Bruce stands in the middle of the cave, hands trembling against the console, the silence pressing in around him like the weight of the cowl he’d torn off hours ago. The glow of the monitors reflects in his eyes, but he doesn’t see the data. He sees their face.
“…I didn’t mean it.”
His voice is low. Hoarse.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.”
The words echo. Hollow. Meaningless without someone to receive them.
“You kept asking—pushing—and I know you were just worried. I know you were just loving me the way I never learned how to be loved. But I was tired. I was—damn it, I was scared.”
He slams a fist against the console. It cracks. The sound is sharp, final.
“I should have told you that instead of yelling. Instead of—whatever I said. Whatever I threw at you. I can’t even remember the words, only your face. The way your mouth opened like you couldn’t breathe. The way you turned around like you were ashamed.”
He swallows hard. The Batsuit looms behind him on its rack. Useless. Empty.
“You looked at me like I’d become every man who’d ever hurt you. And I let it happen. I became him. I thought I could never—”
He bites off the rest.
“…You ran.”
His knuckles are white.
“You never run. You always stay. You yell back. You cry, you get quiet, you stay close even when I’m impossible—but you never just leave. Not without telling me where. Not without coming back that night to crawl into bed like you always do.”
He glances toward the staircase. No sound. Still no sound.
“I thought I’d wait. Let you breathe. You’ve said before that you need air. I wanted to give that to you. But it’s been three days.”
A pause.
“Three days and Alfred won’t say it out loud, but he’s worried. Dick keeps pacing. Jason’s out breaking skulls like that’ll bring you back. Tim’s silent. Damian… won’t look at me.”
His voice cracks. Just a little.
“You’re the only one who gets through to him. You’re the only one who can touch his shoulder and make him believe he’s not just his genetics. And now he looks at me like I killed something.”
Bruce steps forward. Then stops. Turns his head toward the case. Jason’s old suit, tucked behind glass.
“I’ve lost too much already. I’ve buried too many people I love.”
His eyes are steel. Haunted.
“Not you. I won’t bury you. I won’t even let myself think that way.”
He pulls up footage. Surveillance. Still images from the city’s endless eyes. No trace of them.
“…Gotham has teeth. You don’t know how sharp they are until they bite someone soft. You’re soft. You make pancakes on Sundays and hum when you brush your teeth. You leave notes in my coat pocket and say things like don’t forget you’re loved.”
His breath hitches.
“I forgot. I forgot I was loved. I forgot you were a gift.”
He lowers his head. Shadows gather around his jaw.
“I spent my whole life building armor. I never learned how to take it off without bleeding.”
He finally moves—paces—restless, dangerous. His cape flutters behind him like wings he doesn’t deserve.
“I don’t care who has you. I don’t care what it costs. I will burn this city to its bones to get you back. Joker, Riddler, Black Mask, some petty thug in an alley—I don’t care.”
He grips the back of the chair, knuckles cracking.
“But if I find out you were hurt because of me… If I drove you into the dark and Gotham swallowed you whole, I won’t forgive myself. And I won’t let it stand.”
His voice lowers. A vow.
“Come home. Please.”
He closes his eyes.
“I love you. I’ve never said it enough. But I do. And if you let me… I’ll learn how to say it the right way.”
The silence returns.
But now, it suffocates.