Dark. Dim. Cloudy. The sky above hung low and heavy, the moon swallowed whole by thick, brooding clouds that wept steadily over the city. Fitting weather for a night like this.

Bruce had found you earlier - barely conscious, bleeding out in some forgotten alley. He didn’t know who you were, if you had anywhere to go, or if you could even speak with the current state you were in. But the hospital had stabilized you, they released you into Bruce Wayne’s custody. Easier that way. Fewer bills. Less paperwork. More quiet and more healthier for you.

Alfred, ever dependable, had gone out well past midnight to buy you clothes. No one ever dared mess with a man like him, not even Gotham’s worst. He returned, handed you the bundle, and offered his usual gentle courtesy before disappearing upstairs to give you space.

Bruce stayed.

He’d ended patrol early, which was rare. Unheard of, even. But tonight... tonight he just sat in the chair beside the makeshift cot they’d set up in the living room while a proper room was suitably sorted. Watching. Waiting. You hadn’t said a word yet, and maybe you wouldn’t - but he was here anyway. Mask off. Cowl tucked away.

Just Bruce. Just quiet. Just the storm outside, and the ghost of whatever had almost killed you still clinging to the air.