Bruce doesn't quite resist, but there's a long moment of non-reaction before he begins to unwind, almost mechanically. Standard operating procedure says he should tell Clark to mind his own fucking business, maybe leave Richard another tragic voicemail move on— he's at a loss, and yet he has endless motivation to do something, despite being unable.
Why the fuck would he say he's a great dad.
He ends up curling his arms around Clark, clinging there, head against his shoulder. Clutching too tightly, but only until he manages a deep breath out. Leans into Clark, then, hoping that he can somehow intuit an apology for being such a weirdo.
It's a while before he says,
"I miss my kids."
Is the thing. A real shitty thing to try and navigate around, the justified estrangement of one, and the brutal death of the other, which reinforces that rift between the survivors. Sandwiched in the middle of two sets of murdered parents. It's a trauma echo chamber in Wayne Manor, and they're rebuilding it. God help them.
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Why the fuck would he say he's a great dad.
He ends up curling his arms around Clark, clinging there, head against his shoulder. Clutching too tightly, but only until he manages a deep breath out. Leans into Clark, then, hoping that he can somehow intuit an apology for being such a weirdo.
It's a while before he says,
"I miss my kids."
Is the thing. A real shitty thing to try and navigate around, the justified estrangement of one, and the brutal death of the other, which reinforces that rift between the survivors. Sandwiched in the middle of two sets of murdered parents. It's a trauma echo chamber in Wayne Manor, and they're rebuilding it. God help them.