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This was his fault.
Bruce had always said he worked alone. Somehow that had led to more children than he could count, a menagerie (thanks to one of said children), and an actual boyfriend. Alfred, naturally, was delighted.
Bruce, on the other hand, was not delighted—not when his carefully structured life unraveled in situations like today. The Wayne Foundation’s annual Garden Party was supposed to be a dignified event, raising funds for their new housing project. Bruce had been through this before. He thought he was prepared.
He wasn’t.
He thought he’d been through the worst of it with Dick. After all, he had survived bringing him to events before—barely. The boy had an unnatural affinity for chandeliers, and Bruce had spent far too many evenings coaxing him down like an exasperated zookeeper. Jason, as a child, had been angelic. As an adult, if he showed up at all, he spent his time raiding the bar and tossing out the occasional cutting remark in Bruce’s direction. Tim at least understood etiquette, having come from a background not unlike Bruce’s. But his habit of dragging along companions who decidedly did not understand etiquette made his usefulness in securing foundation funds… inconsistent. And Cassandra, well—she solved the problem neatly by refusing to attend.
Which left Damian. Surely, his youngest would see the event as beneath him—boring, demeaning, but a duty to uphold the Wayne name. Bruce had counted on his seriousness.
And then there was Clark. Steady, dependable Clark. Attending in his professional capacity as a reporter, of course—they weren’t public yet. Bruce had counted on him, too.
So when the inevitable commotion rose from the direction of the pool, Bruce told himself it couldn’t possibly involve either of them. Not Damian. Not Clark. Surely not—
And yet.
The crowd parted just enough for him to see Damian standing at the water’s edge, expression unreadable. And in the water—god help him—was Clark.
Soaked. His baggy suit jacket hung heavy, clinging to broad shoulders. His white shirt had gone almost translucent, plastered to muscle Bruce was absolutely not supposed to be noticing right now. Worse, the shirt wasn’t even intact—half the buttons were missing entirely, the front gaping open in a way that would haunt Bruce’s dreams for days.
Bruce’s mind catalogued the disaster in order of severity: his son. His boyfriend. The scandal. And, inconveniently, the entirely inappropriate thought of how very unfair it was that Clark looked better drenched than most men did on their best day.
How the hell had this happened?
Damian watched the Alien wander through the garden, with his notebook and recorder as he went about his so-called “reporter duties,” nibbling at his vegetarian hors d’oeuvres.
It was appalling. The way he hunched, the deliberate clumsiness, the false modesty. A man worthy of Father should be imposing, confident, impeccable. Instead, Father’s supposed partner looked like a farmhand who had wandered into high society by accident. No wonder Father didn’t want to publicly acknowledge him.
Privately, Damian still hoped Father would come to his senses. Mother was the logical choice. She matched him in intellect, skill, and presence. But both Grayson and Father had taken him aside separately, insisting Clark had been part of the family for years, and whether Damian liked it or not, he was here to stay.
Damian huffed at the memory. As if to prove the point, the Alien had just accepted an hors d’oeuvre from a passing server with the wide-eyed delight of a bumpkin tasting caviar for the first time. Utterly humiliating.
Enough was enough. Damian crossed the garden, determination stiff in every step.
“Kent,” he said flatly by way of greeting.
Clark blinked down at him, startled.
“O–oh! Hi, Mr. Wayne. Pleasure to meet you.”
The Alien was good. Publicly, they hadn’t yet been seen together.
“You can drop the act. I need a word,” Damian said, low enough that no one else could overhear.
Clark’s brow furrowed in genuine concern, which only made Damian bristle further.
“Is everything all right?”
“No,” Damian replied crisply. “I’ve been watching you, and you’re completely inadequate to represent the Wayne family name.”
“Well,” Clark said mildly, “I’m not representing the Wayne family name tonight.”
If it were up to me, you never would, Damian thought bitterly, though he kept it to himself. Somehow, the Alien seemed to sense the hostility anyway.
“Still,” Damian pressed, “you could at least make an effort to look the part. Pretend to be at Father’s level, even if you’ll never truly be there.”
For the briefest moment, something flickered in Clark’s eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanished quickly.
“What do you suggest?”
Damian looked him up and down with a critical eye. The suit was atrocious—two sizes too big, cheap fabric, the shirt looked suspiciously like a polyester blend. At a Wayne event. It was an embarrassment.
“The way you dress,” he began, “you can’t fix what you’re wearing right now. But you could at least make it look better—”
He dragged a chair over and climbed up, intent on tucking Clark’s shirt tighter to fake a fitted look. But balance betrayed him. In his haste to climb the chair wobbled, and in his scramble to stay upright, Damian grabbed the nearest thing: Clark’s shirtfront.
Five buttons shot off in different directions like startled birds. The front of Clark’s shirt gaped open, tan skin and solid muscle on full display under the garden lights.
For a moment, time froze. Damian, perched precariously. Clark, steadying him with one hand while clutching at his shirt with the other. Both staring at each other in mutual shock.
“I—” Damian began, meaning to apologize. But then he remembered he didn’t like the Alien. He shut his mouth.
Clark, ever infuriating, only smiled gently. “It’s okay. I’ll just go change.” He clutched the shirt closed and turned—
Right into a server balancing a tray of crystal glasses.
Clark sidestepped instinctively, protective even in his humiliation. Unfortunately, the pool was waiting for him.
One graceless slip, a spectacular splash, and then—Silence. Bubbles. Clark Kent, Pulitzer-winning reporter, swallowed by the Wayne estate pool.
Damian stood frozen, horrified. He would deny it later, but in that instant, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leap in after the Alien or let him drown.
Clark broke the surface of the pool with a little gasp—unnecessary, but it was one of those habits he’d learned to fake over the years.
A crowd had already gathered at the edge. Damian stood at the center, looking unusually pale, his usual bravado drowned in mortification. Clark swam to the nearest side, feigning a bit of difficulty against the weight of soaked clothes until Bruce pushed through the gawkers.
Strong hands reached for him, and Clark let himself be hauled out. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Bruce’s gaze flickered down, lingering on Clark’s exposed chest. He wasn’t the only one—several guests were openly staring, appreciatively. Clark wasn’t used to this kind of attention as Clark Kent.
Then something warm settled over his shoulders: Bruce’s jacket. Clark tugged it close, partly to preserve his modesty, mostly because it smelled like Bruce.
“Let’s get you into some dry clothes, uh, Mr. Kent?” Bruce drawled, Brucie persona in full force. The wink earned a ripple of laughter from the crowd before Bruce quickly shepherded him inside.
Clark barely had time to worry about dripping water all over Alfred’s floors before he found himself in the master suite’s bathroom, Bruce coaxing him out of his drenched clothes.
“What happened, Clark?” Bruce asked once Clark was under the hot spray, washing away chlorine.
“An accident.”
“I surmised that,” Bruce said dryly. “I assumed you didn’t decide to take a swim during a Wayne fundraiser just for fun. Let’s start with the shirt. Why did you look like a cover model for a romance novel?”
Clark chuckled, sheepish. “Damian was… helping me with it. He lost his balance, grabbed my shirtfront, and—well.” He mimed buttons flying. “It was an accident.”
When the water was off and he stepped out in just a towel, Bruce arched an eyebrow. “And the pool?”
Clark flushed. “I was trying to leave quickly before anyone noticed. Almost ran into a server, dodged, and—” he gestured vaguely, embarrassed, “—pool.”
Bruce smirked, tugging him closer by the towel. “I keep telling you to work on your spatial awareness.” He pressed a kiss against Clark’s lips, unhurried and possessive. Hands slid over damp skin.
“God, I don’t know if I hope there are pictures of you getting out of that pool or not,” Bruce muttered against his mouth. “Half of the guests were ogling you. I wanted to shout you were mine.”
Clark smiled, lips brushing Bruce’s. Then Damian’s words came back, sharp and cold: Pretend to be at Father’s level, even if you’ll never truly be there.
His smile faltered. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
Bruce pulled back just enough to frown, startled. “Embarrassed me? No. I just wanted to know if Damian pushed you in.”
Clark shook his head, gaze dropping. “Right.”
“Why, Clark?”
“It’s just…” He hesitated, voice quiet. “Something Damian said earlier. And it kinda stuck.”
“What did he say to you?” Bruce pressed, tipping Clark’s chin up with his thumb until their eyes met.
Clark laughed softly, but it rang false. “Nothing he hasn’t said before. Honestly, he’s said worse. I don’t know why this one got to me.”
Bruce didn’t smile. His voice dipped into that warning tone that made Gotham’s underworld freeze. “Clark.”
Clark exhaled. “He said… if I was going to stand next to you, I should at least try to look like I belonged. That I’ll never really be at your level.”
Bruce went very still. His jaw tightened, the way it did when he was weighing words carefully. Then he stepped closer, crowding into Clark’s space until there was nowhere to look but at him.
“Clark,” he said quietly, but with that sharp edge he used in the cowl, the one that brooked no argument. “There isn’t a level above you. Not for me.”
Clark blinked, startled.
“Damian…” Bruce exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’s a child who still wants his parents back together. He lashes out because he thinks if he undermines you, he can fix that. It’s not about you. Not really.”
Clark gave a small, uncertain smile. “You don’t think he’s right?”
Bruce’s hands slid up Clark’s chest, deliberate, grounding. “I don’t date beneath me, Clark. You know me better than that.” A pause, and then, softer: “You’re not just at my level. You’re the only one who keeps me standing on it.”
Clark swallowed hard, his throat tight. “That’s… a hell of a compliment, coming from you.”
“It’s not a compliment,” Bruce said simply, brushing a kiss against his temple. “It’s the truth. And Damian will learn it, whether he likes it or not.”
Clark laughed, low and relieved, though his ears burned. He dropped his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder, needing a quick escape. “Did my recorder survive my little swim? I’m sure my notes didn’t.”
“I don’t think it did.”
Clark groaned, half-laughing. “Great. Guess it’s lucky I’ve got eidetic memory or Perry would have me on obituaries for the next month.”
Bruce’s hands didn’t leave his body. If anything, they tightened, anchoring him there. “We should go back soon,” Bruce murmured. “Otherwise people will start saying I pounced on the hunky reporter from the Daily Planet.”
“I wouldn’t mind…” Clark whispered, tugging him down into another kiss.
“I’ll have Lucius draft the announcement,” Bruce murmured against his lips, voice low and sure. He pulled Clark closer, towel slipping dangerously. “We’ll go public whenever you’re ready.”
Clark’s heart clenched.
Bruce steered him toward the bed, kisses growing hotter, urgency burning away the last of his self-consciousness as the towel around his waist gave way—the fundraiser long forgotten.
Damian found the Alien—Clark, he had to stop calling him that. Father had made it very clear—in the main living room of the manor a few days after the Wayne Garden Party fiasco that had only been partially his fault.
Clark was hunched over his laptop, with what Damian had privately dubbed his “reporter face” firmly in place. He was clearly just back from the Daily Planet, still in one of those awful cotton-polyester blend shirts—two sizes too big, collar wrinkled—cheap pants that did nothing for his figure, and scuffed shoes that looked ready for retirement. His ridiculous glasses were sliding down his nose, as if he’d forgotten they were even there.
The TV was on Father’s favourite channel: the rotation feed from the Watchtower monitors. A workaholic, just like Father.
Father had lectured him after the party, sharp and unyielding. Damian had been told off for his rudeness, for daring to suggest Clark was beneath him. Bruce had made it clear—again—that Clark was there to stay. Damian had sulked, of course, but deep down he’d still clung to the belief that Father would come to his senses and choose Mother in the end.
Then the article dropped just two days later. Public. Official. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent.
Damian had confronted him, devastated, only to be met with Father’s rare elation. He’d said Clark had finally agreed to go public—as if it were the best gift in the world.
That was when Damian’s certainty cracked. He had always believed it was Father keeping their relationship quiet, too proud to lower himself. He had never imagined it was the other way around—that Clark, foolishly besotted Clark, was the one who hadn’t been ready.
The man was hopeless, staring at Father as if the sun rose and set on him. Damian had always thought him a fool for it. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Grayson had tried to tell him once. He hadn’t listened.
“Kent,” Damian said at last, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, blinking before his smile spread, warm and disarming. He nudged his glasses up. “Oh, hello, Damian. Did you want the TV? I can move.” He was already half-rising, closing his laptop.
“Huh—no.” The word came out sharper than intended. He hated how it sounded like a question. “I was actually hoping we could talk.”
Clark immediately settled back down, shutting the laptop completely and even switching off the TV. His full attention. “Of course.”
Damian sat beside him, stiff-backed. His skin itched with the effort of saying what needed to be said.
“I… may have been unkind to you at the party.”
Clark’s brows rose, but he didn’t interrupt. Damian forced himself on.
“I still think you dress improperly. And you conduct yourself like a bit of a fool at events. But…” His throat tightened around the words. “…I may have said things that were unfair. And for that I am—” He clenched his jaw. “—sorry.”
Clark exhaled softly, voice gentle. “Thanks, Damian. That means more than you probably think.”
Instantly Damian bristled. “I didn’t do it for you. Father said I should trust his judgment in partners. So I will. For now.”
Clark’s smile only warmed. “Fair enough. I still accept your apology.”
Damian looked away, ears burning, but he didn’t retract the words.
“Right. So… that was all. A—Clark.” He corrected himself quickly, springing to his feet.
Clark’s smile widened, gentle but amused. “See you later, Damian.”
Damian gave a sharp nod, already retreating toward the door.
Later that night, the manor was quiet. Clark stirred when the mattress dipped, eyes blinking open just as Bruce slid in beside him, damp hair still clinging to his temples from the shower.
“You’re back,” Clark murmured, voice low with sleep.
Bruce pressed a kiss to his temple. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Clark said automatically, though they both knew he woke at the slightest shift. He turned onto his side to face him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Damian cornered me earlier.”
Bruce stilled. “Should I be concerned?”
Clark chuckled softly. “No. He… apologized.”
That pulled Bruce fully into focus. His brows lifted, surprise melting into unmistakable pride. “Really.”
“Really,” Clark confirmed.
“Hm.” Bruce’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile at this hour. “That’s a rare concession from him. You’ve made progress.”
Clark’s heart warmed at that, though he tried to play it down. “Well, he told me he did it for you and still thinks I dress badly. But it is progress.”
“Exactly,” Bruce said, settling against him. “Enough that I might start introducing the idea of marriage.”
Clark blinked, startled fully awake. “Maybe we should discuss that first.”
Bruce tilted his head. “Are you opposed?”
“No,” Clark said honestly, though his pulse had quickened. “Not opposed.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Clark sat up on an elbow, staring at him. “Wait. That wasn’t your proposal, was it?”
“Obviously not.” Bruce’s mouth curved into a small, smug smile. “But I already have a ring.”
Clark gaped. “You what—”
Bruce silenced by pulling him down for a kiss. “I’ll ask when you least expect it.”
Clark fell back against the pillows, laughing softly as Bruce kissed him again, the sound swallowed into the quiet night.