bruce still panics every time he sees a gun.
as batman, he’s significantly more prepared for the possibility of it, and he can often push past it with no trouble at all—beyond an odd, implacable ache in his chest and a few quick, heavy breaths—but as bruce wayne?
bruce wayne shouldn’t have to be prepared for a gun—and as stupid as that sounds, to not be on guard without his Suit when in fact he’s more vulnerable—a gun to bruce wayne sets his teeth on edge. he doesn’t have his Suit, his protection—only an air headed persona that helps nobody when a bullet flies in his direction.
he can stave off the panic for a little while, but the adrenaline coursing through him is always incongruous with the situation; always matching a scenario that hasn’t occurred for over twenty-five years. when he can’t hold it off anymore, whether that be before or after the gunman has been taken care of, bruce’s vision tunnels and he hears the clatter of pearls in an alley, flinching away from two phantom shots and whining, low and wounded at the flashes of blood and immobile corpses fill his vision.
if he's lucky, he can duck under a table or behind a corner and hide himself from prying eyes—but nobody can hide from superman.
bruce is squeezed as far as he can into a corner, gripping his hair tight, with his palms practically squeezing his head with how hard he's got them pressed against his ears. he's a mess. distantly, he's aware that he can't pull in a proper breath, and his heart thunders in his chest, and he's—groaning, unhappy and scared. but he can't focus. every time he blinks, bloodied pearls dot his vision, and he can hear the rain, hear the scream, hear the gunshots and the way his parents' bodies had slumped—
"mr. wayne?" calls a voice, steady and sure.
bruce blinks harshly, willing away the images behind his eyes. he can just about glimpse the bright red flash of a cape, the unnatural blueness of superman's suit.
"the shooting," bruce gasps out, cursing himself for how useless he's been. "is everyone—"
"everyone survived. nobody was shot," superman cuts in, edging closer. he kneels in front of bruce, but doesn't move to touch him. "they have you to thank for that."
bruce scoffs. "i was hardly any help," he replies disdainfully, pointedly glancing down at himself, at the messy, worthless state of him.
"bruce," superman says, his voice all clark, now, gentle and warm, flooded with understanding. "you did everything right. you saved all of them."
biting at his mouth, bruce shakes his head as hot, humiliating tears well in his eyes. "not all of them," he insists, his voice thick.
clark leans forward, tugging him into a crushing hug. he cards his fingers through bruce's sweat-damp hair, brushing his lips against his temple. "you're safe, sweetheart," clark whispers as bruce releases a cut-off sob into his collarbone. "i've got you."
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