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“One thing I like...about shaving myself, is that I know I won’t cut myself. No matter how hard I press, I won’t break my own skin...” He paused, sharp blade millimetres from vulnerable skin, and sighed. “That’s why shaving you is so...nerve-wracking. If I fail to regulate my strength for the slightest moment, I—”
Clark cut himself off abruptly, biting his lip. His voice was soft, quiet, but the worry was deafening. Yet, still, Bruce only closed his eyes and tilted his head back ever so slightly, trust in his every calm breath.
Clark’s lips quirked up into a tentative smile and he finally pressed the blades of the razor ever so gently to the edge of the shaving cream spread over Bruce’s face.
“You trust me so much,” he murmured as he dragged the razor down.
Bruce didn’t even flinch.
If Clark didn’t know him as well as he did, he would think Bruce was sleeping. The steady beat of Bruce’s heart, comforting to his ears, was calm and even but not in the same way as when he was deep in a peaceful sleep. It was faster—just a smidgen, but noticeable to Clark, who’d learned after so many years how to read even the smallest shift in Bruce’s demeanour.
He pulled away the razor and tapped it in the cup by Bruce’s thigh where he sat on the small bathroom counter, at the edge of the sink.
The space between them was as silent as the world could get for Clark. The soft humming and creaking of the house, the quiet beat of Bruce’s heart, and the background noises just outside almost like a blurred picture in auditory form. Clark tapped the razor on the rim of the glass to drip off excess water.
“Are you always this slow?” Bruce’s voice broke through the peaceful haze around them, and Clark snorted—a mix of amused and indignant—and cocked an eyebrow.
“Now, hold on, I believe I just gave you a speech about how carefully I have to regulate myself, so I don’t—”
“Clark,” Bruce cut him off, voice softened by a sweet tone he rarely unless he was severely sleep deprived and piled under several blankets with his limbs tangled around Clark’s body.
Clark faltered, holding the razor resting against the rim of the glass.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” Bruce said, “so, come on. I’d like to get done before the festival is over.”
Clark glanced away, a smile on his mouth, and tapped the razor gently a few more times before lifting it back to Bruce’s face. “You could always do it yourself since you’re in such a rush.”
A quiet, defiant grunt was his only response as Clark dragged the blades down with a light touch. At least Bruce knew better than to talk while he was actively shaving him, Clark supposed.
The familiar scent of the shaving cream—light and gentle, not too overwhelming as it was made for sensitive skin, but definitely still existent—comforted Clark. He pulled the razor back to the edge of the cream again and repeated himself, head tilted to the side as he watched the razor pull the shaving cream down with it to reveal the newly smoothed skin under.
Once more he did it, then tapped the razor in the water again.
“I feel like a doll,” Bruce muttered, but Clark caught the twitch in the corners of his mouth—noticed the smile he was trying valiantly to hold back.
Clark focused on the task at hand.
Swish the razor in the water, three taps on the rim, back to Bruce’s face. Light touch. Clark hummed as he concentrated, shaving Bruce with love and care in his every move. He was all too aware of how much trust Bruce was putting into him, how much faith he had. After all they’d been through, now they sat here, the love between them almost tangible.
It was overwhelming.
“You should feel pampered,” Clark finally retorted, though his voice lacked any real bite. “I know you love this.”
Bruce made a small inquisitive noise as Clark moved the razor past his jaw and over his throat. He could almost feel the vibrations of his voice through the razor. Or maybe he was imagining it because he thought he should feel it.
“Being taken care of,” he clarified only after he pulled the blade away from Bruce’s throat. Bruce may trust him, and sure he trusted himself, but being so close to his throat with something so sharp—he needed his full concentration to feel better about it. “Pampered. Spoiled. It’s in your blood.”
Bruce huffed through his nose, amused. He didn’t deny it, though, and Clark noticed the way his heart picked up just slightly in speed. “Come on, last I checked my face is only half done.”
The glass of water was clouded by the excess shaving cream by now. Clark didn’t dump and refill it, though, it would work just the same.
He repeated his swish and tap process a bit quicker now, repeated his gentle glide over Bruce’s skin with more confidence. He listened to the way Bruce’s heart slowed to that steady, calm beat even as Clark carefully manoeuvred shaving around his lips.
It was almost terrifying to know how much trust Bruce was putting into him. All the same, though, it sent warmth blossoming in his chest. He remembered a time when very few truly and totally trusted him in the same absolute manner Bruce did now.
Clark let out a soft sigh and brought up his free hand to rest on at the back of Bruce’s neck, almost cradling his head. The blade glided down his chin, over his throat, and Bruce’s head tilted back into his hand—pushing the edges of Bruce’s hair against his fingers—ever so slowly to make the skin more accessible.
Clark held his breath.
The blades didn’t nick Bruce’s skin, though, even as he moved beneath them. Clark relaxed.
“Warn me next time,” he chided when he pulled the razor back to dip it in the cup again.
“Yes, sir,” mocked Bruce in a mumble, rolling his eyes.
There was just a little more to go. Clark’s fingers on the back of Bruce’s neck inched up and tangled in the ends of his hair, drawing a soft hum from Bruce.
He would never say it out loud, too aware of the Kryptonite Bruce kept locked away in the Batcave, but he was like a cat. Clark swore, if it was possible, he would purr. He would deny it until his dying breath, but Clark knew Bruce adored it when he played with his hair or pet his hair.
It always got Bruce to melt in his hands.
Clark finished up in silence, listening and watching closely for any shifts in Bruce’s demeanour. Once he was done, he set the razor aside and picked up a soft, dampened towel. It ran over Bruce’s skin smoothly, with ease, cleaning off the last remaining excess shaving cream and anything else.
After tossing that towel aside, Clark dried Bruce’s face and neck with a second one. A dry one.
“There,” he murmured, tilting Bruce’s head back down by his chin when he finished so he could look at him. He leaned in and pressed a small kiss to Bruce’s lips, running his hand down from his chin to his throat lightly.
When he pulled away, it was with a soft sigh and a whisper of, “All done.”
Bruce hummed again. He pressed his forehead to Clark’s and stilled for a moment. It was peaceful…calm and quiet, and Bruce was relaxed. It was perfect, truly.
They didn’t have many perfect moments.
Clark took a breath and relished in it until he heard the telltale sound of a truck pulling up into the driveway outside. He pulled away and smiled.
“Ma’s back,” he explained as he started cleaning up the small counter around Bruce. “We’d better get going before we miss it.”
Bruce slid down and to his feet, stretching himself out when he stood up. “I’d hate to miss the main thing you dragged me all the way to Kansas for.”
“I hear that sarcasm.”
“Sarcasm? No, just pure enthusiasm.”
Clark rolled his eyes and watched Bruce check himself out in the mirror with a grin. Admittedly, they were probably already late—Clark had taken his time with Bruce, and they’d woken up a bit late in the first place, but it’d be fine. They wouldn’t miss it all.
And even if they did…well, the morning was worth it.