Clark is courteous enough to call instead of invading his space; Bruce finds reasons not to answer his calls. It isn’t vanity. It isn’t. What he and Clark had been headed towards had no place in this; Bruce can’t allow the two situations to hold the same territory in his mind. He can endure a lot, but the thought of Clark’s pity is the blade that cuts deepest.
Bruce listens to his messages—short and quiet requests to see Bruce, to know what he can bring, what he can do. If he can come stand at Bruce’s side in this.
Courtesy will only hold Clark back for so long, though, he thinks. He holds Clark to a different standard, because Clark is the best man he knows, but Clark is still a man and Bruce is tired of being disappointed by his own body’s reactions.
Bruce attends the funeral parade for the crew of the ship and makes a generous and more importantly, anonymous private donation to the families of those lost at sea and those injured.
The pain from his injuries is a constant reminder in the weeks afterward of what Bruce has survived. It isn’t until the aches and abrasions fade, and the stitches dissolve that Bruce realizes that his actual injuries are far beyond what he’d assumed.
He’s never liked having people at his back; he has tolerated it over the years out of necessity and social value, but early experience has taught Bruce that people who approach him from a blind spot generally don’t have his best interests at heart. It’s an impulse that he’s disciplined himself for years not to respond to unless in a combat situation. It’s an impulse that crashes back in with a vengeance.
He comes to himself, back pressed into the corner of his own dining room, prickling with sweat and the sour bite of adrenal response. He’s threatening someone; no words, just a low grating verbal warning. He sounds like an animal.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice is carefully neutral. “Bruce. It’s just me.”
The sound of the sea, endless and merciless. The sway of the boat-deck underfoot.
Bruce is… He’s…
“Bruce; listen to me, my boy. I intend to stay right here. You’re home.”
Bruce is… Standing on level ground. Breathing too fast.
Brandishing a steak knife at his surrogate father while using a cloche from the table as some kind of ersatz shield… Ready to attack. Bruce blinks, vision wavering.
There is no sea. There is no damned boat.
Christ. What is he doing? It’s been almost two decades since Bruce has lost control this way.
“I…” Bruce lowers the knife and distantly notes the tremor running through his hand. “Alfred...” He clears his throat and sets the knife down then stares at the cloche in his hand until Alfred steps forward and gently removes it.
“Come now, Master B, there we are. Good lad.” Somehow Alfred gets him moving.
Bruce isn’t surprised in the least to see Clark floating, hand touching the glass, outside his double-paned second story window. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger wearily before crossing the room to lift the latch and throw the window open.
“For fucks sake, come in, Clark. Someone will see you.” He hears Clark’s hesitation, how he breathes in a bit at Bruce’s profanity. Not that Clark is the paragon of all that is pure, despite Superman’s own P.R. rap, but Bruce doesn’t usually allow himself to curse this way. He doesn’t allow himself to be heard cursing this way.
Bypassing the usual seems to be on trend for the month. Bruce backs into his seat when Clark steps inside the room. He hovers, his face uncertain.
Jesus. Bruce counts the steps to the door from the chair. Two point eight. Zero point four seconds. Has to close his eyes briefly when he hears the familiar tread of Clark’s slow pacing; that solid, reliable rhythm that he knows so well. Bruce relaxes muscles he hadn’t intended to tense. The magnitude of Clark’s kindness always surprises him, even now.
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 10/?
Clark is courteous enough to call instead of invading his space; Bruce finds reasons not to answer his calls. It isn’t vanity. It isn’t. What he and Clark had been headed towards had no place in this; Bruce can’t allow the two situations to hold the same territory in his mind. He can endure a lot, but the thought of Clark’s pity is the blade that cuts deepest.
Bruce listens to his messages—short and quiet requests to see Bruce, to know what he can bring, what he can do. If he can come stand at Bruce’s side in this.
Courtesy will only hold Clark back for so long, though, he thinks. He holds Clark to a different standard, because Clark is the best man he knows, but Clark is still a man and Bruce is tired of being disappointed by his own body’s reactions.
Bruce attends the funeral parade for the crew of the ship and makes a generous and more importantly, anonymous private donation to the families of those lost at sea and those injured.
The pain from his injuries is a constant reminder in the weeks afterward of what Bruce has survived. It isn’t until the aches and abrasions fade, and the stitches dissolve that Bruce realizes that his actual injuries are far beyond what he’d assumed.
He’s never liked having people at his back; he has tolerated it over the years out of necessity and social value, but early experience has taught Bruce that people who approach him from a blind spot generally don’t have his best interests at heart. It’s an impulse that he’s disciplined himself for years not to respond to unless in a combat situation. It’s an impulse that crashes back in with a vengeance.
He comes to himself, back pressed into the corner of his own dining room, prickling with sweat and the sour bite of adrenal response. He’s threatening someone; no words, just a low grating verbal warning. He sounds like an animal.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice is carefully neutral. “Bruce. It’s just me.”
The sound of the sea, endless and merciless. The sway of the boat-deck underfoot.
Bruce is… He’s…
“Bruce; listen to me, my boy. I intend to stay right here. You’re home.”
Bruce is… Standing on level ground. Breathing too fast.
Brandishing a steak knife at his surrogate father while using a cloche from the table as some kind of ersatz shield… Ready to attack. Bruce blinks, vision wavering.
There is no sea. There is no damned boat.
Christ. What is he doing? It’s been almost two decades since Bruce has lost control this way.
“I…” Bruce lowers the knife and distantly notes the tremor running through his hand. “Alfred...” He clears his throat and sets the knife down then stares at the cloche in his hand until Alfred steps forward and gently removes it.
“Come now, Master B, there we are. Good lad.” Somehow Alfred gets him moving.
Bruce isn’t surprised in the least to see Clark floating, hand touching the glass, outside his double-paned second story window. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger wearily before crossing the room to lift the latch and throw the window open.
“For fucks sake, come in, Clark. Someone will see you.” He hears Clark’s hesitation, how he breathes in a bit at Bruce’s profanity. Not that Clark is the paragon of all that is pure, despite Superman’s own P.R. rap, but Bruce doesn’t usually allow himself to curse this way. He doesn’t allow himself to be heard cursing this way.
Bypassing the usual seems to be on trend for the month. Bruce backs into his seat when Clark steps inside the room. He hovers, his face uncertain.
Jesus. Bruce counts the steps to the door from the chair. Two point eight. Zero point four seconds. Has to close his eyes briefly when he hears the familiar tread of Clark’s slow pacing; that solid, reliable rhythm that he knows so well. Bruce relaxes muscles he hadn’t intended to tense. The magnitude of Clark’s kindness always surprises him, even now.