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Bruce always wakes up all at once—with immediate spatial awareness bordering paranoia—instead of hazy mind and lazy bones.
(Alfred said it is paranoia.)
This time isn't any different. Bruce doesn't open his eyes. It's a habit, but also idiotic to do so if he is unaware of his location and the events prior to waking up. But he does know where he is—in his bedroom—and he does know what happened the night before, assuming it is already morning based on the brightness almost blinding him behind his eyelids.
Bruce hates the sun, and there are a number of reasons why.
His body feels quite sore, more so around and below the belt, but also around his neck and chest. His lips are dry and swollen, probably has a cut, too. In short, he feels good.
But it doesn't last long.
Beside him, the bed dips shortly before the pressure leaves, then he hears some footsteps and rustling of clothes. Bruce feels the person does a brief, hesitant pause. Even with his eyes closed, he can vividly imagine and feel those unnatural blue eyes, which he knows can turn red and literally pierce through anything, watch him in that short moment. He barely manages to hide his awareness when gentle fingers brush strays of hair away from his forehead. Only by hearing the sound of the balcony door closing, when he knows the man has slipped away, does he dare to open his eyes.
Again, Bruce hates the sun, and there are a number of reasons why.
The first thing he notices are the wine-stained curtains and, just below it, a bottle of wine on the carpeted floor. He knows he had been quite reckless last night after a few drinks, and needs to get a better grip on his impulses. He also knows Alfred will have his hide later, but he feels too bitter to worry about that now as he glares at the source of light in his room. The curtains have not been shut properly and rays of morning light peeks through the gaps, irritating him.
If he squinted and glared harder against the blinding light, he would have seen a figure in the sky, flying away from his direction. But he doesn't. What's the point?
Everyone associates Superman and, unconsciously, Clark Kent, with the sun—all nice and bright. But not Bruce. Never Bruce who has known the Man of Steel long before he met any of his children and even far longer than the formation of the Justice League.
For Bruce, Clark is the moon. He is the bright source of light in his darkness; the guide he follows when he's lost; and the one he looks at when he feels hopeless. Clark has been a constant in his life, but he knows and has long since accepted that the man is not his in any way he wants.
Bruce hates the sun for a number of reasons, but mainly because just like the moon, Clark eventually leaves when the sun comes.
It took Bruce a long time to acknowledge this. And when he realized Clark isn't even his to lose, it suddenly doesn't matter to him how many times Clark lies with and slips away from him. Fuck self-preservation. Despite the pain and longing he always feels around Clark, he will never change a damn thing about their arrangement for as long as Clark will have him. He is Clark's even if Clark will never be his.
Bruce simply sighs knowing he has long since given everything up when it comes to Clark, and stands to pick up the wine bottle from the floor. With one last glance at the bright sky, he draws the curtains and makes his way to his bathroom to wash away the mistakes he knows he will repeat in a few days.
The sun be damned.