It’s fresh, wet like dew on grass and it stains his nail bed red. He bends down and drags a finger through the trail, watching it sink into the thick rug. It’s strong enough that Bruce can taste it in his own mouth, cloying in the back of his throat. What he finds is a trail of red leading from one of the West Wing windows, dark like ichor and filling the landing with the familiar scent of copper. He passes along the dark corridors on silent feet, hoping, hoping, hoping. He is not scared, but his hands tremble all the same. He leaves the bathroom and its funhouse mirror gratefully to investigate the noise. The noise makes him wince, sharpening the creases around his eyes. He is standing in the silent mausoleum that he calls home, trying and failing not to look at himself when he hears movement in the West Wing. But it is jarring to see it painted so clearly on his own skin. He looks older now than he ever remembers his own father looking. He is in the bathroom now, trying to ignore the strain of juggling Brucie and Batman and Bruce Wayne that shows in the puffy skin under his eyes and crows-feet by his eyes and grey at his temples. He had gotten home late from another ridiculous charity gala and finished putting away his tux for Alfred to collect in the morning.
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