Chapter Text
Unauthorized Situation Transpiring
Chapter One
Anyway, why were they sitting around yakking like this was a coffee klatch? There were plans to make, a campaign to lay out. If Clark was right, the killer could be getting ready to strike again at any time. And even if Clark had some of it wrong, well, there were still points of interest Bruce wanted to pursue. “What are your plans for the day?”
“My plans?” Clark wore a bemused look for a moment before he tossed it away with a jerk of his head. “My plans are to get some work done. In fact,” he looked at the clock in the kitchen, a kitschy thing with a rooster on it, “I'm already running late.” He took their coffee mugs over to the sink. “Look, I know you told Lois we were going on a,” he didn’t so much stumble over the word as gingerly bump against, “date, but…”
Equilibrium fully restored, Bruce waved it away. “‘Date,’” he made air quotes, “can mean so many things. For instance, it could be me tagging along as you go about your day, because I’m so smitten with you that any time spent apart is an agony.” There, Clark was the one knocked sideways and Bruce once more had the upper hand. He already felt better.'
“You want to come with me?” Clark said, apparently having a difficult time processing the concept.
“Of course.” Bruce patted him on the shoulder. “I’m fascinated by everything you do.”
“Right,” Clark dragged out the syllable. There was no laughter in the blue eyes now. Only dubious consternation, as if the idea of spending the day with Bruce really had him flummoxed.
“Is that a problem?”
“Ah,” Clark bit his lip, shrugged, “I … might have to juggle a few things.”
“Juggle away; you’re stuck with me.”
Clark let out a pent up breath, frustration playing across his face, but then appeared to cast his concerns off with a shrug. “Do you ever get this feeling the universe is testing you?”
“All the time, Kent, all the time.” Bruce smacked him on the shoulder. “Come on, chop chop,” he gave him a nudge towards the bedroom, “we haven’t got all day.”
Clark fixed him with another incredulous look, shook his head again, and vanished into his bedroom as Bruce helped himself to another cup of coffee and went back to the couch, grabbing yesterday’s Daily Planet off the coffee table.
After a thorough perusal, Bruce brought the paper to the kitchen and spread it open on the counter, open to the only relevant story in the entire edition -- more relevant than the dozen stories about Superman anyway. And all right, yes, he could allow it was big news that the Man of Steel had saved the ISS from a meteor strike, and rescued stranded climbers from Mount Rainier. He would even concede that stopping some crackpot scheme of Toyman's to fuck up the Thanksgiving Day parade was of some significance. Was it really breaking news that Superman had rescued not one but two cats, and a dog, however? Or that he had cut the ribbon at the opening of a new branch of the Metropolis library? That wasn't even getting to the heartwarming photo spreads of Superman delivering boxes of donations to a food bank, or stopping by a senior living community to drop off those cats and the dog.
Buried on page ten, however, was a brief notice about how one Ernesto Ruiz, 45, owner of a food truck, had been robbed and killed two nights ago. Police had little to go on. No witnesses, no security camera video; no motive beyond the obvious one of robbery. What the item didn't mention was that Ernesto Ruiz had had a side hustle going, working part time for private investigator Kevin Todd -- the same Keven Todd believed (exclusively by Clark Kent) to be a victim of the Lonelyhearts Killer.
Finding a pair of scissors, Bruce clipped it out, and in lieu of sticking it up on Kent's non-existent murder board (how did he not have a murder board? Bruce wondered, and made a mental note to do something about that), he tucked it into his wallet for safe-keeping.
As he put the scissors back in their drawer, he decided to play fair and add an asterisk to how Clark was the only one who thought all the murders were linked. There was a slim chance of that being true, and Bruce wasn't prepared to dismiss it outright. Their investigation today would decide that one way or the other.
Speaking of which… He checked his watch and went over to rap his knuckles against Clark’s bedroom door. “Kent? You about ready?” Getting no reply, he went ahead and cracked the door open, calling out, “I’m coming in!” If that wasn’t warning enough, tough; this was no time for farmboy modesty.
Even so, he did take a moment to brace himself against the possibility of walking in on a half-dressed Clark Kent. That he even considered that a necessary precaution annoyed him to no end. He was a grown ass man who had seen more than his share of naked flesh, much of it alluring. He was not going to swoon like some Victorian maiden aunt at a glimpse of bare chest, no matter how impressive the pecs.
Resolved to that, Bruce stepped into the room and found … absolutely nothing. Hhn.
He took stock of everything, from the neatly made double bed to the half-open closet that revealed a glimpse of more plaid than he had seen outside of Scotland, to yet another east-facing window because who didn’t want to be blinded by the sun first thing in the morning. The bed was positioned so it would get the full blast. What was missing was any place to hide, and that included the bathroom – he checked, even yanking back the shower curtain to make sure. Anyway, why would Clark be hiding?
He took one more look around, making sure Clark wasn’t scrunched into the closet or under the bed. Faced with the inexplicable, he was about to call Alfred, his usual sounding board when confronted with the uncanny, when someone pounded on the apartment’s front door.
Crossing the short distance in a heartbeat, he yanked the door open mid-knock, only to stagger back a bit at a cold blast of air swooshing down the hallway. When he looked again, the hallway was empty.
What the hell was going on?
He pulled in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stepped back inside the apartment. Someone, or something, was playing games, and Bruce was in no mood for it. About to complete his call to Alfred, he hesitated again when he heard a thump from the vicinity of the bedroom. Fingers curled around a batarang in his coat pocket, he charged into the bedroom and almost smacked right into Clark.
Clark steadied him on his feet and gave him a concerned look. “You okay?”
“Am I…?” Bruce stared at him, glowered at him, “Where the were you?”
Clark pushed at his glasses, gave his head a hapless shake as if unable to comprehend Bruce’s meaning. “I was right here.”
“The fuck you were. I looked everywhere.”
“Well,” a bit aw shucks now, Clark said, “I did go out on the fire escape for a couple of minutes.”
Bruce blinked, a twinge of uncertainty poking him. “Fire escape?”
Clark pointed at the bathroom window. “Right there.”
Bruce squinted. He had noted the window, yes, but only in a cursory way. He couldn’t absolutely swear he had made note of the fire escape. Even so, if Clark had been out there, how could he have possibly missed him? Granted, overcast and drizzly, it was a bit dark and gloomy. Still… “I don’t buy it.”
“I … don’t know what to tell you.”
“Hhn. And who was at the door?”
“Someone was at the door?” Clark had put on a thoughtful look now, a faint suggestion of alarm in his eyes.
“Pounding on it. When I went to open it, the hallway was empty.”
“Well it wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t say it was. You’d have to have been in two places at the same time.”
“Yeah,” Clark gave a little laugh that wasn’t remotely convincing. “That’d be crazy, right?”
Eyes narrowed, Bruce gave him a hard look. “You know something.”
“I…” Clark tried to wave it away. He must have seen that wasn’t going to work, however, because after another moment he let out a breath and said, “Look, you’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Well,” Clark looked away, looked back, “it’s just… There are rumors, stories, okay, that the building’s haunted.”
"Haunted?"
“So they say.”
Bruce didn’t believe it – and yet, he didn’t not believe it, either. He had seen and experienced far too much for that. “You believe that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe?”
“Hhn.” Bruce looked around, sniffed – leaned closer to Clark and sniffed again. “Why do you smell smoky?” It wasn’t strong, just the faintest whiff, and he would swear there had been no such trace earlier.
Looking a bit chagrined, Clark tried to sniff himself. “Do I?”
“Little bit.”
Looking torn, Clark admitted, “Okay, you have discovered my deep, dark secret.” He paused as if waiting for Bruce to speak up. When Bruce only prodded him with a look, he confessed, “I smoke. That’s why I ducked out on the fire escape. The landlord doesn’t allow it.”
“Hhn.” Bruce considered this reveal, not sure he believed it, either. For one thing, that trace of scent didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. There was more of a woodsy, campfire aroma to it. And for another, Clark Kent simply did not strike him as someone who would indulge in a bad habit like that. People had surprised him before, though. “You know that’s not healthy.”
“I do.” Clark nodded with enthusiasm. “It’s only every now then. I’m quitting. Cross my heart,” and he actually followed through with the gesture.
“See that you do. I don’t kiss ashtrays,” Bruce warned him, and pulled a face at that – right in sync with Clark’s look of dismay. “I mean… Never mind. Look, we need to hit the road. Do you need to do anything else?” He couldn’t imagine what else there could be. Kent was even fairly presentable, in black trousers, white dress shirt with a black tie, and dove gray v-neck pullover, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. All in all, he made a decent contrast to Bruce’s own bespoke blue suit, complete with vest, and French cuffs. He supposed it might even be said they looked good together, he considered, catching a glimpse of their reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“No, I’m good,” Clark said, pausing only to snag his messenger bag.
“Then let’s roll.” Bruce grabbed his overcoat, waited for Clark to shrug into his, and then led the way out.
Outside, he called, “Head’s up!” as Clark paused to examine the Porsche.
“What?” Clark looked around, surprised, but nimbly grabbing the key pod out of the air. “What’s this?”
“That,” Bruce told him, going around to the passenger side, “is the key to the brand new shiny car your sugar daddy just bought you.” Having already unlocked the doors, he slid into the passenger seat, enjoying Clark’s flabbergasted look far too much.
He wasn’t sure what had just happened up in the apartment, and a suspicion of being gaslighted kept flitting through his mind – to what purpose he could not imagine – but he felt on firm ground. He just hoped Clark knew how to drive something besides a tractor.