Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandoms:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Series:
Part 41 of Cor Et Cerebrum
Stats:
Published:
2019-09-11
Words:
1,258
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
40
Kudos:
796
Bookmarks:
38
Hits:
6,730

Crash Position

Summary:

Bruce is having awful nightmares and Dev checks on him. There is some crying.

Notes:

this is short but was just sitting in my docs, so, have a short! the working title was "dual-wielding crying boys."

i tagged this but please note if you missed those that there is major multiple character death but it is just a nightmare. it's not the sort of plot device that requires me to trick you, so it's better for you to know now it's not real.

Work Text:

The dirt slipped through his fingers in a world bleak and empty. Bruce Wayne stared at the holes in the ground and considered crawling in, letting the wet earth swallow him, too— Alfred would understand, he thought Alfred would certainly understand.

He was on his knees in the muddy grass, after standing in the drizzle for an hour after the funeral ended. Alfred was waiting in the car, he thought, but Clark had waited with him— it was Clark who had caught him when his legs gave out, and Clark who had let go, let him sink toward the damp ground that held his children when he’d tried to shake him off.

At some point, he’d have to get up and walk away and carve out some way to go on, to eat and breathe and sleep through a life that no longer had meaning. He kept seeing the blood, the blood that had been everywhere— he had been too late, and it had not been a kind or gentle end for his sons or his daughter.

It grew dark and still he didn’t move, until Clark behind him— patient, faithful Clark, who had been waiting with him for however many hours or days— said gently, “Bruce. Come on. You’re going to get sick out here. Let’s go get you something to eat.”

There would never be another family breakfast, or dinner, with the chaotic jumble of voices he pretended annoyed him when they were all talking at once. He’d never take one of them out for coffee or lunch and find three others tagging along, he’d never wipe powdered sugar off the edge of Cassandra’s mouth—

The grass was cold on his forehead and it muffled his hoarse screams, everything was freezing and drenched and it felt right that it was, until the second the grass grew soft and dry like a blanket.

Something was jammed through his ribs, maybe he’d fallen on a shovel, and then the sky shifted into a carved wooden ceiling and he jolted upright with a rough cry.

There was sticky warm blood on his shirt and he was clutching a faded quilt, a thing Martha Kent had made for him years ago as a gift. He was in his house and there was evening light outside the tall study windows, and he could see Damian and Cassandra and Jason throwing a frisbee far off on the lawn while the dogs barked and jumped.

He sucked in a breath and then another while he watched Dick’s distant form jog to join them, graceful as he always was, even when leaping to snatch the frisbee before it reached Jason.

One breath and then another and his mind gradually wrapped itself around the fact that the hell he’d just escaped had not followed him here, and the next breath turned into a sob.

He folded forward, drew his legs toward him, and burrowed into the couch. His heaving chest ached, a throbbing pain leftover from an injury he could barely remember at the moment. His crying sounded ugly to his own ears, deep and shaking groans that gave him no chance to calm.

“Mate,” Dev was saying, and then he was closer and his voice was soft. “Oi, there. Wayne. Shh. You’re alright, you’re quite alright.”

Bruce couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop seeing the blood, the graves, the gray future, the running bodies full of life on the lawn. The consuming relief hit him again and again and his throat was tight and sore from the desperate, tortured sound he kept making and couldn’t manage to quiet. He sobbed into his knees, curled into the smallest ball he could make himself, and it didn’t stop the shaking.

“Shh, it’s just the rest of the sodding fear toxin,” Dev said, and there was a hand on his knee rubbing circles. “You’re safe.”

“No,” Bruce choked. “No, it was…they were…”

Against his will, a keening whine tore out of his throat and he gave up on talking. His fingers scrabbled across the blanket trying to find a better hold and ended up clutched around Dev’s wrist— a person, a person with a warm body and a pulse. He didn’t let go.

There was motion and then Dev was sitting on the couch and rubbing his back with his other hand. “They’re alright, mate. They’re all bloody fine. Breathe.”

Bruce sobbed until Dev pulled twice at his shoulder and he sat up just enough to turn into the offered hug.

“M’fine,” Bruce mumbled after a while, even though his hands were still trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you didn’t have to…”

“It’s alright,” Dev said. “I’d come by to check on you.”

His voice made Bruce suck in air and look up. Dev’s own face was damp with tears, and he drew his sleeve across it when Bruce looked.

“You’re a sodding good da to them, I hope you bloody know that. They’re alright. Timothy threw candy at my face not an hour ago.”

Bruce’s laugh was a strangled sound that turned into a cough and he twisted to sit up and put his face in his hands.

“Fuck,” he exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll blame this one on the toxin, mate,” Dev said gently. “So don’t sodding apologize. And I’ll need to look at those pulled sutures.”

“Hn,” Bruce said. He’d been sleeping before but he felt exhausted now. He tugged his shirt over his head and slumped back on the couch.

Dev got up to get his kit and it only took a few moments for him to peel off soaked gauze, fix two stitches, and pack the entire wound over again. He taped it down and peeled off his gloves and sat beside Bruce on the couch again.

“Do you need another dose of the antitoxin, then?” he asked. He jostled his shoulder and Bruce didn’t hesitate to lean over and put his head there. He was so tired it made his joints ache.

“No,” he said. “I think it’s mostly worn off.”

“Hmm. Well. I ought to keep you company in case,” Dev said. He reached for the quilt and dragged it over to offer. Bruce took it and half-heartedly shook it out, then grew quiet to listen.

He could hear Dev’s even breathing, the faint shouts of some of the kids outside. The breeze knocking against the windows.

Bruce knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep but he didn’t want to move.

“You’re sodding stone,” Dev complained after a moment. “My arm’s numb. It’s like being under a boulder.”

“Sorry,” Bruce murmured, shifting just slightly. Dev moved his arm up when it was freed and slipped it around Bruce’s shoulders.

“You’re not bloody sorry at all,” Dev said. His fingers began playing with Bruce’s hair. “Fortunately, I don’t mind. Is this alright?”

“Mhmm.” Bruce watched out the window at the silhouettes of his kids. It looked like they were catching fireflies. It was a balm to watch, and despite himself, he was growing sleepy again.

“As a warning, I’ve not slept in over a day because of a shift, so if you fall asleep and trap me I’m not staying awake alone,” Dev said, yawning.

“Then I should trap you for your own good,” Bruce said.

“Wanker,” Dev muttered.

“Often,” Bruce said. The hand stroking his hair stopped just long enough to flick him on the ear, and then resumed.

He was fairly certain Dev fell asleep before him, because his hand stilled and his breathing deepened, but Bruce wasn’t far behind.

Series this work belongs to: