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Bruce, per his nature, is a man of habit. He has followed the same general schedule — put in place after years of perfection. There’s not a day that goes by that hasn’t been planned down to the minutes from days prior.
Obviously, his life can’t be as perfect as he wants it to be. Over the years, with new additions to the family forcefully shoving their way into his everyday life, there’s adjustment periods. Periods where he has to sit back and see how things play out, then rework his schedule appropriately (instead of trying to force strict schedules onto them , which he quickly learned through Dick was not the answer).
However, his work as Batman brings something new almost every night — supervillains are not especially known for their consistency. It’s the one (admittedly big) part of his life he has no ironclad control over. But that doesn’t mean he tries nothing to counteract that. He has worked meticulously to produce contingency plan after contingency plan; he has pre-developed antidotes for anything he could be hit with; he has hundreds of failsafes built into the Batcomputer; he has debriefing meetings with the League before and after every mission; he has a tool for almost any scenario secured in his utility belt; his suit alone could withstand any climate. This doesn’t mean he never finds himself in trouble — there are things even Batman can’t plan for — but, relying on his ruthless training and years of experience, he always finds a way out.
While Batman is accustomed to wrenches being thrown into most plans and having to be naturally adaptable, Bruce is not. He can work around unexpected additions to his schedule, but he prefers his everyday life to be consistent. And, for the most part, it is.
But he just had to go and ruin the only mundane part of his life.
—————
Bruce was supposed to be up half-an-hour ago. He is supposed to be in the cave right now, starting his morning workout. He is not supposed to still be in bed.
Although, he is. And he is unsure what to do.
Alfred came in earlier to draw the blinds, effectively waking him up. The man stayed quiet, only giving Bruce a raised brow before leaving, shutting the bedroom door behind him.
Bruce has been lying here ever since.
He shifts his arm, adjusting it where it’s trapped under the unnaturally, unearthly warm body, into a more comfortable position. The body responds by tightening its arms around his waist and nuzzling (for lack of a better word) its face against his shoulder.
It should be uncomfortable, having over two-hundred pounds of dead weight on top of him, but it’s strangely not. It’s pleasant in a way he never thought it could be.
The early morning sun has made its way over the treetops of the forest surrounding the grounds, and streams blinding light right into Bruce’s eyes.
He always thought it was idiotic, to have the only windows in the master bedroom be facing east, in the direct line of the rising sun.
Bruce remembers lying in this same room when he was young, settled in between his parents. On most weekends, he would sleep in their bed, under the guise that they had a comfier mattress, when they probably both knew it was just to be closer to them (he would turn it down every time they asked if he wanted a new mattress, and had to come up with more elaborate excuses).
He would be woken up every time by Alfred drawing the curtains back (as he still does to this day), allowing the sunlight to shine brightly into the room. Bruce would grumble and bury himself under the covers, his mother laughing at his antics.
(He could still remember the muted sounds of her shuffling through her jewelry box, or the smell of his father’s aftershave, as they both got ready for the day. He would finally be forced out of the bed when his father pulled the covers off him and dragged him down the mattress by his ankles. He would laugh and scramble for purchase on the sheets. His father’s superior strength would win, but he let Bruce climb onto his back as the three of them made their way downstairs for breakfast, so the defeat was quickly forgiven.)
Today, however, the blinding sunlight doesn’t seem so obtrusive. It seems like it has a purpose this morning.
It streams in, landing on an expanse of smooth, freckled, and tan skin. It emphasizes the shape of a sculpted arm and strong back. It works its way through curly hair, making it seem more of a golden brown than its previous dark black.
It feels natural and effortless, like this is how Clark is always meant to look: bathed in the warm glow of a massive star.
Maybe Bruce wasn’t so far from the truth when he imagined that Clark brightens up every room he walks into.
Maybe he is the star. Maybe that’s why he’s felt an ineffable pull towards the man, because, no matter how impolite he’s attempted to be, how unwavering his defenses are, Clark always finds a way past them. He’s forced to surrender to that magnetic pull and fall into his orbit.
But that star doesn’t just shine down on him, it envelops him, persistent and relentless. It gives him attention that is undeserved. It brightens even the darkest parts of him and is unflinching when it discovers even more shadows.
He doesn’t know when he’s going to stop feeling so selfish for absorbing this much light. After all, how do you repay a star for shining?
Bruce breathes out a long, quiet sigh. He watches as the expansion and emptying of his lungs slightly moves Clark up and down in slow waves. Clark’s bare skin is soft and smooth where he trails a hand along his spine.
Bruce doesn’t know if he’s awake. He could have already woken up earlier when he shifted his arm that was underneath the man. Clark doesn’t say anything, but he does let out a pleased sound when Bruce continues to glide his fingers up.
They move along the sculpted muscles of his back, tracing the lines of his traps, until they meet the nape of his neck. His hand finds its way into thick curls and he gently works through the knots in his bedhead.
Clark makes another low sound, longer this time, so Bruce continues.
Despite his entire family having naturally straight hair, Bruce isn’t a stranger to working with curly hair.
Thankfully, Dick’s parents were proficient at teaching their son how to do his own hair, enough that he was able to maintain it himself when Bruce took him in.
Jason, however, was not as easy to deal with. All of his personal hygiene skills were lacking after so long living on the streets, without steady access to running water. His hair was a frizzy, matted mess, and (after weeks of groveling for his trust and finally being given permission to help him) it was a learning curve for the both of them. Jason knew how to wash his hair, but keeping the curls from turning frizzy and knotted was a puzzle for both him and Bruce. It took a lot of trial and error, testing out a variety of products and methods, to find a routine that worked best.
Some of his best memories with Jason consist of him sitting on the edge of the bathtub as he runs conditioner through Jason’s hair, listening to the kid ramble about his day at school.
Now, carding through a headful of curls, the only sounds he hears is Clark’s soft breathing as it brushes against his chest. Bruce cranes his neck to press a kiss to the crown of his head, purposefully soft and barely there.
Clark gives a low hum. A hum that stutters along with his breath. Bruce freezes, but Clark continues.
And then it stutters again. And again.
Bruce blinks, looking down at Clark’s face, completely lax with sleep, as the man starts… vibrating?
It’s small, hardly noticeable if he wasn’t lying on top of him. Bruce slowly returns to running his fingers through his hair. The vibrating ramps up and that’s when he realizes that Clark’s not vibrating.
He’s purring.
He’s rumbling like an engine against his chest. Bruce can feel it along his rib cage, and it vibrates through his entire body.
It’s only through the fact that he has known Clark for years, and has experienced first-hand his wide array of abilities and occasional odd quirks, that stops him from being alarmed. However, he can’t help from feeling a little perplexed.
Then again, he should have expected that dating an alien would bring, well, unexpected situations.
He wracks his brain for any instances where he’s seen Clark purr before, or even act remotely more feline than a human would, and he comes up blank. Well, he has always been overly affectionate and very eager to maintain physical contact whenever they are in close proximity (as seen by their current position). And now that he’s looking back on it, maybe those times when Clark rubs his face against Bruce’s neck, or tries to curl up on top of him (even though he is noticeably too large to achieve that), has more of a biological reasoning behind it, rather than him only wanting to be closer to Bruce. But he always thought that that was just a Clark Kent habit, rather than a Kryptonian habit.
While Bruce keeps his hand moving through soft hair, the purring slowly and steadily grows in intensity and volume until it reaches a plateau. It’s overwhelming and distinctly loud, considering how close they are, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like a full body massage, as it seeps into his muscles and stiff joints from being in the same position for so long.
He wonders if the strength behind the rumbling comes from the fact that Clark is much larger than a standard house cat, or perhaps it’s an unforeseen side-effect of his enhanced vocal cords and lungs. Did Kryptonians evolve from a species similar to felines? Did Krypton even have cats? Were species with the ability to purr more common on Krypton than they are on Earth? And why has this skill never been brought up before? Did Clark only purr in his sleep, and therefore doesn’t even know he possesses the ability? But he’s done countless hours of research on his culture and biology, he must have come across it before, right?
Bruce naturally has several questions he’s burning to get answers to, but to get those he would have to either wake Clark, or somehow slip away to get to the cave, which would also probably rouse him. If Clark woke up, then the purring would most likely be halted. The purring is quite nice, so Bruce stays where he is.
He can feel the affects that it has on his perpetual sore muscles and joints. It rumbles through him, stretching from his right rotator cuff that got torn during his early years and never quite healed right, down his spine that’s held together with metal screws. It soothes his aching and bruised calf that got grabbed the other night by one of Nygma’s handsy robots.
God, he could get used to this.
The melodic vibrations are relaxing enough to make him forget the fact that he was supposed to be out of bed almost an hour ago. (He’ll have to give Lucius a call, tell him he’s going to be late to the office. He owns the company though, surely he’s allowed some leniency)
He’s warm from the space heater using him as a pillow, he’s comfortable in the rich, fine cotton sheets surrounding him (the boys constantly badger him for how much he spent on them, calling him a ‘prissy princess’, but he’s caught each of them bundled up in this bed several times), and he’s alleviated by the rhythmic purring easing his pains.
Before he even notices, he’s being pulled back to sleep.
And for the first time in a while, he’s content with the change of plans.
—————
Bruce, per his nature, is a man of habit. He has followed the same general schedule — put in place after years of perfection.
But for this? Maybe this is a worthy addition to that schedule.