Chapter Text
Clark had been listening to the steady thump of Bruce’s heart before he even entered the Daily Planet, but only when the newsroom gradually fell silent did he look up.
Bruce Wayne–hair rakishly coiffed and outfitted in a flashy black suit and blinding smile–strutted up to Clark’s desk and thrust a bouquet of sunflowers and daisies into his arms. Clark met Bruce’s eyes, caught the glint there and instinctively braced himself.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Bruce purred, “You know, my meeting ran late and I was thinking, 'if only I could see my honeybear’s face, my day would get so much better.' Then I realized, well what’s stopping me? So here I am,” Bruce spread his arms wide, “lets go for lunch!”
“Hi honey, thank you for the flowers, they’re beautiful.” Clark smiled, leaning in for a peck. “You didn’t tell me you had a meeting in Metropolis today.”
”I didn't,” Bruce laid a hand on Clark’s forearm, batting his eyelashes, “What’s a couple hours drive in the face of love?”
The warmth in Clark’s chest spread across his face, flushing his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink; Bruce’s eyes were crinkled at the corners with mirth, laughing at his suffering. Newly determined, Clark stood to usher Bruce out before he really got on a roll. Alfred’s past as a Shakespearean actor was never more overt in his ward than it was when Brucie performed.
He placed a light hand on the silk wool blend of Bruce’s jacket, hoping Bruce would take the hint and walk off towards the elevators. Despite being publicly together for over half a year, the novelty of their relationship hadn’t yet worn off for his fellow reporters, many of whom were sneaking glances or outright staring. Amidst the gossiping whispers, Clark started an internal countdown for Cat Grant’s appearance and firmly reminded his stomach that Kryptonian physiology meant he couldn’t actually starve to death.
Unfortunately, Bruce ignored his plea as easily as he did the stares. “And where is the lovely Ms. Lane? I liked her recent article so much I was hoping to chat with her about it.” He peered around the cubicles as if Lois might be hiding under a desk.
Clark blinked but kept the mild smile on his face, aware of the eyes on them. “Out in an interview right now. She’s working on another piece but I’ll tell her you liked it when she comes back,” he replied.
Bruce straightened and shrugged blithely. He hooked his arm through Clark’s and hauled him along, continuing his earlier line of conversation without missing a beat. “I'm craving sushi and heard fantastic things about a little hole-in-the-wall nearby. They use molecular astronomy to elevate the experience of consuming seafood while pretending to be a fish,” he put air quotes around the last part. Clark–shoulders hunched and cradling his bouquet–nodded along encouragingly.
Their brief walk to the elevators was interrupted by Bruce stopping to chat with Jimmy (“I think you mean molecular gastronomy, Mr. Wayne.”) and Cat (“Could I get confirmation on your attendance tomorrow at the new exhibit opening at the Metropolis Museum of Art and History, Brucie?”), with Clark occasionally interjecting, watching his boyfriend thoughtfully. Bruce’s visit wasn’t out of the ordinary, but the fact he hadn’t mentioned it beforehand–coupled with his interest in Lois' article–hinted at something below the surface. Of course the frivolous owner of Wayne Enterprises could drop half of his meetings for the day to visit his boyfriend in a neighbouring city and no one would bat an eye, but Clark knew better; Batman always had ulterior motives.
By the time they actually managed to get into the elevator, Clark feared his break was half over. Turning to his boyfriend in exasperation, he said, "Billionaire playboys might be allowed indefinite lunch breaks but the rest of us aren’t as lucky.”
“If Perry is fine with your chronic tardiness, I’m certain Bruce Wayne can persuade him to let this slide.” Bruce leaned forward, his voice low. Their faces were very close; Clark swayed forward. He could see each individual eyelash, the fine lines at the corner of Bruce’s eyes, his eyes clear and bright in the moment before their lips met. Clark slid an arm around Bruce’s waist and tilted his head, deepening the kiss. Bruce fisted the fabric of Clark’s oversized suit jacket, licking briefly into his mouth before pulling back. “And it’s reformed playboy,” he murmured.
Clark was distantly aware that the doors would soon open to a lobby full of people. He forcibly glanced away and landed on the half-crushed flowers he was still carrying, bringing to mind the possibilities he’d thought of. Clark raised an eyebrow and Bruce tilted his head minutely to the camera nestled in a corner. Definitely related to their other work then, and confidential enough Bruce wouldn’t risk anyone overhearing, so they would brief in the car. The camera prevented him from using superspeed to smooth their hair and clothes, but Bruce had years of experience rapidly changing into the Batsuit, and the doors opened to two–only slightly rumpled–men side by side.
“At least tell me we won’t be eating some overpriced nonsense.” Clark said as they walked outside.
“No, we’ll go to one of your favourites, a subdued environment is better. But I won’t eat whatever Metropolis calls pizza.” Clark rolled his eyes at the disdain in Bruce’s voice. One of his more subtle cars pulled up to the curb, and he opened the door for Clark before climbing in.
“It’s really not that bad, you know. Dick liked it.” Clark met eyes with the driver in the rearview mirror as the car merged neatly into traffic. “Hello, Alfred, how’ve you been? Are the hydrangeas doing well?”
“Good afternoon Master Clark. They are absolutely thriving, and so I am as well. I owe Mrs. Kent my gratitude for her invaluable tips.”
Clark grinned, “I bet your freeze-dried strawberry scone recipe would be sufficient thanks.”
He got a half-hearted glare for his efforts. “I see she has already recruited you to her crusade.” Alfred sniffed, eyeing him knowingly when no denial came.
“Dick has eaten genuine pizza from Naples and didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Bruce said flatly, returning Clark’s attention. Behind the safety of tinted glass, the careless rich boy persona melted into an obscure concentration of Brucie and Batman. He was pulling up Lois’ article and his compiled data on the car’s roof-mounted display. “Over the course of three months, thirteen artefacts stored in The Gotham Museum and originating from the Mycenaean civilization to the Hellenistic age have been going missing, one or two at a time. Each disappearance was spaced out by approximately a week and a half before the next, there are no signs of robbery or burglary, and unless a third of the staff and administration are involved, none of them are complicit."
A bullet pointed inventory slid to the front of the screen. Most of the relics were gold coins, jewelry, and small terracotta figurines. Each item had a picture and a short summary that included estimated year of creation, provenance, physical description, and official cause of disappearance.
Clark frowned, “And obviously Diana knows that Ancient Greek artefacts from a high-security museum are mysteriously disappearing, right?”
There was a pause before Bruce–a touch defensively–said, “I only pieced it together a few hours ago when I read Lois’ article.”
That was a no then.
Clark withheld a sigh. Bruce could’ve alerted Diana the minute he realised, but there was no point protesting. Gotham business was Gotham business. While it was perturbing Batman hadn’t realised this was going on and an immortal Amazon’s expertise would be invaluable, if Bruce believed a dozen semi-renowned relics could be recovered between the two of them, Clark trusted him.
“But how? It didn’t mention Gotham at all.” Clark asked, glancing over it. He had already read it multiple times while proofreading and after publishing.
Featured on the front page from last Sunday’s issue, the article was titled, ‘Metropolis Museum Exhibit Opening: Excluding Culture & Excusing Collection’. It outlined the basic information: The Metropolis Museum of Art and History had a new exhibit opening tomorrow, starring Ancient Greece and Rome. All the rich and famous art connoisseurs and history buffs were attending, paying exorbitant ticket prices to be at such an exclusive event. Anybody who was somebody and cultured enough to know something of the classical civilizations would be there.
But then, Lois delved into the heart of the issue. How most of these artefacts–indeed, many historical artifacts in many museums–were taken from nations and cultural groups through morally dubious means. How these museums refused to return them to their rightful countries, even after numerous pleas and negotiations. How the excuses given–that it was better for visitors to see international history in one display, that the journey back could damage fragile items, and that the original owners wouldn’t be able to properly showcase them–were to cover-up the fear that returning even just a few would lead to every country demanding repatriation claims and return of their property, leaving museums barren.
Yet despite these concerns, private collectors were capable of buying anything from everyday items and art to burial tools and human remains. It was controversial and regulations were in place, but loopholes still allowed entities with money to do what they wished, and what others could not afford to do.
It had created such an uproar in the art community that the discourse reached outside of it. Multiple people had taken to declaring on the internet that they had plans or wanted to go, but changed their minds since reading Ms. Lane’s newest work.
It made sense Bruce would read it; Lois had directly called out one of his board members for being among the aforementioned private collectors.
Bruce gestured to the screen where he had highlighted sections of the article. “There’s a brief mention that a few pieces won’t be displayed for restoration purposes. Strange, since there’s no mention of that in any of the other papers, and they’ve been talking about this event for weeks. It reminded me of a Gazette article months ago about the Gotham Museum doing the same. However, the majority of artifacts in both exhibits are a combination of pottery, jewelry, currency, and everyday household items, meaning there’s not much to restore. I hacked into their database and only these items,” he pointed back to the inventory, “are exempt from display, and yet the restoration reports are completely empty. One or two at a time were taken from the exhibit, logged as damaged, and then disappeared.”
“So you think the culprits somehow managed to put aside the targeted artefacts to steal later and are about to do the same here. That’s why you came to the Planet today to question Lois and get more information?” Clark guessed. He didn’t voice what a wild jump it was to read a single sentence in an article and end up discovering priceless stolen artefacts.
“Yes, I want to know how she found that out since it wasn’t public information and she didn’t name her source. The article was only published yesterday, and the thieves have stuck to their pattern of stealing approximately every week and a half, so we have a few days. We’ll attend the exhibit opening tomorrow an–”
A blaring honk abruptly cut Bruce off.
They both startled, looking out the windows as the car slowed to a snail’s crawl. The roof-mounted screen lifted away, revealing a line of vehicles stretched out before them. The lane to the right was no different and a queue was steadily growing from behind. The first honk had sounded from the front, triggering a surge, and the sounds of frustrated commuters filled the air.
“Alfred, what’s happening?” Bruce demanded, leaning forwards.
“I haven’t the faintest idea, sir. Perhaps an accident that will hopefully clear up promptly,” Alfred replied, frowning. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” He added, as a man nearby rolled down his window, cursing angrily and making vulgar hand gestures.
“Clark, could you–?”
”Already on it, B.”
Clark expanded his range of hearing, filtering out the mundane sounds of everyday life and the increasing collective road rage surrounding them, searching for the source of conflict.
Immediately, a bizarre noise that Clark couldn’t begin to identify reached him, flying through the air. He’d hardly detected it before realising–
“Look out!”
At Clark’s shout, Bruce lunged for Alfred. In a split-second, Clark shoved him down and threw his arms around Alfred’s head and chest, shielding him.
The car jerked backwards and there was a deafening, wet, crackling thud, followed by the shocked screams of civilians around them. Clark, heart racing, lowered his arms from Alfred–who looked remarkably composed–and chanced a glimpse at Bruce, where he was raising himself off the car floor, face tense.
They peered at the windshield.
The entire sheet of glass had splintered from the impact and black fluid was splattered all over, dripping through the cracks. The projectile slid down onto the hood of the car, smearing fluid everywhere, then started to sluggishly move.
It was a squid.
Baffled, the three of them stared for a moment. A tentacle slapped the wrecked windshield and Bruce abruptly pulled out a suitcase from a hidden compartment in the floor and opened it to a disassembled Batsuit.
“Rain check on lunch, then?” said Clark, already yanking off his shirt. Bruce pulled on the cowl, watching as civilians sprinted past them with his hand on the door.
“Don’t be seen, meet at the Manor after,” Batman grunted. He slipped out of the car and disappeared.
Hair slicked back, Clark mourned any chance at devouring a slice of pecan pie or returning to work on time. He hoped Perry would be susceptible to Bruce Wayne’s charm, or at least a promise of a shiny new exclusive.