Chapter Text
Is it weird that the first thing Clark thought when seeing the article — if he could call anything that was written for a tabloid this way — was what Bruce’s kids would think?
The thought arrived with the force of a physical blow, a cold dread that settled deep in his gut, entirely eclipsing any personal embarrassment. He’d worked so hard over the past months to build something with them and he was just starting to feel like he’d carved enough to call it what he had done a progress.
He didn’t want all his efforts to be perceived as their dad’s cool friend who’s always around to be destroyed because of a picture of him and Bruce making out in his penthouse.
God. Have Ma and Pa seen it?
The pivot in his anxiety was so swift it left him dizzy. He hoped not. He prayed the rural delivery of the Smallville Gazette insulated them from the venomous splash of Gotham’s gossip rags. Just last Sunday Clark mentioned he was seeing somebody seriously and, yes, he was planning to tell his parents about Bruce so he could present him to them.
Clark had been thinking how to bring up the subject for weeks now, planning the right words to explain Bruce Wayne, to separate the man from the myth, to present the real person behind the billionaire playboy façade to the two people whose opinion mattered most.
They did not need to find out about it with a picture—a picture of such startlingly invasive clarity it was a miracle the photographer hadn’t been perched on the chandelier—of Clark on his knees, his face tilted up, Bruce’s hand tangled possessively in his hair, his own eyes half-lidded. The headline screamed, “BRUCE WAYNE’S PENTHOUSE PLEASURE!” with a subhead that speculated wildly about the “mysterious dark-haired lover.” He could imagine Ma’s expression, not one of anger or disgust, but that particular blend of startled confusion and gentle concern, her head tilting just so, the newspaper held in her capable hands. The thought made him want to bury himself inside the many blankets he kept on his couch, to retreat into a fortress of fleece and never emerge.
A strong, insistent knock on the door, the kind that spoke of a familiar impatience, forced him out of his spiraling thoughts.
“Smallville! Open the door!” Lois’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the wood. “I know you’re in there! Your super-hearing had to pick up my heartbeat from the elevator!”
He breathed in, a long, steadying pull of air, and breathed out, forcing the tension from his shoulders before actually turning the lock and opening the door.
“Hey.” Clark tried his best to not sound like he was actively dying inside, aiming for a casualness he was galaxies away from feeling.
“Have you seen it?” Lois didn’t wait for an invitation, brushing past him and beelining for his open kitchen as if she owned the place, her heels clicking a determined rhythm on the hardwood. She held up her phone, the offending article glowing on the screen.
Clark closed the door, leaning against it for a moment of weak support. “Jimmy sent it to me half an hour ago.” The memory was jarring. He’d been in the middle of placidly scrambling eggs, the morning sun streaming through his windows, a rare moment of calm before the storm. His phone had buzzed with a message from Jimmy: Man is that you?? Followed immediately by a link to an article about Bruce Wayne being gay. That had been enough to make his stomach drop. But it was the photo, a masterpiece of paparazzi intrusion with a lens long enough to capture the intimate scene from a neighboring skyscraper, that had turned his blood to ice. The quality was shockingly high, leaving no room for denial. The set of his shoulders, the curl of his hair, the specific shade of his flannel shirt—it was undeniably, unequivocally him.
“I’m sorry,” Lois whispered, her usual bravado dialed down as she busied herself with his coffee machine, pouring water and grounds with an efficiency that betrayed her need for caffeine and a distraction.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice hollow even to his own ears. He finally pushed off the door and wandered into the living area, collapsing onto the couch.
“You should call your parents,” she stated, her back to him as the machine began its gurgling protest. “You still have a few precious hours before the news cycles out of Gotham and onto the Planet’s front page and they find out their son is a tabloid star.”
“I don’t know what to tell them.” The words were a miserable admission. How did you start that conversation? Hi, Ma, how’s the weather? The crops? By the way, you might see a photo of me…
“You can start with: ‘Hey! I just wanted to check on you!’” Lois called out, not even trying to hide the thick layer of sarcasm coating her words. She turned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “‘By the way, I’m dating Bruce Wayne. Yes, that Bruce Wayne. And apparently, we need better curtains.’”
Clark looked at her, a pained expression on his face. “I didn’t plan to keep it a secret that I like guys,” he said, the confession feeling both trivial and enormous in the context of the current crisis. That part, at least, he’d never been actively ashamed of, just private. It was a facet of himself he’d always assumed he would reveal quietly, in his own time, to the people he loved.
Lois left the kitchen and walked over to him, her expression softening. She perched on the arm of the couch. “It’s okay, Clark. I’m not hurt you didn’t come out to me.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “But I am devastated that you have been fucking Bruce Wayne and you didn’t tell me! Your best friend! Your work wife! The person who covers a few of his ridiculous galas!”
That, against all odds, forced a wet chuckle to leave Clark’s body. The sheer Lois-ness of her priority was a lifeline. “Didn’t know you wanted to know so badly about my sex life.”
“What? I mean—” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “I usually don’t! But I do when you are going down on Bruce fucking Wayne on his penthouse balcony! That is headline-level news, Kent! You don’t keep this kind of groundbreaking, Pulitzer-adjacent intel from your friend!”
Clark hid his face between his hands, his shoulders shaking with a mixture of humiliation and reluctant laughter. “Does it make it any better that I didn’t tell anyone? I was going to, I swear. I was just… waiting for the right moment.”
Lois sighed, the theatrics leaving her. She slid off the arm and sat properly on the couch beside him, her shoulder pressing against his. “Seriously, Clark,” she said, her voice low and earnest. “You should call your parents. Right now. Before they see that damn photo.” She nudged him.
“I should call Bruce too.”
He knew he should, but if he was lucky enough Bruce would still be sleeping. Also, he didn’t want to hear Alfred’s polite British voice pretending he doesn’t know anything about the tabloid and the news.