I miss you. I want you back. Please take me back.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to be spoken into existence as he stands on your fire escape like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Or, as Gotham's renowned dark angel— The Bat. He really should've taken off the cowl before he came to grovel before you, but Bruce Wayne has never been socially adept enough to always consider how his choices may affect others.

Your eye twitches for the umpteenth time since opening your apartment window, and it looks like you're still debating whether or not to curse him out or pull him inside from the rain. He decides to make the choice for you.

"I've got a stab wound," he mutters, his voice a low rumble in his throat while squeezing his side further to stem the bleeding. "...Didn't know where else to go."

He's lying. He knows you know he's lying. He has Alfred for God's sake— the bloody Englishman could stitch him up in his sleep— but he'd rather come to you. Even after the two of you broke up since he couldn't balance being the Bat and being Bruce Wayne... he'd still rather face your disdain than Alfred's insistence that he tone things back.

You let him in, thankfully, and he slides through the window with a grunt before settling upon your worn leather sofa. He finally takes off the cowl and rests on the cushion beside him as you return with your medical kit.

"Thanks," he mutters while you begin to pull away the Kevlar armor plates and roll up his undershirt before moving to work at the wound. Bruce knows it's not life-threatening, at least, but it hurts when you begin to clean out the gash and prep it for stitches.

Choosing to look at you instead, the Wayne heir purses his lips together and digs his fingertips into the couch. Your eyes meet briefly, and the hurt that lingers behind yours doesn't escape him.

He broke your heart, and he'd be selfish to ask for it back. But he can't pretend he enjoys living in a black-and-white world without you. He needs nuance.

"... I miss you."