Chapter Text
The Daily Planet is a fast-paced work environment even for a newspaper. You have to be the best of the best at something, or you won’t be able to keep up. That’s just how it is.
Jimmy is far from the most senior journalist at the Planet. He’s not close to the most skilled. He’s not the most prolific, or the most well-connected, or the most tenacious. But he does have some things his coworkers don’t. He’s a decent photographer, for one, stubbornly working his way towards being a good one, and he has something of a knack for being in the right place at the right time, which goes a long way towards making up for everything he lacks.
Which is to say: Jimmy tends to collect secrets whether he means to or not. It’s an incredibly useful talent in their line of work, and it means he can more or less keep pace with Lois Lane, the chosen favorite of God, awards committees, and ill-tempered editors alike.
Which is to say: Jimmy knows things about Clark Kent. Firstly and most obviously, he’s absolutely gone on Lois. The guy isn’t exactly subtle about it. Every time she enters a room he turns to her, his whole face opening like a flower to the sun. How she hasn’t noticed that is a mystery, but Jimmy is fairly certain that she hasn’t. She’d have let him down already if she knew. She’s not usually so charitable towards her admirers, but she does like Clark, even if only as a friend. And Clark’s second secret…
“Fifty bucks says you can’t get Big Blue to put out before summer,” Cat says, waving her empty martini glass like a conductor’s baton. “It’s been, what, two years? Three? And you still haven’t got in his superpanties yet. It’s not happening, Lane. Time to throw in the towel.”
Jimmy, in his capacity as designated driver and unofficial newsroom bookie, diligently writes down GRANT, $50, Lois strikes out. Across the booth, Clark slouches a little more into his IPA. If he doesn’t put anything into the Will-Lois-Ever-Actually-Fuck-The-Alien pool soon, Jimmy’s going to have to drag him off to the bathroom and break the news that sometimes maintaining a secret identity means getting involved in the salacious gossip about said secret identity. Even the chief has money in, though Jimmy’s under strict orders not to mention this unless he wins the lot.
“One hundred says I’ve got a hot date within a month,” Lois shoots back. “He’s using my actual name now, not just Ms. Lane. There’s something there, I know it. I’ve been experimenting with perfumes. I’ll get him.”
“We know, darling. You gave poor Jimmy an asthma attack with Light Blue.”
“And Superman didn’t seem to like it either, which is what I call a concussive – concluding – con-clu-sive result. Smallville! Are you gonna finish that beer or just mope at it? We’re s’posed to be celebrating!”
It just so happens that Clark’s twenty-ninth birthday is one of the things they came out to celebrate. That, Cat’s engagement, and Lois’ very first nomination for the Michael Kelly award – and, Jimmy suspects, the fact that Lois managed not to die horribly in pursuit of the Doomsday story that won her that nomination. Thank goodness for Superman.
Cat starts suggesting fashion tips to get Superman to notice her, consisting mostly of fewer layers, shorter skirts, and unbuttoned blouses. Clark slumps lower and lower in the booth with each word, looking pretty damn unthankful for Superman. Why he can’t just tell Lois about his secret identity or massive throbbing crush, Jimmy doesn’t know, but the whole thing stopped being frustrating weeks ago. Now it’s just sad.
“—gotta be super. I mean, it’s gotta be. You’ve seen – we’ve all seen it, yanno? It’s not exactly subtle. The guy’s wearing a skin-tight alien Speedo, it’s pretty much out there for ogling. Business is in the open.”
“Oh, come on. I wouldn’t have agreed to come if I knew you girls were just gonna spend the entire time gossiping about alien dick.”
“Shut up, Steve, jealousy is unbecoming. Jimmy! You’ve gotten more pictures of him than anyone else in Photo put together. What’s your verdict?”
Lois and Cat’s combined attention settles on Jimmy’s shoulders like a ton of lead. Steve takes a perturbed sip of his lager. Clark looks about two seconds away from inventing another urgent phone call from his ma and flying out of here as quickly as he can.
Jimmy nudges him under the table and mouths, I’ve got you.
Clark looks pathetically grateful.
Jimmy says, “Oh, Supercock all the way.”
Clark’s face hits the table hard enough that the crack of his glasses is audible.
“What? You guys said it! S’not like it’s some kind of secret. My pal Superman is packing. You should see the fan theories. There’s some real weirdos out there who think he like, lays eggs through his dick, and that’s why it’s so big. Hey, speaking of. How’s your fanfiction doing, Lois?”
“Very well, thank yew, Olsen.”
“Eeeew, you’re writing him laying eggs?”
“No, I’m not – well, not this time, anyway. I’m trying something more experimental—”
“Experimental?” Clark manages weakly.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve says, and waves at the server to ask for something stronger than a beer.
“There’s more than one school of thought on Kryptonian reproduction,” Lois begins. She’s reached the golden zone: drunk enough to not be embarrassed about theorizing in public about Superman’s junk, sober enough to do it coherently. Poor Clark. “As you all know, they appear more or less completely human from the outside. Hell, if Superman took off his costume and starting dressing like, oh, I dunno, like Clark, most people would probably never even notice him.”
A bottle of whiskey arrives for Steve, and Clark surreptitiously pours himself four fingers. What a waste.
“But just because they look human when they’re fully dressed doesn’t mean they are. Think about all the things his eyes can do that a normal person’s can’t. Now think about all the things his c—”
“You’re going about this in entirely the wrong way,” Clark interrupts. The whole table turns to look at him. It might just be the lighting, but he looks suspiciously pink. “Lois, I respect you, professionally and personally, but you’re biased. Incurably. People are coming up with ideas about Superman and his sexual capabilities based on what they find hot. They’re projecting all their wildest fantasies onto him and defending it by pointing out that he’s an alien, anything’s possible.”
Lois has a thoughtful look on her face. “But he is an alien.”
“And Wonder Woman is a demigoddess from a magical island, and no one’s coming up with insane genital theories for her,” Clark shoots back. “Heck, there’s still folks who aren’t even convinced Batman is real, and Chitter’s crawling with people who want to…”
“Have their backs broken into Bat-smithereens by a sentient gargoyle wearing a black bedsheet and a pair of ears?”
“Yeah, that. Look. We know some things about Krypton, right? There’s not a lot of information, but we’re not working from nothing. They were a technologically advanced society, we know that. We know Superman, Kal-El, he’s the last surviving adult of his species free from the Phantom Zone. And we know that despite that, he’s made no attempts to reproduce with a human woman. Not in a way that a human could recognize as reproduction, anyway, which – I mean, I clearly haven’t researched the theories as extensively as Lois, but I feel you’d notice if an alien was trying to breed with you, yeah?”
“So?” Cat says, playing with her cocktail stick. “That’s proof of what, exactly?”
Clark leans in. “So maybe you’re all missing the point. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s physically incompatible with human beings. It’s incredibly rare for two different species to produce viable offspring even if they are outwardly similar. All the tentacles and egg-laying are creative and all, and I’m not saying it’s not normal for people to fantasize about someone who’s helped them, but let’s be real! If he could be with a human, and Lois is right there offering herself up – no offense, Lois—”
“Offense taken. Quit while you’re ahead, Smallville.”
“—if he has the option to date Lois and he doesn’t take it, maybe he can’t be with humans that way. Maybe the trunks are, uh. You guys know how the appendix is useless? Evolved out of function? Maybe there’s a situation like that. I think we have to consider all the possibilities.”
There’s a pause as this theory is digested.
“That,” Lois says slowly, “makes…too much sense. Oh, damn it. Damn it! The one guy… I learned how to put on fake lashes for him, what the hell. What the hell. And now you’re thinking he literally can’t?”
It seems to hit Clark, then, what he’s just done. What he cannot undo without admitting to the whole table just how certain he is that Superman does not possess the fanfic-worthy genitalia to satisfy every xenophiliac’s filthy wet dreams. He looks at Jimmy, wild-eyed and pleading.
Jimmy shakes his head.
CLARKY STARDUST ✨
< Good job man. Very smooth
< Like sandpaper
< Surely now no one will suspect you
< Couldn’t have done better myself
> Shut up Jimmy
< Seriously
< You could have just told her
< Like maybe not right then but. It’s been YEARS
< Ruined your own chance
< What r you going to do now
> IDK!!! I wasn’t thinking over the consequences
< The consequences of you telling your crush, who said that she wants to smash a guy who happens to be you, that you think that guy physically can’t fuck
< In front of all our coworkers btw
> Yes I’ve had better cover saves but they can’t all be good
> Got to go :-( something’s come up
> I think it’s a kaiju? I didn’t know you could get those in Michigan
> But I’ll come up with something. Maybe ask a friend for help
< GL w the kaiju
< And with the sex thing I suppose
< At this point you don’t need a friend
< You need a miracle worker
The best way to discuss personal problems with Batman is to not do it at all. The second-best way is to start with a distraction. Clark waits until his favorite part of the week, the one time he’s guaranteed to be alone with his best friend: monitor duty. He waits a good two hours into their six-hour shift so that B is awake but not alert, relaxed but not bored, in the perfect emotional middle ground between hyperactive and exhausted that would be contentedness on anyone but Batman.
“B,” Clark begins, “we’re friends, right?”
B grunts too long to be annoyed and too short to be dismissive, neutral-agreement-curiosity.
“I’ve got this problem. It’s a, well, it’s a complicated problem. Kal and Clark both have this problem. I’ve been trying to come up with ways I could possibly solve it without revealing my identity and I think I need your help.”
The sound of B’s typing pauses briefly. “Lexcorp or Daily Planet?”
“Daily Planet, sort of. It’s Lois. It’s a Lois problem.”
“When is it not,” Bruce says under his breath.
Clark can think of three incidents just last week where it was not a Lois problem, but he can think of five more incidents where it was, so he doesn’t bother arguing. “Can you help me or not?”
Bruce doesn’t look away from his one-Bat war on Luthor’s personal firewalls. “What is it that you need my help with?”
“Promise you won’t think it’s weird?”
“Pinky promise,” he says gravely, raising his gauntlet and extending one clawed little finger, still not looking at Clark.
“Okay, great. Look at this for me, will you?”
The second-best way to discuss personal problems with Batman relies on appealing to his sense of organization. It’s why Clark took the time to make a presentation. With a custom theme, animated bullet points, and slide transitions. If there’s one thing Bruce loves besides his city, his car, and his bat-themed accessories, it’s a good slide transition. Even better if the slide transition is also bat-themed, which Clark’s are, naturally.
Bruce sits through the entire thing in stony silence. Clark has no idea what he’s thinking. His heartbeat doesn’t change, his face doesn’t shift, he doesn’t so much as twitch while Clark talks. He’s almost at the end of his slides when he realizes, disconcerted, that this is what it must be like to be Hal. Never a good thing to come to terms with when you’re trying to get Batman to do something for you.
Clark reaches the end of his PowerPoint all too soon. Thanks for listening! the last slide says in bolded Rockwell. “So, um, that’s more or less the problem, and what I was thinking you could lend a hand with. Any questions?”
Bruce stares at him.
“No questions? Great—”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he says slowly. “You want me to speak with a reporter, on record, in my civilian identity, and claim that I’ve had sex with you. You then want me to divulge the details of this nonexistent sexual encounter in a way that will convince the woman you are infatuated with that Kryptonians are, in fact, intimately compatible with human beings, contrary to what you in your civilian identity have previously implied to her.”
It does sound a lot worse when B is repeating it back to him in that unnecessarily judgmental tone of voice. “Well. Yes, basically.”
“Kal. You want Bruce Wayne to inform the press that he’s fucked Superman.”
“Or been fucked by Superman! Or both. Both would be best, actually. To confirm that I can do both.”
Bruce stares at him.
“I’m a very versatile alien,” Clark tries. His whole face feels burning hot. “Intimately compatible with human beings in a number of positions.”
Bruce stares at him.
“Look, I could arrange everything. All you’d have to do is drop a couple of one-liners, maybe do one interview with Cat where you imply that I rescued you and hung around a bit after. That’ll feed the gossip columns for at least a month, people will remember you’re bi until the next time you date more than three women in a row, we’ll pass like two ships in the night, and me and Lois will probably be going steady by her birthday.”
Bruce raises his hands to his head and kneads at his temples through the cowl. What a drama queen. “Going steady,” he repeats, enough acid in his voice to ruin the rest of Harvey’s face.
“Come on. It’d be a huge help. I’ll bake you a pie. Please?”
“No.”
“I’ll bake you two pies.”
“No.”
“Phew, hard bargain. Okay. I’ll ask Ma if she’d be willing to share her flaky pastry recipe with Alfred and I’ll schedule time for more experiments in the red room.”
“No.”
It’s time to bring out the big guns. Clark flickers to Bruce’s side at superspeed. He kneels and rests his weight half in Bruce’s lap, folding his hands together and resting his elbows on Bruce’s thighs and making his eyes as big as possible. Bruce tries to shove him off and fails. Bruce tries to glower him back into his own seat and fails.
Clark says, sweet as sugar, “Pretty please from your very best friend in the whole wide multiverse?”
“You’re insane,” Bruce informs him. So much for the World’s Finest. Ask one little favor of a guy and he starts looking at you like you belong in Arkham. “I could spend a week explaining all the reasons this wouldn’t work and I still wouldn’t scratch the surface—”
The monitor womb’s wall of screen lights up red with an urgent alert. Clark flashes back to his seat as Bruce pulls the spot of interest into focus: a fleet of alien ships of an unfamiliar design, hundreds strong, their sleek sculpted hulls bristling with weapons. The satellites put them twenty thousand feet above Central City and descending quickly. The alert was Barry’s, and it’s Clark on call this shift for emergencies of sudden alien invasion caliber.
“Are you going to help him deal with that, or are you going to stay here and argue, Superman?”
He’s so snide. Sometimes Clark thinks about how Dr. and Mrs. Wayne surely wouldn’t have approved of their son growing into such a sassy man. Sadly it was inevitable, with Alfred being the one to raise him.
Clark stands. “This conversation isn’t over,” he threatens. “You promised.”
“Hnn. Whatever you say.”
BRUCEBRUCEBRUCE (not from HR)
< Bruce
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< Bruce
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< Bruce
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< BRUUUUUUUUCE
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< I know you can see this
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< Unblock me or I’m telling Diana about the time you mentioned wanting to take Jumpa to the zoo for examination
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< And then went on a 15 minute spiel about the protein to fat ratio of kangaroo meat
> What do you want.
< :-)
> **What do you want that is not absurd, ill-considered, and likely as not to end up with both of us discredited as serious, trustworthy professionals forever.
> I’m busy.
< The citizens of Gotham can be cyberstalked at any time, I need help ASAP
< You pinky promised!!
> A pinky promise extracted under false pretenses is considered fraudulent and therefore not legally binding
< You need to spend less time with Harvey
> So I have more time free to pretend I’m with you?
> You’re trying to take advantage of me.
> You’re using me for my looks and my reputation.
> Whenever a man says he’s not like other reporters, he’s lying.
> Luthor is right. Freedom of the press is a shackle keeping society in the mud
< Krypto misses you
< He misses Ace too
< [unlovedandabandoned.jpeg]
< Are you going to let our baby boy languish in suffering…………
> “Our”? First I’m rumored to be having sex with you, now I have joint custody of the dog?
> This scheme is getting out of hand.
< Don’t be mad just cuz he likes my parents better than you, they give him bacon and you give him Ace’s gross designer dog food
> Curiously I remain emotionally uncompromised by the regard or lack thereof of an animal who does not belong to me.
< Figures you’d be a deadbeat dad SMDH
< There really are no ethical billionaires
> I’ll cry myself to sleep on my silk sheets surrounded by sacks overflowing with hundred-dollar bills.
> Scrooge McDuck, eat your heart out.
< All jokes aside Hal and John asked me to help them w/ something so I’m gonna be OOO for a few weeks and Pa’s foot’s still in the boot so the folks can’t take him
< Before you yell at me abt using the wrong phone for work business, it’s just dogsitting
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< Goddamn it
> [Message could not be delivered.]
< Stop taking it out on our SON Bruce divorce is a formative puppyhood trauma
> [Message could not be delivered.]
🦇🧍♂️
> The next time you use an unsecured civilian device to communicate RE: Justice League operations I’m raising a motion for your dismissal.
< We have to vote on those?
< No one will support it?
< I’m Superman, you boob
< SUPERMAN
> It’s a matter of principle.
< [cutestsuperpuppyever.jpeg]
> Using your secure communicator to spam me with photos of the dog because I can’t block you over official channels is not helping your case.
< One picture cannot be spam
< Like. By definition
< Losing your touch there B
> Hostage situation in Miagani branch of Gotham City Bank. Going offline
< Good luck XOXO
< See how I wish you luck even when you’re mean to me?
< That’s what being a good friend is all about
Bruce holds the line. He holds the line against Clark’s sad emoji-filled texts to his regular cell, his work cell, and all of his encrypted comms lines. He holds the line against even sadder puppy eyes during League meetings. He is in no way affected by the Man of Steel’s rather clumsy attempts at what might, from another person, be considered emotional blackmail.
“Bruce?”
“No.”
“Maybe I was going to ask you if you wanted coffee.”
“You weren’t. And I wouldn’t want any if you were.”
“Bru-u-u-uce. There’s a triple espresso with extra whipped cream, made with love, and it has your name on it.”
“No.”
He does take in Krypto while Clark is off-planet assisting with the Lantern business. It’s strictly a matter of operational security. The poor mutt has celestial-grade abandonment issues. Clark can’t exactly leave him alone in his shoebox apartment in Metropolis; his building isn’t pet-friendly, the last time he tried anyway he ended up needing to move, and he still hasn’t forgiven Bruce for going over his head and paying for the damages. As if he could have covered them himself when he sends half his salary to his parents. Bruce had been tempted to write a check to the Kents, just to thumb his nose at Clark, but Martha and Jonathan wouldn’t have taken it.
Alfred is not best pleased with the sudden addition of Krypto to the household for two and a half weeks without much notice. Bruce can’t say he’s thrilled either, with the amount of lint-rolling his suits need whenever Krypto feels cuddly. He’s just lucky the Batsuit repels dog fur. Ace is enjoying himself, at least. Bruce can leave the pair of them in the cave to entertain themselves while they go on patrol. Which is good, because the robberies are becoming infectious in a way that speaks of something larger.
He contacts Selina for help swiping information from a fixer, a regular at the Iceberg Lounge. She gets back to him two days later: got ur goods. the usual place XOXO
Bruce’s cape flares open as soon as he clears the rooftop. The grapple disengages. There’s a moment just afterwards before his wings catch the wind where gravity forgets its hold on him and he rises, weightless, flying. He throws out his arms, feels the tines of his cape snap rigid, and soars.
He doesn’t have to take an extra loop around Wayne Tower. He doesn’t need the additional height. He doesn’t need to glide for a moment over Gotham, looking down at the mottled lights and shadows and subtle movements of people in the streets far below him. He does anyway. He wonders if this is how Clark feels with the world and all its humans spread beneath him like a painting.
No wonder he’s the way that he is. If Bruce could do this any time he wanted, he would be insufferable too.
“Ms. Kyle has arrived at your rendezvous point in the old city,” Alfred tells him over comms. “Rather ahead of schedule, one can’t help but notice.”
“Bad manners to keep a lady waiting,” Bruce says. He glides under the bridge, grapples up off the courthouse, and launches himself south. Selina comes into view on the roof of the old ACE Chemicals headquarters, a sleek dark shape lounging against a metal strut with her legs kicked out and her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Her dark head is down; she seems to be examining her claws, idle as you please. Bruce drops to a gargoyle on the building adjacent and warns Alfred: “You might want to black out comms until I contact you again.”
“Oh dear, sir. Would that be a glimmer of wishful thinking that I can spy with my little eye?”
If only Bruce had the time. “As a precaution, Alfred. The night’s not over yet.”
“Very well, Master Bruce. I hope it proves most productive. Shall I light a candle and pray for your success?”
Bruce kills the line without dignifying that with a response. He lands on the roof of the ACE Chemicals office.
Selina’s head jerks up when he gets within arm’s reach. She’s wearing a headset, Bruce notices, probably scanning police channels again. If she had a tail it would be spiked to make her look more imposing. “Jesus, you couldn’t have made some noise?”
Bruce looks down at his boots. It took him sixteen months of redesigning the soles to achieve this degree of sound absorption. Lucius threatened to quit twice. He looks back at Selina, who has no room to criticize anyone’s gear while wearing a cold-weather suit with a real sable collar and a zipper opened almost to the bottom of her ribcage. “I’m Batman.”
“Right. Then I’m sure you’ll know what to do with this.” She tosses him a slim black rectangle he snatches out of the air: a burner phone. “I got in and out without stirring a hair on your man’s head. The SIM card was another thing. Your little Batvirus worked so well it copied the encryption, too. Have fun with that.”
“Thank you, Selina,” Bruce says, and means it. Allies as reliable as Clark are few and far between, and even he’s taken recent leave of his sanity. Selina is a breath of fresh air with her unique skillset and her determination, not unlike Bruce’s own, to swear off all romance. Sex and crime with benefits, she calls their arrangement. He wishes she didn’t phrase it like that. He made the mistake of saying so once, and now she’ll call it nothing else.
“Not gonna give me any gratitude, sweetheart?” Selina purrs.
Bruce pauses. He considers how much time decrypting the SIM card will take, the likelihood the information it contains is time-sensitive, the discomfort inherent in sex on a rooftop in February, even if he leaves most of his suit on. His lizard brain reminds him that Selina’s zipper goes far below her ribcage. His rational brain reminds him that it’s thirty degrees with a chance of snow. The bugs Selina lets him keep in her building remind him that she still hasn’t had anyone in to fix the radiator that broke last week, and if she catches a cold now then she’ll have to get over it in an apartment with no heating.
Sadly, the calculations do not rule in favor of rooftop sex. But they don’t rule out rooftop kissing.
“One for the road?” Bruce asks. Selina’s teeth gleam when she smiles.
Light floods the nest of blankets, and Bruce is forced back to consciousness with a groan.
“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred says pleasantly. Through the haze of exhaustion, Bruce’s brain struggles to piece together sunlight + alfred-wake-up + alfred-politeness + no-morning-meetings. Something there’s not adding up. “I hope you did manage to get some sleep after last night, after all. I fear you’ll need it.”
“Whgnrrnn,” says Bruce. The old butler tears away the blankets and sets a breakfast tray on his lap. Bruce blinks until the food comes into focus: his usual morning protein shake, his usual egg white omelet, and a newspaper under the plate where the trivet should be. He extracts it, unfolds it, grimaces when he notices it’s a copy of the Gotham Tattle.
Then he sees the photo plastered across the front page. The shot was clearly taken at night from a great distance. Even with what must have been a stalker-grade telephoto lens, the resolution is poor, the picture grainy. It’s also unmistakably a picture of Batman and Catwoman. There is the silhouette of Bruce’s cowl. There are Selina’s claws snagged in his cape. There is the whip, braided leather wrapped around his waist and legs. And there, just visible beyond the shape of the cowl, are the tips of the cat ears tilted back as Selina tips her head up to kiss him.
CAT AND FLYING MOUSE? LASCIVIOUS LATE-NIGHT DATE NIGHT WITH THE BAT AND THE CAT screams the headline.
It’s borderline impressive. The entire meeting lasted maybe five minutes. Batman works hard, but the gossip rags work harder.
“We didn’t even do anything.”
“Then I hope you’re ready to put the energy not expended on Ms. Kyle towards your schedule,” Alfred says. “Bruce Wayne will need to maintain a very full social calendar for the foreseeable future if he wishes to distract the press from the Batman’s equally full social calendar. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting Ms. Madison for brunch. Perhaps you might like to surprise the lady with a sudden vacation to some exotic locale? One where Mr. Wayne is sure to be seen drinking, dancing, and spending quality time at night with a number of attractive and scantily-clad acquaintances who do not make a habit of dressing like animals to commit larceny? It has been some time since Batman took a sabbatical.”
Bruce’s mind races. “No, no, I can’t. The robberies, there are ties to Penguin. I have to keep an eye on him. I have to keep an eye on everyone. If Batman leaves, even for a few days, someone will take the chance and the entire thing will blow up. What I need is something bigger. Something that completely dominates the spotlight.”
“Planning to abscond with an entire ballet again, sir?”
Damn it, Clark. “Don’t call Julie. Call Vicki Vale. And Cat Grant, at the Planet.”
Alfred raises an eyebrow.
Bruce hates himself a little for even thinking of going along with it. He hates Clark, more than a little. And he hates reporters most of all. He grits his teeth and says, “I think it’s time the world knew about my relationship with Superman.”