I should be writing

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Clark and Diana remembered the day the rule was established so clearly.

It's been weeks since the death of the second Robin, and the Batman hasn't been in the Watchtower for longer than that

Penny-One sends correspondences, curt but sufficient. "All is well"

But they see it in the news. Batman raining hell on Gotham's underworld, leaving a wake of broken bones and infected wounds.

The rogues have never been more scared of him, mostly because the ghostly laughs of his young sidekick is nowhere to be heard, and so the Bat had no reason to smile or return any good-willed banter

Arkham had to be locked from the inside, to stop Vengeance from crawling in

The JL only really decided to act on it when Dick dejectedly called them from the Watchtower, looking more spent and exhausted than he's ever been

"I don't know how to help him," he quietly admitted

So the JL agreed to send Clark and Diana to check on Bruce. There was a consensus that those 3 had always been closer than most; more like family than friends

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They come to the manor wearing underwhelming clothes, warm food, and a general plan on how they might help their friend

"Can we even help him?" Clark asked as they flew over Gotham, "It's not like we can bring Jason back."

Diana stared at him, like she was genuinely considering such a prospect. "It's not about returning what was taken from him, but a reminder of all that he still has left," she says instead.

They arrive at the manor. Alfred is only a little surprise to see them.

"I didn't expect such an underwhelming countenance from the likes of Her Majesty and Superman," Alfred teased.

But it doesn't go past them, the gaunt in his face and hollowness of his gaze

Suddenly, Clark and Diana were struck with the realization that whatever they accomplish here would never be enough

Clark lost his planet. Diana had once died. But they had no memory of it, no preconception of what was stolen from them

This family is too aware of the empty space in their once fine and happy circle

Alfred led them to where Bruce was. The small talk was strained, but how could it not be. There's a stack of books in every other room they pass. A pair of slippers in every other doorway. Diana winced when she saw a reusable tumblr in the kitchen counter where they left their cooked gifts; a Wonder Woman collectible with her own signature on it

"How have you all been?" Clark asks, trying to make conversation.

Alfred tells them about the press jumping over the iron walls of the manor. He tells them about the flowers and toys left at the steps of Wayne Enterprises, and how Lucius looked nauseated at the sight of them. He mentioned seeing Dr. Leslie Thompkins thumbing over the death certificate, lost in thought. He mentioned about the Gordons coming for tea once, and how Barbara Gordon burst into tear when she saw Jason's shoes by the doorway.

"And Master Dick comes and goes, as he always does," Alfred sighed dejectedly, "I have the feeling he doesn't quite forgive himself for not being around as often to treasure what was taken from us so soon. He compensates, but not too long."

"Poor boy," Diana mumbled.

"Yes," Alfred repeated carefully, "Poor boys indeed."

-

They come to the manor wing full of bedrooms, to Jason's room.

Inside was clean — too clean. Not the cleanliness of discipline as the bedroom's owner had; it was the cleanliness of finality.

Alfred allows them the liberty of going in first and making of the situation as they will

Clark and Diana, in their long careers as heroes, have seen loss and anger so many times

But nothing prepared them for seeing their dearest friend under the same duress

Maybe it didn't help that they saw Bruce inalienable as Batman at the time. Cool, calm, and collected Batman, never overtaken by emotion, every response and movement accounted for, and not a thread out of place in his impenetrable armor

Today there was none of that.

Bruce was in sweats, covered in bandages from the brutal patrols spent beating absolution out of Gotham. His hair was a mess, eyes swollen and sunken, and his body had lost its lustrous color. He should look like a few pounds lighter, but gravity pulled him in like he would crash into the earth at any minute

He was hugging something loosely to his chest. A red hood jacket, its arms wrapped over and under his arms, the hood held onto his shoulder

He cradled the jacket like he used to cradle Jason

Bruce was sat on the edge of the bed, leaning on the bedframe like it was a chore. He was staring at the ground. If he noticed them, he doesn't do much to show that

"Master Bruce, Miss Diana and Master Kent are here to see you, as Master Dick mentioned the other day," Alfred said.

No response. No shift in his gaze.

Diana stepped closer, posture akin to one disturbing the peace of a feeble animal.

"We have been worried, my friend, for you," Diana said earnestly, voice so honeyed and soft, "Your comrades in arms notice your absence, and what have you been up to since. We wanted to see what we can do for you in your darkest hour; if not to bring light, then at least to be your guiding candle."

Clark nodded, stepping behind Diana and holding a hand at her shoulder.

"We know it's hard, Bruce, and we're here to make sure you know you don't have to do it alone," he added carefully, "Dick... called and asked us to intervene, sure, but we've been meaning to do this anyways! We just... we wanted to be sure it's something your family will let us do."

Bruce doesn't move. Clark swore his heart beats slowly than normal, Diana noted how his breath is coming so uneven.

They had the inkling that the mere act of living takes too much of their friend.

A leap from how Bruce was when Jason was here. When he lived, Bruce's heart was always jumping in joy, his breath often startled by laughter or speech.

Jason, his sweet boy, the second robin. Jason who adored the women among the capes and challenged the men in uniform so well, making the world a little brighter, a little more conscious.

Diana slowly sunk to her knees, trying to be at her friend's eye level.

"We are so sorry for your loss, Bruce," she said, "And if there's anything we can do at all to help, we will do it gladly."

Then they hear it.

A hitch in breathing. A large drum of the heart. They feel Alfred flinch close by.

Bruce finally looked at them.

-

There was so much hatred in his eyes.

"Where were you?"

He knows his anger startled them, the question even more so. Diana sat up straighter. Clark even more.

Bruce noted how they fashioned themselves like normal people. It only served to stir the rage boiling in him further.

How dare they come here, trying to share his grief, offering help that he didn't need (not anymore).

How dare they come here, masquerading like people that couldn't have possibly done anything to change what happened.

Diana with her magical abilities. Clark with his superhuman senses. Their supernatural strength, speed, ability of flight.

Diana was wearing gloves over her fist that could've plummeted his son's killer to the ground.

Clark's chest, which usually bore the banner of hope, was wearing a cotton vest instead.

They look like human.

"Bruce, we-"

They're not human.

"Why are you here?"

Bruce stood up, staggering a bit. His knees almost betrayed him.

He saw Clark and Diana almost try to help him, but he swat them away, tightening his hold on the jacket pressed to his chest.

Jason's jacket. The jacket he met his sweet boy in, a lifetime ago. The jacket that Gotham delivered him with.

His sweet boy, forever 4"11 at age 15.

"Why didn't you do anything?" he growled, one hand steadied on the bed canopy, the other holding his son's jacket close.

Diana stood, her face twisted with betrayal.

"Bruce, what could we have done?" she beseeched him.

Rationally, Bruce knew that there was nothing. There was a big world (universe, even) full of people who needed help. And at the time, Jason was with the Batman — fighting for him, calling for him, needing him.

But in comparison, what could Batman have done?

Batman who was still a man. Batman who, beneath it all, will never be more than the bloodied child that crawled his way out of that alleyway that night.

Wonder Woman and Diana were inalienable from each other, as were Superman and Clark Kent. They had powers, invincibility, tuned senses.

They were gods among men; and no matter how much they try otherwise, they will always be more empowered.

They could've been faster than him. They could've been stronger than him. They could've been more enduring than him.

They should have been.

But they couldn't and didn't, and so why should they come here and pretend like they understand how helpless a death his son suffered and how ugly this grief was, as if they weren't invincible and powerful and heroes and godlike-

-

Before they knew it, Bruce was hitting them.

Weak punches, at best. Even at his best, without the levelling technology, his hits would always feel like a childish tantrum to Clark and Diana.

But what else can Bruce do to make them feel the throbbing pain in his entire body, the cruel endlessness of the suffering his broken heart subjects his mortal coil with — all so that they may finally understand...

"I don't need you! You weren't there!" Bruce screamed, punching at Clark's chest and shoving a motionless Diana.

"I hate you both so much! You can't just come here and talk to me like this! You weren't fucking there! You didn't save him! You weren't there and Jason's dead because of it! FUCK YOU! You can't just come here, you fucking bastards! HOW DARE YOU FUCKING COME HERE AND ACT LIKE YOU COULDN'T DO ANYTHING! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!"

Tears spilled from Clark's eyes as he tried to resist, trying to steady Bruce's flailing arms without hurting him.

Diana took a step back, not quite trusting her voice and hands. She remembered the presence in the room with them and turned. Alfred was there, hand clamped out his mouth, eyes glassy. He too didn't quite know what to do.

"MY BABY IS DEAD! He's dead and you could've saved him! What GOOD are any of you! I HATE YOU! You could've saved him — YOU SHOULD HAVE SAVED HIM! Fuck the world and fuck your code! He needed YOU! Where were YOU!?"

They hear hurried footsteps. Dick arrived. He takes one good look at the situation and pushed into the tense frame.

He pushed Clark off his father, pulling him in.

"B, please, that's enough," he said- begged.

Bruce's face was ruined with tears and red. He buried his head into his son's shoulder, sobbing his voice raw.

"I... I should've saved him, Dick. I could've done something. He's dead, Dick. My baby's dead and it's all my fault. Oh god..."

Dick's gaze was wide and too piercing as he looked back at all of them. His jaw shook as he forced his orders out.

"Everyone — out. Now."

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Clark and Diana are deferred to sitting in one of the drawing rooms, leaning against each other on one of the couches.

An hour passed, maybe two. They only ever measured time for however long it took for Bruce to stop wailing.

They didn't need Alfred telling them what they already knew. Bruce is grieving. He doesn't mean any of it. He's projecting his misguided sense of guilt onto people he trusts not to take it personally.

Childish trauma responses, they're aware; but then again, they knew that Bruce never really outgrew being the terrified little boy that watched his parents die needlessly in an alleyway.

The same alleyway, they know, that he would later find his dearest son; the son he now mourned.

Alfred came to find them, bearing tea and sandwhiches.

"I must thank you for the large servings you brought. I admit, I can't find it in myself to cook dinner after the... events this afternoon."

Clark vividly remembered Bruce sending them a picture of Jason wearing matching aprons with Alfred. He had a feeling it was something related to that.

"You still have a standing invitation to join us for dinner, as always, though I won't hold it against you to leave. Neither will Master Dick nor Master Bruce."

Diana shook her head, "We don't want things to end on such a sour note, especially considering the circumstances."

"You have my thanks," Alfred answered.

He joined them on one of the other chairs, taking a cup of his own. Diana watched him, sensing that there was wisdom to come about.

"He was also angry when the first sighting of Superman was spotted in Metropolis," Alfred said carefully, meeting Clark's mournful gaze, "He said... what good are the wonder and novelty of the supernatural and extraterrestrial, if it only served to worsen the fact that so much needless violence happens every day. The same needless violence that took his parents from him, for example."

Clark and Diana shared a look.

"We have our limits," Diana said, "The Abrahamic faiths must mistake you to generalize all gods as omnipotent and omnipresent."

"I am a man of no faith. You'll find that in this city, there are none who worship a church honestly," Alfred replied, smiling patiently at her, "There are no gods in Gotham."

He stirred the cup like he stirred their wondering.

"Money, sex, crime, people would say that they worship those, but it's obsession rather than belief. An argument can be made that it's the same thing, but faith is meant to be gentle and comforting; anything that isn't that is heresy."

"There's hope," Clark offered.

"Yes. Hope," Alfred laughed bitterly.

"The same hope, perhaps, that made Bruce believe that as long as he trained and he worked, that the people he cared about will never experience needless violence again."

"Is there a point?"

Alfred shook his head, smiling still, "No. There's no point. Just an understanding, I hope, that in this house and this city, your powers mean nothing."

He leaned back and sipped heartily.

"It's not what the people you want to take care of need from you," Alfred said with a tone of finality.

There was a knock on the doorway. It startled Clark and Diana that they didn't sense it.

Dick was standing there. Despite the training and accolades, he's never looked so little.

"You can see him, if you want."

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Bruce is in his room now, lying in his own bed.

Showered, notably, and his bandages looked cleaner.

But the grooming didn't change the fact that he looked tired, hollowed out of all life and meaning.

He was still cradling the same red hood in his arms.

This time, when they knocked, Bruce reacted immediately, looking up at them.

Clark and Diana knew that no comfort or promises can change what became of the boy, nor can any of them afford to shatter the code that allows them to (try) make the best world they possibly can.

So this time, they stand by the doorframe, pillars of patience rather than paragons of truth and hope.

They will not leave. Even if Bruce would beat his anger at them again. Even if Bruce curses them, drugs them with whatever can weaken them enough to kill them. No.

Bruce knows this.

It's why he suddenly burst out crying again.

Diana and Clark move quicker than ever, rushing to sit on the bed with Bruce. They help him sit up and hold him close as he sobbed uglyly, still holding the tangible memory of the sweetness that was ripped from him.

There was no room for power or divinity here.

Gotham needs no gods.

Gotham needs protectors.

And Bruce will be protected, they swear this. He will be allowed to grieve in peace.

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this was just "reasons why bruce is an atheist" in my notes

I might move this to ao3