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The overhead chandeliers were dimmed, draping the large room in a lazy half-light while the stage was illuminated with strong spotlights, bathing the jazz band in its incandescence. Flickering candles were set at the center of each round table, their warm orange glow melting into the red tablecloth. Still, darkness overshadowed the ballroom, exuding a sultry, intimate, and expensive atmosphere, and Clark could not help but gape in flustered awe.
He had attended his fair share of extravagant events, a perk of the job, if you will, but it still never failed to impress him how other-worldly these socialite get-togethers could be. Every detail lent itself to elevating the whole, and while sometimes the result was garish and opulently tasteless, other times, each intricate fixture or daring food display served the event well, flaunting beauty for beauty's sake. This particular occasion fell into the second category, perfectly illustrating the refined taste of old-money Gothamites through its deceptively simple yet entrancing decor.
The guests, too, were the epitome of such graceful affluence, what with their scintillating jewelry, tailored attires, imported watches, exotic perfumes, and luxurious smiles. Clark glanced down to his only nice suit, an expensive model by his standards but barely suitable for events such as these. It had been his go-to outfit for a decade now: a midnight blue evening jacket with matching trousers, the color of which he fancied complimented his eyes; a classic white shirt and a burgundy bowtie—the latter was a recent acquisition for this particular evening in lieu of his usual necktie; his worn-out but freshly polished brown leather shoes; and some vintage cufflinks Lois had gotten him for a similar occasion. He had checked himself in the elevator on the way up and thought he looked rather smart, though nowhere near as sumptuous as the rest of the guests attending.
Clark tugged at his sleeve as his eyes scanned over the dark room. Socialites and celebrities had begun to leave the bar in order to find their seats, the chatter in the room building up so that the band's music was becoming more like background noise. Usually, when Clark was here on business, his seat was reserved at the press table, in the far back. This time, since Clark was attending on behalf of a personal invitation, he had no idea where he was expected to be seated. He was grateful for his super-vision which allowed him to decipher the place cards without sauntering through the ballroom like an out-of-place fool. When he spotted his name, delicately scrawled in cursive, he confidently ambled to his table, taking a seat facing the stage.
Speaking of the stage, he had an impeccable view of it, much better than he could have hoped, although in hindsight he should not have expected any less. His table was not the first row encircling the thrust stage but the second, which would allow him to watch the show without getting a crick in the neck by the end of the evening.
Just as he sat in the upholstered chair, a waiter gracefully swooped to his left with a tray balanced on his arm, a far too risky amount of champagne flutes poised atop its wide surface.
"A drink, sir?"
"Oh! Uh, no thank you— well, actually, maybe a glass of water please? If you don't mind. Thank you."
"Very well, sir." The man made a quick sign with his hand then glided along to the next table.
Clark had barely had the time to fidget with the smooth tablecloth draped over his lap that a waitress set his water in front of him.
"Gee, thanks!" His gratitude was scarcely acknowledged as she had already scurried to attend to other guests. Clark shrugged amiably then reached for his water. "Now this has got to be the fanciest glass of water I've ever seen," he could not help but mutter aloud. What he had thought would be a simple glass of water turned out to be just as much of an ornate experience as the rest of the evening was proving to be. The water came in an old-fashioned crystal tumbler with geometric imprints while a few crisp ice cubes floated in the clear liquid, a lemon slice as well as a sprig of rosemary delicately set along the rim. It felt like quite a lot of effort for a simple glass of water, although Clark could not deny it made him feel very chic indeed.
There was shuffling at the table next to his and Clark's curiosity compelled him to sneak a glance at his neighbors. The man who sat down had his dark hair slicked back, stoic face freshly shaven, and wore a suit that even Clark could recognize as being worth more than his annual salary. His fingers were each bejeweled with hefty rings, his wrist carried the weight of a massive watch, and upon his arm was draped the finest accessory he possessed—for he certainly regarded her as nothing more than such—a young woman who had likely indulged in one too many champagne flutes seeing that she was giggling and slurring her words while she twisted in her seat.
Out of politeness, because Clark was raised by Ma Kent to be nothing if not polite, Clark shot a kind smile their way, inclining his head slightly. The man regarded him with narrow eyes, contempt fixed in the arch of his eyebrows and dripping from the downturn of his lips. He looked Clark up and down, pausing momentarily at his shoes, then huffed in apathy.
Clark could not help the flustered warmth that crept up his neck. He decided he would focus on his fancy glass of water and the jazz band from now on. The jazz band who had just stopped playing, he noted mournfully. But soon after, the host of the event made his appearance at the podium on the far left of the stage. He flashed on a bright smile and tapped the microphone to catch the room's attention. The chatter fell to a hushed whisper that hung over the venue like a thin veil as people still found their way to their tables.
"Good evening illustrious guests," said the man, a lingering Italian accent wrapped around his vowels. "I, Celio Gentile, your host for this evening, would like to sincerely thank you all for being here tonight. It is my great pleasure to welcome you to our 2025 Annual Charity Event, the proceedings of which will all be donated to Gotham's Children Hospitals with the aim to support our institutions in the care and treatment of Gotham's future generation.
"This year, however, our fundraiser takes a twist so that you, dear donors, can get a bang out of your buck. As such, we invite you to our very first Bachelor and Bachelorette Auction. As the old saying goes, money can't buy you happiness, but it could buy you a date tonight. And for some of you, perhaps, this will be the only way you can actually get a date, so make sure to bid high."
The crowd erupted in laughter as they applauded genially. Celio grinned at his own joke, then continued.
"With the paddles now being distributed to you, I urge you to place your bets to try and win the Gothamite celebrity who sets your heart on fire tonight. As a reminder, the bachelorettes and bachelors will join the winning bidders for a platonic date of their choice. We ask that all bids are placed with respectful intent and as always, improper, vulgar, or harassing conduct will be met with strict sanctions.
"Rules and regulations over with, let us now commence what you've all been waiting for. It is time for you to meet our auctionees!"
Now the room buzzed with excitement, hollers and whistles raising above the band's upbeat music. Attendants meandered between the tables to deposit the bidding paddles to each guest. Clark smiled when they placed his in front of him, a paddle with a large fifty-two at the center. He nudged it to the center of the table. He would have no use for it that evening, after all, it was not like he could afford any of the starting bids even if he wanted to.
"Our first bachelor has been Gotham's pillar of strength and security for years now, him and his team working hard to keep our streets safe and putting criminals behind bars. But tonight, he's the one who will be doing the stealing, and hearts are the jewels he's after. Please give a warm welcome to Commissioner Jim Gordon!"
The commissioner appeared from behind the velvet curtains as applause spread in the hall. Clark smiled to himself as he watched Jim walk down the stage in his simple black suit. He had met the grouchy, often wearied commissioner on a few occasions, courtesy of his... second line of work, and it was amusing to see him now under the spotlight, grinning awkwardly at the sea of Gothamite elites.
"Wonderful, wonderful. So, let us start our opening bid at twenty thousand dollars, and it's five thousand extra if you want the handcuffs in the date. Ha, I am joking, Commissioner.
"Or perhaps not." Celio offered an exaggerated wink to the audience as Jim's back was turned to him. "Do we have twenty? Ah, there we go, twenty thousand! Can we perhaps get thirty thousand? Yes! Thirty thousand."
Clark casually scanned the room behind him. He saw the guests' made-up faces illuminated from the candles on their tables. Some were actively participating in the bidding, raising their paddle after each higher number was shouted, while others chatted with their partners, drinks in hand and smiles across faces. Turning back to face the stage, Clark mused at the carefree joviality that always seemed to be present at this type of socialite gathering. He understood why invitations to these charities were such coveted items, the lax splendor of it all could truly be intoxicating to those unfamiliar with it.
"Going once, going twice... and sold! Fifty-five thousand from the lovely lady in the middle. Congratulations madam, you have got yourself a date with the commissioner."
The band, which had been quiet during the bidding, roared to life with an electric song and accompanied the guests' claps. Jim waved goodbye as he walked off the stage. Celio wasted no time to announce the next auctionee, a famous Gothamite actress which Clark had grown up watching. She sauntered onto the stage with a practiced gait, far more at ease in the spotlight than Jim had been.
The rest of the auctionees were B-list celebrities Clark had vaguely seen or heard of. There were more actors, some singers, a few athletes, one up-and-coming politician, the local weatherman (who was auctioned off at a surprisingly high price), and the owner of Gotham's second-largest art collection. She was just leaving the stage as a waitress refilled Clark's glass of water and replaced the empty bowl in front of him with one overflowing with peanuts.
The next bachelorette was announced on stage as Clark's neighbor whispered to her date, "When do you think it will be his turn? I'm dying to see him." Her face was pressed against her palm, glumly looking onto the stage while her other hand tapped the table in irritation. The man next to her kept scrolling through his phone.
"I don't know. You're the one who wanted to come here. You should have checked when he'd be on."
"They didn't list the order of appearance anywhere," she replied in a tone that suggested she had thoroughly made sure of this fact.
"Makes sense. So that people would come and stay from beginning to end, and not just for a specific person," grunted the man, eyes still glued to his screen.
"You'll be ready when he comes, right James? You'll win him for me?"
"Yes, yes. You'll get your date with whichever one you want." The man, James, waved her off. "Just tell me when he gets here." With that, the conversation was over, and the woman stared at the stage apathetically.
"Sold! To the lavishly dressed mademoiselle in the back!" cried out Celio. The smack of his gavel resonated before being drowned out by the music shortly after. The bachelorette made her way off-stage. Celio flipped through his speech cards, then cast them aside with a bright grin. "Now, esteemed guests, I have the absolute pleasure to introduce our next and final bachelor, although he hardly needs introducing. Not many can boast both a credit and face card that never decline, but Gotham's very own billionaire is far from lacking in any department. Please give it up for the prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne."
The screams of excitement nearly startled Clark out of his old suit. He should have known Bruce would be welcomed with such a passionate onslaught of applause, whistles, awes, and outcries, yet it still caught him off-guard. And despite knowing the effect Bruce had on people was not unwarranted, when Clark had gathered his bearings enough to actually look up to the stage, he still managed to almost choke on his own saliva.
Bruce always looked good. It was a fact Clark had been made painfully aware of very early on. But tonight, Bruce looked regal, untouchable—unaffordable. He treated the stage like a catwalk, dragging a lush fur coat from around his elbows like a train. The suit he wore was a twist on a classic pinstripe, the jacket hugging his figure to perfection while the pants were wide-legged. There were white silk lapels that contrasted with the darkness of both the suit and the black turtleneck that Bruce wore under the jacket. His hair was slicked back and his blue eyes dazzled in the stage lights. Clark ogled at Bruce the same way every person in the audience did: unabashedly, in fascination, and perhaps even with longing.
Clark tried swallowing again, carefully this time, but found that now it was his heart lodged in his throat, beating erratically. He reached for his water. He would douse the fire in his chest one way or another.
As Bruce approached the front of the stage, he met Clark's eyes even though the latter tried his best to bury himself in his glass. His gaze lingered, then with a smug smile, Bruce faced the crowd and stood at the edge of the stage. Bruce must have caught him staring helplessly, Clark noted in slight mortification.
The cries were still going strong. It was obvious why the charity would keep Bruce for last, there was no better main prize with which to end the fundraiser. He was the most desirable man in Gotham, if not the whole country, and would be sure to raise quite a lot of money for the cause—even if attendees cared more about a date with Bruce than any humanitarian cause. Clark understood them, though. A date with Bruce Wayne was a rare and valuable thing, and so Clark wished every bidder good luck, as the fight for the billionaire would be brutal and expensive, but decidedly worth every penny.
Clark's neighbor had come to life as soon as Bruce's name had been announced. She shook her date and pointed to the stage. "Him! That's him I want!" she said, voice brimming with excitement. James lazily looked up from his phone then stared wide-eyed. His gaze quickly sharpened.
"Opening bid starts at one hundred thousand dollars. Do we have one hundred thousand?"
"Him? Bruce Wayne, huh? I knew he was considered pretty, but I didn't realize how pretty." James' phone was turned off and set on the table. There was a flicker in his eyes that was not from the candlelight. His voice was low, but to Clark, he might as well have been shouting in his ear. "Forget getting him as your date, I'll be taking him home. I've heard he's quite the philanderer, so I'm sure he won't object to the date not ending on platonic terms."
"One hundred thousand! How about two hundred?"
"Really, James?"
"Oh relax. A slut like him wouldn't oppose to you watching if you'd like. Maybe I'll even let you have at him once I'm through with him. But sorry dear, he's mine." James' paddle shot through the air. "Three hundred."
The blood in Clark's veins turned to fire. There was an uncharacteristic, boiling anger that coursed through him, shocking him with the force of its fervor. He had not even noticed he held the shards of his crystal glass between his fingers until an appalled waiter asked to dispose of the debris. Snapping out of his blinding fury, Clark began apologizing profusely while insisting he was not injured, the glass had slipped but failed to cut him, and yes he would like a second glass, if that was not too much trouble.
When Clark focused his attention back to the bidding war, they were already up to four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Bruce waved to the audience with a playful smirk, enticing the bids to go higher, but already fewer bidders were up against one another. Soon, only one remained.
"Alright, five hundred twenty-five thousand, going once, going twice—!"
"Five hundred twenty-seven thousand," Clark blurted out. The entire room stilled. He could feel everyone's shocked gazes plastered on him, but he kept the paddle high in the air. The surprise on Bruce's face disappeared nearly as quickly as it had appeared, his expression going from genuine wonder to his deceptively aloof Brucie Wayne smile. Still, in that fraction of unaffected emotion, his eyes begged the question, "what are you doing?"
It took a short moment for Celio to compose himself, but he shot off like he had the entire evening. "And a new contestant enters the race for Mr. Wayne's attention! Five hundred twenty—."
"Five hundred fifty thousand," interrupted James. His lecherous gaze had long since turned cold. The message was clear, Clark had better stand down.
But it would take far more than a rich man's angry stare to frighten Superman—he had dealt with his fair share for years already. So Clark kept his paddle over his head, eyes fixed on his neighbor's scowling face, and calmly said, "Six hundred."
"Six hundred thousand?" Celio's exclamation came out as a question, clearly doubting Clark's resolution, and probably the state of his bank account, too. When the fire in Clark's eyes remained, Celio obliged. "Six hundred thousand. Do we have six hundred twenty-five?"
"Six hundred twenty-five."
"Six hundred fifty," Clark countered immediately.
Murmurs were getting louder as everyone wondered who the two men were, but especially who the one with glasses was, as they had never seen him anywhere before. But Clark kept his focus on Bruce. Bruce who watched him with that calculating, inscrutable gaze of his. He stood on the stage in an effortless pose, seeming unbothered by the circumstances to any casual observer, but to Clark, his confusion was palpable. And Bruce despised being confused. Nevertheless, there was a hint of curious amusement in the furrowing of his eyebrows, which told Clark he was not dead meat, not yet at least. So, with his cheeks the color of his bowtie, Clark offered a sympathetic, though not-at-all clarifying, shrug to Bruce.
"Six hundred seventy-five," James said after some hesitation.
Clark turned to his neighbor. He appraised him with a raised eyebrow, then grinned. To the whole room, he enunciated, "Eight hundred thousand dollars."
Gasps erupted behind him. An intoxicating elation rushed in Clark's limbs. If he had not been sitting down, he was sure he would have keeled over. Some time ago, these numbers had stopped meaning anything to Clark, they were amounts far too great for him to be able to visualize, yet all he knew was that he needed to ensure he said the highest possible number. There was a terrifying but exhilarating lightheadedness that gripped Clark's entire being due to the distant realization that a room full of people were watching him fight so desperately for Bruce, that they would know how ardently he wanted Bruce to be his, and that Bruce himself now knew this too.
Clark had never managed to get drunk, but he was certain that this was the closest he would ever get to experiencing inebriation. The heart palpitations, the flushed cheeks, the rash and defiant actions, the vertigo. He found that he quite enjoyed it.
From the corner of his eye, he saw James' reluctance through gritted teeth. Clark did not know how rich he was, but even the average millionaire would think twice before dropping eight hundred thousand dollars on a date, no matter how pretty that date's blue eyes and reserved smile were. Still, there was hesitation, calculations running through the man's mind as he considered the cost and probable benefits, so Clark graciously opted to make the decision for him.
"One million dollars. And, Mr. Wayne, you seem grand and all, but that's my final offer."
Celio's previous befuddlement was nowhere in sight, instead he was jubilant in his reply. "One million dollars going once, going twice— sold to the very charitable gentleman in the glasses!" Celio banged his gavel down, sealing the deal.
The beat of the drums compelled the stupefied audience into applause, many of the socialites still wondering what exactly they had witnessed. James stood up violently, his chair tipping over, then stalked out of the ballroom with his date following suit. But no one paid them any attention, as all eyes were riveted on Bruce Wayne, analyzing his expression to determine how the well-known playboy billionaire felt about his very much unknown yet apparently well-off date. They could stare all night and they would not see beyond a polite, relaxed smile, as Bruce was a master at controlling the emotions that were displayed on his face. And Clark, too, would have been none the wiser, had he not been privy to the fleeting acceleration of Bruce's heartbeat.
"This concludes our Bachelor and Bachelorette Auction, we thank you all for your generosity and good humor. For those of you who still haven't spent enough to your liking, we have donation ballots beside the bar if you would like to further contribute to our cause. And to our lucky bidders, I now invite you to meet and mingle with your lovely dates."
The bachelorettes and bachelors came out from the sides of the stage, descending the stairs while Bruce made his way to the back. Before he disappeared behind the velvet curtains, he looked into Clark's eyes and nodded his head backstage.
"Our clerks will come around with your checks, so don't forget to sign them before you wander off with your dates. If you have any questions, please ask anyone on our team.
"Well, that is all from me. This has been a great pleasure, my dear guests, and I wish you a wonderful rest of the evening. Ciao!"
As if mesmerized, fingertips still thrumming from the excitement, Clark stood from his table and trotted toward the back of the stage, his limbs moving without so much as a suggestion from his brain. A tall man stepped forward to intercept Clark but seemed to reconsider as he pressed his fingers to his ear, ultimately returning to his original position. Undeterred, Clark walked up the side of the stage and slipped behind the curtains to find himself in the empty and dimly lit backstage. It was not particularly big, this was not a theatre stage after all, but had a decent amount of space to navigate through the corridor. There were some microphone stands, cables, and instruments laying either across the floor or atop transportation cases. A few doors were interspersed along the side of the wall, with one being left ajar. Clark made for that one.
He stepped into the changing room—as the label on the door suggested—then locked the door behind him out of precaution. He still was not entirely sure in which mood he would find Bruce.
"Mr. Kent," drawled said man. Clark could not help the shiver that ran up his spine—not necessarily an unpleasant one, simply a sign of surprise and perhaps even anticipation. He turned to face Bruce, finding him leaning elegantly against the vanity counter. His coat was shed atop a chair, but otherwise, he was the same dazzling man that had commanded a room's attention on the stage just a few moments prior. Clark had to steel himself, unconsciously gripping the door for moral support. The adrenaline rush from before still had him reeling. "What an... unexpected turn of events."
Bruce's tone was like a glowing fireplace, warm and inviting, but capable of burning if one got too close and poked the fire.
Clark took a step forward.
"I— I'm sorry, I didn't—."
The tilt of a head was enough to quiet Clark down. Bruce wanted answers, yes, but he wanted to be the one to ask the questions.
"I didn't know a reporter's salary paid well enough to afford a million dollar date."
"It doesn't."
Another step closer.
"Then how do you intend to pay for our date, Mr. Kent?"
Finally, close enough.
Clark looked down into Bruce's calm eyes. His fingers hovered above the hand that was sat atop the counter, then rested on Bruce's wrist. His stare got caught on Bruce's lips.
"My boyfriend will cover it. He sort of owes me one," Clark breathed, forcing his gaze back to meet Bruce's. The latter huffed in what could almost be amusement. Still, a hand snaked around Clark's waist.
"Is that so?"
"Oh yes. He owes me a few, actually." Clark's fingers settled under Bruce's chin. "Like the time he bailed on dinner last minute to heroically save the city. Or when he insisted he had a drug bust covered when in fact he was severely outnumbered and nearly got himself shot. Or—."
"I think... I think I get the idea." The stern rumble in Bruce's voice was undermined by the smile tugging at his lips. A smile found Clark's own and he leaned down, eyes slowly closing. "Clark."
He immediately pulled back, searching Bruce's face. The latter was pinched, and Bruce stared off to the side before looking back at Clark.
"I thought— You said you were okay with the date. Was there— Did I—?"
"Oh shoot! Oh, no, no not at all, you did nothing wrong." A panic seized Clark as he tried to convey his thoughts into coherent words. Communication had never been Bruce's forte and the fact that he was showing signs of what almost looked like vulnerability (no, it could not possibly be?) set Clark in a frenzy. He took Bruce's face in both his hands now. "You were perfect. The best bachelor to be auctioned off. I loved seeing you up there. I swear."
"Then... why did you bid?"
Clark cleared his throat. He squirmed in his tight suit while his eyes took their time observing the far corners of the changing room. The shadows of his previous incensement still lingered at the pit of his stomach, and he was not proud to admit that he had fallen subject to such ugly emotions like anger and jealousy. It was so unlike him.
Then again, Bruce Wayne had always found a way to bring out new parts of him into the light. Parts he had never thought could be pieces of himself, either as Clark or Superman, for better or for worse.
He murmured from the side of his lips, "I guess I wanted you all for myself after all." Clark heard the change of pace of Bruce's heartbeat. That elicited a spark of satisfaction within his own chest. "But it's got nothing to do with you, I promise. I guess... I guess I realized too late that I don't really want to share Bruce Wayne with anybody else."
The embrace around his waist tightened until his chest was flush with Bruce's. Clark slowly slid his hands to the back of Bruce's neck.
"Not sharing is good. I'm okay with that."
"Great. Wonderful." Clark leaned forward once again. "So you agree to the terms of our date, Mr. Wayne? Just you and I."
Their lips met like a wave crashing onto sand—with fervor, abandon, and continuous, repeated motions. One of Clark's hands tousled Bruce's perfectly slicked-back hair, while both of Bruce's hands palmed his butt. It was not the first time they had hastily made out in some random room at a random event, yet to Clark it very well could have been from the way his heart was dancing erratically in his chest and his hands buzzed with elation. He was sinking headfirst into the deep, dark, beautiful abyss that was Bruce Wayne, and he was going to hold on to weights if it meant sinking faster.
But then Bruce pushed Clark away. Clark bit his lip as he controlled his breath on the exhale so that it would not come out as a groan, and tried very hard to get his bearings. He adjusted his fogged up glasses while Bruce tugged at his burgundy bowtie.
"Although," he said, voice low and commanding that was more Batman than Bruce Wayne, "one million dollars is quite an expensive date. Not to mention, I'll have to deal with the tabloids' speculations about the stranger in an outdated suit—."
"Hey! My suit is just fine. It's timeless."
"—who was determined and somehow able to buy a date with Bruce Wayne. How do you intend to make sure my investment pays off?"
Clark should not have felt so thrilled upon hearing that question, but he did (yet another side of himself only Bruce could have unearthed). A wide, mischievous grin spread across what he knew to be a very flushed face.
"Oh don't worry Mr. Wayne. You won't regret a single cent spent."
With that, Clark sunk to his knees.