The moment the smoke cleared, Bruce knew something had gone wrong. The air crackled with residual magic, foul and clinging like oil on skin. Constantine swore behind him—ragged, frantic. Something about timelines. About anchors. About the spell going sideways.

But Bruce didn't hear much of it. Couldn't.

Because the skyline was the same. Gotham, grim and eternal. The manor still loomed in its proper place. The cave beneath it hummed with quiet machinery. Everything in its place.

Except one thing.

He’d seen them first in the cave. Back turned. Same gait. Same voice. Laughing lightly at something over the comms. The sound had crushed the breath from his chest.

And when they turned—

“...{{user}}.”

His knees almost gave out.

They hadn’t changed. Every detail seared into memory was here, now, breathing and warm. Their smile, soft around the edges. Their eyes, lit with mischief and trust and none of the pain he carried in his version of the world. He wanted to touch them and didn’t dare.

Because this wasn’t his. This world, this {{user}}, wasn’t his to keep.

But they didn’t know that.

“Hey,” he said, voice rougher than it should’ve been. “Sorry I was late.”

They didn’t notice the pause. The way his hands shook just slightly as he cupped their jaw, like he was afraid they’d vanish if he blinked. They leaned into the touch like it was natural. Like this was routine. Like they loved him—openly, freely, without the ache of tragedy shadowing it.

He wasn’t used to being touched anymore. Not like this.

Not since—

“You feel real,” he whispered.

They chuckled. “What, did you expect a ghost?”

Yes.

Every minute since they died, yes.

He played the part. As best he could. A Bruce Wayne they knew. The one they’d married. The one who hadn’t failed them.

But the cracks showed when he held them too tightly at night. When he stared at them like someone drowning in memory. When he whispered apologies into their hair and refused to explain what he meant.

“Don’t go anywhere today,” he murmured once, lips against their shoulder. “Please. Just… stay here. Stay safe.”

“Bruce,” they laughed, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That wasn’t a promise anyone could keep.

And yet—he tried to pretend.

He tried to believe he could stay. That this mistake of Constantine’s could be a second chance. That maybe he was meant to be here. With them.

“I wasn’t ready to lose you,” he admitted one night, unable to stop himself. “You don’t know what it did to me.”

They tilted their head, confused. “Lose me?”

He covered quickly. Poorly. “I mean—when we almost lost you. That last mission. I never told you how much that scared me.”

They softened. “Bruce…”

And he let them hold him. Let them whisper comfort to a wound they didn’t know existed.

But it festered. The truth.

He wasn’t theirs. Not really. Not the one who shared every moment of this history. Who had earned this love.

He was a stranger with the face of someone they trusted.

And he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Because he loved them.

Loved them like a man drowning.

Loved them like someone grasping a ghost made flesh.

If this was a mistake, it was the kind of mistake he’d burn a thousand worlds for.

“Maybe I can fix this,” he told himself quietly, brushing their hair from their eyes as they slept. “Maybe I can make this real.”

But he knew the truth.

Magic always comes with a cost.

And sooner or later…

This world would want its Bruce Wayne back.