Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne doesn't believe in fate.
He doesn't believe in destiny, either. Nor does he believe in predestination, providence, or kismet. His future is something he'll decide for himself, not something he'll be railroaded into by some allegedly divine, entirely unverifiable higher power, and so it should go without saying that he doesn't believe in something so tiresome as soulmates. He would rather roll with happenstance, and he can count on one hand the number of times he's done that willingly.
As far as he's concerned, soulmates are a construct perpetuated by romcoms and greeting cards, lifestyle magazines, dating apps and world tour vacation packages with untenable guarantees. It's a lucrative business. Love, codified and commodified to the nth degree. "Oh, you just haven't met the one," people occasionally tell Bruce Wayne, who, when three champagnes deep, is inclined to hold forth on the ridiculousness of it all. Pretty people tell him this, desirable people. Manipulative people. People who would benefit greatly if he were to suddenly feel a connection to them that amounted to more than just a one-night stand.
But he never does. He's forty-three and graying and he never has, and that in itself is proof enough for him.
In the profoundly lonely, his attitude might come across as sour grapes, but in Bruce Wayne's case it works in his favor. People seem to find it alluring instead of something pitiable—or perhaps they see him as a challenge. Either way, it's laughably easy to work the persona when he remains steadfastly unattached and all anyone wants to do is attach themselves to him, even if it's just to prove him wrong.
All-consuming passion, the media often calls it. A cliché that comes up repeatedly in innumerable bodice-rippers and soap operas and pop ballads. It's all-consuming bullshit, Bruce thinks, clicking through his database of Superman candids that he's scraped from every corner of the internet.
*
"Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce closes his eyes briefly. He has work to do—the leech's transfer timer ticks in the forefront of his mind—but this guy's voice, strident over the banal chit-chat of Luthor's guests, keeps disrupting his focus like a stone skimming across a still pond. Bruce composes his face, turns on his heel to face him, and keeps counting down.
"Mr. Wayne," the man says again, less forthright this time, more conversational and slightly eager now that he's got Bruce's attention. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet."
Press. Of course. Terrific.
Kent holds out his hand. Bruce takes it, and his blood runs cold.
He has a moment's grace to collect himself, since Kent proceeds to stare at him slack jawed as though Bruce has just told him one of his darkest secrets unprompted. It's not uncommon that people are like this around him, and it's always insufferable.
"My foundation has already issued a statement on... books," Bruce says, and discovers that it's possible for Kent to look further confounded.
Bruce lets the corner of his mouth curl up as Kent struggles to find a suitable response, but the Wayne charm wears off soon enough, as it always does. Kent pulls his shoulders back, straightens his tie, and with preternatural aim, sets about grilling him on the Bat of Gotham.
There's no accounting for the flush of anger that his questions inspire—it's not like the Bat has ever been flavor of the month—but the heat of it doesn't manage to chase the chill from his bones. Bruce keeps his response calm but cutting, decides to channel a little of his Superman-shaped frustration into it since it's a conveniently low blow, and then extracts himself from the conversation with his teeth bared.
*
Bruce is halfway down the stairs toward the server room when someone halts him by grabbing his wrist, ruching the fabric of his suit jacket. He turns, expecting an attendant ready to herd up a wayward guest, or maybe even Luthor's viciously solicitous personal assistant, but it's only Kent again, trailing after him as though he can't get enough of Bruce's sharp tongue. He's handsome enough despite his small-town schoolteacher aesthetic, and if Bruce weren't busy, he might consider it.
But he is, so he doesn't bother suppressing his irritation. "If it's something printable you want, you had your chance and you blew it."
"That's not what I—" In contrast, Kent's tone is something barely short of pained. He tightens his hold when Bruce makes as though to leave, and quickly says, "Mr. Wayne. May I call you Bruce?"
There's a quality to his voice that makes the back of Bruce's neck prickle. He shrugs it off and tilts his head, lifting his eyebrows in question over Kent's hand around his wrist. It barely masks his displeasure at being restrained in such a fashion, but he doesn't much care.
"No," he says, and tries to move off again.
Kent still doesn't let go. He has a strong grip, and Bruce isn't certain he can break it without arousing suspicion. If he weren't busy—the thought flits across Bruce's mind like a hummingbird. He swats it flat.
"Wait." Kent maintains eye contact unflinchingly, and Bruce wonders what he wants to see in him, to make him search like that. "Okay. I'm not exactly happy about this, but I think—I mean, did you—"
Of course. Bruce sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. This again. "Look, son," he begins. It's a well-practiced, rote-worn brushoff. He can recite it in under a minute—which, coincidentally, is the amount of time left on the leech's transfer.
Kent's back straightens, and he finally drops Bruce's wrist. Before he can stop himself, Bruce files away the sense-memory of his grip. His expression is probably beyond sour.
Behind him, one of the waitstaff edges past with a lightly-accented excuse me.
"Oh," Kent says. His brow knits, but he's not looking at Bruce. The middle distance has become more appealing to him all of sudden. "Sorry, I must have—"
"Yeah."
"You're a—an attractive man," Kent says distractedly, flicking his eyes back, away, back again. "I guess that happens a lot."
"On occasion," Bruce says.
"Right. If you'd excuse my—uh, if you'll excuse me." Kent ducks his head in apology, then takes the stairs two at a time, back up into the throng of the gala. If Bruce is lucky, he's embarrassed himself enough that he won't stay at the event for much longer.
"Christ," he mutters, and goes to collect his leech.
*
Which has vanished.
And so has Kent.
*
His furious pacing around the Cave soon irritates Alfred, at work tinkering in the guts of the car. Bruce knows this because he has started increasing the distance between floor and tools whenever he puts them down.
"He must have had someone with him. A partner, down in the server room while he was running interference. Someone posing as waitstaff, perhaps. "
"Perhaps." Alfred drops his socket wrench onto the grating with a loud clang and straightens up from poring over the engine block. He knuckles the small of this back and grimaces.
"No other Daily Planet staff in attendance, or I'd have put money on Lane. Though just because she wasn't on the guest list doesn't mean—"
"—doesn't mean she wasn't there," Alfred says wearily. "As you've said. Sir, if I may be so bold."
"When are you not?"
"Maybe Mr. Kent was a patsy. Or maybe his interest in you falls within the bounds of coincidence, and your fixation is unusually myopic. Perhaps another look at that guest list may be in order."
They've long since perfected the art of discarding each other's advice without being overtly rude about it; in honor of this, Bruce taps his chin and gives the impression of thinking it over. "No," he says. "There was something about him, Alfred. I can't put my finger on it. I'm almost certain he's my man."
"You don't say," Alfred mutters under his breath, something Bruce would take more offense at if Alfred weren't also old and gray and alone. He wipes his hands off on his overalls. "Well, then. I assume your next move is to harry the poor fellow to distraction."
"Actually," Bruce says, because sometimes he likes to stake a temporary claim to the moral high ground before ceding it hard. "I'm going to apologize to him."
Behind his glasses, Alfred's eyes narrow in suspicion.
"Then I'm going to harry him."
*
It's already midday and Clark is still wrestling with a particularly tepid graf, pecking out an account of the benefit gig with one hand and nursing a coffee as though it would help with the other. So far the article is one-third eye-glazing filler, two-thirds press release churnalism. The evening wasn't without its quirks, but it's proving difficult to write around the more worrying elements of Luthor's speech when that's all there was to it. Beyond that, things had only gotten more—what was it Wayne had said? Right. Unprintable.
Now is not the time, Clark tells himself, but he feels his face warming at the memory. He loosens his tie, tips his head back against his chair, takes a deep breath and tries not to think about his hand clasped tight around Bruce Wayne's wrist.
He's not very good at it. Bruce Wayne now has a particular configuration in his recall: it's dark eyes and white teeth, the sleek line of his shoulders and an aggressive display of arms. The man is a notorious disaster—but, Clark thinks, as he scrabbles for a silver lining, at least he's easy on the eye.
Clark's cursor blinks at him reprovingly. He retaliates by rattling off a sentence so stultifying he immediately forgets what he's written.
"Fingers off the keyboard, Smallville. Oh, new aftershave? The smoky note suits you."
Clark slouches, obediently moving his hands to his lap. Behind him, Lois leans on his shoulder and starts reading off his screen out loud. She must have already turned in her piece on the Juarez factory fire if she's got time to menace him.
"Come on, Lois." Clark minimizes the window in self defense. "At least wait till I'm done before you start gutting it."
"I'm doing you a favor here. You need to take a machete to that lede before you do anything else."
"I spent half the morning on it."
"It shows. Reading it is like being stuck in an elevator with someone wearing too much cologne."
Clark sighs. If he could get migraines he'd probably be developing one about now.
"Speaking of which—no mention of Wayne? I know he was there, Twitter lit up over it. Hashtag Bruce on the loose."
"Anything I'm prepared to say about him will be cut with extreme prejudice."
Lois throws back her head and laughs. "Oh, you had an encounter, then."
"You could say that."
"And, what. You got nothing?"
He might have gotten something if he'd been asking the questions he was supposed to be asking, instead of digging for something to use in the Gotham Bat exposé Perry keeps knocking back. All he needs is one solid lead. Something more than the rumors of dubious provenance that'll condemn it to the Monday burn off.
"His foundation had already issued—" Clark is interrupted by the trill of his phone. He groans inwardly and reaches for it, only to be beaten to the punch.
"Clark Kent's desk," Lois says breezily. She shuffles around to sit on the edge of said desk, tugging the cord and twisting to avoid Clark's half-hearted attempt to grab the phone from her.
"Lo—"
Her mouth bends in an exaggerated moue, amusement breaking through. Probably a crank call; if he's lucky, someone's scried the Bat's secret identity in a Mountain Dew stain. "Oh, wow, sure. One moment, please," she says and covers the receiver with one hand. "It's for you."
Clark smiles at her and she grins back as he takes the phone. They'd had a good year. He still misses her sometimes, even if he knows they'd never shake out in the long term.
"Kent speaking."
"Mr. Kent," says a familiar voice. "Bruce Wayne."
Clark sits up in his chair. Lois pats him on the shoulder and gathers her coat and bag for lunch. She makes the universal gesture for coffee as she leaves, and Clark gives her the thumbs down. Technically, he should be bouncing off the walls by now.
"Mr. Wayne." Clark finds that his hands are shaking, as though the caffeine got to him after all. It's an exotic sensation, and entirely unwelcome. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Possibly." Wayne sounds a lot warmer than he had at the benefit; his enunciation is more manicured, Gotham scrubbed out of his accent. His phone voice, Clark assumes. "I would like to offer an apology, firstly."
"Apology accepted," Clark says reflexively.
"That wasn't actually it," Wayne says, "but I'm glad I caught you while you're feeling charitable."
Clark gets the vague impression that Wayne is making fun of him, but he can't pin down why. Maybe it's the affable tones. It may be a stark contrast to his acerbity the night before, but doesn't disguise it as completely as he thinks.
"I believe that last night I was a little drunk and a lot rude," Wayne says.
Maybe it's that Bruce Wayne, as a rule, doesn't give a damn about being rude to journalists.
"A lot drunk," Clark says, and then remembers that journalists, as a rule, shouldn't be rude to Bruce Wayne. "Only a little rude."
"Hmm. I'm not sure if that's more flattering or less, but whatever gets me off the hook." His laugh is deep and lazy and not at all chastened; it's the kind of laugh that encourages people to laugh in response and forget that what he just said wasn't all that charming.
Clark deliberately keeps any trace of amusement from his voice. "And secondly?" he prompts.
"Secondly," Wayne says, "secondly, if you're amenable, I'd be happy to sit down with you and discuss my foundation's literacy advocacy project. Something friendlier for your article than the usual boilerplate."
Said article needs a thirty on it and to be slam-dunked into the edit queue by the end of the day, but Clark could pitch a followup feature on Wayne's project in tomorrow's editorial meeting. It's an innocuous enough subject, though Perry will likely grumble about Clark's preoccupation with all things Gotham.
He wouldn't be wrong. It would also give Clark an excuse to probe Wayne for more on the Bat.
"That's very generous of you," Clark says. "What's the catch?"
Wayne laughs again—a short bark that is more genuinely amused than last time. "It's the obvious kicker. You'll have to endure an evening of my company."
Evening? Clark had assumed brunch or early afternoon. A perfunctory interview squeezed in sideways, between whatever it was that Bruce Wayne did all day. If he weren't suspicious already, he would be by now.
"How about the Blue Heron on Earl and West 3rd. Do you know it? The pescado zarandeado is superb."
Clark surreptitiously googles the restaurant. It has a dress code and no prices in evidence. "I think the Blue Heron may be too rich for my blood," he says.
"I'll pick up the tab, of course."
"Mr. Wayne." It's probably ignorance and nothing worse, but Clark is a little exasperated at having to explain this to him nonetheless. "If I'm going to write about your foundation, I can't accept your hospitality. That would be a conflict of interests."
On the other end of the line, there's a pause like a held breath, then Wayne says, "And are you conflicted about your interest, Mr. Kent?"
Clark presses his fingers to his temple; his phantom headache ratchets up a notch. "Yes," he says tightly.
Another beat of silence, and then Wayne carries on unfazed. "How about the Harlow Country—no, wait. I was blackballed. The Riverside Club?"
"Great," Clark says, then puts some effort into lying enthusiastically. "I look forward to it."
He hangs up, pencils the information into his schedule, pushes his keyboard aside, folds his arms on his desk and then carefully rests his face on them.
Lois plants a venti near his elbow. "Tell me everything."
Clark takes a long inhale, then lets out an equally long groan. "I think Bruce Wayne might be my... uh. You know," he says into his shirtsleeves.
"Oh no," Lois says. He'd said something similar to her when they first met and that had guttered out fairly quickly, so her unvarnished sarcasm is warranted in this instance. "You poor bastard. I got you a raspberry caramel macchiato."
"I love you," he says dolefully, still face-down.
"I know, sweetie." She prods him in the ribs then taps his monitor with a fingernail. "Now, buck up, drink that coffee, and get to editorializing the hell out of this thing."
*
In retrospect, he really should have gotten his personal assistant to make the arrangements.
"Jesus," Bruce mutters to his reflection in the lakehouse window.
*
Clark touches down in an abandoned lot, disguised by the shadows breeding in the lee of the adjacent tenement buildings. It's only moments ago he was gilded by the sunset over Metropolis, but here the last glimmers of dusk are being eaten by Gotham's stone edifices and its perpetual haze of exhaust. The afternoon sun rides low, its red reflections bouncing off damp concrete. It's a city that revels in the winter hours.
There's an address on a folded sheet of foolscap in a pocket of his trench coat. He has it fixed in his memory, but he reads the indentations in the paper with his fingertips once more, just to be sure. He'd heard Kahina Ziri's testimony and watched her interviews. He doesn't know if speaking with her will help either of them, but his diligence won't let him rest easy.
He finds the place easily enough, a half-dozen blocks at a brisk walk later. Ziri isn't here, and hasn't been for days according to the ligneous old man by the stairwell. He presses a two-dollar scratchcard into Clark's hand like a talisman. A familiar symbol is etched into the matte silver.
"There's a new kind of mean in him," the man says.
Even when Clark isn't chasing the Bat, he is present. It would be remiss of him to not seize on the smallest crumb of information when it's offered, but the man has nothing more to say, apocryphal or otherwise, and only encourages him to get out of the neighborhood—"He is angry, and he's hunting."
Clark may not suffer the cold, but that doesn't mean he can't feel a chill.
The warning echoes in Clark's ears as he turns into an alleyway, looking for a likely spot to take off from unobserved—there's still time for him to find a sports bar and collect some reactions for his Goliaths assignment before everyone is incoherently drunk. He glances behind him and sees nothing but slatted shadows, the coarse yellow of Gotham's streetlamps and the indifferent sweep of car headlights that don't penetrate beyond the throat of the alleyway. His feet are already lifting from the pitted asphalt as he looks ahead again.
There's somebody there, still and silent on the fire escape above him. He crashes back to earth.
Somebody, but not just anybody.
"It's you," Clark says.
The Gotham Bat descends out of the shadows and lands soft-footed, his cape flaring around him. The first thing Clark notices is that he is definitely human. The second thing is that he is massive. The Bat might be built like an ox but he moves like a gymnast, disciplined and precise as though he knows the boundaries of his body to the last millimeter.
There's something familiar about the efficiency of his gait, but Clark is too busy being crowded against the alley's grimy brickwork to dwell on it.
"Yes, it is," the Bat says in a breathy monotone. Disguised—no doubt one function of the dense layers of electronics in the Bat's cowl that are attenuating Clark's x-ray attempts something fierce—but he can almost hear the real voice obfuscated beneath its digital grind.
Clark swallows and lifts his chin—the Bat is not merely broad; he is also several inches taller than Clark, and is using all of them to loom. It's not that Clark is physically intimidated, because he could, if he needed to, extract himself from this situation safely, quickly and with ease if not without cost, but he finds his hands are shaking anyway. At least that lends him some verisimilitude while he waits to discover what the Bat wants with him. He can understand why people find him terrifying.
He leans in and curls his fingers against Clark's collar. The glove leather has been battered soft; the metal knuckles press cold against Clark's throat. Clark's mouth goes dry.
The Bat tugs out Clark's press pass by its lanyard.
"This isn't your beat, Metropolis," he says. Clark can't tell if he's uninterested or if it's just the flattening effect of the voice changer. "Why are you here."
Ah. Territoriality.
"I was following up with a source," Clark says, "but it looks like I have another story now."
"No, you don't. Who is your contact."
"That's not important."
"I will decide," the Bat says, and balls up his fist in Clark's coat, "what is important here."
"They've done nothing wrong. They don't need your attention." The last thing Clark wants here is a physical confrontation. He raises his hands, palms out, a calming gesture. It only makes the Bat seethe.
Impatience sparks in his eyes, bright against the stark black of the cowl and—is he wearing greasepaint?
Clark can definitely smell greasepaint. Also the bland carbon-fiber synthetics of the suit, and detergent, sweat, shampoo. Notes of ordinariness that belong to whoever animates this creature. Even as the Bat rolls his shoulders and lifts Clark by his coat, he's chasing that sense of familiarity again.
Then the Bat shoves him hard against the wall, pinning him on his toes, and once again Clark's attention is refocused. A seam rips somewhere. He doesn't even have to pretend that the breath's been knocked out of him; the Bat braces his knee between Clark's for leverage and it's enlightening. His heart thunders.
Some instinct makes Clark grip the Bat's wrist. The air tastes sharp on his tongue, like it's been split by lightning, like he's—like—
—oh, no.
"Who," the Bat demands from between clenched teeth.
"What are you going to do if I won't tell you?" Clark says, and if he sounds shaken, that would be appropriate. "Brand me?"
The Bat's breath hisses from between his teeth, the noise over the voice changer like a distant storm. He drops Clark just as suddenly as he'd grabbed him and takes a half-step back.
Clark takes a moment to straighten his lapels. Zini's absence concerns him, and he could kill two birds with one stone here. He can placate the Bat, and then perhaps the Bat will find her. He might scare her a bit, but Clark doesn't think he'd hurt her.
"I was looking for Kahina Zini, but she's AWOL."
"Zini." His earlier dispassion must have been affected, because disgust seeps into the Bat's voice, loud and clear. "You're just chasing your alien."
There is disappointment behind the contempt, as if he were anticipating something else. Clark frowns. "What did you think I was doing?"
"Not important," the Bat says gruffly. He turns away in a swirl of tattered cape. If nothing else, Clark admires his commitment to theatricality. "Get out. If I see you in Gotham again, you'll regret it."
Territoriality and considerable control issues then, though they mean little when held up to reality. The Bat may think that Gotham is a city-state and he its iron-fisted ruler, but Clark has as much right to be here as any of its citizens. Still, probably wise to give him a heads-up, if only to avoid a replay of this particular situation.
And he should want to avoid it, he thinks. In his current change of clothes, at least.
He wonders if the Bat has ever been held against a wall by somebody stronger than him. Clark suspects not—or not for a long time. He wonders how he might react to that.
Clark closes his eyes and takes a breath.
"You will," he calls out to him. "See me here again. I've been extended an invitation."
The Bat pauses, a density of shadow among more. Clark watches him tilt his head, maybe thinking, maybe irritated by Clark's temerity. Maybe winding up to a tinpot dictator meltdown.
"Bruce Wayne isn't willing to condemn your actions, for reasons all his own. I'm not sure he'd still cut you that slack if he heard you'd been threatening his guests."
His shoulder hitch; a deep breath or a sigh, perhaps a quiet laugh—and then he moves back into Clark's space. The fist bunched in the front of Clark's coat is gentler this time, but that's not saying much.
"Bruce Wayne thinks he owns this city." The Bat leans in, almost nose-to-nose with him. Close enough that Clark feels the air between them thrum. "He's wrong."
He snaps away, leaving Clark with the implication and an itch under his skin. There's a sharp retort and the whine of grappling wire. The Bat whips up the side of the building like a demon, and vanishes into the night like one, too.
*
Bruce swings through scarves of smog and past the frost-spalled façade of the tenements, lands on the remains of a fire escape, and from there takes to the rooftops as though he can outrun his frustration. Kent wasn't retrieving the leech from a partner, nor peddling it to an interested party. Not tonight, anyway. His only crime is sticking his nose in where it's not wanted.
He makes Bruce acutely uncomfortable. Both times they've interacted, it's felt like somebody stepping on his grave—a full-body response that makes him shiver just to think about—but no matter how unsettling it is, Bruce can't seem to leave it be. Every instinct is telling him that Kent is somebody he should pursue.
So that is what he'll do, until he can drag into the light whatever it is that's bothering him, and get his goddamn property back in the process.
"Am I to understand that you're playing both the good cop and the bad cop?" Alfred says in Bruce's earpiece.
"For a given value of good. Depends how tomorrow night goes."
And here's a new irritant: Alfred's suggestive tones. "Ah, that's right. Your dinner engagement."
"Strictly public relations."
"Practically a civic duty, sir," Alfred says lightly. "I won't wait up."
*
It only takes an hour or so for Clark to get his notes together for his meeting with Wayne, and halfway through trying to pick out the right tie, realizes that might have been the easiest part of his evening.
He's still preoccupied from his encounter with the Bat. It's a strange, off-kilter feeling. Partly because there's not much precedent for coming face-to-face with a cryptid, and partly because of the way it had energized him, like flying through an electrical storm. That skin-tingling rush of anticipation, the air crackling like a circuit waiting to be completed; it would have taken the lightest touch to spark it to life.
He's certain of it. Which should be impossible, because he's just gone through all that with Bruce Wayne—
But—
He could entertain the idea that it is possible. Damned if he knows. Maybe it's normal for Kryptonians to find two soulmates. Or, god forbid, more.
He knows now that he experiences the connection differently from most people. It's more than just a feeling, more than a click. His heightened perception and perpetual awareness of his body and its capabilities means that he saw it happen: the sudden rerouting of electrochemical pathways; how his biomagnetic field extended and aligned and attuned itself; all the minute biological reactions that aren't likely to be mined for love poems. It's not outlandish that this aspect might be different, too.
Clark groans and throws the ties onto his bed. All he knows for sure is that fate is determined to hook him up with the most inappropriate partners she can find. The only thing he and the Bat have in common is a cape. With Wayne, he has even less.
He recalls what Jor-El had told him in the brief time they'd spent together on the scout ship, that Krypton had abandoned natural birth centuries before. Clark wonders if this was why—because the bonds they formed were indiscriminate and unpredictable and cared nothing for their guilds or bloodlines or class distinctions.
He rakes both hands through his hair. One thing at a time. Make it through the evening unscathed, and deal with the rest later. Step one, make a good impression. He picks up the ties again, and despairs over ever deciphering what 'casual elegant' means.
Left to his own judgment, he's sunk. He digs his phone out from beneath the pants and shirts and jackets he's strewn on the bed, and calls Lois. When she picks up, he can hear the clatter of food being prepared.
"Hey, you. Make it quick, I only have so many hands."
"Blue tie or red?" he says.
"Neither. None."
"There's a dress code, Lo. I'm having a problem with the visual semantics. Any thoughts on the suit would also be great."
"Where are you going again?"
"The Riverside Club."
Lois whistles. "Swanky. Okay, if in doubt, go dark. But not all black, or you'll look like you got kicked out of a funeral wake. Blue tie to bring out your eyes. Good luck on your date, don't let him pressure you into putting out."
"It's not—it's really not a date. We'll be talking shop."
"Uh-huh. Well, good luck on your, I dunno, whatever-it-is that's got you all aflutter."
"Meeting," Clark says, dry. "Thanks. By the way, your pasta is about to boil over."
"God, you can actually tell I'm cooking pasta. Oh—ahhh shit, I gotta go—"
*
The restaurant is every bit as daunting as Clark had feared. At thirty-eight stories up, it's the jewel in the crown of the Riverside Hotel, offering an unimpeded view of Gotham by night—which is, on the whole, a lot prettier than it is at ground level. With the restaurant's sultry lighting and the ambient murmur of its clientele in the background, Clark can almost believe the harbor below isn't saturated with abandoned firearms, bottom-feeding corpses, and any number of chemical agents just waiting for the right catalyst.
It's probably inappropriate to wish for the evening to be derailed by the harbor catching alight, but Clark aims a silent entreaty in the direction of the neon ACE Chemicals signage nonetheless.
Wayne spares him undue stress by actually turning up on time, which is more consideration than Clark had given him credit for. He greets the maître d' warmly but doesn't seem to notice Clark's offered hand; it's a snub that's maybe inadvertent, maybe not, but definitely par for the course with him.
Their table is, of course, excellently placed.
"Gotham," Bruce says to him as they're seated. Their reflections are crisply mirrored in the dark windows, and studded with city lights. "What do you think?"
"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Wayne, I like to keep it at arm's length. But from up here? Beautiful."
Wayne seems pleasantly surprised at his response. "The night does hide a multitude of sins," he says, unfastening his jacket button as he sits.
He's as put-together as he was the night of the gala; hair coiffed, metal glinting at collar and cuffs, but despite his amiable smile there's that same tension around his eyes and in his body language. He seems—not wholly defensive this time, but wary. Considering the nature of their last encounter, it's not unexpected. Welcome, even. Clark's not certain how he would have dealt with Wayne if he'd opted for the charm offensive.
He puts that chilling thought aside and browses the menu. Wayne handles the wine presentation ritual with only a perfunctory interest, to the sommelier's eternal suffering. ("It's a seafood restaurant. How wrong can you go with a white?")
There are no prices. Clark can practically hear Perry itemizing the company expenses as he tries to divine which might be the most reasonably-priced meal. Which is none of them, his common sense insists. Wayne may have extended an olive branch but Clark's under no illusions. Wayne doesn't particularly like him, possibly wants something from him, and he brought Clark here because it's out of his comfort zone. It's only a matter of time before the other shoe drops.
How much can a wild mushroom salad cost, even with scallops? He'll be fine. Sea bass for the main course. Just fine. Wayne orders something entirely off-menu that makes the waiter suffer as gracefully as the sommelier had. Fine, it's fine.
The soft lighting does ridiculous things to Wayne's cheekbones as he smiles blandly at the waiter. God, this is really not fine.
"So, Mr. Kent," Wayne says, as the waiter plucks the menu from him and retreats. "I read your piece on the mishandling of Metropolis' tax fund allocation for recycling facilities some time back."
"You remember that?" It was one of Clark's first assignments at the Planet, and possibly a hazing ritual. "You read that? The whole thing?"
Wayne seems aware of his own reputation, and at least moderately amused by it. "Well, it wouldn't do to read just half," he says. He taps a finger against the tabletop. "I remember being impressed by the meticulousness of your research. You have an eye for detail."
Clark fervently hopes that Wayne isn't attempting to headhunt him for his audit department. "I'm impressed that you found something interesting to say about it."
"Who doesn't enjoy a rousing account of municipal fraud over breakfast?"
Again, the impression that he's gently being mocked. Sincerity is probably the best, and safest, response, so he smiles and says, "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I appreciate that."
Wayne takes that in stride, lifting his glass for a toast. His eyes flick from Clark's fingers on the stem of the glass, to his mouth, then to his eyes. "To investigative journalism."
So—it's not mockery, more like teasing. Clark isn't sure that's any better. It still makes his stomach twist like a pretzel. "And to… books," he responds.
The corner of Wayne's mouth twitches. Their wine glasses meet delicately.
Their meals arrive, and after an unnecessary performance with the napkins, Clark places his smartphone on the table between them.
"Mind if I record?" It seems inappropriate, even though it's the whole reason he's here, and Clark finds himself leaning on his Midwestern accent. Forgive the country boy, he knows not what he does. "I know it's probably bad manners, but not as much as taking notes at the dinner table would be."
Wayne looks down at the phone and his brow creases. For a split-second Clark would swear that he's forgotten they're here for business and not pleasure, but then he smiles slightly too sharp a smile. "Go ahead."
He waits while Clark sets up, then proceeds to filibuster his way through the appetizer and most of the entrée, and doesn't even sound like he's reciting a script he's been drilled on.
The questions Clark had prepared are surplus to requirements but he softballs a few anyway—the long-term plans for extending out of Gotham; the logistics of running the program in conjunction with the Friends of the Metropolis Library. Wayne hits them out of the park. He may be grubbing for publicity, but it's something he's engaged with. There is an unlikely passion beneath the hard shell of Wayne's sardonicism, something beyond the seamless bullshit he usually deals in, and Clark finds that he wants to find out what else makes him tick. If he were to reach over the table and touch the back of his hand, their connection would spring to life, and maybe—
Maybe he'd cut Clark down as ruthlessly as he had at the gala, like it's a matter of survival under threat.
"Can I ask you something?" Wayne says as the dishes are cleared, leaning forward with glass in hand. He's made motions to top up several times and is visibly relaxed, though as far as Clark can tell the level of his wine has remained largely unchanged. Clark, for his part, has nervously sipped his way through two-thirds of the bottle. He shifts under the weight of Wayne's attention, and turns it into a gentle sway forward, as though tipsy but playing it off as attentiveness.
"It's probably your turn," he says.
"The other night, at Luthor's place. When you caught me on the stairs."
Clark's hope resurges full-force. Maybe the foundation coverage was just a pretext, and for all his dismissiveness he's been thinking on their encounter after all. He attempts to fortify himself with another sip of wine.
"Did you notice anybody else?"
Wayne's voice holds polite inquiry. His gaze is level and unwavering. It feels like a test, and Clark has no reason to answer with anything but honesty.
"Only you, Bruce."
He hears Bruce's—goddamn it all. He hears Wayne's breath subtly catch, and a flicker of something passes across his face that he disguises quickly enough that Clark can't tell if he's displeased at being addressed with familiarity, at the strange intimacy of Clark's statement, or if he doesn't mind either of these things and that's actually what's pissing him off. Whichever it may be, his expression flattens into something horribly bland, and he quits with the constant eye contact to stare slightly over Clark's shoulder instead, which isn't as much of a relief as Clark thought it would be.
If it was a test, then it appears that Clark has flunked it spectacularly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne." His dismay is genuine. He probably can't smooth this over, but he can redirect. "I didn't see anybody else. Why do you ask?"
"Let's not stand on formality. Bruce is fine." Wayne's shoulders relax, and he's back to watching Clark closely. "I ask because Luthor is breathing down my neck."
"I don't follow. Why is that?"
"Somebody gained access to the LexCorp server banks and indulged in a touch of corporate espionage. Stagg's getting some heat as well, and Queen, and it's causing some intercompany tension. Wayne Enterprises would never stoop to such underhanded tactics, naturally—"
"Oh, no, of course not."
"—but that doesn't mean Lex Junior can't make a nuisance of himself over it. He is a very irritating person."
"You want to know if I saw anyone suspicious down there."
"That's right."
He casts his mind back—he'd only barely noted the glass-walled room below, since there had been only one person setting his alarm bells ringing that night.
Clark offers a stiff smile. "Only you, Bruce."
"I was looking for the bathroom," Bruce says smoothly and with no apparent chagrin. "That's the trouble with an open bar."
"No doubt." Something about the situation nags at him. Open. Clark drums the edge of the table with his fingers.
"What is it?" Bruce's voice has turned low and anticipatory.
Clark leans over and taps at his phone, terminating the recording app. Bruce's eyebrows raise fractionally.
"Why would someone concerned about corporate espionage leave their private data unmonitored, unsecured, and easily accessible, right in the middle of a public event?" Clark says.
"That's—that is a good question." But not so good that he can't be annoyed at it, for whatever reason. Bruce leans back in his chair, arms folded over the breadth of his chest. "When you put it that way."
"You think Luthor was baiting somebody?"
"Hm." Bruce's eyes have lost focus; he catches his thumbnail between his teeth in thought.
"Do you have any idea what was on the server?"
There's a beat of silence. Bruce takes his thumb from his mouth and says, "No."
"Would you tell me if you did?"
Bruce's expression doesn't budge an inch, having apparently contracted a terminal case of sangfroid.
"Is this the real reason you invited me here?"
Bruce appears to give that cursory thought. "I have a complicated relationship with the fourth estate, Mr. Kent," he says. "It isn't not why I invited you here, but I'm not uninterested in what thoughts you may or may not have on the matter."
"Well," Clark says. "I'm glad we got that cleared up."
Bruce smiles narrowly. "I'll be frank," he says. "And this is very much off the record—I want to know the nature of the stolen information, and I also want to know who took it."
And he wants Clark to help him find it. The buttering up over his investigative writing becomes all too clear. Of course, Bruce Wayne is the kind of person who would only appreciate Clark's skills for how they might benefit him. And as if thinking about pinning the Bat to a wall yesterday wasn't bad enough, Clark's traitorous imagination presents several ways that Wayne might benefit from his more unique abilities. Clark bites hard at the inside of his cheek.
"Mr. Kent, can we come to an arrangement here?"
"I'm not sure about that."
"Dessert?" Wayne suggests.
"No, thank you."
"No sweetening you up," Wayne says under his breath. Then, louder and more plainly for Clark to hear: "Then let's cut to the chase. What's your price?"
"Excuse me?"
Wayne bunches his napkin up and tosses it onto the table. For all his gregariousness this evening, he is evidently not a man who enjoys having his time wasted. "To retrieve the data and to keep my name out of the inevitable media storm. What's your price."
"Mr. Wayne—Bruce," Clark says, and makes a conscious effort to relax the clench of his jaw. "I won't be bought. If there's a story in this, I will report on the facts to the best of my—"
"All right, not money." Wayne appears unflustered at his bribery being rebuffed. He probably doesn't even see it as bribery. Clark supposes that if you're rich enough to buy anything, there are few problems that can't be solved with the right sized check. "Information, perhaps. If you want a story out of this, I can give you a story. You're interested in the Bat. I can tell you about the Bat." He pauses. "That's what you're really here for, isn't it?"
Clark lets out a slow breath, rubs at his face, and tries not to feel completely insulted that Wayne thinks he'd sell out his integrity for a fresh batch of unsubstantiated rumors. At this point, only an idiot would believe anything coming out of his mouth.
Especially now that he's got firsthand experience with the Bat himself, and a good idea of how to catch his attention again.
"No," he says. "I don't think I want to do your dirty work, Mr. Wayne."
Wayne is still for a moment, unreadable. Then, "More's the pity," he says in a way that makes Clark hot in the face, and lifts his chin at the passing waitstaff, gesturing for the bill. They both reach for it when it comes, the black leather folder caught between them over the table.
Please, Clark thinks. Please don't make a scene.
Wayne says nothing, just lifts his eyebrows and tugs gently. Clark can only be dogged about this. "Let me get it. You can settle up with the Planet's accounts department if it bothers you."
"If you aren't going to run a piece on me, then there's nothing wrong with me paying," Wayne says, and directs an uncanny valley smile at him. It probably looks just fine in pictures. "That's how it works, isn't it? So. My treat."
Clark shakes his head. "If I'm not—Mr. Wayne, your initiative is worthy of recognition. I'm not going to sideline it just because we had a clash of, of..."
"Morals," Wayne supplies, still with that awful smile. He shifts his grip on the bill folder. Their fingers brush.
A moment of unalloyed shock unfolds across Wayne's face, and Clark suddenly realizes why he didn't want to shake hands earlier. His own breath has caught hard in his throat at the contact, his skin alight with rippling shivers. The synesthesia is like silver bells in his mind.
Clark watches in fascination as their electromagnetic fields pulse and luminesce in reciprocal behavior. Wayne drops the bill folder abruptly and with a visible shudder.
He does feel it, then. He doesn't like it, but he feels it, and that's—something. Clark can't be anything but ambivalent about it.
"Fine," Wayne says placidly, and adjusts his shirt cuff. "Have it your way."
*
Clark Kent is probably the straightest journalist Bruce has ever encountered, and his idealistic deflecting would be admirable if it weren't utterly infuriating. The more Bruce pushes at him, misleads him, tempts him, the more convinced he is that Kent isn't involved in the leech's disappearance at all. This is dire on several levels.
From most to least petty: he'll have to tell Alfred that he was right.
Secondly, Kent's attraction to him must be a bona fide crush, not just employed as a decoy, though Bruce's turn as a terrible dinner companion hopefully put a damper on it. For all of Kent's fresh-faced appeal, Bruce doesn't want to encourage him, but he gets the feeling he's going to turn up like a bad penny regardless. He knows how muckrakers are. Now that Kent's caught a whiff of skulduggery, he may try to involve himself. He may snoop.
Tonight has backfired somewhat.
Most pressingly, Bruce will have to find a new lead if he ever hopes to recover the device, or he'll have to risk a second attempt at Luthor's data. He resigns himself to an evening of combing the Friends of the Metropolis Library guest list, trying to figure out who might be holding a grudge, nursing a slight, or is simply inclined to opportunism.
Kent is quiet for the lengthy elevator journey. Bruce watches his profile in the mirrored brass interior. His expression stays mild but preoccupied, and the doors opening seem to take him unawares. Gotham's standard night-time ambience hits them with a sheet of icy rain as they exit the hotel; their breath clouds in the air as they wait under the awnings for a car.
"Well, that could have gone worse," Kent says.
Probably the wine talking. Bruce glances at him sidelong. "How, exactly?"
Kent gives him look that's drier than a good martini, and Bruce is reluctantly charmed. He offsets it by counting the many reasons that inviting him home would be disastrous. The thought has darted across his mind more than once this evening, despite how wary he is about letting Kent get too close. Bruce wonders if Kent had noticed, and from that, what he'd assumed about his character.
"I don't think you need any tips." Despite everything, Kent is smiling. "I knew there'd be a catch. Just so you know, I don't think any less of you for it."
"Oh, spare me. You do. I don't care."
He's blunt but it's not without humor; Bruce refuses to believe he's left anything but a bad impression this evening. Kent really is too polite for his own good. A cab draws up while he's stammering his way through an earnest but not entirely convincing rebuttal, and Bruce opens the rear door and herds him in.
"It's almost midnight. Best get home before you turn back into a bumpkin."
"Very funny." Kent smiles as though pleasantly embarrassed, one hand curled on the frame of the car door. He looks like he's going to say something more, but his expression smooths again just before he ducks in, the reflected streetlights blanking out his glasses. "Thank you for the evening, Mr. Wayne."
The lack of a modifier is conspicuous. Good. "I hope you enjoyed the food, at least," Bruce says. "Let's do it again sometime."
The door slams on Kent's sharp laughter, and he's borne away in stop-starts into Gotham's late-evening traffic. Bruce's car turns up soon after, Alfred at the wheel with a nod and a curt greeting. Bruce slides into the rear seat, loosens his tie and slumps against the upholstery with a sigh. He idly rubs his fingertips with his thumb.
Alfred clicks his tongue and stares at him in the rear-view mirror until Bruce sighs again and belts in. "I'll need the benefit guest list," he says, as though that was his idea from the start.
*
The wet ambience of the Cave is welcome after the evening he's had. Bruce slings his suit jacket over the back of his chair and dumps his handful of cufflinks and button studs with a noise like loose change. Alfred squirrels them away before they can get lost among the workshop's miscellany, and then dutifully returns with the list.
Bruce looks through it once and then throws it to one side. He recognizes most of the names—it's a traditional mix of art patrons, socialites and politicians—and those he doesn't he runs through a cursory check. Nothing worse than a couple of parking tickets between them. Remarkably respectable, or remarkably discreet.
Bruce rubs at his eyes. "Do we have any way into Luthor's security feeds?"
"I think we still have one lone proxy that won't be nuked on sight," Alfred says, "but it won't last long once we tunnel in."
"I need as much footage from the gala as you can get. Service stairs cameras, about ten fifteen onwards."
"I'll see what I can do."
Bruce leaves Alfred to finesse his way through the security protocols. He doesn't have his head in the right place for it tonight. His patience is frayed to a thread, as though he's spent all evening on the defensive instead of methodically offending a perfectly pleasant, if stubborn, individual.
"Another one for the sin bin," Alfred mutters a little later. "I got you your footage, but I'll need a new setup next time you want to go rummaging through the competition's sock drawer."
"I'll get you something nice and Russian," Bruce says absently, already grabbing the files from Alfred's workspace.
He scrubs through the security cams until he spots himself on the stairs, Kent on his heels. It's low-res garbage and the angle is not ideal, but he can pinpoint the moment Kent grabs his wrist and he turns to face him, and—Bruce frowns. The timestamp is still ticking in the corner; it's a full six seconds before either of them say anything.
He can't quite read the expression on his own face. His body language is troubling. He is swept into Kent's orbit.
Bruce takes in a long breath and lets it out again just as slowly. The conversation looks a lot more intimate than he recalls, which is alarming in and of itself, but not quite as alarming as the woman in the crimson dress who edges past them on the stairs. He had not noticed her even peripherally. The realization that he'd been so unaware of his surroundings trickles down his spine like ice water.
Bruce switches windows and grimly tabs through his rogue's gallery of attendees, but there are any number of svelte, dark-haired women. He can't get a clear shot of her face. He replays the footage, then leans in, backs it up and plays it again. And again.
There's a particular deliberateness to the way she's kept her face turned from the camera, trying to be casual, as though something of interest has caught her attention elsewhere. She raises her hand to pat at her updo as she passes by on Kent's left. She hasn't a hair out of place, but it means her forearm would have obscured her profile should either of them have glanced her way.
He freezes the footage, takes his list of suspects and spends an excruciating hour crawling through the internet media coverage of the event, poring over photo captions and striking off everyone who wasn't wearing red. Eventually there are only two names left: the wife of the mayor of Metropolis, and Diana Prince, one-time antiquities dealer and current curator at the Louvre, Paris. She appears to have made a trans-Atlantic trip for an engagement at the Gotham Museum, but Bruce can see no purpose to her attending Luthor's benefit.
Her motive may be opaque, but Bruce knows where he'd put his money.
"Now that's some good old-fashioned detective work," Alfred says, handing him a mug of tea. "Much more wholesome than… hmm."
"Than what?" Bruce says.
"I rather thought you'd interrupt me, sir."
Bruce swings his chair around and stares down Alfred's disapproval. He has a newspaper under one arm, and Bruce sees how this is about to go. "I've spent a lifetime crossing lines, Alfred," he says. "This isn't any different. We can't pretend it's just guns and knives any more. We're talking dirty bombs. Hundreds, thousands of casualties, right here in Gotham. To endure that again so soon after—" Bruce cuts himself short. No need to tip his hand by bringing Black Zero into it. "I need this information, and I will get it by any means necessary. The gloves are off."
"And so, apparently, are all bets," Alfred says tightly. He drops the paper over Bruce's keyboard; the Bat's brand-mark glares up from the front-page photograph. "It's no remedy for the world, Master Bruce. This cruelty."
He waits, as though he expects pushback, but Bruce doesn't feel like arguing the point tonight. He sweeps the paper aside and turns back to his screens.
"Good night," Alfred says, when it becomes apparent that Bruce is going to let the tea turn stone-cold. "Sleep well, if you can."
*
The morning is damp and dark, streetlights glancing off the glass façades of central Metropolis. It's substantially early; dawn is a good hour away and the commuters have yet to snarl up the main thoroughfare.
The deserted Daily Planet bullpen is almost relaxing; a gentle lull before the inescapable storm of the newsday. Clark does a little off-the-clock research while he eats breakfast at his desk. None of the industry blogs have anything on this alleged Luthor-Stagg-Queen-Wayne tension, but that's not unexpected if things haven't escalated beyond passive-aggression.
He leaves Lois a breakfast burrito in exchange for a couple of pilfered contact numbers. It's too early in the day to expect anyone to pick up, so he finds himself browsing a chain reaction of business blogs and picking bits of scrambled egg from his tie in the meanwhile.
And, as inevitable as a midday margarita, there's Wayne. He's grip-and-grinning with a nameless associate, or at a speaking engagement, gesturing with more braggadocio than is healthy for one man. Clark takes a gradual lateral slide away from professional articles and into recent paparazzi shots, and comes to his senses while staring at Wayne at some sparkling event or other, accompanied by a disparaging caption and date whose dress well and truly fails the fingertip test.
Clark stops there to quickly take stock of his self-respect, and then closes the remaining half-dozen browser tabs. The bustle of the bullpen filters back to him. Outside, the first hint of sun is bleaching the skyline, and the traffic below honks like angry geese. He hears Lois discover her burrito.
"What did you do?" she calls over.
"Nothing."
"What are you about to do?"
"Nothing," he says again. He shoots her a reassuring smile, despite knowing perfectly well that it will not deflect her at all. "I'm just going to make some polite inquiries, nothing to worry about."
Lois plucks the post-it note from the corner of Clark's screen and frowns at the phone numbers scrawled on it. "I thought you were covering Wayne's book club," she says.
"I am. This is something else."
"Not unrelated to Wayne?"
"Not unrelated," Clark says. "Last night was interesting."
"Sounds it. This number is for Stagg's PR guy."
"It sure is."
Lois leaves abruptly, only to reappear half a minute later with her chair in tow. "Okay, what's going on," she says, scooting in close, elbow to elbow. "Are you digging for dirt or did he sweet-talk you into some busywork?"
"Nobody needs to dig to find his dirt," Clark says, gesturing. "It's all just hanging out there, like—uh, no, it's probably nothing. Just a matter of due diligence, that's all."
"Yeah, that sounds like bullshit." Lois rests her elbow on Clark's desk. "My slate's too full to shark your story, so if you want to fill me in with the details, go ahead."
"It's just some intercorporation bickering, I think. Someone jacked some of Luthor's data during the benefit. Allegedly."
"So the big boys are jockeying for wunderkind's trade secrets." Lois frowns. "And Wayne straight-up told you about this? I know he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I thought he had some sense."
"I know. He seems eager to get his hands on whatever it is, with my help."
Lois narrows her eyes. "And he thought that you, specifically, a reporter, could help him acquire sensitive information, because?"
"Because of my investigative," Clark says, then trails off, vaguely embarrassed, "skills." He knew it was flattery at the time, he just hadn't realized how effective it was. The warm glow of Bruce's approval has lingered, despite how firmly Clark had turned him and his dubiously legal proposition down.
"And because he could tell you're into him," Lois says. "You do him this favor and your reputation is in his hands. He'll have you under his thumb for good. He's exactly that kind of asshole, Clark."
"No, I don't think it's that," Clark says, which isn't exactly a refutation, but that's also not the salient point. "I mean, yeah, he's kind of mercenary, but everyone knows he's got issues a mile wide with the whole—"
Wait. Wayne had been incredibly unhappy with him at the benefit. He'd practically snarled when Clark had tried to push for an acknowledgement. Why the abrupt cease in hostilities for the sake of Clark's expertise when it comes with that kind of baggage—and when he has enough money to hire every private investigator in the tri-state area?
"What?"
Son of a gun. Wayne thinks he took the data.
"I, uh. Could you give me a minute? I'd like to make these calls," Clark says. "I'm not helping him out, I promise."
"O-kay, it's your funeral," Lois says, sing-song. She raises a skeptical eyebrow as she wheels back to her desk. "This burrito better be worth it."
"It's from the best place in Albuquerque. Trust me, there's not much that isn't worth it." Clark lifts his phone from its cradle, and hears the crinkle of tinfoil over the dial tone, and the squeak of the mail trolley's wheels. Jenny's making her rounds; she drops the morning's deliveries on his desk with a smile.
He spreads it out one-handed as he sits in Stagg Enterprises' hold queue, Opus Number 1 piping into his ear. One of the envelopes is thicker than the others. He wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear and tears it open.
A fat square of newspaper falls out. Clark unfolds it to find the front page of the Gotham Free Press and some polaroids.
Slowly, he hangs up. BAT BRAND OF JUSTICE? the headline says, unmistakably a condemnation, despite the question mark. He slides the photographs out of their makeshift parcel.
There's a half-dozen of them, and they're of a dead body. Clark recognizes the man immediately. Cesar Santos, the sex trafficker they found cuffed to a radiator in a dilapidated Gotham flophouse, branded like so much cattle. It would be fitting if it weren't reprehensible.
He knew, of course—the Bat's idea of justice suffers from a moral disengagement. It's wholly retributive, not restorative. It's still a deep shock to see the result of his actions; to come face-to-face with the tangible repercussions of a man who most people barely believe exists.
"Jesus," Clark says under his breath. His breakfast churns in his stomach. The Bat's symbol is livid against the death-pallor of the man's skin. JUDGE, is scrawled under the photograph in angry red pen. JURY, the next. EXECUTIONER. And then, driving the very sharp point home with very blunt force: JUSTICE?
*
There's something comforting about the ambient glow of the street below and the moon diffusing through the evening clouds. Clark leaves his apartment in darkness, save for the small lamp on his nightstand. It might be late, but when he closes his eyes and focuses, he can hear his mom moving around in the farmhouse still, the low babble of the radio, the mellow clink of a spoon in a mug.
He can stave off the desolation of his mood for a while, but he can't outrun it forever.
He pushes a window open and leaps into the sky. A minute and change later, he lands with a crunch in a shorn wheatfield. He frowns at the texture of it, and wiggles his toes. Forgot to put some shoes back on. The earth is cold under his feet, brittle with frost. Above him, the illimitable sky is pinpricked with stars.
There's still a welcoming glow at the open kitchen window of the farmhouse. He drifts over and folds his arms on the sill. "Hey, Ma," he says.
His mom is at the table, nursing a hot mug of cocoa. The soft warmth of the kitchen and the smell of the chocolate hits him with a wallop of nostalgia, and he takes a deep, painful breath. It's quintessentially home, more than Metropolis is managing to be.
"Clark!" she says with a smile fit to brighten the night sky, and gets up in a hurry to open the back door. She looks from his bare face to his stocking feet and back, then immediately pulls him into a tight hug. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Clark says into her hair. She'd have been watching the news, of course. Everyone's been watching the news, but he thinks she'll let him lie about this. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."
She pushes him out to arm's length, her hands on his shoulders, and gives him the look. Okay, maybe not. "Now, I know you didn't come all the way out here because you heard me making cocoa."
"That is exactly why I came," Clark says with a weak grin. She goes to set the kettle back on the stove and fetch him a mug from the rack. "I also know whenever you're baking brownies. I only have so much willpower."
Mom is having none of it. "Take a load off," she says. "Let's talk about it."
She hands him the mug as he sits. There are tiny marshmallows melting in the cocoa, so he must have been even worse at hiding his upset than he thought. Mom settles herself next to him, her hair loose and gray; the kitchen's gentle shadows pick out the fine creases around her eyes and mouth. They get a little deeper every year, Clark thinks, and is gripped with sudden panic over her fragility. Sometimes he—he doesn't forget, exactly, he just doesn't think about it, except when he's stressed out or anxious. That she won't be around forever.
He takes a sip of his cocoa, then another deep breath that sounds more like a sigh. It helps nobody when he gets like this.
"Oh, sweetheart," she says, and covers one of his hands where he's wrapped it around the mug.
He manages a smile, for her. "Sorry. I—yeah, I don't want to talk about it. Not right now. But I was wondering. Can I ask you something about you and Pa?"
"Well, of course," she says, so kindly that Clark can barely stand it.
"When you first met," Clark says slowly, feeling out the depth of his uncertainty and wondering if there's any answer that might shallow the gradient. "Did you know?"
"Me and your Pa, we fell in love in a very ordinary way," she says, after a little thought. "No love at first sight, no fireworks or sparks, not like they say. Maybe we were fated to be, but I don't know about that one way or the other. We had to work at it. Is that what's keeping you in the doldrums?"
Clark shrugs. "Apart from the obvious, I guess."
"You miss Lois?" she says, and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.
"Yeah, sometimes. But that's not it." He fishes out a half-melted marshmallow and lets it dissolve to nothing on his tongue before he continues. "I met someone. But it's complicated."
"Well, you already have a lot on your plate," she says. "And love ain't ever straightforward, Clark. No matter how hard people try to make it look that way."
"It's not love," Clark says, and surprises himself with how bitter he sounds.
Mom gives him a sympathetic look. "But you hope it could be?"
"I don't know. He's kind of an ass."
"He?" she says, and catches his cheek in her cupped palm, turning his face so he's looking at her. "Oh, Clark, is that what you're worried about? You know that don't matter to me one jot."
"No, I know," Clark says, smiling at her. He can feel his ears turning red regardless. "I know. Turns out that's the least confusing part of this whole thing, if I'm honest."
"How about I make us another cup of chocolate, and you tell me the rest."
"God, where to start," Clark says, as Mom busies herself with the kettle again. "He's—well, he famously doesn't believe in soulmates, for a start."
"Famously?"
"He's a public figure, I guess you could say. We met at a benefit I was covering and ended up going to dinner. He was kind of awful, though I think he was deliberately trying to put me off, you know?"
Mom looks over at him through the steam drifting from the kettle. "Did he manage?"
Wayne might present himself as unscrupulous, blasé, and a little bit vulgar, but he's not as transparent as he seems—and much smarter than he'd have people believe. Not irrelevantly, Clark is also under the impression that Wayne would like to take him apart with his teeth.
He rubs at his face, his mouth. "Not entirely," he says.
"Well, he can't be that much of an ass, because it sounds as though you like him enough to worry about it," she says.
"Maybe," Clark says. "Or maybe it's just that he's not as impossible as the other guy."
There's the clatter of a teaspoon dropped in the sink. "Other guy?"
Clark tries to grin at her shock, but it feels more like a grimace. Judging from her concerned expression, it looks like one too. "I got the same—" he gestures with both hands: fireworks, sparks, "—same vibe from the Bat."
"The Bat?"
"Of Gotham."
"The Bat of Gotham?" At least she doesn't look worried any more. She's laughing a little. "A boogeyman, Clark?"
"He's a person, Ma. In a rubber suit." And a criminally angry violence specialist, no matter how easy he is to ridicule.
"Well, I don't think you're in any position to be casting aspersions," she says as she hands him a fresh mug.
Clark snorts, accepting the jab in the spirit it's intended. "Anyway," he says, "Other than, you know. That's what's going on with me. It's a whole heap of stress just trying to figure out how to feel about it."
"My sweet baby boy. You always were a romantic," she says, and brushes the hair from his forehead. "Remember, it only has to mean as much or as little as you want. Don't be so dead set on putting yourself through heartache when you know you don't have to."
Clark sighs. "I think it works a little differently for me," he says. "I don't know, Ma—"
A timezone over he hears the squeal of tires and the harsh crunch of gravel, and a high-performance engine revving hard. There's a frantic shout in the bleakness of a Gotham night.
"—well, I gotta fly." He spins her up from the table and kisses her cheek, and her hand when she clasps his face. "Love you, okay."
**