superwonderbat drabble (cuddling while it snows outside)
Summ: A few days before Christmas, the trinity are bunkered down at the Fortress. The snow brings a flurry of memories, some good, some bad, and some new.
“It’s snowing,” Clark says like the excited five year old that he his. He’s standing by the bedroom window that looks out across the tundra, curtain pulled back as he peers outside as if he’s looking for Santa’s reindeer to fly by. His sleep pants hang low on his hips, or are they Diana’s pants? Their respective wardrobes have become a free-for-all as of late, but Bruce can’t bring himself to mind.
Beside him on the bed, Diana wakes from her half-sleep. She rubs her eyes like a sleepy child, her hair fanned out wildly against the pillows.
Bruce smiles at her, all soft. It’s nice to have a sleepy morning in together. “Good morning,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“Good morning.” Eyes half shut, she grins up at him, before smacking him the face with a pillow. She doesn’t even try to hide her laughter.
Bruce rolls his eyes and sits up. Despite the climate, the inside of the Fortress is still comfortably warm. He kicks off the sheets and finds he’s wearing a pair of Clark’s boxers. With a shrug, Bruce slips from the bed and paces across the floor to the window. Stopping beside Clark, he pauses and glances outside. White on white on white. Clark was right, it certainly is snowing. They’re far away enough not to be touching, but close enough for Clark to know he’s there. Absentmindedly, he traces his fingertips lightly along Clark’s side.
“It’s so pretty,” Clark says, and Bruce has to agree, only he’s not watching the snow. Snow is well and good, but Bruce is more focused on the way the softened light falls against Clark’s unmarred skin. Clark’s face almost glows, his cheek and brow bones illuminated by the gentle morning light.
“Diana, come see.” For a farm boy, Clark certainly loves the snow.
Bruce hears Diana pad across the room, her footfalls light on the bare Fortress floor. She comes to a stop between Bruce and Clark, gazing out the window. Bruce expects to find hands on his hips, or the teasing trail of fingertips along his spine, but Diana stares blankly outside, lost somewhere else completely.
“Di,” Clark says, with a hand on her shoulder, “Di, are you alright?”
She doesn’t answer, and that in itself is answer enough. “The snow.” A crystalline tears slips from her lashes. “It’s beautiful.”
They don’t ask why. They don’t have to. Sometimes it’s the little things, like snowfall or pearls, that hurt the most. Bruce understands that; they all do. Clark goes to shut the curtain, but Diana shakes her head.
Bruce rests his head against Diana’s shoulder, trying to share some comfort with her unencumbered by words. The fabric of his own t-shirt is butter-soft against his cheek. Clark presses his and Diana’s temples together in an intimate gesture, his hand coming up to rest against the small of Bruce’s back. Together, they stand by the window in each other’s arms, watching the snow fall.
The glass fogs from their shared breaths. Diana reaches out with an index finger, drawing one curve, then another, in the fog. A love heart, Bruce realises. It’s a little lopsided, but still a heart. Bruce can’t hide the way his breath catches in his throat.
Clark’s hand leaves Bruce’s back and touches the fogged love heart. In the space inside, Clark adds: B + C + D.
Bruce buries his face in Diana’s shoulder to smother the words that threaten to leave his mouth. It doesn’t matter; Clark says them for him. “I love you,” he murmurs, and then, “let’s get some breakfast.”
