𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙭
𝙳𝚒𝚕𝚏 𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚡 𝚆𝚒𝚏𝚎! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
You heard the gravelly hiss of the Batmobile before you ever heard the door.
It was late — later than usual. Past 3 AM. You were curled beneath layers of soft blankets in your shared bed, the lamp on your nightstand casting a muted glow across the room. Warm hues against the cold tones of Gotham's moonlight outside.
Your bonnet was still tied neatly over your head, a silk wrap you always tucked on before Bruce got home. He would always grumble to see you’re still awake waiting for him but nonetheless he loved your pretty face being one of the first things he saw coming home.
You were drifting in and out of sleep, trying to wait up, like always. But the second you heard the front security panel ping and the quiet groan of your bedroom door creaking open…
You knew.
Your heart lifted even before your eyes opened.
He was home.
Bruce moved like a shadow — even when he was exhausted. Silent. Methodical. Heavy bootfalls padded into the room and stopped near the corner armchair. You peeked your eyes open just enough to see him shed the last remnants of the cowl, his black armor glinting faintly under the soft bedroom lighting.
His movements were tired tonight.
Slower.
But something in the slump of his shoulders, in the pause of his hands as they brushed through his thick black hair… felt off.
You stirred gently, sitting up, pulling the sheets around your chest.
He didn’t look up right away.
So you called to him.
“Hey… Bat-daddy.”
His head turned slightly, mouth twitching — just barely. A tired sound in his chest that could’ve been a chuckle.
“You should be asleep,” he said, voice rough from patrol. His tone always softened around you, even when it scraped like gravel.
“I was trying,” You exhaled, your brown eyes scanning his big figure. “But I knew you were coming home soon. You always get quiet when you’re limping.”
His brow rose. “I wasn’t limping.”
You crawl towards him on the bed, your plum colored nightie enhanced your soft curves. Your tummy grazing the mattress, your soft doughy legs kick behind you with your manicured toes in the air. You placed a hand on your cheek, your eyes gazing upon his tousled hair, bloody knuckles and chest.
“You were absolutely limping.”
He sighed and unlaced the final gauntlet with a low grunt.
Your eyes swept over him — his suit wrinkled with soot and movement, scuffed at the knees. His gloves, cracked in places. His jaw dusted with stubble, the smallest shadow of fatigue underneath those familiar sharp cheekbones.
But that wasn’t what caught your attention.
It was his hair.
When he leaned over to unclip his boots, the soft strands at the sides caught the light — and they weren’t black.
They were silver.
You blinked.
Not speckled. Not a single rogue strand like you’d teased him about years ago.
A *patch*. A streak. Stark and clear, gleaming like a whisper of time catching up to the myth.
Bruce looked up when he felt your silence.
And when he followed your gaze — he knew.
His shoulders stiffened.
“…I was going to cut it.”
You blinked, surprised. “Why?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His mouth worked slightly, as if searching for the words he wouldn’t let himself say. Instead, he sighed and turned toward the bathroom.
You were already climbing out of bed.
Bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud as you padded after him. The robe around your waist was silk — deep plum, nearly black in the low light. It shimmered slightly over your brown skin as you caught up to him, standing in the doorway of the master bathroom.
He stood at the sink, bracing his hands on either side of the marble, his head bowed.
You crossed the floor and gently reached up, fingers brushing into his hair.
He tensed.
Your hand paused.
And slowly… you threaded your fingers into the soft strands.
“You’re graying,” you whispered, lips barely moving.
“I know.”
You paused.
“And you’re bothered by it?”
He didn’t answer.
So you nudged him.
“Bruce.”
His eyes lifted to the mirror.
The expression on his face caught you by surprise — not embarrassment.
*Grief*.
“I’m getting older,” he muttered. “I know it. I feel it. I see it every night in the alleyway reflections. In the way the suit fits. The way it feels to come home.”
Your hand stayed in his hair, soft strokes grounding him.
“But I didn’t expect it to hit me like this.”
You blinked up at him. “Like what?”
He met your eyes in the mirror.
“I never thought I’d live long enough to gray.”
Your heart twisted.
There it was — the truth underneath it all. The thing only you ever got to see. He wasn’t upset about vanity. He was stunned by survival.
He never planned to grow old. Not in a cape. Not with scars on his ribs and silver in his hair. Not with you , warm in his bed waiting for him to come home.
And now that he was here… it scared him.
You wrap your soft arms around his solid waist. Your pudgy cheek squished against his scarred back. You squeeze him gently, inhaling his grief and his past differences of life. You see the stricken surprise and neither of you dared to say it but you and him both knew it.
He’s older than his father.
He never got to see him gray, and now.
He knew exactly what he looked like.
You squeeze him tightly, your soft lips peck the middle of his back.
“I think it looks sexy,” you said quietly.
Bruce blinked.
You let go and lift his heavy arm to stand in front of him, offered a soft sheepish smile. “Silver fox. Distinguished. Strong.”
He gave you a look in the mirror. “…Don’t say silver fox.”
You grinned. “Why not?”
“Because Clark will hear about it and never shut up.”
You bit your lip. “Oh… so this is about Clark?”
His jaw tightened. “…No.”
You tilted your head, a hand on top of your hip. “Bruce.”
“…Maybe.”
You blinked slowly. “Baby. He’s a Kryptonian.”
“That doesn’t mean his hair should stay perfect forever.”
“He’s literally solar powered.” You giggle as he lifts you from underneath your arms and places you on the cool marble.
“He should be the one graying. Saving everyone and cats lives.”
You stared at the slight pout forming at his lips. “…Are you competing with Superman over hair color?”
He scowled. “He’s not graying. I noticed it last week. He still looks thirty.”
You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. You place a chaste kiss to his lips and stare at his soft blue-grey eyes.
“You know what we’re gonna do baby?” you whispered. His warm callous hands squeezing your squishy sides.
He didn’t move.
You smiled.
“We’re gonna dye it.”
His brows lifted. “We—?”
“Yes. You’re gonna sit your tired Bat-butt down in that chair,” you said, pointing to the vanity mirror behind him, “and I’m gonna dye your hair while you sit there and grumble about it.”
He grunted, still half-scowling.
“You hate this idea,” you said gently.
“…I don’t like being fussed over.”
“You love it,” you corrected.
He didn’t reply.
But he did squeeze your waist once more before moving to the vanity room, his taut back stiff as he grumbled under his breath.
---
The vanity room felt warmer with him seated there — the intimidating, powerful force of Bruce Wayne reduced to a man in pajama pants and shirtless, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying very hard not to pout.
You stood behind him, a towel draped over his shoulders, a pair of gloves on your hands and a glass bowl of absurdly expensive salon-grade hair dye on the counter beside you. He didn’t ask what it cost.
You didn’t tell him.
“I can hear you thinking,” he muttered.
You smirked. “You always can.”
“I don’t like this.”
“You said that already.”
“I don’t like this towel.”
“It’s soft.”
“It’s lavender.”
“It’s the cleanest one.”
He made a low, irritated noise in his throat.
You bent over, kissed his cheek, and smiled against his skin. “You’ll survive.”
He exhaled slowly. “Possibly.”
With a careful touch, you dipped your gloved fingers into the dye, mixing it smoothly before combing through the thick strands at the top of his head. His hair was heavy and clean — still damp from the shower, where he'd scrubbed the city off his skin before stepping into your sanctuary.
You moved slowly, methodically.
The pads of your fingers massaged the dye into his scalp, section by section. You kept the pressure gentle, both soothing and precise — treating him less like a patient and more like a man you loved. And he was loved. Even if he didn’t know how to sit still and receive it.
The first few minutes, his jaw stayed tight. Shoulders stiff. Back straight like he was on a mission.
But eventually…
He softened.
You saw it happen in the mirror — the tension bleeding out of his arms. His eyelids lowered slightly, his mouth no longer set in a line. His breathing slowed, deeper now.
“This is nice,” you whispered, still parting and brushing through his hair.
He gave a reluctant sound.
“Say it,” you teased.
He didn’t respond.
“Bruce…”
A beat.
“It’s nice,” he finally muttered.
You giggled softly, leaning down and pressing your chin against the top of his head. “Knew you’d like it.”
He gave a small grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”
“You say that every time I lotion your back.”
“…I don’t like people touching my back.”
“And yet you fall asleep every time I do.”
He scowled.
You worked the last of the dye into the silver near his temples. It was almost heartbreaking — the way it shimmered before being swallowed by black. Like painting over time itself.
You stepped back and stripped the gloves from your hands, then carefully wrapped a towel over his head.
Bruce watched you in the mirror the entire time.
You’d changed into his gotham university shirt after he stop grumbling under his breath— the gray one he always reached for in the drawer when folding laundry, pretending he wasn’t picking favorites. It clung to you now in all the places he secretly admired when you weren’t looking — the gentle curves of your hips, the softness of your arms, the fullness of your chest.
You turned to rinse your hands in the sink.
And felt his gaze on you like a magnet.
“I know that look,” you said over your shoulder.
He grunted. “You wear it on purpose.”
You smiled.
Then — suddenly — two strong arms slipped around your waist and lifted you off your feet.
“Bruce!”
“I’m not sitting alone while this sets.”
“Let me dry my—”
Too late.
He carried you back to the stool, settled himself down, and tucked you neatly into his lap, silk and all. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms locking around your middle. The towel still rested around his hair, but his focus had shifted entirely.
You were where he wanted you — in his arms, soft and warm, grounding his thunderous thoughts.
“…You feel small tonight,” he murmured against your shoulder. “I could sense it.”
You blinked into his chest. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade.
“It means I can hold all of you.”
You melted into him without thinking.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, guiding your face toward his — and his kiss was warm, full, claiming. It pulled at the seams of your tiredness, letting you fall into him like nightfall into silence.
When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours.
“You’re not going anywhere. Right?”
The question was so soft… so unlike him.
You stroked his cheek, then the stubbled edge of his jaw.
“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce.”
He nodded slowly, still watching you like he didn’t believe he deserved that answer.
Then his tone shifted — a grumble, low and teasing.
“You owe me.”
“For what?”
“For letting you turn me into a hair model.”
You smirked. “You’re barely letting me touch your hair.”
“I’m letting you.”
“Mmhm.”
“And now,” he growled, tugging you closer, “I’m demanding payment.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of payment?”
He pressed another kiss to your cheek.
Then another to your shoulder.
“Three kisses,” he said, his voice a touch hoarse against your ear causing a shiver up your spine. “No—five.”
You wiggled in his lap, giggling softly. “That escalated quickly.”
“You were bouncing on the bed yesterday. I get five.”
You turned in his lap and kissed him once, slow and deliberate.
Then a second, just beneath his jaw.
A third at the corner of his mouth.
He was already breathing heavier, his arms tightening around you, like letting go might undo him.
You smiled. “Three.”
He narrowed his eyes.
You laughed, “Okay, fine—four!”
But he’d already pulled you in again, deepening the kiss into something you felt all the way down to your toes.
---
**One Hour Later…**
You peeled off the towel, drying the edges of his hair with a soft cloth, and combed through the now jet-black strands with gentle fingers.
He looked in the mirror again.
Stared.
“…Huh.”
You smiled. “See?”
He grunted. “Still looks fake.”
You scoffed whipping your hands on the towel. “It’s your natural color baby.”
“It feels fake.”
You hugged him from behind, resting your cheek on his shoulder.
“You can go gray next time,” you whispered.
“…Maybe.”
You kissed his temple. “But only if you let me touch it.”
He smirked faintly. “I let you touch everything else.”
You both laughed.
And when you walked back to bed — hand in hand — Bruce tugged you in like always, wrapping himself around you like a man who’d spent too many years empty, too many nights cold.
But tonight?
He slept with his face pressed into your bonnet clad curls, a faint smile on his lips.
Because the gray would come back.
But so would you.
Always.
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
The Watchtower’s observation deck was quiet, the way Bruce liked it.
He stepped onto the platform just after 7:40 AM Earth time, still sore from patrol, still brooding over the news conference he had to skip because someone tried to rob Gotham National in a clown mask.
Coffee in hand, steps steady, cloak trailing, Bruce made it halfway to the console when—
“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” Clark’s voice rumbled low from behind the mission table. “You actually did it.”
Bruce paused, spine straightening.
Clark didn’t even look up at first. Just took a quiet sip of his own mug — black, like Bruce’s — and leaned back in his chair with that maddeningly calm energy of his.
“…Did what?” Bruce said flatly.
Clark finally raised his head. One dark brow lifted.
“The dye job,” he said simply.
Bruce didn’t respond.
Clark tilted his head, studying him. “It’s darker than usual.”
Bruce grunted.
“I mean, I’ve seen you come back from patrol covered in soot, blood, and God knows what—but this? This is definitely not ‘accidental camouflage.’”
Bruce took a long sip. “You're imagining things.”
Clark let out a quiet scoff. “C’mon, Bruce. I’ve got vision so sharp I can see atoms split. You really think I wouldn’t notice a fresh coat of raven black on your head?”
Bruce turned his glare on him.
Clark didn’t flinch. He never did.
He just leaned forward a little, voice lower now. “You’ve been greying for a while. Thought you were gonna let it ride.”
“I was.”
“What changed?”
Bruce hesitated.
Clark didn’t press. Just took another slow drink. Let the silence stretch. The way only a man who wasn’t afraid of Bruce Wayne could.
“…She did it,” Bruce muttered finally.
Clark looked up.
“Your wife?” he asked, voice quieter now. Not teasing—just confirming.
Bruce gave a sharp nod.
Clark’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smirk.
Instead, he said, “She take her time with it?”
Bruce paused.
“…Yeah.”
Clark looked down at his coffee and smiled to himself. “That’s good. She’s good for you.”
Bruce didn’t reply.
A moment passed.
Then—
“She said I looked like a silver fox.”
Clark huffed once. More air than laugh. But there was humor behind it.
“She’s not wrong,” he said, voice gruff but amused. “But I get it. I’d be bitter too if Lois ever called me that.”
“She said Clark’s not graying yet,” Bruce muttered, almost like a threat.
Clark blinked, then turned his head. “Are we competing now?”
Bruce took another sip.
Clark grunted. “Alright. Fine. For the record, I don’t dye it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I didn’t say I liked it.”
“You look thirty.”
“You act seventy.”
Bruce gave him a look.
Clark held up a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
Another long pause.
Clark finally sat forward, watching Bruce with something that felt quieter. Not smug. Not playful.
Something almost brotherly.
“You know… you don’t have to hide it,” he said. “The grey. The age. You’ve earned all of it.”
Bruce was quiet.
Clark added, “But if letting her touch your hair makes you feel like you can breathe for five minutes? I say let her.”
Bruce looked at him.
And for the first time that morning—he didn’t scowl.
Clark took a sip. “Just, maybe wipe the lipstick off next time.”
Bruce blinked. “What?”
Clark motioned loosely to his jaw.
Bruce swiped a hand over it.
It came back with a faint red smudge.
Clark looked amused. “You really came to the Watchtower with a kiss mark on your face?”
“…I was tired.”
“She’s got you whipped, old man.”
Bruce turned to leave.
Clark raised his mug. “Tell her it looks good, though.”
Bruce paused at the door.
Didn’t turn.
But he could almost hear the faint smile in his voice when he muttered:
“…She already knows.”
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
A/N: This was so cute. I love bruce and clark vibe! I hope we get that in movies! My baby deserves to get older he’s been through so much 🥺
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