Chapter Text
Blinding lights, a dozen jostling bodies, voices lost in the ringing chorus of questions, all the same. Bruce holds his breath and does his best to descend the steps of the courthouse without meeting anyone’s eyes. He’s nearly to the car waiting at the curb when one voice breaks through the static noise of the rest.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wayne! If I could just get a moment of your time—”
In all honesty, Bruce isn’t entirely sure what it is that compels him to turn around, exactly. Maybe some latent sense of familiarity with the voice in his ear—strange, given he can’t place ever having heard it before—or maybe the bruised ribs that still echo with last night’s aches with each inhale, leaving his footfalls heavy and his temper short. Either way, Bruce Wayne doesn’t speak to reporters—hardly speaks at all—and when he turns around, it’s a surprise to them both; his own clearly reflected in big blue eyes and a vaguely slack-jawed expression, like the man clutching his notebook haphazardly, glasses askew and halfway down his nose, wasn’t really expecting to be acknowledged one way or another.
Fair enough, Bruce thinks, he wasn’t exactly planning on it either.
Before he can interrogate his own reasoning any further, the reporter shakes off the moment and introduces himself as, “Clark Kent, with the Daily Planet,” and when he glances down at his notepad, fighting with the damp pages so he might find one dry enough to keep notes, his glasses slip far enough down that they begin to fall. He manages to catch them, just a little too swiftly, and privately, Bruce muses over whether or not talking to him would really break his streak of avoiding the press, given the man standing in front of him is very clearly Superman.
Bruce could never be accused of having a terribly apt sense of humour, but the absurdity of having Metropolis’ golden boy and saviour standing in front of him in a soggy suit jacket and fogged-up glasses is almost enough to make him want to laugh.
“Would you like an interview, Clark Kent?”
Bruce speaks quietly enough that anyone else would struggle to hear him over the crowd, the weather, the traffic, but of course, Clark hears him just fine, nodding down at him with wide, eager eyes that telegraph clear surprise, despite the fact that he seems to have too much temerity to be anything but delighted at the turn of events.
“That would be just—”
“Come with me.”
Bruce doesn’t look back again, ducking into the car—door already held open for him—while he waits for Kent to shuffle in beside him. This is stupid, probably—definitely—but those who know him best wouldn't be likely to describe him as a man with a wonderful track record of good decision making, and he’s too curious not to tug at this thread now that the opportunity has presented itself.
Once the door is shut and they’ve pulled away from the curb, Bruce takes a moment to observe the so-called man of steel. In the leather interior confines of the town car, he looks almost awkward. A little oversized for the space he’s in, curls damp and frayed by the drizzle outside, suit wrinkled by a vaguely ill-fit. The strangest part of him, though, is the face. It’s off, somehow, even though Bruce knows this is the same man he spoke to only seconds ago on the steps of the courthouse, and the same man he’s seen on the news countless times over the last four years.
It feels impossible to figure out the precise nature of what’s changed, what’s not fitting the way it’s supposed to, and then Clark reaches up to wipe at his fogged lenses with his sleeve and it hits him—the glasses.
“Let me clean those for you,” he offers, reaching up to motion to the thick-rimmed glasses the other man is fruitlessly trying to wipe clean, leaving streaks behind with the sleeve of his suit jacket.
“Oh, don’t worry about—”
“I insist.” This time, Bruce reaches for them for real—rude, perhaps, but it’s a non-issue when he’s following a hunch this strong—and Clark flinches back so sharply it’s all the confirmation Bruce needs. He lets his hand fall. Clark clears his throat.
“That’s—that’s kind of you, Mr. Wayne, but you really don’t need to trouble yourself, they’re fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am,” he smiles, winning, both familiar and not. It makes something sweet clog the back of Bruce’s throat. He does his best to swallow the feeling while the other man shifts in his seat like he’s trying to make himself a little smaller, less obtrusive. With a stature like that, Bruce might’ve expected him to lean into his size instead, go for some kind of intimidation, but knowing he’s—well, he doesn’t exactly seem the type. “You said something about an interview?”
“I did,” Bruce allows, settling back into the seat. “So what brings you to Gotham, Mr. Kent?”
Across from him, the Clark Kent grins. “It’s not my interview, Mr. Wayne, but since you asked so kindly, I’m here on business. But I’m sure you guessed as mch already, right?” He gestures between them, a little bashful. Strange. It doesn’t really answer Bruce’s question, but then, he wasn’t really expecting it to. After all, it’s not really Clark Kent’s reasoning for being here he’s concerned about.
“For me, you mean.”
“For the story,” Clark corrects, very earnestly. Bruce isn’t entirely sure what to do with that.
“Sure.” For a moment, neither of them speak, unsure of how to proceed past the strange lull in conversation. It’s just the rain—heavier, now—beating down on the roof of the car and the steady stream of traffic outside.
“Well,” Clark starts, bold and brash, clearly determined to push past the awkwardness with his too-bright smile and affable attitude, “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Wayne, and I’d hate to hold you up. Is it alright if I get started?”
“Go ahead.”
While most of his focus is on the man himself, and trying to think of what really brought him to Gotham, a not-insignificant part of Bruce is waiting for the acrid creep of distaste that always crawls up his throat and spills down his tongue when he speaks to the press, and so it takes him by surprise when Kent proves relatively painless to speak to.
“Alright, well…it’s been quite a few years since the Wayne Foundation was active, and just as long since it was helmed by an actual member of the Wayne family. What inspired the change? Is there a specific cause you’re hoping to champion?”
At that, Bruce can’t help but let out a silent laugh, not as bitter as it might’ve been in the past, but not entirely without sourness, either.
“I’m not looking to champion anything.” Kent only nods. Bruce shifts in his seat, forces himself to continue. “A few years ago, someone pointed out to me that I could be doing more for the city. I took that to heart.”
A few years and a thousand lives. Enough time to teach him that money can still accomplish things justice alone cannot.
“Who was it that—”
“Pass.”
“Pass?” For whatever reason, Clark looks amused. For even less decipherable reasons, Bruce finds his reaction just as amusing in turn.
“Pass.”
“Okay, then why now? You say that was a few years ago, so why wait all this time before doing something about it?”
“It took me a while to understand how right they were,” Bruce answers honestly. “And even once I did, these things take time. If…if I can’t personally oversee everything the foundation handles, I need to trust the people who will. It takes a long time to find people like that.”
“I imagine it must,” Clark agrees. There’s a warmth to his voice, a sincerity that Bruce wants to shake off. “And a cause…?”
“There are several, but I’d—I’ll be personally managing the construction of a new orphanage.” He pauses and waits for the typical, none-too-furtive glean of recognition to appear in the other man’s eyes, but it never comes. Instead, Clark nods, a more outright acknowledgement, and waits for Bruce to continue. Slowly, he does. “The city’s social services are underfunded and overburdened,” he explains. “We don’t have adequately resourced care for the kids who need it most. If we fail them, that’s what defines our community, and…I believe the city deserves better than that.”
“Of course. I imagine that’s a fairly personal cause?”
“They’re all personal, Mr. Kent. Gotham is my home.”
“Of course. Of course, I’m sorry, I only meant you must relate—”
“I don’t,” Bruce cuts him off, a touch too harsh. He’s not angry, just—tired. He continues, more measured, “I can’t. I might understand grief, but the kids we’re trying to help face hardships I never have. That’s why I’m doing this. I won’t—we can’t let them slip through the cracks.” Not again. Not anymore.
Clark is looking at him a little wide-eyed, but it’s not the same look he’s seen other reporters get every time every time his parents are brought up, somewhere between a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar and a shark smelling blood in the water. No, this expression is different, and in the same breath, Bruce both remembers who he’s talking to and realizes he’d almost allowed himself to forget.
Superman.
How much does he really understand?
Before Kent can ask another question, Bruce continues, trying to ground himself but feeling more unmoored with each word. He’s not used to going on this long, and he’s more out of practice than he realized, it seems. “We need to do more to support young families in general. I’m also planning on heading-up our efforts to create more social infrastructure and housing for struggling parents.” An old wound pangs under his ribs. Dark eyes and a sharp tongue, a little girl whose only purpose in life was in looking back at what she’d already lost. Too familiar, but still never quite known. Bruce clears his throat, and his mind with it. “Too many of our citizens put themselves in dangerous situations trying to put food on the table, which only leads to more children without homes to go back to. I want…I don’t want to apply a band-aid to the situation, I want to root out the cause and fix it for good.”
Bruce takes a heavy breath, already feeling like he’s spoken too much. Clark must sense the shift in his demeanour, because rather than prodding further, he smiles gently and nods.
“I have to say, Mr. Wayne, I think anyone would be hard-pressed not to believe you when you say every cause is personal for you if they got to hear you talk the way I just did.”
That doesn’t sound like much of a question, Bruce thinks of saying, but before he can open his mouth, the car comes to a screeching halt, throwing them both forward—Bruce catches himself against the seat in front of him with one hand and instinctively throws the other arm out across Clark’s chest, then decides he can figure out how foolish to feel about it later—and the sounds of shrill screams and blaring horns fill the air outside.
Jaw tight, Bruce stares intently out the window, trying to make out the scene through the chaos while he fights the rising itch under his collar, urging him to move.
He chances a glance back at Clark and sees the same need he feels written across the other man’s face.
They both need out, now, and Bruce isn’t quite ready to give himself up just yet.
“Cut through the parking garage, take the sidewalk if you have to. We’ll drop Mr. Kent at City Hall,” he turns to the reporter, “You’ll be safe there.” He won’t—he wouldn’t, rather, if he were anyone else, but he’s not. He’s Superman, and he’s clearly grateful enough for the early exit that he doesn’t question Bruce’s eagerness to get rid of him amidst whatever ongoing calamity has befallen the city.
City Hall is only a few blocks away, and Bruce is suited-up and pounding the pavement within minutes of the door slamming shut behind Clark. Despite how quickly he’s moving, it feels like an eternity between leaving the car and entering the fray, and just as he rounds the corner to throw himself at the chaos unfolding in the heart of the city, a red and blue streak bolts overhead, and Bruce’s heart kicks with something dangerously close to excitement, however unwanted.