Work Text:
He’s proficient at what he does; to the detriment of those he cherishes most.
“Bruce?” she calls out.
Bruce halts halfway up the staircase, fingers clenching around the railing; stabilizing. He squeezes his eyes shut. His muscles tense, and his body stills.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Are you alright, son?”
He’s proficient enough to be convincing; he does it to be humble.
“Yeah.”
He wants to get better at just talking— he does.
(But, Bruce isn’t getting better. He’s only getting worse.)