Broken

He didn’t like being helpless, and after years of training and honing his skills alongside the best masters and teachers that money could buy, he had finally begun to believe that there was very little in this world that could leave him feeling unprepared against any situation or situation.



At least that was what he had thought up until a month ago.



Now it seemed like he had very little control over his life and the things around him. Oh he still had firm control over his business, Batman still had a tight rule over his city and the Justice league still ran. But all that seemed pale in comparison to the fact that yet again someone he loved had been hurt beyond repair.



Although he knew that even the most powerful people in the world could’ve done very little to stop what had happened, it didn’t make him feel any better. All he could see was that he had failed and now he had no idea how to go about putting the pieces back together.



It wasn’t like he was naïve enough to believe that he could control everything around him as either Bruce Wayne or Batman. He’d learnt early on that there were plenty of things within his own sphere of influence that simply couldn’t be manipulated or scared into submission. Harvey’s descent into darkness had been a cruel reminder that no amount of preparation or training, could help one person learn how amend another person's nature; though admittedly he had tried at the time.



He could acknowledge that those incidences were his training failed him where hard. But there were those times, more often than not, were his training helped the League avoid danger.



It’s what he was there for, to ensure that the team functioned to the best of their ability and came home as unscathed as possible. It was what he had tried to do a month ago when he had warned everyone that something wasn’t right.



They hadn’t believed him. Oh, no one said outwardly that he was wrong, no one had the guts. However there had been a hesitation amongst the group, a problem he had realised had been happening more frequently since Flash had raised speculation about his and Superman’s possible relationship. No one knew he’d heard of course, but since then he had noticed the slight hesitations that came whenever he gave an order in regard to Clark’s safety.



It was as if suddenly the possibility that he and Clark may or may not be sharing a bed had somehow called his intentions into question. Almost as if they believed that he no longer had the objectivity needed to ensure that all the members, and not just Clark, were safe.



A problem that seemed all the more apparent when Diana asked what the basis of his suspicion was.



At first he had bristled at the question; pissed that she was questioning him about it. He knew he could never explain it, and hesitated to call his feelings a hunch over the radio, knowing that it wasn’t just out of character for him, but that it might not be enough to convince them of the seriousness of his suspicions. But without conclusive evidence to say something was amiss, or a suggestion of foul play he had been forced to tell them the truth, that his instincts told him that something was wrong with that call.



He realised now, as he hadn’t then, that what had been off about the call was the lack of fear. Oh, the supposed victims had sounded frightened all right, but there was something missing. An element to their alarm, that he as Batman heard every day but something that had been noticeably missing from what he heard on the recording.



Back then he hadn’t been able to put together what it was that was bothering him, and because of that he had been powerless to stop the events that had ended with his partner broken and shattered. Instead he had been left with the uncertainty of trying to figure out what was needed to fix all this



If it had been him who had been raped, he knew Clark would at least have some inkling of what to do to ensure he felt safe, loved and protected. It was just the way Clark was.



If someone was in pain or hurt, Clark always seemed to know instinctively what needed to be said or done to make sure that the person or persons felt like they were cared for; regardless of situation. It was one of the things that Bruce both loved and admired about him the most.



But he wasn’t Clark, and so that innate ability and knowledge of identifying exactly what needed to be done or said, wasn’t something he possessed; and no amount of time spent in front of the computer investigating the subject could shed light on what he needed to do in order to help his lover put the shattered piece of his life back together.



He almost wished there were some secret guide or answer to help both of them, but even with all his resources the only thing his research had managed to do was make him feel even more powerless and helpless than before.



Emotions he’d been experiencing a lot lately. They were usually followed by anger and rage. Anger at himself for not figuring out what it was that had seemed off quickly enough, at the league for ignoring his warnings and allowing Clark to go, rage and anger at Luthor would do something so violating to someone so gentle. But mostly rage a world that allowed men like Luthor to become who they were, while ensuring that people like Clark suffered continuously.



It was enough to make him want to give up being Batman for the more satisfying pursuit of destroying everything within his path, an idea that though outwardly foolish, seemed like it could be extremely rewarding. But he knew he could never do that. Clark for one would never forgive him if he ever abandoned his calling in pursuit of destruction; and if he was completely honest with himself he knew he would be unable to forgive himself either.



The rage simply wasn’t going to be enough of an excuse for either of them for him to act out that sort of revenge on either Metropolis or anyone else; and yet attacking Luthor’s company, stripping it apart a piece at a time, simply wasn’t going to be enough to quench the rage growing inside him.



He’d begun to believe that nothing short of murder would; and he wanted that. He wanted to fly down to Metropolis minus the Batsuit and break every bone in Luthor’s body until blood spilled from it and painted his so-called empire red with pain and suffering.



He wanted that bastard, that fucker who Clark had once called best friend and lover, to beg him for mercy, to tell him that he should’ve stayed away, and that he finally realised that he’d made a huge mistake touching something that wasn’t his.



Most of all he wanted to see that bald megalomaniac’s chest cracked wide open, his blood staining Bruce’s fingers red, while Bruce stood over him taking pleasure in watching that weighty black organ thud for the very last time. He wanted to watch as the light faded from the cold blue-grey eyes, while Luthor choked on his own blood and begged for a salvation he would never get.



Shaking his head against the heavily violent thoughts, Bruce willed his heart rate to slow back down, while he forced the demons chasing him to go back into their box.

Clark didn’t need this he knew, and although the majority of his research indicated that it would be good for them to discuss their feelings, he knew he couldn’t.



Murder wasn’t a subject that he could just bring up; and it was something that he knew realistically that neither Bruce nor Batman could openly pursue. It would be crossing a line that he knew he could never come back from, one he feared to entertain just in case it increased the likelihood of him doing it.



Clark would never understand if he did it. Even now he’d probably found a way to forgive Luthor for his actions; and while he himself couldn’t find it within him, he could understand why Clark had to.



Anger like that, hatred like that, could consume you, it had begun to consume him; and with someone like Clark the likelihood was he wouldn’t return from it.



Pulling his lover farther into his embrace, Bruce let a sense of calm fill him as Clark sighed softly in his sleep. He seemed so peaceful now, his eyes closed, his face slack and expressionless. But it was a lie; peace was always short lived for both of them nowadays. Even in sleep they faced anonymous demons.



Bruce knew this, because his own nightmares consumed him every night, images of Clark naked and pale, his body breaking the surface of the water beneath him, before slipping back within the waters murky depths.



He could still remember the feel of the cold skin against him as he forced air back into his lover’s lungs, praying silently for the first time in years that God would be merciful and allow Clark to live.



He could remember the feeling of relief as his lover finally coughed up water, shivering silently in his arms and the release of tension he’d experienced when they had finally gotten back to the watchtower.



Relief that had been closely followed by horror when J’onn informed them that Clark would live but had been raped.



He could still feel the anger even now, thrumming through his veins violently as he remembered looking from one league member to another.



His tone had been cold as he had laid the blame at their feet. Even more so when he had ordered them out of Clark’s room, telling them not to go near him.



He had known even that that it had been unfair; and that if Clark had been awake or well enough, he would’ve probably said something about misplaced anger.



But at the time, all Bruce could see was the fact that the situation could have been avoidable if they they’d just listened to his warning. Instead they’d dismissed him, treating him as if he was some hormone driven teenager, unable to control himself.



Luthor was the one he really should have been directing his anger and blame at, but it was so easy to stand there outside the medical room and call them on all their faults. To cuss them for always relying on Clark to pick up the slack when their operation went wrong. Or the way they took the Kryptonian for granted, ignoring his weakness, and intelligence. Acting for all accounts as if Clark were nothing more than a brainless puppet, whose only redeeming quality was the fact that he could destroy things easily.



That anger had eventually made it easier for him to break ties with the entire League, moving Clark to the safety of the mansion. He had made it clear many times before that he didn’t need the league help to protect Gotham, and he defiantly didn’t need them now to help him protect either Metropolis or Clark. What he hadn’t counted on was the fact that they needed both he and Clark to help protect them. .



A fact that came to light once his anger had begun to fade and he realised that their operations were flagging even with Diana picking up the slack. He had gone back, focusing his efforts on Luthor and Clark, while silently leading them.



Startled from his thoughts as Clark shifted again in is sleep, Bruce sighed and settled more behind him, providing silent comfort for the nightmares he knew would come.



He didn’t know what was to come, or whether Clark would eventually come back to the league. But he knew one thing; he’d be there for him no matter what and that Luthor would pay with more than just his company.