Whenever Clark visited the Wayne Manor after the attack, he saw an animal perched on top of the fountain. Gloomy skies folded over the mid-day sun. The ebony bird glared down at him with eerily knowing eyes.
It was an omen of death.
There was something telling in those dark beads of wisdom that made Clark rethink shooing it away. Instead he pushed open the doors to the empty mansion and walked inside. The raven's unnerving gaze chased after him till the door clicked shut.
The Manor had been empty since Bruce's return. It's understandable, Clark thought. Bruce couldn't remember anyone. Not Alfred, not Dick, nor any of his other protégés. He must have chased everyone out, or they all decided to give him some space.
Bruce had suffered severe memory loss since the attack. The bright side was that his brain remained resourceful, intelligent, and cautious. But while he retained all the necessary pieces to become a superhero, they didn't fuse. Bruce now had every potential to become what he was meant to be. An observant businessman, a tactful stock trader, or a psychopathic socialite. But he did not remember a childhood shooting. He had no motives to become Gotham's guardian. Neither had he remembered his parents, nor questioned their absence.
Clark reached the Batcave. Instead of strolling in like he used to, he merely pushed the lead-lined door open by a fraction. He sneaked a peek at the retired masked vigilante.
The man was holding two pieces of a car engine together. His unusually gaunt face was framed by the pair of goggles perched on top of his head. He lowered his goggles, and brought up a cordless heat gun. Sparks of white lit up inches before his face and highlighted his now prominent cheek bones.
Suddenly he threw the heat gun onto the table and yanked his goggles off. "What do you want?" Irritation filled his expression. His heated glare seemed to bore through the lead-lined walls. "This is the seventh time in two weeks."
"I thought it would be nice to have lunch together." Clark pushed open the door. At least no Batarangs reached his face. "Since Alfred isn't here, I've brought some sandwiches."
"I don't know any Alfred."
"Yes, I see that's part of-"
"And I don't know you." Bruce's eyes lingered briefly on Clark, trailing his facial features. "I certainly don't want to have lunch with another stranger. And I'm very close to calling the cops on you for breaking into this house."
The fact that Bruce said he would call the cops was another trigger. No matter how much Bruce trusted Commissioner Gordon, he was never dependent on the GCPD.
"I explained yesterday that I'm Clark Kent." Clark tried, but no spark of recognition registered in Bruce's eyes.
The core issue, the one that stopped all progress with recovery, was this. Bruce's brain couldn't retain memories. Clark attempted to make new memories with Bruce. He restated his relationship every day, but Bruce's brain lost the information shortly. A few hours was all it took for Bruce's brain to wipe out all that it had received.
Even when Clark explained his memories thoroughly to Bruce, the man didn't truly comprehend. It was a vague description of something that didn't exist in his mind. Something he couldn't recall, that was not associated with any emotions, any sensory information. It was a completely, frustratingly blank description.
Bruce had never been a patient man, and he never did like listening.
"Get out." Bruce didn't use a possessive term. Not "my house" or "my cave". None of his words carried a "mine" connotation. Above all, Clark wouldn't expect to hear "my city". Bruce no longer held Gotham dearer than a random patch of land his shelter stood on. Batman was, at long last but completely, gone.
Should I be happy for you, that the past that has haunted you and defined you is now wiped out of existence?
"Bruce-" Clark pleaded, holding up his basket.
"Don't you dare call me by that name." Bruce's glare was unrelenting. "You don't know me. Don't pretend that you do."
Clark bit his lip and refrained from correcting the hurtful words Bruce had thrown at him. I know you very well, Bruce. I've known you well enough to propose, and you've known me well enough to say yes. But after the first day, when Clark had explained everything and Bruce had dismissed everything, he had learned painfully that no words could convince Bruce.
Bruce now lived alone, in a world that was exclusive to all that he remembered, all whom he remembered. Among them, there was no Clark.
"I know... who you once were." Clark said instead, aiming for a convincing but factual voice. It came out like a rope was tightening on his throat. Nevertheless, he made his point. "You can have these sandwiches. And I… I won't bother you again."
That was a lie. One that Clark no longer felt guilty stating over and over again. Bruce never remembered it anyway.
He put the basket onto one of the cleaner desktops. One he knew was outside of Bruce's working boundary. He hoped it wouldn't cause the man to jump and shove his sandwiches to the ground.
Bruce's watchful gaze followed him around. Finally he waved his hand dismissively. "Get out, and don't come back."
Something clicked in Clark's mind. A surge of hope that he allowed to consume him all too fast. "How did you know that I've come seven times in the past two weeks?"
Bruce's eyes narrowed at him. "I marked it down, stalker."
"What about our conversations? We've talked." Clark pointed out hopefully. His voice quivered with anticipation.
"You've talked." Bruce chided. "Yes, I marked down which minute you started and which minute you stopped. I didn't deem the content important."
You didn't deem your past important. None of what I said mattered to you. Clark felt his heart bleed a little. A small part of it broke off like fractured kitchenware. Glass hit the ground with an ear-piercing shatter. The entries, the information, the photographs... Everything that you have to know, you need to know, is there. It's in that giant computer database of yours. All you have to do is look.
And there is one big, framed picture hanging above your headboard in your master bedroom. One you would have noticed right away, had you been paying attention. Had you thought it mattered to you in any way. Clark withdrew his hand from Bruce's desk, for fear he'd clamp sunken fingerprints onto metal. In that picture, we held hands, you wore black and I wore white, and we were signing our souls to a shared eternity. It is the best explanation I could give.
But Clark didn't doubt that Bruce never looked up to that picture, and never once connected the dots. Bruce had no motivation. No reason to change the extravagant - but in many definitions empty - life he lived now. It was a dead end.
Clark forced a smile onto his face and lied again reassuringly, "I won't come back. I promise." His knuckles hurt from clenching his fists. His eyes lingered on the sickeningly pale shade of Bruce's exposed skin. With worry, they crossed onto Bruce's sunken eyes and the bony structure of his face. "Please eat something."
He heaved a helpless sigh when Bruce went back to welding. A fancy race car stood in the background. When Batman was not devoted to the cause of saving the world, he made some damn good vehicles.
"I won't come back." Clark repeated, before turning away from the one person he loved most.
With all his heart, Clark vowed to prove that statement wrong.