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"Lois, you better put your phone away right now."
Jimmy’s threat would be more harrowing if he wasn’t sporting a large chef’s hat on his head, wooden spatula comically wielded in hand. He is scowling at Lois with narrowed eyes, and while Clark can respect his friend’s efforts, he can guarantee that he’s handled chickens more menacing than Jimmy at this moment.
Lois grins wider than Clark has ever seen, tapping at her screen as the fake shutter clicks away. "And miss out on this blackmail? Not a chance."
Clark only sighs, batting a hand at Lois’s camera lens to mess up the photos.
The Daily Planet is running their annual corporate fundraiser, forcing all their fresh-eyed, approval-hungry interns to be up and early at 7 AM so they can humiliate themselves in a particularly business section of the Metropolis Mall. Lois, Jimmy, and Clark had clocked into their shift only an hour ago, but they had not been as successful in raising money the way they had hoped.
Clark blames it on their stereotypical, Halloween costume-esqe outfits, each of the trio clad in a typical chef’s getup, the Daily Planet’s golden logo embroidered on the hat.
"Perry’s gonna kill us if we don’t sell all of these," Lois complains, gesturing to the table in front of them. There is still a tray full of brownies, a couple of dozen chocolate chip cookies, and a few red velvet cupcakes scattered about, and it’s already 11 AM. The trio’s shift ends in about an hour, but the crowds have died down and more and more people have drifted to other booths and vendors.
"Told you we should’ve gone with Girl Scout cookies," Jimmy says under his breath, earning a sharp elbow jab in his ribs from Lois. "People go crazy for Thin Mints."
"None of us are Girl Scouts?" Clark interjects in the middle of their argument. "What, do you want me to put on a uniform and try my luck on the black market?"
Jimmy frowns at him, but he pauses for a second. "You think there’s a black market for that?"
Clark admittedly begins to ponder on this, but Lois begins to speak before that tangent can keep going. "We should’ve gotten Superman to attend," she laments. "He could’ve drawn in such a big crowd!"
"While he is pretty cool and great," Clark begins with an awkward smile, "I doubt he would’ve been able to attend our bake sale, with saving the world and whatnot."
Lois rolls her eyes. "Your knees must be so sore from sucking Superman’s dick."
"Original," Clark says without missing a beat. "I’ve never heard of that one before."
Jimmy barks out a laugh and opens his mouth to make what is probably a crude comment, but he stops short and widens his eyes suddenly.
Clark furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "Jimmy—"
"Bruce Wayne," Jimmy whispers in awe, hand reaching out to not-so-subtly point out the businessman. Clark’s eyes follow the accusing finger, landing on the crowd that is slowly surrounding the man in question. "Woah."
That is Bruce Wayne, dressed in a sleek navy blue suit jacket and slacks. His white dress shirt is elegantly unbuttoned at the top, revealing a touch more skin than Clark would expect from a billionaire. To Clark’s horror, Bruce is even more attractive in real life than he is across the cover of Gotham Weekly, face sharp and handsome in a way that makes Clark feel like a middle schooler who sees the cute new kid for the first time.
Bruce is politely laughing and chatting with people, and Clark does not realize that he’s staring until Bruce makes eye contact with him. There’s a pause before he flashes Clark a flirty smile, and within seconds, he’s standing in front of their little booth.
Clark faintly recalls that Lois has met Bruce before. "Mr. Wayne," Lois says, extending her hand, "nice to see you again."
"You as well, Ms. Lane," he says, returning the gesture firmly. "I haven’t seen you since you came to report on Gotham Hospital’s gala last year."
Lois lets out a sigh wistfully. "Yeah. I had the best champagne that night."
"I can send you some," Bruce offers, "anything for the Daily Planet’s best intern."
This gets a smile out of Lois. "These are some of our newest interns," she says, gesturing over to Jimmy and Clark. "Jimmy Olsen, Clark Kent."
"It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Wayne!" Jimmy quickly says, sticking his hand out. "I never thought to see you here of all places."
"Wayne Enterprises has stock in some properties in Metropolis," Bruce explains, shaking Jimmy’s hand, "and I was told that there was some corporate fundraising happening at the mall."
Lois crosses her arms over her chest. "I wish you would’ve let me know earlier, Mr. Wayne. I would’ve loved another interview with you about your recent investments."
"I’ve told you to call me Bruce, Ms. Lane," the man says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He then nods to Clark and Jimmy. "All of you, please."
"Only if you call me Lois," she smoothly shoots back, matching Bruce’s tone. "An interview, then, Bruce?"
"I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you called my secretary for an appointment, but only if you let me treat you to lunch," Bruce says. He shifts his gaze to look at Clark, reaching his hand out for a handshake at the same time Clark does. Their hands clumsily bump, and while Clark manages an awkward laugh, Bruce does not look the slightest bit fazed. "Good to meet you, Mr. Kent."
"Oh, Clark is fine, Mr.Way—Bruce."
Bruce’s lips twitch into what looks like a slight smirk, icey eyes flickering down to the large, untouched tray of brownies as he retracts his hand. "No takers?"
"Ah. Guess not," Clark says, rubbing the back of his neck, "care to be the first?"
Bruce picks one up and takes a bite, chewing slowly before swallowing the piece he was working on. He lets his gaze fall to the table, then back up at Clark; he’s not able to get a proper read of what is running through the billionaire’s head.
"How much?" Bruce asks suddenly.
"Huh?"
“How much?” Bruce repeats, nonchalantly popping the rest of the brownie into his mouth and chewing with an air of ease.
Clark blinks before breaking into a smile. "Oh! It’s three dollars."
"For the entire batch?" Bruce asks, head tilted to the side.
"The whole batch?" Clark parrots back, blinking dumbly at Bruce. "You’re kidding, right?"
"Would five thousand dollars be suitable?" Bruce is already pulling out his wallet, fingering through a crisp waft of bills. Clark glances at Lois and Jimmy to make sure he’s not hallucinating, but their stunned expressions confirm that Bruce Wayne is indeed pulling out hundred-dollar bills for their bake sale. Lois’s eyes are wide like plates, and Jimmy wears a grin that suggests he’s personally receiving the money.
If he notices how crazy the situation is, Bruce does not express it. He hands over the wad of bills to Clark, even taking the liberty to spread his fingers apart and placing the cash on his palm.
"And Mr. Kent?" Bruce pauses, as if he’s mapping out the rest of his words. "Clark. These brownies are wonderful—I’d love to learn how you made them."
"Oh, I can send you the recipe—" Clark starts to say.
"Or you could teach me," Bruce interrupts, the smile on his face honest, "I’m a quick learner."
Clark just stares at Bruce, doing everything in his power to stop himself from gaping as Gotham’s prince stands before him. He’s well aware of Bruce’s reputation, and he’s not sure that he fits the mold of the people he’s slept with. In fact, he’s quite sure he doesn’t—he’s not a model or someone from the upper strata of society.
Bruce seems to read his mind, and he speaks half-jokingly, "No strings attached," his smile teasing, "unless you want, of course. I wouldn’t be opposed."
Clark’s cheeks flush a deep shade of red, and he shakes his head quickly. "I didn’t think that!" he lies, "but…sure, Mr. Wayne."
"Bruce," the man in question reiterates, handing over a business card. "Give me a call."
(At least Lois and Jimmy wait until Bruce is far from the mall to scream and begin their mocking.)
So, Clark does just what Bruce asked. Two weeks and a nerve-wracking grocery trip later, Clark is walking up the steps of the Wayne manor, the chilly Gotham air grazing his skin. Armed with a thing of eggs, one of his mother’s cooking books, and a bundle of other ingredients, he’s standing right in front of an obnoxiously tall door. He’s seen photos of the manor on television before, but it is still ridiculous to comprehend.
He raises a hand to knock on the door, but it swings open to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, with his neatly groomed silver hair and a face that looked every bit the distinguished butler one might expect to serve the Wayne family. His eyes, behind a pair of polished spectacles, were kind and welcoming, and as they met Clark's, there was a glimmer of recognition. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, Alfred's posture exuded both elegance and strength.
"Mister Kent," the man says, stepping aside so Clark is able to enter. "It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Alfred Pennyworth, Master Wayne’s butler. Please, come inside."
As Clark raises his eyebrows at the honorific, he nods and steps inside the grandiose home. The sheer opulence of the place takes him aback, and he finds himself in awe at the magnificence that surrounds him.
The entrance hall is adorned with intricate marble flooring, and an imposing crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow. Expansive paintings of historical significance line the walls, lending an air of sophistication to the space. Clark’s eyes sweep across the vast living area, where plush, luxurious furniture is tastefully arranged. Sunlight filters through large, ornate windows, offering a breathtaking view of the lush, meticulously landscaped gardens outside.
As they move through the manor, Clark catches glimpses of well-maintained bookshelves, housing an impressive collection of literary classics and rare manuscripts. A gracefully curving staircase ascends to the upper floors, hinting at more wonders awaiting exploration.
The dining room is nothing short of breathtaking, with a long, polished mahogany table surrounded by intricately carved chairs. Delicate porcelain and sparkling silverware add to the allure of the setting.
Alfred stops as they approach the large kitchen. "Master Wayne should be here shortly," he says, taking the bag out of Clark’s hands and setting it on the kitchen island. "Would you care for anything to drink?"
"Water is fine," Clark says, still taking in the grandeur of the manor. "Is there anything I can do? I would be happy to help."
"You will do no such thing," Alfred dismisses sternly, "you are a guest here, Mister Kent. All I ask of you is to enjoy yourself."
Clark smiles warmly. "I am sure I will."
"And if you can please, make sure that Master Wayne does not burn down my kitchen."
Alfred disappears into the manor before Clark has a chance to react to the statement, and he looks around the wide room. The kitchen is different than the rest of the home, with bits and pieces of warmth adorning the walls. The fridge is expensive and gleaming, but magnets pin old drawings and receipts. There are photos of Bruce and Alfred and a couple who he can only assume are Bruce’s parents, the edges of the images worn and yellowed. Recipe books are neatly stacked on a counter, but Clark can see the bookmarks sticking out of the side.
He stands by the fridge to examine a photo of toddler Bruce in a poorly cut bowl cut, a laugh escaping his throat despite his best efforts. It’s nice to see that even someone as elegant and poised as Bruce has dealt with a bad haircut like everyone else.
"Not my best look, I know." Clark glances over his shoulder to catch Bruce walking into the kitchen, a small smile on his face. He's wearing a black turtleneck, the fabric clings to his well-toned physique, hinting at the hidden strength beneath. He dons a fitted pair of dark denim jeans that perfectly match the casual yet refined ambiance of the day. The jeans hug his frame, emphasizing his long, lean legs and admittedly, perfect ass. His dark, tousled hair falls gracefully over his forehead, a few strands dancing playfully in the gentle breeze that filters in from an open window.
Clark is suddenly highly aware of his worn-in Metropolis U sweatshirt and light-washed jeans, his own hair ruffled from his flight over here.
("A date with Bruce Wayne?" Lois had mocked earlier, pulling at his gray hoodie, "And you’re wearing that?"
"It’s not a date!" Clark hissed, but he looked down at his outfit before meeting her eyes again, this time pleadingly. "But…hypothetically if it was…do I need to change? I’m just teaching him how to bake a cake."
Lois snorted. "He dropped a few thousand dollars to get your brownies, Smallville. You could wear a burlap sack, for all he cares.")
"I’m glad you came," Bruce says, leaning against the eastern wall of the kitchen. "I was worried I scared you off."
"I’d never say no to teaching someone how to bake," Clark says, but he’s turned around so his back is resting against the countertop to face Bruce. "Even if said someone could buy every bakery in the country."
Bruce huffs. "I’m picky with who I’m willing to teach me. I prefer to work with only the best of the best."
"Right," Clark says sarcastically, "that’s why you picked a Daily Planet intern from a mall bake sale."
Bruce is leering at this. "What would you like me to say? That I wanted the hot Daily Planet reporter in my kitchen?"
Clark’s stomach does a crazy flip, but he keeps his voice steady. "Is that the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then yes," Clark says, straightening his back so he is standing as tall as he can. He's taller than Bruce, he notices, just by an inch or so. "So you really don’t know how to make brownies? Or a cake?"
Bruce nods. "I’m not really allowed in the kitchen," he says, and Clark thinks he is joking until he sees the faintest pink appear on the highs of his cheekbones. "Alfred is…protective."
"So I heard," Clark replies with a cheeky smile, "what’s that story about?"
"I burned dinner," Bruce says, waving a hand in the air. "A couple of times."
"Huh."
"And then a couple more," Bruce continues nonchalantly, "until I burned off Alfred’s eyebrows."
Clark laughs loudly, clapping his hands over his mouth immediately. "Oh my god."
Bruce nods and grins, pulling out his phone and scrolling through what Clark assumes is a photo gallery. He taps and flips his wrist so Clark can see, and in ultra-clear resolution, poor Alfred Pennyworth is looking into a camera unamusedly, eyebrows gone. Bruce is the one holding the phone, his spare hand balled into a fist and pressed against his mouth in a clear attempt to stifle his laughter.
The photo exudes a warmth that contrasts the polished magazine photo shoots and press releases featuring Bruce. It’s a candid and endearing moment that Clark finds touching, a glimpse into the more personal and genuine side of Bruce Wayne that few get to see. Clark disgustingly finds himself wanting to be one of those few.
"So as long as I'm supervised by someone other than him," Bruce explains, placing his phone on the island, "he doesn't mind."
Clark moves from his position against the countertop so he is beside Bruce now, sliding down the plastic bag around the ingredients he had brought. There's a bag of flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking soda, vanilla extract, a bag of chocolate chips (as per Bruce's request), and a few other crucial items for the cake.
"At least we can guarantee his eyebrows this time," Clark says, eliciting a chuckle from Bruce, which was exactly what he had hoped for. He thumbs through the cookbook for a recipe, remembering that he had dogeared a page earlier for a chocolate cake.
Bruce is practically in his space as they both peer down at the book, their hips side by side. The close proximity makes Clark feel more sure about this entire meeting being a date, Bruce not wavering in confidence as he reaches over the countertop (and Clark!) to grab the missing ingredients. Clark is in charge of mixing wets, and he adds the combination into the bowl Bruce has been whisking.
They pour the batter neatly into the cake pans, and before Bruce can sit them into the oven, Clark sprinkles some salt in, just like he had been taught by Ma to.
Bruce looks at him incredulously at the addition. "You sure about that?"
"Aren't you the one who asked for help?" Clark points out, and Bruce sighs with a nod.
Clark helps Bruce in sliding the pans inside, taking care to feign a curse when his wrist brushes against the hot rack. He winces as convincingly as possible, running it under ice water after Bruce's insistent pushing.
"You need to be more careful," Bruce chastises, holding Clark's hand still as water pours over it, "do you need anything else?"
"I'm fine," Clark insists, but he lets Bruce keep touching his hand, the warmth of his palm a warm welcome from the frigid water. It's nice and quiet for a minute, with nothing but the small waterfall and Bruce's steady heartbeat ringing in Clark's ears.
Bruce lets him go after another minute, walking over to begin cleaning up as the two wait for the cakes to rise. Clark grabs a napkin to collect flour that's fallen on the counter, sneaking a chocolate chip into his mouth once he's tossed it in the trash. He picks up the bowl of batter and looks over at Bruce right beside him, unable to stop the urge to touch his face.
"You've got a little something here," Clark says, swiping at Bruce's cheek with the pad of his thumb and smearing some batter onto his skin.
Bruce just stares at him, lips parted in shock as Clark runs his finger so the chocolate mixture is in a line from cheek to his jaw. "Are you a child?"
"What are you talking about?" Clark asks innocently, moving his finger to Bruce's other cheek and drawing a smiley face. His attempt to fight off a smirk crumbles at the sight of Bruce's scowl, and Clark breaks into an unapologetic, shit-eating smile.
"Clark."
"Bruce," Clark says cheerily, but the sweet look on his face dies when Bruce shoots some whipped cream onto Clark's nose. Bruce maintains his serious expression, but Clark can see the tremble of his lips as they threaten to quirk up. He pushes the nozzle again, but Clark dodges the cream this time so it lands on the marbled floor.
He debates retaliation, considering his options as he looks at Bruce, heart racing and cheeks a chocolatey mess right in front of him. "So, just to clarify," Clark decides on asking, "this was a date, right?"
"I would hope so," Bruce says, stepping closer so the small space between them practically disappears. "Otherwise it’d be inappropriate for me to do this."
Clark is ready when Bruce leans over to press his lips against his, hands grasping onto Clark’s forearms to hold himself steady. Their kiss is short and literally sweet, the chocolate in Bruce’s mouth delicious and rich on his lips. When they pull apart, Clark thumbs at a smudge of chocolate from the corner of Bruce’s mouth, prompting a smile on his face.
"Tastes good," Bruce says, slipping Clark's thumb into his mouth and sucking off the sweet batter with a resounding 'pop'. Clark looks at him with narrowed eyes, but Bruce's lips only pout around his finger more. This is the Bruce Wayne that he had heard of in magazines, and as much as Clark believes that it's an act, he isn't able to hold back.
Clark grabs the back of Bruce's neck again, this time slotting their mouths together hungrily. He can feel Bruce laugh into the kiss, a hand tangled in Clark's hair to drag them closer together. He can feel Bruce's barely there stubble against his face, smell the expensive, pine cologne mixed with the soapy accords of some equally expensive body gel.
"What about the cake?" Clark asks as Bruce presses a kiss to his jaw, his neck, tongue swirling and mouth sucking.
"Alfred can grab it," Bruce mutters against the skin, sounding strangely relieved as he drags Clark to his bedroom.
"How're things going with Bruce?" Lois asks a few weeks later, chin propped over the top side of his cubicle. "I see you disappearing off to Gotham all the time now."
Lois waves a hand in front of Clark's computer screen to force him to respond, and he swats it with ease. "Things are great," he says, "but if I don't get this piece to Perry by the end of the day, Bruce is gonna need to buy the Daily Planet if I want to keep my job."
"Lots of complaints coming from a guy dating a literal billionaire," Lois says, and Clark leans back in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "C'mon! Tell me about your date later today. Isn't it your three-month anniversary?"
"I'm a grown adult," Clark grumbles, "we don't do three-month anniversaries. It just so happens that we are having a date on the 12th, and we happened to have our first date on the 12th. Three months ago."
Lois is biting back a smile at Clark's retort, but she moves her hands away from Clark's monitor. "If that's what you say, loverboy."
"Will you leave me alone if I tell you what the date is?" He takes his friend's eager nod for a yes, and he unlocks his phone, tapping open a saved photo before showing it to Lois. "We're having dinner, and I made him brownies, like when we met."
"Oh?" Lois says more like a question, and Clark looks up at her face in confusion. He had figured Lois would mock him for being cheesy and sentimental, but he had not expected hesitation in her reaction. "That's...interesting."
"What do you mean?"
Lois dismisses it, even with Clark's pushing; he supposes that's what happens when one of his best friends is a reporter and a damn good one, at that. It does not stop the comment from looming over his head, though, lingering like an itch in his throat throughout his date with Bruce.
"You know, I haven’t tried one of these yet," Clark says, reaching over to grab one of the brownies he brought over after they've eaten dinner. Alfred graciously prepared them a delicious dinner, the risotto and chicken up to par with Ma's cooking. There are brownies out in front of them now, and Clark holds one in his hand. Instead of Alfred typically serving them, Clark insisted on keeping the Tupperware in his bag because of his new doubts.
Bruce looks at the pastry in Clark’s hand with a troubled look on his face. It forces Clark to pause, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"Hey. What’s wrong?" Clark asks, moving his head in an attempt to meet Bruce’s gaze. "Bruce?"
"You can’t eat that," Bruce says, eyes still focused on the treat. "It’s—you’re allergic."
Clark snorts at that. "I’m not allergic to anything."
"Lois told me."
"You and Lois talk?" Clark is suspicious now. He knows that the two are friends, partially due to the combination of exclusive scoops he tips her off on, partially due to their shared love of overpriced foreign films. It would be believable if not for the way Bruce’s heartbeat strangely upticks, this rhythm unfamiliar to Clark’s ears. "You’re lying."
"Clark—"
"Why’re you lying?" Clark asks, and he is searching Bruce’s face for any answer. He knows that it’s unfair of him to use his powers to pick up on Bruce’s tells, but he isn’t doing it intentionally. The way Bruce’s eyes hesitate before meeting Clark’s eyes, his teeth digging into his bottom lip in doubt.
Bruce looks like Clark just strangled him, lips pulled into a tight line before he lets out a sigh. He places the pastry on the tray next to them.
"Okay, I’m lying," Bruce admits, and Clark frowns. "But it’s not what you think."
"Then what is it?" Clark asks, frown only deepening when his boyfriend’s lips twitch into what appears to be a sheepish grin.
"Clark," Bruce says, the smile on his face as soft as his voice, "you…you are an awful baker."
"What?"
"You suck," Bruce says rather flatly, "your brownies made Alfred ill. He had to take his first day off in years the other day because he tried the scone you brought."
Clark’s jaw is dropped. "What?"
"You can cook wonderfully," Bruce assures, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on Clark's shoulder, "I love your bolognese. But your pastries…they leave something to be desired."
"But…you’ve been eating them?!" Clark exclaims, staring at his boyfriend in shock. "For three months, Bruce!"
Bruce’s grin only widens, a hand sweetly cupping Clark’s cheek. "I didn’t know how to ask you out."
"So you bought my crappy brownies," Clark deadpans, "for five thousand dollars."
"It was for a good cause," Bruce says, patting Clark’s face. "I’ve always cared about ocean life."
Clark narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Then what about the times we've baked here? I've eaten them, and they're not bad."
"That is because after I ate your brownies, I started working with a local bakery," Bruce admits, not an ounce of shame on his delicate features, "whatever we plan on baking, I order in advance and swap the food around. I've been doing it every night until now because you insisted on keeping the tray in your bag."
"You are unbelievable," Clark mutters, but a certain fondness is laced into his words. "You—you do know you’re Bruce Wayne, right?"
"And you’re Clark Kent," Bruce replies with a shrug, as if the difference between their public personas doesn't matter at all. His casual demeanor only makes Clark's heart flutter even more.
He reaches over to grab one of the brownies, taking a bite before Bruce can stop him. It initially tastes alright, but the hint of savory quickly turns into a heap of salt, and he spits it right into a Wayne-monogrammed napkin.
"Have they all tasted like this?" he asks in horror, mind racing back to all the times he added just a pinch of salt. In retrospect, he should have stuck to using measuring cups; his super strength and speed always messed with basics like these. "And you still dated me?"
Bruce chuckles and hands a glass of water over to Clark. "I like what I like."
Clark rolls his eyes as he chugs the drink, setting it back down on the coaster. The salty taste is almost out of his mouth, finally.
"Are you mad?" Bruce asks, palm resting on Clark's knee hesitantly. "I never meant for this to last as long as it did. Alfred was going to help me tell you with a pie."
Clark pats his hand over Bruce's, pressing a quick kiss to his boyfriend's cheek. "No, I'm not mad. It's...it's kind of endearing, actually."
"Really?"
"Yeah," Clark admits, kissing Bruce's other cheek with a sneaking smile, "it really humanizes you." Bruce shoves Clark lightly at that, but Clark manages to keep them still with the grip he has over Bruce's hand and his knee. "No more lies?"
"No more lies," Bruce agrees, and Clark smiles warmly before wrapping his spare arm around Bruce in a hug, face burrowed into the crook of his neck.
(Sure, the Superman thing was still a secret, but Clark decides that's more six-month anniversary material.
It can wait.)