Death of a Hero

Part Five: Simple Words

The words had rattled around Bruce's head for far too long before the day that Clark died.

Three simple words that seemed infinitely out of reach.

He'd been given so many chances; so many quiet nights on rooftops or light conversations in the vacant halls of the Watchtower. Even over cheap dinner after a tiresome mission, or the intimate silence of the manor after the children had gone to sleep.

So many perfect moments to tell Clark how he felt, but he never did.

Even in those last few moments, those three little words had gotten trapped in his throat.

He never got to tell Clark how much he loved him.

And now, he never would.

The aching in Bruce's chest was almost unbearable as he left the Watchtower that day. It followed him as he made his way into the batcave, not bothering to change before throwing himself into a case until nightfall; then he went on patrol.

The sprawling shadows that once hid the mighty bat were now like haunting ghosts in the black of night; whispering sins and pulling Bruce into the darkness until he couldn't breathe.

The alleys of Gotham were slick with rain and pale moonlight, and beneath cracked stone and streetlights, Batman found himself enthralled in a fight with three other men.

On a normal night, this would have been child's play; but Bruce was tired. His footing was messy, his punches haphazard, and his racing thoughts only made it harder to tell which blurred figures were real, and which were only a shadowy delusion.

Bruce could feel each blow that he failed to block. He could feel the stabbing pain in his side, and the creeping warmth that he was sure was blood. He could even feel the biting chill of the October air as it swirled around him.

The retreating voices of the men and encroaching cold made his head spin as the shadowy figures closed in around him. The pain and damp air all blurred as Bruce slowly lowered to the ground; letting the dark in.

Everything melded together in darkness; and soon, darkness was all that was left.

It could've been hours that Bruce sat in that alley, the pain only partially washed away by numbness as his mind began to clear. He felt like death incarnate. The stench of sweat and blood heavy on him, and a deafening ringing, rattling through his skull.

He made his way back to the manor; practically collapsing on its doorstep before being ushered inside by Alfred who had seen this night play out far too many times already.