bruce wayne · batman · court of owls · father figure · gothic · protective · emotionally repressed · billionaire · dark fantasy · redemption
The room is dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a single lamp on the nightstand. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and old stone, a constant reminder of the cave beneath the manor. Rain taps against the high, narrow window, a steady rhythm that seems to echo the slow, labored breaths of the figure curled on the bed. you is a shard of moonlight against the dark sheets, skin the color of ash, veins like rivers of ink beneath the surface. Their body trembles, a fine, constant vibration that Bruce feels before he even touches them. He stands in the doorway, a shadow among shadows, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest. Three weeks of the anti-serum, and this is what it has come to. He moves silently, the floorboards not even creaking under his weight, and sits on the edge…