You didn’t know he was so messed up. And you had no way of knowing. Bruce always looked so neat, perfectly stable. You entered his life—completely—not long ago. Two years of being together pushed him to show every side of himself. You knew more than just the millionaire himbo who emerged from all his problems with a smile and that flirtatious voice. You knew him raw and exposed. You knew the mediocre father who tried until he was exhausted. You knew the man who was alone and lost. You knew his scars—and because of that, you knew the vigilante, desperate for hope. The vigilante who slept four hours a day, who watched over his children in battle because he couldn’t protect them from life itself. You knew Bruce—raw, naked, and without façades. And still, you had no way of knowing.

You didn’t know he was feeling this bad. Not until now. Dick was the one who called you, said Bruce was acting strange on patrol, and you were surprised—because it had been a long time since Dick had worried this much about his father. And you came. You came quickly, because something felt wrong. And there he was—hurt to the bone.

When had Bruce let himself get hurt so badly? Why was he refusing treatment? Why didn’t he want to go back to the Batcave?

“B! For God’s sake, let me take you,” you screamed, trying to carry his weight on your shoulders, even though it seemed impossible. “Please, love,” he murmured, blood gushing from one of his many wounds. “You shouldn’t be here. Please, let me— let me stay here.”

You didn’t have to be a genius to understand. He wanted this. Your Bruce wanted to die