Chapter Text
These big stuffy events had never been appealing to Clark. Not since he started working with bigger stories, not since he started working with his team, and definitely not since he moved to Metropolis, yet here he was, smack-dab in the middle of a crowd of rich folks whose only achievement was throwing enough money at things to get them fixed.
To make matters worse, it was in Gotham, a place notorious for corruption and unequal distribution of wealth, especially in the shinier parts. So why the hell was he here, standing in the corner of the room in his oversized suit, carrying a pad and pencil? Well…
“He’s gotta be here somewhere…” Lois’s sharp voice cuts through the muddled boredom of Clark’s mind. She’s standing next to him, dressed in a black pantsuit with her Daily Planet press badge clipped to her breast pocket. Her eyes are scanning the room, keeping an eye out for the target of the night. Her hands fiddle with the expensive-looking necklace around her neck, trying to keep herself calm.
Jimmy, Clark’s other companion for the night, pipes up in response. “Well, if he hasn’t gotten here yet, then he might just not show up.” He’s also dressed in more formal attire, with a pair of black dress pants and a nice white button-down.
Clark looks down at Lois, showing a slight grimace. “Jimmy’s right, Lois, we can’t just be sitting around all night. Mr. White asked us to cover the event. We should probably at least interview-”
“Shhh,” Lois cuts him off. “Nothing’s more important at this event than this. You know that. It’ll probably just be a bunch of people bragging about their ‘contributions’ to Gotham to make themselves look good. But catching Luthor when he’s vulnerable, now that’ll yield something interesting.”
Clark lets out a sharp breath through his nose. Luthor had been acting suspicious recently, with more activity around the shipping docks than usual, accompanied by reports of overworking his workers and doing nothing about a supposedly dangerous work environment. It made Clark’s blood boil, truly it did, and he did want to do something about it, but at that moment they had a different goal, one that would definitely damage Perry’s trust in them if they failed at it. “Lois, we can at least go and interview some other people while we’re looking.”
Lois looks up at him with a nasty look, before letting out a loud sigh. “Fine, but the moment we see him, I’m heading over.”
“Be my guest,” Clark replies as he follows her irritated path through the gala.
The entire ballroom is opulent, warm light reflected off of crystal chandeliers highlighting the expensive fabrics and stones of the furniture and floors. Clark can smell every last perfume and cologne sprayed onto every last item of silk or cashmere or satin or whatever draped along the bodies of these glorified leeches. It’s a sharp scent, the very scent of opulence, and it’s starting to give him a headache. Over top of it, as is with most events, is the strong scent of booze. It’s overwhelming, and though he’s the one who’s mostly driving this operation forward, it was originally Lois’s idea, and he’s starting to regret agreeing to come.
As much as he loves Lois (platonically, they tried that once and it didn’t really work out), it’s really hard to like someone when they’re the reason that you’re stuck doing something that feels like getting a knife to the forehead every ten seconds. Regardless, they have a job to do.
Clark is still just following behind Lois blindly, rubbing at his temples and trying to avoid breathing in through his nose, but after about a minute of the three of them moving around without stopping, he stops and gently grabs her shoulder. “Lois, are you actually going anywhere?”
Lois stiffens, before turning back to look at him and rolling her eyes. “Obviously.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause we’ve just been going in circles,” Jimmy replies from behind Clark, then walks around to stand next to him and crosses his arms.
“...whaaat? Circles? Nooooo…” Lois waves him off, then tries to shove Clark’s hand off her shoulder.
Clark, not wanting to hurt her but still wanting her to talk, tightens his grip slightly. “Lois-” He cuts himself off as he notices a slightly suspicious-looking woman slowly approaching Lois from behind, a flute of champagne in hand. Her sharper features and slinky demeanor immediately set off red flags in Clark’s mind, but his warning is immediately thrown off course.
Lois, again, snaps back at him. “What? I have a plan.” She turns away from Clark at the same time the woman reaches out for her. “Trust-”
Her statement is cut off by the sound of a body hitting the ground and glass breaking, in addition to the feeling of being coated in ice-cold champagne.
The woman, though she does fall, falls in such a way that looks almost graceful to Clark. She’s fallen a lot before, he can tell, both from her grace and the several areas of raised skin coated in makeup, most likely to hide scars. Clark narrows his eyes at her. What is she hiding? His investigation is cut short by his partner’s reaction.
Lois lets out a few surprised splutters, looking like some sort of lake creature the way that the champagne is causing her hair and clothes to stick to her. The socialites around the group of them stop to stare, before continuing their conversations. The woman, now looking startled herself, stands up quickly. Clark notices that her hand is bleeding, probably from the broken flute, but regardless, she quickly attends to Lois.
“Gosh, I truly am sorry about that, Miss,” she pauses to squint at her press badge, “Lane.”
Clark, though less suspicious about this woman, can still tell that she’s got something hidden behind her more caring facade. The sharp look in her eyes, the way she holds herself, and the steady thrum of her heartbeat despite the sudden event betray her much deeper intentions. He doesn’t have time to unpack all of that right now, though, and the scent of blood in addition to everything else is making his head spin.
Lois pulls her soaked hair away from her face, then responds, “No, it’s fine. I didn’t see you coming. I should have been paying more attention.”
“Ah, but I shouldn’t have just approached someone from behind. That’s not particularly polite of me,” she says while smiling gently, then looks her up and down, letting her gaze linger. “Say, how about I help you clean up? In exchange for running into you.”
Lois’s face twitches. Clark can tell that she’s slightly upset that she’s getting pulled away from the ballroom. “N-no, I think I’ll be fine.”
“No, I insist.” The woman circles around Lois, continuing to eye her. “You can’t just walk around like that. It can’t be comfortable.”
Lois puts her hand up to stop the woman from getting any closer to her. “No, thank you. I have a job to do. I’m fine.”
Her body is saying something completely different. Clark can see the almost imperceptible shivering of her shoulders and the way champagne is drying down into a sticky film on her skin; but, before he can say anything-
“Honey, you’re shivering. You’re not fine.” The woman reaches out a hand to brush a piece of sticky hair behind her ear, then trailing it down to her chin. Her eyes are sharp, attentive, like a cat’s. “At least let me give you my jacket.”
Clark sees Lois’s shoulders tense, before reluctantly relaxing. She’s given up on walking around in a soaking wet outfit, something that is simultaneously relieving and concerning for Clark. Lois doesn’t give up this easily. Then again, she could just be trying to make her job easier and more efficient.
“Fine,” Lois replies dismissively, pulling away from the woman’s touch. She then turns to Clark and Jimmy with a determined look on her face. “If Luthor comes in-”
“Yeah, yeah. Grab him and shake him by the collar until he gives us information, we know,” Jimmy shoots back jokingly. “We’ve got it covered.”
Clark watches Lois’s expression shift to an unamused one, before reluctantly handing him her notepad and pencil. “Don’t let me down.”
“We won’t.” He nods, then follows her figure through the crowd as the mysterious woman leads her towards the food table, most likely to grab some napkins. Just as she vanishes into the crowd, Jimmy tugs his arm.
“Sooo… are we gonna interview some people, like Perry asked us, or are we gonna keep watching for Luthor?” Jimmy looks up at him with a mischievous look.
Clark rolls his eyes, before pulling his notepad out of his pocket reluctantly. He doesn’t want to let Lois down, but Luthor actually showing up is less than likely, considering how reclusive he’s been as of late, and he wants to preserve his job. Besides, he can do some proper investigating as Superman, and Lois probably won’t stay mad at him for long. Probably.
“Let’s go interview some rich people.”
About an hour later, Clark had barely gotten anything from the people he had talked to. As he predicted, it was mostly ultrarich folks bragging about their monetary contributions to Gotham’s system, as well as a few bolder folks flirting with him. He, of course, brushed them off and remained professional, even though a part of him wanted to deck them in the face. Jimmy had taken Lois’s notepad, as he didn’t bring one on account of expecting his two companions to handle the talking part while he took photos, and then had immediately gotten lost in the crowd. Clark had maybe seen him once in his hour-long crawl through socialites, and was honestly getting ready to just find Jimmy and dip. This was definitely a bust. Whatever would come out of this was mostly fluff pieces and endorsements.
Clark sighs loudly as he slumps against the wall at the side of the room. He still feels like vomiting or kicking something or screaming, on account of his raging headache, but he still had to act professionally. He shuts his eyes and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then focuses on breathing through his mouth. Even with his attempts, he can still taste the perfumes and colognes and alcohols on his tongue. He wants to tear his eyes out of his head, then throw every last person here into the sun. It’s truly awful.
“Are you okay?”
The voice is smooth, yet heavy. Clark looks up, squinting through the sudden brightness of the ballroom as he opens his eyes. Standing before him, in a suit that probably costs his entire year’s salary, is a dark-haired, pale-skinned, blue-eyed man that Clark recognizes as no one other than the host of this gala, Bruce Wayne. He immediately stiffens up, before scrambling to his feet in an unorganized manner. “Y-yes. Yes, sir. I’m okay.” His voice sounds small, unconfident, weak, in comparison to the older man’s.
wine glasses
Mr. Wayne lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle, then takes a quick sip from the champagne flute in his hand. “No need to call me sir, honestly.”
“S-sorry, si- Mr. Wayne.” Clark can feel his face growing red-hot from embarrassment. Gosh, the host of this event is talking to him directly and all he can do is squeak and whimper? How pathetic!
Mr. Wayne smiles again. “Now, ‘Mr. Wayne’ is too formal. How about just Bruce?”
Clark freezes, then hesitantly responds. “A-alright then, Bruce.”
The other man looks him up and down, which only makes Clark want to curl in on himself and die, but his eyes stop on his Daily Planet press badge. His gaze is analytical and sharp, in comparison with the way he’s slightly swaying on his feet, which Clark finds unusual. Yet another strangely alert person at this gala. “Ah, you’re with the Press?”
“Y-yes, I am.”
Bruce looks up at his face and winks. “Well, me and the Press go way back. Say, how about a few questions? A gift for such a handsome man.”
Clark’s brain immediately short-circuits. Bruce Wayne, the most influential person in Gotham, is flirting with him? Clark Kent? Mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet? “Uh, yeah, a-absolutely.” He nervously clicks his pen before randomly flipping to the page of questions in his notepad. His eyes quickly flick over the list.
“So, over the last month, what has been the contribution to the city that you’re most proud of?” The question is generic, but it usually gets people talking and lightens the mood.
The sharp look in Bruce’s eyes softens a bit, then hardens back into the tipsy, playful mood he’s putting on. “Well, obviously the annual donation to the Todd Foundation. Truly magnificent work they’re doing, I only wish I could help out even more!” He lets out a short chuckle.
Clark wracks his brain for whatever the Todd Foundation could be. He remembers reading about it a while back, maybe ten years at this point, when it was first founded in Gotham by the man standing before him. It was… helping homeless youth, right? Something along those lines. He straightens up a bit as he asks a follow-up question. “And what kind of work is it that the Todd Foundation specializes in?”
Bruce’s eyes seem to brighten genuinely, then he flashes a wide, press-ready smile. “Well, the Todd Foundation was founded with the mission to assist homeless youth across the city in finding homes, jobs, and education in order to keep them safe and off the streets. Over the years, they have expanded to include older groups of people, but youth still stay at the center of their mission. It’s overall a tribute to my own son, who-” he seems to cut himself off with a cough. “Anyways, apologies for the rambling. It’s just a project I am truly passionate about.”
Clark continues staring at him blankly for a few seconds after he’s finished talking, the genuine sentiment shocking him. With the way that Bruce Wayne had put himself forward as an air-headed party boy in his younger years, this emotion that was spilling out of him felt… uncharacteristic. He adjusts his glasses quickly, then snaps himself back into reporter mode. “W-wow, Mr.- Bruce. You seem very passionate about this.”
“Yes, well, I do have other interests outside of partying and ending up on the front cover of the Gazette,” Bruce replies with a chortle.
Clark’s face flushes bright pink. “Th-that’s not what I was implying-”
“No, it’s fine! I know I have a reputation.” Bruce winks again and playfully grabs Clark’s tie. “I’m fine with the implications.”
Clark, if that’s even possible, feels his cheeks growing redder. Okay, maybe it’s a bad to time to admit that he has a small celebrity crush on Bruce Wayne, sue him, but all that is running through his head, instead of professionalism, are the many, many scantily-clad photos of him that he had either seen online or had been shown by Lois. It’s unfair. “M-Mr. Wayne-”
“Again, I told you to call me Bruce.” Bruce wraps his tie around his knuckles and tugs, causing Clark to have to duck down and get closer to him.
Clark can’t feel anywhere but his bright red face. The notepad in his hands hangs by his side, forgotten in lieu of this development. Not that he’s upset. In fact, he’s in utter bliss at this point, his body relaxing under the force of Bruce’s hands. He closes his eyes gently, leans in…
And is promptly doused in ice-cold liquid.
Spluttering viciously, Clark pulls back from Bruce and wipes at his eyes and face, trying to get… whatever liquid he’s covered in off of him. When he finally manages to get his eyes back open, he’s greeted by the sight of a white-faced server lying on the ground next to them. Their tray is on the ground, along with a bunch of broken glasses. The server seems mortified, and opens their mouth to speak, before squeaking out a quiet, “I’m sorry!” and scrambling away.
Clark turns to look at Bruce, whose outer demeanor has changed entirely. He seems rigid, colder, yet his eyes don’t say that he’s upset as he watches the waiter retreat. Rather, they seem alert, looking for danger of some sort, even while soaked to the bone. He’s an entirely different person, one that truly shows the Gothamite in him, primed and ready to act. It’s… reminiscent of someone Clark knows.
But that moment is over the moment he looks back at him. A wide, cheesy smile breaks over his face, and his body relaxes into the drunken stupor he’s known for. “Ah, looks like I’ve got a little something on my shirt, silly me.”
Clark can’t help it, his eyes drift slightly lower to his silken dress shirt, soaked through with what looks like some sort of fancy wine. It certainly smells like it, the sultry smell making his face flush again. The vaguely outlined shapes of his muscles through the shirt aren’t helping much either. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s been rendered speechless.
Bruce definitely notices his slight glances downward, as indicated by the slight smirk and sharpening of his gaze. He leans forward again and trails a hand down the side of his face. “Say, how about we head upstairs to get changed?”
Clark feels his knees go weak, and he leans in to his touch. He almost wants to go, wants to live out his dreams of getting to see Bruce Wayne up close and personal, but…
Clark’s notepad, also soaked in wine, clatters to the ground, breaking him out of his trance. He has a job to do, for fuck’s sake. He awkwardly pulls back from Bruce’s caress and picks the notepad off the ground. “S-sorry, I should probably just…” He trails off, then turns away and walks into the crowd.
Y’know what, actually, fuck the job. That was the worst goddamn response to flirting he’s ever had. Clark can feel his ears burning in shame as he walks towards the exit of the ballroom. He can feel every last eye on him as he walks out, still soaked in sticky wine. God, he’s so stupid. Why would he ever even entertain the idea? Bruce would probably just toss him the moment he got done, and they would never talk again, and he would be shamed everywhere, and…
He’s standing in the elaborate gardens before he knows it, the stormy Gotham sky high above him. He can feel the autumn wind brush over him, cooling his body. It’s nice, and it’s helping him calm down; it doesn’t feel like he’s going to literally explode the moment someone looks at him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the shiny reflections of the rose dividers. His suit is soaked through, the baggy fabric barely doing its job of hiding his musculature, and the red of the wine clashing horribly with the pale blue. He looks like a mess, his curly hair plastered to his head and his glasses slightly askew.
He can’t go back in there. He looks at his notepad briefly, letting out a quiet sigh when he sees the ink running. His notes will most likely be unsalvageable. He briefly thinks of Jimmy, the designated photographer, running around the ballroom trying to get interviews and information after both of his journalists abandoned him. He thinks of Lois, who is probably already back in the ballroom, grilling people about the hard questions while keeping an eye out for Luthor (who didn’t end up arriving), and he turns away from the manor.
He’s just gonna head home now, it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t try to go back in. He didn’t even have anything that good. He turns around briefly, scanning for people so he can quickly head back to Metropolis through the sky, when he spots a pair of heads slightly peeking over one of the bushes.
One of them, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman hisses out a swear, before grabbing, the other one, a dark skinned, brown eyed teenager, and dashing back to the manor. They seem to be in nicer dress, which indicates that they’re attending the party, which makes the interaction all the more baffling. Why would a group of high-class youth follow a random journalist out into the gardens? It makes no sense? Regardless, they don’t seem to be coming back. Clark sighs again, then takes off.
It takes him less than a minute to get back to his apartment in Metropolis. It’s… nice. Sure, it’s small, but it does the job, and that’s all he could ask for. He quickly steps into the shower, his suit still on, and watches as the wine stains the water, and the sides of his shower, red. It looks like a crime scene.
Still, even so far from the party and the watching eyes of those there, he cannot stop thinking about Bruce. That smile on his face when he was talking about the Todd Foundation, the way his eyes betrayed his true feelings about everything, the way his muscles looked dripping wet under his silk shirt-
Clark half-heartedly bangs his head against the shower door. He needs to stop thinking about this. As he said before, he’d probably get thrown aside the moment Bruce got bored. He wasn’t some sort of protagonist in a stupid, cheesy fanfiction or something. The rich, handsome, kind man wasn’t about to drop his playboy tendencies and fall in love with him. That’s a silly fantasy that will get his heart broken. God knows he’s dealt with that enough.
Clark shuts off the shower with a loud squeak, before taking off his suit and leaving it in there. He’ll have to get that dry-cleaned at some point. But tonight is not “some point.” He quickly changes into his pajamas and rests his head on his pillow, his wet hair dampening it. He shuts his eyes and drifts off, Bruce Wayne still resting at the edge of his mind.