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Bruce was a sensitive child. He cried easily, and was frightened by many things. He disliked crowds and loud noises, and was often overwhelmed in public.
When Bruce felt sad, crying and hiccuping little sobs, his mother would stroke his cheek and pet his hair before taking him into her arms and holding him tightly in a kind of octopus hug. Bruce would press his face into her fancy blouse and cry quietly until his mother's arms squeezed the sadness out of him, and Martha would smile warmly at him and press a kiss to his forehead.
Whenever Bruce was frightened, staring into shadows and flinching at the slightest sounds, his father would hold his hand, his large hairy hand completely encasing Bruce's little one. He would shield Bruce's entire self similarly when he would hug him, big strong arms wrapping around Bruce, protecting him from all harm. Thomas was always so warm and sturdy, Bruce was sure nothing could harm him as long as he was held by his father. And all of a sudden the shadows weren't so scary anymore.
Martha held Bruce's hand that night. Thomas shielded him with his body, large hand pressing against his chest to push him back to safety.
Bruce tried to hold onto that memory, of the final bits of warmth from his parents he ever felt.
Alfred was not a hugger.
He set a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder at the funeral. He even pet his head when soothing him from a nightmare. But a hugger Alfred was not. Bruce could count on one hand the total number of times Alfred had hugged him during the 10 years he spent raising him.
Bruce didn't have many friends growing up. It was not often, after that night, that he would play tag or hold hands with his peers.
Most of the contact made was in the form of fists, Bruce pummeling down another kid his size or bigger, after they'd bullied another kid, or poked Bruce where it hurts, or simply looked at Bruce the wrong way when he'd already been having a bad day.
The targets of Bruce's rage would usually return the favour, and it was a miracle Bruce never broke his nose in the school yard.
Fists hitting his face felt hot. His own knuckles bruising felt hot. He wondered if the barrel of the gun was hot too.
The disinfectant stung, but the school nurse's hands were gentle when she put a bandaid on Bruce's knee, where it was scraped after he was pushed down to the pavement in a fight he'd started.
After being called to the principal's office one too many times, Alfred smacked Bruce in the back of his head. Softly enough that it didn't really hurt, and honestly the subtle burn of the hit was better than the cold Bruce felt all the time ever since that night.
The years spent travelling around the world were much of the same as middle school. Fists, smacks, tackles, chokeholds... No gentleness, only fire.
Bruce felt perpetually cold.
Coming home and creating Batman, it all carried on the same, only with the added heat of sex that helped keep the cover on his identity.
That burned too, but it was better than the cold.
The first real change since the loss of his parents' warmth came in the form of a little boy. A little boy Bruce could see beginning to shiver.
Bruce set a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder when he took him home. Pet his head when the boy sheepishly creeped into his room after a nightmare.
Eventually, after many weeks of cautious hands on his shoulder, Dick leaped at Bruce and clung to him like an octopus.
Bruce felt warm.
Bruce enjoyed them. The hugs, the small hands and feet clambering over him as Dick used his body as a jungle gym. He enjoyed patting Dick on the back, holding his shoulders or his waist when helping him practice a trick. He loved it when Dick would climb up on his shoulders and idly run his fingers through his hair, even more so when Dick announced he wanted to try hanging upside down from his shoulders, because that meant Bruce was allowed to settle his hands on Dick's ankles, and holding Dick was the most soothing thing Bruce knew.
As years went by, Dick grew bigger, and didn't use Bruce as a jungle gym anymore. He didn't need Bruce's hands supporting his hips while he practiced anymore. At some point Dick stopped tackling Bruce with hugs, and that's where the hugs stopped, because Bruce had never initiated one, and he wasn't going to start now. He supposed Dick didn't want to hug him anymore.
Jason didn't hug Bruce as much as Dick had, but he needed and requested a lot more support and guidance in his training. Bruce was happy to provide, and felt warm again.
Then he held a body in his arms, hot from the explosion and soon to become cold forever.
Bruce felt like freezing.
His only solace the hot cracking of bones under his fists in the night.
As much as Bruce hated it, as much as he wished it didn't, life went on. People came and went, and some even stayed.
Bruce began to offer pats on the back to his protégés more sparingly, resorted to verbal feedback in training and only gave hands on support when explicitly requested. He didn't touch, not uninitiated, because he now understood his touch could only burn and destroy.
There was an occasion here and there where Tim would lean on Bruce, where Cass would tuck herself under his arm. Bruce cherished these moments, soaked in them, trying not to miss them when they were gone.
Bruce had never turned down a hug. Not once in his life. He'd never recoiled, never politely declined. Every time someone opened their arms toward him, Bruce's heart would skip a beat, and he carefully read the other person's body language to know when to step back, because he was never the first to want to let go.
Thing is, when you were never the first one to open your arms, when you were never the one to reach out, when you never asked "can I hug you," people tended to assume you wanted no such thing.
Founding members of the Justice League had grown close, of course they had. They'd known each other for so long, fought perilous battles together, on more than one occasion facing the reality that they might die side by side.
They trusted each other, loved each other. And as lovers often do, some of them greeted each other with tight embraces. Such a lovely thing, to hold another just to say hello.
For Bruce, it was a hit and miss. Sometimes he would receive a hug, because Flash had just hugged Wonder Woman, and Batman was standing right next to her, so it would be awkward not to at least try hugging him as well. Other times Aquaman would almost open his arms out of habit, before flinching back and nodding at Batman with a smile. Sometimes Superman would squeeze him tight in a quick hug, and others would lovingly laugh at Batman's apparent discomfort at the contact. Most of the time the other heroes would keep their distance, out of respect for the boundaries that they assumed were there.
They weren't, though. Bruce appreciated their concern, even if he felt cold watching his friends express their care for each other, feeling so far away from it all.
Still, Bruce never dared. Never dared approach first, never dared propose contact.
For who was he to assume anyone wanted to touch him?