Archive of Our Own

Clark wasn't sure how he ended up in this situation.

Well, no, that wasn't exactly true. He certainly knew the exact series of events that had led to this studio, to this incredibly brightly lit stage, where the lights dug into his optic nerves like tiny nails. He was accustomed to the light, to the sun reflecting off of millions of panels of skyscraper glass, but this was on another level.

At first, it was ‘the Daily Planet is doing a TV show!’, which was, exciting, sure but not particularly pertinent. It was the kind of thing he heard about while he was making his coffee (and Lois's too, he had never truly escaped his intern days), then quickly forgot about. After all, it had nothing to do with him, right? Wrong, apparently. He had heard through the grapevine (espresso station) that they cycled through a bunch of ideas. At first it was supposed to be a political talk show, a la Stephen Colbert, then they decided there was too much competition, so they moved on to a relationship advice show where they would pit a couples counselor against a romance advice youtuber against a TV psychic. Lois had pitched it, because she wanted nothing more than to watch the world burn. They nixed that one too, in fear that it might get a little too heated, and moved on, eventually settling on something quaint and familiar: a baking show.

This, unfortunately, shared the same issues as their first choice; too much competition. Not only were there already more than enough baking shows, even leaving out competitions, like the Great British variety, they were also now competing with all the baking Youtubers, of which there were thousands.

They needed a draw.

Someone with enough publicity to rival established shows, who lived nearby enough that they wouldn't need to fly them out. Someone from a different field, to diversify their audience.

The Justice League didn't take commercial jobs (anymore, thanks Wally). That really narrowed it down. They had two options left: Lex Luthor or Bruce Wayne.

Which wasn't even two options, not really. Luthor, even discarding Clark's understanding of him as Superman, was not really known for ‘playing along’ with the press. His ego was just too large and too delicate and almost every public appearance was followed immediately with post after post of people complaining about his condescending tone. He wasn't a crowd favorite, to put it politely.

Bruce Wayne, on the other hand… A rich, ditzy playboy that managed to spin nearly every situation into some kind of innuendo? Who was so photogenic that any article about him didn't require any airbrushing or photo editing?

It was like he was tailor-made for this (or more likely, the show was tailor-made for them to invite him).

He had honestly assumed the show would flounder and fail when Wayne inevitably rejected the offer. Dumb as he may be, surely he was at least busy; Wayne Enterprises wasn't a small company. He went to a new gala practically every other night (an exaggeration but it might as well have been true when compared to the frequency at which Clark attended galas).

___________

One month earlier

The bullpen of the daily planet is busy and loud, but then again, when isn't it? Today, though, there’s a tension to the noise. To the way people walk, their postures so much straighter than they would usually bother to sit or stand. The hushed whispers that he tries hard (so hard) to ignore so they don't all bleed into his brain and distract him from the article about the most recent Livewire attack that he already made more than thirty grammar mistakes on. He stares at the red squiggly lines that are currently conquering his document and sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

Bruce Wayne is coming to the Daily Planet, and nobody seems to know why, including Perry.

Clark hates that he's anticipating it. The man is… Attractive, yes, but the two times that Clark spoke to him at a gala and the other three times that Clark had saved his life had made it clear that, bless his big, generous heart, he doesn't have more than two brain cells to rub together.

But he’s hot.

An opinion that most of his coworkers seem to share, judging by their heart rates (faster than usual) and the way they keep surreptitiously glancing up from their work. Nobody is getting anything done.

“Smallville,” Lois plants her hand on the pile of documents that Clark had been pretending to tidy to avoid the horribly typo-ridden rough draft on his computer. He looks up, lips quirked in his signature nervous smile, “I walk in after a brutal night of investigating, and what do I find out?” She grins, sharklike, and Clark leans back slightly, “Brucie Wayne himself is coming to the office.”

“Yup!” He squeezes out, an octave and a half too high. Shit.

“You excited?” Her eyes narrows and he leans back even further.

“I don't-I'm not sure what you're talking about,” He lies, making only slightly less than direct eye contact.

She scoffs, and shoves a stack of papers out of the way to make room for her to sit down on his desk. Clark does not bother to mention that her desk is no more than ten feet away, and sitting down in a chair would be more comfortable.

“Last time you came back from a gala where Brucie Bruce Wayne was present, you were floating around the office the whole day like he'd sucked your soul out,” she corners him against his chair, “Spill.”

Clark flushes, pointedly not remembering the warm, surprisingly muscular body that had stumbled into his arms, reeking of champagne and a heady cologne that almost certainly cost more than a month's pay. His fingers had barely glanced against the silky fabric of his suit jacket before the man recovered and stood back up, flashing an oil slick smile at Clark. He said something, certainly, definitely, but it was like mush in Clark's ears, all out of focus. He had smiled back, instinctively, but it was a sloppy, lopsided, infatuated smile, he just knew it.

For one terrifying second, Clark probably would have done absolutely anything Bruce Wayne asked him to. That would not be happening again. Especially considering his fledgling crush on Batman, who he respected and admired. His interest in Wayne was- it was superficial, the thrill of the moment.

“It- that was a mistake, I'm fine now,” Lois lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow, “I swear!”

“Really?” She glances, unconvinced, at Clark's screen before he can think to cover the evidence of his distraction, “I'm not sure I believe that.”

“I'm fine, Lois, really. It's not going to be an issue.”

Her smile softens into something more genuine, less Ace Reporter Lois Lane and more just Lois, “If you're sure. If you're not, though, I have a story I'm working on in Gotham that I can give to you. You and Wayne could just switch places.”

Clark's heart melts a little, “You would do that for me? You would- give up on a scoop, for-”

“Don't go soft on me now, Smallville. I have high expectations for you,” She shifts off the desk, back onto her favorite thrifted Dior heels that she got for less than ten dollars, Clark, “I'll work you like a dog in Gotham. I know you of all people could handle that.”

It’s a tempting offer. But no, Clark is strong. He can do this. Running away is not an option, and besides, Bruce Wayne wouldn't be in the company for more than fifteen minutes tops, what’s the worst that can happen?

Exactly thirty eight minutes later, standing in the middle of Perry's office with everyone's attention on him, Clark can answer that question.

Perry points at him with his pen, a little insultingly baffled, though Clark doesn't hold it against him, “And you want Clark to be your cohost? Clark Kent? The one standing there right now?”

Clark is very fastidiously avoiding the near predatory gaze of one Bruce Wayne, the man being spoken to, who for some reason sees fit to practically undress Clark with his eyes in front of all his coworkers-

He’s relaxed, casual, lounging on the aged leather sofa like it's his office and not Perry's, “Does the Daily Planet happen to employ another, very handsome, young man named Clark Kent?”

Perry sighs, and Clark knows that if Wayne wasn't here, he'd be shoving his entire face into his hands, “... No. This is the only Clark Kent.”

“Then, there you go,” Wayne shrugs, “Where do I sign?”

Clark raises his hand, shivering only a little as all the attention returned to him. You'd think he'd be more used to it by now, “I'm sorry, what… Exactly, is going on?”

“What's going on is that Mr. Wayne here agreed to do the show if, and only if, we make you the cohost.”

“Oh, okay,” Clark's brain catches up to him, “Wait, what? Me? On TV? No, no, absolutely not, I don't have that kinda charisma, I'm really just an average guy and-”

“An average guy doesn't have your proportions,” Wayne cuts in, smile curling in a way that should be illegal as he locks eyes with Clark, “or your face.”

Perry sighs again, louder this time, “That's what he says, Kent.”

Wayne nods proudly, “That's what I say. And it's not like you guys had decided on a cohost anyway, so what's the big deal?”

The big deal?! What's the big deal?!

“Mr. Wayne, Sir, I really-”

“Clark,” Perry stops him, “I'd like to talk to you in private for a moment. Mr Wayne and,” His eyes turn sharply towards his office door where no less than half the office is not-so-subtly peeking through, “everybody else, please leave my office for now.”

Everyone suspects the ‘please’ is to the benefit of one Bruce Wayne and were he not there it would've been something a lot more like ‘get the hell out of my office’ but they can only speculate.

“Clark, I know you don't want to do this-”

“Chief, with all due respect, which is so much respect, you are incredibly respectable,” Perry holds a hand up to cease his rambling and Clark gets to the point, “It's not about what I want, Sir, but what's even possible. I can't be on TV, that's just not what I do-”

“I understand, Clark, I really do. I wouldn't make you the cohost under normal circumstances. But these aren't normal circumstances.”

“Sir-”

“The company needs this show to be a success, a lot of money and time has already been invested into it,” Perry sighs and leans back, running a hand through his thinning hair, “I hate to put this on you, but this is coming from above. I'll be reducing your quota for articles, and you'll receive the full pay we initially intended to give to Wayne's cohost.”

“I- I have to do this if I want to stay on at the Daily Planet, don't I,” It isn't a question, but an understanding.

“I'm sorry, Clark.”

His brain is spinning at a millions miles per second. This is- He can salvage this, somehow, surely. The issue isn't about being on the show, really. The issue is about being on it as Clark Kent. The issue is the inherent contradiction between his Clark Kent persona and anything that even approached a TV personality. Superman is his TV personality, but, for obvious reasons, Clark can't be Superman on a Daily Planet sponsored baking show. So, somehow, he has to invent a version of himself that is TV ready but is decidedly not Superman and could not feasibly be connected to Superman.

An easy feat that he definitely does not hold a grudge against Bruce Wayne for. Definitely not.

How should he talk? What should he wear? What if he just quit his job?

No, he would not let that hot bastard win.

“It's okay, sir, I'm gonna- gonna go back to my desk if you don't mind.”

“Do that. You can sign the papers later today, when we're not making Wayne wait.”

Clark nods and races out of the office and doesn’t acknowledge Bruce Wayne standing a few feet away, hands in his suit pockets and wow that suit fits him really well- No, Clark, focus.

He sits back down at his desk, feeling that the world has materially changed in the last half hour.

God. He needs to talk to Lois. She's been on TV. She's not a super hero, but it's a start.

He spots her, coming out of the bathroom and walks over as quickly as he can without speedwalking. He gives up on not drawing attention, that's just about impossible right now.

“Lois, we need to talk,” he says and gently drags her away. Before he leaves, against his better judgement, he looks behind him and sure enough, Bruce Wayne is watching him, blue eyes searing into him, displeased. Clark feels his heart flutter in a way that isn't sensible and files this under ‘think about later’.

One minute later, he is in a broom closet with Lois because every single conference room in the building is full. Of course

“Wow, Clark. This is the closest we've been since you broke up with me,” Lois deadpans.

“Hey! We agreed that it was mutual!”

Lois hmms in a way that reminds him of Batman when he doesn't want to admit Clark is right. Not the only similarity between them, Clark realizes with the dawning horror that he has a Type. One that Bruce Wayne decidedly doesn't fit into so what the fuck.

“Anyway, that's not what this is about.”

“I'm guessing it's about the baking show that you're being sacrificed to Bruce Wayne to produce?”

“That's not- I wouldn't put it-” Lois raises both eyebrows this time so Clark knows it's serious, and he gives up immediately, “Yeah, I need help with that.”

“I can't believe Superman himself needs help from little old me-”

“Superman is exactly the problem, Lois! Superman is who I am on TV! Confident and easy to talk to and kind with good posture and-”

“Whoa- Hold on a second. Just-” Lois presses her face to her hand for a second before coming up and fixing Clark with a stare, “First of all, Clark Kent is easy to talk to and kind, those traits aren't unique to Superman. And I think you can straighten up that hunch a little bit without people thinking you're golden boy number one. In fact, I've thought that for a while. Doesn't it hurt to sit and stand like that all the time?”

“No,” Clark sheepishly looks away from Lois's all-seeing gaze, “Maybe a little bit.”

“I knew it. It's not like- Okay, protecting your superhero identity is important. Incredibly important. But people who see you aren't going to immediately assume you're Superman. Two completely different people can look very alike and, as a reporter, you and I both know perfectly well how powerful plausible deniability can be.”

“Uh-huh,” He had a sneaking suspicion that this would not be Batman's takeaway.

“No, listen to me, Clark. People don't recognize Tony Hawk without a-”

“Who is Tony Hawk?”

“Not important. What's important is that nobody's gonna recognize you as long as you aren't wearing your Superman suit during the show.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“I know you wouldn't. That's the whole point, Clark, you're just gonna have to… Be yourself.”

He stares at her. She stares at him. He wants to rip his hair out.

“Be yourself?! That's it?!” His voice is frenetic, almost shaking.

“Yep. Just take the confidence you have about saving the world and apply it to baking. In front of a bunch of cameras.”

“That's- That so doesn't help.”

“C'mon, I know Ma Kent taught you how to bake, I've tasted your peach crumble.”

“Lois,” She looks up at him, eyes oh-so-innocent, “you're doing this on purpose, aren't you.”

“Only a little. Besides, you haven't even talked about the main problem; Mr billionaire.”

“I-”

“But I think maybe that's something you want to discuss later? On a couch instead of shoved in a closet? Eating pizza, even?”

The hints could not be clearer. Clark sighs, “My place, tonight? I'll buy.”

“Of course you will. Now, I'm leaving first. You can cool down in here for a couple minutes,” and she opens the door and strides out, totally fearless.

This leaves Clark alone in the closet, wondering if it's a terrible metaphor for the state of his life right now. Stuck in a broom closet next to the cleaning supplies and a fake skeleton for some reason, meanwhile he watches through the crack as one of the most beautiful men he has ever seen saunters out of Perry's office, done signing paperwork, probably. Wayne scans the office, Clark swears he sees him for one terrifying second but his eyes pass over, and he shrugs in disappointment when he doesn't find Clark.

“I'll see you later, Clark,” He mumbles under his breath, biting out the last letter in his name in a way that should be intimidating but is actually sexy and sends shivers down Clark's spine. It's as if Wayne knows corners of Clark's mind that even Clark hasn't ventured to. Not a comforting thought.

He muddles his way through the rest of the day, signs the documents for the show, and finally finishes the article about Livewire.

Before he knows it, he's pacing in front of his couch while Lois eats pizza and gives frustratingly calm advice.

“Well, one of us needs to be calm.”

When did Lois become a telepath?

“I didn't read your mind, Smallville, I read your face. All of your thoughts are on it like you wrote them on a sticky note and stuck it to your forehead.”

“Uh-”

“It's cute, actually, the audience is gonna love you.”

Clark wonders offhand if all his pacing is going to eventually wear ruts into the floor of his apartment.

“Look, Clark, Bruce Wayne is actually a really great example,” Lois gestures vaguely with her pizza slice.

“What.”

“I'm serious! Every now and then he gets questions on talk shows about if he's Batman and…” She trails off.

“And?”

“And he says he doesn't believe Batman exists. Never mind. That won't work. It would put your journalistic integrity in question if you did that since you've written so many articles about Superman.”

Clark stops and turns to look at Lois, “Wait, he doesn't believe in Batman? Hasn't Batman saved his life multiple times?”

She shrugs, “Anytime someone says that, he looks at them like they're crazy. Totally shuts them down and says he doesn't remember that ever happening and any Bruce Wayne saved by Batman was an imposter.”

“That's-”

“Insane, I know. Clark, if anyone makes a connection, just deny it, say something about how you're very flattered to be compared to him, but you could never do what he does, and being a reporter is really what gives you satisfaction in life. People aren't going to insist you're Superman.”

He can do that. That is something he can do.

But-

“I take it that's not the only issue?”

“What do I wear?”

She waves her hand at him, “That's for the production team to worry about. They'll make sure it fits you. I honestly don't think I could give you enough good advice for you to actually pick out a suitable outfit, Clark, you don't have the skillset.”

“Hey-”

“If I went into your closet right now, would I find anything except plaid shirts, blue jeans, and the two terribly oversized suits you wear to work?”

Clark sputters and goes silent, red noticeable on his cheeks.

“That's what I thought, Smallville.”

He loves his Ma and Pa, but they didn't exactly pass down a sense of style to their farmboy son. He hoped he would develop it in college but it just. Never happened. The plaid shirts on the discount racks were his best friends.

“I mean, I think you should be most worried about Bruce Wayne being within a three foot radius of you. Will you survive?”

Will he survive? Sure, it can't possibly kill him. Whether he'll survive psychologically unscathed is another question entirely, especially if Wayne would be wearing that same cologne, flashing that same smile that makes Clark weak at the knees.

“Sure,” He says, unconvincingly, as he can tell from the look on Lois's face, “Really, I mean, all I have to do is ignore his jokes and bake. Perry said I won't have to banter back and forth with him or anything since this isn't technically my job. He's the celebrity, I'm the foil.”

Lois considers this while inhaling another slice of pizza, a speed eating style developed when she ran the school newspaper in college.

“Alright. I don't know if Bruce Wayne will let you do that, but I support you in your efforts.”

Clark is going to argue this, because what can Bruce Wayne do, force him to respond to his insidious flirting? When there's screaming halfways across the earth, a rumbling rift forming right on the outskirts of a small village in Indonesia. Lois recognizes the look on his face immediately, waves him away before he even has the chance to explain.

Hours later, he returns, dusty, exhausted, but ultimately satisfied. No casualties, except for one chicken, which was promptly cooked into a stew to celebrate everyone's survival. It wasn't a common occurrence in his line of work.

Lois is gone, his apartment is empty. He checks his phone and, sure enough, there's a text from Lois explaining that she left early to get to Gotham since he rejected her very generous offer yesterday. Clark might feel guilty if he didn't know perfectly well how much Lois loves investigating; an adrenaline junkie with the near-perfect job for it.

Come to think of it, maybe she shares that with Batman as well. It would explain why the man insists on throwing himself into danger when he’s so stern with anybody else who does the same thing. Better or worse, he comes out of every patrol with injuries. Clark could almost think he enjoyed it if it weren't for the fact that he had never seen the man smile.

For one split second, an image of Batman with Bruce Wayne’s sharp, flirtatious smile flits through his brain, and it's odd how perfect it is, how it makes Clark squirm in his seat. Batman would be so angry if he knew Clark was comparing him to Bruce Wayne, of all people. He shoves the image out of his brain and gets ready for work, dreading the beginning of production.

____________________

Clark is early. They never took measurements for his outfit, so he figures he'll have to try a few things on; it's hard to judge his proportions from his two-sizes-too-large suit. He just hopes they don't give him anything too tight, even if he wasn't hiding his figure, he just prefers a more comfortable, looser fit.

He describes this to the stylist, tells her that he would prefer as little coiffing and fluffing and styling as possible. She nods, smiles, then completely ignores him. At first, they have him try on a neon pink button down, which he accidentally (on purpose) pops a button off while putting on. He may not have a sense of style but the color makes his eyes hurt. Next they try to put him in a polo shirt but it's a size too small and they relent when he says he doesn't feel comfortable with the detail it shows, though they relent very reluctantly. Finally, they settle on a cream, cable knit sweater that he wears over his usual work shirt. It's tighter than what he would usually wear, but not too tight. They have some sort of grudge against his comfortable slacks, though, and force him to replace them with a restrictive pair of chinos.

He only has to wear them for three hours, he tells himself, but it doesn't make the idea less nervewracking than stopping a bank robbery.

Getting them to leave his hair alone and not slick it up out of his face takes some convincing.

“Aw, but you'd look so handsome!”

“Please, the cameras make me really nervous, and I would just prefer-”

“They told us to make you presentable. Having hair covering your pretty blue eyes just isn't doing that, sweetie.”

“I totally understand, but Bruce Wayne is the main draw anyway, right? None of the audience really cares what I look like.”

“I mean…”

All other options exhausted, Clark resorts to real, actual begging.

“Please, please, please, please, ple-”

“Geez, alright! We gotta do something with it at least. My team lead'll think I was slacking.”

“Um-”

“You don't take care of your hair at all, huh? You have a beautiful curl pattern, but your hair's all frizzy,” She turns on him, brown eyes blazing, “you'd better not be using two in one shampoo and conditioner on this.”

“Not anymore!” Lois had already gotten on his case about it, and he couldn't risk her wrath. If she caught him again, she'd probably have him executed by firing squad.

“Anymore, huh…” She picks judgementally at his hair for a few more seconds before continuing, “What if I just restore these curls? Or do my best attempt at it, anyway.”

“That's fine,” He smiles, “Actually, I'd appreciate that!”

“Oh wow,” She mutters, and then raises a comb with the amount of intensity that Clark has only seen previously reserved for defusing a bomb, “Let's get this party started.”

After she attacked his hair with what couldn't possibly be less than eight products, serums, and gels, it looks… The same but also much better.

“Now that's what I call magic,” the stylist grins, “You like it, right?”

Clark looks in the mirror. As requested, his hair still falls over his forehead, but it does so in separate curls instead of dry, frizzy waves. It looks soft-

“Ah ah ah, no touching!”

She bats his hand away and he consciously softens his muscles so she doesn't feel like she's hit a rock.

Just as he's about to respond, there's a flutter of noise at the entrance of the studio. The prince of Gotham himself has arrived. Bruce Wayne strides into the studio in a charcoal gray pinstriped suit that was clearly tailored to fit his every curve.

It's just not fair.

It's aggravating how attuned Clark's senses are to Wayne, he can already smell him and, goddamnit, he's wearing that same cologne. Woody, leathery, and under it… Something metallic, coppery. Clark would think it's blood if this weren't Bruce Wayne.

Wayne's eyes sweep the room and light up when they locate their target. Clark.

He desperately searches for escape routes as Wayne makes his way towards him, only to find that there are none. None that are polite, anyway. He's trapped by societal convention!

“Hello, Kent, what a fine surprise seeing you here,” he sweeps into Kent's personal space, the undertone of copper much stronger now. That is blood. Either Wayne is injured or he murdered someone on the way here and didn't bother to wash up. Clark figures the first option is more likely but doesn't quite know what to make of it. He'll have to make sure he doesn't jostle Wayne during filming.

“Hi, Mr. Wayne, it's um- it's a pleasure seeing you again,” out of sheer nervous instinct he holds out his hand for a handshake then, realizing it's sweaty, goes to wipe it on his sweater but before he can, Bruce Wayne grasps it. It isn't the first time they've shaken hands, but every time Clark is surprised anew at how Wayne's hands are not soft like silk but rough, with layers of callouses. Apparently one of his hobbies is boxing but Clark doesn't think that fully explains it.

Wait.

Why isn't Wayne letting go.

They've been shaking hands for at least ten seconds now and for each second that passes more people look at them.

Why isn't he letting go!!!

____________________________

Bruce considers his ‘Brucie Wayne’ persona to be a useful tool. For one, very few people would ever connect him to Batman unless they knew more than they should or they had a few screws loose. It was either one or the other on the forums he had read, unless it was the one exception, the Joker under a very poorly disguised username.

For two, it allows him to approach ‘Clark Kent’ in a way that Batman could never approach Superman. His hand is smooth and warm, like a rock left under the sun. Everything about him is warm though; he radiates it, like a small sun.

Bruce lets go when he can see Kent has gathered the courage to say something. This people pleaser mentality is a clear throughline between Kent and Superman. Bruce lets his fingernails brush Kent's palm as he draws away, feels a little shiver of satisfaction at how he almost flinches.

He sighs imperceptibly. He accepted the show to ascertain how well Superman could hide his identity in unexpected situations. If it goes well, good. If it doesn't, he has more than enough power to take it off the air. Kent is clearly nervous, but Bruce knows Superman. He won't do something ridiculously stupid. He might do something just stupid enough for Bruce to shut this whole thing down, though.

Now, of course, that means he has to film an entire baking show. On the way over, he had halfway considered paying off a few hired thugs to… Violently interrupt the filming. He decided against it in the end, it's just one baking show.

While walking to the butcher block kitchen island, Bruce makes sure to stumble a little bit on the edge of the set. Brucie Wayne is clumsy, it's his third main personality trait. Brucie Wayne doesn't usually get caught by Superman.

“Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?” The question is genuine, his farmboy face too honest for it not to be, despite the trouble Bruce has been deliberately causing him.

Should he tone down Brucie Wayne? Show a little mercy?

…

No.

Annoying Superman is entertaining, and who knows when he'll be able to do it again.

He throws himself into Kent's (warm, incredibly muscular) arms, “Kent, I do believe I've sprained my ankle.”

The man freezes, goes stock-still like a prey animal, and then Bruce watches as the flush climbs his neck, and then his face, coloring the freckles sprinkled over his cheeks a soft red. He couldn't see them on Superman, as if the suit changed him somehow, made him more perfect. Too perfect.

Not the frazzled mess he is now, though they have improved his hair.

Bruce smirks, practically drapes himself across Kent, “Darling, I don't suppose you'd give me a lift to the counter over there, would you?”

In a fraction of a second, Kent has him in a princess carry and strides toward the counter. Giving Kent a purpose is like putting fuel in a car. He just goes.

As Bruce is plopped down on top of the counter, though, he realizes this is not entirely what he had in mind.

“Kent? You didn't have to put me all the way up here-”

“If you have a sprained ankle, we need to take a look at it,” Clark parries.

For a moment, Bruce is fooled into thinking that Kent believed him, but then he catches it; the quirk of a lip, the glitter of mischief in those ultrablue eyes. Kent is fucking with him, he's calling his bluff. He knows damn well Bruce isn't injured and wants to see how far he'll go. That's fine. He knows how to play gay chicken.

He points his toe, drawing a line down Kent's chest, “Then please, take a look,” He practically purrs, “Dr. Kent .”

Oh, now his ears are red too. Maybe if he-

“If you could delay your flirting to when we start filming, I'd appreciate that,” Kent jumps two feet away as a PA smacks a clipboard onto the counter, “I need to go over some basics before you start.”

Bruce considers this for a second and hops off the counter onto his perfectly uninjured ankle, ignoring the ‘I knew it’ expression on Kent's face.

“Since Mr. Wayne decided he just had to work with Mr. Kent, we are going to be catering to recipes that Mr. Kent is familiar with. I believe you sent in a list, right?” Kent nods, “Great. We'll be making ‘Ma Kent's Prizewinning Apple Pie’. Is that a problem for either of you?”

“No, sir.”

“Not at all”

They answer simultaneously.

“Perfect.”

Bruce understands how to film a TV show. Clark probably doesn't, so they go through the usual boring details of the general plot. There isn't a script, no doubt because they want to take advantage of Brucie Wayne's penchant for innuendo and double entendre.

While the PA is going on, Bruce takes the time to think about the logistics of an attack potentially occurring here. The likelihood is low, but… Either Bruce would be able to escape or he could find a way for Kent to escape. It wouldn't be an issue.

After barely listening for almost six minutes (he gets the gist, it's fine), they finally kickstart the filming.

Explaining the baking process and doing the baking itself is mainly left to Kent, while Bruce is assigned little tasks. His main job is to make quips and look handsome.

When Clark adds the sugar, a third of it dark brown, he says, “This pie might be almost as sweet as you.”

Disappointingly, Kent barely reacts to this. He has to go further.

When Kent pours in the half cup of cream, Bruce opens his mouth, but it's as if Kent reads his mind (it wouldn't shock him if Superman had this ability), because he immediately shoots him a warning Look. Bruce smirks and shuts his mouth. A double entendre implied is more than enough.

It's when Kent is kneading the dough for the pie crust that he accidentally opens the way for Bruce's best opportunity.

“You can see that, as I'm kneading it, the dough is getting quite stiff,” Kent holds up the dough to show the camera.

“If you were handling me like that, I'd be stiff too,” Bruce practically purrs, watching with satisfaction as Kent drops the lump of dough on the counter.

Kent turns on him, hisses, “Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, please, I insist,” Bruce leans closer, their faces just inches away.

He expects Kent to explode. He doesn't, but something else does. The door of the studio crashes inward under the force of a… Giant eclair holding a weaponized piping bag…? What on Earth? Who is this? One of Metropolis's lesser-know villains?

“Hello bakers!” The voice that comes out from the cartoonish mouth is chipper, but in an uncanny-valley, modulated sort of way. The person inside the costume is not smiling, “I do hate to interrupt your filming like this, but that's my cream-inal prerogative for you!”

Crickets. What a godawful pun. The Joker would love this guy.

The chipper tone drops from the voice, “I only care about the bakers here, but, sorry! The rest of you can't leave! Otherwise, who would watch the choux?”

Boo. Choux doesn't sound nearly enough like show for that pun to work.

He glances at Kent, who is also staring at the oversized pastry with confusion. Not one of his, then?

Not that it really matters. One of them would have to find a way to get out and change, who knows what this chouxboat is planning.

Oh god. The puns are contagious.

“Just to make sure none of you leave, I'll be using my filling on you,” gross, and the unmoving cartoon eyes make it even creepier, “freshly made, and guaranteed to ice you in place.”

Before it can use the piping bag on the stylist it's pointed at, Bruce pipes up, “Who are you, anyway?”

The eclair stops and turns towards him, “Oh, the baker has something to say to the pastry he threw away?” Very real bitterness leaked from its tone and Bruce, for a very real fragment of a second, considers whether one of his many baking failures could have somehow gained sentience. It's Gotham, almost anything is possible. Far more likely, on the other hand, this is an embittered ex-employee of Wayne Industries.

If its hatred is targeted towards him, however, it's unlikely he can escape without anyone noticing. Somehow, he'll have to give Kent an out.

If he can make the eclair think that it and Kent are on the same side, it might let the man leave. Psychological manipulation is not Superman's strong point, though. Any situation that might require it was a situation that he found a way to brute force out of. This is not an idea he would think of on his own.

Without turning his gaze from the eclair, Bruce takes Kent's hand under the counter, ignoring the questioning eyes that flick to him.

‘Pretend to hate me’ He traces slowly on the man's hand. He knows Kent can understand it. It's not the first time he's done it in a situation where neither of them can speak. It is, however, the first time he's done it as Bruce Wayne. He doesn't have to look, he can feel the questioning in those baby blues turn to burning accusation.

_________________________________

At first, he thinks Wayne is scared. It wouldn't be that unusual, and it seems like physical contact might be a comfort to him. His face doesn't look scared, though, and then Clark feels it. The finger tracing a message.

‘Pretend to hate me’

The means of communication. The commanding tone of the message. The familiar measured weight of the finger on his palm.

Son of a bitch.

Oh, they are so going to talk about this. Later. Not now. Now they have to deal with the angry pastry.

Done passing his message, Wayne shrugs smugly, “Sorry, can't say I remember you. I've thrown away too many pastries in my life.”

‘Pretend to hate me’ Oh, he doesn't have to pretend.

“Fucking rich piece of shit,” He mutters under his breath but hopefully loud enough for the pastry to hear him.

It does, “Wow, Mr, Baker, even your little boytoy dough-sn't like you! All that money, and what do you have to show for it?”

Wayne doesn't answer the question, “Like I care what Clonk Kemp thinks of me? By the way, has anyone told you your puns suck? Not creative at all, and they don't work naturally in a sentence. Weren't exactly an improv major, were you?”

Brutal. He agrees about the puns, though. They're bad.

“Not creative?!” Whatever the pastry is using to modulate their voice screeches harshly at the high volume and half the studio flinches. They go silent and, after a few seconds, the next sentence is calmer, “Whatever. Mr. Kent, you see how much Wayne cares about you? He doesn't even remember your name!”

“Of course he doesn't,” Clark forces calm for the next sentence, “I'm just another plaything for him, after all.”

“Yeah, buddy, you get it! Bruce Wayne doesn't give a shit about anyone!” Was this guy one of Wayne's exes or what, “Y'know what, I feel so bad for you. So bad. You're just like me when I was younger. In fact, I looked just like you-”

“Doubt that-”

“Shut up,” the pastry growls to Wayne's interjection, “Just like you, so handsome and fit…” The pastry falls into a fit of reverie for moment before it catches itself, “Now, this offer is just for you, Mr. Kent! Because you remind me so much of myself!” This doesn't sound good, “I'll let you leave right now if you slap Bruce Wayne across the face!”

Slap Bruce Wayne?

Slap?

Batman?

He turns to look at Wayne, almost without thinking, and the man gives him the tiniest of nods before gasping theatrically, “Slap me? Clonk would never do that.”

Clark doesn't let himself think about it. Every second that passes will increase the pastry's suspicion.

He uses his ‘playing catch with Pa’ level of strength to slap Wayne, knocking his head to the side, and restrains a flinch at the bright red mark on the man's face.

The pastry's laughter echoes in Clark's head as he watches Wayne mouth ‘is that all you got, Kent?’, with a hint of a smile, his face turned away from the pastry.

Bastard. And Clark can't even be mad because he's not stupid enough to not be able to recognize that Wayne's trying to comfort him.

“Wonderful, Mr. Kent, just wonderful! You may take your leave!” The pastry gestures towards the studio doors.

Clark walks out, staying alert every second in case the pastry changes its mind. Luckily it does not, and Clark gets out, changes into his suit, knocks out the pastry, gets mobbed by the staff, signs an autograph even though he doesn't want to be a celebrity, then flies away… To right behind the building where he turns back into Clark Kent.

Should he even go back in? How would he even explain his reasoning? Everyone probably thinks he's such and assho-

“Hey,” Someone taps him on the shoulder and Clark jumps five feet in the air, “Jesus. Do you do this every time someone sneaks up on you?”

Clark flushes. Both out of embarrassment and… Bruce Wayne's face with Batman's dry humor…

“Nobody else sneaks up on me,” He mutters as he lands back on the ground, “Is your face okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?”

Wayne stares at him like he's grown a second head.

“Clark. You've seen me get stabbed before. One time Brainiac got inside your brain and used you to punt me through a building. You really think a gentle slap across this face like that would hurt me?”

Okay. Good point, but! But!

“But those things did hurt you, Mr. Wa- Bru- Batm-”

“Just Bruce is fine.”

“You got hurt! I felt so bad after the brainiac thing because you were almost dead in the medbay! Am I,” Clark looks down at Bruce, his eyes watering a little, “Am I not allowed to be worried about you?”

____________________________

Christ, those eyes were lethal. How could a man so big be so cute?

___________________________

“If you insist. Just know I don't need it. I'm not as delicate as you think I am.”

“You’re the one that was pretending to be so delicate, with your ankle and everything,” Wait. That reminds Clark, “You knew I was Superman the whole fucking time, didn't you?”

“Goodie two shoes Superman, cursing? I didn't think you had it in you.”

“I- stop deflecting. From the moment you walked in demanding I be your partner for the show, you knew exactly who I was?”

“I wanted to make sure you could maintain your civilian identity in unpredictable situations.”

“You couldn't have just told me?”

“Well, then it wouldn't have been an unpredictable situation, would it?” The way Batman operates with this sort of… Self-assuredness was as admirable as it was aggravating.

Clark wants to kill him. He wants to punch him in the face. Gently. Ugh.

“You're impossible,” He pouts, not looking at Bruce. He's not really, well he's not angry, he's just… Dissatisfied. Yes, that's it. He's not pleased that Bruce had the upper hand with an unfair information advantage.

“I know. Anyway, are you curious about the eclair's identity?”

Clark stares blankly, the fight fading from him. What is an- No, he's still not pleased. He looks away from Bruce. He turns his nose up at him.

“Oh, come on, farmboy, what can I do to get you to stop pouting?” He considers for a moment, “I'll buy every flavor of eclair in the best bakery in town for you.”

Clark still doesn't look at him, but his voice is more hesitant, “What exactly is an eclair?”

“An eclair?” When no recognition appears on Clark's face, Bruce gestures vaguely, “The pastry that forced you to slap me in the face?”

“Is that what it was? I've never actually seen one before.”

Bruce looks at him and Clark detects just a hint of judgement, “You really are a farmboy.”

“Well, excuse me,” Clark pauses for a moment, “Wait, I was mad at you for not telling me you knew who I was and holding your richest man in the world identity over me and your response is to buy me a bunch of pastries shaped like the guy that just attacked us? That's your apology?” Then something clicks in Clark's brain, “You never apologized! That's what I'm mad about!”

Bruce laughs, a deep chuckle, slightly rough around the edges, before he stops and sighs, a fondness to it that leaves Clark warm, “I'm sorry, Clark. I don't feel bad, though, it was fun to mess with Superman for once.”

“That- That's barely an apology at all!”

“I'll buy you a box of eclairs?”

“Wha- Really? Eclairs again?” Clark sighs, “You know what? Fine. They better be damn good though.”

“Oh, you'll love them,” Bruce says as he starts looking for the highest rated bakery in Metropolis.

After he locates it and ensures eclairs are available, they walk away together. To distract himself from how much this feels like a date, Clark asks “You're not gonna tell the league, are you? About the slapping thing?”

Bruce scoffs, “And what? Reveal both my and your civilian identities for a moment of revenge? Trust me, Clark, the look on your face after you did it was more than enough revenge. I've never seen a grown man look so much like a kicked puppy.”

Hmm. Clark doesn't know what to say about that. He decided to say nothing. Instead, he changes the subject and Bruce definitely notices.

“So? Who was the eclair?”

“I thought it would be an ex-employee from Wayne Industries, probably from the cuisine division, but I was way off. Of course, I wasn't able to do much research, so-”

“Of course.”

Bruce narrows his eyes at Clark until he detects that Clark is not mocking him.

“It turned out to be the former owner of a bakery whose shop I bought after they went out of business, which I had nothing to do with.”

“You bought a bakery?”

“No, I bought the storefront months after they already vacated it. His grudge against me is completely illogical.”

“Grudges usually are.”

Bruce makes a face Clark can't quite read but knows isn't good, “I know that.”

In an effort to disperse the tense silence that follows, Clark says, “Is it just me or did we just live through an episode of Scooby Doo?”

“You watched Scooby Doo?”

“Bruce, I grew up in Kansas, not Mars. Of course I watched Scooby Doo.”

“Huh. You'd get along well with my son.”

“Your… Are you… I've heard of friend-zoning, but are you-”

“I'm not child-zoning you, Clark, what the fuck.”