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English
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Published:
2017-11-28
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1,112
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1/1
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Ghosts Shuffling In The Old House

Summary:

Bruce had walked this road paved with self – destruction for more than 20 years where the end would be a lone forgotten grave. It was fine, he accepted it like how he endured the pain, the wounds and the scars. In his mind it was all for the sake of his city. If Gotham asked for his life to become better he would gladly jump off from the Wayne Tower top without a grappling hook. For the same excuse he had done things, which, under the name of Justice, were unforgivable. Hence he did not, for his entire life before, believe in forgiveness. Forgiveness was for the helplessness, for those who were too weak to take action, to revenge, to bleed and shed blood.

But things changed. He changed, too.

Notes:

This fic is simply an emotional rant of my perspective in Bruce's guilt and how I imagine he dealt with it from BvS to JL, so my demonstation of him can be way out of character. This is my first fic in years so I'm a little rusty, I will be very appreciate if someone can help me with my mistakes. WARNING: This fic contains triggers, so please be careful, you can still go back.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Bruce dreamed of holding a Kryptonite shard against Clark’s throat.

He hadn’t returned to Smallville again until the requisition of Clark’s childhood house. Last time he had been there for a funeral of a man he tried to kill, no, killed. No one, even Lois, had addressed him as anything other than Mr. Wayne. The silence of seemingly endless field made his inside cringed and palm sweated. Just like last time, black clothes and sorrow and silent tears and everybody could not realized the perpetrator had been standing right there all the time.

Martha insisted him staying for dinner. It had been a long day of moving boxes and reorganizing furniture, all of them could use a hot meal and friendly conversation. Of course Bruce tried to refuse and failed. The look she gave him left no room for objection. Oh how he remembered the light of vivid gratitude in her eyes when Clark said he was the one bringing him back. He doubted she could look at him like a savior if she knew he had planned for her son’s death.

A monster, perhaps. A Bat in human’s clothing.

Dinner was as pleasant as it could be. Martha talked about Smallville’ changes Clark had missed while Lois updated him with everything happened in Daily Planet and Metropolis. Their hands intertwined and occasionally Clark lovingly stroked her ring finger. Bruce tried not to choke on hot coffee for the sake of being polite alone.

He had made Lois a widow before becoming a wife.

He managed to sit through dessert as a decent guess before excused for Gotham. Both women hugged him goodbye (in their arms he couldn’t breathe) and Clark saw him to his car. He walked with him, side by side, laughed and obviously enjoyed the time he had once more.

You don’t let me live.

Thank you for your time. Please take care of yourself. Clark said. They shook hands. Clark’s perfect, uncalloused hand was warm. Last time it were like cold steel tightened on his jaw, promising to shed blood.

And you don’t let me die.

From afar the house stood like a lighthouse in the mid of black sea, so fragile yet calm and welcoming. Just not for a sinner like him.

Bruce kept the murder weapon he spent days honing with all his will of taking a life pouring in, his Spear of Destiny, in a glass case hidden in the cave, together with the ripped blue – and – red suit, the cave wall was covered in lead so no x – ray vision can detect it. Those were his sin, locked in dark corners so only he could see and hear.

He also stopped taking meds. In his sleep he welcomed the dreams. Sometimes Jason showed up and tugged him toward the ruined Manor, the shape of the boy so light and transparent like smoke slipped through fingers before burning in fire and gunpowder. Once in a while he saw his parents sitting comfortably in front of the fireplace, his mother’s head leaned slightly on his father’s shoulder while her life slowly bled out from bullet hole on her neck. Most of the time he saw Clark standing on the lake bank bathing in the mist of sunlight, red and blue and regal gold. Those eyes, forever forgiving blue.

My judge. Clark would put a shard of Kryptonite in his hand. The green mineral shone like deadly diamond.

In the dream Bruce stepped closer, so close he could see his reflection under Clark’s eyelash. Time would stop so they could share the same breath, so he could hear the slow beating of his heart under ribcage. Under the illusion of light his lips touched Bruce’s, so soft and maddeningly gentle.

My jury. Clark whispered, the blue unwavered.

He would put his fingers on Clark’s throat, feel the blood flowing through his veins before pressing the shard in, puncturing the cuticle and drawing a red line on white porcelain skin.

My executor. Clark would fall, his feet would leave earth, the lake water would embrace him, his blue would be gone.

All dreams ended when the light turned darkness, leaving only empty forgiveness.

All dreams ended so he could wake up, sweated and terrified and screamed no sounds.

He had walked this road paved with self – destruction for more than 20 years where the end would be a lone forgotten grave. It was fine, he accepted it like how he endured the pain, the wounds and the scars. In his mind it was all for the sake of his city. If Gotham asked for his life to become better he would gladly jump off from the Wayne Tower top without a grappling hook. For the same excuse he had done things, which, under the name of Justice, were unforgivable. He lied, he cheated. He took lives. Hence he did not, for his entire life before, believe in forgiveness. Forgiveness was for the helplessness, for those who were too weak to take action, to revenge, to bleed and shed blood.

But things changed. He changed, too.

He met Superman.

A man who did not come from Earth. A man who was strong enough to make people apologize to him when they do no wrong. A man who was Godly enough to make people confess their sins out of willingness.

The same man who thanked Bruce for bringing him back his life.

He had ripped the world of its Hope. Lives must be paid to be forgiven. But Bruce also knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, be forgiven. Any salvation to him was deemed futile, so he did the only thing he knew how to do best. Punishing himself. A quick death was too much merciful for him.

Diana looked at him sadly. She definitely noticed the wrist bandage Bruce wore more often now. When he assuring her that it came from long fights, she looked him deep in the eyes and said. I’m here to help you win that fight. Bruce brushed her off, he didn’t need her help. He hadn’t need anyone to tend for his emotional wounds, he could take care of them. Just carved deep enough until numb and all would stop being painful.

For every cut he made on Clark in dreams, he made a similar cut on himself.

For every time he saw the light dying in Clark eyes, he pushed the blade a little harder.

Clark was right. The world needs Clark, it needs Superman, it doesn’t need him. He was just shadow maculating its light. He was the blood staining Clark’s smile.

Forgiveness was never meant for him.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading!!