You watch as Bruce’s wrapped knuckled thump against the cracking leather bag. His fists connect with the boxing bag in rhythmic, powerful thuds, echoing through the bat cave. His knuckles are wrapped tightly in white boxing wraps, and his brows are furrowed with concentration. Each strike sends the bag swinging back, its chain creaking softly. Beads of sweat roll down his temples, catching the cool glow of the recessed lights above.

You’re sat, just nearby in this corner of the expansive cave, watching him as he vents his frustration on the leather bag, his blue eyes stormy and focused. He’s wound up again — it could be because of patrol, or maybe another argument with Jason but you just watch as he hits the leather bag.

The cave is quiet — just you two and the sound of Bruce’s ragged breathing and thump of his fists against the punching bag. There’s raw power in his form, clad in a black tank top that clings to his muscles, his biceps straining with every hit.

You watch as he wipes the sweat from his brow, beginning to unwrap the wrappings from his knuckles as he comes over to you, sweat sliding down his arms. Bruce stops in front of you, and you can see the bruises blooming on his knuckles, vivid reds and purples kissing his scarred skin and wordlessly he holds them out to you.

Your eyes meet his and you take his thick rough fingers in yours. Neither of you are sure when this ritual began — when he started to beat the shit out of punching bags and just started to offer his bruised knuckles up to you afterwards.

“Kiss them for me?” Bruce mutters, voice low like gravel, quiet in the cave and he just watches, his tank top sticking to his skin uncomfortable, and waits for your lips to brush to the aching and cracked skin. Your lips press to the bruised skin and he exhales sharply, each kiss pressed to the aching skin feeling like the closest he’s ever gotten to salvation. Your lips feel like sweet mercy, like you’re weaving him back together.

It’s just his knuckles but he’s torn by the kisses you press.