The silence on deck is broken only by the whimpers of his fellow hostages and the laughing outside the door from the kidnappers. He hates them all. He uses scraps from his ripped pants to wipe himself clean, flinching even though it's his own hands. He locks his jaw on everything that wants to escape and swallows it down. Throws the wads of filth-smeared cloth aside and watches the rest of them avoid his eyes and shrink away as if he has leprosy.
Parasites.
“Brucie…” someone comes near him, pitying eyes and soft, soft hands.
“Don’t touch me!” He doesn’t mean to snarl at her, doesn’t mean to speak at all. He registers a shocked face, then she pulls back. A dizzying swell of voices: murmuring and people crying. Not Bruce. Bruce is fine.
He’s fine.
There’s a quiet conversation, and a movement in his peripheral vision has Bruce scrambling backwards blindly until he hits the wall. His fists are raised, to threaten or to protect himself, he isn’t… He isn’t quite sure. “Don’t.” His voice is wrecked.
“Mr. Wayne…” A softness gently comes to rest on his hand. A sheet—no, a tablecloth. Linen. Bruce hates himself for the flinch he can’t suppress. He grips the fabric and pulls it to his chest, staring Elliot Dumas down until the young man backs away. The girl Bruce stepped in for won’t even look at him, she’s too busy weeping into some older woman’s shoulder. That woman, at least, does Bruce the courtesy of meeting his eyes with a shaken nod, mouthing her thanks. Her gratitude might actually last longer than it takes to cash a GC Central Bank check.
The Dumas kid’s jaw is bruised. Hematoma around right eye socket. Moves constrained; probably bruising to torso. He’s been beaten.
Bruce nods stiffly at him and pulls the ruined cloth over the livid marks on his skin. “Thank you.” Not for the covering. For the effort, wasted as it was.
He has no intention of moving just yet. He needs a moment, to regroup, to get his mind straight. There are things that need doing; he has to—
There are things he has to—
Now would be a good time for backup.
The sound of the yacht’s motor hitting a flying object at an inadvisable rate of speed rings through the frame. The deck pitches and a blur of sapphire and crimson streaks through the air. There’s a roaring on the wind.
“You think you can touch him? You think you can threaten him?” Pure fury.
Jesus, Clark, no.
“Clark.” Bruce’s voice is low, too low and too far away. He has to stop him. “Stop. Stop.” A limp body flies through the locked door and smacks into the wall opposite Bruce’s crouched position with a sickening crunch. Blood, so much blood. Not clotting though, bleeding; Bruce gives the slumped form a critical eye. The asshole will live with reasonably soon medical care, though he’ll probably never walk again.
Good enough.
Bruce sets eyes on his target, grits his teeth and starts his limping progress towards it.
A blur of color, then Clark hovering before him like a dream, skin clean and gleaming with sea-spray, eyes wounded. He scans Bruce’s tablecloth-clad form, his eyes travelling down then jerking back up, pinpoints of crimson in his pupils. His mouth shapes Bruce’s name but no sound escapes him. He reaches out and Bruce already knows what he’ll do, knows how he reacts when the worst happens.
“No,” he pushes Clark’s hands away. “Save them. I… can wait.” Bruce immediately wishes he;d used the hand signals instead. The integrity of his voice is (shredded) suboptimal.
Clark’s eyes dim slightly before the red glow fills them again.
Don’t kill anyone. It’s what Bruce is supposed to say. It’s what he has to say, and he’s never hated himself more for it. “Non-lethal. Don’t… Don’t.” Don’t let it be him, don’t let Bruce be the reason Clark loses faith. Bruce isn’t worth it; Clark would argue, but Bruce knows the difference between hope and reality. Life keeps giving him reasons to remember.
Remember who’s watching. Remember, Clark.
Clark’s frown is thunderous, but he nods once, slow, as if it’s something he has to deeply consider first. A whoosh of air, and Bruce is laying on his side, tucked carefully into the cabin bed. He shudders and gags once, helplessly, at the contact. Clark’s face is a mirror of horror; he carefully pulls his hands away from Bruce.
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 7/?
The silence on deck is broken only by the whimpers of his fellow hostages and the laughing outside the door from the kidnappers. He hates them all. He uses scraps from his ripped pants to wipe himself clean, flinching even though it's his own hands. He locks his jaw on everything that wants to escape and swallows it down. Throws the wads of filth-smeared cloth aside and watches the rest of them avoid his eyes and shrink away as if he has leprosy.
Parasites.
“Brucie…” someone comes near him, pitying eyes and soft, soft hands.
“Don’t touch me!” He doesn’t mean to snarl at her, doesn’t mean to speak at all. He registers a shocked face, then she pulls back. A dizzying swell of voices: murmuring and people crying. Not Bruce. Bruce is fine.
He’s fine.
There’s a quiet conversation, and a movement in his peripheral vision has Bruce scrambling backwards blindly until he hits the wall. His fists are raised, to threaten or to protect himself, he isn’t… He isn’t quite sure. “Don’t.” His voice is wrecked.
“Mr. Wayne…” A softness gently comes to rest on his hand. A sheet—no, a tablecloth. Linen. Bruce hates himself for the flinch he can’t suppress. He grips the fabric and pulls it to his chest, staring Elliot Dumas down until the young man backs away. The girl Bruce stepped in for won’t even look at him, she’s too busy weeping into some older woman’s shoulder. That woman, at least, does Bruce the courtesy of meeting his eyes with a shaken nod, mouthing her thanks. Her gratitude might actually last longer than it takes to cash a GC Central Bank check.
The Dumas kid’s jaw is bruised. Hematoma around right eye socket. Moves constrained; probably bruising to torso. He’s been beaten.
Bruce nods stiffly at him and pulls the ruined cloth over the livid marks on his skin. “Thank you.” Not for the covering. For the effort, wasted as it was.
He has no intention of moving just yet. He needs a moment, to regroup, to get his mind straight. There are things that need doing; he has to—
There are things he has to—
Now would be a good time for backup.
The sound of the yacht’s motor hitting a flying object at an inadvisable rate of speed rings through the frame. The deck pitches and a blur of sapphire and crimson streaks through the air. There’s a roaring on the wind.
“You think you can touch him? You think you can threaten him?” Pure fury.
Jesus, Clark, no.
“Clark.” Bruce’s voice is low, too low and too far away. He has to stop him. “Stop. Stop.” A limp body flies through the locked door and smacks into the wall opposite Bruce’s crouched position with a sickening crunch. Blood, so much blood. Not clotting though, bleeding; Bruce gives the slumped form a critical eye. The asshole will live with reasonably soon medical care, though he’ll probably never walk again.
Good enough.
Bruce sets eyes on his target, grits his teeth and starts his limping progress towards it.
A blur of color, then Clark hovering before him like a dream, skin clean and gleaming with sea-spray, eyes wounded. He scans Bruce’s tablecloth-clad form, his eyes travelling down then jerking back up, pinpoints of crimson in his pupils. His mouth shapes Bruce’s name but no sound escapes him. He reaches out and Bruce already knows what he’ll do, knows how he reacts when the worst happens.
“No,” he pushes Clark’s hands away. “Save them. I… can wait.” Bruce immediately wishes he;d used the hand signals instead. The integrity of his voice is (shredded) suboptimal.
Clark’s eyes dim slightly before the red glow fills them again.
Don’t kill anyone. It’s what Bruce is supposed to say. It’s what he has to say, and he’s never hated himself more for it. “Non-lethal. Don’t… Don’t.” Don’t let it be him, don’t let Bruce be the reason Clark loses faith. Bruce isn’t worth it; Clark would argue, but Bruce knows the difference between hope and reality. Life keeps giving him reasons to remember.
Remember who’s watching. Remember, Clark.
Clark’s frown is thunderous, but he nods once, slow, as if it’s something he has to deeply consider first. A whoosh of air, and Bruce is laying on his side, tucked carefully into the cabin bed. He shudders and gags once, helplessly, at the contact. Clark’s face is a mirror of horror; he carefully pulls his hands away from Bruce.