Work Text:
The first time Clark Kent saw Bruce Wayne advertising himself as a sugar daddy, he laughed so hard he flew into a billboard.
In his defence, it was three in the morning.
He had been halfway through patrol over Metropolis when the enormous digital advertisement across the side of a building abruptly changed from perfume to Bruce’s face.
Not even a normal photograph of Bruce.
It was that photograph.
The charity-gala one.
Bruce in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, dark hair falling over his forehead, caught halfway through turning toward a camera with an expression somewhere between bored and offensively beautiful.
Across his chest, in enormous golden letters, somebody had written:
LONELY BILLIONAIRES IN YOUR AREA WANT TO SPOIL YOU.
Clark hovered.
He stared.
Then:
“Oh my God.”
His phone was already in his hand.
Bruce answered after eight rings.
“What.”
“Bruce.”
Silence.
Clark drifted closer to the billboard.
“Did you know there are lonely billionaires in my area?”
“Goodnight, Clark.”
“And apparently,” Clark continued, voice cracking, “they want to spoil me.”
The call disconnected.
Clark laughed directly into the billboard.
For approximately three weeks, it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.
The advertisements multiplied.
Bruce Wayne appeared beside articles about cryptocurrency.
Bruce Wayne promised eligible singles that they could MEET GENEROUS OLDER MEN TONIGHT.
Bruce Wayne appeared in the sidebar of the Daily Planet website offering to PAY YOUR BILLS — NO STRINGS ATTACHED.
Clark took screenshots of every single one.
Bruce blocked his number.
Clark started emailing them.
Bruce blocked his personal email.
Clark sent them through his Daily Planet address.
Bruce called him.
“You are using company resources to harass me.”
Clark swivelled in his chair in the bullpen, lowering his voice.
“I am documenting an ongoing story.”
“You sent me an advertisement captioned come get your man.”
“Journalism has changed.”
Across the desk, Lois Lane slowly looked up.
Clark immediately pretended to be extremely interested in his notes.
On the phone, Bruce said, “You are twenty-three.”
“And employed.”
“Debatable.”
“I’m telling Perry you said that.”
Bruce hung up.
Clark smiled into his coffee.
Lois continued staring.
“Boyfriend?”
Clark inhaled coffee.
“No.”
“That was a very boyfriend conversation.”
“I was speaking to a source.”
“Your source called you unemployed.”
“Hostile source.”
Lois narrowed her eyes.
Clark fled to copyediting.
Unfortunately, the joke stopped being entirely funny when Gotham police discovered that people were actually losing money to the scam.
Wayne Enterprises announced a press conference.
Perry White immediately pointed across the bullpen.
“Kent.”
Clark froze.
Lois grinned.
“You’re going to Gotham.”
Clark stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because apparently you’ve been collecting material on the Wayne scam for three weeks.”
Lois covered her mouth.
Perry dropped Clark’s own folder of screenshots onto his desk.
Clark looked betrayed.
“Who gave you that?”
“You left it on the printer.”
“Oh.”
“Congratulations. Initiative.”
Lois made a choking noise.
Twenty-four hours later, Clark Kent sat in the second row of a Wayne Enterprises press conference with a notepad in one hand and the knowledge that his boyfriend had slept curled around him approximately twelve hours earlier.
This was fine.
He was a professional.
He had interviewed senators.
He had covered hostage situations.
He had once questioned Lex Luthor without punching him.
He could survive Bruce Wayne.
Probably.
Bruce walked onto the stage.
Their eyes met.
Bruce’s expression did not change.
Clark knew him.
That tiny twitch beneath his left eye meant:
Why are you here?
Clark lifted his press badge slightly.
Bruce looked away.
Clark wrote:
Brucie Wayne pretending he doesn’t know why Daily Planet reporter assigned to major news story. More at eleven.
Then crossed it out before his editor could ever see it.
The prepared statement went perfectly.
Bruce condemned the scam.
Wayne Enterprises was cooperating with authorities.
Victims were encouraged to contact police.
Clark relaxed.
Then a Gotham Gazette reporter shouted:
“Mr Wayne! Have you personally ever used a sugar-dating website?”
Clark’s pen stopped.
Bruce said, “No.”
Good.
Another reporter called, “So you’re not looking for a sugar baby?”
“No.”
Excellent.
Clark began packing up.
Then someone from the back shouted:
“Would you ever consider being a sugar daddy?”
Clark stopped packing.
Bruce paused.
Clark slowly lifted his head.
No.
Bruce looked thoughtful.
No.
Clark mouthed silently:
Do not answer that.
Bruce glanced directly at him.
Then said:
“No.”
Clark exhaled.
And then Bruce Wayne, brilliant detective, billionaire philanthropist, tactical genius, continued:
“I would be poorly suited to it.”
Clark closed his eyes.
A reporter asked, naturally:
“Why?”
Clark whispered, “Because God hates me.”
Bruce answered:
“I prefer being spoiled.”
Clark’s pen snapped.
The room exploded.
Questions flew from every direction.
Clark sat perfectly motionless in the middle of them.
Professionally.
He was a journalist.
He was representing the Daily Planet.
He was absolutely not remembering Bruce, two nights earlier, stealing Clark’s hoodie and demanding Clark bring him tea because Bruce had already gotten comfortable.
Another reporter called:
“What do you mean by spoiled?”
Bruce frowned, seemingly confused by everyone’s reaction.
“I enjoy when someone else handles unnecessary inconveniences.”
Clark wrote:
He means me.
Crossed it out.
Bruce continued.
“And the advertisements imply a dominant personality.”
Clark’s head snapped up.
Oh no.
Bruce said:
“I have never offered to dominate anybody.”
Clark made direct eye contact with God.
God abandoned him.
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
Clark put his face in his hands.
The reporter beside him whispered, “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You broke your pen.”
“Manufacturing defect.”
Bruce looked straight at him from the podium.
Clark could see the faintest trace of amusement now.
The bastard.
The absolute bastard.
For perhaps the first time in Bruce Wayne’s entire public life, he knew exactly what he was doing.
Clark raised his hand.
Bruce’s eyes gleamed.
Of course he called on him.
“Mr Kent. Daily Planet.”
Clark stood.
He looked down at his notes.
Then at Bruce.
He had a responsibility to journalism.
To truth.
To integrity.
To Perry White.
“Mr Wayne,” Clark said solemnly, “could you clarify whether you believe the issue is primarily that you lack the personality or the work ethic required to be a sugar daddy?”
Someone behind him wheezed.
Bruce stared.
Clark stared back.
War.
Bruce said, perfectly calmly:
“Personality.”
Clark nodded seriously.
“And the work ethic?”
“My work ethic is excellent, Mr Kent.”
“Of course.”
“But I see no reason to expend effort where someone else is willing to do it for me.”
Clark’s eyebrow twitched.
Bruce’s did too.
The press started shouting again.
Clark sat down.
The reporter beside him whispered, “That was brutal.”
Clark smiled.
“You should see him at home.”
He froze.
The reporter turned.
Clark coughed violently.
“I mean—his public persona. Obviously.”
The next morning, Clark arrived at work to find the front page of the Daily Planet waiting on his desk.
His article was below the fold.
Lois had circled one paragraph.
WAYNE DENIES SUGAR-DATING RUMOURS: “I PREFER BEING SPOILED.”
Underneath, she had written:
your boyfriend sounds exhausting
Clark stuffed the paper into his bag.
That evening, Bruce found it magneted to the refrigerator at Wayne Manor.
He stared at Lois’s handwriting.
Then at Clark.
“You told Lane?”
“I absolutely did not.”
“She knows.”
“She suspects.”
“Why?”
Clark stared at him.
Bruce stared back.
“You publicly announced that you enjoy being spoiled while making eye contact with me.”
“That proves nothing.”
“You called on me specifically.”
“You raised your hand.”
“You enjoyed it.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched.
Clark pointed.
“There! You enjoyed it.”
“I enjoyed watching you attempt professionalism.”
“You nearly killed me.”
“You survived.”
“I had to write the article!”
“It was well written.”
Clark stopped.
“…You read it?”
“Of course.”
Clark softened despite himself.
Then Bruce added:
“You mischaracterised my statement in paragraph six.”
Clark threw a cushion at him.
Three nights later, the Justice League meeting had barely ended when Green Lantern slapped a newspaper onto the table.
Batman looked down.
BRUCIE WAYNE: “I PREFER BEING SPOILED.”
Beside him, Superman became extremely interested in the ceiling.
Flash leaned forward.
“I cannot believe he said this to the Daily Planet.”
Clark coughed.
Batman said nothing.
Hal pointed at him.
“Wait. You’re from Gotham.”
Batman immediately disliked the direction of this conversation.
“You’ve got to know stuff about Wayne.”
“I know many things.”
“Insider gossip.”
“No.”
Aquaman picked up the paper.
“This Kent reporter appears unusually aggressive.”
Superman straightened.
“I thought his questions were fair.”
Batman turned his head.
Slowly.
Hal squinted at Superman.
“You read the article?”
“I support journalism.”
“You hate celebrity gossip.”
“It’s not gossip. It concerns financial fraud.”
Barry nodded. “He’s got you there.”
Batman contemplated orbital decompression.
Diana looked at him.
“Batman, is Wayne truly as spoiled as the article suggests?”
Batman paused.
Clark’s shoulders were already shaking.
Finally Batman said:
“The article is accurate.”
Clark made a strangled sound.
Hal whipped around.
“You do have gossip!”
“No.”
“You just confirmed it!”
“I confirmed journalistic accuracy.”
Superman looked unbearably pleased.
“Excellent reporter, that Kent.”
Batman glared at him.
Clark smiled.
“Really committed to getting the truth.”
“Superman.”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
Barry looked between them.
“…Why are you defensive about Clark Kent?”
“I’m not.”
Batman stood.
“This meeting is concluded.”
“It is absolutely not,” Hal said. “Batman knows Brucie Wayne personally.”
“I did not say that.”
Superman followed Batman toward the exit.
As soon as they were out of human hearing range, Clark leaned close.
“You know, I really appreciated your endorsement of my article.”
Bruce kept walking.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You like being spoiled.”
“Clark.”
“I have published confirmation.”
Bruce stopped.
Clark grinned.
Very quietly, Bruce said:
“Your side of the bed is revoked.”
Clark’s grin widened.
Behind them, Flash called:
“His side of what?”
Bruce closed his eyes.
Clark laughed all the way back to Earth.