DCU: Untitled Identity Porn
6. Fast Cars and Slow Dinner
The invitation was sitting on his desk on Thursday morning; just his name on an envelope and inside a piece of white card with an address and time meticulously scribed in neat, looping copperplate. Clark didn’t know the restaurant, though the neighborhood wasn’t too bad; an old post-war migrant district and from the name of the place on the card Clark was guessing Greek. Wayne had said they would meet somewhere ‘suitably run down’. It occurred to Clark that he had no idea whatsoever what someone like Wayne might consider a ‘run down’ restaurant.
The day was slow. There was typing — an awful lot of typing, really, and Clark had to all-but force himself to do it at a normal pace, to think at a normal pace — and two fast cross-continental excursions. A mudslide in Sri Lanka. A hostage crisis in a tiny Eastern European nation that didn’t remember its own name. He returned after each to see the incidents rebroadcast on the Planet’s TV screens, several different channels blaring out the coverage in messy, asynchronous stereo. Both times, he saw Lois watching the images with a hawkishly inscrutable expression. He tried not to think about it.
By the time he made it out of the office he was already late for dinner and it had started to rain and of course there were no taxis and in the end he’d had to bite the bullet and race across town at speed. As always, it felt like cheating somehow, and he was equal parts angry at himself for thinking that way — for feeling guilty about what he was — and for resorting to using his powers for something so mundane in the first place.
Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.
In the end, he told himself it was all for the greater good. He didn’t want to miss this meeting; something told him Wayne wasn’t exactly the type to give out too many second chances, and Clark got the feeling he’d already used up his first. He couldn’t screw this up.
He fell into the restaurant soaking wet — super-speed through rain was a terrible thing indeed — and one minute early, foot catching on the step and, okay, maybe he caught the air a little bit to stop himself from falling completely. Maybe. Maybe this was turning out to be a terrible evening and maybe it was getting worse; firstly when he looked up to see a pretty young waitress trying to stifle a horrified giggle with her hand and secondly when he looked past her to see Wayne doing the same. He was sitting with a glass of wine at a table in the back, looking laconic and poised — and dry, Clark though bitterly — in understated jeans and a charcoal grey sweater. Clark thought that no-one dressed like that had any right to exude such an aura of regal command.
He’d started to stumble forward when the giggling waitress said, “I’m sorry, sir, we’re not open tonight.”
It was obvious after she’d said it; not a single other soul in the place and, yes, a quick check and the sign on the door was turned to indicate as much. Clark opened his mouth and started to stammer out something when Wayne interjected on his behalf.
“It’s all right, Sophie, he’s mine.”
The girl — Sophie — gave Clark a critical once-over. Clark gave her his best grin, and she shrugged. “This way, sir.”
Wayne watched him cooly over his wine as Clark sat. “I must apologise,” he said. “I appear to’ve bought Gotham’s weather with me.”
“A-hah, yes it’s a bit damp.” Clark dried his glasses off on a napkin as the waitress returned with a basket of bread and a bottle of mineral water. She held one hand behind her back as she poured.
“May I get you something to drink, sir?”
“Oh gosh, ah, Coke please.” Clark wondered where the menus were. None seemed to be forthcoming. After the waitress had vanished he turned to Wayne. “I thought you promised me somewhere run down.” It was a weak joke, but Wayne’s mouth curved into something slightly sardonic.
“In retrospect, I decided good food should take precedence.”
“There’s no-one else here!”
“Dimitri and Sophie are very discreet.”
Which of course instantly made Clark grin and say, “Why, is this where you take all your dates, Mr. Wayne?”
That one was supposed to be a joke, too, but there was something about the look in Wayne’s eyes that made Clark’s smile falter and something about the way the man said, “Not all of them. Only some.” that made Clark’s throat feel suddenly very dry.
He took a sip of water, and halfway through that gesture his Coke appeared in front of him. Before he could swallow enough to say thank you, Sophie-the-waitress had vanished once more. He put the glass down, looked at his hands for a moment then said, “You wanted to know about Luthor.”
Wayne nodded slightly and Clark continued.
“I don’t have anything concrete,” he admitted. “No smoking gun evidence; only what I’ve… heard from people.”
“And you trust these people?”
Clark nodded vigourously, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Yes, implicitly.”
“Very well then.”
“So I don’t know much, really, but… Luthor was the one who created the crystal continent.”
For a moment Wayne was still and then, quite suddenly, he let out a resigned hiss. “Do you know why?”
“Some scheme to sell land, it seems.”
Wayne raised one eyebrow. “That makes no sense. Land certainly is a finite resource but the expansion of the continent would have had it consume the majority of the continental United States. He wouldn’t be creating new land, simply… replacing old land.”
Clark realised he was scowling and couldn’t quite keep the hard edge off his voice. “Luthor doesn’t think of things so compassionately. Eating up the mainland would create refugees — millions of them. Where else could they go?”
Wayne nodded though any further comment was broken off at the appearance of a plate of dips and then, a moment later, another plate of mixed appetisers; dolmathes and saganaki and char-grilled chicken kebobs with lemon. It suddenly occurred to Clark he hadn’t had time for lunch. Strictly speaking he didn’t need to eat but Wayne had been right, it seemed, because the food smelt absolutely delicious. He started piling his plate as Wayne broke apart a piece of bread and spooned some tzatziki onto it.
When they were alone again, Wayne said, “Of course you know what my next question is going to be…”
Clark did. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering.
“Luthor stole something,” he said carefully. “A piece of alien technology he reverse engineered to become… unstable.”
“Stole from who?”
“Who do you think?”
Wayne’s eyebrows shot up momentarily. “Superman?” At Clark’s slow nod he whistled lowly in disbelief. “That’s daring even for Luthor.”
“Superman was… away. In space at the time.” The thought still rankled; the memory of walking into the Fortress to find it lifeless and violated still as fresh as ever. Clark tried not to think about it; tried to focus on Wayne’s sharp, elegant features instead.
“I assume Superman knows all of this,” Wayne said finally. “That he’s one of your ‘trusted sources’.”
Clark nodded. “Yes.” It seemed safe enough; not quite a lie.
“Then why not come forward with the information?”
Why not indeed. “Because he has no proof of it; it would come down to his word against Luthor’s and at the end of the day—”
“People would question it, now,” Wayne finished thoughtfully. “They’d say it was pay-back for Luthor walking away from his conviction.”
Clark nodded. “It’s a risk.”
They ate in silence for a while. At some point Sophie reappeared and with her came a large platter of souvlaki followed by another of calamari and octopus and — of course — a large Greek salad.
“This food’s really great,” Clark found himself saying into the silence. “I’ve never been here before.”
Wayne gave him a small smile at that and Clark found himself grinning back shyly in return and not really knowing why. “I’ll be certain to tell Dimitri you’ve enjoyed his food.”
“So how often do you come here, Mr. Wayne?”
“Not as much as I’d perhaps like and, please, call me Bruce.” Another momentary flash of neat white teeth. “I’m not often in a position to… be myself when I’m away from Gotham.” Clark was almost about to ask about that when Wayne abruptly changed tack. “There’s a briefcase under the table. You should take it when you go.”
“How conspiratorial.” Clark flicked his eyes down for just a moment and… there. They were blueprints. The same blueprints, in fact, as he’d caught Batman raiding from Luthor’s offices the night before, albeit with a few minor changes; older versions, by the looks of it.
Wayne raised an eyebrow. “Quite. I’m not certain the info is a hundred percent up-to-date but it might give you something to go on.”
And for a moment Clark just looked at Wayne; reclining elegantly in his chair, wineglass in one hand and a half-eaten plate of salad in front of him. There was a… a stillness in him tonight Clark hadn’t seen before. Some of the shadows and intensity pared away leaving something that was not quite Brucie and not quite the man Clark had met in the garden. They’d had a deal and Wayne sharing information hadn’t been part of it and Clark realised he knew, in that moment, that the man was trustworthy. Whatever other games he was playing — and Clark had no doubt there were several — then he was at least honest in his intentions towards Luthor. The thought was… probably more comforting than it should have been, really. And something else, too, a feeling lying under even the pleasure over the potential for an alliance; a vast ocean of relief that he’d made a connection with another being and, oh Rao, but space had turned out to be colder and more empty than he could’ve imagined and a tiny part of him had been terrified that it’d taken something from him. Something important.
Except… maybe not.
He smiled; a proper, heartfelt smile and said, “Thank you.”
Bruce’s heart leapt. Clark heard it plain as day and maybe if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have noticed the half-second of pure shock on Bruce’s face, schooled quickly into graceful neutrality only belied by the still-stuttering heartbeat.
Dinner continued. Clark had expected Bruce to wrap things up quickly after the business was done and a part of him — a rather large part, to be honest — was glad when that proved not to be the case. Dinner was cleared away and dessert appeared and, after that, one coffee and then another. Meanwhile, Clark talked. The back of his mind kept telling him that Bruce was a professional small-talker, plying him with the kind of meaningless questions and repetitive feedback that were staples of the trade, but somehow it didn’t matter, really, and Clark found himself telling anecdote after (edited) anecdote about his childhood in Smallville and his job and the news and back again. Wayne wasn’t nearly as revealing but he seemed… interested in Clark and disinclined to leave and, Rao, but it had been a long time since Clark had just talked to someone. At length, about nothing in particular and it felt… good. Reminded him of the part of his life where he kept his friends, back before… everything that had happened after.
And then, of course, there was the way Bruce would chuckle guardedly at this story or that one, almost self-consciously; as if there were a No Laughing sign hanging above Clark’s head and Bruce was trying his best not to get caught in the act. Clark decided he liked Bruce’s not-laugh. Liked it a lot.
They didn’t leave the restaurant until well after midnight. No-one asked for any money, and Clark couldn’t figure out a way of bringing the subject up politely. So he didn’t, instead stepped out onto the street and peered into the rain. Bruce offered him a ride home. Refusing it seemed… impolite, somehow, and so Clark didn’t do that either. Instead found himself dashing across the street to climb into the most expensive-looking car he’d ever seen, from a manufacturer so exclusive he’d never even heard of them. Dripping water on the seats felt like a crime, somehow, but Bruce just waved off his stammered apology with a wince.
“Think of it as a kind of public service,” he said drily.
“Dripping on your car is a public service?”
“It’s an expensive car.” Bruce sighed. “Too expensive, really. But it’s… expected. Fast women and faster cars. And there’s no faster car then this, apparently.” He sounded oddly annoyed at the admission.
Clark realised he still hadn’t found a way of asking Bruce about his apparent weird double-life and it occurred to him right then that it didn’t really matter. Not really. So instead he asked, “How expensive is ‘expensive’?”
Bruce told him.
Clark had to find some extra zeroes.
“That’s… quite expensive.”
Bruce winced again. “Isn’t it? Waste of money. You know what the big selling point is, besides the price? It can do over two hundred miles an hour.”
Clark grinned at Bruce’s vehement disgust. “That’s very fast.”
“Gosh yes, and I’m sure it will be dreadfully useful when I need to engage in an illegal high speed car chase. In my multi-million dollar vanity sports car.”
Clark’s apartment block loomed and — just for a moment — he cursed the GPS that informed them of this fact. No last minute wrong turns, no more stolen minutes…
He said, “High speed car chases a habit of yours, Mr. Wayne?”
Wolfish eyes glinted oddly at the comment and Bruce said, “In this car? I don’t think so.”
They pulled up. Clark looked at his hands. Rain splattered noisily on a paint job worth more money that Clark would earn in a lifetime.
“Well, thank you for dinner,” he said, wishing he could think of something… better.
Bruce just gave him a little half-smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll have opportunity to do it again.”
Clark looked at him abruptly, blinked. That was the kind of thing you said, wasn’t it? In a situation like this. It didn’t necessarily mean…
He smiled anyway. Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe tonight was enough. “I’d like that,” he said. “Nite, Bruce.”
“Goodnight, Clark.”
He was standing outside his door before Clark realised no-one had even mentioned Lex Luthor in hours.
It had been a great night.