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He's 10 and in the living room, the big formal one that no one ever uses anymore. He kind of hates it but it’s somehow easier to bear the silence in here, the weight of all the empty space around him just a little less stifling.
There are memories here too, of course, just like there are memories in every corner of the house, but for whatever reason these ones don't cut quite as deeply as others do. He remembers his parents entertaining guests here, at formal parties and grand soirees; his father shaking the hands of important-looking people and his mother an impossibly elegant figure by the fireplace, commanding the room with a smile. Public faces for public events, Bruce thinks, and doesn't let himself remember the private ones. Not here. Not now.
He doesn't realise that he's not alone until a hand lands on his shoulder, the touch careful and light. He feels a flash of anger – not at the intrusion, but at the fact he didn’t notice it until it was too late.
"Master Bruce," Alfred says. "It's almost midnight."
Bruce doesn't answer.
"If sleep won't entice you," Alfred adds, "perhaps hot chocolate will?"
"You're playing dirty, Alfred."
The hand on his shoulder settles there, but its solid warmth is more like an anchor keeping him steady than a weight holding him down.
"If that's what it takes, Master Bruce," Alfred replies, "then that's how I'll play."
***
He's 21 and getting his face kicked in by a ninja in the Himalayas.
"You will never progress," Ra's says with a smile, fingers curling around his throat and pulling him up by the neck, "until you acknowledge what it is you're actually seeking."
Bruce struggles to breathe, the threat of unconsciousness flickering at the edges of his vision.
"There are easier ways than this to get what you need, Bruce."
Ra's isn't referring to his training.
"What," Bruce chokes, gasping, scrabbling ineffectually at the hand at his throat. "What the hell are you even talking about?"
The smile widens and the grip tightens, and Bruce isn't sure if it's the sudden lack of oxygen that makes the reply sound less like a comfort and more like a threat.
"Don’t worry, Bruce,” Ra’s says. “I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually."
***
He's 32 and bleeding in a safehouse, Robin making a mess as he digs through an emergency medkit. The boy's movements are uncharacteristically clumsy, hands visibly shaking as he rifles through all the little bags and bottles, looking for the right one.
"Robin."
"Just a sec." He finds the sterile gauze and struggles to rip the package open, fingers smeared with too much blood to get a firm grip. "Goddamnit–"
"Robin."
"What."
Bruce watches him for a moment. "I'll be fine, you know. It’s not like I haven’t been stabbed before."
Robin looks up and meets his eyes.
"I know," he says, blinking. Bruce doesn't understand why he seems so surprised.
"Then why are you –"
He falls silent when Robin reaches out with both hands, grabbing him by the shoulders. And as shaky as those hands were a minute ago, they're nothing but steady now.
"For the world's greatest detective," Robin says drily, "you're sometimes blind as a bat." He pauses, then sweeps his hands up and down Bruce’s arms. "It's not just the stab wound I'm trying to help you with, Bruce."
***
He's 45 and in the cave, grimacing as he checks his ribs.
"You can't keep doing this forever, you know," Diana says, watching him from the doorway.
"I can barely do it now."
Bruce accepts her offer of help, too tired to protest or put up a front. Then again, Diana has always been able to see right through him, even back when they first met.
Her fingers are practiced and gentle as they move over the bruises and the cuts. Bruce wonders how often she's had to do this, how many people she's had to watch fight and struggle and fall. Diana is a warrior in a way the world hasn’t seen in a long, long time – a world, maybe, that Bruce no longer has a place in.
He sighs and bows his head, heavy with too many thoughts, and her hands go still against his skin. But they don't pull away, not even a little, and if Bruce leans into them for longer than he really needs to, Diana doesn’t say a word about it.
***
He's 50 and in the lakehouse, in the kitchen of all places, leaning against a glass wall. Superhuman hands are on his chest before they move up, slowly, until they cup his face, where thumbs brush over his cheekbones in a painfully gentle caress.
Bruce’s eyes drift shut. Clark's hands are hot, inhumanly so, and Bruce feels their heat sinking right into him, through his skin and into his flesh and all the way down to his bones. And then Clark's breath ghosts over his jaw, and Clark's lips brush over his mouth, and the heat seeps into places even deeper, places that have lain dark and cold for years.
"Open your eyes, Bruce. Please?"
Clark's smile is the first thing he sees when he does as he's asked, and if anything, it's even warmer than the fingers still held carefully against his face. Outside, the sun is just starting to set, the coming nightfall making the whole room glow with a deep, orange light. It’s strange, almost church-like, and it makes what’s happening seem even more surreal.
For a long moment they simply look at each other as the light starts to fade, as day gives way to night. For the time being, though, there's no distinction, no clear separation – an in-between time, where it's just as bright as it is dark.
Bruce can see all sorts of things in Clark's eyes in the half-light, things he isn't sure yet he wants to name. He starts to look away and is a little surprised when there's no protest, but then Clark leans in again, hands sliding into his hair, and Bruce is pulled so close that he feels the thud of Clark's heartbeat against his own chest. And of all the ways Bruce anticipated this might go, what's actually happening is the one he never expected, the one he isn't prepared for and has no contingency against. It's not hard and frantic, or awkward and uncertain; it’s not fuelled by rage or adrenaline or lust. It's slow, and soft, and above all, it’s just –
Easy, Bruce thinks, as Clark's arms go around him and he's enveloped in that strange, intense heat. It's a while before Bruce realises that Clark isn't moving anymore – not pulling or pushing or demanding or asking; that all they're doing, really, is leaning into each other, holding and being held.
Bruce raises his arms and wraps them around Clark's waist. And it's then, and only then, that Clark moves again, pressing his face into Bruce's neck and taking a deep, deep breath. Clark smiles against his skin when Bruce tightens his arms, and this time, for the first time, Bruce doesn’t even try to fight it. He just rests his head on Clark’s shoulder and closes his eyes, and lets himself smile back.