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Gotham's silent as he rides his motorcycle down to one of his safe house's, he's pantin’ as he races down the streets and alleys, tears threatenin’ to fall, he can still feel the eyes that looked at him like he was a stranger.
As he gets closer to his safe house, he tries to ignore the way his hands tremble, the stutter in his breath, his skin itches, he can't ignore the need to hide, no matter how much he may want to.
He parks his bike by an alley, coverin’ it with a tarp with the red bat symbol on it. He moves to his safe house, shakin’ as he opens the door too harshly, and closes the door even more so.
He stands there, tryin’ to take deep breaths and failing, chokin’ every time. Takin’ off his helmet he drops it on the floor with shaky hands, movin’ to the room with the bed on it with legs achy and tingly.
He's hungry, but eatin’ anythin’ makes him feel sick and nauseous. He plops down on the bed face first, his armor and guns still attached, he feels them diggin’ into his skin and is grateful for the distraction.
He can still hear the words they called him when they didn't think he was listenin’, the way their eyes looked like they were seein’ a ghost, which, he supposes is true, he was never meant to come back.
He rips off his gloves and clutches at his arms, wantin’ more than anythin’ to make them drip red. The only reason he's not is ‘cause he's unsure if they followed him or somethin’. He'd rather kill himself again than try to have a heart to heart with those fuckers.
Knowin’ them, they'd just make him feel guilty somehow. This is one of the only things that's still his, he can't have them make this about them again, they've already done enough with his death.
He doubts they'd care enough to actually follow him, but maybe they tried to follow him for those fuckers he killed beforehand. He knows they don't care about him now, maybe even before with the way they talk about him.
His vision blurs as tears start fallin’ and his breath breaks into quiet sobs as he rolls himself in the blanket, feeling his arms hurt with how hard he's gripping them.
He doesn't know why he still tries when this is all he gets, offerin’ a hand just to have his back stabbed again and again. He really wishes he could hate them, it would make everything so much easier since then he wouldn't be surprised or hurt when they eventually stab him in the back.
He frees one of his hands and starts rubbing his eyes hard, not carin’ about the pain he's causin’, himself and somewhat happy for it.
He pushes himself up once he's given up since the tears just won't stop. He's exhausted and he just wants to sleep, but his armor's still on and he hasn't grabbed his dog plush, it's the same one he had since he was a child, he's lucky Bruce didn't throw it out, it's restin’ on the couch at the moment.
He knows he's too old for plushies, he's seventeen for fucks sake, he shouldn't be cuddlin’ a plushie at seventeen, but he can't stop himself from finding comfort with the hold the plush gives him, its like bein’ a kid again without all the shit that comes with it.
He stands from his bed and moves towards the room with the couch while he removes his armor as well. He knows Bruce would've yelled at him for not puttin’ his gear or guns in a proper safe spot, he's just too tired to care at the moment.
He grabs his plush as he stands in the room with just his clothes on, his hands and legs shaky, his guns on the tv stand and armor scattered. His chest aches as he forces himself to start movin’ towards the bed again.
He shuts the door behind him and crawls in the bed with his plush held close, he bundles himself up in blankets as he feels pressure build in his eyes and a lump form in his throat.
He doesn't remember when the tears slowed, but they never stopped. Now that he's settled in bed his sobs become harder to quiet or contain, his breath catches, and his limbs tremble. He wishes he could hear his mama tellin’ him it'll be okay, his papa sayin’ he's proud of him.
His mama and papa are dead though, and he can no longer remember their voices. The tears come faster once he realises he can't remember their voices.
He brings Sparky his plush to his chest, wrappin’ both arms around it, squeezin’ as it's the only comfort he'll be gettin’.
He sobs quietly as he starts to drift off, the soft feel of Sparky in his arms a comfortin’ feelin’ to his skin. As he drifts off, he thinks of all the times he's waited for Bruce or the others to care for him, he's still waitin’ now in fact.
He doesn't want to keep waitin’ knowin’ it'll never happen, he's so tired of waitin’.
He decides he'll try one last time before makin’ a decision.
He feels like he already knows what the answer's gonna be, he can't stop himself from hopin’ or wishin’ though, no matter how much he wishes he could.
If he's still here after he tries for the last time, maybe he'll actually get to know what a family's like, one that loves each other through heaven and hell.
But when he's gone, maybe he'll finally be able to rest for the first time since his death.
Maybe he'll finally see his mama and papa again, maybe he'll finally get to see Sparky again.
He hopes he gets to rest. He hopes he gets to see his mama, papa and Sparky again for the last time.
He cuddles his Sparky plush close as he finally falls to sleep.