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Gotham is freezing.
The kind of cold that doesn’t just bite--it gnaws, relentless and insidious. It isn’t the sharp, fleeting sting of a fresh snowfall or the crisp bite of winter air that invigorates. No, this cold is something else entirely. It lingers, slipping through the cracks of buildings and into the marrow of the city itself, coiling around steel and stone like a living thing. It worms its way past every defense, past heavy coats and reinforced gloves, creeping into lungs with every shallow breath. It settles deep, sinking beneath skin, curling between ribs like an unwelcome presence that refuses to be ignored.
No matter how many layers you wear, how long you stand near a fire, it stays. Clings to the edges of existence, threading through Gotham’s veins like a second pulse, steady and unyielding. It saturates the streets, the rooftops, the very bones of the city, until even the neon signs and dim street lights seem dulled by its weight. The darkness swallows sound, muffling the distant wail of sirens, the low hum of life that never fully ceases, and in its place, the quiet feels heavier--like the city itself is holding its breath against the chill.
Bruce Wayne is not immune to it. But he pretends to be.
He always has, really. It’s a game of endurance, of willpower, of proving--if only to himself--that he is stronger than the elements, stronger than the gnawing ache that creeps into his bones like an old, familiar ghost. Cold is just another adversary, something to be conquered, another battle to outlast. It doesn’t matter that it slithers through the seams of his suit, pressing against his skin like the weight of an unseen hand. It doesn’t matter that his muscles stiffen, that his fingers ache from being curled into fists for too long. It doesn’t matter that his breath escapes in uneven puffs of white, curling in the air before vanishing into the void.
Gotham’s winters are relentless. But so is he.
He doesn’t need warmth; he doesn’t need comfort. He tells himself that over and over again, as if repetition will make it true. As if sheer willpower alone can override the way the cold settles deep, threading itself into his bones like a second skeleton. The way it lingers, even when he moves, even when he fights--an ache, quiet but insistent, whispering at the edges of his endurance. He has spent his life resisting. Refusing. Enduring. Pain is inevitable, but submission is a choice. And Bruce Wayne does not yield.
But Clark Kent doesn’t play by those rules.
It starts on a rooftop, after a long night that’s bled into morning, the city still wrapped in the hush of uneasy sleep. The worst of Gotham’s chaos has burned itself out, violence curling in on itself, waiting for nightfall to stir again. Below, the streets stretch out in frozen silence, slick with ice and early morning shadows, street lights flickering in the distance like half-lidded eyes.
The work is done. For now.
Bruce should leave. Should melt back into the dark, let Gotham’s stillness swallow him whole before the world wakes up. He should head back to the cave, strip off the night’s weight, debrief, review patrol footage, prepare for tomorrow’s inevitable fight. The routine is carved into him, etched so deeply into his body that it moves without thought. A familiar cycle, predictable, inescapable.
But he doesn’t move.
Instead, he lingers. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the quiet press in around him, to watch his breath curl white into the frozen air before vanishing into nothing. The city, for once, is still. No sirens, no screams, no shattering glass or distant gunfire--only the slow, rhythmic heartbeat of a place teetering on the edge of waking.
And then, behind him--footsteps. A presence, familiar in a way Bruce has stopped questioning.
Clark.
And then, Clark shifts beside him, a subtle movement that barely disturbs the quiet--until it does. Until something heavy drapes over Bruce’s shoulders, anchoring him in place.
Warmth. Immediate and undeniable. It settles against him with a weight that feels foreign, not just because of what it is, but because of what it represents. The scent of Clark clings to the fabric, unmistakable--fresh air and something faintly sweet, like ozone before a summer storm, like the first breath of wind before lightning splits the sky. It’s grounding in a way Bruce has never allowed himself to need.
His body tenses, every muscle coiling tight. His first instinct is rejection, sharp and immediate. Shake it off. Shove it back at Clark. Scowl. Scoff. Remind him, with all the sharp edges he has honed over a lifetime, that Bruce Wayne doesn’t need this. That he doesn’t need warmth, or comfort, or anyone foolish enough to offer either. That he is fine as he is--carved from discipline, built for endurance, stitched together with willpower and stubborn defiance.
But the words don’t come.
Instead, his fingers ghost over thick fabric, brushing against the edges of something undeniably Clark. The warmth has already begun seeping in, sinking into his skin, threading through the stiff ache in his muscles like a balm he refuses to acknowledge. He should push it away. He should--
But he doesn’t.
Against all reason, he stays still. Lets the warmth settle around him, lets it exist without forcefully rejecting it. It’s absurd. It’s unnecessary. It’s infuriating. And yet--
He doesn’t move.
Bruce grimaces, he still wants to open his mouth and protest, but Clark is already turning away, eyes on the skyline like nothing has happened. Like draping his absurdly warm coat over Bruce’s shoulders is second nature, something he’s always done, something he always will do. Like it isn’t even a question.
Bruce should argue. He should scoff, roll his shoulders, let the fabric slip away before Clark can mistake his silence for acceptance. He should refuse, because that’s what he does--that’s what he’s always done. Keep his distance. Endure alone. Bite down against the cold and pretend it doesn’t sink its teeth in quite so deep.
But the warmth is immediate. It doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask permission. It sinks through the layers of his suit, threading through the cracks in his armor, curling against his skin like something real, something solid, something undeniable. It doesn’t demand anything from him. It just is. And somehow, impossibly, it stays.
It presses into the hollow spaces he refuses to acknowledge, unknotting tension he hadn’t even realized was there. The cold, the ever-present gnaw of Gotham’s winter, the ache that has settled into him like a second skin--it dulls beneath it. Not gone, not entirely, but…less. Just for a moment.
And God, he is tired. The kind of exhaustion that lives beneath muscle and sinew, burrowing deep into his very bones, leaving a weight that no amount of rest can ease. The night clings to him, draped across his shoulders like a second cape, the endless fight stretching before him, unrelenting, unbroken. There will always be another mission, another battle, another burden to carry. But right now, just for this fleeting instant, the warmth cuts through the fatigue. It presses against the ache, softens the edges of his perpetual exhaustion, reminds him--however briefly--of something gentler, something easier, something almost like relief.
And so, for once, Bruce doesn’t push it away.
He doesn’t fight it.
He just lets it be.
Clark says nothing, doesn't acknowledge Bruce's defeat. Just stands beside him, radiating warmth even without the coat, standing there like he has nowhere else to be. Like this--this quiet, unspoken thing between them--is enough. Like it always has been, and always will be.
Bruce tells himself he’s just too tired to argue. That’s all.
The next time it happens, he doesn’t even pretend to argue.
The cold tonight is different--sharper, more relentless. The wind carves through Gotham’s streets like a blade, biting at exposed skin, seeping through even the thickest layers. Bruce has been out for hours, moving, fighting, hunting Gotham’s worst, and he feels it in every aching muscle, in the stiffness settling deep into his bones. It’s the kind of cold that no amount of training can ever truly erase, the kind that lingers, whispering reminders of exhaustion and fragility. He clenches his fists and tells himself, as always, that it doesn’t matter. That he doesn’t feel it. That he doesn’t need to feel it.
Clark lands beside him without a word. No greeting, no preamble. He’s been out too, somewhere in Metropolis, maybe across the world, because his hair is wind-tousled, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold, but he doesn’t feel it. His presence is steady, effortless, like he was always meant to be there, standing beside Bruce in the freezing Gotham night. There’s something grounding about it, about the way Clark simply exists in his space without asking for permission or acknowledgment. And despite himself, despite everything, Bruce finds that he doesn’t mind.
And then--there it is again. That weight. That warmth.
Clark’s coat, draped over his shoulders like it belongs there.
Bruce exhales, slow and even. He doesn’t bother grimacing this time, doesn’t pretend to be annoyed, doesn’t pretend he’s going to shrug it off and hand it back. Instead, he just shifts slightly, settling into the warmth like it was always meant to be there. The weight of it is steady, grounding, a quiet presence that lingers against his shoulders and seeps into the stiffness of his muscles. There’s something almost easy about it--like letting go of a battle he didn’t realize he’d been fighting. He doesn't thank Clark, but he doesn't need to. Clark already knows.
Clark doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t comment at all. He just stays where he is, pretending to watch the city, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. As if there was never any question about it--about him being here, about the way he wordlessly bridges the gaps Bruce refuses to acknowledge. The silence between them isn’t tense, isn’t expectant. It’s steady, familiar. And maybe, just maybe, Bruce lets himself rest in it for a moment longer than he should.
And still, Bruce doesn’t move to take it off. Doesn’t thank Clark, either.
Clark doesn’t need him to.
It becomes a pattern. A quiet, inevitable thing.
Some nights, Bruce pretends not to notice, keeps his eyes fixed on the skyline, on the city sprawling beneath them, on anything but the warmth settling over his shoulders. Other nights, he meets Clark’s gaze--just for a second, just long enough to acknowledge it, to let the silence between them stretch and settle into something fragile, something unspoken, something that neither of them will ever put into words. But Clark doesn’t need words. And, Bruce is beginning to realize, neither does he.
Clark never mentions it. Never teases. Never calls attention to it. He just does it--lays his coat over Bruce’s shoulders when the night stretches too long, when the cold settles too deep, when exhaustion pulls at the edges of Bruce’s resolve. It’s instinctive, effortless, a quiet offering that asks for nothing in return. There’s no expectation, no smugness, no demand for acknowledgment. Just warmth, steady and constant, wrapping around Bruce like a presence more than a thing, like a promise he doesn’t have to voice. And Bruce, despite himself, despite every stubborn inclination, lets him.
One night, Bruce gets back to the cave after patrol, peeling off his gloves, stretching out the stiffness in his fingers, only to realize he still has Clark’s coat. The realization settles in slowly, creeping up on him between the familiar motions of post-patrol routine. He flexes his hands, still aching from the night’s work, and shifts his shoulders beneath the weight of it--his coat is heavy, armored, meant for battle, but Clark’s is something else entirely. It’s softer, lived-in, imbued with a warmth that hasn’t faded despite the hours spent in Gotham’s unforgiving cold. The scent clings, too--faint but unmistakable, a mix of fresh air and something unreasonably comforting, like the promise of home after a long journey. He exhales, slow and measured, running a thumb over the thick fabric. And he doesn’t take it off.
Alfred raises an eyebrow as Bruce drops into the chair at the Batcomputer, still wrapped in it like it’s a second cape. The weight of it is familiar now, absurdly so, and the warmth lingers even in the chilled air of the cave. He doesn’t shrug it off, doesn’t immediately return it to its rightful owner--just shifts slightly, letting the fabric settle around him. Alfred, ever perceptive, doesn’t miss a thing. His gaze flickers to the coat, to the way Bruce has unconsciously curled into it, and then back to Bruce’s face, unimpressed but undeniably amused.
Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not a word.”
Alfred doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk. “Perish the thought, sir.”