Work Text:
Clark had done the whole song and dance with a mild sense of embarrassment and an overwhelming sense of paranoia about the idea of Batman ever finding out about all this. Well, Batman or Lex Luthor, but Luthor would only use the knowledge for evil, whereas Batman would simply just never let him live it down, so Clark was more afraid of Batman finding out.
Thankfully, the kind of man who was rich enough and closeted enough to make his potential sugar babies sign three NDAs before even learning of his identity was probably not likely to constitute any meaningful security leak. Clark also doubted that the kind of rich guy who would hire an investigative journalist with bylines in one of the world's most eminent newspapers, despite an apparent burning need for secrecy, would be bright enough to connect the dots about Superman.
Besides, for all that Vicki Vale was a local celebrity in the Gotham-Metro area because of her news anchor work, she was hardly more than a D-lister when compared to the real rich and famous jetset. Given that he'd been put into touch with the whole thing by Vicki, Clark doubted that the guy was anyone actually recognizable.
When Vicki had first approached Clark and asked him on behalf of this mysterious rich person whether he'd ever considered sugaring, Clark had already been thinking of finding a second job. Stringers were freelance journalists who were paid per article, and while Clark had made enough to get by when he’d “just” been Superman, he now spent more time on League business, and that meant that he had even less time to devote to his work. Even as someone who didn’t eat, sleep, or obey the laws of physics, Clark still had to put in the legwork for his articles, and that took time. He hadn’t given escorting or sex work any real thought, because Clark was a semi-public figure, and Superman a hyper-public one. But a sugar daddy who expected confidentiality and who was deeply secretive and paranoid was actually kind of perfect. Clark was sure that the guy wouldn’t be offended if Clark also asked for the same in return.
Most of the other options that Clark had looked at involved using his powers in some way, or yet more freelance work, because those were the kinds of jobs that would let him disappear on short notice when Superman was needed. Unfortunately, Clark wouldn’t use Superman’s powers as Clark Kent if he could help it, and Clark really, really, really didn’t want more freelance work. Even the stigma of sex work and the calculated risk to his identity would be better than trying to freelance more. If he didn’t have friends and family and the League and also a growing following in the Twittersphere to consider, he would have rather gone back to drifting the world and taking up seasonal contracts on oil tankers before he upped the amount of freelance work.
He didn’t hate the work itself, of course. He loved journalism. But the financial instability, the lack of career progression, the collapse of what little work life balance he hand, and the way that he kept pushing his work to the wayside at every crisis and ended up constantly late, harried, and rushed even as he put out progressively fewer and fewer articles was not something that he enjoyed. He couldn’t go on dates or sleep with someone in superspeed. Maybe that would force him to slow down and feel more grounded about work again.
So, he’d had an awkward talk with Lois, one that was infinitely more agonizing than the discussion about having an open relationship and how they were fundamentally different people with different needs who still loved each other, but Lois had also formed emotional and romantic connections to people who had supported her in her bleak, bone deep grief for Clark in the time that he had been gone. That had been fine. Clark was faithful, but he wasn’t an obligate monogamist, and it had both hurt and helped to know that Lois had found people who supported her and helped her through her grief, even as she mourned Clark and held herself as his widow.
The talk about the sugar daddy thing had involved a bruise to his masculine ego, several discussions of Kryptonian anatomy, and the phrase “Kryptonian STD plague”. Clark was glad that Lois decided that it was something that could work within the bounds of their current relationship, but he also never wanted Lois to stare into his eyes and very seriously as him about the chances of Kryptonians being capable of male impregnation ever again.
So, it was with a spring in his step and a flutter in his stomach and a mild, ever-present dread that Batman would find out about everything that Clark got into a cab with Vicki Vale and allowed himself to be driven across the bay to Gotham.
“I can’t tell you too much before you sign the contract,” Vicki said, “but I’m glad you’re considering this. I think you would be good for him. He’s a great guy, and I worry that he’s a bit too lonely sometimes.”
Clark ignored the leading questions that immediately sprang to mind and didn’t try to press Vicki for more detail. “Well, hope he likes me then,” Clark said. “How many candidates did you say he was interviewing?” Ugh, Clark couldn’t imagine the sort of person who held job interviews for a sugar baby.
Well, he was sure that there was usually a vetting process, but Clark’s stereotypical conception of a sugar relationship didn’t involve three stage interviews with different interviewers and an NDA for each new step of the process. The tests to show that he was free of STIs was reasonable, the exam paper asking him about his stance on politics, current events, and superheroes was less standard. The declaration that he’d signed, stating that he didn’t work for Lexcorp, Wayne Enterprises, Queen Industries or any state or federal agency was thorough to the point of bleakness. Clark was vaguely glad that it asked only about employment. It would have been awkward if he couldn’t sign the thing because he was buddies with Batman. The NDAs he’d had to sign had all also contained details about strange things that didn’t entirely make sense, but what did Clark know. He was just an investigative journalist who was broke and capable of punching through walls. Even if this was an elaborate attempt by Vicki to take out her rival’s boyfriend, Clark was confident that she lacked the kryptonite necessary to cut him open and steal his kidneys.
“You know I can’t say if other people were being considered,” Vicki answered pleasantly, “but you’re the only and final candidate as of now. If your meeting with him goes well, you will be asked to sign a contract and another NDA. Then we’ll be able to speak more openly. Don’t worry, Kent. You’re just his type. He likes a cute guy who’s all…nerdy-chic. And he loves a good collar pin.”
Vicki gave a brisk light tug to the tip of Clark’s collar, which was pinned down neatly with a collar pin. It was his one bit of sartorial vanity. Bruce always looked so neat and handsome with his collar bars, a kind of buttoned up handsomeness that made him simultaneously incredibly masculine and a little dandyish. There was something enticingly sensual in how the knot of his tie was bursting outwards even as his collar was pinned down tight. Clark loved the way it made Bruce look, but wasn't about to order a bunch of new shirts just so he could wear a collar bar. Thus, he stuck to the neatness added by collar pins, less flagrantly dandyish but still handsome and formal. It was only a small step up from his previous affection for button down shirt collars, but the little silver gleam of the pin and the way it elevated his tie made him feel incredibly elegant.
Clark touched his shirt collar. A man who enjoyed a bit of sartorial whimsy. That was a good start. Clark wasn’t a fashionista himself, but he liked a man in a well cut suit.
“That’s good to know,” Clark mumbled. He flushed a little guiltily.
The two fell into silence as the taxi roared over one of the Gotham-Metro bridges and towards the waterfront - the CBD part, that is, and not the derelict old docks and wharves of Old town Gotham that had been left behind by the glittering skyscrapers of the business district. When they arrived in the heard of downtown Gotham, Clark followed Vicki out the taxi and into the gleaming lobby of the Kane-Wayne Imperial Hotel, a six star jewel of the Gotham skyline. Clark peeked up through the building. Boardrooms, function rooms, banquet halls and restaurants on the lower levels. Above, boxy rooms and suites that got bigger the higher up they were. The 55th to 57th floors were executive suites of all descriptions, the 58th floor boasted two luxurious presidential suites, and the top two floors were a private penthouse with a truly obscene layout and astonishing views from the glass walls and ceilings of the top floor. The penthouse of the Kane-Wayne was pretty famous for being Bruce’s preferred location to take his one night stands and celebrity flings, so Clark was grateful to see that the top two floors were empty and showed no sign of being inhabited. He might have dropped dead if he ran into Bruce. Bruce might get that tense and unhappy strain around the lovely warm shapes of his eyes if he found of the security risk.
Clark eyed the people in the executive suites and the one person occupying one of the two presidential suites, wondering which one would be his client.
“I’ll take you up,” Vicki said, “he’s on his way to the hotel.”
Oh. So it wasn’t any of the people there.
Clark followed Vicki to the bank of elevators, trying to keep his expression neutral and his body language relaxed. This wasn’t exactly Doomsday level stuff, but it had the chance to go very far south. But he wasn’t going to let anything go south. It was going to be a pleasant meeting, followed by a profitable and pleasant transactional relationship, and neither he nor the guy he would be seeing would have their secrets blasted to the world. Clark forced the corners of his lips to quirk upwards so that he wasn’t exhibiting his resting bitch face.
“One moment,” Vicki said, rooting around in her bag. She produced a key card and tapped it against the reader in front of the innermost lift, one that didn’t seem to be open to the public. The empty lift roared down its chute and came to a halt with a musical ding. Vicki got in. Clark followed her.
“He’s actually a pretty recognizable person,” Vicki said as the lift doors slid closed. She tapped the card against another card reader, and the lift started climbing up without Vicki needing to press any buttons. “You’ll have to sign another NDA if you both agree that you would like to pursue the relationship, but it’s pretty obvious who he is.”
Vicki paused and swallowed. The fast elevator had caused her ears to pop. She took a moment to collect herself, but Clark didn’t need her to keep talking. The elevator display had climbed past 55 and 56, showed no signs of stopping for 57, and was halfway past 58 before it slowed. The elevator opened with another musical ding into the lobby area of Bruce Wayne’s personal penthouse suite.
“I have to go,” Clark said without thinking. He tried to jab the close elevator button, but it remained stubbornly open without Vicki’s key card.
“His reputation precedes him, I assure you,” Vicki said, sticking a had in front of the elevator door to keep it from closing. She stared expectantly at Clark. “And even if you’re not interested in pursuing a contract with Bruce Wayne, there’s another NDA you need to sign and and the ten thousand dollars that you’re being paid for this interview.
The Kane-Wayne Imperial had two private elevators in a different elevator bay from the one that Clark and Vicki had used. Clark could trace the path that Bruce walked in order to reach his personal elevator. He was strolling along almost jauntily, and one of the people who had interviewed Clark a week ago followed along beside him with a briefcase in her hand. Bruce was making vague vapid remarks about how he hoped the newest hottie that Valencia - the woman with the briefcase - had picked out for him would be cute. It was a side of Bruce that didn’t come up often any more, a hint of the vapid playboy socialite. He was still a playboy, but as he’d gotten older and his image became marginally more respectable and mature, the “vapid feckless prodigal son” had been replaced with “privileged and self-important asshole”. A respectable enough businessman who no body respected, the inheritor of an empire who had shown he wouldn’t entirely squander the family fortune.
“I really need to go,” Clark said queasily. Bruce’s private elevator was soaring upwards with an elegant silence that spoke of expensive engineering.
“Clark,” Vicki said, “I really-”
An elevator dinged. The sound came from around a corner, still part of the lobby but blocked from the sight of this public entry point.
“Oh, they're already here,” Valencia said brightly. “You’ll love Clark, Brucie. He’s just your type.”
Clark’s shoulders hunched as he stepped out of the elevator and toward the source of the voice.
“Clark?” Bruce repeated sharply, even as Clark rounded the corner.
“Hi Bruce.” Clark raised a hand and waved awkwardly. “Fancy running into you here.”
Bruce stared at him, so taken aback that he was completely frozen in place. Clark attempted a shit-eating grin to cover up the dread in his heart.
“Valencia, Vicki,” Bruce said. “Would you two leave me alone with Clark here? I think I’d like to get some one on one face time with him.” He smiled that stupid smile of his, half warm personal socialite and half feckless playboy. It was devastatingly dazzling.
“Of course, Bruce,” Valencia said immediately, and Vicki echoed this sentiment. Valencia left the briefcase she was holding on a side-table and went to join Vicki in her elevator. The door slid shut, and Clark watched as the two of them went two floors down to a suite that ostensibly was being occupied by Valencia. They were clearly gossiping about the situation, but Clark didn’t have the courage to find out what they were saying. He tore his eyes away from Vicki and Valencia to look at Bruce’s stern, impassive face.
“Clark,” Bruce said neutrally, his face unreadable, “why are you here.”
“Bruce,” Clark said. “Why are you letting Vicki Vale bring strange unknown men into your apartment.”
Bruce’s face scrunched into his characteristic Batman frown.
“My dates are carefully vetted,” Bruce said. “And I can generally defend myself pretty well.”
“Your ‘dates’.” Clark crossed his arm. He was going on the offensive so Bruce wouldn’t remember to bitch Clark out. He felt only a tiny bit bad about it.
“Yes, my dates,” Bruce said. “Did you really think I would date people without taking the necessary precautions?”
“What, so all your past relationships have all come with three NDAs and a clothing stipend?” Clark demanded incredulously.
“NDAs, yes,” Bruce said. “I only pay people when there’s a gap in my dating schedule. I need to keep up appearances. And it’s not a clothing stipend; I’m not Hugh fucking Hefner. I’m paying people for their time and work.”
Clark could admit that it made sense. Even after Bruce had stopped being quite so neurotic about using sex as an outlet for his trauma, he still kept up the string of public dates and high profile flings.
“And what about you, Mr Kent?” Bruce raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms to mirror Clark’s pose. “What have I done to gain the pleasure of your company?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Bruce, you know perfectly well how I ended up here,” Clark said. “Not that I knew where Vicki was taking me beforehand.”
“You’re married,” Bruce said. “You’re Superman. You’re a journalist. In what world would being a sugar baby to some billionaire asshole be a good idea?”
“I’m a freelancer who spends most of my time not freelancing,” Clark said, “so the money’s not that great. And this was better than most of the side hustles I considered. And um. Lois knows, obviously. We had a mature and open discussion about this, which is what people do when they’re engaged. Because, you know, we’re not actually married yet.”
“You’re both public figures,” Bruce said, genuinely pained. His warm patient face screwed up in anguish. “Even without considering Superman…”
“Vicki, Valencia and Valerie all seemed very discreet. You also did make me sign three NDAs. I figured that whoever wanted that many NDAs probably could keep a secret.”
“But still,” Bruce said quietly. “If you needed money…”
“Oh my god Bruce,” Clark said. “You’re not my sugar-”
He paused ruefully.
“Hmm, I have no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding really stupid,” he admitted.
Bruce rubbed a had across his brows and laughed. “So what, you didn’t want to encourage Barry’s jokes about me being your sugar daddy, so you decided to get an actual sugar daddy instead?”
Clark made a face. That was pretty much exactly what it was.
“I don’t need you to… I’m not broke,” Clark said with a roll of his eyes, uncomfortable talking about money. “I just. Um. Wanted some extra spending money, alright? And the whole freelancing thing is driving me insane. I thought something that was low-stakes and stable that couldn’t be rushed through with superspeed might make me feel less insane about my dayjob. I need the flexibility, of course, but goddamn do I hate freelancing.”
“Hm,” Bruce said. It was a thoughtful noise. There were gears whirring in that unfathomable brain of his.
“Don’t buy out the Daily Planet so you can get me a nepotism job,” Clark said.
“Spoilsport,” Bruce laughed, but there was genuine disappointment in how he said it. It really was like a reflex with him, the need to take care of people he cared about in whatever way that he could. Clark’s heart ached at how incredibly kind Bruce had managed to remain, despite all that life had thrown at him.
The two of them stared at each other in identical poses of cross-armed posturing.
“So,” said Clark.
“So,” said Bruce.
The staring contest continued.
Clark uncrossed his arms, and Bruce mirrored him.
“I need to call Lois,” Clark said.
Bruce gestured for him to go ahead. Clark took his phone out of his pocked at dialled Lois, who picked up on the third ring. She’d been keeping an eye on her phone, in case Vicki’s mystery man had turned out ot be an axe murderer or an evil undead alien or something.
“Clark?” Lois asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Hey Lo,” Clark said, “guess who I just met.” Then, without waiting for a replied, he said, “Bruce says hi.”
There was a momentary pause. Then Lois burst out into laughter.
“Oh Clark,” She sighed, still giggling. “I should have expected this. He’s basically your sugar daddy already.”
Clark glared at Bruce when he snorted too.
“Anyway,” he said loudly, over the sound of Lois laughing at his misfortune, “permission to fuck Bruce.”
Bruce stilled. The look of bewildered surprise on his face was incredibly comical.
“Sure babe,” Lois said, “have fun. His neck is very sensitive, do with that information what you will.”
Bruce looked pained. “Traitor,” he muttered sullenly.
“Thanks, talk to you later babe,” Clark said. “Love you.”
“Love you Clark, bye,” said Lois.
Clark hung up.
“So,” Clark said. “You clearly didn’t make her sign an NDA.”
“She was grieving,” Bruce glowered, “and I was just trying to… be supportive. I wasn’t going to make her read fifty pages of legalese just so I could… you know. Comfort her.”
“Bruce,” Clark said, a smile bursting onto his face. “You are so full of shit.”
Bruce grabbed Clark by the knot of his slim red tie. “Call me Daddy,” he said facetiously, like the asshole that he was, and mashed their lips together, muffling Clark’s squawk of outraged laughter.
His neck was indeed very sensitive.