Chapter Text
The rain fell heavily on Gotham, drumming against the Watchtower windows like impatient fingers. Batman stood motionless before the monitors, his cape still dripping with dirty street water. The mission had been simple—too simple to have gone so wrong.
"Batman, are you alright?" Superman's voice cut through his thoughts. Clark was beside him, those piercing blue eyes searching for something Bruce had become a master at hiding.
"I am." The answer came out automatically, monosyllabic. Perfect.
He could feel Clark's gaze lingering on him for a few more seconds before the Kryptonian finally pulled away. Bruce allowed himself a silent sigh, discreetly pressing his hand against the left side of his ribs. Beneath the reinforced suit, beneath the layers of Kevlar and technology, he could feel the warm blood soaking the makeshift bandages.
Stupid . He had underestimated the cultist. A simple blade, nothing high-tech, just cold, fast steel. He had dodged—almost. The cut wasn't deep enough to be immediately fatal, but it was deep enough to be a problem.
A problem he could solve on his own.
"Batman, report." Diana's firm voice pulled him back to the present. Wonder Woman stood before the meeting table, arms crossed, that look that didn't accept evasions.
"The cult has been neutralized," Bruce replied, approaching the table with measured steps, each movement calculated to avoid showing weakness. "Seventeen members in custody. Three still at large. I will send the complete files within an hour."
"And what about the situation with the artifact?" Oliver Queen leaned back in his chair, the arrow still between his fingers out of habit. Green Arrow could never stay completely still.
"Destroyed. It will no longer pose a threat."
"Wow, finally a mission without complications!" Barry Allen smiled, his contagious energy filling the room. Flash always managed to make everything seem lighter. "Who would have thought, huh? Maybe we can have a quiet night for a change."
"Don't let your guard down, Barry." Hal Jordan's hoarse voice came from the corner of the room. Green Lantern was examining his own ring, but his eyes lifted to observe Batman. "Something seems... strange."
Bruce felt his muscles tense involuntarily. Hal always had good instincts—annoyingly good ones.
"Strange how?" Diana narrowed her eyes.
"I don't know." Hal stood up, walking toward Batman. "You look tired, Bat. More than usual, I mean."
"I'm fine." Bruce maintained a neutral tone, meeting Hal's eyes without blinking. He had perfected this art over decades. "It was a long night. Nothing more than that."
A lie. It was always a lie. But it was a necessary lie.
The pain throbbed in his side, pulsing in sync with his heart. He could feel the dampness of the blood against his skin, the way the wound protested with every breath. But his expression remained impenetrable, the mask beneath the mask.
"If you say so..." Hal didn't seem convinced, but he let it go. That was the problem—they all always let it go. Batman was an implacable, unquestionable force. To allow doubt would be to admit weakness, and weakness was unacceptable.
Clark approached again, and Bruce could see the genuine concern in his eyes. "Bruce, if you need anything—"
"I don't need to." The answer came out harsher than he intended. He softened his tone, only slightly. "I have unfinished business in Gotham. Excuse me."
He turned before anyone could protest, walking toward the teleporter with the upright posture he had maintained through years of brutal discipline. Each step was a battle against the pain spreading through his torso, each breath a reminder of his mistake.
But he wouldn't show it. He couldn't.
The light from the teleporter enveloped him, and for a brief moment, Bruce allowed his body to relax, his shoulders to slump, a grimace of pain to cross his face.
Just a moment.
So he was in the Batcave, and the mask went back into place.
---
Alfred was waiting at the foot of the platform, as he always was. Those sharp eyes watched him with the precision of a surgeon—which, technically, Alfred was when necessary.
"Good evening, Master Bruce." The polite voice. "Mission successful?"
"Try."
"Injuries?"
"No."
"I understand." Alfred picked up the prepared towel and approached. "Should I then assume that the blood I can clearly see through the uniform is merely decorative?"
Bruce clenched his teeth. Of course Alfred had noticed. Alfred always noticed.
"It's superficial."
"Naturally." Alfred didn't sound convinced at all. "Still, perhaps we should—"
"I'll take care of it." Bruce was already moving toward the medical area, each step measured to minimize movement in his torso. "It's just a cut. Nothing that can't be treated with a few stitches."
"Master Bruce—"
"Alfred." Bruce's voice carried a final tone. "I'm dealing with it."
He could feel the weight of Alfred's gaze on his back, the silence heavy with disapproval and concern. But Alfred, as always, respected his boundaries. The butler walked away silently, leaving Bruce alone with his secrets and his stubbornness.
In the shadows of the Batcave, Bruce began to undress from his uniform, observing the extent of the damage. The cut was deeper than he had initially thought, an irregular line of open flesh that was still bleeding, though more slowly now. He had been lucky—a few centimeters deeper and it would have punctured his lung.
Luck. As if luck were something Batman could rely on.
He began working on himself with the mechanical efficiency of years of practice, cleaning the wound, preparing the needle. The pain was intense, but distant. He had learned long ago to compartmentalize, to separate mind from body.
Each stitch was a silent punishment, a reminder that even he could make mistakes. That even he could bleed.
But nobody needed to know that.
And somewhere in the mansion, Alfred was preparing tea that Bruce wouldn't drink, worried about injuries that Bruce wouldn't admit to.
This was the life he had chosen. Loneliness wrapped in purpose, pain disguised as strength.
Batman didn't need help.
That was always Bruce Wayne's biggest mistake — and his biggest lie.