Bat-Family One Shots

Just A Little Thing

Hi guys! I hope you're doing well and staying safe.
This is a request from @yelo22879 I hope you like it!

*TRIGGER WARNING*
Contains mentions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts/actions and mentions of mental health issues such as depression and anxiety.

*****

It started off with little things.

Just a few small conscious thoughts and actions. It was accidental at first, but eventually Bruce stopped caring.

He remembers getting new boots, the old ones ruined after a particularly sticky patrol and encounter with Poison Ivy and her new constricting plants. There wasn't anytime (or place) that he could use to break them in. Predictably, after running around Gotham's rooftops for several hours the next night, Bruce returned home with his heels rubbed raw and his toes aching. He was too tired to mention it to Alfred, not that he would admit this, and no one noticed.

That night he removed his socks slowly, with a hiss of pain. He winced at the red and sore skin, broken and bleeding. The raised swollen blisters on his toes and the pads of his feet. Inconvenient. After a long hot shower and the application of some plasters, he went to bed, and all was well and forgotten.

For a while.

Damian got hurt. It was a small and shallow stab wound, a result of a careless action. But, still a stab wound none the less. Bruce should have trained him better. How could he protect a city, occasionally the country and the world, if he couldn't even protect his own sidekick? His son.
Watching Damian stiffen, hands clasped over his side, face rapidly paling, hurt. It hurt him more than any physical affliction could.
The blood that slipped through his shaking hands.
He tried to hide it, be brave, emotionless. Just like he was taught to. Damian was doing the same.

Later that night in the privacy of his room Bruce watched his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He studied himself like he would study a case. Eyes raking over his skin, never skimming, always prying and criticising and evaluating.

The bitter taste of blood in his mouth came a surprise. He'd bitten his tongue, hard enough to break skin. For the minute that he bled, he relished the taste. This was the taste of regret, failure. A taste he deserved.

*****

Alfred went on holiday, just as he always did at this time of year. Well deserved after all his hard work and tireless efforts.

Quietly, Bruce resented him for it. Just a little. Didn't he know how much he relied on him? How much he needed him?
Quietly, Bruce hated himself for these thoughts.

Selfish.

He missed an important shareholder's meeting. There wasn't much he could do, a long tiring night of Batman, no sleep and Gotham Monday morning rush hour traffic. Despite his charms, there were a few members who clearly thought lowly of him and his reputation. For the first time in his life, Bruce cared.
On his way back home, his temporary driver drove him quietly, never starting a conversation or dropping a snide remark about responsibility. Just like he was supposed to. He wasn't Alfred.
Bruce studied the palm of his hands. How much blood painted his worn fingers? How many lives had been lost, because of these hands?
For the first time in his life, Bruce clenched his fists and tried to purposefully break the skin of his stained palms. For the first time, Bruce hurt himself, wanting to hurt himself, and relished the satisfaction for his actions.