The city blurred past in streaks of gold and red as the Rolls Royce limo glided down Gotham's backroads, armored and tinted, like a phantom on wheels. Inside, the mood was electric — the kind of high you only get from mass murder and outsmarting the Bat.
Joker lounged back against the plush seats, blood still splattered across his cheekbones like freckles from hell. He was laughing — short, sharp, and slightly breathless — as he adjusted the lapel of his jacket. "I give it a nine outta ten. Needed way more confetti."
Rick was across from him, arms crossed and boots up. "Yeah? Confetti's not what I was focused on, Jester Boy. You two blew up a five-star death trap, then actually made it out before the Bat caught up. That's... well, that's impressive."
Jonny Frost, seated beside Rick, raised a flask. "To chaos, charades, and surviving long enough to gloat."
Joker gave a dramatic little bow while seated. "Cheers, darling."
Harley had been quiet.
Not her usual post-crime chatterbox self. She was staring at her phone — a loud, bedazzled iPhone 11 Pro glinting in the limo light, complete with pink skull stickers, glitter resin, and a case that read "Daddy's Property 💋."
Her eyes were locked on the screen.
A date. A timer.
Three months. Two weeks. Four days.
That beat her last record by one day.
A day her body hadn't given her the last time.
A day the Bat never let her have.
"Hey, Puddin'..." she said, her voice suddenly feather-soft.
Joker blinked over at her, mid-chuckle.
She turned the phone toward him.
"Look."
He leaned forward just slightly, his grin faltering — just a twitch. The screen glowed between them, bright in the limo's shadows.
And she said it. Not loud. Not angry. Just knowing.
"Batsy didn't kill our baby this time."
Silence.
It cut through the car sharper than any weapon they carried.
Joker didn't speak. Not a sound. But his eyes — those stormy, radioactive eyes — shifted.
Just for a moment.
A flicker of something too vulnerable to name.
He reached for nothing. He said nothing.
But Harley saw it.
And that was enough.
Rick looked between them and gave a low whistle. "Damn. That's a hell of a thing to say."
Jonny raised his flask again, more sincere this time. "Then here's to the little monster hangin' in there."
Rick nodded. "Beatin' the Bat at his own game. That kid's already a fighter."
Joker chuckled lowly, voice gravel-dipped and tight. "Takes after her mama."
Harley smiled.
Not wide. Not manic. Just real.
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the monsters sat still.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence in the car didn't feel like doom.
It felt like hope.
Bent and bruised and stitched together with crime and tragedy.
But still...
Hope.
The Batmobile roared into the cave like a storm breaking over jagged cliffs, engine echoing off the stone walls in one last throaty growl before shutting down. The blue light of the console dimmed. The smell of smoke, sweat, and chemical ash clung to Bruce's suit like a second skin.
He stepped out, still helmeted, his cape trailing like the last remnant of war.
Alfred was already waiting at the base of the stairs, hands behind his back, brow drawn in that quiet way that screamed concern.
"Master Bruce?" he asked gently. "You alright?"
Bruce's boots hit the cave floor with the heaviness of someone carrying a question far too big. "Didn't you hear what he said?"
Alfred blinked. "No. You asked me to check on Miss Kyle, remember?"
Bruce stood there for a moment, silent... then reached up and peeled off the cowl. His hair was damp with sweat. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused. Haunted.
"Right," he muttered.
He moved toward the Batcomputer like it owed him answers it didn't yet have, pulling up the latest footage with a flick of his glove. Two screens glowed before them — one from the body cam on his suit, the other from the Batmobile dash.
And they watched.
They watched Joker — of all people — step in front of Harley, his hand sweeping out behind him, guarding her. Not toward her stomach. Not exactly. But protecting. Defending.
Batman clenched his jaw. Alfred leaned closer.
"That's... odd," Alfred murmured. "He's never done that before."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Never. Not once."
Then came the words. Joker's words.
"We're not doing this again, Bats."
Alfred tilted his head. "Again?"
And then Joker added it — that cryptic sting like a nail driven into the base of Batman's skull:
"It's only been three years."
A silence fell in the cave.
Alfred finally spoke. "That's peculiar. What happened three years ago that could cause—"
"I don't know," Bruce snapped too fast, too sharp. Then sighed, regret heavy in his lungs. "I... don't remember."
He stepped away from the console like the glow of it burned.
"I remember the week," he muttered. "Vaguely. The Riddler had just killed nearly 300 people. The mayor was assassinated. Oracle had a near-fatal system crash. I wasn't sleeping. There were fires in the Narrows. People screaming my name from rooftops every night."
"And then?" Alfred asked quietly.
"They vanished." Bruce's fists clenched at his sides. "Harley and Joker. No sightings. No crimes. Just gone. For almost two months."
Alfred nodded, solemn. "Yes. I recall. When they reappeared, it was... hell."
Bruce stared at the wall like it owed him memory.
"Four of our allies were murdered," he said coldly. "A safe house I'd used for years was blown to bits. Selina was kidnapped. Ended up in a prison in eastern Kahndaq. One known for torturing its inmates."
He turned toward Alfred slowly, something flaring behind his tired eyes. "I want you to find out what happened during that missing time. I don't care what backdoors you have to break into. Someone knows. Somewhere, there's a file, a clip, a whisper. Something happened to Harley. Something that made him more protective of her."
He looked back at the footage, frozen now on Joker's strange, shielding gesture.
"And I want to know why I can't remember any of it."
Alfred bowed his head. "Of course, Master Wayne."
And as the echo of those last words slipped into the cold corners of the cave, Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood before his monitors like a man staring at ghosts not yet unearthed.
The glow from the Batcomputer was cold, clinical, and utterly damning.
"Sir," Alfred said softly, brows deeply knit, voice nearly cracking. "I believe I've found something... but I must warn you. The source is... unconventional."
Bruce turned, tense. "How unconventional?"
Alfred hesitated — which he rarely did.
"The attending physician has been banned from practicing medicine in fifteen countries," he said. "Formerly based out of Prague, Istanbul, and had a... less than legal operation running under a hospital in Guatemala."
Bruce's eyes darkened. "Name?"
Alfred tapped a few keys. The screen flickered, encrypted red flashes dissolving into grim black text.
PHYSICIAN RECORD - ENCRYPTED ACCESS – LEVEL 9 CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Dr. Maxius Vameer, M.D., Ph.D., C.B.M.
Alias: The Scalpel
Specialties: Trauma surgery, experimental anesthetics, biochemical restoration... obstetrics.
License Revoked: USA, UK, Brazil, Japan, Russia, China, Costa Rica, Thailand, Vietnam, France, Germany, Australia, South Africa, South Korea, and Canada.
Clientele: Criminal elite. No known affiliations. Travels undetected.
Alfred paused. "He had a clinic, deep underground. No records but what we intercepted. This file... it's dated July 19th, 2015."
Bruce leaned forward, face unreadable. The screen shifted.
PATIENT FILE – CONFIDENTIAL
Patient Name: Harley Quinn (no legal name used)
Age: Approx. 25
Blood Type: AB-
Referral: Emergency walk-in
REASON FOR VISIT:
Acute cranial trauma
Fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder
Internal abdominal bleeding
17 visible lacerations
Severe blunt force trauma to lower spine/pelvis
Spontaneous miscarriage – gestational age: 15 weeks, 3 days
Bruce read faster now, jaw locked.
FATHER OF FETUS: The Joker
CAUSE OF INJURIES:
Blunt trauma from high-altitude fall (~3 stories)
Secondary impact on balcony before ground contact
Presumed cause: Joker claims altercation with Batman led to Harley being knocked from rooftop
ON ARRIVAL:
Unresponsive
Blood pressure critical
Internal bleeding confirmed
Fetal heartbeat: absent
Joker remained in OR, repeating her name over 23 times in 6 minutes
INTERVENTIONS:
Emergency D&C
Induced coma
2L blood transfusion
Observed for 2 hours before removal from facility by partner
Bruce stepped back from the screen. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Alfred said nothing. What could he say?
Bruce whispered, hoarse:
"Fifteen weeks. That's... almost four months."
His fists trembled.
"I didn't know they could even—" He stopped. "I never considered..."
Alfred took a step closer. "Bruce—"
"It was me." His voice cracked. "I did that."
He turned, pacing, the cape twisting around him like guilt in physical form.
"I remember that night—barely," he muttered. "I remember the rooftop... chaos everywhere. I remember chasing him... but I don't remember her. I didn't know Harley was even there."
"Sir, you can't—"
"I hit her, Alfred. I must've hit her—" His voice broke. "Or scared her. Or chased Joker and she fell trying to keep up. It doesn't matter—I did that."
He looked back at the screen. His eyes looked hollow now. Haunted.
"A child. Their child." He swallowed. "Gone because of me."
Alfred gently placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Bruce—"
"I need to remember." The words came like a vow carved in stone.
He walked back to the Batcomputer.
"Get me every camera, every satellite pass, every drone that was in Gotham that night. Pull body cam footage. Traffic cams. Crowd cell footage. Anything."
He stared at the frozen screen again — at the silent record of horror, of loss.
The Batcave was eerily silent, save for the low hum of the Batcomputer and the flicker of holographic monitors above Bruce's hunched shoulders.
Alfred stepped carefully into the light, holding a data tablet like it was a holy relic.
"Sir," he said, voice quiet but urgent, "I believe I've found something. Dated just an hour before Dr. Vameer treated Miss Quinn."
Bruce looked up, hollow-eyed.
Alfred handed the tablet over, and with a tap, the screen synced to the main console.
A timestamp appeared on the Batcomputer monitor:
JULY 19, 2015 — 10:44 PM
LOCATION: Gotham Financial District Rooftop — Cam 9B
The footage began to play.
[Footage: Rooftop — Night]
Batman stood alone on the edge of the rooftop.
Cape flaring.
Chest heaving.
The skyline behind him burning from the night's destruction.
300 civilians dead.
The Riddler gone without a trace.
Gotham was in ashes—and so was he.
Then came the laughter.
Sharp, jagged, inhuman.
Harley and Joker emerged from the shadows like ghosts from a nightmare. Harley was grinning wildly, eyes smeared with mascara and madness.
"Awww, Batsy looks like he's gonna cry!" she sang. "Little batboy couldn't crack a single riddle!"
Joker's laugh rang out next—louder, crueler.
"Three hundred dead, Bats! What is that, a new record?"
Bruce's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Shut. Up."
But Harley didn't.
She stepped forward, arms wide, dramatic and mocking.
"Tick-tock goes the body count, detective darling."
And that was it.
He snapped.
Batman surged forward, faster than thought. His fist clenched. His teeth bared.
He shoved her.
It wasn't a calculated move. It wasn't defense.
It was rage.
Harley's heels skidded. She hit the rooftop barrier with a sharp grunt—
—and went over.
Her scream tore through the city as she tumbled into the night.
"HARLEY!" Joker screamed. It was a sound Bruce had never heard come from him. A scream born of fear.
She grabbed a second-story balcony. Her arms trembled. "Puddin'!" she sobbed. "I can't feel my arms—"
"Hang on! I'm coming down!" Joker said, voice strong but worried as he turned to grapple a rope to jump.
But her voice broke: "I—I can't... Puddin'— I'm sorry"
Her hands slipped.
She screamed.
She fell.
And hit the pavement below, the sound was a horrible thud.
Joker vaulted over the ledge.
[Footage: Alley Security Feed — 10:44 PM]
Harley lay in a crumpled heap.
Blood pooled like a halo around her.
Joker flung down on the grapple rope, then crawled to her side, frantic, crawling like his legs didn't work.
"No—no—don't do this! Harley—Harley, baby, please—"
He pulled her to his chest, sobbing into her hair.
He whispered.
He kissed her forehead, shook her, hoping to get her to wake up.
Then he picked her up and disappeared into the shadows.
The screen went black.
The footage froze. Bruce stared. Silent. Pale.
Alfred placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.
"Master Bruce... you couldn't have known. It was chaos that night. No one knew they were even there—"
"I was there," Bruce rasped. "I pushed her. I threw her off a roof, Alfred."
"She lived."
"She lost her baby." His voice broke around the words like glass. "She was pregnant."
Bruce staggered back. He turned toward another monitor and tapped it.
[Footage: Today – Restaurant Explosion – Bodycam Feed]
The screen split. Half was bodycam. Half was rooftop drone feed.
They watched Joker step in front of Harley as Batman lunged.
Watched Joker knock Bruce back.
Watched him throw a hand out—protectively—in front of her.
Alfred's brow furrowed. "That hand—he wasn't protecting himself."
Bruce's voice was low. Cold.
"No. He was protecting her."
A long pause.
And then Bruce whispered:
"He remembers. That's what he meant... 'We're not doing the same thing again.'"
Alfred's face was grim. "You believe she's pregnant again."
Bruce didn't answer.
He just stared at the monitor, eyes fixed on Harley's image—smiling behind Joker, unaware that this was the moment the Dark Knight began to understand.
The memory played violently in his head.
"It's obviously not pregnancy," he said. "The likelihood of either of them being able to procreate is very minimal."
But his own voice sounded like lies now.
Less sure of anything.
The Batcomputer glowed against Bruce's face, casting him in cold blue light. His jaw was tight, his eyes stormy—haunted.
He didn't move when Alfred returned with a fresh cup of tea and set it on the table beside him.
"You've been standing there for 15 minutes, sir."
Bruce didn't answer. His fingers gripped the console edge like a lifeline.
Finally, he rasped, "How can they go back to the way things were?"
Alfred raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?"
He turned, finally meeting Alfred's gaze. His voice cracked—not with weakness, but frustration wrapped in guilt. "After what I did. I threw her off that rooftop. Their unborn child died that night because of me. And yet... now? They laugh. Mock me. Like it never happened. Like it was a stubbed toe. How do they forgive that?"
Alfred sat quietly beside him. "They're not... most people, Master Bruce. You know that."
Bruce didn't flinch. "Still. Even monsters bleed when it's their own."
"Sometimes," Alfred said gently, already pulling up files with deft keystrokes, "And sometimes... monsters are just monsters."
He tapped enter, and two files appeared.
CONFIDENTIAL PSYCH FILE: Full Name: Harleen Frances Quinzel
ALIAS: Harley Quinn
DATE OF BIRTH: July 20, 1990
AGE: 29
PARENTS: Marlene Quinzel (mother, deceased as of 2004), Raymond Quinzel (father, abusive, estranged)
KNOWN SEXUAL PARTNER(S): The Joker (Currently) Julian Cane (Formally, Broke up in 2011)
FORMER OCCUPATION: Psychiatrist – Arkham Asylum, Gotham City
PLACE OF BIRTH: Brooklyn, New York
CURRENT STATUS: Active criminal. Status: At large. Armed. Considered extremely dangerous.
LAST SIGHTING: Gotham National Bank – "Game Show Heist" Massacre
KNOWN ALIASES:
Harley Quinn
Queen of Chaos
The Gotham Siren
Clown Princess of Crime
DIAGNOSED MENTAL HEALTH CONDITIONS:
Histrionic Personality Disorder
Borderline Personality Disorder
Dependent Personality Disorder
Intermittent Explosive Disorder
Obsessive Attachment Syndrome (specific to The Joker)
Pathological Limerence
Co-Shared Delusional Disorder ("Folie à deux" with Joker)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) – from both pre-Joker childhood abuse and trauma inflicted during and after the chemical vat incident
Obsessive Love Disorder (specific to The Joker)
CONFIDENTIAL PSYCH FILE:
LEGAL NAME: Unknown
KNOWN NAME: The Joker
DATE OF BIRTH: October 6, 1989 (Confirmed by Harley Quinn during "Birthday Party" in 2017)
AGE: 30 (Confirmed by Harley Quinn)
PARENTS: Unknown (no public records, birth certificate missing)
KNOWN SEXUAL PARTNER(S): Harley Quinn (Currently) Celeste Vale (Formally, Arrested in 2011)
FORMER OCCUPATION: N/A
PLACE OF ORIGIN: Gotham City (Assumed)
CURRENT STATUS: Active criminal. Status: At large. Highly armed. Considered lethal on sight.
LAST SIGHTING: Gotham National Bank – "Game Show Heist" Incident
KNOWN ALIASES:
The Joker
Mr. J (Specific to trusted allies and lackies)
Clown Prince of Crime
Puddin' (Specific to Harley Quinn)
DIAGNOSED MENTAL HEALTH CONDITIONS:
Psychopathy
Antisocial Personality Disorder
Narcissistic Personality Disorder
Schizotypal Personality Disorder
Sadistic Personality Disorder
Obsessive Attachment Syndrome (specific to Harley Quinn)
Delusional Disorder – Grandiose subtype
Obsessive Love Disorder (linked solely to Harley Quinn)
Co-Shared Delusional Disorder ("Folie à deux" with Harley Quinn)
Compulsive Violent Fantasization
Bruce skimmed it.
"Histrionic Personality Disorder... PTSD... Obsessive Love Disorder... Folie à deux..."
Another file slid into place beside it.
Bruce's eyes darkened as he scanned.
"Psychopathy. Antisocial Personality Disorder. Sadistic Personality Disorder. Compulsive Violent Fantasization. Obsessive Love Disorder... Folie à deux..."
Alfred leaned back with a sigh, watching Bruce process it all. "These aren't your average grieving parents, sir. Their relationship, while clearly emotionally intense, operates under a completely different psychological framework. Their brains... they don't register trauma the same way."
"You're saying they didn't feel it?" Bruce asked. His voice was strained. "That losing a child—their child—meant nothing?"
Alfred shook his head. "Not nothing. Just... not like you or I would. Their disorders, their attachments—they're volatile. Their emotional compass isn't broken, it's chaotic. Some couples would carry that grief forever. But them? Their pathology—"
"—means they probably got over it in under a year," Bruce finished bitterly.
"Perhaps. But not because they didn't care. Because they can't care the way you think they should."
Bruce exhaled, hands bracing against the console again.
A pause.
Then: "But he remembered it tonight. At the restaurant. He stepped in front of her, Alfred. He put his hand out—not in defense of himself, in front of her. That was instinct."
Alfred nodded slowly. "It was. I saw it too."
Bruce stared at the screen. His eyes drifted over Harley's profile. Her alias. Her smile in that blurred bank security photo. The long list of diagnoses under her name.
"I need answers," he said, jaw set. "I need to find her. Talk to her."
Alfred tilted his head. "And what, pray tell, do you think she'll say? That she forgives you?"
"I don't care about forgiveness." Bruce said. "I need the truth. I need to know what happened after that fall. What really happened. I blacked out that week. I lost time. They disappeared for two months—and when they came back, they started burning the city."
"Sir—"
"No, Alfred." He turned and walked to the Batmobile.
The city was quiet.
Gotham's kind of quiet—the kind that made you flinch, like it was holding its breath before the scream.
Bruce stood on a rooftop in East End, scanning the shadows.
She'd been spotted nearby.
The trail wasn't fresh, but it was deliberate.
Like she wanted to be found.
Then—
A flicker of movement.
He looked down into the alley below.
There she was.
Harley Quinn.
Perched on a metal crate, one leg swinging, spinning a bloody switchblade around her gloved fingers like she was twirling a baton. A smear of someone else's blood streaked her cheek. Her lips curled in that familiar, haunting smirk.
"Well, well, well. Look what the Bat dragged in," she purred. "Come to throw me back into Belle Reve, Batsy?"
Bruce didn't rise to the bait. He dropped down in front of her, boots hitting the pavement like a gavel.
"Why?"
She blinked, like the question caught her off guard.
"What, no hello? No dramatic monologue?"
"Why did you forgive me?" he asked again, voice low and ragged.
Harley tilted her head like a doll. "Forgive you? You've done a lot, Batsy. Gonna need to be a little more specific."
"Three years ago," he said, stepping closer, shadows swallowing him whole. "That rooftop. I pushed you."
Her smirk flickered, but she didn't move.
"I was angry. Not at you. At myself. At Riddler. For letting those people die. But I shoved you, Harley. Hard. You fell. You lost your baby."
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"I didn't even remember it. Not until today. But you... you came back like nothing happened. Laughing. Teasing. Why?"
A pause stretched between them like wire.
Then Harley's smile returned, razor-sharp.
"Oh, Batsy," she breathed, voice syrupy and cruel. "You really thought I forgave you?"
He stared.
"You killed my baby."
Her voice was ice.
Bruce flinched.
"So I took yours."
His chest caved inward.
"...What?"
Harley's eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Why do you think I sent your little kitty cat to Khaleej Prison?"
He staggered back a step. That name. That place. It rang like a gunshot in his mind.
"Six weeks of hell. Poor thing didn't even know she was pregnant," Harley said sweetly. "Ten weeks along. Would've found out the next week, I bet."
She stepped off the crate now, slow and deliberate, circling him like smoke.
"But you took my baby, Batsy. So me and Puddin' made sure she lost hers too."
She twirled the blade again, casually, like she was stirring tea.
"Got a few minutes with the guards. Just enough for some... extra attention."
Bruce's hands were fists. White-knuckled.
His voice came out like ash. "You... you tortured her—"
Harley leaned in, lips near his ear.
"It was real funny watching her realize. All that blood. That scream. Guess pain's a great pregnancy test."
A dry, broken giggle. Then silence.
But Bruce wasn't done.
He rasped out the question like it cost him a rib:
"But if you hated me so much... why didn't you hold onto it? Why does it seem like you forgot the baby altogether?"
At that, Harley paused.
The smirk dropped from her lips like a stone.
Her voice, when it came, was low. Almost human.
"I didn't forget, Batsy."
A beat. A breath.
"We just... stopped feeling."
Bruce's throat tightened. "Why?"
His voice cracked—genuinely cracked. Desperate now.
But Harley just smiled again. A wild, tragic, dazzling grin that didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm a diagnosed psychopath, Batsy," she cooed. "You know that."
She leaned back and gave a little shrug.
"This is what we do."
And then—
A soft punch to the shoulder.
"Anyway, toodles!" she chirped.
She turned and walked away, spinning the switchblade one last time before slipping into the shadows, her footsteps echoing against the alley walls like the fading notes of a requiem.
Bruce stood there.
Alone.
Breath gone.
Mind shattered.
A baby.
His baby.
Gone.
Because of him.
Because of her.
And all she had left to offer was a smile.
The manor was silent, blanketed in the late hour's hush. A chill danced through the stone corridors, brushing past the cracked-open door of Selina's guest suite. Inside, golden light glowed soft against ivory walls, casting quiet shadows over the elegant sprawl of the room. She lay curled like a cat on her side of the wide king bed, her black silk robe tied loosely around her waist, hair pinned up in an easy twist. The flicker of her Kindle screen lit her face in pale blue pulses, her eyes flicking over each line with practiced focus.
Until she heard the door creak open.
Selina looked up, her brows lifting just slightly, eyes narrowing as Bruce stepped inside—dressed in loose fitted all black pajamas with matching slippers, his dark hair mussed and jaw clenched. Something in his posture was coiled and careful, like he'd come here rehearsing.
He stood just inside the door for a moment, then shut it behind him without a word. He looked exhausted. He looked like he hadn't stopped thinking in hours.
"Selina," he said, his voice low and uneven.
She tilted her head slightly. "You okay?" she asked, slowly closing the Kindle, and holding it tightly in her hand.
"Were you pregnant... three years ago?"
The words hit the room like thunder cracking from a cloudless sky.
Selina froze.
Her fingers twitched where they rested near the sheets, and her mouth opened—but no sound came. Her Kindle toppled gently onto the comforter. She blinked at him, trying to process what she'd just heard.
"What?" she asked, but she knew what he said. She just hadn't expected it.
Bruce's eyes didn't waver. "Were you?"
She didn't answer right away. Her lips parted again, then pressed closed, then opened with a short, shaky breath.
"...Yes," she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and her gaze darted away from his face, toward the fireplace.
Bruce stepped closer. His tone softened. "Was it mine?"
Selina's head snapped back toward him, brows furrowed.
"Of course it was yours," she said. The of course came quick, sharp, laced with that signature feline attitude. Like the question itself offended her. Like it hurt.
He chuckled—just barely, but it was there. A dry little exhale that passed through his nose and died on his lips.
"We were sleeping together, Selina," he said. "But we weren't exclusive. We never said—"
"I wasn't sleeping with anyone else," she cut in, her voice lower now. Quieter. "I wasn't interested in anyone else. Not after you and I got... closer."
Her eyes dropped to the floor, the words clinging to her throat as she added, "I'm still not."
A breath left Bruce, heavy with something he couldn't quite name. Guilt. Sadness. Longing. Love.
"Then why didn't you tell me?" he asked, frustration rising beneath the grief in his voice. "You could've let me in. You shouldn't have gone through that pain alone."
Selina turned away slightly, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her shoulders tensed before she finally answered.
"I didn't need you to go through the pain with me."
Bruce took a step forward, his voice louder now. A crack in the calm. A flare of anger not at her—but at the past. At himself.
"That's not an excuse, Selina!"
"I didn't tell you because I love you!"
The words erupted from her like a spark catching fire—sharp, bright, sudden.
"I love you," she said again, softer now. And softer still as she continued. "And because I love you, I couldn't let you experience that kind of pain. I couldn't let you carry the weight of it on top of everything else. You were already drowning in guilt... in anger, after everything Riddler did. You'd barely slept. You didn't even look like yourself some days. And I—"
She stopped, voice trembling. Her eyes lifted to his. "You didn't deserve to feel more pain. You didn't deserve to feel like you failed me."
Silence stretched between them for a moment. Just the flicker of the fireplace, the crackle of embers, and the echo of those three impossible words still ringing in the air.
Bruce's expression cracked. His brows rose, and his lips parted just slightly—his whole body still, like the words struck something in him he hadn't let himself feel in years.
"I love you too," he whispered.
He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a warm, steady embrace. Her cheek pressed to his chest as he cradled her.
"You shouldn't have had to go through it alone," he murmured against her hair. "Not then. Not now. Never again."
She closed her eyes and let out a slow, shaky breath.
"You're not alone, Selina. Not with me."
And she believed him.
For once, she didn't have to claw her way back from the edge alone.