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Sorcery had always been a bit tricky, and the incantation, quick and infuriatingly simple, had barely registered to the League as it was uttered out of the witch’s mouth. Bruce, on the other hand, had realised as soon as it began to leave her cracked lips. She was finally taken down by Diana, seeming to have given up at last, and he watched her garish face grinning as his memories ebbed away faintly. It was like when he woke from a dream so sure of what happened, but the images began to twist and distort until he was left with only remembering that he had a dream, and then nothing at all.
The grapple lurched in his grip when he stopped abruptly and his hand slipped with the strain. He was falling, but Clark had caught him with a strange expression on his face, leaving Bruce with the real and fierce panic of forgetting who the man was as the seconds ticked by.
Where he was, who he was, why he was. It was like the plug was pulled on his life and he just had to watch it spiral down the drain while he grasped at the water straining through his fingers.
Clark had placed him down gently on top of a roof, held him tight enough so he wouldn’t flee, and had to watch the impenetrable walls of Batman close around his friend once more after so many careful years of unpeeling them.
The first few days were hard.
Batman, the Justice League, Bruce Wayne, had been a lot to digest. Under careful consideration on J’onns part, he hadn’t remembered on his own but rather was told these things, as they were the most important in the moment. The facts needed to be straightened out first and then, with some gentle coaxing and reflection could Bruce begin to remember. J’onn had said it could take a while and that it couldn’t be rushed lest he implode with information. It had to be done right, be the right person, tell him the right thing or to just simply be there. The unspoken glances between the League confirmed the obvious worry shared amongst themselves and all they could do was wait for Bruce’s mind to catch up.
Bruce remembered his parents first.
He was in one of the front rooms in the manor when it happened. Clark was with him playing chess. Bruce kept winning but he didn’t know how or why, couldn’t explain it and only assumed Clark was a weak opponent.
Alongside the league, Clark was one of the first people Bruce remembered. It didn’t take much coaxing once he understood he was the Batman, but Clark was bashful all the same when Bruce Wayne strode up to him at work and ushered him into a meeting room. He had sat on the edge of the desk, smug and self assured in the way he always was memory wiped or not, and said: I’ve figured you out, Kent.
It was a pleasant surprise for Clark, he was quicker than the first time.
“This has got to be cheating Bruce.” Clark said ruefully but he had a smile on his face. He had looked up to Bruce then, expecting a not quite smile in return, maybe a grumbled response, but instead he saw the blank look on Bruce's face, the tears that had already escaped, and the gears in Clark’s head only had to turn so much before he figured out what was happening.
“They’re dead?” It was such a simple question, innocent even and his voice was far too soft, he sounded about ten years old.
“Bruce…” Clark sighed and knelt down beside Bruce’s armchair. His hands were trembling slightly, so unlike him that Clark found himself frozen in an unfamiliar position of not knowing quite what to do.
Bruce’s brow furrowed but the tears didn’t relent, it was like his body was having a reaction and his mind was playing catch up. His eyes snapped to Clark then, a desperate lost look in them and Clark broke out of whatever stupor he had placed himself in.
“I know, I know.” said Clark and he took Bruce’s hands in his own and held them tight to be enough for Bruce, just the right pressure he had learnt before.
In all his relentless efforts to quell himself, Bruce had begun to sob, mind caught up. He gripped the hands Clark offered too tightly, and Christ, Clark had never seen him this bad. His face was bathed in grief but a tightness in his brow persisted that Clark could only understand as anger towards himself. He was showing too much emotion, too raw and for all of Batman's mind tricks, this one didn’t have an easy mask. Clark reached up and gently eased Bruce’s head onto his shoulder and held him there. A soft hiccupy noise escaped Bruce’s throat and he heaved and stuttered against the soft flannel. It was an old pain, taut and worn out.
“You’ll be okay.” said Clark and he desperately hoped it would be true.
The second time it happened, it seemed to have been brought on. Bruce had ventured down into the Batcave after it was declared off limits until he regained enough memory back about the league and the general state of the world. He had been keeping regular updates about his cognitive recovery with Diana and J’onn since the incident in the front room and they mutually, albeit tentatively agreed that he could begin as Batman anew as he had the full context. More than an oversight on the leagues part but it didn’t matter, they couldn’t stop Bruce from being Batman even if they wanted to, he had his purpose again.
Bruce sat at his workbench fidgeting with a gauntlet almost completely unconsciously. It’s wires and clasps syncing together smoothly as he took it apart, and apart again.
He was tired but he wouldn't admit to it, so when a stray batarang fell off the bench and bounced away before clattering to the floor he flinched. It landed a few feet away next to the display area of the cave. He hadn’t looked into the cases as the memories weren't there yet. He had been told to pace himself but when he bent down to pick up the weapon, one particular suit in the case in front of him stood out. It was disheveled and torn and very unlike the others around it.
Something bad had happened.
His own reflection echoed back to him and like an electric shock shot through him he fell to his knees, barely registering the dull ache.
“Jason?” He gasped out, clawing at the floor like he might burrow away to escape the reality of his situation. His breath was coming out in harsh little pants and his vision swam in a sea of delirium.
“No, no-”
He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t react, he could barely even remember, only black hair and steely eyes, the dramatic attitude of an angsty teen.
Horrible laughter rang in his head and visions of blood and fire swirled round and round until he couldn’t see straight.
He told himself it wouldn’t happen again, not after the first time. The exercises to even out his breathing and slow his heart were buried beneath memory and he lapsed into a sort of meditation, just enough to steady his shaking hands and quivering lips to mutter a single word that only one person could hear.
“Clark,”
A small shame washed over him, it always did when he asked for help.
He was there in an instant. A face of concern and a work suit that smelled like the ozone layer. Bruce wanted to drown in it.
“Hey, Bruce.” Clark started as he approached him, calm and slow, because he could hear how fast Bruce’s heart was beating. Bruce had stood up and backed into the workbench again, back towards the displays and knuckles turning white in their wrought iron grip on the edge of the table. His eyes were downcast as he shook his head as if trying to rattle the memory back into its proper place deep and buried, or to lose it altogether again.
“Clark I- I can’t stand it, I-”
“It’s okay Bruce. I know.” Clark stepped closer and a large part of Bruce wanted him to hug him again like the first time, but he would not ask. Clark got closer anyway, crowding into him like he knew exactly what Bruce wanted, because he did, of course he did. In the next moment Clark’s arms were offering themselves up, tentatively like he wasn’t sure if he was overstepping and if Bruce could he would laugh. Bruce's hands found Clark’s too big suit, he felt a seam rip under his palm but for some reason he knew Clark wouldn’t mind too much.
Bruce was hyperventilating and Clark was soothing, cooing like you would a child, and his thumb dragged across Bruce’s cheek catching the gathering wetness and Bruce glanced up at him with an expression so anguished that Clark could hardly bear to look at. He raked his hands up and down Bruce’s back, letting them graze up to his hair in the upstroke.
“I’ve got you.” And he meant it, he always would.
A week later Batman was patrolling regularly again, most if not all memories had come back, big and small. The stretch of his muscles felt good after so long without much use and the night dragged on in a way that didn’t bother him so much.
It was quiet out for Gotham's standards, her streets hummed with an energy akin to the calm before a storm and Bruce hoped inanely that it wouldn’t be that night. The route he took was winding, rooftops sprawled in front of him like circuits, but he knew them like the back of his hand. He felt a twinge in his back when he landed a short jump across two buildings, it was small and barely noticeable at first but walking it off became useless.
He could feel the break suddenly and relentlessly, the twist of his spine, the metal screws contorting and twinging around, pain shot up and down his back and lingered somewhere around the middle. He couldn’t help but scream.
The ground buckled where Clark landed and dust erupted like smoke around him. Bruce blinked back the wetness in his eyes hidden under the cowl. He stood crooked because he felt as if he’d snap if he moved too much.
Clark gathered himself, walked up to him. “It was broken, I remember now.” Bruce said though teeth that were grinding together so hard together he thought one might chip.
"Shh. Just sit down for a minute.” Clark was at his side. He didn’t touch him, which Bruce was grateful for.
“Don’t baby me.”
“Ok. Sorry.”
Bruce was still hunched with the phantom pain, sweat trickled down into his eyes and he blinked it away to see Clark’s hand outstretched for him. A silent invitation that Bruce could accept only if we wanted to, and half calling him a stubborn bastard. He grabbed the palm offered to him and It helped that he couldn’t break the hand he held no matter how hard he squeezed.
“Let me take you home.” Clark said, thumb dusting over Bruce’s knuckles absentmindedly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Ok.” He said so he wouldn’t have to think about it.
Eventually, things started to even out.
Every now and then a flash of something would grace Bruce’s face, a small pinch in his expression, a bitten lip, a pale look with eyes too wide. Most people wouldn’t catch them, but Clark wasn’t most people.
They sat facing each other in one of the front rooms of the manor, a chess board between them. Bruce was winning and he could actually explain to Clark why he was this time. It was his turn, and a slight tremor went through his hand as he picked up the bishop, so minuscule but Clark’s brow twitched.
“Bad one?” Clark asked softly, because they hadn’t all been bad.
“Hmm.” replied Bruce and he stared off at nothing in particular for a moment, whatever he was seeing in his mind's eye had his face contorted more than usual and he chewed his lip as if chasing down the memory- to take control of it again.
“You know,” Clark started and leant forward with hands in easy reach, an invitation if Bruce wanted it. “These memories don’t define you Bruce. They happened but despite them you kept going, for years. It’s an onslaught now, and I get that, but you are so strong Bruce, I know it,” Clark continued.
“You’ve done it before, you’ll be able to do it again.”
Bruce’s face went through some interesting aerobics before his eyes softened and a look so extremely fond settled there. “Thank you.” He said, and he took one of Clark’s hands because the warm touch was inviting, and he interlaced their fingers because he had just recalled with a heavy thrum in his chest, he often used to.