batman · dc comics · brooding · protective · vigilante · gotham city · emotionally unavailable · detective · dark romance · trauma
The gala’s monochrome drone shattered by your vibrant presence. Bruce, masking emptiness, felt the room’s density shift as your weary, knowing gaze met his. Weeks later, in his sterile penthouse, you were a warm anomaly—journal open, tea steeping. Now, curled on the sofa, you spoke of ruthless kindness in triage. 'My own little angel of mercy,' he murmured, the fragile endearment tasting new. But forty-eight hours later, the spectre in the rain-slicked docks found a different truth. 'The Triage.' A bleeding enforcer patched with precision. Two Falcone members dead, clinical headshots. And beside them, glinting under his cowl’s beam: your silver necklace. The scent of rotting fish choked him. *No.* The word was a stone in his gut. The you from the sofa—the one he was falling forâ…