#trinity tuesday

superwonderbat “totally platonic” cuddling

Ao3

Summ: It’s totally platonic. They’re just friends. Good friends. Great friends, who may or may not have some less than platonic feelings simmering below the surface.

It’s totally platonic, Clark thinks, with an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. So what if he is touching Bruce, it’s not like it means anything. He’s a tactile guy, and Bruce trusts him enough to tolerate the contact. Bruce doesn’t shrug him off, doesn’t even shoot a masked glare in Clark’s direction, and Clark can’t help the pleased feeling that settles somewhere in his chest. There’s nothing more to it.

It’s totally platonic, the way he spars with Diana, a smirk stretch across his lips. The way his heart flutters when she pins him to the mat, it’s nothing to be concerned about. Probably just adrenaline racing through his veins. What else could it be? He definitely doesn't throw the next round to get Diana to pin him to the floor again.

It’s totally platonic, Diana thinks as she presses a kiss to Clark’s cheek in greeting. The rest of the League, including Bruce, watch on, but she doesn’t care. The kiss is of friendship, nothing else, and Clark doesn't seem to mind. The pink tinge to his cheeks must be from the attention, she thinks and plans to avoid any further attempts. Until the start of next week's meeting, where, far from embarrassed, he is the one to greet her with a kiss.

It's totally platonic, the way she stays by Bruce’s bedside in the Watchtower infirmary, a silent vigil with Bruce’s cool hand settled in her own. Clark comes and goes, though he’s hardly the best at sitting still and waiting. No one questions it, or her, not even Bruce when he awakes to find her still holding his hand. She’s from another place, another time, and they accept she might be a little different, care a little more openly. Bruce gives her hand a faint squeeze, a thank you, before dozing again with a soft smile on his lips. Diana thinks nothing of it and intertwines her fingers with Bruce's.

It’s totally platonic, Bruce thinks, catching sight of Diana as she waltzes into the ballroom, the split up the thigh of her dress showing a gorgeous stretch of golden skin. It’s strictly professional, an appraisal of her uniform, so to speak. Tonight he needs her to be inconspicuous, or at least as inconspicuous as a woman of her beauty can be. It's business, not pleasure, though Bruce can't deny the rush of emotion when Diana greets Bruce with a kiss. Or when one of Diana’s hands slips between his, the other settled over his chest, ready to dance. It’s platonic, despite what the other guests and paparazzi might think (or what Diana was more than willing to let them think, with her hand slipping lower and lower down Bruce’s back), simply platonic.

It’s platonic when he feels a warmth settling in his chest as he watches Clark scoop an eager Nightwing into his arms, a tight hug in greeting that never seems to lose its childlike joy, even all these years later. It’s nothing new, their antics or the feeling it leaves Bruce with, it’s common whenever he thinks about the family. His family. The boys, Cass, Alfred, even Stephanie, and Diana and Cla- Bruce shakes his head. When did he come to think of Diana and Clark as family? Maybe that knock to the head on patrol last night was harder than he thought? Whatever it is, it’s nothing. It’s totally platonic, he insists, they’re just friends.

And it's totally platonic when, exhausted after another gruelling League mission, the Trinity escape to a private room, just the three of them. The other members don’t question it, they know there are some things that can only be shared within the triumvirate of leaders.

In Bruce’s room, where they usually end up, the world doesn’t feel so heavy. For a moment, drawn out for as long as they can, they share the weight between their shoulders, three pillars holding up the world instead of one.

It’s the quiet that they first notice. Even Clark finds the world quieter in here, the constant call of duty and danger and fear muted enough that he can think in peace. Peace is Bruce and Diana and him together, an island of their own. Peace is the calmness they bring, a silent understanding. Peace is the feel of them in his arms, embracing and embraced.

Bruce peels back the cowl, his sweat-dampened hair falling across his face. Diana brushes the locks back, her fingertips trailing along his cheekbone, a soft pink glow in her wake.

Clark settles on the comforter, watching Bruce’s body shake beneath Diana’s touch. It’s been too long, and if he was anywhere other than here, in their sanctuary, he’d curse himself for not noticing sooner. “Come here,” Clark says, arms held out wide in a welcoming call. Come here, he says, but it sounds like come home. Maybe it is.

Silently, they join him on the bed, arms and legs and hearts and capes tangling together into one, a pile of heroes cuddling together atop the bed. There’s a sigh that escapes the three of them at once, contentment settling in their limbs. This is peace, if only for a moment, a comfort that only they can bring. Bruce nuzzles closer to Clark’s chest, his nose pressing firm against the S emblazoned there. Diana’s hand cups his jaw, her touch radiant and hopeful and warm, and Bruce melts against Clark’s chest a little more. Clark tightens his hold around his two teammates, companions, lov... Friends.

The bed is big enough for the three of them, Bruce had made sure of it. He always seems to know of these things, to make provisions for instances that haven’t yet occured. Diana thinks it’s his superpower. Clark knows that it is.

In each other’s arms, they are safe. What more can they ask for? A moment of safety, of comfort, if only just a moment, is more than any of them could ever hope for. They can’t spend long here, can’t hide from reality for more than a moment, but the moment spent together is more than enough.

No. It won’t ever be enough, but they won’t admit that. They’ll take all that they can, anything, because it’s more than they think they deserve.

It’s totally platonic, despite Hal’s jokes, despite what the rest of the League might think. It’s a reprieve, a way to ground them, tether themselves to one another so they don’t float away. It’s a victory in itself, defeating the battle of grief day after day, being here and being held and being loved.

Loved.

There’s no denying that. But it's totally platonic, it has to be, because if it's not…

If it's not, they're not sure what to do.

superwonderbat drabble for the prompt ‘reluctant cuddling’

Ao3

Summ:  It should be a happy occasion, but this year, it hurts. Diana and Clark do their best to comfort Bruce. (Set during Dick’s Spyral days)

Diana wasn’t expecting a call, but she takes it anyway, excusing herself from the meeting with the museum curator and stepping out into the hallway.

“Ms Prince? I hate to trouble you, but-”

Diana frowns, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. “What is it, Alfred?”

“Do you happen to know today’s date?”

It’s an odd question, even more so that Alfred is calling her to ask it. Diana’s no detective, not like Bruce, but she knows enough to take the hint. She wracks her mind, searching for meaning for the day. It’s not a birthday, not an anniversary of death, that much she knows for sure. Those are written on her calendar pinned to her kitchen wall. There are so many dates to remember. So that leaves, what, adop-

Ah.

She knows what today is. It should be a good day, a joyful day, but it’s hardly ever that simple with Bruce and his family, and today is no exception. “Yes,” she says, “and he is?”

“He is,” he pauses, “he is better than I had hoped, but still…” But still affected, of course. Still in need of support.

Diana nods to herself. “Clark and I will be there shortly.”

“I’ll make up a fresh pot of tea,” he says, and then, “thank you.”

Alfred hangs up before she can reply. So that’s where Bruce gets it from.

Diana shoots Clark a short text: a name and a time, and heads to her office to fetch her coat.

Clark's waiting for her when she arrives in the Manor gardens, glasses sitting askew on his nose. She lands right in his space, correcting his glasses before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” Clark says, and neither can she. But today, they need to be the resolute ones, the shoulders to cry on, so to speak. Bruce isn’t the type to cry, not like this. So she nods, kisses him again, and leads the way to the house.

They pause at the front door for a moment, a question coming to them simultaneously. Do they knock? Do they walk right in? Will they get taken down by a hail of Kryptonite if they do try? Alfred opens the door before they can decide.

Silently, he ushers them inside, the usual smalltalk absent, and Clark feels the need to fill it, mostly with worry. “Is there anything we can-”

“It's taken care of,” the old man says, and there's a heaviness in his eyes that Diana feels in her chest. Burying a grandson is too much. “He's upstairs. Though I'm sure you already knew that.” Alfred was never quite comfortable with their super senses in the house; apparently he has a monopoly on that trait.

Diana thanks him as he turns away and heads toward the kitchen. There’s so much more that she could -should- say, but there’s nothing that she can offer Alfred right now, not with words. But looking after his son, that’s something she can do. Always.

They find him in the sun room, sitting stiffly on the chaise, hands clasped in his lap. His knuckles are white and his breaths are forcibly even, but he looks the pinnacle of calmness.

“He didn’t need to call you.”

Diana shrugs. He’s right of course -Bruce usually is - but that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be here.  

“Can we sit?” Clark asks, and the tension in the room grows thicker and thicker with every breath. Asking is good, but Bruce doesn’t do well with questions, not questions like this.

Bruce doesn't reply, which is answer enough, so Diana and Clark sit on either side of Bruce, not close enough to be touching, but enough to let him know they’re there.

It’s a waiting game with Bruce, it always seems to be.

The silence begs to be filled, but there’s nothing to fill it with. All the empty platitudes had been said too many times, and the promise of ice cream, a staple of any good adoption anniversary celebration, doesn’t so sweet. So they sit there, side by side, in the silence of the sun room, watching until the night begins to fall. Bruce doesn’t mention it when Clark’s arm slides around his shoulders, doesn’t shrug off the touch, so it’s a start. Diana takes his hand in hers, letting him know it’s okay for him to ask for what he needs.

Bruce doesn’t ask, he never asks, but she and Clark have learnt a thing or two about Bruce and comfort in all their years together. They offer all they can give, and let Bruce be the one to make the decision.

He moves slowly, as if waiting for a rejection that he should know, by now, will never come. Too slowly, too afraid. Too hurt.

“Come here,” Diana says, clear in her compassion and intent, and it's all Bruce needs. Bruce hides his face in Diana's collarbone, an arm slipping around her waist. Clark brackets them from behind, one of his hands covering hers across Bruce's back.

In their arms, Bruce takes a deep breath that shudders on the way out. He won’t cry, Diana knows, not like this, but it is enough. This is what he needs.

“I miss him,” Bruce says eventually in Diana’s shoulder.

“I know.” Diana misses him too. The Manor is much too quiet without him, even if he did spend most of his time in Bludhaven in the lead up to... Yes, Diana misses him, misses his sweet smile, as jovial as it was when he was still wearing pixie boots.

Clark stays quiet, immediately suspect. “There’s something you’re not telling us,” he says eventually, “but I trust you have a good reason for that.”

Bruce nods. Diana doesn’t push. The truth will be revealed at some point, it always is, and she has faith in that. She has faith in Clark and Bruce, too.

The stillness of the room is only broken by Bruce’s yawn. “Would you like us to stay?” Diana asks, not because she wants to leave, but because she wants Bruce to make the call.

Bruce grunts, and Diana feels the muscles in his shoulders tighten beneath her fingertips. “I have to patrol tonight.” He pulls away from them, his cheek reddened from where it lay against Diana's shoulder.

“Oracle is taking care of it,” Diana says, “your team is taking care of it.” Let us take care of you.

Bruce eyes her for a moment longer before nodding. “You can stay.”

Diana’s known him long enough to read between the lines. Bruce wants them here, and the softening of Bruce’s brow feels like an admission.

Bruce settles in the arms again, his face pressed against Diana’s chest. “We’re here for you,” she says, her lips brushing against his forehead. Clark hums his agreement, rubbing circles low on Bruce’s back.

Soft enough that only they can hear, Bruce murmurs, “thank you,” into their embrace.

superwonderbat drabble for the prompt “cuddling in the bath”

Ao3

Summ: Clark is fascinated by Bruce’s huge bathtub

again, shoutout to @tantalum-cobalt for co-writing this <3

It’s no exaggeration to say that Bruce Wayne has a lot of money. And money can certainly buy a lot of big things. He’s got a big house, a bigger estate, a big family, a big… bed. And apparently, a big bathtub. More of a hot tub, really, with all the bells and whistles and room enough to fit three people comfortably.

Clark’s never seen a bathtub big enough to comfortably fit himself inside, let alone to fit more than one of him. It opens up tantalising new possibilities for getting clean, perhaps while not alone. Clark has been thinking about them since the first time he saw the tub.

Clark floats to Bruce’s bedroom window, opening the latch and flying across the sill, making a beeline for the bathroom. The spacious bathroom is filled with afternoon sunlight, spilling in through the frosted glass window. It’s all sleek granite and tile that Alfred keeps so polished Clark can see his face by his feet when he looks down.

Bruce should be at work for another few hours and the rest of the house quiet. That giant bathtub beckons Clark forward. The taps don’t squeak when he turns the water on; the plumbing in Wayne Manor is much better than his mid-tier apartment.

Clark opens drawers and cupboards while the tub fills with water. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but he knows it as soon as he sees it. A single bottle of bubble bath, hiding behind a pack of new toothbrushes and a box of tampons, still with the safety seal intact. Bingo.

Clark turns back around and finds the tub has filled almost to the top. Another excellent thing about Wayne Manor’s plumbing: the best water pressure Clark has ever had the pleasure of experiencing. A few squirts of bubble bath then he quickly turns the taps off and strips, kicking his clothes into a rough pile.

The water is a little too hot but that doesn’t bother Clark. He climbs in gracelessly, water splashing over the side, soaking into the ridiculously fluffy bath mat. Oops. He probably shouldn’t have let the water run so long. It comes up to Clark’s neck when he sinks down, feelings almost silky from the bubble bath.

On the shelf beside the tub, three pairs of eyes stare at him. Three little ducks, all in a row, dressed respectively in armour, a cowl, and one with a very familiar hair curl.

What on Earth? A peel of laughter bubbles from his lips, unnaturally loud in the echoey bathroom. Of all the things he expected to find in Bruce Wayne’s bathroom, rubber ducks weren’t even close to being on the list. Maybe they belong to Bruce’s kids? They’re all a little too old for bathtime friends, he thinks, but it’s not like he can judge.

He sets them down on the surface of the water, watching them bob across the light waves he makes with every movement. Batman and Wonder Woman bump together, rubber bills touching, and Clark grins in delight. He’s taking a bath with the Justice League’s trinity, what more could he want?

But wouldn’t it be nice if Bruce and Diana were here, if the real trinity were taking a bath together? As nice as the rubber versions are, Clark would rather run his fingers through Diana’s hair, feel Bruce’s muscles against his back. Lips against his neck, his cheek, hands massaging hard to reach places, slipping further and further down his back until-

Clark is broken from his daydream when he hears Bruce enter the bedroom, his oxfords light against the floorboards, naturally quiet even in his own home. Not that it matters since Clark heard his heartbeat before the car even turned up the driveway.

“Clark?” Bruce calls out, knowing, always knowing, although Clark has to concede the open window is a bit of a give away. That and the clothes strewn across Bruce’s bed.

“In here,” Clark says, even though it’s obvious Bruce already knows.

The door pushes open and Bruce leans against the frame, arms crossed, the fabric of his rolled up shirt sleeves pulled tight across his biceps. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a bath.” He suppresses a smile at the way Bruce’s eyebrow twitches.

“Clark, get out of the bathtub,” he grunts.

“No.” Clark sinks lower beneath the bubbles. They tickle under his nose and he sneezes, spluttering at the soapy water that goes up his nose. Bruce just rolls his eyes.

“How long have you been in here? It’s got to be freezing… you’re re-heating it with your vision aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Clark’s lips are barely above the surface. “Join me?”

“I have work to do.” It’s a lie. If Bruce had work to do, he’d be doing it.

“I know your knee is acting up again. Come on, this will help.”

“Are you a doctor now?”

“Met U gave me an honorary doctorate.” Clark grins. “So yeah, guess I am a doctor now.”

Bruce rolls his eyes but starts unbuttoning his shirt. Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to. Each item is folded meticulously and set on the lid of the laundry hamper, out of reach from the expanding puddle of water on the floor.

Bruce’s left knee is bathed in purple and blue as he steps into the bathtub, careful not to put weight on it. Clark winces in sympathy as Bruce sinks beneath the bubbles, sitting opposite Clark in the tub. Their legs tangle together, feet sliding along muscular calves.

“See?” Clark says, carefully avoiding Bruce’s injury. “This is nice.”

Bruce just grunts at him, his foot brushing past Clark’s knee and-

“Bruce?” Diana calls out from the other room, the sound of her heels clicking growing louder and louder with each step.

She stands in the bathroom, hands on her hips, eyebrow raised in disapproving half-smile. “Boys,” Diana says, her tone chiding, “we have reservations in an hour.”

Dang. Clark had completely forgotten about dinner. But food is the last thing on his mind right now. “Dinner can wait, come join us.”

Bruce hums his agreement; the reservation is in his name after all, and it wouldn’t be the first time Bruce Wayne cancelled last minute. Or was unfashionably late. It might be the first time it’s because he’s relaxing not working himself to death though.

Diana sighs and kicks off her heels. Clark beams at her, feeling more and more like the cat that got the cream. Even better, he’s the man that got Batman and Wonder Woman.

“You’re a bad influence, Clark Kent,” Diana says as she slips off her dress, letting it pool on the floor, along with her underwear.

“Who me?” Clark says, the picture of innocence.

Bruce snorts and holds out a hand for Diana to help her into the tub. More water sloshes over the side, creeping across the tiles and soaking into Diana’s pile of clothes.

“Come here,” Clark says, arms stretched out to receive them. When neither moves, he sighs, and reaches out for them. Clark pulls them both close, their wet skin sliding slickly together like well oiled machine parts. They fit together, the three of them, pieces of a jigsaw, snug and at home in each others arms.

The three little ducks bump into each other, Superman between Wonder Woman and Batman. Perfect, Clark thinks, smiling contentedly at his ducky counterpart from between his lovers.

(superwonderbat drabble for the prompt cuddling for comfort)

Ao3

Summ: Diana has a nightmare and seeks comfort with her boys Diana wakes gasping, her lips and eyes flung wide. The bodies beside her seize, coiled tight and ready to leap into action. She tries and fails to keep her breathing even, chest aching with the effort. The last remnants of her dream melt away into the crevices of her mind, waiting for the next night to rear their ugly heads. She can't remember what it was, but she knows it will be back as soon as she closes her eyes once again. She remembers battle, betrayal, and her lovers’ faces, and another wave of panic washes over her.

"Diana?" Clark hovers a few inches above the mattress, startled into action. Once he establishes there’s no external threat, he drifts back down onto the bed beside her.

"It's fine," she says, trying to turn away from her lovers, "it was just a dream." Just a dream, as if that made her panic and terror any less real. Just a dream that had her heart racing like she was mid-battle. Just a dream that made her ready to reach for her lasso to remind her of what was real.

They all have their own nightmares. It's not something they can hide, not from each other. Bruce’s leave him silent, frozen in terror. Touching him in the midst of a nightmare is the worst possible course of action. He fears loss, he fears failure more than any harm that could come to him, but each touch during his dreams is a threat that he cannot stand.

Clark's are louder, cries of anguish and terror. Diana know those more accurately. Dreaming of the ones he couldn't save, no matter how many times he's reminded that he can't save everyone. But that's Clark, determined to follow a mission he is doomed to fail.

And Diana's own? Too much pain, too much war. Lately the faces and names on either side of the battle are her lovers. Nothing would destroy her so fiercely as that. After a nightmare, she needs anything, everything that her loves are willing to give her. Touch, comforting words, just their presence.

"Diana?" Bruce this time, voice rough with sleep. In the dimness of Bruce's bedroom, she sees each movement he makes. Bruce telegraphs each movement, as if he expects her to bolt from the bed at any given moment. Maybe he does, but all she wants right now is the arms of the men she loves wrapped tight around her. His hand lands on her shoulder, and she melts into his touch. “Come here.” Their arms embrace her, engulf her. In their arms she is safe, she is protected. She's one of the fiercest warriors on the Earth, and she is defeated by her own mind, the visions of futures impossible to occur. She is defeated by the thought of how love could destroy her, could tear her apart.

But it's just that, a dream. The faces of her lovers, shadowed in the night, are taut with concern and a simmering fear. They can't save her from her dreams, none of them can do that for each other, but they can save them from themselves. All they can do is offer support, be the comfort that they all desperately seek.

"Thank you." Her voice is roughened with tears she can't remember shedding.

Bruce's arms tighten around her waist. "We love you."

"I love you," she says against Clark's chest, "I love you both so much."

Clark presses a kiss to her forehead. "I'd do anything to keep you safe. I'd do anything to protect you."

She tries to bury closer to the warmth of Clark's chest, reaching behind her for Bruce's hand.

It's usually Bruce who ends up smothered in their embrace like this, after a rough night on patrol, or a rougher night with his own demons. A fresh batch of tears brim at the edges of her eyelids, burning as she tries to stop them from falling. But no, this is where she can be weak. Tears slip down her cheeks and soak Clark's pyjama top. She's safe here, surrounded by love, and she believes faithfully that even the nightmares can't get her here.

"Try and get some sleep, Di," Clark says against her temple, "we'll be here when you wake."

She feels Bruce nod against her, his murmured words muffled by her shoulder.

Sleep. She's not sure she's capable of sleep, but laying here, embraced by her lovers, just breathing together as one, it’s more than enough for her.

(superwonderbat angst for the prompt ‘cuddling in front of the fireplace’)

ao3

Summ: For a creature of the shadows, Bruce is certainly drawn to the light.

Sequel of sorts to Tears Like Secrets

Woodsmoke fills his lungs and tastes like home. Cross-legged, Bruce sits by the fireplace in the den, a blanket draped around his shoulders. He’s not kneeling this time, though his knees still aches from keeping the same position for so long. It’s familiar though, sitting here by the fire, and right now familiar is just what he needs. He thinks of the days he spent in front of this fireplace, the hours spent staring into the flickering light, the seconds spent thinking of touching each amber tendril… no. His childhood winters, spent before the roaring heat, drying his soaked clothes and tear-stained cheeks. Some days it was the only thing that could warm him.

Bruce jerks as the fire pops like a gunshot. The bodies beside him murmur at the disturbance, but don't wake. He'd already been by the fire when they arrived, eyes unwavering from the flames. They had sat beside him, wordless and content to stay by his side, embracing him as much as they could before sleep claimed them. Clark and Diana, at his side, it’s poetic in a way. A tragedy, too.

Bruce sighs, but it does nothing to dislodge the weight in his chest. It’s been a week, maybe longer, since the last time they found him here. The secret, his secret, exposed to the world. Well, to Clark and Diana, but it’s much the same. They’re patient with him, like he’s a wild animal, hurt, who’d rather die than seek help from another. Maybe that’s how they see him, scared, a threat to himself. Maybe he is.

He thought this was fine, that it could just blow over. Clark and Diana knew his vulnerabilities, respected him for them, and Bruce was willing to move on. His feelings would subside, they’d have to, and the trinity could continue without any messy emotions in the way. At least that’s what he hoped. Bruce thought it was fine, and it was, until, of course, they made a proposal. If it were anyone else, if it weren’t Clark and Diana, he would have laughed or punched them in the face. How dare they suggest that they could… no. He can’t even think about it. Bruce never thought that they would ever reciprocate, resigned himself to the fact. And now...

There’s so much that he wants, so much that Clark and Diana would be willing to give him, but he can’t, he can’t, because then he’d want it all. Bruce scoffs at the flickering flames that send shadows skittering across the floor. Drawn to the light, as always, and it will be his downfall.

The light was a weakness, a snitch. It brought him down, exposed him to the world. Secrets stay safe in shadows, but the light, the light always drew out the truth. It takes light to show Clark and Diana’s peaceful smiles and to see what he’s done to them. He made them love him, this wreck of a being. Wasn’t it bad enough that they knew how he felt, that he loved them? Wasn’t it bad enough that they were willing to be civil to him? No, they had to be… them. How dare he make them fall in love with him?

Under the cover of darkness, he’s safe. It blankets him, tucking at the corners around his frame. And he, a watchman, revels in the dark. It fashions him a cape, a cowl, an alias. He’s safe behind a mask, relatively of course, but his identity, his core, his secrets, they are wrapped up in masks and shadows tighter than a noose.

Clark and Diana weren’t exactly big on masks. Two beings of such light and hope and joy, they make Bruce dream of hopeless things like love. And the light, oh the light, could he dare to touch? Never. The notion of purity makes him scoff, but he knows his hands will sully the light, snuff it out between his fingertips. He can’t do it, not to them.

Bruce knows he’s not cut out for this, is adamant about that. He’s a heat sink, a void, a fucking nightmare to deal with. He wakes in the nights, covered in sweat, and it’s not the darkness clutching at his throat, but the sliver of moonlight through a gap in the blinds, edging closer like a garrote, taut and gleaming. It’s not Clark or Diana holding the weapon, he’d have to let them into his bedroom first, but himself and only himself. And he knows it, knows it , but he can’t bring himself to loosen his grip. Night after night, he retreats to the shadows, safe from the light. Safe, but at what cost?

The fire's dying down, just coals glowing, blinking slowly. He can either stoke it, add some more logs and keep the fire going, or let it die with dignity, here and now. He can end this, he can let them go and save them from themselves. They'd be happy together, just the two, with their light and their hope and their love that overflows the very confines of their souls.

Diana nuzzles closer against the thigh she's using as a pillow. Without thought, Bruce’s hand comes down to brush her hair away from her face. He runs the back of his fingers across her cheekbone, his touch feather-light. Clark’s breath is steady against the exposed skin of Bruce’s neck, each gust of warm air a reminder of the trust built between them. He could be so happy with them. Or maybe happy isn’t the right word. He can be, is, happy on the good days. His family is a blessing he can never forget. And with Clark and Diana, he can be another kind of happy, cherished. He sighs, eyes clenched tight. No, he has to let them go.

It’s not the dark that scares him, it's never been the dark. For someone who lives lost in shadow, he doesn't fear the dark.

If there’s one thing that scares him, it’s the light.

(superwonderbat whump for the prompt ‘cuddles as they wake up’)

Ao3

Summ:  Bruce wakes up with a headache and no memory of the night before. It's certainly not the first time it's happened, and he doubts it will be the last, but he hasn't had a morning like this since... in a long time. At least he’s in his own bed, the plush mattress as recognisable as his own scent on his sheets. But there’s another scent, something familiar that his fuzzy brain can’t pinpoint just yet.

Bruce wakes up with a headache and no memory of the night before. It's certainly not the first time it's happened, and he doubts it will be the last, but he hasn't had a morning like this since... in a long time. At least he’s in his own bed, the plush mattress as recognisable as his own scent on his sheets. But there’s another scent, something familiar that his fuzzy brain can’t pinpoint just yet.

The mattress moves on either side of him. Oh. The bodies beside him murmur and shuffle against the sheets. Again, not the first time he's woken up like this, surrounded by last night's exploits, and again, it hasn't happened in a while. He can’t have been out last night, not as Bruce Wayne at least. The headache is still there, but there’s no accompaniment of nausea, so it can’t be a hangover. What happened?

He cracks open an eyelid slowly, flinching at the sunlight glaring through the open drapes. Either Alfred has come in to check on him, like he has these last few months since the funeral, or he didn’t close them last night. He scrunches his eyes shut, taking a deep breath or two, before trying again. The bodies beside him must feel the tension returning to his body, waking quickly. All Bruce can see is a jumble of limbs and inky black hair.

"B?" The nickname melts against Bruce's shoulder, the rumble of Clark's voice reverberating through Bruce's chest.

"Bruce?" Diana now, her hair ticking the back of Bruce's bicep as she turns to face him.

"You're okay, you're safe," Clark says, his lips brushing Bruce's shoulder as he speaks, "how are you feeling?"

His breath hitches. He's in bed with Clark and Diana, with no recollection of the night before. The first half of that thought is a dream come true, but the gap in his memory? Shit. "What happened?"

Diana's brow furrows. "You don't remember?"

He pauses a moment, wracking his mind for something, anything, before shaking his head. What has he done? He resists the urge to lift up the blankets to see if he was still wearing pants.

"What's the last thing you do remember?" Diana says, her hand sliding across Bruce's bare abdomen.

"We didn't-" They wouldn't have, surely. He'd remember that. God, as if he would ever be able to forget if they did that.

But Diana cuts off his line of thinking, knowing exactly where his mind would go. "What do you remember?" Her tone is insistent.

There's a haze, but he remembers a cold sweat drenching every inch of him, a pain that wouldn't ebb. He remembers panic, like a flurry of bats, and the taste of bile on his tongue. "Scarecrow?" he asks, but he'd pretty certain of the answer.

"New strain of fear toxin," Clark says, and as if guessing Bruce's next thoughts, he adds, "everyone else is fine, it looked like you bore the brunt of the attack." Bruce nods, reassured. "Tim and Alfred were working on an antidote, but-"

"Not fast enough," Bruce rasps, throat raw. "That's why you're here." Here, at the Cave. It doesn't explain why they're here, in his bed. In his arms.

"They needed some help to restrain you while they worked on other things. Seems you're still a bit of an escape artist even when you're hallucinating."

Bruce shrugs. There’s no point denying it. Maybe he’ll speak to Nightwing about some more suitable restraints, or maybe Clark and Diana could help?

"You would not have hurt anyone in your state, so we could not sedate you." Or rather, they would not. Bruce is thankful for that, both that he didn't hurt anyone, and that they respected his wishes, even in the state he was in. "Besides," Diana adds, "the antidote was ready soon enough."

"And you were," Clark pauses, a blush rising on his cheeks, "a little attached to us, so we stayed."

Attached. Bruce rolls the word around his mind. It’s not something he’d use to describe himself, or his relationship with anyone else really. Attachments get people hurt, they get people, good people, good soldiers, killed. Bruce swallows, trying to dislodge the lump forming in his throat, and tries to remember last night to occupy his mind with other things.

He remembers Superman and Wonder Woman, fists raised, chasing away the bats and scarecrows and demons. He remembers arms around him that didn't dissolve into snakes or chains, arms that he clung to so tight he would have bruised them if they were human.

He remembers a voice, too small to be his own, begging them not to leave, not to leave him behind. He remembers warmth, not scalding heat, engulfing him, protecting him. He remembers Clark and Diana keeping him safe from his own mind. "Thank you," he says, in that same small voice, and he'd hate himself for it if he wasn't so grateful for them.

"Always, B." Clark's arms tighten around Bruce's torso, and it's then that Bruce remembers he's still in Clark and Diana's arms.

He can’t exactly complain, not even with the elbow nudging a bruised rib. Having Clark and Diana in his bed, in his arms, he never thought it possible, even as platonic as it is right now. "I didn't do anything stupid last night, did I?"

Diana scoffs, but her smile is soft, "other than trying to take down Scarecrow without backup, no."

"We're okay,” Clark adds, “and more importantly, you're okay."

Bruce grunts at that, unsure how else to reply, but there's still a question on his mind. "I see why you're here at the Manor, but why are you in my bed?"

The blush across Clark’s cheekbones deepens. “I did say you were a little attached.”

Oh no. Bruce groans, muffling his suffering with the pillows.

“Maybe that is something we should talk about?” Diana says thoughtfully.

Bruce lifts his face from the pillows to catch a glimpse of Diana’s expression, his hair falling across his forehead in the process. “What is there to say?” he asks, and he hates how callous it sounds.

She smiles at him, a little ruefully, and tightens her arms around his waist.

Pulling both Bruce and Diana closer, Clark says, “you know you can trust us, right?”

But Bruce already does. He trusts them, explicitly and wholly, and the notion doesn't terrify him anymore. If he's honest with himself, it hasn't for a while.

The memory emerges of their names on his tongue, his hands reaching out for them, and the word “stay”. Attachment. Bruce can't deny it. He trusted them enough to see him at his most vulnerable last night, and he begged them to stay. And they did; surely that means something?

But he trusts them, trusts them not to be spiteful with that responsibility. And he trusts them enough that he doesn't have to stifle a yawn, or hide the way his eyelids droop.

“Go back to sleep,” Diana murmurs, her words like warmed-over treacle, “you're safe.”

He trusts her, trusts them both, so he does.