Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clark Kent felt thankful, standing in the large ballroom of a high society gala. Not thankful to be at the gala, mind you, but thankful to have never been assigned the society beat during his journalism career. Sure, the culture or lifestyle puff pieces he’d written for two and a half years out of college were uninspiring and dull, but he’d gotten right where he wanted to be, with a job in investigative journalism. A position he could use to create change in his civilian identity, not just his Super one.

Except, Cat Grant was sick this week, and Perry still wanted coverage of the latest charity ball thrown by Bruce Wayne. Something about an orphanage or children’s hospital or a hospital for orphaned children. It was certainly in the notes from Cat that he’d skimmed before the event started, though he should probably look over again.

It’s really no different than what he’s used to. Go in, get some quotes of substance from anyone involved or important, and write up the same milquetoast article that has been written dozens of times before. He could probably do it in his sleep.

The biggest difference is the people he’d be interviewing. Gotham was old money elites—a type of person that you simply didn’t see in Metropolis. The type of people that grew up with instruction on etiquette instead of just… manners.

Clark sighed, looking down at the list from Cat. Wayne Foundation Gala Attendees to speak with. No surprise to find Bruce Wayne’s name right at the top. Underlined.

Clark sighed again.

———

Ultimately, it was Bruce Wayne that found Clark Kent.

Clark had been busy putting it off as long as he could. It helped that Wayne didn’t arrive until well after Clark, so he had already checked off most of the names on his list, but he was still ignoring Wayne’s name at the top of it.

It wasn’t all because of Wayne’s playboy reputation either. He’d already been thoroughly flirted at, mostly the older women so happy to chat with this “dashing young reporter,” but something about Wayne put Clark off. It could be that his experience with billionaires was pretty thoroughly soiled by Lex Luthor. It could be that such exuberant charity would be a sturdy front disguising other dubious activities. It could be that those cool, dark eyes seemed to hold more depth than you’d ever witness from Brucie Wayne in public.

“Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not believe we have been acquainted.” The voice approaches from behind him, and even with his super-powered hearing, manages to get the jump on Clark. He’s unsurprised when he turns and sees Bruce Wayne staring intently back at him, something sharp and calculating hiding under his easy charisma.

“I don’t believe so, Mr. Wayne. Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” he said, shaking Wayne’s calloused hand. Clark began to wonder why a man like Bruce Wayne had such rough hands, but Clark was dazzled by the brilliance of his smile. He was truly stunning in person.

“Such a beautiful man,” Wayne began, reaching out to adjust Clark’s lapel but letting his hands linger over his chest, “wearing such an unsightly suit. Be glad none of Gotham’s vigilantes are on the prowl for crimes against menswear.”

Clark laughed at the absurdity of the compliment. “Well, Mr. Wayne, if you decide to change that fact, do let me know, and I’ll be sure to keep my wardrobe out of your city.”

“Unfortunately, Mr…” he trailed off, looking down to the press badge hanging from his neck, name already forgotten, “—Kent, I’m afraid the vigilante life is not for me. The company I spend my nights with leaves me rather… occupied, as you might imagine. No time to harass the handsome reporter for wearing tweed in June.”

What a bizarre exchange. “Do you often attract your… partners… by insulting their fashion choices, Mr. Wayne?”

Wayne’s steely eyes raked over him then, appraising, drinking in his appearance. When he looked back up, meeting his gaze once more, the intensity behind them could only be described as hunger. “Only when it would be my sincerest pleasure to relieve them of their clothes, Mr. Kent.”

For a brief moment, Clark’s brain shut off. He’d expected flirting. Of course he had; this was Bruce Wayne. But he can’t think of a single time anyone had ever looked at Clark Kent that way. Superman, sure, but never Clark. And it made his whole body feel warm.

Clark looked away, clearing his throat, searching his notepad to remember what he was meant to be doing. The heat of Wayne’s eyes fixated on his own made him squirm, but flattery be damned, he had an article to write. “Um, might I get a quote? I’d love to hear how the Wayne Foundation plans to extend its charity work this year, or perhaps if you are still waiting to see the results of tonight’s donations, how your goals will be affected.” Clark had managed to read through Cat’s notes again while putting off this very conversation.

When Wayne didn’t reply immediately, Clark risked a glance up at the other’s face. If he believed Bruce Wayne was as dull as everyone else took him to be, he’d assume he was trying to work out how to answer, but he knew it was something else. Wayne was appraising him again, or perhaps his question, his expression open but unreadable. Something about it made Clark’s face even redder. After a beat, Wayne replied.

“I’ll admit, Mr. Kent, I don’t normally get real questions at these things,” he began with a smile, “but, it’s impressive how much money you can raise when it gives people like me an opportunity to dress up and get drunk. The Wayne Foundation accomplished a lot last year—” and Clark watched wordlessly as the Brucie Wayne in front of him changed on a dime to a completely different Bruce Wayne, “—especially protecting the children of Gotham, and we are looking to open another orphanage this year. Plus adding to the welfare and scholarship funds, we hope tonight’s donations will help us cover those new initiatives.”

Clark blinked for a moment. As much as the intense attention of Wayne’s desire had lit something inside him, something in that answer had kindled it too. He could hear it in his tone—Wayne cared. Genuinely cared about the impacts of his charity. It mattered to him that he was making a difference, and Clark knew exactly what that sounded like. What it feels like to be a part of.

He was self-aware enough to mentally laugh for thinking Bruce Wayne was hot for his philanthropy. Somehow, he had not expected to find himself so charmed by the most charming man in Gotham.

“Do you expect you’ll hit your goal this evening?” Clark asked, hoping to keep this Bruce talking. Hoping to learn more about him, his heart, maybe his intellect if he’s lucky.

“I’m not sure where we are for tonight’s goal, but if by some tragedy we fall short, I am more than happy to personally cover the difference. Gotham is worth every cent. Have you spoken to Lucius? He knows a lot more about the specific allocations, of course.”

“I have not spoken to Lucius,” he said, trying not to be disappointed to be redirected to someone else.

“Oh, then do come with me, I shall make the introduction.”

Clark let himself be led by Wayne (quite literally, his hand at Clark’s back felt strangely intimate in a way that felt absurd and laughable), but he did exactly as promised. “Lucius, my dear, this is Clark Kent; I believe he has some questions you will be able to answer.”

While Clark shook the man’s hand, he could feel the intensity from Wayne’s gaze return to him. Before leaving the two of them to their conversation, Wayne cut between them one more time. “I do hope to see you again, Mr. Kent.”

With a salacious wink, Wayne was gone.

Chapter Text

Clark spent the rest of his time with Lucius Fox feeling vaguely indebted to Wayne. His interview with him was wonderfully insightful. In fact, after getting the quotations he needed, the two continued to chat, Clark indulging his own curiosity and delighting in how much he was able to learn from the conversation. While there was only so much he could include in the article for the gala—the people reading were likely more interested in the who’s-who of attendees than the charity work in question—Clark did make a mental note to write up his own piece later on about what Metropolis could learn from the Wayne Foundation’s resource allocation.

He had spent so long chatting with Lucius that he was fairly sure he must have missed Wayne’s departure. Famous enough for his late arrivals and wordless disappearances that “Bruce Wayne” is used as a verb to mean exactly that, Clark was certain he’d have vanished by this time in the night. A scan of the ballroom made him certain that he’d missed his opportunity to find him again.

He tried not to be too disappointed as he confirmed he’d spoken to everyone on the list, before slipping out into the Gotham night. There was, after all, one more person he was hoping to chat with that evening.

— — —

Clark felt conflicted. On one hand, he had an article to write, and doing it when he got back to the hotel meant that might make the morning news cycle on digital, even if not print. On the other hand, if he got back and changed into his other suit, he could visit Batman, surely patrolling his city by this time of night.

Their alliance still felt a bit tentative, but they had worked together a number of times now, and Clark was sure he’d earned some of Batman’s trust. You wouldn’t know from the Bat’s scowls, but Clark was sure the angle of his lips was at least less severe now than it had once been. Sometimes he even managed to get him talking.

They’ve both helped each other out of binds in the past, but Clark has been flying into Gotham some evenings just to patrol with him. Even in comfortable silence, it’s nice to have someone else who understands the whole “hero” thing. The hidden identities, the loneliness. Not that they talk about it, but still. It helps just knowing he’s not alone in it.

It would be nothing to change suits and join him tonight, but he hadn’t decided yet.

The distant sound of Batman trailing Clark the last few blocks was factoring into the decision, but not in any particular direction yet.

It was nearly silent, really, the faint whirring of the grapple gun every block or so. No human would hear it from the height of the buildings Batman scaled, certainly. So he had to play it cool, walk all the way back to his hotel.

Playing it so cool, that even when he heard the men in the alley conspiring, he just kept walking, right into the mugging. It’s not like his safety was a concern, with or without Batman.

He did his best to look startled when the three men jumped out of the alley, looking for trouble. He hears their vague threats, wanting his money, not his life, and Clark barely even has time to warn them— “Listen, I’m really not sure this is a good—” before a living shadow appears from behind the muggers.

He sweeps the feet out from the one standing in the middle before any of them realize what was happening. By the time the second was taken out, the third, with good survival instincts, booked it.

The Bat picked off the final mugger, stopping him and taking him down with a few clinical blows.

“Are you okay?”

It takes Clark a moment to answer, staring at Batman stupidly. Not out of fear or shock, like what Batman might normally see, but out of a sheer respect for his capabilities. It’s always a delight when Clark sees Batman’s fighting prowess, especially since he’d been injured the last time they’d fought together. There were likely still tiger-stripe scars across his side—lacerations he got busting an arms deal of alien tech—but you could never tell by the graceful way he moved tonight.

“Uh, yes, I am, thank you.”

“Gotham is dangerous at night. Are you far from your destination?”

“No, just another couple of blocks; I’m headed to the hotel in City Hall Square.”

The Bat regarded Clark for a second, looking for something in his eyes, before saying, “Do try to stay out of trouble,” and grappling back up to the top of the building.

It was no surprise that he could still hear Batman on his tail all the way to the hotel. Leave it to him to ensure that Clark is safe, but to do it from above. Easier to jump between rooftops than to make polite conversation for two blocks.

He resisted the urge to scan the roofs one more time before he entered his hotel.

He did not resist the urge to don his suit and join Batman’s patrol.

— — —

The wordless grunt Batman gave him once he finally tracked him down brought a smile to Clark’s lips that validated his choice instantly.

In the few minutes since Clark had seen him, the Bat made it remarkably far from his hotel, to a bank in a sketchier part of Gotham. He hadn’t even turned when Clark arrived, just grunted.

“Busy night so far?” he asked, wondering silently how he always knew when Clark arrived. Flying makes no sound of footfalls, nor can his human senses hear Clark’s heart.

Batman just groans, glancing once at Clark’s face but saying nothing, perched like a gargoyle, a fixture of the Gotham skyline.

Clark smiled, small and to himself, before joining Batman’s perch in comfortable city silence.

— — —

The article, “GOTHAM IS WORTH EVERY CENT,” turned out fine. Perry grumbled about it, naturally, but liked Clark’s idea for an article on the Wayne Foundation. Clark suspected the idea itself was secondary to its association with Bruce Wayne, but that hardly mattered as long as Clark got to write it.

He’d taken time Monday morning to jot down notes from his conversation with Lucius, and start organizing ideas for his article, but he knew he’d also need a fresh interview with him to publish most of what he’d said—so much of it had been off the record. Journalistic integrity, and all that.

He’d sent an interview request to the appropriate email address at 8:36AM, and didn’t think of it again until he went to lunch with Lois. He’d been telling her about his night at the gala, which he’d texted her about the next morning.

“You did not tell me that Bruce Wayne introduced you! How did that happen?” Lois exclaimed, clearly making a much bigger deal about it than Clark felt reasonable.

“Well, he said hello to me first, and I asked him for a qu-”

“Don’t you dare give me the short version, Smallville, I can see you abridging it while you speak.”

Clark took a moment to feel both seen and annoyed by Lois’s keen eye for lies by omission, before backtracking. “He called my suit ugly and it was flirting.”

Lois cackled. “Now that’s the story I was looking for. And you, steadfast journalist, didn’t jump his bones right there on the ballroom floor.”

“I asked him for a quote, and he… did, actually. Of course, he was still Bruce Wayne about it, but there was something there that felt real, like he cared. I know what that care looks like.”

Nodding sagely, Lois replied, “So then you jumped his bones on the ballroom floor?” which drew a healthy laugh out of Clark.

“Honestly, I did find that much more attractive than his comment about ‘relieving me of my unsightly tweed’. But he insisted I speak with Lucius Fox, who told me a lot about all the ways the Wayne Foundation contributed towards Gotham’s infrastructure and welfare as direct aid. I put as much as I could in the piece about the gala itself, but as a playbook for resource management, I think it could be its own article. So I sent an interview request this morning.”

“Any response yet?”

“On a Monday morning?” Clark said, pulling out his phone to check anyway. “I bet they’ve got enough of a weekend backlog I won't hear til Thursd—hey!”

It wasn’t even at the top of his inbox. The reply came at 9:10AM

Good morning Mr. Kent,

I would be happy to confirm any quotes from our conversation on Saturday that you wish to include in your future article on the Wayne Foundation. If you are interested in another interview, I will direct you back to Bruce Wayne, who I have CC’d here for you.

Thank you,

Lucius Fox

In addition to that reply, another followed at 9:16AM.

Hello, Mr. Kent,

I am quite delighted to hear you have taken such an interest in the Wayne Foundation. It would be my pleasure to host you for dinner at the manor to discuss our work with you. Are you available Wednesday at 6PM?

Warmest regards,

Bruce Wayne

“Holy shit, Smallville,” Lois said, handing him his phone back. “You have a date with Bruce Wayne.”

“Not yet, technically,” he began, already typing his confirmation in a reply email, “I haven’t confirmed it yet.”

Lois raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, now I have a date with Bruce Wayne, but it’s not a date date. I’ll be working.”

“He invited you to dinner, Clark.”

Well, Clark didn’t have a reply to that.

Chapter Text

It was one thing to have seen pictures of the grandeur of Wayne Manor, and an entirely separate thing to be walking up the pathway and up to the door. Clark tried to stop himself from approximating the value of things to his whole annual salary.

He took a steadying breath as he arrived at the large, ornate door, before knocking. The sound echoed.

To his surprise, it was Bruce Wayne himself who answered the door. He wore a wonderfully tailored suit with no tie, and looked effortlessly handsome. The look he cast over Clark, the smile he gave, was effortlessly charismatic. Clark hoped it would mean less artifice, less hiding the intellect and compassion he’s sure is lurking.

“Good evening, and welcome; it is a pleasure to have you here.” When he shook Clark’s hand, the touch lingered.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Wayne—”

“Oh, please, call me Bruce. If I may call you Clark?”

Clark smiled, hearing his name in Bruce’s voice. “Clark is fine.”

Bruce smiled back. “Clark it is. Please follow me, Alfred is just finishing up dinner now.”

As they walked, Clark tried his best to look around without gawking at the sheer size of the place. No wonder his knocking echoed—the size of the foyer itself could have hosted the gala from the week before.

The dining room he was led to was nice, but not showy, and attached to the kitchen that Clark would guess is actually used, based on the delicious smells. He could see a man that must be Alfred plating their dinner as he sat at the table.

“Can I get you anything to drink? A red to go with your steak, perhaps?”

“No thank you; water is perfect for me.”

Bruce, redirecting himself away from the display of expensive bottles, just nodded, and returned to the table with water glasses for each of them before joining Clark.

“Do you conduct business over dinner often?” Clark asked after the dishes are served—steaks with some fancy mushroom sauce, mashed potato, and asparagus.

“Only in good company,” Bruce replied before taking a bite.

“Quite the compliment from one short conversation.”

Bruce smiled again, and it’s such a different smile than the ones from the gala. Every moment they shared that night felt like snapshots Clark could expect on the front cover of a tabloid magazine. A smile for the public, even as their conversation was mostly private. This smile was intended for Clark and only Clark.

“Our conversation was brief, though I have it on good authority you’re a man with the right ideas who asks the right questions. I did complain to Lucius for hogging your attention the rest of the evening, though I do believe the fault is mine.”

“We did talk for longer than expected. The sheer scope of your charity work is incredible, and hearing about how everything works together to solve Gotham’s problems is very methodical. The reason I sent the interview request was to detail how your holistic, ground-up approach could be used as a ‘playbook’ for other cities to improve their own social programs.”

“I’ll answer every question you might have, but I’m sure you know, what works for Gotham will not work everywhere else.”

“Oh, of course. If for no other reason besides the lack of a privately funded, independently managed trust. The government could never do what you do, even with double the money. For how many programs the Wayne Foundation oversees, I’m surprised at how little the bureaucracy of management slows you down. It’s impressive.”

Bruce smiled again, meeting his eyes. “Clark, I must agree with Lucius. You’re certainly well informed.”

Clark smiled back.

— — —

The two chatted between bites of their dinner. Despite its wonderful taste, it was mostly cold by the time Clark finished his meal, as so much of their time had been spent talking. The two shared a drink after—Bruce offered again, and Clark wanted their conversation to continue, so there they were, with an open bottle of wine that Clark pointedly did not consider the price of.

For all the airheaded act Bruce Wayne employed while in the public eye, the Bruce that Clark spent the evening with was basically a separate man entirely. Not to say there wasn’t lingering looks or occasional innuendo, but they were done for Clark’s sake, not for gossipmongers listening in. Clark’s suspicion had also been confirmed: behind closed doors, Bruce Wayne held much more depth than he revealed otherwise. It was refreshing. It was attractive.

As Clark reviewed his notes, looking for a topic that hadn’t naturally come up in their conversation, he did point out the difference, offhandedly. “This whole night has been wonderful, really getting into the weeds of your work. It does make me wonder why you were so quick to end our original conversation. Lucius was great, but you clearly know all the answers.”

Bruce’s smile changed again—not the sweet, charming things he’d been giving Clark all night, but more thoughtful, perhaps. “Off the record, if you don’t mind, but Bruce Wayne has to be quite a few different people. You may be surprised at the advantages earned by being rich and unassuming. That is the Bruce that Gotham needs to host charity events. Most people are content to believe that my job ends there.”

“So why agree to this conversation tonight?”

“Image. I’ve read your work, and not just the article about the gala; you’ve got substance. You seem unlikely to write an article about ‘Bruce Wayne and his charity.’ An article about the various expenditures of the Wayne Foundation and its impact on the welfare of Gotham’s residents is a little dull for the folks clicking for gossip, right? They’ll get bored and stop reading before they change their perspective.”

“I… yeah, actually. That’s dead on. Still, it makes me feel like I’m in on some sort of secret now.”

“Ah yes, the secret identity of Bruce Wayne: a second, more competent Bruce Wayne.”

A rough tumble of laughter freed itself from Clark’s chest, genuine and unexpected. Bruce laughed along with him, and Clark felt, for a moment, like he was here chatting with an old friend. Every part of him wanted this moment to last forever.

When the laughter subsided, it was Bruce who spoke next. “Still, I do what I can. For Gotham, of course.”

“I understand what you mean. Journalism is important, of course, but ultimately it’s an appeal to others to care about what’s important. It just feels like there’s something more I can do.”

“Not without superpowers at least. And a silly costume.”

Clark laughed nervously. “I guess journalism it is.”

“And philanthropy is where I must draw my line. I’d try to join Team Batman, but I do believe we’ve already discussed my evening schedule conflicts.”

“We have,” Clark agreed, ears burning. “And will you be occupied tonight?”

Bruce looked him over once. “Well, Clark, that depends on you.”

Against Clark’s better judgement, he kissed him.

Chapter Text

This was not how Clark expected his night to go. That might be stupid, but it was honest. Clark didn’t do this type of thing. Yet there he was, making out with the Prince of Gotham, backed against the dining room table, thinking about how bad of an idea it is.

But then Bruce does something with his tongue that makes Clark’s knees go weak, drawing out a low moan. He’d have half a mind to be embarrassed about if Bruce wasn’t so clearly pleased with it, smiling against Clark’s lips.

Somehow, Clark ended up with his ass on the table, and Bruce standing between his thighs, pressed against Clark. He thought Bruce must have lifted him, which is no small feat, but he’s so lost in the press of Bruce against him, in Bruce’s rough hands mapping the muscles hiding under Clark’s suit, in his tongue, good lord.

It wasn’t until Bruce’s hand landed on the buckle on Clark’s belt that he realized he needed to decide what exactly he wanted from this. Bruce pulled back then, breaths ghosting over Clark’s mouth.

“May I?”

Clark looked over Bruce’s face, a breath away from his. His lips were slick with spit, and his cheeks looked flushed. The steely blue of his eyes were dark with want.

As much as Clark wanted it too, he had indulged in his desire perhaps more than he should have already.

“I— I don’t think—” Clark started, but Bruce gets the idea without Clark needing to put a whole sentence together.

He let go of Clark’s belt, but didn’t move away yet, hand sliding instead over Clark’s abs. He regarded Clark’s face, looking pleased, in that same way he did at the gala: that wanted look Clark only sees as Superman. It makes him want to squirm, face burning under the intensity of his gaze.

“So professional,” Bruce said eventually, before planting one more kiss on the corner of Clark’s mouth. He stepped back, extending a calloused hand to Clark like he’d need help to slide off the table, which Clark took for some reason. “Remind me to invite you off the record next time.”

With a nervous laugh, Clark adjusted his clothes, hoping to look less disheveled as he steps away to a comfortable few steps away from Bruce. “I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time already.” Clark tried to keep his voice light, joking, but he knew it hadn’t landed.

“I’m not sure I could get enough of you, but I’d love for you to let me try.”

Clark could hear the honesty in the unwavering beat of Bruce’s steady heart. He could feel his own heart beating in his throat. He wondered if this was real. Knowing that was too stupid to speak out loud, he asked the other question on his mind. “Is this a good idea?”

The playboy expression returned, easy as breathing. “Bruce Wayne isn’t beholden to good ideas.”

Clark sighed, discards his better judgement for the second time that night, and kisses him again.

— — —

“I did not hook up with him!” Clark insisted for the third time Thursday morning.

Lois, for her part, was past the point of arguing, and gave him a knowing look that says I don’t believe you in the slightest.

She’d clocked him when he came in that morning. Apparently the lack of a text about how the interview went the night before and a noticeably good mood in the morning meant he’d been ravished by Bruce Wayne into the early hours, which is not what happened.

Of course, the fact that she pulled back his collar to “inspect for damage” and found exactly what she was looking for only added fuel to her fire, but his constant insistence was bringing her insistence down, presumably until she reupped her caffeine level at lunchtime.

Clark was as honest about their evening as his midwestern sensibilities allowed.

“I didn’t hook up with him. I kissed him! Sure, a few times, but I didn’t let it go any further than that.”

Lois then looked pointedly at the spot on his neck she knew the love bite was hiding, before looking back at Clark’s face.

“Okay, we got a little carried away,” Clark admitted, remembering the burning heat of Bruce’s mouth, the slight scrape of teeth, the flat of his tongue licking over the purple spot blooming at his collar.

Clark cursed the morning’s overcast weather. If it were sunny out, the evidence would have been gone by now, certainly.

“But you didn’t hook up with him,” Lois deadpanned.

“I didn’t! I swear. He was actually quite the gentleman about it.” And he was. The second time Clark had kissed him, Bruce seemed to savor the connection, kissing back slow, sweet. Didn’t push for more, just enjoyed it. When his lips trailed away from Clark’s mouth and down his neck, Clark just tilted his head away, melting into the moment.

He’d even asked before leaving the mark, a breath of a question repeated. “May I? Right here—” his nose brushed against his skin and Clark tried not to shiver, “—under the collar; I’m sure you’ve got work tomorrow, Mr. Professional.”

Clark hoped Lois doesn’t notice his ears reddening as he remembers how desperate his reply sounded, “Yes, please, yes,”

“Okay, Smallville. Bruce Wayne invites you to dinner, and you keep it PG. Might be the first time in history, but then again it’s rarely news who Bruce Wayne doesn’t sleep with.”

“No, remember that one time? The heiress from—”

“Oh I do! The one whose family wanted to stop trading with the US afterwards—”

“Yes! It took months to smooth that over, that was a good one.”

“Not if you worked in the pistachio industry.”

The two shared a good laugh, and Clark turned back towards his work, but Lois wasn’t done yet. “I know you’re smart, but I do want to remind you to not get too swept off your feet. Just because he’s famous enough that his name can be used as a verb doesn’t mean he‘s not just some guy.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Lois raised an eyebrow.

“He said he wanted to invite me back ‘off the record’ next time. And gave me his number.”

“Holy shit Smallville. If that were me I’d have told everyone by now. I wouldn’t get a single word written today, just spend the whole day bragging about it.”

“Right, but you also wouldn’t have hooked up with him.”

Lois’s face gave her away, even as she replied, “Who’s to say?”

“Would you agree to the second date?”

She regarded him for a moment. “Are you asking what you should do?”

Clark half-shrugged, not wanting to admit it.

“I can’t, in good conscience, tell you not to get laid by Bruce fucking Wayne. But I do want to remind you not to get too attached. His name is basically a synonym for casual sex.”

“Isn’t ‘Bruce Wayne-ing’ to show up late and leave early without a goodbye?”

“Yes, but especially when you leave with someone on your arm.”

“Ah, how could I forget.”

The following bout of laughter reminded Clark why their friendship survived their breakup.

“Seriously though, just don’t hurt yourself, ok?”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Now get yourself a piece of that ass because we all know you need it.”

Clark just rolled his eyes, and turned his chair back towards his desk. Article first.

— — —

Clark spent much of the next week working on the article. He’d had a draft by the end of the week, but felt it was missing without testimony from people whose lives had been improved. While there was no shortage of individuals impacted by Bruce Wayne’s charity, finding specific people willing to discuss their circumstances with Clark was a harder challenge.

Clark rose to the challenge, of course. The resulting interviews did give Clark a nice selection: a student who went to college on the Wayne Foundation Scholarship Fund and was now an engineer, a family who adopted a child from Wayne’s existing orphanage, and a woman whose medical debt had been bought and forgiven.

The third woman’s story had been particularly interesting. Yvonne was a teacher who nearly lost everything due to the cost of her chemotherapy. If her debt hadn’t been bought by the Wayne Foundation, she’d have lost her home, putting her, her wife, and their children at risk. Thankfully, Yvonne survived her treatment, her debts were forgiven by the Wayne Foundation, and she was able to return to work in education, now promoted to superintendent of her school department.

Besides her endless gratitude for the Foundation, she really impressed upon Clark how much she’s been inspired to give back to Gotham in her own way: working at a soup kitchen downtown, and donating when she can. She spoke about the importance of paying it forward, now that she was in the position to do so.

It was Yvonne that Clark was thinking of as he completed his article. Every person in a dire circumstance like hers that could be saved from homelessness with the right social support.

(Of course, it would be easier to tear the whole system down, but that Clark Kent op-ed would be unpublishable at the Planet.)

((And Superman couldn’t do it either without declaring war on the American government, so Clark just submits the Wayne Foundation article to Perry for publication and hopes better days are ahead.))

He’d stayed late on Wednesday to finish it, and was looking forward to spending the rest of his week looking busy and doing absolutely nothing, which he was only 90 minutes or so into by the time his phone buzzed Thursday morning.

Bruce Wayne: I liked your article. Nice to hear updates about scholarship recipients and orphan adoptions.

Clark smiled, as he read the text.

Not the cancer survivor, though?

Kidding. I’m glad you liked it

Bruce Wayne: I had selected Daphne for the scholarship, and I’ve met all the kids at the orphanage. I can’t say I’d heard Yvonne’s particular story before.

Bruce Wayne: Though I have asked my assistant to send her a gift basket. A little something to thank her for doing her part.

The two continued texting during the day. Most of their text exchange until now had been about the article—how it was coming along, additional questions Clark had, or details he wanted to clarify—but now they were just chatting absently about their weeks and plans for the weekend, which Clark had none.

Bruce Wayne: So you’re free on Saturday? I’ve been hoping to find a plus one for a cocktail party.

I don’t believe that you struggle to find a plus one anywhere

Bruce Wayne: You caught me. I was hoping it would be you.

So you waited til Thursday to ask?

What if I had plans?

Bruce Wayne: And distract you from your article? I figured I’d let you finish it first and hope you were too busy to make plans.

That text made Clark smile. Bruce was surprisingly thoughtful.

Fair enough

Sure, I’ll go

Chapter Text

In a word, Clark felt… underdressed. Technically, his tie meant he was dressed more formally than nearly all of the men, who wore crisp polos and nice blazers and one man was wearing shorts, but Clark could tell the way the clothes fit everyone that they were nicer than anything Clark even owned. In his nicest—and most seasonally appropriate, unlike his reliable tweed—suit, he still felt inadequate.

Of course, Bruce was there, his mauve suit and pink floral button-up perfectly fit to his broad frame. (He had three buttons undone, revealing a pale slice of skin for Clark to tactfully avoid looking at.) Clark was thankful to have him at his side the whole time, making it remarkably easy. He chatted easily, and seemed to know everyone. Clark felt lucky when he recognized someone, usually from the news or politics.

The party was to celebrate the engagement of a young Gotham socialite, Alice, to Charlie, the son of another elite Gotham family. Naturally, Bruce Wayne was expected to be there, and while he’d never know from his date’s expression that Bruce wasn’t truly delighted to see everyone they chatted with, he’d told him outright before they arrived how much he hated these types of events.

It would have been easy to point out how poor Bruce Wayne’s life was so hard going to fancy parties with other rich people, but Clark had begun to understand the utility of each of Bruce’s masks. Different tools, used for different types of leverage.

He wondered, distantly, how many of Bruce Wayne’s dates in the past have been in on the artifice.

So there he was, shaking hands with people whose watches could be pawned for enough to pay a whole month’s rent. Smiling and nodding, just as Bruce had recommended.

“These people love to talk. You can make it through a whole conversation without saying a word and they’d go about their days thinking about how lovely you are,” he’d told him in the elevator up to the party while he fixed Clark’s tie for him.

Clark ignored how his tie was fine before. Maybe a little crooked, but certainly not bad enough for Bruce to re-do the whole thing, standing entirely too close. Bruce’s breath was ghosting the skin of his neck. Clark took great interest in the elevator’s light fixture.

“So don’t talk?”

“Smile and nod, mostly. Though I’m sure people will ask who you are and how we met.”

Of course, when an older woman extended her hand and asked “And you are…?,” Clark's usual script took over before he could think better.

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” He said, shaking her hand much more firmly than she was expecting, her hand wilting in his.

Bruce just laughed like he’d just told a wonderful joke, taking the woman’s still extended hand and bringing it to his lips with his usual charm. “Clark’s a journalist, Beatrice, so do ignore his enduring professionalism. He’s rather used to attending these events as the press.”

‘Beatrice’ looked over Clark, appraising the cut of his suit, the slouch in his shoulders, and the arm Bruce wrapped possessively around him. “You are off the clock today, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m here with Bruce on my day off.”

“Good! I’d hate to find any gossip from tonight on the front page.” She let out a shrill laugh at her own joke, and Bruce laughed along easily. Clark joined in out of impulse and perhaps self-preservation.

“And you two met professionally, then?”

Clark looked at Bruce, unsure of how much detail is appropriate to share, but Bruce was already answering. “For Clark, at least—he was covering the Wayne Foundation Gala for the Daily Planet. Thank you again for your contribution, Bea.”

“Oh, always, Brucie, it’s my pleasure, but this is a much better find than a few donations, no?” she asked, gesturing to Clark but addressing Bruce.

Bruce smiled at her, a tighter smile than he’s been dishing out that evening. “Well, depends who you ask, I suppose—”

“May I ask what attracted you to him?” Beatrice asked, clearly unaware of the effect of her previous comment.

Bruce took a sip of his drink before he answered, giving himself a moment to look at Clark and Clark a moment to remember their first conversation about Clark’s suit.

“His eyes,” Bruce answered, surprising Clark. He was telling the truth, too. “They’re just so blue,” he continued, and Clark heard the waver in his usually steady heartbeat to indicate that part was untrue.

Huh. Clark’s eyes had been what Bruce had specifically been attracted to, but not just for something as superficial as their color. Blending the truth with the airheaded fabrications that Bruce Wayne maintains.

“And you?” Beatrice asked, turning the question onto Clark.

“His heart,” Clark answered without thinking. “I mean, the impact of his charity work was really where it started,” he clarified, turning to look at Bruce, who seemed to be watching him with a practiced neutrality, “but I just really admire everything he does for his city. How much care he has for its people, at every level.”

Beatrice just hummed, looking them over one more time, before nodding. “Well. You certainly make a handsome couple.” And just like that, their conversation was over, Beatrice striding off to ask other people invasive questions.

Clark breathed out a relieved sigh as soon as she was out of earshot. “Gosh, she was…”

“Nosy?”

“I was going to say ‘spirited,’ but I don’t disagree.”

“If the first word you reach for to describe Beatrice is ‘spirited,’ then you’re already doing great at the whole society thing.”

Clark laughed softly, appreciating the little moment they had found alone at the party. Bruce reached a hand up to adjust Clark’s collar. Clark tried not to swoon at the way Bruce was looking at him.

After a moment, he heard a quiet sigh slip out of Bruce’s lips. “We should probably congratulate the happy couple.” Clark can tell by the tone that Bruce was saying more than the words he’d spoken, but Clark finds himself lost for the second meaning.

Clark let himself be led through the crowd, just as Bruce led him to Lucius the night of the gala. It’s been all of two weeks since then, since he met Bruce Wayne, and this action, strange and intimate, felt entirely different now.

It had felt laughable, almost. Absurd. Unnecessary. And not for lack of attraction—Clark was already warming up to Wayne, peeking through the curtain of his hidden depth. But in the last two weeks, Bruce had wormed his way into Clark’s heart enough that the hand at his back, the steady pressure leading him through the crowd, was a touch Clark enjoyed enough he would be embarrassed to admit it.

Two weeks. A brief exchange, a dinner date, and some casual texting, and yet, Bruce Wayne had become more than a name that turned heads or increased clicks on an article’s webpage. Bruce Wayne became more than just the Prince of Gotham, ‘sexiest man alive’ twice in the last decade, airheaded billionaire playboy. He’d become someone that Clark wanted. Badly.

Suddenly, Clark came around on what Bruce hadn’t said a moment ago. ‘We should congratulate the happy couple, so then we can leave.’

By the time they found Alice and Charlie, Clark felt his skin burning, hot under his collar.

He let Bruce do the talking, and frankly, was barely listening. The usual niceties. A personal touch about Alice’s career and a comment about Charlie’s grandfather’s health. Well wishes, and an immediate pit stop with Alice’s mother standing nearby. A comment about wedding planning, and then they’re free.

Bruce didn’t even pretend he’s going anywhere but the door. No “what do you want to do,” “what do you think,” dance where you’re too shy to admit you want to leave. Just go. Bruce certainly had bigger ideas, and maybe he could feel the heat burning in Clark’s chest, daring to sink lower.

And then they were in the elevator, and then the door closed, and then… and then Clark felt strangely disappointed when Bruce wasn't on him immediately, standing close but not touching, leaning against the wall all casual like Clark wasn’t unravelling a little bit.

Clark didn’t even realize he’s staring until Bruce looked at him knowingly, eyebrow quirked. “What?”

Clark fumbled for words, unsure of how to phrase his feelings, desire tangling up the rationale in his brain. “I thought… maybe—”

“Don’t think,” Bruce said, standing up from his lean to his full height in front of Clark, tilting his face up slightly. “Just do.”

Clark wasted no time benching every ounce of logic and worry and practical concern, closing the space between their lips.

Bruce melted into him then, a low groan rumbling in his chest as one hand wrapped around Clark’s middle, slipped between his suit jacket and shirt while the other tangled into the curls at the back of Clark's head.

Clark lost himself in their kiss, lips moving together, chasing the faint taste of champagne on Bruce’s tongue. Thoughts only about the slow slide of Bruce’s tongue, the greedy breaths stolen as Bruce changed the tilt of their heads, the sound of the elevator pinging their arrival, the—wait!

Clark pulled away as the door began to slide open, and Bruce slowly untangled himself as well. As their attention turned towards the door, into the building’s lobby, it became abundantly clear that they’ve got an audience. One with cameras, looking for a juicy photo to sell to tabloids.

Paparazzi. Wonderful.

Bruce just ran a rough hand through his hair, extended the other to Clark, and led him wordlessly out of the building, where the valet fetches his car. Clark can still hear the camera shutters moving, certainly taking more photos of the two of them while they waited.

“Sorry about them,” Bruce said, perhaps sensing Clark’s unease.

Clark shook out his shoulders, trying to let the feeling of being watched roll off him. “They make my skin crawl a bit, you know?”

“Do I?” Bruce replied with a knowing smile that Clark was so charmed by, he took the moment to mentally catalogue it: the purse in his lips, the slope of his brow, the way those dark eyes felt upon him.

“It’s not just that they’re invasive—”

“Let me guess, it’s about journalistic integrity?”

Clark opened his mouth to reply, before shutting it again, cheeks heating once again. He had the good sense to be embarrassed about finding Bruce’s flashes of perceptive wit so attractive.

Bruce continued. “Am I right? I bet you’re completely opposed to paparazzi since their livelihood is based on breaking the exact ethics you try so hard to uphold in your own work.”

“I… yeah. Spot on.” Clark felt like he should know better than to be impressed. Of course Bruce was so discerning he’d be able to nail down Clark’s exact perspective on a given topic. Still, it made Clark feel seen, and perhaps even a little exposed. What else might Bruce be able to discern about Clark? It’s not like he was short on secrets.

For the first time, Clark worries about the implications of dating Bruce. Were they dating? Did Bruce Wayne date? It certainly seemed like they were dating, but they hadn’t really talked about it. They should talk about it.

But then he looks at Bruce tipping the valet driver before opening the passenger door for him, and Clark remembers where they left off in the elevator—what comes next. The implications can wait. So can a conversation. Clark had other plans.

Bruce’s hand on his thigh on the drive back to the manor seemed in agreement. His whole body warmed, and Clark resorted to manual breathing to keep his head straight.

It was meditative, really, focusing his breathing the whole drive to the manor, from the driveway to the front door, and until it was unlocked, forcing himself to slow down, not jump the gun, not get ahead of the evening.

Of course, as the door clicked shut behind the pair of them, Clark was done thinking, and ready to do, and he started by backing Bruce up against his own front door, picking up right where they left off in the elevator as their lips met once again.

He felt Bruce smiling against him, his hands on his hips, pulling their bodies flush together—Bruce against the door, Clark against Bruce. Clark could feel that Bruce was at least half-hard, knowledge that went right to Clark’s own dick. Bruce moved their hips together, drawing groans out of both of them.

“Bruce… gosh,” Clark mumbled, pulling away for a moment, only to see that his necktie had been undone while they’d been kissing. He looked down at the two untied ends, still hanging on his chest, and to Bruce’s clever hands, which were halfway down the row of buttons. Clark hadn’t felt any of that.

“What?” Bruce asked, seeing Clark’s confusion.

“How did you do that? It feels like one of those magic shows where they take your watch off.”

Bruce just laughed, undoing the final button so he can untuck Clark’s undershirt, running a hand over his bare abdomen. “I’m hoping to take a lot more than your watch off.”

The words made Clark’s cheeks burn and his brain shut off. If he were still thinking, he might have realized that this was not the first time that Bruce had snuck himself past Clark’s super senses. He might have wondered why a normal man like Bruce might have that particular skill. He might have gotten ahead of the realization that was sure to follow.

But Clark was not thinking, really. He was lost in the heat of the moment, of Bruce’s touch, of his own hands slipping down to grab Bruce’s ass. Briefly, he did think, and he considered what sort of workout routine Bruce had for an ass like this, but then he wasn’t thinking once again, and wouldn’t be for another good while.

Chapter Text

It had felt like a small miracle to Clark that they’d even found Bruce’s bedroom. By the time they arrived, Clark’s jacket had been draped over a bannister, and somehow, his dress shirt had been removed but not his tie, still draped around his neck. Bruce was handling him with it, pulling him along the halls of the manor until they came upon the room he was looking for.

Bruce’s room was dark. Heavy curtains were pulled closed against the windows, blocking out any light from the sun or the city. Still, the room itself was sleek and modern. The colorful suit Bruce was still wearing looked out of place. Clark busied himself with removing it.

The jacket slipped off easily, but Clark pulled back a bit and took his time with the buttons. He wanted to see Bruce, the shape of him. With a bit of imagination, one could picture the look of him out of his suits—his build, the swell of his arms, the angles of his muscled torso—but Clark wanted to see it.

Bruce, however, seemed impatient. He’d tried kissing Clark’s neck instead when Clark’s mouth pulled away, but he seemed too keyed up for the slow, deliberate moment Clark wanted.

“Sit,” Clark said, entirely unprepared for the command in his own voice. Being bossy in the bedroom was not a usual behavior for him, but Bruce obliged, eyes dark as he sat on the bed.

Clark returned to the buttons, the stripe of visible skin widening with every button until they were all undone, Bruce shrugging it off his shoulders.

What Clark found underneath was breathtaking. Bruce’s physique was incredible—wide shoulders, broad chest, thick arms, all tightly corded with muscle, and scarred beyond imagination. Jagged white lines of scar tissue marked his whole torso.

“Extreme sports,” Bruce whispered, still looking up at Clark from the bed, answering fewer questions than it inspired, even if Clark hadn’t known he was lying. Clark asked none of the questions on his mind, including the most prevalent ‘which sports could even cause that kind of injury?’

A quick x-ray showed the damage certainly wasn’t just cosmetic either; he could see a whole network of old breaks spiderwebbing Bruce’s bones. What on Earth could the Prince of Gotham get up to with damage like that?

Wordlessly, Clark guided Bruce onto his back, kneeling over his hips. He wanted to get lost exploring every pale line, like a fractal on Bruce’s skin. Instead, he traced gently along a jagged line of shiny skin along his ribs—freshly healed, still pinkish. There was a short row of them, and Clark wanted to kiss them, run his tongue along them, learn the story behind their injury.

Under his touch, Bruce shivered, still watching with those dark eyes. Clark could feel his need beneath him, hips lifting to find friction. “Fuck, Clark…”

He kisses him then, trailing his hands down Bruce’s skin, feeling the faint lines of his scars as his hands move past his navel, past the soft patch of hair, and finds the belt buckle. He pulls his lips away just an inch, “May I?”

Bruce’s hips bucked up again, searching for Clark, “Yes, Clark, please.”

With a smile, Clark set to work.

— — —

Clinging to the bliss of their evening, Clark laid with Bruce in his arms, both spent. Bruce was asleep, deeply, in a way that made Clark preen and also worry. They’d certainly entertained one another, but the dead sleep he’d fallen into seemed heavier than their activity would warrant.

Clark tried not to judge. He’s heard enough about Lois’s bouts of insomnia to understand the impacts on missing sleep, even if his Kryptonian biology worked a little differently.

Plus, while Bruce slept, Clark had the chance to mentally map the scars across his chest.

His focus naturally went back to the freshly healed ones across his ribs, the new skin catching the light faintly. There were four of them in total, a complete row of three trailing along his side and another smaller one closer to the front of his hip. Their jagged irregularities made them look a little like tiger stripes—

Clark sucked in a breath. He’d barely seen Batman’s wounds after their arms deal bust last month, but that was the exact way he’d imagined the lacerations on his side would heal. Certainly not, Clark thought, eyes scanning the rest of the scars for evidence otherwise.

But then he saw a scar that was almost certainly a bullet graze on the inside of his arm, the stab wound scars along his abdomen, and healed breaks in his hand, his wrist. The same injuries he’s seen the Bat take, and keep going.

Not to mention the way he’d snuck up on Clark the first time they’d met—something that should be nearly impossible with his super senses. The same with his tie from earlier in the night, even if Clark had been a bit distracted.

Certainly not…

Right?

Chapter Text

Ping!

Clark ignored the text as he continued poking around on his laptop. The only people that text him are in the room with him right now, and Bruce, whom he hasn’t texted back yet.

He’s spent hours researching the possibility that Bruce Wayne and Batman are the same person, some of which the clock at the Planet. Technically, he’s been looking for any evidence against his theory, trying to eliminate it from the realm of possibility. Unfortunately, nothing he has found so far disproves it.

It’s definitely the most time he has spent on non-work projects while at work, but 3PM felt like a natural stopping point on the article he was working on. He could look busy doing other research til it’s time to go home. Especially since he gets his best investigation done at this very desk, so he might as well have kept looking for leads.

So far, there’s no absolute evidence against it. No image of Batman rescuing Bruce Wayne from muggers or paparazzi or the mob, no confirmed Batman sightings while Bruce Wayne was documented in another part of the city, no convenient alibi.

There were a few close calls. An event last year that was commandeered by the Joker, but Batman stopped him. Bruce Wayne was in attendance, but there’s no evidence of him in the news coverage after the interruption or cell phone videos recorded by the attendees. Could he have been there, just out of frame? Could he have left with another beautiful person for other reasons? There are other conclusions.

Even then, Clark struggled to reconcile the possibility that Bruce Wayne and Batman could possibly be the same person. Even without knowing each on a personal level, the two couldn’t be more different. Bruce was suave and charismatic, and Batman was stoic and gruff and cold. Batman sometimes made it whole nights not speaking a word, just grunting and scowling at Clark. Though suddenly, Clark remembered Bruce’s advice from the elevator ride up: “you can make it through a whole conversation without saying a word.” Maybe the two were more similar than he’d noticed.

Still, Clark thought back to the jagged, striped scars along his ribcage, remembered the sharp metallic smell of Batman’s blood when he’d been hit by the alien weapon that injured him. It had torn through his suit, though there was so much blood it was hard to see exactly how the skin was damaged, even if Clark himself helped staunch the bleeding.

“Earth to Smallville?” Lois asked, bringing Clark back to the present.

“What’s up?”

“Just making sure you’re still alive. Looked like your brain left the country and didn’t bring the rest of you.”

Clark smiled, shaking his head. “Yeah, just stuck on something.”

“Anything I can help with?”

He considered it for a moment. There could be some angle he’s missed, some digital rock unturned, and Lois would be the exact help he needed to find it. But telling her might mean turning over Batman’s secret identity to another person. He trusts Lois, with his own identity, with everything, but he knows Batman well enough. “I don’t think so.”

Her eyes narrowed at him for a moment, perhaps bristling that Clark doubted her abilities or willingness to help, before dropping the issue. “If you say so. Side project?” she asked, correctly guessing the issue was with Clark’s ‘other job.’

“Side project.”

“Well, if your side project can wait, Jimmy and I were thinking movie night? He’s been waiting to see this low-budget Saw knockoff.”

“Lower budget than the original Saw?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Well, as fun as that sounds, I do think my night is occupied already.”

Lois raises an eyebrow. “Spending it with your man again.”

As Clark went to answer, he realized he wasn’t sure. He needed to see Batman. He might see Bruce incidentally, but even he wasn’t sure yet. He deflected instead of risking a lie. “I haven’t texted him since Saturday night.”

“What? Why?”

“I— Look, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated? Are you ghosting Bruce Wayne?” she whisper-shouted. The fact that Clark was seeing Bruce was hardly a secret around the office after the paparazzi photos of them stepping out of the elevator went around. It didn’t help that Clark looked a bit debauched—hair mussed, tie askew. So much for Bruce retying it earlier.

Still, he refused to answer Cat and Jimmy’s questions, though Cat was up in arms when she put the pieces together that her illness had lined up the dominoes for Clark.

“I’m not ghosting Bruce Wayne,” Clark whisper-shouted in return.

“You hooked up with him, and then you haven’t texted him back? Clark.”

“It’s complicated!”

Lois regarded him again, but decided again not to pick this battle. “Okay Avril, it’s complicated. But don’t be stupid, okay? How many people do you think get a second date with him?”

“Fine, fine! I’ll text him,” Clark ceded, pulling out his phone. Bruce had sent him all of three texts since they hooked up. The first two were sent on Sunday morning:

Bruce Wayne: Had fun last night. You would have been welcome to stay for breakfast, but I hope you made it back to Metropolis safely. Maybe next weekend I can take you somewhere with fewer cameras?

Bruce Wayne: Though admittedly you do look great in this one [screenshot of image from gothamgossip.com]

The third text was sent thirteen minutes ago.

Bruce Wayne: How’s your week going?

Sighing, Clark sent a reply.

Good! Busy. I’ve been working on some research

Bruce, the bastard, replies almost immediately.

New piece you’re writing?

Yes and no

Mostly following leads to see where they go

How about your week?

Bruce Wayne: Boring. Mostly paperwork.

Bruce Wayne: I might be in Metropolis sometime later this week, though. If you’ve got the time, I’d love to see you. Perhaps I could take you to dinner?

Clark felt his cheeks warm, slightly, and he had to remind himself that he had to sort out the Batman thing before he could continue seeing Bruce.

I don’t think I’ll have the time this week, but raincheck for later?

Bruce Wayne: I’ll hold you to it. :)

Huh. Maybe they’re not the same person. It was impossible to imagine Batman typing “:)” in any context. Clark made a mental note of it as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, returning to work.

— — —

The sky was dark over Gotham. Clark forced himself to wait for nightfall before flying over, even if he was itching to see Batman. He had to know. Internet spelunking could only go so far; he had to see the Bat for himself.

But suddenly, in Gotham airspace, high above the reach of the city lights, Clark was nervous. He was never nervous about visiting. It was usually a relief—the chance to be normal for a bit, all things considered. But Clark knew the stakes were higher tonight. He can never un-know Batman’s identity. What he was about to do will change their dynamic, permanently.

Taking a breath, Clark descended into the city. He was already in too deep.

He still took perhaps longer than usual to join Batman’s patrol once he’d heard the telltale whirring of the grapple gun.

The Bat, not turning, simply grunted to let Clark know he’d noticed his arrival.

“Hey,” Clark replied, voice smaller than he’d intended.

He joined Batman on the roof, trying to work up the nerve to do… something. Even now, it felt like a betrayal to peek under the cowl. If he was wrong, he’d still know more than he should. He could instead look at his body, note the bone calluses where old breaks have mended, compare them to Bruce’s. At least that wouldn’t accidentally reveal an identity Clark hadn’t already guessed.

It would be nothing. Just an x-ray focus of his eyes.

It would be that simple.

And yet, Clark couldn't do it.

“Come here to brood or did you want something?” Batman asked, apparently not patient enough for Clark’s crisis.

“What, afraid I’m stealing your thing for brooding on Gotham roofs?”

“It’s weird.”

Clark didn’t answer, instead considering the rough grumble of Batman’s voice. Could he be masking the smooth tones of Bruce Wayne’s?

After a moment, Batman turned away from the city below them, looking right at Clark. “Okay. What’s going on.”

Clark, taken aback by Batman’s directness, stumbles to find an answer. “I— I don’t…”

“If you’re here for help, then I’ll help, but if you’re just here to spiral I really have a patrol to finish.”

Clark again was wordless, not because of what Bru—Batman said, but because facing Clark, he’s got a perfect view of the only part of him that’s exposed by his suit: the lower half of his face.

And Clark Kent has been recently very acquainted with Bruce Wayne’s mouth. The curve of his lips, the fullness of them, the angle of his jaw… Oh… Oh no.

By the time that Clark came back to himself, Bruce had turned away, grappling to the next roof.

Oh no.

Chapter Text

Clark expects the next time he’d see Bruce would be the next time he sees Batman—he ended things with Bruce the day after he’d confirmed his identity. He’d done it over text, which he didn’t feel good about, but the distance between Gotham and Metropolis is just far enough to be unreasonable (at least for anyone without super-powered flight, a group which Clark at least pretends to belong in). He’d have called if they had ever once spoken on the phone, but that felt like a weird occasion for a first phone call. Ring ring! We should see other people.

So, Clark texted him yesterday morning.

Hey, I wanted to thank you for the time we’ve had, but I don’t think I’m able to continue seeing you. All the best x

Clark would have admitted that he felt sick about it for the whole day, at least if he was able to talk about it to anyone.

He did tell Lois that they’d broken up, though she could clearly tell she wasn’t getting the full story. He’d hear her stop typing occasionally, and look over to see her squinting at him like she was trying to deduce his relationship problems for him.

But he didn’t tell her why, or reveal Batman’s identity to her. He knew it would be a betrayal. He knew he’d already betrayed his trust.

But still he felt sick over distancing himself from Bruce. It was a choice he made to be as respectful as he could. Batman would respect it, even if Bruce Wayne’s ego would be bruised.

And that’s exactly it: Batman and Bruce Wayne still existed as separate people to Clark. He was as good as sure that they were the same man, but he can’t help it. Batman and Bruce Wayne were different people to him. To Clark. To Superman.

Wait.

If Clark had sorted out Batman’s identity, who’s to say that Bruce hadn’t figured out Clark’s? He knows how to make himself disappear—how the glasses and the slouch and his oversized suits smooth out the Kryptonian features. Hides his eyes, his build. But wasn’t Bruce Wayne the one who had singled Clark out of a crowd?

Who’s to say he didn’t see right through Clark’s disguise?

Then where would that leave them?

Unfortunately for Clark, that conclusion would have to wait, as somehow, walking through the bullpen along with one of their execs, was Bruce Wayne. Holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

Clark knocked over his chair from standing up so quickly. “Bruce—”

“Clark! Hi. These are for you,” he said, handing the bouquet out for Clark with a dazzling smile that makes Clark melt a little, begrudgingly.

“Bruce, what are you doing here?” he asked through his teeth, smiling tensely back. He could tell that all of his coworkers had stopped their work and were listening in.

“I’m headed into the shareholder meeting now, but I wanted to see you.”

“Shareholder meeting? Since when are you a shareholder for the Planet?”

“It’s a recent acquisition, but I did tell you I was going to be here later this week.”

“What are you doing here,” Clark asked again, lowering his voice for just Bruce.

“I got your text, but wanted to talk to you. Figured I’d drop in.”

This can’t be happening. Clark didn’t waste his breath by saying it, but it felt incredibly absurd. As absurd as Bruce’s initial compliment—the one that simultaneously insulted his suit. Maybe absurdity is the natural result of getting involved with Bruce Wayne.

“I can't do this right now, Bruce, I’m working.”

“Please, Clark, just hear me out—”

“Bruce. I’m at work.”

“Then come to my hotel room when you’re off tonight.”

Clark had a hundred reasons why that was a bad idea. Instead of naming any of them, he surprised himself by saying “Why don’t you come to my apartment instead?”

Bruce’s smile might have outshone the sun. “Deal. 5 o’clock?”

“5:15. The metro, and all that.”

“I’m there.”

Before he left for his meeting, he pressed a kiss onto Clark’s knuckles, and even Clark briefly forgot why he’d broken up with him.

As soon as he was gone, he became aware of the perfect silence that had fallen into the room, eyes turned to watch his exchange with Bruce. It doesn’t help that he falls over his still-sideways chair as he goes to sit back down. He was incredibly thankful for Perry’s harsh shout for everyone to get back to work, even with the glare pointed directly at him, flailing to get himself into his seat.

Once he was upright, seated, and pulled back up to his desk, Clark returned to his work. At least he tried to. Even if he wasn’t distracted by Bruce’s visit, he would be from his coworkers’ texts buzzing his phone, presumably looking for answers but not wanting to get yelled at again by chatting.

He still avoided picking up his phone until Perry had wandered off, but as soon as he reached into his pocket, someone reached for him, and before he knew it he’s being dragged by his lapel towards the bathrooms.

Lois, instead, dragged him into the nearby janitor’s closet, and had the door secured by a mop handle before he’d even caught up with the indignity of it. “What the— Is this necessary?”

“Talk, Smallville. The whole story.”

“I… I can’t, Lois. Really. I can’t. As much as I trust you, there’s other things that I just can’t—”

“He’s Batman?”

“I— wait, how’d you know?” Clark is so baffled that he doesn’t even think to deny it.

“I knew something was up with you after you said you two broke up. You didn’t look heartbroken enough about it, so I figured it was you who did it, and for a reason you couldn’t tell me, so it had to be your other suit.”

Clark was quiet for a moment as he followed her logic. “Why would I have been heartbroken about it? He’s a known playboy. I’m not even sure we were officially dating.”

“Clark,” she began, voice more caring than Clark was ready for, “you care too much not to take it seriously.”

Clark could only grumble in response.

“So he’s Batman!” Lois continued with an enthusiasm usually reserved for liberal parents whose kids were in the middle of coming out. “Tell me how that changes anything?”

“Of course it changes things, Lois, we’re basically coworkers.”

“Right, and you’d never date a coworker,” she deadpanned. “I bet HR would be a bitch about it too.”

Undeterred by Lois’s sensible sarcasm, Clark continued. “I felt unfair to date him without him knowing that I knew.”

“And you’re sure he doesn’t?”

“I— Actually, I’m not, but I’m trying to work that part out.”

“Would you feel slighted if you discovered he’s known the whole time?”

Clark thinks for a moment about the heat of Bruce Wayne’s gaze, the hunger behind it—the way people only ever look at Superman.

“No. But I’d be disappointed, though not for the reasons you might expect.”

“Well, the only way to know is if you ask him.”

“Then it’s a good thing I invited him over. Why would I invite him over?!”

Lois smiled at him warmly. “Because you care. And he cares. And you still care about him, even though you broke up with him. By the looks of it, he still cares about you, too. Sunflowers, though? You’re telling me you don’t think he knows?”

Clark sucked in a breath. Lois was right. Of course she was, but Clark was the one who had to deal with it. And he only had til the end of the day.

— — —

Sunflowers. By the time he was leaving the planet for the day, he was cursing the bouquet he brought carefully through the metro. They were a visible reminder of his frustration with Bruce, with the whole situation.

They were also an undeniably sweet gesture.

He’s still not sure what he’s going to say. He could tell him he knows he’s Batman. He could tell him he’s Superman. He could lie and say they lived too far, that Clark didn’t have time with work, that he was seeing someone else, anything.

Clark wished he could just lie and be done with it, but it wasn’t how he was raised. Not who he was.

On the metro home, his mind wandered. He let himself consider a future where he and Bruce were together, properly. No secret identities to balance, just a journalist and a philanthropist doing their best to help. If only it were that simple. It never could be.

Even when he gets home, he still doesn’t focus, or try to figure out what he’s going to say to Bruce. He sets the bouquet on the counter in the kitchen. He puts down his briefcase, switches his suit jacket for a cardigan, tidies up the place. He was working on locating a vase and a penny when the doorbell rings, and he forces himself to stop, take a breath. He can do this.

He opened the door.

He took off his glasses.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s reaction was immediate. The coy, hopeful smile was gone in a flash, replaced with wide-eyed surprise that Clark immediately felt reflected back.

He didn’t know!

“You didn’t know?!” Clark asked, literally dragging Bruce into his apartment before any of his neighbors happened to catch a glimpse of Superman.

“I…” Bruce started, bringing a hand up to Clark’s face. “I wasn’t sure.”

Clark took a breath before replying. “Some detective you are, Batman.”

Bruce just laughed, hand sliding down to Clark’s chest and head resting on his shoulder. A wave of relief crashes through Clark. They laughed together, and Clark let himself hope, at least for a moment, maybe they could work this out.

Bruce spoke again, after a moment, lifting his head to look at Clark. “I didn’t know. I was pretty sure, when I got your text after Superman was being weird, but I still wanted confirmation. That’s why I dropped in on you at work today.”

Clark tried not to be disappointed by that. “So not just because you wanted to see Clark again.”

“I always want to see Clark.”

He could tell there was honesty in Bruce’s flattery, and Clark tried not to be too keyed up about it, especially since Bruce’s hands were still on him. “So, what clued you in? My eyes? Don’t tell me you lied to Beatrice.”

Bruce laughed again at that, a puff of air against Clark’s skin. “Yes and no. Your eyes did feel… familiar, in a way I couldn’t name for a while. I’ll admit that was what initially drew me to you. It wasn’t til dinner that I had Superman suspicions.”

“Don’t tell me, it was your joke about super powers,” Clark reflected, a little embarrassed.

“Only partially. I did notice your reaction was stiff, but it was the hickey, actually. It took suspiciously long to leave a mark.”

If Clark was embarrassed before, he was mortified now, stepping away to hold Bruce at arms-length. “Wait, really?”

Bruce laughed. “Yes, Clark.”

“Geez. And you invited me to the party to keep testing your theory?”

“No, I invited you because I wanted you to be there with me. I feel like you keep missing that part.”

Clark, still not really understanding, just shook his head.

Bruce just took his hands in his, finding Clark’s glasses still clutched in one of them. “I like you, Clark,” he said, taking the glasses and replacing them on Clark’s face. “I like you because you’re smart and earnest and care about your work, and you didn’t accept the half of me the public expects. I wanted to get to know you—to be my whole self around you.”

Clark, still feeling the rush of being Superman and Clark simultaneously, knew exactly what Bruce was saying. “But you still weren’t Batman.”

Bruce nodded, slowly. “I needed to be sure. As honorable as you seemed to be, telling a member of the press Batman’s identity was still an ill-advised risk.”

“Well now you sound like Batman.”

And they were both laughing again. No wonder talking to Bruce felt like he was with an old friend.

“How about you? How did you figure it out?”

So Clark tells him: the scars, the little tells that he’d overlooked until then, the visit in Gotham earlier in the week.

“So, what now? Can we do this? Can Superman and Batman date each other?” Clark asked after a moment.

“Can you imagine?” Bruce asked, before lowering his voice to the usual Batman growl, “Here’s my boyfriend, Superman. The Joker would have a field day.”

“Right, yeah,” Clark breathed, trying to pretend like seeing Bruce Wayne use the Batman voice to describe him as his boyfriend wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever heard. He mentally filed the sound away for later.

“But Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent? Seems a bit early to say anything too certainly, but those two gentlemen might be able to make it work.”

“We’ve had two dates,” Clark said, remembering all the ways this was a bad idea.

“Well, if you count all the times you’ve joined my patrol, it’s more than that. I like your company.”

“Batman likes Superman’s company?”

“There’s also the distance,” Bruce deflected, pointing out the next flaw. “I doubt either of us are eager to relocate, and my whole life is Gotham.”

“I can fly. Maybe not as Clark Kent, but I visit your patrol often enough. We could make time.”

“We could.”

“We would have to be careful, of course. If either identity gets out, we’d both be at risk.”

“We’ll have contingencies, failsafes. Emergency plans in the event anything goes wrong. If we’re the only ones who have figured each other out so far, we’re doing something right.”

Clark grimaced. “Technically, Lois also figured it out.”

“Lois Lane figured out your identity?”

“No, actually, I’d told her when we were dating. She figured out yours.”

“What? How?”

Clark did his best to explain what Lois had told him: the vague breakup story, the deduction that Clark wasn’t telling for Superman reasons, and the presumably short list of people whose trust Superman would never betray.

“I probably should have denied it anyway, but I was so shocked she’d figured it out.”

Bruce just nodded. “Okay.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m concerned, but also a bit impressed. You trust her?”

“Implicitly.”

Bruce nodded again. “Okay. It’s a start.”

Clark nodded back, sighing some relief. He had been worried about Lois knowing. “Okay.”

“Well? Any other reason this would be a bad idea?”

Clark felt like he still had a thousand reasons. A thousand ways this could go wrong. Only one made him genuinely afraid to try. “What if this goes sideways? Clark and Bruce breaking up is one thing, but I don’t know if I can be Superman alone anymore.”

It looked like Bruce was about to respond, but paused, expression darkening. Perhaps he was also considering the implications of what they were considering. Inventorying all the good intentions they’d be laying down and where that road might wind up.

“This is still new, Bruce. We’d be better to get out now before we’re in too deep.”

They regarded each other then, and in that moment, Clark could see it: breaking up, remaining allies. Working together when needed, keeping each other company. Building something together. Saving their cities. Maybe the world, if the occasion arose. Collaborating as friends.

Never moving on because Clark was too sentimental. Slowly being eaten away by the possibility of what could have been, had they let themselves be greedy. Missing out on a lifetime of love because he was too afraid of what it would have led to.

“I’d hope we could work it out, even if it doesn’t end the way we hope it will,” Bruce answered after a moment.

Clark took a steadying breath, admitting something he’d rather ignore. “This is a bad idea, Bruce.”

With that, the dazzling smile returned. “Good thing Bruce Wayne isn’t beholden to good ideas. I say we try it.”

Clark tried not to get his hopes too high. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that I’ve got several hours to kill before I’m needed anywhere,” Bruce said, stepping very intentionally into Clark’s space, hands on the sides of his cardigan. Like after their second date, Bruce was letting Clark make the first move—set the pace.

Clark leaned in, slightly. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.”

“I can think of a few ways to spend it,” Clark said, smiling.

Bruce smiled back “Can you, now?”

Against Clark’s better judgement, he kissed him.