The Boy Scout is too big, too hot standing right next to him and Clark damn well knows it. Bruce clenches his teeth, and forces himself to pay attention. There's a reason they were summoned out of bed at four in the morning, and it isn't so Clark can breathe down his neck, smugness radiating from his pores.
He leans even closer, knowing good and well that Bruce is putting distance between them on purpose. “You're wearing my underwear,” he comments in a low voice that considering the other occupants in the room, everyone heard except maybe Wally, but then, Wally has an ear for rumor.
Bruce bites back a sigh and grits out, “I thought they were mine,” he tells the big blue idiot under his breath.
That's the downfall of wearing nearly the same size as your lover in damn near everything. Superman might have an inch or two on him when it comes to shoulder width, but other than that, they might as well have been two peas in a pod. And at four in the morning, with a mad dash to find all the pieces of their respective uniforms and put them on as quickly as possible, on occasion there are... mix ups.
Bruce doesn't have Clark's lovely night vision but that one time with the capes is still no excuse. They looked ridiculous and Clark had been too amused to be of any help. Idiot.
So yes, this morning, the call from the Justice League had gone out, and Clark with his super hearing was the first to notice it as always. They'd had to untangle themselves from the bed and each other, and bemoan the mad removal of uniforms they'd undergone the night before as Kevlar mixed with reinforced red and four boots had managed to scatter to the four cardinal directions.
Clark's breath washes warm over his ear, even warmer than how close he is standing, practically pressed against Bruce from behind. He can feel him even through the Kevlar. “It's like you're wearing me,” Clark says, and he sounds far too gleeful, far too possessive, far too much like Clark when he should be Superman right now. And his hand, which he probably thinks is disguised from everyone else but they know Superman by now, drags down Bruce's back. Of course he feels it through the cape and the Kevlar, of course he does, and if he weren't so damn composed, Bruce would shiver.
Instead, he jams an elbow back and it strikes against Superman's steel-hard abdomen, not doing a lick of damage but serving as a warning nonetheless. Superman grunts, still sounds amused, and chuckles under his breath.
Diana, for that matter, doesn't look amused at all, fixing the both of them with such a stern expression that Bruce feels like a child being chastised by his grandmother. And of course Clark doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. Of course.