ANGELS WEEP || bruce wayne

the sixth

🦇

Bruce's entire body was sore.

He woke up in a whole new world of pain, the knife wound he had procured from a gang member burning like someone had lit a hot coal under his skin. He tried to sit up, but someone pushed him down.

"It's alright, it's alright. You're safe, I'm going to help you."

That voice sounded worlds away, but there was a familiarity to it, like he had heard it years ago in a dream. The measured cadence of her words; the way she enunciated her vowels. There was something about it that Bruce couldn't quite place.

He cracked open his eyes and was greeted by someone surrounded by a warm halo of light, the slight angles of her face barely visible with the intense backglow.

For a second, Bruce thought he had died.

"Are you an angel?"

He tried to keep up appearances, weaving in the Batman voice he had manufactured in his underground lair.

"I'm the Gotham Angel, yes."

Not an answer to his question, but an answer nontheless. He had heard of the Gotham Angel, had pondered how stupid you have to be to go out and fetch people and bring them to your house in the middle of the night.

But she didn't look stupid. She looked vaguely familiar, with her ink black hair and stone gray eyes. Those eyes that were surveying his face, twisting his head back and forth to make sure his head wasn't injured. His side burned a steady fire, but looking at those stone gray eyes felt like a splash of water cooling him off.

"I help people hurt by dealings with the Batman. You know, the innocents who you just leave with a knife in their side?"

He cringed at her stern tone, chastised. He had wondered where those people would run off to after he disappeared back into the darkness. This was the answer.

"Now you're helping me?"

He didn't have the strength to ask why. For some reason, he wanted her approval, wanted her to reassure him that what he was doing was the right thing. Another voice inside him lectured him on how ridiculous that was, but he squashed it down, looking back at where the Angel was now sitting by his torso, near the cut in his side.

But the woman seemed to guess the unspoken query. "Hippocratic oath. I did consider leaving you lying there... not one of my proudest moments."

His eyes refused to leave her's even through the dissapointment he felt in his chest. There was something about her, there was something about this Angel that he seemed to be missing. There was this underlying nostalgia that crept up his windpipe, threating to drown him in recognition. It was driving him crazy that he couldn't place it.

"C'mon Batman, help me remove your armour so I can take a look at these cuts."

His body lay still, hestitant to bare himself to someone else, especially someone who he felt like was important. If not to Batman, then to Bruce.

"Do you want to die of blood loss? Your lips are already getting pale, buddy, and I do not want a man dying on my bathroom floor."

That was a fair request. He let out a dry chuckle at her expense and then gestured to the back of his chestplate, guiding her hands to take off the cape, then unzipping the back. He had specifically designed the suit with the idea that he could get in and out without help, but he needed an excuse to touch her, to feel her smooth and short fingers in his. She shivered as he guided her hands, but he didn't know whether it was a negative or positive reaction.