Death of a Thousand Cuts

Everybody dies. It's a lesson he first learned when he was eight, when a mugger shot his parents and he knelt in their blood as he ran away. Since then he's been forcibly reminded of the lesson on numerous occasions, by everybody from random people he's too slow, too weak, too human to save (accidents he only hears about on the news after he goes off patrol, fires which are too bright for him to run into) to his colleagues (it doesn't matter that Clark came back, it doesn't stop the lesson from being driven home once again like a knife to his heart) to those he cares most about (the Case seems to stare at him, seems to cast shadows beyond what should be possible with the case's dim lighting). Each new death hits him like a blow, like a new cut on his psyche, making him die the death of a thousand cuts from the inside. Dick's death is just another cut. As is Tim's. As is Barbara's. Alfred's death is the last. The last straw, the last blow, the last cut. It isn't a coup de grace. There isn't any mercy in it.

He attends the funeral. He doesn't speak. He has no more words to speak. He doesn't know if he ever will again. It's a funeral, so nobody tries to touch him. He isn't grateful; he doesn't think he remembers how to be grateful any more. He halfway believes he would be grateful if he could. He doesn't think he could stand anybody touching him. He doesn't know what he'd do if they did. When the funeral is over, he goes back to the Manor and curls up in a chair. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel any desire to patrol when darkness falls.

He doesn't go to the Cave any more. He doesn't patrol or go to the JLA meetings or figure out the Riddler's newest clues. Some detached part of himself knows that people are dying because he doesn't, but he can't bring himself to care. He doesn't go to Wayne Enterprises or to charity fundraisers or answer the phone. That same detached part of him notes that Bruce Wayne has always been a flake, that he won't be missed. He can't bring himself to care about that. He isn't grateful. He isn't ungrateful, either.

Every once in a while his stomach growls and he'll stumble down to the kitchen and eat whatever comes to hand, cold. It all tastes like ashes, anyway. After a while the detached part of him notes that the food he's eating almost certainly wasn't in the refrigerator when Alfred died. The food he eats is no longer moldy and bears a distinct resemblance to the food found at the Kents' farmhouse. Clark, the detached part of himself thinks. He knows he would normally be upset to know that Clark is in his city. Bats are territorial. Is he a bat any more? He doesn't know.

He's heading back to his chair when there's something in his way, the red, yellow, and blue almost hurting his eyes after so much time in the dim colors of Wayne Manor. He hasn't bothered to turn on any lights since he got back, so it must be daytime. He doesn't raise his eyes, just waits for the obstacle to move. He doesn't say anything.

"Bruce, this can't go on," the obstacle says. He doesn't connect the name to himself. He isn't Bruce any more. Bruce is from before. He doesn't know who he is anymore. Maybe he isn't anybody. It would almost be a relief. If he could feel anything. He waits for the obstacle to move.

The obstacle doesn't move. "We all know how much you miss Alfred," it says. "But it's been months and you haven't done anything but sit in that chair. We're worried about you." Its voice is filled with concern. He has always known that Clark would worry about him, but right now he can't bring himself to care.

The obstacle raises an arm and brings a hand down on his shoulder, and then he does care, because he kills everyone who he touches, everyone he allows to get close. He killed his parents, and Jason and Barbara and Vesper and Dick and Tim and Alfred. He can't allow anybody to get close to him. There's a crack somewhere to his side where there used to be a table and a statue but now there isn't, and the obstacle is out of his way. He's shaking and he goes and curls up in his chair again and stares blindly out the window. He hears Clark get up. After a while he hears him leave.

Some amount of time later he hears the doorbell ringing and knocking on the door. Nobody answers the door, though, because there isn't an Alfred anymore. He wonders who's at the door. He wonders if they'll go away. When they'll go away. He doesn't move. He doesn't blink.

He hears the door opening and the police announcing themselves. He hears Jim. He hasn't seen Jim since he took a leave of absence after Barbara's death. He wonders how long Jim has been back. He wonders if he's noticed the absence of Batman. He doesn't want Jim here. Jim's already too close to him. No matter how hard he's tried to keep their relationship purely professional, Jim is somebody he feels close to. Jim is one of the few people he feels close to who are still alive.

He tracks their progress through the Manor by their calls (apparently they're looking for him). He doesn't respond to any of them. The detached part of him knows that he should be worried that they'll find the Cave, but he can't bring himself to care.

Eventually one of them finds this room, and him, and then they're all clustering around and talking to him and waving hands in his face. He doesn't do anything until Jim asks him if he can stand up. He thinks about it for a moment. He doesn't want to stand up, doesn't want to do anything, but he can see the alternative would involve them touching him. He doesn't want anybody to touch him. He doesn't want anybody else to die because of him. He stands up.

Jim reaches toward him, to touch him, to lead him by the arm, but he flinches before the hand gets near him and Jim drops it and asks him to come with them instead. That's all right, he doesn't have to touch anybody, so he follows as soon as he processes the request. He doesn't really care what happens to him as long as he doesn't have to touch anybody, as long as nobody touches him. They lead him out front and after a moment of debate open the rear door of Jim's car instead of that of the squad car because of who he is, and Jim gestures for him to get in so he does, but then Jim does the hand on the head thing and he can't stand it, can't stand the thought of being touched, and he loses control and then Jim isn't touching him anymore, he's on the ground and his nose is bleeding and he's looking at him strangely. He was told to get into the car so he does.

Everybody except Jim wants to put handcuffs on him then, and he shudders at the thought of how they'd have to touch him to put them on. But Jim stops them and says it looks like it's just being touched that causes a problem and that he isn't a criminal and they need to treat him with respect. He doesn't know why Jim says that after he gave him a bloody nose and knocked him down but he thinks he almost feels a glimmer of gratitude through the numbness. Nobody tries to put handcuffs on him.

Jim sits in the back with him and talks to him throughout the drive, but he doesn't hear the words. He knows he could look out of the window or calculate from the turns where they're going, but he'll find out when they get there anyway. He's been to all of them in the past, as Batman. He's watched video feeds from them, mainly of escapes, often enough that he can probably distinguish them by the tiling. He doesn't really care where he's headed. He doesn't care why.

He gets out of the car when Jim opens his door, and trails him into the building. He's been here before, but for the most part he's only been up on the roof. The cells are familiar enough, though; he had, after all, spent time in one of them when he'd been accused of Vesper's murder, before he was transferred to Blackgate. It is, perhaps, ironic that both times he's ended up here have been because of the death of somebody he loves. He sits down on the bed and does nothing. The cell door closes and he hears footsteps moving away. Jim is violating procedure by not fingerprinting him.

After a time, a tray of food is shoved through the door, and he eats it as mechanically as he'd eaten the food in his refrigerator. It tastes the same to him, although he remembers that the last time he'd been in here only the cast-iron stomach he'd needed during No Man's Land had allowed him to eat this food. Prisons are not known for their gourmet food. He sets the tray back on the ground when he's done. After a time a guard opens the door (another covers him from the door with a taser) and, grumbling about "creaking crazies", removes the tray. He doesn't move.

The lights shut off, presumably at the usual time, and he must have fallen asleep because a guard is beating on the bars of the door and telling him to wake up and stop yelling. He hasn't remembered any of his dreams since Alfred's death, but he knows it's just more of the same nightmares he's had since he was eight. After that, he doesn't sleep. He's never slept much, anyway.

It's daytime when Gordon stops outside of the cell with Clark. At first he can't think of any reason Clark would be there. Hovering outside, keeping an eye and an ear on him, yes. Here, with Gordon, no. Then he remembers the papers he'd insisted Clark sign, just in case. He wishes he hadn't, now. Putting Clark in charge of him only makes it more likely that he'll get better. He doesn't want to get better. Being "better" only means he hurts all the time. Right now he doesn't feel a thing, as if he's surrounded by layers of soft cotton, cushioned from the impact the world has always made on him.

Clark comes in later, and speaks to him softly as he very carefully doesn't touch him and slides a needle into his arm and depresses the plunger. He feels himself go limp as the blackness he's spent so much time in slides over his vision like a blanket, like his cape, like the night falling over Gotham.

***

He wakes up in a different room and doesn't wonder where he is. He's watched feeds of Arkham's cells enough that they're burned in his mind, not to mention his visits for other reasons: escapes, the occasional interrogation, chess with Harvey. He'd been teased, before, that eventually he'd end up in Arkham. He doesn't find any humor in the prediction coming true. It's just another fact, like everything else in his life now.

Clark comes and talks at him for a while and then leaves. He doesn't think he has a very good grasp of time right now, but it seems like he stays for a long time. It fits perfectly with Clark's personality, so he probably did. After Clark leaves, he gets fed. Later, orderlies come in and try to make him go somewhere by grabbing him. Eventually they manage to sedate him, but not before he breaks at least one arm.

This establishes a pattern. He can't be certain (nor does he care) that it follows a daily cycle, but it seems logical. Clark comes and talks at him, he ignores Clark, the orderlies try to take him somewhere and end up sedating him. Eventually they stop trying to take him places. Sometimes people come into the room and try to get him to talk (or just talk at him; he doesn't pay attention). Sometimes he's given pills to swallow, so he does. He could figure out which ones they are by their appearance, but he doesn't bother.

He stares into space and doesn't think much. He doesn't feel at all.