The Man Who Falls (4/10)
Title: The Man Who Falls (4/10)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, Lois Lane, Cat Grant, Perry White, Jim Gordon, Harleen Quinzel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Dark Knight/Superman Returns crossover; a continuation of Leap of Faith.
Word Count: 4000Summary: Clark Kent arrives in Gotham after the events of The Dark Knight and adds up the facts surrounding Bruce Wayne and Batman. Unfortunately, he reaches all the wrong conclusions.
Notes: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, Prompt F8: Superman strongly disapproves of Batman's methods. Clark Kent, on the other hand, has a very obvious (and not quite so secret) crush on Bruce Wayne. What happens when Clark suddenly finds out that Bruce is also Batman?
I can't believe you let me fall asleep in front of him!" Bruce snarled as he pulled on his boots, stomping his feet on the floor as if the heavy leather grounded him somehow. "I hate looking so--I look like an idiot when I sleep!"
I hate looking so vulnerable, Alfred mentally translated for him. "If you'd get enough sleep at night I wouldn't have to resort to such tricks."
"That is my choice, not yours." Bruce jabbed an angry finger at Alfred. "Mine." He took a deep, shaking breath.
"I was unaware I had the power to force you to sleep," said Alfred. "Perhaps I should use it more often."
"I'm sorry," Bruce muttered, looking away. "I know I've been on edge lately." He yanked his gauntlets on. "It's all the damn--" He pinched the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. "--The damn Mob, and the gang warfare has been heating up, and it seems whenever I manage to get things under control in the East End, all hell breaks loose in the Bowery, and I--" He broke off, shaking his head, and picked up the cowl. "He gets to me," he said, his voice low.
"Mr. Kent?"
"Mr. Kent," Bruce echoed. "Clark. I don't know what it is and it's annoying as hell. I want him to see Gotham like I do, and I get going about it, and...the next thing I know I sound like I care. He's...dangerous. He gets under my skin," he said, slapping an armored arm as though the suit were his skin indeed. "I shouldn't let him."
"He seems a good man to me," Alfred said carefully.
"Exactly," Bruce said as though Alfred had proven his point. He was still staring at the cowl in his hands. "I need some distance. If he calls here, tell him I'm busy."
Alfred struggled to keep the alarm from his voice. "Surely you're not going to cut him off entirely, sir? I mean, the risk that he'll publish that story if you don't keep him close--"
Bruce pulled the cowl over his head; when he spoke again it was the Batman's voice. "There are bigger risks."
: : :
The sounds of the Planet bullpen buzzed around him as Clark closed his cell phone. He'd called Bruce Wayne's number three times in the last two days, and each time, Alfred Pennyworth had politely informed him that Mr. Wayne's schedule was booked for the day, would Mr. Kent please try again later?
Clark wondered if he was imagining the slightly imploring tone to Alfred's voice, the faint emphasis on the please.
"--Clark!" Lois's voice finally broke into his thoughts.
"Uh. Yes?"
"You've been staring off into space for ten minutes now, what is going on?" Lois snatched the business card he'd been twirling from his fingers and glanced at it. A line appeared between her eyebrows. "Bruce Wayne? He gave you this? Were you just calling him?"
Clark felt oddly cornered, uncertain, especially when Cat Grant looked up from her desk at the two of them with interest in her eyes. "I'm doing a story on Gotham. Bruce Wayne is a valuable contact. Is there something wrong with calling him?"
"I just wouldn't want you to get...overly invested."
"I'm not 'overly invested,' I've just met him a couple of times to--"
"--You've met him?" Cat Grant was slinking over to his desk now. "What's he like? Is he as...wild as they say?" Cat rolled the word on her tongue with relish.
"I--" For once, Clark's stammer was entirely unfeigned. "I--I wouldn't say that, he seems like a very responsible--"
Cat threw back her head and laughed. "Bruce Wayne? Responsible? Do you call being into ice climbing responsible? That's climbing up frozen waterfalls, you know--he did that for a lark in Banff last winter. You call wrecking three different sports cars in two years responsible? And that's not saying anything about the extremely private and...shall we say...specialized clubs he's been known to haunt--"
"--Cat." Lois's voice had an edge to it. "We're not in the titillating rumor business here. There's no proof of that."
"Oh, but titillating rumors are so fun," pouted Cat. She shrugged, grinning at Clark. "But hey, it's none of my business if some kinky guy with a death wish is hitting on you--"
"--He's not hitting on me!" Clark yelped, and Cat smirked knowingly, gave him a wink, and went back to her desk.
Lois took a sip of her coffee, watching him,
"He's not hitting on me," he repeated more softly to her. "That's ridiculous."
Lois smiled, but her eyes were concerned. "Cat's just jerking your chain. But Clark--do be careful." She rested a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Bruce Wayne's done a lot for Gotham. I'm sure he's a...well-meaning man. But you have to admit that interpersonally he's a walking disaster. I'm not sure he'd be a ...safe man to get close to."
She went back to her desk and Clark continued to work on his background paragraphs about Gotham, but his mind wasn't really on it. Lois's worried eyes and Cat's knowing sneer lingered in his mind. Finally, he opened up his web browser and typed into the search engine: prince of gotham gossip. Pages of links scrolled by: reports of another crashed car, another drunken public fight with a starlet, a jet-ski accident. Clark hesitated for a moment, then went back to the search engine and added the word "sex" to his search terms. This time the results were more specialized, but still fairly predictable: speculation about which men or women he was seeing, photos of him flirting with pretty people, a lopsided smile on his face.
Clark went back once more to the search engine. This time he hesitated even longer. Then he added the word "kinky" to the search terms. His hand hovered over the "enter" key, irresolute for a moment. Then he clicked it.
"Kent!" Perry's bellow made him almost jump through the ceiling--literally.
"Yes, Chief?" he said cheerfully, hastily minimizing the browser.
"That new Gotham story you promised me had better be on my desk by next week!"
"But sir, I haven't finished gathering information--"
"--then gather faster, Kent! This isn't the Oxford English Dictionary you're working for, it's a newspaper! And newspapers have something called deadlines!" Perry shifted the cigar in his mouth irritably. "And don't call me Chief!"
The door rattled behind him.
Clark sighed and tried not to meet the sympathetic glances of his co-workers. He went back to his background paragraph and managed a couple more sentences. Then erased them. Then tried again. And erased again.
He looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention to him now.
He clicked on the web browser with the search results.
It was obvious from the first link why Lois had been reluctant to speak in detail about Cat's insinuations. A dark-haired Prince was once again spotted emerging from the Black Cat rather after the witching hour. It seems Gotham's most eligible bachelor has some rather esoteric tastes. Brush up on your leatherworking skills, ladies!
The others--the ones that weren't just cut-and-pastes of the first one--were more of the same: sly and insinuating, urbanely jaded, and all absolutely unsourced. No hard evidence at all. Clark opened up the search engine again: Gotham Black Cat.
He minimized it after a glance and looked around the room, but no one was looking at his screen, thank goodness. He didn't really want to explain why he was gaping at a page dedicated to what appeared to be the most posh, decadent S&M club in the world. A picture of a St. Andrew's Cross dominated the center of the page, adorned with a nearly-naked young woman, her arms and legs spread to the ends of the X shape, a blindfold hiding her eyes. Beneath that was a photo of a set of stocks, a handsome young man imprisoned in them, his head flung back. Clark couldn't see his face clearly. He had dark hair.
He saw again the bruise on Bruce's hand, dark and mottled, the way Bruce had pulled his hand back to hide it. The shadows under his eyes. The streak of pain, self-mocking, that touched his voice at times. The feeling Clark had when around him, of a man on the verge of self-immolation, of hurling himself down from a great height. Deep passion, deep guilt. A man throwing himself into suffering like an abyss. It made sense.
Like so much about Gotham, it made perfect sense, and yet it felt utterly wrong at the same time.
"That had better be research for the Gotham story, Kent!" Perry's voice boomed from the door to his office, and Clark closed the window slightly more swiftly than a normal human could.
"It is, boss!" Perry's door swung shut again, and Clark drew a long breath. This information was none of his business. It was no connection to his story, and he could write this story without Wayne's help, publish it despite Wayne's threats. What Bruce Wayne did in his private life had nothing at all to do with him.
Eyes like an infinite fall into nothingness. A hand clutching in its sleep, as if reaching for a lifeline. Broken blood vessels under the skin, weeping pain into flesh.
Clark picked up the phone again. This time he dialed a slightly different number.
: : :
The man behind the desk steepled his hands and raised his eyebrows quizzically. "I beg your pardon?" said Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises.
Clark Kent matched his expression. "I said I found it very interesting that Coleman Reese, the man who threatened to expose Batman's identity, works for Bruce Wayne." Fox's look remained blandly inquisitive, as if Clark had said something mildly interesting about the weather. "Bruce Wayne," Clark clarified, "The man who lost someone dear to him due to what could be considered an error of judgment on Batman's part."
Fox frowned. "I believe the blame for Rachel Dawes' death is rather more directly the Joker's, don't you agree?"
"Oh, I do," said Clark. "But Mr. Wayne himself said that he blamed Batman for it."
The frown became something of a wince for a brief moment. "He said that," Fox said, his tone somewhere between a question and a statement.
"Batman has apparently cost Bruce Wayne quite a lot," Clark said.
"He has," Fox said softly.
"Enough that he would use one of his employees to try and get at Batman?" Clark leaned forward, pressing his advantage. "Did he pay Reese to claim he knew Batman's identity?"
There were sharp lines between Fox's eyebrows now. "Mr. Kent, why would he pay a flunky of his to risk his safety to make Batman's life difficult? Why not just do it himself?"
Clark didn't want to admit he didn't have a good answer to that, especially since Bruce didn't seem the kind of man to shy away from risk--or making a public spectacle of himself. "Maybe with his reputation he knew no one would believe him?" he said.
Fox's expression went thunderous; his hands came down on the desk sharply. "Mister Kent," he articulated carefully. "I will have you know that you are making slanderous accusations against my employer. I will not stand for that." There was a long, heavy silence in which Fox's expression softened, became somehow vaguely entreating. "You've met him," Fox said. "Does he truly seem to you to be the kind of man who would risk the life of someone he was responsible for?"
"I--I--no," Clark said, looking down at the desk, at Fox's strong hands resting on it. "He doesn't. I'm just throwing out theories here." He looked back up at Fox. "There's something wrong here, something that doesn't fit. I'm a reporter. I have to make the pieces fit together somehow. It's my job. To expose lies to the light of truth. To bring justice."
Fox tilted his head to the side, his good humor mostly restored, but something warning continued to lurk behind his eyes. "Mr. Kent, this is Gotham. Not everything fits together here."
"Everyone keeps saying that," Clark grumbled.
"Perhaps it is more accurate to say that some puzzles are not meant to be solved."
Clark growled under his breath. "Usually there are pieces missing in a puzzle. In this one there seem to be too many pieces, and they overlap and contradict and..." He trailed off. "It doesn't make any sense." He looked up at Fox. "So where is Coleman Reese now?"
Lucius Fox frowned. "Whether he actually knew Batman's identity or not, it was too dangerous for him to continue working in Gotham. We gave him a job at a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises--there are quite a lot of them--and he took a new name. And no," he went on, "I will not tell you where he is."
"I wouldn't have asked," Clark said.
"Hm," said Fox. "Perhaps you wouldn't have."
Clark stood to go, then turned back. "Is Mr. Wayne in right now, do you know?"
Fox grinned at him broadly. "Do I look like his social secretary?" He shook his head slightly at Clark's attempt at an apology. "Mr. Wayne comes and goes as he pleases, a free spirit, a wind that passes through all our lives and--"
"You're saying he's not in."
"It is rather unlikely." Fox tilted his head. "Can I answer some questions in his place?"
"No, uh..." Clark found himself feeling somehow awkward under Fox's patient gaze. "He was showing me around Gotham, and then he got very busy, and..."
Fox chuckled. "You would be surprised how often I hear that," he said.
"It wasn't like that," Clark said swiftly, feeling stung--on his own behalf or Bruce's, he wasn't sure. "He was telling me what he loves about Gotham, trying to convince me to--to see it like he does. Just talking about his plans for the city, the projects he's involved with, the future he wants to build here. There was nothing...personal about it."
For the first time since Clark came in, Lucius Fox seemed taken aback. "Nothing personal?" he repeated slowly. He looked at Clark for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. "What do you think of Mr. Wayne?"
Startled by the abrupt question, Clark said, "He's a good man." He stopped and tried to frame a more coherent response. Fox was still watching him. "He loves Gotham. He's...intense, a lot more intense than he lets most people see. He's..." Clark frowned and met Fox's eyes. "I think he needs a friend."
Fox sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, the genial smile wiped from his face. "You've probably started to figure this out, Mr. Kent, but Mr. Wayne is not an easy man to get close to. If he doesn't want to see you, it's going to be hard to track him down."
"So you're saying I should just give up." Clark heard the disappointment in his voice, struggled to keep it off his face. He suspected he wasn't doing very well.
Fox's eyebrows were raised in faint surprise. "I said no such thing." On that enigmatic note, he stood and showed Clark toward the door. "If you do manage to track him down, tell him I think he ought to keep showing you the city. Tell him I said he's working too hard, and he should take a break now and then."
Working too hard? "There's no need to be sarcastic, Mr. Fox," protested Clark.
Lucius Fox laughed out loud as he ushered him out of the office.
: : :
Alfred opened the curtains, letting light stream across the bed. Bruce Wayne made a muffled groaning noise, putting his forearm over his eyes. "I believe you said you wanted to be up fairly early to double-check the security for the fundraiser tonight," Alfred pointed out.
Bruce heaved himself onto his side, wincing, and Alfred saw dark red stains on the white cotton where his shoulders had been. "Nng," said Bruce. "Tore the damn stitches open again. Need to come up with a stronger material." He made it to the side of the bed and took the robe Alfred handed him. "Thanks."
Alfred shook his head, looking down at the sheets. "Master Wayne, this can't continue. It breaks my heart to see this." He reached down and touched the red stains, stark against the white.
Bruce finished sashing his robe slowly. "You know, you have a point, Alfred."
"I do?"
"Yes." Bruce looked over his shoulder at the butler. "Go out and buy a few sets of black sheets today, would you?"
: : :
The number of people in Gotham willing to donate money to charity in order to have an evening with Superman was not as high as it might have been in Metropolis, but it was still going to be a good evening for the East End Revitalization Project. Superman nodded and shook hands and made small talk, spotting various faces in the crowd that he knew already: Mayor Garcia, Lucius Fox, James Gordon, even the cool aquamarine eyes of Dr. Harleen Quinzell. And of course, Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne, working the crowd with a slightly tipsy smile on his face, beaming and shaking hands. He was moving stiffly, a slight favoring of one shoulder that most people wouldn't have noticed.
He also seemed to be avoiding Superman again.
Superman found himself obscurely annoyed by this. Maybe he'd gotten so used to having Bruce speak to Clark Kent so directly, so earnestly, meeting his eyes so squarely, that it was strange to have his eyes flicker over Superman and move on. It was ironic, really. He was used to having people overlook him as Clark, not Superman. On a sudden impulse, he started to make his way through the crowd to Bruce's side--but as he did James Gordon stepped up to the small stage and picked up the microphone.
"Um. Is this thing on?" Gordon's amplified voice echoed across the room. Someone giggled. "Great," he muttered. Then he squared his shoulders and looked out at the crowd. "I'd like to thank you all for coming out tonight to raise money to get the East End police department new equipment. As you know, the streets of Gotham are a beautiful but dangerous place, and the money you've donated tonight will equip our fine officers with bullet-proof vests and state of the art restraints without raising citizens' taxes." A smattering of applause; Superman looked over to see Bruce Wayne with a redhead of each sex on either arm, casting an admiring gaze up at Gordon. Gordon cleared his throat again, looking stiff and uncomfortable. "I'm not one for fancy speeches, so all I can do is thank you from the bottom of my heart." He waved the microphone around vaguely, looking for someone to hand it to, and Mayor Garcia stepped up and took it, flashing a brilliant smile at the crowd.
Commissioner Gordon thanks you, I thank you, the boys and girls in blue thank you, and I'm sure--" Garcia cast his eyes upward briefly, "--That wherever Harvey Dent is, he thanks you too." He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. "Today we're joined by a man that Harvey would certainly have approved of, a man I wish Harvey had gotten a chance to meet. I'm speaking, of course, of the Man of Steel from Metropolis, Superman." He gestured toward Superman and the crowd rippled its attention toward him, a hundred curious eyes.
Bruce Wayne was whispering in one of the redheads' ears and didn't spare a glance at him.
"Superman," said Garcia, "Gotham is proud to stand beside you in the light of heroism. In a time marked by dangerous lunatics like the Joker and Batman and their attempts to bring chaos and despair to our fine city, it is always a comfort to know that the people of Gotham refuse to be cowed. That good people will stand up to their dark shadows and try to bring some security and sanity to the streets."
Beside Garcia, Commissioner Gordon's face was stiff and expressionless, as if he were concealing some strong emotion. Triumph? Fury? Superman couldn't tell.
Garcia was nodding approvingly at his audience. "No matter what evil stalks the night of Gotham, we choose to embrace the light, and all that is good in people."
Enthusiastic applause greeted Garcia's speech, filling the ballroom. Under it, however, Superman heard a different sound: a low, gleeful chuckle.
He looked over to see Dr. Quinzel laughing quietly to herself, her eyes sparkling with mischief as they watched the mayor.
When she turned her head and saw Superman watching her, the laugh cut off suddenly, although the delighted glint in her eyes remained. "I'm sorry," she said to his questioning look. "I was just thinking of something extremely amusing someone told me recently."
"What was it?" Superman asked.
She shook her head. "I guess you had to be there." She patted a blue bicep appreciatively. "And I'm not sure you'd get it anyway, Big Blue." The laughter in her eyes touched her lips again and she wandered off into the crowd, still chuckling to herself.
Feeling oddly unnerved, Superman scanned the crowd, looking for Bruce Wayne. But at some point after Gordon's speech, he had disappeared--along with both redheads. Clark frowned at the emotion that twisted inside him at that realization. Stop it, he told himself sternly.
But the party felt hollow, the revelry false and empty. Superman was, of course, required to stay the full evening to make sure everyone got their money's worth (with short breaks for various floods and earthquakes): trapped in a gilded cage, being peered at by Gotham's elite.
It was late when Superman was finally able to break free, the party still winding down but mostly over. He started to head back to Metropolis, then found himself landing instead in a dark alley, changing into his Clark Kent clothing.
He walked toward Wayne Towers, following the current of the crowds, gazing up at the lights of the city. Trying not to remember how they had looked ghosting across Bruce Wayne's face. At the foot of the great, imposing building, he looked upward, taking it in.
And so he happened to be looking up when Bruce Wayne appeared on the roof of Wayne Towers, looking down at the city. He was alone, but still carrying a mostly-empty champagne glass, which he put down carefully. Then he climbed onto the railing, seventy-eight stories above Gotham.
As Clark watched, Bruce Wayne stepped out into the air and fell.
(Chapter 5)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, Lois Lane, Cat Grant, Perry White, Jim Gordon, Harleen Quinzel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Dark Knight/Superman Returns crossover; a continuation of Leap of Faith.
Word Count: 4000Summary: Clark Kent arrives in Gotham after the events of The Dark Knight and adds up the facts surrounding Bruce Wayne and Batman. Unfortunately, he reaches all the wrong conclusions.
Notes: For the World's Finest Gift Exchange, Prompt F8: Superman strongly disapproves of Batman's methods. Clark Kent, on the other hand, has a very obvious (and not quite so secret) crush on Bruce Wayne. What happens when Clark suddenly finds out that Bruce is also Batman?
I can't believe you let me fall asleep in front of him!" Bruce snarled as he pulled on his boots, stomping his feet on the floor as if the heavy leather grounded him somehow. "I hate looking so--I look like an idiot when I sleep!"
I hate looking so vulnerable, Alfred mentally translated for him. "If you'd get enough sleep at night I wouldn't have to resort to such tricks."
"That is my choice, not yours." Bruce jabbed an angry finger at Alfred. "Mine." He took a deep, shaking breath.
"I was unaware I had the power to force you to sleep," said Alfred. "Perhaps I should use it more often."
"I'm sorry," Bruce muttered, looking away. "I know I've been on edge lately." He yanked his gauntlets on. "It's all the damn--" He pinched the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. "--The damn Mob, and the gang warfare has been heating up, and it seems whenever I manage to get things under control in the East End, all hell breaks loose in the Bowery, and I--" He broke off, shaking his head, and picked up the cowl. "He gets to me," he said, his voice low.
"Mr. Kent?"
"Mr. Kent," Bruce echoed. "Clark. I don't know what it is and it's annoying as hell. I want him to see Gotham like I do, and I get going about it, and...the next thing I know I sound like I care. He's...dangerous. He gets under my skin," he said, slapping an armored arm as though the suit were his skin indeed. "I shouldn't let him."
"He seems a good man to me," Alfred said carefully.
"Exactly," Bruce said as though Alfred had proven his point. He was still staring at the cowl in his hands. "I need some distance. If he calls here, tell him I'm busy."
Alfred struggled to keep the alarm from his voice. "Surely you're not going to cut him off entirely, sir? I mean, the risk that he'll publish that story if you don't keep him close--"
Bruce pulled the cowl over his head; when he spoke again it was the Batman's voice. "There are bigger risks."
: : :
The sounds of the Planet bullpen buzzed around him as Clark closed his cell phone. He'd called Bruce Wayne's number three times in the last two days, and each time, Alfred Pennyworth had politely informed him that Mr. Wayne's schedule was booked for the day, would Mr. Kent please try again later?
Clark wondered if he was imagining the slightly imploring tone to Alfred's voice, the faint emphasis on the please.
"--Clark!" Lois's voice finally broke into his thoughts.
"Uh. Yes?"
"You've been staring off into space for ten minutes now, what is going on?" Lois snatched the business card he'd been twirling from his fingers and glanced at it. A line appeared between her eyebrows. "Bruce Wayne? He gave you this? Were you just calling him?"
Clark felt oddly cornered, uncertain, especially when Cat Grant looked up from her desk at the two of them with interest in her eyes. "I'm doing a story on Gotham. Bruce Wayne is a valuable contact. Is there something wrong with calling him?"
"I just wouldn't want you to get...overly invested."
"I'm not 'overly invested,' I've just met him a couple of times to--"
"--You've met him?" Cat Grant was slinking over to his desk now. "What's he like? Is he as...wild as they say?" Cat rolled the word on her tongue with relish.
"I--" For once, Clark's stammer was entirely unfeigned. "I--I wouldn't say that, he seems like a very responsible--"
Cat threw back her head and laughed. "Bruce Wayne? Responsible? Do you call being into ice climbing responsible? That's climbing up frozen waterfalls, you know--he did that for a lark in Banff last winter. You call wrecking three different sports cars in two years responsible? And that's not saying anything about the extremely private and...shall we say...specialized clubs he's been known to haunt--"
"--Cat." Lois's voice had an edge to it. "We're not in the titillating rumor business here. There's no proof of that."
"Oh, but titillating rumors are so fun," pouted Cat. She shrugged, grinning at Clark. "But hey, it's none of my business if some kinky guy with a death wish is hitting on you--"
"--He's not hitting on me!" Clark yelped, and Cat smirked knowingly, gave him a wink, and went back to her desk.
Lois took a sip of her coffee, watching him,
"He's not hitting on me," he repeated more softly to her. "That's ridiculous."
Lois smiled, but her eyes were concerned. "Cat's just jerking your chain. But Clark--do be careful." She rested a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Bruce Wayne's done a lot for Gotham. I'm sure he's a...well-meaning man. But you have to admit that interpersonally he's a walking disaster. I'm not sure he'd be a ...safe man to get close to."
She went back to her desk and Clark continued to work on his background paragraphs about Gotham, but his mind wasn't really on it. Lois's worried eyes and Cat's knowing sneer lingered in his mind. Finally, he opened up his web browser and typed into the search engine: prince of gotham gossip. Pages of links scrolled by: reports of another crashed car, another drunken public fight with a starlet, a jet-ski accident. Clark hesitated for a moment, then went back to the search engine and added the word "sex" to his search terms. This time the results were more specialized, but still fairly predictable: speculation about which men or women he was seeing, photos of him flirting with pretty people, a lopsided smile on his face.
Clark went back once more to the search engine. This time he hesitated even longer. Then he added the word "kinky" to the search terms. His hand hovered over the "enter" key, irresolute for a moment. Then he clicked it.
"Kent!" Perry's bellow made him almost jump through the ceiling--literally.
"Yes, Chief?" he said cheerfully, hastily minimizing the browser.
"That new Gotham story you promised me had better be on my desk by next week!"
"But sir, I haven't finished gathering information--"
"--then gather faster, Kent! This isn't the Oxford English Dictionary you're working for, it's a newspaper! And newspapers have something called deadlines!" Perry shifted the cigar in his mouth irritably. "And don't call me Chief!"
The door rattled behind him.
Clark sighed and tried not to meet the sympathetic glances of his co-workers. He went back to his background paragraph and managed a couple more sentences. Then erased them. Then tried again. And erased again.
He looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention to him now.
He clicked on the web browser with the search results.
It was obvious from the first link why Lois had been reluctant to speak in detail about Cat's insinuations. A dark-haired Prince was once again spotted emerging from the Black Cat rather after the witching hour. It seems Gotham's most eligible bachelor has some rather esoteric tastes. Brush up on your leatherworking skills, ladies!
The others--the ones that weren't just cut-and-pastes of the first one--were more of the same: sly and insinuating, urbanely jaded, and all absolutely unsourced. No hard evidence at all. Clark opened up the search engine again: Gotham Black Cat.
He minimized it after a glance and looked around the room, but no one was looking at his screen, thank goodness. He didn't really want to explain why he was gaping at a page dedicated to what appeared to be the most posh, decadent S&M club in the world. A picture of a St. Andrew's Cross dominated the center of the page, adorned with a nearly-naked young woman, her arms and legs spread to the ends of the X shape, a blindfold hiding her eyes. Beneath that was a photo of a set of stocks, a handsome young man imprisoned in them, his head flung back. Clark couldn't see his face clearly. He had dark hair.
He saw again the bruise on Bruce's hand, dark and mottled, the way Bruce had pulled his hand back to hide it. The shadows under his eyes. The streak of pain, self-mocking, that touched his voice at times. The feeling Clark had when around him, of a man on the verge of self-immolation, of hurling himself down from a great height. Deep passion, deep guilt. A man throwing himself into suffering like an abyss. It made sense.
Like so much about Gotham, it made perfect sense, and yet it felt utterly wrong at the same time.
"That had better be research for the Gotham story, Kent!" Perry's voice boomed from the door to his office, and Clark closed the window slightly more swiftly than a normal human could.
"It is, boss!" Perry's door swung shut again, and Clark drew a long breath. This information was none of his business. It was no connection to his story, and he could write this story without Wayne's help, publish it despite Wayne's threats. What Bruce Wayne did in his private life had nothing at all to do with him.
Eyes like an infinite fall into nothingness. A hand clutching in its sleep, as if reaching for a lifeline. Broken blood vessels under the skin, weeping pain into flesh.
Clark picked up the phone again. This time he dialed a slightly different number.
: : :
The man behind the desk steepled his hands and raised his eyebrows quizzically. "I beg your pardon?" said Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises.
Clark Kent matched his expression. "I said I found it very interesting that Coleman Reese, the man who threatened to expose Batman's identity, works for Bruce Wayne." Fox's look remained blandly inquisitive, as if Clark had said something mildly interesting about the weather. "Bruce Wayne," Clark clarified, "The man who lost someone dear to him due to what could be considered an error of judgment on Batman's part."
Fox frowned. "I believe the blame for Rachel Dawes' death is rather more directly the Joker's, don't you agree?"
"Oh, I do," said Clark. "But Mr. Wayne himself said that he blamed Batman for it."
The frown became something of a wince for a brief moment. "He said that," Fox said, his tone somewhere between a question and a statement.
"Batman has apparently cost Bruce Wayne quite a lot," Clark said.
"He has," Fox said softly.
"Enough that he would use one of his employees to try and get at Batman?" Clark leaned forward, pressing his advantage. "Did he pay Reese to claim he knew Batman's identity?"
There were sharp lines between Fox's eyebrows now. "Mr. Kent, why would he pay a flunky of his to risk his safety to make Batman's life difficult? Why not just do it himself?"
Clark didn't want to admit he didn't have a good answer to that, especially since Bruce didn't seem the kind of man to shy away from risk--or making a public spectacle of himself. "Maybe with his reputation he knew no one would believe him?" he said.
Fox's expression went thunderous; his hands came down on the desk sharply. "Mister Kent," he articulated carefully. "I will have you know that you are making slanderous accusations against my employer. I will not stand for that." There was a long, heavy silence in which Fox's expression softened, became somehow vaguely entreating. "You've met him," Fox said. "Does he truly seem to you to be the kind of man who would risk the life of someone he was responsible for?"
"I--I--no," Clark said, looking down at the desk, at Fox's strong hands resting on it. "He doesn't. I'm just throwing out theories here." He looked back up at Fox. "There's something wrong here, something that doesn't fit. I'm a reporter. I have to make the pieces fit together somehow. It's my job. To expose lies to the light of truth. To bring justice."
Fox tilted his head to the side, his good humor mostly restored, but something warning continued to lurk behind his eyes. "Mr. Kent, this is Gotham. Not everything fits together here."
"Everyone keeps saying that," Clark grumbled.
"Perhaps it is more accurate to say that some puzzles are not meant to be solved."
Clark growled under his breath. "Usually there are pieces missing in a puzzle. In this one there seem to be too many pieces, and they overlap and contradict and..." He trailed off. "It doesn't make any sense." He looked up at Fox. "So where is Coleman Reese now?"
Lucius Fox frowned. "Whether he actually knew Batman's identity or not, it was too dangerous for him to continue working in Gotham. We gave him a job at a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises--there are quite a lot of them--and he took a new name. And no," he went on, "I will not tell you where he is."
"I wouldn't have asked," Clark said.
"Hm," said Fox. "Perhaps you wouldn't have."
Clark stood to go, then turned back. "Is Mr. Wayne in right now, do you know?"
Fox grinned at him broadly. "Do I look like his social secretary?" He shook his head slightly at Clark's attempt at an apology. "Mr. Wayne comes and goes as he pleases, a free spirit, a wind that passes through all our lives and--"
"You're saying he's not in."
"It is rather unlikely." Fox tilted his head. "Can I answer some questions in his place?"
"No, uh..." Clark found himself feeling somehow awkward under Fox's patient gaze. "He was showing me around Gotham, and then he got very busy, and..."
Fox chuckled. "You would be surprised how often I hear that," he said.
"It wasn't like that," Clark said swiftly, feeling stung--on his own behalf or Bruce's, he wasn't sure. "He was telling me what he loves about Gotham, trying to convince me to--to see it like he does. Just talking about his plans for the city, the projects he's involved with, the future he wants to build here. There was nothing...personal about it."
For the first time since Clark came in, Lucius Fox seemed taken aback. "Nothing personal?" he repeated slowly. He looked at Clark for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. "What do you think of Mr. Wayne?"
Startled by the abrupt question, Clark said, "He's a good man." He stopped and tried to frame a more coherent response. Fox was still watching him. "He loves Gotham. He's...intense, a lot more intense than he lets most people see. He's..." Clark frowned and met Fox's eyes. "I think he needs a friend."
Fox sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, the genial smile wiped from his face. "You've probably started to figure this out, Mr. Kent, but Mr. Wayne is not an easy man to get close to. If he doesn't want to see you, it's going to be hard to track him down."
"So you're saying I should just give up." Clark heard the disappointment in his voice, struggled to keep it off his face. He suspected he wasn't doing very well.
Fox's eyebrows were raised in faint surprise. "I said no such thing." On that enigmatic note, he stood and showed Clark toward the door. "If you do manage to track him down, tell him I think he ought to keep showing you the city. Tell him I said he's working too hard, and he should take a break now and then."
Working too hard? "There's no need to be sarcastic, Mr. Fox," protested Clark.
Lucius Fox laughed out loud as he ushered him out of the office.
: : :
Alfred opened the curtains, letting light stream across the bed. Bruce Wayne made a muffled groaning noise, putting his forearm over his eyes. "I believe you said you wanted to be up fairly early to double-check the security for the fundraiser tonight," Alfred pointed out.
Bruce heaved himself onto his side, wincing, and Alfred saw dark red stains on the white cotton where his shoulders had been. "Nng," said Bruce. "Tore the damn stitches open again. Need to come up with a stronger material." He made it to the side of the bed and took the robe Alfred handed him. "Thanks."
Alfred shook his head, looking down at the sheets. "Master Wayne, this can't continue. It breaks my heart to see this." He reached down and touched the red stains, stark against the white.
Bruce finished sashing his robe slowly. "You know, you have a point, Alfred."
"I do?"
"Yes." Bruce looked over his shoulder at the butler. "Go out and buy a few sets of black sheets today, would you?"
: : :
The number of people in Gotham willing to donate money to charity in order to have an evening with Superman was not as high as it might have been in Metropolis, but it was still going to be a good evening for the East End Revitalization Project. Superman nodded and shook hands and made small talk, spotting various faces in the crowd that he knew already: Mayor Garcia, Lucius Fox, James Gordon, even the cool aquamarine eyes of Dr. Harleen Quinzell. And of course, Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne, working the crowd with a slightly tipsy smile on his face, beaming and shaking hands. He was moving stiffly, a slight favoring of one shoulder that most people wouldn't have noticed.
He also seemed to be avoiding Superman again.
Superman found himself obscurely annoyed by this. Maybe he'd gotten so used to having Bruce speak to Clark Kent so directly, so earnestly, meeting his eyes so squarely, that it was strange to have his eyes flicker over Superman and move on. It was ironic, really. He was used to having people overlook him as Clark, not Superman. On a sudden impulse, he started to make his way through the crowd to Bruce's side--but as he did James Gordon stepped up to the small stage and picked up the microphone.
"Um. Is this thing on?" Gordon's amplified voice echoed across the room. Someone giggled. "Great," he muttered. Then he squared his shoulders and looked out at the crowd. "I'd like to thank you all for coming out tonight to raise money to get the East End police department new equipment. As you know, the streets of Gotham are a beautiful but dangerous place, and the money you've donated tonight will equip our fine officers with bullet-proof vests and state of the art restraints without raising citizens' taxes." A smattering of applause; Superman looked over to see Bruce Wayne with a redhead of each sex on either arm, casting an admiring gaze up at Gordon. Gordon cleared his throat again, looking stiff and uncomfortable. "I'm not one for fancy speeches, so all I can do is thank you from the bottom of my heart." He waved the microphone around vaguely, looking for someone to hand it to, and Mayor Garcia stepped up and took it, flashing a brilliant smile at the crowd.
Commissioner Gordon thanks you, I thank you, the boys and girls in blue thank you, and I'm sure--" Garcia cast his eyes upward briefly, "--That wherever Harvey Dent is, he thanks you too." He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. "Today we're joined by a man that Harvey would certainly have approved of, a man I wish Harvey had gotten a chance to meet. I'm speaking, of course, of the Man of Steel from Metropolis, Superman." He gestured toward Superman and the crowd rippled its attention toward him, a hundred curious eyes.
Bruce Wayne was whispering in one of the redheads' ears and didn't spare a glance at him.
"Superman," said Garcia, "Gotham is proud to stand beside you in the light of heroism. In a time marked by dangerous lunatics like the Joker and Batman and their attempts to bring chaos and despair to our fine city, it is always a comfort to know that the people of Gotham refuse to be cowed. That good people will stand up to their dark shadows and try to bring some security and sanity to the streets."
Beside Garcia, Commissioner Gordon's face was stiff and expressionless, as if he were concealing some strong emotion. Triumph? Fury? Superman couldn't tell.
Garcia was nodding approvingly at his audience. "No matter what evil stalks the night of Gotham, we choose to embrace the light, and all that is good in people."
Enthusiastic applause greeted Garcia's speech, filling the ballroom. Under it, however, Superman heard a different sound: a low, gleeful chuckle.
He looked over to see Dr. Quinzel laughing quietly to herself, her eyes sparkling with mischief as they watched the mayor.
When she turned her head and saw Superman watching her, the laugh cut off suddenly, although the delighted glint in her eyes remained. "I'm sorry," she said to his questioning look. "I was just thinking of something extremely amusing someone told me recently."
"What was it?" Superman asked.
She shook her head. "I guess you had to be there." She patted a blue bicep appreciatively. "And I'm not sure you'd get it anyway, Big Blue." The laughter in her eyes touched her lips again and she wandered off into the crowd, still chuckling to herself.
Feeling oddly unnerved, Superman scanned the crowd, looking for Bruce Wayne. But at some point after Gordon's speech, he had disappeared--along with both redheads. Clark frowned at the emotion that twisted inside him at that realization. Stop it, he told himself sternly.
But the party felt hollow, the revelry false and empty. Superman was, of course, required to stay the full evening to make sure everyone got their money's worth (with short breaks for various floods and earthquakes): trapped in a gilded cage, being peered at by Gotham's elite.
It was late when Superman was finally able to break free, the party still winding down but mostly over. He started to head back to Metropolis, then found himself landing instead in a dark alley, changing into his Clark Kent clothing.
He walked toward Wayne Towers, following the current of the crowds, gazing up at the lights of the city. Trying not to remember how they had looked ghosting across Bruce Wayne's face. At the foot of the great, imposing building, he looked upward, taking it in.
And so he happened to be looking up when Bruce Wayne appeared on the roof of Wayne Towers, looking down at the city. He was alone, but still carrying a mostly-empty champagne glass, which he put down carefully. Then he climbed onto the railing, seventy-eight stories above Gotham.
As Clark watched, Bruce Wayne stepped out into the air and fell.
(Chapter 5)