They say that the world was built for two
Who: The Superbat Husbands. By which I mean Bruce Wayne [kingofrooks] and Clark Kent [isitablurred]
When: Backdated to December 20th, 2011.
Where: Batcave
Summary: Bruce goes home after dealing with the Shadow. Clark is waiting for him.
Warnings: Uh. It's these two, plus that Shadow. Probably massive tl;dr, talks of violence and mindfuck and gore, and even more fucked up ethics
He could still barely breathe. Every breath was shallow, as if he was afraid of his own lungs, afraid that the air itself would burn him from the inside. The Shadow had scraped him raw, inside and out, until Bruce was sure that he was bleeding even though his skin was still pale and he couldn't see any blood anywhere. There were no physical injuries, but he hurt. He hurt in a way that he hadn't hurt in a very, very long time.
Ra's phone call didn't help. Bruce still didn't know why he had even picked up that call, much less why he had continued on a conversation instead of hanging up. All that was established was simply that he was a hypocrite, and there were pieces of him that were far too similar to Ra's al Ghul than he had ever wanted to admit; that he wanted to think about. Bruce hadn't forgotten about the Tower of Babel incident; hadn't forgotten that one of Ra's closest brush with victory was because of his own methods.
That he hadn't really learned. The red Kryptonite was still with him. There was too much blue in his possession, more than enough to turn some to green. He could still kill even the strongest man he knew with enough preparation, tools, and if Clark was caught off-guard. And of course he would be - after all, Clark trusted him. Trusted him like Re-l did, for reasons that Bruce didn't actually understand because if he was in their position, he wouldn't trust him at all.
He dropped down into the Cave. It was nearly dawn, and though the days were much shorter and the rays of sunlight came at a much later time, there was still some time before he had to go to work. It didn't mean he had time to sleep, but Bruce didn't want that anyway. Not when he knew perfectly well that he would be haunted by visions and terrors of the kind of Batman he could have been; not when he knew that he would wake up to nightmares. Bruce had an eidetic memory; he remembered everything, and it was impossible to forget. It was useful enough, but nightmares- it looked like he would have to exhaust himself before he could sleep, every night.
Not like it was anything new.
It was disgusting, how sorry he was feeling for himself. There were plans to be made and actions to carry out. Bruce knew that the broadcast would definitely make his life harder, because now Batman was seen as a murderer. Perhaps it would ease up Re-l's life and the lives of the people who knew his secrets, because he was no longer a hero - he was a vigilante, a damn villain in the eyes of the Port, and that was how he liked it. The more people liked him, the more danger they would be in because of his enemies. Bruce only hoped that their fear of him will not paralyze them if he had to get them out of the way of Darkness monsters and other such monsters that haunted the Port.
The echoes of his own footsteps were loud in the long passageway to the Cave, and the city herself was as silent as a grave. She had been silent for some time now, and Bruce couldn't help but feel bitterness about that. If he could control the city and her information like he could the shadows- no, he was being overly reliant. Dependent. He hated having powers.
When he stepped fully into the Cave, Bruce tipped his head up, staring at the ceiling blankly before he pulled off the cowl and started moving towards the computers. Work. He had to log this night, no matter how little he wanted it to actually solidify into writing. Into truths.
Damnit.
When: Backdated to December 20th, 2011.
Where: Batcave
Summary: Bruce goes home after dealing with the Shadow. Clark is waiting for him.
Warnings: Uh. It's these two, plus that Shadow. Probably massive tl;dr, talks of violence and mindfuck and gore, and even more fucked up ethics
He could still barely breathe. Every breath was shallow, as if he was afraid of his own lungs, afraid that the air itself would burn him from the inside. The Shadow had scraped him raw, inside and out, until Bruce was sure that he was bleeding even though his skin was still pale and he couldn't see any blood anywhere. There were no physical injuries, but he hurt. He hurt in a way that he hadn't hurt in a very, very long time.
Ra's phone call didn't help. Bruce still didn't know why he had even picked up that call, much less why he had continued on a conversation instead of hanging up. All that was established was simply that he was a hypocrite, and there were pieces of him that were far too similar to Ra's al Ghul than he had ever wanted to admit; that he wanted to think about. Bruce hadn't forgotten about the Tower of Babel incident; hadn't forgotten that one of Ra's closest brush with victory was because of his own methods.
That he hadn't really learned. The red Kryptonite was still with him. There was too much blue in his possession, more than enough to turn some to green. He could still kill even the strongest man he knew with enough preparation, tools, and if Clark was caught off-guard. And of course he would be - after all, Clark trusted him. Trusted him like Re-l did, for reasons that Bruce didn't actually understand because if he was in their position, he wouldn't trust him at all.
He dropped down into the Cave. It was nearly dawn, and though the days were much shorter and the rays of sunlight came at a much later time, there was still some time before he had to go to work. It didn't mean he had time to sleep, but Bruce didn't want that anyway. Not when he knew perfectly well that he would be haunted by visions and terrors of the kind of Batman he could have been; not when he knew that he would wake up to nightmares. Bruce had an eidetic memory; he remembered everything, and it was impossible to forget. It was useful enough, but nightmares- it looked like he would have to exhaust himself before he could sleep, every night.
Not like it was anything new.
It was disgusting, how sorry he was feeling for himself. There were plans to be made and actions to carry out. Bruce knew that the broadcast would definitely make his life harder, because now Batman was seen as a murderer. Perhaps it would ease up Re-l's life and the lives of the people who knew his secrets, because he was no longer a hero - he was a vigilante, a damn villain in the eyes of the Port, and that was how he liked it. The more people liked him, the more danger they would be in because of his enemies. Bruce only hoped that their fear of him will not paralyze them if he had to get them out of the way of Darkness monsters and other such monsters that haunted the Port.
The echoes of his own footsteps were loud in the long passageway to the Cave, and the city herself was as silent as a grave. She had been silent for some time now, and Bruce couldn't help but feel bitterness about that. If he could control the city and her information like he could the shadows- no, he was being overly reliant. Dependent. He hated having powers.
When he stepped fully into the Cave, Bruce tipped his head up, staring at the ceiling blankly before he pulled off the cowl and started moving towards the computers. Work. He had to log this night, no matter how little he wanted it to actually solidify into writing. Into truths.
Damnit.