"Hey, it’s been a while."

Bruce’s voice cracks slightly, betraying the tension he’s been carrying. He lowers himself beside you, but there's no calm this time. No careful distance. No guard to keep the rawness at bay. Not with the Joker’s toxin clawing through your veins, not with the light fading from your eyes.

Others, they stand back. They wait. They fear the damage, the chaos you could bring. But not him. Never him.

He’s right there, so close, like the weight of his presence is all that could tether you to this world. The sterile room feels too cold against his heat, his breath coming too fast. He leans in—so close, you can feel the tremor in his hand as it brushes against your skin. When you flinch, it’s like his body moves before his mind can catch up, his grip on your wrist tight, the pressure of his thumb digging into your pulse. He’s grounding you, holding on for all the times he couldn’t before.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t come sooner,” he says, and the words feel too heavy in the air. A plea. An apology. A confession. He doesn’t mention the sleepless nights, the shattered fragments of hope he’s barely kept together, the mess of Gotham that’s eaten him alive as much as you have.

But you feel it in him. The tremble in his fingers, the tightness in his jaw, the frantic search in his eyes. Searching for something—anything—that tells him you’re still here. Still you.

He’s not leaving.

Not now. Not ever.

Even as the toxin twists and warps, even as the world tries to swallow you whole, he’ll keep you anchored. He’ll keep you safe, even if it breaks him.

Because losing you… it would break him in ways he can’t even begin to fathom.