"I don't think, and I don't hope for your own sake, that you will EVER understand, how I feel. So don't – just don't…" He was pointing his finger at Superman's chin while yelling his threat, which he had yet to think through. He hadn't slept for days, or was it over a week now, and every joint, every muscle, every nerve ending was pounding with pain. He suddenly felt how much he was shaking.
"Bruce - " the all American hero tried, but he didn't get a chance to finish.
"Get out" Bruce snarled, trying to find the back of his chair with his right hand. The nausea came back. He dumped his aching body on the seat behind him while pressing his fingers hard against his temples.
"Just please… get out!"
The second answer wasn't presented to Clark in an angry manner, he noticed. Bruce was pleading.
Clark sought the eyes of the Englishman in the background of the scenario. He looked away. Not because he wouldn't meet Clark's eyes, but because he wouldn't show the two gentlemen how many tears were running down his cheeks. The conversation had taken its toll on him, even though he hadn't uttered a word.
He had called upon Superman in pure desperation. He couldn't reach Bruce, even when he threatened him with leaving the estate or begged him to stay home just for one night. Just to regain his strength.
Even Leslie hadn't been able to get Bruce to bed. She was barely permitted to tend to his injuries. Alfred had hoped that Superman had the strength and the authority to force his master to listen. Just listen…
There was silence for what seemed a long time. Only Bruce moved, massaging his temples in a desperate attempt to get the headache to stop. If he at least could think straight, he might not have to feel so much.
Clark broke the silence.
"It wasn't your fault and you know it."
Bruce jumped out of his seat. He was barely able to not lose his balance, but the dizziness wasn't enough to soften his look.
"How dare you – YOU of all people? How dare you say that? How dare you say that to me."
Bruce had a hard time forming his sentences. The words stumbled out of his mouth in other orders and modes than he intended.
"You could have saved them – either one of them. You're the almighty one!" He looked Clark straight in the eyes with a chilling gaze. "But you chose not to." He didn't even know if he meant what he was saying, but somehow it felt good saying it. Clark wanted to defend himself, but Bruce didn't let him. He needed this.
"How could you not hear their cries? How could you not feel their pain? How could you not get there in time? You? Freaking Superman!"
Bruce felt drops of water roll down his face as he shoved his index finger into the big S. It took him a moment to recognize the drops as tears. Even longer to realize they were his own.
"You know that's not true" Clark tried in a comforting voice. "If I in any way could have been there, for Jason or Barbara, you know I would have." He stepped down on one knee to be face to face with his crying friend, who had sat back down. Bruce couldn't keep on his feet for long, but didn't want to be below Clark while talking to him and he respected that.
Clark was worried sick about him – as was everybody else. He had seen Bruce on his feet even after several knife wounds and gunshot injuries. Now he could barely stand, even with the fury pacing through his veins, his look hitting Clark like a mental bull dowser.
Bruce kept eye contact with him, despite the dizziness, nausea and pain. He was shaking more than he could hide now. His eyes started to blur because of the tears that kept pouring out of his eyes in greater and greater amounts. Somehow this didn't make him look sad, Clark took a moment to observe. He just looked pissed off.
Out of nowhere he punched Clark in the face – straight on the nose. It didn't hurt the Kryptonian of course, but the surprise made him loose balance for a millisecond and he sat flat on his behind with a surprised look upon his face.
"Master Bruce!" Alfred yelled in what seemed an exaggerated British accent, running in to save the invulnerable hero. He grabbed Bruce's arm, the man's fist still the same place in the air as where it hit his teammate's face. Alfred pulled him back, forcing him to take his seat yet again. "What on earth are you doing?"
"It's okay Alfred" Clark said while getting on his feet again. The butler should be more concerned about Bruce's fist anyway. His X-ray vision told him that the stubborn bat broke several knuckles in his outburst. Clark started to fear for even the butler's health.
"Maybe I could be alone with Bruce for a little while?"
Alfred looked at the two gentlemen in front of him. He normally thought they looked so much alike, despite their differences in world views and favorite colors. Now they seemed like they originated from different species.
Bruce had already dropped the gloves, the cape, the mask and the belt, like he always did when he prepared himself for a marathon in front of the computer. He hadn't shaved for a long time, leaving a neglected beard on his chin. Alfred hadn't seen the likes since his master's Venom days.
Bruce had bags under his eyes, all bare skin was marked with bruises or open sores and his eyes looked wild and filled with hatred, like a wounded animals fighting with all its might for its life.
Clark on the other hand, looked like a perfect example of the good, clean and healthy American man. Especially in contrast to Bruce.
"Of course" Alfred said after a long break, in which Bruce had finally lowered his eyes. "But please do call me if you need me."
He slowly walked up the stairs, constantly looking back at the two men behind him. None of them spoke until he closed the door.
"Do you feel better with yourself now?"
Clarke hoped for a sinister but witting remark. He got nothing.
"Why are you doing this?"
Bruce didn't give him an answer to that either. He rubbed his injured knuckles, but tried not to do it too obviously. He hated when he had to expose his vulnerability in front of Clark.
Bruce didn't even answer his intense look. He just wanted him to leave so that he could get back to his simulations of the samples of toxins he had collected. Who would otherwise stop Poison Ivy? Or was it Scarecrow? His thoughts kept getting blurred.
"Please answer me, Bruce."
Clark let the silence take its time. Bruce would answer him when he was ready.
It took longer than Clark had expected, but he didn't take his comforting eyes off of his friend.
"I… I am ... It wasn't your fault." Bruce finally muttered in a desperate hope that Clark would then go away. He knew better than that of course. He knew that he himself was the only one to blame.
"You know that's not what I meant."
"Yes, I know."
The silence was usually Bruce's friend. He knew how to master it and manipulate people with it. Somehow Clark had captivated this trusted ally of his and used it against him. Bruce felt compelled to say something. To say something that would make Clark go away. To say something that would make it all go away.
"Why are you doing this to yourself, Bruce?"
He couldn't answer, even though he knew the question all too well. He had been asked just that many times recently.
"What is it to you?"
He had gathered enough strength to meet Clark's eyes. The tears had dried out. He didn't look like a hunted animal anymore. He just looked like a man in pain. More than usual.
"I'm worried about you… We are all worried about you."
"I can take care of myself."
"Obviously, you can't!"
Clark couldn't keep his anger back anymore. Why did it always have to be this way with him?
"What makes you say that?" Bruce jumped back at him. "Because I couldn't protect the people I care about the most?"
"Jason and Barbara were in no way your fault." Clark yelled back. "Barbara wasn't even in costume when it happened!"
Why on earth wouldn't the most logical man he knew listen to reason?
"How can you say that?" Bruce jumped up and grabbed Clark's shoulders. It seemed as if a way to give his words more power, but in reality he just had to hold on to something to stay on his feet.
To hear Clark keep telling this lie hurt him too much. Just like when all the men and women told him the pain would go away with time. That he would learn to love and nurture the memory of his mother and father and not let it drown in what would forever fill him with hate and despair. No, he had already heard too many lies in his life.
Clark laid one of his hands on top of Bruce's.
"Because it is the truth."
Bruce ripped his hand back, feeling the urge to punch Clark again. How could he stay so calm? Bruce's life had chattered to pieces in his bare hands. He had let the Joker destroy all that he held dear and the only way to make him suffer was to make him win. Bruce was caught in a catch 22: To live with the pain, he had to cling to the thirst for revenge – the only way he knew how to survive. To get revenge, he had to break his one rule: The rule that had separated him from them. And to break that rule would mean the Joker had won. To do nothing would tear Bruce apart, also letting the Joker win.
The anger, he knew. The sorrow, the chaos – it was all too familiar. But the insistence from Clark for him to behave "normal", for him to show his sorrow through tears and hugs, or whatever he expected, made him remember his training. Not his physical training, which worked almost as a reflex after all these years. His training from back then, when he had to practice polite smiling and small talk, when he had learned himself to seem as close to normal as could be expected. He learned that before he turned eight, but somehow it had always been the hardest thing for him to do.
"Leave my house" he said in a voice as close to normal, as he could master. Suddenly his mind seemed as disciplined as always.
"If you keep this up, it will be my house soon anyway, and I say he stays."
Bruce looked into the darkness. He hadn't even heard the boy enter – a sign that he was all too affected by the whole situation.
"Not a good time, Dick" was the only greeting his old sidekick got.
"I disagree. But then again, I most often do when it comes to you. That was actually why I moved out, as I remember it. That and college, of course."
The former boy wonder walked into the light. He was always so chatty when he got worried about someone. Actually, he was almost always chatty. "That's part of my charm" he used to say, when Bruce asked him to keep quiet during training. They had both learned to adjust to each other's sound levels or lack thereof.
He wasn't in costume, Bruce noticed. He was wearing one of the shirts Alfred had gotten him for Christmas with the shoes Barbara had bought him after mocking his worn out sneakers for months. Bruce's detective brain was still functioning, although not at full capacity.
Clark and Dick gave each other a nod. As if they had planned for this meeting.
Bruce had given up on getting Clark to leave by talking to him, and if he knew Dick, which he did, anger and begging would not work on him either. Instead he turned to the computer and tuned them out.
"Have you even shaved since the funeral?"
Dick kept his hands deep in his pockets. He only did that when he was nervous or concerned.
"Have you bathed since the funeral?"
The hollow punch lines were meant to get some sort of reaction from Bruce. It was supposed to remind him of the old days, when they spend almost all waking hours together. When they amounted to the Dynamic Duo in the tabloids and Dick got as close to Bruce as he would let any person get.
Bruce barely noticed Dick talked. It would all be so much more bearable when he could just work in peace.
"For god's sake, Bruce, talk to us!"
Clark made a desperate gesture with his hands as he yelled out. His patience had finally disappeared.
Bruce didn't even look away from the screen.
"I don't need comforting, I don't need help, I don't need to talk, mourn, be understood or anything else. All I need is for you to leave me be."
Dick took a firm grip on his shoulder and forced him and the chair around. Bruce actually seemed surprised by this act. Especially when he saw it was Dick, staring at him only inches from his face. He had already prepared himself to break a few knuckles in his other hand, had it been Clark.
"What if we do, huh? What if we need you?" He looked away for a second.
"Barbara keeps asking about you… Alfred calls me crying as often as he dares…You're not the only one which world is falling apart, you know that?"
He forced Bruce to look him in the eyes. He needed Bruce to see his tears and his anger, and he didn't have the time or the patience of Clark.
"What if… What if I do need all those things, Bruce? What if I need that…"