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Also GASP not AU. (I didn't realize until I started looking through what fic to post that pretty much EVERYTHING I write is AU.)
Fandom: Batman
Rating: Teen
DISCLAIMER: Could actually be read as unspecific.
Summary: Character Study/Drabble, Bruce Wayne|Batman. (Bruce Wayne as a mask for Batman, not the other way around.)
His world will never be the same again.
The world, to his recollection, was all fine, shiny and beautiful. But then came his darkest night.
The night the world caught on fire and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, each flying at his face, each cutting deep into flesh, until the scars of that night are so prominent and painful he wonders that no one else can see them.
Oh, some feel it. Just for a second the mask slips and they see who he is underneath. They feel the darkness, but they delude themselves into thinking that they didn’t see it, because they can’t believe it. Not from him, not when he smiles. But it’s still there, guiding his every action.
He’s still the frightened kid in the alley, blinded by the gunshots, screaming, the tears streaming from his eyes. He’s still the one, angry at his parents, yelling at them to get up, blaming them for what’s happened.
He’s still the one blaming himself. It wasn’t what he did that matters. It’s what he didn’t do. He didn’t know what he knows now. If he ever got a rematch, he would win.
It’s his own darkness he’s fighting. Every time he gets in a punch for the cause of good, he’s knocking his blackest nature out of the fight.
It’s not himself he’s afraid of. Not quite. But he sees pieces of himself reflected in the faces of thousands of the villains he fights.
Maybe the blood that stained the street that night added to the darkness of his city. Perhaps it’s because that he’s part of his city, just as they are, that he recognizes the agony and the anguish in their eyes. Like him, they’re wounded, crying out for anyone to hear, to help them.
He fears no one will ever help them. And he acknowledges that it’s even more likely there’s no aid for him.
Part of that is his mask. People look at him and think he feels nothing, that he’s always cheerful, always ready to make a fool of himself. They’re far too ready to judge by appearances, not experiences. But, in a way, they’ll never understand how he feels-and how could they? Not without going through what he went through, what he’s still going through. And he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
He’s always looking for answers, for someone who can tell him ‘why’. His agonized eyes turned to the one who’d gunned down his parents, so long ago, and begged, pleaded for answers, but the gunmen had none to give. None satisfactory, anyway. The cold, distant look in the eyes made him think it was more a monster than a human. Humans would feel.
His look is more haunted, now, when he’s alone. He’s sometimes cold, but at the core he’s still human. He feels every minute. How could he not? The pain’s still there, a burden that will never lift.
Two people keep kneeling by him and telling him everything will be all right. They’re the experienced cop that’s still shaken by the look on the little boy’s face and the butler that had taken so good care of him, before that night.
They’re still the same, just as he is. Neither have moved on-both are still trying to protect the world, heal it. So that no one ever has such a dark night again.
