Archive of Our Own ^beta

Superman was Clark Kent. It wasn't hard to put two and two together when every other time Superman saved the day, Clark Kent (and Clark Kent only) would get an elusive interview with the heroic Kryptonian. Not to mention that, if one had their suspicions already, the glasses weren't the greatest disguise, especially to the Batman.

It really bothered Clark that Batman knew. Bruce could tell by the pout that formed whenever Bruce called him Mr.Kent, and Clark had no rebuttal. Every time Bruce sat him down, and went to take off his mask, Clark would stop him, insistent on figuring it out himself, but unlike Clark, Bruce Wayne took great care in managing his persona. Millionaire Play boy, on the cover of Gotham magazines delivered to the front doors of many admirers who never had a chance with the one and only Bruce Wayne, but liked to pretend they did. He smiled and winked at the cameras shoved in his face, and spun into suave dances with beautiful women and men who giggled more at the brush with his wealth displayed in his tidy, expensive suits, than close contact with him, the man too old to party and flirt as he did. It was all cultivated to make him, of all people, the least likely to be the serious, elusive Batman who spoke mostly in grunts and fists.

It wasn’t as if Clark didn’t adjust his behaviour to hide his identity: his voice deeper and more solid, posture straighter, smile brighter, but Bruce Wayne just wasn’t the type of guy to be a superhero in ways that a little less confidence couldn't match up to in the sense of a disguise. It’d been more than a couple weeks, encroaching more on a couple months really, and Bruce was beginning to feel their current arrangement was just as unfair as Clark did.

Batman had read the few articles that Clark Kent had written about Bruce Wayne. None of them painted him in a great light, but that was the intended purpose of the persona. And Batman, on numerous occasions, had made fun of Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor to his co-hero, his lackluster serious tone. Superman trusted Batman, and if Batman didn’t like someone, then there’s a good chance Superman didn’t either, even if he pretended to. That’s how they worked. The united fronts against the threats of the two most dangerous cities in America. 

Finishing the third and final article, Bruce realised that, no, Superman would not be working it out any time soon. It described him as a “Nepo baby whose executives ran his company,” and didn't have the nicest photo of Bruce as its cover image (he'd been playing air guitar at a charity event while pretending to be drunk). Bruce almost wanted to print them up and frame them, Superman was a talented journalist with the usual mean streak his profession required, even if the Blue Boy scout was nothing but sunshine and rainbows usually. 

Bruce decided it was time to right the situation, make it easy for Superman to work it out. It would start with an email. 

Bruce Wayne's personal email landed in Clark's inbox in the early morning as he sipped his far too sweet coffee and scooted through the words sent to him by coworkers and bosses and the occasional regular citizen suggesting he put his expertise on a particular subject. Fixing his glasses and pursing his lips to read it, the usual disdain for the owner of Wayne Enterprises seeped in. It started with “Dear Clare Kent”, whether an intentional form of degradation in the form of Bruce Wayne's spelling or a high amount of faith in his autocorrect, it ticked Clark off. It invited him to Wayne Manor for dinner, an interview with the prestigious Mr.Wayne himself about his company. Not his life, love life, or anything of the such, his company. This was something rarely afforded to reporters, Bruce dodged questions about it and often uttered replies that implied he didn't have any dealings in the business aspects though he attempted to sound as though he did. Still, few pressed, it was honestly one of the least interesting things about the man to the average reporter. Clark was intrigued for a moment. Clark assumed it was sent in relation to his most recent article on the man, detailing him as an incompetent business owner, and would have dismissed it after his brief curiosity.. “Would” being the key term, because as Clark began to do so, he noticed that Perry White, his supervisor, had been C.C-ed. Almost on command, as Clark read the name, the man was summoned from the other side of the room. 

“Don't the celebrities and heroes love you,” the older man said, fixing his suspenders with hands that made him look to work in a blue collar field with callouses and picked skin. “Yeah. A little too much these days,” Clark replied in a small, defeated voice as he pushed his glasses up his nose with his palm. Perry patted his shoulder. “Looks like you're off to Gotham. On company dime, of course,” Perry reassured, though it felt of little comfort to Clark. He would have just flown, in all honesty. Clark nodded, “yes, Mr.White,” he said, hitting reply on the email, and beginning to draft an email he knew wouldn’t be particularly polite. 

Bruce chuckled at the email he received back, which included 2 different misspellings of his own name (Bruce Wane and Bryce Wayne), but also included a confirmation for a dinner for the Thursday of the next week. 

Clark looked up at the tall mansion, which was built of tall pale brick. It was like a castle, with its own fountain in the centre of the round driveway in the front of the building. There was damage to the roof, from what seemed to be small downward forces repeatedly placed in one spot. There were big lights on the top hidden behind a curved, tiled roof. He had been let out by the taxi driver for some time now, but had been fiddling with his camera so he wasn’t early. He snapped photos of the curved-top front door with old door knockers and flowers carved into the old wood, and of the towering roofs with black shingles and decorative edges. It made Clark question if he was into architecture, or maybe covering it in a journalistic capacity. That would stop people like Bruce Wayne reaching out to him, someone so annoying that he’d ended up in the bad books of Batman. He lifted his camera and snapped another photo of the door and it’s seemingly relatively new, or perhaps well maintained bat-shaped knockers, right as someone opened it. An older man, much older, with white hair and a perfectly combed mustache in a suit that looked like a piece of historical costuming. 

“Mr.Kent, are you intending to come inside?” Clark felt the embarrassment settle in his stomach, and he smiled nervously, fixing his glasses with the bottom of his palm. The man had a slight English accent, watered down by years surrounded by the American one. Or perhaps it was due to an intentional shift. Clark was unsure. 

“Uh, yeah, yes sir,” he sputtered, “just taking pictures for the article.” Clark waved his camera that hung on the end of a black ribbon around his neck. The man nodded, folding his arms behind his back. 

“I didn’t realise the manor was pertinent to an article about Wayne Enterprises,” the older man said, in a way that made Clark feel weirdly exposed and inferior. Clark laughed nervously, and approached the door the man held open. “Welcome, Mr.Kent. I’m Alfred Pennyworth, Master Wayne’s butler. Master Wayne is in the downstairs second lounge.” This house was massive. Clark offered Alfred his hand to shake, and Alfred glanced at it, his eyes scrutinizing it, before he accepted it. 

“I’m Clark, Clark Kent,” Clark said, knowing Alfred obviously knew who he was. A man close to Bruce Wayne likely would, as Clark had written one of the most prominent and read articles on Bruce Wayne released. But also, Bruce’s butler was likely in charge of his scheduling, and therefore this event. Clark shook off his pride at the realisation that there was no certainty this man had read his work, and if he had, it was certain he did not approve. That would explain the look of distaste that was on Alfred’s face.
“I’m aware. Follow me.” Clark did not argue, both because he possessed no reason to argue and because he was slightly afraid of Alfred. Something about the man was deeply intimidating. 

The inside of Wayne Manor was just as ornate and beautiful as the outside. It had pale walls that were half-wainscotted with dark wood below delicate paintings of the family, past and present. The floors were run with red carpets, and the halls were filled with doors and archways, and a few slim tables holding potted flowers and decorative pottery. Alfred stopped in front of a large archway, looking into a study. “Mr.Wayne is waiting for you,” he said, nodding towards the large chairs sat in front of the fireplace mantle. A fire was running, which Clark was glad for; the home was quite drafty for all its extravagance. 

Clark thanked him and stepped into the study, writing down Alfred’s name and things he noticed about the man. “Mr.Wayne?” The room seemed mostly empty, and quiet, and for a moment gave no reply to Clark’s call. 

“Come in!” Bruce Wayne finally bubbled, standing from the chair that dwarfed even his large stature and had hid him from view. Bruce Wayne was 6’1”, but for some unknown reason was wearing platforms that made him closer to Clark’s height of 6'4”. Clark knew few people who looked him in the eye that weren’t in their twenties, the most prominent example being Batman…though Batman also wore platforms, didn’t he? Clark didn’t comment as he walked forward and placed his hand out to shake Bruce’s, who gave him his usual smirk and shook his hand. “Nice to finally have the pleasure of meeting you, Clark,” the rich man expressed. Clark nodded, despite them having met numerous times before. Perhaps Bruce Wayne had been too drunk to remember. 

“Of course, Mr.Wayne.” Bruce chuckled softly, patting Clark’s arm like they were close friends, and he didn’t move his hands when he finished the action. 

“No, no, Bruce, please.” Clark nodded, taking a glance over the other man. Bruce was wearing eyeliner, pretty thickly in his waterline. It suited him, but furthermore it struck Clark as familiar. His suit was nice and expensive, with a bat pinned into the lapel to keep it in place, along with the small rose that adorned the navy fabric. 

They settled in the chairs. They had dark red upholstery, with small black swirls. They were soft and comfortable and no doubt expensive and old. “So, Bruce,” Clark started, placing a recorder on the small wooden table sat between the two armchairs. “Your company, Wayne Enterprises, how do you say, runs the day-to-day operations?” he asked, writing down short foot notes of his questions. 

“What would you like for dinner?” Bruce dodged, looking over his shoulder to where Alfred stood eerily still, watching their interview. Attempted interview. Bruce undid the top button of his white shirt, “We’re having shepard’s pie, but if you’re okay with a late dinner, I’m sure we can have something else.”

Clark nodded, “Shepards’ pie is fine. Your company?” He iterated, as Bruce glanced back over to him. This was going to be a difficult interview. Bruce raised his hand, two fingers wagging to Alfred. Alfred nodded, and disappeared into the long hallways. 

“Ah yes,” Bruce finally acknowledged, smiling gently at Clark in a way that even made his staunch hater feel more at home in the magnificent mansion for a moment. Bruce’s voice shifted, feeling more friendly. “My company, usually, is run by the CEO, Lucious Fox. He has a…knack for that sort of thing,” he explained, “the charities are headed by the council. I appointed each member. One fourth of Wayne Enterprises’ income goes to charity, another fourth ends in my hands, and the rest returns into the company itself.” — Bruce waved his hands almost dismissively as he rushed through the topic of their interview. — “Roughly. Lucious handles all of that.” Clark stared, unsure of how to continue. He had significantly more questions, but his first four or so had been knocked out in a couple vague sentences. Bruce Wayne, on the few times he’d interviewed him, always managed to make him play catch-up, even if it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle from anyone else. “Have I answered all your questions, Mr.Kent?” Bruce asked in a teasing tone as Alfred seemed to reappear like a phantom, and placed two glasses and a bottle of scotch next to Clark’s recorder. Bruce looked up at Alfred, and Alfred nodded.

 “Yes, sir,” he confirmed in response to some direction Bruce had apparently given him telepathically. Alfred vanished into the hallway again, his steps almost inaudible. Clark turned his attention back to Bruce who busied himself with the scotch. He poured himself a small glass, and swirled it.
“I have more questions,” Clark clarified. Bruce tilted his glass towards Clark, and nodded, urging him to continue. “What do you spend your personal funds on?” The question caused a brief pause in Bruce’s reply, he took a sip of his drink to conceal it. A stage sip, Bruce wasn’t intending on drinking, or at least getting drunk. Clark made a note.
“Does that have anything to do with my company, Clark?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or are you interested in the money I delegate to my scotch, ‘cause I do say it’s pretty high quality myself.” He smirked, and winked in an almost cartoonish way. Clark nodded, he glanced at the scotch. 

“Then why aren’t you drinking it?” He questioned, palming his glasses. Bruce looked him over, assessing. Despite Bruce's obvious lackadaisical demeanor in reference to the meat of the interview, Clark felt that he was being played around with. Clark decided to shift back to the original question when he received no reply, “Can I ask what the missing fraction of the company’s income is allocated to?” The “missing fraction” was a rumor, easily dismissed by Bruce Wayne and Lucious Fox as such, it never had existed in the first place. That was the story, anyway. It had since faded away, years had passed, but Clark figured it was a good question. Few got to interview Bruce Wayne, the eccentric and exceptionally honest owner of Wayne Enterprises.

Bruce nodded, his eyes shifted nervously away from Clark, moving uncertainty over the expanse of the room. “Uh, yes. It's allocated to my personal expenses.” 

“What personal expenses?” Clark continued to press. This was either dangerously honest of Bruce, or a complete lie. Bruce placed his glass down, leaning closer to the other man. 

“You know,” he said with a suave smile. “But we agreed that wasn’t the topic of today.”

Clark was irritated, beyond reasonability. Bruce was charming, that was part of his whole appeal, but Clark diametrically opposed billionaires, especially ones who Batman disliked. No good came with people who had more money than they knew what to do with. It was frankly silly. Bruce Wayne could have his people through cash at dying children in foreign countries and to build hospitals, but none of it truly even skimmed off the top of Bruce’s networth. He could adopt children with horrid backstories and hole them up in this house with nannies, and stick his name on new roads. The man could throw thousands at any cause he liked, it was coins to the billions stashed away somewhere. Bruce Wayne was so far away from the average man that an outstretched arm wouldn’t even be visible to the prince-like figure, let alone graze the bottom of his blood-soaked feet. And Clark was an average man (as far his social standing was considered, his physiology was another topic entirely). How could Bruce expect him to know what he did with money he supposedly stole from his company despite his already overflowing gold pile. 

“You create weapons in a section of your company, do you ever consider the outcome of their use?” Clark fired, to which Bruce nodded, his face falling solemn at the mention. Performative dick. 

“Of course I do.” Clark nodded, writing it down even though he didn’t have to, a reminder to Bruce that all of this was not just under the scrutiny of Clark Kent, who he seemed to enjoy fucking with, but any who read the article that would be written. 

“Yes?” Clark cut off Bruce’s continued reply, “how about their usage in war-torn countries? Are you in support of regulating guns as the owner of a company who benefits from their use?” 

Bruce lifted a hand, guiding Clark to slow down and give him a small reprieve to finish a singular question before pressing onwards. “Listen-” Clark was not entertaining whatever speech Bruce had memorised in reference to these, Clark was certain that after the amount of times Bruce had fumbled over his words publicly at these questions from other reporters, his media team had stepped in. Bruce better have paid them well, Bruce was a mess. It was a yes or no question, that was all Clark needed. 

“Don’t want to answer those, Mr.Wayne? Okay, let’s switch to your private affairs that you seem determined to say is unrelated to your businesses and charities. What is with the orphanage you are running out of this house? It’s becoming a pattern for you to swoop up and adopt whatever desperate child falls into your arms-”

Bruce cleared his throat, and cut him off. “Leave my children out of this, Mr.Kent.” It was a serious tone, a deeply familiar one that Clark couldn’t place. It wasn’t unusual for his interviewees to gain tempers with him, Clark spent far too much time with Lois Lane to not adopt her…aggressive interviewing tactics, but this was…different. This wasn’t anger, or frustration, but a warning. A boundary that Bruce was declaring would not be crossed. It was a far cry from Bruce’s usual mannerisms. The rich man picked up his drink, taking a sip. A genuine sip this time, as far as Clark could tell. 

“I apologise, Mr.Wayne,” Clark earnestly said, he had intended to strike a nerve with Bruce Wayne, the Gotham Lex Luthor, not Bruce Wayne, the father. “I just want to understand what guides a man like yourself to…do this charity? You seem to be an active parent, but I see no evidence of these kids here and -” 

“I said do not drag my children into this,” Bruce interjected and reinforced with a tone that made Clark tense. “I understand who you are, what you are,” he explained, his eyes cast a twinge darker. “I understand your questions come from a place of concern, but I assure you that none of my children were adopted as a charity stunt, or to appeal to the public. They are my children.” Bruce uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward. “You may question my quality of character, and my business style, but not my love for them.” 

Clark saw Alfred hovering at the door, prepared to escort him out, he presumed. This was a touchy subject, as it appeared. Clark coughed into his elbow, attempting to diffuse some of his own nervousness. He’d never seen Bruce Wayne so serious, about anything. Not in the few times they’d met, not on TV, but it didn’t seem foreign across the man’s face now.

A father who loves his children…perhaps Bruce Wayne wasn’t so inhumane after all. Clark nodded, flipping his notebook to a different page, to questions genuinely pertinent to Wayne Enterprises. The Shepard’s Pie was fantastic, and Alfred, despite his obvious dislike of Clark, sent him home with a multitude of leftovers, including that of the cake Bruce insisted they shared. 

Their further conversation brought little to no more interesting information to light for Clark. Bruce seemed entertained by his questions if anything, so Clark figured that if there was something to be uncovered, he hadn’t touched on it. Clark returned to Metropolis the following day, listening over the recording. Bruce’s voice sounded even more familiar over voice recording. He read his notes over, and began to write an article on simply the business aspect. Nothing good came from his fingertips. Even Perry White, who was usually incredibly complimentary of his work, said it was crap. Lois used even less kind words, and it was beginning to stress Clark out. There was simply nothing interesting, or intriguing about a message that claimed the same all-clear that Wayne Enterprises had been broadcasting for decades. Clark had been tempted to jump ship, some things are dead ends, but he knew that -– seeing as the agency had shipped him to Gotham themselves — he best produce something. Though, it felt stupid, as Clark was intending on flying there anyway. Superhuman, and all. 

After a couple days, Clark began to write a different article. One that discussed the seriousness of Bruce Wayne’s love of his children, and how his adoption of them went beyond the mere bounds of charity work, as it seemed at first glance. He still degraded Bruce Wayne as an incompetent money-hungry loser, but at least he was a present father, something Clark himself was eternally grateful to have in his life. Perry loved that one.

Clark drafted an email, apologising for discussing Bruce’s children again, but he appreciated the opportunity for the interview, and sent Bruce Wayne a copy before he sent it to the publishers. He attempted to track down an email for Alfred Pennyworth, but it came up dry. 

Dear Superman, 

👍 Work it out yet?

Clark deleted that email as quickly as he could from his work email, as he spiralled over its content.