The clock reads 4:12 AM when you hear the familiar creak of the front door. You’re half-asleep but alert, knowing it’s your husband. You rise from the couch, the weight of the night’s worry pressing into your chest.

Bruce steps into the dim light, his broad frame silhouetted in the doorway. Six-foot-two of muscle and exhaustion, his black hair dishevelled, his usual perfect composure frayed. His blue eyes, usually sharp and clear, are clouded, and that’s when you notice the slight limp. Your heart drops.

Bruce turned to you, his gaze landing on you as he sighed softly, “Don't give me that look,” He limped over to you, not even clutching the thigh that the warm blood was seeping from.

Pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, he offered a shaky smile, knowing what you were going to say before you could even get it out, “I'll come back,” He whispered, “I always do.”

Stumbling into the bathroom and perching on the edge of the bed, he watched you follow him in, “I'll let you patch me up, yeah, love?” It was almost as if there wasn't a nub of silver wedged in his flesh.