Work Text:
Clark Kent stood frozen, staring at his ruined desk. Papers littered the floor, his chair was overturned, but the worst part—the part that made his chest ache—was the words carved into the wood.
GOLD DIGGER.
WAYNE’S PET.
DOES HE PAY YOU TO STAY?
The words felt like knives. Deep, cruel scratches etched so permanently into the desk that they might as well have been carved into him.
Clark let out a slow breath, his fingers hovering just above the splintered wood. He heared their whispers with super-hearing. The taunts. The judgment.
„Gold digger.“
„Wayne’s fuck toy.“
„Wayne’s little toy.“
„Couldn't be Luthers whore, so he became Wayne’s“
It was nothing new—but this? This was more than whispers. This was open. This was malicious.
His hand drifted to his stomach, fingers ghosting over the small but growing swell beneath his shirt. It wasn’t just about him anymore. It wasn’t just his pride, his reputation being dragged through the dirt. He had a child to protect. A baby who would be born into a world that already saw Clark as less.
He swallowed hard. The knot in his throat was unbearable, the sting behind his eyes impossible to blink away. But still, he willed himself to stay calm.
He could handle this.
He had to handle this.
The creak of the door behind him made him tense. He didn’t turn around at first, quickly wiping the corner of his eye before anyone could notice.
"Clark."
The voice was softer than usual. Steady.
Clark turned to see Perry White standing in the doorway, his usual no-nonsense expression tight with concern.
Clark forced a small, tired smile. "Hey, Perry. Just… cleaning up." He gestured halfheartedly to the mess, as if it was nothing. As if it didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.
But Perry wasn’t fooled.
His sharp gaze scanned the desk, lingering on the hateful words carved into its surface. His face darkened. His hands clenched into fists.
“Who did this?” Perry’s voice was low, dangerous.
Clark hesitated. Shook his head. "It doesn’t matter."
"The hell it doesn’t," Perry snapped. "Clark, this isn’t just office gossip anymore. This is targeted harassment."
"I can handle it," Clark insisted. His voice was even, but it lacked conviction.
Perry stared at him for a long moment. Then, without another word, he pulled out his phone and walked away.
Clark watched him go, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. He turned back to his desk, slowly starting to gather his scattered papers. As he reached for a fallen notepad, the weight of the moment finally pressed down on him.
He exhaled shakily, murmuring to himself, "I can handle this."
But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he believed it.
Bruce arrived within the hour. Dressed in a sharp three-piece suit, he exuded the quiet power of a man who owned the room before he even stepped inside. His arrival sent ripples through the newsroom—people whispered, eyes darting toward him nervously.
Clark looked up from his desk, exhaustion evident in his features, but when he saw Bruce, his face softened.
"Bruce?" Clark blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Bruce walked over, taking in the wreckage on Clark’s desk. His expression didn’t change, but Clark knew him well enough to recognize the storm brewing beneath.
Clark, always trying to be the strong one, simply smiled and stood up, brushing off some of the scattered papers. "How was your day?" he asked, as if nothing was wrong.
Bruce’s gaze flickered to the cruelly carved words, then back to Clark, who was pretending they didn’t exist.
Instead of answering, Bruce stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. His fingers found their way into Clark’s hair, brushing through it gently. Pregnancy always made Clark’s hair softer—one of the small details Bruce loved.
But as he did this, his eyes scanned the room, analyzing every guilty glance, every coworker avoiding eye contact. The culprits were here. He could feel it.
Clark, ever perceptive, noticed Bruce’s shift in demeanor. "Bruce?"
Bruce smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Why don’t we go home for today?"
Clark hesitated. "I have work—"
"Take the day off," Bruce said firmly. "Come home with me."
Clark searched his face, sensing something more was going on. But exhaustion won out, and after a moment, he nodded.
Bruce helped Clark getting his things. After that Bruce softly placed a hand on Clark’s back leading him out.
The moment Bruce had Clark safely home, he got to work.
Wayne Enterprises had connections everywhere-especially in media.
#Exposed: Daily Planet Employees Caught Harassing Innocent Journalist
The screenshots were damning-anonymous sources provided messages, recordings, and even security footage of the workplace bullying. The public was autraged.
But Bruce wasn't done.
Gotham was not Metropolis.
It was not bright skies and hopeful smiles. It was not a city that turned the other cheek or forgave easily. No—Gotham was old, primal, and fiercely territorial. It was a city built on blood, on power, on unspoken rules that even the criminals dared not break.
And one of those rules?
You do not touch what belongs to the Waynes.
The moment the Daily Planet’s official statement dropped—confirming the systematic harassment of Clark Wayne—Gotham erupted.
It started with the media.
Wayne Enterprises put out a official statement first, Bruce’s words carefully chosen yet sharp as a knife:
"Wayne Enterprises and the Gotham Gazette stand for integrity and ethical journalism. There is no room in this industry for those who harass, threaten, or degrade their colleagues. Any individual found engaging in such behavior has no place in journalism—nor in any reputable field."
A polite way of saying: You will never work again.
Gotham was not Metropolis. So Gotham did what Gotham did best. It struck back. Continuing what Bruce Wayne began.
#WayneRetribution trended for exactly seven
minutes before it was overtaken by a more
visceral response:
#GothamProtectsltsOwn
"Clark Wayne isn't some socialite playing philanthropist. He's in the shelters. He's in the clinics. He's the reason half our charities are still running. You don't touch him."
"You think Bruce Wayne is terrifying? Wait until you meet the Gothamites who love Clark."
"Metropolis really let our Clark be harassed? Oh, we are about to have PROBLEMS."
The Gotham elite-the real ones, the old families, The Kanes. The Elliots. The Crownes. The Cobblepots the ones who made and destroyed careers with a single phone call-closed ranks.
The Calls were made. Careers were ended. Every publication that even considered hiring the disgraced former employees of the Daily Planet found themselves blacklisted instantly.
The message was clear: "If you associate with them, you will never work with us again."
Then, the underworld joined in.
Because Clark Wayne wasn’t just a socialite journalist. He was the man who had ensured the shelters stayed open during the hardest winters. The man who had personally funded medical care for the forgotten of Gotham. The one who sat down with criminals and asked, "Why are you doing this? How do we stop it?"
And people remembered.
#WayneRetribution even started trending more, fueled by Gothamites who refused to stay silent.
"So a bunch of nobodies thought they could
bully CLARK WAYNE? The same Clark Wayne
who runs charity drives, supports Gotham's
shelters, and helps fund the Leslie Thompkins
Free Clinic? These lowlifes really thought
Gotham wouldn't notice?"
"Clark Wayne is Gotham's golden boy. Those
Daily Planet scumbags deserved it. Bruce
Wayne should've done worse."
"Martha Wayne's legacy LIVES because of Clark Wayne. He's continuing her work. Gotham loves him. You don't mess with the Wayne family!"
The backlash was severe. The fired employees found themselves completely blacklisted from journalism. Their names were circulating with damning receipts of their bullying, leaked anonymously by none other than Barbara Gordon.
The very next morning, every single one of Clark’s harassers found their homes vandalized. Their cars destroyed. Their reputations shattered. Their social media accounts drowned in public outrage.
One particularly infamous Gotham club—known for catering to both the elite and the underground—had a new sign posted on its door:
"Bulling and Harassment not welcome. We stand with Clark Wayne."
It was no longer just about justice.
It was vengeance.
And Gotham would get it for Clark Wayne.
Bruce had planned everything.
Clark could not find out about the firestorm until it was over. Until there was nothing left for him to worry about.
So, Bruce gave his kids a mission:
"Keep Clark distracted. The entire day. Do not let him check his phone. Do not let him near a news station. If he so much as hears the word ‘Twitter,’ I expect you to neutralize it immediately."
They took it seriously.
Dick played the charming older son, dragging Clark out for brunch at the most obnoxiously cheerful café he could find. Tim, ever the strategist, set up a completely fake "mother and kid bonding day," roping in Jon, Conner, and Damian.
Damian, for his part, was thriving.
"Mother," Damian said, dragging Clark toward a bookstore. "You need new novels. Father only stocks philosophy and business strategies. It’s unbearable." "Yeah, we don't want to you to read us bedtime stories, from those books..", Jonathan added.
Clark, chuckling but suspicious, let himself be led inside.
An hour later, Clark was loaded with new books, an absurd amount of pastries courtesy of Jon and Conner, definitely having the sweet tooth from him, and Clark had not checked his phone once.
Mission: Successful.
It was evening when they returned home.
Clark, exhausted but happy, walked into Wayne Manor completely unaware of what had transpired while he was gone.
Dinner was quiet. The kids were in on it—nobody mentioned Gotham’s retaliation. Nobody let Clark see what was happening online or on newspaper.
Then, after dinner, Bruce took Clark’s hand and led him to his private office.
Clark followed, curious but unsuspecting.
The office was dimly lit, the old oak desk bathed in soft golden light. Bruce closed the door behind them, moving toward the desk, where a file—thick and official-looking—sat waiting.
Bruce turned to Clark, eyes unreadable.
"You should read this," Bruce said simply, sliding the file toward him.
Clark frowned, reaching out to flip it open.
His eyes skimmed the first page. Then the second. His breath caught.
He looked up sharply.
"Bruce," he whispered, "this is a contract."
Bruce nodded once. "The Gotham Gazette wants you to take over as Editor-in-Chief."
Clark blinked. "I—what? Bruce, I’ve worked at the Daily Planet for nearly twenty years."
"And now it’s time for something better," Bruce said quietly.
Clark's heart pounded. His fingers tightened around the edge of the file.
"You—you planned this?"
Bruce held his gaze. "I won’t let you stay in a place that doesn't deserve you. And I wanted to offer this idea much earlier, but never had the right time."
Clark swallowed, looking back at the contract. His mind raced. Leaving the Planet? Moving fully to Gotham? Leading the Gazette?
He hesitated.
"I don’t want to just… live off your money," Clark murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I need to work. I need to—"
"Clark."
Bruce’s voice was steady. Firm.
"You are not just my husband. You are Clark Wayne. Gotham’s journalist. Gotham’s voice."
Clark exhaled shakily.
His hands trembled as he closed the file, pressing it against his chest.
"Gotham… really wants me?" he whispered.
"Gotham wants you", came the whisper. Bruce stepped forward, brushing his fingers gently through Clark’s hair, softer now from the pregnancy. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Clark’s forehead.
"Gotham needs you," Bruce murmured. "And I want you to choose this. To choose us. To choose you."
Clark closed his eyes.
He thought of the Daily Planet—the place he had loved, that had turned against him.
Then he thought of Gotham.
Of the city that had claimed him without hesitation. That had avenged him without question.
Slowly, Clark inhaled. Then he opened his eyes, looking at Bruce with quiet certainty.
He set the contract down on the desk.
Then, he picked up the pen.
And signed.
Clark Wayne