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Bruce used to think that the very worst thing was watching those that one cared about in pain while being unable to fight to protect them.
He was right.
But the very worst thing, thinks Bruce miserably as he knocks on the bathroom door, is watching those that one cares about in pain with there being nothing to fight.
“Don’t,” rasps a frantic voice from the other side. “Don’t come in. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”
Running water. Splashing.
“I won’t,” Bruce says, just loud enough for Eddie to hear him. “Not coming in. I- when you’re ready. I’ll be in the sitting room.”
The sound of something being knocked over. A hiss of indrawn breath that's half growl, half sob.
Bruce's heart clenches.
Because all he can do is walk away.
He can't do anything, he can't fight, he can't do a thing.
Alfred confirms that several pairs of plastic disposable gloves were taken from the kitchen earlier.
“Five?” Bruce asks quietly.
The butler nods.
It’s better than the rubber ones, at least.
Eddie pads quietly into the sitting room some three-quarters of an hour later, clad in a sweatshirt a couple of sizes too large, a pair of sweatpants, and a set of thick fuzzy socks that do not have a hope of a prayer of a chance whatsoever of matching absolutely anything, each other included.
Damp, neatly combed red hair smells of cucumber.
Both hands are enveloped up to the wrists in all five pairs of the missing plastic gloves.
Without saying a word, he climbs onto the couch beside Bruce and curls up, his face in his knees.
Bruce is silent too.
“Thanks for not trying to help,” Edward mumbles, after a moment.
“I’m trying now,” Bruce responds. It earns him a muffled snort.
“They used to. Try to help. Took away the soap. Made things worse.”
Eddie doesn’t talk about Arkham very much anymore. Bruce figures this is a good thing.
"You'd think it would help, wouldn't you?"
"I wouldn't know."
"It doesn't."
Silence again.
"You can tell Alfred I'm sorry I took his stock. Mine ran out."
Bruce knows not to touch, not to squeeze Eddie's shoulder or stroke his hair or rub his back. "You know you can take whatever you want in this house."
"They're not even for- they just hurt now. My hands."
"Did you put lotion on?"
Another snort. "Of course. Guess how many times?- actually, I managed to stop at three."
"That's good."
"Took a shower. After."
"That's good too. Are you hungry?"
Eddie shakes his head.
"Can I touch you?"
Another shake.
Silence again.
"I'll feel better," Edward says, eventually. "On the promised day that never comes."
"Is that a riddle?"
"Yep."
Bruce thinks for a moment.
Eddie stretches, long and cat-like, and promptly curls up again.
With a sigh, Bruce figures it out.
"It is, technically, tomorrow," he points out. "Just under a different name."
"You're awfully philosophical tonight."
"Just thinking."
"Hurting."
"Hurting for you," Bruce agrees. "You haven't had it this bad in a while."
Eddie nods, and then groans.
"What?"
"Not sure if I shut the bathroom door."