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Clark Kent stares across the crowded ballroom and inwardly curses the fact that he's here wearing a press pass instead of the arm of his boyfriend of five years. Who nobody outside of family even knows is his boyfriend. Or currently attached. Or even bisexual.
Because Clark's boyfriend insists on keeping the fact that they are boyfriends a secret.
And to be fair, when they'd first started seeing (fucking) each other, keeping that secret had added a spicy kind of thrill to their relationship. Forbidden fruit and all that.
But now Clark was approaching the age (or maybe just the point in their relationship) where he didn't want to be someone's dirty little secret anymore.
And, honestly, he knows his boyfriend is well acquainted with his feelings on the matter.
Still, the problem isn't that Clark Kent is Bruce Wayne's dirty little secret boyfriend.
The problem is that Superman is Batman's dirty little secret boyfriend.
But as Clark watches another little barely-out-of-her-teens waitress sneak a grope at his boyfriend's ass and slip what is no doubt her phone number into his pocket, he makes a decision.
Enough is enough. They're going public if Clark has to drag his boyfriend kicking and screaming into the limelight. No doubt Brucie will stumble after him if he drags him by the tie.
Getting the Bat on board, though.
That's going to take some planning.
STEP 1:
CONVINCING STAKEHOLDERS
The first step to Clark's plan is to recruit allies. Which would be easy enough, except for the fact that aside from his Ma, the only people who are in the know about his and Bruce's relationship are the Bat Fam. And it's not convincing them that's the hard part, per se, but shutting them up.
"So I hope you've thought about your endgame," Tim says. "I mean, a long-distance relationship might work for a while, but if you ever plan to take your relationship to the next step—"
"The Replacement means, if you're ever gonna put a ring on it," Jason says, unabashedly unhelpful and so seemingly oblivious of the way Clark flushes a bright red to match his cape that he's got to be faking it.
"You've got a ring?" Dick squeals.
No, he doesn't. He's put a hold on one in the jewelry store two blocks down from the Planet, though. But nobody has to know that.
"Not yet," Barbara and Tim chorus. To be clear, Barbara isn't even in the Cave. Her avatar just appears on the giant screen in that moment, then disappears in the next.
Fudgesticks on the Bat Fam's hackers.
"I don't think we're quite there yet," Clark says, choosing his words carefully. (He's totally there already, he's just not sure Bruce is, or if he ever will be.) "But I, I mean, Clark Kent, has put out feelers about applying to the Gazette." And the Times. Not to mention the news station. "I can relocate. Superman can commute."
All the kids stare for a moment.
"Holy shit," Jason breathes. "You're serious."
"I'm gonna have a new dad!" Dick squeals, earning himself a slap on the head from Damian.
"He's been looking at rings," Tim tattles, a shit-eating grin on his face.
"While we gave you permission to court Father, we have not granted you his hand in marriage, alien." Ah, Damian, charming as ever.
"And if he was asking for it, he'd be asking Alfie," Jason says.
"Indeed, Master Jason. Though, Master Clark, you can rest assured you have it."
Gulp. "Thank you."
"It's about time you made an honest man of Master Bruce."
"Uh…"
"That being said, if you hurt him, I have more access to the Batcave's stores of kryptonite than even Batman does, and none of his aversion to firearms."
Clark pales while Bruce's little shits giggle madly. Except for Damian, who nods curtly and makes a point of sharpening his sword then and there.
"If it comes to that, I shall help Pennyworth dispose of the body."
"Aww, come on. You know chances are higher it'll be Bruce doing the hurting in this relationship."
"How dare you, Grayson! Father would never—"
"Bruce would, if he thought their SuperBat lovefest—"
"Oh, gag."
"Shut it, Tim. As I was saying, Bruce totally would, if he thought their relationship endangered the mission."
This makes whatever blood is remaining in Clark's body pool at his boots. Or that's what it feels like, anyway.
"You think he's thinking about that?" he asks numbly.
"No, of course not," Dick reassures him with a bright smile.
Unfortunately, Damian pipes in at the same time with, "Of course he has. Father's not an imbecile."
"He is a complete imbecile when it comes to his love life," Jason shoots back. "No offense, Clark."
"How's he supposed to not take offense from that when he's the entirety of Bruce's love life for the past five years?" Tim wonders.
"Three words, Replacement," Jason says, then proceed to count them off on his fingers. "Sheer. Dumb. Luck."
This sets them off to laughing. Clark tugs at the ends of his hair. "This isn't helping," he grumbles.
"Awww, look at that face, he's like a puppy," Dick coos. "How can we not help?"
"Speak for yourself. I'm just here for Alfie's food and to fuck with you guys' ideas."
"Language like that, Master Jason, will leave you with fewer sweets."
"Aww, Alfie, way to hit where it hurts."
Tim slurps his coffee loudly. "What was it we were supposed to be helping with, again?"
"The alien wishes the public to know of his relationship with Father. Why he cares for the opinion of the masses, given their bovine mentality—"
"Well, it would be nice if he didn't have so many floozies hanging around him," Dick says, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It would help for when he has to sneak off for, you know, Batmanning."
"Batmanning." Jason snickers. "So when you're on patrol, you're Nightwinging? And when you're at work or at a gala, you're, what? Dicking around?"
"You just had to go there." Dick sighs.
"Hey, not my fault you decided to name yourself after a sexual organ."
Clark clears his throat.
"But it is your fault for being an asshole."
"Loud and proud, you turgid member."
Clark coughs a little louder when they devolve into further name-calling.
Tim leans in and murmurs. "Need a cough drop for that, Superman? Let Alfred show you how it's done."
"Masters Dick and Jason, you will cease immediately or risk being sent to bed without your supper tonight!"
Silence.
Yep, that's how it's done. Alfred and his Ma are literally the only two people who can stop these boys when they get going. Talk about superpowers.
"Thank you. Now, I believe Master Clark has asked for our assistance."
"What did you have in mind, Big Blue?"
"I just… thought I'd talk him round?"
"Tt. Clearly you need our assistance if you think such simple-minded tactics would suffice when convincing Father of anything that might jeopardize his mission."
"Yeah, you're gonna need to convince him that the status quo isn't working, then convince him that this is the way to go," Dick says.
Clark frowns. "How do I do that?"
At this point, everyone looks at Tim. "Why me?" he asks, pouting.
Everyone just stares.
He huffs.
"Fine. You don't want to try to talk B into something like this. You need to convince him he needs to talk you into it. I'd suggest a three-prong approach to this problem. Like Dick says, you need to start by making him unhappy with the way things currently are. I'd suggest upping the annoyance factor on those floozies."
Dick brightens. "I can help with that! All I need to do is let some of the sycophants overhear that I think Bruce may be ready to settle down."
This makes Jason laugh uproariously. "Ohmigod," he gasps. "The old man's gonna be miserable. I love it!"
"This is going to make all of us miserable," Damian says.
"Definitely," Tim agrees. "They always think sucking up to his kids is the way to Brucie's heart."
"Unless the more direct route is grabbing ass," Jason adds, still chuckling.
"Master Jason."
"Sorry, Alfie."
"I am sure it will be unpleasant, as Master Damian says, but we are all well able to weather this behavior for a short time."
A deadpan look from the butler has all the boys agreeing.
After a moment, Tim continues. "The second thing you need to do is to add a sense of urgency to the matter."
"In what way?" Clark asks.
"Light a fire under his ass."
"We could use the floozies," Dick says thoughtfully. "Everyone knows you're his favorite reporter and a close friend. They're gonna see if they can get the inside track, and if we can direct them to you instead of us kids, it's a win-win situation."
"So they'll flirt, and Bruce'll flip," Jason translates.
"Father is not so petty as to succumb to jealousy," Damian huffs.
"Wanna bet, Little Bird?" Dick grins, rubbing his hands together like a supervillain. "This is gonna be fun."
"The final thing we need to do is to make it seem like going public would then solve Bruce's problems," Tim says. "I can probably work on that part."
"You'll have my assistance, Master Tim."
"In that case, this is practically a done deal, Clark."
"Yeah, and you'll owe us, Big Blue."
Dick facepalms. "Jason, you've contributed absolutely nothing to this plan, or this conversation."
"Can't have a show without a peanut gallery, Dickie."
"Despite the increased likelihood of success with Pennyworth's assistance, I'll wish you luck, alien."
Clark's shoulders slump. Given the Bat Fam is infamous for their go-big-or-go-home plans when they aren't focused on Bruce's Mission, he's definitely gonna need it.
STEP 2:
OBSERVATION AND ANALYSIS
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose to try to stave off a headache. Life has been uncharacteristically hectic lately, and he appreciates the complications like Poison Ivy appreciates weed killer.
For one, he can't seem to go five meters in public without tripping over a model or socialite these days. Not to mention the matchmaking mamas. Someone must have blooded the water because the sharks haven't circled this furiously in years—not since he first got back to Gotham from his years abroad.
It's worse, even, since it's not just the women throwing themselves at his feet these days. He's fairly certain he's never been flirted with by quite so many twinks in his life.
He stills.
Could it be that someone knows about his and Clark's relationship?
God, he hopes not.
He's self-aware enough to know he isn't prepared to give Clark up. Not now.
Maybe not ev—
Don't go there, Wayne.
He doesn't dare.
Though god knows he's tempted.
Focus, Wayne.
"Alfred," he says at the breakfast table one morning, "have you heard any recent rumors about Bruce Wayne?"
Tim, half asleep and guzzling a giant cup of coffee, snorts into his drink. "Only douchebags refer to themselves in the third person, B."
"Don't make me switch your coffee to decaf, Tim."
Tim raises his hands in surrender.
"I have not heard of any new rumors about you making the rounds, Master Bruce. What manner of rumors have you been hearing?"
"That's the thing," Bruce grumbles. "I haven't heard anything, but people are acting like I'm about to propose to the next person who manages to trip and fall into my arms."
"Well, your birthday is approaching, sir, and I imagine they as well as you can hear your biological clock ticking."
Bruce scowls. "I've got kids!"
"Sooooo many of us," Tim mumbles.
"Too many," Damian adds as he sits down at the table, scowling in much the same way Bruce does.
"Be that as it may, Master Bruce, you inexplicably remain Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor."
"Unfortunately," Bruce agrees morosely.
"The solution seems pretty simple, B," Dick says, strolling in. "Since the problem seems to be that you're still single, why not show them you're not?"
"I'm not going to be able to get another fake girlfriend. The whole fiasco with Selina a few years back wrecked my chances of making that work."
"I refuse to maintain even the pretense that you are contemplating returning to that harlot."
"Language," Bruce reminds Damian. "Besides, Selina's out of the country at the moment. I don't think she'd come back just to fake date me."
"And it is not as if you could recruit Mother for the task," Damian points out.
"No, definitely not," Bruce agrees.
"Master Bruce, might I remind you that you are not currently unattached?"
Bruce drops his fork at Alfred's comment. "Hnn."
"You know," Dick says slowly, "I'm sure Clark would help you out, if you asked him."
"Hnn." Bruce knows Clark would. But things with Clark have been… different, lately. The sex is still good, of course. But it feels like Clark wants to talk about something, but doesn't dare to.
And in Bruce's experience, having one's partner have to work their nerve up to talk about something can only lead in one direction.
But Bruce isn't ready for it.
So he's been avoiding Clark. Just a little.
Which would have been okay. Easy enough to explain away by both of them being busy.
Though, Bruce has noticed Clark getting more attention at the last couple of functions they've both attended.
Or maybe it's that Clark hasn't been quite so quick to rebuff that attention.
It's not like even Clark's country bumpkin attire does anything to disguise the breadth of those shoulders.
The way Clark's hair curls in a way that just tempts you to tug at them, or run your hand through them.
How Clark's smile brightens up a room, and goddamn, how do people not see that Superman smiles in exactly the same way? It's freaking criminal how a person can get mesmerized when those blinding teeth and kind eyes are aimed in one's direction.
So no, Bruce isn't ready for Clark to tell him he needs to talk to him about something.
But neither is he going to put Clark in a situation where he's linked to Bruce Wayne, because a breakup is going to explode all over the tabloids, even if they think he and Clark have only just started seeing each other.
And Bruce would never do that to Clark.
"Is that a 'hnn, I'll ask him'?" Dick asks hopefully.
"No."
"Aww, come on, B. You've been exclusive for half a decade now!"
"He's the most logical choice." Tim puts in his two cents' worth.
"It would undermine the efforts to keep our identities a secret."
"Or it could cement them." Et tu, Damian? "Grayson and Drake make the point that he is the logical choice, and he would not have to be read into the situation."
"We're not risking it."
"What if I could prove there's no risk?"
Bruce arches an eyebrow. He knows he's taught Tim better than that. There's always some element of risk, no matter what the endeavor.
Tim sighs. "I mean, what if I could prove the risk is minimal in light of the benefits you might gain?"
About to shut him down, Bruce pauses. It would at least get the kids off his back. And it would be nice to dream about it, if only for a little while.
"Fine."
Not that he's changing his mind.
It's too risky, he reminds himself.
No matter how tempting it might be to give it a shot.
Not two days later, he walks into the Batcave only to find a stack of paper on the main console. Frowning, he walks over to it.
The top file reads, “Impact Analysis Report: Operation Come Out.”
The interior pages are a testament to Tim’s love of spreadsheets. And pie charts. Bruce notices some of the data has been confirmed by Lucius Fox.
The last page is a list of suggested portmanteaus for their relationship. It’s actually a page clearly scanned from Clark’s reporter notebook, since Bruce can see the crooked spirals on the top. The names are in Clark’s blocky handwriting. Jesus. And of course the kids—or at least Dick, Jason, and Tim—have added their two cents’ worth after crossing out the rejected options.
Claruce (Jason: How very Hannibal Lecter of you)
Cluce (Dick: Aren’t these a fish’s genitalia?) (Jason: Those are cloaca, dumbass) (Tim: Why do you know this, Jason?) (Jason: Shut up, Replacement)
Clarce (Tim: Like “scarce”? Doesn’t say much about your sex life, B)
Blark (This seems the least offensive, Master Bruce. WTF, Alfred was in on this?)
Brurk (LOL—Bruce can’t tell who wrote this one)
Brark (Jason: Like the sound of a dying bird, or a plane or…)
Went (Jason: Like, he came, he went?)
Kayne (Dick: Or he Kayne, he went?)
Waynt (Tim: No… He WAYNT. Goddamn it, Bruce is going to kill his kids)
STEP 3:
AGENDA ALIGNMENT
Another week, another gala. The truth is, Bruce is heartily sick of all the charity events he has to go to, but part and parcel of getting people to go to the ones the Wayne Foundation sponsors is showing up to other people's pet charities.
Besides, partying is Gotham's favorite method of giving away money (whether it's to the charity itself or the goons that hold these things hostage with alarming frequently, as one Gotham Gazette op-ed once pointed out). There's no other way to get Gotham's one percent to cut the large checks they do when they're able to humble-brag in real time and coerce other one-percenters to clap for them for doing so.
So here Bruce is, though he'd rather trigger one of the Joker's gag flower boutonnieres and inhale deeply.
"You remember my daughter, right? It's been an age since you saw each other last, and she asked after you just last week," one society matron tells him.
"Yes, well, I do recall you used to have a little crush on my granddaughter, didn't you, Brucie? You were classmates in Gotham Prep, I believe." Another society matron smiles at him, and for the briefest moment, he gets the impression of greedy eyes and sharp teeth.
Years of practice have him stomping on the urge to shudder. Bruce can face Killer Croc without an up tick in his heart rate. He can look Darkseid in the face and tell him to do his worst. But there is no fucking way he is going to tell Mrs. Darlington he would rather kiss the Joker than date her granddaughter. Even if it’s the truth. Especially because it’s the truth.
"If I remember correctly, Mrs. Darlington, your granddaughter Milly didn't take too kindly to Bruce ignoring her in school."
Bruce would hope for a rescue, but he knows better. Especially as he recognizes the woman who approaches, only to lay a possessive hand on his back. He'd throw it off, but she's as likely to make a scene as back off.
"It was so long ago, it all kind of blurs for me, if I'm being honest," Bruce says, smiling vaguely and shrugging. When her hand wanders lower, he decides to get mean. "How have you been, Janet?"
Irritation flashes before it's viciously disguised with a saccharine smile. He feels the hand on his lower back tense, but it doesn't move lower. He'll take the win. "It's Jeannie, darling, you must have had more to drink than I realized."
"Pregaming the galas, you know. The only way to survive these things." Bruce raises a glass sloppily. The liquid sloshes but doesn't spill, though the threat of it has the ladies stepping back far enough so he can extricate himself. "Ah, I think I see my favorite reporter! I'm going to go say hi."
He ignores their feeble attempts at protesting and makes a beeline for Clark, who's got Vicki Vale plastered halfway across his front. If the Gazette's gossip queen has her mouth any closer to Clark’s ear, she'll be going all Mike Tyson on it. It’s not that loud in here, goddamn it. She doesn't have to practically stick her tongue in Clark's ear to be heard.
"Clarkie!" he coos. "There you are. Vicki."
"Uh… here I am, Mr. Wayne."
He ignores the Gotham reporter's greeting, her too-wide smile. "Now, Clarkiepoo, you know I've told you to call me Brucie for ages."
He enjoys the way Clark's nose always crinkles the slightest bit at the idea. The truth is, Clark hates the name Brucie, even if he's admitted the role of playboy airhead is damned useful for keeping Bruce's cover. Nearly two decades as a vigilante, and while he's often been suspected of financing the Bat, Bruce has never been accused of being Batman.
Then again, the bumbling reporter thing seems to keep Clark's identity well protected as well, and Bruce has no idea how, considering Clark gets Superman "exclusives" not even Lois Lane can match.
"Can I get a quote on this evening's event, Mr. Wayne?"
"Sure," Bruce says, and watches as Clark pulls out an old-fashioned voice recorder that has him inwardly rolling his eyes—then outwardly doing so when his boyfriend proceeds to drop the device.
"Oh, Clark, you're such a klutz," Vicki says teasingly.
"Sorry about that," Clark says with a sheepish smile as he pushes his glasses back up his nose and starts to turn the recorder on.
"Why don't we go someplace quieter?" Bruce suggests. "Care to escort me, Mr. Kent?" He bats his eyes like a cartoon seductress.
Clark chuckles and offers his arm. "Of course, Mr. Wayne. If you'll excuse us, Vicki?"
They walk toward the balcony doors and find themselves a secluded corner overlooking Gotham's nighttime skyline.
"What's up?" Clark says in a soft voice. "Trouble?"
"Just thought I'd save you from being squashed into Vale's well-exposed bosom," Bruce replies flatly.
Clark frowns. "That's not happening."
"You were halfway there."
"Bruce, don't be ridiculous. And besides, even if she did, she doesn't mean any harm by it. It's just how she is."
"No, it isn't. You'll recall I've known her a bit longer than you have."
Clark shrugs. "It's just the usual schmoozing, B."
And this gives Bruce pause, because like it or not, unusual attentions or not, it is, in fact, just variations of the same old, same old. So why is it affecting him so much tonight?
Bruce sighs. "I'm just tired of it, is all."
Clark steps forward, lays a hand on his forearm. "Tired of what, B?"
He waves a vague hand toward the brightly lit room behind them. He doesn't know how to encompass the entirety of what it is he's tired of. Certainly not the Mission, which means he can't afford to give up on the auxiliary activities that support it.
Still, Clark must see something in his face (after all, Kryptonian vision is an unfair advantage when it comes to reading micro expressions), and he moves even closer. Bruce tenses.
"Bruce, can we talk about—"
"Now isn't the time, Clark."
"No, of course not, but perhaps later?"
"I have patrol."
"Then later, later. After."
Bruce grimaces. "Look, Clark, I know what you want to talk about. And I understand your reasons."
Blue eyes widen in surprise, full lips falling open as Clark gapes for a moment. "You do?"
Of course he does. He never expected to be given as much of Clark's time as he's been gifted. Still. "Yes, of course." He swallows around the lump in his throat. "But... can you give me a little time? To... adjust to the idea? Just a little while longer."
A beatific smile blooms on Clark's face and just about lights up the whole damn night. "Of course, B. Take all the time you need. I mean, not all the time, obviously. But..." Clark rubs at the back of his neck, a nervous habit even Superman can't quite shake. "Are you sure it's okay?"
No, of course not. His goddamn heart is breaking. But the darkness is only meant to hold on to starlight for so long, Bruce reminds himself. "If it's what you want," he says. "I—I just want you to be happy, Clark."
And damned if it isn't the miserable truth.
The whole of Clark's face lights up, softens. Bruce consoles himself with the idea that Clark cares about him still. "Thank you, Bruce. But remember, I want that for you too."
It's in that moment, that very moment, that Bruce stares into those earnest eyes, that smiling face, and he realizes this is his happiness, right here. Right in front of him.
And he knows he has to let him go.
The realization makes him look away. It hurts, because he's only now seeing the sun for the clouds, and he can't bear to bask in Clark's brightness knowing he'll soon be gone. Not, perhaps, completely. But Bruce has never noticed how gray his life was before Clark brought color into it.
I love you, he wants to say. Don't leave. Don't leave me.
What he says instead is, "We should head back in. People will be looking for us."
That brightness dims a little. But just a little. Clark, as if remembering something, smiles again in the next moment. "All right, B," he says softly. Smiling. "Just a little while longer, hmm?"
"Just a little while longer," Bruce echoes, a hollow feeling in his chest.
Clark beams. "Well then, Mr. Wayne, I'd best ask you for that quote, hmm?"
Bruce takes a moment to realign himself. As if the universe hasn't just tilted. Then he snorts. "Make it up. You do it half the time we have these tête-à-têtes anyway."
"All right, B."
He lets himself smile a little—a real smile, not one of his patented Brucie tooth-dazzlers—and it widens when Clark returns it. "Once more into the fray, then."
Clark chuckles at that, and nods. "Live and die on this day."
Bruce offers Clark his arm, in much the same way Clark offered his earlier, and dons the persona of Brucie like a mantle. With exaggerated courtesy and over-the-top general flirtatiousness, he leads his "favorite reporter" back into the fray.
There aren’t many people in the know, so after Clark gets home that night, he gets on the Batfamily chat group he’s in (that somehow excludes Bruce) because he can’t not share what just happened.
Presumptive Stepdad: Hey, guys! I've got good news.
Presumptive Stepdad: Woah, why is that my username?
Boy Blunder: Rule of the Room, someone else picks your handle. Only Oracle knows who picked what
Replacement: I know exactly who picked mine
Demon Child: As do I
Rage Against the B-chine: I applaud whoever picked mine
Alfred: What news did you wish to share, Master Clark?
Presumptive Stepdad: B agreed to go public!
Rage Against the B-chine: WTF? Just like that?
Boy Blunder: See? What did I tell you? You're the best thing that ever happened to him
Demon Child: Grayson, I beg to differ. I would argue that I, as the blood son, claim that privilege
Replacement: Rude
Demon Child: Also, it does not seem like something Father would agree to without intensive discourse.
Replacement: I wrote a report. And prepared a graph. Or two. Or sixteen
Replacement: So I'd say it was intense
Rage Against the B-chine: Suck up
Boy Blunder: I think you probably just ODed on caffeine again, Timmy
Replacement: Though to be honest, I'm also surprised he just agreed
Presumptive Stepdad: Well, he did. Or, well, he kind of agreed
Rage Against the B-chine: The lack of commitment sounds more and more Batlike
Presumptive Stepdad: He asked for time to adjust to the idea, but said he just wanted me to be happy
Boy Blunder: Yeeeeeaaahhh, now that's sounding kind of sus, Big Blue
Presumptive Stepdad: What do you mean?
Rage Against the B-chine: B wouldn't be that wishy-washy about something he thought was Mission-adjacent
Boy Blunder: It's not wishy-washy! It's called having feelings!
Demon Child: Batman does not have feelings!
Boy Blunder: Of course he does! He's just… really good at suppressing them
Rage Against the B-chine: Like urine, feelings are things the old man will hold in for as long as possible til something surprises him and he ends up pissing everywhere on and on every damn one
Replacement: I don't want to agree with Jason on this…
Rage Against the B-chine: But you know it's true
Replacement: But I also have doubts
Alfred: Perhaps if Master Clark could illuminate us on what they spoke about. So long as you feel comfortable doing so, Master Clark.
Presumptive Stepdad: Um. Sure. We were at a gala tonight and got to talking. And I told him I wanted to talk, and he said he already knew what I wanted to talk to him about, and that he understood my reasons, but just needed a little time to adjust to the idea. So I said of course I would give him time, and he said he just wanted me to be happy. So I said I wanted him to be happy too.
Boy Blunder: OK, and?
Presumptive Stepdad: And what?
Rage Against the B-chine: What'd he say next?
Presumptive Stepdad: Um… He said we should go back inside cause we'd been out there a while.
Replacement: …
Boy Blunder: …
Rage Against the B-chine: ahahahahahahahaha
Demon Child: What? What does that mean?
Oracle: It means your father is an idiot, Damian
Alfred: Far be it to agree on this point, Miss Barbara. But, Master Clark, it does seem like you may have had some miscommunication here
Presumptive Stepdad: What? Why? How?
Presumptive Stepdad: What did I misunderstand?
Presumptive Stepdad: Does he not want to go public?
Presumptive Stepdad: Guys?
Presumptive Stepdad: Guys?
Rage Against the B-chine: You lost the bet, Dickieboy, so you get to break it to him
Presumptive Stepdad: What?
Boy Blunder: Um… Clark? Pretty sure that if you translate the B-speak he thought you were breaking up with him
Presumptive Stepdad: WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!
Presumptive Stepdad: I'm gonna kill him.
Boy Blunder: Everyone steer clear of the Cave tonight
Replacement: I can't believe he remembered to punctuate in the middle of all that
Clark makes it to Gotham in just under two minutes, his anger lending speed to his flight.
"BRUCE!"
"BRUCE!"
"BRUCE!"
"Shout a little louder, I could use seismic activity in the Cave." Bruce emerges from the Cave showers in black boxers, a towel draped around his shoulders, dark shirt in hand. Normally, such a sight would thoroughly distract Clark, but not tonight.
"I can't believe you!"
"Hmm?"
"You thought I was breaking up with you!"
Bruce goes absolutely still, and his head jerks up so he can stare wide-eyed at Clark. His mouth is slightly agape, his eyes blank. His heartbeat, usually so strong and even, stutters. Any other time, Clark would be proud of having shocked the unshockable Batman, but tonight he's too angry. For a genius, Bruce is a total idiot.
A long moment passes, before Bruce stutters out, "Ah…y-you weren't?"
"Of course not! I love you, you imbecile."
It's not the first time Clark has said it, or the fortieth, or the four hundredth. Bruce has even said it back, even if it took ages, and his utterances are rarer. But the slow, deliberate way Bruce lets out a breath tells Clark he really hadn't been expecting to hear it again.
Clark crosses his arms and waits.
"I love you too." It's quiet, a little confused, like there's a question in there Bruce isn't willing to ask.
If Clark loved his Bat any less, or was any worse at interpreting his nonverbal cues, he would cross his arms and wait it out. But Bruce has always been painfully reticent on matters of the heart, so he lets himself soften. "I'm not leaving you, you idiot."
A sharp inhale. Bruce's eyes are full of doubts he's clearly not sure how to give voice to.
Clark forges on, his initial rage draining to fond exasperation. "I wanted to ask you out. In public. To dinner, or the next gala. Or coffee, even. We could take it slow. Like I said, I'm willing to give you time to wrap your head around the idea. Not that I realized that your idea and my ideas were completely different things."
Bruce takes a deep breath, visibly recomposes himself. "I'm sorry," he says after a moment.
Clark raises a brow. "You should be."
"We should talk about this."
The brow arches higher. "You know, normally I would say yes, let's sit down and have a discussion about this. But it's not like I'm asking you to announce to the world that Batman and Superman are dating. I'm just a mild-mannered reporter who gets less and less mild in manner the more I have to watch people trying to cop a feel from you at public events. I know Tim put together a report on the benefits of publicizing our relationship."
Bruce huffs. "Eight."
"Pardon?"
"He submitted eight reports on the benefits of going public with this…. Us. Including a forty-page impact analysis on Wayne Enterprises and the Wayne Foundation and over twenty more pages on the ways this can be used to protect our secret identities, not to mention several more pages on how this would push the Foundation's LGBTQ+ agenda."
Where is he going with this? "So…"
"So it'll be you and me at the next gala. If you'll have me."
Now it's Clark's turn to have his heart stutter.
"You're floating. Is that a yes?"
Oh. He hadn't even realized his feet had left the floor. He's smiling so hard it hurts his face.
"Clark?"
He scoops his boyfriend up and kisses him breathless. And, carrying him bridal style, speeds them to the bedroom.
"Clark!"
STEP 4:
AESTHETICS
It's a few days later. Clark is leaving the office to find Bruce's sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom waiting at the curb.
He gets a text.
[Bruce Wayne: Get in.]
Surprisingly, it's Alfred in the back seat, and one of the back up drivers at the wheel. "Good afternoon, Master Clark."
"Hi, Alfred," Clark says, letting his confusion show on his face. "Am I missing something?"
"Yes," the older man says gravely. "Suitable attire for attending your next gala on Master Bruce's arm."
Oh.
Just then, his phone pings again. And again. And again.
"Give me just a second to check this."
Alfred inclines his head politely.
[Bruce Wayne: Dick broke into your apartment to check your closet. He told Alfred all your suits were off the rack.]
[Dick Grayson: I saw your suit collection. Alfred is horrified. He's taking you shopping today.]
[Bruce Wayne: Don't even try to go near anything American-made.]
[Bruce Wayne: Good luck.]
Clark realizes exactly why Bruce wished him luck, because boy did he need it. And texting with his boyfriend during his excursion (torture) with the Wayne family butler gains him exactly zero sympathy points, it seems.
Clark Kent: Did you know there was a difference between black and charcoal?
Bruce Wayne: Obviously
Clark Kent: And why are there three types of lapels on a jacket? Did you know there were three types of lapels?
Bruce Wayne: Typically, you have the option of notched, peak, or shawl
Clark Kent: I was today years old when I learned these things.
Bruce Wayne: How you're in your 30s I have no idea
Clark Kent: I’ve never had to dress this fancy! Are we going to have to do this every time we go out?
Bruce Wayne: … Probably?
Clark Kent: Maybe we should just stick with the secret relationship status.
Bruce Wayne: We can, if you really want to
Clark Kent: No, damn it. I’m not going to chicken out just because talking about the vents on a suit I’m going to wear makes me cross-eyed!
Bruce Wayne: Okay then
Clark Kent: Also, when we were picking out shoes, I tried to quote Kingsman and say "Oxfords, not brogues"
Bruce Wayne: You didn't...
Clark Kent: I did. I was treated to 20-minute lecture, with real-life examples, on how oxfords can be brogues, but not all brogues are oxfords and not all oxfords are brogues. I had no idea it was so complicated.
Bruce Wayne: At least you learned something
Clark Kent: I don't think I did? I feel like I'm more confused now.
Clark Kent: And I feel like I've lost points with Alfred.
Bruce Wayne: All you need to know is that Alfred would never let you go to a formal event in brogues
Bruce Wayne: And neither would I
Bruce Wayne: I'd break up with you first
Clark Kent: Did you just joke about my misery?
Clark Kent: Wait... Never mind my misery. Did you actually just make a joke?
“I’m exhausted,” Clark announces, flopping down on Bruce’s Alaskan king bed. He muses, not for the first time, that it’s a ridiculously huge bed, even given that neither he nor Bruce are small men; then again, he hadn’t even known there was more than one type of king-sized bed before he started dating Bruce so…
“Alfred and I appreciate your sacrifice,” Bruce says drily, walking out of the bathroom with a towel draped around damp shoulders, water glistening in his hair, and a loose pair of sweatpants that make Clark realize maybe he isn’t as exhausted as he first claimed. He sits up. Literally and euphemistically.
“I’m just glad it’s over.”
Bruce frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Signor Ricci told me I could come back on Saturday. And really, when I told him he could call me Clark instead of Signor Kent, he just sniffed at me! I thought that only happened in movies.”
“Hnn.”
“I’m serious! I mean, does he call you Signor Wayne?”
“No.”
“Is it some kind of newbie hazing ritual?”
“No. But mostly because Alfred has me get most of my suits from Savile Row.”
“Oh my god.”
“Also, you do know that your Saturday appointment is just your first fitting, right?”
“What?” Clark doesn’t squawk out the word, no matter what Bruce says later.
“Hmm.”
“First fitting? How many fittings do I need to get a suit made?”
“Anywhere between three and five is a good estimate.”
“Three and five?”
“Typically,” Bruce says with no sympathy whatsoever.
Clark flops back down on the bed. Talk about a buzzkill.
STEP 5:
READY, SET, ACTION!
The morning of the Metropolis Gala for the Arts, Clark wakes up wrapped around Bruce in Bruce’s penthouse apartment in downtown Metropolis. Glancing at the clock, he realizes he needs to superspeed through his morning routine if he wants to get to work on time.
“Be here by six to get ready,” Bruce grumbles at him from the bed, not even opening his eyes.
“The gala starts at six!” Clark yelps, pausing on his way out the door to stare at the lump on the bed.
“Be here by six. Eat light meals during the day.”
“Bruce—”
“Six. Only has-beens show up on time.”
Rolling his eyes, Clark heads off to work. He’s got a full day before he has to even think about getting ready for the gala, but he’s already got butterflies in his tummy, and not the good, giddy type that usually accompanies the prospect of spending time with Bruce.
He knows he should listen to Bruce’s advice about eating, but those darned butterflies never quite leave, and Clark finds even Supermanning (Clark blames the Batkids that this is what he calls patrolling now) doesn’t distract from his nervousness.
“Have you had lunch, darling?” The airy tones of Brucie come over the phone as Clark stops over at the Kent farm on his lunch break to help his mom fix a tractor she won’t need for a few more months.
“I’m at the farm helping Ma with a few things,” he says. “I’m eating as I work.”
To make him less of a liar, he grabs the nearest thing and takes a bite. Nevermind that it’s a wrench.
“Hnn.”
“Gotta go, Bruce! See you later!”
By the time six o’clock rolls around, Clark is a wreck. He’d been flying over a beach in Florida and “rescued” a woman who’d been waving frantically, only to find she wasn’t drowning but trying to get the attention of a friend on the shore who was holding their camera. He “rescued” a chipmunk out of a tree that he’d thought was a kitten. The thing had actually thrown a nut at him.
“Have a good day at work?” Bruce says when Clark swooshes through the balcony doors. The billionaire hasn’t even left the bedroom, it seems. His hair is still sleep-tousled, and he’s wearing nothing but a robe and boxer briefs.
“It was fine,” Clark lies blithely.
“Liar.” Damn it. How does he always know?
“Okay, I’ve been a nervous wreck! Are you happy now?” Clark isn’t usually much of a shouter outside the battlefield, but he’s just about ready to tear his hair out.
Bruce stands up, saunters over. Kisses him soundly. “It’ll be fine, Clark. You’ll do great.”
“What if I don’t?” Clark’s voice is small now. He feels small.
“You will,” Bruce says with a smile that’s both sweet and self-deprecating. “After all, you’re coming on Brucie’s arm.”
“Oh god.”
Bruce lets out a chuckle, then swats his ass. “Come on, Boy Scout, let’s get showered. The stylists are waiting.”
“The what?”
“The stylists,” Bruce repeats. “They’re waiting in the unit across the hall.”
Clark doesn’t understand how it takes two hours for them to be declared ready by the team of stylists, with the final approval coming from Alfred, of course. But it does, and Clark has no doubt it would’ve taken longer if Bruce hadn’t shooed away the manicurist (who would have failed completely at buffing Kryptonian nails) and a few other members of the six-person team. The primping does nothing to settle his nerves.
Then they climb into the limo, which is even more ridiculous because they’re going not half a block away, and with the traffic, it takes them over half an hour to get to the drop-off point.
There are flashes as soon as they step out of the limo, but Bruce ignores the paparazzi yelling questions at them. “They’re bottom-feeders,” he mutters under his breath, knowing Clark will hear him.
On one hand, Clark sympathizes with the people kept beyond the outer ropes hoping to make a living. On the other hand, he knows how vicious paps can be.
So he lets Bruce lead him to a big tent where even more stylists give them a last-minute check and touch-up (including some kind of mist that one lady sprays over his face after telling him to take off his glasses and close his eyes). Then they’re out on the red carpet, and the press are chanting Bruce’s name.
Or, rather, they’re chanting “Brucie.”
“Brucie, who’ve you got with you?” Clark doesn’t recognize the reporter who calls this out, but then again, he only gets stuck on the social beat when Perry isn’t happy with him.
“This is my boyfriend, Clarkiepoo!” Bruce chirps, smiling widely.
There’s a moment of stunned silence—after all, Bruce has been a notorious womanizer for a couple of decades now—and then it breaks, and the assembled members of the press start screaming. Clark barely suppresses a wince.
There’s a chorus of “over here” and Clark doesn’t know where to look, but Bruce keeps his hand on the small of Clark’s back and subtly directs him, even leaning in to kiss his cheek in a move that has the cameras clicking like machine gunfire.
All the while, the reporters about questions.
“What’s his name?”
“How long have you been together?”
“How long have you been gay?” This one has Clark frowning, because why even would anyone ask this? Rude.
“How did you meet?”
“Is that Clark Kent?”
Clark startles and narrows his eyes against the flashes, and after a moment recognizes Cat Grant’s assistant.
“Yes, this is my Clarkie,” Bruce says with a beaming smile. “We’ve been together a while now, and but this is our first date out in public! And as for how long I’ve been gay, I’m actually bisexual, and as my friend Lady Gaga likes to sing, baby, I was born this way!”
This draws titters from the crowd, and by serendipity (or Bruce’s ever-observant eyes), that self-same celebrity drops by, kisses Bruce on the cheek, sings out a few notes of the quoted song, and gushes congratulations at him before telling Clark it’s nice to meet him.
Clark barely has a moment to register that the queen of his morning shower song list has just greeted him when Bruce is ushering him down the line to the next designated spot, leaving Lady Gaga to pose where they had been standing.
Bruce seems almost giddy in his introduction of Clark as his boyfriend, though the number of times he brings out “Clarkiepoo” and “Clarkiepie” would no doubt have him cringing if he wasn’t so shellshocked.
Yes, he knew that they would be going public with a splash.
He hadn’t expected a whole freaking ocean.
“Bruce and Clark!”
Ahead of them on the carpet is a pair of familiar faces, and Clark is pathetically grateful to see Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance smiling at him. Though their smiles are press-perfect and kind of creeping Clark out.
“O-Ollie! Dinah!”
“Good to see you guys.” They trade air kisses, and the cameras go crazy again.
“Mr. Queen! How long have you known Brucie was dating Mr. Kent?”
“Why do we get to be called Mr. Queen and Mr. Kent while Bruce gets called Brucie?” Clark murmurs to Dinah.
She laughs. “Bruce has got them trained.”
“I’ve been friends with both Bruce and Clark forever, and it feels like I’ve been waiting for them to get together for decades!” Oliver exclaims in a way that Clark thinks will have Bruce pummeling him on the Justice League training mats in short order.
The foursome make their way down the line, and though Clark and Bruce get asked to pose as a couple more often than Oliver and Dinah do.
“We’re old news,” Ollie says laughing. “You guys are fresh meat.”
And Clark feels pretty much like chum in a sea of circling sharks, because the next few hours are spent fielding questions, catty comments, and unsubtle innuendos from everyone from reporters to celebrities to high society from Metropolis and Gotham alike.
Then there are afterparties, in which there are more gossip-mongers to parade in front of, and while Bruce manages to pull him onto the dance floor a couple of times, which is nice, by the time they get back to Bruce’s apartment, Clark is pretty sure he’d rather go another round with Darkseid than attend another gala on Bruce’s arm.
“You think this is bad, just you wait til we go to a shindig in Gotham.”
The words make Clark fall into an exhausted sleep. No, he doesn’t faint. Superman doesn’t faint at the thought of going to a party, no sirree.
STEP 6:
BRACE YOURSELF (THE BRUCIE EFFECT)
It's late the next morning when Clark and Bruce emerge from Bruce's room. They make their way to the breakfast table, only to stop short when they see the entire family there.
"Good morning, everyone," Clark says, a little hesitantly.
Bruce doesn't even bother. He just grunts and sits himself in a chair. A large mug of coffee appears in front of him. "Thanks, Alfie," he murmurs, and proceeds to guzzle it.
Seriously, it's no wonder Tim has a caffeine addiction, with Bruce for a role model.
"So," Dick says, putting his tablet down, his face arranged into a look of such casual curiosity it has to be fake. "I don't suppose you've had a peek at the headlines yet."
Conveniently, several Gotham and Metropolis rags, as well as national and international papers, are spread over the dining table. Someone has helpfully folded them to display the Society pages, although he and Bruce have apparently made it to Gotham's front pages.
The Gotham Gazette screams, “Bruce Wayne Comes Out!”
The Gotham Tattler is typically vicious: “Clark Kent: Brucie's True Love or Vicious Gold Digger?”
The Gotham Times is more sedate, of course. “Bruce Wayne and Boyfriend Attend Metropolis Gala.”
The Daily Planet story is notably not a front-page feature, for which Clark is grateful. But still. He eyes the headline reading, “Exclusive: Reporter Clark Kent on Dating Billionaire Bruce Wayne, by Cat Grant.”
“Did you have to let Cat drag me away for that interview?”
“Mmm. Promised Perry.”
“You’re on Buzzfeed too,” Dick says cheerfully. He shows them the screen on his tablet, which is shows a Buzzfeed article with the title “Who Is Clark Kent? (And How Did He Snag Gotham's Hottest Bachelor?)”
The kids snicker when Clark just facepalms.
“That’s nothing,” Jason says. He turns his phone to show he’s accessed Metropolis News Online. “Luthor on Blark: ‘Kent Could Do Better.’ Gotta say I agree with this one, Old Man.”
Clark chokes on his OJ.
“Hnn.”
“I know we talked about it, but I can’t believe people are making this big a deal out of this,” Clark says weakly.
"You think that's a lot? #Blark is trending," Dick says cheerfully. "Tim?"
The boy in question mumbles something incoherent to even Clark's super hearing, taps something on his phone, and points to the screen to one side of the breakfast table.
Clark proceeds to stare as tweet after tweet scrolls by.
“#Blark explains so many things about Brucie,” one netizen announces.
“‘Favorite reporter’ my fine ass. Totally just Brucie speak for boyfriend. I can’t believe it took us this long to clue in to it,” another says.
While one of their friends replies with, “I think what you meant to say was ‘Favorite reporter,’ Brucie’s fine ass. Although from the pics, the boyfie’s fine too, so what I wanna know is which of #Blark bottoms?”
Which is promptly followed up by, “Betcha it’s Brucie. Didja read the bit about Kent being a farmboy from Kansas? Brucie’s probably like, ‘shuck my corn, boy’!”
"You should probably check your Twitter, Clark."
He doesn’t want to, but does it anyway. And splutters. He's gained 200,000 followers overnight. "What?"
People are tweeting congratulations, questions on his and Bruce's relationship, even death threats.
He looks at Bruce, flabbergasted.
His shit of a boyfriend, who'd looked half-dead a moment before, widens his eyes and smiles, then raises his smartphone. Clark stares back at him balefully. Then he hears the click of a phone camera.
Bruce pulls away, phone in hand, face relaxed into sleepy lines once more.
Bruce Wayne
@BruceWayneOfficial
Brekkie with the boyfie @ClarkKent! Talk about delicious!
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