Chapter Text
This beat was normally exclusively Cat Grant’s, shmoozing with the rich and famous and everyone shiny enough to dance with them. Clark Kent was decidedly not one of them, even in his most expensive ill-fitting suit. It was a strike of desperation, one he’d just managed to inch pass Lois, but only just barely. Bruce Wayne was notoriously good at escaping interviews. Considering what his company was doing with Bruno Mannheim, who liked to consider himself an ‘upstanding businessman.’ Clark knew better, as did most anyone with common sense, but the evidence never seemed to stick with the mafia boss.
And unfortunately, it didn’t look like Mr. Wayne had common sense.
Word was Mr. Wayne was in Metropolis and would be doing the ‘business’ he was so famous for. So Clark worked his way through the party, slipping between the socialites of the city, like a particularly clumsy blood hound on the hunt.
-
Bruno Mannheim. The name had been in the back of Bruce’s mind for quite some time, always aware of what the man was doing in Metropolis in case he decided to expand to Gotham. Expand he had. The first signs of the crime boss in Bruce’s city gad been subtle, only someone intimately tied to the goings on of Gotham’s underbelly would have noticed. That someone had been Bruce, if course, and as the man’s gang spread their mayhem further and deeper, he knew he needed to act, not just as the Batman but as Bruce Wayne as well. If there was something bigger going on, Bruce would be the one to find out and the Bat would put a stop to it.
This was how Bruce found himself in Metropolis at a swanky party, making connections and working his way towards Bruno himself. Getting in on the man’s good side wouldn’t take much, really, the promise of legitimate contracts or some such would be enticing enough for an ‘upstanding businessman’ and from there it was only a stone’s throw to gaining access to his databases and intel.
Noticing his champagne was empty, Bruce turned to find a waiter and bumped directly into another man. “Woah, easy there…” he smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder in a friendly yet mildly dominating gesture, “Gotta be careful at these things, huh?” His piece said, Bruce moved to step away to continue on his way, the man’s face behind the glasses already forgotten as a drunk couple laughed and cut his retreat off completely unaware of what they were doing. It was all Bruce could do not to snap at them, he had to keep his unaffected playboy shtick up for the evening, no matter how trying it was.
-
Speak of the devil.
Clark grimaced, his shoulders trying to bunch up around his ears as he tried to avoid sloshing his unfortunately expensive drink all over his sleeve. It was a lost cause, and Wayne was already gone, but that didn’t matter. Clark performed with the assumption that someone was always watching. Most of the time, it wasn’t an actual performance.
He pushed his glasses up across the bridge of his nose, nervous because of how volatile Brucie Wayne, feckless, flashy playboy was. Who knew what it would take to spook him off? Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Clark only had one chance.
“Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne,” he called after his target, using his ungainly bulk rather than his strength to block Wayne’s path. He zigged when Wayne would’ve wanted him to zagged, and zagged when he wanted him to get the fuck away from him, like a particularly determined fly. “Fancy seeing you here tonight. Are you making a habit of obliging Bruno Mannheim?”
“This is all his party, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.
-
Bruce had just gotten past the drunk couple when suddenly there was another person in his way. He huffed out an irritated breath, his eyes rolling a little when they got in a little dance together while he was trying to get away. Levelling his cold gaze at the man, barely recognizing him from thirty seconds before, Bruce smiled in a patronizing sort of way.
“If you’re here you know it’s Mannheim’s party… I don’t recall meeting you but you seem to know me….” He raised his eyebrows expectantly, something about the way the question had been worded that caught his attention and he needed to know what this guy knew, if anything.
-
Clark had to wonder if smiling so condescendingly came naturally to a man like Wayne or if he spent time practicing in front of a mirror. He shuffled in his ill-fitting suit, trying to buy himself some time to figure out how to get any sort of reaction out of Wayne that wasn’t drunken wastrel. This really wasn’t his beat, but at least, he figured, this guy was no Lex Luthor.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He said in a rush, but he held his hand out to shake, his grip intentionally lax. Hands just a little clammy. “Is Wayne Enterprise going to be partners with Mannheim on all fronts? Including Mannheim’s association with the Metropolis mob?”
-
Bruce shook the man’s - Clark’s - hand, his lips pursing a little at the dead fish that shook back. Weak. Disappointing. Completely in contrast to the very direct, very nosey questions that he was asking. He certainly couldn’t let this get out of hand, especially since he didn’t know if Clark was in someone’s pocket.
“What’s that?” Bruce leaned in, pretending to not have heard Clark, clapping his hand on the man’s shoulder once again, giving him a little shake and not letting him repeat himslef, “Look, Mark, it’s a party, no business talk, yeah? Lemme get you some champagne. Hey! Hey, waiter, c’mere, thank you…” He ignored Clark, grabbed two full flutes from the server who had come when he called, handing one to Clark with a smile. “Have a good night, kid…”
-
What an asshole.
Clark jerked back reflexively, trying to get out of Wayne’s face, though the urge to throw his glass at Wayne’s face was far too tempting for one, agonizing moment. His mouth was working but no sound came out, and part of him almost reveled in the act. At least it distracted him from wanting to swat Wayne.
He was being stone-walled. Whether or not Wayne’s handlers had instructed him to, or if it was simply an issue of the billionaire not liking him, Clark couldn’t say. He moved in closer, slipping one foot between Wayne’s expensive loafers, just to make retreating that much harder.
“The press says you play hard and fast with your bed fellows, but Wayne Enterprise has never been so reckless.” For a second, a thread of concern warmed his tone. Wayne Enterprise was a cornerstone of Gotham’s economy. It wasn’t like them to be so reckless, and one of the concerns Clark had entertained was blackmail at the root of the issue. “What’s next? You teaming up with the Batman?”
-
If there was one thing he hated about these parties, besides the fact that he had to put on his playboy act, it was being cornered by someone he didn’t want to talk to, be it a liquored up gold digger, shitty senator or a relentless reporter. There were so many people he was practically boxed in and, though tempting, he couldn’t just grab Clark by the shirtfront and break the leg that was currently blocking his path. So tempting.
For a split second, Bruce thought he heard something like concern in Clark’s tone and for that fleeting moment wondered if the guy wasn’t just after some exaggerated story to get a promotion. The question about the Batman quickly cured him of any such thoughts and his forced smile dropped, turning into a very unimpressed scowl.
“I don’t know who you think you are or who you think you’re talking to, Mark, but you need to back off, physically and metaphorically, unless you want a restraining order on your no doubt impeccable work record?” he didn’t break eye contact, hoping to intimidate the part of Clark that couldn’t even shake a man’s hand properly.
-
Wow, Clark Kent’s very first restraining order.
Clark was torn between a quietly arrogant sort of pride, and unfortunate chagrin. He pushed too many buttons too quickly, driven to act by a ticking clock. This was nowhere near as satisfying as the ones Lex Luthor had tried to slap on Superman, and not just because mild-mannered Clark had to sink into himself, his glasses sliding down his nose as anxiety and a sharp flare of irritation danced in front of his eyes. The reporter shtick might have been a facade, but it was more real than Superman could ever be, and it was times like these that Clark wished he could question it.
Then he grit his jaw, and met Wayne’s eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Bruno Mannheim’s bad news, not just for your company,” he spat out the word, certain he’d found the only thing Wayne could care about. “But for all the people that depend on it.”
Then he backed off, retreating into himself like an overgrown turtle, his figurative tail tucked between his legs. Clark only bumped into a waiter once on his way out.
-
Bruce didn’t waste time laughing at how easily Clark backed off with a little intimidation thrown into the mix. He made a mental note of it and the headed downstairs where he knew Mannheim kept his servers. Slipping through the unassuming door with a quick glance to the kitchen where staff were hard at work, Bruce quickly set about hooking up his drive.
In the kitchen, behind an unused microwave in the far corner sat an unassuming box inside a plain white plastic bag. Had any of the staff had time to investigate - presuming anyone had even noticed it - they would have had time to escape. As it happened, no one saw it, no one heard the quiet ticking, and only one unfortunate sous chef heard the ding followed by a creepy sort of mechanical laugh before the bomb exploded.
The explosion rocked the house and Bruce went immediately towards the chaos. “Get out! This way! C'mon!” he grabbed the staff and made sure they were headed towards the exit and not some dead end as he went deeper towards the flame and smoke.
With one arm up shielding his face, Bruce noticed the foot sticking out from behind the counter nearest the worst of the wreckage. Someone must have been right next to the blast. He went quickly and grabbed the man, pulling him up which thankfully woke him up and they stumbled out towards the exit together.
“Hey!” Bruce caught the attention of a server who came to help, “Take him, I’m going to make sure everyone is out.” he took no notice of the servers terrified expression and headed back in to make sure there were no others left. Coughing loudly, Bruce went back to where he’d found the sous chef and continued his search as the smoke grew thicker around him.
-
Clark Kent had disappeared into the crowd, something he was exceptionally good at for a man who was over six feet tall and used to do back-breaking farm chores to clear his head. He found his way to the bar, the proper combination of subdued and broke enough to make the bartender overlok him, at least for the moment. It was strategic, mostly. This was his chance to see if any of Mannheim’s men knew anything of value, a long shot at best, but Bruce Wayne had been, too. And maybe, Clark wanted to soothe his bruised ego a bit, too.
He didn’t get much of a chance. That was a good thing. Kansas farm boys didn’t wear self-pity very well.
The explosion threatened to shake the club at its very core. In the space between two heartbeats, there was silence, and then the alarms went off, and people started screaming. Clark was already gone.
A quick shot of heat vision severed the wires of a security camera, a strategic exit and suddenly Superman was bursting in through the employee entrance. Cracks in the building foundation crept up where the blast had stated, nearly inaudible under the crackle of fire, and suddenly, a wall collapsed. Superman didn’t break a sweat, keeping the roof steady.
The staff escaped relatively unscathed, but there was no one around Bruce Wayne when a weakened beam crumbled and toppled towards him.
-
The smoke was filling his lungs and it was nearly impossible to see more than a couple feet in front of his face. With a grimace and another loud cough, Bruce was satisfied that everyone had gotten out and he turned to get himself to safety.
The loud snap of the beam was jarring, he could almost feel the sound wave of it and he looked up, hands coming up as he stepped back. In the space of a few seconds more than one thing went through his mind. First was that it wasn’t the worst way to go. Sure, being crushed wasn’t ideal, but at least he’d been able to help someone before hand, maybe Bruce Wayne’s reputation would be improved a bit. Maybe the obituary would be something to be proud of. Maybe. The second thing he experienced was anger. Anger at not being able to finish his work, so many things that he needed to do yet. He wasn’t ready.
There wasn’t time to get out of the way, everything seemed to slow down to a crawl. The beam was headed right for him and as he started to crouch to jump even though it was already too late, his arm came up to futilely protect his head.
-
An audible crash echoed through the room, the unmistakable sound of stone breaking over stone, but none of it touched Bruce. Curled over him were an inhumanly strong pair of arms, draped by a cape as obnoxiously vibrant as the flames around them. For a second, a flicker of humor danced behind an alien gaze, an appreciation for irony that was all too human. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and Superman was very careful when he shrugged the debris off his back. “Mr. Wayne. Keep your head down please.”
In the blink of an eye, Bruce was wrapped in that ridiculous cape and pulled closer by hands that could take apart mountains, but treated him like a particularly temperamental cat. Possibly one that needed to have its claw trimmed.
And then they were shooting through the air, through the hole in the wall the explosion created.
-
Bruce was breathing hard, adrenaline pumping hard and fast through his veins, every inch of him ready for the pain that was sure to come. It never did and it took only a fraction of a second for him to understand what had happened. Superman. He looked up as Superman straightened, his eyes narrowing at the size of the man before him. Blatantly disobeying the request to keep his head down, Bruce straightening himself and opening his mouth to snap at Superman to get the hell away from him.
He would have, if he hadn’t found himself wrapped in a stupid red cape, held tight to a chest that felt as solid as Ra’s al Ghul’s had been. It was intolerable and Bruce struggled as he felt his feet lift off the ground and the wind whip past his face.
“What are you…” he stopped struggling when it occurred to him that Superman would drop him if he got his way and that wasn’t particularly appealing with no utility belt on hand. He settled a little but still tried to push away, wanting at least some distance between them, easily starting the threats that only Bruce Wayne would think would be effective, “This is kidnapping! I’m gonna sue you for everything you got, alien!"
-
Superman had been called far worse by people who were far more unscrupulous than Gotham’s prodigal prince ever could be. He could handle placating one obviously unnerved man, and yet…
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. All I have is the cape on my back, and I don’t think red is really your color.” He sounded almost entirely sincere, the same way that only a man in a tight blue and red could ever really pull off, but a flicker of a smile dared itself across his features. Blink and you’d miss it, and Superman fully expected Bruce to blink. He did, however, allow Bruce some semblance of comfort, moving him a little way away from his body. He didn’t think it was possible for the billionaire to dislodge himself, even without Superman being fully focused, but he really did want to make Bruce as comfortable as possible. He was a world class tool, but that didn’t mean Superman could justify treating him as less of a person.
It was all going well, until the flames hit the battered building’s gas line and the explosion sent Superman spinning. His grip tightened automatically around Bruce, ready to shield him on impact. They fell ten feet before he found his barrings.
The fire was spreading, and even with all his speed, Superman knew that it took precedence over landing the man in his arms.
-
The unbelievable nerve to crack a joke like that in such a situation. He caught the little smirk, almost missed it, and pushed away a little harder as he grouched under his breath about flying assholes and idiotic nonhumans. It seemed to work a bit as Superman relaxed his grip, putting some space between them though it certainly wasn’t enough for Bruce’s liking.
When the blast hit Bruce’s reaction was completely automatic, at least that’s what he’d tell himself whenever he remembered this day. Superman’s arms tightened and Bruce’s, which had been near the man’s chest wrapped tightly around his neck to keep him attached as they fell.
“Shit! The people! Put me down, put me down and go help them, what are you doing!? Put me down! Let me go!” Bruce struggled hard now, not caring if Superman dropped him. He probably wouldn’t die? He kept shouting and squirming and trying to get away though for some reason he was still stuck to Superman’s chest like he wasn’t even trying. Beyond frustrating.
-
Superman was already moving, scanning the area for any lingering civilians and a safe spot to put down his charge. There were none, but the fire was spreading quickly, through the populated Metropolis neighborhood, and the ringing in his ear told him that the closest fire truck was still over ninety seconds away.
The good humor was gone from Superman’s tone, replaced with a somber countenance that sharpened his features. He met the human’s gaze evenly, as if drawn in by the intensity of Wayne’s gaze. Like ice tinged blue, all the more captivating as the flames bathed his skin in a golden glow, darkening the shadows across his cheeks. He needed him to believe him. He was already spending precious seconds. “Mr. Wayne, there isn’t any time. I need your cooperation. I need you to keep still. The fire is spreading too quickly, and too many people will get hurt if you don’t hold on. Please.”
I need you.
He could force Wayne to remain immobile. He could knock him out and throw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but Superman never spared much thought to those as first options. He knew more than most how resilient humans could be.
With a curt nod, Superman charged towards the flame and let out a carefully measured blast of freezing air - before catching the damaged ruins of an oven seemed to have fallen out of the sky.
-
Of course Superman wouldn’t drop him. Of course. The perfectly moral asshole wouldn’t sacrifice one for the sake of many. It wasn’t how the guy worked. Bruce’s shouting cut off mid word when Superman made eye contact. For a short moment, Bruce was struck by the vision before him. A soft glow, highlighting Superman’s features, his eyes almost otherworldly in their intensity. Otherworldly, how apropos considering. Bruce set his jaw and gave a curt nod before he quickly reached one hand down to untangle his legs from the cape so he could wrap them around Superman’s waist.
He felt Superman’s lungs fill with air and then there was a cool feeling around him as the fire was starved. Keeping himself tight against Superman so he wouldn’t interfere more than he already was just by being there, Bruce forced himself to focus on keeping still so he wouldn’t be distracted by flashbacks to Superman’s face or how he could feel every muscle and sinew in the man move and shift as they moved through the air or how amazing the guy smelled.
There was a rather loud noise close to his head, causing him to flinch before he turned his head in towards Superman to look up. The movement was unfortunate - fortunate - in that Bruce bumped - almost a nuzzle, really - his nose against the side of Superman’s head. He let out a soft breath when he saw the oven in Superman’s hands and turned back, gritting his teeth when he bumped against the other’s ear once again.
Though he couldn’t see, Bruce couldn’t feel the heat from the fire nor hear the crackle and roar from the flame and he knew the fire was out. When he heard the cheer rising up from the party goers and staff, it was confirmed and all he could do was pray that all the reporters’ cameras and everyone’s phones had somehow been destroyed so no one would get a shot of Bruce friggen Wayne clinging to Superman like a child.
-
Bruce had an incredible sense of balance. Superman moved his grip to make him as comfortable as possible, but he was a tall man with long, powerful legs that Superman paid more attention to than he ought to, given the circumstances. As often as Bruce must have hit the gym, this position would’ve gotten strenuous for most men, but Bruce held on like it was nothing.
A warm whisper of breath tickled his ear, and it was only his fine-tuned muscle control that kept him from shuddering.
Superman threw the oven over his shoulder like it was a paper ball, but he carefully lowered them to the ground like he thought Bruce was made of glass. As their feet touched solid Earth, he offered the billionaire a careful smile and gently unwound his cape from Bruce’s shoulders.
“Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” he said earnestly. And though they hadn’t moved a step away from each other, he could add honestly, “I heard what you did for Mr. Rodriguez. Without you, he wouldn’t have gotten out in time. It was very brave of you.”
Superman mean it completely. That didn’t mean Clark Kent wasn’t going to expedite a few telling pictures to the Daily Planet gossip column. Bruce Wayne was still a dick.
-
As soon as Bruce felt Superman shift to get ready to land he unwound his legs, keeping his arms tight for no other purpose than pure self-indulgence. The guy sounded so genuine and it was hard to stay pissed at so sincere a thank you. Though he was loathe to do it, Bruce had the Wayne playboy shtick to keep up so he stepped back as he tugged at his suit jacket, straightening his rumpled shirt.
“That his name? Didn’t get properly introduced,” he cleared his throat and ran a hand through fluffed up hair, the small but of vanity in him wondering just how sooty his face was, “I suppose you want a ‘thank you’ for saving me…” of course, he didn’t actually say it but that was entirely the point.
-
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Wayne. Hopefully your next trip to Metropolis will be less eventful. You should be more careful.” Superman said, and behind his smile, Clark was still weighing his decision to say anything at all, no matter how oblique that last statement had been. He didn’t want to mirror his civilian self too much, but it was a warning worth heeding.
Gently, Superman reached out, to cup the billionaire’s cheek and wipe away a smudge of ash on cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut. “Ash.” He explained easily, before taking a step back.
With another curt nod of his head, he waved good bye to the crowd that had gathered, checking in once with the EMTs that came in to make sure they didn’t need any assistance before he was off into the night.
Clark had a story to run.
-
‘You should be more careful’ like he was a damn twelve year old. Bruce’s jaw worked as his eyes narrowed and he was about to say something very witty and sarcastic when Superman’s hand reached out towards him.
Again it was like time was slowing down as Superman’s hand, strong and warm, held him for a fraction of a second while his thumb brushed across his cheek in an almost tender caress. Bruce jerked his head to the side, glaring at the other as he used ash as an excuse and then left. What a crock.
The EMTs came to Bruce after Superman took off and proceeded to mother hen him worse than Alfred. He finally snapped and threatened to sue if they didn’t back off and leave him alone that very instant and he quickly made his way through the crowd to find Mannheim.
The mob boss was surrounded by personal security and Bruce didn’t smile as he walked up to the man and sighed. “Hope your business isn’t as explosive as your pleasure, Mr. Mannheim, I might have to take my investments elsewhere…” it was more than enough to get the conversation rolling and they agreed to meet the following week to hash out the details of their contracts. A job well done on Bruce’s part and now he had to get home and do a little digging on a mild mannered reporter from The Daily Planet to see if there was going to be a problem.