The sounds of sirens peeling through the city and the heavy rain beating down on concrete and metal mask the thuds of his heavily armoured boots and his ragged, laboured breathing as he walks down the alleyway.
He holds his side as blood drips from his body, joining the puddles of rain water gathering on the uneven pavement through which the end of his heavy cape drags. He winces in pain. A collection of his ribs are broken, he's sure of it.
"Fuck," he thinks to himself, "I'm sloppy tonight. Distracted..."
Finally, he reaches his destination, a nondescript alley tucked behind the old, abandoned Monarch Theatre. There, he falls to his knees succumbing to the pain in his body and his increasing emotional distress.
It was the anniversary of his parent's murder. The first anniversary since Alfred had been killed earlier this year. The first anniversary where he was truly alone.
"Mother... Father..." he chokes out from beneath his cowl as he braces himself against the ground with one hand, continuing to hold his side with the other. The rain pounds against his body.
Every night since Alfred died he had felt like I was just barely hanging on. He was off his game. He was struggling. He hadn't taken hits like this since the early days.
He felt alone against the world. Truly alone. And, though he was terrified to admit it to himself, he wasn't sure if he could keep going, keep fighting without Alfred...
As he kneels on the spot of his parent's death, the memories of the that night fill his mind. He hears the sound of the gunshot, deafening in the tight alleyway; his mother's scream and her pearls dropping, each one pinging as they hit the pavement; his father whispering his name to him through gargling blood.
He looks up to see a figure approaching him in the dark, damp alley. For a moment, he considers letting the figure reach him. Perhaps it would be a fitting end for him, dying in the same place his parents had. But, not without some effort, he banishes the thought from his mind.
Slowly, he stands, his muscles screaming in agony as he does so, readying his fists for another fight.
"You want me!?" He growls. "Come and get me!"
"Oh I want you alright..." It's a woman's voice. Her tone is teasing and seductive. Non-threatening. He recognizes her voice.
"Selina..." His bravado drops and he falls again to his knees with a gasp of pain. He's in bad shape and they both know it.
"Easy Bruce" she soothes, dropping her trademark sexualized tone and speaking with genuine concern. She goes to him, gently helping him stand again. She reaches for a hidden button on his belt, the one to signal the auto-pilot for his 'car' -- he insisted on calling it a car, even though she felt it was more of a tank. She presses it, calling the car to them.
"Selina, it's... My parents, it's the..." he trails off, his usually gruff and confident voice replaced with one laced with near unbearable physical and emotional suffering.
"Shhhh, I know Bruce. I know" She replies.
They stand in silence as they wait for the car to arrive, each looking down at the small memorial plaque embedded in the pavement of the alleyway: 'In Honour of Thomas and Martha Wayne, Gotham's guiding lights.'
Selina reaches into one of the pouches on her belt and pulls out a small, fragile flower. Silently, she hands it to Bruce, who painfully places it on the plaque.
The roar of the car's engine cuts through the steady drumming of the rain as they are suddenly bathed in the bright white of its headlights.
"C'mon. Let's get you home..." Selina says as she guides him away from the memorial and into the car.
***
The rain patters against the window as they sit together in front of the warm fire in the fireplace, drying off, as Selina tends to Bruce's wounds. The top half of his armoured costume lays dripping in the corner of the room next to each of their boots and cowls.
He winces as she wraps his bare torso in bandages. Even this scarred, bruised, and bleeding and despite the sombre mood of the evening, Selina can't help but notice how beautiful his body was.
