It was the following night, and Clark had decided not to let on that he knew Bruce's secret. He still felt guilty about having overheard Bruce and Alfred talking. Clark knew that Bruce didn't suspect that his secret was out. He'd been treading on eggshells the entire day, trying to gauge if the man had any idea that Clark had overheard the conversation. But Bruce hadn't mentioned anything. And Clark knew that Bruce was a straightforward guy. He wouldn't drop subtle hints. He would just come out and confront Clark with his suspicions, if he had any. Bruce's silence on the whole Batman thing was proof to Clark that he had no idea that Clark knew.
"Clark Kent, I'd like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Vicki Vale," Bruce said to him that evening, just before dinner time. He gestured to the woman Alfred ushered into the living room.
"Vicki Vale?" Clark asked excitedly, standing from his seat. "The Vicki Vale, of the Gotham Gazette?"
"That's right," Bruce said proudly.
"It's an honor," Clark said, extending a hand. She took it and gave him a firm, friendly handshake.
"It's nice to meet you, Clark. Bruce has told me so much about you," she replied with a genuine smile.
"I thought you might be interested in meeting her, since you plan to go into the journalism field yourself," Bruce explained, leading the way to the dining room. "I think dinner is just about ready."
"Sounds great. I'm dying for a good, home cooked meal," Vicki said. "After being on assignment in Tokyo for the last year, it'll be nice to have a little taste of home."
"I thought so," Bruce said with a nod. "But we're having Japanese food tonight."
Vicki and Clark both saw the slight smile that appeared, letting on that Bruce was joking.
"If that's the case, I need to be going," Vicki replied, pointing to the door.
Bruce chuckled lightly. "I see your sense of humor hasn't changed a bit."
Vicki's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Neither has yours."
"I had no idea Bruce knew you," Clark stammered in awe after a moment, once the two old friends grew quiet. He could hardly believe that he was in the presence of such a journalistic legend.
"Oh, we've known each other for years," Vicki said with a light shrug. "We've dated here and there."
"It's been a long time," Bruce countered.
"Mmm," Vicki hummed in agreement.
"Would you mind if I asked you some questions?" Clark asked.
"Go for it!" Vicki encouraged.
And so Clark picked her brain as they dined on filet mignon and grilled prawns, a mixed vegetable medley, baked potatoes, and flaky, hot bread. Clark found that he enjoyed her company, and loved how smart and focused she was. It was little wonder why she and Bruce had sometimes dated, though Clark had wondered why the two weren't together now. They seemed a good match as they sat and spoke with each other.
"You know something, Clark?" Vicki said toward the end of the night. "After you get some college credits under you, when it comes time for you to do an internship, I'll make certain my editor gives you one, if you'd like."
Clark blinked as he wondered if he'd heard correctly. "You...you would?"
"Absolutely," Vicki replied with a nod. "Everything that you asked tonight, the discussions we had...you'll make an excellent reporter, some day."
"Thank you," Clark responded, fighting down a blush. "That means the world to me."
"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true," she assured him.
Later that night, when he was alone in his room, laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he felt like his life could get no better.
***
"No, no, no! Shoot the ball! What are you doing?" Clark yelled at the television screen in the mansion's vast living room. He threw his head back in frustration. "Looks like it's gonna be another loss," he said to himself.
Three minutes later, the basketball game he was watching ended, with his favorite team taking a loss by a measly three points. Three points which Clark thought they could have easily gotten, if only they'd tried to make the shot when they'd had the chance.
Clark clicked the television off and went back to reading his textbook. His freshman year of college was now underway, and although he was bored with the standard classes that everyone had to take, he loved that he was moving forward with his education. By the spring semester, he could start taking his introduction to journalism classes, and be well on his way to taking up Vicki Vale's generous offer to secure him an internship.
But for all of that, he just couldn't get all that excited about the math he was reading about, and, after a while, he dozed off.
He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, only that one moment he was reading and the next moment, he heard ceramic shattering. He awoke with a start, not understanding what had happened. He blinked rapidly, trying to banish the sleep from his brain and focus on his surrounding. After a moment, he saw that Alfred was there, staring at him, white-faced and with his mouth open in shock.
"Alfred? Is everything okay?" Bruce called from the hallway was he approached.
"I'm...not entirely sure," the butler managed to squeak out, in a tone that was so unlike his usual calm collectedness.
"What do you...Clark?" Bruce asked, stepping into the room.
"What?" Clark asked, wanting to shrink away from everyone's stares. "Did I do something wrong?"
"Wrong...isn't exactly the word I'd use," Bruce replied. "You're...floating."
"Float...?" Clark asked, the word only half formed in his confusion.
Then, suddenly, he became aware that the comfortable couch he'd been laying on wasn't beneath him. He looked down fearfully, feeling around as he did so. The couch was a good ten inches below where he was. As Bruce had said, he was, apparently, floating in midair.
"What...?" he asked, more to himself than to the others.
Another power, his mind eventually inferred. I thought I was done with having new ones manifest. It's...it's been so long now. I would have bet my life on being done with new abilities. Looks like I was dead wrong.
"Clark, I want an explanation, now," Bruce said, his voice going hard. Clark had rarely heard him use that tone before, and then it had only been reserved for some of the people who worked for him.
"I...uh..." Clark stuttered, trying to buy himself some time to think. He was caught - there was no getting around that fact. Bruce now knew he wasn't a normal person. He sighed, slumping his shoulders in defeat. "I...I don't really know what's going on...just yet. But...I guess you deserve to know the truth. The full truth...about me. I have these abilities," he began. "I always have, ever since I was a kid. For the last eight years or so, more and more have manifested. This one though? This one is new." He gestured vaguely, as though it would help him to explain himself. With some effort, he managed to land on the couch with feather-lightness.
"Abilities? You mean powers."
Again, Clark shrugged. "Same difference."
Bruce appeared to concede the point. "What kinds of powers?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me." Once again, his voice was hard, commanding.
"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you," Clark said. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Where to start? I don't get sick. I can't get hurt. I can outrun anything on this planet, as far as I've been able to test it, anyway. My strength...I haven't found a limit to it yet. My glasses? A complete ruse. My vision is actually fine. I just wear them as a reminder not to accidentally use my other powers. I, uh...I have x-ray vision," he said, clarifying as Bruce's features took on a questioning look. "I can set fires with my eyes too, and even telescope in and out to see things that are really far away. If I stood on top of Wayne Tower and you placed a penny on the ground, I could read off the year stamped on it, no problem. But...that's not all," he sighed. "I can hold my breath for twenty minutes at a time, and blow out my breath cold as ice and with hurricane force, if I so choose. I can hear things I shouldn't be able to. And now, apparently, I can fly."
Bruce arched an eyebrow. "Is that all?"
Clark sighed heavily. "Does it really matter? I've just divulged that I am a giant freak of nature."
For a long, terrifying moment, Bruce was silent. Clark scarcely breathed while his heart beat wildly in his chest. What would Bruce say? What would he do? Would he kick him out of the manor? Would he hand him off to the Wayne Tech scientists to experiment on?
Finally, after an eternity, Bruce spoke. His voice was flat, emotionless.
"And when were you planning on telling me all of this?"
A sudden defensiveness rose in Clark and his voice took on a hard edge. "I don't know, Bruce," he countered. "When were you going to tell me that you're Batman?"
Dead silence echoed in the room.
"Don't try to deny it," Clark said, softer this time. "I heard you and Alfred talking that night, when some criminal or another slashed your arm with a knife. I...I didn't mean to. I couldn't sleep and was in the kitchen getting a snack. I overheard it all by accident. Sometimes my hearing kicks in when I don't necessarily want it to. And...I found the passage behind the clock." He pointed toward the grandfather clock, which now softly chimed the hour. "I probably shouldn't have but...I went down the passageway stairs."
"What else did you see?"
It wasn't what Clark had expected the man to say.
"Nothing," Clark admitted, hoping Bruce believed the truth of what he was saying. "I don't know the pass code to open the door and I'm guessing there's a layer of lead lining whatever is down there. I couldn't x-ray through it."
Bruce sighed noisily and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Look, Bruce, I'm not going to tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me." Clark paused for a moment before adding, "Just as I hope mine is."
"Of course it is," Bruce said without hesitation. He shook his head. "Well, I never imagined this. I guess the next question is...what now?"
"I don't know," Clark admitted. "Just so you know, though...I admire what you do as Batman. I always have, ever since I first heard about the mysterious nighttime hero of Gotham."
Bruce nodded once in acknowledgment. "It's good to have a fan," he joked weakly. "The Gotham PD doesn't always appreciate my efforts."
"I want to help," Clark said, coming to a sudden, instantaneous decision, before he was even aware of the fact that he was speaking.
"No."
There had been exactly zero hesitation before Bruce's response.
"Why not?" Clark asked, his voice daring Bruce to deny him.
"It's too dangerous."
"No, it isn't."
"Look, Clark, I appreciate the offer, but I already lost one partner doing what I do. I'm not going to put your life at risk as well. My answer is no."
"Robin?" Clark asked in understanding. He'd heard about Batman, then the Dynamic Duo - as some in the media had branded the team of Batman and Robin - and finally just Batman again.
"Yeah, Robin," Bruce said, his entire demeanor changing.
"What happened?"
Bruce looked away as pain pinched his features tightly. "Remember how I told you that I'd once opened my home to someone else?"
"You said he'd died," Clark said with a slight nod.
Bruce walked over to the couch and sat down. "His name was Jason. Jason Todd. For several years, we worked together as a team, going out and delivering justice where it was needed. And then...Joker. Jason was captured and murdered...and all because I'd been foolish enough to agree to let him help me."
There was no masking the hurt in Bruce's voice - the way Jason's death had heaped guilt and grief on the man's heart.
"I'm not Jason," Clark said with confidence. "What happened to him wasn't your fault. And besides, I've already told you - I can't be hurt."
"No."
"You want proof?" Clark challenged. "I can give you proof."
He zipped off to the kitchen in the blink of an eye and returned with the longest, sharpest knife he could find.
"You know how sharp this is," Clark said evenly.
"Clark, what are you...?"
He didn't get a chance to finish before Clark stabbed himself in the chest, right over his heart. The sturdy metal bent and finally snapped straight off the handle, leaving Clark completely unharmed.
"You're crazy," Bruce said, staring aghast at the broken blade on the floor.
"As crazy as a man who runs around the city at night, dressed up like a bat?" Clark countered, his eyebrows arched in amusement. He folded his arms over his chest.
"Touché," Bruce admitted.
"So, when can I get my own suit?" Clark asked, taking advantage of the fact that he'd made such a point against Bruce.
"You don't," was the immediate response.
"Bruce, let me ask you something," Clark said, not budging at all in where he stood on the matter. "What made you decide to become Batman?"
That appeared to take the billionaire aback for a heartbeat or two. "I watched my parents die in front of me. I was too young and too scared to do anything to help. As I got older, I realized that I can make a difference - so no other child has to lose their parents needlessly."
"And you don't think I have that same motivation? Bruce, a drunk driver who was fleeing the scene of a crime killed my mother. Maybe not in cold blood - I doubt he meant to take a life when he got behind the wheel of that car - but I still had to come to terms that, in an instant, my mother was taken from me, well before her time. I want to be out there, on the streets, doing what I can do to help. Why do you think I want to get into journalism? To help. But something like what you've figured out? A secret identity to use in order to directly make a difference in life? I need to be a part of that. And I will, whether or not you approve of it." He hadn't particularly planned on it, but his tone of voice had become commanding and somehow different sounding that his usual voice, at least in his own ears. It was like, in that moment, he'd become another person altogether.
"Clark..."
"No, Bruce. Don't. I won't change my mind about it."
Without giving Bruce the chance to make a retort, Clark simply walked away. And to his eternal amazement, Bruce didn't follow.
***
A month passed since Clark discovered that, of all the crazy things in the world, he could fly. He dedicated every free moment to honing his new skill, but the truth of the matter was, it was the easiest of his powers to control. It was nearly effortless for him to float and then land again, change direction at the spur of the moment, simply hover, even to fly at his maximum speed.
But the freedom!
Clark had never felt so free in all his life.
He did not forget his conversation with Bruce, but, for the time being, he let the subject matter drop. Clark could be patient. He would wait until he saw the right opportunity to approach the subject again. In the meantime, he would fly - always by night, for fear of discovery - and see the world. He didn't tell anyone what he was doing. While Alfred puttered around the house and Bruce either slept or was out fighting crime, Clark would take off from his balcony and set off in any direction that struck his fancy.
The first week, he didn't stray far. He mainly just circled Gotham. Once, he even saw Bruce, crouched on a rooftop, vigilantly watching the city he loved. Clark let him be, purposely flying into a cloud bank to remain shielded from Bruce's eyes in case the man should have looked up. After the first week, however, Clark grew bolder and he started to travel further, flying across state lines. The first place he went to was the cemetery in Smallville, alighting before the plot of land where his parents had been buried together.
It was strange, being there. He hadn't been back to the place since the day his mother and father had been committed to the earth. He'd thrown the first two handfuls of soft, black, rich soil on top of each of the caskets. But that was the last he'd seen of his parents' final resting place - an ugly dark hole in the ground, within which his parents had been laid, nestled in wooden boxes. Now, the scar in the land had healed. The ground was smooth and a healthy layer of grass had grown. Aside from the granite headstone that marked where Jonathan and Martha Kent had been laid to rest, there was nothing to show that the ground had ever undergone such upheaval.
"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," Clark whispered into the light wind. "Sorry it's taken me so long to come visit. Part of it was that I couldn't - I had no way to get here, at least until I met Bruce. There's no doubt he would have had me flown out here, if I'd asked. But the greater part of it is - and I'm ashamed to admit it - I was afraid to come back here. Afraid that...I don't know. That seeing your grave like this...with the headstone and the grass and everything...that it would...I don't know. Make it more real? As if not coming here and seeing this could make it hurt any less, or make it all just a nightmare."
He knelt down and laid a bouquet of flowers down on the gravesite - flowers he'd picked in a meadow, high in the mountains before he'd gone ahead to the cemetery.
"But, I can fly now. It's unbelievable, but true. I can actually fly, like I'm Peter Pan or something. It's crazy. But...well...now that I can get out here whenever I want, I promise, I'll come more often. I miss you guys."
He stayed for roughly an hour, a silent figure bathed in silver moonlight, unmoving as he stood in vigil over the people who'd loved him more than anything on Earth.
It was only when he heard the approach of a night guard on patrol that he lifted up off the ground and shot away, at somewhat less than his full speed. He'd learned already that he could tear the very air apart in a sonic boom if he moved too quickly. So he was sure to always travel at a speed that didn't threaten to accidentally reveal his location. He dared not go anywhere else that night, and retreated back to Wayne Manor, his heart bleeding anew in his grief.
But that experimental flight to Smallville bolstered Clark's confidence. He went out for longer periods of time, going farther and farther each time, until he'd traversed the globe, albeit only from the air. It was a dream come true, to see the sights he'd always looked at in books - the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, the Great Barrier Reef, the vast nothingness of the Antarctic, Mount Fuji - all of it made his heart ache with sheer wonderment.
Of course, he couldn't go out every night. As the months passed, he found himself faced with more and more obligations. School work and football practice took up a lot of his time, as did the college newspaper, which he'd immediately joined. There were social events to attend on campus as well, and even the occasional date, though none of those potential romances ever went further than a handful of dates. It was frustrating to Clark. As much as he wanted to help the world as a reporter and perhaps even as a costumed hero, the way Bruce did, he desperately wanted to eventually find a woman to share his life with. He wanted to settle down, get married, and to have a family of his own.
There were other obligations as well. Parties were thrown at Wayne Manor, and, as one of the residents of the house, Clark felt that he should be present at as many of them as possible. It was no secret that Bruce Wayne had opened up his home to a homeless teen he'd found on the streets, and Bruce himself had encouraged Clark to be as visible as possible when public events were held. Who was Clark to deny him that? After all, he owed everything to the billionaire.
Of course, the parties were nothing new. Bruce was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. It was expected that he would host a certain amount of events in his lavish home. Most of them, of course, were charity events. Every charity in existence appeared to want Bruce to endorse them, and he was more than happy to support as many as he could. Of course, there were those he couldn't support - through lack of time or from not agreeing with the group's mission. But the events he did host were nothing short of extravagant.
Alcohol of every type flowed freely. The foods served were always of the "rare and expensive" type, not to mention prepared to perfection. There was always music during those parties - usually live orchestral bands that played softly in the background, lending elegance to the affair at hand. Clark had been shy at first, wishing he could melt away into the background and merely observe what was going on around him, but of course that hadn't been an option. Some of the events - in particular, the ones focused on helping the hungry and homeless in Gotham - had been things he and Bruce had worked on jointly, forcing Clark to be front and center for the duration of the event.
As time passed, Clark grew more confident in his ability to mingle with the highest members of society. He grew more comfortable being an active participant in the events, and found himself making his presence at such events more known. If nothing else, he knew that interacting with the rich and powerful would be valuable experience to have, once he became a journalist. There was no reason to fear these people. They were just like him, just without the powers that set him apart from normal people. He could handle himself professionally, and often made a personal game of seeing how well he could get information out of the people he was speaking with. Of course, he never pried for anything that was too personal. After all, he wasn't trying to do an expose on them. He found himself with mixed success, and vowed to work on his skills even harder.
There was one major drawback to the events, as he soon found out. He usually had to shoo away one or more intoxicated women. The first time, he'd ducked into his bedroom for a moment to collect himself and found two fully disrobed women lounging on his bed. After that, he'd learned to lock his door before joining the party, but that didn't discourage some of the women. A number of times, he'd found himself somehow cornered during the parties, with women trying to seduce him away from the event and into a private area. Clark always gently rebuffed their advances. He'd long ago vowed to keep himself saved for his soul mate - whoever she was - because he could not imagine giving himself over to anyone who didn't know the full truth about who he was. And being approached by random women, just because he was a friend of Bruce Wayne, added a very creepy vibe to the whole thing.
He hated it.
Each time it happened, he was instantly brought back to his near-rape at the homeless shelter, the night before he'd fled to the safety of Wayne Manor. He'd feel his body break out in a cold sweat and his heart would race. It would become difficult to retain his composure, though he always did his best to adopt a neutral expression that hid his inner turmoil, or even a forced smile to mask how much he wanted to get away.
But, no matter how hard the struggle to hide his discomfort was, he somehow always managed to keep up his ever-cheerful, friendly personality. He still graciously greeted the guests at each affair. He maintained polite conversation. And all the while, he kept his thoughts focused on helping the people of the world.
To Be Continued...
