As the summer progressed, Clark found himself frequenting the little park more and more often, when he had some free time in between his jobs. He kept looking for another job to fill the void that had formed when the grocery store had gone out of business, but remained unsuccessful. There was simply too much competition with all of the students looking for work on their summer break. He wasn't happy about the situation, but was grateful he had the jobs he did. He worked hard and never complained. Of course, his powers gave him a leg up, he knew. He didn't tire as easily as a regular person, and he could lift things with ease. He could even forgo food and water for much, much longer than anyone else, making it a simple thing to work through a break or through lunch if he needed to.
His managers noticed his dedication, and rewarded him by increasing his hours when he asked, though it wasn't by much. They simply couldn't offer more than a few extra hours a week. Clark understood. The work just wasn't there. Perhaps it would change, come the fall, when students returned back to school, but in the meantime, Clark took what he could, in terms of hours and covering shifts for those who couldn't make it to work.
It was the housing issue that worried him the most. He hated staying at the homeless shelter. He didn't like the environment, nor did he like having to fear if one of the others living there would steal from him or try to pick a fight with him. He knew he appeared to be an easy target. Though he was lean and muscular, he was young. And that made others think that he was unable to defend himself or stand up for himself. But he was still too young to be taken seriously to rent an apartment, even if he had the money to. The situation worried him endlessly, but he saw no clear answers.
He did know that he preferred the shelter to the streets. At least at the shelter he had a roof over his head.
But for how long? he wondered. Most of the shelters had a time limit on how long any one person could stay there, regardless of how well behaved they were.
He thought about trying to find someone with an apartment, who needed a roommate. It was a good compromise, he told himself. He could chip into the rent, as much as his paychecks allowed. The trade off would be the loss of what little privacy he had. What if his powers flared up unexpectedly? On the other hand, wasn't he already tempting fate by staying in a shelter, which was always full of other people?
Clark squinted up at the sky, judging the time. His watch had long since been stolen, at the first shelter he'd stayed at. It hadn't been too great a loss - at the time, he'd known the battery was winding down and he hadn't had the money to spare to get it replaced. It was a bit late in the day to start his roommate search in earnest; he would start fresh in the morning. He had no work scheduled for the next day, so he could dedicate the entire day to his search.
"Hi, Clark."
Clark looked over at the now-familiar voice.
"Hey," he replied, by way of greeting.
Over the weeks since he'd first met the stranger in the park, who'd asked him about his experience working for the craft store, he'd seen the man many more times. They'd talked often, and struck up a friendship of sorts, though Clark had never even asked the man his name. Now, like always, the man gestured to the empty side of the park bench.
"May I?"
Clark nodded. "Of course."
"How's everything going?"
"Can't complain," Clark said, watching the ducks swimming in the pond. "You?"
"Can't complain," came the response. It was accompanied by an amused smile. "What's new?"
Clark shrugged. "I'm going to be looking for an apartment," he offered.
The man arched an eyebrow. "Aren't you a bit young to rent a place?"
Clark gave him a half smile. "Well, okay. I'm in the market to find someone who needs a roommate. Someone who has a place already, that is."
"Ah," the man said in understanding.
"It needs to be soon," Clark said, more thinking aloud than as something meant for the other man to hear.
"In a rush to move out?" the other man joked.
He shook his head. "It's not like that." He sighed.
"Sorry," was the apology. "Is everything alright?"
Clark hesitated. Though this man was someone he'd been talking to for weeks, did Clark really want to get into such personal things with him?
"Look, I'm not trying to pry," the other said. "You're entitled to your privacy."
"It's...not that," Clark said, choosing his words carefully. "It's just...it's kind of embarrassing, I guess."
The man gave him an understanding nod.
"I...uh...I don't think someone like you would understand. Not really," Clark said, blushing a bit. "No offense."
The other man looked at him thoughtfully. "What makes you say that?"
"Well," Clark replied, clearing his throat a bit. "Look at you. I mean, I don't know much about you, mister, but we've been talking for weeks now. And I've learned some things about you. You're a successful business man. It doesn't take much to see that. Those shoes alone probably cost more than I could make in a year at my part time jobs. You've talked about I don't even know how many business deals...or, I guess alluded to them, is the correct wording. The day I met you, you were trying to decide if your company should have dealings with the craft store I work at. I may not have a business degree, but I can read between the lines well enough. Your company, whatever it is, was looking to take the store over. You didn't, but still." He shrugged. "I understood what you meant."
Clark paused for a moment and looked away, watching the families that were walking together through the park, and a stab of longing pierced his heart. He would have given anything to have his parents back.
"But me? I'm a nothing. A nobody. I work part time jobs just to scrape up enough to be able to afford food and the occasional new shirt or pair of shoes as I outgrow the things I have. I'm not even sure I have enough to really even offer much to a potential roommate, but I have to try because I'm getting close to the time limit at the shelter and I don't want to be sleeping on this park bench at night."
He clamped his mouth shut against the emotional monologue that had sprung, unbidden, from his throat. He'd never in a million years wanted to divulge such personal information to this stranger, as friendly as the two had become.
The man's face softened and turned sad. "Oh, Clark. I'm so sorry. I never realized..."
"No, it's fine," Clark interrupted.
"No, it isn't," the other said with conviction.
"Really. I'm fine on my own," Clark said.
"Isn't there someone...?"
He shook his head. "It's just me. My folks died when I was thirteen. I've got no other family." He shrugged again, as though it wasn't a big deal. "I'm fine."
The other man shook his head. "I'm so sorry. I know what that's like. To lose your family, I mean."
"You do?" That perked up Clark's interest.
"I do," the man said, with a nod. "I lost my parents when I was younger than you. I was eight. There was...an incident with a mugger. We just happened to be in wrong place at the wrong time. They gave the man what he asked for but...I think the mugger was scared. He had a gun..." His voice trailed off.
Clark found his heart hurting for the man. "I'm sorry, mister. My parents...I lost them together too. Well...my mom first. We were in a car accident. She was killed instantly. And my dad...he'd had a heart attack that day, so he was already in bad shape. He had another that night and his body just couldn't handle the two, back to back like that."
The man nodded thoughtfully. "I'm so sorry, Clark. Have you've been on the streets since then?"
Clark hesitated, but something told him to trust this stranger, just as he had all the other times they'd spoken. "Not quite. I was in a halfway house for a while."
"And you...what? Aged out?"
"Um...not quite."
"Ah. You left."
Clark nodded, feeling ashamed. "Yeah."
"Don't worry. I'm not going to run off to the police and report you as a runaway or anything. Although I'm sure someone at the halfway house is looking for you. And I'm also sure you had your reasons for feeling like you needed to leave."
"I did. Or thought I did. It doesn't matter much anymore, really. I would have aged out this winter anyway. I don't think I would have been thrown out on the streets but..." He shrugged, leaving the statement unfinished.
The stranger was silent for a moment. He seemed lost in thought. Then, "I might know of a place, since you're looking."
"Oh?" Hope flared in Clark's heart.
"I don't mean this to sound...creepy or anything. But I have plenty of room to spare, in my house."
"Thanks, but you don't need to..." Clark began to almost protest.
"Look, I understand your hesitation. I get it. You and I have talked, but we don't truly know one another. So I don't expect an answer right now. But my offer stands," the man said. "In fact, if I were you, I'd probably be wondering what a stranger's motivation and intentions were, with such an offer. But, I assure you, my intentions are pure. I just don't like seeing good people like you in such tough spots."
"Well...you're right, if you don't mind me saying so, mister. I am a little...suspicious, I guess," he admitted.
The man laughed. "Smart of you. Look, why don't we grab some dinner together? We'll talk, get to know each other a little better. If anything, I promise that I'll foot your share of the rent if you decide you'd rather find a roommate."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch, honest to God."
Again, Clark hesitated. But his growling stomach made the decision for him.
"Well...I guess dinner couldn't hurt," he conceded.
"Great!" the man said, his face lighting up with a grin. He fumbled around in his pocket for a moment, and found a scrap of paper and a pen. He quickly jotted down an address and handed it to Clark. "Marrick's, six o'clock."
"Marrick's?"
Clark couldn't conceal the surprise in his voice. He knew Marrick's only by reputation. It wasn't the ritziest place in town, but it was certainly one of the most expensive restaurants around, not to mention one of the hardest to get a reservation at.
"Are you sure?" he asked, just to be certain he was hearing it right.
The man nodded once. "Marrick's," he confirmed.
"Uh...okay," Clark agreed. "I...uh...how fancy is the dress code?" he asked, painfully aware of his pauper's clothing.
"Don't worry about it. You'll be with me. No one will dare to question you," the man assured him.
"If you say so, mister," Clark said dubiously.
"See you at six then," said the other man, standing.
"Wait," Clark said as the man began to walk away. "After all this time...I realized I never got your name."
The man chuckled. "You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't realize I hadn't given it. I'm Bruce."
And with that, he walked off.
***
Clark arrived at the restaurant with five minutes to spare. He still didn't completely know his way around town, and he got a little turned around twice as he made his way to his dinner meeting. He'd changed into the best clothing he owned, but he still felt shabby and unworthy of walking through the door of such an expensive and exclusive place. But he couldn't skip out on dinner. He'd promised the man - Bruce - that he would be there. And Clark was loathe to break any kind of promise.
"Your word is one of the most valuable things you can give another person," his father had once told him, when Clark had been feeling shy and anxious about going through with taking Rachel Harris to a school dance, like he'd promised. "And if you break your word, it can take a very long time for it to ever have any value to that person ever again. Sometimes, if the offense is big enough to that person, your word may lose all of its value to them for good."
Clark had taken his father's comment to heart, and, as a result, had always striven to keep his word, no matter what it took.
So he'd summoned up his courage and made his way to Marrick's, butterflies swarming in his stomach the entire time.
He wasn't sure if he should wait outside or if Bruce might already be inside. He could see his reflection in the large glass windows in the front of the imposing corner restaurant. So he took a moment to check his appearance, smoothing down a wayward lock of hair. Then he peered inside, trying to see if he could spot Bruce, ignoring the disgusted stares of the upper class men and women watching the poor youth ogling a lifestyle he could only dream about. He thought he saw Bruce toward the far right, near the back, so he took a steadying breath, then went inside.
"May I help you?" the snooty sounding host said, as soon as Clark stepped foot in the door.
"Yes, I'm supposed to be meeting someone here," Clark explained politely. "I thought he might already be here."
"Young man, I assure you that you must have the wrong place. Someone like you..."
"Clark?"
Clark looked over at the sound of his name. There was Bruce, striding forward from where Clark had thought he'd seen the man.
"Bruce," Clark said, nodding at the man, relieved and grateful for the rescue.
"Is there a problem here, Nicodemus?" Bruce asked the host, his poise and bearing daring the man to challenge him, but also conveying a sense of familiarity with the snooty man.
Nicodemus blanched. "Uh, no, sir. It's just that this young man here..."
"Is here to have dinner with me," Bruce said, his tone firm and unyielding.
"Yes, sir. Of course," Nicodemus said humbly.
"Come on, Clark. This way," Bruce said pleasantly, leading the way.
"I shouldn't be here," Clark said, once they were seated at the table, which was comfortably set apart from any other occupied tables. "I'm not suited for a place like this."
"Nonsense," Bruce said with a slight frown.
"No, it's true. Look at me. Then look at everyone else here."
Bruce casually looked around the restaurants, his eyes ghosting over the other patrons. Then he turned his gaze back to Clark. "You know what I see?"
"What?"
"I see a lot of people here with money. Some have broken their backs to earn what they have. Some were more than likely born with the proverbial silver spoon in their mouth. Some are probably spending outside their means to have a nice meal here, for any number of reasons - an anniversary, a first date, a milestone birthday. And then I see a young man who's been dealt a rough hand in life. A young man who probably deserves a luxury meal more than anyone else in this building."
"I don't know about that," Clark said, blushing a little. "I mean, okay, not everything that's happened has been my fault, but at least half of my troubles are of my own making."
Bruce chuckled a little. "You know something? I like that about you. So willing to own up to what you feel like is your fault. It's an admirable quality, Clark."
"My parents always stressed taking ownership of your own mistakes," Clark said quietly.
"Smart folks you had," was the gentle reply.
"Yeah, they were full of good advice and strong in their morals," he agreed with a small smile.
"Ah, good evening, Bertrand!" Bruce said, as the waiter approached their table.
"Good evening, Mr. Wayne!" the white-haired, older man said, his smile a mile wide. "What can I do for you this evening?"
"Nothing but the best!" Bruce replied in a playful tone. "I have a guest with me this evening, and I want him to experience the finest your restaurant has to offer."
"But of course!" the other said, filling their glasses with ice water with a speed and grace that belied his age. "Have you decided on your orders?"
"Not yet," Bruce said. "But I would enjoy a glass of your finest merlot. And you, Clark?"
"Uh, just a regular soda would be great," Clark said, his mind whirring.
Mr. Wayne.
Bruce.
Bruce Wayne.
Gotham's resident multi-billionaire.
The richest man on the planet, followed closely only by Arthur Chow and Lex Luthor.
Why hadn't he seen it before?
This was embarrassing. He'd been completely oblivious to the fact that the stranger he'd come to befriend was the most famous man in the city, and one of the most famous people in all the world. How could Clark ever hope to pursue a career in journalism if the obvious so completely escaped his detection? On the other hand, he reasoned to himself, he'd only been in the city a short while. And he'd tried to keep himself busy. He hadn't exactly had the chance to keep up with the news or the "who's who" of the city's elite residents.
"B....Bruce?" he stammered, his mouth acting independently from his brain. "Bruce...Wayne? You're Bruce Wayne?"
The man nodded solemnly.
"I...I...I didn't realize..." Clark continued.
Mr. Wayne chuckled. "It's not a big deal. If anything, it was nice to go unrecognized. I don't get that all that often. But I like when it does happens People usually put on airs and pretend to be what they aren't in order to impress me or get on my good side or what-have-you. But when people don't recognize me, all of that falls away and I get to see who they really, truly are."
"It's just...I'm so embarrassed," Clark tried to explain.
"Don't be."
"It's just that...before all of this," Clark said, gesturing vaguely, "the running away and living on the streets and everything...I thought I'd become a journalist. But if I can't even identify someone as famous as you..." He deliberately let his voice trail off. "Maybe I should rethink things."
Mr. Wayne shook his head. "No. Clark, let me tell you something. You're what...seventeen you said?"
Clark nodded once. "Yes."
"So, you're seventeen and fairly new to Gotham, right?"
Again, Clark nodded.
"There are some lifetime residents of the city who couldn't pick me out of a police lineup." He shrugged. "It has nothing to do with observational skills. They simply have other priorities. Something tells me that if you were to become a reporter, you'd be great at picking out the important details."
"I, uh...thanks."
The billionaire gestured to their menus. "Please, order whatever you'd like."
Clark nodded in acknowledgement and opened the menu. It was overwhelming, not in size - there was actually a very small selection to choose from - but in the sheer decadence of the meals. Clark hadn't even heard of most of the things listed. It was way outside of anything he'd ever experienced in Smallville or at Grandma Tildy's house. Mr. Wayne must have seen Clark's hesitation and confusion as he perused the menu.
"Is everything okay?"
Clark nodded slowly. "Just a bit...overwhelming. I've never heard of most of these dishes. What would you recommend, Mr. Wayne?"
Mr. Wayne shook his head and held up his hand. "Bruce, please."
"Oh. Okay. Uh...Bruce."
"Thank you." He smiled. "Well, to answer your question, everything is fantastic here. I'm partial to the Kobe beef and Maine lobster though."
Clark's eyes scanned the menu again, looking for the dish in question. He found it and blanched a little at the price. Mr. Wayne - Bruce - saw and gave him a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry about the price," he said gently.
"It's just...I can't...I've never ordered a meal like that..." Clark stammered.
Bruce chuckled. "It's okay, really. I'm not judging you."
"I...uh...okay," Clark allowed himself to say. He dared not risk making Bruce angry, if he turned down his generous offer. "If you recommend it..."
"Trust me, you'll love it," Bruce said, just as the waiter returned. "We'll both have the Kobe beef and lobster, Bertrand," he told the man. "Medium for me on the steak, and grilled for the lobster. Mashed potatoes and gravy for the side, please."
"Excellent choice, sir," the waiter replied as he jotted down the order. "And for you, sir? How would you like your steak prepared?"
Clark wasn't used to people calling him 'sir,' and it took him a second to process that Bertrand was addressing him. "Oh, uh, medium rare for the beef. I guess grilled lobster. And uh..." He swiftly scanned the sides with his super speed. "The vegetable medley for the side, please."
"Very good, sir. Can I get either of you anything else? A salad or cup of soup for starters?"
Both declined and Bertrand scurried away to put their order in.
"Thank you for this," Clark said after a moment of taking in the warm, dark browns and brighter tans of the restaurant's interior. "I just don't understand why. I mean, if anything, I would have been just as fine with eating a burger." He smiled a bit, letting Bruce know he was at least partially joking.
Bruce laughed a little. "I'm sure that's true. But it's a bit more private here. A place we can really talk. I meant what I said in the park. My offer stands. If you want, and feel comfortable with it, you can stay at my place, for as long as you need or want."
"That's a very generous offer, Mr...uh, Bruce. But uh...why? Why would you offer up your home to a perfect stranger?"
Bruce took a deep breath, perhaps contemplating his words. "Because I see a bit of myself in you. You lost your parents at far too young an age. So did I. But I was lucky. I had someone to care for me and I didn't have to lose my home. It bothers me to see a kid like you trying to scrape by with part time jobs and living in a homeless shelter."
"I'm not the only one," Clark said, thinking of all the other 'regulars' he saw at the shelter night after night.
"You're right. You aren't. But I can't explain it. There's something unique that I see in you."
"Me? I'm nothing special," Clark reflexively said, deflecting attention from himself sticking out in any way.
"I don't think that's true," Bruce said as Bertrand returned with a basket of bread, a dish with butter packets, and a dish with seasoned olive oil in it. "Ah, thank you, Bertrand." He took a piece of bread and appeared to study it as he spoke his next words. "And something tells me you really don't believe that either."
Clark took a piece of bread himself and looked down at it to avoid Bruce's gaze. "I'm not really sure what I believe anymore. So much has happened in my life. I've made some hard choices and not all of them have turned out as well as I'd imagined. I was on track to do so much...to get ahead in my schooling and be that much closer to having my career and being able to make a difference in the world..." He sighed.
"You can still have that. I'm offering you that chance. To not have to worry about where you'll sleep at night or where your next meal is coming from. To go to school, get your degrees, follow your dreams," Bruce said, deciding on the dipping oil for his bread. He took a bite and chewed slowly. "But, as I said, I'm not forcing anything on you. It's your choice. And we don't even have to think about it tonight if you'd rather not do so."
"Won't it look weird, to the public? That you plucked some random young guy off the street to come live with you?" Clark asked, arching an eyebrow.
Bruce gave him a half smile. "Oh, I'm sure some of my critics - and yes, I have my share of people who don't like me - will have some lewd comments and speculations. But the truth is, I don't care. And you won't be the first kid I've taken in. There was another, before you. Like you, he had no family left. His story touched me, and I opened my home to him. We were great friends, for many years."
"Where is he now?" Clark asked.
"He died, about...oh...six years ago now," Bruce said, his face clouding over with pain.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Clark swiftly apologized.
"He died doing what he loved," Bruce said, as if to mask his pain. "Anyway," he continued after a moment, "don't worry. I'll handle the details if you decide to accept my offer."
Clark mutely nodded, unsure of what to say. A silence descended on the table, until, at last, Bruce broke it.
"So...is there anything you'd like to know? About me? About the city? Anything at all. After all, that is part of the reason why we're here. That and this place has incredible food," he added with a twinkle in his eye.
"Well...sure," Clark said, a thousand questions already springing to mind. "Let me just figure out where to begin."
To Be Continued...
