Work Text:
Clark was all too familiar with the alleyways of Metropolis: which ones had cameras, which ones had a clear shot to the sky, which ones people already sort of expected to see someone taking off their shirt in. So of course it was a Gotham alley that Clark had finally gotten caught in.
The email had come right around noon, delivered to Clark’s work email by a throwaway account. The subject line was ominously vague, but the body proved the sender was serious: a demand for a non-insignificant amount of money, and a grainy but unmistakable photo of Clark kissing someone who was clearly not his darling fiance, Bruce Wayne.
He wanted to laugh. Wanted to, but it was evened out by the sour horror in his stomach that someone would actually think he would do something like that—would Bruce?
Clark quickly closed out of the email, all too aware of the fact that any one of his coworkers could glance over and see his screen—especially Cat Grant, who’d cornered Clark in the break room the day after he and Bruce went public to give him a shockingly passionate shovel talk on Bruce’s behalf.
Clark let his heartbeat return to normal. He let himself imagine how smug Bruce would be when he found out.
It wasn’t a nice feeling, being blackmailed—but, given the circumstances, it was just a little funny.
The thing was, Bruce, the paranoid little genius that he was, had quite literally foreseen this. From the day Clark broached the subject of them maybe giving the dating thing a shot, if Bruce was willing, Bruce kept a tight leash on how, exactly, their other identities were to interact with each other. Superman and Batman remained strictly platonic, Clark Kent stayed completely unfamiliar with Batman—being just a little unconvinced that he existed at all—, and Bruce Wayne kept his hands to himself on the rare occasion that Superman was the one to save him.
Over time, though, they relaxed. Bruce kissed Clark for the first time in costume around the four month mark, in the dark corner of the Watchtower when no one else was around. Clark Kent got away with using Batman as an anonymous source in an article. And when they’d made it a full year without the world imploding beneath their feet, Clark was allowed to be openly affectionate with Batman in front of the JLA, and three months after that, one very excited reporter caught Batman holding Superman’s hand in the aftermath of an alien invasion.
Clearly, though, they’d gotten a little too relaxed about it. Oops.
(Bruce was cute when he was being smug, though, so Clark wasn’t exactly dreading the I told you so. More just dreading how bad the media cycle would be if the photos were leaked to the press rather than just Bruce, like the email was threatening.)
Clark hadn’t technically moved into Wayne Manor yet—that would come with the wedding, though he’d still retain his apartment in Metropolis—but he usually stopped by the Manor after getting off work and before Bruce started his patrol.
Today, Bruce was in the BatCave, absorbed in a case. Clark scanned the files over his shoulder out of brief curiosity before wrapping an arm around his chest to pull him back for easier access to his temple, where he pressed a quick kiss.
“Hey, B. How’s work?”
Bruce always seemed to melt into Clark’s touch, like a cat soaking up stray rays of sunlight. “Things are starting to calm down again after the Arkham breakout.”
“Anything I can help with?” Clark dropped into the chair—his chair—beside Bruce’s desk, already knowing what the answer would be.
“We have it covered.” And Clark wasn’t a Gothamite, and wouldn’t marrying into the city’s royal family for another—gosh, was it really only five months away? “What’s wrong?”
“Did you get an email today?”
Bruce frowned. “The catering company hasn’t gotten back to me yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, the wedding might be off anyway, so I guess that doesn’t matter.”
As a general rule of thumb, Batman didn’t do double takes. His expression now, though, was the closest Clark had ever seen. Clark was grinning as he handed over his phone, compromising image already pulled up.
Bruce scowled at it. “I told you that was a bad idea.”
Clark rolled his eyes; Bruce’s exact words in the alley were and here I thought you were taken, Mr. Kent, his voice husky in Clark’s ear. It wasn’t exactly a no.
“In my defense, you looked really good in that suit.”
That, apparently, was enough to earn Clark his second double-take of the night. “It was plaid.”
“I like plaid.”
The image itself, seemingly taken from the road outside, wasn’t quite high quality enough to make out who Clark was cuddled up against—that was one silver lining, Clark supposed—but the hint of a red-orange flame and the glare of a pair of sunglasses made the identity clear to Clark and Bruce.
It had been taken almost a week ago, outside a dive bar in Gotham. Clark and Bruce had been investigating the same story, but from different avenues: Clark as an assignment from the Daily Planet, and Bruce as Matches Malone. They’d ended up in the same place by sheer coincidence. Matches had called Clark over, his flirting giving them enough of a cover to have a quick, coded conversation.
And then Clark had kissed him in the shadows of the alleyway, a quick peck to his cheek. In hindsight, Clark thought, that was probably worse; it implied more intimacy than attraction, like kissing Matches in the shadowy alleyways was something he did on a regular basis.
Your poor fiance, the email had sneered. What will he do once he sees this?
“I’m not postponing the wedding,” Bruce grumbled, having already done far too much planning for the big day.
(Clark, as usual, had insisted on helping, share some of the load that came with having so many things to set up and schedule. Bruce, as usual, got annoyed with his stubborn interference. But at least this time, Bruce couldn’t ignore his input.)
“Does that mean I’m forgiven? I mean, it’s not my fault you’re irresistible."
Bruce shot Clark a flat glare, and he smiled, leaning in to kiss him, soft and lingering. Clark started to pull away, but Bruce’s hand on his cheek kept him in place, the second kiss deeper.
“You’re forgiven,” Bruce said quietly when Clark pulled away. “Next time, try harder.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
Bruce didn’t even hesitate, which made Clark wonder how long he’d had a contingency plan for “Clark cheats on me with myself” stashed away. Heck, knowing Bruce, there was a good chance he’d written one up before they’d officially started dating.
“There’s a gala next weekend. If they even send the photos, I’ll pretend to be upset with you and trying to hide it.”
“Pretend?” Clark joked.
“Funny.”
Clark stole another kiss. “Are you patrolling tonight, or do you want me to stay over?”
“You can stay over,” Bruce said softly. “This is my fault, isn’t it?” He added, in a tone of voice that was noticeably more Brucie and far less serious. “I’ve been neglecting you, so you ran off with the first person who flirted with you.”
“Not the first person.” Clark ran a hand through Bruce’s hair. “Just the first person with black hair and blue eyes. I have a type.”
“I’m lucky you’ve never met Superman, then.”
“I don’t want to kiss Superman,” Clark said with a laugh. “Batman, though…I’d kiss him.”
With a smirk, Bruce all but challenged Clark to prove it.
That night saw Clark and Bruce cuddled up together in Bruce’s bed, blackout curtains shut tight against the cold sky outside. Clark’s body was pressed against Bruce’s back, his arm hooked around Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s heartbeat was steady and slow in his ears, Clark’s favorite lullaby, though Clark could tell from his breathing patterns that he wasn’t entirely asleep yet.
“B?”
“Hn.”
“You know I wouldn’t cheat on you, right?” Clark said quietly into his shoulderblade.
Bruce shifted so he could stare at him, expression deadpan.
“I just don’t want you to think that I—”
“I don’t,” Bruce said, firm and fond, as if it was funny to him that Clark even thought it was a possibility that Bruce didn’t trust him on this completely. “Go to sleep.”
Bruce shifted back into position, and Clark settled back against him, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
True to Bruce’s guess, the deadline came and went, and no incriminating email showed up in his inbox.
Two days later, though, it only took Clark seeing the murderous glare of Cat Grant to realize that the photo had been leaked onto the Internet instead.
"Secret's out,” Clark said as soon as Bruce picked up the phone, shutting the door of the file room behind him.
“I know. I have a plan.”
Clark had a plan, too: setting himself up to work from home the next few days before his coworkers decided to start asking for quotes. Or before Cat threw a stapler at his head.
(Bruce’s plan, as it turned out, involved an interview where Bruce insisted that the infidelity was entirely in the past, and that he and Clark loved each other very much, and promptly dodged the interviewer’s question about how the photo was said to have taken place two weeks ago.)
(Clark only knew about this because Bruce told him; he wasn’t exactly fond of the idea of surfing the internet himself right now.)