Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Hall of Justice was halfway through a three-hour agenda, and Superman was visibly dying inside. Not from any villain attack. No. He’d take a Doomsday round-two over this any day.

Batman was speaking.

More accurately: Batman was smirking.

And that was never a good sign.

“Moving on,” Bruce said, arms crossed, voice like smooth gravel dragged over steel. “The interstellar tracking grid needs calibration. Superman’s volunteered to handle it.”

Clark looked up slowly, like a man inching toward a trap. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to,” Bruce replied, tone casual in the way that always meant anything but. “It’s in your jurisdiction. Or are you not Earth’s liaison to the United Planets anymore?”

Diana, seated across the table, raised a brow — and then, very deliberately, covered her mouth with her hand. A faint chuckle escaped anyway.

“I’m not—okay, look,” Clark started, already regretting it. “I’m happy to help, but—”

“I’ll forward you the files,” Bruce cut in, pulling up something on his tablet with surgical efficiency. “If you don’t get to them in the next twelve hours, I’ll assume you're… busy typing.”

That landed like a perfectly thrown batarang.

More laughter this time. Less stifled.

Hal Jordan leaned back in his chair, arms stretched behind his head, the picture of relaxed amusement. “Is that a dig at our friendly neighborhood newsboy?”

“Please,” Barry chimed in, barely containing his grin. “It’s adorable. I love how Clark goes from punching black holes to typing articles about rent control.”

Arthur, arms folded, nodded with all the slow solemnity of a deep-sea god. “It’s actually impressive. I’ve never seen a guy go from space brawls to khakis that fast.”

Clark exhaled, long and slow. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Bruce didn’t even glance up from his screen. “Just saying. Some of us save the world and then manage a global empire. Others go back to the copy desk.”

“You’re not my boss, Bruce.”

Bruce finally looked up, one brow arched with maddening precision. “Wanna bet?”

Clark blinked, thrown. “Wait, what?”

But Bruce just smirked to himself, eyes back on the tablet, already ten steps ahead.

“Nothing.”

He was up to something.

And Clark knew —  knew  — he was going to regret this.

Chapter Text

It started like any other Thursday.

The coffee was burnt, the air was thick with tension, and Steve Lombard was shouting at the printer like it had personally insulted his mother.

“LOIS! Do we have any more paper back here or what?! This thing's eating sheets like it’s got a fiber deficiency!”

Lois Lane didn’t even glance up from her monitor. She sipped her coffee, eyes fixed on the screen, and replied in a flat tone, “Try the supply closet. Third shelf. And maybe don’t print the entire internet next time.”

Ron Troupe was in the middle of arguing with a source over the phone — something about zoning permits and corruption, his voice low and clipped and full of “I’m not at liberty to disclose that,” in the way that meant he absolutely would, if pushed.

Cat Grant stood by the copier, arms folded, lips pursed, watching Steve with the kind of exhausted disdain that could erode steel.

Jimmy Olsen, meanwhile, was enthusiastically photographing someone’s leftover tacos like they were Pulitzer-worthy, adjusting his lens for lighting and muttering things like, “Okay, okay, but the guac shadow is throwing it off... damn. That’s art. That’s lunch art.”

And Clark?

Clark Kent was hunched at his desk, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, typing slowly — and with visible regret — on an op-ed about intercity transportation bottlenecks. His third draft, if anyone was counting. He was poking at it like it had personally betrayed him.

The headline was still a mess. He hated the word  gridlock.  It sounded like a villain name.

He’d just started rewriting a paragraph for the fourth time when he heard it:

“—Oh my god.”

A whisper. Barely audible. But reverent, like someone had just seen an angel descend from the heavens holding free coffee and universal healthcare.

Jimmy’s head shot up over his monitor like a meerkat spotting danger.

“Is that—” he breathed. “Is that Bruce Wayne?”

Clark froze.

His fingers hovered mid-keystroke. He closed his eyes. He groaned. Because yes.

Yes, it  was  Bruce Wayne.

Wearing a charcoal-gray three-piece suit that probably cost more than Clark’s  entire  apartment building, and moving through the bullpen with the casual grace of a predator who already knew where the exits were — and who owned all of them.

Every head in the newsroom turned. People stared. Whispered. One intern almost dropped her coffee. Someone else gasped like the air had been knocked out of them.

You’d think Beyoncé and the Pope had genetically fused and walked in holding the cure for aging.

And then Perry White —  the  Perry White — came striding out of his office like a general walking onto the battlefield.

Not sprinting. Not scrambling. But with purpose. With presence. The kind of walk that said:  I built this place, and you’re standing on my floor.

“Mr. Wayne,” Perry said, extending a firm hand, his voice brisk but steady. “Perry White. Editor-in-chief.”

Bruce accepted the handshake with his trademark effortless charm. A perfect grip. A practiced nod. Every inch the polished billionaire.

“Pleasure, Perry.”

Perry didn’t waste a second. “Can’t lie — wasn’t expecting to see  you  in our bullpen. You tend to stick to yachts, fundraisers, and Page Six.”

A few chuckles fluttered in the background.

Bruce smiled.  That  smile — the one he wore on magazine covers and charity galas. Flawless. Gleaming. Engineered for maximum disarming effect. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “thought it was time I checked in on one of my investments.”

Perry’s brow twitched — just slightly. Enough for anyone who knew him to recognize the flicker of irritation he usually reserved for overdue deadlines and interns who used Comic Sans.

“Investment?” he asked, voice clipped, skeptical.

Bruce gave a relaxed nod, brushing a bit of lint from his lapel like he’d just remembered he owned the building. “Wayne Media has a minority stake in the Planet’s digital distribution platform,” he said, breezy as a summer brunch. “Part of the portfolio expansion a few fiscal years ago. Strategic, long-term. Very above-board.”

Then he tilted his head with a faint, faux-thoughtful frown — the kind rich people use when pretending to forget owning a yacht. “Oh. You didn’t know?”

Perry blinked.

Bruce’s tone turned almost apologetic — fluffy, even. “Really? Huh. I could’ve sworn it was in the quarterly reports. I mean,  I  read them. Well, no, my legal team reads them. Then someone explains them to me in very small words over drinks.”

A ripple of barely-stifled laughter moved through the bullpen.

At his desk nearby, Clark didn’t look up from his keyboard. He just rolled his eyes. The slow, practiced kind of eye roll that said:  this man.

Perry grunted, arms folding across his chest. “Figures. No wonder the legal department’s been wearing nicer shoes.”

Cat Grant, who’d been watching like a panther waiting for a weak step, slid forward smoothly, her heels landing with deliberate clicks against the tile. Every movement said  I’m not done here.

“Cute entrance, Mr. Wayne,” she said, folding her arms loosely, smile polite but knife-edged. “You finally ready to say something on the record, Bruce? Or is this just another charming flyby before you jet off to your next gala?”

Bruce turned to her, clearly delighted to be challenged.

“Cat Grant,” he said warmly. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“I have,” she shot back. “I’m more patient. That’s why I’m asking  first .”

Bruce chuckled, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “Maybe later. I need to make a little chaos first.” And with that, Bruce’s eyes began scanning the room again, sharp and searching, as if he were locking onto a particular signal amid the noise of the bustling newsroom.

His voice dropped just low enough to slice through the chatter, carrying a hint of mischief. “First,” he said smoothly, “I need to find your most troublesome reporter.”

Clark exhaled a long, slow sigh — the kind that carries the weight of decades. It was the kind of sigh only someone who’d survived alien invasions, near-catastrophic heat vision headaches, and countless news cycles of chaos could muster.

He muttered, barely audible, “Here we go.”

In an instant, Bruce’s gaze snapped toward him. Like a missile locking on its target, his eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt. A smirk spread across his face, slow and deliberate, like a gathering storm about to break.

“There he is.”

Before Clark could fully brace himself, Bruce Wayne — billionaire playboy, Gotham’s most elusive enigma, and self-appointed agent of chaos — strode purposefully over. Without hesitation, he grabbed the back of Clark’s chair and spun it around with a flair that suggested he’d patented dramatic entrances.

Then, with the confidence of a man who knew exactly the trouble he was about to stir, he leaned in and announced, loud enough for half the newsroom to hear:

“Hi,  bestie .”

The room froze.

A beat of stunned silence stretched taut, broken only by the collective mental gears grinding to a halt.

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Steve’s face paled, his voice barely above a whisper but thick with disbelief: “Bestie?”

Ron’s brow furrowed as if trying to recalibrate his entire understanding of the universe. “You guys know each other?”

Bruce, reveling in the spotlight, clapped a perfectly manicured hand on Clark’s shoulder with all the affectionate smugness of a prankster who’d just won the game.

“Know each other?” he said, voice dripping with playful pride. “I’m basically this man’s emotional support billionaire.”

Clark, mortified beyond belief, buried his face in his hands and muttered into his palms, “Please leave.”

But Bruce was unbothered — almost gleeful. “Nope,” he said cheerfully, like he’d RSVP’d just to make sure he crashed the party. “I’m here specifically to make your day worse.”

Perry stood nearby, blinking slowly as if someone had just hit him with a rolled-up newspaper.

“Kent,” he said, voice tight but curious, “how long have you known Bruce Wayne?”

Clark didn’t bother looking up. “Too long.”

“And you’ve never mentioned it?”

Clark’s voice was muffled but firm. “Because I liked having peace and quiet.”

Jimmy exploded like a shaken soda can. “Peace and— You’re friends with  Bruce Wayne  and didn’t tell  anyone ?!”

Bruce’s grin lit up the room, positively radiant, like a kid showing off a secret.

“Best friends, actually.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed, crossing his arms in suspicion and mild betrayal. It was clear in his stance and expression —  he  thought he was Clark’s best friend.

“Best friends, huh?” Jimmy challenged. “Prove it.” Clark groaned, already exhausted by the circus.

But Bruce turned to the gathered crowd, his smile widening into something devilish, triumphant — like the cat who’d just knocked over the priceless vase and was now daring anyone to stop him.

“I was the best man at his wedding.”

The bullpen  exploded  like a bomb went off inside a library.

Voices shot up in a cacophony of disbelief and confusion.

“ WEDDING?! ” Jimmy practically yelled, his camera forgotten on his desk.

“ CLARK IS MARRIED?! ” Steve’s voice cracked like he couldn’t quite believe his ears.

“ TO WHO?! ” Ron’s eyes were wide, brows knitting together like he was trying to solve some impossible math problem in real time.

“ WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?! ” The entire bullpen was practically vibrating with stunned questions and rapid-fire theories.

Clark looked like he was seriously reconsidering the benefits of spontaneous combustion—if only to escape this overwhelming wave of shock.

Meanwhile, Bruce leaned casually against Clark’s desk like some smug, bat-shaped gremlin who had just thrown a firecracker into a fireworks factory and was loving every second of the chaos.

“Did you  not  know?” Bruce asked, voice dripping with the kind of fake innocence only billionaires with too much time on their hands can muster. “Huh. I could’ve sworn it was public knowledge.”

At the back of the room, Lois Lane — Pulitzer winner, master of composed chaos, and absolute queen of calm under fire — looked up from her desk. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee and, with the most casual nonchalance imaginable, raised a hand like she was volunteering at a bake sale.

“Hi,” she said, voice calm and teasing. “It’s me.”

Everything stopped.

Even the bustling energy of the newsroom dropped like a plummeting stone.

Jimmy’s jaw literally hit the floor — and then he physically  dropped  his camera, which clattered to the floor like a fallen soldier (thank goodness his lens had its protective case on it).

“ LOIS. YOU—YOU MARRIED CLARK?! ” His voice was a mix of shock and betrayal.

Lois shrugged, completely unbothered, as if she’d just told them the weather report. “Three years ago.”

Cat looked like her brain had short-circuited, eyes wide enough to swallow a newsroom. “Are you serious?!”

Ron blinked slowly, still trying to process. “How did no one notice?”

Bruce, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, stage-whispered loud enough for half the room to hear, “They’re surprisingly good at secrets.”

Clark shot Bruce a glare that carried the weight of a thousand silent curses. “I hate you.”

Bruce just grinned, clearly delighted by the spectacle. “No, you don’t.”

Steve was still trying to piece it all together, pointing back and forth between Clark and Lois like he was deciphering a complicated conspiracy theory. “Wait, wait— three years ?!”

Clark gave the smallest, most serene smile anyone had ever seen from him in this situation. “In our defense, none of you asked.”

Jimmy threw his hands up in utter disbelief, voice cracking like a man betrayed. “ WHY  would we ask?! That’s not something you just blurt out! ‘Hey Clark, are you and your partner at work secretly married?’”

Clark turned, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at Bruce like he was holding onto the last thread of sanity. “You came here on purpose to do this.”

Bruce piped up with a smug grin, voice smooth as silk. “I literally warned you at the last meeting.”

“I thought you were bluffing!” Clark snapped, exasperated.

Bruce raised both perfectly groomed eyebrows, looking genuinely offended. “Have I ever bluffed in my life?”

Clark didn’t hesitate. “...Yes!”

Bruce smiled serenely, eyes twinkling like he’d just won a bet. “And it always works.”

By now, the bullpen was in  complete  disarray — the kind of barely-contained newsroom meltdown usually reserved for alien invasions or scandal leaks at city hall.

Questions were being launched like missiles across desks and between cubicles, overlapping in a storm of shouted curiosity and gleeful outrage.

“ Where did you get married?! ” someone called from the back.

“ Did Perry know before this?! ” shouted Steve, leaning halfway over his desk like the answer might physically hit him if he got close enough.

“ Is  that  why you two always disappear at the same time?! ” yelled Cat, clearly thinking back over months of suspiciously aligned absences.

“ Wait, wait, is  that  why Lois snapped at that guy who called Clark her ‘coworker’ last month?! ” another reporter chimed in.

“—Because she  really  snapped!”

“Oh my god, it  is , isn’t it?!”

Lois didn’t even flinch.

She sat calmly at her desk, perfectly composed, typing away on her laptop as if the newsroom hadn’t just discovered a tabloid-worthy secret hiding in plain sight. She paused just long enough to sip her coffee again, cool as ever.

Clark, by contrast, was visibly trying to fuse with his chair. He’d slouched so far down that only the top of his glasses and the bridge of his nose were visible over the rim of his computer screen. If he had heat vision trained on the floor, he might’ve started digging a hole straight to the planet’s core.

Bruce, of course, was absolutely thriving. He leaned lazily against the edge of Clark’s desk, a picture of composed chaos in a charcoal suit worth a small country’s GDP. His smirk had somehow reached a new level of smug — the kind of expression that said,  I’m not just stirring the pot; I invented the recipe.

He casually winked at Perry, who by this point had abandoned all hope of restoring order. The veteran editor stood in the middle of the bullpen, stunned into silence, gripping a half-full bottle of Pepto Bismol like it was holy water.

The cap was off. He was sipping it straight from the bottle. No one even blinked.

And Bruce — the man who once intimidated entire boardrooms with a single glance — simply raised his eyebrows in mock concern and said, in a stage-whispered aside to Clark:

“Should I have brought the slideshow? You know, the one with the honeymoon photos and the dancing alpaca?”

Clark made a noise that could only be described as  a low, internal scream.

From across the room, Lois finally looked up, one brow arching with unimpressed amusement. “If you  ever  show those photos to anyone, I swear I will personally drop you off a rooftop.”

Bruce grinned, utterly delighted. “Promise?”

Lois shook her head fondly and went back to typing. “Psychopath.”

Bruce raised a finger. “Eccentric billionaire.”

Clark just groaned and muttered, “This is my life.”

Clark had just managed to stand up from his desk — posture stiff, trying desperately to regain some shred of dignity — when Bruce pivoted like a man on a mission and threw an arm around his shoulders with the dramatic flair of a soap opera entrance.

It was not a light, friendly pat. No, it was the full weight of a billionaire best friend dragging him into the spotlight like they were frat bros on a bottomless mimosa bender.

“ Tell me, Kent, ” Bruce said, voice several decibels louder than necessary — just enough to ensure the entire newsroom was listening, “ when exactly were you planning to tell your coworkers you’re married? Or were you waiting for the ink to dry on the prenup? ”

Clark’s entire body stiffened. He leaned in toward Bruce and hissed out of the side of his mouth with the urgency of a man trying to defuse a bomb. “We don’t  have  a prenup.”

Bruce gasped — actually gasped — stumbling back half a step and clutching his chest with mock horror, like he’d just watched someone use a rare wine as mouthwash. “ You let a Pulitzer-winning investigative reporter marry you  without  a prenup?!  Clark, what if she steals your  glasses  in the divorce?!”

Across the bullpen, jaws dropped further. A few phones had subtly started recording.

Lois, still calmly typing, didn’t even look up. Her voice floated across the room like a knife wrapped in silk. “He’s more scared I’ll steal his flannel.”

Bruce nodded solemnly, turning back to Clark. “Honestly, she already has. I saw her wearing that  ‘Kansas State Cornhole Champions’  sweatshirt last Christmas. Tragic.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed. “That sweatshirt is  vintage .”

Bruce grinned, unrepentant. “So is your fashion sense.”

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no comeback. Not because there weren’t any — but because, tragically, Bruce wasn’t  wrong.

Across the bullpen, the staff was watching like it was prime-time television. Actual jaws were hanging open.

Ron, clutching a file folder to his chest like it might shield him from the weird energy radiating off the two of them, whispered, “Are they… bickering?”

Steve leaned in, brow furrowed. “Like old roommates who kissed once and  never talked about it. ”

Jimmy, eyes wide, voice reverent: “They’re like sexy Bert and Ernie.”

Cat, deadpan and sipping her fourth espresso of the morning: “You need to stop saying words.”

Clark sighed — a long, soul-weary exhale that said  I knew this was coming but somehow I’m still not ready.  He turned slowly to face Bruce, jaw tight, glasses slipping just slightly down his nose.

“Seriously,” he said, voice low and resigned. “Why are you  actually  here?”

Bruce’s eyes lit up like Christmas had come early.

“Oh, right!” he said, snapping his fingers with exaggerated flair as if he’d just remembered the reason for his own existence. He stepped away from Clark, pivoting sharply and spreading his arms with the theatrical energy of someone about to deliver a TED Talk.

The entire bullpen froze.

Lois glanced up from her laptop, curiosity sparking behind her eyes.

Around them, chairs creaked as reporters leaned in. Pens hovered above notepads. Phones were subtly angled to record. It felt like the entire building had inhaled at once and was waiting to exhale.

Even Perry, still clutching his bottle of Pepto like a lifeline, paused mid-sip.

Bruce gave a dazzling grin — the kind that sold shares, sank governments, and, in this case, promised chaos.

“I came to tell you all something important,” he said, voice smooth and bright, like a man announcing free champagne or the end of rent.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Lois sat back in her chair, arms crossing, eyebrow rising. “Oh no,” she said under her breath, mostly to herself. “Here it comes.”

Clark just closed his eyes.

And then — with the timing of a stage magician and the confidence of someone who’d never once received a 'no' in a boardroom — Bruce delivered the line:

“I bought the Daily Planet.”

Dead silence. For a full two seconds, not a single person breathed. Then:

“ YOU WHAT?! ” Perry barked, half-choking on his Pepto and turning a color not found in nature.

Jimmy audibly gasped and dropped his phone. Again. Cat slapped a hand on her desk. “ You  bought it?! Like —  bought  bought it?!”

Ron blinked rapidly, as if trying to refresh reality like a frozen tab on his browser.

Steve just muttered, “This is how the world ends. With billionaires and press releases.”

Clark, head tilted back slightly, pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and mumbled, “Of course you did.”

Bruce turned to him, utterly pleased with himself. “You said you wanted to work closer to home.”

“I said I wanted to  focus on journalism, ” Clark hissed.

“I’m helping.”

“You bought my  job. ”

“I prefer to think of it as… enhancing your job security.”

Lois let out a bark of laughter. “God, you’re like if a trust fund got wet after midnight.”

Bruce pointed at her like she’d just delivered a punchline. “Thank you. Finally, some appreciation.”

Clark just muttered, “I need to go lie down.”

Steve Lombard looked like someone had just kicked over his fantasy football trophy. “You can’t just  buy  the Daily Planet!”

Bruce gave a casual little shrug, smoothing the lapel of his custom-tailored jacket. “I mean— technically?  I can. I did.”

Clark closed his eyes. He didn’t breathe for a moment. Then: the slow, controlled exhale of a man who had survived alien invasions and time paradoxes but was  finally  meeting his limit.

“…Why.”

Bruce turned to him, eyes gleaming, expression innocent in the same way a cat looks innocent after knocking over a glass on purpose. “Funny story.”

Clark didn’t even let him get a rhythm. “No. It’s  not. ”

“See,” Bruce began anyway, unbothered and undeterred, “I was at a fundraiser last month—”

“You were in Saint-Tropez,” Cat cut in, arms crossed.

“Exactly!” Bruce snapped his fingers. “A very serious fundraiser. For… taxes. Or dolphins. Or tax-deductible dolphins. I forget.”

“Oh my  God, ” Clark muttered.

Bruce leaned against the desk like he was settling in for a fireside chat. “Anyway, I was chatting with some minor oil heiress or maybe a Bond villain, and someone joked that  no one can buy the planet.  And I—obviously—assumed they meant Earth.”

Lois snorted behind her coffee cup.

Clark stared, horrified. “You didn’t.”

Bruce grinned. Bright. Weaponized. “I did.”

“You thought they meant the  planet.  Like… Earth. ”

Bruce looked positively delighted. “Well, yeah. So I told Alfred to look into it. Next morning, I woke up in Monaco with a headache, three messages from Lucius Fox, and a receipt for The Daily Planet.”

Dead silence.

Half the bullpen looked like they’d forgotten how to breathe.

Even Lois blinked, impressed despite herself. “You accidentally became my boss?”

Bruce tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Not  accidentally.  Just…unintentionally.”

Clark looked like he’d just tasted a lemon dipped in betrayal. “You went from owning  a minority stake  in the digital backend to  buying the whole damn building? ”

Bruce shrugged. “Well, I already had a seat at the table. The rest of the shares were just… sitting there. Neglected. Whispering my name.”

“Bruce,” Clark said flatly. “You’re talking about hostile acquisition like it’s a rescue mission for puppies.”

Bruce nodded. “Exactly. I saved the Planet.”

Ron looked around, baffled. “Is this… legal?”

Bruce gave a serene little hand wave. “It’s only unethical if you read the fine print.”

Steve looked personally betrayed. “What about editorial independence?”

“Please,” Bruce scoffed, “I don’t even read. I skim headlines, make impulsive investments, and crash my yachts into uncharted islands. You’ll be  fine. ”

Cat, deadpan: “And yet you’re still richer than all of us combined.”

Bruce winked. “It’s the jawline.”

Clark groaned so hard it sounded like a tectonic plate shifting. “You are  the worst. ”

Bruce, utterly unfazed: “Says the man who kept his entire  marriage  secret from his coworkers like it was a CIA operation.”

Clark pointed a finger at him, exasperated. “Because it was  none of their business! ”

Cat, scribbling in a notepad like a woman possessed: “It is  definitely  our business now.”

Jimmy, who had been sitting quietly in shock until now, blinked and turned slowly to Clark. “Wait. So you didn’t  know  he bought the Planet?”

Clark threw his hands up. “No! I found out with the rest of you!”

Lois leaned her chin on one hand, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Please continue. I’ve  never  seen him this close to popping a blood vessel.”

Bruce clasped his hands behind his back like a man giving a museum tour. “Don’t worry, Lois. I’ll have the health plan improved.”

Clark slumped into his chair. “I  hate  all of you.”

—

At this point, whatever remained of Perry White’s  “play nice with the billionaire”  attitude evaporated like steam off hot pavement. He stormed out of his office, tie askew, Pepto forgotten, his face the exact shade of a caution sign.

“Wayne,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you buy my damn paper, and I find out  with the rest of the bullpen?  No heads-up? No memo? Not even a  courtesy call? ”

The room held its breath.

Bruce, unbothered, turned to him with that trademark politician’s smile — all charm and plausible deniability. He gave a light shrug, brushing a nonexistent speck from his lapel. That same infuriating smile stretched across his face — polished, calm, the exact kind of expression that made people want to throw things at him in board meetings.

He even gave a polite little nod. “Technically,” Bruce said smoothly, “I bought the  parent company  that controls the Planet’s distribution and licensing rights, then folded it into one of my media branches. The Planet just came with the bundle. It was a… strategic consolidation. Very routine, so…” — he offered an elegant shrug — “no, Perry. I didn’t need to tell you.”

Perry looked like he was actively calculating the closest object he could throw without committing a felony. His eye twitched. Twice.

Perry’s mustache twitched. “Routine?” he repeated, like it was a slur.

Bruce nodded. “Above-board. Efficient. Lots of synergy.”

Lois calmly took another sip of coffee like this was the best thing she’d watched all year.

Clark, now seated and utterly resigned to the spiraling chaos, leaned sideways and whispered without looking, “I think he’s going to hit you with the framed  ‘No Smoking’  sign.”

Bruce gave a delighted clap of his hands, like a kindergarten teacher announcing craft time. “Alright! Let’s not panic. I’m not here to  change  anything. I’ve read the editorials. You all run a tight ship.”

He gestured grandly to the bullpen, as if he’d been a long-time reader and not someone who thought the Style section was about tailoring.

“Really,” Bruce added. “You just need a little…  flare. ”

Perry’s eyes narrowed so hard it looked painful. “What kind of  flare. ”

Bruce gave a knowing smile — the kind that came with mood lighting and dramatic irony — and slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Every reporter in the bullpen tensed.

Then Bruce pulled out… A press badge.

But not just  any  press badge.

A gold-plated press badge. Embroidered. Laminated. Covered in actual, visible  sparkles.  And hanging from a faux-leather lanyard that read, in tasteful calligraphy, “ Wayne Enterprises: Journalism Division ”

Jimmy  wheezed  so hard he had to grab his chair for support.

Clark stared at it like it had personally insulted him. “ What is that. ”

“My  honorary  press credentials,” Bruce said proudly, holding it up like Simba on Pride Rock. “I had them made this morning. They say ‘News Daddy.’”

There was a full second of stunned silence.

Then—

Lois, not missing a beat: “You’re fired.”

Clark followed suit, voice deadpan. “I quit.”

Bruce gave them a wink so smug it deserved a cease and desist. “You can’t quit. You have dental now.”

Steve Lombard, still standing near the copier with a stack of half-jammed pages in one hand and his worldview crumbling in the other, finally said what everyone else was still too stunned to voice.

“So… let me get this straight.” He turned slowly, eyes wide, staring across the bullpen like someone trying to solve a conspiracy wall without yarn. “Bruce Wayne is best friends with  Clark Kent.  Clark Kent is  married  to  Lois Lane.  And Bruce Wayne accidentally bought our entire  company  while trying to buy the  actual planet.  And he is now, legally… our ‘News Daddy’?”

A beat.

“ Correct, ” Bruce replied smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks like he'd just confirmed a lunch reservation.

Jimmy, who was still sitting half-slumped over his camera bag like the emotional weight of the last ten minutes had aged him a decade, raised a trembling hand.

“That’s the most Gotham sentence I’ve ever heard,” he said solemnly. “It sounds like something you’d scream in a dream right before the Joker hits you with a pie full of subpoenas.”

Bruce nodded sagely, like this was a compliment.

“You should’ve seen the time I tried to buy the moon,” he added offhandedly. “Turns out it’s a sovereign entity. Bit of a legal hiccup.”

Cat Grant, standing nearby with her arms folded and her heels tapping a slow rhythm of rising judgment, blinked at him. “Are you telling me we work for an actual lunatic?”

Clark dropped his hands from his face and muttered, voice flat with the exhaustion of  years , “ This is why I never told anyone we were friends. ”

He gestured vaguely at Bruce, who had just pulled a glitter pen out of his pocket and was doodling a tiny Wayne Industries logo onto his ‘News Daddy’ badge.

“Welcome to my life,” Clark added, eyes haunted.

Chapter Text

The meeting had finally ended.

Aquaman had stormed out fifteen minutes ago, muttering something about satellite jurisdiction and surface-level bureaucracy. Barry had vanished in a blur—he’d insisted he needed to “rewind a bit” to make it to brunch on time. Diana had maintained a serene expression the entire meeting, but the three twisted, snapped titanium pens lying beside her chair told a different story.

Now, only two figures remained in the Watchtower’s cavernous conference room.

Superman stood near the end of the long table, arms crossed firmly over the red-and-gold crest on his chest. His cape, slightly askew, hung over one shoulder like a disheveled towel on a hook. The heels of his boots made a soft thunk with each slow, irritated step he took in a tight circle. Every motion radiated controlled frustration.

Batman, by contrast, was perfectly still. He leaned against the far wall, arms folded, cape wrapped around him in folds of black. Cowl and all. He looked like a gargoyle that had been carved with disappointment in mind—silent, stern, and deeply judgmental.

The silence stretched thick between them, broken only by the occasional mechanical hum from overhead.

Then Clark finally groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“So you really bought the  Daily Planet ?”

Bruce didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Clark turned toward him, brow furrowed, voice rising. “Why?”

Bruce lifted his eyes, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “You know why.”

Clark stared at him. “Because you were drunk?”

“That was part of it.”

“You thought you were buying the  actual Earth. ”

“Which I still maintain was a reasonable mistake, given the phrasing.”

Clark looked like he wanted to throw something. “No, it wasn’t!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, his tone maddeningly calm. “Tell me you wouldn’t click on a listing titled  ‘Planet for Sale: Own It All Today.’ ”

Clark blinked. “I thought  you  were supposed to be the smart one!”

“Selective intelligence,” Bruce replied. “I save it for crime. Not for late-night online shopping.”

Clark stopped pacing to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Bruce…”

“What?”

Clark gestured with both hands like he was physically trying to hold the concept together. “Why  the Planet ? Of all places?”

Finally, Bruce sighed and pushed off the wall, stepping forward with a rare seriousness softening the edges of his usually unshakable composure. The voice modulator was off now, leaving behind the flat, dry cadence of his natural voice.

“…Because I needed a softer media outlet to run puff pieces about Bruce Wayne.”

Clark froze.

“You bought a historic, internationally respected publication,” he said, staring, “to write  puff pieces ?”

Bruce shrugged. “And to control my own bad press.”

“You’re  literally  Gotham’s most feared vigilante.”

“Exactly. But Bruce Wayne? He’s Gotham’s most avoidant man-child. I need headlines like  ‘Wayne Spotted in Monaco With Mystery Octuplets’  to keep people from looking too closely.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “You made that one up.”

“I did. But it got four million clicks.”

Clark tried to process the words. Tried, and failed.

“You own everything,” he said, voice strained. “Companies. Real estate. Infrastructure. Entire satellite networks. Why  my  paper?”

Bruce’s expression shifted—just slightly—but it was enough. The sarcasm dulled, revealing something quieter, almost sincere beneath it.

“Because it’s yours,” he said. “And you’ll make sure the puff pieces are written by someone who understands the balance.”

Clark paused. “…What balance?”

Bruce met his gaze directly now, his voice lowering just a notch.

“The balance between public idiot and actual threat,” he said. “The more people think Bruce Wayne is a yacht-sinking, champagne-wasting, scandal-prone man-child, the less likely they are to connect any dots. The more they underestimate me, the safer certain operations stay.”

There was a beat of silence.

Clark exhaled slowly. “So… you want us to run silly stories… to protect your real work.”

Bruce gave a small nod.

“And,” he added, “I want to annoy you.”

Clark rolled his eyes with so much force it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something. “There it is.”

“Mostly that part,” Bruce agreed.

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

Clark took a step forward, something like mischief starting to stir behind the exasperation in his eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’re giving me full editorial license to write whatever slanderous, tabloid-level garbage I want… about you?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Within reason.”

Clark’s lips curled into a smile—small at first, then rapidly expanding into something uncontainably gleeful.

“I can say you’ve launched a fragrance line called  Wayne: For When You Want to Smell Like Fear and Irresponsibility? ”

“Yes.”

“I can run a series titled  Bruce Wayne’s Dumbest Blazer Choices: A Retrospective? ”

Bruce smirked. “Please do. That’ll reinforce the billionaire himbo narrative beautifully.”

Clark was practically vibrating now. “Can I interview those Gotham fashion bloggers who rate your red carpet outfits on a thirst-to-nausea scale?”

“You’re terrifying when you’re giddy,” Bruce muttered.

“I  live  for this,” Clark grinned. “Do you know how many years I’ve had to write in-depth exposés on government corruption, environmental collapse, international crises? And now you’re telling me I can just…  roast you in print ?”

Bruce deadpanned, “Publicly. On record. With photo spreads.”

Clark clapped his hands together like a delighted librarian discovering the archives had been digitized.

“I’m going to write  mean  puff pieces, Bruce.  Mean ones. ”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “That’s the idea.”

Clark leaned back, triumphant. “I’m going to call it  ‘Billionaire or Buffoon?’ ”

Bruce, finally smiling beneath the cowl, said simply: “Welcome to ownership.”

Back at the  Daily Planet , the bullpen was quieter now—though only marginally. The chaos of Bruce Wayne’s surprise appearance and ownership reveal a few days earlier had simmered down into the kind of electrified stillness that comes with gossip-fueled awe. Jimmy was still muttering to himself. Steve had taken up pacing in circles near the copy machine. Cat was on her third espresso and fourth group text.

But at his desk, Clark Kent was calm. Centered. Almost... serene.

His fingers hovered over his keyboard for a beat. Then he clicked open a new document, the bright white screen casting a faint glow on his glasses.

The headline came first. It arrived without hesitation, fully formed, as if it had been waiting its whole life to exist:

“Wayne’s World: Gotham’s Favorite Man-Child Crashes Charity Auction by Mistaking It for a Yacht Race”
  By Clark Kent

Clark paused, smiled to himself, and let out a quiet chuckle—the kind that made Lois glance up from across the bullpen and raise an amused eyebrow.

He began to type.

“Sources report that Wayne’s entrance was dramatic, slightly damp, and accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a foghorn. No one is quite sure how the antique canoe got on stage—or why Wayne was inside it, holding a parasol and shouting ‘Raise the sails!’ in what may have been an attempt at a British accent.”

He paused to re-read it.

Perfect.

A few desks down, Lois leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee with practiced calm. “I can already feel his blood pressure from here,” she said, not even looking up.

Clark didn’t break stride. “It’s not libel if it’s true.”

“You weren’t there,” she pointed out, grinning.

“I don’t have to be. He  absolutely  did this.”

Lois laughed softly and went back to her own draft.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, in the high-rise penthouse of Wayne Tower, Bruce Wayne sat on the edge of a sleek leather sofa with one leg casually crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone with the relaxed focus of a man who had just successfully detonated a social bomb and was now sifting through the wreckage with glee.

His thumb paused mid-scroll.

There it was. Clark’s article—hot off the digital press.

Bruce tapped the headline, lips twitching as he read the first paragraph.

By the time he hit the word “parasol,” he was grinning.

“Damp,” he muttered. “Bold choice.”

He didn’t bother reading the rest before clicking  Share  and forwarding the link with lightning efficiency.

To: Alfred Pennyworth
  Subject: New coverage
  Message: Clark’s officially weaponized the keyboard. Proud of him.

He added a second recipient—Dick Grayson—along with the short message:

“Your uncle is getting spicy. Five bucks says next week’s headline includes a flamingo and a city ordinance violation.”

Then, for no reason other than pure mischief, he attached an emoji: 🛶

Back at the  Planet , Clark’s phone buzzed once on his desk.

He glanced at the screen and saw the notification:  BRUCE WAYNE FORWARDED YOUR ARTICLE.
 The preview showed a short message.

Your move, Kent. 🕴️🛥️

Clark didn’t even bother replying.

He just smiled.

And kept typing.

Chapter Text

DAILY PLANET – LIFESTYLE SECTION

Title:   Wayne's World: Gotham's Most Eligible Disaster Turns 30 (Again)
  By Clark Kent

~~Gotham City — This week, billionaire philanthropist, international mystery, and walking contradiction Bruce Wayne celebrates yet another birthday. Sources close to Wayne confirm — with unusual confidence — that this time, it’s his  actual  36th, not a celebratory “reset” he once hosted just to dodge a themed cake.

For over two decades, Wayne has reigned supreme over Gotham’s social pages with a dazzling record of champagne-soaked headlines, unexpected rooftop appearances, and a personal fashion sense best described as “boardroom afterthought meets yacht party escapee.”

Despite public perception of him as Gotham’s crown prince of chaos, Wayne remains—somehow—a functioning CEO. His family’s fortune has helped fund everything from pediatric hospitals to hoverboard safety research (the latter after an incident at a Halloween gala involving capes, cobblestone, and six sprained ankles).

“He’s very... Bruce,” said Lucius Fox, longtime Wayne Enterprises executive, when asked for a statement. He declined further comment, then exhaled deeply—an audible sigh that was later transcribed and submitted as a quote.

The Wayne public persona has only become stranger with age. In the past decade alone, he has:

• Entered a black-tie charity gala on rollerblades while wearing a velvet suit.
  
  

• Launched a cryptocurrency called “BatCoin” as an April Fool’s joke, which briefly hit $8.74 before collapsing and being investigated by the SEC.
  
  

• Annually adopted a rare animal from a private zoo and named it after an ex-girlfriend (this year’s pick: a one-eyed peacock named Tiffany).
  
  

When asked for insight into his enduring legacy, Wayne replied: “I just want to make the world a little weirder before I leave it.”

Critics have labeled him irresponsible. Admirers call him bold. One socialite, who requested anonymity, called him “surprisingly well-read, considering he once wore two watches at once and told me one was for  emotional time. ”

Rumors, as always, continue to swirl about Wayne’s so-called “double life”—tech mogul by day, tabloid monarch by night—but the man himself remains serenely unfazed.

“What people say about me doesn’t bother me,” Wayne told the  Planet , pausing mid-interview to down a flaming cocktail at 9:30 a.m. “It gives them something to do while I’m being fabulous.”

Whether you see him as Gotham’s rogue guardian angel of chaos or just a man with more sunglasses than brain cells, one thing is undeniable:

Bruce Wayne is a brand.

And like all luxury brands, he’s best enjoyed from a safe distance—ideally with the sound turned down and a fire extinguisher nearby.~~

The city below was a mess of lights and noise, but the Wayne penthouse was tranquil in that specific, sinister way only stupidly wealthy people ever achieve. Jazz murmured from invisible speakers. A breeze fluttered the curtains like it had made an appointment. Somewhere in the background, Alfred was probably Googling “acceptable ways to disown your adult employer.”

Bruce Wayne was draped across his couch like a Renaissance painting of regret, wearing a silk robe that cost more than most people’s cars and drinking something suspiciously amber from a mug that said  “Billionaire Tears”  in gold foil. It was unclear if the mug was ironic. It was very clear the robe was a tax write-off.

His phone buzzed.

📱 Clark Kent:
 Please don’t text me about the article.

Bruce smirked, already opening the thread.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 “Owns more sunglasses than brain cells.” I choked on my avocado foam.

He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, which still bore a scorch ring in the shape of a Rolex from an incident nobody talks about but everybody remembers.

📱 Clark Kent:
 It’s a puff piece. With restraint. You’re welcome.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 You quoted Lucius sighing. Pulitzer-worthy journalism.

📱 Clark Kent:
 You  asked  for bad press.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 “Boardroom afterthought meets yacht party escapee.” You menace.

Bruce laughed, the indulgent kind that only comes from inherited trauma and a diversified portfolio.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 “Emotional time” is real.
 The second watch tells me what moon phase we're in.

📱 Clark Kent:
 You told the UN Secretary General you wore two watches because one tracks moon phases and the other tells you when to spiral.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 It  does. I should tweet that!

📱 Clark Kent:
 Do NOT tweet that. You will trend and not in the good way.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 Too late.
 [attached screenshot]
 @BruceWayneOfficial
 “Two watches: one for moon phases, one for when it’s time to spiral.” — Bruce Wayne, fashion icon & public burden.
 #EmotionalTime #GalaCore

Back at the Planet, Clark let his forehead drop onto his desk with a solid  thunk.

📱 Clark Kent:
 I’m going to write a follow-up called  Bruce Wayne: America’s Slowest-Developing Head Injury.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 Do it. Open with that time I tried to patent Crime Lotion.

📱 Clark Kent:
 Crime. Lotion.

📱 Bruce Wayne:
 Hydrates while eliminating fingerprints. Market was niche.

Clark sighed so hard his glasses fogged, muttered something in Kryptonian that sounded violent, and opened a new document.

Title:  Bruce Wayne: Gotham’s Favorite Man-Shaped Lawsuit, Volume II
 Subtitle:  The Lotion Years

Round two had begun.

Chapter Text

The bullpen was already a hive of whispering chaos when Clark Kent walked in — but it wasn’t the usual Monday-morning blend of caffeine jitters and print-deadline desperation. This was something different.

Personal. Charged. Targeted.

Paper rustled like nervous wings. Hushed voices stuttered to silence as he passed. Someone audibly gasped in his wake — like Clark had walked in dragging a live grenade under one arm and a flaming copy of the Style section under the other.

He had barely shrugged off his coat when Cat Grant launched into his peripheral vision like a gossip-seeking missile locked on its smug target.

“Oh my God,” she hissed, eyes wide and tablet held aloft like a sacred text. “You actually published it.”

Clark blinked. “Good morning to you, too.”

Cat ignored the pleasantries. “You called Bruce Wayne — Bruce Wayne — ‘Gotham’s favorite man-shaped lawsuit.’”

Clark gave a helpless shrug, already walking toward his desk. “It was in context.”

“I don’t care about context!” Cat followed, heels snapping like accusations. “You wrote the most elegantly brutal celebrity take-down since I compared Lex Luthor’s skincare regimen to drywall. They’re already printing it on T-shirts.”

Clark paused mid-sit. “What?”

Cat flipped the tablet around. On screen: a mocked-up design featuring Bruce Wayne’s face — winking, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair wind-tossed like a man who was born in a convertible — above the bold headline: GOTHAM’S FAVORITE MAN-SHAPED LAWSUIT.

Clark squinted. “That font looks expensive.”

“It’s Helvetica Ultra Bold,” she said. “Bruce’s favorite. It’s art.”

Before Clark could reply, Jimmy Olsen practically vaulted out of his chair and scurried over like a red-headed alarm system.

“Clark,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Tell me you have a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer,” Ron Troupe muttered from a nearby desk, not looking up. “And I wouldn’t take his case. That article is a lawsuit with a byline.”

Jimmy slapped a printed copy of the Lifestyle section onto Clark’s desk. It was creased and dog-eared, covered in neon highlighter and marginalia like a holy relic dragged out of an ancient newsroom crypt.

“This line — right here,” Jimmy said, jabbing his finger at the page. “‘The fashion sense of a mannequin abandoned during a hurricane.’ That’s not journalism. That’s poetry.”

Clark finally sat, exhaling through his nose. “He liked it.”

That brought the bullpen to a full stop.

Ron looked up over his glasses. “He what .”

Cat spun in her chair, a perfectly arched brow already halfway to the ceiling. “Clark. Sweetheart. You roasted the billionaire who owns the paper. The man who writes the checks. You’re in danger. ”

Right on cue, Perry White’s office door slammed open with enough force to rattle the blinds.

“CLARK. JEROME. KENT.”

Every head swiveled. Time stopped. A phone rang and was instantly silenced by a trembling intern.

Clark sighed. “It’s Joseph,” he muttered to himself, already closing his laptop.

Perry stormed toward him with a pace that said someone’s getting fired, waving a hard copy of the Planet’s Lifestyle section like it was Exhibit A in a libel trial.

“Did you think this was funny?!” Perry thundered. “Did you think this was cute?! You called the man who owns this paper a ‘cautionary tale with abs’! ”

Clark lifted a finger. “Technically, that was a direct quote from an anonymous socialite.”

“You mocked his intellect, his suits, his so-called cologne line—what was it called— ‘Seduction: By Regret?!’ ”

Clark shrugged again. “That one was objectively terrible.” Perry threw his hands to the sky. “He owns the building, Kent!”

Clark leaned back, calmly. “And?”

Perry sputtered. “ And?! He could fire you with a single phone call!”

Clark folded his arms. “He won’t.”

“And how, in the name of Pulitzer and all his sacred carbon copies, do you know that?!”

Clark hesitated. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he tilted his head just slightly — listening.

The world narrowed to a thread. A hum.

He reached with his hearing, filtering through layers of ambient noise, past honking cabs and clacking keyboards and whispering coworkers, beyond Gotham’s noise — until he found it:

—rotor blades.
—splashing champagne.
—a monkey shrieking.
—and unmistakably, Bruce Wayne’s laugh.

He grimaced. Great. That meant he was awake, upright, and already unsupervised.

Clark nodded to himself and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone like a man preparing for war.

“I’ll prove it,” he said simply.

Cat gasped. “Oh my God, he’s gonna call him.”

Jimmy covered his mouth.

Ron closed his laptop, just to bear witness.

Perry stood stock still, arms crossed, face red.

Clark dialed.

The bullpen went silent.

Not quiet. Silent . As if time itself had taken a nervous step back. Phones rang unanswered, printers chugged on in the distance, and somewhere, a coffee machine beeped with existential dread — but no one moved.

Every single person on the floor was watching Clark Kent, who stood calmly at his desk, phone in hand, clearly about to commit an HR-violation-level decision.

Jimmy, eyes wide with the caution of a man witnessing a slow-moving train wreck, whispered urgently:

“Don’t FaceTime the billionaire. Don’t FaceTime the billionaire.”

Clark FaceTimed the billionaire.

The call rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then the screen lit up — and Bruce Wayne answered, looking like an Instagram ad for chaos incarnate.

Bruce Wayne appeared in full chaotic-billionaire mode — lounging in the back of a helicopter, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he had never known what a collar was for, sunglasses reflecting the skyline. The wind tousled his already artfully tousled hair like he’d paid it to.

To his right sat a woman in a sequined dress, sipping Veuve straight from the bottle. To his left, another glamorous figure was feeding grapes to a capuchin monkey wearing a Versace scarf and a pair of designer sunglasses so small they had to have been custom-made.

“ Smallville! ” Bruce grinned, voice barely cutting through the background roar. “Took you long enough. What’s up, buttercup?”

Behind Clark, Perry White dropped his coffee so hard it made a sound like regret.

Clark angled the phone slightly so the bullpen could see.

Bruce, noticing the sudden crowd, lit up. “Oh! Heyyy, Planet Peeps! ” He waved cheerfully like this was a Zoom call and not a dramatic PR crisis. “Clark’s article?” he shouted. “ Absolute banger . Genuinely laughed so hard I nearly drove my third-favorite yacht through a floating restaurant.”

Cat gasped like someone had handed her a live grenade. “You liked it?”

“Loved it,” Bruce said, already tapping his tablet. “In fact, I had merch made.”

He held it up to the screen — the same mock-up Cat had shown earlier .

Bruce Wayne’s face — winking, shirt half-open, hair wind-tossed like a man born in a convertible — above the bold Helvetica Ultra Bold text:

GOTHAM’S FAVORITE MAN-SHAPED LAWSUIT

“It’s selling like the ' Don’t Save Me, I Have Student Loans ' Hats,” Bruce added. “First run sold out in twelve minutes. Lois already has two set aside.”

“I put the monkey in one,” Bruce added proudly. He angled the camera slightly to show the capuchin now wearing a miniature version of the shirt, perfectly tailored. It screamed and threw a macaron offscreen.

“Where do I buy that,” Jimmy whispered.

“Anyway,” Bruce continued, “I sent the quote to Lucius and told him to fire my stylist just for the drama. Oh, and next time —include the jetpack-tuxedo story. The people deserve it.”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” Bruce shot back as he raised his glass of champagne to the camera, still grinning. “Anyway, gotta bounce. Capuchin’s got a modeling shoot in ten, and I promised to DJ his pre-party.”

The monkey shrieked again and threw a grape off-camera.

“Oh!” Bruce added, as if remembering something vital. “Clark, love to Lois. And make sure the next piece is titled ‘Bruce Wayne: Just a Guy with Too Many Feelings and Helicopters.’ Ciao!”

He blew a kiss to the bullpen and ended the call.

The phone went dark.

The bullpen stayed silent.

For one perfect second, no one dared speak. Then—

Cat exhaled like she’d seen a vision. “ That was the most Gotham thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I once dated a man who used to fake fainting to get out of brunch.”

Jimmy nodded slowly. “There was a monkey. Wearing merch. ”

Ron just muttered, “I’m filing a mental health complaint. Against reality. ”

Clark didn’t respond. He just sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and began typing with the quiet calm of a man resigning himself to the bit.

Title: Bruce Wayne, Local Disaster, Wears Jetpack to Fundraiser — Crowd Calls It ‘Therapeutic’
By Clark Kent

He smiled faintly.

The next round was coming.

And this time?

There would be merch links in the footnotes.