Fic: Lost Years | DCU | Clark/Bruce | PG | 1/18
Title: Lost Years
Fandom: DCU, comics-verse
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG (this section)
Word Count: 2,454 (this section)
Prompt: for the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Clark and Bruce find themselves stranded on an alien world with no way to contact either the League or the Lanterns. When they realize Clark's powers will soon fade, Bruce makes a plan to get them off the planet and headed home.
Diclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: I really wish I could have gotten this out before the end of December, I've been so excited about it! Whoever submitted this prompt, I love you! Anyway, there should be 4 or so more parts to follow.
Index Post
Lost Years - Part 1
Their communicators aren't working. For that matter, neither is the homing beacon for the teleporter to the Watchtower. Stalking up and down the seemingly deserted beach for more than an hour in the oddly tinted afternoon sunlight, Bruce begins to succumb to the thinning of his patience, and he's grumbling to himself when Clark returns, his eyes wide as saucers, their unearthly blue in a state of seeming shock as he touches down on the pebbled sand. “What? Where the hell are we, Clark?”
“I...” the Kryptonian shakes his head. “I'm not sure. The constellation patterns on the far side of the planet put us somewhere in the Orion Nebula, but I can't pinpoint our coordinates.”
“That's helpful,” Bruce grumbles, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “And?”
“And we're alone here.”
The Bat's heart involuntarily skips a beat as his jaw falls open with shock. “What?”
“There's... no one. No cities. No towns, no villages, not even a camp. As far as I can tell, this planet is completely uninhabited.”
The truth hits Bruce harder than he expects, but he steels himself against it. “Well, we'd better figure out some way to get off this rock and get home. Maybe we can find a way to contact this sector's Green Lantern, get a-”
“That's just it, Bruce,” Clark cuts him off, his brow furrowed. “I... don't think we can. Something about this planet is dampening electromagnetic fields, and... I can't seem to fly far enough out to get a comm signal. It's like... something's blocking me.”
There's no doubt between them that Clark is right, and the only answer to his statement is their heartbeats hammering panic in their chests.
* * * * *
It hardly takes an hour as the sun is setting, but the shelter is built and a fire is going. Capes and cowl have been folded neatly and tucked away inside the little hut they've made out of what natural materials they could find on short notice. Eying the small structure, little more than a lean-to that'll require them to huddle together to sleep, Bruce scowls. It's crude work, thrown together in the interest of expedience, but it'll do.
“We'll... make something better tomorrow,” Clark promises from behind the Bat, his hand squeezing Bruce's shoulder gently.
Bruce nods, still staring at the shack. It reminds him of something out of Gilligan's Island, only more pathetic.
“We should find something to eat.”
At the suggestion, Bruce's stomach rumbles, and he finally manages to tear his attention away from their shelter to turn back to his companion. “Any ideas?”
Clark smiles faintly. “I did see a herd of something resembling small deer about twenty miles from here. I can pretty much handle that end of things. Can even dress it and cook it if you want me to.” He silently thanks his parents for making sure he learned all the steps that went into taking an animal from slaughter to the dinner table, despite being not particularly thrilled at the prospect of doing it all with his bare hands and his eyes. But mild relief comes in the form of Bruce's narrowed eyes, and he amends, “It'll probably taste better cooked over the fire, though.”
“I'll set up a spit while you're gone,” Bruce agrees. “What about water? Any fresh sources close by?”
“There's a pretty clear stream not too far from here. We can make a water basket from the deer skin.”
“Sounds good.” The Bat looks to where the orange tinted sun has just dipped below the horizon. “You'd better get going.”
When he turns back, Clark is already gone.
* * * * *
Savoring the last bite of his not-quite-deer flank, Clark thinks it really does taste just like venison. Lucky for them. He supposes things could be worse, considering. Four hours on a world they've never seen before, and neither of them has had to resort to eating grubs or drinking water from vines. If it weren't for the fact that they were completely alone, it might be a place he could come back to someday to vacation. Actually... he realizes the quiet is somewhat soothing, if not eerie. He's so used to having to block out so much, that his ears haven't quite registered the lack of noise yet. The thought drags a bemused chuckle out of him, and Bruce cocks his head at him in question.
“What's so funny?” the other man says as he tosses the remains of his own deer leg off to the side.
“I was just thinking.”
“No kidding.”
Clark smirks before the smile is slowly replaced by an uneasy frown. “I've never heard it so quiet before. Guess I'm not used to it.”
Bruce sighs. “Hopefully you won't have to get used to it, but...”
“What?” Clark's brow furrows as he hears his companion's heart rate increase.
“Tell me you noticed the color of the sun.”
“I...” But he realizes he hasn't had time to really think about it, and slowly shakes his head, panic renewed in his chest.
“It's orange, Clark. Probably main sequence, but definitely orange.”
The revelation leaves Clark cold, a frightful chill seeping through his bones. “Orange,” he repeats.
“Which means there's probably enough yellow spectrum radiation to keep you going for a while, maybe enough to keep you partially powered. In either case, you're bound to lose the big guns after a while.”
The cool detachment in Bruce's demeanor barely disguises his worry, and the Kryptonian thinks for a moment, processing their options. If Bruce is worried, then it's bad.
Finally, “We need to find a way off this planet, Bruce. As soon as we can.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
* * * * *
The cold of night comes all too quickly, and after they cover the embers of the fire to keep for the next morning, the pair tries to make the best of a strange sleeping arrangement. Two long bodies stretched out beneath capes, they struggle to get comfortable, tossing and turning, contorting themselves in the cramped space. Elbows meet ribs, feet smack into calves, and shoulders thump against each other as they stake out their territory. It's an invasion of personal space of the worst kind, never mind the hips accidentally slamming into rear ends and hands unknowingly brushing against sensitive areas.
After an agonizing time, Clark gives up. “Get some sleep, Bruce,” he says as he extricates himself from the tight shelter, slipping his boots back on and clipping his cape to his collar.
Bruce sits up, his own cape falling down to his waist. “Where do you think you're going?”
“Just for a walk. Maybe go gather some more supplies. It's okay, you know I don't really need all that much sleep. Maybe I can get a jump start on things so we can-”
“All the more reason for you to get as much rest as you can now. If you're going to be any good getting us out of here, you need to be at one hundred percent.”
Clark sighs heavily. Bruce is right of course, and there's no use denying it. He raises his eyebrows in a silent plea to let him go anyway, but at the Bat's all-purpose scowl, he resigns himself to a long, uncomfortable night. “All right,” he sighs again. “You win.”
* * * * *
When the unfamiliar-colored sunlight streams into the shelter, Bruce awakens, blinking against the intrusive rays. It takes him a minute to register his surroundings, finally remembering the previous day, the horror at finding he and Clark had been somehow stranded on an uninhabited world, and when he takes in the lean-to around him, he shivers involuntarily.
But he's not cold. His cape is still keeping in plenty of warmth - which he wonders offhand whether or not to attribute to his companion - and the air seems to be warming up already. Stretching, he tosses the cape to the side and crawls out of the shelter, finding a sight he wouldn't have expected in a million years. He sniffs the air tentatively as his eyes fall on the two steaming red-clay mugs - How the hell did Clark find the time to conjure those up? - of what his nose is telling him must be-
“Coffee?” Clark smiles widely, offering him a mug.
Bruce can only nod, his mouth agape as he accepts the cup, noting absently that it really does smell like coffee. He takes a sip.
Oh, God, it's actually coffee...
Then he realizes Clark is cooking.
He blinks, rubs his eyes with one fist. And waits to wake up from this dream/nightmare/whatever.
Catching him looking, Clark chuckles warmly. “I thought you might enjoy some real food, so I found the coffee beans - well, this world's approximation of coffee beans, anyway - did a little instant roast,” he taps his temple close to one eye, “and gathered some eggs. These aren't from anything quite resembling a chicken, but they'll do.” He gestures to the flat stone he's using as a cooktop and the eggs it looks like he must have fried with his heat vision. Handy, that.
Bruce notices the carved wooden spoon in Clark's hand and clay pot holding the rest of the coffee. “You've been busy,” he manages after another long sip of coffee, his brain uncoiling and shaking free of the fuzz of sleep.
Clark nods, “Mm-hmm. Only been up an hour, though. Spent some time charging before getting to work.”
“You get any sleep?” Bruce questions, just to make sure.
“About seven hours,” the Kryptonian admits. He turns to face Bruce fully, his face serious. “Thank you.”
Ignoring the lingering memory of elbows in ribs and knees getting a little too close to sensitive areas, Bruce nods in return. “Welcome. You need to stay as rested as you can.”
“I know,” Clark sighs.
Smiling tightly, Bruce turns away and surveys the landscape, as if seeing it anew. They're camped on a sloping beach, a good distance up from the high tide line - at least, as far as he can estimate; he hasn't seen the moons yet that Clark described - with the forest to their backs. The trees are actually a distinct shade of dark green, some nearing purple and others blue, but the sky, thank goodness, is the same blue as Earth's sky.
At that observation, he can't help but wonder how long they might have to live under this other blue sky, how long they might be drinking this world's approximation of coffee. The thoughts leave him sour, and he drinks down the rest of his coffee, trying not to look back at the little shack as the beginnings of a plan start to weave themselves together in the back of his mind.
* * * * *
Sated on coffee, eggs, and leftover, reheated not-quite-deer, Clark leans back against his stone cooktop, watching Bruce poke at the fire aimlessly, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He really can't blame his companion for being a little sour; at least Clark can get around, see what else this world has to offer. Bruce might not even have the chance.
Though, if they can get off the planet soon, that won't even be a concern.
With a hopeful smile, he speaks up, “So, any thoughts on how to get home?” If anything can get Bruce distracted from his own reverie, it's work.
The Bat scowls up at him from beside the lingering fire. “We need a ship.”
“A ship,” Clark repeats, not quite sure he's understanding.
“That's what I said,” Bruce nods, his expression certain. “Something with plenty of room, propulsion, fuel, pressurized air-recirculation and waste disposal systems, and a nav-computer.”
It's Clark's turn to gape disbelievingly. “Uh... you're kidding, right? Do you have any idea what it'll take to build a ship?”
“I know exactly what it'll take.” Bruce's eyes meet his, more deadly serious than ever. “It'll take weeks. It'll take every ounce of your strength to find, mine, and refine the metals and fuels required, and it'll take both of us working non-stop to lay out the schematics and build it.”
“Okay,” Clark breathes. There really is no doubt that they have the combined knowledge and experience to pull off a construction project of this magnitude, given enough time and literally an entire world of raw resources, but... “What about the dampening field?”
“Why do you think we need you at one hundred percent? All we have to do is build it and get me on-board, preferably with some kind of pressure suit and air supply, and then it'll be up to you, in your own pressure suit, to lift it and carry it beyond the influence of the field. You climb aboard, we fire up, and we'll be on our way.”
“Uh-huh. Don't you remember what I said about not being able to quite get past the field?”
“That's why you'll have a pressure suit, too: in case it takes a while.”
Clark nods slowly. “Right. So... why not just make one pressure suit, and I can head out far enough to get a signal to the Lanterns?”
Bruce's expression flickers with annoyance, and the Kryptonian knows his need for control is getting the better of him. The Bat hates being dependent on anyone, not able to contribute to his own fate. And the prospect of being stuck here... he doesn't want to imagine how much worse it must be for his teammate.
“At least let me try that first,” Clark pleads.
Eyes narrow at him, unconvinced, then, “Fine. But I'm drawing up the plans for a ship, anyway.”
“Fair enough.”
Seeing the seed of fear in Bruce's eyes, though, Clark has to repress a shiver, and his heart flutters with a sinking feeling; they're bound to have a rough few weeks ahead of them.
* * * * *
Their first night in the new shelter - this one reminding Bruce more of a Native American Longhouse, only not quite large enough to qualify - is only slightly less uncomfortable. Elbows still meet ribs, feet kick at calves, and somehow, the curve of a rear end nestles into the complimentary curve of a front. But they have somewhat better bedding, some kind of dried grasses Clark found, and Bruce is draped with the hide from their second not-quite-deer, his cape spread out beneath him.
He still manages to shiver in the cold of night, though.
Which is enough to keep Clark half-awake and worried. Almost unconsciously, the slightly taller man slides beneath Bruce's covers and wraps himself around him, lending his own body heat. Bruce's shivers still and he unknowingly snuggles closer, his face pressing into Clark's chest.
Clark hopes, as he slips off to sleep himself, that Bruce won't mind too much.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU, comics-verse
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: NC-17 (overall); PG (this section)
Word Count: 2,454 (this section)
Prompt: for the World's Finest Gift Exchange, #F46: Batman and Superman are stranded on a lonely planet and are lost for years before returning home. What happens? Universe is writer's choice.
Summary: (this section) Clark and Bruce find themselves stranded on an alien world with no way to contact either the League or the Lanterns. When they realize Clark's powers will soon fade, Bruce makes a plan to get them off the planet and headed home.
Diclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: I really wish I could have gotten this out before the end of December, I've been so excited about it! Whoever submitted this prompt, I love you! Anyway, there should be 4 or so more parts to follow.
Index Post
Lost Years - Part 1
Their communicators aren't working. For that matter, neither is the homing beacon for the teleporter to the Watchtower. Stalking up and down the seemingly deserted beach for more than an hour in the oddly tinted afternoon sunlight, Bruce begins to succumb to the thinning of his patience, and he's grumbling to himself when Clark returns, his eyes wide as saucers, their unearthly blue in a state of seeming shock as he touches down on the pebbled sand. “What? Where the hell are we, Clark?”
“I...” the Kryptonian shakes his head. “I'm not sure. The constellation patterns on the far side of the planet put us somewhere in the Orion Nebula, but I can't pinpoint our coordinates.”
“That's helpful,” Bruce grumbles, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “And?”
“And we're alone here.”
The Bat's heart involuntarily skips a beat as his jaw falls open with shock. “What?”
“There's... no one. No cities. No towns, no villages, not even a camp. As far as I can tell, this planet is completely uninhabited.”
The truth hits Bruce harder than he expects, but he steels himself against it. “Well, we'd better figure out some way to get off this rock and get home. Maybe we can find a way to contact this sector's Green Lantern, get a-”
“That's just it, Bruce,” Clark cuts him off, his brow furrowed. “I... don't think we can. Something about this planet is dampening electromagnetic fields, and... I can't seem to fly far enough out to get a comm signal. It's like... something's blocking me.”
There's no doubt between them that Clark is right, and the only answer to his statement is their heartbeats hammering panic in their chests.
* * * * *
It hardly takes an hour as the sun is setting, but the shelter is built and a fire is going. Capes and cowl have been folded neatly and tucked away inside the little hut they've made out of what natural materials they could find on short notice. Eying the small structure, little more than a lean-to that'll require them to huddle together to sleep, Bruce scowls. It's crude work, thrown together in the interest of expedience, but it'll do.
“We'll... make something better tomorrow,” Clark promises from behind the Bat, his hand squeezing Bruce's shoulder gently.
Bruce nods, still staring at the shack. It reminds him of something out of Gilligan's Island, only more pathetic.
“We should find something to eat.”
At the suggestion, Bruce's stomach rumbles, and he finally manages to tear his attention away from their shelter to turn back to his companion. “Any ideas?”
Clark smiles faintly. “I did see a herd of something resembling small deer about twenty miles from here. I can pretty much handle that end of things. Can even dress it and cook it if you want me to.” He silently thanks his parents for making sure he learned all the steps that went into taking an animal from slaughter to the dinner table, despite being not particularly thrilled at the prospect of doing it all with his bare hands and his eyes. But mild relief comes in the form of Bruce's narrowed eyes, and he amends, “It'll probably taste better cooked over the fire, though.”
“I'll set up a spit while you're gone,” Bruce agrees. “What about water? Any fresh sources close by?”
“There's a pretty clear stream not too far from here. We can make a water basket from the deer skin.”
“Sounds good.” The Bat looks to where the orange tinted sun has just dipped below the horizon. “You'd better get going.”
When he turns back, Clark is already gone.
* * * * *
Savoring the last bite of his not-quite-deer flank, Clark thinks it really does taste just like venison. Lucky for them. He supposes things could be worse, considering. Four hours on a world they've never seen before, and neither of them has had to resort to eating grubs or drinking water from vines. If it weren't for the fact that they were completely alone, it might be a place he could come back to someday to vacation. Actually... he realizes the quiet is somewhat soothing, if not eerie. He's so used to having to block out so much, that his ears haven't quite registered the lack of noise yet. The thought drags a bemused chuckle out of him, and Bruce cocks his head at him in question.
“What's so funny?” the other man says as he tosses the remains of his own deer leg off to the side.
“I was just thinking.”
“No kidding.”
Clark smirks before the smile is slowly replaced by an uneasy frown. “I've never heard it so quiet before. Guess I'm not used to it.”
Bruce sighs. “Hopefully you won't have to get used to it, but...”
“What?” Clark's brow furrows as he hears his companion's heart rate increase.
“Tell me you noticed the color of the sun.”
“I...” But he realizes he hasn't had time to really think about it, and slowly shakes his head, panic renewed in his chest.
“It's orange, Clark. Probably main sequence, but definitely orange.”
The revelation leaves Clark cold, a frightful chill seeping through his bones. “Orange,” he repeats.
“Which means there's probably enough yellow spectrum radiation to keep you going for a while, maybe enough to keep you partially powered. In either case, you're bound to lose the big guns after a while.”
The cool detachment in Bruce's demeanor barely disguises his worry, and the Kryptonian thinks for a moment, processing their options. If Bruce is worried, then it's bad.
Finally, “We need to find a way off this planet, Bruce. As soon as we can.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
* * * * *
The cold of night comes all too quickly, and after they cover the embers of the fire to keep for the next morning, the pair tries to make the best of a strange sleeping arrangement. Two long bodies stretched out beneath capes, they struggle to get comfortable, tossing and turning, contorting themselves in the cramped space. Elbows meet ribs, feet smack into calves, and shoulders thump against each other as they stake out their territory. It's an invasion of personal space of the worst kind, never mind the hips accidentally slamming into rear ends and hands unknowingly brushing against sensitive areas.
After an agonizing time, Clark gives up. “Get some sleep, Bruce,” he says as he extricates himself from the tight shelter, slipping his boots back on and clipping his cape to his collar.
Bruce sits up, his own cape falling down to his waist. “Where do you think you're going?”
“Just for a walk. Maybe go gather some more supplies. It's okay, you know I don't really need all that much sleep. Maybe I can get a jump start on things so we can-”
“All the more reason for you to get as much rest as you can now. If you're going to be any good getting us out of here, you need to be at one hundred percent.”
Clark sighs heavily. Bruce is right of course, and there's no use denying it. He raises his eyebrows in a silent plea to let him go anyway, but at the Bat's all-purpose scowl, he resigns himself to a long, uncomfortable night. “All right,” he sighs again. “You win.”
* * * * *
When the unfamiliar-colored sunlight streams into the shelter, Bruce awakens, blinking against the intrusive rays. It takes him a minute to register his surroundings, finally remembering the previous day, the horror at finding he and Clark had been somehow stranded on an uninhabited world, and when he takes in the lean-to around him, he shivers involuntarily.
But he's not cold. His cape is still keeping in plenty of warmth - which he wonders offhand whether or not to attribute to his companion - and the air seems to be warming up already. Stretching, he tosses the cape to the side and crawls out of the shelter, finding a sight he wouldn't have expected in a million years. He sniffs the air tentatively as his eyes fall on the two steaming red-clay mugs - How the hell did Clark find the time to conjure those up? - of what his nose is telling him must be-
“Coffee?” Clark smiles widely, offering him a mug.
Bruce can only nod, his mouth agape as he accepts the cup, noting absently that it really does smell like coffee. He takes a sip.
Oh, God, it's actually coffee...
Then he realizes Clark is cooking.
He blinks, rubs his eyes with one fist. And waits to wake up from this dream/nightmare/whatever.
Catching him looking, Clark chuckles warmly. “I thought you might enjoy some real food, so I found the coffee beans - well, this world's approximation of coffee beans, anyway - did a little instant roast,” he taps his temple close to one eye, “and gathered some eggs. These aren't from anything quite resembling a chicken, but they'll do.” He gestures to the flat stone he's using as a cooktop and the eggs it looks like he must have fried with his heat vision. Handy, that.
Bruce notices the carved wooden spoon in Clark's hand and clay pot holding the rest of the coffee. “You've been busy,” he manages after another long sip of coffee, his brain uncoiling and shaking free of the fuzz of sleep.
Clark nods, “Mm-hmm. Only been up an hour, though. Spent some time charging before getting to work.”
“You get any sleep?” Bruce questions, just to make sure.
“About seven hours,” the Kryptonian admits. He turns to face Bruce fully, his face serious. “Thank you.”
Ignoring the lingering memory of elbows in ribs and knees getting a little too close to sensitive areas, Bruce nods in return. “Welcome. You need to stay as rested as you can.”
“I know,” Clark sighs.
Smiling tightly, Bruce turns away and surveys the landscape, as if seeing it anew. They're camped on a sloping beach, a good distance up from the high tide line - at least, as far as he can estimate; he hasn't seen the moons yet that Clark described - with the forest to their backs. The trees are actually a distinct shade of dark green, some nearing purple and others blue, but the sky, thank goodness, is the same blue as Earth's sky.
At that observation, he can't help but wonder how long they might have to live under this other blue sky, how long they might be drinking this world's approximation of coffee. The thoughts leave him sour, and he drinks down the rest of his coffee, trying not to look back at the little shack as the beginnings of a plan start to weave themselves together in the back of his mind.
* * * * *
Sated on coffee, eggs, and leftover, reheated not-quite-deer, Clark leans back against his stone cooktop, watching Bruce poke at the fire aimlessly, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He really can't blame his companion for being a little sour; at least Clark can get around, see what else this world has to offer. Bruce might not even have the chance.
Though, if they can get off the planet soon, that won't even be a concern.
With a hopeful smile, he speaks up, “So, any thoughts on how to get home?” If anything can get Bruce distracted from his own reverie, it's work.
The Bat scowls up at him from beside the lingering fire. “We need a ship.”
“A ship,” Clark repeats, not quite sure he's understanding.
“That's what I said,” Bruce nods, his expression certain. “Something with plenty of room, propulsion, fuel, pressurized air-recirculation and waste disposal systems, and a nav-computer.”
It's Clark's turn to gape disbelievingly. “Uh... you're kidding, right? Do you have any idea what it'll take to build a ship?”
“I know exactly what it'll take.” Bruce's eyes meet his, more deadly serious than ever. “It'll take weeks. It'll take every ounce of your strength to find, mine, and refine the metals and fuels required, and it'll take both of us working non-stop to lay out the schematics and build it.”
“Okay,” Clark breathes. There really is no doubt that they have the combined knowledge and experience to pull off a construction project of this magnitude, given enough time and literally an entire world of raw resources, but... “What about the dampening field?”
“Why do you think we need you at one hundred percent? All we have to do is build it and get me on-board, preferably with some kind of pressure suit and air supply, and then it'll be up to you, in your own pressure suit, to lift it and carry it beyond the influence of the field. You climb aboard, we fire up, and we'll be on our way.”
“Uh-huh. Don't you remember what I said about not being able to quite get past the field?”
“That's why you'll have a pressure suit, too: in case it takes a while.”
Clark nods slowly. “Right. So... why not just make one pressure suit, and I can head out far enough to get a signal to the Lanterns?”
Bruce's expression flickers with annoyance, and the Kryptonian knows his need for control is getting the better of him. The Bat hates being dependent on anyone, not able to contribute to his own fate. And the prospect of being stuck here... he doesn't want to imagine how much worse it must be for his teammate.
“At least let me try that first,” Clark pleads.
Eyes narrow at him, unconvinced, then, “Fine. But I'm drawing up the plans for a ship, anyway.”
“Fair enough.”
Seeing the seed of fear in Bruce's eyes, though, Clark has to repress a shiver, and his heart flutters with a sinking feeling; they're bound to have a rough few weeks ahead of them.
* * * * *
Their first night in the new shelter - this one reminding Bruce more of a Native American Longhouse, only not quite large enough to qualify - is only slightly less uncomfortable. Elbows still meet ribs, feet kick at calves, and somehow, the curve of a rear end nestles into the complimentary curve of a front. But they have somewhat better bedding, some kind of dried grasses Clark found, and Bruce is draped with the hide from their second not-quite-deer, his cape spread out beneath him.
He still manages to shiver in the cold of night, though.
Which is enough to keep Clark half-awake and worried. Almost unconsciously, the slightly taller man slides beneath Bruce's covers and wraps himself around him, lending his own body heat. Bruce's shivers still and he unknowingly snuggles closer, his face pressing into Clark's chest.
Clark hopes, as he slips off to sleep himself, that Bruce won't mind too much.
* * * * *