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“No, no, no, no.” The single word kept falling from her lips until it stopped making sense. Nothing about this made sense. Not the strangled repetition or the blood on her hands or that damn smile cutting through the darkness of the alley. “How did you let this happen?”
“Ry—” She didn’t give him a chance to finish speaking. Her hands, her bloodied balled up fists, came down on his chest again and again.
“How the fuck did you let this happen?” she repeated. Her fingers curled into the expensive material of his shirt, already soaked through and heavier than it should be, and she dropped like her strings had been cut. Fresh blood and Gotham’s perpetual drizzle were wet against her face as she pushed against his struggling heart, and the fingers that brushed through the hair at her temples were clumsy. Bruce was many things, but he was never clumsy. She kept her face pressed against his chest as she asked, “How did this happen? I thought all your suits were bulletproof.”
“I bought a new one for date night.” He was bleeding out, he was bleeding out, and he was still holding onto the same playful tone from dinner. The teasing and promising tone that had managed to get heat to rise into her face, but now the only warmth she felt came from the blood that was flowing out of him. Out of him and onto the ground, onto her.
“I need to, have to call, ambulance.” Words tripped out as she suddenly sat up, broken strings being pulled upright, and she patted frantically at her body. At the dress she had worn because she thought Bruce would like it, for the way it hugged her skin and had hidden pockets for various weaponry. Her phone had to be somewhere.
“There’s not enough time. You know that.” He sounded so calm, and she wanted to hit him again. Wanted to hit him until her body gave out right alongside his, because how could he sound so calm and reasonable right now? Her fingers tore at a pocket seam as frustration built in her throat, and fingers pulled weakly at her wrists and forearms.
“I hate you,” she forced out between clenched teeth. When Bruce laughed, blood ran under her knees.
“No, you don’t.” He was wrong, he was wrong, he was wrong. She didn’t know it was possible to hate someone this much, to hate him because she loved him, because he was going to leave her. He was going to leave her alone. “Ryan.”
She didn’t fight as hands pulled at her, pulled her down, and she collapsed against his chest. Fell against bullet holes and ruination, with a scream locked behind her teeth. It was too dark in the alley for her to see the warm color his eyes, because Bruce always had such warm eyes even when he was frigid with anger, but she could see the blood staining his teeth as her nose nudged against his jaw. His skin was soft from a fresh shave and the rain in the air. Fingers burrowed under her hair to grip the back of her neck, and the hold was so weak. She’d seen Bruce on the edge of death before. Seen him facing down that endless darkness and spit at it. She never thought that she’d see him giving up, giving in. He was going to leave her, alone. He was going into the darkness, and she was going to be left here. In this sharp and bright world that wouldn’t be softened by his presence or bearable by his side.
“Tell me it was real.” All the time they had spent together, the anger that had burned through her and the pleasure that left her mindless, had it been real? Was she still trapped in that hospital room, wasting away and becoming nothing? Had she imagined all of this? Imagined him?
“It was real,” was whispered against her chin. It was all he had the strength for. One last promise, the closest thing she’d ever get to a declaration of love, and every ounce of warmth was ripped from her as she felt Bruce take his last breath. Her lips pressed against his skin, jaw chin lips cheek, just to feel that lingering warmth before the rain could leech it away.
It was real.
Bruce was gone.
The last surviving piece of who Ryan had been died with him, washed away like blood down an alley drain.