#for real tho my omegas always make milk and are always omega intersex

[daemoninwhiteround2]

🐻/🦊 Before Jason's (wholly unjustified) termination there is a fête or ball at Wayne Manor, and Alfred needs all the help he can get. Normally Bruce is capable of playing the part of dilettante and host without letting his mask slip, but on this occasion his resolve might break. Apparently, that scoundrel Slade Wilson (or Dick, or whoever else you prefer, Dae, dearest) is also quite taken with h̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶m̶e̶g̶a̶'̶s̶ his staff's charms and spirit. Understanble, of course, Bruce has impeccable taste after all. Wilson, however, doesn't share Bruce's compunctions. The gall of that fiend! He should know better than to make advances on what's someone else's. If Bruce needs to assert himself in no uncertain terms both to this rake and the tod himself he will. By any means necessary. Jason seems game.

"A gala."

Lucius shoots Bruce a quelling look. "Yes. The spring season will need to be opened in a month's time, and even the most optimistic estimates have the mayoral residence out of action until at least the Fall."

Bruce nods. He's not unaware of the situation - Dr Isley's displeasure had made both national headlines and that Manor nearly completely uninhabitable. "I don't see how we were the logical choice from there."

Lucius sighs. "Mr Wayne. You may be happy to be a confirmed bachelor, but from what I've seen in the papers, Richard is not. Finding a respectable spouse for him will be a lot easier if people think highly of the Wayne name."

Bruce scoffs. "With all I've done for this city-"

"You and I both know that charitable dealings, if anything, lowers your standing with these people."

"And yet I'm supposed to want Dick to marry someone with that mindset?"

"Children are not their parents, Mr Wayne. There's more than one way to change minds."

Bruce sighs. He is a lot of things but 'best father' has never been among them. But he tries and he does want the best for Dick. "I assume you have a date in mind?"

Lucius smiles faintly. "The first of March is traditional."

Bruce allows himself to relax ever so slightly into his chair. He dislikes disagreeing with Lucius, regardless of how mild. "I take it you've already spoken to Alfred?"

"Mr Pennyworth was the one to suggest the southernmost ballroom."

Bruce stands and turns to the western window, pondering the moving parts now set before him. "A month is very little time."

"Most of the preparations that had been done for the mayor's residence can simply be transferred across - redirecting deliveries of flowers, that sort of thing. As for allerting people, we shall of course be issuing invitations, but Mr Pennyworth suggested that you may wish to contact that reporter of yours?"

Bruce huffs and turns back to face Lucius. "Clark is, by no stretch of the imagination, 'mine'."

Lucius gives him a Look. "You were not the one who had to deal with Lex Luthor after that news article was published."

At this, Bruce outright laughs. "I can't be held responsible for what Vicki Vale writes, Lucius."

"But you are responsible for what you do in hallway closets."

Bruce grins. "He'd lost his glasses! I was just being friendly!"

"May I suggest being less 'friendly' this time?"

"I'll take that under advisement."

"I suppose that's all I can ask." Lucius clears his throat and shuffles the papers they'd been discussing before he brought this up. "I'll liaise with Mr Pennyworth to arrange the rest."

Bruce nods and leans forward to shake Lucius' hand. His friend and long-time business partner departs and Bruce returns to gazing at the sunset. The benefit of being the money is that there is little you actually have to do, so his mind turns to invitations. To Dick's marriage prospects.

To what he'd done in the closet with Clark and who he'd like to be in there with now.

He wonders if Jason's milk is in yet...

He shakes his head to physically reject the thought and settles back at the desk, pulls the stack of 'to be read' paperwork towards himself.

Jason has been wearing lower and lower cut tops. If he looks, he could probably tell-

No! No fucking the help!

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The quarterly reports shall cool his ardour.

...And if they don't, he's slightly concerned about what that says about himself.