Folks said his family were all dead
Who: The Man of Steel isitablurred and The Caped Crusader kingofrooks
When: Friday 17th June
Where: A safehouse in Sector 10
Summary: Bruce is determined to see himself punished for what happened with the Joker. When Clark is reticent to indulge him, Bruce takes things into his own hands.
Warnings: Violence, blood, Kryptonite, Bruce Wayne's self-loathing, more violence. No really. Deep, intense violence and torturous themes in here, proceed with caution. RATED R also warning for advanced tl;dr of absolute doom.
It had been a strange call from Bruce, admittedly. They'd not been able to make it to their previous 'date'; more an arrangement, really, a way for them both to reenforce their personas that wasn't entirely reckless, that was understandable in a city where their only other companions from home were all barking mad--or at the very least half barking mad.
But the address was a safehouse address, and Clark wasn't sure which outfit he was supposed to be wearing. He wore both. His work shirt was intentionally baggy enough to keep any accent of muscle from showing through--it also went a long way to hiding his cape inside it. His duster - worn even in the depths of summer - hung over the top of his suit, but then Clark didn't feel the changes in temperature the way others did, and wearing two outfits, going to the heights he did with only a thin layer of fabric between him and the bitter air, that was probably fortunate.
He let himself in, closed the door behind him and glanced around, reaching up to take off his glasses.
Bruce would already know he was here by now, that was just his style.
When: Friday 17th June
Where: A safehouse in Sector 10
Summary: Bruce is determined to see himself punished for what happened with the Joker. When Clark is reticent to indulge him, Bruce takes things into his own hands.
Warnings: Violence, blood, Kryptonite, Bruce Wayne's self-loathing, more violence. No really. Deep, intense violence and torturous themes in here, proceed with caution. RATED R also warning for advanced tl;dr of absolute doom.
It had been a strange call from Bruce, admittedly. They'd not been able to make it to their previous 'date'; more an arrangement, really, a way for them both to reenforce their personas that wasn't entirely reckless, that was understandable in a city where their only other companions from home were all barking mad--or at the very least half barking mad.
But the address was a safehouse address, and Clark wasn't sure which outfit he was supposed to be wearing. He wore both. His work shirt was intentionally baggy enough to keep any accent of muscle from showing through--it also went a long way to hiding his cape inside it. His duster - worn even in the depths of summer - hung over the top of his suit, but then Clark didn't feel the changes in temperature the way others did, and wearing two outfits, going to the heights he did with only a thin layer of fabric between him and the bitter air, that was probably fortunate.
He let himself in, closed the door behind him and glanced around, reaching up to take off his glasses.
Bruce would already know he was here by now, that was just his style.