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Bruce Wayne should be glad. Arkham is secure, Gotham has seen little more than the occasional mugging, everything is as close to perfect as it can be. The relative serenity feels like suffocation. When things are this quiet, as they’ve now been for nearly two weeks, it can only be a bad sign. He has to be missing something. In the last few days, he’s cancelled his Wayne Enterprises meetings as much as possible, taking calls only when they’re absolutely unavoidable.
He knows he’s spiraling. Nearly all of his children have stopped by to check on him, most trying to beg, borrow, or force him to bed with minimal luck. In the moments he considered acquiescing, their presence backfired on their attempts, only reminding Bruce of everything he could lose.
Alfred doesn’t even comment anymore as he brings down a new plate of food, removing the old, barely touched one. Or maybe Bruce has just tuned the comments out, he’s not sure anymore. What he is sure of is that the coffee stopped coming a while ago. He tells himself that he’ll get up and make it himself just as soon as he does this thing, no, after this thing, no, one more…
Oracle has all but banned him from comms after he snapped…sometime. It must have been recently. He’s dimly aware that he should feel guilty but the only emotion getting through the grinding gears in his head is irritation. Why can’t anyone else see the obvious? Gotham doesn’t get peace. Bruce doesn’t get peace. If he stops watching, it all falls apart. His inability to tolerate the calm is surely a sign that he isn’t fit for anything but watching, just a high tech addition to the many gargoyles so prevalent across his city.
He doesn’t let himself think for too long about the most selfish reason for his motivation. When he’s trying to save everyone, he doesn’t have to think of the times he’s failed them. The tormented wails only overwhelm him when he closes his eyes, when his brain slows enough to be drowned in despair. If he keeps pushing, maybe he can finally make amends, maybe this time he’ll earn their forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve that comfort, knows he’ll never truly earn it. But what can he do except keep pushing? As much as he deserves their punishment, giving in means potentially dooming countless more to the same fate. No matter which path he takes, it’s selfish.
Paths, maybe that’s it. Mentally, he maps Gotham and all his points of surveillance. What are the blind spots? How can he most efficiently check them all to be sure that he’s not missing something? Just as he’s charting possible routes, he hears a familiar pair of footsteps, accompanied by the faint whooshing of a cape. He clenches his jaw and redoubles his focus on the screen.
“When’s the last time you saw the sun?”
“Today,” Bruce’s reply is automatic, still tracing his options, sure he’s just on the verge of—
Bruce’s chair is pulled back and he’s spun around to face his exasperated partner before he can move. His wrists are pinned to the arms of the chair with that impossible delicacy that Clark does everything with, preventing escape without causing damage, so long as Bruce doesn’t struggle.
He struggles, of course he does. The fingers around him tense slightly and he forces himself not to relax into the pressure. It would be so easy to surrender his body to the Kryptonian strength.
“It’s 4 AM. The sun isn’t up yet. You have your kids, let them take over if it really can’t wait.”
“Someone is planning something though, I need to—”
“You need to stop. Tim said you’re trying to connect totally unrelated dots. Maybe, and I know this is crazy, maybe Gotham is going through a period of calm. Maybe you can rest.”
Bruce’s fight is no longer a charade, Clark’s hands were a welcome momentary distraction but he needs to get back. He may not know what plot is cooking but there has to be one, this is Gotham. And he needs to figure it out before it’s too late, before more people get hurt.
“I guess we’re doing this the hard way. I’m sorry, Bruce.” Clark truly does look remorseful but with a grim set to his jaw, he yanks his lover and carries him over his shoulder, with no small amount of struggle and swearing.
When they’re through the entrance to the Batcave, Clark glances at Cassandra, who finally steps out from the shadows and in front of the door. She nods at him. That should at least slow Bruce down if he escapes.
Distracted as he is with trying in vain to wriggle free from his brute of a boyfriend, Bruce still notes his wards scattered around, acknowledging Clark with everything from a grim nod to a thumbs up. As he’s carried towards his bedroom, the irritation has long since grown to full-on anger. Some of it leeches out to the loved ones conspiring against him, but the bulk is turned inwards. If he’d just been faster, hadn’t let himself get distracted, he would already have the answer and could turn to his family for assistance maintaining the peace rather than being carried around like a sack of potatoes. He’s too late, again.
The final betrayal is his youngest son, waiting atop the final flight of stairs, in clear eyeline of Bruce’s room.
“Father, I must insist that you rest. This is unbecoming.” Damian crosses his arms as he fixes Bruce with a firm stare. “I will be observing here. The other exits are also being watched.”
In his room, Bruce is finally set down, dignity restored upon standing again. Unfortunately, Clark has positioned himself in front of the door, immediately blocking the most obvious exit. Bruce turns to scan for alternatives when his wrist is grabbed again.
“Look at me.”
Bruce turns his face to Clark but it’s clear that his mind is back down in his files, checking and double checking, creating patterns. Clark gently rests a hand on his face and gives a pained sigh.
“You’re trapped in there again, aren’t you?”
Yes, trapped in this room when I need to be down there, monitoring my city.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come on. Please know I say this with love but the circles under your eyes are dark enough that they may as well be your makeup. Your stubble is about to become a beard - a good look but a bad reason for it. Your eyes are more burst vessels than whites. For Pete’s sake, you’re lucky your family didn’t drug you to get you some rest.”
“I’ve trained myself to resist many common sedatives.” Bruce doesn’t understand why Clark is gaping at him, he knows this fact.
“Yep, we’re getting you clean and into bed. Come on.”
Bruce stares longingly at the door to the hall as he’s dragged into the bathroom.
Clark keeps one hand on him as he turns the shower on, warm steam quickly filling the space. The sensation is a welcome one and Bruce’s eyelids start to droop before he bites down on his tongue. He can’t get distracted, he can still get out of this and find a solution. He practically goes limp as Clark undresses him, using his last dregs of energy to think, going back over the whereabouts and connections of the main players in Gotham’s underground. It must be a conspiracy that he’s missing, that’s why he can’t find it.
As he traces the web of connections, he lets himself be pulled into the shower. He only realizes his mistake as the water caresses his skin and Clark grabs some soap to remove the grime that even Bruce acknowledges has built up. The water taps a consistent rhythm, easing his tense muscles as his partner soothes them further with gentle touch, easing the knotted tissue into submission. Bruce is currently on Poison Ivy and has to keep restarting his mental path, wandering off at everything urging his senses to relax.
Clark is working down Bruce’s arm when he pauses, which snaps Bruce’s lolling head back up for an entirely different reason, a pit forming in his gut.
“Jesus, Bruce. Are you okay?”
Clark is staring at Bruce’s hands, often prone to minor injuries between vigilante and mechanical work. All the current marks are self-inflicted, bite marks and deep crescents revealing the times he’d nearly drifted off. The frown deepens as he looks lower and sees several small spots on Bruce’s thighs, where he’d dug his pencil into the flesh through his clothes for the same aim of remaining vigilant.
It’s the first time he’s seen me like this, Bruce realizes as his stomach turns sour. Clark’s hands drop in surprise. Of course. This is different than being wounded in battle. This is worse. Somehow, it’s worse. He should’ve ju—
His train of thought jerks to a halt as Clark reaches back out and grabs him. He’s gently pulled up and he realizes that he nearly collapsed, nearly crashed his skull into the expensive, fancy tile.
“Bruce Wayne done in by a shower,” he mumbles and lets out a brief but delirious laugh, feeling his body sway from a million miles away.
“Okay, forget the shower, hang on.” Bruce is pulled in tight to Clark’s broad chest, cradled in one arm while the other gropes to turn off the water.
“Back down,” Bruce manages, the words muffled against a wall of flesh.
“No, bed.” Clark’s tone leaves no room for argument.
It’s awkward, but Clark manages to dry Bruce off and get him into sleeping pants one-handed, always careful to avoid another fall. He narrates the whole thing to Bruce, who tries to tune it out to focus but the soothing baritone eases past his walls, splitting his thoughts with words and touch until the strings Bruce was trying to connect hang limply in his mind. They’re not forgotten, he’s staring right at them, but he can’t raise a mental finger to move them.
As he’s put in bed and the covers are pulled around him, Clark coming behind him, whispering endearments and a good night, the pull of urgency is nearly forgotten. But as soon as the sweet murmur of Clark’s voice stops, the screams of the fallen creep back in, the feeling of so much blood slipping through his fingers. Like this, broken down, he can’t suppress the tremors that wrack him.
“Bruce? Bruce, what’s wrong?” Clark pulls back and rolls Bruce over to look in his eyes and feel his forehead, checking for fever
“Quiet…can’t…keep talking…” The jumbled words are all he can manage. Bruce is split across a million places, his failures, his dreams, his bed, his boyfriend, and a terrifying void that grows more appealing by the moment.
“Of course. I can talk for both of us. I could talk to you for hours, maybe more like talk at you, I guess. I feel like you always listen though, even when you pretend not to. It’s nice to be heard. I want to hear you too, but you like action more than words. You know, Cass was a surprise to me but also the one most like you. Here I thought you were quiet and I’m pretty sure she didn’t say a word to me until at least the second time I met her…”
Clark continues like that, just babbling his train of thought as Bruce’s body stops its trembling. He keeps going even after that, not wanting to leave space for the demons in Bruce’s head to commandeer again. His only pause is when Bruce grumbles, clearly having something to say.
“Gotta do…apology tour…” The words slur together as Bruce’s mind finally slows to a halt, surrendering to a blissfully dreamless sleep. Clark holds him and keeps speaking until they’ve both been claimed by unconsciousness.