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[theknightshift]

UN: Bruce T. Wayne ceo | UN: Batman
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[theknightshift]

[ He hates himself for it because he recognized it for what it was the minute it seeped into his brain: bait. He wanted a reaction and Bruce, stupid, silly, emotional Bruce gave it to him. But those words had cut deep and this man had the audacity to say them like he understood that kind of pain. Like putting on the cowl gave him permission to judge when he'd barely even scratched the surface of what this life meant.

And Bruce couldn't let him get away with it.

The batarang slices into his shoulder, cuts deep across the skin and some of the muscle before he embeds itself into the wall behind him. But Bruce didn't care, not about the pain or the blood seeping out of the wound and soaking his shirt. He only cared about pushing forward. The punch lands against his wound as Bruce pivots his body toward it, aiming to drag the other man close so he can use his weight to send him into the workbench. ]

[batsymbol]

( they've done this dance before. an intimate one of unchecked emotions and exchanged blows against bone and batsuit, some even landing deep across broken hearts. because for all he says about their children being broken in ways neither of them are so sure they can fix, they're both just as broken themselves, if not worse, and their inability to either admit or compromise that with one another is a surefire way for this right here to always happen at some point.

it's a strange and jarring form of self-loathing no one should ever have to endure, yet if anyone would, it would be bruce wayne. of course it would.

he's knocked into the workbench, materials scattering to the floor as he falls over onto the other side of the bench and hits the ground hard. there's a gasp — a possibility of something having lodged itself between the spaces of his suit, but he ignores it as he reaches up to grab the workbench and just barely pulls himself up. spitting out a mouthful of blood, he allows himself a few breaths before he's looking up to his other self, blue eyes shining with a mix of everything there beneath the thick greasepaint. )

Why do we keep losing them?

( he manages to get the words out despite how difficult it is. )

Everyone we care about... why can't we protect them?

( and there's genuine pain there in his voice as he asks that. not from any physical injury having been endured, but from a heart that still breaks every time he deals with a loss. )

[theknightshift]

[ The worst part is he doesn't have an answer. The question hits him square in the chest and Bruce doesn't know what to say. He can't explain why he can't keep the people he loves more than life itself safe. Knowing that he's not fast enough, good enough, that he can't stretch himself thin enough to cover them all eats away at him like a parasite. It's why he pushes himself so hard. So he can do better. So he can be better and so they won't ever have to suffer again.

The question hits and bites deeper than the batarang had and it takes the fight out of him. He looks at the other Bruce, almost envies him because he hasn't had to live with this gnawing sense of guilt for nearly as long. He still has the choice to keep this life a lonely one. It isn't the same without them. Bruce won't ever say it would be better without them. But at least he'd be spared the heartache. ]

I don't know.

[ the words fall out of his mouth as he presses a hand against the bleeding wound. ]

But I wouldn't trade them. Not any of them. Not for anything.

[batsymbol]

( one of the many reasons he became batman was so he would never have to go through this again — that he could protect those around him and those who need someone in their corner. because no one else was willing to do it and if he needed to be the one to do it, then he would. even if it seems pointless sometimes with how much the city eats itself and the good people in it. he had to try. yet somehow it seems for all his training, for all the sleepless nights he spends on the streets of gotham, it’s never enough. he’s never enough, and he’s been wrangling with that possibility, that disappointment in himself for awhile now.

he pulls himself up — spits another bit of blood out and wipes at his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. he gives himself a moment. a few slow breaths. arm resting on the workbench he leans on before he’s looking up to his older counterpart. )

I’m sorry… about Alfred. ( he looks down as he says that, eyes falling shut. ) I almost lost him when I returned to Gotham briefly. ( silence. ) I know the fear of that pain and I’m sorry you have to live with it.

( because he understands despite the loss having not happened. the fear itself and the pain that had ripped through him from the sheer possibility of having not been able to save him… he understands.

with a wince, he completely pulls himself up and away from the workbench, reaching back and pulling out another tool that managed to wedge its way between the soft parts of the suit. looking it over, he sets it down on the workbench, bloodied as expected. )

Every time one of them comes here, it seems all I see is how I potentially fail them. How no matter what I do, it’s not going to be enough and I want it to be. Because they deserve that. ( a beat. ) Maybe that’s just being a parent.

( and batman. )

They’re good kids though. ( well. ) A little more than frustrating at times, but. Life’s definitely been different since coming here. Not all bad either.