Chapter Text
Clark was no stranger to juggling two covers for a single event. The plan was simple. Interview a few celebrities for the Daily Planet as mild-mannered Clark Kent, then slip away and make it onstage just in time for the charity auction. Successfully pulling off the illusion of being in two places at once was one of the reasons no one suspected him of being Superman.
The Metropolis Charity Auction was designed to pull in funds from beyond the city limits. Every dollar would go toward rebuilding shops and homes still recovering from the disaster LuthorCorp had unleashed months earlier. Metropolis still had a huge crack through the middle to show for it. Progress to rescue and rebuild what was affected had been slow and costly; even the Justice Gang could only do so much with mere muscle and manpower. Tonight’s strategy was unusual, but necessary. Auctioning off superhero “dates” to raise big-ticket donations.
When the mayor pitched the idea, Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, Mister Terrific, and Superman had just stared at her across the desk, stunned into silence.
“You want us to auction ourselves off for dates? To civilians? For charity?” Guy Gardner asked, gesturing wildly. “I don’t even live in Metropolis!”
“Not regular civilians,” the mayor corrected smoothly. “We’re talking CEOs, conglomerate heads, trust-fund heirs. The kind of people with far too much money and a taste for novelty. It’s not every day superheroes make themselves available for events like this. We expect it to be very successful.” She rested her chin on interlocked fingers, elbows resting atop the deep mahogany desk. The mayor’s eyes revealed a surety in them that declared a winning stance. “Do it and the Justice Team, or whatever it is you guys are calling yourselves, will be absolved of all unnecessary damages caused during the incident.”
Guy’s jaw tightened at that. The public was always quick to blame the powered, even for collateral damage caused by villains. Fair or not, responsibility stuck. After a long pause, he muttered, “Justice Gang,” aiming to correct the only part of the conversation he was in position to oppose.
They’d left her office like chastened kids, eyes on the floor.
“At least Supes gets the short straw,” Hawkgirl said lightly. “Three dates. Mayor says you’ve got the biggest PR mess to clean up.”
Clark’s fists clenched. The words were casual, but everyone knew the truth. This was all fallout from Luthor’s obsession with him. The others glanced sideways, watching for his reaction.
“It’s fine. The mayor is right. It might mitigate some of the bad publicity you got from your parent’s video… and it’s for charity after all. It’s the least we can do.” Mr. Terrific, always the wiser, said after a long breath.The air shifted at the mention of his Kryptonian parents. Even with Michael's mask, Clark could feel the careful sympathy there. His face betrayed nothing.
It was still painful to think that instead of having been sent down for the sake of protection, he was sent to cast a ruling thumb over humanity. He tried to force the memory down. The chilling message, the revelation that his biological parents hadn’t sent him for protection but for dominion. A harem. Conquest. He’d said it firmly then, and meant it now, “My parents are Martha and Johnathan Kent.”
The memory still echoed when Cat Grant waved a hand in front of his face, pulling him back to the present.
“Hellooo? Earth to Clark,” she teased, standing in the middle of the glittering gala hall.
“Sorry, just lost in thought. Who’s next on your list?”
Cat scanned the room. The place was blindingly elegant. Floor-to-ceiling glass showed the Metropolis skyline glittering against the night, marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, and every guest looked airbrushed to perfection. The ladies swept the room in designer gowns, while the rest of the room wore tailored suits that were crisp and spotless. Champagne flutes clinked, valets whisked away keys to cars worth more than some homes, and casual conversation included mergers worth billions. The laughter was sharp and hollow, as if every chuckle shook loose another stack of cash. Clark’s jaw tightened. Any one of these people could help rebuild Metropolis without the excuse of a gala or an auction. All of them could afford it.
“Mr. Wayne!” Cat spotted her mark. “Cat Grant, Daily Planet. Could we get a few quotes?” She hooked Clark by the arm and dragged him straight toward the moving figure.
Bruce Wayne hit him like a wall of presence all at once. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a perfectly cut black suit that looked effortless but screamed money. He wore no tie, instead, choosing to sport his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show ease without carelessness. Dark hair swept back, a faint shadow of stubble along a strong jaw, Bruce’s assessing eyes met his, mimicking the picture of a stormy sky.
Clark cleared his throat and extended a hand. “Clark Kent. Daily Planet.”
Bruce clasped it firmly before turning to greet Cat, kissing the back of her hand with effortless charm. His handshake had been warm and unhurried, sending an unexpected shiver up Clark’s arm.
“My pleasure, Ms. Grant, Mr. Kent. It’s not often I get interviewed by the Daily Planet.”
To Clark’s knowledge, Bruce had only been cast into the spotlight as of recent. Prior to the flood in Gotham, it was rare to catch a sighting of the Wayne Enterprises heir. But slowly, word came to be that he showed himself more around the company and in public events, mostly philanthropic ones such as the one they were attending. Wayne Enterprises had created a fund themselves to help rebuild Gotham after the catastrophic flood three years ago. That night, Clark had flown to Gotham to help where he could—hauling civilians from collapsed buildings, pulling cars from black water. His sharp ears picked up talk of the Bat at work in the heart of the city. They’d never crossed paths before, but Clark couldn’t ignore a catastrophe this big even if it meant stepping on a certain dark vigilante’s toes.
“Are you here tonight to donate, or to take part in the auction yourself?”
“Both,” Bruce said smoothly. “Wayne Enterprises has already pledged a substantial amount, but there’s more to come.” The faint smile was practiced, but Clark could see the strain beneath it, the weight behind his poise.
Cat grinned, mischief sparking. “Gotham holds plenty of bachelor auctions concerning you, Mr. Wayne, but tonight the big draw is Superman. Any jealousy over his harem? It might rival yours.”
“Jealousy?” Bruce’s smile sharpened. He continued casually, as if the conversation was over the topic of how he liked his eggs in the morning. “Not at all. If I had the chance, I’d join the harem myself.”
Cat lit up at the quote. “Oh? Is that who’s caught your eye tonight, Mr. Wayne? Superman your type?”
“What, six-four, handsome, and strong enough to move mountains? He’s everyone’s type.” Bruce’s gaze flicked to Clark, deliberate and pointed. A small shit eating grin tilting his lips.
Did Bruce know who he was? Or was he flirting with Clark? Both seemed impossible. He suddenly felt small in his poorly tailored, brown suit. Clark’s neck flushed a deep red. He tried averting his gaze elsewhere, anywhere that wasn’t Bruce’s eyes, which were still on him, penetrating the layers of his invulnerable skin.
The questions about Superman’s harem were purely celebrity journalist fodder, but Clark could not help the glare he shot at Cat as she continued prying. He knew he was standing there awkwardly, flushing at compliments that were not directed at him and definitely not contributing anything helpful to the journalist side of things. He pulled his note pad out of his front pocket on instinct, needing the excuse to busy his hands with something.
Cat, clearly sensing blood in the water, leaned forward just a bit. “So that’s your type, then? Tall and strong? Maybe a preference for reporters over capes?” She let her eyes dart deliberately between Bruce and Clark, a relentless, wicked grin adorning her face.
Bruce finally let his smile widen a fraction, giving Clark a wink that was too smooth and almost unnoticeable. It made him wonder if he’d imagined it. “I think I’ve said enough.”
Clark’s cheeks burned. He forced his voice into something neutral, steady, trying to steer the conversation away from Cat’s clear mischief and Bruce's willingness to cooperate with the suggestive mood. “Speaking of enough, maybe we should circle back to the topic of tonight. Mr. Wayne, do you think high-profile figures, especially those with significant resources, have a responsibility to lead during times like this? To show the public that helping the city isn’t just a government or hero’s job?”
The weight of Bruce’s gaze shifted slightly; his answer came slower, more thoughtful. “I think people with power, whether it’s money, influence, or something else, don’t get the luxury of sitting out when things fall apart. If you can help and you don’t? That’s unforgivable.”
Clark gave a small, approving nod, grateful for the reprieve. Before any of them could continue, a voice boomed over the sound system by the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please make your way toward the main stage, the Metropolis Charity Auction will begin shortly.”
The crowd stirred and started taking their seats along the carefully arranged tables. Clark’s escape was swift and practiced. One quick excuse to Cat about needing to go to the restroom and he was suddenly away from prying eyes. He undid his clothes at super speed once in a stall, leaving behind only the blue and red suit he was requested to show up in tonight. The audience wanted to see Superman, after all, not Clark Kent.
He was greeted by the presence of the Justice Gang as soon as he made it towards the back of the stage. They were already gathered in their uniforms, limbs leaning on the wall. Hawkgirl twirled her mace lazily, looking unimpressed. Green Lantern had his arms crossed, wearing the expression of a person forced to endure something so profoundly beneath him. Mr. Terrific was calm, as always, mind trained on the task ahead of him.
“About time you showed up, boy scout,” Kendra shot at him, chewing a piece of bubblegum between her words.
The event organizer, a sleek man in an immaculate suit, clapped his hands once, interrupting any further exchange. “All right, heroes. You’re up. Let’s make this quick and dazzling, yes?”
A roar of applause greeted them as they stepped into the wash of bright light. Cameras flashed at the sight of the heroes. The Justice Gang lined up across the stage, a display of power for the sake of charity. Superman took his spot in the center, the cape falling neatly behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest with an air of confidence that only reached him while wearing the suit. He found himself scanning the crowd for a familiar face and paused when he realized whose eyes he was searching for.
The crowd settled, allowing the auctioneer to speak through the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Metropolis’ first ever Superhero Charity Auction!” The words alone sent a ripple of excited chatter through the room. “Tonight, you’ll have the chance to win exclusive time with some of Earth’s mightiest heroes. And of course, all proceeds go towards the Metropolis Restoration Fund.”
The auctioneer wasted no time. Hawkgirl was first. She strode forward, wings flaring under the lights like molten steel. Bidding started fast, cheers echoing across the hall. In less than a minute, she was claimed for a hefty sum by a young man near the back of the room. He seemed elated to have actually won a date with Hawkgirl. Clark silently hoped he was strong enough to withstand the usual tongue lashing that followed every time Kendra opened her mouth near a man.
“Next up, Mister Terrific!”
The applause quieted and turned more polite as Mr. Terrific’s full attention was turned to the audience. The bids climbed respectably high, landing him a date with a CEO of a cosmetics company that looked like she spent the GDP of a small country on her pet poodle.
“And now, Green Lantern!”
Guy Gardner stepped forward with a cocky grin, arms crossed, chin tilted like he’d already won. “Ladies, one night with this,” he said, motioning to himself with a splayed palm, “and you’ll forget Superman even exists.”
The room laughed, but the bids came… slowly. Painfully slowly. When the gavel finally struck, Guy had gone for less than half Hawkgirl’s price to a woman twice his age wearing a fur coat dyed neon green. She blew him a kiss with a heavily jeweled hand and wiggled her wrinkly fingers in his direction. She reminded Clark of a wicked witch.
“And now… the main event of the evening!” The lights shifted, centering on the figure standing tallest at the lineup’s heart. “Three dates. Three chances to bask in the company of Superman himself!”
The applause was deafening. Clark stepped forward, cape trailing behind him, his expression calm but inwardly tight. He hated the feeling of letting people fight over something as hollow as his time. But it was for Metropolis. For those who needed it.
“Shall we start the bidding at fifty thousand?” the auctioneer called.
“Fifty!” someone shouted before the words even settled.
“Seventy-five!” another voice cut in.
“One hundred!”
The numbers climbed like wildfire—one-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty—cheers erupting every time someone tried to one-up the last. Clark kept his posture straight, but his stomach knotted tighter with each shout. He caught flashes of faces in the crowd, tech giants, nepo babies, politicians, all waving sleek numbered paddles like this was some sort of game.
“Four hundred!” a woman in a backless silver gown called, earning a round of impressed murmurs. It seemed as if he had piqued the interest of mostly women this evening.
“Five hundred!” came another, sharp and eager.
The auctioneer’s grin gleamed under the lights. “Do I hear seven? Seven hundred thousand for three dates with Superman?”
A man in a tailored navy suit lifted his paddle. “Seven-fifty!”
The room erupted again. Clark forced a smile, the sound crashing against him like ocean waves. For a moment, it felt endless, spiraling higher—
And then a voice, smooth and low, carried across the hall without needing to shout.
“One million.”
It wasn’t just the number. It was the weight behind it. The way the room stilled, heads snapping toward the figure lounging casually in the front row like he owned the air itself. Bruce Wayne, had one hand resting on the arm of his chair like this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
The auctioneer faltered for half a heartbeat. “One million dollars from Bruce Wayne!”
No one else moved. No one else could. The air was thick with stunned silence, broken only by the gavel slamming down.
“Sold!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, glasses clinking, applause booming. Bruce remained perfectly composed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes, dark and steady, never left Superman.
And Clark… Clark couldn’t breathe.
The applause finally began to die down, but Clark could still feel it thrumming under his skin. Cat suddenly appeared at his side, notebook in hand, eyes alight like a predator who’d just scented a bigger prey. A very large, blue, Superman shaped prey.
“One million dollars,” she whispered, grinning. “For three dates. You realize you just became the world’s most expensive calendar boy, right?”
Clark straightened his shoulders, trying for calm even as his pulse hammered in his ears. His scalp tingled in slight embarrassment. “It’s for charity,” he said simply, though the words felt thin.
“Sure,” she said, scribbling furiously. “But let’s not pretend like the world's not going to lose its mind over this.”