The Man Who Falls (6/10）
Title: The Man Who Falls (6/10)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Dark Knight/Superman Returns crossover; a continuation of Leap of Faith.
Word Count: 3400Summary: 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?
Lucius Fox put away the last of the schematics and locked the drawer with an emphatic click. He shot a quick glance at his employer as they walked toward the heavy steel doors of the high-security elevator. "By the way," he said, "A Mr. Kent came to visit me yesterday. He seemed anxious to see you."
If Bruce Wayne had known that his total and steely lack of a reaction gave away so much to Lucius, he probably would have deliberately shown more response. "Hm," he said, jabbing the "up" button. "Yes. He's supposed to meet me here in..." A glance at the heavy silver watch that covered up some of the scratches from last night's encounter with the cherry tree. "...two hours."
"He seems...inquisitive."
Bruce grunted, staring at the floor indicator. The doors opened ponderously and they stepped into the elevator.
"He also seemed to find you rather charming," Lucius said. He heard Bruce suck in a sudden breath, saw the sunken eyes reflected in the steel doors flash over to him. "I have no idea why," he added blandly.
"I don't have time for this," Bruce muttered, more to himself than Lucius. "I mean, it's useful to keep him close and keep track of him. But it's...it's..."
Lucius reached out and pressed the button that stopped the elevator in its tracks. "Mr. Wayne." Bruce blinked at him as if only half-listening. "You're a human being. You need human connections."
"I've got you, I've got--"
"Not old men like Alfred and I," Lucius said gently. "You need something we can't give you."
Bruce stared at the elevator buttons, and Lucius was a bit shocked to see his cheeks reddening. "It's too risky," he said. "If he sees me...undressed, he'll realize--"
"I'm not talking about sex," Lucius said, unsure whether he felt more pity or exasperation. "You need a friend."
Bruce closed his eyes as if Lucius had struck him in the chest. "I can't be his friend if I can't tell him the truth. And I won't do that."
"I know." He did know. Bruce had lost far too much to lower his guard again. "But we all have sides of ourselves that our friends never see. Maybe you can...let him see as much of you as possible. Just not that."
Bruce leaned forward and rested his forehead for a second on the shining silver walls of the elevator. His reflection peered back at him, wan and weary. "Beyond that, Lucius...there isn't much of me left to see. Nothing of value."
"I don't believe that, sir." Lucius jabbed the button to start the elevator again, hearing the grimness in his own voice. "I simply don't believe that."
: : :
Clark Kent snapped his cell phone shut, frowning, just as a midnight-blue convertible pulled up to the curb, Bruce Wayne waving from the interior as cheerfully as if he hadn't almost fallen to his death the night before. "Get in before you freeze!" Bruce called.
The inside of the car was done up in a retro style--dark brown leather, circular dials with needle indicators, a thin, wide driver's wheel. Impressive attention to detail, Clark thought, then looked harder and frowned.
"Mr. Wayne, this car..."
"A 1959 Ferrari California Spyder LWB," Bruce announced. He patted the steering wheel like an exotic and beloved pet.
Clark stared at him. "This must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars!"
Bruce threw back his head and laughed, nudging the car back into traffic. "There are ten of this make of car in the world, Clark." His right hand caressed the gearshift in a frankly intimate manner, zipping them through the city streets with alacrity. "I'm just sorry it's too cold to leave the top down." He cast a sideways glance at Clark's face. "None of my business, of course, but you're looking glum today. What's the problem?"
"I just got off the phone with Jack Ryder," Clark said. "He wants me to come on his show tomorrow, talk about 'the Metropolis viewpoint on the Batman menace.'"
Bruce turned the wheel a little too sharply and the tires of the Ferrari squealed in protest as they went around a corner. "You do know that our deal applies not just to newspapers, but also to crackpot faux-news shows that nobody watches?" His voice was tight.
"Perry says I have to go. He says it'll be good publicity for the Planet."
"Not an answer to my question."
Clark stared out the window for a moment. "Of course. Besides, Ryder probably wouldn't let me finish if I tried. He hates Batman even more than you do."
"The man's a hack," muttered Bruce, "But even a hack can be right about one thing."
"So no," said Clark. "I have no plans to insist on Batman's innocence on the show tomorrow." He noted the way Bruce's shoulder's relaxed, the way his brow unfurrowed, and couldn't help adding, "I'm not doing it as a favor to you, you know."
Bruce cast him an airy grin. "I'm just relieved I don't have to find a way to cut power to Ryder's studio tomorrow," he said. "That would take literally minutes out of my busy schedule."
"Har har," Clark said as Bruce turned off onto a side street lined with spreading walnuts. Today the tour started in some of the more posh residential neighborhoods, along winding boulevards and past stately brownstones. After that, though, Bruce drove through some of the most shabby, run-down areas Clark had seen of Gotham. "Wouldn't want you to see just the haves," Bruce said at Clark's questioning look. "Some people might say this is the real heart of Gotham. Not me, of course," he said with a laugh. "Not publicly. I've got my shareholders' egos to think of."
However, nothing could hide the pride that shone in his eyes as he pointed out a small community park, carefully tended. "And look at this," he said, slowing down as they passed a sign proclaiming the area was under a community watch. "Let's make a dent in crime," the sign announced. "That's new," Bruce said. "Just started a few months ago." The smile he turned on Clark had a pleading edge to it: please listen. Please understand.
Clark listened, but he wasn't sure he understood.
Bruce pointed out more landmarks, rattling off their history with a facility that might have astonished the socialites he usually passed time with. He seemed to know which mansions had ghosts or tragedies, which patches of cobblestone were the sites of riots or accidents. Seen through his eyes, the whole city seemed steeped in history, shrouded in stories like mist.
The sun was going down when Bruce glanced at his watch; Clark expected him to suggest he take Clark back to his hotel room, but instead he said "How's about we get some takeout food and I'll take us across to the mainland so you can see the whole city at once?"
A few moments later and Clark found himself holding a bag of takeout gyros as the little Ferrari whipped in and out of traffic. "And here we have the New Trigate Bridge," Bruce said, gesturing as they started to cross the graceful, sweeping suspension bridge. "It's the newest bridge in Gotham, built a mere decade ago. Two levels--the train runs along underneath us."
Clark looked out and saw the river far below, dotted with ice floes. A boat churned ponderously through the water, heading toward the city. "Is that the ferry that--"
"--One of them, yes." Bruce glanced out at the river while maneuvering between two trucks. "That's the Liberty," he said without hesitation, although the name on the bow couldn't be seen. "Have you interviewed any of the passengers from the ships yet? Now that's an inspiring story."
"I haven't," Clark said, making a note in his book. It had been done by other papers, of course. But as part of a larger story about Gotham...he grimaced slightly to himself. He already had a story about Gotham, it was just a matter of convincing Bruce it was the right story to print.
"I can introduce you to one of them. John Maguire, although he usually goes by 'Tiny.'" Bruce chuckled to himself, as if at a personal joke. "He was on the Spirit."
"That was the ship with the criminals on it," Clark said, surprised. He'd expected Bruce would have contacts with the regular civilians.
"He got out on parole a few months later. Works for Wayne Enterprises now. Special outreach program." Bruce whipped by another semi and the struts of the bridge whirred by the window. "Turns out he's very skilled with microelectronics." He flashed a quick smile at Clark. "See? I can be useful sometimes."
"You've been very helpful, Mr. Wayne," Clark said.
Bruce's hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and he turned left as they came off the bridge. The road twisted and turned upward along the bluffs, and Bruce took every curve just a little too fast. Eventually he pulled off at an overlook: below them the river plain was lined with warehouses and factories, but the main island of Gotham glittered like a treasure trove of gems scattered on black velvet. Bruce reached out and grabbed the bag of gyros from Clark. "These are the best," he muttered, pulling out a wrapped oblong and handing it back to Clark.
Clark looked at the gleaming leather and shining chrome and felt paralyzed at the very idea of getting tzatziki sauce on a vintage Ferrari, but Bruce had already unwrapped his and was consuming it greedily. "Tell me about yourself," Bruce said with his mouth full.
Clark blinked at him, then applied himself to carefully unwrapping one corner of his gyro and taking a tiny bite. "Not much to tell," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Bruce. "Everyone has a story to tell. Yours starts in Kansas--what? I am capable of typing a name into Google," he said at Clark's look.
"Well, it was a pretty average childhood," for an alien with superpowers. "I was adopted when I was a baby, I don't remember my birth parents." He hadn't meant to say much, but he found himself talking about his parents, his childhood. He expected Bruce's attention to wander, but he listened with a fierce intentness, as if looking down from a vast height and memorizing the terrain. Clark talked about the farm, the lowing of the cows in the early morning, the ripples of corn in the wind. "It was the perfect place to grow up," he said softly, remembering.
"But you never really felt like you fit in." Bruce shrugged when Clark looked at him. "I mean, you didn't stay there, right?"
Clark shrugged in turn. "I fell in love with words," he said. "Putting them together, watching them make ideas real."
"You needed to go somewhere you felt you could make a difference." Bruce nodded and took another bite. "Metropolis is a good choice. The City of Tomorrow and all that."
"Metropolis is always looking forward," Clark said thoughtfully. "We seem so anxious to leave the past behind."
"The past isn't always a pretty thing," Bruce said, watching Gotham.
"Those who don't learn from it are doomed to repeat it."
Bruce snorted. "Santayana wasn't from Gotham. Perhaps we're doomed to never leave it." His eyes were more solemn than you would expect in a playboy wearing an expensive suit and munching on a gyro. "Damned souls trapped in our own special hell."
The lights glimmered in the dark. "If it's hell, it's a rather beautiful hell," Clark noted.
Bruce's smile was fond, affectionate, not directed at him. "She is beautiful, isn't she? My dark and demanding lady."
There was an undercurrent to his voice, a low and intimate frisson that made Clark suddenly feel very much on the outside. In the moonlight, the fresh scratches on his hand were a lurid blue-black, almost but not quite covering the fading bruise from before. The scabs were rough, grooves of dried pain under his fingers, like a map to some lost place.
Bruce was looking at him.
Clark pulled his hand back and found he had nothing at all to say. "I wish you wouldn't hurt yourself," he said rather than any of the things he was thinking. The words echoed inanely in his own ears.
Bruce's face was unreadable, moonlight casting strange shadows from his eyelashes across his eyes like prison bars. He seemed to be seriously considering his answer. "It's who I am," he said after a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head, playful again. "You sound like Alfred," he said teasingly. "Always worry, worry, worry. 'Master Wayne, you need to get more sleep,'" he said with an exaggerated English accent, pulling his mouth into a frown. "'Master Wayne, you must eat all your vegetables. Master Wayne, no more drunken Roman-style orgies.'" He started the Ferrari and put it into gear. "You both need to understand: without the drunken orgies, life is like this car without the 240 Pferdestarke engine!" His eyes twinkled at Clark in the darkness. "So no more nagging, okay, Clark? You make me sad."
He didn't look sad as he sped them back across the bridge; he was humming the theme from Mission Impossible under his breath as he zig-zagged through traffic. Clark used the momentary silence to get his bearings again--keeping up with Bruce's mercurial mood shifts was challenging work.
The car pulled up in front of Clark's hotel. "Here you go, back safe and sound, not a single car crash." He shrugged. "I can't be super-exciting every night, I guess." He pondered. "Of course, the night is still young..."
"You've shown me a lot of Gotham, but I've never seen your penthouse," Clark said. Maybe if he could see where Bruce lived he could find some key to the mind of this maddeningly elusive man.
Bruce's eyebrows shot up and a smirk tilted his mouth. "Why, Clark," he murmured. "I never let someone up to my penthouse on a first date. How fast do you think I am?"
"This is hardly a first date," Clark said. Bruce opened his mouth to riposte, but Clark spoke over him: "After all, we've gotten together three times now."
Bruce's mouth hung open for such a second. He blinked and closed it, rallying. "I would love to admit you to my inner sanctum," he said, managing to make it sound lascivious, "But truly, tonight I have other plans." A small, self-satisfied smile. "Private plans, involving some specialized pleasures." He put his elbow on the stickshift, propped his chin in his hand, and smiled at Clark. "I could bring you along, if you like. I've shown you the heart of Gotham, but I could show you some other parts of its anatomy tonight. Might make for a good story."
Clark was fairly certain Bruce was deliberately baiting him, but the image of the dark-haired man in the stocks rose up in his mind unbidden. When he spoke, his voice sounded stilted and formal. "Thank you, but I'll leave you to your own devices, Mr. Wayne." He started to open the door, but felt a hand catch his sleeve.
Bruce's smile was warm, friendly. Surely Clark was only imagining the touch of strain under it. "If this is our third date, why won't you call me by my first name?" he said. "I would...really like you to call me Bruce."
"I'm sorry," Clark said, getting out of the car, "But I just don't feel like I know you well enough for first names."
The midnight-blue Ferrari didn't move from the curb, but Clark turned his back on it and entered the hotel.
: : :
Alfred Pennyworth entered the basement bunker to find Bruce standing in his navy-blue suit and tie, hurling batarangs at the wall target, one after another. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. "To hell with him," Bruce said as Alfred came in.
"I assume you are talking about Mr. Kent, sir?"
"Clark." Bruce threw the name along with another batarang: Thunk. "I don't need him to know me, I don't need him to understand me. He's a nosy, pushy bastard." Thunk. He stopped and stared at the healing scabs on the back of his hand, running a thumb over them. "He touched me."
"Is that so bothersome?"
"Yes," Bruce snarled. He whirled from Alfred and paced across the bunker twice, back and forth. "I wanted him to," he said when his back was to Alfred.
"Well, that is bothersome," Alfred said.
Bruce shot a baffled, furious glare at him. "Don't laugh at me."
"Never," Alfred said, more softly. "But sir--"
Bruce made a slicing motion with his hand. "I can't think about hi--think about it anymore. I have things I have to do."
"Indeed," said Alfred.
"I haven't been spotted prowling around the S&M clubs for a month or so now, it wouldn't do to let that line of rumor die down. Thought I'd go to the Tenderloin and let myself be seen a bit." Bruce pulled off his suit coat and undid his tie with sharp, vicious motions. "I'll need the pub-crawling clothes."
"Of course," said Alfred. He went to the wardrobe room and fetched a pair of black jeans, a gray shirt and an old coat. When he returned, he found Bruce standing with his shirt unbuttoned, staring straight ahead at nothing. He was running a finger absently across the scabbed back of his hand. "Master Wayne?"
Bruce started. "Oh. Thank you, Alfred." He blinked at the clothes in Alfred's hands as if he didn't know what they were for a moment.
"Are you sure you're okay to go out, sir?"
"Yes. Yes, of course." Bruce took a breath. "Just...give me five minutes."
He sat down and buried his face in his hands. Alfred waited, not moving, holding the clothes, the costume Bruce wore when he played at being a person with needs and pleasures.
Exactly five minutes later, Bruce stood up. "I'm ready now," he said.
: : :
Clark Kent paced around his narrow hotel room, glaring out at the lights of Gotham with each pass. On the television, Jack Ryder was interviewing a man who had claimed to see the Batman in person: "How did it feel to stare cold death in the face?" Ryder's breathless voice oozed out of the set. "How did it feel to know you were standing before a merciless killer, a man for whom your life meant less than nothing--"
Clark snapped off the television.
Images tumbled in his mind: a sky-blue parachute, Alfred Pennyworth's face, a fading bruise, a hand on a stickshift, a statue of Harvey Dent, the shadow Wayne Towers cast over all of Gotham. Bruce's voice talking of the Joker, sick and wretched. He goes after people who make a difference. People who matter.
What had happened to Bruce Wayne that night? What was he planning?
People who matter.
Clark pulled up the web page of the Black Cat again and fixed the address in his mind. He threw on his coat and headed for the door, too restless and frustrated to stay cooped up a moment longer. He could put all this together, he knew he could. He was so tantalizingly close.
The lights of Gotham winked mockingly at him from the window, coy and elusive.
(Chapter Seven)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Dark Knight/Superman Returns crossover; a continuation of Leap of Faith.
Word Count: 3400Summary: 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?
Lucius Fox put away the last of the schematics and locked the drawer with an emphatic click. He shot a quick glance at his employer as they walked toward the heavy steel doors of the high-security elevator. "By the way," he said, "A Mr. Kent came to visit me yesterday. He seemed anxious to see you."
If Bruce Wayne had known that his total and steely lack of a reaction gave away so much to Lucius, he probably would have deliberately shown more response. "Hm," he said, jabbing the "up" button. "Yes. He's supposed to meet me here in..." A glance at the heavy silver watch that covered up some of the scratches from last night's encounter with the cherry tree. "...two hours."
"He seems...inquisitive."
Bruce grunted, staring at the floor indicator. The doors opened ponderously and they stepped into the elevator.
"He also seemed to find you rather charming," Lucius said. He heard Bruce suck in a sudden breath, saw the sunken eyes reflected in the steel doors flash over to him. "I have no idea why," he added blandly.
"I don't have time for this," Bruce muttered, more to himself than Lucius. "I mean, it's useful to keep him close and keep track of him. But it's...it's..."
Lucius reached out and pressed the button that stopped the elevator in its tracks. "Mr. Wayne." Bruce blinked at him as if only half-listening. "You're a human being. You need human connections."
"I've got you, I've got--"
"Not old men like Alfred and I," Lucius said gently. "You need something we can't give you."
Bruce stared at the elevator buttons, and Lucius was a bit shocked to see his cheeks reddening. "It's too risky," he said. "If he sees me...undressed, he'll realize--"
"I'm not talking about sex," Lucius said, unsure whether he felt more pity or exasperation. "You need a friend."
Bruce closed his eyes as if Lucius had struck him in the chest. "I can't be his friend if I can't tell him the truth. And I won't do that."
"I know." He did know. Bruce had lost far too much to lower his guard again. "But we all have sides of ourselves that our friends never see. Maybe you can...let him see as much of you as possible. Just not that."
Bruce leaned forward and rested his forehead for a second on the shining silver walls of the elevator. His reflection peered back at him, wan and weary. "Beyond that, Lucius...there isn't much of me left to see. Nothing of value."
"I don't believe that, sir." Lucius jabbed the button to start the elevator again, hearing the grimness in his own voice. "I simply don't believe that."
: : :
Clark Kent snapped his cell phone shut, frowning, just as a midnight-blue convertible pulled up to the curb, Bruce Wayne waving from the interior as cheerfully as if he hadn't almost fallen to his death the night before. "Get in before you freeze!" Bruce called.
The inside of the car was done up in a retro style--dark brown leather, circular dials with needle indicators, a thin, wide driver's wheel. Impressive attention to detail, Clark thought, then looked harder and frowned.
"Mr. Wayne, this car..."
"A 1959 Ferrari California Spyder LWB," Bruce announced. He patted the steering wheel like an exotic and beloved pet.
Clark stared at him. "This must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars!"
Bruce threw back his head and laughed, nudging the car back into traffic. "There are ten of this make of car in the world, Clark." His right hand caressed the gearshift in a frankly intimate manner, zipping them through the city streets with alacrity. "I'm just sorry it's too cold to leave the top down." He cast a sideways glance at Clark's face. "None of my business, of course, but you're looking glum today. What's the problem?"
"I just got off the phone with Jack Ryder," Clark said. "He wants me to come on his show tomorrow, talk about 'the Metropolis viewpoint on the Batman menace.'"
Bruce turned the wheel a little too sharply and the tires of the Ferrari squealed in protest as they went around a corner. "You do know that our deal applies not just to newspapers, but also to crackpot faux-news shows that nobody watches?" His voice was tight.
"Perry says I have to go. He says it'll be good publicity for the Planet."
"Not an answer to my question."
Clark stared out the window for a moment. "Of course. Besides, Ryder probably wouldn't let me finish if I tried. He hates Batman even more than you do."
"The man's a hack," muttered Bruce, "But even a hack can be right about one thing."
"So no," said Clark. "I have no plans to insist on Batman's innocence on the show tomorrow." He noted the way Bruce's shoulder's relaxed, the way his brow unfurrowed, and couldn't help adding, "I'm not doing it as a favor to you, you know."
Bruce cast him an airy grin. "I'm just relieved I don't have to find a way to cut power to Ryder's studio tomorrow," he said. "That would take literally minutes out of my busy schedule."
"Har har," Clark said as Bruce turned off onto a side street lined with spreading walnuts. Today the tour started in some of the more posh residential neighborhoods, along winding boulevards and past stately brownstones. After that, though, Bruce drove through some of the most shabby, run-down areas Clark had seen of Gotham. "Wouldn't want you to see just the haves," Bruce said at Clark's questioning look. "Some people might say this is the real heart of Gotham. Not me, of course," he said with a laugh. "Not publicly. I've got my shareholders' egos to think of."
However, nothing could hide the pride that shone in his eyes as he pointed out a small community park, carefully tended. "And look at this," he said, slowing down as they passed a sign proclaiming the area was under a community watch. "Let's make a dent in crime," the sign announced. "That's new," Bruce said. "Just started a few months ago." The smile he turned on Clark had a pleading edge to it: please listen. Please understand.
Clark listened, but he wasn't sure he understood.
Bruce pointed out more landmarks, rattling off their history with a facility that might have astonished the socialites he usually passed time with. He seemed to know which mansions had ghosts or tragedies, which patches of cobblestone were the sites of riots or accidents. Seen through his eyes, the whole city seemed steeped in history, shrouded in stories like mist.
The sun was going down when Bruce glanced at his watch; Clark expected him to suggest he take Clark back to his hotel room, but instead he said "How's about we get some takeout food and I'll take us across to the mainland so you can see the whole city at once?"
A few moments later and Clark found himself holding a bag of takeout gyros as the little Ferrari whipped in and out of traffic. "And here we have the New Trigate Bridge," Bruce said, gesturing as they started to cross the graceful, sweeping suspension bridge. "It's the newest bridge in Gotham, built a mere decade ago. Two levels--the train runs along underneath us."
Clark looked out and saw the river far below, dotted with ice floes. A boat churned ponderously through the water, heading toward the city. "Is that the ferry that--"
"--One of them, yes." Bruce glanced out at the river while maneuvering between two trucks. "That's the Liberty," he said without hesitation, although the name on the bow couldn't be seen. "Have you interviewed any of the passengers from the ships yet? Now that's an inspiring story."
"I haven't," Clark said, making a note in his book. It had been done by other papers, of course. But as part of a larger story about Gotham...he grimaced slightly to himself. He already had a story about Gotham, it was just a matter of convincing Bruce it was the right story to print.
"I can introduce you to one of them. John Maguire, although he usually goes by 'Tiny.'" Bruce chuckled to himself, as if at a personal joke. "He was on the Spirit."
"That was the ship with the criminals on it," Clark said, surprised. He'd expected Bruce would have contacts with the regular civilians.
"He got out on parole a few months later. Works for Wayne Enterprises now. Special outreach program." Bruce whipped by another semi and the struts of the bridge whirred by the window. "Turns out he's very skilled with microelectronics." He flashed a quick smile at Clark. "See? I can be useful sometimes."
"You've been very helpful, Mr. Wayne," Clark said.
Bruce's hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and he turned left as they came off the bridge. The road twisted and turned upward along the bluffs, and Bruce took every curve just a little too fast. Eventually he pulled off at an overlook: below them the river plain was lined with warehouses and factories, but the main island of Gotham glittered like a treasure trove of gems scattered on black velvet. Bruce reached out and grabbed the bag of gyros from Clark. "These are the best," he muttered, pulling out a wrapped oblong and handing it back to Clark.
Clark looked at the gleaming leather and shining chrome and felt paralyzed at the very idea of getting tzatziki sauce on a vintage Ferrari, but Bruce had already unwrapped his and was consuming it greedily. "Tell me about yourself," Bruce said with his mouth full.
Clark blinked at him, then applied himself to carefully unwrapping one corner of his gyro and taking a tiny bite. "Not much to tell," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Bruce. "Everyone has a story to tell. Yours starts in Kansas--what? I am capable of typing a name into Google," he said at Clark's look.
"Well, it was a pretty average childhood," for an alien with superpowers. "I was adopted when I was a baby, I don't remember my birth parents." He hadn't meant to say much, but he found himself talking about his parents, his childhood. He expected Bruce's attention to wander, but he listened with a fierce intentness, as if looking down from a vast height and memorizing the terrain. Clark talked about the farm, the lowing of the cows in the early morning, the ripples of corn in the wind. "It was the perfect place to grow up," he said softly, remembering.
"But you never really felt like you fit in." Bruce shrugged when Clark looked at him. "I mean, you didn't stay there, right?"
Clark shrugged in turn. "I fell in love with words," he said. "Putting them together, watching them make ideas real."
"You needed to go somewhere you felt you could make a difference." Bruce nodded and took another bite. "Metropolis is a good choice. The City of Tomorrow and all that."
"Metropolis is always looking forward," Clark said thoughtfully. "We seem so anxious to leave the past behind."
"The past isn't always a pretty thing," Bruce said, watching Gotham.
"Those who don't learn from it are doomed to repeat it."
Bruce snorted. "Santayana wasn't from Gotham. Perhaps we're doomed to never leave it." His eyes were more solemn than you would expect in a playboy wearing an expensive suit and munching on a gyro. "Damned souls trapped in our own special hell."
The lights glimmered in the dark. "If it's hell, it's a rather beautiful hell," Clark noted.
Bruce's smile was fond, affectionate, not directed at him. "She is beautiful, isn't she? My dark and demanding lady."
There was an undercurrent to his voice, a low and intimate frisson that made Clark suddenly feel very much on the outside. In the moonlight, the fresh scratches on his hand were a lurid blue-black, almost but not quite covering the fading bruise from before. The scabs were rough, grooves of dried pain under his fingers, like a map to some lost place.
Bruce was looking at him.
Clark pulled his hand back and found he had nothing at all to say. "I wish you wouldn't hurt yourself," he said rather than any of the things he was thinking. The words echoed inanely in his own ears.
Bruce's face was unreadable, moonlight casting strange shadows from his eyelashes across his eyes like prison bars. He seemed to be seriously considering his answer. "It's who I am," he said after a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head, playful again. "You sound like Alfred," he said teasingly. "Always worry, worry, worry. 'Master Wayne, you need to get more sleep,'" he said with an exaggerated English accent, pulling his mouth into a frown. "'Master Wayne, you must eat all your vegetables. Master Wayne, no more drunken Roman-style orgies.'" He started the Ferrari and put it into gear. "You both need to understand: without the drunken orgies, life is like this car without the 240 Pferdestarke engine!" His eyes twinkled at Clark in the darkness. "So no more nagging, okay, Clark? You make me sad."
He didn't look sad as he sped them back across the bridge; he was humming the theme from Mission Impossible under his breath as he zig-zagged through traffic. Clark used the momentary silence to get his bearings again--keeping up with Bruce's mercurial mood shifts was challenging work.
The car pulled up in front of Clark's hotel. "Here you go, back safe and sound, not a single car crash." He shrugged. "I can't be super-exciting every night, I guess." He pondered. "Of course, the night is still young..."
"You've shown me a lot of Gotham, but I've never seen your penthouse," Clark said. Maybe if he could see where Bruce lived he could find some key to the mind of this maddeningly elusive man.
Bruce's eyebrows shot up and a smirk tilted his mouth. "Why, Clark," he murmured. "I never let someone up to my penthouse on a first date. How fast do you think I am?"
"This is hardly a first date," Clark said. Bruce opened his mouth to riposte, but Clark spoke over him: "After all, we've gotten together three times now."
Bruce's mouth hung open for such a second. He blinked and closed it, rallying. "I would love to admit you to my inner sanctum," he said, managing to make it sound lascivious, "But truly, tonight I have other plans." A small, self-satisfied smile. "Private plans, involving some specialized pleasures." He put his elbow on the stickshift, propped his chin in his hand, and smiled at Clark. "I could bring you along, if you like. I've shown you the heart of Gotham, but I could show you some other parts of its anatomy tonight. Might make for a good story."
Clark was fairly certain Bruce was deliberately baiting him, but the image of the dark-haired man in the stocks rose up in his mind unbidden. When he spoke, his voice sounded stilted and formal. "Thank you, but I'll leave you to your own devices, Mr. Wayne." He started to open the door, but felt a hand catch his sleeve.
Bruce's smile was warm, friendly. Surely Clark was only imagining the touch of strain under it. "If this is our third date, why won't you call me by my first name?" he said. "I would...really like you to call me Bruce."
"I'm sorry," Clark said, getting out of the car, "But I just don't feel like I know you well enough for first names."
The midnight-blue Ferrari didn't move from the curb, but Clark turned his back on it and entered the hotel.
: : :
Alfred Pennyworth entered the basement bunker to find Bruce standing in his navy-blue suit and tie, hurling batarangs at the wall target, one after another. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. "To hell with him," Bruce said as Alfred came in.
"I assume you are talking about Mr. Kent, sir?"
"Clark." Bruce threw the name along with another batarang: Thunk. "I don't need him to know me, I don't need him to understand me. He's a nosy, pushy bastard." Thunk. He stopped and stared at the healing scabs on the back of his hand, running a thumb over them. "He touched me."
"Is that so bothersome?"
"Yes," Bruce snarled. He whirled from Alfred and paced across the bunker twice, back and forth. "I wanted him to," he said when his back was to Alfred.
"Well, that is bothersome," Alfred said.
Bruce shot a baffled, furious glare at him. "Don't laugh at me."
"Never," Alfred said, more softly. "But sir--"
Bruce made a slicing motion with his hand. "I can't think about hi--think about it anymore. I have things I have to do."
"Indeed," said Alfred.
"I haven't been spotted prowling around the S&M clubs for a month or so now, it wouldn't do to let that line of rumor die down. Thought I'd go to the Tenderloin and let myself be seen a bit." Bruce pulled off his suit coat and undid his tie with sharp, vicious motions. "I'll need the pub-crawling clothes."
"Of course," said Alfred. He went to the wardrobe room and fetched a pair of black jeans, a gray shirt and an old coat. When he returned, he found Bruce standing with his shirt unbuttoned, staring straight ahead at nothing. He was running a finger absently across the scabbed back of his hand. "Master Wayne?"
Bruce started. "Oh. Thank you, Alfred." He blinked at the clothes in Alfred's hands as if he didn't know what they were for a moment.
"Are you sure you're okay to go out, sir?"
"Yes. Yes, of course." Bruce took a breath. "Just...give me five minutes."
He sat down and buried his face in his hands. Alfred waited, not moving, holding the clothes, the costume Bruce wore when he played at being a person with needs and pleasures.
Exactly five minutes later, Bruce stood up. "I'm ready now," he said.
: : :
Clark Kent paced around his narrow hotel room, glaring out at the lights of Gotham with each pass. On the television, Jack Ryder was interviewing a man who had claimed to see the Batman in person: "How did it feel to stare cold death in the face?" Ryder's breathless voice oozed out of the set. "How did it feel to know you were standing before a merciless killer, a man for whom your life meant less than nothing--"
Clark snapped off the television.
Images tumbled in his mind: a sky-blue parachute, Alfred Pennyworth's face, a fading bruise, a hand on a stickshift, a statue of Harvey Dent, the shadow Wayne Towers cast over all of Gotham. Bruce's voice talking of the Joker, sick and wretched. He goes after people who make a difference. People who matter.
What had happened to Bruce Wayne that night? What was he planning?
People who matter.
Clark pulled up the web page of the Black Cat again and fixed the address in his mind. He threw on his coat and headed for the door, too restless and frustrated to stay cooped up a moment longer. He could put all this together, he knew he could. He was so tantalizingly close.
The lights of Gotham winked mockingly at him from the window, coy and elusive.
(Chapter Seven)