(superwonderbat angst for the promptĀ ācuddling in front of the fireplaceā)
Summ: For a creature of the shadows, Bruce is certainly drawn to the light.
Sequel of sorts to Tears Like Secrets
Woodsmoke fills his lungs and tastes like home. Cross-legged, Bruce sits by the fireplace in the den, a blanket draped around his shoulders. Heās not kneeling this time, though his knees still aches from keeping the same position for so long. Itās familiar though, sitting here by the fire, and right now familiar is just what he needs. He thinks of the days he spent in front of this fireplace, the hours spent staring into the flickering light, the seconds spent thinking of touching each amber tendril⦠no. His childhood winters, spent before the roaring heat, drying his soaked clothes and tear-stained cheeks. Some days it was the only thing that could warm him.
Bruce jerks as the fire pops like a gunshot. The bodies beside him murmur at the disturbance, but don't wake. He'd already been by the fire when they arrived, eyes unwavering from the flames. They had sat beside him, wordless and content to stay by his side, embracing him as much as they could before sleep claimed them. Clark and Diana, at his side, itās poetic in a way. A tragedy, too.
Bruce sighs, but it does nothing to dislodge the weight in his chest. Itās been a week, maybe longer, since the last time they found him here. The secret, his secret, exposed to the world. Well, to Clark and Diana, but itās much the same. Theyāre patient with him, like heās a wild animal, hurt, whoād rather die than seek help from another. Maybe thatās how they see him, scared, a threat to himself. Maybe he is.
He thought this was fine, that it could just blow over. Clark and Diana knew his vulnerabilities, respected him for them, and Bruce was willing to move on. His feelings would subside, theyād have to, and the trinity could continue without any messy emotions in the way. At least thatās what he hoped. Bruce thought it was fine, and it was, until, of course, they made a proposal. If it were anyone else, if it werenāt Clark and Diana, he would have laughed or punched them in the face. How dare they suggest that they could⦠no. He canāt even think about it. Bruce never thought that they would ever reciprocate, resigned himself to the fact. And now...
Thereās so much that he wants, so much that Clark and Diana would be willing to give him, but he canāt, he canāt, because then heād want it all. Bruce scoffs at the flickering flames that send shadows skittering across the floor. Drawn to the light, as always, and it will be his downfall.
The light was a weakness, a snitch. It brought him down, exposed him to the world. Secrets stay safe in shadows, but the light, the light always drew out the truth. It takes light to show Clark and Dianaās peaceful smiles and to see what heās done to them. He made them love him, this wreck of a being. Wasnāt it bad enough that they knew how he felt, that he loved them? Wasnāt it bad enough that they were willing to be civil to him? No, they had to be⦠them. How dare he make them fall in love with him?
Under the cover of darkness, heās safe. It blankets him, tucking at the corners around his frame. And he, a watchman, revels in the dark. It fashions him a cape, a cowl, an alias. Heās safe behind a mask, relatively of course, but his identity, his core, his secrets, they are wrapped up in masks and shadows tighter than a noose.
Clark and Diana werenāt exactly big on masks. Two beings of such light and hope and joy, they make Bruce dream of hopeless things like love. And the light, oh the light, could he dare to touch? Never. The notion of purity makes him scoff, but he knows his hands will sully the light, snuff it out between his fingertips. He canāt do it, not to them.
Bruce knows heās not cut out for this, is adamant about that. Heās a heat sink, a void, a fucking nightmare to deal with. He wakes in the nights, covered in sweat, and itās not the darkness clutching at his throat, but the sliver of moonlight through a gap in the blinds, edging closer like a garrote, taut and gleaming. Itās not Clark or Diana holding the weapon, heād have to let them into his bedroom first, but himself and only himself. And he knows it, knows it , but he canāt bring himself to loosen his grip. Night after night, he retreats to the shadows, safe from the light. Safe, but at what cost?
The fire's dying down, just coals glowing, blinking slowly. He can either stoke it, add some more logs and keep the fire going, or let it die with dignity, here and now. He can end this, he can let them go and save them from themselves. They'd be happy together, just the two, with their light and their hope and their love that overflows the very confines of their souls.
Diana nuzzles closer against the thigh she's using as a pillow. Without thought, Bruceās hand comes down to brush her hair away from her face. He runs the back of his fingers across her cheekbone, his touch feather-light. Clarkās breath is steady against the exposed skin of Bruceās neck, each gust of warm air a reminder of the trust built between them. He could be so happy with them. Or maybe happy isnāt the right word. He can be, is, happy on the good days. His family is a blessing he can never forget. And with Clark and Diana, he can be another kind of happy, cherished. He sighs, eyes clenched tight. No, he has to let them go.
Itās not the dark that scares him, it's never been the dark. For someone who lives lost in shadow, he doesn't fear the dark.
If thereās one thing that scares him, itās the light.