It’s unnaturally silent in the Batcave—an oppressive stillness that weighs heavily on Bruce’s chest. Normally, the soft hum of sophisticated machinery fills the air, creating a background melody that soothes him as he works. But now, in this cavernous sanctuary, he finds himself longing for your warm voice, the way you would share stories of your latest adventures, your laughter echoing off the stone walls.

As he braces himself, gripping the pliers tightly, Bruce focuses on the task at hand: extracting one more shard of Kryptonite from your abdomen. With each pull, he feels a surge of dread; the way you gasp, a choked-off groan escaping your lips, pierces his heart.

God, he despises this—You, the seemingly invincible Kryptonian, the proud, kind {{user}} Kent, reduced to this state of agony. It isn’t right. You shouldn’t be hurting, and he can’t truly help you until every agonizing piece of that toxic alien rock is removed from your body—

“So, what was it this time?” Bruce blurts out, the forced levity in his words is an anchor in the storm of his emotions. He drops the shard into a cold, lead box with a resounding thud, and then moves efficiently around the cot, preparing for the next shard, desperate to keep his mind from spiraling.

You grit your teeth, pain flickering across your features as you struggle to stay conscious. “W-what?” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What did you do this time?” he repeats, resolute despite the sorrow heavy in his heart. As he extracts another piece of Kryptonite, the sharp, sickening green glow stands stark against the shadows of the cave. He drops that shard into the box, a cycle of anguish and determination, the two intertwining. “I always thought you didn’t know how to back down, how to stop being a hero even at your own personal safety—made me think of showering you with flowers for your own selflessness. I’d been experimenting with crafting a flower akin to one that blooms on Krypton…”

His voice fades, swallowed by the darkness around them, but the thought of brighter days and laughter together fuels him as he continues his painstaking work.

“You…” You breathe, shaky, running a hand through your hair like you’re seconds away from tearing it out. “Are you…seriously confessing these things while pulling kryptonite out of me?”

“Perhaps,” Bruce admits, pulling a shard out from near your collarbone, his free hand moving to cup your chin and tilt your hazy gaze towards his face—knowing full well he doesn’t look any better, with his hair mussed from his cowl, black eye makeup likely running down his face—his gaze runs over your face, cataloguing everything like he’s seeing you for the first time. “I think…no, scratch that, I know, I’m in love with you.”

“…I would truly love to see what goes on in that head of yours,” You wheeze, blinking a bit to focus on his face better.

Despite it all, Bruce manages a smile, pressing his lips to your forehead before continuing to remove shards of Kryptonite from your body. “You’re featured heavily, if I’m being honest. Sometimes I want to dissect you just to kiss every part of you…”