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It had started as a fairly standard interview, but Clark knows a lot of the recording will need to be deleted for the sake of his dignity…if Lois gets even a whiff of what happened she'll never let him hear the end of it.
Cat was busy with a bigger piece, but Clark was happy to take the interview with Bruce Wayne, or he was until he heard the warnings Lois had for him…he worried he wouldn't get anything useful out of questioning the ditzy flirt Bruce is often purported to be. The last thing he wanted was to end up writing another Bruce Wayne puff piece.
His easy smirk and sharp gaze trailing along the seams of his poorly fitted suit made it difficult for Clark to stay focused on the interview. He wasn't sure if he was judging the tailoring or his physique underneath, but he was leaning towards it being a mixture of both.
But none of that was enough to explain to Jimmy why he was shakily attempting to tie his nicest tie, while watching the window for a car that he was sure would be worth more than several years of his salary at the Planet.
"So, let me see if I understand—the last interview you had with him went so poorly, because you were flustered with his flirting, that he asked you to dinner to…give you another interview..?" Jimmy raises an eyebrow, incredulous.
"I didn't say anything about him flirting." Clark glares at Jimmy as he tightens the slightly crooked knot of his tie. "I just didn't get anything usable last time, it was a lot of small talk."
"You didn't need to say anything, Bruce Wayne has a reputation and I have common sense, Clark. Plus, you could write about the socks he wears and people would pick it up—probably faster than another lead pipe story."
"Sure they'll read it, I'd like them to get something out of it, too." Clark huffs, turning to the window as he thinks of all the reasons he could give that this really is just another interview, one that he's lucky to get with how reclusive Mr. Wayne can be at times, despite his reputation the man has a knack for disappearing when a reporter enters the room. Luckily, he doesn't have to actually try to employ and of these arguments, as he spots a sleek black vehicle parked by the front of his building—with the cost of rent in the area, he knew it could only belong to Bruce Wayne. "I have to go." Clark tucks a recorder into his jacket and says a quick prayer that he won't manage to make a fool of himself once more, before beginning his jog downstairs to meet Mr. Wayne.
Bruce shifts the car into park, pausing for a moment to look up at the building he parked in front of. It's nauseatingly tall, sleek, and more reflective than he thinks anything really should be in the city of sunshine.
He can't help but smiling to himself as he begins up the stairs of the apartment building—Clark Kent did everything to make himself smaller, making him seem out of place in the vast and intimidating city of progress, but now Bruce saw what drew him here. He wears dark lenses, because he's not sure that Metropolis has cloudy days, and if he were a more poetic man he might say that Gotham must've managed to anger Apollo, somehow.
Bruce doesn't manage to make it beyond the second floor before nearly colliding with Clark—he seems a bit frantic as he tries to steady himself, and Bruce sets a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to aid him in this goal.
"I was going to walk you to the car…" He smiles, gently smoothing the fabric of Clark's jacket—it's nicer than the one he wore during their interview, but still frugal. Bruce wonders if Clark would ever let him put him into something nicer…
"Ope, sorry. I didn't run into you too hard, did I?" Clark tries to brush off the front of Bruce's jacket softly, as if he can make up for the previous force with gentleness.
"Really, it's fine Clark." Bruce nods towards the stairs he just ascended, "Come on, I parked right out front."
Clark follows behind somewhat sheepishly, though his civilian persona slouches enough that it can't be terribly noticeable—or at least it wouldn't be if his cheeks hadn't flushed a bright red. He slips into the passenger seat and watches as Bruce almost effortlessly navigates out of the parking spot and merges with traffic.
"You probably need a car with how far out the manor is, hm?" Clark says, recalling how long it had taken him to walk up the long path from the road to the front door.
"It definitely helps…really I need a car to cart around my kids."
"I left my truck with my Ma…I don't really need one out there. It does seem like a car would help with kids. People must've been surprised when you adopted your first—Dick, right?"
"They definitely were. A lot of rumors about having an illegitimate child. I rarely get along with reporters this well." He winks at Clark and watches him try to stutter out another question before ultimately giving up. Maybe he should take it easy on the clumsy reporter…he doesn't seem used to being flirted with so blatantly.
Clark clears his throat, "I do remember seeing those headlines. I'm sorry about my colleagues." He can't help the blush that forms as he remembers the research he did into Bruce Wayne the night before…
"Don't be. You'll just have to make up for them." He laughs.
"I promise you, Mr. Wayne, my piece will be far from the fluff pieces others have done on you. I was actually hoping to discuss the medical advancements that Wayne Enterprises has been working on. From what I've heard, it's quite impressive." Clark says, slipping into a slightly more confident persona—it's not at the level of Superman, but Clark Kent Reporter is a role in and of itself.
Bruce raises an eyebrow at this, "Call me Bruce. I was actually hoping there wouldn't be any shop talk tonight."
"Well Mr- Bruce, I think I might be a bit lost on why we're meeting then."
Bruce looks at Clark for the first time since he began driving, just for a second before looking back to the road. He pulls into the first empty stretch of road that he spots before turning to Clark again, "You thought I offered to bring you to my favorite restaurant in Gotham for an interview?" He tries to suppress the smirk that pulls at the corners of his mouth.
"…yes..?" he says, the bravado of Clark Kent Reporter quickly fading as uncertainty creeps into his voice.
"I was actually hoping this might be a date, Clark."
His eyes widen slightly but he tries to brush off the shock quickly—as if everyone else didn't warn him he was about to go on a date with Gotham's most eligible…
"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Mr. Wayne-" Clark says, adjusting his glasses.
"Bruce."
"It's not a good idea, Bruce. I was assigned to write an article on you, my journalistic integrity would quickly come into question."
"So you thought this was an interview?"
"I didn't get everything I was hoping to last time. No one needs another fluff piece on Bruce Wayne."
"Not a fan?"
Clark shakes his head, "I don't want to write the same article that's been written over and over again—I get the sense there's a lot more interesting things to know about you."
There's a familiar intensity in Clark's eyes when he talks about journalism, something Bruce is almost ashamed to have missed in their first meeting. He knew there was something interesting about him.
"I'd like to think so."
Clark looks surprised but quickly composes himself, managing to nod in response to the comment.
"I still have reservations, if you don't mind unconventional we can do this there."
"I'd be happy to do the interview wherever." Clark smiles as Bruce eases the car back onto the road to continue the drive to Metropolis' sister city.
The restaurant is far fancier than Clark is comfortable with. He should've known he was underdressed when he saw the three piece suit Bruce was wearing, but at least he tried to look nice. Bruce was dressed remarkably well when he interviewed him at the manor too, though; he had half expected that was an odd quirk of his rather than something actually indicative of the venue…
Either way, he wasn't escorted out when he walked into the restaurant, so that had to be a good sign (even if it was just because Bruce had looped his arm through his and made it clear that Clark was his guest).
He feels silly for dismissing Jimmy's suggestion that he might be going on a date with Bruce earlier. He fusses with the soft red cloth napkin on his lap, avoiding eye contact.
"You said this was your favorite restaurant?"
"It's my favorite in Gotham." He nods, "The menu is limited, so each dish is practiced and perfected."
Clark sets his recorder on the table between them, nearly missing the way Bruce's eyes flicker over to the device before back to make eye contact.
"Do you think this reflects your own beliefs on running a business?"
"I think that running a restaurant and a corporation have some considerable differences."
"Such as?"
"Scale for one thing. Wayne Enterprises has a focus on technology and medical applications, but when branching out we're able to bring on experts who can guide projects that would usually be outside of our ability."
"How do you maintain oversight over these experts if they're working in a sector your company doesn't have prior experience with?"
"We hire outside contractors and make sure that safety checks are done regularly. And of course, regulatory bodies in charge of human experimentation are involved before any human testing begins." Bruce says, picking up the wine menu in the middle of the sentence and beginning to peruse it as he speaks, "Do you drink wine?"
"Oh, um. Occasionally." Clark says, pulling out his notepad.
"I'll get us a bottle of red, it's one of my favorites. In case you wanted to include that in your article." He says without a hint of the over the top flirtatiousness that Clark had come to expect from Bruce—even that wasn't as extreme as he had been expecting with all the stories he heard of "Brucie Wayne". It's surprisingly dry for a man that's often made out to be a ditz at the best of times.
He laughs before he's able to catch himself, "I'll be sure to make a note of it for the article."
Bruce orders a bottle of well aged red from Spain and shrugs off his blazer once the waiter walks off.
Clark picks up the thin menu, looking for something to look at rather than gaping at the man in front of him. The menu is limited, and there are no prices. Each item has a lengthy description with allergens, ingredients, and even a taste profile. The assumption that a guest wouldn't be worried about the price when ordering only makes Clark feel more justified in the way his heart races when he thinks about how he's going to pay for all of this.
Bruce glances up and catches the way his bright blue eyes flicker across the page, almost inhumanly fast.
"The owner is a family friend," He gently pulls the menu down from Clark's face as he notices the way he's begun to shrink into it, "…so he's quite accommodating. I find it's much less stressful to pay before the meal, so neither my guest or I has their focus taken away by money." He smiles softly. Frustration claws at him, he should've expected this. It's rare he approaches someone, attempts the delicate dance of flirting, the strategic imposition of making yourself a part of someone's life. He's manages to develop the skill to get through galas and board meetings, but most of his romantic history was either part of a ruse on his part, or fell into his lap.
Despite his reputation as a womanizer, he was much more comfortable being pursued than he ever would be pursuing. He's not used to this level of hesitance—he's usually the one that needs to be coaxed into romance like a feral cat learning to accept affection, and while he doesn't exactly prefer it that way, it's at least familiar.
"Oh. Thank you." He smiles softly, relaxing slightly. "You said the owner is a family friend?"
Bruce nods, swallowing a small sip of his wine, looking pointedly at the smaller glass he poured for Clark. He said he didn't drink much, maybe he should've taken that as a polite refusal. "I've invested in his restaurant in the past. He insisted I meet his family. His name is Franklin." He sets his glass down, nearly missing the subtle shift in Clark's demeanor.
"I'm surprised you'd take the risk—you have a reputation as quite a shrewd businessman, and restaurants are rather unstable businesses."
"I have a reputation as a shrewd businessman? This is the first I'm hearing of it."
"Well…" Bruce couldn't suppress the smile as he caught the excitement in Clark's eyes, "Your business associates are known to have good business sense. Nothing I've read has given you much credit for Wayne Enterprises outside of the name. It wouldn't be the first time you were accused of being frivolous with money—that's what a lesser reporter would think." blue eyes lock onto Bruce with an intensity that makes a chill go down his spine.
"I assume that means you think differently?"
"I think, you give a lot of money to charity, including the Justice League. It's not the best business decision, no. You don't need to give that much to get enough of a tax break to make it worth the money, and all the smart launderers donate art and artifacts—it's easy to find an appraiser that will bump up the value for your tax forms, or rather they make it seem easy with how often it's happening without even trying to hide the practice. But you give money, and a lot of it. And you invest in restaurants." He smiles softly, "I think you're more sentimental than you'd like people to know. You're a plenty shrewd businessman, but sometimes other things are more important than money…" He trails off, voice raising at the end of his sentence and Bruce realizes, it's a question.
"I have more than I need to begin with."
"Definitely." Clark smirks, leading Bruce to roll his eyes.
Bruce closes the heavy wooden door to the manor behind himself with a sigh.
"How was the date, Master Wayne?" Alfred asks as he takes Bruce's jacket from him.
"It was an interview, actually."
"Oh dear."
"It was more interesting than most of my dates have been lately." He shrugs—considering his evening plans often end with broken bones (half of which are his own), maybe that isn't the best sign.
"Somehow this does not surprise me." Alfred mutters, earning him a half hearted glare from Bruce as he walks past the staircase and further into the manor.
Alfred trails behind him, recognizing the uniform steps towards the Batcave. "Not taking the night off?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Not for an interview."
"You would take a night off for a date? Well this is news to me Master Wayne. Should I let Selina know?"
Bruce stays silent at that—Alfred is right, even if it's for the wrong reasons. It's selfish to bring people into the orbit of Batman, but he can't take a night off from that—dating is easy to give up though.
He notices the quiet sounds of footsteps behind him stops, as Alfred allows him to slip into the Batcave unhindered.
Batman shouldn't go into the field distracted—you'd think that enough times being dragged out of the field by a swearing robin would dissuade him from thinking about anything but the mission, but something about the reporter wouldn't let his brain drop the subject. It nagged at him even now, thick blood oozing over his fingers as he attempted to stem the bleeding.
"Shit." Jason circles him, trying to assess the situation and how he could possibly maneuver over two hundred pounds of bat—that's before the suit, and Jason is really hoping Kevlar is light (even if he knows deep down it very much isn't). "Okay, um…" Jason approaches, gingerly trying to find purchase somewhere on the suit that won't aggravate his injuries.
"Just drag me to the bike. Don't worry about being gentle." He growls, "We can worry about the gunshot wound in the cave."
Jason manages to get Bruce into the passenger seat with some struggling, and makes sure to get Bruce back to the cave as quickly as possible—even if he had to disobey some traffic laws. He won't pretend like that part of the whole ordeal wasn't at least a little bit fun.
He sits on a hard plastic chair he dragged over to the operating table, keeping a slight distance as he watches Alfred work. Bruce has his cowl off, armor peeled off of him quickly to assess the damage. He and Alfred exchange words in hushed tones, both too stubborn to allow the delicate procedure between them to interrupt them.
"You were distracted."
Bruce grits his teeth, "I was. I won't be next time."
"You have remarkable willpower, but you are still human Master Bruce." He glances down to the partially sutured wound.
"I know you disapprove." His jaw muscle tightens, "But I can't stop being him, so next time I won't let myself be distracted."
"I'm not suggesting you retire," He glances back up at Bruce, who in turn stares at nimble fingers threading together flesh—Jason almost laughs at that, of course Bruce would rather stare at his own gunshot wound than risk any more emotional vulnerability, "…I am not particularly…enthused about it, but there's no convincing you otherwise. I've acquiesced to that, but I have to insist you at least try not to get too injured." He cuts the thread on the final suture and rolls his stool back to allow Bruce space while he begins to clean up.
Bruce pushes himself up from the table to stand, but doesn't leave. He crosses his arms and waits for Alfred to continue.
"Perhaps if you solved whatever problem you were distracted by, it might take less head space." He smiles as Bruce begins to ponder it, packing up his tools. "Maybe try talking to him."
Jason does laugh this time, watching the way Bruce opens his mouth to speak—probably to deny the existence of any problem—before snapping his mouth shut as Alfred succinctly gets to the heart of his issue.
Bruce sighs, "Go change, Jay. You're covered in blood."
He looks down at his uniform, suddenly aware how the blood on his chest dried into a sticky mess. He frowns but nods, peeling off his uniform quickly—now that he's aware of the sensation, he can't stand it a second longer.
Bruce is left to think about how he's supposed to fix something like this.
Unfortunately Alfred is right, as he has a tendency to be in these matters. He can't stop being Batman, but he can't be distracted like that again. This time he got hurt, but it easily could have been Jason, or a civilian. He'd sacrificed every other aspect of his life to be Batman, every choice he made as Bruce Wayne was in service of Batman's cause—was he really going to draw the line at his pride?
He had to indulge his feelings, it wasn't selfish but itself in service of the mission.
Clark had no idea where to begin, let alone where he'd take the article, and god forbid anyone ask him how he'll be finishing it…
He had been expecting the flirting, that was the only thing that had happened that he'd been prepared for, and it still managed to fluster him. The billionaire was, well first of all, he was a billionaire. This fact did very little to improve Clark's view of the man, especially when finding article after article about the exploits of Brucie Wayne.
As soon as Perry assigned him the article Clark began his research—an interview should never be your first source of information, you should always go in with some sort of plan. There was no shortage of information online, and much to Clark's delight, there was a lot outside of what official news sources were writing about him. There was an endless supply of grainy cellphone videos, with shaking hands and snickering cameramen. Photos taken whenever they could be, wherever they could, the worse they made Bruce look the better. Clark might have felt worse if the man wasn't so shameless about it, dancing half naked in clubs illuminated by camera flashes, stumbling out of hotel rooms in half ruined suits, drunk on alcohol most people couldn't afford to get a buzz from.
There was something about Bruce Wayne that was intriguing to him, even before they first met—he didn't take it out of some journalistic pride, not entirely. No, there was something calculating behind those cool blue eyes, a familiar intellect. His gaze lingered on things just a beat too long to be a casual glance, as if he was constantly constructing some grand plan, always several steps ahead. Nothing he did seemed truly impulsive, no matter how good an actor he may be.
Lois told him the amount of footage he watched leading up to their interview was creepy, stalkerish even, but left him to it. The obsessive spark in Clark's eyes is one she's seen enough times in the mirror, that force that pushes you to dig and dig—she knew there was no pulling him out of it. Even if he came away with bloody paws, this dog was getting his bone.
She warned him early on that she wouldn't be "sucked into the orbit of Bruce Wayne's massive ego", but the night before his interview, she sat with him on the floor of his apartment with newspaper clippings and financial records scattered everywhere. Lois didn't bother asking where Clark managed to dig some of this up, but joined him in pouring over the documents for any clues to who Bruce Wayne really was, behind the Prada shades and flirtatious tone.
"So Cat interviews him that night, and he states on the record that he doesn't remember which charity the gala is for, right?" Clark frowned as he pinned the clipping to the board they started sometime around one am…it began to look like the ramblings of a conspiracy theorist pretty quickly. "The money was going to the Gotham Orphanage. Fine, but if we look at the financial records for that same month, this is the date immediately after the Gala. A large wire transfer is made to the fund that day."
Lois nods, "Bruce Wayne could just be the face…maybe he goes to the galas, makes his appearance as the Wayne heir, and someone else makes the transfers..." She pauses and looks to Clark as he picks up her thought and continues.
"But if we actually look at individual contributions, not company ones…Bruce Wayne gives to the same charities from his own checkbook. Lucius Fox just doesn't."
"So he does care about something outside of chasing tail." Lois smirks as she scans through a loose document, "He has adopted two kids…but I'd be a bad journalist if I didn't at least question the resemblance."
"Do you think..?"
"I haven't decided what I think yet…but I agree with your instincts here. Bruce Wayne is hiding something, something big. It has to be, if playing a bumbling idiot is preferable to it getting out."
"Maybe not just preferable…maybe it's an alibi." Whoever he was outside of his public persona had to be the opposite of Brucie Wayne—competent, serious, and smart. Clark knew better than anyone how an act like that would work. "I think he's smarter than he's letting on."
"No shit. And you're going to find out why, Kent." She stands, poking Clark in the chest with a rolled up magazine—one with a half nude Bruce Wayne sprawled across the cover, "Tomorrow, though. I'm going home, it's almost three in the fucking morning."
"Thank you, Lois. I felt like I was going a little crazy here by myself." Clark smiles sheepishly.
"Yeah, yeah Smallville. Don't worry about it, we'll be on my apartment floor doing the same thing next week I'm sure." She gives a lazy wave as she leaves his apartment.
He manages to finish the article just before the deadline.
This is usually the part where he feels a sense of relief and accomplishment. Once he's written the article, that's where Clark Kent's job ends. The situation is out of his hands once he's done his investigation and revealed the facts…
But he didn't reveal the facts. He didn't finish his investigation. It didn't feel right to throw together an article with incomplete facts, but more than that it felt like a betrayal to peel behind the persona and reveal the man beneath. Not when it felt so curated, so careful, not when Clark hasn't figured out why.
He almost suspects it's ma when his phone rings, though usually it takes her longer to finish his articles, and this one just went up. She never called his work phone either.
"Clark Kent at the Daily Planet, how can I help you?" He grabs his notepad, hoping it might be a useful tip, but dreading another angry call about one of his articles…he didn't realize people other than himself got so heated about lead until a few of those calls…
"You made such a fuss about not writing a fluff piece, I'm almost disappointed it wasn't an exposé, Mr. Kent." Bruce Wayne answers in a low voice that makes Clark sit up straight in his seat.
"Mr. Wayne! It's…it's good to hear from you again." He runs a hand through his hair, "I would hardly call an article focused on your company's charitable donations a fluff piece…I didn't find anything that warranted an exposé, really."
"Regardless, I wanted to call to thank you."
"For?" Clark asks, but he has a strong suspicion it has to do with whatever secret is big enough that it requires Brucie Wayne to be its keeper.
The quiet laugh on the other line confirms Clark's suspicions, "Discretion."
"It wasn't a problem, really…"
"I've been speaking to reporters since I was eight years old, Clark. I do think I know when one has done me a favor. I appreciate you…following the narrative that's been set. Let me take you out to dinner sometime properly as a thank you. Conflict of interest shouldn't be an issue now, right?"
Clark blushes—he wasn't totally convinced Bruce's interest wasn't more in the article than it was in Clark, but he hadn't dropped it after the article. "It shouldn't be, anymore. No…"
"You'll have to show me your favorite restaurant in Metropolis, I'll be in town for the next week and could certainly use some recommendations."
"I don't think we go to the same restaurants." Clark's head spins—did Bruce really sit down to read his article almost as soon as it was published? Surely he has people for that…but it sounds like he really read it.
"Then how else will I find your favorite restaurant without you showing me?"
He can practically hear the smirk forming—he's not completely sure he can't—and yet the prospect is tempting. Even if Bruce will be smug about it…at least maybe then he can finally figure the man out.
"I guess you wouldn't…I should repay the favor from last time, shouldn't I?" He's glad this is over the phone, that Bruce can't see how much the simple invitation has flustered him, even as he tries to convince himself his only interest is journalistic…
Sure, Lois won't ever let him live this down, but he'll just add that to the long list of things she won't ever let him forget.
"There's a good Thai place near me that we can go." Clark says, not missing the soft sound of a relieved breath on the other line.
"Monday night?"
"That works."
"I'll send a car."
Clark blinks as he hears the harsh beep indicating that Bruce just hung up on him. At least he knows what he agreed to this time.
Clark manages to keep his mind off of the whole mess during the mission—it's all he's been able to think about lately, trying to de-tangle the mystery of why Bruce Wayne could possibly be so interested in him. He can't lose focus when the stakes are this high though…and as much as he feels guilt for it, this catastrophe made for a good distraction.
He's sure he isn't the first man to fixate on Bruce like this, and he's not sure he can say his motivations are any more noble.
Clark feels Batman's calculating gaze on him, a familiar sensation of undressing—there's something inherently invasive about the gaze of a man with intelligence like his. Even if he hadn't read his file (memorized it, really), Clark knew Batman was a genius the first time he looked at him.
"Not happy with the outcome..?" Batman asks in a low voice, and Clark can't help but savor the soft rumble in his chest that the comms don't quite pick up…
"No…the mission worked out. Maybe we could've done things differently, but next time…" Superman trails off, scanning the horizon for nothing in particular. "It's just my personal life…I've been trying to ignore it all night, but now that it's…" Clark frowns softly. The chaos and gunfire of the fight had long since died down, leaving behind only an unsettling silence in its place.
"Now that it's over, there's nothing distracting from it?" Batman says besides him, looking back out to the horizon, as if he might see what draws Kal's eye.
Clark chuckles, "Pretty much exactly, B."
Batman lets the silence settle back into place, allowing his eyes to drift back to Kal. Something finally clicks as the symbol of hope relaxes with a tired sigh, letting his smile fall and his shoulders droop—the same way Clark shrunk, dropping the determined expression when something caught him off guard and he dropped his "reporter cap".
"Clark..?" He asks, his voice soft not out of his own reservations, but in the same way one might lower their voice approaching a cornered animal—Bruce knows how similar having your mask lifted can feel from personal experience…
Superman freezes, big blue eyes darting from feature to feature on his masked face, the same pretty blue eyes that bore holes into him across the dinner table, determined to get a story out of him even if he had to shake it out of Bruce.
He quickly scans the area before tucking his thumbs under the edges of his cowl and pushing it back over his head. His heart twists almost painfully as he watches the way Clark's face quickly morphs from fear to something softer.
"Bruce..? How long?"
"I..wasn't certain until tonight, but I had my suspicions." Bruce steps closer, taking Clark's hands in his own—they were the same hands, the same perfectly unblemished hands that he'd seen 'adjusting' his tie as he interviewed Bruce.
"…and you're still interested?"
"Even more so." He smirks, and Clark can't help but laugh.