Chapter Text
Before her election, Bella Reál had told him that Bruce should also contribute to the city as his father did.
It had been annoying to be reprimanded as a child, but now, after the dam disaster, Bruce understood.
He couldn't just help the city at night like Batman, he had to help out in the open as well, filling the void left by his father.
And if that meant becoming a public figure, going to galas, and setting up charities, so be it.
He was ready for sacrifice.
But now that he was in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by people who didn't care about the people of Gotham, looked down on by everyone like a lamb to the slaughter, Bruce was regretting his decision.
Bruce doesn't want to be here. He had never liked to be seen, to be the center of attention.
He could handle it like Batman - fear was another weapon to use - but when he was just Bruce Wayne, no costume and no mask, he felt exposed, weak.
The looks on him were greedy, they all wanted something.
"Remember to smile," Alfred had told him before the gala, trying to prepare him for the necessary social interaction.
A polite smile made people believe you were available, but not enough to yield to any request. He could do it, smile like an idiot. It would help put a distance between him and his alter ego, making it impossible in people's minds to compare the two.
He had already taken a risk with the Riddler, he had no intention of making it happen again.
What he couldn't do was talk. Everyone thought he was an airhead, he had to keep his character and make futile speeches.
Bruce didn't even know how to start: how could anyone talk about the last Fashion Week in Italy when there were people in Gothan who had lost everything?
"It's a show, they're all playing a part. Me too."
It would be nice to have a script to follow to know what to do.
"What do you think about it?"
Bruce blinked; it was a blonde woman who had spoken, possibly the daughter of one of the Wayne Enterprise shares. He didn't know, he didn't know her and he didn't want her so close to him.
The young woman didn't care about the concept of personal space, clinging to his arm with the expression of a puppy waiting for praise.
The others in the small group were staring at them, waiting for Bruce to say something. Stares fixed on him, they judged him, they studied him to find his weak points.
Bruce was surrounded by potential enemies he couldn't defend against.
It was terrifying.
"I have to get out of here."
He gave a smile that he hoped didn't seem too forced, "I think it's very interesting. Now excuse me, but I think reporters are tired of waiting for me."
He extricated himself from the woman's iron grip and walked away at a brisk pace.
Alfred would be proud of him, he didn't seem to be running away.
"I can't do that," he thought confusedly, crossing the hall and ignoring whoever was calling him. He bumped somebody with his shoulder and muttered a quick sorry, then he was also more into the human maze. He needed air.
He couldn't escape and go on patrol, Alfred had made it clear. He had to start thinking about his public image.
He didn't want to deal with people. It was hard.
They all wanted him to be their definition of normal when Bruce had no idea how to be normal.
He knew he didn't belong, that he was different, but having such clear proof of it hurt.
Finally, Bruce reached the terrace. He took a deep breath, holding his arms in what was supposed to be a gesture of comfort.
He looked up at the sky, hoping to see the bat signal, and have an excuse to leave.
"Mr. Wayne?"
He just winced. Under normal conditions, he wouldn't be taken aback. But those were not normal conditions.
In front of him was a man of about twenty-five, black hair and thick glasses - they weren't prescription lenses, he didn't need them - looking worried about Bruce.
"How do you feel?"
What a stupid question. It was clear that Bruce wasn't well. And that man was a journalist. Bruce didn't want to give him material for an article in his newspaper
The other man massaged himself behind his head, embarrassed, "I know, it's a stupid question, you first came on me and you didn't seem totally into you ..."
"I'll be fine," he said, more a whisper than a growl. He wanted to send the man away, he didn't want to be his next scoop.
God, who knows how pathetic he seemed at that moment.
"Mr. Wayne, if you need to get out of here ..."
"I can't. I organized the charity evening. "
It had been Alfred, and Bruce felt bad taking his credit, especially when his butler was still recovering and wouldn't have to do the extra work because of Bruce.
But Bruce didn't even know where to start to throw a party, let alone a gala of that magnitude.
Alfred had had to come to his rescue, lest Bruce inadvertently causes scandal or offend the wrong people. He had sent out the notes, inviting reporters from numerous newspapers and showing the world that Bruce Wayne was no weird cryptid living locked away in his family manor.
Not that it was that far from the truth, but it wasn't the image he wanted to have in public. Even if the alternative didn't seem so bad.
"It doesn't look like your guests are interested in charity," the reporter commented, and Bruce shrugged.
What could he say? He was right, those people wanted to show off, like in a shop window. Look at us, we are the elite of Gotham, we care about the city from our privileged places.
God, he wanted to punch everyone. Unfortunately, that was not the socially acceptable response to problem-solving.
“No, I'm not. But they have the money to help," he said, only to bite the inside of his cheek soon after.
He probably shouldn't have said it: Alfred would call it a PR incident. He will never understand why telling the truth had to cause so much trouble.
The reporter nodded, “At least they can do something useful with their money. Even if being around them is not pleasant. "
"I'd rather be in a pit full of snakes - Bruce said sincerely - At least they'd attack me for protection."
"I bet it would be much more enjoyable."
"Mhm. Do you ask it to confirm what to write for your article? "
He looked at him confused, "Why should I write this?"
If he was acting, it was almost convincing. Bruce snorted, “Sales would skyrocket. I imagine the headlines on the front page, Bruce Wayne's worst guest in the world, and people would buy it right away. Everyone loves to gossip. "
“I'm not here for the gossip. "
"Why are you here?"
The reporter pursed his lips, looking embarrassed, “My boss… he's interested in learning more about the city vigilante. "
So he was here for Batman. Bruce stifled a smile. Destiny had a strange sense of humor, didn't it?
“Shouldn't you be interviewing Detective Jim Gordon? He seems to know a lot about Batman. "
“I wanted to, but my colleague asked me to accompany her and I couldn't say no. Especially since Lois attracts trouble like a magnet. "
In a city like Gotham, it was like a death sentence. It made sense that he had come with her, but the reporter was a civilian, unprepared for the dangers of Gotham. Bruce made a mental note to keep an eye on the man and his colleague, to avoid them ending up in unpleasant situations.
It wasn't stalking if you were doing it to protect people.
"Will you be staying in the city for a long time?" he asked.
“A week, maybe more. It depends on a lot of things. For example…"
“Smallville! Do you think it's time to disappear?!"
He sighed, “This is Lois. She must have noticed that I am gone. "
"Smallville?"
The other moved uncomfortably, "Um, it's not my name. Lois calls me that because… well, it's a long story. My name is Clark. Clark Kent."
He held out his hand and Bruce took it hesitantly. He had a strong, reassuring grip. He didn't feel uncomfortable.
"Do you want to go back, Mr. Wayne?"
" I would rather stay out for a few more minutes."
"Mhm ... wait a minute."
He took off his jacket and put it over his shoulders. Faced with Bruce's surprise, Clark explained, “It's very cold tonight, and I don't want you to get sick. You look…"
You look like you're on the verge of collapsing, but he didn't say it because he was too polite to do so. Bruce was not a fragile thing, but he did not find the strength to refuse that simple gesture of care.
He couldn't trust that Kent not writing an article about the things they had said, but there was something about him ... something that made him think he could give him the benefit of the doubt.
Clark Kent left, joining a woman in the hall.
Bruce squeezed the jacket Clark had left him. It smelled good.