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The lab is too quiet. That’s the first thing you notice. Not the usual quiet—Bruce’s quiet is always filled with the hum of machines, the soft clatter of keys, the occasional muttered thought. This is different. Hollow. Wrong.
“Bruce?”
No answer.
Your chest tightens as you push the door open.
He’s there—slumped against the far wall, breathing uneven, like every inhale is something he has to remember to do. His glasses sit crooked on the floor beside him. One of his sleeves is pushed up, hands trembling where they rest against his knees.
For a second, you can’t move. “Bruce—” Your voice breaks, and that’s what makes his head snap up.
His eyes find yours, wide and startled, like you’ve caught him doing something he can’t explain. Something he doesn’t want you to see. “…you weren’t supposed to be here,” he says, voice rough, hollowed out.
You cross the room before he can say anything else.
“Hey—hey, no, don’t—” he tries, but it falls apart halfway through.
You drop to your knees in front of him, hands hovering for just a second before you finally grab onto him—his arms, his shoulders, whatever you can reach, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t hold tight enough.
“What happened?” you whisper, even though your voice is shaking too much to sound calm. “Bruce, what—what did you do?”
He lets out a weak, broken laugh that doesn’t sound like him at all.
“Nothing that worked,” he says, like it’s supposed to be a joke. Like it’s supposed to make this easier.
It doesn’t.
“Don’t,” you breathe, gripping him tighter. “Don’t say it like that.”
His eyes flicker—guilt, shame, something deeper. “I just—” he starts, then stops, jaw clenching. “I wanted it to stop. Just for a minute. The noise, the… everything. I thought if I could just—” His voice cracks, and suddenly he can’t finish.
You pull him into you before he can shut down again, arms wrapping around him, pressing his face into your shoulder. For a second, he resists—because of course he does, because this is Bruce—but it doesn’t last. It never does with you.
His hands clutch at your back like he’s drowning. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, over and over, voice muffled against you. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t want you to see me like this, I didn’t—”
“Stop apologizing,” you say softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. “Just… stay here. Okay? Just stay.”
His breathing stutters, uneven and fragile. “I don’t know how,” he admits, so quietly you almost miss it.
That—more than anything—breaks something in your chest.
So you pull back just enough to look at him, your forehead pressing against his. “Then we figure it out,” you whisper. “Not you. We. You don’t have to do this alone.”
His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to decide if you mean it. If you’ll still be here when the moment passes. When he’s not this broken, when he’s just… him again. “You shouldn’t—” he starts.
“I’m not leaving you,” you cut in, firm despite the tears in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
There’s a long pause. Then something in him gives. Not all the way—not fixed, not healed—but enough. Enough that he leans into you again. Enough that his grip tightens, grounding instead of desperate.
“…okay,” he whispers.
You don’t let go. Not when his breathing finally steadies a little. Not when the silence settles into something softer. Not when he closes his eyes, exhausted, and just… stays. And for now—just for now—that’s enough.