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Bruce presses his lips together, smothering a smile that would be ill-fitting at the current moment. He’s not very successful, judging by the way Clark crosses his arms and scowls up at Bruce.
“This is not funny,” Clark hisses.
“Of course not,” Bruce says seriously. His voice is even, though his eyes are creasing with contained laughter.
“You’re laughing!”
“Am not.” Bruce’s brow furrows with mock sternness. The line of his mouth wavers.
“Unbelievable,” Clark mutters, throwing his hands up in exasperation. It would’ve been more dramatic if Clark wasn’t currently four inches tall and standing on Bruce’s workbench like a misplaced toy, clad in his suit that would now fit a mouse. His cape is smaller than a handkerchief.
“Sorry,” Bruce says, and means it. He should focus; despite the absurdity of the situation, Clark’s sudden change in stature is alarming. “What happened?”
“Toyman got his hands on a shrink ray. He was kidnapping people, trying to traffic them as toys, and—I got hit.”
Bruce hums, watching with bemusement as Clark puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the table in thought. For a moment, he looks exactly like a Superman action figure one would find on display in a toy store.
“What happened to the people?” Bruce asks as Clark starts to pace back and forth, his tiny feet tip-tapping against the desk.
“I dropped them off at S.T.A.R. Labs. They’re trying to find a way to reverse the shrinking process, but until then—”
“They’re stuck like that. And so are you.”
Clark stops, and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”
“I’ll let Palmer and Choi know, surely they can speed up the process.”
“Thanks,” Clark says, small shoulders relaxing. It’s a minute reaction at this size, but Bruce is watching him very acutely. “I still have all of my powers, but—I can’t go out like this. And I definitely can’t go to work tomorrow if this lasts that long.”
Bruce imagines him in the bullpen at the Daily Planet, striding across his desk to hop from key to key on the keyboard to type out his article. A soft huff of laughter escapes him, and the glare that Clark sends him is murderous. Bruce smiles at him apologetically.
“Stay here,” Bruce says. “You can keep me company while I work on my case.”
He watches Clark consider the offer for a moment, the tension slowly leaking out of his muscles. Then he nods, a smile tugging at his lips. It’s no less beautiful even at this size.
With a whisper of air, Clark lifts into the air, cape curling behind him as he floats towards Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce can’t help but compare him to some fairy creature of legend, or a minute nature sprite come to grace Bruce with his otherworldly presence.
Clark’s weight is featherlight on his shoulder, the tiny shape of him settling into a relaxed sitting position, feet against his collarbone. One of his hands leans on the juncture of Bruce’s shoulder and neck. Bruce feels his form sway with the motions of Bruce’s breathing, rising with every inhale, dipping with every exhale. He’s strangely warm, all of his alien heat compressed into a much smaller body.
“What are you working on?” Clark murmurs, low voice a hum in Bruce’s ear.
“I’m tracking a shipment that just came into the harbor,” Bruce says, trying not to jostle Clark as he leans forward in the chair. “Maroni is trying to smuggle arms into the city.”
The rest of the night passes quietly as Bruce makes good progress on his current case while Clark sits comfortably on Bruce’s shoulder. They exchange small observations, a quick remark here and there.
Eventually, Clark falls silent, and it takes Bruce a few minutes to notice how still he’s gone, the small weight of him just slightly heavier against his shoulder. He’s leaning fully against the crook of Bruce’s neck now. Fingers pausing on the keyboard, Bruce pauses and listens.
Straining his hearing, he can just barely hear the soft whisper of Clark’s deep, even breaths. Bruce feels himself freeze, not wanting to move lest he wake Clark with a sudden motion.
Carefully, Bruce brings his left hand up to his right shoulder where Clark has slumped over and fallen asleep. With great care, he nudges Clark’s small body into the palm of his calloused hand, slowly lifting him away from his shoulder and to the front of his face where Bruce can watch the sleeping figure in his hand.
Clark’s tiny form curls in on itself, settling into a deeper sleep in the cradle of Bruce’s hand. His little hands tug the cape closer, swaddling himself as he turns his face into the meat of Bruce’s palm. Bruce feels the barest whisper of a breath gusting against his skin. He’s small enough that Bruce could completely enclose him in his hands if he wanted to, and he finds himself gripped by the urge to cup him close to his chest and protect this tiny creature. Which is ridiculous; Clark is perfectly capable of protecting himself, even as small as he is.
But he does bring Clark close to his chest anyway, and his tiny partner subconsciously burrows closer to the sound of Bruce’s heart, barely even rousing at the motion happening around him. A flicker of warmth sparks in his chest as he carries Clark upstairs to their bedroom, his heart fluttering with affection.
Bruce leans down bed to gently deposit Clark on the pillow of his side of the bed. In the dim light, he can see a tiny frown appear between Clark’s eyebrows as Bruce’s hands leave him behind. Bruce reaches out and pinches the edge of Clark’s cape between his thumb and forefinger, tucking it around his tiny body.
When Bruce returns from the bathroom, Clark is still soundly asleep. He doesn’t stir as Bruce slips underneath the covers, and Bruce turns over on his side to watch Clark’s tiny figure, his little face slack and peaceful in sleep.
He looks so…fragile, even though Bruce knows he’s anything but. Precious, like a fallen star caught in the palm of his hand. A miracle in every sense of the word.
Bruce closes his eyes. That’s the effect Clark has on him; he’s made Bruce into a sentimental fool.
Sleep always seems to come easier, knowing Clark is sharing Bruce’s bed and tonight is no different, even if Clark is taking up much less of the bed than usual.
It’s late morning when Bruce wakes, blearily blinking his eyes open, squinting at the slight glow of sunlight that has snuck past the curtains. He rubs a hand over his face, and freezes. Slowly, he lowers his hand, and he peers down at his chest. There’s a lump, underneath the covers there, that moves along with each soft breath that Bruce takes.
He peels back the covers and looks at the sleeping figure curled up on the center of his chest. Clark stirs as the covers are lifted, small limbs stretching outwards as Clark blinks and squints up at Bruce. He’s so light, his weight is barely discernible.
“Hey,” Clark says, voice drowsy with the morning.
“Hey yourself,” Bruce says, and smiles. Clark smiles back.
A day later, they still haven’t managed to find a way to reverse the shrinking process and Clark is growing restless. With his strength and his flight intact, Clark technically doesn’t actually need any help to function in his day-to-day life. He can open doors on his own, retrieve food from the cabinets, and use Bruce’s tablet for entertainment, although he has to press his whole hand against the screen for his touch to register.
Still, Bruce insists on staying home with him while he’s stuck at his small size, claiming it’s the more practical choice. It’s easier for him to slice the bread and the toppings with the normally sized knife, arranging the small cuts on a saucer for Clark to eat. Clark plops down on the table, next to Bruce’s plate, and crosses his legs as he nibbles on a piece of bread the size of his head. Alfred barely gives tiny Clark a second glance as he sets down Bruce’s morning cup of coffee; Alfred has seen stranger things happen in this kitchen.
Before stepping into the shower, Bruce puts the stopper in the sink and fills it up with warm water, drawing a bath for Clark. It’s deep enough for him to swim in, and he floats, relaxed, in a sea of bubbles. He rinses off in the stream of water from the tap and rotates at superspeed to dry off, then puts the suit back on since it’s the only thing that’ll fit him at the moment.
When Bruce sits down in the study to get some paperwork done, he sets up a plant grow light he’s borrowing from Alfred’s garden supplies, placing it on the desk along with a folded blanket. Clark gratefully flops down on the blanket, spreading his limbs wide and basking in the glow of the LED light. Probably not as nice as real sunlight, but good enough to take a nap under, apparently.
But Bruce can’t put off patrol, and that’s one activity Clark can’t tag along to at the current moment.
“Come on,” Clark pleads. “Let me come with. I promise to stay out of view. No one will see me.”
“No,” Bruce says firmly, fastening the buckle of his gauntlet. “Stay here.”
Clark sighs dramatically, floating over to the workbench and sitting down on a toolbox to sulk.
“I won’t be long,” Bruce promises, admittedly slightly remorseful to leave him behind. He doesn’t doubt that Clark can hold his own even at this size, but this mission requires stealth above all else and he doesn’t want to risk Clark getting seen.
They arrive at the docks half an hour later, taking their positions in the rafters of the warehouse. Robin is still as a statue on his left, and they’re waiting for Maroni’s men to arrive.
“I count twelve men,” Damian whispers. “Four carrying SMGs.”
Bruce nods. “On my mark,” he whispers back, and slips a hand into his belt, reaching for a smoke bomb.
He freezes. There’s movement in the pouch, his fingers knocking against something warm and soft.
“What is it?” Damian hisses, sensing Bruce’s alarm.
Bruce closes his fingers around the decidedly not-smoke-bomb-shaped item and pulls it out of his belt.
“Clark,” Bruce says with exasperation.
“Hi, B,” the miniature Superman says sheepishly. “Need some help?”
Bruce sighs, scowling down at the figure trapped in his closed fist. Clark just blinks up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
Bruce stuffs him back in his belt.
Four days after Clark was first shrunk, Bruce wakes up alone in his bed. Not unusual in and of itself, but Bruce has to admit he was starting to get used to waking up with a tiny sleeping Clark on his chest.
Clark makes his reappearance an hour later, just as Bruce is about to sit down with a cup of coffee and the morning’s issue of The Daily Planet.
“Hey,” Clark says, from eye level. “I just got back from S.T.A.R. Labs.”
“I can see that,” Bruce says, giving Clark a once-over. The relief of having Clark back to his usual size overshadows the small flicker of disappointment he feels at knowing Clark won’t fit in his cupped hands anymore. “You’re taller than I remember.”
“Mm,” Clark hums, leaning in for a soft kiss. This, Bruce has missed, and he melts into it. “You’re shorter than I remember,” he says wryly.
“That’s because you’re hovering,” Bruce says, knowing Clark has both feet planted on the ground. Clark has always had a solid two inches of height on Bruce, and seldom lets him forget it.
Clark laughs, a radiatingly beautiful smile appearing on his face. “It’s good to be back to normal,” Clark says, reaching for Bruce’s hands and placing a kiss on his scarred knuckles. “Although I’m going to miss sleeping on your chest.”
“You can still sleep on my chest.”
“You know what I mean,” Clark says, rolling his eyes. “It was nice. Being surrounded by you. I bet you’d like it, too.”
Bruce grimaces at the thought of being reduced to four inches tall, at the mercy of Clark’s big, gentle hands. Clark laughs again, nudging in for another warm kiss.
“I just know you’d be so cute if you were that small, like a little bat.” Clark mouths at the edge of his jaw. “I’d keep you safe. Promise.”
Bruce doesn’t doubt that, but he hopes they’ll never find out. He’s perfectly happy at six feet and three inches. Him, shrunk to four inches tall?
Ridiculous.