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Bruce isn't sure why he's still sitting at the table.
The meeting had ended about a half hour ago, but the team had hung around the Watchtower nonetheless – most of them had been there anyway when the meeting was called and clearly had little of urgency to attend to. They shifted from their seats and moved about the station, except for Bruce. He stayed where he was, having brought a case file to be looked over for Jim with him and finding himself comfortable enough where he was once the space was mostly vacated. Hawkgirl and Diana headed for coffee in the break room, while the others occupied themselves with various things around the central area, John and Flash chatting amongst themselves and J'onn running routine diagnostics on various equipment with Superman for company.
He let out a low breath once he was on his own, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. It wasn't a bad meeting, not by any standard they were familiar with, but he couldn't help the tinge of irritation creeping in on the periphery of his thoughts. The others probably didn't even notice anything was wrong. He was overreacting, anyway – Diana had cut him off at one point to bring up a reminder for something and it took him a few moments longer than he'd have liked to find his way back to the point he was making, and Flash had asked him a couple of questions that made it clear he hadn't read the debrief of last week's mission. Nothing new or unusual for a JL meeting, and yet he couldn't shake the almost itch at the back of his thoughts.
Bruce kept his head down and kept silent for the time he spent at the table, quietly reading over the details of the case his unofficial partner had been assigned and drawing what connections he could between the details provided. A string of bank robberies out of town, originally not of concern for the GCPD until three branches had been hit in their jurisdiction within two weeks. Both of them suspected a possible connection to one of the many mobs running around Gotham, and Batman had promised Jim he'd look into it and see if he could find any leads before they wasted energy on investigating a potentially new gang altogether.
He was happy to look over the evidence for him – he was always glad for something to occupy his mind, and he figured he was better doing it now rather than waste time packing up his things, hopping in a Javelin, and sneaking back to the manor, by which point he'd probably lose whatever flow he had at the moment and not pick it up again for several hours. He'd gotten through most of the paperwork by that point, half a page of first-draft notes scribbled beside him to remind him what to look into further once he was back at home with his own devices and comforts.
The sharp shattering of a mug against the metal floor broke the ambient hum of the Watchtower.
His shoulders jerked up so sharply he felt a twinge between his shoulder blades and his lips twisted into a vaguely pained scowl. He closed his eyes and made himself take a deep breath (he had stopped breathing for a moment at the sudden shock, he'd realised) before looking up to the source of the sound.
Shards of blue ceramic laid scattered across the pristine floor, spread throughout a puddle of still steaming coffee that splashed over the pairs of boots standing around the mess.
"Oops," came Flash's flat exclamation.
"Thanks a lot," Hawkgirl snapped, shaking her head as she used the side of her shoe to sweep the broken mug to one side. "That was the last of the decaf."
Bruce dropped his gaze slowly back to the papers in front of him, blinking a few times as if it would reset his thoughts. The pen in his hand hovered over a half-written sentence, and he scanned back over the file to try and retrace his line of thinking. Chemical residue around the point of entry; spectroscopy showed a primary mixture of chlorine and hydrogen of some form, with traces of a number of transition metals; the residue degraded quickly, possibly an intentional design tr–
"Batman."
Bruce couldn't stop the physical flinch at the call of his name. His hands stiffened, but he glanced aside, spotting the green and black suit standing over him in his periphery.
"Yes?" he asked, eyes returning to the papers and rereading the words in the brief moment of silence the question would offer him. They didn't go in the second time either.
"That door on the second level is still jamming constantly. You said you'd get that fixed a while back." There was no confrontation or accusation in John's voice, there never would be over something so minor, but still Bruce felt himself bristle at the question. Why?
"I have to order the parts for repairs," he replied without looking up. He added a punctuation mark to his notes just so he didn't leave the unfinished sentence hanging.
"It's just that you said that a couple weeks ago too. I can take care of it if we get the parts if that's the issue, I don't mind, but I think it's better not to leave–"
"Put it on the expenses list and I'll get whatever you need." Bruce's reply was sharper than he'd intended. His eyes were narrowing behind the lenses of his cowl and the words on the page blurred. Something changed in John and he could nearly sense it beside him, the slight tension that hadn't been there before Batman curtly snapped his reply at him. He wasn't exactly known for his manners or people skills amongst his teammates, but he never intended to be flat out rude or cutting with them either, except when they were being exceptionally idiotic. He couldn't find his voice to get out an apology, so he simply flipped his pen so he held the nib enclosed in his fingers while he waited for John to do something.
"... Sure thing," he said eventually; Bruce still didn't look up, but footsteps quietly clicked away from the meeting table.
He still hasn't moved since. His thumb rubs up and down the side of his pen clutched tight in his fist, arms braced against the table in front of him like he's leaning back to think, but his elbows are locked and an uncomfortable tingle spreads across his knuckles and down the backs of his hands. His gaze is still aimed at the file but he might as well be looking straight through the table with how little he's actually taking in, and it must be a few minutes that he just sits there, chest rising and falling reliably like it's controlled by a pneumatic pump, the only part of him that doesn't feel paralysed.
He doesn't know where this is coming from. His eyelids flutter as his gaze starts to shift, flicking across various points of the table in front of him but failing to ever actually bring anything into focus; he gulps, and it almost hurts. Sure, he hadn't slept much that week, but when had that ever stopped him? He can't remember the last time he's felt like this. Months, at least, maybe more than a year, he's not sure; it always feels like an eternity while it's happening and then when it's over, it's a blip in time that fades into almost nothing but a sour aftertaste of a memory.
He tries to push himself through it. His muscles want to shake as he forces his arm to move, slowly drawing his arm towards him across the table and clicking the top of the pen to bring the nib back out. He rests it against the paper and presses down to write, but when he goes to move his fingers, they move too sharply. The pen flicks across the paper, a crooked line that doesn't resemble any of the letters he'd tried to write. The tingle creeps around his wrist like someone snaking their hand over his, sending a chill through his bones. His fingers feel weak, and suddenly putting force on the pen is a Herculean task as they give way, letting the implement topple from his useless grip.
He grabs onto the arms of his chair and pushes himself up before he loses all strength in his arms, and before he even knows where he's going, his feet are moving, fast.
Someone passes him on his way out and calls to him but he's not sure who, only catching a flash of red in the corner of his eye and the voice barely registering before he's out of the main area and making his way down one of the circular corridors, the long window curving away from Earth below them. The steady breaths he was taking at the table are gone now and instead it hitches, chest catching as a gasp slips past his lips. His legs are bowing beneath him like his knees can barely hold his weight but they keep moving, he doesn't want to stop. Walking feels good – he thinks it does anyway, but he's not sure. The shock that runs up his shins every time his heel hits the ground is something , and he thinks it's helping to fight back the nauseating floaty-ness that makes him feel like he's experiencing zero-Gs and his arms are about to float up and away from his body. He draws them in against his chest eventually when the feeling gets too much.
His teeth grit together tightly behind his grimace as he curses in his head, scoffing to no one but his pacing self. This is ridiculous. It's ridiculous . Why was he reacting like this? Nothing was even wrong, so why can't he just get it together?
A gloved hand leaves his chest and grips tightly at the back of his neck instead, fingers digging into the skin and muscle so firmly he's almost certain it'll bruise, but he doesn't stop. He thinks it's helping, even if it hurts, and he tries to focus on that rather than anything else he's feeling. His other hand joins in and eventually they're both clapped over the back of his neck and the base of his skull, head forced to look down at the floor. He's still walking; his pace has picked up and his ankles feel loose every time he takes a step, flopping almost limply onto the panelled floor before stiffening to push him another few feet forward.
He wants to yell. His calves tighten up so much that they hurt and the same happens to his arms, elbows trying to cross over each other in front of his face. It's not like it makes a difference, he can barely see where he's going anyway, blindly following the familiar curve of the station and hoping he doesn't miscalculate and run into a wall. His jaw tightens. He wants to yell , but he won't. He can't. He shouldn't. A strained sound slips through his teeth. Calm down. Just calm down , he tells himself; what's wrong with him?!
His fingers curl under the edge of his cowl and the base of it crumples in his grasp, baring the pale flesh above the neck of his suit and a couple wisps of black hair curl out from under the material. He has to stop himself from ripping it off then and there. The mask he'd found comfort in for so many years seemed now like it had turned on him, flattening his ears against his skull, flicking against his chin with every move of his head, the stitching scratching underneath his jaw like it was a tiny line of barbed wire strapped in with him in the costume. It's just suffocating now, the same way his gloves that usually provided him a barrier from his environment now just felt like a trap, an enclosure; the same way his cloak, normally a familiar weight on his back, now hit against the backs of his legs with every move, so pervasive to his thoughts that he wanted to tear it off and ball it up, curse at it like it personally offended him and never look at it again.
He digs his thumbs into the muscle of his neck as water builds up in his vision. His breath hitches again. He needs it to stop; he needs to stop; he should be able to handle this; why can't he just stop?
"Batman?"
The voice is painful to hear; it's not even a word at first, just a noise that bogs his mind down further until it slowly shapes into that of his alias. It takes a moment longer to realise who it's from, and he only vaguely registers the red boots that land in front of him. He doesn't look up, but his pacing stops; his legs lock and he thinks he'll never move from that spot again.
"Hey, Batman, what's wrong?" Superman tries again, bringing his head lower as if to get a peek at him from within his hunched posture and locked arms. He doesn't glean much from the move. He's silent for a second or two, and then in a quieter voice, "Bruce?"
It's not as if Bruce isn't trying. He tries to move his mouth to answer; his lips part, but his throat catches when he tries to form words. Several aborted breaths escape, but nothing resembling an answer does. He can sense Clark's eyes on him, he can hear him breathing less than a foot away, and he wants to pull back to give himself space but he's afraid of his legs finally giving way if he moves from his spot.
"Bruce?" The concern is clear in his friend's voice, as well as the panic starting to creep in; it's not often that the Man of Steel feels helpless in helping someone else. "You've got to tell me what's wrong, are you hurt?"
Bruce tries again, he tries to get the words out, but it's like the pipeline from his brain to his mouth is cut off, and all he can do is choke out something resembling a strangled grunt. "Kh– kgh–" He coughs through his teeth like the words are actually stuck in his throat. Just speak! Say something, anything!
"Come on, bud, we can–" Bruce doesn't hear the rest of what he says because suddenly there's a touch to his arm and his entire body reacts like it's trying to eject his skeleton.
He recoils with a choked yelp because it's like a shudder passes through every nerve he has, and his muscles react so quickly that he's sent stumbling back. His legs finally decide to call it a day and they don't catch him, and before he can stop it he hits the floor, falling on his ass with a painful thud; thankfully his tucked posture means he only rolls onto his back rather than slam his elbows into the metal too. He manages to pull his hands away from behind his head long enough to prop himself up and drag himself to the edge of the corridor, sitting up against the inner curve of the hallway and throwing his head back with a gasp as unfocused eyes look to the ceiling. It's too bright, and he shuts them quickly.
Has Clark moved? He doesn't know. He can't think about him right now; he can't think about anything right now really, because every thought in his head feels like it's rushing around and around, painfully loud but indistinguishable from the next as his mind refuses to focus on one thing. He wants to hold it together. He shouldn't be seen like this. He's supposed to have authority here – he's a leader with people's lives in his hands on the regular. He's supposed to have respect up here and some dignity and he doesn't because here he is, curled up on the floor of his multi-million dollar spaceship because he can't fucking get it together and has to throw a tantrum–
His arms shake, crossed tightly over his chest. They cling to his shoulders, tugging at the thick fabric of his cloak, and if he hadn't designed it to be so tough Bruce is sure he'd have ripped it off his suit by now. He looks a mess right now, and he knows it; in the brief gaps in the whirlwind of his brain, he wonders what Clark must be thinking about him, before the thought is swept away again and all he can think about is how much it hurts. One hand lifts from his shoulder hesitantly before it slams down, just between his right pec and his collarbone. It feels good, and he does it again, the ball of his hand sending a sharp ache through the muscle like he's transferring some of the shaky energy from his arm. It's either that or he's about to start slamming his head against the wall.
In between dry, uneven breaths, Bruce becomes aware that Clark has finally moved. For all he knows he could have been sitting there for five seconds or five minutes, but however long it is, he hears the shift of the other's cape, the creak of his boots as he kneels down in front of him. Bruce draws his legs in closer to himself and he pretends not to notice the tears that begin to leak out from under his mask.
"Hey." Clark's voice is softer this time, hushed and breathy; it doesn't hurt his ears as bad. Bruce's eyes open slowly, just enough to peer over and see his friend's blurred face beside him, and he pulls in a long, harsh breath through his nose. It's clear that Clark wants to help but he hasn't a clue what to do; his hand still hovers like his instinct to provide comfort is to touch, but he knows that won't work, so he doesn't. Bruce can't help but brace himself for whatever he's going to say. Even though he knows Clark, knows that he's one of the most patient people he's ever met, knows that he would never speak like that, he can't help but imagine him saying to "Pull yourself together!" , hounding him for an answer until he can force the painful words out of his throat where they feel stuck, waiting for him to start acting like Batman again. It's what he deserves.
Clark doesn't say that. He looks at him with what Bruce assumes to be a mix of pity and compassion; maybe even a little pain of his own. A hand sets down beside him, still not touching, but there nonetheless, extended towards him. "I'll keep watch for you," he says simply, meeting Bruce's eyes somehow even behind the cowl. It's too much for Bruce to keep that connection for more than a few seconds, but he values it nonetheless, and for a few long moments he doesn't do much. He tips his head back down, hands resting on the back of it and thumbing idly at the seam running along the bottom of the mask in silence; then, he nods. A sob slips through his tight jaw as soon as he does, and the wall starts coming down, he can't hold it back much longer. Clark is gone then – Bruce hears the creak of metal as a security camera is turned to face the wall, and then a gentle breeze follows the other hero down the corridor as he flies off to afford Bruce his privacy.
Only then does he let go.
He scrambles so fast to pull the cowl off his head he's sure he yanked out a couple hairs with it, but it doesn't matter, he doesn't care, he can breathe – he gasps once it's off, a wet, shuddering sound, and his fingers curl into it and leave new wrinkles around the left side before he's hurling it through the air with a grunt. It sails and hits the glass across from him; he hears a lens crack. It doesn't matter. He doesn't feel like he deserves to wear it right now.
His gloves are the next to go, tugged and then yanked and then whipped across his thigh repeatedly in frustration when they refuse to come off easily. Tears are free to flow down his cheeks now as he struggles to catch his breath, and once his gloves are discarded down the hall with his mask he rubs his arm down his face to soak them up. More follow. He kicks his legs out at nothing at all, just feeling the thud of his heel against the floor every time it catches and the ache in his knee as his jerking muscles aggravate an old injury. When that's not enough, he slams his palm against his chest again and again, and lets out a cry that he only distantly hopes doesn't travel through the rest of the Watchtower.
He's not sure how long it lasts. Everything just reduces into a painful and confusing blur after a while, and eventually, he loses steam.
Aches run up the sides of his hands and through his fingers from where he punched and slammed them, against the wall, the floor, his legs. He never did manage to pull his cloak off in his panic but he's almost certain he ripped it somewhere; he'd felt fabric tear at one point, and it feels looser around his collar. Now though it's wrapped around him completely, draped over his folded arms and his legs as he leans back into the wall and turning him into a small, dark lump in the lonely hallway. His chest rises and falls with heaving breaths, but at least he's breathing , head tucked against his knees and mouth hanging open to pull in each lungful of air.
He's exhausted. Every part of him feels heavy, that unnerving floaty sensation now gone in place of feeling like his bones were made of rock, and all his energy has been sapped. It doesn't hurt to think anymore, and he's grateful for that; without the roaring thoughts rushing his head though, there's nothing to hold back the sobering shame that floods in.
It's pathetic, is what it is. He's pathetic . There's no reason for what just happened, and yet he couldn't stop it no matter what he tried. He'd been bothered a couple times throughout the day and couldn't focus enough to get his work done and so, what, he takes a panic attack? Is that what it's come to? Batman can handle fighting intergalactic warlords alongside aliens and a demigod, but he doesn't get enough Quiet-Time or he has a rough night's sleep and he has to rage and scream like a child?
It doesn't matter that he was "alone" for it either. There's no way Clark didn't hear everything, even if he tried not to. He knows he heard every grunt and sob, heard him scream into his hands, heard him choke when his lungs stopped working for moments at a time. He doesn't know how he's supposed to look him in the eye after this; how he's supposed to take orders from the sad man cradling himself and faintly rocking like a scared kid.
It's about a minute or so after he quiets down that Clark comes back, drifting slowly into view; Bruce doesn't lift his salt-stained face to look. He can't bear to see the pity he must hold for him.
His colleague lands beside him, gentle as before and on one knee. It still seems that he's not entirely sure what to say or do, but he tries anyway. "Feeling any better?"
Bruce shifts slightly and swallows, debating looking up, before letting out a low, "Mm." Though it's not a word, the sound is surrendered much easier; it doesn't hurt as much as before. Small victory aside, Clark doesn't try to pry anything else from him. The quiet hum is response enough.
Silence falls between them again and Bruce almost wishes he had J'onn's abilities just so he could hear what Clark had to think about him already and get it over with, but he doesn't, and he can't. He's left to imagine that internal monologue for himself. Clark settles down beside him, folding his legs under him and turning to be more shoulder to shoulder with him. Bruce turns his head a little more to the other side. He doesn't try to shift away, though.
Clark attempts his earlier advance again, more hesitant this time. Bruce feels the backs of his warm fingers against his arm, but his skin doesn't crawl his time. Clark takes it as a good sign and continues, hand soft but firm on his shoulder, and before long his arm is snaking around Bruce's back, wrapping around and pulling his friend's side into his chest. Bruce doesn't fight it. It's nice . He wants to lean into it badly, but shame rears its head and chastises him for wanting comfort after the scene he just caused. His shoulders hunch, stuck between embracing it or fleeing, and it's not until Clark's other hand starts to come up around him that he finally gives in.
His legs slide down a little and his arms unfold to clutch at his friend's arm and hold tight as he's squeezed in the iron embrace. God, it helps. Clark's arms are rigid around him and firm and what would've made him feel trapped minutes ago is now the only thing he wants to focus on, just the crushing pressure around him. He can't explain it, but it helps. He squeezes the other's arm as if to signal him to press a little harder and thankfully Clark obliges. Bruce wishes he'd hold him even tighter but figures Clark is holding back like always; he knows his own strength too well.
Bruce's breaths are still shuddery and he tries to keep himself steady with each inhale and exhale, but it's a futile task, Clark can hear the rattle in his chest, the exertion of holding it in. "It's okay," he whispers then, "it's okay. It's alright, Bruce." Apparently, it's what Bruce needed to be told. Even though he's exhausted and cried out, there's still a little more to be let out and he does in the form of something between a cough and a sob. His fingers tighten on Clark's arm and his friend tips him off-center, pulling him in closer as Bruce shuts his eyes and lets the last of the tension in his body dissipate.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs quietly into Clark's chest. He flexes his fingers unsurely, guilt washing over him again. He doesn't think he deserves to ask this of his friend, but Clark protests.
"Shh, shh, don't. You have nothing to be sorry for." Bruce shakes his head; he wants to say more but he can feel the wall starting to come up again and the words are a struggle to push out.
"No, n– it– it's not –"
"Bruce." His voice is firm, but not harsh, and for once Bruce actually listens and shuts his mouth again. It's not like he even knows what to say anyway, so he supposed it's not worth the effort; Clark seems determined to shut down any remotely self-deprecating thought that Bruce voices.
"... Why don't I take you home?" Clark offers, pulling his head back to peer down at him. Bruce wipes his palm across his face to scrub off the dried tears. "I don't think you should be flying solo right now. I'll take you back to Gotham, we'll come up with some excuse for the others–" Not that Bruce was a stranger to leaving without explanation when it suited him– "I just–... I don't… know what to do exactly, but… it doesn't feel right to leave you alone right now."
It takes Bruce several moments to understand that the confusing warmth blooming in his chest is tenderness. It feels like when Alfred brings him warm snacks in the Batcave, the first human face he's seen in hours; or like when Tim curls up beside him on the couch to rewatch his old Grey Ghost tapes until they drift off together sometime after midnight. It feels safe .
After a little while to think, Bruce finally nods, and sniffs quietly. "Okay. Just g- give me another minute. Please." He holds Clark's arm close to his chest again and it complies, placing that comforting pressure around him once more that Bruce shuts his eyes and leans into.
"Of course, Bruce."