Work Text
This is the piece Clark Kent wrote:
I first met Bruce Wayne fifteen years ago. He was an enigma to the public, even then. He spent his time attending parties and getting too drunk, going to nightclubs and then buying them out in order to give everyone a round on the house. But he had also just taken in a ward, a young orphan. He seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be dating notable jewel-thief Selina Kyle. Back then, him not appearing in the society pages was more unusual than not.We met at a charity ball. I was still new to Metropolis, living off of a meager salary of a young reporter at the bottom of the pecking order. He came over and shook my hand. “You can call me Brucie,” he said. The woman on his arm rolled her eyes. “You’re from the Daily Planet, right?”“Oh yes,” I said. “That’s me. Clark Kent of the Daily Planet. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne.” I’ll admit, I was flustered. If nothing else, he’s charismatic, a trait he has not lost in the intervening years.Bruce Wayne laughed. “A cheap suit and good manners. You’ll go far in Metropolis with an honest face like that.” The woman gave me an apologetic look. “He’s been drinking,” she said. “Watch out or he’ll convince you to strip and dive into the fountain with him.” Wayne winked at me while his date steered him away. In the intervening years, our paths have crossed a few more times. Wayne Industries bought out the Daily Planet, making Wayne my boss. There’s been a few more charity events. And finally, surrounded by rumors about his newest beau, he invited me to his Manor just outside of Gotham City for an interview. A rare insight into a man who has many times turned down offers of one-on-one conversations with reporters, preferring instead press conferences and cornering them at events to give a quick run-down of his thoughts about the stock market. I arrived at 8am to the Wayne Family Estate, rebuilt to its original glory after it burned down over twenty years ago. The grounds are wild, filled with trees and the remnants of a garden far overgrown. A particularly hardy rosebush lines the fence around the property. Even at this early hour, the Manor is buzzing. Damian, Bruce’s youngest son, is playing with his Great Dane on the front yard. On the front porch, Tim, Bruce’s second youngest, is chatting animatedly on the phone while nursing a cup of coffee. Despite still being a teenager, he holds himself with a maturity only belied by the novelty Superman shirt he wears. There’s a young woman sitting next to him on a laptop. She waves when she sees me and I assume she’s a friend of Tim’s. Alfred Pennyworth, longtime Wayne butler, greets me at the door. He’s British, ex-military, and an incredibly good chef. He leads me to a small sitting room where Bruce Wayne is already waiting. He’s pensive, looking out the large window at the lake on the back of the property, but when we enter, he’s all warm smiles and firm handshakes. Alfred serves both of us coffee before leaving the two of us alone. I record the interview on my phone.
CK: Hello, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk with me today.
BW: It’s really no problem. And please, call me Bruce. I’m not Mr. Wayne until at least noon.
CK: Okay, Bruce. Let’s start off with an easy question than, shall we?
BW: There’s no such thing as an easy question, but please, proceed.
CK: I saw a lot of commotion outside already this morning, but how many people stay with you in the Manor?
BW: Well, there’s my sons, some of which are old enough to have their own apartments but still come down some weekends. So Damian, Tim, Jason, and Dick make four. They often have friends or partners over and the ones who come on a regular basis have their own space here as well. So Alicia, Babs, Kori, Cassandra, Stephanie, Dinah, Helena, and Conor. Then my cousin Kate is in and out with her friends: Harleen, Pamela, and Selina.
CK: Selina like Selina Kyle?
BW: She’s been dating Kate.
CK: Selina Kyle like the jewel thief?
BW: Don’t you believe in second chances? But also her cats are fantastic at keeping the mice out of the pantry.
CK: So other than yourself and Alfred, there’s sixteen people living here?
BW: Off and on, yes.
CK: For such a private person, you seem quite willing to share space.
BW: Looking to move out of Metropolis and fishing for a room?
CK: My apartment is just fine, thanks. You couldn’t pay me to move to Gotham.
BW: What’s the point of having this big house if all I’m going to do is have empty rooms and dark halls? Dick, I think, was the start of me realizing that I didn’t want to be alone, brooding in front of my computer. Adopting him was the best decision of my life, I think. Don’t tell him, Clark, but I keep this drawing of his in my desk.
Bruce takes this opportunity to pull a slightly faded piece of paper in a frame. On it is a surprisingly recognizable depiction of Bruce, Alfred, and Dick, drawn in crayons. It’s cute enough to give me a toothache.
CK: This is an on the record interview, he’ll probably find out.
BW: Luckily, this isn’t the only picture he drew as a child.
CK: Ready for the next question?
BW: Unless you want me to brag about my sons more, why not?
CK: You’ve talked about the partners of everyone else in the house, but the question everyone wants answered is, Bruce, are you currently dating someone?
BW: That’s what people want to talk about in this day and age? No one used to ask me about shit like that, even when I insisted on dating ballerinas and jewel-thieves and models. And yet, here we are.
CK: Here we are. So do you actually have a boyfriend right now or not?
BW: Are you offering?
CK: A billionaire dating a divorced journalist? Sure, why not. Though I might insist you move into my apartment so I don’t have to move to Gotham. Could you imagine my commute?
BW: Clark, please, I’m messing with you. I only date people with good posture.
CK: I can sit up straight if I want to. I just, you know, don’t.
BW: Well, I would hate for you to have to pause the interview because I can’t keep my hands off of you, so you might as well keep slouching.
CK: So not worried about cheating on your boyfriend?
BW: I’m as loyal as they come, Clark. But no, I’m not.
CK: Not worried or not dating anyone?
BW: Whichever makes the better headline.
CK: Speaking of which, you seem to be staying out of those recently.
BW: A tragedy. I’m thinking of hosting a big fundraiser soon to gather campaign funds for leftist candidates. Do you think me becoming a socialist would be headline worthy?
CK: I think you would have to give up a majority of your wealth if you want to be a socialist and not be considered a hypocrite.
BW: It’s terrible, isn’t it? Even if I give all my money up, Wayne Industries still is something of a conglomerate.
CK: How do you reconcile these things in your head? Wanting to be a socialist and being one of the richest people alive?
BW: By doing my part to save the world. Even if that means adopting one orphan at a time. Besides, one day, and trust me, I’ve consulted some of the more reputable fortune seers, my name and my company will be nothing but dust but the legacy I carried, the determination to fix Gotham, to help Gotham, that remains.
CK: Isn’t that insider trading?
BW: I’m not that worried about being arrested for understanding entropy. All things fade with time.
CK: But not your legacy?
BW: Oh, I’m sure far in the future, that’ll also be gone. But I have it on good authority that it will last long enough to see the peace and prosperity I believe in.
CK: It’s easy to say money is meaningless when you have too much to count.
BW: I know.
CK: Let’s talk about a lighter subject.
BW: I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.
CK: Are you in favor of vigilante justice?
BW: Like Batman?
CK: Sure, like Batman.
BW: Well, I certainly don’t trust the US government to save us when aliens invade again. But Batman will, along with Superwoman and Superman and the rest of the ever rotating cast of the Justice League.
CK: They work outside the law. How can we believe that a few people, some of whom might not even be human, know what’s best for humanity?
BW: Perhaps it is because they may not be humans. Perhaps because I know that they don’t have to save Earth but they choose to. Take Superman for example. We know he can fly through space, right? He could go to any planet in the universe and live there instead. But he stays here, in Metropolis, even when Lex Luthor tries to murder him biannually.
CK: Are you sure you’re not dating Superman?
BW: Do you really think Superman would settle for a man like me? I come with more baggage than most transAtlantic flights.
CK: I mean, you strive to do good in this world, and I’m sure that’s a quality Superman would appreciate.
BW: I’ll tell you what, Clark. When me and the Man of Steel get married, you can officiate.
CK: And here I was thinking that you were going to marry me as long as I improved my posture.
BW: Oh well, in that case, Superman can officiate our wedding.
CK: Okay, you ready for a hard question now?
BW: I don’t believe in hard questions either.
CK: You must live a very complicated life.
BW: I try.
CK: Why are you single?
BW: Because Superman lives in Antarctica and I don’t believe in long-distance relationships that cross international waters.
CK: Deflecting with a joke, the question must really have you stumped.
BW: Okay, you caught me. I don’t know why I’m single. Can I give the boring answer to why I might be? I’m private, I’m busy, I’ve got too many kids, other people are complicated, people who I sleep with tend to get shot by mobsters.
CK: Another hard question. Are you going to run for president?
BW: Do I look like I have time to run for president? Besides, any election system that would allow a man like Lex Luthor or Donald Trump to take office would be a waste of money to take part in.
CK: Okay then, you will you vote for?
BW: In the primaries? Oh, probably Warren.
CK: Not Bernie? I guess you really aren’t a socialist.
BW: Well, perhaps my personal distrust of anyone from Vermont has clouded my view on the issue.
CK: You hate Vermont?
BW: Let’s just say Middlebury and I had a disagreement about their treatment of victims of sexual harassment.
CK: Do tell.
BW: Let’s just say that I think its is wrong and Middlebury thinks men on their sports teams who pay the full tuition should get away with stalking young women. And Ben & Jerry’s still hasn’t accepted my request to allow their workers to join any of the retail or food workers unions that most Wayne Industry members are a part of.
CK: Unions? Well, that’s better than nothing. I’m sure at least one leftist candidate will accept your money now.
BW: Thanks. Gotham Industries prides itself on its non-discrimination hiring policies. We hire felons, sex workers, trans people, people of color, women, and gay people at all levels of leadership. Even our starting positions pay a livable wage and most positions have the option of being salaried. I myself draw a salary of only 90k a year from Wayne Industries and no one draws more than two hundred thousand.
CK: And you still get high level executives while paying far less than most college football coaches get?
BW: Well, the salary cap scares away the worst of the embezzling types which means there are more spots for forward thinking, diverse, young people and less old white men who think its okay for mostly young black men to give themselves concussions and destroy their bodies in the name of the pigskin.
CK: Not a big sports fan, huh.
BW: Not particularly.
CK: What could you ever do in your spare time, then?
BW: I don’t have as much spare time as most seem to think. I have a long list of obligations that take precedence over filling my spare time with ESPN.
CK: Are there really no sports you enjoy?
BW: I enjoy skiing, as long as I am the one going down the mountain. And baseball. Horse racing isn’t terrible as long as there’s an open bar.
CK: So you don’t have any thoughts about Tom Brady or who’s going to win the Super Bowl?
BW: I think perhaps you’ve found the only easy question in existence. It doesn’t matter who wins the Super Bowl, I watch the Puppy Bowl instead anyways, and Tom Brady is an asshole who voted for Luthor and Trump and he certainly shouldn’t be so proud of voting for the worst presidents in recent history.
CK: The Puppy Bowl?
BW: Only if I’m not busy.
CK: So you’re not thinking of buying yourself a professional team?
BW: Good lord, Kent, I’d rather die. Sports are exploitative.
CK: You refer back to your comments about concussions here?
BW: Absolutely.
CK: Can we talk about the first big scandal you caused?
BW: You’ve discovered my first scandal?
CK: Well, the first noteworthy one.
BW: Go ahead.
CK: Right after you graduated from Yale, you disappeared off the map for almost five years.
BW: I was young.
CK: Sure, but you were also presumed dead.
BW: Well, cell service was pretty spotty back in 2000.
CK: Where did you go? What did you do?
BW: I traveled, mostly through Asia. It’s actually a good thing that I wasn’t born a few decades earlier and ended up in Rajneeshpuram or some other spiritual cult. I really was trying to find myself, trying to find out who I would be. I was lost, in more ways than one.
CK: Did you spend any time in temples?
BW: I visited many. They are quite beautiful and welcoming of pilgrims, even me. And before you ask, I didn’t convert to Buddhism. I’m quite happy being a Jewish agnostic.
CK: An agnostic?
BW: We have people who walk this earth like Wonder Woman who claims her father was Zeus and who comes from an island of women who never seem to grow old. Are you surprised I may identify as such?
CK: I guess not. And when you consider that there are all those planets with alien civilizations with their own gods, I can only assume that makes the matter worse.
BW: In many ways, it makes it easier. I sleep much easier knowing that there are perhaps too many gods for any of them to interfere too extremely with the lives of people down here. Being responsible for our own actions, being accountable to each other, those are far superior to some attempt to strive for reward for piety.
CK: I think if you ever want to give up being a businessman, you’d do quite well as a theologian.
BW: Could you imagine me as a stuffy old philosopher?
CK: Well, you could go into pop-psychology. Then they might even interview you on CNN and more importantly, centrist podcasts.
BW: I think Elon Musk is going on enough podcasts for all of us.
At this point, Alfred enters the room and informs Bruce that his next appointment is in fifteen minutes. Perhaps more for my benefit than Bruce, who is notorious to choosing when he preferred to show up when best for himself rather than deferring to the schedule of another.
CK: Do you have any closing notes?
BW: We need to put more money into public rehabilitation centers than into private prisons. Gotham needs to consider why crime rates here are consistently higher than any surrounding city. We shouldn’t have to fear mobsters and henchmen and cults and secret societies every time we go outside. And we should have much stricter gun control.
CK: And you’re single?
BW: Are you?
As I leave the Manor, Damian runs up to talk to me. “Did he tell you that he wouldn’t let me join the martial arts team at Gotham Academy?” “He didn’t mention it.”“And he still hasn’t let me watch Bird Box. Even though I told him that I’d seen scarier things walking through Gotham in broad daylight.”“This is a conversation you should have with him. I don’t think it’s my place to tell your father how to raise you.” Damian frowns at me but allows me to continue without further interruption. I still find Bruce Wayne confusing. I still can’t quite seem to reconcile in my head the playboy and the CEO and the father. He was frowning, when I first entered the room, looking through the window, but not seeing, his considerations far more distant than the treeline.
This is what Clark couldn’t publish:
I never considered how Bruce Wayne’s mouth would taste in the early morning until it is pressed against my shoulder while he sleeps. I lay next to him in bed and I cannot find it in myself to not move closer to his warmth. I’m taller than him, but not by much. I’m bigger than him, his muscles trained for swinging from grappling hooks and close-combat in tight corners, while mine were born from my adolescence on my parents’ farm. I carefully rearrange our bodies until there is no space between us, we are tangled with each other and the sheets. I’ve seen him shirtless before, I’ve thought sometimes about what his skin would feel like under my fingertips. But I never considered how delicate he would be. With Lois, with her sharp lines and bird-like bones, I could instantly tell she was delicate. But Bruce has hidden himself behind layers of kevlar and black and mystery and it shouldn’t surprise me that when he’s vulnerable, naked and unconscious. He wakes up when I run my hand down his arm, shifting away from me, but not far. “You’re still here,” he says. “I promised I would be,” I reply. His mouth is close enough that I cannot help but focus on it. I am overcome by the proximity and my need to be closer. I kiss him, hard. Bruce lets me, opens his mouth for me, though he doesn’t have to. I am honored and terrified. He runs his hand up my thigh, then palms my dick through the soft fabric of my boxers. Then I am on top of him, bearing down. “Fuck,” Bruce says. “Clark.” He turns his head away from me. “Top drawer of nightstand.” I am gone less than a second, fast enough that even keen-eyed Bruce can’t follow me. There is a partially used bottle of lubricant there. I try not to think about who used it last. “I can’t bottom,” I tell him. "I don't -- it doesn't." I am embarrassed by my own body's foreign nature. He looks up at me like I’m not speaking English. “I’ve done my research. It’s the cost of fucking an alien, right?” he asks. His lips are bruised. “As long as you’re sure,” I say quietly. And we continue. Bruce doesn’t stay still, doesn’t stay quiet. He arches into my touch, trembles when my fingers enter him. He growls at me in that gravelly tone saved usually only for the batsuit. Words drop from his mouth: yes and harder and get-a-move-on-Clark. I ignore his pleas if only to focus instead on tracing the planes of his chest with my tongue and teeth. He tastes faintly of the bourbon from last night but mostly of salt. I ache for him in my bones, my own arousal spiraling ever upwards. His skin is so thin, so fragile. I forget, sometimes, he’s just a man. I was aware of this with Lois, with her sharp angles and bird-like bones she makes no effort to wrap herself up like Bruce does. Without his kevlar and his cape and his aura of mystery, he’s spun glass. A dark instinct bubbles up from some distant part of me, I want to take him apart, tear him to pieces. But I am gentle. I twist my fingers inside him, curling them, all to stretch Bruce out. He has one hand on the nape of my neck and the other gripping my shoulder. He comes suddenly, keening, face bright red. He becomes boneless and quiet but for his ragged breathing. Now, finally, I fuck into him. Keeping perfect rhythm, pressing kisses into the skin of Bruce’s face. He hooks his legs behind my back and wraps his arms around my shoulders, hanging on tightly. I’m probably in love with him. When my orgasm finally hits, I gasp out a choked, “Bruce.” After, he lets me cuddle him, or at least, he presents only the slightest resistance to the idea of sleeping just a little longer. Before I drift off once more, I feel him run his fingers down my chest, brushing through the hair there. His heartbeat is steady.