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Bruce glares at his bed. At his stupidly tall bed. Getting onto it shouldn't pose such a problem for him, even in this new body. Especially in this new body. And yet his last three attempts all ended with his chest slamming into the bed frame. Several incriminating scratch marks line the sheet where he managed to hold on and tried to—unsuccessfully—pull himself up the rest of the way. It's undignified. And yet he can't get himself to stop trying. The sheets look so soft…
Tail twitching through the air behind him, Bruce crouches down, lowering his chest to the ground in preparation for another leap. It would be laughable if he didn't manage this, humiliating. Alfred the Cat does it all the time.
So he bursts into motion, using his powerful hind legs to propel himself forward, and jumps.
He knows right away that he won't make it this time either; it appears he still lacks control of his new feline body. Dammit. Alfred the Cat makes it look so easy…
Bruce braces himself for pain but before his chest can hit the bed frame again, there is a gust of wind and then gentle fingers curl around his middle. Bruce knows it's Clark. He knows. And yet his newfound instincts immediately take over and he finds himself hissing and squirming, trying to sink his claws into his ‘attacker’, desperate to get away.
“Careful!” says Clark, rushing to set Bruce down on the bed, who—humiliatingly—finds himself scrambling under the blanket. Human logic can't fight it, his heart is pounding and he curls into a ball, shaking from head to tail.
“Gosh, I'm sorry, B,” says Clark, and Bruce can practically see the way he's sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn't mean to startle you.”
Bruce wants to come out, he's being absolutely ridiculous, he knows, but he can't bring himself to move except for curling up into an even tighter ball. Then, to make matters even worse, a small, pathetic little chirping sound escapes him. He immediately freezes up, and from the sound of it so does Clark. For a few seconds nothing happens. Then the cover gets peeled back inch by inch, stopping just before Bruce gets uncovered, and there Clark is. He must be kneeling in front of the bed, just sticking his head under the blanket.
“Hey honey,” he coos, soft and sweet, and the tone of his voice shouldn't be so damn effective . It shouldn't inspire the need to uncurl and move closer. It shouldn't make him want to hear more—
“Meow.” Oh dear lord… Shoot me now.
Clark looks delighted. “Aren't you just the most adorable little kitten,” he coos, and the grin on his face has very human butterflies dancing in Bruce's stomach. Before he knows what he's doing, he's crawling forward and butting his head against the underside of Clark's chin.
“Mrow,” says Bruce, and it's still humiliating but the feeling is buried under the happiness of hearing the joyful noise Clark makes in response.
“I know Zatanna said you'd start behaving more like a cat before the transformation spell wears off, but I didn't expect this.”
Bruce instantly starts grumbling, he's above acting this way, but it seems he can't stop himself from continuing to rub against Clark's throat and chin. Laughing, Clark climbs onto the bed, sitting down with his legs crossed. Once seated, he carefully scoops Bruce up and places him on his lap.
Bruce bares his teeth and immediately extends his claws, sinking them into Clark's pants. He is not a pet! However, instead of shredding Clark's pants, like he planned, his paws start kneading Clark's thigh of their own accord, a strange pressure building in his chest. It's not uncomfortable, just… weird.
Clark makes another one of those delighted noises, and then those big hands of his are carding through the fur on Bruce's back in long strokes. Bruce's eyes fall closed as a wave of pleasure rolls through him. It's like the best massage he's ever had…
“Gosh, you're adorable, B. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's the truth. The most adorable kitten there ever was.”
Bruce doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he curls his tail around Clark's wrist, the pressure in his chest rising (which he ignores, thank you), but inwardly, he's swearing his revenge. Especially as his feline form betrays him once again by flopping onto his side, rubbing the entire length of his entire body against Clark's stomach.
“I know you hate it, but I'm taking mental pictures of this. This is the best magical mishap we've ever had.” There is something in Clark's voice that makes Bruce pause and look up at him.
“Mow?”
Clark's smile wobbles slightly as he starts scratching Bruce between the ears. “I was so scared when that witch hit you with her spell. Just. One second you were standing there and the other you were gone and...” Clark stops, and swallows.
The pressure in Bruce's chest abruptly becomes too much. It breaks out of him in a continuous sound, one that Bruce would've been mortified by five minutes ago. Now, though, he simply hopes his purring can bring the happiness back into Clark's eyes. God knows if their roles had been reversed, Bruce would've freaked out, too. Or worse. For Clark to get hit by a spell and then seemingly vanish…
Bruce twists and squirms in Clark's lap again until his head butts against Clark's stomach. From there, he lets his newly awakened feline instincts take over.
“B? What are you doing?“ asks Clark, but he already sounds less sad and scared. So Bruce purrs louder, pushes his head underneath Clark's shirt, and then starts climbing up his torso until he reaches the neck. It takes a bit of maneuvering but soon his head pops out of the neck hole of Clark's shirt. Satisfied, Bruce begins to rub his head against Clark's face and neck, purring up a storm, which finally spurs Clark into motion again after he just sat there, frozen. Laughing, he wraps his arms around Bruce's tiny body—hidden under his own shirt as it is—and holds him close to his chest.
“The most adorable little kitten,” he repeats, but Bruce is too busy enjoying the heat and closeness to care. For once in his life, he just lets himself be. Kneading Clark's chest with his paws, rubbing his head against Clark's neck and face… grooming him. Bruce is powerless against the impulse. He's already allowed himself to tap into these new feline instincts and desires—what's one more? Besides, Clark is in desperate need of grooming. So Bruce doesn't think, and simply opens his mouth, dragging his rough tongue all along Clark's stubbly chin, purring all the while.
“I love you, too, B,” murmurs Clark, and presses a kiss to the top of Bruce's head. “So much. I can't lose you, okay?”
Keeping one arm wrapped securely around Bruce's cat body, Clark scoots down the bed until he's flat on his back with Bruce resting on his chest. Perfect . With a quiet meow Bruce gets comfortable on Clark's warm skin, right above his heart, and continues his grooming. Maybe being a cat for a few weeks isn't as bad as he thought.
Bruce wakes up with lazy reluctance. He's warm, curled up somewhere dark, somewhere that smells amazing—like home and safety and love—and there's also this sound… Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. It's loud, but slow and steady, and not at all bothersome despite how rhythmic it is. While breathing in deep to catch more of that scent, Bruce burrows down and presses his ear to the warm surface underneath him. It's where the sound is coming from.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
The surface moves with the sound and Bruce abruptly remembers where he is: Clark. He's sleeping on Clark's bare chest, breathing in his scent, listening to his heart… That's why he always does that, thinks Bruce as he's counting the beats of Clark's heart, trying to memorize their rhythm. It's reassuring.
:3 :3 :3
Clark wakes up to a tickling sensation on his collarbone. “Bruce,” he murmurs, smiling. He doesn't open his eyes yet, too sleepy and content with his husband lying across his chest, clingy in a way he seldomly allows himself to be.
“Mrow.”
Clark's eyes fly open. He finds himself face to face with the scrawniest black cat he's ever seen. Whose fur, he knows from experience, is much softer than it looks.
“Mrow,” Bruce says again, midnight fur sticking up every which way as he crawls out of the neck hole of Clark's shirt once more. He butts his head against Clark's cheek and immediately starts grooming him again. Gosh , he's such a sweet tempered kitten. No one in the League would believe it. Not that Clark is about to share that little tidbit with them.
Still smiling, he presses a kiss to the top of Bruce's head. “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.”
Bruce purrs, making biscuits against Clark's shoulder, who holds him secure with one hand as he sits up. With the other hand, he brushes the mess of his hair back out of his face. “I guess my hair doesn't look any neater than yours first thing in the morning, huh?”
Bruce chirps and looks up at Clark's hair. Suddenly his small body goes rigid, his gaze sharpening as he fixates on a spot on Clark's forehead. Clark crosses his eyes to look up at himself, but all he sees is that one stubborn curl that always hangs into his face no matter what he does.
Bruce uses Clark's distraction immediately. His paw darts out lighting fast, swiping at that same lock of hair like it offended him. Clark rears back, falling against the headboard, but Bruce jumps after him, pouncing on his hair once again.
“Hey!” calls Clark, grabbing B around the middle and lifting him up and away before he can accidentally hurt himself. “What is up with you?”
Bruce grumbles and meows, stretching his kitten arms to try and reach Clark's hair. “Are you always this obsessed with my hair? Or is that a cat thing? Z mentioned something like this might happen.”
Bruce only meows again, wiggling his paws. His eyes are still fixed on Clark's forehead, and he looks increasingly grumpy that he can't reach it. It's so cute that Clark's chest hurts.
“You have the weirdest obsessions,” he murmurs, shaking his head fondly. He transfers Bruce to one hand, and reaches up with the other to tousle his hair again, hiding the s-shaped curl among the others. Bruce immediately begins to mewl his protest, staring accusingly at Clark with his big blue eyes. So much so that he almost feels guilty for not letting Bruce break his claws off against his forehead. Almost.
“How about we get some breakfast, huh? I bet we can find something tasty for your little kitten tummy.”
Predictably, Bruce hisses and extends his claws, glaring at Clark, who only chuckles and tucks him against his chest. “Yes yes, I know. You're a very fierce warrior. And apparently you're protecting me from my own hair.”
Bruce sinks his teeth into Clark's hand—thankfully not hard enough to hurt himself—and starts chewing on Clark's thumb as they make their way down the stairs.
The days pass like that. With Bruce sleeping on Clark's chest or following him through the manor, constantly weaving between his legs as if tripping him was a new favorite sport and purring up a storm. It's the cutest thing Clark has ever seen, and it never fails to make his heart swell, how much Bruce keeps seeking out his company with open affection. But after a week of this, Clark misses his husband. His quiet, brooding, grump of a husband, who rarely initiates physical contact.
Sighing, Clark closes the front door behind himself and toes off his shoes. It was just a long day, he knows he just needs to be patient. Z said the spell would wear off… He pauses, and looks around. There's no cat waiting for him. Every day for the past seven days Bruce has greeted him at the door after work, mewling loudly and demanding attention. Today there is nothing.
Heart beating faster with a mix of hope and fear, Clark stretches his senses. Bruce's heart might beat faster in his cat body but it retains its unique cadence, so it's easy for Clark to hone in on the sound. Thankfully, he finds the steady bada bada bump of Bruce's heart within the manor and he can't detect any anomalies. Meaning Bruce isn't in trouble. Thank God .
Curious, Clark follows the heart beat to the sunroom at the back of the house. It's a giant room, with a glass roof and walls to let in as much sun as possible. The air is warm and humid in here, and it's filled with exotic plants. Some planters are even strung up on golden chains hanging from the ceiling, letting vines spill down onto the floor in a curtain of green. It feels like walking into a jungle. In the middle of the room, hidden among the foliage is a pair of chaise lounges, with dozens of comfortable pillows on them.
It's there that Clark's ears lead him, and when he catches sight of Bruce he finds himself feeling weirdly emotional. Bruce, notoriously at home in the shadows, is lounging in the sun, his feline body stretched out to catch as much of it as possible. He's also fast asleep.
Clark floats closer, careful not to make any noise. The last thing he wants is to disturb Bruce. Slowly, he sinks down onto the lounge next to B, and lies down, protectively curling around B's smaller body. As he watches Bruce sleep, he feels the rays of the sun seeping into his skin, into his muscles, relaxing him from the inside out. It's so warm and comfortable, soothing and rejuvenating at the same time, and after barely any time at all, Clark finds himself falling asleep.
“You should have woken me when you got home.” Bruce's rumbly voice pulls Clark from his slumber, and he's immediately wide awake. The only thing that keeps him from snapping into a sitting position is the fact that there is a warm weight on his chest. A very warm, decidedly furless and very naked weight.
“Bruce?” breathes Clark, his voice breaking at the end. “Are you really back?”
Bruce tries to sit up, but Clark reflexively tightens his arms around his middle, unable to let his husband put even a scant few inches of distance between them.
Sighing, Bruce falls back onto Clark's chest, and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Yes, Clark, I'm really back.”
Embarrassingly enough, Clark feels himself tear up. He buries his face in Bruce's neck to hide it, just breathing in his scent. “God, I missed you so much, honey.”
Bruce snakes his arms around Clark's neck, and holds on just as tightly as Clark does. Exhaling shakily, he says, “I missed you, too.”
They stay like that for a while, just holding onto each other, until Bruce starts squirming. “I should put on some clothes. Before the kids find us.”
Clark grins, pressing his lips to the side of Bruce's neck. “I have a better idea.” With that he uses a burst of speed to get them back to their bedroom. He gently sets Bruce down on the bed, and proceeds to spend the next several hours getting himself reacquainted with his husband's human body.