Chapter Text
Bruce knew this day would come. Had known it for months, years even. That didn't make it any easier to bear now that it was here. He'd thoroughly missed his chance, that much was obvious. It was too late to say anything now, so he had to watch his best friend—the love of his life—get married to someone else. For years he’d told himself he would confess, that this time he'd find the courage to say how he felt, but in the end he never did. There was always something. A new date, a new relationship, a crisis—personal or otherwise—and the timing was just never right. After all, he couldn't just spring this on Clark directly after his divorce. Nor right before his first date after months of grieving his relationship. Bruce was his best friend; it was his job to support Clark, no matter what. His personal feelings didn't change that. They weren't Clark's burden to bear. And yet Bruce had these dreams… On long lonely nights, he simply couldn't stop himself from entertaining them. His deepest, most secret fantasies.
What if Clark returned his feelings?
What if they made a relationship work?
What if they were happy together, adopted another dog or a cat and grew old?
But those remained nothing more than what-ifs. The price was simply too high. Because if Clark didn't feel the same, if they couldn't make things work, then Bruce would lose him, likely for good. And that was unacceptable. Bruce had resigned himself to watching Clark find love and happiness with someone else, he'd grown used to the pain of there never being anything more between them.
At least that's what he'd thought. But he'd been wrong. So goddamned wrong…
A knock on the door pulled Bruce from his morose thoughts. Clearing his throat, he called, “Come in!” and turned back to the mirror to finally straighten his tie.
He watched the door open in the mirror, and Dick stepped in. He looked handsome in his suit, grown-up. It was another stab to Bruce's already bruised heart. Dick crossed his arms over his chest, studying Bruce. “Ready for the big event?” he asked, a seemingly easy smile on his face, but Bruce could see the underlying concern. He hated and appreciated it in equal measure.
“Of course,” he replied, voice level despite the bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to smile too. “I'm the best man, I have to be ready. It's pretty much part of the job description.”
It was supposed to be a joke, something to break the tension, but it fell flat, and Dick's expression grew serious. “You don't have to do this, you know? We can just bail. I'll make up an emergency and we'll go somewhere quiet for a week or so. Clark would understand.”
This time Bruce's smile was real, sad but real. “Clark knows us too well for that to work. He'd see right through the lie and it would hurt him. Besides, this is his wedding day. As his friends we owe it to him to be here.”
Now Dick outright frowned. “Not at your own expense, B. This is hurting you.”
Bruce finally turned away from the mirror to face his son properly. “I can handle it. I promise. It's just one day.”
Dick didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue either. After a moment he nodded, and changed the topic. “You coming out? The first guests are arriving.”
“I'll be there in a second.”
“Alright. Call if you need anything. Jason and I have our phones with us.”
“I will,” answered Bruce, even though they both knew it was a lie.
Dick sighed, turning to leave, but then he paused, his hand tightening around the doorknob. “I still wish you'd just tell him. You deserve to be happy, too.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him.
Bruce took a deep breath, trying to center and brace himself for the day ahead. It was going to be torture of the worst kind and there was nothing he could do to make it easier on himself. Because Dick was wrong. Bruce didn't deserve Clark, and Clark was the only shot at happiness he saw for himself. He'd tried getting over him, to move on, but it had never worked. Clark was it for him. Unfortunately, it was never meant to be.
Bruce allowed himself one more minute to wallow, before he pushed those feelings down, locked them away in the recesses of his mind where they wouldn't ruin the day. Then he pasted on his most charming smile and headed downstairs.
***
The garden looked beautiful. Like right out of a Midwestern fairy tale. Sappy (and pathetic) as it was, it actually stole Bruce's breath. Rows and rows of white chairs stood on the lawn, facing the gently swaying cornstalks growing on the fields beyond the fence. Fairy lights were strung up in the blooming apple trees, whose branches were drooping over the aisle, creating a magical canopy. A carpet of white petals covered the aisle between the chairs, leading from the porch to the intricate metal arch under which Clark and Marcy were about to get married.
Bruce's stomach rebelled once more, cramping until it felt like he'd been punched. God, he was pathetic. How on earth was he supposed to get through this?
“Bruce, honey! Oh you look wonderful!” Bruce turned to find Martha coming down the porch steps behind him. She grabbed his hands, and squeezed his fingers. “You always clean up so well.”
“Thanks, Martha.” Bruce lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed them, one after the other. “And you've done an amazing job with the garden. It looks like a dream.” He couldn't quite keep the wistfulness from his voice, nor the longing.
Martha obviously caught it, because her gaze softened, and she squeezed his fingers again. “I'm sorry, sweetie. After Lois… I always thought it would be you. I like Marcy, I do, but for what it's worth I am sorry, honey,” she confessed, and the words sliced right through Bruce's already weak heart.
He took a measured breath, made himself smile, and changed the subject, “I'm sure Clark will love this. He was happy with his and Lois’ courthouse wedding, but I know he always wanted to get married here.” Martha's eyes began to sparkle with tears. Alarmed, Bruce searched for something that would get him out of this conversation before her sympathy could break him. “Speaking of, I have to check on Clark, see if he needs anything.”
Martha sighed, and patted his cheek. “Of course, dear, but do try to enjoy yourself too, yeah? Life is too short.”
“Of course.” With that Bruce turned around and headed back inside. He didn't have another choice. He'd originally planned on waiting outside for the ceremony to start, see if there was anything he could do to help, and greet the guests. He wasn't sure if he could face Clark right now, not alone, not moments before he got married to someone else (again). But Bruce was Clark's best man and he'd told Martha he'd go. So he squared his shoulders, headed to Clark's childhood bedroom—upstairs, third door on the right—and knocked. “Clark?”
There was no answer. Frowning, Bruce knocked again, louder. He knew Clark was in there. Again there was no reply. “I'm coming in!” called Bruce, and after waiting another few seconds without any kind of noise from inside, he pushed the door open.
He was greeted by a shower of sparks and confetti raining down on him and immediately wished he'd stayed in bed that morning. This could only be the work of one person…
“Batman! Fancy seeing you here.”
Bruce rubbed his temples. “Bat-Mite. What are you doing here?”
“Why, I'm here to help you, of course!” The imp grinned and floated closer, doing a somersault in mid-air only to stop right in front of Bruce's face. “Never fear, Bat-Mite is here! I mean, seriously, what kind of fan would I be if I just stood by and watched that stupid Superman—” here the imp blew a raspberry, face contorting into a grimace like the word tasted sour “—marry someone else when you're literally right there?”
Ice flooded Bruce's veins. “You need to leave,” he said. “Right now. I will not allow you to ruin Clark's wedding.”
Bat-Mite crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Nuh-uh. No can do, Batman. You've been miserable for months because of this wedding. I can't allow my favorite hero to be all pathetic.”
Bruce didn’t want to admit that Bat-Mite's words actually stung, so he ignored them. “Clark deserves to be happy. I won't stand in the way of that, and I won't let you do it either.”
The imp rolled his eyes. “For someone so smart you can be really dense. We’ll be seeing each other, Bats.” With that Bat-Mite simply disappeared in a puff of purple smoke, and Bruce suddenly found himself outside of Clark's old bedroom again, fist raised to knock. He shook himself, hating how disoriented Bat-Mite's shenanigans always left him, and finally rapped his knuckles against the wood. It was more important than ever to check on Clark.
“One second!” called Clark from inside. Bruce's stupid heart wanted to start racing just at the sound of his voice. He wrestled it back under control, lest Clark would hear, but it was a near thing. Then the door opened, and Bruce had to start the exercise all over again. Fuck, this was bad.
“Oh! Hey, B. I didn't expect you,” said Clark, smiling so brightly it almost hurt to look directly at him. He wasn't wearing his bowtie and his shirt wasn't fully buttoned up, showing tantalizing glimpses of his throat and collar bone. “What's up?”
Bruce cleared his throat, and fixed his gaze on a point beyond Clark's shoulder. “Just wanted to see if you needed anything. It's your big day, after all.”
Clark's eyes softened. “You're the best, Bruce,” he said, then his expression turned sheepish. “I could actually go for something to eat. I know there'll be plenty of food later, but I'm starving.”
Bruce's eyebrows shot up. The only time Clark was ever hungry was if Kryptonite had been involved… He frowned. Maybe it had been. He didn't know about all of Clark's fights, not anymore. Ever since Marcy… Bruce shut those thoughts down immediately. Instead he said, “I'll be right back. Knowing your mother, she's made more than enough.”
“Thanks, B.” Clark smiled again, and Bruce abruptly spun on his heel and headed downstairs before he made a fool of himself. He was feeling extremely off-kilter, like he'd missed a step and couldn't quite get his balance back, and with each smile, each soft look, each time someone told him what a good friend he was to Clark, it only got worse.
In the kitchen, Bruce rested his forehead against the cool surface of the fridge for just a moment, before he pulled himself together. He began to fill a plate with all of Clark's favorites when he heard voices from the hallway.
“Oh, I swear Jonathan, this woman is driving me crazy!” came Martha's furious whisper, and Bruce froze, curiosity instantly piqued. Silently, he crept closer to the door, the plate with Clark's food forgotten in one hand.
“What has she done now?" Jonathan sighed, long and deep, and that only intrigued Bruce more. Usually Jonathan reacted with a smile to the feuds Martha had with their more conservative neighbors. He seemed to find it endearing. This definitely wasn't that. This was resigned.
“Have you seen what she's done in the garden?” hissed Martha, and Bruce saw her furiously waving her hands. “She took down the paper fans and lanterns to put up all those crystals everywhere! I spent all week making them too.”
“It's their wedding,” answered Jonathan reluctantly, like he didn’t really believe his own words. Bruce realized that this wasn't the first time Marcy had done something to upset Martha. “Important thing is that they like it, right?” The rustling of clothes told Bruce Jonathan was pulling his wife into a hug.
“I know, but she could've said something. That's not too much to ask, is it? I would've helped her. I just want to be a part of this.”
Anger rose in Bruce's chest, making his blood boil. The mere thought of doing something to upset Martha and Jonathan was unfathomable to him. They were the kindest, most generous people he knew. Denying them anything…
Gritting his teeth, Bruce turned away, and snuck out the other door into the living room and from there back to Clark's room, but irritation made his steps louder on the stairs than he meant them to be so that Clark was already poking his head through the door by the time he reached his room.
“You were gone for quite a while, I was about to check on you.”
Bruce surreptitiously took a deep breath to suppress the questions burning on his tongue—
Why would Clark choose someone who apparently treated his parents poorly? Why would he even want to marry Marcy after knowing her for only a few months? Why didn't he tell anyone about his plans beforehand? Why didn't he tell Bruce?
—and made himself raise an eyebrow instead. ”Don't be ridiculous. You can't go downstairs like that. You're not even properly dressed.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah. You know I saw that perfume ad campaign you did, right? You were wearing a lot less than I am now when you went traipsing around that field, so you can’t lecture me on my clothing. Or lack thereof.”
Bruce snorted, amused and so helplessly endeared by Clark's teasing. He couldn't stop himself, not when there were butterflies dancing in his stomach at the mere thought of Clark seeing him in nothing more than a pair of very tight briefs (nevermind that the whole of Gotham and Metropolis saw him like that every single day; it wasn't like they mattered). Not when Clark grinned like he’d won some kind of prize by making Bruce lose his composure and crack a smile. The moment was broken, however, when Clark suddenly went rigid, gaze going past Bruce and fixing on something down the hall. Something only he could see, because when Bruce turned around, he found nothing there. Whatever it was, it made Clark’s grin disappear in an instant. “Come on in,” he said, voice disturbingly void of emotion. “I don’t want to accidentally see Marcy. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
The words washed over Bruce like a bucket of ice water. For a moment he’d almost forgotten… It didn’t matter. There was enough time for a breakdown later. Right now, he had a mission: be Clark’s best man and ensure that Bat-Mite didn’t ruin the wedding. So he stepped over the threshold. Unfortunately, as he did so, his foot caught on something, and he stumbled forward, completely losing his balance. Clark, with his lightning fast reflexes, reached out to steady him, but all that did was ensure that the plate of food hit him right in the chest.
“Fuck,” said Bruce with feeling, staring in horror at the mess he'd made.
Clark didn’t seem to hear him. He was busy checking Buce over. He even placed a hand on Bruce’s forehead to check his temperature. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
Cheeks heating, Bruce quickly ducked out of the way. “I’m fine,” he said, grimacing as he gestured at Clark. “It’s your suit that bore the brunt of the impact.”
Clark looked down at himself, at the cracker crumbs, the tomatoes, hummus and cream cheese smeared all over his shirt, vest, and suit jacket. He looked horrified. “Shoot! Oh no, I can't face Marcy like this. Bruce, what do I do? She wants everything to be perfect!”
Bruce bit his tongue until the urge to tell Clark that he wouldn't care, that Clark could wear a potato sack at their wedding as long as he was there, had passed. Only then did he take a deep breath and said, “Take off your shirt.”
Clark's head snapped up, his eyes wide and a faint dusting of red across his cheeks. "W-what?"
Realizing how that had sounded, Bruce felt his own cheeks heat, but he pushed through the mortification. “You'll wear my shirt and I'll put on one of your old ones. After all, we can't have you looking like a slob on your wedding day.”
“Oh,” said Clark, and swallowed audibly. The air between them felt strangely charged all of a sudden. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, B.”
“Of course.” Bruce ignored the nervous flutter in his chest, and slid off his jacket, carefully laying it on the bed. He undid his bowtie and pulled it out from under his collar, before taking off the vest and unbuttoning his shirt. He could practically feel Clark's eyes on him, but didn't dare look up. He heard the rustling of Clark undressing and if their eyes met now, Bruce didn't know what he might do. Fall to his knees and beg, maybe, which was unacceptable.
God, what had Bruce been thinking? This was far too intimate. He should have left the room, asked Jason to swap with Clark, anything but this. But it was too late now. He couldn't back out. Loathe as he was to aid in this wedding, Clark needed him. So he took off his shirt, feeling goosebumps raise his skin as it was exposed to the air.
“You're cold,” said Clark behind him, frowning audibly and making Bruce realize that he’d been watched, which was not good for his blood pressure. While Bruce fought with his body, Clark, completely unaware, strode over to his closet. “I should have thought of this sooner. Sorry, B. I guess I’m more nervous about getting married again than I thought I’d be.” Bruce kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing as Clark rummaged around his closet. Finally, he returned, stopping in front of Bruce, a lot closer than was strictly necessary. He pressed a simple white dress shirt into Bruce's hands. “Here, this should fit.” A crooked smile. “I wore that to prom.”
“Thank you,” replied Bruce, still not meeting Clark’s gaze. The proximity was… suboptimal. Not only did he catch Clark's intoxicating scent on every inhale, but no matter where he looked now, he was met with Clark's naked chest and arms. All that perfect golden skin on display, close enough to touch… Bruce’s stomach tightened. “You should get dressed. We don't have much time,” he said, and hastily turned around to put the shirt on—Clark's prom shirt, fuck—and as he did so, he swore he saw a wisp of purple smoke out of the corner of his eye, a small figure disappearing inside it. Understanding hit him and Bruce gritted his teeth. He tried his best to keep his hands steady as he did up the shirt buttons. So that's how he’d tripped. It had been Bat-Mite’s fault. That meddling little piece of shi—
“Is it okay?”
Taking a calming breath, Bruce slid the last button through the hole, and straightened the shirt before he turned back to face Clark, who had already put on Bruce’s shirt in turn. If he’d hoped that seeing Clark dressed once more would make things easier, he knew better now. The sight was… distracting, to say the least. The expensive fabric of Bruce's shirt hugged Clark's torso tightly, just shy of being too small. His muscles were clearly visible underneath. For a moment, Bruce's mouth was too dry to speak, his mind completely blank, and all he could do was stare. “It’s good,” he finally managed. “A little tight, but that shouldn’t be noticeable once you put on my vest.”
To keep himself busy, Bruce picked up said vest and handed it to Clark, who immediately shrugged it on. The midnight blue made his eyes shine all the brighter, so Bruce quickly handed his jacket over as well. It didn’t help. The jacket’s royal blue color paired with the midnight blue lapels accentuated Clark's tanned skin and light eyes even further, and paired with the dark grey dress pants he was actually wearing a mix of Batman and Superman’s colors, and—Oh God, Bruce had reached a new low point, even for him. He needed to get out of here. Or for someone to slap some sense into him. Preferably both. Because Clark looked almost ethereal, so beautiful that Bruce had difficulty looking right at him, and neither Bruce’s heart nor his brain could take it any longer. He was acting like a teenager, getting all excited about his crush wearing a mix of their clothes…
“Do I look okay?”
Clark’s question pulled Bruce from his spiral, and he inwardly shook himself. “You look handsome,” he said truthfully. “Marcy is a lucky woman.”
“Thanks, B. I'm glad you're here. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for.” Clark’s expression changed, softened more into himself somehow. Bruce frowned slightly, only now realizing that something had been off, but then he chided himself. He was just looking for problems where there were none because he didn’t want this wedding to happen. The only real problems he needed to look out for were a certain imp from the fifth dimension and his own pathetically unrequited feelings.
Already retreating towards the door, Bruce said, “I’ll get you something else to eat, and something to clean up this mess with.” And before Clark could reply, Bruce was gone.
***
The rest of the morning passed without further incident. Bruce began to relax slightly. Bat-Mite was stubborn and tenacious when he wanted something, but he was still an imp and as such he was also flighty and unpredictable. It was equally likely that he’d planned more pranks for the day as it was that he’d gotten bored and returned home to the fifth dimension. Either way, nothing more happened and only two short hours later, Bruce found himself in the garden, standing under the metal arch to Clark’s left as they waited for Marcy to walk down the aisle.
Clark looked dazed, almost hypnotized as he stared at the porch door where his fiancée was set to appear any second now. As if he didn’t even see his friends and family seated in front of him. As if he wasn’t really present at all. Bruce didn’t like it, but he recognized that he was heavily biased and had no experience in this regard; he’d never gotten married. So he settled for watching the crowd of people, carefully avoiding his own children among them.
Then the door opened, and Marcy finally walked out. She didn’t have any bridesmaids to precede her nor any family to accompany her, and if Bruce didn’t dislike her so fiercely, he would’ve felt the greatest sympathy for her. As it was, however, he felt his gut burn with jealousy, a mantra of you don’t deserve him, playing on loop in his head. Which was probably why he didn’t immediately notice that it wasn't the first notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D coming from the speakers as Marcy reached the porch steps.
“Yippie yay,” crooned Kay Kyser. “There'll be no wedding bells for today!”
“Fuck,” muttered Bruce, and ran towards the laptop he’d set up on the porch while, Kay Kyser happily sang on:
“'Cause I got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle
(Jingle, jangle)
As I go ridin' merrily along
(Jingle, jangle)
And they sing, "Oh, ain't you glad you're single"
(Jingle, jangle)
And that song ain't so very far from wrong
(Jingle, jangle)”
Bruce slammed his finger on the space bar, stopping the song, and suddenly the entire garden was deathly quiet. Everyone stared at him. “Sorry,” he called, forcing himself to chuckle. “I must’ve accidentally set up my own playlist.”
His excuse was met with awkward laughter and shaking heads. Typical Brucie Wayne, they were probably thinking. And that was another thing bothering Bruce about this wedding: there were hardly any of Clark’s actual friends present. Bruce and his children were the only ones he’d invited. No one else from the League was there, and when Bruce had asked Clark about it a few weeks ago, he hadn’t gotten a real answer. Instead Clark had been angry with Bruce, accusing him of meddling and butting in where he didn't belong, so he’d dropped it. Now, most people here were colleagues and neighbors, not anyone who knew Clark—or Bruce—well.
“Thank you for that, Brucie,” Marcy bit out with badly masked anger. “I'm sure we all needed a laugh.”
Bruce awkwardly smiled at her. “Sorry, Marce.” He pressed play on Canon in D and jogged back to Clark, who looked like he hadn’t even noticed that anything happened at all. He still only had eyes for Marcy, staring at her like his life depended on it.
“That was the second time you screwed up,” whispered a voice in Bruce’s ear, making him set his jaw against the curses wanting to fly from his tongue. “I'm giving you all these chances but you're not taking them.”
“Leave him alone,” hissed Bruce out of the corner of his mouth, but Bat-Mite only laughed. “Now where is the fun in that?”
There was a faint pop!, indicating that Bat-Mite had disappeared again, but Bruce’s anger remained. As if this day hadn't been bad enough! As if it wasn’t already hell on Earth to watch the man he loved getting married! That cursed imp just had to make it worse. Didn’t he understand that there was nothing Bruce could do? Clark wanted Marcy, he’d chosen her, and even if Bruce didn’t know what Clark saw in her, who was he to begrudge his friends happiness? Didn’t Clark, who was always so selfless, always looking out for everyone else, deserve to marry the person he loved?
Marcy walked down the aisle and joined them under the arch. Instead of looking happy, however, she eyed Clark’s suit critically. “What are you wearing, Clark my treasure? I thought we’d agreed on your outfit for today.”
“Just a little food mishap,” said Clark, smiling, but there was something uncertain about it that rubbed Bruce the wrong way. “Bruce tripped, but he was nice enough to lend me his suit.”
“Did he now,” Marcy shot Bruce a venomous glare. “How very generous of him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think your dear friend was trying to sabotage our wedding. Lucky for him, I do know better. Right, Bruce?”
Bruce’s nostrils flared as his anger burned brighter. He wanted nothing more than to punch Marcy’s smug face in. She had everything Bruce wanted, and she didn’t even know how to cherish it. It’s not your decision, he reminded himself, and vowed again that he’d play nice as he saw the scowl Clark aimed his way.
“Right,” he made himself say. “I just want Clark to be happy.”
“Good. That makes two of us.” Marcy smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Clark meanwhile was still scowling at Bruce. Until the priest cleared his throat.
“Are we ready to begin?”
Thankfully, (or not, Bruce truly couldn’t decide and what kind of horrible person did that make him?) Bat-Mite didn’t play another prank on them, and the rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch. For Bruce it passed in a bit of a blur. He barely paid attention to it. He did and said all the right things (handing Clark the rings and watching him slide the gold band inlaid with crystals onto Marcy’s finger felt like ripping out his own heart), but mentally he’d checked out.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” concluded the priest, and bile rose in Bruce’s throat as he watched Clark kiss his new wife. It was even worse to watch than he had imagined, and he could only hope that no one was looking at him or they’d likely know exactly what was going through his head. Still, when the kiss was finally over and the new couple turned to their guests to accept their well-wishes, he was the first to pull Clark into a hug.
“Congratulations, my friend,” he said, blinking back tears. “I wish you both the best.”
“No, Bruce.” Clark shook his head, quickly extricating himself. His eyes appeared almost vacant as he looked at Bruce, his voice hollow. “You need to go.”
Bruce froze, heart starting to race. “What?”
“You heard him,” interjected Marcy, pushing between the two of them. “You almost ruined our wedding twice already. We won’t risk a third time. Leave.”
Bruce’s gaze snapped back to Clark, searching his face. “You can’t mean that,” he whispered hoarsely. “We’re friends. You're my best friend, Clark.”
For a second he thought he saw a flicker of something in Clark’s stony expression, but then he shook his head. “Not anymore. Marcy is right. We don’t want another scene like that at the party. A true friend wouldn’t try to sabotage me like this.”
Bruce actually stumbled back a step, the words hitting him like a flurry of punches. This had to be another one of Bat-Mite’s pranks. It had to. He looked around wildly but the imp was nowhere to be seen.
“Goodbye, Bruce,” said Clark, again with that hollow-sounding voice, and then he and Marcy simply turned around and walked away from him, accepting congratulations from their other guests like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t just made one of Bruce’s worst nightmares come true. He didn’t know what had changed during the ceremony. Clark hadn’t seemed angry about the clothes or the song before; he’d laughed about the first and barely acknowledged the second! So why was he suddenly pushing Bruce away? It didn’t make sense.
Bruce stood there, unmoving and feeling like he couldn’t breathe. Then he saw his kids get up and make their way towards him through the small crowd, and suddenly it was all too much. He wasn’t in the mood to explain what was going on, to talk about his feelings. So he turned on his heel, and jumped the wooden fence, disappearing into the cornfield like the worst kind of romantic lead in a romance novel, but he didn't care. He wandered aimlessly, his only thought being that he needed to get away, and fast. He wanted to be alone.
Which was of course when Bat-Mite appeared again, purple smoke curling around him as he shook his head. “You’ve gone and screwed it up now, Bats. But don’t worry, you can try again, get it right the next time.”
Growling, Bruce aimed a punch at the imp. “This is all your fault!” he yelled, channeling the unbearable anguish he felt into anger. Bat-Mite easily evaded him, and flew higher into the air where Bruce’s fists couldn’t reach him. Bruce roared, and turned around in a wild circle, trying to find anything he could punch. He needed an outlet, he needed his skin to stop itching, to get rid of Clark’s voice telling him to leave.
Above him, Bat-Mite sighed. “Best to start over, Batman. Trust me, you’ll be thanking me in the end.”
“Not likely,” hissed Bruce, glaring at the imp, but before he could do or say anything else, a cloud of that damned purple smoke surrounded him, and the world faded to black.