~Feet~

For once, things were quiet. It was odd really, but Bruce was fine with having a chance to get out of the Batsuit after three hard days of almost nonstop fighting and international emergencies. He hadn't even seen Clark in a week (maybe longer, now that he searched his mind he couldn't remember exactly when they'd last had a night together); they'd both been so busy trying to keep the world safely on its axis. So when they both had a moment to breathe, Clark had suggested a night in, and Bruce couldn't bring himself to say no.

So now they were stretched out on the sectional in the sitting room, Clark on one side and Bruce on the other, in companionable silence. Bruce had a stack of mission reports to read through and Clark an article to write. The sectional was large enough that even sprawled out they didn't touch each other, but if he pointed his toes he could almost reach Clark's foot and that was close enough for now. The fire crackled in the hearth, scaring away the winter chill outside, and Alfred had promised tea and cookies. It really was going to be a lovely evening, especially later, when he would be able to prod Clark into bed and strip the flannel shirt off that lovely physique.

Something poked his foot. Bruce ignored it. He was not going to go looking for things to ruin this. Something poked him again. He put the stack of papers down.

Clark had moved his computer off his lap and was staring intently at Bruce's foot, prodding it with his own.

"Clark," Bruce said, hoping that this was not the first sign of mind control or neurotoxins or anything else that he would have to get up off the couch to deal with. Really, was it too much to ask that they get one quiet evening without any evil schemes to ruin it? He'd called in a dozen favors to make sure neither of them would be needed.

He was mentally cataloging the supervillains whose plot this could be when Clark squinted and said, "Lift up your foot."

"What is wrong with you?"

Clark pressed his own foot into Bruce's so they were heel-to-heel.

"Did you run into any strange plants? Get hit with any weird-looking vapors that might have been aerosol toxins?" Bruce carefully moved the stack of reports from his lap onto the floor, so that he could leap up and dart to the cave if need be.

Clark looked immensely amused. Bruce couldn't decide if this was more or less disturbing than some of the other, more obviously dangerous expressions he could have had. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"Excuse me?" Bruce asked, genuinely thinking he had misheard. Maybe he was the one who had been poisoned, and he was actually lying in the Watchtower medical bay right now, and this was all a hallucination. A very strange hallucination, even for him.

"I can't believe I never noticed it before."

"Never noticed what, Clark?"

Clark was actually grinning now. He pointed down. "You have really small feet."

Bruce stared.

"I'm serious." Clark peered at their feet like it was the most fascinating sight in the world. "It's adorable. They're…dainty. And I thought I knew your body so well."

"My feet are perfectly average," Bruce replied, not sure why he was feeling so defensive about this.

Clark shook his head. "My feet are average size. Yours are small."

Clark's feet were indeed at least an inch longer than Bruce's, and he curled his toes over the top of Bruce's foot. Bruce had lost all ability to reason. If this was a villainous plot, he had no clue what the point of it was. Did Kryptonians go through some sort of hormonal cycle where they fixated on the physical features of their lovers? If so, he'd never seen Clark exhibit any signs of it before, which made the possibility unlikely. He filed the idea away for further consideration.

"Seriously," Clark said. "I'm size eleven—American male average. What are you? Size nine? Eight?"

"I don't see why my feet are of such interest to you." He was now fairly convinced that this was just one of those things that Clark told him normal people thought about but that he had never understood himself. Harmless, but there was no way he was getting back into the mission reports.

"It's just…unexpected." Clark shrugged, like this was the sort of conversation they always had. "You seem so large most other times, but when I'm up close with you I notice all sorts of things I didn't before. Like how you have tiny feet. It's cute."

"Most other times, I'm wearing thirty-five pounds of body armor. Of course I look larger."

"That's not what I meant," Clark said, and sighed.

Bruce rubbed at his temples. "Do you have a foot fetish I don't know about?"

That made a devilish grin spread across Clark's face, and Bruce immediately regretted saying anything. Clark flipped himself around on the couch so fast that he was just a blur to Bruce, and now Bruce's feet were resting on Clark's chest.

"No, but I might start one up if it turns out you're ticklish." Clark tickled the bottom of Bruce's lightly. "I've always wondered where you're ticklish."

Bruce bit back the simultaneous urges to both kick him and laugh. He was saved from having to settle on a course of action by a strong Ahem from the doorway. Alfred stood in front of the fireplace, platter of tea and cookies in hand, with one eyebrow raised. "Sirs? Did I hear something about feet?"

Clark had the decency to look chagrined and scooted away from Bruce, as much as the size of the couch would allow him to. "I just noticed that Bruce has small feet."

"Yes, he gets it from his mother." Alfred set the platter down on the coffeetable, and thankfully neglected to comment on anything else he might have heard about tickling or fetishes. "The poor woman had to special order every pair of shoes she ever earned. Quite a hassle before the internet, I'll have you know."

"I do not have small feet," Bruce protested, still unsure of why he cared.

"Really, Master Bruce, I've bought you shoes since you started walking. I can say with some certainly that you do indeed have small feet." Alfred them handed them both mugs of tea, and then took his leave while Bruce was still trying to come up with a reasonable retort.

"See?" Clark asked, contentedly munching on a homemade ginger snap. "I told you so."

Bruce wondered if this was a normal part of relationships. He didn't have much of a baseline to compare it to, really. Maybe he should have spent less time dating socialites and cat burglars and eco terrorists, and instead have had a couple of flings with regular people. It might have helped him figure out Clark. Right now all he could do was roll his eyes. "Are there any other parts of my body you find fascinating and abnormal that you'd like to tell me about?"

"Hmm." Clark scooted up so that he was leaning over Bruce, one arm elevating him over Bruce's chest. He slipped a finger between two buttons on Bruce's shirt. "If we go upstairs, I'm sure I could do the proper research and compile a list."

"After that conversation?" Bruce asked, but only just to tease. Clark wrapped an arm around his waist. Faster than Bruce could blink he was being deposited on top of the goose down duvet, and Clark's hands were already undoing the buttons of his shirt. He reached up and grabbed a fistful of Clark's hair, the other hand cupping that beautiful jaw.

This was going to be a very fun list to compile indeed.