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The Justice League was conducting a standard strategy session in the Watchtower conference room, a sterile bubble floating silently above the Earth. Clark was projecting files on the ‘Aces Wild,’ a brutal crime syndicate. Bruce sat to Clark's right, rigid and silent as always.
“They use psychological terrorism before physical force,” Clark explained, tapping a screen to bring up a grainy video file and an accompanying audio transcript. “This is recovered footage from a warehouse. They were trying to coerce a ten-year-old boy into giving up his father's location. Listen.”
Clark activated the audio. The sound quality was poor—hissing static underlying a man's cold, mocking voice.
“...Look at this kid. He's got his hands tied, look how helpless he is. Yeah, just like your mommy and daddy, kid. Hold still. Hold still…”
The words "Held at Gunpoint" and "Helpless" echoed through the massive chamber.
Bruce’s movement was barely perceptible. The reinforced metal datapad he was holding clattered against the table, slipping from hands that suddenly refused to grip. His entire body, clad in the intimidating armor of Batman, went utterly still. His head tilted infinitesimally, the white slits of the cowl fixed on the blank wall. This was dissociation.
“Bruce?” Clark asked, noticing the unnatural rigidity.
J’onn recoiled, a wave of mental distress washing over the League. “I… I cannot penetrate. It is a wall of static, but beneath it is pure, paralyzing fear. He is not here.”
Clark moved first, his instincts screaming. He placed a hand on Bruce’s armored shoulder. “Bruce, hey, look at me. It’s Clark. You’re safe. We’re in the Watchtower.”
Bruce remained frozen. Clark, desperation rising, reached for the cowl. “I need to see you, B. Just look at me.” Clark grasped the base of the helmet and pulled. The cowl separated with a sickening, wet suction sound. The cowl slid away, exposing Bruce Wayne's face: pale, drawn, and slick with the cold sweat of pure shock.
The League gasped. Bruce Wayne’s eyes were wide open, unfocused, and terrifyingly vacant. The world had dissolved, replaced by the darkness of a single, cold alley. The terror shifted into a desperate need to escape the physical bonds of the present. He threw his head back, a silent, guttural sound escaping his throat.
In a frantic, uncontrolled motion, Bruce brought his left armored hand up to his right arm, specifically the seam where the thick gauntlet met the flexible armor of the bicep. He began frantically clawing at the suit material. The reinforced glove material grated sickeningly against the armor. A patch of skin near his temple, exposed by the cowl removal, was snagged by a rough edge, leaving a shallow, immediately bleeding scrape. Bruce was trying to shred the suit, tearing off the restraints.
Clark pulled his love’s thrashing limbs away, shouting his name. Bruce went limp again, his breathing stopping altogether for a terrifying second before resuming the shallow, rapid cycle of pure shock.
“We need the others. We need someone who knows this pattern,” Diana ordered. Clark, mind reeling, could only whisper the name of the last, most terrifying contingency: “The Bat-Kids.”
Jason Todd, Red Hood, arrived in the infirmary within seven minutes. He wore leather, armor, and a blood-red helmet. He strode directly toward the prone figure of Batman.
Hal Jordan stepped forward, his ring flickering. “Hold it, Hood! You can’t just walk in here—we don’t know your intentions, and you are not touching him!”
Jason didn't pause. He swatted a weak, green restraining construct away. "Get out of my way, Jordan. You paralyzed him; I'm fixing him."
Diana stepped in front of Jason. "Red Hood. You are a known killer. We cannot allow you unsupervised access to our—to Bruce."
Jason stopped, his armored boot tapping impatiently. "Bruce? Oh, you mean the guy who just threw himself a little eight-year-old pity party? Look around, Princess. Your 'super-team' stared at him and did nothing. I am the only one here who has been this far gone and clawed their way back. Now move."
Clark stepped forward. "Jason, please. He's not responding. We need to know what you're doing."
Jason shoved past Diana. He reached the bedside, his total focus locking on Bruce’s face. His voice, filtered through the modulator, was a low, urgent snarl. "Hey. Snap out of it, old man. You look pathetic. You're going to give Superman a complex."
Bruce’s eyes did not react. Jason cursed under his breath. He ripped the helmet from his head and threw it to the floor with a deafening crash. The League saw his scarred, young face and the unsettling green in his eyes.
"I said get out of the damn way!" Jason hissed at the room. He didn't waste time on their shock. He placed his hands on Bruce’s rigid shoulders and shook him, once, sharply.
"Bruce! Jason’s here!"
Bruce's breathing hitched. A small, involuntary shudder ran through his chest, forcing a tiny, raw cough. His raw, scraped left hand twitched once toward Jason's voice, a single, agonizing motion of recognition and reaching.
Jason saw it. He had breached the wall. He dropped the harshness. "It's just me, B. You're not tied down. You're not small. You're too big and too old for this nonsense," he murmured, leaning in close. "Seriously, old man? You just had to upstage my last Lazarus dip with a trauma-induced seizure and a public unmasking? You really think everything has to be a competition?"
He pulled back. "You're safe. The kids are alright."
Jason glared over his shoulder. "Fragile? He's Batman. You use gentle talk, and he thinks he's dreaming. You use an anchor. The only thing strong enough to pull him back from that alley is something that belongs in the present." He gestured to his scarred face. "I'm a goddamn zombie. I'm proof he's not stuck in the past. Now move, or he stays gone."
The League, silenced, backed away. Jason went back to his methodical care.
"Sterile water," Jason ordered. Clark obeyed. Jason began to clean the scrape near Bruce’s temple.
Jason leaned down, his voice a barely audible rumble, low enough that only Clark’s super-hearing could catch the forced control beneath the anger. “You know what the worst part is, farm boy? Seeing him like that. Frozen. He never freezes. Seeing him check out like that… it means he was truly gone. He was back in that alley, and I wasn’t there to—to drag him out.” Jason abruptly pulled his hand away. "He's pathetic when he breaks. If he ever pulls that crap again, I'm dropping him in the middle of the Atlantic."
Jason then focused on the new injury: the angry, colorful bruising beneath Bruce's ribcage. He peeled back a layer of the armor. The discoloration was spectacular—deep purple and green, radiating from three stress fractures. “He came in here with three cracked ribs. Three. You see him every day. How new are you to this, Kent? This didn’t happen tonight. He’s been running on broken bones for a day, maybe two. And you didn't feel the wrong rhythm? You need to pay attention, man. This is his baseline.”
Clark slumped. "He hides it so well. He's always so guarded."
"No, Clark. He shows it to you in a thousand ways. You just weren't fluent in 'Billionaire Self-Destruct'," Jason retorted, his voice low and fast. "The whump isn't the injury itself. The whump is living in a suit that's too heavy, breathing through a trauma response, and never, ever letting go of the control because the last time he did, his parents died and he was left utterly helpless. You fix him by knowing what to leave alone. Got it? Because I can't be here every time he decides to clock out of reality."
Jason placed his hands, with firm, unforgiving pressure, directly to the site of the cracked ribs. A ragged, involuntary sound—half-gasp, half-sob—wrenched itself from Bruce Wayne’s throat.
Jason did not withdraw his hands. He leaned closer. “Good. That’s good, B. That means you’re here. That's Gotham grit. It’s a broken rib that you earned falling off a gargoyle this morning because you’re a clumsy idiot. You’re not bleeding out. You’re bruised. You’re here.”
He held the pressure for five seconds. He released it and secured a cold pack over the bruising. He pulled the thermal blanket up to Bruce’s chin.
He turned to Clark, his green eyes blazing. “Now, you listen to me, Kent. I’m giving you the key. He's sedated. He’s safe. But the second you look at Bruce Wayne and see a victim, you lose him. He doesn't need pity, he needs proof that the world is now, not then.” Jason jabbed a finger at Clark’s chest. “Be his soft place to land, but don't forget he's sharp. This is your territory now, Farm Boy. Don’t screw it up. I can’t be here every time."
Jason pulled his helmet on and slipped out. Clark walked to the bed, setting the cowl aside, and placed his hand gently on Bruce's uninjured shoulder, the smallest proof that Bruce was still fighting his way home.
Bruce awoke with a shuddering gasp, the cold realization of his total shame hitting him harder than any physical pain. The cowl was gone. They know.
He tried to sit up. The cracked ribs instantly sent a blinding bolt of white-hot agony across his chest. He gasped, a raw, strangled sound, and collapsed back onto the pillow.
“Don’t move, B. You’re fine. You’re safe.”
“Clark, I need to leave. Now,” Bruce rasped, trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
“No, you don’t,” Clark said firmly, placing a steady, warm hand on Bruce’s good arm. “Jason said twelve hours. You’re staying, Bruce. The world won’t end, and Gotham won’t notice. I’m here.”
Bruce stopped struggling. “The League saw… they know everything.”
“They know you’re Bruce Wayne,” Clark confirmed. “And they know you’re a man who fights harder than anyone else because he had a moment stolen from him. They’re standing outside, B. They’re not judging. They’re waiting for you to be okay.”
The door slid open, and Jason walked back in with a metal tray and medication. He ignored Clark, focusing on Bruce.
“Good, you’re awake,” Jason stated. “You made a mess, old man. Had to expose your pathetic secret identity and scare the spandex-wearing space cops. And for what? For a memory.”
Bruce flinched. “Don’t,” he managed, choked with defeat.
Jason leaned over. “No. I’m going to. Honestly, B, I thought I had you beat for drama when I came back from the dead, but you pulling a full dissociative break in the League meeting? Bravo. You just lost your street cred. I mean, you couldn’t even wait for a quiet Tuesday at the Manor for this existential crisis? It’s almost like you’re saying, ‘Oh, Jason, look! My trauma is bigger than my last Lazarus attack!’ Pathetic.”
He paused, letting the bitter snark sink in. “Look at your ribs, Bruce. Focus on the hurt now. That pain is real. That is now. The gun, the alley, the helplessness—that’s then. You’re not there.”
He reached out and, with a firm, precise control born of shared trauma, pressed his thumb gently but insistently against the center of the worst bruise on Bruce’s chest. The grounding pain erupted. Bruce gasped, the sharp, necessary agony overriding the haze of shame. His fingers curled into the sheets, pulling a deep, ragged breath that was entirely present.
“That is the real world, B,” Jason murmured, his voice thick with relief. “You have control over that pain. You earned it. Now drink this. And don’t you dare run from him.”
Bruce swallowed the pain medication instantly. Clark took the empty cup and settled onto the side of the bed. He picked up Bruce's raw, scraped hand and gently ran his thumb over the knuckles.
“He’s right, Bruce. You’re not leaving. We’re here. We’re right here.” Clark leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly promise. “You don't have to be invincible for me, B. You just have to be real. And you are here, now. With me.”
Bruce looked at the man holding his hand and the young man who knew the darkness so well he could pull him out of it. He finally let the tension in his shoulders drop, closing his eyes. The fight was over. For now, he was just Bruce Wayne, exhausted and broken, and he had nowhere left to hide.