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Making breakfast on Saturdays was Bruce’s job – a job he liked and took pride in, and he would only ever skip if Saturdays were no more or he was dead. He’s kept up with this tradition during sleepless days of case work, weeks spent on the watchtower, and even throughout space missions. There was something about the routine that brought him comfort, a small piece of stability in an otherwise chaotic life, and maybe he also just loved that it meant he got to spend the morning with his husband, who also never skipped this part of their weekly routine.
As it was, his current predicament was no excuse for skipping this week, no matter however many new difficulties it’d bring to completing the task.
His arms and legs had started to ache after pushing together his makeshift staircase. His muscles were burning by the time he began measuring out each ingredient in their usual amounts. He tried to use physics to his advantage, employing gravity and leverage as often as possible, but it didn’t change the fact that he was shaking and panting on the top of his stairs, holding the heavy wooden spoon with both hands as he struggled to stir the thickening pancake batter.
He planted his feet on the glass of the down-turned jar below him and used all his body weight to push the spoon forward again, eyes closed, grunting with the effort, when he heard – no, felt a change that had his already overtired body jump into action. The force of his push had slid the spoon a little ways, but it had made the jar slide a lot further. He jumped to cling onto the handle of the spoon just as the jar toppled over, taking a fair amount of Bruce’s staircase with it, which damn, he worked so hard on building that.
The troubles didn’t end there, however. He had tried to push hard enough with his jump to get the spoon to slowly pole vault him over the mixing bowl and onto the empty counter on the opposite side, but he hadn’t accounted for the fatigue in his arms.
His shout when he lost his grip and plummeted downward was lost to the loud clatter of small jars and boxes toppling over. His little body plunged into the half-mixed pancake batter, the thick goo trying to suck him under as he fought to keep his head above it. He planted his feet in what felt like a pile of unmixed flour in the bottom of the bowl and was finally able to use his batter-coated hands to try and wipe the film of egg white from his head and face.
“Bruce, is that you?” Clark’s voice boomed from the doorway.
Briefly, Bruce debated diving beneath the batter again to hide so that he could save himself from the humiliation of Clark finding him like this, but he glanced up at the tall, smooth sides of the bowl and was reminded of the soreness already plaguing his limbs. He grunted, knowing Clark would hear him no matter how quiet the sound was.
“B, what in the- are you okay?” Clark’s huge, worried face peered at him from above the bowl.
Bruce’s resultant scowl had Clark poorly trying to hide a laugh.
“Are you going to get me out of here or just stand there laughing at me?”
“Sorry, sorry, it’s just- I just didn’t expect to find you in a bowl of pancake batter.” Clark chuckled, reaching down to carefully scoop Bruce from the mess.
“I didn’t expect to be in one,” Bruce grumbled, and Clark laughed harder.
Bruce listened to sweet sound of Clark’s laughter, bouncing lightly in his hand as his body shook with it. It made the feeling of the sticky batter turning into an uncomfortable paste against his skin more bearable. He still felt disappointed at not having been able to make breakfast, though.
“Sorry that we won’t be having breakfast this morning.” Bruce frowned down at Clark’s palm where the batter had begun to drip and pool once he had stopped laughing.
“Hey, that’s alright. It won’t kill us to miss Saturday breakfast for one week.” Clark tried to comfort him.
“I know, I still wanted to make it for you, though.”
Clark considered him for a moment, taking note of the trembles of him overexerted arms, and slumped posture beneath the weight of the thick batter.
“Why don’t we get you cleaned up, okay? And after we’ll come back and make breakfast together.”
Bruce looked up at him, his gentle eyes and warm smile, feeling himself relax under his gaze.
“Okay.”
Clark’s smile only brightened at Bruce’s acceptance of his proposal and he quickly made his way to bathroom, setting him on the edge of the sink while he tested the water temperature. He was scooped up again and practically melted under the warm water, the careful hands that slowly washed the batter away, fingers working over each limb to soothe away some of the soreness.
His tiny, ruined clothes were peeled off, and small dollops of soap were rubbed over his bare skin until the smell of flour and egg were no more. The rag Bruce had been using as a towel was soft and warm against his freshly cleaned body, and he snuggled into it as Clark dried him.
The most frustrating part about being this size was how quickly he got tired, and he couldn’t help the wave of exhaustion that washed over him now.
“What do you think about having a late breakfast, hmm?” Clark’s voice cut through Bruce’s haze like a warm knife through butter.
“I think I’d be okay with that,” Bruce smiled into the plush rag-towel, nestling deeper into Clark’s cupped palm.
“Good, me too,” Clark smiled, bringing Bruce up to his face to plant a soft kiss on his head before taking them back to their bedroom.