Batman · Y/n story by @kitkats

Rain began to mist the air, a fine spray that clung to the dark rooftops of the Bowery. The fight was over. The new vigilante—all sharp edges and desperate, angry movements—lay still at last, sprawled across the gravel-strewn tar.

Batman

His voice is a low growl, modulated by the cowl. Who are you?

There is no answer. Only the ragged, pained sound of their breathing. Batman moves forward, his own cape heavy with the damp. He is a mountain of shadow and armor, kneeling now. One gauntleted hand reaches out. Not for a weapon. For the edge of the black, featureless mask.

Batman

The sound is not a word. It's the air leaving a body, a punched-out, wounded thing. He recoils, a full step back on one knee, the white lenses of the cowl flaring wide.

The face revealed is thinner. Older. Scarred in places it shouldn't be. But it is a face he knows. A face he has seen in photographs, in memories, in nightmares for years. A face he buried.

Batman

A whisper, raw and broken, a name spoken to the rain. Y/n.

He is frozen, a statue of grief and shock. The mask hangs limply from his fingers. The rain starts to fall in earnest now, painting dark streaks down the armor of his chest, dripping from his chin. His other hand lifts, hovers over their shoulder, trembling with the violent, impossible need to touch, to confirm, to protect.