one.
two.
three.
breathing hurts, his right eye has long swollen shut and his gaze turned hazy. the man, his name is nelson -- no -- fog, fogs, foggy. bruce draws a strained breath, ammonia heavy in the air. someone is cleaning away the evidence. a rough bristled scrapping allows him to keep track of the time, of the idle movement. but he has survived worse. bruce finds himself beneath the bat and though he can scarcely see for the blood, the sweat, the pain, he is calm. the man knelt in the steady drip drip drip of the newest wound is scrubbing away the evidence.
foggy has fallen asleep, fitful, troubled. not a hair out of place. bruce knows it’ll be trouble though. the man is innocent, joker wanting to break him with something unseen; the knowledge that no matter how many times bruce is broken, foggy is helpless to do anything save for watch.
bare feet scrape along the cold concrete, brows knitted together. if only, if only-- his gaze rises and he sees something, no, sees SOMEONE, that makes his breath catch in a painful stutter. dirty matted red hair. pale freckled skin. the pain means so little when he recognizes the face beneath the dirt, beneath the blood. the man at his feet stirs, finishing his task with a douse of cold water. they’re alone, the three of them, and bruce begins to think. he begins to take slow breathes and steady himself.
one.
two.
three.
four broken ribs, perhaps more. fractures wrists, and his vision was going in and out. foggy is beginning to stir the more he moves, the more he fights. good, he’ll need the help carrying bailey out. he has to swallow down the bile, the pain, when he pulls himself up slowly. curling, crawling up, fighting the darkness at the edge of his vision, bruce works at the ropes, tugging, pulling. it’s taken weeks, months, and finally he’s close. one tug. two twists. three snaps. one punch. two gasps. three grunts. foggy is grunting, straining. bruce doesn’t look to know those wrists are raw, ripping anew. it’s been two weeks, six days, thirteen hours, and too many minutes since he’d stopped telling foggy to stop.
there’s a loud S N A P-- bruce catches himself too late, too slow, and lands with a sharp C R A C K. the world is edged white and breath coming fast, ragged. it hurts, god it hurts. fingers push, slipping against the concrete, and bruce is tugging the dirty cloth from his mouth as he stumbles forward. foggy has something dangerous in his eyes as bruce fumbles with the knots.
he’s nearly forgotten what it looks like.
stormborns
blakekathryn
gummygunk
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
