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Batman, when he was in the Watchtower, was brilliant, composed, intimidating.
Batman in Gotham was still all of those things, except just a touch more endearing. Not everyone could pull off the patented growl and disapproving stare over a soundtrack of bickering children— something that only Batman, with his earpiece, and Clark, with his super-hearing, could hear.
It was rare that Batman asked for Clark’s help with anything; he had his own little army of extra sets of hands and eyes, but sometimes, Batman needed an extra set of eyes capable of X-ray vision or heat beams. Still, Clark wore his occasional bus ticket to enter this side of Batman’s life as a badge of honor.
“Something funny, Kal?” Batman asked coolly.
Over the comm, Red Robin was saying, “You let him put you in a booster seat?”
“Father told me it was the ‘Robin seat’. He said it was tradition—”
“He lied to you. None of us needed a booster seat, ‘cept you.”
“Did he tell you bedtimes were traditional, too?”
Clark was fighting a smile. Over Batman’s shoulder, he could see the Robins— well, one Robin and a few ex-Robins— already heading for the Batmobile. So much of how Batman treated the League clicked into place the minute Clark found out that Batman was the single father of several children. Although he would never admit it to Batman’s face, he understood perfectly why Batman was so insistent on keeping the JLA’s communicator lines free of chatter.
“Nothing,” Clark said, zoning back into what Batman was telling him. He clapped Batman on the shoulder, grinning. “Enjoy the trip back to the Cave.”
Batman’s scowl deepened. Clark kept smiling all the way back to Metropolis.
Of course, he wasn’t in Metropolis for long. Superman might’ve needed permission from Batman to enter the city, but Clark Kent had a gala to attend; as much as Clark loathed spending his evening with snooty elites like that airhead Bruce Wayne, Lois had cashed in her favor from any of the dozen times she’d covered for him disappearing in the middle of the workday.
The sun was already setting as Clark reached Gotham, climbing up the steps of the museum where the gala was being held with his notepad in hand. He promised himself that he just needed to snag a couple of quotes, and then he’d be home free.
That plan was dashed on the rocks shortly after Bruce Wayne entered the room, half an hour late. The thing was, Clark's ears always perked up when someone said his name. Even when it was slightly tinny, coming through a phone of some sort.
“Yeah, he wants Superman to—”
“Oh, gross, I do not want to think about that.”
Standing by the refreshments table, Clark’s senses kicked into high gear, scanning the crowd for who was talking on a phone. His eyes instead found Bruce Wayne, seemingly absorbed in conversation with a flock of bejeweled, giggling ladies.
There was an earpiece in his ear— a small one, completely unnoticeable unless you were looking for it.
What need did a man like Bruce Wayne have for an earpiece like that? He was annoyingly flirtatious, sure, but he was harmless. Definitely not supervillain material. Even Batman had begrudgingly admitted that Wayne was good for Gotham (well, “better than the alternative” was his exact wording, but still ).
So who was he talking to? Why were they mentioning Superman, of all people? No one should know that he was in Gotham right now. He wished he'd caught the context of the conversation, because what was happening now was making even less sense.
The voices weren't plotting, especially not about Superman. They were…bickering, talking over each other, throwing out jabs and nicknames.
They were familiar.
“I wouldn’t take any costume advice from the guy who wore the Dis—”
“Hey! I pulled that off and you know it!”
“Yeah, at least he doesn’t wear three domino masks stacked on top of each other—”
…Bruce Wayne stole Batman’s Greek chorus.
How? Why ? The chorus of Robins seemed just at ease with Wayne as they did with Batman, discussing the same sort of things they usually did (as in, sibling drama that Clark couldn’t hope to understand). And Wayne had never seemed like he had the ability to maintain perfect composure with a constant stream of bickering. Clark couldn’t imagine Batman going out of his way to train Wayne like he would the Robins. Not unless Batman was putting in a lot of work to cover up any semblance of a positive, familiar relationship with Wayne— which, actually, seemed spectacularly in-character for him.
Speaking of Batman, was he here now? Clark couldn’t hear his voice on the communicator, but he also wasn’t the type to join in on such light-hearted conversations while in costume. It took Batman years to even dare mention his children to the League; he wouldn’t just hand off his chorus, even if he did somehow trust Brucie Wayne. He must be here, Clark thought, whether Bruce knew or not.
His eyes caught the innocent security camera lurking in the ceiling rafters; either Batman was here, or he was watching. Looking back at Wayne, Clark scanned his suit for any other hidden recording devices or weapons.
Far too late, Clark realized that the chorus had stopped, the chattering slipping away into something more serious.
“ Ten o’clock,” Nightwing said over the comm.
Some of the pieces clicked into place. Batman must’ve heard that something was going down at the gala. Wayne, coached by the chorus, was supposed to look for any suspicious activity. But it still didn’t explain how Batman and Wayne knew each other, much less how they got around to agreeing to work together on something like this.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Wayne said. “I’ll be right back.”
Something must be happening now, Clark realized. He scanned the room again, but he didn’t hear— or see— anything suspicious. Nightwing had said ten o’clock, but at Wayne’s ten, it would only be…oh. Clark himself. Who’d just spent the last five minutes staring at Bruce Wayne. Who Wayne was currently walking towards.
Oh. Oh no. Batman was going to be so annoyed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Wayne exclaimed as a wave of champagne splattered over the front of Clark’s suit. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Yes, he was. Through the comm, one of the Robins snickered. Wayne summoned a waiter with the flick of a hand, dabbing ineffectively at the steadily-spreading stain on Clark’s shirt.
“I’m fine,” Clark said, pushing Wayne’s hands away. “Really, it’s no big deal.”
“I ruined your shirt,” Wayne said, pouting.
“Real smooth, B.”
B.
“His name is Clark Kent, a reporter for the Daily Planet. Doesn’t seem like the type to be working with the Penguin, though.”
B, Nightwing’s nickname for Batman. Clark was so stupid for not seeing it earlier— of course Batman wouldn’t give his Greek chorus away, not to anyone except himself.
“Daily Planet? Isn’t that the Superman paper?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have nearly as many awards as Lois Lane.”
Clark tried not to look offended. Lois was great, but he was no slouch, either. “You can make it up to me by giving me a quote.”
Someone over the comm made a gagging noise, and Clark flushed.
“Not like that,” Clark added quickly. If Bruce— Batman — was either disappointed or relieved by the clarification, his vapid smile didn’t show it. “I’m just here for the story, Mr. Wayne.”
“Wait. You don’t think—”
“Are you kidding? B made these himself. There's no way he can hear us.”
Clark cleared his throat, holding up his notepad, which was thankfully spared from Brucie’s drink. “So if you have a quote for me…?”
“He waited for us to finish talking—”
“Hey, Kent, blink twice if you can hear us!”
Clark blinked very, very normally. Bruce’s smile twitched into something more real, and when their eyes met, Clark knew he and Batman were on the same page.
“Why don’t we find somewhere a bit more private?” Bruce offered.
The minute they were out of sight, the Brucie exterior dropped; it was Batman that stepped into the private office with Clark, complete with the lower tone of voice and the permanent frown instead of that charming, front-page smile.
“Hello, Kal.”
“Ha! I totally called it!”
“No you didn't!”
“Batman.”
“How did you know it was me?” he asked. He didn’t sound annoyed, not with Clark, anyway; this was Bruce checking for security flaws.
“You and Batman have the exact same Greek chorus.” Clark motioned to Bruce’s earpiece. “Super-hearing, remember?”
“Hn.”
“Just a pair of glasses? World's greatest detective, huh?”
“You'd think he would've figured it out with all the time he spends star—”
“Sh! He can hear us, remember?”
“We got a tip that the Penguin was planning something for the gala,” Bruce replied. “He’s on his way to Arkham now, but I needed to make sure nothing else was going to happen.”
“I really just am here for the story,” Clark said. “But I was curious when I heard my name.”
The scowl looked almost out of place on Bruce’s pretty face. In his ear, one of the Robins cackled.
“Do it, B. Tell him—”
Bruce reached up and pulled the earpiece out, dropping it into his pocket.
“Tell me what?” Clark asked.
Wordlessly, Bruce reached out, and Clark’s mind spun with the possibilities of how Bruce was about to touch him. Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t for Bruce to reach into Clark’s suit pocket and pull out a tiny electronic device.
“You planted a bug on me?” He thought of the spilled champagne, of the napkin Bruce had dabbed on his chest.
“This was the tracking device. The bug was in your other pocket.”
For all of Wayne's years at the top of Gotham's most eligible bachelors list, Bruce had never been more attractive to Clark.
“Can you turn your earpiece all the way off?” Clark asked, swallowing hard.
Bruce hesitated, and Clark added, “I really want to kiss you, but I can still hear Robin’s voice in your pocket, and it’s kind of distracting.”
The Greek chorus cut out completely, and Bruce leaned in, slotting his lips against Clark’s. Clark had dreamed about kissing Batman dozens of times— and yes, even Bruce Wayne a handful of times, who hadn’t— but he didn’t imagine Batman would be able to kiss that well . His own hands holding tight to Bruce’s body against his, Clark was half-certain that he wouldn’t have even noticed if the Penguin had attacked the gala.
(He didn’t. When Clark and Bruce stumbled out of the office, the rest of the museum was still standing, and the rest of the partygoers were undoubtedly convinced that they’d hooked up. But if he had, well, Clark had it on good information that there were four vigilantes on standby who would’ve been happy to step in.)
(Then again, when Bruce flicked his earpiece back on, they were bickering relentlessly about something completely unrelated, so maybe they would’ve missed Penguin’s plan, too.)