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If anyone at the annual Wayne charity gala had been paying any attention, they might have noticed that two individuals were missing from the party.
One Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent.
If anyone at the party had been paying attention about thirty minutes ago, they might have noticed Bruce Wayne grabbing Clark Kent by his shitty tie and dragging him out of the ballroom just gently enough not to make him yelp.
If anyone had cared, they might have noticed that Bruce had been checking the reporter out all evening.
Unfortunately for the gossip vine, rich people were infamously unperceptive when it came to anything that didn’t affect themselves, so the only people privy to this particular information were Bruce and Clark themselves.
Just how they liked it.
The pair of men banged through a door, hardly caring about where they were going. Bruce made some effort to guide Clark to an appropriate room with a door he could lock, but he didn’t want to break up the kiss.
Clark was a damn good kisser. Almost distractingly good, honestly. Who taught him to kiss like that? Or was he just naturally perfect? Probably the second one, knowing what he was like as Superman.
God, he was so frustrating sometimes. Half the time, Bruce didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss him or punch him.
Talk about a punch to the kisser .
“We have got to stop meeting like this, Mr. Kent,” Bruce said, voice low and smooth. “People might start to get ideas.”
Clark was beautiful when he was pissed off. He was beautiful all the time, though, which was probably why. “Shut up and kiss me.”
“So assertive,” Bruce teased. “It's enough to make my heart flutter…”
“Stop teasing me, Bruce.”
“Oh, come on, you know–”
“Bruce, I mean it. Stop.”
Bruce went to speak, only for Clark to fix him with a look. Bruce recognised that look from Superman. That was a look that told him whatever Clark said next would be important.
“You’re upset with me,” Bruce said immediately.
Clark hesitated. “I don’t… I know it's not easy for you. To get out of this… persona you created for yourself.”
“That’s not–”
“I don’t hate it, Bruce. I just… I fell for you , Bruce . Not Brucie . It feels like… it’s like I’m kissing a cardboard cutout. I want the real you. Not the version of you that you use as a cover.”
“... I didn’t think this would bother you,” Bruce mused. “It hasn’t bothered anyone else.”
“How many people know you as well as I do?” Clark shot back. “I want the real you, Bruce. Please.”
Bruce thought it over for a moment. “... I can try.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Clark said, reinitiating the kiss.
Somehow, it was better this time.
“You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” Clark asked, as he smoothed out his shirt, preparing to leave.
Bruce smirked. “Of course not, darling. I don’t kiss and tell.”
Clark gave him a look.
“Sorry, force of habit,” Bruce said, making a face. “I’ll try to remember that for next time.”
Clark smiled a little. “You want there to be a next time, huh?”
Bruce smiled back - this time, the balance of Bruce and Brucie was more than fine. “Of course I do.” A pause. “Do you?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Clark said, adjusting Bruce’s tie for him. “Come on, let's get back out there before anyone realises we’re gone.”
“I think you’re gravely overestimating how much rich people care about others…”
“You care.”
“Other rich people,” Bruce conceded.