aftermath

three

III. knowing secrets

Bruce can't focus. His entire body hurts. Yet he's in the suit, trying to keep his tread light, going at it like he always has.

Bane notices, of course. "Off your game today, eh?" his rasping voice is one big grin. A slap in the face. Before Bruce can do so much as shuffle his feet, a hard jab to his sensitive side sends him flying. "This might be my lucky day."

He groans, cape sprawled out to one side. How is he being defeated by a lowly villain like Bane?

"Lowly? I thought we were on better terms than that, Bat," and Batman only then realizes he's said it out loud. What is happening to him?

"Actually, I don't think you're on terms with him at all." That voice. He knows that voice.

It's Superman to the rescue, as always. He dives down to collide with Bane in a flash of red and blue, but Bruce is barely paying attention.

The grass seems very green. He just sits there, unfocused, feeling as if something were pressing onto his head with the intent to crush it.

Has it been a minute or five or ten? Clark flies down. "Bruce, you're hurt. I'll-"

"Don't scan me," he snarls with near panic rising in his voice, and the other man is surprised but obeys anyway. "Leave. I'm fine."

"Bruce?" Superman's brow furrows and he reaches out a hand-

He reaches out a hand, a hand of immense power and destruction, and presses bruises into-

"Stop! Stop," He shifts back. "No."

"What the hell? Did Bane drug you or something? Like that Scarecrow stuff? Bruce, talk to me. I'm not an enemy," Superman's cape glows brightly against the night sky. A sudden near-silent whoosh indicates the arrival of the Batmobile.

Breathing hard, Batman musters every bit of his strength and latches onto the ladder that swings down from the vehicle. "Probably drugged." Deep breath. "Alfred will fix me up. Just go."

"Bruce, wait-"

Again, he leaves. Again, Superman doesn't stop him.

In the nightmare tonight, all he can see is red. First, it's the fire engine red of Superman's cape, as his face is pressed into it, colliding over and over and over again.

Then, it's the crimson of his own blood. On himself. On him. On the floor. Everywhere.

"Master Bruce, you must rest." Alfred states matter-of-factly as he stirs some ginger tea. "You won't get any work done in this state."

"What I need"- he doesn't stop the furious clacking of computer keys -"is to work."

"I believe it has been about 23 hours since you last slept, Master Bruce."

No reply.

"Are you having nightmares?"

There's the tiniest, barest hesitation in the next moment, as his fingers hover one millionth of a second too long over the keyboard before plunging down, maybe with more force than necessary. Otherwise, everything else is the same.

Yet Alfred Pennyworth knows Bruce Wayne better than anyone else.

There's silence in the next few moments.

"Thank you for the tea." Bruce's words are curt and sharp, an invitation to leave. The butler stirs an elegantly engraved spoon once more, and then stands to do so.

"It will help." Soft, almost soundless footsteps leading away from the cave.

Bruce puts his head in his hands.