I Want Goncharov 1973 Back.

The end is here, my dear

"𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘐'𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬. 𝘓𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘐 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺."

“There’s no use in hiding now.” M/n turns around, looking at his husband hurting. “There is no use anymore, Bruce. Just say it.”

Bruce can’t comprehend what is happening.

He supposes it is his fault. It’s always him, but… How has it gotten to this? How did they come to this point?

“Say it, damn it!” M/n turns back to his husband with tears glistening in his eyes. His voice is strong, but Bruce recognizes the grief in his partner’s voice. M/n takes hurried steps towards him. They are in their bedroom. The lights are low. Night has fallen too long ago. They aren’t dressed for bed however. Bruce doesn’t think he can prepare for it. M/n falls to his knees in front of the man he sees as his best friend, his partner in crime, the only one. Bruce is sitting on the edge of the bed. He catches M/n’s hands in his. “Please… Please, just do it. Because I can’t anymore…” M/n’s voice is cracked by something close to resignation.

Bruce’s head falls. He looks at their hands held close together and sighs. “What do you want me to say, M/n?”

M/n lets out a weak, humorless laugh, then pulls at his husband’s hands, “Look at me.” Bruce doesn’t look. “Look at me!” Bruce’s head snaps up in delay. There is rage in usually crystal clear eyes. There is pain. There is disbelief.

“I’m sorry—“

“What are you sorry for? What are you sorry for, Bruce? For asking me to stay? For getting me to stay? For marrying me? For giving me the family I could never dream about? Or for taking it all way?” More ironic laughter escapes M/n. “What are you sorry for, darling?” He says the last part through a sob. As if it hurts him to speak it.

Bruce can’t look into his husband’s eyes anymore.

M/n should’ve expected it. Bruce knows he should’ve expected it too. After all, he is Bruce self-destructive self-deprecating self-hating self-flagellating Wayne.

The divorce papers stand pristine on the bedside table. On the ground, the broken, lightless lamp of their life has shouted its last goodnight, in the warm embrace of their tainted shadows.

This is the magic lucky word count. Reblog for creativity juice. It might even work, who knows.

sokka blushes easily and very obviously sorry i don’t make the rules

Why won’t you speak?

“As I am standing over your dead, rotting body, I wonder: are you cold?”

Story: between Dick and Jason, Bruce adopts another hurt boy. M/n was around before Dick left, so he really considers him his older brother. When Jason comes around, M/n can’t help but feel jealous. After all, M/n is weak. He can’t be Robin.

Warnings and additional notes: M/n is using crutches to walk because of a car accident in which he took part at the age of twelve, the car accident that killed his parents. Bruce Wayne takes him under his wing, making sure he gets all the medical support he needs, making sure he is cared for. M/n is envious of Bruce’s soft spot for Jason. Major character death. Canon compliant… ? There are things added by me, of course.

—. —

The large doors of the library open with a burst of uncharacteristic storm.

“When has Batman died and put you in charge.” Jason’s shoes make an almost soundless approach in M/n’s direction.

M/n chuckles, “Oh my, aren’t you an opinionated little brat?”

Jason’s tongue clicks. No. He ain’t doing this shit. He takes a few more steps towards his tormentor.

“ I am Robin.” He points towards his chest. “Me. Not you, M/n. I should be in charge, not you.” He might not be in his suit, but he is Robin. And not even this bastard could take that away from him.

“Yeah, yeah. Listen here, you little asshole. You need to calm down. I don’t like you getting in my face. You annoy me. ” M/n rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms, leaning on the windowsill. The library is getting too crowded for the both of them. “Well, you don’t really have a choice. I’m older, more responsible. Don’t you have to listen to me or something?” Jason locks eyes with his fake brother, watching the words fall from his lips like boredom in the wind.

“You’re only two years older. Don’t act superior just because you’ve been here a little longer than me.” Jason wants to scoff, instead he draws back. Only to rethink his decision and bite. “Even so, I am Robin. And you’re just sickly prickly M/n. Nothing special there.”

There is a crack in M/n’s smile. Small, but noticeably there. Almost makes Jason regret it. Almost.

M/n scoffs, hiding the hurt, “You need to calm down, little asshole. It’s Alfred who holds the rule anyway. Don’t even know why you’d think it’d be useless, little me.” M/n tilts his head tauntingly, picking up his crutches and making his way out of the library. “Congratulations though. You’re pathetic.”

Jason rubs his eyes in exasperation. They will never get along. Never.

“Master M/n, is everything alright?” M/n tries to calm himself, almost bumping into Alfred. He feels like he’s gonna burst, but he can’t let the tears fall.

“Oh, Alfred… Sorry. I didn’t see you there.” M/n forces a smile. And he is sure it doesn’t fool Alfred. The elder man always knows.

“It’s quite alright, Master M/n. My question stands, however. Is everything alright?”

M/n averts his eyes, “Of course.” He stumbles a bit with his crutches as he tries to pass Alfred.

“You should try and get along with Master Jason. He is family. You two are family now, Master M/n.”

M/n doesn’t even feel like protesting. This Jason boy came after Dick left, almost as if their father was trying to replace his oldest son. And M/n can’t bear the thought of that. Of course he doesn’t like Jason. They’ll probably never get along.

“Alright then.” Alfred smiles and helps M/n down the stairs. “How about some tea?”

M/n relaxes slightly in the comfort of Alfred’s warm arms, “That sounds great, Alfred.”

Going down the stairs is becoming harder and harder for M/n. It’s like his legs are becoming lazier and lazier, which is normal considering the doctors already informed them about the changes waiting to happen. M/n doesn’t dwell on it most of the time. However, there are those moments of silence in which he can’t help but want to hit his head with something or accidentally drop one of those candles onto his own clothes. Jason had caught him in one of those moments in the library earlier. M/n gets nastier in terms of behavior around then, and truly he doesn’t have any interest in insulting Jason that much (just a little). The little prick just knows how to find his moments.

They get to the bottom of the stairs, but Alfred doesn’t let go. The man really knows everything.

When Bruce gets home, things haven't necessarily changed in any way. Alfred meets Bruce in the foyer, as it usually is when Bruce comes back from business. And then there is Jason who runs ahead of his brother and forcefully throws himself at Bruce with all his young years and fire thrumming in his veins, like he owns the world and Bruce, as well, with it. The man once young boy himself remembers owning the world once, it was not bare then. Behind, with struggle unfit for a child, M/n staggers forth with his ebony crutches. Jason does not let go of his hugs easily, in fact he holds on as if Bruce would disappear if he ever dared to let go earlier than he should. Thus, the man lets his son hug him tight. Moments later, Jason reluctantly lets go, making way for his older brother, who visibly stumbles on an uprise in the carpet.

M/n yelps as one crutch gets caught in the crimson material. He falls in front of everyone's eyes, but is caught by Alfred who is nearer to him. Bruce wants to reach out, he would've reached out. Yes. If, just so, he were closer to his son. Alas, distance is great in between them.

They head into the living room where Jason tells Bruce all about his exploits around the manor and how Bruce’s bedroom is actually haunted when he isn’t there. That gets a smile out of the man, rare as they are. His life has become increasingly livelier since Jason became part of the family. After all, the quiet of Dick’s departure was sadly difficult for one little M/n to fill, though the efforts were there. Bruce just… couldn’t make himself meet his son halfway.

After dinner Alfred corners him in the emptiness of Bruce’s study (not his, his father’s study). The older man wears that look on his face, the one he shows only to Bruce and especially when he ‘s done something bad, like stealing a cookie when he was younger, or choosing to dress up as a bat.

“You should talk to him more.” Alfred keeps his eyes on Bruce and the man once boy under that gaze doesn’t know if he should look away or try to dominate the stare down. It’s an automatic response, he reckons. It would never work on Alfred, either way.

“Jason is fine, he talks to me now.” That gets another smile out of Bruce. He fears these days he is getting stiffer, body hardening with the darkness and the years. Maybe he is actually growing softer?

“It’s not Jason I’m worried about, sir.” Alfred leans forward and places a tray with two cups and a teapot on it. It smells good, roses and camomile?

“M/n? Should I think there’s something wrong with him?” Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, sir. Should you not?” Alfred continues to look at him, almost as if his eyes harden. It’s hard to tell, even with the bat’s experience.

“Is something wrong with him?” Bruce takes a seat on his father’s old leather chair that was once black but now tints to brown. The chair sighs underneath him with tiredness becoming of age.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, sir?”

Bruce would ask. He really would. He should… but it’s late. The boy probably sleeps already. “It’s late, Alfred. Some other time, perhaps?”

Alfred scrutinizes him, yet ends in a half concealed sigh. He wasn’t going to tell his Bruce, the stubborn and with years worth of guild child he so much wished fulfillment to about how his son still stands at the dinner table, ashamed to ask for help and beating himself down over how he would never be good enough to help his father the way his younger brother does. No, Alfred shall deal with that himself, as he always does. Foolish master Bruce. He ends with a, “You know best, sir.”

Bruce doesn’t know best. He’s never felt himself as holding the power of knowing whats and ifs and what ifs. The ‘what if’ of the situation, it always arises at the time when his weakness fills him with the dread of what has been. What if he’d said “let’s stay for another movie” the night his parents died. What if he’d spent more time trying to talk with Dick instead of arguing foolishly and towards nothing, like the boy wasn’t the son he so cared for, like he hadn’t been the only once. What if he’d listened to Alfred and talked with M/n more, mended the disruption between him and Jason. What if he’d protected Jason the way he should’ve protected him, the way his soul screamed to keep the boy safe because how can you let someone else suffer when it is you who should have been? It should never have been Jason. Not his Jason. Not his boy. Not his hope and his dreams and the one he holds as if he were holding his younger self. Not the Jason who laughed so hard whenever something remotely funny came to light. Not the Jason who ran to the door to welcome Bruce, jumping into his arms with all his young years and fire thrumming in his veins, like he owns the world and Bruce, as well, with it. ‘Welcome home, dad.’ Not… Not Jason. Not Jason, God, please, not him. Don’t let it be like this, Bruce’s soul screams as it trashes and shoves and splits, stabbing and scratching and killing to get out.

Jason Todd, beloved son and brother, full of fire and full of life

with all his young years and fire thrumming in his veins, like he owns the world and Bruce, as well, with it

The morning Bruce has to come home and let Alfred and M/n know that Jason won’t be home for dinner tonight or any other night, the sun shines on a clear sky. It smiles upon the Wayne lands, over the gardens and the pond. M/n is there with the flowers, reading a book. ‘The three musketeers’ the title reads. Does M/n enjoy reading? Maybe he does. Bruce isn’t around enough to figure out a pattern.

M/n’s eyes raise from the pages, smile a bright one, as the sun above them with a glint in his eyes and hair tussled with sleep and the ends of dreams.

Bruce must look all the wiser and the better and the all powerful because his son’s smile becomes smaller with what Bruce can only read as surprised… a little concern as well.

“Welcome back, dad.” The boy speaks, voice carried by the breeze and the petals of the flowers.

Bruce says nothing. He can’t bring himself to. Because how can you ever begin. How… How do you tell your son his brother has died before they even had the chance to make up after an argument? How do you let your son know, he will be in a quiet house yet again? How do you tell your son you’ve killed his brother?

M/n’s smile falters yet again. And he must sense something because he looks around. Behind Bruce, to the gate, to the flowers and to the door where no one but Alfred stands.

“Where is Jason?” His smile is gone by now, replaced by something akin to curiosity. “Did he get lost?” A small laugh bursts at that.

M/n locks eyes with Bruce again.

Bruce isn’t smiling. His lips haven’t even twitched. In fact, Bruce thinks he is getting worse by the second and it must be showing in some way because M/n forces himself to keep a smile on as he struggles to get up with the help of a crutch. He almost falls twice, but stands almost straight soon, book closed in hand, a finger inside to keep the page. The boy is pretty far into the book. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s the first, the second or the third volume.

“Dad… are you alright?” His son asks him with those alight eyes that speak the language of the sun and the moon. He looks around again, maybe he hopes to see the brother he so is annoyed by. There is no annoyance in his eyes. “Where is Jason, dad? I didn’t see him go inside.”

There’s a shake in Bruce’s eyes, a tremor of the lips. M/n pushes himself forward on the crutch. It gets stuck in the grass for a second, but it does not stop the son from approaching the bat with no suit, no protection.

A shove closer, half a stumble backwards.

“… dad?” Bruce lets his son see his head fall down, down, down, looking at the grass next to his shoes. Bruce thinks he shook his head somewhere in between the burn of the sun on his neck and the thud of ‘The three musketeers’ by Alexandre Dumas, fallen to the earth. For a moment, Bruce imagines the volume as his own head, rolling on the too green grass, blood dried and burned by the sun.

“M/n… Why do you hate me?”

“…”

“Have I… done something that wrong? I know I can be annoying and loud and sometimes want attention, but I don’t mean what I say to you. I never do, not the bad stuff at least.”

“I… I don’t hate you, Jason. How could I? You’re everything I wish I was.”

“Why?”

“Aha… I think I say all I say and blame you all the time because, not so deep down, I’m envious of you.”

“Envious? How could you possibly be envious of me? You’re older and you’re smart… and you don’t get into trouble with the teachers.”

“Ha, well, I suppose I’m envious because dad is close to you, the way he isn’t with me. And… and because you are with him the way I could never manage.”

“But… it’s really not that hard. Just talk to dad, I’m sure it’s gonna be alright.”

“Aren’t you wise.”

“Ha ha. I’m serious, M/n. If you want something, just do it.”

“See? That’s why I’m envious of you.”

… or maybe I admire you for it. Is what M/n imagines late at night, a conversation that could have been between Jason and him, especially close after the funeral, when Dick drinks in his room and their dad drinks in his study and Alfred cleans up the dinner none of them really taste any more, but only eat as unfeeling corpses coveted in a quiet house.

Part 2:

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Why won’t you speak?

“Even dead they ignore you, huh?” This is the second part. If you want to read the first part, the link is at the end. Sorry, it took me a

I made my last weeks Katara sketches into a collage of sorts🌊

current fan creation landscape is kinda like if you went to a party with a homemade cake and everyone takes a slice and silently thumbs up at you with no attempt to start a conversation except for occasionally some guy sits in the corner with a tape recorder critiquing the cake as though he was a restaurant critic and another guy is handing the cake to an uber driver like "yeah i need you to find a restaurant that makes cake like this so i can have more of it" and the only person that's talked to you in 30 minutes is a very sweet little guy who was like "hey i liked your cake" and then ran away apologizing for bothering you the moment you said thank you.

must a villain be redeemed? isn't it enough that they're bitter, evil, and most importantly, hot?

character: how was I created?

author: well, you see, when two characters love each other... the author decides love does not conquer all, thus one (or both) of those characters dies, is heavily injured or suffers greatly impacting traumatic experiences. Hence, a new character is created to fill the whole left in the hearts of the readers. This is how you came to be, dear character. 

can u do another bruce x male reader angst

Definitely 😌 I’ve got a lot of angst in me.

Since you didn’t specify, I took it and ran with it. Anywayss Enjoy 😉😮‍💨

Soo, this is longer than I planned 🧝🏻🥹 And there’s gonna be a part 2, probably 🫣😮‍💨

Warnings of sorts: major injury, character death, diverging from canon.

Small summary: After an attack by the Joker, the bat family is thrown into an unlikable situation, unfortunate even. M/n is stuck in the hospital, barely living. And who knows what happened to the rest? Alfred won’t really talk about it.

“This is your legacy. Watch careful, love, as it all falls and burns. To the ground with your house of stone.”

They were tied together by the moon, under the stars of a clear sky, on the rooftop of the manor. A lapse in time, a glimpse of the universe. They were happy in that moment. Only them and the quiet world.

M/n recalls it being a clear sky. Yes, it had to be in order to light up Bruce’s face just so. Or maybe it was the man’s eyes, those who lit up the whole sky. Often times, M/n thinks about this and that, and everything is muddy, but the brightest memories still shine through.

That’s what makes him sure they’re real. They are too strong to be stomped down by the heaviness, too alive to dissipate.

There are days in which he feels he forgets everything, but then Alfred visits, and the memories are alive again. Painfully so.

“Master M/n,” Alfred would say, “How is your morning?” And M/n would understand it was indeed morning.

“Hello, Alfred.” Momentum, he remembers both of their names. “I see you better today.” He tries for a smile, uncertain of the success.

“That is great news, sir.” M/n can’t make out the details of Alfred’s face, but he hears the extension of a smile in his voice.

Later, they are drinking tea, the tension in M/n’s shoulders not soothed by the liquid, “Alfred, when can I come home?” Silence follows.

M/n sees the movement of Alfred placing down his cup, “Soon, sir. Probably next week, if things go well.”

“Yes, but you’ve been saying this for a while now.” He recalls in the haziness. “I reckon, if I stay here more, I’ll go crazy, Alfred. I wanna come home. I wanna see Bruce and the kids.” His voice is overwhelmed with tremors. He can’t feel his face half the time, but now he feels the stinging in his eyes.

M/n is almost startled by Alfred’s hand over his own. “Master M/n… I’ll see what I can do. I’ve been trying, remember?”

Right. He… remembers. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Later that week M/n is allowed to go home. Happiness fills him. Like fireworks on the night sky, his chest is filled with emotion.

Home.

Yes, he is finally going home.

Alfred comes to pick him up around 1 p.m. He is moved in a wheeling chair through the hospital. He can’t see all the faces around him, but the doctor and the few nurses he does see and recognize, he says goodbye to. He is happy, so he leaves them all with a smile.

In the car, Alfred tells him all about the changes around the house and the land around it. Like how the rose garden is gone —there is a momentary pang in M/n’s chest, but he doesn’t let himself be deterred by it—, or how the paintings from the hallways had been moved to a guest room now turned storage room, or how Jason moved all of his stuff back into the mansion, but he didn’t actually come around to inhabit his old room, or how Damian is now taking care of most of the affairs of the mansion and company.

“Since you’ve been gone, young master Damian has been given a lot of new responsibilities.” Alfred adds, not as an after thought, but carefully building up to it. “He should be home, at the moment, but there is always the possibility of him being away. He is leaving two weeks from now, for a conference in Vienna.”

“That’s wonderful. Such a nice place. I… Bruce took me there. Yes. A few years ago. Very nice.” M/n is sure his smile persists. How could it not? He is finally going home. To his Bruce. To his sons. To his life, after the endless time in that horrid hospital room with white walls and shadows and the buzzing of the fluorescent light above, barely perceptible.

The car parked, Alfred helps M/n up the ramp and into the foyer.

The door opens before Alfred goes for the handle. Beyond the opening door, the tired face of one Damian Wayne comes as the most welcoming sight. As soon as the boy’s —he is still the small boy M/n used to read to sleep, or sing to— eyes landed on his parent, he visibly relaxes. His stance falls into something more fitted for his age. M/n can’t see a smile on his face, but that isn’t saying much. He can’t really see much anyway, in the light. Nonetheless, even through the sting caused by daylight, M/n can’t help the unabashed happiness slipping onto his every feature. He extends his arms, wide and welcoming. And Damian falls to his knees, into his parents arms.

“Hi, dad.” The boy whispers softly.

“Hello, baby.” M/n feels tears soak his shirt. “Oh, baby. What happened, love?” The man gives Damian’s head comforting caresses.

“I just missed you.” Damian gets out through a shudder. Oh, why is his baby crying? No, he shouldn’t be crying. M/n is here now, it’s okay.

“I missed you too, honey.” Damian lowers himself until his head rests in his father’s lap. M/n’s hand still moves through Damian’s raven locks.

Damian squeezes M/n’s waist, “I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry.” His son is trembling. He must be so tired. Did he sleep well? His poor baby. M/n should’ve been here for him.

“Why are you sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for, love.” M/n feels his own eyes sting harder, but not from light.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come see you. I’m so sorry.” Damian’s voice is muffled by him being pressed against M/n.

“Hey. Hey. Honey, it’s okay. Alfred told me you’ve been working so hard. My baby isn’t a baby anymore. You’re taking care of the family. I’m so proud of you, Dami.” M/n feels a tear falling. Alfred places his warm hand on M/n’s shoulder, but he can only look at Damian’s blurry form falling apart at his feet.

“No, dad. I… I didn’t come because… I was afraid. Of what I’d see. So I used everything as an excuse to stay away. I’m sorry, dad.”

M/n’s lower lip is filled with tremors, tears glistening in his eyes, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Dami. I’m home now.”

M/n holds his son for a while, caressing him, trying to reassure him with all the love he has.

“Where are the others?” M/n asks as Damian raises to shaky feet.

Damian visibly freezes, but forcibly relaxes himself, “Well… I’m not really sure what Todd is up to, but he literally moved his stuff here, then proceeded to up and go.” The boy pauses as he moves behind M/n, wheeling him to the stairs, where there is already a built in type of elevator just for him, one you see in movies. Damian attaches the back of his wheelchair to the machine. “And father… Father doesn’t leave his room during the day, only at night, but as Batman.”

“What?” M/n stares at his son incredulously, as he is raised by the machine, Damian following closely by, walking up the stairs.

“I know Batman is doing a great job, as always. But I don’t know how father is doing. He wouldn’t talk to us.” Damian looks into his parent’s eyes pleadingly. The boy can guess that his dad doesn’t see this detail. But, still, he can’t help but want to beg for M/n to make things better, like he always did.

“I’m sorry, baby, that you had to go through this. I’ll talk to Bruce myself. Only with a bit of help.” M/n chuckles as the machine gets to the top of the stairs.

Damian’s lungs and heart finally seem to realize that M/n is home, that he isn’t alone, that maybe they can do this. Call it false hope, but it’s everything the boy can cling to.

Once at the door leading into the master bedroom, M/n looks at Damian with the intent to reassure. As if telling him ‘it’s okay, you can rest, I’ll take care of things now’. And so, he is left alone by his son, followed closely by Alfred, who also seems different all of a sudden, lighter even. He is gonna make them a nice dinner, for four, and not for one.

M/n would be lying if he says he doesn’t hesitate. Because he does hesitate. And he hates himself for that. His Bruce needs him. This is no place or time for backing away.

“Bruce?” The silence is deafening. “Are you there, honey?” He wheels himself —his arms are weak, so he finds it a tiny bit more difficult than he originally thought it would be— closer to the door. Where he places his open palm on the hard oaken door. There is no answer from the other side, but M/n isn’t known for giving up easily. It’s how him and Bruce got together, then married. He knows when to push and he knows when Bruce is keeping himself from his own happiness.

“Bruce, I’m home now. You can open the door.” M/n says a bit louder. And this time he is startled by the sound of hurried steps and crashing from beyond the door.

The door opens before he can say anything.

And his Bruce is there. He looks tired, and his features are clearer because in the manor there is darkness. And M/n sees how much Damian is becoming more and more like his father, for Bruce falls to his knees in front of him, hands grabbing at his face and hair, cupping his cheeks in hurried strokes. M/n believes the tears that fall from Bruce’s eyes and onto his blotchy cheeks. He doesn’t know how many times he’s seen Bruce cry before. It hasn’t been much, but there were plenty times to know that M/n’s husband doesn’t trust people with his tears and his pain. And most of the time, he doesn’t even trust himself with it. It pains M/n to see the man he loves in pain, so he ends up placing his hands over his darling’s hands, keeping them on his cheeks.

“… M/n” His husband’s voice is coarse, unused.

“Bruce.” M/n says his name, to ground Bruce with his own voice. “What happened to you, my Bruce?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything at first, but after long seconds, there are those same two words that came out of his son’s mouth, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, love.” He has never seen Bruce like this. This broken. Falling apart. What happened? Where are Dick and Tim? Nobody said anything about them yet. What were his memories trying to keep away from him? M/n really needs to know. “I can’t remember what happened that well. Please, tell me what happened, my Bruce.” M/n squeezes Bruce’s hands into his own and brings them to his lap.

M/n is afraid of the unknown. What is he missing? Why is everyone so down? Why was he in the hospital for weeks on end?

“What did you do, love? Why are you upset?” Bruce raises to his feet, slowly and weak, and M/n has never seen him like this. Bruce goes behind him and wheels him into their bedroom.

Bruce lifts him up with care. Closer to his face, M/n can see his expression better and it hurts him to see his husband in this pain. Bruce places him on the bed, with soft movements and soft touches.

“Talk to me, Bruce.” M/n cups Bruce’s cheeks in his palms when the man sits next to him on the bed.

“No, no, I can’t, M/n, I can’t, no.” Bruce shakes his head. M/n can’t help but feel out of balance, out of place, out of touch. He has never seen his husband this startled. They’ve had moments in which they’ve shared their fears and problems and what not. But M/n has never seen his Bruce this shaken up.

“Come on. Talk to me, Bruce.” He presses on.

“I.. Oh god…” Bruce whispers through a clenched jaw.

“Love, please…” There is desperation in M/n’s voice.

“God… God, how, how can I tell you? How can I possibly tell you?” Bruce puts a distance between them as he rises from the bed. Covering his face, he blocks away M/n’s view of his expression.

“Bruce? Bruce… Bruce!” M/n raises his voice, feeling his tongue become numb and surplus in his mouth.

“Ah, I, I…” Bruce takes a deep breath looking at the ceiling, “Di…” His voice fades. “Dick and Tim,” M/n fees the air become stale around him, and the constant pressure in his chest that never seems to go away increases. Breathing suddenly becomes harder and there is the faint feeling of suffocation. “They are gone. Because of me. I …killed them.”

And that suffocating feeling is back tenfold.

The world is swimming around them and he can feel it all flowing beyond the ground, and he is falling too, into his own hell. He doesn’t know where he is anymore, but his body is too small for him and his heart is so big and so loud it breaks at his thoracic cavity. His lungs aren’t big enough, however, cowering before his beating, pumping heart, smaller and smaller by the second. There isn’t enough air. There will never be enough air. This is how he is dying. He wants to die. He wants to die now, to disappear.

He hears screaming. After long seconds it becomes obvious it is him who is screaming, clawing at his throat, eyes hurting with tears that burn him to the core. He scratches his throat like he wants to get out of his own skin. And if he were any more conscious, he would now exactly how to kill himself in that moment. The words keep repeating in his head, however, in an endless loop that wants to keep him there, caged in his disbelief.

He must’ve passed out.

Because, when he wakes up, he is in the rose garden, somehow.