Superbat fic thats been rotting away in my drafts for months now. Probably never gonna finish it
It's not often Bruce finds himself in a city this clean.
Usually he can wave off these out of town business trips under the guise that Bruce Wayne is far too busy and far too important.
But Metropolis is different, and if it had just been another of the hundred or so charity events he had been invited to this past week, he could have easily dismissed it. Bruce has no interest in Metropolis.
But Batman, Batman has business.
Superman, is what he's been calling himself. When Metas gave up all sense of humility, is lost on him. But if this... individual, is as super as the papers say, then it's about time Bruce made his acquaintance.
Batman had mulled it over, which persona to introduce first. The cold, calculated bat would have little business 'stopping by', but Bruce Wayne, well he had every right to be in town. Hell, he was invited! A big fancy billionaire flaunting off his wealth at some overpriced gala, the perfect tax write off- this was Bruce's scene.
Metropolis was certainly not Batmans.
It's cold, snow caked the rooftops, but the roads stayed perfectly paved. In Gotham cobblestone streets are coated in sludge this time of year. But everything here, it's so... pristine. Like the picture perfect city. All glass windows and bright sunny skies. Nothing like back home.
To most, it would seem like paradise.
But all Bruce can process is the discomfort of the light. It's blinding, even. So squeaky clean and processed. The sort of stuff that makes you wonder what it's hiding. A pretty face like this must be swimming with ugly secrets. Dark alleys and underground organizations. He'd know as much, he's seen it time and time again in the back of his car, or the satin sheets of his bed.
The softer the voice the louder the screams.
He ducks through the door of his hotel room, waving the help off. He could take it from here.
He looks around the room, every bit of exuberant and lavish as he's grown accustomed to.
His hand brushes against the soft blue comforter, delicate and cool to the touch.
His eyes scan the room, searching for any of the tell-tale signs of being bugged.
But its clean.
Its all just... so clean.
With a sigh, Bruce plops down on the bed, his face falling to his hands.
Tired eyes dart to the sleek clock at his bedside
9:26
He has little time for respite.
Bruce Wayne knows how to cultivate danger.
He's lived it his whole life.
Billionaire playboy who plays fast and loose. The cities most loathsome bachelor. With a look who could stir a room into a frenzy, a whisper would make or break careers.
And today, a simple tweet would risk his life.
He fell back into his bed, tugging the expensive phone from his pocket. Soft hands rubbing away at the exhaustion resting in his eyes.
He angled the camera just right, Bruce Wayne knows how to take a picture.
A lopsided smile, his canine barely peaking out, and snap.
"🍷🌍"
"Annnnd send"
He couldnt help the twitch of a real smile at his lips. The snapshot of satisfaction that rang through him the moment he lundged into murky waters.
He turned his phone off, not too keen on the flood of messages his shareholders would soon send his way.
Bruce was always good at getting in trouble.
He was ready by 10, the crowd of fans and cynics alike gathered around the hotel. Paparazzi readying their cameras. He could see it all from up here, little ants scuttering around, eager to catch even a glimpse of the elusive socialite.
He took a deep breath, steady fingers combing through slicked back hair.
Showtime.
"Mr. Wayne- is it true you'll be attending tonights gala for the Metropolis childrens hospital-"
"Any comment on the recent-"
"Please" Brucie flashes a grin, something lazy and flattering "I really must get going, can't be late"
He climbs into the back of the car, his head already throbbing.
Today was going to be exhuasting.
He arrives, some grand hotel six or so stories up. The glitter and noise pollution already pouring down from the rooftop.
"Wayne!" A familiar voice calls from the crowd.
Nonchalant, surprised, tipsy.
Its his manta by now
"Ollie, my man!" He delights, a genuine smile creeping through as he turns around to greet the familiar face "how the hell have you been?"
Green eyes light up as the blonde begins to ramble, rattling off about his business, his girlfriend, his more than comfortable life style.
Always such a chatterbox.
Bruce smiles through it all, nursing the whiskey in his grasp.
"Ya know" he jumps in the second the shorter man pauses for a breath "You're a lot more fun when you're drunk-" he raises his glass before downing the rest "how about some shots, yeah? You and me." He grins.
With a wide smile the blonde snaps his mouth shut before responding
"Bruce Wayne, the man with million dollar ideas"
In celebration Bruce grins, wrapping an arm around his old friend and makes his way to the bar.
Fourty-four stories. Six hundred and twenty-two feet up.
If he tumbled over the edge, there was little there to save him.
Calculating, precise, he'd gotten a good look from down below. Balconies and canvases of cloth, stringed lights and clotheslines. There were more than a few chances to catch himself, so long as he kept his wits about him.
He couldnt help but chuckle, as blue eyes drifted towards storm clouds brewing in the distance.
Just another factor to take in.
Granted, the hardest part was doing so as Bruce.
Batman could take the tumble, could catch himself before he even went over the edge, summon the batmobil, shoot out a grappling hook- he had every chance and right to save himself.
But Bruce is vulnerable. Weak. An overconfident, bumbling elitist. Latching onto a clothesline a hundred and fifty feet down, swinging over to a balcony, with little more than rope burn and a few scuffs to his designer shoes-
No, he had to make it look natural, realistic.
It depended how far over he went, where the force was coming from- how he could position himself for the most accurate landing.
Then there were other variables- uncontrollable and unknown.
Superman was swift, timely, most rescues within minutes.
Six seconds, if he did it right. Thats all it would take before he hit the ground.
Theres no doubt, that if this were any random day, superman would never be able to catch him in time. This was no test of his speed, nor strength. He knew his was outpaced in both fields. This was a query of wits.
Some of the most influential, powerful men and women were attending this gala. Each with price tags in the millions dangling above their heads. Parties like this attracted danger. Kidnappers, martyrs, merrymen alike, each one drawn like a moth to the flame.
But he'd already vetted the catering company, scoured over the guest list, the staff- each individual accounted for.
It was a process of elimination- who would take claim to the dragons hoard first.
Glancing down at the innocuous van parked six blocks over- well that indicated a hostage situation.
How could he frame it- get the man in the right spot at the right time- rile him up enough to give a go at him. Maybe he could stumble- drunkedly in a state of shock, tipping over the edge.
Well, he could piece it together in the moment.
The real question was whether or not superman would know to be waiting on the sideline for an inevitable attempt.
Batman could see it from a mile away, have every member dispatched before the threat ever even arose. He knew how to clean up a mess efficiently.
But does Superman?
Perhaps he was already attending, somewhere an alien was lying in disguise- waiting for the perfect opportunity-
"Excuse me?"
He couldnt help but jolt, his head snapping to the young man beside him.
"Sorry to bother you- I'm just- huge fan" tall, dark hair, tan fingers nervously fiddle with-
"And you are?" Bruce asked with a smile, a teasing tone, a quick once over.
Strong build, wide shoulders, probably around two twenty, two twenty-five pounds.
I could take him.
"O-oh sorry, that's so rude of me-" a calloused hand reached out "Clark Kent, I'm a journalist for the daily planet." Nice teeth, good smile.
"Bruce Wayne" his hand reaches out, smooth fingers brushing against his wrist, his hand lingering a moment too long. A hundred and five beats per minute.
"Though, I suppose you know that already"
Wide blue eyes flick upwards, as Bruce pulls his hand back.
"Oh, um- yes sir!" He stutters "I mean it's not everyday an industrialist heir pops back into the limelight- stuff like that travels far"
Bruce chuckles, he vaguely remembers Clark from the notes.
Twenty-three, former farmhand from a town thats slipping his mind- it was so on the nose too.
He glances down, swirling the glass of bourbon. Maybe he should slow down.
"Well, Clark" glancing up, the glint in his eyes, flash the canine, low voice so he has to lean in to hear-
"I promise you, my past is the least interesting part of me"
Sometimes the truth slips through the facade.
The reporter startles, if ever so slightly. It's hard to resist the charm of Brucie Wayne.
"A-actually, that's exactly what I wanted to discuss with you" he shuffles, pushing his glasses up before raising his head, composing himself.
"I've been following your philanthropy for a while now- and I've notice some very generous sums donated to Arkham Asylum-"
"Listen, Clark" he doesn't have time for chit chat, his peripherals trained on the movement across the room-
"I'm sure you have a million burning questions about me- but today" he turns, his back to the skyline,
Back on a flat surface for minimum damage
"Today is about something much bigger than me" cocky grin, his collar unbuttoned, a relaxed lean against the railings.
Clark pauses for a moment, collecting himself. A smile forming on his face.
"I couldn't agree more Mr. Wayne"
"Please" he turns his head "call me Bruce"
Clark smiles, something devious in that grin.
"Alright then," he reaches out a hand, clasping Bruce's shoulder "how about we call this a rain check then?"
He licks his lip, his eyes dart down and drag back up.
Far from the worst lay I've had.
"If it means meeting you again, I'd be more than delighted."
It's so easy once the mask is on, to lean into it.
Not that it doesn't have its benefits, even if it can be exhausting.
"Pleasure meeting you Bruce"
"Likewise Clark" he hits him with a wink, as Clark turns. Bruce watches those vibrant eyes lock onto the stranger donned in a servers garb across the way.
Well that's interesting, what are you thinking?
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I am still on the clock" Clark pardons with a pleasant smile.
Bruce offers a grin and a wave, mocking the motions of sipping on the glass in his hand.
Twenty feet away, theyve been exchanging glances for the last three and a half minutes. If they're the punctual type he's got about forty-eight seconds before the chaos begins.
He raises a glass to no one, unnoticed by his company, as he throws back the rest of his drink.
Showtime.
A scream pierces through the crowd. An inebriated Bruce rolls his head up, a wave of shock delighting his features.
"Everybody on the fucking ground!" One of the waitstaff demands, a gun pressed to the head of some baroness. From the other side Bruce watches with a bit of amusement as everybody drops to the floor.
Everyone- but him of course.
"Hey- he said get the fuck down"
Another one of Metropolis finest shouts, beginning to close the gap between them.
"Yeah I heard him" Bruce smiles, setting his glass at the balconies edge.
Enraged, the man shifts closer, easily a foot shorter than Bruce.
He presses the gun to his chest before barking his demands.
"Then drop to the ground" he annunciates each word, an overzealous rage laced in his tone.
"See, normally I would" Bruce amuses "but these pants are designer" he smiles, nice and big and smug.
"I'm not playing with you Mr. Moneybags" the delinquent moves in closer, backing Bruce completely against the edge, he braces himself. Shoulders apart, back flat, time to really bring this home-
"Do you know who I am?" He scoffs, slurring his speech just enough "Do you know where I'm from?" He chuckles "Gotham" he clarifies, an ounce of panic on the mans face "And back at home-" he leans in for dramatic effect "I eat low life rats like you for breakfast"
He leans back, nonchalant, pressed against the rail.
And the timing is perfect- exactly what he hoped for. The hijacker reels his fist back, clocks Bruce right in the jaw, he really sells the force as he falls back against the railing, tipping over.
And here he is, make or break.
Six seconds:
He watches the angry face he was confronted with before fill with shock, regret, terror. The stories pass by him, a few residents beginning to twist their heads towards the commotion.
Five seconds:
He could twist now to land on a balcony within the next second, it would offer the least damage, but would defeat the purpose of his tumble.
Four seconds:
He's missed the balcony now, with no sign of Superman. There's a canvas of cloth stretched out, the impact will deter his speed, it wont buy him anymore than half a second, but his body sways through the air towards it.
Three seconds:
He hardly feels himself pass through it, it's too sudden, his velocity too great. There's a clothesline quickly approaching, he can grab it, catch himself, swing onto the balcony nearest to him. He's far enough from the party that no one up top will notice, and any suspecting neighbors that now stare at him in horror could easily be bought. Bribed to forget the incredible feat preformed by the nepo baby.
Two seconds:
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He had it, of course he had it. It snapped just like he pictured, swinging him against the wall. Further from the balcony than he'd have liked but he still fucking had it.
Until he didn't. The rope ripping from the cement wall it had been secured to. He couldn't have know- couldn't have factored in that it was previously damaged. You would think someone like Batman would have consider that- would have covered that- especially when Bruce's life was on the line. But Batman wasn't here- Batman didn't scope the place out. He didn't run the calculations- and it ripped from the wall. Granted, it slowed his descent, but not enough to survive.
One second:
Bruce Wayne: Beligerent drunk falls to his death.
He could read the headline now- maybe Clark would get his story after all.
The thought made him smile, something sick settling in his stomach.
He failed.
His mission, his parents, every step of the way he failed.
He stared up at the sky, thinking of Alfred, his parents, his wretched and wasted life.
He closed his eyes, arms outstretched as if ready to embrace death itself.
.
..
...
He was sure he should have felt impact. Maybe this is what Death is like, maybe you don't even register it.
But then- when he opened his eyes, droplets falling to his skin, why did he see the dark clouds, the passing birds, the Silhouette of a man-
"Don't worry sir- you're in good hands"
The soothing voice coaxed.
"Superman" he stared in shock.
The hero, as ethereal as they promised, looked down to him and smiled. Gently placing him to the ground.
"So you've heard of me" perfect eyebrows quirked, as the alien chuckled. "I'm sorry to depart so soon- but there's quite a few people waiting to be saved"
Bruce blinked, addreniline flowing through him as the hero darted back to the top. Even from here Bruce could hear the cacophony of cheers.
"Well I'll be damned" he muttered to himself, his eyes trained on the streak of red and blue making quick work up at top.
"That was quite reckless of you" Alfred scolded over the phone.
"It was a calculated risk-"
"Calculated risk my ass" he chided "you very well could have died. And then what of this mission of yours, hm?" He kept his voice calm, but Bruce could hear the rage laced in his words.
"I apologize Alfred, it was not my intention to worry you"
"Worry?" The man scoffed "If that were the case, you wouldn't be crusading through the night like some delusional child-"
"It was nice talking with you Alfred"
"Master Bruce-"
"I'll see you when I get home"
