Chapter Text
Bruce had not slept nearly enough.
The Joker’s escaping from Arkham had ensured that.
He had stayed out longer than usual the night before, extending patrol routes, recalculating contingency paths, adjusting response protocols. The city never stayed quiet after something like that—not for long.
And somewhere between drafting new fail-safes and reviewing Arkham security footage, his thoughts had wandered.
Unhelpfully toward a certain journalist. He didn’t dwell on it, he couldn’t afford to.
Morning had come too quickly.
Now he sat through his third board meeting of the day, the low drone of financial projections blending unpleasantly with the dull throb forming behind his right eye. The migraine had been building steadily since noon.
The amount of coffee he’d consumed had not helped.
If anything, it had sharpened the edge of it.
By the time he retreated to his office, a stack of files waited on his desk like a quiet accusation. He worked through them methodically, posture rigid, tie loosened and hanging over his shoulder.
A knock came at the door.
“Mr. Wayne?”
“Come in.”
His secretary stepped inside carefully. “Sir, I just wanted to inform you that the gala has most likely already started.”
Bruce glanced at the time.
He closed his eyes briefly and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have the car ready.”
When she left, Bruce shut his laptop, slid unfinished files into his briefcase, and pocketed his tie. He would take the paperwork home. Intended to finish it later.
Once home, he showered quickly.
The steam eased some of the tension in his shoulders but did nothing for the migraine.
When he stepped into his room, a mug sat waiting on the nightstand.
Soup.
Alfred.
A small note rested beneath it. "Please eat this before going out again, sir."
Smiling faintly. He took a slow sip. The warmth settled in his chest. Alfred always made the best soup.
“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, though Alfred was nowhere nearby.
Once dressed—perfectly tailored tuxedo, mask of composure firmly in place—he headed out.
None of his children had agreed to attend.
He would endure the evening alone.
The moment he stepped out of the car, flashes began.
“Bruce!”
“Mr. Wayne!”
“Over here!”
Cameras exploded in white bursts of light. He Waving and exuding his Brucie charm. Once inside people swarmed him, questions about recent events, business deal, proposals to spend the evening together overlapped. Laughter. Music. Glass clinking. All of it too much.
The migraine pulsed harder behind his eyes.
He smiled anyway. Charmed the company he had, switched drinks to keep up the appearance of having to much and acting slightly reckless, moving through the crowd with practiced ease, greeting donors, exchanging polished pleasantries, allowing rumors to grow in the wake of his presence.
Do all that while— He searched. He told himself he wasn’t. That it was simply habit. Scanning a room. Identifying exits. Mapping threats.
But his gaze kept drifting.
Looking for what?
He knew.
He had fixations before.
They never ended well.
They were distractions.
And distractions was a liability.
Still— A glimpse of dimples across the room captured his attention. Wrong person. Broad shoulders near the bar.
Not him.
A familiar stance near the staircase.
No.
Did he not come?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.
He—
A laugh cut through the noise. Warm. Unrestrained. And there it was, he had heard that laugh before. never directed at him but it was memorable.
Bruce turned—not abruptly, never abruptly.
And found him.
Clark stood near one of the marble pillars, engaged in conversation, tuxedo sharp and devastatingly well-fitted. The structured lines made him stand taller. Stronger. Confident in a way Bruce hadn’t seen before.
Bruce almost stared.
Almost.
He was far too trained to make that kind of mistake.
The woman speaking to him paused mid-sentence when she noticed his attention shift.
“Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce blinked once and returned his focus to her instantly.
“My apologies,” he said smoothly. “You were saying?”
She resumed.
He listened.
He responded.
But his was attention split for the rest of the evening.
Every time Clark laughed, Bruce felt it like a subtle shift in gravity.
He told himself it was observation.
Nothing more.
And then—
Clark disappeared.
Bruce scanned the room casually.
Once.
Twice.
No sign.
The migraine sharpened.
The lights felt harsher now. The noise louder. The air heavier.
He excused himself with practiced grace and moved toward the nearest balcony doors.
Cool air greeted him instantly as well as relief.
He stepped forward, fingers curling slightly against the stone railing—
And stopped.
He wasn’t alone.
Clark stood there, leaning lightly against the balcony rail, eyes closed. The city lights reflected faintly against his glasses. His posture was relaxed—unguarded.
For a moment, Bruce simply watched.
"Need some fresh air as well?" Clark said without looking towards Bruce. Having been noticed, Bruce signs and decideds to be somewhat honest.
"Yes, it quit stuffyy and humed innn theirr rght now" slurring his words, trying hard not to show an interest at least anymore then Bruce Wayne would actually
Clark’s lips twitched faintly. “Sounds rough,” he murmured.
Bruce leaned more heavily against the railing than he normally would have allowed, letting the appearance of mild intoxication settle naturally into his posture. To anyone watching through the balcony doors, he looked perfectly on brand—slightly flushed, expensive drink in hand, bored billionaire escaping a party he barely tolerated. Only Clark, standing close enough to notice the tightness around his eyes, seemed unconvinced.
“You don’t actually sound drunk,” Clark observed quietly.
Bruce glanced sideways at him. “And you sound far too observant for a gala guest.”
Clark smiled slightly at that, lowering his gaze toward the city below. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of Gotham drifted upward even this high—distant sirens, honking traffic, the low mechanical hum of a city that never truly slept. Clark inhaled slowly, visibly relaxing, and Bruce found himself watching the movement unconsciously before forcing his attention back toward the skyline.
“You clean up well,” Bruce said casually, before he could fully stop himself.
Clark blinked, then immediately flushed beneath the balcony lighting. “Oh.”
Brilliant response, Bruce thought dryly.
Clark adjusted his glasses awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“The suit was a good choice.”
Something small and amused flickered across Clark’s expression. “I didn’t exactly choose it.”
“Elijah?”
Clark groaned softly, tipping his head back against the railing. “He practically dragged me into the store.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I can imagine.”
“He picked everything,” Clark continued. “I think the sales attendants were starting to get emotionally invested in the process.”
Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, the sound surprising both of them slightly. Clark looked over almost immediately, clearly not expecting it, while Bruce subtly straightened again, regaining control over himself before the moment lingered too long.
“You seem comfortable with him,” Bruce said, tone carefully neutral.
Clark nodded easily. “He’s nice.”
The simplicity of the answer irritated Bruce more than it should have. Nice. Not charming or overwhelming or even flirtatious—just nice. Bruce looked back over the skyline, jaw tightening faintly as the word settled very unpleasantly somewhere beneath his ribs.
“He talks a lot,” Clark added after a moment, smile faint but genuine. “But it’s kind of… easy around him.”
Easy?
Bruce wasn’t entirely sure why that bothered him.
Before he could get his thoughts in order the balcony doors slid open behind them.
The woman stopped abruptly upon seeing Bruce and Clark standing together. Clark stepped back instinctively, polite professionalism slipping back into place so naturally it almost felt rehearsed.
“um—Hello,” Clark said quickly.
The woman blinked between them. “Mr. Harrington was looking for you, Mr. Kent.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Thank you.”
He glanced once toward Bruce before adjusting his cuff slightly. “I should probably head back before Elijah sends out a search party.”
Bruce inclined his head smoothly. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Clark smiled faintly. “You too.”
And then he was gone.
Bruce remained on the balcony for another minute after the doors shut behind them. The night air no longer felt quite as cool, and the silence he had come outside searching for now felt strangely occupied.
Bruce eventually pushed himself off the railing and headed back inside, the warmth of the ballroom hitting him immediately. Music swelled through the room while conversations overlapped into one constant blur of noise, but now that he had stepped away from it once, the atmosphere felt even more suffocating than before. He slipped the familiar Brucie Wayne smile back into place easily enough, accepting another drink from a passing waiter and allowing a woman near the staircase to hook herself onto his arm for appearances. Still, his attention wandered despite himself. Every so often, his gaze swept the crowd automatically, catching flashes of navy fabric that never quite belonged to the person he was looking for.
He found Clark again near the center of the ballroom beside Elijah, listening politely while one of Gotham’s older donors spoke far too loudly about stock markets and city restoration projects. Clark looked attentive in the way good reporters always did, nodding at the right moments while subtly guiding the conversation where he wanted it to go. Bruce watched him work from across the room, mildly surprised by how natural Clark seemed now compared to earlier in the evening. The nervousness was still there if someone looked closely enough, hidden in the slight adjustment of his glasses or the careful squaring of his shoulders, but he adapted quickly. Gotham either hardened people or swallowed them whole, and Bruce found himself wondering which direction Clark Kent would ultimately fall toward.
A burst of laughter pulled Bruce from his thoughts when Elijah leaned toward Clark and murmured something near his ear. Clark nearly choked on his laughter, coughing into his hand while Elijah looked entirely too pleased with himself. The sight irritated Bruce unexpectedly. Not enough to matter, certainly not to mean anything, but enough that he finished the rest of his champagne in one slow swallow before setting the empty glass onto a passing tray harder than necessary. The woman on his arm glanced up at him questioningly, and Bruce immediately relaxed his expression again before she could think too deeply about it.
“You looked ready to murder that glass,” she teased lightly.
Bruce smiled easily, smooth and effortless. “It offended me.”
She laughed, exactly as expected, but Bruce barely heard it. Across the ballroom, Clark was laughing again too, head tilted slightly downward while Elijah spoke animatedly beside him. Bruce hated how easy it was becoming to find him in a crowded room. Almost automatic in a way that definitely unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Fixations were dangerous enough on their own; unconscious ones were worse.
By the time Bruce finally left the gala, his migraine had sharpened into something unbearable. The city lights outside smeared slightly through the tinted windows of the car as he loosened his cufflinks and leaned his head back against the seat. Alfred’s voice came softly through the comm system a few moments later, calm as always. “You should rest tonight, Master Bruce.”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “I’ll rest when Joker is back in Arkham.”
A pause followed that. “That was not a recommendation.”
Bruce ignored him, because underneath the migraine and exhaustion, something else continued bothering him. The Joker’s escape was too organized and clean. Joker enjoyed spectacle, chaos, blood in the streets and fear splashed across headlines, but this escape had been precise. It had minimal casualties, targeted interference, planned extraction routes. Someone had helped him, and whoever it was had enough intelligence to remain invisible afterward.
Three hours later, Batman crouched above Crime Alley while rain soaked through the cape pooling around his boots. The cold barely registered anymore. Below him, a black van sat idling outside a condemned pharmacy with its headlights off and fake plates attached crookedly to the bumper. Batman had been tracking the vehicle for nearly an hour after spotting it near one of the underfunded school districts Clark had written about earlier that week. At first, the connection had seemed coincidental. Gotham corruption spread everywhere eventually. But coincidences rarely survived long under scrutiny.
The van doors opened slowly, and two men stepped out carrying a heavy crate between them. One guard remained outside smoking while another barked instructions from inside the vehicle, his voice rough and impatient beneath the rainfall. Batman narrowed his gaze toward the markings stamped along the crate’s side. He could make out everything but some of it looked like medical transport. Chemical storage, perhaps. Illegal modifications had been scratched over the original serial numbers? Then, faintly beneath the rain and engine noise, he heard it. A child soft crying.
The sound was weak enough most people would have missed it entirely, but Batman suit picked up the soft cry. The guard outside lit another cigarette, completely unaware death was already perched above him in the dark. Batman moved without warning. The first man hit the pavement before he could even process the shadow dropping toward him, his skull cracking sharply against concrete. The second reached for a weapon, but Batman slammed him against the van hard enough to dent the metal inward before wrenching the gun from his hand.
The third man tried to run. A grapple line snapped around his ankle immediately, yanking him backward onto the flooded pavement with a scream. Batman crossed the distance in seconds and drove him unconscious with one brutal strike before turning back toward the van. Rain rolled from the edge of the cowl as he ripped the rear doors open, and for the first time that night, he was more then just angry.
Two children sat inside.
Drugged. Terrified. Barely conscious beneath dim yellow transport lights.
One still wore part of a Gotham Elementary uniform beneath a hospital restraint strap.
Batman’s jaw tightened violently as his eyes lifted toward the clipboard hanging nearby. A familiar district logo stared back at him from the paperwork clipped beneath. For one long moment, Batman simply stared at it while rain hammered against the roof of the van overhead.
Then he reached for the comm in his cowl.
“Oracle.”
Her voice crackled through instantly. “Have you found anything on the van?”
Batman kept his gaze fixed on the children. “I need every underfunded school tied to Gotham Renewal Initiative pulled immediately. Financials, medical partnerships, transport records. Everything.”
There was a pause. “…B is everything ok?”
His voice dropped colder.
“Now.”