Chapter Text
The rain drummed steadily against the pavement of Gotham’s East End, turning the cracked asphalt into a mirror of city lights. Bruce Wayne sat alone at the polished mahogany bar of The Gotham Royale, a dimly lit but upscale lounge tucked away from the usual nightlife crowd. He swirled a glass of bourbon in his hand, his tuxedo immaculate despite the dreary weather outside. His sharp blue eyes moved casually over the room, scanning the patrons with the same instinctual vigilance he always carried, though he gave off the effortless charm of a man who had never had a worry in his life.
The truth, of course, was far from that.
Tonight had been another one of those tedious charity galas. Lavish, excessive, and filled with people who spent millions to be seen as generous while sipping champagne worth more than the donations they gave. Bruce had played his part—smiling, shaking hands, dodging conversations about Wayne Enterprises—and had slipped away the moment he could. He didn’t need to be there anymore; the night had served its purpose.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. Deep, steady, and confident.
“Mind if I sit?”
Bruce glanced to his right. A tall man, broad-shouldered and built like a football player, stood there holding a glass of what looked like club soda. He was dressed in a simple navy suit, his tie loosened as if he wasn’t quite comfortable in it. His dark hair had an unruly curl to it, and behind his glasses, his eyes were a striking shade of blue. Something about him seemed out of place.
Bruce had spent enough time reading people to know when someone didn’t quite belong. And this man, despite his politeness, didn’t fit here.
Bruce smirked and gestured to the empty seat. “Be my guest.”
The man sat down, setting his glass on the bar. He exhaled, glancing around before shaking his head. “Gotham’s… different than I expected.”
Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Not a fan?”
The man chuckled, though there was something thoughtful in his tone. “Not exactly. It’s just… I’ve been here before, but never quite like this. First time visiting in a while.” He extended a hand. “Clark Kent.”
Bruce shook it. A firm grip. Stronger than he expected.
“Bruce Wayne.”
Clark’s brow lifted slightly. “Wayne… as in Wayne Enterprises?”
Bruce offered a practiced smile. “That’s the one.”
“Huh.” Clark took a sip of his drink. “Guess that makes you one of Gotham’s most famous faces.”
Bruce tilted his head slightly, studying him. “And you? Let me guess, Metropolis?”
Clark blinked. “How’d you—?”
Bruce smirked. “The way you talk about Gotham. Like an outsider. You’re not a tourist, but you’re seeing it from the outside in. Not many places left that look at Gotham like that, except Metropolis.”
Clark gave a slow nod, impressed. “You’re good.”
Bruce shrugged. “I try.” He took another sip of his drink. “What brings you to Gotham, Mr. Kent?”
Clark hesitated for a beat before answering. “Work.”
“Journalist?”
Clark blinked again. “You really are good.”
Bruce chuckled. “It’s a skill. Plus, I’ve read some of your pieces. Daily Planet , right?”
Clark smiled modestly. “Yeah. Guilty as charged.”
Bruce leaned back slightly, turning his glass in his fingers. “So, what story are you after? Corrupt officials? The crime families? The so-called ‘Bat’?”
Clark’s expression didn’t change, but Bruce noticed the slight shift in his posture, the way his shoulders tensed at the last mention. Interesting.
Clark sighed. “Something like that. Gotham has a… complicated reputation.”
Bruce smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”
Clark studied him for a moment. “And you? You live here, but you don’t seem like the type who just accepts things the way they are.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
Clark gestured vaguely. “You’re sitting in a bar, alone, after attending a charity gala that, from what I’ve read, you personally fund almost every year. Most billionaires don’t bother with that unless they care. Or at least, want to look like they do.”
Bruce chuckled. “And which do you think I am?”
Clark considered for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. “Haven’t decided yet.”
Bruce stared at him. The usual social dances he played with people, the effortless charm, the smooth misdirections, weren’t working the way they usually did. Clark Kent wasn’t just polite; he was observant. Interesting.
Bruce took another sip of his drink. “Well, Mr. Kent, I guess you’ll just have to stick around Gotham long enough to figure it out.”
Clark smirked. “Maybe I will.”
The two men sat there, sharing a moment of quiet in the dim glow of the bar, two strangers with no idea just how much they would come to mean to each other—or the world.
—-——————
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, enclosing Bruce in the dim, silent space as he descended beneath Wayne Manor. The soft hum of the hidden mechanisms echoed in his ears, a familiar lull before the real work began.
He exhaled, leaning against the back of the elevator, loosening the tie around his neck as he thought about the conversation he’d just had.
Clark Kent.
He had met thousands of people over the years—socialites, politicians, criminals in business suits—but there was something different about Kent. Something Bruce couldn’t quite place.
For one, Clark was sharp. Not in the way reporters usually were, prying and fishing for angles, but in a way that felt intuitive. He observed more than he asked, and when he did speak, his words carried weight, deliberate but unassuming. The way he looked at Gotham, it wasn’t judgmental, like most outsiders. It was curious.
That alone had put Bruce on edge.
The elevator doors opened with a muted chime, revealing the Batcave in all its shadowed enormity. The towering rock walls swallowed the glow of the computer monitors, and the waterfall outside roared faintly in the distance. Alfred was waiting at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, his expression knowing.
“Back early,” he observed, his voice laced with dry amusement.
Bruce let out a breath and pulled off his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I left the gala early.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Shocking.”
Bruce ignored the jab as he made his way toward the Batcomputer. The screens blinked to life, flooding the cave with data on Gotham’s current criminal activity. He scrolled absently through the reports, but his mind wasn’t entirely on them.
Alfred, ever perceptive, caught on. “Something on your mind, sir?”
Bruce hesitated for a beat before answering. “I met a journalist tonight.”
Alfred made a noise of vague approval. “And he survived the encounter? How impressive.”
Bruce shot him a dry look before turning back to the screen. “Clark Kent. Daily Planet.”
Alfred hummed. “Ah, a Metropolis man. I imagine the brightness of his fair city made our Gotham appear rather dreary.”
“He wasn’t like that,” Bruce muttered. “Didn’t look down on it. Just… studied it. Studied me.”
Alfred tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How unsettling.”
Bruce leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “He asked questions, but not the ones I expected. He wasn’t trying to dig up dirt. It felt like he was trying to understand something.”
“Perhaps he’s just a good journalist,” Alfred offered. “Not everyone is out to expose you, Master Wayne.”
Bruce didn’t respond. That was the thing, Clark felt genuine. But that was also what bothered him. Most people wore their intentions on their sleeves, whether they realized it or not.
Bruce stood, shaking off the thought. He had work to do. Clark Kent was just another reporter passing through Gotham. Nothing more.
He moved toward the suit display, letting his focus shift to the night ahead. The Batsuit stood tall, waiting—black Kevlar, reinforced plating, the cowl resting in place above the armor like a second skin he hadn’t yet put on. As he peeled off his dress shirt and reached for the bodysuit underneath, Alfred’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Should I be concerned?”
Bruce paused. “About what?”
“You. Thinking about a journalist while getting ready for patrol.”
Bruce shot him an exasperated look. Alfred smirked, unshaken. “Forgive me, sir, but I don’t believe The Daily Planet is involved in criminal activity.”
Bruce scoffed. “He’s just… odd.”
Alfred hummed again, entirely unconvinced. “Odd indeed.”
Bruce pulled the cowl over his head, letting the familiar weight settle around him, transforming him from the man Clark Kent had met into something else entirely.
Whoever Kent was, it didn’t matter.
Bruce had work to do.
—-——————
Clark stepped into the bustling newsroom of the Daily Planet, adjusting his glasses as the city’s heartbeat filled the space around him. Phones rang, reporters shouted over each other, and the scent of coffee, both fresh and burnt, lingered in the air.
He weaved through the chaos with practiced ease, a folder tucked under his arm, before stopping at the desk of one person who could make sense of it all.
Lois Lane barely looked up from her laptop as she typed furiously. “If you’re about to tell me you wrote something before deadline, I might die of shock.”
Clark smirked and leaned against her desk. “I met Bruce Wayne last night.”
That got her attention. Lois paused mid-keystroke and finally looked at him. “Excuse me?”
Clark set the folder down and folded his arms. “Ran into him at some high-end bar after one of his charity events. Talked for a bit.”
Lois arched an eyebrow. “And you just happened to stumble into a bar with Gotham’s most infamous billionaire?”
Clark shrugged. “Didn’t plan it. He was just there.”
Lois closed her laptop, giving him her full attention now. “And?”
Clark hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he expected from Wayne—arrogance, shallowness, maybe even that practiced charm most billionaires used when they wanted something. But Wayne had been different. Reserved, but sharp. Calculating, but not in a way that felt malicious.
“He’s interesting,” Clark admitted. “Not what I expected. He plays the role of the billionaire well, but I don’t think that’s who he really is.”
Lois exhaled sharply and leaned back in her chair. “Yeah, well, don’t get too curious.”
Clark frowned. “Why?”
Lois gave him a pointed look. “Bruce Wayne is Gotham. And Gotham chews people up and spits them out.” She picked up her coffee cup and took a sip before adding, “He’s not just some rich playboy, Clark. You dig too deep into that guy, and you might not like what you find.”
Clark studied her. “You think he’s dangerous?”
Lois scoffed. “I know he’s dangerous.” She set her coffee down and crossed her arms. “No one who survives in Gotham at that level is clean. The Wayne family may have had a golden reputation once, but Bruce? There’s something off about him. I don’t know what it is, but I know better than to go poking around trying to find out.”
Clark considered her words. He trusted Lois’ instincts, she was rarely wrong about people. But something about Wayne gnawed at him.
“He just didn’t seem like the kind of guy who enjoys being who he’s supposed to be,” Clark said finally.
Lois sighed. “You want him to be complicated. But, Clark, he’s a billionaire with more money than he could ever spend. Whether he’s got skeletons in his closet or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s not our kind of people.”
Clark pushed his glasses up. “Maybe.”
Lois eyed him, then rolled her eyes. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
Clark gave a sheepish smile. “I am a journalist.”
Lois pointed a warning finger at him. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you realize you’ve stepped into something bigger than you can handle.”
Clark chuckled. If only she knew.
Her words lingered as he sat at his desk and opened his laptop.
There was something about Bruce Wayne. And for better or worse, Clark intended to find out what it was.