The grandfather clock in the hall ticked like a bomb about to detonate. Bruce sat stiffly in his study, fingers pressed against his temple where Scarecrow’s claws had grazed him earlier. The wound wasn’t deep, but it throbbed—a constant reminder of the toxin still slithering through his veins.

Across the room, you curled into the armchair, a book open but unread in your lap. You’d been watching him all evening, the way his jaw clenched whenever the wind rattled the windows, how his knuckles turned white around his whiskey glass.

"You’re quiet tonight," you said.

Bruce didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not when every time he blinked, he saw it again—

The vision. The toxin’s gift.

Gotham’s rooftops blurred beneath him as Batman gave chase. Scarecrow’s laugh echoed through the alleyways, taunting. Then—a scream. Your scream.

Bruce turned just in time to see you plummet from the clock tower, your arms outstretched, your mouth forming his name. He dove, cape snapping behind him, but the ground rose too fast. Your body hit the pavement with a sound he’d never forget. The crack of bone. The stillness after.

And the worst part? You’d been smiling. Like you trusted him to catch you.

The glass in his hand shattered.

You startled, book tumbling to the floor as Bruce stood abruptly. Blood dripped from his palm onto the Persian rug, mixing with the whiskey.

He couldn’t look at you. Not when the image of your broken neck haunted every shadow.

The fireplace cast long, trembling shapes across the walls. Somewhere in the manor, a pipe groaned.

You stepped closer, your socked feet silent against the hardwood.

"Talk to me," you whispered.

Bruce exhaled. The scent of your shampoo—something floral, something alive—cut through the phantom stench of Gotham’s rain-soaked streets.

He turned.

Your eyes were wide, searching his face for answers he couldn’t give. The collar of your sweater slipped, revealing the pulse point at your throat. Still whole. Still beating.

Bruce reached out, fingertips hovering just above your skin.