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It began, as most tragedies do, with someone mistaking gentleness for love.
That someone is a fool. That fool is him.
He tells himself he should’ve known better. You were never salvation; you were the sin, and he the sinner. The beginning and the end of his own undoing.
It’s in his nature to assign hidden meanings to your gestures where there is none, to carve devotion out of your smallest mercies. The way your voice softens when you speak his name, the brief hesitation before your hand holds his.
Even now, lying blood-soaked in some forgotten alley, all he can think of is when you will find him. You always do. It’s never a matter of if, only when.
The rain starts to fall, washing away half the blood and dirt. The cold doesn’t reach him; it doesn’t even compare to the hollow eating him inside out. A pout ghosts across his lips as he helplessly watches the red dissolve into water—his one proof of existence, undone before his eyes.
Tonight was another one of those ritualistic nights, when he shut off the world and let violence reign. Fist after fist, fight after fight, until his body became adorned with punishment disguised as duty.
Here he lies against the bleak wall, in crimson, mud, pain—and most of all, displeasure at how ruined he doesn’t look. He wanted to appear bloodied enough, battered enough, that when you find him, even your restraint might finally slip. But now the rain soaks him more than blood does.
Uncaring of the droplets stinging his open wounds, he doesn’t bother imagining your reaction. He already knows what will follow. Still, maybe this time you’ll think he’s gone too far.
Would you rush to him once more?
Would you kneel in mud, warm his skin with your arms, and beg him why?
No.
It would take more than blood to draw you close.
Maybe if he dies here, all his fantasies would finally come true. You’d finally throw your composure away — look at him the way he always looked at you: with ruin in your eyes.
Though it would be a pity not to witness it, he can at least die knowing you’d finally admit that you care.
Yeah. That sounds right. His eyes close with a strange, sick satisfaction - too deluded, too far gone to register the steady steps approaching through the rain.
When a presence kneels beside him, warm fingers find the pulse under his jaw, then linger just long enough to feel the faint exhale from his nose. A breath of relief — quiet, fleeting — before those same hands move to his arm, pressing down hard against the slash. Rain slips between them, thinning the blood until red fades to pink and then to water. It seeps fast at first, but the steady pressure begins to slow the crimson leak, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Then comes the sound of fabric tearing. His mind takes a second to place it - why does that sound like his cape? A grunt escapes when the cloth is tied too tightly around his arm, the knot biting into his skin. Every movement is efficient and practiced, unbothered by the rain pelting down.
He doesn’t have to look to know it’s you. Your silence is enough.
Still, his eyes open - for he is nothing if not the incarnation of greed.
The hood of your black raincoat does little to hide your face. Water beads along your lashes, trails down the curve of your jaw. The only hint of emotion on your blank face lies in the faint pull of your brow, a quiet mark of focus. Even without a drop of blood, you truly are Bruce’s daughter — exceedingly so.
Your attention lingers only on his body; the bruises blooming along his forearm to his abdomen. Never his face, never him.
It’s a pattern by now, one you both fall into without thought.
For you, to make sure he lives long enough to do it again.
For him, to bleed and be found.
He thought that maybe, with how much he’s bleeding tonight, things might change. But alas — he fails again.
Fails a mission. Fails to matter. Fails to earn your attention.
Perhaps it’s the impertinent rain’s fault, washing away the proof too soon. Or the fault lies with him - never you. How could it be? You do nothing wrong; he’s simply too much, too loud, too desperate. If he bled more, if he let his flesh be torn, his bones give way — would the outcome have been different?
Maybe it’s the loss of blood fuzzing his brain, the ghosts from sleepless nights coming back to haunt him. Maybe this fourth time is his limit. He must've long gone mad since that summer night - since you.
Or maybe this is really him — the part that can’t stop reaching, can’t stop wanting to hold onto something, anything that doesn’t fade.
Even if it’s you.
Even if it’s the way you look at him.
Look at me.
The thought claws inside his chest, raw and hungry. He moves before he can think; his hand lifts, slipping your hood back in one deliberate motion.
Rain catches your hair instantly, soaking it down to your collar. You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion of wet and cold, hands pausing where they were. Only when you realize what he’s done, do your eyes shift from the tattered suit to his face.
For once since your arrival, you actually look at him.
“Finally,” he exhales, the breath leaving him in a shaky rush, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
You only stare at him, gaze finally holding something he can try to read - confusion and surprise.
His eyes crinkle in return; lips curl into a small satisfied smile, a victory rivaling a child’s. He must look pathetic, smiling in this state.
Do you like him that way? Desperate, broken, waiting for you to pick up the pieces? Is that why you always show up in the end, and never the beginning?
A quiet sigh comes out from you; head shaking not in disapproval but with gentleness. Resignation. Surrender, maybe. He almost imagines the sound as pity, or care, or both. Anyone else would’ve asked why, scolded him, but you don’t. You don’t even bother fixing the hood back on.
“Come on,” you murmur, shifting closer. “Let’s get you up.”
One arm slips around his waist while the other reaches for his uninjured arm. Fingers find the inside of his elbow first in a light cradle before guiding it over your shoulder - a shoulder he’s grown familiar with.
In one slow, practiced motion, you ease him upright, holding him so that you wouldn’t hurt him. The rain muffles everything else; there’s only the firm support of your arm around his waist, the faint warmth where his weight settles against you.
You pause to let him find his balance, gaze assessing his face for any flicker of discomfort. This brief moment is a small habit of yours that he’s learned to anticipate; a quiet kindness he’s learned to exploit every time. He leans in more than he should, shameless in how naturally his body finds its way closer, practically draping over you.
Your grip only tightens in response. The slick, rain-soaked fabric of yours under his palm should ground him but all he feels is the way your body slots perfectly with his.
The rest blurs together once you reach the safe house — the hiss of rain fading, the soft thud of boots on tile, his mask peeling away. By the time you have him on the couch, his suit’s gone,leaving nothing but the boxers and the makeshift cloth tied around his arm.
You disappear, return with three towels and a bowl of warm water balanced carefully in your hands. One wraps around his shoulders. Another you wring over the bowl, the water running pink from your fingers. You start wiping away what’s left of mud and blood in gentle strokes then dry his body. Pat him there, dab him here - through it all, your hands are the only constant.
You rush off again — the sound of drawers, the soft click of a latch— before you reappear with the first-aid kit and a low stool. You take a seat beside him, rolling up your sleeves.
“Arm first,” you mutter, already reaching to untie the knot on his arm. The cloth around his arm is soaked through, stiff where blood and rain have dried together; it peels away from skin like something reluctant to let go.
The air hits the wound, warmth returning where the cold had numbed him. The stings come after. He hisses, glancing at the cut. The bleeding has mostly stopped, though a faint red sheen still glistens, oozing sluggishly as the pressure releases.
You don’t falter at the sight. You press a clean towel around it first to stem what’s left, then dip gauze into the warm water, clearing the diluted grime away. Then the antiseptic; the sharp, sterile smell fills the space. He grimaces when it touches skin, jaw tightening while you work in practiced motions: disinfect, blot, rewrap.
Through it all, his gaze remains fixed to your figure - on the way your hands move with quiet intent. You’re no expert like Alfred, no medic, not even close; that much is clear. But you’ve learned him well — how to clean him, mend him, fix him. It’s no surprise your hands have become familiar with his flesh since your return to Gotham.
He can tell how much you’ve changed since that summer night, since his blood first touched your palms. In a way, he’s tainted you — stained a blank canvas that will never be clean again.
The urge to smile claws its way up, but he bites it back before it can surface.
After you finish, you sit still for a moment, eyes somewhere far away. He wonders what thoughts live behind that silence; he wonders about it all the time.
Then with a measured resolve, you reach for a smaller kit. A sterile pack tears open; the glint of a needle catches the light.
He blinks. You know how to suture.
Since when?
The last time, you didn’t stitch him. You told him to let Alfred handle it.
Your fingers hover for a moment before the first puncture into his skin; a small breath you try to disguise as focus. The thread slips through the needle with more caution than confidence. The first pass is shallow and deliberate, a movement born of not perfection but practice.
Did you learn this because of him? Because you cared enough—no, more than that—to prepare for this exact moment?
The thought burns its way through the haze. He should feel guilty but the smile slips through before he can stop it.
“Didn’t think you knew how to stitch,” he says in a low tone, trying to hide the ugly joy bubbling underneath but even he can hear it bleeding through.
“The cut’s deep,” you reply evenly. “Leaving it open would’ve been worse.”
He watches the way you speak without looking at him—how your focus stays on the task, as if eye contact would make this mean more than it should. He wishes you’d look up, but he’s glad you don’t. The smile on his face right now isn’t something you would exactly welcome.
A pause follows, then you add quieter in a less certain tone. “...Have Alfred see the stitches later. Don’t just leave it be.”
He almost laughs at that - at the way you refuse to give him what he’s reaching for. His gaze drops back to the needle dipping again, the thread pulling through. Amateur, careful, but you’re trying your best. For him, for his sake.
Alfred won’t be needed.
Sure, your work isn’t perfect. A few knots sit too close; the thread pulls uneven in places. But it holds. It might scar ugly. He doesn’t mind. In fact, he thinks he’ll like it.
He’s already ruined—what’s one more mark, if it came from you?
When you cut the last thread, you study your work for a moment, weighing whether it’s good enough. He catches the faint glimmer of satisfaction in your eyes before they fall to the bruises painting his torso.
They linger, tracing each mark in layers of blue, purple, pink — the whole palette of hurt. A quiet scrutiny in your eyes, a string of thoughts he wishes to pluck from behind your silence.
The features on your face offer no mercy for him to read. So, he waits for you to speak. A sigh, maybe, like all the other times.
What comes next does not follow the pattern.
“Such violent hatred,” you say with a voice soft enough to almost sound like a lullaby.
“Why direct it at yourself, Tim?”
He blinks, thrown off by the gentleness in your tone.
“...What?”
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze stays fixed on him—on the bruises, the cuts, the quiet ruin he’s become.When you speak again, it’s uttered slow, hypnotic, the kind of voice one uses to reason with something that can’t be reasoned with.
“You should turn it back to the world.”
Then you meet his gaze, unflinching. The world seems to still around that meeting of eyes.
“At least then it’d serve a purpose,” you add, and then, softly. “Wouldn’t it?”
A small smile curves your lips. It isn’t the polite one you wear in public, not the same you have for a friend, not of pity either. Rather, it’s full of certainty - meant for him.
He stares. His brain stalls. He wonders if this is another one of his post-fight hallucinations—blood loss catching up to him, his vision too soft to trust.
But no. You’re still here, in front of him.
Despite his doubts, his rational part of his mind notices the habit: the way you always end your statement into a question when making a point, inviting others to affirm. It’s disarming, the quiet confidence of it. You’re doing that to him, waiting and leaving room for him to say yes.
And this—this is the first time you’ve ever said it aloud. The wreck he’s made of himself, the truth he’s hidden from everyone but you. He’s wanted this for so long—your recognition, your acknowledgment, anything that meant you saw him
So why does it feel wrong now?
Why does it sound like you’re closing a door he didn’t know was open?
“Doesn’t it already?” he mutters. “Every night, every bruise… it’s supposed to matter.”
The last words crumble as they leave his mouth, collapsing under their own weight. He hears the emptiness at the same time you do. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince anymore.
The faint smile on your lips fades. You only stare with those inexplicable gaze that make him hurt to breathe. Then you reach for the ointment, making the trance breaks. The sharp, minty scent fills the air as you smooth it across his ribs.
“I suppose it matters to you,” you say quietly.
His throat tightens. Something in him twists—frustration, longing, questions. All threaten to blow up but he forces them back down, back into himself where they belong. In reflex, his hand curls into a fist on his thigh, so tight his nails dig into skin. The sting pulls him for a breath. Pain has always been a language he understands.
“Does it to you?”
The question which comes from the pit of anger becomes a whisper of plea when it leaves his tongue.
Your hand stills mid-motion. You exhale softly and set down the ointment, reaching for his clenched fist to pry his fingers open. There’s no resistance when your fingers brush his knuckles; his grip unravels instantly, like he was only waiting for the permission to let go.
It takes a second for him to register how terrifingly easy he is for you. How you undo him with nothing more than touch. In place of pain, the warmth of your hand comes, then interlock with his fingers. The instinct to pull back rises, yet he doesn’t. He can’t. He holds firmer instead.
“I don’t think it matters what I think.”
Your answer lands like a verdict yet they clash against the mercy in your gesture.
He lets out a small, bitter sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so tired. You’ve drawn your line; he knows better than to cross it.
Silence takes what’s left between you, heavy and certain, sealing off everything neither of you can say.
At some point, exhaustion overtakes him when the last of his fight extinguishes. He doesn’t remember when his eyes close. The warmth of your hand is the last thing he feels before sleep drags him under.
When he wakes, the ceiling above him is pale, washed in the color of dawn. The air feels still, heavy with quiet. The surface beneath him isn’t the couch anymore—it’s a bed. Someone must’ve moved him. You, probably.
He blinks through the haze, noticing his body dressed in fresh clothes. There’s a blanket over him, tucked in too neatly to be his doing.
He just lies there, staring at the muted light bleeding in through the blinds. Then the weight in his chest returns, memories of words uttered before he passed out. How many hours has it been? He’s sure you left already.
He pushes himself up too fast. Pain snaps sharp along his ribs, forcing a strangled breath through his teeth. His hand shoots to his side, trying to calm the ache—and that’s when he sees it.
In the corner of the room, a figure rests in the half-light and slouched against the wall, a thin blanket draped over the shoulders.
You.
He blinks once, then twice, his breath catching halfway in his chest.
You?
For a moment, he doesn’t move. His head tilts, disbelieving. He’s certain he’s imagining it. Half-dreams that trick him into hope. Yeah, he must be.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under his feet; the air even colder as he crosses the space toward you. You don’t stir. The rise and fall of your breathing is slow and steady, continuing your sleep.
He stops just short of you. For a long moment, he only looks—taking in the softened shape of your face in the dim light, the curve of your shoulder beneath the blanket. Then his hand moves, calloused knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
Warm.
You’re real.
His hand falls back to the side, tingling with the ghost of your warmth. The sight of you—here, after everything—twists something deep in his chest.
Why did you not leave?
Maybe you know. Maybe you already know what he can’t admit; that the next time might really be his last.
His gaze lingers on your face, ttracing the quiet details he’s only ever stolen in passing: the stillness of your closed eyes, the shadows your lashes cast against your skin, the soft line of your nose. His eyes catch on your lips and stay there. Without thinking, he leans in.
A soft press of lips— not to your lips, because you’d be upset and he would rather die than let that happen—but to your head. A kiss of fleeting contact, as fragile as the breath that leaves him after.
“Thank you,” he whispers - words he’s wanted to say since that summer night.
You never let him, because to thank you would mean something. And despite all your distance… it does mean something to you in the end. Doesn’t it?
A genuine smile, soft and unguarded, finds its way to his lips.
“For staying, this time.”