Chapter Text
Clark liked people. It was a simple, fundamental truth about him, as ingrained in his DNA as his ability to absorb solar radiation. He liked the chaotic, overlapping chatter of the Daily Planet bullpen, the smell of burnt coffee by the copy machine, and the endless, vibrant hum of millions of heartbeats across Metropolis. Being Superman wasn't a burden to him; it was an extension of that affection. It was about connection. It was about floating down to the pavement, looking someone in the eye, and letting them know the worst was over.
Then came the joint operation in Gotham. Then came Batman.
Sitting at his desk, staring blankly at his monitor, Clark ground his teeth just thinking about it. Last month's case had dragged him across the bay into the Narrows, a district where the rain always felt like it was carrying an extra layer of grime. He had tracked an Apokoliptian tech smuggling ring across city lines, a simple enough job.
Until a shadow detached itself from the fire escape and told him to get out.
Batman was a walking, breathing contradiction to everything Clark believed in. The vigilante was a nightmare of lead-lined Kevlar, scalloped edges, and tactical paranoia. Clark’s enhanced senses were his primary way of understanding the world; he could hear a lie in the skip of a heartbeat, smell fear in a drop of sweat, and instantly read a room's dynamic based on secondary genders.
But Batman was a black hole.
Whatever chemical dampeners the man used were military-grade and completely suffocating. Clark couldn't pick up a single natural pheromone, just the harsh, stinging scent of ozone, motor oil, and astringent blockers. The vigilante's heartbeat was a flat, icy metronome, refusing to spike even when Clark hovered inches off the ground, eyes glowing a warning crimson.
Clark didn't need super-smell to figure the man out, though. The posturing was loud enough. The sheer refusal to yield an inch of physical space, the abrasive, low-octave commands, the absolute lack of trust in a situation that clearly required teamwork—it was textbook. Batman was an Alpha. An arrogant, hyper-territorial Alpha who resented Clark the second his boots touched Gotham concrete. Batman hadn't seen an ally; he had seen a rival Alpha encroaching on his hunting ground.
They had spent four hours dismantling the smuggling ring together, and it had been the most grating four hours of Clark's life. No communication, just brutal, synchronized violence. When it was over, Batman had grappled away into the smog without a single word of acknowledgment. The feeling of utter disdain was entirely mutual.
So, when Perry White marched out of his glass-walled office and tossed a thick, glossy folder onto Clark’s desk, Clark’s first instinct was to politely decline whatever was inside.
"Wayne Enterprises," Perry barked, already turning back toward his office. "They're rolling out some massive automated drone initiative. Privacy advocates are throwing a fit, the mayor is dodging questions, and the Planet needs the exclusive before the Gazette gets their hands on it. You're on the morning train, Kent."
Clark sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked down at the folder. The Wayne Enterprises logo was stamped sharply across the front. He had zero desire to cross the bay into the Bat's playground again, but a job was a job.
He spent the rest of the evening and the entire train ride the next morning plunging into the chaotic, sprawling digital footprint of Bruce Wayne. The man was confounding.
In a world where secondary dynamics often dictated public perception, Wayne was a registered Omega. That wasn't entirely unusual for high-society figures, but Bruce's public persona defied every quiet, demure stereotype associated with his designation. The articles painted him as a loud, unapologetic party boy who missed board meetings, threw money at exorbitant galas, and treated his family's legacy like a limitless slush fund.
Sitting in his apartment, the blue glow of his laptop illuminating the dark room, Clark had scrolled through tabloid headlines. The media loved Wayne. He was constantly photographed with a dazzling smile, an expensive drink in his hand, looking like he didn't have a single serious thought in his head.
But as Clark started pulling up video footage of press conferences and charity dinners, his perspective shifted.
He maximized a video of Wayne at a children's hospital fundraiser. The billionaire was laughing at a joke the mayor made, a bright, sweeping sound that had the entire table charmed. But Clark's super-vision didn't watch the smile. He watched the muscles in Wayne's neck. He watched the micro-tremor of tension in the billionaire's jaw. He tracked the calculated, deliberate way Wayne angled his body to control the room's attention while pretending to be entirely distracted by his champagne glass.
When the mayor turned away, Clark caught a fraction of a second where the smile dropped. The ice-blue eyes went completely dead, staring at a fixed point on the tablecloth with a heavy, crushing exhaustion. A moment later, a reporter called his name, and the blinding smile snapped back into place.
It was a performance. A brilliantly executed, flawless mask. Whatever Bruce Wayne was selling to the public, he was hiding something much heavier underneath. The realization had made the investigative journalist in Clark sit up and take notice. Suddenly, the assignment didn't feel like a chore; it felt like a puzzle.
Stepping out of Gotham Station two days later did nothing to settle his nerves. The transition from Metropolis to Gotham was always jarring. Metropolis was steel and glass; Gotham was wrought iron, gargoyles, and shadows that seemed to swallow the light. The air was heavy, damp, and smelled sharply of exhaust.
Wayne Tower loomed in the center of the financial district, a fortress of black glass that scraped the overcast sky. Clark adjusted his glasses, pulling his trench coat tighter against the freezing drizzle, and pushed through the revolving doors.
The lobby was hyper-modern, sterile, and intimidating. A massive waterfall feature masked the sound of footsteps. The receptionist directed him to the private elevator with a brisk, practiced efficiency that left no room for small talk.
The elevator ride was silent, shooting up seventy floors so fast Clark’s ears popped. He stepped out into the penthouse level. The office was sprawling, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dizzying, smog-choked view of the city below. The space smelled vaguely of ozone, expensive leather, and something sharp and chemical.
Clark walked toward the seating area, a configuration of plush leather sofas around a glass coffee table. He was just unzipping his satchel to pull out his audio recorder when the heavy mahogany doors clicked open.
Clark's head snapped up.
Bruce Wayne in person was breathtaking.
The cameras, the high-definition footage, the glossy magazine spreads—none of them captured the sheer physical reality of the man. He was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that draped perfectly across a broad, muscular frame. His hair was deliberately styled to look effortlessly messy, a few dark strands falling over his forehead.
But before Clark could fully process the visual, the scent hit him.
It was an aggressive, expensive assault on Clark's heightened senses. Bergamot, heavy smoke, and sharp cedarwood. It was a meticulously engineered, overpowering cologne designed to completely smother whatever natural Omega pheromones Wayne possessed. It wasn't just a fragrance; it was armor. It was a scent meant to assert dominance, to take up the oxygen in the room and demand attention.
Bruce crossed the room with a fluid grace, silent on the plush carpet. He took the leather armchair opposite the sofa, flashing a brilliant, blindingly white smile.
"Mr. Kent," Bruce said. The voice was smooth, a rich baritone carrying a practiced warmth.
Clark realized he was frozen. His hand was still hovering over his open bag. He was just staring, helplessly taking in the severe line of Bruce's jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, and the striking, unnatural blue of his eyes. His Alpha instincts, usually so calm and controlled, suddenly flared in complete confusion. His biology was telling him one thing, but the man sitting across from him commanded the space like an apex predator. The sheer contradiction of it made Clark's pulse stutter.
The silence stretched for a full, agonizing three seconds. Clark felt the heavy weight of Bruce's gaze slide over him, assessing, calculating.
Heat flooded Clark's neck, rushing up to his cheeks in a furious blush. He scrambled to sit, his large frame awkwardly collapsing onto the sofa. He felt clumsy, too big for his skin, his hands clumsily fumbling his notepad and pen.
"Sorry," Clark stammered, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing himself to look Bruce in the eye. "I'm Clark Kent. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne. And I apologize, it was incredibly rude of me to stare."
Bruce’s smile shifted. The PR-veneer, the mask Clark had studied so closely on the train, cracked just a fraction. A glint of genuine amusement flashed in those blue eyes. He huffed a small, breathy laugh and leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other with deliberate slowness.
"Don’t worry about it, Clark," Bruce purred. "I’m entirely used to it. Frankly, I prefer it when people are obvious about enjoying the view. It saves us the trouble of pretending."
Clark’s collar suddenly felt entirely too tight. The sheer, brazen confidence of the comment sent another wave of heat to the tips of his ears. He swallowed hard, hyper-aware of how much space he was taking up on the couch, how rumpled his off-the-rack suit must look compared to Bruce's immaculate tailoring. He felt a sudden, ridiculous urge to straighten his tie.
"I—right. Sorry," Clark muttered. Superman stared down warlords without blinking, but Clark Kent was currently being dismantled by a man holding a glass of ice water.
"I told you, I don't mind," Bruce said, clearly delighted by the sight of a massive, broad-shouldered Alpha shrinking into the upholstery. He rested his chin on his hand, observing Clark like a fascinating new exhibit. "So. You came all the way from Metropolis. Let's talk about the new drone network."
Clark forced himself to focus. He gripped his pen tighter, digging his fingernails into his palm to ground himself. He clicked his recorder on, desperately trying to pull the "Daily Planet Reporter" persona back around him.
"Yes. The WayneSec Autonomous Response Initiative," Clark started, his voice steadying as he fell into the familiar rhythm of an interview. "The 'Bat-Signal' is one thing, Mr. Wayne, but deploying a fleet of autonomous drones to handle street-level crime is a massive leap. Critics are saying it's a slippery slope toward turning Gotham into a private surveillance state. They're arguing that a corporation shouldn't have police powers."
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't offer a canned PR response. The playboy act vanished completely, replaced by a razor-sharp intellect that commanded the room.
"Gotham’s police department is chronically underfunded, overworked, and fundamentally broken," Bruce said, his tone dropping the velvet softness, becoming hard and pragmatic. "These drones aren't armed, Clark. They aren't replacing officers; they're acting as a highly advanced neighborhood watch. They're designed for rapid response to property damage, petty theft, and medical emergencies. They utilize facial recognition to track known offenders and high-frequency deterrents to break up fights before they escalate."
"But the data collection," Clark pressed, leaning forward. His initial embarrassment was fading, replaced by a genuine, gripping interest. He liked this. He liked the pushback. "You're cataloging the movements of millions of citizens without their explicit consent. Who regulates the algorithm deciding what constitutes suspicious behavior?"
"Wayne Enterprises maintains an independent oversight board," Bruce countered smoothly. "And frankly, the people living in the Narrows don't care about data privacy when their storefronts are being smashed in. It keeps the actual officers free to handle violent crime, and more importantly, it stops terrified, under-trained cops from shooting kids over a stolen set of hubcaps. It de-escalates."
Clark blinked. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest. The argument wasn't about profit margins; it was about saving lives in the margins of a broken city. It was an argument Clark himself might make. He watched the way Bruce's hands moved as he spoke, the precise, controlled gestures. He listened to the steady, calm rhythm of Bruce's heartbeat, entirely unaffected by the interrogation.
For the next twenty minutes, they fell into an intense, rapid-fire back-and-forth. Bruce dismantled Clark's counterpoints with seamless logic, anticipating his questions before he even finished asking them. Clark found himself leaning closer, the heavy scent of Bruce's cologne wrapping around him, no longer suffocating, but intoxicating. He was entirely captivated by the sharp mind hiding behind the pretty face. The physical attraction he'd felt walking in was suddenly compounded by a deep, undeniable intellectual pull.
But just as quickly as the serious businessman appeared, Bruce pulled back. He leaned into the cushions, swirling the ice in the glass of water he hadn't touched, the lazy, devastating smirk returning.
"Of course," Bruce murmured, his voice dropping back to that velvet purr, "we can't all rely on a flying Boy Scout to catch cats out of trees. Superman seems to have Metropolis entirely handled. It must be quite the show to watch."
Clark straightened up, his chest puffing out a fraction before he could stop himself. The shift in topic threw him, and his defensive instincts kicked in automatically. But it wasn't just about defending his alter-ego. Looking at Bruce, sitting there looking so impossibly put-together and slightly cynical, Clark felt a sudden, desperate urge to make him understand. He wanted Bruce to see the value in what he did.
"It’s not a show," Clark defended, his voice thickening with an earnest conviction he usually tried to hide. "He—Superman, I mean—genuinely cares. It’s not just about the spectacle or punching things. It’s about being out in the daylight, showing people that there's actual hope. That someone is looking out for them, regardless of who they are."
He cut himself off, realizing he was practically vibrating with defensive energy. He was gripping his pen so hard the plastic casing was beginning to creak. He forced his hand to relax, his heart hammering uncomfortably against his ribs. Why did he care so much about what this billionaire thought of him?
Bruce was watching him. The heavy, unreadable gaze made the hair on the back of Clark's neck stand up. The billionaire's eyes flicked down to Clark's hands, then back up to his face.
"You're quite passionate about him," Bruce noted softly, tilting his head. "It's admirable. Loyalty usually is." Bruce paused, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. "What about our local talent, then? How does Superman's biggest fan feel about Batman?"
Clark's expression immediately soured. The memory of the rain, the smog, and the harsh, aggressive posturing in the Narrows flooded back, momentarily breaking the spell Bruce had cast over him. He let out a harsh scoff, looking out the rain-streaked window so he wouldn't have to look at Bruce's face.
"Batman is a completely different species," Clark muttered, a genuine spike of irritation bleeding into his voice. "The man is dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Bruce repeated, his tone entirely neutral. "He's kept the city from burning to the ground a half-dozen times."
"At what cost?" Clark shot back, looking at Bruce again. "He operates entirely on fear. He refuses to trust anyone, he answers to no one, and he treats this entire city like it's his personal hunting ground. He doesn't inspire people; he just terrifies them into submission."
Clark shook his head, his Alpha instincts bristling at the thought of the vigilante. He leaned forward, wanting Bruce to understand the difference between fear and hope. "Honestly? He’s just an arrogant Alpha throwing his weight around in the dark. He completely alienates anyone who actually wants to help him."
Dead silence filled the penthouse.
Clark froze. The words hung in the air between them, sharp and heavy. He felt a sudden spike of panic. He was a journalist. He was supposed to remain objective, and he had just insulted a vigilante that Wayne Enterprises was rumored to secretly fund. He waited for the fallout. He waited for Bruce to end the interview, to call security, or to freeze him out with that icy corporate glare he'd seen in the videos.
Bruce just stared at him. His eyes were wide, blinking once, twice. His heartbeat, which had been a steady, calm rhythm the entire interview, suddenly skipped.
Then, the billionaire broke.
He burst into laughter.
It wasn't the breathy, manufactured giggle Clark had heard on the society tapes. It wasn't the polite chuckle from the gala. It was a loud, rich, chest-deep sound that ripped through the quiet office. Bruce threw his head back, running a hand over his face, his shoulders shaking with genuine, uninhibited mirth.
Clark sat completely frozen. His breath caught in his throat.
The sound of that laugh hit Clark's super-hearing like a physical force. It was warm, bright, and completely unguarded. "An arrogant Alpha," Bruce wheezed, clutching his stomach. He was laughing so hard a stray tear escaped the corner of his eye. He wiped it away, looking back at Clark.
The curated 'Brucie' posture was completely gone. The heavy, intimidating cologne still filled the room, but the man wearing it looked suddenly, breathtakingly human. His smile was beautifully real, radiating a warmth that settled directly into Clark's chest, pulling the air from his lungs.
"Oh, Clark," Bruce said, catching his breath, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I don't know. I think he's pretty charming once you get to know him."
Clark was entirely defenseless.
He sat there, staring at a man who was supposed to be a superficial playboy, a man masking his Omega nature with heavy cologne, a man who had just dismantled a complex socio-economic argument before laughing like a kid at an insult aimed at Gotham's darkest terror. All the friction, all the nervousness, all the defensive posturing Clark had walked in with simply evaporated. His Alpha instincts stopped trying to figure out the power dynamic and simply zeroed in on the man in front of him.
The rest of the interview passed in an absolute blur. Clark asked his remaining questions on autopilot, his notes looking like frantic chicken scratch. He couldn't stop looking at the way Bruce's lips moved, couldn't stop listening for another hint of that genuine laugh.
When Clark finally stood to leave, shaking Bruce's hand, a jolt of static electricity snapped between them. Bruce didn't pull away immediately; his grip was firm, calloused, and surprisingly strong.
"Have a safe trip back to Metropolis, Clark," Bruce said softly. "I look forward to reading your piece."
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," Clark managed to say, his voice thick.
He didn't remember the elevator ride down. He barely remembered walking through the lobby. It wasn't until he pushed through the revolving doors and stepped out into the freezing Gotham drizzle that he realized he was clutching his satchel to his chest like a shield.
He stood on the sidewalk, ignoring the rain soaking his hair and ruining his suit. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his stomach tied in knots. He had come to Gotham dreading the city and its secrets, expecting a tedious interview with a vapid socialite. Instead, he had just been completely derailed. His chest felt incredibly tight, overwhelmed by a massive, inconvenient, and entirely illogical crush on Gotham's billionaire prince.