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Any community center buses all-throughout Metropolis, six of the boroughs, run regularly. Missing one wouldn't be an issue.
If Clark was still in Metropolis...
Dark clouds gather, bringing lightning.
This part of Cape Carmine, outside of Robbinsville, has already emptied quick when the press conference concluded. Clark thought he recognized one or two from the Daily Planet's competitors. Already the mic-stands and equipment accounted for and packed.
He jots a note about 'the Lucius Fox Center for Gotham Youth' and a blot of rainwater soaks through Clark's notepad.
"Good golly," Clark mutters, adjusting his journalist's bifocals and looking up.
Well...
.
.
.
Might as well explore a little more of Bruce's city while here...
(Even if Bruce, as Batman, doesn't particularly like uninvited faces in Gotham.)
Around sunset, Clark discovers himself walking the filthied, grayed concrete, street-to-street, occasionally picking up litter. Park Row reminds Clark faintly of Southside, where he rarely visited. What they call 'Suicide Slum' in one of Metropolis's neighborhoods. Perhaps Clark should.
"Whatcha got there in yah briefcase, swuuhthaart?"
Eyes narrowed, Clark hesitates. He watches a tall and broadly muscular man leering out of the shadows.
Maroon-plaid jacket and slacks. Luxury platinum watch. Dark shades. Greased-back hair.
A distinctly flat-nasal 'Gothamite' accent.
But it's...
Exaggerated?
Clark's ears pinpoint that.
In the silence following, a couple more raindrops loudly land.
"Name's Malone," he drawls, coyly flicking an unlit matchstick perched between his lips. "How's 'bout yah hand it ovah... real nice-like?"
"I won't be doing that, no thank you," Clark says quietly, gripping it to himself two-handed.
"C'mon now... this ain't yah turf, ya goob. It's mine. That means yah'll be doin' what I say... r'else."
Refusing to back up a step, when Malone steps in, Clark visibly tightens his jaw.
"I'm sorry... I won't," he repeats.
Suddenly, a truck-horn in Gotham blares. People yell expletives.
Clark loses his focus, jerking his head, long enough for a pocketknife flashing up against Clark's neck.
A hot gust of air.
"What's the most truhble yah eva been in...?"
"Detention," Clark decides to answer, oddly comforted by the thumping of Malone's heartbeat nearby. A very, very familiar heartbeat... that Clark hasn't place yet. "An hour's worth from Mrs. Rosebury for pointing out my grade. Her test question was wrong."
The knife-blade scrapes skin, breaking nothing, as Clark turns determinedly, facing him.
"Anythung else...?"
"Yeah," Clark breathes, smiling. "It's good to see you, too."
.
.
.
Occasionally, the room's television-screen flickers for each clap of thunder.
The Gotham Charities Telethon, Guy Gimple's expression statics.
Clark gently pulls out of the body beneath him, rubbing a shoulder. He feels every inch of loosened anal-rim throb, gripping Clark.
A hand wraps to Clark's nape, urging him to kiss an opening mouth before Clark can pull further away. It bristles dark facial hair. He groans, feeling trembles of arousal hardening him. The condom fills again, near-bulging. Soft, gelatinous cum-colored eggs instead of fluids.
Getting red, Clark decides to handle the mess, wiping his penis off.
Kryptonian orgasms last anywhere from seconds to minutes...
While his bed-partner dresses, Malone—Bruce's thighs shining clear with the used lubricant, Clark remains naked.
"Please..." he sighs, "Whatever you need to do... please be careful."
The line of Bruce's back relaxes.
As easily as dressing, once more, he's Malone again, striking a new matchstick alight. It dangles, flaming-hot, from that terrible leer.
"Stay fresh, angel. I'll be seein' yah aguhn."
He grabs Malone's pair of dark shades, spit-tossing the lit matchstick onto the room's bedspread before walking out.
Disapproving, Clark blows it out with his freezing Super-Breath...
Well...
Gotham is certainly something to visit.