Archive of Our Own ^beta

They are on a date.

Clark stares at the greasy menu of Bibbo’s greasy dive and reminds himself of this fact. This is a date. They are out of costume. They are not on a case. They are not on a stakeout, or on a conference call, or in the process of a desperate fuck. They are clothed and upright and sitting across from each other at a table, out of uniform. Bruce even came all the way from Metropolis to meet him here. This is a date.

Clark fiddles with the edge of a stained placemat. Bruce is still looking at the menu. Clark wonders why he does. He gets the same thing every time they come here.  

They come here every time. 

Clark loves Bibbo’s, he truly does. The delicious pie, the crappy beer, the jolly company. The bar trivia nights every Tuesday. But enough of anything and you get sick of it.

They come here every time.

And Clark pretends not to know why- lies to himself. It’s the devil’s food cake, the quiet of the dead bar in the middle of the day, the way Bibbo pretends to never know who Bruce is.

No one knows who Bruce is, here. No one ever sees them here, this hole in the wall in the middle of the day. And if anyone did- well, no one ever takes a date to Bibbo’s.

Clark grits his teeth and reminds himself of what this is.

Bibbo himself comes to take their order- no one but him and the cook at this time of day.

“What’ll it be?” he says, rough and friendly, a thick Suicide Slum drawl on his tongue.

“The devil’s food.” Bruce says. As always.

“Apple pie.” Clark says. As always.

“Two checks.” Bruce says. As always.

“Coming right up.” Bibbo says, and sweeps away.

Clark sets his hat on the table and fiddles with the brim. What does it matter, anyway? What anyone else thinks?

Bruce looks at him.

“Clark,” he says softly.

“I know.”

Something flickers over Bruce’s face- regret. But sternness sweeps it away.

“You know why-”

“I know.” Clark says. He winces at the tinge of petulance in his voice. He’s not a child. Hell, he works in the media. He knows the press machine hungry for its next story, whether or not it is theirs to tell. He knows a public relations disaster waiting to happen.

Clark has never been good at waiting for disaster. He meets it head on, come what may.

Bruce’s hand reaches for his under the table. He squeezes gently. An apology. An order.

Clark squeezes back and tells himself he doesn’t care. 

oOo

They walk down the street, side by side. It is raining, a cold early December rain. 

“That was good.” Bruce says. 

Clark hums.

“It was good to see you.” Bruce says. “It’s always good to see you.”

Clark says nothing.

“I’ll come more often.” Bruce says.

He is trying.

“Thank you.” Clark says.

Bruce grimaces. “Don’t thank me.” he says. 

He stops.

“I got these for you,” Bruce says. He reaches into the pocket of his winter coat and pulls out a paper bag. Clark takes it, unwraps it with a crinkle. Peanuts, honey roasted. 

“They’re cold now.” Bruce says. 

Clark smiles. He lowers the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes, and subtly zaps the peanuts in his open palm. He pops one into his mouth, sizzling hot.

Bruce is glaring at him now.

“You are a fucking moron.”

“A moron with hot peanuts.” Clark grins impishly. He can see Bruce fighting the urge to laugh despite himself. He wacks him on the shoulder. Clark pretends to double over at the blow.

“Ow!” he says exaggeratedly.

“Laugh it up.” Bruce says. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Clark smiles

“Won’t you give a hand to a wounded man?” 

Bruce sighs and extends his hand. Clark takes it, pulling himself upright. Bruce looks at their clasped hands, out on the open street.

He doesn’t let go.

Clark smiles. He clutches tighter. Bruce squeezes back.

Then-

“Bruce Wayne?” says a voice.

Bruce tears his hand away.

“Lookalike,” Bruce says, pitching his voice high and not turning around. “I get that a lot.”

“Brucie! It is you!” The couple approaches arm in arm, a man and woman dressed to the nines. “Why I’d recognize you anywhere, old rascal!”

Bruce turns around now, stepping between Clark and the pair.

“Jack!” Bruce says, loud and welcoming, as if there’s no one else he’d rather see. He’s dropped the first false voice for a second. “And Janet! What are you doing here?”

“We could ask you the same, Brucie,” laughs Janet Drake, adjusting her dainty Hermes bag. Jack holds a gilt-handled umbrella over the two of them. “We’ve come for the charity ball for the Metropolis Art Academy. Little Timmy has been showing such an interest in photography lately- we’re beginning early.”

“Buy a building or two- that’s the way!” Jack says. “A splendid new library wing got me into Oxford. Why shouldn’t we foster the local options?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” says Bruce. “It took two new dorm buildings to get me into Yale. Much good it did me- I dropped out halfway through sophomore year.”

“Who’s this, Bruce?” Jack Drake asks, finally noticing Clark hanging back outside the conversation.

“Mr. Kent.” Bruce says. “Reporter for the Daily Planet.” He waves his hand dismissively. “We were just having a chat over lunch.”

“Oh Brucie, another scandal?” Janet laughs. “You dog! Jack and I will have to read it once it comes out.”

“Is that a fedora?” asks Jack Drake, looking Clark up and down. “Didn’t know they had come back into fashion.”

“They haven’t.” Clark says. “Or maybe they have. I don’t know. My father always wore a hat. It reminds me of him. Besides-” Clark gently touches the brim. “I just like it.”

Jack looks at him with the pitying indulgence of humoring a slow child or a senile old man.

“Charming!” he says.

“Oh Jack!” Bruce slaps him on the back, just a bit too hard. “Leave the poor man alone. Not everyone is a clotheshorse like you!” Bruce laughs, high and phony. Jack joins in.

“Speak for yourself- you dapper dandy!”

They laugh, and hug, and promise to meet up “Very soon, of course, darling!” Clark watches the pair walk away, out into a different world, one he is very much not wanted in.

Bruce turns back to him, the mask falling away. His hand twitches, half reaching out, before clenching and returning to his side. 

Clark shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking.

oOo

The date isn’t over. 

Bruce hasn’t left. He usually does at this hour- back in Gotham before nightfall. But it’s evening now and he’s still here. They walked down the avenue, through the park, through downtown. They comment on trees, and dogs, and people passing by. They don’t hold hands.

Clark tries not to mind. 

He does.

Where does he belong? Beyond these dates, where they hide their faces, their names, sit in a dive bar and don’t hold hands. It’s not fair to either of them. But it’s the world they live in.

What would another world look like?

He sees them in his mind’s eye- in the kind of restaurant where lovers go. The talk. The harassment. The crowds of mockers and sycophants that would dog him the second people know he’s Bruce’s, that Bruce is his. 

He sees the love too. 

“This is my husband,” the Bruce of his mind-scape says, and all the harsh colors and sharp glitter of that strange foreign world are swallowed up in that one word. One word.

Clark is strong. He can take it. That world is worth it it, for him.

In this world, Bruce walks beside him, talking of types of trees, and variations of fog, and the history of the typography of every street sign they pass. He doesn’t hold his hand.

Clark listens and says nothing. Some worlds are too far away to be reached.

Little does Clark know, strange worlds are closer than they appear. 

oOo

It’s all Wally’s fault.

They are walking along in Metropolis, Bruce talking of anything that might peak Clark’s interest- dogs and clouds and etymology- anything that might distract from the screaming deadly urge to grab Clark’s hand and tuck it into his pocket beside his own-when Wally runs up to them, in civvies no less, panting breathlessly.

“It’s chasing me,” he gasps.

“What is?” Clark asks, his attention entirely on the crisis at hand. Bruce too attempts to snap to mission focus, but the bubbling frustration at this rare private moment being interrupted threatens to boil over.

“It’s a thing.” Wally pants.

“A thing?” Clark says.

“A ripple.”

“A ripple.”

Wally nods frantically. “In the speedforce. I can’t explain it- it’s like a vibration. It wants to- to rip me apart. Rip me apart and spit me out somewhere else.”

“Any helpful information?” Bruce says.

“Stuff it, Bats.” Wally spats, before his eyes suddenly widen. “It’s here. It’s coming.” Wally's hands dig into the shoulders of their coats in an iron grip.

“Hold on now, let’s figure this out.” Clark says

“No time!” Wally says. “Here it comes!”

Bruce cannot see anything as Wally says, but he can certainly feel the disturbance. Wally was entirely accurate- it does feel like a ripple- a ripple that wants to rip them apart and spit them out somewhere else.

And that’s exactly what it does. 

oOo

“We're in Gotham!” Wally exclaims

“Not our Gotham.” Bruce grits.

“I've bought chocolate from that exact candy shop.” Wally points across the street.

Bruce stares fixedly at a rain-beaded street sign.

“That shop closed down three months ago.” he says “This entire block is four feet longer than it should be. And in our world-” 

The street sign shimmers in the rain. Bruce bows his head.

“In our world- there is no Lady Wayne Avenue.”

oOo

“I'm still going to buy some chocolate.” said Wally with dogged optimism.  “They were absolutely out-of-this-world in our universe, and I have no doubt they'll be in this one. Besides, dimension traveling has made me starving!”

He darts across the street at slightly faster than normal speed, accidentally splashing two teenage girls curiously dressed in oversized trenchcoats and fedoras.

“Watch it, asshole!” One snaps. “I paid $80 for this coat!” 

“You got robbed.” Wally retorts. “It doesn't even fit you! What's with the get-up anyway- you look like 1940's detectives.”

The girls gasp, grasping their fedoras indignantly.

“You must live under a rock!” One snarks. “This is the Gotham Lady look- oversized is the new chic!"

“Leave him, Ariana- he looks super single anyway.”

Clark snorts. The girls dart away, leaving Wally with a sour expression on his face. 

“I need chocolate for this burn,” he groans sarcastically, and enters the shop. Clark and Bruce follow.

oOo

“Watch it.” Bruce says. “Things may look like our world, but it certainly is not.”

“Yeah, we might have ended up in a universe where chocolate is great for dogs and poison for people.” Clark chimes.

“Why would there be a chocolate shop then?” Wally asks.

“Who knows? You should give me the first few pieces, just to be safe.”

“Haha, Clark.” Wally scoffs. “Nice try. Buy your own chocolate, lunkhead.” Wally turns to the cashier. “Six mega peanut bars, please! You still carry those, right?”

“Yes, we do.” smiles the cashier. Her clothes are normal sized, but like the girls outside, she also wears a hat, tilted daintily to the side. “Anything else?”

Wally lounges on the counter, smiling at the cashier.

 “What do you recommend?” he flirts.

Clark rolls his eyes. Bruce stares at the chocolate packaging, no doubt analyzing the different way ts were crossed in this universe.

The cashier blushes and says, “We just got in the new Lady Wayne chocolates! Just like in the Gotham Gazette!” 

Clark positions himself between Bruce and the cashier. Salt in the wound. He can feel Bruce stiffen behind his back, the stutter his heart makes. Wally winces.

Clueless, the cashier pulls out a package of chocolates from the display- a bright red box with gold trim.

“They're not the original Lady Waynes of course- those are made at MarieBelle Chocolatiers uptown- but ours are made in-house every day and we followed the description exactly!”

She opens the box to reveal dozens of little chocolates. “Milk chocolate outside, peanut and caramel center- simple, sweet, and so chic!” She pulls one out. The shape is softened, but it reminds Clark instantly of a bullet.

“I don't know-” Wally says awkwardly. “It seems a little insensitive to name a chocolate after a dead-”

Bruce slams a hundred dollar bill down on the counter, his face shrouded in his scarf. 

“Keep the change.” He says. “Let's go.”

He stalks out of the store. Wally snatches up the chocolate bars and bolts after him. Clark smiles apologetically at the cashier.

“Sorry about them.” He says. “They're both a bit- odd. Your chocolates sure sound delicious though.” He picks up the box with no intention of opening it, but loath to let food go to waste. “For what it's worth, peanuts are my favorite.”

oOo

Clark ignores the delicious smell and buries the box deep in his coat pocket. Bruce stalks ahead of him on the wet sidewalk, Wally further ahead of him, stuffing his mouth with chocolate and darting frightened looks behind him as if he expects Bruce to stab him with his eyes.

Clark catches up and walks alongside. Bruce says nothing. They walk side by side together,  silently.  Clark breathes out into the chilly air, his breath fogging. This is nice, just walking side by side with Bruce, no masks, no costumes, no identities but their own. Just two men, walking down the street, side by side. Clark could take his hand. 

He doesn’t.

“It's not my mother.” Bruce says.

Clark says nothing.

“The year is wrong. We're not back in time.” Bruce nods to a building across the street. “Wayne Memorial Hospital still exists. So does Batman.”

Bruce goes quiet. Clark walks beside him, and listens.

“She never liked peanuts.” Bruce says abruptly.

“Maybe she had a change of heart.” Clark says.

“No.” Bruce says. “This doesn't seem to be a significantly alternate universe. The speed force slip that got us here was not very powerful.  We're likely no more than several frequencies away from our own world. Most things are still the same. Making contact with the Batman of this world should give us access to the resources to get back to our world while causing minimum disturbance in this one.” 

Clark grips the package in his pocket, little delicious chocolate bullets rattling in their shells.

“Lady Wayne.” He says. “Why that name?”

“One of two options. One, my mother did more charity work in this world independently of my father, enough to secure a separate name for herself and a knighthood.  Or, the more likely option, a simple change of chromosome or brain chemistry in her only child.”

“You said Batman still exists in this world.” Clark says.

“A strategic decision to throw enemies off of my identity.  I likely would have chosen it regardless.” Bruce says. “It does make certain things easier- More plausible deniability. I would have been allowed to dedicate myself more seriously to my philanthropic work without arousing suspicion of my nighttime activities.”

“But you hate peanuts.” Clark says. “You pick them out of your trail mix and give them to me.”

“The peanuts are negligible.” Bruce says. “Bruce Wayne has always lied to the media about his preferences. No, the facts are clear. In this universe-” Bruce pulls his scarf further over his face, “I am Lady Wayne.”

oOo

“I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.” Wally chants under his breath as he speedwalks down the street.

Not speedwalks speedwalks. He doesn’t abuse his powers that much, screw whatever Batman says. So what if he presses fast forward a few times to get across a crosswalk or two? Clark does the same thing! Clark does worse! Clark flies to Italy for gelato in the summer! And Bats doesn't nag him about it that-

Or rather, Bats does, but in that fond tone that everyone else in the league definitely doesn't notice or mention, no way, no siree! No old-couple bickering comment from Wally, never, not ever! 

At least, never where the big bad bat can hear.

Wally glances behind himself again, only to see the pair, two twin grains of rice side by side several blocks down. 

Well, he must have speedwalked more than he thought.

Dammit.

Wally crosses his arms and leans against the side of the very fancy department store he's happened to find himself next to. The doorman gives him a sideways look, but seeing he has no cardboard sign or can with him, decides to leave him be for now. Wally glares right back at him, before turning back to glance at where Clark and Bruce still walk, far, far in the distance.

“Slowpokes.” Wally grumbles. “This isn't lover's lane, you know.”

A cab pulls screeching up to the department store. Out bundle two figures, wearing black raincoats and carrying cameras. They practically fall onto the curb in their haste.

“Are we the first ones here? We're the first ones here!” gasps one, clinging to their camera.

“Not for long we're not.” grits the other.

Wally watches as another pair of reporters pound down the street, shoes splashing through puddles of cold rain, cameras bouncing at the ends of straps. They stop short in front of the other pair, bristling.

“Globe,” snarks one.

“Gazette,” retorts the other. “Slow as always.”

“You don't need to scramble when you have sophistication,” responds the Gazette reporter. She also wears a fedora hat, black and tilted like the cashier's, like the teen girls who had crossed the street. “That's how you get exclusives like we do.”

“Oh choke on your chocolates, Summer Gleeson!” snaps the other reporter. “You didn’t even do that interview! That was Vicki Vale!”

“Which she only did because I was unavailable.”

“Ha! If Lady Wayne had actually wanted an interview with you, I bet damn well you would have made yourself available.”

A motorcycle pulls up with another reporter. A man sweeps off the bike.

“Who tipped you off, Alexander?” snorts Summer  “Does anyone even read The Luna anymore?”

“Lovely as always to see you Miss Gleeson.” snarks Alexander. 

More reporters begin to swarm the department store entrance, umbrellas shielding cameras and microphones. The doorman looks grim. Wally watches the budding squabble with interest.

“You are nothing more than a glorified tabloid. Not worthy of the Princess of Gotham,” says Summer. 

“And guess who came up with that nickname?” Alexander grins.

“The Globe published it the same day!” 

“But we posted first! Suck my dick, Gloria!”

“You can suck mine!”

“Who cares,” grumbles a young reporter, lugging a heavy camera. “It's all just celebrity trash anyway.” His older colleague smacks his shoulder.

“Show some respect.” He spits. “Mrs. Wayne is no mere celebrity. She has done more service and kindness to this city than you can rightfully understand. Now fix the focus- everything you shot last night was useless.”

“She's coming!” cries a young reporter from the edge of the crowd. “She's coming!”

A smart black car drives down the street. The crowd falls silent, fighting and jostling for position. Wally turns and finds himself hemmed in from all sides, reporters and cameras and Gotham citizens all jockeying for a look. The doorman shouts-“I ask you all to leave immediately! Disperse! Disperse!” but the crowd pays no heed. 

The car pulls up to the door. The crowd falls silent. The door opens. 

“Lady Wayne! Lady Wayne!” The crowd cries out, cameras flashing. Wally is shoved by the wall of bodies as multiple doormen and bellboys from the store push the reporters back.

Out first is a flash of white hair- Wally can barely see, but he'll bet his life that's Agent A- aka Alfred, aka the best maker of breakfast muffins he's ever encountered.  Out of the second door pops Dick, looking the same he does in Wally's universe, smiling that perfect minty fresh press smile. A few voices cry out “Mr. Grayson!” and the cameras flash. Dick and Alfred both circle round to the car doors, the doormen holding the crowd back. A few stray camera flashes go off as Vicki Vale steps out of the car, looking triumphant, and after her, oddly, is Lois Lane. 

“There you are, Summer.” says Vicki. “However did you find us? I certainly didn't tip you.”

“Whoever summoned these vultures should be sued.” Lois says. “It's a shopping trip, not a press summit. You make me ashamed of my profession. I know your bosses! Don't you have anything better to do?”

Dick laughs, his indulgent rich man press laugh. “What can we do? They love us!” He turns and ducks his head inside the car. “Come on out, mother- I'm sorry about the fuss, but what can you do?”

Wally watches as a single black heel steps out cautiously onto the Gotham pavement.  The cameras flash. A long leg under a simple ankle-length pleated skirt, a oversized suit-jacket belted at the waist, and a wide brimmed black hat over all. 

Lady Wayne tilts the brim to shield her face and steps out of the car blind, guided by her son. She towers over Dick and Lois in height, a good six foot and more in heels. Dick leads her forward, one step, another, then she stumbles against the curb. Dick catches her. Cameras flash. 

“Thank you, Dick.” she says, in a tone warm and familiar and not at all like Batman's or Bruce's or even the glittering Brucie's. 

Wally watches, eyes to the tilted hat that has everyone in this mixed up world mesmerized

“Lady Wayne! Lady Wayne!” cry the crowd.

The hat tilts up.

The cameras flash, flash, and flash again, clicking and snapping to capture every moment of that face. That face that Wally KNOWS.

A little softer around the jaw, just a touch, a little reddened at the lips, but that dark curled hair, that cleft chin, those shocking sky-blue eyes-

The cameras flash, the doormen push, and the crowd parts for Mrs. Clarke Wayne, the Princess of Gotham.