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"Are you alright?"
The words don't match the tone of voice. They almost sound disgusted. Rightly so, Bruce thinks. He grins wide, feeling vicious satisfaction at the chorus of gasps elicited by his bloodied teeth.
"I'm fine, darling," he drawls at the socialite, who now looks like she regrets asking.
"Brucie, you're bleeding," whispers another shocked voice. He can't be bothered to match the voice to his internal rolodex. The hall is too bright for him to make note of faces anyway.
"Well, red's really my colour, so—"
"Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?"
Even with his diminished perception, Bruce can sense a chill in the air. The hostility usually reserved by the rich and famous for the press seems ratcheted up by magnitudes.
"Karl, is it?" Bruce mumbles, squinting.
"Clark. Kent." Clark sounds like he's gritting the words out. Bruce tells himself the swoop in his gut is simply more satisfaction.
He squints harder. "Well, which is it? Clark or Kent?"
"Both. Mr. Wayne, if I might borrow a few minutes of your time?"
"No, you may not," Bruce says smoothly, then tries to catch the microexpressions crossing Clark's face. Surprise. Anger for sure. Some other stuff that Bruce cannot and does not want to parse right now.
"I really think Mr. Wayne —"
"I think he was perfectly clear, Mr. Kent," interrupts the formerly-shocked voice. It is crisp with anger now, and Bruce finally recognises it. Veronica Vreeland's strident tones are not easily forgotten.
"I understand you're just 'doing your job'," Veronica continues, seemingly on a warpath, "but I'd like to see you try and take advantage of Bruce's condition in my house to publish your trash, no go ahead, please make me sue you and your fucking newspaper —"
Good lord, she makes it sound like he has a terminal disease. It is, a voice in his head whispers. You will never recover from this.
"Ronnie, Ronnie, chill out," Bruce chuckles before Clark can respond, flashing his teeth at more people, just because he can. The way they recoil from him continues to sate the dark and heavy thing in his chest. "It's all good and peachy. Lead the way, Mr. Kark."
Later, when Bruce isn't quite so numb to things such as this, he will feel some appreciation at Veronica's genuine concern as he turns away. Not now. Now, he blows kisses and waves goodbye as he follows Clark, flashing his bloody smile at as many people as he can.
Clark leads him outside the ballroom and towards what looks like a service closet. The door is locked.
Bruce pats his pockets vaguely. "I can pick the lock."
Clark nudges the door with his shoulder and breaks the door open.
Bruce lets out a low whistle as he follows Clark into the dark room. "You should have let me pick the lock." He turns around and leans against a patch of wall that isn't blocked by a shelf. "How are you gonna explain that? In fact," he grins wider up at Clark, who he knows can see him perfectly fine even in the near-pitch dark, "how are you gonna explain getting into a dark closet with Brucie Wayne?"
"Stop it, Bruce," Clark says softly. Too soft. It makes Bruce seethe.
"Stop what."
Clark waves his hand at him. Bruce can see pretty well in the dark, too. "All of this. Your drunken fight. You've torn open your stitches." His voice is very even. Carefully so.
Bruce makes a meh sound and shrugs. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."
"Your ribs are cracked again."
"Also has happened before."
"Your knee."
"Been that way for months now."
"Your knuckles. Your fingernails." Clark is starting to sound impatient now. Finally. "You have a black eye on top of your concussion. Your wrist is sprained again. You lost a tooth—"
"I lost my son." Bruce hisses, and the air seems to rush out of the room.
Bruce is floundering. He didn't — he didn't want to say it. He didn't want to think it, and Clark, fucking Clark —
"Bruce," Clark whispers, somehow sounding both appalled and sad. "You have to stop."
His wrist is throbbing from how hard he's clenching his fists. "That man. You don't know — you didn't hear —"
"I heard," Clark says quietly. Only sad now. It makes Bruce's blood boil.
"Then you know I couldn't — just stand there listening — about, about —"
He never finishes his sentence. One moment he is fumbling for words, the great big pit in his heart opening up into an endless abyss of rage and grief —
The next his head is pressed against Clark's shoulder. Clark's arms are around him, firm and present. Clark's chin is hooked over his own shoulder.
"You need to stop, Bruce." His voice sounds wet.
Bruce shudders and holds on. But he doesn't agree.
Clark, of course, notices that. He lets out a shuddering sigh that rolls warmly down Bruce's back, but says nothing more. After what seems like eons, he leans back, still loosely clasping Bruce's arms. Bruce's black eye has started to swell now, so he can't make out his expression very well.
"At least go home. Please?" Clark sounds resigned.
And Bruce is… tired. He's so fucking tired he finally gives in and nods.
Clark simply nods back, squeezes his arms once, and opens the door.
The light outside is bright enough to hurt and Bruce doesn't pretend it doesn't. He covers his eyes with a groan, but not before he sees the gleam of auburn hair. Veronica.
"Bruce," she gasps with immediate concern.
"Mr. Wayne said he'd be going home now, Ms. Vreeland," Clark says behind Bruce.
Bruce can practically sense the way Ronnie must be glaring daggers at Clark right now. A large, apathetic part of him wants to turn away and let Clark deal with Gotham society's infamous Vreeland Wrath. But he can still feel the warmth of Clark's hands on his arms. Can hear the exhaustion in his voice that, though not the same, is a semblance of his own.
"Ronnie, it's fine," Bruce finally admits. "He's a friend."
He has barely closed his mouth when he sways without meaning to. What the fuck. He can't remember the last time he swayed without intent. But then… Going on less than three hours of sleep in the last seventy two hours, eating a single spring roll in the last eight hours, swallowing four ibuprofen dry five hours ago, then drinking a whole bottle of champagne since would make him stagger. That does seem to make sense, his tired brain thinks.
Clark's hand is curling around his elbow before he can straighten himself. "Let me, Bruce."
Bruce stumbles along. "Don't need your help."
"You don't," Clark agrees. "I'm just coming with to see Alfred."
Bruce grunts.
"You know Alfred." The voice surprises him. It seems Veronica is coming along, too.
"I do, Ms. Vreeland."
She doesn't say anything else, but she didn't sound angry, at least.
They step outside suddenly — Bruce had not been keeping track of where they were — and the air is so cold it seems to jolt through him. Goddamnit. Just when Bruce's mind was settling into a cottonwool-like state, as close to pleasant as he could ask for.
"Bruce, where's Alfred?" Clark sounds concerned again.
"Drove myself."
Clark and Veronica both make similar noises of distress, to Bruce's vague amusement. They go back into a gleaming foyer, and Bruce sinks down onto a nearby footstool before either of them can say or do anything.
"Let him stay there," Veronica says, sounding resigned. "I'll have my car brought around."
Bruce slumps on the low stool and tips his head forward, fighting to keep his eyes open. He can't sleep. He can not sleep. He knows what visions await him when he does.
The swirling patterns of Veronica's new marble flooring draw him into a slow, vaguely nauseous spiral and the conversation dissolves into silvery paste. For a while, Bruce drifts.
Awareness returns to him slowly, as bits and pieces of sentences float over to him.
"…won't be printing anything that happened tonight?"
"You won't see my name on the byline," Clark assures her. "Though there may be others…"
Ronnie sighs loudly. "Of course. The press…"
Bruce's perception of touch rises abruptly when a hand suddenly brushes his hair off his forehead. Damn, those acrylic nails are sharp. "I don't blame him," Ronnie says softly. "I heard a little of what Rupert was saying."
Oh. No. Bruce doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't want to remember what that fucker—
Dissociate, he tells himself sternly. He manages tune their voices out into white noise again. The relief carries him into blankness for a bit.
Not too long, again, because he has trained himself out of this kind of stress response. As Batman, it is crucial for him to stay aware and able to react to his environment at all times.
Except right now, he isn't Batman. He's just — he just doesn't want to be here.
And so unfortunately, the voices start to tune back in at the worst possible time.
"Did you… know him too?"
A pause.
"I did." Clark's voice sounds strangled. "Not as well as I would have liked."
Oh, fuck no. Bruce doesn't want to hear this. He needs to tell them to stop. He needs to leave this place. He needs, he wants —
Suddenly Clark is much closer to him. He's standing so close that Bruce can lean back against his knees if he wants. Can take some amount of the warmth that's always leaking out of him. It's a familiar, grounding presence. It makes the desperate thing in his chest loosen its claws on him, just a little.
"…me too," Veronica says quietly. "I had Bunny at around the time he was around and… you know how it is with newborns." A pause. "That's why I get it. If anything happened to my Bunny, I…" She takes a deep breath. "Why don't the others get it?"
Bruce knows why. Bruce knows Clark knows why.
"…I don't know, Ms. Vreeland."
"Sure you don't," Ronnie says, sounding darkly amused. "No, it's fine. I understand."
Someone interrupts their quiet conversation. Ronnie excuses herself with a murmur, and Bruce listens to the sound of her heels clacking away reverberating on the gleaming floor.
"B," Clark says softly.
"Shut up," Bruce growls immediately. "Just. Stop."
"Okay."
Fingers, big and warm, card through his hair gently, almost hesitantly. Bruce realises he has indeed leaned back against Clark's legs at some point. The dark, sharp thing inside him loosens more of its claws. This is dangerous. He can't — let go, not here and now, not with Clark —
Veronica's heels announce her arrival. "The car is ready." Then, clearly directed at Clark. "Will you take him home?"
Enough. Bruce pushes away from Clark's warmth and stumbles to his feet. "I can do it," he mutters. He catches the expression on her face — clear enough, even through his swollen eye and concussed vision and cuts her off before she can protest.
"Ronnie, you're an angel," he slurs and leans forward to leave a short but sloppy kiss on her cheek. "I'll be fine, I feel like a million bucks!"
"Bruce," Clark tries again.
"I said I'll be fine," Bruce hisses, whipping around to face him.
The look on Clark's face shrinks into something small and resigned. Good, Bruce tells himself viciously. Clark says nothing, only places his hand firmly on his shoulder. This too is a familiar touch — too familiar. This isn't Clark's hand on Bruce's shoulder. It's Superman reassuring Batman, giving him strength when the never-ending battle is going particularly bad.
Bruce doesn't want it. A Batman who lost his Robin doesn't — shouldn't fucking want it.
So he pulls away from Clark's hold and shuffles past them both.
"Take care, Bruce," Ronnie calls out and Bruce simply waves goodbye over his shoulder. Clark's silence is telling enough.
He staggers into the biting cold night and makes his way to the waiting car practically on autopilot. The entire drive slips by unnoticed, the cottonwool static returning with a vengeance as Gotham's grey streets blur past him. Alfred's face when he opens the door is fuzzy. His voice is a faraway echoing murmur.
Bruce takes one step inside his empty fucking manor, two.
Then collapses onto his knees and finally, finally lets himself break apart.