Chapter Text
“Bruce?”
“Don’t ‘Bruce’ me Clark.”
“It’s not your fault Bruce.”
“I know.”
“Bruce, look at me. It’s not your fault.”
✧✧✧
For a moment, he paused, looking at the cape. He had built himself the perfect isolation. Day was a routine of make-believe, avoiding Alfred’s glances, and ignoring Dick’s calls. Night was violence, bloody justice. Life was simpler when he could pretend grief could be solved with fists. His life was formed by grief, his every day shaped by death. But it doesn’t matter if you live in a warzone, you will never be dulled to the blade of grief.
He draped the cape over his shoulders like countless nights before. It hung heavy. His body ached. It always ached. He never gave his wounds time to heal before the next layer of cuts and bruises. Now, he was acting even more recklessly than before. The bandages pressed up against his suit. The pain was a relief because it meant for a moment he wasn’t thinking about how there was nobody fighting next to him. How he kept turning around and nobody was there, throwing batarangs and waiting for the other, worst of all, walking past his room. It was untouched. Not even Alfred had entered.
He walked towards the batmobile. For a moment he saw him, taking those tires, running, smiling… And all the moments he had been too harsh, had pushed too far, had yelled at him for being irresponsible… of course he was irresponsible he was only a child. Just a kid.
“You should answer Dick.”
Of course he was here. Damn it.
“Just leave me alone Clark, I'm fine.”
“Yes Bruce, you’re perfectly fine, that’s why you haven’t talked to anyone in a month,” Clark was walking towards Bruce as he was walking further away, “Please, just talk to me.”
“Why should I? Just leave superman. Go back to Metropolis. I’m going on patrol.” He turned around to face Clark.
“Stop pretending with me! Don’t act like I’m just some other superhero Bruce, please. We’re worried about you. I’m worried about you.” He reached out to grab Bruce’s arm but Bruce backed away.
“Well you shouldn’t be.” He was at the car door now and went in.
“Bruce! Come on! Please.”
His foot was already on the accelerator.
✧✧✧
He used the word ‘responsibility’ a lot for someone who had a habit of acting recklessly. He cared a lot about duty to others. Less so about his duty to his own wellbeing. He wasn’t the self-care type he would tell himself. But in reality he was a borderline masochist. Now more than ever.
He was well over the speed limit, a common occurrence, driving in his laissez faire style with one hand on the wheel. Even though there was nobody there to impress anymore he would still perform for the nonexistent audience. His eyes were fixed on the road, the music blasting through the otherwise silent car. Dick had been a chatty kid for sure, his banter was a staple in fights. Jason was more combative and snarky but most of the time, thought he would never admit it, it was more fun than anything else. He was like him in many ways and sometimes those similarities became abrasive but now… he missed even the tense moments.
His cowl was rubbing against his nose. It was a lesser known fact that even the most tough-guy superheroes benefited from the occasional fabric softener wash. Maybe he should talk to Alfred. Or maybe not.
The night was as action-packed as ever. There were no restful nights in Gotham.
Three punches deep into some scum-bag’s face he pulled back. He was lacking rhythm. He knew why. He ignored it and moved on to the next asshole.
bzzzt. bzzzt.
When would they give up? Maybe he should just throw his phone in one of the storm drains. He didn’t.
✧✧✧
Eating was a chore. Sleeping was a chore. Living was a chore.
✧✧✧
He pretended not to see the glimpses of blue and red in the corner of his eye and continued punching.
✧✧✧
“You gonna talk to me?”
He turned the corner, ignoring the question, ignoring the feeling in his stomach.
He was alone. Even when he wasn’t.
✧✧✧
He stood at the shrine. Greens, reds, yellows, blending into one cruel portrait of pain. The cave was filled with silence, thick, heavy. He would stare at stalactites, wondering if one would drop. Wondering if he would bother moving out of the way if it did.
✧✧✧
“Bruce.”
“Shit! Clark give a man some warning! What the fuck are you doing here again?” He cringed a bit internally at how harsh he sounded.
“Come with me.”
“What? Where?” he was backing away instinctively.
“You’ll see.” Clark grabbed Bruce by the waist and suddenly they were airborne.
This was… out of character. He had really fucked up if Clark was acting like this. Within minutes they were at the fortress of solitude.
“Wait Clark-”
“Come on.”
He followed Clark into the fortress. He knew about the fortress of course, there was little he didn’t know about, but he had never been inside. To his knowledge nobody but Clark ever had. It was enormous, beautiful, alien.
As much as he knew about Clark, in the end he didn’t actually know the man all that well. So why was he in the one place on Earth that the world’s most watched superhero had to himself?
“Sit down.” Clark sounded… serious. His usual friendly tone was barely there at all.
“Look, what the hell is this about?-”
“You know what this is about Bruce. You can’t continue like this.”
He went to speak but Clark caught him, “No. You’re going to listen for once. You have people who care about you. I am one of those people. You can’t keep pushing us away, pushing me away. You want to drown yourself in your guilt? I won’t let you. Gotham needs you. I need you. I know you Bruce, I know what you’re doing and I’m not going to watch you slowly kill yourself like this. I know pain, I know guilt. I’m the last of my species Bruce! You think nobody understands you! I do! Millions of people do! Your grief is not some unique experience of your life, it's part of being a person. You felt loss young. So did I. I’m not going to give you a speech about how it all gets better in the end because it doesn’t. But you learn to live with it. You learn to rely on those around you to help you live with it. Rely on me!”
“Okay.”
Before he could even realise what was happening he was wrapped in the Kryptonian’s arms, his head buried into his chest. Bruce wasn’t vulnerable. Now he was. It felt good.
They stayed like that for a long time, silent tears streaming down Bruce’s face. He hadn’t cried since that night and everything started gushing out of him like a broken dam. Clark was warm, his arms wrapped gently, perfectly held just tight enough for comfort. Bruce, in all of his doomsday planning, knew Superman could crush him like a bug faster than he would even have time to recognise what was happening, and he knew it wouldn’t happen. There was something comforting in knowing a being so powerful was controlling their every muscle to hold you just right. Something… with a feeling he didn’t recognise.
He lifted his head from Clark’s chest, his eyes a deep red, “I-”
“Don’t apologise.” It was stern. It was gentle.
There were a handful of people that had ever seen him like this. Now that handful included Clark. This time though, he swallowed his pride, and let it happen. Clark had swallowed his pride every day of his life and it was Bruce’s turn. They sat facing each other for a while longer before Clark stood up and walked into another room.
He returned with a cup of hot coffee. “I had a feeling I would have a visitor eventually. I’m a prepared guy,” he smiled, that classic Clark smile, not the Superman grin, not the meek reporter’s tweak of the lip, but the actual Clark, the amalgamation of all the parts of him that few ever got to see. Bruce did. He saw. Even when it was cloaked in layers of characters, he saw. And now he didn’t have to look behind the mask, Clark was giving it to him.
He took the coffee with a grateful nod. For the first time in a while he felt… safe.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He could hear the smile.
✧✧✧
He woke up back in the mansion not entirely sure how he got there and definitely not wanting to picture Clark carrying him princess-style in the air. He was sore all over and now he had a thumping headache. His body could only take so much and he knew it. He unwound the bandage across his stomach. The black stitches made the purple-red skin look even worse than before.
The shower was painful but worth it. The warm water stung his injuries but the feeling of it flowing over his face, down his back, was the best part of any day. He tried not to look at himself when he stepped out. His already scar-ridden body was more beat than it had ever been. With what little sense he had left he decided to heed Clark’s advice, at least for one night, and take a break.