aftermath

eleven

XI. fighting emptiness

Bruce had been angry. So, so angry. He had tasted it in his mouth, in between his teeth; the fury that rose underneath his skin and made him itch to smash a knuckle across the jaw of his best friend.

Clark had betrayed his trust. He had went and watched it, most likely a good length of it, if not all. He had watched a long duration of filth, where Bruce had been exposed and helpless.

He was angry.

But he also saw Clark, afterwards. He saw the downturn of his lips, and the sorrow in his eyes, and the furrow of his brow. The shuffling of his feet, head hanging low, dejected, self-loathing, already hanging onto the conclusion that Bruce would never want to set eyes on his face again.

That wasn't true. It was far from true.

So Batman pushed down his anger, because deep down, he knew that anger wasn't even directed at Superman. It was directed at the thing that had pretended to be Superman, and at the world, and at the unfairness and injustice of it all.

The anger pulsing at his head was directed at the fact that he and Clark's relationship would never be the same again.

In one hour and twenty-two minutes, his dignity had been shattered, shame brought to life, and body labeled as something he despised. In one hour and twenty-two minutes, a thin, finite thread between he and Clark had been snapped.

Irreversible.

Batman rises in the Cave, and unclips the heavy armored plates of his suit. The pieces fall, one by one, until a mess of black is strewn across the floor. He breathes, not thinking about the way his suit was taken apart before. Before was rough hands tearing each plate off, eager to get inside. Now, he controls it. He unclips every garment, watching his own hands work.

He is in control. No one else.

Everything is off and his cowl is removed, and now he's Bruce Wayne. Not Batman and not Brucie. Just Bruce Wayne. Still breathing, he throws on a pair of loose shorts and a white tank top, heading towards the training room.

He does what he does best: put his anger to use.

Superman floats endlessly in space, tuning out the voices below. Hear, there is no sound, and no life. Just silence, threatening to fill him up, and the twinkling of distant stars. The moon, cratered and gray, rotating to his left.

Outer space is much darker, he thinks, than most people would expect.

He hovers still, in Zero-G. Thinking.

A noise more familiar than he would like to admit, begins below.

He doesn't know how long he's been doing it.

Bruce takes a bruising punch to the bag, throwing all his weight into it, feeling the satisfactory shift of it. His breathing is sharp and irregular, but the feeling is good. He feels strong. Definitely in control.

Two jabs from the left. A roundhouse kick. Right uppercut, a couple of straight punches in a row. And in the silence, he thinks back to the one thing he's trying not to think about.

Bruce grits his teeth and hits hard. If only he were stronger.

Another. If only he were smarter.

More. If only he was more careful, more alert.

Again. If only he were capable of dealing with such a problem.

He hits and hits and hits until he's not sure if the punching bag is that, a punching bag, or something else. His knuckles bruise, bleed, split. Bruce can't bring himself to stop. It just feels too good, letting all his rage flow out in an unstoppable torrent.

Dry mouth. He can't tell if it hurts.

Punch.

Hook.

Punch.

Bruce closes his eyes and thinks of the incident. He hits harder than ever, releasing an angry yell. Why did this happen to him? Why did it have to? And why did it have to come in the form of the man he- he-

He stops.

"Bruce?" The voice is soft, and tentative; it comes from behind him. A voice he's known for years. Bruce stands there, drenched in sweat, only able to breathe heavily and stare ahead, at the bag. The seam is tearing.

He doesn't give a shit.

"Bruce, my God, you're bleeding." Slowly, Bruce looks down to see his ruined hands, blood dripping from his left, staining the floor. Clark is at his side in an instant, and Bruce is so lost he doesn't even flinch. He's exhausted.

He turns, then, to those clear eyes. Superman gestures at Bruce's hands, whispering, "Can I-" and Bruce, to his own surprise, nods curtly with a jerk of his head, and in the next moment, Clark is bandaging them.

"Why would you hurt yourself like this?" The red is already staining through the white. "God, Bruce, I don't-" want you to get hurt. He bites his lip on the words. "I-"

"Stop," Bruce says roughly, hoarsely, and Superman immediately pauses. "Stop pretending... you care. I don't need your pity. I don't want it."

Anger flashes through Kal-El's eyes, and it immediately dies down as Bruce takes a step back. Clark says, "Bruce, of course I care about you. You're my best friend. Where would I be- what would I do- without you?" Bruce closes his eyes, swallowing. "I'm not giving you pity. I know that you would never want pity. I'm only unhappy, because you're unhappy."

A short bark of a laugh. "I'm always unhappy."

"No, but..." The faint tremor of a smile appears on Clark's face. "I care about you. You can't think, for one second ever, that I don't."

Bruce opens his eyes, and an unrecognizable feeling goes through him. It's as if his soul has been detatched from his body, and all that remains is a lifeless shell of what he once was. "No. Not in the way-" He closes his mouth. Opens it again. "Please leave, Clark. Kal-El." He turns around. "Please."

"Bruce-"

"Go."

A few moments, and then Superman is gone.