Chapter Text
Chapter Two
The morning started off on the wrong foot—maybe he’s used up all his luck yesterday. Hot coffee had spilled across his not-so-pristine white shirt, thankfully unable to do him any real harm, but still irritating enough that he’d had to double back home to change before heading into work. What sealed the deal was when he finally reached the office and discovered his desk had been tampered with.
Blatantly.
His neatly stacked files had been scattered. His chair shoved nearly a foot away from the desk. The framed photo of his dog was turned face down. Sticky notes plastered across his keyboard—none of them useful, all of them sarcastic.
Cute.
His new coworkers clearly weren’t fond of him. That much he’d expected. Transfers always stirred up territorial instincts. But this? This wasn’t passive-aggressive. It was deliberate.
They wanted him to know.
They wanted it thrown in his face—We don’t trust you. We don’t want you here.
Clark stood there for a moment, taking it in. He would’ve ignored cold shoulders. He would’ve tolerated whispers. But this was something else entirely. This was a middle finger disguised as office humor, which he really should have expect from gothamites.
Clark slowly began putting everything back into place, expression calm, movements careful. If they were trying to throw him off, they were going to be disappointed.
It would take more than this.
Clark sighed, nudging his chair back into place before sitting. The newsroom buzzed around him, familiar and comforting in its chaos. Phones rang. Printers hummed. Somewhere nearby, someone was arguing about a headline.
By late morning, he was already deep into his assignment—following up on safety concerns at several public elementary schools. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. Clark spent the first half of the day speaking with teachers and principals, jotting down notes as they voiced concerns they’d been repeating for years: aging equipment, delayed maintenance, budgets stretched too thin.
At the last school on his list, he stepped out onto the playground and immediately felt his stomach drop.
One of the climbing structures leaned at an unnatural angle. The metal frame beneath the platform was bent outward, edges jagged enough to catch skin—or worse. Clark crouched, adjusting his glasses as he examined it more closely. He took several pictures from different angles, documenting the damage carefully.
“This shouldn’t be here,” he murmured under his breath.
Kids ran past him, laughing, unaware of how close they were to something dangerous. Clark straightened quickly, forcing a smile when a teacher glanced his way. He couldn’t do anything now—not with children everywhere, not with staff watching. Still, the image stayed with him long after he left.
He barely had time for lunch, relying instead on the granola bars tucked into his bag. It wasn’t ideal, but deadlines didn’t wait.
Later that afternoon, Clark found himself back at the school.
The playground was empty now, the sun lower in the sky, the air quieter. He approached the damaged structure again, setting his bag down nearby. Carefully, he tested the loose metal, fingers tightening around the bent edge. It wouldn’t take much to make it safer—just enough to keep a child from getting seriously hurt.
The metal shifted back into place with a soft groan, it settled more securely than before—not perfect, but better. Safe for the kids now.
Clark was just finishing when a voice piped up behind him. “What are you doing?”
Clark almost jumped. He quickly straightened, turning toward the kid. A quick flood of thoughts ran through his mind—Oh, great, I’ve been seen. Why was I moving it? Well, it’s just a kid. But I should really be more careful when I use my powers.
Clark forced a nervous chuckle. “Oh, I was just checking out the structure. It looked a little unsafe for kids.”
The kid just stared at Clark—intense, skeptical. He didn’t say anything, but his look made it clear he didn’t quite buy the excuse. Still, he didn’t call Clark out on it.
Finally, the kid said, “If you’re going to fix the playground—or if you’re waiting on someone to fix it—can you fix the swings?”
Clark tilted his head. “The swings?”
“Yeah.” The kid nodded toward the swing set. “I’ll show you.”
They walked over. There were four swings, but only one worked. One was coated in dirt and looked ready to fall apart. Another was missing a seat entirely and the third was missing the seat.
The kid sat down on the one working swing, gently swaying. He said quietly, “I’m the only one that uses these swings... but it’d be nice if they worked. In case someone wants to swing with me.”
Clark examined the dangerously loose swing hinge. He made a mental note: this would go in the article. He needed to push hard to get this playground fixed fast.
As he was looking, the kid asked, “You’re not from here, are you?”
Clark looked back at him, chuckling nervously. “No... what gave me away?”
The kid shrugged. “Nobody in Gotham cares about fixing playgrounds. And you talk too nicely.”
Clark blushed a little, caught off guard. “Well... I can’t change how I talk. But I don’t regret making sure kids have a safe place to play.”
The kid studied Clark a bit longer. “Do you always help?”
Clark tilted his head and smiled. “Of course. Why?”
The kid looked at his feet. “Do you only help kids? Or grown-ups too?”
Clark’s expression softened. In a steady, honest voice, he replied, “I help anyone and everyone in need.”
The kid hesitated. “But how can you help adults?”
Clark could tell there was something the kid wasn’t saying—something on his mind. So Clark kneeled down, sitting next to the swing. “I may not know what the problem is... but if you tell me, I can listen. And I’ll try to help.”
The kid went quiet, then whispered, “But I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
Clark nodded gently. “I promise—I won’t make anything worse for you.”
But the kid didn’t respond. He stared at the ground for a long moment, then hopped off the swing. “Never mind,” he muttered, before turning and running off.
Clark stood, watching him go. He wanted to call out, to reassure him, but there was no convincing him now. Chasing after him would only scare him more.
Once the kid was gone, Clark turned back to the swing—the dangerously loose hinge. He pressed the metal back into shape, ensuring it wouldn’t fall apart.
After ensuring everything is stable, he heads back home. Sitting at his desk, he writes the articles. He doesn’t just mention the structural flaws—he highlights the urgency and the human side. The lone kid on the swing stays in his mind. He knows with enough attention, change will follow.
Over the next two weeks, Clark published two major articles—one on playground safety and one on the poor quality of meals in underfunded schools. During this time he formed connections with the kids, though the boy from the playground remained cautious at first. Over three more encounters, the boy slowly opened up.
While he kept a low profile at work however, things hadn’t improved.
His coworkers still hadn’t warmed up to him. Conversations stopped when he approached. Assignments were handed to him without eye contact. He was tolerated—nothing more. Strangely, that distance only seemed to narrow the space between him and Elijah. Elijah, who refused to ignore him. The first time Elijah had called him “love” across the newsroom, Clark had nearly spilled his drink in shock. The second time, he had. It had startled him—enough that, for a brief and mildly terrifying moment, Clark wondered if the only coworker who treated him kindly was… flirting. That thought had spiraled faster than it should have. Until he noticed Elijah called everyone love. And darling. And sweet. It wasn’t selective. It wasn’t suggestive. It was just… him. Flamboyant, warm, faintly theatrical—but friendly.
So Clark accepted it for what it was. Elijah being Elijah.
And he firmly pushed aside any thoughts that suggested otherwise.
During the end of the first week Elijah had asked Clark to come with him to the gala being hosted by Bruce Wayne next week, saying he'd rather not go alone and would appreciate the company. Clark agreed, wanting to help Elijah and reciprocate the kindness he's been shown. When Elijah joked about his usual frumpy suit, Clark said that he doesn't have anything else. Elijah insisted on picking something better and planned a whole outing—after work, they’d shop for a suit and then have dinner at one of Elijah’s favorite spots. Saying he promised Clark dinner and is a man of his word. Clark, though nervous about standing out, couldn’t say no to Elijah’s persistent kindness. By the end of the workday, a day before the gala., Elijah showed up at Clark’s desk, ready to go.
Clark saw Elijah approaching just as he finished his sentence, saving his article draft and tucking away his things. Elijah reached his desk with a playful grin. “Ready for our date?”
Clark stood up and nodded. “Yes.”
Elijah, gesturing for Clark to follow.
They took the elevator down to the basement, where Elijah’s car was waiting. When they arrived, Clark’s eyes widened “Wait, is that a Koenigsegg Gemera?” Elijah raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
Clark grinned. “How could I not? It’s a four-seater hypercar—2.0-liter twin-turbo three-cylinder, plus three electric motors! Combined, it’s over 1,700 horsepower. Zero to 60 in under two seconds. And it’s got a top speed over 240 miles per hour. Plus, the Dihedral Synchro-Helix doors, the luxurious minimal interior, and yet it’s a plug-in hybrid. It’s basically a marvel of engineering!”
Elijah chuckled, impressed. “Wow, you know your stuff.”
Clark shrugged, still beaming. “What can I say? I might not drive often, but a masterpiece is a masterpiece.”
They got in, and Clark was still rambling on, soon he noticed Elijah watching him. Clark’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, sorry, I got carried away.”
Elijah smiled warmly. “Don’t apologize love. I like seeing this side of you. You’re always so shy—seeing you excited is nice.”
Clark looked down, flustered, and murmured, “Thanks.” Elijah chuckled. “I hope you’ll be comfortable enough to show me that side more often.” Clark smiled softly. “Yeah.”
Elijah pulled out of the garage, the engine humming smoothly beneath them. Clark sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the window while beating himself up.
“Yeah”?
Who just says yeah to something like that?
His social skills might not have been the sharpest on a good day, but that? That was tragic. Even for him.
Someone tells you they like seeing you open up. Someone says they hope you’ll be comfortable enough to be yourself around them. And your brilliant response is—..........Yeah. Clark resisted the urge to sink lower into the leather seat. Before he could spiral any further, Elijah glanced over at him with an easy smile. “We’re here.” Clark blinked, looking up and around. The storefront outside came into view, warm lights glowing through tall glass windows.
“That was quick,” Clark murmured.
Elijah chuckled. “It’s not that far from work.”
Clark nodded, still trying to shake the lingering embarrassment off as Elijah parked the car. Together, they headed inside. The lighting was soft and warm, reflecting off polished marble floors and dark wood paneling. Everything gleamed—tailored suits displayed like artwork, shoes lined up with surgical precision, glass cases housing cufflinks that probably cost more than his monthly rent.
This was expensive.
He didn’t need to look at a single price tag to know that, matter of fact he probably couldn’t find a price tag even if he tried. That how expensive this was was. Luxury practically seeped from the walls. His mouth fell open before he could stop it.
He quickly snapped it shut and leaned closer to Elijah. “Have we… perhaps come to the wrong store?” he asked quietly. “Maybe we could try somewhere a bit more… reasonable?”
Elijah looked at him like Clark had just suggested they shop in a bin behind the building.
“Why on earth,” Elijah began, gently tapping Clark’s shoulder, “would I bring you somewhere and expect you to purchase something you clearly don’t want?”
Clark blinked.
Elijah continued, voice light and amused, “If I’m the one insisting, then I’m the one paying. It would be rather cruel otherwise, wouldn’t it?”
Before Clark could protest further, Elijah walked toward one of the attendants.
A well-dressed woman with a poised smile approached. “Good evening, sir. How may I assist you today?”
Elijah gestured casually behind him toward Clark. “I’m here to pick out an outfit for my date.” The attendant smiled knowingly. “Of course, sir. We’d be delighted to help" Clark stood rooted in place, stunned into silence. This was it. He was trapped. He couldn’t walk out now. Elijah had been nothing but kind at work. They had projects together. A gala to attend. Clark could not—absolutely could not—be rude enough to storm out of a store. But how could he just let Elijah buy him something so expensive? he certainly couldn’t afford anything here. Not even if he used his credit card. Not even if he maxed it out twice. He was stuck.
“Sir?” another voice said gently.
Clark turned to find a male attendant beside him. “If you’ll follow me.” Clark nodded numbly as the man guided him toward a private dressing area—an elegant space with velvet seating just outside the curtained fitting rooms. The kind where you stepped out after changing and someone sat directly in front of you to assess the look almost like a bride’s rehearsal. Perfect. No pressure at all. Behind him, Elijah had already seated himself comfortably, flipping through a large leather-bound catalog of seasonal collections.
“I’ll warn you,” Elijah called lightly, not looking up. “I’m terribly particular. This may take a while.” Clark swallowed. The attendant handed him a suit. “We’ll start with this, sir.” Clark stepped into the fitting room, drawing the curtain closed.
He changed quickly, fingers steady out of habit, though his thoughts were anything but. When he turned toward the mirror, he stilled. The suit fit like it had been measured to him personally. The fabric hugged his shoulders perfectly, tapered at his waist, falling cleanly down his frame. The deep charcoal color sharpened his features. Elevated them. He looked… different. Professional. Polished. Dangerously close to recognizable.
His pulse jumped.
He adjusted his glasses automatically. They still sat on his nose. His hair was still slightly tousled, not styled. The Kryptonian lenses—crafted with subtle technology from his father’s archive in the Fortress—would continue to distort perception just enough. No one would connect him to Superman.
Still.
It made him nervous.
“Clark, dear,” Elijah’s voice called from outside the curtain, warm and teasing. “Are you finished? We’ve quite a few options to sort through, and I’ve already chosen your next ensemble. Do come out and show me.”
Clark inhaled slowly. It will be fine. He pushed the curtain open. Elijah looked up. And froze. Not dramatically or theatrically. But his pupils widened just slightly. His posture straightened. The catalog slipped a fraction lower in his hands. He hadn’t expected that.
Clark stood straighter without meaning to, the tailored suit emphasizing every line of his build. Mild-mannered Clark Kent had always been handsome Elijah knew that but right now?
Elijah stood.
He walked toward Clark slowly, stopping just within arm’s reach. Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and adjusted Clark’s tie, smoothing the fabric carefully. His fingers brushed lightly across Clark’s chest in the process—gentle, unhurried. “You know,” Elijah said softly, voice no longer teasing but sincere, “I didn’t realize I’d need to catch my breath tonight.”
Clark’s face went crimson.
Elijah smiled—bright, but not predatory. Just warm. “You look…” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “You look spectacular. I suppose I should have expected it, but seeing it is something else entirely.” Clark’s knees instinctively pulled closer together. His hands hovered awkwardly before settling against the side of his thighs. He lowered his gaze.
“I— I’m glad it’s… acceptable,” he managed, trying to keep his voice steady.
Elijah “Acceptable?" chuckled softly. “Clark, that suit is lucky you’re wearing it.” Clark’s ears burned. He dared a small glance upward, offering a shy, almost disbelieving smile. And Elijah, watching him closely, looked entirely pleased.
“Ahem”
The male attendant cleared his throat politely, the sound just loud enough to pull them back to reality. Both of them startled slightly. Elijah stepped back first, a faint flush rising along his cheekbones. He cleared his own throat in response, suddenly finding the polished marble floor very interesting.
“Right,” he said, smoothing the front of his jacket unnecessarily. “Yes. Of course.” Clark, meanwhile, looked as though he might combust on the spot. The attendant maintained a perfectly neutral expression—professionally blind, as though he hadn’t just witnessed a moment that felt far too intimate for a co-works room.
“Shall we proceed with the next option, sir?” the attendant asked smoothly. Elijah nodded, regaining some composure. “Yes. The navy one, I think. And perhaps the double-breasted I pointed out earlier.” Clark swallowed. There was more? He retreated behind the curtain again, heart still racing, trying very hard not to replay Elijah’s words in his head. Get it together. It was just a compliment. A normal, perfectly reasonable compliment. People gave those all the time. Right? The curtain shifted again as the attendant passed in another suit. “This one next, sir.” Clark glanced at the hanger. Navy. Deep, rich, almost midnight blue. The fabric looked even finer than the first. He changed. When he stepped out again, Elijah was already watching. This time, he didn’t freeze. He stood slowly instead, walking around Clark in a slow, deliberate circle. Clark tried very hard not to straighten too much. Elijah adjusted the sleeve, then the lapel. “This one,” he murmured thoughtfully, “is for tonight.”
Clark blinked. “Tonight?”
“Yes.” Elijah stepped back, examining him. “Dinner deserves effort.” Clark’s face heated again. “It’s just dinner.” Elijah tilted his head. “And?” Clark had no response to that, well none that would be acceptable to Elijah. The attendant nodded approvingly. “Excellent fit. We can tailor the waist slightly for a sharper silhouette.” Elijah snapped his fingers lightly. “Yes. Do that.” Clark stared at both of them like he had somehow lost control of his own body. Before he could recover, another suit was already being prepared. The third one was charcoal with a subtle sheen. The fourth, black with a modern cut. The fifth, a daring deep emerald that made Clark feel like he’d accidentally wandered into royalty. Each time he stepped out, Elijah’s gaze grew warmer. More focused.
He wasn’t laughing now. He was studying. By the time Clark tried on the sixth suit—a classic black tuxedo with a razor-clean line down the trousers—Elijah didn’t even pretend to deliberate.
“That’s the one,” he said quietly.
Clark hesitated. “For…?”
“The gala.”
The word hung heavier between them. The tux fit like precision. Sharp shoulders. Structured waist. It made Clark stand taller without meaning to. More confident. More—......
Elijah stepped forward again, slower this time. He adjusted the cuff, brushing his fingers lightly over Clark’s wrist.
“For the gala,” he repeated softly, “you don’t hide.”
Clark’s breath caught. The Kryptonian lenses in his glasses would protect him. His posture, his mannerisms—those were his disguise too. He could slouch. Soften his voice. Become smaller. But in that tuxedo? He didn’t look small. He looked powerful. It made him nervous. “You’re overthinking again,” Elijah said gently, as if reading him.
Clark blinked. “I am not.”
“You are.”
Clark’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Elijah smiled faintly. “The navy for tonight. The tux for the gala. The rest,” he waved dismissively toward the pile of rejected perfection, “was merely research.” Clark stared at the mountain of luxury fabric around them. “Research,” he repeated weakly. Elijah leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough. “And I’ve concluded something very important.”
Clark swallowed. “What’s that?”
Elijah’s smile softened. “You clean up dangerously well.”
Clark slipped back behind the curtain to change out of the tuxedo. He took a steady breath as he hung it carefully. The navy suit had already been selected for dinner. The tux for the gala. That was enough, more than enough. Finished changing he stepped out in the navy suit, curls slightly ruffled, glasses adjusted, he found Elijah speaking quietly with the male attendant a few steps away. Clark couldn’t hear what they were saying.
He assumed it was about tailoring. The attendant approached him with a polite smile and a clipboard. “If you would kindly write your address here, sir, we’ll have the tuxedo delivered tomorrow afternoon after final adjustments.” Clark nodded and wrote it down carefully.
“Everything will arrive by tomorrow.”
“Thank you” Clark replied.
Behind him, Elijah rejoined his side, expression calm and unreadable.
“Sorted?” Elijah asked lightly.
“Yes,” Clark said. “That was… efficient.”
Elijah’s lips curved slightly. “I try.”
The attendant gave a small bow of his head. “Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen.”
Elijah inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Clark added awkwardly, “Good night.”
They left. Clark never noticed the quiet instruction Elijah had given moments earlier.
The restaurant was quiet, elegant, and intimate. Soft lighting. Muted conversation. Crystal glasses. The host immediately brightened.
“Good evening, Mr. Harrington.”
Elijah gave a polite nod. “Good evening.”
“A table for two this evening? For you and your guest?”
“Yes.”
“Your usual table is prepared.”
Clark tried not to react to usual. They were seated at a beautiful corner table — angled slightly toward the main floor of the restaurant. From where Clark sat, the entrance was off to his right, visible past Elijah’s shoulder without much effort. Clark had taken to looking at anything but Elijah. What he was so scared of he wasn’t sure. Once seated, Elijah leaned forward slightly.
“Do you always analyze fabric stitching, table placement, and emergency exits when you’re nervous?” he asked mildly.
Clark blinked. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“I’m observant.”
Elijah smiled faintly. “Fascinating.”
A waiter approached.
“Gentlemen. May I begin with drinks?”
“I’ll have the Château Margaux, 2009,” Elijah said smoothly.
“And for you, sir?”
Clark froze slightly. “I’m not sure.”
Elijah waved gently. “He’ll have the same.”
Clark looked at him.
“It’s an excellent vintage,” Elijah added softly. “Trust me.”
Clark relented. “Okay.”
The waiter nodded. “Excellent choice, sir.”
Once alone again, Elijah asked, “Anything in particular you favor?”
Clark hesitated. The menu was entirely in French. He recognized maybe three words. None of them helpful.
“Not particularly,” Clark said carefully. Then, after a small pause, he added with quiet honesty, “Though that may be because I don’t understand any of this.”
Elijah blinked.
Clark cleared his throat. “I do like dessert, though.”
“You could have said so,” Elijah murmured.
Clark adjusted his glasses. “I didn’t want to look… uncultured.”
Elijah leaned forward over the table, lowering his voice.
“Clark,” he said gently, “there is nothing uncultured about asking questions.”
Clark looked up at that. Elijah turned the menu toward him, angling it between them. His fingers rested lightly along the edge of the page — long, elegant, almost pretty.
“Very well,” he said. “Allow me.”
He tapped the first section. “This is duck confit. Slow-cooked. Crisp skin. Rich but delicate.”
His finger moved lower, tracing a neat line beneath the next item. “Sea bass — light. Refined. Safe choice.” Another smooth motion. “Lamb with rosemary reduction. Bold. Slightly indulgent.”
Clark wasn’t entirely sure when he stopped listening. The way his fingers curved slightly as he turned the page, the subtle movement of his wrist as he pointed — it was… distracting. Graceful. Clark swallowed and forced his gaze back to the menu.
“You make it sound less terrifying,” he admitted.
Elijah smiled faintly. “Food should not terrify you.”
Clark let out a quiet laugh at that — softer than he expected, genuine enough that it surprised even him.
Elijah looked up at the sound.
There was still a trace of laughter lingering in his own expression, like he might join Clark if given the excuse. The corner of his mouth tilted upward, eyes warmer — not teasing, not studying. Just… present.
Clark felt it.
For once, he didn’t look away. Elijah had leaned forward over the table, one hand still resting near the menu between them. He stayed where he was, close enough to see the faint crease near Elijah’s eye when he smiled.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The low murmur of the restaurant dimmed. The clink of glassware blurred into background noise. Clark wasn’t thinking about posture. Or exits. He was just aware of Elijah. And the way Elijah was looking at him. The moment felt longer then it was, almost as if time slowed down to a stop. He didn’t even realize his gaze had shifted at first, still in a trans from the moment. What had pulled him out? A flicker of light across polished floors. A subtle shuffle near the entrance?
No.
It was the feeling. That quiet, unmistakable sensation of eyes on him.
Clark’s gaze drifted — just slightly — past Elijah’s shoulder. And met Bruce Wayne’s deep ocean blue eye looking right back at him .
Bruce stood paused at the doorway, reporters and flashes momentarily redirected behind him. His date lingered at his side, but Bruce wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring directly at Clark.
Intensely. Focused. Clark couldn’t quite read the expression. Was he curious? Assessing? Something else? It lasted only a second. But it felt longer. Elijah noticed the change in Clark immediately — the way his attention had drifted. He turned slightly in his chair. His eyes followed Clark’s line of sight. And landed on Bruce. Recognition flickered across Elijah’s face. The intensity smoothed into something charming effortless, the billionaire smile.
Clark finally blinked, fully aware of the room again as Bruce approached their table.
“Elijah,” Bruce greeted casually. “Fancy seeing you here.”
___
Bruce Wayne's POV
Bruce had never been careless with names.
Two weeks ago, when he’d encountered Clark Kent on that rooftop, he’d caught the name from the badge before the man could turn away.
Clark Kent.
He’d looked him up that same night. Journalist. Recently transferred. Strong investigative record. Not flashy — but thorough. Methodical and then there had been the detail Bruce hadn’t expected.
Superman.
Clark Kent was one of the few reporters the alien gave exclusives to. Bruce hadn’t liked that. He didn’t trust anyone with that kind of power — especially not someone who inspired blind faith and yet the journalist who seemed to have earned that trust had been mild-mannered, awkward unimportant and frankly? basically invisible in everything other than his work.
It hadn’t added up. So Bruce had dug deeper. Clark had broken several difficult cases. Financial corruption. Infrastructure misuse. Patterns most people overlooked. His detective instincts were sharp. Not on Bruce’s level.
But good.
Good enough that Bruce had made a quiet note to monitor him. You could never be too careful. In the following weeks, Clark had published two pieces in Gotham — one exposing neglect in public school infrastructure, another questioning food standards in underfunded districts.
Bruce had read both.
He’d made arrangements afterward. Quiet donations routed through subsidiaries. Directives to review municipal spending gaps.
-
Bruce stepped into the restaurant with composure. The flash of cameras followed him briefly before security redirected the press. His date murmured something about the attention. Bruce barely heard her. He was already scanning the room out of habit. That was when he saw Elijah.
Corner table. Angled toward the main floor.
And seated across from him— Clark Kent.
It took only a second to place him. Two weeks ago. Rooftop encounter. Glasses slightly crooked. Calm under pressure in a way that hadn’t matched the awkward exterior. Clark looked different now.
Not in appearance — the glasses were still there, the curls still falling forward — but in posture. In expression.
From the doorway, Bruce had a clear view of his face. Clark wasn’t tense. Wasn’t guarded. He was leaning slightly forward, listening. Smiling faintly at some thing Elijah had just said.
There was a warmth there Bruce hadn’t seen before.
Elijah leaned closer.
Clark didn’t retreat.
That warmth didn’t match the rooftop encounter. It didn’t match the composed journalist in print, either. It was… personal. Clark’s eyes shifted and met his.
Directly.
No panic. No fumbling. Just recognition. Bruce held the eye contact for a measured moment.
Clark didn’t look intimidated.
Interesting.
Elijah turned next, following Clark’s gaze. Recognition crossed his face. Bruce adjusted his cuff and let the public smile slide into place as he approached.
“Elijah,” he greeted lightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
His gaze moved briefly back to Clark. The journalist had layers. Bruce intended to understand them.
Elijah rose smoothly to greet him. “Bruce. I should have known you’d appear the moment something interesting was happening.” Bruce’s smile deepened slightly at that.
“I have impeccable timing,” he replied.
His gaze shifted to Clark again.
Up close, the journalist looked exactly as he had on the rooftop two weeks ago—mild posture, polite expression, glasses slightly askew. Nothing outwardly threatening. Nothing overtly remarkable.
And yet Bruce knew better than to measure people by presentation.
He extended a hand.
“Clark Kent, isn’t it?”
Clark stood quickly, almost knocking the table edge with his knee before steadying himself. He extended his hand.
“Yes. Clark Kent. Gotham Gazette.”
Bruce took it.
The navy-blue suit fit him impeccably. Structured through the shoulders, clean lines down the torso, tailored close enough to define without appearing deliberate. It complemented Clark’s frame in a way his usual rumpled attire never had.
Bruce had noticed he was attractive on the rooftop two weeks ago. It had been difficult not to.
But this?
With proper tailoring and posture adjusted by design rather than instinct?
Clark could have rivaled the men who walked Wayne-sponsored runways.
And Bruce knew exactly what those standards were.
His date—who had yet to receive more than a polite glance from him—was a model. He was intimately familiar with symmetry, presentation, cultivated beauty.
Clark’s appeal was different.
Less manufactured.
More… unintentional.
Which made it more interesting. Bruce released his hand smoothly. His grip was firm. Not overcompensating. Not weak.
“I’ve read your recent pieces,” Bruce said casually.
“The school infrastructure report was thorough.”
Clark blinked—clearly not expecting that.
“You’ve… read it?”
Bruce gave a small shrug. “I try to stay informed.”
That was technically true.
Clark seemed unsure whether to take the compliment at face value or search for something underneath it. His expression shifted subtly—calculating for a split second before smoothing again.
There it is, Bruce thought.
That flicker.
Clark wasn’t naïve. He was careful.
“Elijah keeps good company,” Bruce said, glancing between them now. “Though I suspect he’ll take credit for that.”
Elijah placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “I always take credit.”
Bruce allowed himself a small smile before turning back to Clark—casual now, not studying.
“I’ve read your recent pieces,” he said. “The school infrastructure report was thorough.”
Clark blinked slightly. “You’ve read it?”
“I try to stay informed,” Bruce replied evenly.
Before Clark could respond, Elijah reached out and lightly touched his arm—just above the elbow. The gesture was brief but grounding.
“See?” Elijah murmured quietly, leaning just enough for Clark to hear. “You’re doing perfectly well. Stop overthinking.”
Clark’s ears turned pink almost instantly. He dropped his gaze, lips pressing together in mild embarrassment.
Elijah laughed softly, shaking his head with fond amusement before turning back to Bruce.
“He does this,” Elijah explained lightly. “Keeps overthinking. He’s still unsure whether Gothamites will take to his writing. It’s new ground for him.”
Bruce’s expression shifted into understanding rather than scrutiny.
“Yes,” he said. “I know what you mean. Gotham can be… particular. People here tend to examine everything thoroughly.”
Clark looked up slightly at that.
“But,” Bruce added calmly, “they respect consistency. If you continue producing work with substance, you’ll earn their attention. Whether they agree with you or not.”
Elijah nodded approvingly. “There you are, Clark. Practical encouragement from the city’s most scrutinized man.”
Bruce allowed the corner of his mouth to lift faintly.
Elijah continued, “Hopefully tomorrow’s gala will be something you can enjoy—and use. A chance to get closer to the everyday Gotham citizen.”
He gestured lightly toward Bruce.
“Though you’ll also meet people like him, who are anything but ordinary.”
Bruce gave Elijah a pointed look. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
Clark gave a small, nervous smile, clearly still adjusting to being in the middle of this social triangle.
They spoke for another minute—light conversation about the gala’s expected turnout, city donors, the inevitable speeches. Bruce kept his tone easy, measured. Engaged, but not lingering.
Eventually, a subtle tug at his arm interrupted the flow.
His date.
She had remained silent the entire exchange, expression carefully neutral but patience visibly thinning. Her manicured fingers tightened slightly at his sleeve.
Bruce turned smoothly.
“Forgive me,” he said politely. “I seem to have monopolized your evening.”
Elijah waved him off. “As you always do.”
Bruce inclined his head toward Clark. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then, to Elijah, “Try not to corrupt him before then.”
Elijah smiled innocently. “No promises.”
Bruce allowed himself a quiet huff of amusement before guiding his date back toward their table.
For the remainder of the meal, he attempted to be present. He listened. He nodded. He responded when appropriate.
But his attention wandered.
Not obviously. Not enough to draw notice. Yet every so often, his gaze drifted—unintentionally—to the corner table.
The navy suit complemented Clark more than it had any right to.
It sharpened him.
Refined him.
Bruce found himself noticing the way Clark laughed—rare, but unguarded when it happened. The sound carried lightly through the room, warm enough to draw attention without demanding it.
He hadn’t expected that.
What could Elijah possibly be saying that loosened him so easily? On the rooftop, Clark had been careful. Measured.
Tonight, there were glimpses of something else entirely. Dry humor. A flicker of boldness beneath the awkwardness.
Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, listening to his date describe a recent campaign shoot. He nodded at the right moments.
Still, his eyes shifted again.
Clark was leaning forward now, clearly invested in whatever Elijah was saying. Animated in a way that suggested comfort.
Bruce found that more curious than he should have.
Four impressions.
Nervous and awkward, mild-mannered, Clark Kent. The composed journalist. The rooftop civilian who hadn’t panicked under Batman’s scrutiny. And this version—softened by candlelight, laughing without calculation.
Bruce did not like variables.
And Clark Kent, it seemed, had several, how many more did he have? how many layers?
-
Bruce watched the corner table until it finally cleared.
Elijah rose first, smooth and composed. Clark followed a moment later, adjusting his glasses as he stood. They exchanged a final word Bruce couldn’t quite hear before heading toward the exit.
Bruce tracked the movement unconsciously.
He hadn’t meant to.
But he had.
Once the door closed behind them, the restaurant felt noticeably less interesting.
His date resumed speaking, laughter light and rehearsed. She leaned closer now, fingers sliding along his sleeve with practiced familiarity.
Under normal circumstances, the evening would have followed its expected progression.
Dinner.
Public photographs.
A whispered rumor or two. Perhaps a hotel suite later—just visible enough to maintain the narrative. Bruce Wayne, charming and indulgent. Predictable.
That had been the purpose of tonight. To be seen, photographed. To remain exactly what the public expected him to be.
He reached for his wine, letting the glass tilt lazily in his hand. He even let his posture slacken slightly—just enough to sell the image.
But the performance had lost its rhythm.
His attention drifted, uninvited.
The corner table was empty now.
The absence irritated him more than it should have.
His date continued talking—something about a brand launch, or a photographer in Milan. He nodded vaguely, gaze unfocused. Ordinarily, he would have played along.
Stayed long enough. Left together. Let speculation do the rest. Tonight, however, the prospect felt exhausting.
Not because of Clark.
He refused to frame it that way but because the evening no longer interested him. Which is normal, this was a chore, not something he dose for pleasure.
He set the glass down with quiet finality.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short,” he said smoothly. “I have documents to review before tomorrow.”
His date blinked.
“Now?”
He offered a half-smile—the careless, slightly aloof one the tabloids loved.
“Unfortunately.”
She didn’t believe him. That much was obvious. And she wasn’t meant to. Bruce Wayne was not known for late-night paperwork. He was known for excess. For distraction. For irresponsibility. Leaving mid-date would only reinforce that image. He signaled for the bill before she could protest properly. When it arrived, he paid without looking at the total.
“I’ll have the car take you home,” he added.
The dismissal was clean. Unceremonious. By the time she processed it, he was already on his feet. A few heads turned as he left. Good. Let them talk. Let them assume he’d gotten bored. Let them assume he’d had too much to drink. Let them assume anything at all.
Outside, the night air was cool. He adjusted his cuff once, expression unreadable. He had not come here for Clark. And yet— He entered the car without finishing the thought.
“Home, sir?” the driver asked.
“Yes.”