Episode 3: An Honest Effort

Bruce and Clark both take a chance on each other, as they attempt to reconcile their differences.

Bruce sat on the edge of his bed staring out the window. The sun hit the grass so well from this angle. With yesterday’s rain everything was well watered and truly alive. It always impressed him how you could tell a difference just from one day of rain. It was 11:26am and Bruce still hadn’t set foot in the office. This was uncommon, but not rare enough he worried people. Any day he didn’t have meetings in the morning he stayed at home. He could get anything done from his home office, or even better, his phone. He in fact had no meetings today at all until the end of quarter wrap up call at 4:30, and that was a video conference. He had no reason to come into the office at all today. Except for one. The big one.

            He’d been thinking about it all day and all night. It wasn’t like him to worry this much. It was less like him to be concerned about how another person felt. So why now could he not shake yesterdays lunch with Superman?

            He didn’t lie about anything. What’s more, he believed it. He didn’t need Superman’s help. He wasn’t some hermit, he was doing just fine. He had a small, connected social circle and that’s how he liked it. Just because he doesn’t see many people outside of it doesn’t mean he’s in need of saving. Besides, he was above those kind of human needs. He went without sleeping constantly. He’d gone an entire week without eating once. He doesn’t need to waste time on those menial things when he could be saving lives.

            He’d said those words a thousand times. In his own head, to the reflection in his mirror, and the steam in the shower. Not once did they ever manage to convince him that he should stay home.

“It would be so easy.” He’d say. “Just stay home. Clark will show up, Margaret will tell him I’m not there, he’ll leave and never come back. Whatever he needed help with he can call me about. It’s fine.”

            Those words would fall from his mind like tar. They’d land in his decision making sector and be met with the same response every time. “Ok.” He still heard him say it. “Ok.” The way Clark understood, and sympathized with Bruce over one of his greatest secrets. He had never gotten that from anyone other than Alfred. Even Lucious always encouraged him to widen the circle of trust. It hit like a truck and Bruce was hooked instantly. He hated how well it worked. The slightest touch of real, genuine kindness and community made him feel so…so…

Hurt.

            Was there really nobody else in his life that cared about him like that? If so, why did Clark? And if Clark did care, just that little bit more, how could he betray him?

            Suddenly, his train of thought was interrupted by Alfred walking in the room.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. “Terribly sorry Master Bruce, had I known you were here I certainly would have knocked.”

“It’s ok, Alfred. What’s up?”

“What’s up with you?” He responded, closing the distance between the two of them. “I haven’t seen you this concerned in a while. Is something troubling you? Don’t tell me it’s the IRS.”

“They’re a part of it for sure.”

            They sat in silence, Bruce arguing over whether or not to tell Alfred about the Superman situation. He wanted to, but he felt as though he already knew what Alfred would say in response.

“It’s actually Clark.” He finally said, the words causing more emotion to rise up than he was ready for.

“Mr. Kent?” Alfred puzzled. “What’s wrong with him, I didn’t hear anything?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s been showing up at my office for the past two days and having lunch with me.”

“Well! That’s kind of him, how thoughtful.”

            Bruce didn’t reply. He didn’t know how to. Was it kind of him? He believed so deeply that it wasn’t. How insulting is it for someone to just show up unannounced at your job and bring you food, just assuming that you don’t have the maturation to take care of yourself? Made doubly insulting by the fact that they’re right. Every part of him was fighting against this care and thoughtfulness, and the harder it fought the more he asked himself, why? Why was he fighting friendship? Why was he fighting being taken care of? Did he not trust Clark, or did he not trust himself?

“You don’t think so?” Alfred said, breaking the silence.

“I kind of…chewed him out for it.”

“You do despise having your lunch break interrupted.” Alfred mused. It’s true, he does, but Alfred said that with the intent of making him laugh. Upon seeing that it failed, Alfred began to grow weary of the avoiding the answer.

“Master Wayne, if you’ve done something wrong to someone, you should apologize. You know that.” Alfred leaned in and drew his attention to eye contact. “What is it, sir?”

“I don’t…think…anyone’s ever been nice to me like that.”

            Alfred blundered backwards. He was shocked. Bruce had never been so emotionally intelligent as that before.

“I mean, of course you have.” Bruce continued, papering over the cracks in his statement. “But you don’t count, you’re family. Family is supposed to be kind and care about each other. Clark isn’t. He doesn’t work for me, he didn’t want anything out of me, he even paid for lunch. He had no reason to care about me or my health at all. But he did. I can’t get it out of my head.”

            Alfred stood, desperately trying to hold in his excitement. This was such an enormous step for Wayne. He might actually be doing something healthy for once. Alfred knew now it was more paramount than ever, not to push things too far.

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him I didn’t need his help. I didn’t need his friendship, and I didn’t need to be taken care of.”

            Silence continued for longer. Bruce hated every second it dragged on. He felt so guilty already, he didn’t need Alfred judging him now.

“I mean, I know I’m correct, I don’t NEED him, but the way I said it just felt so rude.”

“Do you?”

            Bruce narrowed his eyes and craned his head.

“Have you ever tried?” Alfred said. “Have you ever confirmed for a fact that you don’t need him?”

“…Alfred…”

“I know you think you don’t, but that’s nonsense. A scientist coming to a conclusion before he’s done any research is one hoping to lose his job. So I ask again, have you tried being friendly with someone and from that trial determined that you don’t need it?”

            He thought about it for a moment. It was a silly question. Of course, over the entire twenty-three year period of his life he had been friendly to people. He didn’t spend his days being hostile to anyone in his company. But thinking of it now he couldn’t recall the last time it did him any good besides momentary cordiality. Thoughts of Thomas Elliot sprang horrifically to mind.

“You may be right. You might not need him at all. You’re getting to know yourself more every day. You’ve been Batman for some time now. But you don’t know that. You never found out.”

            Alfred reached over to the edge of the bedroom bench and retrieved the cell phone laying morosely on its corner. He handed it to Bruce.

“Give it one last honest effort. It’s worth it I promise.”

            Alfred promptly left the room, allowing Bruce the dignity of making his choice without being watched. It puzzled Bruce as to what in the world he came in there for if he was just willing to leave right now, but he found it best not to ponder Alfred’s mysterious ways.

“An honest effort…” he said aloud as he wondered what to say on the phone.

            In Metropolis, Clark Kent was preparing to leave after a successful interview with the mayor and his recent refurbishing of the cities pipelines. A mundane move that most of the city might not notice if he weren’t about to bring attention to it in his column. He loved little things like that. So often you hear about political figures saying something stupid or behaving cruelly, so it made Clark unendingly happy when a politician did something as nice and wholesome as improve the local water supply. So happy in fact he forgot about what the rest of his day was to involve. He grimaced as he imagined another silent lunch with a hateful Bruce Wayne. He tried his best to let it go and respect his friends boundaries, after all just because he was different didn’t mean he was worse. No, it was all the deprivation of sleep and food that made him worse.

“You don’t have to understand it, you just have to respect it” he told himself. That never worked, but at least it was something. He pulled out his phone and started texting his boss. He was just wrapping up the last words on his message when a phone call came through dominating the screen. The ID read “BW-W2,” short for “Bruce Wayne-Work 2.” Not the most secure naming scheme, but nobody ever checked his phone. He wondered what in the world Bruce could be calling him about. He knew Clark was coming, was he trying to call him early enough to keep Clark at bay? That seemed low even for Bruce. He swiped his thumb across the screen, and placed the phone to his ear, making sure to cover his other ear with his free hand.

“Hey, what’s up?” He said, attempting not to be rude, but still tainting his voice with the stain of a busy day.

“Hey…It’s Bruce by the way.”

“I know. What’s going on?”

“I…uh…”

            The receiver hummed silently as Bruce grappled with his words for a fair spread of time. Clark wanted to cut him off but due to the confusing nature of the call he didn’t know what to say.

“Have you…” Bruce began, fighting over every single syllable, “already bought the sandwiches?”

“No, I’m running a little behind today. I was going to head out there now. Should I not?”

“Could you…please…get a French dip…” Bruce said the last two words so quietly even the Man of Steel couldn’t pick them up.

“Could I what?”

“Could you please get a French dip instead of the Cuban for me this time?”

            The entire world dropped its jaw. He was making an order? He wanted something specific? That could only mean he was expecting Clark to arrive. He was trying to make it go better than before. Was he putting in a real attempt?

“I know it’s hard to carry drinks already, so I don’t need the dip. I just like the sandwich. Can you do that?”

            Clark stood in the middle of the town hall steps in stupefied happiness. He never would have guessed in a thousand lifetimes that Bruce Wayne would ever willingly subject himself to this. He thought it would always be met with resistance. It welled up so much emotion he almost cried. His voice cracked and his hand covered his mouth.

“I can pay for it if that’s the issue.” Bruce said, trying to break the silence.

“No, no it’s cool. I can do it. I can definitely get you a French dip instead. You still want the Sun Chips with it?”

“Uhm…no? Sorry, I just, they’re not my favorite.”

“It’s cool, it’s fine. I didn’t ask before getting them. I’ll get something else. You like Miss Vickies?”

“That’s perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, absolutely. I’ll be there at 12:15.”

“See you then.”

“Bye.”

            Bruce hung up the phone in a snap. He fought as hard as he could to not over analyze every word he just said. Clark sounded happy, he should just take this as a win. He would apologize in person.

            He stood up and got dressed in one of his better suits. It was new, and freshly ironed. It didn’t have any marks or lines to speak of. It was a jet-black overcoat with pants to match. He wore a new button up shirt underneath it, rather than the one from yesterday missing buttons. He folded the small piece of paper into a perfectly shaped pocket square and inserted it into his left breast pocket. He shaved all the stress-born stubble off his face and gelled his hair, striking the balance he always aimed for between well-kept, and casually messy. He came striding down the stairs with shoes in hand. He scanned the foyer for Alfred, and found him giving discreet orders to the cleaning staff. Alfred turned around and met his gaze with an excitement that had to be seen to be believed. He dare not say a word lest he risk compromising an important moment for Bruce. He only stared and waited, forcing the word “well?” to appear without his lips needing to form it.

“Alfred go check the antiques. I need dad’s old chess set.”

12:14pm Wayne International Plaza

            Clark Kent adjusted his blazing red tie with dots of gold to fit tighter to his collar. He could hardly contain the excitement he felt. It felt like the first time meeting Bruce all over again. The invigorating feeling of a fresh start was always attractive, which was odd for a man who was sent to a new planet as a baby. The sandwiches rested perfectly in their bag, always tucked in as firm as possible to survive flight. The drinks sat in either corner of the carrier, and between them was Bruce’s dip. Everything was perfect. Even his hair had that perfect swirl in it he found so amusing. It was all the more important not to overreact now. Don’t respond like this was some big thing, just let Bruce absorb it at his own pace. He had the bulging manila folder nestled under his right armpit to allow his digits to still function. That was the only thing giving him pause.

            The elevator dinged and opened it’s doors, indicating he was on the 100th floor. He took two confident strides out into the lobby and turned his attention to the right, where Margaret sat fuming as always.

“Good afternoon, Margaret. I think Bruce is expecting me?”

            Margaret boiled in rage. She hated the constant intrusion without permission. She hated being so powerless to stop him. Worst of all, she hated that it seemed to be working. Because indeed, Bruce was expecting him this time. A last minute phone call and addition to his calendar made “lunch with Clark Kent” a real thing she had to devote time to. Infuriated, she responded.

“Yes, I believe he is. I’ll ask if he’s ready for you.”

            She pressed the button on her office phone that speed dialed Bruce’s cell phone, staring at Kent the entire time. It rang for thirty seconds. Short for total ring time, but odd to Margaret given that he shouldn’t have been doing anything. When he did answer, he opened by asking “is he here?”

“Yes Mr. Wayne, your 12:15 has arrived a little early.”

“Perfect.” He replied. “Send him in.”

            Bruce hung up before she could reply. She sat there positively incensed. This nosy journalist muscled his way into an impromptu meeting with Wayne through some means so private even she couldn’t know about it. Then, despite the obvious disruption and anguish this caused, he has somehow wormed his way into being a regular at Wayne enterprises. What’s next? Does he get his own security card?

            The lock and soundproofing seal disengaged and Clark stepped forward to open the door. He said thank you to Margaret and smiled at her, doing everything in his power to be polite, yet somehow it came out rude every time. If only people didn’t use politeness to be petty.

            He stepped into the room and turned around quickly to seal it back up. Despite his desires, he knew for a fact they would be discussing Justice League business this time. In his quick turn around he caught a glimpse of something he couldn’t fully make out. It was a large cube, looked like metal? Or perhaps rock. A plate or board of some kind. Did Bruce bring a bomb? Whatever it was, it had small parts along the top. It couldn’t be. He didn’t…

            Clark turned around and got an eyeful of the room before him. It was so wonderful he could barely stand it. Tears almost welled in his eyes he was so amazed and proud. Bruce had brought a marble chess set the size of a monopoly board, and had set it up with the finest ivory pieces eyes had ever beheld. Emblazoned on the side visible to Clark read “Patrick” in bright gold lettering, with letters half visible on the left side Clark assumed to say “Thomas.” The chess set sat between the two men’s usual spaces, yet placed at each spot was no longer nothing but dust and maybe a coffee ring, now was a corkwood coaster and a bamboo place mat.

            Best of all, lay Bruce Wayne himself. For he indeed, was smiling. And that showed much grander a gesture of cooperation than any number of marble chess sets. It required much greater effort, and needed much grander a ceremony to occur. It was smile that didn’t show teeth, but pushed the limits of what a lips only smile could achieve. It showed the unimpeachable joy of someone having just thrown you a big surprise, but also a slight embarrassment. The kind of smile that wasn’t pretending the past didn’t exist, but was calling it out, and trying to make a fresh start regardless.

“Bruce…” he began, craning his head in disbelief.

“It was my grandfather’s set” he responded. “Me and my dad would play on special occasions. Once he died I put it away so it would stay in good condition. I figured today was a good day to break it out.”

“How much could this have cost?” Clark said, approaching and admiring the set, setting the meals and folder on the table.

“I have no idea. I think it was a gift back in the twenties. Granddad had a lot of rich friends.”

“I should say so. Where’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your name” he said, rotating the board. “I see your dad’s on this side, your grandfather’s on this one. There’s two more sides, I’dve thought you’d have your name emblazoned on here.”

“Oh yeah. I don’t know, I never thought about getting it on there. For a long time I was scared to touch this.”

            Clark stood from admiring it and returned eye contact. The two stood face to face, their emotions acknowledging everything that came before, but not their words. Not yet. It felt like the time, but Clark wasn’t sure how to start. He forgave everything, there were no hard feelings. Should he start with that? He was interrupted by Bruce, apparently ripping the band-aid off.

“I’m sorry” he started. “You shouldn’t have been berated like that. I don’t like you trying to enforce any kind of lifestyle on me, and I don’t like being viewed as lesser just because I’m not the same as you. But I’ve been thinking about your stance a lot, and it occurred to me that, no matter how much I don’t like it, I don’t know whether or not you are right. So, if it’s alright with you, I want to turn back the clock. I want to try again, give it an honest effort, and if I like it, I’ll make it a daily thing. Can we do that.”

            Clark paused for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He wanted to “yes” so fast he cracked a sonic boom through the air, but that wouldn’t be appropriate. He thought of all the ways he could condense his sentence as far down as possible, and how he could use such efficiency to fully explain how he felt. In the end, what came to mind was the simple, crisp gesture of a firm handshake. He raised his right arm at the elbow and extended it to Bruce. The offer of forgiveness laid bare in the palm of his hand, there to be taken.

            The world held its breath as Bruce swallowed and hesitated. This was exactly what he wanted, yet the drama behind it all made him rethink. This would mean admitting defeat pretty clearly. Was he ready for that?

“No” he thought. “That’s exactly why I should do it.”

            Bruce reciprocated the gesture and locked hands with Clark. They’re fingers clasped around each other’s wrists and they lifted twice, signaling the completion of the gentleman’s handshake. Once they let go, Bruce made the first move.

“Should I get the food?”

“Sure. Black again?”

“Please.”

            They took their seats and laid their meals out before them. Clark took his first move and set the tone for what would continue to be for all their future games. He didn’t open with the furthest right pawn moving forward. He used the Réti opening. A sign of skill and forethought Bruce found lacking in their previous games. Bruce made his countermove, and the game to follow was so nail-bitingly tense the men forgot to eat. They danced and traded around each other until at the end of the game all that remained was Clark’s king and queen, and Bruce’s king. Finally, Bruce had to concede checkmate, and the two them immediately let out a relieved laugh. They had been so invested they had often forgotten to breathe between turns. For a game of such drama, one would assume that’s all they would play, and perhaps for a time that’s all they intended to play. But only after a few moments of respite and laughter, Bruce stood his king back up and simply said “again?” launching another intense and clashing duel.

            They played and ate, laughing and talking for two and a half straight hours. The only interruption came to their revelry when Margaret knocked on the door and slowly opened.

“Is everything alright Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes, we’re fine. Why?”

“Just checking. This meeting’s running long, eh?”

            Clark snapped out of his trance and checked his phone. 2:51. He completely blew over his work lunch break. Perry would have a field day with him over this.

“Oh jeez, I had no idea what time it is. I should go.”

“No it’s ok, I don’t have anything until 4:30, there’s no rush.”

“No no, it’s me” Clark continued. “I have to get back, I have a thing at 3:30 and then I have a staff meeting close of day and then Lois and I have dinner plans.”

            Bruce tried to tidy things up in a fluster. He had gotten so engrossed in what was happening he was shattered by the idea of it ending. He stood and stammered, searching for something to say. He waved Margaret away and she hastily closed the door, but not nearly hasty enough for Bruce’s liking. He only had a second to bark out his last thoughts.

“Clark, wait! The thing!”

            Clark stopped dead in his tracks like a car slamming the breaks to avoid hitting a child. His face curdled into a hideous scowl as he grimaced at what “the thing” entailed.

“Oh yeah, that.”

            Clark grabbed the manila folder he brought with him and opened it up. He dropped it back onto the table and slid it towards Bruce, daring not look at it for longer than he need to.

“People have taken to calling him ‘the metropolis butcher.’ He’s killed three people in the last two weeks and left them all…like that.”

            Bruce puzzled at what he saw. He had seen gruesome crime scenes before. He thought he’d be desensitized by now, but this was so bizarre it couldn’t help but make him nauseous.

            The victim was chained to a wall by their hands and had their feet nailed in just like Christ on the cross. Written in highway gothic was the word “imperfect” by what appeared to white spray paint. The victim’s body was poorly covered in a hospital gown, dirty now by exposure to the elements but likely clean when the victim was dressed in it. Their face and hands were completely wrapped in bandages, almost as though they were mummified. Bruce flipped through the other two pages and found the other two victims to be almost identical. The bodies were in fact indistinguishable. The only difference between the three cadavers was the wall they were chained to, and the word written along the surface. The other two bared the sigil “flawed” and “broken.”

“Who were they?” Bruce asked, his tone unmistakably darkened.

“The detective’s couldn’t ID any of them.”

            Bruce scowled at Clark in disbelief. They couldn’t even identify the victims? Did they not run a blood test? How about dental records? None of these things worked?

“How did they die?”

“I think it was an overdose of some kind.”

“Helpful.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Normally I would handle Metropolis problems myself but I’m not good at this detective stuff, and I’m much worse at handling the…messy ones.”

            Bruce looked harder, straining to find something, anything to go on.

“The only other clue I can give you” Clark continued, “is that there was always opera music playing from a speaker nearby the body. No other leads to speak of.”

            Silence took over as Bruce thought this over.

“He’s not one of yours?” Clark asked.

“No.”

“Really? Not the crocodile? Not the guy with the tally marks? Not Joker?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“…….Well I’m really sorry to just drop this on you. I know how busy you are and I hate to bombard you with more, but I’m at a loss, and I need your help. Can you lend a hand?”

“I’ll check it out tonight. Send me everything you can.”

“Really?! You will?! Thank God!” Superman exclaimed, much more relieved than he probably should have admitted. “I’ll send over everything I’ve got. I don’t run the police though, so I can’t promise cooperation from them.”

“Don’t worry about them.”

“…”

“…”

“You’re not going to hurt them, are you Bruce?”

“So long as they stay out of my way.”

“…”

“…”

“Well thanks anyway.”

“Yeah. And thank you for…all of this.”

“It was my pleasure. Really. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

            Clark smiled and gave the double thumbs up gesture. He quickly sprinted out the doors and rushed into the elevator, disappearing just as quickly as he always did. Bruce stood confused, yet nonetheless satisfied. The honest effort really paid off. Alfred was right, as usual. His only hope was next time it wouldn’t have to end so quickly.

“Opera music, huh?” He mumbled, studying the case. “What kind of pig would do that?”