Work Text:
The news article states:
“PRINCE OF GOTHAM BRUCE WAYNE NOW DATING METROPOLIS REPORTER CLARK KENT.”
Bruce has to admit, Clark Kent wasn’t his usual flavor of the month. But over the years—at charity events, galas, and public functions—Clark had always managed to catch his eye. So who would’ve thought that after a drunken kiss, Clark would confess his interest and actually ask Bruce out?
Two dates passed, and now they’re officially dating.
Bruce likes Clark—more than he expected. Conversations with him are never boring, and for once, Bruce doesn’t have to pretend to be an airheaded billionaire. Something about Clark puts him at ease. And whenever Bruce thinks about ending things, there’s always this discomfort that settles in the pit of his stomach.
Bruce isn’t stupid, even if he pretends to be. He knows people date him for money or fame, and he doesn’t hold it against them. He isn’t looking for “true love” anyway—just some casual fun that keeps the media’s attention on Brucie Wayne, rather than his crime fighting vigilante alter ego
So he wasn’t expecting Clark to be any different… but oddly enough, Clark hasn’t asked for anything. Not yet.
A month into dating and they’ve been on several dates. The first few weeks were the usual—high-end restaurants in Gotham or Metropolis. But soon, Clark started planning the dates himself: tucked-away restaurants Bruce had never heard of, or quiet cafés where they were the only customers.
Bruce had asked—half-joking—why their dates were always so private, teasing that maybe Clark was embarrassed to be seen with him.
Clark’s expression shifted—his eyes dimming slightly—as he replied, “No, Bruce. I’m not ashamed. I just thought it’d be better for you to be away from the media. To relax a bit.”
He said it so casually, sipping on an overly sweet frappe.
Bruce never questioned the date spots again.
Two months into dating, they finally have sex—and Bruce has no complaints. His eyelids are heavy as he exhales a warm breath. Clark slides out of him, lying beside him and cupping Bruce’s cheek, gently brushing back a damp lock of hair from Bruce’s forehead.
“You’re beautiful,” Clark murmurs, thumb stroking Bruce’s skin.
Bruce smiles faintly. “Who would’ve thought Clark Kent likes it rough.”
A low chuckle escapes him as Clark blushes a deep red.
After five months, Bruce was sure Clark would start asking for expensive gifts—cars, jewelry, maybe even a house. But instead, it’s Clark who keeps giving.
Flowers on every date. Little trinkets from small shops. And now, matching bracelets—simple, thin, silver ones. Barely even “matching” with how plain they are, but Clark bought two—one for him, and one for Bruce.
It’s… odd.
“Since when do you wear jewelry?” Dick asks as Bruce walks into the kitchen, wearing only the bottom half of his pajamas. The silver bracelet glints on his wrist.
Bruce shrugs, grabbing an apple. “Clark gave it to me.”
“Clark Kent bought you jewelry?” Tim raises an eyebrow.
Bruce hums in agreement.
“And what’d you get him in return? A Ferrari?” Dick teases.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing?”
“He gave it to me on one of our dates. When I asked if he wanted anything, he said he doesn’t give gifts expecting something in return.” Bruce takes another bite.
Silence falls. Only Damian’s silverware clinks against his plate as he eats pancakes.
“That doesn’t make sense. Who dates billionaire Bruce Wayne and doesn’t ask for anything?” Tim mutters.
“Maybe Mr. Kent is a respectful partner who likes Master Bruce for who he is, not for his money,” Alfred chimes in, pouring syrup on Damian’s plate.
“Oh please, Alfred. Bruce is great and all, but he’s no saint,” Tim says, taking a bite.
The paparazzi were struggling.
This wasn’t just a new fling—calling it “new” was misleading. Bruce’s flings rarely lasted more than a month. This? It had been ten months. And still, aside from those first-month photos, the media couldn’t get a single clear shot of the two together.
Their dates were always at private locations or off-the-map diners. And whenever someone tried to tail them, they’d vanish—like smoke.
Eventually, the Gotham paparazzi gave up and started camping out at Clark Kent’s place in Metropolis.
Three of them: a reporter, a paparazzo, and a blogger. They expected a luxury condo or Wayne-provided penthouse. Instead, they found a worn-down apartment— the apartment Clark had since college.
Clark Kent wasn’t just decent. He was a damn saint.
He didn’t yell at them. He didn’t call the cops. Sometimes, when he wasn’t rushing to or from work, he’d chat with them. Nothing juicy, no gossip-worthy slips. Just a smile, a few kind words. Sometimes he even brought snacks.
At first, it was cookies.
“My neighbor bakes. Thought you might want some.”
Then coffee.
“Buy one, get one free.”
And finally—lunch.
Clark would bring burgers or Chinese takeout. It wasn’t fancy, but it was genuine. And slowly, the three men stopped coming. They agreed: no matter what they caught Clark doing—even if it was a sex tape with Bruce Wayne—they wouldn’t have the heart to expose him.
How Bruce Wayne managed to score a man like Clark Kent, they’d never understand.
“I thought you said people were outside your building,” Bruce asks, raising a brow, his arm looped with Clark’s as they walk toward the apartment.
Clark shrugs. “Guess they left. Good thing too. It’s getting chilly,” he adds, exaggerating a shiver. “Brrr.”
Bruce smiles. “Oh yeah? Should I buy you a coat then?”
“I’ll do you one better. Ma wants to knit us matching sweaters. No matter how ugly they are, you better wear yours, Mr. Wayne.”
They laugh, hand in hand, entering Clark’s apartment.
Just like that, a year passes.
Bruce curls up under the oversized blanket Ma Kent made. It’s huge—enough for him and Clark, with space to spare.
The fireplace crackles softly, warming the manor as snow drifts outside. In the distance, a quiet Christmas tune plays while the boys, Alfred, and now Clark make a mess of the kitchen preparing breakfast.
Bruce doesn’t know how he got here… how a fling meant to last a month somehow became something real. Something lasting.
A soft kiss lands on the back of his head.
“Well, someone’s cozy,” Clark teases. “B, why don’t you help Damian with the eggnog?”
Bruce leans back, gazing up at Clark. He’s smiling, wearing a matching ugly Christmas sweater. Bruce’s chest fills with a warmth he didn’t know he could feel.
“B?”
“I love you,” Bruce says quietly, without hesitation.
Clark’s cheeks tint pink as his smile grows wider. “I love you too. Now come help out.”
Bruce couldn’t ask for anything more.