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The ambient warmth of Clark’s small Metropolis apartment always smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans, old newsprint, and, tonight, the rich aroma of a home-cooked chicken pot pie.
Superman—the defender of the cosmos, a being capable of moving planets—was currently standing by the sink in a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants and a dangerously faded *Midway City Athletics* t-shirt, happily scrubbing gravy off a baking dish.
A few feet away at the small wooden dining table, Bruce Wayne was meticulously drying a wine glass. The Dark Knight of Gotham was wearing one of Clark’s oversized gray hoodies. The sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, and the hood slightly framed his sharp jawline. To anyone else, he looked terrifyingly out of place. To Clark, he looked perfect.
"You know," Clark said, splashing a bit of soapy water as he turned to look at Bruce, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "For a billionaire who commands the shadows and strikes terror into the hearts of Arkham’s worst, you’re remarkably efficient at dish duty."
Bruce didn't look up, his fingers moving with practiced precision. "If I leave you to do it alone, you use your heat vision to 'speed up the drying process' and end up melting the glaze off the ceramic. Again."
"That was one time, Bruce. And the mug survived!"
"It became a molten blob of clay, Clark. It had 'World's Best Reporter' written on it, and you turned it into a weapon." Bruce set the glass down with a soft, satisfying click and stepped closer, leaning against the counter. The stoic facade cracked just a fraction, a rare, soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But the dinner was good. Thank you."
Clark’s expression softened instantly. He rinsed his hands, wiped them on a dishtowel, and stepped into Bruce’s space. Even without his boots, Clark towered, but Bruce never gave an inch. Clark reached out, his large, warm hands settling gently on Bruce’s hips.
"Just good?" Clark teased, leaning down so their foreheads touched. "I put my heart and soul into that pie. I even checked the oven temperature with my x-ray vision every three minutes."
"Micro-managing the structural integrity of a pastry is very on-brand for you," Bruce murmured. He reached up, his fingers sliding into the dark curls at the back of Clark’s neck, pulling him just a fraction closer. The tension of Gotham, the weight of the cowl, the endless nights of tracking rogues—it all melted away the moment he looked into Clark’s bright blue eyes. "It was perfect."
"High praise from the critic of Gotham," Clark whispered, right before kissing him.
The kiss was slow, tender, and tasted faintly of the sweet white wine they had shared. Clark’s hands shifted to wrap around Bruce’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest. For all of Bruce’s hard edges and guarded walls, here, in the quiet neon glow of a Metropolis evening, he let himself soften. He leaned into the absolute safety of Clark’s embrace, breathing him in.
When they finally parted, Clark was beaming, his Kryptonian heart beating a frantic, joyful rhythm that he knew Bruce could hear if he listened closely enough.
"Come on," Clark said softly, swatting Bruce’s hip playfully. "Let's get ready for bed. My super-hearing tells me the city is actually quiet for once, which means we might get a full eight hours."
"A statistical anomaly," Bruce noted, though he followed Clark into the small bedroom nonetheless.
The bedroom was cozy, dominated by a large queen-sized bed that Clark had reinforced himself so they wouldn't accidentally break it during their more... enthusiastic moments. Bruce immediately claimed his side of the bed, pulling back the duvet, while Clark unceremoniously tossed his t-shirt into the hamper, revealing the broad, sculpted expanse of his chest.
Bruce caught himself staring. He’d seen it a thousand times, but it never failed to hit him somewhere deep in his chest.
Clark noticed the look and gave a flamboyant winking smirk, flexing his biceps in a ridiculously exaggerated bodybuilder pose. "Like what you see, Wayne? It’s all yours. Free of charge."
Bruce rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Get in bed, Clark. You’re being ridiculous."
"I am a vision of Kryptonian perfection, and you know it," Clark laughed, hopping onto the mattress, making the springs groan. He slid under the covers, immediately reaching out to pull Bruce into his side. Bruce didn't protest, resting his head on Clark’s chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat.
It was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of moment they rarely got, and they both cherished it. Clark stroked Bruce’s shoulder, his fingers tracing the faint lines of old scars, offering comfort and love without needing words.
Naturally, Clark couldn't leave well enough alone. He was feeling entirely too happy, too relaxed, and entirely too full of himself.
"Hey, Bruce?" Clark murmured, a sudden, bright spark of mischief entering his voice.
"Mmh?" Bruce replied, eyes closed, right on the verge of drifting off.
"You know... now that we're living together more, I’ve been thinking about our branding. As a couple."
Bruce opened one eye, instantly suspicious. "Our branding."
"Yeah!" Clark chuckled, completely missing the warning signs. "I mean, think about it. You're Batman. I'm Superman. Together, we're the world's finest. But domestically? We need a name. I was thinking... since you love the dark and I love the sun... you could call me your Knight-light."
Silence descended upon the bedroom. A deep, heavy, suffocating silence.
Clark waited. He smiled broadly, thoroughly convinced that this was the pinnacle of comedic genius. He even let out a little self-satisfied chortle. "Get it? Because you're the Dark Knight, and I light up your—"
Bruce slowly lifted his head from Clark’s chest. His face was a mask of absolute, unyielding stone. The warmth that had been there seconds ago vanished, replaced by the terrifying, cold glare that usually made seasoned criminals weep and beg for mercy.
He looked Clark dead in the eye.
Slowly, deliberately, Bruce lifted his right hand. He extended a single index finger, pointing past Clark’s shoulder, straight through the open bedroom doorway, toward the dark living room.
"Couch," Bruce said. His voice was a flat, gravelly baritone.
Clark blinked, his smile faltering just a bit. He let out a nervous laugh. "What? Babe, come on, it was a joke! A good one!"
Bruce didn't blink. His finger didn't waver. "Go sleep on the couch. Now."
"Bruce, honey, sweetheart," Clark pleaded, throwing his hands up in mock despair. "This is my apartment! I pay the rent! My name is on the lease!"
Bruce’s expression didn't change by a single millimeter. He simply shifted his eyes down to the finger still pointing at the door, then back to Clark, giving him a deeply pointed, highly authoritative look.
"Couch."
Clark stared at him, desperately searching for a hint of a smirk, a twinkle in the eye, anything. But Bruce Wayne in Gotham-mode was a fortress.
With a dramatic, theatrical groan that could have won an Academy Award, Clark threw the blankets off himself. "Unbelievable. Thrown out of my own bed by a man wearing my hoodie. The injustice. The absolute tyranny."
He snatched a spare pillow from the top of the closet and yanked a heavy wool blanket off the foot of the bed. He stomped his feet toward the doorway, making sure to look as pathetic and rejected as humanly possible, slouching his broad shoulders.
"I hope you know the couch is lumpy, Bruce! If I wake up with a stiff neck, I’m blaming you! The Justice League will hear about this!" Clark yelled over his shoulder as he marched into the living room.
From the bedroom, Bruce finally let out a long, silent breath, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He pulled the duvet up to his chin, feeling entirely victorious.
A moment later, Clark’s voice floated back in from the dark living room, entirely devoid of the fake anger, replaced by pure warmth. "Goodnight, Bruce. I love you."
Bruce smiled into the darkness, his heart swelling. "Goodnight, Clark. I love you too."
There was a brief pause.
"Still a great joke, though!" Clark called out.
"Couch, Clark!"
The Metropolis night hummed softly outside the window, but inside the apartment, the great Superman was engaging in a battle against the structural engineering of a mid-range Ikea sofa.
Clark dropped the spare pillow onto the cushions and frowned. The couch was cluttered with a small army of decorative throw pillows that his mom had insisted he keep because it "warmed the place up."
"First of all," Clark yelled over his shoulder, loudly grabbing a knitted turquoise pillow and tossing it unceremoniously onto the coffee table. "These throw pillows serve absolutely no ergonomic purpose! They are an obstruction to comfort, Bruce!"
He waited. He listened with his super-hearing. In the bedroom, the rustle of the duvet indicated Bruce had comfortably shifted his weight. No vocal response.
Clark huffed, a gust of wind that briefly rustled the curtains. He grabbed two more pillows—one with a faux-fur cover that he secretly suspected Bruce hated—and flung them onto the armchair. "I am clearing the perimeter! Just so you know! The defensive line of throw pillows has been breached!"
Silence from the bedroom. Not even a sigh.
Gritting his teeth with theatrical agony, Clark shook out the heavy wool blanket. He draped it carefully over the backrest of the couch so he could easily pull it over himself once he was situated. He placed his actual sleeping pillow at the far end of the sofa, right against the armrest, smoothing it out with aggressive neatness.
"I am now placing my pillow at the designated 'doghouse' end of the sofa!" Clark shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth for maximum acoustic projection. "The blanket is on the backrest! I am practically camping, Bruce! In the wilderness of my own living room! Surrounded by neon signs and the distant sound of a car alarm on 5th Street! Are you feeling guilty yet?"
The bedroom remained stubbornly, frustratingly quiet. Clark could hear Bruce’s slow, deliberate breathing. The billionaire was intentionally pacing his breaths to sound like he was falling asleep, but Clark knew better. He knew the exact rhythm of Bruce’s 'I am ignoring you to prove a point' breathing.
With a heavy, world-weary sigh, Clark finally laid down. The couch groaned under his Kryptonian density, even with him consciously keeping himself light. He reached up, grabbed the edge of the blanket from the backrest, and dragged it down over his broad shoulders, tucking it under his chin like a giant, disgruntled burrito.
He stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the Metropolis traffic dance across the plaster.
"Bruce?" Clark called out, his voice dropping a fraction but still carrying perfectly across the small apartment. "Are you listening? I know you're listening. Your heart rate just spiked by two beats when I said your name. You can't fool me."
No answer.
Clark adjusted his position, his knees bumping against the opposite armrest. He was simply too long for the furniture. "My feet are sticking out, Bruce. The Man of Steel’s ankles are completely exposed to the elements. If a rogue gallery member breaks in right now, they’ll have a tactical advantage over my lower extremities. Is that what you want? A compromised Superman?"
Nothing. Not a peep.
Clark lay there. One second. Two seconds. Five seconds. The digital clock on the microwave blinked from 11:42 to 11:43. The absolute injustice of the situation began to ferment in his mind. He shifted onto his side, propping his head up with his hand, staring directly at the dark bedroom doorway.
Exactly twenty seconds passed.
"You know," Clark piped up again, his voice ringing out with cheerful persistence, "the real tragedy here is the lack of appreciation for high-quality wordplay. 'Knight-light' is a masterpiece. It bridges the gap between our aesthetics. It shows solidarity. It shows I care about your visibility in low-light environments, Bruce. Honestly, I think the Pulitzer committee should look into my—"
"Clark!"
The sharp, commanding roar cut through the apartment, vibrating the window panes just a tiny bit. It was the definitive Batman voice, the one that made GCPD officers drop their donuts.
"Go to sleep!"
Clark blinked, a massive, victorious grin instantly breaking across his face. He let himself fall back against the pillow, pulling the wool blanket all the way up over his nose to hide his giggles. He had broken the Bat.
"Goodnight, my dark and brooding protector!" Clark called out, his voice muffled by the fabric, practically dripping with affection.
From the bedroom, a very faint, highly reluctant, but deeply fond sigh echoed back. Clark closed his eyes, his heart incredibly full, entirely content to spend the night on the lumpy couch as long as he got to wake up to the man in the next room.
The digital glow of the microwave clock shifted from 11:43 to 12:13 AM. For exactly thirty minutes, the absolute protector of Metropolis lay perfectly still on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend that a throw-blanket from Target could match the warmth of Gotham's premier billionaire.
It couldn't.
With a tragic, theatrical sigh that rustled the curtains, Clark slowly sat up. The wool blanket slid down his chest. He sat there in the dark for a moment, pouting into the silence of his own living room, before his resolve completely crumbled. Superman could withstand the vacuum of space, but thirty minutes of the silent treatment from Bruce Wayne was his absolute limit.
Moving with total, exaggerated stealth—though he purposefully let his bare feet pad softly against the hardwood floor so Bruce would hear him coming—Clark glided toward the bedroom. He stopped right at the threshold, leaning his large frame against the doorframe, peeking into the shadows.
"Bruce?" Clark called out, his voice dropping to a quiet, tentative whisper that practically dripped with boyish hope. "Hey... Bruce? You awake?"
From the dark sanctuary of the bed, a tiny, deeply irritated, gravelly grunt echoed back. It wasn't a "yes," but it wasn't a "get out," either. To Clark, that was a green light.
Grinning, Clark crept into the room. He didn't climb into the bed; instead, he dropped down, kneeling on the hardwood floor right next to Bruce's side of the mattress. He rested his forearms on the edge of the bed, planting his chin on his hands, looking exactly like an oversized golden retriever begging for a scrap of dinner.
Bruce was lying on his side, facing the edge of the bed where Clark now knelt. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even, but the slight twitch in his jaw proved he was fully aware of the Kryptonian puppy-dog eyes currently burning into his face.
"Bruce," Clark whispered softly, leaning a fraction closer. "Can I please, please, come back to bed? The couch is so lonely. And the draft from the window is completely uncalled for."
Bruce didn't open his eyes. He didn't even move a muscle. He just let out a slow, long breath. "Have you learned your lesson, Clark?"
"Yes! Absolutely! Lesson learned, etched into my memory, never to be forgotten," Clark promised instantly, nodding so enthusiastically his curls bounced. "I am a changed man. A humbled journalist."
Bruce’s eyes remained shut, but a dangerous, testing tone entered his voice. "And what about... Knight-light?"
Clark froze. His jaw locked. His journalistic integrity wrestled violently with his desire for a comfortable mattress. He hesitated, the silence stretching between them for one second... two seconds...
Sensing the hesitation, Bruce slowly cracked one eye open. Then the other. He glared at Clark through the gloom, a dark, unimpressed silhouette waiting for the correct response.
Clark swallowed hard, looking at Bruce's stubborn, beautiful, completely ridiculous face. He tried to hold it in, he really did, but the sheer absurdity of the situation won.
"I mean..." Clark squeaked, a nervous, helpless smile breaking across his lips. "I still think it was objectively funny, Bruce. Comedic gold, really. If you just look at the etymology of the word—"
Bruce didn't even let him finish. The eyes closed flatly. "Couch."
"Oh, come on, Bruce, please!" Clark groaned, dropping his forehead onto the edge of the mattress, right next to Bruce’s hand. He nudged Bruce's knuckles with his nose. "It's cold out there! Have mercy on your alien boyfriend!"
"Couch," Bruce repeated, his voice an unyielding wall of solid granite.
And then, to seal the verdict, Bruce deliberately rolled over. He yanked the duvet with him, turning his back entirely to Clark, burying himself in the blankets and leaving Clark staring at a wall of gray cotton.
Clark let out a massive, wounded groan that sounded like a dying whale. "You are cold-blooded, Wayne! Absolutely frozen! Gotham has ruined your capacity for joy!"
He slowly stood up, making sure his knees cracked audibly for maximum sympathy points. He began his slow, agonizing march back to the living room, complaining loudly with every single step.
"Just rolling over! The disrespect!" Clark grumbled as he cleared the bedroom doorway. "I carried a collapsing suspension bridge last Tuesday, Bruce! My spine deserves support! But no, I’m banished by a man who literally pretends to sleep upside down like a genetically modified rodent!"
He reached the hallway, his voice echoing back into the bedroom. "I’m going to have a crick in my neck tomorrow! When Batman needs backup against Starro, Superman will be unavailable due to lower back misalignment! I hope you're happy!"
He kicked a stray throw pillow on the living room floor. "And this wool blanket scratches! It’s like being hugged by a cactus!"
In the bedroom, completely wrapped in the duvet, Bruce let out a quiet, rumbling chuckle into his pillow, his chest bursting with a warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the blankets.
Back on the lumpy, unforgiving shores of the living room sofa, Clark collapsed like a felled redwood.
"The absolute tyranny," he grumbled, aggressively yanking the scratchy wool blanket up to his chin, then pushing it down to his waist, then pulling it over his face like a shroud. "Banished. In my own home. Dictated to by a man whose entire personality is built around wearing ears on his head."
He stared at the ceiling, a stubborn, unrepentant grin tugging at his lips despite his theatrical misery. Because honestly? It was hilarious. The Pulitzer Prize for Explanatory Reporting was great and all, but Clark genuinely believed his true calling was domestic comedy. Knight-light. It was perfect! It had layers! It had subtext! If Bruce couldn't appreciate the comedic nuance of a nocturnal pun, that was a flaw in Bruce’s programming, not Clark’s.
"He's just jealous he didn't think of it first," Clark muttered to the empty room. "Mr. 'I am the night' probably wishes he had a catchy slogan."
Remaining still, however, was proving to be a logistical nightmare. Clark rolled onto his left side. His shoulder pressed awkwardly against the backrest. Nope. He rolled heavily onto his right side, nearly tumbling off the narrow cushions entirely, his knees dangling precariously out into the open air. Absolutely not. With an annoyed huff, he flipped back onto his back with a dramatic thud, staring blankly into the shadows.
If physical restlessness wasn't going to break the Dark Knight, Clark decided it was time to deploy the auditory artillery.
He cleared his throat. He breathed in deeply, channeling the dramatic energy of a tragic opera singer stranded in a desolate wasteland.
“Allll byyyy myyyyy-seeeelf,” Clark crooned softly, letting his voice carry with an intentional, operatic vibrato that bounced off the kitchen cabinets. “Don’t wan-na beeee… all by my-self… on this lumpy sofaaaaa…”
He paused, holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable, exasperated shout from the bedroom.
Nothing.
Clark frowned. He tweaked his ears, tuning out the hum of the refrigerator, the distant Metropolis traffic, and the gentle whir of the apartment's radiator, focusing entirely on the bedroom. He zoomed in on a very specific, devastatingly familiar sound.
Thump... thump... thump...
Bruce’s heartbeat was steady. Slow. Rhythmic. A perfect 48 beats per minute. And his breathing? Deep, even, and entirely undisturbed.
He’s asleep, Clark realized with a wave of absolute horror. He is actually, genuinely sleeping. While I am out here, suffering in exile, composing musical masterpieces, he is drifting off into peaceful, dreamless billionaire slumber. The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated lack of solidarity.
Clark crossed his arms over his chest, pouting so hard his lower lip practically threatened to touch his nose. He hated this. He hated every single cubic inch of this couch.
But as the seconds ticked by, the mock irritation faded, leaving behind a familiar, heavy ache in his chest. He closed his eyes, listing back into his own thoughts.
It’s not even about the couch, he admitted to himself, staring at the dark hallway. I could sleep on a bed of nails or the hard surface of the moon and be fine. I'm Superman. My spine doesn't actually care about ergonomics.
No, the real tragedy—the actual, unbearable part of this ridiculous punishment—was the sudden, yawning distance between them. Even with Bruce just twenty feet away in the next room, accessible in less than a nanosecond if Clark really wanted to, he felt entirely too far away.
Clark missed him. It was a ridiculous, borderline pathetic reality, but it was his reality.
He wanted to be in that bed. He wanted to slide his large, warm arms around Bruce’s waist, anchoring the restless, guarded man against his chest. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, breathing in the scent of expensive soap and Metropolis rain, feeling the physical proof that the most dangerous man on Earth was safe, warm, and entirely his. Bruce spent his whole life carrying the weight of a broken city; Clark’s favorite thing in the universe was providing the one place where Bruce didn't have to carry anything at all.
And right now, he was denied his favorite thing because of a pun about a night-light.
I am a weak, weak man, Clark thought, staring longingly at the bedroom door. An alpha-level protector of the universe, defeated by the absence of cuddles.
He threw the blanket off his legs again, sitting up with a renewed sense of desperate determination. If he had to beg, he would beg. If he had to promise never to make a pun again—well, he wouldn't promise that, that was a bridge too far—but he would definitely apologize very nicely.
He stood up, ready to make his second migration of the night.
For the second time that night, the protector of the universe initiated a tactical retreat from the living room.
Clark didn't even bother attempting stealth this time. He padded straight back into the bedroom, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards with the distinct, heavy rhythm of a man who had completely run out of dignity. He arrived at the bedside, dropping to his knees with a dramatic thud that caused the floorboards to protest.
"Bruce," Clark whimpered, planting his hands on the mattress and leaning over the sleeping billionaire like a giant, desperate gargoyle. "Bruce, please. Hear my prayer. I am begging you. I am officially on my knees, completely devoid of pride."
The duvet shifted slightly, but Bruce didn't turn around.
"I swear, I will never use the word 'knight-light' again," Clark pleaded, his voice cracking with a perfectly engineered level of theatrical despair. Though technically, Clark’s inner voice quickly added, I could still use 'Bat-lamp' or 'Darkness-dimmer.' There are options. "Just please, please let me come back. The couch is a desolate, lawless wasteland, Bruce. I missed you. It’s been a whole thirty-two minutes. I was losing my mind."
A heavy, incredibly weary sigh echoed from beneath the covers. Slowly, with the deliberate friction of a tectonic plate shifting, Bruce rolled over. He cracked his eyes open, pinning Clark with a sleepy, heavy-lidded glare that still managed to carry the full force of a multi-billion-dollar corporation.
He stared at Clark's pouting, hopeful face for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he let out another deep sigh—this one sounding a lot like total, helpless surrender.
"Get in the bed," Bruce grumbled, his voice thick with sleep and gravel. He pointed a stern, warning index finger right at Clark's nose. "But I swear to you, Clark... if you make one more joke like that tonight, I am installing lead lining in the living room walls and locking you out."
"I swear! Hand on my heart! Not a single pun shall cross these lips!" Clark promised frantically.
Before Bruce could even lower his finger, Clark scrambled over the edge of the mattress like a man escaping a sinking ship. He dove under the duvet, bringing a brief burst of cool living-room air with him, and immediately aggressively colonized Bruce’s space.
Moving with practiced, fluid motion, Clark slid up right behind Bruce, wrapping his massive, warm arms entirely around the billionaire's waist. He pulled Bruce flush against his chest, tucking his chin over Bruce’s shoulder, burying his nose directly into the soft, familiar hair at the nape of his neck.
Bruce let out a soft, involuntary whumpf as the air was squeezed out of him, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned back into the absolute, crushing warmth of Clark’s embrace, his muscles finally relaxing as his hands came up to rest over Clark’s large forearms.
Clark let out a long, deeply contented purr of a sigh, a soft vibration in his chest that echoed right into Bruce’s back. "Oh, thank Rao. This is way better than the couch. You're so warm. The couch doesn't have a built-in heating mechanism powered by pure spite."
"You better remember that," Bruce muttered, his eyes drifting shut as he squeezed Clark’s wrists. "Before you decide to unleash your next act of comedic terrorism."
"Never again," Clark murmured, squeezing him tighter, feeling the steady, comforting beat of Bruce's heart syncing up with his own. He felt a wave of absolute tenderness wash over him, deeply grateful for this quiet, ridiculous, beautiful life they had built between the cracks of saving the world. He kissed the side of Bruce's neck, a lingering, soft gesture of pure love.
But then, a catastrophic event occurred inside Clark’s brain.
A thought struck him. A glorious, brilliant, utterly magnificent thought.
Wait, Clark’s inner monologue gasped, his eyes flying open in the dark. If he’s the Dark Knight... and I’m the Man of Steel... does that mean when we cuddle, we’re technically 'Ironing out the creases'?! Oh my god. That’s even better. That’s a multi-layered metaphorical masterpiece.
Clark’s mouth instantly twitched. He opened his lips, the words practically begging to fly out into the room. He could already hear the delivery—it would be brilliant. He would say it with a little smirk, and—
He paused.
He looked down at the soft, relaxed curve of Bruce’s shoulder. He listened to the peaceful, trusting rhythm of Bruce’s breathing. He thought about the scratchy wool blanket. He thought about the lumpy, narrow cushions of the Ikea sofa. He thought about the turquoise throw pillows waiting for him like a firing squad.
No, Clark thought, slowly and deliberately closing his mouth, swallowing the joke with a heroic amount of self-restraint. Live to fight another day, Kent. The world is not ready for this level of genius. And more importantly, I really, really like this bed.
He nuzzled his face back into Bruce’s neck, tightening his grip affectionately.
"Goodnight, Bruce," Clark whispered, entirely sincere.
"Goodnight, Clark," Bruce replied, completely unaware of the linguistic crisis that had just been averted, finally drifting off into a warm, uninterrupted sleep.