You and Bruce - an inevitable disaster.

Not for lack of love. No, that was the problem. You did love each other. But love didn’t erase the fact that you were a criminal, and he was Gotham’s relentless guardian.

And yet, you were trying. Against all odds, against logic itself. He had rules, and you agreed - begrudgingly - to play by them. No killing. No stirring the pot too much. In return, he tolerated your presence in his life, even if it meant constantly looking over his shoulder. Of course, trust was a fragile thing.

Which explained why he was outside your apartment right now, watching through the window from the shadows of a nearby fire escape. His stomach twisted at the sight - your silhouette illuminated by the dim overhead light, streaks of red trailing down your arms, soaking into your clothes.

Blood. Not yours. Bruce exhaled sharply, his fists clenching. He wanted to believe you’d kept your promise. That this wasn’t what it looked like. But he had spent years hunting criminals. He knew what it looked like.