome says more about the man making the judgment than the one carrying it through.”
Bruce let out a low chuckle, though his eyes never left Clark’s. “Maybe,” he allowed, “or maybe it says everything about what happens when gods try to play human.”
After dinner, Clark retreated straight to his room. He collapsed onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, exhaustion pressing down on him like lead. He knew he should get to the laptop immediately, capture the conversation while every detail was sharp, before the edges blurred into something softer, less precise. That was the reporter’s instinct. But instead, he let himself drift for a moment, replaying it all.
The way Bruce’s smile had curved, secretive, whenever Clark edged too close to something dangerous. Not dismissive, not warning, almost approving. Encouraging, even. And then there was the flirting. God, the flirting. It was relentless, calculated, and yet disarmingly genuine. Too much. Far too much.
Clark shut his eyes, forcing a breath past the tightness in his chest. He told himself it was just a strategy. Bruce Wayne’s way of deflection, of keeping him off balance. And yet, lying there in the half-dark, Clark couldn’t decide which unsettled him more: the lies Wayne told with ease, or the truths he might have slipped between them.
With a groan, Clark rolled onto his side, reaching reluctantly for his laptop. He had to write, to anchor the night into facts before it slipped entirely into memory. He checked his email before getting to it. Lois had sent a flood of notes, meticulous as always: everything from Bruce Wayne’s preferred linen sheets to the latest Wayne Enterprises acquisition. Metropolis again, of course. Every expansion lately seemed to lead back to his city.
Clark exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, fighting the urge to rub at his temples. He still didn’t know Wayne’s true reasoning for anchoring himself in Metropolis, but he would. He always did. What he did know was simpler, and far more dangerous: Bruce Wayne did not like Superman. That had been obvious. Strikingly obvious. Clark hadn’t even brought him up. He’d planned to, but Wayne had beaten him to it, cutting straight to the core.
The memory broke whatever spell dinner had cast. He cursed himself, silently. Stupid to hope, even for a moment, that Wayne might be different from Luthor. That there wasn’t some thread of hatred tying them together. For all Clark knew, the two men could be working in tandem, plotting beneath the surface while the world remained blind.
And still…
Bruce was something else. Magnetic in ways Clark didn’t want to name. Infuriating. Disarming. He wielded charm like a weapon, and God help him, Clark had walked straight into it. He stared at the blank document on his screen, fingers hovering over the keys. The words wouldn’t come. Not the right ones, anyway. Every draft kept drifting back to Bruce. Not Wayne Enterprises, not Gotham’s politics, not the money. Just Bruce. Clark shut the laptop with a snap and lay back down, hating the way his pulse still raced as if he were chasing the man through Gotham’s alleys rather than sitting across from him at dinner.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d dig deeper. Tomorrow, he’d get answers.