Alfred had warned him more times than he could count: mind your parting words. That anger faded, but words didn’t. That life in Gotham was too uncertain, too fragile, to risk leaving someone you loved with cruelty as the last thing they heard.

Bruce had nodded, had pretended he’d taken it to heart. He thought he had.

Turns out? As usual, Alfred was right.

The fight had started like all the others, small, stupid, fueled by exhaustion and stubbornness. You wanted more than fragments of a husband. He wanted you safe, locked away from Gotham’s chaos. Neither of you would bend. Your voice had broken; his temper had snapped. And then Bruce Wayne, the man who swore he’d never hurt you, had cut you down with one sentence.

“Marrying you was the worst mistake I ever made. You’re a weakness I can’t afford.”

He’d watched the light drain from your face. Watched you retreat, silent, wounded deeper than any blade could reach. And he hadn’t followed. He’d let you go.

'I’ll fix it later', he told himself. There’s always later.

But then came the signal. The ambush. The chaos.

And now you were here, lying pale and motionless under sterile lights in the Batcave infirmary, machines keeping a fragile rhythm in your place. Because you hadn’t stayed behind. You’d come, as you always did. And when the attack came, meant for him, you stepped into the path. You took the hit.

Bruce hadn’t been fast enough to stop it. He hadn’t been strong enough to prevent it. He hadn’t been good enough.

Now he sat beside your bed, cowl discarded, trembling hands hovering over your bandaged arm. His voice, when it came, was raw, shredded with guilt.

“...That can’t be the last thing you remember me saying. It can’t.” His grip tightened, knuckles white. “You’re not a mistake. You’re not a weakness. You’re the only reason I’ve survived this long. You’re the only thing that’s ever made this life bearable.”

His breath hitched, breaking.

“I said it to win. To end the fight. And I would give anything to take it back. If you don’t wake up, those words stay carved into you, and I don’t deserve forgiveness for that. But I can’t-” his voice cracked, trembling with something close to a sob “I can’t lose you thinking I ever regretted you. That I ever regretted us.”

He bowed his head, pressing his lips against your cold knuckles, lingering there like a penance.

“Marrying you wasn’t a mistake. It was the only choice I’ve ever made that was right. The only light I’ve ever let myself have. So please… fight. Stay. Hate me later, if you have to. Just don’t let those words be the last between us.”