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One of these days, Clark is going to give up on being Superman just so he doesn’t owe Cat Grant a favor ever again. At this point, all of the typical social scene reporters know Clark on sight, and not just his name in attachment to articles. Besides the terrifying fact of being known (specifically as Clark Kent) by his peers, he is also becoming known by the folks attending the galas and fundraiser. Lex Luthor now recognizes his bespectacled face.
Clark shudders at the thought. Sure, Luthor’s been aware of Clark Kent’s existence for years—he and Lois have been dismantling the man through the Daily Planet on a biannual occasion for years. Exposés on lead contamination in places it shouldn’t be, unlawful working conditions in his factories, shady dealings, and criminal connections. All of it. And Clark’s had his fair share of cease and desist letters, then threats of a slander lawsuit from Luthor’s legal team. But now? Now Lex knows Clark not just as the reporter who has been a thorn in his side, but as a face in the crowd.
Bruce didn’t make the connection between him and Superman by himself, and Clark very much considers Bruce more intelligent than Luthor. But Luthor’s obsessive tendencies and weirdness genuinely makes Clark concerned about the people in his life who he cares about, in and out of costume. Hell, The man probably has Superman’s face taped to a dart board in his office.
He hates how much energy he has to spend thinking about that guy. So he groans and tries to distract himself by messing with the lapels of his ill-fitting suit jacket pulled from the back of his closet. He has better suits—ones that actually fit, courtesy of Bruce—but those are far too sharp, too clean-cut, and too expensive for mild-mannered Clark Kent and his reporter’s salary. So this? This awkwardly padded atrocity? It screams, "I'm just some guy who stumbled into this event by accident." And that’s exactly the image he wants to maintain tonight. No billionaire bothering, bugging, or bickering tonight. No siree! Well… with exceptions.
Clark steps into the grand ballroom, adjusting his glasses as he takes in the familiar scene: there are waiters gliding between clusters of elites with trays of champagne and hor d'oeuvres while soft classical music mingles along with the low hum of a hundred different conversations. He inhales slowly and focuses his mind on the task at hand—jot down some quotes, get a good baseline for the story, and get out without tripping over his own feet.
His eyes scan the room for a familiar face, because hey, he’s only a man. A man who is completely out of his element and deeply uncomfortable. Call it unethical journalism if you must, but being able to get easy quotes from the likes of Diana Prince and Oliver Queen make these mind-numbing events slightly more bearable. He just needs someone who can provide sound bites for the article.
Notably, he sees who else but Bruce Wayne standing near the far end of the ballroom, surrounded by a group of people who look like they’re half-listening and fully waiting for their turn to speak. Bruce,in contrast, looks disinterested and disimpassioned. His eyes are drifting around the room, very clearly searching for an escape. Clark smiles to himself. He knows that look too well.
Without thinking too much about it, he navigates through the crowd as unnoticeable as a six foot six brick wall of a man can, and approaches Bruce. They’ve worked together for years now but here, in a public setting, it’s always a more delicate dance. They’re not supposed to know each other, to be friendly. There’s always a certain weight to keeping up appearances that Bruce especially emphasizes. To make sure no one guesses that Gotham’s billionaire and Metropolis’s awkward reporter are as close as they actually are.
“Mr. Wayne,” Clark says as he steps into Bruce’s line of sight, his voice carrying just enough over the hum of the crowd. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Do you have a moment to give a quote?”
Bruce’s eyes light up when he sees him, his signature Brucie Wayne smile slipping into place with ease. Clark already feels himself starting to tense—Bruce is pulling the whole act, and it never fails to throw him off. The charming grin, the playboy nonchalance, the way he leans just a little too close when he talks—it makes Clark’s heart do things he’d rather not admit.
“Well hello there,” Bruce says, his voice dripping with smooth, easygoing charm. “Of course. I always have a moment for you, Mr. Kent. How could I say no?”
Clark clears his throat, fumbling with his notepad, already a little flustered. “Uh, thanks. I just need a quick quote about Wayne Enterprises’ involvement in tonight’s fundraiser. Standard stuff, really.”
Bruce steps in closer, his smile not faltering for a second, though there’s something sharp in his eyes. “Anything for you. Wayne Enterprises is honored to be part of such an important cause,” he says, his words all polished, perfectly rehearsed. But Clark can tell there’s something off—something underneath the surface of the usual Brucie routine.
Bruce’s gaze flickers over Clark’s face, studying him for just a beat too long. “But tell me, Clark... how are you enjoying the event? Seems like you might be a little out of your element.”
Clark’s flustered grin widens, half-laughing. “You could say that. These kinds of things aren’t really my scene.”
Bruce’s smile sharpens, just a little. “Oh, I’m sure you’re managing just fine.”
Clark opens his mouth to respond, but there’s a subtle shift in Bruce’s expression—something imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him. His voice lowers, still smooth and charming, but with a thread of tension underneath. “Clark, you might want to be a little more careful tonight. I think there’s something more than champagne going around.”
Clark’s heart skips a beat, his eyes widening behind his glasses. Bruce keeps smiling, as if they’re just two men having a friendly conversation, but there’s a flicker of urgency in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” Clark asks, trying to keep his voice steady, his notepad forgotten in his hand.
Bruce leans in slightly, his voice dropping even lower. “Someone’s moving something through the crowd—drugs, maybe. I noticed a few people acting off. We need to figure out where it’s coming from before it turns into a bigger problem.”
Clark nods, his mind shifting into gear. “Got it. What do you need me to do?”
Bruce smirks, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes. “Just stay close. We’ll figure this out together.” Then, louder, in his usual playboy tone, “But for now, let’s not let the night get away from us, shall we?”
Clark blinks, still flustered, but nods, not quite sure whether to focus on the potential threat or the fact that Bruce is suddenly acting even more flirty than usual. Bruce’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze before he turns back toward the crowd, his public persona back in full force.
“Stick with me,” Bruce adds under his breath as he starts to move away. “I’ll fill you in as we go.”
Bruce's hand settles on Clark’s lower back, guiding him gently but firmly through the crowd, his touch warm and slightly possessive. Clark is trying his damndest to focus on the task at hand—keeping an ear out for anything unusual in the room, watching the guests—but it’s hard when Bruce is being... well, Brucie. His casual touches and playful tone are enough to make Clark’s face flush.
“Bruce, where are we going?” Clark asks, a little breathless, trying to keep his cool. It’s one thing when they’re on patrol as Batman and Superman, but here, amidst the glitz and glam of Metropolis’s elite, Bruce’s behavior feels different. Almost like he’s deliberately pushing Clark’s buttons.
Before Bruce can answer, a familiar voice cuts through the rest of the noise in the room around them like ice. Lex.
Luthor’s eyes rake over Clark again, this time slower, colder, making a calculated decision to pretend he’s not there. Instead, he turns fully to Bruce, ignoring Clark entirely like he’s some pesky decoration Bruce picked up on the way in.
“Wayne,” Luthor begins, voice oily and smooth, though the disdain is barely concealed. “It’s always a surprise to see you at these, especially with such... interesting company.”
Clark can feel the pressure in Luthor’s words even while he isn’t looking at him. He instinctively leans away, feeling Bruce’s hand solid on his back as it offers silent support. Clark presses against the contact to ground himself as Luthor’s presence makes him want to bolt. But from an outside perspective, Clark realizes, it probably looks like he’s the one trying to get Bruce’s attention—like he’s leaning into Bruce on purpose.
Luthor’s lip curls, his attention locked on Bruce with laser focus. “I thought you preferred to attend these events alone,” Luthor continues, his voice loud enough to ensure anyone nearby can hear. “But I suppose even the infamous Bruce Wayne can be... persuaded, if the right kind of company insists.” His gaze flickers to Clark for the briefest moment before sliding back to Bruce, dismissing him like a piece of furniture.
Clark feels heat rush to his face, more from the anger he’s biting back than the embarrassment of being belittled like that. He knows this game, knows it’s better not to rise to the bait, but something about Luthor’s arrogance always gets under his skin.
Bruce’s fingers press just slightly against his back—a subtle signal that he’s noticed everything. Clark takes it as permission to defend himself.
“Oh, I didn’t insist,” he says before he can stop himself.
Luthor ignores him again. He speaks only to Bruce, as though Clark’s words hadn’t even registered. “Quite the reporter, isn’t he?” Luthor drawls, his tone dripping with condescension. “Always sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong, hoping for a slip-up to fuel his next front-page article.”
Clark tenses, leaning further into Bruce without even realizing it. While Luthor keeps his gaze on Bruce, his expression hardening further. The air itself between is thick with sour malice.
“Be careful, Wayne,” Luthor adds, voice dipping low, as if they’re sharing some private joke. “You don’t want someone like that following you around, waiting on something to drop.” And then, for the first time, his smile truly turns cruel. “Or perhaps that’s the appeal?”
Clark feels a sharp pang in his chest at the thinly veiled insult, but before he can even open his mouth to respond, Bruce moves.
Without so much as a blink, Bruce slides closer to Clark, wrapping his arm fully around him, his hand firm at Clark’s waist now. He levels Luthor with a look so sharp, it could cut glass.
“Oh?” Bruce says, his voice deceptively soft, but there’s a dangerous blade hidden within it. “You mean my Clarkie Poo?”
Clark freezes.
Luthor’s smile falters.
“Yes,” Bruce continues, his tone syrupy sweet. “My lovely boyfriend. I guess you’ve met him, Lex. The one who’s been systematically dismantling your little business dealings piece by piece?”
Luthor’s eyes widen, just a fraction, before narrowing dangerously. “Boyfriend?” he repeats, his voice sharp, like the word offends him. His lips press into a thin line as the realization starts to sink in while the prideful warmth in Clark’s chest only grows.
“Yes,” Bruce replies, his grip tightening slightly on Clark’s waist, pulling him just a little closer. “My Clark. You didn’t think I’d let just anyone near me, did you?” His smile is icy, and the weight of his words hang between them. “Though I must admit, watching you make an absolute fool of yourself just now? That was simply spectacular. You’ll have to bring it up at the wedding.”
Clark watches as Luthor’s expression sours, his usual calm mask cracking for a split second as fury flashes in his eyes. “This is a joke,” Luthor hisses, though his voice is low enough that only they can hear. “You’re letting some tabloid hick drag your name through the mud for—”
Bruce cuts him off, his voice suddenly as cold and dangerous as the Gotham streets he prowls. “Clark isn’t here to write a story about you, Lex. He’s here with me. Come on,” he says languidly, “not everything is about you.”
Luthor’s face goes rigid with fury, his composure slipping. His mouth opens, but no words come out as he stares at Bruce, then at Clark—who’s now completely speechless and flushed to the tips of his ears.
Bruce, however, isn’t finished. “Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he says, the words practically dripping with venom. “I‘ve had enough of your company for the night.”
Luthor’s jaw clenches so tight, it looks like he might break a tooth. He glares at Bruce for a long, simmering moment, then finally spins on his heel, and marches off without another word.
The second Luthor’s gone, Clark exhales, barely realizing he’d been holding his breath.
“Clarkie Poo?” he mutters, mortified, but unable to stop the shy smile from tugging at his lips despite the chaos of what just happened.
Bruce leans in, his lips close to Clark’s ear, and in a low, teasing murmur, he replies, “Just playing the part.”
Clark groans, covering his face with his hand. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“No I won’t. If Perry tries anything, I’ll just buy the Planet.” He pauses, then winks, “again.” But just like that, the moment is over, and they’ve got a scheme to bust.
—
The next time Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor cross paths, it’s at another high-profile event. The kind of glamorous affair where every gaze lingers just a little too long and every word is spoken with layers of subtext. Bruce is doing his usual socialite routine, moving through the crowd with easy grace, making small talk and shaking hands, when he spots Luthor across the room.
Or to phrase it better, Luthor spots him, and immediately makes a beeline in his direction, his smile sharp, a predator zeroing in on its prey. Bruce can sense the arrogance from across the room, the thinly veiled disdain that Lex so often carries around when they’re in the same space.
As soon as they’re within earshot of one another, Luthor doesn’t waste a second.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Bruce Wayne,” Luthor says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough to turn a few heads nearby. “How’s the boyfriend?”
Bruce raises an eyebrow at the implications he’s hanging in the air. It’s clear that Luthor is trying to force him into a corner, and no doubt expects some sort of flustered backpedal.
But Bruce Wayne doesn’t fluster.
“Oh, you mean Clarkie Poo?” Bruce replies, as though Luthor had asked him the time of day. His voice is cheerful, carrying easily over the soft hum of the room. He grins, all charm and confidence. “He’s here somewhere, probably getting quotes for one of his articles or another.” He glances around as though searching the room. “Now, where is he…?”
Luthor’s smile falters slightly, obviously not expecting Bruce to lean into the question with such ease. Before he can respond, Bruce scans the crowd, locking eyes on Clark, who’s doing his best to blend into the background, as usual. Bruce’s grin widens as he waves him over, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
“Clark!” he calls out, loud enough for those nearby to notice. “Come here for a moment, won’t you?”
Clark hesitates for a split second, but there’s no avoiding this. With a deep breath, he makes his way over, already feeling the eyes of the crowd shifting toward him. By the time he reaches Bruce’s side, Luthor is watching him with thinly veiled contempt, though he quickly plasters a fake smile on his face.
“Lex, you remember Clark Kent, don’t you?” Bruce says smoothly, clapping a hand onto Clark’s shoulder, pulling him just slightly closer. “He’s my plus one tonight. In fact, I was just telling Lex here how lucky I am to have someone like Clark in my life.” His grin doesn’t falter for a second as he continues, “Smart, hardworking, and handsome. A triple threat, don’t you think?”
Clark, utterly flustered and pink at the ears, gives Luthor an awkward smile. “Uh... hi.”
Luthor’s eyes narrow, but before he can say anything more, Bruce leans in closer to Clark, his hand still on his shoulder, now guiding him away. “Speaking of which,” Bruce adds, “I’m afraid I’ll have to excuse us. I need Clark.”
The way he says that with so much conviction leaves no room for misinterpretation. Luthor can only watch as Bruce smoothly leads Clark away from the conversation, leaving him standing there alone, teeth gritted behind a strained smile.
Once they’re safely away from prying eyes and the noise of the event, Bruce finally drops the act, his hand falling from Clark’s shoulder as he lets out a sigh.
“Clark, I’m so sorry,” Bruce says quickly, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to drag you into that mess back there. Luthor was baiting me, and I should’ve—well, I should’ve handled it differently. I’m sorry. That was incredibly disrespectful and selfish of me—“
”It’s… alright?
Bruce looks over his shoulder, and then Clark’s and he keeps speaking at a quickened pace. “No, it’s not, Clark.” He insists, and Clark can actually see the guilt crawling into his expression, folding itself around every wrinkle and scar. “I… I can’t believe I did that,” Bruce mutters, more to himself than to Clark. His hand moves up to his temple, rubbing it as though it’ll ease the rising tension. “I just outed you. Shit. Fuck. You must hate me right now—you’re not even gay—.”
Clark’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Bruce stops walking and turns to face Clark directly, his expression tight with regret. “I just told everyone there that you’re dating me, Clark. Luthor set me up, and I walked right into it like an idiot. Goddamnit! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You didn’t ask for that.”
Clark stares at him for a beat, and then—then—he laughs. A soft, genuine laugh, and Bruce blinks, absolutely and utterly thrown.
“Bruce, it’s really not that big a deal,” Clark says, still smiling. “I’m bi, y’know? I’ve dated all kinds of folks.”
Bruce freezes. “You’re… what?”
“I’m bisexual,” Clark repeats patiently while rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s not a secret or anything. I’ve written pieces about queer perspectives for the Planet, and I’ve been in relationships with men before. It’s really not some grand revelation.”
Bruce stares at him, blank, like the words just aren’t computing. “You… you’re bi,” he echoes slowly, trying to confirm it while his voice remains completely flat.
Clark chuckles, nodding his head. “Yeah, Bruce. I’m bi.”
There’s a long pause, and then Bruce, still dumbfounded, blurts out, “I just thought you were a really good ally to the community.”
Clark, completely deadpanned and clearly amused, goes, “Oh, yeah. That’s gotta be it, doesn’t it?” He can’t keep the stupid grin off his face although he tries. “I’m actually such a good ally that I have sex with men,” he teases, crossing his arms. “No, dude—I am queer. I’m sure I’ve said this before.”
Bruce is still processing, his mind flashing through every interaction, every conversation they’ve ever had, like he’s going over case files. The world’s greatest detective, and this somehow flew completely over his head.
Clark watches him with a bemused expression, enjoying the fact that Bruce Wayne, of all people, is speechless for once. “And okay, even if I didn’t. You didn’t figure it out? For real?”
Bruce clears his throat, trying to recompose himself, but there’s still a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “I didn’t… I didn’t make the connection.”
Clark shakes his head, half-amused, half-incredulous. “Well, now you know. And really, Bruce—it’s fine. You didn’t out me. I’m out.”
Bruce looks at him, still feeling that nagging guilt. “But—”
Clark cuts him off with a soft smile. “But nothing. I’m actually perfectly fine with being your boyfriend… you know, if you want to keep this going.” His voice is light but there’s an unmistakable sincerity underneath it. “For real, I mean.”
Bruce’s mind stutters to a halt again. “You mean… like… actually?”
“Yeah, actually,” Clark says with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind. No—I would like it to be a real thing. I mean, if you’d want to—“
Bruce, stunned, opens his mouth and closes it again, lost for words. Clark can hear as his pulse quickens and watch his usually steady composure slip. And then he looks at Clark, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Bruce Wayne—Batman—is completely thrown off his game.
Clark’s grin widens as he leans in a little closer. “So… what do you think?”
It takes a moment, but then—finally—a small, genuine smile tugs at Bruce’s lips. He lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “Yeah… I think I’d like that too.”
Clark gives him a playful nudge, his eyes twinkling. And the silence between them is beautiful, warm, and all-encompassing and he just looks at Clark. In the way he thought his mind was just making up.
Bruce just shakes his head, the weight on his shoulders lightens. “Maybe I’m not the world’s greatest detective,” he begrudgingly admits.
Clark’s laughter rings out, and something warm settles in Bruce’s chest. The two of them walk side by side, closer than they did before. For now, it’ll be okay.