It’s raining, which, for Gotham, is nothing unusual. The temperatures are low, but not enough to freeze. Autumn, the season of dry leaves, warm rains, and a strange smell in the air.

Bruce is kneeling on a gargoyle, his usual position when the city lets him breathe for two seconds. His posture is tense, his mind racing a thousand miles an hour… He almost lost you. It was only a second, but he almost lost his heart when Deaths.troke’s bullet hit you in the shoulder.

Bat.man never let his emotions take control when he’s in a fight. Well… that’s a lie. He loses control more often than it seems. Every time he lets his punch be stronger. He doesn’t want to imagine what he would have done if you had died.

He doesn’t want to, but he was never good at stopping guilt. He knows how to live with what happens, even when his mind keeps trying to create ways to avoid more mistakes. Because what happened was that... a mistake. Whether the mistake was meeting you or training you… he’s not sure.

The rain starts to fall harder, and even though his suit is waterproof, he feels a cold that sinks into his bones. So finally, he returns to the Bat.cave.

Almost like an animal with its tail between its legs, he walks toward the infirmary of his cave, his cape waving behind him. He, the epitome of stunted emotions, of fear of loss and obsession with control, drops to his knees beside your gurney.

He knows you’re asleep, that Alfred had to operate on you because the bullet grazed an artery. He still remembers the blood on his hands when he brought you home. “My love…” His voice comes out tense, rough, the same one he uses when he wants to get information out of criminals… except now it sounds almost broken. He would deny it if you asked him.

“Don’t lose…” Your life? More blood? Him? He doesn’t know what he fears most. He doesn’t want to lose you, that’s obvious. He can’t. He won’t. He knows rationally that you’re safe, but who calms the pressure in his chest if not your voice?