Older Clark x younger Bruce
Bruce sleeps like he's negotiating with it.
Not surrendered—not fully—but allowing it under certain conditions. One arm thrown across Clark's chest, knee pressed into his thigh, grip firm enough to feel intentional even in unconsciousness. Like part of him still expects to wake up fighting.
Clark wakes the way he always does: slowly, aware of the room before he opens his eyes.
The building settles around them—old pipes sighing, distant traffic murmuring, the rain finally giving up. Dawn light creeps in through the blinds in thin, pale lines, cutting across Bruce's face.
He looks younger when he sleeps.
Not innocent—never that—but unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred. The tension eases from his jaw, his mouth softens, lashes dark against skin that still carries the faint shadow of last night's bruises.
Clark doesn't touch them.
He's learned the difference between helping and hovering.
Instead, he rests his hand at Bruce's back, steady and warm, thumb moving in a slow, unconscious rhythm that matches Bruce's breathing. It's not a gesture meant to soothe, it's one meant to stay.
Bruce shifts, presses closer without opening his eyes, his breath hitching just slightly before evening out again.
Clark lets out a quiet breath of his own.
He's held a lot of things together in his life.
Moments that wanted to fall apart.
This—this feels different.
Not like a responsibility.
Just… a choice he keeps making.
Bruce stirs again, this time more deliberately. His brow furrows, then smooths. One hand slides up, fingers curling into the fabric of Clark's shirt like he's checking that he's still there.
"You're awake" Bruce murmurs, voice rough, barely there.
"Have been" Clark answers softly.
Bruce doesn't open his eyes yet. He just exhales—slow, tired—and stays exactly where he is.
The silence between them isn't empty. It's lived-in.
After a moment, Bruce shifts his head, finally looking up at Clark. His eyes are heavy, unshielded, searching without meaning to.
"You always wake up first" he says, not accusing, just noticing.
Clark's mouth curves, faint "Old habit"
Bruce studies him for a second longer, like he's cataloguing something—the calm, the steadiness, the way Clark doesn't rush the morning or demand anything from it.
Then Bruce's forehead drops gently against Clark's chest.
"Good" he mutters "Means you're here when I wake up"
Something tightens in Clark’s chest—not painful, not sharp—just deep.
He shifts just enough to press a kiss into Bruce's hair, slow and deliberate.
"I'm not going anywhere" he says, like it's the simplest truth in the world.
Bruce's fingers tighten once, then relax. He goes still again, not asleep this time; just resting, trusting the moment to hold.
The light grows stronger, the city stirs.
Because some mornings don't ask for saving.
And this, this is something he's learned how to give.
