Chapter Text
Bruce
Bruce Wayne had a certain reputation to uphold, and he was constantly aware of this. It was one of the first things he had learned as a child, how to behave in front of others. In those days, it had been simple: saying “please” and “thank you,” not getting his nice clothes dirty, being on his best behavior when his parents had people over, not interrupting his father’s meetings in the study or his mother’s afternoon tea in the garden. And Alfred had always been there to remind him what not to do, to clean up his messes, or to talk him down from a temper tantrum.
These days, things were a bit more complicated. Bruce’s reputation was a constant balancing act. On the one hand, his life had to be interesting enough to distract any curious armchair investigators from looking too closely into his private life and potentially uncovering Batman’s secret identity. But at the same time, he wanted to avoid causing any major scandals that would affect the company, his charity work, and his general social standing, all of which afforded him the means to help more people and bring justice to Gotham. So he drove fast cars, but he didn’t break any traffic laws that would get him pulled over; he lied about having dangerous and exciting hobbies that explained away the many injuries he sustained by night; and he slept around, but not with anyone who would cause him any trouble. He avoided married women, women with a reputation for stirring up drama, and women who expressed an interest in anything more than a one-night stand or casual string of hook-ups.
And he avoided men.
Bruce had known from a young age that he was attracted to both men and women. Going to an all-boys’ private school certainly hadn’t helped the matter. There had been guilty kisses in the locker room, and later, when he was older, fumbling handjobs in bathroom stalls. He enjoyed being with men just as much as he enjoyed being with women. But when he’d come up with the idea to sleep around and earn a reputation as Gotham’s resident playboy so everyone would assume his nights were too busy for him to possibly fill them doing anything else, he’d known instinctively that, as far as anyone in Gotham or the press could know, he only slept with women.
That didn’t mean he never slept with men. Only that he had to be a hell of a lot more careful about it. Because he wanted a reputation, and he didn’t mind if it wasn’t an entirely positive one, but he didn’t want his sexuality to define him, and he certainly didn’t want the ensuing scandal to affect the precarious house of cards that was his life. Maybe one day Bruce Wayne being bisexual wouldn’t cause a scandal, but he was not yet confident that day had arrived. Because every time a celebrity came out, suddenly them being gay was the only thing anyone could talk about, the only thing anyone cared about. Because look at what was happening in California, where the debate over same-sex marriage had lit a nationwide political firestorm that Bruce wasn’t eager to get swept into when here he was trying to lay low. Every time Bruce read or watched the news, it reaffirmed his decision to remain in the closet.
He stayed the hell away from gay bars, but once in a blue moon he’d go out looking to get laid and someone would catch his eye, and that someone would happen to be a man, and thus would begin the often hours-long song-and-dance of attempting to discern the man’s sexuality, and how amenable said man would be to the idea of sleeping with Bruce Wayne, and whether he was likely to make a scene or go to the press if Bruce made a move. Nine times out of ten Bruce decided it wasn’t worth it and found a woman instead, or else went home alone and took his frustration out on the criminals of Gotham later that night.
But the tenth time, those times when he was almost certain the way a man was looking at him across a dimly lit bar or club wasn’t jealousy or recognition or simply staring off into space, Bruce would make his way over to the man in question, slowly, casually, with plenty of plausible deniability. He’d flash a few smiles at beautiful women who made meaningful eye contact, already thinking in backup plans and contingencies, and he’d situate himself next to the man, leaning casually against a wall or table or counter, drink in hand.
The conversation always started innocent enough. When Bruce noticed the other man had drained his drink, he’d offer to buy him another; though this was a stereotypically flirtatious gesture, if he ever needed to, Bruce could play it off as a billionaire doing a good deed, spreading the wealth a little, I see you’ve finished your drink, I have so much money, I’ll buy you a new one. If the man took him up on it, they’d talk a little more at the bar. Plenty of eye contact, standing a little too close, maybe another drink or two, and if the mood was right Bruce would invite him to take their conversation outside, offer a cigarette, offer a ride, offer whatever the other man was interested in.
Sometimes Bruce ended up driving home alone. Sometimes he didn’t.
He knew it was risky every time he did it, which was why he usually didn’t, went for months at a time sleeping only with women. He liked sleeping with women, liked women in general; it wasn’t like it was any trouble, being with them, it wasn’t like he felt deprived. Meanwhile, any of the men he brought home with him could go straight to the press, or the internet, and maybe no one would believe them, but if enough of them said something, if word got out…
But Bruce had always been a risk-taker, and it felt like such a shame to suppress this part of himself because of what society would think.
In the end, it wasn’t a scandalized straight man Bruce had misread who ratted him out, or one of the men he’d slept with going to the tabloids for their five minutes of fame.
In the end, it was a grainy cell phone video on the internet, Bruce Wayne pressing another man into the passenger door of his car; this one had been particularly forward and neither he nor Bruce had wanted to wait until they got back to Wayne Manor before shoving their tongues down each other’s throats. Bruce hadn’t been as careful as usual, wasn’t in the mood for caution; he thought he’d parked his car in an inconspicuous location.
Not inconspicuous enough, evidently.
The video spread faster than Bruce’s publicist could get it taken down. The reporters came soon after, flooding his executive assistant’s inbox with interview requests, waiting outside the gates of Wayne Manor or on the sidewalk outside Wayne Enterprises’ Gotham headquarters, asking everyone who’d ever known or been seen with him for a comment. Bruce was used to dodging the paparazzi, but they hadn’t been this incessant since his parents’ deaths, and he’d had Alfred to protect him back then.
This time, all Alfred could do was draw the curtains shut and denounce the reporters outside in his uppity accent: “Really, don’t these people have anything better to do, don’t they have any sense of propriety, isn’t there a shred of common decency left in this world.” He was, as always, unwavering in his support of Bruce. He’d known Bruce slept with men and women, of course he’d known, but they’d never talked about it, except once, when Alfred had first discovered it – Bruce hadn’t ever figured out how – and he’d told a teenage Bruce that “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that and don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.” They still didn’t talk about it, but Bruce knew if they did, Alfred would say the same thing, along with a few choice words about how it was no one else’s business what he did or with whom and Alfred would tell those sorry excuses for reporters where they could shove their cameras if Bruce wanted him to. And Bruce would appreciate the sentiment, but he also knew he needed to take care of this one on his own.
At first he hoped ignoring the reporters might make them go away, that they’d lose interest after a while and turn their attention to some other celebrity who’d done something more interesting, but it had been a hollow wish. Bruce had spent all those years building up his reputation as a casanova, sleeping with every consenting woman in Gotham and the surrounding cities. Being caught with a man – with the implication being that he was gay and had been faking it the entire time, because who had ever heard of someone being equally attracted to men and women – was the biggest scandal the city had seen in years, and that was saying something.
Working with his publicist, Bruce agreed to one of the dozens of interview requests that had come through, with the host of a liberal talk show who Bruce trusted to treat the issue tactfully.
In the days leading up to the interview, Bruce slowly came to terms with his situation, with the fact that he could no longer keep this part of himself a secret. The damage was done; people knew he wasn’t straight and were already making their own assumptions. He could ignore the situation, leave people to speculate, leave their inaccurate theories to gain steam and legitimacy, or he could set the record straight. He didn’t know which would be worse for the company, worse for his charity work, worse for his social standing. But in this case, unlike usual, he felt compelled to tell the truth. He could let the world believe many things about him – chief among them that he had nothing to do with Batman, a secret he would take to his grave – but letting them believe he was gay instead of explaining that he was bisexual was pointless and would only lead to confusion that he didn’t want to have to deal with.
He hadn’t wanted to come out now, or any time soon, but the world had never much cared what he wanted. Apparently it was time.
Clark
The Daily Planet’s offices were a mess. They’d moved to a smaller office space after the latest round of layoffs; there were cardboard boxes everywhere and everyone was on edge, wondering if they would be next. Lois had sent out dozens of applications to other national newspapers, “Just in case,” she’d told Clark, “And you should too.” But Clark couldn’t imagine leaving.
At least they had it better than the hundreds of local newspapers across the country that were already struggling to adapt to the internet before the recession. At least Clark and Lois were two of the Daily Planet’s top reporters. Clark’s Superman articles were some of the best performing on the Daily Planet’s website, and Lois was a Pulitzer finalist the year before. Perry would have to be crazy or desperate to let either of them go, and he’d told them as much.
Still, Clark spent his working hours stewing in the fog of anxiety that crept between the cubicles of the Planet’s new offices like an airborne pathogen. Even though Clark felt relatively confident in his continued employment, he couldn’t help but worry. About his coworkers who were newer to their jobs and didn’t have the years of service he or Lois or Cat or Jimmy did to give them some semblance of security. About his parents back home in Smallville, who wouldn’t fully open up to Clark about their financial troubles but who were definitely struggling. About the world at large, the unrest he could feel in the air, on the news, in the streets.
All of this chaos, on top of the usual stresses of Clark’s hectic double life, had the usually unshakable journalist-slash-superhero feeling unmoored. He couldn’t get too comfortable at the Daily Planet; even though he was a good journalist, he was also notoriously unreliable (a side effect of regularly jetting off to save the world in the middle of the workday) and he’d seen plenty of people laid off for less over the past few months. If he lost his job at the Planet, he might not be able to afford to stay in Metropolis, where Superman was needed the most. He wouldn’t be able to send money back to his parents to help them stay afloat. If he kept his job, he still had to worry about how he and the rest of the dwindling Planet staff would cover the final months of the election and the first months of a new presidency when they were already stretched thin.
And then there was this business with Bruce. Clark hadn’t tried to talk to him about it; he got the feeling Bruce didn’t want to talk about it, if his radio silence on the matter was anything to go by. Clark understood. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel to be outed like that, with the whole world watching. It had been nerve-wracking enough coming out to his parents in college, and to Lois when they’d started dating, and of course both of those conversations had ended as well as they possibly could have, with unconditional acceptance from the three people who mattered most to Clark in the world. That wasn’t anything like the treatment Bruce was receiving.
Clark had read the articles and watched the news segments. He’d wasted hours scrolling through blog posts, forums, and Facebook. Reactions ranged from supportive – cheering Bruce on, telling him to “live his truth” – to homophobic. Most people seemed to assume Bruce was gay and in the closet, that his sexual relationships with women had been either self-delusion or outright lies. Either he was trying to force himself to be straight, or he was paying women to pretend to sleep with him to maintain his reputation. Clark didn’t buy that. The few online commenters who suggested the possibility that Bruce was bisexual were met with skepticism and confusion.
Although they’d never broached the subject of sexuality between them – getting Bruce to share information about his personal life was like pulling teeth – Clark suspected it was far more likely Bruce was bisexual. His attraction to women had always seemed genuine. Truth be told, Clark was a little shocked to learn Bruce was attracted to men at all; he was just so… straight. Though Clark wasn’t really one to talk. Clark showed up even less on the average gaydar than Bruce did, with his button-up shirts and khakis and classic Midwestern charm.
Clark had spent more time than he’d care to admit squinting at the low-quality footage of Bruce and the mystery man – his face was obscured in the video and thus far no one had been able to identify him – leaning into Bruce’s shiny black sports car, kissing like teenagers. Clark, along with everyone else in the world whose sexuality included men, had always found Bruce Wayne attractive, with his sharp cheekbones and jawline and impeccably styled dark hair, those piercing blue eyes and that muscular body. And, before he’d learned they were the same person, Clark had found Batman attractive too: the deep voice, the dark suit, the danger.
Clark’s attraction had thankfully never gotten in the way of his friendship with Batman, and later with Bruce. He was perfectly capable of being just friends with someone he found attractive. Case in point: Lois. Just because they’d broken up, and were now “just friends,” didn’t mean Clark had suddenly stopped finding her attractive. He still thought Lois was beautiful, he just didn’t want a relationship with her that went beyond friendship, and neither did she. And that was exactly the way he felt about Bruce. Any relationship between the two of them would be disastrous. Didn’t mean Clark couldn’t look at Bruce and enjoy the view.
Though he did plenty of looking, being the true friend that he was, Clark spent far more of his time worrying about how Bruce was handling things. It was always a special kind of torture for Clark to watch someone he cared about go through a crisis, knowing there was little he could do to help. He wasn’t even sure he could talk to Bruce about it. Bruce wouldn’t want to discuss something so private; he never did. Sometimes Clark forced him to because he knew it would be good for Bruce, but was this was one of those times or was Clark just desperate to finally have someone to talk to who understood what it was like, being bisexual? Bruce was already the only person in Clark’s life who he could talk to about living a double life; was it fair to put this on Bruce too, if Bruce didn’t want it?
Clark was still thinking this over when he came home from work late Thursday evening. He was working longer hours – they all were – but he’d made sure to get home in time to watch Bruce’s exclusive interview, the first he was giving in the wake of his sexuality scandal. Depending on how Bruce handled the interview, Clark would either reach out to him or he wouldn’t.
He changed into something more comfortable and sat on his sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table, turned on ABC and caught the last two minutes of a reality show, commercials, and then there was Bruce Wayne, looking calm and collected as always. If he was bothered by any of the talk about him, it didn’t show on his face. He was dressed to the nines and looked young, rich, handsome, and very heterosexual.
The interviewer – an up-and-coming talk show host Clark knew by name and face but had never actually watched – didn’t beat around the bush. His first question was about Bruce’s reaction to the leaked video, the one that had started it all.
“Obviously it was a serious breach of privacy,” Bruce said. He sounded appropriately serious but his voice was level; if anyone was watching this expecting hysterics, they were going to be disappointed. “Anyone in the LGBT community, or who has an LGBT friend or relative, will know how important it is to come out on your own terms. Forcing someone out of the closet is a cruel and pointless thing to do.”
“Is that what you’re doing now, then?” the interviewer asked. “Coming out on your own terms?”
“Not entirely my own terms,” Bruce countered. “If it were up to me, this isn’t exactly how I would have wanted it to happen. But I do want to end some of the speculation I’ve seen. The dominant narrative seems to be that I’ve either been lying to myself or lying to the women I’ve been with over the years. Neither of those theories are true. I’m not gay. I’m attracted to men, yes, but I’m also attracted to women. I’m bisexual.”
Clark couldn’t help but smile at Bruce’s admission. He knew it was probably more difficult than Bruce was making it look, and he wished for Bruce’s sake that none of this had happened, but hearing Bruce say those two words live on television brought some small thrill to the small-town Kansas farm boy in Clark, the confused teenager who hadn’t known what to think when he felt the same way about some of the boys in his class as he did about some of the girls. It was the same feeling he’d gotten when he’d first walked into Metropolis University’s LGBT Resource Center as a curious freshman: Oh. More people like me.
The interview went seamlessly after that, at least as far as Clark could tell. The interviewer asked about the women Bruce had been with, how and when he’d first realized he was bisexual, whether the Wayne Foundation would develop any programs targeting LGBT youth. Throughout it all, Bruce was well-spoken and even-keeled, even when the interviewer brought up some of the insensitive things people had said about him (Clark half-expected Bruce to get up and leave when the interviewer asked, “What would you say to the people who have theorized that your sexuality is a result of losing your parents at such a young age?”, but Bruce didn’t even flinch).
That was what convinced Clark, more than anything else he’d read or seen, that he needed to reach out to Bruce. Sure, Bruce could keep it together for the camera, but if Clark knew him at all – and he liked to think that he knew him quite well – he knew there was so much more underneath the surface that Bruce wasn’t even hinting at on screen. Talking about it would be good for both of them.
He called Bruce up the next day, late enough that he knew Bruce would most likely be awake after a long night of fighting crime.
“Hello?” Bruce answered, sounding way too groggy for a quarter to noon.
“Hey,” Clark said, cutting straight to the chase as he waited in line at the Starbucks down the street from the office. “I watched your interview last night. I thought you might want to— Actually, I thought you probably wouldn’t want to talk, but I thought I’d give you the opportunity.”
“Talk about what?”
Clark rolled his eyes. Typical Bruce, to act like absolutely nothing was wrong and he didn’t know what Clark could possibly be referring to. “It seems like you’ve had a rough time of it lately. I know emotional repression is kind of your thing, but venting about your problems to a sympathetic friend can be incredibly cathartic. You should try it. Maybe if you happen to be in Metropolis sometime soon we could grab a drink.”
The ensuing pause lasted so long Clark pulled his phone away from his ear to check that they hadn’t disconnected. Finally, Bruce said, “I don’t think you want to be seen in public with me right now.”
Was Bruce worried people would see them together and assume, because Bruce had just come out as bisexual, that they were…? Clark frowned. It was possible. But he couldn’t avoid seeing one of his closest friends because of what people might think. So he said, definitively, “I don’t care about that.”
Another very long pause before Bruce replied, “I have a meeting in Metropolis next Monday.”
Clark grinned. He counted it as a personal victory every time he convinced Bruce to open up. “I can do next Monday.”