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4:07 AM
Not an unfamiliar sight. Bruce could count the decent night’s sleep he’s gotten on one hand. He always felt like he was floating just beneath the surface, any noise would rouse him. And the times he did manage to sink further well… Those never usually ended well. Even the times he had been so exhausted he was gone as soon as his head hit the pillow, he never felt rested after them. Almost like no time had passed. Sleep was just something he was never going to master.
Not like Clark. A strip of silver moonlight slipped through the curtains and cast the gentlest light across him, both of them. It was often that they shared a bed, but Clark insisted upon it. At least once a month. And he couldn’t object, Clark didn’t ask for much. So, Gotham and Metropolis were under other protection for the night. Not that Bruce wouldn’t be alerted if necessary, though it never did seem to happen when they spent the night together.
Clark. Clark Kent. Superman. The Man of Steel. Who slept so soundly next to him. His breathing so slowed, so relaxed. Bruce envied him. The peace he seemed to find in sleep. How wondered, how a man who weighted the world on his shoulders could sleep so peacefully. It’s not that he didn’t try to understand that, he just couldn’t. Bruce was still human, he could only do so much, push himself so far. He had his limits. Though Clark did too those limits were as far away as the moon that illuminated the room. Further. He had seen Superman defy every expectation he had, his seen power that made this world shake. A determination that rivaled even Batman’s. And yet, here he was, tangled in silk sheets. Looking like that innocent Kansas boy, butter wouldn’t melt.
Bruce wondered how he must look when he’s asleep. Not so sweet, he guessed. He took care of himself, he had his public appearance to keep up. It wouldn’t do well for him to look like a sleep-deprived lunatic with worry lines deeper than the crack of his ass. He knew it wasn’t true, he didn’t have that well-rested, twinkle that Clark did. But he seemed to have almost everyone fooled.
Not Clark though, never Clark. Who could read his mind so well he sometimes wondered if he had kept that ability secret from him? Clark, who would ask him in the morning how he slept. Even though he knew the answer. Clark who had managed to worm his way through all of Bruce’s walls and into his bed. Into his life.
Bruce lifted his hand and rested it on Clark’s magnificent, broad chest. Which had a nice peppering of black hair. He had been in Superman’s arms before, not often. Sometimes he would need to be caught, whether that was from a great height or after he was launched by a creature with immense strength. He remembered those times, Superman’s arms like a vice, gripping him so tightly. He felt so solid. Like steel.
But here, now, as his fingers made gentle circles. Clark’s skin was no different from a human. Soft, pliable. He wondered how a bullet could bounce off this, leaving no trace other than the crumpled metal at his feet. His chest hair too moved with Bruce’s fingers. Soft. Malleable. He thought of what would happen if he plucked a one. Would it come off, or were its roots too strong? Would the sting be enough to rouse Clark from his slumber? No, finding out wasn’t worth that risk.
So, he just laid there, rested in the crook of Clark’s arm. One hand on his chest, absentmindedly stroking the hair. Comfortable in the knowledge that the sun would rise, and Clark would wake up bleary-eyed and smiling.