Chapter Text
People seemed to forget being dumb, clueless and clumsy was a cover for Clark Kent. They seemed to forget that even without the cape, he held two pulitzers and a small collection of other minor awards for his work as an investigative journalist. The people that only knew him as Superman seemed to forget that he had grown up on earth. They would give him sideways glances when he mentioned the football game last week, growing suspicious and tense. They forgot that the god-like hero standing before them was playing football in his front yard before he even knew he was an alien.
Sometimes, when discussing last week’s game with Mike the hotdog vendor on 4th, passerbys would give him weird looks. Well, of course they all gave him weird looks. Superman was buying a hotdog. But it wasn’t about the hotdog with some of them, Clark realized after the 2nd visit. They found it surprising that he ate food at all. One older woman, a mother, approached him and Mike tentatively with that sickly sweet smile he recognizes oh so well from similar women in Kansas. She approached and said “You know Superman, we’ll like you even if you don’t eat food, or know what football is.” She stank of superiority, and a hint of fear. From her fingertips wafted the scent of a clementine. Did she think she was helping, Clark wondered. He considered ignoring her, turning back to Mike and telling him that Sarah was sure to get into Princeton, and he would be happy to write a letter of recommendation, but Clark was Superman, not Batman. He couldn’t ignore things he didn’t like by scowling and pretending he didn’t notice whatever pointless opinion someone tried to peddle. So he turned, smiling that perfect, Superman smile, and explained to the woman that he was just a big fan of Mike’s hotdog, and was just so hungry after flying to Oregon earlier today to deal with that pesky little wildfire. “But thank you for the concern,” he continued, all smiles and feigned attentiveness. By the time he had finished sating the woman’s worries, Mike was done grilling his hotdog, and had even added the toppings he knew Superman enjoyed. Clark pulled 5 dollars from the sleeve of his suit, and grabbed a water. Soda would just explode everywhere when he tried to open it after flying. “Keep the change,” he said to Mike, before flying above Metropolis to eat his hotdog in peace.
Those looks , that phony worry about his pop culture knowledge and whether or not he had to pretend was exhausting, once he realized it was happening. Nightwing had once asked him if he knew who the spice girls were. Funnily enough, it was other immigrants in Metropolis who tended to understand it the best. While he calmly explained to this person or the next that yes, he did need to breathe, just not as often, and yes, he does have a birthday, and yes, he does know what the Bachelor is but no, he doesn’t watch it, it was other immigrants which shared an exhausted look with him. A look that said “I'm tired of validating myself at every turn with every person I meet.” He was thankful for their casual comradery, when he received it.
Frustratingly, it was Batman who gave him those looks most of all. Suspicious at every turn, every comment, every Star Wars reference and every idiom. He would give the alien before him a look of hatred and suspicion. He looked at Superman like he was a puzzle in need of immediate solving--like he was lying. Clark would hate it if he wasn’t so used to it by now.
As far as Clark knew, Batman didn’t know that Superman was Clark Kent--not yet, at least (it was only a matter of time, he supposed). Superman knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne, however. It wasn’t hard, in retrospect, for Clark to unravel the secret of Gotham’s Bat. He had to be rich to afford all the gadgets. He was a white man in his late thirties, early forties. Exceptional physical condition, blue eyes. He worked with an older british man, or more specifically, an older british man worked for him, if the constant ‘sirs’ were any indication. Okay, the last one may have been aided in part by Clark’s super hearing, but Clark was a journalist, and would be a fool to turn down any lead. He likely lived in Gotham and led a secretive lifestyle. It took Clark a week of true investigative journalism before he was sure.
He never gave any indication he knew--he figured that would only lead to a huge fight, with hurt feelings and accusations of betrayal thrown around for no reasonable reason. So, he continued as normal. On the rare occasion Clark Kent was sent to a Gotham gala or charity event in which Bruce Wayne would be in attendance, he avoided the man. Until today, Clark had never run into the illustrious playboy billionaire.
Today, however, luck and careful avoidance didn’t seem to be on his side. He ran into Bruce Wayne in the bathroom of all places. They weren’t alone, thank god. A man stood stiffly in the corner holding towels, and two business men with suits more expensive than Clark’s apartment chatted about the S&P 500 while washing their hands. Bruce was peeing, surveying his surroundings under a guise of a drunken eye wandering. Really, once you knew the secret, it wasn’t too hard to see through his facade. His habit of wearing suits everywhere he went wasn’t just a projection of wealth, but a way to conceal the various scars he had surely amassed over the years. The idiot playboy attitude kept him from being taken too seriously, and it allowed him to be spontaneous in his actions--cancelling plans 3 minutes before they were supposed to take place, buying the Daily Planet on a tuesday afternoon, leaving a function early due to drunkeness. It was genius, and oh so fragile, Clark thought as he heard urine splash against the ceramic bowl two urinals over. Clark hated public restrooms. If he let his senses wander or focus on anything in the room, he was surely to gag. He had made the mistake once in high school, pent up and angry about something, storming into the boys bathroom in 5th period, after lunch. He vomited past the sink after noticing the particles of fecal matter floating in the air all around him, smelling the acidic urine and period blood deeper in the pipes, past where they connected with the women’s toilets. He was loath to make the same mistake again.
“You’re Clark Kent,” the billionaire said, still peeing, pulling Clark from his thoughts, “the reporter, right?”
There was no reason for Bruce Wayne or Batman to know who Clark Kent was individually. Perhaps , thought Clark, lazily, Bruce had finally figured it all out .
Another thing people tended not to expect from Superman: he was a very good liar. This wasn’t his first rodeo, as his Pa had liked to say when Clark was younger, he had been doing this whole Superman thing for a while now, and knew how to think on his feet. Luckily, he wasn’t in any hot water quite yet, and he could respond to the billionaire like any reporter would.
To say he ‘put on’ his best ‘naive and starstruck reporter’ face on in response to Bruce’s question would be a lie--he had been playing the part since he left his apartment and headed to Gotham for this ridiculous assignment. Therefore, there was no adjustment to his person when Clark said, with a hint of ‘who, me?’ in his inflection, “er… yes! It's a pleasure.” He even held out his hand for a handshake, before awkwardly lowering it back to his dick, shaking it out and shoving it back in his pants. He would have laughed at himself if he wasn’t so proud of his own helpless performance.
Bruce returned in kind, snorting drunkenly at the gesture, before, Clark assumed by the sound of a zipper and the quiet shuffling, shoving his own dick back into his pants. Clark didn’t feel the need to use his x-ray vision to check; Some things could be inferred, or didn’t need to be known at all. Bruce hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, of course, Clark would have smelled it. The two men discussion the stock market had each had at least 3 champagnes each, and the employee in the corner had had a swig of vodka in the last 40 minutes, likely from the asian server he passed earlier, who had a small flask tucked in the inner left breast pocket of her uniform. The smell had permeated some of the other younger employees upon his initial stroll through the venue. Hey, at least she was sharing. No, Bruce had had nothing but ginger ale tonight, and those little cake-pops from the ostentatious cake-pop tree over at the dessert table. Chocolate raspberry, by the smell of it. They were both washing their own hands now, Clark noticed, the two men discussing stocks long gone.
After he had washed his hands, Clark turned back to his ally and fellow crimefighter, and introduced himself.
“Sorry about--” he gestured awkwardly to the urinal with one hand, rubbing the back of his neck with the other, “Anyways, it's nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand, which Bruce took with a flash of humor in his eyes. Clark could always gauge his heartbeat, he reasoned. Try to figure out if Bruce knew by examining the scent his sweat left, the dilation of his eyes, the way he breathed, the speed of his heart as it pumped blood. But, he figured, this was more of a challenge, and it kept him on his toes. Plus, the last thing he wanted to do was get lost in the examination of one Bruce Wayne, and find himself having looked too interested in the seconds it would take him. No, he decided, he would play this like anyone else would.
Bruce waved off the apology, meeting Clark’s hand with a firm grip. Clark did not match the grip, wincing ever so slightly. God, I am really playing this up , he thought, wiping his wet hands on his suit pants after pretending to assume there were no towels, before looking at the boy in the corner and pretending to bashfully put two and two together. If Bruce did know this was all an act,he must be enjoying the show at least, Clark reasoned.
“While I have you,” Clark asked, as the two walked out of the bathroom themselves, “Do you mind giving me a quote for the Daily Planet? I don’t think I’m getting reimbursed for my taxi fare unless I get at least one important person to impart their wisdom tonight,” Clark joked, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand again. He probably would have rubbed through the bone by now had he been human, with as often as he did it in an attempt to look sheepish.
“Someone on my staff has submitted a quote, I’m sure,” Bruce slurred. With every moment that passed, Clark felt himself be examined further by a seemingly uninterested and inebriated gaze. Clark was left to wonder if he was catching onto something, or if he did this to everyone. Either way, he could feel himself be dissected under the man’s gaze. It wasn’t necessarily a new feeling, he worked with some of the best journalists in the world as a day job, and with suspicious civilians and brooding and untrusting vigilantes in his spare time. Still, it was almost unnerving, if he wasn’t so excited at the prospect. What if he figured it out tonight? Would he tell Clark that he knew his little secret? Or would he hold it in like Clark has, use it as a weapon when it would be most effective? And what if he already knew, and Bruce’s examination was working towards the same thing Clark’s was--confirmation, curiosity.
It was all rather fascinating.
All too quick, it ended. A woman with sharp eyes and a slim dress approached, pulling Bruce away to the open bar.
When Clark clamored out of the taxi much later that night, he heard Bruce’s heartbeat in his apartment. So he had figured it out, then.
Still, he played the role. He was sitting on Clark’s couch when he approached the door. There didn’t seem to be any listening devices or guns or kryptonite set up, Clark noted with a quick sweep of his x-ray vision--he figured it was fair game in his own apartment. Bruce had his phone in his left pocket, and an earpiece, which had Alfred on the other line, breathing softly and typing something Clark didn’t have the energy to figure out at the moment. So, he pretended to fumble with and drop his keys under a guise of exhaustion, and entered his apartment after a quiet curse, just to let Bruce know he was here, in case he didn’t know already.
He even pretended to be scared for a moment, freezing while he shrugged off his coat, laughing awkwardly at the figure on his couch, “Mr. Kratz? This isn’t your apartment. You live on the next floor up,” he said to the figure.
“We both know I look nothing like Mr. Kratz, Clark,” said Bruce, rising from his couch and dusting non-existent dust from his trousers.
Had it been earlier in the day, perhaps Clark would have kept up the little role. He found it fun, at times, to play useless and dimwitted. But it was late, and the shadows of drowsiness were starting to descend. Plus, he was in his own damn apartment. So instead, he sighed, and headed for the fridge.
“Would you like a ginger ale, Bruce?” he asked, allowing the cool air from the fridge to wash over his face.